Archive of Our Own ^beta

Most days, Frank loves his job. He's thankful from the moment he drags himself out of bed to the moment he gets back into it. Most days, he knows what a lucky motherfucker he is, knows if it weren't for those few miracles, those few stars in the universe that just happened to align in his favor or whatever, he wouldn't have a job at all. Or at least, not any job that could possibly compare to this.

Other days, like today, he's covered in toddler puke for reasons unknown, and he's run out of cigarettes. And Jamia may have been a savior sent from the heavens when she got him this job, but right now, she is definitely resembling something more like an agent of Hell with her infuriatingly nonchalant shrug - like, hazard of the job, Frankie, what're you gonna do? - after the briefest of glances up from her computer when Frank stomped into her office without knocking.

"Fucking peas and swede, Jamia," Frank grits out as he swipes furiously at his suit jacket with the shitty paper towels from the dispenser by the sink. He studies the greenish-beige stain on his lapel, scrunches up his nose after a cautious sniff. "Ugh, it fucking is! Fucking rank-ass baby food, I swear. Where the fuck is Lindsey today?"

Jamia just snorts, fingers still clicking, because she apparently finds Frank's pain hilarious. "You better watch your fucking mouth around your fucking patients. I can not deal with pissed parents right now." She glances up and catches Frank's eye. "Lindsey isn't in today."

"Yes," Frank stresses, giving up with a noise of frustration, throwing the smelly scrunches of paper into the trash can. "I fucking know. Why, is what I'm saying." These are the ones Lindsey usually deals with. While Frank is technically qualified to see kids of any age, he made sure Jamia knew when she gave him the job that he doesn't do babies. Or toddlers. He specifically said. Frank openly admits he isn't the most patient person, and kids under five are generally the kind of human beings that require at least a sizeable chunk of patience. And clothes that cost considerably less than his favorite jacket did (fuck) or else full scrubs all the fucking time, which, no. Frank's a doctor, yeah, but he isn't one of these douchebags who feels the need to make sure everyone else knows about it. They're pretty cringe-worthy, Frank knows; he's seen the hospital interns at Starbucks in the morning.

Jamia raises an eyebrow at him. "I am not at liberty to discuss any member of my staff with other members of staff, Frank."

"Mind my own fucking business, in other words," Frank says.

Jamia grins. "Exactly. Now go get your boss some motherfucking coffee. And stop fucking cursing."

"Give me a cigarette and I will."

"No. She'll be back tomorrow, I'm sure you can survive until then."

Frank sighs, throwing up his hands in defeat. "Fucking fine." He shrugs off the ruined jacket and dumps it on the chair in front of Jamia's desk, ignoring her protests as he makes a hasty exit. Maybe if her room stinks like swede-flavored vomit too she'll be more sympathetic.

He makes his way to the front desk, unbuttoning and rolling up his shirt sleeves as he goes. He's allowed to have his ink out on his break, whatever. Bob is hunched over at the filing cabinets, blond hair falling in his eyes, his big broad shoulders straining against his own white button-down. Frank hates the uniform (especially when the one piece of it he's allowed a little freedom with is soiled with the stomach contents of a two year-old tantrum machine, god) but he thinks it looks good on Bob. He looks like the kind of guy that would wear a suit like that, what with that whole manly rugged thing he's got going on. Or maybe Frank just needs to get laid. It has been... a while.

Bob grunts and swats at him when Frank pokes him in the back of the head in greeting. "Not today, Frankie. I got a mountain of fu-- of paperwork."

There's nobody even in the waiting room, but Frank knows when in the public domain it's better to stay in the habit, lest you forget and accidentally offend the patients. Or Jamia. Mostly Jamia. He snorts, sweeping a toy car out of the way to hop up on to the edge of the desk, kicking at Bob's swivel-chair. Bob grumbles, swatting at his legs some more. "Cigarette," Frank demands. "I'm out. Gimmie."

Bob ignores him, nodding at his bare arms. "You sure you wanna risk that?"

Frank sighs. "I'm on my break."

"If I remember right," Bob starts, turning back to the open draws, "That wasn't a good enough excuse for Jamia last time."

Frank rolls his eyes. "Whatever. What's she gonna do? Fire me? After all the strings she pulled to even hire me in the first place?"

"You're lucky," Bob says mildly. "Most people have to work for years to get where you are now. Most grad students are well into their thirties before they even see the inside of a practice like this. Perks of having friends in high places, eh."

It's not a real dig - in fact, Bob's the only one Frank will let get away with that shit. He grins. "And some people work for years and still only end up as a deadbeat receptionist. But hey, that's life, I guess!"

Bob quirks his brow at him, eyes amused. "Get a smoke out of my jacket and get lost, freeloader."

"But I'm borrrred," Frank stresses, kicking at Bob's chair again until Bob punches him in the thigh, turning back to his computer.

"Have I told you today that you have the mental age of your patients?"

"Twice already," Frank says cheerfully, rubbing at his throbbing thigh. "And that's why I'm so good at my job."

"Is that also why you stink of baby barf?" Bob asks.

God damn it. Frank had thought it was only on his jacket, but closer inspection finds a few tiny splatters on his shirt, as well. "God damn it," he says out loud, sniffing at himself. At this rate he's going to have to fucking burn his clothes.

"If you wore scrubs it wouldn't matter," Bob says cheerfully, almost like sing-song. As sing-song as Bob can get, anyway. Frank scowls, jumping down and grabbing a handful of tissues from the box on the desk. "Honestly, I don't get these weird issues you have with them, dude."

"I don't have weird issues," Frank says scathingly, swiping at himself frantically. "It's just, like. They're just more of a uniform than the suits, y'know? I don't have to wear that shit to prove to everyone that I'm a real doctor." Bob can't see his finger-quotes, so he makes sure to emphasize.

"Literally nobody thinks that hard about it except you," Bob says, but Frank shakes his head. He's been at his mom's house when she's had friends over - women he's known since he was a kid himself - and he's seen the subtle disappointment in their eyes when they find out he's a pediatrician, and not a brain surgeon or something equally spectacular-sounding (and well paid, Frank thinks bitterly). Frank tries not to give a shit what they think. Even if, realistically, he does know how hard he's worked and the sacrifices he's had to make (not getting laid in over a year springs to mind), the fact still remains that it wasn't his original choice, and even though he wouldn't change it for anything now, it's hard not to dwell, sometimes.

"Well, I suppose if you like smelling like a kindergarten," Bob says lightly, and Frank's startled into a laugh.

"Oh man, today has not been a good day." He throws the crumpled tissues into Bob's lap, bends down to start patting at Bob's jacket, slung on the back of his chair. "I just need a fucking smoke. Tobacco will make everything better." Bob elbows him sharply, and Frank slaps at him in retaliation, "Fuck off, you said I could have one."

"Frank," Bob hisses under his breath, and Frank looks up to find a guy stood at the desk. And - oh, hey. Hot. Frank stands up quickly.

"Hey," Bob says to Hot Guy. "Don't worry, my colleague here was just leaving. What can I do for you?"

Hot Guy doesn't look too bothered. In fact, he almost looks amused. Frank only wishes he knew him well enough to tell for sure. "It's okay. I'm, uh, here about my son, Drake? I have an appointment. With Doctor Ballato?"

"She isn't in today," Frank says without thinking, and Hot Guy looks at him. His eyes flicker to Frank's arms, and Frank hastily pulls down his shirt sleeves. "I've taken over her patients for today, so you should be with me." He very carefully ignores the look Bob is shooting him out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh," Hot Guy says. "That's fine, I guess. I don't - was that the message on my answer machine?"

Bob is doing something on the computer. "Mr. Way?"

Hot Guy nods. "Yeah."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I called you yesterday to let you know."

Mr. Way, apparently, looks a little sheepish. "Ah, okay. Sorry, I always seem to find myself too busy to check it." He laughs nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck. He's got dark, messy hair; thick, angular eyebrows, and a really pretty face. He's dressed smartly, too - white shirt, black waistcoat, stripy tie. He is entirely Frank's type.

"It's fine," Bob reassures him. "It didn't change the appointment, it's just policy to inform you, in case you wanted to cancel."

"No," Mr. Way says, "it's perfectly fine. Drake doesn't - well. Let's just say he doesn't have a preference."

"Ah, a little troublemaker, huh?" Bob says knowingly. "Well then, he and Doctor Iero should get on like a house on fire."

"Doctor Iero?" Mr. Way repeats, smiling, and wow, Frank's in trouble. That is, he will be in trouble if he doesn't get his shit together.

He coughs, stepping out from behind the desk and offering Mr. Way his hand. "Yes, that's right. Pleased to meet you. And, uh, sorry about the colorful language."

Mr. Way actually laughs, shaking Frank's hand easily. "It's fine, really. I'm a teacher, so trust me, I can relate to the tobacco thing."

Frank can't help himself. "A teacher?"

"Well," Mr. Way says, suddenly a little awkward, "Technically I don't do much actual teaching nowadays, but that doesn't make the cravings any less, y'know?"

Frank is practically bursting with questions, but he bites his tongue. He can feel Bob's eyes on him like they're lasers burning into his back. "Well then," he says slowly, "shall we...?" He gestures lamely towards the corridor.

"Oh!" Mr. Way says, and turns around, walks away, which is when Frank spots the kid sat in one of the multicolored chairs by the building blocks. He's dark-haired like his father, and he looks about nine, or ten. He's wearing Hawaiian-print board shorts, battered old sneakers, and a T-shirt with a bat on it. His nose is buried in a handheld game console. Mr. Way crouches by his side, pokes him in the knee. "Come on, Little Drac. Time to go see the doctor."

Okay, that is probably the most adorable nickname Frank has ever heard, and he's heard a lot. He doesn't realize he's grinning until he catches Bob's eye, at which point he tries to school his face into something approaching professional. Doctor Iero, he thinks to himself. You are a fucking doctor.

Drake doesn't move, completely ignoring his father, thumbs clicking furiously. "Drake," Mr. Way says pointedly. Still no response. Mr. Way sighs and stands up, looking at Frank apologetically. "Sorry."

Frank waves a hand dismissively. "Kids, right?"

Drake suddenly looks up. "I'm not a kid," he says scathingly, as though Frank had just called him a motherfucker or something. "I'm nearly ten."

Frank tries not to laugh. He approaches them, holding out his hand for Drake to shake. "Oh, my apologies, sir. May I call you Drake?"

Drake regards him warily. "You're the doctor?" he asks.

Frank nods. "I am."

Drake stares at him, openly looking him over. Frank's always liked that about kids, the way they don't care at all about what is supposedly socially acceptable. "You don't look like a doctor." He wrinkles his nose. "And you smell funny."

"Drake," Mr. Way admonishes, face coloring.

Frank does laugh, then. "Yeah, sorry about that. My last patient wasn't anywhere near as grown up as you, see. So, can I call you Drake? You can call me Frank." He still has his hand out. Drake still looks suspicious, but Frank holds his eyes and waits, smiling, and eventually, it pays off. Slowly, cautiously, Drake extends his own smaller hand, puts it in Frank's and shakes for all of a second before pulling it back.

"Okay," he says.

"Cool," Frank says. He turns back to Mr. Way, who seems speechless, mouth open. Frank just smiles and kind of shrugs, gestures again for them to follow him. This time, Drake complies. He trails behind them, face already back in his game, and Mr. Way falls into step next to Frank. Frank has long since stopped being able to smell himself (just his luck that the one time there's a hot guy in his practice he stinks of fucking toddler vomit, awesome) but stood close like this, he can just about pick up on Mr. Way's aftershave, or shower gel, or whatever that really nice fruity smell is. Frank has his work cut out acting casual, here.

Mr. Way leans close. "How did you do that?" he asks quietly. "He usually just grunts at me."

Frank tries not to look too pleased with himself. "I'm not just a pretty face."

The noise Mr. Way makes is somewhere between a laugh and a splutter. "I, uh. I love the artwork." He points to the corridor walls. "Under the sea, right? Always goes down well with kids. Drake used to love that movie Finding Nemo when he was younger. Nowadays it's all blood and gore, though. I've seen the kinds of games he plays."

"And you're okay with that?" Frank asks lightly.

Mr. Way kind of shrugs. "I know a lot of parents would probably give me flack for it, but I've always tried to let him make his own decisions. You know, within reason. And to be honest, I can't say I'm surprised. I love that sh-- that stuff, myself."

"Yeah, I wouldn't cuss in here, it's an offense punishable by death, apparently. And - blood and gore?"

"Horror," Mr. Way clarifies, laughing a little. He talks with his hands a lot, Frank notices. "I mean, as a genre, not so much just blood and gore for the sake of it, but it tends to, like, overlap."

"Ah, so it runs in the family," Frank says, and Mr. Way gives him this shy little smile. Fuck, doctor doctor doctor. Frank stops in front of his office, lets them in and shuts the door after them, waving them into the seats in front of his desk.

"Uh, I don't know how much you know?" Mr. Way starts as Frank settles into his own chair, "But - we've only been coming here for a couple of weeks. Today will have been our second appointment, with Doctor Ballato."

Well, that explains why Frank never saw them before now. He's pretty sure he'd remember Mr. Way if he'd seen him in the waiting room. "Let me just get up to speed, then." He wriggles his computer mouse to bring it out of standby, and then brings up the information he needs. Drake's records show no allergies, no serious health concerns, and that he's not on any medication. They also tell him that Mr. Gerard Way is Drake's father and single legal guardian, but that isn't relevant to anything except Frank's curiosity.

"It's. I'm not sure if it's even a medical problem, to be honest." Mr. Way - Gerard - looks a little uncomfortable. "More than likely it's just, y'know, growing up. But I'm just worried, I guess. I want to make sure."

"Ah," Frank nods understandingly. He thinks he knows where this is going. "The grunting?"

Gerard nods gratefully. "Not just that. I mean, he barely speaks to anyone, and when he does, it's usually rude. His teachers keep telling me how he refuses to speak in class, and that he doesn't have any friends. He just shuts himself up in his room when he's not at school - but I mean, it's not so much that he prefers his own company. I understand that, and god knows I was the same at his age, but then, I had a brother, it was different." Gerard pauses, glancing at his son, who is watching his game screen in apt concentration, tongue peeking out from between his lips. "It's just like he's not even there, sometimes. Maybe it's my fault, I don't know. Maybe it's -" he trails off, sighing.

Frank wants to prompt him, but he doesn't. "Nah," he says, as reassuringly as he can. "More than likely, it's exactly as you say. He's just growing up, right? I think we all remember how much that sucks." Gerard looks at him, then. Frank coughs, turning to Drake. "What about you, Drake? What do you think?"

Drake doesn't look up from his game. "Why are you asking me?"

"Because this meeting is about you," Frank answers honestly. "It's only fair that you get your say."

Drake's expression is suspicious. "Grown-ups never want to know what I think."

"Well, I do."

Drake is quiet for a little while, thumbs clicking. "I dunno," he says eventually. "I just wanna play my games."

Gerard sighs, but Frank is undeterred. "What game are you playing now?"

"Zombie Hunt 2," Drake answers immediately. "But it's not as good as the first one."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Frank says. "What about all the new weapon upgrades? Can't get a chainsaw with flamethrower accessory in the first one, can you?"

"You play Zombie Hunt? I mean, no." Frank isn't fooled by the quick attempt to squash his own enthusiasm; he didn't miss how Drake's eyes lit up. "But it's still better. There's more blood. And you can go in undead mode. It's too hard to do that in the second one."

Frank smiles. He turns back to Gerard, who's looking at Frank with something between awe and sadness. It makes Frank feel a little weird, his stomach fluttering. "If I'm being honest, Mr. Way, this isn't really my field. But, my opinion? I think he's fine. What did Lindsey-- uh, that is, Doctor Ballato, say?"

"She said she thinks he's fine, too," Gerard says, somewhat reluctantly. "But she gave me some advice. About, like, his diet and routine? Today was supposed to be the follow-up appointment to see if there'd been any change, but I really don't think there has."

"These things do take time," Frank says, inwardly wincing at how lame he sounds. He hates to be the doctor with nothing new to tell them, but it seems clear to him that there's absolutely nothing wrong with this kid. Nothing that Frank can cure, anyway. His next step, if Gerard still insists, is to refer Drake to a behaviorist or a child psychologist, but Frank really doesn't think that's necessary. He doesn't want Gerard to feel like he's wasted his time, though, so he gives Drake a quick check-over, negotiating the stethoscope around the game system in his hands. Drake grumbles half-heartedly, but is eager to take the lollipop Frank offers him when he's finished. No kid is ever too grown up for candy, Frank's noticed.

"He checks out just fine," Frank tells Gerard, gathering up his instruments. "Far as I can see, he's healthy all round."

Gerard nods, standing up and touching Drake on the shoulder. "Drake, can you go and sit in the waiting room while I have a quick word with Doctor Iero?"

Drake grunts, and meanders out of the door, leaving it wide open. Frank snorts a little. Yeah, he really fucking likes kids.

Gerard is quiet for a long moment, just sort of hovering, hands in his pants pockets. "Thank you for this."

Frank pauses. "It's... my job," he says shortly, but Gerard shakes his head.

"No. He likes you. This is the most he's spoken since-- well. Since a while."

"Uh." None of your business, Frank tells himself firmly. "Well. You're welcome, I guess. I just wish I had more to tell you. Not that I want there to be something to tell you, but you know what I mean."

Gerard makes a dismissive gesture. "It's okay. Honestly, I pretty much expected it. I'm sure you're right and there really is nothing wrong, but just. Y'know."

"You're his father," Frank says, and Gerard nods.

"Yeah. I guess it's in the job description to worry. I just wish he'd talk to me like this."

Frank suddenly feels incredibly awkward. "...You know how kids are," he says lamely. "It's not cool to talk to your parents, or whatever."

"Do you have kids, then, doctor?"

"Frank," Frank says without thinking. "I mean, call me Frank. I can only stand being addressed by a title for so long." He laughs, nervously. "And, uh. No, I don't."

"Frank," Gerard says, like he's trying it out, mouth quirking at the corner, and - fuck, doctor. Patient. Parent of patient. Almost certainly straight parent of patient, Jesus. "Then you should call me Gerard, too."

"Gerard," Frank parrots, and Gerard laughs.

"And I know what you mean about the title thing. For me it's either Mr. Way or, you know, dad."

"You said you were a teacher," Frank says, trying to keep his eyes from straying back to Gerard's sharp, smart clothes.

"Yep. Well, I'm actually a Dean now, if you can believe that. Art department at St. Helena's. I got the promotion a few weeks ago."

Frank grins. "Dude, congrats. That's fucking awesome."

Gerard ducks his head, running a hand through his hair. "Nah. Well, I suppose. Oh, hey, you just swore!"

"Oops," Frank says cheerfully, and Gerard actually giggles; this snorting little laugh that may as well be the final fucking nail in Frank's coffin. "So... I guess you've come here straight from the job, huh?"

"Hm?" Gerard says, and Frank gestures vaguely at his attire. "Oh! Yeah. Actually, I should - I should probably be getting back. I have to drive all the way to Drake's school first."

Oh, okay. Gerard turns to leave, but Frank reaches out and touches his arm, finds himself saying, "Listen, if you're still worried, you can come back. I can make you another appointment, same time next week. With me, I mean."

"Really?" Gerard looks surprised, but hopeful. "I mean, yeah, since Drake actually talks to you, it would be better to see you from now on. Is it really necessary, though? I don't want to waste your time."

Frank shakes his head somewhat vigorously. "No, no, it's completely fine. In fact, I was going to suggest it anyway. With cases like these, it's good to - you know. Keep checking in."

Gerard hesitates, but Frank can see it's what he wants. "Okay," he says eventually. "Yeah, that would be. That would be great, if you're sure."

"I am," Frank says firmly. "Keep on with Doctor Ballato's advice, though - with his diet and everything, and we'll see how he is next week."

Gerard's wide, grateful smile does really wonderful things to his face, wow. "Thank you. Really, I appreciate it. Even if it is more for my benefit than Drake's." Frank can only smile back. He walks Gerard to and out of the door, but Gerard turns around before he can shut it. "See you next week, Frank," he says warmly, holding out his hand.

"Uh," Frank says dumbly, shaking it on autopilot. "See you?" And then Gerard is gone and Frank feels abruptly, completely ridiculous. He shuts the door and walks back over to his desk, slumps into his chair with a groan. He can feel himself fucking blushing.

Thankfully, he's distracted by Jamia barging in and throwing his vomit-stained jacket at his head. He should have got her that coffee, probably.

Frank never wanted to be a pediatrician. For while there he thought he wouldn't even make it to a doctor. His mom wanted him to be a doctor, of course, but - like most of the male side of Frank's family - his first love was music. He pretty much took a shot at every instrument he could get his hands on before, inevitably, landing on the guitar. Frank's favorite childhood memories are of him playing in bands, going to gigs and sneaking into bars because he was underage and fucking tiny; his grades were alright, but Frank never really considered himself smart, or ambitious, or any qualities he'd associate with that baffling, intimidating world of academia. He just kind of assumed that, you know, he'd spend his life bumming around on minimum wage but ultimately doing what he loved to do, which was play music.

There was never a definitive moment when that changed. It was more like a collection of moments. Just getting deeper into his teenage years and realizing that, actually, the world kind of sucked. He can laugh at himself now, remembering his seventeen year-old self holed up in his room smoking pot and writing angry, angst-filled lyrics, but it legitimately changed him. Music wasn't enough, he'd long since accepted he was never going to be successful enough at it to make a real difference, and he needed to. He had to know something in the world would change because he was here. He didn't see the point in living, otherwise.

Frank's clinic (well, Jamia's, technically) is like a fucking playground. Frank's spent a lot of time in hospitals, they're not fun places, and while his job isn't exactly entertaining all the time, he can think of worse places to work. The waiting room is littered with toys and the floors are covered in deep sea artwork; fish and sharks and mermaids and octopi, and his office is pleasantly colorful. And he'd never tell them, but Jamia, Bob and Lindsey have grown to be something more like family than colleagues. Well, most of the time.

"For fuck's sake, Frank, do you really have to leave your fucking shit all over the room?"

"Hey, look who it is!" Frank says cheerfully from where he's lounging on the staff room couch. There's nobody else in there, which is why Frank is in there. It's usually a place he avoids, since, unfortunately - Jamia, Bob and Lindsey are not the only doctors who work here, and not everyone is as forgiving of Frank's lofty approach to the rules as they are. "Miss Dump-My-Puking-Patients-On-You-While-I-Play-Hookey!" Lindsey just snorts, kicking Frank's shoes out of the doorway. "Hey, watch the Chucks."

"I love all the little ways you keep finding to violate the dress code," she says as pours herself coffee, ignoring Frank's comment. She turns around, nods at Frank's socked feet dangling over the arm of the couch. "It's really cute. It's almost like you think Jamia doesn't notice."

"I don't care if she does," Frank says boldly, which isn't entirely a lie. He knows the difference between subtle rebellion and actually pushing his luck. "Does she notice your absolutely appalling language in a children's medical facility?"

Lindsey shrugs, smirking. "She likes my dirty mouth."

Frank's startled into laughter. "This no cussing thing is bullshit anyway. Does she really think that most kids haven't heard every bad word under the sun by the time they're ten?"

"It's not Jamia's rule," Lindsey reminds him. "She may be the boss, but even the boss got a boss. And anyway," she slaps Frank's feet out of the way so she can sit down next to him, "it's unprofessional."

Frank swings his legs up into her lap instead. "God, don't even talk to me about unprofessional. I have a fucking crush on the parent of my patient."

Lindsey looks at him over the rim of her cup, expression unreadable. "You really do, huh?"

Frank groans. He feels stupid even admitting it, especially since him and Gerard only talked for all of forty minutes, but it's just. Wow, it's been a while since Frank was attracted to anyone like that, boom, straight off the bat. He's spent most of his life working in preparation for his job, and the pressures and stresses of med school don't exactly leave much time for anything else. Nothing more than fleeting flings, anyway - but Frank is so over that shit, now. Which means that ever since he took this job, he's had absolutely nothing at all, which Lindsey seems to take some kind of sadistic pleasure in reminding him of whenever she can.

She doesn't say anything this time, though. Frank doubts it's mercy. Most likely pity. Frank feels sorry for himself, so he can understand that. "It's so weird, I can't even remember the last time I did. I've just been so busy with all of this, like, I never thought it would happen here, y'know?"

Lindsey nods understandingly, patting his knee. "I feel you, trust me. It's like, you get to thinking about them in separate worlds, right? Work, and pretty much everything else."

"Yes," Frank says emphatically. "And now it's like... the wires are crossed or something. It's all fucked up. I mean, I've only met the dude once, but Jesus."

"This is Drake's dad, right? Who was with me first?" Frank nods miserably. She hums. "Yeah, I can definitely see the appeal."

Frank sighs loudly. "It's so pointless, though. I mean, I guess he isn't with Drake's mom anymore, but he still was at some point, right? All signs point to heterosexuality." Although, Frank thinks, there's got to be a reason Gerard has custody. He could find out, probably, but somehow, it feels like that would be crossing a line. Frank's got morals, damn it. Still, he wonders. "But, you know, even if by some miracle he isn't straight, I can't exactly hit on him in front of his son, y'know?"

"Oh, I dunno," Lindsey says. "I'm not sure that kid would notice if you fucked his dad on your desk."

"...Thank you for that image," Frank says shortly. "But - nah. I think he's actually more observant than people have been giving him credit for. You don't think there's anything wrong, do you?"

"Hmm." Lindsey pauses. "Hard to say. He's just a kid, right? Then again, people with PDD's are usually diagnosed when they're kids. It could be developmental, or it could just be that, y'know, he prefers his video games to people. Which isn't that hard to understand, let's be honest."

Frank snorts. "Man, I feel sorry for Maria. She's the teenager specialist, right? She must get this shit all the time."

Lindsey kind of shrugs. "I mean, there's nothing physically wrong, at least. I just suggested the diet stuff because I felt sorry for the guy, you know? I didn't want him to leave with nothing."

"Yeah," Frank says quietly. "He's obviously really worried."

Lindsey gives him a look. "I know that, technically, Drake's been both of our patients, but I'm still not sure we should - you know."

"Yeah, yeah, confidential, no specifics, gotcha," Frank says easily. "Anyway, he's my patient now."

Lindsey smirks at him. "If only it was his father you were treating, eh?" Frank scowls. If only, indeed. "You're still coming to the club next weekend, right?"

"Duh," Frank says. He gets the feeling he's going to need to blow off some serious steam after seeing Gerard again, and there's no way he's missing Ray's big night. "So, where were you yesterday? Just at home laughing at my puke-related pain?"

Lindsey's smirk doesn't fade. "You should be thanking me. It brought you two together, didn't it?"

Frank stares at her. She stares back, sipping her coffee nonchalantly. "You..." Frank starts, and then realizes he has absolutely nothing to say. He makes a noise of defeat and buries in his face in the couch, instead. "Fuck."

Lindsey pats him sympathetically. "Fuck," she agrees.

The week rolls around infuriatingly slowly and yet somehow too quickly at the same time. On the day of Gerard and Drake's appointment, the clinic is busy, and Frank finds himself stuck in his office for most of the day. It's hard work, but with Lindsey back at least he doesn't have to deal with any obvious vomit risks. (He had his jacket dry-cleaned, okay, he is not having a repeat of that shit.) When he finally gets rid of the patient he's seeing before Gerard and Drake, he's running behind by at least twenty minutes. A part of him was planning to be at the front desk when they turned up, but that's obviously out of the picture now, since Gerard is probably already here, and there's no reasonable excuse he can think of that involves him leaving his room to go and greet a patient personally. Frank is being pathetic, probably.

So he's already in his chair when there's finally a knock on the door and Gerard's stupid attractive face peeks around the edge. Cautiously, like he isn't sure it's the right room. He smiles nervously when he sees Frank, and - yeah, okay. Okay.

Frank smiles back, casual and reassuring as he can, and Gerard shuffles in the whole way, Drake trailing behind, face in his handheld yet again. Frank suspects it's a permanent fixture in that kid's hands. "Hey. Come and sit down." Gerard's ensemble looks slightly different today. He's entirely black-clad; shirt, tie, waistcoat, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows. "Uh, sorry it's a little late."

"It's okay," Gerard says, sitting down. "I can see how busy you are."

Frank nods. "So," he starts, and then realizes he has absolutely no idea where he's going with this. "...Um, what's new?"

Gerard smiles. "Well, actually, uh. I don't know if it's just wishful thinking? Because the last appointment went so well? But I think there might have been a little change."

"Really?" Frank says blankly, looking at Drake. He looks exactly the same to Frank, hunched over with his eyes fixed intently on the screen. And - what, the last appointment went well? Frank knew Gerard was pleased because Drake spoke to him, but he didn't think they'd actually reached any solutions, or even had any new ideas. In fact, Frank's spent most of the week feeling guilty for bringing Gerard back for no reason, because Frank had just felt like he was utterly useless, last time.

"Like I said, I could just be seeing what I want to see, y'know? But he does seem to talk more. I mean, nothing huge, just asking what's for dinner, that sort of thing. But it's still more than he used to."

"Huh," Frank says. "Well, that's. That's great."

"It really is," Gerard says. He's looking at Frank in that way again, that way that makes Frank's stomach knot up uncomfortably. If there has been a change, Frank's pretty sure it's nothing to do with him. "I mean, maybe Doctor Ballato's advice helped, too? But I think, really, it's down to you. Just being able to actually engage him; I think it kinda brought him out of his shell."

Frank really doesn't know what to say to that. Uncomfortable, he turns to Drake, instead. "How are you feeling since our last meeting, Drake?"

Drake doesn't reply for a long moment, thumbs clicking rapidly, but Frank knows he's been listening. "Fine," he says eventually. "I always feel fine. I wish people would stop asking me."

Frank can't help but smile. "How are you getting on with Zombie Hunt 2?"

"Oh, I finished that ages ago," Drake says, expression affronted. "I'm playing Blood Warriors 3 now."

"Oh, okay, sorry. Do you feel you've been more talkative this week?"

Gerard shifts in his chair a little.

"...Maybe," Drake says slowly. "I don't, I mean. I'm not quiet on purpose. But dad gets upset, so."

"Drake," Gerard says reverently, and Drake looks at him for the first time Frank can remember. Smart kid, Frank thinks.

"I think," Frank says slowly, "you two are gonna be fine. It was just, uh, a little communication problem, perhaps."

Gerard isn't saying anything. He's still looking at his son, in a way that makes Frank feel like he shouldn't be here, like he's intruding. He thinks it's good, though. If he really felt like he'd had any hand whatsoever in this, he'd feel good, satisfied. As it is, though, he can feel his gut sinking. "Uh, unless. Maybe you'd like to come in with Drake's mother, too? I mean, I know this isn't family therapy or anything, but since--"

"No," Gerard says quickly. "No, she - we were never together. You know, like that. Drake used to live with her, but she, uh." His eyes snap to Frank, and then back to Drake. "Well, she had some problems. So he lives with me now."

Oh, god. Frank kind of wants to smack himself in the face. None of your business, remember, asshole? "I'm sorry," Frank says. "I shouldn't have, um."

"It's okay," Gerard says sincerely. "It was a fair question."

But my motives weren't, Frank thinks guiltily. Drake doesn't appear to be affected, head still down, but Frank wishes he could read his mind, to make sure he hasn't upset him. Although, he'd only feel even shittier if he knew he had. "Really, though--"

"Actually, I," Gerard interrupts, and now he looks guilty, what? "If I'm being honest, I have kind of been - that is, holding that back. And it's probably, well. It's bound to be relevant, right?"

Frank thinks it most definitely is relevant, yes, but there's no way he's letting Gerard talk about it now. Fuck, his conscience would never forgive him. "No, look, I don't think it matters, now. I'm just your pediatrician, Gerard. Really, I shouldn't be offering any advice. Y'know, of this nature. You don't have to explain that stuff to me."

"You're not--" Gerard starts, and then cuts himself off, coughs. "Well. I suppose it's. It's good, anyway. I hope." He glances at Drake again, smiling a little, and Frank finds himself mirroring him, in spite of himself. In spite of the fact he now has absolutely no reason whatsoever to see Gerard again, he's glad he could make Gerard feel like he helped, in any way.

"Yeah. See, you didn't even need to tell me."

Gerard turns back to him, still smiling. "No, I guess not. Thank you."

Oh, for fuck's sake. There Frank goes again with the blushing. "It's... okay," he says awkwardly. "I mean, I'm still not sure what I did, if anything, but you're welcome."

Drake suddenly makes a loud scoffing noise, and Gerard jumps, laughing nervously. "Little Drac, can you, uh--"

"Yeah yeah, wait outside, got it," Drake says in a bored tone, standing up and opening the door, all without looking up from his console.

"Shut it, this time!" Gerard reminds him, and Drake's petulant sigh is audible as the door slams shut after him.

"Great kid," Frank says, grinning. "You should be very proud."

"Yeah. I mean, I am," Gerard says quietly. He looks a little flushed, himself. Frank tries not to read into it.

"So... Little Drac? Was that your idea, or his?"

Gerard laughs, visibly perking up again. "Mine. I tried to read him Bram Stoker's Dracula once, but he wasn't that interested. Blood in books isn't visual enough for him, I think."

"Wow. I wish my bedtime stories had been that epic."

Gerard smiles. There's a tense little silence. Frank knows this is the moment he's supposed to say something like, well, take care, good luck, goodbye. Instead, he finds himself saying, "Listen, do you like music? I mean, uh, live music?"

Gerard blinks a couple of times. "Yes?"

Frank's stomach is churning unpleasantly. "Well, uh. My friend - he's in a band, and he's playing at Hush this Saturday. And they're really good, at least, I think they are, but, um. I don't suppose you'd want to come...?"

Gerard looks surprised. "Are you. Are you allowed to ask me, like--"

"Oh yeah, I mean, I said I'd try and get as many people as possible," Frank babbles, pulling open his desk draw to rifle around for a flyer, which also conveniently hides his face. God, he is so smooth. Lindsey's going to be fucking insufferable when she hears about this.

"Oh," Gerard says. He looks a little taken aback, taking the flyer Frank holds out for him and looking at it almost methodically, expression unreadable. Frank's heart sinks, but then Gerard says, "Yeah. Yeah, I'll come."

"Really?" Frank sounds too eager, probably.

"I mean, if I can get a sitter for Drake, obviously. But, yeah? Sounds good."

Frank channels his internal fist-pump into standing, instead. "Cool. I'll tell Bob that you don't need another appointment, then?"

"Thank you."

Frank walks him to the door, and after a moment's hesitation, comes with him to the front desk. Gerard probably didn't expect him to tell Bob right now, but he doesn't say anything. They walk together into the waiting room, which is now is significantly emptier, but Bob still looks hulking and annoyed, fingers clicking loudly on his keyboard. He looks surprised when Frank walks up.

"Hey, Bob. We're not going to need a follow-up appointment, this time," Frank says, as casually as he can. Bob raises an eyebrow, looking to Gerard, who just sort of shrugs, nodding.

"Okay," Bob says shortly. "Noted."

"I'm gonna go, then," Gerard says slowly, shuffling a little on the spot. Drake's sat in his usual seat, completely ignoring the mammoth selection of toys surrounding him in favor of the one in his hands, but he obediently drifts over when Gerard calls him. Gerard turns and smiles. "See you Saturday, then, Frank?"

"Yeah." Frank smiles back, expertly avoiding Bob's eyes. "See you."

"Frank," Bob says as soon as the door swings shut after Gerard and Drake, "What are you doing."

"What?" Frank says innocently. Bob just glares up at him unwaveringly. Frank sighs. "Okay, so he's cute, whatever. Doesn't mean I'm doing anything."

"See you Saturday?" Bob repeats incredulously. "You actually invited him to the club with you? That's crossing a line, and you know it."

Frank does know it, is the bitch of it. "It's not illegal."

"No, but that doesn't mean Jamia's gonna like it. People have lost their jobs for banging their patients, you do know that, right?"

"Okay - one, I'm not banging him," Frank says scathingly. "Two, he's not my patient; he's the parent of my patient. And three, the guy is straight. Nothing's gonna happen. I just asked him because Ray wants all the people he can get, that's all."

Bob is quiet for a moment. "Not that I want to encourage you, but - eh, I'm not so sure about the straight part."

"And how the hell would you know?" Frank asks, rolling his eyes. "You're not even fucking gay."

"Keep your voice down," Bob says gruffly, eyeing the couple of noisy toddlers still left in the waiting room who probably can't even hear anything over the sounds of their own yells. "And I don't have to be gay to read the signs; that guy likes dick. I'd bet money on it."

"What, do you have some sort of sixth sense for penis lovers?" Frank scoffs, but he's thinking about it. He's not blind, or stupid - it definitely felt like there was something - but to quote Gerard, he'd kind of started to convince himself it was just wishful thinking. Frank still feels shitty for not keeping his big mouth under control, but at least now he knows the score as far as Drake's mom is concerned.

We were never together. You know, like that. That's what Gerard had said. It's really not helping Frank keep his imagination grounded.

"Well, whatever," Bob says. "I'm not gonna say don't do it, because I know you won't listen to me. Hell, maybe if you do finally get laid you won't be... as annoying. Just be careful."

"Why, Bobbert," Frank says grandly, stepping back smoothly to avoid the elbow Bob aims at his stomach, "I'm always careful. In fact, as I was telling Lindsey the other day, I'm a professional."

Bob snorts. "Professional idiot, maybe."

Frank doesn't argue.

Frank never wanted to be a pediatrician. After med school, he specialized in surgery for his residency. Looking back, he's not sure why. Maybe he figured, hey, if he was going to do it, he should do it. Maybe he just wanted to be in there, getting his hands dirty (so to speak) and feeling like he was really doing something. Any squeamishness he'd held had been well and truly banished with the rigorous exposure to knowledge; almost like the more he knew about how everything was put together and how it all worked the more it took the fear out of it, the more it made it just seem natural. Frank would never try and make out that any medical field or career isn't important, but surgeons were vital. Without them, people couldn't be fixed, couldn't be saved. It had just seemed right for him, somehow.

But he fucked it up. Jamia was his lifesaver.

Frank gets to the Hush club early. The place is a decent size, and even though there's a good amount of people there already, the booths and dance floor still appear relatively sparse of people. There's no sign of Bob, Jamia or Lindsey yet. Or Gerard.

Frank takes a deep breath and heads for the bar, orders himself two beers. Starting early seems like an appealing option right now. He'd spent more time getting ready than he'd ever admit to anyone, trying on and discarding clothes until he got so annoyed by himself and how utterly lame he felt that he'd just made a firm resolution to make no obvious effort whatsoever. He's wearing his favorite jeans, the ones so worn-in and comfy they're almost shapeless, the knees torn out and ragged. He's got on Ray's band's shirt to show support, but over that he's just wearing one of his plain hooded tops, keeping it simple.

Despite the fact he's not exactly valiant with his work uniform, Frank always feels slightly weird when he's actually, fully out of it, like he temporarily forgets how to just be normal. It's going to be fucking weird when Gerard gets here. Frank's not sure he'll even know how to act around him. This is a different habitat, a different world to his doctor's office. The rules are different.

Frank finishes his first beer quickly and immediately starts on the other, watching the stage slowly being set up, the equipment put into place for the openers. Eventually, Ray appears from the back, his hair looking particularly energetic. Frank grins and waves him over. "Hey ho, Toro!"

"Hey, Frankie!" Ray returns, obligingly bending down to let Frank sweep him up into a full-bodied hug. "Thanks for coming."

"Are you kidding?" Frank unzips his hoodie so Ray can see his shirt, and Ray laughs his girly laugh, clapping Frank on the shoulder with one large palm.

"Oh man, that is so lame. But also very sweet. Thanks, dude."

"The others will be here soon," Frank tells him. "I'm gonna try and get Bob into the pit with me."

Ray whistles lowly. "Good luck. You'll probably need to get him drunk first."

"Why do you think I'm waiting at the bar?" Frank grins. "All else fails, I can always get Jamia to bully him into it. Although, to be honest, I'm not sure I wanna go out there with her again. I'm still nursing the bruises."

Ray pats him sympathetically. "That's probably a wise decision. I've seen her in action."

"Yeah, I think she enjoys it. She gets to break my balls at work and here."

"Hey, y'know, if you ever feel like jumping ship, we're thinking about adding another guitarist. You'd do it, right?"

Frank gapes a little. "Oh, man. That would be. I mean, fuck yeah, Ray, I'd love to, you know I would. But there's just no way I'd find the time."

Ray nods. "I know, but I had to ask. Hey, though, you should still come over and jam sometime."

"Definitely," Frank says decisively. "Um, you want a beer or something?"

"Nah, I better go carry on getting ready. Thanks, though. Tell the guys hi from me. I'll see you all after?"

Frank raises his own beer in answer as Ray walks away, waving over his shoulder. Frank's known Ray for years; an old friend from the scene, and Frank doesn't think he ever changes. He's still one the nicest guys Frank knows, not that he knows a whole lot of guys. He doesn't get to come out anywhere near as often as he'd like, but there's still always an air of familiarity in places like this, a sense of belonging. Or there usually is, anyway. He's a little preoccupied tonight, he can admit it to himself.

He's finished his second beer and is just starting on a third when everyone arrives. Bob joins him at the bar, orders drinks while Jamia and Lindsey go find them a table. "You look nervous, Frankie."

"Hello to you too," Frank says dryly. "Ray says hi, also."

"You've seen him?"

"Ray? I mean. Yeah, I have."

Bob's smirk is subtle, but fucking loud. Frank scowls and chugs his beer. See if he buys Bob a drink, now. "By the way, Jamia knows."

Frank almost chokes on his drink. "What? How? Who told her?" He'd never explicitly said to Bob or Lindsey that they shouldn't mention it to Jamia, because he'd have thought it was fucking obvious. Frank can't help but feel a little betrayed.

"What does it matter?" Bob shrugs. "It's not like you could have hidden him from her the whole night."

"She wouldn't have known he was a fucking patient, asshole," Frank hisses, but Bob shakes his head easily.

"Yes, she would," he says simply, and doesn't offer anything else. Frank stares at him. Maybe if he concentrates hard enough he can make Bob's stupid blond head explode. Bob sips his drink calmly, ignoring him. "Anyway, I thought you said there was nothing going on?"

"Fuck you," Frank says, and Bob laughs, smacks him on the back.

"See you at the table, Frankie," he says, picking up all three drinks in his two fucking bear paws. Frank watches him go, glaring resentfully. He catches Jamia's eye across the club, and she raises a nonchalant eyebrow at him. Frank is so screwed.

He takes his time finishing his third beer, then takes a deep breath and goes over there. Frank's not a lightweight, usually, but downing three beers in quick succession isn't something he usually does, either. The edges of his vision are already a little fuzzy, his limbs kind of heavy. Not drunk, but on his way. It doesn't seem to be helping as much as it should.

Jamia doesn't say anything about it right away, but Frank knows she will. She's probably biding her time, luring Frank into a false sense of security; letting him start to think that maybe, maybe he's not in any trouble, and then - bam, suddenly Frank's landed with toddler duty for a fucking month. She's sat with Lindsey across the table from Frank and Bob, and the pair of them look far too cozy for Frank to process right now. He can't relax, can't keep track of the conversation. God, why did he even invite Gerard in the first place? This was such a bad idea. Right now, Frank's holding on to the very real possibility that he just won't turn up. The club is rapidly filling up, and the opening band are already taking their places on stage, so maybe--

Bob nudges him, mutters in his ear, "Man candy, two o'clock."

"You are so fucking lame," Frank says, lamely. Of course Gerard is here, hovering near the doorway with scanning eyes, clearly looking for Frank. And of course he looks fucking gorgeous; tight black jeans, leather jacket, messy hair pushed back off his face.

"Frank, stop being a big fucking girl and go say hi," Bob says, shoving Frank out of the booth.

"Hey," Lindsey says.

"Sorry," Bob says.

"...You are being a big fucking girl, though," Lindsey tells Frank after a pause. Jamia snorts, burying her face in Lindsey's shoulder. Lindsey puts her arm around her, grinning. Even Bob is smiling.

"You are all fucking assholes," Frank announces, and heads purposefully for Gerard. He can still hear them sniggering from four tables away. Fine, he thinks angrily.

Gerard spots him when Frank's a few feet away and smiles, raises a spread palm. "Hi!"

"Hey," Frank returns, just as the band start playing. "Hey," he tries again, louder. "You came."

"I said I would," Gerard says. "I roped my brother into watching Drake."

"Awesome," Frank says. Neither of them say anything else, and suddenly the band seems like a good thing. "Uh, do you want -" He gestures towards the bar.

"Oh, sure," Gerard says. They walk to the bar together, and Frank pulls out his wallet. "But, um, just a Coke, please."

At first, instinct stops Frank from asking - but then he remembers, hey, technically he doesn't have to do that, here. "You don't drink?"

Gerard shakes his head, not quite meeting Frank's eyes. "I used to... have a problem, I guess. I mean, I can drink and keep it under control, but most of the time I just don't feel the need, y'know? Coke is fine. I love Coke."

"Coke is nice," Frank agrees lamely. "Alright, then." He orders another beer for himself, though. He feels a little out of his depth, here.

Thankfully, Gerard changes the topic. "So, are you, y'know, here with anyone?"

"Just some friends from work," Frank says. "Though honestly, their friend status is fragile at best right now." He glances at the table. They're very clearly pretending not to watch, stupid smirks still on their faces. Frank tries his hardest to communicate fuck off with his eyes.

"Oh yeah, I see Doctor Ballato. And your receptionist," Gerard says. "Bob, right?"

"Yep," Frank confirms through gritted teeth. "The other one is my boss. Jamia."

Gerard whistles. "And how come their friend status is fragile?"

Frank's not sure he even meant to say that out loud. "Let's just say they express their support in... unhelpful ways."

Gerard hums thoughtfully, sipping his Coke. "Sounds familiar."

There's a burst of raucous laughter from the table. Frank grimaces, taking a deep swig of his beer. "You don't want me to introduce you, do you?"

"Uh, well. Technically I've already met most of them, so."

Frank breathes out a slow sigh of relief. He definitely isn't in any hurry to talk to Jamia. The band are just starting to get into full swing, and the dance floor is almost full of moving bodies. He kind of feels like he's fifteen again - too-aware of his own feet and elbows, scrabbling for things to say to the kid he likes. "So, this is weird."

Thankfully, Gerard laughs. "Yeah, I guess it is a bit. I mean, I haven't been to a bar for years."

That wasn't what Frank meant at all, but he sure as hell isn't clarifying it. "Does it... bother you?" He feels a little bad. Frank's had friends with drink and drug problems, he's seen what it's like. Maybe he'll ask if Gerard wants to leave, go somewhere else. That would have the added bonus of getting him alone, too. Maybe Frank would stop feeling so tense if he knew he didn't have his fucking boss watching his every move. Or maybe it would make it worse - it's hard to tell.

Gerard pauses. "Nah. Like I said, I can control it."

"How long have you been clean? And feel free to tell me to mind my own business."

"Nah," Gerard says again. He turns to face Frank, hip against the bar, meets Frank's eyes properly for the first time tonight. "I don't mind. But, uh. Let's make it a story for another time?"

"Oh," Frank says. "I mean, sure. Of course."

Gerard smiles easily and turns his eyes back to the club, sipping his Coke casually, but Frank is inwardly cursing. He just can't seem to stop putting his fucking foot in it with Gerard, can he? Over at the table, he thinks, Lindsey is laughing and she doesn't know why. Well, no, she probably does know; she can fucking see them. Frank chugs hard on his beer, too-fast, a little liquid sloshing over his jaw and dribbling down his neck. Frank swipes at it clumsily with his forearm, which is when he notices Gerard is watching him again. Perfect.

Mercifully, Gerard doesn't say anything about Frank's ineptitude, and they're able to both finish their drinks without Frank doing anything else noticeably stupid. As Frank's nerves start to settle a little, the conversation begins to flow more easily. They talk about their jobs, the colleagues they hate, what they look forward to when they get home. They talk about music, about how bummed they both are that they don't get to come out that often what with their respective busy lives. They talk about a lot of stuff. They have a lot in common, and Gerard is actually really funny, which Frank wouldn't have expected at all, but is really fucking glad of. He almost completely forgets about their three unwanted cling-on's.

After a while the band start playing something he vaguely recognizes, and Frank bounces on his heels, suddenly full of energy. "Hey, you wanna--" He almost says dance, but that isn't actually what he wants to do at all.

"Fuck yeah," Gerard enthuses. Frank looks at him, surprised, and Gerard shrugs, grinning. "It's been ages."

"Fuck yeah," Frank repeats with feeling, and drags Gerard out there, leaving his hoodie on the bar. He could blame his boldness on the alcohol in his system, but honestly, Frank just loves this. Frank needs this. There's nothing like getting sweaty and exhausted in a really good pit, just throwing yourself around and working out all the tension with a bunch of people doing the exact same thing.

And Gerard, surprisingly, isn't subdued in the slightest. He gives just as much as Frank does, doesn't hold back at all - and also, isn't shy about body contact. Frank's never moshed with someone he totally wants to fuck before, and it definitely brings an interesting new element to the activity. Every time they jump together or grab for each other's shoulders it's like a kick-start in the already-soaring adrenaline - even more so when the crowd surges forward for the end of the song and suddenly Gerard's pressed up against him - his hot, fast breath on the side of Frank's sweaty face.

"Thank you and good night, motherfuckers!" The front man yells into the mic, and the crowd yells back at him as the band files off stage.

"It's Ray's band next," Frank says breathlessly. "You know, my friend."

"Uh, cool," Gerard says. And then, randomly, "I like your ink, by the way."

"I-- thanks?" Frank says. Everything seems stopped, suspended, the crowd not moving anymore, and Frank doesn't know what to do with all of this hot, damp body flush along his side, Gerard's jacket sticking to his bare arm. There's nowhere to go, no room to move; he's sandwiched in on all sides. Neither of them say anything else while Ray and his band get set up. Frank's too distracted to even wave at him.

"I actually." Gerard starts squirming, a little, elbow and hip nudging Frank's side, "I have a little confession to make."

Frank blinks a little. "Okay?"

Gerard pauses. He seems to be psyching himself into something. "Yeah. When you, uh. When you asked me to come tonight, I thought you were asking me out, at first. You know, out out." Frank stares, speechless, as Gerard goes on hastily, "And it's okay, I mean, I don't mind that you weren't, I still wanted to come, but." He trails off, falling still. Frank can't see Gerard properly, can't meet his eyes, can only see there's a few strands of hair stuck to his flushed face.

"So you're saying," Frank says slowly, "if I had, y'know. Asked you out, out. You would have said yes?"

After a pause, Gerard nods, and then shakes his head. "But it doesn't matter. Like I said, I don't--"

"Gerard -" Frank starts, but then the new front man is saying something and the music starts playing again and they're being shoved forwards, more rigorous than before. Ray's band is fucking awesome, and Ray's guitar is fucking awesome, but Frank can't enjoy it as much as he should be, because his mind isn't pleasantly bleached by the pit anymore. Now, it's racing almost as fast as his heartbeat. He grabs hold of Gerard's jacket without thinking - doesn't want to lose him in the crowd - and catches a brief, blurred look at Gerard's face, but it's enough for Frank to signal out, let's get out. When the song finally ends and the shoving ceases, he practically drags Gerard out of the crowd, back towards the bar. He feels vaguely delirious, all sound a dull roar in his ears.

He picks up his hoodie, which is when he realizes he still has hold of Gerard's jacket. Gerard's kind of panting, actually. Frank lets go quickly, speaks fast before he loses his nerve. "Sorry, I-- look, I did want to ask you out. Out, out. Whatever."

Gerard looks surprised. "You did? I mean, I thought there was - but then I just thought, y'know, I'd read the signs wrong. It's been a while since I've, like, had anything. With someone."

"Man, you don't even know," Frank mutters, almost to himself. And then, "No, you didn't read them wrong. It was just - god, first it was the doctor thing and then it was the straight thing and then--"

"Straight thing?" Gerard repeats, and now he's smiling. Smirking, almost. "Me?"

"Drake?" Frank reminds him. "Like, I couldn't exactly ask."

"You could have," Gerard says, taking a slow step forward. "I would have told you."

"In front of Drake?" Frank kind of feels out of the loop, like he's lagging behind. He's sort of drunk and his shirt is stuck to his back and Gerard is really hot and all up in his face, all of a sudden. It's happening, Frank guesses. Shit, it's happening! "You -"

"Frank," Gerard says lowly, almost too quiet to hear over the music. "I like you. A lot."

Well then. Frank can be honest now, he supposes. "I, um. Really like you, too." He feels fucking lame, fucking awesome, and he doesn't think he's ever wanted to kiss anyone more. He's still aware, though - in the back of his mind - that this isn't the place. That they're not exactly alone. "Uh, maybe we should--"

"Smoke?" Gerard suggests with a raised eyebrow, already pulling a pack out of his jacket pocket. Like he's thought ahead, thinking the exact same thing as Frank. Oh, man.

"Yes," Frank manages. "Very." He gestures for Gerard to lead the way, and can't help but shoot a grin back at the table, which is received by three simultaneously raised drinks. Maybe he won't have to pull any revenge pranks at the practice, after all. It's pleasantly cool outside the club, and Frank follows Gerard along the sidewalk, into a little alcove between the two buildings. A part of him expects Gerard to go for him right then and there, but Gerard just leans casually against the wall and sticks a cigarette in his mouth, offers the pack to Frank.

Frank takes one. "Thanks - oh." Gerard sparks a lighter into action and holds it out for Frank, broad palm curled protectively around the flame. Frank obligingly leans in and lights up, as easily as he can with Gerard so close. "Thanks. Again."

"S'okay," Gerard says, lighting his own. Frank drags deeply, sliding his free hand into his jean pocket. The smoke silently, not really looking at each other, but Frank can feel the sexual tension like a fucking rope around his neck. Gerard's got one boot up against the wall, hips pushed away from the brick, sweat still shiny on his neck. Frank wonders if he's hot in that jacket. Frank's still got his own hoodie under his arm, and the light breeze is really nice on his bare skin. He can't figure out how to break this, and--

"It really has been a while since I did this," Gerard suddenly says.

"Moshed?"

"No. Well, yeah, but." Gerard tilts his head back against the wall, looks Frank straight in the eyes. "This."

Fuck, that's it. "This?" Frank says, slowly stepping forwards, until he's right up in Gerard's space. He pulls his hand from his pocket and presses it flat against the wall next to Gerard's head, hoodie dropping to the floor with a soft thump. He doesn't care at all.

Gerard licks his lips, nods once. "This."

Frank leans in and kisses him. Gerard makes a soft noise into his mouth, hands landing on Frank's shoulders to pull Frank in. It's like every cliche Frank's ever heard come to life; his head spins, his heart thuds, his blood rushes. He's turned on instantly, it feels like, though maybe that's just because Gerard is a really fucking good kisser. Deep, slow, intense.

They make out until a car passes, someone yelling something mocking out of the window. Frank pulls back, breathless and grinning. "We, uh. We shouldn't be doing this, probably."

"Probably," Gerard agrees, but he's still got his fingers tangled in the neck of Frank's shirt, thumb stroking lightly over Frank's jaw. It's really distracting, in the sense that it's really making Frank want to shove Gerard's hips back against the wall and go to his knees and blow him right fucking here. There's a couple of people milling about outside the club, only just around the corner, but they could watch for all Frank cares.

Frank inhales deeply to try and calm himself down a little. "It's been a pretty long fucking while for me, too."

Gerard's cigarette is burning freely by Frank's shoulder, still held precariously between the fingers of Gerard's other hand. He drops it on the ground and cups Frank's nape instead. "How long?"

"Too long," Frank answers honestly, dropping his own and getting his hands on Gerard's hips. They're warm and soft, flesh spilling a little where the waistband of those tight jeans are digging in.

"Maybe we should. Take it slow," Gerard murmurs, leaning in, breathing hotly under Frank's ear.

"Fuck," Frank says with feeling, eyes sliding shut. If Gerard keeps doing that, slow is going to be the last thing this will be. "Do you wanna go slow?"

"No," Gerard admits after a pause. "But - fuck, I hate being a grown-up, y'know?" He laughs lowly, loud and rumbling in Frank's ear. "But maybe it would be - since we both--"

"To be honest I wanna take you home with me right fucking now," Frank says in a rush, squeezing Gerard's hips tight. "But, uh. Yeah."

Gerard makes a pleased, throaty noise. "To be honest, I want you to. But-- Frank." Frank can't help it; he's pressing closer, crowding Gerard against the wall, getting his hands up under Gerard's shirt, pulse racing at all that bare skin under his fingertips. Gerard exhales hard, hands clenching on Frank's biceps. "Just - fuck, just wait a second, okay? You know we're just fucking horny because it's been a while, right?"

It's true, partly, but Frank can't imagine he'd feel any different about wanting to get into Gerard's pants even if he'd gotten laid yesterday. "It doesn't matter, I still -"

"No, it does," Gerard says, breathing heavily as Frank sucks on his neck - unable to stop touching now he's started, now he's allowed. "I don't - I never just went and picked someone up because I don't do that, y'know? I mean, I've got a fucking kid, I can't just - I don't just wanna--"

"I know, I know, I don't just fuck, either," Frank says breathlessly, face still in Gerard's neck. "But it wouldn't be, that's not - that's not all I want, Gerard, I promise."

"I know," Gerard says, and he sounds like he means it, despite the fact he's panting and grabbing at Frank's shoulders. "I know, me neither, and that's why I don't just wanna -"

Frank groans, frustrated, but he forces himself to stop, stepping back to get some distance between them. "Okay. Slow. Yeah. I can do that."

"You sure?" Gerard looks even messier than before, hair everywhere, clothes rucked up, still sweaty from the pit; all Frank can think is that he wants to mess Gerard up, make him flushed and sweaty, himself.

Frank takes a slow, deep breath, and nods. "We can go slow." Gerard steps away from the wall, into Frank's space again, cupping his face. Frank puts his arms back around him automatically, "I thought--"

"Well," Gerard says lowly, "we can still..."

"No, see, this is what you call wanting to have your cake and eat it, too," Frank says weakly, but he gives in and lets Gerard kiss him, of course he fucking does. "Trust me," he gets out when they finally pull apart, "I work with kids, I know all the fuckin' sayings."

Gerard nips at Frank's bottom lip, grinning. "I know. I got a fuckin' kid, remember?"

"Really, I keep forgetting," Frank says dryly.

"Speaking of which," Gerard says, weirdly casual, watching his own fingers fiddle with Frank's shirt. "That's not. A problem, is it?"

"Gerard," Frank says slowly, deliberately. "I work with kids."

"Well, that doesn't necessarily mean anything! Like, maybe because you work with them you don't wanna then see them when you're-- mmf."

Frank shuts him up with a kiss. This guy is just too fucking adorable. "Trust me," he says quietly when he pulls back, "it's not a problem. I like Drake."

"Oh, good," says Gerard, smiling. "Then do you wanna, uh. Maybe, come over? I can't really cook, but -"

Frank can't help it, he snorts with laughter. "Sorry," he gets out at Gerard's confused expression, "it's just, you're asking me on a date. Like, an actual date, date."

Gerard blinks. "Yes?"

Frank tries to control his giggles. "I've just never really. Done that, before."

"Really?" Frank shakes his head. Gerard's smile grows tiny teeth. "Then you're definitely coming over."

Frank wants to tell him he'd come anywhere Gerard wanted him to, but he bites his tongue. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes," Frank says firmly. "Give me your number."

"Demanding," Gerard says lightly, and wow, that is totally flirting. He pulls a cell phone out of his jacket and hands it to Frank, "I don't fucking know it, it's in there somewhere." Frank takes down Gerard's digits on his own phone, then punches his number into Gerard's and names the contact Dr. Iero. Gerard grins when he sees it. "I'd better get going before my brother murders my son, but I'll give you a call, doctor."

Frank grins back. "You do that, Mr. Way. Or shall I call you professor?"

Gerard snorts a laugh, "I'm not--" but Frank's pulling him back in for one last kiss, reluctant to let him go. It's painfully awkward watching Gerard walk away, stepping backwards slowly with that smile and shy little wave, before finally turning around and heading down the street. At least Frank gets a good view of his ass as he walks away. He smokes another two cigarettes before he goes back inside.

Bob is alone at the table, and he gives Frank a standing ovation when he walks up and dumps his hoodie on the seat. "Yeah yeah, hardy-ha, fuck you," Frank says, but there's a fresh beer on the table for him, and honestly, Frank just feels too damn good to stay pissed off.

"Did you actually blow him in the alley?" Bob asks, standing aside to let Frank slide in to the booth and then sitting down heavily next to him. "You were out there for fucking ages."

"No," Frank says. He drinks deeply from his bottle and doesn't offer anything else, enjoying Bob's obvious, though reluctant, curiosity.

Eventually Bob sighs and shoves a big hand at him. "Whatever. Jamia and Lindsey are in the pit somewhere. I'm starting to feel like fucking piggy in the middle with this shit."

"You mean you haven't seen any hot chick to take home and give the Bryar treatment?" Frank scans the crowd and, after a minute, he spots them. Jamia's bang in the center of the pit, hair everywhere, face a picture of pure glee. Lindsey has hold of her by the hips and they're jumping and falling all over each other like a pair of drunken toddlers. Frank has a sudden moment of realization. "Jamia was in on Lindsey's shit the whole time, wasn't she."

Bob snorts. "Wow, no wonder you haven't gotten laid in like a year. You're kinda slow, dude."

Frank can't help but laugh. "God, I hate you guys."

"It's okay, we hate you, too."

Frank is drunk and horny and riding high on the night's events, and climbing in Bob's lap suddenly seems like the right thing to do. "Come on, motherfucker. We are so getting in there."

The next few days at work, as expected, Lindsey is insufferable. Bob likes to pretend that Frank is the one for being childish, but really, all of his jokes about sharing the maturity and intelligence of his patients would be better suited if they were directed towards Lindsey. Frank had no idea there were so many variations of ways you could say I told you so; she should write a fucking book.

"I think you missed your calling as a preschool teacher," Frank drawls in a bored tone on Wednesday, when she greets him in the staff room with a cheery, "Hey, Frankie, I just thought - they say if you don't have sex for a year you're like a virgin again, did you know that?"

She's not exactly quiet about it, either. They're not alone in here today - Bob is with them, as well as a couple of other members of staff that were pretending to read. They scrunch up their faces and sigh at Lindsey's announcement, gathering up their things and leaving, shooting Frank dirty looks as they go, despite the fact it wasn't even him that said it. Whatever. They were probably preparing to leave the moment Frank walked in, anyway.

Lindsey doesn't seem to notice. She flops down on the couch next to Bob, while Frank fixes himself coffee, his back to them. "I mean, I know that's just supposed to be for chicks, but I think in this case, it applies to you, too."

"So I'm a girl because I like dick?" Frank says lightly, spooning sugar into his coffee. Bob snorts with laughter.

"Fuck, no!" Lindsey says loudly. "I mean, if that's true, then I guess I'm not a fucking girl." Bob snorts again. Frank rolls his eyes to himself. "I mean it applies to you because, well. You're a bottom, right?"

Frank splutters a little, turning around to glare at her. "Shut the fuck up!"

"That's a yes, then," Bob says, not looking up from the magazine he's reading.

"That's a, none of your goddamn business," Frank huffs, taking his coffee to an armchair. He knows they're just yanking his chain, he doesn't care; he enjoys dishing it out and he more than knows how to handle getting it back, but they're seriously like fucking vultures recently.

Lindsey looks delighted. "I knew it."

"You don't know shit," Frank says calmly, sipping his coffee. "Maybe I'm versatile. Maybe I'm the biggest top that ever topped; you just don't know."

"No way are you a top," Bob says simply, and Frank bristles.

"Why the fuck not? You think just because I'm short I can't fuck the shit out of someone? You want a fucking go, Bryar? Come on, I'll show you."

Bob scoffs, "Nah, you're alright, Frankie. Maybe if you grow a pair of tits-- but then, I wouldn't wanna get in trouble with your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," Frank says, and then pauses, grinning. "Well, not yet."

Lindsey goes, "Oooooh," and then they're all laughing. God, this is so stupid. Frank is supposed to be a doctor but this whole thing is just making him feel like a fucking teenager. He and Gerard have been texting since Saturday, just chatting, everything and nothing, but Frank can read between the lines. Maybe it would be more reminiscent of younger, stupider times to cut straight to the chase, as it were, but Frank can't say he really feels any older or more mature doing it like this. If anything, the flirting and the dancing around and the resulting sexual frustration are more like high school.

It feels like a charade; Frank's not going to want it any more or less just because they waited a little while first, he doesn't see the point. But it's what Gerard wants, and Frank wasn't lying when he said he really liked Gerard, so he can be patient. It's just a matter of willpower. Like, mind over matter. Or, in Frank's case, mind over dick.

And he tells Bob and Lindsey all of this, because while they're enjoying ripping on him right now, they are his friends. Lindsey hums thoughtfully. "Is it really that hard to wait, though? Like, you've already gone a year, what's another few weeks?"

Frank gapes. "You think it will be weeks?"

"Well, I don't know," Lindsey says, waving a hand. "But from what you've told me, it doesn't sound like he wants to wait too long, either. It's probably just the kid thing, y'know? He doesn't want to rush into anything."

"I know," Frank says sadly. Gerard pretty much said the same thing himself, but still. "And I get it, but that still doesn't make it any easier. Like - yeah, I went a year, but I didn't have Gerard right there, then. It's like dangling a fucking carrot in front of me, right?"

"Yeah, I'm not even touching that one," Lindsey says.

At that moment, Jamia enters. She takes one look at them all, and rolls her eyes. "Really, guys? You know you don't own this entire room, right?"

"Someone been telling tales?" Bob asks mildly.

Frank's phone buzzes. Jamia's voice fades in to the background when he sees it's from Gerard. "Friday night ok dr? I got a cookbook. g xo".

Frank doesn't realize he's grinning until he glances up and catches Jamia's eye. She raises an eyebrow at him. "I hope you know, Frank, that if you fuck this up and he sues us for malpractice or something, you are so fired."

Frank just pulls a face at her, turning back to his phone and typing out a response. Frank rarely has time to go out during the week, but for this, he can make an exception. "fridays fine prof. give me address x".

"Aw, give the poor boy a break, baby," Lindsey says, pouting at Jamia. "He's got a year's worth of blue balls in his pants, after all."

"Like a virrrrgin," Bob sings under his breath, turning a page of his magazine.

Frank? Doesn't even care. He's got a date. With Gerard.

Frank never wanted to be a pediatrician.

Sometimes he wonders; gets hung up on what if's. But when it really comes down to it, he's glad it turned out this way.

Outside Gerard's apartment building, Frank can admit he's a little nervous. Gerard lives in a really nice building, in a really nice part of town, and while it's not like Frank lives in a hovel himself, it's still kind of impressive. Stood on the doorstep in front of the row of buzzer buttons, eyes lingering on the one marked G. Way, Frank finds himself fidgeting on his feet, fiddling with his belt, his jacket, smoothing down his shirt. He's made an effort, this time. He'd kind of figured, since they've already made out - and, like, declarations of mutual attraction have been confirmed - that it's now cool. And since he knew that there wasn't even a remote chance he'd be taking his clothes off tonight, going with layers hadn't felt wrong at all. A little disappointing, maybe, but Frank's fine with that. He can handle it.

When he finally psyches himself into pressing the buzzer, though, a voice that definitely isn't Gerard's comes over the intercom, monotone and drawling. "Yeah?"

"Uh," Frank says. Did he click the wrong button? He doesn't think he did, unless there happen to be two G. Way's living here. "It's Frank?"

There's a long pause, crackling sounds over the speaker, and then the buzz of the door opening, so loud it makes Frank jump. He looks around, behind him, then slowly pulls the door open and edges inside. He thinks he remembers a horror movie that started like this, once. It's really going to suck if someone murders him in his best jeans. (And, for that matter, before he got into Gerard's pants, but that goes without saying.)

He's on edge all the way up in the elevator and along the corridor to Gerard's door. He stops in front of it, takes a deep breath. He can't really hear any signs of life from inside, even when he leans in and puts his ear closer to the door. There's a TV on, he thinks, but no talking, no movement.

And then, suddenly, a loud, metallic crashing sound. Followed by what this time clearly is Gerard's voice, "Fucking fuck it!"

Frank jumps back like the door burned him, slapping a palm over his mouth to muffle his laughter. Okay, yeah, he's pretty sure he has the right place. He steels himself up, and then knocks on the door, hard and clear.

When it opens, though, it isn't Gerard stood there. It's a tall, thin, blonde dude dressed in skinny jeans, a T-shirt and a beanie. "Uh," Frank says again.

"Frank, right?" the guy says. Frank nods, and the guy moves aside, gesturing limply for him to come in. Frank hesitates, but the guy just stands there, watching him with a bored expression. Frank enters into a hallway, and the guy closes the door after him. "Gee's in the kitchen. If you couldn't tell."

"Gee?" Frank repeats dumbly, the nickname foreign in his mouth. But Tall Dude is already walking away, down the hall and through a door out of sight. Frank stands there kind of stupidly, wondering if he should follow him, or what. He can hear sounds coming from a door up on the left, though. Like, banging. Clatters. And then, very clearly, the sound of Gerard swearing under his breath. There's also a faint smell of burning in the air. Frank grins and follows it, peeks his head around the door.

It's the kitchen alright, and it looks kind of like a bomb went off in it. The counters are littered with pots and pans, various bottles, packets; ingredients and instruments slung everywhere. And Gerard is there in the center of it all, smart white shirt rolled up to his elbows, stripy tie flung over his shoulder, and something that looks like flour scattered all over his black jeans. He has his back to Frank, bent over the open oven, and wow, that's a nice view.

"Hey?"

Gerard jumps and spins around so fast his shin knocks into the oven door. "Agh, motherfucker! I mean-- ah, hi!"

"Hi," Frank returns. There's some flour in Gerard's hair, too. "Uh, need some help?"

"Oh, no," Gerard says through gritted teeth, hunched over and rubbing roughly at his shin. "No, no, it's fine, it's just - just a little overdone."

Frank approaches the oven and has a look into the pan. Whatever it was Gerard was cooking, you could hold a funeral for it now, it's that far gone. Frank tries not to laugh. "Yeah, just a little bit."

Gerard scowls and pushes him lightly. "Shut up. The fucking instructions in that cookbook are bullshit, okay, they don't even make any sense."

Frank pats his shoulder sympathetically. "It's okay. I kind of fancied pizza tonight, anyway."

Gerard looks vaguely upset. "Frank! I can't just order fucking pizza. This was supposed to be, like, our first date, and I just - I just wanted to do it properly, y'know?"

Frank shuffles closer, hooks a finger into Gerard's belt. Even through the smell of burnt food, Gerard smells good; his hair is obviously freshly washed, and his jaw and neck are smooth and soft. Gerard goes very still as Frank noses under his ear. "Is this okay?" Frank asks quietly. The last thing he wants to do is overstep his boundaries and mess everything up, but right now, Gerard is the only thing making him hungry.

"Yeah," Gerard breathes. "Uh, I guess Mikey let you in, then?"

"Mikey...? Oh, the tall guy?"

"Yeah, he's my brother. He didn't - he didn't tell you?" Frank shakes his head, kissing lightly at Gerard's neck. Gerard sighs, tilting his head back a little. "Sorry. That's kinda typical of him."

"It's fine," Frank murmurs, pulling Gerard closer. "Will he be joining us this evening?" Not that there seemed to be anything wrong with the dude, but Frank really hopes the answer is no.

"Oh, no, don't worry. He just came over to watch Drake while I was busy in here. And he brought me the stuff." Gerard laughs bitterly. "What a fuckin' waste."

"And where is Drake?"

"Watching TV, I think." Gerard's fingers are fidgeting with Frank's jacket. "Well, I hope. I really don't want him to hear my shitty language. It's, um. Probably his bed time, soon." Frank says nothing. He wouldn't want to make Gerard feel bad by telling him how he heard him through the front door. He has both hands on Gerard's hips now, slowly backing him up against the kitchen table. "Frank."

"Can I kiss you?" Frank asks lowly. He feels like a complete tool asking, but he also feels like he's walking on eggshells, here. He can't not touch Gerard and yet his limits are painfully blurry, what with the way Gerard responds to him - the way he so obviously wants it, too. Frank suspects Gerard doesn't even really know what his own limits are. And that shouldn't turn Frank on, but it does. Fuck, it really does. It makes Frank want to push it, makes him want to tease until Gerard can't stand it anymore.

Gerard visibly hesitates, eyes darting to the door, but he's already winding a hand into Frank's hair, nodding. It's just as good as Frank remembers, if not more. Gerard's mouth is soft and warm; he kisses Frank thoroughly, just deep and wet enough to be dirty, holding Frank's head still with a hand in his hair and another cupping his jaw. Frank has to make a conscious effort not to press his hips forward - just bend Gerard back over the table and really go for it. There's a big pile of grocery bags behind him, so Frank tries to concentrate on that as a deterrent.

"Gee, I'm gonna-- oh, ew." Frank springs back sharply to find Mikey in the doorway, holding a hand dramatically over his eyes. "Oh, man, no. I eat in here."

Gerard's flushed lightly along the tops of his cheeks, but he stands up straight and brisk, smoothing down his shirt and straightening his tie. "Is Drake in the living room?"

"Yeah." Mikey cautiously peeks through his long fingers. "Count yourself lucky it wasn't him who walked in."

"He wouldn't care," Gerard says mildly, starting to clear up some of the mess, while Frank leans kind of awkwardly against the counters, hands in his pockets. "Actually, he'd probably act more like your age than you, you big baby."

"Dude," Mikey says slowly, "Nobody wants to see their father - or, for that matter, their brother - fucking a guy in the kitchen." He looks at Frank as he says it, like he's directing a question to him, although there's nothing in his tone to suggest it is.

"I'm... an only child?" Frank ventures.

Gerard slams a cupboard door shut. "We weren't fucking," he says indignantly. "God, you're so immature."

Mikey sniffs, reaching under the table and picking up a satchel. "You want me to order you pizza before I go?"

"You were listening?" Gerard says, almost shrilly.

Mikey rolls his eyes. "As if. I like not being traumatized, thanks. It's just pretty obvious you're not eating whatever that was supposed to be." He nods towards the ex-food in the pan. "I told you you were being too ambitious."

"Pizza would be great," Frank cuts in before Gerard can commit fratricide. "Veggie supreme for me, please. No meat."

Mikey looks at him, expression blank except for an almost imperceptible quirk at the corner of his mouth. "The usual for you, Gee?"

Gerard busies himself with the mess on the counter and grumbles something under his breath, which must translate into an answer for Mikey, because he leaves the kitchen. Frank doesn't know whether to laugh or not. "Uh, you okay?"

Gerard makes an ugh kind of noise, turns around to slouch against the counter instead, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he says sadly. "I've messed this up."

"What?" Frank says dumbly. "Why? Oh, because you burnt the dinner?"

"Well, yeah! But just - everything, I mean, this isn't exactly romantic, is it? I asked you here for a date and I fucked up the food and the fucking kitchen is a mess and now my fucking brother--"

It's a pretty shameless excuse to kiss Gerard again, but Frank takes it. "Gerard," he says when he pulls back, making sure to meet Gerard eyes. "It's fine. Honestly. I don't care. I'm here for you, not your cooking."

"Oh," Gerard says. He looks a little taken aback. "Okay."

Frank smiles and squeezes his waist, digging in with his fingers. "Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, alright," Gerard laughs and squirms away, making shooing motions at him. "I'm still clearing this shit up, though, and you're not distracting me. Go and sit in the living room."

"Demanding," Frank smirks, but he does as he's told. On a hunch, he follows the hallway to the door Mikey went through earlier. Bingo. Gerard's living room is really nice, and probably half the size of Frank's entire apartment. Drake is sat in his PJ's in the corner of a huge black leather couch, draped back over the arm with his console held up in front of his face, completely ignoring the television. For a moment Frank wonders what the deal is, right here. Gerard obviously doesn't seem to think there's a problem, but Frank can't help but doubt that a nine year-old boy would have no issues whatsoever with his father dating his doctor, even if Frank wasn't a guy.

Whatever. Proceed with caution, he guesses. "Hey, Dra--"

"Are you my dad's boyfriend now, then?" Drake interrupts, without looking up from his game. His tone isn't accusing. It's more, like, asking how the traffic was on Frank's way over here, or something.

Frank stares. "Would that be... a problem, for you?"

"No," Drake says simply. He goes quiet for a long moment. "Just don't think you can start telling me what to do, now."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Frank reassures him. "Uh, can I sit down?" Drake grunts something and pulls his legs towards him, which Frank takes to mean yes. After a few minutes, Mikey comes in, face in his cell phone. He sits in an armchair across from Frank and slouches down so low his T-shirt rides up his belly, feet spread out and apart on the floor. Sitting there with them both, Frank can't help but smile. On the TV there's several people talking about something Frank doesn't care about, voices merging together, and he can hear Gerard clattering about in the kitchen. It makes him miss his own home; he makes a mental note to visit his mom more, her annoying friends be damned. Because yeah, he's busy, but he knows he could make time, if he really wanted to. He made time for this, after all.

"Listen," Mikey suddenly says, making Frank jump a little. "You seem like a nice enough dude, or whatever. But, uh."

Frank raises an eyebrow. "But?"

Mikey sits up a little straighter in his chair. He throws a glance at Drake. "Oi, poopface. Go to bed." Frank expects protest, but Drake just heaves this huge, put-upon sigh, and obligingly leaves the room. "Gerard's my big brother," Mikey says when the door shuts. "But, you know, he's kinda lame. And I dunno, uh, how much you know? But he's had sort of a - a rough time, so."

"Ah, so," Frank says uncomfortably. "This is you warning me not to hurt him, right?"

Mikey sort of shrugs. He's barely looked up from his phone since he started talking. "In a way. I'm not gonna - you know. He's an adult, or whatever. It's just, you're the first person he's been with since - well."

"Since, what?"

Mikey fidgets a little. "Like I said, he's an adult. But he has this tendency to get kind of. Carried away, I guess."

Frank stares at the floor, gnawing on his bottom lip. "Okay."

Mikey looks at him properly, then. "Don't worry about it. He really likes you."

That seems like a complete contradiction to what Mikey just said, but Frank can't help but feel pleased to hear it. "He does?" Gerard had said the same thing himself, but something about Mikey saying it makes it easier to really believe.

Mikey nods. "He's been freaking out about this damn dinner all afternoon. It's been really annoying."

Frank smiles. "Listen - um. I really like him, too."

Mikey nods again. "I know."

Frank doesn't know what to say to that, so he goes quiet again, and Mikey seems happy to follow suit. That could have been a lot more awkward than it was, Frank knows, but he still feels a little disconcerted. He knew, objectively - or he'd made an educated guess, anyway - that Gerard had baggage (other than Drake) and while Frank wants to know, of course he does, he would never ask. It's the kind of thing he's always tried to just let happen; he wants to get to know Gerard, properly, and if that makes Gerard comfortable enough to tell him of his own accord, cool. But now Frank's worrying if maybe, that's a little naive.

The door opens and Gerard himself comes in, grumbling and swiping at himself. "Fucking flour, why didn't you tell me I had it in my hair?"

Mikey stands up, shouldering his bag and kind of patting Gerard awkwardly on the shoulder. "I'm gonna go. The pizza's ordered, and Drake's in bed. You should pay me for this shit."

Gerard snorts. "I don't think I have change small enough."

"Love you too, bro," Mikey deadpans, walking over to the door. "Remember, the walls are thin and children are impressionable." He nods lightly at Frank, so slight Frank wonders if he imagined it, and leaves while Gerard is still spluttering.

"He seems... nice," Frank says slowly.

Gerard drops down heavily on the couch next to him, sighs kind of tiredly. "Fucking siblings. You should be grateful you don't have any."

"You don't mean that," Frank says simply, and Gerard sighs again.

"No, okay. But it does get annoying, the way he acts like he knows everything." Frank is quiet, just thinking. He feels Gerard look at him, and then shift until he's facing him. "He said something to you, didn't he."

"No," Frank says, because he can hear the brewing annoyance in Gerard's tone, and whatever Frank thinks about what Mikey said, he knows it wasn't meant in the way Gerard's imagining. "Well, just that -" He trails off, wondering if he should even go there.

"Yeah?" Gerard prompts, quietly.

Frank shifts a little. "He just said that you'd had a rough time." Gerard doesn't say anything. When Frank glances at him, his eyes are downcast. "You don't have to tell me right now," Frank says softly. "It can wait 'til another time."

"No," Gerard says suddenly. "No, this. This is another time." He takes a slow, determined breath, and looks up. "You already know that, like -"

"You used to have a problem with drink," Frank finishes for him. "Yes."

Gerard makes a small scoffing noise. "I'm an alcoholic, Frank. I have been for years. Just because I don't really drink or get trashed anymore doesn't change the fact I still am one, y'know?" Frank nods to show he understands, and Gerard continues, slowly, "It started after I got my first job. It was so fucking stupid, I don't even know why. I'd worked so hard, put myself through all those years of training, why would I just fuck it all up like that? I dunno, maybe it was just the pressure. Like, suddenly I had all these kids to teach, looking up to me, and yet I still felt like a fucking kid, myself."

He pauses. "It got to the point where I was drunk during class. I used to hide whisky in my thermos, take little sips behind my desk when I thought no one was looking. It was bad before that as well, obviously, but that's when I finally got caught."

Frank shuffles closer to him. "What happened?"

"Well, eventually someone reported me. One of my students. Honestly, I don't know how I avoided it for so long. By that point even I knew I wasn't fooling anyone. The principal called me into his office and I swear, I thought that was it. I thought I was done. I was gonna be fired, maybe banned from teaching ever again, end up homeless and penniless and--"

Gerard's leg is jittering, foot tapping against the floor. Frank puts his hand on his knee to stop him. Gerard sighs and puts a hand over Frank's. "They didn't fire me, but they told me I had to take time off to get my shit together, otherwise they would. I had one chance, and that was it. And if I fucked it up, I wouldn't even get a reference."

"Fuck," Frank says.

"Yeah," Gerard agrees. "They gave me a month, recommended this therapy program for teachers under stress. Those were the exact words they used." He laughs a little hollowly. "Fucking stress - try fucking depressed. I felt totally lost, questioning myself all the time. I just kept thinking, what am I doing? It was like a mid-life crisis, except I hadn't even made it to mid-life yet. At one point I swear I didn't think I'd even make it that far. Didn't want to."

"But you did it," Frank says. "You got clean, right?" Gerard is silent. Frank nudges him. "Right?"

"...Eventually," Gerard says slowly. "But I hit rock bottom first. I remember heading for the nearest liquor store as soon as they dismissed me. I drove home drunk, can you believe that? Could've fucking killed somebody, or got arrested, but at that point I just didn't care, y'know? I was convinced there was no way I'd be able to stop, that there was no point even trying."

Frank shakes his head. His stomach is churning unpleasantly.

"For the first week all I did was drink. Usually by myself at home, but sometimes I'd go out to bars, clubs - wherever would serve me. I'd get kicked out a lot, y'know? 'Cause, like, I'd just be completely wasted. Causing a scene, fighting. Puking. Just making a total fucking idiot of myself, basically. And sometimes - sometimes I did other stuff. Drugs."

Gerard's hand is a little clammy over the back of Frank's. Frank squeezes his knee reassuringly. "What made you stop?" he prompts gently.

Gerard smiles a little. "I got a phone call. I remember I'd just finished throwing up and my throat was still raw and I could barely even talk, but when I heard the news I was kinda speechless anyway."

"Oh," Frank realizes. "Drake?"

Gerard nods, still smiling. "She just goes, 'You're a dad.' It was so fucking bizarre. I didn't believe her at first. To be honest, I barely even remembered her. I used to drink in college, too, but it wasn't, like. It was just for fun, then. Everybody did."

"So you and her...?"

Gerard waves his free hand. "It was just a few times. We were in the same circle, went to the same parties. Like, I'd known I liked guys for a while, obviously, but I hadn't really -" He trails off, sighing. "Young and stupid, right?"

"The two do tend to go together," Frank says. Gerard squeezes his hand.

"That's when I knew I had to stop, though. She had her own problems, even worse than mine. She wasn't even going to tell me she'd had a kid, but she just - she needed me. Drake needed me. She was pretty much homeless at that point, and it just made me think, like, what the hell is wrong with me? So I went cold turkey, right then and there. Got myself to those stupid therapy sessions, went to the meetings, everything. By the end of the month I was fit to return to school, but god, it was so fucking embarrassing. Everyone knew exactly where I'd been, what I'd been doing. I don't think I've ever felt so ashamed in my entire life."

Frank bristles. "But you did so well. To get completely clean in under a month like that - and on nothing but willpower, too. That's fucking incredible, Gerard. You must know it is."

Gerard kind of shrugs a shoulder. "I didn't do it for me, though. Not really. If I hadn't got that call, I'd have only got worse. I don't think I'd even be here."

"I do," Frank says firmly, cupping Gerard's face and making him look at him. "I think you're really fucking strong. Stronger than you think you are."

Gerard mirrors him, reaching up and touches Frank's jaw lightly. "I know it's still early days, or whatever, and I don't want to freak you out," he says, quietly. "But I - well. I've never told anyone about all that shit before. Only Mikey. And my therapist, but she doesn't count." He sounds nervous. Like he thinks Frank is going to run away.

Frank leans in and presses their lips together, briefly. "I'm not gonna run away," he says out loud. "Thank you for telling me. You didn't have to, but I'm glad you felt like you could."

"Don't think I had much choice, what with my blabbermouth brother." Gerard's thumb absently strokes Frank's neck. The twisting in Frank's gut flares up higher, brighter.

"Nah, he didn't say anything. Well. Nothing like what you're thinking."

Gerard smiles, barely. "Oh, you know what I'm thinking already?"

Frank very deliberately holds Gerard's eyes. "Maybe I do."

"Go on, then." Gerard licks his lips a little, and Frank instantly feels his dick pay attention. Jesus, it's kind of ridiculous how much he wants to get naked with this guy. "Tell me."

"You're thinking..." Frank had possibly wanted to say something knowing and clever, but after Gerard's own confession, he's struck with the need to be honest. "You're thinking you want to kiss me."

Gerard raises an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

"No." Frank plays with Gerard's tie, slowly winds it around his fist. If they're flirting, Frank can fucking flirt. "You also want to screw me."

Gerard inhales through his mouth. "Really?"

"Yep," Frank says smoothly, slowly pulling Gerard closer. "You want to do it right here. Just push me down on this couch and rip my clothes off."

"And then what?" They're barely an inch apart, breath on each other's faces; Frank doesn't think he's ever been so turned on, so quickly, so fucking often. What is this now - three? Four? And that's not even including the times he's thought about Gerard alone with his hand in his pants.

"Hmm, I dunno. It gets kinda blurry, then." Frank thumbs at Gerard's collar with his free hand, playing at thoughtful. "But I think you want me to suck you, too. Or maybe I'm just picking up on my own thoughts."

Gerard makes a small, distressed noise in his throat, lowering his eyes. "You're teasing me."

"Yes."

"I just spilled my fucking guts to you, and now you're teasing me. That's cruel, Frank."

"It'd only be cruel if you couldn't have it," Frank says lowly, heart thudding. This time he's definitely sure he's verging on his limits, but he can't bring himself to care. "I'm not really the one teasing you, Gee."

Gerard looks up at the nickname, eyes darker. "Is that your official diagnosis, doctor?"

It's so cheesy, it should be funny. It kind of is. But Gerard has this low, drawling, fucking dirty voice, and Frank doesn't want to laugh at all. "Yeah, 'fraid so. I'm sorry to tell you, but you've got a pretty severe case--"

Gerard surges forward and kisses him and Frank immediately forgets what he was going to say. Gerard's demanding right from the start, hands pressing, crowding Frank against the arm of the couch, and Frank is more than happy to go with it, grabbing handfuls of Gerard's shirt and pulling him closer. Realistically, he knows they can't do anything here - not with Drake in bed and pizza on the way - but he still can't make himself stop. He can't stay still, hands everywhere; they're half-laid sideways, legs tangled together, and Frank knows what he wants. He squirms, push-pulling, until he's hitched his leg up around Gerard's hips, sliding down until he's flat on his back.

He pulls Gerard on top of him, hot and sudden, and Gerard breaks away to swear, gasping against Frank's jaw, "Fuck, you shouldn't -"

They're both hard. Their hips are flush together, and Frank wants to moan at the feeling of Gerard's weight between his thighs. His jeans are too tight, too chafing; too in the way, god, all Frank wants in the world is to be naked. But maybe this will do for now, grabbing Gerard's awesome ass with both hands and shoving his hips up, grinding their dicks together through layers of denim and cloth - yeah, he can live with this, he's just got to--

"Frank, shit, we gotta stop." Gerard's panting and shaking his head, even as his hips move against Frank's, like he just can't help it. "Drake--"

"It's fine, he's in bed, he's asleep," Frank says in a rush, but Gerard shakes his head harder, pressing his palms flat on Frank's shoulders and pushing up, away. Frank could scream.

"No, it's-- he's probably not, knowing him he's still playing that damn game under the covers--"

Frank doesn't scream, but he does groan, throwing an arm over his eyes so he doesn't have to see Gerard's wide eyes and messy hair and hot fucking mouth. "Y'know, I really don't wanna be that asshole who doesn't respect boundaries or whatever, but I just don't think this 'going slow' thing is gonna work."

Gerard exhales a little laugh, dipping his forehead to rest on Frank's chest. "Yeah, no, you're right. I think I just fucked that up, myself."

Frank tentatively rests his hands on Gerard's back, trying to calm down. "S'okay. We all have our own shit, don't we."

"Do we?" Gerard murmurs, and Frank hears the question. He wants to answer it. But right now, he's not sure he can find the words.

"...Story for another time," Frank says, and Gerard kisses him deeply, until the apartment buzzer finally alerts them there's someone outside.

Frank jerks off when he gets home, just falls onto his bed fully clothed and yanks his jeans open just enough to get a hand inside, bringing himself off hard and fast inside his underwear, the taste of Gerard (and pizza) still on his tongue. It's a relief for approximately the time it takes to get undressed and washed and into bed properly, at which point it becomes an effort not to do it again, a battle of wills with his own mind to stop it from drifting back to memories of Gerard on top of him; the feel of him hard against him, the hot warmth of his mouth and the nervous twitch of his fingers when he was talking.

Christ, Gerard really did spill his guts to Frank, didn't he? On their very first date, even. Frank doesn't know what to think. He looks at Gerard now, with his child and his nice apartment and his smart, crisp suits, and he can't imagine him in that state, going through all that pain. It makes his heart and his fists clench. He knows he doesn't care about Gerard's past, not one bit. The information isn't anywhere near as unnerving as the fact Gerard told him - was so damn honest with him.

A part of Frank almost expects Gerard to keep his distance afterwards, but Frank wakes up the next day to a text from him. It's gut-churning as much as it is a relief.

"Hey. Sorry about last night. You'd think being sober would help curb the verbal diarrhea but apparently not. xo g."

Frank feels himself smile as he reads, in spite of himself. He doesn't want to stress about this. He doesn't want Gerard any less. In fact, it's exactly the fucking opposite, and Frank doesn't know what to do with that. He's never felt like this before. He wants to ask Gerard out again that night, but in the end he chickens out and goes to the club alone instead, gets drunk and dances and then comes home and plays his guitar until his fingers are numb. He texts with Gerard all weekend, though - just easy back-and-forth, but the flirting only gets heavier and heavier.

On Monday, Frank can barely concentrate on his patients. Lindsey grills him about his date, of course, but for once Frank doesn't feel like talking about it. He gives deliberately vague answers and grins when she gets too frustrated to ask him about it anymore. Jamia is harder to avoid. Frank is careful where he uses his cell phone, takes to extra smoke breaks outside the back of the building rather than spending time in the staff room. Bob doesn't give enough of a shit to ask, which Frank is grateful for. It's stupid, but Frank almost feels like if he shares details or talks about it too much it will jinx it, somehow.

Halfway through the week, Gerard asks him to Hush on Saturday, seemingly out of the blue. "I feel like I should say bring your dr friends too so I can get to know them, but I kinda want you all to myself," the text says.

Having Gerard all to himself definitely sounds like the more appealing option to Frank, too. "you can get to know them some other time," Frank replies.

"I want to get to know you better too."

Frank bites his lip, glancing around even though he already knows there's no one else outside. He types his reply quickly, "how much better?" and drags heavily on his cigarette while he waits for a response.

"A lot better," Gerard says. "You might even say intimately."

"now whos the tease."

Gerard doesn't reply for a while, and Frank has to go back inside. He doesn't get the chance to check his cell until he gets home a lot later, and he finds two messages from Gerard.

The first one says, "Not teasing, just fact."

The second one says, "See you Sat then. xo g."

Frank laughs, shaking his head. Okay. If that's the way he wants it, Frank can hang with that. He always preferred the show part of show and tell, anyway.

It's probably more of a tradition for things to end with a bang, but Frank's never really been big on tradition. On Saturday, things start with one.

Ray's band isn't playing, but Frank knows the one that is pretty well. He gets to know a lot of bands through Ray, actually - the dude is like an unofficial manager or promoter for local musicians or something. These guys have been around for a while; Frank even has a few of their CDs in his car. He didn't know it was going to be them until he walked in and saw the lead singer onstage, but he doesn't even have time to get excited before Ray himself appears through the crowd and grabs him by the arm.

"Oh, Frankie! Thank fuck you're here, we need help," he says frantically, pulling Frank towards the stage. "They're short a fucking guitar - don't even ask me how, no one knows where the fuck Liam even is, he's not picking up his cell, fucking typical - but anyway, I told them you could do it, I know you know their stuff well enough--"

"Whoa, wait," Frank says, but they've already reached the stage. The singer - Frank thinks her name is Pansy - takes one look at him and snorts.

"This guy? Are you sure, Ray?"

Frank is momentarily distracted from his protesting. "What? Hey - what's that supposed to mean?"

Pansy shrugs. "No offense, dude, but we can't play with flakes. You're not gonna be any use to us if you haven't got balls."

Frank scowls. "I've got fucking balls, okay, don't worry about that. I just - what the fuck, I only just got here! You can't just volunteer me to get up on fucking stage, Ray!"

He glares at Ray, who shrugs kind of helplessly. "But you do know their stuff, Frank - you're the only guitarist I know who does -"

"But there must be someone else, someone you can call--"

"No, we've already tried everyone we could think of, and they're supposed to go on in fifteen minutes--"

"Well, can't they just fucking move their set back a slot or something...?"

Ray groans, "Please, Frankie. These guys really don't wanna let everyone down. We wouldn't ask if there was any other option." Pansy nods in agreement.

"Is that supposed to flatter me?" Frank says scathingly. "Look, even if I said yes, I don't really know their stuff that well. Just a few songs, like, just enough to riff them when I'm on my own, y'know? Nothing like--"

"Baaaaaalls," Pansy drawls, rolling her thickly black-rimmed eyes. "You have none."

"You know, I don't have to fucking do anything," Frank starts, feeling his temper flare, but Ray makes desperate shushing noises, flapping his hands at them both.

"That's good enough, Frank, honestly. Pansy'll get George to go through everything properly with you, and we'll tape the chords to your amp just in case you forget, okay? Come on, you can do it, you know you can."

Frank dithers for a moment. Yeah, he probably could do it, technically. But he hasn't played on stage for years. Since high school. The thought of being up there again is making nerves and adrenaline bleed out from the pit of his stomach, through his entire body. "I - fuck. I dunno."

"Balls," Pansy whispers ominously, and Frank feels something inside him snap.

"Alright, fine," he says, taking off his jacket and thrusting it at Ray. "Where the fuck is this George guy, then? He's lead, right?" Ray whoops and claps him on the back, rushing off to find paper.

"Thankfully," Pansy says, gesturing for Frank to follow her over to the side of the stage, where the rest of the band are sat around, looking hulking and annoyed. "We might be able to fly on mediocre rhythm, but we'd be pretty fucked for anything else."

"I'll show you fucking mediocre," Frank growls at her, and she grins wickedly. George is a bald, burly dude with a septum piercing who looks like he could squash Frank flat with his thumb, but he talks Frank through everything calmly and patiently, playing things through slowly first and letting Frank copy with Liam's guitar. It turns out Frank knows a lot more than he thought he did, almost enough to take a shot at everything on the set list. The rest of the band perk up a little, and even Pansy seems grudgingly impressed.

"Alright, so you can play - big fucking deal. Doesn't mean you can perform."

Frank wants to throw a cutting remark back at her, but then he realizes she has a point. He plays his own guitars almost every night, but it feels different, here. The nostalgia is heavy in the air, in the thuds of the floor and the sound of the crowd filling up the floor; the smell of stale sweat and smoke. Hush is hardly Madison Square Garden, but it's still pretty fucking intimidating when they finally take the stage. It's always different in small clubs like this, when pretty much everyone inside them lives within walking distance and frequents them almost as often as they take a shower. The atmosphere is different. Closer.

Frank takes a deep breath, eyes to the floor, and mutters the chord progressions to himself as the crowd cheers and shouts.

"Hey, how you doing," Pansy drawls into the mic. "We're Debris, and tonight we're gonna be playing with some midget we found by the side of the road. His name is Frank, and I trust you'll make him feel right at home." The crowd laughs and jeers as Frank gives them a sarcastic thumbs-up, and suddenly they're away. They're fucking playing.

At first, Frank stumbles. He's got everything taped to his amp as Ray promised, but it's hard. He can't believe he forgot how deafening it is, how overwhelming. But then, suddenly, it's like he remembers this shit is in his blood. He forgets about the crowd and concentrates on playing, keeping his eye on the paper to make sure he doesn't fuck up, but by the final song, he's feeling almost completely in his element. He gets braver - plays up to the other guys, gets in Pansy's face, until he's strutting his way to the front of the stage and falling to his knees, head thumping mindlessly to the beat - fuck, he's missed this. He doesn't know how he went so long without it.

As the song builds into its climax Frank hauls himself to his feet and whirls around, scattering sweat, back to his spot to get a quick brush up on the chords-- which is when he suddenly spots Gerard. Not in the crowd - sort of off to the side. Just... watching. His eyes are intent, focused squarely on Frank.

He looks hungry.

It's a good job it's near the end of the song because Frank forgets what he's doing for a moment, fingers faltering on the strings. The crowd surge forward for the final note, and when the lights go up, Gerard isn't there anymore. There's a flurry of noise and activity as Pansy thanks the crowd and suddenly Frank is being assaulted on all sides by head rubs and high fives and pats on the back. When they file off stage Pansy even hugs him, her bright red hair sticking to his sweaty face, before she punches him affectionately in the arm. Frank thinks he might dig her, if he swung that way.

But he doesn't. Right now, there's only one thing on his mind. He hands his guitar off to George, exchanges a brief word with Ray and makes his way through the club, but he can't see Gerard anywhere. Shit, he'd been so caught up in everything that he'd completely forgotten about him. Maybe he went home. Maybe he saw Frank up on stage and wondered if he'd been forgotten or passed up for a better offer or--

Except, Frank doesn't think so. It wasn't the best light, but he's sure he didn't misread that look. He's sure he hasn't misread anything - everything between them before this, all of this tension that has clearly been building up to something. He turns around to head to the bar, which is when someone taps him on the shoulder. Frank stills, but before he can turn around, there's hands on his hips, holding him still.

"You didn't tell me you played," Gerard's voice is low and almost accusatory in his ear.

Frank grins. "I don't, not on stage. Well, I used to, but not for years. It was an emergency."

Gerard hums, low and rumbling, and then his fingers are sliding under the edge of Frank's damp T-shirt. His hands seem, impossibly, even hotter than Frank is right now. "And here I was thinking it was just to impress me."

It's noisy in the club, busy all around them, but all Frank can concentrate on is Gerard. He leans back into him, until he can feel the heat of Gerard's body and his breath on the back of his neck. "Well. Were you impressed?" Gerard's fingers tighten, pulling Frank back flush against him, and Frank sucks in a breath. "Oh. I'll, uh - take that as a yes, then."

Gerard's hips hitch up against Frank's ass as he leans in, licks at the sweat on Frank's neck. "Take me to your place," he murmurs. "Now."

Frank almost laughs. He lays his hands over Gerard's through his shirt to keep them where they are - not because he doesn't want Gerard's hands all over him like he wants air to breathe, but unlike Gerard, Frank doesn't have any way to hide his boner. "Just to clarify," Frank says breathlessly, "we are now going fast, right?"

Gerard's laugh is low and rich and like nothing Frank's ever heard from him before. "Hmm. It probably will be pretty fast the first time, yeah."

Oh, Frank thinks.

Frank goes for him as soon as they're through the door, pushing Gerard up against the wall as it clicks shut after them and sticking his face in his neck. Gerard smells so good, smoky-sweet, his skin warm and tempting. Frank can't wait to see all of it, all of him.

"Bedroom?" he gets out, already breathing hard. Gerard's grabbing at his back, his jacket, head tilted back for Frank's mouth, and Frank feels rather than hears his noise of assent, vibrating under his lips. Frank maneuvers them down the hall like that, still entwined and tripping over each other's feet; by the time they kick their shoes off and fall onto Frank's bed in a messy heap he's giggling almost manically, adrenaline and nerves and more turned on than he knows what to do with.

"What, is there something on my face?" Gerard says breathlessly, grinning as he wrestles with Frank's jacket, huffing at Frank's complete lack of effort to help. "You know, this works better with less clothes."

"Sorry," Frank wheezes, sitting up so he can strip, pulling off his jacket and sweat-stained shirt before he can think about it. He goes for Gerard's too, but Gerard inhales sharply and pushes him down onto his back, kneeling up over him and running his hands over Frank's bare chest.

"Fuck, look at you. You're fucking covered." Frank bites his lip, lying still and letting Gerard look. It's hard; everywhere Gerard touches him feels hyper-sensitive, sends heat through his nerves and feeds the pulse in his cock, hard and pressing uncomfortably against the front of his jeans.

"I wanted more," Frank grits out. "On my hands, my neck. But there's no way-- Jamia's already too lenient."

Gerard makes a rough noise. "I've been wondering, y'know? Ever since the first time we met and you had your sleeves rolled up. Thought it was so fuckin' weird for a doctor, I couldn't stop thinking about it. And then in the club, like-- I thought there'd probably be some more you were hiding, but I didn't expect - fuck." Gerard's hands trail lower, over Frank's tense stomach and the birds on his hips, and Frank was going to ask if ink was a thing for Gerard, but he's pretty much had enough of not having sex with Gerard, now.

"Come here," he demands, grabbing at Gerard's shoulder, the back of his neck, pulling him down so they can seriously make out. God, Frank fucking loves making out even if nudity isn't involved - but, he has to admit, it's better if it is. Then again, most things are better with nudity. (Except for frying facon. Never again.)

Gerard's a really fucking good kisser, hot and intense and dirty, shoving Frank's thighs apart with his knees and settling heavy on top of him. He kisses with his whole body, it feels like, hands everywhere, and Frank is so worked up, because it's been ages, too long, and Gerard's the hottest thing he's had in forever. He's tugging at Gerard's clothes, his belt, eager and clumsy. "Off, off."

Gerard pulls back, mouth open and wet, half-smirking as he pulls his tops off and tugs his belt open. "Impatient, aren't you?"

"Don't even," Frank growls. He wants to say something else, something cutting about Gerard making him impatient with all this slow bullshit, the fucking tease - but he's distracted by Gerard's bare skin - by his hand sliding in to his jeans, pale skin of his knuckles against bright red underwear, thumb cocked enticingly over the waistband. He's up on his knees over Frank, rubbing over his cock slowly, lip caught between his teeth as his eyes rake openly over Frank's body, and suddenly Frank can't decide if it really is teasing, or if Gerard's just looking. Does he care either way? Nope.

"Show me," he says, mouth dry. "Let me see." Gerard licks his lips, holds Frank's eyes as he slides his hand under the waistband, pulls out his cock. He's hard, thick and fucking big; it slaps back against his stomach when Gerard raises his hand to his mouth, licks his palm in a slow, obscene line from wrist to middle fingertip. Frank can feel himself gaping, heart thudding. "Jesus, you're fucking dirty."

Gerard laughs throatily, starting to jack himself slowly with his wet hand. "Don't sound so surprised." His eyebrows scrunch up and his hips move into his fist, other hand pushing the underwear further down, leaving it stretched across his spread thighs. "Having a kid doesn't suddenly fucking make you, like, a monk."

That wasn't what Frank meant, but he's past the point of arguing. "You wanna put that in me?" He's not sure he can even take it, but wow, he'd love to try.

Gerard jerks his head like he can't decide if he's shaking or nodding, breathing hard. "God, yeah. But - not this time, I want -" His eyes stray to Frank's jeans, and Frank suddenly remembers he's wearing them, and yanks them off so fast he should win a fucking prize. "Yeah," Gerard breathes when Frank's naked, eyes dark and pupils blown, and Frank surges up and shoves at him, pushes him down like Gerard did to him, so he can pull Gerard's pants the rest of the way off, gone, finally.

And then it's just heat and skin-on-skin and Frank rolls on top of Gerard, grabs his wrists and pins them because he's still trying to fucking touch himself, like he just can't help it, and Frank's not down with that. Well, he is, but not now.

"What do you want," he murmurs in Gerard's ear, rubbing up against him, hips flush and damp. Gerard's skin is pale all over, his body trim but still deliciously soft, broken up only by the blush on his cheeks and the hard throb of his cock between them. "I'll give it to you. God, you're so hot - I'll give you fucking anything you want."

Gerard swears, pulling against Frank's hold on him, neck arching up against the mattress, thighs spreading and hitching up around Frank's hips. "Fucking fuck me, Frank, god. It's been -"

"I wanna suck you first," Frank cuts him off, because yeah, he doesn't need to listen when he already knows what Gerard is going to say. "You know you're fucking big, right?" Gerard nods frantically and Frank laughs lowly. "Yeah. I guess I just wanna see if I've still got it."

He doesn't wait for Gerard's response, just slides down and sticks his face in Gerard's crotch. Gerard swears again, grabbing for Frank's hair as Frank licks sloppily up his cock, letting spit gather heavily on his tongue and drip down the length of it, making it real messy. Fuck yeah, he's missed this, too. Missed the taste, the smell, the feel of it in his mouth when he gets his lips around it and goes down, and down - not as far as he knows he can but he's anticipating the jerk of Gerard's hips, the pull of Gerard's fingers in his hair.

He pulls off, grinning and coughing a little, and slings an arm over Gerard's hips, pinning him flat. He wraps a hand around the base of Gerard's dick - he's almost too thick for Frank's fingertips to meet, Jesus - before he goes down on him again, this time as far as he can, lips almost meeting his fingers. Gerard groans, fingers tugging and hips twitching hard under Frank's forearm; he's pushy, which Frank fucking loves. He loves it when people are really into it, loves feeling like he's got them that way. By the time Frank pulls off, face soaked and throat raw and Gerard's skin flushed from his face right down his chest, he's definitely feeling like he hasn't lost his touch. Cocksucking is just like riding a bike, he guesses.

"Frank," Gerard says hoarsely. He's looking down at Frank, eyes wide and brow scrunched up desperately. "Yeah, you've still got it, okay, can we--"

"I just," Frank rasps, still mouthing wetly at the base of Gerard's dick, his balls, hands sliding up the backs of Gerard's thighs and pushing, urging his knees up, his legs back. "I just wanna -"

"Oh god," Gerard moans, grabbing himself behind the knees and helping Frank spread him open. This is probably the last thing Frank would have expected from the first time they met - fucking Mr. Way and his nervous little smile - but he can't say he's anything but ecstatic about it. Gerard moans even more at the first touch of Frank's tongue against his asshole, panting and squirming against the sheets as Frank pretty gleefully goes to town. He gets Gerard wet fucking everywhere he can, licking up under his balls and fucking him with his tongue until Gerard's outright begging for it, "Fuck, come on, Frank, please."

"Now who's impatient," Frank says lowly, but it's more like an endearment then teasing. Gerard's desperation is too hot, reminding Frank of his own need; he gets his own cock in his hand just to feel how hard he is, to feel how close he is to blowing it if he only gave himself a few good strokes. He sits up between Gerard's spread thighs and Gerard instantly pulls him in, yanks him close with hands and knees and heels.

"I wanna sit on your dick," he pants in Frank's face. "It's been a while, and I wanna fucking feel it, y'know? I like it deep, and I-- I wanna see your face, s'that okay?"

"God." Yeah, Frank knows. Frank knows intimately. But with Gerard blowing his mind like this, he can wait. "Yeah - fuck yeah, get - get on top of me."

"'Kay," Gerard says thickly. He shoves Frank off of him, rolling them over and mounting up, spreading his thighs over Frank's lap. "Uh, do you have -" Frank gestures vaguely towards the bedside table, kind of distracted by the sight of Gerard naked up on top of him, the shapes of his muscles and the huge curve of his cock. Man, Frank is so getting fucked next time. Next time, because there's going to be next times. There's no way Frank is giving this up, not now.

Gerard gets what they need, sticks his tongue in Frank's mouth while he rolls the rubber down over Frank's dick. Frank slides his fingers down Gerard's spine, down between his cheeks - soaked from Frank's mouth, dips a fingertip inside that tight, tight heat - but Gerard gasps and shakes his head. "I don't-- I wanna feel it, Frank."

"Whatever you want, yes," Frank says mindlessly. He slides his hands up Gerard's back instead, gritting his teeth against the feel of Gerard stroking over his cock slowly with a lube-slick hand. He's going to have his fucking work cut out making this last, especially with Gerard sitting on his dick so slowly it's criminal, inch by hot, tedious inch, so tight it almost hurts.

Frank groans, pent-up and ready, so ready, but Gerard gets all the way down and fucking stays there, rocking and clenching around him, head dipped and fingernails in Frank's shoulders, breathing hard.

"Good," he says weakly. "Fucking - I think I forgot, Frank, I dunno how I could."

Frank breathes harshly, every inch of him tense and strung-tight. "Gee, you gotta - come on, fuck yourself, wanna see -"

"Yeah," Gerard says, jerks his hips sudden and sharp, "yeah, yeah, fuck, yeah." It's like a chant, like a mantra as he moves in Frank's lap, hands braced on Frank's chest and thighs clenching around Frank's hips. Frank's toes curl in the sheets at the feeling - the sight of it, Gerard working himself on Frank's cock until his head tips back, panting, eyes squeezed shut. "God, fuck."

"Fuck," Frank echoes, grabbing for Gerard's hips to try and get them going properly, try and urge Gerard to push up so he can thrust in and out, but Gerard's shaking his head frantically, pulling at Frank's shoulders.

"I can't-- fuck, it's not enough, come here, sit up -" and Frank can't even think about it. He just goes, obediently hauls himself upright and lets Gerard shuffle them backwards in a squirming pile of torturous effort until finally, his back hits the headboard and Gerard's kneeling up, pulling off his dick, what-- but he's, oh. Oh.

Frank can only spit out something harsh as Gerard squats over him, feet on the mattress and thighs spreading wide, hands on the headboard either side of Frank's head, ass completely off the fucking bed and right there, right there, spread from the position and rubbing slick against Frank's cock.

"Can you," Gerard starts, voice hoarse, and Frank wraps a hand tight around the base of his dick, holding it still so Gerard can sink down on it again, bottoming out in Frank's lap with a helpless noise of relief. "Ah - better, that's better. So fucking deep, Frank, god. I love it."

"You," Frank pants, and he meant to say something, something wondering and complimentary and vaguely pornographic, he's sure, but Gerard just starts fucking riding him, hips jerking in Frank's lap, rocking back and forth between his spread thighs, and Frank can't. "Oh my - fuck, yeah, keep--"

Gerard grunts and kisses him sloppily. When Frank breaks away to breathe their foreheads slide together and Frank gets an eyeful of the strain in Gerard's arms, the vulnerable-looking flesh of his belly all bunched up, and his gut lurches sharply. He's got his hands on Gerard's hips, supporting, holding on, but he can't resist sliding them down, cupping Gerard's ass and spreading him open, fingers nudging in to where he's stretched around Frank's cock, feeling how they move together.

Gerard's breath hitches on a whine, right into Frank's mouth. "Yeah, I - fuck, touch me, please," His hard dick is trapped between them, leaking all over Frank's stomach; he moans gratefully when Frank gets his hand between them and starts jacking him clumsily, knuckles bumping their bellies, hard and fast because fuck if he isn't about to lose it. Frank wanted this to last, he'd planned for it to last, but that was before Gerard decided to ride him like a fucking pony, god - these deep, bouncing grinds on his dick, using the headboard as leverage (Frank's neighbors are going to hate him.)

It's just so dirty, Gerard's knees pressed up against the headboard and his ass flush in Frank's lap, Frank's cock in so deep it's making his head spin - he can't fucking take it. "Gonna, fuck, m'gonna -" Frank gasps out, but Gerard beats him to it, sinking his teeth into Frank's shoulder as he comes all over their chests, groaning deep and guttural in his throat. The sharp slice of pain and Gerard clenching around him has Frank coming so hard he can't breathe, fingernails sinking deep into Gerard's hips, holding him down as he ruts up into him, riding it out.

They slump together after, panting and shaking. "Christ, you fucking know what you want, don't you," Frank rasps into Gerard's shoulder, and Gerard laughs breathlessly, nodding into Frank's neck.

They're still for a long moment, and then Gerard shifts forward onto his knees, breath stuttering as he pulls off Frank's dick. "Holy shit, Frank," he breathes weakly. "That was fucking incredible. And fast."

Frank winds a hand into Gerard's hair and kisses him. It ends up deeper, more intense, than he meant it to. Neither of them have their breath back yet, still, when they finally break apart. Frank doesn't really know what to say, but Gerard doesn't seem to mind. He just smiles a little, touches Frank's cheek, and then flops over onto his back with a groan, reaching over into the still-open draw. "I'm having one of your smokes."

"Sure," Frank says. He deals with the condom and the mess on himself while Gerard lights up. He feels completely drained, limbs heavy, skin still thrumming. He can't remember sex ever being that good. It really must have been too long.

"Jesus, I needed that," Gerard says then, voice rough. He's completely naked on top of the sheets, skin shiny with sweat, black hair splayed all over Frank's pillows. He tips his head back when he exhales smoke, the long, white line of his neck broken up only by the bump of his throat. He catches Frank's eye, raises an eyebrow at him. "What?"

Frank shrugs. "Nothing."

"It's not polite to stare," Gerard says quietly. He shifts a little. "Pull the covers up?"

Frank does, but it's a disappointment to hide Gerard's body away again. It does make it feel easier to scoot closer, though - pressing up against Gerard's side and tangling their legs together. They're quiet for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth until it's gone. Gerard stubs it out in the ashtray on the bedside table, and after a beat, puts his arm around Frank. Frank sighs happily, snuggling into him. Frank's missed sex, obviously, but he thinks he's probably missed this more. Not that he had this a whole lot even before his dry spell.

"You know," Gerard says after a little while, "You were really fucking good, tonight."

"Thanks," Frank says smugly, and Gerard laughs, nudging him a little.

"I meant earlier, dickface. When you were on stage."

Frank hums. "I can tell you enjoyed it, anyway."

"I think you enjoyed it more," Gerard says dryly. "But you said you hadn't done it for years. How come?"

Frank snorts. "When would I find time to be in a band?"

"But you did do it, once," Gerard persists. "I'm just wondering, y'know, why you ever stopped. I mean, you were really good."

Frank shakes his head. "Nah, not really. I was just a last minute stand-in. They only asked me because I was the only one there who even had half a clue, but even then I still didn't know most of the set list. I messed up a whole bunch of times."

"It sounded pretty good from where I was standing," Gerard says naively. "But that isn't really what I meant, anyway. You looked good. Like, it was pretty fucking obvious that you were having the time of your life up there."

"I was," Frank says awkwardly. "I mean, I did. I used to play all the time, before I started college. In high school I, uh. Pretty much always had a band on the go."

"So why'd you stop? Because you wanted to be a doctor?"

"Not at first," Frank admits. "But I knew I couldn't just do music forever, and I guess I wanted -" He pauses, thinking about how to put it without sounding completely pathetic. "I guess I just wanted to really feel like I was doing something, you know? Just feel like I was making some sort of difference. I know music can do that, but I knew I was never going to get to the stage where it would be a big enough difference to satisfy me. I mean, maybe that was the wrong reason to stop doing what I really loved, but--"

"Not at all," Gerard interrupts. "On the contrary, I think that's the fucking right reason. I mean, what's the point in doing anything, otherwise?"

"Yeah," Frank says quietly. "And it's not like I don't enjoy my job, because I really fucking do."

"That's more than most people can say," Gerard says, and Frank nods.

"I mean, sure, sometimes I feel a little... regret, I guess. But then, who the fuck doesn't, right? I still know it was the right choice. Even if I did have to sacrifice a lot."

Gerard squeezes his shoulder. "Well, it's not like you can't still play, right?" He points to the corner of the room, where Frank's beloved, slightly battered acoustic guitar sits. "Or is there some other sacrifice you haven't mentioned?"

"Nothing other than not having this for over a year," Frank grins, blowing a raspberry again Gerard's collarbone. "But then, that's probably my own fault. I knew plenty of people in med school who still managed to have relationships."

"Are you saying we're in a relationship?" Gerard asks. He sounds tentative.

Frank doesn't even hesitate. "Yes. Absolutely. If that's okay with you."

"It's okay with me," Gerard murmurs, stroking Frank's bicep lightly with a fingertip. "And I suppose in the end it paid off, since it's thanks to your job you just got spectacularly laid."

For a second Frank wants to make a quip about modesty, but then he realizes Gerard is too fucking right to even go there. "Oh, I see. You're only with me because of my profession," Frank teases instead, mock-hurt. "You just want to tell your mom you're dating a doctor, don't you? I know your game."

Gerard laughs, high and nasal. "She would be thrilled, I can't lie."

"Yeah, until you told her I was in pediatrics and not brain surgery or something."

Gerard pauses. "That sounded suspiciously bitter, Frankie."

"Frankie?" Frank repeats gleefully, but Gerard nudges him, not letting him get off-topic. Frank sighs. "Okay, so I didn't want to do pediatrics at first. I, uh. I wanted to be a surgeon. Not for brains - just, like, in general."

"Braaaaains," Gerard drawls, stretching his arms out and grabbing at Frank through the covers. Frank snorts and slaps at Gerard's wandering zombie hands. "Why a surgeon?"

Frank kind of shrugs. "Guess I just felt like they had the biggest role, or whatever."

Gerard shudders a little. "I like blood and gore in movies, but I think I'd feel sick sticking my hands in an actual person. And they're alive when you do it, too. Like, you literally have their life in your hands. That's a lot of pressure."

"I know," Frank says quietly. His heart is thudding a little. "And in the end, I couldn't, like. I didn't realize just how much pressure there would be." Gerard doesn't say anything, but his hand is warm on Frank's arm, encouraging. Frank sighs. It's his turn to spill his guts now, he guesses. "I went through the whole of med school thinking it was what I was going to do. I was a month into my fucking residency before I realized I couldn't handle it. In your first year you don't really do much except observe, but sometimes you get to assist in the surgery, which basically just means handing instruments over, that sort of thing. Basically being an extra pair of hands but while also gaining first hand experience, y'know?"

"Yeah," Gerard says. "Mikey forces me to watch Grey's Anatomy with him sometimes, but I'm guessing that's not really accurate."

Frank doesn't want to laugh, but he does. "I've never seen it, but I don't think any of those shows get it quite right. There's no way they could. I swear, it was only my stubbornness that got me that far. But I guess that wasn't enough, in the end."

"So you just gave up?" Gerard says, but Frank shakes his head.

"It wasn't like that. I just realized I couldn't do it, when I was assisting one time. I don't know how to explain it in a way you'll understand, but... there was a problem. A problem that could have got really serious, right? I mean, it didn't, because the surgeon performing the operation was great - she'd had years of experience and more than knew how to handle it, but everyone in that theater still fucking panicked, if only for a few moments. Like, I could just smell the fear, you know? And even though I knew she would sort it out, we still had this guy open on the table, blood everywhere, all his vitals rapidly declining -" He trails off, taking a deep breath as he remembers how that had felt, like the room was closing in around him.

"That sounds fucking terrifying," Gerard agrees. "I'm not sure I could do it, either."

"The difference is, everyone else seemed to know how to handle it," Frank says bitterly. "She snapped instructions at us all, and everyone else managed to do what she asked. Practically straight away. But not me. I just... froze. Completely freaked out."

"Shit," Gerard says. "The guy was okay though, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Like I said, she knew how to handle it," Frank says, sighing. "Doesn't mean I felt any better. I just knew, right then, that I'd never be able to cut it in her position. It was so fucking shitty; I just felt like. Like I'd just entirely wasted my time. Fucking - six years of my life, working towards something I just found out I couldn't fucking do. I thought my life was fucking over."

"I can relate," Gerard says, and Frank realizes that it's true. He's had a lot of well-meaning bullshit from people he's talked to about this before, but Gerard really does understand, even if their situations weren't exactly the same. Frank squeezes Gerard's thigh gratefully. "So... what made you think of being a pediatrician?"

Frank smiles fondly. "It wasn't what so much as who. You know her. Remember Jamia, from the club? My boss?"

"Oooh."

"Yeah. We were at med school together. Just for a year, though. She's older than me. But we still stayed in touch after she graduated."

"So it was her idea?"

Frank nods. "She was... amazing. Held my hand through it all. She's the one that convinced me to go into pediatrics; even fucking helped me with getting on the same internship program she did. Man, she did so fucking much for me, even before she gave me this job. Honestly, I don't know where I'd be without her."

"I'd like to meet her," Gerard says quietly. "Properly."

"You will," Frank tells him. "Because I owe her so much. And now it's like-- I can't imagine not doing this. I knew on my very first patient, I think, that it was what I was looking for. That I was going to make the difference I wanted to make. I mean, I know I'm not gonna change the world or anything, but I like to think one of the kids I've treated might, when they grow up." He laughs a little at himself. "And anyway, it's a lot easier to change a kid's world. It's so much smaller, y'know?"

Gerard makes a weird, high noise. "Oh my god. That is fucking adorable."

"Fuck off," Frank says automatically, feeling himself flush, but he's grinning. "To be honest, it did take a while to convince me. I mean, I'd always liked kids, but actually working with them is something else."

"They do say something about that, don't they," Gerard says thoughtfully. "Kids and animals, right?"

"Yep, and I love both," Frank laughs. "I'd have dogs if this stupid building didn't have a no pets policy."

"I like kids, too," Gerard says. "For all the lame, cliched reasons."

"Because they're the future and shit?" Frank suggests. "Because of their innocence and simplicity, as of yet untainted by the cruel, cynical world that surrounds us?"

Gerard bursts into giggles, his chest vibrating under Frank's arm. "Something like that, I guess. I suppose that's why I wanted to teach - because I felt like I could help them with that. Like, the transition from their world into the real world, or whatever you want to call it. Maybe... make it seem like it wasn't all that bad. Let them know it's okay to be yourself, even if you're a little bit different. Because, like, isn't that what a teacher should really do? Not just, fucking - E equals MC squared, y'know what I mean?"

Frank suddenly remembers the first time they met, when Gerard brought Drake in to see him, how worried he'd been. Frank's chest feels weirdly tight. "Yeah," he manages. They both fall quiet for a long moment. It's cold now, the sweat on Frank's skin bare drying. He shifts until he can pull the covers up further, over his shoulders and Gerard's chest. "You wanna stay?"

Gerard hesitates. "I shouldn't, really. I told Mikey I'd be back before midnight."

"Before you turn into a pumpkin?"

"That's not how that story even goes," Gerard says. Frank hums, slowly resting his head on Gerard's shoulder. His eyes already feel heavy. "Fuck it, I suppose I could. I'd have to call him, though."

"Really?" Frank asks sleepily. Gerard is really warm and really comfortable, pleasantly naked and soft in all the right places. "He wouldn't just guess where you were?"

"Well, uh. I did mention... so, yeah. Actually, I guess he would." His voice is a low, soothing rumble against Frank's ear. He pauses. "You're fucking falling asleep, aren't you?"

"Yep," Frank murmurs happily. "Gotta stay, now. Pillow."

Gerard laughs lightly, just little huffs of air through his nose. "I guess I don't have a choice, then."

Frank makes an agreeable noise, settling down further. After a beat, Gerard's hand lands in Frank's hair, gently carding through it. Frank practically purrs. He's so fucking tired. Gerard says something else, but it seems far away. The darkness is closing in and he feels too good, too content, to pull himself back from it.

When Frank wakes up, he aches all over. He groans into his pillow, but it's a welcome ache. His muscles twinge a little when he stretches, pulling pleasantly through his whole body. It's the best he's slept in ages, longer than he can even remember. He rolls onto his back, arms and legs spreading, which is when he remembers-- realizes.

He's alone in the bed.

He sits up, straining his ears for the sound of footsteps, any signs of life, but there's nothing. "Gee?" he calls, waiting for a reply from the bathroom, the kitchen - anywhere. But he's alone in the apartment, too, apparently.

At first, Frank doesn't worry. He remembers Gerard saying he should really go home, and while it's disappointing, Frank won't hold it against him that he only stayed until Frank fell asleep. Dude does have a kid, after all. Frank can understand that Drake comes first. It's okay.

But when he checks his cell phone, there aren't any texts or missed calls. When he gets out of bed and gives the apartment a quick check-over, he finds no note, either. There's absolutely nothing, no indication Gerard was even here. That's not so okay.

Still, Frank tries not to jump to conclusions. When he thinks back to last night, he only remembers how fucking amazing it was. He was pretty damn sure it was amazing for Gerard, too. He can't think of anything that would suggest otherwise, or explain why he isn't still here - nothing Frank said, or did. So there has to be some other reason, maybe an emergency of some sort. Something Frank doesn't know about. But he's sure Gerard will enlighten him, soon.

He texts Gerard anyway, just to check in. He's careful to keep it casual. He really doesn't want to be one of those rabid obsessive people that can't leave their significant other alone. Because Gerard is a significant other now, right? They both said. But Gerard doesn't reply all morning, or all afternoon, or all evening. Frank busies himself with running errands to try and distract himself, but his resolution not to worry dissipates hour by hour, and by the time he's climbing into bed again, he feels about ready to cry. Or punch something. Preferably Gerard, because he just - he just can't believe he let himself get so involved. And so fucking quickly, too; they've only known each other for three measly weeks and yet Frank feels the loss like a living thing, like there's something heavy and deeply unpleasant hanging from his shoulders.

He feels pathetic. He feels angry. At himself, as much as Gerard.

Work on Monday is torture. Usually, when he's in a bad mood or brooding about something, the kids cheer him up. But today, he kind of wants to lock himself in his office, put a good solid barrier between himself and every single one of them. He doesn't talk to anyone when he doesn't have to, avoiding the front desk and the staff room and smoking outside alone on his breaks. He feels like an asshole doing it, but he just... he just can't face anyone. The guys have given him a lot of shit the past few weeks, but Frank knows that's only because they're all so damn happy for him. That's why Lindsey set him up, and why Jamia let it slide - not just because Frank's ninety-five percent sure the two of them are fucking - but also because, well. They're his friends, and they want him to be happy, and now Frank just feels like he's let them down.

And it's pissing him off. So, alone he stays.

The day passes excruciatingly slowly, with still no word from Gerard. On Tuesday, Frank thinks he's doing a pretty good job at channeling all of his hurt into rage, instead. He's better at handling rage. Rage, he's felt before. Everything else, not so much. Maybe some things like it in high school, but that was a really long time ago, and though Frank can't really remember it too well now, he's pretty sure it wasn't on the same sort of scale.

"Doctor Iero?"

Frank shakes his head, trying to pay attention to the task at hand. "Uh, yeah. Sorry." He presses the wooden depressor down harder on the kid's tongue, peering into her mouth and wincing at the inflamed tonsils. "Oh, yeah. It looks like strep throat. I'll write you a 'script for some antibiotics and it should clear up in a few days."

Mrs. Simms, the mother of the girl, says suspiciously, "Are you sure?" like Frank hasn't spent a fucking decade of his life doing this shit. "Because I was looking her symptoms up on the internet and--"

"No, I'm pretty sure," Frank interrupts. "It's a relatively common infection in children. I see it a lot. You know, being a child doctor and everything."

"Don't you think you should test it first? Send swabs to the lab or something?"

Frank grits his teeth. "With all due respect, ma'am, did you go to medical school?"

"Well, no, but--"

"Well, I did," Frank says tightly, leaving the kid on the chair and going to sit down behind his desk. "And at medical school, one of the things we learned was basic diagnostics. You know, looking at a patient and their symptoms and trying to figure out what the problem is? For example, if a child under ten - such as your daughter - is displaying a fever, sore throat, and enlarged lymph nodes, also such as your daughter, then there is a very large probability it's streptococcal pharyngitis, otherwise known as tonsillitis. Or - you guessed it! Strep throat."

"Yes, but--"

"And on top of that," Frank raises his voice over her, agitatedly typing out her prescription, "I see about thirty kids a day, more or less. I've been at this practice for over a year." He smiles disdainfully as the printer whirrs, then takes it from the tray and holds it out for her. "How's your math, Mrs. Simms?"

Mrs. Simms huffs and stands up, tugging her daughter up from the chair and snatching the paper out of Frank's hand. "Who is your superior, Doctor?"

"That would be Doctor Nestor," Frank says sweetly. "Tell her I said hi, yeah?"

She scowls at him and marches out of the room, pulling her confused-looking daughter after her. The door slams shut with a satisfying bang. Frank sits back in his chair, letting the adrenaline simmer hotly in his stomach, counting the seconds in his head. It only takes a couple of minutes before Jamia comes in.

She shuts the door, takes one look at him, and sighs. "Okay, what's the matter?"

Frank had intended to stay defiantly silent and pretend he didn't care while Jamia told him off, so the question catches him off guard. That's the explanation he's going with for why he replies honestly, anyway. "Gerard fucked off."

"You broke up?"

Frank laughs hollowly, resting his head in his hands. "I think you have to be together first, before you can do that."

Jamia doesn't say anything. She comes into the room and picks up the chair in front of Frank's desk, moving it around to the other side and sitting down next to him. She touches his knee and asks gently, "What happened, Frankie?"

So Frank tells her. From when it started in Frank's office to their first kiss outside of Hush; their first date and meeting Gerard's brother and the things he said to Frank. He tells her how Gerard had told him things. Big things, personal things, stuff you don't just tell anyone (he's not sure why he doesn't go into detail, though - he doesn't owe Gerard shit - he's just going to have to blame his mom for the conscience she hammered into him.) He tells her about the club, about playing on stage, and Jamia's eyes widen.

"You played with Debris? Holy shit, Frank. That's awesome."

"It was," Frank agrees. "It really fucking was. And then I see Gerard watching and he's all like, 'Take me to your place', so obviously I fucking did, because yeah, I'd been a horny fuck the entire time but I'd always-- I thought we were on the same page about that not being everything, y'know? I mean, he's the one that said he wanted to go slow, not me, and he's the one that fucking spilled his guts to me and was acting like - god. But apparently we weren't on the same page, because in the morning he was just - gone. No note or text or fucking anything. And I haven't heard a word from him since." He snorts bitterly. "Guess he got what he wanted, then."

Jamia is quiet for a moment. "Not that I really knew the guy, but for what it's worth, that's never the impression I got of him."

"Yeah, me neither," Frank says. "But I guess being out of the game for so long has made me stupid. Naive. Just too god damn trusting."

"Shut up," Jamia says firmly. "You did nothing wrong, y'hear me, Iero? If he really has pulled this shit, then it's his fucking problem, not yours. But I will say this: it's only been two days. There could still be a perfectly reasonable explanation."

"But why not just text me and say he had something going on?" Frank knows he sounds like he's whining now, but he has a point. "Like, how hard is it just to type out a few words telling me he's gonna be busy, or whatever the fuck? Why's he just gotta disappear off the face of the fucking earth?"

"I agree, it's shitty," Jamia says. "But he does have a child, as well as a busy-ass job, and you know more than most people what those things are like, right?" Frank looks at her warily. "I mean, okay, let's look at the alternative explanation: Gerard is actually a highly manipulative con artist who pretended to be developing feelings for you just to get into your pants. Even though he could have easily gotten into them right from the very beginning, which means he was only doing it to deliberately hurt you, because he's a sociopath and just gets a kick out of that. Now, I admit I don't know the guy, but even to me that sounds pretty ridiculous."

Frank scowls. "Why do you always have to make so much sense?"

"It's a talent," Jamia says airily. "Now, do you think you can see the rest of your patients without provoking them into giving me any more earache?"

"Sorry," Frank says gruffly. "She was just--"

"I know what Mrs. Simms is like," Jamia cuts him off smoothly. "But you can stop avoiding us, too."

Frank suddenly feels horribly guilty. "Sorry," he says again. "I was just--"

"I know what you're like, too," Jamia says, and they both laugh. She pats Frank knee and stands up. "Look, give him a few more days. Even if he has run away, I doubt it's for the reason you think. Maybe he just wasn't ready for it, y'know?"

"Yeah," Frank says. He doesn't want to feel better, but he does. "Thanks, J."

She smiles, walking over to the door and opening it. "See you in the staff room later?"

"Yeah, yeah."

When she's gone, Frank thinks about what she said for a while. He hadn't really considered the possibility of Gerard's silence being due to him freaking out about this. After all, he'd wanted to go slow, hadn't he, but that didn't happen. Things moved so fast, and that had felt right for Frank, but maybe for Gerard, it was too fast, in the end.

Maybe they just burnt out.

By Friday, it's sunk in. Frank goes to work, sees his patients, goes home again. Lindsey finally asks Jamia out, officially. Bob pats him sympathetically on the shoulder a lot. Life goes on.

He's in his office alone when there's a knock on the door. He just got back from lunch with ten minutes still to spare, so Frank isn't expecting anyone. He grunts in acknowledgement, not looking up from his computer. The door opens slowly, and when Frank glances up, there's Gerard there, half hidden by the door and biting his lip.

"Hi," he says quietly.

Frank says, "Hey."

"Can I come in?"

"Do you have an appointment?"

Gerard's eyebrows furrow. "Frank."

Frank raises his. "Yeah?"

Gerard visibly hesitates. Frank goes back to his computer. After a long, silent moment he hears Gerard edge in fully, shutting the door after him. Frank doesn't look at him, still typing. He's not going to make it easy for him.

"I just," Gerard says eventually. "I just came to explain. You know, why I haven't - where I've been. If that's okay with you."

Frank looks at him properly. He looks terrible. He's dressed in ratty jeans and a dark sweatshirt; there's deep circles under his eyes and his hair is a mess, and not in that good way it usually is. Frank feels a lot of things. Mostly an unsettling combination of relief and anger - but now, uninvited and unwanted - concern. Sighing, he feels himself nod.

Gerard takes an audible breath. "Okay. I - well, first I just want to say I'm sorry. Like, really. I feel fucking awful. And I don't - I mean, I'm not going to try and make any excuses for myself, Frank. It's just been so long since I've-- I haven't even really had anything like this, not really, nothing where I've felt like -"

He stutters to a stop, exhaling hard and shuffling nervously on the spot, eyes dropping to the floor. "You have to understand," he continues, an edge of desperation in his voice. "For years, it's always been about Drake. I didn't even think about how anyone else would fit into my life, because I never expected I'd have to. Or, well, I suppose I thought - maybe I hoped, later on, when Drake was a bit older, maybe - but it wasn't something I was prepared for."

He slowly looks up, meeting Frank's eyes. "I wasn't prepared," he says quietly. "To feel like this."

"Me neither," Frank says, trying to ignore how hard his heart is thudding. "What, you think you're the only one who doesn't know what the fuck they're doing? You think you're the only one this is new to?" He's angry. Honestly, he'd been expecting an explanation like this, but that doesn't make it any less hurtful, or any less inadequate. "We're in the same fucking boat, Gerard. I may not have a kid, but this job? Fuck, it might as well be one. I mean, I've never really had anything like this, either, but somehow I managed not to freak out and fucking disappear and completely cut you off without even--"

"Mikey called me because Drake had a nightmare and he needed me and I wasn't there," Gerard interrupts in a rush. "Because I was still with you. That's the thing, I-- I'm not blaming you, Frank, I swear. I'm blaming myself, because it was my own fault; I shouldn't have even still been there, I promised I'd be home, but - I didn't want to leave, okay? That's why I let you convince me to stay, because I - god."

He huffs a harsh breath, rubbing a hand roughly over his face. "I just never thought I'd do that, y'know? Put myself before my child. Realizing that I even could do that just... yeah, I freaked out, okay? I admit it. And it's not an excuse and I don't expect you to understand but I've seriously felt so fucking shitty about this all week and even if you don't forgive me, I wanted to explain and tell you I'm sorry anyway, and that I've honestly loved every second of knowing you."

He's out of breath when he rambles to a stop, head still ducked and fingers fidgeting. His sincerity is jarring, and he sounds so miserable that Frank can't--

He stands up. Gerard jumps a little, watching him warily as he rounds his desk, coming to stand close in front of him. Frank waits until Gerard meets his eyes, looking up tentatively from under his messy hair. "What made you come back?" Frank asks quietly.

"You did," Gerard replies, but he looks shifty. "I mean, I already knew - like, the first day - that I'd made a mistake, but... it was Drake who really snapped me out of it."

Frank isn't even surprised. "Did he tell you how fucking stupid you were being? That just because you go out and see someone and generally have a life it doesn't mean you're fucking neglecting him?"

Gerard's eyebrow creases. "I felt like I was. Like, I hardly get to see him as it is, what with my job. And I was spending all my free time with you. It was selfish."

"You're allowed to be selfish, now and then," Frank says. "And Drake is probably the toughest little dude I know."

Gerard sighs. "I know he's already pretty independent, and most of the time he doesn't even want to do anything with me, but that isn't the point, is it? I should still be there. I can't just keep dumping him on my brother while I go out to see you."

Frank can't help but roll his eyes. "Are you being dense on purpose?"

"I - no?" Gerard says.

"If you can't come to me, I'll come to you," Frank says simply. He reaches for Gerard's hand, tangling their fingers together. "It's not a choice, Gee. Never has been."

The look Gerard gives him makes Frank's heart thud in an entirely different way, now. "He ignored me for the whole week, you know? He always does, when I'm unhappy. I used to think it was because he didn't care, but I think it's just because he knows it's usually my fault I'm unhappy, so he refuses to speak to me until I fix it. It's his way of kicking me in the ass." He huffs a laugh, shaking his head a little. "I tried to just forget about you, but I couldn't."

Frank brushes Gerard's hair out of his face with his free hand, and Gerard closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. "I missed you, Frankie," he says then, a little shakily. "I couldn't - I kept thinking about it."

"What?" Frank asks lowly. "Me fucking you?"

Gerard splutters a little. "I, yeah--"

Frank pulls him forwards, kisses him hard, and Gerard's words melt into a whimper, high and eager as he grabs for Frank's shoulders. Fuck, Frank's missed this, too. He's missed Gerard. So much it's kind of scary, but only in the sort of way where he knows he's powerless to fight back, and he doesn't want to at all. Frank lasts about five seconds before he turns Gerard around and backs him up against his desk. Gerard huffs a surprised breath when his ass hits the edge, breaking away to pant, "Frank -"

"Shut up," Frank says with feeling. "I'm done, okay? We're not talking anymore."

"So you - mmf - you forgive me?" Gerard forces out between breaths.

Frank shoves Gerard down flat on his back, swallowing Gerard's gasp, mindless of the paper and folders and other unimportant debris littering his desk. "Maybe," he grits out, holding Gerard's eyes as he pins him down. "If you earn it."

"Anything," Gerard breathes, head tilting back. His hands slide up around Frank's neck, jaw; his thighs hitch up around Frank's hips, and Frank's so turned on it's insane. "Frank, you can have any-- everything."

Frank growls and kisses him again, hard and demanding, tongue and teeth, pulse kicking up as Gerard pants against his mouth and pulls him closer. Fuck, Frank wants everything. He's never had anyone turn him on like Gerard can; never felt that kind of attraction to another person where he felt like he was going to go fucking crazy if he didn't touch them. But more than that, he's never-- everything about Gerard makes him crazy, from his eyes to his stupid smile to his lame laugh and the way he waves his hands around when he's speaking, god - even this whole thing hasn't negatively changed the way Frank feels. If anything, it's made it worse, stronger, and Frank doesn't know what to do with that except kiss Gerard again. And again, and again.

"Knock, knock."

Jamia's voice startles Frank so badly he almost loses his balance in his and Gerard's rush to scramble to their feet. "Fucking-- Jamia! You could have actually knocked, you know?"

"I did," Jamia says. She's standing by the door and it's closed, which means she must have come in and shut it without either of them noticing. She raises an eyebrow at them both. "But I kind of figured you'd be, uh. Busy."

"How'd you figure that," Frank deadpans.

"She um," Gerard mutters. His face is a beautiful tomato red. It echoes how Frank feels. "She let me in."

"God," Frank says.

"I was right, though," Jamia says. She sounds pretty smug in the knowledge. "You two have quit being morons now, right?"

Frank scowls. His face feels way too hot. "If I say yes, will you please go away?"

"'Fraid not," Jamia says cheerfully. "In case you haven't noticed, this place is full of children. Aaaand," she points at them, squinting, "that sort of thing isn't exactly child-friendly."

"God," Frank huffs violently, throwing up his hands. "We're not - we weren't actually gonna--"

"Frank," Gerard mumbles. "It's okay. She's right, this isn't - I'll go."

"No, but--"

"I'll see you later," Gerard interrupts firmly. He leans in and kisses Frank quickly before he can protest anymore, says quietly in his ear, "My place. After seven. 'kay?"

Frank takes a deep breath. God, he wants Gerard so much he can hardly stand it. He forces himself to calm down, finding Gerard's hand and squeezing it. "Okay."

Gerard gives him a small smile, flush still high on his cheeks, before coughing and turning to leave, not meeting Jamia's eyes as he scurries past her out of the room. Jamia shuts the door after him, eyebrow still raised, and Frank sighs preemptively. "I suppose it's pointless to ask you not to say anything?"

"Frankie," she says charmingly. "You know me better than that, surely."

"Unfortunately," Frank says dryly. "Look, I know you want to give me an earful about this, but--"

"And if it happens again, I will," Jamia interrupts. "Not that it was an entirely unpleasant thing to see, but, yeah - it's not exactly appropriate. The door was open; anyone could have walked in." She pauses. "But on this occasion, I think we can let it slide." She smiles, then. "In all honesty, I'm just too happy for you, honey. I'm so glad you two worked it out. I told you you would, didn't I?"

Frank's not sure that's altogether correct, but he really doesn't feel like debating what exactly Jamia told him. It doesn't matter anyway. "Fuck, Jamia," he says, giggling almost hysterically, so hard he has to lean against his desk for balance. "Fucking fuck, I'm happy for me too."

"Watch your mouth," Jamia says, but she's grinning. She comes over and pulls Frank into a hug. "Don't fuck it up," she tells him. "You're a fucking bitch when you're lovesick." Frank shakes his head, still laughing weakly into her shoulder. He feels loopy, high. He can't really think anymore. "And I already said this to Gerard before I sent him through, but you can tell him, too," Jamia says when they finally pull apart. "If he ever hurts you, or fucks you around like that again, he'll be getting a lot more than an earful from me. Y'hear me?"

Frank feels a strange combination of touched and disturbed. "Oh, god. What did you -" he trails off, sighing as he shakes his head. "Thanks, J. You always have my back."

"Damn right I do," she says. They share a familiar smile, and then she claps briskly, breaking the moment. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, your lunch break is over. Get back to work, freeloader."

"Yes, sir," Frank says, dodging the elbow she aims at him. He obediently returns to his desk, and then a thought occurs to him. "By the way, uh - how's it going with you and Lindsey?"

Jamia kind of smirks, hand on the door handle. "Good," she says.

Well, apparently that's all Frank's going to get. He's kind of torn on whether he's actually disappointed about that or not. Whatever. He just hopes she feels as good as he does, right now. Even if there is still a part of him that's holding on to that niggling little feeling - the same place his brain has been this past week - Frank's finding it hard to pay it much heed. He could die tomorrow or he could be Gerard's for a year or five or he could stay right here, still, alone for the rest of his life.

It's not a hard decision.

"No, see, this is why the second one is better," Frank says as he saws off the zombie's head, thumbs quickly tapping out the combination necessary to turn it into a flying fireball as his on-screen character kicks it into another approaching zombie, lighting it ablaze with a guttural roar. "Two words, little man: flamethrower accessory. And combos. Combos are the best. See how just one flaming moldy dude can spark off a whole inferno of other moldy dudes, too?"

"Well, yeah, you would say that, playing it on here," Drake says from next to him. They're both sat cross-legged on the floor, right up in front of the TV for optimal viewing. "These sort of games always look better on consoles. You wouldn't think that if you played it on my handheld."

"Are you accusing me of being graphics-over-game play?" Frank says incredulously. "Because that is a low blow, Little Drac. A very low blow."

"No," Drake says mildly. "This is a low blow." On-screen, he appears from nowhere and slices Frank's body from his legs with a flaming katana, before Frank can even react. He gapes as the game over music plays over the image of the undead chomping on his severed limbs. Drake didn't even give him chance to get into defense mode. Frank can't believe it - he never loses at this game.

"You suck," Frank says with feeling. "You suck hard."

Drake smirks at him. "Maybe if you played the handheld version and developed your skills, you'd be better at it."

Frank barely refrains from using non-nine-year-old-friendly language. You would never guess it's something he has to do every single day at work. "Zombie Hunt original, then?"

"Prepare to lose," Drake says in a bored voice.

Gerard comes in from the kitchen about fifteen minutes later, when they're engaged in a vicious showdown. Things have gotten kind of heated, and Frank doesn't even notice him until he appears next to them, picking up the remote from the couch. "I do have neighbors, you know," he says disapprovingly as he turns the volume down considerably. "I need a remote for you two, as well."

"Sorry," Frank says distractedly as Drake protests the volume change, "Aww, daaaad, no! I can't hear the bones!"

"I don't care," Gerard says firmly. "I think you've had enough blood and guts for one night, anyway. Five minutes, and then bedtime, okay?"

"Okay," Frank says, cackling delightedly when he manages to take advantage of Drake's grumbling and successfully disembowel him. "Ha! Read 'em and weep, turdface!" he says loudly, fistpumping in Drake's thoroughly unimpressed face.

"I meant my son," Gerard says after a pause. "But apparently I seem to have acquired two children."

Frank looks up at Gerard and smiles sweetly. "Does that mean you'll come and tuck me in?"

Drake stands up sharply. "It's okay. I'll go now."

"Night," Frank says cheerfully. Drake gives him a look, and then reaches for his handheld from the couch.

"Here," he says, giving it to Frank. "Get some practice so you can beat me when I'm not distracted." He leaves the room without another word. Frank can't help but feel impressed.

"Your kid is the shit," he tells Gerard. "Also a little shit."

"Explains why you two get on so well," Gerard says, turning off the TV.

Frank clicks the console off too, leaving the handheld on the floor next to it. "You really think we are? Because I want to. Get on with him, I mean. I want him to like me."

Gerard holds his hand out and Frank takes it, lets Gerard pull him to his feet. "He does," Gerard says. "At least, I think he does. And I'd like to think I know him well enough to tell."

"Course you do," Frank says. He still has hold of Gerard's hand. He squeezes it, not-so-subtly pulls him closer. "You're a fucking great dad."

Gerard sighs as he leans into Frank, resting his head on his shoulder. "I'm so tired."

"Too tired to tuck me in?" Frank teases, wrapping his arms around Gerard and kissing lightly at his neck.

Gerard laughs breathily. "We don't have a guestroom."

"Good," Frank murmurs, pulling back enough to bring their mouths together softly. He expects Gerard to protest, maybe make some noise about Drake seeing them, but instead he winds his arms around Frank's shoulders, melting into it with a breathy, eager noise. Frank loses track of how long they stand there, making out in the middle of Gerard's living room. It's strange; that desperation from earlier is gone, replaced instead with something darker, fuller. Something that speeds his pulse and quickens his breath, makes his fingertips itch. He feels it in his bones, his nerves - his heart. In the end, Frank has to force himself to stop to breathe. He feels almost shaky with it. "Gee."

"We have to be quiet," Gerard breathes, eyes dark, mouth wet. "Should wait. Until we know he's asleep."

Frank's gut lurches sharply, hot with the knowledge Gerard wants this that much - enough to risk it. "Let's go to your room."

"I - yeah." Gerard nods and takes Frank's hand, leads him down the hallway. Frank pulls them back together as soon as the door closes after them, as close as he can get, flush against Gerard from chest to knees, and it's still not enough. There's still far too many clothes under Frank's hands. Gerard was changed when Frank came over; answered the door in black jeans and a crisp white shirt, black tie looped around his neck. Frank pulls on it now, slowly works the knot loose.

"Why do you always wear these things," he mutters, almost to himself, knuckles brushing up against Gerard's throat. "You're always, like, wrapping yourself up. It feels like a tease, y'know? Makes me wanna unwrap you. "

Gerard's throat vibrates against Frank's fingers as he laughs, quietly. "I guess... I just like the way they make me feel. Like an adult or something." Frank pulls the tie free of its knot with one fast, sharp slide of silk, shhhk, and Gerard's breath hitches. "It's kinda - kind of a ritual. Like, waking up in the morning, laying it all out, putting everything on. Makes me feel grounded, y'know?" Frank pulls Gerard's shirt out of his pants, starts undoing the buttons from the top, slow and precise, letting it gape open inch by inch. "Like, I feel like I can face anything. Sort of organized. Calm. In--" Frank pulls the shirt open carelessly, slides his hands up Gerard's bare chest, and Gerard shivers, breathing audibly shallow. "In control, I guess."

"And how do you feel now?" Frank asks lowly; clarifies, "Now I'm taking it all off you." He pulls Gerard's shirt away from one pale shoulder so he can put his mouth there, settling in to do something he's wanted to do for a while - mark Gerard up.

Gerard gasps, not quite quick enough to bite it back, grabbing at Frank's back as Frank sucks hard at his skin, digs his teeth in a little. "I - feels like -" Frank slides his hands downwards, hooks his fingers into the buckle of Gerard's belt, and Gerard shakes his head frantically but he doesn't grab for Frank's hands, doesn't try to stop him. "Feels like I'm fuckin' losing control instead," he says in a rush. "Like you're just taking it, but I'm--"

"Letting me?" Frank finishes, but Gerard shakes his head again, meets Frank's eyes.

"I want you to." The click of Gerard's belt seems impossibly loud, like they're both holding their breath. "You - god, you make me wanna lose it, Frank. I want you to take it."

"I want you," Frank says mindlessly. He gives up on the belt, presses his palm flat against the front of Gerard's jeans instead, right between his legs, swallowing Gerard's groan. He's so hard against Frank's hand-- hard for Frank, huge and straining against the denim, and Frank wants so badly he's almost dizzy from it. "Yeah, that," Frank breathes against Gerard's mouth. "I want that."

"Drake," Gerard gets out. His flush stains his skin from his cheeks to his chest. "He won't -" But he doesn't resist when Frank pulls him towards the bed.

"I can be quiet if you can," Frank says, though honestly, he's starting to wonder. Just - wow, Gerard looks good like this, all disheveled and messed up with his smart clothes hanging off him, shirt sagging on his shoulders and open belt clanking as Frank slowly presses him down onto the bed. He straddles Gerard's lap and has to bite back a moan at the feel of them pressed together like that - kind of shamelessly rubbing up against him as he pushes Gerard's shirt off his shoulders and yanks his own T-shirt over his head. "You're gonna fuck me," Frank tells him breathlessly, and Gerard makes the most incredible noise, surging up and rolling them over, shoving Frank down onto his back under him.

He works on Frank's jeans, yanking them down his legs and off, fuck, that's better. "No underwear," Gerard observes, eyebrow raised, and Frank can't help but snigger.

"Don't think I was wrong to make assumptions, after my office."

Gerard smiles. "No, I guess not. Though to be fair, you started it."

Frank could say something witty, something like I didn't see you complaining, but he's naked and hard and his skin is thrumming and Gerard's so hot - not just fucking gorgeous, but hot under his hands - skin flushed and already a little sweaty when Frank slides a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down, so they're face to face. "Gerard." He's tilting his head back, arching up into him. "Come on, fuck me." He swallows, heart thudding. "Please."

Gerard makes a rough noise and kisses him again, deep and slow and dirty, and they're both breathing harder when they pull apart. "How - I mean." He fumbles with his own jeans as he talks, shifting around awkwardly on top of Frank to get them down his thighs. "Like this? I can't - fuck."

Frank swears, shoving impatiently at Gerard's shoulder. "No, like - over." Apparently neither of them can speak in full sentences anymore, both of them clumsy with impatience. He gets them turned over, yanks Gerard's jeans and briefs off for him, breath catching as Gerard's cock slaps back against his belly. It's stupid and primal, but just the fucking sight of it turns Frank on - even without the anticipation, the knowledge he's going to take it making everything twist tighter in his gut.

He doesn't actually plan to crawl up into Gerard's lap, but once here's there, he knows it's right. Gerard grabs for his hips, looking up at him with wide, dark eyes. "Like this," Frank says, voice hoarse. Maybe even a little shaky, but fuck, he can't pretend he isn't kind of nervous - Gerard's fucking big and it's been years and he's not sure why, but this feels like a really big deal, all of a sudden. It's kind of scary, how much he wants it. "I want--"

"Anything," Gerard says quietly. He rubs soothingly over Frank's hips, slides his hands up Frank's sides. "Everything, Frankie. I told you."

Frank's breath catches. "Yeah. I do want everything."

Gerard nods, holding Frank's eyes. "Me too."

Gerard has stuff in his bedside table, too - and his eyes get impossibly wider as he watches Frank finger himself, his fingertips digging harder and harder into Frank's hips. Frank feels almost delirious, strung-tight; it's like time suspends, everything paused in the breath they're both holding as Frank reaches back between his legs to line Gerard's cock up, presses down against it until he feels his body start to give, stretching him open around it.

Frank's breath rushes out of his mouth in a harsh, ragged gasp, because shit, he feels that. He feels that everywhere. "Fuck," he grits out under his breath, rough and strained. "I-- fuck."

Gerard's breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip caught hard between his teeth. High little notes of desperation ride the edge his breaths, like he just can't handle it, like he's about a second away from losing it and crying out - and it's like the realization of that brings Frank into focus, suddenly registering the pain in his hipbones from Gerard's fingernails digging in painfully deep. Frank hisses, sinks down further without even meaning to, and Gerard's neck pulls taut as his head tips back, a choked moan ripped from his throat. It's loud - too loud.

Frank has his hand over Gerard's mouth before he can think about it, bending forwards and smushing his face into Gerard's neck to keep himself quiet as he presses his hips down hard, takes Gerard all the way inside him. Gerard moans again, muffled against Frank's palm, shifting restlessly underneath him. "Sorry," Frank gasps into Gerard's shoulder, "I'm sorry, but we - you've gotta--"

"Frmrmff," Gerard says, and Frank can't help but laugh, breathless, gritting his teeth when his body shakes, involuntarily clenching up around Gerard's cock. God, he's fucking thick. Frank can feel him in every fucking muscle. He takes his hand away and replaces it with his mouth, kissing Gerard hard and messy. They're both panting when they pull back. Gerard's eyes are almost black, brow scrunched tight and expression almost panicked. "Frank," he says. "Frankie."

"You're good," Frank pants, hushed, tipping their foreheads together, cupping Gerard's face with his hands. "We're - you just have to--"

"I don't -" Gerard's shaking his head in Frank's grip, hips and fingers twitching, "don't think I can, you feel - fuck."

Frank rolls his hips, a little, just to feel it, and when Gerard gasps again, he doesn't even think about it. He's shoving two fingers inside Gerard's mouth - just to muffle him, just to give him something else to concentrate on - but Gerard actually fucking whimpers, clutching at Frank with frantic hands, and wow, okay. "Oh, you like that?" Frank murmurs roughly, rolling his hips again and gritting his teeth against the lash of pleasure it shoots hard up his spine. Christ, he can't believe he forgot what this feels like. "Maybe I should gag you for real then, if that's the only way to shut you up, maybe--" Gerard moans again, hot and sloppy around Frank's knuckles, hips jerking up against Frank's ass, "--ah, yeah - maybe use that fuckin' handsome silk tie of yours, really get you all--"

Gerard bites down, the pain sharp and hot, and Frank hisses, spurred into it - groping blindly behind himself, fumbling for the rumpled pile of fabric he knows is Gerard's shirt - for the tie still caught up in the collar. Gerard doesn't fight it, opens his mouth for it willingly and whimpers some more as Frank loops it around his head, ties a knot between Gerard's teeth with unsteady fingers.

"Shit," Frank grunts when he finally pulls back, sits up to take in the sight. "S'that - okay?"

Gerard nods frantically, pulling hard at Frank's hips when Frank finally starts riding him, can't fucking wait any longer. He's close already, panting and biting back a whine as he fucks himself, hands braced on Gerard's chest, eyes locked on Gerard's face. The way that tie looks wedging his mouth open is just-- damn. Frank can't believe they're doing this, can't believe Gerard is doing this. Frank hadn't really thought of anything - not like this, nothing past getting Gerard naked, and now--

What else? Frank can't help but think wildly, which is when he remembers that he'll have chance to find out, and for some reason it's that thought that tips him over the edge. He's leaning back, bracing a hand on Gerard's knee so he can get a hand on himself, stroking fast and hard, shushing Gerard mindlessly even though Frank's barely holding his own tongue. Back further, pressing down harder on Gerard's cock to get him as deep as he can take it - as deep as he can stand it - rolls his hips forwards once, twice, and comes hard all over his own hand and stomach, fucking shaking.

It's only when he can see and feel again that he realizes he's drawn blood from his bottom lip, teeth clamped deep to keep himself quiet. Gerard bucks up against him and Frank chokes, falling forwards against Gerard's chest. He feels completely wrecked, oversensitive with Gerard still hard inside him, but Gerard's close - Frank can feel it.

"Come on, Gee," he says hoarsely, pressing a kiss to the edge of Gerard's mouth, where the now damp fabric is pulled taut - muffling the desperate, gorgeous noises he's making. "Wanna feel you, come on, baby, please," and Gerard groans and does as he's told, hips jerking and fingernails biting; everything to the point of almost pain, but Frank never wants it to stop, wants everything Gerard will give him.

He's shaky and overwhelmed after, and it takes what seems like all of the strength he has to push up in his knees, breath catching as Gerard's cock slips out of him. Gerard huffs against the gag, fingertips slipping helplessly over Frank's thighs. It takes Frank a minute before he can get himself together enough to untie it, pulling the tie free with fumbling fingers and dropping it over the side of the bed. Gerard coughs a little, panting and grabbing for Frank to pull him closer. They kiss for what feels like hours, lazy and sloppy and good, so fucking good. Eventually they have to pull away to clean up and chuck the rubber, but it's reluctant. Gerard looks completely destroyed, lips and chin still wet, wild-eyed and even wilder-haired. Frank's stomach is still swooping.

"God," he breathes. He doesn't know what else to say, really.

Gerard grins lazily, sliding a damp hand up Frank's sweaty spine. "Call me Gerard."

Frank almost chokes. "Oh my - you did not just--" but Gerard's pulling him into another kiss, urging Frank over onto the mattress until they're both on their sides, face to face. They don't talk for a while after that, sort of wrapped up in each other, until they both start to get a little cold and Gerard pulls the covers up over them. Frank sighs happily as the warmth engulfs them both, settling in to Gerard's arms. He'd forgotten how tired he actually was, but he's fully reminded of it now.

"Sorry about your tie," he mutters as he slides a hand over Gerard's waist, ducking his head against his chest. "Kinda ruined it."

"Eh," Gerard says, lightly shrugging a shoulder. "I have more."

Frank pauses. "So, that was really hot." Gerard hums in agreement, chest vibrating against Frank's ear. "Do you - I mean." He trails off, not sure what question he even wants to ask. Really, he has no idea where to even start. Gerard's fingers find their way into Frank's hair, rubbing slow circles into his scalp, and suddenly, it doesn't seem to matter.

"Later, Frankie," Gerard murmurs, like he read Frank's mind. He kisses the top of Frank's head. "Just sleep. We have all the time in the world."

Yeah. It can wait.

Waking up with Gerard still in the bed with him is the best thing ever, Frank's sure. Even if every inch of him fucking aches. Both of them are naked and sweaty and half-stuck together, and it's actually kind of gross, but it's the kind of gross that Frank loves the hell out of. Still, a shower does sound appealing. Maybe they could go for one together. Gerard's bathroom is also pretty impressive, Frank knows - he's seen it. And not only does he have a huge-ass shower, but he also has a huge-ass bathtub.

Great, now Frank's conflicted. And hard. Maybe they could fuck in the shower, or - no, in the tub they wouldn't even have to stand up, they could just--

"Frank, I can hear you thinking," Gerard mumbles into Frank's hair. "Stop it."

Frank didn't even know Gerard was awake. Oh, well. Honesty is the best policy, he supposes. "I was just wondering if it would be better to fuck in your shower or your tub."

Gerard laughs, kind of, but it's more like just a whoosh of air through his nose. "Neither. Not while Drake's home, at least."

Under the covers, Frank slides a hand up Gerard's bare thigh. "You didn't seem to mind last night." Gerard grumbles something that sounds like, "Did mind," and Frank grins. "Not enough to stop, though." Gerard grunts, which could be interpreted either way. "Still tired?"

"Mmgfh," Gerard says. "M'just not really. Morning person." He's breathing deep and even into Frank's hair, arm still slung limply over Frank's shoulder, but Frank feels wide awake. He feels like every lame romantic cliché he can think of. He almost laughs, giddy, when he slides his hand higher and finds Gerard just as hard as he is. That, at least, seems to rouse Gerard a little - breath quickening as Frank trails his fingertips lightly up the length of his cock.

"Shower," Frank manages. "Come on."

Gerard makes a noise that sounds vaguely negative, even as he tightens his fingers on Frank's skin. "M'not fuckin' you in my shower, Frankie."

Frank doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing Gerard call him that. "Okay, no fucking," Frank says in his best persuasive voice, sliding his hand up Gerard's chest instead. "But we can still share? Y'know, save water."

Gerard makes the noise again, but it's weaker. "Time s'it?"

Frank raises his head enough to glance over at the clock by Gerard's bed. "Almost nine."

This time, Gerard makes a different noise which Frank can't quite dissect, but he feels a little more hopeful at hearing it anyway. "Drake won't be up yet."

Frank grins victoriously. "Shower," he says again, more firmly. Gerard grumbles some more, but he lets Frank pull him out of the bed. Frank was still kind of harboring notions of pressing Gerard up against the shower wall and jerking him off, but when they're actually there, flush together under the pleasantly hot spray, getting off sort of evaporates from Frank's mind. It's still a task and a half actually getting clean when they both can't seem to keep their hands off each other, though. In the end they just elect to wash each other, solving the problem - and even though Gerard is still pretty sluggish, complaining the whole time, Frank feels ridiculously good when they finally get out.

It's not until they make coffee and sit down at Gerard's kitchen table to drink it that Gerard finally starts looking perkier, though.

"God," he sighs happily, leaning heavily on his elbows on the table, cup clutched between his hands like it's the elixir of life itself. He inhales comically deeply from his cup and smiles companionably at Frank, like he expects Frank to stick his nose in his, too. Gerard's face is flushed and his hair is damp, black strands stuck to his pale neck, curling around his ears. When he smiles like that, the corners of his eyes crinkle in this way that's bizarrely fascinating. Frank's staring and he knows it, but he doesn't care. He lets Gerard notice, watches his smile fade a little and the slight crease form between his eyebrows when he asks, "What?"

Frank shakes his head. "Nothing." He drops his eyes to his own steaming coffee. "Are you still nervous?"

Gerard is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "God, yes." He pauses. "Why, aren't you?"

Frank thinks about it. "In a way." Nervous he'll fuck everything up, maybe. Nervous he won't be good enough.

"I'm not - I mean, it's not because of you," Gerard says quietly. "You're perfect. It's just... what I do, I guess. I worry."

Frank looks up. "Perfect?"

Gerard may be blushing, but it's hard to tell with him still flushed from the shower. "Shut up."

"You think I'm perfect," Frank repeats gleefully.

Gerard groans and ducks his head, rubbing a hand over his face. "Perfectly fucking insufferable, maybe." Frank stands up and Gerard jumps, curling a hand protectively around his coffee like he thinks Frank is going to make a grab for it. Frank can't help but laugh, rounding the table and dumping himself in Gerard's lap. Gerard's hands flail in mid-air for a moment before automatically grabbing Frank's waist to steady him. "Uh," he says, blinking up at Frank. "Hi?"

"Hi," Frank grins, and kisses him until the kitchen door opens and Drake's voice goes, "Ew."

Gerard practically throws Frank onto the floor in his rush to scramble up from the table. "Drake! Ah, morning - we were just - breakfast?"

After a beat, Drake nods, and Gerard busies himself with fixing him a bowl of cereal. Frank sighs and settles into the seat Gerard just vacated. Drake turns to Frank then, hesitatingly approaching the table and sitting opposite him, eyeing him warily. Frank tries not to look too smug. "Hey, dude. Sleep well?" He watches Drake's face carefully, looking for any signs of obvious trauma that might indicate he overheard Frank boning his father. Or Frank being boned by his father, whatever.

But Drake just shrugs. "I guess," he says dismissively, and Frank relaxes. Guess they got away with it.

Gerard coughs as he puts a bowl and spoon on the table in front of Drake. "So, Little Drac. Frank stayed over last night." Drake nods, picking up the spoon and scooping up some cereal. "It wasn't planned, but, you know - it got kind of late, and-- well." Drake chews his cereal, not looking up. "But, uh, if he's going to stay over again, then I'll make sure to ask you if that's okay, first. Okay?"

Drake swallows his mouthful of food. "Fine."

Frank snorts. Gerard scowls, and then rolls his eyes when Frank grins. "Do you want anything? Cereal? Toast?"

Right on cue, Frank's stomach grumbles. He can't actually remember the last time he ate. "Toast would be awesome," he says. "Thanks."

It's kind of ridiculously domestic, sitting at Gerard's kitchen table eating breakfast with him and his son. It's not the kind of thing Frank can ever remember actively wanting out of a relationship. Even now, watching them both, the subtle ways they communicate like they're in this super special father-son bubble Frank isn't a part of, he still feels a little bemused by it. But he doesn't feel uncomfortable. In a way he feels almost privileged, because they're letting him be here, and letting him see it. And maybe, just maybe - they'd let him be a part of it someday, too. Frank's a little surprised to find he wouldn't mind that possibility.

When he's done he takes his empty plate to the sink, where Gerard is now washing dishes, up to his elbows in water and suds. Frank puts his plate in the water and kisses Gerard behind the ear. He's not sure if it's allowed in front of the kid or if he's pushing is luck or whatever, but Gerard just turns and smiles at him, cheeks flushing a little, so he guesses it's okay.

It's a moment meant to be broken. "Ew," Drake says again. "Get a room."

"Yeah," Frank says without missing a beat, "Your room, if you don't pipe down."

Gerard splutters, "Frank!" but Drake just looks at him, face a perfect picture of child-disgust - scorn and scrunched-up nose. It's the most expression Frank's ever seen on him. He feels weirdly proud.

After a minute, though, Drake seems to get himself together. "Whatever," he says. "Just because you suck at Zombie Hunt." And with that, he leaves the room.

"He really knows how to hit me where it hurts," Frank says.

"He'd make a great journalist," Gerard agrees. His face is still red. "Just... do me a favor and never talk about our sex life in front of my kid again, okay?"

Frank can't help but laugh. "Sorry." He presses himself against Gerard's back, resting his chin on his shoulder. "He's young. He'll get over it."

"Yes, but will I?" Gerard grumbles. He's quiet for a while, the kitchen filled with the sound of crockery clinking and the water sloshing around in the basin. "I do worry," he suddenly says. "But it is just me. I know it is. I just get myself wrapped up in it, y'know? But you being here now, just hanging out with us, it feels like." He pauses, stacking plates to dry almost absent-mindedly. "It feels fine," he finishes. "More than fine. I like it."

"I like it too," Frank admits, nuzzling the back of Gerard's neck, and it's true. Frank never wanted something like this, but then - Frank never wanted to be a pediatrician, either.

And now he's glad, because he has both.

Now he has everything.