Archive of Our Own

Prologue

Bob was putting the movie titles up on the marquee, precariously balancing on a rickety wooden ladder. His sturdiness, usually helpful when performing maintenance tasks, was more of a hindrance right now. Occasionally, he would reach down to rummage through the wooden crate placed on the topmost step, wobbling dangerously while he searched for the right letter. The letters he had already clicked into place on the marquee were bleached by the sun to varying degrees in differing shades of yellow and orange – the vowels, often used, were faded to a dull, dirty yellow, the rarely used letters like the X looked polished and brand-new, their color an aggressive orange.

Bob raised his hand and waved when he spotted Gerard coming towards him from across the parking lot; a physical miscalculation, because he swayed on his ladder and had to reach out to steady himself on the low roof.

“Hey,” he called, sounding much more cheerful than the boring lettering work would suggest he should be.

Gerard stopped a couple of yards away from Bob on the pavement across from the movie theater's entrance and gave a little wave in return.

“THE PHILADELPHIA EXPERIMANT,” Gerard read doubtfully, shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun as he peered up. “You realize that the word ‘experiment’ isn’t spelled with an ‘a’, right?” he asked, looking from Bob to the dubious lettering and back.

Bob sighed and wrinkled his nose, grimacing. “I only got 4 Es left – just last week, another one broke when I took it off.” He turned to look at the title again, scratching his beard. “You think I should just take out the misplaced A?”

Missing letters in the marquee announcement of the Belleville Film Palace were nothing new – in fact, they were entirely too common. Over the years, a lot of letters had broken or vanished, and much like anything else, hadn't been replaced. Bob tried to do the best he could, mending some with superglue and trying every trick in the book to make the announcements work, but even his best intentions and dedication couldn't disguise the fact that they were short stocked on vowels.

“How about you switch the first E in ‘experiment’ to the back?” Gerard suggested.

For a moment, Bob looked critically at the letters, then his face brightened and he reached out and took off the E at the start of Experiment. Gerard watched him climb down, his hand ready to shoot out and steady Bob. (It wouldn’t have been the first time Bob fell off.) Bob moved the ladder and ascended it again to replace the A with an E.

THE PHILADELPHIA XPERIMENT, the announcement read, and Gerard smiled, giving Bob a quick thumbs up.

“Thanks,” Bob said, huffing a sigh of contentment. “This actually works.”

He wiped his hands on his cargo pants, then turned to Gerard. “Hank told me to send you to his office when you come in.”

Huh. Gerard scowled in surprise. It was rare that Hank called anyone into his office. Usually, when it was something Hank wanted from them, he would just send messages through whomever he happened to come across first. One-on-one talks with the boss in his office were practically unheard of.

“Do you know what he wants?”

Bob shook his head. “Maybe he's just going to remind you that you're not supposed to be here on your days off.”

It was a speech Hank had half-heartedly given Gerard a couple of times now, and something which Gerard had been continuously ignoring. The thing was – Gerard loved the Belleville Film Palace. He didn't care that it was run-down and long past its heyday. He felt at home here, sometimes more so than at his parents’ house, which only reminded him of his grandmother who had passed away 8 months ago. He was still missing her like you missed a limb, and it was easier when he wasn't at home, where every little thing – the knitted blankets, the embroidered towels, the threadbare brown corduroy sofa, her collection of antique dolls – was an echo of her presence.

Besides, there was nothing he liked to do more in his spare time than to screen movies (and maybe doodle in his sketchbooks). Gerard had been working at the Belleville Film Palace for two years now. He had started out as an usher shortly after his 15th birthday, but had been promoted to projectionist last year after practically harassing Hank into giving him the job after one of the other part-time projectionists had left.

“Maybe – I'd better get inside, then,” Gerard said.

“And I’d better get back to figuring out how to spell ‘The Bostonians’ without an E,” Bob said, relocating the ladder before climbing it again.

“Get rid of the article,” Gerard suggested, and Bob twisted on the steps to grin down at him.

“You're really fucking good at this,” he said before picking up another dirty letter from his box.

Gerard flushed a bit and shrugged, turning to head inside. Praise always made him embarrassed.

He walked past the ticket booth – still closed – and pushed open the heavy front doors to the foyer. The large glass windows were half covered with movie posters, but they still allowed the bright afternoon light to spill over the tiled floor, reflecting patterns on the yellowing walls. The foyer opened up into the lounge area with old fashioned red leather booths and a worn wooden counter, dominated by a large popcorn machine already sputtering away merrily, producing popcorn for the 5 p.m. attendees. The smell in the room was buttery and warm. It permeated the entire movie theater, but in here, it was especially strong. It lingered in Gerard's clothes and hair and sometimes, late at night, lying awake in bed, he could still smell it.

Lindsey was sitting at one of the tables writing out prices and menu deals on a large chalkboard with colored chalk. She looked up when Gerard came in and smiled.

“What do you think – does this need more decoration?” she asked, lifting the chalkboard and turning it towards Gerard. She had drawn flowery ornaments around the edges of the menu, nearly distracting from the actual content of the board.

“No, - unless you want it to look like a lawnmower threw up on it.”

“Haha,” she said, rolling her eyes a bit, before putting the board down and studying it intently, chalk still poised in hand. Her fingers were covered in yellowish powder and there was a reddish streak on her forehead where she had most likely brushed away a stay strand of hair escaping her pigtails.

Despite Gerard's words, she added a little flower around every dot of every i on the board.

“There's a new guy coming in later,” she remarked as she drew, her tongue escaping from the corner of her mouth, something she always did unconsciously when she was deep in concentration. This, together with her chalk-covered hands, her pigtails and her tartan skirt made her look like a five-year-old. Her appearance was a foil, though; Lindsey could be tough as nails.

“Again?” Gerard asked, although he shouldn't be surprised. Ever since Pete had left for college, they were short one employee to fill in at the ticket booth and as an usher. Since the beginning of July, they had had three or four different people ushering – none of them had stayed longer than a couple of days. In fact, ever since Gerard had started to work at the movie theater, he had seen more people come and go than he cared to remember. The Belleville Film Palace wasn't the place kids got excited about working at. Except if you were a movie nut, like Gerard.

“One of these days, someone's gotta stick,” Lindsey said, straightening to observe her handiwork with a critical eye. “It's not like you can scare away everyone.”

“I'm not scaring away anyone!” Gerard protested, affronted. What even gave her the notion...

“Keep telling yourself that, grumpy.” Lindsey looked up, grinning at him teasingly. “You know you're goddamn awful when it comes to new people. It's like you feel threatened by their presence, or something.”

“That's absolute bullshit, I-”

“That look right there,” she interrupted him, pointing at his face with her chalky fingers, “that's why they run away. It's not the crap pay – no! It's the death glare of Gerard Way.”

Gerard glared as if to prove her point and shot her his most evil grin. “What a shame it doesn't work on you then.”

She snorted out a laugh, her cheeks dimpling. “Love you too, G,” she said gleefully, then ignored him in favor of admiring her chalkboard some more.

Gerard huffed and decided that it was time to leave Lindsey to her sugar-coated creative outburst and find out what Hank wanted from him.

*-*

Hank Schechter's office was the most chaotic place Gerard had ever set foot in, and that included his own mess of a bedroom. In the center of the small room a large old desk nearly vanished underneath stacks of paper – announcements, newspapers, distribution flyers, movie magazines, unpaid bills and advertisements. Several unstable chairs in the office suffered the same fate. One large armchair, its reddish-brown leather cracked and darkened with stains, was stacked with a tower of old film cans waiting to be put back into storage. The shelves lining the walls were filled with old files and books, the yellowing walls papered from bottom to top with movie posters and film programs from four decades. The air was thick with smoke, even dimming the sunlight coming through the only – and really dirty - window behind Hank's desk.

When Gerard came in, Hank was sitting behind his enormous desk, finishing a phone call. He was in his mid-to-late 60s, overweight, with a scraggly gray beard and too long, greasy hair combed haphazardly across the balding patch on the back of his head, dark shadows beneath his watery eyes like bruises. Gerard had never seen him in anything else than loose fitting pants pulled up high and a badly ironed shirt, the buttons nearly bursting where it stretched tightly over his protruding belly. He looked like a stranded whale sitting behind his desk.

“Sit, sit,” Hank said, hanging up the phone, and indicated one of the overflowing chairs in front of his desk. Gerard hesitated before choosing the one with the smaller stack of papers, then bent and picked up the stack, setting it gently on the floor, trying not to make the papers slide. He wasn't sure if there was a system to Hank's chaos, but he certainly didn't want to mess it up.

Hank lit a cigarette, then pushed his pack and a lighter across the table towards Gerard, who took a cigarette himself and lit it, waiting for Hank to start speaking. Hank took his time, smoking, while he regarded Gerard, obviously deep in thought.

“I'm gonna cut straight to the chase,” he finally said, and Gerard nodded, sitting up a bit straighter, “it's about how much time you spend around here.”

Gerard nodded again, clearing his throat. “I know! And you've told me so many times already, but –“

Hank lifted the hand holding a cigarette, and Gerard took his cue to shut up, trying to not look too guilty. “I've been thinking, and I've got a suggestion for you.”

Oh. This wasn't exactly what Gerard had expected, and he blinked, wondering what Hank was on about.

“There are a lot of remakes coming out right now. In fact, there's a new Godzilla remake on the market, which I recently ordered.” Hank paused, looking at him intently, and Gerard felt a little thrill of excitement run through him. He was the one who had suggested ordering Koji Hashimoto's Gojira remake, because seriously, was there anything better than Japanese horror movies about mutated monsters with nuclear breath?

“We have the original from 1954 and I thought it'd be nice to do a double feature. Actually, I would like to do a couple of double features over the course of the next months showing the original and the remake,” Hank suggested, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “What do you think?”

“That'd be a really great idea!” Gerard blurted out, his enthusiasm earning him an approving smirk from Hank.

Gerard and Hank had their differences – mostly, Gerard criticized the films Hank chose to rent (Hank's programming was just as chaotic as his office, from B-movies to classics to avant-garde French cinema, whatever struck Hank's fancy that week). Despite what Gerard might think about the way Hank managed the theater, there was a passion to everything Hank did and Gerard could appreciate this. (What he couldn't appreciate was the fact that Hank didn't want to invest in new equipment. The projectors they used were from the late 50s and early 60s – Hank had bought them when he had taken over the cinema from his father, but he hadn't updated the equipment ever since. They still didn't have a platter so they could assemble the film rolls to screen in one sitting without the need for changeovers.)

“Good. So, see, this is where you come in. Considering you are around all the time anyway and taking into account that your splicing work is excellent, d'you think you'd be up to taking a look at some old copies? See if they are still in a condition fit for the screen? Maybe do some repairs?”

Feeling like maybe he was misunderstanding something, Gerard leaned forward in his seat. “You mean... you want me working on the originals. On my own?”

Hank nodded and grinned, showing a row of yellowish teeth.

Gerard stared, then quickly caught himself. Working on the original Godzilla movie! Ever since the beginning of the year, Hank had allowed him to help Bob with more and more splicing jobs, noting Gerard's steady hand and meticulous work. Gerard loved to sit over the work bench and go through the film frame-by-frame, even though his eyes usually hurt for hours afterwards.

“When do you need it? I can be on it whenever!” He was fucking excited about the prospect, totally forgetting about the burning cigarette in his hand. Ash dropped off and landed on his thigh, singeing the fabric of his black jeans.

„End of next week. Are you up for it?” Hank asked, watching Gerard intently. He seemed satisfied when Gerard nodded, his look softening a bit.

„I'm glad you take so much pleasure in your job. Maybe there's more repair work in your future. I've really been thinking about opening up the archive a bit more. It is difficult competing with all those multiplexes. Gotta show something they don’t have.” Hank sighed and took another drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out in the overflowing ashtray. He smoked fast and hard – Gerard still had half of his cigarette left.

Hank leaned back and folded his hands over his belly, making his old leather chair creek. “There's a tiny catch, though. Obviously, I can't pay you much, certainly not what the work is worth.”

He paused again, regarding Gerard as if he expected him to protest. Gerard didn't care. He would work for nothing, if it meant working on the Godzilla movie. The fact alone that Hank allowed him to touch it boggled his mind.

“I'm willing to pay you your usual wage though, for the hours you work on the movie. Would that be acceptable?”

“Yes, yes. Absolutely.” Gerard lifted his cigarette to his mouth, sucking on it, before stabbing the stub out in the ashtray. He could barely taste the smoke, he was so excited. The pay was just icing on the cake.

“Fine, then,” Hank said. “Just tell Bob when you have time and he will give you the key to the archive.”

“Thank you, seriously,” Gerard said, “thank you.” He slowly got up from his seat, lifting the stack of papers from the floor back onto the chair the way they had been.

He was about to leave, his hand on the doorknob, when Hank addressed him once more. „Oh, and Gerard,” he said, “Don’t forget to have fun.”

Gerard grinned over his shoulder. If there was one person who really got what movies meant to him, it was definitely Hank.

“I will,” he said, still grinning, and he heard Hank laugh from somewhere behind him.

*-*

The darkness of the projector room. The gentle buzzing of the projector as it moved the film over sprockets, over the pressure shoe, past the sound pick up, and onto the take up reel. The brightly lit screen across the movie theater auditorium, connected to the film by a bluish beam of light, dust in the air visible as clear specks. This was everything Gerard loved.

He loved sitting up here, the master of light and sound and film. Up here, he was God. Up here, only his quick eye and nimble hands mattered. He liked to think that the people in the auditorium forgot about him if he did his job perfectly. To them, it must seem like magic, something they took for granted. Movie magic. They sat down in the soft, threadbare seats with their popcorn and their coke and their peanuts and magically, the lights dimmed and the dark screen in front of them came to life with images and sound, transporting them out of their boring lives to elsewhere.

He was sure that most of the people down there didn't know what it took to make this kind of magic happen. How he had to prepare everything so meticulously, how he had to thread the film through nooks and over sprockets so very carefully that not a millimeter of film was scratched. They didn't know how he had slaved over a single roll of film to repair damage, how he had to sometimes splice away corrupted frames only so that the film would look perfect when it was projected.

The whirring of the outgoing projector started to sound different, more urgent, rather a rumble than a buzzing, and Gerard leaned forward, eyes trained on the screen through the observation port, looking for the cue mark in the right-hand upper corner. It would appear without fail 8 seconds before the reel was up, indicating the upcoming end of the reel. There it was – a brief flash – and Gerard’s left hand twisted the motor switch on projector #1, his fingers automatically searching for the lamp switch. When the second cue mark came, he switched the lamp switches on both projectors simultaneously, then hit the changeover button, effectively timing it so that the film from the second reel was picked up. The film strip coming off the finished reel flapped before Gerard reached out, stopping its momentum with a steady hand.

He got up and took off the film reel, mounting it in the rewinding machine and placed the next reel in the first projector. With a practiced hand he threaded the film over the sprockets, finally leading it onto an empty reel at the bottom. Once he was finished, he had 17 minutes until the next changeover.

17 minutes. It was the unit in which Gerard measured time. 17 minutes were a bathroom break and two cigarettes. 20 pages in his favorite comic book, read with a flashlight. About enough time to paint each and every one of his fingernails with black sharpie. Time to change a lamp, if necessary. Even time to troubleshoot a damaged film strip.

With his eyes still on the screen through the little shutter window to make sure everything was running okay, Gerard reached blindly for his pack of cigarettes lying on a little counter. For one moment he hesitated – there was always some risk involved when he left the projector booth. Everything seemed to be working fine, though, and Gerard stepped out of the metal door into the dark stairwell, closing the door behind him, before moving down the narrow stairs.

He pushed open another door at its end and moaned when the harsh light from the hall met his slitted eyes. Swaying a bit, he reached for the wall to steady himself, slowly shuffling forward until his eyes had adjusted to the light and stopped stinging. He walked down the hall until it opened into the lounge room with its tables and leather booths.

“It lives,” Lindsey said cheerfully when she saw him coming. She was perched on one of the tables near the counter, swinging her legs, a music magazine open in her lap.

“Very funny,” he greeted her, and she grinned, tossing her magazine on a bench and hopped down, walking over to him, her boots clicking on the tiled floor.

”Do you have a light?“ he asked Lindsey, lifting his hand and making a flicking motion with his right thumb, mimicking the lighting of a cigarette.

She shook her head, but looked past Gerard to where Mikey was standing at the Pac-Man machine, attempting to beat his own high score and level 256. Gerard was pretty sure that you couldn't beat level 256 - people called it „The Kill Screen“, for a reason, but it didn't stop Mikey from trying. The high score leaderboard was dominated by his fruitless attempts - MikeyWay, M_fuckin_Way, The MikeMaster, Jedi_Mike.

“Hey guys, you got a light for Gerard?” Lindsey called, and Gerard craned his head over his shoulder to see who else she was talking to.

There was a guy standing next to his brother, half hidden by the Pac-Man machine and he looked up now and smiled. He was pretty tiny, with dark floppy hair cut in a toned-down Misfits style – long bangs in the front flopping down the left side of his face, short strands on the sides. “I got one,” he said, and walked over to them while Mikey gave no indication that he had even heard them. If Mikey was playing Pac-Man, there was no way to get through to him.

“This is Frank,” Lindsey stage-whispered, noting the slightly confused expression on Gerard's face. “The new guy.”

Right. Gerard watched Frank carefully as he walked over to them. He thought he remembered him as one of the new kids from one of his classes this year, but they hadn’t talked. It wasn't like Gerard socialized a lot at school, he pretty much just tried to stay invisible.

Frank stopped in front of Gerard, a tiny grin still twisting his mouth – it made him look mischievous and up to no good. “Hey, I'm Frank,” he said and extended his hand to be shaken. Gerard hesitated for a moment before reaching for Frank's hand. Frank's handshake was firm and warm and slightly sweaty, and when Gerard dropped his hand, he secretly wiped it on the back of his jeans.

“Gerard,” Lindsey said when Gerard didn't say anything. “He's one of our projectionists.”

“Cool. Nice to meet you.” Frank reached into the front pocket of his skinny jeans – he really had to cram his fingers in there, because they were awfully tight – and after much squirming around, produced two BIC lighters, one of which he held out for Gerard to take. “Keep it.”

“Thanks,” Gerard croaked out, prompted by a hard jab to his side from Lindsey. He wasn’t the most eloquent of people to begin with; in fact, he knew he could be downright shy, covering it up sometimes by being unintentionally rude, but right now, it felt as if somebody was strangling him. He looked at the new guy and there was absolutely no thought in his head. None at all. Just static. It was ridiculous. He took the lighter and quickly lit the cigarette he was still holding, blowing out a line of smoke.

“I'm really glad I got this job, really looking forward to working here,” Frank said, his voice slightly muffled as he lit a cigarette himself.

“Uh-huh,” Gerard managed, feeling doubtful. He was pretty sure that in about two weeks’ time or less, Frank would have found out that only a bunch of losers worked at the Belleville Film Palace, and that there were other jobs in the area with equally lousy pay but less of an accompanying loss of social status.

Frank’s eyes flashed as he took in Gerard’s unconvinced expression. “You think I won't stick around,” he said matter-of-factly, a tiny hint of a challenge in his words.

“No, no -” Gerard hastened to say, but Frank just smirked and blew out a line of smoke, shrugging casually.

“I can take it, I'm tough.” Frank pushed his free hand into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back and forth. “You wouldn't be the first to mention how I'm the fifth person to try out for this job. Got it from Hank, from Lyn-Z-”, Lindsey cleared her throat, looking apologetic, “hey, even your brother interrupted his game earlier to wish me good luck, which I guess is something.”

Gerard didn't know what to say to that. “I'm sorry?” he finally offered, and Frank snorted out a laugh.

“Hey, I'm fine,” Frank said, not sounding bitter at all despite his earlier words.

Gerard took another drag from his cigarette and nodded. “Welcome to the team, then,” he forced out awkwardly, feeling pretty proud of his contribution to the conversation, considering that he hated small talk with strangers and for some reason, Frank was especially unsettling.

Frank smiled, not seeming to mind Gerard's inability to function like a normal human being and jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where Mikey was attempting to surgically merge his hand with the game controller. “Mikey showed me around earlier. He's pretty good at Pac-Man,” he said conversationally, changing the subject. “He has the ghosts' movements figured out. I didn't even know they had different personalities.”

“Mikey hasn't stopped playing this stupid game ever since the machine came in,” Lindsey explained. “I think he started working here because he was in here all the time anyway, and he needs quarters to feed his addiction.” She reached out, plucking the cigarette straight from Gerard's mouth and took a drag. Gerard hated it when she did that – he always got his cigarettes back with a ring of her dark red lipstick on the filter.

He shook his head when she turned to hand over the cigarette.

“I'm not so much into arcade games,” Frank said, looking expectantly at Gerard, a clear invitation to add to the conversation.

Gerard shifted from one foot to the other, feeling defenseless without his cigarette. Maybe he should have taken it back, despite the lipstick. He didn't know what to say, his mind was still totally blank. He just stared at Frank, at the slightly hopeful tilt of his eyebrows, and his tongue knotted up. He suddenly didn't want to be here anymore – he craved the darkness and solitude of his projector booth. He would be safe there. It was an absurd concept, but he felt the longing to be back upstairs in every fiber of his body.

“I'm sorry,” he started, once more shifting on his feet. “…but I gotta go upstairs. My reel is almost up,” he lied, knowing that there were still at least 10 minutes left until the changeover. The words brought with them some relief; suddenly he could breathe again.

He caught an exasperated look from Lindsey which he chose to ignore, pocketed Frank's lighter and turned to leave, thinking he could possibly smoke another cigarette later up on the roof. Alone.

“Maybe we'll talk later. Have another cigarette,” Frank suggested as if he had read Gerard's thoughts, and Gerard, who was too embarrassed, too tongue-tied to say another word, nodded and turned to leave, giving a little wave over his shoulder. He felt like a complete moron.

“Don't mind him. He's not really the talkative type. He likes to stay to himself most the time,” he heard Lindsey say from behind him. She didn’t bother to lower her voice at all. “Just don't enter his booth – all the projectionists are pretty anal about us mere mortals dragging dirt inside.”

Frank started to answer, but Gerard accelerated his steps and pushed open the door leading to the backrooms and upstairs, the sound of his own steps on the floor drowning out Frank's words. The darkness of the stairwell greeted him, and he climbed the familiar metal steps to the projector booth. He pushed the door open, finding the projector just as he had left it, which was always a relief.

Gerard sat back down in his swivel chair, his eyes on the flickering images on the screen. For some reason, he was still thinking about Frank, their newest addition, about his nonchalant confidence, his broad grin. He felt mortified that he hadn't been able to say a full sentence to Frank, even though Frank had been trying to engage him in conversation.

Gerard wasn't used to many people trying to talk to him outside of his small circle of friends. Every one of them was a loser in their own right: Lindsey, who didn't conform to any fashion statements the girls at their school liked to make, Ray, who was a laughing stock because he was tall, gangly and mortifyingly clumsy, Mikey, his brother, who at fifteen was a weird, scrawny thing with a succession of unfortunate haircuts and too big glasses always sliding down the bridge of his nose. There had been Pete, who wrote poetry inspired by the French impressionists and smoked weed to allegedly further his artistic education (Gerard was not so sure about that.).

At school, most people either ignored him or were actively hostile. He was the weirdo with the too long hair and the black clothes who constantly doodled gory pictures into his notebooks and spent his evenings in a run-down cinema screening independent films from Europe nobody ever went to see. They called him Idiot and Weirdo-Way and sometimes Faggot. They liked to steal his book bag and dump it in the toilet, they laughed at his white, skinny legs during gym class and how he wasn't very much in shape. They cornered him to shove him into walls, to threaten him for lunch money or even smash his face in.

Frank wouldn't stay, Gerard was pretty sure of it, so there was no use making friends with him. He seemed too confident, too cool with his skinny jeans and devillock to fit in their closely knit circle of outcasts. Gerard stuck with his earlier assessment. Two weeks. Tops.

On the screen, the black circle in the upper right corner flashed, and Gerard's hands shot out to both sides. 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2...

*-*1.

Whenever they got a new release – and with new release, Hank actually meant a new copy of a film that usually had been screening in other cinemas for a couple of weeks already – the employees filed into the cinema for the first run. Hank himself always did the first screening of any new film coming in, and Gerard enjoyed seeing a film from the darkened auditorium for a change. It was a genuinely different view watching the movie from down here instead of from the projector room and he liked to forget about the marker signs and the changeovers if he was in the auditorium and experienced the movie with the naiveté of any regular moviegoer.

Hank had gotten in the “Bounty” remake two days ago, and Gerard, who had seen both of the old versions – the one with Clark Gable and the one with Marlon Brando (he much preferred the Gable version) – was curious as to how the new one would deal with Fletcher Christian's mutiny. Anthony Hopkins as Captain Bligh ought to be good and Mel Gibson was one of his favorites ever since he had seen him in Mad Max. Later this week, they would start a double screening of the new Bounty and the 1962 version, which Bob had worked on over the last couple of days, bringing Hank's plan to fruition.

Mikey had joined Gerard, sitting with him in the middle of the 12th row, a bag of freshly popped popcorn between their seats. Mikey usually was a Runts and Jawbreakers type of guy (he sold popcorn all day, after all), but he always brought popcorn when he and Gerard watched a movie together, because he knew Gerard couldn't live without it.

The movie had already started – there were only about 15 other people in the auditorium with them – when the back door opened and late-comers walked in, giggling as they stumbled their way down the aisle. Gerard hated people who turned up too late for the movies. It wasn’t like movies started on time, anyway. He turned his head, tossing a dark glare over his shoulder, even though they wouldn’t be able to see it.

It turned out that both of the latecomers were very much familiar. One of them had a huge head of hair and Gerard easily identified him as his friend and neighbor Ray, who was working as second part-time projectionist. Gerard figured that the other, by association and taking his tiny shape into account, was Frank. Gerard watched as they shoved each other playfully down the aisle, only to push their way in the row behind him. Ray, who noted Gerard watching, gave a little wave, sliding into the seat behind Mikey.

On the screen, Mel Gibson looked purposeful and capable, striking a pose in his lieutenant's finery, staring out at a calm and deep blue sea, not at all looking like a man who would soon agitate his crew to the point of mutiny, flee from Her Royal Majesty's ships and burn his ill-appropriated vessel near a tiny, badly cartographed island in the middle of nowhere. Gerard knew what happened afterwards, too, and he was secretly sad that no one had ever followed that line of history, namely how Fletcher Christian and his crew had started to brawl over the Tahitian women, how they had fallen into drink that they had brewed themselves and murdered each other in cold blood until only one of the men remained. He secretly thought that this was the most interesting part of the story – desperate seamen who would never again set foot on their homeland, massacring each other on a tiny island. There would be blood and gore and drunken brawls, rape and torture and men dying from terrible knife wounds – an adult version of Lord of the Flies. The movie could be called “The Bounty 2 – Massacre at Pitcairn Bay” and Gerard thought it would be a hit with the splatter fans.

Gerard tried to concentrate on the movie, but he was distracted by Frank, who had sat down in the seat directly behind Gerard. He was shifting around, probably pulling his legs up, his movement making his seat creak, the fabric of his clothes rubbing noisily against the worn velvet of the seats. Gerard’s seat wobbled when Frank’s foot kicked into his back as he got settled, and he suppressed a growl. They hadn't really talked since Frank's first night on the job, but over a week had gone by and Frank seemed to have settled in all right. He was still here, for one.

“Sorry,” Frank hissed from behind him, stifling a giggle, then shifted again.

Gerard slid down deeper into his seat, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling his temple start to throb. He couldn't pinpoint what it was exactly, but whenever Frank entered a room Gerard was in, Gerard would feel his presence like an electric current under his skin. It wasn't like Gerard felt comfortable with other people around most of the time, but there was a special, prickly quality to his discomfort whenever Frank was involved.

“Hey guys, do you have popcorn?” a voice suddenly whispered from behind and Gerard felt Frank's warmth hover next to his shoulder as he leaned forward over the middle of Gerard's and Mikey's seats.

Wordlessly, Mikey lifted the bag of popcorn and Frank reached inside, pulling out a whole handful, spilling half of it down Gerard's shirt.

“Oops, sorry,” he said, none too softly, hand reaching out to brush at Gerard's arm and chest.

Gerard jumped and shifted in his seat, shaking off the popcorn and batting Frank's hand away. His stomach was doing weird things – he suddenly felt a little sick, a little too hot.

Frank stayed leaning forward, his elbows resting on the back of their seats, pointy bones jostling Gerard's shoulders. “I wouldn't want to be on that ship,” he said, “rats for food, brackish water...”

“And there are no girls...,” Mikey added.

“Absolutely no room for privacy-”

“None,” Mikey agreed.

“Can you imagine being cooped up on that ship with 40 rank smelling guys, unwashed and sweaty?” Frank said, his words muffled by the fistful of popcorn he had stuffed into his mouth. His chewing sounded loud in Gerard's ear. It irritated the fuck out of him.

“I shared a room with Gerard until a year ago,” Mikey said dryly, shooting a side-glance at Gerard, “he can smell pretty fucking rank.”

Gerard reached out, smashing his fist into Mikey's scrawny chest while Frank giggled behind them. Mikey howled and sputtered, almost bending double in his seat, and Frank laughed louder, causing some of the people sitting in front of them to turn their heads and glare at them.

“Thank you, asshole,” Mikey wheezed softly once he had partly recovered, straightening in his seat, an arm still protectively curled around his middle.

“Yeah, what are you going on telling people I smell rank for, fuckface,” Gerard hissed.

“I'm sure it's not so bad,” Frank whispered from behind, then suddenly leaned forward, all but burying his nose in Gerard's hair. “Yeah,” he said, inhaling deeply, “you don't smell like fucking roses, but it's not so bad.”

“For fuck's sake, stop smelling me!” Gerard said, annoyed, and it set off both Mikey and Frank, who were snorting into their hands, trying to contain their hilarity at his outburst.

He shot both of them a glare, and settled back into his seat, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Something itched on his belly, and he lifted his t-shirt, shaking it out, wiping popcorn and salt from his belly.

“Honestly,” Frank whispered somewhere to his right ear, “you don't smell bad at all.”

Gerard tried to shift his attention towards the movie again, ignoring Frank until he could feel him move away. Even though Frank had withdrawn, his presence behind him felt like a weight on his back, suffocating him.

Fucking Frank, seriously.

*-*

During his free time, the lounge was Gerard's favorite place to hang out. There was a booth just at the back that hardly anybody ever passed where he spent his free afternoons to draw in his notebook or do his homework.

He was doodling in his favorite sketchbook, the one with the textured paper, embellishing a scene with a zombie gnawing at several ripped off body parts, naked bone scattered around him, when Frank suddenly flopped down on the bench next to him, unbidden and so close that his naked arm brushed Gerard's. It made the hair on Gerard's skin rise and goose bumps run up his arm.

“Hey. S’up?” Frank asked, attempting to peer over Gerard's shoulder at the drawing.

Gerard grunted, something that was meant to mean “fine”, but didn't elaborate. He had attempted to stay out of Frank's way, especially after what had happened during the movie, and so far it had worked well for him. He wondered if it would be very impolite to move away. Frank's closeness was unnerving him.

“This looks amazing,” Frank said, sounding impressed, his body pressing against the side of Gerard's arm, intently looking at the page in Gerard's sketchbook.

“Do you mind?” Gerard hissed, placing his arms protectively around his work and scooting away on the bench, putting some distance between them.

“Sorry,” Frank apologized, moving back but still sitting much to close for Gerard's liking. “I've seen you drawing at school. It's like you're always bent over your books. I didn't know you could draw like that, though.”

Gerard was a bit thrown by the fact that Frank had obviously noticed him at school, but he was still feeling antsy from his closeness, and his next words didn't come out very friendly either. “Yeah, now you know.”

There was something about the process of drawing that was intimate – something about a half-finished project not being up to criticism. A half-finished drawing was chock-full of not-perfect lines, of wrong angles and proportions. It wasn't something Gerard wanted to share with a stranger.

“I think we have algebra together, right?” Frank said, not deterred by Gerard’s less than friendly reception.

When Gerard nodded, Frank carried on, obviously taking this as encouragement to continue speaking. “I just changed to public school. I went to Newark Catholic School before that. But my Dad lost his job, so they can't afford to send me there anymore. Whatever – all that praying isn't my thing anyway, and public school has no dress code.”

“Hmm,” Gerard said, moving his arm so it covered more of his drawing when Frank leaned forward to peer at the strokes of his pencil again. He didn't know what to think of Frank's rambling monologue. Why was he telling him all that?

“I thought I gotta help out – at least earn my pocket money myself. When I walked past the movie theater a couple of days ago, I saw that you were looking for an usher. And I really like movies. So that's why I'm here.” Frank concluded.

Gerard, not knowing what to say to that, kept silent, busying himself with focusing on the foliage of a gnarly, old tree, adding one leaf after another.

“You've worked here for long?” Frank asked, obviously trying to make Gerard join the conversation.

“Yeah,” Gerard said reluctantly, putting as much disinterest into that one word as he could manage. Fuck, but Frank made him fucking twitchy, and it was fucking difficult concentrating on his drawing with him sitting so close and asking questions.

“Being a projectionist must be pretty exciting. Bob showed me one of the projector booths. Those projectors are so cool. I'm really impressed that you guys know how to handle them. You know, thread the film, know when to change to the other reel.” Frank continued.

Gerard sighed. “It's really nothing special,” he muttered, not looking up.

Frank leaned closer again, and Gerard's skin prickled where Frank's warm breath washed over his neck. “Can you add some innards spilling out of this corpse?” he asked, pointing at Gerard's drawing.

“No,” Gerard said resolutely, even though it was kind of a great idea and his fingers itched to just go for it.

Frank moved back, and Gerard's muscles relaxed, his tense shoulders slumping a bit.

“Not a lot of customers today, huh?” Frank observed after a rather awkward pause, apparently determined to keep on talking.

“There never are.” Gerard didn't look up, but decided to shade in the background – a graveyard full of crooked gravestones and overgrown angel statues, a full moon hanging in the night sky.

The shortage of moviegoers wasn’t actually something out of the ordinary. In 1984, with only two screening rooms, with its worn red velvet seats, its run-down interior and shabby bathrooms, the old fashioned lounge and its out-of-date screening equipment, the Belleville Film Palace wasn't the place where the cool crowd mingled.

”It's a fucking pity,” Frank observed, “I only sold three tickets for the 7:30 showing. I didn't realize it would be so empty.”

Gerard stopped the movement of pencil across paper, feeling his annoyance bubble up inside of him, and he hesitated only for a moment before he put his pencil down and turned on the bench to give Frank a dark look. “Well, maybe it's because most people are too fucking dumb to get The Bostonians. They'd rather see Footlose or Temple of Doom,” he said defensively.

“I much preferred Raiders of the Lost Ark,” Frank said. “Marion is a much better heroine. Feisty. Can hold her drink. In Doom, Harrison Ford has to drag that blonde baggage through the jungle. She's holding up the whole plot. Not to mention that the plot is idiotic to begin with.”

“Not every second movie in a series can be as awesome as Empire Strikes Back”, Gerard allowed, feeling his irritation dissipate a bit.

“God, no!” Frank enthused, a big smile spreading over his face. “Empire's the best. I was so heartbroken when they froze Han Solo in carbonite! That’s one hell of a cliffhanger!”

He was beaming now, an infectious, shit-eating grin, and reluctantly, Gerard answered his smile with one of his own. Maybe he had to reassess Frank – anyone who loved Star Wars couldn't be that bad.

“Han Solo's my favorite,” he admitted, and Frank nodded. “Could you imagine Star Wars without Han Solo? Nothing against Luke, I mean, I get he's the hero, but he's a bit of a bore.”

“Right,” Frank agreed. “Using the Force and shit is cool, but Han Solo? He has the best ship AND he gets the girl.”

Gerard felt himself relax, his earlier annoyance at Frank evaporating. Maybe even that twitchy feeling he had around him would go away eventually. He shifted in his seat to face Frank on the bench, pulling one leg up. Frank was looking at him expectantly, practically glowing with excitement.

Frank's enthusiasm was contagious. Star Wars was common ground. Gerard could talk about it. At length. With anyone.

“He gets the best lines, too,” Gerard said.

“And I thought they smelled bad ... on the outside!” Frank offered, and Gerard surprised himself with a loud laugh.

“Did you realize that every planet is a climate extreme? Hoth – the ice planet. We had Tatooine, that's a desert planet. Dagobah - “

“- swamp,” they both said in unison, and grinned at each other. Frank's beaming face gave Gerard a thrill and he felt that this was one of the rare moments when you connected with someone over something you both loved and everything clicked into place.

“I’m kind of pissed at George Lucas that he didn’t really explain things about the Jedi. The ones we’ve seen apart from Luke were both old men, hermits even.” Gerard mused.

Frank shrugged. “Exactly. Why did they choose to live alone? And why didn't they train others? You kind of get the sense that the Jedi are a monk order, though, right? I mean, the Force is practically religion - “

“... and the robes with the hoods, yeah,” Gerard nodded. “Warrior monks. Wizard warrior monks.”

Frank laughed again and waved his hands in front of Gerard's face, nearly smacking him in the nose. “These aren't the droids you're looking for.”

“It's a pity Obi-Wan Kenobi died in Hope, I would have liked to -” Gerard started, but was interrupted by Ray, who suddenly appeared at their table.

“Hey, G.” Ray slid on the bench across from them with as much grace as he could muster, which wasn’t much because he banged his knee on the table and winced. “Bob tells me to tell you that if you need the Godzilla cans, you should help him carry them upstairs now.”

Gerard suppressed a sigh, looking apologetically at Frank, “I'm sorry, but I gotta go. We should talk about Star Wars another time, yeah?”

“Totally!” Frank said, still grinning widely, his face flushed and excited.

Gerard collected his notebook and pencils and Frank dutifully moved so that Gerard could crawl out of the booth behind him.

He crossed the lounge towards the hallway, looking back only once when he heard Ray's familiar hoarse donkey-laugh as he guffawed at something Frank had said. Frank followed with a giggling, girlish sound. Gerard felt a sting of regret at having to leave – it had been pretty awesome to geek out about Star Wars.

He felt a bit bad now for having been such an ass to Frank, but then again, there was something about Frank he couldn't put his finger on, something that had him on edge, as if somebody was constantly poking him in the side.

*-*

It was a Thursday night, and Gerard had been working on the 1954 version of Godzilla, as per Hank's request. Gerard had been in the workroom adjacent to the office for the past three hours, his battered Walkman playing a mix tape Mikey had compiled for him, repairing some damage at the end of the second reel that involved the marker signs, when he ran out of tape.

He didn't find any in the workroom, which meant he had to leave his work station and venture into Hank's office where tape, projector lamps and other material were hoarded in Hank's big cupboard.

He hadn't realized that it had gotten dark outside while he had been working and Hank's office was pitch-black. The smell of smoke hung thick in the air. He shuffled past a shadowy pile of film cans on the floor and felt along the wall for the light switch he knew was there. He flipped the switch, and it took the old lamp a moment where it flickered before the harsh light lit the room.

Hank was slumped over his desk, eyes open and weirdly vacant, his arm at an unnatural angle beneath his mass of body.

It was pretty apparent even from where Gerard was standing near the door that Hank was dead.

Gerard couldn’t tell how long he stood there, staring at Hank's slumped over form, trying to comprehend what had happened, his head filled with noisy static. A knock at the door startled him, but he still couldn't move, his muscles leaden.

“Hank? I wanted to ask whet- ”, a familiar voice said from behind him, then trailed off.

“Whoa,” Frank said after a while, his presence hovering somewhere next to Gerard's left shoulder. “Is he dead?”

Gerard tried to clear his throat to say something, but his voice didn't work and all he produced was a dry, croaking noise, so he nodded, his too-long hair flopping into his eyes. He reached up to wipe the strands away, but couldn't turn, couldn't look away from Hank's slumped over body, the way his eyes looked so blank, and how sallow his skin was.

Frank didn't say anything either, but Gerard could hear him exhale softly and a moment later, a steady hand was placed on his back, right beneath his shoulder blade, the warmth from Frank's touch seeping through the thin fabric of Gerard's shirt.

“We should... uhm... probably call an ambulance,” Frank said softly, his fingers pressing gently. “Or the coroner.”

Gerard felt himself nod again – it seemed all he was capable of. Frank's fingers slid from his shoulder blade up his neck, thumbing over his nape, then down his arm, finally reaching around his wrist. “C'mon,” Frank murmured, pulling carefully, and Gerard let himself be pulled away. There was a phone on Hank's desk, but Frank seemed just as hesitant to step closer to the dead man as Gerard was.

Later he could only vaguely remember the sequence of events; how they had walked out into the lounge, Frank pulling Gerard along with a firm, but gentle hand. Ray, who had been on a break, had fetched Bob from the middle of one of his screenings. Frank had sat him down at one of the tables in the front on a bench and hadn't left his side, not even when Bob had gone back into Hank's office, returning 5 minutes later, white-faced and with red eyes.

“I think he's in shock,” Lindsey said from where she was sitting on Gerard's right, looking at him carefully. He still hadn't managed to say a single word since Frank had found him.

“... No, I’m not,” he finally forced out, his voice sounding too loud for his own ears.

“Hank must have died while Gerard was in the other room,” Frank said, looking at Gerard sideways. His hand was rubbing up and down Gerard's arm; he was sitting so close Gerard's whole left side was warmed by his body heat. Gerard briefly wondered if Frank was even aware that he was doing it.

“The ambulance will be here in a couple of minutes. I think,” Bob said, sounding pained, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We better close up – no more screenings tonight. Can someone finish the screening in Cinema 2? The movie is on the last reel, should be done in a couple of minutes.”

“I'll do it,” Ray offered, getting up from where he had been sitting at the counter on a barstool. The look Bob shot him was one of pure gratitude.

“What will happen now?” Frank asked, looking at Bob expectantly, his fingers still stroking Gerard's arm soothingly, up and down and up and down. Gerard registered the touch with a detached kind of interest.

Bob huffed a huge sigh, wiping a hand over his face before answering. “I really don't know. Maybe Brian will... Oh God,” he stopped himself and grimaced, looking even more traumatized if possible. “Somebody’s gotta call Brian. - I gotta call Brian.”

At Frank's confused look, Gerard spoke up, feeling like he could gradually get his voice back under control. “Brian is Hank's nephew. He's the closest living relative Hank's got, the only son of Hank's brother.”

Bob, who had been pacing the lounge ever since he had returned from Hank's office, sat down heavily on the barstool Ray had recently vacated. “Brian's in the music biz, a tour manager. He hasn't been in Belleville for at least 8 months.”

Music. The word prompted something in Gerard's head and he almost felt sick at the dawning realization. “... I was listening to the Ramones on my headphones,” Gerard said, needing to get the truth off his chest. He was starting to feel a bit short of breath all of a sudden, the reality of the situation sinking in. Oh my God, he was so glad that Mikey wasn't here today. “I didn't hear him. I could have helped him,” he added, his voice cracking a bit.

He wondered if Hank had made some sound when the attack hit, if he had fought for air, if he had cried out, and Gerard hadn't heard a sound because he had had the headphones on. If maybe Gerard could have just helped him, if he hadn't been listening to the Ramones.

“Oh G,” Lindsey said softly, reaching for his hand, pressing his fingers and stroking her thumb over his wrist.

Frank turned on the bench towards Gerard, hands coming up and framing his face, practically forcing him to look his way, brushing the strands of his hair out of his face. “Hey,” he said steadily, “C'mon, it's not your fault. You couldn't have known.” He sounded determined, and Gerard wanted to believe him.

“But if I hadn't listened to music... or if I had just come out earlier-” He was stuttering, every breath painful.

“It's not your fault, Gerard,” Bob said vehemently, parroting Frank's words. “Hank has had trouble with his heart for years now, but he wouldn't listen to the doctors.”

Frank looked at him as if he wanted to say, See?, and that, even more than Bob's words and Lindsey's gentle touch on his hand, calmed Gerard's fluttering heartbeat.

Ray returned, a couple of people trailing after him, laughing, chatting, absolutely oblivious to what had taken place, and Gerard watched them walk by as they animatedly discussed the movie they had just seen. He heaved a sigh when Ray had ushered the last guests out the huge double doors.

Lindsey let go of Gerard's hand slowly, and got up from the bench. “I gotta do something. Anything. Or I'll fucking cry,” she said sullenly. Gerard watched her curiously as she made her way over to the counter and started to clear off empty cups and candy wrappers.

He stared, amazed at the way she chose to deal with it all, at the strength she displayed, feeling like a damn sissy in comparison. A gentle nudge to his shoulder made him turn his attention back to Frank.

“Are you going to be okay?” Frank asked carefully. “Do you think you need anything?”

Gerard, who was starting to calm down gradually, actually feeling a bit embarrassed now, shook his head, then changed his mind and nodded. “A cigarette would be fucking great right about now,” he said, and Frank gave a short snort, before scooting a couple of inches away from Gerard and lifting his ass from the bench to reach into his pockets and pull out a rather flat pack of cigarettes.

He held out the pack and Gerard fumbled with it for a moment before Frank took it back, pulling out two and simultaneously lighting them. He handed over one to Gerard, and gratefully, Gerard accepted, lifting it to his mouth. They smoked in silence while they waited, Frank still sitting next to Gerard but not that close anymore. Lindsey, who had finished removing all the empty cups from the counter and surrounding tables, and seemed to have decided that enough was enough, joined them. Wordlessly, Frank handed over another cigarette. Sitting across from them, Ray fidgeted on his seat; he had stopped smoking a couple of weeks ago, but you could see it from his face how much he yearned for a smoke.

They all looked up when the front doors swung open, admitting a gust of cool evening wind and two paramedics, one of them carrying a bag with equipment. Bob pushed himself up from the barstool and walked over to meet them, wordlessly leading the way towards Hank's office.

They smoked another cigarette, waiting for Bob to return. When he did, he was still unusually pale – even for him –, the expression on his face tired and tragic.

“You kids should go home. This will take a while – I have to wait for the coroner.”

“Are they going to ask Gerard questions?” Lindsey asked.

Bob shook his head, one shaky hand coming up to wipe over his eyes. “No. He had a heart attack. You couldn't have helped him, Gerard, even if you had been in the room with him. It was over too quick.”

Gerard exhaled slowly, only now realizing that these had been the words he had been waiting for. A hand came down on his thigh under the table, squeezing softly, and he looked down curiously to see Frank's nail-bitten, short fingers patting at his leg.

“I'm gonna drive G and Lyn-Z home,” Ray said. “You need a ride, too, Frank?”

Frank shook his head. “I'm here with my bike.” He took a last drag from his cigarette and stood up, extinguishing it in the ashtray in the middle of the table.

Gerard slowly got up from the bench as well, feeling a bit shaky on his legs. He stubbed out his own cigarette rather half-heartedly and scooted out from behind the table.

“C'mon, Gway,” Ray coaxed, sounding like he was talking to a spooked animal. Gerard exhaled softly and shakily, relieved that Ray seemed so collected and together. Even though Ray was only three months older than Gerard, to Gerard Ray seemed like the older brother he had never had. You could count on Ray; he always came through. They had been neighbors ever since they were kids and had been through a lot together.

They walked outside, Ray in the lead, Gerard following with Lindsey pressed to his side, cuddling in under his arm, Frank trailing after them. They stopped at Ray's car in the parking lot – a shitty Volkswagen Scirocco that was held together by gaffer tape and lots of praying on Ray's part – and while Ray and Lindsey walked around the car, Frank stood with Gerard by the passenger side door, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, his gaze on both their shoes. Gerard looked down as well, noting the scuffed and dirty Chucks and the frayed and stained cuffs of Frank's threadbare jeans which were too long and dragged in the dirt.

“Are you going to be okay?” Frank finally asked, and Gerard looked up, finding Frank looking at him intently.

“Yeah,” Gerard affirmed. He suddenly felt embarrassed about his earlier behavior, for having Frank comfort him and calm him down. He felt a flush darken his face and he tossed his head, making his long bangs of hair slide into his eyes. God, Frank had stroked his arm and face and Gerard had been sitting there, being a damn crybaby.

“...Okay,” Frank said softly after a moment's pause, a note of hesitation in his voice. “Good night, then.”

“See you,” Gerard forced out. Frank's hand landed on his arm for a moment, squeezing, before he dropped it away, then turned to walk over to the bicycle rack, where a rather beat up looking dirty-yellow BMX was secured.

A throat was cleared behind him and Gerard jumped, turning around. Ray had rolled down the window and was looking out at him, bent awkwardly over the front bench towards the passenger door.

“Will you take a step back so I don't knock you down when I open the door?” he asked, and Gerard felt his flush deepen some more.

Ray pushed the door open for him from the inside and he climbed into the passenger seat. After Gerard had gotten settled, Ray started the car and moved out of the parking space, thankfully not turning on the radio. In the back, Lindsey was curled up in a corner, her knees drawn up on the seat, hoodie pulled over her head. Usually, they would listen to music or talk; sometimes Gerard would smoke, the window rolled down. Tonight neither Ray nor Lindsey attempted to start a conversation, and Gerard slumped against the door, leaning his cheek against the cool window and watching the streets pass by outside as they made their familiar way home.

He didn't see a thing. In his head, the night kept replaying – Hank's prone body, the paramedics coming in, Bob's tragic face, Frank's hand on his thigh, patting.

*-*2.

“I can't believe he's gone,” Mikey said for what seemed like the 30th time that day. Ever since this morning, when Gerard had told Mikey the news over breakfast, Mikey had muttered the words in the same, toneless voice he always used for anything (except maybe when he talked about Jaws, because if there was one thing that got Mikey really excited it was killer sharks.) Gerard could tell Mikey was upset, though; he knew his brother, could read even his most inflection-less sounds.

“I can't believe he died,” Mikey murmured again, looking up at the marquee that proclaimed the screening of “The Bounty” and “Brother from An0ther Planet” They had been standing outside the cinema for the last five minutes, hesitant to walk through the door. Gerard was on his second cigarette, smoking furtively, because it gave him something to do.

Usually, they would come here on Fridays right after school ended, but this time, Gerard had stalled in the school parking lot, actually cleaning the backseat of his orange 1972 Ford Escort, tossing out the candy wrappers, the flattened coke cans and half-empty bags of stale Doritos.

Gerard didn't know what he would do if the cinema was closing. He would probably have a crying fit. A breakdown, maybe.

Suddenly, the door was pushed open from the inside, and Bob craned his head out, a look of exasperation on his face. “Oh for fuck's sake!” he said in case of a greeting, “Come on in, you idiots. Everyone else is already here.”

Gerard shared a look with Mikey, who shrugged, then followed his brother inside. It was true – the others were already in the lounge, Ray on his favorite barstool, Lindsey with her ass perched on a tabletop, Frank, who had turned around a chair and was sitting facing the others, arms folded over the backrest.

“Finally,” Ray said, barely looking up from the Rubik’s Cube he was fiddling with. “I've never before seen Gerard take so much time cleaning the backseat of his car.” Ever since he had stopped smoking, Ray had developed a – in Gerard's eyes – rather unhealthy fascination with Rubik's cubes. He was getting pretty good at solving them, too.

“I've never before seen Gerard take any time at all to clean his car,” Lindsey observed, arching one perfectly trimmed eyebrow. Her red-rimmed, swollen eyes belied the teasing quality of her voice. You could tell that she hadn't slept much last night either.

Gerard was too anxious to play their usual game of sharp-witted bickering, so he just glared at her and dropped down on the bench next to the table she was sitting on.

He caught Frank's eye, but looked away quickly when Frank gave him a sympathetic smile. His face was heating up again, remembering once more how Frank had had his arms wrapped around him the night before. He had barely been able to sleep last night, tossing and turning in his too-hot sheets, his head equally filled with questions as to what was going to happen now and the embarrassment he felt whenever he remembered Frank comforting him the way he had done.

“So... I talked to Brian a couple of hours ago,” Bob said, and just like that, all eyes were on him, Ray dropping the Rubik’s cube in his lap, unfinished, to give Bob all of his attention.

“Predictably, he's pretty upset. I mean, he and Hank weren't that tight over the last couple of years, but still – Hank's his uncle after all. He won't be able to make it to the funeral, though. He's on tour in Europe with Adrenaline O.D. and he can't make it here, not for the next 6 or 7 weeks. He asked me to arrange the funeral for him.”

Lindsey made a disgusted sound, muttering something under her breath.

Bob paused, his hands clasped tightly together in front of his chest. Gerard could practically sense the collective anticipation vibrating in the air, the tension that emanated from every single one of them. He could see it in the anxious set of Lindsey's shoulders, the way Frank's teeth dug hard into his bottom lip, Ray's fingers gripping the Rubik’s Cube in a tight-knuckled grip, Mikey's stoic face belying his feelings. Something painful tightened in Gerard's stomach. He already knew what Bob would say, it was clear from his pause, from the exhausted look on his face, the dark smudges on his pale skin, but they all needed to hear it spoken out loud.

“Bob,” Ray said, and his voice held a hint of impatience. “What about the movie theater?”

Bob exhaled slowly, then unclasped his hands, letting them hang by his sides, looking defeated. “Once his tour is finished, Brian will come here and take care of everything. Which pretty much means that we're closing. He's too caught up in his music job.”

The collective sound of dismay as Lindsey, Ray and Mikey all protested loudly was drowned out by the white noise swooshing in Gerard's ears. He felt sick. His legs were numb, but his fingers shook were they rested on the bench next to his thigh. It was one thing expecting the theater to close, but hearing it from Bob’s mouth made it painfully real.

“Jesus, get a grip, guys,” Bob said, exasperated, raising a hand, until they shut up. He sighed and threaded a hand through his short blond hair, tugging. “I'm sorry, but that's how it is: Brian told me to close shop immediately. I am to send back the distribution copies and pay you your wages up till now. He said he's sorry about your jobs, but he sees no other solution.”

“Fuck,” Lindsey said tonelessly. “Fuck.” Then, with a bit more of verve, “Fuck Brian.” She slid from the table onto her feet, her face angry, her eyes blazing. “Fuck Brian,” she repeated, looking at each of them as if she wanted to make sure she had all their attention. “Who is he that he can just decide what happens with this place!” she said, enraged. “He hasn't been around in months, he doesn't give a fuck. He doesn't even give enough of a fuck to come to Hank's funeral.”

Gerard looked at her, really looked at her, her clenched fists, the stance of her feet, her wild eyes, and he probably adored her more at that moment than he had ever adored another human being.

“Lyn-Z, come on,” Bob said, his voice patient, meant to calm her down, “cut Brian some slack. He's really sorry he can't make it and he knows how much we all love the theater, but seriously, would you want to change your whole life just because you inherit a business you really don't want to own?”

“Yeah, so fucking what. Brian doesn't know shit. Hank loved it – he slaved all his life to keep it.” Lindsey's face was pretty red by now and Gerard wasn't sure whether she was just so angry or if she was about to start crying. He wasn't sure if he could stand to see her cry.

“Fuck this shit,” she cursed again, stomping her feet, and it almost had something comical – “I don't fucking care if Brian pays me or not, I'm gonna go and start the popcorn machine.”

For a moment they all watched her speechlessly as she made her way over towards the food counter – Mikey's mouth was practically hanging open –, and Gerard was almost about to start laughing. It was so bizarre. They’d closed the movie theater and Lindsey insisted on making popcorn.

“I haven't been working here for long,” Frank suddenly said, sounding thoughtful, “but I saw my first movie here, The Jungle Book. I was four. I loved it. It left such an impression. I really wanted to be Mowgli. For weeks after the movie my mother had to force me back into my clothes – I kept undressing and leaving them all over the place.” He paused and scowled, as if he was thinking hard. “You know, I spent a lot of afternoons here as a kid. I had some fucking special moments here. I really don’t want it to close down.”

He shifted on his chair, leaning his arms on the top of the backrest, chin propped up on his forearms. “I mean, it's a bit crappy and a bit seedy and run-down. But you just kind of feel welcome. Comfortable. At home. You know what I fucking mean.”

Gerard felt himself nod along to everything he said. He was pretty sure they’d all had had such moments Frank described. Fucking special moments.

The screeching sound of a stool sliding over the tiled floor made Gerard look over to the counter, where Ray had just gotten up from his barstool. He gave them a meaningful look, then said, “If we hurry, I can set up everything in time for the 5 p.m. screening.”

“Guys...” Bob started, and he sounded pained, hand coming up to rub his forehead. “Guys...,” he repeated, voice a bit more forceful, “I can't fucking pay you. I have my orders. You should all just go the fuck home.” His protestation lacked conviction though, and they all caught on to it. If there was one person whose future was on the line here, it was Bob. He had been working at the movie theater since he was fifteen and he maybe loved it more than everyone else.

“I don't care,” Ray said. “I really don't. I've been working here for more than two years. If Brian is on the road right now and we have a couple more weeks, I want to do this. I want to be here until the very last minute. I love this fucking place.”

“I'm gonna restock the programs for the ticket booth,” Mikey said from where he was leaning against the counter. “You wanna help, Frank?”

Gerard watched as Frank nodded and got up, trailing after Mikey, tossing a brief glance over his shoulder at Bob, who looked like he was actually contemplating their crazy notion. He certainly had stopped protesting and was looking thoughtful instead.

Gerard got up from his seat slowly, feeling the painful tightness in his stomach and the numbness in his legs dissolve, replaced by an overwhelming feeling of purpose. He strode over to where Bob was standing near the bar and stopped in front of him.

“Guess you're outnumbered,” he said, and Bob groaned a bit, even though he looked secretly relieved.

“Not you too,” he moaned half-heartedly. He was really bad at protesting their revolt, clearly caught between his responsibility as Brian’s employee and interim theater manager and his personal wants.

“I guess it's pretty clear that nobody cares if you pay us.” Gerard shrugged. “We've all been working here whether we've been paid or not in the past. If Brian wants to close it down, it's gonna happen early enough. Meanwhile, we're gonna keep this place running, right?”

When Bob didn't answer, just gave him a weak smile, Gerard knew that they had won for now. He took a look over his shoulder at Ray, who gave him a brief nod. If they were really quick, the 5 p.m. screening would go just as planned.

*-*

Despite their best efforts, things were different with Hank not around, even though Bob stepped in to fill his shoes as best as he could, making up for his earlier hesitation by accepting the challenge with an enthusiasm and energy that boggled everyone who was used to Bob's normally rather subdued and laid back personality.

Still, there was something missing, and there was no use in denying that it was Hank's vision for the place. They realized very quickly that without Hank it seemed pretty pointless to keep on going, because even though his managerial duties had sometimes been seriously lacking, Hank had been the heart and soul of the Belleville Film Palace. None of them wanted to admit that they were just attempting CPR.

It was noticeable right from the very start. That night, after they had collectively overruled Bob in the lounge, Gerard sat in his projector booth, looking down through the observation window into Cinema 2, counting the taken seats. It struck him how sad it was – a Saturday night at 9 p.m., and only a handful of people in the audience. He had never thought about it that much, but now, with Hank not here, somehow it seemed more important than usual.

They next three days passed in their usual routine, but their erstwhile enthusiasm was dwindling fast. Gerard suspected it also had something to do with the fact that they were on borrowed time and they all knew it. The first person to crack, strangely enough, was Lindsey. On the fourth evening, after a particularly frustrating screening with only 2 attendees, she broke down, spilled a cup of coke on her shirt and started to sob.

“I hate this fucking shit,” she cried, then stormed out, leaving a puzzled Ray, Mikey and Gerard behind.

“What the fuck?” Gerard asked, exchanging a confused glance with his brother.

“I'm going after her,” Ray said, tossing his Rubik’s cube on a bench.

He returned after 10 minutes without Lindsey, looking worried. “I sent her home. She's really... she says she's not sure where the point is doing this without Hank.”

“This fucking sucks,” Mikey groaned, dropping his head down on the sticky tabletop in front of him.

Gerard agreed, but he didn't want to give up. Not yet.

*-*

One week had passed since Hank's death, but it seemed as if he had been gone forever. They dutifully carried out their tasks, but the drive and enthusiasm they had displayed on that first day had faded way too quickly. Still, none of them wanted to give up, wanting to prove to themselves and Bob that they would stick to their word and continue screening until Brian finally showed up.

Hank's funeral had been the day before. Bob had arranged a quiet, low-key service. Ray had played the guitar, doing acoustic versions of a couple of classic movie melodies. Gerard was surprised how many people had turned up – a lot of them former movie theater employees, but he also had spotted a couple of regular moviegoers among the pretty decent crowd. Bob had seemed to know a lot of them, shaking hands left and right and taking condolences. They all had looked stiff and strange in their dark, somber clothing. Gerard had been in the suit he had last worn at his grandmother's funeral 8 months ago and wearing the stiff fabric was bringing back memories he had rather wanted suppressed.

Gerard was in projector booth #2, cleaning the projector parts with a brush, when he was suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door.

He looked up from his task, frowning, wondering if maybe he had heard another noise and misinterpreted it. Nobody ever knocked on his booth, because nobody ever came to visit. They knew better.

Another knock left no room for misinterpretation.

“What?” he called, hearing the exasperated annoyance in his voice.

“It's Frank,” Frank's voice came muffled from outside the door. “I just wanted to know how you were.”

Frank. Fuck. Gerard still felt embarrassed for the night of Hank's death and had been avoiding being alone with Frank ever since. If he really thought about it, this had been his tactic ever since Frank had started to work here, for one reason or another. It was fine when they were together with the others, but he was still getting uncomfortable whenever they were the only people in the room. And now Frank had come looking for him in his booth of all place. “I'm fine. Go away!” he called.

There was a moment of silence and Gerard waited for the sound of Frank's retreating footsteps, but Frank didn't leave. “Are you sure?” he asked instead.

“Yes!” Gerard growled. Why could Frank not leave him alone? He was working. He was fine. “Read the fucking sign on the fucking door! What does it say?”

“Projectionists only,” Frank dutifully read out loud. “Intruders will die a gruesome death.”

“Exactly!”

“I particularly like your drawing of the movie monster munching on the intruder's brains below.”

Sighing, Gerard put the brush down and walked over to the door. He pulled the door open a crack, staring into Frank's hopeful face.

“Hey!” Frank said, holding out a cup of something steaming with a disarming smile. “I have coffee.”

Gerard felt himself falter, even though one moment ago he had wanted to forcefully make Frank leave him alone. He ran a hand through his hair and huffed another sigh. Coffee. Frank had coffee. If there was one weakness Gerard had, it was his caffeine addiction. Trust Frank to sniff that out.

“For fuck's sake. Come on in, then.”

Frank's grin widened even more, and he pressed the cup of coffee he was holding into Gerard's hands. “Awesome,” he said, stepping over the threshold and looking around with curious eyes.

“Damn, I always forget how small it is in here,” Frank said with awe, stepping carefully around the narrow, tidy workbench. “Bob said the whole booth is clad with metal, so fires can be contained. You’re like sardines in a tin can. Fried sardines in a tin can.”

“It’s my tin can,” Gerard protested. Frank smiled.

“Don't touch anything. And look out for the film. If you mess something up, I will end you,” Gerard advised him, and took his cup over to the projector he had been cleaning, picking up the brush once more. Fortunately, because the booth was so small, there was barely a chance of Frank messing with anything. Frank could just stand there for a while and get bored, and then Gerard would toss him out on his tiny, slightly annoying ass. Gerard took a sip from the coffee, suppressing a small moan of delight (just the way he liked it, hot and sugary, with lots of milk, for sure, somebody had tipped Frank off, but right now, he didn't care), then put the coffee down on the top of a small cupboard.

“Is this a toothbrush?” Frank asked curiously, looking over Gerard's shoulder.

“Yeah. For cleaning the sprockets.”

“Seriously?”

“All these tiny parts collect dust – if you don't remove it, it will transfer onto the film. Dust on film equals damage,” Gerard explained.

“How often do you do this?” Frank asked, sounding genuinely interested.

“Every day.”

“Wow. Now I know why Lyn-Z called you guys anal.”

“It's not like it's my favorite occupation,” Gerard protested, moving the brush over the sound pick-up maybe a bit more forcefully than strictly necessary.

Frank leaned against the wall next to him, crossing his arms in front of his chest, eyes traveling up and down Gerard's body in a kind of intense way.

“What?” Gerard asked, feeling unnerved by the way Frank's eyes lingered on him.

“Don't take this the wrong way – but you aren’t the neatest guy ever. I mean, your jeans look like you've been wearing them for months and your hair...,” Frank waved his hand and made a face, “ - and hey, your leather jacket is practically duct-taped together! I just can't get over the fact that it's spotless in here.”

“I thought you said I didn't smell bad!”

“... much,” Frank corrected, teasing.

“Fuck you,” Gerard said, and Frank giggled, and Gerard had to smile as well. He looked over at Frank, rolling his eyes and Frank giggled again.

There was something glinting in Frank's left earlobe, and Gerard took a step back, hissing a bit as realization hit.

“Is that a fucking needle in your ear?” he asked, shuddering.

Frank bit his lip, his eyes twinkling mischievously, and he reached up, playing a bit with the metal in his earlobe. “A safety pin, actually.”

“Oh God, please don't tell me you stuck a safety pin through your ear!” Gerard groaned, feeling himself get a bit weak in the knees. He hated needles. And he certainly couldn't comprehend how anyone could stick a fucking needle through their fucking ear. Frank's earlobe looked pretty red and sore, too, swollen, where the pin was piercing the skin... God, he had to look the fuck away or he'll get sick.

“Yep. I did! You just gotta ice the earlobe – it doesn't hurt. Much,” Frank said proudly, reaching up and fiddling with the pin hanging from his lobe. “Goodbye, catholic school!”

“Next thing you're gonna stick something through your nose, too,” Gerard complained, and Frank laughed at the whiny tone of his voice.

“I don't know – seems maybe a bit intense. But I wanna get tattoos. I already got it figured out. My birthday’s coming up soon, and then I'm gonna run to the tattoo parlor and-”

“- Fuck, just shut up!” Gerard interrupted him, wiping a hand over his eyes.

Frank cackled, clearly amused that Gerard was such a sissy.

“If you must come in here and distract me, just please, talk about something other than your perverse obsession with attacking your skin with needles.”

Smirking, Frank pushed himself off the wall.

“I actually wanted to ask if you could draw me something.”

Gerard stopped the movement of the brush and dropped it before turning to face Frank. “Say what?” he asked, his voice coming out a bit weak and breathy. He wasn't sure he had correctly understood what Frank had just said.

“For my arm?” Frank suggested, and when Gerard didn't immediately react, just stared in dawning comprehension, he pushed up the sleeve of his shirt – revealing a fist-sized hole just underneath his armpit in the process – and tapped his fingers on his left upper arm. His skin was tanned all over, not like Gerard's deathly pale complexion. “I was thinking here. Like a monster, or something.”

Wow. Nobody had ever asked Gerard to draw anything for them, except of course Mikey. And certainly nobody had ever wanted Gerard's art on their body. Permanently. Etched in with... ow, fuck, needles. Forever.

“Dude, say something. You're kind of scaring me here,” Frank said, when Gerard still hadn't brought out a single word.

Gerard took a deep breath and blinked. His art. On somebody's body. On Frank's body. “– I – Any ideas for the design?” he croaked out, his mouth dry. He licked his lips, trying to get used to the idea. Was he really contemplating this?

Something like relief washed over Frank's face and he dropped his fingers from his arm, his shirt sleeve falling back into place. “Some,” Frank said, quirking his lips. “Dude, I'm so glad you're not put off by the idea.”

Gerard blushed and hastily turned away, picking up the discarded toothbrush and walking over to the workbench, where he stowed it away in one of the plastic boxes that held soft rags and cleaning tissues.

Frank followed him and stopped behind his back. “We should get together sometime and talk about it,” he suggested, and Gerard was physically aware of how close he was standing.

“Yeah,” he breathed, then stepped aside and around Frank. “Not now, though,” he added, picking up the first reel from the film for the 5 p.m. showing and walked over to the projector. Frank followed him again – like a puppy, Gerard thought, with pretty, begging puppy dog eyes – watching with interest as Gerard fitted the feed reel, then pulled down the film strip and started to thread it through the projector.

“Wow. That was awfully quick,” Frank said, once Gerard had looped the strip on the take up reel.

Gerard decided not to comment, but started to prepare the second projector, Frank still hovering in the background.

“Do you mind if I stay during the showing? I want to know what it looks like from up here,” Frank asked.

Gerard looked over his shoulder at Frank and he heard himself say, “Sure. Although it’s not very exciting – you can only watch the movie through this small shutter here,” even before his brain kicked in. Fuck.

“Awesome,” Frank breathed gleefully, bouncing a bit up and down in place.

*-*

After that, it started to become a regular thing. Maybe more than just regular. A daily thing. In-between selling tickets, Frank would come and visit Gerard in his booth, always bringing coffee, and they would talk about a million different things – often about movies or comics, because Frank liked those, too. It was scary how much they actually had in common and Gerard sometimes found Frank finishing Gerard’s sentences or him saying something Gerard had just been thinking about. Frank would shoot the shit about the movies they screened, and Gerard had to admit that it was fun having him around. Amazingly enough, sometime between Hank's death and now, Gerard had stopped finding Frank so ... exhausting. Annoying. Distracting. He didn't even know.

If they weren’t crammed in-between the projectors, watching the screen through the small windows, they sat in the back on the leather clad bench, talking.

It was Wednesday night, and Hank's screening plan which they had been following diligently prescribed another screening of “The Bostonians”.

Frank, who actually had a day off - if they still followed the duty roster -, was sitting on the bench, leafing through the Batman Special #1.

He heaved a sudden sigh, tossing the comic on the workbench behind him. “Bostonians. Again,” he said, sounding resigned.

Gerard, who was cleaning the rewinding machine with a soft rag, looked up and couldn't help but grin at the expression on Frank's face. “It's not like you have to be here.”

Frank shrugged his shoulders, then slid off the bench. “I really don't give a fuck about Victorian dramas. Not even ones with lesbians.”

Gerard finished wiping down the machine and pushed the rag into the back of his jeans pockets. “And I thought you were in it for the lesbians.”

“They don't even do anything!” Frank protested. “They just stare meaningfully at each other and there's some half-assed cuddling. It's sexually frustrating just watching them!”

Gerard snorted and watched as Frank dramatically slumped back against the projector's lamphouse with a sigh. “Seriously, G,” he whined, looking at Gerard pleadingly from under his lashes, “I can't watch this fucking movie again!”

When Gerard didn't immediately answer, Frank pushed himself off and walked over to where Gerard was still standing next to the film rewinder. He stopped in front of Gerard and gripped his arms, his fingers pressing, shaking him. “Come on! It's Wednesday afternoon! You know how it is on Wednesday!”

There was a slightly insane quality to the mischievous glint in Frank's eyes, something that Gerard already recognized as a predecessor to one of Frank's crazy ideas, which he seemed to have in abundance, whether it meant he was going to exchange the sugar in the shakers for salt or TP the car of a jock who had complained loudly about the state of the theater when he had paid his ticket.

“G!” Frank said, and yes, he was energized with whatever idiotic plan had hatched in his head, “on Wednesdays, there's only ever old Mrs. Hemsmith, who's blind as a fucking bat and pretty deaf, too.”

Gerard had an inkling of an idea where this would be going, but Frank was still exuberant with excitement. “And who fucking cares about the teenagers in the back playing tonsil hockey? They wouldn't know what fucking movie we played – they just want to get off! Can't we just put something else on? Something worth watching. Like... a horror movie?”

For a moment, Gerard wanted to protest, push away Frank's insane idea. Then again – it wasn't so insane. Maybe it was even more insane still following Hank's schedule, even though Hank wasn't around anymore to enforce and appreciate it.

“I finished repairing the 1954 Godzilla movie Hank wanted done...” Gerard heard himself say.

“Oh fuck, that would be fucking awesome!” Frank crowed, finally letting go of Gerard's arms. He would have fucking bruises, Frank had been gripping him so hard.

“Go get it! What are you waiting for!” Frank urged him now, grin as wide as his face.

Yeah. Yeah. This could be fun. They could watch the original Gojira on the big screen. Frank's enthusiasm was damn infectious, and there was just something about his face right now that Gerard couldn't say no to. He was pretty sure it would physically harm him to deny Frank anything, not when he was so animated, so excited.

“Only if you help me carry the cans, you fucker,” Gerard said, and Frank bounced with a whoop of joy, throwing his arms around his neck and hanging on, knocking Gerard back. They stumbled a couple of steps until they both found their footing, and Frank pulled back, his face flushed, eyes shining. There was something in the way Frank was looking at him that made Gerard embarrassed, like maybe Frank really liked him, as if he were fond of him in some way. He cleared his throat and stepped away, Frank's arms sliding from around his neck.

“Alright. Let's do this then.”

*-*

They found the Godzilla film cans immediately, after all Gerard had just put them back into storage two days ago, neatly stacking the 6 reels in 2 piles. He had also relabeled the cans before stowing them away, following Hank’s labeling scheme. If the man’s office had been that organized, some things maybe would have worked differently around here.

“Wow,” Frank said, taking a look around the room, eyes traveling over the shelves full of film cans. “I didn't know Hank had an archive.”

Gerard nodded and lifted the topmost can of Gojira from the shelf, putting it in Frank's arms. “A pretty good one, too. There are two more rooms through that door, by the way. I mean, Hank certainly wasn't the best cinema manager and he really didn't spend lots of money on new projectors, because he claimed that the old ones did their job just as well, but he loved film. And he knew a lot about it.”

Frank bent his knees and put the Gojira can on the floor, then walked up the aisle between the rows of shelves, occasionally glancing at the labeling of a can. “How come there's so much of it? Aren't you supposed to send the copies back to the distributors? Isn’t this shit illegal?”

“Technically yes,” Gerard huffed, taking down another can. “But some of this material is pretty old – sometimes, distributors just told the cinemas to destroy the copies – and some obviously didn't. Hank’s father sure as hell didn’t.”

Gerard took a break and leaned against the shelf, wiping a hand over his sweaty forehead before continuing to explain. “As far as I know Hank has acquired some kind of film archive license in the 60s – he has contacts at the university. There’s a reason everything is so tidy down here, Bob told me there are all kind of requirements. We’re supposed to screen a certain amount of those old movies from time to time. We’re also allowed to take film donations from studios and copyright holders.”

“Does that actually happen? Do they send a copy for us to keep?” Frank asked doubtfully.

Gerard nodded. “Yeah, actually, that happens more and more. They are just distributing copies – if one archive goes up in flames, you can find a copy somewhere else. And if we screen it, they still get the money. We gotta fill out some paperwork and register the showing, pay a copyright fee or something.” He made a face. “… Whatever.”

“Hmmm. Sounds pretty complicated,” Frank said, returning to were Gerard was lifting down the last can. “It's cold in here,” he observed, rubbing his bare arms, where goose bumps had broken out.

“Yeah, we're in the cellar.”

“No, duh,” Frank replied, rolling his eyes.

Gerard smirked. “Should be just under 50 degrees. It's the temperature film likes best. It doesn't degenerate that easily. Seriously, Hank was pretty proud of his archive and he cared a lot about it – made sure it never got damp down here, either. There are films from 4 or 5 decades stored here.”

“I wouldn't have expected that,” Frank said, then smiled. “You crazy film nuts,” he said fondly.

“Shut up.”

Cackling, Frank helped Gerard with the cans – they could just lift two each -, and they made their way up the stairs.

In the lounge, on their way to the back staircase, they ran into Mikey, who raised both eyebrows when he saw them coming.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, looking from Gerard to Frank and back, then down at the film cans in their arms.

“Godzilla!” Frank said happily, “we're gonna screen Godzilla!”

Mikey's nose twitched and he lifted his hand to push his glasses back up his nose. “I just sold four tickets for Bostonians.”

“Mrs. Hemsmith?” Frank asked knowingly, and snorted when Mikey nodded.

“We're still gonna screen Godzilla. It's not like anyone will care,” Frank explained, then readjusted his grip on the cans.

“Are you sure?” Mikey asked, his eyes resting on Gerard, gaze a bit reproachful, as if he dared him to go along with what was obviously Frank's idiotic plan.

“Fucking sure! Go help us get the other reels, fuckface!” Frank answered instead of Gerard.

“I dunno.” Mikey sounded hesitant, eyes still on Gerard, as if he wanted him to protest. Gerard decided to keep silent.

“What's goin' on, guys?” Ray said, stepping out of Hank's office. He looked curiously at the film cans in their arms.

“We're going to screen Gojira, from 1954,” Gerard said, and Frank nodded frantically, still all keyed up despite Mikey’s protest.

“Seriously?” Ray asked, but he seemed to like the idea, because his voice held a note of delight.

“Mikey sold only 4 tickets for Bostonians,” Gerard explained.

“4 fucking people, you guys. 4! If one of them complains about us showing Godzilla, I will personally pay them back AND invite them for popcorn on my pay,” Frank said, and Gerard was pretty sure that Frank would do just that.

“I saw Mr. Winter paying for a ticket. He always falls asleep, the old drunk.” Ray looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know what? I love it. Let's watch Godzilla!”

“Mikey Fucking Way: Overruled!” Frank crowed, sticking out his tongue at Mikey and blowing him a raspberry.

*-*

“Mikey always knows the most interesting people. I really don't get how he does it. I mean, Gerard, are you sure he's not adopted?” Ray asked teasingly, looking from where Mikey was sitting at the bar in a discussion with two pretty girls, to Gerard.

Gerard gave him the finger and Ray tossed his head back and laughed. “It's true, though. He throws the best parties. And he knows absolutely everyone.”

“That's because he got all the social skills in the family. There's only a certain amount of social skills distributed among siblings. Looks like Mikey got all of it,” Bob said, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

“Lay it the fuck off,” Gerard growled, and both Ray and Bob snickered at the stormy look on his face.

Bob nodded his head at where Mikey was sitting. “You'd think he's gonna score?”

“Bryar! That's my baby brother you're fucking talking about. Jeez.”

Ray clapped a hand on Gerard's shoulder, pressing briefly. “You have to admit, Alicia's really the type of girl you wish your brother could score. Hot, but not a skank, clever, but not boring, just the right amount of geeky.”

Gerard sighed, but had to admit Ray was right. He reached for his can of beer and took a swig. He wasn't drinking fast enough, the beer was already lukewarm.

For a spontaneous party, this was pretty good, though. It had been Mikey's idea. He had actually wanted to go to a party at someone’s house after work, but the parents that should have been out hadn't left for their weekend break. Mikey had solved the problem instantly, inviting the party guests over to the cinema. It certainly helped in raising his rather low social standing in the Belleville party scene.

“Man,” Bob said, glancing over the top of his beer can at two kids practically tearing at each other's clothes behind the food counter, “I hope they are older than they look. I hate being the only grown up around.”

“You call 20 grown up?” Ray asked, waggling his eyebrows. “You aren't even legally allowed to buy beer.”

Snorting, Gerard glanced over at the kissing couple as well, his eyes sliding over a table near the exit, where Frank and Lindsey were both sitting cross-legged on the table top, facing each other. Frank’s scraped knees poked out from the holes in his jeans – Gerard wondered how he had even bruised them. They were laughing. Lindsey had a bag of popcorn in her lap, and occasionally reached inside, carelessly aiming for Frank, who was twisting around, trying to catch the popcorn with his mouth. He leaned back so far that he nearly toppled off the table. Lindsey's high-pitched giggle could be heard even over the loud music coming from the speakers.

Gerard couldn't help but stare, something twisting in his stomach. He wanted to be over there, tossing popcorn at Frank and laughing so easily. Frank hadn't really talked to him at all today, except for a quick “hello” when he had come in earlier – it was his day off, but Mikey had called him and told him to come over for the party. That “hello” had been addressing the room at large, so it didn't even count as talking.

With narrowed eyes, Gerard watched as Lindsey tried to place a piece of popcorn on Frank's upturned nose, before giving up and just mashing a whole hand of popcorn in his face, making him splutter and curse.

“Gerard, are you listening?” Ray asked, jostling his shoulder.

“-what?” He turned, suppressing the blush at being caught staring. Ray was glancing at him, a strange look on his face.

“I said, will you screen more movies from Hank's archives? I really loved watching the horror movie that last time.”

Across the table, Bob, who as the meanwhile cinema manager should have had protested the hijacking of Bostonians in favor of a 1954 horror trash classic, nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, me too. Really, Hank has tons of cool stuff down there in the cellar.”

“Man, think of all those movies down there. As if they are sleeping, Cinderella waiting to be wakened from her cursed slumber or something.” Ray sighed, putting his chin in his hands, his eyes getting that glazed over look Gerard recognized as Ray drifting off into daydreaming.

“I dunno. Do you think we should screen some more movies from the archives?” Gerard said around another swig from his beer can. The can was almost empty by now and he glanced at the remaining liquid sloshing around in the can through the little hole, before raising it to his lips and draining it. He shot a glance at Bob, who after all was the only real employee around here.

Bob took a last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray on their table. He blew out a long line of smoke, taking his time, before answering.

“Why not?” he finally said. “It actually looks good on our yearly evaluation – the more movies we screen from the archives, the better. So, green light from me. Also, it's not like we're doing something that Hank would frown upon – he thought about it himself.”

Gerard nodded, remembering the conversation in which Hank had revealed his plans about digging out more original movies. “True. He said something to me about how he was contemplating showing more of what we have in the archive. How it kind of sets us apart from the multiplexes.”

“Think about that: Every night, horror movie night,” Ray said dreamily.

“Dawn of the Dead. Rosemary's Baby. The Mummy. The Curse of Frankenstein. The Cabinet of Caligari,” Gerard suggested.

He looked up and saw Bob grinning. “We should do that,” he said. “Have themed evenings. Show some of those movies. We could combine them with movies that have been coming out lately.”

“So, you're good with us doing this then?” Ray asked Bob, then punched the air happily when Bob nodded.

“Yes! I will -” Ray started, but then interrupted himself with a hoarse cry of triumph. “Holy fucking shit! He scores!” he yelled, almost jumping up from his seat, pointing with his finger towards the counter, where Mikey and Alicia were suddenly sucking face.

“Go, MikeyWay!” Ray hollered, and Bob whistled, both of which didn't disturb Mikey and Alicia at all; they were too caught up in each other.

Gerard averted his eyes (because, ewww!), his gaze landing once more on Frank and Lindsey. Lindsey was sitting close next to Frank, sewing a Black Flag patch onto the front pocket of his jeans jacket. They were still talking quietly and seemed to not have any need to involve someone else in their conversation.

Great, Gerard thought bitterly. Everybody seemed to find a girl, except him. The trouble was – he guessed he was a bit picky when it came to girls. There were rarely any he really liked, and the ones he liked, he didn't want to get with. He probably could have had Lindsey. Come on, it was Lindsey. They had been friends for 2 years. She was fucking pretty, too. But it was, after all, Lindsey.

At 17, he had never been in a relationship, and had ever only kissed two girls. It hadn't been that great either. His first kiss had happened when he was 14, fucking ages ago, in the cupboard at Lisa Rutrow's birthday party. The girl had been Suzie Swan, and they had been shoved into Lisa's older brother's cupboard for 7 minutes in Heaven. It had fucking reeked, like the inside of a gym locker, dirty clothes and cheap aftershave. They had sat there for all of five minutes in silence, before Suzie had leaned over and pecked him on the lips. It was a bit wet and confusing and certainly not how Gerard had wanted his first kiss to go. He had been fucking terrified.

His second kiss had been 4 months ago, another party, drunk off his ass. The girl in question whose name he couldn't remember had been equally drunk and they had made out in the corner for a while. She had been all over him, shoving her tongue into his mouth, pushing against his teeth and the roof of his mouth. He had been distracted by the smell of her flowery perfume and the clanging of the metal bangles on her arms. He couldn't even remember if she had been pretty. He couldn't remember feeling anything but indifference. Certainly not the fireworks other guys talked about. He hadn't even been really hard. Maybe that had been the alcohol, though.

Gerard stubbed out his cigarette, watching darkly as Frank leaned forward after Lindsey had finished, pressing a kiss to her cheek. They both giggled, Lindsey ducking her head, and then Frank fingered the front of his jacket, admiring her handiwork.

“I gotta get some fresh air,” Gerard said, feeling disgusted. He pushed himself up from the bench, not glancing back at Bob and Ray who he so hastily left behind. He just needed to get out.

*-*

The roof was fucking perfect after the smoke-filled lounge. Gerard sometimes came up here in-between reels to smoke a cigarette. Hardly anyone else ever did, so he had his solitude. He could see well enough in the darkness, the light of the moon and from the streetlamp across the street were plenty to find his way. He sat down with his back to the surrounding brick wall, listening to the sound from the street below. It was after midnight; not many cars were passing.

Sometimes he wished he could be more like Mikey. Things seemed to come to Mikey much more easily than they did to Gerard.

He had had two beers tonight, not enough to get him drunk, not even enough to really get a buzz going. He supposed he could have taken another can of beer upstairs with him, but drinking all by himself didn't seem particularly exciting. He didn't even know what his problem was. Both Frank and Lindsey were his friends; they deserved to be happy and in love. Just maybe not where Gerard could see them.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, looking up, gazing at the star filled sky. It was a clear night and still relatively warm, even thought it was the end of September. Gerard wondered what would happen when Brian showed up. He couldn't imagine not working at the Belleville Film Palace. What the hell had he ever done with his spare time before he had started working here? He couldn't remember. Maybe it was this that made him feel so discontent.

He dropped his gaze when he heard the heavy door at the top of the staircase open and fall shut again. In the dim light he could just make out a small shadow against the reflecting metal of the door. It was Frank.

“Hey,” he called and waved, then made his way quickly over to Gerard, dropping unasked on the floor next to him, so close their shoulders and hips were touching.

“I wanted to come over and show you that Black Flag patch Lyn-Z sewed on my jacket, but you were gone! Ray said you might have gone up here,” Frank explained himself, pulling a bit at his jacket and leaning even closer so Gerard could take a look, a tuft of his hair brushing against Gerard's chin. He smelled nice, sweet like shampoo and a bit spicy, like fresh sweat.

Gerard cleared his throat. “Great handiwork,” he admitted grudgingly. He felt resentment. Frank had all but ignored him all evening long. Why had he followed him now when Gerard wanted to be alone? Fuck, always with the intrusion – fucking Frank had a fucking sixth sense for it.

“You don't seem to be in the best of moods,” Frank observed cautiously, gently bumping Gerard's shoulder.

“No.”

“I got something that might totally cheer you up,” Frank said happily, then moved around some more, searching through his pockets, his elbow hitting Gerard's side twice more. Gerard resisted the impulse to move away and instead waited for Frank to settle again.

“Tada!” Frank announced, turning sideways, so that his naked, bruised knee was resting over Gerard's thigh, his hand held in front of Gerard's face, palm up. There, in the middle of his palm lay a tiny, evenly rolled joint. “I saved it especially to smoke with you.”

Gerard raised his eyebrows, trying to make out the expression on Frank's face in the dim light – half of his face was in shadows. “Where did you get it?” he finally asked, picking the joint out of Frank's hand and twisting it between his fingers, examining it.

“My cousin got the weed from Joey.”

“Joey Bongiovi?” Gerard asked, whistling. If there was one guy you could trust with weed, it was Joey.

“That one. Knew he has a brother who's in a hard rock band? They are starting out right now. Guys from New Jersey. Fuck,” Frank said, then took the joint back.

“Guys from New Jersey never make it.”

Frank shrugged, already getting a lighter out of the front pocket of his jacket. “Don't know if they're any good, to be honest. Never heard them. Hair metal – ugh. You wanna?” he asked, waving the joint in Gerard's face.

“Yeah.” Gerard felt a bit confused. It had seemed to go well between Frank and Lindsey, so why was Frank here, showing him his patch and sharing his weed with him?

Frank lifted the joint to his lips and lit it, taking a deep hit, before slowly releasing the smoke, a moan accompanying it. “Good shit,” he said hoarsely, and grinned, offering the roach to Gerard, who took it carefully to make sure he didn’t drop it. With a sigh, Gerard took a hit himself. The smoke was sharp and sweet on his tongue, and he held it as long as he could, his eyes dropping shut.

When he opened them again, Frank was grinning at him. “Good?” he asked, taking the joint from Gerard's hands again.

Gerard nodded, exhaling the smoke slowly through his nose.

“You look like a dragon with steam coming from your nostrils,” Frank giggled, then inhaled once more, before passing the joint over. Gerard looked sideways, snorting a bit at the way Frank's body seemed to have relaxed over the last minute. Every muscle in his body seemed loose, his eyes were drooping, the corners of his mouth tucked upwards.

“You look nice,” he heard himself say. “Nice and relaxed.”

Frank cackled. “Are you already toasted?” he asked.

Gerard shook his head, taking another hit. At least he thought he wasn't, but then he had had beer before.

“The guys said they wanted more horror movie screenings. Bob is in on it. Guess it's finally goodbye, Bostonians,” Gerard said.

“Goodbye, Bostonians,” Frank echoed, and they both giggled even though it wasn't funny. Frank's laugh, usually very stoner-like when he was sober, was even funnier and even more infectious when he was a bit baked.

They passed the joint between them, occasionally looking at each other and laughing. Frank, Gerard thought, had a funny little nose. And there was a tiny pock mark on his forehead. He also had the most ridiculous perfectly shaped eyebrows. For a guy. He wondered if he trimmed them. The thought made him giggle some more.

Frank held the roach up in front of Gerard's face. “There's just one hit left,” he said. “You wanna shotgun?”

“I-” Gerard started, not really comprehending what Frank was suggesting. Before he could wrap his fuzzy brain around Frank's question, Frank was sucking on the joint again and leaned in, pressing his mouth on Gerard's, hard. For a moment, Gerard was shocked into complete stillness, then there was something pressing against his lips – holy shit, Frank's tongue – forcing them open. Smoke flooded Gerard's mouth and he sucked it in because he had no other chance and it hit him so hard that he felt like fainting. His hands flailed and he reached for the first thing he could, which were Frank's arms, his fingers finding purchase in Frank's denim jacket.

The smoke released slowly through his nostrils and the corner of his mouth, Frank's lips still hovering over his. Frank pulled back all of a sudden, and Gerard sucked in a harsh breath.

He wanted to say “-the fuck!” or “What they hell do you think you're doing”, but he was robbed of any coherent thought. Frank was still close, so close his panting breath hit Gerard's face. His eyes were huge, his lips looked fucking soft. Had they really just… kissed?

“- you -” Gerard finally croaked out, but at that moment Frank surged forward again, launching himself at him and knocking him over sideways, following him down and in the process pressing all the air from his lungs, attacking his mouth.

Gerard sucked in another startled breath, and Frank pushed forward, teeth closing on his bottom lip. From somewhere inside him, a moan Gerard didn't know he had in him wrenched itself from his lips. His mouth fell open, and Frank immediately took advantage, kissing him more deeply. Kissing. Frank was kissing him.

If somebody had told him that this would happen, Gerard would have freaked out. As it was, in this moment, stoned and taken by surprise, Gerard could only do one thing – kiss back. Later, he would tell himself it was the most logical course of action. But fuck, Frank apparently knew what the hell he was doing, contrary to Gerard or either of the two girls he had ever kissed, because the way he used his mouth and his teeth and his tongue made pleasure course all through Gerard's body. His tongue was lazily rubbing against Gerard's, nothing hesitant, nothing hasty about it, and it made Gerard's fucking toes curl.

“Fuck,” Frank breathed, drawing back. “Fuck.” His eyes looked blown, his chest rising fast as he sucked in air forcefully.

Gerard could have pushed him away then, but he didn't. He didn't, because he couldn't think past how he just wanted to kiss Frank again, to bite at his swollen lips and lick into his warm mouth. He lifted his hands from Frank's arms, threading the fingers of his right hand through the short hair at the back of Frank's neck, tugging forcefully, until Frank sank down again. With a groan, Gerard pushed their mouths back together, sucking Frank's bottom lip into his mouth. He felt Frank shudder against him, hips pressing down, searching for friction.

Frank struggled for a moment, pulling back again, and reluctantly, Gerard let him up. “Wait, wait,” Frank murmured, then shrugged off his jacket, tossing it somewhere over his shoulder. He dove back down, hands sliding under Gerard's ridden up shirt, pushing it up, up, up until it pooled against his neck. The cool night air hit Gerard's naked skin, tightening his nipples.

“Oh, fuck,” Frank groaned and smashed his face down against Gerard's chest, rubbing his cheek and mouth against Gerard's side and over his belly, as if he was scratching an itch. “You smell good,” he moaned, then licked a path up along Gerard's sternum towards his nipple.

Gerard wanted to laugh - because hadn't they established that he smelled somewhat rank? - but the sound coming over his lips was another helpless groan. Everything was happening so fast, fuck. When Frank's mouth closed around his nipple, biting down, Gerard's foot kicked in reflex, and he arched his back, fingers once more searching for purchase somewhere on Frank's body. He managed to dig them into the waistband of Frank's jeans and he hauled him up, bringing their faces back together.

They kissed again, Frank's body sliding against him, their hips undulating, and Gerard suddenly noticed that he was rock hard, throbbing, and Frank wasn't any better, the hard line of his cock pressing through his pants against Gerard's hip. The thrill it gave him was equally one of terror and excitement. Gerard moved his hands down over Frank’s back, then pulled him closer, trying to get more friction. He sucked on Frank's lower lip, worrying it with his teeth, before deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping past Frank's lips, licking at the soft inside of Frank's warm mouth.

“Dude, your fucking belt buckle is digging into my dick,” Frank whined against his lips, and then Frank's hands were suddenly down at his middle, pulling at his belt, getting it open faster than Gerard would have thought possible. He wanted to protest, but Frank just ripped the front of his jeans open, the buttons sliding through the worn and loose holes with one tug, and it was just such a relief, the pressure taken from his cock. He forgot that he had skipped on the underwear this morning in his haste to get to school until the cool night air hit his dick.

Frank was breathing harshly above him, mouth open, looking stunned as he stared down at him. All of a sudden, he was galvanized into motion, dropping his hands to the fastenings of his own jeans to fumble with his zipper. He pushed them down over his thighs with his underwear so quickly that Gerard couldn't even utter a word of protest. Fuck. Gerard couldn't comprehend how fifteen minutes ago, he had been moping about how everyone got some except for him, and now he was staring at Frank's naked dick. Not to mention the other way around. “Fuck,” he said, then howled in surprise when Frank pressed himself against him once more, naked, hot skin sliding over his hip and belly.

Gerard dipped his head back, eyes open and looking up at the night sky, Frank's wet breath puffing against his neck where he had pressed his face into his hair. He couldn't understand how this was happening. He was panting so hard, it bordered on hyperventilating.

Frank was pushing down with his hips now, and Gerard's body picked up the rhythm unconsciously, shoving back. He couldn’t think. His brain wasn’t working. His body had taken over. His eyes fell shut and he lifted his arms, hands falling onto Frank's hips, holding on. Against him, Frank felt warm and so good.

It seemed only seconds later that the pleasure in his body mounted, concentrating in a white-hot flash in his middle, his toes curling, legs jerking, fingers digging hard into Frank's hips and holding him in place.

“Oh God, G,” Frank moaned against his ear, before pulling back, and propping himself up on his hands. “That's fucking hot.”

His eyes were shining, and Gerard could only watch in fascination as they fluttered shut again, Frank's upper body arching, as he pressed his dick down, sliding through the slick on Gerard's belly. Frank's teeth came down on his bottom lip and he bit down hard, his eyebrows knit tightly together as he shook, making small ah-ah sounds. It took him only 2 more strokes against Gerard's belly to come, spilling messily on Gerard's chest with a long-drawn moan, mouth parted. He held himself up for one more moment, before collapsing down on Gerard, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, eyes closed.

... there was come on his chin. It was the first thing Gerard realized when he came down again. There was fucking come on his chin. How the hell had that happened? How the hell had this whole thing happened? When he came here up on the roof, he certainly hadn't had any intention of finding himself sprawled on the cracked cement floor, half-naked and come-smeared, and certainly not with Frank lying on top of him. The whole thing had taken maybe 5 embarrassingly short minutes. What the hell? What the fucking hell?

Gerard pushed himself up so fast he was feeling dizzy, dislodging Frank in the process, his hand coming up to wipe at the underside of his chin.

“Gerard?” Frank asked carefully.

“Jesus,” Gerard forced out, wincing when his shirt fell back down his chest, sticking to the mess they had made. He grimaced, his clean hand reaching up to thread through his bangs, pushing them back. “Motherfucking fuck.”

“Uhm,” Frank said, blinking slowly, obviously taken aback by the look on Gerard's face, then sat back down on his knees. This was weird, he was still naked, and Gerard looked over his shoulder, because he sure as hell didn't want to see Frank's spent dick.

“What ... Why...” Gerard started, but then didn't know what to say. He reached for his pants with shaky fingers instead, still avoiding glancing in Frank's direction, threading the buttons closed as fast as he could. Once finished, he jumped to his feet, busying himself with fastening his belt buckle. Next to him, Frank had gotten up as well, yanking his jeans back up.

“I don't do that,” he finally said, hearing the terror in his own voice. He was practically hiccupping, he sounded so terrified. Jesus. Jesus. Fuck. Calm down. Calm down, Gerard.

He dropped his shaking hands from his belt buckle, daring to look at Frank, who was glancing back at him, his flushed face taking on a worried expression.

“I don't do that,” Gerard repeated, hating that his voice still wobbled.

“You...” Frank cleared his throat, “uhm... you just did.” He sounded pretty meek, certainly not a tone Gerard had ever before heard from Frank. Confident, cocky, insane, yes, all qualities Gerard attributed to Frank. Meek wasn't one of them.

He had to get out of here. He wanted to go home, take a shower, burn that fucking ruined shirt. He felt fucking confused.

“I gotta go,” he said hastily with one last look at Frank's worried face, then headed for the door at the other side of the roof. He expected Frank to follow him, but he didn't.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything!” Frank called after him.

It doesn’t have to mean anything.

What the hell had he been thinking?

*-*3.

Gerard walked all the way home from the movie theater, leaving his car in the parking lot. He was pretty sure that he shouldn’t drive in the state he was in – inebriated and emotionally in upheaval. He couldn’t comprehend what had happened. It seemed to him that it had had happened to somebody else and he had just watched, a bystander, too frozen with shock to get involved. His traitorous body hummed, though, as if something lying dormant had been awakened. Energy vibrated under his skin, setting all his nerve endings on edge.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, Frank had said. Gerard fervently wished that he could believe this. Just the alcohol and the weed taking over, clouding his better judgment. He had made out with a boy. With a boy, for fuck’s sake. He knew no other guy who had ever made out with a boy. There had to be a reason why it had happened: hormones or the lack of experience with girls. After all, Frank was just another warm body, someone kissing him, and Jesus, Gerard was 17, of course he would react like that, he wasn't made of stone.

The walk home took him 40 minutes, and he snuck in, past the living room where his mother had fallen asleep in front of the television, barricading himself in the bathroom. He stepped into the shower, scratching at the crusty flakes on his chest, and stared at the wall, his eyes following the cracks in the old tiles. He barely even dared to touch himself enough to wash thoroughly; his whole body felt loose, an echo of want lingered like a coiled snake ready to bite. Gerard let the water run over him as hot as he could stand.

That night, he didn’t sleep much. He lay on his bed, staring in the darkness, his thoughts returning over and over to the blissed-out look on Frank’s face, his slack mouth shiny with spit, Frank’s words called after him when he left.

Was Frank gay? He didn’t seem like it. All the gays Gerard could remember seeing on TV or out on the street had been dressed in a certain manner or had moved in a way that had alerted Gerard to their otherness. No, Frank was just… Frank. Tiny and a little bit crazy, with ripped jeans and comic hero shirts and a fucking safety pin in his ear. He was into the Misfits and Black Flag, and he had told Gerard how he liked to go to punk concerts and stage dive into the pit. He wasn’t gay.

Despite his musing, he must have fallen asleep at some point, because he woke around eleven, bleary-eyed and more exhausted than before he had gone to sleep. For a couple of minutes he felt disoriented. Then the night before came back to him and he rolled himself out of bed with a groan. He sat there for a moment on the edge of his single bed, his bare feet digging into his dirty carpet, his head swimming. When he finally made himself get up for real, he felt the stabbing pain of a beginning headache behind his eyes.

From the kitchen above came a clatter of dishes, and the smell of coffee and burnt bacon made him leave his room and crawl up the stairs. He craved a cup of coffee like a drug-user craved his next shot.

The smell of coffee wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but the accompanying smell of bacon was. It meant somebody was over. His Mom never cooked breakfast, not for them, anyway, and it was better that way, because she was the most horrible cook ever. When he stepped into the kitchen his gaze fell on Mikey and Alicia sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of slightly singed bacon ’n’ eggs in front of each. They didn’t seem to mind the gruesome food, smiling goofily at each other between pushing the food around on their plates.

“Morning, honey,” his mother greeted him cheerfully. She stood at the stove, one hand poised on her hip, the other holding a spatula as if she was brandishing a weapon, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She even wore a moth-holed dish towel as a make-shift apron – her appearance and cheerfulness was scary, as if somebody had taken his mother and unsuccessfully swapped her for a Stepford Wife.

“Bacon ’n’ eggs?” she asked, taking a drag from her cigarette, before ashing it off onto a small flowery plate standing next to the sink.

He shook his head and slid onto a chair across from where Alicia and Mikey were happily grinning at each other. God. They really had hooked up. Ugh. He didn’t want to fucking know.

A cup of coffee was placed in front of him, the liquid spilling a bit over the rim. Gerard shot his mother a grateful look, and she smiled, ruffling a hand through his hair. He watched her put out the flame, then push the pan with the burnt and vile-smelling bacon from the stove. She sat down at the table, still smoking. When he looked at her, eyebrows raised in a silent plea, she pushed her pack of cigarettes and lighter towards him. He loved that she didn’t berate him for smoking before he even got breakfast. Christ, he wasn’t sure he could even stomach to eat anything; least of all his mother’s well-meant but ill-executed cooking.

“You could have told us you were booking last night,” Mikey suddenly said, and Gerard looked up, meeting his brother’s slightly reproachful gaze. “Your car was still in the parking lot – I went looking for you and couldn’t find you. Thank God I met Frank. He told me you probably went home – said you didn’t seem to feel so well.”

Gerard took a sip from his coffee, carefully schooling his features into indifference, before lighting a cigarette. “How did you get home?”

“Ray drove us,” Alicia said, pushing a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. She chewed carefully, grimacing a bit, before bravely swallowing. Gerard guessed that she wanted to make nice with their mother, no matter how high the price she had to pay.

“Yeah, sorry. I had a bit too much to drink,” Gerard managed to press out, feeling himself blush a bit. He lowered his gaze, staring at the dirty-white Formica table top, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Just tell me next time, dude.”

“I couldn’t. You were too busy sucking face.” It was a mean thing to say, and Gerard regretted it the moment the words had spilled over his lips, but he was still bitter that once more, Mikey's life seemed so much easier. Mikey got the girl, while all Gerard got was... confusion. He looked up, seeing Mikey’s face darken visibly.

His brother pushed his plate away, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes stormy. “Fuck you,” he said and he really was pissed, because his next words came out sharp and biting. “Fuck you, you’re just fucking jealous because nobody wants to suck face with you.”

“Boys.” Their mother’s voice was calm, but it certainly didn’t lack a hint of steel.

The table fell silent for a bit apart from the too-loud clatter of Alicia’s fork on the plate as she dutifully finished off her breakfast, swallowing down every last bite. Gerard admired her stamina; he would have given up by now. Then again, he didn’t have to impress his boyfriend’s mother.

“Ray, Bob and me talked last night,” he finally said when he had suitably calmed down after a couple of drags on his cigarette and half a cup of coffee. “We thought about screening horror movies from Hank’s archives instead of the regular movies.”

A thoughtful look crossed Mikey's face and he sat up a bit straighter, his dark glare melting away in a matter of seconds. “We should do a whole horror theme. It’s the start of October next week. The month of Halloween.”

“You could sell peanut butter popcorn at the concession stand. And Reese’s cups. And Gummy Brains,” Alicia suggested, and Mikey nodded.

“Damn, I gotta call Lyn-Z and talk to her about it. This is gonna be so cool.”

The screen door banged open, and they all turned their head as Ray walked in. “Morning Mrs. Way,” he greeted, tossing a paper onto the table. “I brought your newspaper – the paperboy threw it into your rose bush - again.”

3000 die of AIDS, infection spreads among gays, the headline on the front page said. Suppressing a shudder, Gerard averted his eyes, trying to ignore the paper lying on the table in front of him. His eyes though were drawn towards the article again and again, and he only half-listened as Ray and Mikey started to talk about horror movies they liked and what to pick for a screening. He wished his mother would finally pick up the paper and take it away, but she didn't seem to want to get up, instead listening in on the conversation, finishing another cigarette.

“Gerard should draw some posters and flyers so we can advertise the horror movies,” Mikey suggested.

“Fuck, yeah. He could do new versions of classic horror movie posters!” Ray agreed and they both turned their heads to regard Gerard, their faces equally hopeful.

“I dunno...” Gerard protested, his eyes once more drawn to the front page of the paper. They didn't take his protest into consideration, but were already suggesting possible subjects.

“Dracula,” Ray proposed, but Mikey shook his head. “No, no, zombies!”

“Ghosts!” Alicia piped in.

… So far, 3000 reported deaths of the disease spreading amongst homosexuals that has been identified as AIDS have been registered since 1981, an estimated 10.000 Americans may already be infected. People who are most at risk of contracting the disease are homosexuals, drug users and those who have received blood transfusions. It is no coincidence that the number of reported cases of homophobic violence has risen sharply and steadily, as people react with fear to …

“Gerard?”

“Huh?” He lifted his head, feeling all eyes on him.

“Are you going to do the posters?” Ray asked, his tone a bit worried. “Seriously, every time I talk to you lately, you’ve zoned out.”

“Sorry,” Gerard mumbled, then realized that his cigarette had burnt down to the filter. He disposed of it on the ashtray his mother had put on the table earlier.

“Are you?” Mikey asked now as well, leaning forward over the table.

Gerard sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm gonna draw the fucking posters.”

Mikey gave a small whoop of joy and high-fived Ray, who reached over and patted Gerard's back. Gerard smiled weakly. His mouth was dry, and he reached for his coffee, draining the cup. He thought of being called pansy at school and of lisping hairdressers and pictures he had seen on the news of haggard, sick looking people who died of AIDS. He thought of Frank and his scared face and his words before Gerard left.

It doesn't have to mean anything.

*-*

When Gerard came into the Belleville Film Palace on Monday after school, he found Bob in Hank's office in front of a large whiteboard, pondering over a screening schedule for the week ahead. The room itself had changed since Gerard had been last in here. For once, it had been aired, and all the surfaces had been cleaned. The heaps of newspapers were gone, as were the film cans on the armchair. The books and magazines were neatly stacked on the shelves. It really looked more like an office now.

“I've been downstairs all weekend,” Bob admitted, chewing on the cap of his marker. “I've looked through some cans – marked some that seemed of interest and look to be in good condition with green masking tape. And I've selected 4 movies to screen this week.”

“Wow,” Gerard said, stepping closer to the whiteboard, letting his eyes travel over the screening schedule and the films Bob had selected. “Night of the Living Dead. Village of the Damned. The Haunting. War of the Worlds,” he read, letting his pleasure at Bob's suggestions color his voice.

“I thought I'd add some sci-fi horror,” Bob added, looking contemplative with his eyebrows drawn tightly together, and Gerard nodded.

“This is great,” Gerard said, and Bob grinned around his marker cap, before reaching up and taking the marker out of his mouth. His teeth had left little indentions in the plastic.

“Glad you think so. Took me ages to finalize these 4. War of the Worlds is already up in projector booth 1 for your 5:15 screening.”

“You really have been busy.” Gerard took a step back and leaned against the edge of Hank's desk, looking around the tidied office once more. “I promised Mikey to draw a poster to advertise the fact that we're gonna screen horror movies now. He wants to xerox it and hang it up in school and all over town.”

Bob raised an eyebrow. “I think I don't need to tell you that we don't have money to do any kind of advertisement. Brian will rip me a new one anyway when he finds out that I haven't sent you all home.”

“Mikey's gonna use the school xerox machine.”

Bob stared, then blinked. “He's going to do what?” Before Gerard could answer, Bob raised a hand. “No, don't elaborate. I will just pretend I've never heard about this. If you get caught, I know of nothing.”

“He won't get caught. His new girlfriend is head of the literature club. They have a copy card – they can xerox as much shit as they like.”

“I know nothing. We never even had this conversation,” Bob said, but to his credit his tone held a note of mocking.

“Right,” Gerard said, then, after a beat, “I wasn't even in here today.” He turned on his heels and left the room, smiling when Bob's booming laughter trailed after him on his way out.

When he stepped out of Hank's office, he found Lindsey, Ray and Frank in the lounge, unpacking several large bags of what seemed to be Halloween decorations. The counter was already littered with orange and black streamers, gummy spiders, small skull candles, bloody eyeballs, two large plastic pumpkins and spider netting. Frank wore a dark green Frankenstein mask on the side of his head, causing his hair to stick up in the back.

When Gerard spotted him, he felt a jolt go through his body, his good humor instantly evaporating. He was just about to turn around and head out to maybe hide in the car until later, when Ray looked up and saw him. “Hey, Gerard,” he hollered, waving a huge, pointy witch hat over his head, “Look what we got!”

Gerard sighed and walked over towards the counter, feeling anxiety rise in him the closer he got. This must be how people felt when they had to walk to the gallows – bad things awaited you and you didn't have a chance to escape. He didn't want to talk to Frank. When Gerard stopped next to Lindsey, he was so nervous he was practically shaking with suppressed tension. “What's all this?” he asked dutifully, his voice coming out a bit squeaky.

He felt Frank's eyes on him, but ignored him, his gaze trained on the decorations Lindsey kept pulling out of her bag as if they were the most interesting things he had ever seen. His heart beat way too hard and way too loud.

“I raided my mother's storage,” Frank explained, and Gerard jumped. He actually had to turn and acknowledge him now – it would be incredibly rude not to. It gave him a strange kind of thrill when their eyes met and he felt his face heat up. “Halloween is my birthday,” Frank continued, sounding as normal as ever, not a hint of embarrassment on his face. ”We got tons of this stuff at home. She buys new shit every year.” He shrugged, smirking. “I thought she would stop when I turned fifteen, but she didn't.”

Gerard cleared his throat. “Useful. For our purposes, I mean,” he stuttered, hating how his voice was still so weak and squeaky.

Frank's grin broadened, and he nodded. “Lyn-Z and I think that everyone should wear a mask. How do you like mine?”

“You're wearing it wrong,” Gerard said, staring at the side of Frank's face.

“Killjoy,” Frank said, but he was still cheerful, sticking his tongue out at Gerard. “I have a Count Dracula, you should get that one,” he said, then bent over one of the large bags and started to rummage around in it, his head and upper body almost vanishing in the bag.

Gerard watched the long line of Frank's back, the muscles shifting under his shirt and the strip of tanned skin where it rode up in the back, wondering how Frank could act like absolutely nothing had happened between them, when Gerard felt like his whole world had been turned upside down.

It doesn't have to mean anything.

Right.

Frank yelled in triumph and straightened, a black, white and red mask in his hand. He was a bit red in the face and his hair stuck to his mouth. He huffed, blowing it out of his face, and grinned once more.

“Here,” he said, handing the mask over. Gerard lifted it to his face, fitting it over his nose. It smelled strongly of moth balls and plastic.

Behind him, Ray made an impatient sound. “Hey, I wanna see it, too.”

Dutifully, Gerard turned around, and Ray cackled in delight. “You need a cape. Your dirty jeans and sneakers just look misplaced.”

“I'm a modern vampire,” Gerard protested, lowering the mask again.

“Correction, you're a lame vampire,” Lindsey commented, inspecting one of the plastic spiders that Gerard thought looked frighteningly real. “Hey, Frank, you got more spider webs?” she asked.

“There should be more in the other bag.”

Frank stepped towards Lindsey and together they went in search of the netting. With Frank's attention now safely on his Halloween decoration, Gerard used the opportunity to put down the Dracula mask and quietly leave the lounge. There was a movie waiting for him. A movie, and the security of his solitary, crammed projector booth.

*-*

Two nights later, Gerard had just started his last showing of “Night of the Living Dead”, when the knock on the door came.

He looked up from where he had been counting the taken seats in the auditorium – 25, which really wasn't that bad for a Wednesday 9 p.m. screening – and looked over towards the door, waiting for whoever was outside to either enter or leave. His stupid heartbeat picked up, making him short of breath, as he considered that the person standing outside the door might be the one person he wanted to see most and absolutely dreaded to see at the same time.

Another knock came, and Gerard hesitated only for a moment before he crossed the room and pulled the door open. He exhaled audibly when he found Frank standing outside the door, to his credit looking a bit insecure. Insecure wasn't a good look on Frank, though. Ever since last weekend, Frank hadn't actively avoided him, but he hadn't looked for him like he had done before either.

“Coffee?” Gerard asked, pressing the word out past the tightness in his throat, but Frank just shook his head and pressed forward, slipping through the small crack of the open door and past Gerard, brushing against his shoulder as he did so.

“I didn't bring any. It's almost half past nine. But I brought gummy worms.”

Gerard shrugged, then closed the door. His heart rate slowed gradually and he felt like he could breathe again, the pressure on his throat and chest loosening up. Meanwhile, Frank had already made his way over to the bench and climbed on it, sitting there in his usual spot. It seemed strange to have him here, after what had happened. Over the last couple of days, Gerard had successfully suppressed memories of Saturday night, but seeing Frank here in Gerard's sacred haven made the memories flood his brain.

He remembered every fucking thing, from the way Frank's eyes had looked so blown to how he had sounded when he came. The memory of Frank's long-drawn moan passed like a hot shiver through his body. God, he didn't want to go over to where Frank was. It was best if there was some distance between them, right? How could he sit next to Frank and not remember?

“What are you still doing over there?” Frank asked curiously, patting the bench next to him in invitation. Frank, apparently, didn't have the same problems.

“I have to make sure everything’s running okay,” Gerard said, stepping between projector 1 and 2, and looked out of the shutter. “Had some adjustment problems earlier today,” he lied, then pushed the shutter open to allow them to listen in on the sound in the auditorium.

Frank shrugged and hopped down from the bench, stepping in close behind Gerard. It was a tight fit, and Gerard nearly stumbled, catching himself with a hand on the booth wall.

Into his ear, Frank giggled. “Careful, clumsy,” he said, then leaned over his shoulder, peering out at the screen. This wasn’t really what Gerard had intended. Gerard felt sweat break out on his skin beneath his clothes with Frank so close, his body radiating warmth, his breathing audible even over the soft clicking of the projector's shutter.

When Frank moved and their arms brushed, Gerard all but jerked back, suddenly breathless. He had an abrupt flash back to Saturday night, Frank's panting breath on his face, the rub of his sweaty, warm skin. His body started to throb and he was instantly hard. Gerard bit his lips and leaned back, as far away from Frank as he could.

“They're coming to get you, Barbra,” Frank sing-songed in-synch with Johnny on screen.

“Johnny is such a douchebag,” he continued, then laughed when the zombie appeared in the graveyard. “Shit, the way he walks!” Then, when Gerard still hadn't said a thing, he added, “One of my favorite scenes is when the girl kills her mother with the trowel.”

Gerard nervously cleared his throat.

“What's your favorite scene?”

“When the zombies make a feast out of Tom and Judy,” Gerard forced out, trying to sound as normal as possible. His body was still too hot, as if he was running a fever. The narrow booth, usually one of the places Gerard was most comfortable in, felt too small and suffocating.

“Yum,” Frank agreed, then snickered.

They were silent for a while. He started when Frank suddenly said, “There's 26 people down there.” He lifted his hand, pointing over Gerard’s shoulder into the auditorium. “Not so bad, right?”

Gerard swallowed soundly, his mouth dry. “Yeah,” he croaked, “guess Mikey's advertising scheme might just work.”

“How could it not – with your posters.” Frank sounded dead serious.

Gerard had to admit that he was pretty proud of the posters – he had made them look like movie posters from the 50s, with a screaming heroine, an ugly tentacled monster and a gory font.

Gerard chose not to answer, instead concentrated on just breathing – in and out, in and out. He wanted so badly for Frank to start talking about what had happened Saturday night. What was Frank thinking? Was he freaked out? Was he gay? Did he do this often, make out with boys? Why had he even done it? Just because Gerard had been there? Did he want to do it again?

He thought about how he would react if Frank really wanted to do it again. He would... he would firmly but gently push Frank away. Explain how he was flattered, but that he just didn't swing this way. That it was just a hormonal phase, because they both didn't have girlfriends. They were seventeen year old boys after all – sex was on their minds all the time, right?

Gerard didn't have a chance to ask or say any of these things, because Frank behaved as if Saturday night hadn't happened, only talking about “Night of the Living Dead” and “Dawn of the Dead” and other zombie movies he had seen. Gerard tried to listen, honestly, but he didn't contribute to the conversation, just hmmed his agreement when necessary, feeling every single cell in his body vibrate with tension. He was relieved when the movie was finally over.

Frank hung around while he put the last reel in the rewinder, having moved on in his conversation to Dario Argento movies he had seen and how it was a shame that Argento movies were so hard to come by in the US.

When Gerard was finished for the night, they smoked a cigarette outside in front of Gerard's car and then Frank climbed onto his bike and Gerard watched him cycle down the street before he got in his car and drove home. He didn't think much when he shut himself into the bathroom and dropped his pants, reaching for his cock.

*-*

Gerard made sure all the levers on the projectors were down, then checked the rewinder before switching off the main switch in the projector booth. The staircase outside was dark, but he found his way down the steps easily. He did stumble over some boxes with Halloween candy on his way through the hallway towards the lounge, because somebody had left it there instead of moving it to the storage room behind the small kitchen. When he pushed the door open to the lounge area, it was already deserted, which was not surprising – it was almost midnight, and the last showing had been over for more than 30 minutes. He crossed the lounge and foyer and walked towards the huge double doors, his way lit by the sparse light coming from the streetlamp outside. It was raining and the water painted raindrop shadows on the walls and the floor.

When he stepped out of the movie theater, it became clear pretty quickly that it wasn’t just raining, it was a fucking thunderstorm. Cursing, Gerard pulled the door shut behind him, fumbling with the key in the lock.

“Fucking great weather, isn't it?”

Startled, Gerard turned, nearly dropping his keys. Frank was standing under the marquee, leaning back against the brick wall of the ticket booth, smoking a cigarette.

“What are you still doing here?” he asked, even though it was obvious.

Frank snorted. “Can't bike home like this. I'd be soaked in two seconds.”

“... True,” Gerard said, blinking. “C'mon, I'll drive you home.”

Frank pushed himself of the wall and dropped his cigarette in a puddle.

“We better run,” he suggested, pulling the back of his jacket up to use as a makeshift shield against the rain. They looked at each other, then towards Gerard's Ford Escort which was parked across the street, and took off, their sneakers splashing through puddles. Frank's delighted laughter fought the sound of the rushing rain. Thunder cracked suddenly and sharply over their heads, and they both stumbled in surprise, ducking their heads. The lightning followed briefly after, zigzagging over the parking lot, illuminating the wet, dark concrete. Gerard would never admit it, but he was fucking afraid of lightning.

Despite Gerard's best efforts, he couldn't get the car open fast enough, and they were both soaked once they managed to slide behind the dashboard.

“Sorry, you still got pretty wet.”

Frank shook his head, sending droplets of water everywhere like a wet dog. “Doesn't matter – at least I don't have to ride my bike home in this weather.” He paused, then, when Gerard just looked at him expectantly, said, “I live on Florence Street, just behind the cemetery.”

Gerard nodded, needing to look away from Frank's flushed, wet face. He looked happy, contrary to how strung out and tense Gerard himself felt – hell, had been feeling for days now. Gerard jammed the key into the ignition, grateful when his car started right away. The rain was drumming against the windshield, not easing up, and Gerard backed slowly out of the parking lot.

“Do you mind if I turn on the radio?” Frank asked, not really waiting for Gerard's answer but already reaching out, his fingers fiddling with the buttons and dials.

Gerard spared a brief look at Frank, before leaning forward, trying to peer out the windshield to see where he was going. The rain was still coming down in sheets, his windshield wipers working at full speed, producing a scraping noise where they scratched across the glass.

A cacophony of sound and static came from the speakers as Frank flipped through the channels, occasionally stopping briefly to listen in, making sounds of disgust when he hit something he didn't like, which was almost everything. He finally stopped at an AC/DC song and dropped his hands away from the radio, half-turning in his seat to glance at Gerard.

“This okay?”

“Sure,” Gerard said distractedly, sitting up straighter in his seat, one hand coming up to wipe at the fogged-up windshield with the sleeve of his sweater. He still couldn't see a goddamn thing – thank God the streets were practically deserted this late at night. Next to him, Frank drummed the rhythm of the song with his fingers on the dashboard.

“Love the bagpipes,” he said, whistling along, before curling his fingers and playing the air guitar.

Despite everything, Gerard felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips and he looked over at Frank, watching his fingers dance over imaginary frets.

“Eyes on the road,” Frank admonished, “otherwise you're gonna drive us into the fucking ditch.”

Gerard swerved a little – Frank had been right, he had been a bit too close to the side of the road – and concentrated on the dark, wet street again. They didn’t talk much for the rest of the rather short drive. AC/DC was followed by Iggy Pop’s Raw Power, and Frank made a delighted sound and started to sing along, revealing a surprisingly good voice. Snorting, Gerard stole sidelong glances at him as he started to trash around in the seat with his upper body, tossing his head, his hair flopping.

They finally turned into Florence Street and Frank made him stop near a small egg-shell colored house with an overgrown garden and a white front porch.

Gerard killed the engine and it was suddenly too silent in the car, Iggy Pop’s scratchy voice only replaced by the insistent drumming of the rain on the car roof.

“Here it is,” Frank said rather unnecessarily, pointing up the cemented path towards the house. Not a single light was on.

Frank seemed hesitant to step outside, fidgeting a bit in his seat. “Damn,” he finally said, “I don’t wanna get wet again.”

“What difference does it make? You’re already fucking soaked,” Gerard pointed out, glancing sideways.

Frank shrugged and bit his lip, looking out into the dark, not saying a word. His hands in his lap were clutching at each other.

The air between them seemed suddenly loaded, and Gerard felt a thrill of excitement run through. They would talk. He was so sure of it. Gerard’s fingers tightened where they were still resting on the steering wheel, and he stared stoically ahead out at the dark street and the car parked in front of them and waited for Frank to start talking. He wondered what kind of reasoning Frank would use, whether he would come out as being gay? Gerard had thought a lot about what he could say. He wasn't homophobic or anything, but he wasn't gay. He just lacked experiences with girls. He might look back on the whole thing in 5 or 10 years and be kind of equally embarrassed and proud about it. Something daring and dangerous and out of the norm of which you would say - yeah, I tried that once, I went there, you know, I was young and open to experiment, but it just wasn’t for me.

When Frank finally spoke, Gerard still jumped.

“Hey,” Frank said softly. He was looking at him strangely, intently. Gerard marveled once more how Frank didn’t even seem a tiny bit embarrassed. Their eyes met, and the corners of Frank’s mouth twitched. “You look like something that drowned,” he said, smile blossoming, his hand coming up to brush a strand of wet hair from Gerard’s face.

Gerard flinched, completely unprepared for the touch of Frank’s fingers as they tucked his hair behind his ear. Frank’s fingers were cool and slightly wet, but they felt like fire where they lingered against Gerard’s neck. Gerard’s heartbeat sped up, thumping in his chest painfully. He wanted for Frank to drop his hand and stop touching him, because all he could think about was how he really liked Frank's face, especially when Frank was looking at him like he did right now.

Somehow he realized that it wasn’t going as expected – there would be no soul-baring talk to get it out of their systems, not with how Frank was staring and licking his lips, and really, Gerard should stop this right now, but he was frozen in place, staring at the dark lashes of Frank’s eyes, his small, upturned nose, his parted lips, the serious expression on his stupidly handsome face.

Frank leaned in and Gerard hissed out a breath, but he didn’t push him away.

Frank’s lips were soft on his. It had been easy telling himself that he didn’t want this when Frank wasn’t kissing him, but he couldn’t say no now. Frank tasted really good, fresh and sweet like the storm raging outside.

Just when Gerard wanted to reach out, actively participate, kiss him back and pull him closer, Frank drew back, dropping his hand from the side of Gerard’s neck with a soft, unhappy sound. He didn’t look at him, but down into his lap instead, before he suddenly moved and pushed open the door.

“I'm sorry,” Frank said softly, staring at a spot over Gerard's head, “I shouldn't have done that.”

Gerard was pretty slow on the uptake, because no sound came past his lips as he watched Frank bump the car door closed with his hip and turn away.

Gerard sat motionless, one hand still hovering in mid-air, watching Frank jog up the dark path towards the house. He thought he saw Frank turn at the top of the steps to look back at him before he opened the front door, but he wasn’t sure.

*-*

That night, after he had stripped off his damp clothes, he lay awake in bed, his skin as hot as if he was running a fever. Gone was the regret of not having cleared the air, replaced by an insistent feeling of want cursing through his veins. He couldn't remember ever feeling like this before. It wasn't like craving food when you were hungry; it wasn't the way the need for a cigarette made you antsy, it was worse. His blanket lay hot against his skin, feeling scratchy and uncomfortable and he kicked it away, hoping the cooler air in his room would calm him. He was hard, had been since the moment Frank had stepped out of the car or even earlier – he couldn't remember – but he was hesitant to touch himself, refusing to give in. Giving in would mean admitting he wanted this, wanted Frank.

Groaning, Gerard pressed his hot face into his pillow, hands coming up to tug at his hair. How was his life so unfair? He wasn't gay; he had never before been attracted to a boy. (Only this wasn't true, his mind whispered, because he had had Bowie posters all over his room a couple of years ago, and that had to mean something, right? And seriously, Iggy had a goddamn great body and so maybe he hadn't always thought about it with only admiration.)

He rubbed himself against the sheets, almost whimpering, feeling equally mortified and turned on. Unbidden, he remembered the feel of Frank's hips under his hands, how his bones molded perfectly into the palms of his hands.

Gerard closed his eyes, remembering the press of Frank's lips on his, and he imagined how tonight could have ended differently, how he could have just pulled Frank over, into his lap, pulling him forward until their bodies touched and pressed together. His hips twitched, and Gerard moaned, his hand dropping down to relieve the pressure. It felt too fucking good, his hand on his dick, and he imagined it was Frank touching him, stroking him, pushing his face against his belly and making the most interesting noises.

*-*4.

Frank. He couldn't stop thinking about Frank. It was like a fucking curse.

If he had thought that jerking off thinking about Frank would purge him from his thoughts, he was sorely mistaken. He woke up in the morning, pretty sure he could half remember a rather explicit dream in which Frank was naked and wet and on his knees and his body was still humming like a plugged-in instrument. It was a school day, and he had overslept as usual and was unable to take care of his morning wood. Instead he took a quick, very cold shower that effectively dampened the tingling in his limbs but also resulted in making him irritable as all hell.

On the drive from their house to the school he spotted several of his posters for the “Belleville Fright Night” which Mikey and Alicia had hung up last night on lampposts, in shop windows and on warehouse walls. They had distributed the posters even in school, announcing a 50 cent discount for everyone who appeared at the movies in a horror mask. Normally, the fact that his art was displayed all over town would make him grin like a lunatic, but when Mikey pointed out hard-to-miss poster spots, he only had a half-hearted smile for him. He should be rightfully ecstatic, but all he could think about was Frank’s body – his handsome face and golden-brown eyes, the way his jeans always hung low in the back and showed the curve of his ass, his tanned, slim arms, how his dark hair always flopped into his eyes.

His morning classes passed in a blur. He couldn't concentrate, unable to follow the lessons, instead doodling in his notebook. The undercurrent of want still festered in his body, and he was glad that he and Frank didn't share any of their morning classes, because he wasn't sure what he would do when he saw him. He spent lunch break in one of his favorite secluded corners of the library sitting on the floor in the row with the math books – the safest place because nobody ever came into this row – his headphones on, his notebook open on his knees. He often came here; in fact, it was one of his usual lunch places, because he hated the cafeteria and he didn't enjoy meeting up with his friends either, needing the spare time to just be alone for a while.

He didn't realize what it was he was drawing, just that the action of drawing gave his hands something to do other than clench his fingers into his t-shirt or tug at his hair in frustration, and when he leaned back to observe what he had drawn, a tiny black and white Frankenstein with a bolt through his head, ripped jeans and a threadbare t-shirt was mischievously grinning up at him from the page. He was pretty cute for a monster and bore an uncanny likeliness to Frank.

Groaning, Gerard banged the back of his head against the shelf he was sitting against. It hurt, but not enough, so he did it again.

“Shitty day?” a familiar voice asked, and he looked up, finding Mikey standing in front of him, hands shoved into the pockets of his tight jeans. He had started to wear those really skin-tight jeans that made his legs look like beanstalks and his feet look impossibly huge.

He shook his head helplessly, and his brother frowned slightly, before crouching down in front of him.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said. “You've been kind of restless this morning. Not to mention rude. You didn't say a fucking thing all the way driving here.”

“Trouble at school,” Gerard gritted out, not happy that he was lying, but unable to tell the truth.

Mikey looked doubtful, but nodded. “What're you drawing?” he asked, leaning forward to peer at Gerard's open notebook.

“Nothing,” Gerard protested, quickly slamming the notebook shut before hauling himself up. “It's not finished yet,” he added. If there was one person who was usually allowed to see even the most embarrassing, unfinished attempt at a doodle, it was Mikey, and from the look on Mikey’s face it was clear he knew something was up. Something big.

Mikey slowly straightened as well, immediately looming over Gerard. He hated that his little brother was already taller than him at only 15.

“I wanted to tell you, people are already asking me tons of questions about the Belleville. And they love your posters. You could totally do a special print edition, maybe hand-colored and signed. People would so buy them. I kind of had to stop Gabe Saporta from just taking one down, he liked it so much,” he said, pushing his slipping glasses back on his nose.

“That's great,” Gerard said, smiling half-heartedly. He would probably be really excited about his, if he didn't feel like his life was totally spinning out of his control right now. He pushed past Mikey, who gave him a probing look and followed on his heels.

“We had over 150 paying customers in all screenings last night,” Mikey continued. “We sold 45 tickets alone for the 7.45 screening of War of the Worlds.”

“Really?” Gerard said, thinking he sounded suitably impressed, even though he couldn't muster much enthusiasm.

“You're fucking weird today,” Mikey observed, tailing Gerard through the rows of books. “Which is saying something, because you're always weird.”

“I told you,” Gerard said a bit angrily, “trouble at school.”

They stepped out into the noisy and bustling hallway. It was 5 minutes before the end of lunch break and people were exchanging books at their lockers for their afternoon classes. Carefully, Gerard glanced down the hall to where he knew Frank's locker was. Relieved when he didn't see him, he stepped forward, crossing the hallway, taking care to not bump into the people walking by.

Someone crashed into his shoulder, causing him to hit his locker. The force of the shove left no doubt that it had been done on purpose. Rubbing his shoulder, Gerard turned, seeing Steven Miller from the football team stride past, a mean grin on his face. “Watch where you're going, fag,” he snarled, making an obscene gesture with his hand.

“Asshole,” Mikey muttered softly, once Miller was out of earshot.

Gerard shrugged and reached for the lock, thumbing in the combination of his locker. He was kind of used to it, and it really, really could be worse. Like they could wait for him in the smokers' corner outside, just because they needed a punching bag. Luckily, the football team was on a winning streak lately and not so prone to random outbursts of violence anymore. They had relatively ignored him this year so far and his avoidance tactic paid off as well. He got out his biology book and shoved it into his bag, trying to make it fit among the other books, his walkman, notebook and the comics he was carrying around. One of them he meant to lend to Frank, and he automatically glanced down the hallway again.

He flinched when he spotted Frank at his locker, sorting through his backpack. He felt a pull towards him, a pull that wanted to carry his feet down the hall and over to where Frank was standing, but he didn't dare give into it. He didn't know what he would do when he found himself in Frank's vicinity.

Mikey, who had followed his gaze curiously, tilted his head, looking thoughtful.

“He really fits in, don’t you think?” Mikey asked, dropping his shoulder against the closed locker next to Gerard’s open one.

Feeling his face grow hot, Gerard grunted something unintelligible that could mean accord. He stuck his head into his locker, rummaging around in it to not have to look at Mikey’s face. His brother could read him too well – he really didn’t need him on his case.

“It was pretty rad that he raided his Mom’s Halloween decorations.”

“I guess,” Gerard murmured, then slammed the locker shut. He couldn’t pretend to be hiding in it any longer.

“We should invite him over,” Mikey suggested. “Order some pizza. Borrow Ray’s dad’s VCR and watch movies. Maybe convert him to Dungeons & Dragons. It’s been some time since you mastered.”

Fuck, no, Gerard thought, then realized he had said it out loud. Frank, in his room, watching movies on his bed? He flushed, then hastily said, “Uhm... I dunno, he… uhm… doesn’t look like someone who would be into D&D.”

The bell rang, saving him from any further inquiries and Gerard turned away from Mikey as the hallway around him erupted into even more hectic activity than before as every student finished what they had been doing and hastened to go to their next class.

Mikey looked like he had wanted to say something, but he just made a face – his bitch face, to be exact – then shrugged and pushed himself off the locker. “See you later in the parking lot.”

Gerard nodded, releasing a breath of relief that Mikey had run out of time. He watched his brother walk away, following him with his eyes down the rapidly emptying hallway. His eyes flickered towards Frank’s locker, but Frank had already left.

*-*

The lounge was pretty crowded. Lindsey had her hands full at the concession stand and a small line had formed at the ticket booth. Gerard was pretty sure he had never before seen people lining up to go to the Belleville Film Palace, but here they were, mostly young people, some with colorful monster masks, lining up to buy a ticket for John Carpenter's The Thing.

Frank came in at around 4;25, took one rather astonished look at the people already lining up for popcorn and coke, visibly shook himself and jumped in to help Lindsey. Gerard was pretty glad there were so many people around and Frank was too busy to give him more than a small wave. When the crowds thinned, trickling into theater 2, Gerard followed them, taking a seat in the last row on the left, far behind everyone else. He had seen the movie already – it was a 1982 release and a remake of The Thing from Another World - but he enjoyed its dark, hopeless tension and gory special effects.

The rather brief opening credits had just finished, giving way to the first scene of the movie in the arctic ice, when the back door was silently opened and closed again. Seconds later, someone slid into the otherwise deserted last row and made their way over towards Gerard's seat.

“Hey,” Frank whispered as he slid into the seat next to Gerard.

Gerard manfully suppressed a squeak of surprise, but every hair on his body rose at the intrusion of personal space. If he had thought he could get out of Frank's way by watching a movie, he had been greatly mistaken. His body seemed to hum and he was acutely aware of Frank sitting close to him, their arms pressed together. He could hear Frank breathe softly and shift in his seat and it distracted him from what was happening on screen.

He realized he had been spending the last 15 minutes staring straight ahead without being able to follow the movie, when Frank jostled him as he pulled up his legs to sit cross-legged in the seat. His right knee rested on Gerard's thigh, his knee cap poking out from a huge tear in the fabric. His skin looked pale in the flickering light from the movie screen and Gerard felt his fingers twitch where they rested high up on his own thigh.

His breathing sped up, eyes locked on Frank's naked bony knee. One naked bony knee shouldn’t be so… so… tempting. He later didn't know what possessed him to actually reach out and brush his fingers over Frank's skin, but he couldn't resist. His touch made them both suck in a breath, and he felt Frank shiver, although he didn't protest, didn't move away. Encouraged, Gerard let his fingers drop onto the visible patch of skin again. He rubbed his fingertips softly over the warm skin, before curling one finger under the ripped fabric of Frank's jeans, finding even softer skin on the inside of Frank's knees. Frank made a tiny, pained noise, and Gerard grew bolder, letting his hand slide up higher, along the inseam of Frank's jeans. God, he ached to touch him. He could only think of the heat of Frank's crotch, how he would possibly feel in his hand.

“G,” Frank hissed softly, breathlessly, and Gerard danced his fingers along the inside of his thigh, making Frank jump and swear under his breath. Gerard felt so high-strung on need that he refused to think about his actions, pushing any kind of rational thought of what the hell he was doing here away. His hand slid higher, and Frank's leg jumped, knee sliding off his thigh, his sneaker scraping over the carpeted floor. Through the fabric of Frank's worn jeans, he could feel the hardness and heat of his cock against his palm, jumping at his touch.

Frank made a strangled, choked off sound that got lost in the yelling happening on screen, and Gerard turned in his seat, trying to stifle any more sounds from his lips by smashing their mouths together. Frank's leg jerked again, and Gerard heightened the press of his palm, swallowing the moan on Frank's tongue. This was it, this was exactly what should have happened last night.

Frank didn't protest when Gerard fumbled hastily with the zipper on his jeans eager to wrap his hand around him, on the contrary, he pushed his hips up and into Gerard's hand. It didn't feel much different wrapping his hand around Frank's dick than it did when he did it to himself, but the way Frank trembled against him was the best thing ever.

He sucked on Frank's tongue, pushing him down into the seat, his fingers wrapped around Frank's hard length, squeezing, precome making the slide of his fingers easier. Against him, Frank shuddered and bit his lip, the fingers of his right hand digging into Gerard's shoulder. Gerard sped up the movement of his hand, tugged harder, pushing his tongue into Frank's mouth.

Frank's mouth went slack against his, his tongue pliant, as if he had lost the ability to engage in kissing because the rest of his body demanded all his attention. Gerard dug his teeth hard into Frank's bottom lip. Frank's body seemed tight as a bowstring, back arched to push his hips into Gerard's palm. He came silently, shuddering through it, the wet spill of his come over Gerard's clenched fingers the only indication of his orgasm.

Frank pushed at his hand still wrapped around his dick, wincing, and Gerard pulled away. Frank was panting softly, still sprawled in his seat, fly undone, staring ahead. The images from the screen bathed the skin of his face in lights and shadows, catching his parted lips, his wide eyes.

Gerard felt an overwhelming satisfaction – he had done this, had made Frank look like this, bewildered and blissed out. He wiped his hand on his thigh, not caring for the stains. Frank wet his lips, before straightening a bit, turning in his seat to Gerard, leaning forward, bringing his mouth to Gerard's cheek, his wet breath ghosting over the shell of his ear.

“You are utterly fucking crazy,” he hissed, sounding floored.

Actually, Gerard couldn't contest that, but it wasn't like anyone had noticed, not with how they were all focused on the screen where people were yelling and shooting and blasts were going off. They were in the last row, after all, and the next people were five rows in front of them. Even if they looked back, they would most likely not see anything incriminating. Still, Frank had a point. But then, all this was fucking crazy. He was fucking crazy for wanting this.

Frank shifted in his seat next to him, and Gerard watched curiously as he twisted, sliding to the floor without a sound.

“What the hell are you doing?” he whispered, leaning forward. Frank's hands reached for his legs, pushing them apart none too gently and shouldering his way in-between them.

“Out-crazying you, fucker,” came Frank's soft reply, before he reached unceremoniously for the buckle on Gerard's jeans, slipping the worn leather through the loops. Gerard suppressed a moan when Frank's deft fingers worked on his fly, shuddered when they found his dick, freeing him from the confines of the fabric.

His own hands found the top of his thighs, and he dug his fingers into his jeans as Frank pushed forward with his whole body. He had a vague idea where this was going, but his brain didn't dare to acknowledge it, because it seemed to enormous, something that happened to other people, but not Gerard.

He nearly swallowed his tongue at the first touch of Frank's wet, hot mouth, a terribly vulnerable sound escaping him, like somebody beating a dog. Gladly, the music on the screen was reaching a new dramatic crescendo, overriding his moan.

Gerard had no idea where you learned that, going down on someone, but Frank didn't hesitate one second, brushing his lips over him before taking him into his mouth and Gerard just wanted to scream, it felt so good. It felt like nothing he had ever experienced before, like nothing he could have even imagined. His eyes fell shut, and his hips hitched, hands rising from where he had gripped his own thighs. The swipe of Frank's tongue made stars explode behind his eyes, and he lifted his left hand, biting down on his wrist to stifle the sounds that wanted to fall from his lips. His other hand hovered in mid-air, before he dropped it to the back of Frank's skull, resting against the baby-soft hair at his nape, moving with the rise and fall of Frank's head.

One of Frank's hands was flexing on his thigh; he couldn't locate the other until he felt the rhythmic dig of an elbow into his calf and he moaned at the realization that with the other hand, Frank was jerking himself off. Gerard's fingers tightened in Frank's hair, and Frank's own fingers gave an answering dig into his thigh, almost painfully. Frank slowed the sloppy movement of his mouth, let Gerard direct his pace with the tug and pull on his hair.

It was over too quickly, a whole overload of erotic sensation, too fucking much, too fucking fast, and Gerard nearly drew blood from his own wrist when he came, biting down hard because there was a scream building in his head, echoing against the cavity of his skull, his hips bucking up.

When he opened his eyes, his surroundings hadn't changed, nothing was different, but he felt like he had taken a journey into a distant land and had only now returned to find that nobody had missed him in his absence. Nobody had turned in their seats and was glaring at them; nobody seemed to have even noticed anything. (Years of jerking off in silence with your brother asleep across the room had apparently paid off.)

He looked down into his lap; Frank was still sitting between his opened legs, his face pressed against the side of Gerard's thigh. Gerard could feel his warm breath where it heated his skin through the worn fabric of his jeans. His hand was still working between his legs, hard, fast strokes that made the muscles in his back shift jerkily beneath his t-shirt. Gerard loosened his hand from where his fingers were still so tightly fisted in Frank's hair it had to be painful, slowly petting the curve of his shoulder, his fingers sliding over the sweat-slicked skin of his neck. Frank suddenly stilled, the muscles under Gerard's fingertips tightening, before he shuddered and trembled, then slumped forward, back bowed.

Gerard kept stroking him; Frank's shoulders were shaking under his touch. When Frank finally lifted his head from Gerard's thigh, his eyes glittered, the look on his face heated and satisfied and a bit like they were sharing a secret. Which Gerard supposed they were. Frank slowly hauled himself upward and fell back into his seat.

For a while, neither of them moved. Gerard stared ahead at the screen, not comprehending what he was seeing, concentrating on just breathing. He couldn't quite understand what had just happened. The rustle of clothes from next to him alerted him to the fact that Frank was pulling his pants back up and Gerard reached down, stuffing himself back in his jeans and straightening out his clothes as well.

When he was done, he felt a hand on his wrist, fingers closing around his skin.

“C'mon,” Frank said, and he followed when Frank pulled, stumbling after him on shaky legs towards the exit.

The lounge was deserted, Mikey nowhere to be seen. Still, Gerard pulled back, ripping himself free of Frank's grip. Frank stopped, turned to look at him, his face still flushed, hair sticking up at the back of his head where Gerard had had him in a death grip, the color high in his cheek. Gerard thought he looked spectacularly rumpled – if somebody saw them, he was pretty sure the expression on Frank's face would leave no room for misinterpretation to what it was they had been doing. He wondered if he looked like that as well, like he had just fucked his brains out.

“Gerard?” Frank asked, his voice hesitant. His hand was still stretched out where Gerard had let go, fingers beckoning Gerard to step forward. He was biting his swollen lips, a furrow building between his eyebrows. A flicker of hurt crossed his face and he was slowly lowering his arm, the muscles around his mouth tightening.

Gerard didn't make a conscious decision, but he couldn't stand the look on Frank's face, so he crossed the space between them, wrapping his hand around Frank's fingers. Next to him, Frank gave a small laugh of relief, tugging him towards the popcorn kitchen, where once he had made sure nobody was around, he pushed Gerard up against the door.

For a moment they just stared at each other. Gerard was breathing hard, his eyes locking with Frank's dark ones. Frank's fingers were twitching on where they rested on his upper arms. He couldn't quite believe what Frank had done, but he remembered the pressure of Frank's mouth around him, the feel of his soft tongue fluttering against the underside of his cock, licking broadly over the crown. He felt himself flush even more, remembering, staring at Frank's mouth.

“Fucking kiss me, you asshole,” Frank finally said, sounding frustrated, before reaching up, fisting his hand harshly into Gerard's hair. Gerard met him halfway, opened his mouth at the push of Frank's tongue. He tasted different, earthy, more salty, pretty good. It gave him a thrill to know it was himself he tasted.

*-*

“All gone,” Ray announced to the room, pushing the front doors shut behind him with a happy sigh.

Lindsey, who was wielding a broom, sweeping popcorn off the floor, stopped moving and leaned heavily on the broom stick. “Thank God,” she said, “that was madness.”

“6 screenings – 283 paying customers,” Mikey announced to the room at large, looking up from where he was sitting behind the bar, bundling the ticket stubs with a rubber band.

“That's a new record, right?” Frank asked, looking up from where he had been wiping down one of the tables in the back.

Bob, who was sitting next to Gerard with a sheet of paper detailing next week's schedule, grinned broadly. “Kind of. We haven't had that many customers in at least over a year.”

“Awesome sales at the concession stands, too,” Lindsey added.

“If you ask me, that calls for a celebration,” Ray said happily, sliding into the booth on Bob's right side and poking him.

“Free coke on the house?” Bob suggested, earning a round of eye rolls and groans. Alicia, who had come in earlier to spend the rest of the night with Mikey, was booing openly.

“Ever since you've started deeming yourself the only grown up around, you are no fun,” Gerard complained, his comment drawing laughter from the others.

“There's still a couple of beers left from Mikey's last party,” Lindsay said.

Frank gave Lindsey a thumbs up, and she grinned and continued, “It's chilled, too, because I'm awesome.”

Bob heaved a sigh, but shrugged. “As long as nobody throws up, strips naked or succumbs to alcohol poisoning...”

“Damn,” Lindsey said, “I don't know what it is, but all of a sudden, I feel this... this insistent need to rip my clothes off.”

Her announcement was followed by wolf whistles and howls of laughter.

“If you absolutely must,” Bob said, sounding long-suffering, but amused.

*-*

Gerard didn't really feel in the mood to party, but he didn't want to be a spoilsport and go home while his best friends were having a good time. He wasn’t sleeping well, because his brain wasn’t shutting up at night, constantly pondering how to deal with Frank’s presence in his life and what it meant. Was he gay? Could he live like that? Fuck, but the whole thing with Frank was so out of his control. Ever since Frank had gone down on him in the cinema, they seemed to have an unspoken agreement that they would make out whenever a possibility presented itself. Gerard had no idea how to say no to Frank, but after every time they fucked around and his brain cells kicked in again, he asked himself what the hell he was doing.

He was quietly nursing his beer, listening to Ray, Bob and Frank jamming on the table next to him. Ray had gotten his acoustic guitars out of the back of his car and he and Frank were trying to get the chords to “Astro Zombies” right, while Bob was beating the rhythm out with two pencil sticks on the table top. They weren't that bad, even though they constantly stopped to discuss a chord progression, laughing in delight when they had figured it out. Frank hummed the lines of the song under his breath. He didn't get all the lines right, but he certainly had the attitude for the song down.

Across from Gerard, Lindsey and Alicia were in conversation about Ally Sheedy's role in Wargames that kind of turned into a discussion on the representation of women in movies. Mikey was sitting next to Alicia, an arm slung around his girlfriend's shoulder, nursing a beer, listening. He seemed content, relaxed, and even though he didn't participate in the conversation, he was giving Alicia all his attention. Mikey's fingers were unconsciously stroking Alicia's arm where they were resting against her skin. They looked so right together, it was almost scary. As if they were pieces of a puzzle that fit together.

Gerard bit his lips and looked away, hating how he was overcome with jealousy, his eyes falling once more on Frank. Curled over his guitar, he seemed even tinier than usual. His fingers moved quickly and surely over the frets. A little frown sat in the center of his forehead, between his brows as he tried to get the chords right. Gerard hadn't known that Frank was that good with a guitar. He liked the way Frank's fingers looked on the frets like they belonged there. His mouth was slack, his facial expression one of serene happiness – he looked a bit stupid. Sex-stupid.

They finished the song, laughing at how Bob's pencil had half-snapped through his forceful finish. Ray and Frank high-fived, and when Frank looked away, his eyes caught Gerard's across the room and he flashed him a wide grin, teeth showing.

Gerard felt a shiver pass through him and he reached for his beer with numb fingers, setting the can to his mouth and taking a huge swig. He didn't understand how Frank just sat there, completely relaxed and calm, giving him such a wolfish grin, when not an hour ago, he had rubbed one out against Gerard's naked hip in the projector booth. Maybe the grin meant – hah, you rode my leg and you loved it. Maybe it meant, I know the stupid face you make when you come. Maybe it also meant, I totally know you are completely gay for me.

Forcefully, Gerard put the can back down and reached for his pack of cigarettes, lighting one. It wasn't like they were Alicia and Mikey, holding hands in the school corridors, going on dates together with other couples and sleeping over.

They hadn't even ever talked about it. One moment, their conversation would be the most normal thing ever – movies, comics, music, school, then the next, Gerard would find himself knocked against the nearest flat surface with Frank's tongue exploring his mouth. There was something about Frank that was completely straightforward and unapologetic and it made Gerard's head spin. It seemed as if Frank just took what he wanted, which drove Gerard fucking crazy. He didn't seem shy or reserved at all and he was a master at manipulating Gerard's body to the point where Gerard lost control, every fucking time. Sometimes he thought that everything he was thinking about was Frank. He was jerking off so much that Mikey was giving him the evil eye because he hogged the bathroom.

He wasn't fucking ready to admit that he probably, possibly liked boys, though. He was still waiting for the moment when his body stopped acting traitorously turned on whenever Frank was in the room with him and he came to his senses. He was still hoping to wake up one day and not feel like this. In the meantime he just tried not to think too fucking much about it. Thinking about it gave him a headache.

Sometimes afterwards, when they were catching their breath, sprawled on the floor of the projector booth with their limbs tangled, Frank would look at him like he knew how insecure Gerard felt, his hazel eyes earnest and kind of worried. Gerard never managed to catch his eyes then, preferring to pointedly look somewhere else.

He hadn't wanted this, he didn't want all these complications. Life was fucking exhausting without having to deal with wanting sex with boys. Why could nothing ever be simple for him?

*-*

“C'mon, G,” Frank whined against his neck, his legs wrapped around Gerard's middle, pulling him in close, despite Gerard's best efforts at resistance. Frank was perched on the workbench and had caught Gerard as he passed by on his way to the second projector, effectively holding him in place with his legs wrapped around him like a little monkey.

“I gotta change the reel,” Gerard complained half-heartedly, reaching up to unclench Frank's fingers from the back of his sweater.

“You got plenty of time,” Frank coaxed him, nipping at his ear, his legs tightening further – he was surprisingly strong for such a small person.

“I really don't.”

Frank drew back from where he had been breathing into the shell of Gerard's ears – the bastard knew that it nearly got him everywhere with Gerard – biting his lip and looking at Gerard with his up-to-no-good face. “At least 10 minutes. There's a lot we could do in 10 minutes,” he said suggestively, pressing his hips forward to make his point. “I could totally make you come twice in 10 minutes.”

Gerard felt his face heat up. It was probably true, too, and embarrassingly so. He didn't struggle against Frank’s grip when Frank threaded his fingers in his hair, tugging sharply until their lips molded together. Kissing Frank was pretty familiar by now but it never lacked a certain thrill, the sensation traveling straight to his crotch. Gerard knew his resistance was crumbling under the onslaught of Frank's tongue, and he felt his muscles relax as he leaned forward, crowding into the circle of Frank's arms, momentarily forgetting about the changeover.

There was a sound at the door, and Gerard reared back so fast it nearly gave him whiplash, ripping himself away from Frank. He stumbled back, hitting his lower back on the small table with the rewinder. He was trembling when he looked up and saw Ray had poked his head through the crack in the door.

“Gerard?”

Gerard's heart was beating so fast he felt like it was going to burst out of his chest.

“Yeah?” he croaked out, his eyes flittering over to Frank who was still sitting on top of the workbench, his face flushed a deep red, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I'm looking for the last reel of Psycho. I think maybe Bob put it in the wrong booth,” Ray said, stepping into the room.

“Take a look over here,” Gerard advised, pointing at a stack of unsorted film cans for his next screening on the workbench next to Frank.

He stepped away, pressing himself against the cool wall to make room for Ray, his shaking hands coming to his lower back, rubbing the spot where he had hit the edge of the rewinder table. With three people in the room it was a tight fit, and Gerard was uncomfortably aware of his thankfully flagging erection. Ray nodded and crossed the room towards the bench, crouching down to read the labels on the cans. Gerard exchanged a look with Frank, who was eyeing him carefully, biting his lower lip.

Ray uttered a soft sound of triumph, before straightening. “Phew! There it is. Thought so.” He pulled one of the cans out of the second stack and placed it under his arm, before turning towards them again.

“Thank God I realized I was missing it now,” he said, his eyes quickly traveling over Frank before landing on Gerard again. He looked a bit uncomfortable, and Gerard felt more heat rise into his face, his ears burning.

“Yeah,” he forced out between clenched teeth.

For a moment, Ray looked like he wanted to say something. Sweat broke out all over Gerard's back as he waited for Ray to ask what they hell they had been doing. The question was clearly written all over Ray's face.

“Well, thanks,” Ray finally said, nodded once at Frank and then crossed the room, legging it out of the room without looking back. When he had pulled the door shut behind him, Frank huffed out a soft laugh.

“Damn,” he said, sliding slowly from the bench, “poor Ray nearly got an eyeful.”

Gerard swallowed soundly, staring a bit incredulously at Frank, who was looking more amused than anything. His heart was still pounding too fast, his legs felt weak, and he was sick to his stomach. He didn’t understand how Frank could be so laid-back about it. He didn't want to think about what Ray was thinking now. If he was going to tell somebody about it. If he just now had gone downstairs and was telling Lindsey how he had found Gerard with his tongue down Frank's throat in the projector booth.

“An eyeful?” he said, and it came out like a squeak. “An eyeful?” he repeated, his voice rising and gaining strength.

Frank raised both his eyebrows, scowling. “Chill, dude,” he said. “It’s just Ray. Besides, there really wasn’t anything really incriminating happening here.”

Chill? Gerard’s heart was still beating so fast that he felt like he wasn’t getting air into his lungs. How the hell was Frank so fucking calm about it? Ray had just come in and had most likely seen them making out! Ray! And he hadn’t talked to anyone about it yet, because this whole thing with Frank wasn’t something he had consciously decided, it was just happening, as if it was beyond his control and now, the decision to tell somebody about it had been taken out of his hands as well. Everybody would know, and Gerard hadn’t even had a chance to sort it out for himself.

Frank was looking at him strangely, his eyes narrowed. “Are you freakin’ out?” he asked, but he didn’t sound like he was going to calm Gerard down, his tone holding a hint of threat. “Please don’t fucking tell me you’re going to freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out!” Gerard said, his high, breathless voice belying his words.

They stared at each other, Frank scowling, Gerard still trying to control his accelerated breathing.

“He's going to talk,” he blurted out finally.

Frank made an angry pfft sound, waving his hand. “Bullshit. He hasn't even seen anything to talk about.”

“Fucking shut up,” Gerard hissed, hand coming up rub at his eyes. He wanted to hurl.

His angry words didn't go over well with Frank, who took a step forward towards him, his mouth slightly open, a stormy expression settling over his face.

“Well, excuse me,” Frank said, sounding disbelieving and still a bit dangerous, like he was going to sock Gerard one any moment now, “So what if he saw? He's your fucking friend! You think he's gonna blab about it?”

“It’s my fucking decision to tell anyone about it! Fuck.”

“Were you gonna tell anyone about it?” When Gerard avoided Frank's narrowed eyes and didn’t answer, Frank nearly exploded in his face. “Oh, no, of course not! It’s all rad as long as you get off, right? Tell you something,” Frank spat, and he was so close, his hot, moist breath hit Gerard’s face, “…having a dirty little secret is only fun for a little while!”

“You’re not – ” Gerard started, “I’m not-” he said helplessly, causing Frank to hiss out a frustrated growl.

“Oh please,” he groaned, his voice sharp, “don't pull that fucking 'I don't do this' shit again.”

Frank's words hurt, hitting exactly on the spot, and Gerard sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, his hands starting to tremble.

“I gotta tell you, you're so past the 'I don't do this'. Come on, what do you think we're doing here?” Frank's face was dark red with anger, but he didn't seem to want to step down, crowding Gerard against the projector.

“I'm not gay,” Gerard pressed out, because it was the only thing running around in his head right now, like a mantra, like a safety blanket. Denial. I'm not gay. I'm not. “I'm not.”

“Fuck,” Frank cursed so loud that he made Gerard jump, looking like he was about to hit something. “Fuck,” he repeated, finally backing off, turning around, his back towards Gerard, his shoulders shaking. Gerard could see his fist clench and open and it made the bile rise in his stomach.

When Frank turned to face Gerard again, his expression had softened. “G,” he said, sounding desperate, and for a moment Gerard thought he might reach out and touch him, “I really fucking like you, okay?” He sounded sincere, his eyes pleading. “But I’d rather you tell me now, because I’m getting really fucking invested and it’s not fucking fair. I get it, it’s difficult, but can you do this with me or not?”

Gerard shook his head, refusing to meet Frank's eyes. It wasn’t fair of Frank to ask such a question. It wasn’t fair to have him choose at gunpoint. “I can’t,” he forced out. “I can’t. I’m not like you – you’re…” fearless and confident. He didn’t finish his sentence, his emotions so conflicted that they were almost crippling him with their intensity.

“… All right,” Frank said, ducking his head and rubbing his brows, not looking at Gerard. “All right,” he repeated, sounding tired and frustrated and just a bit shaky. For a moment there it seemed like Frank wanted to say something else, but he just swallowed, before nodding slowly, turning away.

Gerard lowered his head, not wanting to watch Frank leave. He huffed out a heavy sigh, feeling defeated when the door clicked shut softly behind Frank. The bile in his chest suddenly felt a lot like the beginning of bad stomach cramps. Maybe he would really hurl. He held a hand to his belly, breathing steadily in and out, trying to get his mind back on track. Where was he? What was he doing? Right.

Projector booth. He was in the projector booth. He had work to do. Work was good. Work was distracting. Automatically, he reached for the correct reel, and walked over to the second projector. His hands were shaking as he fed the film strip into the projector, but he had done this so often in the past, it didn’t matter. He could probably thread a film blindfolded and drunk off his ass.

Once everything was perfectly threaded up, he stood by the first projector, looking out the shuttered window at the screen, his eyes burning, waiting for the changeover cues. The soft clicking of the projector’s shutter was comforting.

Frank would leave him alone now. He could stop worrying about what it all meant. He could stop lying awake at night, wondering about how it would be constantly being discriminated against, having to live in fear, not being able to tell people who he was with. He could just go back to his life how it had been before, and get on with it and forget everything that had happened. He told himself he felt relieved.

*-*5.

It was easy getting out of Frank's way, because Frank wasn't looking for him anymore. At school they only had one class together, and he could just concentrate on his algebra problems and fucking formulae without looking over his shoulder to where Frank was sitting in the second to last row. He hated that he missed him, that he flinched whenever somebody mentioned his name.

At the cinema they acknowledged each other with a short nod, but never engaged in conversation. Gerard didn't know what to say to Frank. Frank hadn't shown up in his booth for the last couple of days either. Suddenly, his time in the projector booth was incredibly lonely without Frank around to shoot the shit with him, entertaining him with little stories while Gerard worked. After a week, having been with Frank seemed a strange and distant thing. Gerard told himself it was better this way. He wasn’t Frank, who was ready to take on the world if necessary. He was Gerard, who felt most comfortable being on his own and avoided confrontations.

“If you just told me what the fuck is wrong, maybe I would be able to help,” Mikey said, eyeing him from the other side of the table in the lounge. It was both their day off, but the amount of moviegoers now coming to the screenings made it necessary that they jumped in to help out as ushers or behind the concession stand whenever the audience reached a critical mass.

“There's nothing wrong,” Gerard said, trying to sound normal and not agitated, concentrating on the drawing in front of him. He had had this character in his head, a teenage geek turned superhero, whose special power was that he was able to command the undead and speak to ghosts. He was also very lonely, because people were scared of him, so he sat around in cemeteries, holding séances or digging up corpses. His best friend was a vampire. Together, they raised an undead army to fight evil.

Mikey sighed. “Maybe if you keep telling yourself that, it comes true. You're such a bad liar, man.”

Shrugging, Gerard wondered if he wanted to have his superhero wear a special costume, then decided against it. Costumes and capes were kind of lame. Maybe this superhero would fight in torn jeans and a t-shirt. Like maybe Wolverine, just not as hairy.

“Is this one of the posters for the Halloween display?” Ray, who had walked past and now stopped behind him, asked, leaning over Gerard's shoulder, looking at the page with a frown on his face.

Gerard shook his head, working on a detail on his superhero's shirt – he was giving him an Iron Maiden shirt. “Just a character I've been thinking about.”

“There's a line at the ticket booth. Again,” Ray observed, looking pointedly at Mikey.

Mikey heaved a sigh, then pushed himself up from the bench. “Guess I gotta help Frank out. Maybe you,” he said, looking at Ray just as pointedly, “can figure out what's wrong with my fucking brother. I mean, I’m used to his moping, but this is getting ridiculous.”

“Fuck you, nothing's wrong,” Gerard muttered, glaring over the table at Mikey. His brother just shrugged and rolled his eyes before sharing a meaningful look with Ray. Gerard suppressed a growl, and bent his head back over his drawing, attempting to find a way to add Eddie to the Maiden shirt.

He was aware that Ray had sat down in the place Mikey had vacated, but unlike his annoying little brother, he didn't force Gerard to make conversation. A familiar electronic beep made Gerard look up, seeing that Ray had gotten out a Game and Watch. Maybe he was finally switching the Rubik’s Cube for another toy to busy his hands.

“What are you playing?” he asked absentmindedly, bending once more over his sheet of paper. He wasn't content with how the print on the shirt had come out, but he decided to clean that up later. Another idea came to him, and he started on filling in swirly tattoos on the character's forearms, all down to the wrists. He might add knuckle tattoos, too, because, hey, knuckle tattoos were tough shit.

“Lifeboat. Stupid little fuckers jumping burning ships,” Ray said, making Gerard laugh.

“I still prefer playing Zork.”

“Yeah, but this shit is portable,” Ray said, “You can take it everywhere.”

“They should make a portable text adventure,” Gerard commented.

Ray snorted. “Dream on. I tell you, text adventures will be a thing of the past soon, though.”

“What could be better?”

“Sierra came out with King's Quest. Dave told me about it – there's 3D like graphics. You still use a text parser for communicating with the game, though. It's like a mix between a jump 'n' run and an adventure.”

Ray's cousin worked as a game reviewer for a magazine called “Computer Gaming World”, which was a really cool job. Dave often mailed Ray copies or playable demos and the Way brothers had spent a lot of afternoons in Ray’s bedroom, playing what Dave had sent their way.

“Shit,” Ray suddenly said, “I lost one passenger to the shark. It's because we're talking – I can't concentrate and save my passengers. It's your fault.”

Snorting, Gerard looked up from his drawing. “Oh, shut up. Just because you're too fucking clumsy to play the game...”

Ray lowered the game and mock-glared at Gerard from across the table. “Not everyone is surgically glued to an arcade game like your brother. Bet he has wet dreams about Blinky, Pinky and Inky and… ”

He trailed off as the light over Cinema 1 went on and the people in the lounge trailed past them towards the cinema for their 9.15 showing. Gerard considered getting up and helping, but Mikey already beat him to it, and more than 2 people manning the entrance was just plain too much.

“Wow,” Ray said, and Gerard nodded, rounding up a head count in his head. “Yeah,” he agreed. There was nothing more to say to that.

With a sigh, Ray tossed the game onto the table, not caring that his last passenger was lost to the sharks. He leaned forwards, crossing his elbows on the table top, looking at what Gerard was drawing.

Gerard straightened from his hunched over position on the table as well, leaning back to critically look at his drawing from a distance. His superhero looked mischievous in his dirty sneakers and torn jeans, his floppy hair covering half of his face. The familiarity was not to be missed. Shit. Gerard bit his lip, considering changing his character's hair length – maybe long hair down to the shoulders or a mohawk? Had there ever been a superhero with a mohawk? - before letting out a groan of pure frustration. This was the fact - he had drawn another likeness of Frank in scuffed sneakers and with curly tattoos. Superhero!Frank even wore a tiny skull earring in his left ear. Fuck. There was nothing he could change now that would make his superhero look any less like Frank.

With a groan of dismay, Gerard tore the page from his notebook, balling it up in his hands.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Ray hissed, reaching out and pulling the balled-up paper from Gerard's hands. “Are you crazy? This is really awesome stuff!”

“It's not. It's bull,” Gerard said, but didn't protest when Ray gently unfolded the paper and flattened it on the table's surface with gentle, careful strokes of his hand so he wouldn't smudge the pencil.

“Don't ever do that again,” Ray admonished him, glaring at him.

“Give it back.”

“If you don't destroy it – otherwise I'm keeping it.”

“I won't. I promise,” Gerard said.

Ray held his gaze for a long moment, before slowly handing the drawing over. Gerard reached for it, pulling it gently from Ray's hand. The paper was a bit crinkled, and he felt bad for ruining a drawing.

He looked up when Frank pushed open the door from the ticket booth and walked into the lounge, before stopping in the middle of the room, looking exasperated.

“There's this unwashed guy outside who kind of scares me,” he said. “He keeps insisting on -”

The front door behind Frank swung open and a small man in a studded leather jacket with spiky hair and a tattoo high up on his neck walked in, his gaze stormy.

“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded to know, his eyes swiveling through the room, before finally landing on Ray.

Ray visibly flinched, before turning his head to regard Gerard. Gerard felt his stomach drop to somewhere around his knees.

“Uh, hi Brian,” he said, wishing he could vanish on the spot. Why was Brian already here? They had expected him back in two weeks at the earliest, and they hadn't yet developed a strategy to sell the theater's new direction to him. To be honest, they all had kind of pushed away the fact that Brian would show up eventually.

“What the hell, Way? I drive by and suddenly there's this line outside, buying tickets for Dark Star when the movie theater is supposed to be all boarded up!”

Frank, who had been regarding Brian with a mixture of respect and the kind of hesitation you give a mentally ill person, took a step back at Brian's new outburst.

Gerard didn't know what to say, looking helplessly at Ray, who shrugged.

“Where's Bryar? I want to talk to him!”

*-*

If it hadn't been all their asses on the line, Gerard would have probably laughed at the way Mikey flinched every time one of Brian's louder words traveled from the office to the lounge. Ray had relieved Bob from screening the movie, and now Brian was kind of tearing Bob's ass apart in Hank's office. They had been going on for the last 30 minutes and Brian wasn't getting any calmer.

Lindsey, who was sitting in the corner of a booth, legs up on the bench with her ankles crossed in Frank's lap, was chewing on her fingernails, inspecting them with single-minded concentration. She hadn't said a word ever since coming back into the lounge from ushering in theater 2 and had found Brian in the middle of the room, red-faced and kind of stunned-looking.

They couldn't really know what went on behind the closed doors of Hank's office, but from Brian's loud voice and Bob's answering quiet murmur, they were pretty sure it wasn't good.

They had been waiting in silence, when suddenly the voices behind Hank's door trailed off for a moment. Gerard looked up, catching Frank's wide, serious eyes. They turned their heads all as one when the doors of Hank's office were opened and Brian stepped into the lounge, trailed by Bob who looked like he had just been engaged in a most strenuous battle, his hair sticking up wildly as if he had carded his fingers through it repeatedly.

At least Brian looked marginally calmer, if tired. Life on the road must really take a toll on you. There were bluish shadows beneath his eyes, and his stubbled face was haggard and thin. Gerard hadn't realized Brian looked that exhausted earlier, when he had practically glowed with indignation and anger.

“All right, people,” Brian started, clapping his hands together, looking at each of them in return, “We got some serious talking to do here. I hope you all realize that what you have done here was very, very out of line.”

His words were greeted with silence, and Gerard saw Mikey duck his head, looking at anything but Brian. Only Lindsey and Frank glared back at Brian defiantly, obviously refusing to be admonished and berated, as if they were the last stand of resistance holding up the fort.

“That said,” Brian continued, “Bob has told me how much work you've been putting into keeping my uncle's movie theater open.”

Mikey and Gerard shared a confused look. Right, that was much nicer than they had expected Brian to react.

“But seriously, guys. I told you to close up shop and you disrespected my orders. As much as I'd like to honor my uncle's life achievement, I have no intention of taking over a movie theater.”

Gerard lowered his eyes, looking anywhere but at Brian's slightly reproachful and exasperated face. What was there to say? They knew they were doing something wrong. There was no use in defending themselves.

“Our concept worked,” Lindsey spoke up and Gerard raised his head, once more amazed by her courage. “We've been selling at least double the tickets we did in the past months and we made about three times as much at the concession stand every night. And it's not like we want anything for it, we just wanted to keep doing it.”

Brian heaved a sigh, his hand coming up to rub his cheek. “And I recognize that. You did a great job. But you just can't do stuff like that. I can't run this place and I don't want to run this place. It's going to be sold, and you have to accept that.”

“They will tear it down,” Mikey said, sounding accusing. “They will tear it down or make a fucking strip club out of it.”

Brian turned his head and looked like he was thinking very hard while trying to keep in control of the situation without yelling at a bunch of teenagers.

“I'd like to really thank you for loving this place so much that you come in here even though you know you won't be paid for it,” he said diplomatically, “but this is the way it goes. Businesses close.”

The silence that followed Brian's matter-of-fact words was deafening.

Finally, it was Bob who cleared his throat. “Brian has decided to pay your wages for the last weeks.”

Predictably, it was Lindsey who snapped, nearly kicking Frank in the groin when she pulled her legs out of his lap. “Fuck you,” she spat, “I don't care about the money.”

Brian's fist clenched, but he took a deep breath, releasing it slowly through gritted teeth. Life on tour must be hard, but he surely didn't get yelled at by teenage girls every day. “It's the least I can do,” he said, sounding amazingly calm. He was clearly fighting hard to keep his cool.

“So what?” Frank asked, looking from Brian to Bob and back, “We just drop everything and stop screening this very moment?”

Bob and Brian shared a look, and Gerard could see Brian open his mouth to speak. The words burst out of him before he could hold them in. “We've been screening horror movies for all of October. Let us at least end it on Halloween in style.”

Lindsey shot him a dark look that clearly read, “Traitor”, but Mikey and Frank were both nodding enthusiastically.

For a moment, Brian seemed hesitant, annoyed, and he sighed, taking a look at each of them and studying them closely as if this was a test they had to pass. Maybe it was a test and maybe he found what he had been looking for, because finally, he nodded. “All right. Just until Halloween, though.”

Gerard had just bought them 5 more days.

“Thank you,” Frank said earnestly. “Really.”

Brian seemed almost sorry for having agreed, tiredly palming his face. “Yeah, don’t sweat it. We’re still closing after that, understood?”

They all nodded, but Gerard refused to acknowledge Brian’s words, pushing them away. One day at a time.

“It will be the best Halloween ever,” Mikey said, sounding almost convinced, “We promise, you won't regret it.”

“You kids are fucking crazy,” Brian just said, shaking his head.

Frank shot him a grin that bordered on maniacal, as if to prove his words.

*-*

“I thought he was going to kill me, he was so livid,” Frank recounted the moment Brian had stepped up to his ticket booth. Despite the late hour, he seemed energetic, bouncing around on his chair in the Ways' kitchen. After the screening had finished, they had filed into Ray's and Gerard's cars and driven to the Ways', too excited, too riled up by the evening's events to part already.

“Poor Bob,” Mikey said, “he got the brunt of it. Brian really kept it together when he talked to us in the lounge. You could see him twitching, though. There was this one muscle in his cheek – just kept ticking.”

“Brian's small, but he looks like a person who's able to demolish a whole room in his rage,” Frank agreed. “Thanks Mrs. Way,” he added, looking doubtfully at the plate of pancakes Gerard's mother had pushed in front of him, a frown building between his eyebrows as he sniffed.

“Bob really got his hide skinned.” Lindsey eyed the pancakes on Frank's plate with disgust, watching with fascination as he set to work on them with his fork.

Gerard wanted to tell Frank to put down the fork immediately, but he didn't want to embarrass his mother. It was Frank's own fault, though, because when Mrs. Way had offered food, everybody in the room had politely declined, except Frank who had happily announced that he was famished and would like nothing more than homemade pancakes. Gerard had frantically shaken his head at him, but Frank had just frowned, clearly not comprehending that eating Mrs. Way's food was a bad idea, especially at one in the morning.

Taking a drag from his cigarette, Gerard watched as Frank took the first bite, the expression on his face shifting to a badly hidden grimace. Gerard winced in sympathy. If it weren't for take-out, he and Mikey would probably starve to death. They only thing you could really eat in the Way household was frozen TV dinner. It was no wonder Gerard had lost all his baby fat since his grandmother's death; she had been the only one able to cook around here. God, he missed his grandmother's lasagna.

“Brian has every right to be displeased. Seriously, keeping his movie theater open when he gave you orders to shut it down,” Gerard's mother said, leaning against the kitchen sink, dragging on a cigarette. Without her make up and in her flowery night gown over a frilly nightdress, she looked about ten years older than she truly was. “You shouldn't have done that.”

“I don't regret it,” Ray said, “it was the most fun I've ever had screening movies, and screening movies itself is loads of fun.”

“You crazy projectionists.” Frank grinned, looking from Ray to Gerard. “You get off on fondling odd machinery nobody else gets.”

“Ray even names the projectors. One of them is called Audrey,” Lindsey revealed, smirking.

“Shut up,” Ray growled, rolling his eyes at Lindsey, who giggled.

Mikey sighed, thunking his head down on the table. “It's a damn shame it’s over,” he murmured, his voice muffled by where he had pressed his face into his arms.

“God, Mikeyway, stop. I don't even wanna talk about this,” Lindsey groaned before leaning over and stealing Gerard's cigarette.

“We're gonna end it right – go out with a bang.” Frank said, pushing his pancakes around on the plate with his fork, occasionally swallowing down a small bite in true defiance of death.

Gerard felt the lump in his belly, which had been present ever since Brian had entered the movie theater earlier today; tighten painfully at Frank's words. He didn't want to end it. He couldn't imagine not spending his afternoons and evenings at the Belleville Film Palace anymore. He couldn't imagine not breathing in the popcorn-saturated air, not sitting in the darkened projector booth, watching for marker cues. He loved his job. He loved the Belleville Film Palace. And although he had known for weeks that the days of the Belleville Film Palace were numbered, he had pushed the thought far away.

“We could start screening in the afternoon with a children's special,” Ray suggested. “I was thinking It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. What do you think, Gerard?”

Gerard shrugged. He really didn't want to talk about the last movies to ever screen at the Belleville Film Palace. It was like planning a funeral.

“Gerard is grumpy,” Lindsey observed, blowing a cloud of smoke into Gerard's face.

Angrily, Gerard waved the smoke away from his face, even though it usually wouldn't bother him. “Gerard is fucking tired, that's what he is,” he countered, slowly pushing himself up, his chair screeching on the tiles. “You guys can sit here and plan the fucking demise of the most important thing in my life – I'm going to bed.”

He didn't look back, leaving the others in stunned silence. He was already at the bottom of the stairs down to the basement when he heard a low murmur from above start up again.

He was so sick of it all. His fucking life was falling to pieces. He lay down on his bed in the darkness of his room atop the covers, fully clothed, his ashtray on his stomach, smoking another cigarette. He really didn't know what he was going to do. He had one more year in Belleville before he could get out of here for college. He had always thought that he would work at the Belleville Film Palace as long as he went to school here, that he would leave just like Pete had done when he went off to college. But that would have been okay, because the theater would continue to exist without him. He probably would have applied for another part time job as a projectionist in whatever place he would go to college. He hadn't decided yet what to do – probably study film, just like Pete.

He was just lighting his second cigarette when a knock on the door startled him out of his contemplation and he turned his head, watching as his door was pushed open a crack and someone stepped into his room.

“Fuck, it's dark in here,” Frank whispered, then, when Gerard didn't acknowledge him, “Where are you?”

For just one moment, Gerard wanted to tell him to go away. One more of his fucking problems. He was so fucking sick and tired of it. “Here,” he sighed, knowing he sounded resigned, taking another drag from his cigarette. Frank could just find his way by direction of the glowing cherry.

Frank huffed a nervous laugh before Gerard heard him stumble around, clothes rustling. Something banged to the floor and Frank cursed, rather close now, before a hand landed on Gerard's leg.

“Oh,” Frank breathed, patting Gerard's leg some more, “there you are.”

With a sigh, Gerard scooted over to make room on the bed for him. He didn't have the energy to tell Frank to get lost. He didn't want him to get lost, either. Strangely enough, Frank was the only one he felt he could stand to have around him right now.

The bed jostled when Frank lay down on his back, kind of mirroring Gerard's position.

“Your Mom's food is vile,” he finally said, and Gerard couldn't help but suppress a chuckle. Next to him, Frank giggled as well, his laughter making the bed shake as his shoulders shook. “Do you have a cigarette? Gotta get that taste out of my mouth.”

Gerard handed over his cigarette, watching as Frank took a drag, before handing it back. His eyes were pretty well adjusted to the darkness and he could make out the lines of Frank's face. They passed the cigarette between them, not speaking. Gerard was listening to Frank breathe. He felt the familiar antsiness rise in him whenever Frank was around, but he thought he understood now what it was about.

He took the cigarette back and dragged on it once more, before putting the stump out in the ashtray on his stomach. He set it on his nightstand before flopping back down on the bed. For a little while, they were completely motionless. A question burned on Gerard's tongue.

“Aren't you ever afraid?” he asked.

It took Frank a long while to answer and Gerard wasn't sure Frank had understood him correctly, but then Frank shrugged, the motion making his shoulder bump against Gerard's.

“Of course I am,” he said, sounding calm. He was silent for a bit, and Gerard wasn't sure if Frank wanted him to say something to that or not, but he was hesitant to probe him. “It doesn't mean I'm gonna deny who I am,” Frank finally continued, sounding defiant. “I'm gay. I know that – I've known for a couple of years. That's not gonna change. Doesn't mean I never struggled with it.”

Gerard was glad it was so dark, because Frank's words made him embarrassed.

Frank laughed a sudden, unhappy laugh. “You wouldn't believe how many boys in Catholic school wouldn't be against jerking each other off, only if they met you in the hallway, they would still call you a fucking faggot to your fucking face.”

Not knowing what to say and feeling guilty as hell, Gerard decided to keep silent.

“Wanting to be with another boy just isn't something you talk about, right? It's like people think you shouldn't want that, so nobody talks about it. I hate that this part of me is something I have to be afraid for,” Frank continued, his voice suddenly stronger, more forceful, as if to put more intent behind his words. “Admitting you like a boy shouldn't make you afraid to be punched to death in the school yard. Or not getting a job, even though you're just as qualified, or more so than the other applicants. Or not being able to go down a street, holding hands. Or having to hear how you deserve to die of AIDS,” he said bitterly.

Gerard could feel the anger brewing in Frank's body; he was vibrating with it. He felt so guilty for being a jerk to Frank, for pushing him away, for causing him pain, but yes, he was fucking afraid to admit to anyone, maybe even himself, how he felt. He had never really thought about it until a couple of weeks ago. He had only ever assumed that someday he would meet some girl and the thing movies and books told you would happen – the world would stop and across a crowded room, he would fall in love. Instead this thing with Frank had happened. He couldn't remember any falling in love or happy butterflies in his stomach. Frank had grated on his nerves, had made him nervous and antsy, had caused his body to thrum with need. Half of the time he had agonized about him, about how his presence had made him twitchy and irritable. The other half of the time he had thought about all the ways he wanted to make him come.

“I'm fucking afraid,” Gerard finally said, because he needed to say something, and this was the best he could offer.

On the pillow next to him, Frank shifted. “That's okay,” he said softly, his voice having lost the bitterness and agitation from earlier. “I understand. There's enough reason to be. I don't want to judge you – if you don't want this” (he didn't clarify what this was, but Gerard could guess), “it's totally okay. Everyone has to decide for themselves.”

He was silent again and they lay together in the darkness, not really touching.

“I think you're very brave,” Gerard finally offered, only to have Frank snort.

“Brave would mean getting out there and rubbing it in their fucking faces. Fighting for a right nobody thinks I should have. Speaking up when there's somebody I really like.”

Gerard swallowed, feeling heat rise in his face. He didn't know what to say to that. “Being different takes some balls,” was what he finally ended up saying, like he wanted to defend himself. It sounded stupid and lame, as if he himself didn't have any balls.

“If you're going to say that being gay isn't normal, I'm gonna punch you in the fucking face,” Frank said, but it lacked fuel. He suddenly sounded tired.

Gerard felt himself get sleepy too. He turned onto his side, pushing his arm underneath his head, looking at the dark outline of Frank's shape next to him.

“Did you ever have a boyfriend?” Gerard asked, dreading that Frank would say yes.

He more felt than saw Frank shake his head on the pillow next to him.

“How... how do you think that would be?”

“Nice,” Frank said, turning his head. Gerard could feel his gaze on him in the darkness. “I think it would be really nice.”

*-*

Gerard must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he woke up next it was light outside – the kind of gray, cold autumn light that promised a rainy, cloudy day.

Next to him, Frank was snoring softly into Gerard's pillow, curled in on himself, his mouth slightly parted. His eyes were moving behind his closed eyelids – he was dreaming. They weren't touching, but Frank was still lying so close that Gerard could feel the heat coming off his body. His fingers were twitching a bit in his sleep where his right hand was lying on the bed sheets between them.

Gerard tore his gaze away with some effort and looked at the alarm clock on his night stand. 8;31 – way too early for a Saturday morning. He tried to get back to sleep, but Frank's presence unnerved him. He was constantly opening his eyes to watch his sleeping face and his fingers itched to reach out and smooth the frown off his brow. The soft skin visible between the waistband of his jeans and his ridden-up t-shirt was calling for him to touch. He couldn't quite believe that Frank was in his bed, lying next to him.

Carefully, Gerard pushed himself up and climbed over Frank, managing to not wake him in the process, which was short of a miracle. Maybe Frank was just that deep a sleeper. He didn't expect anyone to be up at this time of day, not even his mother, but he found Mikey sitting at the kitchen table, already nursing a cup of coffee.

“Morning,” Gerard said, tiredly rubbing his eyes. “You're up early.”

Mikey shrugged. “Couldn't really sleep,” he said, his eyes curious on Gerard.

Gerard evaded his gaze and walked over to the coffee machine, pouring himself a cup before adding about 3 spoonfuls of sugar and a generous amount of cream. When he turned back towards the table, Mikey was still looking at him.

“What?” Gerard asked, a bit annoyed, sitting down on the table across from Mikey. The first taste of coffee was heaven. He could almost forget that Frank was sleeping downstairs in his bed. He could almost forget that everything in his body wanted him to go back down there, crawl back into bed and wake him up with a couple of well-placed touches and damn the consequences.

“I finally figured it out,” Mikey said, taking a sip from his coffee, looking over the rim of his cup at Gerard.

“What?” Gerard repeated. His brain wasn't working yet, and Mikey speaking in riddles didn't help.

“What's wrong with you,” Mikey said pointedly, putting his cup down, before leaning forward, almost conspiratorially. “It's Frank.”

Gerard, who really hadn't seen that one coming, choked on his coffee and spluttered. “What do you mean?”

“Oh c'mon, G,” Mikey said, rolling his eyes, “Seriously, I'm kind of disappointed in myself, because it's so glaringly obvious and it took me so long to figure it out. You were practically inseparable and now you’re suddenly barely speaking. And you're both staring when nobody thinks you're looking.”

“I don't know what-” Gerard started, his voice a bit uneven, but Mikey cut him off with a snort.

“Oh please. You're twitchy and horrible and doodle tiny Franks in all possible mutations – don't think we don't notice. And he's talking about nothing else but you. All the fucking time. It's always G this and G that. If I didn't know you forever, I could start to think you really were as awesome as he makes you out to be.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Gerard said, knowing he was lobster-red in the face. Mikey, on the other hand, was grinning as if he had won the jackpot.

“So,” Mikey said, leaning over the table, “what is it?” He was doing a weird thing with his eyebrows that was probably supposed to be a conspiratory wiggle, but turned out to look ridiculous.

Gerard plunked his face down hard on the table, groaning into his arms. “I hate my life,” he said melodramatically.

“Hmph,” Mikey said, sounding disappointed. “I was pretty much counting on you having a hump day last night and being annoyingly chipper today. Didn't Frank sleep in your room?”

“Shut up,” Gerard moaned, embarrassed, “nothing happened.”

“Man, you're such a fucking loser,” Mikey said. Something hit Gerard in the head and he looked up to see that Mikey had tossed him a pack of cigarettes. With a sigh, Gerard straightened and lit one, trying to shake his hair into his eyes so he could cover his burning face.

“It's difficult,” he finally said, blowing out a line of smoke. “I mean, he's a guy. I'm not -” he caught himself, “I didn't think I was... gay.”

It sounded strange to say it out loud, but at the same time it felt... good. Yeah, he could say it in front of Mikey. He looked up to see his brother look back at him, a sympathetic expression on his face.

“Yeah. No big surprise here. You know that Lindsey gave up on you about one and a half years ago?”

“She did?” Gerard asked, seriously surprised.

“Jesus,” Mikey groaned, shaking his head. “Whatever.” He drained his cup before walking towards the coffee machine to pour another.

“So, you and Frank – is that going somewhere?” he asked over his shoulder, measuring out a spoonful of sugar. Coffee addiction was truly something that ran in the Way family.

“I dunno,” Gerard said honestly. “It's a bit of a mess,” he admitted.

Mikey turned and raised his eyebrows, but didn't ask. He sat down again, still not saying anything. Gerard smoked his cigarette in silence, staring at the table top in front of him.

“Did the others stay for long last night?” he finally asked.

Mikey shook his head. “After your stormy exit we really weren't that talkative anymore. Ray left soon after you went downstairs and Lindsey is still sleeping on the couch in the living room. You kill every mood, G, even a bad one.”

Gerard stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and pushed it away from himself, leaning back in his seat. “You know, I knew this day would come, but I really didn't expect Brian back so soon. I guess I kind of blocked out the reality of having to close at some point.”

“It's called living on borrowed time,” Mikey said wisely. Gerard rolled his eyes and tossed his pack of cigarettes back at him, hitting him square in the face. His aim was just as good as Mikey’s.

“Ow, you asshole,” Mikey complained, rubbing his face and glaring.

“I will miss screening movies,” Gerard sighed, pushing his fingers into his sleep-tousled hair, tugging at the strands and scratching at his itching scalp.

“I will miss the free candy. And the Pac-Man machine. And seeing films for free, even the shitty ones.”

“Do you think that if they tear it down, we can take some stuff with us?” Gerard asked.

“You mean like seats and movie posters?”

“Yeah. Also, what do you think will happen with the film archive? Brian should give it to the Library of Congress – they have an A/V conservation center. At least like that, Hank's collection won't get lost.”

“You should suggest that to Brian,” Mikey said, then looked over Gerard's shoulder and smiled. “Morning, Frankenstein.”

Gerard twisted around in his seat to find Frank in the doorway, his hair in disarray and standing up in every direction, looking rumpled overall. There was a pillow crease on his cheek like a scar. He was rubbing his eyes tiredly, blinking blearily at them.

“Nghmph,” Frank greeted them in what was supposedly meant to mean “Morning.”

He yawned and stepped into the room. “What time is it?” he asked, sounding a bit more coherent.

“About 9, I guess,” Mikey said, and Frank's eyes budged comically. “Shit! My Mom's gonna be so pissed when she comes to wake me up and I'm not at home!”

“You wanna call her?” Gerard suggested, but Frank shook his head frantically. “No, no. Maybe I can sneak in and pretend I just came downstairs.”

Frank had stepped up to the table and was now looking intently at Gerard's cup of coffee, as if he maybe could make it float towards him by using the Force. Gerard reached for it, and Frank made grabby hands, so he pushed the still half-full cup into his hands.

“Thanks,” Frank said once he had taken a huge sip, and pushed the cup back into Gerard's hands. “All right, I gotta run. See you guys later!”

He was out of the door not five seconds later, the kitchen screen door banging shut and startling them both.

”He must really like you – he drank from your cup, he doesn’t even care about your disgusting mouth germs,” Mikey said smugly, smirking.

Gerard regretted that he had no cigarette pack left to toss, so he just scowled at Mikey over the rim of his coffee and held his tongue.

*-*6.

Gerard carefully let the last of the film strip go through the rewinder, before dismounting the reel and carefully placing it back in the can. He couldn't help but feel sorry about how this was probably the last film he would work on for quite some time. Certainly the last time in Hank's workroom. Sighing, he closed the film can, then started to stow away the equipment - splicer, cotton swabs, scissors, A-D strips, tape, – putting it back in the labeled boxes. He took a last look around the small, tidy room and killed the light.

In Hank's office, Bob was sitting behind the desk, sorting through some papers. He looked up when Gerard stepped into the room and smiled reluctantly.

“Hey, Gerard,” he greeted him. He was looking a bit tired, the last weeks of hard work finally catching up with him. And nobody had worked as hard as Bob. Gerard couldn’t remember a day when Bob hadn’t been in here long before everyone else and every Friday, like clockwork, Bob had presented them with a screening schedule for the week ahead. On top of his regular work and all the repair work he did on movies, he had had to fill in for Hank as well, making calls to distributors and copyright holders, paying bills, arranging for films that were about to be collected, taking over food deliveries and organizing for the cleaning company to come in three times a week.

“It's good that you're here,” Bob continued, pushing himself up from Hank’s creaky leather chair. “I found something I oughta give you.”

Curiously, Gerard watched him rummage around on his desk, until he had apparently found what he was looking for.

“Here,” Bob finally said, pushing a colorful brochure into Gerard's free hand.

“What is it?” Gerard asked automatically, staring down at the brochure and the post-it stuck on it. The post-it note had a name and telephone number written on it in Hank's old-fashioned and barely legible handwriting.

“I don't think Hank ever had the chance to talk to you about it, but I'm sure he wanted you to have Professor Benson's contact,” Bob said, pointing at the papers Gerard was holding.

Gerard shook his head, confused. “Who's Professor Benson?” he asked. He had never before in his life heard the name.

“Benson used to consult Hank – they are old friends. I talked to him at the funeral. He's a professor at TISCH,” Bob explained. “He teaches classes on film preservation. Hank thought you should give him a call. Apply for school there. I found this folder in a pile on Hank's desk when I was going through it earlier and I remembered that he mentioned it to me a while ago. He asked my opinion. I said I thought this might be right up your alley.”

Gerard opened the folder, skimming over its contents briefly. “Cinema studies?” he finally asked, looking up at Bob, who nodded.

“Yeah, but not only theory; they have practical courses on film preservation, film storage, museum studies, all that shit. They work together with several archives and you have the possibility to intern in some fields.”

Gerard stared down at the brochure in his hands. “Thank you,” he said, stunned. His throat was closing up; he didn’t know what to say. That Hank had given so much thought to Gerard’s future floored him.

When he finally looked up, tearing his eyes away, Bob had retreated behind his desk, his hands resting on the cracked wooden surface as if he was still making up his mind whether to keep standing or sit down again.

“What about you?” Gerard asked. “What will you do?”

Bob shrugged. “College is not for me,” he admitted. “I guess I'm just gonna find another job as a projectionist in the area.” He grimaced. “Even if that means working in a soulless multiplex running from one platter to the next.”

“I hope you find something more interesting than that,” Gerard offered, but Bob just shrugged again. “One thing or another will work out,” he said, sounding nonchalant. Gerard didn't really buy the indifference Bob displayed, but he didn't want to call him on it. If Bob wanted him to think he didn't care, Gerard wasn't going to make him uncomfortable by indicating that he knew it wasn't so.

Bob seemed to sense Gerard's skepticism about his words and changed the subject, pointedly looking at the can Gerard was carrying. “Is this the rest of the Peanut movie?”

When Gerard nodded, Bob pointed at the desk. “Leave it here – I'll take it back into storage later.”

Gerard deposited the can carefully on the edge of Hank's desk. “Thanks for giving me the brochure and Professor Benson's number.”

“It's really no problem,” Bob said, sitting down again. “I have to admit, I would have totally forgotten about it if I hadn't found it earlier by accident. You should definitely give Benson a call. I'm pretty sure Hank already talked to him about you.”

“Hank talked to Benson about me?!” Gerard asked, feeling totally thrown for a moment.

Bob smirked. “Gerard,” he said, “Hank really thought highly of you. He wouldn't have given you film preservation work otherwise. You really think he's been handing over precious films to just anyone, especially a 17-year-old? Fuck, but you're an idiot.”

He laughed, and Gerard's face burnt with both confusion and pride. He felt overwhelmed. Wow. Just wow.

“Anyway,” Bob said, his hilarity ebbing away slowly, his eyes still amused, “call him.”

“I will,” Gerard promised. He excused himself then, having to take a deep breath and sit down somewhere, leaving Bob alone to sort through the rest of the papers he had been going through.

He stepped out into the lounge and dropped into the first booth, kind of exhausted. The brochure in his jeans pocket dug painfully into his hip. He took out his pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his leather jacket – it really was starting to disintegrate in some places, because the pocket had a hole that was almost big enough for the cigarettes to drop through – and lit a cigarette, while looking around the room.

In a booth across the lounge, Brian was sitting bent over a colorful array of folders that held their accounting information. Occasionally, he typed something into a huge calculator, before making a face and burying in the accounts again.

Gerard slid deeper into the red leather booth, blowing the smoke slowly up towards the ceiling. He fantasized about what school could be like, the kind of school Bob had described, where you learnt all kinds of cool stuff about movies. He could drive to New York every day or live on campus, and he imagined sitting in a large auditorium with other students, listening to something he was really interested in. There would be a library and a huge film archive, and he could watch all the movies he wanted. He thought about all the different kinds of equipment he could learn to work with, from ancient projectors to state-of-the-art. He would be taught the newest laboratory technology to preserve film. Maybe he could learn everything necessary to work for an archive. Or the Museum of the Moving Image. God, he would love to work for the Museum of the Moving Image.

He was ripped from his daydream by Lindsey, who flopped down in the booth across from him.

“Way,” she said, snatching his pack of cigarettes from the table and lighting one, “we gotta talk.”

This didn't bode well. He hated it when Lindsey wanted “to talk”. It usually meant she had something to discuss with him that he didn't want to talk about.

“I was just in such a good mood for the first time in what feels like weeks,” Gerard complained. “Why must you come and ruin it?”

“Because,” she said, blowing out a perfect row of smoke rings, making Gerard wonder where the hell she had learned that, “I'm your conscience.”

She ignored the way he rolled his eyes, and took another drag of her cigarette. “And as your conscience, I have to interfere to stop a ghastly crime on humanity.”

“You're being a bit overly dramatic, don't you think?”

She grinned and pulled her legs up, wrapping an arm around her knees. “I've spent over an hour today trying to talk Frank out of getting the most horrible tattoo anyone has ever designed. I'm allowed to be dramatic.”

“And this is my fault why?” Gerard asked, not attempting to hide the annoyance in his voice.

“Because I've told him to come to you and have you design something for him, so he won’t look like he’s done hard time or joined the Merchant Marine. And you know what?” She leaned forward, practically spitting the last words into his face. “He said he doesn't want to bother you.”

Gerard tried to keep his face neutral when he replied. “So what? Maybe he doesn't like my drawings?”

The look Lindsey gave him would have stopped his heart if she had had any magical powers.

“Please,” she snorted. “G, I know there's something fishy going on between you, but he's determined to go get his fucking tattoo on his 18th birthday, and we just can't let that happen. You should have seen the designs he brought. He didn't like a single one of them, but he's just a stubborn little bitch.”

She paused to take a drag from her cigarette, before letting her voice drop, only to say in an exaggerated imitation of Frank's most whiny tone, “But I've wanted one ever since I was fifteen.”

Gerard, who had been biting his lips hard through her little speech and reenactment, dropped his half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. “Why should I care if he gets an awful tattoo?” he asked petulantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

She gave him another hard look, her eyebrows raised as if she wanted to tell him, You figure it out.

“No! What?” Gerard spluttered at the implication, but Lindsay just smirked and slowly got up from the table.

“You're going to draw him something, GWay,” she said, making it sound like an order he couldn't refuse. “Left upper arm, here.” She indicated the area on her own arm, then patted his shoulder and left.

*-*

Gerard hadn't stopped thinking about what would happen to Hank's film collection. If Brian sold the building, the chance that anyone would reopen it as a movie theater seemed relatively small. Gerard thought that Mikey might not be too far off with the fear that the Belleville Film Palace might turn into a nightclub – the surrounding area had kind of gone downhill for the last couple of years.

He remembered how Hank had called the archive his “treasure” when he had first shown it to him. To Gerard, walking downstairs and seeing the stacks and stacks of cans in neat rows, each extensively labeled, had been one of the most interesting experiences of his life. Who would have thought that behind the shabby exterior the cellar of the Belleville Film Theater would hold such cultural wealth?

He was sure that most collections weren't as neatly organized as Hank's, whose labeling system was a complicated language of its own. Each can was marked with title, year (if known), approximate length, reel number and reel total, film material and a system that indicated the condition the movie was in. For all the chaos in Hank's office, you would have thought the collection had been organized by another person. You couldn't let it go to waste.

Gerard wasn't sure if Brian knew how important Hank's collection was, but he was determined to ensure that Brian did the right thing with it. He was convinced that the right thing would be to hand over the collection to an archive with better conservation and restoration equipment. Some of the cans held films from the early 40s and these especially had to be taken care of.

When he finally made up his mind to talk to Brian in private and went to Hank’s office to get his worries off his chest, he found that someone else had beaten him to the game.

“I'm really not sure you understand the potential you have at hand here,” Gerard heard Bob say, his voice coming loud and clear through the half-cracked door to the office.

“I've seen the books – just because you've had a couple of semi-good weeks doesn't mean it's going to pay off in the long term,” Brian answered.

They sounded so serious that Gerard stopped outside the door, hesitating to knock. He wasn't sure if he should interrupt them right now.

“Look,” Bob said and rustled with some papers, “if small movie theaters want to survive nowadays, they need another concept. We just can't keep up with the multiplexes. Maybe it's actually a good thing that we can't.”

Brian heaved a sigh and Bob hastened to add, “I truly believe that small movie theaters should specialize. This spontaneous idea – screening horror movies – look how it turned out? It was just a little thing born out of boredom, but it really hit a nerve. We have 40 years worth of horror and sci-fi in our collection, and there's a lot of new sci-fi and horror movies coming out every year. This could actually be a thing – there's an audience for these kind of movies and you can reach them easily. We kind of expand the experience, you know? The first and only Sci-Fi and Horror Movie Theater.”

“It really sounds nice on paper, Bob,” Brian said when Bob had finished rambling, “but you would actually have to update the equipment. Those new movies you're talking about, most of them already use THX.”

Gerard huffed a quiet sigh, his hand still extended towards the doorknob. He didn't want to interrupt, but he didn't want to leave either, so he stayed where he was, feeling a bit uncomfortable eavesdropping on what was obviously a very important conversation.

Bob was silent for a bit, rustling with more paper. “Eventually, yes,” he admitted, “but you know, your uncle was always reluctant about certain things. Take movie advertisement for example. We both know it was just because he was fucking stubborn. It's a wonder he made it this far and didn't have to close.”

“So movie advertisement and... sponsors?” Brian asked.

“You are a tour manager, you know how tours only work with sponsoring these days? Theaters have private sponsors, why not movie theaters?”

“You really thought a lot about this,” Brian admitted, sounding reluctantly impressed, leafing nosily through some papers.

Inside the room, it was silent for a while and Gerard waited with bated breath, still standing outside the door, hoping that no one would pass by right now, because it was so obvious he was listening in to a conversation he had no right to hear.

“This sounds really good, Bob,” Brian said after a while, “but you got to understand me, too – 9 years ago when my father died, I painfully detached myself from this place here. Hank wanted me as a junior partner to fill my father's shoes. I couldn't, I had my reasons. We had a huge fight and I left and I promised myself that I would never come back. - I can't betray myself. Can you understand that?”

“Yeah, but-”

“I appreciate how you've been giving this so much thought, but I can't -”

“Can't or won't?” Bob interrupted him, his tone sharp all of a sudden.

“Bob-”

“You won't even think about it! You have your preconceived notions about how you would be untrue to your younger self and-”

“I really think you're getting a bit emotional now!”

“I think it's you who's being emotional, still hanging on to your teenage rebellion!”

“This is business. I'm just being realistic!”

“You're being stubborn, just like Hank!”

Their voices had grown louder and louder and Gerard was still standing outside the door, wincing when he heard that the conversation was getting out of hand.

“This is pointless,” Brian’s voice boomed, “I don't wanna discuss it anymore. We're closing and I'm selling it.”

“Well, good fucking luck then finding someone who's going to take the place off your hands!” Bob growled, and then the door flew open, and Gerard jumped back, hastily getting out of Bob's way. Bob didn't even see him, he was so furious.

“Bob, listen-” Brian nearly ran into Gerard as he stepped out of the office, then stopped helplessly, looking after Bob who stormed off without turning around even once.

Brian heaved a sigh and ran his fingers through his tussled hair, before turning to regard Gerard.

“What do you want?” he asked suspiciously.

Gerard swallowed reflexively and considered telling him he had just been walking by when Bob stormed out, but Brian was looking at him with narrowed eyes and he really, really would have felt bad lying.

“I actually came to talk to you about the film collection, but-”

Brian's jaw worked comically from left to right, and the look he gave Gerard shut him up.

“Everybody's an expert these days,” Brian said dryly, then pushed the door open, indicating Gerard to step into the office ahead of him. Behind them, Brian closed the door before flopping down in the soft, stained armchair, not offering Gerard a seat.

“Spill,” he said impatiently, crossing his arms over his chest and looking up at Gerard.

Nervously, Gerard looked around, wondering if he should sit down as well or just stay where he was, standing in the middle of the room.

“Uh – I was thinking, if you're going to sell the movie theater, you should consider giving the film collection to an archive that can take good care of it. There's amazing films down there, amazing, really!” Gerard said, gesturing with his hands for emphasis.

Brian just stared at him blankly, but didn't reply immediately, looking thoughtful.

“It should really go to someone who knows what to do with it. Maybe the A/V center of the Library of Congress? Just saying, if you sell the Belleville. Which, uhm, of course you shouldn't do – sell it, you know?”

“Have you been listening earlier when I talked to Bob?”

Gerard blushed, but didn't see any reason in denying his eavesdropping, so he nodded.

Brian snorted a laugh and ran another hand through his disheveled hair. “Dude, you kids, seriously.”

“I think Bob's idea is fucking great,” Gerard said, emboldened by Brian's amusement. When Brian didn't answer, just looked at him, he continued, “He has been working his fucking ass off ever since your uncle died. You know he did a fucking good job, don't you? You should give him a fucking chance.”

Brian sighed and dropped his head back against the backrest, looking up the ceiling. “I can't, Gerard. I have a fucking life out there. I love touring, I love my job. I wouldn't trade it for anything else in the world. I certainly won't trade it for this.” He made a gesture, encompassing the whole room. “I’d go nuts staying in one place after 9 years on the road.”

“Who said you had to stay? It was going pretty great without you around for the last couple of weeks. Just leave it to Bob.” The words came out of nowhere, a bit impertinent, and Gerard bit his tongue, wondering what had given him the courage to spell it out like that, but Brian didn't berate him, just contemplated him, a tiny crease forming between his brows.

“Thanks for your suggestion about the archive,” Brian finally said, seemingly changing the subject back to where they had begun. “Don’t worry. I will look into it, all right?”

Gerard nodded, fidgeting in his spot on the carpet. He felt like he was being dismissed, but there was one more thing on his mind.

“Why did you leave after your father died? Did you really hate it so much here?” He wasn't sure how you could hate the Belleville Film Palace – how was it possible for someone to hate it when Gerard loved it so much?

Brian, who had gotten up from his armchair, turned back to Gerard, a look of mild surprise on his face.

“You've really been listening,” he said with a small smirk. He was silent for a short while, staring at a magazine lying open on the desk, before raising his eyes to Gerard's face. “Because I couldn't stand this town anymore, Gerard. That's the truth. It wasn't Hank, it wasn't the movie theater, it was this small fucking town. I spent my childhood here and I took the first chance to get out of Jersey.”

Brian turned around, leaning his hip against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “I felt like I had to get out of here, find a place that was less judgmental, less threatening, you know? I couldn't imagine living my life here, feeling repressed and having to be someone I’m not.”

“... Did you find it?” Gerard asked.

Brian shrugged. “Not really.” He looked curiously at Gerard, then grinned. “You'll find jerks everywhere. It's like they say – High School never really fucking ends. But things get easier to deal with. You grow balls.”

“That's good to know,” Gerard said, biting his lip, still contemplating Brian.

“Yeah,” Brian said softly, still smiling. “Now get out of here. I got tons of things to do and you people making pleading cases for the movie theater isn’t really helping!”

He waved his hands as if he wanted to shush Gerard out of the room, and reluctantly, Gerard complied.

*-*

“He's miserable.”

Gerard looked up from his poster, poising his brush in mid-air. “Hmm?”

Mikey lifted his chin vaguely in the direction to the far right of Gerard.

“Frank,” Mikey said pointedly, “he's miserable.”

Gerard wondered if he could pretend that he hadn't heard Mikey over the loud music that was playing. He knew Frank was there. He knew Frank was sitting in the far corner of a booth as far away as possible from where Mikey and Gerard were hand-coloring the posters Gerard had created for the window displays, cleaning the marquee letters with soapy water and an old dishrag. He could feel him as if he was standing right behind him.

He decided not to say anything to Mikey's observation, but yes, Frank wasn't his usual cheerful, crazy self, but much more subdued, less energized, maybe even a bit mopey. Certainly not how Gerard himself got mopey, because hey, Gerard was the master of moping - nobody sang the blues like Gerard - but it was noticeable. Gerard chanced a look over his shoulder, watching Frank listlessly rub at the grime that had eaten into the plastic letters over the last couple of weeks. Bob had demanded the letters to be cleaned for the great finale on Wednesday.

Gerard turned back towards the table and dipped his brush once more into the watercolors, ignoring the way Mikey looked at him like he thought he was a fucking big idiot.

He colored in the last letter, then carefully lifted the poster and set it aside to dry before reaching for the next one. When he glanced over at Mikey, his brother was still watching him, eyes narrowed, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Seriously, Gerard, he misses you. Remember when I told you he couldn't shut up about you? Now he rarely mentions you and when I say something, he has this sad look on his face. I mean, what really happened? You were joined at the hip and now it's just complete -” Mikey paused and waved his hand, obviously searching for the right words, “radio silence.”

When Gerard still didn't say anything, Mikey fixed him with a glare. “You're really bad at pretending you don't care.”

“I'm not – I – I do care,” Gerard defended himself, frustrated.

“What is it then? Are you afraid he will tell you to fuck off?”

Gerard glanced briefly at Frank, concerned that Mikey's words would travel over the sound of The Cure, but Frank had just finished cleaning the letters and was placing them back into their cardboard box and not looking in their direction.

“I was a jerk to him, okay? I don't know how to apologize,” he said, hushed.

“But you were talking the other night! He slept in your fucking bed! You should have just told him you're sorry and then had your way with him,” Mikey said, not bothering to lower his voice, “It's really not that fucking difficult. You tell him you're sorry, he's going to -” He interrupted himself as Frank walked past them, only to continue just as loudly once he deemed Frank far enough away, “- he's going to accept your apology and then you're gonna make up and make out. The End.”

Gerard groaned and pushed his hands into his hair, tugging on the strands. “You make it sound so fucking easy!”

“Because it is.” Mikey picked up his own brush again, carelessly dipping it first in the glass of mud-colored water, then into his set of watercolors. He swirled the brush around almost violently, dipping it consecutively into three different shades of blue.

“You don't understand. If I do this, nothing's ever gonna be the same again! My life's not going to be the same again!”

“Just because you say you're sorry?” Mikey said doubtfully. Blue color was dropping from his brush onto the paper, but Gerard was too agitated to point it out.

“It's not about saying sorry. I guess he knows I'm sorry.” Gerard threw his hands up in frustration. “I can't go back to being friends with him, because I guess we never were. And if I go ahead, I have to do it right, okay? I can't do this to him again. If I go ahead, then I'll have a fucking boyfriend and – and - ... that's a big thing, Mikey!”

“Yeah, so what, you'll come out in 2 or 3 years eventually. You think you can just make the gay go away?”

Gerard snorted and looked at Mikey incredulously. Make the gay go away? Only Mikey would say such shit.

“You will always feel sorry, idiot,” Mikey said dryly. “You'll always say 'Oh shit, why didn't I date that Frank guy. He was great. Oh, right, I remember, it was because I was too much of a fucking pansy.'”

“I know!” Gerard groaned and sat down heavily on one of the bar stools. He turned his head and looked out the window, where a ladder leaned against the window front. Frank stepped up to it, his letter box in hand. He looked up to where Bob was standing on the ladder, then laughed and bent down, putting the box on the ground, searching through it. He pulled out an M, then lifted his arm and held it up for Bob to take. He was so small, he had to raise himself on his tip toes and stretch hard, and his ratty hoodie rode up in the front, revealing a strip of skin, summer tan already beginning to fade.

“God, he's fucking hot,” Gerard muttered.

“I guess,” Mikey allowed a bit reluctantly.

Gerard ignored him. “Why is he so hot? And awesome. And fucking funny. He's... adorable. Have I mentioned smart? He listens to the right kind of music and he likes horror movies and comic books and he doesn't care what people think. He thinks Star Wars is the best shit, ever! And he's gutsy. He sticks needles through his ear. By himself.”

“Yeah, you're a goner.” Mikey sighed, then stepped around the table and patted Gerard on the back. “You should stop staring now. It's getting creepy.”

“Fuck off,” Gerard moaned, shaking Mikey off.

“Just saying, we have five more posters to color, and we have to finish this before I have to be behind the concession stand. Besides, we have to clean it away before people arrive here.”

“All right, all right,” Gerard agreed, getting up from his seat with a last glance outside the window at where Frank was still talking to Bob, his head craned back, squinting into the late October sun.

He tore his eyes away, stepped up to the table and picked up the brush again. He thought about what Mikey had said while he was filling in the lines of the poster with watercolors. He knew Mikey was right. He didn't want Frank to be the one that he had let slip away. He wasn't so sure anymore if he cared that Frank was a guy, that being with him made him essentially gay. Maybe not being with him didn't change anything about the fact that Gerard was gay.

He had been thinking about what would happen if they were together, too. He had been thinking about it all the time. Whether it would be nice, as Frank had said.

He guessed it would be.

*-*

Gerard found Frank's house again easily. He parked down the road, sitting in the car for 5 minutes, smoking a cigarette, before he had the guts to get out. His fingers clenched tightly around his drawing folder as he walked up the cemented path through the overgrown garden towards Frank's door.

A small, pretty woman with dark-brown hair and very pale skin opened the door, looking at him curiously.

“Uhm... hello, uhmm... Mrs. Iero? - Is... is Frank here?” he stammered.

She tilted her head, giving him a long look from head to toe, before nodding. “Black clothes, handsome. You must be Gerard,” she said not unkindly, smirking a bit when he blushed. She had the same grin as Frank and it transformed her face, making her look about 25 and mischievous. “Come on in.”

She stepped aside, letting him in. The narrow hallway was cluttered with shoes and bags lying haphazardly in the way. Gerard looked around curiously, his eyes flittering over the family pictures in the hallway, some in black and white with funny looking people in strange, stiff clothes, some more recent ones. He recognized Frank's mother in one, together with a man who was probably Frank's father.

“Frank!” she called, turning towards the stairs. “Frank, you have a visitor!”

A door was pushed open in the hallway upstairs, and a second later Frank appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Oh,” he said when he spotted Gerard and he froze, eyes wide.

Gerard felt Frank's Mom look between them, and he pushed himself into motion, bounding up the stairs.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly, when he was standing in front of Frank.

“Hi,” Frank echoed, then, with a look down the stairs, “uhm, come on.” He jerked his head at an open door on the right and led the way. Gerard felt foolish for sprinting up the stairs, maybe Frank hadn't wanted to invite him in.

In front of him, Frank was busy kicking aside clothes and books, his face flushed, embarrassed for once. “Sorry about the mess,” he said, picking up a pair of jeans from the floor and flinging them over the back of a chair.

Gerard shrugged and looked around, while Frank went to close the door.

The walls were full of horror film and music posters, reflecting Frank’s taste. In-between the posters, the rest of a faded Winnie the Pooh wallpaper poked out. Two bookshelves were crammed with paperbacks, several book stacks were distributed over the floor like an obstacle course. Frank had a lot of sci-fi books, Gerard noted, as well as a couple of Stephen King novels. One large shelf held a record player and a good-sized vinyl collection. A white electric guitar with a Dead Kennedys sticker leant against a Marshall amp. On a shelf were several toys – a Transformer, a Millennium Falcon as well as some Star Wars action figures (a Chewbacca, a Han Solo, an R2D2) and a couple of Lego Technic vehicles. A rather lopsided blue toy puppy with large ears and incredibly sad eyes sat in the middle of the bed.

When Gerard turned around to face Frank again, Frank was still standing by the door, fidgeting.

“You could have told me you wanted to stop by,” he said accusingly.

“Sorry,” Gerard said, sitting down gingerly on the edge of the bed. “I brought you something. It couldn't wait.”

Frank's anxious expression melted off his face and he stepped away from the door, crossed the room and sat down next to Gerard on the bed, looking at him expectantly.

Gerard opened his folder on his knees, taking out the Frankenstein drawing and taking a last, calculating look at it, before placing it in Frank's lap. “You were asking me once whether I would draw you a tattoo. And I know you wanted to get one done on your birthday, so...,” he said. His voice was shaking, he was so nervous.

Frank was silent for a long while, staring down at Gerard's drawing, his finger following the inked lines, tracing it. Gerard bit his lip, watching the side of Frank's face, trying to catch his expression despite the hair hanging into Frank's eyes.

He shouldn't have worried, because Frank looked up, smiling.

“Best thing ever,” he said, sounding touched, and Gerard found himself in a hug, his face pressed into Frank's shoulder, Frank's arms on his back.

“Thank you,” Frank whispered into his neck before drawing back.

“This will look fucking great on my arm,” he said, looking at Gerard in a way that made him wonder if Frank was going to hug him again. He was a bit red in the face, his eyes sparkling.

Gerard felt like telling him that everything would look fucking good on him, but he held his tongue, basking in Frank's joy.

“Will you go with me, tomorrow, when I have it done?” Frank asked. “Hold my hand, or something?” He laughed, sounding a bit abashed.

Gerard swallowed. “Uhm... do you think it would help you if I waited outside?”

“Are you going to faint when you see needles?” Frank asked, teasing him, and laughed when Gerard grimaced.

They fell silent, Gerard staring down at his hands, Frank studying the drawing some more. Gerard took a deep breath. If he was ever going to say anything, he should do it now.

“I'm sorry I freaked out at you that day when Ray walked in on us. I'm sorry about what I said,” Gerard finally said, looking up.

Frank glanced up again, his gaze steady, looking a bit surprised. He took a deep breath, before letting it out slowly, audibly. “Gerard - , “ he started, then trailed off again. “Gerard. I understand, really, I do. I wish you'd think differently, but ... I feel like I should respect that you don't want this. If you don't feel the way I do, that's fine. I'll just have to accept that. I'm sorry I misunderstood your friendship for something else. I won't be throwing myself at you anymore, I promise. And I really feel bad for yelling at you.”

He had gotten louder and his face was pretty red, but he looked kind of sad. He was apologizing, and it totally threw Gerard off, because it was him who ought to be apologizing for stringing Frank along and pushing him away and being overall a pain in the ass.

While Gerard was still trying to catch on and find appropriate words, Frank kept on talking.

“I just couldn't help it – I really thought you felt the same. I mean, I totally had a crush on you from the very first moment on.” Frank shrugged, embarrassed.

Wait. Frank had liked him from the first time they had met?

“This is awkward, right?” Frank asked, looking at Gerard, his face flushed, the tips of his ears red. “Seriously, I just want us to stay friends, because, I really, really like you and I would hate it if we didn't talk anymore just because I ruined it with-”

He made a hmph sound when Gerard leaned forward and kissed him.

It didn't last long, because Frank grabbed both his arms, shoving him back forcefully and holding him at arm's length. “What the hell?” he asked, his eyes a bit wide. “Are you fucking with me?” His voice broke, then rose in cadence. “Do you get off on fucking with my fucking head? Because that shit's not cool!”

“I don't wanna be friends,” Gerard heard himself say, and yeah. No. He really, really didn't.

Frank was staring at him as if he had grown a second head. And tentacles.

“Fuck, Gerard, you really got to make up your mind, because I don't want to do this again. It's messing me up. Because seriously, I'd rather we'd stop doing that shit and I can go on with my life, you know?” He was agitated now, had moved back, his hands flailing as he talked.

Gerard winced. “I know, I know. I'm sorry.” He reached out, hand landing on Frank's knee. Frank lowered his gaze, staring to where Gerard's fingers were resting on his leg.

“Will you give me another chance? To do it right, I mean,” he asked, and Frank looked up again and huffed a sigh, sounding partly annoyed, partly frustrated.

“What do you mean, right?” he asked cautiously.

Gerard shrugged, embarrassed. “For example, if we could go back to that night on the roof and I don't freak out and storm off afterwards. You took me by surprise,” he admitted. “I didn't even realize I wanted that, okay?”

Frank bit his lip as if he was considering Gerard’s words, before he suddenly giggled, high and unprovoked, as if something had just occurred to him. “Yeah, you kind of wanted to get out of there so bad, you totally stormed off with my come on your face, loser.”

Gerard made a face, but smiled. “Shut up.”

“It was hot. Apart from the storming off part,” Frank offered, still grinning.

“I was baked,” Gerard explained, feeling his spirits lift. Frank’s earlier exasperated outburst was over – he suddenly seemed to be in a teasing mood. Gerard didn’t want to risk destroying that, so he played along. “Baked and confused.”

“Dazed and confused,” Frank said smartly, causing Gerard to roll his eyes. “What? There's a Led Zep song for every occasion.”

“You defiled me and found it funny, too,” Gerard mock-pouted, and Frank cackled.

“If you had stayed, I would have cleaned you up. With my tongue,” Frank said, sticking out his tongue at Gerard as if to prove a point.

Oh. Oh. Gerard felt his body turn from hot to cold and back to hot all over in a matter of seconds.

“It's your own fault, storming off like that,” Frank continued, apparently not yet realizing that Gerard’s mind was going places.

“With your tongue? Seriously? With your tongue?” Gerard asked like a broken record, and Frank raised his eyebrows, his face splitting into a grin.

“Ohhh...,” he said teasingly and a bit breathlessly, “you'd like that, yes?”

Gerard, whose body was having its very own ideas about the matter, said bravely, “You should stop talking and put that tongue to better use.”

Frank seemed to consider this for moment, before he pushed hard, making Gerard fall back over onto the bed, Gerard's drawing that had still been in Frank's lap, fluttering to the floor.

“Ooph,” Gerard protested as the wind was knocked out of him.

“I take well to challenges,” Frank murmured as he followed Gerard down, straddling him.

“I figured,” Gerard panted, then couldn't say anything more, because Frank was kissing him, pushing his tongue past his lips.

*-*

Later, they were lying on top of Frank's rumpled Batman and Robin sheets, the late October sunlight warming their skin.

“Hey, you haven't run away,” Frank said from somewhere below Gerard's armpit, huffing wetly against his skin. It tickled, but Gerard didn’t squirm away. “Mhmm, and you smell like sex,” Frank moaned happily, before reappearing, his cheek pressed against Gerard's chest. He looked flushed, his hair plastered to his head with sweat.

“Even if I wanted to, your clinging would make that impossible,” Gerard said dryly, referring to Frank's leg lying across his hip, the soft hair on Frank's thighs tickling his skin.

“Tsk,” Frank chided him, his fingers trailing down the thin hair of Gerard's less than impressive happy trail, tugging.

“It's nice having you in my bed,” Frank continued, his fingers trailing back up and toying with one of Gerard's nipples. “You look nice in my bed. I want to keep you here.”

When Frank finally dropped onto his back with a contented sigh, Gerard turned onto his side, supporting his head with his arm. Frank's eyes were closed, the expression on his face utterly relaxed.

Gerard looked at him, his eyes tracing the contours of his face, the small smile tugging at his lips – a bit smug, a lot content – his small nose, the fine lines of his eyebrows, darks lashes resting on his cheeks. He felt a surge of affection and bit his lip hard lest he said something he wasn't ready to admit yet. He remembered Frank's words from earlier, about how he had liked Gerard from “the first moment” and it made him smile.

He skimmed the fingers of his left hand slowly over Frank's naked shoulder where his tattoo was going to be tomorrow, then trailed them over Frank's pectorals, his index finger circling a nipple. He followed a path down the middle of Frank's chest before flattening his hand over Frank's stomach. He loved the way Frank's belly felt under his touch, the contrast of tight muscles and soft, soft skin.

Watching Frank's face, he started to move his flattened palm, stroking softly. Frank's skin was like velvet and the touch was addictive. He was encouraged by the happy noises Frank was making, sighs that turned into small moans the longer Gerard continued. He was amazed that he had this effect on Frank – it felt empowering, and he grew bolder, sliding his fingers lower, down to where he found even softer skin and the beginning of coarse hair.

Frank shuddered happily, then half-opened his eyes, glancing up at Gerard with a lazy grin.

“You're kind of driving me fucking crazy here,” he said a bit breathlessly, looking pointedly down, as if Gerard hadn't noticed his erection bumping against his fingers.

Gerard grinned back, then lowered his head to press a kiss onto Frank's neck. Frank sighed and tilted his head, allowing Gerard better access. He took advantage, gently biting at Frank's warm, slightly sweaty skin, inhaling his scent and lapping underneath his ear, before pressing his tongue against Frank's pulse point, following it downwards.

He painted a path towards Frank's collarbone, then over his chest, bypassing a nipple with a quick bite that had Frank snort out a surprised laugh. Frank's laughter trailed off as Gerard pushed himself lower, licking gently into the dip of Frank's stomach, a bitter, salty taste on his tongue where they had both spilled themselves earlier when they had rubbed off together.

“G, oh God,” Frank whimpered, his stomach hitching underneath the curl of Gerard's tongue. His voice had lost any trace of amusement, hoarse now with anticipation. Gerard wasn't about to disappoint him, but he took his time, tasting and nudging Frank's belly, before finally shifting lower, skimming his hands over Frank's hips. He remembered how Frank had done it to him, twice now, once in the theater, another time in the car before he had driven him home. It had been pleasantly dark every time, but in here, in Frank's room, in the middle of the afternoon, it was bright, so bright he could see the thin, blonde hair on Frank's upper thighs.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eyes – Frank's hand sliding over his sheets, before gripping tightly - and Gerard took this as final encouragement, ducking his head, his hand wrapping around the root of Frank's cock. He licked experimentally, feeling absolutely stupid sitting between Frank's thighs with his head bent over his cock. The little breathless sound that escaped Frank made it all worthwhile, though, and Gerard refused to be embarrassed anymore and slid his mouth over Frank, trying to mimic what Frank had done to him.

“Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Frank hissed, his hips hitching. With his free hand, Gerard pinned him down and Frank moaned, only half-protesting, as if he actually liked being restrained. It was a weird thing to do, sucking someone's cock, and it was messy, so much messier than he had remembered, but oh the noises Frank made! It turned Gerard on so much, the soft groans and whimpers, his occasional curses, and he had every intention to learn quickly what kind of touch or lick elicited what kind of reaction from Frank. Frank's right hand was lying next to his hip, fingers twitching, digging into the sheets, and Gerard reached for it, placing it in his hair, remembering the feel of Frank's soft strands beneath his fingers.

He hadn't expected that he would like it so much, all of it, having Frank's cock in his mouth, feeling the pressure of Frank's hips pressing upward and trying to break free from his grip, Frank's fingers tightening in his hair. He had been hard ever since he had started to trail his fingers over Frank, but now he was aching, and he slid down a bit more, until he could move his hips against the bed, his legs hanging over the end of the bed, grinding his cock into the mattress.

“Fuck, yes. So fucking good,” Frank gasped, and he was laughing, and then, Gerard must have done something spectacular, because Frank cried out, ripping harshly at Gerard's hair, his hips rising up so hard Gerard couldn't restrain him. Moaning, Gerard just allowed Frank to let go and lose it above him, trying to breathe through his nose, catching the worst of Frank's thrusting hips with his arm. He wanted to look up and watch his face as he came, but he was trying to keep up a rhythm and not gag at the same time.

Frank let out a string of curses and encouragements, before his hips came off the bed, his body trembling. He cried out again as he came, something unintelligible, spilling warmly into Gerard's mouth. Frank had swallowed, both times when he had done it to Gerard, so he did too, swallowing reflexively. The taste wasn't really pleasant, a bit like bitter sweat, just a lot like Frank, but Gerard didn’t have the opportunity to think about it, because Frank was hauling him upwards, one hand still tangled in his hair, pressing their mouths together, reaching for his cock.

Gerard's lips parted as he groaned and Frank plundered his mouth, apparently not minding that he must be tasting himself on Gerard's tongue, stroking and tugging at him roughly. It took just a couple of strokes before he too came, his arms giving way as he crashed down hard on Frank's body.

He breathed harshly with his face pressed into Frank's neck, trying his damnedest to catch his breath. When his head had finally stopped spinning, he carefully pushed himself up, looking down at Frank, whose eyes were closed, a toothy grin on his face.

“Hey,” he said, “hey, Frankie.”

Frank lazily opened one eye. “Hnnn?” he said questioningly. He was smiling so hard he looked a bit deranged.

“Are you alright?”

Frank snorted, his laugh vibrating through his body and kind of going over into Gerard's. Wow. Just wow. “Yeah?” he said, and he sounded amused. “Except maybe that you're getting kind of heavy.”

“I'm not heavy,” Gerard protested, but he started to pull away. They both winced a bit, and Gerard flopped down on the thoroughly disgusting sheets.

“And I'm hungry,” Frank added almost as an afterthought. “Hungry and fucked out.”

He looked completely comfortable lying there, his body laid out and naked and fucking sexy. Gerard never wanted to look away. He felt possessive. Frank's body was so totally his. And he was allowed to touch him. Whenever.

“Mhmmm. Food.” Gerard looked at his wristwatch, seeing that it was almost 6. They were both off the duty roster today, but it was the day before Halloween and Gerard wouldn’t want to miss the last days of the Belleville Film Palace. They should definitely get food before going in, or it would be a popcorn-and-coke menu.

“We could ask my Mom to make us an egg-and-avocado sandwich,” Frank suggested lazily, stretching slowly, raising his arms over his head.

“I don't think I could stand to face your Mom right now. She'd totally know,” Gerard said, knowing he sounded panicked.

Frank huffed a laugh and turned his head to look at Gerard, still that crazy, wide, toothy grin on his face. “You really think she doesn't know? You're so cute.”

“Oh my God!” Gerard moaned, pressing his face into the pillow.

“My Mom's not that stupid! She totally sees through that shit.”

“Shut up!” Gerard howled, taking the pillow and hitting Frank square in the face, making him giggle and flail.

*-*

Frank's Mom did indeed make them a sandwich – eggs and avocado for Frank and just eggs for Gerard – and Gerard suffered through the most awkward 20 minutes of his life. They had cleaned up and had gotten dressed, and then they sat at the counter in the Iero kitchen and Gerard stared down at his plate and pretended to be busy with his food, while Frank and his Mom talked about the movie theater and Frank's birthday cake, like nothing at all had happened. At least Gerard now knew where Frank was getting his stoicism from.

It was awful. Even a blind person would have probably guessed what had happened – Frank was practically glowing and in too much of good mood. He had “fucked” written all over his face. Gerard thought that you could probably tell from his own face as well – only his spelled out “fucking mortified”.

He was so fucking glad when they left and eager to get away, that he nearly took out the Ieros' mailbox as he backed out of the driveway, making Frank give him a speculative, amused glance.

“Does sex make you stupid?” Frank asked teasingly, and Gerard flipped him the finger.

They managed to get to the cinema in one piece because Gerard really tried to concentrate on the road, even though it pained him to look ahead when all he wanted to do was grin goofily at Frank in the passenger seat. And maybe feel a bit smug about the kind of contented lolling about Frank was doing, like his body was all loose and comfortable and he didn't have a care in the world.

Gerard parked in his usual spot in the parking lot. They sat there for a moment, listening to the car tick as it cooled down, before Gerard finally pulled out the key. He glanced over at Frank who was looking right back at him, a peculiar expression on his face – Gerard couldn't read him.

“Yeah, so…” Frank started, biting his lip. “Are we … good?”

“Sure,” Gerard said without giving himself a second for hesitation. They hadn’t really talked about how they would go on now. Gerard had thought about it, though, extensively, ever since that night in his basement. It didn’t matter that he was scared as fuck – if he wanted Frank, he would have to deal with all the consequences their relationship brought with it. He was determined to take on a lot of people. There would be times when people would ask him to bring his girlfriend and he would have to stand up and correct them. He would get verbal and maybe physical abuse solely based on his orientation. People would discriminate against him without even wanting to, but because they didn’t know better. It was enormous, but so was his dismay at the thought of being without Frank.

When he turned his head to look over at Frank, he saw Frank smile, a tentative, cautious thing of a smile, and Gerard knew this had been the right answer.

Frank nodded slowly, hesitating a bit. He finally pushed open the car door and got out and Gerard followed. Frank waited by the passenger side until Gerard stepped up to him. Gerard felt like he should say something else, anything, but he didn't know what. Maybe sex did make him stupid, because all he could think about was how damn hot Frank was and how he still looked a bit rumpled, his hair all over the place. He thought about how his fingerprints were all over Frank's body beneath his clothes. How he wanted nothing more than to do it all over again. Fucking hell.

He wasn't sure if his expression changed, but Frank smirked and narrowed his eyes, giving him a heated look before leading the way to the movie theater's front doors.

Gerard fell in step behind him, trying to catch up – Frank was walking fast. He finally managed to catch Frank's hand, and Frank stopped and turned, looking curiously at him, then down at their joined hands, then back at Gerard. He rubbed a finger gently over the back of Gerard's hand, studying his face carefully.

Gerard swallowed, then tightened his grip, and Frank gave him a brilliant smile that was worth every thing. Biting his lip, Gerard took a step forward, then another one, not letting go of Frank's hand, tugging him along. It was a bit strange walking hand in hand with a boy, and Gerard expected any moment now for someone to jump out from behind a corner and start yelling, but nothing of the sort happened. Maybe he was being ridiculous. Maybe he would get used to it.

When they reached the doors, Frank started to loosen his grip, not really pulling away but obviously giving Gerard the option to drop his hand.

Defiantly, Gerard held on more tightly.

*-*
7.

Halloween fell on a Wednesday this year, and Gerard had decided that it was best to skip school. It wasn't so much the Halloween preparations at the Belleville Film Palace that made him decide to stay out of his classes, but rather the fact that he seriously didn't want to leave Frank alone when he got his tattoo. Frank's Mom had actually written Frank a letter of excuse for school, that's how cool she was. Gerard had accompanied Frank to the tattoo parlor and had swallowed down his fear and had gotten inside. He had supervised the tracing of his drawing, had advised on the perfect place on Frank's arm, had even gone into the backroom and watched Frank climb up on the stool and get the drawing transferred, and then, after pressing a brief kiss to Frank's mouth, had legged it outside as quick as possible, Frank's laughter trailing after him.

He had sat outside in his car for the next two and a half hours, smoking one cigarette after another, leafing through a couple of comics and feeling like shit for leaving Frank alone.

He started violently when somebody knocked on the window, making him jump in his seat. It was Frank, grinning widely all over his face, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in the cold – it was fucking freezing outside – in just his t-shirt.

“Look,” he whooped, when Gerard got out of the car, “look.”

There it was, on Frank's upper arm, exactly where he had told Gerard ages ago that he wanted a tattoo, Gerard's Frankenstein drawing.

It was surreal seeing his drawing on Frank's body, and he flushed with pleasure, inspecting it carefully without touching it. The tattoo artist had done a great job – it really looked like his drawing, down to the shading.

“It's great,” he said honestly, laughing when Frank threw himself at him for a hug. He hugged back carefully, trying not to brush against the tattoo.

“We should get back inside,” he observed, slowly letting go off Frank.

“I still have to get it patched up,” Frank said, craning his neck to look down his arm.

“And get dressed. It's much too cold out here,” Gerard said, pulling his own scarf from around his neck and wrapping it resolutely around Frank's neck. It also kind of covered up the impressive hickey that bloomed there.

He took Frank by the arm, steering him back inside. It was like tugging along a hyperactive child; Frank was so chock full of adrenaline that he practically couldn’t stay still. Gerard wondered how he had managed to sit patiently for almost 3 hours to get his tattoo.

Now that the threat of needles wasn't present any longer, Gerard didn't mind so much walking into the back room. He watched as the tattoo artist, a big, burly man with tattoos all over his arms, wiped Frank's arm carefully down with disinfectant, before covering up the tattoo with a large, white patch. The skin around the tattoo looked painfully red and swollen.

“Did it hurt a lot?” Gerard asked, and Frank snorted.

“Fuck, it fucking did!”

“He didn't shed a tear,” the tattoo artist said, holding the patch in place before securing it with band-aids. “Kept laughing, though. I'm glad the lines didn't come out wobbly.”

“He laughed?” Gerard asked, looking disbelievingly between Frank and the tattoo artist. “You laughed?”

Frank just shrugged and grinned. “I have a high tolerance for pain.”

“You crazy fuck,” Gerard breathed, in awe.

“Tell you, he's gonna be in here in about a month, getting another one. I know the type,” the tattoo artist explained, fixing the last band aid. “I hope you got more drawings where that came from.”

“I have a good source for original art,” Frank said cleverly, looking up from his bandaged arm at Gerard and giving him a wink.

*-*

Ray and Lindsey had baked a birthday cake with a lot of support from Ray's Mom. The resulting product was a bit lopsided, but its derelict appearance was heavily improved by the generous amount of chocolate ganache and the artful Misfits logo Lindsey had made out of marzipan.

Frank was still high on adrenaline, beaming so much Gerard feared that his grin would be permanently etched into his face. He was bouncing all over the place and unable to stay still for even just a moment.

“For fuck's sake, will you keep the bandage on now,” Gerard groaned, resolutely taping the patch back into place over Frank's tattoo. “Everyone has seen it three times already.”

Ray chortled. “Who knew you were a fucking mother hen, Way,” he said, watching them with amusement from where he was leaning against the counter.

“I'm not,” Gerard protested hotly, and let Frank's sleeve fall back over his arm. “But it's going to get infected and then his fucking arm is going to fall off and he's going to be fucking sorry.”

“It does look a bit yucky,” Lindsey agreed. She was chewing on a hangnail, looking contemplative. “Is it supposed to be all wet and shit? I mean, it's basically wetting through his shirt. Is that safe?”

“Oh, c'mon,” Frank groaned, rolling his eyes at both of them. “It's fine.”

He was easily distracted by his birthday cake again and took a step forward to where Ray had put it on one of the larger tables in the lounge. Before Lindsey, who was the closest to him at that point, could prevent him, he extended his arm, his fingers swiping through the chocolate ganache. Wide-eyed, Gerard watched him suck his finger into his mouth, licking off the chocolate crème. It made Gerard want to grab his hand and suck on his fucking fingers or something and he blushed hotly and looked away.

“I want cake now,” Frank complained like a petulant child. “Why do we have to wait again?”

“Because we're waiting for Bob,” Mikey said patiently, giving Frank's fingers a hard slap when he reached for the cake again. “Frankie, no!”

“Yeah, where is he anyway?” Lindsey asked, looking around as if Bob could pop up from behind a booth at any moment.

Gerard flopped down on a bar stool, hiding a grin. “Getting something special,” he said, then when everyone was looking at him curiously, he added, trying hard not to sound too pleased, “It's a surprise.”

It had been Bob's idea, something he had only discussed with Gerard, because he needed his drawing talent and “artistic eye”, and they had spent a couple of hours in Hank's office on Sunday going through old photographs and posters, preparing what they deemed was a suitable goodbye to the Belleville Film Palace.

“For me?” Frank asked, grabbing Gerard's arm.

“Not everything is about you, silly,” Gerard mocked, causing Frank to give him a puppyish look.

Ray snorted out laughter. “A bit ridiculous coming from you of all people,” he teased.

“Kiss my ass, To-,” Gerard started, a bit flustered, but was interrupted by the arrival of Bob, which was followed by lots of hollering and demands to tell them what special something he had been fetching.

“What is it?” Lindsey asked, clutching Bob’s arm. “Is it a present?”

“Yeah, Bryar, spill!” Mikey demanded.

Bob looked a bit perplexed, but he fought them off valiantly, loosening the tight grip from Lindsey’s fingers gently. “I'm not telling you, okay? What are you all doing here already, by the way?” he asked, looking around curiously, then glancing down at his wristwatch. “Shouldn't you all be in school? It's only 2 p.m.”

“You really think that we could sit in class today?” Mikey asked, but Bob didn't have a chance to answer, because Frank chose that moment to bound up to him.

“Bob, Bob. I got a tattoo!” he said, still overly excited, ripped off the patch for what was probably the 50th time that day and shoved his arm underneath Bob's nose. Gerard wanted to facepalm in resignation. Or possibly tie Frank's hands behind his back. Now there was a thought.

“Nice,” Bob said, suitably impressed, and Frank took the encouragement as an incentive to climb Bob like a tree, attempting to catch a piggyback ride. “Where's the present, Bryar?” he asked, digging his small fingers into Bob's sides, tickling him. “Where is it? You got it hidden somewhere?”

“Someone get that monkey off my back!” Bob howled, and helpful hands reached out, pulling Frank off him before he could strip-search a very harassed-looking Bob. “Jesus, what is he on?”

“Adrenaline, pain and cake denial.” Gerard reached out, pulling Frank towards him, determined to not let him climb Bob again or have him rip off his band-aid.

“Cake. It's the word of the moment. Can we have cake now?” Frank asked, leaning a bit into Gerard's side, pointy elbow jostling him.

Lindsey heaved a sigh. “Yeah, let's have cake. Sweeten the goodbye, you know.”

Gerard felt a pang. With all the excitement of the last couple of days, with all the positive thrill of the last 24 hours, you could almost forget that they were here today to screen the last couple of movies that would possibly ever be on show in the Belleville Film Palace.

Ray and Mikey were both staring at their feet, Mikey shifting from one foot to the other. Frank, whose face had fallen at Lindsey’s words, turned to glare at her.

“Way to kill the mood,” he said solemnly, all his earlier manic cheer evaporated. “Thanks a bunch, Lyn-Z.”

Lindsey was glaring back at him, her arms crossed in front of his chest. “See if I ever bake you a cake again.”

“Well,” Bob said, clasping his hands together, forcing a smile onto his face, “cake. We got cake. And it's Frank's birthday. What are you guys waiting for! Mikey, get some knives. Lyn-Z, plates. Gerard, candles, lighter. Go!”

*-*

“This is weird,” Mikey said, stopping near the counter on his way through the lounge towards the foyer and the entrance to the ticket booth. A box with change was jammed under his right arm.

“What is?” Gerard asked curiously, twisting around on his bar stool, paper cup in hands. He took another sip from his coke before letting go of the straw he had been chewing on with a slurping sound.

“I just took the change out of the safe for the last time. I counted out the last tickets. I won't be doing this tomorrow.” Mikey paused, looking thoughtful. “It seems unreal.”

“Tell me about it,” Frank said from behind the counter, leaning forward over the worktop. He had changed his soggy t-shirt and allowed Lindsey to re-bandage his arm, but Gerard could tell from watching him that despite his outward appearance and his forced cheerfulness, his arm must be hurting a lot. When he had poured Gerard's coke earlier, his left arm had been shaking so much that he had nearly spilled half of it.

“Know what I'm looking forward to, though?” Lindsey said as she passed with a couple of buckets of fresh popcorn. “That tonight will be the last night I gotta clean this greasy asshole of a popcorn machine.”

Mikey snorted. “Yeah. You know what? I'm gonna help you. For old time's sake.”

“I would, guys -” Frank started, but lifted his arm, pointing towards his shoulder.

“You're not getting anywhere near me with that festering, rotting arm, attention whore,” Lindsey quipped, arranging the fresh popcorn on the display counter. “Come to think of it, is it safe for you to actually handle food?”

Frank glared. “You keep saying that. Maybe I should just man the cash register and leave you to do the rest?” he suggested.

“Guys...” Gerard sighed, shooting them both a look, willing them to shut up. Frank and Lindsey’s bickering was grating on his nerves. They had been unable to stop snapping at each other ever since this afternoon and all through the preparations for tonight’s expected onslaught of potential moviegoers.

“I guess I'm gonna go sell some tickets,” Mikey said, shifting his cashbox and turning for the foyer.

Gerard watched him leave. Frank had come out from behind the counter and was standing close-by, absently brushing his fingers against Gerard's.

“I will miss this,” Frank said, sounding miserable, the fingers of his other hand twisting in the dish towel he had wrapped around his middle. His mouth was tugged down at the corners, and there was a crease on his forehead Gerard didn't like at all.

Gerard ducked his head down, brushing a brief kiss across Frank's mouth, feeling elated when Frank's unhappy expression shifted into a slightly silly grin. Frank blushed and nudged his hip with his own.

“You are disgusting,” a teasing voice said from behind them, and Gerard looked up to see Ray slide onto an empty bar stool.

“Your face is disgusting, Toro,” Frank countered and Ray flipped him the finger, laughing.

They watched as the first moviegoers came in and Frank slid back behind the bar to take orders. A young woman came up to them, a 3-year-old on her hip, another child, a girl, about 5 or 6, hanging onto her hand.

“I heard you're closing,” she said, leaning over the counter, addressing Lindsey.

“Yeah, Lindsey said, sounding a bit hoarse.

“That's such a pity. It's such a nice place. I have good memories of it,” the woman said, shifting her child on her hip.

“That's nice of you to say.” Lindsey looked flustered, her eyes a bit misty, and in passing, Frank brushed a hand across her back. She shot him a grateful smile, before turning back towards her customer.

“When I heard you were closing, I knew I had to come. It's a good idea, with the horror movies. They are a bit small for that,” she pointed at her kids, “but we can see It's the Big Pumpkin,” the woman continued.

Lindsey, who was looking more and more touched by the second, pushed a bag of popcorn over the counter. “Have some popcorn,” she blurted out, then added hastily, “on the house.”

The woman looked aghast for a moment. “No, I couldn't!”

“I insist.”

“You'd better take that popcorn,” Gerard advised, grinning. He and Ray shared a look and watched while Lindsey handed over the popcorn and sold the woman a coke and a bag of M&Ms.

“Are you guys ready?” a voice asked from behind Gerard, and he half-twisted in his seat when a hand was placed on his shoulder, seeing Ray do the same.

Brian was standing behind them, looking solemn in a way that Gerard thought didn’t look fake at all. He had expected for Brian to be excited and pleased that he would get rid of the Belleville Film Palace soon, but the expression on Brian’s face would befit a funeral.

“Ready for the last couple of showings?” Ray asked in return.

“Never,” Gerard said.

*-*

It was dark in the projector room and it smelled like burnt dust and a bit like rubber. Gerard looked through the open shutter down into the auditorium, listening to the hushed noises, the rustling of bags of popcorn and candy wrappers. Almost every seat was taken. It was a sight he wouldn’t mind getting used to, but he knew this was the last time he would ever see the Belleville Film Palace from up here, from this vantage point. It was the last time he would be here, in his projector booth. He stepped away from the shutter and turned around, taking in the room.

Side by side stood the twin projectors, old-fashioned but still fulfilling their duty, practically indestructible. The dirty-green walls, the two shutters (pushed open, so they could hear Bob's speech when he took the stage), the workbench, the rewinder, the empty reels mounted to the wall, the narrow supply cupboard. On the leather bench in the back, Frank was sitting with his legs pulled up, his left arm carefully folded over his knees. He looked a bit tired by now and was doped up on pain killers, because his arm had been trembling so badly for the last couple of hours that he had been barely able to rip off the ticket stubs.

“Is it starting?” he asked softly, and Gerard took another look out the observation port and shook his head.

“Not yet,” he said. He asked himself what was taking Bob so long. Behind him, Frank slid down from the bench and stepped up to him, sliding his right arm around his waist and pressing against his back.

“Are you sad?” Frank asked, pushing up on his tiptoes to place his chin on Gerard's shoulder, his breath ghosting over Gerard's ear.

“Yeah.” Gerard nodded, pushing back a bit at the warm press of Frank's body.

“Would you rather I leave you alone up here?” Frank's voice was small.

“No.” Gerard shook his head and turned around, looking at Frank's face, the way he was biting his lip, looking a bit insecure. It wasn't a good look on him, and fortunately, not one often to be found on his face.

Gerard leaned forward, nuzzling against Frank's neck. He liked that Frank was a bit smaller than him but not by much, just so that he fit easily under Gerard's chin. “I want you here. I always wanted you here,” he said, and against his ear, Frank chortled out a disbelieving laugh.

“Yeah, you’re a sap and also such a bad fucking liar,” he said, amused. “They all warned me – don't step into Gerard's booth, he will end you. And you fucking hated it when I did.”

“You had coffee,” Gerard protested mildly and pulled back.

“You shameless slut,” Frank said, mock-surprised.

Gerard snorted and pressed his forehead against Frank's. Despite everything, despite the fact that the Belleville was closing, he couldn't remember ever feeling so fucking happy. It was a fucking traitorous feeling, but he couldn't help it. He could almost have his peace, because there was Frank now to occupy his time, spend his afternoons (and nights, his mind helpfully supplied) with.

“Bryar is really fucking late,” Frank finally said, pulling back a bit and stepping around Gerard, squeezing in-between the projectors and peering out the shutter.

“Yeah, it's already 7 minutes past schedule,” Gerard agreed. He would rather get his last screening over with. It was like ripping off a band-aid. The projectors were all set up, the reels laid out on the workbench in correct order. All that was still missing was Bob, who had promised to give a little speech about the history of the Belleville Film Palace.

“Either he's throwing up with nerves in the bathroom, or he's sitting in Hank's office, crying,” Frank suggested, leaning so far forward he almost stuck his head out of the observation port. Gerard couldn’t help it; he stepped in behind him, resting his hands on his hips. Now that he had permission to touch him whenever, he seemed to be unable to keep his hands off him.

The audience below was getting a bit restless, and Ray, who was sitting in the front row, guitar by his side, was shifting around in his seat, looking back over his shoulder. Gerard let his eyes travel over the rows and rows of people, but he didn't see Bob nor Brian. He could spot Mikey though, snuggling up to Alicia in the 8th row, and Lindsey, sitting on a corner seat near the exit, slid deep into her seat and scowling.

“I wonder what...” Gerard started, but trailed off when Bob suddenly walked up the aisle, his steps fast. He climbed the little stage area in front of the silk screen easily, then pulled himself up and turned to face them.

Something was wrong.

“Something is wrong,” Frank said. “Why is he smiling? Do you think he's gone insane?”

They shared a confused look, but Gerard could feel his heart beat a bit faster in excitement. Bob’s face had changed from the somber expression he had worn over the last couple of days. In fact, he seemed absolutely chipper, his face flushed, his body language full of energy. He didn't look like a man who was about to say goodbye to his much loved movie theater.

The audience, who had been whispering and shifting around until now, grew silent as everybody glanced up, giving Bob all their attention. Gerard, who was vibrating with tension, reached down, catching Frank's fingers with his.

“I thought I’d come up here to say goodbye,” Bob finally said, and his voice was all shot and hoarse. He cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot, looking at someone standing at the back who Gerard couldn't see.

“I thought I was going to tell you all about the amazing history of this movie theater. I'm happy to tell you that I have just been told that the Belleville Film Palace's history isn't over yet.”

There was confused silent for a moment, then someone in the audience shouted, “Hell, yeah!” and people started clapping, slowly and reluctantly, but gaining strength. On the stage, Bob was beaming.

“I was asked just earlier to take over the Belleville as a manager, and I have accepted. So, really - ”

“Yeah, Bryar!” Ray hooted from his seat in the front, jumping up and pumping his fist in the air, causing people to clap and cheer again.

Next to Gerard, Frank whooped in delight and threw his arms around Gerard's neck, banging his left arm on the projector. “Ow, fuck, ow,” he hissed, but he was giggling, bouncing up and down, jostling Gerard and making it difficult for him to keep his footing. They stumbled around, nearly overbalancing, finally banging into the workbench.

“Guys, you should stop this,” Bob said down on the stage, looking deadly embarrassed, very red in the face. He waited patiently for the people to stop laughing good-naturedly at his embarrassment, before continuing to talk. “What I was going to say is that this isn't the end. It's maybe just a new beginning.”

He paused, looking down at his shoes. “I like to think that Hank Schechter, wherever he is now, is grinning, because even though he's gone, his life achievement is still going strong. We were going to show a little compilation before the last movie, which Gerard Way and me have put together, a small visual memory of the Belleville Film Palace. Ray Toro will accompany it on the guitar.”

During Bob’s speech, Ray had grabbed his guitar and climbed the stage, now sitting down on a rickety chair near the side. He was beaming broadly, looking a bit silly.

“I don't want to keep it from you, so I will stop boring you with my speech,” Bob said, earning some more laughter.

He raised a hand, looking up towards Gerard's projector booth, giving him a sign, and Gerard gently disentangled one of Frank's arms around his neck and stretched for the lights in the auditorium, dimming them slowly, before hitting the motor switch on the first projector.

He knew what was coming, had seen the reel earlier, Bob's little surprise, old pictures from the construction back in the 40s, pictures from Hank's family showing Walter Schechter, his father, who had owned a photography studio before deciding to open the cinema. Pictures of Hank, starting when he was a child, sitting in the auditorium, in a projector booth, behind a Super-8 camera. Together with Ray's soft guitar playing, it was magical.

Gerard shot a sideways glance at Frank, wanting to share a grin, but Frank wasn't looking at the screen but at him instead, biting his lip.

He kissed him then, and Frank made a content sound against his mouth, pressing him back against the lamphouse of the second projector. Gerard opened his mouth, inviting Frank's tongue in, tasting sugar from the candy Frank had eaten earlier and a faint trace of smoke. Frank was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, tugging on it forcefully, biting almost too hard, and Gerard moaned, resisting the sudden urge to just throw him to the floor, climb on top of him and get him off. They were still in the booth, though, and even though they had had a couple of spectacular make-out sessions in here, there was a time and a place, and this was not it.

He couldn't let go of Frank's mouth, though, chasing after his lips whenever he pulled away. He loved how soft and warm they were, loved the flick of his tongue, the noisy breaths Frank huffed out against his skin. He was barely aware that Frank was practically struggling to pull back, until he found himself held at arm's length, Frank’s palm pressed against his chest.

“G,” Frank huffed out, a bit breathless, “I think -”

“If you've kindly finished up there, could you start the movie, please!” Brian's voice boomed up from the auditorium, and Gerard shared a look with Frank, who giggled.

“Fuck,” he hissed, “fuck!” He turned around and stumbled stupidly towards the control panel of the second projector. This had never happened before. He had never missed the beginning of a movie. He certainly had never missed a changeover before, but there it was, the short strip of film that held the compilation Bob had assembled flapping on projector one, the screen blank.

He hit the motor switch and the lamp switches, then triggered the changeover button, slumping back against the wall once the projector was running, counting down the numbers on the screen.

“Fuck,” he said again, looking across the room at Frank, who was looking way too amused.

With a sigh, Gerard walked back towards projector one, dismounting the take-up-reel with the film and replacing it with the empty film supply reel. Frank watched as Gerard worked, actually handing him the second film supply reel to mount into the projector.

When Gerard got up, wiping his hand on his jeans, Frank was staring at him. “I think it's so fucking hot the way you thread that film through the projector so quickly,” he said reverently, and Gerard rolled his eyes.

“You're nuts,” he said.

“No, seriously,” Frank protested.

“I think you’re developing a very unhealthy Pavlovian reaction to being in projector booths,” Gerard suggested teasingly.

“It’s you more than the machinery,” Frank countered.

“You’re making me feel all special,” Gerard said dryly and Frank snickered, then looked down at his watch.

“So, we have how much time until the next changeover?” he asked.

“17 minutes,” Gerard said, without even glancing at his own watch.

“Yeah, what could we possibly do in 17 minutes,” Frank said mock-contemplatively, trying and failing to look innocent.

Gerard carefully reached for Frank’s arm and wrapped his fingers around his wrist, maneuvering him backwards until Frank’s back hit the workbench.

“I could think of a lot.”

*-*Epilogue

The Belleville Film Palace was maintained as a two-screen cinema until 2005, when it was converted into a club. One of the auditoriums is still equipped with a silk screen and shows a selection of American independent movies, concert films and musician biopics three times a week.

Bob managed the Belleville Film Palace until 1990, when he was headhunted to develop a new concept for the UCLA film and television archive. Despite never going to college, today he’s on the payroll as an adviser for the National Film Preservation Foundation and curates a fair share of international showcases at movie festivals.

When Bob left the Belleville in 1990, Brian employed a succession of theater managers, but was never fully satisfied with their work. After he fired the fourth consecutive manager he decided to come back to Belleville and temporarily take over himself. He is still managing the Belleville to this day.

Brian donated Hank’s film archive to the Library of Congress in 1993 for future preservation where it is registered under “Hank Schechter Collection”.

Lindsey studied political science at NYU, then got a full ride for law school at Berkeley. She entered politics after finishing school and is now the junior Senator for New Jersey. She has recently been through her second divorce.

Mikey worked as a video game developer for several smaller game design companies, finally ending up with Activision. Mikey and Alicia eventually got married and had three babies. The one huge fight of their otherwise happy marriage occurred when Mikey bought a Pac-Man machine at an auction and attempted to place it in the living room.

Ray and Frank founded a punk band during their last year of high school. They were locally popular for about two and a half years but never made it out of New Jersey. After their band broke up, Ray joined several other bands as a guitarist. Despite having become a sought after studio musician he has yet to make it big with his own band. His biggest moment of stage-fame came in 2005, when he filled in for Ritchie Sambora on the North American leg of Bon Jovi’s “Have a Nice Day” world tour.

Frank half-heartedly studied psychology, but put much more energy into his musical career. He fronted several New Jersey punk bands before being invited to join a Seattle based band as a lead guitarist in the late 80s. He and Gerard, then both 23, broke up, deciding to go their separate ways as their career paths seemed incompatible. They had a huge 4-day fight during which neither of them was willing to compromise and after which Frank packed his things and left. Frank’s band managed to sail atop the upcoming grunge scene, but failed to follow up their debut album and #2 hit with a successful sophomore album.

Gerard studied at TISCH, specializing in archival work and film preservation. He managed to make his dream come true and work at the Museum of Moving Image, starting out with a job in education and as projectionist. He went on to work as a curator at the Anthology Film Archive and for the NPF. Since 1994 he also teaches classes on preservation at TISCH. To this day, comics remain his second passion and he has published several comic book series, among them one about a loser punk kid superhero and his best vampire friend who fight crime.

Gerard and Frank met again in 1993 in a movie theater of all places. Frank had returned from Seattle three months ago and worked part time in a comic book store in Soho. Frank ultimately opened his own comic book shop, but like Ray has never given up music.

Frank and Gerard picked up right where they had left off – with another huge fight. It was the last big fight of their relationship.

Frank moved back in with Gerard 4 weeks later and they now live in an apartment in Brooklyn with 4 dogs.

They still go to the movies together at least once a week.

The End

Links to Bonus Tracks/Enhanced Content

http://pic-productions.livejournal.com/25401.html 

Fanart by noctecaelum

Fanmix by crowgirls13: Film Noir: Teenage Zombie Blues Original Motion Picture Soundtrack