writing (but don’t tell anyone)
so i started writing this frank-centric thing, right? and i was totally going to keep quiet about it and probably never show it to anyone because it will likely turn out badly, but then i thought of something. instead of giving me a thumbs up or a thumbs down, how about telling me where you think this fic might go or where you think it should go? keeping in mind that 1) this fic is saved in google docs as ‘frank fic omg brain why you do me like this?’ 2) no, frank is not going to cry, cut himself, acquire an eating disorder, or kill himself, and 3) i mostly already know what's going to happen.
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Frank's t-shirt is sticking to the curve of his lower back, soaked through with sweat, and his hair is damp with humidity. He's been growing it out since halfway through the last tour six months ago, and the shiny strands stuck behind his ears are their natural color for the first time in longer than he can remember. The words 'last tour' still leave Frank unsettled in a vague way that he can't put his finger on, but the initial panic that they'd caused is all but gone now.
He's been back in Jersey more or less permanently for four months. He can think about Jamia without crying now, and that's progress. Frank still talks to her, though the phone calls are fewer and farther between as time passes. He doesn't regret leaving her everything--the house, the dogs, the business, the car he'd bought for her birthday last year--but he misses her every day. Frank knows he didn't do anything wrong, that they just grew apart as they grew up, but it doesn't make him feel like less of an asshole. He gets a lawyer, though, when Jamia says she wants to make it official. He tells her she can have everything and he moves back in with his mother.
Frank takes one last drag from his cigarette and crushes it out in the ashtray next to him on the porch swing. He swats half-heartedly at a mosquito buzzing around his head and listens to the sprinkler in the front yard next door. He leans back in the swing and pushes off with one bare foot on the concrete. Frank is lost in thought when the porch light flickers on, and he looks up to see his mom standing in the front doorway with the phone in her hand.
"It's Gerard," she says.
Frank considers for a moment, and finally nods, extending a hand. "Thanks, Ma," he says, tugging her close and pressing a kiss to her cheek before taking the phone. "Hello?" he says into the receiver after she goes back into the house.
"Frankie!" says Gerard.
"Hi, Gee." Frank manages a smile; he knows Gerard will know if he doesn't.
"Hey, listen, Bandit wants to talk to you," he says.
Frank hears the phone being passed over and then Gerard prompting his daughter to say hello before Bandit's voice comes over the line. He listens while she talks to him, and he's able to understand almost all of what she tells him--leave it to Gerard's little girl to be both loquacious and smart as hell. She finishes up after a few minutes with a giggly "Bye bye, Frankie!" and then Gerard's back.
"She didn't hang up on you this time," he says.
Frank laughs and it feels genuine. "She's making progress," he tells Gerard. He's quiet for a moment. "Thanks, Gee."
"Sure, Frank. Anytime, right? We'll talk to you in a couple of days."
"Love you, Gee," Frank murmurs.
"Love you, too." Gerard hangs up.
Frank smokes another cigarette and tries not to think about Gerard playing tour husband and writing his comic books and hanging out with Bandit. He doesn't think about Bob doing sound again or Ray's new band or the magazines and blogs Mikey writes movie and music reviews for. Frank finishes his cigarette and goes back into the house and helps his mom with the dishes and goes to bed early and doesn't think about all of the things he's not doing with his life.
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When Frank wakes up the next day it's past noon and the house is quiet. His mom has gone to work, but she's left him a grocery list and a note asking him to mow the lawn. He can't think of a reason not to help her out, so he goes back upstairs and puts on the first clothes he finds, shoving his feet into a beat up pair of chucks and finding his wallet and keys. Frank's cell phone has been turned off since the end of the last tour, but he still pays the bill every month.
He leaves his sunglasses on at the Pathmark even though he's pretty sure it makes him look like a douchebag. Frank just wants to be able to buy paper towels and cucumbers and vegan cheese in peace, and maybe it's a little presumptuous to think someone will recognize him and want to talk to him, but it happens from time to time, and Frank's not in the mood today. He gets everything on his mom's list and takes the groceries out to the car by himself. He purposely leaves the radio off and drives back home tapping a tuneless beat on the steering wheel and ignoring the way his fingers itch for a guitar.
After he puts the groceries away Frank goes into the garage and eyes the lawnmower with a measure of trepidation. He finally decides he's not afraid of the fucking thing, and it starts on the first try. He shrugs out of his t-shirt and leaves his sunglasses on--fuck Mrs. De Filippo across the street and her disapproval at his tattoos. Frank isn't afraid of her either, and he'll mow the goddamned lawn without a shirt if he wants to. He's slimmed down again in the last year or so, and he's wearing jeans he hasn't worn since Mikey had that thing with Pete during Warped years ago. Frank can admit that these particular jeans should probably be in a landfill somewhere they're so threadbare, but they're comfortable and they remind him of good times and his friends and beer and touring. He might not feel all that great these days, but he knows he looks good, and it's something.
Frank gets into a rhythm pretty quickly, pushing the lawnmower up and down the small patch of front yard, and his mind is pleasantly empty. He zones out to the point that before he knows it, he's pushed the mower around back and cut the grass behind the house as well. He sweeps the porch and the front walk and the driveway, and when he's finished, he goes upstairs to take a shower. Frank keeps the water cool as he washes and rinses and thinks about jerking off. He gives himself a few tentative strokes, but his cock doesn't seem interested. Frank very purposefully doesn't think about the way that just playing and being on stage used to be enough to get him hard every night.
He puts on clean boxer shorts and one of Ray's old t-shirts and goes down to the kitchen. Frank makes a veggie lasagna and puts it in the oven fifteen minutes before his mom is due home. He sets the timer and goes up to his room and crawls into his bed. His muscles ache and the skin of his shoulders is warm with sunburn. He falls asleep before he can smell the lasagna cooking, and his mother doesn't try to wake him for dinner.
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...continues here...
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Frank's t-shirt is sticking to the curve of his lower back, soaked through with sweat, and his hair is damp with humidity. He's been growing it out since halfway through the last tour six months ago, and the shiny strands stuck behind his ears are their natural color for the first time in longer than he can remember. The words 'last tour' still leave Frank unsettled in a vague way that he can't put his finger on, but the initial panic that they'd caused is all but gone now.
He's been back in Jersey more or less permanently for four months. He can think about Jamia without crying now, and that's progress. Frank still talks to her, though the phone calls are fewer and farther between as time passes. He doesn't regret leaving her everything--the house, the dogs, the business, the car he'd bought for her birthday last year--but he misses her every day. Frank knows he didn't do anything wrong, that they just grew apart as they grew up, but it doesn't make him feel like less of an asshole. He gets a lawyer, though, when Jamia says she wants to make it official. He tells her she can have everything and he moves back in with his mother.
Frank takes one last drag from his cigarette and crushes it out in the ashtray next to him on the porch swing. He swats half-heartedly at a mosquito buzzing around his head and listens to the sprinkler in the front yard next door. He leans back in the swing and pushes off with one bare foot on the concrete. Frank is lost in thought when the porch light flickers on, and he looks up to see his mom standing in the front doorway with the phone in her hand.
"It's Gerard," she says.
Frank considers for a moment, and finally nods, extending a hand. "Thanks, Ma," he says, tugging her close and pressing a kiss to her cheek before taking the phone. "Hello?" he says into the receiver after she goes back into the house.
"Frankie!" says Gerard.
"Hi, Gee." Frank manages a smile; he knows Gerard will know if he doesn't.
"Hey, listen, Bandit wants to talk to you," he says.
Frank hears the phone being passed over and then Gerard prompting his daughter to say hello before Bandit's voice comes over the line. He listens while she talks to him, and he's able to understand almost all of what she tells him--leave it to Gerard's little girl to be both loquacious and smart as hell. She finishes up after a few minutes with a giggly "Bye bye, Frankie!" and then Gerard's back.
"She didn't hang up on you this time," he says.
Frank laughs and it feels genuine. "She's making progress," he tells Gerard. He's quiet for a moment. "Thanks, Gee."
"Sure, Frank. Anytime, right? We'll talk to you in a couple of days."
"Love you, Gee," Frank murmurs.
"Love you, too." Gerard hangs up.
Frank smokes another cigarette and tries not to think about Gerard playing tour husband and writing his comic books and hanging out with Bandit. He doesn't think about Bob doing sound again or Ray's new band or the magazines and blogs Mikey writes movie and music reviews for. Frank finishes his cigarette and goes back into the house and helps his mom with the dishes and goes to bed early and doesn't think about all of the things he's not doing with his life.
+
When Frank wakes up the next day it's past noon and the house is quiet. His mom has gone to work, but she's left him a grocery list and a note asking him to mow the lawn. He can't think of a reason not to help her out, so he goes back upstairs and puts on the first clothes he finds, shoving his feet into a beat up pair of chucks and finding his wallet and keys. Frank's cell phone has been turned off since the end of the last tour, but he still pays the bill every month.
He leaves his sunglasses on at the Pathmark even though he's pretty sure it makes him look like a douchebag. Frank just wants to be able to buy paper towels and cucumbers and vegan cheese in peace, and maybe it's a little presumptuous to think someone will recognize him and want to talk to him, but it happens from time to time, and Frank's not in the mood today. He gets everything on his mom's list and takes the groceries out to the car by himself. He purposely leaves the radio off and drives back home tapping a tuneless beat on the steering wheel and ignoring the way his fingers itch for a guitar.
After he puts the groceries away Frank goes into the garage and eyes the lawnmower with a measure of trepidation. He finally decides he's not afraid of the fucking thing, and it starts on the first try. He shrugs out of his t-shirt and leaves his sunglasses on--fuck Mrs. De Filippo across the street and her disapproval at his tattoos. Frank isn't afraid of her either, and he'll mow the goddamned lawn without a shirt if he wants to. He's slimmed down again in the last year or so, and he's wearing jeans he hasn't worn since Mikey had that thing with Pete during Warped years ago. Frank can admit that these particular jeans should probably be in a landfill somewhere they're so threadbare, but they're comfortable and they remind him of good times and his friends and beer and touring. He might not feel all that great these days, but he knows he looks good, and it's something.
Frank gets into a rhythm pretty quickly, pushing the lawnmower up and down the small patch of front yard, and his mind is pleasantly empty. He zones out to the point that before he knows it, he's pushed the mower around back and cut the grass behind the house as well. He sweeps the porch and the front walk and the driveway, and when he's finished, he goes upstairs to take a shower. Frank keeps the water cool as he washes and rinses and thinks about jerking off. He gives himself a few tentative strokes, but his cock doesn't seem interested. Frank very purposefully doesn't think about the way that just playing and being on stage used to be enough to get him hard every night.
He puts on clean boxer shorts and one of Ray's old t-shirts and goes down to the kitchen. Frank makes a veggie lasagna and puts it in the oven fifteen minutes before his mom is due home. He sets the timer and goes up to his room and crawls into his bed. His muscles ache and the skin of his shoulders is warm with sunburn. He falls asleep before he can smell the lasagna cooking, and his mother doesn't try to wake him for dinner.
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...continues here...