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Jul. 18th, 2009

This Is More (4/12)

Title: This Is More.
Author:</a></b></a>letsriothailbby
Pairing:
Past Gerard/Frank, Mikey/Frank.
Rating:
Stars off around R, leads to NC-17.
POV:
Frank's and then Mikey's at the end.
Summary: Ten months is a long time, but Frank learns that twelve can fix broken things.
Disclaimer:
I don't own anyone. This is fake. Title taken from the song 'This Is More' by Stick To Your Guns.
Author Notes:
My first fic, so it may not be too great, but I worked really hard on it.
Beta:
My room mate and a few friends.
Warnings:
Language and drug use.

________________________________________



December.

“Gerard knows.”

It’s a Wednesday when Mikey ends up saying this. Frank turned his head to look at him, eyes mild before they dropped to the table and he flicked a page in the book they were sharing to study while they sat on his bed.


“Frank.”

Really, it isn’t that Frank was trying to ignore him. It’s more or less a mixture of not knowing what to say and trying to figure out what the other wants him to say. There has to be a response that Mikey was looking for, and Frank guessed that he should probably know anyway. But he didn’t, so he opted for pretending to be excessively more interested in his homework than he ever had been the entire time he’d been in school since Pre-K.

Frank.

Admittedly, Frank knew that he was in trouble then. He knew that he couldn’t keep ignoring the boy next to him on the bed forever. It was easy to tell what he meant, and even easier to believe it. Of course Gerard would have found out. Since the kiss they shared, Mikey half asleep and Frank freaking out, they had spent entirely too much time continuing that than really talking about it. They kept it to a light amount in public, reserving it for hand holds or tiny pecks. No one had really caught on, as weird as that may have been for him to think about, but he was glad about it. Until now.

“I don’t what you want me to say,” Frank said, which turned out to be the wrong response. The bead let out a low groan, almost as aggravated-sounding as Frank was about the whole situation. “You don’t have to say anything, I just thought you’d want to know.” Mikey’s voice was far away and Frank turned to look, watching as he paced around the room over and over and over. It almost made him dizzy. Frank said nothing, even still, and the taller, leaner version of someone he used to know ended up leaving the room.

---

It was unnerving for Frank, how easy it was for the entire Way family to seemingly be so good at just walking out on people. He wanted to be mad at him. He spent an entire three days sitting with a different lab partner until it was the weekend, only then realizing that he had no one to go to. No one to talk to. Nothing. Frank knew that it was his fault – that much was painfully obvious. It was bad enough that he was scared to walk around campus at that point because of two people, but when he thought about it long enough, it was much worse that they were in the same family. So Frank decided to smoke some weed. A lot of weed actually. More than he had any time Mikey felt the need to be adventurous and couple it with beer, or tequila, or something else. He smoked when he woke up, before he went to bed; at night, in the morning; tired or awake; busy or not. It didn’t matter to him. As cliché and completely fucking ridiculous as he was being, Frank didn’t even notice, because he was high.

It was yet another Wednesday when Frank got a phone call. Wednesday being Christmas Eve, and he was high out of his mind, having forgotten to call his mom. Or anyone in his family, really. Or Mikey.

There was a series of fumbled limbs in order to grab the phone, but he managed in a flurry of flailing body parts and a slur of swear words that even he didn’t understand as they came from his own mouth. The buttons were all lit up when he finally pressed the green one to answer the call and the phone was up against his ear. Frank was on his back, throat cleared as he greeted the person on the other end, who he really did hope was Mikey so he could apologize and - he was about half way through smiling at that thought when he realized that he actually did not have a clue who was on the other end of the phone.

“Hello Frank.”

Honest-to-God, he almost threw up then and there.

“Gerard?”

Emotions, no matter what category or intensity or rarity or any other influential type of word to describe them could not do justice to what he felt then. It was not Mikey. That voice was definitely not Mikey, at all. The (not so) funny part was that there was obviously no reason that he could think of pertaining to why Gerard would be calling him, especially when his first glance at a clock all night told him that it was four in the morning. Four in the morning. Something about the situation seemed so familiar… Too familiar. How many times had Gerard called him at four in the morning, towards the end, to get a ride home from bumfuck nowhere or to drunk dial him or to tell him that he was a piece of shit for missing out on this ‘killer fucking party, man’. It kind of made Frank want to throw up again just to think about it, but (despite the weed) there was absolutely nothing in his stomach and there really is never a good time, or a comfortable time, to dry heave.

“Yes, it’s fucking Gerard. Do you ever look at your caller ID? Look, I need a favor.”

The words were drowned out then. A favor? Frank didn’t even what he wanted, or what he was asking, because it was so clear to him that he didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to be walked all over and used and he certainly did not want to talk to his ex boyfriend when he should have been on the phone with the previously mentioned ex’s brother and –

Forty-five minutes later he found himself on the door step of someone’s house whom he did not know. Fifty minutes later he was still waiting. An hour and seven minutes later, Frank ended up in his car with Gerard riding shot gun next to him, talking some shit about some people that Frank does not know, nor does he care to know him. It’s hard for him to figure out how he got from point A to point B, or how he is somehow able then to reason with himself that it’s okay not to study up for his stupid fucking Chemistry class that started up again the next week at the beginning of January (a new year, not that he cared) because Mikey and him aren’t even talking, let alone spending Christmas together, because of the person in his passenger seat. But, as usual, Frank wasn’t even able to be mad at anyone but himself, especially because Gerard was actually talking to him. He was smiling and telling a story and asking him to, please pull over for just two seconds because he really wanted a candy bar and he swears to make it up to him.

An hour and forty-two minutes later, Frank was finding it increasingly hard to think at all. Because by that point, he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. All he did know that Gerard was yelling, faintly in the background and nothing made sense in his head except the fact that his back hurt and, distinctly, he could have sworn that the car had stopped moving even though they weren’t at a red light.  But… There were red lights. There were a lot of red lights. And blue lights, and white lights, and Frank found himself wondering why there wasn’t a green one. Why couldn’t he go? Why was his foot not pressing on the gas, his hand not switching to first gear and then third once he hit the right street?

---

Two hours and two minutes later, Frank wasn’t aware of anything at all, though Mikey was. Because Mikey was the one sitting in the hospital room on Christmas morning, back pressed up against the hard plastic of a sterilized chair, staring at the beds that held both his brother and his best friend (boyfriend?) at approximately 6:15 in the morning. He is the one who is vaguely aware of heart monitors and the fact that, really, everything was going to be fine. That Gerard fractured his wrist and that Frank has some bruises along his chest where the seat belt held him back as well as the tiniest concussion in the world, though it wasn’t anything to worry about. Although, honestly, the thing that Mikey is the most aware of is the fact that Frank had a hickey on his neck that he certainly did not give him, and that his brother’s lips were bruised from kissing and that, even though they’re both asleep, Mikey was almost positive that wherever they are were in their minds that moment, that they were together. Riding in Frank’s car.

Laughing and smiling.

________________________________________
 

A/N: So I'm about the most terrible person at updating anything in my life, at all. Ever. It's almost kind of embarrasing, actually. But... Yeah. Truthfully I wrote this around five-six in the morning and I really only did it because there's this rough outline in my head of how I want this to go, and this just seemed like a good way to get the plan in motion.  PLUS, I'm not a huge fan of fluff and I did not want something cute and Christmas-y at all. My bad if you were hoping for that, by the way. I'm going to stop promising to update frequently, because I'm good at breaking those promises, but I'll try my very best to get the next chapter out by the end of the month. Also, I have no idea what day Christmas actually falls in this year, and I figure that since none of this is real, I can manipulate the calendar anyway. This is a really, really long author's note... My bad, haha. OH. Also, if I switched tenses at all, during any point, I totally apologize. My writing style is all over the place, so if I said is instead of was or something, please ignore it. I'll figure it out once my roomie actually looks over it for a decent amount of time.

x,
Haleigh.

P.S. I have a new personal journal if anyone feels like adding it. Someone asked me to put it up, so I thought I might as well. chststrhdblrx :)

Jun. 26th, 2009

This Is More (3/12)

Title: This Is More.
Author:</a></b></a>letsriothailbby
Pairing:
Past Gerard/Frank, Mikey/Frank.
Rating:
Stars off around R, leads to NC-17.
POV:
Frank's
Summary: Ten months is a long time, but Frank learns that twelve can fix broken things.
Disclaimer:
I don't own anyone. This is fake. Title taken from the song 'This Is More' by Stick To Your Guns.
Author Notes:
My first fic, so it may not be too great, but I worked really hard on it.
Beta:
My room mate and a few friends.
Warnings:
Language and mentions of slight drug-use and violence in this chapter.


________________________________________



November.

Frank hated the series of Holidays that occurred at the beginning of the school year: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Boxing Day (if you were Canadian, which he wasn’t, but the calendar he never used told him of the holiday’s existence), and New Years. Thus followed Valentine’s Day and eventually Easter and so on. Why the United States had to have so many fucking holidays was beyond him, but he was trying to come to terms with the fact that he was expected home for real this year. His mom had called and third week of November to remind him that he was set to catch a plane the twentieth and stay through the twenty-seventh. One entire week back home in Jersey with all of his lovely, Italian extended family; he was not looking forward to it.

“I just don’t see why she wants me to come home,” Frank complained, laying on the floor of his dorm room. Mikey was still trying to do their Chem project, with or without a majority of Frank’s help. They’d been working on it for about a week now and the most the other had done was look up definitions and highlight a bunch of shit that didn’t matter. But, really, Mikey didn’t mind. Mostly. “I don’t know, dude. She’s your mom, it sort of makes sense,” the other replied with just the slightest hint of exasperation. The conversation went on like that for awhile and Frank got around to helping his friend out for real at some point anyway. As they were finishing things up for the night, Frank yawned and leaned against his door frame, the other male standing in the hallway. “You need any help packing?” he asked, because Mikey knew that Frank was leaving in two days; it was the eighteenth, after all. He was good at keeping track of dates and things, and knowing that made Frank pretty happy. All his life, he’d been terrible at remembering anything at all. “Nah, I’m alright.” He replied with a smile and a shrug. Saying their goodbyes, he headed inside and began to work on packing alone because as much as he knew that Mikey would not have minded, he couldn’t bring himself to ask him for help in yet another aspect of his life.

---

Frank had not thought about Gerard in nine days. He considered this as he sat at a red light between fourth and fifth avenue. Maybe realizing just how long it had been since he’d thought about him cancelled out the fact that he hadn’t thought about him? Or maybe everything was just all mixed up because of earlier that morning when he’d gotten up at four in the morning to get his shit together and begin his two hour long drive in order to get there at six so his mom could cook him breakfast and dote upon ‘the prodigal son’ when he returned. It was in the midst of last-minute packing, he’d stumbled across Mikey’s jacket he must have left the night they’d celebrated Frank’s birthday. He’d laughed about it and tossed it onto his bed, promising himself that he would really remember to give it back once he returned from his holiday family time. The catch had come when he’d turned around a moment later to see the envelope, all pristine and white – although slightly bent – laying there on the floor with his name written in Mikey’s familiar sloppy handwriting. A birthday card. The weird part of it was that Frank had neglected to open it, choosing instead of just pack it away. This was the reason he hadn’t thought of Gerard: Mikey. Mikey was his best friend, a distraction from all things unknown or scary or difficult. He owed him a lot and Frank knew, flicking the blinker to turn right, and he also knew that he would never quite figure out how to repay him.

---

Dear Frank,

You’re turning twenty-one today while a bunch of little kids are running around in dumbass ghost costumes and getting candy, whereas we get to get wasted and still eat candy, only to regret it once we puke. On second thought, I really hope we don’t puke. I hate doing your laundry, though we both know I’d do it anyway. I don’t know where I’m going with this, but I guess I’m just going to say Happy Birthday and leave it at that. Even when I could say so much more, even when I know that my handwriting sucks and you’ll be squinting at this like you do with my Chemistry notes and wondering what the fuck I’m talking about. I don’t have very much time to write this anyway because you’re getting out of class soon and the first thing I tried to write was completely lame (this one is too, but the other was worse, I swear) and I have to go get you. Anyway… I really care about you, Frank, and I know things haven’t been easy these past weeks but you are doing so much better. I don’t think you realize how strong you are and how much credit you deserve. Well… I’m going to be late, so I’ll see you in a few minutes. I love you, dude. I’ll always be here.

-Mikey.


Standing in the dim kitchen, Frank held the letter in his hand and he bit his lip. He was supposed to be doing the dishes for his mom, but now he couldn’t think about anything. Finally he just put the letter back into his pocket and faced the sink. Moments later, he felt a nurturing hand on his back and he turned to find his mom standing there. Linda looked at him for a moment, her lips pursed and Frank didn’t say anything. “You have to go back, don’t you?” she said finally and he nodded, slowly, like he was ten years old and ashamed of everything so easily. “I’m sorry. I’ll come back… I just. There’s someone I have to talk to.” Frank continued, but his mom merely nodded and he kissed her cheek, muttering something about calling once he got in.

Frank hadn’t expected to end up at Mikey’s dorm at three in the morning, and he really hadn’t expected actually wake him up from knocking. He’d packed everything quickly, throwing all of it into the trunk of his car and probably leaving a few shirts behind in his old room, but he hadn’t cared. Not at all.

“Mikey.”

His voice was quiet, breathing measured by teaspoons since his lungs were no longer working right.

“Mikey.”

And then he kissed him.


________________________________________


A/N: So this chapter really sucks and it was so much later than I expected, but I got caught up with school and summer and bleh. I'm not proud of it, but I figured I had to post something and this will do for now. Apologies for breaking promises about speed and quality, but I really do mean it this time; things will get better and I will reduce my amount of annoying cliffhangers. Thanks

x,
Haleigh.

Jun. 7th, 2009

The Trapeze Swinger [Songfic; 1/1]

Title: The Trapeze Swinger.
Summary: Turns out that a Pete Year didn’t have 365 days, after all (of course it doesn't).
Pairing: Pete/Patrick.
Rating: Soft NC-17.

-------------------------------------------------


A/N: So, I love this song and, awesomely enough, I was referred to it by Pete Wentz himself because I'm a creepy fangirl. Pete's blogspot post here alerted me to it. Today, I felt like writing a fic. It was betaed by myself, so if there are errors, I'm very sorry. It was just something I felt like doing and someone told me they liked it and that I should post it, so here it is. Title belongs to Iron and Wine, the boys belong to themselves, and THIS IS ALL FAKE.


-------------------------------------------------

Please remember me, happily
By the rosebush laughing
With bruises on my chin, the time when
We counted every black car passing

“It’s the sun,” Pete says and Patrick doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But, like Pete had always been, it wasn’t very long until he was explaining it without any encouragement or hint that there was need for explanation. “Not like Father, Son, and Holy ghost or anything,” the older boy continued, fists stuck into the sand of the beach while Patrick just sort of sat there, absorbing all that he could of his best friend. Of Pete. “I mean, like, the sun. It’s got to be the beginning of the world.” Pete finally finished, struggling with his thoughts the way he had since Patrick had met him four years ago when Patrick was three and Pete was eight. Then again, it was more understandable; but the frustration wasn’t anything that Pete had grown out of even now as he was twelve, though Patrick understood it more now that he was around the same age he’d met Pete. Watching the free way beyond the sand, Patrick merely nodded, his sandy hair blowing in the light breeze. “You’re right, Pete.” He said simply because, really, Pete was always right. He was always right.

Your house beneath the hill and up until
Someone caught us in the kitchen
With maps, a mountain range, a piggy bank
A vision too removed to mention

Patrick was way too tired for this, but Pete kept telling him it was important. “Patrick!” he could already hear the expression on his face just by that one word, two syllables; the most familiar shape of words he’d ever heard. “What?” he asked indignantly, although he wasn’t really annoyed. Pete just continued to write things out on the piece of paper in front of him, tongue poking out from between his lips, face wrought with concentration. At some point, Patrick fell asleep just like he was not at all supposed to and when he woke up, the paper was resting on the pillow next to him previously occupied by his best friend. It would have been an innocent piece of paper had it not had such a snarky comment. ‘Because I spent all night collecting these numbers and facts, I hope you know that you owe me a huge batch of brownies that I’ll expect sometime this weekend. And, no, I don’t care how much the postage costs you, fucker. But there was some annoying, sloppy heart at the end of the sentence and Patrick found himself looking at the numbers, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, squinting because Pete had accidentally broken his glasses the week before he had yet to tell his mom the truth about it. Turns out that a Pete Year didn’t have 365 days, after all (of course it didn't). It merely had as many as there were in one summer plus every break he had from college, added up and spread about so he was certain to have ‘at least one solid cumulative month of Patrick time’ in between family visits and vacations he didn’t want to go on, but had to. Rolling his eyes, he shut his eyes to go back to sleep, but not after he’d tucked the piece of paper under his pillow, all folded up like a secret hooked to the beating of his heart.

But please remember me, fondly
I heard from someone you're still pretty
And then they went on to say that the Pearly Gates
Had some eloquent graffiti
Like 'We'll meet again' and 'Fuck the man'
And 'Tell my mother not to worry'
And angels with their great handshakes
But always done in such a hurry

“’Trick, I miss you too, but it’s three in the fucking morning and I-” “You what, Pete?” Patrick asked, nearly furious. But it was just because it was six in the morning for him (how nice that Pete had forgotten, right?) and they’d been on the phone all of five minutes for the first time in three weeks and – “Do you have to sleep or something? Because if I fucking recall, you were the one who would come to my house at ass o’clock in the fucking morning nearly every single day since I’ve known you, and now you suddenly need to get some fucking shut eye?” The words came fast and they burned the back of Patrick’s throat worse than any alcohol the fucker on the end of the phone ever had him try with him or any time he’d ever gotten himself sick worrying about something that most likely had to do with the same fucking fucker he was talking to. “You know what, though? I don’t even care. You can get your stupid fucking sleep and go to your stupid fucking classes with your stupid fucking college friends. I do not care.” Patrick continued, unable to stop himself because he felt like his lungs were going to collapse or something from the stress and the exhaustion and the sheer fucking fact that Pete had said nothing, when most of the time he couldn’t be shut up. A long silence passed before the boy on the other end even said anything, and Patrick did not have to be told in order to realize that this was going to be the last time he talked to Pete for a long time. “Alright, Patrick, if you say so.” Came the last six words he heard from Pete that month, all tired and worn out before the click interrupted his thoughts and Patrick knew that he was alone more than he had been lately even though it seemed nothing had changed.

And please remember me, at Halloween
Making fools of all the neighbors
Our faces painted white, by midnight
We'd forgotten one another
And when the morning came I was ashamed
Only now it seems so silly
That season left the world and then returned
And now you're lit up by the city

Now Patrick lived in the memories the entire first year of high school was Pete was going through his third year of college. The first two years had worked fine, though they saw each other less and less; and now? None at all. They were memories of candy and costumes and figuring out that mistletoe was not, actually, for anyone who stood under it (Pete and Patrick had discovered this the first time they had shared a Christmas. It wasn’t their fault; the system was flawed, and he hadn’t known it was meant to be romantic) that sped back and forth in Technicolor. He found himself spending his days using a filter for everything. Things that were related to Pete were tossed out of his mind as best as he could and, soon enough, he was successfully more miserable than he had originally been before Pete had left. It was safe for him to assume that the other half of this equation that was supposed to be the best best friends ever, seriously was doing just fine when, really, he was doing equally as bad, if not worse. But this was what Patrick wanted for Pete; he wanted for him to be successful, and now he could really do big things, just like how Patrick had always known he would. It was hard to hate him for it, but he found it unabashedly easy to get himself into anyway; karma was not a bitch, and Patrick knew this; she was a wretched, miserable soul.

So please remember me, mistakenly
In the window of the tallest tower
Call, then pass us by but much too high
To see the empty road at happy hour
Gleam and resonate just like the gates
Around the Holy Kingdom
With words like, 'Lost and found' and 'Don't look down'
And 'Someone save temptation'

Pete came back. He came back in a flurry of winter, when he was supposed to be in Vermont with the girlfriend Patrick had not known he had. Pete had forgotten about her somehow, too, because as Patrick laid against the blankets with his best friend, he knew they were saying a million things they couldn’t. “I’m sorry.” Patrick mumbled first, and Pete put on the asshole act and tried to act like he didn’t forgive him when he really, completely, and whole-heartedly did. They stared at the ceiling a long time together, talking about everything all night until five in the morning that only felt like two for Pete and Patrick began to fall asleep. “Hey,” Pete murmured with a smile, poking Patrick’s cheek. He batted him away half-heartedly and sighed, rubbing his face against the pillow as if the warmth would wake him up. “Hm? ’m awake.” He murmured and he felt Pete’s body grow closer, spoiling the space between them in a sudden movement. He could feel Pete’s knee pressed up against his, their feel tangled together somehow he hadn’t even noticed. “What the fuck do you want?” Patrick grumbled and Pete just laughed. It was a nice laugh, a quiet, sandy sort of one; rough with sleepiness. “I love you, ‘Trick,” Patrick heard him mumble and he scrunched up his nose and poked Pete in the stomach. “I love you, too, dickhead. But I’m trying to sleep,” he complained and then it just happened. Pete’s lips pressed up against his and Patrick’s suddenly alert mind woke up to kiss him right back. Like he’d been dormant for years, waiting for this moment to just snap to attention; snap to life. “I love you.” Pete said again when he pulled away and Patrick didn’t even have to say it back; he spoke with his body, and kissed him back until he couldn’t tell who was who they were tangled up so close and when they would wake up the next morning, they could be all the way on the other sides of the bed from each other like it had never happened.

And please remember me as in the dream
We had as rug burned babies
Among the fallen trees and fast asleep
Beside the lions and the ladies
That called you what you like and even might
Give a gift for your behavior
A fleeting chance to see a trapeze
Swinger high as any savior

It would take another three weeks for them to see each other again. Patrick’s winter break this time; college seemed to have everything first. He’d saved up the money the summer before working odd jobs and not spending his allowance, not even telling Pete. He’d just been super stingy with money and the other had simply assumed he was just upset he was leaving and taking it out on him or something. He showed up at his dorm room the night after he bought a plane ticket; after he lied to his parents about the money; after he lied to himself about Pete just might not want to see him again after what happened. But this was his chance, wasn’t it? He needed Pete, he knew it (of course he fucking knew it). Pete had opened the door and then stood there in his boxers, the waist band dipped low to expose his hip bones like he’d been woken up. “Can I stay?” he whispered and Pete reached forward like a ghost in the night, quiet and slow. “Yeah.” He grumbled and pulled Patrick inside. They stumbledtrippedshuffled over to his bed to lie down, mumbling small words that meant nearly nothing except that this was everything. Pete curled up against Patrick’s chest, despite the fact that he was going to be nineteen that year. Patrick kissed the top of his head and Pete punched him lightly in the stomach for staying away for so long. Patrick made up for it by telling him he’d be there all week; it worked.

But please remember me, my misery
And how it lost me all I wanted
Those dogs that love the rain and chasing trains
The colored birds above there running
In circles round the well and where it spells
On the wall behind St. Peter
So bright on cinder gray in spray paint
'Who the hell can see forever?'

But things were hard that week. They danced around each other, somewhat awkward. They slept together for the first time that first night. It was nervous and uncoordinated and, in the end, it was not at all something that Patrick may have been ready for. The five year age difference had taught them both a lot, but in different fields. Pete did confess that night that he was actually virgin and Patrick didn’t know what to say to that. Somehow it was almost fitting that they would lose it together; in another way, it was absolutely mystifying. It was so raw, and for most of the rest of the week, they could barely stay in the same room. They were on the best friend side of things halfway through and they remained that day. It was so easy for Patrick to fall back into eating Chinese with him and talking about the most ridiculous things until late into the morning that it was hard to believe that he’d ever leave. “You know, you should wear a hat,” Pete told him one night as they ate raw cookie dough. Patrick looked over at him and then watched the other lean over off the side of the couch and bring up a pageboy hat that he plopped onto Patrick’s head. He adjusted it and made a face. “Does it realty look good?” Patrick asked and Pete grinned, nodding excitedly, and Patrick just shone. It was so hard to imagine there would ever be an end.

And please remember me, seldomly
In the car behind the carnival
My hand between your knees, you turn from me
And said the trapeze act was wonderful
But never meant to last, the clowns that passed
Saw me just come up with anger
When it filled with circus dogs, the parking lot
Had an element of danger

The night that Patrick was leaving, Pete drove him to the airport and left him at the gate. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, dipping his head low to kiss him very quickly in case anyone was looking: the first time he had touched Patrick like that in days. “Don’t be,” Patrick spoke softly and smiled a bit, taking a step back and waving at him. “I’ll call you.” He promised. They exchanged I love you’s somewhat awkwardly before the final boarding call occurred and Patrick had to tear himself away, scared all over again to go back to a place that he didn’t recognize on his own.

So please remember me, finally
And all my uphill clawing
My dear, but if I make the Pearly Gates
I'll do my best to make a drawing

The next year passed and, before Patrick really knew it, Pete was out of college. He got a job back at home and came over when he could. It was hard to keep things from parents, seeing as Patrick was only sixteen that year, and all the way in April; they had to be so quiet, so careful. “What time do you have to work?” Patrick whispered to Pete one night, the other man still laying beside him; still inside of him, although he was soft, trying to be as close as he could. They were so desperate for that lately; they accepted it, they had to. It was rare for this kind of act of need from Pete though, but Patrick wasn’t complaining. But, then again, the other did pull out moments later after he’d ask his question. “Soon,” he murmured and swung his legs off the side of the bed. He took a long time to say anything else, stretching and then tugging on his boxers. “I’ll see you tonight.” He said simply, and then he was gone. But Pete always came back, every single night, even when he had to work the early shift the next morning. Even when he worked the late shift and had to reach Patrick early in the morning. It was a trade they never spoke about; sometimes Patrick lost sleep, sometimes Pete did. They didn’t separate it up in any sort of even way at all, and they didn’t even acknowledge it. They also didn’t talk about how they knew they were just waiting. Waiting two years. They had planned their futures together years earlier before they had even realized there was something more. It was possible. “It has to be,” Patrick told him out of nowhere as Pete was leaving. “What?” Pete asked, stepping back into the room, his mouth open, lips parted; poised for a response. “The sun, remember?” Pete smiles, he nods. “I remember.”

Of God and Lucifer, a boy and girl
An angel kissin' on a sinner
A monkey and a man, a marching band
All around the frightened trapeze swinger

Pete does remember, actually, thank you very much. He remembers two years later, all of his belongings packed up in the back of his shitty car with Patrick riding shot gun to go to their apartment near the campus Patrick was going to school on. He remembers five years later after they definitely figured music beat work. Pete even remembers ten years later as he turns thirty and Patrick is twenty-five and they are married. There is no end to how Pete remembers. The sun that began everything, the same sun that shines in Patrick’s eyes when he laughs or smiles or does fucking anything at all. “You’re always gonna be here, right?” Pete asks one night and Patrick looks over at him and laughs. “What the fuck? Of course I am, you loser,” he says with a roll of his eyes. Pete merely punches him in the arm and feels lucky that Andy or Joe aren’t there to witness this. He’d never live it down. “Dickhead, I was trying to be nice,” Pete replied snidely and Patrick just grins. “Shut up, you know I love you. Fucking sappy ass.” Patrick says and rolls his eyes. “I hate you.” Pete mumbled, putting on that childish sort of face and Patrick just gives him that look that says ‘I know’ and then kisses him.


And Pete definitely remembers.

Nah nah nah, nah nah nah, nah nah nah...

This Is More (2.5/12)

Title: This Is More.
Author:</a></b></a>letsriothailbby
Pairing:
Past Gerard/Frank, Mikey/Frank.
Rating:
Starts off around R, leads to NC-17.
POV:
Frank, Gerard's, and Mikey's all with the appropriate separation to indicate this.
Summary:
Ten months is a long time, but Frank learns that twelve can fix broken things.
Disclaimer:
I don't own anyone. This is fake. Title taken from the song 'This Is More' by Stick To Your Guns.
Author Notes:
My first fic, so it may not be too great, but I worked really hard on it.
Beta:
My room mate and a few friends.
Warnings:
Language and mentions of slight drug-use and violence in this chapter.


________________________________________



October Pt. 2

It was suspense, and not suspense; it was the cold air on your skin before the razor; it was the calm before the storm. Everything was slow, Frank was still breathing, and Gerard was still walking. He still had that cocky sort of swagger about him, his sunglasses on his face although Frank knew that it was less fashion statement and more of a tasteful deflector for blood shot eyes these days. His mind was racing as he watched him walk over, words from a health class taken years ago echoing in his mind: fight or flight response in common in every individual put under stress, class. You may begin to breathe harder and your heart rate will pick up as the anxiety builds as energy inside of your body. Many people feel fear around this time and can’t think of anything except for the threat at hand. When faced with this reaction, most people will choose to flee the situation, while others may sit there and endure it; there are many psychological reasons behind this, although it is always best to avoid uncomfortable situations.

The problem with Frank was that he always chose to stay when his body took over, shuddering and spewing stomach acid all along his body like it was going to burn right through him. Really, at this point, he wouldn’t have minded because it would have been his fault. He could puss out and get up, just leave, go hide somewhere until he could basically sprint to his next class. But he didn’t, just like he hadn’t moved every time Gerard had screamed at him, every time it had gotten worse and worse towards the end. Sometimes Frank wondered if he even remembered it right; there was no way that Gerard had done what he’d done. Maybe he’d fucked his memory up somehow. It had just gotten confused, hadn’t it? Because he was certain that Gerard would never hurt him physically like the seedy film that played in his head told him. But, at least in the made up world it had never been that bad, although Frank merely had to glance at a certain place on his body and he could watch a bruise materialize right in front of his eyes, ghosts of proof that something had actually happened. It was easier to tell himself then that it was just play fighting. Rough housing. That whenever Gerard pushed him, he didn’t mean to have him slam back into the wall like that, or when he slapped him, it had meant to be playful and he’d simply gotten carried away. No one else knew (who was there to tell anyway?) and it was a lot easier to ignore than it was to accept that they’d made it to that point. Then again, Frank couldn’t ignore anything forever, especially when the person that made him want to ignore everything was speaking right in front of him with words that seemed to be in some foreign tongue that he didn’t even understand.

“What?” Frank asked stupidly, watching a light sneer grow onto Gerard’s lips. He wanted to know what was going on behind his glasses; he wanted to believe that the malice in his voice wouldn’t reach his eyes and that this was all some terrible dream. That he was in a coma after a car accident, that Gerard was actually asleep in a plastic hospital chair, waiting for him to wake up. Waiting to make it better.


“I said happy fuckin’ birthday.” Gerard drawled and Frank already knew that he was drunk which already told him everything he needed to know regarding the reasons he’d walked over in the first place. Muttering a small ‘thank you’ Frank glanced down at the ground and when he looked up, Gerard was gone, vanished into thin air and, as he looked around, he couldn’t find him within the crowds of people like he had been able to months before with merely a glance; the problem was that Gerard didn’t want to be found anymore.

Frank spent the rest of the day wondering if it had ever actually happened.
 

________________________________________

This time last year (funny how so much seemed to surround this thought lately), Mikey hadn’t cared at all about the fact that someone’s birthday could have possibly been on Halloween. This year, it was completely different. He was determined to fill up the space, stretching himself as thin as he could to cover the holes in something that Frank and Gerard had built. Though he was his brother, he was not the same brand of person, and therefore could not patch holes in something that was not his. But he could try, even if it was like a battle between duct tape and the cheapest kind of scotch tape you could find at the store. Then again, who could resist a little breaking and entering? It was no joke that dorm rooms had the shittiest locks in the world, probably because of stupid drinking games that ended with people passed out and needing medical attention or something, though Mikey had no idea. He spent the autumn morning setting things up in Frank’s room, actually skipping out on his first class to do so. Every five minutes he seemed to be anxiously checking his watch just in case Frank had some random panic attack about why he wasn’t in chemistry with him even though he’d texted him four times to tell him that he was sick rather than the mandatory first time, to which Frank had replied that while he was definitely sorry he was sick, he was going to blame him for messing everything up being in class by himself. Mikey didn’t even need the winking emoticon to know he was joking anymore, and it made him smile as he texted back hints and advice before he was yelled at for ‘not getting some rest to improve his shitty immune system’ after which he was certain Frank had either turned off or was ignoring his cell phone since he hadn’t gotten another reply back. It didn’t take very long to sort out Frank’s dorm room anyway, careful not to misplace or upset anything that he knew was kept there for a purpose because of Gerard. He put the shoe box full of things back under the bed, he kept his brother’s old hoodie in the closet, and he certainly did nothing to remove the various drawings and sketches from basically every single nook and cranny in his room. It made his heart ache to look at, to relive those times because he really hadn’t ever seen Frank happier than when he was with Gerard. Sighing a bit, he set the wrapped present and birthday card in the center of the room near the set up Xbox with the controllers ready and he looked up the best place to get decent cheese pizza because Frank always bitched about how certain he was that Pizza Hut skimped on his cheese because he didn’t eat their meat or something equally as ridiculous. There was an eighteen pack in the fridge to ensure good, ridiculous times and he had less than five minutes to get to the quad before all hopes of catching up with Frank were lost. Checking everything over one more time, Mikey stopped for a moment and then snatched the card up off of the top of the present and tucked it into his pocket, deciding against giving it to him at all because, really, it wasn’t important. Not really, anyway. So, with the card tucked into his pocket, Mikey left and made sure to get outside before Frank could and then proceeded to wait
 

________________________________________

Chemistry had been the biggest bitch in the world that morning, but Frank couldn’t blame Mikey. It wasn’t his fault that he was sick, after all. Besides, someone that tiny probably got sick more often than anyone he knew, and when Frank thought about it? Mikey seemed to have a perpetual cold as it was. Turning the corner as he began to walk to the bench to sit down at, deciding against getting coffee at all since he’d gotten used to the company, he pulled out a cigarette and lit the end. He walked a few more paces before he realized someone was echoing his foot steps behind him. Turning around, he saw Mikey standing there and he felt confused for about five seconds before his face broke out into a grin.

“You fucker!” he shouted and then laughed, wrapping his arms around his skinny friend, having figured it all out. “You’re so full of shit, Mikes. Seriously. I don’t even want to know what you did to celebrate my birthday, although it better make up for you missing chemistry because I’m almost certain that Herr Professor was about to stab me when I didn’t know the stupid fucking symbol for carbon on that stupid fucking chart- ” he cut himself off and then smiled again, handing his cigarette off to the other and then bowing his head in thanks with a cheeky sort of grin. “I’m just kidding.” He said in conclusion, ruffling up the other’s hair with an affectionate smile.

“I know, dude. I know.” Mikey said simply before he proposed they ditch the rest of the day and go eat too much pizza and drink too much beer and smoke too many cigarettes. Frank, of course, agreed and they soon headed off in the direction of his dorm, once again talking about everything except for the person that was missing.
 

________________________________________

“What are you doing?” Gerard heard his voice, but he didn’t respond. He barely even turned his head to glance in the direction that Bert was speaking from. He heard him repeat the question and he finally said something. “Nothing, waiting for your ass!” he called back, hearing Bert laugh from the spot he was changing at inside of his room. Gerard was waiting outside, leaning against the door frame while he thought about various things. He’d spoken to Frank, only for a second since they’d broken up, and even though he’d been drunk, he’d still punked out and left before saying much else besides some asshole-y birthday remark. It was his birthday that night, however, and Mikey had mentioned something briefly about how he’d planned something once he started talking to him again. The urge to care was there, but the urge to not care was much stronger. They were over, and he’d ended it; the last thing he deserved was for Frank to actually care about the fact he’d approached him at all, or care that he could quite possibly be thinking about him on his birthday, as he in fact was. The thoughts were broken faster than they had been built up when Bert stumbled out into the hallway, pushing the other a bit as he’d exited the room and then attempting to make up for it with a sloppy kiss to the lips. Winding his arm around Bert’s waist, he walked unsteadily down the hallway with him after shutting the door in the direction of the party they were heading to, just like every other night, just like every other day since he had forced Frank away.

________________________________________

The snapshot to the end of an evening was always Frank’s favorite part. He was laughing and Mikey had tackled him onto the couch, calling him a motherfucker for beating him the seventh consecutive time in Halo. Frank’s argument was simple: Mikey was simply too skinny to hold any sort of beneficial traits inside of him, even if that didn’t make any sense. They were drunk and the pizza was long gone, as was any real sort of melancholy about last year’s birthday. In the end, Mikey had let him unwrap his present before they did anything else because watching him jump around like a school girl was so worth it after so many months. He’d looked like he was about to cry when he saw what it was, even though it was fairly simple, yet effortlessly complicated: his old acoustic guitar, the very first one he’d ever had, all fixed up with new strings and a new neck (thus was the damage done when he’d knocked it over one night, the entire thing basically cracking in half) and everything. Frank had almost felt like crying, just looking at it in a brand new case. He’d hugged Mikey for a long time with a smile on his face before they’d called bullshit on the sentimentals with a laugh and spent the rest of the night just fucking around and talking shit about nothing in particular. In the end, Mikey crashed on the floor with Frank right next to him, too drunk and tired and lazy to get up and move to his bed, feeling more at peace with the world than he had in a very long time.

May. 23rd, 2009

This Is More (2/12)

Title: This Is More.
Author:</a></b></a>letsriothailbby
Pairing:
Past Gerard/Frank, Mikey/Frank.
Rating:
Starts off around R, leads to NC-17.
POV:
Frank's
Summary:
Ten months is a long time, but Frank learns that twelve can fix broken things.
Disclaimer:
I don't own anyone. This is fake. Title taken from the song 'This Is More' by Stick To Your Guns.
Author Notes:
My first fic, so it may not be too great, but I worked really hard on it.
Beta:
My room mate and a few friends.
Warnings:
Language and mentions of drug-use for this chapter, and then sex and violence later on.


________________________________________


October Pt. 1

“Happy birthday, motherfucker!” Gerard’s voice rang out clearest above everyone else’s. It almost sounded natural, the same exuberance that came when he had already started drinking before the party began – he could already see his bright eyes, his hand gripping the sleeve of his hoodie, begging for attention. What was he doing there? Who had planned this party? The light shifted then, the surrounding many turned to one person with what looked like a spotlight on his gaunt features. Jesus, when had he gotten so thin? The face Frank knew, the face that he loved, it turned toward him with a manic sort of grin. “Love Gerard.” He murmured, like he was ending a letter, a sign off from the other side. The side that Frank wasn’t a part of.

Frank woke up with a gasp, eyes shot open and probably blood shot. He groped for his pillow and brought it close to his chest, the muscles in his legs moving to bring them up close to his body until he was a solid lump in the center of his bed. Rapid, eradicated breathing came from his abused lips, all chapped and bitten. It was only a dream, and Frank knew that. The clock blared 4:12 in obnoxiously red lights and he rolled onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling. It wasn’t even the end of the month yet; his birthday and Halloween wasn’t for days. But, still, he stayed up until his alarm rang trying to count the dots on the ceiling and match every one of his feelings to them.

He got to 1, 327 before he decided to get up and take a shower, pretending like he’d never counted at all.

“What are you going to do for your birthday?” Mikey asks as they walk together to get coffee after Chemistry again. It’s pretty much a tradition now, and Frank liked it. He liked to have something in his life that at least resembled order. They didn’t really talk about anything past class, always stuck in the present because they couldn’t talk about the past or the future. It was even hard to talk about everything that was going on now because Mikey had an in on his brother’s life, and Frank was shut out. Sometimes the younger Way brother wants to tell him things, sometimes Frank wants to ask. All in all, though, Frank knows that it’s better not to and he assumes that Mikey caught on. That was, until that day, because it was just inevitable.

“Probably nothing,” Frank replied as he took a sip of his coffee. It wasn’t like he wanted to do anything anyway. At the most, he was going to get heavily wasted and pass out, successfully ignoring any family or friends calling in to give him their best wishes. That was the last thing he fucking needed. “Well, good,” Mikey said simply and Frank looked up, eyes dragging from the web of corpuscles in his hand that he’d been staring at for five minutes to meet his. “Let’s go to a movie or something.” He suggested next and even though it wasn’t getting wasted, even though it wasn’t being alone and wallowing in self pity, Frank said yes less than five seconds later without missing a beat.

In truth, Frank didn’t much feel like mildewed clothes forgotten about in basement washing machine all the time anymore.  At least, he didn’t when he was around Mikey.  They could do whatever and it was so simple, as easy and almost mandatory as breathing.  The initial thought had been that Frank would hate to be around him just because he was Gerard’s brother, but they were so starkly different that it didn’t matter.  He didn’t look at Mikey and see his brother, because Mikey was not like Gerard.  There was a gentleness there, a slight wariness, a thirst to please everyone.  Then again, this didn’t really mean anything. He felt better because of the dumbest things.  Like when it was raining and he didn’t have to concentrate on anything else but he way it hit the windowpane, or when he was driving around in his car at four in the morning, going nowhere, feeling nothing, doing nothing.  It was a lot easier to break things down by steps: blinker, breaks, turn; smile, speak, nod; lather, rinse, repeat.  The way Frank saw it, most things could be answered for him in steps of three.  The one thing that couldn’t possibly follow the rule was the one thing he wasn’t supposed to think about anymore, but that was just fine.

 

The sad part about all of this was that he probably should not have had some answer to justify his actions tucked up in his head in case anyone asked him about it. The words were kept underneath his tongue, hiding in wait. He was fine, he was going to be fine, he had always been fine. A break up wasn’t the end of the world for any normal person, right? Of course it wasn’t, it couldn’t possibly be.

Two days later, Frank changed his mind. The day started out simply with the usual Chemistry and coffee routine with Mikey. It was after that where he was alone for thirty minutes until his next class started, the younger Way brother heading over to his class (it wouldn’t be until much later that Frank would discover that Mikey was late every single day by fifteen minutes, the very same fifteen minutes he spent with Frank drinking coffee and shooting the shit) and Frank usually smoked a cigarette or two just to kill the time. Sitting in the quad, he held the smoke between his fingers and watched as everyone walked around, shouting about various things; not a single one paying attention to him. Flicking the ash from his cigarette, he sighed and his eyes dropped back to the ground. Less than a second later, they shot back up, his ears detecting the faintest hint of something that did not settle right in his stomach.


Gerard was walking over.


A/N: First of all, apologies for the late (and probably terrible) update. And also for the cliffhanger. My muse died on me, but it's slowly coming back which means my next post will be faster and a lot better. Swear. Thanks. <3

Apr. 16th, 2009

This Is More (1/12)

Title: This Is More.
Author:</a></b></a>letsriothailbby
Pairing:
Past Gerard/Frank, Mikey/Frank.
Rating:
Starts off around R, leads to NC-17.
POV:
In this chapter it goes from Frank to Mikey to Gerard and back to Frank, clearly broken up by lines.
Summary:
Ten months is a long time, but Frank learns that twelve can fix broken things.
Disclaimer:
I don't own anyone. This is fake. Title taken from the song 'This Is More' by Stick To Your Guns.
Author Notes:
My first fic, so it may not be too great, but I worked really hard on it.
Beta:
My room mate and a few friends.
Warnings:
Language and mentions of drug-use for this chapter, and then sex and violence later on.



________________________________________


September.

 

The nineteenth day wasn’t any easier.  Wake up, roll over, and make yourself get out of bed.  Maybe everyone lived life like this sometimes, but Frank wouldn’t know.  At least he got up and he took his shower and he put on his clothes.  He made it to Chemistry class on time, where Mikey was standing so diligently with a lab report sitting right there, glaringly white to Frank, but not done on purpose.  Mikey wasn’t that kind of person.

 

“Happy Monday,” And a smile. Frank rolled his eyes a bit and set his bag down.  “Yeah, Money is fun day,” he responded, which made Mikey roll his eyes as well.  The small talk is normal, as are all the questions that Frank has to ask in order to keep up with whatever is going on during this lesson, trying to use up all the empty space for thinking in his brain (there isn’t much) to absorb at least one thing that he’ll have to remember. But Mikey is the patient, quiet voice that translates everything the professor is saying, he is the understanding touch on his forearm whenever Frank gets frustrated.  It’s nice, and it’s easy, and it’s exactly what he needs, and Frank knows that.  But he hates it anyway.  He doesn’t want anyone to care, or have that watchful eye behind the glasses that he suspects Mikey wears because of the night that Frank and Gerard yelled at him about how contacts were fucking lame one night, but has never really called him on. Frank wonders vaguely if he’ll ever initiate conversation ever again.

---


After the lesson, it’s that awkward lapse all over again because Frank and Mikey?  They’re friends, that much is totally clear, but Frank isn’t sure if it’s still that best friend thing they had going Before because the fact that there is a Before and After kind of fucked everything up.  Even so, he asks Mikey if he wants to get some coffee because, in a selfish way, he just doesn’t want to go get coffee alone.

 

Mikey says yes and Frank ends up realizing that he’d initiated the conversation and wonders for the trillionth time in the past few days how surprising himself is even possible at this point.


---

 “You know, I’m never gonna fuckin’ understand why there’s constantly so many people here because, really, it’s a privilege to have a morning class and then a break until you have an evening class on Mondays.”


Mikey always did this, Frank realized.  He talked about a lot of normal, college-type things.  Nothing too specific, nothing too scary, and certainty nothing that could be pigeon-holed to fill up that empty spot the Frank’s lower back where Gerard’s hand should have been.  The reality was that should have didn’t even apply to anything, because if it should have happened, it would have.  Right?  Frank wasn’t entirely sure, and he finds himself totally lost in thought and Mikey has stopped moving at some point moments before and was now standing there in the middle of the quad.  Frank turns back, his lips form the playful what the fuck? but he doesn’t speak because Mikey is looking at him, really looking at him, and he doesn’t even know why.  It’s not very threatening or intimidating despite the fact that it’s sort of haunting Frank and burning through his retinas.  He does, however, suspect that he doesn’t know why for a reason and the reason being that he didn’t know much of anything about interacting with people anymore, so he lets it go.  It was better to pick your battles, wasn’t it?  Finally, Mikey just shakes his head and the flicker of a smile appears on his lips, like a peek-a-boo, and he walks forward to catch up with Frank. Twenty minutes later, they order their coffee and Mikey touches the same place on Frank’s right arm that he always does and, without even looking at him, speaks for the first time since they had begun moving again.

 

“Coffee’s on me today.” And Frank wonders why he never paid attention to Mikey Before even though he knows exactly why.

 

---

Sleep is superfluous these days. He doesn’t really need it, but it’s wired into his system because, hello, he is still a human even if he doesn’t feel remotely normal.  The problem is that the more he rejects it, the more he’s unable to sleep at night and he discovers that sleeping in an empty bed is the single most depressing thing in the world at four in the morning.  It’s really not at all fair to himself that he constantly feels the need place up all sorts of reminders in his brain about how it must be easier for everyone else, how he’s just a fucking idiot, how he needs to get over it/himself/everything.  In the twenty-one days so far since Gerard and he broke up, Frank somehow required a million new CD’s that he puts on repeat every single night, smoking cigarette after cigarette in his room even though he’s not supposed to, and sort of just… Being.  There’s no other word for it because living would seriously be stretching it and he is, in fact, well aware that he probably spends more time in stationary spot than most people do, but that’s fine with him.  Mostly.  Mostly, the word that could describe everything lately.  He was mostly okay, mostly happy, mostly awake, mostly ready, mostly coherent, mostly alive.  But the opposite side of that ‘mostly’ was the thing that got him every single time.

 

________________________________________

 

Sometimes Mikey Way thinks that he could seriously kill his brother.  It was bad enough that he was all superhardcoreintodrugsandtoocoolforanyone!Gerard rather than superlamecomicgeekthatnevergetslaid!Gerard, but the fact that he had to take someone else down with him just wasn’t fair.  Especially to Frank.  Because, well, the younger of the Way brothers had never met anyone else in the entire world that was in more likeness to a teddy bear in his entire fucking life and teddy bears weren’t meant to be abused.  If its eye fell off, you sewed it the fuck back on.  If it got a tear, you patched it up.  Gerard had basically just set the entire proverbial teddy bear known as Frank Anthony Iero on fire and doused the flames with a side of Bert McCracken, who was not at all impressive to Mikey in any way, shape or form.  Besides, who ever said that cocaine was glamorous had obviously not seen their older brother coming down off of it and threatening to throw chairs and shit.  He never told Frank any of this, because he knew that it sucked for him just knowing that Gerard did it at all and he did not need to know how bad he got, and how Mikey was really never in his dorm for longer than an hour at night because his brother needed him simply because his new boyfriend couldn’t be bothered half the time.  How he’d ever thought that going from Bert to Frank was trading up was truly beyond him, and whenever he even mentioned it to Gerard, he was all ‘you wouldn’t understand because you’re younger’ and ‘you’ll know once you fall in love’ but Mikey wasn’t a fool and he knew that Gerard and Bert were in no way in love, except for with each other’s bodies.  Frank and Gerard had been, though.  Everyone in their group knew it and accepted it and thought it was the greatest thing ever.  Even if they were brothers, Mikey would never, ever be able to understand why Gerard did anything.  And it was just another one of those nights where his sibling just proved to him again that the tables should have been turned.  He should have been the one addicted to drugs, he should have been the one fucking up his life, he should have been the one drunk texting at four in the morning because he needed help but could never fucking ask for it.  Mikey was younger, yet light-years more responsible than the elder of the pair had ever been and it was beginning to look like it was always going to be that way.  But this night was different, at least for him.  This was the first night that Mikey Way read the texts on his phone, heard the explosion of music when Gerard resorted to actually calling, and rolled over after turning his phone off and burying it beneath a pile of dirty clothes so he could actually sleep.


This was the first night he decided not to give a fuck.

 

________________________________________

 

In another dorm room on the same night, it wasn’t at all different for Gerard Way.  He is coked up, he is panicking, he is wondering how fast his heart can beat before he dies.  The logical part of him left (around 1.7% at this point) knows that he isn’t going to die.  He also knows that Bert is passed out drunk and it was probably a really bad idea to do a line and then get stuck by himself when he was that high.  It’s worse that Mikey won’t call or text back and he wonders if he did something wrong.  Gerard has been wondering that a lot lately and through his drug-induced stupor he realizes that he doesn’t want to know the answer simply because he knows it already and he doesn’t want to believe it.

 

________________________________________

 

Even still, in a third separate dorm room, Frank Iero is sitting on his bed and listening to Black Flag and smoking a cigarette and for the first time in ten months and nineteen fucking days he is not thinking about Gerard Way.



Apr. 13th, 2009

This Is More (Prologue/12)

Title: This Is More.
Author:

letsriothailbby 
Pairing: Past Gerard/Frank, Mikey/Frank.
Rating:
Leads to NC-17.
POV:
Frank's, occasionally Mikey's in later chapters, and at some point, Gerard's as well (any switches will be clearly labeled).
Summary:
Ten months is a long time, but Frank learns that twelve can fix broken things.
Disclaimer:
I don't own anyone. This is fake. Title taken from the song 'This Is More' by Stick To Your Guns.
Author Notes:
My first fic, so it may not be too great, but I worked really hard on it.
Beta:
My room mate and a few friends.
Warnings: 
Language and mentions of drug-use for this chapter, and then sex and violence later on.

 


________________________________________

Frank’s apartment is dark.  Dark in a way that is really hasn’t been in months, in a way that he never really thought he would make full circle to come back to.  Although, when he thought about it, it wasn’t much of a circle that led him back to square one (he found it easier to think with analogies now, as if figurative language could make it hurt less) – it was more like a zigzag of ups and downs.  Like some obnoxious line graph that could record the points where everything got good and then also the ones where shit just got really, horribly, inexplicably bad. 

It could also plot the slow, steady straight line that was life now: A life unlived.  A life unknown.

It was not his first break up, it was not his first heart break, it was not even his first love that he had lost.  But it hurt in an obnoxious sort of aching way that made even the most cliché lines applicable.  I know I’m alive because my heart’s still beating.  It was aggravating and it was self-deprecating and it was a million other things that could possibly end in ‘ing’ but it never once stopped this ongoing pity party complete – at least in his mind – with shitty hats and shitty music and shitty party favors. 

A party.  That was how this had all begun, ten months ago.  It was a weird thing to do, thinking about how it had built up and culminated and then fell down like a good story that just had a bad ending.  College was for parties, despite what you were told when you were in high school and filling out your applications like all your bad habits would disappear the second you set foot on that beautifully manicured lawn.  They didn’t and, usually, you found more.  At any rate, it could have been totally wrong, but that was how it had gone down for Frank and every friend he had that had gone along to college as well.  Every single friend that he’d ended up losing early on to the other people at those schools.  The ones who were intellectual, driven, smart; Frank still didn’t even know what he wanted to do.  So the parties had begun, a kind of ushering into a life where you could swear the night went on forever until you were waking up, half-drunk and late for your Chem class that had begun, oh, just forty-five minutes ago.

This was the party where he had met Gerard Arthur Way.

Granted, he had met other people there.  Of course he had.  Ray Toro, Bob Bryar, and Mikey Way, obvious brother to Gerard (how he remembered first and last names was beyond him, but it kind of made sense now since they had all been a Unit at some point), had all given him something he’d never encountered before then: a kind of family.  An alliance.  Us against the world and all that shit.  But no one really had him like Gerard had, those hazel eyes across a room, the way he would laugh way too loudly when he was sober and then just shut up whenever he was drunk.  It was all in the way that he could be awkward and shy, but if you shut a door, it was like a whole different person.  A kind of sexual dynamo, all smirking and whispered secrets, murmured responses with sneaky fingers and the casual tilt of a head just to expose perfect, olive-colored skin on his neck.  A party was where it had begun, and a party was where it had all ended, rather anti-climactically.  At least they had lasted through the summer (mostly), something that Frank had thought was impossible, but really wasn’t when you applied for summer housing and now shared a room with your perfect boyfriend and your perfect fucking life and your perfect fucking friends and your perfect fucking happiness.  It began in October, on his birthday because, really, he was cool enough to go out to Halloween parties and feel like they were all for him because he was ‘the coolest motherfucker ever’ for having his birthday on Halloween.  At least, Gerard had thought so.  October was orange and it was bright, leading into the fall and winter months, the spring where he coasted on this new-found contentedness with Gerard and what they drunkenly called ‘the gang’ of everyone else. Ten months was such a long time.  In ten months you could learn the way someone smelled in the morning, wrapped up next to you in dirty blankets that seemed to always smell like beer and cigarettes and the ink your lover used to draw you things that you could never hope to duplicate.  You could learn just how long it took until you missed someone with your entire heart if you didn’t see them (three hours, thirty-seven minutes, fifty-three seconds) and how the joy in seeing them was instantaneous.  You could learn how natural it was to buy coffee for someone else when you went to get your own, even if they weren’t there, and bring it to them without a single care about where you really should have been.  The good things were easiest to remember because there were so many of them, but Frank couldn’t help but remember all of the bad things you learned, too.  There were a lot of them, too.  Like how easy it was to get drunk and say the wrong thing, how easy it was for a miscommunication to occur and also how easy it was to be so aggravated by it that you just couldn’t (because you always would, but sometimes it was too hard to act like it) give a fuck anymore.  But, most importantly, you learned what it felt like to be told that, no, this was not working out and, no, we’re not going to room together anymore once school starts in a week and, no, I don’t love you anymore.

Or, maybe, that was just Frank.

So the darkness of his room just kept haunting him.  Usually there would be a light on the other side, towards the wall, the scratch of some expensive and obscure art pen to paper.  But now Gerard was across the quad, rooming with some guy named Bert that he heard was really into cocaine, which was something that Gerard had started to love as well towards the end.  And Frank?  Frank was in the same room, because as much as he’d wanted to put in a request to change, he couldn’t.  It seemed wrong to leave his room, to let someone else have it, to paint over the place behind his bed that he and Gee had been high enough to attack with pens, writing their initials in the most ridiculous wannabe gangster handwriting that was too tiny to really decipher unless you just knew.  And Frank knew.  He knew a lot.  Mostly bits and pieces anymore, though, of how things were now.  The break up had caused a huge riff between everyone, but somehow he’d managed to hold on at least a little bit to Mikey, Ray, and Bob.  It was harder to hang out with them now, because it was so awkward without Gerard there, too.  He had a new group, with Bert and Jeph and a bunch of other people that Frank didn’t even know.  They didn’t even go to the same parties anymore, although he knew that he’d probably puss-out and leave if they ever ended up in the same room again.

“I don’t know what I did wrong.” There he was again, talking to himself in the dark.  It was all over in August, last month, and now it was September all over again.  October next month, as if his twenty-first birthday really even mattered to him at the moment.  He couldn’t even be mad at Gerard for moving on so fast, but he could be bad at himself. He definitely could do that.  Just like how he could fall asleep, ignoring the glaring lap top that showed the unfinished lap report he had to do, and feel bad that Mikey was his partner, even though he was the kind of guy that understood and would do it for him because he ‘knew his brother was a dick’ and was ‘really sorry about it’ despite the fact Frank was basically convinced that he was just wallowing for no reason even if it had only been eighteen days.  Eighteen days that felt like years.  Eighteen days that might as well have changed the course of everything that Frank had ever thought his future would include, because he so foolishly planned for it to involve Gerard.

Eighteen days that could possibly, just maybe, lead to something better entirely accidentally.