Work Text:
2002
At the moment, the jacket is the only thing in Gerard's life that's completely trashed, and considering his track record, that isn't half bad.
He realizes this as he fumbles with his key outside of the basement door, no longer berating himself for still living at home because he's getting an apartment soon, anyway, and it saves him some money while he's still figuring out playing shows and how much gear costs and what exactly those contacts he signed with Eyeball even entail.
He's a little tipsy, a little stoned, and wishes he could bitch to Mikey about his jacket for the umpteenth time, but Mikey is staying the night with some girl, and he's heard it all before. Gerard pulls the faded leather tighter around his body, trying to find a solution. Could he teach himself how to sew? Did he know anyone from college who knew how? Could you duct tape leather?
He finally gets the key to turn, shoving open the outside door to the basement with his leather-clad shoulder, as it always sticks from being warped in the cold winters. He gives the door a little kick for good measure, closing it behind him and grinning to himself.
Gerard falls into his desk chair, jabbing at the on button on his computer. He's still thrilled at the knowledge that he can afford a desktop now, after relying on his old laptop from college for years. It's still new, he's scanned all of his work onto it, Justin emailed him the files from their last shoot and he looks really, really cool. Sexy, even, he thinks with a wild grin. Yeah. They've got professional photos now, and he looks sexy in them. He leans his head back, staring at nothing in particular on the ceiling. He could always put a movie on, or read, but he feels restless, like his still-zonked-out brain wouldn't be able to focus on anything for more than thirty seconds.
He closes his eyes for a moment- just a moment, he promises himself, because sometimes he likes some peace and quiet when he's crossfaded. It's calming, to make everything stop for a minute. He considers his options from behind dark eyelids. Maybe he'll turn in early. Maybe he'll masturbate, because, although he hates to admit it, the guitarist they hired last year is kinda hot, has this whole laid back cocky demeanor that leaves Gerard's head spinning sometimes. He has a number of options at the moment, though, and all things considered, his life is fucking awesome. He's started taking medication, and it seems to be working; the only problem being that he can't hold an erection some nights, which kinda sucks, but is better than being suicidal.
He opens his eyes, bored of his own thoughts, and screams.
What actually comes out is more of a panicked "SHIT!" followed by a quick string of apologies, because there's some dude standing in his room and he definitely didn't hear the door open, but maybe he's a friend of Mikey's who got lost or needs something or is trying to find the bathroom, and he totally does have a bathroom down here but there's hair in the sink and he just completely embarrassed himself in front of this total stranger-
But the guy's apologizing too, laughing at him but sounding sincere as can be, saying "Fuck, I didn't want to scare you," and Gerard shuts up pretty quick as soon as he opens his mouth.
The guy sounds like him. Not how his voice sounds in his head, but in recordings he’s heard, in the weird feedback from stage monitors and in old home videos, and as usual, it’s weird to hear his own voice. As Gerard squints in his dim room, he notices that the dude vaguely looks like him as well. He looks like a better version of him- not that he thinks he looks particularly bad these days, but this guy looks like some fucked-up fantasy version of himself, something he might have daydreamed up on the studio couch, a really ambitious self-portrait that Mikey would have teased him for.
His hair is short, shorter than Gerard’s own was two years ago, and /blonde/, which Gerard finds really bizarre. He’s a little slimmer than Gerard is at the moment, which he never thought was possible, and stares in awe at the figure of perfection standing before him. The guy looks a little amused, like he thinks Gerard is cute, like he wants to laugh at him but is doing everything he can to hold back. Gerard scowls at him, because, what? It's a Saturday night and he's crossfaded in his mom's basement. It wouldn't be a glamorous look for anyone.
As soon as he’s taken all of it in, Gerard starts to feel scared again, suddenly remembering that no matter the resemblance, he has no idea who this guy is or why he’s standing in the middle of his room at almost two o’clock in the morning in the first place. Maybe he has a twin that his parents never told him about; but that would be pretty fucked up, and through his slightly blazed thoughts, he’s doing his best to be logical, as always. He stares at the guy again. Maybe the weed was really bad. Maybe he’s just paranoid. The guy is probably just looking for Mikey.
“Sorry,” He tries again, still frowning at the guy. "I'm sorry, I'm a little stoned, are you like- are you looking for Mikey?" He swallows. Maybe he is hallucinating. Maybe someone spiked his beer. Maybe he’s having some sort of super-rare reaction to the Wellbutrin, one of those side effects that are at the very bottom of the list and labelled ‘NOT COMMON’ along with instructions to immediately talk to your psychiatrist.
"Do you need something?"
"No, no, don't worry." The man walks toward him, slowly as to not startle him more, but it doesn't do shit and Gerard's heart is still pounding, armpits tingling with cold sweat. He doesn't like this. He wants to be left alone, wants to go put his movie on and maybe jerk off and go to sleep.
The blonde man sits down on Gerard's bed and looks around the room at his posters, at the hoodies in his closet, the pile of record label paperwork on the floor that Gerard has been avoiding for the past month. He grins, all tiny teeth and squinty eyes, and Gerard almost passes out because he looks so much like him and it's terrifying. He ignores Gerard, points at an underground porno magazine poking out from his dresser drawer. "You gonna put that away?"
Gerard wants to say no, he's twenty five years old and his mom avoids his room like the plague because it smells musty anyway, but he can only frown at the guy again. "Can you like. Can you please go? Mikey's upstairs, I was gonna sleep-" but he's interrupted before he can finish.
"Mikey's still at Matt's. He'll go home with a girl who works at the label, get really sloshed, and he'll tell you about it tomorrow morning when you bring him McDonald's at ten thirty. You're gonna stay here and talk to me for a minute, because you have fuck all better to do right now other than jerk off to your weird porn that you got in the sale bin at the novelty shop last week, think about calling your guitarist and ruining your friendship with him, think better of it, and fall asleep with the light on. You're gonna have breakfast with your family tomorrow morning, and your parents are going to pretend that they don't know you and Mikey are hungover, because that's what they always do. Mikey will go to work at the bookstore, and you're going to sit down here and do nothing until your rehearsal on Monday morning."
Gerard can only sit there, still slumped in his desk chair, and blink at the guy. "Are you a friend of Mikey's?" He asks again. It needs to make sense.
He has to make it make sense.
The blonde man in front of him grins again, a wide, toothy grin spread out over thinner cheeks, and laughs to himself. He looks like Gerard's baby pictures. "No. Well- yeah, usually." His eyes still look friendly, which perturbs Gerard a little bit, because he can't think of any logical reason why this guy is still standing in his room if he doesn't have anything sinister planned.
The guy still doesn't explain, just says, "A little homoeroticism onstage never hurt anyone, you know."
Gerard squints. "What?"
He smiles at Gerard, all smug. "Frank. You got a thing for him, right? Or is that- shit, am I too early? You're aware of this, right?"
Gerard feels embarrassment wash over him in the form of nausea. Is he that obvious?
Gerard opens his mouth to respond, closes it, screws his eyes shut like he can block everything out and start over. His sweet, floaty buzz he'd had going is starting to fade, and he starts sucking in air in an attempt to cool off his armpits and stop the nausea brewing in his stomach. His buzz is gone and he's panicking, not because of that, no- he can deal, he can party and be fine later, but he's freaking the fuck out at the stranger sitting on his bed who somehow knows things about him that he'd never spoken aloud.
Early. Too early for-
"Too early for what?" Gerard is terrified now, sober and bored and feeling exposed in his dingy basement.
The guy looks annoyed, like he’s had to do this a million times already, like Gerard is dumber than a two year old.
"In 2006, you're-"
"Six?" Gerard's eyebrows shoot up, because, okay, even though it's only a four year difference, he feels like he's still getting used to the new millennium. He hasn't so much as thought about 2006 yet.
The guy sighs. "Six, yeah, come on. Look-" and Gerard rolls his eyes because sure, this is the part where he pulls out some wacky futuristic technology, warns him of his future wrongdoings, and leaves. He's seen it all before, he thinks, as the dude pulls a phone out of his jacket pocket.
Gerard huffs. "I have a cell phone."
"Yeah, I know, but look- check this out." It’s flat, flatter that Gerard’s battered old flip phone, with a tiny mess of keys on the front.
Gerard raises his eyebrows, then shrugs. “So? You have a better phone than me.” He still thinks he might be dreaming, or tripping, or having some wild drug-enhanced dreams. Talking to yourself from the future is totally something that would happen after falling asleep drunk, right?
Gerard stares at the thing, reaches out to touch it. It sure feels like a phone, the guy’s hands feel warm and a little dry and real. It looks expensive. “How much did this cost?” He turns it over in his hands. The screen looks big, like it’s a little computer.
“You don’t wanna know.” He continues, looking vaguely irritated. "In 2006, you're-" He stops again, frowning, trying to find the right words. "Frank." He says, as if deciding to not talk about Gerard at all, as if it's too confusing for him, and Gerard silently thanks the guy, because he isn't making any goddamn sense. "Frank is still in the band. You still have a thing for him, if you're wondering."
Gerard blinks. "Okay?" He says again, deciding to go along with whatever the hell is happening to him. At least he’s hot in four years, he thinks. There’s a plus.
----
Gerard looks at the man sitting next to him on the bed, hardly making a dent the way his body currently is on his side of the mattress.
So he looks like some kind of sexy, superhuman funeral home attendant in the future. That’s pretty cool. He can deal with that.
“Are you going to tell me not to do drugs and then leave?” He giggles a little, laying back on his bed. “Mikey looks out for me, dude.” He tugs his jacket off. “So it’s fine.”
The guy- himself, he reminds himself, but not /really/, only a carbon copy, like if he went to therapy or lost twenty pounds or showered more often, opens his mouth like he wants to say something, shakes his head a little, and obviously decides against it.
Gerard makes a mental note to not let Mikey make cracks about his hygiene during practices because it honestly isn’t /that/ bad, and he’s clinging onto some small hope that one of these days Frank will wake up and suddenly find him attractive enough to fuck.
“You want to kiss me or something?” The dude tilts his head to the side, almost-but-not-quite laughing at him.
“What?” Gerard is startled a little because, hey, maybe his late-night brain was going there, but he wasn’t about to mention it.
“God, I was always horny back then.” He shakes his head. Hazel eyes smile back at him. He’s not messing around. Gerard- the other, older, hotter Gerard- gestures to the magazine on his floor. It’s some weird shit he’s been subscribed to since college, a mixture of indie comics and porn that’s just weird enough for his tastes. It isn’t like he jerks off to it or anything, it’s just interesting to look at, more so than the magazines Ray buys at gas stations. This stuff has aliens. Robots with tits.
Gerard gets a funny eyebrow raise from the guy, still bemused. “Stop looking at me like that.” He shakes his head. “God, you’re a narcissist.”
Gerard kisses him first, surprising himself, but only a little. He’s sobered up enough to know that this is a good decision, as much as it is a decision filled with /whatever/; the sort of “whatever” that the antidepressants often make him feel these days, a safe, content “whatever.” Like he honestly couldn’t care less, but he’s pretty sure he’s okay for now, so he might as well.
Gerard pulls his own pajama pants out of the way, slides them down over his hips and gets his dick out, only feeling somewhat guilty. If he’s hallucinating, or he’s just died or something, or one of the guys’ friends is in here trying to play a sick prank on him while he’s crossed, he’ll die soon anyway, so he might as well enjoy his last moments.
“Should have known,” The older man shakes his head, dragging his eyes over Gerard, bent over himself on the bed. “You still jerking off in front of your mirror, or was that a last year thing?”
Gerard feels his face go all hot and knows how red it is even in the lamplight. “That was one time,” He sighs, suddenly hyper-aware of how big he is compared to the blonde man in front of him. He can feel his hair begin to flatten, gel wearing down, and his forearm keeps brushing up against his stomach as it gets in the way as he moves his hand. He doesn’t usually feel unattractive, per se, but if this is what’s in store for him? He’d better do something real fucking impressive if he doesn’t want to wait four more years. He wants Frank to like him, wants Frank to think he’s hot and not a guy to settle for. He makes a mental note to throw out the hoodie that clings to his sides like plastic wrap. It isn’t flattering.
“Three times,” The guy corrects him, learning forward and forcing his eyes up with a gentle tug to his hair. “I filmed it once.”
Gerard nods at that, because yeah, okay, that was something that he did. The other person asked, it was very much solicited- but it’s a pleasure of his, to watch himself on occasion, see how he looks when just masturbating gets him out of breath and he’s practically drooling onto his chin. It’s the price he pays for being single, he figures. He can keep himself company. He can humiliate himself.
“Frank wants to get finger tattoos.” Gerard mutters, says it like a confession, something private.
“Yeah?” Future-Gerard grins at him, like he knows something. “Yeah, they’re gonna say-”
“No, no, wait-” Gerard is already catching his breath. “Don’t tell me, not yet.”
Gerard spends enough time staring at and thinking about Frank’s fingers, and sure, half of that time might be spent thinking about where he could put them, but the prospect of ink on those fingers drives him insane.
“I want him to- want his fingers,” Gerard says it quickly and quietly, as if he could possibly embarrass himself in front of his own likeness.
“You will, don’t worry,” a hand comes down on his head, grabbing at the short strands of hair, and Gerard swears, looking up at the other man with wide eyes.
All he can manage is a “Yeah?” in between breaths. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to keep the conversation on Frank, or turn his attention to how weirdly hot this guy is- he is- sitting next to him on his own bed, giving him one of his own trademark crazed grins like he knows every sick thought swimming around in his own head.
Gerard realizes that he does, quite literally knows each and every one of his ill thought out fantasies, and he feels a little ashamed at that- at Frank. At the otherworldly naked girls in the magazine. At the art he keeps in his personal bag and not his work backpack. At the time he asked someone in college to put nipple clamps on him and he had to call it quits when he almost threw up from the pain and sulked in his basement for the rest of the weekend, vowing to not try anything new for at least a month.
This guy knows it all, whether Gerard likes that or not, and he’s unfortunately very, very hot, like Gerard-if-he-wasn’t-a-chunky-nerd hot. Like maybe-his-life-is-gonna-get-better hot.
“You will,” Older-Gerard says again, pausing as if considering whether or not to spoil it for him. “If you give it time.”
Gerard is interested, feels annoyed that this guy is blatantly fucking with him, as if he has any right- and scoffs, scooting back and getting more comfortable on the bed.
“Are you gonna like…” he moves his shoulder to wipe the sheen of sweat off of his face. “Are you gonna elaborate on that, or-” He bites his tongue, wanting very much to add “asshole”, “fucker”, any of his favorite insults that this dude surely deserves. He knows it’ll only come back to bite him in the ass, though, and he only has a vague idea of what he’s dealing with.
Other Gerard; Gerard silently scrambles for a name and considers Goth Gerard, Freaky Comic Gerard, Zombie Gerard, he isn’t sure- sighs and pauses as if he’s trying to remember. He keeps watching Gerard, like this is really amusing for him, and Gerard scowls, still helplessly squirming against his mattress with his hand still on his dick. “Jesus Christ, you can go if you’re just going to make fun of me.” He concentrates on himself now, on Frank, anything but Weird Hotter Gerard who seems to want to watch him masturbate for some reason.
“What’s the date?”
Gerard fumbles, catching his breath. “What?”
“The date, asshole, what month is it?”
Gerard makes a face, dragging his cotton-clad shoulder over his sweaty cheek once again. “Aren’t you supposed to know that? Isn’t that like, a large component of time travel?”
The guy huffs, starting to look seriously annoyed, and Gerard holds back a laugh. His mom tells him not to be like that, the studio tech bought him an entire pack of cigarettes as a bribe to “get the fuck out of my studio and calm down for ten minutes, please,” and something like guilt twinged in his stomach. He’d hoped he would grow out of it, but no such luck.
He grabs Gerard’s right shoulder, slowing his arm for a moment. “I know it’s 2002, just tell me the date, you fucking dweeb,” and Gerard stops, swearing under his breath, because there’s no way he should be this easy, but he wants to melt into the mattress and do whatever the hell this guy wants.
“It’s June.” Gerard gasps, chastising himself for being so out of shape that masturbation gets him like this. He can’t fucking breath, he’s covered in sweat, and maybe he’s a little bit into it. “June fifth, 2002. Asshole.” He adds, thinking that maybe he’ll get a laugh for that one, but the man stays silent, thinking.
“Okay,” he says slowly, and Gerard takes that as permission to resume touching himself. “Give it six months.” He says, like some sort of sagely ghost in Gerard’s dingy room. It’s like A Christmas Carol, only hot. Gerard holds back a laugh that sounds more like a grunt.
“We played a show in um,” Older Gerard squints in a way that Gerard is all too familiar with. “Philly.”
He switches tense, as if suddenly remembering where he is. “The thing about Frank is that he’s really, really aggressive.” Gerard shudders because like. Yeah. He’s noticed. He wants to get pummelled by the guy.
“But he’s also really good at sucking dick.”
The guy next to him grins as Gerard half-closes his eyes, swearing and tightening his grip around himself.
He continues. “So you’re gonna play this show in Philly, not a huge one, but it’ll go well. Like, really really well, by your standards-” and Gerard almost protests at that, because hey, he’s never stepped foot on an arena stage, but he’s proud of where he’s gotten the band so far.
“So you two share a drink and a smoke after the gig, just a short one, but you end up back at the van before the rest of the guys. You forgot your jacket, and Frank follows you out there, giving some bullshit excuse about the weed he was going to give to Mikey and not wanting you to get stabbed in that alleyway.”
Gerard grins, pulse kicking up a notch. That does sound like him. That sounds like Frank.
“It’s easy.” He tells Gerard, as if reading his thoughts. He’s trying to figure out logistics, reminding himself that wanting to hook up with his fairly new bandmate might be inappropriate, wondering how he’s going to fare with his pants down in an East Coast winter inside of a minivan (if he ever gets to that part.)
Other-Gerard is smirking over at him, moves a little closer and places a firm hand on the back of his neck, and Gerard doesn’t need to tell him that he’s listening. “It’s really easy, you don’t have to worry. Just like that date you went on six years ago. It was fine. You were fine.”
Gerard doesn’t have to remind him that it’s Frank, this kid they picked off of another Jersey band who somehow has more experience in the scene than him despite being younger, the guy who has already toured more and fucked more and has more weed connections than his dumbass younger brother does. Gerard won’t admit it, but he’s terrified, more terrified than he is of failure in music or art or moving out of his parents’ basement.
“He’ll pull you in close and you’ll consider smoking the joint that was meant for Mikey. You’ll laugh and give him a kiss that starts out brotherly and turns into something else, trip over the seats, and end up smooshed together back there.” The guy next to Gerard pauses, looking a little forlorn for a second, almost imperceptible in the lamplight.
“-But it’s fine. It’s really easy.” He sighs a little, and Gerard feels like he shouldn’t be touching himself still, because apparently his future self is fucking jaded and dramatic and doesn’t know the difference between a sexy memory and a preapocalyptic warning transmission.
He seems to pull himself together. “It just sort of happens, and it’s fine. Frank will talk about wanting to get a lip ring and go down on you in the backseat and it feels natural and he’ll try and hold you still with his guitar hand.”
Gerard is really, really on board with that idea, and something snaps inside of his brain as he increases his movements. “You’re serious?”
Funeral Parlor Associate Gerard waves him off. “Yeah, shut the fuck up, I’m trying to remember-”
Gerard wants to tell him to forget it, that it really doesn’t matter now, because all he’s thinking about is Frank pinning him to the stained upholstery of their little van while he chokes on his dick, but he gives the dude the benefit of the doubt. He seems to know, knows shit that is actually in store for him, and he’d like to know, no matter how difficult this guy is being.
“It’ll become routine. You, Frank, your pants around your ankles. He’s a little bit of a masochist, just like you, so it works-” and Gerard whines through his nose because holy shit, he has no clue what to do with that information, but he’ll figure it out, he’ll try anything under the sun for that guy.
He gulps, worrying that this prophetic man will disappear into a cloud of smoke any second, that he’ll wake up with a hangover and a boner that’s more of an annoyance than it’s worth. “Do we um.” He swallows. Frank with finger tattoos. Frank with finger tattoos up his ass. “Do we fuck?”
“Oh yeah, sure,” Victorian Tuberculosis Patient Gerard raises his eyebrows. He looks like he’s about to keel over but like, in a hot sort of horror movie way. Gerard nicknames him The Patient, locking it away in the corner of his brain that isn’t about to go offline completely from an orgasm.
“A few times. On the bus- you’re gonna get a bus, it’ll be impossible to sleep while it’s moving, but you’ll get one. In hotels. In shitty hotels and slightly nicer hotels. At your apartment when you break up with-” He stops, swearing, and Gerard ignores that. He doesn’t care who he dates in four years, only wants to hear about this.
Marching-Band-Leader-Who’s-Been-Rotting-Under-The-Bleachers-Gerard grins. “With your ties used for things other than accessorization.”
Gerard is confused, because he really isn’t a tie guy. He’s a sweatshirt guy, a layers-upon-layers-to-hide-his-gut sort of guy. An old-t-shirt-from-college-that-has-seen better-days-but-he-thinks-makes-him-look-totally-hot sort of guy, but whatever Zombie Gerard is alluding to, he’s into it, especially if said ties are restricting his moment. Especially if Frank is holding the other end.
He comes thinking about that, only a little concerned about his freakish doppelganger still watching him, mesmerized. Gerard grimaces and wipes his hand on a tissue. “Did you do….whatever the hell it is you did….” He starts. He’s still about sixty percent convinced that he’s dreaming, but he’ll play along. He’s still shaking, still covered with a thin sheen of sweat. “Did you come here just to do that?” He makes a face, looks over at the guy.
“No,” he starts, before laughing. “Yes. Yeah. Pretty much.”
Gerard feels embarrassed and a little stupid. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, he knows this. There has to be a reason, needs to be some sort of cosmic shift, something he’s supposed to be doing or critical, life-changing advice he needs to hear. He’s read his fair share of sci-fi. He has fetishes, but he isn’t dumb.
“What about….” He wracks his brain. The guy seems intent on only telling him about his sex life, which is cool, but surprisingly not the only thing he cares about.
“How long?” Gerard gestures to the black-clad figure next to him. It looks like expensive black, like the fabrics actually match and aren’t from K-Mart.
“With Frank.” He clarifies. He isn’t quite ready to hear about his demise yet.
“Oh.” The guy considers. “I can’t really say, I’m sorry.” He looks visibly upset then, like he wants to say more but really shouldn’t. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. You need to figure some shit out on your own.”
Gerard huffs. “That’s fucking stupid.” He bites back.
Graveyard Gerard shrugs. “Yeah, well, a lot of things are stupid, and you’re gonna have to learn how to navigate them.”
Gerard yanks his pajama pants back up, shoving himself off of the bed and shuffling over to the basement bathroom to wash his hands. He hates his brain. Hates his imagination and his nonsense boners.
“If I tell you too much, it’ll fuck everything else up!” Patient Gerard shouts from his bedroom.
Gerard grumbles and washes his hands, looking over himself in the mirror surrounded by wood paneled walls that need re-staining. He needs a shower, but that can wait until morning. The gel has fully melted from his hair, flaking at his temples. His round face is still flushed red, blotchy and hot to the touch. He vows to stay in next weekend, or keep Mikey with him if he goes home drunk. He vows to throw out his weed, because it definitely just made him hallucinate.
“Can you get the fuck outta my room now so I can-” Gerard tugs his shirt off, turning his light on so he can find his drawers. It’s quiet, empty aside from his art supplies and toys, and he’s alone.