FicWad

Frank opened his eyes, slightly.
He stayed like that for a few seconds, savoring the warmth that still seemed to radiate from the lower part of his belly, creeping up his spine.
How long had he slept?
Christ, I hope not long.
If they've seen us, if they've fucking seen this--
Don't think about it.
Don't. Not now.
You've just made love.
The enormous, skin-deep difference between having sex and making love.
Feeling him come in your hand.
He smiled.
Don't bullshit.
You fucked him 'cos you're bored.
No.
No.
It felt right.
For the first time ever.
Right.
He sighed, let his hand trail along his bare chest, he fooled around with his dog tags, read the name on them
Frank Anthony Thomas Iero, Jr
It wasn't such an ugly name after all.
Although he'd always hated it, for once reading it felt good.
Happiness was something he hadn't felt in a while, especially towards anything that had to do with himself.
He'd always hated his name, it reminded him of high school and football.
Jacking yourself off in the showers after practice because you saw Billie Poe shirtless.
God.
You've always known, haven't you?
Have I?
Yeah.
Yeah.
I have.
So you marry the first girl who fucks you, get her pregnant and then you screw your best friend.
Nice.
Shut up.
He sighed.
Just.
Shut up.
But the dark, sticky feeling just didn't go away.
He turned to his side, buried his face in Gerard's hair, breathed him in.
Surprisingly, his smell mingling with his chased the black away, choked it back deep into his brain.
Surprisingly.
But isn't this supposed to be how love feels?
Warmth? Protection?
Happiness?
You love him.
You're supposed to love her.
I love him. I love her.
I love them both.
Way stirred.
"Hey..."
He blinked a couple of times, adjusting his eyes to the light, then smiled.
"Hi, Frank..."
Warmth.
In every inch of his body.
"Great job, big bro...you finally managed to fuck him, didn't you?"
Shit.
Oh shit.
Mikey Way was sitting on the floor, looking at them from behind the milky smoke of a cigarette.
He smiled, shook his head.
Mikey Way never smoked.
Ever.
Frank swallowed as the warmth he felt ebbed away and in its place slipped icy cold black.
Shit.
"Get out of my bunk."
"Mikey..."
"Shut up, Gerard.
"Michael, listen--"
"Just. Get. Out."
Shit.
They quietly slipped out of the sheets, got dressed without saying a word.
Embarrassment crushed the air out of their lungs.
Frank felt his cheeks burn red. He quietly slipped out, felt both of the Ways' eyes creeping along his back as he slammed the door behind him.
Complications.
He hated them, hated the very sound that word made.
Complications were your daughters suddenly stopping to breathe in the middle of the night, your wife getting sick.
Losing the only person you've ever truly, deeply loved right after you've found him.
Your life going to hell because Mikey fucking Way decides to freak the fuck out.
He suddenly found himself wishing for Gerard to shut him up.
For good.
Wait.
What?
What's going on with your head, Frank?
But if the word gets out.
Well, then you shouldn't have fucked him in the first place.
I know.
But it felt so good.
And he's--he's perfect.
(Talkin to yourself again, are we?)
It was the second time they'd been caught.
He knew.
Ray knew.
One of them, if not both, would've spoken, sooner or later.
And then?
Jamia's tear-filled eyes.
His father.
His mother.
The twins would've never known their daddy.
Daddy.
A freak.
Keep him hidden.
And he would've gladly done so, kept out of their lives.
Keep them safe.
They would've said he'd died in the war, simple as that.
He'd leave.
If word got out, he'd leave.
Leave in the dead of night, like a criminal.
And if nobody ever knew?
Would he be able to make love to Jamia again now that he'd felt Gerard's skin against his?
You can leave, and look for him.
Because he knew that if word ever got out, Gerard would've never hidden.
He would've never covered, nor pretended.
Never hide who you are.
Even if it might destroy you.
But you have for so long.
He was tempted, every day, more and more often, to just shoot himself.
Avoid all complications. All consequences.
Chicken out. Cave in.
Leave her.
What's more humiliating? A faggot husband or a man who doesn't have the balls to face his mistakes?
You are disgusting.
Screaming confusion.
I just want peace.
For once.
Gerard sighed, turned to face his brother.
"What are you doing here, Michael?"
"They saw you."
"What?"
"In the rain. They fucking saw you."
"No. No. Nonono. NOOO--"
"I saved your sorry ass. I lied, straight to their faces. I FUCKING LOOKED AT YOU SLEEP JUST IN CASE SOMEBODY CAME IN!"
"Why are you screaming, Mikey?"
"Oh, I don't know, since my faggot brother balled his whore--"
Whore.
The word rang through Gerard's brain like a gunshot.
"WHAT DID YOU JUST CALL HIM?"
Mikey smiled, an instant. Cold, cruel.
Cruel.
His brother. The farthest thing from cruel.
"A whore. You and your fucking wh--"
Michael never managed to finish his phrase.
Gerard's knuckles connected with is face in a heartbeat, his head flipped back. He crumbled to the ground.
Never had Gerard hit his brother.
Ever.
But hearing him call Frank his whore, dare to say that what he felt for him was dirty and unpure, voicing the fears he buried deep inside of him made him want to smash his skull in, rip his eyes out, make him suffer, suffer, suffer.
He felt his fingers close around Mikey's neck.
How did they train them?
Right. In the middle. Cross your thumbs.
Apply pressure.
Push.
CHRIST.
CHRIST HE'S YOUR BROTHER.
STOP.
They were both on the floor, panting, Gerard had Michael pinned to the ground.
And there were tears.
And there was blood.
Mikey was sobbing, covering his face with his arms.
Tiny and scared.
Scared.
Mikey.
Oh, Michael.
Gerard let go of his neck, they were both shaking.
He was bleeding.
You broke his nose.
Your brother.
Pressure on his chest.
Guilt.
Your brother.
Your fucking brother.
He felt the tears push.
Christ.
You hit your brother.
For what? For a fucking whore.
No. No. Frank. You love him.
He's no better than you.
He sighed and caressed Mikey's cheek.
Sobs filled the air.
Chilled him.
"Don't--don't touch me."
I know I shouldn't.
He stood up.
Try to make it normal.
Normal.
"Let's wash you up."
"I dont need your help."
But he sensed that it was Gerard who needed to help him, to quench the guilt.
But for now, pain burned him down.
Pinned him to the floor.
He hadn't hit him back.
He couldn't.
Gerard hitting him wasn't infuriating.
It was confusing.
Scary.
But not like going to war or finding your brother in bed with another man.
It was scary like finding out that your grandmother's died overnight or waking up one morning and deciding you don't want to live anymore.
Scary like something so big you can't fully comprehend but know that it will change your life.
Change it forever.
Gerard crouched next to him.
"Can you get up - he felt the tears dangerously crack his voice - please?"
"Sure. Help me."
He did.
Michael winced in pain, rubbed his throat.
"I'm so--"
"It's okay."
It isn't.
But it was something they both needed to hear.
At least the lie filled them up.
Would it ever be OK again?
Mikey dunked his face in the basin.
Christ.
Water pink with blood.
Gerard felt a headache start to throb between his eyes.
Black, vicious.
Mikey threw his head back, gasped for air.
They were both tense.
What the fuck did you do, Gerard?
"Could--could you leave?"
Yeah, sure, Mikey.
He stepped out of the room, delicately shut the door behind him.
We've all gone fucking crazy, that's it.
The world's gone mad.