This Elevator Only Goes Up to Ten - Frank/Gerard
This Elevator Only Goes Up to Ten
Frank/Gerard
~2,700 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. These characters are based on people of the same name, but that's pretty much where reality ends here.
Warnings: Uhh, non-canonical ideas about marriage?? IDK. Obviously, IRL Gerard and Frank are happily married. Um, to ladies. \o/
Notes: drusillathemad is a hero for giving this the old once-over.
Update: desert_neon made a podfic version, which you can download here.
They're on the bus, somewhere between Kansas City and Denver, when Ray pauses during his morning internet puttering and makes a "huh" face at the screen. "Huh," he says.
Mikey glances over from the couch, where he's been paging through an old Kerrang that he recovered from under Frank's bunk. He strongly suspects Frank stashed it there in an attempt to hide the mysteriously torn-out square on page forty-seven. Mikey hasn't yet worked out exactly what kind of blackmail material this gives him over Frank, but he's resourceful.
"Huh," says Ray again, more emphatically.
"Did you want to share something, Ray?" Bob asks dryly, looking up from his morning crossword puzzle. He's mostly just been staring at 60-Down, "Hard ______!" (helmsman's cry), for the past two minutes anyway.
Ray seems vaguely startled to recall that there are other people in the lounge. "Oh," he says, eyes darting over to the kitchen counter where Gerard is mainlining his third mug of coffee, then quickly to Frank's prostrate form in front of the TV. "Nothing, no--it's just. Um, this news article. About, like, gay marriage, I guess? In Jersey?"
Frank turns his head, turtle-like, and squints over his shoulder. "What the hell are you talking about, Toro?"
"I don't know, I just saw it on, like, CNN," Ray shrugs, looking a little abashed. "Apparently it's legal now or something?"
"In Jersey," Gerard confirms, mouth tilting in a bit of a frown.
Ray shrugs, nodding his head to the side.
There's a brief silence in the room, a waiting silence, everyone clearly expecting Gerard to make a pronouncement of some sort. Gerard slurps at his coffee for a few seconds, face inscrutable, and then says, "huh."
Bob coughs and turns his attention back to the newspaper. Mikey idly throws his magazine down and ambles back to the bunks, texting furiously. Frank eyes Gerard briefly, then steals Mikey's abandoned spot on the couch and tunes back into his TV show.
Ray is somewhat baffled. He watches as Gerard absently wipes his sleeve against his nose, then wraps it around the hand cradling his mug and goes to join Frank. After a moment, Frank rearranges himself, stuffing his bare feet between the small of Gerard's back and the couch. Gerard shifts and makes a cranky face, then settles back again with his free hand resting on Frank's shin.
Ray frowns worriedly and catches Bob's glance as he turns back to his laptop.
"Dude," says Bob, "is it just me or is the New York Times crossword puzzle written by a bunch of fuckin' closet cases?"
***
"It's just," says Gerard in the middle of soundcheck, "is it really necessary to involve the state in a ceremony that's supposedly about love? Isn't that just playing into some bullshit idea of marriage as, you know, a certificate of approval or ownership? How is that acceptable? Why would we want to join in an institution that's been used to, like, deny women's personhood and shit?"
The arena falls silent for a moment and even the techs taping down cords by the sound board pause to look up at the stage.
"Uhh," says Ray, "you're on the mic, Gerard."
Gerard waves this off, but he does turn and fasten his mic back onto its stand.
Frank kicks his heels against the amp he's perched himself on and cocks his head at Gerard. "So you're saying you don't think gay people should get married? Like," --his eyes narrow a smidgen-- "what, they shouldn't celebrate being in love because of your political principles or something?"
Gerard frowns at him. "I'm saying I don't think that marriage is really such a great idea. I can think of hundreds of reasons why it's a bad idea and like, five why it might be useful, you know?"
Frank scratches his nose and shrugs. "Some stuff isn't about logic, though. I mean."
"I just don't see the point," Gerard continues obliviously, gathering momentum and cocking his hip like he does whenever he gets riled up about some worldly injustice. "If your relationship's gonna last, it's gonna last, and if it's not, it's not. There's no use getting the stamp of approval like it's gonna fix all your problems."
Frank gazes at him with a funny look on his face.
Gerard doesn't seem to notice, caught up in his self-righteous rant, and it's very familiar but also very unsettling. Frank is kicking his heels harder and harder against the amp and Ray suddenly realizes that all the techs on stage, plus whoever else, are about to witness Gerard and Frank having a spat, which is probably not the best idea. Mikey is carefully staring at his bass, silently forming chords. Ray sighs quietly and glances at Bob, who obligingly breaks it up with a tight sting on his cymbal.
Frank's attention redirects itself and he summons up a smirk for Bob. "Hang onto your hi-hat, motherfucker," he says, aggressively promising. "I'm gonna get you tonight."
***
As it turns out, Frank not only gets Bob (mercifully, without utterly dismantling his kit), but also manages to scrape his own left elbow raw, swing Texas into Mikey's ribs, and dislodge a rather important cable, which results in several minutes of raucous ad-libbing on Gerard's part and several minutes of frantic scrambling on the techs'.
What Frank doesn't do is go anywhere near Gerard.
***
"You're dripping on me, dude," Bob comments as he piggybacks Frank offstage. Frank clutches harder at Bob's neck. "Seriously," Bob says. "You're bleeding kind of a lot. Lemme get Ray to grab the First Aid Kit."
Frank shakes his head and slithers down Bob's back as they reach the dressing room. "I got it." He throws himself at the bathroom and a minute later Bob can hear the water running.
"How are you gonna patch up your own elbow in the sink?" Bob yells to him.
"I can do it!"
"It's like, physically impossible, dude!" Bob settles in a chair by the bathroom door.
"I can do it!" Frank insists.
Gerard pokes his head in the room and Bob nods cautiously at him, listening with half an ear to Frank's swearing and various thuds.
"Hey, is he--" Gerard stops, cracking his knuckles absently and bouncing one knee against the door frame.
"What?" Bob asks.
"He's not pissed at me, is he?" Gerard seems confused and Bob wonders whether he actually even heard himself out there during soundcheck, if he grasps the problem.
"No," says Bob. "I think he's abusing himself in there because he's just such a cheerful little fucker."
Gerard frowns and looks down at his shoes. He wiggles his toes a little and then blurts, "I don't like it when he avoids me."
Bob doesn't really want to play couples therapy, but, "Then maybe you should tell him that."
"Frank," Gerard yells, and Bob winces. "Can I come in there?"
"Fucking what the fuck, motherfucker?" Frank's swearing seems to have redirected itself at Gerard.
"I want to talk to you!" Gerard's twitchy knee reaches a frenetic pace.
"So talk from out there, Jesus, I'm up to my elbows in blood, here!"
Gerard casts Bob an alarmed look, but Bob shakes his head.
Gerard seems unsure, stubbing his toes against the carpet, but he glances again at Bob, who nods encouragingly. Gerard shrugs and yells, "I don't want to get married!"
There is a silence from the bathroom and the water shuts off. Bob buries his face in his hands.
"Get me a motherfucking band-aid, Bob," Frank calls, sounding very strange. "One of those stretchy ones. This shit is messy."
Bob gets up and brushes past Gerard and then nearly runs into Mikey and Ray, standing there in the hall with the First Aid Kit.
***
It's raining outside the venue when Frank steps out for a cigarette. He pulls his hoodie up over his sweaty hair and bows his head to light up against the chilly drizzle. The lighter flicks and fizzles and Frank sighs in frustration, resting his head back against the brick for a moment, raindrops plopping against his eyelids. He finds it strangely comforting, so he doesn't move when he hears the rusty squeak and thump of the backstage door.
There's the shuffle of sneakers and then Mikey's hacking cough, and then the snap and sharp scent of sulfur as he lights a match. Frank feels a slight tug on the cigarette that's still dangling between his forefingers and he lets Mikey have it. After a moment he opens his eyes to look up at the dull gray clouds.
"Here," Mikey mumbles, awkwardly holding out Frank's lit cigarette.
Frank reaches out to take it, then sticks it between his lips and inhales heavily. He lets the exhale burn out through his nose, unwilling to lift a finger or interrupt his nicotine flow.
"Fuck this shit with a spoon," Frank mutters lowly after a few good hits.
Mikey sticks his hands in his jeans pockets and somehow folds inward on himself. He wrinkles his nose in an attempt to push his glasses back up from their perch.
Frank glances over at him, then volunteers, "Sorry about your ribs, dude."
Mikey sort of shrugs. He stares off over the floodlit loading area and then says, "I don't want to get in the middle of things."
Frank blinks at him.
"You and Gee, I mean." Mikey frowns. "Like, that's your thing and I don't want to involve myself in my brother's relationship, you know? It just gets complicated with him sometimes and I don't want to be the translator or the messenger or whatever."
Frank exhales because he's going to need more nicotine for this conversation. He nods.
"Just--just, I don't think he's thinking what you think he's thinking. Is all," says Mikey coherently.
"Uh," Frank finally pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. "Like, you're not a very good translator, dude, so I wouldn't worry."
Mikey giggles a little. "Shut up, whatever. I just mean, he's not being jerk to like," his voice fades suddenly, "...hurt you. Or whatever."
Frank digs the heel of his palm into his right eye, tries to gouge out the exhaustion he can feel building there. "Okay, dude," he says finally.
***
"It's not like I'm dying to marry the fucker," Frank mutters confidingly to Ray, who looks up from GarageBand.
They're having Late Night Guitarist Sessions in the studio on the back of the bus. Usually this consists of Ray painstakingly reworking, recording, and aligning clips while Frank conducts a one-sided therapy session about his relationship with Gerard. So really, this comment is par for the course and Ray should be doing his usual "uh-huh"s and "I believe it"s.
"But?" Ray commits himself to the conversation, clicking away from their work-in-progress.
Frank lightly fingerpicks the riff they've been working on, playing with a different ending. "He didn't have to announce to the entire fucking tour that we're not solid," he says quietly. "I mean, I'm not crazy for thinking that's--whatever."
"Out of line," Ray fills in.
"Or just--I don't know." Frank shrugs like he's got an itch crawling up his back. "Like, if he really feels that way, why wouldn't he just tell me himself? Why would he go around yelling about how we're never gonna make it and he doesn't wanna fucking marry me? I don't--I mean why?" His voice rises, somehow sounding both angry and forlorn to Ray's ears. Frank hunkers down to perch his chin against the body of his guitar.
"I don't know, dude," Ray sighs, reaching out to ruffle Frank's hair in what he hopes is a comforting manner. "I mean, Gerard logic isn't always--it doesn't always make sense, for one, and for another, it's never what you think it is."
"Hmm," Frank acknowledges. "That's what Mikey said."
"So why are you back here wasting time with me?" Ray hits the mousepad and his computer flares back into awake mode. "Mikey knows what's up. You should talk to Gerard."
"Maybe I'm still pissed off," Frank whines half-heartedly.
Ray smiles at the computer screen and waves Frank away. "Go talk about your feelings with your boyfriend, Iero. I'm done with you."
Frank drags his feet on the way out.
***
The bunks are dark but Frank can tell Gerard's thinking-breathing from his sleeping-breathing, so he sits down cross-legged on the floor next to the drawn curtain. He can hear Bob and Mikey watching some horror movie up in the lounge and the intermittent blood-curdling screams are comfortingly familiar. In the dark, with Gerard on the other side of the curtain, he feels like he's sitting in a confessional, a little bit, and he huffs a small laugh.
"Frankie?" Gerard asks quietly.
Frank sits silently for a few moments, picking at the scabbed blood on his elbow.
Gerard breathes. After awhile he says, "Sometimes I pretend I'm lying in a coffin in here. It's helpful. For thinking."
"I know." Frank knows. He knows.
"Yeah."
Frank frowns at the dried blood under his fingernails. It feels gross and creepy. "Do you want to break up?" he asks.
Gerard stops breathing. "I--does this--" he stutters, "do you?"
Frank picks sharply at his fingernail beds. "That's not. You don't get to do that." He bows his head and squints at his nails, wiggling them in front of his face.
"Sorry." Gerard breathes out slowly. "No," he says. "I love you. I don't want to break up."
Frank leans his head against the edge of the bunk, curtain scratchy on his cheek. He rubs it there a little bit. "Okay," he says. "You're an asshole."
Gerard sputters and yanks the curtain back, flailing and jostling Frank's nose against his shoulder. "Why am I an asshole? You've been avoiding me!"
Frank glares up at him through his eyelashes, face squished into Gerard's armpit. "You're a fucking asshole and also the most socially retarded person I've ever met. What is your damage, Gerard fucking Way?"
"Why?" Gerard squawks demandingly. "Also, retarded is not a nice word, fuckdick. Don't be a jerk."
"Don't be a jerk?" Frank boggles at him. "Are you for fucking serious?" He clambers up onto the bunk, shoving Gerard back against the headboard and sitting down hard on Gerard's knees.
Gerard winces and shoves at him ineffectually like a big wimp. "Yes, I'm for fucking serious. Jesus, oww! I don't understand you!"
"So we shouldn't get married?" Frank mocks meanly. "Because you don't understand me and there's no point because we'll never make it anyway, right?"
"What?" Gerard goes limp and stares up at Frank, eyes wide and shocked.
"That's what you think, right?" Frank prods, glaring furiously.
"That's not--no! I don't think that at all! What?" Gerard looks utterly baffled and Frank sits back, crossing his arms.
"I don't want to marry you," Frank states.
"Okay?" Gerard seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop, fingers twitching nervously where they had been scrabbling against Frank's thighs.
"You don't want to marry me," Frank recaps.
"Yes," agrees Gerard pensively.
"Why?" Frank demands.
"Why?" Gerard squinches up his nose.
"Why."
"Oh," Gerard says, like the light just went on upstairs. "Oh, why don't I want to marry you!" He nods enthusiastically.
Frank tightens his thighs around Gerard's hips warningly and peers down at him. "Make sense," he commands.
Gerard laughs and presses his palms warmly against Frank's jeans. "I think marriage is a flawed institution," he says. "And we are not."
Frank blinks.
"Also, I don't want anyone's approval to love the fuck out of you," Gerard adds. "Even when you're being a little shit."
Frank perches on top of Gerard and blinks a little more. Then he snorts and pinches Gerard's side in frustration. "I don't understand you," he says.
Gerard's eyes dim worriedly. "But you do," he insists. "You do a lot. Just not always."
"Not always," Frank echoes.
"That's okay," Gerard nods earnestly. "Sometimes I do dumb shit that doesn't make sense. Well, except to maybe Mikey," he considers.
"Fucking Mikey," Frank sighs. "What a fucking terrible translator. Jesus."
"Hey!" Gerard hits Frank's kneecap with his pathetic little fist.
"Paci-fist," Frank mumbles to himself nonsensically and giggles.
Gerard watches him, smiling like some dorky asshole in love.
Frank leans down and brushes his lips over Gerard's smile. "Let's not get married," he announces.
"Let's not," Gerard grins.
"Let's get naked instead," Frank decides, and pulls his hoodie over his head, banging his elbow on the ceiling along the way.
Frank/Gerard
~2,700 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. These characters are based on people of the same name, but that's pretty much where reality ends here.
Warnings: Uhh, non-canonical ideas about marriage?? IDK. Obviously, IRL Gerard and Frank are happily married. Um, to ladies. \o/
Notes: drusillathemad is a hero for giving this the old once-over.
Update: desert_neon made a podfic version, which you can download here.
They're on the bus, somewhere between Kansas City and Denver, when Ray pauses during his morning internet puttering and makes a "huh" face at the screen. "Huh," he says.
Mikey glances over from the couch, where he's been paging through an old Kerrang that he recovered from under Frank's bunk. He strongly suspects Frank stashed it there in an attempt to hide the mysteriously torn-out square on page forty-seven. Mikey hasn't yet worked out exactly what kind of blackmail material this gives him over Frank, but he's resourceful.
"Huh," says Ray again, more emphatically.
"Did you want to share something, Ray?" Bob asks dryly, looking up from his morning crossword puzzle. He's mostly just been staring at 60-Down, "Hard ______!" (helmsman's cry), for the past two minutes anyway.
Ray seems vaguely startled to recall that there are other people in the lounge. "Oh," he says, eyes darting over to the kitchen counter where Gerard is mainlining his third mug of coffee, then quickly to Frank's prostrate form in front of the TV. "Nothing, no--it's just. Um, this news article. About, like, gay marriage, I guess? In Jersey?"
Frank turns his head, turtle-like, and squints over his shoulder. "What the hell are you talking about, Toro?"
"I don't know, I just saw it on, like, CNN," Ray shrugs, looking a little abashed. "Apparently it's legal now or something?"
"In Jersey," Gerard confirms, mouth tilting in a bit of a frown.
Ray shrugs, nodding his head to the side.
There's a brief silence in the room, a waiting silence, everyone clearly expecting Gerard to make a pronouncement of some sort. Gerard slurps at his coffee for a few seconds, face inscrutable, and then says, "huh."
Bob coughs and turns his attention back to the newspaper. Mikey idly throws his magazine down and ambles back to the bunks, texting furiously. Frank eyes Gerard briefly, then steals Mikey's abandoned spot on the couch and tunes back into his TV show.
Ray is somewhat baffled. He watches as Gerard absently wipes his sleeve against his nose, then wraps it around the hand cradling his mug and goes to join Frank. After a moment, Frank rearranges himself, stuffing his bare feet between the small of Gerard's back and the couch. Gerard shifts and makes a cranky face, then settles back again with his free hand resting on Frank's shin.
Ray frowns worriedly and catches Bob's glance as he turns back to his laptop.
"Dude," says Bob, "is it just me or is the New York Times crossword puzzle written by a bunch of fuckin' closet cases?"
***
"It's just," says Gerard in the middle of soundcheck, "is it really necessary to involve the state in a ceremony that's supposedly about love? Isn't that just playing into some bullshit idea of marriage as, you know, a certificate of approval or ownership? How is that acceptable? Why would we want to join in an institution that's been used to, like, deny women's personhood and shit?"
The arena falls silent for a moment and even the techs taping down cords by the sound board pause to look up at the stage.
"Uhh," says Ray, "you're on the mic, Gerard."
Gerard waves this off, but he does turn and fasten his mic back onto its stand.
Frank kicks his heels against the amp he's perched himself on and cocks his head at Gerard. "So you're saying you don't think gay people should get married? Like," --his eyes narrow a smidgen-- "what, they shouldn't celebrate being in love because of your political principles or something?"
Gerard frowns at him. "I'm saying I don't think that marriage is really such a great idea. I can think of hundreds of reasons why it's a bad idea and like, five why it might be useful, you know?"
Frank scratches his nose and shrugs. "Some stuff isn't about logic, though. I mean."
"I just don't see the point," Gerard continues obliviously, gathering momentum and cocking his hip like he does whenever he gets riled up about some worldly injustice. "If your relationship's gonna last, it's gonna last, and if it's not, it's not. There's no use getting the stamp of approval like it's gonna fix all your problems."
Frank gazes at him with a funny look on his face.
Gerard doesn't seem to notice, caught up in his self-righteous rant, and it's very familiar but also very unsettling. Frank is kicking his heels harder and harder against the amp and Ray suddenly realizes that all the techs on stage, plus whoever else, are about to witness Gerard and Frank having a spat, which is probably not the best idea. Mikey is carefully staring at his bass, silently forming chords. Ray sighs quietly and glances at Bob, who obligingly breaks it up with a tight sting on his cymbal.
Frank's attention redirects itself and he summons up a smirk for Bob. "Hang onto your hi-hat, motherfucker," he says, aggressively promising. "I'm gonna get you tonight."
***
As it turns out, Frank not only gets Bob (mercifully, without utterly dismantling his kit), but also manages to scrape his own left elbow raw, swing Texas into Mikey's ribs, and dislodge a rather important cable, which results in several minutes of raucous ad-libbing on Gerard's part and several minutes of frantic scrambling on the techs'.
What Frank doesn't do is go anywhere near Gerard.
***
"You're dripping on me, dude," Bob comments as he piggybacks Frank offstage. Frank clutches harder at Bob's neck. "Seriously," Bob says. "You're bleeding kind of a lot. Lemme get Ray to grab the First Aid Kit."
Frank shakes his head and slithers down Bob's back as they reach the dressing room. "I got it." He throws himself at the bathroom and a minute later Bob can hear the water running.
"How are you gonna patch up your own elbow in the sink?" Bob yells to him.
"I can do it!"
"It's like, physically impossible, dude!" Bob settles in a chair by the bathroom door.
"I can do it!" Frank insists.
Gerard pokes his head in the room and Bob nods cautiously at him, listening with half an ear to Frank's swearing and various thuds.
"Hey, is he--" Gerard stops, cracking his knuckles absently and bouncing one knee against the door frame.
"What?" Bob asks.
"He's not pissed at me, is he?" Gerard seems confused and Bob wonders whether he actually even heard himself out there during soundcheck, if he grasps the problem.
"No," says Bob. "I think he's abusing himself in there because he's just such a cheerful little fucker."
Gerard frowns and looks down at his shoes. He wiggles his toes a little and then blurts, "I don't like it when he avoids me."
Bob doesn't really want to play couples therapy, but, "Then maybe you should tell him that."
"Frank," Gerard yells, and Bob winces. "Can I come in there?"
"Fucking what the fuck, motherfucker?" Frank's swearing seems to have redirected itself at Gerard.
"I want to talk to you!" Gerard's twitchy knee reaches a frenetic pace.
"So talk from out there, Jesus, I'm up to my elbows in blood, here!"
Gerard casts Bob an alarmed look, but Bob shakes his head.
Gerard seems unsure, stubbing his toes against the carpet, but he glances again at Bob, who nods encouragingly. Gerard shrugs and yells, "I don't want to get married!"
There is a silence from the bathroom and the water shuts off. Bob buries his face in his hands.
"Get me a motherfucking band-aid, Bob," Frank calls, sounding very strange. "One of those stretchy ones. This shit is messy."
Bob gets up and brushes past Gerard and then nearly runs into Mikey and Ray, standing there in the hall with the First Aid Kit.
***
It's raining outside the venue when Frank steps out for a cigarette. He pulls his hoodie up over his sweaty hair and bows his head to light up against the chilly drizzle. The lighter flicks and fizzles and Frank sighs in frustration, resting his head back against the brick for a moment, raindrops plopping against his eyelids. He finds it strangely comforting, so he doesn't move when he hears the rusty squeak and thump of the backstage door.
There's the shuffle of sneakers and then Mikey's hacking cough, and then the snap and sharp scent of sulfur as he lights a match. Frank feels a slight tug on the cigarette that's still dangling between his forefingers and he lets Mikey have it. After a moment he opens his eyes to look up at the dull gray clouds.
"Here," Mikey mumbles, awkwardly holding out Frank's lit cigarette.
Frank reaches out to take it, then sticks it between his lips and inhales heavily. He lets the exhale burn out through his nose, unwilling to lift a finger or interrupt his nicotine flow.
"Fuck this shit with a spoon," Frank mutters lowly after a few good hits.
Mikey sticks his hands in his jeans pockets and somehow folds inward on himself. He wrinkles his nose in an attempt to push his glasses back up from their perch.
Frank glances over at him, then volunteers, "Sorry about your ribs, dude."
Mikey sort of shrugs. He stares off over the floodlit loading area and then says, "I don't want to get in the middle of things."
Frank blinks at him.
"You and Gee, I mean." Mikey frowns. "Like, that's your thing and I don't want to involve myself in my brother's relationship, you know? It just gets complicated with him sometimes and I don't want to be the translator or the messenger or whatever."
Frank exhales because he's going to need more nicotine for this conversation. He nods.
"Just--just, I don't think he's thinking what you think he's thinking. Is all," says Mikey coherently.
"Uh," Frank finally pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. "Like, you're not a very good translator, dude, so I wouldn't worry."
Mikey giggles a little. "Shut up, whatever. I just mean, he's not being jerk to like," his voice fades suddenly, "...hurt you. Or whatever."
Frank digs the heel of his palm into his right eye, tries to gouge out the exhaustion he can feel building there. "Okay, dude," he says finally.
***
"It's not like I'm dying to marry the fucker," Frank mutters confidingly to Ray, who looks up from GarageBand.
They're having Late Night Guitarist Sessions in the studio on the back of the bus. Usually this consists of Ray painstakingly reworking, recording, and aligning clips while Frank conducts a one-sided therapy session about his relationship with Gerard. So really, this comment is par for the course and Ray should be doing his usual "uh-huh"s and "I believe it"s.
"But?" Ray commits himself to the conversation, clicking away from their work-in-progress.
Frank lightly fingerpicks the riff they've been working on, playing with a different ending. "He didn't have to announce to the entire fucking tour that we're not solid," he says quietly. "I mean, I'm not crazy for thinking that's--whatever."
"Out of line," Ray fills in.
"Or just--I don't know." Frank shrugs like he's got an itch crawling up his back. "Like, if he really feels that way, why wouldn't he just tell me himself? Why would he go around yelling about how we're never gonna make it and he doesn't wanna fucking marry me? I don't--I mean why?" His voice rises, somehow sounding both angry and forlorn to Ray's ears. Frank hunkers down to perch his chin against the body of his guitar.
"I don't know, dude," Ray sighs, reaching out to ruffle Frank's hair in what he hopes is a comforting manner. "I mean, Gerard logic isn't always--it doesn't always make sense, for one, and for another, it's never what you think it is."
"Hmm," Frank acknowledges. "That's what Mikey said."
"So why are you back here wasting time with me?" Ray hits the mousepad and his computer flares back into awake mode. "Mikey knows what's up. You should talk to Gerard."
"Maybe I'm still pissed off," Frank whines half-heartedly.
Ray smiles at the computer screen and waves Frank away. "Go talk about your feelings with your boyfriend, Iero. I'm done with you."
Frank drags his feet on the way out.
***
The bunks are dark but Frank can tell Gerard's thinking-breathing from his sleeping-breathing, so he sits down cross-legged on the floor next to the drawn curtain. He can hear Bob and Mikey watching some horror movie up in the lounge and the intermittent blood-curdling screams are comfortingly familiar. In the dark, with Gerard on the other side of the curtain, he feels like he's sitting in a confessional, a little bit, and he huffs a small laugh.
"Frankie?" Gerard asks quietly.
Frank sits silently for a few moments, picking at the scabbed blood on his elbow.
Gerard breathes. After awhile he says, "Sometimes I pretend I'm lying in a coffin in here. It's helpful. For thinking."
"I know." Frank knows. He knows.
"Yeah."
Frank frowns at the dried blood under his fingernails. It feels gross and creepy. "Do you want to break up?" he asks.
Gerard stops breathing. "I--does this--" he stutters, "do you?"
Frank picks sharply at his fingernail beds. "That's not. You don't get to do that." He bows his head and squints at his nails, wiggling them in front of his face.
"Sorry." Gerard breathes out slowly. "No," he says. "I love you. I don't want to break up."
Frank leans his head against the edge of the bunk, curtain scratchy on his cheek. He rubs it there a little bit. "Okay," he says. "You're an asshole."
Gerard sputters and yanks the curtain back, flailing and jostling Frank's nose against his shoulder. "Why am I an asshole? You've been avoiding me!"
Frank glares up at him through his eyelashes, face squished into Gerard's armpit. "You're a fucking asshole and also the most socially retarded person I've ever met. What is your damage, Gerard fucking Way?"
"Why?" Gerard squawks demandingly. "Also, retarded is not a nice word, fuckdick. Don't be a jerk."
"Don't be a jerk?" Frank boggles at him. "Are you for fucking serious?" He clambers up onto the bunk, shoving Gerard back against the headboard and sitting down hard on Gerard's knees.
Gerard winces and shoves at him ineffectually like a big wimp. "Yes, I'm for fucking serious. Jesus, oww! I don't understand you!"
"So we shouldn't get married?" Frank mocks meanly. "Because you don't understand me and there's no point because we'll never make it anyway, right?"
"What?" Gerard goes limp and stares up at Frank, eyes wide and shocked.
"That's what you think, right?" Frank prods, glaring furiously.
"That's not--no! I don't think that at all! What?" Gerard looks utterly baffled and Frank sits back, crossing his arms.
"I don't want to marry you," Frank states.
"Okay?" Gerard seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop, fingers twitching nervously where they had been scrabbling against Frank's thighs.
"You don't want to marry me," Frank recaps.
"Yes," agrees Gerard pensively.
"Why?" Frank demands.
"Why?" Gerard squinches up his nose.
"Why."
"Oh," Gerard says, like the light just went on upstairs. "Oh, why don't I want to marry you!" He nods enthusiastically.
Frank tightens his thighs around Gerard's hips warningly and peers down at him. "Make sense," he commands.
Gerard laughs and presses his palms warmly against Frank's jeans. "I think marriage is a flawed institution," he says. "And we are not."
Frank blinks.
"Also, I don't want anyone's approval to love the fuck out of you," Gerard adds. "Even when you're being a little shit."
Frank perches on top of Gerard and blinks a little more. Then he snorts and pinches Gerard's side in frustration. "I don't understand you," he says.
Gerard's eyes dim worriedly. "But you do," he insists. "You do a lot. Just not always."
"Not always," Frank echoes.
"That's okay," Gerard nods earnestly. "Sometimes I do dumb shit that doesn't make sense. Well, except to maybe Mikey," he considers.
"Fucking Mikey," Frank sighs. "What a fucking terrible translator. Jesus."
"Hey!" Gerard hits Frank's kneecap with his pathetic little fist.
"Paci-fist," Frank mumbles to himself nonsensically and giggles.
Gerard watches him, smiling like some dorky asshole in love.
Frank leans down and brushes his lips over Gerard's smile. "Let's not get married," he announces.
"Let's not," Gerard grins.
"Let's get naked instead," Frank decides, and pulls his hoodie over his head, banging his elbow on the ceiling along the way.