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So it's 2019, and after six beautiful hellions, Frank and Jamia are calling it quits on the kids business. Frank is totally in awe of Jamia; he has no idea how she was able to spend the better part of a decade either pregnant or nursing (or both) and never tried to chop his dick off. She is seriously the best ever.
It's pretty clear to him that they would never have been able to handle it without Gerard and Lindsey being there too. Bandit and the twins take their roles as the oldest kids pretty seriously, and somehow the bicoastal houses and monthly travel actually works.
His family is the absolute best.
And, okay, he knows that it was the right decision, that J needs to be able to just be herself and not a human incubator now, and it is pretty sweet that all the kids can actually sleep through the night at this point (and most evenings they actually all stay in their beds, it's crazy). But a couple of months after their youngest's second birthday, right when the guys head out on tour again, he starts to feel that longing again.
He tries to push it down, tries not to dwell on it. Jamia had gotten her tubes tied during the last C-Section, and even without that he knows it's ridiculous. Seven is enough. Seven is plenty. But one night he gets a little too drunk after a show that wasn't quite enough to fully drown out all his feelings and ends up yapping away about it to Gerard.
"It's just, I mean they're totally outnumbered by the dogs for one thing. It's fucking two to one! That's so sad," Frank says morosely, not entirely sure why it's such a tragedy but convinced that it is.
"The numbers aren't that bad, don't forget Bandit," Gerard says.
Frank shakes his head. "I'm not, but she has her hands full with Susan Michelle. The others can't count on her for more support, they're on their own." He takes a long pull from his beer, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. "You'd think by now I'd be over babies, but I'm not."
Gerard nods sympathetically. "You just need to focus on the positives. And Mikey and Alicia could still have a baby someday." When Frank shoots him a look he amends that to, "Maybe. It's not impossible."
Frank shakes his head. "They're the aunt and uncle! I can't hope that they'll fix this for me, Gee." He gulps a little."It's cool, I'll get over it eventually."
"Here, let me suck your cock, it'll take your mind off things," Gerard says, and Frank nods and drops his pants, because it really is hard to think about anything other than Gerard's mouth when he's blowing you.
Unfortunately, Gerard can't actually spend all his time when they're not on stage sucking Frank's cock (or jerking him off, or fucking him, or rimming him), but he does his best. Frank also spends about three hours a day total on Skype with J and the brood, and he's not exactly moping when he's actually interacting with his family. It's only when he's awake at 3 am, Gerard snoring softly next to him, that he starts thinking about the fact that he'll never hold a teeny tiny baby again and be able to think mine in quite the same way. He did his best to tilt the odds in his favor of having grandbabies someday, but that's a long way off. This chapter of his life is over.
A single tear rolls down his cheek, and he pokes Gerard's side until he snorts awake. When he sees the look on Frank's face, he rolls them over without a word, kissing Frank through his tears and pressing inside again, fucking him until Frank can't think, he can only feel.
So the tour continues along like this, one of their most successful ever (who knew that an album of Barry Manilow covers would be so popular?), and Frank works through his angst, consoling himself with the knowledge that he can keep getting puppies, at least (even if it does mean that his kids are going to continue to be hopelessly outnumbered by the dogs). He also consoles himself with Gerard's cock, which is like the best security blanket in the world this side of Jamia's tits.
And everything's great, which is why of course his stomach starts acting up now, it has to, there always has to be SOMETHING, something that brings his crazy awesome polyamorous rock star daddy life back down to earth. And for once he doesn't push it and just throws up his hands and calls his doctor and sets up an appointment for when they're coming through Jersey the next week.
He fully expects that he'll feel better once he's at home, a pile of kids all over him and dogs nosing at his head in an attempt to get some attention too, and it'll be yet another wasted co-pay. But by the time the bus reaches the Turnpike he's in bad shape, nauseous and starving all at once, his limbs weak, back aching. Jamia takes one look at him when he stumbles in the door, Gerard hovering close behind him, and says, "Okay, fuck the appointment, we're going now."
Gerard insists on coming too, and Frank would protest that he is a grown-ass adult and does not need TWO keepers, but he's just so fucking tired that he doesn't have it in him to argue. So they all go, and Frank catches up with the nurses in the office and asks about their families and gets the latest gossip and tells them all about what the kids are up to. It's kind of like Frank's third family, this office.
They take blood and check his vitals, and then Dr. Silverman comes in and examines his stomach, palpating his belly and lower back, which always makes him want to giggle. She stands up, finally, and looks at him, grabbing a tongue depressor. He obediently opens wide, not expecting the cotton swab that she swipes around his cheek.
"Just need to rule something out," she says, opening the door. "Try not to come down with shingles before I get back."
He's sure he'll have a clever retort for her in about five minutes, but in the meantime he sinks back against the paper-covered examining table, already exhausted. Jamia is running her hand through his hair, and Gerard's tapping out a beat on his thigh as they wait. He blows out a breath up towards the ceiling, this entire thing so fucking typical he can't even take it. He almost wishes it was fucking shingles, or something different, at least. Something other than the same fucking uncertain bullshit. He wonders what new food group he's going to need to stop eating now.
When he hears the door open he sits up again, ready for the tests to continue, but his doctor is holding a chart and looking nervous. She's never looked like that, not during every other examination that resulted in nothing other than pain and bloating and hours spent in the bathroom. "Oh god, what is it?"
Jamia and Gerard each take a hand as they stare at her. "Well, the good news is that we finally know what's been behind all of your stomach ailments."
"Please tell me he's not dying," Gerard says, and Jamia reaches across Frank and hits him in the stomach.
"You can't tell that from a cotton swab, dumbass." She fixes Dr. Silverstein with a stare that Frank recognizes. "He's not, right?"
They all start to breathe again when she shakes her head. "No. In fact, this should actually make your life easier in the long run, but. Frank, there's no easy way to tell you this." She pauses, her eyes sorrowful.
Frank breaks first. "Fuck, Rachel, just tell me," he begs, all formality gone in this moment.
Dr. Silverman nods. "Frank, I can't believe we didn't test you for this before, but preliminary tests indicate that you're a human seahorse."
Gerard makes a noise like a dying coyote. Jamia says, "What?" very clearly as Frank's mouth drops open.
"I didn't know there were non-marine varieties of seahorses," he says faintly. "Is it fatal?"
There are still odd sounds coming from deep in Gerard's throat even as Dr. Silverman shakes her head, and Jamia's grip on Frank's hand is cutting off all the circulation to his fingers, but he just holds her hand tighter. "No no, you should still live as long as you would if you were fully human."
"Then why do I feel this way?" Frank cries out.
"Because you're a mutant, Frankie," Gerard says out of the side of his mouth, moving closer to Frank like he's going to protect him from any other news Dr. Silverman may deliver.
Dr. Silverman glances down at her chart again. "Well, I believe that your current symptoms are mainly due to your pregnancy. I'd guess that you're about three months along."
The static in his brain is so loud Frank can barely hear himself think, and he tries to speak but his mouth has gone completely dry.
Gerard turns to him. "Oh my god, Frank, I am so fucking sorry."
Jamia's already on the phone. "Hi, Linds. You might want to sit down before I tell you the news."
Dr. Silverman is still talking through all of the chaos. "The real wonder is that you haven't conceived before now, given everything," she says, waving a hand at Gerard, "but still, we should have tested you for this earlier. I'm so sorry. Let me know what you want to do."
Tears are streaming down Frank's face, Gerard's frantic apologies in one ear, Jamia's calm voice saying, "Yeah, we had no idea either," in the other. He opens his mouth and then closes it, the giddy joy that's been bouncing around in his stomach since he heard the word 'pregnancy' finally bubbling over as he grins helplessly. "Just tell me one thing."
She nods. "Anything."
"Are they all going to make it?" he asks, gesturing to his belly.
Gerard gasps out, "All of them?" as Dr. Silverman says, "Oh yes, there's an excellent chance of that. The statistics aren't nearly as bad for human seahorses as they are for the aquatic species. We won't know how many you have in there until the ultrasound, of course, but three is average."
"Male seahorses usually lose up to ninety-nine percent of their babies," Frank explains to Gerard. He rubbed a hand over his belly. "I couldn't take that."
"How do you even know that?" Gerard asks.
"I did some research, okay?" Frank looks down at his hands when Gerard stares at him. "I maybe over identified."
"Well, your wish came true," Jamia says, clicking the phone off and kissing the side of Frank's head. "Have fun needing to pee every fifteen minutes."
SIX MONTHS LATER
It's a bit of a juggling act, but if Frank balances everything just right, he can hold all three of the babies in his arms at the same time. He's transfixed by their little faces, tiny fists in their mouths and eyes barely open.
Frank pulls his eyes away from them and beams at his band, the three seahorse buttons he searched for months to find fastened securely to his hospital gown, Gerard and Jamia and Lindsey flanking him around the bed.
"These are the triplets," he says to Ray and Mikey and Dewees and [2019 Drummer]. Lindsey reaches in to wipe away the tears rolling down his cheeks, his hands otherwise occupied. He gazes back at the triplets. "Welcome to the family."
THE END.