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All We Need is Daylight

Standing Still

“I know it’s stupid,” Frank says. “I’ve done this a hundred times. Thousands. Yet for some fucking reason, I can’t even skate in straight fucking line.”

“Frank, it’s not stupid. You’ve been through some shit, I’m not expecting you to pick everything up like you did before this happened.”

“But I’m a skater,” Frank groans, stopping in front of Gerard, who’s leaning over the edge of the box, looking at him, watching Frank mercilessly mess up the things that peewee hockey players can do. “He was a skater boy, yada yada.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean it’s easy after what you’ve been through. Mikey started hockey when he was about six or seven, alright, because I was on a team and he wanted to be like me, so he started skating, but he was absolutely shit at it at first, you know, because all kids are. He was skating at this park near our house which has an ice rink which was honestly garbage, the ice was uneven and there were usually frozen leaves and branches and shit in the ice, so it was pretty dangerous if we’re being honest. Well, Mikey went skating there and he must have like, hit something in the ice because he went flying into the barrier. You just heard this big ass thud and then he’s lying on the ground, bleeding fucking everywhere. Turns out he broke his nose, it was pretty nasty. After that, he never wanted to skate again, right? He completely disowned the sport, and he was really little, that kind of thing makes an impression so I never thought I’d see him on the ice again after that. But eventually, I was practicing with my team and Mikey decided to give it one more go. It was about a year later, but he got himself some skates and he went back out there and he did it. He just skated. And ever since then, he hasn’t taken his skates off.”

“Gerard, I didn’t hit a wall. I didn’t get hurt from hockey.”

“Oh, you know the point I’m trying to make. I’m not good at metaphors, I have a degree in art, Frank, not writing.”

Frank smiles at him a little bit, pausing a little longer than he really should just to look at Gerard. Gerard’s dressed in all black, because he seems to think that “sneaking” into the hockey arena at two in the morning is an occasion for it. That, or it’s the warmest outfit he had to go hang out in an ice rink which, believe it or not, is pretty cold. Might have something to do with the ice.

He looks fucking cute in it. He’s got a long black knit type sweater which looks like the perfect quality to steal from your boyfriend so you can smell him when he’s not around. Gerard looks, somehow, a little more proper than usual. Normally, Gerard’s clothes are baggy and greying, but he looks cleaner today. It’s an achievement on any given day if Gerard looks clean, considering the boy showers once a week, but today must have been that once a week.

In all fairness, Frank hasn’t showered in a while either, and now he’s working himself up into a sweat from practicing. He’s going to smell worse than Gerard usually does.

This was his idea, so if Frank’s not happy with his progress it’s on him. He’s been afraid of the ice, almost like it holds a monster waiting to devour him. That monster is likely his own memories. There are echoes of his memories all around the walls of this building. He can’t step or look anywhere without seeing things. Not all of them are bad.

Over by the penalty box is where he first met Ray, who stopped to say hello to Frank when he first arrived here. In the seats near the entrance is where he first saw Gerard, disheveled, unclean, baggy old Gerard. In this room he’s won games, lost games, fallen over, pushed others over. He’s only been here for a little while but it’s riddled with his presence.

Frank loses himself in the moment. He’s always the best skater when he’s not thinking about it. When he just is, rather than tries. You always run into the problem of trying too hard when you put too much thought into things. It’s easier to let yourself unwind and let yourself be.

Gerard’s insides swirl in a vat of longing. Frank is so unearthly gorgeous. He’s so effortlessly talented. He’s everything Gerard wants but can’t have.

Frank skates with the beauty and grace of a paint brush on a canvas. Gerard likes to consider himself a fairly good artist, but he’s nothing in comparison to what Frank is. Frank is some celestial being, an angel in disguise, and he doesn’t even realize it.

Gerard knows he means something to Frank, and in turn, Frank knows he means something to Gerard. But neither is entirely sure just how much they mean to the other.

Frank stops in front of Gerard who’s there physically but his mind is lost somewhere in the metaphysical. He looks at Gerard, because Gerard isn’t paying any attention at all, and it’s the perfect moment for Frank to get to look at him and just stare, just gawk, just wish and want. It takes several moments for Gerard’s mind to return to this plane of existence, but when he does he looks at Frank looking at him and blushes a little bit.

Frank bites his lip before he skates away, full speed, just to see how fast he can run away from his problems. As it turns out, quite quickly.

From the outside looking in, this is an extremely non-heterosexual dynamic, but neither of them is capable of seeing that themselves. Frank just hopes one of these days he’ll wear himself out of this crush. That eventually he’ll find someone who he has an actual chance with and not his straight assistant coach.

The speeding train of his own mind is interrupted by Gerard’s voice. “Frank your form’s all wrong. If you skate like that, I’d be able to knock you over with a feather,” he shouts at him, which is his way of showing affection on the ice. If Gerard doesn’t yell out criticisms it means you’re doing so poorly he doesn’t think you’re worthy of pointers. It’s nice to know that things haven’t changed that much, no matter what’s happened.

Frank stops several feet away from where Gerard stands and calls over him, “When was that last time you skated, Gerard?” It’s a lot to hear criticism from a guy who you’ve never actually seen do something. Why should Frank listen to him if Gerard’s never even on the ice?

“Uh, right around the time I took this job,” Gerard says, not expecting to be called out on it right now, least of all by Frank.

“Junior year?” Frank asks.

Gerard shrugs, “Sounds about right. I went once over Christmas break, back at the ice rink near my house, but I haven’t been skating since then.”

“Seriously?” Frank asks, looking at Gerard, aghast. “Why? Didn’t it hurt you to stop? Like, I get that you didn’t want to play hockey anymore, but to stop skating altogether?”

“I guess it just didn’t make sense to me to spend too much time worrying about my own skills. I don’t mean for this team or this game to be about me, I want it to be about the sport, or how good this team is at what they do. I just got too focused on that.”

Frank doesn’t stew on his words much before saying, “I want to see you skate.”

Gerard makes a sound that definitely couldn’t be considered excitement, and looks around the rink like he’s trying to find something which he could use as an escape. He stares at the barrier in front of him for a little while as opposed to staring at Frank. Staring at anything besides Frank is easier, because Frank is beautiful enough to burn your eyes out if you look at him a bit too long.

“It’s been a really long time Frank,” Gerard says, “I don’t even have skates.”

“Uh, yeah you do,” Frank says, eyeing Gerard skeptically. “They’re in your office, I’ve seen them.”

“Those are really old.”

“You wore them only two years ago.”

“What if they don’t fit?”

“Your feet have grown six sizes in the past two years?”

“You’re not going to let me make an excuse, are you?”

“Skating is life, Gerard,” Frank says, grinning back at him. Gerard sighs, but he doesn’t refuse. Frank grins as he stands up, walks towards the doors and then disappears behind them.

Frank waits for a moment, then realizes it’s going to take a while, so instead does a few laps around the rink which is a bit of a workout for someone running around a track, but when you’re skating it takes less than a minute to do a full lap.

Frank can’t believe he ever considered giving this up. Even without a hockey stick, this is everything. Being on the ice, being completely at peace and his own, and without anyone else in the world to look down on him or to outmatch him. He’s never met anyone who could outmatch him. Maybe someday if he ever actually makes it to the NHL. Like it’s a possibility that he won’t. He’s not going to give up until his name is on the jerseys of little kids everywhere. Not until he’s up for discussion on ESPN, first and last name, talking about his games, not about scandals he’s anonymously part of. Frank won’t give up until he’s captain, until he touches the Stanley Cup, until he retires to coach the Devils when he’s too old to play for them.

His dreams are in the stars, and he won’t stop until he’s one of them. Never. Not for anything, not for anyone. Fuck everything else. He’s been hurt, he’s been hurt a lot, and he’s not going to deny that. It’s hard sometimes, and when you get knocked down, it’s hard to pick yourself up again, but Frank won’t allow himself to stay out. He’s got too much in front of him to stand still.

There’s a sound from the opposite of the rink, and Frank turns his head to watch as Gerard steps out of the locker room, hesitantly, dull blades beneath him. His skates themselves look somehow antique due to infrequent use and the way he wears them only doubles that appearance. He’s like Bambi learning to walk.

“Fucking hell, I thought this was like riding a bike,” Gerard says, stepping very carefully, and slowly, over towards the wall so that he can hop over onto the ice.

“You’re not on the fucking ice yet, Gerard, that’s probably why it’s not easy.”

“Shut up,” Gerard says, meager annoyance in his voice. Frank snickers and feels himself moving backwards on his skates as he watches Gerard hesitantly make his way over. Frank is trying hard not to laugh at him, really he is, but it’s hard not to. Gerard is laughably bad at so much as walking on skates. They’re not made for carpet, or for concrete, but it’s not that hard to walk a couple of feet.

“Okay,” Gerard says, pleased with himself when his hands meet the wall and he can pull himself onto it, but not quite over it yet. He swings his legs over, and then there’s nothing but mere inches between Gerard’s feet and the ice and all Frank can do is wait, and tantalize over how he’s going to react to actually being on the ice for the first time in about two years.

Frank has never, apart from the first six years of his life, been off the ice for that long. Even through a few broken bones Frank has gotten back onto the ice within “6 weeks” which is what his doctor advised but he actually got back on at about 4 weeks because he cared more about skating than he did about healing. In a way, he still does. Skating is always first. Everything else is second. School, life, friends, they’re all second tier after hockey. Except for his emotional life right now, which is numbers one through infinity, unfortunately. He does believe that hockey, or at least skating, is instrumental in his own recovery because hockey is the most important thing to him. His mental health literally can’t improve if he deprives himself of what he loves.

“You’re doing amazing,” Frank says, waiting and he gives Gerard a bright smile which Gerard glances at, but has to look away immediately afterward, sure the beauty of it is going to blind him when combined with the dazzling bright white of the ice.

“Fuck, the things I’ll do for you,” Gerard whispers to himself, not loud enough so that Frank can hear it. Gerard lowers first one foot than the other down onto the ice, hands not letting go of the barrier behind him. He teeters carefully, trying to find his balance.

The ice is different underneath him, but entirely the same. It’s familiar in a way that food always tastes the same no matter how long it’s been since you’ve had it. It’s like his moms cooking. He hasn’t lived at home for about five years now, but if he saw her roasted potatoes in front of him, he’d remember them like he had them yesterday.

Just remembering the feeling of the ice below him doesn’t mean he remembers entirely how to be at peace with it. He’s standing on literal blades, fine, sharp blades, on top of ice, a slippery surface. It’s an idiotic concept to begin with, and it’s been ages since he had the feeling of it. Merely remembering it is not enough for him to utilize the memories.

Gerard, feeling bold, let’s go of the wall, gliding for a few seconds before one-foot slips in front of him. He doesn’t actually fall down but he does a dramatic dance around falling down before inevitably finding peace in a wide-legged stance.

“You look good,” Frank says, containing laughter.

“Fuck off, Iero,” Gerard replies. It doesn’t take him more than a minute to get the feeling of the ice under his feet in a way that he recognizes, and at a very rapid rate, he becomes familiar with it all over again. It welcomes him back, missing him as much as he missed it. He’s not going to be picking up where he left off, but he’ll give at least a ten-year-old a run for their money.

Frank watches him, gliding effortlessly across the arena like he’s an angel flying through the air. He’s an angel at least, Gerard won’t deny that. Frank skates backwards, watching Gerard grow comfortable, which doesn’t take too long, a relief to the both of them.

“You’re not too bad, you know,” Frank says smiling.

“Thanks,” Gerard responds, “I have been skating since before you were born.”

Frank scoffs. Gerard’s only about four years older than him, barely so. A small enough age gap that Frank could still date him. A small enough age gap that he could probably take Gerard home to his mother and she wouldn’t know he’s older. Hayley thought Frank and Gerard made sense. Frank thinks they make more sense than any other combination in the world. Gerard’s a loser and Frank’s a moron; they would live happily ever after.

“You ain’t shit on me, old man,” Frank says. Gerard, seeing this as a challenge, narrows his eyes.

Thinking he’s some ice skating god who has no concept of easing himself back into a sport he’d abandoned two years ago, Gerard skates over towards Frank, or where Frank had been, before Frank is seamlessly skating to the opposite side of the rink, in a way that actually makes Gerard question whether his skates are actually on the ice or whether he’s simply flying just above it, in a magical dance that Gerard isn’t worthy of witnessing.

Frank hardly needs any time at all to adjust to the skates once Gerard’s on the ice. Once Gerard’s out there, he makes it a point to prove he’s better. It’s not like they both don’t already know that, but he just wants it to be visibly obvious. Frank is the best skater he knows.

Frank quite literally skates circles around Gerard. Gerard makes a grumbling sound before he tries to catch up to Frank, who just stops in front of him, kicking ice at his feet.

“I guess we’ve proven that you’re not out of practice or anything,” Gerard says out of breath from moving a whole ten feet away from where he was a moment ago. “You just needed to prove you were better than me in order for you to pick yourself back up again.”

“It’s not a competition, but if it was, I’m winning,” Frank says grinning back at him.

Gerard grins, but frowns back at him.

“Come on Gerard,” Frank says, feeling alive and animated for the first time in forever, as he flies across the ice as naturally as he always has. Gerard grins back at him, cold, red face beaming at this beautiful man who’s never looked more graceful than he does on the ice. Without his normal hockey bulk, just a sweater and gloves, Frank really looks like he was born out there.

Gerard suddenly gets the urge to see Frank figure skating. He looks so graceful and natural on his hockey skates, unable to do tricks. What would it be like to see him actually flying, performing a dance across the ice. They’re such drastically different sports, one is aggressive, and sweaty, and clunky. The other is graceful, beautiful, pretty. Frank’s personality is the latter. It might mean he’s destined to it.

Gerard wonders just how amazing Frank is at it. He only ever got a glimpse, a sneak peek at that side of Frank. But what about when he knows someone’s watching? He’d probably be perfect either way, and even if he wasn’t, Gerard wouldn’t be able to tell.

He wishes that Frank didn’t have to hide that part of who he is, but he knows there’s no ulterior option for him. Even Gerard had been something close to angry when he first saw Frank figure skating. He thinks that was mainly based on ignorance, he’d never known anything about figure skating before Frank. He just assumed that it must be easier, must be less grueling, because it always looks so flawless, so seamless. It never occurred to him that figure skating is like ballet. It looks easy, like anyone could do it, but very few people are actually capable of doing something as intricate and hard as figure skating.

You bleed for figure skating. You don’t really bleed for hockey. You’ve got a couple of bruises, the occasional broken bone, or lost tooth. But you don’t bleed for it. Somehow, there’s a big difference.

“Are you going to just stand there with your mouth open or are you going to skate?” Frank asks him. He’s tempted to get out a couple of hockey sticks and a puck and really see how good Gerard still is, but he doesn’t think the time is quite right for that. Frank doesn’t really feel like he wants to play hockey right now, or wants to practice it. He just wants to skate. Nothing fancy, he just likes the breeze that flying through the air creates. He likes the speed and the balance and the way it makes him feel like he’s floating.

Sometimes he thinks that’s all he really cares about with either sport. It’s not about hockey, and it’s not about figure skating. It’s about feeling powerful on the ice. There are a few ways to achieve that power. To have a hockey stick in hand, a sense of comradery on a team and a pride in winning a game. But there’s also the feeling of being beautiful, of moving in ways that make jaws drop, of looking flawless and effortless. Skating just makes him feel better.

But hockey does mean a lot to him. He cares about the sport, feels physical emotions for the team and players he roots for. He cares so much. Hockey means everything in the world to him. And figure skating helps define him in so many ways as well. He doesn’t get the chance to be as open about that side of him but it doesn’t make it any lesser.

Frank flies around the rink, in a mostly circular way, looking behind him every now and again to see Gerard doing an alright job as well. He definitely doesn’t look new to skating but he doesn’t look like an expert either. This is a guy who was admitted to the same school Frank was, on a hockey scholarship like Frank’s. To be fair, Gerard is also a legacy so he was getting in either way, but it’s hard for Frank to see the hockey star that Gerard used to be.

Frank doesn’t actually know a whole lot about Gerard’s hockey career. He knows quite a bit about Gerard’s father, but not so much about him. He knows Gerard was a defenseman, and that his favorite hockey player was Scott Stevens, another defenseman who’s almost as famous for his fights with other players as he is for his skills. Frank wonders if that says anything about what kind of player Gerard was.

Frank’s also heard a lot of good things about Gerard’s time. People have never said he was the best on the team, but the vibe Frank has gotten was that he was close in skill to Morgan. He was damn good, and he might have been the best if he kept playing, but he wasn’t quite there. Frank wishes he could’ve seen it. He’d give anything to experience Gerard playing a real game.

Not paying attention, Frank doesn’t notice when Gerard comes barreling forward towards him. In an altogether Hannah Barbera fashion, Gerard collides with Frank, and his own weight pushes Frank over, both of them collapsing to the cold hard floor beneath them. It’s clearly Gerard’s fault, and he wouldn’t go about denying that. Gerard topples them both over which is the clearest sign, because Frank plays hockey, and therefor knows how to hit someone without falling over himself. What good is checking someone if you both go down? You’d get a penalty without even achieving something.

The fall itself is tedious, and lands an elbow in Frank’s ribcage which he’s surely going to be feeling in a few days. Frank makes a strangled sound, annoyed but not altogether angry. He manages to stop his head from crashing against the ice by holding his elbows out to catch him. Neither of them are wearing any protective padding, so it’d be a bad thing for both of them if Frank, already with the remainder of a head injury, hit his head on the ice. He’d definitely get that concussion he was worried about. Using his elbows to catch himself, he manages to spare himself from breaking his wrists also.

Gerard is completely unharmed by the fall as he has a very soft Frank to fall on top of. Ordinarily he wouldn’t complain, but he realizes that merely touching Frank is a slippery slope right now, so he feels way shittier about it than he needs to.

Frank looks up, aches and pains running through his body at an alarming rate, as if racing to see what limbs they can stiffen up first. He sees Gerard blinking back at him from a few inches away, looking uncomfortable. It’s the closest Frank’s face has ever been to Gerard’s, or at least it feels like it has to be. There’s a breath between them, not even enough to satiate.

Gerard looks into Frank’s eyes, and Frank looks back. There’s a very long moment. Long enough for Frank’s heart to beat into double digits. They look at each other, Frank glances down at Gerard’s lips, and Gerard takes a shaky breath that doesn’t do anything to alleviate his breathlessness.

In a movie, this is where they’d kiss. This is where the two of them would realize they’ve both been in love with each other all this time, and they would kiss passionately before going back to Gerard’s apartment and fucking through the night. They would wake up next to each other and smile fondly at the other, then they’d kiss and the screen would fade to black.

Except, they don’t have that, because it’s not a movie. Gerard awkwardly apologizes, and clambers off of Frank, falling instead against the ice, while Frank does his best to sit up, feeling a little different than he had before.

Frank almost considers saying something, because it’s clear there’s a tension between the two of them. He almost asks Gerard if he’s going insane. Because sometimes it really does feel like there is something there. It feels like he’s not just delusional, but like Gerard might actually feel something for him in return.

Instead, Frank just punches Gerard’s arm and says, “you fucking suck, man.”

“I- it’s been a few years. I’m really sorry,” Gerard replies, blushing. He doesn’t know what else to say. Frank laughs, it’s canned and it doesn’t really come from him, but he makes the sound happen. “I’m sorry,” Gerard repeats, watching as Frank stretches out his muscles, and rubs at a bruise forming on his elbow.

“Do you think they’ll need to chop it off?” Frank asks, lifting up his sleeve enough to show a tinge of purple on his arm.

Gerard evaluates it with mock seriousness. “Oh, surely.”

“Damn,” Frank groans, “and I wanted to compete on Wipeout. What am I going to do with only the one arm?”

“Hey man, the Paralympics are always an option.”

“You overestimate my skill,” Frank scoffs.

Frank is the first to stand up, and it’s probably a good thing it’s him, because he then attempts to help Gerard up, but Gerard is not quite accustomed to standing up while having literal knives attached to his feet. It takes them a couple of minutes for Gerard to become vertical again. It’s through no fault of Frank’s, and he doesn’t even let himself be pulled down by Gerard who seems to be attempting as much.

“I’m pretty sure I’m done for the day,” Frank says, flexing his arm out still, because now it’s surging through some new pains caused by Gerard pulling his arm out of its socket a little bit. “Seeing as I’ve been fatally wounded and all.”

“Shut up,” Gerard says, still blushing, but he nods in agreement. He’s eager to get out of these skates and back onto the firm ground.

“Watch yourself, dude, or I’ll push you over,” Frank says, and he means it. He may be irreparably in love, but he’s also a teenager. There’s something universally appealing to watching someone fall over. One of the core crutches to millennials is watching AFV in shitty hotel rooms while your family vacations in South Dakota to see some fucking faces in a mountain, and somehow the best part of the trip is watching some grown ass man fall on his ass on a TV that’s deeper than the intelligence of the contestants on the show. To witness that in real life is a godsend if there ever was one.

“Maybe you could help me out of these skates instead?” Gerard asks, giving him his best syrupy smile, reminding Frank that he’s only so strong and can’t resist the perfection of him.

“Yeah, alright,” Frank resigns, allowing Gerard to put an arm around him, and he guides him gently over to the box, before he hops over, then helps Gerard over with him. Somehow, Frank doesn’t seem to be all that bothered by the fact that Gerard drapes himself over Frank in order to walk. It doesn’t seem weird. It just seems normal. He knows he should be freaking out, and a month ago, he would be. But Gerard is his best friend, probably in the whole world, and it’s not weird like he knows it should be. It’s just Gerard, and it’s just him.

He does wish he could kiss him though. He wishes he could kiss his best friend. He knows if he did, and if Gerard reciprocated, the two of them would own the world. Because no one fits together as well as Gerard fits with Frank. The two of them are a seamless puzzle piece and no one else could ever compare. He would be able to do anything if Gerard was with him.

Frank doesn’t get to kiss Gerard. The two of them walk all the way to Gerard’s office rather than changing their shoes in the locker room for obvious reasons. Frank refuses to step foot in that locker room. Sitting down in his desk chair, Frank watches Gerard switch from his skates into regular shoes. He can’t help but look at him. There’s nothing that isn’t gorgeous about Gerard. His sharp face, his pudgy belly, his thighs which make Frank’s mouth water. He’s perfect. There’s nothing Frank doesn’t love. Most of all he loves Gerard’s smile. And his eyes.

Frank’s never considered himself to be a very vapid person, and Gerard is somehow proof of it. Gerard’s not the cutest guy in the world, and Frank knows that vaguely somewhere inside of himself. He knows that Gerard isn’t even the cutest guy on the team. But he is. He is so far more beautiful, and it’s because he’s who he is. It’s because he could talk about comic books for five hours, and because he only wears one pair of ugly white converse, and because he has pizza boxes stacked to the ceiling in his apartment and because he has paint stains underneath his fingernails, and because all of his clothes are too big and too grey. Gerard is simply the best because Gerard is Gerard.

Once in proper shoes, the two of them make their way out of the office, walking through the dark hall outside, which is lighted only by the streetlamps and moon seeping through the floor to ceiling windows. Frank watches him, he tries not to make it obvious, but he looks at Gerard. The two of them exit the building, Gerard fumbling with his keys to lock the doors behind him, and Frank eyes him, watches his perfect beauty in the perfect night.

“Are you, like, good to go back to your dorm or do you need to come back to my place?” Gerard asks, and it breaks something. Frank’s smile fades rather quickly, an animation like quality about the way it disappears from his face.

It’s like all of a sudden Frank realizes that he’s sad. He had been distracted by it. Gerard took that away from him, wholly, for a little while. He almost forgot. There’s a hollow pain in his gut, there probably always will be, but it hadn’t felt so heavy the past few hours.

“Shit,” Gerard says, seeing the look that befalls Frank’s face. He doesn’t know exactly how but he knows that he caused that look, that dilapidated look of resignation. “I’m sorry, I-”

“You didn’t do anything.” Frank stops Gerard’s apology, not wanting to hear it when Gerard didn’t do anything wrong. “I just forgot what it was like being me for a little while, that’s all. You took my mind off of it.”

“God, this fucking sucks,” Gerard says. He starts walking out into the night air, everything around them so quiet already. The world is confused about what season it is. It’s not quite autumn, and it’s not quite winter, but it almost still feels like summer. There’s no telling signs of crickets, so it’s certainly not summer, but the air still feels humid, though that might be because winter is menacing itself over the world.

“Yeah,” Frank replies. He doesn’t answer Gerard’s question about where he intends to go. He walks with Gerard, the same destination in mind.

“I wish I could tell you…” Gerard starts, but he drifts off.

“Tell me what?”

“I, well, I wish I could tell you that I can help you, that I know what to do to make things better, but I just, I don’t. I don’t have those answers. I want things to be better. I want that really bad.”

“I know you do,” Frank replies. “I want it too. But it’s fine if it takes a little while. As long as there’s like, there’s something after this. Whatever pain I have now, I genuinely believe things can be better. Eventually.”

“Can I at least, can I kick him off the team?” Gerard asks, not pretending he doesn’t know who did it. Frank must know that Gerard knows. It couldn’t have been clearer, there was only ever one person it could be.

“I just… he’s the best player on the team, Gerard. Apart from me, I guess, he’s the best we have.”

“So the team means more to you then… then to see him pay?”

“It’s not that, Frank shakes his head, “honestly. It’s just, if he goes, people are going to want to know why. If they want to know why, what do we say? And besides, you don’t have the authority to kick him off the team. Coach does. The school board does. If you were to try, what would you say? I know you’ve tried before, why would this time be any different?”

“I… I could tell them someone told me anonymously!” Gerard says, “you remember that article, I could use that to my advantage. I could tell them, and- and, he’d be kicked out of the school, or sent to prison, or just beaten to death by a lynch squad. Anything, Frank!”

“Gerard, I don’t… I don’t want that. I want things to go back to the way they were.”

“But if he’s still out there-”

“That’s my problem,” Frank replies. “it’s my problem. I don’t want you to go messing around with it.”

“I just care a lot about you,” Gerard’s words leave a silence in the night air. The two of them walk together, feeling like something’s missing. For Frank, it’s quite clear what’s missing, because it’s just about everything. Gerard doesn’t know why he feels as though there are pieces of him missing. He just knows that he’s sad, and that he’s miserable, and hurt, and it’s because he’s watching Frank go through this shit.

The only sound around them is feet hitting cement. The tension fades away as they walk, some of it being released with every footfall. Frank looks around at the world around him. He looks at the sky, with stars that are bright and vivid, unlike the town where he grew up. Everything is calmer out here. This school is its own self-contained world. Everything outside of it seems not to exist.

Gerard finds himself very confusingly pushed out of the way as Frank stomps hard on the ground beneath him. Gerard looks at him confusedly until he hears the telltale satisfying crunch of a leaf underneath Frank’s foot. Confusion turns into unparalleled, unfathomable love for this stupidly cute man.

“You’re so stupid,” Gerard says, laughing, the laugh seeming to come from somewhere internal and raw as Frank grins back at him, looking pleased with himself.

Frank doesn’t say anything in response, as he’s watching the ground, looking for more crunchy leaves.

Gerard spots one at the same time as Frank does and the two of them, unbeknownst to Frank, go for it at the same time. Gerard gets it first, and he had entirely forgotten just how amazing it feels to step on top of a crunchy leaf, but it’s an adrenaline rush akin to shooting up.

“You fucking asshole!” Frank says, loudly, though he’s smiling and Gerard grins back at him, looking unconcerned with this aggressive tactic. “It’s on bitch.”

The two of them then have a competition to see who can get the crunchiest leaves, and who can get to them first. Gerard almost steps on Frank’s foot a couple of times, and Frank does step on Gerard’s foot a couple of times. At least one of them is not an accident.

Only a few steps away from Gerard’s building, they’ve almost entirely exhausted the last of the leaves, but there’s one very visible and distinctly crunchy looking leaf before them. In a slow motion, anime type scene, the two of them both make their way for it. Gerard is too slow, and Frank’s foot beats him to it, filling the air with quite possibly the single most satisfying crunch that the world has ever allowed. Gerard smiles at the look on Frank’s face. He might have let Frank beat him on that one, but he’s not going to tell Frank, given how unfathomably cute he looks.

“You won this time, Iero,” Gerard says, squinting his eyes at Frank, who looks happier than Gerard can ever remember seeing him. It’s dazzling to see him smile, you need sunglasses to look straight at it.

Gerard wants to kiss him so bad. He wants to kiss Frank and wants Frank to kiss him back, and really that’s all he needs. He wants to kiss Frank. He wants to cuddle Frank. More than anything in the world he just wants that simplicity. He wants to be sweet and cute and romantic with Frank and to make Frank comfortable just by holding onto him.

He can envision a life with Frank, and at this point, it’s all he can envision. He can see himself sitting next to Frank when he gets a call telling him he’s been drafted into the NHL. He can see himself cheering Frank on from the bleachers during Frank’s first game. He can see himself crying as Frank touches the Stanley Cup. He can see himself beside Frank for the rest of his life.

Right now, Gerard holds the door open for Frank, letting him into the apartment building. It’s not everything he wants, but right now, it’s the best he can have. He wishes it were under different circumstances though. Even if they’re not together, he wishes Frank wasn’t here because of what happened to him. He wishes Frank were just here. Not because of anything.

Give it time, he tells himself. Frank may never want him, but Gerard will be here in support of him no matter what. It’s not Frank’s fault that he doesn’t love Gerard back. It never was. It’s Gerard’s own fault for falling for him. Frank does need to take some amount of blame for being as perfect as he is, but that’s not something he can help. Gerard will be here for him. Forever. When Frank makes it into the NHL and leaves this tiny town behind him, when he forgets Gerard’s name and his number, Gerard will still be there for him. He’ll be his biggest fan. He always will be. For Frank, he’ll always be right here, right here cheering him on. Right now is when Frank needs him most. Right now is also when Gerard most needs Frank.

Notes

I know it's been a while, life has gotten in the way, but to all of you still reading, know that I appreciate you more than words.

Comments

life is too short to not read every single frerard fanfic you can find

trashcore trashcore
4/8/19

@Helena Hathaway
sorry, i may have phrased that wrong. i love the story and i can't wait for the next update.

@kobra-poison-ghoul
there was literally an update a week ago

best fic I've ever read! is there ever going to be an update?

This is one of the only fics I read anymore! I can’t wait for the update :)

Zero percentile Zero percentile
5/22/18