Fic: "In The Springtime" (Part III of IV)
( Part II)
Frank had packed a suit to wear to the opening, because his mother made him, but now he's not so sure. Gerard is wearing faded black jeans with paint stains splattered across the fabric, a black t-shirt with a grey hummingbird on it, and -
"Is that a tux jacket?" he asks when Gerard emerges from the bathroom, still in the process of zipping up his fly.
"Hmm? Oh. Yeah," Gerard smiles and runs a hand through his hair.
"I shouldn't be surprised, right?"
"What do you mean?"
Frank waves his hand in Gerard's general direction. "I mean, you didn't wear a suit to Mikey's wedding, I don't know why I expected one here. But this is, uh. Cool." Frank has no idea how Gerard manages to pull that shit off so well. He looks exactly how he should.
Gerard snaps his gum and grins, eyes bright. "Hey, I'm the artist, I don't have to conform."
"Too true," Frank mumbles, turning towards the closet mirror. He feels kind of stupid now, decked out in a suit and tie. He hates wearing these things on general principle, but he doesn't know what to change into. He's itchy and the tie's too tight and he just wants to yank it off and start all over again. He can't stand feeling this discombobulated.
Gerard comes up behind him and Frank watches in the mirror as Gerard's hands skim down Frank's arms and then over to the front of the jacket. "You look really good," he whispers and Frank sees himself flushing lightly and looks down to where Gerard's hands are slowly unbuttoning his jacket.
"Yeah?" Frank bites his lip and grins.
"Totally." Gerard's hand is warm on Frank's belly, and his breath is warm against Frank's ear. It makes him shiver. He seriously wants out of the jacket, but maybe -
He yanks at the tie and loosens it enough to throw it over his head, then unbuttons the first two buttons of the shirt. There, he can breathe now, and he looks less like a dick in a suit. When he looks back up, Gerard's reflected face is focused directly on him. Their eyes meet and Gerard's gaze slides deliberately down. There it meets with his thumb at the hollow of Frank's throat. When Frank swallows, he feels the pressure of skin on skin, and he tries to breathe deeply through his nose. There's not even an inch of space between them. Frank pushes back and Gerard's other hand tightens around his middle.
"Hmmm," Gerard hums in Frank's ear and buries his nose in the crook of Frank's neck. Frank is practically panting.
It takes them both a few moments of willing it, but they break apart and it's not until Gerard is leading them outside the hotel and to the nearest cab stand that Frank realizes just how nervous Gerard really is. A part of him is slightly gleeful, though he has no idea why, and another part wants to open the cab door and vomit all over the ground in sympathy.
Gerard jitters next to him all the way to the gallery.
*
When they finally get there, it's like entering a madhouse. A madhouse that smells like turpentine and the glue Frank's first grade teacher Mister Morse used on papier-mâché.
All Frank can see of the place at first glance is that the walls are white and there's art everywhere. They immediately get swept up in a crowd of greeters - does Gerard have a fan base, what the hell? - and Frank rolls with it, letting Gerard take the wheel.
Gerard is pale, but beaming, shaking everybody's hand, slouching as always, but somehow totally in his element. Frank watches him for clues on what to do or say, but there's not much input coming in. So he just shakes the others' hands and lets Gerard introduce him as "Frank Iero, from back home." Some give him appraising looks, some looks just slide right past.
It's about five minutes into the mayhem that they get their first breather. Gerard grabs Frank's hand and quickly leads him to a dim, quiet corner. Their palms are sweating together and Frank sniggers until they're both safely tucked away. He kind of wishes he'd grabbed one of those champagne glasses for himself, and then he bets that Gerard wishes it more, and squashes the thought.
"You okay?"
Gerard exhales and gives a few quick nods that don't actually translate into ‘yes.' "Yeah. I think? I mean, it's, like, crazy. This shit is insane, right?"
"Totally nuts," Frank agrees. "Dude, you famous here, or what?"
Gerard honks out a laugh. "No, that's just, like, all the people from Grenoble? I think. I mean, I know most of them. Like. Half, at least? I don't know, Jesus, am I sweating?"
Frank doesn't say "you're blending with the natives" when it comes to mind, but he does lean up really quick and peck Gerard on the lips. "You're awesome. Okay? Go and, I don't know, chat with your people."
He kind of panics as soon as it's out of his mouth, because what the hell is he doing, basically telling Gerard to abandon him, but then again, Frank's not ten. He'll be fine. It's Gerard that's freaking out.
Gerard bugs his eyes out at him anyway and his lips turn up at one corner. "You sure?" He looks halfway gone already, though.
"Hell yes." Frank rolls his eyes for emphasis. His collar is prickling, and so are his pits, and he shifts until the feeling passes. Why the fuck is he nervous, anyway? He's not the Belle of the Ball here.
Gerard squeezes his hands hard and quick, and gives Frank a distracted nod, looking like he's maybe forgotten Frank is even there. He's gone the next second and Frank readjusts his collar, takes a deep breath. Time to check out Gerard's art. As soon as he remembers that end of the deal, he feels suddenly giddy and his stomach gives a slight whoop. Give him all the dick he can take.
*
The paintings are spread out widely across the white walls, interspersed with installations and some mobiles, hanging from the high ceilings and catching the lights. Frank can't make out what they're of, exactly, from where he's standing, but he's going to find out as soon as he looks at the paintings.
It doesn't hit him until he starts looking, just how much art there is. The place isn't huge, but it's filled, and all of it obviously Gerard's, every last piece. He has no idea how he knows, but he does, and he admits to himself that he's a bit stunned. How long has Gerard been in this country, again? Jesus.
Frank stares at the first painting in front of him. It's black and white, though painted in oils, and the effect is weird and cool, like an old photograph or something that isn't quite realized, maybe. It's just a silhouette of someone from behind - a naked guy, of course, black and sleek-looking - and there's no background, nothing at all. But it's - more than that. Frank doesn't know technique names and he's not, like, an art scholar or anything, but he does know some shit.
This intrigues him. He squints at the nameplate, but all it says is "I." All right, then.
He moves on.
The next three paintings are the same guy - all in motion. They're titled "II" and "III" and other creative things like that, and then he stops again. A negative image of a face watches him, and it takes a few moments of getting over the weirdness of dark, disturbing teeth to realize that that's Gerard's face staring back at him. The upturned nose, the wide-set eyes. The long eyelashes are white and make the face seem old, which is so odd on Gerard's baby-faced features. His mouth is open and he isn't screaming, but he's - Frank can't look away for a long time. This one is called "A."
"V" is next, and it's a close-up shot of the same dude's dick. Frank barely stops himself from cracking up. It's pretty fucking detailed, for what it is, and it isn't black and white anymore, but full-on color. The hips and legs attached to the dick are dark and cut and it kind of makes Frank think of superheroes, unclothed.
"Huh." He turns his head to study it a little more, feeling daring and like a kid, too, a bit. It's not like he's the only one looking at this, and his mom isn't just around the corner, ready to pull him away from things he shouldn't be looking at, at his age. It still makes him squirm and blush, just looking at some model's dick like that. He forces himself to stay there longer than he wants to, just because. And he does enjoy the view, sharing Gerard's case of loving dick and all.
"VI" is, he guesses, the same guy's sleeping face, resting on a bed of thorns. Dramatic and crazy, but beautiful - Frank studies the dark chocolate skin, the way it folds around the resting mouth and curves over high cheekbones. Who is that guy? Gerard, apparently, felt pretty inspired by him, whoever he is - the rendering is incredibly detailed and thoughtful. Frank doesn't exactly feel jealous, but he turns away and moves onto an installation.
He remembers Gerard telling him about working with wood and metal, but this is, like. Wow, okay. Frank tilts his head back to take it in. It's a huge sculpture or whatever of a man. Probably the same man as the paintings, in fact, judging by the sleek bald head, but it's all folded metal and spiky woodwork. It's completely insane, and Frank fucking loves it. He wishes he'd grabbed his camera, but he actually chickened out at the last minute, not wanting to look like an idiot, and left it at the hotel. It's kind of a shame.
He makes his way further along the wall through the milling crowds, watching as paintings grow bigger and bigger in scope. He's glad that he can't understand most of what's being said around him, because it gives him a chance to try to figure these out on his own. There's something increasingly violent about the paintings he's passing, though he wouldn't even be able to pinpoint what, exactly, if his life depended on it. Wouldn't, until he turns and sees the piece hanging in the very center of the gallery.
His jaw actually, like, hurts from the speed with which it drops.
The piece is huge, basically the size of the wall - how did he not notice it until now? It's the same guy from every other painting, bald, black, and beautiful, but this time, he's screaming. His chest and arms are nestled inside the painting, painted in oil, but then his neck and his shoulders and his head are literally bursting out of the canvas. Thick and uneven leather straps are trapping his shoulders, nailed in at each side and corner of the painting, straining against his body. The head and neck are like - like Mister Morse's fucking papier-mâché, except ten times more real and scary and - seriously, it's the freakiest, coolest thing Frank has ever seen.
He steps back and bumps into people but barely even notices, because holy shit. Gerard must be - wow. A lot crazier than Frank had imagined. No wonder Mikey thinks his art is weird. But Frank has never seen anything more awesome in his life.
He only realizes his throat is dry when he goes to swallow and comes up coughing.
"You okay?"
Gerard's voice is low in his ear, but it makes Frank jump about a foot in the air, anyway.
"Jesus!"
He twists around and Gerard's face - real, not a freaky negative after-image - is right next to his own, and beaming. Frank feels his heart hammer down to a quiet pulse after a moment and shakes his head. "Were you stalking me, or just in the neighborhood?"
Gerard presses a hand to the small of Frank's back and leans closer in. "I was watching you looking."
Frank shivers from Gerard's warm breath and the by-now familiar gesture, and backs off just enough to be able to look Gerard in the eye. His jacket feels like it weighs a million pounds right now. "Was that interesting, creeper?"
Gerard laughs and steps back. "Duh. You were watching my work. I fucking love it."
"I had a feeling, maybe," Frank teases. Gerard's not a subtle guy. He clearly loves what he does, and he's damn good at it, apparently, and he probably knows it.
"So, what do you think?" Gerard asks and Frank only notices now that Gerard's got a fucking cigarette in his hand.
He dumbly watches the smoke curl up for a second before coming blurting out, "Uh, is that a fire hazard?"
"What, the painting?" Gerard frowns. "I don't think so, I mean, there's, like, several feet between -"
"No, the fucking - smoking, are you smoking at your own gallery opening?"
"Oh!" Gerard looks at the smoke in his hand like it's the first time he's ever seen anything like it in the world. "Shit, I - wow, I was really fucking nervous, and I had it in my pocket, didn't even - Uh. Oops?" He smiles in that loser-ish, sweet way he's got, the kind Frank didn't realize he had a hard-on for, but totally does. He cracks up and watches Gerard swivel around, cigarette clutched between two fingers, clearly looking for a place to put the thing out. Frank gets there first, finding a half-empty water glass and not even bothering to take the cigarette out of Gerard's sweaty fingers before grabbing Gerard's hand and dunking it into the glass.
They both watch the cigarette fizzle out for a second, then Gerard slowly takes his hand back and wipes it on his jeans. "Holy shit. I, like, didn't even realize I was doing that."
Frank is still kind of giggling. "I can't believe you didn't get busted. They must really fucking love you, huh?"
That comes out different than he'd intended, but maybe he'd intended it like that all along. Gerard's face lights up with his smile. "Yeah, you think?"
Frank thinks maybe he'll never stop laughing around Gerard. Dude is a fucking rollercoaster ride. "Uh, duh? Are you in the same madhouse as I am?"
Gerard's smile really is sweet, and maybe sweetly pleased, too. He looks like the Cheshire Cat right now, and Frank gets a warm feeling in his tummy, and feels kind of like a girl, maybe. He's trying to think of something to say that won't come sounding too much like "shit, I really fucking like you," when somebody behind them calls out, "Monsieur Way?"
Frank chokes on his tongue and claps a hand over his mouth. Monsieur Way, what the fuck. He's totally calling Gerard that in bed as soon as he gets the chance.
Gerard, meanwhile, swivels around and Frank sees him wipe his hand on the seat of his pants before extending it. "Oui?"
The guy introduces himself in French and Frank misses his name. With his grey beard and endless legs, he cuts a pretty impressive figure, and Frank doesn't even realize he's staring until he's staring right into the dude's blue eyes.
"Oh!" Gerard turns to Frank and gives him a wobbly-looking smile before turning back to his fan or whatever. "Lui, c'est Frank Iero," he says. Frank hears his own name just fine and takes that as his cue to shake the guy's hand. It feels like he's introducing himself to his own grandpa, for some reason.
"Nice to meet you," he says, just to avoid any confusion about languages, hoping it actually works. He kind of wishes he hadn't chosen Spanish in school.
"I am David Pinon," the guys answers, and Frank kind of exhales and drops his hand. He doesn't mean to do it so quick, but he somehow hadn't anticipated he'd be talking to strangers. He has no idea why, all he imagined was a bunch of art and Gerard. That was pretty stupid, in retrospect.
In the meantime, Monsieur Pinon turns back to Gerard, but this time, he speaks strictly in English. Frank wonders if it's for his own benefit, or Gerard's. Gerard is twitchy as hell next to him, regardless of the language, and he keeps scratching his nose or hands, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.
"This is…very impressive, Monsieur Way," Pinon says, waving his hand in the direction of the walls. "I had seen some of your work before, that, ah - that showing in New York a few years back, at the Stein Gallery?"
"Oh!" Gerard's eyes kind of light up and he stills for a second. Frank tries to figure who this guy is. A critic, maybe? Otherwise, why would Gerard be fidgeting so hard? "I - had no idea you were there."
"Well, I was in town. At the Whitney dedication, I believe, and word had, how would you say - spread? Of your, uh, talents."
Frank tries really, really hard not to look in Gerard's direction, but he has a feeling that if Gerard's boots weren't so heavy, he'd be floating right up off the floor.
"Of course," Pinon continues, "that was nothing compared to the, hmm, breadth of your own gallery opening, correct? This is quite spectacular, Monsieur Way."
"Uh, thank you, and wow, yeah. Not - not at all," Gerard stammers, and Frank almost feels bad for him. But he can't imagine that Gerard won't find his footing soon. "I mean, I've had such amazing support here - I couldn't have done it without the GFA and the grant."
"And, j'imagine, your muse, no?"
Frank's ears perk up just as the guy cuts his gaze at Frank and then, seamlessly, towards the opposite end of the gallery. Frank can't help but follow his gaze, and - oh. Oh shit.
No fucking way.
The guy whose face and body and dick are all over the walls of the gallery is standing, flesh and blood and sharp, dark suit, a few yards away, chatting in a crowd of people.
It feels like slow-mo - Frank sees him, turns to Gerard, and sees Gerard's face flit through several emotions all at once - recognition, surprise, and something else that Frank fails to place, and then Gerard bites his lip and turns back to Pinon. He doesn't even look at Frank.
"Uh, yeah. My muse," he says, and laughs kind of awkwardly.
Pinon's eyes crinkle at the corners, like he not only knows the game, but also fucking invented the rules, and he's all artless jocularity as he reaches into his pocket and takes out a rectangular piece of paper. "A muse is an artist's bread and butter, as they say." And here Frank thought it was metaphors. "Well, it was very nice to meet you, Monsieur Way. This is my card. Please do not hesitate to let me know of any future showings, I am most impressed."
Frank can see Gerard's hand shake a bit as he reaches out to grab the card. He's smiling like his face might break when he's snatched for another handshake, and then Pinon is gone in the crowd. Frank tries to catch Gerard's eye, and when he does, Gerard's smile turns kind of wobbly.
"Important dude?" Frank asks after a beat.
"Oh yeah," Gerard says, stretching the last syllable into a thousand years, and jitters in place. Frank grins and gives him a dorky thumbs-up, despite the growing unease somewhere in the pit of his stomach.
"That's good, right? He was practically licking your ass, he loved you so much."
Gerard giggles, covering his mouth with Pinon's fluttering card. Frank feels an overwhelming urge to grab his hand away and kiss him, and barely stops himself. "Frankie, oh my God," Gerard mumbles. "Right? Like. Wow, what the hell?"
"You're, like, so articulate," Frank giggles and reaches up to grab Gerard's hand, anyway. "Good thing you're an artist, not a poet."
Gerard looks genuinely wounded for a moment, and Frank feels like a shit. But before he has a chance to take it back or make it better, even though, Christ, he was just teasing, he's got no fucking clue if Gerard is also, like, a poet on the side or whatever, somebody clears their throat and Frank whips around.
Well, shit. It's Mr. Muse himself. Nice timing.
"Gerard?"
Frank never wants to hear Gerard's voice spoken like that ever again, all rolling R's and French Sex God voice. He nearly breaks his neck trying to look the dude in the eye, because hello, he is seven thousand feet tall. He is a black, beautiful, seven thousand foot tall drink of water, and he's looking at Gerard in a way that makes Frank's throat go a little dry.
"Paul!"
Oh. Oh. Frank can feel his eyes bugging out of his head in a really stupid way, but he can't stop any of it: Paul. The model is Paul. As in Paul, Gerard's ex. He of the crazy and torrid sex, who helped Gerard get over his other ex. Frank's brain helpfully supplies the thread with which to connect the paintings and Gerard's love life. Artist's bread and butter, indeed.
Frank stands there, feeling vaguely mute and dumb and swimming just out of his depth, as Paul leans down and embraces Gerard, with that extra tight squeeze at the end, and Gerard - Gerard kind of sinks into him, and when they break apart, it's all big smiles and Paul's incredibly white teeth. They're ridiculously striking together.
"C'est formidable, ça!" Paul says, and Frank grits his teeth.
"Merci, je suis content que ça t'a plu," Gerard answers, and okay, seriously, somebody better start speaking a language Frank understands, even if it's goddamn Spanish. Frank knows that's pretty irrational, and this is Gerard's big day - of course Paul would be here, and how would he know to speak English, anyway. Frank's mostly annoyed at himself for not having even considered the possibility.
Paul finally notices him - or, rather, grants him his attention. Frank isn't convinced this is better, because the look he's getting is akin to Zeus peering down from Mount Olympus, only less impressed.
"Et ça c'est-ton frère?" he asks Gerard.
"Oh!" Gerard says and turns his megawatt smile on Frank, which Frank feels pathetically grateful for, and then simply pathetic. "Non, n'est pas - this is my, uh, Frank."
Paul's eyebrow twitches. Frank is also unsure how to process this introduction, but he extends his hand like a good boy and shakes Paul's dry hand.
"Nice to meet you."
"Enchanté."
Asshole. Frank's about to snatch his hand away when Paul squeezes his fingers and turns Frank's hand palm-down. For a truly bizarre moment, Frank thinks Paul's about to kiss his hand.
"Oh la la, fascinating tattoo! Hallo. Is that a - different spelling or simply a different word?"
Frank looks down, feeling like he's seeing his own hand for the first time, then it hits him and he laughs like the nervous idiot that he is, extending his other hand for inspection.
"Ween… Oh!" Paul exclaims, and it's definitely less inquisitive now. "You are a - children's holiday fan?"
Frank bristles and finally shakes his hand free. "Well, I was -"
"Frank was born on Halloween, isn't that fucking cool?" Gerard interrupts, and Frank honestly can't remember telling Gerard that at any point in time. He can't help grinning at him, but Gerard's watching Paul and bouncing on his toes.
"Yeah, that's my - my birthday." Frank's an awkward idiot. Also, he fucking loves Halloween, and this asshole wouldn't know fun if it bit him on his perfectly sculpted ass, apparently.
"Oh, well, then! Oui, oui, indeed. You appear to be a, hmm, fan of tattoos," Paul says, and Frank can't actually tell which one of them he means, but he's definitely addressing Gerard's dick and not his face. Frank's stomach gives a warning flip, which is totally irrational, but all he wants is to get Gerard away from this dude and go look at his art some more.
"I love tattoos," Gerard enthuses beside him, and Frank is clearly grasping at straws, because that makes his freaking hands tingle. "I hate needles, though, so I just admire them from afar."
Or up close, Frank thinks, and tingles a little more at the memories.
"Well, I knew about your needle problems, of course," Paul laughs, and what? Frank didn't know about Gerard's ‘needle problems,' he just thought Gerard didn't want tattoos, or whatever. He stands back as Gerard switches languages to say something else.
Which leaves Frank standing there, watching the tableau like the awkwardest third wheel in the world. Paul and Gerard are chatting like buds, and Frank can't understand a single word out of anybody's mouth. The smell of papier-mâché in the air makes him feel out of time and place, like he should be back in Jersey, though maybe not in grade school. Why the fuck is he still standing here?
He waits to see if Gerard will remember him long enough to slip back into English, then slinks away to look at the wall he hasn't covered yet. It turns out, though, he can't actually look at the paintings right now, so he walks around a bit aimlessly before realizing that what he's truly craving is a smoke, some fresh air, and maybe a bit of quiet.
*
When he sneaks outside, the breeze hits him like a tidal wave. He breathes in and out for a long time, then fumbles for the crumpled pack in his jacket and lights up. He chokes on the second inhale, which is ridiculous, and has a stern word with himself about just chilling the fuck out. What the fuck is his problem? Gerard exchanging friendly words with his ex - so? It wasn't Paul Gerard was fucking through the bed last night, or kissing on the middle of the street, or… There's no good reason why Frank should be this on edge.
Of course, it isn't Frank's face and Frank's body and Frank's fucking soul on display in there, and it isn't with Frank that Gerard's got all this history. Frank has been in Gerard's life for about the same fraction of time as humanity's been fucking up the Earth. Enough to leave an impression, but not enough to remember the dinosaurs, either.
"Fuck." He's jittering in place, even the smoke isn't cutting it. He needs to get a grip on himself. He feels a bit like a dog chasing its own tail, loopy and confused and pretty fucking frustrated.
He's fine. Everything is fine. He's in a city where he can't even find his own way out of a paper bag, and he knows only one person out of millions, but it's fine, he's fine.
He takes out his cell by inertia and scrolls through a couple new emails from Toro as he ashes on the ground, and there's one from Mikey, too, that he hovers over, but doesn't actually click on. Then he fires off a quick text to his mom saying hi, miss you, and feels a bit pathetic when she doesn't respond right away. She's always leaving her cell phone behind, not like it's unusual.
He stretched out his shoulders before slinking back into the gallery. Did someone crank up the heat? It's a fucking sauna in there, and he hates his suit a lot at that moment.
*
He loses the jacket somewhere between "VI" and "VII." At first he drapes it over his shoulder, then feels like a fucking GQ model and bunches it up in his hand. Which makes his hand itch and cramp, so he finally ditches it in some corner somewhere, giving himself a perfunctory reminder to grab it before leaving.
One problem down. Second problem: finding Gerard.
Good luck, in this madhouse. It feels like the people have multiplied when he wasn't looking; he's being jostled on all sides, and fuck, he can't even see over most of their heads. There's still that trilling speech all around him, chirping and vibrating and it's all beautiful, but ridiculously foreign, and he isn't an idiot, but he feels like one, anyway, because he can't even ask a single question without showing himself up for the tourist that he is. Where the fuck is Gerard?
He finally spots Paul's stupid shiny head in the opposite corner, and makes a beeline for him, not knowing whether he's hoping Gerard is with him or not.
He's not. Paul is chatting to some chick in, like, triple-decker heels that make Frank's ankles whine even looking at her, but Gerard is nowhere to be found. Frank turns back around before Paul can spot him, and then it's like the seas parting. Two guys shake hands, then break apart, and there's Gerard, his back to Frank, talking to a tall chick who's giving him a bright happy smile.
Frank's feet feel rooted to the floor. There's a patch of stubble under his chin that he missed shaving this morning, and he worries it as he watches Gerard's back with the weirdest feeling settling in his gut. It's like déjà vu in reverse. For one moment, he feels like he's never even met Gerard before in his life, like he would have no idea what he would say to him if he were to start a conversation. The change of it makes his breath stop short and his lungs burn. He blinks, breathing deeply, and the feeling's gone, but he's left unsettled and weirded out. As though in that moment, he got lost himself, as well. In that moment, he couldn't even figure out why he's in this city to begin with. Didn't he know just a few hours ago?
He spots a tray with fresh drinks and nearly picks up one of the champagne flutes. One sip for courage, two sips for pleasure? He hates the stuff, but he'd even take that. It's not like he'll be kissing Gerard in while they're still here, but. His hand hovers over it, then he snatches it back. Then he curses at himself for being dumb, picks it up, sets it down, and finally just takes the goddamn water glass and walks away.
Jesus, he's become a lunatic. What a weird fucking night. He needs to get a pretty serious grip on himself, there's nothing actually wrong. Right?
*
"Hey, stranger."
Frank startles. Gerard is standing next to him again, staring at the same spot on the wall that Frank is. It's "B." Gerard's face, in negative; this time, it's sleeping. Or, at least, his eyes are closed. It makes him look like one of those x-rays of victims they show on CSI, which is a horrible, creepy image. Frank zoned out on it a while ago, and now he probably looks like a weirdo, staring at Gerard's face like that.
"Hey," he says. He clears his throat and answers Gerard's quirked eyebrow with a grin that's probably more like a grimace.
"You all right?" Gerard asks, tilting his head a bit, and Frank snaps out of his trance and when he smiles again, it doesn't feel as forced.
"Sure, yeah, I just got…you know."
"What?"
"I don't know." He squirms a little and attempts to grow a pair, even as the tight knot in his stomach eases up a bit. "You're, you know, all busy and stuff. I just didn't wanna be in the way." Which is at least halfway true. He wonders if Gerard will bring up Paul, and he doesn't know which one he's hoping for.
"You disappeared for a while there," Gerard says, looking down and watching his own tapping foot. "I thought maybe -"
"What?"
"Oh, nothing, never mind." Gerard sucks in a deep breath and gestures wildly around them. "So, what do you think?"
Frank doesn't get it at first - think? Think of what? His own train of thought seems to be riding a whole other highway, but then it catches up and he realizes that he never actually got to tell Gerard what he thought of his art. They've been here for what feels like hours, and now Gerard's watching him kind of expectantly from under his eyelashes. Frank relaxes and answers honestly.
"I think you're fucking amazing."
Gerard's face splits into that sun-eclipsing smile, the kind that you could never resist, unless you were, like, a slug or an ant or something else that had no appreciation for beautiful fucking people. "Yeah?"
Frank hears himself giggle in that dumb way, but he can't help it. Gerard has to know Frank thinks that, doesn't he? Gerard, for all that Frank maybe doesn't know him all that well, seems to have a pretty fucking healthy ego. It should really be off-putting, but Frank doesn't even mind it. That may be a problem.
"Duh," he says now, "have you heard everyone tonight? Even that critic or whoever he was. You've got them eating out of your hand, Gerard, I'd say that's a success."
Gerard blushes, but looks so pleased, he's bordering on smug. "I fucking know, right? Apparently, I've sold a piece to a modern art museum in Amsterdam, can you believe that shit?"
Frank's eyes bulge. "Holy crap, are you serious? That's, like - that's big time, isn't it?"
Gerard just gives him a duh look, which Frank accepts, because - duh.
"Oh!" Gerard's eyes widen and he starts patting his own ass. "I have to tell my mom! And Mikey, he made me promise - shit, where's my -"
Frank reaches into his own back pocket to fish out his cell. "Here, use this - I think Mikey's, like, the last person I called on there, or maybe second." Ray was last, right? It's weird not being able to remember, for some reason.
Gerard gives him another smile, but this one's more unreadable, or maybe just a bit complicated. Either way, his fingers are warm when they exchange the phone, and Frank jitters in place as Gerard dials. "Thanks, Frankie," he breathes before the lines connects. "Mikey, it's me. Dude, guess what -"
Frank scratches an itch on his neck. He doesn't know if it's okay that he's here while Gerard talks to Mikey, and it's that awkward moment where he doesn't want to interrupt, because Gerard might misinterpret it, so he just slinks away slowly until he's found a bench to sit on, and takes a breath.
So, Gerard is, apparently, big-time. It isn't exactly intimidating - Frank's got a pretty sweet thing going for him back home, and he wouldn't trade it for anything - but it seems strange, maybe irrelevant, that he be here. Shouldn't it be Mikey, or Gerard's parents? He sits and people-watches for a while, letting his bouncing knee do the worrying for him.
The girl in the triple-decker heels is standing in front of the dick painting, watching it like it's the freaking Mona Lisa, which is pretty hilarious. She's got a friend with her, and that one is openly giggling. Frank wants to muster up some kind of snobbish response in his own brain, but who is he kidding - it's a picture of a dude's dick. He's lucky he didn't giggle his way through it.
"May I join you?"
Frank would know that deep, smooth voice in his grave, probably. Paul doesn't wait for Frank to acknowledge him, just sits right down and watches the girls for a while. If Frank didn't dislike him so much on the ex principle alone, he'd totally ask if it's weird having your junk out on display like that. But he does, so he just grits his teeth, instead.
They sit in an awkward silence for a while, and Frank goes through a million things he could say right at that moment that would make him feel like he's the tall gorgeous dude who's got nothing to fear but fear itself. He watches Paul out of the corner of his eye. Paul seems like the most comfortable guy on the planet, and he's fucking rocking his suit.
"So, you are a friend of Gerard's?" Paul asks in a too-casual voice.
Frank, who is not a pussy, turns to look him in the eye when he answers. "Yeah. I am." It sounds kind of weak, like trying to repel a swarm of bees with a bb gun.
"Hmm." Paul gives him an aloof stare. "He never mentioned you. Frank, you say?"
Frank grits his teeth. "Yes." He mentioned you, he thinks, and his stomach churns in a way that feels like a warning, but he isn't sure if the warning is to himself or not. He's got no idea where this is going.
"He talks very much," Paul says breezily, "and he's talked about his brother, but…"
Frank doesn't know what this dude expects him to say. Does he want a fucking history lesson? Frank doesn't owe him a thing, so he tries to keep himself chill. "Well, I'm a friend."
Who's doing Gerard. Why does that feel like a threat? It's a dumb threat, anyway - Paul's the dude who did Gerard for a while, and helped him get this far.
Paul is quiet after that, seeming to finally accept Frank as fact, leaning back to rest with one hand on the bench. He was clearly born to model - he looks like he's posing for a cover shoot right now, relaxed and dignified, and Frank is intensely aware of his own sweaty pits and itchy knees and how much rather he'd be anywhere but sitting next to him.
Then Paul says, casually, like he's talking about the weather, "He is a Frenchman at heart, I believe, he belongs here. Do you agree?"
Frank's heart does a flying leap into this throat, because fuck that shit. Gerard is a freaking weirdo, Frank knows that, but he's from Jersey, and he'll come back to Jersey, once he's done -
What did Mikey say? "Prancing with his natives?" His people.
Frank swallows around the bile building up in his throat and doesn't answer.
Fuck. Maybe he's had it wrong all along. Maybe this is all just a good fucking time, but Gerard's probably got no intention of going back at all, and it hits Frank in a moment of total clarity that he's got no reason to.
Gerard's a fucking success over here. He's got a grant, and he's probably got enough money to stay on without it. He's sold a goddamn painting to a goddamn European museum, he doesn't need Jersey. He's doing just fine here. He's -
He's standing right in front of them, casting quick, uncertain glances between Frank and Paul, and Frank suddenly wishes that he could click his heels and wind up home, on his couch, with his dog and his life.
"The man of the hour!" Paul trills in an easy voice.
Gerard smiles uncertainly between them, then nods. "I think I'm done here, if you're ready, Frank?"
Frank feels like he's just woken up. When he looks around, the crowd is a mere tenth of what it was, and the whole place has got that feel of a party that should have broken up an hour ago, but didn't because a few assholes were still having fun. Frank sure isn't, though, so he unbuckles his knees and gets up quickly. Fuck, he's so tense, he could spit.
"Totally," he says instead and set out in search of his jacket. "I'll meet you back by the door, okay?" he throws over his shoulder, but when he looks back, Paul's got Gerard in a pretty tight hug. Frank turns back around and legs it across the room.
Part IV
Frank had packed a suit to wear to the opening, because his mother made him, but now he's not so sure. Gerard is wearing faded black jeans with paint stains splattered across the fabric, a black t-shirt with a grey hummingbird on it, and -
"Is that a tux jacket?" he asks when Gerard emerges from the bathroom, still in the process of zipping up his fly.
"Hmm? Oh. Yeah," Gerard smiles and runs a hand through his hair.
"I shouldn't be surprised, right?"
"What do you mean?"
Frank waves his hand in Gerard's general direction. "I mean, you didn't wear a suit to Mikey's wedding, I don't know why I expected one here. But this is, uh. Cool." Frank has no idea how Gerard manages to pull that shit off so well. He looks exactly how he should.
Gerard snaps his gum and grins, eyes bright. "Hey, I'm the artist, I don't have to conform."
"Too true," Frank mumbles, turning towards the closet mirror. He feels kind of stupid now, decked out in a suit and tie. He hates wearing these things on general principle, but he doesn't know what to change into. He's itchy and the tie's too tight and he just wants to yank it off and start all over again. He can't stand feeling this discombobulated.
Gerard comes up behind him and Frank watches in the mirror as Gerard's hands skim down Frank's arms and then over to the front of the jacket. "You look really good," he whispers and Frank sees himself flushing lightly and looks down to where Gerard's hands are slowly unbuttoning his jacket.
"Yeah?" Frank bites his lip and grins.
"Totally." Gerard's hand is warm on Frank's belly, and his breath is warm against Frank's ear. It makes him shiver. He seriously wants out of the jacket, but maybe -
He yanks at the tie and loosens it enough to throw it over his head, then unbuttons the first two buttons of the shirt. There, he can breathe now, and he looks less like a dick in a suit. When he looks back up, Gerard's reflected face is focused directly on him. Their eyes meet and Gerard's gaze slides deliberately down. There it meets with his thumb at the hollow of Frank's throat. When Frank swallows, he feels the pressure of skin on skin, and he tries to breathe deeply through his nose. There's not even an inch of space between them. Frank pushes back and Gerard's other hand tightens around his middle.
"Hmmm," Gerard hums in Frank's ear and buries his nose in the crook of Frank's neck. Frank is practically panting.
It takes them both a few moments of willing it, but they break apart and it's not until Gerard is leading them outside the hotel and to the nearest cab stand that Frank realizes just how nervous Gerard really is. A part of him is slightly gleeful, though he has no idea why, and another part wants to open the cab door and vomit all over the ground in sympathy.
Gerard jitters next to him all the way to the gallery.
*
When they finally get there, it's like entering a madhouse. A madhouse that smells like turpentine and the glue Frank's first grade teacher Mister Morse used on papier-mâché.
All Frank can see of the place at first glance is that the walls are white and there's art everywhere. They immediately get swept up in a crowd of greeters - does Gerard have a fan base, what the hell? - and Frank rolls with it, letting Gerard take the wheel.
Gerard is pale, but beaming, shaking everybody's hand, slouching as always, but somehow totally in his element. Frank watches him for clues on what to do or say, but there's not much input coming in. So he just shakes the others' hands and lets Gerard introduce him as "Frank Iero, from back home." Some give him appraising looks, some looks just slide right past.
It's about five minutes into the mayhem that they get their first breather. Gerard grabs Frank's hand and quickly leads him to a dim, quiet corner. Their palms are sweating together and Frank sniggers until they're both safely tucked away. He kind of wishes he'd grabbed one of those champagne glasses for himself, and then he bets that Gerard wishes it more, and squashes the thought.
"You okay?"
Gerard exhales and gives a few quick nods that don't actually translate into ‘yes.' "Yeah. I think? I mean, it's, like, crazy. This shit is insane, right?"
"Totally nuts," Frank agrees. "Dude, you famous here, or what?"
Gerard honks out a laugh. "No, that's just, like, all the people from Grenoble? I think. I mean, I know most of them. Like. Half, at least? I don't know, Jesus, am I sweating?"
Frank doesn't say "you're blending with the natives" when it comes to mind, but he does lean up really quick and peck Gerard on the lips. "You're awesome. Okay? Go and, I don't know, chat with your people."
He kind of panics as soon as it's out of his mouth, because what the hell is he doing, basically telling Gerard to abandon him, but then again, Frank's not ten. He'll be fine. It's Gerard that's freaking out.
Gerard bugs his eyes out at him anyway and his lips turn up at one corner. "You sure?" He looks halfway gone already, though.
"Hell yes." Frank rolls his eyes for emphasis. His collar is prickling, and so are his pits, and he shifts until the feeling passes. Why the fuck is he nervous, anyway? He's not the Belle of the Ball here.
Gerard squeezes his hands hard and quick, and gives Frank a distracted nod, looking like he's maybe forgotten Frank is even there. He's gone the next second and Frank readjusts his collar, takes a deep breath. Time to check out Gerard's art. As soon as he remembers that end of the deal, he feels suddenly giddy and his stomach gives a slight whoop. Give him all the dick he can take.
*
The paintings are spread out widely across the white walls, interspersed with installations and some mobiles, hanging from the high ceilings and catching the lights. Frank can't make out what they're of, exactly, from where he's standing, but he's going to find out as soon as he looks at the paintings.
It doesn't hit him until he starts looking, just how much art there is. The place isn't huge, but it's filled, and all of it obviously Gerard's, every last piece. He has no idea how he knows, but he does, and he admits to himself that he's a bit stunned. How long has Gerard been in this country, again? Jesus.
Frank stares at the first painting in front of him. It's black and white, though painted in oils, and the effect is weird and cool, like an old photograph or something that isn't quite realized, maybe. It's just a silhouette of someone from behind - a naked guy, of course, black and sleek-looking - and there's no background, nothing at all. But it's - more than that. Frank doesn't know technique names and he's not, like, an art scholar or anything, but he does know some shit.
This intrigues him. He squints at the nameplate, but all it says is "I." All right, then.
He moves on.
The next three paintings are the same guy - all in motion. They're titled "II" and "III" and other creative things like that, and then he stops again. A negative image of a face watches him, and it takes a few moments of getting over the weirdness of dark, disturbing teeth to realize that that's Gerard's face staring back at him. The upturned nose, the wide-set eyes. The long eyelashes are white and make the face seem old, which is so odd on Gerard's baby-faced features. His mouth is open and he isn't screaming, but he's - Frank can't look away for a long time. This one is called "A."
"V" is next, and it's a close-up shot of the same dude's dick. Frank barely stops himself from cracking up. It's pretty fucking detailed, for what it is, and it isn't black and white anymore, but full-on color. The hips and legs attached to the dick are dark and cut and it kind of makes Frank think of superheroes, unclothed.
"Huh." He turns his head to study it a little more, feeling daring and like a kid, too, a bit. It's not like he's the only one looking at this, and his mom isn't just around the corner, ready to pull him away from things he shouldn't be looking at, at his age. It still makes him squirm and blush, just looking at some model's dick like that. He forces himself to stay there longer than he wants to, just because. And he does enjoy the view, sharing Gerard's case of loving dick and all.
"VI" is, he guesses, the same guy's sleeping face, resting on a bed of thorns. Dramatic and crazy, but beautiful - Frank studies the dark chocolate skin, the way it folds around the resting mouth and curves over high cheekbones. Who is that guy? Gerard, apparently, felt pretty inspired by him, whoever he is - the rendering is incredibly detailed and thoughtful. Frank doesn't exactly feel jealous, but he turns away and moves onto an installation.
He remembers Gerard telling him about working with wood and metal, but this is, like. Wow, okay. Frank tilts his head back to take it in. It's a huge sculpture or whatever of a man. Probably the same man as the paintings, in fact, judging by the sleek bald head, but it's all folded metal and spiky woodwork. It's completely insane, and Frank fucking loves it. He wishes he'd grabbed his camera, but he actually chickened out at the last minute, not wanting to look like an idiot, and left it at the hotel. It's kind of a shame.
He makes his way further along the wall through the milling crowds, watching as paintings grow bigger and bigger in scope. He's glad that he can't understand most of what's being said around him, because it gives him a chance to try to figure these out on his own. There's something increasingly violent about the paintings he's passing, though he wouldn't even be able to pinpoint what, exactly, if his life depended on it. Wouldn't, until he turns and sees the piece hanging in the very center of the gallery.
His jaw actually, like, hurts from the speed with which it drops.
The piece is huge, basically the size of the wall - how did he not notice it until now? It's the same guy from every other painting, bald, black, and beautiful, but this time, he's screaming. His chest and arms are nestled inside the painting, painted in oil, but then his neck and his shoulders and his head are literally bursting out of the canvas. Thick and uneven leather straps are trapping his shoulders, nailed in at each side and corner of the painting, straining against his body. The head and neck are like - like Mister Morse's fucking papier-mâché, except ten times more real and scary and - seriously, it's the freakiest, coolest thing Frank has ever seen.
He steps back and bumps into people but barely even notices, because holy shit. Gerard must be - wow. A lot crazier than Frank had imagined. No wonder Mikey thinks his art is weird. But Frank has never seen anything more awesome in his life.
He only realizes his throat is dry when he goes to swallow and comes up coughing.
"You okay?"
Gerard's voice is low in his ear, but it makes Frank jump about a foot in the air, anyway.
"Jesus!"
He twists around and Gerard's face - real, not a freaky negative after-image - is right next to his own, and beaming. Frank feels his heart hammer down to a quiet pulse after a moment and shakes his head. "Were you stalking me, or just in the neighborhood?"
Gerard presses a hand to the small of Frank's back and leans closer in. "I was watching you looking."
Frank shivers from Gerard's warm breath and the by-now familiar gesture, and backs off just enough to be able to look Gerard in the eye. His jacket feels like it weighs a million pounds right now. "Was that interesting, creeper?"
Gerard laughs and steps back. "Duh. You were watching my work. I fucking love it."
"I had a feeling, maybe," Frank teases. Gerard's not a subtle guy. He clearly loves what he does, and he's damn good at it, apparently, and he probably knows it.
"So, what do you think?" Gerard asks and Frank only notices now that Gerard's got a fucking cigarette in his hand.
He dumbly watches the smoke curl up for a second before coming blurting out, "Uh, is that a fire hazard?"
"What, the painting?" Gerard frowns. "I don't think so, I mean, there's, like, several feet between -"
"No, the fucking - smoking, are you smoking at your own gallery opening?"
"Oh!" Gerard looks at the smoke in his hand like it's the first time he's ever seen anything like it in the world. "Shit, I - wow, I was really fucking nervous, and I had it in my pocket, didn't even - Uh. Oops?" He smiles in that loser-ish, sweet way he's got, the kind Frank didn't realize he had a hard-on for, but totally does. He cracks up and watches Gerard swivel around, cigarette clutched between two fingers, clearly looking for a place to put the thing out. Frank gets there first, finding a half-empty water glass and not even bothering to take the cigarette out of Gerard's sweaty fingers before grabbing Gerard's hand and dunking it into the glass.
They both watch the cigarette fizzle out for a second, then Gerard slowly takes his hand back and wipes it on his jeans. "Holy shit. I, like, didn't even realize I was doing that."
Frank is still kind of giggling. "I can't believe you didn't get busted. They must really fucking love you, huh?"
That comes out different than he'd intended, but maybe he'd intended it like that all along. Gerard's face lights up with his smile. "Yeah, you think?"
Frank thinks maybe he'll never stop laughing around Gerard. Dude is a fucking rollercoaster ride. "Uh, duh? Are you in the same madhouse as I am?"
Gerard's smile really is sweet, and maybe sweetly pleased, too. He looks like the Cheshire Cat right now, and Frank gets a warm feeling in his tummy, and feels kind of like a girl, maybe. He's trying to think of something to say that won't come sounding too much like "shit, I really fucking like you," when somebody behind them calls out, "Monsieur Way?"
Frank chokes on his tongue and claps a hand over his mouth. Monsieur Way, what the fuck. He's totally calling Gerard that in bed as soon as he gets the chance.
Gerard, meanwhile, swivels around and Frank sees him wipe his hand on the seat of his pants before extending it. "Oui?"
The guy introduces himself in French and Frank misses his name. With his grey beard and endless legs, he cuts a pretty impressive figure, and Frank doesn't even realize he's staring until he's staring right into the dude's blue eyes.
"Oh!" Gerard turns to Frank and gives him a wobbly-looking smile before turning back to his fan or whatever. "Lui, c'est Frank Iero," he says. Frank hears his own name just fine and takes that as his cue to shake the guy's hand. It feels like he's introducing himself to his own grandpa, for some reason.
"Nice to meet you," he says, just to avoid any confusion about languages, hoping it actually works. He kind of wishes he hadn't chosen Spanish in school.
"I am David Pinon," the guys answers, and Frank kind of exhales and drops his hand. He doesn't mean to do it so quick, but he somehow hadn't anticipated he'd be talking to strangers. He has no idea why, all he imagined was a bunch of art and Gerard. That was pretty stupid, in retrospect.
In the meantime, Monsieur Pinon turns back to Gerard, but this time, he speaks strictly in English. Frank wonders if it's for his own benefit, or Gerard's. Gerard is twitchy as hell next to him, regardless of the language, and he keeps scratching his nose or hands, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.
"This is…very impressive, Monsieur Way," Pinon says, waving his hand in the direction of the walls. "I had seen some of your work before, that, ah - that showing in New York a few years back, at the Stein Gallery?"
"Oh!" Gerard's eyes kind of light up and he stills for a second. Frank tries to figure who this guy is. A critic, maybe? Otherwise, why would Gerard be fidgeting so hard? "I - had no idea you were there."
"Well, I was in town. At the Whitney dedication, I believe, and word had, how would you say - spread? Of your, uh, talents."
Frank tries really, really hard not to look in Gerard's direction, but he has a feeling that if Gerard's boots weren't so heavy, he'd be floating right up off the floor.
"Of course," Pinon continues, "that was nothing compared to the, hmm, breadth of your own gallery opening, correct? This is quite spectacular, Monsieur Way."
"Uh, thank you, and wow, yeah. Not - not at all," Gerard stammers, and Frank almost feels bad for him. But he can't imagine that Gerard won't find his footing soon. "I mean, I've had such amazing support here - I couldn't have done it without the GFA and the grant."
"And, j'imagine, your muse, no?"
Frank's ears perk up just as the guy cuts his gaze at Frank and then, seamlessly, towards the opposite end of the gallery. Frank can't help but follow his gaze, and - oh. Oh shit.
No fucking way.
The guy whose face and body and dick are all over the walls of the gallery is standing, flesh and blood and sharp, dark suit, a few yards away, chatting in a crowd of people.
It feels like slow-mo - Frank sees him, turns to Gerard, and sees Gerard's face flit through several emotions all at once - recognition, surprise, and something else that Frank fails to place, and then Gerard bites his lip and turns back to Pinon. He doesn't even look at Frank.
"Uh, yeah. My muse," he says, and laughs kind of awkwardly.
Pinon's eyes crinkle at the corners, like he not only knows the game, but also fucking invented the rules, and he's all artless jocularity as he reaches into his pocket and takes out a rectangular piece of paper. "A muse is an artist's bread and butter, as they say." And here Frank thought it was metaphors. "Well, it was very nice to meet you, Monsieur Way. This is my card. Please do not hesitate to let me know of any future showings, I am most impressed."
Frank can see Gerard's hand shake a bit as he reaches out to grab the card. He's smiling like his face might break when he's snatched for another handshake, and then Pinon is gone in the crowd. Frank tries to catch Gerard's eye, and when he does, Gerard's smile turns kind of wobbly.
"Important dude?" Frank asks after a beat.
"Oh yeah," Gerard says, stretching the last syllable into a thousand years, and jitters in place. Frank grins and gives him a dorky thumbs-up, despite the growing unease somewhere in the pit of his stomach.
"That's good, right? He was practically licking your ass, he loved you so much."
Gerard giggles, covering his mouth with Pinon's fluttering card. Frank feels an overwhelming urge to grab his hand away and kiss him, and barely stops himself. "Frankie, oh my God," Gerard mumbles. "Right? Like. Wow, what the hell?"
"You're, like, so articulate," Frank giggles and reaches up to grab Gerard's hand, anyway. "Good thing you're an artist, not a poet."
Gerard looks genuinely wounded for a moment, and Frank feels like a shit. But before he has a chance to take it back or make it better, even though, Christ, he was just teasing, he's got no fucking clue if Gerard is also, like, a poet on the side or whatever, somebody clears their throat and Frank whips around.
Well, shit. It's Mr. Muse himself. Nice timing.
"Gerard?"
Frank never wants to hear Gerard's voice spoken like that ever again, all rolling R's and French Sex God voice. He nearly breaks his neck trying to look the dude in the eye, because hello, he is seven thousand feet tall. He is a black, beautiful, seven thousand foot tall drink of water, and he's looking at Gerard in a way that makes Frank's throat go a little dry.
"Paul!"
Oh. Oh. Frank can feel his eyes bugging out of his head in a really stupid way, but he can't stop any of it: Paul. The model is Paul. As in Paul, Gerard's ex. He of the crazy and torrid sex, who helped Gerard get over his other ex. Frank's brain helpfully supplies the thread with which to connect the paintings and Gerard's love life. Artist's bread and butter, indeed.
Frank stands there, feeling vaguely mute and dumb and swimming just out of his depth, as Paul leans down and embraces Gerard, with that extra tight squeeze at the end, and Gerard - Gerard kind of sinks into him, and when they break apart, it's all big smiles and Paul's incredibly white teeth. They're ridiculously striking together.
"C'est formidable, ça!" Paul says, and Frank grits his teeth.
"Merci, je suis content que ça t'a plu," Gerard answers, and okay, seriously, somebody better start speaking a language Frank understands, even if it's goddamn Spanish. Frank knows that's pretty irrational, and this is Gerard's big day - of course Paul would be here, and how would he know to speak English, anyway. Frank's mostly annoyed at himself for not having even considered the possibility.
Paul finally notices him - or, rather, grants him his attention. Frank isn't convinced this is better, because the look he's getting is akin to Zeus peering down from Mount Olympus, only less impressed.
"Et ça c'est-ton frère?" he asks Gerard.
"Oh!" Gerard says and turns his megawatt smile on Frank, which Frank feels pathetically grateful for, and then simply pathetic. "Non, n'est pas - this is my, uh, Frank."
Paul's eyebrow twitches. Frank is also unsure how to process this introduction, but he extends his hand like a good boy and shakes Paul's dry hand.
"Nice to meet you."
"Enchanté."
Asshole. Frank's about to snatch his hand away when Paul squeezes his fingers and turns Frank's hand palm-down. For a truly bizarre moment, Frank thinks Paul's about to kiss his hand.
"Oh la la, fascinating tattoo! Hallo. Is that a - different spelling or simply a different word?"
Frank looks down, feeling like he's seeing his own hand for the first time, then it hits him and he laughs like the nervous idiot that he is, extending his other hand for inspection.
"Ween… Oh!" Paul exclaims, and it's definitely less inquisitive now. "You are a - children's holiday fan?"
Frank bristles and finally shakes his hand free. "Well, I was -"
"Frank was born on Halloween, isn't that fucking cool?" Gerard interrupts, and Frank honestly can't remember telling Gerard that at any point in time. He can't help grinning at him, but Gerard's watching Paul and bouncing on his toes.
"Yeah, that's my - my birthday." Frank's an awkward idiot. Also, he fucking loves Halloween, and this asshole wouldn't know fun if it bit him on his perfectly sculpted ass, apparently.
"Oh, well, then! Oui, oui, indeed. You appear to be a, hmm, fan of tattoos," Paul says, and Frank can't actually tell which one of them he means, but he's definitely addressing Gerard's dick and not his face. Frank's stomach gives a warning flip, which is totally irrational, but all he wants is to get Gerard away from this dude and go look at his art some more.
"I love tattoos," Gerard enthuses beside him, and Frank is clearly grasping at straws, because that makes his freaking hands tingle. "I hate needles, though, so I just admire them from afar."
Or up close, Frank thinks, and tingles a little more at the memories.
"Well, I knew about your needle problems, of course," Paul laughs, and what? Frank didn't know about Gerard's ‘needle problems,' he just thought Gerard didn't want tattoos, or whatever. He stands back as Gerard switches languages to say something else.
Which leaves Frank standing there, watching the tableau like the awkwardest third wheel in the world. Paul and Gerard are chatting like buds, and Frank can't understand a single word out of anybody's mouth. The smell of papier-mâché in the air makes him feel out of time and place, like he should be back in Jersey, though maybe not in grade school. Why the fuck is he still standing here?
He waits to see if Gerard will remember him long enough to slip back into English, then slinks away to look at the wall he hasn't covered yet. It turns out, though, he can't actually look at the paintings right now, so he walks around a bit aimlessly before realizing that what he's truly craving is a smoke, some fresh air, and maybe a bit of quiet.
*
When he sneaks outside, the breeze hits him like a tidal wave. He breathes in and out for a long time, then fumbles for the crumpled pack in his jacket and lights up. He chokes on the second inhale, which is ridiculous, and has a stern word with himself about just chilling the fuck out. What the fuck is his problem? Gerard exchanging friendly words with his ex - so? It wasn't Paul Gerard was fucking through the bed last night, or kissing on the middle of the street, or… There's no good reason why Frank should be this on edge.
Of course, it isn't Frank's face and Frank's body and Frank's fucking soul on display in there, and it isn't with Frank that Gerard's got all this history. Frank has been in Gerard's life for about the same fraction of time as humanity's been fucking up the Earth. Enough to leave an impression, but not enough to remember the dinosaurs, either.
"Fuck." He's jittering in place, even the smoke isn't cutting it. He needs to get a grip on himself. He feels a bit like a dog chasing its own tail, loopy and confused and pretty fucking frustrated.
He's fine. Everything is fine. He's in a city where he can't even find his own way out of a paper bag, and he knows only one person out of millions, but it's fine, he's fine.
He takes out his cell by inertia and scrolls through a couple new emails from Toro as he ashes on the ground, and there's one from Mikey, too, that he hovers over, but doesn't actually click on. Then he fires off a quick text to his mom saying hi, miss you, and feels a bit pathetic when she doesn't respond right away. She's always leaving her cell phone behind, not like it's unusual.
He stretched out his shoulders before slinking back into the gallery. Did someone crank up the heat? It's a fucking sauna in there, and he hates his suit a lot at that moment.
*
He loses the jacket somewhere between "VI" and "VII." At first he drapes it over his shoulder, then feels like a fucking GQ model and bunches it up in his hand. Which makes his hand itch and cramp, so he finally ditches it in some corner somewhere, giving himself a perfunctory reminder to grab it before leaving.
One problem down. Second problem: finding Gerard.
Good luck, in this madhouse. It feels like the people have multiplied when he wasn't looking; he's being jostled on all sides, and fuck, he can't even see over most of their heads. There's still that trilling speech all around him, chirping and vibrating and it's all beautiful, but ridiculously foreign, and he isn't an idiot, but he feels like one, anyway, because he can't even ask a single question without showing himself up for the tourist that he is. Where the fuck is Gerard?
He finally spots Paul's stupid shiny head in the opposite corner, and makes a beeline for him, not knowing whether he's hoping Gerard is with him or not.
He's not. Paul is chatting to some chick in, like, triple-decker heels that make Frank's ankles whine even looking at her, but Gerard is nowhere to be found. Frank turns back around before Paul can spot him, and then it's like the seas parting. Two guys shake hands, then break apart, and there's Gerard, his back to Frank, talking to a tall chick who's giving him a bright happy smile.
Frank's feet feel rooted to the floor. There's a patch of stubble under his chin that he missed shaving this morning, and he worries it as he watches Gerard's back with the weirdest feeling settling in his gut. It's like déjà vu in reverse. For one moment, he feels like he's never even met Gerard before in his life, like he would have no idea what he would say to him if he were to start a conversation. The change of it makes his breath stop short and his lungs burn. He blinks, breathing deeply, and the feeling's gone, but he's left unsettled and weirded out. As though in that moment, he got lost himself, as well. In that moment, he couldn't even figure out why he's in this city to begin with. Didn't he know just a few hours ago?
He spots a tray with fresh drinks and nearly picks up one of the champagne flutes. One sip for courage, two sips for pleasure? He hates the stuff, but he'd even take that. It's not like he'll be kissing Gerard in while they're still here, but. His hand hovers over it, then he snatches it back. Then he curses at himself for being dumb, picks it up, sets it down, and finally just takes the goddamn water glass and walks away.
Jesus, he's become a lunatic. What a weird fucking night. He needs to get a pretty serious grip on himself, there's nothing actually wrong. Right?
*
"Hey, stranger."
Frank startles. Gerard is standing next to him again, staring at the same spot on the wall that Frank is. It's "B." Gerard's face, in negative; this time, it's sleeping. Or, at least, his eyes are closed. It makes him look like one of those x-rays of victims they show on CSI, which is a horrible, creepy image. Frank zoned out on it a while ago, and now he probably looks like a weirdo, staring at Gerard's face like that.
"Hey," he says. He clears his throat and answers Gerard's quirked eyebrow with a grin that's probably more like a grimace.
"You all right?" Gerard asks, tilting his head a bit, and Frank snaps out of his trance and when he smiles again, it doesn't feel as forced.
"Sure, yeah, I just got…you know."
"What?"
"I don't know." He squirms a little and attempts to grow a pair, even as the tight knot in his stomach eases up a bit. "You're, you know, all busy and stuff. I just didn't wanna be in the way." Which is at least halfway true. He wonders if Gerard will bring up Paul, and he doesn't know which one he's hoping for.
"You disappeared for a while there," Gerard says, looking down and watching his own tapping foot. "I thought maybe -"
"What?"
"Oh, nothing, never mind." Gerard sucks in a deep breath and gestures wildly around them. "So, what do you think?"
Frank doesn't get it at first - think? Think of what? His own train of thought seems to be riding a whole other highway, but then it catches up and he realizes that he never actually got to tell Gerard what he thought of his art. They've been here for what feels like hours, and now Gerard's watching him kind of expectantly from under his eyelashes. Frank relaxes and answers honestly.
"I think you're fucking amazing."
Gerard's face splits into that sun-eclipsing smile, the kind that you could never resist, unless you were, like, a slug or an ant or something else that had no appreciation for beautiful fucking people. "Yeah?"
Frank hears himself giggle in that dumb way, but he can't help it. Gerard has to know Frank thinks that, doesn't he? Gerard, for all that Frank maybe doesn't know him all that well, seems to have a pretty fucking healthy ego. It should really be off-putting, but Frank doesn't even mind it. That may be a problem.
"Duh," he says now, "have you heard everyone tonight? Even that critic or whoever he was. You've got them eating out of your hand, Gerard, I'd say that's a success."
Gerard blushes, but looks so pleased, he's bordering on smug. "I fucking know, right? Apparently, I've sold a piece to a modern art museum in Amsterdam, can you believe that shit?"
Frank's eyes bulge. "Holy crap, are you serious? That's, like - that's big time, isn't it?"
Gerard just gives him a duh look, which Frank accepts, because - duh.
"Oh!" Gerard's eyes widen and he starts patting his own ass. "I have to tell my mom! And Mikey, he made me promise - shit, where's my -"
Frank reaches into his own back pocket to fish out his cell. "Here, use this - I think Mikey's, like, the last person I called on there, or maybe second." Ray was last, right? It's weird not being able to remember, for some reason.
Gerard gives him another smile, but this one's more unreadable, or maybe just a bit complicated. Either way, his fingers are warm when they exchange the phone, and Frank jitters in place as Gerard dials. "Thanks, Frankie," he breathes before the lines connects. "Mikey, it's me. Dude, guess what -"
Frank scratches an itch on his neck. He doesn't know if it's okay that he's here while Gerard talks to Mikey, and it's that awkward moment where he doesn't want to interrupt, because Gerard might misinterpret it, so he just slinks away slowly until he's found a bench to sit on, and takes a breath.
So, Gerard is, apparently, big-time. It isn't exactly intimidating - Frank's got a pretty sweet thing going for him back home, and he wouldn't trade it for anything - but it seems strange, maybe irrelevant, that he be here. Shouldn't it be Mikey, or Gerard's parents? He sits and people-watches for a while, letting his bouncing knee do the worrying for him.
The girl in the triple-decker heels is standing in front of the dick painting, watching it like it's the freaking Mona Lisa, which is pretty hilarious. She's got a friend with her, and that one is openly giggling. Frank wants to muster up some kind of snobbish response in his own brain, but who is he kidding - it's a picture of a dude's dick. He's lucky he didn't giggle his way through it.
"May I join you?"
Frank would know that deep, smooth voice in his grave, probably. Paul doesn't wait for Frank to acknowledge him, just sits right down and watches the girls for a while. If Frank didn't dislike him so much on the ex principle alone, he'd totally ask if it's weird having your junk out on display like that. But he does, so he just grits his teeth, instead.
They sit in an awkward silence for a while, and Frank goes through a million things he could say right at that moment that would make him feel like he's the tall gorgeous dude who's got nothing to fear but fear itself. He watches Paul out of the corner of his eye. Paul seems like the most comfortable guy on the planet, and he's fucking rocking his suit.
"So, you are a friend of Gerard's?" Paul asks in a too-casual voice.
Frank, who is not a pussy, turns to look him in the eye when he answers. "Yeah. I am." It sounds kind of weak, like trying to repel a swarm of bees with a bb gun.
"Hmm." Paul gives him an aloof stare. "He never mentioned you. Frank, you say?"
Frank grits his teeth. "Yes." He mentioned you, he thinks, and his stomach churns in a way that feels like a warning, but he isn't sure if the warning is to himself or not. He's got no idea where this is going.
"He talks very much," Paul says breezily, "and he's talked about his brother, but…"
Frank doesn't know what this dude expects him to say. Does he want a fucking history lesson? Frank doesn't owe him a thing, so he tries to keep himself chill. "Well, I'm a friend."
Who's doing Gerard. Why does that feel like a threat? It's a dumb threat, anyway - Paul's the dude who did Gerard for a while, and helped him get this far.
Paul is quiet after that, seeming to finally accept Frank as fact, leaning back to rest with one hand on the bench. He was clearly born to model - he looks like he's posing for a cover shoot right now, relaxed and dignified, and Frank is intensely aware of his own sweaty pits and itchy knees and how much rather he'd be anywhere but sitting next to him.
Then Paul says, casually, like he's talking about the weather, "He is a Frenchman at heart, I believe, he belongs here. Do you agree?"
Frank's heart does a flying leap into this throat, because fuck that shit. Gerard is a freaking weirdo, Frank knows that, but he's from Jersey, and he'll come back to Jersey, once he's done -
What did Mikey say? "Prancing with his natives?" His people.
Frank swallows around the bile building up in his throat and doesn't answer.
Fuck. Maybe he's had it wrong all along. Maybe this is all just a good fucking time, but Gerard's probably got no intention of going back at all, and it hits Frank in a moment of total clarity that he's got no reason to.
Gerard's a fucking success over here. He's got a grant, and he's probably got enough money to stay on without it. He's sold a goddamn painting to a goddamn European museum, he doesn't need Jersey. He's doing just fine here. He's -
He's standing right in front of them, casting quick, uncertain glances between Frank and Paul, and Frank suddenly wishes that he could click his heels and wind up home, on his couch, with his dog and his life.
"The man of the hour!" Paul trills in an easy voice.
Gerard smiles uncertainly between them, then nods. "I think I'm done here, if you're ready, Frank?"
Frank feels like he's just woken up. When he looks around, the crowd is a mere tenth of what it was, and the whole place has got that feel of a party that should have broken up an hour ago, but didn't because a few assholes were still having fun. Frank sure isn't, though, so he unbuckles his knees and gets up quickly. Fuck, he's so tense, he could spit.
"Totally," he says instead and set out in search of his jacket. "I'll meet you back by the door, okay?" he throws over his shoulder, but when he looks back, Paul's got Gerard in a pretty tight hug. Frank turns back around and legs it across the room.
Part IV