Alright, going to Gerard's house. Come on, Frank, you gotta bring your A game. Wear the jeans that make your ass look good, the ones with the holes in the knees. I pulled them on, feeling my dog's judging eyes on me the whole time I went through my dresser.

"You know what, Pea?" I said finally, turning around to face her. "Stop judging me. You'd be doing the same if you were in my situation."

Then, I realized that I was talking to my dog. I bet Gerard doesn't do that to his dog; does he have a dog? Maybe he has a cat. I can roll with cats.

Minutes later, I have on a Jawbreaker t-shirt underneath a beige cardigan, along with the jeans and my pair of old, beat up, white Converse. My hair refused to cooperate with me, so I just pushed it out of my eyes and hoped for the best.

I grabbed my acoustic and an empty notebook, shoving a few picks into my pocket, and I grabbed my keys and phone.

My hands were shaking as I drove to the address he told me. I had to go into a part of Los Angeles that no one hopes to find themselves in at night, and I furrowed my eyebrows as I pulled up in front of the smallest, shabbiest-looking house on the street. The weather— cloudy and dismal— only made it look worse. I double-checked the numbers and street name in the notes on my phone, sure I made a mistake somehow, before noticing the mailbox.

It had various little doodles on it that I could just by looking at them that they were Gerard's. On top of all of the strangeness was 'Way', painted on in ornate, shocking purple letters.

I pulled my guitar around my body, letting it hang behind me, and tucked the composition book under my arm. I knocked on the door, trying in vain to listen for anyone saying anything.

"Gee!" Mikey's voice bled through the wall. "Frank's here!"

I heard Gerard mumble something and the door opened to show Mikey, his hair unruly, rubbing his hands on his jeans. "Hey," he said, opening the door wider to let me in. "Gee's in the back, he'll be out in, like, five minutes."

"It's fine," I told him and sat down on the couch, taking notice of short little hairs imbedded in the fibers. "You guys have a dog?" I asked.

"And a cat," Mikey replied, leaning against the wall of the room. "Susan's outside, and Mitch's around here somewhere. Probably in Gee's room with him."

"Susan and Mitch?" I asked.

"Actually, it's Susan Michelle and Mitchell," Mikey corrected me. "I don't know where Gerard comes up with this kinda stuff. He once said that, if he ever has a daughter, he wants to name her Bandit."

"That's actually kinda cute," I said.

"Yeah, it kinda is," Mikey agreed.

After a few awkwardly silent moments, Gerard's voice floated down the hallway that led to his bedroom, presumably. "What're you... Cat. Calm yourself. Yes, there's a strange man in the living room, I know. That's Frankie; he's nice."

So, he talks to his pets too. But what the fuck is this 'Frankie' bullshit? I mean, I like it, but where did it come from?

Then, a small, gray-striped cat flew into the living room, placing itself at the feet of the younger Way. Mikey bent down and picked up his brother's cat, absently running his fingers down Mitch's back.
Gerard followed quickly after, in all of his tight-jeans glory. He apparently had the same idea that I did, picking a pair that hugged his ass, along with a white t-shirt that read GO WATCH THE WATCHMEN in bright yellow letters.

"Mitch's losing his damn mind," he said to me, taking Mitch from Mikey's arms. He gave Mitch a small kiss on the tip of his nose and let him jump to the floor with a thunk. "It's you, Frank. You're making my cat lose his mind."

"I seem to have that effect on animals," I told him and Gerard sat down next to me. Mitch rubbed his head on Gerard's calf, purring loudly, before moving to me. He tentatively licked the fabric of my jeans, then started to rub his body along my leg.

"He likes you," Gerard told me.

"Nah, nobody likes me," I joked. "I'm pretty much the president of the No Fun Club."

"Well, my cat likes you, so you'll have to deal with another somebody liking you," Gerard said, giving me his signature sideways smile.

"Another?" I asked.

"Me," he told me. "I don't like you like that, but, I mean, you're enjoyable to be around."

"Oh," I said quietly, feeling my face fill up with heat. "Alright. Song. Let's hit it."

"Oh, yeah," Gerard said and turned to face Mikey, who was still leaning against the wall and now had a music magazine in his hands. "Mikes, can you go get the notebook off my nightstand?"

"What, your legs don't work?" Mikey asked, raising a single eyebrow, not taking his eyes off of what he was reading.

"Tragically, no," Gerard sighed dramatically. "I sat down and lost all feeling in my legs, and I am afraid that there is no cure. I shall live out my days on this here couch."

"Then, fucking drag yourself to your room and get your notebook," Mikey replied.

"But little brothers are supposed to help their suddenly-paralyzed older brothers," Gerard noted.
After a split second, Mikey said: "You better be glad that I love you as much as I do."

"Love you too," Gerard said and blew a kiss in his brother's direction as Mikey retreated down the hallway.
Mikey returned quickly with a small, leather-bound notebook, tossing it to Gerard. "I'll be in my room," he said as he turned back around and left the room once more.

"Okay, let's see..." Gerard muttered, opening the notebook. He flipped past pages and pages, all filled with what I can identify as his handwriting, some pages filled out in blue ink, others in black. Finally, about a quarter of the way through, he stops and hands the notebook to me. "Skylines and Turnstiles," he told me proudly.

You're not in this alone/Let me break this awkward silence/Let me go/go on record/Be the first to say I'm sorry/Hear me out/And if you take me down/Or would you lay me out/And if the world needs something better/Let's give them one more reason now, now, now

"Dude, this is great," I told him, stopping after the first verse. "Can I ask what inspired this?"

"A lot, really," he said. "It's kind of about, umm, 9/11, honestly. 'Cause I was only eighteen and Mikey was barely two— like, seriously, his birthday is the tenth of September, so barely two— and it horrified me. I was so afraid, 'cause I was actually on my way into the city and I..." He swallowed, as if trying not to cry. "I watched the Towers go down. I was easily the youngest person on that ferry, and, for the first time in my life, I was so scared that I couldn't even talk."

"Oh, jeez," I said quietly. "9/11, I was in English class and I remember suddenly all of these kids were getting checked out by their parents and nobody understood why. Then, they called for me, and my mom told me that someone had crashed a plane into one of the Twin Towers. I was only fourteen, so I didn't quite understand what that meant."

"Wait, hold on," Gerard stopped me. "Are you trying to tell me that you— at the current moment— are twenty-eight? I thought you were, like, twenty-three or something!"

"My twenty-ninth is actually next Friday," I told him. "Like, the 31st."

"Oh, yeah, your tattoos," he said. "You told me your birthday was on Halloween, 'cause I made the 'ween' joke."

"Sure did," I replied. "As if I hadn't heard everyone I showed someone in the past ten years."

"There's no way you got knuckle tattoos when you were eighteen."

"I did. My first tattoo was this..." I started, pushing up my sleeve enough to show him my wrist.
"'Revenge'?" Gerard asked, reading the word.

"I was a punk piece of shit when I was sixteen," I told him.

"You were not sixteen," Gerard said.

"I was," I told him. "Ever since I was twelve, I've wanted tattoos. Growing up in Jersey, you know, you get into some pretty bad stuff pretty early."

"You're telling me," Gerard said quietly.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I had a substance-abuse problem about ten years ago," he said flippantly, waving his hand around as if trying to dispel the bad memories. "You already knew that I grew up in Jersey, and I got into drinking when I was, like, seventeen, eighteen. I got it under control by the time I was twenty-one, and was completely sober by twenty-two."

"You said substance abuse," I noted quietly.

"Oh, yeah," he whispered. Suddenly, the atmosphere seemed very uncomfortable, and he shifted in his seat. "I... Kinda don't wanna talk about it. It's just a really dark time in my life, and—"

"You don't have to explain yourself, it's okay," I told him, resting my hand on his knee gently. "You don't wanna talk about, that's fine."

"Thanks, Frankie," he said and gently took the notebook from my hands. "Alright, let's get started."

---

About an hour later, we had finished the whole song. Gerard knew almost nothing about writing guitar chords, which was fine by me, but damn, could this man sing.

"This feels really strange knowing that we finally have a song written that we can play," Gerard said, leaning back into the couch cushions.

"We?" I asked, popping my knuckles.

"Well, I sure as hell didn't do this by myself," Gerard said. "Team effort, Frankie."

"Oh, okay," I said.

"So, umm..." He started, stopping the clear his throat. "How many tattoos do you have?"

"Christ, I don't even know," I realized. "A lot."

"Can I see them?" He asked quietly, biting his thumbnail.

"Umm, how much do you want to see? 'Cause I have them on my arms and legs, on my chest and back, hips, stomach. Anywhere I could get a tattoo, I got one," I told him.

"I would like to see all of them, but if you don't want to do that..." He started and trailed when I stood up and pulled off my sweater along with my t-shirt, exposing my chest and stomach.

"Shit, Frank," he gasped, standing up and lightly brushing his fingertips along my chest. "This is badass. I've always wanted tattoos, but a crippling fear of needles renders me pretty useless."

"Needles?" I asked.

"I don't really like things inside of my body," he explained. "Like, at all."

Did he just... Did he tell me that he's a top? Is Gerard a fucking top? I would have thought that he was a bottom. What the fuck?

"I understand that," I told him, even though I really didn't. As a bottom, I have to say that that logic is utter shit. But, I mean, it would be an honor to be a bottom with Gerard.

Frank, stop thinking about having sex with Gerard. Don't pop a boner when he's looking at your tattoos.
Gerard gently put his hands on my waist and turned me slightly to see my back. "'Keep the faith'," he read. "Bon Jovi. Nice. What're these guns on your back?"

"I'm not that sure, really," I said. "I got a lot of these because they looked cool."

Gerard raised his eyebrows and turned me back around, reaching up to my neck and pushing my hair away to look at my neck tattoos. "Scorpio," he said and smiled.

"Yep," I replied.

"What is this one?" He asked, looking at my other neck piece.

"Don't listen to much punk, I see," I said. "It's a Jawbreaker song, Jinx Removing."

"How old were you?"

"Nineteen."

"Shit, Frank," he repeated. "What's your newest piece?"

"It's on my hips," I told him. "I got it during summer vacation a few months ago."

"Can I see that?" He asked.

"Sure," I said and popped the button on my jeans, pulling them down enough to show the birds on my hips.

"Woah," Gerard said, blinking in surprise. "That's great."

At that moment, the sky outside ripples with thunder and a bloodcurdling crack of lightening sounded. Gerard yelped and jolted, moving so that his chest was against mine. "Sorry," he said as the pounding of rain started on the roof. He kept away his eyes away from mine.

"It's fine," I said quietly, smiling a bit.

And then something weird happened. His hands went back to my waist, like earlier, but he didn't move me. He locked his fingers in the belt loops of my jeans and tugged me closer to him, so close that the tip of his nose was a mere centimeter away from mine. Slowly, hesitantly, he pressed his lips to mine, his eyes slipping closed.

I did the same, wrapping my arms around his neck as I rose up the one inch that separated our heights. I could sense that he wanted to do more but he was trying to control himself. He pulled away slightly, turning his head to the side and capturing my bottom lip in-between his teeth, gently pulling.

Finally, he pulled away fully, pressing his forehead against mine. "Damn, Frankie," he said quietly. "You're a good kisser."

"You're one to talk," I whispered.

"Can I kiss you again?" He asked.

"You can kiss me whenever and wherever you want," I told him and tried to control my smile as he claimed my lips again.

"Wait," he started against my lips. "Wherever? How about..." He trailed off and sat down on the couch, positioning himself so that he laid with his head on the arm.

He pulled me down to straddle his hips and immediately kissed me, running his tongue across my bottom lip. With no hesitation, I opened my mouth and he pushed his tongue in. Along with that, he rocked his hips up against mine, and I moaned into his mouth, doing the same to him.

We only stopped when the doorbell rang and a loud pounding came from the front door. Gerard pulled his mouth away and sat up, putting his hand on my back to keep me on his hips. "Mikey!" He called. "Answer the door!"

"Why can't you?" Mikey called back from his room. "You're the one in the living room!"

"We're indisposed," Gerard replied and silence came from down the hallway.

"I swear, if you two are fucking when I walk in there..." Mikey mumbled finally, and the floorboards creaked as he came out of his room.

Gerard shrugged and whispered: "Never said anything about making out." I smiled and he leaned back in, kissing me again as Mikey came in.

"Oh, jeez, guys," he mumbled as the doorbell went off again. "Hold on, I'm coming!"

He unlocked the door and immediately yelped. "What're you doing here?" He asked whoever was at the door, his question coming out as a near-snarl.

"Where's your brother?" A man asked and Gerard pulled away from me, his eyes opening and growing wide.

"Why do you care?" Mikey asked.

"I want to see him," the man said and Gerard pushed me off of him, quietly whispering in my ear.
"Don't say anything, don't do anything. Just put on your shirt and try to act natural," he instructed me. "I'll get rid of him really quick."

I nodded, abiding by his 'don't say anything' rule. I pulled my shirt on with my sweater, and grabbed my guitar, setting it on my leg, readying myself to start playing if I needed to. Who is this at the door?

"No," Mikey said defiantly. "He doesn't like you anymore. Let him alone."

"Where is Gerald?" The man asked harshly and Gerard stopped where he was, frozen still.

"My brother's name is Gerard, asshole," Mikey growled.

"You don't talk to me like that, you little bitch," the man snarled and Gerard's face immediately hardened as he stood up, breezing across the room to the door.

"Mikey, go to your room," Gerard told his brother, moving him out of the way of the door.

"Gerard, I'm not a child anymore," Mikey argued but Gerard shot him a dangerous look.

"Go to your room," he repeated harshly, and Mikey huffed in frustration but left the room anyway.
"Bert," Gerard said with obvious disdain. "What're you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too, baby," the man— Bert— said and my heart pounded at the nickname. "I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink."

"I've been sober for ten years, Bert," Gerard snapped.

Bert scoffed. "Sure."

My blood boiled at Bert's words and I gripped the neck of my guitar tightly. Who the hell does he think he is, talking to Gerard like that?

"Just leave," Gerard told Bert. "I don't fucking want you here."

"Well, baby, that's too bad, 'cause I'm not leaving," Bert said.

"I'm not your baby anymore!" Gerard cried. "Stop calling me that!"

"Baby, it's raining," Bert said, disregarding Gerard's dislike of his nickname. "And it's cold. Let me inside."
Gerard sighed heavily and said: "Bert, I'll try to be rational about this. Please leave me alone. I've been okay since we broke up, and I just want you to leave."

"Why won't you let me in?" Bert asked. He laughed and asked: "Got a guy in there?"

"Leave, Bert," Gerard requested.

"Answer my question," Bert said roughly. "Do you have someone in there that you don't want me to see?"
Gerard sighed again, but gave no verbal answer.

"You do, don't you?" Bert accused, and suddenly, Gerard cried out and fell to the ground. "It's been two fucking weeks, and you're already opening your goddamn legs for another guy! You whore."

With Gerard out of the way, I was able to see the man who had just slapped Gerard across his face. Light brown hair, shaved on the sides, weighed down with rain water, and startling blue eyes looked down at Gerard in disgust. Dressed completely in black, with his hood down off of his hair.

Bert.

Notes

This is Bert. He's an asshole.

xoKristin