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Frank spends the summer of 2011 driving around New Jersey in Gerard’s beat up silver Nissan past bleeding skylines and congested cities. He keeps catching sight of his eye in the rearview mirror, swollen and yellow, and doesn’t even have to look at Gerard to picture the way his pale, ink stained skin barely manages to hide his fragile bones. He doesn’t know when it got this bad; when Gerard made Mikey look chubby and Frank looked like a world class boxer (although, if he was a supposedly world class boxer he probably wouldn’t be the one with all these fucking bruises and cuts). But it’ll be okay because Frank has a plan; Frank knows what they need.
If he takes a left onto Route 80 he’ll be at the hospital in fifteen minutes tops, but if he takes Route 15 he’ll be there in ten; Frank remembers when he didn’t even know where the hospital was let alone the quickest route to get there. Maybe he didn’t know when it got this bad because he thought things were getting better; Gerard was laughing and coercing Frank into cheap, tacky diners at one in the morning on school nights, flashing him pretty smiles. He was drawing again; filling up blank pages with tales of love and revenge and death and rebirth. He wonders if the hospital’s always this empty at five AM or if they just got lucky or if it has to do with the department they’re in. Frank fills out papers and Gerard leans heavily on his shoulder, breathing in and out slowly, Frank would think he was asleep if it wasn’t for the incessant tapping of his foot and wringing of his hands.
He thought things were getting better; he was trying so hard to make everything better that he let himself believe it. And then Gerard had a breakdown; shedding sanity like the pounds he hates so much. And Frank never realized how gaunt and sallow Gerard looks until he sees him in the hospital bed, body tiny and vulnerable. Gerard’s small chest rises and falls quickly as he walks his fingers across the starched sheets to tangle them with Frank’s, who’s gripping the arm of his chair so hard his knuckles hurt; Gerard’s hands are cold and clammy. Frank doesn’t like the doctor, doesn’t like the way his tired eyes dance over their joined hands before sweeping up over Gerard’s face to the bone white walls, like he’s trying to show he doesn’t care that they’re together but obviously does.
He rattles off medical terms, diagnosis’ Frank’s never heard of in his four years of high school biology, and Gerard squeezes his hand tighter at each one. Frank wants to turn off the lights, climb into the bed next to him, and kiss his thin wrists and sharp hipbones and tell him it’s okay that he’s sick because Frank is just as fucked up inside as he is.
*
During the drive home, Frank chain smokes four cigarettes and begs Gerard to eat something. He reaches back at a red light and grabs the unopened bag of chips he bought a couple of days ago when they did nothing but drive around all night, stopping at gas stations and Dunkin’ Donuts for fuel. It’s when Gerard smacks the bag out of his hand, teeth bared, that Frank starts yelling at him.
“You can’t keep doing this!”
Gerard snorts. “Doing what, Frank?”
“You know what I'm fucking talking about," Frank snarls. "I just want you to eat something! You’re fucking dying,” Frank cries, voice cracking. “You’re fucking dying and you don’t even fucking care.” Gerard snatches the bag of chips up from the floor and rips it open, shoving a handful into his mouth, crunching loudly, savoring the calories he won’t allow to settle in his skin.
“I’m sorry,” Frank says, even though he's not. He's really fucking not. He lights another cigarette, trying and failing to choke down the lump in his throat, and wonders if ordering Gerard around like this makes him anything like his dad who has broken Frank’s nose so many times it’s a wonder the sharp bone hasn’t broken off and shot up into his brain, killing him. Gerard plucks the cigarette out of Frank’s mouth and sticks it in his own, closing his eyes at the first inhalation of smoke.
He feels tension roll off his shoulders as the signs come up, starts to forget the way Gerard twists and turns in front of his mirror when he thinks Frank isn’t looking, poking and pulling at his skin. Gerard reaches out to grab Frank’s hand because this is it for them; this is Frank’s plan A, B, and C. New York’s treated them well since the beginning, back when they couldn’t drive and the two hour train rides back and forth when they skipped school together were their only option. Frank’s eyes flicker to the sign on his right; Now Leaving New Jersey: home of battered sons and breathing skeletons for boyfriends.
*
Frank wakes up in the middle of the night to The Godfather theme song: his cell phone. He throws his arm out of his covers, knocking it off his nightstand, and because Frank’s still partially dreaming he somehow ends up on the floor with it, phone finally pressed to his ear.
“Yeah?” he croaks, turning his head to the side so that he doesn’t suffocate from all the dust and dirt and sweaty show clothes scattered around the room.
“Come pick me up,” Gerard says, voice too loud in Frank’s ear.
Frank opens his eyes, peers at the cable box sitting on his TV: 4:13 AM. “It’s fucking four in the morning; what’re you even doing up?” Frank’s well aware that his boyfriend is what most would call a nocturnal vampire but this is late even for his standards. The rare times that Gerard is awake at this hour he’s drunk and horny, calling Frank with his hand already wrapped around his cock, leaking in his boxers, begging for Frank to just “moan my fucking name, Frankie, please, just once”.
“She’s making me see someone,” Gerard rushes out. “In five hours I’m going to be sitting in some shrink’s office, like, by talking about my life she’ll spot the fuck up. This child plays sports, this child volunteers at shelters, this child’s parents are divorced and he draws blood and guts for fun; which one of these things does not fit in?”
Oh, someone at the salon must’ve asked Donna about her son. It’s not that Donna isn’t a good mom, she does her fucking best and loves her boys to death but she isn’t known for her stern expressions or strict rules or hawk’s eyes. If Gerard can be drunk nine times out of ten during breakfast and Mikey can bring home girls to fuck in the room two away from his mom’s Frank’s sure Gerard could hide his body in baggy clothes.
“I saw him the other day with that boy, the one with all the piercings; he’s nothing but skin and bones, Donna.”
“Mikey? Mikey’s always been like that. No matter how much I feed him he’s still a twig; he certainly didn’t get those genes from me.”
“No, hon, your other son. With the black hair; he’s been looking awfully skinny lately. Is he doing alright?”
Donna’s finally managed to rub enough sleep and stress from her watery eyes to notice that her son is a pile of bones wasting away with each shuddering intake of breath; he could be some sort of study guide for anatomy students. Frank thinks Gerard would love that; would love for people to be able to use his body as a reference or a starting point, but only for creation. He pictures Gerard in a room full of starving artists, beautiful in their struggle, sketching him. Imagines them filling up page after page of Gerard’s body: the pink burn mark above his strong cheekbones, the scattered freckles across his drooping shoulder blades, the recently missing skin of his belly that Frank used to dig his fingers into.
“No,” Frank says, interrupting Gerard’s babbling.
“No?”
“You need this and we both know it.”
He hears a defeated, “Frankie.”
Because Frank loves Gerard too much and will never be what he needs he promises, “If you hate it, and I mean absolutely hate it, you won’t have to go back.”
“You promise?”
“Gerard,” Frank sighs. It really is too early to deal with this.
“You better promise me, motherfucker.”
A smile creeps onto Frank’s face; he knows he’s forgiven. “I fucking promise you, motherfucker.”
It’s quiet for a moment and Frank listens to the steady in and out of Gerard’s breathing; he remembers when they’d stay up all night long on the phone and how the time between three and five AM would be spent propping their phones up against record players and listening to each other breath in the breaks between songs. Frank doesn’t want to ruin the silence, because it’s peaceful for once, but he has to say it.
“You know I love you, right?”
Gerard’s breath hitches in that way it always does when Frank calls him ‘Gee’ or tells him he loves him. Frank’s never going to get tired of that; never going to be able to hear it enough times. “I love you too, Frankie.”
“Listen, I'm going to set my alarm and when I wake up I'll call your mom. I'll call and we'll talk and I'll pick you up after your appointment." Frank says, voice soft and steady.
“Yeah,” Gerard sighs and Frank can picture him running his hand through his messy hair, tugging frustratingly. “Just. Can you stay on the line with me?”
“Of course,” Frank says, hefting himself up off the floor and falling back on his bed. He tugs his blankets up and burrows down underneath them, poking a little hole to get some fresh air.
“Can you talk?” Gerard whispers, almost like he’s embarrassed to ask.
Frank smiles, “Yeah, yeah I can talk.” He lets his mouth run, thoughts flying out unfiltered, and half the time he doesn’t even really know what he’s saying but Gerard’s still there on the other end of the line, piping up or laughing a little or saying things like “oh, Frankie”. It’s a little weird, because Gerard’s the one who does most of the talking, and Frank’s always happy to listen. Sometimes, he thinks he’d never be sad again if he could just climb right into Gerard’s head: make a home for himself with Gerard’s thoughts running over his head endlessly.
*
Frank reclines his seat all the way back, shifting around to avoid the springs digging into his back, and lets his head fall to the right so he can see the black telephone wires passing by in what looks like one continuous rope. He’d lean his head against the window but it’s like Gerard aims for every pothole and manhole out there; Frank’s not sure if he could hit his head against the window hard enough to, like, jar his skull out of place but he’s not willing to find out. But, he doesn’t mind when Gerard drives; Gerard gives him complete control over the radio and when he turns the surprisingly not-shitty stereo up all the way and presses his leg against the car door he can feel the vibrations seep into his bones. He thinks about money and the one bedroom apartment in New York City with the shitty view the two of them plan on renting when they’re finally able to collect their souls from the purgatory that is high school. He can’t wait to bartend at his Uncle’s bar and see all of Gerard’s works in progress and walk him to class on his days off and see the look on Gerard’s face when he gets his name fucking tattooed over his heart.
Frank’s patient but he’s tired of waiting now. He's tired of the clones in varsity jackets that still try to shove him into lockers and the nosy guidance counselors who hope for some kid to come to them with tales of depression and cries of help bleeding from their adolescent lips. He yearns for an apartment that smells like coffee and sex and cigarettes and sheets and pillows that smell like him and Gerard and that moment when he can finally stop trying to hide the bruises Gerard's already seen.
*
There’s a party at Toro’s house but those always end in fights (Frank’s an angry drunk, just like his dad) and Frank’s parents have split their time between screaming at him for being a “no good punk” (seriously, it's like he's back in the fucking sixties or something who even talks like that?) and fucking each other like teenagers, or more specifically, fucking each other like there isn’t a teenager in the house with them. So he improvises, stealing some of his dad’s Coors and waits for Gerard on the corner of his street, leaning up against a flickering streetlight playing with his lighter. It’s dark and warm, in a muggy sort of way, and Frank wipes the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. He hears Gerard’s car before he sees it, Smashing Pumpkins blaring out of the open windows and tires screeching as he turns onto Frank’s street.
“You’re going to get yourself killed driving like that, idiot.” Frank says, sliding into the car with a smirk on his face.
Gerard plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek and beams; there are two Slurpees in the cup holders and a personal pizza box on the floor. Frank kicks it open and doesn’t know why he’s surprised to see all six slices inside.
“For you,” Gerard says.
Frank picks the box up, setting it on his knees, as Gerard pulls away from the curb. “Thanks.”
Frank and Gerard get drunk on the beach in Atlantic City, wrapped up in the blankets Gerard always keeps in the trunk. They stare up at the stars, listening to the soft sounds of waves crashing onto the shore. Gerard gets drunk first, like always, chugging beer after beer until he can’t hold himself upright and has to either lie down or slump against Frank. Frank slings his arm around Gerard's waist and finishes his fourth beer. Gerard’s all smiles and waving arms, acting like he can identify all of the constellations in the sky, and Frank nods along enthusiastically, just losing himself in the sound of his voice, rough and thick.
Frank doesn’t know what time they drag themselves off the beach and back into the car, driving along brightly lit roads in search of cheap motels. It doesn’t take long, Frank follows the trail of strip clubs and bars and parks in front of an ugly pink building boasting a neon ‘vacancy’ sign. He helps Gerard out of the car and doesn’t bother with fake names at the front desk, just shoves eighty bucks (not bad for the weekend, Frank thinks vaguely) into the guys hand and grips the room key.
They curl up under the sheets and tangle their limbs together so that it’s actually a challenge to try and discern which extremity belongs to whom.
“I'm fuckin' tired, Gee. I'm really fucking tired.” Frank whispers into Gerard’s soft skin. And he doesn't know how much longer he can live like this; there's too much pressure, he feels like he's gonna pop.
“I know.” Gerard stares up at the ceiling and brushes Frank’s hair off his forehead. “We’re going to be okay, Frankie. You believe me, right?”
Frank clutches onto Gerard tight, like at any moment someone could burst into the room and try to pry them apart, like being separated could result in death. “Yeah,” he mumbles thickly. “I believe you.”
*
Frank spends the day hanging out with Gerard and Mikey, as per usual, in their empty house watching slasher flicks and smoking too many cigarettes. He doesn’t know where their parents are and doesn’t really care in all honesty, its better this way. They’re sprawled across the couches in the living room, shirts off (well, Mikey and Frank have their shirts off) and skinny jeans riding low on their slick hips, arguing about stupid shit that doesn’t matter. The windows are all propped open with empty cigarette cartons, crammed one on top of the other, and all of the doors are jammed because the humidity makes everything swell and creak.
“It’s too fucking hot,” Frank groans, shoving himself forward to grab the last piece of pizza even though his stomach is about to burst open.
“Shut the fuck up,” Mikey groans back and then says, “Dude, you’ve had, like, four pieces already. I can tell you’re stuffed, you’ve unbuttoned your jeans.” It’s not like anyone else is going to eat it. Mikey’s had three slices and Gerard’s just doing that thing where he pushes his food around or brings it up to his mouth to take a bite but suddenly has something to say and drops the piece back onto his plate, uneaten. He thinks no one notices. Frank does.
Frank laughs. “Fuck you! Since when does someone have to be hungry to enjoy pizza?”
“Since forever, Frank.” Gerard smiles when he says it though and rubs Frank’s belly like he’s pregnant or something. It takes Frank longer than it should to even take a bite of his pizza because he has to stop laughing first.
“You two are such freaks,” Mikey mumbles fondly, sticking his tongue out in a mock gag.
Around six Frank pulls on Gerard’s Planet of the Apes shirt and lines his eyes with Gerard’s red liner, flopping back on the bed while Gerard gets himself ready: picking at his hair and smudging his eye makeup. They’re going to a show. Mikey ditches them, turning left instead of right to get to the car, heading to some house party where people who aren’t as fucked up as his brother and his brother’s boyfriend are. Frank doesn’t really blame him.
The show is at The Stone Pony, Frank waltzes right in, tugging Gerard along behind him as he pats the bouncer, Bob, on the shoulder as he passes. It’s some punk band all the way from San Diego, complete with dickies and matching Hurley shirts, Frank hasn’t been able to listen to anything but them for the past month or so. He’s fucking stoked. He pushes his way through the crowd, keeping a tight hold on Gerard, and finally stops somewhere in the middle a little off center.
“Who’s playing?”
“Blink-182,” Frank answers, unable to fight the grin spreading across his face. Frank leans back against Gerard, reveling in the feeling of the vibrating crowd and sticky floors, as he waits for the opening band to get the fuck off the stage. The singer keeps stumbling over the words, the guitarist sends nervous looks at the bassist whenever he fucks up, and the drummer’s going way too fast for any of them to keep up; they aren’t ready for this and maybe they never will be. When the band they came here to see starts playing he gets into it.
The bass gets inside him and swims around in his chest, vibrates against his sternum, and he just fucking throbs. Gerard’s hand slides off the patch of skin it was resting on and Frank thrashes around to the drums, sweating before they’re even halfway through the third song. He throws himself around, banging his head to the beat, and screams and sweats and lets go of everything he’s so tired of holding on to day after fucking day.
“You look pretty beat up there, dude.” the guitarist pants into the microphone, and for a second Frank thinks he’s talking to him because his body fucking aches and he’s got another fucking black eye and bruises up and down his arm. But when he looks up, the guitarist is looking at some guy at the other side of the room.
“Tom,” the bassist chimes in. “Stop trying to get that guy’s number and start the fucking song.” Frank laughs along with the crowd, keeping his eyes on Tom and Mark long enough to see the way Tom smiles at Mark, like he’s the only person who matters to him. Tom keeps laughing but he starts the song, fingers flying over the frets. Frank opens his mouth to let the words he memorized a long time ago tumble out; they’re quickly swallowed up by the sea of voices singing along with him. Somehow, Frank ends up pressed against Gerard again, the other boy’s face is flushed and sweaty, hair mussed and makeup running a little. Frank grabs Gerard’s face in both of his hands and kisses him, hard and quick, and pulls away to get back into the show. This is all he needs in life.
And later, when they’re sitting in some diner ten minutes from their houses eating waffles and pancakes and eggs, sweaty and tired, Frank gets this feeling in his chest like something eases up a bit.
“We’re going to be okay, Frankie.” Gerard says again, pushing his food onto Frank’s plate like always.
“Yeah,” Frank nods and averts his eyes, telling himself that it’s not him who’s eating Gerard’s food this time, that Gerard’s just shoveling it all into his mouth so quickly Frank misses it. He smiles, throat tight, “Yeah.”