mrsronweasley | "Run" - Frank/Gerard, My Chemical Romance (bandom), NC-17, Part IV

(Part III.)

He curses his own stupidity as he strips down to the skin and shoves everything, from shirt to socks, into the washing machine. Then he stands in the shower for a while, beating off, and by the time he emerges pink-skinned and shiny and absolutely pot-free, Mom is home already. He can hear her puttering about in her room upstairs, and hangs her purse up on a hook when he walks past it.

He's jittery all through dinner, but she makes him eat every last bite.

"It's bad enough you don't get enough protein," she frowns, watching the chicken on her plate like it'll give her the answers she's looking for. Frank forces down three more bites of spinach before attempting to push it away. "Finish it, Frankie."

He sighs, but obeys. He knows she's right – he needs all the iron he can get before tomorrow night.

She sighs right back, but it sounds so different, coming from her.

*

He can't sleep. No matter what he does, no matter how much he tosses and turns, it won't come, and he finally rips all the sheets away and trudges out into the living room. Maybe the couch will be different. He takes his phone with him, too, just in case.

The couch doesn't help, and neither does the bright moonlight streaming through the gap in their too-narrow-for-the-window curtains. He feels it with his every breath, his very bones. It hurts so bad, he barely stops himself from whimpering out loud. He keeps watching his phone, but it's dark and silent.

He's often wondered why he only changes for one night. The moon's so strong like this, it seems impossible that he wouldn't turn just by looking at her, and Jesus, there are nights, nights like this, when turning is all he fucking wants.

His skin doesn't fit his body the way it should, his legs and arms feel put together completely wrong, and he wants to scream or howl or run, run so fucking far, nobody would ever find him again.

He gasps out loud when he clenches his fists tight enough to make them ache, and the pain reverberates all up his arms and into his shoulders, and then he's rocking through it, a shudder that just leaves him panicked at the thought of more.

He hates this so much, sometimes he has no idea why he even bothers anymore. What's the point? And it's getting worse, he knows it is, it's not just the pain talking. It's never been this strong, not since the first year, or this vivid.

He wants to scream, but muffles it into the cushion underneath him. He can feel where it gets damp with time, and he can't tell anymore whether it's spit or tears or sweat, but he knows it's him, leaking all over, feeling like he's bleeding through his skin. He gives up pretense and cries silently. But maybe he wasn't silent enough, because at some uncertain point in the night, he hears his mother's careful steps, and then she's cradling him against her, gathering up as much of him as she can.

She doesn't say anything, just gently rocks him like when he was a kid, and soothes his hot skin with her hand. Frank grabs her nightgown and hangs onto it until he's floating in a grainy world where there's no sky and there's no ground but there's no pain, either, and then there's nothing at all.

*

The moon is still visible in the blue-grey sky when Frank walks out of the house and trudges to the bus stop, and it sets his teeth on edge. For about a millionth time, he wonders why he even bothers coming to school on full moons. It never goes well. Look what he did last time, sucking a stranger off in the fucking bathroom, for fuck's sake. What the hell is it going to be today?

*

He gets into an out-and-out brawl.

He doesn't mean to – God knows, he's not a good fucking fighter, but damn, sometimes it feels good to let loose. It felt good this time, too – just one word from that asswipe Warner and Frank threw his bag onto the ground and lashed the hell out. Teeth, knees, nails, anything he could get him with, he tried. The fucker was tall, but lanky, and Frank knocked him down flat in record time. Tall guys never saw it coming, but the kind of tall guys that usually went for Frankie were meaty assholes. He has no idea what Warner's fucking problem was, but Frank managed to bend that lanky dick in two and shove him down with enough force to send him sprawling.

He got some good hard knocks himself – he's pretty sure his ribs are at least bruised, which will make the change tonight suck hardcore – and when he looks down at his hands, they're smeared in blood. His tongue slides out and he feels the stinging salty split in his lip.

"Fuck."

He blinks and, when he looks up, sees Warner still spread out on the scuffed linoleum floor, watching Frank back with crazed eyes. His long hair is a rat's nest and his clothes are all rearranged to one side, rumpled and even ripped in parts, but the scariest thing of all is the blood trickling down the side of his face, shiny and obscene and too fucking real.

When Frank's tunnel vision clears and all feeling comes back, he realizes that everybody in the hallway is watching him with equally horrified and impressed faces, and somebody else has got him in a pretty strong lock – so strong, he can't move an inch. He shakes his head and his ears pop, all noise returning like he's just emerged from the ocean.

What the fuck.

The familiar thrum of need need need pulsates somewhere under the surface, but it's almost satisfied, like lashing out was what Frank had really wanted to do.

Maybe it was.

He curses and shoves until whoever's got him reluctantly lets go with a warning squeeze. "Are you going to behave, Iero?"

Frank turns around. Masters. Fucking Masters. How did Frank get so goddamned lucky, huh?

"I'm fine," he spits, feeling blood trickle thinly down his chin.

"What the fuck, Iero, I wasn't even fucking talking to you!" Warner's voice is almost hysterical and Frank whips around to get another look at him. He's still bloodied up, but he's also still an asshole.

"You fucking – yes, you were, all you assholes are always fucking pushing me around!" he shouts back when he gets enough breath into his lungs, and then watches, rage filling the corners of his vision, as Warner rolls his eyes at him.

"I just fucking wanted you to move out of my goddamn way, I wasn't – Jesus Christ, what the fuck is your problem, seriously?"

Frank growls – actually fucking growls - and only stops short because Masters physically prevents him moving again.

"Cool it, both of you," Masters barks. Frank has never heard Masters so much as raise his voice. Everybody in the hallway freezes, including Warner's girlfriend, who's just launched herself into the scene by pushing at the gathered crowds and screaming.

"Brian!"

"Quiet!"

This time, it isn't Masters, it's Principal fucking Jackson. The rage Frank felt just a second ago dissipates into cold and clammy fear. His mom's face looms in Frank's mind's eye. He is fucking done for. He tries to swallow, but he can't.

"What in the world is happening at this school?" Jackson booms over all of them, and one by one, the crowd trickles just as quietly out, until the only people left are Frank, Warner, his weeping girlfriend, the authority figures, and some hardcore on-lookers who always see this shit through to the bitter end. Frank can feel them watching him from all sides and his heart hammers blood through his entire body, pumping it with despair.

He is a fucking idiot.

But Warner shouldn't have pushed him.

Once he gets escorted to the Principal's office, catching a quick glimpse of dark dirty hair out of the corner of his eye, that's exactly what he tries to say, but Masters just shoves him onto the bench and tells him to shut up. Warner has been escorted, too, but to the nurse's office. Apparently, Frank's split lip doesn't take precedence over Warner's bloody face or whatever.

He sits there for a long time. He doesn't have his bag, he has no idea where it could be, and for the first time, he doesn't actually care. Masters is still sitting right next to Frank, waiting like he's the one who's in trouble. It's like a really irritating shadow permanently embedded in the corner of his eye. Frank mostly watches his lap, because the two times he looked up, he saw the office secretary watching him distrustfully, so he kept his head down.

After five minutes of nothing, he feels it – that pull. He almost jerks on the spot, and the whiplash of having forgotten is almost stronger than the pull itself. But once he feels it, it doesn't stop, like a fishing line reeling him in. He tries to hold onto the feeling of stillness, of peace, but it slips away like sand through his fingers.

After a moment, he can't even recall what peace might feel like. All he knows, deep down in his bones, is that he can't possibly be expected to just sit there and wait. He breaks into a cold sweat at the mere thought, the back of his neck prickling with it. He swipes at his skin, still looking down at his lap, then straightens up and stares past the disapproving secretary at the clock on the wall.

He's got six hours until the sun sets. Six hours of trying to sit still, waiting to be reprimanded, at best, or just getting thrown out on his ass, at worst. Six hours of listening to Masters breathing quietly beside him and Frank doing his level best not to gnaw his own hand off in sheer frustration.

He's ready to cry when the main office door bangs open and Mom strides in, going right up to the startled secretary and introducing herself.

"I'm Linda Iero, I'm here to speak with Principal Jackson about my son."

The secretary punches a button on the intercom, and Frank watches with a kind of mute horror as Mom steps into the Principal's office and the door shuts behind her. It's both a relief that she's here, and also completely terrifying. She didn't even glance in his direction. She could have been pulled out of a meeting because of him. She could be fired.

*

She leaves the Principal's office just as white-faced and grim as she had entered it, but what she says to Jackson, as he's escorting her, is, "I'm glad you understand, Mister Jackson, and I will make sure this doesn't happen again. I appreciate your leniency."

"And I appreciate your understanding, Mrs. Iero," he answers, and Frank can tell how much it's costing him to be polite to Mom. Fucker. And it's Ms., you miserable asshole, Frank thinks.

She turns to Frank, gaze blank. "Frank, let's go."

He looks away as he stands up to leave, trudging past Masters and gnashing his teeth.

The hallway is empty except for –

"Gerard?"

Frank stops and feels his mom freeze beside him. They both spot Frank's grey messenger in Gerard's hands. He's holding it in a way that's making the seam almost give up its last legs, but when Frank reaches for it automatically, Gerard hands the bag over with care. "You, uh. You'd left this, so," he mumbles. "Everything's in there, I checked. I mean. I didn't check, just – nobody had, you know – uhm, nobody touched it, I just –"

It's the stupidest thing, but when their hands touch, Frank feels a shudder run straight up his spine. Then he catches Gerard's eye and knows he'd felt it, too. Jesus, with his mom right there, and him in a shitload of trouble. He hauls the bag over his shoulder. "Thanks, man, I – I really appreciate it."

Gerard nods and shrugs, then throws a quick glance at Frank's mom, like he read Frank's thoughts. "Uh, hi. I'm –"

"Gerard, yes, I realized that, dear. But we really have to go. Frank, you ready?" Mom sounds nice, but Frank knows better. She's a raging storm right now, and it's so unfucking fair.

He shrugs helplessly at Gerard and hurries the hell out of there. He's so not looking forward to the car ride.

*

The ride is short and, as expected, even more painful than the incident in the office had been. Frank can feel her anger, smell it thundering over him, and she barely says a word. But what the hell does she expect him to do? He can't fucking change who he is. She should fucking know that. But she doesn't understand and she never will.

He bites down on his lip and it splits again under the pressure. He gasps, then sucks his bleeding lip in so she doesn't see.

"Are you okay?"

He nods, his eyes tearing up, and clutches the seat tighter. Too many hours of this left, too many fucking hours stuck inside his house, just too fucking much.

"Fine and fuck – fine and dandy." He winces. There's no excuse for cursing in front of her, and he's going to get it.

"Frank. I understand that this is as difficult as it gets," she says through gritted teeth and taking a sharp right so hard, the tires squeal. "But we've talked about this. And this almost cost you your future. You are a human being. You cannot go through life taking things out on others."

"I wasn't," he yells, then forces himself to take a deep breath. "He got in my way. You just. You don't know what it's like, okay? He was –"

"Another human being! I thought I taught you better than that, Frankie," she says, and now she sounds so sad and resigned that he's close to bursting into real, and really embarrassing, tears.

"Mom, please," he begs. "Can we talk about this another time? Please?"

She glances over at him and the car slows down as if it's psychically connected to Mom's brain. "Okay," she says after a long pause. "We'll talk about it another time."

He looks away and nods. He just has to get through it.

*

He rattles around the house for the rest of the night. He can't force himself to be still. He walks through the living room into the kitchen, looks through every single book on Mom's bookshelves, but it all looks so hopelessly dull, he goes through his own just one more time, hoping something will catch his interest, but he's read them all a thousand times. He turns on the TV, watches twenty seconds of every channel until Mom silently reaches for the Advil, then he jumps up and runs back to his room.

He knows she knows, but he can also feel how fucking worried and disappointed she is right now, and he just can't handle it.

He drags out his guitar, strums a few chords, but nothing sounds right, so he turns up his stereo as high as he's ever allowed to push it and just beats his head against the wall for a while. Nothing is helping. The sun is still up, but he can feel the moon reaching its apex, can feel it in his bones and all over his skin. He thinks if he were to look at himself in the mirror, his chest would have a whole shag fucking carpet all over it, his nails already claws, but that's stupid, so he doesn't.

Instead, he goes to take a shower, just to escape his clothes for a while, and beats one out under the hot spray. It barely takes the edge off, but at least it's something.

His mom finally trundles him off downstairs when the sun is nearly set behind the trees out back. She takes the ridiculous robe he sometimes uses so he doesn't have to bother with taking off too many clothes in front of her, kisses him on both cheeks, and grabs his hand.

"Good luck, baby. You'll be okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

It hits Frank that he doesn't actually know what these nights are like for her. She looks tired every morning after, but he's never really paid that much attention. Maybe she calls dad. Maybe she sleeps through it. Maybe she watches infomercials until the sun comes up.

"See you," he echoes and squeezes her fingers.

After that, it's just him and his crap and his loneliness and pain, until the moon hits. He howls through his bones breaking, through their re-setting; he howls through the loss of thought, and then he howls at the outrage of being locked in and locked out, and there's nothing but rage and the naked, raw want of something that the wolf knows is out there for him, something that the wolf can't reach. Something that the wolf can't have.

*

Frank wakes up almost lucid in his own bed. When the bright light hits him, he almost falls out of bed from shock, but his bruised ribs stop him before his brain does. Of course he's not late for school. He isn't going to school today. He feels like shit warmed over, and for the first time in fucking ages, he can't even remember how he got to his bed. His mom must have somehow carried him, but it sure as hell beats him how.

The whirring of his phone shakes him out of his thoughts, and he reaches for it, mostly to shut it the hell up. Jesus, he's in pain. It still surprises him, every time. You would think, after a while, his body would remember the pain, and get used to it, but no. It's a new ride every time. A new painful, horrible ride where knives stab you as you're going through a dank, cold tunnel in the dark. He winces as he finally grabs the phone and brings it to his face.

You get suspended?

Frank can't remember the last time anyone texted him this much. He thumbs a reply that takes way too long.

Nah sick again, prob in tmrrow

He holds the phone in his hand waiting for a reply, and then the light slips away, and so does his phone, and Frank falls back asleep on the next thought.

*

He wakes up again to a muted voice. He vaguely recognizes the cadence of Mom's nearly pissed-off voice – not yet at the full stage, but definitely willing to get there with enough incentive. For a second, he thinks she's on the phone with someone, when he hears the second voice pipe up and his eyes almost pop out of their sockets. Gerard?

Frank struggles out of his half-dreamy state, and when he's finally fully awake, he can definitely hear a conversation streaming in from the hallway. He just can't make out the words.

"Mom?" He doesn't mean to call her, but having no fucking idea what the hell is going on is freaking him right the fuck out. He listens for a reply or at least a break in the conversation, then calls out louder, "Mom!"

She rushes in a few moments later, a concerned and guilty look on her face. Just like always, she's leading with her right hand that lands directly on his forehead. "Are you okay, baby? Do you need anything? I didn't mean to wake you up."

He fends her off as much as he can through the soreness, and shakes his head. "I'm fine. Who's, uh, who's out there?"

Her eyes squint a little, but don't lose the guilty look. "No one, just. Well. It's your friend Gerard." She pauses, and Frank waits, not letting her off the hook. He knows it's mean, he should just tell her to send him away, but he needs more intel first. "He seemed concerned for you, and decided to stop on by. It's two o'clock, I'm not entirely sure why he's already out of school," she adds archly, and Frank cracks up.

"He hates gym. Or physics. Can't remember. Can he come in?"

Mom's face hardens. "No, Frankie, I'm sorry. You've slept for hours now, you are clearly exhausted. I've been trying to tell him that he can call you later, but you need your rest right now."

Frank can't imagine Gerard trying to argue with Frank's mom when she's like this. For a small lady, she can be hugely intimidating. It's kind of endearing, but mostly scary. "What's he been saying?"

She sighs, and puts her hands on her hips. "That he's, like, really worried," she says in a weird voice that Frank thinks might actually be her trying to impersonate Gerard. Frank barely stifles a laugh. "But, Frankie, I'm serious. You need to rest, no excitement right now. I'll call him in, he'll say hello, you'll say goodbye, and then he'll leave. Got it?"

Frank nods, not even sure why he wants to see Gerard right now, when he's like this, except that dude's probably fidgeting in Frank's hallway even as they speak, and it seems stupid not to say hi, at least. When Mom ushers Gerard in, Frank tries to ignore the way his chest loosens a little, but damn, it really is kind of nice to have a friend who's that fucking worried about you. He gives Gerard a small wave. He probably looks like shit, but that works in his favor, pretending to just be sick and all. Gerard looks half-terrified, half-relieved, slouching at the foot of Frank's bed. Frank thinks that his messy hair is probably not a point in his favor with Mom.

"Hey, Frank," Gerard mumbles, while Mom stands imperiously behind him, eyes darting between them, making Frank's palms itchy.

"Hey, Gerard. Uh, Mom? It's okay, he's not staying forever, just –"

She rolls her eyes, but leaves after a moment of hesitating by the door. As soon as she's gone, Gerard visibly unwinds, cracking a tiny smile. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get you in, like, trouble, or more, I guess, I just thought – well, after – you know…"

Frank barely remembers what happened even a second ago, but it settles over him like a dark cloud as soon as he remembers yesterday. Fuck, he's going to be in so much trouble in school. And, as soon as he's over this moon, probably with Mom. He fights through the instant depression and forces a shrug. "Nah, I'm fine. I mean, like, you know. Sick, but – whatever, you know? They just fucking get to me sometimes."

"Warner's an asshole," Gerard says, emphasizing the point with a quick shrug of his shoulder. "He fucking deserved it."

Frank snorts. "He totally did, right? Douchebag."

Gerard beams at him. "It's all over school, how you basically came out of nowhere and creamed him." Gerard fiddles with the strap of his bag, and Frank notices that his hands are covered in paint, and his nails are freshly black again. They'd been chipping two days ago. "Rose is, like, pissed now, I guess? Telling everyone you better watch your back or whatever. Uh, I'm not really sure what the hell that means, but you should probably lay low or something… Maybe. Everyone else kind of thinks you're a badass."

Frank tries to imagine what Rose could possibly do to him that the other goons haven't already, or won't again, and finds that, on the scale of his life, he doesn't actually give a shit. It's kind of cool to be considered a badass, though. "Bring it on, whatever."

"Yeah," Gerard nods. "Yeah, that's what I said." He gives Frank a small smile and a look that goes straight to Frank's belly. Frank can't look away, and he can't stop himself from smiling back. His heartbeat is hollow in his chest; he can count the seconds by its beats.

After five, he finally breaks the gaze and coughs. "Well, my mom's probably –"

"Yeah, I should –"

"Okay, cool."

"Listen –"

"Yeah?"

Gerard actually shifts from foot to foot, and Frank thinks again how ridiculous it is, this weird dichotomy in Gerard, from total dork to unexpected gorgeous guy to shy five year old kid in .06 seconds. Gerard finally draws breath and asks, "Are you grounded? Because of the fight and stuff?"

Frank chews it over. "I don't know." Mom's unexpected sometimes. It's not like she doesn't know the moon does shit to him, and when he was younger, she made a rule that anything he does the day of the full moon, she doesn't count against him. He takes a stab, even though he's got no idea what Gerard's really asking. "Probably not, but it's best not to risk it."

"Right. Okay. I was just thinking – the guys wanted to get together for another movie night, and they were, like, asking about you. Do you think you could get out Friday night?"

Frank bites his lip and tries for an answer that would vaguely satisfy them both. "Let me ask her. I'll text you?"

Gerard smiles and nods. "Cool, okay. Here –" Gerard bends down suddenly and his bag slides over his back, hitting him in the shoulders, before he straightens back out. He's only a foot away from Frank now, and he's holding onto Frank's phone. "This was on the floor," he explains, but all Frank can see is how crazy his hair looks around his pale face, and the bright color of his eyes. It's not until Gerard furrows his eyebrows and steps away that Frank remembers to take the phone.

"Thanks."

"No problem," Gerard shrugs again, then turns on his heel. "Uh, feel better, okay?" he throws over his shoulder, and then Frank can hear his mom's voice calmly saying goodbye, and the door clicking shut.

"Well?" she asks, head and shoulders in his doorway. "Everything all right?"

"Am I grounded?" he asks instead, and immediately curses himself. He'd meant to soften her up first, not just come out with it, Jesus.

She frowns at him, but says, "No, you are not. We still have the deal. However, I do get to approve what you get and do not get to do, all right?"

He nods emphatically, "Totally. Yeah."

She enters the room fully, and crosses her arms over her chest. "Did Gerard invite you to spend time at his house again?"

Jeez, way to make it sound way closer to the mark than Frank is comfortable with. "Yeah, with the guys from last time. They have this, uh, movie night thing they do."

"And when is it?"

"Friday night?"

She frowns again, looking far away and thoughtful, then snaps back to look Frank in the eye. "If you're feeling up to it, you can go. I want you to have a good time, okay?" she adds in a softer voice, and Frank flushes all over.

"Thanks, Mom," he mumbles and does his best to hold her gaze as she comes forward to fuss over him some more. Once she's gotten the covers pulled up, and his empty glass up out of the way (when did he even have water? He can't remember anything after being locked in the basement, at all) she gives him a quick kiss on the forehead and turns to leave, shutting his door carefully behind her.

When he looks at his phone, he sees an unopened text sitting in his Inbox.

Wanna hang out Fri night? Movie w the guys at my place

He grins despite himself and tucks the phone underneath his lamp so it doesn't fall again. Then he snuggles under the covers, wincing only a little at the sensitive spots and bruises all over his torso, and only then wonders why Mom is home at all today. He hopes she didn't take another sick day because of him. She's barely got vacation time left as it is.

*

Rose doesn't come after him the next day he's at school, but that doesn't mean he doesn't twitch just a little every time somebody passes or bumps him in the hallway. And maybe it's just his imagination, but it's like the hallways have opened up – he's not jostled the way he usually is, like he's being given a wide berth. What the shit, are they honestly avoiding him now? The amount of money he wouldn't give for that to be fucking true.

In an ironic twist of fate, Gerard winds up missing lunch because the idiot got himself detention in Bio for cutting a full week straight. Frank gets a text from him sometime during fourth period that only says cant make it, cutting up cow eyeballs which not only depresses the fuck out of Frank, but also puts him off his lunch for the rest of the day.

ur an idiot stop cutting class, jesus, he replies, and gets a YES, mom in response. He gets an evil eye from Masters for snickering, but the dude doesn't even make Frank give him his phone. What the fuck.

"Hey, Iero!" a girl's voice calls out when he's about to shuffle into Study Hall with a pretty heavy heart. His stomach jumps and he turns around, expecting a full-on punch to the face, because everybody knows that Rose is one heartbeat away from a full on psychotic episode, but it doesn't come. Instead, a tiny blond girl he's only ever glimpsed in crowded hallways bounds up to him, squinty-eyed, her pony tail swinging.

"What?" he asks, totally at sea. How does she even know his name?

"Just wanted to give you a message from Rose, all right?" He must look seriously idiotic, because she rolls her eyes and says, "Rose? Brian's girlfriend? The dude you beat up the other day? Remember that?"

Frank wipes his palms on his pants and shrugs, all nonchalant. "Yeah, so?" His heart's hammering. This is it. They're going to call him out on him and beat him after school, and this girl's the messenger, so he can't even kill her. Fuck, he should have left his iPod at home. Maybe he can still give Masters his phone in penance, for safe-keeping.

"Sooo," she answers in that annoying way chicks have, "She says you're off the hook because Brian's nose isn't actually broken, but you're on notice, got it?"

"Uh." What? "Okay?"

"That's all," she says, smiling at him in a way that he could almost qualify as "flirty" if it weren't totally ludicrous. "So, walk tall, or whatever, crazy man."

Frank just blinks at her.

"Ugh, well, whatever, I said my piece. Ciao, Iero," she trills, rolling her eyes, and scampers off, getting lost in the crowd the next moment.

"What the fuck," Frank says out loud and barely acknowledges the dirty look a passing cheerleader gives him. What the fuck. He can't fucking wait to get the fuck out of this hellhole. At least he's got Friday night to look forward to.

*

When he rings Gerard's doorbell, Frank is greeted by – well, he assumes it's Gerard's mom, but she doesn't look like any mom Frank would want to be near. Her face is lined all over, and her eyes are hidden between clumps of mascara. She's got fried blond hair, and once Frank recovers from shock that both her sons actually look like her, only so very not, he decides she's actually pretty badass.

"Uh, Mrs. Way?"

She breaks into a huge grin, and says in a voice owned by a woman who's probably been smoking since she was ten, "You must be Frank, right? Come on in, honey, they're all assembled downstairs."

Frank shuffles his feet on the doormat to get the dirt off, gives her a nervous kind of smile, and goes where her long-nailed finger is pointing – through the hallway. He can hear some sort of jazz filtering in through the family room, but by the time he's walking down the basement stairs, his heart hammering for some reason, he can hear a different kind of music. If those are Gerard's speakers, dude must have spent a fortune, because it sounds like the guitar's being played right in the basement.

And Frank is a complete idiot, because once he's through Gerard's door, he realizes that it is being played right in the basement. By Ray.

"Whoa, dude, you play?" he says before he can think about it.

"Frankie!"

Frank was so taken with Ray shredding the hell out that used Fender that he didn't even notice Gerard and Mikey sitting squished up in the bed together, looking through a comic. Gerard gives him a huge smile, and Frank grins back, knowing that he's probably blushing like an idiot. Jesus, his mom doesn't smile at him like that on the best of days.

"Hey," he says and gingerly sits down on the overcrowded bed, because Bob's occupying the only sole chair in the room. He nods at Frank and goes back to scribbling something on a pad of paper.

"You made it, awesome!" Gerard says and scrambles away from the wall. "It's Dracula night, is that okay?"

"Hell, yeah!" Frank loves that shit. "Hey, is that Stairway?" he asks when Ray's strumming gets clearer.

He thinks that if he could see Ray's ears, they'd be turning pink. His face, at least, looks pretty sheepish when he nods, not breaking away from the playing. So it's pretty clichéd to be practicing on Stairway, but Ray is good.

"You're really good," Frank says. "How long have you been playing for?"

"Since birth," Mikey pipes up, not looking away from his comic. "Came out of the womb that way. You never read about it? The tiniest Les Paul the world had ever seen. His mom swallowed it when she got –"

"Mikey, shut the fuck up!" Ray only stops playing to launch some sort of shirt at Mikey's head, which he deflects with the comic book.

"Hey, careful with the comic, I haven't even finished it yet," Gerard complains while Mikey gives them all the finger, and Ray turns back to the guitar, shaking his head. This time he starts in on something that turns into "Aces High" instantly.

"I was seven when my brother let me try out his guitar, but I didn't start taking real lessons till I was ten," he finally answers. "You play?"

"Yeah," Frank answers, shaking his head, "but."

"What?"

"Not like that." Frank hasn't heard a dude his age play that well in, like, ever. Talk about fucking raw talent.

"Oh, come on," Ray says, giving him an encouraging smile from beneath all the hair. "I bet you're better than you think. Here, take this."

He hands the guitar over to Frank, and now it's like a spotlight on him. Frank's never really been good with spotlights. Bob has looked up from drawing what actually looks like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle on that sketchpad, and Mikey has pushed up his glasses, like they'll help him hear better. And Gerard is openly giving Frank an unblinking, intense stare through his girly eyelashes. Jeez, Gerard can really stare.

Frank hastily looks down and starts playing Otis Redding, because it's the first thing comes to mind, and it isn't exactly hard work. He cracks up when Bob starts whistling along, but doesn't stop, because it's really fucking nice not to be playing out of desperation, for once. He relaxes into it, and lets the song shift into something hardcore, transforming it into The Clash at some point.

"Dude, you're really good," Ray enthuses and makes grabby gestures for the guitar. Frank feels warm all over. He hasn't actually played for anyone who counts since Dewees left, and Dewees was always baked.

"Thanks," Frank finally answers and hands the guitar back to Ray. "I just, you know. Play sometimes."

"You should do it more, Frankie," Gerard says quietly beside him, and Frank looks at him in surprise. "That was awesome." Frank flushes and scratches his nose. He catches a look passing between Mikey and Bob, so he drops his gaze down to where Ray's started playing something he doesn't recognize.

"Okay, if we let Toro continue like this, we'll be here for weeks, and I'm hungry," Bob announces. "And it's movie time."

"Uh, no it's not," Mikey counters, lifting an eyebrow. "Gee hasn't brought what he promised yet."

"What? Oh!" Gerard smacks himself on the forehead like he's a cartoon, and lays down on the bed until his torso's completely hanging off it. Everybody cranes their heads at where he's rummaging under some piles of clothes and old crusty plates. "Ta-da!" Gerard hefts himself up one-handed, the other hand held high above his head. He's got a half-full bottle of Bacardi in his grip, and his hair's a mess around his red, grinning face.

The guys burst into enthusiastic applause and Gerard levers himself up back to sitting position. "Thank you, thank you," he beams and hands the bottle over to Mikey. "I'd have gotten cups, but Mom's upstairs, and she'd get, like, suspicious."

"If you weren't such a shitty liar, maybe she wouldn't," Mikey points out, taking the first swig and passing it over to Bob.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Gerard replies mildly and settles back against the wall next to Frank. "Bob, you're the closest, get that shit going."

"We still haven't ordered pizza," Ray complains and it takes them a good half hour to settle into actually watching the movie, but Frank doesn't even care. He's buzzed and happy, and if Gerard is pressed up against him heavier than he'd normally be comfortable with, or if Mikey's maybe sending him vaguely unsettling looks in the dim room every now and then, well. He's just too damn cozied up to care.

*

It isn't exactly routine; not like lunch. But Frank finds himself at the Ways' front door more often than he expects. Gerard's parents either don't really know what goes on in their basement, or they don't care, because Mrs. Way usually just gives Frank a friendly toothy grin, and Mr. Way grunts from behind the paper in greeting.

Frank has memorized the number of steps that lead down to the basement, and that it's right around the fourth step from the bottom when you realize you're about to enter Gerard's domain, because the wall is slightly yellower from the smoke, and the unwashed clothes smell gets really saturated. Frank has mostly forced himself to get used to it, and what's even weirder, has started to find it more comforting than unsettling. The unsettled feeling is always there, because he never quite knows what he'll find. It might be all the guys, scattered in various formations on the bed and around the floor, or it might just be Gerard – bent over his sketchpad, drawing furiously, earbuds in, hair hanging in his face. And always that quick smile of recognition every time Frank walks through the door. If Frank closes his eyes and tries to recall the feeling, it's always like a bird fluttering inside his ribcage, upsetting all the vital processes.

Today, it's Mikey who opens the door, but instead of following Frank down to the basement, he just shrugs and shuffles off upstairs to his own room. Frank kind of wants to ask what's wrong, but it's not like it's any of his business. Maybe he'll ask Gerard.

Gerard isn't bent over a sketchpad or a comic book this time. Instead, he throws Frank completely for a loop when Frank finds him sitting cross-legged on the floor, curled over an acoustic guitar and humming a melody to uncertain and slightly off-key chords. Frank can't even make himself walk forward. Gerard isn't exactly good with the guitar, even Frank realizes that, but something about the way he's slouched down, his shoulders tense underneath his thin t-shirt, foot beating out a rhythm along to the beautiful melody – Frank can't look away.

Frank only makes a noise by accident when his foot gets caught around the stereo cord and it nearly collapses onto the floor.

"Shit!"

He catches it before it topples over, and by the time he's restored it to safety, Gerard has broken off his playing. When Frank turns around, convinced that he's as bright red as a tomato, Gerard is watching him with wide, unfocused eyes. His pale knee pokes through a rip in his jeans right under the frets.

"Frankie? Hey, I didn't hear you come down at all."

Frank shrugs, his heart still beating from almost braining himself on the floor and killing Gerard's boom box, and slouches down. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Gerard's face suddenly clears and he smiles, bright and sweet. "Heeey," he says again and only then does it hit Frank that Gerard's kind of drunk. Maybe not off-his-head smashed, but definitely buzzed. "Hey, Frankie, sit, sit, c'mere," he says and pats the floor next to him. Frank slowly makes himself move and plant his ass where Gerard indicated.

Once down there, he can smell the bready, beery smell coming off Gerard and it makes him crave a Bud of his own. "Uh, hey. What were you playing?"

Gerard is still smiling when he sweeps the hair off his forehead. He's so close, Frank's entire side is warm and prickling with it. Gerard looks tired, but happy, too, in a vague way. Frank has to fight the urge to reach out and touch the base of his throat, which is so pale and perfect in the dim yellow light. He swallows hard and nods at the guitar in Gerard's lap.

"Oh! Right. I was, uh… I think it was Floyd, but I'm no good. I was just fucking around," Gerard says, plucking at a couple of strings. "Honestly, I don't even know why I own this, I can't play."

Frank shrugs. "Everyone needs at least one guitar in their life. You'll get better if you keep practicing, right?"

Gerard huffs out a laugh and scrunches up his nose. "I don't know, Toro's tried to teach me, but it's, like… I don't bend that way, you know? I can do melodies and, like, write music or whatever, but I think my fingers weren't meant for it or something." He bites his lip and tries out a chord that Frank has only mastered in the last year. "See? Not working."

Frank doesn't know what compels him to do it, and he can't recall the thought processes that lead him there, but he shuffles closer to Gerard and wraps one arm around him so his hand is on Gerard's fingers, over the frets. Gerard is kind of sticky-sweaty against his chest, even though the basement isn't exactly warm, and his hair is getting all in Frank's face, smelling greasy and a tiny bit soapy.

Frank's heart beats harder as settles himself closer to Gerard and starts to rearrange Gerard's fingers on the strings. "Here," he says, and it comes out quiet and hoarse. He thinks he could hear a pin drop right now, that's how quiet the room is. "Try it now."

Gerard strums his fingers on the strings, and the clear rich chord resonates through both their fingers. "Huh."

"Cool, right?"

Gerard shifts until Frank's fingers slip from his own and he's half-turned against Frank's chest. They're both silent, looking at each other like they're waiting. And Frank is waiting, his thoughts swirling and bumping up against each other in his mind, because he knows what he's waiting for, but he knows he shouldn't. He knows that this is stupid, they shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't even be here, not like this, not without anybody else there, not without an out.

But he can't convince himself to move away, and then Gerard's gaze flickers over Frank's mouth and he licks his lips before leaning in and kissing Frank.

Frank closes his eyes and lingers against him. Gerard is a really good kisser. Or maybe he isn't, but Frank's got nothing to compare this to. He only knows how it feels. Gerard's soft lips against his, his warm breath between them when he opens his mouth and Frank's automatically follows his. And then Gerard tilts his head and leans in properly, his mouth so wet and hot against Frank's. Fuck, Frank can't help the noise that escapes his throat, like a moan only stuttered, he doesn't have enough breath in him for a moan. Instead, he breathes in Gerard's and then his hands are clutching Gerard's shoulders, dragging him closer. Everything is pounding, and his dick is getting hard, just from this.

When Gerard breaks off and grabs the guitar only to toss it away from them, Frank almost panics from the sudden lack of contact. But Gerard comes back immediately, and this time, he doesn't even let Frank think before he's climbing over him, forcing Frank down onto the floor, and kissing him like he's dying for it.

Frank struggles for a moment, attempting to throw him off, at least reverse them, but then Gerard's hips graze his and Frank forgets about anything else. He wants, he wants so much, and his hands seek out Gerard's skin under his shirt, and his legs fall open to let Gerard in.

"Frankie," Gerard mumbles against his mouth, but Frank so badly doesn't want to talk. He shuts Gerard up with his tongue, scrapes his nails down his back and gives up even trying to stop.

It's different like this. He doesn't feel like he'll explode if they don't fuck the way he does each coming moon, but he wants it so much, it might as well be the same. They have to struggle to get their pants undone like this, but when they finally do, it's better than fucking anything. Gerard's dick slides against his, slick already, fucking smooth and hard. Frank ruts hard against him, almost fighting just how fucking hot it all is, how good. A familiar warmth kick-starts in his belly and takes him past the point of no return.

He can't stop, and he can't unclench – he's surrounding Gerard's body with his arms and legs and he tries to shut himself up by biting down on Gerard's neck, but the sobs of pleasure still fight their way through, and by the time his orgasm hits him and rams all through his body, he feels wrecked, inside and out, throat burning.

Gerard gasps and curses above him and stills, one hand clutching Frank's hair, the other squeezing into a fist at his back. "Fuck," he whispers, shaking lightly against Frank. "Oh, fuck, how is that so – fucking amazing," he adds even quieter, and Frank doesn't think he's looking for actual answers. Which is good, ‘cause Frank's got none.

When Gerard rolls off of him, the air's chilled out and he can feel goose bumps all over his hips and crotch and belly. He's covered in their come.

"You got any tissues?" he asks, and his voice sounds so weird to his ears. Like not only should he not be talking, but asking for tissues is the weirdest thing anybody's ever asked.

Gerard doesn't appear too fussed about it, though, he just gives Frank a surprised "oh!" kind of look and reaches up to grab the box from his nightstand. "Catch!" he grins, tossing it in Frank's direction.

Frank barely dodges it and has the impulse to throw it right back, but he kind of needs it. Instead, he swipes at the mess on his belly and tosses that at Gerard.

"Fucker!" Gerard laughs and deflects it, and Frank laughs along. It feels really good to laugh. Which is a weird thing to think, like, of course it does.

Frank finally pulls up his pants and rearranges his shirt so it doesn't look quite as sex-wrinkled as it actually is, and then there's a sudden shuffling down the basement stairs.

Shit, they hadn't even fucking closed the door, what the hell. He looks around at Gerard in a panic, but Gerard couldn't give a shit, apparently. He flashes Frank an amused smile and vaguely swipes his hand on a shirt lying next to him. Jesus, he's gross.

Frank snorts, shakes his head, and heaves himself up. At least if Mrs. Way walks in, he isn't going to be caught half-naked with her son on the floor.

He's sitting up against Gerard's bed when Mikey reveals himself. He doesn't even notice that Gerard's pants are barely done up, he just flops down on the bed next to Frank's head and peers at them both blearily.

"Mikey Way, what is your deal?" Frank asks, remembering how downtrodden Mikey looked earlier.

"Bored," Mikey informs him, then rolls over onto his back and sniffs. "You're not, though."

Frank looks up at Gerard in a mild panic, because they haven't even named whatever the fuck it is between them, much less discussed what to do if anyone found out. Gerard flicks his gaze between the two of them, clearly torn, when Mikey continues, "What were you trying to play, Gee?" and indicates the discarded guitar.

Gerard's shoulders slump down, and he licks his lips before answering. "Frank was trying to teach me Floyd, but it's pretty useless. Fun, though."

"You just don't think you can do it, that's your problem," Mikey notes philosophically, then scrambles up the bed until he's sitting up. "So, it's Halloween soon, and Pete's having a party. He said you should, like, come, if you're still interested in mingling with the public school crowd."

Frank raises an eyebrow at him, and Mikey shrugs. "His words, not mine. You in?"

"Frank?" Gerard asks, instead, giving Frank a mildly curious stare. He still looks disheveled and his fly's undone. "You should come, too, it's gonna be fun, I think." With some detachment, Frank notices a hickey blooming out under the collar of Gerard's t-shirt. Well, shit.

"Um. I don't know."

Frank wonders just how much of a loser he's going to come off as if he tells them the truth. He hasn't actually done anything fun for his birthday since he and Dewees egged the gym teacher's house and got away with it, but he's genuinely looking forward to it this year. His dad is coming for a weekend visit. He scratches his head and thinks that maybe a lack of plans with Gerard is what he needs right now. He needs to remember that he's not a part of their group. He isn't a friend. They just don't know it yet.

"My dad's coming to visit," he finally admits. "And I, like. I haven't seen him in a while? So I should. I don't know. Be home for it, you know?"

Gerard's face kind of falls, but he shrugs and sweeps his bangs out of his eyes. "Sure. Well, I'm in," he tells Mikey. "Are Bob and Ray gonna be there? I don't wanna face Wentz and his weird tall buddy without reinforcements."

Mikey cracks a smile and leans over to punch Gerard on the shoulder. "What, I'm not reinforcements? Yeah, they're coming, calm down, Gee, you and Gabe won't be left unsupervised."

Frank feels weirdly alone as he walks home, kicking at the crispy leaves on the ground and not watching the darkening sky.

*

"Hey, kiddo," Dad's voice crackles over the phone. He sounds distorted, or like he's maybe breathing too close to the phone.

"Dad? What's up?" Frank's just locked the door behind him on his way to try and maybe score some new guitar strings downtown, because he's almost out of spares.

"Well, I have some bad news, to be honest," Dad sighs, and Frank can practically feel his heart sinking into his stomach. He pauses on the porch steps and leans against the rails. "I'm so sorry, Frankie, but I can't make it out this weekend."

Frank thumps his head against the pillar. "Yeah."

"It's Melanie, she's come down with some awful cold that won't go away, and you know how she is – won't stop doing things, you know?"

"Yep." Frank watches the trees bending with the wind, losing leaves by the second.

Dad sounds guilty and way too fucking apologetic. It grates. "I just don't want to leave her alone, in case she takes a turn for the worse."

Frank picks at the edges of the peeling paint of the rail and, without meaning to, strips a huge chunk of it right off. It feels really good while he's doing it, but then he realizes that now it looks like shit, and Mom's going to fret. Fuck.

"You still there, Frank?"

He sighs and nods. "Yep, still here. Sorry, I guess." He clenches his hand into a fist just so he won't peel off any more paint, and kicks away the mess of leaves and dead branches gathered in the corners of the steps.

He can hear his father's breathing over the phone. He shivers, thinking maybe he should have worn gloves or a scarf or something, because it's fucking windy as shit out here.

"Frank, I'm sorry, buddy. I'll make it up to you, okay? You know I'd be – I'd be there in a second, if I could. Right?"

Frank nods again, then clears his throat and manages a "Yeah, Dad. I know. It's – it's okay."

Except that it really fucking sucks, and when Frank gets back from the store, and Mom comes out from the den and asks if he's got any laundry that needs doing, he snaps at her, rips off his coat, and marches into his room, shoving the door closed with his foot.

She's hot on his heels, of course, and he hates it when she barges in without knocking.

"What?"

"I should be asking you that!" she booms, face like thunder. Even her hair looks a little crazy. "Slamming doors and giving lip?"

Frank scowls and doesn't answer, he's too fucking pissed. What the fuck does he care about laundry right now, when his dad is such a goddamn flake.

"Frank Anthony Iero, you are about one second away from being grounded, so you better answer me, mister!" Mom shouts, and that's it, he wants some noise of his own. He whirls around.

"Well, fucking Dad just fucking canceled on us, okay? He's not fucking coming this weekend, all because of Melanie, she's got some – some cold or whatever, anyway, he's a fucking flake, okay?"

He bites his lip and turns away again, feeling like a complete and utter tool, with hot tears pressing up against his eyes. Jesus Christ, he's not a kid, what the hell is he crying for? Except there it goes, something like a sob heaving in his belly and escaping through his clamped lips. It comes out sounding stupid, because he was working so hard to hide it, not like a sob but a blubber.

"Frankie," Mom says behind him, and she's quiet now, and so fucking sweet, he can't take it. She should be furious at him for swearing, and furious for swearing about Dad, of all people, who Frank knows isn't the bad guy. But he could fucking try harder, maybe. For Frank. "Frankie, honey, look at me."

He shrugs her off and feels like an asshole for doing it, but he doesn't want her to see him crying like a baby over this. He already feels like the biggest idiot on the planet.

"It's fine, I'm sorry," he manages to say. He's tense all over, and his feet are rooted to the spot, so the two of them are just standing awkwardly in the middle of his room. It's stupid. His eyes are itching, and his pits are itching, too, he's too fucking hot, but he doesn't move a muscle, waiting for her to leave. He watches the corner of his bookshelf, instead, counting the letters in each title and seeing if they divide into three.

"Frank," she sighs and he hears the bed creaking when she sits down. Great. He forces himself to unfreeze and stride toward the window, so he can at least prop himself against something. "Baby, I'm sorry. He told me today, too. He's incredibly sorry, Frank, you know that. He'd be here if he could."

Frank shrugs and watches the wind continue to pummel the shit out of nature. It's pretty satisfying. It'd be a sweet super power to have, actually, controlling nature like that, except that then he'd be kind of like Storm, and Storm is pretty lame, all things considered. Then again, who would he rather be – Wolverine? He doesn't fucking think so.

"Whatever, it's fine. Over it," he mumbles, and hears her sigh behind him.

"It's okay to be angry about it, you know. I understand."

He's about to tell her that she so doesn't, but stops himself in time. Of course she does. Dad walked out on her as much as he did on Frank. So he shrugs again and doesn't say anything, and she finally leaves, nudging him in the back a little, like a pat, while he wipes his eyes and continues standing there like a statue.

*

He and Mom end up going over to Aunt Sylvia's and helping her hand out candy. He doesn't bother going elaborate with the make-up or anything, but the rugrats who show up at her door still enjoy his cape and fangs. He threatens to suck the blood of a few of them, then scares the others with a demonic grin he's perfected in the mirror over the years. They shriek and laugh and he ignores the text alerts vibrating in his pocket all night long. Not like any of them would make him feel better about turning seventeen surrounded by strange children, or anything.

Part V.

"Run" - Frank/Gerard, My Chemical Romance (bandom), NC-17, Part IV

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