Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The worst part about Frank’s life is that he has no idea how he managed to end up so deep in shit.

He knew it wasn’t going to be easy when he took over the family restaurant ― Iero’s Pizzeria, once flourishing, now barely staying afloat. He saw his grandfather pour his heart and soul into this place until it sucked him dry, he watched his parents’ marriage fall apart, until his mother lost her patience, packed her things and left. He just never thought it was going to be such a disaster.

At least he gets to save time and money on the commute: his apartment is right above the restaurant, so all he has to do is go downstairs. The main downside is, he can't pretend to be stuck in traffic if he wants to stay in bed for an extra hour in the morning, because Ray can and will come knocking on his door.

Frank doesn't understand why Ray still works here: he has been a line cook back when Frank’s father used to run the place, and he stayed after Frank had to take over, even when it became painfully obvious that the business was sinking, and sinking fast. Anyone in their right mind would have left a long time ago.

It's not Frank’s fault his father had no idea how to run a restaurant. It's not Frank’s fault he borrowed from people you should never take money from, and disappeared the moment he realised he can't pay it back, leaving his son to deal with the mess.

He doesn’t wait for Ray to come drag him out of bed this morning. He has a lot of work to do today, and he’s been postponing most of it for way too long. He doesn’t want to be like his father when it comes to business; the restaurant is in bad shape as is, he doesn’t want to lose it.

“Did you post the notice?” is the first thing Ray asks the moment Frank is done changing into his work clothes.

Frank nods. “Yeah, last night.”

Ray looks sceptical. “Oh, really? Because I checked, and you know what I saw? Nothing.”

Frank silently points at the front door. There, carelessly taped to the glass window, hangs a piece of paper with a short “Cook needed” and Frank’s phone number.

Ray crosses his arms. “Man, really?”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Nobody is going to see it, for starters. It's the twenty-first century, everything's online!”

“Those websites want money,” Frank grunts. “That we don’t have. So we’re doing it the old way.”

Ray rolls his eyes but can’t find a decent objection to this. Good: Frank is already stressed, and the day hasn’t even started properly yet. It’s Wednesday, so they aren’t likely to get flooded with orders, but they still need to prepare, he needs to take a proper look at the books, again, and, to make things worse, after a quick inspection Frank realises that nobody has bothered to make extra dough the night before, and Frank can’t remember who was in charge of it for the life of him. Probably Geoff. Geoff is a great guy and more than a decent cook, but he can be remarkably forgetful, especially when he doesn’t want to do something.

“Is Geoff here?” Frank asks.

“He called in sick,” Ray replies.

“And I find it out from you because―”

“Because you never pick up the phone, that’s why.”

Frank rubs his face trying to wake himself up. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

He takes another look at the kitchen. It looks significantly better than it used to during his father’s reign; more organised, at least, closer to an actual kitchen in a proper restaurant and not a health safety hazard. Frank doesn’t feel proud: they still have a long way to go, and judging by the way things are looking right now, they might never get out of the hole Frank Iero Sr dug for himself. 

Sometimes Frank really hates his father.

“Alright,” he starts. “I’ll deal with the dough, you do… dunno, whatever’s the most important right now.”

Ray seems to understand what Frank means. He is too good for this place; too loyal, too, and Frank struggles to understand what is keeping him here. He could easily find a job somewhere better.

Dough-making is probably one of the things Frank likes the least. It’s long, it’s meticulous, and his arms start to hurt by the time he is done. He understands why Geoff sometimes ‘forgets’ about it: he would be doing the same thing if he had a choice.

From his station Frank watches people gradually come in. Dewees is almost late again, Anthony is trying to find something to occupy himself at the front until someone shows up, and they are really, really struggling without Geoff. Ray is right: they need a new cook, and they need to find one fast.

Eventually Frank retreats to the office. He has more paperwork to go through than humanly possible, and for now the guys can keep the kitchen running on their own.

“Yo, Frank?”

Frank looks up from the paperwork. The books are a mess; he has spent the past few months trying to get through them to understand if he should try to save the restaurant or if it's too late to do anything and he should just stop trying and hand it over to the same people his father owes money to.

Anthony leans against the doorway. “There's a guy out there.”

“And? He causing trouble?”

The last thing he needs today is some junkie trashing the place.

“Nope. Says he's about the job.”

Right. The notice. He has already forgotten about its existence — didn't expect anyone to show up in the first place, let alone so soon. Whatever. He doesn't want to deal with the paperwork, and a job interview sounds like a good opportunity to take a break from all the numbers, bills and receipts.

“Alright, coming.”

Frank is glad that the day is slow — okay, most of the days are slow now. He isn't sure it would make a good impression on the potential hire, but the guy must have been desperate enough to come to this place looking for a job anyway.

He makes his way to the front, and there he is, sitting at the table by the entrance: a guy in his late twenties, dark-haired, a bit pale but not enough to be looking sick. Frank could swear he looks slightly familiar but can't tell exactly why.

“Hi,” he sits across from the guy. “I’m Frank.”

“Gerard.” The guy shakes his hand. His palms are sweaty. Frank tries to ignore it. “I’m about the—”

“The job. Right. Anthony told me.”

Gerard nods. He seems nervous, avoids looking Frank in the eyes. He’s probably new, freshly graduated from culinary school, definitely desperate for a job — or, at least, enough so to ignore the fact that he could easily stain his record by working here.

“I, um. I brought my CV.”

He passes Frank a printout, and it definitely does look like a resume of a fresh graduate. Frank skims through it, finding himself progressively more confused with every line he reads.

Gerard Arthur Way, twenty eight years old, graduated from Culinary Institute of America with honors, then proceeded to work in some of the best restaurants in New York. Frank notices at least two Michelin-starred restaurants on the list, as well as some fine dining places, the kind he could only dream of working at. For a moment Frank thinks Gerard being here might be connected with something happening at his previous workplace but then he notices a recommendation letter with nothing but praise for his talent and skills, and the situation becomes even more absurd.

“Why are you here?”

Gerard seems to be ready for this question.

“Because I saw the notice,” he says. “You need a cook, and I need a job.”

“No, I mean,” Frank waves his hand. “Your record is impressive. I don't know if you've noticed but this isn't a fine dining restaurant, not even close. It's way below your level. So why are you here?”

“I needed a change of pace.”

Which can mean literally anything, from “I need a gig for a few months to get my shit together” to “I did something incredibly inappropriate and probably borderline illegal and they let me go to swipe the mess under the carpet, and no decent place will hire me now”. And Frank might be too understaffed to be picky but he doesn't want to work with someone who could be an asshole or a creep (or both, for that matter). He’d rather hire the guy that’s been hanging around the corner pushing meth for the past few years.

“And that's why you quit your last job?”

He doesn't expect Gerard to be honest with him. This is a job interview, nobody ever tells the truth during those. But Gerard, apparently, doesn't seem to care.

“I—” he stares at his hands. “Okay, I know it might sound bad, but I had some… problems. Of the mental health kind. So I had to take a wellness check.” He chuckles. “This job can get stressful. But I’m doing better now, and it won't— It's not gonna be an issue.”

And maybe Frank is a fool but Gerard sounds sincere. But the guy is still overqualified for this job, and Frank is sure he won't be staying around for long, and maybe he should have just hired someone from the street or offered Mikey the position — the guy always needs money, he could use a steady job.

“Okay,” he says. “Just so we understand each other: this is a pizza place. So, y’know, nothing fancy, no foie gras or any of that grand cuisine stuff.”

“I know.”

“And I can't pay you the same as they did at all those other places.”

“I understand, yeah.”

Well, here goes.

“Alright. Can you start now?”

Gerard blinks. “Now?”

“Yeah, now.” Frank shrugs. “It's a slow day, you’ll have enough time to get into it.”

Gerard is going to bail. Maybe not right now, but Frank is sure he isn’t going to last. His taste is too refined, his entire career was spent in expensive New York restaurants, why would he want to stay in a pizzeria on the edge of bankruptcy? But without Geoff they’re properly screwed, and Frank could really use some help, even if Gerard holds on just long enough for Geoff to get back to work.

“Okay,” Gerard replies. “I— yeah, I could try. I don’t have my uniform, but—”

“We have spare aprons,” Frank interrupts him. “And we don’t really do the whole uniform thing.”

“Oh. Okay.” Gerard doesn’t seem to be too surprised by this.

Frank takes him to the kitchen, suddenly self-conscious of the state it’s in, and after a quick tour introduces him to Ray.

“Toro’s my second in command,” he clarifies.

“Unofficially, obviously,” Ray adds.

Frank tries to ignore this remark.

“Anyway, if you have any questions, you can always ask me or Ray,” he continues. “We’re not in a rush right now, so take your time, okay?”

Gerard nods.

Frank feels bad for leaving Ray to deal with him — God knows the guy has enough problems on his hands, and showing the ropes to the new guy definitely isn’t on his list for today, — but he needs to deal with the paperwork. They barely managed to pass the last inspection, they really need to put things in order, and make sure the IRS isn’t going to try to get them. He still hasn’t figured out if his father ever paid taxes, and this frustrates him to no end.

He goes back to the kitchen for the lunch service, mostly to give himself a rest from all the numbers. Gerard seems to be adjusting surprisingly well, Frank notices: he follows instructions without wasting a fraction of a second, and though Frank notices how tense he looks, to the point of being hyper-alert of his surroundings, he writes it off as nervousness at the new workplace. The guy is a professional, Frank needs to remind himself, of course he is going to learn quickly.

Some part of him is envious. He could have been in his place: he always had a knack for cooking, and growing up in the restaurant kitchen played a great part in his desire to become a chef. He could have gone to the CIA too. He could have made his family restaurant the best in Newark. But his father needed help, and there was nobody else around who could do it, and now his father has bailed and left Frank on a sinking ship.

This isn’t fair. It just isn’t fair.

Frank doesn’t notice when exactly he ends up in the back alley behind the restaurant. For a few long moments he stands there, leaning against the wall, smoking his third cigarette for the day. He’s trying to quit smoking, or at least cut down on cigarettes, but it feels like he only smokes more and feels guilty when he gets through the whole pack in one day. He’s trying to tell himself it could be much worse: back in the day when his father was still running the restaurant he caught quite a few people with baggies of white powder, and he knows the alcoholism rates in the profession. Smoking isn’t so bad in comparison: the only inconveniences are regular breaks and the smell, and Frank can control himself. He is yet to run away during a dinner service on a Saturday.

The back door opens, and Frank watches Gerard step outside. He notices Frank a little bit too late and smiles somewhat awkwardly.

“Kinda slow, right?” he asks as he stands next to Frank and pulls a cigarette pack from his back pocket.

“Yep,” Frank smirks. “We’ll get more people in the evening. Probably.”

Gerard nods. He lights his cigarette, and Frank finally manages to take a better look at him. The guy is… pretty. Maybe not exactly the Men’s Health cover material, but still good-looking. He also looks soft, almost squishy, and Frank wonders how he managed to survive for so long in such stressful environments. There must be something hidden behind the timid wallflower exterior.

“Thoughts so far?” Frank prompts him.

Gerard shrugs. 

“It’s… different,” he says.

“Good different or bad different?”

Gerard takes a long drag.

“Well, nobody has yelled at me so far,” he smiles. “That's nice.”

“It’s your first day here, come on!”

He can't really think he's expected to know everything from the get-go. Everyone needs time to learn, and the last thing Frank would expect is the new hire to instantly become perfect in the unfamiliar kitchen.

“You’d be surprised,” Gerard chuckles.

“Please don’t tell me it’s that bad out there.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

Frank lets out a short laugh. He feels strangely drawn to this guy. And he knows it’s stupid and meaningless: Gerard is going to leave anyway, or he’ll turn out to be an asshole, there is no point in getting attached.

“The chef at the last place I worked at was a dick,” Gerard continues. “Kinda like in those reality shows, only in real life it’s not that funny. So yeah, I think I like it here.”

Frank nods, trying to conceal how relieved he is to hear this. Gerard is staying, and Frank won’t have to search for a new cook for the next few weeks at least, and he actually got someone who knows what he’s doing. It almost feels like his lucky day. Almost.

“So I can count on you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Frank smiles at these words. “Cool.”

***

He sends Gerard home shortly after the dinner service. He needs to talk to Ray, and he can’t exactly do it with Gerard present.

“How is he?” is the first thing he asks the moment he manages to get Ray to take a quick break from cleaning his station.

Ray shrugs. “He’s good,” he says. “I mean, really good. Where did you find that guy?”

“At the CIA,” Frank smirks.

Ray stares at him. “Culinary Institute of America? That CIA?”

“Yep. That's the one.”

Ray looks sceptical. And Frank knows how it sounds, but what can he do if this is the truth?

“Alright,” Ray says finally. “Okay. Weird he’s here of all places, but whatever.”

“Tell me about it,” Frank mutters. “Think there’s gonna be a problem?”

“There will be if I don’t deal with this stuff by the end of the hour.” Ray nods at the oven.

Frank takes it as a “piss off and let me do my job” and retreats to the other side of the kitchen.

He’s beat. And he still isn’t done with the paperwork, and he can only hope that they are not getting an inspection any time soon because he can barely hold it together as is, he certainly doesn’t need any more problems. He wants to give up, wants to sell the restaurant, or declare bankruptcy, or both. He just isn’t made for it. His grandfather knew how to run a business, his father knew how to make great pizza, and Frank didn’t inherit any of those talents.

Frank stays behind long after everyone else leaves, staring at the numbers until his head starts to hurt. Only when he realises he is about to fall asleep does he decide to leave; he isn’t going to do himself any good if he doesn’t get what little rest he can afford. So he makes his way upstairs, to the apartment where he has been living all his life, and can barely take off his shoes before collapsing on the couch.

He still hasn’t gotten to the silence. Even after his mother left the apartment never was this quiet: his father would invite his friends over, or spend the evening listening to one or two of the thousands of records from his collection. He couldn’t stand the quiet, and taught Frank to dislike the silence too.

Frank wonders how his father is doing now. If he stayed in Denver like he said he would or went further south, to the West Coast. He has to fight the urge to call him; they haven’t spoken once since Frank Iero Sr broke the news to Frank, and he sure as hell isn’t going to be the first one to try and establish contact. If his father wants to leave his old life behind, so be it. Frank is resilient. He can survive on his own.

A knock on the door makes him flinch. He didn’t expect any visitors, especially at this hour, and his body involuntarily freezes. It can be anyone. Armed robbers. The people to whom his father still owes money. The cops. The goddamn IRS. The best strategy is lay still and pretend nobody is home.

“Frank, open up!”

Frank lets out a relieved breath. It’s just Mikey, which means he’s about to spend the night getting stoned and watching shitty horror movies. And he definitely deserves some rest.

Mikey greets Frank with an annoyed: “Pick up the phone, man, seriously, I thought you were fucking dead.”

“I just came home,” Frank tries to justify himself. “And I was at work before that.”

“Yeah, like you don’t take breaks every hour.” Mikey squeezes past him and lands on the couch. He produces a baggie of weed from his pocket and waves in the air. “Want some?”

Frank considers it. He still has to wake up early tomorrow, and Ray is going to kick his ass if he is late again, so maybe getting high isn’t the most rational decision. But he had a long day, and he’s stressed and exhausted, and he needs to recharge.

“Sure, why not.”

He sits next to Mikey and turns the TV on while Mikey is rolling a blunt. He stumbles upon a rerun of Kitchen Nightmares, because of course the universe has to mock him all the time, and stares at the screen longer than necessary. He doesn’t even notice when Mikey passes him the blunt.

“You seriously wanna watch that crap?” Mikey asks.

Frank shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

Mikey hums and takes a drag. They don’t talk for a while, watching Gordon Ramsay going through the routine of arguing with yet another dumbass owner.

“Do you think we should call him?” Frank asks. The weed is making him feel light-headed.

“For what?” Mikey replies.

“Dunno. The magic of reality TV?”

“Most of the restaurants on Kitchen Nightmares closed within the first few years,” Mikey points out. “That shit’s, like, common knowledge. He comes in, turns a good joint into some upper-class shithole ‘cause he knows fuck-all about what normal people eat, and then fucks off into the sunset.”

“Come on, that’s not true!” Frank argues.

“That’s just my opinion,” Mikey shrugs. “You can have the best fuckin’ pizza this side of Passaic but it’s all gonna turn to shit without proper management, know what I mean?”

“I told you a thousand times, I’m not making you a manager!”

“Your loss, man,” Mikey snorts.

“Seriously, I can barely afford the staff I already have,” Frank grumbles. “And I hired a new guy today, and I kinda feel like I’ll have to pay him more than the others.”

Mikey gives him a side glance. “Why’s that?”

“‘Cause that guy’s a fucking superstar!” Frank huffs. “Seriously, he worked in Blue Hill, that’s like fuckin’ Scorsese coming to direct an elementary school play. I don’t understand what he’s even doing here.”

“Maybe his dream is making takeaway pizza,” Mikey shrugs. “Or he’s just burnt out and wants something less demanding.”

“That’s what I thought,” Frank grumbles. “You know what, whatever. It’s his life, so I don’t give a shit.”

Mikey doesn’t say anything to this. Not that Frank expects him to: he complains about the restaurant problems every time they meet anyway, and Mikey truly has the patience of a monk if he hasn’t told Frank once what he really thinks about his whining.

“Can I crash on your couch tonight?” Mikey asks after a long pause.

“Something happened at home?”

Frank doesn’t really need an answer. There is always some kind of drama going on in Mikey’s family, and Mikey doesn’t really need to ask if he needs a place to stay if the situation becomes unbearable.

“My brother’s back,” Mikey grumbles.

Frank heard about Mikey’s brother three or four times at most. It seems to be a touchy subject for him: Frank doesn’t even know the guy’s name, this is how secretive Mikey is about him.

“That bad, huh?”

“Well, he went no contact for years,” Mikey starts counting on his fingers. “He didn’t call me in literal months, he sent the total of one Christmas card in five years, and now he shows up and says he’s moving back with our parents. Everyone’s fucking pissed, dude.” He shrugs. “I mean, I kinda get it why he would do this, but it’s been a week and every time he and Mom are in the same room it’s a fucking nightmare, so yeah, fuck that.”

And Frank gets it. He would have tried to run away too if he was in Mikey’s situation. Though maybe he should start charging him per night: Mikey has a tendency to stick around for days, especially when the situation at home becomes particularly bad, and as much as Frank likes to have him around he can’t afford to provide for another person.

“Mi casa es tu casa, dude.”

Mikey grins, as if he didn’t know Frank was going to let him stay the night anyway.

“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”

“But you will have to wake me up tomorrow.”

Mikey nods, and Frank already knows he isn’t going to do it. He’ll probably spend the next day loitering around, maybe come to the restaurant and nag everyone until someone (most likely Ray) loses their patience and assigns him to the dishwashing station just to make sure Mikey is doing something useful. Sometimes Frank thinks Mikey does it on purpose. He needs a job, and he’s been having trouble finding gigs lately, and Frank actually pays him for his work despite Ray’s protests (“he’ll keep doing it if you keep enabling him!”), so maybe he wants an actual job but for some reason doesn’t know how to say it.

If (or rather, when) their current dishwasher quits, Frank might suggest Mikey takes the job. That is, if the restaurant survives until then, which Frank doubts. But for now he needs to focus on keeping the place afloat while he figures out what to do next.

Maybe selling it is his best option. Let somebody else deal with it, if there even will be someone willing to buy a dying restaurant. But he also feels bad for the staff: they’ve been working hard despite all the problems, he can’t let them down like this.

Whatever. He’s tired and stoned, and he shouldn’t make such serious decisions in this state of mind. He’ll think about it tomorrow. The restaurant is going to be there in the morning. Hopefully.

Chapter Text

“We might have a problem.”

Frank has been anticipating these exact words for the past few days. Gerard has gotten used to the new place fairly quickly, so of course trouble was bound to arise sooner or later. The thing is, Frank knows his team is disorganised save for Ray, and everyone is used to their current dynamic. He knows Geoff is working half as well as he can, and Anthony is taking more smoke breaks than he should, and Dewees is constantly late because he isn't getting paid enough. Of course the new addition to the team has disrupted their fragile peace.

And Gerard is demanding. Just this morning Frank heard him complaining about the quality of the utensils so loudly that Dewees, one of the chillest people around, told him in no uncertain terms to shut it. They might need to have a talk soon. Gerard may be used to certain standards but he isn't at Blue Hill anymore.

“They're fighting,” Ray continues. “You might want to deal with it before someone gets stabbed.”

“Who's fighting?”

“Gerard and Geoff,” Ray winces. “Seriously, you better check it out.”

And indeed, the moment Frank steps into the kitchen he finds Gerard standing by Geoff’s station looking like he is doing his best not to start yelling at everyone in close proximity. Geoff glares at him with murder in his eyes.

“I’m telling you, you can't use this,” Gerard is saying, pointing at something on the cutting board. “It needs to be redone.”

“It doesn't need to be fucking redone,” Geoff growls. “It’s not that bad! Who cares about this shit anyway?”

“People care! Your customers care!” Gerard’s voice is dangerously close to screaming. “You can't just throw half an onion on a pizza and call it a day!”

“Oh yeah? Watch me!”

As Frank gets closer he begins to understand what the issue is. Geoff has been prepping red onions and either got distracted or couldn't be bothered with slicing them evenly, which ended up in some rings being thicker than others. And usually Frank lets it slide: they can't afford wasting products, so anything goes. And the difference between the circles really isn’t that drastic it deserves a yelling, but Gerard seems to be so agitated it is almost scary.

“Alright, what’s going on here?”

He doesn't raise his voice but Geoff and Gerard immediately stop their fighting.

“Mister Three Stars is teaching me how to cut onions,” Geoff grumbles.

“I’m just saying this can't be used,” Gerard argues. “Seriously, these are too thick! And just so you know, I never worked at a three-starred restaurant.”

“Well, excuse me for not being a robot!”

Frank sighs. He really doesn't have the energy to deal with this situation right now.

“Okay. Geoff, carry on, and try to slice them evenly this time. Gerard, a word.”

Gerard reluctantly follows Frank to his office. Nothing is left from his earlier bravado, and he looks more like a teenager caught picking up fights in the schoolyard.

“Okay, listen,” Frank begins. “I know you're used to… higher standards. And that's great, really, you're doing a great job. But the guys aren't used to it, and it's gonna take time before they do. Don't be too hard on them.”

“I was just trying to—”

“I know.” Frank sighs. “You know what? Why don't you go check the walk-in, see if anything's expired? Cool down and all that. I’m gonna cover for you, make sure Geoff doesn everything right this time.”

All Frank needs is Gerard to calm down. The last thing he wants is more drama than there already is, and his staff getting into arguments about the acceptable size of an onion slice only adds to the tension. Even if one of them is right and proper prepping is important.

Gerard purses his lips. He clearly wants to say something else, comment on Frank’s lenience, but all he does is mutter: “Yes, Chef”, and then he disappears in the direction of the walk-in fridge. It doesn’t take a genius to understand he is pissed. And Frank may be more lenient than what Gerard is used to but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a backbone. Geoff needs to be supervised until he does his job right — and knowing Geoff, he’s going to learn quickly. Gerard also needs a time out.

Geoff smirks when Frank shows up in the kitchen.

“Mister Michelin is pissed,” he comments. “Did you seriously send him to the North Pole?”

“I did,” Frank grunts. “I’m also gonna watch it so that you don’t fuck it up again.”

Geoff groans. “Come on, man—”

“Gerard is right,” Frank interrupts him. “You’re half-assing the job that I know you can do better.”

Geoff rolls his eyes but gets back to work. Gerard shows up some time later, and Frank lets him take over the station. Gerard is quiet, and he doesn’t as much as spare Frank a glance, and this is much worse than Frank has anticipated. But he doesn’t have time to sort it out right now, and maybe Gerard needs more time to cool down before he is ready to talk like an adult.

Frank doesn’t understand why he pays so much attention to Gerard. Not because he is multiple levels above anyone else: he might have the education, but Frank knows for a fact he has a damn good team, they just need to work on communication and organisation, and most of them aren’t motivated enough to do their best, and Frank is trying. He does. He’s just horrible at being a leader, and he also doesn’t want to spend every hour of every day yelling at everyone to get them to work.

Gerard approaches him during a smoke break. Frank is convinced Gerard has been waiting for the exact moment he leaves through the back door to follow him.

“Can we talk?”

Frank waves at him. “If it’s about earlier—”

“No,” Gerard shakes his head. “It was out of line, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again. But I wanted to—” his cheeks turn pink. “I have some suggestions about the menu. If you don’t mind, of course.”

Frank stares at him. He tried to run a similar idea by his father but was always met with harsh denial, and later, when he took over the restaurant, he was too busy to sit down and think about it properly. And now Gerard proposes they change the menu. His father would have been so angry.

But he isn’t around anymore, is he? He is lying low in Denver, and Frank can do anything he wants.

“What,” his mouth is dry all of a sudden. “What suggestions?”

Gerard’s face brightens.

“I thought we could make it shorter. I mean, we have, like, thirty types of pizza alone and about a hundred items in total, and people don’t order enough of all that to cover up all the costs, we’re wasting too much money on ingredients that end up in the trash anyway. So I was thinking, if we cut it down at least in half and focus more on pizza and not, well, everything else you have here…”

“Wait, slow down.”

Frank needs a moment to process everything Gerard just said. He is suggesting to cut down on pizza options. In a pizzeria. He better have a decent plan, otherwise Frank is going to suspect Gerard is trying to promote all that fine dining crap he’s used to.

“You want to get rid of pizza,” Frank says.

“No! I know it’s a pizzeria, so pizza is kinda the whole thing, just,” Gerard takes a deep breath. “We’re not a chain restaurant, right? Can’t afford throwing half the fridge away every week. So, y’know, quality over quantity.”

Frank nods. “Okay. I’m listening.”

Gerard takes the last drag of his cigarette and throws it into the garbage container.

“I made some notes—” he starts, but Frank interrupts him.

“In my office. The guys won’t take it well if they see this.”

The truth is, the guys probably won’t care. Dewees might grumble that Frank is paying too much attention to the newbie, and Anthony probably has a few snarky remarks up his sleeve, but they wouldn’t listen into their conversation, and Geoff doesn't care at all. Okay, Ray might take offence. But Ray is reasonable, he won’t jump to conclusions. He just doesn’t feel that menu changes is a topic that should be discussed next to a trash container, and he could use some privacy. Not because he wants to spend time alone with Gerard. Absolutely not. He is not a creep, and coercing your employee into staying in your office under some pretence just because you find them hot and want to make a move at them is something a creep would do.

Gerard shrugs. “Yeah. Sure.”

He is going to keep it professional, Frank has to tell himself as they’re making their way to his office. It’s just a menu discussion. Nothing personal. They’re going to talk it through, see what they can work out, run it by the rest of the team, and then it’s business as usual. He has only known Gerard for a few days anyway, and they don’t talk much outside of work, there is no need to make it weird.

“Okay, as I was saying,” Gerard says and pulls a notepad from his apron pocket, because of course he carries a notepad everywhere. “Quality over quantity. I say we keep the classics: pepperoni, quattro formagg i , capricciosa , white cheese, all that. It’s simple, familiar, pretty much sells itself. Adds up to ten and gives us some vegetarian options, so that’s nice. Then I was thinking about adding a house special.” He takes a look at his notes. “I think you already have one, though.”

“Yeah. Grandpa’s ‘secret recipe’,” Frank makes air quotes. “So secret he didn’t tell anyone, didn’t leave notes or shit, and now nobody has any idea how to make it properly.”

Gerard shoots him a quick glance.

“So why is it still on the menu?” he asks bluntly. “I mean… he didn’t just die, or,” he seems to realise what he just said. “I’m sorry. Shit.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Frank tries to reassure him. “I was a kid when he died. My Dad decided to keep it. Didn’t listen to me when I told him nobody cares about it anymore.”

This isn’t the strangest thing Frank Iero Sr has done in his time but definitely one of the most frustrating. Who in the right mind would keep the dish they can’t make on the menu?

“I could give it a try,” Gerard offers. “Maybe not recreate it, I mean, I never tried it,” he lets out an awkward laugh. “But maybe think of something similar?”

And during Frank’s father's reign these words could get Gerard kicked out in less than a second. This is Frank’s first instinct, too: it may be shit, but it’s still his legacy, and if it’s lost then there is no point in trying to fabricate it. But the worst thing that’s going to happen is Gerard wasting time and some ingredients. Not that much of a loss in the overall scheme of things.

“Alright. Why not?”

Gerard smiles. He keeps talking, explaining all the changes he thinks they should implement. At some point he runs to the front and comes back with the menu that quickly gets covered in sharpie scribbles. Frank can barely keep up with him, to the point when he stops asking questions and just listens to Gerard talking.

“That’s pretty much it,” Gerard finishes, and Frank stares at the menu trying to comprehend what just happened.

“That’s,” he clears his throat. “That’s a lot. Like, a lot.”

“I know.” Gerard admits. “But your menu is bloated, and some of it just doesn’t make sense. Like, you have a,” he consults with the menu, ”a baccalà mantecato here, and I haven’t seen any dried cod around here. Has anyone ever ordered it?”

Frank shrugs. “I forgot we had it, to be honest.”

He feels embarrassed. He has known for a while how messy their menu was, and he has been meaning to change it for ages, ever since his father started letting him help out in the kitchen. But at first nobody was listening to him, and then Frank had way too many other problems to take a proper look at it.

Gerard gives him a sympathetic glance. “Your father. Is he—”

“He’s alive,” Frank shrugs. “Probably.”

“Probably?” Gerard looks properly embarrassed. “Sorry. It’s personal, I know, I just—” he lets out an awkward giggle. “Just can’t shut the fuck up sometimes.”

“It’s fine. It’s not— everyone else knows anyway.” Frank fiddles with a sharpie. “It’s a dumb story, really. Grandpa opened a restaurant, Dad inherited it, but he wasn’t great at running a business, which is, y’know, weird that he learned nothing when Grandpa was alive. So Dad had no idea what to do with the place, and he had those swings when one day he doesn’t want to use the sauce from a different brand and the next he changes half the menu because he read some bullshit somewhere online. Never listened to anyone. Then Mom walked out on us, and he got even worse, but he’s a damn good cook so people were still coming, ‘cause, y’know, the owner’s a weirdo but at least the food’s great, right?” He chuckles. Gerard doesn’t laugh. “And then he refused to use a delivery service during the pandemic. I’ve been telling him we should do it, ‘cause we didn’t stand a chance otherwise. He refused, borrowed money from some people, realised he can’t pay it back, and then one morning I woke up and he was gone. Called me three days later from Denver, said he was done here. And, well, here I am.”

Gerard is silent. He doesn’t look Frank in the eyes, and Frank isn’t sure if he should say something or get back to the menu and pretend that nothing happened.

“Okay,” Gerard mutters under his breath. “That was—”

“Personal.”

“Yep. Very.” he forces a smile. “But, um. If he isn’t around anymore, what’s stopping you from doing it your way?”

Frank shrugs.

“Nothing. Just had to take care of some other stuff first.”

He looks at the menu, and Gerard’s notes and scribbles. This could work. This could actually be their chance to survive.

“Okay,” he says. “I think we should run it past Ray first, ask him what he thinks.” Because Ray is still his second-in-command, and he needs to know about the potential changes coming. “Then we talk to the guys.”

Gerard nods in agreement.

***

“You’re getting rid of baccalà, thank fuckin’ God,” is the first thing Ray says when Gerard finishes explaining the concept of the new menu.

They approached him after the shift ended and everyone else went home. It felt like their best chance to catch Ray without anyone distracting them.

“What do you think?” Frank asks.

Ray takes another look at the notes.

“It’s… shorter,” he says. “I like that.” He looks unconvinced. “But, I mean, no offence, but it’s kinda… lacking, in my opinion.”

“We’ll add specials,” Frank argues. “Gerard’s on it.”

“Like, season specials, or in general?” Ray frowns.

“Both,” Gerard replies. “I’ll start with the house special, and we could work from there.”

Ray nods.

“Great. Cool. I’m in.”

He wants to ask something. Frank has known him long enough to understand when Ray has something on his mind and isn't sure how he should address it.

“Maybe we could,” he starts, unsure. “I mean, not right now, but maybe we could try making our own pastries? After we're done with the main part, of course. It could save us money.”

“We don't have the equipment,” Frank replies.

He vaguely remembers that they used to make the pastries at the restaurant, back when he was still a child. But then the pastry chef quit, and Frank’s father decided that they can switch to bulk buying ready-made desserts and it has been this way since then.

“That's why I’m saying not right now. If this works,” Ray points at Gerard's notes, “we could give it a shot.”

Frank shrugs. “Why not? But you’ll be the one in charge.”

He could swear he saw Ray’s eyes brighten for a brief moment.

“Anything else?” he asks. “Questions, comments?”

“Yeah, just one. You're not gonna change it today, right?”

Frank glances at Gerard. They haven't figured this part out yet, didn't even talk about it properly.

“Maybe we should start on Tuesday?” Gerard suggests. “Give everyone time to prepare.”

Ray nods. “Agreed.”

Frank rubs his forehead, trying to gather his thoughts. He wants to shut the whole thing down, to carry on like they did for the past few months — years, even. It’s not going to work. People don’t like change, and they’ll have to change much more than the menu, the entire process needs to be renewed, and Frank can’t do it. He doesn’t even have enough authority around here to make sure everyone follows his orders.

If he starts changing things he will have to accept that his father really has left him.

“I can’t,” Frank whispers. “I—”

“Something wrong?” Gerard sounds sincerely concerned. “We can— we can put it aside for now, focus on something else.”

Frank takes a deep breath.

“It’s fine,” he says. “But I think I’ll need to sleep on it after all.”

He needs to get ready for this. He needs to take another look at Gerard’s notes, see if there is anything else he could change, or leave out, or add — though Gerard is right that the menu they have now is too big and the easiest way is to get rid of half of the positions and focus on something they can’t mess up.

“Dude, that’s our chance!” Ray says, not even trying to conceal his frustration. “We can finally actually have something good here!”

“I know! I’m not saying we shouldn’t do it, I just need time to think, okay?” Frank huffs. “Just— just take another look, see if I can also think of something, that sort of thing.”

“But you wanna do it, right?” Gerard asks somewhat sheepishly.

“Yeah. I do.”

They’re not going to survive for long otherwise, and Frank knows it. He just wishes it wasn’t so hard for him to make a decision.

***

When he is ready to close up Frank notices that Gerard is still in the kitchen. He hasn’t even taken his apron off yet, and for a moment Frank is worried he is having some kind of an episode: he is leaning against the counter, staring in the distance with a detached look on his face, his body completely still. He doesn’t turn to the sound of Frank’s footsteps, doesn’t acknowledge his presence at all.

“You alright there?”

No reaction. Frank reaches out and touches Gerard’s shoulder, and Gerard violently flinches and scatters away from Frank like he was just punched in the face.

“Fuck!”

Gerard stares at him with wide eyes, frozen in place, breathing heavily. Frank takes a step back in an attempt to give him space, and Gerard visibly relaxes.

“Sorry,” Frank mutters. “Didn’t want to scare you.”

Gerard runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s alright. I was just thinking.”

“What about? The special?”

Gerard nods. “Yeah. That too.” He rubs his forehead. “It’s harder than I thought. I’ve never really experimented with pizza before.”

“It can wait until tomorrow. Seriously. Go home, have some rest.”

Gerard is swaying, and not just figuratively. Frank can see he’s barely standing. No wonder: he threw himself into work almost immediately and went through three ten to twelve hour shifts in a row, and that is not including the time it takes to get to and from work. The guy needs rest.

“Okay,” Gerard mumbles. “Or wait, no. Can I stay for some time? I might need the kitchen.”

“Nope.” Frank frowns. “You’ll have time tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday, I won't have time for anything.”

“Then come on Monday! We'll be closed, you'll have the entire kitchen for yourself.”

Gerard shakes his head, and Jesus Christ he's stubborn.

“You're not gonna stay in the kitchen tonight,” Frank grumbles. “That's an order, got it?” When he gets a shaky nod he softens his voice. “Did you eat anything today?” Gerard shrugs. “Come on, yes or no?”

Gerard mumbles. “A bit. Here and there.”

“So you haven't,” Frank sighs. “Jesus Christ, man.”

“I’ll eat at home.”

“Yeah, like I’m gonna let you drive in this state.”

“It’s a twenty minute ride!” Gerard huffs. “I’ll be fine, you don’t need to—”

He might be making a mistake. They barely know each other, and Gerard is still new to their work dynamic and is clearly trying to keep it professional, and Frank being insistent is going to make him look like a creep. But Gerard looks like he is running on sheer willpower, and he is going to need all the strength he has tomorrow. It’s a game night, they’ll be drowning in takeaways.

“I live upstairs,” Frank says. “You can come over.”

Gerard stares at him.

“As a friend,” Frank adds. “A coworker, whatever. I’ll make us dinner, and then you’ll go home. No weird shit, I promise.”

Gerard slowly nods.

***

‘Making dinner’ consists of microwaving rice and beans leftovers and leaving it at that. Frank doesn't have the energy to cook anything proper. Gerard doesn't seem to mind — or, at least, has the decency not to comment on it. Frank knows it's a normal thing: when you spend the entire day preparing meals you don't want to bring your work home.

“So what's it like?” Frank asks as he passes Gerard the plate. “Working in fine dining?”

Gerard shrugs. “It depends on the chef.”

“That's the same, like, everywhere,” Frank points out.

“Oh, so you want a story?”

Frank shrugs. “I told you mine today.”

Gerard stares at his plate for a few moments.

“Shrimp and blue cheese,” he says.

“What?”

“What if we put shrimp and blue cheese on a pizza?”

“First of all, we don't talk about work in this house. Second, put your fine dining perversions back where you found them, or next you're gonna put pineapples on a pizza.”

“Hawaiian pizza isn't that bad, come on!” Gerard argues.

“That's blasphemy!”

“It's literally not.”

“Blasphemy, I say!” Frank laughs. “And you're getting off topic.”

“That's because I don't wanna talk about it.”

Which is fair; Gerard doesn’t really owe him anything, especially telling about his past. And still Frank can barely hide his curiosity. Gerard puzzles him — or, more specifically, Gerard’s very presence in pizzeria is what Frank finds strange. Something must have happened in his life to make Gerard change the course so drastically, and Frank is too curious for his own good, he needs to know what made Gerard come to his restaurant looking for a job.

“Okay, here’s one,” Gerard finally says. “It’s not very funny, but whatever.”

“Shoot.”

“I worked at a gastropub once,” Gerard begins after a short pause. “One of my first jobs, actually. Anyway, we had this bartender, really chill guy. And one day he shows up, and he is completely shitfaced. And everyone was like: what the fuck? He had never done that before, and the place had pretty strict rules for the front staff. So this guy shows up wasted, and he starts giving drinks out for free halfway through the night, and the manager sees that and tells him to get out and never come back.”

Gerard takes a short break to force some food into himself. He’s a slow eater, Frank notices, like he has no appetite at all.

“So it turned out,” Gerard continues, “It turned out, the manager found out that the kitchen was giving the front staff free food and banned it, and this guy got pissed.”

“I thought it was normal,” Frank blurts out.

He doesn't remember the time when anyone was prohibiting the staff from eating at the restaurant for free.

Gerard shrugs. “Apparently it's not. Every cent counts and shit. So this guy decided to quit with a bang because of it.”

“I’d say he did,” Frank chuckles.

Gerard smiles.

“Yeah. I quit shortly after, so I don't know if things changed there. Fine dining is the fucking worst.”

“Really?”

Gerard nods. “Yep. Especially the ones with an open kitchen. Can't fucking swear there, and people are watching you all the time. I work better without an audience.”

“No open kitchens. Got it.” Frank chuckles. “Good thing Dad didn't think about that one.”

Gerard hums.

They finish dinner in awkward silence. Frank fights the urge to offer Gerard to spend the night at his place: the situation is dubious enough already, he doesn't want to scare Gerard off by being insistent on keeping him around after hours.

Eventually Gerard breaks the silence.

“Tell me about him.”

“About whom?”

“Your father,” Gerard clarifies. “You're working with what he left you, so everyone else does too. I wanna know what he’s like.” He pointedly doesn't look Frank in the eyes. “If it's not too personal, of course.”

“It's not,” Frank hurries to reassure him. “I just haven't talked much about him after he left.”

It's still too painful to think about. He still feels lost and betrayed, and the only way he has found to escape it is get so deep in work he can’t think about anything else.

“He was a good dad,” he says. “Maybe not the best dad in the world, but he was trying. Taught me everything I know about cooking. But his work-life balance was shit.” A sad smile crosses his lips. “Well, it’s this job, you’re always gonna have shitty work-life balance. But he always tried to find time for me, especially after Mom left.”

Which never stopped him from ignoring Frank when it came to anything related to the way he ran the restaurant. No matter how hard Frank tried to convince him that things needed to change if they wanted to survive, his father carried on doing what he wanted.

And now he’s gone, and Frank is left to pick up the pieces and try to make it work.

“He sounds like a nice person,” Gerard says.

“Yeah,” Frank mutters. “He was a great guy. Terrible at running a business, though.”

“You have no idea how many people that open a restaurant are actually horrible at it,” Gerard chuckles. “Seriously, I’ve seen owners that won’t let you fix yourself a sandwich during the break and then throw a party for their third cousin’s kid’s birthday, bring in a hundred people, and you have to stay until two in the morning, and those people won’t even pay for it.”

“This sucks, man.”

“Tell me about it,” Gerard mutters.

He stands up, somewhat awkwardly.

“I gotta go,” he says. “Thanks for dinner, but I really need to run.”

“Sure,” Frank nods.

The goodbye turns out to be a bit more awkward than Frank thought it would be. Gerard seems to be slightly confused by the way Frank lets him go, like he half-expected him to ask him to stay the night. And Frank may have no idea how people do it in other restaurants, but if there is one thing his father has taught him, it’s that you don’t ever get involved with our staff. Frank is already crossing the boundaries by treating his crew as friends, but there is no way in hell he is going to cross that one line, no matter how cute Gerard is.

From the window Frank watches Gerard drive off, and only now he realises he didn’t even ask where he lives. Maybe it’s for the best: no temptation to come over to Gerard’s house every time he feels like hanging out with him.

He is completely and thoroughly fucked, isn’t he?

Frank tries to distract himself. Goes online, scrolls through social media, finding nothing that could be even remotely interesting. The world is on fire, what else is new?

At some point he starts going through his messages with no particular goal, until he stumbles on the chat with his father. For a few seconds he just stares at it, not sure if he should turn his phone off and just forget about it. The last message, the one he sent immediately after that one call, is left on read, and at this point it should be obvious he isn’t getting an answer.

This wasn’t supposed to go down this way. Frank shouldn’t be stuck in Newark dealing with his father’s mess after he left him without a warning.

He almost dials his number but quickly stops himself. At best his father isn’t going to answer, at worst Frank is going to tell him everything he thinks about his father’s poor decision-making and running away instead of dealing with the consequences. Instead he types a short message, just two words.

Fuck you

He never sends it.

Chapter Text

Frank is in dire need of help.

It's Monday. Monday has been his official (and only) day off ever since he graduated community college and started working at the restaurant full-time. He is allowed to spend it in bed doing nothing. So why is he awake at seven in the morning and can't go back to sleep no matter how hard he tries? Granted, Frank manages to drift off at some point but it doesn’t feel like a proper sleep, more like an anxious slumber, and he jolts awake from the sound of screeching tires.

Fucking street drifters.

Frank reaches for his phone and squints at the screen, trying to make out the time. Half past eight. He is usually still asleep at this time on his day off.

It's the stress. It's definitely the stress, and the anxiety about the upcoming changes is finally getting to him. Frank can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop being anxious about everything going on in his life now.

He considers taking a walk but quickly discards this thought. He’ll be left alone with his own thoughts, and this is only going to make things worse. So instead he calls the only person he can think of that will pick up the phone at this time of day: Mikey.

Mikey doesn’t answer for too long. At some point Frank begins to genuinely worry about him, but then Mikey picks up the phone and barks: “Wassup?”

He’s not in the mood, Frank can tell by his tone. Well, too bad: he needs company, and Mikey is the only person that Frank doesn’t see almost every day for ten to twelve hours.

“I could use some of your stuff,” he says. “Can I come over?”

Mikey sighs. “You’re not gonna take no for an answer, right?”

“Nope.”

“Fine, you can come over,” Mikey grumbles. “It’s just me and my brother anyway.”

“He’s still living with you?”

“Like anyone could kick him out.”

Frank isn't that interested in the details of Mikey's family life. There is always some kind of drama surrounding him, Frank finds it too hard to keep up with everything.

The drive to Mikey's place takes about twenty minutes. First thing Frank notices when he arrives is a familiar Honda parked in the driveway. He looks at it probably longer than necessary, trying to remember where he could see it before, but quickly gives up: there are way too many Hondas in this part of New Jersey to possibly keep track. Mikey could have bought a new car, or he could have invited someone over without telling anyone, it shouldn't be a big deal.

When he knocks on the door the first time he gets no answer. Frank can hear someone walking around inside the house, so he knocks again, trying to get Mikey's attention.

He's probably stoned again. Just Frank’s luck.

Frank makes a move to knock again, and at this exact moment the door opens, and he forgets everything he wanted to tell Mikey about getting high without waiting for him.

Standing in front of him is Gerard, with messy hair, wearing an oversized Star Wars T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. He obviously just woke up, and he stares at Frank like he saw a ghost.

“Frank?”

His voice is quiet, slightly trembling.

“What are you doing here?” Frank blurts out.

Gerard stares at him.

“I live here,” he frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to see Mikey,” Frank replies, desperately trying to figure out what exactly is going on. “He's here, right? I didn’t—” he lets out a nervous giggle. “Fucking suburbs, right?”

Gerard lets out a heavy sigh and steps to the side, letting Frank in.

“I’ll go get him,” he says.

This is the moment Frank finally realises it.

“You're Mikey's brother!”

Gerard shrugs. “Yeah. I thought you knew.”

“He never told me about you.”

Well, technically he did, but he never mentioned Gerard’s name, and if Mikey is to be believed the brothers lost contact shortly before Frank came along, so there was little to no chance he could recognise Gerard as Mikey's brother.

“We still have the same last name, y’know,” Gerard points out.

“Do you have any idea how many Ways are there in America?”

Gerard chuckles. “True.”

It’s getting a bit uncomfortable. Gerard disappears upstairs to get Mikey out of his room, and Frank is left alone in the living room. He can't recall the last time he was inside Mikey's house: they usually meet at Frank’s apartment or at a parking lot by the mall, not counting the times when Mikey comes to hang out in the kitchen. It's almost like he is ashamed of his own home, and Frank isn’t sure he understands why. It may not be the best, true, but it’s pretty far from the worst. And Frank has seen worse.

Frank watches as Gerard retreats to the basement, never looking at him directly. It feels strange: just yesterday everything was fine, and now it almost feels like Gerard is avoiding him altogether. And, granted, Frank showed up at his front door unannounced, and he somehow managed to miss all the signs that Gerard and Mikey are brothers (well, this one is entirely Mikey’s fault), but it doesn’t mean Gerard needs to act like he barely knows Frank.

Frank tries not to overthink it. They’ve known each other for less than a week, and most of their interactions have been mostly work-related so far, Gerard doesn’t have to treat Frank as a friend, doesn’t have to cross the line between personal and professional if he doesn’t want to.

Mikey shows up moments after the basement door closes behind Gerard’s back.

“Let’s go,” is the first thing he says. “I want a Wendy’s.”

Which in Mikey’s language means that he wants to get out of the house as quickly as he can. Frank doesn’t object: the situation can easily get even more awkward, and he isn’t ready to deal with it right now.

The nearest Wendy’s is less than ten minutes away, and Frank knows Mikey would rather find another spot further from home but he isn’t in the mood to be his personal driver. If Mikey wants to go all the way to Jersey City for a burger, he can do it on his own. And yes, Frank is still pissed that Mikey didn’t deem him worthy of knowing that his brother has been working at Frank’s restaurant for the past week.

They make an order at the drive-thru because Mikey’s T-shirt is reeking of weed and even though he looks sober they’ll get kicked out almost immediately. Frank isn't really hungry — he spends most of his time surrounded by food, he can barely look at it, — so he orders fries and soda, just to make sure he doesn't starve himself, while Mikey gets one of the combos, Frank doesn't really pay attention. He is more preoccupied with finding a way to address the elephant in the room.

“Were you going to tell me?” Frank asks when Mikey is halfway done with his burger.

“Tell you what?”

And Mikey can pretend to be pure innocence but Frank knows that he understood exactly what he meant.

“That Gerard is your brother.”

“I told you that I have a brother! Several times!”

“You never said who he was!”

Mikey shrugs. “Does it matter?” he asks, and Frank can sense the bitterness in his voice. “He was gone anyway, and before he left he made it pretty damn clear that he wasn’t going to come back.”

“But he did,” Frank points out. “And you didn’t think to tell me he’s a—”

“A cook?” Mikey winces. “How the fuck was I supposed to know he’ll come to you?”

Frank shrugs. “He was looking for a job.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Mikey grumbles. “It’s just— everything’s been kinda fucked up lately. Mom’s—” he sighs. “Okay, how much did Gerard tell you about himself?”

“Almost nothing. Why?”

He can sense a story coming. At least, he hopes, it will shed some light on Gerard. Not because Frank is so obsessed with him — though he has to admit, he’s thinking about the guy more than he should think about his employee, — but because this might be his only chance to find out how Gerard ended up at Frank’s door in the first place.

“Right,” Mikey mutters. “Okay. In short, Mom and Dad didn’t know Gee went to CIA. Like, at all, right until he graduated. They weren’t exactly… happy about it, so he packed his stuff and fucked off to New York. No idea what he’s been doing there ‘cause he didn’t fucking call, but then he came back.”

And it’s been hell ever since. Frank has only met Mrs Way once or twice but he is sure he didn’t make a good impression, and, if Mikey is to be believed, she has mastered a certain tactic that involved a fair amount of passive aggressive remarks and pressuring her victims into compliance without raising her voice once. Some part of it might be an exaggeration, but Mikey does prefer to spend most of his time away from his house, and now that Frank thinks about it Gerard has been employing the same strategy of staying as far away from his family as possible.

“I take it that didn’t go well,” Frank mutters under his breath.

“You fucking bet, man,” Mikey groans. “They’re gonna kill each other one day.”

“That bad, huh?”

Mikey stares at the pre-owned cars shop across the road. Frank follows his gaze, believing Mikey saw a familiar face, but sees nothing but a few passerby. Nobody in their right mind would be hanging around anyway: it’s too early for those who don’t have to work, and all those with nine-to-five jobs should already be at the office.

“A fucking disaster,” Mikey grumbles. “At least when it was just me they were too busy complaining about Gerard to care about me, and now all Mom does is nagging both of us.” He sighs. “I’m happy that Gerard is back, but I kinda wish he moved out already.”

Frank hums. He still has questions — way too many questions, most of which Mikey probably won’t answer. And even if he could, it would only raise suspicions.

He takes Mikey home. Mrs Way isn’t going to be home until six — at least, according to Mikey, — so they settle in Mikey’s room with a PlayStation, Mikey’s weed stash, and a six pack of soda. Frank catches a glimpse of Gerard a couple of times and almost runs into him when he goes outside for a smoke, but most of the time it feels like they are alone. Gerard doesn’t show up for lunch, though Frank notices him later fixing himself a PB&J.

And then the disaster strikes.

Frank was supposed to leave before Mrs Way came home. He even set an alarm just in case, to make sure he has enough time to disappear. It feels a bit childish — he’s twenty four years old, he shouldn't hide from his friend’s mother even if she doesn't like him, — but Mikey insisted Frank doesn't show up when she's home, and Frank had no other choice but to comply. What he didn’t consider, however, was Mrs Way coming back earlier than anyone anticipated, and by the time Frank finally hears the sound of a car pulling into the driveway it’s already too late.

Mrs Way looks annoyed. Not even tired, just plain annoyed, and Frank regrets staying at Mikey’s house in the first place. At first it seems innocent enough: Mrs Way dryly greets him before dragging Mikey to the kitchen to help her with the groceries, and Frank is left to his own devices right until Gerard shows up.

Something isn’t right with him, Frank notices immediately. He clearly didn’t want to leave the basement, and he seems… dull. Not that he was the embodiment of cheer before, but now he looks exhausted and completely beaten down. Gerard still doesn’t look at Frank, just nods at him before dragging himself to the kitchen with a tired: “Hi, Mom.”

Frank tries to listen into the following conversation but Mrs Way’s voice is too quiet to hear from his position, and Frank doesn’t dare moving closer, afraid of being noticed. He doesn’t have to wait long, however: something drops to the floor with a loud clink immediately followed by Mrs Way’s words: “And here I thought they taught you something.”

Frank takes a step forward. From his spot he watches Gerard pick up a knife from the floor and throw it into the sink. Mrs Way is watching his every move, her lips pursed tightly, as Mikey shoots Frank a worried glance. He actually tries to escape from the kitchen, but his mother gives him a stern look.

“It’s just a knife,” Gerard tries to argue. “It happens all the time.”

“I know,” she sighs. “I just thought that, if you decided to spend your college fund on a culinary school, you would actually put your degree to use.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Frank flinches at the sound of Gerard’s voice. He isn’t angry yet, not to the point where he starts losing his composure, but the storm is clearly on its way.

“Nothing,” Mrs Way replies, her voice slightly wavering. “Just, you see, I come home after a long day of work, it would be nice if someone cared enough to make something for dinner once, since both of you are staying home.”

“We have leftovers,” Mikey chimes in.

“And I cooked all that,” his mother argues. “All I do is work to provide for my two grown sons, and when I come home it feels like they don’t even care about me.”

“Mom—”

Frank wants to intervene. The entire situation is making him feel sick. No wonder the brothers are doing everything in their power to stay away from home.

“I mean, I didn’t raise you like that, did I?”

Gerard grumbles something under his breath. Mrs Way ignores him.

“All I’m asking for is you to do something around the house if you insist on not working.”

“I have a job, and you know that,” Gerard growls.

“Well, it clearly doesn’t pay enough if you have to stay here,” Mrs Way scoffs.

“I just started, I didn’t even have time to get my first paycheck!”

“If you even started at all.” Frank desperately needs to stop this now, but something about Mrs Way’s tone doesn’t let him as much as think of a decent argument. “All I see is you disappearing in the morning and coming back in the middle of the night—”

“Because it’s a full-time job at a restaurant! It’s always like this!”

“You didn’t even come to church this Sunday,” Mrs Way continues, unbothered by Gerard’s words. “How should I know you are working and not loitering around with your friends?”

This is the moment when Frank finally finds his voice.

“He’s working,” he says, stepping into the kitchen.

Everyone stares at him. Gerard visibly tenses, shooting worried glances between Frank and Mrs Way, and this is a clear sign that Frank needs to choose his next words very carefully.

“We work together,” he says. “At my… at my Dad’s restaurant. Gerard started last Wednesday, and he really hasn't been paid yet.”

“Really?” Mrs Way turns to Gerard. “Is this true?”

Gerard nods.

“Well, if you say so,” she sighs. “Is your father alright, Frank? I’ve heard rumours that he left not so long ago.”

“He’s fine,” Frank mutters. “Just, you know, been a bit busy. We’re trying something new, and it’s taking a lot of time.”

And no way in hell he’s admitting that his father ran away and left Frank in charge; something is telling him that this, Frank being Gerard’s boss despite being a few years younger than him, will only make the situation worse.

Gerard chooses this exact moment to get out. He silently squeezes past Frank, and soon Frank hears the front door slamming behind his back. Mikey rolls his eyes.

At least Mrs Way isn't interested in finding out how Frank has been. She doesn't seem to be particularly happy with his presence in her house, so Frank quietly leaves before she decides to continue the argument.

Gerard is sitting at the porch steps, cigarette in hand. He flinches at the sound of Frank's footsteps and visibly calms down when he realises this isn't his mother trying to continue their earlier conversation.

“Why did you do it?”

Frank frowns at Gerard. “Why did I do what exactly?”

Gerard shrugs. “Tell her where I work.”

“Because it wasn’t fair.” Frank does his best to keep his voice low. “She basically said you were lying to her.”

“I can deal with it.”

“I never said you couldn’t deal with it, I said it wasn’t fair. Big fucking difference.”

Gerard sighs and takes another drag of his cigarette. Frank sits on the porch next to him and pulls out his own pack. For a few moments they sit in silence, smoking, avoiding to look at each other.

“Are you stalking me?”

Frank almost chokes on the cigarette smoke.

“I’m not stalking you!”

“It kinda looks like you do,” Gerard says. “You know, showing up at my house on my day off, hanging around all day.”

“I came to hang out with Mikey,” Frank points out. “It’s not my fault he didn’t tell me you two are related.”

“Oh, so you weren’t staring at me every time I was around?”

“I wasn’t—” Frank coughs. “Okay, just so we’re clear. I’m not interested in you in that way. Not romantically, and I don’t want to— to have sex with you or whatever, and if it looked that way, then I’m sorry.”

Gerard nods. “Okay, cool. Because the rule about not fucking your coworkers exists for a reason, y’know?”

“Technically I’m your boss, not a coworker.”

For the first time during the conversation Gerard stares at him.

“This is actually worse,” he says quietly. “You understand how this is actually worse, right?”

“Yep. Still not trying to make a move on you.” Frank takes a deep breath. “But I’d like to get to know you better. As a friend, obviously.”

“There isn’t much to know,” Gerard mutters.

“I think there is. A guy with your education and experience shows up at a place where most people at best have finished a community college? Not something that happens every day.”

“It’s not that strange.”

“For me it is.”

“You can always ask Mikey if you really need to know.”

“I don’t want to hear it from Mikey, I want to hear it from you.”

Gerard sighs. “You really should stop paying so much attention to me. Seriously. I’m just trying to do something I’m good at and earn some money in the process. Nothing else.”

“Don’t we all?” Frank chuckles. “But the question is, why here? You had a… sorry for saying this, but you had a career in New York. A great fuckin' career. I mean, motherfuckin’ Blue Hill! You could, dunno, go further, start your own restaurant, why did you come back here?”

Gerard doesn’t reply for a few long seconds, staring at Frank, as if he isn’t sure he can find the proper words to explain his reasoning.

“Is that all you saw?” he asks quietly. “In my résumé, is that all you saw? Fucking Blue Hill? CIA? A bunch of fancy places?”

“Was I supposed to see something else?”

“Yes.” Gerard puts the cigarette out in an overfilled ashtray. “That I never stayed at one place for more than a year? Six months of fuckin’ nothing before you hired me?”

“You said you had mental health issues,” Frank shrugs. “Happens to the best of us.”

Gerard shakes his head. “It’s not really an excuse, you know? I made certain choices. Those choices led me back here.” He looks down at his hands. “I’m not the person you think I am, Frank. I’m not a prodigy, I’m not even talented.”

“You’re still doing a damn good job.”

“Doing a good job isn’t enough.”

“Says who?”

Gerard doesn’t reply.

“I’m serious. Says who? Because in my books that’s enough.” Frank huffs. “Seriously, man, at least you’re trying, and you— fuck, you care about my restaurant more than I ever did!”

“That’s not true,” Gerard mumbles.

“It is. At least you care enough to notice what’s wrong and try to fix it.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to lose another job.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Frank grumbles.

Gerard takes a deep breath. “I just want to save you the disappointment. Seriously, you see my résumé, and it looks nice and professional and all that shit, but one day you’re gonna see the reality, and it’s pretty ugly. I’m gonna fuck everything up sooner or later.”

“Everyone fucks up, come on.”

“Not the way I do.”

“Man, who hurt you?”

Frank doesn’t understand. Yes, Gerard is too demanding, and he’s used to standards Frank can’t possibly uphold, and he can be a nag sometimes, but he is doing his best to fit in. Frank has noticed Ray warming up to him, and Geoff, despite their regular bitching, hasn’t had a serious complaint once, and Gerard is always nice to the front staff, which is a rare quality, and Frank highly doubts it’s all an act. Unless something happened that led to the six months gap and Gerard being forced to come back home, something that can't be explained by mental health problems, or a burnout, or the need to take some time off work.

Is this the reason Gerard insists on keeping his distance? Is there something else besides an attempt to keep things strictly professional?

“You should go home,” Gerard says.

“Gerard—”

“I’m serious. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”

He isn’t going to stay around and endure Frank’s attempts to get to know him better. At least he makes it clear enough.

“Okay,” Frank mutters. “See you tomorrow, then?”

Gerard nods, offering him a sad smile. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

When Gerard shows up at work on the next day he acts like nothing happened. He clocks in at his usual time,  thirty five minutes before the beginning of his shift, spends exactly three minutes and eighteen seconds in the locker room, greets Ray and Geoff on the way to his station, nods at Frank as he passes by, and nothing in his posture shows any kind of distress. Frank isn’t sure if he’s happy about it; he desperately needs to know if everything was alright after he left, if Gerard is doing okay, but he has no idea how to approach him. Eventually he decides to do nothing at all: if Gerard wants to keep his distance, so be it. He’ll come to Frank himself, if he ever wants to.

They still have about half an hour before the opening. Dewees is running late, as always, and Frank uses it as an excuse to take over his station. He needs to gather his thoughts before he makes the announcement — if they’re still going to try and change the menu, which, considering Gerard’s words from the day before, might be called off at any given moment. He knows the guys won’t be mad at him; they’ve been complaining about the menu too, just not to Frank. He isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s just trying to survive and save what once was his grandfather’s whole life.

So why does it feel like he is about to betray his own family?

He’s slicing tomatoes when Ray approaches him. He stands at Frank’s side, leaning against the counter to make sure Frank can’t pretend he didn’t notice him.

“Are we doing it?” he asks.

“Doing what?”

Ray huffs. “Don’t play dumb, you know what I mean.”

Frank shrugs. “Is Gerard still in?”

“He didn’t say otherwise.” Ray frowns. “Did something happen?”

“Nope. Don’t think so.” Frank puts down the knife. “Can you gather everyone up?”

He just needs a moment. Just a few minutes to gather his thoughts.

“Sure,” Ray nods, but doesn’t leave. “Listen, I, um, took the liberty to print out the new menus. They’re not as good as I thought, but—”

Frank waves his hand. “It’s fine. Better than nothing anyway.”

Ray seems to be satisfied with this answer.

By the time Frank is finally ready everyone is already waiting for him at the front. Ray gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Gerard huddles in the corner, away from the rest of the team, but he straightens up a bit at the sight of Frank. It strikes him as strange: Gerard was so excited about this project, and now he is shying away from the attention.

“Alright,” Frank starts. “We're going to try and do things a little bit differently from now on.”

The tension in the room is almost palpable. Geoff is already giving Gerard suspicious looks, as if he has already figured out who exactly was the one to propose the changes.

“You’re not firing anyone, right?” Dewees asks.

“I’m not firing anyone, we’re just making a little reorganisation.”

“Okay,” Anthony nods. “Because it would be totally uncool to fire us.”

“I’m telling you, nobody’s—”

“And you should have given us a two weeks notice,” Geoff adds.

“Nobody is getting fired, come on!” Frank groans. “We’re just changing the menu!”

A relieved sigh fills the room. Frank feels Gerard’s intense gaze on his back and tries to make himself look a bit more strict and collected.

“Are you getting rid of baccalà?” Anthony asks hopefully. “I’m tired of telling people we’re out of cod.”

“That’s the first thing we’re taking off the menu,” Frank promises. “Ray, could you—”

Ray silently hands out the new menu printouts. For a few long minutes everyone is silent, studying the menu and trying to figure out what the catch is. Ray is really selling himself short: he clearly spent several nights working on the printouts, and while not exactly original (more like a bunch of Pinterest designs thrown together) they look presentable. Decent enough to be shown to the diners, which is extraordinary for an amateur designer.

“Alright, that's actually better than I thought,” Geoff finally says. “I was worried you were gonna start selling crostinis for fifty dollars each.”

“Still not that kind of establishment,” Frank murmurs.

Geoff shrugs. “You never know.”

Frank doesn't dignify that with an answer. Some things should stay the same, and Iero’s has always been a family restaurant, a part of the neighbourhood. His grandfather dreamt of making it an anchor place, and the world might have changed since then and his dream might never come true, but there is no way in hell Frank is going to turn it into one of those overpriced hipster joints.

“We're not adding anything new yet,” Frank starts. “We don’t really have enough resources, so we're taking it slow for now. If you have any ideas or suggestions, you can always come to me and we'll discuss it.”

Dewees raises his hand.

“When you say 'discuss', do you mean actually talking about it, or is it an ‘I’ll listen to you so that you fuck off already’ kind of thing?” he asks. “‘Cause there's a big difference, man.”

“We’ll talk about it,” Frank promises. “I’m not promising to do everything your way, but we can always talk about it.”

It’s hard to tell if Dewees is satisfied with this answer, but he doesn’t ask any more questions. And Frank needs someone to say something, and even if he’s going to be completely roasted it’s going to be better than this silence.

“Any more questions?” he asks.

“Yeah, can we ditch the tip pooling?” Anthony chimes in.

“I thought we had an agreement about that,” Frank frowns. “And you were the one who proposed it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I like it anymore,” Anthony shrugs.

“Then decide with the rest of FOH if you want to keep it or not,” Frank sighs. “Next question.”

“Tyrant,” Anthony grumbles without a hint of malice in his voice.

“So let me get this straight,” Geoff asks. “We’re still a pizzeria, right?”

“Yep.”

“Not a fancy overpriced shithole?”

“Not even close,” Frank frowns. “Dude, what’s going on?”

“Nothing! I just got worried for a second, that’s all.”

There is more to it. Frank has known Geoff long enough to notice when he has something on his mind he doesn’t feel like sharing with the class. And Frank understands why he would be worried: just last month one of the local restaurants went through a rebranding and put ridiculous prices on everything, more suitable for Downtown New York than for Ironbound, Newark. He just never thought that announcing the menu changes would make people suspect him of trying to turn the pizzeria into another fine dining restaurant.

“We’re just re-adjusting the menu,” Frank tries to reassure him. “Everything else stays the same.”

For now, he wants to add. There is more to saving the restaurant than changing the menu and getting a better management system, no matter what they show on Kitchen Nightmares. They’ll have to get rid of other things his father insisted on keeping, most likely add something new, and all that while trying to figure out what to do with the debt. At least nobody has come to collect yet, thank fuck, because Frank is sure he would have ended up on the bottom of Passaic the moment he told those people he didn’t have the money.

Nobody asks any more tricky questions, thankfully, and Frank hopes they’re not going to mess up on the first day. He wants it to work. He needs it to work.

The first half of the shift is slow as usual. They don’t get any complaints, at least, so Frank takes it as a good sign. Maybe it really was a good idea to start during one of the slower days to make sure they get enough time to correct their mistakes before it gets too busy.

Of course Geoff has to choose that very moment when Frank is busy with the atrocity they call The Everything Calzone (one of the regulars orders a calzone with every filling they have; Frank believes this is one of the greatest insults in human history, but the guy has been around for years now, and Frank had more than enough time to get used to it) to come to his station to talk.

“Are you sure about it?” he asks.

Frank shoots him a quick glance. “About what?”

“Changes,” Geoff clarifies. “Are you sure now is the right time?”

Frank reaches for the bacon container. “We need to do something about this place,” he replies. “Geoff, man, seriously, is there a problem?”

“Nope, no problems.” Geoff crosses his arms and takes a quick look around, making sure nobody can hear them. “I just think it’s a bit strange you decided to do it after, y’know, the new guy showed up.”

So Geoff is jealous. Frank should have figured it out sooner, really; Geoff doesn’t take it well when he feels someone is getting more attention in the workplace for no apparent reason, and with the way Frank has been acting no wonder he is getting stressed out.

“I’m not playing favourites,” Frank starts. “Gerard came to me with an offer, I thought it was good enough to give it a try—”

“Yeah, see, that’s the thing,” Geoff interrupts him. “He doesn’t know how things work around here, and he’s already making suggestions.”

“It was a good suggestion.”

“I’m not arguing with that,” Geoff grumbles. “This one was alright, true, but everyone saw that problem, like, you need to be fucking blind not to notice. But are you sure the next one will also be good?”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

“What I’m getting at is, the guy spent his entire career arranging microgreens according to golden ratio, he needs to get that PTSD dealt with, not tell you how to run your own restaurant.”

“I think I can figure it out myself, thanks.” Frank takes a deep breath. “Man, seriously, stop it. It was one time, and it doesn’t mean that Gerard is going to run the place.”

Geoff nods. “Good. Because I don’t think he understands how things work outside of all those fancy places.”

‘Stop being such a bitch,” Frank scoffs. “He’ll learn.”

“Sure hope so,” Geoff mutters.

Frank puts the calzone in the oven. He’s still having trouble looking at this atrocity, no matter how many times he had to make it. Maybe he’s going to redirect the order to Gerard next time, just to see the look on his face.

Why is he even thinking about Gerard right now? It’s just a stupid order, and it’s not even that funny, people do weird things all the time. Some people also have no taste buds, regardless of their social status, and Gerard probably had to do worse things than throwing every filling in a calzone.

Maybe Geoff is right: Frank does pay too much attention to Gerard. And if the first day or two could be explained by the sheer novelty of seeing a CIA alumni in his kitchen, now it’s getting out of hand.

Frank leaves Geoff to finish up for him and retreats outside. He needs to clear his head and can't think of a better option than to go for a smoke.

Ray is already outside, leaning against the wall. He watches Frank light a cigarette with a slightly annoyed look on his face and mutters:

“Thanks for ruining the fresh air, man.”

Frank points at the dumpster two feet away from him. “Right. Fresh air.”

“Still better than your cancer sticks.”

“Man, come on,” Frank rolls his eyes. “I’m not judging your shitty life choices, so don’t judge mine.”

Ray scoffs but says nothing. He is clearly not in the mood, and Frank tries to think of a reason why — he was fine just this morning, and they still have a few hours before the evening rush, there shouldn’t be any reason for him to be upset, — but can’t figure it out no matter how hard he tries.

“What’s going on with you?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Ray mutters. “Gerard’s being a bitch again.”

“Again?”

Frank thinks he can recall overhearing a conversation earlier, and now that he thinks about it, he is fairly sure he heard Ray’s raised voice, but he was too busy explaining to Geoff how nothing has drastically changed in the work dynamic. He should have paid more attention to the rest of the kitchen.

“It’s just so fucking annoying, man,” Ray complains. “Like, here I am, making pizza, business as usual, and this motherfucker just shows up five seconds before I send it out and tries to ‘fix the presentation’.” Ray makes an air quotes gesture. “I mean, man, seriously, I’ve spent ten years doing this, I know when the food looks like shit and when it doesn’t!” He lets out an annoyed huff. “So I told him to lay off and let me finish, and he just went full drama queen mode.”

And, okay, they might actually have a problem with Gerard. Because Ray is good at his job, and he knows how to make his dishes look appetizing, probably better than anyone else, and even if he has never stepped foot in a fancier place than Iero’s he knows what he’s doing.

“I’ll talk to him,” Frank promises.

Ray squints at him. “Are you going to talk talk to him, or is it gonna be one of those ‘I told him you guys are complaining and he said he won’t do it again so I’m gonna pretend everything is okay now because nobody in human history ever lied’ kind of talk?”

“Dude, what the hell?” Frank has to suppress a surprised cough. “I’ll talk to him. Properly. Geez.”

“Alright,” Ray shrugs. “Tell me how it goes.”

“Why would you even think I’d just let him get away with it?”

“Because you like him,” Ray says matter-of-factly.

Frank scoffs. “No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do. You're literally swooning every time he's around.”

“I am not!”

Ray chuckles. “Just admit it already.”

But they barely know each other outside of work. And maybe Gerard is Frank’s type, and Frank likes watching him work when he gets so deep in the zone he barely pays attention to the world around him, and he might have caught himself wondering what else those hands are good at, but Gerard is still his employee, and he definitely isn't interested in Frank. Even if he was, it's just plain wrong. Frank is the one in charge, he has all the power to—

He's not going down that road.

“Okay,” Frank sighs. “Maybe I kinda like him as a person—”

“Just say it as it is: you have a crush on him.”

‘Crush’ might be a better word, as much as Frank hates to admit it. Wouldn’t be the first time: he has an annoying tendency to get attracted to anyone who seems even remotely interesting or has a fleur of mystery around them, of course he was going to develop a little crush on Gerard the moment they met. But he can't always control his feelings, especially when it comes to love or any other kind of affection. He can, however, control his actions, and no matter how great the temptation is, he isn't going to give in. It’s just a short-term attachment, it’ll pass in a month or two.

“Maybe a little, yeah, but it's not gonna fuckin’ work anyway!”

“Why? Is he—”

“I don't know. I don't wanna know. For fuck’s sake, Ray, I’m his boss!”

“So what, we should stop being friends now too because you're my boss?”

Frank shakes his head. “It's different,” he mutters. “It's— I’m not going for it, okay? I’m not even going to try.”

Ray hums. “Alright.”

Frank gives him a warning glance. He isn’t sure he understands why Ray is so interested in his personal life all of a sudden, but he tries not to question it. He knows Ray is worried, even if he tries not to make it obvious. Frank wants to tell him there isn’t much to be worried about — Frank is an adult, he can take care of himself, — but he can’t find the right words.

“Hey, Frank.”

Anthony, ever the bearer of bad news, shows up at the back door just as Frank is ready to go back to the kitchen.

“What is it?” Frank sighs.

Anthony better not be here because someone has started another fight: Frank is already stressed enough, he can’t guarantee he won’t start punching people.

“Quick question: we don’t do parties, right?”

Frank exchanges a confused look with Ray. “Not that I remember,” he says. “Why?”

“There’s a guy on the phone,” Anthony explains hurriedly. “Says he wants to book the entire place for a birthday party.”

Frank isn’t sure what to think. He can’t quite grasp why someone who apparently has enough money to book out an entire restaurant would choose Frank’s place instead of going somewhere more fashionable, but people can be strange and unpredictable, and normally Frank wouldn’t object.

“You’re not thinking that,” Ray gives him a stern look. “Please tell me you’re not thinking we should do it.”

“I’m thinking we should do it,” Frank answers. “When does he want to book?”

“Friday at six,” Anthony replies. “Said it’s gonna be about twenty people.”

So basically an almost full seating on a Friday night. Frank still tries to figure out where the catch is: the offer sounds too good. Unless, of course, the entire party is about to get absolutely wasted and they won’t be able to open on Saturday because of all the damage.

“Alright,” Frank shrugs. “Why not?”

Ray doesn’t seem to be particularly amused by this decision.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” he says. “I’m really not sure—”

“We’re not doing it for free, come on.”

“I know! I just think it’s not the best thing to do when we’re right in the middle of revamping, well, pretty much everything.”

“It’s guaranteed full seating!”

“And guaranteed trouble,” Ray points out.

Anthony frowns. “So, should I tell him yes, or—”

Frank nods at him. “Yes. Tell him we’re taking it.”

Anthony nods and disappears behind the door.

“You’re an idiot,” Ray comments.

“Why am I an idiot?” Frank huffs. “Man, seriously, it’s just someone’s birthday party. Other places do that, why can’t we?”

“Those places can afford it,” Ray grumbles. “Seriously, you’re going to give the entire place out to twenty people, on a Friday evening, mind you, and they’ll stay for what? Three hours? Four? Five? Till morning?”

“They’re not staying till morning—”

“Are you sure about that?” Ray argues. “Frank, I don’t think we’re ready to take any more risks right now.”

But it doesn’t really sound like a risk, does it? It’s just another day on the job, and Ray is clearly overreacting. Seriously, what’s the worst that can possibly happen?

He really needs to stop being such a pushover. It has been going on long enough, and look where it got him. Maybe if Frank grew himself a pair just a few years earlier and started doing things his way instead of letting his father dig his own grave he wouldn’t have been in this situation right now. 

“Ray, no offence, but a quick reminder: I’m still in charge here.”

Ray purses his lips. “Oh, offence taken,” he grumbles. “We can’t afford it. Period. We can’t waste the entire Friday evening on just twenty people when we usually have at least thirty plus takeaways.”

And as much as Frank hates to admit it, Ray might be right. Takeaways make a great portion of their daily turnover, and now they’re going to waste one of the most busy evenings because Frank was too impulsive to do the maths properly.

“You can take a day off if you don’t like it.”

He instantly regrets saying this. He heard these exact words so many times he can almost hear his father’s voice. ‘Take a day off’ meant going home and getting silent treatment for at least a day, until he was needed in the kitchen again. There were moments when Frank thought about leaving his father to his own devices, but always stayed, and now that he thinks of it, he has no idea why.

Frank expects Ray to get angry. To tell him to lay off, to declare that he quits and leave for good — and Frank knows full well that the mental stability of the entire staff relies on Ray, they won’t survive this; Frank won’t survive this.

“Nah, don’t think I will,” Ray smirks, and Frank lets out a relieved breath. “I’m not ditching you on a Friday, man.”

Of course he takes it lightly, Frank thinks. He doesn’t know. For Ray it’s just Frank being stubborn again, and maybe that’s actually for the best.

“But you’re still a dumbass,” Ray adds.

“I figured, yeah.”

Frank throws his long finished cigarette in the dumpster. He should head back to the kitchen, but the moment he makes the first step the back door opens and Gerard shows up in the alley. Ray takes it as a sign to retreat to the kitchen, leaving Frank alone with Gerard.

“Hey,” Gerard nods at Frank and takes out his cigarette pack. “You still on a break?”

“Not for too long,” Frank mutters. He probably should address the issue at hand while it’s still fresh and no permanent damage has been done. “Listen, I wanted to talk about something.”

Gerard frowns. “Yeah? About what?”

Frank takes a deep breath. He has to do it now, or he’ll never hear the end of it from the guys.

“Ray told me you’ve been kinda… invasive,” he starts. “And I get it, you’re still new, but you better stop with that crap, man, seriously.”

Gerard purses his lips. “I was trying to help.”

“It doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole,” Frank rubs his forehead. This is harder than he thought it would be. “What was the problem anyway? Ray said it was about the presentation, but I wanna hear it from you.”

“Yeah, it’s about the presentation,” Gerard mumbles.

He doesn’t elaborate, so Frank has to push him further, “Well, what was wrong with the presentation? ‘Cause I know Ray, and he isn’t the kind of guy to make slop and claim it’s haute cuisine, so unless he’s been pulling some shit behind my back—”

Gerard mumbles something unintelligible under his breath. He has a look of a kicked puppy, and it takes every ounce of strength out of Frank to keep his composure. He isn’t about to let Gerard run away from this conversation just because it made him upset.

“I didn’t catch that, sorry.”

“It was alright,” Gerard says a bit louder. “I just thought it could be better.”

Frank rubs his face with a sigh.

“You could have just said that, you know.”

“I told him! He didn’t listen!”

“So you tried to do it yourself,” Frank adds. “Or did I get that wrong?”

Gerard makes a tiny nod. “Yeah, I did.”

“Well, next time, don’t. Seriously, I don’t know what you’re used to, but you don’t need to watch over everyone here, that’s my job.” Which he isn’t that good at, apparently. “The guys know what they’re doing, it’s not their first day.”

“It could be better,” Gerard repeats, suddenly too stubborn to actually listen. “I just wanted to—”

“It doesn’t matter, Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” Gerard shrinks into himself at the sound of Frank’s voice. “This isn’t Blue Hill, got it? We don’t put a single slice of bacon on a piece of wood and charge three hundred bucks for it because it’s “an experience” and it looks sophisticated, we’re here to feed people. And those people don’t give a shit about perfect presentation and all your golden spirals and rules of composition and whatnot, they’re here to get their goddamn pizza to-go, get home and eat it while watching some shitty movie, because they had a hard day at work and want to have a nice evening. It needs to look presentable, yeah, but it doesn’t have to be picture perfect. So forget all your fancy-shmancy bullshit, that stuff’s useless here.”

And maybe Frank should have picked different words, but he can’t dance around the topic anymore. It’s either Gerard’s feelings or his team, and no matter how much Frank likes Gerard he isn’t going to play by his rules.

Gerard looks like he is about to cry. Frank tries to pat him on the shoulder to provide some comfort, but Gerard swiftly moves away like he is afraid Frank is about to slap him.

“Listen,” Frank sighs. “It’s about the food, not Instagram posts, so you should lower your standards as soon as you can if you wanna stay.”

Gerard gives him a shaky nod.

“And nobody hates you, alright?” Frank has no idea why he has to add this. It just feels right. “Just— don’t be an asshole, okay? The guys are good people, they’re not gonna treat you like shit if you don’t treat them like shit first.” He gets another nod in response. “And, um, if you need privacy, you know where the walk-in is.”

Gerard smiles weakly. His lower lips almost doesn’t tremble.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Got it.”

“Good. Don’t take too long, we still have a dinner service to survive.”

He thinks he can hear a tiny giggle. Maybe he didn’t mess up completely with this outburst. Maybe Gerard is still going to stay — hell, he hopes Gerard is going to stay.

If only everything wasn’t so goddamn complicated.

Chapter Text

Putting together a working schedule for back-of-house is a pain in the ass. Frank has no idea how to do it properly: his father used to do it, and after he left the task of making sure everyone gets their second weekly day off was delegated to Ray. And Ray had been dealing with it for a few months until his patience had finally run thin and he told Frank to piss off and do it himself. It was on Wednesday evening; by Friday morning Frank still has nothing done.

It was his father’s idea to give people an extra day off during the week when he realised they can’t possibly hire enough staff to keep two separate shifts. The main problem is, the system sucks. One day off after two or three ten hour long shifts in a row isn’t enough, and of course everyone wants to get Tuesday or Sunday off, which is impossible with the current system.

Frank stares at the calendar in front of him, pencil in hand, trying to figure out how he can possibly put this puzzle together. He could try and split the shifts evenly on weekdays; he has four cooks and himself now, three people should be able to keep the kitchen running when it’s not that busy. It might just work: everyone gets three days off, everyone works forty hours a week, so no more overtime, all hands on board on Saturdays and Sundays. Weird how nobody has thought about it earlier. Well, Frank can imagine why his father didn’t want to try this approach: at first Frank had to finish college, and then he didn’t want to change his ways, and after he left Ray was the one to deal with the schedule atop of other things he had to worry about.

He feels like a genius. He can just pair Geoff with Dewees and Ray with Gerard, make sure each shift gets three days off in a row every other week, and sit back and relax. This is perfect. Probably the greatest idea he ever had. The dishwasher situation is more complicated since they only have one, and Frank is sure the guy is smoking crack on the clock (not that he expects everyone to show up sober, but at least the others have enough dignity and self-respect to not walk around the kitchen visibly drunk or stoned). He’ll have to deal with it sooner or later.

Ray shows up right when Frank finishes the next month's schedule. At first Frank doesn't even notice how stressed out Ray looks.

“Ray, tell me I’m a genius,” he grins. “I figured this shit out.”

“Congrats,” Ray grumbles. “We have a problem.”

“What problem?” Frank frowns. “Please don't tell me we're eighty-six on everything again, we restocked just last week!”

“Worse,” Ray replies with a grim look on his face. “We're eighty-six on staff.”

“What?!”

Frank vaguely recalls Dewees asking for a day off because of some appointment, but everyone else should have clocked in by now.

“Dewees’s on his day off,” Ray counts. “Geoff has a family emergency, Gerard overslept so he's gonna be at least thirty minutes late, and Anthony needs to leave at five. Oh, and we also don’t have a dishwasher because I caught B.J. buying fentanyl right at our backdoor.”

And of course it had to happen on Friday. Of course now Frank has to figure out how to make sure the restaurant doesn't collapse when he has two people in the kitchen and nobody to run the front.

“Motherfucker,” he grumbles, because this is the only word that can somewhat describe the full spectrum of his emotions. “Fuckin’— could he at least do that somewhere else?!”

“Dunno,” Ray shrugs. “Listen—”

“I mean, man, if you're gonna buy that shit, at least don’t bring it to work!” Frank fumes. “Seriously, there's a spot right across the street, why did it have to be here?!”

“No idea,” Ray grumbles. “We should—”

“Next I’m gonna find out he was doing coke in the walk-in!”

“I’m pretty sure he wasn't doing coke in the walk-in.”

“Sure fucking hope so,” Frank grumbles. “Did you tell him he's fired?”

“I don't think I can do that,” Ray replies. “But, well, he saw me, and I think he realised that I saw what he was doing and ran, so I guess he quit on his own.”

“Well, he’s fired,” Frank grumbles.

And now he’ll have to put someone on the dishwashing duty, and after Anthony leaves he’ll need to take over the front, and he’ll have one person to run the entire kitchen. Worst. Day. Ever.

Unless there is a way to make this day slightly easier for everyone. Or, rather, a Way (Frank is incredibly proud of this pun).

“I’m gonna call Mikey,” he announces.

Ray gives him a disapproving look. “No, you're not.”

“We need a dishwasher,” Frank argues. “And Mikey needs a job, he can at least fill in until we find someone else.”

It's a solid enough argument for Ray, most likely because he doesn't want to be the one in charge of the dish pit tonight.

“Alright, fine,” he grumbles. “But if I see him getting high on the job…”

“He has never done it, and you know that.”

Frank omits the fact that Mikey is definitely going to show up stoned. But every time he had to fill in on the dishwashing duty he was doing a decent enough job, so who cares if he smoked a blunt or two beforehand and keeps himself focused by blasting Among the Living on loop? The job is done, that’s what matters.

“Just saying, man,” Ray says. “I’ll go deal with the prep.”

Frank nods. The moment Ray disappears in the kitchen he dials Mikey's number and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

It takes a good five minutes and about a thousand calls for Mikey to pick up the phone. Frank is almost ready to give up and start looking for another option when he finally hears Mikey's voice on the other end.

“Whassup?”

He has just woken up, it seems.

“Hey,” Frank says. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“You're not my type, man, sorry,” Mikey chuckles.

“You're not my type either, relax,” Frank shoots a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen. Ray is still alone. Good: he doesn't want Gerard to hear the rest of this conversation. “Our dishwasher fucked up and left today, and we really need someone to fill in, so—”

“I’m in.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, you’re paying, right?” Frank can hear a smirk in Mikey’s voice. “Of course I’m in.” And then he asks the question Frank has been low-key dreading. “How’s my brother doing?”

“He’s late,” Frank informs him.

“Yeah, I know,” Mikey chuckles. “He also had a run-in with Dad, so heads up.”

“Heads up for what?”

“He’s gonna be a bitch all day,” Mikey warns him. “So good luck dealing with him.”

“You’ll have to deal with him too,” Frank points out.

“Yeah, well, I’m used to it.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Get your ass here already,” he grumbles. “And please try to wear something that doesn't smell like weed, Ray’s a bit fixated on the whole ‘people doing drugs at the workplace’ thing today.”

Mikey hums. “So B.J. finally got so lazy he ordered a fentanyl delivery to your backdoor?”

“Something like that,” Frank grumbles. “Mikes, come on, I need you here, stop distracting me!”

“Alright, boss.”

The moment Mikey hangs up Frank lets out a relieved breath. They might still have a chance to survive this day with minimal losses. That is, if Gerard shows up at work in the next five to ten minutes, before they open: he can’t leave Ray to run the kitchen on his own.

Something crashes to the floor, and Frank hears Ray’s loud swearing followed by a frantic “I’m sorry!”, and this is a clear sign that Gerard has finally arrived, and suddenly Frank realises that he isn’t sure he’ll be able to handle his presence. He has too much on his mind right now, and Geoff might have been right when he implied that Frank was playing favourites and letting Gerard get away with things that he usually doesn’t allow. If anyone else was half an hour late without a decent enough reason they would have gotten a scolding, and rationally Frank understands that he should do the same with Gerard. They’re short on staff today, and Gerard is letting everyone down even further by showing up late, he needs to know this isn’t going to be tolerated next time.

So why is Frank still hiding in his office?

He takes a deep breath. All he needs to do is to stay cool, professional. Even if he needs to face someone he can’t find the strength to tell off properly.

God, he’s such a mess.

He runs into Gerard the moment he steps out of the office. Gerard looks like he ran all the way from Belleville to Newark, and when he notices Frank he instantly flinches and tries to avoid looking him in the eyes, and all the determination Frank has gathered to have a proper talk about discipline vanishes.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Gerard mumbles. “Won’t happen again.”

“I sure fucking hope so,” Frank grumbles without malice. “We’re opening in five, go get ready.”

Gerard nods, clearly relieved he isn’t about to get a scolding. Frank mentally kicks himself. He should really get himself together and stop being so soft, nothing good is going to come out of it.

By the time Mikey arrives Frank manages to collect himself enough to keep the slightly distant façade. Mikey is the last person that needs to know Frank might have feelings for Gerard.

Gerard doesn’t seem too surprised when he sees Mikey at the dish pit — he must have been warned in advance, or just already knows that Frank sometimes lets Mikey earn some cash at his place. Whatever it is, it means that the brothers are on speaking terms at least, and Frank briefly wonders if Gerard tells Mikey anything about work. He doesn’t get much time to ponder this thought: Anthony sends in the first ticket of the day, and of course someone has decided to throw an office party on Friday and ordered ten different pizzas, so Frank gets to work.

The four of them manage to keep the kitchen running pretty decently. It takes some time to figure out the details but in the end they make it work. Not having that many orders aside from the first one also helps, and Frank waits for the evening with a slight sense of dread. He isn’t even sure if he should be the one to take over front-of-house for those few hours or send someone else out (Mikey. It’s definitely going to be Mikey, because Ray refuses to do the front-of-house job and Gerard definitely lacks social skills to deal with the situation all on his own).

Speaking of which. Frank can’t help noticing that the Way brothers are sticking together most of the time. Not something Frank expected to see, considering the grudge Mikey seemingly held against Gerard, but it does make things somewhat easier for him. At least the dynamic isn’t completely off.

And then, after Gerard leaves for a smoke break, Mikey shows up by Frank’s station with a determined look in his eyes.

“Don’t let my brother get away with his bullshit,” is the first thing he says.

Frank coughs. “Okay, dude, what the fuck?”

Mikey crosses his arms.

“I know how he does it,” he says. “Y’know, pretending to be dumb and pretty to get what he wants. He isn’t fucking dumb.”

“I noticed, thank you,” Frank snarks. “He’s not getting away with his bullshit.”

Mikey rolls his eyes.

“Not at work, maybe.”

“I don’t see him much outside of work, if you haven’t noticed.”

There is something Mikey isn’t telling him. Frank isn’t sure he wants to know what exactly he’s hiding from him.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Mikey says. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but Gerard won’t shut up about how cool you are—”

“He thinks I’m cool?”

Frank feels a strange warmth in his chest. Gerard thinks he’s cool. Gerard has an opinion on him as a person, not just his boss, and it’s not a negative one.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mikey grumbles. “He won’t shut up about you, and you,” he points at Frank, “no offence, but you’re acting like a fucking simp.”

“I’m not a simp!”

“Yes, you are,” Mikey smirks.

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“You totally have a crush on him,” Ray chimes in. “And you’re being a simp.”

“Can we please stop saying the word ‘simp’?”

“Okay, simp,” Mikey says in a low voice, making Ray giggle at that.

“Never provoke someone who’s good with knives,” Frank growls, “or I swear you’ll end up as a pizza topping.”

“O-oh, scary,” Mikey mocks him. “You’re a vegetarian, you wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t eat dead animals. Never said anything about dead people.”

Ray gives him an odd look. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking right now.”

“Trust me, if I had a Sweeney Todd-style operation going on in my basement, you’d be the first one to know.”

“This doesn’t sound like a threat at all,” Ray mutters.

Frank almost misses the moment when Gerard comes back from his break, and flinches when he hears his voice.

“There are people outside,” Gerard says as he gets back to his station. “Said they wanna talk to you.”

Frank turns around so fast he almost gets his hand impaled on Ray’s knife. Ray lets out a small distressed noise and steps back, barely avoiding bumping into his station in the process.

“What?” Frank desperately hopes Gerard won't notice the anxiety in his voice. “What did they say?”

“That they wanna talk to you,” Gerard replies. “I said I’m gonna fetch you, and—” he winces. “They looked kinda pissed.”

And here Frank thought that this day couldn’t get any worse.

“Shit.”

Gerard blinks. He looks genuinely worried now.

“Did I do something wrong?” He says in a lower voice. “I’m sorry, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to tell them you're here, I—”

Frank waves at him.

“It's alright,” he mutters. “It's my mess, don't worry about it.”

“Your dad's mess, technically,” Ray comments. “Do I need to call the cops?”

“Only if you hear gunshots,” Frank grumbles. “Gerard, I need you to take over for a minute.”

“But—”

“Just finish this shit up, will ya?”

He didn't mean to sound this rude. If there is anyone to blame for the situation he is in now, it’s him and his father. The guys are just doing their job, they shouldn't be the ones to worry about the local gang potentially kidnapping Frank and keeping him for ransom, cutting his fingers off for each day his father fails to pay his debt. Frank hopes it won't come to that.

Gerard shuts up and gets to work, thankfully. Frank should probably apologise for snapping at him, and he already feels Mikey’s disapproving stare on his back. He doesn’t have neither the time nor the mental capacity, on edge because of what is about to happen the moment he leaves the safety of the kitchen. 

Frank makes his way outside through the backdoor. The first thing he sees is a group of five men, the shortest of them being at least one foot taller than him and twice as wide. At least one has a gun tucked under his belt. Frank doesn’t stand a chance, he won’t even outrun them, not with his busted lungs and ten years of smoking.

“Hya, kid,” the one with the gun starts. “Mind calling your dad? We need to chat with him.”

So they still don’t know. Or maybe they do, just trying to see if Frank is going to try and trick them.

“He left,” Frank grumbles. “Doesn’t answer his phone, I have no idea where he is.”

The man clicks his tongue.

“Shame,” he mutters. “Well, it seems we’re going to do business with you from now on.” He gives Frank a long intimidating look. Frank does his best to look unbothered by it. “Unless, of course, you have a problem with it.”

Of course Frank has a problem with it. He doesn’t want to have anything in common with these people, was against borrowing from them in the first place. Selling the restaurant and declaring bankruptcy would have been a much more decent way to go, but no, his father had to take some gang’s money and then leave Frank to deal with them.

He hasn’t called once. Hasn’t checked if Frank was still alive in the first place. It’s almost like he doesn’t care.

“Nope,” he says, his voice steady. “No problem.”

“Then I believe you have the money.”

Frank has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second to regain his composure. He doesn’t want to look weak in front of these people; they’ll never leave him alone if he as much as sways.

“No, I don’t,” he replies. “I— I tried to figure out how much he— how much we owe you.” His voice trembles. Shit. “But the books are a mess, and Dad never told me the exact sum.”

In retrospect, he might have made a mistake by pretending to be stronger than he actually is. The men seem annoyed, the one playing the role of their spokesperson rests his hand on the gun. Frank can’t stop himself from looking at it, ready to bolt if he has to — not that it could help but at least he’s going to die trying to save himself.

“Five hundred,” the man says.

Half a million dollars. That he doesn't have, and won't have in the nearest future.

Frank hates his life.

“I don't have it,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. I can't pay it off.”

“Sorry doesn't cut it, kiddo.”

This is it. They're going to kidnap him, hold him for ransom and eventually kill because his father is on the other side of the country and doesn't care enough to pick up the phone. He definitely isn't going to respond to them even if they start sending him snuff videos with Frank playing the main part. 

And Frank needs to think fast if he doesn't want his photo to end up on a missing persons poster.

“We could work it out,” he says, and hates how his voice sounds like it belongs to a preteen kid that got caught getting home after the curfew. “I— I could pay you a part of the profits every month. How does that sound?”

He knows it's a desperate move. He will be paying this debt off for the rest of his life — that is, if these people don't lose their patience earlier.

The men exchange glances, and for a moment Frank forgets how to breathe. They're not going to buy it. They know the profit margin in restaurant business is as good as nonexistent in most cases, and it has only gotten worse after the pandemic. The only thing Frank is going to achieve is buying himself some time before he has to flee to Canada.

“Alright,” the man with the gun says. “Since you're offering, we'll be taking fifty percent every two weeks.” His smirk sends shivers down Frank’s spine. “You have twelve months to pay it off.”

It's impossible, Frank wants to say. He won't pay the debt off even if he fires half of his staff, increases the prices and keeps the restaurant open twenty four hours a day seven days a week.

“And if I can't?” he croaks.

“Then we'll be taking it off your hands,” the man replies. “I take it you also have the apartment, right?” Frank nods. “We’ll be taking that too.”

“I need to live somewhere,” Frank blurts out. Jesus, he sounds pathetic. “Please, I—”

“Quit your fuckin’ whining,” the man cuts him off. “Be glad we're not sending a message to your old man.”

Which is something that they definitely will do if Frank as much as tries to oppose them. This is the moment when he should just stop trying and let the restaurant drown. There is nothing else he can do anyway: he can’t get a loan to pay his father’s debt off, the police won’t listen to him at best, and he can’t refuse the offer if he wants to keep all his limbs intact.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’ll— I’ll do that.”

The man with the gun smirks and slaps Frank’s shoulder. Frank does his best not to recoil from the unwanted touch.

“Knew we would figure it out,” the man says. “Just one more thing. You have a reservation for six o’clock today. It happens to be for a good friend of mine, so if you could,” he leans in closer, “forget about the check, it would be very nice of ya.”

Frank nods. He can’t really say no, can he?

He doesn’t notice the men leave, doesn’t remember going back inside. Everything around him is covered in fog, and he can barely hear his friends’ voices calling out for him. Someone touches his arm; Frank brushes off their hand. He needs to be alone for a moment, needs to take a break for a minute or two and think. This can’t be over yet, he couldn’t just lose, there must be something he can do to fix everything, save the restaurant and himself. If only he could fucking think.

“Frank!”

Someone is shaking his shoulder. Frank blinks once, twice. The fog clears, and he discovers himself in his office, the guys gathered around him with concerned looks on their faces.

Mikey is the first one to break the silence.

“What the hell happened out there?"

Frank shakes his head.

“We’re fucked,” he forces out. “Okay, I’m fucked.”

“It’s those people, right?” Ray asks grimly.

Frank nods. “Yeah. They want to,” he sucks in a breath, “they want fifty percent of profits every two weeks. And if I can’t pay off half a million bucks in twelve months, they’re gonna take it all away.”

Ray looks visibly sick. Gerard frowns and exchanges concerned looks with Mikey.

“It’s impossible,” he says. “It’s— I haven’t seen your books, but you’ll need to pay what, fifty grand every month?”

Frank shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t fucking know. But the reservation we have tonight is for one of them and they want us to do it for free—”

Ray interrupts him. “That’s it, I’m calling the cops.”

“Cops won’t do shit,” Mikey scoffs. “They’re probably getting a cut anyway.”

“This can’t go on,” Ray argues. “They’re not— they don’t want their money back, they want to get a nice busy restaurant for money laundering, money is just a bonus.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Frank grumbles.

“Then I’m calling the cops.”

“You do that, and I’m gonna disappear under mysterious circumstances, and the cops will find my cold, dead, probably tortured body in a ditch next spring,” Frank bites. “And I don’t know about you, but I kinda enjoy being alive.”

“So what, you’re gonna do what they want?”

Frank nods. He doesn’t really have any other options, not anymore. If he is going to end up under a bridge in the next twelve months, the least he can do is fight as he’s going down.

“Okay, fine,” Ray grumbles. “But if they show up again I’m calling the fucking FBI.”

“I don’t think you can just call the FBI,” Mikey points out.

“Can you please take this somewhere else?” Frank pleads.

He doesn’t want to see anyone right now. He needs to take some time to be sad and miserable, and he wants to do it alone. This isn’t over yet, and he has a team and a restaurant to run, he doesn’t want to be weak in front of everyone.

The guys listen. Gerard stays for a few seconds longer than Ray and Mikey, as if he wants to say something but eventually decides against it. Frank waits until the door closes behind his back and lets out a tired groan.

He needs to occupy himself with something, and the only thing he can possibly think of right now is going through the books again. There might be a loophole, a way to make enough money without raising the prices and laying off half of his staff, something he hasn’t thought of before. But the longer Frank looks, the more obvious it becomes that he has no chance to pay forty to fifty thousand dollars each month. The easiest way out is to try and keep the restaurant from bankruptcy and look for a new place to live in the meantime. Maybe Ray will be generous enough to let Frank crash on his couch for a while, until he finds a job.

Why did it have to come to this?

“Fuck you, Dad,” Frank mutters under his breath, and this time he means it.

He fights the temptation to call his father and tell him everything. He is the one who started this mess, it’s only fair if he knows what he has done. If he even cares in the first place.

A knock on the door makes Frank flinch.

“Come in,” he grumbles, hoping it’s just one of the guys checking on him and nothing serious has happened.

The door opens, and Gerard walks into the office with a tray in his hands. Frank almost immediately smells a freshly made omelette, and only now he realises he hasn’t had anything to eat since morning.

“I made us lunch,” Gerard smiles somewhat awkwardly. “I mean, if you’d like to, uh, have it together.”

“Why not?” Frank shrugs. Maybe some company would do him good.

Gerard puts the tray on the table, and Frank has to restrict himself from grabbing the nearest plate to him. He waits while Gerard arranges the plates, swiftly, without wasting a single moment. The lunch consists of an omelette and a glass of orange juice, and this is one of the fanciest-looking omelettes Frank has ever seen in his life.

“This is what you were doing at all those Michelin places?” he jokes.

Gerard smiles. “This still looks like actual food, so no, not really.”

Frank snorts. His stomach grumbles, and without waiting until the food goes cold Frank takes the first bite.

It’s delicious. And Frank is sure it’s not just because he’s so hungry he would eat literally anything; Gerard’s omelette is breathtaking, with just the right amount of cheese, tender but not to the point when it becomes too soft and messy.

“Man, this shit fucks,” he moans with his mouth still full.

Gerard smiles, slightly embarrassed. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean it. It’s fucking awesome.” And then he adds, before he can realise what exactly he’s saying. “I kinda thought they don’t teach that stuff in culinary schools.”

“That’s my Grandma’s recipe,” Gerard says. He doesn’t seem to be offended by Frank’s remark, thankfully. “And, y’know, not every fine dining restaurant is experimental.”

“Yeah, it’s just Grandma’s omelette but it costs fifty bucks for, like, a quarter of this portion.”

“Kinda,” Gerard shrugs.

He doesn’t seem to be particularly enthusiastic about this topic, so Frank prefers to shut up and finish his lunch in silence before he does any more damage.

“I thought about what you said the other day,” Gerard says quietly. “About the whole ‘experience versus just feeding people’ thing. And I’m not sure if I agree.”

“I don’t need you to agree with me,” Frank shrugs.

“I’m not sure if I disagree either,” Gerard continues. “I mean… Food is art, in a way. Any food. It’s a way we communicate with the world, and— and I think that the only places that are just feeding people are, like, McDonalds or similar shit.” He shrugs. “I mean, I’m not trying to piss on fast food workers, they're doing a damn hard job out there, but… but I think that casual is art too. Fine dining is just more about art for the sake of art, and sometimes the line gets so blurry it fuckin’ disappears,” he offers Frank an awkward smile. “And it’s usually about Chef’s vision, you’re just making it happen, and nobody gives a shit about what you think.”

Gerard pauses, and Frank isn’t sure if he should say something. He never expected Gerard to get so open and sincere with him to begin with.

“And I feel like I’m free here,” Gerard continues. “And it’s still art, what I’m doing, just a bit different.” He smiles. “And I like it. I guess it doesn’t look that way, but I’m glad I’m here and not at Blue Hill.”

Frank needs a few moments to process what Gerard just said.

He likes it. He likes being here, despite all the problems, and stress, and unpredictable rushes, and a huge risk of the restaurant getting closed in the next few months, and the owner being a pothead with no proper plan for the nearest month. Can it possibly mean that he likes Frank too, even if just as a friend?

“Do you wanna hang out sometime?” Frank blurts out.

Gerard blinks. “What?”

“Hang out,” Frank can feel his cheeks burning up. “Dunno. On Monday, maybe? We could go for a ride, or, dunno, hang out in a park, if you want. Just, y’know, quality time.”

Gerard is going to say no. Frank knows he’s going to say no, and really, what was he expecting? Gerard made it clear that he doesn’t want to make their relationship personal, but no, Frank had to go and ruin everything.

Gerard bites his lower lip. He looks conflicted, and Frank half-expects him to say that what Frank is trying to pull off is harassment and that he quits before this gets too far. But instead Gerard says:

“Why not?”

“Wait, really?”

Frank can’t believe it. Gerard can’t possibly be serious right now.

“I’d like to hang out with you,” Gerard says. “But I’m picking the time and place.”

Frank nods, dumbfounded. “Okay. Cool. Works for me.”

Gerard smiles and stands up, picking up the empty plates. And Frank really should get back to work: they have just a few hours before Anthony leaves, and at this rate the evening is going to be a disaster so he needs to be prepared for anything, but he just can’t make himself move.

Gerard wants to hang out with him. Frank feels like he’s in middle school again and got to hold his first crush by the hand for the first time. And this is so stupid: he’s an adult, he is way past letting his hormones and insatiable desire to get laid control his actions. He is also way past having stupid crushes on people he knows aren’t interested in him that way, but when did it ever stop him?

Frank rubs his face, trying to suppress an idiotic smile. He isn’t even that worried about the future of the restaurant anymore, or about ending today’s shift without losing his temper. All he needs to do is survive until Monday, and Frank is fairly sure he can do it.

He barely gets through the rest of the shift. The birthday party turns out more civilized than he expected, they even leave a fairly generous tip despite Frank repeatedly telling them they shouldn’t worry about the money, and the restaurant doesn’t end up trashed into oblivion, nothing Frank can’t clean up in the morning. So he lets everyone go home right after closing, despite Ray’s vocal protests, and makes his way upstairs, to his apartment.

Frank contemplates calling his father before going to bed. He stares at his phone for too long, bracing himself, trying to rehearse the conversation in his head. But what can he possibly say? His father probably expected those people to come looking for him, he probably knows how the conversation might have gone.

He hasn’t even texted.

Frank presses the call button. The call goes straight to voicemail, so Frank tries again, and again, until he loses his patience and barks into the phone:

“I’m calling to say that I’m fine, Dad,” he lets the sarcasm seep from his tongue. “Your buddies came looking for you, by the way. I didn’t tell them shit, because I don’t know shit, so now they’re gonna take away the restaurant.” He stares at the opposite wall. “Would it fucking kill you to call me once? I mean, I know you don’t care anymore, but it would be nice if you at least tried.”

Frank wants to tell him he misses him. And maybe he still needs his Dad to check on him from time to time, even if he does it out of obligation. Maybe he isn’t as tough as he thinks he is, and he needs someone by his side, even if this someone abandoned him when things became too complicated.

“That’s pretty much it,” he says instead. “I didn’t die, the restaurant’s still open, so I guess you can go back to not giving a shit.”

He ends the call and waits for a few minutes but gets no response. Not that he had any hopes to begin with, but it still hurts.

He’ll be fine, Frank tells himself. He still has his friends. He has Gerard, even if they’re never going to get any further than friends, and he has Ray and the stability he brings, and he has Mikey, and Geoff, and Dewees, and Anthony. He’s going to pull through, one way or another.

Chapter Text

Monday can't come soon enough. It doesn't matter that Frank sees Gerard both on Saturday and Sunday, they barely get enough time to talk in private, and with Mikey now being on the team it’s nearly impossible to find Gerard alone. Even on smoke breaks. Frank even starts to think that their plan has gone out of the window until, while Gerard is on one of his smoke breaks, he gets a message from him.

I’ll pick you up at 3 on Monday. Wear something formal.

G

If Frank didn't know better he would have assumed Gerard was taking him on a date. But this can’t possibly be the actual reason, not when Gerard mentioned the “No Fucking Your Coworkers” rule in the first few days after they met. He still can barely hide his impatience, and the guys notice it, even if they don’t say anything. Frank can only hope they write his behaviour off as a reaction to that godforsaken Friday meeting; if anyone finds out he’s getting this excited about an evening out with Gerard he is going to be bullied for the rest of his life. Especially now that Mikey is part of the team.

On Sunday night Frank can barely make himself go to bed, and he spends literal hours staring at the ceiling, trying to imagine what it’s going to be like. Gerard clearly has a plan for them, and the scariest part of it is that he wants Frank to dress formally. He hasn’t dressed formally since the high school prom. Frank hopes Gerard’s idea of a pleasant evening out is going to the opera or something just as snobby and painfully upper-class. Frank is just an ordinary guy, he doesn’t understand all those high society things. If he’s completely honest with himself, he’s scared of it. Too many rules and rituals nobody ever bothers explaining.

He’s overreacting. He’s anxious, and he’s overreacting, because even with all his quirks and strange behaviours Gerard still seems like a normal guy, just a bit socially awkward and inexperienced when it comes to casual dining. He wouldn’t try to use Frank as some kind of uncultured swine to make himself look better.

In the morning Frank manages to find a white shirt and a suit he wore to the prom, and by some miracle the clothes still fit him after eight years of collecting dust in the back of his closet. He also finds a bowtie but almost immediately ditches it; he’s already going to look like an awkward teenager, he doesn’t need to make things worse. He also tries to comb and style his hair properly but ends up looking (and feeling) so ridiculous he decides to go with his usual slightly messy hairstyle.

Frank knows he shouldn’t be so anxious about his appearance. He knows he’s going to look out of place anyway, with his tattoos and a lip ring, and Gerard should understand that. It’s the effort that counts.

Gerard pulls to the restaurant precisely at three in the afternoon. Frank is already waiting for him by the entrance, smoking his third cigarette for the past hour.

Gerard is wearing a tie. He’s wearing a goddamn tie, and a black waistcoat with a white button-up shirt (he has rolled up his sleeves to make it look more casual), and he has actually washed his usually greasy hair, and he looks stunning. Frank feels like a homeless punk next to him. Not that he’s going to let it show, of course.

“Hi,” Frank says, making himself as comfortable as he can in the passenger seat. “Where’re we going?”

Gerard smiles innocently. “New York.”

And, okay, Frank really should have expected that. He can’t exactly recall any place in Newark that would require him to go through all the trouble of finding proper semi-formal clothes. He’s still grasping on hope that the experience isn’t going to be a complete humiliation.

Or maybe Gerard is trying to give him a sign that they’re never going to be equals, and that he doesn’t want to have anything in common with someone like Frank. It contradicts pretty much everything Frank knows about Gerard, but if there is one thing he has learned it’s that you never know what’s going on in someone else’s head.

“You look nice,” Gerard says quietly. “I like your suit.”

“Thanks, I wore it to the prom,” Frank chuckles. He feels so stupid saying this.

Gerard stares at him. “Wait, really?”

“Yep,” Frank shrugs. “Honestly, I thought I threw it away, like, right after I graduated.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Gerard says. “It’s a really nice suit.”

“You should see me in my old school uniform.”

Gerard is silent for a few moments as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“You had a school uniform?” he asks as they get on the road.

“Catholic school, baby,” Frank smirks. “Six years of suits, ties, all that shit. First time I’m wearing a suit since then, actually.”

Gerard smiles. “Well, now I almost don't regret going to a public school.”

“That bad, huh?”

Gerard takes a turn to the right.

“School sucked,” he says. “I mean, I didn't get it so bad as some of the others, I was mostly ignored, but it still sucked.” He throws a quick glance at Frank. “It gets better in college.”

Not for everyone, Frank wants to argue. Maybe CIA is drastically different, but community college was only slightly better than school.

“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” he asks instead.

“You’ll see,” Gerard replies, and seriously, this guy is doing it on purpose. Nobody can be this mysterious naturally.

“Promise me it’s not Hannibal Lecter’s secret lair or something.”

Gerard laughs so hard he almost has to stop at the side of the road to collect himself. Frank makes a mental note to never try joking when Gerard is driving: there is a great chance he’ll lose control of the car.

“It’s gonna be nice,” Gerard promises. “Seriously. It’s a— it’s a good place.”

He covers Frank’s hand with his, and for a moment Frank freezes. It takes everything not to intertwine his fingers with Gerard’s. It’s too soon, and this gesture might have been accidental on Gerard’s part, and even if it wasn’t he probably didn’t mean anything by it, it’s just his way of calming people down, and Frank should really, really stop paying so much attention to every little detail. It’s a trip to the city with a friend, nothing more. Definitely not a date.

Gerard takes his hand away to change gear. Frank thinks he notices something shift in his facial expression for a brief second.

It’s probably just the light.

It takes about half an hour to get to Manhattan. About halfway there, as they’re waiting for the green light on a crossroad, Gerard puts on some music, and Frank is almost relieved when he recognises Thom Yorke’s voice. He isn’t sure if Amnesiac is the best album to play in the car, but he really can’t complain. Gerard could always pick something worse. Like classical music. Or worse: free jazz.

“I can change it if you don’t like it,” Gerard suggests.

Frank shakes his head. “Nah, it’s cool. I like Radiohead.”

“Oh. Alright.” Gerard bites his lip. “‘Cause there was a situation once, I was giving a coworker a lift, and I have this compilation of their EPs and singles. And, uh, they have this song from their The Bends era called Killer Cars, and it started playing at some point. It was kinda awkward.”

“I've never heard it,” Frank admits.

Gerard points at the glove compartment without taking his eyes off the road.

“I have a CD holder there,” he says. “I hope I haven’t taken it out.”

Frank isn't even remotely surprised that Gerard still listens to CDs in this day and age. He is also not surprised to find a holder full of burnt CDs — he has a similar collection at home that he prefers not to show to anyone aside from close friends.

It takes him way too long to get through the entire collection, mostly because he can’t stop pausing every five seconds to take a closer look. Gerard has the entire discography of David Bowie, plenty of Queen, some Anthrax and Slayer to spruce things up, a concerning amount of Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen and a slightly redeeming collection of Pixies. By the time Frank finally manages to find a CD signed as ‘RH Rare Cuts’ Gerard has already parked the car. It takes him a few moments to take in his surroundings, but when he finally does he comes to the conclusion that Gerard is set on making fun of him.

“Dude, are you taking me to a motherfucking musical theatre?!”

Gerard frowns at him. “No. Why?”

Frank silently points outside the window. He has been here before a couple of times, back when he could still afford going to New York to hang out with friends and wander around the city for hours on end. It’s not the Theatre District yet but they’re just two blocks away from it, and there is just no way Gerard would have taken him here by accident.

“Oh,” Gerard smiles. “No, we’re— we’re not going to Broadway.”

“Thene where exactly are we going?”

Gerard gives him an innocent look. “It’s a surprise.”

“Are you always this secretive?” Frank grumbles.

Gerard doesn’t say anything to this.

They have to walk another two blocks to get to their destination, and Gerard still refuses to tell where exactly he is taking Frank. It’s getting ridiculous: Frank deserves to know what to expect from this definitely-not-a-date. But Gerard seems excited, and it must have brushed off on Frank because he can’t be angry with him even if he tries.

They pass quite a few restaurants and cafés on their way, and Frank can’t stop himself from looking at the windows, wondering if all these places have the same struggles as him. Probably not: if they have managed to survive for so long in New York, especially in a street with such a high competition, they probably have a much better management.

“Most of these are new,” Gerard says, as if reading his thoughts. “I remember some of them open.”

“You worked around here?”

Gerard offers him a sloppy smile. “Man, no spoilers.”

And this is when Frank finally connects the dots. He abruptly stops in the middle of the street, which earns plenty of swearings and a bunch of slurs from the passerby behind him, and stares at Gerard. He can’t find proper words to describe what he feels at the sheer prospect of doing what Gerard has planned for them both, all he manages to say is:

“You did not.”

Gerard frowns. “I didn’t what?”

“You didn’t—” Frank almost chokes. “This is too much. Seriously. It’s really nice of you, but it’s too much. I can’t afford it.”

“You won’t have to pay for anything,” Gerard replies, and this is actually worse than Frank has thought.

“I’m not gonna let you pay for it either!” he all but shouts. “Gerard, I’m fuckin’ serious right now, it’s too much!”

Gerard looks genuinely confused. And Frank must be missing something important, because there is no way Gerard has found the money somewhere to afford one of those ridiculously expensive restaurants he once used to work at. For God’s sake, he had to move back in with his parents, that’s how bad his financial situation is, and Frank doesn’t pay him enough to be able to afford something like this.

“Frank,” Gerard says quietly. “Just give it a try, please? I promise I’ll explain everything later.”

And Frank isn’t sure if Gerard means it, or if it's an excuse to get off the hook, but he tries to believe him. He has gone all the way to New York to spend time with Gerard, he isn’t going to bail out now just because Gerard decided to turn their time out in a culinary experience.

“Alright,” he says. “Lead the way, then.”

Gerard looks immensely relieved.

“We’re almost there, actually,” he says.

Frank mentally braces himself. He expects to see something resembling a palace more than a restaurant — or the opposite, something close to one of those overly expensive high-tech houses. Instead he is greeted with a surprisingly cosy small restaurant. It looks vaguely Cuban, with its dimmed yellow lights, faux vintage posters on the red painted walls, a line of small wooden tables for two by the wall. Not too Cuban, though, closer to what an average American imagines when they talk about Cuban culture. It’s… normal, almost deceivingly so. Frank half-expects to be kicked out at any moment for daring to step foot inside this temple of high cuisine, and it must be showing on his face because Gerard takes his hand and slightly squeezes on it in an attempt to reassure him. It has the exact opposite effect: Frank can feel his heart beating so fast it might jump out of his chest at any given moment. But at least he can focus on Gerard’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, warm and a bit clammy to the touch.

As they are being led to a table in the back of the restaurant, which coincidentally turns out to be the most private spot, Frank keeps wondering what else Gerard has planned for today. They’re not going to spend the next few hours in a posh restaurant and go home, that’s for sure. And besides, why would Gerard bother in the first place unless he wants to show Frank something.

The waiter brings them the menus, and Gerard offers Frank an awkward smile.

“I wanted to book us a tasting,” he sounds almost apologetic. “But then I remembered I don’t know if you have any allergies—”

“It’s fine,” Frank stops him. “Don’t worry about it.”

It’s easier to deal with his long list of allergies on the spot anyway. There is always something that can give him stomach cramps or a bad case of rash when he least expects it. At least Gerard has picked a vegan restaurant, which solves many problems.

Frank takes some time to go through the menu, doing his best not to look at the prices. Most of it seems to be a vegan version of Spanish and Latin American dishes, which is quite an achievement for cuisines that traditionally use a lot of meat. Not that surprising to see at a restaurant called El Jardín, though Frank still has his doubts.

“Chili sin carne is good,” Gerard suggests. “And the soups are usually great.”

“You used to work here, right?” Frank grumbles without taking his eyes off the menu.

“For some time, yeah.”

Gerard doesn’t seem to be particularly eager to talk about it, so Frank drops the subject.

“Chili sin carne has soy in it, so I’ll pass,” he says.

“They can make it without soy.”

“Speaking from experience?” Frank smirks.

Gerard lets out a long tired sigh. “They’re using soy sour cream. It’s not that hard not to put it in the dish, just tell them you’re allergic.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “I’m not five, c’mon. I’m just messing with you.”

Gerard doesn’t reply. Frank takes a quick check to make sure he isn’t angry at him. He isn’t, thank God.

Eventually Frank settles for a potaje de garbanzos after making sure it doesn’t have any soy in it, while Gerard picks a quinoa salad. It doesn’t sound like something Frank would expect from a restaurant that has its prices start at twenty five dollars, but maybe they’re using some special type of produce and have their quinoa hand-harvested by virgins under full moon.

“So,” he starts. “What’s it like to be on the other side of the Force?”

Gerard shrugs. “Dunno. What’s it like to be a vegetarian allergic to soy?”

“A nightmare,” Frank admits freely. “And you really don’t need to be rude about it.”

Gerard stares at his hands.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s just, you’re asking so many personal questions…”

“Well, we’re even now, I guess.”

Gerard nods. It feels a bit awkward to sit so close to him, and all of a sudden Frank is painfully aware of every imperfection in his own face and body, and the suit definitely makes him look stupid, and he just doesn’t belong here. What was he even thinking, agreeing to this humiliation session?

“You okay?” Gerard asks.

Frank responds with a shaky nod.

“I feel weird,” he mutters.

“Like, physically or—”

“No, it’s more like,” Frank shakes his head. “I don’t think I should be here. Like, at all.”

Gerard’s face softens, and he holds Frank’s hand in his — and seriously, Frank is getting more physical contact with him in just one day than he had during the past two weeks of being stuck in the same space for ten hours daily. He shouldn’t get used to it.

“It’s okay,” Gerard coos. “It’s not that different from what you have in Newark, really.”

“Doesn’t feel that way,” Frank grumbles.

Gerard rubs his thumb against Frank’s hand.

“Look at me,” he whispers. Frank stares at the table. “Frank, look at me.”

Frank raises his head. He can’t read Gerard’s face properly, not in his current state, but he doesn’t look angry or annoyed or anything in between. If anything, he seems oddly compassionate.

“In my experience,” Gerard starts, “and, I mean, it’s not much, but in my experience it’s not just the rich that come to places like this. And today you’re cooking for, dunno, Sarah Jessica Parker, and tomorrow you’ll have a couple from Pennsylvania that’s been saving money all year to have their anniversary at your restaurant. And if you think that Sarah Jessica Parker is somehow more important, then what the hell are you doing working in hospitality?”

“Still doesn’t mean that I belong here.”

“You do,” Gerard tries to reassure him.

“Easy for you to say, you were probably eating here all the time.” Frank grumbles. “Some of us can’t afford a dinner for a hundred bucks.”

Gerard raises his eyebrows. “You really think salaries in fine dining are that different from what you’re paying me now?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Gerard chuckles like Frank has said something funny.

“There isn’t that much of a difference, trust me,” he tries to explain. “I used to make food I couldn’t afford, like, ever. One of the reasons why I left. I mean, you spend months learning how to make one dish, just one, and it’s just perfect. The best thing you’ve ever cooked in your entire life. And you look at it, and all you think is: “goddammit, I need a better job”.”

Frank can barely suppress the laughter.

“One of the reasons?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Gerard shrugs. “Mental health issues, I told you.”

“I could always ask Mikey what's the deal with you, y’know.”

“Mikey doesn't know shit.”

“That's exactly my point.”

Gerard takes a deep breath.

“Okay, fine,” he mutters. “I had a bunch of shitty Chefs in a row. You know, the kind that will make your life hell if you as much as breathe in a way they don't like. And, I mean, I knew what I was getting myself into when I started, and I knew it wasn't going to be easy, but there's a difference between getting your ass kicked when you messed up and being told you're a disgrace to the humankind and don't deserve to live on a daily basis,” he shrugs. “And I guess it kinda broke me. So I had to take a break, and, well, you know the rest.”

He sounds calm, distant. Frank can only imagine how much it must hurt him to talk about this, and he feels like a horrible person for insisting Gerard tell him his life story.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not.”

Gerard looks him right in the eyes. “It's okay,” he repeats. “It wasn't you who did all that, right? You're one of the good ones.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about it.”

Because he gets agitated during the rush, and he stops watching his language, and while he avoids outright yelling at people it must still bring unwanted memories, especially since Gerard is still new to their work dynamic and must have little understanding of what Frank is capable of when he gets frustrated or angry.

“Come on, I wouldn't have agreed to hang out with you if I didn't want to.”

“I’m still your boss.”

“And here I thought you asked me out as a friend,” Gerard smiles.

This is the exact moment when the waiter finally arrives with their order and Frank is saved from continuing this outright embarrassing conversation.

The food looks like actual food, to Frank’s surprise. He expected to see something so over the top it’s hard to tell it’s edible in the first place, but all he sees is a fairly ordinary looking potaje de garbanzos and a quinoa salad. Granted, the portions are smaller than Frank is used to, and there is something about the way it looks that screams “this is not for you, go back to your shitty pizzeria in Newark, you plebeian”, but it’s still recognisable.

And Gerard used to work at this place. Frank tries to imagine him prepping vegetable stock with the same meticulousness and attention to detail he puts into making pizza. It’s much easier than he thought.

“Well?” Gerard asks impatiently. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re trying to prove a point,” Frank replies.

“And what would that point be?”

“You are trying to prove that you’re not a snob.”

Gerard scoffs. “That’s because I’m not a snob, maybe?”

“Your idea of hanging out is going to a fancy restaurant in New York,” Frank counts on his fingers, “you refuse to tell me how exactly we are supposed to pay for all this—”

“That’s because we’re not going to pay for it,” Gerard interrupts him.

Frank stares at him.

“What?”

“We’re not going to pay for it,” Gerard repeats, looking embarrassed all of a sudden. “I asked Chef Belén a favour.”

“Wait, you can just do that?”

Gerard averts his eyes. “Not always,” he mumbles. “Usually not, unless it’s a special case.”

“Or if you’re friends with the Chef,” Frank grumbles.

“It’s not like that!” Gerard argues. “Frank, I swear I’m not just going around asking all my previous chefs for a free meal whenever I feel like it. And I'll have to return the favour anyway, and trust me, it wasn't that easy to convince her in the first place.”

“So you are trying to prove a point after all.”

Gerard chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Seriously, what point should I be trying to prove? Because I’ve already told you I’m not a snob.”

“Then you’re trying to prove that fine dining can actually be cool,” Frank shrugs. “Though I don’t remember having that one argument, but as long as I’m not the one paying fifty bucks for a soup I’m cool with it.”

He has a rising suspicion that he has missed the point by miles. But all Gerard does is offer him an innocent smile and say: “Well, maybe”, so Frank decides to drop the subject for now. It’s not going to get him anywhere.

The potaje is great. Of course it would be nothing but great for that price (and even if it wasn’t Frank could always gaslight himself into believing it’s actually good). Frank notices Gerard watching him, trying to figure out what he thinks about the food, and if Frank didn’t know better he might have decided that Gerard made it himself and needs some kind of approval.

“It’s good,” he finally says.

Gerard raises his eyebrows.

“Just good?”

“It’s great,” Frank corrects himself. “Fucking awesome, actually.”

Gerard smiles. “Now I believe you.”

He has barely touched his salad, Frank notices. There is a certain pattern: Gerard obviously shies away from eating when other people are looking at him, to the point when every bite seems like a struggle. He doesn’t look malnourished, and Frank is yet to see any other signs that should make him worry, but there is definitely something going on with him. Something that Frank definitely doesn’t like.

Frank stands up, making Gerard slightly flinch.

“I need to use the restroom,” he announces. “Be right back.”

Gerard nods and stares at his plate.

Frank makes a point of staying in the restroom longer than he really needs. He spends several minutes in front of the mirror, trying and failing to make himself look presentable and do something about his hair. He already regrets letting it grow out: now it’s long enough to get in his face all the time, and too short to be tied in a ponytail and not make him look like an idiot. Still better than his experiments with dreadlocks, that was plain embarrassing, but maybe he should give up and get himself a brush cut again.

By the time he returns to their table Gerard is already done with his salad.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles. “Is everything okay?”

“Yep,” Frank replies. “All good.”

He isn’t sure he should explain to Gerard that he can get digestion problems from pretty much anything if he isn’t careful enough, and it’s still a mystery if he was born with it or if it’s the consequence of erratic eating patterns. This isn’t something he should share with anyone outside of close circles, and especially with Gerard.

His phone rings. Frank takes a quick look at the screen and freezes.

Why now? He was having such a nice day, why does he have to call him now?

“Who’s that?” Gerard asks.

“Dad,” Frank croaks.

Gerard reaches out to him, and Frank barely avoids touching his hand. His mind is racing, and the ringing phone is only adding to the anxiety building up inside him. He wants to take this call, wants to hear his father’s voice again, and at the same time he knows that, if he picks up the phone now, he is going to lose more than he will gain.

He declines the call.

“Are you sure?” Gerard asks.

Frank nods. “He’ll text me if it’s important.” He takes a breath. “Anyway. I noticed you have a lot of Bowie stuff.”

Gerard’s face immediately brightens, and Frank is relieved he has finally managed to find something they both are going to enjoy talking about.

Frank’s phone rings several times as the conversation drifts from Bowie to Mercury and then to the big four of Britpop. Frank ignores it; after all, his father didn’t bother calling him for so long, he can wait for a few hours.

At some point they leave the restaurant and take a walk down the street. Frank listens to Gerard chatting about a David Byrne and Brian Eno collaborative album, trying to focus on his voice instead of getting distracted by Gerard’s agitated gesturing. He looks so beautiful when he is excited, Frank could kiss him.

He needs to stop thinking about it. Frank even makes a stop to buy some cigarettes and a bottle of cheap wine to distract himself, and spends the next ten minutes or so sipping wine straight from the bottle poorly covered with a brown paper bag. It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes things worse, because by the time they reach the riverside he is at the verge of breaking down and doing something he is going to regret.

They find a bench facing the Hudson River. Frank offers Gerard some wine that he declines with an “I’m a designated driver”, and they spend the next few minutes in silence.

“I missed it,” Gerard confesses.

“Missed what?”

Gerard shrugs. “All this. I used to come here after my shifts, back when I was working at El Jardín. It looks nicer at night.”

Frank shrugs. The wind blowing from the river makes him shiver and move closer to Gerard who doesn’t seem to mind Frank being in such a close proximity to him. He doesn’t react either, like he doesn’t notice it at all, and Frank contemplates resting his head on Gerard’s shoulder just to see what’s going to happen.

“I wanted to move to New York when I was a kid,” Frank says. The wine makes him spill his secrets, things he never thought of sharing with anyone, even his closest friends. “It’s just, y’know. I pretty much grew up in the kitchen, and my family was always so focused on the restaurant, so I didn’t really get the chance to see anything else. Always knew who I was going to become when I grow up, and it was just so fuckin’ boring,” he takes another sip of wine. “I mean, I love cooking, and I don’t think I would have gotten into this if I didn’t, but, dunno, maybe when you’re a kid you need to dream about becoming an astronaut or something,” he chuckles. “Or opening your own restaurant in New York.”

“You could always try,” Gerard suggests. “I’ll be the first one to go with you if you decide to do it.”

“Don’t think I can,” Frank mutters. “Gotta deal with this one first.”

He can’t just run away now, can he? A few months earlier, right after his father left, he could have sold the restaurant and moved somewhere else. Maybe not to New York, but even Jersey City might be far enough to create problems with making him return his father’s debt. But now they got him, and they won’t let go until Frank breaks and gives them everything he has.

Gerard leans back. “I’m not trying to give you ideas,” he starts slowly, “but I knew a guy who opened his own place. It didn’t work out, he ran into a shitload of problems, and then Covid started before the business could pick up, so he ended up in debt. And, again, I’m not trying to encourage you, but this guy burned the place down. He made it look like it was the fire suppression system malfunction but we all knew he did it for the insurance money.”

“And? Did he get away with it?”

“Last I heard he found a job somewhere in Maine, so yeah, I’d say so.”

It’s not going to work in Frank’s case. If he tries to pull something similar and the mob leaders have a reason to be suspicious he won’t be safe until he follows in his father’s footsteps and runs all the way to the West Coast.

“I promise I won’t ever think about it,” Frank says.

Gerard giggles. Frank takes one final gulp and leaves the bottle under the bench.

“It would be nice, though,” he continues. “To start over.”

“You think so?”

“It’s just, y’know, emotional baggage,” Frank tries to explain. “Maybe too much emotional baggage, and, well, it’s pretty much a legacy at this point, and trust me, this family history isn’t all that pretty. Grandpa wasted his entire life on that place and died, Mom left because of it, Dad ran it into the ground and bailed. And I’ve been thinking about it all lately, and I realised that if I somehow keep it, I don’t want my imaginary future children to carry the same burden as me.” He shivers at the wind and sniffles. He’s going to catch a cold if they stay here for too long. “Not sure if I can explain it properly.”

“I think I understand what you mean,” Gerard says quietly.

He looks so beautiful in the early evening light, the sun shining through his messy hair, forming something resembling a halo, and Gerard is squinting at the light and tries to cover his eyes with his left hand, and before Frank can think it through he leans forward and presses his lips against Gerard’s. Gerard flinches and lets out a tiny noise of surprise, and Frank immediately realises his mistake and pulls away.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to have a nice evening as friends, and now Frank has gone and ruined everything.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!”

Gerard is watching him with wide eyes, and his silence is only making it worse.

“It’s the booze,” Frank tries to explain. “I’m so sorry, it happens all the time, I’m always trying to kiss people when I’m drunk, I shouldn’t have done it, I’m sorry!”

Not a single word of it is a lie. He has gotten himself in trouble before, when he got drunk at parties and tried to get to first base with strangers, but this one is so much worse than embarrassing himself on a bender. This just isn’t appropriate, and Gerard is certainly going to leave now, and Frank needs him, meeting Gerard was the first good thing that happened to him in the past few months, he isn’t sure he’s going to survive another heartbreak.

“I think we should go home,” Gerard says.

He doesn’t sound frightened, or angry, just a little confused. Frank refuses to take it as a good sign.

They drive home in silence. Frank listens to Thom Yorke’s moaning and whining as he looks outside the window, and he almost breaks down in the middle of You And Whose Army? but manages to keep his composure. He already is a piece of shit, he doesn’t want to be a pathetic piece of shit.

When Gerard pulls to the side of the road next to Frank’s house he mumbles for one last time: “I’m sorry.”

Gerard sighs.

“I think we should talk about it,” he says.

“What’s there to talk about? I fucked up, and I’m sorry.”

“Can you please stop and listen for a moment?” Gerard cuts him off. “It was a nice day. I— I’m glad I got to spend it with you, though your takes on Oasis are a crime against humanity,” he chuckles at his own joke. “And, okay, that last part was kinda… too much and too soon, so maybe we should slow down, but… it was just a mistake, right? You stopped.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Frank grumbles.

“It does,” Gerard replies softly. “You stopped, Frank. You got drunk, you made a mistake, and you stopped before I had to stop you.”

“This is not an excuse—”

“Frank, Jesus Christ, you think I never got wasted and did shit I was gonna regret in the morning?” Gerard huffs. “Just— let’s never do it again.”

“No fucking your coworkers,” Frank grumbles. “I remember.”

Gerard nods. “Right. I say we forget it ever happened.”

Frank isn’t sure he will ever be able to forget. But this is better than Gerard leaving for good, so he just nods in agreement.

“See you tomorrow, then?” he croaks.

“If you want me to come,” Gerard shrugs.

“Of course I do!”

“Then yeah,” Gerard smiles. “And thank you. For taking me out.”

“You did all the planning anyway,” Frank grumbles.

“Hey, it’s not a competition!” Gerard laughs. “Seriously, it was nice. We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah,” Frank mutters under his breath. “We should.”

He gets out of the car after a quick farewell and watches Gerard drive off for longer than necessary. The only thing he can think of is: Gerard is staying. Gerard still wants to hang out with him and be friends, and Frank can’t mess it up again. He was so close to ruining everything today just because he drank too much and didn’t think about the consequences. This can’t happen again. 

Frank checks his phone the moment he gets to his apartment. Three missed calls from his father, a message from Mikey — he found a guy to help out in the dish pit and wants to bring him to work tomorrow, — and nothing else. And he knows he should call his father back, because if he has finally decided to call, it must be serious, but he can’t make himself do it. Despite everything, it still was a good day, Frank doesn’t want to ruin it now.

He’ll call back tomorrow. The first thing he’s going to do in the morning.

Chapter Text

Frank doesn’t call back in the morning. Or the next day. Or the day after that. In fact, by the end of the month he completely forgets he was going to call his father back. He has too much on his mind: the restaurant is not bringing enough money, and it soon becomes obvious that Frank won't be able to pay fifty thousand dollars to the mob every month. Not that he expected it to, but a miracle would be nice. The guys offer to chip in, with Ray outright stating that he won't take anything above the minimum wage, but Frank angrily dismisses all the offers. This is his mess, he shouldn't be taking it out on his friends.

It’s strange to see how many people around him are invested in keeping the restaurant open, from Ray being willing to give up a good portion of his salary for the cause to Mikey somehow finding a second dishwasher in less than a day. The guy’s name is David, and he might not be the best out there but he quickly picks up what he’s supposed to do, and Frank can finally breathe out. At least everyone is getting their days off properly.

And then Mikey starts an Instagram page.

Logically Frank understands that they need to have an online presence to stay afloat and bring in new customers. He suggested it to his father more than once but was predictably met with rejection, and later he had more important things to worry about, so Mikey taking the initiative is more than welcome. What Frank didn't expect, however, is to discover that they're getting popular online, and not for their food. Frank finds it out one night, when he is so bored and tired he can only lie in bed and mindlessly scroll his Instagram feed.

Turns out they got about a thousand subscribers in just a few weeks. Frank struggles to understand what magic Mikey used to do it and why it had no effect on their daily profits until he takes a look at the comment section under the most recent post. The post itself is nothing out of ordinary, just a photo of the restaurant before the opening and a text that Frank doesn't even pay attention to, because it turns out that Ray managed to get in the frame without noticing it, and the crowd in the comments goes wild.

Frank always knew that Ray’s astounding afro was a work of art, as well as his ability to keep himself in shape despite his far from perfect work schedule. What he didn’t expect, however, was that so many people online would not only think the same but also be extremely vocal about it. Frank wonders if Ray knows he has a fan club. He isn't sure he wants Ray to know.

He skims through other posts, trying to figure out what exactly did Mikey do to attract so much attention from what seems like the wrong crowd, but everything looks innocent enough, just a guy doing his best to promote a pizza place. Mikey does pay a lot of attention to the crew, but it might be because he spends more time in the back. Another thing he notices is the strange absence of Gerard: he rarely appears in the photos, and when he does he never looks at the camera or tries to get out of the frame, and if Frank didn't see him almost every day he would have had trouble figuring out what he looks like. But mystery is attractive, and in under five minutes Frank reads at least a dozen of comments demanding to show the world their “favourite cryptid”.

The brothers must be doing it on purpose. There is no other explanation: Mikey must have told Gerard about the pizzeria’s rising popularity online and they decided to embrace Gerard's natural elusiveness and turn it into a running joke.

Frank knows he should talk to Mikey about it. But he has too much on his mind, and by morning he forgets about his plans. June is coming, as well as the first payment to the mob, and Frank struggles to find the money that won't get him killed on the spot. After paying all the bills, signing all the paychecks and placing orders he can barely break even. He is terrified of what this means.

So instead he occupies himself with getting the decorations ready for June. This is easier, this is something he has full control over, especially now that his father isn't around to call after moderation. Frank Iero Sr has been hanging the pride flag at the front window for a month every June since his son brought his first boyfriend over for dinner a few years ago, but this year Frank decides to go all in. There is nobody to stop him now anyway.

It takes a few sleepless nights and a fair amount of sweat, blood and swearing, but by the evening of May 31st Frank is ready. After the day is over, as the guys are cleaning the kitchen, he takes over the front and gets to work.

He doesn't notice it when Gerard approaches him from behind, too busy trying to figure out how to hang the flag without breaking everything in the process, including his legs if he falls, and flinches at the sound of Gerard's voice:

“Try moving to the right a bit.”

“You could get up here and help if you know it all,” Frank grunts.

Gerard chuckles. “Nah, I’m better at giving directions.”

“Then do it quietly,” Frank grumbles.

Gerard shuts up. Frank throws him a quick glance only to find him pouting in the corner. This isn't anything serious, Frank can instantly tell — if Gerard truly was hurt he would have tried to avoid Frank for the rest of the evening. Frank isn't sure it's a good sign that he has learned Gerard's every reaction in such a short time.

Gerard has already changed into his regular clothes, and he looks ready to leave. On his shoulder Frank notices a brown messenger bag, old and worn. He hasn't seen it before — though, to be fair, he hasn't seen Gerard much outside of work, and he almost always manages to slip out unnoticed.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Gerard starts, and Frank almost falls from the stool again. “When you kissed me—”

“I thought we agreed to forget it ever happened.”

They have been well off not talking about it. Gerard never talked about it, and Frank was doing his best to pretend he wasn't thinking about the taste of Gerard's lips every night. He hates that he can't turn his feelings off no matter how hard he tries, and Gerard being around almost every day doesn't help either, and the worst thing is, nothing has changed between them. They still have their smoke breaks together from time to time, and Gerard might be trying to stay closer to him now than he used to, but it means nothing. It's probably just the way he is when he gets to know people better.

“I know,” Gerard says. “I’m just wondering if you kiss guys on a regular basis or if I’m special.”

There is something about the way Gerard says it that makes Frank freeze.

Gerard is teasing him. No way he would ask something like this genuinely.

“I’m bi, if that's what you're asking,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Oh. Okay.”

“I mean, not really,” Frank rambles. His hands start shaking. “I don’t— I am who I am, and I don’t really want to put a label on it, but, y’know, easier to just tell people I’m bi than explain all this.”

Gerard nods. “Yeah. I get it. I think.” He points at the flag. “Is that why you’re—”

“First of all, my restaurant, I do what I want.”

Frank finally manages to hang the flag properly. He stands on the stool, admiring his handiwork for a few moments, and then turns to face Gerard. He contemplates moving onto the next thing on his to do list but something makes him sit down instead.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Gerard mumbles, somewhat embarrassed. “Just thought that you don’t really strike me as a corporate pride type. You know, the whole ‘we support queer people, bring us your money” sort of thing.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Frank shrugs. “Dad kinda started it on his own, after I came out to him. Guess it was his way of saying he accepts me the way I am.”

“Must be nice,” Gerard mumbles.

“Yeah,” Frank lets out a weak laugh. “It’s weird though. He’s been gone for months, and it feels like he’s still around.”

“He isn’t dead yet,” Gerard says quietly. “He might come back.”

Frank shakes his head. “He’s not coming back.”

He struggles to understand why the very thought of it makes him feel the way it does. Like he is a stranger in his own home, and the place where he spent his formative years, is now nothing more than just another burden he has to endure to keep himself alive.

“He’s still alive,” Gerard says. “He’s alive, right?”

“Last I heard,” Frank croaks.

“Did you talk to him?”

Frank has to close his eyes for a second to concentrate on the meaning of the words instead of the sound of Gerard’s voice, warm and soft.

“I didn’t,” he admits. “He didn’t call again, and then I kinda… forgot.” He sighs. “I might have left him a voicemail. When those people came asking about the money, remember?” Gerard nods. “Well, I tried calling him, and I guess I left him a voicemail and kinda… called him out on his bullshit. I guess that’s why he called.”

He would have come back if he was worried about Frank’s safety. He had weeks to come back, or to ask a friend to check on Frank. He had so many chances to let Frank know he still cares about him even if he can’t contact him himself for whatever reason, and all Frank ever got was radio silence. This can’t be the same person that, when confronted with his son dating another guy, was more worried if the guy in question was a good match for Frank. They had their fair share of conflicts, but at least Frank felt loved.

Why doesn’t he feel loved anymore?

“Frank?”

Gerard leans forward and takes Frank’s hand.

“What?”

“It’s not your fault that he left.” Gerard is still holding Frank’s hand, his thumb rubbing against the tattoos, tracing the letters above a black half of a broken heart.

“I never said it was my fault.”

“But you’re thinking that,” Gerard points out. “And I think you should stop.”

Frank smirks. “Didn’t know you were also a shrink.”

“I dabble,” Gerard smiles at him. “But the point still stands. Your father is a grown man, he would have left anyway if he wanted it so much.”

“Thanks, that’s really nice to know,” Frank grumbles.

“All I’m trying to say is, you’re not the reason he’s gone. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“And you know this because…”

“Because I see that you love him,” Gerard says. “Probably more than he deserves if he’s acting the way he does, but… I think if my dad pulled something like this I would have just sold everything I could and started over again.”

“Would Mikey approve?”

Gerard smirks. “This ain’t about him.”

“Careful, you’re talking about the guy in charge of our online reputation.”

“He uses the same password for everything, I could always steal his phone and change it.”

Frank barely suppresses a giggle. He feels so stupid, like a middle schooler on a first date, and he should really stop, nothing is going to change between them anytime soon, Gerard made it clear enough. The most he is ever going to get is Gerard holding his hand.

“Frank?” Gerard tries to look him in the eyes. “Are you alright?”

Frank nods, probably too quick to react. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Gerard purses his lips, and at this moment he looks so much like Mikey Frank has to get a double take to make sure his eyes didn’t deceive him and he has been talking to Gerard all this time.

“You can always talk to me, if you need to,” Gerard says quietly. “I’m not sure I can make your problems go away, or find the right words, but I promise to listen.”

“So you wanna be my shrink,” Frank jokes.

“I have experience,” Gerard shrugs.

And Frank should be glad that Gerard cares enough to offer to listen, he knows he should. But can he really be open with him if he can’t talk about his feelings properly? It’s better to keep it down and hope for the best, just like he has been doing all this time. His life can’t get any worse than that anyway.

“Okay,” Frank nods. “Thanks.”

He’s not going to take up on this offer anyway. Gerard doesn't need to know everything that troubles him.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Gerard smiles sheepishly. “I have something for you.”

Frank’s heart beats faster as Gerard opens his messenger bag and pulls out a CD case.

“It's a mixtape,” he says as he passes the case to Frank. “I thought you might like it.”

“Thanks,” Frank mutters.

Gerard wrote the tracklist on the back, and Frank skims through it. It's mostly the songs from the eighties and nineties: Frank notices some Bowie, a few The Cure songs, as well as plenty of Radiohead and The Smiths .

“It's nice,” he says. “I’ll give it a try at home.”

Gerard smiles. “Okay. Tell me what you think when you do.”

“Sure.”

Frank doesn't tell him he already likes it. Gerard could pick the worst tracks from the depths of Soundcloud, and Frank would love it just the same.

Gerard rises to his feet, tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“I should probably go,” he mumbles.

Frank nods. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

It feels so strange: nobody has ever made him a mixtape before, and Frank thought the art of making music compilations migrated to online spaces and transformed into playlists a very long time ago. And Gerard might be older than him but he isn’t that old, so it’s probably just one of his quirks. The guy is borderline obsessed with physical media, and Frank briefly wonders if his room is just filled to the brim with CDs and tapes.

He has to stop himself from elaborating on this thought. Normal people don’t think about the state of their coworkers’ bedrooms, even if it’s just a brief curiocity.

Frank feels like an idiot. He probably is an idiot, developing feelings for someone who is never going to be interested in him in that way. 

Why can’t he be normal, why does it always have to be someone unattainable? Why can’t Frank find a person that he can have a real chance with?

Frank stares at the CD. The first song on the tracklist is Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want, and its name feels like some cruel joke, even if it wasn’t Gerard’s intention. He probably chose it because Frank mentioned liking The Smiths, and Gerard just picked one of their most well-known songs.

None of this means anything. He should stop looking for signs where there are none. It’s only going to break his heart.

***

“Didn’t know you were such a huge piece of shit,” Dewees spits out.

Frank blinks at him. Dewees has been growing progressively annoyed during the entire week, and now, on Saturday afternoon, he finally lost his remaining patience. Frank has no idea what he has done to deserve this: Dewees never said anything, probably expecting Frank to figure it out on his own —  or maybe he did ask him for something, and Frank completely forgot about it.

“What did I do?!”

Dewees scoffs. “Nothing, that’s the fuckin’ problem.”

Frank sighs. “Okay, what was I supposed to do?”

“You said,” Dewees begins, staring Frank in the eyes, “that you need to think if you can give me an evening off today, and that you’re coming to the gig tonight.”

Frank rubs his forehead. He doesn’t remember anyone talking about any gigs, or Dewees asking for a day off. The past few months are a blur, it takes too much time and effort to figure out when something happened, if it happened at all and Frank isn’t mixing up the events. The only day that stands out in his memory is the one he got to spend with Gerard in New York, and this is becoming concerning. He never had problems with memory before.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Fuck.”

Dewees crosses his arms. “And?”

“You can take the evening off,” Frank says. “I’ll cover for you, it’s no problem.”

“So you’re not coming.” Dewees doesn’t look even remotely angry now. If anything, he seems concerned.

“I can’t,” Frank replies. “I need to… you know, deal with this fuckin’ job and everything.”

“Dude, what’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired, I guess.”

This is what happens to the person if you make them work for sixty hours a week for four years without a break. He’s tired, he’s most definitely burnt out, especially after the meatgrinder of the past few months, and he needs his time off, desperately, but he just can’t afford it. If he stops, even for a second, he’s going to drown.

“Then take a few days off,” Dewees suggests. “Promise we’re not gonna break anything.”

Frank shakes his head. “I’m not sure if I can.”

“Man, seriously, it’s not gonna collapse if you let yourself rest for a week or so.”

But what if it will? What if something happens while Frank is away, and he isn’t there to fix it in time? He spent too much time trying to keep the place alive, he can’t stop now, even if for a few days.

“I’ll be okay,” Frank mutters.

Dewees gives him a concerned look.

“Frank.”

“What?!”

Dewees takes a deep breath. “You’re having a week off. Starting now.”

“No, I’m not,” Frank scoffs. “You’re not my boss, you can’t do that.”

“I can and I will.” Dewees turns to the door leading to the kitchen, and Frank knows what he is about to do before he opens his mouth. “Guys, get in here!”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Frank growls.

Dewees only smirks at that.

Ray appears in the doorway, covered in flour up to his elbows. Behind him Frank notices Geoff and Mikey. Gerard shouts something from the kitchen but nobody pays attention to him.

“I think Frank needs a week off,” Dewees starts.

“I don’t need a week off!”

“You do,” Ray says bluntly. “Stop arguing.”

Geoff gives Dewees a knowing look, and Frank can feel his heart sinking. There is more to it, the guys didn’t only decide that they need to get him out of the restaurant for a few days.

Geoff starts: “I think—”

Mikey gives him a disapproving look.

“You think?”

“Okay, we think,” Geoff corrects himself, “that we are going to close early today and go to Dewees’ gig together.”

Frank pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Guys, listen,” he sighs, “if you wanna go, okay, go. I’ll come with you if you really want me to. But I am not taking a week off. I seriously can’t afford it.”

Ray smirks. “This is an intervention, resistance is futile.”

The guys seem to be oddly in agreement. Frank would have thought they would start to fight by this point, but other than Mikey’s snarky remark there hasn’t been any sign of disagreement so far. Almost like…

“You planned all this,” Frank says. “You fuckin’— you planned all this!”

“Well, yeah.” Mikey adjusts his glasses. “Dude, you need help, seriously.”

“You make it sound like I’m some kind of psycho.”

“Well,” Ray shrugs, “you’re obviously trying to get yourself a nervous breakdown, does that count?”

“Mind your own business,” Frank grumbles.

He didn’t mean to sound rude, was aiming for something closer to a friendly jab, but it still comes out as a barely disguised  “fuck you”, if Ray’s reaction is anything to go by.

Shit, he might actually need a break.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

Ray waves his hand. “It’s fine.”

It obviously isn’t fine, because Geoff gives him a telling look, and it feels like Frank has just kicked a puppy in front of their eyes, filmed it and posted the video online for everyone to see how deranged he is. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, Frank would rather die than turn into one of those assholes that walk around not giving a damn about the feelings of the people around them.

“Alright, you know what?” Geoff says. “Go home, now. We’ll wrap it up here.”

Frank frowns. “Wait. You want to close right now?”

“Yep,” Mikey replies.

“But—”

“Stop arguing.” Mikey crosses his arms. “Go home, get ready, and you’re not allowed in here until next Tuesday.”

“This is unionising!”

“It’s not unionising if it’s for your own good,” Ray argues.

Frank is not winning this one. He doesn’t even try to find a nice witty remark about his own staff ganging up on him because they think he needs a break (and he’s okay, it’s not a big deal, he can figure it out on his own without spending an entire week staring at the ceiling). If they want him to go home, fine, he will, but not because he was forced into it.

Gerard isn’t in the kitchen, Frank notices as he walks to the backdoor. Strange: he heard his voice just a few minutes ago, and he was clearly occupied with something, and yet now the kitchen bears no trace of his presence.

He’s probably taking a break. Frank wonders if Gerard has known about the guys’ plan in the first place, Mikey surely filled him in. Frank shouldn’t overthink it.

Frank is still overthinking it. What else can he do, stuck in his own apartment, knowing full well that the guys put someone on the watchout to make sure he doesn’t try to escape and go back to work without their permission. It feels so ridiculous: he is supposed to be the one in charge, he is the one who should make these decisions, and yet somehow he got overpowered so easily it’s almost pathetic. Maybe he should just put Ray in charge and distance himself from it all. It could also solve what Frank refers to as The Gerard Problem in his head. He’s thinking too much about Gerard, and he may be trying to conceal it all he wants but he can’t escape his own feelings.

Ray has already noticed. Mikey can probably see something is going on. He is pretty sure Geoff has connected the dots already and figured out Frank isn’t just showing favoritism to the new guy, and he probably told Dewees all about it. And Gerard is still there, oblivious to everything even after that kiss; or maybe he’s just pretending and in reality he despises Frank for what he did, what he continues doing, seeking whatever closeness he can get.

If Frank was seeing a therapist, he probably would have been told that this isn’t healthy, that he is clinging onto the first person to show him affection since his father left and needs to let go before as much as trying to get closer to Gerard. And it’s so stupid, because Frank has friends. He isn’t all alone in this world, so maybe his feelings are not a result of being abandoned.

It would have been so much easier if they were.

He tries to distract himself. Finds a somewhat clean T-shirt, takes a shower (not that it will help in the long run, but Frank wants to be at least somewhat clean before he submerges in the heated, sweaty crowd). By the time he finally hears the knock on the door Frank manages to somewhat calm himself down.

“Ready?” Ray asks. He’s alone, thankfully, but Frank can hear the loud voices coming from the parking lot.

“Yeah,” he says. “Is Gerard coming?”

He shouldn’t have said that. He really shouldn’t have said that, because Ray grins, and subconsciously Frank knows he won’t hear the end of it for the next few weeks.

“He’s our driver for tonight,” Ray says. “And you need to stop denying that you have a crush on him.”

“Can you please stop?” Frank groans. “Please. I’ll do anything you want if you stop.”

Ray’s smile disappears.

“Wait.” He takes a quick look behind his back. “Please don’t tell me it got worse.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You’re my friend, so yeah, it’s my business.” Ray crosses his arms. “Did something happen? Is that why you’re,” he waves his hand, “like this?”

Frank shouldn’t be telling Ray this. It’s his mess, he shouldn’t involve his best friend in this. And besides, what can Ray possibly do? He won’t make it stop, won’t make Frank’s feelings for Gerard disappear.

“Nothing serious,” Frank shrugs. “It’ll pass.”

Ray doesn’t look convinced. He clearly wants to say something, but he’s interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs and Geoff’s loud: “You two coming or not?”, and Frank has no other choice but to follow him.

The reason for the heated argument, glimpses of which Frank caught from the staircase, turns out to be the seating. It is a problem: Gerard’s Honda can’t possibly fit eight people, Frank has a certain suspicion it will barely fit six if someone decides to take their own car.

“I’m telling you, I’ll just take my own car,” Frank hears Dewees argue.

“And stay sober all evening?” Anthony argues. “Dude, seriously?”

“I don’t know what they told you about me but I have some self-control.”

“We’ll need a second car anyway,” Gerard tries to chime in. “We won’t fit.”

“Two in the front, four in the back, two in the trunk,” Mikey shrugs. “Easy.”

“It’s too small!”

“Okay, five in the back.”

Gerard gives him a murderous glare. “Does it look like a fuckin’ clown car?”

‘Well, at least one person around here is a clown,” Mikey grumbles and barely avoids Gerard’s light punch.

“We could take my car,” Frank offers weakly.

“No, we couldn’t,” Anthony replies.

“Why?!”

“Because,” Anthony points at him, “you’re definitely drinking tonight.”

“Do I get any say in it?”

“Nope. Get in the car.”

Frank obeys. He isn’t in the mood for another argument; if the guys want him to hang around and be pretty he can do that. Not much of an effort anyway.

He wants to take the front seat but Mikey manages to get there faster, and this isn’t fair: Mikey is taller, and his legs are longer than Frank’s, he has the advantage. But as Mikey smirks and jokingly flips Frank off it becomes painfully obvious that he isn’t about to give up his spot.

It takes way too long to figure out all the logistics, but eventually they decide that Dewees takes his own car, David goes with him, while the rest of them try to fit into Gerard’s car. Gerard isn’t amused by the fact that he’ll have to take five passengers at once, and the backseat gets overcrowded fairly quickly. Frank is stuck in the middle, with Geoff’s body pressed against his and Ray’s messy hair getting right in his face.

“Should’ve taken my car,” Frank grumbles.

“Come on, it’s fun!” Anthony grins.

“Not when Ray gets his hair in my mouth.”

“Hey!”

“I mean it, Toro!” Frank gives him a light nudge. “Just let me find my scissors and you’re done for.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Watch me.”

Ray kicks the back of Mikey’s seat with a loud: “Mikey, save me!”

Mikey turns around.

“Frank, if you cut Ray’s hair, I’ll come to your house at night and shave your head,” he says in a monotonous voice, though it’s obvious he’s trying to conceal a smile.

“You won’t if I steal your glasses first!”

“You touch my brother’s glasses and you’re gonna have to walk home,” Gerard threatens him light-heartedly.

Frank immediately shuts up and keeps quiet until they finally arrive to the music club.

It’s not exactly easy to call this place a club: it’s a basement under a two-storey building that on most days serves as a nightclub. But Newark doesn’t have that many venues for small-scale concerts, Frank knows from experience, so everyone has to settle for what they can get. In this case, a poorly ventilated basement, a makeshift stage and diluted beer.

He sees some familiar faces. Some people recognise him, someone asks where he has been all this time, and Frank can’t find a proper answer. He feels out of place here, too old and tired, and it’s so scary for no reason. Most of the people around here are around his age, and still he feels so alone. If this is what growing up means, Frank doesn’t want it.

The first band for the night comes on stage, and for a moment it gets better. The people start pouring in from the outside, and Frank quickly gets pressed against the wall. He tries to move to the back to avoid getting sucked into the mosh pit, and this is when he notices him in the corner of the room: one of the people that came to collect the money not so long ago.

The man looks out of place in this overcrowded basement, too sober and moody. Frank’s first instinct is to leave: everyone knows that mobsters don’t go to the underground concerts, unless the owner of this place owes them something, and even then they wouldn’t show up at the gig itself, they would have come sooner.

Frank takes a quick look around. Of course the guys have disappeared the moment Frank got in trouble, it happens every time he really needs help. On the opposite side of the room he notices Gerard — visibly sober, thankfully, — and tries to approach him but the moment he takes the first step someone takes him by the shoulder.

Frank knows who he is going to see before he turns around. He should have known. Something always goes wrong every time he goes out, he should have stayed at home even if it meant upsetting Dewees.

“Iero.”

Frank gulps and puts on a brave face.

“Yeah?”

The man gives him a long studying look. “The big guy is getting impatient, Iero.”

“I have the money for this month,” Frank replies, trying to act cool.

The man slowly nods and lets Frank go. Frank doesn’t dare move from the spot, waiting for the inevitable downfall. It’s not just about the money, it’s the way the man is looking at him, with a mix of contempt and disgust.

“Take that woke crap down,” the man says. “Before someone does it for you.”

It takes Frank a second to understand what he means. He doesn't even have the time to react: the man disappears in the crowd, and Frank is left standing there, desperately trying to catch his breath.

The music is too loud.

The music is too loud, and Frank is suddenly too aware of his surroundings, of the people around him, too close, too invasive, and someone is calling his name, and he needs to get out, right now. He is going to die if he doesn't get outside and as far away from here as he can.

By sheer luck he manages to locate the exit. His head is spinning, he can barely make his way through the crowd.

It's already dark outside. Frank doesn't even take two steps away from the entrance before he collapses on the ground, breathing heavily, with his heart in his throat. It's too dark. It's not dark enough, and what if they're watching him, what if they have been spying on him the whole time and he never noticed, they must have been spying because there is no chance this meeting was a coincidence, no way one of them just happens to like the local hardcore scene.

He can't breathe.

Oh God, he can't breathe.

Someone laughs. Frank winces and tries to curl into himself to block out the world.

“Frank?”

Frank takes a short shallow breath as he feels someone sit on the ground next to him.

“Frank, are you alright?”

Gerard is here. Of course Gerard is here to see his breakdown.

Frank shakes his head. He can't speak, the words stuck in his throat. Why does his body have to betray him at the worst time possible?

“Can I hug you? Is that okay?”

Frank can barely suppress a hysterical laugh. Like Gerard has to ask his permission to hug him.

Gerard gently wraps his arms around Frank’s shoulders and pulls him closer, almost cradling him, and Frank rests his head on Gerard's chest, almost melting into the touch.

They sit in silence, Gerard slightly rocking him back and forth, his thumb rubbing Frank’s shoulder while Frank tries to get himself to breathe again. It takes time, but at least it's Gerard hugging him. At least he can get a figment of intimacy from him, even if it takes being on the verge of a panic attack.

“I saw one of them,” Frank croaks when he finally finds his voice again.

“One of whom?” Gerard asks.

Frank sucks in a breath. “Those people. You know who. They want their money, and I said that I have it, but I don’t have enough, and I have no idea when they’re coming to collect, and,” he buries his head in the crook of Gerard’s neck. “I’m so fucking scared.”

He is going to hate himself in just a few hours for being so weak. Gerard wasn’t supposed to see him like this. He’s probably going to think that Frank can’t keep his shit together and breaks down at smallest triggers.

“It’s okay,” Gerard whispers. “We’ll figure it out, it’s gonna be okay.”

“It’s not gonna be okay,” Frank rasps. “They’re fucking spying on me.”

Gerard buries his fingers in Frank’s hair.

“One step at a time,” he says quietly. “Okay? There should be a way out of this.”

“And what if there isn’t?”

Should he follow in his father’s footsteps and just run without looking back? Should he prolong the agony until something breaks and he loses the restaurant, or, the worst case scenario, his life?

“Then we make the most out of it while we can.” Gerard’s hand slides to the back of Frank’s neck. “But I know you’re smart, Frank. I’m sure you can find a solution.”

Frank lets out a humourless laugh. “The only solution my family usually has is to drop everything and run away.”

“It’s still a solution,” Gerard replies. “Maybe not the best one, but still a solution.”

Frank shakes his head.

“I’m not leaving you,” he mutters.

He means it in more ways than one. He’s not giving up the fight now, and he’s not going to be like his father, and he’s not leaving as long as Gerard is around. He just needs a moment to recharge, to take his mind off things. The guys were right: he needs a proper vacation.

Gerard chuckles. “Well, then I’m not leaving you either.”

Frank nods weakly. “Thank you.”

He hates breaking up the hug but if he stays so close to Gerard any longer he might do something stupid again, and he has already done enough for one day.

“I’m gonna get shitfaced,” he announces. “You coming?”

Gerard frowns. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

“No,” Frank shrugs. “And I don’t give a fuck.”

“Frank…”

“No,” Frank stops him. “I’m on vacation, right? So I can do whatever I want, and what I want right now is to get absolutely fuckin’ shitfaced.”

Gerard tries to argue but Frank doesn’t listen to him anymore. He makes his way back to the basement, ignoring Gerard calling out for him, and heads straight to the bar.

The next few hours are a blur. Frank throws himself in the mosh pit and emerges from it only when somebody drags him out only to find a guy to bum a joint off. At some point someone brings whiskey and begins mixing Boilermakers for everyone who asks, and Frank manages to drink at least two before he discovers himself outside throwing up. He has lost his T-shirt somewhere along the way, his body is covered in sweat, and it’s getting harder and harder to stand. Someone catches him moments before Frank collapses on the ground, and Frank tries to fight back but his body refuses to obey him.

“Alright, you’ve had enough for tonight,” a familiar voice says. “I’m taking you home.”

Frank violently shakes his head and it sends another wave of nausea through his brain.

“I don’ wanna,” he mumbles.

“You’re going home, period,” the voice replies. “Mikey, help me out here!”

A second pair of arms helps him stand upright, and in the next moment Frank is being dragged to a car parked nearby. He doesn’t have the energy to fight, can only obediently drag his feet as he is being guided to the backseat.

“We can’t leave him alone.”

Frank is lying in the backseat of a moving vehicle. He doesn’t remember getting inside, doesn’t quite recall when exactly they have started moving. He thinks that he knows the people in the front seats but it’s too hard to focus on one thought for longer than one second.

“He’ll be fine,” someone replies. Mikey, it must be Mikey.

“Have you seen how much he drank?” the other one — Gerard — argues. “And I’m sure that weed was laced with something. I’m not leaving him alone.”

“So what, you wanna stay at his place?”

“Dunno,” Gerard replies. “Frank, can you hear me?”

Frank can only moan in response.

“Fuck,” Gerard mutters under his breath. “Dude, stay with me.”

“‘m tired,” Frank forces out.

“I know,” Gerard says gently. “But I need you to stay with me, okay?”

Frank tries to focus on his voice, on the sound of the engine, but soon finds himself drifting off again. Why is his body so stupid it can’t follow simple instructions?

Finally, after what feels like eternity, the car stops and Frank is being dragged outside. He thinks he throws up again, and, if Gerard’s swearing is anything to go by, he probably ruined the car in the process.

“Almost there,” Mikey says. “Come on, man, you can do it.”

“Maybe we should take him to the hospital,” Gerard says quietly.

Frank shakes his head and mumbles something that is supposed to mean “No hospital,” but he isn’t sure if anyone caught that. He can’t afford adding medical bills to his already overwhelming debt.

“He’ll kill us if we do that,” Mikey says. “He just drank too much, he’ll be okay in the morning, I’m telling you.”

Frank feels himself being dragged downstairs, and it vaguely registers in his head that he should be going up if he wants to get home. This isn’t right. He doesn’t live in a basement, does he? But his voice refuses to obey him, so he can’t protest, can’t as much as muster anything coherent.

He lands on something soft. Through half-closed eyelids he can see someone moving around him, and he tries to focus on Gerard’s silhouette but his brain can’t work properly anymore.

The last thing he hears is Gerard’s quiet pleading: “Please don’t die on me,” and then the darkness swallows him whole.

Chapter Text

Frank wakes up in an unfamiliar room.

His first thought is: “Oh shit, not again.”

He hates situations like this, when he wakes up with no memory of how he got there, whose bed he ended up in. It always ends with a confrontation, or him learning more than enough embarrassing details to make him wish he could hide in his apartment and never go outside again.

And oh, can Frank feel a confrontation coming. That is, if the hangover doesn't kill him first — Frank hasn't had a headache this bad since that one post-graduation party in college, and his mouth is so dry he could drink the entire Passaic and still feel thirsty afterwards. He can barely remember the events of the past night, and everything past the first Boilermaker is a blur. All he knows is that he didn't make it home last night and ended up in someone else's bed.

Frank forces himself to sit up and take a look around. The first thing he notices is that he is in a basement that’s been hastily remade into something resembling a bedroom. Or maybe not; the longer Frank looks the more obvious it becomes that someone used to live in the basement for quite some time before it was turned into a storage room. The only source of light is a small window just below the ceiling, and even in this semi-darkness and with a blinding headache Frank can somewhat make out a few band posters on the walls, someone’s drawings, about half a dozen boxes that are yet to be unpacked but the owner of the room is currently using them as an improvised hanging rack. The space by the window is occupied by what can only be called clutter: old bags filled with something Frank isn’t sure he wants to see, wooden planks that once used to be a bookshelf, several piles of paperbacks and what looks like an ancient dusty carpet. In fact, the only part of the room that seems somewhat lived in is the corner by the door, with a single bed, a bedside table with a reading lamp, an alarm clock and a full glass of water (Frank downs it in one gulp the moment he notices it), and a bookshelf that is clearly positioned to separate the living space from all the junk. Frank would have called it ascetic if it wasn't so goddamn sad.

The sound of footsteps makes him flinch. Frank manages to turn around just in time to see Gerard enter the room carrying a tray with a jug of water and what looks like a fruit plate. He looks surprised to see Frank awake but quickly takes a hold of himself.

“How’re you feeling?” he whispers as he puts the tray on the floor.

“Like shit,” Frank groans.

This is an understatement of the century: Frank feels like he is going to die at any given moment, be it the headache or the dehydration that kills him.

Gerard chuckles. “Yeah, thought so. You went a bit wild last night.”

Frank rubs his face. He is suddenly extremely aware of the fact that he is naked save for his underwear, the blanket being the only thing protecting his dignity, which can mean one of two things: either he got so wasted that he managed to destroy all of his clothes, or he did something he is going to regret for the rest of his life. He hopes it’s the first one. He really hopes it’s the first one even if it leads to the kind of humiliation he’s never going to live down.

Gerard fills the glass with water and passes it to Frank along with a pill.

“Advil,” he explains. “Should help with the headache.”

Frank nods and downs the glass in just a few gulps. He tries to watch Gerard move around, placing the fruit plate — Frank can barely suppress a chuckle — on the bedside table, trying to arrange the clothes scattered around the room. Nothing in his movements gives out if anything serious happened last night.

“What happened?” Frank croaks.

“You got wasted,” Gerard replies. “I mean, that’s pretty much it.”

“I figured that part out,” Frank grumbles. “Why am I naked?”

“Oh.” Gerard looks properly embarrassed now. Frank isn’t sure if he wants to hear what he has to say. “That’s… It was kinda awkward, honestly.”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Just tell me already.”

Gerard takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he mutters, avoiding looking Frank in the eyes. “So, uh, you got wasted, and Mikey and I decided to take you to our place. You were pretty much out of it, and,” Gerard makes an awkward pause, trying to find proper words. “You puked all over the place. I mean, no shame, happens to the best of us, but I couldn’t let you sleep in your own vomit, so,” he shrugs. “I know it’s not very appropriate. Sorry.”

Frank forces a smile.

“I’m pretty sure sleeping in my own puke is way less appropriate,” he tries to joke. “So thanks, I guess.”

Gerard nods. “Yeah. Sure,” he offers Frank a tiny smile. “Your pants are in the dryer, and you didn’t have your shirt on when we picked you up, so you can take one of mine, if you want,” he vaguely gestures at the boxes. “Should be in one of those.”

Frank shakes his head. He doesn’t have the energy to get out of bed right now. What matters is that nothing really happened. He didn’t make it worse than it already is.

“Okay,” Gerard nods. “Just… try to sleep it off, alright?” He gestures at the bedside table. “I’m not sure if you eat any of that but I got some fruit, so. Yeah.” He stares at the floor. “The bathroom is upstairs, next to the kitchen. Everyone else is out, they won’t be home until evening, so don’t worry about that,” He hesitates. “I’ll be upstairs, so call me if you need anything, alright?”

Frank can only nod along. Gerard doesn’t seem to be bothered by the lack of the verbal response, and the moment he finishes his speech he disappears upstairs, leaving Frank alone.

Frank absent-mindedly picks up a pear and takes a small bite. He doesn’t feel hungry, isn’t sure eating anything right now is a good idea, but he doesn’t want to go back to sleep just yet. And yet, no matter how hard he tries to stay awake, he feels himself drifting off, and before he can as much as finish his pear he falls asleep.

Next time he wakes up his headache has somewhat dulled. Frank still feels like someone wiped the floor with him, but at least he can think clearly, and he can keep his eyes open for longer than five seconds at a time. The light in the basement has changed, and Frank is fairly sure he managed to sleep through most of the day.

He forces himself to get out of the bed. He’s swaying slightly on his feet, but he can stand, and while it takes effort to cross the room Frank feels like he can power through the rest of the day.

Gerard left clean clothes on one of the boxes. Frank recognises his jeans, which is a great relief: he isn’t sure Gerard’s pants would fit him. He tries not to freak out about the fact that Gerard let him borrow one of his T-shirts, mostly because the circumstances leave a lot to be desired, but also because he is, despite his over the top emotional responses, not a teenager anymore. It’s actually fairly weird for him to react this way any time Gerard is in close proximity, and Frank hates that he can’t just turn it off and carry on as usual. it would have saved him so much trouble.

He puts his clothes on — the T-shirt turns out to be old, worn at the seams, and three sizes too big for him, — and makes his way upstairs. 

Frank finds Gerard in the kitchen, lazily scrolling through something on his laptop. He doesn’t notice Frank at first, flinches when Frank stumbles into the kitchen and looks up at him.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Feeling better?”

Frank nods and gracelessly flops down on the nearest chair, trying to suppress a groan.

“Wanna eat something?”

Frank nods again. “I want oatmeal,” he mumbles.

This doesn’t really sound like him. He usually hates oatmeal, despises its taste, and texture, and the fact that on those rare occasions when he makes it he has to cook it with water because his body is too stupid to process lactose.

“Okay,” Gerard says. “I can make oatmeal.”

“Normal one,” Frank continues. “Oats, water, some sugar, none of your fancy shit.”

“I know how to make oatmeal, thanks,” Gerard grumbles as he stands up.

Frank closes his eyes. He doesn’t have the strength to talk right now.

Gerard’s phone rings, and the sound sends spikes of pain through Frank’s skull. Alt least Gerard answers the call seconds before the pain makes Frank lose his composure, though it still brings little comfort.

Frank hates hangovers. He hates this specific hangover that makes him feel like an amoeba stuck in a Petri dish and being prodded just to see the reaction.

Gerard passes him the phone.

“It’s Ray,” he says. “Says it’s urgent.”

Frank nods and takes the phone from Gerard’s hand.

“Pick. Up. The phone,” is the first thing Ray says the moment Frank mumbles something incoherent. “Will it kill you or what?”

“I don’t know where it is,” Frank mumbles. “What d’you want?”

Ray sighs.

“There’s a guy outside,” he says. “Says he came for the money, do you know anything about that?”

Frank wishes he didn’t. He also wishes he didn’t mix weed with alcohol, because now he is nursing his hangover at Gerard’s place while Ray is left to deal with the mess that is Frank’s pizzeria on his own.

“Yeah, it’s,” Frank rubs his forehead, “Okay, go to the office.”

“Already in there.”

“Okay, good,” Frank shoots a glance at Gerard who, in turn, pretends not to listen to the conversation, poorly. “See the file cabinet to your right?”

“Yep.”

“Open the bottom left drawer.” He pauses, listening to the sound of the drawer sliding out. “There should be an envelope with the money. Give it to him, if he asks anything, you know nothing, I’ll be home by tomorrow so he’ll have to wait until then.”

“Frank—”

“And I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess,” Frank forces out. “Really, man, I’m sorry.”

“Frank, you want me to give him ten grand,” Ray interrupts him. “Are you sure it’s fifty percent?”

Frank is well aware that ten thousand dollars he is about to give away is, in fact, way more than the agreed fifty percent of profits. But paying less feels like giving up before the fight even starts, and Frank needs to do his best, even if he won’t win this anyway.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he says.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Just give him the money, alright?”

“Tell me how much we really need to pay them this month.”

“Ten grand,” Frank sighs. “Ray, trust me on this, okay?”

“I’m not letting you kill yourself over this shit.”

“I’m not trying to kill myself over it, dude, just give that guy his money and forget about it.”

Gerard places the bowl of oatmeal in front of Frank and shoots him a concerned glance. Frank shrugs, trying to convey that it’s nothing he should be worried about.

“We’re so talking about it when you get back,” Ray says grimly. “You can’t just carry on and give out money to those people, there has to be another way.”

“What, you got suggestions?” Frank bites.

“Yes. Paying fifty percent and not a cent more.”

“Then I’ll lose everything.”

“Well, it’s not the end of the world!” Ray huffs. “Listen. I know it’s important to you, and it’s gonna suck if they take it away, but your life is not gonna end. You’re not— Mistakes were made. Not all of them by you. This entire situation didn’t happen because of you, it happened because of your dad’s shitty decisions. So stop trying to sacrifice yourself, it’s not gonna help anyway.”

“Go give that guy his money,” Frank grumbles and ends the call.

The worst thing is, Ray is right. His life doesn’t depend on the restaurant’s survival, and maybe he would be better off without it. He could start anew, without the family legacy dragging him down, without all the shame and guilt, and he could do it the way he wants this time.

Frank takes a quick glance at the clock on the wall. Half past eight, and he doesn’t have his car so he’ll have to either walk home or ask Gerard to give him a ride, and neither of these options sounds particularly inspiring right now.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Frank asks. He feels stupid, and he knows it’s going to create problems because Gerard obviously doesn’t have enough space in his room to accommodate the two of them, and for some reason Frank suspects that the couch in the living room is out of question. He still needs to ask.

Gerard shrugs. “Sure, why not?” Frank thinks he can see a barely concealed smile. Must be the light. “You’ll just need to hide when Mom comes back home.”

“She doesn't know I’m here?”

Gerard scratches his head. “We woke her up last night, so she knows. Isn't thrilled about it,” he sighs. “Not like it matters anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

Gerard gives Frank a long studying look.

“It's Mom,” he says finally. “She's… Mom. It’s kinda hard to explain.”

“You could try.”

Gerard is silent for a few moments. He doesn’t look at Frank, instead staring somewhere in the distance, and Frank regrets asking him about it in the first place. He knew the Way family had issues, he really doesn’t need to know every detail.

“We don’t have the best relationship,” Gerard says. “You probably already know that. And the thing is, I didn’t want to run away like I did, I didn’t— I just wanted to do what I love, even if she disapproves. At some point it became obvious that I have to choose between doing what she expects me to do and making something out of myself.”

It’s obvious what Gerard chose in the end. It couldn’t have been an easy choice: Gerard’s voice trembles, and he seems oddly distant as he continues:

“And I don’t think she forgave me for not choosing her. I mean, I’ve never been a good son,” he lets out a sad laugh, “but this was too much even for me. And then she didn’t tell me Grandma died and I had to find it out from Mikey.”

Frank vaguely remembers Mikey going to a funeral a few years ago. He never told Frank what it was about, never mentioned it afterwards. Frank didn’t pry that time: it still was an open wound for Mikey, and Frank didn't want to make it worse.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

Gerard shrugs. “Don’t be. Wasn’t you.” He takes a shaky breath. “I just think sometimes that it was a mistake to come back here, because, well, I thought she had her revenge when she didn’t let me say goodbye to Grandma, but she’s just fuckin’ unbearable, y’know? And she doesn’t just terrorise me, I mean, I can deal with it, but she’s also making life hell for Mikey, and I just don’t understand why.”

Frank instinctively reaches out and holds Gerard’s hand in his. Gerard closes his eyes for a second to gather his thoughts before continuing:

“Mikey says it wasn’t like that when I was gone. Not perfect, maybe, but she didn’t bother him because she could complain about me.” He sighs. “I don't understand why she's doing it. Like, if she even understands that it fuckin' hurts.”

“You could move in with me, if you want,” Frank blurts out.

He shouldn’t have said that. He really shouldn’t have said that, because Gerard is going to figure everything out now, and he’s going to leave, and Frank can’t let him do it. He isn’t likely to survive watching another person he deeply cares about leave him.

Gerard smiles at him.

“Mikey and I were thinking about renting, actually,” he says. “Probably in July or August, if we can save enough money for the deposit and the first month. Mikey found a bunch of places in Newark, they’re close to work, so it’s gonna make everyone’s life easier,” he shrugs. “But thanks anyway.”

“It’s not a one-time offer,” Frank says. “So if you need to—”

“I need to get Mikey outta here first,” Gerard cuts him off. “He needs something better than this.”

“You can both come live with me,” Frank argues. “At least until you find something else.”

Gerard bites his lower lip. He has doubts, Frank can tell, and he can only hope that Gerard doesn't take it the wrong way.

“I’ll ask Mikey,” Gerard says finally. “I’m not sure if he’s gonna agree, but I’ll ask.”

Frank lets out a relieved breath.

The front door opens, and Gerard flinches at the sound.

“It’s Mom,” he whispers. “Go downstairs, quick.”

“Dude, I’m not afraid of your Mom!”

The truth is, he is afraid of Mrs Way a bit, more so after what he just heard. Not that he is ever going to admit it, especially in front of Gerard. The worst she can do is give him a few unpleasant moments, she won't even complain to his father — and if she somehow does, what can he do? Come back to New Jersey to give him a scolding?

“Frank, please—”

Mrs Way enters the kitchen before Gerard can finish the sentence. She gives Frank a long disapproving look before turning away and slamming her bag against the table counter. Gerard flinches and hunches his back slightly, and Frank feels his hand trembling.

“I see you boys are having fun,” Mrs Way says.

Gerard mumbles: “Hi, Mom.”

Frank lets go of his hand, suddenly aware what it might look like from the outside. He doesn’t want Gerard to get in trouble just because Frank was holding his hand in front of his mother, no matter how platonic this gesture is.

“We were already leaving,” Gerard says quietly, avoiding looking at Mrs Way.

“I’d like to talk to Frank first,” she says, giving Frank a pointed look.

Gerard wants to protest but Frank chimes in: “Yeah, sure.” he turns to Gerard. “I’ll catch up with you.”

Gerard nods, though he looks doubtful of this idea. Frank doesn’t like it either, he would rather not get involved in the Way family drama, but what other options does he have? Run away and leave Gerard to deal with it alone?

The moment Gerard leaves Mrs Way lights a cigarette and stares Frank down, making him shiver.

“What do you want from my sons?” she asks bluntly.

Frank blinks. “What?”

“What do you want from my sons?” Mrs Way repeats. “Gerard is still working at your father’s restaurant, right?” Frank nods. “And so is Mikey now, or so I've heard. So what do you want from my sons, Frank?”

“Nothing! We’re friends, and we’re working together, that’s it.”

Frank isn’t ready for this interrogation. He doesn’t understand Mrs Way’s angle, what exactly she disapproves of. Both her sons have jobs, so she doesn’t have to worry about providing for them, and it’s perfectly legal, so what exactly is the problem? That she doesn’t like their career choices? That she doesn’t like Frank personally?

“I see,” Mrs Way nods. “Gerard hasn’t been causing trouble, has he?”

Frank shakes his head. “No, he’s alright. Why?”

he instantly regrets asking that. It was a trap, and he fell right into it.

“He never listens, that’s why,” Mrs Way takes a long drag. “No matter how many times you tell him, he doesn’t listen.” She shakes her head. “He’s a good kid, Frank, you hear me? He’s a good kid, he could be anything he wanted, but he chose… this,” she grimaces. “How many times I told him: don’t do it, you can do so much better, this isn’t for you. Did he listen?” She scoffs. “Of course not.”

“He’s good at it,” Frank tries to argue. “And I think he’s talented.”

Mrs Way scoffs again.

“Being talented doesn’t mean he needs to dedicate his life to this.”

Frank isn’t sure what he should say to that. Whatever argument he might come up with seems ridiculous or like stating the obvious. And, based on what he knows, Mrs Way’s disapproval seems too personal, he won’t make her rationalise it no matter how hard he tries.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mrs Way shakes her head. “He’s always been more like his father anyway.”

Frank is convinced now that he shouldn’t be listening to any of this. Whatever it is going on in this family, it’s for the best if he stays as far from it as he can. And the last thing he should do is argue with Mrs Way about Gerard and how much she underestimates him, he will only make it worse.

“I think I should be going,” Frank says and stands up. “Sorry, Mrs Way.”

Her intense stare makes him stop in his tracks.

“My son,” she starts, “has certain… inclinations. I believe you already know about that.”

“What inclinations?”

“Towards other men,” Mrs Way says without batting an eye. “I don’t know if it was a part of his teenage… experiments, but if it ever comes up, I’ll have to ask you not to entertain his fantasies.”

“It’s none of my business who he sleeps with,” Frank replies sharply. “With all respect and everything.”

Mrs Way purses her lips. Frank looks her in the eyes, hoping he can deliver the point clear enough for her to stop. It’s weird that she told him that in the first place, unless she has certain suspicions. Is it really that obvious to everyone?

Or maybe — and Frank doesn’t dare dwell on this thought — he is Gerard’s type. Maybe Gerard brought home someone who looked a lot like Frank, and now she is concerned about them hooking up. It’s almost impossible, and Gerard still has that goddamn boundary he will never cross as long as he works with Frank, but there might be hope.

“Go,” Mrs Way says. “I think this conversation is over.”

Frank gladly retreats to the basement. Gerard is already waiting for him, sitting on the bed. He has found a chair and put his laptop on it, making an improvised cinema, if a YouTube video running in the background is anything to go by.

“How did it go?” he asks the moment Frank closes the door behind him.

“I think your mother just outed you.”

Gerard buries his face in hands and lets out a loud annoyed groan.

“It’s okay, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” Frank hurries to reassure him. “Unless you want me to, of course.”

“What exactly did she say?”

Frank lands on the bed next to Gerard, spontaneously reaches out and rests his hand on Gerard’s knee.

“She said that you like men,” he starts. “She didn’t use these exact words, but she heavily implied that you’re into guys, and then she told me to keep away from you if this ever comes up.”

Gerard lets out a short hysterical laugh. Frank can’t see his face but the noise he makes doesn’t sound good.

“Why can’t she leave me alone?” Gerard whines. “Why does she have to fuckin’ do that every time?”

“Dude, I’m—” Frank runs his fingers down Gerard’s knee. “I don’t know how to say it, but your mom can go fuck herself.”

He isn’t sure these are the best words he could come up with, but Gerard lets out a short giggle, and he seems to relax a bit, so maybe Frank made the right choice.

“And I’m not going anywhere, alright?” he continues. “I mean, seriously, I don’t care who you prefer to sleep with.”

Gerard sniffles.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “I— I really appreciate it.”

He quickly regains his composure, as if he wasn’t at the verge of tears mere seconds before.

“I have some movies,” he says. “Wanna watch something?”

“Depends on the movie,” Frank shrugs. “Is it on Netflix or something?”

Gerard shakes his head. “Netflix subscription? In this economy?” He offers Frank a proud smile. “I prefer sailing the seas.”

Frank gives him a light nudge.

“Now you’re speaking my language,” he grins. “Whatcha got?”

“Shitty horror movies, mostly,” Gerard replies. “From, like, the fifties or so.”

Frank nods. “Sold.”

He wants to turn his brain off for a few hours, and B-list horror movies from the fifties with their cheap special effects and atrocious writing seem like something that might do the trick.

Gerard puts the first movie on. It’s one of the million variations of “Frankenstein, but let’s set it in modern-day America and see what happens” plot that seemed to plague the Hollywood basements back in the fifties, it’s full of blatant exploitation, and the story makes little to no sense, but at least Frank doesn’t need to think. He rests his head on Gerard’s shoulder, and feels shivers run down his spine when Gerard pulls him closer.

“This is a fuckin’ disgrace,” Frank grumbles halfway through the movie.

“It’s not that bad,” Gerard shrugs. “I’ve seen worse.”

“I’m not about the movie.” Frank closes his eyes. “I always was Frankenstein’s monster on Halloween when I was a kid, and this crap gives me a bad name!”

“You were Frankenstein’s monster on Halloween?”

Frank hums. “Well, you know. Frank. Frankenstein. Birthday’s on Halloween, too, so if that’s not a sign I don’t know what is.”

“You were born on Halloween?”

Frank nods. “That’s why my life is a horror movie,” he chuckles. “No, seriously, I had a teacher once that thought I was literally the kid from The Omen and the Antichrist because of it.”

“People are weird,” Gerard grunts.

“It wasn’t that bad. I was doing most of the bullying anyway,” he shrugs. “Not proud of it, but that guy was an asshole.”

Gerard nods. He doesn’t say anything to it, and Frank worries that he somehow struck a nerve. But when the movie finally, after what feels like an eternity, reaches the third act Gerard says quietly:

“Frank, listen,” he sucks in a breath. “This is probably none of my business, and I’m sorry in advance, but have you ever thought about trying group counseling?”

Frank stares at him. He isn’t sure what Gerard is getting at, why would he mention this in the first place.

“You mean, like, Alcoholics Anonymous?” he lets out a nervous giggle. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“I thought about something closer to grief counseling,” Gerard clarifies. Frank doesn’t like the way he is looking at him, with way too much sympathy than Frank is comfortable with. “I know a center in Jersey City—”

“I’m not grieving,” Frank interrupts him. “Nobody died.”

“But you lost someone,” Gerard points out. “I’m not saying that you have to do it, but, dunno, it looks like you’re having a hard time processing what happened, and I know how badly this shit can fuck you over, and I thought that it might be good for you to give it a try, and—” he turns away, the tips of his ears turn bright red. “Sorry. None of my business.”

“I don’t need group counselling,” Frank grumbles. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t really look fine. No offence.”

“Is it because of yesterday?” Frank sighs. “It doesn’t happen every time. I know my limit, usually, I was just too fuckin’ stressed.”

“I’m not insisting,” Gerard says softly. “I’m just saying that if you feel that you need it, I know a place.”

“Because of your Grandma?”

He needs to learn how to shut the hell up. What he just said is even more invasive than Gerard’s offer, and he regrets saying it the moment the words escape his mouth.

Gerard shakes his head.

“Not because of Grandma.” There is a long awkward silence. “It’s because I’m an addict.”

Oh. Oh, crap.

“I’m sorry,” Frank forces out.

Gerard waves his hand. “It's fine. I mean, it’s the truth, right?” He smiles awkwardly. “I was drinking too much, and I was taking too many prescription meds since, like, high school. You know, the typical story: shitty family life, shitty social life, no friends, no girlfriend, or boyfriend, whatever, and your life sucks ass, and then one day you discover Xanax, and it turns out you could turn the world off any time you wanted.” Gerard shrugs. “So yeah. Been like that for years. And then I saw a guy overdose and die right in the walk-in, and kinda figured out I could be next, so,” he shrugs. “I just quit that shit in a week. And here I am.”

Frank is silent. He has no idea what to say to this — if he should say anything at all. This is too personal, and Frank has a certain suspicion he was never supposed to know about this part of Gerard’s life.

“Okay,” he clears his throat. “Okay, I think we should talk some things through,” he takes a deep breath. “I drink. And I smoke weed.”

Gerard nods, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, I know all that.”

“Okay, good,” Frank feels his face heat up. “If I do that in front of you—”

“It’s fine,” Gerard shrugs. “I can control myself.”

“Cool,” Frank croaks. “Because for a minute there I felt like an asshole for dragging you to the devil's sacrament.”

Gerard bursts out laughing. Frank lets out a confused giggle, not sure how he should react in the first place.

“It’s okay, seriously,” Gerard looks him in the eyes. “I can always leave if it becomes too much. And just so you know, I’m still smoking and swearing because if I quit I’m gonna become a saint, and trust me, you don’t want that.”

“Curb your ego,” Frank grumbles jokingly.

Gerard leans closer to him. For a moment Frank thinks he wants to say something but Gerard just stares at him, and his lips are so close to Frank’s they might kiss at any moment. Frank doesn’t move. Moving will just ruin this moment of strange closeness they have, and Frank needs to get the most out of it while he can. Gerard is never going to kiss him for real, but Frank is going to enjoy this not-quite-kiss for as long as it lasts.

Gerard turns away. The moment has passed, and Frank needs to look away too, because if he doesn’t he might do something he is going to regret.

“Wanna watch something else?” Gerard offers. “I have a movie about cannibal vampires from outer space, it fucking sucks.”

Frank nods. “Sounds fun,” he mumbles.

He hates himself for letting hope get the best of him. Like Gerard is ever going to see him as anything more than a friend. Mrs Way was wrong in her worries.

Frank doesn't pay much attention to the movie; he laughs when Gerard does, and he makes some off-hand comments about special effects when they become so ridiculous it's impossible to ignore, but other than that he keeps quiet. Mikey shows up at some point, bringing popcorn and Coke, and they try to watch another movie together as Frank is starting to drift off. He does his best to keep his eyes open, and yet every time he blinks it seems like a minute or more passes, until he opens his eyes only to see that the lights are off and the blanket is pinning him to the bed.

Frank tries to sit up. Someone's hand gently presses on his shoulder, making him lie back down.

“It's okay, sugar,” he hears Gerard whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

Frank’s brain barely registers what Gerard called him. His mind must be playing tricks on him, because there is no way Gerard would call him ‘sugar’ in the waking world.

***

The first thing Frank feels when he wakes up is someone’s body pressed against his. This makes him open his eyes instantly, his breath stuck in his throat. He is still in Gerard’s bed, his legs tangled in the blanket, and he can barely remember going to sleep the night before. Gerard is lying on his back next to him, already wide awake, staring at the ceiling. It’s nigh impossible to tell what he is thinking about but, judging by his slightly furrowed eyebrows, it must be serious.

“Hey,” Frank murmurs as he tries to sit up.

Gerard tilts his head slightly.

“Hey,” he replies, his voice raspy and hoarse. “Slept well?”

Frank nods and rubs his face, trying to wake himself up.

“Did you call me sugar last night?” he blurts out.

The corner of Gerard’s lips twitches. 

“You remember that,” he whispers.

Frank shrugs. “Kinda. Not sure it wasn’t a dream.”

Gerard lets out a humourless laugh. For a few moments they stare at each other, until Gerard gathers enough courage to break the silence.

“We should talk.”

Frank groans: “Can it wait? I don’t think I’m ready for a serious talk.”

“It can’t.”

Gerard sits up, his fingers gently wrap around Frank’s wrist, sending shivers through his entire body.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, and Frank feels a pit open in his stomach. “And… Frank, I really need you to listen to what I’m about to say, because it’s important, and— and I don’t want any misunderstandings, and I swear I didn’t want it to come to this but I just can’t carry on like this anymore.”

Frank braces himself. Some part of him already knows what he is about to hear, and still Gerard’s words feel like a knife to the chest when they finally come.

“I think I should quit.”

Chapter Text

“You think you should quit.”

Frank can't believe what he just heard. Not after the almost-intimacy they had last night, not after Gerard was so open with him Frank could mistake it for trust. He should have known. He should have realised from the start that it meant nothing. Everybody always leaves him anyway, he never should have let himself be so weak and vulnerable.

Gerard winces. ¨Frank, please, let me explain—”

“Oh, you want to explain,” Frank scoffs. “What is there to explain, huh?”

‘Please, just listen to me.”

And Frank probably should. There still might be something Gerard has to say that could change everything, he might have a reason why he believes he should quit, and for some reason Frank is too scared of this possibility to think straight. What truly matters is that Gerard wants to leave him. They've known each other for just a few months, and Gerard has only just started to open up to him, and now he wants to leave.

“You’re leaving me,” Frank states, and his voice trembles at the last word. “You're fuckin’ leaving me.”

“I don't want to!” Gerard exclaims. “Frank, please—”

“Then why do you want to quit?!”

“Because…”

Gerard sways, and his hesitation speaks louder than any words.

He knows. He knows Frank has feelings for him, and now he wants to leave because he has that stupid rule, and he doesn’t love Frank, and of course he would choose to leave. It’s all over his résumé anyway, the pattern of avoiding everything and everyone. Frank should have noticed it sooner.

“I see,” Frank says bitterly. “You know what? Fuck you, Gerard.”

Gerard looks like he was slapped. He tries to reach out but Frank pushes his hand away and scatters out of the bed. Gerard doesn't move, frozen in place, his hair covering most of his face. This sight almost makes Frank stop.

This is probably what Mikey meant when he warned him about Gerard’s tactics to get what he wants: to pretend to be small and weak to make people feel sorry for him. It's not going to work on Frank, not anymore. Gerard can't even explain why he wants to leave — and this reminds Frank of his father, leaving without a warning, with no proper explanation, and he can't handle it. He just can't.

Frank is out of the door before Gerard can find his voice again. How could he be so naive to think Gerard would want him. How could he let himself think he could have a chance.

Mikey catches up with him at the front porch.

“What the hell happened?” is the first thing he asks.

Frank pushes him away. Not too hard, Mikey manages to keep his balance, and the push only makes him take a few steps back.

“Dude, the fuck?!”

“Tell your brother to stay the fuck away from me,” Frank growls.

“Can you just explain what’s going on?!”

Someone is watching them from the house across the street, and Frank can’t do it in public. Some cruel part of him wants the whole world to know what has been done to him, how Gerard broke his heart, but he still has some dignity left in him, for better or for worse.

Frank tilts his head.

“Go ask Gerard,” he spits out.

This is all he is going to say. Mikey seems to understand that: he purses his lips, grumbles something under his breath before going back inside, slamming the door in Frank’s face.

Mikey knew. Of course he knew everything from the start, Gerard must have shared his plans with him. And he didn't even think about warning Frank, the traitor. This isn't fair. This just isn't fair.

He walks home. It takes him a full hour and then some, and he regrets not taking the bus because that way he wouldn’t be stuck with his own thoughts for company. He doesn’t have his headphones to drown out the world, and he is sure he has lost his phone at the gig, so all he has is himself.

The restaurant is closed, and it takes Frank a few moments to remember that it’s Monday. Of course nobody would show up.

He hates it. He hates that nobody is ever around when he needs them the most. But maybe this is just what he is: always alone, always left behind, rejected, useless. Unloved.

He wants to smash something. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs to make the world finally notice him, listen to him. It’s not going to work anyway: there is nobody around to hear him, nobody is going to come. He doesn’t even have his phone to call someone and cry to them for a few hours straight.

Frank notices the mixtape Gerard made for him lying next to the Hi-Fi system. He listened to it what feels like a hundred times, he knows every song by heart now. It was his most favourite CD in his collection. Now all he wants is to smash the case against the wall, to destroy any evidence of Gerard’s existence.

He never does it. Instead Frank finds the box he uses as a dumpster for things that bring too many painful memories but he can’t throw out just yet. It’s full of old photos, from the times when his parents were still together; his Grandpa’s notebook with recipes, completely useless now; his father’s cigarettes that he forgot to take with him (he and Frank used to smoke the same brand; Frank switched shortly after his father left); tickets to Pearl Jam concert — his last date with his second boyfriend followed by a messy breakup. A long line of memories about people Frank has lost, all kept in a single box now.

Frank hides the mixtape at the bottom of the box. He can’t look at it right now, not even sure he will ever be able to listen to any of the songs on it again.

He spends the rest of the day trying to distract himself, but no matter what he does, he seems to return to the events of this morning time and time again. At some point he turns the TV on only to discover another rerun of Kitchen Nightmares, and this makes him properly break down. He doesn’t understand why, doesn’t have time to figure out what’s going on, but the dam breaks, and Frank finds himself sobbing as Gordon Ramsay tries to save yet another messy restaurant.

He cries himself to sleep that night.

On Tuesday Frank gets out of bed to relieve himself and then immediately hides under the covers again. He can’t confront the outside world right now. He drifts in and out of sleep, drags himself to the kitchen at some point to get a glass of water and goes back to bed. He is a mess, he is absolutely disgusting and he knows it, but he doesn’t have the strength to deal with it right now.

Ray comes in the evening to bring Frank’s phone that Dewees found after the gig. He tries talking to Frank, tries to get him out of bed, but all Frank can do is sit up and listen to Ray slowly lose his mind as he is trying to get a single word out of him.

“Is it Gerard?” Ray asks finally. “Did something happen?”

Frank chokes down a sob and nods. Ray seems to understand.

“Do you want me to call him?” he asks.

“No,” Frank rasps. “Don’t.”

Those are the only words he says for the entire day.

Ray stays with him until he makes sure Frank isn’t about to do anything stupid, and for that Frank is grateful. At least he still has Ray by his side.

On Wednesday Frank finally makes himself get up and take a shower. He has to get his shit together sooner or later, and it’s better to start now, before it gets worse than it already is. He even manages to make himself breakfast.

Ray comes to check on him in the afternoon, and he seems to be relieved when he sees that Frank isn’t hiding in his bed anymore. Frank still refuses to explain what exactly happened between him and Gerard, mostly because now that his anger is gone he has finally realised how much of an idiot he really was. He should have let Gerard explain. He should have listened instead of letting his personal pain get the best of him.

At least Ray doesn’t try to get everything out of him. He probably knows something already, either from Mikey or from Gerard himself. Frank doesn’t think he wants to find out.

On Thursday Frank goes back to work. It’s Dewees and Geoff’s shift, and they don't look too surprised to see Frank in the kitchen when they get there. Geoff offers him a pat on the back, Dewees offers to smoke a blunt together after the shift, which Frank declines. All he wants right now is something to occupy himself with and to be left alone. The guys seem to understand: they keep their distance, shush Anthony out of the kitchen when he comes to check on Frank, and otherwise pretend to act like they aren't too worried about Frank’s state. They aren't doing a great job of it, but Frank appreciates the effort. Would have been much worse if they were trying to cheer him up.

He needs some time to get over it. Maybe a month or so, but it should get better, one way or another. And besides, he still has a job to do and bills to pay, he can't spend all this time playing a hermit.

The main problem is, Frank can’t concentrate on work no matter how hard he tries. Everything he touches falls apart, he burns the crust more often than not, he starts mixing up orders — something that never happened before, — and he can feel that the guys are getting progressively worried about his state of mind. Geoff approaches him after lunch, offering to cover up for him for the next few days, but all Frank does is shake his head. He needs to work. If he doesn’t, he’ll be left alone with his thoughts until he drowns.

He burns his right palm when he takes another pizza out of the oven. The burn is large and nasty-looking, and Frank can barely use his right hand after he rubs the ointment in and bandages it. He can’t bring himself to care.

Friday comes and goes. Frank downs two sleeping pills right after he comes home from his shift and briefly wonders if he will have a chance of survival if he has a beer but eventually decides against it. He spends the night trapped in a heavy, anxiety-inducing sleep, but at least he manages to sleep.

Saturday is the worst. It’s baseball night, which means that people are going to watch the game at home, which, in turn, means that the restaurant is drowning in takeaway orders. Frank is quick to figure out that he is in no shape to keep up with the rush. He’s still trying his best, but no matter what he tries it feels like he is only making things worse. The situation improves only when Ray comes to the rescue and all but kicks Frank out of the kitchen and tells him to take the rest of the day off. And Frank knows Ray has the best intentions in mind, but the only thing it achieves is to make him feel useless.

Frank spends the rest of the day in bed, staring at the wall. Someone comes to check on him in the evening, but Frank barely reacts to their presence, stuck in his thoughts.

He tries to shove all his memories of Gerard in the deepest corner of his mind. It’s better to pretend they never met, that none of this — the trip to New York, the goddamn mixtape, the inevitable heartbreak — was real in the first place.

At least this way it doesn’t hurt so much.

***

“Hey, Frank.”

Geoff’s voice is surprisingly gentle. Frank didn’t even hear him approach, too busy trying to concentrate at spreading tomato sauce on the dough. It isn’t easy when he feels like breaking down at any minute, but if he tries hard enough he can almost forget why he is the way he is now.

“What?” Frank replies without taking his eyes off the sauce.

“Do we have any mushrooms left?” Geoff asks. “I think I’m gonna run out of prepped ones soon.”

Frank shrugs. “Go check the walk-in, then.”

“I’m kinda in the middle of something,” Geoff argues. “Could you do it real quick?”

Frank sighs. Geoff isn’t really in the middle of something: the day has been slow so far, and the only reason Geoff can’t take one minute to check the walk-in is because he doesn’t feel like doing it and Frank just turned out to be the one closest to him.

“Alright, fine,” he grumbles.

Frank thinks he notices a familiar lanky figure on his way to the walk-in but it must be his mind playing tricks on him. Mikey hasn’t showed up ever since that Monday morning, didn’t even text him once, and Frank took it as a sign that their friendship has come to an abrupt end. He should have expected that, really: Gerard must have told Mikey his side of the story, and Mikey, of course, chose his brother’s side. None of this would have happened if Frank wasn’t so goddamn stupid.

The mushrooms are stored in the furthest corner of the walk-in. Frank is fairly sure this isn’t where they are supposed to be: he made pretty clear instructions not to put them anywhere near meat, so someone must have mixed things up. Good thing they don’t have a health inspection coming in, or he would have gotten into so much trouble over cross-contamination.

Frank takes the container out. If he is about to waste his time on checking the supplies for Geoff, he might as well put the mushrooms where they belong.

Something crashes behind his back, someone yells, and Frank turns around just in time to see somebody being unceremoniously shoved into the walk-in seconds before the door slams behind their back. It takes Frank a few seconds, but when he realises who is standing right in front of him he wants to scream.

It’s Gerard, in the flesh, wearing his stupid brown flannel shirt over a band T-shirt — Frank doesn’t get to see the logo before Gerard turns around without as much as sparing him a glance and starts banging on the door.

“Let me out!” He frantically tries the handle but the door doesn’t bulge. “Mikey, this isn’t fuckin’ funny, man!”

“You two need to sort your shit out first!” Mikey shouts from the outside.

Frank puts the mushroom container on the floor. Only now he realises the gravity of the situation: he is stuck in a fridge, with Gerard, and, as if it wasn't horrifying enough, he hears something being moved to the fridge door to effectively seal them in.

“Okay,” Frank breathes out. “Okay, what the fuck?!”

Gerard gives the door a couple more desperate punches before he gives up on the attempt to get out and slides down on the floor, pulling his knees close to his chest. He doesn’t look at Frank, barely even acknowledges his presence, and flinches when Frank takes a step closer.

“Well, this sucks,” Frank grumbles.

He knows he should be scared, or furious, or maybe both: he is fairly sure this wasn’t just Mikey’s idea, it was definitely a collective effort, and Frank just let himself be fooled like a complete idiot. The only good part is, he isn’t going to be stuck in here for too long. Everyone knows where they are, they wouldn’t just let them both freeze to death to prove a point.

But what if they do? What if everyone forgets about them and goes home, and Frank and Gerard will be stuck in the walk-in for the night, slowly suffocating and freezing? Even if they have enough oxygen to last them through the night, hypothermia is going to get them both long before morning.

Frank takes a deep breath. This might be one of the dumbest attempts at bringing people back together if Frank has ever seen one, but the guys are not cruel. And even if they somehow manage to forget they had two people locked in the walk-in, Gerard must have his phone with him, they could always call emergency services and get rescued. Nobody is going to die.

Frank sits down on the floor next to Gerard. It takes every ounce of strength not to huddle closer to him pretending he’s trying to save the warmth.

“Hey,” he mutters, not sure what to say.

“Hey,” Gerard echoes and wraps his arms over himself. He is already shivering, and Frank has to restrain himself from reaching out and hugging Gerard to keep him warm.

They sit in silence. Frank tries to listen into the sounds outside, to figure out what’s going on, but all he hears is the usual noise of the kitchen. Everything is fine. He isn’t needed out there.

“They’re gonna let us out soon,” he tries to cheer Gerard up.

All he gets in response is a tiny shrug and a noncommittal hum, and this reaction breaks his heart a little.

They used to be so close. They could have still been friends, and they never would have been stuck in the walk-in with the invisible wall dividing them. But of course nothing in his life is that easy, and of course Frank had to fuck everything up.

“I’m sorry.”

He needed to say it anyway. Might as well just do it, and even if Gerard isn't going to accept his apology, at least Frank tried to do something to fix what he had broken instead of spending all this time wallowing in misery and guilt.

Gerard sighs and presses the back of his head against the door.

“You don't need to play Mikey’s stupid games, you know,” he grumbles.

“No. I mean it: I’m sorry.”  Frank tries to hide the way his voice trembles. “I jumped to conclusions, I didn’t let you explain what you meant, and I should have listened. I was an asshole. I’m sorry for that.”

Gerard shakes his head slightly. He still refuses to look at Frank.

“Whatever,” he breathes out. “What's done is done.”

The lights flicker above their heads. Frank tries not to pay attention to it; at least if the power goes down they won't be freezing anymore. Hopefully.

“I—” he stumbles upon his words. “Okay, it's gonna sound really fuckin’ melodramatic right now, but I—” Well, here goes nothing. “I don't want you to leave. And I guess that's why I reacted the way I did, and I know it's not an excuse, so if you don't want anything to do with me, I understand. I do,” he takes a deep breath. “And I should have apologised sooner, but I guess I’m just too much of a fuckin’ coward.”

And then he says something he never thought he would confess to Gerard.

“And I like you. Really like you.”

For the first time in what felt like eternity Gerard looks at him.

“You pretty much told me to eat shit and die not so long ago,” he says bitterly.

“I didn't say any of that.”

“But you implied it.”

“I didn't!” Frank protests. “I— Gerard, I’m in love with you.”

The words escape his mouth before he has the time to think. He never should have said that. He should learn to keep his mouth shut for once instead of ruining everything every time he allows himself to speak. Taking up a vow of silence might work. This way he won't be able to destroy anything else in his life.

Gerard doesn't reply. He doesn't take his eyes off Frank either, almost as if he can't believe what he just heard.

“I don't need you to feel the same,” Frank continues hurriedly, trying to save the already hopeless situation. “I mean, I know about the “No Fucking Your Coworkers” rule, and I respect that, and I’m not gonna force you to do anything you don't want to do, and if you want to stay friends, it's okay, just,” his voice breaks, “just please don't leave me.”

He hates how needy and desperate he sounds.

“Frank—”

“And I know I hurt you. And I’m so fucking sorry, you can't even imagine, and I know that ‘sorry’ doesn't fix it—”

“Frank.”

“—but all I’m asking for is one more chance. Just one. And I fuck it up, then okay, I deserve whatever you decide to—”

“Frank, stop it!”

Gerard buries his face in his hands. Frank watches him take a few deep breaths before continuing quietly:

“Frank. This is so fucked up,” he lets out a nervous laugh. “This is—” He raises his head. “You're in love with me.”

Frank nods slowly. This isn't the reaction he expected to see, and at this point he isn't sure what to think.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” is all that Gerard says. “God.” Another stuffed nervous giggle. “I’m so goddamn stupid.”

And here it comes. Gerard has finally connected the dots, and he is definitely going to hate Frank now, because what kind of person would proclaim their love for him just a few days after telling him to go fuck himself?

Gerard touches his hand.

Gerard touches his hand, and for a moment Frank’s heart stops beating.

“Do you wanna know why I wanted to quit?”

Frank gulps. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Because it was getting out of control.” Gerard sucks in a sharp breath. “When I first realised what was going on, I thought: well, not the first time it happened, I can deal with it. But it was just getting worse. And then, when you kissed me, I thought— I thought that maybe I still had a chance.” He shrugs. “Then I thought I misunderstood it all. And after that I figured that maybe you're not okay with it because we're working together, too, and maybe it’d be better if I quit.”

Frank shakes his head. “I don't get it,” he rasps. “I still don't fuckin’ get it.”

Gerard leans closer to him, his long hair brush against Frank’s cheek. Frank feels his breath on his skin, so hot in the coolness of the surrounding air, and spontaneously he closes his eyes, trying to savour this moment.

In the next second, before Frank has even a fraction of a moment to realise it, Gerard's lips gently press against his. Frank answers to the kiss without hesitation, too deep in the feeling to understand what is going on, what they're doing right now. Gerard’s arms slide around him, pulling him closer, and Frank leans into the touch, forgetting to breathe, forgetting that they're still stuck in the walk-in and they might both get frostbite if they stay inside any longer.

Gerard is the first one to break the kiss.

“Do you get it now?” he murmurs.

And oh, Frank does. It all makes sense now, all the not-so-accidental touches and quickly stolen glances, and their trip to New York, and the mixtape — so obvious now that Frank knows what Gerard really wanted to say with it, he actually feels like an idiot.

“Jesus fuck,” he groans. “I can't fuckin’ believe it.”

Gerard grins. “You dumbass,” he whispers lovingly. “You absolute dumbass.”

Frank grabs him by the collar.

“C’mere,” he growls before hungrily kissing Gerard again.

Neither of them notices it when the improvised barricade outside is starting to be moved away, and they only break the kiss when they hear Ray’s frantic voice coming from behind the door.

“Are you out of your fucking minds, people?!”

The door swings open, and Ray appears in the doorway, clearly terrified of his mind at the possibility of finding two half-dead bodies in the walk-in. He stares at Gerard and Frank with wide eyes, and Frank knows what it looks like: they are still holding each other close in a very intimate manner, and it should be obvious to anyone they weren’t just huddling for warmth.

“Okay,” Ray clears his throat. “Okay, holy fuck.”

Mikey appears behind his back with a smug look on his face and a phone in hand.

“Took you two long enough,” he grumbles light-heartedly before snapping a picture.

“Mikey, don’t you dare!” Gerard growls and launches himself on his brother only to stumble and land back on the floor face first.

Dewees shouts from his station: “Did they figure it out?”

“I think so,” Ray mutters.

Gerard finally manages to get up on his feet, and the first thing he does is try to chase Mikey, who bolts to the back door, ignoring the potential danger of heated up ovens.

“Give it to me!” Gerard shouts. “Give me your fuckin’ phone!”

Frank exchanges surprised looks with Ray.

“What’s the deal with that?” he asks.

Ray shrugs. “No idea. You good?”

Frank nods and stands up. He is still cold, and walking out to the hot kitchen feels like getting straight to hell, and he is sure he’s going to wake up with a cold tomorrow morning. Ray seems to be of the same opinion as he passes Frank a mug filled to the brim with tea.

“Drink up,” he orders.

Frank obediently takes a sip. He isn’t sure how he should feel now, when his wild, nigh impossible dream has come true. He still has a heavy feeling in his stomach, like he has forgotten something important, and Frank tries to push it away. What matters now is that Gerard loves him back, loved him all along, and he was so stupid and self-absorbed he didn’t even notice once. He can’t tell if he’s happy or angry with himself.

Gerard triumphantly returns to the kitchen with Mikey following him, surprisingly relaxed in the face of Gerard’s potential wrath.

“I can’t fuckin’ believe you did that,” Gerard grumbles. “Why the fuck does Pete Wentz need to know?!”

“Who’s Pete Wentz?” Frank asks innocently.

Gerard waves his hand. “Mikey’s online friend,” he explains. “Who apparently knows everything about my personal life.” He shoots his brother a murderous glance.

“He’s not a friend, he’s my boyfriend,” Mikey corrects him nonchalantly.

“You’ve never seen him in your life!”

“He sent me his photos, I know what he looks like.”

Gerard rolls his eyes. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

“Hey, I’m not judging your choice of boyfriends!” And then he adds somewhat apologetically. “No offence, Frank.”

Frank shrugs. “None taken.”

He knows he messed up. He knows it’s a miracle that Gerard decided to give him a second chance, even if it was a result of being trapped in a small space together. He didn’t have to do that, didn’t have to explain anything to Frank after he refused to listen to him the first time, and the shadow of the words Frank said that morning are going to linger above them for a long time, if not forever.

He has to get everything right this time. He can’t mess it all up again.

Gerard wraps his arm around Frank’s waist.

“What’re you thinking about?” he whispers to his ear.

Frank shakes his head. “Nothing,” he whispers back, and then adds: “Kiss me.”

Gerard is only happy to oblige.

“Oh, hell no,” Geoff groans loud enough to make Gerard flinch and break the kiss. “Nope. No. Absolutely fucking not.” He points at the door leading to the locker room. “You two wanna be disgusting, do it somewhere else, for fuck’s sake!”

Frank rolls his eyes. “You’re no fun.”

“I don’t want your bodily fluids on my goddamn pizza!”

“Agreed,” Ray chirps. “New rule: no making out anywhere near the food.”

And well, Frank can see the point. It still feels so weird, that Gerard is with him in more ways than one, and they still have a lot to figure out, but Frank has a feeling that everything is about to get better now. There can’t be any other way.

Chapter Text

Gerard comes back to work, and only now Frank realises how lonely it used to be without him. He doesn’t want to be separated from Gerard ever again, and it should be really worrying, the way he finds it hard to spend time away from him. And, granted, Gerard seems to feel the same, or at least he understands how hard Frank takes any kind of separation.

They're spending almost every minute together now. Frank can barely wait for the moment when Gerard shows up for work, and they spend all their smoke breaks together, and every lunch break is spent at Frank’s office. They never cross the line — they both know all too well that the guys will never let them live it down if one of them walks in in the middle of the makeout session. It’s not that much of a problem anyway; they have the evenings reserved for more intimate moments.

This will pass soon, Frank knows. The novelty is going to wear off soon, and they’ll both become more reserved in the demonstration of their love for each other. Frank is determined to make the most out of it while he can.

And the thing is, Gerard is blooming. It’s extremely hard to miss how he is coming out of his shell, and he looks so much happier, and Frank notices that he and Geoff are getting along much better than in the first weeks. It’s almost as if Gerard finally feels like he belongs here.

“You two need to tone it down,” Ray grumbles.

Frank knows he’s right. He is getting slower, and he is distracted more often than not, and while it doesn't lead to anything serious — Frank is a goddamn professional, he can work while making eyes at his boyfriend — it’s only a matter of time until he messes up badly enough for everyone to notice.

“Come on, man, let me have it,” he says, and Ray only lets out a deep sigh and drops the subject.

And, of course, there is the sword of Damocles looming over him in the face of the debt to the mob. Ray claims they accepted the money without any questions, but Frank has a fleeing suspicion they weren't exactly pleased.

And then, of course, the mob shows up again.

Frank is mentally prepared for this encounter. He has been waiting for this visit, gathered as much money as he could possibly spare, even if it meant he would have to live off the cheapest instant noodles and whatever he could pick up at the restaurant for the rest of the month.

He is still scared to death. He tries not to show it, but it still must be obvious to everyone. As the mob representative counts the money — the pathetic three and a half thousand dollars — Frank braces himself for the inevitable.

It’s still a punch to the gut when the mobster finally says:

“This isn't enough.”

“It's fifty percent,” Frank replies.

“It's still not enough,” the man gives him an intimidating look. “Do you want to pay it off or not?”

Frank wants to fight back, wants to tell him that he is doing his best in an industry that doesn't bring much profit anyway, and if he could give more he would. He also knows it's useless. At best he will be ignored, at worst he’ll get a beating and probably will lose a finger as a punishment for standing up to himself.

“I do,” he says quietly. “I’ll do my best.”

This seems to work for a few days. Not long enough for Frank, though: he is almost certain now that these people are about to do something horrible.

And then trouble comes when Frank least expects it.

He knows he’s done for when Mikey comes from his smoke break and says in a low voice:

“Those guys are back.”

It hasn't been two weeks yet. It hasn't even been a full week, so if they're back it can mean only one thing: they want blood.

Frank doesn't recognise the man waiting for him outside. At first he thinks that they just sent whoever was available, but the man ruins all hopes for negotiations almost immediately.

“You have until September.”

Frank frowns. “This isn't what we agreed on.”

The man clicks his tongue.

“New management, kid,” he says. “We’re doing things differently now.”

“And if I don't pay it by September?” Frank spits out before he realises his mistake. “I mean, we had an agreement that I’ll hand it over to you if I can't pay, and I wanted to know—”

“No changes there,” the man replies grimly. “You don't give us the money by then and it's ours.”

Something is telling Frank this isn't all that easy. He won't get away with just losing the restaurant and his only home, these people might want to make him an example.

He manages not to break down immediately. The guys don't have to know how deep in shit he is now, and especially that he has absolutely zero chances to get out of this mess.

Gerard still notices that something is wrong. He tries asking, does his best to get something out of him, but Frank doesn't bulge. He’ll tell Gerard later. When he's ready. After he calls his father.

He tries calling again. It brings the same result as always: radio silence on the other end and a voicemail message, only this time Frank leaves a laconic: “I fucking hate you, you fuck” and leaves it at that. He can't do anything else, can’t go across the country to look for his father and leave the guys to deal with the restaurant — he’s not putting them on the line. He still has some decency left.

Gerard stays with him for the night. He’s still concerned about everything going on with Frank, even if he still can't get anything out of him.

There is also something bothering him. Frank can tell just by the way he’s fidgeting, and when they settle on the couch to cuddle he looks nervous and somewhat distant. His fingers trace the tattoos on Frank’s arms — something Gerard has been doing every time they get a moment alone, and it feels like he is trying to memorise them all. Frank can sense something coming. Something he obviously won't be happy about.

“I think we should talk.”

Frank braces himself. Gerard seems to sense it: he pulls Frank closer, his left arm wrapped around his waist as Frank rests his head on Gerard’s shoulder. It’s serious, that much Frank can tell, and for some reason it scares the hell out of him.

“I’ve been thinking about our dynamic lately,” Gerard continues. “I don’t mean you and me, I mean, well, everything. And I think I’m being a distraction.”

Instinctively Frank grabs Gerard's knee.

“You’re not a distraction,” he protests. “Why would you even think that?”

“Because there was a certain work dynamic,” Gerard tries to explain. “And it was okay. It was fine. But now I feel like I can’t focus on doing my job, and I’m distracting you, too.” He sighs. “And I feel like I need to make a choice between you and this job.”

“You don't have to,” Frank whispers.

Gerard can't do this to him. Not when he finally got something good in his miserable life.

Gerard shakes his head.

“I do, Frank. I’m sorry, but,” he shakes his head, “I can’t let you ruin your restaurant just because I got selfish.”

“You’re not selfish,” Frank protests. “So what if we’re dating and working together? People do that all the time, it’s okay! You don’t have to lose your job because of it.”

“We’re slowing everyone down,” Gerard argues. “You know it’s true.”

And as much as Frank hates to admit it Gerard is right: they have been spending more time in Frank’s office or in the locker room than actually working, and while it hasn’t been that much of an issue yet (Frank is sure that the only reason the guys don’t complain is because they believe that they will calm down soon) they did leave the rest of the team to deal with everything on their own. And Frank knows this isn’t fair, knows that he shouldn’t give any preferences neither to himself nor Gerard just because they’re dating now. But…

“We only see each other at work,” Frank says. “What’s the point of dating if we don’t even see each other outside of work?”

Gerard doesn’t have an answer. He purses his lips and turns away, his long hair curtains his face.

“We could figure something out,” he says quietly. We could…”

He falls silent. Frank huddles closer to him. Gerard isn’t going to leave him, he tries to convince himself. He isn’t going to leave just because they struggle finding the balance between work and personal life, not when they only just got together.

“A friend of mine texted me recently,” Gerard says. “Asked me if I was looking for a job, said there was a position about to open in a few weeks at his old place.”

Frank does his best to keep it together. It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. Unless Gerard says he agreed it doesn’t mean anything.

“I said I’m gonna think about it,” Gerard continues. “It was before we… got together, so I haven't given him an answer yet, but think that it might be for the best if we try to keep our work life and our personal life separate for now.”

“Gee…”

“No, wait,” Gerard takes a deep breath. “Frank, I love you. You have no idea how much I love you,” a tiny smile appears on his lips. “And I really want it to work out, I swear, I— I’m so fucking glad I met you.”

“Then why do you want to leave?” Frank whispers.

“Because this happened before.” There is a hint of sadness in his voice. “More than once, actually. And it always ends up a mess, in my experience, and I don’t want this, what we have now, to fall apart too.”

“It worked just fine!” Frank argues. “Come on, your own fucking brother works here, and we’re all friends outside of work, why should this be any different?”

“Because it is,” Gerard presses. “Because you’re still my fucking boss, and—”

“I could make you a co-owner, if you want. Co-boss, whatever.”

He knows it's a bad idea, that he will only drag Gerard down with him, but he is too desperate to think clearly.

Gerard lets out a short laugh.

“Come on, you can’t be serious.”

“I am serious!”

Gerard shakes his head. “Frankie, come on. It’s literally giving me a promotion for sex.”

“It’s my restaurant, I don’t give a fuck.”

“I do,” Gerard says firmly. “I give a fuck.”

“And you’re going to leave,” Frank says bitterly. “How do you even imagine that? I’m at work all the time, you’ll be at work all the time, we won’t have the time to see each other!”

Gerard sighs. “That’s why I wanted to talk about it. I have no clue how to make it work. Thought you might have an idea.”

Frank might have an idea. It’s stupid, and it’s naive, and they’re obviously not ready to discuss it properly at this stage of their relationship, but it’s either that or risking losing Gerard. And Frank has already lost too much in his life, he can’t go through this again.

“You could move in with me,” he offers.

Gerard gapes at him.

“You’re not—”

“I mean it,” Frank interrupts him. “You could move in with me, and then you could get that other job, and we won’t have to worry that much about keeping it all balanced that way.”

“But Mikey—”

“Fuck Mikey! He’s not part of this, his opinion doesn’t count.”

Gerard gives him a judgemental look. “I need to get him away from that fucked-up family,” he says. “They’ve done enough damage already, and I failed him when I left, I don’t wanna fail him again.”

“He’s been fine on his own,” Frank grumbles.

Gerard shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly. “He hasn’t been fine.”

Frank wants to ask how he would know if he wasn't around for years but immediately stops himself. It's still a touchy subject for both brothers, he definitely shouldn't use it to drive the point further.

He is also painfully aware now that even though he’s known Mikey for years he has very little idea of what exactly he has been going through when they first met. He knows that Mikey is troubled (this is literally what his father said after the first night Mikey spent at their couch: “This kid is trouble”), figured out quickly enough that most of it comes from the family. Mikey never complained. He would use vague words, say things like “they’re at it again” or “fucking family, man”, but give very little actual information on what has been going on all these years. All he knows is that it’s bad, and toxic, and Mikey is using every opportunity to escape it be it a minimum wage job or starting his morning with a blunt.

Frank is a terrible friend, isn't he?

“Ask him,” Frank suggests. “He can always have the couch, if he wants.”

Gerard still has doubts, Frank can see it clearly enough. Still, he just sighs and says:

“Okay. I’ll talk to him.”

There is something else Frank feels like he needs to know. He isn't sure it's a good idea to ask now, but he is going to hate himself if doesn't try.

“What’s that guy offering anyway?”

Gerard bites his lower lip.

“Eight hours five days a week,” he starts. “From three to eleven, days off are on Mondays and Tuesdays,” he offers Frank a tiny smile. They can have a day for themselves. It doesn't sound that bad anymore. “And it's in New York.”

It takes a moment for Frank to realise what Gerard just said.

“Wait. New York?”

Gerard nods.

“The salary is higher,” he says somewhat apologetically. “I mean, I’ll probably spend the difference on gas, but—”

“You can’t seriously go back to New York!”

“I’m not leaving,” Gerard says firmly. “I haven't accepted it yet, remember?”

“But you’re going to.”

Gerard sighs.

“I think it would be better for our relationship in the long run, yes.” He gently rubs Frank’s shoulder. “Come on, let's just give it a try. If it doesn't work we’ll think of something else.”

Frank blocks out the voice screaming at him to not let Gerard take this job under any circumstances and tries to think clearly. If they try this plan they’ll both have a Monday off, and Gerard will also be free on Tuesdays, which, if he agrees to move in with Frank, will allow them plenty of time for themselves. The commute is the main problem: it’s going to take what, at least an hour to get back after the shift? So no more evenings spent together, and, if Gerard decides to stay at his parents’ house, they will only see each other once or twice a week, which is obviously not enough, especially since Frank has gotten used to Gerard constantly being around.

Maybe this is what Gerard was talking about. Maybe what he really wants is some room to breathe, and all Frank does is smother him, and Gerard has no idea how to say it.

“Okay,” he breathes out. “Call your guy, then. I’ll talk to Mikey.”

***

All Mikey says is: “Good, take him, he’s annoying.”

He means it as a joke. Frank understands that it’s not supposed to be offensive, that it’s the usual brotherly bickering, but some part of him is still worried about Gerard and his feelings. It doesn’t take a genius to see how much Gerard is concerned about Mikey’s current state, no matter how many times Mikey has to say that he’ll be okay on his own.

But at least it’s settled. Over the course of the next few days Gerard’s boxes slowly migrate to Frank’s apartment. It takes some time to figure out how to fit all the new stuff in the surprisingly small space, and Gerard obviously got too used to keeping all his belongings stored in cardboard boxes save for basic things for everyday needs, and unpacking to him is as close to a torture as it can get.

They figure it out eventually. Gerard isn’t about to go to work in about a week and a half, so they try to make the best out of it. ‘The best’ consists of Gerard staying home and occasionally popping up at the kitchen during Frank’s break to bring him lunch and steal a few kisses while nobody is looking. And Frank is afraid he is about to get spoiled by his boyfriend’s constant attention: Gerard is clearly doing his best to compensate for all the time they’re about to spend apart and throws himself into the new role. And Frank, oh so selfishly, takes everything Gerard has to give.

“I’m not sure if I like that Pete guy,” Gerard confesses one day during dinner. “I mean, Mikey is obviously happy, and I’m glad he has someone, but,” he winces. “Dunno.”

“Where’s this Pete from anyway?” Frank asks before shoving a fork full of pasta into his mouth.

Gerard shrugs. “Mikey says Chicago.”

“Not that far then,” Frank tries to cheer him up. “He could be from Australia.”

Gerard chuckles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He can visit anytime he wants, right? Or Mikey could go to Chicago to see him.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Gerard says.

There is a hint of worry in his voice. Frank gently holds his hand.

“It’s fine,” he says softly. “Mikey’s an adult, he can deal with it on his own.”

Gerard shakes his head.

“I’m just worried that Pete is using him,” he admits. “You know, like some guy to sext with on the side while he’s seeing someone else in real life.”

“And how do you know they’re sexting?”

“I don’t,” Gerard says, somewhat embarrassed. “It’s probably nothing, but I’m still worried he’s gonna break Mikey’s heart.”

“You could check his socials,” Frank suggests.

“First, Mikey’s never gonna forgive me if I do,” Gerard points out. “And second, I’ve seen Pete’s Instagram.”

“And?”

“Nothing,” Gerard shrugs. “I’m not very good at this stuff.”

He drops the subject after that. Frank, however, makes it a point of looking Pete Wentz up, and what he finds seems fairly innocent. He finds out that Pete is subscribed to the restaurant’s Instagram page — in fact, he was one of the first subscribers, and, apparently, brought a lot of people with him, most of whom have formed the most active part of the fan club. This actually explains so much Frank feels like an idiot for not figuring it out sooner.

He goes through every Pete Wentz’s social media page he can find. It’s almost scary how easy it is to find so much information on a single person online. He finds out that Pete plays bass in a local band; that his best friend is the vocalist of said band and he’s damn good at it; he even manages to find an abandoned Tumblr blog filled with poetry and occasional posts so personal Frank feels like a voyeurist just scrolling past them. What he doesn't find, however, is any proof that Pete has been dating someone in the past six months. Of course he could be hiding it. His (most likely non-existent) partner might have their own account full of incriminating photos, but something is telling Frank this isn’t the case. Pete is just a guy. Probably troubled in his own way, but he doesn't strike Frank like a malicious type. Definitely not like someone to use an unfortunate guy, desperate for any kind of affection, for his own amusement.

When he shares his findings Gerard seems to be relieved. He is still worried, however, and Frank tries to figure out what's the problem but gives up when it becomes obvious that Gerard isn't going to talk about it.

And there is a ridiculous amount of things that Gerard won't talk about, or talk without actually saying anything. Frank can't help feeling slightly hurt by this: he hoped there would be no secrets between them, hoped that Gerard would open up to him. And yet it seems that the most open and vulnerable he has been with Frank was when he talked about his addiction.

Maybe he just needs time. They both are new to this, and Frank has no idea what Gerard’s dating life had been before they met. Might have been a bunch of ugly breakups, might have been something worse. Or maybe he never crossed the line between dating and living together and isn’t sure how he should proceed now. And the thing is, Frank has never done it before either, and he’s been on his own for so long he almost forgot what it feels like to have someone else waiting for him every time he comes home — his heart swells from the mere thought of it, that he has someone who loves him, that he can still be loved. With that knowledge he can deal with everything else: the disagreements, the long discussions of how to fold the towels and where or not it's okay to leave the toothbrush on the side of the sink, and whose turn it is to take out the garbage.

And yet Frank can’t help being concerned about Gerard’s new job. Something isn’t right with it, though he can’t exactly point out what specifically. He has a bad feeling about it, and he is fairly sure this isn’t the stress, and this isn’t because he finds it hard to come to terms with the idea that Gerard is going to spend more time away from home. Probably because the restaurant is yet another fine dining place, and Gerard had bad experiences in fine dining before, and Frank has a strong feeling that Gerard is about to throw himself right back into the same abusive environment he only recently escaped from.

He sincerely hopes he’s wrong.

Chapter Text

Gerard is acting weird.

It's only been two and a half weeks since he started working at the restaurant in New York, and Frank already doesn't know what to think of it. The main problem he has isn’t the fact that Gerard usually comes home when Frank is already asleep, and it's not Gerard spending the entire morning in bed, too tired after the shift to get up at more or less socially acceptable time. He’s trying to compensate for all the time he spends away from home, to the point when it becomes a bit concerning, and yet Frank can't help noticing the sadness in his eyes that's becoming more apparent with every passing day.

Gerard, of course, says nothing. Whatever it is going on with him, he doesn't want Frank to know, and this is so frustrating it makes Frank want to scream.

“Do you think there’s something going on with Gerard?” he asks Mikey one evening, unable to keep it all to himself any longer.

This is one of the nights that Mikey spends at Frank’s apartment. He spends most of the time with a joint in one hand and his phone in another, and it's obvious he’s texting Pete again.

“Dunno,” Mikey shrugs. “You’re the one living with him.”

“He doesn't talk to me,” Frank says. “Not about that.”

“That’s not weird, that's just Gerard for you.”

Frank scratches his head. “I’m just… I don't know, he’s obviously going through something, and I think it’s about his job, but he keeps saying everything is fine.”

This provokes a reaction. Mikey puts down his phone with a tired sigh.

“It’s Gerard,” he says. “If he doesn't want to talk about something, he won't. Fucking annoying,” he grumbles under his breath. “He doesn't tell me shit either, if that's what you're asking.”

“I don't like it,” Frank admits.

“Well, that sucks.” Mikey takes a look at his phone. “Can’t do anything about it.”

“And I don’t like that he took that job,” Frank continues. “I mean, if he doesn’t want to work with me for now, okay, fine. I don't like that specific job.”

Mikey raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

Frank isn't sure how he should explain it. He did his research, everything he could find on Gerard’s new workplace. At first glance it seemed innocent enough: a fine dining restaurant in Midtown Manhattan, the kind that works only on reservations and offers solely tasting menus, but it's not the painfully upper-class approach that makes Frank worry. He found the photo of the executive chef, and the guy looks like the biggest douchebag in the world, and Frank can’t believe Gerard would take one look at him and decide to stay. He is also pretty sure there is a certain reason why Gerard’s friend left that restaurant, and he has a vague desire to find this person and break their kneecaps.

“That place gives me creeps,” he says finally.

“I thought it was another one of those fine dining joints,” Mikey replies. “Not Gee’s first time.”

“And he had a breakdown because of it and came here,” Frank points out.

Mikey nods. “True.”

He doesn't seem too worried, though. Frank wonders if he doesn't fully understand the gravity of the situation or sincerely believes that Gerard can deal with it on his own.

“So he didn't say anything?” Frank asks.

“Why would he say anything?” Mikey shrugs. “It's not—” he sighs and takes his glasses off to rub his eyes. “Listen, we don't tell each other a lot of things. Gerard doesn't know plenty of shit about my life either.”

“Like what?”

And Frank knows instantly that Mikey desperately wants to share. He gives Frank a suspicious look, shoots a quick glance at the front door before saying:

“Don't tell Gerard yet.”

“Okay?” Frank is a bit lost at this.

“I mean it. I’ll tell him myself later,” Mikey breathes out. “Pete is planning to come here in August for a week or two.”

And honestly, Frank expected some kind of a dark secret, something that you only share with the closest of friends and only after a thorough check.

“That's a good thing, right?”

Mikey chuckles and nods. “I’d say so.” There is something else, though. Frank can feel it coming. “And we’ve been talking. With Pete, I mean,” he takes a deep breath. “And if it all works out in real life and he doesn't turn out to be a creep or an asshole I think I want to move to Chicago.”

Everything freezes. 

“Are you sure?” Frank asks quietly.

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“You’ve never seen the guy!”

Mikey frowns. “I said if it all works out.”

“You can’t tell if a person is shit or not in just one week! What if in reality he’s an asshole but he’s gonna play nice ‘cause he’s been planning to lock you in his attic all along?”

Mikey glares at him.

“I didn't ask for your opinion,” he grumbles.

“I know, but—”

“It’s not decided yet,” Mikey says. “I’ll figure it out when I meet him.”

Frank still has so many doubts. It’s almost like Mikey wants to get in trouble for some reason. Because seriously, who in their right mind would think that they should move to another state to live with a guy they’ve never met before. And if this Pete guy is on board with Mikey’s plan then maybe Gerard’s suspicions weren't really that ungrounded.

He is saved from continuing this conversation by the sound of the key turning in the lock. Gerard is home. Frank fights the urge to tell him everything about Mikey in hopes to have someone else on his side. This isn’t fair to Mikey. He already has to deal with a lot, he doesn’t need to be pressured into dropping his hopes and expectations.

Maybe Frank is wrong. Maybe Pete is a nice guy, and he’s overreacting.

He doesn’t want Mikey to leave him.

Gerard looks exhausted. He drops his messenger bag on the floor and lets out a loud groan, loud enough to be heard outside.

“Rough day?” Mikey asks sympathetically.

Gerard stares at him for a moment, trying to figure out what his brother is doing in Frank’s living room.

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Someone please end my life.”

Frank tries to get up but quickly discovers that his body isn’t too eager to obey him. He really should cut down on weed, this is getting out of hand.

Gerard seems to understand, at least. He gives Frank a quick kiss on the cheek as he passes through the living room, waves at Mikey and retreats to the bedroom. Frank hopes he isn’t going to black out immediately as he lies down: it’s been happening too often lately, and Frank misses the times when they would spend cuddling under the covers. He doesn’t even care about sex, he just wants to hold Gerard close.

Mikey gives him a nudge.

“What?” Frank gives him an annoyed glance.

“Go to him,” Mikey says.

“But—”

“I know where you keep the spare blankets, I’ll be fine.”

Frank finally forces himself to get up. He has a fleeting suspicion that Mikey didn’t kick him out of his own living room because he was feeling altruistic. Whatever. Frank really doesn’t need to know the details.

Gerard has already changed into sweatpants and his usual worn Star Wars T-shirt by the time Frank opens the door to the bedroom.

“Hey,” he mumbles.

“Hey,” Frank echoes. “Wanna talk about it?”

Gerard chuckles and shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

Frank didn't really expect him to. It would be nice to find out what’s really going on inside Gerard’s head, and why does it feel like he is always on the edge. He was the same when he first started working at Iero’s; Frank recognises the look, the strange barely hidden sadness in his eyes. If only Gerard would talk.

Gerard is the first one to get under the covers, and Frank soon follows him, hugs Gerard from behind. He has no words to describe how much he misses him every single day, how much he wishes Gerard would stay with him. Some part of him already knows that right now it’s not possible: someone needs to earn money, and Gerard’s current job pays enough to provide for both of them. Not to the point when Frank can sit back, relax and play the trophy husband, but they won’t starve when Frank inevitably gets kicked out of his restaurant.

He can’t believe it’s July already and he still hasn’t told anyone about the change in deadlines.

“I can hear you thinking,” Gerard mumbles. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Frank lies effortlessly. ¨Just… a lot going on.”

“Like what?”

Gerard doesn’t turn to him, only takes Frank’s hand in his as a sign that he hasn’t fallen asleep yet.

“A lot,” Frank repeats. “I don’t know how I can deal with it all by September.”

He realises his mistake a fraction of a second after the words leave his mouth, but it’s already too late. Gerard’s back stiffens.

“What’s gonna happen in September?” he asks, and it’s obvious from the strain in his voice that he is having a hard time keeping it together.

“Nothing! It’s just a— a personal deadline, and—”

“Stop lying.”

Gerard sits up; Frank follows him, unable to pretend anymore.

“It’s fine,” he tries to explain. “Seriously, it’s nothing too bad, I can deal with it—”

Gerard gives him an odd look.

“They changed the deadline,” he says quietly. “Am I right?”

Frank nods. He must be really horrible at lying to Gerard, because there is no way he could have picked it all up from one wrong sentence.

“Were you going to tell anyone?”

Gerard never raises his voice. This might be the scariest part, how he doesn't sound remotely angry, only disappointed. Somehow it’s much worse: Frank would prefer yelling, or a fight — one of those that involve broken plates and throwing insults at each other, and ends up with them spending the next day on no speaking terms. Not the disappointment.

“I was going to,” he rasps. “Just—”

“When?” Gerard asks bluntly. “You have less than two months to pay it off, when exactly were you going to tell anyone about that?”

He is getting riled up now. Good. If he loses his temper, Frank will have every right to yell back at him.

“I don’t know. I’m not fucking ready!”

“When did you find out?”

Frank stays silent.

“When did you find out, Frank?”

There is steel in Gerard’s voice. Frank wants to lie, wants to say it was only a few days. It doesn’t matter, Gerard is going to believe him, he can’t possibly find out Frank has known about the deadline for weeks and said nothing.

“It was in June, right?” Gerard sighs when Frank refuses to say a single word. “Jesus Christ, Frankie.”

“Can we please not do it now?”

Gerard wipes his long greasy hair strands off his face. He doesn’t look Frank in the eyes, his gaze instead focused on his lips, and he looks so deeply hurt by Frank’s omissions and half-lies it’s almost impossible to resist and not make promises Frank knows he wouldn’t keep.

“You need to tell the guys,” Gerard says quietly. “Seriously, it’s,” he sucks in a breath. “You know you don’t have to do it alone, right?”

“I’m not—”

Gerard doesn’t listen to his excuses.

“Because what you’re doing right now is not going to help anyone.”

“I know,” Frank grits through his teeth.

“So why didn’t you say something?” For the first time Gerard looks him in the eyes. “I’m not— I want to understand why you’re doing this to yourself.”

Frank can’t explain it even if he tries. It’s just this stupid, childish feeling that if he goes to anyone to ask for help, if he says out loud that he can’t pay off the debt, he will have no other option but to admit defeat. That he failed his father, failed his grandfather’s legacy, and everything he had to go through in the past few months was for nothing.

“I’m trying to figure it out first,” Frank says. “I… maybe I could get a loan, or—”

“You better not take a loan,” Gerard grumbles.

“And why’s that?”

“Because those guys won’t leave you alone even if you pay them with interest,” Gerard replies matter-of-factly. “So you’ll have to pay them and the bank.”

“Then what the fuck do I do?!”

Something shuffles in the next room, and Frank instinctively takes a quick glance at the closed door. He hopes he didn't wake Mikey up: this isn't the kind of conversation he needs to hear.

“What do I do, Gee?” he whispers. “I can't just… give it to them.”

Gerard pulls him into a hug, buries his fingers in Frank’s hair.

“I don't know,” he says quietly. “I don't know the full situation, and I’m not a manager, or financial advisor, or whatever.”

Frank sniffles. “I thought they taught that at CIA.”

“Yeah, for, like, six credits,” he feels Gerard smile. “I majored in Culinary Arts, not Food Business Management, and I sucked at the business part.”

“But you must know someone…”

“The only guy I know burned his restaurant and fled to Maine, I’m not sure it’s the best option.”

Frank groans: “Please, not Maine.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Gerard chuckles.

Frank curls up against him and rests his head on Gerard’s chest. He feels so weak all of a sudden, and maybe burning the place down and running away is the best option and his father was onto something. Maybe that one time he called, after Frank’s voice message, he wanted to give instructions on how to bypass the fire suppression, but Frank was stupid enough to ignore the calls.

“I’ll tell the guys tomorrow,” Frank whispers.

Gerard plants a small kiss on his forehead. “Okay,” he whispers back. “Do you want me to be there?”

Frank shrugs.

“You have to go to work.”

And Gerard almost always sleeps in, he probably won’t get out of bed until noon, and then he’s going to spend an hour getting ready and trying to make lunch for Frank at the same time (Frank has been telling him to stop, that he can make his own lunch just fine, but it’s important for Gerard for some reason), and if he stays to play a cheerleader for Frank while he breaks the news to the guys he’s going to be late. Frank has a certain suspicion that Gerard’s new chef doesn’t tolerate tardiness.

“I can get up earlier,” Gerard says.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m coming,” Gerard interrupts him.

Frank rolls his eyes. “I’m a big boy now, I can do it myself.”

“I know. I don’t want you to go through this alone.”

At this Frank gives up. And, truth be told, he could use someone by his side to give him courage to get through with it.

***

“So were you going to tell anyone or not?”

Anthony is the first one to break the silence that filled the room after Frank finished explaining their current situation. Frank is glad they’re all sitting at the table now, and he can hide his trembling hands.

“I was,” he argues weakly. “It was just—”

Gerard takes his hand and rubs his thumb against the skin, trying to help Frank calm down.

“We lost too much time,” Ray says. He tries to sound unbothered, but Frank knows he is extremely close to blowing up and telling Frank everything he thinks about this stunt.

“Yeah, great fucking job, Frank,” Dewees grumbles.

Gerard lets out a weak: “Hey!”, but gets mostly ignored.

Frank regrets it. He should have kept everything a secret, should have tried to deal with the situation on his own. At least that way he wouldn’t have been so humiliated as he is now.

“Alright, Mr Michelin,” Geoff says, staring right at Gerard, “you know what people usually do when this shit happens?”

“I’m a Culinary Arts major,” Gerard grumbles. “I don’t know how to run a business, seriously, it doesn’t work like that!”

“But you have experience,” Geoff points out.

“Yeah, as a cook!” Gerard suddenly gets strangely agitated. “I’m not an expert just because I have a motherfucking degree, and if this is your way of messing with me again, you better stop right fucking now!”

“Dude, chill,” Geoff says, unfazed by Gerard’s sudden outburst. “I’m serious. You worked at different places during Covid, right?” Gerard nods. “Don’t tell me not a single one of them had money problems.”

“They did,” Gerard says, clearly having trouble understanding what Geoff is getting at. “But it was usually with the banks, not some sort of local mafia.”

“Doesn’t matter, what were they doing when they had problems with money?”

Gerard shrugs. “Go bankrupt. Close. Change owners sometimes.”

So nothing that is going to work. For a moment Frank hoped that Gerard would mention something useful.

“We could hire a financial consultant,” Ray chimes in.

“With what money?” Frank scoffs.

Mikey adjusts his glasses. “I can be your financial consultant,” he clears his throat. “You’re fucked. Five thousand dollars, please.”

The joke gets a few laughs. Ray rolls his eyes and grumbles something under his breath.

Frank wants to die.

“So basically the only option is to give up,” Dewees sighs. “Alright. It was a fun ride. Frank, I’ll give you my two weeks notice in August.”

Anthony scoffs. “You can’t be fucking serious right now.”

“I’m not gonna work for the mafia,” Dewees argues. “And I’m sure they won’t let Frank work here anyway, so there is no point in staying.”

“They might,” Frank says weakly.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Dewees grumbles. “They want to kick you out as soon as they can, and I’m not a traitor, I’d rather get minimum wage at McDonald’s for the rest of my life than work for the people that robbed my friend blind and kicked him out of his own home.”

“Same here,” Geoff adds.

“Agreed,” Ray chimes in. “If you have to go, then we all go.”

And Frank expected a lot: swearing, maybe some shouting, being blamed for his absolute disaster of a decision, but definitely not the solidarity among his team. It's weirdly touching how they all agreed to essentially lose their jobs to support him.

“Guys, you don't have to—”

Mikey cuts him off. “No, we have to. They're not gonna take us alive.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Anthony mutters.

“You know what I meant.” Mikey squints at him. “Is there a problem?”

Anthony shrugs. “Nope. I’m all in.”

“I really didn't plan to cry this early in the morning,” Frank grumbles.

Ray pats him on the shoulder. “Come on, man, you’re one of us!”

Frank isn’t so sure about that. Some part of him expects the guys to change their minds at the end of August, when it becomes clear that Frank has lost this fight. In a way he is no better than his father, keeping everything to himself, refusing to ask for help until it has become too late.

“I mean it,” Ray adds in a low voice. ‘We’re not leaving you.”

“I fucked up,” Frank shrugs. “When I didn’t tell anyone right away, I fucked up.”

Geoff rolls his eyes. “At least you didn’t run away,” he grumbles.

“The bar is literally on the floor.”

“Then congrats, you did the bare minimum.”

This isn’t enough, Frank wants to scream. Doing the bare minimum is never going to be enough, and he failed everyone again.

He quickly gets a hold of himself. There isn’t much he can do now other than hold onto a naive hope that in the end everything will be fine.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “It— it really means a lot.”

Mikey smirks. “You’re always welcome.”

***

Gerard comes home later than usual that night. Not more than half an hour, but this is enough for Frank to begin spiralling: Gerard is rarely late, and he usually texts when he knows he is going to be held back by something, and him disappearing without a trace is an odd occurrence to say the least. When he finally walks through the door Frank can barely keep from throwing himself on him.

Something’s off. Gerard’s moves are sluggish, and when he hugs Frank his body is slightly trembling, and something is telling Frank it isn't because of exhaustion. He has never seen Gerard like this before, not even after the craziest, most overwhelming shifts.

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

He doesn't expect to hear the truth, but Gerard’s quiet “yeah” doesn't remotely conceal the lie, and this sets off every alarm in Frank’s head.

“Come on, what happened?”

Gerard shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “‘m just tired.”

“We have some leftovers from yesterday,” Frank offers. “Did you eat anything today?”

“A bit,” Gerard breathes out. “Didn't have time for lunch, but—”

“Okay, don't go anywhere.”

Frank rushes to the kitchen. Of course Gerard decided to go hungry today. Frank could swear he has no idea how Gerard managed to survive for so long with this level of self-care.

Gerard appears in the doorway the moment Frank puts vegetarian lasagna leftovers in the microwave.

“I’m not hungry,” he says quietly. “Frankie, seriously—”

“You need to eat something,” Frank argues.

“I wanna go to bed.”

“Not until you’ve had dinner.”

Gerard lets out a resigned sigh. “Can I at least take a shower first?”

“If you promise not to fall asleep there.”

Gerard takes it as a permission to leave and disappears before Frank has a chance to finish the sentence.

He’s stuck in the shower for at least thirty minutes, and by the time he finally emerges to the kitchen Frank has already begun to worry. At least he looks somewhat better now, the shaking has stopped, and he actually agrees to eat now.

They sit in awkward silence. Frank feels the urge to ask again what happened — it’s obvious to him now that today wasn't exactly easy for Gerard, and him avoiding the topic only makes things worse, — but has to keep quiet for now. Whatever it was, Gerard is only going to be annoyed at the questioning.

And then he notices an angry red mark peeking from under the sleeve of Gerard’s T-shirt, and his breath gets stuck in his throat. He knows what it is: a cigarette burn that, Frank is sure, wasn't there this morning.

His first thought is: oh shit, Gerard is hurting himself. But the burn placement is strange, and it's on the right arm, and Frank knows for a fact that Gerard prefers to hold the cigarette in his right hand, he would have aimed for the left arm if he did this to himself.

“What happened?” Frank asks quietly.

Gerard immediately understands what he's talking about, hurriedly pulls the sleeve down.

“Nothing,” he mumbles.

“Don't lie to me. What happened? Did you…”

“It was an accident,” Gerard says, staring at the table counter. “I wasn't looking where I was going and walked into someone on a smoke break.”

It’s one of the worst lies Frank has ever heard in his life.

“Right,” he mutters. “And it burned right through your clothes.”

Gerard nods.

“Bullshit,” Frank says. “What really happened?”

“An accident, I’m telling you!”

Frank huffs. “It doesn't look like an accident.” He tries to grab Gerard’s hand. “Gee…” He has to ask. He will lose what little sleep he has if he doesn't. “Are you… are you hurting yourself?”

Gerard shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers. “It wasn't me.”

“Then who was it?”

His silence speaks louder than words.

“I think you should stay home tomorrow,” Frank says.

“No.”

“Yes, Gee. Someone did that to you, I can't in good conscience let you go back there.”

Gerard lets out a humorless laugh.

“We need that income,” he says. “We need— Frank, think about it for a moment, okay? You have less than two months left, and then you’re getting kicked out.”

“Not if I pay it off.”

Gerard rolls his eyes. “You know it's not gonna happen. Unless you have some mysterious distant relative that will very conveniently die in the next few weeks and leave you millions of dollars.”

“Great, thanks for believing in me.”

“I’m being realistic, that's all. You have less than two months left, and then we’ll have to look for a new place to live, and someone will have to pay the rent until you find a new job. We need money. We need to save up, because I’m not taking you to my parents’ house, Mom will never leave you alone if I do. So I need to keep this job until it gets better.”

“It doesn't mean you have to put up with this bullshit!”

There is a hint of sadness in Gerard's voice.

“What other options do I have?” he asks quietly.

“Quit before it gets worse?”

“And do what? Sit on my ass for months looking for another job?” Gerard huffs. “The pay is good. The insurance is okay. It pays the bills, and we’re not gonna starve while you're looking for a job, I can tolerate one asshole for a few months.”

But it has only been two and a half weeks, and Gerard is already bearing marks of abuse. And he may sincerely believe that it was an accident, that this will never happen again, or — and Frank feels sick just thinking about it — that he somehow deserved it, but Frank knows it’s only going to get worse. He also knows that Gerard’s arguments are hard to beat: they do need money, and they can’t afford losing this source of income now, not until Frank figures out what to do with the restaurant.

“You’ll tell me if this happens again, right?” Frank asks.

Gerard gives him an unconvincing nod.

“Gee, I’m serious. If this happens again, please don’t hide it from me.”

Gerard shrugs. “You’re gonna tell me to quit then,” he mumbles.

Frank thinks that he probably should do exactly that: make Gerard quit, help him find another job, a place where people won’t put cigarettes out on his body.

“I won’t,” he says. “I— You’re right, we can’t afford it right now.”

“Then what’s the point?”

The resignation in his voice sends shivers down Frank’s spine. It’s almost like Gerard doesn’t even want to try and put up a fight, knowing too well it will only make his situation worse.

“Because I wanna sue that fucker,” Frank says. “That, or I’ll break their face if they do it again.”

“Frank, please—”

“No, listen to me,” Frank sighs. “I don’t know what exactly was going on with you before we met, but this,” he points at Gerard’s arm, “isn’t normal. And whoever the fuck did that to you doesn’t have the right to treat you like shit just because you can’t leave right now.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“I hope you tell them they’ll have to deal with me next time they touch you.”

Gerard lets out a weak laugh. Frank stands up — he can’t ignore the way Gerard flinches, and this makes him hate whoever is putting him through this hell even more, — and pulls him into a hug. It takes a second for Gerard to relax before he rests his head against Frank’s chest.

“I’m here,” Frank whispers. “I’ll kick their asses if you need me to.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Gerard replies.

Frank doesn’t know for how long they stay like this, holding each other close. At some point Gerard goes to bed, and Frank spends the next few hours on the internet, looking up Gerard’s new chef, trying to figure out if he was the one who decided to use Gerard’s shoulder as his personal ashtray. He doesn’t find much — the guy is pretty good at upholding his reputation in the public eye, and this annoys Frank to no end. He does, however, find some old articles with anonymous testimonies of abuse at the restaurant where Gerard works, and it’s fairly easy to do the maths and figure out that Gerard’s current chef was already working there for a few years at the moment the accusations were made. And even it wasn’t him who was abusing his cooks, someone else was while the chef was looking the other way. He let that happen. In Frank’s eyes he deserves the beating along with whoever dared lay a finger on Gerard.

But for now all Frank can do is keep an eye out on Gerard, make sure he doesn’t try to conceal any more burns or bruises. Next time this happens Frank will have an eye to eye with Gerard’s chef, and this meeting is definitely going to end up in bloodshed.

He hopes he didn’t scare Gerard off. All he wants is to keep him safe from harm, not force him to obey his every word just because Frank might think he has a better solution. 

Something is telling him he has already managed to mess this up.

Chapter Text

Frank wakes up to Gerard throwing up in the bathroom. He knows it’s too early for him to be up: it’s Tuesday, and Gerard rarely gets out of bed before noon on his days off, definitely not before Frank wakes up.

Something isn't right. Something is seriously not right.

By the time Frank finally forces himself to get up Gerard has already concealed the evidence of his morning sickness. He still looks pale, or at least paler than usual, and Frank has to restrain himself from grabbing him by the shoulders and not letting go until Gerard tell him what's going on.

“You’re early,” he says instead.

Gerard nods and slurps his morning coffee. Definitely not the pest decision after throwing up, and Frank can only hope Gerard drank a glass of water before switching to coffee.

“They want me to take an extra shift,” Gerard explains.

Frank blinks at him. “It's your day off.”

“I know,” Gerard sighs. “It’s only for five hours, and the manager said I can have this Sunday off.”

So Gerard is getting sick in the morning before he has to go to work now. Frank briefly wonders if this is a new addition or it’s been going on for some time now and Gerard was just that good at hiding it.

“Maybe you should stay,” he prompts. “You don't look so good.”

Gerard shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he mumbles.

“I heard you. In the bathroom.”

At this Gerard flinches so violently he almost drops his mug.

“I’m okay,” he says quietly, avoiding looking Frank in the eyes. “Just a bit stressed.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘a bit stressed’,” Frank grumbles. “Gee, are you sure?..”

Gerard shrugs. “Not really. Don’t have a choice anyway.”

Frank takes a deep breath. He hates it, hates that the situation has become so hopeless he can’t do anything to get his boyfriend out of the horrible workplace he got stuck at.

Maybe he should do what Gerard’s friend had done: burn the place down, blame it all on the fire suppression system and escape before the mob catches wind of what happened. Only where can he possibly go? To Denver, following his father's footsteps? To New York, looking for a job at any hole-in-the-wall pizza place that will take him? And besides, he can't leave his friends behind to deal with the mess.

“I’m worried,” he says.

Gerard rolls his eyes. “We talked about this.”

“I know!” Frank huffs. “I just hate that you have to deal with all this shit because I’m fucking useless.”

Gerard's face softens. He puts the half-empty mug aside and reaches out to Frank, pulls him close to his chest.

“You’re not useless,” he whispers as he runs his fingers through Frank’s hair. “You're doing everything you can.”

“Then I don’t think I wanna do this anymore.”

Strangely, it doesn't come as a revelation. Some part of him has known this all along: the pressure is too much. Too many mistakes were made, and all he has been doing all this time was trying to bring back something that should have been buried a long time ago.

Gerard sucks in a hitch breath. “Frankie…”

“Stop.”

“But—”

“Don't tell me this is a mistake. Trying to keep this thing going was a mistake.”

“I wasn't going to say that.”

Frank pulls away from him. “Then what is it?”

“I think,” Gerard pauses. “I think you should take some time to think it through.” He chews on his lower lip. “Though maybe you're right and it's better to leave now.”

Which is not what Frank was expecting to hear at all. He thought Gerard would give him a long heartfelt speech on how important it is to never give up or something just as sappy and stupid, not… this.

“Okay,” he breathes out.

Gerard raises his eyebrows. “Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll think it through,” Frank clarifies. “Now get the fuck out, you're gonna be late.”

Gerard giggles and strokes Frank’s cheek.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll call when I'm done and we'll talk about it, alright?”

Frank nods.

***

Gerard doesn’t call.

It’s well past the time he was supposed to end his shift, and Frank finds himself checking his phone relentlessly, but he never gets a call, or a message, any indication that Gerard used his phone in the past few hours.

He might have had to stay behind and take care of some things, Frank tries to convince himself. His phone could have died, he might be on his way back right now, stuck in traffic, and there is nothing to worry about. He still has a feeling something is seriously wrong; it might be because Gerard spent the entire morning puking his guts out, and Frank is convinced that the reason for it wasn’t something Gerard ate, now matter how much he is trying to play it off as nothing too serious. He already hates that Gerard refuses to share his problems, and now he disappears for hours because he was called in on his day off, and Frank is too worried to think straight.

He takes a break to check the apartment. Gerard could have just forgotten to call, and Frank hopes he came home already and just didn’t have the strength to let Frank know he was back. But the apartment stands empty, and it’s already been two hours since Gerard was supposed to be home. Frank checks the internet only to find out that there is no serious traffic on the roads, not serious enough to be stuck for two hours.

And Gerard still doesn’t pick up his goddamn phone.

So Frank does the most rational thing he can come up with: he goes to Mikey.

“Has Gerard called you?” he asks.

Mikey shrugs. “Nope. Why?”

“He doesn’t answer his phone,” Frank explains. “I thought maybe he told you something.”

Mikey frowns. “He didn’t, no. You sure he isn’t stuck in traffic somewhere?”

“He would have picked up the phone,” Frank argues.

“He’ll show up,” Mikey says, and Frank can sense uncertainty in his voice. “Maybe he got held back by something.”

Frank needs to tell him. He doesn’t even have to assume that Gerard has already told Mikey about problems he has at work: it’s obvious that he didn’t, and now that the brothers don’t see each other on an everyday basis it should be extremely hard to figure out what’s been going on.

Why does Gerard have to be so stubborn?

“His new chef is an asshole,” Frank forces out. “I’m worried.”

Mikey crosses his arms.

“Asshole how?” he asks.

“He didn’t tell you?”

It’s not like Frank needs to ask. Of course Gerard didn’t tell anyone — he probably wouldn’t have told Frank if he could hide the burn from him. And Frank hasn’t noticed any new marks on his body, not yet, but Gerard could have gotten better at hiding them.

“He didn’t tell me shit,” Mikey sighs. “What’s going on?”

Frank gulps.

“I saw a burn on his arm,” he says quietly. “From a cigarette, a few days ago. He didn’t say it, but I think it was someone at work.”

Mikey frowns. “And I take it he didn’t tell you anything else.”

“No,” Frank shakes his head. “Listen, man, I’m worried. Maybe I’m overreacting, dunno, but I seriously don’t like how this looks, and—”

Mikey interrupts him: “So wait, let me get this straight. Gee got called in, he was supposed to be home right now but he never showed up, he doesn’t answer his phone, and now you’re telling me that someone at his work has been treating him like shit. Did I miss anything?”

This sounds even worse when Mikey is the one saying it, to the point when it’s nearly impossible to understand how Frank could miss the obvious signs that something is seriously wrong.

“Nope,” he breathes out. “Sounds about right.”

Mikey purses his lips. He looks truly worried now, and this is definitely not the reaction Frank would like to see.

“Goddammit, Gee,” Mikey grumbles under his breath. “Okay. Alright,” he nervously adjusts his glasses. “D’you know where exactly he works?”

He doesn’t need to say anything else for Frank to understand what he means.

“I’m going with you.”

“Are you sure—”

“Who’s going where?”

Of course Dewees chooses this very moment to show up. He seems to immediately understand that the situation is serious enough, gives Frank a concerned look.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “Please don’t tell me those people are at it again.”

“It’s Gerard,” Mikey says before Frank has a chance to. “We think he’s in trouble.”

“Fuck,” is all Dewees says, and Frank can barely suppress a hysterical laugh.

“Who’s in trouble?” Geoff shouts from his station.

“Gerard,” Dewees shouts back.

“Shit, man,” Geoff recklessly sends the last pizza in the oven and crosses the kitchen. “How serious?”

“I don’t know—” Frank starts, but Mikey interrupts him:

“He doesn’t answer his phone,” he explains. “Should’ve been home already but we have no idea where he is.”

Geoff doesn’t take a single moment to think before he says: “Well, let’s go fucking look for him.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I actually am,” Geoff says nonchalantly. “Close up, I’m calling Ray.”

In any other situation Frank would have argued that he is still in charge, so Geoff doesn't get to decide if they should close or not. But right now he is too worried about Gerard to care about the hierarchy. He hopes he is overreacting. He hopes Gerard is going to show up before they leave, and all this was just a misunderstanding, Frank’s rational thinking overthrown by anxiety.

Ray arrives in record time. He doesn't ask any questions, just waits until Mikey, Geoff, Dewees and Frank get in the car. They decide to leave Anthony behind, just in case Gerard decides to come back home. Anthony, of course, isn't thrilled about missing the adventure, but begrudgingly agrees.

The drive to New York is weirdly quiet, and it scares Frank for no reason. Nothing has happened yet. For all he knows he might embarrass Gerard by showing up at his work all riled up. Still better than the alternative. Definitely better than waiting for Gerard to come home, pretending everything is fine.

It takes quite some time to find the restaurant, even more time to find a free parking spot not too far away from the entrance. The first thing Frank notices is Gerard’s car parked two spots away from their spot, and his heart sinks.

Gerard is still inside. It’s been over three hours now, and he’s still stuck in that godforsaken kitchen.

“Toro, what the fuck?!”

Frank turns around just in time to see Ray pull a crowbar out of the trunk. They’re lucky there are no cops anywhere around: a group of guys from New Jersey in their mid-to-late twenties, with at least one of them carrying a crowbar, isn’t something that the cops would ignore.

Ray lowers the crowbar.

“I thought we might need it,” he says. “Y’know, in case we need to fight someone…”

“It’s a motherfucking kitchen!” Geoff shouts. “Just use a goddamn knife!”

Ray stares at him. “It’s not my kitchen, right? I don’t know where they keep the knives.”

“Okay, now I’m really scared,” Mikey glares at him.

“It’s just a crowbar!”

“And your homicidal tendencies,” Dewees chimes in. “Seriously, man, who do you even expect to fight?”

Ray shrugs. He looks way less confident than before, and for a second Frank hopes he is going to put the crowbar back in the trunk. He has no idea why would Ray of all people keep a melee weapon in his car in the first place, and at this point he isn’t sure he wants to know.

“Let’s go,” he says. “We’re wasting time.”

This puts an end to the crowbar discussion. Frank takes the lead, with Ray and Mikey covering his sides and Dewees and Geoff watching his back. It almost feels like they’re about to enter a battlefield, and Frank knows he shouldn’t feel this way. He’s only here to ask if they know where Gerard is, and, contrary to Ray’s belief, he doesn’t want to fight anyone.

So why does he feel so scared?

Their group cuts the line at the entrance, which earns quite a few angry murmurs, and Frank tries to spot someone from the front of house staff. He knows how out of place they all look, sticking out like a sore thumb in their casual mass-market clothes in the Art Nouveau-like interiors. He tries to ignore the feeling: he isn’t here to dine, and the sooner he finds the maître d'hôtel or literally anyone who could point him in the direction of the kitchen the sooner he can leave.

“Excuse me.” Speak of the devil. The maître d'hôtel shows up in front of Frank, firmly blocking the entrance. “I’m afraid we’re working on a reservations-only principle…”

Mikey squints at him. “How d’you know we don’t have a reservation?” The guy seems to be taken aback by his blunt question. “Maybe we have one.”

“We don’t have one,” Ray tries to help out. He’s still clutching a crowbar in his right hand, and the maître d'hôtel has definitely noticed it. “We just wanted to ask a few questions.”

“And by the way, that was classist,” Geoff adds.

Ray rolls his eyes. “Dude, not now.”

“What? I’m just saying it was classist to assume we can’t afford a reservation here.”

They’re going to bicker about it forever, Frank realises, and they can’t waste any more time.

“My… friend works here,” he says, instantly breaking the fight. “Gerard Way? He’s one of the cooks.”

The maître d'hôtel purses his lips. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir.”

“Man, come on, just show me where the kitchen is!”

“Have you seen him at all today?” Mikey chimes in.

“I can’t say that.”

“Why?” Mikey presses on. “Is it some weird NDA thing or what?”

“I can’t…”

Dewees gives Frank a light nudge and points at something across the dining area. Frank squints, trying to figure out what Dewees saw, and it takes him too long to understand that he’s looking at the doors leading to the kitchen.

“Okay, thank you,” he announces. “Problem solved.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Ray adds, polite as always, and it would have even been nice if it wasn’t for the crowbar in his hand.

Maître d'hôtel tries to stop them but he is obviously too afraid of Ray and his weapon of mass destruction to do anything. They need to be quick, Frank thinks. Someone is about to call the cops, if they haven’t already, and he can’t allow himself to end up at the precinct, not when Gerard so obviously needs his help.

When they crash into the kitchen they’re met with surprised glances but nothing more. Everyone is too busy to actively try to do something, and it gives Frank plenty of time to cross the kitchen in search of Gerard, and his heart skips a beat when he realises he can see only one familiar face in the entire kitchen, and it doesn’t belong to Gerard.

Frank stares at the executive chef. In real life he doesn’t look very intimidating: his receding hairline is more pronounced than in the photos, and he is slouching a bit, and all in all he looks so soft Frank could probably knock him out with a light punch. 

“Leave. Now.”

Frank scoffs. He can hear the steel in the chef’s voice, and it might work on his subordinates, but Frank isn’t about to give up that easily.

“Where’s Gerard Way?” he asks.

The chef raises his eyebrows.

“So that’s what this is about,” he murmurs.

“I’m not gonna ask you twice,” Frank warns him. “Tell us where Gerard is and we’ll leave.”

The chef smirks at him.

“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” he says. He never raises his voice, and still the tension in the room is palpable. “But fine. As long as you get out of my kitchen and let me work in peace. Gerard Way left today at three, after his shift was over. I don’t know where he is now.”

“His car is still in the parking lot,” Mikey chimes in. And his face may seem expressionless but Frank can tell almost instantly that he is pissed. He understands the feeling: he’s been fantasising about breaking the guy’s smug face for too long. “So excuse me, but I don’t fucking believe you.”

“This isn’t a kindergarten,” the chef replies. “I’m not supposed to know where my cook is when he’s not at work.”

One of the cooks to Frank’s left murmurs something under her breath. The chef throws her a warning glance.

“Dude, stop lying,” Geoff adds.

“I don’t know where he is now,” the chef insists. “Now leave, be so kind. You’re ruining the flow.”

They’re not getting anything out of him, Frank realises. Even if he knows where Gerard is and what happened to him, he isn’t telling them.

“Wait, just one more thing,” Ray chimes in. “You have a locker room, right?”

“Of course we have a—”

“Great, cool,” Ray interrupts him. “Which locker is Gerard’s?”

“If you think I’m going to let you snoop around the locker room—”

“Third one on your right.”

Frank turns around just in time to see one of the cooks, the one that was muttering something a few moments earlier, lower her head and pretend she said nothing.

“Thanks,” Ray chirps. “We’ll be on our way then.”

Finding the locker room turns out to be surprisingly easy. Frank half-expects a typical high school bullying situation, but Gerard’s locker is surprisingly clean. It also has a numeral lock, and Frank realises that he has no idea what combination Gerard would use.

Ray smiles and waves the crowbar in the air.

“Told you it would be useful,” he smirks.

Frank steps aside in defeat. It takes a few moments for Ray to hook the locker door with the crowbar. Frank listens to the sounds coming from the outside, but it seems nobody really cares about them being here. Either that, or the chef has already called the cops, and they’re about to get arrested.

Ray readjusts the crowbar, making sure it’s fixated properly, and pushes. It takes a few tries, but finally the door swings open with a loud crack, and before Ray has time to step aside everyone is gathered around him, studying the contents of the locker.

The first thing Frank notices is Gerard’s phone. It seems like he left everything in the locker: his phone, his bag with the ID and the wallet, the car keys — and the uniform. So at least he had time to change before something happened. Something that, undoubtedly, connected with the chef — Jeremy Birch, Frank remembers now. And he isn’t about to get the truth out of Birch anytime soon.

“This is creepy,” Mikey whispers.

“Fucking dead end,” Dewees groans. “What now?”

“I don't know,” Frank admits. He doesn't have a plan anymore, and it’s impossible to find one person in New York, especially if he doesn't want to be found.

He tries to think. Where would Gerard go? He was certainly distressed by something, and it must be serious if he didn't come back to pick up his belongings in three hours. His car is in the parking lot, so he either took a bus, caught a taxi, or went there on foot, and he had three hours, almost four now, to disappear. He can be anywhere. He can be in Pennsylvania now. He can be on his way to Maine, and Frank will never know unless Gerard decides to call him.

It’s his father leaving all over again, only this time it makes no sense. Gerard isn't like that, he wouldn't just leave Frank behind for no apparent reason, and he wouldn't abandon Mikey again either. He even promised to call.

“We could split up,” Geoff suggests. “He couldn’t have gone too far, we could think if there's a place where he could have gone…”

And then it dawns on Frank: the restaurant where they went for their unofficial date. It can’t be too far from here, and Gerard mentioned being on good terms with the chef. It’s a long shot, but it's worth a try anyway.

“I think I know,” he forces out.

Everyone stares at him.

“Well?” Mikey is the first one to break the silence.

Frank takes a deep breath.

“Okay, let's split up,” he says. “Someone will stay here in case he comes back. Mikey, did he ever mention any restaurants he worked at?”

Mikey shakes his head.

“Then I’m going,” Frank decides. “It’s not too far from here, they might know—”

“Slow down,” Ray interrupts him. “Who might know? Where?”

“At the restaurant,” Frank tries to explain. “El Jardín or something, Gerard took me there once, and he said that the chef there is alright, he might have gone there.”

“Why?” Geoff asks.

“I don't know!” Frank huffs in frustration. “But it's worth a try.”

They don't really have any other options right now, and they also should leave before things become heated.

Mikey makes a point of picking up Gerard’s phone and bag as they’re leaving. Frank stays behind for a few moments to make sure he didn't miss anything but can't find any clues on Gerard’s whereabouts. It's almost as if he disappeared into thin air.

“Why are you still here?”

Frank turns around only to come face to face with Birch.

“I’m leaving,” he growls.

Birch stares him down. “You do understand you're very lucky I didn't call the police, right?”

“Just wait till I call the workplace inspection on you,” Frank bites back.

“Is this a threat?”

“I know you did that to him,” Frank spits out. “So you better tell me what happened right now.”

Birch’s expression doesn't change, but Frank knows he struck a nerve. Those accusations from years ago must have taken a toll on him. Good, Frank thinks. He wants to see this guy squirm.

“We have a strict order here. If someone can't follow the rules, they don't deserve working here. It’s as simple as that.”

“So it's okay to burn your cooks with cigarettes?!”

“He took his smoke break without my direct permission,” Birch stresses every word. “If you were running a kitchen, you would have known how important subordination is.”

He wants to punch him. He wants to punch this bastard so much he has to take a deep breath to cool his wrath.

“I run a kitchen,” Frank replies. “And you know what? Never in my life did I ever have to punish my cooks, so fuck you, and fuck your subordination.”

With these words he squeezes past the chef and makes his way outside. The guys are waiting for him next to Ray’s car. Frank notices that Ray has put his crowbar back in the trunk, and this is one of few reliefs he had in the past few hours.

“What happened back there?” Dewees asks.

Frank shrugs. “I told that asshole to fuck off.”

“Should’ve kicked his ass,” Mikey grumbles.

“You can go back and do that for me, if you want.”

Mikey turns to Ray. “Dude, can I borrow your crowbar for a mo’?”

Ray crosses his arms. “I thought we weren't going to kill anyone.”

“I’m not gonna kill him,” Mikey objects. “Just break a few bones.”

“You’re not going to prison because of some piece of shit.”

“Would be worth it,” Mikey shrugs.

Frank isn't sure he wants one of his closest friends to go to prison for homicide, no matter how justified it is. He would give Birch a proper punch to the face himself if he could — and he might come back for it, but only after he’s made sure Gerard is safe.

“Mikey, you’re with me,” he commands. “Ray, you too.”

“Why me?!” Ray protests.

“To avoid the temptation!”

Ray mumbles something unintelligible but obeys.

It’s strange how easy it is for Frank to remember where exactly he should be going. Ray and Mikey follow him without any questioning or objection, and this is a telltale sign that the situation is way more serious than Frank anticipated.

He can only hope that Gerard didn’t decide to flee to another state, maybe even country, because of a mental breakdown. Frank has heard about this stuff, people forgetting their entire lives and disappearing for years.

Four hours. It’s been four hours, and with every second the chances of finding Gerard are slipping through Frank’s fingers.

El Jardín is closed, the notice at the front door dates back to the first week of July, and Frank’s heart sinks. He skims through the notice, the words barely registering in his mind. He has no clue where else Gerard could go. A friend? Frank has no idea if he still has friends in New York aside from the fucker that offered Gerard this position. Another restaurant he used to work at? The only one Frank remembers is Blue Hill, and something tells him that place was one of the reasons why Gerard had to go back to Belleville.

“Alright, that’s it,” Mikey grumbles and pulls out his phone. “I’m calling the cops.”

“They won’t do shit until it’s been twenty four hours,” Ray argues.

“My fucking brother is gone!”

Frank stares at the restaurant door, half-listening to the argument. There must be a clue, something that will point him where to look, where Gerard could possibly go.

And then he remembers.

He breaks into a run with no warning, ignoring Ray and Mikey calling out for him, barely avoiding the passerby. A car almost hits him at the crossroad, but Frank doesn’t stay long enough to listen to the driver yell at him.

He only stops when he finally reaches the embankment. It’s not too crowded yet, Frank should be able to navigate it easily, and if he’s right Gerard must be somewhere nearby, he just needs to keep looking.

It doesn’t take long: at the bench by the pier Frank notices a lone figure: familiar hunched posture, messy dark hair, stupid brown flannel shirt, — and before he can register it he breaks into a sprint and almost collides with the bench, pulling Gerard into a hug. He ignores Gerard’s weak attempts to break free as he covers his face with kisses. The only thing he can think of right now is: Gerard is okay. He didn’t go missing, he didn’t run away, he didn’t forget who he was and go wandering the city for weeks.

“You’re choking me,” Gerard rasps, and only these words make Frank let go.

For a few moments they look at each other. Gerard is paler than usual, and Frank notices dried tear tracks on his cheeks, and he looks distant, like he is only half-aware of what is going on around him, and whatever happened must have been so much worse than whatever Frank was imagining. But at least he’s still alive, and he’s here, and there is still a chance to try and make things right.

“Gee,” Frank forces out. “Gee, what—”

Gerard rests his head on Frank’s shoulder. People are looking at them, and Frank glares at him and wraps his arms around Gerard in an attempt to protect him from the world.

“Hold me,” Gerard whispers to his ear.

Frank is only happy to oblige.

Chapter Text

They don’t talk on the way home. Gerard rests his head on Frank’s shoulder and refuses to say a single word no matter how many questions Frank and Mikey are asking. It’s strange to see him like this: withdrawn, hiding from the world in his own head, and Frank can only hope that whatever happened back at the restaurant didn’t leave any irreversible damage on him and Gerard just needs some time to process it all.

When they finally get back home the first thing Gerard does is lock himself in the bathroom. He spends almost a full hour there, and during all this time Frank can’t stop pacing around the apartment, waiting for some kind of resolution, trying to figure out what might have happened and not lose his mind in the process.

He’s scared. He’s so goddamn scared.

He needs to know what happened back in New York. His mind is already conjuring disturbing images, from Birch humiliating Gerard in front of the entire kitchen for hours until Gerard snaps and leaves, to physical fights, to something so horrible Frank has to slap himself several times to make himself stop thinking about it.

Gerard will be okay. He’s been through a lot, and he will need time to recover, but he’s going to be okay. This isn’t the end of the world yet.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Gerard says to Frank when he finally emerges from the bathroom, and Frank swears he could cry. Gerard shouldn’t be apologising for something he didn’t even do.

“Don’t be,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

Gerard shakes his head.

“I fucked it up. I’m sorry.”

Without a word Frank pulls Gerard into a hug. Gerard doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to get free. He doesn’t hug Frank back either, just goes limp in his arms, and Frank feels him shiver. This is the worst state he has ever seen Gerard in: shaking, barely breathing, at the verge of tears from a simple touch.

Frank should have interfered sooner. Should have stopped Gerard from going to work this morning, even if it meant getting in a fight, because at least that way Gerard wouldn’t have been a semi-catatonic mess now.

They don’t say a word for some time. At some point Frank guides Gerard to the couch and they stay there, their bodies pressed tightly against each other. Frank fights the urge to start asking questions again; Gerard is obviously in no state to talk about it right now, all Frank can do is wait until he’s ready to tell the story himself.

“I tried to fight back,” Gerard whispers, and Frank can feel his heart sink. “Frankie, I tried.”

“What did he do?” Frank rasps.

Gerard shakes his head. “Nothing. Physically.”

“Did he—”

Gerard promised. He promised he would tell Frank if Birch tried to hurt him again. So why did he choose to suffer in silence, why didn’t he mention something, anything until he broke down from the pressure?

“No,” Gerard whispers. “Just… talking shit. Nothing new.”

“Nothing—” Frank almost chokes on his own breath. “Gee, what the fuck?!”

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“What did he do?” Frank demands. “Come on, talk to me.”

Gerard shakes his head and hides his face in the crook of Frank’s neck. He’s shaking again, and Frank gently rubs his back in an attempt to calm him down a bit.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Gerard whimpers. He doesn’t cry per se, but he is dangerously close to tears now, and Frank realises he has no idea what he should do. He wishes Mikey was here; he knows Gerard better than anyone else, he would have known how to cheer him up, or at least get him to talk.

“I wanna go to bed,” Gerard whispers.

Frank barely holds back a nervous giggle.

“You don’t have to ask my permission, you know.”

Gerard snorts. “Yeah. I know.”

He frees himself from Frank’s grasp and disappears in the direction of the bedroom, leaving Frank alone with his own thoughts.

Frank is torn. Some part of him wants to go back to New York and beat Birch into a pulp. He knows it's only going to make things worse: he has already lowered Gerard’s chances of ever working there again (he doesn't regret it), he doesn't want to give Birch the pleasure of filing a lawsuit against him.

And then there is the question of what to do with his own restaurant. He’ll have to give it to the mob, Frank has lost any illusion of getting out of this mess with minimal losses a long time ago. He hates that he can’t do anything about it, can't keep the mob’s hands away from the only thing left of his family.

Unless…

This is stupid. This is risky and stupid, and he might actually end up at the bottom of Passaic if he tries to pull this out. But it was mentioned that the mob is under new management, and maybe, just maybe, they’re too busy with infighting to notice how suspicious what Frank is thinking of doing.

He should think about it tomorrow, after the remaining adrenaline wears off. For now Frank takes a long shower and decides to go to bed.

Gerard isn't asleep yet. He flinches as Frank lies down next to him and hugs him from behind, slightly curls into himself. Frank can’t bear seeing him like this: scared, withdrawn, almost broken.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Gerard lets out a ragged breath. “I love you too.”

“And I’m not going to stop loving you now,” Frank continues. “We’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Okay,” Gerard says, barely audible.

Frank plants a kiss on his temple. He wishes he was better with words, wishes he could let Gerard know how much he really loves him, how much he wants him to be happy.

***

In the morning he finds Gerard in the living room searching for something on his laptop. When Frank sits next to him to give him a good morning kiss Gerard swiftly closes the lid but Frank still catches a glimpse of the page he was looking at.

“A cashier? Really?”

Gerard sighs.

“I still need a job,” he says. “And I pretty much blew my last chance of working in the kitchen anytime soon, so I gotta take what I can.”

“A cashier, Gerard?”

Gerard averts his eyes. “We need money.”

“Yeah, I know, but motherfucking Walmart?! Are you kidding me?!”

“Frank…”

“No. Listen to me,” Frank tries to cup Gerard’s face in his hands but Gerard promptly avoids his touch. “Whatever the fuck that asshole told you isn’t true. You don’t— you’re a great cook,” Gerard scoffs. “No, don’t give me that. You’re amazing, Gee. And I know you can get any job you want, you don’t have to go to Walmart.”

Gerard takes a deep breath.

“It’s more complicated than this,” he mumbles.

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Frank stares. Some part of him already knew it was the real reason: the burnout, too much stress multiplied by a terrible executive chef, Gerard’s own self-esteem issues, of course he decided to give up. He still wants to give Birch a proper beating for reducing Gerard to this, for being the reason his beautiful, talented boyfriend believes he can never get anything better in this life than working a minimum wage job.

“What did that fucker say to you?” Frank growls.

Gerard flinches. “Frankie, please…”

Frank sucks in a breath.

“I’m not angry at you,” he says, desperately trying to keep his voice steady. “But I need to know what that motherfucker told you and what he has been doing all this time.”

“It’s in the past.”

“No, it’s not!” Frank barely restrains himself from punching the couch seat. “Gerard, you’re literally planning to work at a fucking Walmart, and if it’s not connected with whatever that piece of shit did then call a fucking ambulance because I’ve actually gone crazy this time.”

Gerard is staring at him with wide eyes, and his hands are visibly shaking now.

“What did he do, Gee?” Frank softens his voice. “Please, just… It’s over anyway. He can’t hurt you now. You can say it now.”

Gerard turns away.

“It’s stupid,” he mumbles under his breath.

“It’s not,” Frank sighs. “Gee, what he did was abuse.”

“I know. I can deal with it.”

“Doesn't mean you have to do it alone.”

Gerard takes a shaky breath. Frank wraps his arms around Gerard’s shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m here. I got you.”

Gerard sniffles into his collarbone.

“I can’t go back to this,” he whispers. “I don’t wanna go back, I can’t— I think I’ll die if I go back.”

“You don’t have to go back to that place,” Frank tries to reassure him.

Gerard shakes his head. “I mean kitchen in general. It fucking hurts, Frank. Every fucking time. I get to a new place, and I think it’s gonna work out this time, and then it gets messy, or complicated, or both, and I can’t.” He presses his forehead against Frank’s chest. “I can’t do this anymore."

He needs time to recover, Frank tries to tell himself. The wounds are still too fresh, and whatever Birch said cut deep, and Gerard needs to rest. Definitely not grab the first minimum wage job he can find.

“Then let’s quit together,” Frank blurts out.

Gerard stares at him with wide eyes.

“You’re not serious,” he breathes out. “You’re not actually gonna—”

“I have a plan,” Frank says. “I’m not giving it all away to those people. I’ve thought it through.”

He didn’t really think it through, didn’t have much time to. But at least he knows now what he has to do, and to hell with the consequences. His family’s legacy isn’t about to be turned into a mafia's money laundromat.

Gerard seems to understand what Frank meant.

“No,” he said. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“You have any other options?”

“No, but…”

“Then that’s it,” Frank concludes. “I’m closing the restaurant, and then we could start over together, if you’d like.”

“This is crazy,” Gerard states. “This is… Frank, what if they figure it out?”

Frank shrugs. “I’ve heard Denver’s nice this time of year.”

“Frank…”

“It’s gonna work,” he tries to reassure Gerard. “I have a good feeling about it.”

Gerard purses his lips.

“Then I’m in,” he says. “What do you need me to do?”

***

It doesn’t feel like a funeral. Frank was sure there would be something at least resembling mourning, but everyone else seems to be surprisingly okay with his decision. Geoff grumbles for some time, but otherwise doesn’t protest.

On Saturday they stay closed. Frank heats up the ovens for the last time and spends too much time watching the cheese slowly melt, the dough rise. This is the final day he will ever spend inside this kitchen, and whatever lies ahead is still a mystery. So many things can go wrong. He might have to leave the state for good if his plan fails.

At the front the guys are moving the tables together. They don't really need such a big space, there are only eight of them — maybe nine, if Mikey’s predictions are correct, — but for some reason it feels right. If they're going out of business, they're going to go out with a bang.

Gerard helps him out in the kitchen. Frank is pretty sure he can deal with it himself, but Gerard insists, and Frank doesn't have the heart to kick him out. Gerard is still set on taking any minimum wage job he can get in such a short time, convinced that he will be the one providing for both of them for the next few months at least. Frank has long since given up on trying to convince him otherwise. He has some money set aside that was supposed to go to the mob. Now Frank thinks he can put it to better use.

“Are you sure about it?” Gerard whispers as they’re working on final preparations.

Frank shrugs. “Nope,” he admits. “But it’s a decent plan.”

Better than doing nothing and waiting for the inevitable, at least.

Gerard hums. He gets the last pizza out of the oven and turns back to Frank.

“I've talked to a bunch of people,” he says. “From that place. They’re in.”

“In for what?”

Gerard shrugs.

“We’re gonna file for workplace harassment,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s gonna take a few months at least before they do anything, I think, but we’re doing it.”

Frank never thought Gerard would actually go through with it in the first place. He used to be so reluctant when he was still working at that place, but Frank is glad he finally decided to do it. Better late than never, and, if he has other people to back up his claims there might still be a chance to win this. Some kind of justice might still prevail.

“That’s great,” is all he can say. “That’s…”

“Pretty fucking awesome, right?” Gerard grins.

Frank ruffles his hair and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“‘Course it is,” he whispers.

Anthony waltzes into the kitchen just as Frank pulls away.

“You guys done?” he asks. “Everyone's waiting.”

Frank nods. “Yeah, all done. Help us out here.”

The first thing Frank notices as he walks out of the kitchen is Mikey’s absence. Gerard seems to notice it too as he exchanges a concerned glance with him.

“Mikey’s out,” Ray comes to the rescue. “Said he wanted us to meet someone.”

Frank has a strong suspicion he knows exactly who this someone is but keeps his mouth shut. It’s Mikey’s call anyway. He just didn’t think it would happen so soon, and Mikey, it seems, still hasn’t told Gerard about his plans, but this particular situation might be the one he shouldn’t get involved in yet.

They take their places at the table. Geoff and Dewees have brought enough beer to last them an entire week, and the tables are about to crash under the weight of all the food, and this is probably the biggest celebration Frank has ever been at in his entire life. He wishes it was under different circumstances. He wishes it didn’t take him losing everything to get this gathering with all his friends.

Mikey shows up just as Frank is ready to open his first beer. By his side, looking somewhat awkward in front of new people, is a guy about Mikey’s age, and Frank recognises him almost immediately. He spent an entire evening looking at his photos once, he couldn’t possibly not recognise him.

Mikey clears his throat.

“Guys,” he says, “this is my boyfriend Pete.”

Pete waves at them with a wide grin on his face.

Gerard almost chokes on his Dr Pepper.

“Holy shit,” he coughs. “You’re actually real.”

Pete bursts out laughing as Mikey rolls his eyes. “‘Course I’m real, what d’ya think?”

Gerard shrugs. “That Mikey made you up to mess with me?”

Pete snorts.

“Right,” Mikey chimes in. “I’m gonna get another chair.”

There is a small commotion as everyone is moving around to free another spot at the table, and by the time it’s over Pete takes a seat next to Mikey and across from Frank and Gerard. Frank doesn’t see it but he is fairly sure that Gerard rolls his eyes when Mikey smiles at Pete and wraps his arm around his shoulder in a shamelessly intimate manner.

“Okay,” Ray stands up, an opened can of beer in his hand. “I’d like to say something.” He takes a deep breath. “First of all, it was a great couple of years. Really stressful sometimes, but otherwise great, I didn’t regret it once. And I’m glad I met all of you. And I know we’ve had a fair share of differences, and,” he pauses. “Is it safe to say now that I wanted to kill some of you sometimes?”

“We haven’t forgotten the crowbar, Toro,” Dewees grumbles lightheartedly.

“I like to be prepared,” Ray replies.

He tries to say something else but his voice drowns in laughter.

“What I wanted to say is,” he continues as the laughter dies down, “you guys are amazing, and I’m gonna miss you all.”

Geoff tugs on his sleeve.

“I was planning to cry after getting drunk, not before,” he grumbles.

Dewees rolls his eyes. “Come on, let him finish!”

Ray chuckles. “Nope, I think I’m done.”

He sits down, and this serves as a signal for Frank to down his beer. He wants to tell Ray it’s not over yet, that there is a chance they won’t need to stop being friends if his plan works out. But right now he needs to keep his mouth shut: he can’t risk it, can’t let too many people know. The only person that has any idea about his plan right now is Gerard, and Frank can only hope he hasn’t told Mikey. He probably hasn’t: if Frank has learned something in the past few weeks it’s that Gerard can keep secrets like nobody else, even if it means he risks his own health and mental state in the process.

Frank soon loses the track of time. He does his best to stay sober — tomorrow is a big day, he can't risk a hangover ruining it, — but he gets too caught up with listening to Pete talking about Chicago music scene, and then Gerard drags him to the back for a quick make out in the office, and after that he has to call a taxi for Anthony who managed to get drunk first, and when he finally gets a moment to step outside for a smoke it's already dark.

Someone is watching him from the other side of the street. Frank squints his eyes, trying to figure out if he should call the cops or it would be better to just get back inside and forget about it, and at this very moment the lights of a passing vehicle shine on the stranger’s face, and Frank almost drops his cigarette.

He never thought he would see this face again. That person was the reason Frank was in this mess now, and none of this would have happened if he didn’t run away like a coward and leave Frank alone.

Frank steps forward before he can realise his mistake, crosses the street without looking. The person doesn’t move when he gets closer, doesn’t try to look him in the eyes.

Frank should probably turn back. Pretend he made a mistake and thought that the person in front of him was someone else, go back to the restaurant and pretend it never happened. Do the same thing that was done to him months ago.

Instead he makes another step before stopping at the arm’s length from the man.

“Dad.”

He tries to sound relaxed, like his heart isn’t about to jump out of his chest as he watches his father finally look at him.

He hasn’t changed that much. His skin is more tanned than Frank remembers but it might be the Colorado sun, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows is more pronounced now, and after all these months it’s still his father.

“What’re you doing here?”

Frank Iero Sr offers him a tiny crooked smile.

“Wanted to check on you,” he says.

Frank has to clench his fists to keep it together. Does his father really think Frank is a complete idiot?

“You could’ve called,” he grits through his teeth.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” his father replies. He sounds tired, almost like he doesn’t want to be here in the first place. “Frank, listen, I know I was away for too long—”

“You left me,” Frank states. “You made a mess and then you left me to deal with it.”

“I know. I—”

Frank interrupts him. “No. Whatever excuses you have, I don’t wanna fucking listen.”

He knows how cruel this sounds, knows that he is about to lose his only chance of reconnecting with his father. It doesn’t matter anymore; he was abandoned once, left to pick up the pieces on his own when he wasn’t ready, what are the chances his father won’t leave him again? Frank has friends. Frank has Gerard, and after he loses the family restaurant he will still have Gerard, and he’ll still have Ray, and Anthony, and Geoff and Dewees, and Mikey too even if he leaves New Jersey and goes on to build a new life with Pete. Does he really need to keep the ties with someone who doesn’t want him?

“Frank,” his father sighs. “All I wanted is to see if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Frank grumbles. And then, before he can stop himself, he adds: “I’m closing it. The restaurant. I’m done with it.”

If his father is disappointed, he doesn’t let it show.

“So they came after it after all,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Of course they fucking did,” Frank scoffs. “I left you a voice message. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”

His father reaches out to him. Frank makes a point of avoiding the touch.

“I wish I could do it differently.”

Frank tilts his head. He definitely needs a cigarette, he can’t deal with it without another nicotine dose.

“You left,” he says as he pulls the cigarette pack and a lighter out of his pocket. “And then it took you three days to call me, and then you never answered my calls. Never. So don’t talk to me like you would have done it differently, because we both know you wouldn’t do shit.”

His father is silent for too long. Frank lights a cigarette and breathes out the smoke. There used to be so many things he wanted to say if he ever saw his father again, and yet now that he has the opportunity the words escape his mind.

“I think you should know something,” his father finally says.

“Like why you didn’t warn me before you fucked off into the sunset?” Frank snarls.

“Watch it, Frank.”

“Or what? What’re you gonna do?” he takes another drag of his cigarette. “Fuckin’ punish me? Leave me again?” he scoffs. “You’re gonna leave anyway, so I don’t care.”

There is nothing his father can do that would hurt him. All the damage has already been done.

“I wanted to come back for you,” his father tells him. “I don’t want you to think that I forgot about you, so here’s that. I wanted to come back for you,” he repeats. “But things got complicated. This is why I didn’t come sooner.”

Frank squints at him. Some part of him already knows what exactly was the reason for the delay.

“You have someone.”

His father takes a deep breath. “Yes. I didn’t plan for this to happen, but I’ve met someone in Denver.”

It almost doesn’t hurt. Frank always knew it was going to happen one day, probably after he moves out and starts his own family. He just didn’t expect it to happen this way.

“Okay,” he shrugs. “Good for you.”

“I’m leaving in three hours,” his fathers continues. “Can’t stay for too long, you know. You can come with me.”

Frank turns away. He stares at the light in the restaurant window, at people moving behind the glass. Someone walks outside, and Frank immediately recognises Gerard and Mikey accompanied by Pete who is, it seems, the only person other than Ray that doesn’t smoke and only went outside to cling to Mikey.

His eyes meet Gerard’s. Gerard waves at him, and Frank waves back before he remembers he was in the middle of a conversation.

“I’ll pass,” he says. “I’ve got someone too now.”

His father nods.

“I see.”

This is probably the last time they see each other, Frank realises. Unless he changes his mind and follows his father he will never see him again. And he knows he should try and make the moment last: it’s his family after all, even if they ended up in different parts of the country, — but the longer he looks in his father’s eyes the stronger is the feeling that he is looking at a stranger.

“Okay,” he clears his throat. “I should be going.”

His father nods again.

“Good luck,” is all he says.

Frank throws the cigarette butt under his feet. “Yeah. You too.”

He doesn’t turn around as he crosses the road and walks back to the restaurant. He doesn’t want to watch his father leave again. He feels lightheaded, like a giant stone has rolled off his chest and for the first time in forever he can breathe again.

“Who was that?” Gerard asks as he takes a drag of his cigarette.

Frank shrugs and rests his head on Gerard’s shoulder.

“Nobody.” The lie comes out almost effortlessly. “Just some guy I once knew.”

Chapter Text

Frank sits on the boardwalk, smoking a cigarette as he watches the restaurant go up in flames. He never thought it would come to this. Never thought he would watch his family legacy burn to the ground as he watches it disappear in front of his eyes. He has nothing left to call his.

He is finally free.

A familiar Honda stops a few feet away from him. Gerard gets out of the car and stands next to Frank, his eyes fixed on the fire.

“So this is it,” he says quietly enough only for Frank to hear.

“Yeah,” Frank mutters.

“Did you—”

“Got the documents out. Spare clothes, some money. This is it.”

Gerard nods.

“So I take it we're staying with my parents now.”

In the corner of his eye Frank notices a small group of people watching them. He sucks in a breath, trying to act naturally: he just lost his only home after all, he should be shell shocked at least, hysterical at worst. Some part of him is worried that he isn't putting that good of an act, that they will figure out what really happened and come after him soon.

His father really messed up his plans. They were probably watching him, waiting for him to make one wrong move. Frank wants to tell Gerard to take the long way to his parents’ house just in case, to shake off the tail, but the group disappears in the same silence it appeared.

Gerard sits down and wraps his arm around Frank’s shoulder.

“You think they're gonna buy it?” he whispers.

“I don't know,” Frank whispers back. “But we should be careful.”

Gerard nods. “Got it.”

Frank fights the urge to kiss him. It's too soon, and they need to make it look natural. Kissing as his restaurant, the one that was supposed to be taken over in the next few weeks, is anything but natural, and it's not just the mob bosses Frank needs to be worried about. Someone might see them. He has already noticed a small group of spectators gathered at the corner, including the meth guy, and who knows what someone might tell the police when they finally arrive.

Something explodes inside the restaurant — probably a gas cylinder — and the flame roars and rises higher to the night sky. In the distance Frank hears the wail of sirens and  takes a deep breath.

“Right,” he whispers. “Showtime.”

The next few hours are spent explaining what happened for what feels like a million times: he had a private celebration at the restaurant with the staff, Gerard left to take everyone home while Frank went back to his apartment because he was too drunk and decided to clean up tomorrow, and something must have happened during the night because he woke up when the restaurant was on fire, he barely managed to escape, and he has no idea who might have done this, he doesn't have enemies, and he has just lost his only home, he just wants to go to his boyfriend’s house, he needs time to process what just happened.

It works. Either because Frank manages to make it sound convincing or because Gerard sheds a few tears to drive the point further, but they're both let go with a warning to stay in touch and not leave the area.

They don't go to Gerard's house right away. Gerard doesn't even start the engine: he just sits, fingers clutching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white, and stares at the ruins of what he once used to call home.

“I’m still not sure about it,” he confesses.

Neither is Frank. But it's too late to turn back now: he has burned the bridges already, in more ways than one.

“Let's go,” he says.

***

They gather in Gerard’s basement the next afternoon. It’s only five of them this time: Anthony is still nursing his hangover while Mikey has taken Pete on a trip around Northern Jersey so Frank doesn't expect either of them to show up until midnight.

“I can't believe you fucking did that,” is the first thing Ray says.

Gerard shrugs. “Don't look at me, it was his idea.”

“You were the inspiration,” Frank grins.

Gerard gives him a light nudge and tries to pretend to pout but fails miserably. Geoff rolls his eyes.

“Before you two get disgusting,” he starts, “what’s the plan, Frank?”

“Insurance fraud,” Frank shrugs.

“You're not serious,” Dewees frowns. “You’re not serious, right?”

Frank is dead serious. The plan was so simple it was actually brilliant, and he cannot believe he didn't think about it earlier. He did his best to make it look like an accident, and he is almost sure nobody is going to suspect him. He's just a victim of circumstances, a guy that's been trying to do his best and failed miserably. The only people that might come after him are in the mafia, and they aren't the kind to go to the police if they suspect Frank tried to play them. They might come after him later, but Frank will figure it out when the time comes.

“Frank, this is crazy,” Ray says. “You're not— what if someone finds out?”

“Yeah, man,” Geoff nods. “What if they come for you?”

“Then you know the drill: you know nothing, I never told you about my plans, you weren't part of whatever I did.”

“I’m not sure it's gonna work,” Dewees grumbles.

Frank stares at the cardboard boxes occupying most of the living space. The basement is cramped, even more so now that they have moved all of Gerard’s and most of Frank’s things in here. It took them the entire week, and Frank can only hope that for outsiders it looked more like him preparing for the inevitable rather than a part of the plan to burn the restaurant down and leave the county. If they did everything right they shouldn’t have attracted too much attention.

They’ll need to find a new place to stay soon. The remaining living area is barely enough for one person, let alone the two of them.

“Won't know if you don't try, right?”

The thing is, Frank knows the risks. If those people as much as suspect he tried to trick them they aren't likely to stop at anything, including harassing everyone who worked with him. The chances are slim, and Frank can't help feeling a bit guilty for putting his friends at risk.

“Okay,” Ray shrugs. “But if they come after me, I’m gonna bail.” He winces. “No offence, Frank, but I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with them.”

Frank understands. He really does: he would have done the same thing in Ray’s place. Even if it meant being just like his father.

“Maybe he was right,” he mutters under his breath.

Geoff raises his eyebrow. “Maybe who was right?”

“Nobody,” Frank lies. “I’m just thinking.”

Geoff squints at him.

“No,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “Frank, what’s going on?”

“You mean aside from the obvious?”

“He’s back, right?” Ray says quietly.

Gerard throws him a confused look. He seems to be the only one who is still struggling to understand what exactly Ray meant.

There is no point in trying to hide it anymore. Frank gulps.

“Dad came back last night, yeah,” he finally admits. “I didn’t know he was—”

“Motherfucker,” Dewees growls. “How fucking dare he.”

“Come on, it’s not that serious…”

“It is serious,” Ray points out. “Frank, what the hell is he doing here?”

“Nothing! He left already!”

“And how do you know that?”

“He told me!” Frank huffs. “Listen, I didn’t know he was coming, okay? He was waiting outside last night, I noticed him by accident and… dunno, decided to say hi.”

A collective groan tells him more than any words ever could.

“What if they saw him?!” It takes everything out of Ray not to start shouting. “Frank, what if they think you two had it planned?”

“They won’t think that!”

“But what if they do?” Ray presses. “Frank, listen, it looks suspicious that he showed up right before your place burned down, they’re gonna notice something’s off.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Gerard asks quietly. “We could’ve called it off.”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal!” Frank exclaims. “So Dad showed up because he really wanted to let me know he's got a new family in Denver now, so fucking what?”

Ray looks somewhat embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn't think—”

“It's fine,” Frank interrupts him. “I guess I kinda knew that already.”

There is a long awkward silence. Frank feels Gerard’s hand on his shoulder and leans into tge touch.

“Okay,” Dewees clears his throat. “That's messed up.”

“It's okay, seriously.”

“It's not,” Gerard argues. “Frankie—”

“It's nothing big, I can deal with it.”

He means it. He has already gotten used to the idea that his father is never coming home, that he himself can't follow him wherever he goes. It's only natural that he has found another person and decided to start over with her — or him, Frank wouldn't be too surprised if his father has discovered something new about himself.

He wonders if he should have accepted the offer to leave New Jersey. Picked up Gerard, went all the way across the country, tried to see if it could work out. Some part of him already knows it was never possible. Too much pain, the wound his father left with his departure hasn't fully mended yet, and even if it did, the remaining scars would never let Frank truly forgive him.

Ray pats him on the shoulder.

“We're here if you need us,” he says, and the others nod enthusiastically.

“Thanks,” Frank mutters. “I appreciate it.”

He means every word.

***

They come for Frank two weeks after the fire.

Frank has been expecting them. He is lucky enough that Mrs Way isn't around when they show up at the door; she is already giving everyone a hard time, and Frank understands that providing for four people definitely wasn't in her plans. But Frank can't find a decent job, and Gerard is still recovering from the Birch Disaster, and nobody knows why Pete decided to stay around for so long instead of going back to Chicago with Mikey. Frank isn't even sure Gerard knows that Mikey is going to leave: he has been too busy trying to deal with his own problems, and Mikey never said anything.

Gerard is the one to open the door. At first Frank thinks it’s a delivery one of them ordered, but Gerard spends too much time talking to whoever it is at the door, so Frank decides to check what's going on.

“—nothing!”

There are three of them, glaring at Gerard as he's doing his best not to let them in. Frank recognises one of them: he was the one to deliver the news about the deadline changes. It takes every ounce of strength to stay calm: nothing irreparable has happened yet, they haven’t tried to hurt Gerard, Frank can deal with it.

“I’ll take it from here,” he says. “Go back inside.”

Gerard gives him a concerned look, his fingers wrap around Frank’s wrist. Frank tries to give him a reassuring smile but he is fairly sure it comes off more like a grimace. He does his best to pretend they’re nothing but friends or reluctant roommates; these people don’t need to know how much Gerard really means to him, he is not going to give them a chance to use Gerard against him.

Gerard obeys. He takes a step back, letting Frank get to the front porch, hesitates before leaving until Frank firmly closes the door behind his back.

“What?” is the first thing he asks.

He is faced with grim looks and crossed arms.

“You tell us,” one of the men replies. “Did you really think we weren’t going to figure it out?”

“Figure out what?” Frank frowns.

“Don’t play dumb,” the other man grumbles. “Your father’s in town, and he appeared right before your dump burned down. Gonna tell me it was a coincidence?”

Frank tries to play surprised. “Dad’s in town?”

“We saw you talking to him, stop fucking lying.”

Shit. Of course it had to happen, of course his father had to appear and ruin all his plans. Frank is convinced that without it he would have gotten out of this entire mess without anyone as much as suspecting him of burning down the restaurant.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“There's no use talking to him, Tony,” the one who has been silent the whole time speaks up. “Kid’s not gonna crack.”

Frank thinks he can hear a hint of respect in his voice, but it must be nothing but wishful thinking.

“Right,” Tony glares at Frank. “Now listen here. Don't think you can get away with it, kiddo. You still gotta pay.”

Frank crosses his arms.

“I’m not doing that. My dad owes you, go deal with him.”

He instantly regrets it. A crooked vicious smile appears on Tony’s lips as he takes a step forward, and Frank instinctively takes a step back.

“You're right,” the man seethes. “We better send him a message.”

Someone grabs Frank’s shoulder. He struggles to get free but the grip is too tight, and shit, they’re going to kill him now, in broad daylight , and it’s all because his father couldn’t stay away when it mattered the most. Some part of him wants to scream for help but he quickly gets a hold of himself; the only person that is going to come is Gerard, and he is already deep enough in Frank’s mess, he doesn’t need to get hurt just because Frank was stupid enough to mouth off mob henchmen. So instead he tries to struggle, to get free and run — he doesn’t know where, doesn’t know how far he will get before they catch up with him, but he needs to make sure they don’t hurt Gerard.

“Let go of me,” he grunts. “Fucking let go!”

Something cold and metallic presses against his abdomen, making him freeze.

“We can do it two ways,” one of the men says. “You can come with us quietly, or I’ll shoot you right here. I don’t think your boyfriend is going to like it.”

So they know. Not that Frank is surprised, considering they were spying on him this entire time, but he had a tiny bit of hope that they didn’t pay too much attention to his relationship with Gerard.

“He doesn’t have anything to do with it,” he grits through his teeth.

The man waves his gun impatiently.

“Get in the goddamn car,” he commands.

Frank has no choice but to obey. At least this way he can hope they won’t try to go after Gerard.

He wishes it could have gone differently, wishes he could at least say a proper goodbye to Gerard. Why did his father have to mess everything up again? Why was Frank so stupid he decided to stay instead of taking Gerard and running as far as he could: to Chicago, to Denver, further west, doesn’t matter, even to Canada if it was what it took to keep his loved ones safe.

He doesn’t want to die like this.

Before he has a chance to take a step the front door swings open and someone barges straight into the man with the gun. Frank recognises a mop of black hair with grown out brown roots seconds before the grip in his arm weakens and he manages to get free. For a few seconds he can only stand, dumbfounded, watching as Gerard with uncharacteristic fury in his eyes struggles against a man two times his size and, as unlikely as it sounds, seems to be winning.

The victory is short-lived: the other two overcome the initial shock and grab Gerard as he is kicking and screaming, struggling to get free and finish what he just started. Out of the corner of his eye Frank notices a tall lanky figure rush for help as he can only stand on the porch, frozen in place, unsure if he should join the fight or call the cops.

He crouches, his fingers grab the long forgotten gun. It’s useless, and Frank knows it: he can’t get a clear shot, not when everyone around is moving so fast, and even if he could he knows he doesn’t have it in him to pull the trigger.

He tosses the gun aside just as Pete Wentz, the last person Frank would have expected to get involved, barrels through the front door with a loud: “Get the fuck away from them!”, and before he can realise what he is doing Frank follows him to the epicenter of the fight.

Frank has no idea where he’s landing his punches, and he is convinced he missed the target more than a few times, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The most important thing is, he is actually fighting back this time. To hell with the consequences, to hell with the fear he’s been living in for the past months.

Someone tackles him to the ground, and suddenly there are hands on his throat, cutting out the air, and Frank can’t breathe. He tries to fight back, tries to get free, but the grip tightens, and he feels the blood rush to his face, black dots swarming his vision.

And then, just as he begins to lose consciousness, he’s free. The first breath sends him into a coughing fit, Frank tries to sit up but almost immediately loses his balance and collapses back on the ground. Someone is shouting, barking orders, and Frank knows he should move, but he doesn’t have the strength to do anything buy lying on the front lawn, staring at the bright blue sky.

He’s alive. He survived this.

Somebody helps him sit up, and Frank rests his head on their shoulder.

“It’s okay, baby,” he hears Gerard whisper to his ear. “It’s over now.”

It turns out that Pete called the police minutes before rushing outside to help his boyfriend. Frank isn’t sure if he is impressed or terrified; Pete has very little understanding what has been going on and why the mob would try to take Frank away, and this decision might have just cost Frank what little safety he had. Frank doesn’t exactly believe that the police are going to do anything. But at least he’s alive now. At least he isn’t locked in someone’s basement, beaten up and with missing fingers.

All four of them are interrogated for what feels like hours. Frank even tells the truth this time; well, most of it. He omits the part where he burned down his restaurant to get out of the deal with the mob, and he knows that the guys did exactly the same thing. Frank is the victim in this case, he doesn’t need to give the cops a chance to arrest him for arson and insurance fraud.

He’ll probably need to leave Essex County now. Probably even New Jersey: he has no way of knowing how far the mob’s connections are running, and they will be after his blood now that he dared to openly antagonise them.

Or maybe they’ll put him under witness protection. Give him a new name, make him live under government supervision for the rest of his life. The very thought makes him nauseous.

Gerard seems to notice. The moment they get a few minutes alone he pulls Frank into a hug and whispers:

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank forces out.

Gerard shakes his head. “Don’t say that. You were defending yourself, there is nothing to be sorry for.”

Frank isn’t sure this is enough. Gerard is sporting a black eye, his lower lip is swollen and slightly bleeding, and Frank feels a pang of guilt in his chest. Gerard wasn’t supposed to get involved in this. He was supposed to be safe. And the worst part is, Frank has no idea how to make it better.

“We have to leave,” he mutters. “Gee, we have to bail right now.”

“We don’t,” Gerard argues weakly. “It’s gonna be alright.”

“They’ll come after me again,” his voice cracks. “And if they don’t find me, they’ll come after you, or Mikey, or Ray, or—”

Gerard buries his fingers in Frank’s hair.

“We’ll deal with this tomorrow,” he whispers. “You need to rest now, and tomorrow I’ll call the guys and we’ll figure it out, okay?”

Frank wants to argue that tomorrow might be too late. For all he knows the mob bosses will send another group to deal with him, and this time they will make a point of hurting everyone he cares about. He doesn’t say any of this: Gerard sounds confident that nothing is going to happen overnight, and maybe he is right. Maybe Frank is just paranoid.

He hopes this all is just in his head.

***

When Ray calls the next morning Frank thinks he’s still sleeping. He spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, listening to Gerard’s quiet snoring next to him, only managed to fall asleep by four in the morning.

“Dude, check the news,” is the first thing Ray says. “Like, right now.”

“What happened?” Frank grumbles, still half-asleep.

Next to him Gerard stirs awake and rubs his eyes. He shoots Frank a confused look. Frank shrugs in response.

“They made arrests last night,” Ray says.

Frank sits up. “What arrests?”

It can’t possibly get any worse, can it?

“They got the big shots,” Ray explains, excitement clear in his voice. “The fucking mob, Frank, they got them!”

Frank still struggles to understand what exactly happened. It can’t possibly be real, he has never been this lucky.

Gerard whispers: “What’s going on?”, and the sound of his voice gets Frank out of his trance.

“Wait,” he mumbles, “I’ll put you on speaker, and… just explain from the beginning, alright?”

Gerard sits up. His arms wrap around Frank’s chest, he’s still sleepy, eyes slightly unfocused, but he clearly does his best to figure out what exactly is happening.

“So basically, the cops arrested the leaders of the mob,” Ray tries to explain. He is obviously in the middle of the breakfast and trying to speak with his mouth full, so the words come out muffled, and the phone speaker makes his speech almost illegible. “Y’know, the guys that've been on your back?”

“Are you sure?” Frank forces out.

“I’m looking at the article right now,” Ray replies. “They arrested some of their henchmen yesterday, wanna tell me what that’s about?”

“Why would you think I have something to do with it?”

“Because there was a showdown in Belleville?” Ray huffs. “Don’t tell me you don’t know anything about it.”

“It’s a long story,” Gerard chimes in. “Hi, Ray.”

There is an awkward pause on the other end.

“Hi,” Ray mutters. “Anyway, according to the article, the guys that got arrested cracked and told the cops pretty much everything, and the fucking FBI were on them for ages, so they rolled in, arrested all the big guys. That’s pretty much it for now, but,” he sucks in a breath. “Frank, I think it’s over.”

Frank isn’t sure what to say. The words escape him, all he can do is stare at the phone in his hands like he sees it for the first time in his life. Next to him Gerard lets out a relieved breath and hugs him tighter.

“I’ll call you back,” Frank blurts out and ends the call.

For a few moments neither of them says a word. Frank must be dreaming, because there is no way he could have just gotten out of the deal, it couldn’t possibly be so easy. If there is anything he has learned over the past twenty four years it’s that cops don’t like doing their job, why would they start now?

“Frankie.”

Frank shakes his head.

“You heard that too, right?” he rasps.

“Yeah,” Gerard rests his head on Frank’s shoulder.

“And I’m not sleeping,” Frank continues. “Please tell me it’s real.”

“It’s real,” Gerard confirms. “Frankie, it’s over. They’re not gonna touch you anymore.”

And they’re not gonna touch anyone else. They’re not going to come to Gerard’s house and kill everyone while Frank is away, and they’re not going to come after Ray, they’re not going to hurt anyone anymore. And maybe all Frank had to do from the beginning was to call the cops, or maybe he owes it all to Pete and his quick thinking — no, he definitely owes Pete for saving him, even if Pete himself was just trying to protect Mikey, — he will have more than enough time to figure it out. He has all the time in the world now.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuckin’ hell.”

His lips press against Gerard’s before he realises it. Gerard lets out a small surprised noise but almost immediately responds to the kiss. His hands slide under Frank’s T-shirt, and Frank allows himself to melt into the touch.

He’s free. Finally, truly free.

Chapter Text

“Behind!”

Frank freezes for a second as Ray rushes past him. Just another day on the job. Hopefully one of the many to come.

It took them almost a year to get where they are now. A year full of paperwork, applications, appointments, negotiations with banks and a billion inspections to make sure that this time everything was done right. Frank knew it wasn't going to be an easy process, wasn't sure he wanted to get back in business so soon after he lost his previous restaurant, but he tried his hand at working in other kitchens and discovered that it felt too restrictive for him. So when one morning Gerard shared an idea of opening a vegan fast casual restaurant with him Frank latched onto the opportunity and never let go.

Ray was in the moment Frank offered him a place on the team. It felt almost as if he was waiting for this moment to quit the job at a bakery he got in the meantime. So did Geoff and Dewees. Getting Anthony on board turned out to be trickier: he managed to find himself a manager position at an upper-class restaurant and wasn't willing to exchange it for the same position at a new restaurant that might go bankrupt by the end of the year, but agreed the moment he heard that everyone else was in.

And here they are now, with the whole team back together save for Mikey, who moved to Chicago just like he threatened. Frank still isn't sure how the conversation between the brothers went but Gerard doesn't seem to be too upset. They still talk almost every night, and, if Mikey's messages in their group chat are anything to go by, he and Pete are up to no good.

“He’s out of that place,” Gerard said when Frank finally found the courage to ask him if he was worried about Mikey. “And Pete is an alright guy, so I think I'm cool with that.”

This seems to be enough for him, the very knowledge that Mikey doesn't have to deal with his parents anymore. If Gerard misses him, he never lets it show. And besides, Mikey still visits every few months, when he gets the chance. He hasn't left all his friends behind. He even came to the grand opening of Nightshade (the discussion was long and heated, mostly because Gerard wanted something short and memorable while Frank was set on at least nodding at the vegetarian menu, and the only reason they agreed on this name is because it sounded cool and a little bit gothic), bringing Pete along with him.

“I need two sloppy joes and two burritos!” Frank shouts as he swiftly checks the last tickets for the night.

“Heard!” Gerard shouts back.

Frank takes over the burritos as Gerard prepares the other half of the order. Frank never knew he would start loving this routine, the easiness that comes with it now that everything is running smoothly. No more messy books and shady deals, no more schedule issues, bloated menus, and, more importantly, no more pizza dough. Only now Frank realises how much he has grown to despise pizza and everything associated with it. It was one of the first rules he made when they were just planning the future menu: no pizza. If he ever as much as mentions pizza he has to be taken to the nearest hospital to get his head checked. He needed to get rid of everything reminding him of the past.

And the best part is: everything seems to work just as it was intended to. Nightshade is packed to the brim every day, and Frank is convinced they can pay off the bank loan. And even if something happens he won't need to deal with another local gang. They even found a way to make Ray’s skills shine: turns out he has natural talent when it comes to pastries, and Frank immediately put him in charge of desserts when they figured out that most companies either don’t offer vegan options or the prices are so high it’s cheaper and easier to make them at the restaurant.

They wrap up with the final orders in record time. It feels surprisingly good: they're done for the day, and there is nothing weighing on Frank’s conscience, no anxiety to drive him insane.

It's going to take time until he finally gets used to this feeling.

Frank feels arms on his waist, a warm body pressed against his back, and smiles to himself.

“Wanna get outta here?” Gerard whispers to his ear and plants a soft kiss on the scorpion tattoo on Frank’s neck.

Frank giggles. “Ray’s gonna kill us if we don’t clean up first.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

“He’ll know, trust me.”

“Only if we tell him,” Gerard’s lips brush against the skin on Frank’s neck, and it takes every ounce of strength not to give in. He doesn’t want to let Ray down by leaving all the cleaning to him, again; he already avoided his duties more than once in favour of getting some alone time with Gerard, he knows he’s testing Ray’s patience.

“Gee, come on…”

“And I already told Ray we’ll wrap it up ourselves,” Gerard adds, and Frank is sure that, if he took a look at his face right now, he would see a mischievous grin.

“You really thought this through,” Frank smiles.

“‘Course I did.”

He is so lucky. Probably the luckiest person in the whole world because despite everything that happened, despite the turbulence of the past year, he's still here. He didn’t have to leave his hometown behind, and he got the chance to set things right.

He still misses the old restaurant sometimes. He tries to write it off as meaningless nostalgia; he did grow up at that restaurant after all, it used to be his home. But maybe it was just the right time to let it all burn and give himself another chance. If there is one thing in his life Frank doesn’t ever regret it’s starting anew with Nightshade. 

They wait until Ray disappears in the locker room before Frank turns around to face Gerard. His hair is greasy from the kitchen heat, and Frank knows that his own hair is in the same condition. He has grown it out even longer, to the point when he needs to tie it in an idiotic ponytail, but at this point he couldn’t care less. He could always cut it short again.

Gerard takes the initiative. His lips press tightly against Frank’s, and Frank takes a tiny step back as he wraps his arms around Gerard’s waist. His lower back is pressed against the counter, and for a second Frank worries that he left something on it but quickly discards the thought. They were going to clean up anyway, they’re allowed to be disgusting for a few moments.

“Fuck,” he grunts the moment Gerard comes up for air. “Fuck, I want you.”

Gerard kisses his neck, sending shivers down Frank’s spine, and his hands slide lower, down to Frank’s hips.

“Not in the kitchen, Jesus fucking Christ!”

Anthony’s voice makes Gerard flinch and take a step back. His left hand is still on Frank’s hip, tugging at the belt and leaving them both in an extremely compromising position. Not that Frank minds.

Anthony stares them both down.

“You two are disgusting,” he states.

Frank grins. “Everything for you, baby.”

Anthony waves him off with an exaggeratedly disgusted expression on his face, making Gerard giggle.

“Just wait until the inspection comes and finds out you two’ve been fucking on every surface,” he grumbles.

“Oh no, not in front of the cucumbers!” Frank dramatically rolls his eyes and pretends to faint.

“Especially in front of the cucumbers.” Anthony shakes his head. “Anyway. Two guys just walked in, I need to know if we’re still working.”

“Nah, kitchen’s closed,” Gerard grins. Frank nods in agreement.

Anthony shrugs. “Whatever, man.” And then he adds: “And please, for the love of all that’s holy, keep it PG, this is traumatising.”

“Come on, we didn’t do anything!”

“Yet,” Anthony points out. “Think of the cucumbers!”

Frank bursts out laughing. Anthony chuckles at his own joke and leaves the kitchen before anyone gets the chance to retaliate. For that Frank is grateful: there is still a chance he won’t have to wait until he and Gerard are home to continue their little make out session.

“Right,” he murmurs. “Where were we?”

Gerard giggles and ruffles his hair. Frank feels the hair tie slipping, loose strands fall freely on his face and shoulders.

“You’re an animal,” Gerard groans with a smile.

“Come on, you love it and you know it!”

Gerard kisses the corner of his lips.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I do.”

Frank pulls him closer. If he could, he would have made this rare moment of peace last forever, even if to make sure they don’t get interrupted again. 

“Office?” he suggests.

Gerard offers him a mischievous smile. “Oh, so I’ve been bad?” he murmurs and leans closer to Frank, his lips mere inches away from his neck.

“Yes,” Frank pulls him closer. “Very.”

“Probably traumatised all the poor cucumbers.”

Frank presses his head against Gerard’s shoulder in an attempt to conceal the laughter.

“Please,” he hiccups. “I’m trying here!”

“Sorry,” Gerard giggles. “But Anthony told us to think about the cucumbers and now I can’t stop.”

“Baby, I’m sure we have better stuff at home.”

Gerard rolls his eyes. Frank cups his face, his fingers brush against the clean-shaven skin and he fights the urge to kiss him and never let go.

“Come on,” he whispers. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

Gerard bites his lower lip.

“In your office?” he prompts.

“We could start there and see how it goes.”

Gerard nods, and Frank takes it as an invitation. He guides Gerard to his office, hand in hand, already feeling that they’re not about to leave the restaurant at least until midnight. Anyone else in their situation might have waited until they’re home and have better accommodations than a small office desk and filing cabinet, but Frank has never been known for his patience.

After some quick consideration he leaves a “Do not disturb” sign on the door handle — a housewarming gift from Geoff, probably stolen from some motel. “Just in case,” as Geoff himself said, and he was right: the sign turned out to be one of the most useful things in the entire kitchen.

Not that anyone outside Nightshade needs to know.