"Remember that time," says Frank, and there could be a million ways the sentence could end, but Mikey's heart always shivers a little with hope, and this time it pays off. "When I was dating Gerard, and I climbed into the wrong bunk..."

"No," says Mikey coolly. Cool and collected is his thing. He can look bored in a hurricane. It's a skill. "I have no memory of you waking me up at four in the morning with your slobbery tongue. I repressed it."

Frank snuggles up closer to him. "Aw, c'mon, Mikeyway, I was totally out of it that night. I'm a better kisser than that, I swear."

Prove it, Mikey thinks, tell him to prove it. "Uh-huh. Sure."

"No, really, I am." Frank nuzzles Mikey's jaw. "Want me to prove it?"

Mikey snorts and gives him a side-eye, because he has to. He can't just take it, he has to pretend it doesn't matter first. But then, once he's shown the appropriate scorn, he can say, "Bring it."

Frank turns around on the couch, his knees pressing against the back cushion and his arm bracing him up on Mikey's other side, and leans in. He goes slow, hand cupping the back of Mikey's neck, breath teasing for stretched-out seconds before their lips touch. Mikey lets Frank lead, because this is about proving himself, not about enjoying themselves. Frank nudges Mikey's lips open with his own, sucks a little, then breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Mikey's.

"Mikey," he says in a low tone, and there, he's the one opening it up to more-than-a-joke, and that means Mikey can grab his head and stick his tongue down Frank's throat, like that night when Frank thought he was his brother. Because jesus, no, Mikey hasn't repressed it. He thinks about it nearly every time he comes.

Frank strokes his fingers through Mikey's hair and gives as good as he gets, and maybe--maybe--Mikey can forgive him.