Home Is Where Everything Is (oneshots, short things)

uno

Frank was having the time of his life sleeping, -- sleeping so peacefully he almost thought he was dead. His apartment was silent except for that annoying hum of his rinky-dink refrigerator and the rain tapping against his roof and windows. Damn, it was good. He loved when it rained and he loved when he was asleep during it. He was sprawled out on top of his covers, naked except for a pair of boxers, and drooling onto his pillow. It was cool inside the house and everything was perfect until he heard banging on his door. At first, he thought it was the building crumbling down in his dream, just making too much damn noise, but when it happened the second time and the building was already in a pile of rubble, he jolted up, a string of saliva hanging from his lip to the pillow. He wiped his mouth and stumbled out of bed, cursing as he walked to the door and turned on the kitchen light. It could only be one fucking person.

The faint aroma of pizza wafted up his nose and he considered grabbing a cold slice of it later on. Just the thought was opening up his senses and now, it'd probably be hard for him to go back to sleep. He grumpily unlocked his front door and yanked it open.

Gerard's eyes met his instantly. He was dripping wet and shivering, using his skinny arms to hug himself to keep himself warm. His black hair was matted to his face and his pink lips were too pink; they almost looked pale. A drop of water dripped from his nose and he sniffled as his legs accidentally knocked together, the jeans sticking to him - as well as his shirt and jacket. The thing that really caught Frank's eye was the bruise underneath Gerard's.

Frank examined him again, heard Gerard's teeth click together noisily, and started to close door. It got caught on Gerard's foot. His eyes were begging silently for Frank to not be the dick he usually is and let him in. He had no obligation to, though. Frank didn't owe Gerard anything. Whatever the fuck happened to Gerard was his problem. Frank scratched at the stubble on his face and glared at him some more, still not speaking. "Can I a-at least dry m-my clothes-s?" Gerard whispered, his eyes focusing past Frank to look inside his warm apartment.

"What the hell happened to you?" He scoffed, his voice croaking. He didn't actually give a shit, but he knew Gerard would feel better if he pretended he cared. "You look like shit."

"Thanks." Gerard mumbled, and he didn't even say it sarcastically, which made Frank raise an eyebrow. It was like, 3 in the morning, and he was sleepy, and he kind of really didn't care about anything but his bed. He scratched his stomach now, wondering if he should just be nice and let him stay over. Gerard looked really bummed, like he was about to cry, and Frank's seen him cry plenty enough times to know that it makes him feel really fucking uncomfortable because he never knows what to do to make him stop. Either he goes through that, or he goes through Gerard being sad for-fucking-ever, moaning and pouting and random tears rolling down his face when he fucking drinks a cup of water or some shit.

Fucking baby.

"Whatever." Frank huffed. He turned around and headed right back to his room, got some fresh clothes, and left them on the couch. He was falling asleep again before the dryer even started.

( )

The smell of bacon broke Frank out of his slumber and he freaked the fuck out for one second before he remembered who was in his apartment with him. Who even said Gerard could make breakfast? Not that he minded but... the guy was acting like he lived here. Though, you could say he did, but he really didn't. Frank didn't like knowing that Gerard had been in here enough times to go over Frank's comfort zone, but he has, and it's his fault, so that ship has sailed.

Frank rolled out of bed and went to wash up, half wondering if he could feel a headache coming on from God knows what, and half wondering if he had even had enough food in here for breakfast to even be considered. He put on a pair of sweatpants and ambled into his kitchen, sticking a hand down them to rub at the crease lines on his hips. He had a dining room area, but it was too small, only big enough for a fold out table that could only sit two people, or else it would be really fucking crowded. Along with the table, he had another one that held random junk on top of it in the corner. Basically, it was a dining room/open closet.