Fic: Almost
almost. part three of three. (part two.)
frank/bob
2,926 words
do not own
whisperingtome - thank you is never enough.
written for 100_situations. prompt 020: love.
The adrenaline was flowing through Frank’s veins and he was having trouble keeping his breath controlled. Frank was usually the calm one, with a cool and collected exterior that couldn’t be penetrated. But tonight he was on a high. He was playing Wembley for the second time in two days, there were thousands of kids out there screaming for their band, they’d made it. Finally. And there was Bob, strong and silent, sat in the corner with drumsticks in his hand. His jaw was tensed and Frank put it down to the nervousness and excitement he must be feeling.
Frank wanted nothing more than to go over to him, kiss him softly or hold his hand and let him know they were all in it together; not that it needed saying, but it was nice to hear once in a while.
But he didn’t. He needed some space before this show. Before most shows. And it looked like Bob did too.
Thursday finished their set triumphantly and came back into the dressing room, Geoff looking hot and sweaty and exhausted. But he had a huge grin plastered on his face that outweighed everything else.
“Fucking Wembley, man!” He raised both arms in the air, victorious, with fists clenched before making his way to the fridge for a cold soda.
“Who said you could come in here, Rickly?” Gerard asked playfully, and he punched him on the arm lightly.
“Oh, Gerard,” he answered, “I helped make you, dude, I totally get a share in everything that’s yours!”
Frank laughed a little at this display. It was funny, because what Geoff said was basically true - he’d helped them a hell of a lot anyway - but they were still all just a bunch of friends, playing shows, having a good time. Frank’s smile grew as he stood up to get ready for some strenuous exercise - it was time for jumping jacks.
---
Bob watched silently from the corner, twisting his drumsticks through his fingers and gritting his teeth. He watched Frank’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiled, his eyes fixed on Gerard - and Geoff, but Bob thought that part irrelevant. Had he no shame? Bob was right there but Frank didn’t seem to register, too wrapped up in whatever was going on with Gerard. Bob knew it was a little illogical, and a lot stupid, to think there was something going on between them, but he had never been one for opening up or feeling secure and however much his head was telling him to think about this reasonably, his heart just wouldn’t let him. He felt hurt and angry and betrayed, and there was a hate surging inside him - a hate for Frank and Gerard, sure, but mostly it was a hate for himself and his naivety. He hated himself for opening up so easily. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again.
---
Four minutes before they were due to go on, just as Bob was about to climb up onto the riser, Frank stopped him with two fingers pressed lightly to his upper arm.
“Hey, you. I’ve hardly spoken to you all day, where’s that present you promised me?” Frank spoke in hushed tones and let his fingers brush Bob’s. Bob pulled them away quickly and balled his hands up into fists. He clenched them so hard that he could feel his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. He wondered if he would draw blood.
“Fuck you, Frank,” he spat venomously.
Frank’s eyes registered Bob’s clenched fists and thought a punch in the face might be heading his way, but the words struck him harder than any physical blow could. His face became hot suddenly as he searched in Bob’s eyes for some of the tenderness that had been present only this morning.
“What the… what’s going on?” It was clear now that this wasn’t a joke. There was a burning behind Frank’s eyes but he couldn’t bring himself to blink. He needed an answer.
Bob turned away, pausing only to look Frank up and down once more. “Why don’t you run back to Gerard, I’m sure he’ll make you feel better.” After a seconds stunned silence on Frank’s part, Bob spoke so quietly that he might have been whispering something sweet and secretive. “Just. I don’t even want to look at you.” But he wasn’t, and Frank wished Bob had punched him instead.
Frank’s mind was empty; it was more than confusion. It was total and utter bewilderment. He walked dazedly over to his mark and waited for the curtain to fall. And the questions began pouring into his brain.
A second later the black sheet in front of them dropped and Frank’s senses were bombarded with that familiar barrage of stimulus. Thousands of different faces all blurred together into one, thousands of different screams joined together to become a single deafening wall of noise, heat hit him and the sweat ran out of every one of his pores almost immediately.
The only unfamiliar feeling was the pain. It came as a blow to his gut and he felt an overwhelming nausea surge through him. He turned away from the crowd slightly and angled himself towards the riser but the pain doubled, tripled, increased so quickly until he could barely stand. And now he was the one being illogical. He could talk to Bob later and try to sort this mess out, but the thought of that didn’t make him feel better. Instead, it made the pain worse.
It spread from his stomach up through his ribcage, twisting and turning sharply like a ribbon edged with razorblades, and into his shoulders causing them to seize up involuntarily. An unpleasant tingling sensation continued to flow all the way down to his fingertips, and he felt sharp stabs of pain as he moved them across the fret board with far more difficulty than usual.
Frank became aware of a metallic taste on his tongue; he had bitten the inside of his cheek and it was bleeding steadily. He spat red from the side of the stage with his eyes screwed tightly shut, as if that would make this all disappear.
The pain was progressing down his legs now, splintering through his shins and spreading an uncomfortable heat across the soles of his feet. Nothing but white hot light was burning in Frank’s mind, even when he closed his eyes that was all he could see. Those questions had evaporated and he could only focus on the unbearable prickling in every extremity and the dull thud inside his head.
He could hear Gerard’s voice vaguely through the throbbing and aching but most sounds were fading quickly; the only constant beat was that of Bob’s drums reverberating inside his entire body and it began to hurt his heart. Not in the same way as the rest of the pain surging through him though, no, this was different. He could imagine sharp cracks and fractures extending across his heart, tiny pieces breaking off one by one. And then a numb kind of coldness where a second ago there had been searing agony.
He felt loneliness swell up inside him, and this feeling overtook that of real pain. He forced himself to look at Bob once more and everything was magnified ten-fold. One question began to form inside him: What did I do?
Things pieced together in his mind, but there was always one part of the puzzle left unsolved, the most important part. He couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done wrong, and he tried to get angry but it just didn’t work. All he felt was a sense of longing so strong he thought he was going to pass out.
Frank’s fingers pressed down onto the strings of his guitar, despite the pins and needles in his finger tips, as if on auto-pilot. But there was no passion. He just couldn’t muster it. At least if he was angry he could have thrown himself around the stage, got hurt and bruised and bloody and it would alleviate the pain for a little while, but this was unbearable. He was stuck in limbo and had no way of recovering while surrounded by thousands screaming, expectant people; he sank down onto his haunches and the urge to vomit eased a little.
His head felt clearer lower to the ground and he knew better than to face the drum riser again. After each song he returned to the side of the stage to switch guitars, and the sweat was wiped from his neck and forehead. Questions of, “Are you okay?” were flung a him during every thirty-second interval but he answered none. He simply nodded his head and graced the stage once more.
Most worryingly was the fact that he couldn’t stand for more than a quarter of any song, and even that was pushing it. He spent most of the set low to the ground, and in the end resorted to laying down because it was the only way he could feel a little better. He knew it must look ridiculous - lazy probably. Or like he couldn’t be bothered anymore. - but he was past the point of caring.
The last song began. Frank felt some kind of ease as the voices all around him raised themselves into a deafening crescendo and he knew this part of the show was nearly over. He wouldn’t be coming back on for the second half. He managed to stand, hitting the chords with a little more ferocity. It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon. He let the words swim round his head, back and forth until the end of the song. The lights went down. He made for the side of the stage.
---
Backstage was bedlam. Shouting, running, pushing, rushing. Frank just listened to it all happen. He sat on the couch with his head between his knees, trying to keep the vomit, which was threatening to emerge at any minute, at bay. The others were changing. Wiping make-up off, peeling themselves from their uniforms, dressing again. Gerard’s bright yellow sneakers appeared in the square patch of floor Frank had been staring at for the past five minutes.
“What happened?” Gerard asked, and there was no masking of the concern in his voice.
Frank thought about shaking his head, he was trying to avoid talking at all, but he thought the motion might be the final straw and he didn’t want to cover Gerard’s footwear with his sick.
“Beats me,” he managed. “You should probably ask Bob.”
“Oh.”
Gerard sat down beside Frank and began to rub his back, the rhythm was comforting and Frank was reminded of the times he had done this for Gerard. But that wasn’t down to heartbreak, that was down to alcohol.
“He was talking about you. He told me I should run back to you. That you would make me feel better. He obviously meant something by it.” Frank wasn’t sure if he was making much sense, but Gerard obviously understood a little because he rubbed Frank’s back one more time and stood up.
“Don’t worry,” he said before walking away, “I’ll sort this out.”
Frank wasn’t sure what Gerard hoped to do about it, or how this could get fixed because Bob had sounded so final. But he couldn’t dwell on that thought for long because the acidic feeling was back in his throat and before he even had time to stand up, he was coughing and the floor was covered in his vomit.
He was glad the rest of the band had gone back on stage already, because he had some sense of pride left and if Bob was going to be an asshole then Frank sure as hell wasn’t going to let him know how badly it was affecting him.
---
“As some of you may have noticed,” Gerard spoke to the crowd before him, “Frank was laid on the floor during most of that.”
The crowed cheered. They were probably shouting ‘yes’.
“He’s really fucking sick right now.” Boos from the crowd. “And we’ve had to send him home.” Bad choice of words, Gerard thought. That would be all over the internet in a matter of hours.
Gerard turned to face the riser, meeting Bob’s eye, but Bob showed no guilt. Gerard swore the look in his eyes was something close to hatred.
“But if you would let us play, then we will fucking play for you.” The screams became deafening and Gerard was sure Frank would hear them in the dressing room. Maybe that would make him feel a little better.
---
The show finished. The lights died out. The band walked from the stage. Ray slung an arm round Mikey’s shoulders exhaustedly. The show had been great, that was true, but without Frank on stage it hadn’t felt quite right. That’s how Ray described it anyway. Not quite right.
Gerard quickened his pace to catch up with Bob, and when he was a few steps behind he reached out a hand to Bob’s arm.
Bob recoiled but turned to face Gerard.
“What?” His tone was angry, Gerard could tell, but there was something else mixed in there as well.
“Don’t fucking what me, Bob.” Gerard hadn’t meant to sound so aggressive, he tried to soften his tone, “You know what this is about. It’s about you and Frank.”
“There is no me and Frank,” Bob said, and the hurt came through more strongly in his voice now. Yes, Gerard thought, that’s what it is. Hurt.
Gerard opened his mouth to speak, but Bob hadn’t finished, “No,” his voice was more composed now, “I think it’s more about you and Frank.”
Gerard was stunned into silence, and it wasn’t something he was used to. Before he time to think of a reply, Bob was speaking again, running his words together as though he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get them all out. Bob wasn’t a man of many words most of the time and he definitely didn’t share his feelings. So what came next was a surprise to both of them.
“You fucker. Things were happening, finally, and you had to come and fucking ruin it. You two with your secret smiles and your talks and hugs and touching and…” He seemed to have finally run out of steam. But no. “You fucker,” he repeated. “If there was something going on between you he should have told me. He should have told me and then maybe this wouldn’t hurt so much. I saw you earlier, in the dressing room. So close, talking about something all quiet and caring, and it hurt. Because I fucking love him but you took him from me. You absolute fucker.” Bob was panting, his cheeks were flushed and his fists were clenched once more.
Gerard blinked. “What?” he said, but not really needing an answer because Bob had said everything he needed to hear a second ago.
At times of great misunderstanding it is often hard to keep a smile from your face, because you know the truth and the other person is so completely in the dark that, well, it’s just kind of funny. But Gerard didn’t find this so amusing.
The sadness in Bob’s eyes was the same as Gerard had seen reflected in Frank’s whole body. He knew he needed to handle this with caution because he was afraid Bob would walk away and not come back.
“Frank loves you,” Gerard figured it best to get that part out there straight away. “Frank and I, we’re friends. We’re best friends. He came to me earlier to tell me about you and him. To tell me that he loves you.”
“Sure,” Bob muttered, scraping his toe along the marked floor like an insolent child. He didn’t look Gerard in the eye once, but he didn’t walk away either. Gerard had to carry on. He had to make Bob believe him.
“And whatever you said to him before the show, well I think it just about broke him - he’s ill because of you. I’m not saying it’s your fault, it’s just a misunderstanding. But if you don’t get in there and fix things, well, it’s not worth thinking about. You’re two of my best friends and you’re both fucking idiots. Now go and fix things.”
Bob finally looked up and into Gerard’s eyes, and he understood. There was an honesty in his voice and on his face that Bob couldn’t doubt anymore. He had to make things right.
“Sorry I called you a fucker,” Bob said, and he meant it.
Gerard said nothing, he just pulled Bob into a hug, the same sort that Bob had witnessed between Frank and Gerard earlier, and let Bob know he was forgiven. They broke apart and Gerard was smiling.
“Now go!”
---
“It was a misunderstanding.”
The tension in Frank’s chest eased. But it wasn’t going to be that easy.
“What?” he said flatly, although little by little the nausea was lifting and his head was clearing.
“I’m so sorry,” Bob moved in closer to Frank and put a hand in between them. “I’m such an asshole.”
“Yeah, you are,” Frank let the hint of a smile grace his lips and followed Bob’s lead. Their fingers laced together quickly, and they both knew this was how it was meant to be.
No barriers, no almost, no misunderstandings or false assumptions. No expectations. No expectations noexpectationsnoexpectations.
Just love.
frank/bob
2,926 words
do not own
whisperingtome - thank you is never enough.
written for 100_situations. prompt 020: love.
The adrenaline was flowing through Frank’s veins and he was having trouble keeping his breath controlled. Frank was usually the calm one, with a cool and collected exterior that couldn’t be penetrated. But tonight he was on a high. He was playing Wembley for the second time in two days, there were thousands of kids out there screaming for their band, they’d made it. Finally. And there was Bob, strong and silent, sat in the corner with drumsticks in his hand. His jaw was tensed and Frank put it down to the nervousness and excitement he must be feeling.
Frank wanted nothing more than to go over to him, kiss him softly or hold his hand and let him know they were all in it together; not that it needed saying, but it was nice to hear once in a while.
But he didn’t. He needed some space before this show. Before most shows. And it looked like Bob did too.
Thursday finished their set triumphantly and came back into the dressing room, Geoff looking hot and sweaty and exhausted. But he had a huge grin plastered on his face that outweighed everything else.
“Fucking Wembley, man!” He raised both arms in the air, victorious, with fists clenched before making his way to the fridge for a cold soda.
“Who said you could come in here, Rickly?” Gerard asked playfully, and he punched him on the arm lightly.
“Oh, Gerard,” he answered, “I helped make you, dude, I totally get a share in everything that’s yours!”
Frank laughed a little at this display. It was funny, because what Geoff said was basically true - he’d helped them a hell of a lot anyway - but they were still all just a bunch of friends, playing shows, having a good time. Frank’s smile grew as he stood up to get ready for some strenuous exercise - it was time for jumping jacks.
---
Bob watched silently from the corner, twisting his drumsticks through his fingers and gritting his teeth. He watched Frank’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiled, his eyes fixed on Gerard - and Geoff, but Bob thought that part irrelevant. Had he no shame? Bob was right there but Frank didn’t seem to register, too wrapped up in whatever was going on with Gerard. Bob knew it was a little illogical, and a lot stupid, to think there was something going on between them, but he had never been one for opening up or feeling secure and however much his head was telling him to think about this reasonably, his heart just wouldn’t let him. He felt hurt and angry and betrayed, and there was a hate surging inside him - a hate for Frank and Gerard, sure, but mostly it was a hate for himself and his naivety. He hated himself for opening up so easily. He wouldn’t be making that mistake again.
---
Four minutes before they were due to go on, just as Bob was about to climb up onto the riser, Frank stopped him with two fingers pressed lightly to his upper arm.
“Hey, you. I’ve hardly spoken to you all day, where’s that present you promised me?” Frank spoke in hushed tones and let his fingers brush Bob’s. Bob pulled them away quickly and balled his hands up into fists. He clenched them so hard that he could feel his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. He wondered if he would draw blood.
“Fuck you, Frank,” he spat venomously.
Frank’s eyes registered Bob’s clenched fists and thought a punch in the face might be heading his way, but the words struck him harder than any physical blow could. His face became hot suddenly as he searched in Bob’s eyes for some of the tenderness that had been present only this morning.
“What the… what’s going on?” It was clear now that this wasn’t a joke. There was a burning behind Frank’s eyes but he couldn’t bring himself to blink. He needed an answer.
Bob turned away, pausing only to look Frank up and down once more. “Why don’t you run back to Gerard, I’m sure he’ll make you feel better.” After a seconds stunned silence on Frank’s part, Bob spoke so quietly that he might have been whispering something sweet and secretive. “Just. I don’t even want to look at you.” But he wasn’t, and Frank wished Bob had punched him instead.
Frank’s mind was empty; it was more than confusion. It was total and utter bewilderment. He walked dazedly over to his mark and waited for the curtain to fall. And the questions began pouring into his brain.
A second later the black sheet in front of them dropped and Frank’s senses were bombarded with that familiar barrage of stimulus. Thousands of different faces all blurred together into one, thousands of different screams joined together to become a single deafening wall of noise, heat hit him and the sweat ran out of every one of his pores almost immediately.
The only unfamiliar feeling was the pain. It came as a blow to his gut and he felt an overwhelming nausea surge through him. He turned away from the crowd slightly and angled himself towards the riser but the pain doubled, tripled, increased so quickly until he could barely stand. And now he was the one being illogical. He could talk to Bob later and try to sort this mess out, but the thought of that didn’t make him feel better. Instead, it made the pain worse.
It spread from his stomach up through his ribcage, twisting and turning sharply like a ribbon edged with razorblades, and into his shoulders causing them to seize up involuntarily. An unpleasant tingling sensation continued to flow all the way down to his fingertips, and he felt sharp stabs of pain as he moved them across the fret board with far more difficulty than usual.
Frank became aware of a metallic taste on his tongue; he had bitten the inside of his cheek and it was bleeding steadily. He spat red from the side of the stage with his eyes screwed tightly shut, as if that would make this all disappear.
The pain was progressing down his legs now, splintering through his shins and spreading an uncomfortable heat across the soles of his feet. Nothing but white hot light was burning in Frank’s mind, even when he closed his eyes that was all he could see. Those questions had evaporated and he could only focus on the unbearable prickling in every extremity and the dull thud inside his head.
He could hear Gerard’s voice vaguely through the throbbing and aching but most sounds were fading quickly; the only constant beat was that of Bob’s drums reverberating inside his entire body and it began to hurt his heart. Not in the same way as the rest of the pain surging through him though, no, this was different. He could imagine sharp cracks and fractures extending across his heart, tiny pieces breaking off one by one. And then a numb kind of coldness where a second ago there had been searing agony.
He felt loneliness swell up inside him, and this feeling overtook that of real pain. He forced himself to look at Bob once more and everything was magnified ten-fold. One question began to form inside him: What did I do?
Things pieced together in his mind, but there was always one part of the puzzle left unsolved, the most important part. He couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done wrong, and he tried to get angry but it just didn’t work. All he felt was a sense of longing so strong he thought he was going to pass out.
Frank’s fingers pressed down onto the strings of his guitar, despite the pins and needles in his finger tips, as if on auto-pilot. But there was no passion. He just couldn’t muster it. At least if he was angry he could have thrown himself around the stage, got hurt and bruised and bloody and it would alleviate the pain for a little while, but this was unbearable. He was stuck in limbo and had no way of recovering while surrounded by thousands screaming, expectant people; he sank down onto his haunches and the urge to vomit eased a little.
His head felt clearer lower to the ground and he knew better than to face the drum riser again. After each song he returned to the side of the stage to switch guitars, and the sweat was wiped from his neck and forehead. Questions of, “Are you okay?” were flung a him during every thirty-second interval but he answered none. He simply nodded his head and graced the stage once more.
Most worryingly was the fact that he couldn’t stand for more than a quarter of any song, and even that was pushing it. He spent most of the set low to the ground, and in the end resorted to laying down because it was the only way he could feel a little better. He knew it must look ridiculous - lazy probably. Or like he couldn’t be bothered anymore. - but he was past the point of caring.
The last song began. Frank felt some kind of ease as the voices all around him raised themselves into a deafening crescendo and he knew this part of the show was nearly over. He wouldn’t be coming back on for the second half. He managed to stand, hitting the chords with a little more ferocity. It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon. He let the words swim round his head, back and forth until the end of the song. The lights went down. He made for the side of the stage.
---
Backstage was bedlam. Shouting, running, pushing, rushing. Frank just listened to it all happen. He sat on the couch with his head between his knees, trying to keep the vomit, which was threatening to emerge at any minute, at bay. The others were changing. Wiping make-up off, peeling themselves from their uniforms, dressing again. Gerard’s bright yellow sneakers appeared in the square patch of floor Frank had been staring at for the past five minutes.
“What happened?” Gerard asked, and there was no masking of the concern in his voice.
Frank thought about shaking his head, he was trying to avoid talking at all, but he thought the motion might be the final straw and he didn’t want to cover Gerard’s footwear with his sick.
“Beats me,” he managed. “You should probably ask Bob.”
“Oh.”
Gerard sat down beside Frank and began to rub his back, the rhythm was comforting and Frank was reminded of the times he had done this for Gerard. But that wasn’t down to heartbreak, that was down to alcohol.
“He was talking about you. He told me I should run back to you. That you would make me feel better. He obviously meant something by it.” Frank wasn’t sure if he was making much sense, but Gerard obviously understood a little because he rubbed Frank’s back one more time and stood up.
“Don’t worry,” he said before walking away, “I’ll sort this out.”
Frank wasn’t sure what Gerard hoped to do about it, or how this could get fixed because Bob had sounded so final. But he couldn’t dwell on that thought for long because the acidic feeling was back in his throat and before he even had time to stand up, he was coughing and the floor was covered in his vomit.
He was glad the rest of the band had gone back on stage already, because he had some sense of pride left and if Bob was going to be an asshole then Frank sure as hell wasn’t going to let him know how badly it was affecting him.
---
“As some of you may have noticed,” Gerard spoke to the crowd before him, “Frank was laid on the floor during most of that.”
The crowed cheered. They were probably shouting ‘yes’.
“He’s really fucking sick right now.” Boos from the crowd. “And we’ve had to send him home.” Bad choice of words, Gerard thought. That would be all over the internet in a matter of hours.
Gerard turned to face the riser, meeting Bob’s eye, but Bob showed no guilt. Gerard swore the look in his eyes was something close to hatred.
“But if you would let us play, then we will fucking play for you.” The screams became deafening and Gerard was sure Frank would hear them in the dressing room. Maybe that would make him feel a little better.
---
The show finished. The lights died out. The band walked from the stage. Ray slung an arm round Mikey’s shoulders exhaustedly. The show had been great, that was true, but without Frank on stage it hadn’t felt quite right. That’s how Ray described it anyway. Not quite right.
Gerard quickened his pace to catch up with Bob, and when he was a few steps behind he reached out a hand to Bob’s arm.
Bob recoiled but turned to face Gerard.
“What?” His tone was angry, Gerard could tell, but there was something else mixed in there as well.
“Don’t fucking what me, Bob.” Gerard hadn’t meant to sound so aggressive, he tried to soften his tone, “You know what this is about. It’s about you and Frank.”
“There is no me and Frank,” Bob said, and the hurt came through more strongly in his voice now. Yes, Gerard thought, that’s what it is. Hurt.
Gerard opened his mouth to speak, but Bob hadn’t finished, “No,” his voice was more composed now, “I think it’s more about you and Frank.”
Gerard was stunned into silence, and it wasn’t something he was used to. Before he time to think of a reply, Bob was speaking again, running his words together as though he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get them all out. Bob wasn’t a man of many words most of the time and he definitely didn’t share his feelings. So what came next was a surprise to both of them.
“You fucker. Things were happening, finally, and you had to come and fucking ruin it. You two with your secret smiles and your talks and hugs and touching and…” He seemed to have finally run out of steam. But no. “You fucker,” he repeated. “If there was something going on between you he should have told me. He should have told me and then maybe this wouldn’t hurt so much. I saw you earlier, in the dressing room. So close, talking about something all quiet and caring, and it hurt. Because I fucking love him but you took him from me. You absolute fucker.” Bob was panting, his cheeks were flushed and his fists were clenched once more.
Gerard blinked. “What?” he said, but not really needing an answer because Bob had said everything he needed to hear a second ago.
At times of great misunderstanding it is often hard to keep a smile from your face, because you know the truth and the other person is so completely in the dark that, well, it’s just kind of funny. But Gerard didn’t find this so amusing.
The sadness in Bob’s eyes was the same as Gerard had seen reflected in Frank’s whole body. He knew he needed to handle this with caution because he was afraid Bob would walk away and not come back.
“Frank loves you,” Gerard figured it best to get that part out there straight away. “Frank and I, we’re friends. We’re best friends. He came to me earlier to tell me about you and him. To tell me that he loves you.”
“Sure,” Bob muttered, scraping his toe along the marked floor like an insolent child. He didn’t look Gerard in the eye once, but he didn’t walk away either. Gerard had to carry on. He had to make Bob believe him.
“And whatever you said to him before the show, well I think it just about broke him - he’s ill because of you. I’m not saying it’s your fault, it’s just a misunderstanding. But if you don’t get in there and fix things, well, it’s not worth thinking about. You’re two of my best friends and you’re both fucking idiots. Now go and fix things.”
Bob finally looked up and into Gerard’s eyes, and he understood. There was an honesty in his voice and on his face that Bob couldn’t doubt anymore. He had to make things right.
“Sorry I called you a fucker,” Bob said, and he meant it.
Gerard said nothing, he just pulled Bob into a hug, the same sort that Bob had witnessed between Frank and Gerard earlier, and let Bob know he was forgiven. They broke apart and Gerard was smiling.
“Now go!”
---
“It was a misunderstanding.”
The tension in Frank’s chest eased. But it wasn’t going to be that easy.
“What?” he said flatly, although little by little the nausea was lifting and his head was clearing.
“I’m so sorry,” Bob moved in closer to Frank and put a hand in between them. “I’m such an asshole.”
“Yeah, you are,” Frank let the hint of a smile grace his lips and followed Bob’s lead. Their fingers laced together quickly, and they both knew this was how it was meant to be.
No barriers, no almost, no misunderstandings or false assumptions. No expectations. No expectations noexpectationsnoexpectations.
Just love.