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He's not expecting it, if he's honest.
Well.
Well, no. If he's really honest, his first reaction is to smell a big, fat rat. Or, rather, a short, skinny rat with a lip ring and a stupid haircut. It's been... wow, fucking longer than he cares to remember since they've hung out or even talked properly, but he's not an idiot. He knows Frank (knew? knows? he's got no idea anymore). Or, rather, he knows all about Frank's thing for practical jokes. Everyone knows about Frank's thing for practical jokes, ok, because the aforementioned thing is fucking visible from space. Practical jokes, dares and bets, those are the ones to watch out for, because he's shameless, fearless and creatively dirty-minded even for a seventeen-year-old boy, which is saying something.
So when Frank appears in the art room one sunny Wednesday lunchtime, all smiles and grubby sneakers, Gerard's a bit nonplussed, to say the least. He hadn't previously thought Frank knew where the art room was. Hell, he hadn't previously thought Frank even knew they even had an art room.
"Hey," he says, a little cautiously, as Frank ambles in. Frank puts on a truly pitiable show of being surprised to see Gerard here, then wanders about aimlessly for a minute or two. It's weird, and it makes Gerard twitchy and utterly fucks his concentration sideways. He scowls, and scrubs out attempt number umpteen at the right arm of his sketched zombie girl and wishes Frank would get to the point. Frank doesn't even take art, and there's no one else but Gerard in the room. He's clearly got something to say and Gerard would kind of like to get it over with. It's stiflingly quiet in here and this is uncomfortable enough as it is. Once or twice, it looks like Frank's on the point of opening his mouth and just spitting it out, whatever it is, but he always seems to chicken out before he does. Gerard watches Frank over his sketchbook with narrowed eyes. At least he could fucking say something, because this is getting more and more awkward by the second.
"So," says Frank, and, really, fucking finally, because Gerard was pretty much ready to poke one of his eyes out with his charcoal stick or something just to alleviate the tension a bit. "Uh. How've you been?"
Gerard shrugs. "Fine, I guess," he says, because even he knows it's not really socially acceptable to dump all your shit on someone you've hardly spoken to since, like, the third or fourth week of junior high. "You?"
It's barely even a courtesy, really. He knows Frank's alright. He runs with a loose group of kids who laugh too loud and do stupid shit for kicks and generally act like obnoxious assholes, but at least they don't beat Gerard up or stick notes on his back or throw things at him when there's nothing else to do, so he can live with them. Occasionally there's a girl hanging off him, and, yeah, that pretty much sucked to have to see at first, but it never seems to last long, for whatever reason, and they usually seem to end up deciding that they're better off as friends.
Not that Gerard's been watching or anything, no sir. That would be weird.
Still, Frank usually seems to be smiling, so Gerard supposes he must be doing ok. Frank shrugs.
"Aw, I've been better. Just..." he waves his arms vaguely in a gesture that indicates the entire room, and Gerard flashes back to going with him to the nurse when he dislocated two of his fingers three and a half hours into day one of seventh grade. "You know?" he says, and he really does look like he expects Gerard to know.
Well, no, Gerard wants to say. I don't know. There'd been a few weeks, right at the beginning, when he thought he'd found someone in this shithole who was actually sort of awesome. He'd sort of vaguely expected Frank to turn out to be that one friend who finishes your sentences and steals your shit without asking and stays up all night with you watching shitty movies because they're hilarious when you're together, but it hadn't really worked out like that. Frank had made other friends because he was funny and just enough of a dickhead, and Gerard had made enemies of the popular set because he dyed his hair black and preferred Dungeons and Dragons to football and comic books to cheerleaders.
It was all so revoltingly clichéd, it was actually kind of ironic in a way that was nearly totally badass.
Not that it was a big deal or anything. Sometimes, it looks like something awesome is going to happen, and then it doesn't, and that's just the way it is, right? It's fine. It happens to loads of people. And, yeah, maybe he used to have a teeny-tiny crush on Frank, but so what? Frank didn't even seem to be into guys, and it looked like he'd forgotten Gerard even existed at all. Which was kind of insulting, but probably not a bad thing in the end, because it helped Gerard to Man Up and Get Over It.
He's totally over it now. Totally.
Silence falls again and, wow, just when he hadn't thought this could get more awkward. Frank starts doing that thing again where he practically flits about, sticking his nose in things while trying to look like he's doing something vaguely important and productive. Gerard wonders gloomily what it's going to be. They must have dared him to do something really offensive if it's taking Frank this long to screw up the courage to do it. Frank's not cruel, usually, but Gerard can't help but be a bit hurt that their whole could-have-been-thing (which seems to have prevented him from being the victim of Frank's questionable sense of humour in the past) doesn't count for anything anymore. He thinks he's caught Frank watching him with this weird, unreadable expression a few times lately; they must be planning something big.
He watches Frank pacing around for a minute or so, disturbing boxes of paints and making already-precarious stacks of things teeter alarmingly. He's like a pint-sized ball of nervous energy, and it's getting a bit annoying.
As the time trickles by agonisingly slowly, the whole thing bypasses the slip road a bit annoying with a cheery wave and starts to approach the T-junction excruciating.
Eventually, when Frank knocks a tin of chalk fragments off the shelf and catches it just before it makes a truly impressive mess, Gerard decides to put him out of his misery.
"Alright," he says, irritably, and Frank nearly jumps out of his skin. "What's up? Seriously, man, are you even physically capable of sitting still? You're making me fuckin' nervous."
Maybe that came out a bit more harshly than he'd meant it to. Frank deflates, looking horribly like a kicked puppy and pulling up a stool right next to Gerard. Too close. Gerard leans away a little; Frank never did really get that whole personal space thing. Gerard can smell cut grass and stale cigarette smoke, and the sun pouring through the window and lighting up the dust motes in the air creates the weird illusion of an ethereal halo around Frank.
Gerard isn't consciously expecting anything, so what comes out of Frank's mouth is a bit of a surprise.
"I was just gonna ask you if you wanted to hang out sometime," he says, with a disarmingly hopeful smile.
Gerard's mouth falls open in a really unattractive way, because, seriously, what? He mentally re-plays what Frank's just said, but, no, still makes absolutely no sense.
"Eh?" he says. Possibly not his most articulate moment, but he thinks it sums up his feelings pretty well. Frank's smile fades a bit.
"I mean, you don't have to," he says quickly. "I just thought... I dunno. Like. It's kind of sad how we never see each other, you know?"
Honesty, Gerard decides, is the best policy.
"Frank, what is this? We haven't been friends since we were, like, eleven. This is just... kind of out of the blue, you know?" Plus, I'll be waiting for you to pull whatever prank your friends have got planned the whole time.
He wants to be annoyed, wants to tell Frank he's got no right to dangle this just out of his reach, but it's not really working.
"Well, yeah." Frank looks genuinely puzzled, and Gerard starts to wonder if just maybe this isn't a bet or a dare or some shit like that after all. This has got Frank's handprints all over it: the awkward charm, the five-year-old's enthusiasm, the cheerful obliviousness of what's the Done Thing and what amounts to Social Fucking Suicide. "I mean. Like. We were tight, you know? And then we weren't. But, like, we totally should, you know, hang out. So, uh, Friday? Oh, and can we go to yours? My parents, you know. They're. Um." He shifts awkwardly, eyes dropping to the paint-spattered floor for the first time since he sat down.
Gerard's so utterly bewildered he thinks he may have said yes.
+ + +
He spends Wednesday night and most of Thursday worrying about it. What was he thinking? There's got to be at least an eighty per cent chance that this is for a bet or something, and he's somehow going to end up humiliating himself. Like that time the jocks persuaded Bobby Maddison to hit on him to see if he really was gay, or the time they'd dared Katie Hesketh to ask him for help with her art assignments to see if he really did live in a fucking haunted mansion or something, or the time...
He sighs, and attacks his stodgy, overcooked potatoes with slightly more force than is strictly necessary. Even if it isn't, it's going to be hideously awkward; yesterday aside, he literally hasn't spoken more than ten words to the guy in nearly six years. What the fuck does Frank think they're going to talk about? For all he knows, they've got fuck all in common. Either way, it isn't looking good. What's also not helping that Frank keeps on fucking smiling at him when he passes him in the corridors or catches sight of him from across the parking lot. And not even a plotting sort of smile, a full-on, megawatt grin that's a bit like staring directly into a fluorescent light bulb: a bit painful, and likely to induce splitting headaches. Weirdly, Gerard doesn't once see him with his friends, and he's not sure what to make of that. It's probably not a good thing.
He can't seem to settle to doing anything that evening, and ends up lying awake for most of Thursday night, wide awake and irritated and decidedly uneasy about the whole thing. Fucking Frank Iero and his stupid fucking goofy smile.
He rolls over, managing to get the sheet all twisted up around his ankles, and groans aloud. If this is all some obscure but presumably hilarious scheme to fuck with his head, then it's working.
4:07 a.m. proves to be the turning point. Fuck it, he thinks. There's no point second-guessing it; whatever's going to happen is going to happen. It's not like he's turning down parties for this or anything. Most likely, he's only going to sit at home, watch a couple of crappy movies, get wasted and maybe jerk off anyway. It's also not like he's got much in the way of social standing to lose, so when he embarrasses himself, it's not really going to matter. Another few months and he's never going to have to see most of these people ever again. How much does he have to lose?
Thus resolved, he rolls over one more time and goes straight to sleep.
On Friday, he doesn't see Frank all day, and part of him surreptitiously crosses its fingers that Frank's forgotten, or that he's sick again. Dude gets sick a lot, it wouldn't be that unlikely. As he threads between the pickups and ostentations, glossy hatchbacks in the parking lot at the end of the day, a sense of relief starts to spread through him and the knot of tension in his stomach starts to unravel. Maybe that was it, maybe all Frank had to do was talk to him. Well, Gerard hopes he won his bet. He fumbles for his keys, swearing under his breath. Where in the name of fuck have they got to this time? His fingers scrape against the bottom of his slowly disintegrating messenger bag, and finally brush up against the stupid blue mouse head keyring he keeps them on. He exhales; thank fuck. Chasing them into a corner, he wiggles his arm around carefully, trying not to drop his stuff all over the place.
At least he manages to get the driver's side door open without further incident.
He should have known it was all going far too well.
"Gerard!"
He looks round, heart already sinking, to see Frank sprinting across the tarmac, waving his arms madly and nearly getting run over no less than six times. Actually, it sort of reminds him of something out of a video game.
"Hey," beams Frank, starting to speak just before he's comfortably within earshot. Gerard winces; it's almost like Frank doesn't even care about being seen with him – more than that, getting into his car. "Sorry you had to wait, man. It was Stanton, that motherfucker made me round up all the eighth-graders' fuckin' tennis balls." Frank's tie's askew, he's pink-faced and breathing hard and his hair's sticking to his forehead, and Gerard feels an unexpected rush of sympathy and something soft and sugary that he doesn't name. Frank collapses into the passenger seat, exhausted, but starts talking again almost immediately. "This your car?"
"Yeah," says Gerard a touch defensively, as he pulls out of the gates and onto the street. It might not look like much, but it's been good to him.
Frank nods, tapping his fingers against his knees in a twitchy, syncopated rhythm that doesn't exactly help Gerard's concentration. "Awesome," he says, and then, unexpectedly, "Does it have a name?"
"Patsy," blurts Gerard automatically, so surprised that it isn't just him who thinks cars should have names that he doesn't even think to stop himself. He groans inwardly; motherfucker, what did he say that for? Now he looks like even more of a loser, and it's not even a remotely badass name, which might have redeemed the situation slightly. "You know," he says, in a desperate attempt to explain himself. "Like, from Monty Python and the Holy Grail? The movie?" He can feel his cheeks flushing with embarrassment and tries not to imagine Frank's friends laughing over this at lunch on Monday. Frank's eyebrows furrow slightly in confusion, but at least he isn't laughing.
"Haven't seen it," he admits, and he sounds so sincerely regretful it makes Gerard feel very slightly better. "Any good?"
"You haven't seen it?" Gerard boggles helplessly at Frank for a second or two, wishing he wasn't driving so he could make the appropriately incredulous hand gestures. "It's, like, this British comedy from the 70s about the knights of the round table, you know? And, and, it's fucking insane, and they made it in the middle of nowhere with, like, no money, and it's... yeah, really good," he finishes slightly lamely. At least he'd managed to cut himself off before he really got into his theory about the significance of Tim the Enchanter as an archetypal predecessor of Albus Dumbledore. To his shame, he can recite large chunks of the script pretty much word-for-word, but he's pretty sure that would come off as a bit overly keen at best, so he shuts up. He flicks a nervous sidelong glance at Frank, expecting to see a smirk or at least a raised eyebrow, but Frank actually looks interested.
"Yeah? Maybe we should watch it later. You can, like, educate me."
"Fuck, yeah. You have no idea what you're missing, seriously."
"Awesome," says Frank again. Gerard immediately starts to worry about whether that was a good idea; not everyone gets Monty Python, it's pretty weird. Silence falls, and it's a bit uncomfortable, but not as much as he'd expected it to be. Frank reaches towards the radio, twisting the knobs experimentally.
"You can try," says Gerard with a mixture of mournfulness and vague embarrassment. "It doesn't work. Oh, and that button – "
"Shit! Ahh, sorry, I just – "
"Comes off when you press it," he finishes, slightly amused by Frank's look of horror. "Seriously, don't worry. It just... does that."
Frank doesn't look reassured. In fact, mortified is probably closer to the mark. "Dude, I broke your car. Fuck, I broke Patsy!" He starts trying to press the little plastic button back onto the spring now protruding sadly from the dashboard. Gerard struggles valiantly to suppress a full-on laughing fit, because Frank's face is priceless. He fails, though, and lets out a thoroughly undignified snort, in response to which Frank just looks even more appalled.
"Look, man, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to, I was just... I mean, I'll pay for it if it needs fixing – "
Gerard decides to put him out of his misery. "Give it here," he sniggers, reaching out a hand without taking his eyes off the road as they swing round a corner. But Frank's reached out to give it to him at exactly the same time, they've both misjudged the distance and Frank's hand collides with his and the car suddenly feels about half the size it was a minute ago. They untangle themselves quickly, but there's definitely a moment where they're basically holding hands in Gerard's car, what the fuck.
"Um. Here." Frank drops the button into Gerard's hand, and Gerard expertly wedges it back into place. There are then a couple of really, truly hideously awkward minutes where not even Frank can think of anything to say, so he goes back to fiddling idly with the radio and Gerard concentrates very hard on not crashing into, like, a house or something. That radio didn't even work when he first inherited Patsy from owner number four or five, so Frank might as well mess about with it – it's not like there's really anything there to fuck up.
So, understandably, Gerard's stunned and more than a bit impressed when, another minute later, there's a squawk of static from the speakers and then a burst of slightly crackly music. He turns to Frank, incredulous, all awkwardness forgotten.
"What did you do? That's never worked!"
Frank shrugs modestly. "I'm not bad with electrical shit like that. And, hey, you get a free working radio!"
"Awesome," he says, happily. Whatever else happens, Frank's fixed his radio, so it'll kind of be worth it. "You get to pick the music, then, I guess," he says, more out of curiosity than any particularly strong opinion about the etiquette of radio-fixing. He maintains that you can tell a lot about a person by the music they listen to. Frank starts to flick through the stations, making faces at every snatch of processed pop and moving on quickly. Gerard approves.
They arrive before Frank finds anything he deems good enough to listen to. Gerard throws his door open to the cooling evening and the slanting, dappled sunlight, inexplicably relieved not to be sharing such a small space with Frank anymore. Opposite him, Frank does the same, and cuts him a small, almost shy smile across the peeling green paint on Patsy's roof, Christ. He figures Frank either doesn't know what the jocks quite rightly say about him or just doesn't give a shit. Either way, it's nice, but a bit... unsettling. Together, they head for the front door and Gerard tries not to be aware of the space between them. He glances at him as he unlocks the door, waiting for some nasty comment about the house, but it doesn't come. Frank just runs his eyes over the rickety front porch, the missing slates on the roof, the way the front yard is really more like a miniature jungle (complete with canopy and underbrush, because no one in the Way family does things by halves), the gothic windows, the heavy brass knocker on the door, and looks back at Gerard.
"Cool house," he says.
"Uh, thanks," says Gerard, because he's feeling too wrong-footed to say anything else. The door creaks open and Gerard feels the familiar surge of affection for the place. He steps into the cool, dark hallway, watching Frank's eyes flick from the cracked, black-and-white chequered tiles under his feet to small window that splashes syrup-coloured sunlight across the ancient, gilt-framed mirror to the thickly-carpeted staircase at the other end.
"No, really," Frank insists, wide eyed and looking positively envious. "It's like... like something out of a book, you know? Wish I lived somewhere like this. My family's, like, so suburban it isn't even funny."
Gerard grimaces sympathetically. As much as he bitches about his family, he doesn't think he'd have survived this long if they were normal. He shudders at the very thought; how awful. Poor Frank.
"Drink?" he offers, leading Frank into the kitchen. Unfortunately, Frank doesn't see the little step between the two rooms until it's too late, and trips rather spectacularly.
"Oh – shit, sorry, I should have – " Gerard cringes; could kick himself. He's being kind of a fail host. But, apparently, this happens pretty often, because Frank's already up, brushing himself off and grinning.
"No worries," he says lightly. "I get hurt quite a lot. Just, like, walking into things, you know? That was small potatoes."
He's either telling the truth or he's a proper fucking Spartan or something, because Gerard definitely heard the distinctive crack of bone against stone, and there's no way in hell that didn't hurt.
Gerard pauses en route to the fridge. "Oh. Hey, Mikey."
Mikey's sitting up on the counter, kicking his feet and texting furiously. He glances up for maybe a fraction of a second. "Mm? Oh. Hey." He nods at Frank, then gets back to whoever he's texting. Gerard yanks violently on the door of the geriatric fridge and peers in dubiously. He knows he offered, but finding something fit for human consumption in here is dicey at the best of times. Somewhat gingerly, he pushes a highly questionable-looking tupperware container aside, and – aha. A couple of cans of diet coke, not too cobwebby, apparently still virgo intacta and therefore probably safe. He pulls them out and hands one to Frank, who accepts it with a smile and cracks it open.
Gerard stands there awkwardly for a moment. "Uh. Well, Mikey, this is Frank. And, uh, Frank, Mikey."
"I know," Mikey says, not looking up. Gerard's sure he does – Mikey knows fucking everything, seriously, and now he knows, all his friends probably know too. Gerard winces; he hopes Frank isn't going to get shit for this at school. Frank seems to be waiting for Mikey to initiate some kind of conversation, which Gerard knows is an infinitely pointless exercise, so he rolls his eyes and leads Frank back out to the hallway.
"I don't think Mikey likes me much," says Frank, frowning. Gerard chuckles.
"Don't take it personally. He's always like that."
"Oh." Frank perks up slightly.
"Anyway, my room's kind of the basement..." Gerard starts down the little set of stairs and immediately wonders why the fuck he sounds like he's apologising. Frank doesn't comment, just follows him down as Gerard finds the light switch effortlessly in the dark.
In a brief fit of panic on Thursday evening, he'd actually started cleaning, which had ultimately amounted to shoving things into vaguely organised piles instead of the chaotic heaps of debris they'd been in before. He'd also attempted to skim off the top layer of empty bottles and packets and cans, but that was about as far as he'd got before the strenuous nature of the excessive... well, cleaning had forced him to lie down for a bit. His mother had been appalled, and had been on the point of bundling him into the car and taking him to the doctor. He's glad he bothered, though, because although he's perfectly happy to live in what he likes to think of as artistic squalor (Donna Way prefers the term "pig sty"), there's something about the idea of someone you don't really know and aren't quite sure if you trust seeing your messy room that just doesn't sit right.
Remaining mess aside, he's still rather proud of his basement. It's taken him years to get it just right. The grey concrete walls are plastered with posters for bands and movies and just shit he'd thought was cool at some time or another, and there's a little fold-out camp bed in the far corner. Through persistent harassment of his extended family, he's also managed to acquire an only-slightly-broken couch, a reasonably decent TV and a motley collection of other furniture (a desk, a wardrobe, a bookshelf), none of which matches but somehow works down here. He's particularly fond of the desk; it's an imposing hardwood beast of indeterminate age that looks like it's straight out of the sort of novel with vampires and dastardly villains.
As Gerard begins to search for his copy of The Holy Grail, Frank flops down onto the sofa, chattering about what a lucky fuck Gerard is to have this much space, about how his room is actually just a shoebox pretending to be a room, about random shit that's happened recently with people he knows. Gerard hums sympathetically in assent, finally locating the elusive DVD and crossing to the TV, questions circling in his head.
He stops then, because it's no good. This is all too fucking confusing. He's got to ask. "Frank?"
"Yeah?"
"I just... look. Like, I don't... mind, or anything. I was just wondering – why me?"
"What?" Frank makes a little confused face that makes him look all of eight years old, but it's too late to take it back now, so Gerard has no choice but to carry on.
"I mean, you've got friends. If you just wanted someone to hang out with, it'd have been easier to just, like, ask one of them, right?"
"Well... I dunno, I guess so, but. Just. You know, Pete, Gabe, Ryan, all those guys. I mean, they're good people. Well. Most of the time. But they're all so... so caught up in their own shit, you know? Whenever you talk to them, it's like none of your shit's as fucked up as theirs."
Gerard nods slowly, assimilating. "Right. But, I mean, why me? Like, specifically."
Frank shrugs, chewing on his lip unhappily. "I don't know. Just... like, remembered how close we were, right at the beginning, I guess?" It's sort of gloomy down here, but Frank's eyes look slightly shinier than they should. "Sorry, dude, I know I've been kind of weird. I mean, just hitting you up right out of the blue like that. That was kind of weird, right?"
"A bit," Gerard concedes. Frank suddenly looks tiny and very young, and Gerard crushes the sudden and vaguely inappropriate impulse to hug him. Instead, he settles for sitting himself down on the other end of the couch and sitting on his hands to make sure he doesn't give in to it.
"I just needed, you know, to just be with someone else. That crowd, man, they're... intense."
"Oh?" Gerard likes to consider himself haughtily disinterested in this sort of thing, but there's something irresistibly delicious about gossip concerning people above you on the social ladder. Frank smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. He looks uncomfortable, and Gerard's sorry he brought it up in the first place.
"Oh, yeah. Fucking crazy, all of them. They're pretty... complicated. They've all known each other forever and they're really tight, and all, but some of them don't even like each other anymore, they're just pretending 'cause they haven't got anyone else, you know? And they all know how fucked-up it is, but, like, no one will talk about it. If anyone asks they just, like, close ranks and won't say a word." There's an uncharacteristic edge in Frank's voice and Gerard is suddenly very sure that Frank, being Frank, has asked something he shouldn't have done and paid for it.
"Wow." Gerard would never have known. If there's one thing that can be said for not really having friends, it's that it's never complicated. But then, here's Frank, sprawling all over his couch, in his basement, spilling secrets that aren't his to spill, and to Gerard, of all people. It's... again, unsettling. Frank smiles again, a proper smile, this time.
"'Sides, you seem cool, you know? You're so... like, above all this shit."
For the second time today, Gerard is speechless. Is Frank blind? Gerard's an honest-to-God social pariah. If that's cool, Frank's definitions are definitely a bit off. As for being above it all, as Frank puts it, well, it isn't really by choice.
All the same, he decides to take it as a compliment. "Huh. Well, um, thanks, I guess," he says, feeling a small smile pulling at his mouth as he gets up in preparation to do battle with the temperamental DVD player. Behind him, he hears Frank exhale slowly, and Gerard's brain supplies the image of Frank breathing deeply, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes and trying to keep it together. He's pretty shaken himself, actually; Frank's always so ludicrously cheerful, it's actually kind of scary to see him change like this so quickly. Those guys must be properly fucked up to have done this to Frank, Gerard thinks, and feels an illogical pang of protectiveness.
Finally, the DVD player whirrs and groans into life, and Gerard resists the urge to do a little victory dance because, hello, not cool. But when he turns back, his heart sinks – Frank still looks like he's about to melt into a sad little puddle all over the couch. He facepalms mentally; he feels awful about bringing it up, and then promptly feels even worse when he catches himself thinking how much he'd like to know what actually happened.
"Hey," he says, softly. "You alright?"
Frank looks up at him, but his smile doesn't quite ring true and Gerard's chest suddenly feels a little tight.
"Yeah," he replies, still not sounding very sure. "Yeah, I'm good."
"You kinda look like you could use a drink, actually."
Frank's eyes widen fractionally, and, really, no one should be allowed to be that ridiculously adorable; it's just stupid. "What about your 'rentals? Aren't they gonna, like...?"
"Both out. I think they were going to, like, some craft fair or something? I dunno, I wasn't listening. And then they're going to the PTA thing up at the school, so they won't be back any time soon." He shrugs; he doesn't usually remember where they're going, only whether they're going to be around to notice if he gets falling-down drunk. Frank's brightens up a little.
"Seriously? Well, fuck, yes, if that's cool. I mean, I don't wanna, like, drink all your booze."
Slightly to his own surprise, Gerard realises that he genuinely doesn't mind. It's not like this happens a lot; he doesn't usually have anyone to share it with. It's quite a nice novelty, actually. He hits the play button before crossing to the wardrobe and extracting the bottle of vodka from its hiding place under a sweater he grew out of when he turned nine. Sitting back down, he offers Frank the bottle.
"Um. Should I go and get, like, glasses or something?" asks Frank.
"Nah. I mean, unless you can be bothered to go up and get them..." Gerard shrugs.
"Awesome."
Frank unscrews the lid and tips a mouthful back, wincing as it burns his throat, before handing Gerard the bottle and settling down to watch the movie. Gerard still isn't really sure whether Frank's going to get Monty Python – lots of people don't, after all. He stops worrying, however, when King Arthur appears on the screen accompanied by Patsy and the coconut shells and Frank starts grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. By the time the castle guards get into the whole African-versus-European-swallow debate, he's giggling uncontrollably and Gerard feels a horribly ominous swell of happiness that forebodes much pining over a certain pretty, straight boy in his near future.
Fuck.
He groans inwardly, and takes another drink.
"That's the ending?!" Frank flails incoherently. He's more than a little drunk.
"Yeah," says Gerard, leaning back a bit before one of Frank's hands can smack him in the face. He's also more than a little drunk, and he doesn't know when Frank's head ended up resting on his thigh like that, warm and solid and heavy. It's kind of weird to think that he doesn't even know Frank, that only a couple of days ago just being in the same room as him felt so strained and awkward. But this, this is... this feels right.
"But... but... that's, like..."
"I know. Like, total mindfuck, right?"
"Yeah!" Frank sits up, swaying slightly. "But. Like, epic movie. I can totally see why you named your, uh," he gestures descriptively.
"Car?"
"Yeah, tha's the one. Named your car after it." He nods emphatically and nearly falls off the couch. Gerard grabs him by the arm and steadies him.
"Woah, there. Don't wanna fall off. That'd hurt. Or maybe it wouldn't. You fall down a lot." He's kind of forgotten what he was talking about. Frank eyes him speculatively.
"You know," he says, slowly. "I knew you were gonna be awesome."
"Mmh?" Gerard's brain circles around this statement once or twice before giving up on making any sense of it.
"Just, like... I dunno, I can talk to you. And, like, I don't even really know you. Weird, right?" His eyes are big and solemn like he's baring his soul or something, and kind of unfocussed, and Gerard doesn't think he's ever seen anyone so pretty. He licks his lips, wondering why his mouth is suddenly so dry.
"Yeah. Weird."
"Right? But, like, I think I needed this, you know?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. S'made me think about stuff."
Gerard thinks that might be a good thing. "What kind of stuff?"
"Just. About, like, friends and shit. I mean, you shouldn't hang out with someone you don't actually like, should you?"
Oh. Gerard's heart sinks. Here it comes. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't expected this. Well, it was fun while it lasted. He ducks his head, not wanting to look at Frank, his hair falling over his eyes. "No," he says, softly. "I guess not."
"Right. So – hey, man, you ok?"
"Fine. Look, if you wanna go, you can."
"Wait, wha...? Oh." Realisation strikes. "Ohhh. Fuck, you thought I meant you! Nonono, I meant, like, what you just did, stopping me falling on the floor? Like, Ryan wouldn't've done that. None of them would. They'd think it was funny."
Gerard looks up, hope igniting again and tangling with sadness. He reaches out and puts a hand over Frank's knee. Is that weird? Probably, but he's too drunk and too head-over-heels to care right now. "Frank, why d'you fuckin'... stay with them?"
"I didn't. Told them I wanted out, right before I came to find you."
"Ahh! S'why you were always on your own! What'd they do when you told them?"
He shrugs. "Nothing. I mean, they're not complete bastards."
"Oh." Gerard nods, mollified, vaguely wondering what that makes him. A re-bound hangout? Is that even a thing? "Well, s'good, I guess."
Frank nods, and there's a brief space of silence while his eyes trace Gerard's cheekbones through the dark. Gerard clocks this, blushing. Frank doesn't stop, dropping his eyes down like – what the fuck – like he's undressing Gerard in his mind.
"Frank," he murmurs, warningly. He could swear there's less air in the room than there was a minute ago. Frank looks up, eyes questioning. He leans forward slowly, tentatively, giving Gerard the chance to push him away. When they're nearly nose-to-nose, Frank stops, just waiting. It feels like standing on the edge, not knowing whether or not you'll jump.
"Yeah?"
Gerard swallows, because, fuck, someone has to be the responsible one here. He could cry; he'd better get so much fucking good karma for doing this. He closes his eyes, because looking at Frank's hopeful, wanting face is not helping. "Frank," he says, clinging desperately to the thought that taking advantage of drunk, straight boys is morally iffy at best, no matter how desperately tempting they look in the half-light. "Frank, you're not even gay. You're gonna regret this when you're sober."
Frank giggles, nudging his forehead against Gerard's and running a hand up his leg and ohfuck.
"Who told you that? They're a fuckin' liar, whoever they are."
Gerard can feel his resolve wavering, but he fights bravely on, hoping that God or whoever is up there is seeing this and giving him due credit for it. "You're still drunk," he protests weakly, as Frank's hand edges up towards his crotch and the other curls itself around the back of his neck. "S'not right..." He's just sober enough to be aware that, ethically speaking, this is a bit dodgy.
"Your face is drunk," retorts Frank, with feeling, then closes the remaining gap and starts kissing him like his life depends on it, and, yeah, this is going to happen. Gerard parts his lips slightly, feeling Frank's tongue licking into his mouth, and, fuck, that really shouldn't be so hot. There's a low moan he thinks might have been him, and, encouraged, Frank pushes him down onto the cushions and kisses him harder. It's messy and clumsy, all teeth and fingers tangled up in hair, but it's fucking incredible. Frank starts to move against him and Gerard's breath catches.
"Frank," he murmurs, "What are we–"
Frank cuts him off but doesn't seem to want to stop kissing him, so it comes out as a mumbled, indistinct noise that bears a passing resemblance to shut up. "Been wanting to do this," he grins, pushing Gerard's hair off his face, "For so fuckin' long, you have no idea."
All Gerard's breath seems to leave his lungs at once. "Seriously?"
"Fuck, yeah." Frank breaks off to kiss him again. "I mean. Like, have you even seen you?"
Gerard thinks that's a compliment, but what with the booze fogging his higher cognitive functions and, fuck, Frank's mouth, he's not too sure. "So, what? This was, like, all some cunning plan to get into my pants? I feel so used."
He's wary, and only half-joking.
"Well." Frank pulls back, a small line of concern appearing on his forehead. "Maybe, like, a li'l bit." He makes an uncoordinated hand gesture to illustrate li'l. "You don't mind, though, right? I mean, like, we'll still hang out and stuff, if you want. But, you know." He leans back in for a deep, open-mouthed kiss to illustrate his point. "Um. Okay?"
As Gerard melts happily into Frank, he doesn't think he's ever been so okay in his life.