Fic: Skin of the Canvas, 5/6
The Skin of the Canvas 5/6
part one -- part two -- part three -- part four -- part five -- part six
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Two weeks go by.
Their new model is Catriona, a sweet, pretty redhead who flirts gently with Maja, and holds cheerful conversations even while she's posing. Gerard smokes half a carton of cigarettes, talks to Brian four times, talks to Mikey eight times, reorganizes his senior project, and does not drink.
And he doesn't call Frank.
Frank calls him, three times: once on the morning after the party, once the day after that, and once a week later. Gerard doesn't check his messages. The dial tone beeps stridently every time he picks up the phone, so Gerard holds it away from his ear when he first picks it up, before he's dialed the area code. It's not avoidance, not really; Gerard just needs time to think.
The fourth time Frank calls, Gerard picks up. "Hello," he says.
"So you didn't die," Frank says, his joking tone laced with anger.
This, Gerard thinks, this is the problem with not having caller ID. "Nope," he says, trying to keep his voice light. "But I am on the way out the door." Frank doesn't say anything. Gerard clears his throat. "I'll call you back tonight, though. Are you going to be around?"
"After eight," Frank says.
Gerard closes his eyes, visualizing his schedule. "Okay, yeah, I'll call you after eight. I think I'll be home by nine."
"Catch you later, I guess."
"Sure," Gerard says. Frank hangs up. Gerard stands with the phone to his ear until it starts to beep. He puts it down, hesitates, and picks it back up again and punches in the number for his mailbox.
You have -- three -- new messages. Gerard hits the 1.
First new message. "Hi, it's Frank. You left kind of quick last night, I was thinking you'd stay the night, but. I mean, not that I expected you would. I just-- well, I figure you don't like parties that much." A pause, a weird sound, and Frank's high, giddy laugh. "Okay, call me." Gerard presses 3 to delete the message.
Message erased. Second new message. "Hi, Gerard." A long pause. "Haven't heard from you, so I'm a little worried. Hope you got home okay, and everything." Another long pause. Gerard presses his ear closer to the receiver, listening to the sound of music in the background. "If I did something wrong, you should tell me," Frank says, "I don't think I did, but just in case, okay? Okay, call me." Gerard pushes 3 again, and leaves his finger hovering over the button.
Message erased. Third new message. "Fucking call me already, okay?" End of new message. To delete this message-- Gerard presses 3 one last time and hangs up the phone, his breath stalled out in his throat. He feels like he needs to piss, and like he needs to jerk off, and like he's hungry. His stomach is clenching like it does before he pukes. He has to go to class.
And Gerard goes, because that's what he does now, he doesn't avoid things like class and work and studio time. He walks to the subway, slides his MetroCard through the reader, and gets on the train. He gets off the subway and goes to his class. He gets on the subway and goes to work. He gets on the subway and goes to his studio. The whole time he expects that his stomach will settle down, but it never does.
Gerard had thought that maybe he was past this, past screwing up like a fucking useless prick, past letting down people who care about him, but apparently he isn't. When he lets himself into his studio, the sight of his canvases leaning against the wall make him want to cry, to throw up, to go buy a forty from the nearest bodega.
He leaves the studio and drags himself to a meeting.
"Hi, I'm Gerard," he says, after the leader of the meeting has invited the group to participate. "And I'm an alcoholic."
He tells them what happened, lays out what a jackass he was in glorious queer technicolor. "And I realized I was avoiding him," he finishes. "I didn't know I was, but I was."
Everyone's quiet, for a moment. A few rows back, a woman with long brown hair who he's seen around campus leans forward. She asks, "He left you alone at the party, huh?"
"He doesn't have to babysit me," Gerard says, stung, and a guy in his row nods.
"I'm not saying he does," she says. She leans her elbow on her knee and puts her chin in her hand. "But he didn't tell you that the ex-boyfriend's friend would be there, right? And then he got drunk."
"He didn't mean--"
"Of course he didn't," she interrupts. "Whatever. I'm saying, like, don't act like such a drama queen. Nothing is completely your fault, y'know?" She sits back in her chair. Gerard chews on the inside of his lip, just so he won't say something snide.
A little hipster boy turns around to ask, "So what are you doing about it now?"
Gerard says, "Oh. I'm calling him, tonight. I promised I'd call."
"Whoever's at fault, that's all you can do," the guy says, comfortably, and faces front again, making his chair squeak. "You can't ride yourself for the past, dude." Gerard slurps down a painful gulp of his coffee and nods, even though he feels like whining. It's not that simple, he wants to say, but he holds it in.
Someone else speaks up, and they move past him and his problems. Gerard chews on the inside of his lip and drinks his coffee, thinking about what the girl said, turning it over and over again.
At the end of the meeting, Gerard turns back to her and offers his hand, stretching over the back of his chair. She looks startled, then takes it and gives it a little shake, a lopsided grin on her face. "It's cool," she says, "I'm just saying--"
"No, you're right," he says. "I'm a total drama queen." She shrugs and laughs a little, color rising in her cheeks. Gerard lets go of her hand. She bends down and shoulders her bag, sketching a little salute before she turns to go. Gerard tips one back and starts gathering his own things.
When he finally gets himself together and gets out of the building, Gerard's watch reads 8:49. He's got half an hour before Frank gets back to his apartment. Gerard buys himself a chocolate bar, a soda, and a Marie Claire; he reads the magazine on the train, snapping off squares of chocolate and pushing them under his tongue to melt. He keeps reading after he gets off at his stop, flipping quickly past a photo series of angular women in pale-beige outfits and browsing through an article on oppressed people in Haiti.
He's just gotten to the article on butt-blasting workouts and is contemplating the relative butt-benefits of the "squatting preacher curl" when he trips over his own feet. Gerard flails, the pages of his magazine flapping, and nearly takes a header into the sidewalk. He rights himself, takes a deep breath, and looks up to see that he's almost reached his apartment.
His stoop has Frank on it. "Hi," Frank says.
If Gerard were to start sprinting right now, he could probably get away. Frank's skinnier than him, but he's shorter, too, and he smokes nearly as much as Gerard does. And Gerard has desperation on his side, that has to be a major factor.
"Don't run," Frank jokes, like he can read Gerard's mind.
Gerard finally says, "Sure, right." His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He folds his magazine in half and sticks it under his armpit, patting his pockets to find his keys. "What are you doing here? I mean."
"I figured you might forget to call," Frank says.
Gerard purses his lips, embarrassed. "Right," he repeats. "Well, come on up, then."
Frank stands close behind Gerard while he gets the front door open and crowds behind him as they walk up the stairs. Gerard doesn't tell him to back off, though the closeness is making him feel self-conscious and awkward. He does stop abruptly at the top of the stairs; Frank bumps into him, and finally gives him some more room.
"Can I use your bathroom?" Frank asks, as soon as they're in.
Gerard shrugs, and says, "Yeah, sure," as an afterthought. "Do you want something to drink?" he asks, before Frank shuts the door. Frank leans back out.
"Tang."
"Okay."
Gerard takes the powder down from the cabinet. He unscrews the top and lays it upside down on the counter by the container. He measures two spoonfuls into a clean glass. He closes the container and puts it back in its spot in the cabinet. He gets a spoon from the drawer. He fills the glass with water from the tap. He swallows nervously, his throat clicking. He stirs the powder in, watching the grains of it swirling around in the glass. The spoon clinks against the glass. He puts the spoon down in the sink.
When Gerard turns away from the sink, Frank is leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, watching him. Gerard holds out the glass. "Tang," he offers. Frank doesn't return his weak smile. He walks forward and takes the glass, then leans against the counter by the cabinets. "What the fuck," Frank says conversationally, and takes a sip of his drink.
"I'm sorry," Gerard says. His hand is still in the shape of the glass; he wishes he hadn't put the container away, or that he hadn't moved so quickly through the steps of making it. He doesn't want to look at Frank. He says, "I didn't mean to avoid you."
"But you did," Frank says.
"I did."
"Why?" Frank's expression is sharp. Gerard thinks of birds, what it would be like to draw Frank with birds crouched around him, their beaks open, their eyes nearly as dark as his.
Gerard shakes his head to clear the image. Later, he thinks, and then screws up his mouth when he realizes that there probably won't be a later. He says helplessly, "I-- it was stupid. I'm sorry."
Frank sets down his glass on the counter and folds his arms. "You already said that you're sorry."
"I don't know what else I should say," Gerard tries, "I mean, that's what I am, I'm sorry."
"Why did you do it, though?"
"I don't really know," Gerard says uncomfortably, thinking of the girl at the meeting.
"There has to be a reason." Frank sounds so reasonable, like every teacher Gerard has let down in his life. "I came all the way out here, I'd like to think that's worth something."
Gerard opens his mouth to offer him an explanation, but nothing comes. He shuts his mouth instead, and shrugs. Frank doesn't give him anything else, and finally Gerard says, "So are we breaking up?"
"What?"
"I don't-- I'm sorry."
"Fucking Jesus Christ, Gerard." Frank's voice isn't so reasonable anymore. "Will you fucking stop apologizing?"
"I," Gerard starts, and then stops himself, embarrassed. "I don't know what you want me to do."
"Fight with me!" Frank sticks his chin out, his arms still folded. "I want you to fucking fight with me. And to stop fucking apologizing. I get it, you're sorry."
Gerard opens his mouth again, feeling awkward and unsure. "You want me to say I didn't avoid you?" He turns around, facing the sink, curling his palms around the edge of it. Frank makes a strangled, angry sound, and Gerard finishes, "Maybe you should just get the fuck out of my apartment," feeling a weird sort of relief at saying it.
Then he gasps, arching like he can get away from the water that's just splashed down the length of his back. "Fuck!" he shouts, and whirls around.
Frank is holding his now-empty glass. His expression is defiant. "Don't just dick out on me like that," he says.
Gerard spits, "I said I was fucking sorry," and Frank turns back to the cabinets, scrabbling around and yanking out the ancient box of baking soda Gerard keeps on the bottom shelf. Gerard tries, "What--" but Frank is already pulling open the top. He shakes the box at Gerard, sending out a cloud of white dust. Gerard shrieks and waves his arms like he can fend it off. "Fuck, Frank, you--"
"Fight with me," Frank yells, and turns back to the cabinet. Gerard dives for the fridge, opening the door and ducking behind it. He can hear the sink running, and he casts about wildly for something else to defend himself with.
He stands up to reach for the pan he keeps on top of the fridge just as an arc of water comes over the fridge door. It hits him full in the face. Gerard opens his eyes just long enough that whatever Frank throws after that gets in his eyes; he slams them shut again and curses, trying to wipe his face on his shirt and groping blindly for something to throw back at Frank.
He doesn't really mean to throw an egg. Or, he means to, but he's not completely clear on how the egg gets from the fridge door to his hand to Frank's chest. He's too focused on the way his eyes are watering, and on the sound of Frank shoving stuff around in the cabinets.
The egg splits open when it hits Frank -- Gerard must have thrown it pretty hard -- and Frank throws his arms up a second too late. He looks down at the albumen oozing down the fabric of his t-shirt, and then looks up at Gerard. He's got an expression on his face like a wet cat's. It would be funny, if Gerard weren't actually a little scared. "I'm a vegan, you fuck," Frank says.
"Learn something new every day," Gerard snipes back, "But I don't give a shit." He scrabbles for the eggs again when Frank lunges back into the cupboards. Gerard manages to hit Frank with one more egg before Frank is on him, clinging to him in spite of Gerard's efforts to push him off. Frank sticks a container of honey down the back of Gerard's shirt and squeezes hard, squirting honey all the way down his spine and up one side of his neck.
Gerard yelps. He picks up another egg and squashes it against Frank's face, mashing the shell against his cheek and smearing the yolk back into his hair. Frank actually starts to hiss. Gerard barks out a strangled laugh that slides into a grunt when Frank starts squirting more honey out, this time on Gerard's hair.
When Gerard manages to throw Frank off again, the honey bottle falls out of Frank's hand and goes skittering across the floor. Frank scrambles back to the cabinets, keeping his eyes on Gerard as he feels around for something else to throw.
Gerard goes for the grape jelly. His fingers slip off the top at first, but he manages to get it open just as Frank comes back around. Gerard scoops out three fingers' worth of jelly and palms it down the front of Frank's shirt, closing his eyes against the spurts of soy sauce that Frank is shaking out over his hair. "Fuck!" Gerard yelps, when a drop of it works into the corner of his eye. He shoves Frank again, and pushes hard enough that Frank skids into the counter. Frank's hip makes a loud sound against the edge of the counter, and Frank curses, his hands going automatically to his hip.
Gerard sees the opportunity, and he takes it. Frank's eyes are closed, and he's holding his hip, unprepared. Gerard has enough time to grab the milk out of the fridge door, rip off the plastic top, and upturn it over Frank's head.
It glugs quietly as it drains out. The room seems to pause suddenly. Gerard drops his arm back to his side, and then drops the empty jug aside. It bounces when it hits the floor, making thin hollow sounds against the linoleum.
Frank is just standing there, still. He's dripping wet, and his chest is heaving. "I--" Gerard starts, but he doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence. Frank drops his shoulder and barrels into him, and Gerard goes down flailing, only just missing hitting his head on the wall.
Frank lands right on Gerard, his pointy shoulder digging into the soft spot the meeting point of Gerard's ribs. He sits up right away, his face stormy, and fists his hands in Gerard's t-shirt. Gerard want to defend himself, but he can't. He lies there. He's gasping for breath, but he's only getting in a tiny, thin wheeze. His chest won't work, and he wonders if maybe he broke something when he fell.
Frank's face clears, a little, and he says, "Put your arms up." Gerard lifts his arms, but it doesn't have any effect. "Don't try so hard," Frank says, and sits back on his heels. "The air'll come back, I promise."
"Easy--" Gerard tries, but his throat is too tight. It feels like all of his muscles locked down at once, and all he's got left is his skeleton and his lungs, trying to force them to work again. He holds his hands over his head and concentrates on not trying so hard. It helps a little. "Easy for you to say," he says in a thin voice, when he's managed to drag in a breath.
Frank snorts. "I think I would win the Shitty Lungs Olympics," he says, and gets up, groaning. "But nice try." Gerard opens his eyes and watches Frank move around his kitchen. Frank looks around at the food-splattered floor, the multi-colored mess that drips off the cabinets and has coated the floor, and sighs. He sits back down, right in one of the puddles of milk, and leans back against a cabinet door that's spattered with egg.
Gerard finally pushes himself up, wheezing weakly again with the effort. He swings the fridge door shut, elbowing it closed, and puts his back up against the door. He and Frank sit there in silence. There's honey sliding down the crack of Gerard's ass, but he doesn't move.
"People don't do this," Frank says. Gerard looks up. They meet each other's eyes for a long moment. Neither of them say anything. "People don't fight like this," Frank finally clarifies. "Not when they first start out together."
"People don't fight like this ever," Gerard corrects him. Frank looks up, but he doesn't smile. "How much worse can it get?" Gerard tries, but all Frank does is give a dry chuckle and look away. Gerard draws his knees up, ignoring the way his pants squelch against his t-shirt.
He should memorize how Frank looks right now, if Frank's going to leave him. Even if this is all going to go to shit somehow, Gerard still thinks that he'll want this image afterwards, that this is what he'll want always floating back to the top of his mind. He wants Frank, leaning against the sink with his legs splayed out in front of him, covered in milk and eggs and jelly; he wants this branded in his mind, if this is the end.
Gerard closes his eyes. He takes a breath, shaky but full. He says, "You're a person, right?"
Gerard hears the click of Frank's lighter. "Yeah," Frank says, finally, "Yeah, I'm a person."
"And I'm a person," Gerard says, and opens his eyes. "So we're people, right?" Frank is looking at him. His cigarette is dangling laxly between his lips, sending up tendrils of smoke.
One corner of Frank's mouth finally tugs up. "Sure. Two persons make a people."
"So people do." Gerard clears his throat, forcing it not to close up again. "People do fight like this, in the beginning of their relationship."
At first Gerard thinks that Frank is just going to stare at him. He thinks that he's screwed up, that Frank will leave, and he wasted his chance to remember Frank perfectly. But Frank's mouth starts to twitch up at both corners, enough that he has to take his cigarette out of his mouth. His lips stretch across his face and then, though he ducks his head, Gerard sees the glint of his teeth. Gerard laughs, more from relief than anything else.
Frank laughs, too, shaking his head and taking a slow drag on his cigarette. "All right," he says, "So Frank and Gerard are people."
"Better than Soylent Green," Gerard tells him, making him snort. "We're less fattening."
"Low cal options for your cannibal lifestyle," Frank says. He moves, folding over and crawling awkwardly across the kitchen floor. He pushes Gerard's knees apart and leans in between them, up against Gerard's chest. Gerard takes Frank's cigarette out of his mouth, takes a short drag, and sticks it back in between Frank's lips. "Thanks," Frank says. Gerard doesn't know whether Frank is saying it for the cigarette or for saving their relationship, so he just says "My pleasure."
They lie there while Frank smokes, the both of them quiet. The seat of Gerard's jeans are sticking to his ass, and his shirt is clinging in patches to his torso, but Frank is warm. It feels all right. When he's finished his cigarette, Frank leans over and puts it out in a brown puddle next to them. Gerard snorts, and Frank starts to giggle. "I threw Tang at you," he gets out, and starts to really laugh.
"'I'm a fucking vegan,'" Gerard whines, and Frank bursts into laughter again. "My fucking kitchen's a mess, you asshole. And my chest still hurts."
"It was worth it," Frank says, and rubs his egg-smeared face against what was once Gerard's last semi-clean t-shirt. "'I'm sorry, you're right, I'm sorry, maybe you should leave,'" he squeaks.
"Your falsetto sucks," Gerard says.
"Eat egg." Frank flicks his hair, smacking Gerard on the cheek, and Gerard shoves at his shoulder.
"I do," he giggles, "And then I make out with you. With eggy tongue." Frank switches to rubbing his tongue on the arm of Gerard's t-shirt, and Gerard really loses it.
They sit there for a long time. Gerard can't stop giggling, but he's better off than Frank. Frank is still belly laughing, even with his face pressed up against Gerard's bicep. When he's finally laughed himself out, Gerard pushes his hand through Frank's matted and slick hair. "I'm sorry," he says. When Frank opens his mouth, he continues, "I'm not going to take on all of it, you asshole. But I'm sorry for freaking out and avoiding you."
Frank pushes himself up a few inches, so that he can turn and meet Gerard's eyes. "I thought we had already broken up," he tells Gerard seriously. Gerard tightens his hand in Frank's hair without thinking, and Frank winces. Gerard makes an apologetic noise and disentangles his hand. "You hadn't called me back. And I'd heard what you did to Bert, and I thought." He ducks his head. "I thought you were doing it again."
Gerard can feel the color rush out of his face. He looks away, coughs into his fist, and takes a second to look out of the kitchen window. "What I did to Bert--" he starts.
"I'm sorry," Frank says, "I know it's, like, rumor and everything."
"If you heard it from Quinn, the only untrue thing you heard was that I'm a heartless bitch who sucks in bed," Gerard says quickly, meeting his eyes again. He pauses, and continues, "But I was only three weeks sober when I broke up with Bert. I was still sick, okay?"
"Okay," Frank says. Gerard cups Frank's chin in his hands.
"I was a dick to him, but I was still sick," Gerard says. He takes a deep breath. "I thought I wasn't safe, being into boys. I was trying really hard to be normal, like. As normal as I could be."
"You're not sick now?" Frank says, his face serious.
"I avoided you, didn't I?" Gerard says mirthlessly, and Frank smirks. "But I'm not as sick as I was. I'm-- Frank, I'm set on you. As set as I can get." It's a terrifying declaration. Frank just looks at him. Gerard gulps against his sudden nausea, and continues, "I'm going to screw up again, you know I am. But I promise, if I don't want to do this anymore, I'll tell you."
"Pinky swear," Frank says, and Gerard takes one hand away from his chin to lock pinkies with him. "Okay," Frank finishes. "What did I do wrong?"
Gerard laughs. "You really want to get into that?"
"Hey, bullshit," Frank says. "This is what I meant, like. I know I did something wrong if you're avoiding me. I can't go and fix it if I don't know what's wrong."
"Yeah, I guess you can't," Gerard says. He pauses, sorting through it, trying to put it in words that aren't as harsh as his first impulse. "I guess the main thing is that. I mean. That was the first drinking party I went to since I got sober. It was scary."
"Yeah," Frank says. "I can get that."
Gerard takes a deep breath, and then lets it out. "You didn't tell me Jepha was going to be there, or that Bob wasn't going to talk to me--"
"I didn't know about that," Frank interrupts. "About Bob. I should have warned you about Jepha, right, but--"
"Well, you fucking ignored me," Gerard snaps, "So I found out that he was there on my own."
Frank's mouth tightens into a thin line. When it relaxes, all he says is, "Okay."
"And--" Gerard says. Frank inhales, and Gerard hurries to say, "This is the last thing."
Frank says, "Maybe I didn't want to get into this, you're right," but he's half-smiling.
"It's an easy one," Gerard reassures him. "I mean, I'm okay with you drinking, I really am. I promise." Frank lets out his breath in a rush. "I just-- it's hard for me to deal with people-- people who are important to me, when they're drunk. I'm really judgmental about it. And when you kissed me, well."
"I tasted like beer," Frank finishes for him.
"Yeah."
Frank presses closer, putting his arms around Gerard's middle and squeezing him tight. They make a sticky, wet sound against one another, but all Frank says is, "Fuck, Gerard, I'm sorry. I feel like a shithead now."
"It's okay," Gerard says. He's laughing again, mostly out of relief. "It's really okay. Don't be lame about it."
"That's your job," Frank murmurs. Gerard tries to get his hand into the puddle near them so he can splash it on Frank's face. Frank manages to get his hands around Gerard's arm and hauls it back against Gerard's side. "No you don't," he says, and bites Gerard right above his nipple. Gerard sucks in a breath. "Oh, really?" Frank says, and bites again, a little gentler.
"Stop that," Gerard says breathlessly.
"You're right," Frank says, and starts to lever himself up. Gerard protests, and Frank stops to grin at him. "We're cleaning first. You are not getting roaches again."
"It'll be fine," Gerard says, "They're not so bad."
Frank screws up his face. "Never say that to me. Not ever again. I'm deleting that from my memory. We're cleaning."
Gerard grumbles, but he takes Frank's hand when he offers it and pushes himself up to his feet. Frank peels off his shirt, and Gerard is suddenly happier that he got up. "Whoa."
"Take off your shirt," Frank says, unbuttoning his jeans. "And your pants."
"I thought we were cleaning."
"We are. It's counter-productive to clean in wet clothes, though, right?" Frank pulls off his jeans, prying off his shoes when he gets to the bottom. Gerard watches him leave the kitchen, eyes trained on the way Frank's wet underwear clings to his ass. "Shirt off, Gerard," Frank says over his shoulder. Gerard grimaces, but after a couple of hesitations he pulls it off, wipes his face off with it, and then starts working on his jeans. He's down to his sticky boxer briefs when Frank comes back in. Frank stops in the doorway.
"What?" Gerard snaps, pushing back his hair. Frank's eyes are locked on his belly, and Gerard hunches down to cover it.
Frank says, "You're so fucking hot, you know that?"
"Shut up."
Frank holds out his hands. "Give me your clothes, I'll put them on the giant fucking mountain of dirty laundry." Gerard hands them over, and Frank goes out the door again.
Gerard hunkers down and starts getting the paper towels and the cleaning supplies out from the cabinet under the sink. "Holy shit," Frank says, when he comes back in. "Wait, how does a filthy pig like you have so much cleaning stuff?" He stoops and picks up one of the sprays. "I've wanted Scrubbing Bubbles for forever."
"My mom," Gerard says glumly. "She thinks that if she gives me cleaning supplies, I'll actually clean." Frank giggles. "You two would get along."
"I bet we would. Man, Scrubbing Bubbles." Frank puts the spray bottle, then looks around at the kitchen. "All right, tell me you have a mop."
"I have a mop," Gerard tells him, and goes to get it.
It's actually kind of fun, cleaning like this, even though Gerard's kind of self-conscious about being so naked. Frank chatters nonstop about comic books and clothes and hair and cleaning products -- he apparently has a thing for Clorox, too - and he's almost naked, too. It's like a sexy maid service. Sort of. A maid service that expects him to do most of the work, and bitches him out whenever he stares for too long at its ass.
"Focus, Gerard," Frank says sternly, and then ruins it by grinning. "I'll blow you after we're done." Gerard redoubles his efforts to scrub off the last sticky spot on the baseboards, and Frank laughs.
It takes them longer than Gerard thinks it should to get the place clean, mostly because Frank won't settle for good-enough. He even makes Gerard put out roach poison, though Gerard hasn't seen them in a while. "It's cleaner than before we started throwing stuff," Gerard whines. Frank puts his hands on his hips and surveys the kitchen, looking like a demented Martha Stewart.
"Okay," he says finally, and Gerard gives a tired shout of joy. "Shut up, you'll thank me when you don't have bugs. Now c'mere," Frank says, and Gerard goes. Frank turns Gerard around and backs him out of the kitchen until his back hits the wall in the hallway. Gerard's skin makes a sticky sound against the paint, and Frank pulls back.
"I'll clean it later," Gerard promises, and kisses him. Frank mumbles something happy against Gerard's mouth. They press together, their skin sticking and skidding. Gerard's just begun to get into the rhythm of making out when Frank pulls away and drops to his knees. Gerard blinks down at him.
Frank smiles. "Blowing you, remember?"
"Oh my god, now?"
Frank stops, his hands stilling on Gerard's thighs. "What?"
"I'm all-- I didn't trim, or anything," Gerard says, feeling his face flush, "And we didn't shower, I'll taste like Tang." Frank just makes a soft, meaningless noise and licks Gerard's stomach. "I. Okay," Gerard says, giving in easily. He slumps back against the wall, tilting his hips forward.
Frank glances back up at him, then leans forward and rests his mouth over the front of Gerard's underwear. He breathes out, his breath searing hot through the damp fabric, and Gerard says, "Maybe I should sit?"
"No," Frank says, not lifting his mouth away. He raises his eyes to Gerard's face and tilts his head back a fraction so that he can peel down the waistband of Gerard's underwear; Gerard makes a face at his underwear sticking to his ass, but then his cock grazes Frank's cheek, and he can feel his face go slack again. "I like it like this," Frank says against the side of his cock, and then licks up his shaft, then over the head. "Okay if I'm sloppy?"
"Fuck," Gerard answers. Frank looks like a motherfucking porno, kneeling there wet and dirty and nearly-naked, his wet, pink lips sliding down over Gerard's cock. He doesn't go down all the way, but it's a near thing. He has his hands hooked in the fabric of Gerard's underwear, where they're stretched around Gerard's thighs, but when he starts to drag his mouth back up, he moves one of his hands up to wrap around the shaft of Gerard's cock.
Gerard breathes out a shaky breath and touches Frank's cheek. Frank turns his head towards Gerard's hand, pushing the head of Gerard's cock against the inside of his cheek. Gerard can feel it on his cock and under his fingers, all at once. "I am so, so glad I'm sober for this," Gerard says stupidly, and Frank pulls off to smile at him.
"Me too," he says simply, and goes back down again.
He's kind of slow about it, taking his time with his fist and his mouth. Gerard forces his hips to keep still, and revels in the slow wash of pleasure, the wet, slippery stroke of Frank's tongue and throat. Frank's eyes are closed, and he keeps making these tiny noises that Gerard can't decipher, kind of like whimpers. Gerard thinks they're good noises, but after a while he manages to stutter out, "If your jaw hurts--" Frank slides back, slowly, and looks up at him.
"I'm good," he says, voice thick. "Hey, can you talk to me?"
Gerard touches his cheek again, rubbing the skin. "About what?"
"About what you like," Frank murmurs.
"Fuck, Frank," Gerard says helplessly. Frank just waits, his hand tight around the base of Gerard's cock, his eyes on Gerard's face. "Fuck," Gerard says again. "Look at me, while you're--" He stops, feeling awkward, and Frank smiles.
"While I'm sucking your cock," he says. Gerard swallows hard, and nods. "Keep talking, okay?"
He slides his mouth over the head of Gerard's cock, his eyes still fixed on Gerard's face. Gerard has to open his mouth just to pant for air. "Go down as far as you can," Gerard offers finally, and Frank does it. His lips meet his curled fingers, and he starts to uncurl his hand as he moves further down. "You're so fucking hot," Gerard tells him, feeling weird and vulnerable. "It's like your mouth-- your lips--" Gerard digs his nails into the wall. "You make me think that blowjobs are natural, like, that they should happen, because your mouth is just-- Frank, fuck, it's gorgeous." Frank sucks gently when Gerard finally gets all of the words out, and he presses down further on Gerard's cock. Gerard shudders. "Perfect," he says, the word rolling out of his mouth.
Frank only breaks eye contact when his nose brushes against Gerard's belly. He swallows, once, and Gerard drags in a breath to say, "You can move back." Frank meets his eyes again as he slides back. Gerard's cock is slick with Frank's spit, but Frank's lips still drag a little. "Touch-- put your hand on my balls," Gerard stutters out, feeling a flush creeping up his face.
Frank curls one hand back around Gerard's cock, and then he brings the other up to cup Gerard's balls. His rough nails scrape lightly against the skin back behind them. Gerard feels like all of the hair on his body stands up, and he keens, quietly. "Fuck," he says, and pushes his hand into Frank's dirty mop of hair. His hand slides back, coming to rest in the abrupt curve where Frank's spine meets his skull. "I'm just--" Gerard starts, and Frank hums. Gerard bucks forward, his hips thrusting eager and off-tempo into Frank's fist and mouth, and then he's coming.
Gerard pats weakly at Frank's chin when he's done. He sags back against the wall, finally gives in to his trembling legs, and sinks down to the floor. He's suddenly exhausted. He just wants to lie there, contemplating the way all of his skin humming in time with his heart, how he can feel his pulse thudding in his cheeks, in his cock, in the soles of his feet. Gerard pries open his eyes, and watches Frank spit into his hand and wrap his hand around his cock.
Frank moans appreciatively, his mouth falling open around the sound. He's still kneeling, but he's slumped back, held up by his other hand on the floor behind himself. His eyes are closed. His hair is tangled and sticking to his cheek, just below his right eye. He looks like a magazine spread, one of the glossy, high-class porn mags that have concepts behind the pictorials.
"This is going in my spank bank," Gerard says. He moves onto his stomach and puts his palms on the floor. He should really go help Frank out.
Frank laughs breathlessly. "Spank bank, huh?"
"Yeah." Gerard finally pushes himself up onto his knees. He shifts forward, slides his hands up over Frank's bent knees, over the damp skin of his thighs, and rests them on either hip. Frank breathes out a shaky breath and tosses his hair back off of his face in a restless gesture.
After a moment Gerard asks, "Actually, you know the movie theater by my house?" Frank's eyes open a sliver, and he nods. "There's an alleyway next to it, that we pass by when we're walking back here."
"Right," Frank pants, and breathes a laugh again.
"I always get this urge to pull you into that alley," Gerard tells him. "It's pretty out of the way. I could push you up against the wall, go down on my knees, and suck you off." Frank's eyes go wide and slam shut again. He grunts, quietly, and his strokes speed up.
Gerard rubs his thumbs over Frank's skin. He watches the space between Frank's eyebrows creasing and relaxing in time with the hunch of his hips. "I think about that," he says, "sometimes, when I'm jerking off. What I'd have to do to get you to fuck my mouth." Frank gasps, and Gerard continues, "I mean, you'd have to, wouldn't you? You'd have to use my mouth. Because anyone could find us, if they just looked--"
"Fuck," Frank says, more a guttural noise than a word, and slams his hips up into his hand. His hips twitch under Gerard's hands, and then go still and tense as he comes. Gerard watches his cock twitch in his hand, watches his come fall on his belly.
Frank keeps his hand curled around his cock after he's done. He's collapsed back, only shifting his legs slightly, and he's not moving. His eyes are closed; it looks like he's gone to sleep.
"Frank," Gerard says, and Frank's eyelids flutter. Gerard braces himself on the floor on either side of Frank's hips and leans forward. Frank opens one eye, and then shuts it again.
"If you're hard again, you're just going to have to rub it out on my leg," he says. Gerard snickers, lifting one hand to pat at his hip.
"Not yet," Gerard says. "But thanks for the offer." He dips his head down, breathing in the scent of food and cleaning products and sex and sweat on Frank's skin, and starts licking up the come off of Frank's belly.
"Whoa," Frank says, less loudly than he might have if he hadn't just gotten off. His hand comes up and cups the side of Gerard's head. "That's. You are so fucking gross."
Gerard stops. "You always swallow," he says, and then goes back to dragging his tongue up over Frank's belly.
"Yeah, so I don't have to taste it," Frank counters. "If you spit, you've got to hold it in your mouth."
"Mmm," Gerard says. Frank's come is gone; he sets his teeth in the flesh under one of Frank's ribs and worries it gently until Frank giggles. "I should start spitting, then. I love it."
Frank says, "Fucking gross," and pulls his hair. Gerard pushes himself up a little further and kisses Frank, ignoring his unhappy squeak.
"Semen, yum," Gerard whispers, when he pulls away, and Frank says, "Okay, that's it, get off me. I'm taking a shower and soaping my mouth." He pushes Gerard until Gerard rolls off of him, and gets up. "You're disgusting," Frank informs him.
"Yup."
"Ugh." Frank throws up his hands in defeat and goes into the bathroom. Gerard chuckles and laces his fingers over his chest. Even after Frank shuts the bathroom door, Gerard can hear the sounds of Frank muttering irritably to himself.
The shower goes on, drowning out the sound of Frank's voice, and Gerard finally gets up. He goes and digs a pair of pajama pants out of the clothes pile by his bed, puts them on, and then gets himself a cup of coffee.
When it becomes apparent that Frank intends to use up all the hot water in the building, Gerard sits down with his sketchbook and starts doodling. He starts with Frank's body, familiar enough by now that he can draw certain sections of it from memory, and then drifts into self-portraiture. When Frank finally gets out of the shower, he's got a halfway decent mock-up for his next senior show panel.
"What're you drawing?" Frank says. Gerard looks up. One of Gerard's threadbare towels is wrapped around his hips, and he has Gerard's old Batman mug in one of his hands. He's pasty and skinny and splotched with tattoos, and he's all Gerard's. Gerard grins at him.
"Myself," Gerard says.
"Is it for school?"
"Yeah, my senior project," Gerard says. Frank comes over and lowers himself to the mattress, holding his mug carefully. Gerard takes it from him while he gets himself situated, and steals a sip as a reward.
"What is it?"
Gerard looks down at the sketch, feeling strangely shy. "It's kind of narcissistic."
Frank snorts. "It's art, it's supposed to be."
"I guess." Gerard doodles a ludicrous handlebar mustache on the upper lip of his sketch. "It's all pictures of me, but they're, like, in the process of drawing themselves." He stops, glances over at Frank, and looks back down at the sketchbook. "It's kind of obvious, right?"
"Not obvious enough, man, I don't get it. Explain it to me," Frank says.
"It's like." Gerard flips back through the pages, tipping them up so Frank won't be able to see how often he features on the pages. Gerard finds the piece he's looking for and flips the book open, turning it to face Frank.
Gerard's pretty proud of this one; it's the piece that started the whole idea in his head. "So I was awake one night, couldn't sleep, and I had this idea," he says, smoothing the page down with the tips of his fingers. "I was the only model I had on hand at the time, so." In the portrait, his face is in progress of being drawn; some of the bone structure is still visible, a little of the musculature sketched in over that. The portrait's hand is raised, clutching a pencil, and it's in the process of filling in a shadow under one eye.
"This is pretty cool," Frank says, taking the book from Gerard and putting it on his own lap. "I like this."
"Thanks. It's a whole mixed media series," Gerard says.
"So how's it obvious?" Frank looks up.
Gerard thinks at first that he's just being nice, but Frank keeps looking at him steadily, waiting for an answer. "Huh. I mean, okay, well. I made it through three years of art school." He touches the chin of the portrait. "Drunk, I mean. Three years of it."
"How'd you do that?" Frank asks.
"Sometimes I was sober when I did the work," Gerard says. "Most days I was, anyway. But after I finished something, I was always so sad. Like I had let myself down, because it was never as good as it could be. And like," he stops and gestures, frustrated with the lack of words. "I had something leave my life, when I finished a piece I cared about. I would feel so sad, and so sorry for myself. And then I'd get drunk."
"I'm just impressed you went back to school after you got sober," Frank says, and Gerard laughs.
"Yeah, I think that's just stubbornness." He stares at the drawing, at the glare on his portrait's face. "I think I just wanted to prove I could do it. Anyway, I liked that these were still in progress, because it meant I didn't have to leave them behind. I could pretend that they'd never be finished."
Frank looks down at the sketch again, and says, "See, that isn't what I got."
"No?"
"You said this was a whole series, right?" Frank asks. Gerard nods, and Frank says, "I guess it's because I'm a model." He taps his finger on the bridge of the portrait's nose, then reaches over to do the same to Gerard. "Hand mirror, meet Kathy Bates."
"Oh." Gerard stares down at the portrait. "I guess. Shit." He sees for the first time how weary and angry this first portrait looks. The bags under the fleshed-out eye is deep and pouchy, and his hair is a wild, over-detailed tangle. "Wait a sec," Gerard says, and takes the sketchbook back. He flips rapidly through the pages, up to tonight's sketch, and holds the intervening pages up so that he can look between them. "Fuck, you asshole."
"What?" Frank is grinning, though. "Just because I'm a better art critic than you, you get all snippy."
The most recent portrait is staring dead ahead, his mouth a slightly crooked line. There's no exposed bone, no sinew. It's the normal face of a self-portrait. But somehow he looks hopeful, maybe even happy. The pencil is poised at the crooked side of his mouth, quirking it just slightly. "How'd you know?" Gerard asks.
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yeah," Gerard says, although he says it tentatively. "That sounds ominous."
"The picture by the curtain," Frank says. Gerard covers his eyes with his hand, and Frank laughs. "See, I knew you'd be embarrassed, but. You're the most emotional artist I've ever met."
"Shut up," Gerard moans.
"No," Frank says, implacably. "That drawing of me is the hottest thing I've ever seen. I knew I had to fuck you when I saw it."
"When did you see it?"
"The first time I modeled here," Frank says, completely unconcerned by Gerard's lameness.
"I hate you so much," Gerard says, but he can't get the grin off of his face. "Fucking asshole." He pushes on Frank's shoulder; Frank only holds him off long enough to move his coffee and the sketchbook off the bed, and then he lets Gerard push him down and wrap around him. "So you knew I was a good hand mirror from that?"
"I knew you were a warped hand mirror from that," Frank says. Gerard digs his fingers into Frank's side, and Frank yelps and bats at him until he stops. "It's just that you're so there," Frank says, "You're so in yourself, y'know? So I knew however you'd see yourself had to change with how you were feeling."
"Ugh," Gerard says. It feels like he's radiating heat, like the pleasure he's getting from Frank's words is an hot iron in his chest. "Come meet my sponsor," he says, impetuously; it's the only thing he can think of to give Frank off of the top of his head. He closes his eyes and presses his face against Frank's shoulder. "You don't have to, but he wants to meet you. He's kind of a mama bird about me."
"I wonder why," Frank says dryly. He considers, and offers, "Take a shower, and I'll take off a whole day to meet him."
"But then I have to get up," Gerard whines. Frank rolls his eyes and shoves him off the mattress. Gerard falls against the overfull ashtray by his bed, coating his sticky body in cigarette ashes, and after that even he has to concede defeat. "I hate you," he tells Frank again before he goes into the bathroom, and they grin at each other like fools.
---
Next
part one -- part two -- part three -- part four -- part five -- part six
---
Two weeks go by.
Their new model is Catriona, a sweet, pretty redhead who flirts gently with Maja, and holds cheerful conversations even while she's posing. Gerard smokes half a carton of cigarettes, talks to Brian four times, talks to Mikey eight times, reorganizes his senior project, and does not drink.
And he doesn't call Frank.
Frank calls him, three times: once on the morning after the party, once the day after that, and once a week later. Gerard doesn't check his messages. The dial tone beeps stridently every time he picks up the phone, so Gerard holds it away from his ear when he first picks it up, before he's dialed the area code. It's not avoidance, not really; Gerard just needs time to think.
The fourth time Frank calls, Gerard picks up. "Hello," he says.
"So you didn't die," Frank says, his joking tone laced with anger.
This, Gerard thinks, this is the problem with not having caller ID. "Nope," he says, trying to keep his voice light. "But I am on the way out the door." Frank doesn't say anything. Gerard clears his throat. "I'll call you back tonight, though. Are you going to be around?"
"After eight," Frank says.
Gerard closes his eyes, visualizing his schedule. "Okay, yeah, I'll call you after eight. I think I'll be home by nine."
"Catch you later, I guess."
"Sure," Gerard says. Frank hangs up. Gerard stands with the phone to his ear until it starts to beep. He puts it down, hesitates, and picks it back up again and punches in the number for his mailbox.
You have -- three -- new messages. Gerard hits the 1.
First new message. "Hi, it's Frank. You left kind of quick last night, I was thinking you'd stay the night, but. I mean, not that I expected you would. I just-- well, I figure you don't like parties that much." A pause, a weird sound, and Frank's high, giddy laugh. "Okay, call me." Gerard presses 3 to delete the message.
Message erased. Second new message. "Hi, Gerard." A long pause. "Haven't heard from you, so I'm a little worried. Hope you got home okay, and everything." Another long pause. Gerard presses his ear closer to the receiver, listening to the sound of music in the background. "If I did something wrong, you should tell me," Frank says, "I don't think I did, but just in case, okay? Okay, call me." Gerard pushes 3 again, and leaves his finger hovering over the button.
Message erased. Third new message. "Fucking call me already, okay?" End of new message. To delete this message-- Gerard presses 3 one last time and hangs up the phone, his breath stalled out in his throat. He feels like he needs to piss, and like he needs to jerk off, and like he's hungry. His stomach is clenching like it does before he pukes. He has to go to class.
And Gerard goes, because that's what he does now, he doesn't avoid things like class and work and studio time. He walks to the subway, slides his MetroCard through the reader, and gets on the train. He gets off the subway and goes to his class. He gets on the subway and goes to work. He gets on the subway and goes to his studio. The whole time he expects that his stomach will settle down, but it never does.
Gerard had thought that maybe he was past this, past screwing up like a fucking useless prick, past letting down people who care about him, but apparently he isn't. When he lets himself into his studio, the sight of his canvases leaning against the wall make him want to cry, to throw up, to go buy a forty from the nearest bodega.
He leaves the studio and drags himself to a meeting.
"Hi, I'm Gerard," he says, after the leader of the meeting has invited the group to participate. "And I'm an alcoholic."
He tells them what happened, lays out what a jackass he was in glorious queer technicolor. "And I realized I was avoiding him," he finishes. "I didn't know I was, but I was."
Everyone's quiet, for a moment. A few rows back, a woman with long brown hair who he's seen around campus leans forward. She asks, "He left you alone at the party, huh?"
"He doesn't have to babysit me," Gerard says, stung, and a guy in his row nods.
"I'm not saying he does," she says. She leans her elbow on her knee and puts her chin in her hand. "But he didn't tell you that the ex-boyfriend's friend would be there, right? And then he got drunk."
"He didn't mean--"
"Of course he didn't," she interrupts. "Whatever. I'm saying, like, don't act like such a drama queen. Nothing is completely your fault, y'know?" She sits back in her chair. Gerard chews on the inside of his lip, just so he won't say something snide.
A little hipster boy turns around to ask, "So what are you doing about it now?"
Gerard says, "Oh. I'm calling him, tonight. I promised I'd call."
"Whoever's at fault, that's all you can do," the guy says, comfortably, and faces front again, making his chair squeak. "You can't ride yourself for the past, dude." Gerard slurps down a painful gulp of his coffee and nods, even though he feels like whining. It's not that simple, he wants to say, but he holds it in.
Someone else speaks up, and they move past him and his problems. Gerard chews on the inside of his lip and drinks his coffee, thinking about what the girl said, turning it over and over again.
At the end of the meeting, Gerard turns back to her and offers his hand, stretching over the back of his chair. She looks startled, then takes it and gives it a little shake, a lopsided grin on her face. "It's cool," she says, "I'm just saying--"
"No, you're right," he says. "I'm a total drama queen." She shrugs and laughs a little, color rising in her cheeks. Gerard lets go of her hand. She bends down and shoulders her bag, sketching a little salute before she turns to go. Gerard tips one back and starts gathering his own things.
When he finally gets himself together and gets out of the building, Gerard's watch reads 8:49. He's got half an hour before Frank gets back to his apartment. Gerard buys himself a chocolate bar, a soda, and a Marie Claire; he reads the magazine on the train, snapping off squares of chocolate and pushing them under his tongue to melt. He keeps reading after he gets off at his stop, flipping quickly past a photo series of angular women in pale-beige outfits and browsing through an article on oppressed people in Haiti.
He's just gotten to the article on butt-blasting workouts and is contemplating the relative butt-benefits of the "squatting preacher curl" when he trips over his own feet. Gerard flails, the pages of his magazine flapping, and nearly takes a header into the sidewalk. He rights himself, takes a deep breath, and looks up to see that he's almost reached his apartment.
His stoop has Frank on it. "Hi," Frank says.
If Gerard were to start sprinting right now, he could probably get away. Frank's skinnier than him, but he's shorter, too, and he smokes nearly as much as Gerard does. And Gerard has desperation on his side, that has to be a major factor.
"Don't run," Frank jokes, like he can read Gerard's mind.
Gerard finally says, "Sure, right." His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He folds his magazine in half and sticks it under his armpit, patting his pockets to find his keys. "What are you doing here? I mean."
"I figured you might forget to call," Frank says.
Gerard purses his lips, embarrassed. "Right," he repeats. "Well, come on up, then."
Frank stands close behind Gerard while he gets the front door open and crowds behind him as they walk up the stairs. Gerard doesn't tell him to back off, though the closeness is making him feel self-conscious and awkward. He does stop abruptly at the top of the stairs; Frank bumps into him, and finally gives him some more room.
"Can I use your bathroom?" Frank asks, as soon as they're in.
Gerard shrugs, and says, "Yeah, sure," as an afterthought. "Do you want something to drink?" he asks, before Frank shuts the door. Frank leans back out.
"Tang."
"Okay."
Gerard takes the powder down from the cabinet. He unscrews the top and lays it upside down on the counter by the container. He measures two spoonfuls into a clean glass. He closes the container and puts it back in its spot in the cabinet. He gets a spoon from the drawer. He fills the glass with water from the tap. He swallows nervously, his throat clicking. He stirs the powder in, watching the grains of it swirling around in the glass. The spoon clinks against the glass. He puts the spoon down in the sink.
When Gerard turns away from the sink, Frank is leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, watching him. Gerard holds out the glass. "Tang," he offers. Frank doesn't return his weak smile. He walks forward and takes the glass, then leans against the counter by the cabinets. "What the fuck," Frank says conversationally, and takes a sip of his drink.
"I'm sorry," Gerard says. His hand is still in the shape of the glass; he wishes he hadn't put the container away, or that he hadn't moved so quickly through the steps of making it. He doesn't want to look at Frank. He says, "I didn't mean to avoid you."
"But you did," Frank says.
"I did."
"Why?" Frank's expression is sharp. Gerard thinks of birds, what it would be like to draw Frank with birds crouched around him, their beaks open, their eyes nearly as dark as his.
Gerard shakes his head to clear the image. Later, he thinks, and then screws up his mouth when he realizes that there probably won't be a later. He says helplessly, "I-- it was stupid. I'm sorry."
Frank sets down his glass on the counter and folds his arms. "You already said that you're sorry."
"I don't know what else I should say," Gerard tries, "I mean, that's what I am, I'm sorry."
"Why did you do it, though?"
"I don't really know," Gerard says uncomfortably, thinking of the girl at the meeting.
"There has to be a reason." Frank sounds so reasonable, like every teacher Gerard has let down in his life. "I came all the way out here, I'd like to think that's worth something."
Gerard opens his mouth to offer him an explanation, but nothing comes. He shuts his mouth instead, and shrugs. Frank doesn't give him anything else, and finally Gerard says, "So are we breaking up?"
"What?"
"I don't-- I'm sorry."
"Fucking Jesus Christ, Gerard." Frank's voice isn't so reasonable anymore. "Will you fucking stop apologizing?"
"I," Gerard starts, and then stops himself, embarrassed. "I don't know what you want me to do."
"Fight with me!" Frank sticks his chin out, his arms still folded. "I want you to fucking fight with me. And to stop fucking apologizing. I get it, you're sorry."
Gerard opens his mouth again, feeling awkward and unsure. "You want me to say I didn't avoid you?" He turns around, facing the sink, curling his palms around the edge of it. Frank makes a strangled, angry sound, and Gerard finishes, "Maybe you should just get the fuck out of my apartment," feeling a weird sort of relief at saying it.
Then he gasps, arching like he can get away from the water that's just splashed down the length of his back. "Fuck!" he shouts, and whirls around.
Frank is holding his now-empty glass. His expression is defiant. "Don't just dick out on me like that," he says.
Gerard spits, "I said I was fucking sorry," and Frank turns back to the cabinets, scrabbling around and yanking out the ancient box of baking soda Gerard keeps on the bottom shelf. Gerard tries, "What--" but Frank is already pulling open the top. He shakes the box at Gerard, sending out a cloud of white dust. Gerard shrieks and waves his arms like he can fend it off. "Fuck, Frank, you--"
"Fight with me," Frank yells, and turns back to the cabinet. Gerard dives for the fridge, opening the door and ducking behind it. He can hear the sink running, and he casts about wildly for something else to defend himself with.
He stands up to reach for the pan he keeps on top of the fridge just as an arc of water comes over the fridge door. It hits him full in the face. Gerard opens his eyes just long enough that whatever Frank throws after that gets in his eyes; he slams them shut again and curses, trying to wipe his face on his shirt and groping blindly for something to throw back at Frank.
He doesn't really mean to throw an egg. Or, he means to, but he's not completely clear on how the egg gets from the fridge door to his hand to Frank's chest. He's too focused on the way his eyes are watering, and on the sound of Frank shoving stuff around in the cabinets.
The egg splits open when it hits Frank -- Gerard must have thrown it pretty hard -- and Frank throws his arms up a second too late. He looks down at the albumen oozing down the fabric of his t-shirt, and then looks up at Gerard. He's got an expression on his face like a wet cat's. It would be funny, if Gerard weren't actually a little scared. "I'm a vegan, you fuck," Frank says.
"Learn something new every day," Gerard snipes back, "But I don't give a shit." He scrabbles for the eggs again when Frank lunges back into the cupboards. Gerard manages to hit Frank with one more egg before Frank is on him, clinging to him in spite of Gerard's efforts to push him off. Frank sticks a container of honey down the back of Gerard's shirt and squeezes hard, squirting honey all the way down his spine and up one side of his neck.
Gerard yelps. He picks up another egg and squashes it against Frank's face, mashing the shell against his cheek and smearing the yolk back into his hair. Frank actually starts to hiss. Gerard barks out a strangled laugh that slides into a grunt when Frank starts squirting more honey out, this time on Gerard's hair.
When Gerard manages to throw Frank off again, the honey bottle falls out of Frank's hand and goes skittering across the floor. Frank scrambles back to the cabinets, keeping his eyes on Gerard as he feels around for something else to throw.
Gerard goes for the grape jelly. His fingers slip off the top at first, but he manages to get it open just as Frank comes back around. Gerard scoops out three fingers' worth of jelly and palms it down the front of Frank's shirt, closing his eyes against the spurts of soy sauce that Frank is shaking out over his hair. "Fuck!" Gerard yelps, when a drop of it works into the corner of his eye. He shoves Frank again, and pushes hard enough that Frank skids into the counter. Frank's hip makes a loud sound against the edge of the counter, and Frank curses, his hands going automatically to his hip.
Gerard sees the opportunity, and he takes it. Frank's eyes are closed, and he's holding his hip, unprepared. Gerard has enough time to grab the milk out of the fridge door, rip off the plastic top, and upturn it over Frank's head.
It glugs quietly as it drains out. The room seems to pause suddenly. Gerard drops his arm back to his side, and then drops the empty jug aside. It bounces when it hits the floor, making thin hollow sounds against the linoleum.
Frank is just standing there, still. He's dripping wet, and his chest is heaving. "I--" Gerard starts, but he doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence. Frank drops his shoulder and barrels into him, and Gerard goes down flailing, only just missing hitting his head on the wall.
Frank lands right on Gerard, his pointy shoulder digging into the soft spot the meeting point of Gerard's ribs. He sits up right away, his face stormy, and fists his hands in Gerard's t-shirt. Gerard want to defend himself, but he can't. He lies there. He's gasping for breath, but he's only getting in a tiny, thin wheeze. His chest won't work, and he wonders if maybe he broke something when he fell.
Frank's face clears, a little, and he says, "Put your arms up." Gerard lifts his arms, but it doesn't have any effect. "Don't try so hard," Frank says, and sits back on his heels. "The air'll come back, I promise."
"Easy--" Gerard tries, but his throat is too tight. It feels like all of his muscles locked down at once, and all he's got left is his skeleton and his lungs, trying to force them to work again. He holds his hands over his head and concentrates on not trying so hard. It helps a little. "Easy for you to say," he says in a thin voice, when he's managed to drag in a breath.
Frank snorts. "I think I would win the Shitty Lungs Olympics," he says, and gets up, groaning. "But nice try." Gerard opens his eyes and watches Frank move around his kitchen. Frank looks around at the food-splattered floor, the multi-colored mess that drips off the cabinets and has coated the floor, and sighs. He sits back down, right in one of the puddles of milk, and leans back against a cabinet door that's spattered with egg.
Gerard finally pushes himself up, wheezing weakly again with the effort. He swings the fridge door shut, elbowing it closed, and puts his back up against the door. He and Frank sit there in silence. There's honey sliding down the crack of Gerard's ass, but he doesn't move.
"People don't do this," Frank says. Gerard looks up. They meet each other's eyes for a long moment. Neither of them say anything. "People don't fight like this," Frank finally clarifies. "Not when they first start out together."
"People don't fight like this ever," Gerard corrects him. Frank looks up, but he doesn't smile. "How much worse can it get?" Gerard tries, but all Frank does is give a dry chuckle and look away. Gerard draws his knees up, ignoring the way his pants squelch against his t-shirt.
He should memorize how Frank looks right now, if Frank's going to leave him. Even if this is all going to go to shit somehow, Gerard still thinks that he'll want this image afterwards, that this is what he'll want always floating back to the top of his mind. He wants Frank, leaning against the sink with his legs splayed out in front of him, covered in milk and eggs and jelly; he wants this branded in his mind, if this is the end.
Gerard closes his eyes. He takes a breath, shaky but full. He says, "You're a person, right?"
Gerard hears the click of Frank's lighter. "Yeah," Frank says, finally, "Yeah, I'm a person."
"And I'm a person," Gerard says, and opens his eyes. "So we're people, right?" Frank is looking at him. His cigarette is dangling laxly between his lips, sending up tendrils of smoke.
One corner of Frank's mouth finally tugs up. "Sure. Two persons make a people."
"So people do." Gerard clears his throat, forcing it not to close up again. "People do fight like this, in the beginning of their relationship."
At first Gerard thinks that Frank is just going to stare at him. He thinks that he's screwed up, that Frank will leave, and he wasted his chance to remember Frank perfectly. But Frank's mouth starts to twitch up at both corners, enough that he has to take his cigarette out of his mouth. His lips stretch across his face and then, though he ducks his head, Gerard sees the glint of his teeth. Gerard laughs, more from relief than anything else.
Frank laughs, too, shaking his head and taking a slow drag on his cigarette. "All right," he says, "So Frank and Gerard are people."
"Better than Soylent Green," Gerard tells him, making him snort. "We're less fattening."
"Low cal options for your cannibal lifestyle," Frank says. He moves, folding over and crawling awkwardly across the kitchen floor. He pushes Gerard's knees apart and leans in between them, up against Gerard's chest. Gerard takes Frank's cigarette out of his mouth, takes a short drag, and sticks it back in between Frank's lips. "Thanks," Frank says. Gerard doesn't know whether Frank is saying it for the cigarette or for saving their relationship, so he just says "My pleasure."
They lie there while Frank smokes, the both of them quiet. The seat of Gerard's jeans are sticking to his ass, and his shirt is clinging in patches to his torso, but Frank is warm. It feels all right. When he's finished his cigarette, Frank leans over and puts it out in a brown puddle next to them. Gerard snorts, and Frank starts to giggle. "I threw Tang at you," he gets out, and starts to really laugh.
"'I'm a fucking vegan,'" Gerard whines, and Frank bursts into laughter again. "My fucking kitchen's a mess, you asshole. And my chest still hurts."
"It was worth it," Frank says, and rubs his egg-smeared face against what was once Gerard's last semi-clean t-shirt. "'I'm sorry, you're right, I'm sorry, maybe you should leave,'" he squeaks.
"Your falsetto sucks," Gerard says.
"Eat egg." Frank flicks his hair, smacking Gerard on the cheek, and Gerard shoves at his shoulder.
"I do," he giggles, "And then I make out with you. With eggy tongue." Frank switches to rubbing his tongue on the arm of Gerard's t-shirt, and Gerard really loses it.
They sit there for a long time. Gerard can't stop giggling, but he's better off than Frank. Frank is still belly laughing, even with his face pressed up against Gerard's bicep. When he's finally laughed himself out, Gerard pushes his hand through Frank's matted and slick hair. "I'm sorry," he says. When Frank opens his mouth, he continues, "I'm not going to take on all of it, you asshole. But I'm sorry for freaking out and avoiding you."
Frank pushes himself up a few inches, so that he can turn and meet Gerard's eyes. "I thought we had already broken up," he tells Gerard seriously. Gerard tightens his hand in Frank's hair without thinking, and Frank winces. Gerard makes an apologetic noise and disentangles his hand. "You hadn't called me back. And I'd heard what you did to Bert, and I thought." He ducks his head. "I thought you were doing it again."
Gerard can feel the color rush out of his face. He looks away, coughs into his fist, and takes a second to look out of the kitchen window. "What I did to Bert--" he starts.
"I'm sorry," Frank says, "I know it's, like, rumor and everything."
"If you heard it from Quinn, the only untrue thing you heard was that I'm a heartless bitch who sucks in bed," Gerard says quickly, meeting his eyes again. He pauses, and continues, "But I was only three weeks sober when I broke up with Bert. I was still sick, okay?"
"Okay," Frank says. Gerard cups Frank's chin in his hands.
"I was a dick to him, but I was still sick," Gerard says. He takes a deep breath. "I thought I wasn't safe, being into boys. I was trying really hard to be normal, like. As normal as I could be."
"You're not sick now?" Frank says, his face serious.
"I avoided you, didn't I?" Gerard says mirthlessly, and Frank smirks. "But I'm not as sick as I was. I'm-- Frank, I'm set on you. As set as I can get." It's a terrifying declaration. Frank just looks at him. Gerard gulps against his sudden nausea, and continues, "I'm going to screw up again, you know I am. But I promise, if I don't want to do this anymore, I'll tell you."
"Pinky swear," Frank says, and Gerard takes one hand away from his chin to lock pinkies with him. "Okay," Frank finishes. "What did I do wrong?"
Gerard laughs. "You really want to get into that?"
"Hey, bullshit," Frank says. "This is what I meant, like. I know I did something wrong if you're avoiding me. I can't go and fix it if I don't know what's wrong."
"Yeah, I guess you can't," Gerard says. He pauses, sorting through it, trying to put it in words that aren't as harsh as his first impulse. "I guess the main thing is that. I mean. That was the first drinking party I went to since I got sober. It was scary."
"Yeah," Frank says. "I can get that."
Gerard takes a deep breath, and then lets it out. "You didn't tell me Jepha was going to be there, or that Bob wasn't going to talk to me--"
"I didn't know about that," Frank interrupts. "About Bob. I should have warned you about Jepha, right, but--"
"Well, you fucking ignored me," Gerard snaps, "So I found out that he was there on my own."
Frank's mouth tightens into a thin line. When it relaxes, all he says is, "Okay."
"And--" Gerard says. Frank inhales, and Gerard hurries to say, "This is the last thing."
Frank says, "Maybe I didn't want to get into this, you're right," but he's half-smiling.
"It's an easy one," Gerard reassures him. "I mean, I'm okay with you drinking, I really am. I promise." Frank lets out his breath in a rush. "I just-- it's hard for me to deal with people-- people who are important to me, when they're drunk. I'm really judgmental about it. And when you kissed me, well."
"I tasted like beer," Frank finishes for him.
"Yeah."
Frank presses closer, putting his arms around Gerard's middle and squeezing him tight. They make a sticky, wet sound against one another, but all Frank says is, "Fuck, Gerard, I'm sorry. I feel like a shithead now."
"It's okay," Gerard says. He's laughing again, mostly out of relief. "It's really okay. Don't be lame about it."
"That's your job," Frank murmurs. Gerard tries to get his hand into the puddle near them so he can splash it on Frank's face. Frank manages to get his hands around Gerard's arm and hauls it back against Gerard's side. "No you don't," he says, and bites Gerard right above his nipple. Gerard sucks in a breath. "Oh, really?" Frank says, and bites again, a little gentler.
"Stop that," Gerard says breathlessly.
"You're right," Frank says, and starts to lever himself up. Gerard protests, and Frank stops to grin at him. "We're cleaning first. You are not getting roaches again."
"It'll be fine," Gerard says, "They're not so bad."
Frank screws up his face. "Never say that to me. Not ever again. I'm deleting that from my memory. We're cleaning."
Gerard grumbles, but he takes Frank's hand when he offers it and pushes himself up to his feet. Frank peels off his shirt, and Gerard is suddenly happier that he got up. "Whoa."
"Take off your shirt," Frank says, unbuttoning his jeans. "And your pants."
"I thought we were cleaning."
"We are. It's counter-productive to clean in wet clothes, though, right?" Frank pulls off his jeans, prying off his shoes when he gets to the bottom. Gerard watches him leave the kitchen, eyes trained on the way Frank's wet underwear clings to his ass. "Shirt off, Gerard," Frank says over his shoulder. Gerard grimaces, but after a couple of hesitations he pulls it off, wipes his face off with it, and then starts working on his jeans. He's down to his sticky boxer briefs when Frank comes back in. Frank stops in the doorway.
"What?" Gerard snaps, pushing back his hair. Frank's eyes are locked on his belly, and Gerard hunches down to cover it.
Frank says, "You're so fucking hot, you know that?"
"Shut up."
Frank holds out his hands. "Give me your clothes, I'll put them on the giant fucking mountain of dirty laundry." Gerard hands them over, and Frank goes out the door again.
Gerard hunkers down and starts getting the paper towels and the cleaning supplies out from the cabinet under the sink. "Holy shit," Frank says, when he comes back in. "Wait, how does a filthy pig like you have so much cleaning stuff?" He stoops and picks up one of the sprays. "I've wanted Scrubbing Bubbles for forever."
"My mom," Gerard says glumly. "She thinks that if she gives me cleaning supplies, I'll actually clean." Frank giggles. "You two would get along."
"I bet we would. Man, Scrubbing Bubbles." Frank puts the spray bottle, then looks around at the kitchen. "All right, tell me you have a mop."
"I have a mop," Gerard tells him, and goes to get it.
It's actually kind of fun, cleaning like this, even though Gerard's kind of self-conscious about being so naked. Frank chatters nonstop about comic books and clothes and hair and cleaning products -- he apparently has a thing for Clorox, too - and he's almost naked, too. It's like a sexy maid service. Sort of. A maid service that expects him to do most of the work, and bitches him out whenever he stares for too long at its ass.
"Focus, Gerard," Frank says sternly, and then ruins it by grinning. "I'll blow you after we're done." Gerard redoubles his efforts to scrub off the last sticky spot on the baseboards, and Frank laughs.
It takes them longer than Gerard thinks it should to get the place clean, mostly because Frank won't settle for good-enough. He even makes Gerard put out roach poison, though Gerard hasn't seen them in a while. "It's cleaner than before we started throwing stuff," Gerard whines. Frank puts his hands on his hips and surveys the kitchen, looking like a demented Martha Stewart.
"Okay," he says finally, and Gerard gives a tired shout of joy. "Shut up, you'll thank me when you don't have bugs. Now c'mere," Frank says, and Gerard goes. Frank turns Gerard around and backs him out of the kitchen until his back hits the wall in the hallway. Gerard's skin makes a sticky sound against the paint, and Frank pulls back.
"I'll clean it later," Gerard promises, and kisses him. Frank mumbles something happy against Gerard's mouth. They press together, their skin sticking and skidding. Gerard's just begun to get into the rhythm of making out when Frank pulls away and drops to his knees. Gerard blinks down at him.
Frank smiles. "Blowing you, remember?"
"Oh my god, now?"
Frank stops, his hands stilling on Gerard's thighs. "What?"
"I'm all-- I didn't trim, or anything," Gerard says, feeling his face flush, "And we didn't shower, I'll taste like Tang." Frank just makes a soft, meaningless noise and licks Gerard's stomach. "I. Okay," Gerard says, giving in easily. He slumps back against the wall, tilting his hips forward.
Frank glances back up at him, then leans forward and rests his mouth over the front of Gerard's underwear. He breathes out, his breath searing hot through the damp fabric, and Gerard says, "Maybe I should sit?"
"No," Frank says, not lifting his mouth away. He raises his eyes to Gerard's face and tilts his head back a fraction so that he can peel down the waistband of Gerard's underwear; Gerard makes a face at his underwear sticking to his ass, but then his cock grazes Frank's cheek, and he can feel his face go slack again. "I like it like this," Frank says against the side of his cock, and then licks up his shaft, then over the head. "Okay if I'm sloppy?"
"Fuck," Gerard answers. Frank looks like a motherfucking porno, kneeling there wet and dirty and nearly-naked, his wet, pink lips sliding down over Gerard's cock. He doesn't go down all the way, but it's a near thing. He has his hands hooked in the fabric of Gerard's underwear, where they're stretched around Gerard's thighs, but when he starts to drag his mouth back up, he moves one of his hands up to wrap around the shaft of Gerard's cock.
Gerard breathes out a shaky breath and touches Frank's cheek. Frank turns his head towards Gerard's hand, pushing the head of Gerard's cock against the inside of his cheek. Gerard can feel it on his cock and under his fingers, all at once. "I am so, so glad I'm sober for this," Gerard says stupidly, and Frank pulls off to smile at him.
"Me too," he says simply, and goes back down again.
He's kind of slow about it, taking his time with his fist and his mouth. Gerard forces his hips to keep still, and revels in the slow wash of pleasure, the wet, slippery stroke of Frank's tongue and throat. Frank's eyes are closed, and he keeps making these tiny noises that Gerard can't decipher, kind of like whimpers. Gerard thinks they're good noises, but after a while he manages to stutter out, "If your jaw hurts--" Frank slides back, slowly, and looks up at him.
"I'm good," he says, voice thick. "Hey, can you talk to me?"
Gerard touches his cheek again, rubbing the skin. "About what?"
"About what you like," Frank murmurs.
"Fuck, Frank," Gerard says helplessly. Frank just waits, his hand tight around the base of Gerard's cock, his eyes on Gerard's face. "Fuck," Gerard says again. "Look at me, while you're--" He stops, feeling awkward, and Frank smiles.
"While I'm sucking your cock," he says. Gerard swallows hard, and nods. "Keep talking, okay?"
He slides his mouth over the head of Gerard's cock, his eyes still fixed on Gerard's face. Gerard has to open his mouth just to pant for air. "Go down as far as you can," Gerard offers finally, and Frank does it. His lips meet his curled fingers, and he starts to uncurl his hand as he moves further down. "You're so fucking hot," Gerard tells him, feeling weird and vulnerable. "It's like your mouth-- your lips--" Gerard digs his nails into the wall. "You make me think that blowjobs are natural, like, that they should happen, because your mouth is just-- Frank, fuck, it's gorgeous." Frank sucks gently when Gerard finally gets all of the words out, and he presses down further on Gerard's cock. Gerard shudders. "Perfect," he says, the word rolling out of his mouth.
Frank only breaks eye contact when his nose brushes against Gerard's belly. He swallows, once, and Gerard drags in a breath to say, "You can move back." Frank meets his eyes again as he slides back. Gerard's cock is slick with Frank's spit, but Frank's lips still drag a little. "Touch-- put your hand on my balls," Gerard stutters out, feeling a flush creeping up his face.
Frank curls one hand back around Gerard's cock, and then he brings the other up to cup Gerard's balls. His rough nails scrape lightly against the skin back behind them. Gerard feels like all of the hair on his body stands up, and he keens, quietly. "Fuck," he says, and pushes his hand into Frank's dirty mop of hair. His hand slides back, coming to rest in the abrupt curve where Frank's spine meets his skull. "I'm just--" Gerard starts, and Frank hums. Gerard bucks forward, his hips thrusting eager and off-tempo into Frank's fist and mouth, and then he's coming.
Gerard pats weakly at Frank's chin when he's done. He sags back against the wall, finally gives in to his trembling legs, and sinks down to the floor. He's suddenly exhausted. He just wants to lie there, contemplating the way all of his skin humming in time with his heart, how he can feel his pulse thudding in his cheeks, in his cock, in the soles of his feet. Gerard pries open his eyes, and watches Frank spit into his hand and wrap his hand around his cock.
Frank moans appreciatively, his mouth falling open around the sound. He's still kneeling, but he's slumped back, held up by his other hand on the floor behind himself. His eyes are closed. His hair is tangled and sticking to his cheek, just below his right eye. He looks like a magazine spread, one of the glossy, high-class porn mags that have concepts behind the pictorials.
"This is going in my spank bank," Gerard says. He moves onto his stomach and puts his palms on the floor. He should really go help Frank out.
Frank laughs breathlessly. "Spank bank, huh?"
"Yeah." Gerard finally pushes himself up onto his knees. He shifts forward, slides his hands up over Frank's bent knees, over the damp skin of his thighs, and rests them on either hip. Frank breathes out a shaky breath and tosses his hair back off of his face in a restless gesture.
After a moment Gerard asks, "Actually, you know the movie theater by my house?" Frank's eyes open a sliver, and he nods. "There's an alleyway next to it, that we pass by when we're walking back here."
"Right," Frank pants, and breathes a laugh again.
"I always get this urge to pull you into that alley," Gerard tells him. "It's pretty out of the way. I could push you up against the wall, go down on my knees, and suck you off." Frank's eyes go wide and slam shut again. He grunts, quietly, and his strokes speed up.
Gerard rubs his thumbs over Frank's skin. He watches the space between Frank's eyebrows creasing and relaxing in time with the hunch of his hips. "I think about that," he says, "sometimes, when I'm jerking off. What I'd have to do to get you to fuck my mouth." Frank gasps, and Gerard continues, "I mean, you'd have to, wouldn't you? You'd have to use my mouth. Because anyone could find us, if they just looked--"
"Fuck," Frank says, more a guttural noise than a word, and slams his hips up into his hand. His hips twitch under Gerard's hands, and then go still and tense as he comes. Gerard watches his cock twitch in his hand, watches his come fall on his belly.
Frank keeps his hand curled around his cock after he's done. He's collapsed back, only shifting his legs slightly, and he's not moving. His eyes are closed; it looks like he's gone to sleep.
"Frank," Gerard says, and Frank's eyelids flutter. Gerard braces himself on the floor on either side of Frank's hips and leans forward. Frank opens one eye, and then shuts it again.
"If you're hard again, you're just going to have to rub it out on my leg," he says. Gerard snickers, lifting one hand to pat at his hip.
"Not yet," Gerard says. "But thanks for the offer." He dips his head down, breathing in the scent of food and cleaning products and sex and sweat on Frank's skin, and starts licking up the come off of Frank's belly.
"Whoa," Frank says, less loudly than he might have if he hadn't just gotten off. His hand comes up and cups the side of Gerard's head. "That's. You are so fucking gross."
Gerard stops. "You always swallow," he says, and then goes back to dragging his tongue up over Frank's belly.
"Yeah, so I don't have to taste it," Frank counters. "If you spit, you've got to hold it in your mouth."
"Mmm," Gerard says. Frank's come is gone; he sets his teeth in the flesh under one of Frank's ribs and worries it gently until Frank giggles. "I should start spitting, then. I love it."
Frank says, "Fucking gross," and pulls his hair. Gerard pushes himself up a little further and kisses Frank, ignoring his unhappy squeak.
"Semen, yum," Gerard whispers, when he pulls away, and Frank says, "Okay, that's it, get off me. I'm taking a shower and soaping my mouth." He pushes Gerard until Gerard rolls off of him, and gets up. "You're disgusting," Frank informs him.
"Yup."
"Ugh." Frank throws up his hands in defeat and goes into the bathroom. Gerard chuckles and laces his fingers over his chest. Even after Frank shuts the bathroom door, Gerard can hear the sounds of Frank muttering irritably to himself.
The shower goes on, drowning out the sound of Frank's voice, and Gerard finally gets up. He goes and digs a pair of pajama pants out of the clothes pile by his bed, puts them on, and then gets himself a cup of coffee.
When it becomes apparent that Frank intends to use up all the hot water in the building, Gerard sits down with his sketchbook and starts doodling. He starts with Frank's body, familiar enough by now that he can draw certain sections of it from memory, and then drifts into self-portraiture. When Frank finally gets out of the shower, he's got a halfway decent mock-up for his next senior show panel.
"What're you drawing?" Frank says. Gerard looks up. One of Gerard's threadbare towels is wrapped around his hips, and he has Gerard's old Batman mug in one of his hands. He's pasty and skinny and splotched with tattoos, and he's all Gerard's. Gerard grins at him.
"Myself," Gerard says.
"Is it for school?"
"Yeah, my senior project," Gerard says. Frank comes over and lowers himself to the mattress, holding his mug carefully. Gerard takes it from him while he gets himself situated, and steals a sip as a reward.
"What is it?"
Gerard looks down at the sketch, feeling strangely shy. "It's kind of narcissistic."
Frank snorts. "It's art, it's supposed to be."
"I guess." Gerard doodles a ludicrous handlebar mustache on the upper lip of his sketch. "It's all pictures of me, but they're, like, in the process of drawing themselves." He stops, glances over at Frank, and looks back down at the sketchbook. "It's kind of obvious, right?"
"Not obvious enough, man, I don't get it. Explain it to me," Frank says.
"It's like." Gerard flips back through the pages, tipping them up so Frank won't be able to see how often he features on the pages. Gerard finds the piece he's looking for and flips the book open, turning it to face Frank.
Gerard's pretty proud of this one; it's the piece that started the whole idea in his head. "So I was awake one night, couldn't sleep, and I had this idea," he says, smoothing the page down with the tips of his fingers. "I was the only model I had on hand at the time, so." In the portrait, his face is in progress of being drawn; some of the bone structure is still visible, a little of the musculature sketched in over that. The portrait's hand is raised, clutching a pencil, and it's in the process of filling in a shadow under one eye.
"This is pretty cool," Frank says, taking the book from Gerard and putting it on his own lap. "I like this."
"Thanks. It's a whole mixed media series," Gerard says.
"So how's it obvious?" Frank looks up.
Gerard thinks at first that he's just being nice, but Frank keeps looking at him steadily, waiting for an answer. "Huh. I mean, okay, well. I made it through three years of art school." He touches the chin of the portrait. "Drunk, I mean. Three years of it."
"How'd you do that?" Frank asks.
"Sometimes I was sober when I did the work," Gerard says. "Most days I was, anyway. But after I finished something, I was always so sad. Like I had let myself down, because it was never as good as it could be. And like," he stops and gestures, frustrated with the lack of words. "I had something leave my life, when I finished a piece I cared about. I would feel so sad, and so sorry for myself. And then I'd get drunk."
"I'm just impressed you went back to school after you got sober," Frank says, and Gerard laughs.
"Yeah, I think that's just stubbornness." He stares at the drawing, at the glare on his portrait's face. "I think I just wanted to prove I could do it. Anyway, I liked that these were still in progress, because it meant I didn't have to leave them behind. I could pretend that they'd never be finished."
Frank looks down at the sketch again, and says, "See, that isn't what I got."
"No?"
"You said this was a whole series, right?" Frank asks. Gerard nods, and Frank says, "I guess it's because I'm a model." He taps his finger on the bridge of the portrait's nose, then reaches over to do the same to Gerard. "Hand mirror, meet Kathy Bates."
"Oh." Gerard stares down at the portrait. "I guess. Shit." He sees for the first time how weary and angry this first portrait looks. The bags under the fleshed-out eye is deep and pouchy, and his hair is a wild, over-detailed tangle. "Wait a sec," Gerard says, and takes the sketchbook back. He flips rapidly through the pages, up to tonight's sketch, and holds the intervening pages up so that he can look between them. "Fuck, you asshole."
"What?" Frank is grinning, though. "Just because I'm a better art critic than you, you get all snippy."
The most recent portrait is staring dead ahead, his mouth a slightly crooked line. There's no exposed bone, no sinew. It's the normal face of a self-portrait. But somehow he looks hopeful, maybe even happy. The pencil is poised at the crooked side of his mouth, quirking it just slightly. "How'd you know?" Gerard asks.
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yeah," Gerard says, although he says it tentatively. "That sounds ominous."
"The picture by the curtain," Frank says. Gerard covers his eyes with his hand, and Frank laughs. "See, I knew you'd be embarrassed, but. You're the most emotional artist I've ever met."
"Shut up," Gerard moans.
"No," Frank says, implacably. "That drawing of me is the hottest thing I've ever seen. I knew I had to fuck you when I saw it."
"When did you see it?"
"The first time I modeled here," Frank says, completely unconcerned by Gerard's lameness.
"I hate you so much," Gerard says, but he can't get the grin off of his face. "Fucking asshole." He pushes on Frank's shoulder; Frank only holds him off long enough to move his coffee and the sketchbook off the bed, and then he lets Gerard push him down and wrap around him. "So you knew I was a good hand mirror from that?"
"I knew you were a warped hand mirror from that," Frank says. Gerard digs his fingers into Frank's side, and Frank yelps and bats at him until he stops. "It's just that you're so there," Frank says, "You're so in yourself, y'know? So I knew however you'd see yourself had to change with how you were feeling."
"Ugh," Gerard says. It feels like he's radiating heat, like the pleasure he's getting from Frank's words is an hot iron in his chest. "Come meet my sponsor," he says, impetuously; it's the only thing he can think of to give Frank off of the top of his head. He closes his eyes and presses his face against Frank's shoulder. "You don't have to, but he wants to meet you. He's kind of a mama bird about me."
"I wonder why," Frank says dryly. He considers, and offers, "Take a shower, and I'll take off a whole day to meet him."
"But then I have to get up," Gerard whines. Frank rolls his eyes and shoves him off the mattress. Gerard falls against the overfull ashtray by his bed, coating his sticky body in cigarette ashes, and after that even he has to concede defeat. "I hate you," he tells Frank again before he goes into the bathroom, and they grin at each other like fools.
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