Some hearts are gallows

"I think Frank's gonna show up."

Gerard frowned at his reflection, trying to decide if it was an eyeliner kind of night. "Hmmm?" He pawed through his makeup bag. The name was vaguely familiar.

Mikey huffed out a sigh, and Gerard could hear the eye roll that accompanied it. "That guy I was telling you about? The halfie that was panhandling at the Lorimer Street platform? Ray's friend?"

"Don't use that word," he said, distracted. He made a face at himself, tongue sticking out a little as he drew on a thick black line under his eye. He smudged it lightly with the edge of his finger, and repeated the process on the other side.

"Sorry, that bondless dude I was telling you about."

Gerard looked into the mirror, focusing on Mikey for a moment as he lounged on the couch in Gerard’s living room. Mikey, to the despair of their mother, was forever picking up strays and bringing them home. Their childhood had been rife with abandoned cats and dogs, plus the occasional rabbit and hamster. Also, other kids, who'd needed what Donna Way had referred to as 'a mother's touch.'

"Mmm," Gerard hummed. He was thinking about his set list, maybe switching things up a little. Things were feeling a little stale.

"You'll like him," Mikey was saying. "He's just like us, into music and comics and movies. And he's pretty hardcore, really believes in punk and DIY and that sort of thing."

"That's cool." He wasn't sure, but he was leaning toward dropping Broken Pieces in favor of Battery. He just wasn't feeling Broken Pieces tonight. He let Mikey's voice fade into the background as he looked, really looked, at himself in the mirror.

The lights were bright and unforgiving, highlighting every flaw and blemish. His dyed black hair was a tumble, framing wide green eyes, a nose too upturned for his liking, a crooked mouth, a squared-off chin. The bags under his eyes were a particularly dark shade of purple today.

He pulled out his big Sharpie and contemplated his reflection. He turned his hand over and blacked out the soulmark on the inside of his wrist. He smoothed the tip of the Sharpie carefully over the skin with tiny, practiced movements. He'd read about people taking tattoo needles to their marks to conceal them; the color would inevitably run within hours, ink bleeding until the mark was pristine again. The permanent marker would be sweaty and smudged by the time he got off stage around midnight, but it would give him enough cover that his mark wouldn't end up on the internet for fans to speculate over.

He'd give his fans anything: his voice, words, music, thoughts, time—but not that.

There had been another body out there in the world once, warm and alive and waiting for him, bearing what he knew would be an identical mark on the pulsepoint of their own wrist. He'd known them since he was old enough to know anything at all, felt the echo of their blood within his own veins and known the shudder of their emotions within his own body.

He'd been fifteen, playing video games with Mikey in the basement when it had crashed into him out of nowhere. A surge of fear, an instant before something like a seat belt had tightened across his torso, audibly cracking his ribs and making him gasp through a sudden, inexplicable mouthful of blood. His ears had rung with the crash of metal against metal, his body jerking with the force of it.

He had fallen off the couch, sprawling across the floor, voiceless, sightless. Mikey had called his name, frantic, but Gerard had hardly heard him. Then the pain had fallen on him, heavy and blinding and overpowering like an avalanche.

Something massive had pinned him down, his arm and foot numb with it. He’d opened his eyes, taken in the scene around him, but his brain had felt stunned, sluggish. He’d been lying on the road, and he could see his mom's purse, the contents spilling out like a small disemboweled animal.

The air had been thick with smells: acrid smoke, asphalt, gasoline, blood. His shirt had been wet, and when he looked down, it had been soaked so red it was black. That had sent a shock through him, I'm hurt, and he’d known, somehow, that it was bad.

He had tried to move, to crawl free, and the agony had made everything go fuzzy around the edges.

He had surfaced to a faint swell of sirens in the distance and started to cry. Everything hurt, breathing had been a struggle, and he'd been so scared—

It had come to him then that he wasn't alone, that there had been another with him, the other half of himself, and it had been their pain, their fear that he was experiencing, their T-shirt he had been bleeding through. His bond, his person, his love.

He'd always been aware of them, a tickle in the back of his mind, radiating happiness and sadness and love. Those were the ones that came through clearly. Sometimes, when Gerard had concentrated, he had been able to feel more, the simple day-to-day living kind of emotions: frustration at a late bus, pride in conquering a difficult math problem, resentment at an enforced school night curfew. Sometimes in the hours before dawn, when everything else had been quiet, he could feel them reach for him across the bond, longing for the day they would finally find each other.

In return, there had been a curl of commiseration when he got busted at school for smoking, and laughter echoing in his heart when he drew a funny little comic. His other half had been out there, somewhere in the world, living and breathing and waiting for him. He’d known them for as long as he’d known himself, known that one day he would find them and this odd, aching pining in his chest would stop.

But this time had been different, the overwhelming fear and pain, and Gerard had done the only thing that made any sense: he'd projected love and comfort as loudly as he could. He’d imagined wrapping his arms around his bond and holding them close, trying to keep them safe, trying to keep them together when it felt like they were tearing apart. He’d felt them reach back, felt them cling on to him for dear life, felt them trying to hold on to him despite all the noise.

The sirens had grown louder, and Gerard had been startled when a bright light shone in their face. A calm voice had asked for their name, asked them to hold on, to focus.

There had been a shifting, the tinkle of broken glass against metal, and the pain had grown unbearable. Gerard had shouldered as much of the agony as he could, sheltering his bond, as they were bumped across the road, loaded into an ambulance.

The siren had been piercing, and there had been a flurry of activity around them, fading away as his bond grew weaker. Gerard could feel the connection between them stretching, thinning to gossamer strands, and he struggled to keep them with him, to keep them alive.

It hadn't worked, there'd been too much blood, too much damage, and they were slipping away. They’d known they were dying, and they were afraid, and Gerard had been helpless to do anything except hold tight so they weren't alone. For one sweet, intoxicating, heartbreaking moment, he’d felt them explode into his heart—perfect and fated and his. It had been the closest thing to heaven he’d ever experienced, the wanting and longing and pain disappearing for one euphoric moment, and then it had suddenly stopped.

It had felt like a power outage when their heart gave out, like an eclipse in how it zapped light and heat and oxygen from his world. Then it had gone quieter than anything had ever been before or since, a silence so deafening that it had filled the world, and then it had gone black.

"Most people don't survive this," the doctor had whispered to his mother over the steady beeping of a heart rate monitor, once he'd woken up jarringly alone from the darkness. There had been a harrowing emptiness inside him where they used to be, a bleak silence when he reached for them, a bottomless hole in his own soul. "I've never seen anyone survive the death of their soulmate, especially not someone so young. He's very lucky."

Mikey had been asleep in a chair beside Gerard's bed, one hand wrapped loosely around Gerard's wrist and the other folded beneath his own twelve year old head. Mikey's soulmark had been barely visible inside of his wrist, a reminder that someone out there was still warm and alive and waiting for him. Gerard hadn’t understood it then, not yet, but 'lucky' would soon come to feel like 'cursed.'

"Gee," Mikey snapped, in a tone of voice that suggested he'd had to repeat himself, possibly more than once. Gerard glanced at him in the mirror, taking in the furrow of Mikey’s brow where was perched on Gerard’s couch. He looked worried, like Gerard had spaced out for a little longer than usual. "Dude."

Almost as an afterthought, Gerard wrote ALONE along the column of his neck. He let the ink dry before tracing over the letters, feeling them sink through his skin, etching into his bones. He placed the cap back on the Sharpie and tossed it into his makeup bag. "Sorry, what?"

Mikey was sitting up now, hugging one long leg against his slender chest. He had that look on his face that always made Gerard think he was about to say something Gerard wouldn't want to hear. "I said you should come out with us after the show. Gabe can get us into Brooklyn Bowl. Travie's DJing."

"Yeah, maybe," Gerard said, as though they didn't both know Gerard tended to use 'maybe' as a euphemism for 'no.' He glanced longingly around for his cup of coffee. Mikey nodded to where he'd left it in the nearby bookshelf. It was lukewarm, but he couldn't be bothered to brew another pot and they had to leave soon, anyway. "Is Pete coming tonight?"

"Yeah, later. He's grading a stack of essays on, I don’t know, constructivism and neotextual cultural theory in children's text?" Mikey made a face. "Or maybe textual materialism and dialectic postcapitalist theory? Either way, he'll be there as soon as he runs out of steam."

Gerard squinted, pausing before downing his next mouthful. "I have no idea what any of that means."

Mikey shrugged. "Me neither, but he's really into it. I think you'll like Frank."

"Who?"

"For fuck's sake. Ray's friend."

Gerard tried to recall specifics. "Bondless guy? Panhandling somewhere?"

"The Lorimer Street platform. He's a good guy. I want to keep him."

"You mean you and Pete want to fuck him," Gerard corrected, glancing at the time blinking on the microwave. "We're gonna be late if we don't leave soon."

Mikey snorted, shrugging on his parka and tossing Gerard his battered leather jacket. "Contrary to popular belief," he said haughtily. "We don't want to fuck everyone. Don't forget your MetroCard."

Gerard rolled his eyes, checking his pockets for ID, cash, keys, and cards. His guitar, snug in its protective bag, was propped in the corner of the room. He slung it over one shoulder. "Now there's a lie. Where're my keys?"

Mikey grabbed them from the hook Gerard usually hung them on and tossed them over. "Ehhh, we might fuck Travie."

Gerard scoffed, shouldering the front door open with some effort. It always seemed to stick much worse in the winter months. "Not on my couch, you're not."

Mikey looked exaggeratedly outraged as Gerard struggled with the shitty old locks. "You're gonna make us travel back to Bed-Stuy in this weather? You're a dick."

"Need I remind you that I had to have three cushions dry cleaned the last time you both crashed here?"

"Coffee creamer," Mikey called down the staircase as Gerard jogged down the creaky steps.

"No, it fucking wasn't." Gerard wrapped his thick woolen scarf snugly around his neck and braced himself for the inevitable gust of cold wind as they stepped out into the street.

—

Frank took a deep, steadying breath and uncurled his fists, before stepping out of the line and retreating down the alleyway. Getting confrontational with the asshole bouncer wouldn't solve anything. Maybe Mikey had indeed forgotten to put Frank's name on the guest list, and maybe the show was indeed sold out. Then again, the bouncer hadn't been an asshole about it until Frank had handed over his ID and exposed the ink on his hands.

He'd gotten most of his hand tattoos before he'd really understood the consequences they would have. They were impulse decisions, riot acts, a raised middle finger to a system that insisted he was a defective, worthless half-thing.

"…an obscene mockery of the soulmark," someone had once hissed at him when they'd seen his hands. The guy’s hand had been marked as well, a dark splotch curling around the base of his left thumb and announcing that he belonged to someone, that there was another person out there in the world meant for him—unlike Frank.

He still regretted them at times, because they marked him as different, but they were a good way to screen people who were and weren't worth his time. In spite of the occasional public service announcements on TV, there were still too many people who wouldn't touch a bondless, fearful of some sort of spiritual contamination.

Those were the kinds of people that Frank didn't need in his life. Didn't want in his life.

He usually had less trouble with strangers in the winter, but he'd left home without his gloves. Everything was visible: the letters on his fingers, the drops of blood, the spider web, the bow and arrow, dark lines and smudges of color. The big, glaring, empty area where his soulmark should’ve been, if he’d been normal.

It showed the world what he was, writ across his skin in ink, but not who he was. He could live with that.

He texted Mikey bouncer won't let me in and lit a cigarette while he waited for a reply. He only had twenty dollars left in his wallet to tide him over until the next time he could land some paid work. There were only six smokes left in his pack and he’d have to choose between drinks, more smokes, and diner coffee if they decided to go somewhere after the show.

He glanced over when he heard Mikey's raised voice by the door. "What the fuck, Bryar? His name is right there on your clipboard. What's the problem?"

"You didn't tell me he was a fucking halfie," the bouncer snarled in response, loud enough that Frank could hear it down the alleyway. He saw a few heads turn in the line. "I don't need that sort of trouble in my club."

Mikey didn't back down, didn't miss a beat. "It's none of your fucking business what he is," he said tersely. "If the headliner wants him on the list, he goes on the list. Hey, Frankie!"

Frank put out his cigarette and reluctantly made his way to the front door. "I hear even a whisper of trouble," Bryar said to Mikey, as though Frank wasn't there. "And he's out."

Mikey rolled his eyes, but didn't engage. He stepped aside to let Frank in. The club was packed full of kids with bright hair and black clothes. "He's a fucking dick, don't let him get to you. What're you drinking?"

"It's cool, I'm used to it." He thought about his twenty, weighed up his options. Cigs and coffee won out. "Uh, just water for now, I guess."

"Fuck no. Our drinks are comped 'cause Gee's playing. I mean, unless you don't drink, which is totally—"

"Beer. Sure. Beer."

It was warm inside, and smelled sweetly of spilt beer and fresh sweat and smoke machines. He'd missed the opening band and techs were setting up instruments for the main act. Mikey pressed a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon into his hands, asking Frank about his day as he led them closer to the stage. They stood in companionable silence as the house lights dimmed, the music faded, and the band took the stage to applause. The kick drum read Gerard Way and the Disasters.

They were a four piece: drummer, bassist, guitarist, and singer, though the singer was hunched over a battered acoustic guitar slung from his neck.

"I'm Gerard Way," the singer muttered into the microphone, his black hair falling into closed eyes. "This song's called Nobody's." He wrapped his long fingers around the frets of his guitar and counted the band in.

The music hit Frank unexpectedly hard. He'd never heard anything like it, words that were sharp as glass, sung in Gerard's raspy voice, supported by a soft, steady beat and a melody that slipped into Frank's bloodstream like ice, forlorn and hopeless. The stage lights were a deep, dark blue, making Gerard look heartbroken and beautiful and otherworldly as he turned himself inside out on stage.

The music was raw and real, like looking at the exposed center of a wound, and it hurt. Frank glanced away, trying to step back from the sheer power of Gerard's performance, distance himself from the way Gerard opened himself up and bled on the stage, but he couldn't.

"He's good, yeah?" Mikey shouted when the applause had died down, following the first song. He had an odd look on his face; Frank hadn’t known him long enough to really read him, but it was unsettling all the same.

He could only nod in response, his own words stolen by the way Gerard's had sunk into him, pressing the air out of his lungs, leaving their mark on him. His chest ached when Gerard turned his head to the side and Frank could make out the smudged word on his throat. ALONE.

The next few songs went by in a blur, all fierce guitars and Gerard's voice, soft and sweet, singing about being lost forever in a universe gone dark, about being completely alone in the world, about wanting to destroy everything that mattered, about courting death like a lover.

It all hit a little too close to the bone for Frank’s comfort.

Gerard paused and lit a cigarette, slinging his guitar behind him before adjusting the mic stand. "Thanks, everyone." He inhaled, blew out a stream of smoke that danced under the blue and purple lights. "Seriously, thank you for coming out and supporting us. Tonight, the Disasters are Jarrod Alexander on drums, Alicia Simmons on bass, and Tom Keely on guitar. All of them have their own bands, so if you have a spare buck or two, go check out their merch after the show. They're awesome."

Gerard leaned against the mic stand for a moment, looking pensive as he smoked his cigarette. "Some days, I don't want to wake up. I just want to sleep forever." His eyes flicked over Mikey before focusing back on the crowd. "Some days, I wonder what it would feel like to stop hurting. This song is about those kind of days. It's called The Bridge."

The band crashed into the opening of the song, and Frank reeled a little from the way the music hit him again; almost a physical force in how it threw him off-balance. Mikey seemed to notice something was wrong; he gripped Frank's shoulder and squeezed, a question on his face.

The easy touch was unexpected; Frank couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched him so casually, without expectation, without judgment, without fear. It was disarming, the way Mikey offered his friendship. Frank could count on one hand the number of friends he had: Ray, Greta from the library, the guy across the hall from him on a good day. And now, maybe Mikey, if he didn’t fuck this up.

It weakened the defenses that Frank had built around himself, and it scared him. This wasn't going to end well, he could feel it in his bones. People who stumbled into Frank’s life never stayed for long.

He tried to smile reassuringly. He wasn't sure he was entirely successful, because Mikey looked at him for a long moment before turning back toward the stage.

There was a pause as Gerard fiddled with the tuning on his guitar, and a heckler took the opportunity to shout "freak," hurling the word onto the stage like a bottle. Frank watched, mesmerized, as Gerard's chin went up. "Come at me, bro," he invited. His grin was careless and mocking, and Frank held his breath as the tension in the room rose.

There was a commotion behind Frank, angry muttering, and he could almost follow the heckler's progress toward the exit by the way the crowd moved, like ripples from a skipped stone.

Gerard stood hip-shot on stage, a defiant silhouette backlit in blue, and Frank felt his knees go weak.

"Got no time for that kind of hate," Gerard said, to wild applause and whistles. A stage hand brought out a stool and set it up in front of Gerard's mic. He sat, the heels of his beat up Chucks resting on the rungs, with his guitar in his lap. "Let's unplug this motherfucker, give the band a break," he said. He played a few songs, just Gerard and his guitar, and the lyrics made Frank’s chest feel tight again, made him feel exposed and seen and understood.

There was a black smudge on Gerard’s wrist, the same shade as the marker on his neck. For all that Mikey talked about his brother, he’d never once mentioned a terminated bond. But standing there, under the harsh stage lights with a blacked-out soulmark, it was obvious that Gerard understood what it felt like to be alone in the world.

It made Frank want to talk to him, to ask, Is it hell for you like it’s hell for me? Maybe it was different if you’d lost a bond, as opposed to never having one. Maybe it was worse.

"Gonna be playing at Pianos in a few weeks," Gerard said, getting off his stool. "Would love to see you there." He fiddled with the pegs on his guitar, making minute adjustments. "We've got a couple more tunes for you." He kicked at the stool half-heartedly, laughing softly. "Gotta get this off the stage, otherwise I'm liable to trip and fall over the damn thing."

A stage hand scurried away with the stool.

"Okay, well, this song is Selling Glitter; feel free to sing along if you know the words."

Frank didn't know the words, of course, so he just watched as Gerard sang and swayed to the music. He reached out, and the audience reached back, hands in the air. Frank fixated on the sight of Gerard's blacked-out soulmark. He couldn't help but touch his own wrist, fingers circling over the blank spot.

Gerard clasped a fan's hand, fingers weaving together, and just as Gerard squeezed their hand, his eyes met Frank's.

With the lights down, Frank couldn't tell what color Gerard's eyes were. But they were dark, intent and focused on Frank, and made him feel, for the briefest moment, like it was just the two of them in the entire room. It sent a wild tremor through Frank, and when he licked at his dry lips, Gerard's eyes followed the movement.

The room was already hot from the press of bodies, but Frank still felt a wave of heat run through him when Gerard met his eyes again. "We got it, you got it, I want it, I want it now," Gerard sang, letting go of the hand he had clasped, stepping back from the edge of the stage. He held Frank's gaze, didn't look away, until a hard shove pushed Frank off balance and he had to glance down to watch his footing.

He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to play it cool. He hoped Mikey hadn’t caught their exchange.

During the bridge of the song, Gerard looped the mic cord around the stand with a flourish, and sang the next verse leaning against the stand. When he got to the end of the chorus, he glanced at Frank again, a little sly, even though his expression didn't change.

The hair on the nape of Frank's neck prickled, and goosebumps rose on his arms. The song ended, Gerard grinned at the crowd. "Let's fuck things up," he said, and the band roared into a loud, aggressive song.

Frank didn't have any more time to think about that look, he was too busy being jostled and ducking under a crowd surfer.

—

By the time he got off stage, Gerard was in an absolutely foul mood. He was tired and hungry and restless, and he desperately wanted a drink. He wanted to go home.

Instead, he checked his reflection in the dressing room mirror, eyes snagging on the blurred letters on his neck. He traced over them, and his fingers came away stained black. There were fans waiting for him to come out and mingle, and most nights, he did so gladly. His fans made him feel, for brief periods of time, less alone. Less angry. They understood him well enough, even if they couldn’t properly understand, not really. He’d only ever met one other person who’d lost their bond and survived it, and she’d taken a shotgun to her head that same year.

He stood up straight and took a deep breath, centering himself as much as he could, before leaving the quiet of the dressing room for the noise and heat of the venue.

—

Gerard saw Mikey hanging around the edge of the bar, nursing a beer with that guy Gerard had seen beside Mikey when he'd been on stage. The crowd of fans had thinned out, and he knew that Mikey was going to start nagging him about going out after he was done here. He looked at the time on his phone; it was still early for a Friday night in the city, but the idea of going anywhere but home was exhausting.

He kept an eye on Mikey and the kid next to him as he chatted with a few remaining fans, trying to focus on their stories as he watched the guy drain his beer and throw his head back when Mikey made him laugh. When he made his way over, Mikey held out a bottle of water to him before he’d even made his presence known.

Mikey always kept an eye on him, always made sure he was okay, always has his back.

"Gee,” Mikey said, nudging the kid in front him in Gerard’s direction. He had an odd look on his face. “Meet Frank."

Frank, right. The bondless guy panhandling somewhere. Gerard had felt a strange, inexplicable pull towards him when their eyes had met during the show. Attraction, maybe. Connection. Lust. Utterly inconvenient, whatever it was. “Hi, Frank.”

“Um, hey,” Frank said, taking a swift step backwards when Gerard tried to shake his hand. He lowered his gaze sheepishly. “Sorry, I’m. Uh.”

It took Gerard a moment to catch up, to notice how Frank’s hands were completely defaced with tattoos, to note how stiffly he was holding himself. As if the tattoos weren’t clue enough, he was holding his forearm tightly against his stomach. He remembered Mikey calling him a halfie in Gerard’s living room.

For all that people thought he was a freak, for losing his bond and selfishly surviving it, people had far less kinder feelings about those who’d never had a bond to begin with. Gerard knew that a lot of people wouldn’t touch someone bondless, for fear that they’d lose parts of their soul or some such shit. It pissed him off; it was discrimination and bigotry and superstition, and it was wrong. The bondless were people, just like everyone else, no matter what assholes out there seemed to think.

Mikey's phone rang, and he muttered Pete's name, before disappearing toward the entrance.

Gerard kept his hand extended, watching Mikey move towards the entrance. "Hello, Frank, it's nice to meet you," he said, politely, and Frank, clearly hesitant, eventually clasped it in his.

Frank's hand was warm and strong, callused fingers and rough skin. They were the hands of someone who worked hard. Gerard couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have those hands touching him in other places.

The thought centered his attention, and the tendril of heat that had been curling through his blood since he'd laid eyes on Frank flared up again.

Getting up on stage and letting strangers see him was emotionally draining. He was still tired, still not up for going out, but suddenly he wasn't in such a rush to go home anymore.

Frank let go of his hand and ducked his head again, rubbing the back of his neck in a painfully nervous gesture. Gerard cracked open the water that Mikey had given him and took a long drink, watching him.

—

Frank was at a loss. He wasn't used to people being willing to touch him, once they realized he was a halfie. Over the years, he'd had reactions ranging from thinly veiled discomfort to perverse curiosity to outright revulsion, but never this kind of simple acceptance.

"Hey," Frank said, once he’d found his voice. It came out hoarse and scratchy. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Mikey's told me a lot about you."

Gerard smiled. "Hopefully only the good things."

Frank thought about the way Mikey talked about Gerard, fierce protective pride shading every word. "Nah, just the embarrassing bits."

That surprised a laugh out of Gerard, and Frank couldn't help but feel pleased. He tilted his head toward the bar. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Gerard shook his head and held up his bottle of water. "No, I'm good."

"Oh. Okay," Frank said quickly, averting his eyes again. He had no illusions about what he was, even if Gerard didn't seem to have a problem shaking his hand. He stood there awkwardly, fiddling with the pop tab on his beer, lamenting his lack of social skills. He looked around for Mikey, because he was making an idiot of himself and Gerard clearly needed to be rescued from Frank's inept social overtures.

Gerard reached out, wrapping his fingers around Frank's forearm. Even through the fabric of his worn Henley, he could feel heat of Gerard's fingers. It made him shiver.

"Let's go someplace quieter," Gerard said, leaning in so Frank could hear him over the music. His breath was warm and damp against Frank’s neck. “I’m sure Mikey’ll be back soon.”

There were a couple of booths tucked away in the back, hidden in a niche behind the sound console. The walk over gave Frank a chance to collect himself and empty his beer. "Did you enjoy the show?" Gerard asked, once they'd settled on opposite sides of the table.

"I—" Frank shut his mouth, and Gerard laughed.

"It's okay if you didn't," he said. "It's not for everyone."

"No, no, it's not that." Frank looked down at the beat-up table top. It was covered in graffiti. "It—your music, it's. It made me feel—" He met Gerard's eyes and swooped a hand through the air, trying to convey what he had experienced.

The corner of Gerard's mouth was turned up a tiny bit.

"I'm still processing," Frank finally said, folding his hands on the table.

"Valid," Gerard said. He pulled a lighter from a pocket and started to fiddle with it. "Mikey says you're a musician, too."

Frank snorted. "That's a generous description." He took a sip of his beer. "Sometimes I play punk covers for pocket change, in the subway. Do my best Sid Vicious impression, insult passing Brooklynites trying to get home."

"That's pretty ballsy. Do you actually play any Sex Pistols, down in the subway?"

Frank shrugged.

Gerard turned the lighter over and over in his fingers. "What's your favorite song to play, then?"

"'Rockaway Beach,'" Frank said, trying not to look at Gerard’s hands. "It's a lot of fun to play."

"We can hitch a ride to Rockaway Beach," Gerard sang softly. "What other bands do you like?" He squinted at Frank, like he was trying to look into him. It made Frank feel weirdly exposed. "I'd say more the hardcore end of things, yeah? And the classics."

Frank nodded, struggling to ignore the fluttery feeling in his belly. The way Gerard was so focused on him was a bit overwhelming, entirely unexpected. "I fucking love the Misfits. Black Flag. Jawbreaker. The Bouncing Souls. Some obscure local Jersey stuff, punk from the 80s, 90s."

Gerard grinned. "Excellent taste."

"What about you?" Frank was pretty sure, from what he heard on stage, that Gerard's musical tastes ran far and wide.

"Grew up on Oasis and the Pumpkins, Nirvana and Blur. Mikey's a bit of a snob, looks down at pop music, but I'm pretty good with almost anything. When we were teenagers, we'd come up to the city and catch shows, whichever ones we could get into with our fake IDs." He tapped at the tabletop with his lighter. "Saw a lot of bands."

When he was a kid, Frank had sometimes tagged along with his dad to shows, mostly jazz and blues. Once he was old enough, he’d started sneaking out of the house to catch shows at the Loop Lounge and Maxwell's, wrists carefully concealed by long sleeves. He nodded. "Me, too. Just closer to home."

Gerard looked past Frank and a little wrinkle formed between his eyes. "Mikey." And more distantly, "Pete."

Mikey loomed over them, while Pete waved behind him, his cell phone pressed against his ear. "We're gonna hit the Brooklyn Bowl, meet up with Gabe and Travie. You in?" Mikey reached out and snagged Pete's hand in his, earning a fond smile from Pete. Mikey looked at Frank. "Ray will be there."

They hadn’t really known each other for long, and yet Ray was probably Frank's best friend in the world. It was always good to see him, but Frank couldn’t really afford it… and besides—

"Nah," Gerard said, glancing at Frank. His eyes were dark and full of promise. "Gonna call it a night."

Frank cleared his throat, feeling his face warm. "Same. Got work early."

The look on Mikey's face was vaguely skeptical. After a long beat, he shrugged. "All right. I'll see you guys later."

"Be careful," Gerard said, looking up at Mikey. He motioned towards Pete, whose arms had snuck around Mikey’s narrow waist. “Don’t let that one get you into any trouble.”

Mikey rolled his eyes; Pete grinned fondly and flipped him the bird over Mikey’s shoulder. "Yes, Mom."

"I'm serious, Mikey. Text me when you get home."

Pete rocked from foot to foot, clearly trying not to be impatient. "Babe—"

"Absolutely not." Mikey said. Frank was fascinated by how much disdain Mikey could convey with a twist of his lips.

"Mikes, it's a dangerous neighborhood—"

"We'll live," Mikey said. He clapped Frank on the shoulder. "Glad you came out to hang, dude. It was great seeing you."

"Yeah, you too," Frank said automatically, trying not to visibly wince at the unexpected touch. It surprised him a little to realize he meant it; Mikey was weird and funny and put Frank at ease. “Thanks for inviting me.”

"Anytime," Mikey said, grinning at him. He glanced at his brother, his eyebrow arching the slightest bit. “You two have a good night, then.”

He disappeared toward the entrance, Pete following in his wake. They looked good together. Easy.

"Asshole," Gerard muttered, but there was so much fond exasperation in the word that Frank knew Gerard didn't mean it.

Frank gestured. "How long’ve they been together?"

"Too long." Gerard sighed, and started twiddling his lighter again. His brow furrowed. "Three years."

"I wondered. They seem tight."

“Doesn’t matter.” Gerard met his eyes. "They’re going to get hurt."

Frank startled at Gerard’s bluntness. It was inevitable, of course, given that their soulmarks didn’t match up, but he got the impression they were happily ignoring that part. Inevitably, one day, one of them would meet the person they were made for and leave the other behind. These things never ended well. "I guess."

Gerard sagged back against the booth, feet bumping into Frank's under the table. A silence settled between them, and it should’ve been awkward, but all Frank felt was the thrill of anticipation. He watched Gerard's hands as he fidgeted, fingers quick and strong, the occasional flash of the dark splotch of black ink covering his soulmark.

"Listen," Gerard said, leaning closer. Frank made himself meet Gerard's eyes. They were intent, and when Frank licked his lips nervously, they flicked down to his mouth to follow the moment. "Listen, Frank—" The lighter clattered to the table as his hand closed around Frank's, warm and a little sweaty. "Come home with me?" Gerard reached up with his other hand and pressed his thumb to the corner of Frank's mouth. "Come home with me."

It wasn't a question anymore.

Frank's stomach twisted anxiously; it had been awhile since he'd gotten laid, and he was kind of desperate for it, if he was completely honest with himself. "Yeah. Okay," he said, unable to hide the surprise in his voice. He was used to ignoring the attraction he felt for normal people; most of them couldn’t even bring themselves to touch halfies, let alone fuck them.

—

There was a bar down on Osborn Street, not far from Frank's shitty apartment. Milagros was filthy and dark, and the bartenders looked like ex-cons, tough and tattooed. None of that mattered, though, because Milagros was one of the few places that broke down the usual social boundaries. The beer was cheap and it was a place you could go to find someone who wouldn't care about a blank spot on your wrist.

Have a drink, go home with someone, fuck or get fucked, leave before things got uncomfortable. Sometimes Frank stuck around for a while afterwards, greedily soaking up the the feeling of another body against his own, warm and alive. Mostly, though, he didn't.

It'd been more than six months since the last time he'd gone to Milagros. He'd met a woman there, brittle and worn along the edges, but friendly enough. She'd taken Frank home to her sad little apartment and led him into her darkened bedroom.

With the sweat still cooling on his skin, Frank had shifted closer and pushed back her dark hair. In the dimness of the bedroom, he could see that she was crying, silent tears welling from under her closed eyes and streaking into her hair.

It had hurt, a physical ache in his chest, because he'd known how lost and alone she had felt, and there was nothing in the world he could do to change the fact that her wrist was bare and blank like his. He'd held her face in his hands, and kissed her temple, tasting salt. "I'm sorry."

He hadn't been back to Milagros since.

—

A smile crossed Gerard's face, small and almost sad. "C'mon, get your coat—did you check a coat? Let me get my stuff out of the green room, I'll meet you by the front doors, don't go too far without me."

"All right," he said. "Meet by the front door."

—

Gerard lived in a half decent neighborhood, not far from the subway. They stopped at a bodega and Gerard picked up a couple packs of Marlboro Lights, a six pack of Coke Zero, and after holding them up for Frank's approval, some Twizzlers. He chatted familiarly with the older black woman behind the counter, while the strap of his guitar slowly slid down his shoulder.

Frank caught sight of the woman’s soulmark when she adjusted her hijab. He kept his own hands out of sight, the sleeves of his jacket pulled over his wrists.

"C'mon." Gerard took his hand, twined their fingers together, and led him down the street, hitching his guitar more securely on his back. Frank was shocked. No one had ever held his hand like this before. It was something that other people, normal people, people who had bonds, who had bright futures, who were whole, did.

He wanted to jerk away, demand to know what kind of game Gerard was playing at, but there was no guile, no deceit in Gerard's eyes, and Frank didn’t know what to make of any of it. Maybe it was pity, maybe it was curiosity, maybe he just wanted to know what it was like to touch someone who was as alone as he was.

As they walked, Gerard slanted a glance at him, and squeezed his hand. Something about that stirred Frank's blood, made his stomach swoop, made him want things he knew he couldn't have. It was stupid of him to think otherwise. Halfie. There was no way to escape that.

"This is me," Gerard said. The lobby was clean and well-lit, and warm, such a contrast to the decrepit building that Frank lived in. "Most of the apartments here are still rent controlled; a lot of families have been here forever."

Frank looked around more carefully, noted the cracked baseboards and painted-over cracks in the wall. It still looked like a palace compared to the dump he lived in. “It’s got heart.”

"For now, yeah. Sooner or later, that'll change, and the people who live here will be forced out to make room for dick bag hipsters. The super will retire, and eventually they'll tear the building down to make room for some shiny new apartment complex 'designed with the modern New Yorker in mind,'" he said, quoting one of the many billboards around the city.

Frank was pretty sure he'd never seen the super in his own building. He wasn't entirely convinced there was one.

The elevator pinged cheerfully when the doors opened. Frank tried to pull his hand away but Gerard didn't let go, just poked at the "5" button with their joined hands. It scared Frank, how much he liked the way Gerard wouldn't let go. He wasn’t really someone people ever held on to.

Gerard's place was nice.

He flipped on the lights once he'd gotten the door open, after fighting with the locks and kicking the door to unstick it. He shrugged out of his coat, hung it on a hook on the wall, and indicated Frank should do the same. There was a small mound of shoes by the door, and Gerard toed off his Chucks and kicked them toward the pile. Frank leaned over and untied his ratty shoes, lining them neatly up by the door. He didn’t want Gerard to think he was making himself too comfortable.

The apartment wasn't huge, but it looked lived-in. It was an open space, with lots of bookshelves and a desk cluttered with paper and art supplies. There was an old couch facing a decent sized television, hooked up to a sound system that included a turntable, and speakers set high up on the walls.

There was a doorway into another room and Frank caught a glimpse of kitchen appliances when Gerard turned on the light. He heard the sound of a fridge being opened, and the clink of metal against metal as Gerard put the sodas away.

Frank took the opportunity to wander toward the bookshelves, running his fingers over the spines of the books and graphic novels he found there. A lot of titles were familiar to him, but an equal number of them he'd never heard of before. He remembered suddenly that his latest batch of library books were due to be returned soon. He couldn’t afford the fine if he was late again.

"You want anything?" Gerard called from the kitchen. “Water, coffee, food?”

Frank smiled when he saw Gerard's collection of Invisibles trades, next to a collection of Mœbius art books. "No, thank you, I'm good."

There was the crinkle of plastic as Gerard ripped open the package of Twizzlers. He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching Frank as he touched the Darth Vader figure, and chuckled at the ceramic Tardis coin bank. He could feel Gerard's eyes on him, and he still didn't know what was going on inside Gerard's head.

His hands were trembling, but he was pretty sure that Gerard couldn't see that from across the room.

Gerard was eating a Twizzler, and it should have been ridiculous, but there was nothing humorous about the way Frank’s stomach was twisted up with a wild sort of fearful anticipation. He’d felt keyed up since Gerard had taken the stage; being alone with him like this wasn’t helping.

Frank awkwardly continued his exploration of the room, looking at the art and posters on the wall, at what appeared to be a replica of Sting from the Lord of the Rings movies, a framed and signed set list from a Blur show and—Frank squinted, yeah, a signed magazine cover featuring Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. To Gerard, xx, Elvira. Frank peeked at Gerard out of the corner of his eye, and he was still there, chewing on his Twizzler and watching him.

The silence was unnerving. Frank couldn't read his expression, or his mood, and he really wasn't sure what they were doing here.

Gerard finished his Twizzler and pushed away from the doorjamb, approaching Frank, slow and deliberate. When he was close, moving into Frank's space, he brushed the bangs out of Frank's face.

Without thinking, Frank pushed himself up onto his toes and pressed their lips together, eyes open, watching for Gerard's reaction. For one horrible, ugly moment, he expected Gerard to spit in disgust and wipe his mouth and tell Frank to fuck off, or to manhandle him onto all fours and spread his legs and take what he wanted from him without looking him in the eye.

Frank would give it up, either way. He wasn’t proud enough to turn down being touched, no matter how careless people sometimes were with him. He knew what he was.

But Gerard didn’t shove him away. His eyes were open as well, and it was like Frank could see into him. After a moment, Gerard's eyelids fluttered and he pulled away. They stared at each other, uncertain for a few moments, and then Frank found himself crowded against a wall, Gerard's hands gently cupping his face before he dipped down to kiss Frank again.

Frank felt the wet touch of Gerard's tongue against his lips, and he gasped in surprise. Gerard pressed his advantage, slipping into Frank's mouth and exploring. It was intoxicating.

Gerard tasted like the artificial strawberry flavor of the Twizzlers he'd eaten, and the ashy taste of cigarettes. Frank gave himself up to the kiss, feeling heat race through his body. Gerard kissed him, again and again, varying the pressure and intensity, pulling back a little to bite at Frank's lower lip. That pulled a broken sound out of Frank, and he realized that his hands were tangled in the front of Gerard's shirt, keeping him close.

Frank was distracted by the line of not-so-careful bites Gerard was leaving on the side of his neck, where the scorpion tattoo was.

"Fuck," Frank panted, feeling a little lightheaded. He was already urgently hard.

"Yeah," Gerard whispered back, and somewhere along the line, Frank had lost track of Gerard's hands, and now there was a broad palm cupping his dick, pressing and driving a soft moan out of Frank's throat.

The simple touch was electric, flipping a switch somewhere inside both of them and letting loose a sense of haste that hadn't been present before.

Gerard rubbed against Frank's cock, and it focused Frank's attention, made him scramble to get Gerard's shirt off, pushing his hands away long enough to pull it over Gerard's head.

Gerard was pale and almost hairless, so unmarked compared to the sprawl of tattoos on Frank's torso. And yet, when Frank looked closer, he found the faded traces of words written on Gerard's skin. ALONE, still visible but sweat-smeared from the show, on his neck. DEAD INSIDE along the arc of his pectoral muscle, faded and almost unreadable. RAGE in the bend of an elbow. A blotch on his shoulder, something written and then blacked out with angry, heavy strokes of the marker. FREAK meandering from hipbone to bellybutton.

Gerard didn’t let him look for long, barely even let him touch.

"Hey," Frank said, when Gerard pushed Frank's hands off his torso. Without Frank's interference, he made quick work of his own belt and zipper, and his jeans slid to the floor with a thump, leaving him in a pair of purple briefs.

Gerard went back to kissing Frank, but his fingers stayed busy, working Frank's belt loose, popping the button, pulling down the zipper. There was no hesitation; Gerard slid his hand into Frank's briefs and Frank couldn't keep from crying out softly at the first touch on his naked dick.

And with that, Frank caught fire, desperation coursing through his veins. He whimpered, pushed up against Gerard, letting his hips twitch forward, needing the friction and pressure. He wanted Gerard's hands elsewhere, on the dip low on his back, against his shoulder, cupping his cheek. He needed to be touched, reminded he was tangible and human and real, wanted it so bad he could taste it. He struggled to pull his shirt over his head, to help Gerard push his jeans down and off.

It was chilly in the apartment, and he got goosebumps. He had a passing thought about his scrawny legs, the everyday scars from minor tumbles, the tattoos, the flaws and imperfections, but Gerard seemed oblivious. Maybe he just didn’t care.

Instead, Gerard took his time to map out the geography of Frank's body. He cupped Frank's arm between his hands, moved up to his shoulder, his touch firm. Gerard took a moment to squeeze at the back of Frank's neck, fingers digging into knotted muscles, and Frank couldn't control the moan of pleasure that slipped from him.

It was a tactile feast, and he gave himself over to the sensations, fingers sliding down the back of his calf, stroking along his ribs, rubbing at the arch of his foot.

It was too much, made more intense by how rarely he was touched, and Frank felt adrift, lost. But then Gerard kissed him, and it was impossible to focus on anything other than the heat of Gerard's mouth, his tongue.

Frank wasn't cold for long.

They stumbled down a short hallway, Gerard walking backwards and leading Frank, hands firm on his biceps. They bumped into a wall, and Gerard tripped over pile of clothes, but they managed to stay upright.

Gerard laughed a little, and there was something nervous in that laugh, like Gerard wasn't as smooth and polished as he was pretending to be. It made Frank's stomach flip, and his thoughts fled like an early morning mist being burnt away by the heat of the sun.

They went into overdrive, passion overtaking everything else. Gerard was muttering under his breath, things like 'perfect' and 'gorgeous', and he kept tracing the dark lines of Frank's tattoos, leaving behind kisses and bites in unexpected places. It was dizzying, and Frank was breathless and fighting to draw this out, make everything last until he couldn't stand it anymore.

It'd been awhile since he'd done this, too long, and chances were it was going to be a while before it happened again; Frank wanted to hoard the memories for those times when the dark seemed endless and he wasn't sure he could make it until dawn. It was pathetic how much he wanted this. Needed this.

"Want to see all of you," Gerard panted, and between the two of them they managed to pull off Frank's underwear and one sock. Neither of them had any more patience.

"Yeah, yeah, oh fuck—" Frank said, tilting his head back and letting Gerard scatter bites under his ear, at the junction of his shoulder and neck, along his jawline. He hoped at least some of them bloomed into bruises; it felt like Gerard was biting him hard enough.

He wanted to look in the mirror and see the marks tomorrow, a week from now. To press against the bruises, feel the ache, and remember this moment.

Gerard shoved Frank down onto the mattress and followed, pressing their bodies together. They were flushed and sweating, and he pushed, widening the splay of Frank's legs, making a space for himself.

Frank gasped, the friction between Gerard's body and Frank's cock was somehow too much and not enough at the same time. He was going to come way too fast.

"Like this," Gerard whispered, thrusting with his hips, and oh yes, that was exactly what Frank needed. He reached out, trying to pull Gerard close, closer somehow, hands clutching at Gerard's shoulders, but Gerard wouldn’t let him.

Instead he grabbed Frank's hand and dipped his head, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin of Frank's wrist. Frank gasped at the intimate gesture, and it sent a bolt of heat through him, sent blood rushing to his face.

There was a tattoo there, i wish i were a ghost, written in red cursive letters. Frank had gotten it at a particularly low point in his life, when he'd first realized that he was unseen, invisible. A ghost in everything but name.

Gerard seemed drawn to it, nipping at the words, leaving behind faint, fading marks as red as the ink. From what Gerard had said and sung on stage tonight, it was obvious that sometimes Gerard wished he were a ghost as well.

For a moment, Frank was afraid that Gerard was going to press a kiss to the blank spot at his pulsepoint, but he didn't, trailing his lips down to Frank's fingertips, sucking on them while he raised his eyes to meet Frank's gaze.

It was erotic, the bold way Gerard just looked at him. Frank shifted under Gerard's weight, feeling the slide of skin against skin, sweat-slick and it felt good, so fucking good that Frank couldn't stand it. He made a noise, because the sensations were overwhelming and he couldn't help himself.

"Yeah, yeah, this," Gerard murmured, the words slurring into a moan as his cock rubbed against Frank's hip. He could feel how hard Gerard was, pressed against him.

"I want to fuck you. Can I fuck you?"

The words rasped against Frank's nerves and it made him feel desperate, all of his thoughts stuck on the idea of Gerard holding him down and fucking him, pushing in hard and deep—

"God, yes, please—"

Gerard kissed him softly, in sharp contrast to the way he was rutting against Frank's body. There was a tug and Frank let himself be turned over, rubbing his cheek against the pillow that smelled of cigarette smoke and coffee.

"Ah," Gerard sighed, fingers tracing over the jack-o'-lantern grinning wickedly from the surface of Frank's back. Gerard shifted, and Frank could hear the rattle of the nightstand drawer, and when he tried to look over his shoulder, Gerard kept him pressed down against the bed with a firm hand in the middle of his back. "No, stay."

Frank let himself relax back into the soft duvet, but he tensed again when Gerard traced the ridge of his spine with blunt fingernails, following the lines of ink across his back. The sensations were sharp and electric, and Frank bit his lip against the sounds that threatened to spill from his mouth. "Fuck," he muttered, because it was almost too much.

He barely had time to register Gerard's touch, slick and cool, before it pressed in, hard and steady. Frank smothered a gasp against the pillow, feeling stretched wide as his body instinctively clenched around Gerard's fingers, two, maybe three of them.

"So tight," Gerard crooned as he twisted his fingers out, then back in. The sensation sent sparks across Frank's nerves, and he thrust against the bed, needing the friction because he was going to come, now, now—

"Oh, no," Gerard whispered, and pulled Frank's hips up with his free hand. "Not yet, c'mon, I'm going to fuck you so good, make you come, just wait for it, wait for it—"

Frank made a wordless noise of protest, which turned into a moan as Gerard's dexterous fingers searched, pressed, teased.

"Fuck," Gerard muttered. "Gotta—"

Frank shivered as Gerard pulled away. The mattress shifted, and he heard the sound of the condom packet being ripped open. Frank pressed his cheek against the pillow, the fabric feeling cool against his heated skin. This was happening.

"Fuck yes, sugar," Gerard said as he crouched over Frank. "Gonna give you what you want, what you need." He shuffled close, chest to back, and his dick was hot and hard, sliding up behind Frank's balls.

Frank tried to relax into it, but it'd been long enough that he couldn't remember how to let someone in. That didn’t stop him from wanting it, though.

"C'mon," Gerard murmured in his ear, pushing against Frank's hole, and the sensations were edging toward pain as Gerard slowly worked him open. "That's it, that's it." He pressed a kiss against the nape of Frank's neck as he rocked his hips, sliding in deeper and deeper.

Frank couldn't do anything but take it, his legs and arms weak and shaky, panting hard against the sheets, eyes closed tight. It hurt, he was spread so wide, beyond his capacity—

"There you go, baby. There you go. Perfect." Gerard skated a hand across Frank's chest, down to his cock. "So hard," Gerard said, stroking him lightly, before pressing his fingers against Frank's hole, where he was stretched around Gerard's dick. "You're so tight."

They were filthy and obscene, the words coming out of Gerard's mouth, the curses and the endearments and the way he was touching Frank, like there was nothing off limits, like he owned Frank.

Frank gasped and tried to get up on his hands, brace himself and push back against Gerard, somehow take him deeper, but it only took one slow thrust before his arms gave way. "Oh, fuck," he said, pressing his cheek to the back of his hand. "Fuck."

"Yeah," Gerard said, his voice husky and low. "So good." His movements were steady and firm, settling into a rhythm that was too much and not enough at the same time.

Gerard's voice faded into a blurry background murmur as Frank lost track of everything except for the way his pleasure was building, an electric pressure moving from this toes to his balls to his fingertips, pooling hotly between his legs, molten and sticky.

Behind him, Gerard shifted a bit, and Frank muffled a shout against his hand as Gerard somehow pushed in deeper. Frank was so hard, so close to fucking coming, teetering on the edge. If he could just get a hand on his dick—

"I got you," Gerard said, and he did, his hand wrapping around Frank's dick. It was a little rough, but it didn't matter anymore, because the tension crested and broke like a snapped string, and he came.

Gerard kept fucking him, didn't slow down at all, but it was too much now. Frank was overstimulated and just as the sensations threatened to flip over into pain, his muscles spasmed, clenching down on Gerard's dick.

"Fuck," Gerard bit out, and he shuddered against Frank, a soft moan dragged out of him as he came. He collapsed against Frank's back, squashing him into the mattress, his dick still hard and hot inside Frank.

They laid there for a while, dazed and sweaty, breathing fast. Gerard pulled out and Frank couldn't help the unhappy sound he made. "Shh, I know," Gerard said, voice low against Frank's ear. He slid his fingers over Frank's hole, almost protectively. "You okay?"

Frank rolled onto his back, dislodging Gerard's fingers, and nodding a little as he looked up at him. Gerard was flushed, a sheen of sweat shining on his skin, and his hair was sticking up in every direction. His mouth was tilted up in a faint smile, and Frank couldn't help himself, he reached up and tangled his fingers in Gerard's hair, tugging him down for a kiss.

—

They dozed for a while; Frank was warm and Gerard spooned up behind him, tucking his knees into the bend of Frank's. The silence was comfortable, easy, and neither of them tried to fill the space between them with awkward small talk. They both seemed to need the same thing, a few stolen moments of pretending they weren’t alone in the world.

It was…nice.

He felt lazy and sated, and for once, Gerard wasn't trying to encourage his hookup to leave as soon as they were done fucking. He usually picked up strangers, because there was no real future for him, and Gerard was less likely to get attached to someone he didn't know, and would probably never see again.

Talking to Frank after the show had been comfortable and easy; they had been on the same wavelength from the start. They had similar interests and tastes, and even if the attraction hadn't flared into this wild tumble in Gerard's messy bed, he was sure he'd want to be friends.

But now— Gerard was at a loss. He didn't know how to act, wasn't sure what was expected of him. "So," he said hesitantly, and Frank immediately tensed up. It was subtle; Gerard wouldn't have noticed if they hadn't been naked and pressed together.

It made anxiety twist in Gerard's stomach.

Frank sat up suddenly, his legs dangling over the edge of the bed and his shoulders hunched forward. The position pushed the bones of Frank's spine into sharp relief, and Gerard's fingers itched to trace them. He wanted to wrap his arms around Frank from behind, and hold tight.

He didn't do any of that.

"Gotta go," Frank mumbled, and Gerard clumsily rearranged the pillows so he could lean against the headboard. He grabbed his cigarettes from the nightstand, lit one, and took a deep drag.

Squinting through the smoke, he watched Frank bend over to collect his scattered clothes and quickly pull them on. There were words, knotted in Gerard's throat, but he couldn't untangle them enough to get them out.

"I'll let myself out," Frank said, and the words broke the weird paralysis that had gripped Gerard.

"Frank." Frank looked at him, met his eyes briefly, before looking away. Gerard couldn't tell what he was thinking. "I'll see you around?"

"Yeah."

Gerard listened to him walk through the apartment, and there was a long pause as Frank put his ratty Chucks on. Then he heard the loud clicks of the locks turning, and the final, almost forlorn, clunk of the door shutting.

Gerard smoked three cigarettes in quick succession, trying to soothe the sudden, inexplicable anxiety in his chest. No one had ever bolted from his bed that quickly before. No one had ever left him that shaken.

—

Outside, Frank hunched against the bitter wind. He lit a cigarette and looked around; it was too early and too cold for most people to be out and about, even in the city.

He shoved a hand into the pocket of his jacket, wishing he hadn't forgotten his gloves at home. There was something soft and papery in his pocket, and when he pulled it out, he saw it was a wrinkled napkin from the bar last night.

Frank crumpled it in his hand, fingers trembling. He'd laid in Gerard's bed, sweat drying itchy on his skin, and he'd wanted so much to stay. He'd hoped that this would be the one time, the first time, that someone would ask him to stay.

It was stupid to let himself hope, always so stupid, but Frank couldn't seem to help it. It was just another way in which he was broken. He kicked viciously at a piece of trash on the sidewalk and started walking, head bent.

He shivered. He didn't want to go back to his shitty apartment. The warmth and life in Gerard's apartment made his own place seem that much bleaker. He could still feel Gerard all over him, pressed against his back, pressing deep inside of him. He could still remember that one, beautiful moment of peace after they’d fucked, when the world had looked slightly less cruel for a few minutes.

He started walking, heading toward the subway. When he'd first moved to the city, all those years ago, he hadn't been able to find a job, and renting an apartment had been impossible without the job. He hadn't had any friends in the city, didn't have many friends at all, truth be told, and he'd spent a lot of time at shelters and soup kitchens.

He'd met Phoenix at a soup kitchen in the Bronx. She’d been on her own for a while, kicked out of her home by her parents after she’d told them she didn’t want to be a boy anymore. She'd told Frank about Uncle Ace's house, which was the Eighth Avenue subway line, the longest subway route in the city. It was comprised of the A, C, and E lines, hence Uncle Ace.

Frank had lost count of the number of nights he'd spent huddled in a hard plastic seat, trying to keep a low profile and catch some sleep before being rousted by overzealous transit cops. It had been a relatively safe and warm way to pass the long winter nights.

Phoenix had been the one to tell Frank which shelters were safe for the bondless. She’d taught him how to find safe places, and when to get out of the cold. Frank had seen her every day for a month at the same soup kitchen, and then…he didn't. He never saw her again, and sometimes he wondered what happened to her, and hoped that she was okay, somewhere.

He didn't need Uncle Ace today, he just wanted a few hours to clear his head. He hopped onto the L train; clinging to a pole until the car emptied out and he found a seat. He leaned his head against the window and idly watched the people moving with purpose on the platforms, the names of the stations crackling over the intercom: Montrose Avenue, Morgan Avenue, Jefferson Street, DeKalb Avenue…

Frank wanted nothing more than to go back to Gerard's quirky little apartment, crawl in between the soft cotton sheets, and fall asleep against him, safe and warm and not alone. It was dangerous, this wanting. He knew better than to trust it.

—

Frank got off at the Sutter Avenue stop, weaving through the crowd on the platform. There was an Asian woman playing a saxophone near the stairs, a melancholy, bluesy song that fit his mood perfectly. He stopped for a while, listening to the notes echo over the sound of the trains.

"Thank you," he said, dropping what loose change he had into the little box she'd set out to collect tips. It wasn't much, maybe fifty cents at most, but he'd liked the song she'd played. He made some of his money the same way she did; he liked to support street musicians when he could.

Back up on the street, the wind made him hunch down into his jacket as he walked. The early morning sun was shining brightly, but did nothing to alleviate the cold.

His place was several blocks away from the station. He let himself zone out a little as he walked, and his thoughts kept turning back to the show last night, to Gerard’s body against his, to his own hand hesitating on Gerard’s front door as he left.

"Brother, do you have a moment?"

Frank jerked his attention off the cracked sidewalk in front of him to the man who'd approached him. He was blandly middle-aged and nondescript, his clothes old-fashioned and worn, but well kept. Pinned to the lapel of his coat was a metal badge embossed with the image of a dove.

Frank recoiled from the pamphlet the man was holding out to him. "Brother, may I tell you about the Gospel of the Lost?"

"No," Frank said shortly, immediately crossing the street to avoid him. He’d met enough of these Society Of The Lost people over the years to know he should steer clear of them. On paper, the Society promoted themselves as an organization that offered support to the bondless: food, shelter, clothing, job training and placement. On paper, they were secular in nature, open to anyone, in spite of their religious origins.

"If you are Lost, brother, only God can save you," the man shouted at him. “Only He can save your unclean soul from eternal damnation!”

"Fucker," Frank muttered under his breath, walking briskly away from him. For all their propaganda, the truth was that the Society’s help came at a steep price. The Society's doctrine claimed that the bondless were impure and sinful, and the only path to grace and forgiveness was a lifetime of servitude in the Society.

If you wanted their food, their shelter, you had to work for it. The work he’d done for them when he was younger still turned Frank’s stomach. It hadn't been worth it.

He walked faster, trying to leave the memories behind.

—

Frank's apartment was cold and quiet.

He hung up his jacket and slipped on a couple of sweatshirts, made some tea and sat down on his mattress, his back supported by the wall. He pulled the tangle of blankets up over his legs.

There were three different partly-read books on the little makeshift table by his mattress, two from his most recent foray to the library, and one that he'd bought at a used book store a couple of years ago.

He skipped over the library books, and picked up Cat's Cradle. It was an old favorite; he’d read it a thousand times before, but its black humor suited his current mood.

Frank tried to settle into it, let the words take him away to another world. Books had always been his main escape from the reality of his life, and he needed a bit of relief after the last day.

He tried to focus on the words, but he couldn't concentrate. He read a paragraph, and he a moment later he couldn't remember what he'd just read.

Closing the book with a snap, Frank looked at the other two books on offer. One was a biography about Kenyan revolutionary Dedan Kimaathi, the other a light-hearted sci-fi story about a kick-ass space pirate and her battles to rescue her wife.

Neither book promised to hold his attention.

He was tired; it had been a long, eventful night, and he knew he should rest and eat something. There was the possibility of some shift work tomorrow, and Frank couldn't afford to let himself get physically run-down. That would only lead to another round of colds, turning into bronchitis or worse.

In spite of his exhaustion, there was a restless itch under his skin that he couldn't seem to ignore. He thought about the half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey he had stashed in the kitchen, wondering if it would be enough to make him forget about the way Gerard touched him, like he deserved to feel good, like he mattered, like he was worth something.

It felt like too much effort, so he wriggled until he was curled up on the mattress, buried under his pile of blankets. His breath hung in the air; he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to sleep.

—

Frank startled awake, groggy and confused. He rubbed at his face, letting things come into focus. He hadn't slept for very long, and it was still cold and quiet in his apartment.

His apartment was tiny, but now it felt even smaller with Gerard's presence ghosting under his skin. He needed to get out of the apartment, out of his head. Or he'd end up drinking himself into a stupor.

Frank knew he could go to Milagros and find a little companionship. Someone to spend the evening with, maybe share a meal before tumbling into bed. No strings, but not coldly impersonal. There was always a familiarity when he met other bondless, a kinship of shared experiences. Tonight, he didn't want any sort of connection, however fleeting.

He remembered the woman from the last time he'd gone there, and it turned his stomach, how helpless he'd felt in the face of her sadness and despair.

What he wanted, needed, right now was to not think about Gerard and the way it had felt when he'd pressed in, so deep, like he belonged, entangled in Frank's body, his bones. Frank needed to wash away the memory of Gerard's touch, and taste. He wanted to forget how he'd felt with Gerard's solid weight pressing him down into the mattress.

He could go out. There were places in the city that weren't entirely unwelcoming of bondless; Frank knew of a few, and he was sure there were many more.

A couple were sleazy little lounges, disguised by shabby looking storefronts with boarded up windows. If Frank hadn't been given an address, he never would have guessed that it had housed a place where people met for anonymous sex.

The doorman was usually big and burly, collecting the cover and patting down patrons. Inside, there was a bar set up in the lobby to serve watered down beer; the rest of the space was nothing more that a bunch of cubbies and cubicles under black lights for the illusion of privacy.

The loud music made it impossible to talk, but most people weren't there for conversation, anyway. The sex was quick and impersonal, shoved up hard against a wall, or bent over, clothing impatiently pushed out of the way.

—

In spite of the commonly held belief that the bond was the most perfect connection in mind, body, and spirit, it wasn't always true. There was a tiny segment of the population that was dissatisfied with some aspect of their bond.

At cafés, bars, and community centers, Frank had met some of these outliers. People whose sexual orientation ran contrary to the gender of their bond. Kinksters whose partners didn't understand or share their kink. And some people who felt they were constrained with just a single partner.

Many of them were sad or angry at their 'imperfect' bond and sought solace and support with others like them. For the most part, though, these oddities were content with their bonds in spite of the problems.

Rarely, and spoken of in fearful whispers, were stories of bonds tying a normal person to a psychopath. Frank wasn't sure if that bit of information was part of the apocrypha surrounding soulbonds or not, but it was almost too horrifying to contemplate.

This was the flipside of traditional bonds, a hidden, underground network of people who found that the conventional roles didn't fit, and struggled to find their place in the world. Their presence was visible if you knew where to look, flyers posted on streetlight poles and buildings, cryptic chalk marks on walls. Messages posted to electronic forums and in personal ads.

And then there were the slummers. An unsurprising number of people believed that the bondless were unclean and sinful, and some of them twisted that into a sexual fetish. They got off, hard, on the idea of having sex with someone filthy and tainted. There were private clubs for the slummers, and Frank had a standing invitation to a couple of them.

According to his internet search at the library, these kinds of places tended to be more upscale than the seedy halfie lounges or the more respectable places like Milagros. Frank would definitely have to shower and break out his interview clothes if he wanted to go to one of the fetish clubs.

Frank hadn't ever been to one, in spite of his curiousity, but maybe it was what he needed tonight. It had to be better than sitting in his apartment, brooding in the cold.

—

Labrys was located in midtown Manhattan, within spitting distance of the Empire State Building. It was a narrow three story building, wedged between a bank and a church. It was very modern, all steel and glass, and looked a little out of place in a neighborhood of mostly older buildings. The door into the lobby had an image of a two-headed axe and there were no indications from the outside of what was housed within.

Frank loitered outside of the entrance for a while, smoking a cigarette, drawing suspicious looks from passerbys. He took a deep breath, and went inside.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The guy behind the counter looked like an upscale Mafia enforcer, but seemed polite enough.

"I—" Frank fumbled in his pocket for the card he'd been given. "I have an invitation?" The card had the same two-headed axe logo that was on the door. It had a name on the other side, Susan Bright embossed on the heavy cardstock, and under it, the address.

The woman who'd approached him on the subway platform as he busked had been older, and clearly wealthy, elegantly dressed. She'd waited patiently until he finished playing 'Sheena Is A Punk Rocker' before holding out a business card, manicured nails painted bright red.

"I see the tattoos on your hands," she had said, and Frank had reflexively pulled his hands back into his sleeves. "I have friends who would love to meet you." She tapped her fingers against her soulmark, a circular squiggle. "There's a gathering, every night, seven to midnight. You should come, we'd love to have such a pretty boy like you."

She had gestured with the card, and hesitantly, Frank had accepted it, turning it over in his fingers.

"What's your name?" she'd asked.

"Frank," he'd answered.

She had smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. There was something cold and slick about her that made Frank feel uncomfortable.

"Nice to meet you, Frank. My name is Susan. I hope you'll consider my offer, and come to our…little meeting."

"I'll think about it," he said, tucking the card into his pocket. She'd just smiled at him again, dropped a twenty into his cup, and walked briskly away.

"Yes, sir," the doorman said, and gestured to the elevator. "Go ahead up, first floor. I'll let them know you're here."

"Thanks." Frank squared his shoulders and pushed the call button.

—

Frank got home well after midnight, tired and a little drunk. There'd been an open bar at Labrys and he'd had a couple of drinks. He'd been totally out of his element, surrounded by well-heeled midtown Manhattanites, and he'd wanted something to take the edges off of his nervousness.

Now he just needed a shower.

Normally Frank stuck to sponge baths as much as possible; with the erratic nature of his employment, he never knew if he was going to have hot water or not. He'd been lucky the last few weeks, scoring some semi-steady work, and so he'd managed a payment to ConEd.

Frank stripped, letting the clothes fall into a pile. He knew he should hang them up, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He turned and caught his reflection in the mirror, and stopped.

There was a bitemark blooming on the side of his neck, and when he pressed his fingers to it, it hurt. Now that he was looking, he could see a scattering of scratches down his arm, across his chest, and a couple of bruises on his hips.

He twisted the faucet until the water was scalding, then eased himself into the shower stall as steam started to fill the room. He soaped up his washrag and started scrubbing at his skin.

The crowd at Labrys hadn't been large. Several people had come up and introduced themselves, engaging him in small talk about current events and pop culture, clearly trying to make him feel comfortable. Something about the way they acted had made Frank uneasy; their casual touches were too familiar, and their eyes lingered hungrily over his hands. They were outwardly smiling and friendly, but there was an undercurrent of greedy calculation that made Frank feel like a sheep among wolves.

He had finally retired to one of the private rooms with a blond guy a few years older than Frank, a stockbroker or 'in finance,' all slick charm, designer cologne, and alcohol-fueled bravado. Roger, he'd said. Not Frank's usual type at all.

That had been the point of going to Labrys, after all.

The hot water felt good, loosening up the lingering soreness in his muscles, and he let himself stay in the shower much longer than usual.

The evening had been a total disaster. Roger had been focused on Frank's tattoos, and the blank spot on his wrist, but he hadn't touched Frank there. Roger's dirty talk needed work; he mostly called Frank a 'filthy boy' and demanded that Frank hold him down and mess him up.

Sex was sex, but Frank was put off by Roger's fetishization of his lack of soulmark. Frank could have been replaced by any other bondless and it wouldn't have mattered at all to Roger. It left a bad taste in Frank's mouth, and he ended up leaving Labrys not long after he and Roger finished.

Instead of helping him forget about Gerard and his endearingly crooked smile, his experience at Labrys only centered Gerard more firmly in Frank's thoughts. The night was a fucking wash.

Frank dried himself off brusquely, feeling the cold draft creep in under the bathroom door. He was suddenly exhausted, though he wasn't sure he'd be able to quiet his brain long enough to fall asleep.

He dressed quickly, layering on several sweatshirts and sleep pants and socks, and made himself a cup of herbal tea. It would keep him warm and hopefully make him drowsy.

Curling up in his nest of blankets, Frank found himself drifting off to the memory of Gerard's body pressed against his.

—

When Gerard woke, there was the faintest hint of light coming in through the windows. It was early; the sounds of the city were still muted and distant.

He was alone.

He blindly groped for his cigarettes on the night stand, putting one in his mouth and lighting it, drawing in a lungful of smoke, eyes slitted in pleasure. There was something about the way the first smoke of the day made Gerard feel, a weird mix of calm and anticipation, like he was almost ready to face the day.

After he had coffee, of course. But nicotine always came first. He exhaled and stared up at the ceiling, letting his eyes unfocus.

—

When he was a teenager, Gerard had found a gun his dad kept in the one of the drawers of his bureau, buried under old ties and dress socks. Finding it had been a surprise; he hadn't even known that there was a gun in the house.

He’d picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy and cold. It had had a solid weight to it, something you couldn't tell from television or movies. It had felt right, the way his hand curled around the handle, his index finger lining up along the barrel.

Disappointment had settled heavily in this stomach when he’d discovered there were no bullets.

After that, Gerard would occasionally sneak the gun into the bedroom he shared with Mikey, when the rest of the house was empty and quiet. He'd sit on his narrow single bed, back braced against the wall, and stroke the metal like it was a beloved pet.

He’d put the barrel in his mouth, once, an experiment. It had been awkward and the metal had tasted awful, but he’d thought about how alone and empty it was in his head, and how much that silence hurt. It wasn't fair, he'd lost his bond and it hadn’t killed him and it wasn't his fault, he'd done nothing to deserve this. He’d wanted the anger and pain to stop, to end the piercing agony that permeated every breath like barbed wire wrapped around his still beating heart.

To end the constant refrain of gone, alone, empty that echoed through his blood.

Gerard would do almost anything for that kind of peace.

He’d thought about buying bullets, carefully loading the gun, pulling the trigger, but that had felt too much like giving in, letting fate or destiny or whatever that took away his bond win by default. Deep down, he’d known he didn't have the courage to kill himself, that couldn't do that to Mikey and his parents.

Death didn’t really scare him anymore, but the thought of hurting Mikey terrified him.

One day Mikey had come home unexpectedly, while Gerard had the gun resting against his cheek, inhaling the familiar sharp metal-oil tang, letting it seep into his bloodstream. It had been calming in a weird way, and Gerard had been so caught up in the feeling that he hadn't heard Mikey's tread on the stairs.

There had been a loud gasp; Gerard startled and looked up to find Mikey standing in the doorway, his hand still gripping the doorknob tightly. He’d been pale, his summer tan stripped away by shock, and his eyes had been wide and dark.

"Mikey, it's not—" —what it looks like, he wanted to say.

But it had been, and Mikey knew it. He’d turned and walked away, the door clicking shut behind him.

—

That night, there had been a furtive argument in the kitchen after he was supposed to be asleep, his mom and dad struggling to keep their voices down while they’d hurled accusations at each other.

It had been different than their usual fights about money and Gerard's grades and Mikey sneaking out after curfew. There had been a biting desperation underlying their voices, something that he'd never heard before. He’d listened to the cadence of their words, the muted rise and fall of tone and pitch.

It had ended when his mother started crying, loud, wrenching sobs that his father had never had any defense against. Their voices had faded into indistinct murmuring and Gerard had curled up a little more in his bed, hating himself for hurting his parents, making his mom cry.

All he was good for was hurting people.

"Scoot over," Mikey had mumbled, shoving at Gerard and climbing into his bed.

"Fuck off," Gerard had said, sniffling. Mikey was in the middle of a growth spurt and he was all awkward elbows and bony knees, and he’d clung like some sort of demented monkey. He’d held Gerard too tightly, pressing his face against Gerard's shoulder and not saying anything.

Mikey had fallen asleep eventually. Sleep hadn’t come so easily to Gerard, but he’d felt calmer with Mikey against him, less alone.

And the next time he’d opened the drawer and pushed aside the ties and socks his dad never wore, the gun had been gone.

After that, there had been an extended flirtation with pills: Xanax, Oxycontin, Valium, Vicodin. He never had problems getting ahold of drugs; one look at his medical record, with the words terminated bond stamped in red ink, and most doctors rushed to write him any prescription he asked for.

XANAX 2MG TAB 30 QTY. TAKE UP TO TWO TABLETS BY MOUTH AS NEEDED FOR ANXIETY.

OXYCODONE HCL 10MG TAB 30 QTY. TAKE ONE TABLET BY MOUTH AS NEEDED FOR PAIN

ZOLOFT 50MG TAB 90 QTY. TAKE ONE TABLET BY MOUTH DAILY FOR DEPRESSION.

A handful of pills, half a bottle of vodka, and Gerard would wake in the hospital, his stomach pumped and another notation in his psych record. It wasn’t that he wanted to die, necessarily, he just didn’t know how to live when there was so much anger and hurt.

His mom would visit while he was being held pending an evaluation, thin-lipped and pale. "Mama," he'd say, because he knew she could never stay mad at him.

"Oh, baby." She'd crawl into his bed and Gerard would tuck his face into the hollow of her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her perfume, the same one his grandmother had worn. "You scared me." She'd talk, just to fill the silence, and when she thought he was asleep, she'd press a kiss to the soulmark on his wrist.

Mikey would sit in the chair by the window, quiet and sad and uncomprehending, his own soulmark hidden guiltily behind a thick leather cuff. He’d bring Gerard comic books and CDs and bags of candy. He’d try to remind Gerard that he wasn’t alone, not really, that Mikey had his back, no matter what.

Gerard had to give up the pills when he got sober, white-knuckling his way through his depressive episodes. When it got really bad, he went back to his therapist down on Grand Street, sessions three times a week until he could breathe again, the formless anger and pain subsiding to somewhat manageable levels.

Dr. Cécile Pierrot was an older woman, what his mother would have called 'full-bodied,' with a thick Haitian accent and purple cat-eyed glasses perched on her nose. She reminded Gerard of his aunt Gloria.

She had grown up in Haiti under the shadow of the Duvalier government, her father swept away by the Tonton Macoute in the dark of the night. Her mother had smuggled the then ten year old Cécile out of Haiti on a boat to the golden promise of the United State, seeking political asylum. Dr. Pierrot's mother had worked exhaustively to make sure her child could take advantage of the opportunities that were offered in their new country.

Dr. Pierrot was one of the smartest people Gerard had ever met, with a large number of published papers to her name. Instead of accepting a prestigious tenured position at Columbia, Dr. Pierrot had opened up a small practice in Brooklyn and treated mostly low income clients on a generous sliding scale.

After their first few sessions, years ago, Dr. Pierrot had insisted on giving Gerard her personal phone number. She'd made him promise that if he thought, really thought, that he was going to hurt himself, he would call her.

He programmed her number into his phone, but he'd never needed it.

He'd been Dr. Pierrot's first bondlost patient, and Gerard was sure she was working on a paper, The Evaluation and Treatment of Suicidal Ideation in Patients with Terminated Bonds or something to that effect. That didn't matter, though. What mattered was that she let him rage against the sheer unfairness of his situation in the safety of her office. He trusted her to not freak out when he shared what was going on in his head, and appreciated her refusal to tiptoe around the subject of suicide.

Dr. Pierrot didn't really understand, no one but another bondlost could, but she'd listened, and let him mourn. It helped.

Gerard didn't think about guns or pills anymore when he played with the idea of suicide. Instead, he thought about the Williamsburg Bridge. It was the main bridge between Williamsburg and Manhattan, and a week didn't go by that he didn't find himself traveling over the elegant, arched spans.

Sometimes, he daydreamed about struggling over the flimsy barrier and perching at the edge of the metal plating, poised to jump and let gravity take hold and pull him down. He could almost see the ripple of concern spread outwards, like a shockwave through the crowd of passing New Yorkers as the realization set in: …a joke, a prank, he's not really gonna jump, is he—no, oh no no no—

It gave him a delicious, vicious twist of joy to see the terrified faces of the imaginary bystanders. It was vivid; he was uncomfortably hot and sweaty under his Madonna shirt, and the bridge rattled under his feet every time a truck rumbled past. He could smell exhaust and burning oil and faintly, the damp moistness of the East River, 135 feet below.

The railing felt gritty, chips of paint digging into his skin, and the breeze from the across the river blew his hair into his face.

Sometimes he imagined a crowd of people on the other side of the barrier trying to stop him, unfamiliar hands holding tight to his arms, keeping him anchored.

Other times there was no one, and Gerard thought it would be so easy just to let go and lean back, falling, falling, falling…

"I wish you would let me prescribe you some antidepressants," Dr. Pierrot had said recently. "They're not perfect, but they'd keep you from having these rock-bottom kind of lows."

Gerard had sniffled and squeezed the lighter in his hand, shaking his head. He’d needed a cigarette. "Staying sober is hard."

"That it is," Dr. Pierrot had agreed. "But it's important." She'd sighed and shuffled some papers on her desk. "Well, at least your C-SSRS score still places you in the low to moderate risk group for suicide, in spite of how fixated you are on that damn bridge."

"Better than the GW," Gerard had said, and Dr. Pierrot had to concede the point. The George Washington Bridge had the highest rate of suicide attempts, and successes, of any of the bridges in the five boroughs.

"I'd be happier if you were back on medication."

Gerard had shrugged, because it wasn't really an option. There wasn't much real danger in overdosing on antidepressants. But he recognized that with his addiction, if he gave himself permission to take the antidepressants, it would be too easy to fall back into his old habits. Alcohol, speed, painkillers, coke. Pills to keep him awake, pills to put him to sleep. Booze to make him feel alive and unbroken.

It was a slippery slope, one that he'd tumbled down so many times.

"I'll see you next week?"

"Yeah," Gerard had said, voice scratchy. "Yeah, I'll be here."

—

Gerard smoked another cigarette and stroked his hand over the sheet on the empty side of the bed. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that the bedding still held the faintest hint of warmth from Frank's body. He really should get up; he had shit to do.

He settled back against the pillows and tried to call to mind the bridge, with its red-painted railings and graffiti, the view of Manhattan, the smell of the river, but all he could see was the way Frank had smiled as they kissed.

Your heart is so cold that it shivers

“I don’t think it’s necessarily about intellectual property rights,” Pete mused conversationally, before, “Gee, for fuck’s sake!”

Gerard groaned from where he’d collapsed mid-burpee on the cold gravel, limbs sprawled haphazardly around him. “Leave me here to die.”

Pete jogged back down the pathway to stop beside Mikey, his stupid chest barely heaving with the exertion. “You’re gonna get osteoporosis at thirty.”

“Fuck you and your fucking osteoporosis,” Gerard growled pathetically, throwing an arm over his sweaty brow to shield against the harsh morning light. Mikey’s stupid, amused face was barely visible in the glare of the rising sun to Pete’s left, his body backlit like a polyester-clad angel. “We’ve been at this for an hour.”

Pete glanced at the cardio training app on his phone, a wretched sadistic thing that beeped when it wanted them to run faster. “We’ve been at this for eleven minutes. Get up.”

Gerard bit back his bitchy comeback, hoping his glare conveyed his dissatisfaction more politely than his words would have. He dug his smokes out of his left sock and tucked one between his lips. He caught the glance that passed between Pete and Mikey, saw the quick conversation that transpired between them in an intimate, wordless shorthand.

Pete sighed in response to whatever he read in Mikey’s face. Gerard couldn’t imagine being that familiar with anyone except his own brother. “Maybe eleven minutes is a good start,” Pete said mercifully, at his phone, hopefully silencing the damn thing. “You guys stay here, I’ll be back with donuts.”

“Nothing with sprinkles,” Mikey called after him as he folded his long legs to sit beside Gerard’s prostrate body. He looked infuriatingly unruffled after this whole irritating, sweaty debacle. He nudged one of Gerard’s knees. “You should stretch before you cool down.”

Gerard coughed on a smoky exhale. His throat felt raw. “Why are you letting him do this to me?”

“C’mon, Gee,” Mikey said gently, bending one of Gerard’s legs back against his body. “He’s just trying to help the only way he knows how.”

“I don’t need help,” Gerard muttered, wincing at the stretch. He felt keyed up and uncomfortable, sore in more ways than usual. The sky was too bright, the air too cold, the world too confronting. He wanted to go back to bed, pull the covers over his head and hide from the sun until it set again. His bed, which still smelled like…Frank.

Mikey pressed his leg more firmly, crowding him against the ground. “Exercise helps him when he’s down. Endorphins and dopamine, that sort of thing.”

“The only thing it’s doing for me is making me want to maim your boyfriend.”

Mikey smiled fondly. “Don’t maim him. I need him for things.”

A jogger ran past them, gravel crunching between the path and their sneakers. Gerard tried not to think about what kind of a hot mess he looked like to the sort of functioning adult that went for early morning runs in parks by themselves. He took another deep drag of his cigarette and rubbed at his eyes. “You really love him, don’t you?”

Mikey shrugged, dropping Gerard’s leg and repeating the stretch on the other. He was wearing one of Pete’s old training jackets from his time on the DePaul soccer team, something Latin printed under the university coat of arms. “Something like that.”

It was like a bruise he couldn't stop poking at, surprised each time at the ache when he did. “What are you gonna do when one of you bonds?”

“Jesus, Gee,” Mikey sighed dramatically. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. He knew Mikey didn’t really have much of an answer.

“You can’t just keep pretending it’s never going to happen.”

Mikey dropped his leg unceremoniously and reached for Gerard’s cigarettes. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. If we ever do.”

“Don’t you want to meet whoever’s on the other end of that?” He pointed at Mikey's wrist with the jerk of his chin.

Mikey turned his hand around in his lap, studying the symbol etched on the inside of his wrist. It wasn’t often Gerard saw it; Mikey tended to keep it covered with his sleeves or a leather cuff. He’d started hiding it after one of Gerard’s first hospitalizations in their teens, as though the evidence of Mikey’s soulmate would somehow remind Gerard of the loss of his.

“Don’t you?”

—

The first time Mikey had worn a cuff over his soulmark, he'd gotten sent to the school counselor, a humorless older man who had also doubled as the school's wrestling coach and Algebra I teacher.

"I just tuned him out," Mikey had said, unconcerned. "Thought about how awesome the new Pumpkins album is gonna be."

The school had confiscated the simple strip of braided hide, but Mikey had been nothing if not determined. He was wearing another within a week, and that had occasioned the school sending a letter home with Mikey.

"…anti-social tendencies, blah blah blah, disrupting the classroom, blah blah blah, seek out professional counseling…" Mikey had read aloud.

Gerard, perched on the upper bunk in their bedroom, had picked at a hole in the knee of his jeans. "Mom's gonna flip."

"Not if she doesn't know," Mikey had said, crumpling the letter into a ball and tossing it toward the trash can.

Gerard had rolled his eyes. "They'll just send another letter."

Mikey had shrugged. "Don't care."

Then had come the short-lived BONDS ARE FOR LOSERS 'zine anonymously printed and copies secreted between books in the school library, the words FUCK BONDS scribbled on the backs of bathroom stalls in a familiar, messy scrawl, scabs that looked like scratch marks over Mikey’s soulmark. Later, there had been a brief bout of school-mandated therapy, concerned whispered conversations in their kitchen, and the final determination that Mikey was simply going through a rebellious phase.

It was more than that, clearly, but it was one of the few subjects that Mikey had refused to talk to Gerard about.

There were times when Gerard had stood between Mikey and some asshole bully in school; the Way brothers were easy targets: nerds, geeks, Gerard a little chubby and pretentiously arty, Mikey skinny and bespectacled and defiantly covering his soulmark. Gerard had gone home with black eyes more times than he cared to count.

Whispers of freak had followed Mikey down the hallways, but he just kept his head down, listening to the clunky Discman he'd inherited from one of their cousins.

When Gerard had moved on to high school, he couldn't protect Mikey anymore. But as skinny as Mikey was, he learned to fight back, and the bullies pretty much left him alone, except for the name calling.

"Words have power," Gerard had insisted. "You should report them to the principal."

Mikey had scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Really?"

"Okay, maybe not." He had chewed on his thumbnail. "But…doesn't it bother you?"

"No, it doesn't." Mikey's voice had been soft, and Gerard couldn't tell if he was telling the truth or not.

—

The magazine had been glossy and slick, tabū written in a modern-looking font. It'd been hidden between Mikey's copy of Watchmen and one of Gerard's old sketchbooks. Gerard's first thought had been porn and he almost shoved it back where it belonged.

Something about the thickness of the paper had snagged his attention, though, and he flipped idly to a page. The models had been beautiful, artfully groomed and dressed in evening gowns. Their arms were graceful, and twisted around their wrists were strips of jewel bright cloth, obscuring their soulmarks.

Gerard had gasped, and fumbled with the magazine, and when he righted it, there was another gorgeous spread, men in formal wear, men slouching in jeans, sleeves rolled back to revel cuffs of leather, of silver, chains in gold and copper.

There were more pictures, women in swimsuits and casual outfits, men in rumpled pajamas and cuddling puppies. And in every one of them, there was a sly, sidelong focus on their hands, and the various accoutrements that hid their soulmarks.

At the back of the magazine, Gerard had found an advertising section, absurdly banal and out of place amid artfully lucious photographs of beautiful people.

There had been full page ads for wrist jewelry, everything from delicate filagree to thick, bold designs. Some ads had promoted cuffs in a myriad of shapes, designs, and materials. Gerard had easily picked out the leather cuff that Mikey had been wearing for the last few months in the ad's pictures. He'd always wondered where Mikey had gotten it, but had never asked.

Other ads had promised introductions to like-minded people, for a reasonable fee. There had been a plug for a club that promised a unique sensual experience for the most discriminating clientele. A chain bar, with locations in Manhattan, Newark, and Philly, had offered 2-for-1 drink specials on Tuesday nights for their special friends.

Gerard had wondered a little wildly how the bar's special friends would identify themselves. Secret password? Letter of introduction? Wearing something on their wrist, in public?

At the bottom were a handful of elegantly designed ads, offering location services. It had taken him a minute to figure out what that meant, that these companies were offering to help find your soulmate. Gerard had traced his finger over the words, feeling unsettled and jittery.

He had closed the magazine and put it back where he'd found it.

—

"Aren't you curious at all?" Gerard asked.

Mikey rubbed his thumb over a black squiggle, frowning as he considered it, before hugging the arm against his chest like he was huddling from the cold.

He’d never told Gerard anything about the person on the other end, and Gerard had never asked. He’d seen Mikey feel them, though, was sure of it. Seen how sometimes he’d just smile to himself and rub the inside of his left wrist unconsciously against his rib cage, pressing the mark against his heart. “I’d rather have Pete.”

“It’s not really up to you.”

“Says who?” Mikey said indignantly, his voice suggesting he was going to get angry if Gerard pressed much further. “I don’t want some stranger who’s, like, arbitrarily tied to me through fairy magic or whatever-the-fuck, I want Pete. He wants me."

One of them was going to get spectacularly hurt; it was inevitable. Gerard selfishly hoped it wouldn’t be his brother, though this wasn’t really something he could protect him from. “And anyone else willing to go home with you after a couple of drinks.”

“Well,” Mikey said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. He seemed to soften a little at the change of topic. “We believe in sharing and caring, what can I say.”

“That’s a family friendly way of saying you’re both sluts.”

“Fuck off.” Mikey extended a hand. “You’re gonna get a chest infection lying on the ground and you look like a homeless man.”

Everything already hurt by the time Gerard had reshuffled himself into a sitting pose. He felt wretchedly sore, his spine stiff and his thighs aching. If Pete didn’t return with donuts and coffee, their friendship may not survive the morning. “So, uh. Frank.”

“So,” Mikey said into the ensuing silence, as though he’d been expecting the conversation. “You slept with him.”

Gerard snorted. He wasn't sure if he was that transparent, or if Mikey just knew him that well. “Guess I did, yeah.”

Mikey tilted his head towards him expectantly. His eyes were unreadable, but Gerard knew what he was asking.

“It was…” Gerard bit his lip as he remembered the feel of Frank underneath him, his ink-covered back damp with sweat, his moans muffled against the pillow he was biting down on, his thighs shaking where Gerard gripped them. He sucked in another drag of smoke while he tried to find the words. "…nice.”

It hadn't been nice.

It had been something so fucking far from nice, and Gerard didn't want to think about that night. He'd tried to distract himself by coming up with lyrics to songs he hadn't written yet. He'd added a page to the on-again-off-again comic he'd been working on since college.

He'd cleaned his damn apartment from top to bottom, chased away the spiders who'd taken up residence in the corners of the rooms, mopped—fucking mopped the kitchen and bathroom floors.

Frank was definitely something that Gerard didn't want to be thinking about.

Mikey rolled his eyes, looking distinctly unimpressed. “And when are you going to see him again?”

That answer came easier. “I’m busy.” As an afterthought, or a justification, or maybe just so Mikey wouldn’t turn this into something it wasn’t, he said, “He didn’t really seem interested, anyway.”

Mikey sighed heavily. Gerard watched two birds chase each other across the lawn and smoked his cigarette down to the filter. “I’m not really interested, either.”

“Just.” Mikey took a strangely long pause, chewing his lip like he was biting back words. “Be careful with him, please.”

“Careful,” Gerard repeated, trying to decipher Mikey's carefully neutral expression. He couldn't quite work out if Mikey was looking out for him or Frank. On second thought, he didn't really want to know. He wasn't going to get involved. “Looks like Pete’s back.”

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Mikey mused thoughtfully, watching Pete approach with a tray of coffees and a bag of goodies. “Of course I fucking love him. He’s my best friend and I don’t want my life if he’s not in it. Unless the person on the other end of this stupid mark has, like, a massive dick and a million dollars and a solution for world peace, I don’t fucking want them. I’ve never fucking wanted them.”

Gerard followed Mikey’s gaze, hoping against hope that this wouldn’t end in flames for them. “I don’t know, Mikes.”

Softly, Mikey said, “Bonds aren’t the only thing in the world, you know. It’s possible to love someone you’re not bonded to. I want him, no matter what. Maybe you could want someone, too.”

Gerard sniffled, hugging himself against the cold. “Don’t.”

“Just think about it.”

Gerard was resolutely not going to think about it.

“Nothing with sprinkles,” Pete said victoriously when he dumped the bag of donuts in Mikey’s lap. “Did he stretch?”

“Only hammies.” Mikey grinned, leaning up to meet Pete’s kiss. “Thanks, babe.”

“My pleasure,” Pete said, mirroring Mikey’s grin. For all of Gerard’s reservations about their relationship, there was no way Gerard could miss the stars in Pete’s eyes when he looked at Mikey, the softness in his voice when he talked about him, how he always tracked him around the room whenever they went anywhere together.

Gerard wondered, again, which one of them would hurt the other first.

There’s a storm you’re starting now

“I’m kind of miserable too,” Gerard spat for what felt like the fortieth time in the last hour. The words felt rough in his throat, tasted sour in his mouth. He needed a cigarette to cleanse his palate. He rubbed his eyes and looked at Ray on the other side of the glass separating the recording booth from the control room. “How was that?”

Ray studied him silently for a few moments, before running a hand through his curls and leaning forwards in his chair to rest his elbows on his soundboard. His index finger hovered over the intercom button for a few seconds before pushing down. “Let’s take five, man.”

“Fuck,” Gerard muttered to himself, reluctantly hanging his headphones on the stand that held his page of scribbled lyrics. The words had been hell to write and were proving even harder to sing. He was nearing the end of what little rope he had. “I thought that last take was okay,” he muttered as he dug his cigarettes out of the jacket he’d hung over the back of a chair sometime after lunch.

“You’re still a little flat,” Ray said diplomatically, smiling an encouraging sort of smile that Gerard couldn’t stomach for too long. It felt too much like pity. “Maybe we should just call it a day, try again in the morning. Christa’s making meatloaf tonight, you should come over.”

Gerard undid the latch of the small window overlooking the street below. A couple of young kids were loitering a few doors down from the liquor store on the corner, intercepting customers on their way in to score booze or cigarettes they weren’t old enough to buy for themselves. He and Ray had done the same thing when they were young. He gave his lighter a few frustrated flicks before it lit. “Nah,” he said, exhaling his first drag into the cool night air. “Gonna turn in early. Thanks, though.”

Ray’s chair creaked slightly as he shifted in it. “Sure. Get some shut-eye. You seem pretty beat.”

“Mm,” Gerard hummed noncommittally. Ray wasn’t wrong, but sleep wouldn’t do much. More often than not lately, Gerard was the kind of beat only a bottle of Jack and a bump of coke could alleviate. He couldn’t do that to Mikey, though, not after the last time. Maybe it was time to call Dr. Pierrot again, schedule an appointment with her.

He held on to his next lungful of smoke until it made him lightheaded. He should walk past those kids outside the liquor store and get on the next train home. He could order pizza and fall asleep on the couch and not have to deal with the endless spiral of anger and pain for a little while.

He didn’t necessarily want to be alone, but spending time with Ray and Christa in their soulbonded, domestic bliss tended to make him feel lonelier than being by himself did, and Pete and Mikey were at a work thing of Pete’s on a boat in the harbor somewhere. He could always drop into a bar on the way home, stay just long enough to get underneath someone he could forget in the morning. The night was still young, after all.

Ray cleared his throat. “How’s Mikes? Haven’t seen him or Pete around for a while.”

Gerard watched the ashes from his cigarette float into the night. “Good,” he said easily. Mikey was always good nowadays; it was one of the few constants in Gerard’s life. “Pete got him an old Atari console at a garage sale, don’t think either of them have seen much daylight since.”

The smile was audible in Ray’s voice. “A 2600? I fucking loved Pitfall.”

Gee shrugged. He hadn’t been over to their place for a few days, for fear that Pete would suggest another grueling attempt at cardio or ask him to lift something heavy repeatedly just for the sake of it. He still felt like the aftermath of a beating after the other day. “Didn’t ask.”

“Hey, let me play you something I’ve been working on.”

Music filled the room. It was different to Ray’s usual work – heavy on programmed drums, synthesizers and falsetto. Aggressively optimistic pop insisting It’s gonna get better, it’s gonna work out, give it a minute, it’s gonna turn around. “Not bad,” Gerard said. It wasn’t really his thing, but the production was solid. It had Ray’s fingerprints all over it. “Who is it?”

“Patrick Stump, he just moved out here from Chicago. What do you think?”

Gerard listened quietly for a while, taking in the vocal acrobatics, the tempo changes, the rich instrumentation, the blue-eyed soul. Ray must have had a field day producing this. “It’s good, man.”

The music faded out and Ray said, “Look, let’s call it a day.”

Gerard frowned, glancing over his shoulder at Ray. “What? I’ve got another few takes in me. I thought we could go ‘til eight?”

Ray’s mouth twisted a little. “We should probably pick it back up in the morning, though. You really look like you could use some rest.”

Gerard sighed, putting his cigarette out and flicking the butt to the street below. The kids from earlier were making their way down the street with a paper bag of booze each. He reminded himself again that Ray meant well. Mikey, Pete, his folks—they all did. “One last go?”

Ray looked for a moment like he wanted to argue, but instead he nodded mercifully. Gerard needed to get this fucking verse out of the way, or it would eat at him all night. “You got it, buddy.”

In the booth, Gerard shook his hands out and rolled his shoulders before putting his headphones back on. He watched Ray adjust some dials and waited for his nod before closing his eyes and drawing the breath he would need for the first line. He didn’t need to look down at his scribbled lyrics. He knew the words by heart now, knew the ones that were about his brother, the ones that were about pills, and the ones that were about the hollow place in his chest where they used to be.

The first take was a bust. The second was worse. “Another one,” he called into the disappointed silence following the third. He squeezed his eyes shut, thought as hard as he could about meatloaf and video games and falling asleep next to a warm body you still wanted to see in the morning and feeling like things were going to get better—things he wouldn’t ever understand. He knew he’d nailed his fourth take before Ray enthusiastically called, “Yes, Gee Way motherfucker!” over the intercom.

Gerard let out a relieved sigh and turned to grin at Ray and—froze. Frank was standing behind Ray, shouldering a guitar case and looking at Gerard like he was doing something worth looking at. Gerard was suddenly acutely aware of how quiet it actually was inside the soundproof booth. It took him a moment to take the headphones off and crumple the sheet of lyrics in his fist. He’d dump it in a trash can on his way to the subway.

“Killed it,” Ray called cheerfully when he slipped out of the booth. “Awesome work. Hey, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Gerard, this is—”

Frank shifted on his feet, readjusting the strap over his shoulder. “Frank,” he supplied needlessly, as though Gerard would have already forgotten. “We’ve met.”

“At my show last week,” Gerard added. He tightened his hold on the paper in his fist. Maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to fuck one of Ray and Mikey’s friends. “How ya been?”

“Yeah, good.” Frank bit his lip, holding Gerard’s gaze for a fraction longer than what would have been comfortable. Gerard felt his stomach twist with it. Frank turned to hand his guitar over to Ray. “I’ll pick her up again on Monday morning if that’s cool? When do you get in?”

“No problem.” Ray opened a cupboard and wedged Frank’s guitar in between a few other cases. “I’m usually here by nine. Good night?”

Frank rubbed his gloved hands together, like he was trying to warm himself up or keep his hands busy. “Nah, it was slow.”

“Sucks,” Ray said sympathetically, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hey, Christa’s making meatloaf tonight. Wanna come over for dinner and a few beers?”

Frank glanced at Gerard. “Uh,” he muttered, his brow furrowing slightly. “Nah, I’ve got an early job in the morning. And, uh. I don’t wanna impose.”

“No imposition at all, man. We love having you over.” Ray smiled at him, sure and kind. He gave Frank’s shoulder a firm pat and Gerard couldn’t help but notice how Frank flinched slightly at the touch.

Ray was a rare gem, as open and honest as a person could be. He hadn’t ever cared about bond politics, had never believed in the superstitions and old wives' tales. Gerard had always appreciated that about him.

He remembered Frank’s reaction to Gerard offering to shake his hand at the venue last week, how his hand had been clammy and unsure against Gerard’s. He couldn’t help but remember how he’d moaned and writhed in his bed later that night, beautifully responsive against him like he couldn’t get enough of Gerard’s hands

Frank smiled back, tentative and uncertain. It broke Gerard a little. “Thanks. I really can’t, though. Working early.”

“Can’t give this poor meatloaf away,” Gerard joked as he gathered up his satchel and slipped on his coat. “Thanks for your patience today, dude. Give Christa my love.”

“Anytime, man.” Ray hugged him. “Maybe you can come over this weekend? She’d like to see you.”

Gerard nodded firmly and hopefully convincingly. “Definitely.” He chanced a glance at Frank, taking in his soft eyes and bitten lip. “Gotta go.”

He made his way down the stairs and out of the front door, the first lungful of cold air sobering as he made his way up the street. He stopped briefly in front of the liquor store, considering the neon lights advertising tequila and shit beer. It was dangerously tempting, but he knew…

“Want company?”

Gerard whipped his head around to see Frank standing a few feet away, a beanie pulled low over his ears and his jacket buttoned up to his throat. “You look like you’ve had a shit day. Maybe we can empty a bottle of Jack and take your mind off it.”

Gerard swallowed, considering it. The words were harder to say than he expected "I don't drink."

"At all?" Frank was surprised.

"Got clean awhile ago." He tried to shrug it off, like it wasn't a big deal. He wasn't entirely sure he was successful. "I try to stay on the straight and narrow."

"Oh," Frank said, his lips thinning in an awkward approximation of a smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "Sorry, I didn't know. Never mind, then. I guess I'll see you around."

Frank didn't give Gerard a chance to react, just turned away, like he'd been expecting a rejection. Gerard wondered what it must be like, to always assume you'd be turned down. How many times did it take before you gave up on asking for anything?

Gerard hesitated a bit, watching Frank duck his head and head back up the street towards the subway stop. "Frank, wait," Gerard called before he could stop himself. He jogged a few steps to catch up to Frank, who was half-turned toward him, face curiously blank.

"It's important to me," he said, and when it was clear that Frank still didn't understand, "Being sober is important to me, and it's fucking hard to admit that."

Frank's shoulders relaxed, and he pivoted to face Gerard. "Okay." And then, "Thanks for telling me."

Gerard rubbed at the back of his neck. "I could still use the company, though."

—

Frank didn’t even kiss him when Gerard’s front door shut behind them. He slammed them up against the wood so hard that it knocked the air out Gerard’s lungs, his teeth sinking into the tender skin of Gerard’s neck and his fingers quick and greedy on Gerard’s belt buckle.

Before Gerard could even register what was happening, Frank had dropped to his knees in front of him, pulled his jeans halfway down his thighs and swallowed him down his throat.

The sound Frank made when Gerard slipped his fingers into his hair and pulled sounded broken, hopeless, like a sob. Gerard considered pulling him off, asking him to slow down, bringing his mouth in for a kiss, making sure he was alright, but…

He dropped his head back against the wall and let Frank have at it, blinking back inexplicable tears as Frank took him deeper.

—

Gerard sat up against the headboard of his bed, watching Frank pull his clothes back over his pale body. He chewed at his thumbnail, cataloguing the drawings across Frank’s bony back, the red lines where his own nails had dug in just minutes earlier. He heard the echo of Mikey’s voice insisting, be careful with him. The dull purple bruises on his hip and side would suggest someone else hadn’t been.

“You can stay if you want,” he offered before he’d had a chance to process the thought. He never asked people to stay; generally his bed fellows got off and then got out. “I think there’s food for breakfast.”

Frank’s movements faltered momentarily, noticeably, his hands holding on to the hem of his sweater for a few moments longer than necessary. “Nah,” he muttered gruffly, his hair falling into his eyes as he bent over to pull his mismatched socks back on. “Work in the morning.”

“Right, you said. What do you do?”

“Whatever I can get paid for,” Frank said, picking his scarf off the floor and twining it around his neck. He shot Gerard a quick, unreadable glance. “Nothing important.”

Gerard wasn’t stupid; he knew what that blank spot on Frank’s wrist would mean in terms of employment opportunities, not to mention the tattoos. He knew some bondless sold drugs or worked the streets, though Frank didn’t necessarily seem the type to do either. It wasn’t any of his business, either way. “We could do this again, maybe.”

Frank leaned against the doorway, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trashed jeans. His hair was sweat damp and slicked back, his cheeks still pink from the night’s exertions. He’d barely looked Gerard in the eye while they fucked, yet now he held Gerard’s gaze for a long, terrible moment. “I guess we could.”

“Leave your number on the notepad in the kitchen.” Gerard bit his lip, letting the pain of it ground him. “If you want.”

Frank looked down at his mismatched socks. “Maybe.”

Gerard listened to Frank moving around his apartment, stopping for a moment in the kitchen, putting on his shoes, pulling the door shut. Sleep came surprisingly easy after that.

As invisible as you make me feel

The library was always nicest on rainy days, when Frank could bring a sandwich wrapped in tin foil and sit in one of the comfy chairs in the basement with a book open on his lap. He couldn’t always afford to keep the power on in his own home these days, so a warm room with free power outlets and books was a welcome respite from his inhospitable apartment.

Here, curled up in fictional worlds, he could escape to fantasies about a life where people were important to each other, where he could maybe conceivably have been important to someone else.

Sometimes Greta, one of the librarians, would bring him mugs of coffee from the staff kitchen and put aside books she thought he’d like. Neruda and Hemingway and Brontë—books about love and intimacy and connection, guilty pleasure fantasies he knew he wouldn’t ever experience for himself. He’d never fully understood why she was so kind to him, though she’d mentioned her brother once, speaking about him entirely in the past tense.

It wasn’t his place to pry, but he knew a lot of bondless didn’t make it past their adolescence. Frank hadn't let himself become another statistic, partly out of spiteful stubbornness, and partly out of a promise he'd made to his grandpop. His grandpop was long gone, but Frank kept his word.

“Did somebody draw on you?”

Frank looked up to see a little girl watching him curiously from a few feet away. Her long hair was in braids and she had a children’s book clutched in her small hands. He looked down at his own hands, where his shirt sleeves were bunched around his wrist. He couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Yeah,” he said, exposing more of his lower arm to give her a better look. “I guess a bunch of people did.”

The little girl took a careful step towards him, her curiosity apparently overpowering her wariness of strangers. “That one’s a scary drawing.”

He turned his arm around to get a better look. “It’s a little scary, I guess.”

“Mine isn’t scary,” the little girl said, showing him the faint soulmark curling around her wrist and stretching across the heel of her hand.

“Nah,” Frank said, smiling at her. “Your’s is just really cool.”

The little girl hopped onto the armchair beside him, sighing loudly. “Mommy said not to go anywhere, but I got bored. Do you know how to read yet?”

Frank laughed. “Little bit, yeah. Want me to read your book with you for a while?”

The girl grinned, flashing a few missing teeth, and handed over her book. Frank propped it on his knee so she could see the pictures and started reading, pitching his voice low for a dramatic reading.

He was impersonating a dizzy elephant, flapping his arm trunk around and making little Carmen shriek with giggles, when a woman suddenly snatched the girl out of the chair with a firm grip on her elbow. “There you are,” she hissed, glaring briefly at Frank and pulling Carmen against her thigh. She had a younger child on her hip and a bag with diapers and toys slung across her other shoulder. “You know you’re not supposed to talk to strangers, Carm.”

“It’s okay,” Frank said gently. “We were just reading. There’s library staff right over there, she was perfectly safe—”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, uncomprehending. “I’ll be the judge of whether my child is safe or not,” she said, readjusting the toddler on her hip. “Who do you think you are?”

Frank swallowed his reply, shrinking back. She wasn’t that much taller than he was, but she didn’t need much height to look down at him. “Of course,” he said, putting Carmen’s book down on the armchair she had just vacated, as far away from himself as he could manage. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” the woman said, turning to leave. Carmen turned back to reach for her book, stumbling over her own shoes when her mother tried to keep her moving forwards. She crumbled to a heap on the floor, wailing, and her mother hissed, too loudly to be a whisper, “Remember what grandpa taught you about people who are empty inside their souls? Don’t ever do that again, you hear me? Get up.”

Frank felt immediately sick to his stomach, fear and shame coiling tight in his gut. He packed his things as quickly as he could and got out of there, before the woman could alert security or the police or something worse. He left all the books behind.

Keep me from falling apart

Every other Sunday, Gerard and Mikey went home to Jersey.

They rode the subway to Penn Station, then transferred for the ride into Newark. From there, it was a twenty minute trip to the Silver Lake station, where their dad was waiting for them in the same beat-up station wagon that both Gerard and Mikey had learned to drive in.

Mikey spent most of the trip texting on his phone, cursing when the train went underground and cut off his signal. Gerard stared out the window and watched the cityscape roll by, eyes snagged by the bright, bold lines of graffiti. He'd always loved street art.

The rhythmic rocking of the train was soothing, and he slipped into a sort of free-associative zen trance. He wondered if he could manage to paint a mural on his apartment building without getting caught. Something black and white, angular and sharp, with anti-superheroes. He thought about the poetry slam he'd gone to with Ray once, how some of the words had hit with a physical force. He remembered Frank's smile the other night, how there was something cautious about the way his lips curled up, and Gerard wanted to see Frank smile, really smile, uninhibited and wide.

—

As their dad drove them through the familiar neighborhoods of their childhood, Gerard wondered if Frank had a family, one that still loved him in spite of the blank spot on his wrist.

He considered asking Frank about them, the next time Gerard saw him.

He reconsidered quickly. It wasn’t really any of his business.

Sundays had always been for family. When they were younger, Mikey and Gerard had been forced into their nicest clothing and marched off to church. They'd sat in the pew between their grandparents and their parents, trying not to fidget and pull at the ties that were slowly strangling them.

Afterwards, they'd go home, and the men would retire to the den to watch the Giants lose again while the women would retreat to the kitchen and cook.

Mikey had a budding interest in football, but sports bored Gerard, so he would sit on a stool in the corner of the kitchen and watch as the women of his family made a feast and exchanged gossip and shared advice about men, kids, work.

As the day wore on, more and more Ways and Rushes and other relatives, tied by blood or marriage, would show up. There was usually a casserole of some sort clutched in their hands and handed over to Donna. Gerard and some of his cousins would set out plates and silverware on the big dining room table, and the kids' table would be set up in the den.

There would be food and laughter, loud voices and wine, and love. It was like Thanksgiving and Christmas, every weekend, the kids playing in tag in the backyard while the men did the dishes and put away the food.

That all changed, after Gerard's bond died.

There was a line that divided Gerard's life, a chasm that separated before and after. The before had been a beautiful dream, full of happiness and the promise of a bright future, that slowly faded from your memory once you woke.

The after…the after was formless rage and the echoing quiet in his head. It was loneliness and pain and hopelessness. It was emptiness, and more emptiness, and an aching, brutal longing that wouldn’t ever be satisfied.

His grandmother had tried to coax him to church, but Gerard had refused to go. He couldn't believe in a higher power that would let such horrible things happen, and he'd took no comfort in the rituals of the church.

They still had dinners on Sunday, but they became a smaller affair, just close family. Gerard's loss was a painful reminder of how easy it was to lose your bond, how rare it was to survive it, and it made people uncomfortable to see him.

Gerard pretended not to hear the concerned whispers in the kitchen, aunts and cousins and nieces, asking his mother, "How is he, Donna? He looks so thin and pale, it must be difficult for him, so alone…"

Donna, who was fiercely protective of her boys, would hum noncommittally and change the topic of conversation.

It was hard for Gerard, sometimes, to look at his mom. She was growing older, fine lines developing around her mouth and eyes, and he knew that he caused her a lot of sleepless nights and worry. He wished he was a better son to his dad, who didn't understand Gerard, but loved him anyway and just wanted him to be happy.

Mikey had brought Pete home to a Sunday dinner, and their parents had welcomed him like they'd welcomed every one of Mikey's strays over the years. Donna had tutted at Pete's leanness and promised to fatten him up while Don had talked with Pete about football. Pete had held Mikey’s hand under the table, smiled at him like Mikey was the best person he’d ever met.

Gerard had gathered the dirty dishes and carried them into the kitchen. "I got 'em," he had said, waving off his Dad, Mikey, and his cousin Earl. He had been arm deep in soapy water when his mom came in.

"Gerard…"

He hadn’t needed to look at her face, he could hear the worry in her voice. "I know, Ma. I know." Gerard had felt the guilt settling into his belly. It was his fault, even if his mom would never say so aloud. Everything was his fault. "He won't listen to me, swears he won't bond when the time comes."

"He's so young."

Gerard had snorted. "And stubborn."

Donna had wrapped her arm around Gerard's waist, squeezing him. She had laughed, and the sound warmed him. "He gets that from your father." She had rested her head against Gerard's shoulder. "I just want him to be happy."

"Me, too, Ma," Gerard had sighed. "Me, too."

"I like Pete." Donna had lit a cigarette, and sat down at the breakfast nook. "Smart kid, good manners. You dad likes him, too." She had taken a deep drag. "How long have they been together?"

Gerard had shrugged and rinsed off a plate. "Couple months."

"Hmmm," she'd said, and that was the last he'd heard about it.<

She must have said something to Mikey, because he was in a mood for the rest of the evening, thin-lipped and short-tempered. Pete had rubbed at Mikey's arms a couple of times, but he'd just shaken Pete off.

Mikey had ended up skipping the next couple of family dinners, but eventually he came back home and their mother had opened her arms and welcomed him back. Gerard was more careful when he talked to Mikey about Pete, after that.

—

They'd ended up staying up late, talking with their mom, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and listening to old records on their grandpa’s ancient turntable. Mikey seemed unusually jittery, glancing at his phone every few minutes and spacing out.

It had been a long time since he'd slept in the room he'd shared with Mikey growing up, before he'd managed to convince his parents to let him move into the basement. The light slanting in through the window was unfamiliar, and the room smelled stuffy. There was an quality to the silence coming from Mikey's side of the room that made Gerard think that he wasn't the only one still awake.

"You’re feeling something, aren’t you?" he whispered. “Them.”

Mikey didn't say anything, just laid in his bed and breathed softly, until Gerard was sure that Mikey was actually asleep.

They didn’t talk about this. They never talked about this.

"Laughter," Mikey said suddenly into the silence, so quietly that Gerard almost didn't hear him over the normal sounds of the house settling. "Happiness. Love. Louder than usual."

Gerard reached out for Mikey, a lifelong habit, and squeezed his hand.

"I don't want them," Mikey whispered fiercely, wrapping his other hand around his wrist and squeezing tight. "I don't. Whoever they are, they can go to hell."

Gerard frowned. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Mikey sighed. He sounded tired. “I don’t know. Pete’s been acting weird.”

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know. Just weird. Distracted, like maybe it’s been getting louder for him as well. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Huh,” Gerard said non-committally, trying to squash the bad feeling in his gut. They had to both know it was only a matter of time. He pulled the covers over Mikey’s shoulder and tucked him in. “Try to sleep, then.”

I want you, trouble, on the rocks

It was strangely empty in his apartment without his guitar or his library books. It hadn’t really been safe to keep his guitar here for a while; he’d had too many break-ins over the years to store anything valuable in any of the shitholes he’d been able to afford over the years. He could always go back to the library or even to another branch, but just the thought of it made his stomach seize up in a bad way.

The power was still on, but candlelight was cheaper than having the lights on and there was no way he could afford heating this month. He’d been short changed on three out of four jobs this week alone. Money was tight. It always was.

There was an eerie quiet coming from the apartment next door that meant his neighbour was probably emptying a bottle of Everclear and would start taking it out on his wife any minute now. Frank had tried to intervene once; she’d told him to mind his own fucking business and given him a black eye for his trouble. He’d called the cops on them twice, but the cops generally didn’t prioritize incidents in buildings like this. The two of them had the same mark on their wrists, anyway. They belonged together, no matter how bad his drinking and her temper got.

He just hoped she was okay, hoped he wouldn’t have to hear the walls rattle if her lover decided to slam her against them again.

He was shivering under his covers and trying to sleep when his phone buzzed unexpectedly with a text. Gerard. want to hang out? pizza, netflix, etc.

Fuck. Frank rolled onto his back and stared at the paint peeling off the ceiling. His stomach growled at the thought of pizza, but he couldn’t really afford to spend money on takeout and unnecessary subway trips. can’t, have work early.

crash at mine, you can shower here.

It was tempting, too tempting. Frank was trying really hard to keep from getting too invested, and it wasn't working. He couldn’t really handle fucking someone this kind without getting attached, couldn’t handle the heartbreak when they inevitably pushed him away. Gerard had made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t interested in any strings, not that Frank would know what to do with strings if any were on offer. i’m vegetarian and can’t eat gluten or dairy, i’m no fun to share pizza with.

not really why I’m asking you to come over.

Right. Of course. Frank sat up, pushing his sheets off of his knees. He was so tired; it was so cold. He wasn’t really in a position to turn down a hot shower and a chance to sleep on clean sheets beside a warm body. Getting fucked by Gerard was just a bonus.

If his treacherous heart did a twisty thing at the idea of seeing Gerard again, then that was neither here nor there. give me 30mins.

He was halfway to the subway stop when his phone buzzed again. can you eat this?

Gerard had probably sent him a picture message with that text, but Frank’s phone was an ancient piece of shit brick conceived of before sending picture messages were even a thing. get whatever you want, don’t worry about me, not really hungry.

Not really in a position to afford pizza, more like, but Gerard didn’t need to know that.

When he got to Gerard’s apartment, it was warm and quiet and the coffee was already brewing in the pot on the counter. There were two pizzas stacked in boxes on the coffee table, both gluten free and vegan. Frank tried to give him money, but Gerard insisted he’d had a coupon and wouldn’t take a dime.

They watched a superhero movie, Gerard’s thigh warm and solid and distracting against Frank’s under the blanket Gerard pulled over them.

When it was over, they talked about the movie, and Frank got a long, involved history of the particular characters from the movie, why they were important, and the context of their original creation.

Frank was amazed at how much Gerard knew about comics, and something must of shown on his face, because Gerard stuttered to a stop in the middle of his explanation of Jean Grey's transformation into the Dark Phoenix, and a blush crept up his cheeks. "Sorry. I went to art school for comics," he mumbled. "Sometimes I babble about things no one cares about."

"No," Frank said, sharper than he meant. "No," he repeated, softer. "I like it when you talk about the things you love. You kinda—" Frank made a hand motion that meant nothing and everything all at the same time. "You light up," he finally said.

"Oh." Gerard looked surprised, and Frank couldn't help himself, he leaned in and kissed the look off of Gerard's face.

Later, they fucked side-by-side, Gerard spooned up behind him, holding him tight with an arm around Frank's chest. He used his mouth on Frank's neck, nipping at the tattoos etched into his skin and sending hot shivers through his body.

There was the added bonus that Gerard was able to fondle Frank's cock, play with his balls, pinch his nipples, until Frank was a writhing, sweating mess in his arms. It was too much, and at the same time, not anywhere near enough.

Frank was too tired to stop himself from pretending it could mean something, that Gerard wanted him in his bed and not just any willing body.

Once the sweat had cooled and their pulses had slowed, when Gerard was offering him pajamas to sleep in and looking horribly unsure about it all, Frank realized he couldn’t bring himself to stay the night. He’d already taken more than he deserved, already let himself get too comfortable in Gerard’s space.

"You sure? It's no problem, and I'd—it'd be…nice."

That was the issue. Frank couldn't afford nice. "Thanks, but it'll be better if I just go."

"Okay," Gerard said softly. "Listen." He leaned over and reached for his jeans, tossed carelessly on the floor. He dug through the pockets and pulled out his wallet. "I found this MetroCard the other day, it's still got some value left on it." He held out the yellow card to Frank. "Mine auto-fills from my bank, so—" He shrugged. "Figured you could use it."

Frank hesitated, thinking of how a few extra transit fares could make the difference between working a job and not. "Thanks," he said. He didn't know what else to say.

"You're welcome." Gerard watched with dark eyes as Frank finished pulling on his clothes.

"See you around," he said, forcing one foot in front of the other until he was outside in the cold New York night.

If Gerard had looked disappointed when Frank bolted, it had to be a trick of the light.

—

When Ray had invited him out to see a gig in the Lower East Side a few days later, Frank hadn’t paid all that much attention to the specifics. He’d gotten lucky enough to score a few days’ work at a construction site, and he’d gotten enough of a payday that he could afford to let off some steam and drink a few beers. It wasn’t until they were standing outside of Pianos, however, looking up at the poster by the entrance, that Frank fully appreciated where his evening had ended up.

“Oh,” he’d said, scuffing the toe of his sneakers against the wet pavement. “Gerard’s playing.”

Ray gave an odd sort of frown. “Not into it?”

“Uh,” Frank said awkwardly. He wondered how much Ray knew, if Gerard would have told him anything, if Frank was meant to keep his mouth shut. On second thought, of course Frank was meant to keep his mouth shut. No strings, after all. “I don’t know if he’d…uh. I just didn’t realize, is all. Is Mikey here as well?”

Ray grinned, giving their names to the bouncer by the door. “Mikey’s always there when Gee plays. I think my friend Patrick might show up as well, you’ll like him.”

Their drinks were comped again, which was good news for both Frank’s nerves and wallet. Mikey gave Frank an easy hug, pressed a beer into his hand and introduced him properly to his boyfriend. Pete hesitated for the briefest of moments before shaking Frank’s hand, but his grip was firm and his smile sure. Halfie, Frank thought again. No matter how many half-assed PSAs the government aired on TV, there were always going to be people who felt uneasy or just flat out refused to touch him. He couldn’t blame Pete for hesitating.

He’d gotten so used to not being touched unless he was in a stranger’s bed, begging for it from someone who wouldn’t look him in the eye, that he didn’t really know what to do with all these casual, friendly touches. Between Gerard, Ray, Mikey and now Pete, it was…strange. Nice. What normal people experienced, maybe.

Frank glanced at the stage as the techs set up, wondering what Gerard would make of him being here without warning or invitation. He slunk back against a pillar with Ray, staying out of people’s way, hopefully too far back for Gerard to spot him past the glare of the stage lights.

He thought about leaving. He thought about staying.

Fuck, he couldn’t stop thinking about staying.

This wasn’t going to end well. It couldn’t.

Ray nudged him with his elbow. “You cool?”

“Yeah,” Frank said a little too quickly, glancing around for Mikey. He found him standing slightly out of earshot, his head bowed close to Pete’s like they were trying to carry a private conversation over the noise of the club. Mikey’s eyelids fluttered shut as Pete cupped his face and pressed their foreheads together. Frank couldn’t help but feel like he was intruding on something private. “Tired. Long day.”

“I hear ya,” Ray said, his eyes fixed on the stage, seemingly oblivious to whatever was going on between Pete and Mikey. “Is that what I think it is?"

Frank squinted at the stage, looking whatever had caught Ray’s attention. He didn’t really know much about instruments beyond guitars, basses and drums, but he supposed it did resemble a scaled-down tuba. He took a sip of his beer. “A baby tuba?”

"It’s a euphonium,” Ray mused appreciatively. “Common mistake."

Frank was silent for a moment, watching Gerard’s band take the stage. "He really is the most ridiculous man."

"Yeah," Ray agreed fondly. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Frank couldn’t help but wish he knew the half of it, and the whole of it, and that he could get a chance to learn everything there was to know about Gerard. It was dangerous, reckless, this…wanting.

The house lights had just dimmed when Mikey made his way over, sans Pete. Ray frowned at him. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah.” Mikey shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink. “He’s just had the worst headache all day, been all jittery and out of it and weird. He’s just gonna go home and lie down for a little while.”

Something about Mikey’s tone made Frank suspect there was more going on than that, but it wasn’t really his place to pry. His concerns vanished the instant Gerard took the stage, striding confidently up to the microphone and muttering darkly, “Evening, my darlings.” He looked around the room for a long moment, his gaze softening strangely when it landed on him, Ray, and Mikey. “We’re Gerard Way and the Disasters. Thanks for coming out to see us. Let’s fuck some shit up.”

Frank hugged his arms against his chest, because there, scribbled in black Sharpie against Gerard’s pale neck, was the word STAY.

It took his breath away, that single, simple word. It was a glimpse of a wondrous, colorful world after a lifetime of being in the dark. It was hope. Every atom and molecule of Frank's being yearned for the light and the warmth offered by the idea of staying.

It couldn't be real. It couldn't be for him.

Frank took a shuddering breath and staggered a little, off balance in the crowd of bodies. He bit his lip, as hard as he could, using the pain to draw his heart away from the stupid flight of fancy he'd briefly indulged it in.

"So fucking dumb," he muttered, unheard in the music as the band ripped into their first song. He could feel the blush staining his cheeks as he chided himself for stupidly putting so much meaning into a word that Gerard probably chose at random.

It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything.

They were three songs in when Frank turned to Ray. "Is…is he singing about vampires?"

"Yes," Mikey shouted back, waving a hand dismissively. "It's a metaphor."

"For what?" Frank was totally confused.

Ray shrugged, looking about as confused as Frank felt. "Fuck knows."

The set was different than the last show; Frank wasn't sure he'd heard any of these songs before.

"I want to thank all of you for coming out tonight," Gerard said, leaning against the mic stand, guitar slung behind him. "It's cold as fuck outside, and raining, and I really appreciate you leaving your toasty warm apartments to come see us play these songs." He nodded as the room erupted into whistles and applause.

"And I want to take a moment to introduce you to the Disasters, because they are really amazing musicians. I usually don't know what songs I'm gonna be in the mood to play until I actually get up here, and somehow they still roll with it."

Frank was fucking dumbfounded at the idea, because that meant that the Disasters had to know all of the songs that Gerard might play before the show. Know them cold. Plus, Gerard had mentioned that most of them had their own bands as well.

That was a class of musicianship well beyond Frank's level of noodling and playing the Ramones on a subway platform.

Gerard twisted his body to left and held out an arm to indicate the guitar player, a tall, lean woman with long hair. "Give a round of applause to the goddess of guitars, Laura Jane!" He swiveled in the other direction. "And my friend Jepha on bass." Jepha said something inaudible to Gerard, and made an obscene gesture, which made Gerard laugh, shaking his head ruefully.

"Behind me is Patrick, the newest member of the Disasters and one hella talented musician. He's from the Windy City, and his new album's coming soon, so keep an eye out for that—" There was a quick conference with the drummer, then, "—on the 29th. It's going to be amazing."

Frank elbowed Ray, because he knew how hard Ray had been working on Patrick's album.

"And last, but certainly not least, we have my friend James on, what is that thing called again? A euphobium—? Right, a euphonium." Gerard waved his hand around. "Whatever. James' new toy. Never heard of it before, I think it's a marching band thing, but he seems to be making it work for him."

James, a stocky guy with dark, sweat-stringy hair and a big smile, grabbed Gerard and smothered him in a hug, planting a smacking kiss on his cheek. "All right, all right, back to work, James." Gerard pushed the hair off his face and looked out into the audience. "This one is about finding something, or maybe someone, to believe in." He swung his guitar into his arms and counted the band in.

He met Frank’s eyes, found him easy as anything where he was slumped against that pillar, and Frank felt it everywhere.

—

“And this one?”

Frank tilted his head to the side on the pillow, following Gerard’s curious eyes and roaming hands between his naked legs. He dropped one knee to the side, giving Gerard a better view of the ink on his right calf. “Don’t remember, I was drunk.”

Gerard’s eyes narrowed like he could see straight through him. “You don’t remember?”

Frank felt a reckless impulse to come clean, to explain exactly what that tattoo meant to him and to make Gerard understand. But that would mean baring more of himself than he already had, and he already felt rubbed raw as it was. “Drunk,” he repeated instead, reaching across the bed to put his cigarette out in the ashtray on Gerard’s bedside table. “Tequila, I think. It’s a few years old.”

He checked the time on Gerard’s alarm clock. If he left soon, he could still get a couple of hours of sleep before he needed to be at the construction yard in the morning. It had finally stopped raining, from what he could tell. He might even be able to make it home without catching bronchitis.

Gerard was still looking at him when he lay back down, one hand drawing circles against the inside of Frank’s thigh. It wasn’t really sexual, but it wasn’t necessarily not-sexual either. It was…something Frank didn’t have words for, didn’t really know what to do with.

Too dangerous, this. Staying, the word smudged on Gerard’s neck, the reckless hope that it might mean something if he did.

There had been a sketchbook open on Gerard’s nightstand when Frank had reached for cigarettes after the first time they’d fucked tonight—the arch of an eyebrow, the curve of a mouth, an eye, dark hair. Frank had been pretty sure it was of a girl, but it had been hard to tell. Gerard had mentioned going to art school, but this was something more than just doodling.

He’d traced the outline of a cheek. “Who’s this?”

Gerard’s mouth had tightened; he’d looked away for a moment and swallowed hard. “My bond.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Frank had shut the sketchbook and slipped a cigarette between his lips, his fingers hesitating on the lighter. He’d remembered what this was. No strings, no expectations, no nothing. Gerard belonged to someone else.

“Should go,” Frank said, sitting up and dislodging Gerard’s hand from between his legs. He’d gotten too warm and too comfortable in Gerard’s bed; it was hell to force himself out. “Have an early job in the morning.”

“Stay,” Gerard countered, frowning. “You can borrow clothes for tomorrow morning. It’s cold as shit out there.”

Frank hesitated for a long, horrible moment. He wanted to. Badly.

That was the problem.

Frank didn’t even have time to say anything before the front door opened with a hard shove and a jangle of keys. Gerard frowned, glanced at the alarm clock and crawled hastily out of bed. He threw on the first clothes he picked off the floor. “Mikey’s the only one with a key. He usually calls first, though. Stay here.”

Frank wrapped his arms around himself and stayed put. Of course Gerard wouldn’t want Mikey to know he was here. He’d been enough people’s dirty little secret to know better than that. Stupid, stupid, stupid to even consider otherwise.

He dressed in silence and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting.

—

Mikey hadn’t turned any of the lights on, but Gerard could sense straight away that something was wrong. Mikey was slumped against the front door, pulling ineffectually at the laces of his leather boots and sniffling like he had a cold.

“Mikey?” Gerard approached him carefully. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” Mikey croaked, wiping at his nose and eyes. His hair was sticking to his scalp and his glasses were fogged over. “It’s been fucking raining, there are puddles everywhere.”

“Why are—”

The words died on his tongue when he noticed the bags. A backpack, two duffel bags, and a canvas bag full of what looked like hastily packed clothes and toiletries and power cords. He didn’t really need Mikey to explain what had happened. It had only been a matter of time. “Pete,” Gerard said, hoping against hope that he was wrong. “Just now?”

“Yeah,” Mikey grumbled, kicking out in irritation when he couldn’t unlace his left boot. He sniffled wetly and Gerard sunk to his knees in front of him to help him. Mikey dropped his head back against the door and sighed loudly. “Pete turned around halfway home, came back to the club. Ran into Patrick after the gig, who conveniently fucking enough turns out to be his soulmate.”

Gerard reached for him as soon as the boots were off, arms unable to be anywhere but around him. He pressed his face against Mikey’s cold, wet cheek, holding him close. “I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever.” Mikey’s voice was low, husky and barely controlled. He felt chilled and stiff in Gerard’s arms, but at least he wasn’t pushing Gerard away. “He says he can’t feel it anymore, like we were something that happened to someone else or like he saw us in a movie. Says he’s not in love with me anymore, was never in love with me the way he’s in love with Patrick. It’s fucking bullshit, he doesn’t know him from a bar of soap. It’s like he’s lost his fucking mind.”

“Mikes,” Gerard pleaded, wanting desperately to lessen Mikey’s hurt and the way that hurt ricocheted through himself. “It’s not in his control.”

Mikey pushed at his shoulder and gave him an injured look. “Not in his control? He fucked Patrick without a condom, without asking me first, without my fucking consent. He cheated on me.”

Gerard knew that trying to reason with Mikey wouldn’t do either of them any good. He helped him out of his wet leather jacket and pulled him close again. “I’m sorry.”

And he was. He'd known that this was going to end badly, from the very beginning. He still remembered how it had felt, for that one brief moment, to belong to someone so completely. To find the missing piece that would make sense of everything in the end. To finally stop longing and hurting and wanting for one, heartbreaking moment. "I'm so sorry, Mikey."

He'd tried to talk sense into Mikey, to dissuade him from this rebellion that he'd been so insistent upon. Now, he had to wonder if he tried hard enough, because if he was brutally honest with himself, he could see how selfish he'd been in wanting Mikey by his side in solidarity.

Mikey shook him off. “I kissed him when he came home. Forced him to kiss me, and I touched him and he just—wouldn’t. Couldn’t, apparently. Can’t feel anything like that for me anymore.”

“That’s how it happens, Mikes.”

“That’s not how it was meant to happen for us. We made a pact, me and him ‘til the fucking end. We’d make room for other people if they came along, but we came first. And then he came home tonight, stinking of sweat and still sex-drunk from that asshole’s bed, and he was, like, ‘really fucking sorry,’ but we were over. I never knew I could hate anyone this much.”

There were things Gerard could say, of course. You’re just upset. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’ll understand when you meet yours. The words stuck in his throat, choking him. They weren't things that Mikey would want to hear.

Instead, he brushed Mikey’s wet bangs out of his face and said, “Have a shower to warm up. You can stay for as long as you want. It’s gonna be okay.” The lie came easier than he thought it would.

Mikey looked mutinous, but he let himself be led into the bathroom. Gerard turned the shower on and laid out a towel for him as he peeled off his wet clothes. “I’ll make some coffee,” he promised before he shut the door behind himself.

“Oh,” he said when he caught Frank quickly lacing up his boots by the front door. “You’re leaving.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, without meeting his eyes. “Sorry, I overheard. I’ve been on the receiving end of that a few times. It’s rough.”

Gerard let out a sigh. “It’s four in the morning. It’s freezing. Stay.”

Frank shrugged his parka on, undeterred. “It’s fine. Go be with your brother. You don’t want me around for that.”

Gerard sighed. “Frank, you don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” Frank repeated, like he actually believed it was, but it was four in the morning and pissing down and—

Frank made to leave, but Gerard couldn’t just—he pressed him bodily against the door to kiss him hard, slow, fierce, trying to convince him to stay.

Frank looked at him curiously when they parted, eyes wide and searching, before something visibly shifted in him. He squeezed Gerard’s forearm and stepped out of his reach. “Your brother needs you.”

The lump in Gerard’s throat felt too much like but I need you. He swallowed it back down.

There was a moment between Frank’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway and the water turning off in the bathroom, where Gerard thought, Fuck. Everything is all wrong.

Then he listened to the shower curtain being pulled aside, to the lid of the toilet seat slamming down and to Mikey’s hitching breaths coming suddenly from the other side of a locked bathroom door. Gerard hadn’t seen him cry since they were teenagers, since one of the first few times Gerard had woken up in a hospital ward after swallowing a bottle of pills. He didn’t think he could bear to see it again, but the thought of Mikey hurting on his own was worse.

It was only then that he realized he was gripping the place on his forearm that Frank had squeezed, that the wool bunched in his hand was Frank’s sweater, and that everything was wrong in more ways than Gerard knew what to do with.

You can make it worse

Mikey settled easily into a pattern of sleeping all day and sitting up all night, eating everything in Gerard’s fridge and staring at the wall for long, uninterrupted periods of time while listening to heavy metal. He wouldn’t cry in front of Gerard, but the balled up Kleenex piled on the coffee table after each of Mikey’s sleepless nights told Gerard everything he needed to know. He barely went to work, calling in sick more often than not. He left dirty plates all over the apartment, refused to shower and never changed the toilet paper roll after he’d finished the last of it.

He was the worst house guest Gerard had ever had. He would’ve kept him forever, regardless.

“Maybe you should get some fresh air,” Gerard suggested the fifth night Mikey curled up on his couch with a box of cereal, a bag of Doritos and a gallon of soda. “Go see some friends or something.”

“No,” Mikey said simply, queuing up another episode of The Walking Dead. He pulled his blanket closer and stared resolutely at the screen. It had been less than a week since he’d broken up with Pete, and somehow he’d already made it through to season five of the show.

Gerard looked away from another heated debate on screen. It seemed like all they fucking did on this show was argue about governance and walk aimlessly around looking for new groups of people to argue with. “Have you talked to him?”

“No,” Mikey muttered. “Nothing to say. He can get fucked and die for all I care.”

“Okay, then,” Gerard sighed, getting off the couch the main guy delved into another pompous monologue about the miserable state of things. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“We need more cereal,” Mikey called after him. “And milk!”

Gerard rolled his eyes and shut the door behind him. He curled up in bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to tune out the sounds of people getting their faces eaten off in the living room. He had a text from Frank he hadn’t responded to, just a hope your brother’s ok that he didn’t really know what to do with.

He couldn’t exactly say, he’s not and I’m not, either.

He couldn’t exactly say, I thought you’d stay, and you didn’t.

He couldn’t exactly say, come back. please.

So he didn’t say anything.

—

After six consecutive days of moping, Gerard declared a state of emergency and brought in reinforcements. Gabe forced Mikey into a shower, Ray poured him a beer and Travie turned on some trashy techno music to get them him pumped for social interaction and fresh air. Frank gave Gerard a strange wave from the doorway when he walked in with Ray.

The club was packed when they got there, a poorly ventilated basement that was damp and smoke-filled and smelled vaguely of armpit. Gabe tilted a few well-meaning shots of tequila into Mikey’s mouth and Ray dragged him enthusiastically into the mosh pit. The show was forgettable, some punk band with unintelligible lyrics and aggressive guitar riffs, but for one moment Gerard caught Mikey actually grinning like he’d momentarily gotten away from the dark cloud he’d been hunched under for the last week.

Frank stayed close, but never too close, bumping his elbow against Gerard by accident and laughing at Ray’s jokes right next to Gerard’s ear. It was maddening, how much Gerard wanted to reach for him, how much he wanted to hold his sweating face and kiss his open mouth.

He seized his opportunity when Ray and Gabe took a fuzzy-drunk Mikey to get more drinks and the two of them found themselves alone in the mosh pit.

He kissed him hard, greedily, in front of people, and for the first time not just as a prelude to fucking. Frank resisted at first, but Gerard wouldn’t let him, and then Frank wrapped his arms around Gerard’s neck and kissed him back, and they were still in the middle of the pit and bodies were moving all around them and Gerard took an elbow to the ribs and someone shoved them to the side, but he didn’t let go because he couldn’t, not now, not when the world felt like this, not when Frank was warm and alive in his arms, not when everything felt this good and perfect and painless.

The song ended, giving way to an intense, drawn out moment where they just looked at each other. Frank licked his lips and glanced nervously around the room, like he was worried they’d be seen. Gerard leaned in again to mash his lips against Frank’s, not caring who saw, and Frank relaxed against him and wrapped his arms low around Gerard’s waist to pull him closer. It didn’t take long for Gerard to think they’d find a bathroom stall or something, because he’d missed him, missed his soft mouth and his beautiful hands and the way he smelled.

“Come home with me,” Gerard said against his mouth. “Stay the night. Don’t leave after.”

Frank let out a shaky breath. “Fuck, Gee.”

Both of their pockets vibrated at once then, buzzing where they were pressed up against each other. Gerard hesitated before checking it, reluctant to let go of Frank. It was a text from Ray, Pete’s here, Mikey bolted, and then everything else would have to wait because Mikey. Gerard caught Pete’s eye on his way out, saw him wrapped around Patrick like he’d once fit around Mikey. He’d known Pete for years, thought of him as something like family, and now he couldn’t help but hate him for what he’d done to Mikey. Even if it wasn’t his fault, even if he hadn’t meant to hurt him.

Mikey was waiting outside, down the street, fucking around on his phone and seemingly ignoring a concerned-looking Ray beside him. Slumped against the wall, drunk and upset, Mikey looked more miserable than ever.

“Mikes,” Gerard called, forcing his way through the crowd of people smoking outside to get closer. “You okay?”

Mikey glanced up at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, a little wet, a lot angry. He was swaying a little, seemingly drunker than Gerard had thought he’d been. “Fucking fine. Wanna go home.”

“I’ll get a cab,” Ray said, stepping to the curb.

They didn’t have to wait for long, and once Ray and Gerard had poured Mikey into the backseat, Gerard held the door open for Frank.

Frank bit his lip, glancing between Gerard and the cab. He gave a small, strange shake of his head. “I don’t live that far from here,” he said. “I don’t mind walking.”

Gerard took a step closer, lowering his voice so Ray and Mikey wouldn’t hear him beg for it. “I asked you to come home with me, didn’t I?”

Frank took a cautious step back, shaking his head. “I forgot I gotta get up early. Work. It’s fine, I live pretty close.”

Frank had never said where he lived or what he did for a living that meant he had to get up so early. Gerard wondered, not for the first time, if Frank was lying to him. “You can crash at mine,” he said desperately. “We can just sleep.”

“Nah,” Frank said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He took another few steps backwards, increasing the distance between them. “You go, look after your brother. Gotta get up early, you know how it is.”

Gerard watched Frank in the rear view mirror as they drove off, watched him pull his scarf closer and make his way up the street. He wrapped his arm around Mikey and held on.

—

If Mikey was going to eat everything in Gerard's fridge and pantry, Gerard reasoned, Mikey was damn well going to come to the supermarket to help him restock. It took some convincing to tear Mikey away from the brain-numbing TV he'd been glued to for weeks, to get Mikey off the couch and into a shower (the irony of which was not lost on Gerard). He got dressed in the same ratty track pants and hoodie he'd been wearing for the last three days, but Gerard decided to pick his battles. Mikey had been patient with him throughout every low moment he'd ever had, he owed him the same in return.

Mikey dawdled behind Gerard once they got there, barely engaging in the small talk Gerard was valiantly trying to keep up. He still didn't want to talk about Pete or the boxes he still had to collect from their apartment, but the amount of carbs and saturated fats he'd dumped into the shopping cart so far had said everything Gerard needed to hear.

"We should go out for dinner tonight," Gerard suggested as he watched Mikey dump a sixth box of sugary cereal into the cart. "Sushi. We can invite Ray and Worm and Gabe."

"Maybe," Mikey said idly. "We got food, can we go now?"

Gerard couldn't believe he was the one to say this to Mikey, but, "I need to buy actual food. Something that was alive at one point or that grew in actual soil. Maybe something vegetable in nature."

"Cereal is basically corn," Mikey huffed. "It's a vegetable, grew in the dirt, and was alive. C'mon, I don't want to miss Cake Boss."

"Just five more minutes," Gerard sighed heavily, pushing his cart around the corner and catching sight of gluten-free bread in the shelves to his left. He picked up a loaf, wondering whether Frank would make it mean anything if Gerard put two slices on a plate for him one morning. Not that Frank had ever actually stayed long enough to eat breakfast, but maybe he would sometime soon. The thought made something like terror swoop in his stomach and he resolutely put the bread back on the shelf. It probably wasn't the right time to complicate things.

He threw a loaf of ordinary white bread into the cart and turned back to Mikey, frowning immediately at the look of him. He was frozen in place, staring fixedly ahead at something down the aisle. His fists were clenched, the veins and tendons in his forearm bulging with the force of it. Gerard's blood froze. "Mikes, what—?"

And then he saw her, the girl standing halfway down the aisle, eyes wide and body frozen like a deer caught in headlights. She had one hand clasped over her mouth, her eyes bright as stars as they looked at Mikey in utter, naked shock. Gerard leaned against the shelf of bread, watching them watch each other.

There was a gaping hole where his happiness for Mikey should be.

Mikey's boots squeaked against the linoleum as he moved towards her, and then his hands were on her face and her hands were on his wrists and their mouths were brushing. Gerard couldn't feel anything but empty, betrayed and viciously jealous, an old haunting grief welling up in his own chest at the sight of Mikey fitting himself against this perfect person who was fated to be his.

He walked out of the supermarket to give Mikey some privacy and to give himself some breathing room. He considered calling someone. He brought up Frank's contact in his phone, his thumb hovering over his name, before he turned it off and lit a cigarette instead. Of everyone in his life, Frank might be the only person who could feasibly understand what this felt like. But no, Frank was the guy that he fucked behind closed doors, who wouldn’t even get into a taxi with him at the end of the night, not someone he dumped his problems on.

He'd stay here and smoke until Mikey surfaced from whatever soulbonded bliss he'd abandoned himself to, and then he'd pay for their groceries and sneak off to get a drink, some pills or powder, anything to get him out of his fucking head, to stop this howling anger inside himself from swallowing him up altogether.

Mikey had been the one last thing in his life that made sense, that always had his back, that understood. His stomach turned at the thought of losing Mikey to someone else, even if she was his bond.

Maybe he’d go home and sleep at his mom’s tonight. Maybe he’d leave without waiting for Mikey. Maybe he’d take himself for a walk on the Williamsburg Bridge. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fuck.

On this night and in this light

A catch in Gerard’s breath interrupted Frank’s dozing. He propped himself up on one elbow and palmed Gerard’s turned shoulder. “Are you gonna throw up again?” he whispered, ready to reach for the trash can by the bed at the first indication of retching.

Gerard rolled heavily onto his back, squinting up at him in obvious confusion. His eyes were still glassy, words still slurred, but he didn’t look as fucked up as he had the last time he’d woken up. “Frank?”

Frank nodded. “Do you want more water?”

Gerard shook his head a little, his eyes darting around the room. “Where the fuck are we?”

“My place,” Frank said again, reaching past Gerard for the glass of water. He’d lost count of how many times Gerard had woken up already, spaced out and disoriented and distressed and rambling. “You’re okay, it’s okay. Here, drink some more.”

Gerard took another sip of water, coughing when it went down the wrong way. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at his head, lying back down on Frank’s pillow. “Promise you won’t tell Mikey I finally did it.”

A chill went through Frank, all the way into his bones, colder still than the frozen air in the room. He pulled the blankets closer, tucked Gerard in and wrapped his arms around him again. “You didn’t do it,” he said. “You called me and I came to get you and you didn’t do it. You’re okay. Try to sleep.”

Gerard let out a shaky breath, a scared little thing. He found Frank’s hand on his belly and wrapped his own around it. “Stay with me.”

Frank swallowed thickly. “Just try to go back to sleep, please.”

—

When he woke up again, Gerard took a moment to look around the tiny space. He was lying on a mattress on the floor in the corner of a small, dark room. The building was in bad shape, shattered bricks and cracks in the wooden floors, a cracked window held together by duct tape. It looked like a squat, like a place he would’ve bought heroin when he was younger, except it was clean and didn’t stink of rotting garbage and unwashed bodies. The few things in the room were in neat, orderly piles. Three wooden crates stacked on top of each other held books and clothes. On the floor beside him there was an old metal trash can and a glass of water perched on a cigar box. A small space heater was buzzing by his feet, but it was still cold as shit.

Frank’s place.

He sat up, rubbing his aching head and trying to piece together the night before. His memory was patchy at best, neon lights and raised voices and pills on his tongue, city lights glinting off the water below the Williamsburg Bridge as he climbed onto the side of it, a phone call he shouldn’t have made, strong arms around him as he said everything he hadn’t meant to say, fingertips against his scalp as he drifted in and out of sleep.

His mouth tasted like something had died in it, so the glass of water was something of a miracle. He drank, and tried to ignore the way his head was pounding in time with his heartbeat.

The cigar box under the glass was yellow, with the familiar Hav-a-Tampa Art Deco seal emblazoned across the top. Gerard had seen cigar boxes exactly like this before; his grandfather had occasionally smoked that brand of cigars after family dinners, exiled to the backyard because Gerard's grandma had hated the smell.

As teens, Gerard and Mikey had snagged the empty boxes, because they had made great places to hide stuff in: Mikey's baseball cards, a spare leather wrist cuff, and the cash he'd made from illicit bootleg DVD sales; Gerard's stash of E, a couple of drawing pencils, and his fake ID.

Gerard wondered what Frank kept in his box, knowing he shouldn't look, but giving into his curiosity, flipping up the lid.

It was a jumble of items, and Gerard's fingers sifted through the contents carefully. There was a picture of a handsome couple holding a swaddled infant between them; their clothes were embarrassingly out of style, so Gerard guessed they were Frank's parents. Their faces were unsmiling and serious, but they stood close and had their arms protectively around the baby. There was another picture of a tow-headed toddler with an older couple, probably Frank's grandparents. Gerard looked closer at the picture and realized that Frank had his grandfather's eyes.

There were other remnants of Frank's childhood: a token to an arcade at Point Pleasant Beach, a miniature plastic Statue of Liberty, a faded ticket from Action Park. Gerard had to choke back a laugh at that, because he remembered that Mikey had broken his arm on the Tarzan Swing at Action Park, one of the many, many kids injured at the notoriously dangerous park.

There was a tattered notebook filled with scribbles too hard to decipher with a hangover, and between the pages was a photograph of Frank as a teen standing with…the Misfits? Another photograph was tucked into the pages further back, Frank standing next to an old man sitting behind a drum kit. His grandfather, Gerard deduced, after re-examining the picture of toddler Frank.

There were random other things, like business cards from tattoo parlors across the city, some glass marbles, a menu from a pizza place, and a blank postcard with scenes of Trenton on the front.

Gerard had family down in Trenton, an uncle, a couple of second cousins; he wondered if Frank had relatives down south, too.

Buried at the bottom of the box was Gerard's latest CD. When he opened the jewel case to look inside, something fluttered to the floor. It was a thin paper napkin, crumpled then smoothed flat, the logo of the venue that he'd first met Frank stamped on the napkin. "Huh."

Gerard put everything back in the box, and closed it. He wished he knew what significance these mementos had to Frank. He wanted to know everything because in truth, he knew almost nothing.

"Like a little mouse," he murmured to himself. Hoarding his secrets, scurrying away to hide. The thought made something settle in his chest, heavy and grey and aching.

He should leave before Frank got back from wherever he’d gone, before he threw up again, before he had to face him. His phone was dead beside the mattress, on top of a tattered book of poems. He opened the book to a dog-eared page, read We have both known loss like the sharp edge of a knife and This is how we heal. I will kiss you like forgiveness. You will hold me like I’m hope.

He really, really should leave. Frank had made it perfectly clear he didn’t even want to spend the night at Gerard’s place, much less press promises between them like flowers in a book.

The door opened suddenly, and Gerard scrambled to shove the book under the pillow and get out of bed, knocking the empty glass over by accident.

Frank’s eyes flitted between Gerard’s flushed face and the glass rolling on the battered floorboards. “You’re up.”

Gerard nodded, rubbing his biceps in a feeble attempt to warm up or soothe himself. He was wearing a sweater of Frank’s on top of his clothes from last night. There were three or four blankets on the bed, but his nose was still frozen. He tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “I don’t really remember anything,” he lied.

Frank shrugged, turning his back to Gerard to start assembling sandwiches on the small kitchenette against the other wall. He’d gotten milk and bread and cheese and other things that Gerard knew he couldn’t eat. “You were pretty out of it when you called.”

“Did you…uh.” Gerard scratched the back of his neck, wincing at the thought of what might have happened during the blank spots in his memory. He watched Frank work, watched him slice a tomato and spread the pieces across two pieces of bread.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” Frank said lightly, covering the tomatoes with slices of cheese.

Gerard swallowed guiltily. Fuck, there were so many blank spots in his memory. He hoped he hadn’t drunk dialed Mikey or Ray or anyone else that would worry. He hoped he hadn’t actually said any of the fucked up things he half-remembered whispering into Frank’s shoulder. “I don’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Gerard held tight to the counter of the kitchenette, hating himself, how weak he was. "I don't drink because when I do I lose control; it makes me more suicidal."

The knife fell from Frank’s hand, clattering loudly against the plate below. He barked out a laugh, breathless and dark. “Jesus fucking Christ. More suicidal?”

“Terminated bond," Gerard shrugged. "Suicide rates are high, if we manage to survive the severed bond.” The words were indifferent, but he couldn't make himself meet Frank's eyes. He was fighting every impulse he had to wrap himself around Frank and apologize, or beg, or kiss him, or cling. “It’s fine, I'll go back to my therapist. It’s not the first time.”

Frank’s eyes cut to Gerard’s. “Do you have any idea how fucked up you were last night?”

Gerard swallowed thickly. “Not really.” He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, tearing at a dry bit until he felt that metallic taste of blood on his tongue. He didn’t know which parts of his fuzzy memory to trust. “I mean, I can imagine.”

“You scared the absolute shit out of me.”

Gerard frowned, surprised by the small crack in Frank’s voice. “I’m sorry.”

“What did you even take? That obviously wasn’t just booze.”

"Dunno." Even if Gerard knew, he wouldn’t have told him. It had started with something he’d taken before, but judging by the visual disturbances and the headache, he’d mixed it with a few more things after that. Maybe not remembering was for the best. “Just stuff. I’ve done it before.”

Frank held his gaze, his eyes uncomprehending. “Were you really trying to kill yourself?”

Gerard thought about the Williamsburg Bridge under his feet, the city lights glinting off the East River below him. The roar of traffic, the dizzying feel of falling. He wasn't really sure. Maybe. “No.”

Frank didn’t look like he believed him. “Do you need some…help? Is there someone you need me to call?”

Gerard shook his head. Everything in him wanted to make the worry fade from Frank’s face, but he didn’t really know how to do that. This was why he didn’t let anyone close, except Ray and Mikey, because people got that look when he cracked open in front of him and they saw that his insides were rotten to the very core. “Just. Something happened last night and I…broke.”

Frank sighed. “Mikey bonded, you said.”

Gerard nodded, that sick, deep anger oozing back up inside him. Mikey had finally found the person he belonged to. He wouldn’t be Gerard’s anymore, wouldn’t understand what it meant to not be madly, stupidly happy with someone who was created just for him. He’d get married and have babies and his wife would bake meatloaf and Gerard would find a thousand ways to casually decline invites to their house because their soulbonded domestic bliss would turn his stomach too violently.

He’d never felt so fucking alone in the world. He’d never been so grateful for Frank.

Frank pushed the plate of food towards him. “Just eat. I told your brother you’re here, he was worried when you didn’t pick up your phone. I didn’t tell him you were fucked up, though, or…anything else.”

“Thank you.”

Frank looked out the window, not making any food for himself. He probably didn’t want Gerard here, in his tiny, miserable place, where it was clear how close to the edge Frank lived. He didn’t want Gerard, not really. “Yeah, sure.”

—

When Gerard got back to his apartment, Mikey was sitting on the sofa he’d commandeered weeks ago, his hands folded in his lap. He looked clean, unmistakably showered and shaved and wearing clothes that weren’t covered in two-day old pizza stains. He’d taken the bedding off the couch and removed all the dirty dishes from the coffee table.

He got up when Gerard shut the door behind himself, slipping his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and looking about as anxious as Gerard felt.

Gerard had no way of knowing what Frank had said to him, what Mikey had inferred from the things he hadn’t said, but Mikey wasn’t naive. Gerard never been good at hiding anything from his brother, anyway.

“Gee—”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Gee, come on.”

Gerard brushed past him, going into the kitchen and setting up the coffee machine. “I really don’t, Mikes.”

“I don’t care, we need to,” Mikey insisted, following him. He sounded pained, guilty, like he’d been the one to fuck things up and not the other way around. “I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t—I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry you had to see it. I didn’t even realize you’d left, I was so out of it.”

Gerard squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers shaking on the coffee tin. He was too tired for this, too tired and too heartbroken and too guilty. There was nothing where his joy for Mikey should be, nothing and bitterness and jealousy and more nothing. “Don’t apologize, Mikes,” he tried, scooping coffee into the filter paper. “It’s the natural order of things. Was always going to happen.”

“I didn’t know it would. I didn’t think…I didn’t want it to, you know I didn’t.”

Of course Gerard knew. He’d always known, and he’d always been selfish enough to allow the bullshit Mikey was so desperate to believe in. “I know. It’s fine, Mikey. It’s good. I’m happy you found her.”

Mikey didn’t say anything for a long enough time that Gerard’s stomach turned. He reached into the sink to wash some of the dirty dishes Mikey had been stockpiling. And then, “Are you okay? I called a dozen times.”

“Fine,” Gerard muttered. “My phone died, sorry.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m fine. I’m tired. Spent the night at Frank’s, didn’t get much sleep.”

There was a small, faint smile in Mikey’s voice. “You’re pretty serious about each other, huh?”

“Stop it.”

Gerard heard Mikey pull out a bar stool and sit down at the breakfast nook. “He tried pretty hard to cover for you when I talked to him, you know. Tried to make it sound like you’d just fallen asleep watching a movie, or something, but his voice was shaking.”

Gerard scrubbed at one of Mikey’s dirty bowls, the neon ceral dust crusted-on and impossible to get off. “How many times do I have to ask you to soak your fucking dishes?”

Softly, Mikey said, “He sounded really, really worried. I think you really scared him.”

“I said stop it.”

“Was it just booze?”

“I said I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Jesus, Gee. Did you take something?”

“I’m fine. I’m just…I just got a little overwhelmed and I made a mistake and I’m fine. I’m calling Dr. Pierrot. Tell me about the girl.”

Mikey took what sounded like a deep, steadying breath. This conversation wasn’t over, but he knew Mikey would pick a better moment than this to finish it. They’d had this conversation often enough over the years, after all. “Will you tell me about Frank if I do?”

“There’s nothing going on with me and Frank.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Mikey argued. “I don’t think either of you think that’s true, either.”

Gerard chanced a look at Mikey as the coffee machine sputtered and steamed. Drying his hands on a dish towel, he poured him them both a cup. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mikey was frowning. “Are you really that thick?”

“What?”

“You should’ve fucking heard him on the phone. He gives a shit, Gee.”

“He got me breakfast,” Gerard said, taking a seat beside him at the breakfast nook. He felt so endlessly tired. “He let me sleep it off, and he got me breakfast.”

Mikey smiled. “He’s good, Gee. I really like him. You like him.”

“Maybe.” Gerard slumped against the wall, rubbing his aching head. “I don’t know how to do this, Mikes.”

“Neither does he, if that’s any consolation.” Mikey wrapped his hands around his cup of coffee. “So,” he said, a smile blooming on his face like a fucking sunrise. “Let me tell you about Kristin.”

—

Mikey stayed in Gerard’s apartment all day, eating bowls of cereal and keeping an eye on Gerard as he dozed on the couch. He queued up Gerard’s favorite movies on Netflix and got them Indian takeout for lunch and spent most of his time trying not to grin openly at his phone screen.

New bonds. It was nauseating.

Sometime after lunch, Frank texted, how’re you feeling?

Gerard felt inexplicably warm all over, and not just with embarrassment. He glanced up at Mikey, who was still beaming at his own screen, oblivious. embarrassed, mostly. thanks for letting me crash at yours last night.

no prob, just relieved you’re okay.

Gerard hesitated before sending his next text, his fingers hovering over his screen until it went black. He unlocked it and tried again. would you go on a date with me?

It took a full forty minutes for Frank to answer. Gerard’s heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest as he watched Cillian Murphy fight off zombies in London. you’re asking me out?

It wasn’t really the answer Gerard had been hoping for. It wasn’t really much of an answer at all. someplace fun, dinner, maybe sex, definitely breakfast.

sounds like a date.

Still wasn’t an answer. so?

i don’t really do dates.

me neither.

you don’t owe me anything for last night. won’t tell Mikey, if that’s what you’re worried about.

that’s not why I’m asking.

Frank’s response took nearly an hour. Another movie had already started, not that Gerard was paying much attention. i’ll think about it.

—

Frank thought about it. He thought about it, and thought about it and thought about it, thought about Gerard’s strong hands on his face when they kissed, about Gerard quietly watching him get dressed and leaving, about Gerard calling him from that fucking bridge in the middle of the night; he thought about it until it felt like he was going to be sick, until his palms were sweating and his stomach seized up, and then he tried not to think about it anymore.

He wasn’t particularly successful.

And then the phone rang. “Mikey,” Frank said warily into the receiver, bowing his head against the wind outside of the subway stop near his place. “What’s up?”

“There’s gluten-free bread in my brother’s kitchen,” Mikey said, without greeting or preamble or context. “It tastes like shit. That’s what’s up. I’m not eating any more of it, and Gee certainly isn’t.”

Frank swallowed thickly, feeling oddly warm inside his jacket. “…Okay?”

“Bread has an expiration date,” Mikey said sagely, something like a smile in his voice. “Answer his text.”

Frank sighed. “I don’t know if that’s really the best idea.”

“He just wants to make you breakfast. He bought you nasty bread and everything.”

Frank took a deep, steadying breath. “What’s the point? I’m not who he wants, not really. He made that abundantly clear the other night.”

Mikey didn’t say anything for a long enough time that Frank thought the line had gone dead. “Look,” he said after an impossibly long moment of deafening silence. “I know what he’s like when he’s fucked up, it’s not—”

“I’m never going to be able to compete with her,” Frank snapped. “I’m just—I’m not who he wants.”

Frank heard the breath catch in Mikey’s throat. “Her?”

“The girl, Lindsey, his bondmate. His fucking reason for living. The girl from the car crash.”

“Her?” Mikey repeated. “Car crash? Did he say it was a girl? Lindsey? Wait, did he talk about his bond?”

“No, I just—” Fuck. Frank pressed his fingers into his eye sockets, cursing himself. “I just assumed, I guess. I don’t know. He didn’t say anything. I must’ve misunderstood.”

“You’re a fucking horrible liar, you know that?”

Frank sighed, resigned. “It’s not my place, Mikey.”

“Jesus, Frank, I—” Mikey started, before cutting himself off. Frank heard him draw an unexpectedly shaky breath. "He's never told me about her, his bond." Mikey let the import of that sink in. “Answer his fucking text, okay?”

“Okay,” Frank said, after a while. “Okay.”

And suddenly, flames everywhere

Frank hesitated for a terrible, long moment at Gerard’s door.

He could hear movement inside the apartment, Gerard singing over a Ramones song, something like a pot falling to the floor, a shouted curse. It had smelled vaguely burnt when he’d made his way up the stairs, the smell intensifying the closer he got to Gerard’s front door. He’d heard beeping when he’d pressed the buzzer downstairs, sounding suspiciously like a fire alarm going off in one of the apartments upstairs.

Something about the night already felt like a disaster. He knocked anyway, and then the door opened, and Frank’s breath caught in his chest.

Gerard was wearing a fucking shirt, crisp white and buttoned up to his throat and bearing a bright red stain over his heart. It made Frank think of blood for the briefest moment, until he saw the specks of herbs and spices scattered in the stain.

“I've called for takeout,” Gerard said immediately, running a hand through his hair. It looked like he’d maybe run a comb through it, and then fucked it up on purpose. “I think my oven’s out to get me.”

The laughter burst from Frank, nervous and unexpected. “Did you do anything to piss it off?”

“I’m—no, it just fucking—I was making garlic bread and then it— I don’t know.” Gerard stepped aside and held the door open wider. “Hi. Come in.”

Frank took a cautious step inside and looked around. It looked suspiciously clean, pillows neatly lined up on the sofa and the coffee table cleared away. He turned to face Gerard, surprised to find Gerard right there. Frank swallowed thickly as Gerard’s hands slid over his shoulders, tugged him closer by the lapels of his jacket. “Hi,” Gerard said, looking at Frank’s mouth. “Thanks for coming.”

Frank nodded, letting Gerard press their foreheads together. He had no idea how to do any of this. “Uh, thanks for having me,” he tried, bringing his hands up to cup Gerard’s cheeks. “You look like a fucking mess.”

“Mm,” Gerard hummed, bringing their mouths together in a tentative kiss. “Gluten-free pasta exploded.”

Frank sighed, letting Gerard’s tongue into his mouth and kissing him back. It had been too fucking long since the last time, that time in the mosh pit before everything had gotten so fucked up.

This kiss felt different, somehow. Slower, less urgent. Frank had pulled him off the railing of the Williamsburg Bridge and Gerard had said things he didn’t remember saying and Frank had made him breakfast and Gerard had asked him on a date. It had to feel different after all that.

“I want you to stay the night,” Gerard said. “Just so that’s clear, okay? I don’t want you to leave in the middle of the night.”

Frank closed his eyes and nodded, breathing deep. “I get it. I’m staying.” There was something oddly frightening about saying it out loud and admitting that this meant something. To both of them.

Gerard pushed Frank's coat off of him, letting it fall to the floor by their feet. Frank couldn't help the abortive movement he made, because it went against the grain to make a mess like that.

"Delivery guy said thirty minutes," Gerard said, taking Frank's hand in his and leading him to the couch. "Figured we could put on some Barry White and I could show you my comics." He leered, eyebrows wagging ridiculously.

Frank giggled, and let himself be pulled down onto the cushions. They sat for a moment, wordlessly staring at each other, before Gerard leaned toward the coffee table and picked up…a comic book.

His mouth dropped open as Gerard started talking. "Gerard…?

"This is Fantastic Four #48, it's got the first appearance of the Silver Surfer. It was the first of a three issue arc called 'The Galactus Trilogy.'" Gerard flipped through the pages, stopping to admire a particularly action-filled scene. "Gorgeous colors." He gave Frank a sidelong look, and burst into laughter. "Oh my God, you should see the look on your face," he gasped. "It's a cross between horrified and fascinated."

"You are the worst." Frank had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. "I came here on the promise of food and sex, and so far, I've gotten neither."

Gerard tossed the comic back onto the coffee table. "But the Silver Surfer was—"

Frank swallowed the rest of Gerard's words with a kiss. "Such a fucking nerd." He nipped at Gerard's bottom lip, swiped at it with his tongue.

"Yeah," Gerard breathed, and Frank was certain he wasn't talking about comics anymore. He tipped his head, letting Frank nose down his jawline, to the column of his neck.

Frank alternated between kisses and bites, pulling sweet little noises from Gerard. Gerard was relaxed and pliant against Frank, and he caught his breath, because this was Gerard giving Frank complete access to himself.

The arousal that had been simmering since Gerard had opened the door flared and caught fire, and Frank wanted to touch like he'd never wanted anything before. To have free reign over Gerard's body, being invited to explore, was a level of intimacy that Frank had no experience with. He never knew how much he wanted that until now.

His hands shook as he wrestled with the buttons of Gerard shirt between kisses. The ridiculous splash of sauce had seeped through the fabric; the shirt clung damply to Gerard's skin. "I'm never gonna be able to smell spaghetti sauce again without getting hard," he muttered.

Gerard's laugh choked off as Frank rubbed at a nipple with the pad of his thumb. "Frank—"

"Yeah," Frank said absently. He was going to take his time, now that he could. He wanted to chart Gerard's reactions, find out what drove him crazy, what made him beg and whine and moan. Stretch him out on the couch and—

The strident buzzing of the intercom made them both jump.

"Shit," Gerard hissed, scrambling off the couch. "It's our food." He buzzed the guy up, running his fingers through his hair and making it stick up crazily.

"Psst." Frank gestured to his chest, and watched in amusement as Gerard hastily tried to rebutton his shirt.

Gerard had only managed about half of them when the delivery guy knocked on the door, and turned out to be a delivery woman. "Thanks," she said, exchanging three bags of food for the wad of cash in Gerard's hand. "Have a good evening!"

"You, too," Gerard replied automatically, shutting the door firmly and heading to the kitchen.

"That's a shit load of food."

From the couch, Frank heard the sound of the fridge opening, then the rustle-squeak of the bags being shoved in. Gerard reappeared in the doorway, flushed and a little breathless. "Okay, Thai for later."

Frank let Gerard lever him off the couch and pull him into the bedroom.

—

Frank didn't waste any time in stripping off Gerard's clothes and spreading him out on the bed. He was so pale, scrubbed clean of the tumble of words normally inked across his skin. It made his fingers itch for a Sharpie.

He got back to the business at hand: scattering kisses and bites across every inch of Gerard's skin. Frank found spots that made Gerard giggle and twist away, and places that made Gerard melt, goosebumps rising on his skin.

"Turn over, baby," Frank murmured, moving away just enough for Gerard to do as he asked. Gerard wriggled a little as he settled down, and Frank knew he was rubbing his dick against the bedding. "Wait for it," he said.

"'Kay," Gerard said faintly, cheek pressed against folded arms.

Frank settled himself between Gerard's thighs. The broad expanse of Gerard's back was as pale as the rest of him, sparsely freckled. Frank had a fanciful urge to play connect-the-dots, wondering what image would be revealed. He resisted, contenting himself with pressing a kiss to each dark spot.

Frank used his short nails to scratch soft lines down Gerard's back, which made Gerard moan and shudder under his hands. It was a heady feeling, eliciting these reactions from Gerard. He did it again and again, watching the pink traceries lighten, and then fade away. "I want to touch you everywhere," he whispered.

Gerard's breathing was uneven and fast as Frank traced a path down his spine with his tongue. He tasted of salt and soap, real and alive. "Please, Frank," he moaned, spreading his legs further apart. "Your mouth—"

Gerard sounded desperate, wrecked, and Frank felt absurdly proud of that. It made him determined to break Gerard with pleasure. He stroked his hands over Gerard's ass, giving it a soft squeeze before spreading his cheeks apart and dipping his head down, licking wetly over Gerard's hole.

"Oh, fuck." Gerard shifted back, and Frank could feel the way his thighs were shaking. "Oh, fuck, Frank, that feels—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Please, please—"

Frank continued to lick at Gerard, using the flat of his tongue to pull hiccuping, gasping breaths out of him. He could feel the way Gerard was fighting to hold himself still, not rutting against the bed. His hands flexed, clawing at the sheet, as Frank pushed Gerard closer to the limits of his endurance.

He was tempted to see if he could make Gerard come with just his mouth and tongue, rimming him until he was a shivering mess under Frank; Frank was starting to develop a mental list of all the sex things he wanted to do with Gerard. The smile that ghosted across Frank's face was probably a little too smug.

"Stop, Frank, please stop, I'm gonna—"

Frank pulled away, and pressed a kiss to the curve of Gerard's ass. "Lube?" He kept on hand on Gerard's hip, because he couldn't seem to stop touching.

"Drawer," Gerard gasped, arm flailing in the direction of the nightstand.

"Mmmm," Frank hummed happily, leaning and sliding the drawer open. The contents of the drawer rolled around, and— "What's this?" Frank asked, delighted. There was a purple vibrator next to a bottle of lube and some condoms. "A toy?

"Oh, God," Gerard moaned, and Frank watched in fascination as his ears, partially hidden by his hair, turned bright red.

He trailed a finger over the purple silicon. "Next time," he said, grabbing the lube and a condom. Something else for his list.

"So close, too close, Frank, I can't hold on for much longer—" Gerard squirmed, and pushed up onto his knees and elbows.

"All right." Frank dribbled some lube onto his fingers.

He paused, because this moment was so different from the first time they'd fucked, when Gerard had been so forward and determined, confident. It had been hot, the way Gerard had just taken control, pushed Frank down onto the bed, and made him writhe with pleasure.

Now, though, Gerard was…softer, somehow vulnerable, letting Frank lead them deeper into pleasure. It was both frightening and dizzying, the power Gerard gave him over himself. It was almost too much, and Frank had to pretend that his hands weren't shaking.

"Frank?" Gerard looked at him over his shoulder, eyes wide and dark.

Frank used his fingers to spread the lube over Gerard's hole, tracing slow circles before pushing in with one.

"Yeah," Gerard sighed, his head drooping forward. "S'good. More."

He took his time, keeping up a steady babble of nonsense, gorgeous and so tight and perfect, until Gerard was rocking back on his fingers and panting. "Wanna see your face," he breathed, pressing a kiss to the blade of Gerard's shoulder before moving away. Gerard didn't hesitate, just wriggled until he was on his back, dark hair spread out on the pillow, looking up at Frank.

He twined his fingers into Frank's hair and pulled him down for an intent kiss, one that spoke of how much Gerard wanted this, wanted him tonight and every night after.

It ripped away Frank's control. He fumbled with a condom, a handful of lube, and pushed into Gerard, rushed and too fast.

Gerard inhaled sharply through his teeth, and cried out when Frank started thrusting, firm and steady strokes that were probably overwhelming, too much too soon. Gerard looked shattered, cheek pressed to the pillow, biting his lip, but Frank couldn't stop, couldn't make himself slow down, because the noises that Gerard was making, high-pitched and increasingly frantic, just urged him on

Gerard cupped Frank's cheek with one hand, the other slipping down to his cock, and Frank groaned, lifted himself up to watch as Gerard gripped his dick and started stroking himself. He was distracted by the way Gerard whimpered, like he was hurt, but when Frank glanced at his face, he was clearly not in pain.

"Fucking fuck," Frank said, because it was overwhelming, how good it felt to be so deep inside Gerard, to see the pleasure reflected on Gerard's face. He grabbed Gerard's hand from where it was resting against his cheek and pressed his mouth to Gerard's wrist, kissing the mark there, biting at it as the tenor of Gerard's sounds changed, overwrought and out of control.

He kept his lips sweet and soft, a counterpoint to the rough cadence of his hips, licking and mouthing at Gerard's soulmark until it was too much, intimate and profound. Gerard arched his back, frozen for a long beat, bearing down on Frank's dick, so fucking tight, before collapsing back onto the bed, chest heaving.

Gerard's eyes fluttered, then opened fully, focused on Frank. "C'mon, Frank," Gerard purred, smugly satisfied. "Come for me."

The curve of Gerard's lips and the way he wrapped his arms around Frank pushed him into a warm pool of shuddering sensations. They spread from his toes to his head, out to his fingers and curled between his legs, contractions of prickling electricity that stole his breath, his words. He barely managed to pull out of Gerard and collapse next to him before darkness filled his world.

—

After they’d fucked and kissed for ages and eaten their Thai takeout in bed, Frank reached over Gerard’s spent body to hold his hand. He ran his fingers carefully over Gerard’s soulmark, tracing the dark edges around Gerard’s wrist. Gerard watched him, his eyes sharp and uncomprehending. “You don’t really talk about her, do you?”

“No,” Gerard said quickly, his hand clenching against Frank’s wrist. “Not really.”

That much had been apparent from Mikey’s reaction on the phone the other day. Frank leaned in to nuzzle Gerard’s shoulder, his bicep, his elbow. He felt Gerard’s pulse jump under his thumb, felt the way he coiled tight as Frank kissed his way down toward his soulmark. “You can tell me more about her, if you want.”

“I don’t,” Gerard breathed. “No good comes of it.”

Gerard held himself stock still as Frank's mouth drew closer. Their eyes met, Frank holding Gerard’s until he felt Gerard’s fist relax against his forearm.

He leaned in, brushing the black spot on Gerard’s wrist with his lips and it tumbled out of Gerard in one breath. "It took me a while to figure out what was happening; I was in a lot of pain, in shock, and things were happening so fast. It was getting harder to feel her, and I suddenly realized that I was losing her—" He took a shuddery breath, closing his eyes. “I felt her, Frank, I fucking felt her like she was right next to me. I bonded with her, felt the bond close around us, and then it snapped and she was gone.”

"Gee—"

"—And she was terrified before that, Frankie, I could feel how scared she was, and I did the only thing I could, I sent love across the bond, forced myself to be wherever she was, and for this one fucking moment, I wasn’t alone and everything was perfect and nothing hurt. And I stayed there with her, right up until the fucking end, I held onto her for as long as I could, and I felt it, this long horrible moment when she slipped out of my arms and then she was gone and the universe went fucking black—"

Frank's fingers tightened around Gerard's.

"And when I woke up in a hospital bed, I was more fucking alone than I’ve ever been in my entire fucking life."

“Shh,” Frank said, pulling Gerard into his arms. He was shaking. Frank held him tight, as tight as he could. “It’s okay.”

“I thought I was going to feel alone for the rest of my life, that no one would ever make me feel anything ever again.”

Frank buried his face in Gerard’s neck, because same, same, same.

“I didn’t know how wrong I was.”

—

Later that night, sometime before dawn broke, before Gerard fell asleep in his arms, before Frank would eat gluten-free bread off of Gerard’s plate for breakfast, before Frank would realize that he had stayed, this:

"I see you," Gerard whispered, hiding the words against the curve of Frank's back. He pressed a kiss to the spot, to anchor the words there. Frank didn’t really know what he meant by that, but he slipped his fingers between Gerard’s where they rested on his stomach and squeezed tight.

It hurt, because there was nothing easy about this. Gerard pushed in, hard and insistent, and Frank forced himself to relax, to open himself up, to let him in.

And then the next morning, after Frank had laced up his boots and shrugged on his parka and Gerard was pinning him to the wall and kissing him like he didn’t know how to stop, Gerard whispered, “Strings. I want strings.”

And Frank pulled back to look at him, to make sure he’d heard correctly, and then he said, “Okay. Strings.”

Coda: I never dreamed of this

The term 'food coma' didn’t even begin to describe how heavy and full and slow they all felt after another one of Donna Way’s legendary family dinners.

Frank had passed out as soon as they’d hit the couch to watch the Yankees take on the Dodgers, his head in Gerard’s lap and a pillow hugged to his aching belly. He’d gained a healthy amount of weight since moving in with Gerard, his face softening and his belly rounding out a little, but Gerard’s mom fed him like he was still the starving, nervous boy Gerard had brought home years ago.

Little Rowan was asleep against Mikey’s chest as he half-watched the game from the doorway to the kitchen, keeping Kristin company as she put away the last of the clean dishes. Don was lounged in his recliner and Donna was curled up under a blanket to Gerard’s right, mostly playing Words With Friends on her phone and barely following the game.

This was the best part of Gerard’s week, coming here to be with the people he loved the most in the world.

His fingers carded gently through Frank’s hair as he watched something sporty happening on-screen, men running and balls flying and people cheering. Frank snoring softly against his thigh, his fingers twitching on Gerard’s knee as he slept, the heat of him against Gerard’s side—these things were infinitely more interesting than whatever was happening on screen.

“I’ll pack up some leftovers for you to take home, in case you get hungry later.”

Gerard tilted his head to smile at his mother. “I don’t think there’s any more room left in our freezer after the last batch you sent home with us. There are limits to how much we can eat, you know.”

“Nonsense,” Donna chided. “You need to organize your freezer space better. I just want to take care of my boys, that’s all.”

Gerard laughed. It had taken barely any time at all before Donna considered Frank one of her boys, jumping at the chance to forget everything she knew about soulbonds and bare wrists and love to make room for Frank in their lives. “We’re not starving, Ma. Promise.”

“Let your mother feed you,” Don muttered from his recliner, taking a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes still glued to the screen. “It distracts her from fussing about Mikey and Kristin having more babies.”

“Which everyone appreciates,” Kristin called from the kitchen. “Barely sleeping through the night, this little devil, and you’re already asking when the next one’s coming?”

“I just said it’d be nice,” Donna said fondly. She stilled, and before Gerard could ask what was wrong, her fingers closed around Gerard’s forearm. Her voice low and awed. “It’s fading,” she said, running her thumb over the mottled mark on Gerard’s wrist.

Gerard pressed his head to her shoulder and nodded. “Has been for a while,” he said. “It’s freaking Frank out.”

Donna let go of his hand, frowning. “Is it freaking you out?”

Gerard shook his head, smiling easily as he linked his fingers with Frank’s. His tattooed fingers flexed in sleep. “Nah, it’s perfect.”

-fin-