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01 February 2007 @ 11:07 am
fic: three chords for three miseries.  
three chords for three miseries.
Frank/Mikey, 1318 words, R.
I wrote this in the universe that I made up in my head where Frank lives with Mikey, who has a mysterious stomach disease, and Gerard is a crack addict who refuses to visit. I know, I don't know why I think of these things either.

Oh, and there's porn.

dedicated to mikeyface, for getting me into this fandom in the first place.


It's funny, Frank thinks, the way everything around him can unravel with the same ease as when he pulls loose strings off of his jacket (the edges are far too frayed, though he's only had it for a few weeks) and soon, he's looking at a mess on the floor.

It's funny in the way that it's not.

He can't remember a time when his head wasn't throbbing, when Gerard wasn't out fucking up every single aspect of his life, or a time when he held Mikey trembling on a floor somewhere in the too-small apartment they shared. It's five o'clock in the morning, he notices as the numbers flash at him from Mikey's wristwatch. He heaves his stomach onto the floor, his fingernails scratching against dirty tile.

(Mikey's breathing way too loudly, his chest heaves in and out and Frank can feel it against his stomach. It's getting worse, the pain, and he can feel Mikey start to shake against him. )

"Fuck, Frankie," he gasps, holding his hands against his head and lying against the edge of a cabinet, steadying himself. Frank can feel them against his skin, little spasms (like aftershocks) pulsing and attacking and ultimately, winning.

Mikey really wasn't much of a fighter anyway.



Sometimes, Mikey has attacks in the morning.

It's always worse in the morning. Frank can feel it when Mikey starts digging his fingernails into his back, sobbing into his t-shirt and dragging the both of them towards the bathroom, his mouth opening already. He doesn't even make it to the toilet before he collapses, puking all over the towel Frank always laid out for him and taking Frank down with him.

"Jesus fuck, Mikey," he says, rubbing his back and swiping the hair out of Mikey's eyes, trying to get him to the bathtub, which is much closer than anything else.

They usually don't last more than thirty minutes. This one lasts almost three hours, and Frank is surprised that Mikey doesn't run out of bodily fluids before it's over, and Mikey is left breathing hard, everything on him trembling.

"Sh-shit." That's all he can say before he passes out, going limp in Frank's arms and rolling his head back. Frank is nearly crying too, because he fucking hates it when things get this bad.

He has to carry Mikey back to bed like he usually does, because these things, whatever the fuck they are (He's been to doctors all over the fucking country because of it, and they all say the same thing. It's not long before Frank's money from their last tour is gone and they have to just fucking deal with it.)

When Mikey is tucked in as best as he can be (goddamnit, he's still shaking), Frank calls Gerard.

His voice is raspy, harsh in a way that is intended. Frank is all but used to it, because it seems like the other day that they were laughing and joking about Frank joining his band.


"Yeah, he had another one."

"What the fuck else is new?"

Frank grimaces, but barely. "Thought you should know. It was three hours long." He pauses. "I think he misses you."

Frank can hear the wind rustling against the mouthpiece of the phone, and he wonders what part of town Gerard has himself holed up in. He imagines drippy pipes and frosted windows - the kind that have cracks and can't keep in any warmth. It would make sense.

". . . Yeah. Yeah," Gerard speaks up, sounding like he wants to add on to that, but there's another pause.

There's a silence, long and fucking painful. Frank hears a hushed sound before the click and the dial tone, something that sounds like a cross between a gasp and a sob. It must be cold out there.

He climbs into bed with Mikey and attempts to erase his memories.

(Seconds later, Mikey is behind him, his arms snaking around his waist and pulling him close. He's still shaking.)



When Frank wakes up, Mikey's hand is down his pants.

"The fuck?" he asks, craning his neck to see better in the dim light, the dim light, which is only really bright enough to see the outline of Mikey's face and slivers of his skin between the light coming through the blinds on the windows. It's still daytime - probably mid-afternoon, Frankie thinks - and and Mikey twists his wrist until his thumb presses against the button of Frank's pants, and he can still get it off even with his eyes closed. (Frank hadn't even noticed that, and he thinks that maybe he's just dreaming)

"Mikey, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Shhh," is his response, his head lolling forward and burying itself into Frank's neck, breath doing figure eights on Frank's skin and makes him shiver (Mikey isn't shaking anymore. Not because of that.)

"I -" is all he gets out before Mikey touches skin, his fingertips scraping the line of his thigh under the elastic of his boxers.

It really is unfair that the kid can be so sick and still suck cock that well (not that he's complaining, because his hands are finally fucking steady at the base and Frank is fucking Mikey's mouth slow and languid, his fingers threading through Mikey's hair) but Frank steadies Mikey's head in his hands as Mikey bobs up and down, swirling his tongue around the head. It's almost familiar.

He comes with a small sound trapped in the back of his throat, something that would be borderline embarrassing if it wasn't Mikey. And his mind is still swirling with thoughts afterward (there was one this morning, so there won't be one for the rest of the day! Mikey had said enthusiastically, kissing Frank's bottom lip and chin and everywhere else he can reach at the awkward angle beside him, and all Frank thinks is that it really is unfair that something like that is what could get him most excited) and he can't make himself shut up.

Mikey lies beside him though, hands roaming up his thighs and he's sighing, his fingers steady and curling in. Somehow, that quiets him.

In that way, it's better in the mornings. Kind of.



Mikey doesn't get better. Not really. Not like he should.

It's not fucking enough that Frank is holed up in this shitty apartment, paying for things because of solo projects that are shitty to begin with because everything is unraveling (he's going to have to throw out that jacket soon).

He sings about Gerard. Not about what's happening now, because he can't. But about the slow degration, from man on top of the world to man at the bottom of the cultural food chain, shivering somewhere in a fucking abandoned warehouse in the slums of Jersey where it's too cold (he feels like he should give the jacket away, it's his anyway. All black wool and white stitching that's coming apart - Gerard had given it to him when he still had something to give, and Frank was grateful).

He sings about Mikey getting sick, but not taking care of him. Nights staying up shivering on cold tile and heaving up his life and his insides and taking everything out of him; unbearable pain that's just heavy enough to take everyone down as well.

He hasn't seen Ray or Bob in about a year. The thought of looking them up and talking to them makes him feel nauseated. They could help, he reasons, and really, they could. But things are fucked up now.

Mikey sings lullabies into his skin at night, sometimes (as Frank is wrapping his jacket around him. The blankets aren't enough). Frank thinks that he could sing about that.

(Take care of him, Gerard had told him once, his eyes red and wet. Frank hesitates, because he really didn't need to ask.)



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