nobody will love you like the devil will//frerard/ferard

chapter seven

Gerard waits until Frank's at least sort of half-sober before he takes him home. Frank can already feel a motherfucker of a headache coming on. He just wants to take a couple of Advil and be somewhere dark and quiet for about a month.

"Okay, this is your stop," says Gerard as he pulls up outside Frank's house.

Frank opens his eyes and looks out. "Huh. I guess – hey, should I give you my number or something? So you can, you know..." he waves a hand vaguely. It's probably a good thing he's still kind of drunk. He doubts he'd have the balls to do this sober. Gerard fishes a sharpie out of the glove compartment and hands it over, holding out his arm for Frank to write on. Frank has to concentrate so hard his eyes nearly cross, but he manages to write his number out semi-legibly across Gerard's pale inner arm, which he thinks is an achievement.

"Awesome." Gerard looks down at the slanting row of numbers, blowing on the ink to stop it smudging. There's something about the way his mouth looks when he does that, and Frank has to force his eyes away. He's not that drunk. However, he is still drunk enough to throw his arms around Gerard in a surprise tackle-hug when Gerard walks him to his door. Gerard lets out a startled huff of laughter, but he hugs back, and Frank sort of can't help noticing the way his head just fits against Gerard's shoulder. It's weird. It makes his stomach feel all squirmy, and he's not sure whether it's in a good way or not.

Still, he thinks, as he grabs the Advil out of the drawer in the kitchen, he actually does kind of have a friend now. That's pretty fucking sweet.

***

Sitting in the pew the next morning, buttoned into his Sunday best and feeling like death warmed over, Frank promises himself that he is never drinking again. Ever. Not for at least another week, anyway. His head's throbbing, and he feels dangerously close to projectile vomiting all over Mr. Bertucci in the row in front.

He swallows queasily, and tries to concentrate on Father Agostino's sermon about surrendering your heart to God. He's feeling guilty as fuck now, being in church always makes him think about all the things he's been doing wrong lately. He pretty much lied to his mom (by omission, at least), and definitely indulged in some vice and didn't even get all of his school work done.

He probably deserves to feel like shit today, actually.

He fidgets uncomfortably and pulls at his tie, but his mom gives him the stink eye and he stops. Only the Eucharist and the concluding rites left to go, and then he can go home, crawl into his bed and die.

***

Monday after that is an even bigger suckfest than usual. The sudden absence of Gerard by his side is weirdly disorienting, and Frank keeps turning round to look at him before realizing he isn't there. He feels like a total loser every time it happens. He's glad no one around here can read minds. He really fucking hopes not, at least. This is the kind of thing you'd expect from someone who's lost a best friend or a sibling or something, for fuck's sake. He's only seen Gerard – he makes himself count – four times. This is getting ridiculous. He reminds himself sternly that he's fucking lucky to be going to such a good school. He's going to get his head down and do some actual fucking work today as penance.

***

Frank does spend the rest of the day working, but he finds himself heading for Gerard's instead of home at the end of the day. His conscience shifts uneasily, but he manages to placate it by reasoning that he won't stay long and he'll totally do his homework when he gets home. Most of it, at least. He bypasses the doorbell (the button part is gone and there are wires spilling out of the little box like entrails, he'd be reluctant to touch it even if he thought it would work), knocks instead, and waits.