Work Text:
you say your life will be the death of you
Frank lets himself into the house with the key that Gerard had given him, years ago. Opens the big blast door and heads down.
Gerard made a big production out of it, tucking the key in a bit of cotton before putting it in a little box, wrapping it in bright paper and presenting it to Frank. Gerard had smiled and bounced while Frank had turned the box in his hands, secretly pleased and scared.
It had been bought with Gerard's money, his art; it was Gerard's house, but it was their home.
It's been a while since Frank's been home, and even longer since he's seen Gerard's smile. The thought makes him feel old and bitter.
They didn't part on good terms. They rarely do.
He's been on the road for a couple of months, so the first thing he does is take a bath. He lies in the tub, eyes closed and soaking in the almost-too-hot water, and lets the dust from the road wash away. A shadow falls briefly over him; he doesn't have to open his eyes to know it's Gerard. There's no one else it could be.
Frank's not ready to deal with Gerard yet, so he doesn't open his eyes, doesn't look up, pretends that he doesn't feel Gerard staring at him and after a long moment, the shadow retreats.
He sighs and looks at his toes. They're strangely naked against the rest of the tattoos that sprawl across his body; there's very little of his skin that isn't covered by ink, black lines and bright colors, a patchwork of designs. It's not a true body suit because he'd never had a unifying theme for his tatts, just memories and events he wanted to etch into his flesh, a constant reminder.
He's always been terrified of forgetting.
Frank lets himself drowse and finally gets out of the tub when his fingers get pruney and gross and the water's mostly cold. He shivers and wraps himself in a big fluffy towel, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His hair is long and ragged and in desperate need of a trim. His face is the same as it's been since he was twenty-five.
He yawns, jaw-crackingly wide, and the exhaustion rolls over him, staggering him with the weight of it. He stumbles into his room, falls into the bed that's been waiting for him, and is asleep before he manages to pull the covers to his chin.
At some point, he wakes up and feels a warmth at his back; he rolls over and buries his nose against Gerard's neck, inhaling the familiar sweatcoffeehome smell of him. Missed you, he breathes silently. Gerard sleeps on, oblivious.
In the dimness, he can make out the pale shape of Gerard's face and he traces the sharp cheekbones, the pointy chin. Frank brushes his lips against Gerard's, soft and sweet. He's missed being near him, missed Gerard and the pain of it is familiar and strangely comforting. He's used to it.
He stares at Gerard until his face blurs in the darkness and Frank drops back into a restless sleep, exhausted.
Frank sleeps for a long time, recharging his internal reserves. He doesn't get a lot of rest when he's on the road; he's got to be watchful and careful, on alert, and what little he gets tends to be fragmentary. Here, in their home, he's safe. He lets down his guard and relaxes, and sleeps.
Every time he surfaces, however briefly, Gerard is there.
Gerard is always there.
and here in our hollow we fuse like a family
Francesco Montiero was born in 1762, the only son of minor Italian noble and his wife. He was named after his maternal grandfather, Francesco Cristofori, who built pianofortes. Having only a daughter to succeed him, he taught her the traditions of his craft, from running a workshop, to obtaining and preparing the materials, to matching a pianoforte to the correct prospective owner. When he died, he left her his extremely successful business and she ensured that the Cristofori name continued to be associated with excellent craftsmanship and superior tone.
She was unusual for her time and place.
Bella Montiero filled their house with music and love. By the time Francesco was five, he played the pianoforte, the violin and a variety of stringed instruments. As he got older, it was the viola da mano that stole his heart, but it was his skill on the violin that gave him the chance to be a musician.
When he turned 16, he left for Vienna with the Guarneri violin his mother had given him for his birthday, ready to throw himself into the rich and vibrant music scene that flourished there. The City of Music; his mother had told him stories and he wanted to see it for himself. She understood and sent him with her blessings.
He hadn't been there for more than a handful of days when he met the de Waye brothers, Michael and Gerard, fellow musicians. They were from the Colonies, but their parents had sent them to stay with relatives on the Continent because of the fighting between the British and the Colonials. It was getting worse and the brothers worried about their friends and family back home.
Michael played cello, Gerard the viola and their friend Ramón Ortiz Deltoro played violin. They just needed another violin to complete their quartet. Francesco jumped at the chance.
He never regretted that decision.
With Michael, Gerard and Ramón, he found kindred spirits, brothers of his heart, family.
Their quartet was popular with the aristocracy, not only for their music, but for their unconventionality. Gerard refused to bow to society's demands when it came to fashion and taste; he delighted in outrageous behavior and flying in the face of convention. He was a novelty, someone who refused to conform in a time of conservative behavior and that made him, and their quartet, prized as guests.
They were in high demand, soirée, salon or masquerade ball; Viennese society wanted a touch of the eccentric. And Gerard was more than happy to oblige.
And like most of Vienna, Francesco was in love with Gerard.
He made himself accept that it would never be anything more, that their friendship was enough. He fought to keep his feelings hidden, though sometimes he was sure that Michael knew, looking at him with something akin to sympathy.
It was impossible not to see the beautiful young women that Gerard sometimes charmed and bedded. Francesco tried not to hate them too much; it wasn't their fault that he couldn't have his heart's desire.
Francesco lost himself in the music, working with Ramón on creating new compositions, honing their skills not only as performers, but as composers. Gerard insisted on reworking the traditional quartet forms; sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but they all enjoyed trying out new works. The created some unusual pieces, ones that focused on Michael on the cello, or Gerard on the viola, rather than the violins. Sometimes they played with James Dewees, a pianist that the de Wayes knew from the Colonies, and he added an interesting dimension to their music.
They spent the years that followed as the musical toast of Vienna.
and you can't believe that he's really gone
To this day, he's still not sure what happened. They've never talked about it.
It was a cliché come to life: a violent thunderstorm, two men lost in a dark English forest, a circle of stones. Francesco can't remember which of them broke the circle, but going by the amount of wine and opium Gerard had consumed that night, he's pretty sure it was Gerard.
When Gerard fell inside the rough ring, it was like a veil passed over the world, hiding the moon and the stars. The air tasted different, and there was a scent in the air that was somehow both sweet and rotten.
Lightning flashed, and Francesco saw something. Shadowed, formless, and hidden, it coalesced from nothingness into something that raised every hair on Francesco's body and filled him with fear. He tried to pull Gerard onto his feet, but Gerard was frozen in terror, staring at the thing. Francesco crossed himself and breathed the words of the 23rd Psalm to himself, Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. . .
It laughed, and the sound grated against every fiber of Francesco's being. Under his hands, he felt Gerard shudder and cringe.
Tasty little mortals. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, soundless but heard. Didn't anyone warn you about breaking circles? The darkness swirled around them and when it brushed against Frank, he felt a soul-deep cold that burned.
Francesco's hands dug into Gerard's shoulders, trying to break him free of the strange paralysis that held him, and Frank's heart pounded out a beat of leave leave leave leave. They had to get away, had to run and not look back until they were safe, where the moon still shone bright and the shadows didn't come to life.
A gift, then, for unwittingly freeing me from my prison. The thing gestured and Francesco fell to his knees screaming, bent over as immaterial claws ripped his insides apart. He could hear Gerard's voice, choking on horrible, inhuman sounds while in the distance, a voice laughed.
They woke in the morning and Francesco felt hung over and somehow unclean, tainted. By the way Gerard avoided his eye, Francesco suspected that he felt the same. They staggered back to the village and the inn that they were staying at until the carriage wheel was repaired. Once the work was done they paid the wheelwright and continued on their journey to Vienna.
The silence between them was deafening and lasted the rest of the trip.
It would take Francesco years to figure out what the gift was, mainly because he saw Michael and Ramón every day; they had the use of a small Schloss, a gift from one of their patrons, so they lived together, dined together, practiced their music together, a family. They went to the theater and operas and attended Mass every Sunday at St. Stephen's Cathedral.
One day Francesco looked at Ramón's face over breakfast and saw, in the morning light streaming in from the windows, how old he looked. There were crow's feet next to his eyes, grooves around his mouth, grey in his hair. It was a shock. Later, he saw the same marks of time on Michael's face. But Gerard's face, and his own, when he peered into a mirror, were untouched.
They moved to Paris for a variety of reasons, including the one they didn't talk about: Ramón and Michael were aging while Francesco and Gerard weren't, and it was impossible that people weren't going to notice.
It remained unspoken between them even as Ramón grew brittle and stiff, fingers knotted and swollen, making it impossible for him to play his beloved violin. It broke something in Ramón, not being able to play anymore, and he stopped smiling, stopped talking, stopped living after that. Francesco spent his days at Ramón's bedside, softly playing his favorite songs on his violin until the morning when Ramón didn't wake up.
Francesco brushed back Ramón's curly hair and tenderly kissed his forehead before drawing the sheet over him.
They left Paris for the English countryside, because the city echoed with Ramón's presence; they saw him out of the corner of their eyes, heard him in every note they played. They were a trio, now, and when they tried to play, Ramón haunted them.
Francesco left his name behind in Paris. No one would remember Franscesco Montiero anyway. He became Francis, Franz, François, Francisco; it was all the same and over the years he settled on Frank.
Gerard set aside his viola and turned to art, finding comfort in a smudge of charcoal, a line of pencil, the perfect shine of paint. Michael lost himself to the written word, finding comfort in the shape and feel of them scratched out on paper, laid out in ink. Frank only had his music, and it hurt too much without Ramón and Michael and Gerard. He was lost.
all things stretching back as far as I remember
Michael managed to hang on for nearly twenty more years, but in the end, he left them, too.
I'd stand with you 'til the end
Gerard held fast through the illness that burned through Michael, kept the grief off his face, sat next to his little brother and gripped his hand as his breathing slowed, slowed and stopped.
He was unbelievably strong, holding himself together with the tattered remains of his willpower drawn about him like an old coat; something to distance himself from what was happening.
It was terrifying, because Frank knew that when Gerard broke, he was going to shatter into shards of glass so sharp Frank was likely to bleed to death trying to pick all the pieces up. He was on edge, waiting for it to happen. Dealing with his own grief was difficult enough, but having to find a way to keep Gerard together as well. . .
The funeral was mercifully short and sparsely attended; most of their friends and family had long since passed away, another bitter reminder of their gift.
They had picked a nice spot on the estate, under a tree. Michael had spent warm days sitting in the shade, drowsing and dreaming, journal and pencil to hand. Frank knew that Michael would be pleased with the idea, and the grief that rose at the thought almost drove him to his knees.
Frank found Gerard sitting on the edge of the grave, legs dangling. He looked lost and very young and Frank ached for him. And himself. He knelt down next to Gerard and picked up his hand, cradling it in his as he looked down at the casket that held the remains of his best friend, his brother-in-spirit, Michael. Gone forever.
He toyed with the idea of jumping melodramatically into the grave, like a heroine from a popular novel. It might be enough to shock Gerard out of his grief. Or it might not. He squeezed Gerard's hand, and climbed to his feet. He'd said his farewells already, before Michael had slipped away and again during the service. He'd give Gerard time alone to say his final goodbye.
It was almost dark when Gerard came in, tear-stained and pale. He was docile, letting Frank lead him upstairs to his bedroom. He stripped off all of Gerard's funeral finery and guided him under the covers. Frank had every intention of giving Gerard the time and space he needed, but Gerard grabbed his arm and held on until Frank climbed under the covers with him.
He spooned up against Gerard's back, arms wrapped around Gerard's chest, holding him tight in the darkness. Frank waited for Gerard to say something, but he just lay there and breathed softly, letting Frank cradle him.
It started with an occasional shiver. Frank thought that Gerard was cold, so he pulled the covers up higher, but it just got worse and Frank realized that this was it, this was the storm that he'd been dreading. Gerard rolled over and pressed his wet face against Frank's neck, and he didn't know what else to do except hold on tight while Gerard screamed and raged and hit him with fists clenched tight in agony.
Gerard mourned like a wild thing, his pain too great for words, reducing him to howls and whimpers and choked sounds. Frank's fingers left behind bruises, but he never let go during that long night.
love comes in moments like these
They moved back to London for a while, then returned to the Continent. They avoided Vienna, and Paris, of course, but there were other cities that called to them: Zagreb, Constantinople, Saint Petersburg, Copenhagen, Valencia. Money was never an issue but it was difficult to explain their endless youth; it was easier to disappear in the middle of the night before anyone got too suspicious.
They mostly kept to themselves, anyway. Gerard spent most of his waking hours drunk on wine and laudanum, staring at blank canvases. Frank just watched Gerard, a book forgotten in his lap.
Sometimes, when silence was unbearable, Frank would slip out, desperate to forget for a little while, and losing himself in the simple pleasure of a hard body rutting against his in the dark. It helped, for a while.
Frank worried, but let him be after they had a single, fruitless argument. He made the mistake of bringing up Michael and Ramón and Gerard had paled and turned away. He disappeared into town for a week and when Frank finally found him, he'd been beaten and robbed and left in an alley to die.
He brought Gerard home and cleaned his cuts and scrapes as carefully as he could, wincing when Gerard hissed in pain. Gerard wouldn't meet his eyes, wouldn't look at him and Frank just nodded tiredly to himself.
Frank spent the night, sleepless, curled around a pillow and thinking about his life. He missed Michael and Ramón; it was an open wound still, unhealed and raw. He yearned for his music, the feel of his violin under his chin and the bow between his fingers, the vibration of sound through his bones. But what he wanted most was to have Gerard back, the brilliant, vibrant man that he'd fallen in love with so many years ago.
He was sixteen when he met Gerard and Michael and Ramón; he's lost track of the years, but his love for Gerard had grown and grown until it filled his chest with this—this bittersweetness. He wanted Gerard whole and healed and happy, but this part of him, wounded and hurting and feral, was just as much a integral part of Gerard as anything else.
With a sigh, Frank realized that Gerard took up so much space in his heart that there really wasn't room for anyone else.
It was a gift and a curse, loving Gerard.
won't matter tomorrow
Time moved strangely when you had too much of it on your hands. Sometimes, the days would creep and Frank would clench his hands so tightly, nails digging into his palms, to keep from screaming. Other times, he would turn away for a moment only to find fifty years had passed.
He learned to stop worrying about the little things in his life.
Gerard sobered up.
He woke Frank by unexpectedly crawling into his bed one night, tear-sodden and shivering with the cold. He made promises to Frank that night, promises that he'd broken repeatedly over the years, and Frank just soothed his hands down Gerard's back and shushed him until he fell into an uneasy sleep. Frank pushed the lank hair out of Gerard's face and looked at him. He still looked as young as he ever had, but the wine and whiskey and laudanum had taken its toll in other ways, leaving behind traces of Gerard's pain and fear, like invisible scars.
It wasn't until the next day, when Gerard dumped all the liquor and patent medicines down the drain and sat in the library, hunched and miserable, that Frank realized with a sense of hope that he meant it. It was difficult—Gerard had spent decades in the grip of his addictions and setting them aside wasn't easy. He screamed and yelled and threw accusations at Frank, who had to grit his teeth and remind himself that Gerard didn't really mean it. He never responded to the things Gerard said; he would just take deep, calming breaths and leave the house for a while.
When he'd come home, Gerard would be apologetic and on the verge of tears. Frank just pulled Gerard upstairs and tucked him into bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress and stroking his hair until he fell asleep, lashes dark against his cheeks.
As difficult as it was, any time Frank thought he was at the end of his patience, he would remind himself of the day he came home to find Gerard collapsed in a heap, the table tipped over where he'd fallen against it, several empty bottles of laudanum scattered on the floor. Frank hadn't been able to find a pulse, or feel a breath, and had crouched for hours over Gerard's body, silent tears streaking down his face. He'd been sure that somehow their curse had been broken.
But when he pressed a kiss to Gerard's lips, he realized that Gerard was still warm, still alive. A constant double-edged sword, their gift.
Gerard was alive, but he certainly wasn't living.
Frank was fierce in his love and once he saw that Gerard was serious, Frank did everything in his power to help.
Seven months was a long time for a man like Frank, one without a natural reservoir of patience. But at the end of it, Gerard smiled the first real smile that Frank had seen since Ramón died and that alone made it all worth while.
it was too many run-ins, too much running away
The world changed rapidly, once the Industrial Revolution started. They left Europe for the Americas, fearing the unrest and revolutions and the wars that tore apart the places that once had been so familiar.
Frank waited for Gerard to suggest it, fearing that memories of Michael and the country they'd grown up in would be too much for him, but he was calm and centered and Frank let go of the tension that had settled into his muscles when he'd first started thinking about immigrating to the New World.
They traveled across the wide new nation, trying to get a feel for the land and the world around them, before settling down in the rolling hills of California.
Gerard took up his art again and Frank picked up his violin, clumsy and ham-fingered with lack of practice, but Gerard just smiled and encouraged him to play. It had been so long, but there hadn't been a day that he hadn't missed the dueling sounds of his and Ramón's violins, Gerard's sweet viola, Michael's deep-voiced cello.
He learned to play the guitar, so much like the beloved viola da mano from his youth. The sound was different, but the instrument spoke to him, and he was good at it. Good enough to make a living at it, so he did. He traveled a lot; it kept him busy and out of Gerard's way, and Gerard was content to spend his endless days with his art. They settled into a new life, one that they were both comfortable with.
Frank wanted more, he'd wanted more for centuries, but he wasn't willing to risk the fragile peace between them. They had all the time in the world, after all.
On one of his many journeys, in the middle of a desert, Frank found another circle of stones, one that radiated a sense of menace and malevolence, dark somehow even in the bright sunlight. He was tempted, for a moment, to break the circle, to demand answers, but in the end, he didn't want to take the risk. He never told Gerard about finding the circle, because most days he wasn't sure if he'd made the right decision.
It was getting harder and harder to keep themselves hidden from prying eyes as governments became obsessed with tracking their citizens, but Frank was adept at finding ways to deal with it. Computers made things worse and better at the same time and he never hesitated to take advantage of new technology when he could.
Gerard had a different solution: going off the grid. He found a missile silo and control center left over from the Cold War that had been converted into a luxury home. He spent a fortune buying the place and filling the adjacent silo with enough food to last several lifetimes. He hired contractors to convert the systems to run on solar and wind power, demolished the road leading to the house to make it inaccessible and settled in for the long haul.
Frank wasn't convinced it was healthy for Gerard to barricade himself away from people and the world but he didn't think he could complain all that much. Gerard was still sober, so in the end, Frank couldn't do anything but call it a win.
It was home and Gerard was happy and it worked for them.
arch your back
He wakes up, stretches and when he opens his eyes, Gerard is staring at him, looking scared in the dimness. Frank hates that, doesn't like the fact that after all these years, Gerard is still unsure of him. His heart has belonged to Gerard pretty much since the day they met and it pisses Frank off that he doesn't understand that Frank will always, always come back.
Maybe he just needs to show Gerard what he means to Frank.
Frank presses his lips to Gerard's, a brief and fleeting kiss, over and over. Gerard's eyes flutter shut and he makes this sound, yearning and hope and discovery and Frank swallows it, keeps it safe in his throat. He pulls back and looks, sees the truth in Gerard's eyes, the way his eyes light up and his lips curve into a sweet smile. He's so beautiful and Frank can't keep from tasting that smile, again and again until Gerard laughs and pulls him close.
Frank wonders if Gerard can feel it, the certainty that swirls in the air between them. This is what he's always wanted, dreamed of, wished for.
Frank makes quick work of the shirt and sweats that Gerard is wearing; his rough hands explore the pale skin that's revealed, fingers tracing the cut of collarbone, flicking at a tender nipple, sliding over ribs to find a resting spot at the dip of Gerard's waist. He's starved for the feel of Gerard's skin; he's been waiting his whole life to be able to do this, touch Gerard everywhere, leave his mark.
He wants to savor this, but Gerard won't let him; he pushes Frank's hand down impatiently, wraps Frank's tattooed fingers around his cock and makes a soft, needy sound that goes through Frank, making him shiver. Frank shifts his weight, fitting himself against Gerard, cradling both of their cocks in his hand and stroking.
Gerard scrambles to help, twining his fingers with Frank's, and it's so good; Frank moans at the the sticky friction, needing, wanting more. He hides his face against Gerard's neck, mouthing Love you, love you silently against his skin, pushing his hips forward, hearing Gerard gasp. Sweat blooms and all he tastes is the salt-sweet flavor of Gerard's shoulder; heat fills his senses and blinds him and Gerard's saying his name like it's the only word he knows.
Maybe it is.
Frank loses himself as the pleasure builds, stretching out as he arches, wanting somehow to be a permanent part of Gerard, burrowing deep. He wants to claw Gerard open, make a place for himself in Gerard the way Gerard made a place for himself inside of Frank. Gerard pants against his mouth and shivers, heated wetness suddenly making the slide and pull infinitely easier and Frank only has the briefest moment to savor it before he throws his head back and comes, crying out wordlessly.
Sleep pulls him under again, curled up against Gerard's warm body.
we go on living 'cause we don't know what else to do
The world ended between one day and the next. And definitely not with a bang.
It's another thing they don't talk about.
Frank is sure there's other people, other survivors out there in the world; he goes looking for them when Gerard's silences become too oppressive. Gerard's always been his center, but now he's an anchor, tethering Frank, keeping him from wandering too far away.
Frank loves Gerard, but he needs to know what happened, needs to have answers. He's never found any signs of destruction; it's like everyone stepped away from what they were doing and just—disappeared.
Gerard is content not to know.
They don't talk about it, but it's all they think about, the elephant in their missile silo.
Frank plays his music and Gerard does his art and they're fine until something snaps the tension growing between them and they're growling at each other like wolves, bringing up long held grudges and ancient slights. They know each other's soft spots and they're angry enough that they don't even hesitate to go for the kill. It ends in rough shouts and slamming doors and Gerard hides in his studio for days.
Frank gives up waiting for Gerard and packs up his backpack. When he comes back, a month or two down the line, they'll have to talk. Frank can't do this anymore; pretending like nothing has changed isn't working for him. He fears for his sanity, and Gerard's.
The last time they fought, Frank left a note on Gerard's pillow: i love you, but this can't go on
And he meant it. Gerard has spent so much of his life not-living, dying and Frank wants him to live. Wants them both to live, even if the world is dying. Frank's a fighter, and a believer. He won't go quietly.
When he wakes again, sticky and reeking of sex, Gerard is still asleep, snoring softly. Frank kisses him, breathes come with me against his lips, and prays.
go into the sea as the sunlight plays upon me
It's been years since Frank's been to the beach—and it's the perfect day for it. The sun is shining, reflecting off of the waves that wash rhythmically onto shore. He can hear the cry of seagulls, high-pitched and sharp, in the distance and it gives him hope.
The breeze carries the tang of salt, so heavy in the air he can taste it.
He sits down, cross-legged in the sun-warm sand, pulling Gerard with him. Gerard's wearing the most ridiculous sunglasses that cover most of his face, hiding his eyes from Frank. He can't tell what Gerard's thinking, so he reaches over and pulls them off.
Gerard squints and makes a small sound of complaint, and Frank can't help but giggle. He lies back, using his backpack as a pillow. Gerard rests his head on Frank's chest and they watch the clouds drift by in the sky.
Later, they'll roll up the cuffs of their jeans and play in the waves, letting the sand squish between their toes, pick up interesting bits of flotsam and jetsam, and pretty curved shells. They'll hold hands and walk down the beach, talking of nothing as they watch the sun set into the ocean and turn the sky pink and orange and yellow and purple.
It's soothing, the white noise of the surf, the heat of the afternoon, the feel of Gerard resting against him. He's never felt more happy in his life, even in the face of their uncertain future. He's alive, Gerard's alive and they can still look forward to sunsets. He can't ask for more.
And the cemetery will get me in the end,
But the cemetery's not ready for me yet.
You Should Fall In Love With Me - Ballboy
-fin-