Broken
Title: Broken
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Content: Language, implied sex
Summary: Frank left Gerard, and now he has to deal with the aftermath.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, no matter how many times I wish on 11:11, and these events are, as far as I know, the work of fiction. If Google abuse brought you here, and you know and/or are those involved, please don't read.
Author's Notes: I was kind of on a Frerard kick after reading some really good ones (namely, Conclusions by bexless), so I decided to finally write this plot bunny I've been breeding for some time. It's a first time, and very angsty, fic, so I hope you enjoy!
Broken. He broke me. I'm onstage, and I can't even perform right. He's not even looking at me, and it just doesn't feel as good to strut and all when he's not watching me. It's like I lost part of the band, part of me, when he left, and I'm just here, broken
***
"Gerard. We need to talk."
Why couldn’t I tell that something was wrong? I should have known! Why else would he say that? But no, I didn’t see it coming. Not at all.
***
"Frank." Just one word. One time. Please. You won't even talk to me?
"Frank." A bit more insistent this time. Why won't you answer?
"Frank!" Goddammit, Frank, answer me!
"Gerard." It's just one word, but it stops me cold. "Please, don't. I cont do this anymore." My outstretched hands drop, right then and there. It's as if he froze me cold.
"Frankie." I'm pleading, almost begging. "Frankie!" You can't do this? What about me!
"I'm sorry, Gee." And the worst part is, he is. He really is sorry. "But please. Please leave me alone."
***
Frank walks over and sits down next to me on the bed, one hand on my knee. I lean in to kiss him, kiss his boyish lips, but he pulls away.
"Frankie?" I ask, pouting in that way he says he hates but I know he loves. "Frankie baby, what's wrong?"
He's silent now, completely quiet, and it's unnerving. Why is he like this?
"Frank?"
"...Us." he mumbles, so quietly I almost miss it. "It's us."
"What?" What does, he mean, us? "Frankie, what are you talking about?"
"This isn’t working, Gee. We need to stop this. I- I don't think that we can be together anymore." He bites at his lip ring - his nervous tic - as he watches me, his hand stroking my leg.
"But- but why?" How can he say that?" "Frankie!" I try to kiss him, try to push him down onto the bed, but he shoves me away.
"Gerard! Listen to me, goddammit! I'm trying to break up with you!"
What? Frankie - break up with me? I sit back down, trying to understand what he'd meant. "But why? Frank, we're so good together!"
"Gerard, I feel like..." he trails off, breaking my gaze. "I feel like there's nothing going on with us, y'know? It's like I don’t even know you anymore! And," he pauses, reaches up to stroke my hair, running his fingers through it, "I feel like there's no love."
***
Mikey pulls me into the studio, handing me a soda. I take a sip, gag, and spit it out, wiping my hand on his sleeve.
"The fuck? You know I hate Red Bull!" It tastes fucked, up and gross, like come. The bad kind. Not Frank's. I thrust the can back at him. "Jeez, take it back!"
"Gee, you need it. I've noticed. We've all noticed. You're not yourself. Ever since..." Fading off, he gives me a hug, pulling me close. Odd; he's never been the initiator. "And, I mean, we're filming today. You've got to be good for this."
"Mikey, I'm fine. I am A-O-fucking-kay, okay? I don’t need your little pity party." I am okay with this, right? I mean, it's just a music video.
***
"Frank, how- how can you say that? Frankie baby, of course there's love! What are you saying?" He wasn’t making any sense! I grab his hand, brushing my fingers over his palm, over his fingers, over the scabbing blisters on his fingertips. He pulls his hand away, though, and clenches a handful of blankets in his fist.
"You cheated on me!" he bursts out, his voice cracking on the final syllable. "Goddammit, Gerard, you fucking cheated on me!"
Shit. That. "Jeez, Frank, that was one time!" Just once! It was one fucking little indiscretion! Couldn’t he let it go? I didn’t even remember his name! Why couldn’t Frank see he meant way more to me than that!
"It still happened, Gee. Its still fucking happened."
***
Frank is sitting on the couch in front of me. He looks disappointed, and I'm not surprised. I would be too if I were him. And pissed. Pretty fucking pissed. I'm sure I look like shit too, my hair matted to my face with sweat and all, seeing as a minute ago, I was screwing some guy I'd met at the concert. In our bed. Frank gets uo and glares at me, as if he can read my thoughts.
"What the fuck, Gerard?" He's on his feet now, leaning forward, and I suddenly feel a stinging pain across the side of my face. He slapped me! He fucking slapped me!
All of a sudden he drops his hand, staring at me in shock. As I gingerly reach up to feel my cheek, he begins talking, quickly and crazily. "Gerard, I'm so sorry. I just- I just got so pissed, and I-"
"Frank." I cut him off, causing him to stare at me wide-eyed. Suddenly, he's crying, he's fucking crying, and I'm holding him up as he sobs into my neck. "Frankie?"
"Gerard, you bastard! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I hurt you! What were you thinking, you motherfucker! Gee..." he cries into my shoulder. He's so vulnerable, like a child, and as I look down at him, I can't help but feel guilty. That guy didn’t even mean anything to me; he was just some groupie.
"I'm sorry, Frankie baby, I'm so sorry." Looking down at his tiny form, I begin to cry as well, just thinking about how much he needs me. "We'll work this out. I promise you, we will.
***
"But we're past that, right?" We were! It had taken us some time, but we'd gotten over it-right?
"You might be, Gerard, but I'm not. You really hurt me, Gee." He grimaces as he looks at me, and it's palpable, how serious he is. And Frankie's never serious. That's partially why I fell for him: his perpetual boyish immaturity.
"Frankie, I'm sorry. I'm sure we could work through it again. We could- we could see someone, talk to someone! People do that, right? I mean, some do!" I continue going on and on, not noticing or really even caring what I was saying. I just didn’t want him to finish talking.
"Gerard, I'm sorry. I don't think that'll work." His hands are fumbling at the hem of his shirt. I've seen his hands everywhere - playing kick-ass guitar, flipping off haters, cracking open sodas, even tangled in my hair and wrapped around my cock - but I've never seen them, seen him, look this unsure. Not even our first time. Not even at the very beginning.
***
"Frank." I can barely breathe from the stress of our just-finished performance, but I still manage to whisper the name of the man in front of me, the man I've fallen completely and utterly in love with. "Oh, god, Frankie."
He steps closer, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Gee."
All he says is my name, but his meaning is clear. Leaning down, I kiss him, pulling up to me so he's on tiptoe. I cant believe I'm kissing Frank! Frank! I can't believe that these are Frank's lips on mine, Frank's hands around my neck, Frank's chest against mine as he slips off his shirt.
I don't remember how we got to the bed. I can barely even remember our first time - which was, admittedly, not as good as it got later on. All I can remember was the sense of finding that one person you're meant to be with, forever, and feeling like nothing could go wrong.
That was before everything. Before we realized that "young love" was just a phase. Before we stopped trusting each other. Before the love ran out.
That was when I still laughed at everything he said without fail. When he still ate off my plate like it was his own. When we were still the picture of romantic bliss.
That was before we knew how badly it would all fall apart.
***
"Oh God, I'm really sorry about this, y'know?" His expression is sad, but slightly hopeful; he really does want this, I realize. He wants to end it. He wants me to accept it. "I mean, I'd be willing to try, but, and as much as I hate to say this, I don’t see the point. I don’t think we can fix this-us."
"You're sure?" I ask. God, I sound pitiful. Like some teenage girl chasing after her boyfriend. "Really? All of this," I say, gesturing to us, our room, our bed, "is broken?"
"Yeah." He says, looking away from me. "It is. But I'll still be your friend, Gee. I'll always be. If you want me to."
"It won't be the same, Frank. It can't be." It won't ever be.
Frank gets up, hands in his pockets. "Well, I guess this is the end." He says quietly.
"Yeah."
He leans back towards me, and for a second, his lips brush mine, ever so softly. He's so close, I can see his eyelashes, and they're wet. He's crying.
Then he's gone, walking out the door, and it's all over so fast I can't tell if it even actually happened.
"Goodbye, Gee." He says, as tears trickle down his cheeks.
I call his name, one last time; I have nothing left to lose. "Frankie!"
He turns. "Yeah?" I can hear the crack in his voice, and he's choking up.
"...I love you." I'd never said that too him. Not during sex, not on dates, not even hanging out, friend to friend. Never.
I can just make out Frank's silhouette as he steps back, his shoulders shaking as he cries. As he walks away, all he says is:
"I know."
***
~I don't love you like I did yesterday~
But the words I'm singing are anything but true. In fact, it's all I can do to keep from crying as I sing the words we wrote together, even with the cameras on me. I'm still hopelessly, irrevocably, stupidly in love with my best friend. And I can't do a thing about it.
~I don't love you like I did yesterday~
Frank's eye catches mine, and he gives me a small, hopeful smile. He wants me to get over him, go back to being best friends, but I can't. Love doesn’t work that way; it doesn't have an on-off switch.
~I don't love you like I loved you yesterday~
As he looks away, it suddenly hits me: it's over. We're over. No more stolen offstage kisses, no more frenzied tour bus sex, no more late-night movie marathon dates. No more "Frerard".
It's done.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Content: Language, implied sex
Summary: Frank left Gerard, and now he has to deal with the aftermath.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, no matter how many times I wish on 11:11, and these events are, as far as I know, the work of fiction. If Google abuse brought you here, and you know and/or are those involved, please don't read.
Author's Notes: I was kind of on a Frerard kick after reading some really good ones (namely, Conclusions by bexless), so I decided to finally write this plot bunny I've been breeding for some time. It's a first time, and very angsty, fic, so I hope you enjoy!
Broken. He broke me. I'm onstage, and I can't even perform right. He's not even looking at me, and it just doesn't feel as good to strut and all when he's not watching me. It's like I lost part of the band, part of me, when he left, and I'm just here, broken
***
"Gerard. We need to talk."
Why couldn’t I tell that something was wrong? I should have known! Why else would he say that? But no, I didn’t see it coming. Not at all.
***
"Frank." Just one word. One time. Please. You won't even talk to me?
"Frank." A bit more insistent this time. Why won't you answer?
"Frank!" Goddammit, Frank, answer me!
"Gerard." It's just one word, but it stops me cold. "Please, don't. I cont do this anymore." My outstretched hands drop, right then and there. It's as if he froze me cold.
"Frankie." I'm pleading, almost begging. "Frankie!" You can't do this? What about me!
"I'm sorry, Gee." And the worst part is, he is. He really is sorry. "But please. Please leave me alone."
***
Frank walks over and sits down next to me on the bed, one hand on my knee. I lean in to kiss him, kiss his boyish lips, but he pulls away.
"Frankie?" I ask, pouting in that way he says he hates but I know he loves. "Frankie baby, what's wrong?"
He's silent now, completely quiet, and it's unnerving. Why is he like this?
"Frank?"
"...Us." he mumbles, so quietly I almost miss it. "It's us."
"What?" What does, he mean, us? "Frankie, what are you talking about?"
"This isn’t working, Gee. We need to stop this. I- I don't think that we can be together anymore." He bites at his lip ring - his nervous tic - as he watches me, his hand stroking my leg.
"But- but why?" How can he say that?" "Frankie!" I try to kiss him, try to push him down onto the bed, but he shoves me away.
"Gerard! Listen to me, goddammit! I'm trying to break up with you!"
What? Frankie - break up with me? I sit back down, trying to understand what he'd meant. "But why? Frank, we're so good together!"
"Gerard, I feel like..." he trails off, breaking my gaze. "I feel like there's nothing going on with us, y'know? It's like I don’t even know you anymore! And," he pauses, reaches up to stroke my hair, running his fingers through it, "I feel like there's no love."
***
Mikey pulls me into the studio, handing me a soda. I take a sip, gag, and spit it out, wiping my hand on his sleeve.
"The fuck? You know I hate Red Bull!" It tastes fucked, up and gross, like come. The bad kind. Not Frank's. I thrust the can back at him. "Jeez, take it back!"
"Gee, you need it. I've noticed. We've all noticed. You're not yourself. Ever since..." Fading off, he gives me a hug, pulling me close. Odd; he's never been the initiator. "And, I mean, we're filming today. You've got to be good for this."
"Mikey, I'm fine. I am A-O-fucking-kay, okay? I don’t need your little pity party." I am okay with this, right? I mean, it's just a music video.
***
"Frank, how- how can you say that? Frankie baby, of course there's love! What are you saying?" He wasn’t making any sense! I grab his hand, brushing my fingers over his palm, over his fingers, over the scabbing blisters on his fingertips. He pulls his hand away, though, and clenches a handful of blankets in his fist.
"You cheated on me!" he bursts out, his voice cracking on the final syllable. "Goddammit, Gerard, you fucking cheated on me!"
Shit. That. "Jeez, Frank, that was one time!" Just once! It was one fucking little indiscretion! Couldn’t he let it go? I didn’t even remember his name! Why couldn’t Frank see he meant way more to me than that!
"It still happened, Gee. Its still fucking happened."
***
Frank is sitting on the couch in front of me. He looks disappointed, and I'm not surprised. I would be too if I were him. And pissed. Pretty fucking pissed. I'm sure I look like shit too, my hair matted to my face with sweat and all, seeing as a minute ago, I was screwing some guy I'd met at the concert. In our bed. Frank gets uo and glares at me, as if he can read my thoughts.
"What the fuck, Gerard?" He's on his feet now, leaning forward, and I suddenly feel a stinging pain across the side of my face. He slapped me! He fucking slapped me!
All of a sudden he drops his hand, staring at me in shock. As I gingerly reach up to feel my cheek, he begins talking, quickly and crazily. "Gerard, I'm so sorry. I just- I just got so pissed, and I-"
"Frank." I cut him off, causing him to stare at me wide-eyed. Suddenly, he's crying, he's fucking crying, and I'm holding him up as he sobs into my neck. "Frankie?"
"Gerard, you bastard! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I hurt you! What were you thinking, you motherfucker! Gee..." he cries into my shoulder. He's so vulnerable, like a child, and as I look down at him, I can't help but feel guilty. That guy didn’t even mean anything to me; he was just some groupie.
"I'm sorry, Frankie baby, I'm so sorry." Looking down at his tiny form, I begin to cry as well, just thinking about how much he needs me. "We'll work this out. I promise you, we will.
***
"But we're past that, right?" We were! It had taken us some time, but we'd gotten over it-right?
"You might be, Gerard, but I'm not. You really hurt me, Gee." He grimaces as he looks at me, and it's palpable, how serious he is. And Frankie's never serious. That's partially why I fell for him: his perpetual boyish immaturity.
"Frankie, I'm sorry. I'm sure we could work through it again. We could- we could see someone, talk to someone! People do that, right? I mean, some do!" I continue going on and on, not noticing or really even caring what I was saying. I just didn’t want him to finish talking.
"Gerard, I'm sorry. I don't think that'll work." His hands are fumbling at the hem of his shirt. I've seen his hands everywhere - playing kick-ass guitar, flipping off haters, cracking open sodas, even tangled in my hair and wrapped around my cock - but I've never seen them, seen him, look this unsure. Not even our first time. Not even at the very beginning.
***
"Frank." I can barely breathe from the stress of our just-finished performance, but I still manage to whisper the name of the man in front of me, the man I've fallen completely and utterly in love with. "Oh, god, Frankie."
He steps closer, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Gee."
All he says is my name, but his meaning is clear. Leaning down, I kiss him, pulling up to me so he's on tiptoe. I cant believe I'm kissing Frank! Frank! I can't believe that these are Frank's lips on mine, Frank's hands around my neck, Frank's chest against mine as he slips off his shirt.
I don't remember how we got to the bed. I can barely even remember our first time - which was, admittedly, not as good as it got later on. All I can remember was the sense of finding that one person you're meant to be with, forever, and feeling like nothing could go wrong.
That was before everything. Before we realized that "young love" was just a phase. Before we stopped trusting each other. Before the love ran out.
That was when I still laughed at everything he said without fail. When he still ate off my plate like it was his own. When we were still the picture of romantic bliss.
That was before we knew how badly it would all fall apart.
***
"Oh God, I'm really sorry about this, y'know?" His expression is sad, but slightly hopeful; he really does want this, I realize. He wants to end it. He wants me to accept it. "I mean, I'd be willing to try, but, and as much as I hate to say this, I don’t see the point. I don’t think we can fix this-us."
"You're sure?" I ask. God, I sound pitiful. Like some teenage girl chasing after her boyfriend. "Really? All of this," I say, gesturing to us, our room, our bed, "is broken?"
"Yeah." He says, looking away from me. "It is. But I'll still be your friend, Gee. I'll always be. If you want me to."
"It won't be the same, Frank. It can't be." It won't ever be.
Frank gets up, hands in his pockets. "Well, I guess this is the end." He says quietly.
"Yeah."
He leans back towards me, and for a second, his lips brush mine, ever so softly. He's so close, I can see his eyelashes, and they're wet. He's crying.
Then he's gone, walking out the door, and it's all over so fast I can't tell if it even actually happened.
"Goodbye, Gee." He says, as tears trickle down his cheeks.
I call his name, one last time; I have nothing left to lose. "Frankie!"
He turns. "Yeah?" I can hear the crack in his voice, and he's choking up.
"...I love you." I'd never said that too him. Not during sex, not on dates, not even hanging out, friend to friend. Never.
I can just make out Frank's silhouette as he steps back, his shoulders shaking as he cries. As he walks away, all he says is:
"I know."
***
~I don't love you like I did yesterday~
But the words I'm singing are anything but true. In fact, it's all I can do to keep from crying as I sing the words we wrote together, even with the cameras on me. I'm still hopelessly, irrevocably, stupidly in love with my best friend. And I can't do a thing about it.
~I don't love you like I did yesterday~
Frank's eye catches mine, and he gives me a small, hopeful smile. He wants me to get over him, go back to being best friends, but I can't. Love doesn’t work that way; it doesn't have an on-off switch.
~I don't love you like I loved you yesterday~
As he looks away, it suddenly hits me: it's over. We're over. No more stolen offstage kisses, no more frenzied tour bus sex, no more late-night movie marathon dates. No more "Frerard".
It's done.