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Nobody says anything as they hurry off of the stage. Ray shoots him a look that nearly breaks his heart, mouth in a firm little line, but doesn't make a move to talk to him or voice any opinions one way or another. Mikey squeezes his shoulder in passing and resumes trying to chug his water and text Alicia with one hand.
Frank doesn't meet his eyes either, just shoves his gear away and plants himself down on the green room couch.
Gerard feels light-headed, a little sick, the kind of sick that your own body brings on itself in the wake of extreme anxiety. He's miserable, exhausted, and probably dehydrated. He's ready to go home.
The gig went all wrong, as gigs sometimes do, but they ignore it, Mikey grumbling about going back to the bus, Ray asking- more announcing- that he's leaving on his own to get dinner, as if he even wants any of them to join him.
Gerard shrugs his jacket off, crams it into a ball, and winces as the corner of the sheriff's badge digs into his palm. Worm asks Frank if he's okay, as if Gerard isn't in earshot, and the embarrassment nearly makes him keel over right there. He wants a shower and one of those little frozen pizzas from his neighborhood grocery store and the blanket that always sits on the arm of his couch. He wants a bad movie and ice cream and the soap that sits in his apartment that he never brings on the road.
He hears Frank answer with a quick "Yeah," not wanting to talk to anyone, not even Worm, and he knows that Frank wouldn't say much more even if Gerard hadn't been in the room. He tries to busy himself at the little tea station, ears straining. He hears Frank tell him that it's just one of those nights, nothing to worry about, that he's fine, and Gerard's heart sinks because he knows Frank is lying through his teeth.
"Hey," Gerard addresses Frank finally, "You want some?" He gestures with the kettle in his hand.
"Nah, go ahead." Frank sighs, and Gerard notices with a sliver of relief that he looks more tired than anything, doesn't look like he wants to kill Gerard, unlike that time three years prior, but his mouth is still set in a little line, shoulders slumped, and Gerard can't quite read him.
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"You know you're being a dick?" Frank closes the door to their hotel room, and Gerard is painfully aware of the space he now occupies with him, alone, the air conditioner buzzing to life and the quiet hallway outside.
"Yeah, well, we're all tired, Jesus fuck-" Gerard flinches. Frank continues. Gerard stares at the wall like it's the love of his life and not the pissed off kid digging clean socks out of his duffel bag. Gerard takes a second to be thankful they aren't staying in the bunks tonight, even if he has to room with him.
"...and it's all so important to you and we're all tired, you sounded awful up there and I get that it's been a long run, I'm sorry that you had to turn thirty while fronting an insanely successful band and doing what you love-" Frank shoves his duffel back into the corner, going over to Gerard's bag and grabbing his own deodorant from the zippered pocket outside, but he doesn't slow down. "Must be so hard for you, but we're all tired." He repeats himself, looking like he's about to cry. Gerard's mouth hangs open from the outburst and he closes it now, watching him from the bed. Frank is a crier, always has been, and Gerard doesn't want to see it now, now when he feels like he wants to quit the whole deal and the shred of empathy Frank offered earlier is making him feel even worse. He wants to make the decision for both of them, announce that it's okay, offer to run downstairs and get Frank a drink or a chocolate bar from the vending machine in the hallway, maybe even apologize- he does that on occasion- but he stays quiet, yanking the rest of his stage clothes off while Frank talks to nobody in particular. He feels disgusting.
"It just wasn't the right time," Gerard tries. "I just wanted to get the gig over and done with and then you were all close to me and kissing me and it just wasn't-"
"Bullshit," Frank dumps his armload of clean clothes and toiletries bag in the bathroom, circling back to stand nearer to him. "You ever heard of not making a scene when you're uncomfortable? You know how many people recorded that, how many idiots are going to blow it out of proportion?"
Gerard takes a few breaths, tries to rationalize. That usually helps, but this isn't a usual night. "I was irritated, it was stupid-" It's not much, but it's the beginning of an apology. He's feeling anxious and desperate tonight.
Frank snorts. "Yeah, you got that right."
"I'm sorry." Gerard finally offers, wounded pride and all. "People fight, I've seen so much worse shit go down between bands. It's okay." He holds his breath, knowing that his avoidance won't help, but he has to justify it all, has to have the last word. He considers telling him about the time he saw Geoff deck a guy from their opener before Frank joined the band, because it was actually pretty funny, but he can feel Frank shutting down, knows he wouldn't care or listen. Frank drags the rest of his stuff into the bathroom before looking him over once more, and says, "I never expected it from you."
So Gerard sits there on the bed, opening and closing his phone, marinating in his stage clothes and feeling sorry for himself. He peels his t-shirt and socks off, sitting there in his too-tight jeans and underwear, feeling like a kid who's been put in a time out. Mikey and Ray have both texted him. He responds to Mikey's only, knows he's sitting in his room complaining to Ray about the whole ordeal and worrying about Gerard to himself. The first says, "You're an asshole." The second asks if he's alive. Gerard responds "Yeah", knowing MIkey will take that as an answer to both. He never minds with Mikey gets angry with him, it rolls off of his shoulders like water after thirty years of knowing him and sharing a house with him for more than twenty. Mikey is the only person he's ever gotten in a physical fight with as well, the only person he's ever laid a hand on, and those times don't even count. It's fairly normal to hit and shove your younger brother when he breaks a toy or steals your clothes or makes fun of your badly-dyed hair or tells you that your girlfriend is going to leave you if you don't start washing your undershirts. Bandmates, not so much.
Gerard decides to respond to Ray's text then, an offer to get coffee in the morning, and realizes that the two of them are probably busy fawning over Frank. Frank, oblivious and in the shower, receiving god-knows what sorts of messages sympathizing with him.
Gerard knows that he deserves it, but he's still pissed, wishes he could ignore everyone and everything rather than admit to being wrong. The whole tour feels wrong, like the pieces aren't fitting and the album has been dragged out well past it's expiration date. He feels wrong. Kissing frank feels wrong, at least in the context of the stage. It was fun once, made them both giddy to put on such a performance. He could deal with it in the beginning, could go back to the hotel and have him for real, could keep his memories of Frank kissing him and fucking him and accosting him backstage. It feels wrong now, and he's tired and angry and wants to go home.
The digital clock on his bedside table says it's nearly 2:00 and Frank emerges from the bathroom, untrimmed hair wet and curling around his ears, towel slung over his shoulders. His cheeks are flushed and he looks soft and clean, and Gerard lets himself stare for a little too long. Frank looks him over, perched on the edge of the bed shirtless looking like a drowned rat, and lets out a thousand-word sigh.
Frank walks over to where he's sitting, wraps his arms around him in a platonic sort of way, and presses a kiss to the side of Gerard's head in a very not-so-platonic sort of way. Gerard's chest clenches and it's all he can do to not pull him in and grab on, the affection makes him so giddy. Frank sits down next to him on the bed and rests is head on Gerard's left shoulder. "I'm not gonna apologize for calling you a dick." He mumbles against him.
Gerard hesitates, then lets out a short laugh. "Usually Mikey's the only one to call me out on shit."
Frank moves over and takes a long, hard look at him. "I think you need to be told that more often."
And Gerard, body forever betraying him, feels himself shrink under Frank's stare.
He considers his options for a moment; there's only one that he knows will end in him getting a good nights' sleep. He looks at Frank, smiles a little, and says, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Frank's hand comes down on his cheek almost before he can finish his sentence. Through the fuzzy layer of lust in his brain, he chuckles internally and thinks that he probably deserves that as well.
He swallows, closing and then opening his eyes again to look up at him. "Okay. Okay, alright." Gerard reaches up to touch his stinging cheek. Frank looks like he's about to murder him, like he's using his last shred of patience to stand there and even attempt a conversation.
"I thought we said we wouldn't do this shit when we were upset." Gerard takes a moment to breathe, tries to ignore the totally fucked up yet real way his burning face goes straight to his dick.
Frank snorts. "You hate talking- but you're right," he amends, sitting down next to him. "Not a good idea."
Frank doesn't apologize either, not directly, and Gerard smiles to himself. They're both terrible at communicating. He shouldn't be, at his age. He makes a mental note to work on that, because the prospect of losing Frank is something so terrifying that he doesn't think about it often.
The silence between them stretches on, but it isn't an uncomfortable one, not this time.
"You really are a fucking dick sometimes- I mean it," Frank says when Gerard opens his mouth to interject before he's even finished.
Gerard starts to panic again, because he hates it when Frank is right, so he says, "So is everyone sometimes," but Frank tilts his head and /looks/ at him and he shuts his mouth again. He thinks about that time in Nebraska when Frank stepped on him, the time four years ago when he went onstage breathless and aching, unsure if it was the weed, being out of shape, or Frank pummeling him in the private green room twenty minutes prior. He thinks about it not because he's feeling sorry for himself, not within the context of their conversation- he's not conflating the two. He's thinking about it because it's a nice memory, it's sexy, and he really doesn't want to be going over his flaws with his best friend in a hotel room at one o'clock in the morning. He still hasn't so much as taken a shower.
Gerard turns to Frank, wrapping his arms around him with an intensity that he hopes comes off more like lust than anxiety, and presses a kiss to his shoulder.