The Weekend (Sleep Spent)
Title: The Weekend (Sleep Spent)
Author: sakurashakedown
Pairing: Frank/Gerard, Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Warning: Drug Abuse, Language
Disclaimer: Still sitting here, owning nothing.
Summary: Saturday, Frank’s head is splitting open, his brain swelling up and oozing red and hot out of his skull, or at least that’s what it feels like. Frank wakes up one day and realizes his life has spiraled wildly out of control.
PART ONE: To Not Expel The Truth
Saturday, Frank’s head is splitting open, his brain swelling up and oozing red and hot out of his skull, or at least that’s what it feels like; and every time he tries to move or think or breathe, the world spins violently and suddenly and he has to close his eyes and ride it out.
---<>---
Sunday, he’s still on the couch, but he manages to move enough to get his phone out of his pocket. When he calls Pete - because Pete knows all about these situations, as many times as he’s graced rehab programs with his presence - another voice answers and he knows it’s Patrick, the chubby blonde kid Pete picked up at the club forever ago, the one who’d walked into Pete’s life and, surprisingly, didn’t walk out.
Frank can’t remember what he said or what Patrick said back, but an hour later - two hours? Three? Thirty minutes? A year? He can’t tell - Pete comes bursting through his unlocked door with Patrick trailing behind him. Pete comes and sits right beside Frank lying feverish and still on the couch, crosses one leg over the other, leans back, and lights a cigarette. With Patrick shuffling around in the kitchen, Pete takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows out a cloud of smoke and says, “You’re an idiot, Frank. Everyone knows you can’t quit cold turkey. You’ve gotta take your time. Have a drink, smoke a joint, pop a pill every now then.” Pete checks his cell phone real quick, shoves it back in his jacket pocket, continues, “I’ve been getting sober for two years now. I used to wake up and take four shots and now I just have one. Slow, Iero, that’s the only way to do it.”
Pete takes another drag from his cigarette and Frank just lays there, semi-conscious.
Pete’s black hair perfectly styled and swooping in front of his eyes, giving him that slightly androgynous, sexy-rebel look that’s so popular nowadays. He looks around, puffing smoke, and says, “That’s a sweet chaise lounge. Where’d you get it? I’ve been thinking of getting one, only I don’t know where I’d put it. My apartment is too small. Me and Patrick are thinking of moving out of midtown. Is living near the park nice?”
Frank knows, even semi-conscious, that Pete’s condo is bigger than Gabe’s and that, while Pete will probably actually go out and buy a chaise lounge, he will probably never leave midtown.
Patrick comes in from the kitchen then and brushes the hair out of Frank’s face, red and sweaty, with his cool hands that are as smooth and white as ivory. He says, sympathetically, “Frank, you’ve gotta check yourself in somewhere. You can die from withdrawal.”
Frank doesn’t say anything, but Pete, who doesn’t like to talk so much as he likes hearing himself talk, fills in for him and says, “I told you, Iero. You’ve got to take it slow.” He gets up and digs through his wallet. “I don’t know what you and Gabe have been doing, but here -” he hands Frank a little white pill and, when Frank doesn’t reach out and take it, just shoves it into his mouth. Patrick watches with the mild disapproval of one who is used to witnessing debauchery and, in fact, expects it, “-it’s a valium,” Pete continues, proudly, “my doctor gives them to me all the time. They’re helpful little guys. Make coming down a lot easier. I wouldn’t have dropped down to my one-shot mornings without them.”
Patrick just shakes his head, his arms crossed, and says, “We’ll come back and check on you tomorrow. If you get any worse, you’re staying with us.” Patrick looks around the room then and says, suddenly, a little exclamation mark beeping on over his head, “Where’s Gerard?”
---<>---
Gerard doesn’t materialize until Monday afternoon. The light is coming in orange through the curtains, saturating all the colors in the room and making the shadows dark and deep. Frank had been just well enough that morning to move himself into the bedroom with the combined efforts of Pete and Patrick - mostly Patrick, with a slew of encouraging words from Pete. They had come over earlier and, afterwards, Patrick had spent all morning cooking soup and trying to convince him to go into rehab and Pete had spent all morning smoking cigarettes, feeding him valium and telling him not to bother.
“Just have a Jack Daniels,” Pete had said, lounging next to Frank on the bed. He had his tie loosed and his converses kicked off, his painted on skinny jeans showing off the curves of his legs, which, if Pete had to decide, were probably his third favorite feature after his perfectly coiffed hair and tawny eyes. He’d been flipping through one of Gerard’s art magazines that’d been lying the bedside table, Frank sweating buckets next to him, wrapped tight under the sheets. “Those places never work anyway,” he’d confided, flipping a page, “You’d do just as good on your own.”
And maybe hidden underneath Pete’s words and casual tone, there was disappointment, but whether it was disappointment at loosing a drinking buddy or disappointment in the world or himself or disappointment at all, Frank would never know; the headache and fever pulsating into his dreams, Frank had fallen asleep to sound of Pete’s voice, familiar and far away, and the dry sound of flipping pages.
The lights in Frank’s bedroom were dimmed so that Frank wouldn’t have to suffer the lighting and, when Gerard stumbled in in the afternoon, they were still on. Frank was just dozing off again when Gerard climbed in bed, fully clothed, and nuzzled his face into the back of his neck, his skin sweaty, long dirty hair tickling the back of Frank’s neck. He smelled exactly like everywhere he’d been and it made Frank’s head hurt more and savagely crave what he’d been missing out on.
---<>---
Tuesday morning Frank feels a little better and has to wonder if the worst is over or if it’s just the valium Pete was feeding him blocking out the friction.
They usually spend Tuesday mornings in bed and this week is no exception except this time, when Gerard starts sucking on Frank’s neck, it drives him wild, but in a bad way. Usually Tuesday mornings start with Gerard sucking on Frank’s neck and end with Frank and Gerard cumming in unison, but today, Frank is achy and miserable and Gerard smells and, when Gerard starts flicking his tongue against Frank’s throat, Frank gets fed up, musters his strength, and pushes him away. He turns over, world spinning with him, head pounding and says, with more bitterness in his voice than he intended, “Go take a shower.”
He can feel waves of hurt roll off of Gerard. Still, Gerard goes and showers and when he comes back, fresh and dripping wet, Frank thinks he looks more content than he should be. He climbs onto the bed with just a towel on and the towel is almost the same color as his skin. He’s smiling, showing his little pointy off-white teeth, his eyes a clear hazel in the bright morning light of the room. He leans over Frank with his ebony hair dripping little drops of water all over the place and dangles something above Frank’s head. Frank doesn’t look at whatever it is, instead he looks at Gerard’s arm, at the old scabby tracks from last week and the fresh purple ones from this weekend, polka-dotting the white skin there and showing up so vibrantly that Frank hardly notices the angry silver zebra stripe scars that zigzag beneath the bruises.
“I brought you a party favor,” Gerard trills and his voice is melodic and cheerful, but there’s this black oily undercurrent to his words that makes Frank think of a high school slut sauntering up to a teacher after class to “discuss” grades. Frank brings his eyes to whatever it is Gerard’s holding above his head - even this tiny movement hurts - and, if there was ever a time Frank wanted to hit Gerard, it’s right now.
There’s this overwhelming gravitational pull Frank feels towards the white powder in the bag above his head - the same sort of gravitational pull Frank always feels towards Gerard - and he hates it.
“Frank?” Gerard starts to whine when Frank doesn’t react, because if there was ever a time Gerard felt like he was losing Frank, it’s now.
Frank sits up and Gerard scoots back and looks worried, his eyes getting big and round. The temptation from the bag, his four day headache, and his mixed feelings towards Gerard right now are threatening to make Frank explode. He can feel the pressure welling up inside of him and, just when he’s about to blow his top and start yelling something he doesn’t really mean, he hears the door open - he still hasn’t locked it yet - and Pete call out, “We’re home!”
Frank looks at Gerard and glares at him without even noticing it and Gerard just sits there with his wet hair, wide eyes, and parted lips looking like a kicked puppy.
---<>---
Frank doesn’t tell Patrick about Gerard bringing party favors. He definitely doesn’t tell Pete because, drug advocate though he may be, Pete has never really cared much for Gerard (you’re classier than Gabe, Frank, you can do much better than some tortured art school gutter rat) and there is no doubt in Frank’s mind that Pete will just snatch up this bad situation, twist it, and make it worse.
So Frank doesn’t tell. They’ll just talk about it later, on Wednesday.
---<>---
Wednesday comes and Frank feels better today than he did yesterday - he’s sensing a trend here - and so he and Gerard move to the living and he tells Gerard point blank, no beating around the bush, that he’s done with drugs. Forever. And he’s done with Gabe and Adam. However, he isn’t done with Gerard and, if Gerard really loves him, he’ll man up and get clean too.
Gerard is awkward and doesn’t know what to say. He plays with his shirt sleeves and stares at the fabric of the couch and bright blue edges of the throw blanket Frank’s wrapped up in, because he just isn’t ready to get clean. He’s not ready to give up this part of himself and Frank should know that. He’s been this way since he was, like, thirteen and first started drinking and he’s okay with that. His cocaine binges and candy-colored pills have never let him down like People have. They’ve always been right there, a steady constant, a calming presence. They make him forget about his step dad looming over him at night, and his ex-boyfriend giving him black eyes then letting his friends fuck him for change. They make him forget and Gerard, he’s just not ready to give all that up right now.
What he wants is for Frank to understand, really understand, but Frank’s so set on Gerard getting clean that he wonders if that’ll ever happen.
Frank’s still waiting for him to say something and so Gerard says, slowly, just to make Frank happy, “Okay. I’ll try,” but he knows deep down that he won’t.
---<>---
Thursday night, neither Frank nor Gerard can sleep. Frank is wide awake because he’s been sleeping most of the past five days and Gerard is awake because it’s Thursday night and his bones are itching for the weekend and he hasn’t had a proper hit since Sunday so now all of his memories are creeping up on him, like shapes in the darkness.
It’s Thursday Night Horror Story Time and this night, Frank is wide awake.
But, this night, Gerard isn’t telling Frank horrible events from his life. He’s not telling Frank about getting molested or getting raped or beaten or picked on. Frank wonders if it’s because he’s awake and Gerard can only pour out the innermost depths of his soul when he’s sure Frank won’t be able to remember and bring it up later.
Instead, tonight, Gerard tells Frank about The Time He Tried Getting Sober.
“It was right after my ex kicked me out.” Gerard never tells Frank exactly who his ex is and that’s probably for the best because Frank would probably hunt him down and murder him. “I didn’t have anything. No clothes, no money. I stayed with a friend from art school, because I’d rather die on the street than go back to Belleville.” Belleville, that’s where Gerard’s from. Frank, on the other hand, isn’t really from anywhere. His dad lives in Trenton and his mom lives in Atlantic City and his grandmother lives in Newark, so Frank, he just kinda lived all over; a summer here, a school year there.
Frank can’t help but marvel at how easy it is to focus and relate things now that he’s getting clean.
“I couldn’t pay for drugs and I wanted to get clean - I really, really did - so I tried to quit.”
Gerard, he lasted about four days before he gave in and got a friend to slip him some pills and loan him enough money for a line of coke. Gerard, all that week he’d black in and out of consciousness and he could barely move because the pain was so bad. He would sweat so much, the sheets would be soaked, and nose would bleed whenever he tried to sit up. It felt like dying, but the not the sort of numb, painless dying Gerard imagined for himself; it felt like pain and fear leading to pain and fear.
“I don’t want to do that again, Frank,” he says, “I can’t.”
“I’ll put you in a clinic then,” Frank says and he winces, because even with Pete’s valium and Patrick’s Advil in blood, his headache is still threatening to split his skull open. “We’ll go together.”
Gerard looks Frank in the eyes when he says, “No.” His eyes are sad but his voice is hard and Frank wonders if Gerard has always been this mess of contrasts.
“Then stay and get sober here.” It comes out firmer than Frank would have liked but he can’t help it, withdrawal has made him irritable.
Gerard bites his bottom lip and doesn’t break eye contact with Frank. It’s not a dare and it isn’t a threat, but there’s something tense and unspoken in the way Gerard is looking at him right now and Frank just can’t figure it out, his head hurts too much. Instead he says, “Don’t go out tomorrow. Stay with me,” and he hopes Gerard doesn’t mistake his tone for commanding.
And Gerard blinks and looks at his nails, round and short from being bitten. He looks at Frank out of the corner of his gold eyes, from underneath his lashes and says, “Fine.”
---<>---
Friday, Day of Truth comes and Frank is finally well enough to move around a little, although his head still hurts like fuck and he’s still a little irritable and sometimes his stomach flips and he wants to vomit. All in all, it’s not the worst he’s ever felt.
He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in a ratty hoodie, with a coffee when Gabe and Adam breeze in like nothing’s happened. Gabe in his purple hoodie, he looks around and says, “That chaise lounge is exactly what I need in my apartment, Frank. You have no idea. Chicks would dig it so hard. Where’d you get it?”
Frank says nothing, just drinks his coffee, black.
Gabe wanders over to the A Clockwork Orange poster and Adam walks over to where Gerard is stretched out on the couch smoking a cigarette and sketching on a pad. They instantly begin giggling and the sound makes Frank want to punch walls.
Frank watches, glaring daggers from the counter as Adam and Gerard lean in close and, just when Adam’s about to drop a pill down Gerard’s throat, Gabe walks over to Frank and says, “So, you like living near the park, bro? ‘Cause I’m thinking of moving soon and -”
It’s out of Frank’s mouth before he can stop it. “Shit, Gabe, you’re not gonna move! We go over this every fucking week - am I the only one here who remembers this shit? Fuck!”
Gabe is stunned into silence, eyes wide, and Adam and Gerard are just staring at him from the couch, faces pressed close together so that, from this side of the room, with the couch blocking their bodies, they could be conjoined twins. Frank marches across the room with his coffee and, before he can think, just dumps it onto Adam and it’s so hot and sudden that Adam screams like a girl and leaps off the couch. He looks at Gerard, then at Gabe, before moving, fast as he can behind Gabe.
Gabe is still looking stunned and Gerard is saying, angry, “What the fuck, Frank?” but Frank’s not listening to him. He’s waving his empty cup at Gabe and Adam and saying, “Get the fuck out. Don’t come back. I don’t care; we’re through.”
And Gerard is up and at Frank’s side and he’s mad and saying, “Frank, you’re being an asshole, those are our friends,” and Frank says, seething with anger and not thinking at all, “They’re not ‘our friends’ and if you love them so much then you can just leave too!”
And Gerard says, “Fuck you,” and goes to get his jacket from the bedroom.
And Frank calls after him, from his spot in front of the couch, “If you leave, Gerard, god dammit, then just don’t come back! If you want to get fucked up then fine, but you can’t live here! Just go somewhere and get fucked up and be miserable and fuck Adam - ‘cause I know he wants to fuck you - but I’m tired of trying to help you, I’m done!”
When Gerard rushes out of the bedroom, Frank gets just a good enough glance at his face to know he’s crying, but Frank is too mad and torn up inside to care and his headache just got a million times worse.
Gerard leaves first, in a blur of black and white, then Adam and Gabe turn around and disappear, fast as ghosts, behind him and Frank has to sit down because his forehead is pulsating.
---<>---
Pete and Patrick arrive about thirty minutes later. Frank is cleaning up the mess on the sofa, skull splitting open, and he must look as fucked up as he feels because when Pete walks in he says, “What the hell happened to you?”
“It’s a long story,” Frank grumbles and Patrick, ever the perceptive one, says, voice laced with concern, “Did something happen with Gerard?”
Frank doesn’t answer, doesn’t even get the chance too, because Pete says, “Of course something happened with Gerard. That little gold-digger’s pissed ‘cause you won’t support his habit, isn’t he?” Pete’s face is already scrunching up in fury.
“Don’t call him that,” Frank says, calming down, and his voice breaks because deep inside, he still loves Gerard, always has, always will, and the realization that Gerard has just rushed out of his life in a whirlwind of bad feelings and misplaced emotions is just starting to set in. He realizes, with a pain, how he’s just flung Gerard out into the city and doesn’t have a clue where he could begin to look for him; with Gabe’s constant need to be constantly in motion, they could be anywhere.
“Fuck. You.” Pete says and he goes to light a cigarette. “I told you the first time you said you liked him he was bad news. He’s just another one of Gabe’s art school sluts that’s just there to give Gabe his stupid hipster cred and mooch off his stash and make him look more legit. Why else do you think he hangs around Gabe? It’s not for conversation, I’ll tell you.” Pete blows out smoke and looks angry.
Frank is just sitting on the floor looking at Pete now, wanting to cry. He can feel the sting in his eyes already and the pressure in his throat as his face gets hot.
Patrick jumps in just then. “He doesn’t mean it, Frank,” he says, ever the voice of reason, ever the calm in the storm, “He’s just moody today because the pharmacy got his prescription wrong and they won’t have his in ‘til Sunday.” Patrick has his fingers laced together like he doesn’t know what to do with them and he keeps looking back and forth between Pete and Frank.
Pete just walks back to the kitchen, smoking his cigarette and says, “I mean every word,” as he digs through the fridge.
PART THREE: Thinking Clearly
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A/N: Comments and feedback greatly appreciated :)
Author: sakurashakedown
Pairing: Frank/Gerard, Pete/Patrick
Rating: R
Warning: Drug Abuse, Language
Disclaimer: Still sitting here, owning nothing.
Summary: Saturday, Frank’s head is splitting open, his brain swelling up and oozing red and hot out of his skull, or at least that’s what it feels like. Frank wakes up one day and realizes his life has spiraled wildly out of control.
PART ONE: To Not Expel The Truth
Saturday, Frank’s head is splitting open, his brain swelling up and oozing red and hot out of his skull, or at least that’s what it feels like; and every time he tries to move or think or breathe, the world spins violently and suddenly and he has to close his eyes and ride it out.
---<>---
Sunday, he’s still on the couch, but he manages to move enough to get his phone out of his pocket. When he calls Pete - because Pete knows all about these situations, as many times as he’s graced rehab programs with his presence - another voice answers and he knows it’s Patrick, the chubby blonde kid Pete picked up at the club forever ago, the one who’d walked into Pete’s life and, surprisingly, didn’t walk out.
Frank can’t remember what he said or what Patrick said back, but an hour later - two hours? Three? Thirty minutes? A year? He can’t tell - Pete comes bursting through his unlocked door with Patrick trailing behind him. Pete comes and sits right beside Frank lying feverish and still on the couch, crosses one leg over the other, leans back, and lights a cigarette. With Patrick shuffling around in the kitchen, Pete takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows out a cloud of smoke and says, “You’re an idiot, Frank. Everyone knows you can’t quit cold turkey. You’ve gotta take your time. Have a drink, smoke a joint, pop a pill every now then.” Pete checks his cell phone real quick, shoves it back in his jacket pocket, continues, “I’ve been getting sober for two years now. I used to wake up and take four shots and now I just have one. Slow, Iero, that’s the only way to do it.”
Pete takes another drag from his cigarette and Frank just lays there, semi-conscious.
Pete’s black hair perfectly styled and swooping in front of his eyes, giving him that slightly androgynous, sexy-rebel look that’s so popular nowadays. He looks around, puffing smoke, and says, “That’s a sweet chaise lounge. Where’d you get it? I’ve been thinking of getting one, only I don’t know where I’d put it. My apartment is too small. Me and Patrick are thinking of moving out of midtown. Is living near the park nice?”
Frank knows, even semi-conscious, that Pete’s condo is bigger than Gabe’s and that, while Pete will probably actually go out and buy a chaise lounge, he will probably never leave midtown.
Patrick comes in from the kitchen then and brushes the hair out of Frank’s face, red and sweaty, with his cool hands that are as smooth and white as ivory. He says, sympathetically, “Frank, you’ve gotta check yourself in somewhere. You can die from withdrawal.”
Frank doesn’t say anything, but Pete, who doesn’t like to talk so much as he likes hearing himself talk, fills in for him and says, “I told you, Iero. You’ve got to take it slow.” He gets up and digs through his wallet. “I don’t know what you and Gabe have been doing, but here -” he hands Frank a little white pill and, when Frank doesn’t reach out and take it, just shoves it into his mouth. Patrick watches with the mild disapproval of one who is used to witnessing debauchery and, in fact, expects it, “-it’s a valium,” Pete continues, proudly, “my doctor gives them to me all the time. They’re helpful little guys. Make coming down a lot easier. I wouldn’t have dropped down to my one-shot mornings without them.”
Patrick just shakes his head, his arms crossed, and says, “We’ll come back and check on you tomorrow. If you get any worse, you’re staying with us.” Patrick looks around the room then and says, suddenly, a little exclamation mark beeping on over his head, “Where’s Gerard?”
---<>---
Gerard doesn’t materialize until Monday afternoon. The light is coming in orange through the curtains, saturating all the colors in the room and making the shadows dark and deep. Frank had been just well enough that morning to move himself into the bedroom with the combined efforts of Pete and Patrick - mostly Patrick, with a slew of encouraging words from Pete. They had come over earlier and, afterwards, Patrick had spent all morning cooking soup and trying to convince him to go into rehab and Pete had spent all morning smoking cigarettes, feeding him valium and telling him not to bother.
“Just have a Jack Daniels,” Pete had said, lounging next to Frank on the bed. He had his tie loosed and his converses kicked off, his painted on skinny jeans showing off the curves of his legs, which, if Pete had to decide, were probably his third favorite feature after his perfectly coiffed hair and tawny eyes. He’d been flipping through one of Gerard’s art magazines that’d been lying the bedside table, Frank sweating buckets next to him, wrapped tight under the sheets. “Those places never work anyway,” he’d confided, flipping a page, “You’d do just as good on your own.”
And maybe hidden underneath Pete’s words and casual tone, there was disappointment, but whether it was disappointment at loosing a drinking buddy or disappointment in the world or himself or disappointment at all, Frank would never know; the headache and fever pulsating into his dreams, Frank had fallen asleep to sound of Pete’s voice, familiar and far away, and the dry sound of flipping pages.
The lights in Frank’s bedroom were dimmed so that Frank wouldn’t have to suffer the lighting and, when Gerard stumbled in in the afternoon, they were still on. Frank was just dozing off again when Gerard climbed in bed, fully clothed, and nuzzled his face into the back of his neck, his skin sweaty, long dirty hair tickling the back of Frank’s neck. He smelled exactly like everywhere he’d been and it made Frank’s head hurt more and savagely crave what he’d been missing out on.
---<>---
Tuesday morning Frank feels a little better and has to wonder if the worst is over or if it’s just the valium Pete was feeding him blocking out the friction.
They usually spend Tuesday mornings in bed and this week is no exception except this time, when Gerard starts sucking on Frank’s neck, it drives him wild, but in a bad way. Usually Tuesday mornings start with Gerard sucking on Frank’s neck and end with Frank and Gerard cumming in unison, but today, Frank is achy and miserable and Gerard smells and, when Gerard starts flicking his tongue against Frank’s throat, Frank gets fed up, musters his strength, and pushes him away. He turns over, world spinning with him, head pounding and says, with more bitterness in his voice than he intended, “Go take a shower.”
He can feel waves of hurt roll off of Gerard. Still, Gerard goes and showers and when he comes back, fresh and dripping wet, Frank thinks he looks more content than he should be. He climbs onto the bed with just a towel on and the towel is almost the same color as his skin. He’s smiling, showing his little pointy off-white teeth, his eyes a clear hazel in the bright morning light of the room. He leans over Frank with his ebony hair dripping little drops of water all over the place and dangles something above Frank’s head. Frank doesn’t look at whatever it is, instead he looks at Gerard’s arm, at the old scabby tracks from last week and the fresh purple ones from this weekend, polka-dotting the white skin there and showing up so vibrantly that Frank hardly notices the angry silver zebra stripe scars that zigzag beneath the bruises.
“I brought you a party favor,” Gerard trills and his voice is melodic and cheerful, but there’s this black oily undercurrent to his words that makes Frank think of a high school slut sauntering up to a teacher after class to “discuss” grades. Frank brings his eyes to whatever it is Gerard’s holding above his head - even this tiny movement hurts - and, if there was ever a time Frank wanted to hit Gerard, it’s right now.
There’s this overwhelming gravitational pull Frank feels towards the white powder in the bag above his head - the same sort of gravitational pull Frank always feels towards Gerard - and he hates it.
“Frank?” Gerard starts to whine when Frank doesn’t react, because if there was ever a time Gerard felt like he was losing Frank, it’s now.
Frank sits up and Gerard scoots back and looks worried, his eyes getting big and round. The temptation from the bag, his four day headache, and his mixed feelings towards Gerard right now are threatening to make Frank explode. He can feel the pressure welling up inside of him and, just when he’s about to blow his top and start yelling something he doesn’t really mean, he hears the door open - he still hasn’t locked it yet - and Pete call out, “We’re home!”
Frank looks at Gerard and glares at him without even noticing it and Gerard just sits there with his wet hair, wide eyes, and parted lips looking like a kicked puppy.
---<>---
Frank doesn’t tell Patrick about Gerard bringing party favors. He definitely doesn’t tell Pete because, drug advocate though he may be, Pete has never really cared much for Gerard (you’re classier than Gabe, Frank, you can do much better than some tortured art school gutter rat) and there is no doubt in Frank’s mind that Pete will just snatch up this bad situation, twist it, and make it worse.
So Frank doesn’t tell. They’ll just talk about it later, on Wednesday.
---<>---
Wednesday comes and Frank feels better today than he did yesterday - he’s sensing a trend here - and so he and Gerard move to the living and he tells Gerard point blank, no beating around the bush, that he’s done with drugs. Forever. And he’s done with Gabe and Adam. However, he isn’t done with Gerard and, if Gerard really loves him, he’ll man up and get clean too.
Gerard is awkward and doesn’t know what to say. He plays with his shirt sleeves and stares at the fabric of the couch and bright blue edges of the throw blanket Frank’s wrapped up in, because he just isn’t ready to get clean. He’s not ready to give up this part of himself and Frank should know that. He’s been this way since he was, like, thirteen and first started drinking and he’s okay with that. His cocaine binges and candy-colored pills have never let him down like People have. They’ve always been right there, a steady constant, a calming presence. They make him forget about his step dad looming over him at night, and his ex-boyfriend giving him black eyes then letting his friends fuck him for change. They make him forget and Gerard, he’s just not ready to give all that up right now.
What he wants is for Frank to understand, really understand, but Frank’s so set on Gerard getting clean that he wonders if that’ll ever happen.
Frank’s still waiting for him to say something and so Gerard says, slowly, just to make Frank happy, “Okay. I’ll try,” but he knows deep down that he won’t.
---<>---
Thursday night, neither Frank nor Gerard can sleep. Frank is wide awake because he’s been sleeping most of the past five days and Gerard is awake because it’s Thursday night and his bones are itching for the weekend and he hasn’t had a proper hit since Sunday so now all of his memories are creeping up on him, like shapes in the darkness.
It’s Thursday Night Horror Story Time and this night, Frank is wide awake.
But, this night, Gerard isn’t telling Frank horrible events from his life. He’s not telling Frank about getting molested or getting raped or beaten or picked on. Frank wonders if it’s because he’s awake and Gerard can only pour out the innermost depths of his soul when he’s sure Frank won’t be able to remember and bring it up later.
Instead, tonight, Gerard tells Frank about The Time He Tried Getting Sober.
“It was right after my ex kicked me out.” Gerard never tells Frank exactly who his ex is and that’s probably for the best because Frank would probably hunt him down and murder him. “I didn’t have anything. No clothes, no money. I stayed with a friend from art school, because I’d rather die on the street than go back to Belleville.” Belleville, that’s where Gerard’s from. Frank, on the other hand, isn’t really from anywhere. His dad lives in Trenton and his mom lives in Atlantic City and his grandmother lives in Newark, so Frank, he just kinda lived all over; a summer here, a school year there.
Frank can’t help but marvel at how easy it is to focus and relate things now that he’s getting clean.
“I couldn’t pay for drugs and I wanted to get clean - I really, really did - so I tried to quit.”
Gerard, he lasted about four days before he gave in and got a friend to slip him some pills and loan him enough money for a line of coke. Gerard, all that week he’d black in and out of consciousness and he could barely move because the pain was so bad. He would sweat so much, the sheets would be soaked, and nose would bleed whenever he tried to sit up. It felt like dying, but the not the sort of numb, painless dying Gerard imagined for himself; it felt like pain and fear leading to pain and fear.
“I don’t want to do that again, Frank,” he says, “I can’t.”
“I’ll put you in a clinic then,” Frank says and he winces, because even with Pete’s valium and Patrick’s Advil in blood, his headache is still threatening to split his skull open. “We’ll go together.”
Gerard looks Frank in the eyes when he says, “No.” His eyes are sad but his voice is hard and Frank wonders if Gerard has always been this mess of contrasts.
“Then stay and get sober here.” It comes out firmer than Frank would have liked but he can’t help it, withdrawal has made him irritable.
Gerard bites his bottom lip and doesn’t break eye contact with Frank. It’s not a dare and it isn’t a threat, but there’s something tense and unspoken in the way Gerard is looking at him right now and Frank just can’t figure it out, his head hurts too much. Instead he says, “Don’t go out tomorrow. Stay with me,” and he hopes Gerard doesn’t mistake his tone for commanding.
And Gerard blinks and looks at his nails, round and short from being bitten. He looks at Frank out of the corner of his gold eyes, from underneath his lashes and says, “Fine.”
---<>---
Friday, Day of Truth comes and Frank is finally well enough to move around a little, although his head still hurts like fuck and he’s still a little irritable and sometimes his stomach flips and he wants to vomit. All in all, it’s not the worst he’s ever felt.
He’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in a ratty hoodie, with a coffee when Gabe and Adam breeze in like nothing’s happened. Gabe in his purple hoodie, he looks around and says, “That chaise lounge is exactly what I need in my apartment, Frank. You have no idea. Chicks would dig it so hard. Where’d you get it?”
Frank says nothing, just drinks his coffee, black.
Gabe wanders over to the A Clockwork Orange poster and Adam walks over to where Gerard is stretched out on the couch smoking a cigarette and sketching on a pad. They instantly begin giggling and the sound makes Frank want to punch walls.
Frank watches, glaring daggers from the counter as Adam and Gerard lean in close and, just when Adam’s about to drop a pill down Gerard’s throat, Gabe walks over to Frank and says, “So, you like living near the park, bro? ‘Cause I’m thinking of moving soon and -”
It’s out of Frank’s mouth before he can stop it. “Shit, Gabe, you’re not gonna move! We go over this every fucking week - am I the only one here who remembers this shit? Fuck!”
Gabe is stunned into silence, eyes wide, and Adam and Gerard are just staring at him from the couch, faces pressed close together so that, from this side of the room, with the couch blocking their bodies, they could be conjoined twins. Frank marches across the room with his coffee and, before he can think, just dumps it onto Adam and it’s so hot and sudden that Adam screams like a girl and leaps off the couch. He looks at Gerard, then at Gabe, before moving, fast as he can behind Gabe.
Gabe is still looking stunned and Gerard is saying, angry, “What the fuck, Frank?” but Frank’s not listening to him. He’s waving his empty cup at Gabe and Adam and saying, “Get the fuck out. Don’t come back. I don’t care; we’re through.”
And Gerard is up and at Frank’s side and he’s mad and saying, “Frank, you’re being an asshole, those are our friends,” and Frank says, seething with anger and not thinking at all, “They’re not ‘our friends’ and if you love them so much then you can just leave too!”
And Gerard says, “Fuck you,” and goes to get his jacket from the bedroom.
And Frank calls after him, from his spot in front of the couch, “If you leave, Gerard, god dammit, then just don’t come back! If you want to get fucked up then fine, but you can’t live here! Just go somewhere and get fucked up and be miserable and fuck Adam - ‘cause I know he wants to fuck you - but I’m tired of trying to help you, I’m done!”
When Gerard rushes out of the bedroom, Frank gets just a good enough glance at his face to know he’s crying, but Frank is too mad and torn up inside to care and his headache just got a million times worse.
Gerard leaves first, in a blur of black and white, then Adam and Gabe turn around and disappear, fast as ghosts, behind him and Frank has to sit down because his forehead is pulsating.
---<>---
Pete and Patrick arrive about thirty minutes later. Frank is cleaning up the mess on the sofa, skull splitting open, and he must look as fucked up as he feels because when Pete walks in he says, “What the hell happened to you?”
“It’s a long story,” Frank grumbles and Patrick, ever the perceptive one, says, voice laced with concern, “Did something happen with Gerard?”
Frank doesn’t answer, doesn’t even get the chance too, because Pete says, “Of course something happened with Gerard. That little gold-digger’s pissed ‘cause you won’t support his habit, isn’t he?” Pete’s face is already scrunching up in fury.
“Don’t call him that,” Frank says, calming down, and his voice breaks because deep inside, he still loves Gerard, always has, always will, and the realization that Gerard has just rushed out of his life in a whirlwind of bad feelings and misplaced emotions is just starting to set in. He realizes, with a pain, how he’s just flung Gerard out into the city and doesn’t have a clue where he could begin to look for him; with Gabe’s constant need to be constantly in motion, they could be anywhere.
“Fuck. You.” Pete says and he goes to light a cigarette. “I told you the first time you said you liked him he was bad news. He’s just another one of Gabe’s art school sluts that’s just there to give Gabe his stupid hipster cred and mooch off his stash and make him look more legit. Why else do you think he hangs around Gabe? It’s not for conversation, I’ll tell you.” Pete blows out smoke and looks angry.
Frank is just sitting on the floor looking at Pete now, wanting to cry. He can feel the sting in his eyes already and the pressure in his throat as his face gets hot.
Patrick jumps in just then. “He doesn’t mean it, Frank,” he says, ever the voice of reason, ever the calm in the storm, “He’s just moody today because the pharmacy got his prescription wrong and they won’t have his in ‘til Sunday.” Patrick has his fingers laced together like he doesn’t know what to do with them and he keeps looking back and forth between Pete and Frank.
Pete just walks back to the kitchen, smoking his cigarette and says, “I mean every word,” as he digs through the fridge.
PART THREE: Thinking Clearly
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A/N: Comments and feedback greatly appreciated :)