Chapter Text
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Gerard picked up quickly. “What.” He always answered the phone like that.
“What do you mean, ‘what?’ Where the fuck are you? I’m in your bed eating all your stuff.” He really was: the unwashed sheets were pulled up to his chin with Gerard's bag of salt and vinegar chips on his chest, his hand the only thing breaching the blanket. He took another fistful. He’s had a key to the Way house on his lanyard since he was fourteen.
He heard a car door slam, reopen, and slam again. Frank knew what he was hearing: Gerard always wore the big overcoat they pilfered from their father when the weather was cold enough, and they always caught the closure tie in car doors. The fabric was near-black from it. “I wanted hot dogs, and I didn’t feel like waiting anymore.”
Gerard and the two-for-one hot dogs from the convenience store were best friends. He ate the damn things at least twice a week. It was only a matter of time before the nitrites ceased the beating of his heart, Frank was sure of it. “Well, hurry it up. I’m running out of chips.” I miss you.
“Don't get crumbs on my sheets.” I miss you too, Frank mouthed on Gerard’s behalf.
“I don’t think crumbs could make your bed situation any worse,” he observed. “It’s disgusting in here.” The unnaturally comfortable mattress made up for it.
“You can sit on the ground.”
--
“What’s with the leaning tower of laundry?” Frank asked in lieu of a hello when Gerard finally walked through the door. Three baskets overflowing with clothes were stacked on top of each other in the middle of the room, nearly to the height of his chest.
“Washed all my clothes.”
He dropped his lanyard and wallet in a pile of shirts on the floor which indicated that he had not, in fact, washed all his clothes. Frank took initiative: he got out from under the sheets and retrieved them, hanging the lanyard on the hoodie-stuffed door hook and setting the wallet on the cluttered nightstand. Gerard was prone to scrambles for lost keys at the last second. Frank did what he could.
“Never thought I’d see the day.” Hold the phone. Opportunity to make them mad in my crosshairs. “You’re lying. Those are dirty.” Hook, line…
“Fuck you!” Yeah. “Here, smell!” He snatched the nearest t-shirt within reach from the top basket and muzzled Frank with it so tightly the fabric touched his teeth. The smell of detergent was there, but the patented 'Way Armpit Problem’ clung impressively despite the wash. Classic.
“You’re a liar.” His shit eating grin was masked by the shirt. Gerard immediately dropped it and mimed strangulation, hovering so only the heat of their hands touched his neck. Fucking do it! You’re so close! Almost there! Follow through with the joke! Frank wished with all his might, as if he could psychically beam the thought to Gerard’s head.
Gerard dumped his laptop and charger onto his bed before reaching into his pocket and stepping in front of his friend. Frank knew what was coming. “Hand, please,” Gerard requested. Frank offered his flat palm and closed his eyes without the other having to ask him to do so.
Gerard dropped something tiny into his hand. When he opened his eyes, there was a little rubber pig figurine on his fingers; no bigger than the tip of his pinky. He smiled broadly. For as long as they had been friends, Gerard couldn’t help but bring him whichever knick-knack caught his eye in antique shops or prize machines. An entire shelf of the bookcase in his bedroom was stuffed with random shit from his friend. Frank always paid them back with a tight hug. Gerard threaded their arms around his waist, as usual. Frank swallowed down his breath of contentment, as usual.
The two of them set up camp on top of Gerard’s comforter. Frank unpacked their drinks and threw the Swishers into Gerard’s lap. He got under the blankets so his laptop wouldn't burn his thighs. Gerard lifted the covers and got in after him. As much as Frank wanted to press their legs together, it was easy to resist after a decade of restraining himself.
Gerard used their open laptop as a rolling tray. “Is it bad that my computer takes five million, billion years to load a game from 2009?” They were gutting a cigarillo into a fast food bag.
“It’s bad.” Frank’s game was already loaded. He winced as Gerard tapped the contents of his grinder onto his grimy touchpad. Some of the flower fell into the gaps of the keyboard. And he has the nerve to complain about his keys sticking.
“Okay.” It was so interesting to watch Gerard roll. Not a single movement was wasted. His hands were so talkative. It was hypnotizing to see him do anything with them. He watched Frank’s screen instead of the blunt, shaping and sealing it without looking. A master of the art. “Woah, you have a lot of kids.” He evaporated his spit from the wrap with Frank’s lighter when he was done.
The only thing Frank could find to ash in was a quarter-full can of stale beer. Gerard put the blunt between Frank’s lips. Gerard lit it as Frank drew and extinguished the flame once he was happy with the evenness of the burn. It was their little routine; they’d done it since they were kids. Gerard always said it was a team building exercise. Frank kept the first hit in his lungs as he spoke. “Yeah, this Sim's had, like, twelve kids so far.”
“My household just broke its first million,” Gerard reported. “I’ve optimized the money-making machine. One painter, one gardener, one author. Get-rich-quick scheme. I make the kids sell rocks and fish, too. No free passage.” They ashed without looking and missed the opening of the can by a mile. They attempted to brush it onto the floor, but it only smeared into a dark inkblot on the comforter. Frank had told them multiple times to blow away ash rather than swipe at it, but it was eternally useless.
“I just add funds with console commands.” Gerard pulled down one of his bottom lids and blew smoke into Frank’s eyes for that. “Ow! Jesus Christ, fuck you!” He squeezed them shut and rubbed them, trying to dissipate the dry sting.
“Cheating sucks out the fun. It’s a life simulator. Simulate life.”
“You're so fucking annoying. This is a non-issue. You worry about the Robertsons, and I’ll worry about-” he hovered his cursor over one of his Sims- “the Donnellys.”
“Everything you do worries me," Gerard grumbled. Frank knew it, too. Bunched-up brows and nervous nibbling on knuckles were usually the last thing he saw before jumping into a pool from a roof or setting off fireworks in his hand. Unfortunately, his need to meet his adrenaline quota outclassed his need to ensure Gerard’s ease of mind. Gerard was equally as reckless and thrill-seeking; just in a less immediately dangerous way. “It's funny how you knew the name of my family but not your own."
“You’ve been running the same household for months. I always start new ones.” I remember every single thing you tell me. I want to know all of it.
“True. I’m trying to make the biggest family tree possible. I’m going on generation six.” Frank already knew this one as well. Gerard minimized the game window for the third time in twenty minutes- Frank knew he was checking to see if it was four PM, the time he deemed late enough to pour himself a drink. It seemed like he spent all of his time waiting for the clock to spill over 3:59, these days. Frank would probably say something eventually.
--
“Hi, hi!” Gerard cheered as he dumped himself onto the booth seat next to Frank. “Sorry I’m late, I was watching Hoarders and got distracted.”
Frank, Ray, and Mikey had already been at the restaurant for a little over twenty-five minutes. They met up for late lunch/early dinner once a month. “I told you it was time to go before I left the house,” groused Mikey.
“No, you didn’t!”
“I literally did. You responded to me. I offered you a ride!”
“I was watching Hoarders!” Gerard repeated, poking the tabletop with a finger. “You know better than to talk to me when I’m hoarding!” It was true. When Gerard was watching their human interest programs, they didn’t process a single word spoken to them unless it was directly related to what was on the screen.
The restaurant was fairly empty, so the waitress swung by quickly to grab Gerard’s drink order. He asked for scotch and soda. Frank took the opportunity to order a root beer- the Coke he had initially asked for was disappointing. When it came to soda, he was very picky about water-to-syrup ratios.
"What'd everyone get up to today?" Gerard addressed the table, fiddling with the keys hanging from his lanyard.
"Mikey was just telling us about an idea he had," Frank filled in. "Mikey, tell him."
Mikey nodded. "I said we should all go to Amsterdam this summer. If we start planning now, we can probably all get a week or two off work."
"What. Why. With what money." All questions; stated as declarations.
"That's exactly what I said!" Ray exclaimed, waving his hands. "Verbatim!"
"I don't know. It was just a suggestion!" Defended Mikey. "I only came up with the idea last night. Forgive me for wanting to spend a summer doing something other than smoke weed in your filth pit."
"I forgive you," said Gerard. He was very fond of his filth pit. It was cultivated.
"I hope you die before me," said Mikey.
"You just wanna go to Amsterdam so you can buy shrooms legally," Frank assumed.
He assumed correctly. "So what?"
The waitress came back around for their entrée orders. Mikey and Ray got a pizza to split.
“I’m gonna do the gouda gnocchi," Gerard requested. "I’ll take another scotch and soda, too. Thank you!” The rest of them chose not to point out that it was only three in the afternoon- they knew they’d only get an, “It’s brunch! I’m having brunch drinks!” Never mind the fact that ‘brunch drinks’ were usually light and fruity. Never mind the fact that it was probably too late in the afternoon to be considered brunch.
Frank's wallet was running on fumes. “Can I just get some fries?” They were only four dollars. A twenty percent tip was, what, eighty cents? He couldn’t really do mental math. Ray was driving him home, so he didn’t have to worry about bus fare. That should leave him with about nine dollars in his account.
“And a veggie burger; but could he get fresh mozzarella instead of the cheddar, if you have it? It’s easier on his stomach,” Gerard picked up where Frank ended. The waitress hummed her affirmative as Frank tried to interject. Gerard pretended they didn’t hear it. Or they just didn’t hear it. It was always hard to tell. “He’ll take the aioli on the side, please. Oh! And he’ll also do a Blue Moon.”
Frank rolled his eyes and tried not to pull Gerard’s hair out from the roots. He waved his hand at the waitress. “I’m so sorry, I’m good with just the fries.”
“That beer on draft, please,” Gerard continued.
“I’m sorry, we don’t have Blue Moon on draft! Bottle okay?”
“It’s too early to drink,” Frank protested, not loudly enough for anybody but himself to hear. The objection wouldn’t have made a difference even if it had reached the other man. Gerard loved implicating people in his day drinking- not that Frank needed to be convinced. Being tipsy when the sun was high in the sky was one of life's singular joys. Half of the time, he was the one suggesting Mimosas in the late morning.
“What do you have on draft?”
“The bottle’s fine!” Frank cut in. “Thanks so much,” he said to the waitress and not to Gerard. Gerard's thanks were up next. “I get paid on Wednesday. Just send me a picture of the receipt and I’ll set a reminder,” he murmured so only Gerard could hear him.
“Don’t be stupid,” Gerard scoffed, grabbing the top of Frank’s head and jostling it back and forth.
“You’re gonna give him shaken baby syndrome,” Mikey observed.
“That’s fine,” Gerard said. Frank was inclined to agree, so long as Gerard kept touching him.
Frank grabbed the hand on his hair with both of his own and squeezed the back of it. “Thank you,” he said, genuinely.
“Of course,” returned Gerard, just as earnestly.
“It’s so weird when they’re nice to each other,” said Ray.
“We all know it’s just a bit,” Gerard dismissed mildly. They both gave up the rebuffing routine by the time they were both in their twenties. There was no point in being bashful about caring for one another.
Frank let himself have this. He indulged in just looking. Gerard's hair looked soft - they’d finally broken their no shower streak after an impressive stretch of days. Probably knew better than to show up to a nicer restaurant stinking like smoke and body odor. Frank would take them clean or dirty.
Their food arrived before long. Being four growing boys (grown adults in their twenties), they were mostly silent as they inhaled their food. Suddenly, Gerard put all five fingertips of his left hand onto the center of Frank's kneecap and dragged them outwards, splaying his hand and squeezing. Frank immediately shivered in disgust. "Ugh! Don't do that!" As much as he loved Gerard's hands on him, it was a particularly odious feeling. It activated the whole nervous system in the most uncomfortable way possible. Gerard knew this, and tortured others with it frequently. He was also partial to digging his fingers under people's ribcages to make them shudder. He knew all the little tricks. Most people took care to keep their knees out of arms reach of him. Frank was willing to run the risk.
This time around, it seemed like Gerard did it to get his attention rather than to be an asshole. He was holding a spoonful of gnocchi up to Frank's face. “Bite, bite, bite!” Gerard rallied. A leaf of cream-coated parsley fell off the spoon and onto the table. For some reason, Frank paused to watch the grease leech into the paper table cloth. It’s the little details that paint the picture of life.
“Bite! Before I get mad!” Gerard insisted, knocking at the seam of Frank's mouth with the tip of the spoon. He kicked himself into gear and closed around it, pulling the inside of his lips along the utensil.
Gerard seemed appeased. “Good?” They asked, gently shoulder-checking him. Frank was unable to respond with what Gerard did next. They wiped one side of the spoon onto their tongue and then the other, eyes boring into his. Licking up sauce and Frank's spit. Frank forgot about the food between his teeth, sitting there like a gaping moron.
He had no chance to ponder the implications of that stare. Gerard had already turned to Ray with the spoon reloaded. “Bite! Bite!” He stood slightly so he could reach Ray’s mouth across the table. He chuckled and indulged his friend. “Little too rich for me,” Ray said with his mouth full.
Of course the attention wasn't unique. “...It’s good,” Frank finally offered. Gerard was already onto the next down the line. “Bite!”
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