Fiasco

Frank stares.


The tiniest speck of eggshell has just broken into his bowl with the parts of the egg he was going to make an omelet with. He blinks several times at the small chip of white, clinging to the white of the egg. He looks forward, right in front of him at the cupboards, shuts his eyes and stares back at that little shit of an eggshell, floating around in his uncooked breakfast.


Gerard shuffles in, his feet bare, in his gray, plaid pajama bottoms (the ones Frank likes so much) and a half zipped hoodie that could belong to either of them. His hair is a disaster, but with the quick glance Frank gives him, there are no white eggshell chips in it. Gerard stops behind Frank, making a loose fist in the back of Frank's hair. He plants a kiss on the back of Frank's neck.


"What's wrong? You look like you might be sick," Gerard says softly, directly into Frank's ear. He kisses Frank's neck again, longer this time. "Hm?" he coaxes with a nudge of his hips.


Frank shrugs and lets out a helpless and frustrated sigh; This was the third egg he broke this morning alone.


"I broke a couple of eggs," Frank confides, quietly. "Three, actually." He turns slightly to kiss the corner of Gerard's mouth, though he doesn't feel like he deserves it.


*


There are cardboard boxes scattered around the room, enough to make Frank feel like he's in a maze. All of them are samples of clothes and belts. Books on their final draft, dying to get the go-ahead and be published. Frank sits in the middle of the room, Indian-style on the floor. He's been chain smoking for the last hour. The entire room smells of match sulfur and packing peanuts, like Christmas morning.


Gerard knocks on the doorframe. "Hey," he sings. Frank's eyes follow Gerard's body to right in front of him, wear Gerard sits, identical position, looking Frank right in the eye. He takes Frank's cigarette and drags out the rest, eyes squinting on Frank.


Frank starts to bite his fingernails when he finds that was his last smoke. The ashtray looks like it could explode. "What's wrong, Gerard?"


"I could ask you the same thing."


Not even a shrug can be brought out of Frank. He just holds Gerard's gaze, the last wisps of their cigarette smoke fading between them. To be completely honest, Frank's got no idea what's wrong with him.


"I had this nightmare, last night," he starts. Clears his throat. The nervous habit of running his middle and ring finger across his bottom lip attacks him, as if he's trying to hide a smile that's invisible. "I didn't want to wake you up, though. I've just been awake."


Gerard's eyes change, something desperate, confused, possibly. Frank thinks his head shakes a little, because a strand of hair slides down and around Gerard's high cheek bones. "But, it's midnight now."


Frank nods and strikes a match for the smell.


*


The consequence of breaking another - the last - egg in the house, is eating stale Cheerios for breakfast. The milk and cereal were bought same day. While the cereal got old and hard-soft, the milk just got hard. Frank holds the fridge open, eyes melting to the expiration date on the carton. His mouth won't close; though the smell in the kitchen has been solved, his hunger hasn't been.


This morning, Gerard's already dressed, but his hair is still in wet knots around his face. There's a cigarette hanging between his soft lips and Frank slams the spoiled milk carton on the counter. The bottom of it crushes out.


Gerard doesn't say anything. He doesn't even take the unlit cigarette from his mouth. He stands in front of Frank and hooks his arm around a stiff neck. Frank inhales the scent of Gerard - cheap shampoo, dryer sheets and smoke - and curls his fingers wide along Gerard's back. There's a helpless tension in his hands. He can feel it cramping his muscles.


"The easiest things get so fucked up. . ."


*


Something as simple as a nod can set Frank off, just because he would take it the wrong way, offensively. The entire foundation that he woke up with in the morning would crumble easier than water rushing on a sand castle. He can't help it. The simple tragedies of life are so amplified, especially around Gerard.


When Gerard boils water in the morning for tea, instead of coffee, because his throat is sore, Frank near literally kicks himself for not thinking of it. He stares into the flame on the stove, the steam shooting out of the kettle. He imagines that one day, just like that steam, his head will erupt. Like that ashtray a few days ago.


"How'd you sleep?"


Frank shrugs, "You had a coughing fit at 4:17 this morning, but you didn't wake up." He pauses to trail his finger over a spiral pattern of wood in the table. "It scared me."


Gerard tears open a tea bag and sits across from Frank. "You didn't sleep at all?"


Frank chews on the jagged nail of his thumb. He can't make eye contact with Gerard when he's got purple circles under his eyes, uncomfortable in the day. There's a melody streaming like sleak bars of music in his head; it's sad, the way a string quartet would play at somebody's funeral. Ruefully, he thinks of his own. What it would be like.


"You want some tea?"


Frank shakes his head, the copper wire taste of his own blood sliding through his crooked teeth. He sucks on his thumb for a moment to dry the wound out. His eyes cross, examining the cut his teeth made. It's microscopic, really. He adds pressure and the blood seems to pour freely down the curve of his finger.


"Come back to bed with me?" Frank pushes his brow up, hopeful. It's not forced.


Gerard can't smile, but his eyes are warmer.


*


Gerard leaves. It's a few days of promotional stuff, for the comic book, for the band, for life. Frank drives home in an eerie silence. The hum of the car is all that's heard. The horns blaring behind him in traffic.


"Have you ever listened to that little voice in the back of you head?" Frank asks himself, eyes on a carousel with rust spots covering it, dead grass around it, in the park. He shakes his head and slides his foot to the gas pedal. "No," he answers himself. "I haven't."


Leaving Gerard at the airport feels like leaving behind his lungs or his heart. He's still alive, physically and mentally, but. It's a different kind of living. Something feels missing. When he turns the key in the lock, he prays Gerard is waiting for him in their room.


The bed is made.


The phone rings when Gerard's plane lands. It's embarrassing that he picks up through the middle of the first ring, but he can't help it. He won't eat until he hears Gerard is safe. Landed.


"There's cake in the fridge," Gerard says without a hello. "It should still be good."


Frank smiles, but it won't stretch wide enough to feel good. "How was the flight?" The details of their space apart, the way Gerard's voice sounds pained around the edges, makes Frank feel like he's not alone so much. "How long?"


Gerard sighs, but tries to do it away from the phone. Frank picks a string from the hole in his jeans, on the thigh. He thinks that Gerard doesn't want to dwell on this seperation. "I'll be home in seventy-two hours," he says.


"That number is way too high," Frank cringes, tosses the string to the floor. He leans back onto Gerard's pillow. With his voice in Frank's ear, his smell near, Frank feels like he's there. It's noticable that his touch isn't, though. It makes Frank's insides ache, whatever happens to be left of them.


"Three days," Gerard says softly. "The day after tomorrow, and then a few hours."


"Be safe."


*


Not having Gerard home feels like Frank's broken all the eggs in the world and can't walk on them.


It's a fiasco.


*


"I haven't. . . gone crazy, yet," Frank whispers into the phone. "But I'm getting there."


Gerard will be home in an hour, and Frank is sitting on the porch, waiting. They won't hang up until Gerard's in front of the house. He's taking a cab, because Frank's embarrassed to admit that he used up all the gas with trips to that park near the airport, spinning himself on that carousel.


"I have," Gerard says sincerely. "I've been talking to myself. . . more."


Frank knows the feeling. That little voice creeping up into the back of his head, wrapping itself around his ears. Making him listen. Begging for an answer.


"I know," is all he can say.


*


Frank stares.


The chipped eggshell in the bowl makes him want to throw something. He's not sure when he's going to do something - anything - right. He's not sure how long he's going to need Gerard to soothe him in his anxieties. When the comforting hand on the small of his back isn't going to help him through it all.


He chain smokes in the living room until the sun goes down. He's in the middle of the room, reveling in his ability to keep everyday tragedies alive, with Gerard's hand tangled in his own.


"I can always see what you're made of," Gerard says.


Frank stares at the ceiling.