Your Heart on the Line

I woke up the next morning to find Bert shaking me. Blinking slowly, I assessed the situation. That was, I was lying there, and Frank was next to me, naked spare his briefs. Unconsciously, I pulled the blanket higher to my chin, sneaking a glance over at Frank to see him still sleeping before I spoke, “Good morning.”
“Morning,” Bert greeted. “Something went on between you and Iero. We all know it.”
I asked, “What? What makes you say that?”
Bert pauses, sets a hand on the blanket, and then yanks the covers away. Frank, still asleep, lies there in his underwear, snoring softly. Bert’s eyes widen when he sees Frank initially, but they return to their normal size shortly before a waggle of the eyebrows.
I rolled my eyes, then nudging Frank gently. “Frank. Wake up.”
Pete rushed down the stairs, calling for Bert. “Where’d you-” his voice cut off; he turned the corner, and seeing Frank lying there on the futon, he burst into laughter. I continued shaking Frank, and he finally started to stir slightly in his sleep. Pete walked over, reeled back, and smacked Frank hard on the ass.
Frank’s eyes shot open, and he groaned, “Ow.” Burying his head into the mattress, he whined, “What the hell happened?”
“Nice briefs, Iero,” Bert teased.
Frank looked at him confused, his eyes tired and narrow. Then, he looked down at himself and turned a furious shade of red. “Shut up!”
“I know you haven’t been entertaining much for the ladies Frank, but these…” Pete grabbed onto Frank’s waistband and pulled it before allowing it to snap harshly back onto Frank. “These are a great big neon sign that says ‘please don’t sleep with me.’”
“And they’re social suicide,” Bert added.
“And they’re social suicide,” Pete repeated, giggling.
Frank stood, shoving Pete out of the way as he moved. One hand over the front of his briefs as the other reached for his pants, he murmured, “You guys are such fucking assholes, really.”
Pete grabbed Frank’s jeans before he could, holding them over his head. “Well, this asshole’s got your jeans.” With that, he took off, racing upstairs. Frank groaned and turned to Bert, asking, “Can I at least have the blanket while I go after him?”
Nodding, Bert handed over the comforter wordlessly, while Frank mockingly mouthed a thank you. With that, he went upstairs, and Bert and I stayed there, straining to hear what was going on up there. We heard a shout, followed by another shout, some banging, and one final fit of yelling before Frank returned downstairs, fumbling with the button of his pants.
“What all happened up there?” I asked, one eyebrow raised quizzically.
Making it to the bottom of the steps, Frank pulled on his shirt, telling, “Ask Pete, he’d love to tell you.”
Not a second later, Pete came limping down the steps, complaining, “Ugh, I think I sprained my ankle.”
Bert smirked, noting, “That’s not all you sprained.”
“What do you mean?” Pete asked. His eyes followed Bert’s, to where he finally saw his wad of underpants raised over the top of his pants in a slouched bunch. “Oh, yeah. I’m pretty sure Frankie ripped my boxers, thanks a lot.” He pushed the material back into his pants as Frank took a playful bow or two.
I rolled my eyes, mumbling, “Stupid fucking boys.”
“That’s funny, Gerard, you’re one of the stupidest fucking boys I know,” Bert countered.
Initially, the three of were going to hang out until Ray woke up, but as noon passed, we realized that our curly friend was pretty much out for the day. We went home, Bert leaving in his rusted Oldsmobile while Pete and I piled in with Frank, only this time, I got the front seat.
“Frank, what the fuck? I’m always your copilot,” Pete objected as he nonetheless crammed himself into the backseat.
“You’ve been demoted, Captain Douche Face,” Frank retorted. I stifled a laugh, and for a brief moment, Frank glanced over at me, exchanging a smile before he started the car and drove us home.
Once I settled into my house that night, I texted Frank, “Do you remember last night at all? It was pretty crazy.”
I waited, as much as I hated to admit it, I waited and was preoccupied with getting a response. It took about twenty minutes, and for all of that time, I was merely sitting on my bed, holding my phone and twiddling my thumbs. In my head, I pictured all of the possible responses he could send. I dreamed of him smiling at the backlight of his phone, lips upturned as he pecked out an answer that yes, how could he have forgotten what went on when everyone else had passed out. Finally, short and simple, I got the answer that I had feared. “No; I was so gone. Last thing I remember is vodka in the closet.”
My heart sank in my chest. He didn’t remember? Any of it? He couldn’t be that fucking dumb, right; he would’ve put two and two together when he woke up next to me nearly naked. I wanted to pry, and I wanted to pull each and every hair on his head until I drew the recognition from his lips. But, I didn’t. I retreated; I withdrew. I gave up, letting Frank think for the entire night that everything was fine, that I was okay and nothing had happened between us. Not wanting to make a huge fool of myself by freaking out, I repressed it instead, only hoping that when tomorrow came, I could go back to the way things were. That would be much easier for Frank; going to school tomorrow and continuing to treat me as nothing but a kid brother. For me, to look into those amber eyes of his and to actually be able to picture the body under his clothes, to do that and to call him a friend, well, I didn’t think there was anything in my life that would have prepared me for that heartache.

Notes

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