Chapter Text
we are now and forever will be unaware of what has to come next.
pale visions of future’s past lead the way in last season’s lead boots.
i fawn over your wit. i am butter in your mitts. and still i long for everything.
feel free to pity me…they always do. (i make a good lost cause and an easy target.)
forget what you’ve learned for these woods, once hollow and bare, are now full to the brim with villains.
…ah, but they don’t stand a chance do they? (nor do any of us for that matter.)
it’s a slippery slope, a losing battle, when you’re up against such a sweetly sly smile.
a tender embrace.
a glance in the right direction.
an accented compliment.
you wreck me you scoundrel you…and for that i am forever indebted.
-2013, frnkiero.
(excerpt from poem titled unload, reload, repeat.)
———
The road has always been a second home for Frank. He loves it, in theory; seeing new countries, meeting new people, the ability to try new foods and experiences. Traveling the world with his friends. Playing his music. He knows he’s lucky. His father and grandfather both played, and he knew from a young age that it was in his veins. When he was a teen, he dreamt of playing in a band and traveling the world. As a young adult, the chance came in the form of a group of older kids with crooked smiles, smoking cigarettes in black leather jackets. He fell into place like he was always meant to be there. Maybe because he was. Fate has a strange way of knowing where you belong, and putting you there whether you like it or not. Or perhaps it was never fate. He doesn’t know if he believes in that. All he does know is that he is lucky.
It’s everything he ever wanted.
The act of touring itself is grey, draining and lifeless; dealing with the crews, airports, endless streams of people shuffling in and out of his orbit, asking him questions, most of which he doesn’t have the answers for. Interviews. Airplanes. Busses. It’s been twenty five years of the routine, the lull, the in between. He knows it like the tattoos on the backs of his hands. He knows he’s lucky, and he’s thankful. He never could sit still anyway.
Even when the kids with the crooked smiles turned into men with dark hair and tired eyes, the leather jackets into tailored costumes, the crowded clubs into stage shows, even when the substances overtook them, even when his own days blurred together in a haze of booze and pills and hands he couldn’t put faces to. It was overwhelming, the years flying by in a flurry, never stopping to ask if he was okay. If he was making it. If he was happy. He didn’t know the answers to any of it.
He only knew he was lucky.
Somehow in the midst of all of it he had made a family. A semblance of normalcy for him to escape to when the lifestyle of a touring musician started to feel less like home and more like a burden. He had a beautiful wife who looked at him like he hung the moon, even after everything he had put her through. He had wonderful kids who adored him, even though they were less understanding of the time he had to spend away. He had a house in the state he loved and had grown up in, stable, paid for, suburban. Even still he filled it with music; guitars, records, studio equipment. It was the only thing that made sense to him.
He had everything he could have ever dreamed of. But in the back of his mind, there was a constant, low thrumming of static. A need. Guilt. He knew it would envelop everything if he let it. He had spent years of suffering snuffing it out into the quiet parts of his brain. He wrote it out onto paper, he put it into songs, screamed it into a microphone in front of thousands of kids who knew every word and sang along like it meant something to them. Like they could relate. Like he wasn’t alone. He thrashed and cried it out in his basement, the walls stacked with acoustic paneling, keeping him muffled and safe from the outside world, leaving it only for him to endure. He screamed. He wailed into the void, called out to nothing, yet was still surprised when there was no response. He wrote, and wrote, and wrote. It never went away: a constant, dull ache in the back of his head. An emotion he can feel like it’s a physical thing, tugging at his spine, a lead weight connected to a fishing line with no slack. It doesn’t go away.
He can feel it even now, his sneakers feeling full of concrete, as he walks the streets of Lima, Peru, alongside his best friend, Mikey.
Mikey’s own footsteps are light and full of energy. A smile is plastered from ear to ear on his strong jaw, his Rayban sunglasses glinting in the sunlight, his white t-shirt fluttering in the soft breeze. They had just deplaned not an hour before, and Mikey couldn’t wait to get into the city. The others had gone straight for the hotel to rest and prepare for the work day ahead, but Mikey had insisted they take a walk. Frank could never refuse him. It was the first date of the tour, and the show was set for the next night. The crew would be busy readying the venue, and the bands’ presence would only be a burden until they were needed the next day for soundcheck and stage blocking, so they had plenty of time to meander.
They stop at a small cafe for a quick snack, Frank being careful with his choices so as not to upset his sensitive stomach, and then walk to a nearby park to check out the scenery. Their security detail follows behind, not too close, but not out of sight. Security detail is an insane thing to have, or Frank thinks so, anyway. He misses the days when they could just leave whenever they wanted, creeping out of the bus like high school kids sneaking out to a party through their bedroom window. They’re close to the venue, but not uncomfortably so, even though Frank knows they both stick out like two sore thumbs; Mikey, tall, lean and energetic, nearly glowing in the sun, and Frank himself, a stout stormcloud of tattoos and 1990s metal band merchandise. So far, miraculously, no one has approached them. Frank can’t help but take deep, sweeping breaths of air, his lungs still shaking off the anxiety of the long flight.
“You good?” Mikey finally asks, his tone light. He already knows the answer, but Frank thinks sometimes he just likes to check in as a favor. They’re standing at the foot of a massive baroque cathedral, the Basilica and Convent of San Francisco, a landmark that Mikey had specifically pinpointed as a place of interest, showing Frank its Wikipedia article on his phone, and proceeding to go into too much detail on the history of the place while they were trapped together on the flight. “Look, it’s even dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi,” Mikey had mused, much to Frank’s chagrin. “You should be excited.”
The domed roof and the peaks of its steeples reach dizzyingly to the sky as they both stare upwards, its yellow painted walls blinding against the blue sky. The Virgin de Guadalupe looks down on them from a deep arch at the cathedral’s facade. She looks forlorn, almost out of place with the rest of the architecture around her, like she was placed there as an afterthought. To her left, shrouded under its own arch, is a statue of St. Francis of Assisi, a small dog carved at its feet. Frank eyes it begrudgingly, and a large flock of pigeons fly over them, a little too close. He scrunches his nose.
“Yeah, ‘m good,” he lies. “Just tired.”
Mikey pulls out his phone and starts snapping pictures. Frank crosses his arms and pulls a face as Mikey’s camera looms too close in his direction.
“That one’s going to the missus,” Mikey laughs. Frank rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the small grin creeping onto his mouth.
They move along through the sparse crowd of people in the central square, Mikey still preoccupied by taking photos, Frank stuffing his hands uncomfortably into the pockets of his jeans. Their security guards hover at the edge of his vision. His lungs feel tight. His stomach churns in a way that’s different from the familiar discomfort that’s plagued him for the last half of his life. The anxiety isn’t going away. He’s trying to run through the list in his head, checking mental boxes, making sure he didn’t forget anything. Tomorrow is the first day of the start of the new tour. It’s only been a few months since their last show, and he had barely even unpacked anything to begin with. Everything had been fine on the last tour. Everything had been fine. Normal, even. Frank can do normal. He had been good. He had been so good.
Everything is fine.
He fumbles his own phone out of his back pocket and checks the time. In an attempt at acting natural, he snaps a couple photos of his own. Mikey with the church in the background, framing him like he’s a Renaissance painting in his own awkward way. Trees against the sky, people a blur in the foreground, old architecture spotty in the distance. A selfie, a face he barely recognizes, crinkles around his eyes creeping out from behind his sunglasses. He sends them off to his wife, following the last Landed! Love you! text that so far has gone unanswered. He knows she’s busy with the kids. With their life that he’s not there to participate in. Picking up pieces while he goes off into the world again. He’s never pressed her for a response. She’s never pressed him for much of anything at all. He loves her for it.
They make their way back, vaguely in the direction of the hotel, taking a few more pictures on the way, talking idly, pointing out interesting scenes of the unfamiliar city. The downtown metropolis looms over them as they walk the brick laden sidewalks. The streets are bustling, the city thriving with people; street vendors, couples walking holding hands, graffiti lining the brightly colored walls. The air is thick with the scent of bakery sweets, rich spices and motor oil. Mikey stops at a vendor to buy a small wooden keychain, a trinket to take home as a souvenir, as he’s done in every city they’ve visited for as long as Frank can remember. They are eventually stopped by a polite, yet giggly group of young girls who ask for a photo in endearingly broken English. They giggle harder when Frank tries to answer them in equally broken Spanish. The girls smile, say their thank you’s, and go on their way, whispering and laughing with each other while glancing back, security standing between them like an open wrought iron gate. It’s a nice exchange, one that Frank will try to commit to memory, if even just for a little while.
He knows he’s lucky to experience this.
Eventually they grow tired of walking, and decide to call a rideshare to take them the rest of the way. The streets of the city are cramped, tight with motorcycles and carts and signs that no one seems to regard. Frank looks at his knees for the majority of the ride, while Mikey takes videos out the window, waxing poetic about the local art scene, and more history. Frank is barely there, keeping his hands laced in front of his stomach, neck craned down, obliging him with an acknowledgement every sentence or two. Sometimes he thinks Mikey just likes to feel listened to, even if no one is actually listening. Frank is good at making people feel listened to.
To Frank’s relief, they arrive at the hotel without incident. The hotel is nice enough, unremarkable, only recognizable to be inhabited by them from the multitude of their crew’s black vehicles scattered around the front, a perfunctory attempt at seclusion. It looks like every other hotel they’ve ever stayed at, in any other city. Comfortable and familiar. Except inexplicably, Frank only feels a sinking weight of dread in his stomach. His feet feel heavy again, and his body feels fuzzy. Mikey gives him a gentle fist bump to the shoulder. He realizes he’s been standing in place, still anchored in the street.
“You sure you’re okay?” Mikey asks again. He gives Frank a lopsided grin that says I know you’re not okay, and I know you’re not gonna tell me, but I’m going to keep asking anyway. Frank thinks Mikey has known him in close quarters for too long. He shrugs, a little too stiff, as if he’s wearing a jacket two sizes too small.
“I’ll be alright,” he says, forcing a grin again. “I’m just not feeling great. You can back off.”
“God forbid I care about you,” Mikey scoffs jokingly, and heads inside. Frank follows behind sullenly, still flanked by their security, feeling as if he’s dreaming and terrifyingly awake at the same time.
He makes it to his room, finally alone, kicks off his shoes and falls backwards onto the bed with his arms stretched out to his sides. This could be any hotel bed he’s ever laid on, the sheets white and starched. The room smells like bleach and air freshener. The artwork on the walls would fit in at any contemporary art studio, or dentist’s office, or in the background behind his Zoom therapist. It’s nice. It’s fine. He’s lucky to be here.
Still horizontal he checks his phone, holding it awkwardly over his face with both hands. Still no response from his wife. Maybe she’s mad at him. Probably not. Two missed texts from his friend Tucker, who is flying in the next morning. He’s an actor in the show, and Frank knows he’s beyond excited to be a part of it. See ya tomorrow bud! Stoked!! Tucker says. Frank huffs a laugh, and shoots him back a short response. He goes back to his unread texts. The band group chat with their management and crew has exploded with technical details, nothing that he can contribute to. Mikey had texted him the photos from the cathedral from earlier, to which he only marks the message with a thumbs up as a response.
He breathes deeply again, and scrolls down, hovering over Gerard’s name.
The last text between them was a week ago. Flight information, pick-up time, load in schedule. Most likely the same text that had gone out to the others, only with their own personal information tailored to them. Gerard likes to keep tabs on the way things operate within the band. They’ve always been that way.
His fingers hover. He doesn’t even know where to begin. Or if he should at all.
He’s fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Consider yourself lucky, Frank.
Hey, his thumbs shake. You make it to the hotel okay?
He shifts the phone into one hand and slams it down onto the stiff comforter next to him, bringing both hands back up to scrub over his face. He’s an idiot. It’s been twenty five years and now he doesn’t know how to talk to his friend like a normal person. He doesn’t understand why he can’t just be normal. Why it has to hurt. Why it always has to hurt. Especially since he’s been so good, so fucking good for so long. He can’t understand why it still hurts.
He shifts himself up, leaving the phone on the bed, and heads to the bathroom to take a shower. Maybe he will feel better if he resets. Get clean, jerk off, take a breath. Relax. The bathroom is nice enough, like the rest of the room, sterile and comfortable, everything white and silver. Maybe he can wash off the travel, and the anxiety, and the lead weight. He only has his shirt off when the phone chimes from the other room.
Without really realizing he’s moving, he’s back on the bed, lying on his stomach, phone glowing in his face like a neon mockery. Been here for a few hours, Gerard’s text says. In a meeting. Call you in 20?
Frank realizes his hands are sweating. His stomach is doing sick lurches that have nothing to do with the baked goods he ate at the cafe a few hours before. He’s been so good, he tells himself. Don’t fuck it up now.
Ok. I’m back at the hotel too. Your brother finally got tired of me. Haha
He stares at his stupid sentence for a beat, his pulse thrumming in his throat. He’s an idiot. He hits send.
Gerard’s reply comes almost immediately.
Makes sense. Room 2461 in 20 then?
Fuck.
———-
Denver, Colorado. March 4th, 2007.
A knock at the door.
Frank rolled out of bed, fresh white t-shirt from his luggage crisp and wrinkled where he had been laying, his boxers low over his hipbones. They had been lucky enough to secure hotel rooms for the night, with actual showers instead of the cramped faucet on the bus with shitty water pressure. He looked out the peephole of the hotel room door, only for a split second. He already knew who was waiting behind it.
He opened the door and Gerard’s mouth was on his before he could react. Their hands grasped desperately at each other, clinging, pulling hair, gripping flesh. Gerard pushed the door closed with a loud bang before returning their hands to Frank’s body, quickly finding their way under his shirt, pressing their knee between his thighs, leading him backwards onto the bed. Frank melted into Gerard’s touch, letting them both fall into a mess of hot mouths and teeth and sharp, bitten down fingernails onto the old hotel mattress.
“Been thinking ‘bout this — all day,” Gerard got out between kisses, taking Frank’s bottom lip between their teeth and pulling taut. Frank whined, pressing his hips up into Gerard above him. Gerard looked down at him with a ravenous hunger, as if they were about to consume Frank whole.
“Me too,” Frank agreed breathlessly, letting his bottom lip pout where Gerard had just bitten. A trail of spit connected their mouths. “Touch me. Please, Gee.”
Gerard smelled like cigarettes, booze, sweat. Pure sin. Frank shuddered underneath them as he felt Gerard’s clammy hand slip underneath the elastic hem of his underwear, their mouth moving onto Frank’s neck, biting down hard underneath the hemline of his shirt where no one would see the marks.
Frank gazed up at Gerard, the cheap lamp on the bedside table illuminating both of them in a yellow glow. Gerard’s freshly dyed black hair jutting out in every direction, hazel eyes gleaming in the light, encircled by black kohl which was now smeared down their cheeks and across their temples. Their lips were chapped, cheeks flushed, sweat beading at their hairline. They stared down at Frank from under their thick brows, chest heaving, tongue moving in their open mouth as if they were picturing it on Frank’s body beneath them.
Frank was raised Catholic, but he had never been religious. Never believed in God, or the devil, or any of the old stories of angels. But this, he was sure, was God’s way of telling him that He was real. This was his punishment. This was his curse, for all the sins he had never atoned to, and the ones he had yet to commit. Gerard glowed above him, ethereal, pale skin and sharp teeth and hungry eyes. An angel, sent to destroy him.
“I love you,” Frank whispered, his words coming out hot between hitched breaths, his body betraying him. Gerard moved their face closer into Frank’s, pressing their bodies together. The mattress creaked in protest underneath their weight. Gerard kissed the corner of his mouth, tongue catching on his lip ring.
“I know,” they said. They pushed Frank’s shirt up with their free hand, moving their mouth down Frank’s body, wet and sloppy, paying attention to all the places they knew would make Frank writhe. “I know you do, Frankie.”
Gerard was going to destroy him.
——-
Frank had spent twenty minutes pacing inside of his hotel room, regretting every decision he had made leading up to this point, but finds himself standing in the pale fluorescent light in the hallway in front of room 2461, as if he had teleported there. He takes a deep breath, and knocks.
“Coming!” comes a high, muffled voice from inside the room, sing-song in tune. Frank’s stomach coils.
Gerard opens the door.
Their hair is clean, curled at their shoulders, mousy brown and gray at the temples. Their smile warms as soon as they see Frank, and the smile makes it to their eyes, soft wrinkles forming around the apples of their cheeks underneath thick framed reader glasses. “Hey Frankie,” they say softly. “Come in.”
Frank shoves his hands in his pockets as he enters Gerard’s room. The air smells familiar; clean linens, musk, expensive perfume. Frank trails awkwardly behind Gerard down the hallway to the main room, where the bed is already unmade, and a decadent spread of bread, meats and fruits from room service has been half destroyed on the dining table. A laptop sits next to it, half closed with an ended Zoom meeting screen idling in the glow. Gerard had wasted no time making themself at home.
“Sit wherever,” Gerard says, gesturing idly around with one hand. Frank sits on the foot of the bed, his hands tugging at his shirt, realizing for the first time that he feels self conscious. Gerard doesn’t seem to notice, already pouring a cup of fresh coffee into a white mug. Frank eyes the colorful bag on the table next to the coffee maker. He shakes his head, smiling into his lap. Gerard hands him the cup.
“Local artisanal beans, huh?” Frank chuckles, cupping the warm mug with both hands. “LA just follows you everywhere now, or what?”
Gerard grins, pushing their hair back with one hand. “You just wanted to come up here to make fun of me for my artisanal beans, or did you actually wanna talk?”
Frank feels his face flush hot. He’s used to deflecting with humor. Gerard knows that. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing, is all,” he explains, a grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s been a minute.”
“It has,” Gerard says, soft around the edges still, hands going into the pockets of their faded army jacket as they lean back onto the dresser in front of the bed. They’re facing each other casually, no tension. Frank feels good. He’s being good. His face is still burning under Gerard’s gaze.
It’s never taken much for Gerard to launch into a monologue, and that’s exactly what they do; about their life in Los Angeles, business, meetings, the tour, technicalities that Frank is happy he doesn’t have to worry about. He sips his coffee while Gerard rambles, lost in their own words. Gerard tiptoes around details of their personal life. They don’t make any mention of their wife, but their gold wedding ring is still present on their finger, the way it has been for the past eighteen years. Frank makes a note of this mentally.
He also makes a note of the movement of Gerard’s hands, nimble, bony fingers splayed and waving around as they speak, blue veins visible under pale skin. They’ve lost weight. Their legs are muscular under the tight, worn-in jeans they’re wearing. They mentioned they’re doing Pilates. They look good.
They look good, Frank thinks again. He tumbles the words around in his mind like jagged stones. His own self consciousness bubbles back to the surface. He tugs on his shirt again.
“What about you?” Gerard asks, gesturing forward with both hands. “You look good.”
Frank snaps back to the present in an instant. His eyes flicker up to meet Gerard’s. There’s a sincerity on their face, shining out from behind their glasses. A small, almost cautious smile is playing on their lips.
“Thanks,” Frank says, smoothing his shirt out with his palms. “I feel like shit. But I’m good. I’m ready to play.”
Gerard’s grin doesn’t falter. “You get any new tattoos lately?”
Frank swallows, his lashes fluttering. “How much time you got?”
For a second, he thinks he sees it. A flash behind Gerard’s sharp, hazel eyes.
Hunger.
It’s gone as soon as it happened. Frank can’t hold their gaze any longer. He looks down at his hands, rough and swollen from the altitude change. “I should go,” he says. Gerard gives him a small nod. Frank stands up, setting his half empty coffee mug on the dresser, and makes his way towards the door, feeling his back pocket and realizing he didn’t even bring his phone.
Gerard walks next to him wordlessly all the way down the hall, and their hand meets Frank’s upper back at the door. Frank stills under their touch.
“I’m happy you’re here, Frank,” Gerard says. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
Frank locks eyes with them again, one hand on the doorknob. He can feel Gerard’s hand tense infinitesimally on his shoulder. His breath hitches.
It hits him all at once.
He wants to push Gerard against the wall and kiss them until they both lose their breath. He wants them on the bed, writhing, panting, those strong legs clamped around Frank’s neck, fists in his hair. He wants Gerard inside of him. He wants them to have full control, the way they always did.
He realizes he’s staring. Gerard’s eyes only falter for a second, flicking to his lips and back. Frank smiles and lets out a breath, albeit shaky, and leans his face into Gerard’s shoulder for a shy hug.
“I’m happy to be here,” he says, keeping what’s left of his composure. He’s playing it cool, he thinks. He’s being so fucking good. “Let’s do this fucking thing.”
Back in his own room, he paces again. He can’t calm down. The lead weight on his shoulders is overbearing, feeling as though it’s going to drag him through the floor. He finally gets in the shower, pressing his forehead against the cool pearlescent tile, closing his eyes.
“Fuck,” he mutters. He knocks his head against the wall softly. “Fucking God damnit.”
The warm water isn’t washing it away. The anxiety pools in his chest. He’s choking back a sob that's clawing its way out of his throat whether he likes it or not. He’s trying to control his breathing, as his therapist taught him. None of it is working.
His hand goes to his cock, stroking gently. He lets out a breath as if it’s the first he’s taken all day. He didn’t need this. It’s not what he wanted. He never should have gone to Gerard’s room. His mind races, his cock swelling underneath his own touch. Every thought is about Gerard. He can’t control himself.
He thinks of Gerard when they were young, kissing him hard and desperate, pressing him up against the side of the van, out of sight from the others. Gerard older, hair dyed bright red and wild, pinning him down, fucking him into the mattress, pulling his long hair back. Gerard standing over him, fucking his mouth, muttering encouragement, moaning softly so no one would hear them. Gerard cradling his face in the dark behind the stage during a show, whispering into his ear. “I love you, Frankie.”
Frank comes hard into his fist, his vision going white, his knees buckling under him. He braces himself against the wall with his other arm, panting, warm water from the shower above him running into his eyes and mouth. It takes him a second to come back to. He realizes what he’s done.
He’s been so good. He doesn’t have a handle on it anymore. It’s too late.
He steps out of the shower with weak legs, and towels himself off, hoping that somehow the plush, white towel that smells too much like bleach will wipe off the sick, helpless feeling enveloping his body.
He gets half dressed, collapses back on the bed, heart racing, and checks his phone.
There’s a litany of missed call and texts. He scrolls through them, eyes flicking back and forth over names and numbers. He finally sees his wife’s name, a black heart emoji next to it. He hesitates, and finally presses his thumb down over it.
Hey babe, the text reads. Sorry I’m just getting back to you. It got hectic with the kids and your parents. I hope you’re settled in. I’m about to go to bed. Be good. I love you!
He scrubs a hand over his face. Be good. Be good.
Instead of responding, he backs out of the text thread and continues to scroll. He lands on Gerard’s name, the letters bold, a small blue dot next to it. One unread. He exhales brusquely, heart pounding in his throat. His thumb hits it with fervor.
It was good to see you Frankie. I missed you. Try to get some rest for tomorrow :)
The air around him is thick, stale, weighing down on him like he’s trapped under a wooden plank and someone is slowly stacking boulders on top of it, one by one. He’s forgetting how to breathe.
He throws his phone down onto the bedspread once again, clamoring onto the floor where his luggage sits discarded, frantically unzipping the top and digging through it, pulling out clothes and toiletries and bottles full of pills he hasn’t taken. Finally he grips onto his notebook, pushed into the bottom at the back of the bag, pages crumpled and frayed. He rips it out, tearing half of the already tattered red cardboard cover off of the metal rungs of the binding. He doesn’t care. His vision is blurry. He realizes then that he’s crying.
He slams the notebook onto the small, plastic coffee table next to the single window, the flimsy curtains fluttering from the displaced air as he yanks the small plastic chair out from underneath the table, and sits so hard he knocks the air out of himself. A hotel branded pen and a pad of paper sit on the table, and he grabs the pen, biting the cap off as he flips through the notebook littered with nothing but scribbles; unfinished songs, poems, guitar scales he’s long since forgotten about. Some of it hurts to look at. Most of it is better left forgotten.
He makes it, finally, to the first empty page, and words start to fill the space. The pen flits frantically over wet marks where his tears are falling. It’s the only way he can let it out. The only thing he’s ever known. In the dim corner in the hotel room, he sits until he can’t keep his eyes open, and he writes, and writes, and writes.
———-
The next day starts as routine as any, as if nothing had ever happened. Frank’s eyes feel heavy and swollen. He could have slept better, and more, but he’s used to it by now. There’s a shitty hotel breakfast, good coffee, a quiet bus ride to the venue with Mikey, Ray, and a few of the others in the crew who had filtered into the hotel throughout the night. Gerard is nowhere to be found, most likely having taken a private car as opposed to the bus. They do that often, these days.
Frank takes the time to check his phone, answering texts. He had already started the day with a brief phone call to his wife; she had sounded cheerful, but there was still a strain to her voice when she said I miss you already. In the background he could hear dogs barking, his kids laughing, staticy echoes of a life he isn’t there to live. She had sighed into the phone, sounding tired and worn thin. He couldn’t blame her. She didn’t ask him any questions.
He skims over the unanswered text from Gerard, not letting the sour taste it puts in the back of his throat get the better of him, pushing off the heavy weight it tries to pull over his shoulders. Instead, he scrolls further, to a text from his good friend Anthony, asking how he’s doing, and then to a text from his best friend, James, which ends up being a goofy meme that makes him laugh out loud, causing Mikey to give him a sidelong glance with a smirk. He knows it’s obvious that he’s feeling better than he was the day before. Mikey doesn’t ask why.
Once at the venue, everything is a blur; soundcheck, warm-ups, reuniting with friends, shaking hands and hugs and laughs, some forced, most not. People weaving in and out of each other in a tangle, everyone with somewhere to be, a job to do. Gerard is there, with Mikey and Ray and Jerrod, the rest of the band as a unit, and everything feels right. Normal. Frank can do normal. He goes through the motions, riding the high like a professional, the guitar strap over his shoulder and the strings under his fingers feeling like an extension of his own body.
Then there’s costumes, gear check, final stage blocking. The steady, growing thrum of the crowd entering the venue. The opening band, The Hives, more old friends who had flown in that morning. Frank has been here, done this, nothing new, but his heart is in his throat. He lives for it, the performance, the ride. He feels every nerve in his body electrified as if it’s his last day on earth.
Then the show starts.
It’s reminiscent of the intricate production that had just ended six months earlier, but different in a lot of ways; Gerard had crafted a new chapter of the story to be told, each show changing a little bit each night, giving the band their own characters to have fun with. Frank loves this part. Gerard has always had a knack for theater, and they’re a genius with it. Their ability to write stories, characters, universes so in depth and complete within themselves was always something that Frank couldn’t wrap his mind around. The rest of the band never questioned Gerard once. They all knew whatever they would come up with next would be a work of art.
Frank plays as if he’s willing his fingers to bleed, as if they haven’t played these songs a million times before over the last twenty years. The crowd is massive, loud and intense, screaming the words back at them. When he looks out, all he can see is faces, bright eyed and ecstatic, up into the stands of the arena like a huge tidal wave looming over them. His heart races, sweat runs down his temples. He looks around at his friends, seeing the light behind their eyes, the smiles on their faces, electrified and alive. It’s only near the end of the fourth song when he looks squarely at Gerard.
Gerard, slender in their fitted military costume, greying hair covered with temporary black color, hazel eyes surrounded by dark, greasy kohl. There are faux scratches on their cheek, their face paled with makeup. Sweat is already dripping down their temples and neck. They’re singing into the microphone, but their body is turned, eyes fixed on Frank.
Frank feels the air leave his lungs. His hands are still moving on the frets of his guitar, but everything around him has gone a little muffled, his vision fuzzy at the edges as adrenaline kicks in. Gerard takes a few commanding steps towards him, moving across the stage like a titan, shoulders broad under their jacket, striding with purpose. Their eyes are locked. Frank lets his mind wander, just for a second. He’s been here before.
This song. The look Gerard is giving him. He’s seen it.
It was some time in 2007. He remembers standing on an amplifier. They were the opening band, and the crowd in front of them wasn’t there to see them. It was full of tough guys and assholes, throwing energy in the room off from the beginning. He wanted to fix it. He wanted to give them the biggest fuck you he could give.
Gerard was already unhappy with him, for reasons he couldn’t even remember, but as Frank had stood on the amplifier, raising his guitar above his head, they had walked towards him with that same starved look, eyes leering as they sang. Gerard only made it within a foot of him before he made his decision, dropping down onto him, trying to bring them into a kiss. He wanted to show all of these people who didn’t care about them, or their band, or the message they were trying to send. He had something to prove to all of them. So he had dropped onto Gerard, trying to connect their mouths, in front of everyone. A fuck you to the tough guys, and a fuck you to Gerard’s new girlfriend, who was watching from the side of the stage. Gerard’s new girlfriend, who Gerard would marry backstage two weeks later in a rushed, informal ceremony, without telling Frank.
He crashed into Gerard with such a force that it almost brought both of them to the ground, but Gerard somehow kept them standing. Their lips never touched. Instead Gerard’s hands dug painfully into Frank’s bare arms, swinging him around, letting years of frustration out into him all at once. They flung Frank to the ground as the rest of the band continued to play, and Frank rolled onto his back pathetically, bracing himself with his hands, staring forward in shock as Gerard stormed around on stage in a black cloud of fury, kicking their gear. Frank scrambled up, grabbing his guitar from the floor and rushing off stage while the rest of the band finished out the song. His guitar tech rushed to fix the now broken strap of his guitar, and Frank collapsed in the dark of the side stage, tears mixing with his sweat, throat closing over a sob, head pounding. He didn’t understand. He loved Gerard. Gerard loved him. Or at least, that was what he had thought.
Now, it’s nearly twenty years later, and Frank is face to face with Gerard again. His fingers move over the same chords that he had played as he stood on the amplifier. Gerard’s eyes are piercing into him, but Frank can see wrinkles creased softly around them, hair gray at their temples.
Everything is happening in slow motion, and Frank can’t control any of it. His mind goes blank. He folds to his knees in front of Gerard.
Everything feels mechanical. His fingers move over the frets mindlessly, his head moves up and down with the music. Gerard towers over him, still singing the words, but their eyes are fixed unblinking down onto Frank. They go still, staring down as Frank writhes beneath them on the floor. It feels like he is playing for Gerard only, leaning back onto his heels, closing his eyes. He can feel Gerard’s gaze burning into him. Everything has gone silent besides the sound of his guitar in his ears, frantic and piercing. He opens his eyes again, and looks up.
Gerard is standing up straight, shoulders back, head tilted forward, dark hair falling over their wide eyes. They look like a feral animal. They lick their lips.
Frank feels as if he’s falling. His stomach makes one large swoop, lurching, and then everything suddenly rushes back into focus. The song is coming to an end. He steps up on one foot and turns away from Gerard to play the final notes. Gerard turns away from him at the same time, continuing the show as if nothing had happened, head held high. Frank’s breath is still caught in his throat. He just has to make it through the set. Breathe, Frank.
He blocks it out, the way he always has. It must be in his head. Gerard has always had that energy on stage; they’re playing a character, Frank tells himself. But then he can’t help but think of the satisfied look on Gerard’s face, looming over him, unabashed in front of thousands of people. They’ll post the moment on the internet. They’ll speculate. He’s used to it by now.
If they only knew.
The rest of the set goes on as planned. Frank starts to feel good again as his pulse settles back to a normal rate in his veins, the simmering anxiety fading into the background of his mind. The stage show feels as if they’re in a high school play, performing their characters, having fun with each other. Mikey and Ray and the rest of the band and actors are completely unfazed by whatever it was that had happened between him and Gerard. They’re used to it, at this point. It’s a part of the performance. Frank repeats that to himself, pushing it to the front of his mind. Play your part. This is what they all came to see.
The show comes to an end, and the universe that is backstage consumes them immediately. His guitar techs swarm him, costuming helps him change out of his uncomfortable military suit, followed by a whirlwind of high fives and hugs and everyone riding the high. He’s leaving the dressing room, finally back in an old band shirt and ratty jeans, when he rounds a corner, and comes face to face with Gerard.
“Hey,” they both say at once. They’re stopped short awkwardly a foot from each other. Gerard’s hair is still drenched with sweat and artificially black, the long sleeve shirt they had changed into clinging to their body. Frank swallows thickly.
“Crushed it,” he says, trying to imitate confidence. Gerard’s eyes sparkle in the yellow light of the hallway.
“You always do,” they say with a smirk.
People are walking by them in a blur, rushing to get to where they’re going next, dragging gear and props. Nobody is giving them a second glance.
He could kiss Gerard right now, Frank thinks. He could grab them by the shoulders and kiss them. It’s been years since he thought about kissing Gerard, really thought about it, face to face as he looks into their eyes. Gerard seems to pale slightly, and Frank’s stomach drops. Of course. They can see the yearning painted on his face like it’s fucking clown makeup.
“You okay?” Gerard asks, and Frank shakes his head.
“I’m fine,” he says. His voice trembles. “I, uh—“ He trails off. He can’t seem to find the words. He just desperately and overwhelmingly wants to fucking kiss them. “Felt twenty five again during Sharpest Lives.” He pauses. Gerard nods ever so slightly in agreement. “Felt good.”
“Yeah,” they say on a breath. Their eyes break away from his to move to his lips and back again. He wonders if they’re thinking the same thing, if they can feel the same shift. The energy is different, charged between them. It’s been years since he felt this. He wants them so badly he can barely think straight.
Invite me back to the room, he thinks, trying to will the thought into Gerard’s head. Please. I can’t do this.
“I’m gonna get out of here,” Gerard continues awkwardly with a sheepish grin. They bring a hand up to ruffle Frank’s hair, gold wedding ring gleaming. “Get some rest, Frankie. It’s gonna be a long one… and we’re not twenty five anymore.”
The hand in Frank’s hair stays just a second too long, before sliding down his neck to turn into a light pat on his shoulder as Gerard brushes past him, and Frank is left alone in the hallway. The throng of the crew has dissipated. His ears are ringing.
Frank flies to the nearest bathroom down the hall, sneakers skidding over the concrete floor. He splashes cool water on his face in the sink, breathing heavily. He feels as if he’s spiraling out of control. If he could just focus. He doesn’t understand why now, what’s changed, why he needs it so badly—
He looks up at his reflection. His hair is in his eyes, water is dripping down his face and off of his chin. His jawline is strong and chiseled, lips plump. The soft wrinkles around his eyes are gone. He looks the same, but different. He looks twenty five again.
Frank stares wide eyed at his unfamiliar reflection in the mirror for what feels like hours as he tries to catch his breath. Black hair, ratty shirt, sheen of sweat glazed over young skin. His reflection smirks back.
He brushes a hand over his face, and it’s gone. He’s himself again. A man in his early forties, with tousled brown hair and wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, having a panic attack in the bathroom backstage. Normal. Frank can do normal.
You can do this, he thinks. Just leave it alone. Breathe.
The show must go on.