One-shots

Winter's taken its toll.

The footsteps his soles carry are crude, silent, singing a nursery rhyme to the snow they're stomping on while crushing it softly. The sky looks like it's in pain, but slight, the edge of the clouds showing the damage is only minor and the snowstorm is long gone. He's afraid that it might rain afterwards, though, although the feeling underneath the skin of his knuckles is telling him otherwise.

His breathing is rugged and it's sending a message to the air that it should stop, because everything around him is mortifyingly static, except for the wind blowing into his face. Frank is tired, oh, so tired, and he hates smelling this much death at such an early hour of the morning.

He’s almost forgotten the color of snow since it’s been tinted crimson for far too long, the air smelling of rust instead of ice and mild alkaline underneath your fingernails like it should. He sometimes wonders if he would change what he’s become if he could turn back time, but then he just breathes a stifled laugh and dismisses the thought entirely.

Frank walks around the three corpses, careful not to touch any of them, sighing quietly when the door to the old manor creaks and Michael’s head peeks into the hallway.

“You’re home.”

“I am,” he says, quiet, looking around. He somehow wonders if he’s doing all of this in vain since his gut feeling tells him he should stop trying, but he can’t help himself when a glimpse of black hair and pale skin flashes before his eyes and makes every other thought reluctant to appear.

“Gerard has already left,” Michael offers the explanation and Frank frowns slightly, dismissing his own stupidity and hoping it wasn’t as obvious as he thinks it was. He wanted to see him before dawn, but he guesses it can wait. It will have to wait, it’s not like anyone can persuade Gerard to do something if he doesn’t want to.

“Of course he has,” Frank mumbles out exasperatedly, brushing the feeling of Michael’s look on his shoulder blades as he turns around. He would never want to admit it, but Michael can smell it in the air that this has just frustrated the younger more- after all, he’s seen the mess Gerard made last night upon arriving to the manor. He presumes he’s just tired of cleaning up after him, both metaphorically and literally since all Gerard ever cares about is himself.

He has become used to it, they both have, but it is painfully obvious to him that it’s much harder for Frank. Michael has been living with it since they were children, the left side of his brain already knows how to release the stress Gerard caused even before he tells him he did something that needs fixing. Frank, on the other hand, cares too much. And Gerard obviously isn’t capable to care, or just doesn’t know how to show it.

Frank’s chest feels heavy as he walks upstairs, passing Tessa on the way and asking her to bring him a cup of tea to his room when she can. She smiles at him kindly and nods her head, skipping a few stairs before calling Michael’s name just as Frank’s shins start to hurt. He stops just long enough to shoot a glance at the open door of Gerard’s room, and he can feel his knuckles turning white as he sees that his sheets have stayed intact. He didn’t even bother to make it seem like he was there, again. He rarely does.

Frank’s spine is sending negative charge into his brain as he arrives into his own room, anxious for solitude even though he’s spent less than three minutes in other people’s company. He is tired but he knows his eyelids are too alert to let him rest, so he just sits in his chair and lets his mind suffocate his attention for anything else he’s wanted to do.

He can feel Tessa’s presence in the hallway for a while, and a faint knock on his door, but he does not register it when she leaves his cup of tea on the desk and touches his shoulder as a goodbye. He only remembers the tea when he smells her perfume on his skin where she’s placed her hand; and smiles slightly at the notion. She’s sometimes way too kind to him.

He doesn’t know what time it is but it feels like it’s past ten since the goose bumps he’s been carrying on his forearms have decreased from this morning when he came home. Michael’s footsteps are quiet, but Frank can hear them all the way in his right temple since he’s in the west wing of the manor- in the kitchen, he presumes.

At one moment he recalls the corpses from the outside but he pays no mind to the thought, he is too exhausted to handle it right now. The snow isn’t melting soon, they have time.

He can feel the vibration in the walls when the front door opens, but he doesn’t move. Gerard doesn’t deserve a warm welcome.

He knows Michael feels the same because he doesn’t greet him, and Frank can feel his muscles tensing when his own door is knocked on four times exactly. He doesn’t utter a word but the door still opens, and the room immediately turns half a degree colder just as the blood in his vessels kicks into gear.

“Frank,” his voice says, sweet, making Frank’s stomach churn. “You’re home.”

“I was home before the clock struck five,” he bitterly says, refusing to look at him. “Can’t say the same for you.”

Gerard’s sigh is long, but spiteful, sounding like the one of a child who has heard the same lecture way too many times before. Frank can feel the way the air smells like pricey tobacco now, and regrets being mad immediately. It’s been too long since he’s felt it up close, and he doesn’t want to think about it. It makes him want things that no longer belong to him.

“I was trying to be careful,” Gerard says in his own defense. He notices Frank running his tongue over his lower lip and then biting it forcefully, his eyes gloomy and unfocused. He doesn’t like seeing him like this, even though he knows it’s always him who drives him to the verve of ripping his own eyelids apart.

Frank’s lips twitch in a grimace, and then melt into an unamused smile, his eyes as hollow as his words sound. “Yes, like always.”

“Frank, I-”

Frank inhales, sharp. “Just leave.”

Gerard nods and stands up, letting the veins in his wrists hurt as he is walking away. He thinks about Frank one last time and his throat clenches uncomfortably, but then he opens the door and exits.

*

The air is chilly and Frank can feel it in his lower back, pinching at his skin and drying it out along with the tips of his nerve system. The nicotine he’s inhaled is tingling deep inside his brainwaves but he pays it no mind as he’s staring into the sunset. The snow still hasn’t melted; it probably won’t for another few days- Finnish winters are usually the ones with sharpest teeth.

The blood has been cleaned, the bodies removed and disposed, and Michael’s hand on Frank’s back feels a lot less reassuring than it should.

“He isn’t here, M.” Frank’s voice is small, but firm; they both know how much it hurts, even though neither of them will voice it.

“I am aware of that.” Michael doesn’t know what else to say so he chooses to utter as little as possible, since they are both aware of the situation. He isn’t completely sure if his voice comes off as shaky or not, but he can only hope Frank’s ears miss it if it does.

“He is never here,” Frank concludes.

Michael just nods, tightening his grip on Frank’s shoulder for a second then releasing it and sighing quietly. Gerard is, indeed, never here.

*

The following evening, it storms.

The sky looks like it’s being cracked open and Frank likes it, it calms him down. The simplicity in the strokes of thunder against the clouds brings him some unnamed satisfaction, something slightly salty but warm nevertheless inside the pit of his stomach.

It keeps his longings and regrets far away from the emotional station inside his brain.

He can feel the cold on his fingertips, the other hand holding a cup of raspberry tea while its knuckles turn a healthier shade of white every second that’s passing. He can feel his blood boiling quieter, and he quietly sighs in relief as he takes another sip from his cup.

“I like seeing you during thunderstorms,” Michael notices from behind him, and Frank turns around to face him. His woolen coat is pulled over his shoulders, a scarf around his neck while he is fixing the collar of his shirt against the collar of the coat.

The corner of Frank’s mouth twitches, and then he eyes Michael’s figure. “I’m guessing you’re leaving me for tonight.”

He offers him a cheeky smile in return. “Some of us aren’t lucky enough to feed on department store groceries, I’m afraid. You will have the house for yourself the entire night presumably, Tessa is coming with me. I suggest you don’t leave the key in the lock, since-”

Frank’s face falls only slightly, but he keeps his voice stern as he gently cuts Michael off. “He is not coming.” When he sees the glint of pain in the elder’s eyes, his features soften and he lowly adds. “But I’ll do as you said. Just in case.”

“Thank you.”

He nods, turning his attention back towards the window.

Shortly after, the front door closes and Michael leaves Frank at peace with his mind, the storm, and an empty house.

*

The cold finds its way into Frank’s room long after the clock has struck midnight, and he battles with sleep as his eyes remain fixated on the storm. It is much stronger now, and the raindrops are violently knocking against the window beside his bed while he’s struggling to find a breathing pattern.

He gives up on it as he hears the front door creak, immediately breaking his focus and listening closely to the movements that are coming from downstairs. He knows those footsteps, he’s heard them so many times before that he’s remembered the exact way they reverberate on the old wooden floor.

It isn’t a common thing for Gerard to arrive home two nights in a row.

Frank doesn’t hear anything long after Gerard shuts himself into his room, but then a soft knock on his door awakens him from his thoughts.

He doesn’t bother to answer; they both already know the response.

“Storm,” Gerard simply says as he shuts the door behind himself, carefully walking towards Frank’s bed. He doesn’t say anything, but merely shifts closer to the window so Gerard can lie down beside him.

Gerard Way has only one fear, and it lies within the thudding of clouds as they roll and collide with each other during long, winter nights.

The room is only colder with the arrival of his presence but Frank somehow doesn’t mind, he’s used to it. And even though he would never admit it aloud, he thinks of the elder’s steady heartbeat as strangely comforting.
He still cannot sleep, though, and he finds himself staring into the night as his toes curl inwards from the chills pinching at his skin.

He registers movement from behind him but he pays it no mind, then all of a sudden his frozen fingers are enveloped in a hand much warmer than his own. He flinches, out of sheer surprise as he reflexively turns around and catches the look Gerard’s giving him.

Frank’s vision turns just slightly blurry, and everything in the next few moments happens way too fast for him to comprehend.
He finds himself with his fingertips untangling the damp, inky mess that is Gerard’s hair, his other hand in Gerard’s as their lips are brushing and breaths melting into one. Frank wants to act as his rational side is commanding him to, but the blood inside his veins is screaming at him to give in.

So he does, shattering the centimeter of broken space between their faces as he kisses him, soft, but conflicting at the same time.

It all sets its own pace from there on, and Frank doesn’t know when kisses turn to touches, and when touches turn to more as he’s suddenly on fire.
Everything around him is neutral but both he and Gerard have a power charge. The tingles his digits let out all over Frank’s body are nothing but pure electricity that leaves him with the feeling of a lightning strike.

He doesn’t understand how someone so cold can cause such heat in all pulse points of his body, but he is too distracted to question it as fog captures each and every one of
his senses except for touch.

He doesn’t know when it starts or when it ends but he doesn’t care, either, he knows Gerard’s got it covered since this isn’t their first time doing something they know they shouldn’t. Frank is aware of the fact he is going to have to forget about this soon enough- but he isn’t willing to throw a lifetime away just because of a later on risk of amnesia. He sometimes wishes he could feel like this constantly, free and fluid, knowing that his alpha and omega lie in the person currently clenching their fingers in his own.

Every place skin is touching skin feels warm even though Frank is positive the temperature in the room is below five degrees Celsius. He knows he’ll be trying to scratch all of these marks from his skin as soon as tomorrow, but he’s always been fond of bruised flesh even if it’s scabbed with regret. And just like Gerard’s lips, the physical trace will evaporate soon but the mental one will remain.

The storm reaches its strongest when they’re both chasing after the frozen fractals of oxygen from the air.

“How is it that, the only thing I find terrifying is also the only thing that keeps you at peace?” Gerard says huskily, dragging his finger along the rim of Frank’s collarbone.

“Not the only thing,” Frank mumbles, looking out the window; his eyelids are heavy, his muscles contently sore as his skin still feels electrified.

“There’s more?”

“Go to sleep, Gerard,” Frank says as he turns around, dismissing the dying storm. He brushes Gerard’s neck with his nose, tickling his skin with his eyelashes.

It sends a shiver down Gerard’s spine even though he’d never admit it.

*

When Frank’s eyes flutter open in the morning, everything is quiet.

He isn’t cold, he feels like a heatwave, but he doesn’t register why until he realizes whose arms he’s woken up in. Pale, smooth, marble-cold arms that keep him warmer than any fire would.

He gently unclasps them from his waist, running his fingers across Gerard’s shoulder blade one last time before he finds his way out of the bed. He walks over to his closet and picks out the first few things that he sees, the fabric of the loose, black sweater sending chills across his sides. The collar is wide and it doesn’t hide the bruises littering his throat and the crook of his neck, but he pays it no mind. What is done is done.
He trudges downstairs after visiting the bathroom shortly, and Tessa greets him cheerily before he even knocks on the dining room door.

“How many times have I told you not to knock?” She smiles, and he can swear his blood feels just slightly warmer when he sees the honesty behind it. “I’ve made you coffee.”

“You’re too kind to me,” he voices his thoughts, offering her a twitch of the corner of his mouth when she hands him the mug.

“I know I am,” she bites her lip playfully, “but who will I be kind to, if not you?”

“Me, for example,” Michael walks into the room, kissing her cheek and grabbing his own mug from her other hand. “I’m your brother.”

She rolls her eyes, “You could say the same thing to Gerard, see if he cares.”

Frank chuckles darkly. “Don’t mess with Tess.” That earns him a shove in the shoulder from the both of them.

“Nice sweater, by the way, Frank.” She smiles and walks into the kitchen, leaving Frank to purse his lips slightly at Michael’s evident confusion.

He then stops, furrows his brow then focuses his look on Frank’s neck, eying the marks suspiciously; just a hint of exasperation behind the crease of his forehead. “He touched you again.”

“I let him,” Frank admits, letting the bitter taste of coffee burn down his throat smoothly. He knows he should feel like he’s been caught doing something wrong, but he doesn’t. Not this time.

“Are you sure?” Michael’s words are careful, reserved, but holding a warning behind their tone nevertheless.

“I might be a monster, a murderer by nature; but I’m no rapist,” a voice sounds from the doorway, filling the air with tension and making the room feel even colder than the early morning has made it. He walks towards the table, offering no further explanation as he pours coffee into a mug of his own and exits. Seasons change, but people don’t.

“Frank.” Michael now sounds extremely alert and cautious, but Frank knows it’s just because he worries. “How many times… the emotional bond is strong enough as it is. You were so close to completely wiping out the physical… why does this keep happening?”

Frank swallows a lump, an obnoxious noise filling the air as he gulps. “There was a storm, M. I couldn’t leave him by himself.”

“Since when does ‘not leaving him by himself’ mean ‘letting him fuck you’?”

Frank bites down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood and Michael can feel that he’s crossed a line.

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to snap. I just…” he trails off, sighing.

“It’s fine, it isn’t your fault. I lose control sometimes,” Frank takes one last sip from his mug, his hands shaky and upset.

His coffee’s turned cold. He has, too.

*

Frank doesn’t see Gerard again until five days later.

His coat is ragged and he smells of dried rain and fine cigarettes, his hair damp and falling over his shoulders like solid ink against paper. Frank knows he has that scent all over himself, even though he’s tried scrubbing his skin off so many times he thinks he might as well go insane.

The house is empty again, and Frank suddenly feels trapped inside his own skin. The music filling the room is quiet, some unnamed etude of an unnamed composer only tangling his thoughts further than they were before.

Gerard throws his coat over the armchair, fabric hitting fabric silently and defiling the beat in the air. He undoes the top button of his shirt and leans against the wall, sighing along with the melody that’s flowing through the room quietly.

Frank can hear his breathing getting shallower by the minute even from as far as his position on the sofa.

“Dance with me,” he says, out of the blue, catching Frank by surprise and making him raise an eyebrow at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

Gerard smirks, slight, walking over to the sofa and reaching a hand out for Frank to take. “Dance with me.”

“You are supposed to keep your distance from me. What about the bond?” Frank dismisses his hand and pulls out a thread from the hem of his sweater. He needs something else to focus on, something that isn’t the smell of stale smokes and Gerard’s Arabian rose shampoo.

He puts a hand on Frank’s knee and crouches down slightly, only to lean closer and brush his lips over Frank’s jaw line. It sparks something deep inside his gut, but Frank is reluctant to acknowledge it to himself.

“Dance with me,” he repeats, low. His voice is soft but his tone is demanding, and Frank knows that he has got no other choice. Or he does, but he honestly doesn’t want to consider what it would be. His hand is shaky as he puts it over Gerard’s, whose lips curl upwards against Frank’s skin, and intertwines them.

He pulls them upwards, his arm around Frank’s waist and eyes observing every glitch of doubt that might linger on his face. At one point he just smiles at him, and Frank would never admit that it’s a scene he could look at for three days straight and not once try to look away.

“You know,” Gerard says, “I’ve figured it out.”

Frank looks at him, expecting for him to continue. His face is uncertain, but honest, as if he’s a wind blowing in uneven waves, looking for someone to confirm its pace is right.

“They’re all so afraid of me. Every other person who isn’t Michael or Tessa has taken me as a possible threat, someone who might hurt them any minute,” he breathes a laugh, bitter and pained as it’s leaving the edge of his lower lip.

“I’ve never been afraid of you,” Frank admits, feeling his fingers gripping at Gerard’s shirt just a tad bit tighter. “You shouldn’t be afraid of someone who seeks for you when they’re trying to hide away from the only thing that scares them.”

“If I promise, now, that I won’t leave- will you be with me when I feel like the lightning will strike me open like it does the sky?” Gerard doesn’t sound pleading but his eyes feel that way because Frank knows how stupid he must feel for asking such a thing.

“Until my last breath,” Frank vows, in a whisper, his words leaving his mouth while they’re dangerously close to Gerard’s. He kisses him then, clear and broken, but significant and satisfied at the same time.



There are things people will never understand.

One of them is that Frank hasn’t fallen in love with the monster that lies within the psychotic side of Gerard’s brain. Not in the rusty red littering his fingertips, or the snow that’s been tinted crimson for all this time.

He’s fallen in love with the poetry he’s found in Gerard’s closet, the way it always feels like it’s raining because Gerard smells like way too much nicotine for it to be healthy, but with an undertone of purity that makes it seem like he’s surreal. The way he makes Frank feel like he’s on fire, the way he’s not too scared to show him the weaknesses nobody would assume he might hold.

He’s fallen in love with Gerard Way, the man who is afraid of thunderstorms.

Notes

I write way too many oneshots and listen to way too much horror punk while writing the mentioned.
xomls