By the next morning, Frank had pretty much forgotten his little episode. The panic he'd had the night before (which had, indeed, been a terrible one) had faded, the last tendrils clinging to his mind like a bad dream.
Gerard? Gerard who? He was going crazy.
In fact, when his alarm went off, he felt in a particularly good mood that he couldn't quite place. Maybe it was just the knowledge that he was now in the position to tear a literal chunk out of his friends for abandoning him the day before. They were lucky that Gerard was such a reasonable man – otherwise, Frank would probably walk away from them, leaving a few black eyes in his wake. But no – since the priest was such a genuinely kind man, and Frank didn't mind at all spending time with him, he'd just act a little pissed off for a while (which he was), and wait for them to apologise (they would).
Frank smirked as he approached the four students leaning against the wall, waiting for him. They knew they'd messed up – he intentionally hadn't replied to their messages all weekend (because yes, that's how eighteen year old boys got revenge).
Unsurprisingly, it was the only girl in the group – Mia – who made a move towards him first. With her black combat boots, choppy black hair and septum ring, she looked pretty intimidating. Not necessarily in a 'I'll beat you up' kind of way, more in a 'I'll make you cry with one word'. When Frank had first met her, even he was afraid to speak to her – and that was saying something. Once you got past the icy glare of her eyes and the sharpness of her tongue, though, she was – and was often referred to as – a cupcake.
By the time Mia reached him, Frank was unable to keep the smile from his face.
"Hey, Princess," (the nickname was sarcastic, even if she secretly loved it), "how's things?"
Mia slowed for a moment, furrowing her brow.
Frank knew he was in trouble when she flared her nostrils, moving faster towards him. She was only about two inches shorter than him, but he was certain she could gnaw his ankles off.
"Frank Iero you asshole," she said, smacking his arm. He jumped back, frowning.
"Hey! Woah, the fuck you hitting me for, tiny?" he said. She glowered, and he was almost nervous.
"Because. We were all fucking...worried. You wouldn't reply to any of us," she said, her bottom lip quivering in the threat of a pout. By then, the other boys had come to flank her, looking at Frank with expressions of frustration, laced with apology. Frank shrugged, the mischievous smile still tugging at his lips.
"What can I say? I like leaving you losers out to dry," he said coolly, moving towards the doors. One of the boys – Damien – grabbed his arm to keep his attention. Had it been anyone else, Frank would probably have shrugged him off, but Damien was much taller than him, with rippling muscles that pressed under his ebony skin. He wasn't quite as sweet as Mia, but Frank knew he wouldn't hurt him. Not unless he had to.
"Alright, alright," Frank said, holding his hands up in an apologetic gesture. He turned to his friends and smiled reassuringly, as if he were the jury instead of them. This certainly didn't go the way he'd planned. His friends were as unpredictable as he liked to pretend to be.
"It's fine, guys. I'm not mad that you abandoned me," he said, arching an eyebrow. Mia popped her hip, looking up at him.
"Did you get in trouble?" she asked, clearly voicing the thoughts of the whole group. He smiled and shook his head.
"Nah. The new Priest – Father Way. He's a pretty nice guy. He just said I need to help him out around the Church until I've paid off the money for the window I broke. He didn't even tell my parents," he said. His stomach tightened a little at the memory of the man's cool demeanour, but he dismissed it. He was probably just feeling sort of embarrassed about being the Priest's bitch.
His friends, however, didn't seem phased.
"Well," said Damien, "I guess it's just good he didn't call the police. My Mom said he's pretty cool," he said with a gentle shrug. Frank nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, I mean. He's kind of intense, y'know? But he's a nice enough guy. Could have had me locked up or something, but he didn't,"
"Well, I mean, he's a Priest. That's what they do, right?" said Cooter, biting off a hangnail. Nobody quite knew where the nickname had come from, and in the absence of an actual name, it stuck. He was taller than Frank, but shorter than Damien, and frequently pretended that he took himself seriously. It was possibly his favourite game, other than terrifying the ninth graders. Out of the group, he was by far the most likely to actually get into a fight. Frank looked at him, arching an eyebrow.
"They don't call the cops when you break their windows?" Frank asked incredulously. Cooter rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his brown hair – grown intentionally too long, almost like a statement.
"No, dumbass. I mean...the whole forgiveness thing. Forgive thy neighbour or some shit like that. It was probably his good deed of the day," he deduced. Mia snorted.
"Cooter, I don't think Priests need good deeds of the day. They're like, married to God,"
"That's Nuns," Cooter retaliated. Thankfully for the sanity of all present, the bell tolled to announce the beginning of the school day, and the group began to move forward. As they did, Frank caught the last of the group, Daniel, on the shoulder.
"Hey. You alright, dude? You seem sort of quiet today," he said gently. Daniel looked up, pushing his light blonde hair away from his face and offering a weak smile.
"I'm good. Didn't sleep," he said softly. He was naturally soft-spoken, with a constant blush gracing his cheeks. He was by far the most gentle of the group, and the others tended to protect him. Maybe a bit too much.
Frank smiled and patted him on the back.
"Alright man, if you say so," he said. Daniel nodded, and the two boys entered the building together.
Every Monday, after school, the five friends collected in Mia's Dad's basement for band practice. It'd been that way for as long as they could remember, and now they didn't even have to confirm it with each other. Mia's Father, having won custody of her after the divorce of her parents, was quite doting, and willing to spend whatever money he had on her. While that could have made her spoilt, all she asked was for a practice space for her band, and she got it. Both of them felt like they had a good deal.
The only member of the group that wasn't part of the band was Daniel. Being the only one who didn't see himself as proficient in an instrument (really, none of them were), he preferred to just sit and watch, occasionally giving feedback. Of course, feedback often meant unwavering praise, but the band weren't totally bothered by that.
That evening, as they collected in Mia's basement, they were chatting animatedly amongst themselves as they tuned their instruments (or, in Daniel's case, found a comfortable place to sit).
Frank arrived slightly late, looking in a state of disarray.
"What's going on?" he asked, noticing the unusual buzz of activity. Mia turned a broad grin onto him.
"Frankie, Damien's a genius," she said. Frank snorted, grabbing his guitar from the wall.
"We all knew that," he said sarcastically, leaning against the wall to tune. Mia rolled her eyes, her irises momentarily disappearing behind the precise line of black on her upper lid.
"No, asshat, I'm serious. He thought of a name for us," she said, turning to beam at the man in question. Frank often thought that Damien played drums for an excuse to hide at the back – that was certainly what he was doing now.
"Go on then," he said, an unwelcome tinge of interest staining his otherwise entirely bored tone. Mia gave him a wide-eyed smile.
"Mouthsick," she said, with all the grandeur of an infomercial actor. Frank looked up, playing a few chords on his guitar.
"Mouthsick? That's...gross,"
"Gross, yes. Punk – also yes," Mia insisted. Frank made a soft, amused noise.
"I wouldn't call us punk, Princess. Maybe like – pop punk," he didn't miss the disgusted wrinkle of Mia's nose.
"Don't use that word in my house," she growled, pulling her bass over her head. Cooter approached his microphone, guitar already tuned and in hand.
"Actually," he said, his voice echoing around the room, "that's two words, cupcake," he said smugly. Mia flipped him the finger and stood at her own microphone.
"It's Mouthsick. I'm the singer so I get to decide," she said firmly. She was so determined that nobody quite had the heart to tell her that that's not how it worked.
The practice ended a few hours later when Mia's father got home, claiming to have a headache. It was fairly routine by now for them to have to clear out on account of his lame excuses. They were normally exhausted by the time this happened anyway, so they were happy to oblige.
Normally, Frank would just walk home, masturbate, and nap until dinner time. But for whatever reason, today he found himself walking down a different path. He wasn't entirely sure where he was going, until he saw the high peak of the Church approaching. He could, in theory, get home this way, but it involved a much longer journey. He hadn't walked this way since he'd discovered the shortcut from Mia's place to his own, which involved walking through a woods-like park. It was normally quite a pleasant walk, so he had no idea at all why he was here. Maybe it was just him being absent-minded, his brain clouded with the full day of school and band practice. Though, somewhere in his mind he realised that was a lie when he saw the light on in the home next to the Church.
He stood there for a moment, the autumn air kissing his face as he considered his next move. Should he go over? Did he even want to? What if Gerard was busy, or didn't want to see him? He thought all these things, mixed with the confusion of why he was even there in the first place, but felt his feet move slowly forward.
His mind flashed back to the panic of the night before and he finally stopped dead in his tracks.
He remembered it, now.
He remembered the way he'd stared out the window and wondered if the Priest was looking at those stars, or if they were really shining from his eyes. His head had still been filled with that sweet, yet musky scent, and his hands were tracing, over and over, the feeling of those buttons under his fingers.
And oh God, maybe Gerard was a Saint but Frank was a fucking sinner. And the words – the damn truth – burned a hole in the back of his skull and rose like acid in his throat, but he couldn't spit them out. He swallowed hard, flushing away the hymns that lined his mouth, but they kept being rewritten and rewritten and rewritten. He wanted to run but the Devil had his ankles, and above his head there was an angel with a clerical collar and he was staring at him in dismay.
All this happened in a matter of ten seconds, where the cool wind didn't bother him because he was being warmed by hellfire.
The flames were killed by a hand on his shoulder, and he recognised it straight away and almost melted into purgatory, saved only by that cool, clean voice-
"Frank?"
Frank spun around, not even surprised when he saw Gerard standing there, his face contorted into an expression of concern.
"Father," he whispered. Gerard's eyes roamed over his face and he frowned even more, lines in his face deepening. Frank only realised when he frowned just how old the other man was.
"Frank, are you alright? You seem...shaken," he said softly. It should have maybe made things worse, but somehow, the coolness of Gerard's voice soothed Frank. It was like he was filling him with holy water, burning out the sin he hadn't committed yet.
The sin he didn't even fully understand yet.
Frank swallowed and forced a smile.
"I just...I don't know. Father, I feel strange. I don't know why I walked this way. I was walking home and –" he cut himself off when he realised there were tears in his eyes. Gerard smiled kindly.
"Come on, Frank. I'll make you some tea and we can talk," he said gently, offering him the arm that wasn't attached to the cane. Frank sniffed and nodded, his hand gracing the other man's.
The contact actually helped. Gerard wasn't a divine figure, or a Madonna. He was just a man. A mortal, imperfect man. Frank could deal with that. Probably.
Frank's hands curled around the mug of tea again. He vaguely noted that it was the same one as before, and felt a sort of sense of ownership over it.
Gerard was just wearing baggy blue jeans and a dark blue knitted sweater. He moved to the record player on his desk, putting on a disk that Frank couldn't identify, before moving back to the sofa.
Frank wondered if the music was really distorted, or if his brain was moving more slowly than usual.
The sofa dipped as Gerard sat down and gave him a soft smile.
"So. You wanna talk about it?" Gerard asked sweetly. Frank looked up at him, expecting to see the universe in his eyes. He was almost shocked when he didn't.
What he faced instead was the warmest, most comforting sight he could imagine. It was like a mug of steaming hot chocolate on a snow day, or the feeling of falling into bed after a busy, tiring day. He felt his whole body relax, like he'd sink into the sofa, if not for the comforting hand on Frank's shoulder. He swallowed hard.
"I do. And if I'm going to tell anyone, it would be you. But I...I honestly don't know what's happening," he admitted.
"Maybe...describe it?" he asked. Frank paused. What was he supposed to say? 'I'm not too sure, but I might have a crush on you, or maybe I'm just overwhelmed because you're so pure, but every inch of me seems attracted to you'? He just sighed.
"I can't. I don't know. I'm sorry for bothering you," he mumbled. Gerard made a gentle noise, rubbing his hand over Frank's shoulder, fingers touching his shoulder blade. Frank felt ice cold where he'd touched him – but warm somehow, too.
"You couldn't bother me, Frank. Believe it or not, but I actually appreciate your company," he smiled. He let his hand rest on Frank's shoulder blade, and the boy genuinely believed that there would be some sort of scar in the shape of the man's hand. They were silent for a moment, drinking their respective drinks. Gerard stood suddenly, moving to his desk. He stopped to flip the vinyl over, then opened a drawer and took something out. He walked over to Frank, the object in his hand.
"Take this. And whenever you feel weighed down by the world, hold it until you feel better," he said softly. He opened his hand, revealing a rosary. The beads switched between deep, purple red, and a delicate pink. The cross itself was the same deep brown as the pews in the church. Instead of nails through the body, though, there were pink roses. Frank thought it was a beautiful alternative.
He took it, still feeling the heat of the Priests hands on the wood, and blushed deeply.
"Thank you, Father. Really. But...I can't take this. I mean. I'm not much of a prayer kind of guy," he admitted.
Gerard's smile reached all the way to his eyes. As his frown had made him look older, the boyish grin on his face made him seem much, much younger.
"Maybe, Frank, it's time that you give prayer another shot,"
On Gerard's instruction, Frank tried praying that night. He kneeled at the side of his bed, rosary wound between his fingers, his head bowed. He was silent for a moment, trying to channel that divine feeling he got in the Church and, taking a deep breath, began to pray.
"Dear Father. Dear God. I don't know what's happening to me. I haven't committed a sin yet, I don't think – but I feel like I might. My feelings for Father Way are...confusing and overwhelming. I don't know what they are. Please help me to understand what I'm feeling. And if my feelings are impure, as I feel they may be, then help me get over it,"
His voice was a gentle murmur, barely audible, even in the still, autumn night.
He raised his head and looked around. He quickly found that he didn't feel any different at all, and felt almost ridiculous for actually trying it. He threw the rosary into the drawer of his bedside table and collapsed into bed.
Thankfully, that night, he didn't have any sudden realisation. None that he could remember, anyway.