The Kindler Burns
He said, "It's not quite what I want, but. Sign me up."
Thing is, it’s kind of incredibly cheesy. It feels middle-school, like they’re a couple of preteens trying to act more sophisticated than they are. Gerard’s embarrassed for no reason. He keeps fidgeting, putting his elbows on the table and then taking them off really fast because it’s rude. (He knows that much, anyway.) He smooths the navy-blue napkin in his lap until the creases are gone, and then he looks up at Frank, who’s sitting quite still, watching him patiently. His lips curve up very slightly, and it’s attractive, but Gerard’s indignant. He knows when he’s being mocked.
“What?” he asks hotly, running his finger along the edge of the water glass. (It nearly tips over, and he panics for a second, flashing back to eight years old when he knocked over a glass of water at a family-style restaurant. The waitress came by and smiled at him and wiped it away, but his mother was glaring and when they got home, he drew a picture of a chair with his face, wishing.) He salvages the glass with his other hand and picks it up, almost cradling before deciding to take a quick sip.
“Nothing.” Frank grins at him. “You’re-visibly distressed. What’s the problem?” For a second the smile’s gone, and he looks really concerned. “Do you-I mean, you do like it, don’t you?”
“Oh, Frankie,” he says automatically, heart going all butter in a microwave, “Yeah. I do, it’s a really nice little place. I’m just distracted.”
Frank reaches across the table and takes Gerard’s hand. Frank’s fingers are warm, callused but not rough so much as just firm. Gerard’s hand is cold from the glass, but Frank doesn’t flinch. (He probably likes it. Gerard knows he’s kind of a slut for sensations, and he’s thinking wax, hot wax, and ice cubes-no.) “It’s okay,” he says quietly. “It’s just you and me, you know? Nobody else. They can’t find us.” He grins. “I did my research. Like, nobody knows about this place.”
“Then how’d you find out about it?” snarks Gerard, but of course it’s the sweetest ever that Frank went through all this trouble for him. Them. To find them a nice place to eat, someplace quiet, where nobody’d know and get in. (Gerard loves his life, loves his job, loves his fans, but this. This nearly empty little restaurant, soft, jazzy music playing and bread with little butter rosettes all set in a wicker basket for them, this is what he said, it’s a really nice little place. Too nice, for them, and that’s why Gerard can’t relax. He’s going to break something.)
“I’m magic. And, I’ve got connections.” Frank pauses. “Magical connections.” Gerard laughs, and Frank rubs his thumb over Gerard’s knuckles. Possessive. Frank is wearing a black button-up and his hair’s just brushing over his shoulders. There’s one candle on the table, and with the dim lighting, it makes his hair and his skin almost glow. He looks handsome and grown-up. If it weren’t for the ink on his knuckles, he’d look like any young businessman out of ran evening with an associate-albeit a rather disheveled associate.
Frank is magic. Frank reads minds. “You look really good,” he says, leaning in slightly, like it’s a secret. “You’ve got to stop worrying. You really think I’d let you leave the house if I thought you looked like a mess?”
“How do you do that?” mumbles Gerard, smoothing his hair. Frank slaps his hand away, grabs it again, and kisses his fingers.
“I know you better than anyone,” says Frank simply. Then he looks up and smiles, and Gerard pulls away as he sees the waiter standing over them. Pasta is placed in front of them. It’s a dish he ordered with the best Italian accent he could manage, and Frank had bitten his lips and grinned at his menu and Gerard had felt even stupider, if that were possible. A big bowl of vegetables is put beside the plate, and Frank nudges it aside, eyeing the linguine. This is the kind of place where they make their waiters practice dropping plates as quietly as possible, and Gerard watches the waiter’s hand shake with the effort. Frank murmurs a thank you and the waiter’s gone again, quick as he came. This is the kind of place where the waiters are trained to move silently and swiftly. (This is the kind of place Gerard still feels he’s somehow not fancy enough for.)
Frank twirls pasta around his fork and puts it in his mouth. His eyes close and he grins with his lips together. “God, Gee, it’s so good,” he says when he swallows. “Try it.”
Gerard twists his fork in his linguine and tastes it. It is delicious, and Gerard feels a little better. He looks over at Frank, who’s watching him intently, kind of hopeful, kind of pleased. “It’s good,” he says. “Everything’s great, Frankie.” He pauses. “Thank you.”
“I’m glad you like it,” says Frank, and he looks like he means it. “Happy third.”
Gerard grins down at his plate and flushes pink. “Thanks,” he murmurs. He pushes a soy meatball around in the bowl until it hits the rim where it’s closest to Frank. Frank looks at him wryly, spearing the meatball and popping it into his mouth.
“Are you trying to start something?” he asks through his mouthful. It’s not gross, but it’s not really that classy, and Gerard feels more at ease despite himself.
“’Course I’m not,” he says delicately, attempting to wrap more linguine around his fork. It droops down and leaves a single piece dangling from his lips. He starts to suck it in but Frank’s there first, closing the distance across the little table and taking it between his teeth. He raises his eyebrows, and Gerard’s a sucker for romance so he goes with it, meeting Frank in the middle around the strand. They only hold it for a minute, because Gerard’s always a little nervous, just a little bit jumpy. (It’s easy to get distracted, to get worried, when you live the way they do. The calm that comes with his lips against Frank’s fades just as quickly whenever he hears a noise. Rabbit-like, because, they might not be on Perez Hilton or anything, but it’s just better to keep waves to a minimum. Frank understands. He has to.) “You’re cute,” he says quite honestly as Frank pulls away, wiping at his lip with one finger.
“Thanks, Lady,” he chuckles, poking at the broccoli in the dish beside him.
Gerard puts down his fork. “Oh, no way,” he says(, almost more loudly than is polite in the kind of establishment that plays smooth jazz), “You’re definitely the Lady.”
“Me!” scoffs Frank. “No way! You don’t see me dodging around with any bashful looks!”
“You said yourself I was initiating,” points out Gerard, an actual smile winning its way across his lips.
“Ha. You admit it, then.” Frank sits back, gloating, and Gerard can’t even pretend to be upset at Frank’s win. He just shakes his head at him and laughs when Frank starts calling him Tramp.
Thing is, Gerard wishes the night could last forever. They eat as slow as they please and afterward, they order tiramisu. Frank keeps trying to distract Gerard so he can take bigger and bigger bites, and Gerard pretends not to notice because sometimes with Frank it’s better to let him think he’s this crazy mastermind. (Gerard knows who’s in charge when the lights go out and the clothes come off, and that’s really all that matters, when he gets down to it.) “After this,” says Frank, “We should go for a drive.”
“We don’t really have time for that,” says Gerard, apologetic and feeling childish because he wants to.
Frank watches the movement of Gerard’s hand as he reaches into his wallet for his card. He whips his own out and presses it into the waiter’s hand faster than Gerard can say no. He sighs deeply, grinning just slightly as Gerard pretends to glare at him. “I know,” he says seriously. “I guess it’s just wishful thinking.”
“Maybe next time,” offers Gerard, hoping he doesn’t sound as twelve as he thinks he does. Frank meets his eye and grins a little wider, nodding.
--
Frank stops at the boutique before they head back so Gerard can pick up the bouquet he’d ordered. “It’s beautiful,” says Frank, in quiet reverence. He brushes his fingers over an aster.
“It really is,” agrees Gerard. The red roses and the pink lilies and everything. He doesn’t know much of flowers but he can appreciate them, even if the fragrance gives him a bit of a headache. He slides the flowers over Frank’s cheek, just to see the contrast, petals on Frank’s petal-soft skin. Frank smiles and at the next red light, he leans over and kisses him, a hand on his jaw and his tongue moving slowly against Gerard’s. “Frank,” whispers Gerard when they pull away. “Frank, I just.” (He’d say more but there’s nothing there, nothing to explain.)
“I know, Gee,” says Frank. “It’s okay, I understand.”
When they get back to Gerard’s place, Frank stops the car and kisses him slow and warm again. “Thanks for letting me take you out,” he grins against Gerard’s mouth.
“Thank you for everything.” Gerard says the words slowly, deliberately. (Frank’s not stupid, he’s really smart, but he’s got to understand, how much Gerard means things he can’t say and how much he wants things to just be okay, things to be so different.) He kisses him once more before he opens his door and gets out. Frank watches him. (Gerard feels him watching him, all the way inside.)
--
“Hey, you,” says Lyn-Z, rising from the sofa to greet Gerard at the door.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” says Gerard bashfully, lifting the flowers to her eyes. “I had a few errands to run.”
Lyn-Z coos and takes the bouquet, fingering one of the stargazer lilies. “’S beautiful,” she says in a hush. “I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I’m glad you did.” She leans in and kisses him. She’s not wearing her usual makeup, and Gerard likes the natural taste of her mouth against his. He kisses back, touching her hair softly, flowers pressed between them. “We can put them in that vase in the kitchen,” she says thoughtfully, running to fill it with water. Gerard hears the sink. “You’re such a romantic,” Lyn-Z calls from the other room.
“You know me,” he calls to her, looking at the pollen a rose left on his sleeve. (And she does. She does, but there are some things she doesn’t, things she can’t. It’s sweet, but it’s twisted, like tiramisu and pasta. It’s the worst simile Gerard’s ever thought, but it has to do because that’s how it is. His life, their lives.) He follows her into the kitchen and she spins around to face him, smiling and forgiving and almost too wise. “I love you,” he says honestly. “Happy third.”
“Yeah,” she breathes. “Three years, God.” She shakes her head. “I love you too, Gee.”
(They’re on the couch when they’re kissing again, his hands on her hips and her hands pinning him down neatly. It feels good. He likes it. He can’t forget, though, the mistakes he’s making, the choices he still doesn’t feel old enough to make. It’s. He’s twisted, slippery, pasta. He thinks of Frank’s mouth and Lyn-Z’s fingers and out loud he confuses his wife when he says “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry.”)
He says, "Oh, no. What have I become?"