James Cameron Got it Wrong // Frerard

chapter three

***

Frank wakes up in pain. He winces behind closed eyelids. His back hurts and he's lying on a hard surface. Did he fall out of his bed in the night? That's happened once, but he was drunk, and he doesn't remember drinking last night. He doesn't feel hungover. He can't even remember going to the party. Fuck, he's thirsty.

He blinks his eyes open slowly, wincing against the too-bright sunlight. It takes a moment for his vision to adjust and the first thing he focuses on is an unsteady stack of cans, branded with "Power Pup", the "Better Living" logo stark in black on the white labels. That startles him fully awake and he jolts up onto his elbows, his gaze skittering around the room he's in. Booths down the side, batteries scattered on the counter, faded dusty tiles on the floor, a shoulder holster holding a bright yellow gun hanging off the back of a chair. His heart stutters, throat closing over, as he realises he's still in the diner, still in the future, and it all comes flooding back.

His movements startle Gerard awake too, who Frank sees now is curled up beside him, one arm warm and heavy across Frank's chest, his scarlet hair a tangled mess over his eyes. He blinks at Frank from behind the red locks, brows furrowing in concern or confusion. "You okay?"

Frank bites his lip, the slight pain helping him to focus. "Yeah, I just..." He shrugs, his voice tight. "Forgot where I was."

Gerard nods slowly. He seems to realise he's got his arm draped over Frank and withdraws it quickly, wrinkling his nose. "Sorry."

Frank shrugs. "Not your fault." He thinks maybe Gerard's apologising for invading his space, not for the fact that Frank is still trapped in the future, but he'll take it either way.

Gerard sits up, rifling a hand through his hair and succeeding in getting it out of his face, but also making it stick up at weird angles. It's so typical Gerard that Frank finds himself smiling at it without thinking and Gerard returns it, his expression soft.

"You should try and get some more sleep."

"Not a chance." Frank's not going get to sleep again. Not now. Not until he's completely exhausted. That's how it happened last night. He can't remember how he got inside - in fact, everything after they talked about Jersey is a blur. He has a vague memory of gentle fingers in his hair, soothing him into sleep, but he's not sure if he dreamt it.

He rubs a hand across his face. He needs coffee, juice, food, something, but he's pretty sure none of the above are going to be on offer. "There's some water in the kitchen, right?"

Gerard looks like he wants to say something, something Frank's pretty sure won't have anything to do with water, but he doesn't. He just nods at Frank, keeping his mouth shut. Frank doesn't ask, he's heard enough for now, so he just crawls from the mess of sleeping bags to pad into the kitchen.

Mikey's already up, fully dressed right down to his jacket and boots, thigh holster strapped on and holding his bright red gun. His shiny helmet with the silver "GOOD LUCK" lettering across the visor sits on the counter, next to a backpack he's strapping closed with a canvas belt.

"You going somewhere, Mikey?" Frank asks the obvious question.

Mikey double-takes, his eyes lingering on Frank's two-tone mohawk a moment too long. "Kobra." he reminds Frank gently, pulling the strap tight and sliding the clasp shut to hold it.

"Right. Kobra." Frank shakes his head. "Told you it would take me a while to get used to it." He boosts himself up to sit on the bench, reaching for one of the half-full bottles of water and unscrewing the lid.

Mikey shrugs, "S'cool. I get it." He shoulders the bag, tucking the helmet under his arm. Frank gets stuck looking at him, his blond hair falling across his forehead, his colourful clothes, his face lightly tanned and free of glasses. Of all of them, Mikey's changed the most physically, but watching him move around, Frank can still see the old Mikey in there, in the awkward way he stands, in the set of his shoulders, the way he speaks. It's like looking at Mikey through a carnival mirror, distorted and alien, but still very much him.