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Summer. It's hot as all hell. Frank is practically melting but that doesn't stop him from clinging to Gerard like his life depends on it, and it really feels like it does. Gerard is buried inside of a thick, black hoodie, unbothered by the weight of his boyfriend half on top of him. Maybe in some other universe, a normal one, he just isn't that hot – he is wearing shorts, and Frank is notorious for being dramatic – but anyone with a working brain and a worldview not tinted pink knows it's something else. It's the reason they're huddled up in the back of a banged up car with no AC, a red-faced Mikey in the driver's seat, with a pale, unblinking Ray sitting beside him.
No music plays, which is a first for the four, and all that can be heard other than the dying engine is Gerard’s sniffles – quiet sobs and gasps of breath and even quieter sounds of Frank placing small wet kiss after small we kiss on Gerard’s neck. It would be annoying, downright gross, in any other situation, but Mikey can't bring himself to pay any mind to it, and even if he could he wouldn't mind because the occasion kind of calls for it.
Gerard's finally going away, officially forced into recovery as he ensures to stress every time. Donna says she didn't want it to have to get to this, but he'd only been getting worse and she didn't know what else to do. Frank still remembers some weeks ago, when he was hanging out in the basement with him like usual, and Donna had stormed down to yell (as loud as she could, always so composed) about his failed attempt to hide the dinner he threw out. Gerard was only in his briefs, Frank having yet to remove his own clothes, thank god, and tears brimmed her eyes when she saw him bare. She went on a rant about losing her son, likened him to a skeleton, said he was way worse than Mikey, and Gerard smiled. It didn't reach his eyes, but it was there, and Frank remembers the way his stomach dropped. He was flattered, and it was so fucked up, especially since he knew he was partly to blame for it.
Donna paused, stared at him in something akin to disbelief for a while, then turned around and went back up without another word. Then, when enough time passed, Gerard turned back to Frank and kissed him like nothing had happened, like they weren't just interrupted, but he was shaking like a leaf and Frank didn't know how to react other than to sit there and let him do what he wanted. What he needed, maybe.
“Frankie,” present-time Gerard whispers shakily, his voice a mixture of rough from chain smoking and wet from crying for the past hour.
Frank moves back very slightly, just enough to see his face, and it's red and puffy and fucking miserable.
“Last cig,” he croaks out, and only now can Frank smell the previously smoked nineteen on him.
“Jesus, G,” he whispers back, pulling away. “That was a new pack.”
Gerard only shrugs, throws it on Frank’s lap and turns to stare out the window wordlessly.
The sun is setting, blotches of orange finding themselves at home among the pinks and purples of the sky. It's fucking beautiful here, the countryside, a long scenic route they decided to take to say their final goodbyes to Gerard before it was time to let him go. They have some hours, some bottles of beer and bags of snacks and Frank can't travel in peace with his bong too far from him, so it's there too. His grinder. His ounces.
The air gets cooler the further they go, Mikey speeding up bit by bit and the wind coming in through the open windows to blow through their hair and whisper sweet nothings against their skin. Frank takes the last cigarette, lights it, and Gerard moves his head back to watch the way he sucks in that first puff of smoke and sighs happily, throws his head back against the seat and exposes the skin of his neck, all but inviting Gerard to bite and lick at it. He wants to so badly, but spares Mikey and Ray and settles for sneaking a hand under Frank's shirt.
Frank sighs again, goes back to clinging to his boyfriend, then his free hand is cupping his sunken cheeks and swiping a thumb across dried tears. An 'I love you, G’ is whispered against chapped lips, their tobacco breaths mixing in the small space between their mouths. Gerard's eyes are moist again, then the car is stopping and the two at the front are clambering out, but the two at the back pay no mind.
“I don't wanna go,” Gerard says softly, innocently, like a scared child, and Frank’s heart clenches. “Don't wanna– I can't–”
“I'm sorry,” is all Frank can think to say. There are no words he can use to soothe him, no true words, anyway, and he doesn't think agreeing will do much. So he apologises. He doesn't really know what for, perhaps for not being enough. Not knowing how to help him, how to make him better, how to do for him what Gerard has done time and time again.
Then he says, “you’ll be okay,” and it's a half truth. Gerard won't die, he doesn't think. He’ll sure as hell feel like it, but he won't, and he'll get better, and he'll be back home in no time. Then he can catch up on all the things he missed out on when he was too busy holding himself back from living. And Frank will always wait for him no matter how long he takes, and he knows Ray and Mikey will too.
Gerard shakes his head, properly crying now, and Frank is surprised he even has tears left, but he leans forward to kiss them away, anyway, after stubbing his cigarette out and throwing it out the window. Gerard pulls his face down so their lips slot together, and he breathes a shaky breath into him, into his lungs, a piece of him to keep while he's away.
Then Gerard's pulling Frank's shirt off, all but yanking at it with a frustrated grunt when it doesn't immediately come off. Frank lets him do it, but not without verbal protest.
“G, we can't– not in Mikey’s car. C'mon–”
“‘M not doing anything. Just wanna–” once the shirt is off, Gerard starts working at Frank’s stupid pink belt. “Just wanna feel you. Your skin. Please.”
He doesn't respond, so Gerard pulls his shorts down and straddles him, pushes him forward until he's lying down on the seat. He's always like this when he's feeling too much– he's antsy and snappy and demanding and somewhat aggressive, he acts like he'll die in that moment if he doesn't immediately get what he wants. It's usually in Frank's pants. It helps to blow off steam, to focus all that energy into something a little healthier than a razor or a bottle or pills or starving. Frank doesn't mind, he likes that he can help, and if it's something sexual he's usually the one giving because it doesn't feel right receiving when Gerard is in such a state. But, this time, Gerard undresses himself, wraps his arms and legs around Frank, and just lays there on top of him, both clad in nothing but their briefs. He presses down like their atoms will shift with enough pressure and they'll become one. He talks about that a lot, wishing he could crawl inside Frank's body and live there, or merge their souls or something.
It's usually weird, but Gerard is weird, so Frank shrugs it off. This time, however, he kinda gets it. He kinda does wish Gerard was inside of him or he was inside of Gerard. He'd take care of the both of them, or Gerard would take care of himself because he couldn't bear to hurt Frank by hurting himself. There's that, and the fact that he feels like they can never get close enough. When they're hugging, or fucking, or doing whatever, sometimes they hold onto each other until their knuckles turn white and they can feel their bones through their flesh but it's not enough. And now he's getting sent away. What the hell is Frank supposed to do?
“Just,” Frank mumbles into his hair, grease and all. “Just try, please? It's easier said than done, I know, but. Aren't you tired, G? I'm so fucking exhausted.”
“Fuck you,” Gerard spits, but he doesn't move away. He can't. “You have no idea. You're not the one who has to live with this–”
“You don't have to. I can't relate to you but I know it's hard, it's a fucking disorder, G, but you need to try. You're not trying . And I hate watching you self-destruct, but, more than anything, I hate having to let you go. I don't want you to be alone and scared and miserable, but if you don't get better you're gonna–”
A knock on the roof interrupts his rant. Gerard still doesn't want to move, but Frank pushes him up despite his complaints.
It's Ray, his arm still resting on the roof while he makes it a point to turn his head away from the car. Frank smirks despite everything. Ray is a funny guy.
“We have a little over an hour until we're on the road again. Then the place is, like, twenty minutes away, so…”
“Yeah,” Frank sighs, pulling his shirt over his head. “Coming.”
Gerard gets up and out into the forest, shuffles over to where Mikey’s sitting on a log, and uses him as his new headrest. Frank and Ray unload the trunk while that's going on, Ray grabbing the snacks and drinks while Frank heads straight for his beloved weed kit.
“You okay?” Ray asks while they're still far enough. He stares ahead at the other two. “I didn't want you guys fighting, so I interrupted."
Frank nods, both as an answer to his question and in gratitude. Ray gets it, because he gets everything and everyone, and pats his back with his free hand. Neither of them make a move to keep walking, however, so Ray speaks up again.
“He’ll be fine. You'll be fine. Mikey will be fine, okay? It'll be hard, but this is good. And if, only if, Gerard can't handle it, we can bring him back. Find another solution. But this one will work. I know it.”
He doesn't know it. But Frank believes him, anyway, partly because he wants to and mainly because Ray is just really good at convincing people of the impossible. He's the embodiment of a breath of fresh air, and if Frank already got started with his bong he probably would've had to fight the urge to kiss him right on the mouth. He says this much, and Ray laughs with a fond shake of his head.
Then they're finally moving again, setting their stuff down on the grass once they're back with Mikey and Gerard, and soon they're talking about random shit they'll probably forget in the morning.
The bong gets passed between just three of them. Ray denies it, as much as he doesn't want to, because he's decided to let Mikey rest and drive the rest of the way. Mikey calls him an angel, and they all laugh except for one.
Frank steals glance after glance at Gerard, tries really hard to ignore the way he eyes the snacks but doesn't make a move to grab any of them. He nurses a bottle of beer, his fingers twitch for another cigarette. His knees are pulled up to his chest and his head rests on one of them. The hoodie doesn't make him any less small, and Frank wants so badly to pick him up and hold him like he usually would, but he doesn't move. Their fingers touch when the bong is passed between them. Gerard is crying again. Mikey’s petting his hair and pulling him down onto his shoulder, his own eyes slightly wet. Frank has to look away, he feels like he'll puke.
Ray’s hand is on his shoulder again. He wants to shrug it off, but he doesn't. He busies his hands with a beer when Mikey gets the bong and he realises the high isn't really helping like it should. He doesn't feel loose or calm, he feels like he's going to die because his heart feels like it's splitting. Maybe he's having a heart attack.
The sky is nice and dark above them. The stars are visible. Birds in trees sing among themselves. Everything is beautiful. Nothing is beautiful.
Frank doesn't try to fight the tears, hide them, or wipe them away, he just lets them fall. He lets Gerard pull him up (how did he get in front of him so fast?) and drag him out to the trees. He lets Gerard press him against a tree and kiss his lips and travel down to his neck and suck at the scorpion tattoo. He lets himself moan, broken in every sense of the word. His tears are still falling.
Gerard’s whispering something in his face. It sounds vaguely like an apology. He's repeating it again and again and again and again. Frank shushes him and pushes their mouths together and tries to suck Gerard’s soul out of him so at least he can keep that while his physical shell goes away. It doesn't work.
They're both snotty and aching and drunk and high and pathetic. They're worse when they're called back to the car, Gerard has to go and sign in on time. It's awkward, uncomfortable, a little funny, but they hold each other while they walk. Frank slips into the front seat next to Ray to give Gerard and Mikey some space. He tells himself the hurt on Gerard's face was there the entire time.
The car is moving, and the headlights in the dark expanse of nothingness look like a scene straight out of a horror movie. Maybe one about camp, or hitchhiking. Frank thinks it would be funny if they all died here, then he feels nauseous again at the thought. Ray glances at him, and Frank wishes he would quit being good at reading people for one fucking second.
Time is merciless. It flies. The gps tells them they're close. Ray’s hands twitch on the wheel. He wants to slow down, but he won't.
Then they're there. The home, as they call it, is big and white and intimidating as all hell. Mikey has to drag Gerard out, and the only reason he isn't screaming and crying bloody murder is because he doesn't want to wake anyone up or draw attention to himself, but he looks back at Frank with so much raw fucking fear he almost grabs him and runs away. Almost.
Mikey hugs his brother tight, squeezes him with all the strength his skinny body can, which, right now, is more than Gerard’s. Gerard hugs back. Then he hugs Ray, and Ray holds him like a mother. Frank would laugh on any other occasion.
Gerard stumbles over to Frank, knocks their foreheads together and it hurts kinda bad but neither of them pull away. Frank forces out a shuddering sob and tucks his face in Gerard’s neck, breathes him in for the last time for a long time, plants a kiss at his pulse point, and, he swears to god, that stupid, fragile, beautiful heart of Gerard’s better keep fucking beating. They kiss again because they can't go five minutes without, but they'll have to. They'll have to go way longer.
“C'mon,” Ray whispers, his own voice finally cracking a little. “It's time.”
He hands Gerard his pathetic little suitcase, tiny and still somehow almost empty, and then he's gone.