After the third day of grieving and sleeping and only eating nicotine and caffeine, Frank advices Gerard to get up.
Apparently they’ve ran out of clean bed sheets thanks to Gerard’s inability to hold his two items of love in his hands when lying down. But Gerard can’t. He rolls over and closes his eyes a little tighter against the light and the noise and the gnawing feeling in hit gut.
If he makes a noise like an injured cat, then no one needs to document it. He hurts all over, in his head and his chest and his fucking heart and if he can’t get away from the pain then he’s at least going to pretend he can, he’s earnt that much. He just needs to sleep and dream and forget for one more day.
Mikey’s been around twice since Mrs Hate’s death. Gerard was sleeping for the majority of his visits but it was still nice to have his little brother in the house; muttering and complaining about Gerard’s love affair with instant coffee.
Frank had been the same at first exclaiming, “I fucking work in Starbucks.” His protests turned out to be not very convincingly, after all, the Nescafe sitting in Gerard’s kitchen was bought on one of Frank’s grocery runs.
Mikey is probably just checking Gerard isn't on his way to becoming another Jersey, drunk bum. He wants to be offended by Mikey’s lack of faith, but honestly, if Frank wasn't there controlling what Gerard is allowed to pump into his body, he wouldn’t have driven home from the hospital sober.
Frank’s actually been really amazing. He’s dealt with grief more than Gerard has in his life and it’s comforting, having someone around that knows how it feels.
That still doesn’t mean he can tell Gerard to get out of bed, though.
“You need to face the world, Gee.” Frank always calls Gerard Gee now, it’s nice.
He nudges his arm with a caring hand and Gerard stares up at Frank’s big, brown, sympathetic eyes and feels the bitchy, cryptic part of his brain just whither. He’s so fucking nice and pretty and Gerard hates him.
Gerard rolls his face over on the mattress and groans in the form of a reply. Not yet, he isn’t ready yet. Frank just sighs and rakes a hand through Gerard’s greasy hair. It must be really gross, but Frank doesn’t complain. He’s so fucking nice and pretty and Gerard loves him.
“It will be good for you.” Frank assures him, “Like ripping off a bandana, you know?”
Gerard really, really doesn’t know.
“Murph” Gerard says and turns so that he can look up at Frank in a way that doesn’t make him look all chin and jaw and perfect curved eyebrows.
His eyes feel all crusty and achy and his lashes still have that horrible damp consistency from all the fucking drama queen weeping he’s been doing all day. Frank smiles at him and presses a small kiss to the back of Gerard’s hand, holding it within his own.
“Frank,” Gerard grumps and feels another wave of tears wash over him. They’re hot and salty and bother his saw skin.
“C’mon.” Frank urges.
He’s wearing one of Gerard’s t-shirts, it’s plane black with a small bleach stain from when Gerard tried to dye his hair in the sink as a teen. Mikey had insisted it was punker to do it in the bathroom. He’s only been fourteen at the time, it was before his groth spirt so he still had to reach up a little to get at Gerard’s hair. The dye hadn’t worked too well, that’s when he had started dying it black. He’d forgotten he even owned the thing but it looks good on Frank.
“We can go somewhere familiar.”
Gerard nods, somewhat reluctantly and sits up, trying out a soft smile. It feels malnourished but not entirely bad. He’s on his way.
-
In the car Gerard thinks about the night he met Frank. Driving there and hating the world and suburbia and wanting to run and hide in the hills or race in the desert. He feels very differently now. Gerard hates sand, sheep are annoying. Frank is much better.
They go to Mikey’s because it feels like the only place they can go. Mikey’s at work, but Alicia is in.
