Words to Choke Upon.

Fic: Biting Cold, Thrash and Scold - BBC Sherlock 1/1

lightisbreaking — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 12:32:23 GMT

I had all the Sherlock feels, so I wrote fic. all my thanks to nimueailinen for the beta and telling me this was decent even when she hates me.

biting cold, thrash and scold
bbc sherlock; john/sherlock (minor)
~2,300 words, PG

(biting cold, thrash and scold)

xmenbigbang: City of the Dead

lightisbreaking — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 12:20:53 GMT

Title: City of the Dead
Author swagneto
Rating: R
Word Count: 18,342
Characters/Pairings: Charles/Erik. Raven, Shaw, Emma, Janos, Remy LeBeau.
Warnings: Language, minor character death(s)
Summary: The Mummy fusion! Erik is a former member of the French Foreign Legion, saved from the noose by Charles Xavier and his treasure-hunting sister, Raven. In return, he agrees to help Charles locate the Book of Amun-Ra, said to be hidden in the legendary city of Hamunaptra. Meanwhile, Sebastian Shaw and his team of ruthless treasure seekers also find their way to the lost city with the help of Remy LeBeau, an old war comrade of Erik's. Digs are sabotaged and Charles's lifelong dream of finding the famous book seems ruined when Shaw frames Erik for an archaeology crime he did not commit.

Author Notes: First and foremost, this fic would not be here without darksilvercat. I cannot thank her enough for her guidance, frequent help talking me down from my ledge, and various read throughs. My eternal gratitude goes out to sara_wolf, immortal_lights and lost_in_dreamz_ for the beta jobs and look throughs. Last but certainly not least, for booshbesotted, who began this snowball by allowing me to play with her prompts.

You can find fabulous, fabulous art for this fic by thedeathchamber over here!

City of the Dead

Fic: Up Against the Wall [1/1]

lightisbreaking — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 11:21:09 GMT

Oh my god how long has it been since I posted writing? Here's something small to get me back into the swing of things. I'm delving into White Collar fic because I enjoy Neal Caffrey's brain and everything that comes with it. Super thanks to sweetsyren for the beta job <3

up against the wall
white collar - gen
~5,130 words, PG
*set somewhere between 2x11 and 2x16, contains character spoilers.

Before Neal dies, he thinks of Peter and how the last words the two exchanged were a plea and a condemnation. He thinks of Mozzie and Sara and Diana and Jones and how just when he’s starting to feel like he has a place somewhere, it’s all going to end. Lastly, he thinks of Kate. Neal’s never really believed in the afterlife, but as he closes his eyes he finds himself smiling at the thought of seeing her again.

-

“I didn’t do it, Peter!”

A sharp tug of his shoulder cuts Neal off and he turns his head to glare at Diana. Neal still remembers the look on the face of the agent who cuffed him the first time he was caught; all smug smiles and hopes for some kind of promotion. Once, the same look might have appeared on Diana’s face in this situation but Neal can’t read anything but disappointment.

“Peter!”

“Just don’t, Neal. You really screwed up this time,” Peter answers, turning his back. Diana clicks the cuffs closed and puts a hand on Neal’s shoulder to ease him into the squad car, probably a little more gently than usual. As the car starts to move Neal stares out the window and shifts a little, trying to ease the strain on his shoulders.

Peter doesn’t look back.

-

It’s not the first time Neal has been suspected of being the thief behind Peter’s current case, but this is the first time Neal thinks Peter truly believes it. The painting had gone missing from the Metropolitan Museum of Art while Neal was off the clock, conveniently around the same time that Neal’s anklet had started malfunctioning. At the time he’d thought nothing of it when the red light went out, and despite Mozzie’s insistence, he stayed put. Looking back, he should have known that something more suspicious was going on.

Now, he’s anklet free but instead fully equipped with an orange jumpsuit and a cell. It’s his old cell again, though whether this is on purpose or not is nothing but a small stroke of amusement in Neal’s mind. There are bigger things to be worrying about - like how he’s going to get out of here and show Peter he wasn’t lying.

When visiting hour rolls around, Neal is marched out of his cell and into the small, bare room expecting to find Moz. Instead he grits his teeth and sits stiffly in his chair when he sees one of Adler’s guys standing in front of him.

“He could have just sent flowers,” Neal tries, folding his hands in his lap and searching for anything he could potentially use as a weapon with his peripheral vision.

“Didn’t know which kind were your favourite,” the guy responds, and holds out a hand for Neal to shake. He doesn’t put it down again when Neal hesitates, and eventually he holds up his own in return and shakes the guy’s hand, immediately feeling the little fold of paper. It’s passed from one hand to the other smoothly and Neal sits down again without the slightest change in expression.

“He sends his regards,” is all the guy says, and then he’s leaving and there’s a guard touching Neal’s arm, gesturing for him to stand up so he can be walked back to his cell.

Neal waits until lights out before he unfolds the tiny piece of paper, holding it up close to his eyes and forcing them to make out the letters. What’s written there leaves him feeling intrigued, if not the least bit comforted. For a moment he wonders how Adler is planning on busting him out and what he could possibly want before he remembers that this is Vincent Adler and anything is possible.

-

The blindfold over his eyes is irritating and the cuffs around his wrists chafe, but at least he’s getting used to that. Instead, he focuses on the sounds outside, of the feel of the road and ticks off the time in his head, doing his best to take careful note of where he’s going. At first it’s easy enough - left, right, pause at an intersection and forward for maybe ten minutes, speed bump and then left again - but it’s not long before he realises that the driver has no plan of stopping any time soon.

Another ten minutes later and Neal gives up trying to remember the twists and turns in the road and focuses on the time. At least if he can work out how far away from home he is, he has a better chance. From what he can tell from the sounds in the vehicle, there are two other men with him, excluding the driver. Neither of them is Adler, nor are they voices that he recognises.

The van eventually rolls to a stop and Neal’s blindfold is tugged away. Instantly, he scans his eyes over the inside of the van, taking note of the two burly guys on either side of him. There are scars on the left one’s hands and a gun holstered at his hip. The other one - the one who removed the blindfold - is pointing his own gun straight at Neal, his face unreadable.

“You should know, before this goes any further, that we have someone outside your house. You fuck up, or try to run, and your landlady gets a bullet between the eyes. Are we clear?”

A small lump forms in Neal’s throat at the idea of June being shot because of him, and he gives a small nod. With any luck, Mozzie will be around to call Peter if anything goes wrong at the house, but in reality Neal has no idea if Mozzie is even still in town. It’s only been a few hours since Adler’s guys busted him out of prison, but at least a week since Mozz last visited him behind bars.

“Crystal,” he says, careful not to let his voice betray any of the nerves he’s feeling.

Adler is somewhat of a wildcard. It’s not like Neal hasn’t been in this situation before, but with Keller or Wilkes he knows the playing field. For the most part, he knows their motives and the way they approach things, when he can afford to push and when he should do what he’s told.

With Adler it’s a whole new ball game. There’s no telling what he wants or why except that maybe he still holds enough resentment to make Neal the target.

Roughly, Neal’s blindfold is tugged back on before a hand grabs his arm and pulls him out of the van. It’s an effort not to trip over his own feet without being able to see a thing, but he forces himself to stay upright. It’s a matter of dignity, if nothing else. The sound of a roller door opening suggests a warehouse of some kind; Neal tucks the information away and lets himself be led inside.

“Good to see you, Neal!”

The familiarity of the voice does nothing to put Neal at ease. Instead the muscles in his shoulder tighten but he’s careful enough to keep his face passive.

“I’d say the same, but…” he shrugs a little, and then there’s the scuffling sound of someone moving towards him and his blindfold is removed again. “I was wrong. It’s not.”

The corners of Adler’s lips curve a little in bemusement but he doesn’t say anything. Free from having to concentrate on his former boss, Neal takes the time to concentrate on the warehouse, putting the puzzle together in his head and trying to figure out where he is.

“Did you like the handiwork on the anklet?”

Adler’s voice snaps him out of concentration and he frowns. “Should’ve known. Planning on telling me why?”

“Nostalgia for old friends?” Adler spreads his hands wide and raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t spend long on the pretence. “I want you to do something for me, Neal. There’s a painting-”

“You can’t steal your own art?” Neal cuts him off and suddenly there’s a gun pointed at his head again. Neal shuts his mouth.

As if nothing happened, Adler continues. “A pair, actually. According to the FBI, you’ve already stolen one.” Casually, he flicks his wrist in the direction of a large crate. On cue, one of his guy’s cracks it open and Neal comes face to face with the painting he was charged with stealing for the first time. It’s not a surprise, not really, but he still feels a tinge of bitter resentment towards Adler when he thinks of the way Peter shook his head and turned his back.

“And you want me to steal the other one. Why? You’re usually more of an embezzlement kind of guy.”

There’s silence as Adler smiles at him, the kind of smile that puts Neal’s teeth on edge. Adler is the kind of criminal he despises. There’s no finesse, no skill. There’s nothing intriguing or beautiful about the way he plans a con. Art has never been his game. There’s something else at stake here, something that the paintings are just a cover for. Something that Adler wants more than what he’s willing to let on.

“You’ll do the job for me, Neal. You already know what’ll happen if you don’t.”

-

“Peter, you’re taking the lead on this one. I want Caffrey back here by sundown.”

Peter nods, hardly paying attention to Hughes as he assigns Diana and Jones to his team as usual. He’s thinking of the theft, of Neal’s tracking anklet, of Neal’s face when Diana cuffed him. If Peter didn’t know that Neal Caffrey was one of the best con artists in the world, he might have believed that Neal was genuinely surprised. As it is, the case fits Neal’s style to a T. It couldn’t be a more perfect fit if Neal had planned it that way. Peter’s spent long enough studying Neal’s methods not to recognise his style when it’s staring him right in the face.

Still, he can’t get the expression on Neal’s face out of his head. The betrayal, the flash of hurt in Neal’s eyes as Peter turned away from him. The pleading in his voice - “I didn’t do it, Peter. Peter!” - is enough to make Peter want to beat his head against a wall. He can’t decide if he’s angry at himself for trusting Neal in the first place or whether he’s angry that he’s willing to believe Neal’s guilt so quickly. Either way, he can’t think straight which is exactly the opposite of what Peter needs right now if he’s going to get to the bottom of this.

In the end he decides to go and see Mozz. If there’s anyone who might know more about Neal than Peter, it’s him, and at this point Peter is ready to try anything. He tells himself it’s for the case, for the Bureau, but in reality he needs some sort of reassurance that Neal didn’t do this. Some hint that he was set up, some confirmation from Mozz that this isn’t Neal’s kind of gig.

Without any idea of where Mozzie lives when he’s alone, Peter heads straight to June’s. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a nondescript car parked across the street. He doesn’t think anything of it. Instead, he knocks on the door and smiles at June when she answers.

“You know he didn’t do this, Peter,” she says as soon as she ushers him inside. Peter wants to believe her, and a large part of him does, but he doesn’t trust himself to say so.

“I was hoping Mozzie might be here,” he says instead, glancing up the staircase in the direction of Neal’s room. June just nods and Peter takes the stairs by himself.

Outside of Neal’s door he hesitates for a moment. When it comes down to it, Peter’s not entirely sure he wants to know what Mozz has to say. It would be so much easier just to believe that Caffrey is guilty and continue his investigation with the sole purpose of finding him and putting him back behind bars. But they've been through too much for that, grown too close.

He opens the door without bothering to knock.

“You don’t have a warrant!” is the first thing Peter hears shouted at him as he enters.

“I’m just here to talk, Mozz.”

“You arrested Neal.” Mozzie says it like more of an accusation than a statement. Like in slapping the cuffs on Neal, he’s betrayed any sort of partnership the three of them had built up over Neal’s time with the FBI.

“His prints were all over the scene. It’s Neal’s kind of job and he has no alibi. Yeah, we arrested him.”

“Like your prints have never been planted, suit.”

Peter takes the blow graciously. He’s gone down this road already, wondering how possible it is that evidence was falsified, that Neal was set up. But then he thinks of the last time Neal was accused of a heist under his watch and how adamantly Neal had tried to get his name cleared. Then, it was Peter he came to when he needed help, despite everything. Had Neal come to him and asked for help clearing his name this time, Peter probably would have listened.

As it is, he has a missing painting and a busted cell with Neal’s name on it. Peter hasn’t heard a word from him since the moment he was read his rights.

“Mozzie, if you know something…”

For the first time, Mozz sighs and lets his guard down a little. In a few shuffled steps, he’s at the bookcase, picking up the empty Bordeaux bottle and tossing it lightly into Peter’s waiting hands.

“If he was going to run, he wouldn’t have gone without that.”

Peter runs his fingers over the bottle and knows that Mozzie is right.

“I’m going to bring him home,” Peter promises, and takes the bottle with him when he leaves.

-

The difference between Neal and Vincent Adler is that Adler will never understand art like Neal does. He’s an expert at appraising art, determining how much monetary worth it has and finding the right fence, the right buyer. Adler knows how to make money from art. But Neal understands it. He paints his forgeries with the utmost care and precision not only to ensure it stands a good chance of fooling people, but because it would be disrespectful to give it anything less.

Adler isn’t the sort of criminal that Neal likes working with. He’s too willing to sacrifice, too reliant on using brutality to get what he wants instead of good old fashioned talent. For Neal it’s about the skill, the thought and care that go into planning a con, making sure everything is accounted for before he goes in for the score.

The second Adler points a gun at him - before that, really - Neal knows this isn’t a con he’s going to enjoy. He doesn’t even know which museum they’re at. The windows are tinted from the inside and out, and he can’t see a thing when he tries to look out.

“Ready, Neal?”

“Ready as I can be without knowing where I am or what I’m doing.” Neal throws him a smile and doesn’t receive one in return.

“Not to worry. You go in, you get the painting, and you get out. Then you get back here and hand it over. You run before, or with the painting, and I kill June. Straightforward, no?”

Neal nods his acquiescence. Figuring out why Adler doesn’t just steal the painting himself like the first one takes a minute longer, but he gets there in the end.

“You didn’t say anything about security. You want my face on the cameras, my mark on the scene, right? I’m supposed to make it obvious it was me, my style.”

“Always a fast learner.”

Something about the whole situation still doesn’t sit entirely right with Neal. He can’t get his head around the idea that Adler would bust him out of jail just to frame Neal for the theft of some pieces that aren’t even high on anyone’s radar. It’s a whole lot of bother for very little profit and Neal’s sure there’s something more to it, but he doesn’t have time to dwell.

“Twenty minutes. You’re in, you’re out. Go.”

Neal doesn’t need to be told twice.

-

“Something is really off about this, El.”

Peter bites into his sandwich with probably a little more force than necessary while Elizabeth sips at her coffee and watches him over the rim of her mug. It’s her favourite, the “My <3 Belongs to an FBI Agent”* one that Peter had bought as a joke two Christmases ago. Back when he was chasing Neal and spending every waking minute trying to guess his whereabouts, his motivations. Two years later and Peter thinks not much has changed.

“Mozz doesn’t think he did it either?”

Peter still doesn’t quite know how he feels about his wife being on nickname basis with felons, but it’s hardly the time to bring it up. Instead, he slides the Bordeaux bottle across the table.

“This is his proof. He says Neal wouldn’t have run without it.”

El eyes the bottle for a long moment before she pats Peter’s knee and stands up, taking her now empty mug into the kitchen.

“Well then he’s probably in trouble,” she calls out, stashing the mug in the sink and coming back to lean against the kitchen doorframe. “And you should bring him home.”

-

When the security footage comes in, Peter can hardly believe it. It’s sloppy work. So sloppy that it practically confirms any doubts Peter had about this entire case.

“There’s no way Caffrey’s that careless,” Jones mutters from behind him and Peter nods. Neal’s face is all over the security tapes, going as far as to look directly at the camera at one point. Peter’s seen enough of Neal’s work to know that he doesn’t leave himself open like this. Neal might be cocky, but never enough that he doesn’t care if he’s spotted. There’s a reason Neal is so fond of the word ‘alleged’, Peter thinks with a wry smile. They may have caught him on the bond forgery, but essentially, there’s nothing concrete tying him to everything else they had on him. Neal is smart.

Finally, Peter has something substantial to prove to himself that this isn’t Neal Caffrey working of his own free will. There’s something else at hand, and Peter is going to find out what.

“Maybe he’s been out of the game too long,” suggests Jones.

Peter thinks of the music box, of the Young Girl With Locket painting, of Franklin’s bottle. “Neal’s never out of the game. Play it again but slow it down.”

Jones does so and Peter leans forward over his shoulder to get a better look. The first time, he doesn’t catch anything more on the tape, but on the third viewing, he sees it. The way Neal looks at the camera is so purposeful and obvious that it’s like he wants whoever’s watching to know that it’s him (wants Peter to know it’s him) - and then he sees it. So subtly that Peter’s not surprised the museum’s security missed it, he sees Neal’s foot start tapping at odd intervals.

Peter’s lips twist into a wry smile and he claps Jones on the shoulder. “He always did like morse code.”

-

It takes Peter a minute to find someone more well-versed in morse code than himself, and from there it’s easy.

A-D-L-E-R

-

Elizabeth is in the middle of lunch with an important client when her cell rings shrilly from her handbag. Excusing herself, she fishes it out quickly and upon seeing Mozzie’s name flash up on the caller ID, turns her cell on silent and drops it back in her bag.

“Sorry about that,” she says with a smile, and is about to pick the conversation back up when her phone beeps adamantly again.

Neal’s in trouble.

For a moment Elizabeth stares at the text trying to decide whether this is Mozzie being overdramatic or not. In the end, she decides it’s not worth the risk.

“I’m so sorry, something’s come up. Could we possibly take a rain check?”

At the briefest nod from her client, Elizabeth is out of her chair and heading for the door, her fingers fast at work punching in Peter’s number.

-

“You went to my wife?”

Mozzie shrugs. “You betrayed Neal.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but they don’t have time for this right now. “Tell me everything you know.”

Elizabeth sets a mug of coffee down in front of each of them before sitting at the dining table with her own, reaching out a hand to rest on top of Peter’s comfortingly. He might not show it, but she knows how worried he is about Neal. If he weren’t, he would have kicked Mozzie out of the house as soon as he walked in.

“I asked around, called in a few favours. Vincent Adler’s back in town and word on the street says he wants Neal’s head.”

“Why bother framing him then?” Peter pauses for only a second before he answers his own question. “Neal turns up dead, probably with the paintings, and the whole case is closed. No one looks too hard at a dead thief and wanted conman. Damn it.”

“Precisely.”

“Tell me you know where he is.”

“One of Adler’s guys might have been spotted at a warehouse on West 13th.”

Without another word, Peter is gone.

-

There’s a sharp pain in his head and his vision is swimming when Neal comes to. His limbs feel like they’ve been filled with lead and it takes all the effort he has to tilt his head up and meet Adler’s eyes. He doesn’t know what they’ve given him, doesn’t know where he is, but he knows he doesn’t like it one bit.

“I can’t wait to take you down,” he groans, attempting to lift his hands and finding them cuffed. Sometimes he thinks he spends more time in cuffs than out of them.

“Unfortunately Neal, you’re not going to get a chance.” Adler pats Neal’s cheek lightly and smiles. “He’s all yours,” he says to the two guys Neal recognises as being the ones who brought him to Adler in the first place.

“So you guys rough me up a bit, throw in a little Taunting 101 and show each other how macho you are? Nice gig. It’s like a dance.”

“Save the bravado, Neal. It’s no good to you here.” Adler turns on his heel and walks away, and Neal almost finds himself feeling sorry to see him go. At the very least, Adler is a familiar face, something he recognises and can try to anticipate. The dark of the warehouse and the two men looming over him are the unknown, unpredictable.

Still, he grins up at them, refuses to give them the satisfaction of seeing him worry. “I was starting to think he’d never give us some privacy.”

He’s prepared for the first punch but the second sends him reeling.

-

On Mozzie’s direction, Peter finds himself standing outside of Samson’s Mini Storage on West 13th, his gun steady in his hand. He knows he should be waiting for backup - he put in the call on his way - but he thinks of Adler and how much he wants Neal dead and decides that he can’t wait. His foot connects with the door with as much force as he can muster and falls to the ground with a crash.

“Hope you weren’t planning on going in there alone,” he hears Diana’s voice say from behind him, and turns to find her and Jones with their own weapons cocked at the ready.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and lets them follow him into the building.

The first thing Peter notices is the smell of blood. Peter’s never been the most comfortable around blood - part of why he joined the white collar division - but he forces himself to keep walking anyway. His footsteps echo off the walls, the sounds of the rest of his team not far behind him.

“There’s a door,” he hears Jones say, and looks to where he’s pointing. It’s tucked away in the far corner of the warehouse, barely distinguishable in the darkness.

“Everyone keep on your guard,” Peter tells them, holding his own gun a little tighter as he inches towards the door.

“We've got your back, boss,” Diana says.

Peter reaches for the doorknob and twists.

It’s almost pitch black in the next room, the only light a sliver on the floor where Peter just opened the door. Here, the smell of blood is even stronger, enough that he can almost taste it in the back of his throat, flooding his senses. He doesn’t want to think of Neal in this place, doesn’t want to think of what could have happened to him to end up here. The fact is that if Neal isn’t here, Peter doesn’t know where to look. Here, his trail goes dead. For the hundredth time, he prays that Mozzie’s sources know what they’re talking about.

The truth of it is that if Neal’s trail does go cold, Peter will blame himself. He can still hear Neal’s voice in his head, swearing his own innocence. He tries to tell himself that Neal is a world class conman and it was entirely reasonable of him to doubt, but when it gets right down to it, Neal asked for help and Peter turned him away. In all the time that Neal’s been working with the FBI, Peter can count the amount of times that Neal has asked him for help on one hand.

“Boss!”

Diana’s voice rings out from further into the darkness and Peter heads toward it instantly, gun raised firmly.

“Jesus Christ,” he hears Jones mutter and Peter immediately picks up the pace, his eyes adjusting to the dark enough to make out the outline of Jones, Diana crouched on the floor just in front of him.

“What is it?”

Diana turns to look up at him and the slight shift in her body reveals another figure sprawled on the ground by her feet.

“Is that-”

There’s blood coating Diana’s shoes. That’s what strikes Peter as he strides closer, eyes intently focussed on the man on the floor.

“Caffrey.” Diana finishes the sentence for him, stowing her gun in her holster. Peter does the same, crouching beside Diana and trying to process everything running through his brain.

There’s so many bruises and cuts adorning the man’s face that it takes Peter a second to confirm that it is Neal Caffrey. Blood is flowing steadily from a head wound that Diana is struggling to staunch with her own jacket, his shirt is missing and his pants, usually so crisply ironed are torn and darkened with blood - from the floor or more wounds underneath the material Peter can’t tell. His breathing is shallow, so shallow at first Peter thinks he’s not breathing at all. The surge of relief he feels when he sees the tiniest, shaking rise and fall of Neal’s chest is short lived. He looks beyond awful, beaten and bludgeoned and left bleeding to death on a fucking warehouse floor, and Peter wants to find Adler and kill him with his own hands. Fuck vengeance versus justice and the right way to do things, he just wants Adler to pay.

“Damn it, Neal…”

“‘eter?”

If Peter hadn’t been staring at Neal’s face, he might have missed it, the word just barely managing to tumble from cracked and cut lips. Diana carefully rests Neal’s head in her lap, pressing the jacket tighter.

“Call an ambulance, Jones,” she says, and in seconds Peter can hear him on the phone to emergency services.

“Don’t try and talk, Neal. You’re going to be fine.” He says the words despite the heavy feeling of dread in his stomach. He can’t stop staring at the ruin of a man in front of him, so utterly devoid of his usual swagger and charm that it’s just wrong. Neal Caffrey may be a criminal, may have been the sole pain in Peter’s ass for the last few years, but he doesn’t deserve this.

It feels like hours of waiting until the ambulance arrives, and every second Peter fears that Neal’s going to die in Diana’s lap without a sound. He’s lost so much blood Peter can hardly believe he managed to live this long, doesn’t even want to think about how long Neal’s been lying there waiting for someone to find him. Every small rise and fall of his chest is a relief until finally the paramedics are bursting through the door and Peter, Jones and Diana are shuffled aside.

Hughes follows hot on the heels of the paramedics, casting Neal a solemn glance as they pile him onto a stretcher and disappear.

“Good work, Burke,” is all he allows time for before he’s gone again and the room is empty, as if they never found Neal at all.

-

For the second time that day, Neal wakes up with no idea of where he is. A quick survey of his surroundings and he decides that it’s a hospital, which is far more welcome than a lonely warehouse with Adler’s men closing in.

Sitting slumped in the chair by his bedside is Peter, his head resting on one arm, asleep. He’s wearing his favourite suit, the one he’s caught Neal in twice, though the jacket is slung over the back of the chair. The symbolism isn’t lost on Neal, but for once he appreciates Peter’s knack for finding him. As if he heard Neal stirring, Peter shifts in his chair and opens his eyes, and for a second there’s silence between them.

“Thank you, Peter,” Neal says finally.

Peter nods and gives the barest hint of a smile, straightening his tie. His shirt is crumpled and Neal wouldn’t be surprised if he slept the night in that chair. He can’t imagine it must have been too comfortable and part of him wonders why, but the larger part of him is just grateful that after everything, Peter stayed.

“I didn’t do it, Peter.”

With a small smile, Peter gets up from his chair, reaching down to pull something out of a bag by his feet. He sets the Bordeaux bottle gently on the small table beside Neal’s bed and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I know.”

*This is a legit mug you can buy.

Fic: Any Way You Want - Part Two

lightisbreaking — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 14:12:25 GMT

Part Two.

When Frank wakes up the next morning, it's to the smell of something flowery. He breathes in deep, content. His arms feel full of something warm, comforting, and he pulls it closer towards him, wanting to stay in this place forever. Lazily, he blinks his eyes open and sees a head of dark hair tucked into his chin, and remembers with a sudden jolt that he's in Gee's bed, with her cuddled into his side. His eyes open wide with the realisation, and his head starts to throb with a well-deserved hangover. Carefully, he extracts himself from Gee's embrace and slides back to sit on the side of the bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hand. He has the biggest fucking hangover of his life. With a cautious glance back behind him, he sees Gee smile softly in her sleep, strands of hair falling over her face. Unable to resist, Frank reaches over and brushes them away carefully, his fingers just barely touching the soft skin of her face. She really is fucking gorgeous, he thinks as he watches her, and he can't really believe that he ever ended up in this situation. And shit, he's in her bed.

It takes a moment, but through the throbbing pain in his temple he can remember. Maybe not as well as he'd like, but hot flashes of touch, of gasping breaths and stroking fingers, and he groans. He's pretty sure that they didn't have sex. Yes, he tells himself. That definitely did not happen. But he also knows that it was close, so close, and he lets out a shaky breath of relief. There's this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach like he's taken advantage of her or something, that she probably won't remember any of it in the morning and that even if she does, she'll probably hate him for it. He really doesn't want things to be awkward. Not just when they were starting to really get to know each other. If last night taught him anything, it's that Gee Way is certainly not someone he wants to let slip through his fingers easily, and he'll kill himself if he just fucked that all up.

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, Frank stands up. He's still wearing his jeans, must have fallen asleep in them. It's a simple matter of doing them back up and then hunting around Gee's floor for his shirt, which he pulls over his head before looking back down at the sleeping body on the bed. The sheets have fallen down just enough for him to see the white skin of her collarbone, the barest hint of the swell of her breast where she's missing her shirt. With a sigh, Frank reaches over and pulls the sheets back up to cover her properly, and plants a soft kiss on her forehead. And then it's time for him to get out of there before she wakes up and he does something he'll really regret, like blurt out everything that happened last night. He feels so fucking guilty, and there's no way that he can look her in the eye without wanting to sink into the floor, so he turns his back on the bed and slips out the door.

His bare feet make no sound on the wooden floor, his shoes clutched tightly in his right hand. He's almost to the door, so close, when he hears someone clear their throat behind him, and whips his head around. Mikey is leaning against the kitchen counter, mug of coffee in hand and eyebrows raised.

"Heading off so early, Frank?" he asks, and there's just the barest hint of a warning in his tone, something cold and levelled.

"I uh. Yeah, I guess so," Frank stammers out, because what the fuck else are you supposed to say when you're caught trying to sneak out of the house? Especially being caught by the brother of the girl he almost slept with - who Mikey probably thinks he had sex with.

"You better not fuck her around, Iero," Mikey says, and Frank understands the warning loud and clear this time.

Frank scratches the back of his head, looks around guiltily. "I'm not, really. I just. I have to get home?" It sounds pathetic even to his own ears, but he's not sure what else to say. "We didn't sleep together," he ends up blurting out, because he's an idiot who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

He's half expecting Mikey to come over and take a swing at him, but he just nods, and the danger is gone from his voice when he says, "Okay, good. Just don't be an ass, yeah? I like you; I don't want to have to kill you if you hurt her."

Frank smiles to let him know he appreciates it, and then when Mikey nods his head in acknowledgement, Frank waves and gets out the door as fast as he can.

-

Going to work and pretending like he's not totally terrified he'll run into Gee is harder than Frank originally thought it would be. He's never really bothered to invest in a car considering he walks everywhere for the most part anyway, and if he needs to go further out of the way there's always public transport. Plus, there used to be college fees to pay on a small, part-time job, so it was out of the question, really. Now, Frank is maybe beginning to regret that decision just the slighest bit. There's a very, very small chance that he'll run into her while he's walking to work, but he still finds himself checking over his shoulder every two minutes, and keeping a careful eye out anyway.

"Hey Frankie," Patrick greets him when he finally makes it inside, and Frank says hello back gratefully, sinking into his seat behind the register and thanking God that he's off the street and hidden indoors. Now all he has to do is hope that Gee doesn't decide that today would be an awesome day to buy a new record.

It's not that he doesn't want to see her. Well, it is, but it's not because he doesn't like her all of a sudden. It's just that he still sort of can't believe what happened last night. And if it took him a few moments to remember properly what happened (and he still doesn't, not entirely, but he remembers enough to send his head reeling and his stomach flipping), then there's always the chance that she won't remember it at all. He managed to leave that morning without waking her up, so when she does wake up in a bed void of Frank, what's there to say that she'll even have the faintest clue? Mikey could remind her, but Frank doesn't think he will, not with the uncomfortable conversation they shared this morning. Which means that yes, she probably won't remember. Frank is working himself into a confused frenzy just thinking about it.

There's no way he can confront her now. If she doesn't remember, and he just blurts it out because he's stupid and crazy and obviously has a death wish, then it will just make things even more awkward than they already are. And what if she does remember, but she regrets it? She was drunk, so drunk, and so was he, but he also knows that girls are probably more prone to regret things like this. What if she sobers up and remembers that she doesn't actually want to have sex with him at all? What if she wakes up and decides that she can't ever speak to him again because she's so angry that he took advantage of her like that? And he doesn't think he took advantage of her; she seemed pretty into it, but it's also not like he has any experience in taking advantage of drunk girls. It's all so far over his head, and it doesn't help things that he's really, really starting to develop this ridiculous crush on her.

And at first it was just a crush. She's a cool chick and Frank likes talking to her, likes her band and her music and the way she sings. And then she had to go and sing Journey to him in front of a live audience, and then proceed to invite him to her party at which he got to know her even more, and already he was too far in. The way she talked, and the way she's so fucking earnest about everything she ever says, the way she respects his opinions but isn't afraid to voice her own, and the way she seemed so happy just to be able to talk to him about the things they enjoy. And as if that wasn't bad enough, he had to go and almost sleep with her and oh fuck she's gorgeous, what is he thinking. He is so, so far in over his head.

He's startled out of his own head when a teenage guy with a nose ring and crazy fucking purple hair approaches the counter with a record in hand. Frank nods and says hey, and when the guy doesn't reply, Frank takes the hint and rings up the purchase without another word. He takes the money, passes over change, and when the guy leaves, Frank settles back in his chair and continues to berate himself silently. Patrick is putting out the new stock, and when he turns around to make sure Frank's not slacking off too much, Frank can't help himself.

"Patrick, I did something really bad," he says, running a hand through his hair.

Patrick looks up and pauses, a record still in his hand, halfway towards the shelf. "Frank, if you've killed someone, the less I know the better. Seriously. I am not going to prison because you're an ass who couldn't keep his mouth shut."

Frank takes a moment, blinks, and then says, "I really, really like a girl."

There's silence for a moment, and then slowly, Patrick puts down the record and raises an eyebrow. "This is a bad thing?"

"We were so drunk Patrick, and I saw her without a shirt on!" Frank groans, dropping his head into his hands.

Patrick just laughs, and Frank has the worst friends in the world. "No, seriously Frank. What is going on in your head right now? No, actually, I don't even want to know. You're an idiot, did you know that?"

Frank just flips him the bird without raising his head.

"Have you called her?" Patrick asks.

Finally looking up again, Frank shakes his head adamantly. "Are you crazy? She probably doesn't even remember, or she hates me for like, violating her or something."

Patrick sighs and abandons his box of stock, disappearing out the back of the store and returning shortly after with the shop phone in his hand. "Fucking call her, Frank."

He hesitates for just a second longer, until Patrick hits him with the stupid phone. Frank takes it reluctantly, punching her number in. It rings and rings, and Frank is getting ready to kill himself out of anxiety, but then it just rings out without an answer. He hangs up and hands the phone back to Patrick. It was a stupid idea anyway.

-

Three days later, Frank is lying on the couch, hand dangling down to pat Mama where she's asleep on the floor beside him. There's some old movie on the television, black and white, and the guy is busy staring into the girl's eyes and telling her how much he loves her and that he can't live without her. Frank can't help but think of Gee, and he wonders where she is, how she's feeling, whether or not she's missing him as much as he's missing her. He still hasn't seen her since the party, and while he still looks over his shoulder while he walks to work, he's beginning to hope that he accidentally runs into her. At least then he'd be forced to stand and make conversation instead of pussying out like he has been lately. He misses her, and he really just wants to listen to her talk again, but he's also really kind of terrified that the reason he hasn't heard from her is that she's mad at him for what happened.

It's not until the guy on the screen gets down on one knee, ring in hand and the girl's eyes light up that Frank figures fuck it. He coaxes his cell out of his pocket and flips through his contacts until he finds her name. And for the first time, when he presses ‘call’ he's not nervous at all. He's had enough of this, needs to talk to her and settle things.

She picks up this time with a tired, "Hey," followed by a yawn.

"Did I wake you?" Frank asks, biting the corner of his fingernail nervously, "Sorry."

There's a pause, and the sound of rumpling blankets, and he can practically see her struggling to sit up in bed, phone clutched to her ear and eyes sleepy. "Frank? No, I um. Yeah, actually, I was asleep, but it's fine. How are you?" She sounds kind of stuffy and groggy, and her voice is kind of off.

Frank frowns. "Are you feeling okay? You sound kind of sick."

"Yeah, just like. The flu, you know? I've been confined to my bedroom with chicken soup, you know how it is."

Frank does, he really does. He's had enough experience with being sick as a kid to last him a fucking lifetime, and he really doesn't envy her. But the idea of her lying in bed, sick and exhausted, makes Frank really want to get over there and hold her through it, feed her soup and kiss her forehead and tell her she's beautiful despite everything. "Do you um." He can't really believe he's even about to ask. "I could come over? I have the best recipe for vegetable soup seriously. Mom used to make it for me as a kid, and I promise you it is the best thing in the world."

She's interrupted from answering by what sounds like a pretty violent cough, but finally her voice comes through, sounding hoarse but pleased. "It sounds amazing Frank, but I don't want you to get sick."

He contemplates this for a moment. Knowing his shitty immune system, he probably will get sick if he goes over there, but once the idea has been planted in his head, he can't seem to get rid of it. He really wants to see her, and he knows that whenever he gets sick and is stuck in bed, the one thing he wants is company and somebody to tell him that it will all be over soon. In the end, his mind is made up, and no amount of germs are going to stop him.

"Don't worry about me. I'm on my way," he says, and the first thing he does after he hangs up the phone is hunt around for his mom's old recipe.

He's out the door within ten minutes and heads immediately to Greta's. As he walks in the door, she's already on the move, waving at him and setting about making him his usual coffee. "Could you make it two please, Greta?" he calls out, and she nods distractedly. Frank taps out a tune on the counter while he waits, drumming his fingers and glancing around at the other customers in the cafe before Greta slides two coffees across the counter. Frank thanks her and reaches for his wallet, but Greta waves him off dismissively. He argues with her for a minute before she rolls her eyes at him and practically pushes him out the door, refusing to take any of the money he offers. "Just go, Frank, don't worry about it!" she says, and Frank gives in and just goes with it, shouldering the door open and cradling the coffee carefully.

He sips at his while he walks, and by the time he gets to the Way's, he's almost finished. Mikey answers the door and doesn't look surprised to see him, so Frank assumes that Gee told him he was coming. He's half expecting things to be awkward, considering the last time they saw each other, Frank was sneaking out of his sister's bedroom, but Mikey just smiles and lets him inside. "She's up in her room," Mikey tells him, "Don't get too close or she'll turn you into a fucking zombie."

Frank laughs and deposits his empty coffee cup in the bin, setting Gee's down on the kitchen counter. "I brought my favourite soup recipe. You mind if I borrow your kitchen?"

Mikey shakes his head and sits on the bar stool in front of the counter. "So, hey, I was wondering, maybe you want to come to a band practice some time?" Mikey suggests while Frank rummages around for a pot and the ingredients he needs, setting everything up.

"That sounds awesome!" he exclaims, and he's honest to god excited about seeing them play up close and personal. "I'd love to, really."

"Next week?" Mikey asks, and Frank nods again.

They talk about the practice session and the band while Frank makes Gee's soup, and Frank is happy to see that it's not awkward at all. Mikey seems to have forgiven him, or else wasn't angry at him in the first place. Either way, Frank is relieved.

When Frank gets a little lost in the kitchen, Mikey digs around and unearths a bowl and spoon for him. Frank takes them gratefully and serves out Gee's soup, setting the bowl and spoon on a tray and preparing to take it to her. Mikey looks at him pointedly, and Frank shrugs and walks down the hall, deciding to ignore him for now. He knows that Mikey is probably just worried about his sister, considering what happened the last time Frank was in her bedroom, added to the fact that she's sick and tired.

Gee's door is closed when he reaches her bedroom, and he carefully juggles the tray in his left hand and raises his right to knock gently. She answers almost immediately with a "come in" and her voice sounds feeble and exhausted. He holds the tray properly again and shoulders the door open, kicking it shut with his foot. Gee struggles to sit up in bed when she sees him, offering a small smile which is quickly interrupted by a sneeze.

"I'm sorry, Frank, hi," she greets him, and he sets the tray down on her bedside table and perches on the edge of her bed.

"Hi," he returns, and then gestures to the tray, "I made you soup."

"You're sweet, Frank," she says, eyeing the soup gratefully. She can't reach it properly from where she's sitting, but Frank doesn't want to put a hot tray on her lap when she's got to be going through odd temperature flushes enough as it is. Instead, he opts for dipping the spoon in the bowl and then hesitating. "Is it okay if. Well, would you like to me spoon-feed you?" he asks with a grin. She laughs in response, but she nods anyway and then she moves over to give Frank more room on the bed. He ends up sitting cross-legged to the side of her, the tray settled on his knees. When he feeds her the first spoonful and waits for her to swallow, Gee groans in satisfaction and smiles lazily.

"That's perfect, Frank. Just what I need."

They sit in silence, and Frank continues to spoon-feed Gee the soup until the spoon is scraping the bottom of the bowl. Finally, she sits back and dips her head back onto her pillow, exposing her throat. Frank remembers how it felt to have his lips on that same stretch of skin, how it felt to have her shiver against him. He shifts a little uncomfortably on the bed, feeling incredibly awkward all of a sudden and not entirely sure what he's supposed to do next. He's never been all that great at small talk, and now the soup is gone and he has nothing to do with his hands to distract himself. He ends up picking at the threads of her blanket, avoiding her eyes until she says something or makes some kind of move to tell him where they're supposed to go from here.

"Frank?" He looks up finally at the sound of his name to see Gee smiling a little, biting her lip self-consciously. "Thank for coming over," she says, but she still looks a little unsettled, like there's something more she has to say. He's startled when he looks down and realises that her hand has crept over until it's resting gently on his knee. He can feel the warmth of her hand through the cover of his jeans, and he holds himself in check desperately. She's sick, she's tired, she probably doesn't remember anything about the other night, and he is not going to fuck this up by jumping her or something.

"Any time," he says, because that's the kind of thing you're supposed to say, but he really does mean it. There's another stretch of silence, and Frank attempts to break it with an awkward half-laugh. "So, Ray and Bob, huh?"

Gee grins, and the tension is gone, though Frank notices that her hand remains on his knee. "I think they're doing dinner next week. Who would've thought?"

Frank moves the tray back to the bedside table and nods. He's about to say something like 'all the best to them, then', but Gee cuts across him, her voice sounding urgent and kind of breathless, all in a rush. "Come to lunch with me," she says, and then takes a deep breath in. "Tomorrow?"

It takes a moment for Frank's brain to catch up, but then he looks at her face where her cheeks are flushed - this time nothing at all to do with the heat of the soup or her sickness - and he nods immediately. "I'd love to," he says for the second time that afternoon, and her eyes light up.

"Great! You could pick me up?" she suggests, and Frank nods again, and then he covers her hand on his knee with his own hand, and she smiles and looks like she's about to say something, but then she's cut off by a yawn.

"You should sleep," Frank says sternly. The more she lets her body rest, the quicker she'll get better, and Frank doesn't want her feeling like death tomorrow if he's going to take her out. There's no way he's risking taking her away from her bed if she's not at least somewhat better, but he also really, really wants to take her up on the offer.

"I think I might, sorry," she says apologetically, but Frank just waves off the apology dismissively and helps her lay down properly. He can't help but smooth her hair back off her face and bring the blankets back up around her to tuck her in. Her eyes are half-closed when she whispers a thank you to him, and he kisses her forehead as she closes them all the way. Frank pulls away and then hesitates, hovering over her face with an arm on either side of her small frame. Unable to resist, he leans down and presses his lips gently against her cheek before he lays down beside her and watches as her breathing evens out and she falls asleep.

-

The next day leaves Frank feeling like a total tool. He promised he would pick Gee up for their lunch date - is that what they're calling it? A date? Frank is so out of his league - but it has just occurred to him that he doesn't actually own a car. While he has absolutely nothing against walking to Gee's place, he has a feeling that it's not really the best way to go about making a girl feel special. Frank panics momentarily, fretting in his kitchen with his house keys digging imprints into the skin of his right hand before he figures fuck it, she's not exactly a princess. He's out his front door and on his way to Gee's before he can give himself any more time to think on it.

Once again it's Mikey who answers the door when Frank knocks, and he hopes to god that this time it's not because Gee's still sick in bed. "Hey Mikey," he says when Mikey invites him inside, and he steps over the threshold, eyes immediately searching for any sign of her.

"She's just getting ready," Mikey says in answer to Frank's nervous glances, and Frank breathes a small sigh of relief and tells himself to calm down.

As if on cue, there's a crashing sound from the hallway and Gee staggers into sight, favouring her right leg and frowning. Frank can't help but grin. "Sorry! Sorry!" she exclaims, and Frank is torn between laughing at whatever she's done and feeling like that might give off the wrong impression. In the end he can't help himself, but she just turns and grins back at him. "I tripped and fell into my easel, but shut up, okay."

Frank sees the way she lights up a little at this, and he remembers her telling him about her previous dreams to become an artist. He didn't know that she hadn't stopped entirely, and he's itching to have a look at some of her work. "You still do art?" he asks, because he doesn't remember whether she told him what kind of art she does.

She blushes then, white skin flushing with pink, and he really wants to kiss her. "I was... inspired," she says with this secret kind of smile, and then the moment is gone and she's back to her normal self. "Anyway, let's go, yeah?"

Frank is more than happy to oblige. She reaches out and he takes her hand after a startled moment - he guesses that this is a date then - and hopes beyond hope that Mikey doesn't slaughter him for touching his sister. Mikey just smiles at them, and waves as Gee leads Frank out the door, her fingers still interlaced with his.

"So I don't have a car," he admits sheepishly once they're out on the sidewalk.

Gee laughs, bright and happy. "Walking is good," she says, and begins to lead him away from the house.

It's kind of lame and he knows that he'll regret it as soon as he gets within eyesight of Greta, but Frank takes Gee to his usual little cafe. Whether it's because he wants to share a little piece of himself with Gee or because of the free coffee, he doesn't know, but he likes to think of it as the former. Gee doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she beams at him as he pushes the door open. "I love this place!" she says as she settles down into a booth.

Frank glances at the counter with a wry smile and sighs. "You won't in a second..." he mutters as Greta pops her head around the register and spots him.

"Frank!" she cries, and Frank hopes she doesn't come over and have lunch with them. He loves Greta, really he does, but it would really kind of kill the 'date' vibe, and so far, Frank is enjoying the time alone with Gee. Luckily, Greta spots the girl beside him almost immediately, and her smile becomes more subdued. "What'll it be?" she asks instead, smiling at Gee warmly.

They order their food and then they're left to themselves. Frank feels ridiculously nervous all of a sudden. He's alone with her, on an actual date (he still can't get his head around the fact) and suddenly he's at a loss for what to say. "What were you working on, before?" he settles on, because that's nice and safely directed on her, and he really is curious as to what kind of art she does, and why she decided to start up again.

Gee ducks her head to hide a smile and sips at her water. "I was painting," she says, and as soon as she says it Frank spots the stripe of green paint across the inside of her wrist. He feels a sudden surge of want that he can't entirely explain but in a way he doesn't really want to. It's the sight of vibrant green across soft, pale skin. It's in the flaw against the perfection, the way she probably doesn't even realise it's there. In the way she can get so passionate about something, so immersed in her craft that she doesn't care what it leaves her looking like. He wants her, plain and simple. Wants to unwrap her and get under her skin and lose himself in her, wants to paint stripes across her stomach and show her how amazing she is. He gets so lost in the colour that he forgets for a moment where he is, and that he's probably creeping her out. She looks down, noticing him staring and obviously wondering what's caught his eye, and when she sees the paint she laughs. She's not embarrassed in the slightest and Frank just feels his infatuation with her growing. "Sorry, I didn't even see it before," she says, and Frank shakes his head.

"I like it," he says, unable to stop himself before the words are out of his mouth. "It's you." It sounds so utterly ridiculous that he wants to take it back as soon as he says it, but he can't, it's out there, and his stupid, hopeless heart is out there for her to see.

She smiles, and it's softer than usual. Her usual face-cracking grin is gone and in its place is a small smile, not half-hearted nor timid but meaningful. Like she understands. "You're kind of amazing, aren't you, Frank?" she says, and Frank is glad when their food arrives because it stops him from saying something ridiculous in return.

They eat, talking in between mouthfuls and Frank finds that the more time he spends in her company, the easier conversation becomes. She's not hard to talk to by any means, and mostly he finds himself talking about anything and everything before he's even aware of it. There's no sense of awkwardness, nothing to hold him back, and so he just lets go and allows her to see him as he is and make of it what she will. It's the only way he knows how to react to her, the only way he can keep up with her honesty and her earnest eyes.

He wants to spend the entire day with her, but to his dismay she stops walking once they leave the cafe. "I promised Mikey that I'd hang out this afternoon," she says, "I'm really sorry, Frank." And she looks like she really is, her eyes apologetic and her hands holding his. He wishes he could spend the afternoon with her, but he's hardly going to tear her away from her brother.

"Do you maybe want to do this again some time?" he asks instead. He's determined not to fuck this up, determined not to let her walk away without showing her that he wants to take this further. He's going to overcome his nerves if it kills him.

Nodding happily, Gee says, "I really would, Frank," and Frank takes her hand and walks her home with his heart soaring.

When they land on her doorstep, Frank isn't really sure what the protocol is. It's still broad daylight, so it's not like in the movies when he's expected to kiss her goodnight and then walk away like a gentleman. Her brother is probably waiting on the other side of the door. And it's not like he even knows whether Gee wants him to kiss her, because they've only really had one proper date. "I'll see you next week then?" he says finally. "Band practice?"

"Yeah! Yeah, of course!" She smiles at him, and he takes a step away from the door so that she can open it. Her hand falls on the doorknob and she starts to go inside. Frank smiles at her one more time before he turns around and is about to leave when he feels her hand on his shoulder. "Frank, wait."

"Yeah?" he asks, turning around with a puzzled frown. She's looking at him like she's kind of nervous, biting at her lip, and her hand still hasn't left his shoulder.

"Frank, I really like you," she says, her eyes large and serious. "And I'm." She pauses for a moment and closes her eyes briefly like she's steadying herself before she opens them again and says, "And I'm going to kiss you now." And she does, leaning forward and curling her free hand around his neck as she brings their lips together softly. It's chaste, just the softest brush of her lips against his with her hands warm on his skin before she's pulling away. She hides a smile by biting her lip again, and tugs at her hair. Frank stands completely still. She's kissed him before, but only with sloppy lips and alcohol on her breath, and this is more, so much more, and he doesn't know exactly what to do.

"Gee-" he starts, but she cuts him off by kissing him again, harder this time, more insistent. He kisses back a little desperately, and his hands find hers, tracing his thumb over that stripe of paint on her skin and deepening the kiss. She rocks on the spot as he slides his hands around her waist and hers find his neck again, and before he knows what's happening she's steering him back towards the door and he falls against it, breathless. Gee draws away for only a moment to grin at him before their lips find each other again and Frank slides his hands under the hem of her shirt, running his fingers along the smooth skin of her stomach and then around to the small of her back. She shivers against him and then finally, finally they stop, and Frank opens his eyes to find her smiling that same smile again. He's kind of frozen, stuck between being a little overwhelmed and also really wanting to kiss her again.

"This is the part where you say something," she whispers against his lips.

"I like you too?" he offers up, still a little dumbstruck, and she laughs. Frank kisses her again, just to shut her up or maybe just because he can, and he can feel her smile against his mouth. "I really like you," he amends when they break apart, and she laughs again, a breathy kind of giggle and kisses his cheek.

"I'm glad, Frank," she says, and then he lets her slip inside and begins the walk home feeling considerably lighter.

-

The rest of the week flies by in a rush, and Frank's time and thoughts are filled with Gee. Mostly she spends nights at his place, because if there's anything Mikey has objected to with this relationship, it's sex in the bedroom next to his. They rent movies and Frank grabs at the opportunity to cuddle with Gee on his couch, his fingers toying with the hem of her shirt until he's distracted her sufficiently. It's harder than it sounds, really. Gee is kind of a movie enthusiast, and it takes a lot of effort on Frank's part to stop her talking about how great the movie is so that he can kiss her into silence. It's a week full of popcorn and salty kisses and stumbling down the hall to Frank's bedroom (if they make it that far) and Frank has never felt more alive. Afterwards, she'll lay in bed with him and talk about their dreams, and what could have been if Gee had followed art as a career instead of forming the band. Frank tells her about Pencey, about how much he misses it sometimes, misses the feeling of the solid weight of the guitar in his hands and the music flowing through his veins. Misses the feeling of being on a stage and having an entirely new identity come alive in front of an audience. He misses the crowd and the feeling of being able to express himself in a way that tells everybody exactly what he needs to say, what he feels.

She holds his hands while he talks, her thumb stroking softly over the skin. "Come to band practice this afternoon," she says one morning when they lay tangled in Frank's sheets. The white of the material slips down as she sits up, sliding off her shoulders and exposing more skin - the cream of her neck and the beginning swell of her breasts. Her hair is in disarray and her eyes are bright with passion, her skin smooth and bare beneath the thin sheet. Frank kisses her because he has to, and when he pulls away he nods, uttering an agreement against her lips.

"I'll be there," he promises.

Band practice is held in Ray's basement. Frank arrives with his hand in Gee's, and Mikey rolls his eyes. Ray smiles, and Matt slaps him hard on the back. He feels at home with these guys, this band, and he settles down onto the moth-eaten couch to watch them play. It takes a while before anything actually gets moving; there's a lot of time spent messing around and tuning instruments, setting up and discussing what to play. Gee takes her place at the front, dead center in front of Frank's feet, and she smiles at him, looking a little bit nervous. He's heard her sing in her car, in his bed, on a stage in front of an entire crowd of people, but here, in Ray's basement she seems unsettled, like she's afraid of what he'll think.

Frank keeps his eyes fixed firmly on her, but when the music starts up he can't help but get lost in it. Ray and Mikey work well together, but he can't help the feeling that they could be excellent with something more, with another guitar part to compliment Ray. He finds himself imagining his guitar in his hands, his hands moving unconsciously along invisible strings, testing out chords in his head. He hardly even realises that he's playing the fucking air guitar on Ray's couch until the music comes to a sudden halt, and he looks up to find the band all staring at him.

"Frank?" Ray questions, letting his guitar hang in front of him, slack. He's frowning with curiosity, and when he gestures at Frank's hands, Frank realises what he was doing. "You play guitar?"

He realises then that Gee obviously hasn't told them about Pencey. He smiles at her, and in some strange way he finds himself pleased that she reserved their conversations for just the two of them. It's not out of any desire for the others not to know, but he likes the idea that it's something they share, whispered secrets between kisses that she finds important enough to keep to herself.

"I used to be in a band," Frank says with a shrug, and Ray's eyes light up.

"Oh man! You guys, it's like fucking fate or something," he says to the others, and then he disappears up the stairs. Frank looks at Gee, bewildered and looking for some kind of explanation, but she just shrugs. After a moment or two Ray returns, and he's got an extra guitar in his hands. He hands it to Frank carefully, and Frank stares at him, a little lost for what he's supposed to be doing. He was just messing around in his head, really. He doesn't want to tell them that they could use an extra guitar, because they're awesome and he doesn't want to make them feel like they're any less at the moment. "Play what you were miming before," Ray instructs, and then steps back to watch.

A little self-consciously, Frank strums out the chords he had sketched out in his mind, and Ray just keeps grinning at him like Frank's made of fucking candy. "What?" Frank asks and stops playing. Ray looks around, shares a glance with Otter and Mikey and then finally looks at Gee, and some kind of non-verbal conversation seems to happen between the four of them and Frank feels totally out of the loop. Gee grins though, and when she comes and sits down next to Frank on the couch, she places her hand on the small of his back.

"Play it again," she says softly, her breath whispering across his neck. Frank shivers and nods, plays the part again and then stops.

"It's perfect," Mikey says, and then he picks up his bass and the others follow suit. The song starts again, and this time Frank adds in parts where he thinks it could work, nervous but encouraged by Gee's voice as she sings to him, her hand still on his back. They stop around three-quarters of the way through and Ray nods enthusiastically.

"It's just what I've been wanting to add," he announces.

"You wanna play on a stage again, Frank?" Gee asks, her voice lilting with a wry smile on her lips.

"You want me to play with you?" Frank asks, looking at each of them in turn and feeling his eyes widen, his jaw dropping. There's no question about it, not really. He misses playing, and these guys have what Pencey didn't. They've got so much passion and energy and a fiery determination to do something; Frank knows this can't go wrong. This is where he's meant to be - playing alongside his favourite band, sharing the stage with the girl he's falling in love with. He looks at her then, and she kisses him, and when she draws away she's looking at him expectantly.

"What'll it be, Frank?" she asks, biting her lip, as if she's nervous, as if she thinks there's a chance he might say no.

Frank just grins, stupid and wide and ridiculous. "There's nothing I'd like more."

-

It's the night of Frank's first live show with the band, and Frank thinks he's going to be sick. It's been a long time since he was playing on a stage with Pencey, and the nerves are alight in his stomach, twisting his insides into knots. He's excited though, so excited to get up there and let rip, to pour everything out in a rush of energy. And then finally they're walking onto the stage, and Frank fingers his guitar strap nervously, glancing back at Ray for reassurance. When he looks back to the front, Gee winks at him from behind her microphone. After a quick introduction, she launches them into it, and Frank lets the music take over.

By the end of the set he's drenched in sweat, his shirt sticking to his skin and his heart beating fast with adrenaline. Gee is insane, throwing herself around with this crazy grin on her face and her hair flying around wildly. Before he knows what's happening, she's next to him, belting out the last chorus of the night while she leans against his shoulder, and then she twists and kisses him on the mouth, dirty and wild before she's wheeling away from him again and thanking the audience. Frank barely has time to walk offstage before her hands are on his hips and she pulls him against her. She's in that post-show state again that Frank will never get used to - all burning eyes and sweaty hair and half-wild. She practically tears his guitar from him and pushes it towards Ray so that he can deposit it in the van before she grabs Frank's hand and runs, laughing, to the back of the venue.

The night air outside is cold and biting, but it's welcome on their hot, sweaty skin. In seconds Gee is pushing him up against the wall and stepping forward, sliding her right leg between his and pushing up close. "Gee," he breathes out before she kisses him and cuts off whatever else he was about to say. He kisses back and tries to keep up as best he can, but she's running on adrenaline and there's no stopping her. She grinds against him roughly and Frank groans out loud, kissing her harshly just to muffle the sounds.

It's so fucking dirty and Frank can hardly believe it's happening, but his hands are up in her shirt, fingernails scraping against the wire of her bra desperately and she's breathing hard against his neck. "Frank, Frank," she says, and her hands slip into his pants and his underwear, wrapping her fingers around his cock and moving up, down once. His knees buckle but she holds him up against the wall, her teeth scraping against his neck as she presses herself impossibly closer. Forcing his brain to regain control of the situation while Gee's hands begin running up and down his cock in earnest, Frank fights through the haze threatening to cloud his mind so that he can make use of his limbs. His hands run up her thighs, under her skirt and push her underwear aside so that he can slide two fingers in and feel her stutter out a shaky breath against his neck. He matches her pace, quick and desperate, covering her lips with his to stifle any sounds either of them might make, and it's not long before he can feel her clenching around his fingers. She tears her lips away from his and buries her face in his neck, crying out and biting into the skin, and Frank follows her.

Up against the wall, Frank struggles to get his breath back. Gee laughs and kisses him again, softer, sweeter, and then pulls away and pushes her hair back from her face where it's sticking to her skin. They clean up as best they can, straightening their clothes and laughing all the way, stealing kisses as they run around the side of the venue and out to the carpark. They find the rest of the band leaning against the van and looking pretty pissed, which just makes Gee start laughing again.

"Any time today would be great," Mikey drawls, rolling his eyes and climbing into the van. "You guys are gross."

"You love me," Gee says and sticks her tongue out at him childishly, grabbing Frank's hand and dragging him into the back of the van.

Frank holds tight to her hand as they pull away from the venue, and he leans in towards her, eyes suddenly serious despite the smile still on his lips. "I know I do," he says, and while it may not be the exact words, she understands the sentiment. It's still early, after all. She smiles at him and leans her head against his shoulder. They ride in silence for a while, until Frank hears her humming softly at first and then gradually a little bit louder until he can make out 'Open Arms'. He shakes his head and laughs. She beams at him and continues to sing quietly as Otter drives, until she falls asleep, curled into him with a smile on her face.

Fic: Any Way You Want

lightisbreaking — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 14:08:59 GMT

For genderbendbb

Any Way You Want
MCR; girl!Gerard/Frank
~18,200; R

Frank shifts a little on the bar stool and passes his beer from his left hand to his right. He’s here alone, and waiting for the stage to be occupied is starting to get tedious. There’s some new band in town, he doesn’t know their name. All he knows is that Bob – this guy from back when he used to go to college – said they were pretty good, and urged him to check them out. And so here he is, hanging out in some shitty bar while the band finally get themselves comfortable on stage, each of them looking a little awkward and more than a little drunk.

They’re missing a singer, Frank notices. The drummer is settled, and there’s two guys fiddling with guitars and amps, but the microphone in the middle of the stage stands alone. Frank wonders if he’s planning some big dramatic entrance, and wants to laugh. At a gig like this, where the majority of the crowd are too fucked to even remember the show tomorrow morning, dramatic entrances are snort-worthy. They want to get up there, play hard, scream the name of their band and hope that it sticks in someone’s mind. They need to put on a hard and fast show that even if it doesn’t keep everyone’s attention, leaves them enjoying it enough that they don’t walk out the door. Frank knows this place inside out, knows the sort of bands that usually play here. He’s not expecting anything ground-breaking. He thinks, watching the band, that in the state they’re in, they’ll be lucky to even find their instruments with their hands. He wonders how many beers they knocked back in an attempt to expel the nerves, and grins.

It’s when the singer finally appears that Frank has to turn away. It’s a chick. Frank has nothing against chicks in bands, really, but he knows how they’ll be received. They’re playing some shitty grunge bar, trying to entertain a crowd of drunk, lonely and pathetic men. Frank can already see the interest perking, but it’s not due to anything the band has done. If they get an audience out of this, it will be because their singer has a good ass, rather than any musical talent.

“Fancy a ride home, sugar?” some drunk bastard yells from the bar stool closest to the stage, and Frank sort of wants to kick him.

To her credit, the singer just looks at him and flips him off, turning her back on him and whispering something to one of the guitarists. It’s when she turns around and grins again, that Frank sits up and takes fucking notice. There’s this... glint in her eyes. This hunger to do something, a wildness that forces Frank to look up, to watch and know that he’s about to see a fucking show. His beer stays forgotten on the bar as he slides off the stool and closer to the stage, pushing his way through the crowd to reach the front of the tiny pit. There’s a couple of girls standing there with matching grins and matching t-shirts that read My Chemical Romance. Frank can tell at a glance the shirts are homemade, and he wonders how good this band is that they’ve already acquired fans like these.

And then the vocalist speaks.

“All right you motherfuckers. We’re My Chemical Romance, and we’re about to fuck you up!” she screams into her microphone, and Frank can’t help but grin back at her, marvelling at the wild abandon in her eyes. She’s drunk, yes, he can see it in the sloppy movements, the slur of the words and the reckless grin, but there’s something more. He waits, captivated, and they begin to play.

As the first verse breaks forth, Frank thinks that perhaps ‘play’ isn’t a very good word to describe what he’s witnessing. This is scream in your face, kick you in the balls, turn that shit up louder. This is something he’s never seen before, something that leaves him wanting more more more, forces him to move his feet and his arms and his head and feel. This, is what it feels like to be touched by something so intense it leaves you reeling. He still can’t quite grasp the raw passion behind it, even as he feels himself being thrown about, battered and bruised and loving every minute. He can hardly tell whenwhere one song fades into the other, and he just keeps moving, moving, feeling as though to stop would be to die.

She makes eye contact with him, and she winks and flips him the finger at the same time, and he has this crazy urge to live his life for her, for this band. It’s insane what she does to him with those eyes, carried away in a sea of music, sweat and sex. Because that’s what this fucking band feels like, he realises. Hot, hard, fast, sweaty sex. They radiate it, seeping through his pores and leaving him panting, sweating, desperate. He’s turned on beyond belief and he doesn’t even know why. He can feel the beat in his veins, feels the thrumming of guitars and the thud of drums and leading it all, the powerful and gripping voice coming from such a small girl. This is music. This is fucking rock.

It’s over much quicker than he’s ready for it. He wants to stay for hours, wants to feel the music in his bones long after the band finish the last notes. He wants, and he needs, and he knows he’s not going to get, and that kills.

“You guys have been fucking incredible. Thank you so much,” she says, out of breath and exhausted, her hair dripping with sweat and her cheeks flushed, but she’s grinning so hard Frank thinks her face might crack. This is her dream, he realises, as if he didn’t know it before. He hopes that he sees them around, hopes that they get far enough to see this dream unfold into reality. He knows that the second an album hits the stores, he’ll be first in line, even though he knows it can’t possibly compare to the thrill of seeing them live. The band stumble offstage, arms flung around each other, hugging and panting and laughing.

My Chemical Romance. Frank feels as though he will never forget the name.

Ten minutes later, Frank is at the bar, trying to get his breath back, and still unable to fight the smile off his face. He orders another beer and settles back onto his stool. The same guy is sitting beside him, and he nudges Frank when he sits down.

“That chick was really something, huh? Incredible ass.” His voice is a drawl, and Frank glares at the sleaze, wishing that he could punch him in the face without being kicked out of the bar. “Nice tits, too, though a little small,” the bastard continues, and this time, Frank can’t hold himself in check. He doesn’t really understand it - he doesn’t even know the girl - but for some reason he feels this rage bubbling up inside him, and he lands his fist in the guy’s nose before he even realises he’s done it. There’s a shout of pain and blood trickling between the fingers the guy holds up to his face, even as he lifts his other fist to fight back. Frank doesn’t even feel the punch at first, and then there’s a splitting pain down one side of his head and he swears. He’s getting ready to fight back, he’ll knock the fucker out if need be, and then he doesn’t have to, because someone else has beaten him to it. There’s a crack and the guy slumps forward, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Frank’s eyes follow him to the floor before he remembers that this is probably going to lead to trouble, and he looks up. And there’s the girl, staring at the limp form on the floor with a mixture of disgust and triumph.

“You’ll never lay a finger on me, motherfucker,” she snarls, and Frank can appreciate a girl who knows how to stand up for herself. Security though, are apparently not quite as impressed. Frank groans as a hand fists the sleeve of his shirt.

“No fighting in my bar,” a gruff voice tells him, before he’s kicked out. He doesn’t bother to argue; really, he doesn’t want to stay any more. He would have liked to tell the girl how much he enjoyed the show, but oh well, maybe he can catch her at the next gig. He shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets and is about to walk home - it’s only a few blocks away - when a hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Thanks, for, you know. In there. Sorry about your head.” She gestures her thumb behind her to the bar, and there’s this wry smirk on her lips that holds Frank in shock for a moment until he remembers his voice.

“Oh. Right. Well, he was being an asshole, so.” Frank shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the dull ache in his head and wondering whether she’s expecting more of a conversation, or whether he should just go. As awkward as it is, he figures that he might as well take his chance. “That was a really incredible set, by the way. You guys really have something.”

She smiles then, all bright eyes and tiny teeth, dimples forming and cheekbones accentuating, and Frank has to hold himself in check. She’s sobering up - he supposes being kicked out would have helped that along - and there’s none of the drunk lopsidedness to her grin now.

“I saw you, in the front,” she says. “You looked like you got it.”

Frank wants to tell her that he did, he gets it, he understands the energy, the power, the need, the message, but he can’t find the words. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and it’s really fucking inconvenient, the way she keeps smiling at him. How’s he supposed to form a sentence when she’s looking at him like that? He catches himself, realising that right now he’s probably no better than the asshole from the bar.

“Yeah. I’ll be keeping an eye out,” he says instead, and doesn’t have to explain what he’ll be looking for. She already knows.

She fixes sharp eyes on him and shakes her hair out of her eyes. It’s still damp with sweat, hanging just past her shoulders, messy and tangled from the show, framing her pale face. He notices a tiny pink blemish on her right cheek and he knows he’s staring, but he can’t help it. She’s hot.

There’s a yell from behind them, and Frank looks up to see the rest of her band waving and trying to get her attention.

“Coming, you impatient fucks!” she yells back, and Frank cracks a grin despite himself. When she turns back to him, she’s pulling a sharpie out of her pocket nonchalantly, as if it’s totally normal for her to carry around markers in her clothing. Without saying a word, she reaches out and snatches his arm. Her tongue pokes out the side of her lips as she scribbles on his forearm - luckily, the arm not completely covered in tattoos - and when she’s done, she caps the marker with a flourish.

When he looks down, he smiles at how endearingly messy her rushed handwriting is. A phone number, accompanied by a quick G xoxo. Abruptly, he realises he doesn’t know her name.

“Frank,” he offers, holding out the same arm to shake her hand. She laughs and shakes it with an air of mocking. Maybe it is a little weird to be shaking her hand, but whatever.

“Gee,” she answers in kind, and then another cheerful shout from her band kicks her back into gear. “Call me, Frank,” she says, and then she’s gone.

-

Frank sits in front of the phone, and suddenly he understands what people bitch and moan about. How many times has he rolled his eyes and told some poor sucker to just call her already? How many times has he laughed at the idea of being too scared to call some girl? And now he is, and okay, it’s harder than he thought. Pathetic, Frank, pathetic, he scolds himself, picking up the phone and hitting himself in the forehead with it. It leaves a dull ache, a casual reminder that he’s a fucking idiot, and maybe he’ll even get a nice bruise so that when he spots himself in the mirror he’ll remember what a pussy he is.

“Oh, get a grip,” he groans out loud, and dials the number. Really, he doesn’t know what he was so worried about; this is easy, this is awesome, this is--

“Hello?”

-- a total fucking mistake.

“Um, hi?”

There’s a pause, silence on the other end, until, “Sorry, who is this?”

If he wasn’t holding it to his ear, Frank would probably try and knock himself out with the damn phone this time.

“It’s Frank. Um. From the show the other night?” He’s rather proud of the way he keeps the stutter out of his tone.

“Oh! The guy who heroically got himself beat up for me. I remember.”

Frank scrunches his nose and is glad that she’s not here to watch him going red. “It wasn’t. I didn’t - Okay, fine. Yes, that’s me.”

She giggles, this breathy little laugh, and Frank can practically see her eyes shining, lips twitching. And oh, now he remembers why he called.

“Anyway, so I was wondering whether. Whether you might want to go for a drink?”

This time there’s no hesitation, and Frank takes it as a good sign.

“I’d love to! My brother wants to check out this new club. You want to come with?”

He’d been aiming for something maybe a little more... Private, without little brothers hanging around and waiting to condemn him, but he’s not about to throw away his chance.

“Great,” he says instead, and she tells him the time and the place in an excited rush. Frank wonders whether she gets this excited and earnest about everything in her life, and he feels a smile twitch its way onto his lips.

“So we’ll pick you up around eight?” she asks, and Frank grins. He feels like he should be picking her up.

Instead, he says, “Eight it is,” and rattles off his address before he says his goodbyes. When he hangs up the phone, his grin is still etched on his face. Catching sight of himself in the mirror on the wall in front of him, Frank groans at himself and scrubs his hands over his face, as though that will dispose of the dopey smile. It doesn’t.

-

At 8:30, Frank is seriously considering picking up his phone and finding out where the hell Gee is. He’s been checking his watch obsessively every five minutes, sometimes more, and he’s starting to wonder where she is. It’s ridiculous, really. He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting. Here she is, gorgeous, raw, intense, and fronting a fucking rock band, and he expected her to actually like him?

Frowning, Frank puts down the phone and throws himself onto the couch, toeing off his shoes. He’d been stupid to get his hopes up. Sighing loudly and deeply, Frank settles back into the couch and switches on the TV to discover that they’re running a Will & Grace marathon tonight. Firmly, he tells himself that this is good. Who needs rock star potential-girlfriends when he can have ridiculous sitcoms?

The knock at his door ten minutes later startles him so much he almost falls off the couch, but then he’s up in a flash and wrenching the door off its hinges. And there she is, dressed in low-cut jeans and a ripped Madonna shirt, hair everywhere and eyes rimmed dark with liner, and Frank forgets any resentment towards her he may have felt in the past half hour.

“Hi!” she says, in the same kind of breathless, excited way that she seems to say everything, and Frank finds himself unable to stop smiling at her.

“Hey,” he says, forcing the words past his lips, “it’s 8:40.” He’s not sure exactly what he means by this; some sort of inquiry into why she was so late, without trying to sound accusing. In the end, he just comes off sort of dumbstruck.

Her eyes widen ridiculously, the green made all the more intense by the darkness surrounding them, and she gasps. “Oh! Is it really? I’m sorry, I’m hopeless with time and we were jamming and we just got caught up and that’s just how it is with music, you know?” she says all in one breath, and Frank laughs and nods.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just let me get my shoes, yeah?”

She nods, stays put - thank god - while he goes to retrieve his previously abandoned shoes, and then as quick as he can he’s grabbing his wallet and his keys and is following her out the door. If he chances a glance at her ass in those jeans it’s not his fault, he swears.

She’s driving the same van she had at the show, this beat up old thing that hardly even looks road-worthy, and when she opens the passenger side door for him, it squeaks so loud he grimaces. She just pats the thing fondly, and gestures for him to get in. To his surprise, there are three other guys in the back of the van who wave at Frank enthusiastically.

“Oh!” Gee exclaims again, and Frank is beginning to think that everything in her life is exciting to her. “This is Otter, Ray, and my little brother, Mikey.” Frank greets them all, and tries not to ask out loud when this turned into a group activity.

“So you guys are My Chemical Romance, huh?” he asks while Gee drives them to some new club in town.

“You guys, I’m sold. He remembered our name!” Mikey laughs, and Frank grins.

“I play guitar,” Ray says, “Otter is on drums and Mikey’s our bassist. Gee sings, obviously.” Frank remembers their show, remembers the rush in his veins and the tingle in his fingers, and he grins. All of a sudden the radio is turned up full-ball and Gee yells over the top of Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’.

“You guys!” she shouts, and they seem to catch on immediately, belting out “she took a midnight train going anywhere” altogether. Frank laughs loud, looking across the console to where Gee has her head thrown back, grinning through the words as she sings, and when she turns to catch his eye she grins wider, nudges him to join in, and Frank adds his voice to the chorus with wild abandon. This is how things should be, he thinks, and he’s already decided that he’s never letting this band get away from him.

They pull up to the club not long after, and by the time everyone is pouring out of the van, Frank doesn’t even care that he didn’t get to bring Gee out alone. The club is packed full with people, and Frank finds himself behind Otter, using him as a way to push through the crowd so that they can get to the bar. He orders a drink for himself, then spins around to take everyone else’s order as well.

When everyone has a drink in their hand, Ray directs them to a corner where there’s a small table unoccupied, and this time Frank finds himself squished up against Gee in order to fit them all around the table. She smiles at him, and he returns it, desperately trying to keep his hands away from her thighs or something else ridiculously inappropriate. Instead, he takes a large gulp of beer and tries to focus on what Mikey is saying about the guy who runs the place, or something.

“Wentz is totally fucking crazy man, but he’s cool,” Mikey’s saying, and then he grins at Gee wildly. “In fact, I think I’ll go say hello,” he says, and then he disappears around the corner with his drink in hand. Gee groans loudly, throws back the rest of her glass and looks at Ray helplessly.

“I refuse. I won’t do it this time. You can, you’re the designated driver,” she says, and Ray sighs and nods.

“Do what?” Frank asks before he can help himself.

“Look after Mikey when he comes home blind and smelling of sex.” She screws her nose up in distaste. “No sister should have to smell that on their baby brother.”

“Do you want to get out there?” Frank asks her on a whim, gesturing to the mass of moving bodies. She cocks her head a little bit to the side, and Frank wishes she’d stop being so fucking adorable or else he’s going to do something he’ll regret. Finally, she smiles and nods, and Frank takes her hand and leads her out onto the floor.

And then it’s almost cruel the way the bodies press in from all sides, and he has no choice but to shove right up against Gee, feel her hips and her thighs brushing his, and oh god his life is made of hell and torment. This needs to stop, and it needs to stop now. He forces himself to get a grip, because he barely even knows the poor girl and he’s never going to if he can’t get his damn hormones under control.

“A Journey fan, then?” he shouts into her ear over the music, and she grins and nods enthusiastically.

“Aren’t you?” she yells back, as though it’s blasphemy to disagree, and Frank just laughs.

Frank’s beginning to lose track of how many drinks he’s had by now, and judging by the fact that he buys Gee one every time as well, she’s not doing any better. She’s smiling constantly, drunk, relaxed and carefree, and she slumps against Otter with a giggle.

“Gonna hang out with us again, Frank?” she slurs at him, “we haven’t scared you off yet?”

He just shakes his head, and Otter settles Gee into a chair before she falls over. “Ready to head off yet, sweetheart?” he laughs, nudging her foot, and Gee flips him off lazily. It’s around then that Mikey wanders back out into view, hair in disarray and half the buttons on his shirt still undone, and Gee groans loudly and waves her hands in front of her eyes.

“My innocent eyes! And my innocent little brother! Mikey, Mikey, you fiend!”

Ray rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay. I’m the sober one, all of you have to do what I say. Let’s head off before Mikey disappears to find Wentz again, shall we?”

Frank helps Gee to her feet, and she leans on his arm as he directs her out of the club and into the back of the van. Mikey takes shotgun, and Otter ends up sitting between Frank and Gee. Frank kind of regrets that he didn’t get to sit next to her this time as she slumps her head onto Otter’s shoulder and starts to drift asleep.

When Ray pulls up outside Frank’s, Gee wakes up and smiles all dopey at him, and Frank gives her a wave as he jumps out of the van. “Don’t miss the next show, Frank,” she calls to him, and picks up a flyer off the ground and throws it out for him to catch. And then with a wink, the door shuts again, and Ray pulls out of Frank’s driveway.

Frank watches them go and then lumbers back into his house, smiling when he hears Mama barking for him. The flyer immediately gets tacked up on his fridge, right next to his pizza coupons, and then he drags himself to bed to await the next morning’s hangover.

-

It’s mornings like these that Frank thanks the higher powers that he dropped out of college to play with Pencey. While that may have not entirely worked out (more like went to hell in a fucking handbasket, but that’s neither here nor there), it still means that when his alarm clock goes off at seven in the morning, and his head throbs in protest, he can roll over and go back to sleep.

Twenty minutes later, he wakes up again and realises that it’s Monday. Fuck damn! He topples out of bed and his hip collides painfully with his dresser, but there’s no time for that. Damn Gee for taking him out on a Sunday night. Just because they’re busy making money from music and don’t have proper jobs, doesn’t mean they have any right to make him lose his. Man, Patrick is going to fucking kill him if he’s late again.

He tears a shirt over his head in a rush, pulling his jeans up while simultaneously trying to hop out the door. Eventually he manages to make it to the kitchen, button and fly still undone and hair a mess, and smears some jam onto a piece of bread. No time for toast, he tells himself as he puts the slice between his teeth and buttons his jeans, racing into the bathroom to try and make his hair halfway towards decent.

By the time he makes it out the door, he’s already half an hour late. Luckily, the record store is just around the corner. Small graces. Patrick greets him with a raised eyebrow and a glance at his watch when Frank stumbles in the door, and he quickly rushes out an apology.

“You’re so hungover it’s ridiculous,” Patrick laughs when Frank sinks behind the counter and tries to hide his face in his hands. His head is still fucking throbbing, and his stomach is beginning to feel queasy, verging on the need to disappear to the bathroom and spill his guts. He ignores it though, and smiles for Patrick.

“Trick, I am perfectly healthy. I had an early night last night, you know me. Quiet.”

Patrick just shakes his head and disappears out the back, probably to continue sorting the new orders. Frank puts his head back down on the counter, and hopes to god that nobody feels like buying a record today.

To his relief, he gets released for his lunch break around noon, and Frank thanks Patrick and rushes out the door before he can change his mind. His feet automatically begin to lead him towards the cafe he usually goes to for lunch. Greta is behind the counter as per usual, and she beams at him when he walks in and the bell tinkles to announce his arrival.

“Frankie! The usual, yeah?” she asks, and when Frank nods, she busies herself with making his sandwich while he lowers himself gently into a seat at the closest table. Absently, he drums his fingers on the tabletop and glances around the cafe, and that’s when he notices Mikey and Gee sitting in a booth a few tables over. Mikey looks up and spots him, and when Frank waves, Mikey grins back and nudges Gee, who’s sitting with her back to Frank. She turns around, and the smile she gives him when she sees him sends his stomach churning for a whole new reason.

They get up and make their way over, Gee clutching a mug of coffee protectively between her small hands. “Hey Frank!” she says when she slides into the seat across from him, and Mikey takes the one on her right. The weather is beginning to cool around this time of year, and there’s a bite in the air that leaves her cheeks a little flushed even though she’s inside. There’s multiple scarves wrapped around her neck and she’s wearing the same jeans she wore last night, with a grey cardigan reaching down to her waist. Her hair is windswept and wild, falling in messy tangles about her shoulders, and Frank thinks she looks adorable even when she’s apparently freezing her ass off.

“How’s your head?” Mikey asks with a wry smile, and Frank rolls his eyes. He’s saved from answering when Greta arrives at their table and hands Frank his sandwich, ruffling his hair and telling him to eat up before she goes back to her counter.

“Come here often then?” Gee asks with a hesitant smile, and Frank nods as he takes a bite of his food, chews and swallows before answering.

“Yeah. I work at the record store just down the street, so.”

“Oh Patrick’s? Wicked.” Her eyes shine at the mention of the store, and Frank counts it as a win.

When Mikey nudges her and looks at the clock, Gee startles in her chair. “Oh!” she exclaims, and Mikey nods. “I’m really sorry, Frankie, we’re going to have to head off. Band practice started ten minutes ago,” she says, looking sheepish.

“Oh, yeah, of course. I’ll see you ‘round?” he asks, just for something to say, and she nods happily as Mikey drags her out of the cafe, waving to him brightly before the door shuts behind her.

When Frank looks away from the door, Greta is sitting in front of him. “You totally have a crush on that girl,” she says, eyes sparkling.

Frank just laughs and finishes his food, pushing his plate away. “Look who just can’t keep her nose out.”

“It’s all part of my charm,” she counters, but she picks up his plate and walks away, and doesn’t ask any more questions. “See you tomorrow Frank,” she calls as he heads for the door.

The rest of work drags on and on with only a few customers coming through the door, and slowly, Frank starts to feel the effects of his hangover dissipating. At five o’clock, he’s free to leave, and he walks home with the image of Gee’s flushed cheeks and warm smile in his head.

-

The weeks fly by before Frank even really realises where he is. He goes to work, talks to Patrick about music and the scene, and when My Chemical Romance come up in conversation, Frank tells him how awesome they are and doesn’t mention anything about having a girly high school crush on their lead singer.

He still gets hassled by Greta whenever he goes on his lunch break, but he’s beginning to threaten that he’ll go somewhere else if she keeps it up. It’ll never happen though. Greta makes the best sandwiches in the fucking world, and Frank is willing to put up with her questioning for half an hour each day if it means she’ll keep making him food with outrageous discounts.

Ian normally just shakes his head pityingly at Frank whenever he comes out into the front of the shop, his apron and hands covered in flour and an apologetic smile on his lips. Today, he places his hands on Greta’s hips and leans in to kiss the back of her neck while she prepares Frank’s lunch. It’s probably the best place in the world, Greta and Ian’s little bakery/cafe.

“You asked that poor girl on a date yet, Iero?” Ian asks him, and Frank realises that Greta has been feeding him updates.

“Haven’t seen her in a few weeks,” Frank says with a shrug, and tries to pretend that he’s not maybe just a little bit confused. Greta makes cooing noises and gives him a muffin for free. He rolls his eyes at her, but he eats the muffin anyway, and when she turns on her sympathetic eyes, he settles in at his usual table with her across from him.

“What if she doesn’t like me?” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

“Aw, honey,” Greta laughs and shakes her head, and pats Frank’s hand where it rests on the tabletop. “Of course she does. You need to call her, Frankie.”

“But I haven’t heard from her in weeks, Greta. She’s probably forgotten who I am.”

Greta snorts, stands up, and lashes out at his shoulder with the tea-towel in her hands. “Ow!” he protests, but she just rolls her eyes and ignores him.

“Call her, Frank. Before some other lucky guy snatches her up,” Greta warns, sending a new bolt of uncertainty and nerves into his stomach. She has a point, she really does. If Frank were some other guy, he’d be trying to snatch Gee up for sure. He has to get a move on, because he’s pretty sure he’ll kill himself if he passes her up.

“Go get her, Frankie!” Ian calls as Frank heads out of the cafe, and Frank puts on his best game face and strides home.

-

In the end, Frank finds himself on his couch at home, the phone clutched in his hands and Gee’s number dialled in. All he has to do is press ‘talk’ but he really can’t seem to get it together. And it’s stupid. He’s never been this ridiculous over a girl, since when did Frank Iero lose any shred of manliness he ever had?

His thumb hovers over the button, and at the last second, he presses down on ‘end’. Frank frowns and mentally berates himself for being such a pussy, and then he calls Bob instead.

Bob is waiting for him at the bar when Frank goes to meet him that night, flanked by his roommate Brian. Frank greets them both and sinks into the stool beside Bob, ordering himself a beer. He hasn’t seen Bob properly since he dropped out, really, and it’s something he’s been meaning to rectify. Or it was, until he got caught up in the whirl-wind of Gee and My Chemical Romance, and forgot that anything else even existed. But this is good. He’s going to have some drinks with Bob and Brian, manly stuff, probably stumble home and pass out fully clothed, and maybe in the morning, he’ll have some balls to go with his hangover.

They talk about all the things they used to talk about; movies and comics and the latest x-box games, and Frank remembers why Bob and Brian are the best people in the world. He kind of misses college sometimes, if only because he misses the friends that he doesn’t see nearly enough anymore.

“You look sad, Frankie,” Bob comments, and Frank sighs, long and drawn out, before swivelling his eyes up to meet Bob’s, more than a little drunk.

“I met a girl,” he says slowly, seriously, and Bob nods and makes an ‘ah’ noise, all very solemn.

“We need another round then,” Brian declares, and shoves another beer between Frank’s hands. He takes a swig gratefully, and Bob makes a toast to Frank And His Probably Doomed Love. Frank takes it all back. He doesn’t miss Bob at all.

-

Frank manages to keep it up for another week or so before he tells himself that he’s being utterly ridiculous (Bob wholeheartedly agrees) and that it’s time to rediscover his manhood. This time, when he picks up the phone, he forces himself to dial all the way through, but his stomach still flops uneasily when she answers the phone.

“Talk to me,” she says, kind of offhand like she’s busy doing something else.

“Hey, it’s Frank.”

She brightens up immediately, and he can hear her attention being diverted to him. “Frank, hi! What’ve you been up to?”

“Nothing, really, you know, working, whatever. I was just wondering, if you maybe wanted to hang out tonight, or something?” His foot taps against the ground, and he tries not to follow it up with some lame addition offering her a way out if she wants to take it.

Instead, he hears her answering laugh. “We have a show tonight, Frankie, I thought you were coming?”

It hits him then with sudden clarity, and he lets out an “Oh!” and jumps up and runs to his bedroom, rummaging through his bedside drawers until he finds the flyer she handed him when they dropped him off. And there it is, tonight’s date staring out at him. “Oh!” he says again, and she just laughs harder.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” she says, and he can hear the teasing in her voice over the phone.

“I... if I say no, is there any chance of you believing me?”

“None. None at all.”

He laughs, lets himself relax, and remembers that she’s actually kind of really awesome and he doesn’t need to be quite so ridiculous all of the time. “Okay, well. I will be there, I promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Frank. Sorry, I’m going to have to let you go. We’re rehearsing and Ray is going to kick my ass if I don’t get off the phone and start singing,” she says in a rush, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

“Okay, I’ll see you tonight then,” he says, and hangs up after she says goodbye. Then he calls Bob and begs him to go to the gig with him, because damned if Frank is going to make an idiot out of himself when her whole band is there again.

-

When Bob offers to pick Frank up and be the designated driver, Frank jumps at the chance. The only downside is that it means he doesn’t get to see the band before the show. It’s not long however before he and Bob can cram inside the club, only the tiniest step up from the place they played in last time, but at least it’s something. Frank grabs a drink first so that he has something to do with his hands while he talks to Bob about the band, because despite the fact that it was on Bob’s suggestion to go and see them, apparently he hasn’t heard them himself. Frank smiles and thinks he’s in for a surprise, and then he turns around when he hears a familiar voice take the stage.

“We’re My Chemical Romance!” Gee shouts into her microphone, and then with the first powerful strum of the guitar, and her first headbang, the show is underway.

The good thing about being on the short side is that it’s relatively easy for Frank to squish to the front of the crowd to watch, and he drags Bob along with him. They’re playing what he recognises from the last set he saw as ‘Headfirst for Halos’ and Frank throws himself around with them, loving every minute of hearing them again.

It’s not until half way through the third song that Gee snaps herself out of whatever kind of trance she goes into when she’s singing, and looks down and sees Frank and Bob squished up in front of her. The grin that crawls slowly across her lips is teasing, sexy, wonderful, this half smirk that makes Frank want to climb up on the stage and kiss her in front of everyone. She becomes this entirely different person on stage, it’s almost insane. Here she is, strutting across the stage like she fucking owns it, smirking at him like she knows exactly what he’d like to do right now, and it’s such a 180 turn from the excitable, fumbling Gee he’s met since. He doesn’t know how, or why, but it’s a fucking turn on.

She blows him a kiss nearing the end of the song, and Frank grins back at her before the song finishes, and she swaggers off to whisper something in Mikey’s ear, and then back across to Ray, who relays it to Matt. They’re switching up for something different, he can tell, something they didn’t prepare for, and he finds himself on the tip of his toes waiting for it.

And then she looks down at him again, and the grin that takes over her face this time is wild with joyous abandon, less seductive and more like she’s about to start laughing, and then she throws her head back, hair flicking over her face and down across her back, and she bursts forth with the beginning lyrics, and Frank finds himself rooted to the spot as Journey’s ‘Any Way You Want It’ fills the club.

It’s probably the best thing he’s ever heard. The crowd are momentarily dumbstruck, but they catch on pretty quickly, and it helps that Gee has begun strutting around the stage again, half-laughing half giving it her all, and Frank decides that if he’s ever going to marry anyone, it will be her. He grins at Bob and starts to move, and the next time she catches his eyes, she doesn’t look away.

With a sashay of her hips and the quirk of red lips against pale skin, dark hair falling into her eyes while she sings loud and full of abandon, she sings her song to him, and Frank doesn’t even know what to do with himself. It’s in the way he can tell how much she’s enjoying herself up there. It’s in the sudden change between the aggressive singer she was two minutes ago during their own songs, to this playful and teasing persona, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so simultaneously adorable and sexy.

Bob nudges him and laughs, and Frank realises that he probably looks kind of stupid, staring at her like she just fell from fucking heaven or something. She’s belting out the last chorus with everything she has in her, eyes closed and head tipped back to the ceiling, exposing the column of her pale throat. He’s never seen anything so perfect.

And then the song finishes, and she smiles at him like she’s herself again, before the band are launching back into their own songs behind her, and she’s back to working the audience, as if the smile was for Frank alone.

When the band tumble offstage ten minutes later, Frank is met with a sudden armful of Gee. She’s grinning like her face is about to break, her eyes shining the same way he remembers from the last time he saw her come off a stage, the adrenaline quite obviously still pumping through her veins and the excitement alight on her skin.

“You guys were incredible,” he tells them, but he’s looking at her when he says it, and she seems to get it. He has her at more or less arms’ length now, less all up in his personal space like she was when she threw herself at him in a hug, but enough that he can really look at her, the smudges of eyeliner where she’d rubbed at her eye during the set, the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she breathes hard out of parted lips. He wants to kiss her, wants to keep her this breathless for as long as possible, wants to tuck her under his arm and go somewhere where it’s just the two of them.

Instead, he just grins back at her, congratulates them all again, and then, because he can’t help himself, “Fucking Journey?” he asks, still kind of amazed, and she laughs, free and easy like she’s still caught halfway between Stage Gee and Normal Gee.

“I thought you’d figured it out by now, Frankie!” she grins, nudging his shoulder lightly.

Frank looks at her a little blankly, not entirely sure what he’s supposed to have figured out until Mikey pops in with a helpful, “She’s a fucking whore for Journey,” and Frank understands. He remembers singing in their van, remembers the way her eyes had lit up and she had thrown back her head and sung. There’s still that rush behind her eyes now.

“I love that song,” he says, and he means it. He had loved it before, but now he thinks he’ll always associate it with that image of her on that stage, head tipped back and red lips smirking, and suddenly the song is that much better. “You were amazing up there,” he adds, lower, so that only she can hear, and she smiles that same soft smile again, the stage persona vanished.

“I’m glad you had fun, Frankie,” she says, and then she reaches a hand down to brush against his when she says, “You guys should totally come to our post-show party tonight.”

If it means he gets to spend a little more time around her in this state, where she’s show-high and exhilarated, emboldened and invigorated by the thing she loves, then Frank won’t pass it up for the world. He nods his head immediately, and turns to Bob, who agrees with a smile.

“I’ll pick you up in a few hours, if you want to go home and get changed, so you’re not so sweaty?” she asks, and this time she’s only talking to him. Frank nods, throat seizing up and itching to hold onto the hand that’s still teasingly touching his just barely. In the end it’s her who laces their fingers together, squeezes once and then twirls away to talk to her band about the set.

-

Gee picks him up at eleven, actually on time this time around, and Frank climbs into the passenger seat this time to find that he's her only passenger. Bob had said he would get there himself, under directions from Ray, and Frank guesses that the others are already at the party.

"Hi," he says to Gee, and she beams at him from the driver's seat, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel to whatever tune is coming from the radio.

"Hey Frankie," she answers, and then she puts her foot down and begins the drive back to the party, which Frank has gathered is being hosted at Gee and Mikey's place. There's already plenty of cars parked outside by the time they pull up, and when Frank steps out of the van he finds Gee coming around to his side of the car to lead him up the drive. They bypass the front door; Gee takes Frank's hand and tugs him through a side-gate which leads straight into the backyard, where Frank can already see a large bonfire lighting up the night without any need for lights. He recognises the band, and Bob, sitting around the fire, but there are plenty of other guests he doesn't know, friends of the band who Frank hasn't ever met.

Gee doesn't let go of his hand as she pulls him over to sit with everyone. As he settles down on a log in between Gee and Bob, he allows himself to relax. Gee makes sure she says hello to everybody before she turns to him and shuffles a tiny bit closer. "So, Frank. I feel like I still barely know you."

Which is true, he supposes. And all he knows about her is that she fronts a kickass rock band, is really fucking gorgeous, and also kind of a dork in this adorable way. But he wants to get to know her, wants to know her like he hasn't tried to do with anyone in a long time. He wants to know what makes her smile, what makes her sad, her dreams and her ambitions, her background and her future. Frank wants to know what makes her tick.

"There's not much to know, really," he starts, and she rolls her eyes good-naturedly at his feeble attempts, but allows him to continue. "I defied my family and dropped out of college to play in this band called Pencey Prep, right? And we were totally fucking awesome, only then everything just sort of fell apart, and now mostly I work at Patrick's record store and go to gigs."

She frowns at the mention of Pencey's collapse, and Frank just shrugs. It was inevitable, really, and he doesn't like to dwell on the 'what-ifs' because that would just drive him crazy. "That must have sucked pretty hard, huh," she says, her eyes serious even as she opens the beer Otter hands her, passing another to Frank.

Frank sighs, runs his fingers through the condensation on the bottle and shrugs before taking a swig. "We deal, you know? Shit happens, you move on. What about you?"

Gee wrinkles her nose up, and then laughs loudly and shakes her head, like she's sharing some private joke with herself. "Okay, so, I kind of draw. I always wanted to be an artist, I was so fucking intent on doing it. And then I went to New York to study, and it was awesome, but there was just... I don't know, it felt like I was missing something, and I thought I knew what, so I gave Otter here a call, and well, here we are." She spreads her arms wide, indicating to the band, referring to the amazing set they just played where they actually have real, honest to god fans, and Frank knows they're only going to get bigger from here.

Somehow, the conversation diverts to the sort of topics Frank normally reserves for his discussions with Bob; the things he can really get going on - comics, books, movies, and whether or not Superman or Batman is the better superhero. To his surprise, Gee is right there with him, her eyes wide with excitement and her hands flying everywhere as she gestures (Frank guesses she's got to be part-Italian, there is no way she's not). When they disagree, it's okay, because she sits and listens to him, and then calmly presents her own view. Sometimes it changes what Frank had been thinking, and sometimes it doesn't, but she doesn't appear to have any interest in turning it into a full-blown fight like some people would, and he loves it. That she can sit here, and have a civil conversation, and respect his opinions just as much as she respects her own. In the middle of telling him about how excited she is to draw the coverart for their first album, her hand shoots out and before he can react, she hooks him in the jaw and sends him reeling. Frank almost falls off the log he's sitting on, it takes him that much by surprise.

"Oh my god I just punched you!" Gee exclaims, reaching out a hand to touch Frank's shoulder gently and steady him. "Oh shit, Frankie, I'm so sorry, I just get so, you know, and I'm so sorry, let me have a look at it," she rushes, and Frank laughs and assures her that he's fine. He is careful to keep an eye out for when she starts getting really animated again though.

To his right, Ray and Bob are talking a mile a minute about something or other, leaning towards each other to hear better, and Frank smiles, glad to see that Bob is fitting in just fine and making friends.

Mikey hands around another round of drinks and then throws himself down next to the fire lazily and pulls his sidekick out of the pocket of his jeans. His fingers move rapidly over the keys, and Frank turns to Gee with one eyebrow raised. "Who's he texting, Wentz?"

Gee glances over to look at her brother, shakes her head and laughs. "No, that will be Alicia," she says, and when Frank still awaits an explanation, "she's sort of his girlfriend, I guess. But then they're both kind of fucking Pete Wentz at the same time? I don't know, I don't pretend to understand. Nor do I really want to." She gives Mikey another exasperated look and then places her hand on Frank's knee, all casual as if she doesn't even know she's doing it. Frank smiles back at her, and gets lost in conversation once more.

-

Frank is more than a little drunk. His head feels kind of fuzzy in a good way, where he doesn't have to think about anything all that much. His limbs are satisfyingly heavy, keeping him rooted to the ground. At some stage of the night, they must have relocated to the grass, because now Frank is lying on his back in the middle of the yard, the fire much smaller than it once was but still burning brightly behind him. Beside him, Gee is lying down as well, her eyes closed and a soft smile on her lips. Her hand is just inches from his, and it would be so easy to reach over and hold her hand. He really wants to. And apparently, in this alcohol-induced haze, he thinks that yes, that's a perfect idea, and doesn't wait to rationalise before he reaches over and laces their fingers together. Slowly, Gee rolls her head and opens her eyes to look at him, and her smile becomes more firm, more real and less like a ghost of a feeling on her face.

"Hey, Frankie," she slurs, and his name rolls off her tongue like something molten, thick and smooth and gorgeous. He really shouldn't have drank so much. Gee moves, forcing herself to sit upright, and then she crawls over so that she's leaning over him, her hair falling into her face and her eyes wide and earnest. "Frankie," she says, and then stops. She takes his hand again, and this time she tugs his hand up until he's cupping her cheek, leaning into the touch as he strokes his thumb across her smooth skin. Nobody else is watching them, he realises suddenly. Mikey is curled up by the fire, his phone to his ear while he talks to Alicia, having forsaken text messaging for an actual phone call as his fingers get sloppier. Bob and Ray, Frank sees with a shock, are curled up on the sofa inside - he can see them through the window. He sort of really wants to go and investigate, because it looks awfully like they're kissing, but he knows that Bob will kick his ass if he goes over there. Otter is passed out by the fire, and most of the other guests appear to have left, the last few lazing around drinking and talking quietly.

Gee is staring at him still, and she's so close that he can feel her breath fanning across his face, her eyes so fucking pretty and her lips just parted. She's not saying anything, but she still hasn't moved. "Gee?" he questions, just to sort of make sure she's all there, and he strokes his thumb across her cheek again. She trembles, fucking trembles at his touch, and Frank is going to kiss her. He has to, he can't stand this anymore, the way she's looking at him, and the silence, and the way everything feels like it's balancing on a fucking string. He lifts a hand to rest it on her hip, hears her answering gasp of breath, and that's it. He definitely can't stand it anymore. He tugs her down, gentle but firm, and when she's close enough he kisses her, prying her lips open and pulling her hips down to his. She makes this fucking sound against his lips and shifts against him. His mind is moving a little slower than his body, but that hardly matters. He keeps kissing her, doesn't ever want to stop, wants her skin under his fingers and her lips against his for as long as he can possibly keep her there. He arches up, can't help himself really, and she pushes down, and it's probably the best thing of his fucking life. A groan tears its way out of his mouth. He can feel himself getting hard, and struggles to remind himself that this is probably not a good idea, that there are other people around, that they're outside lying in the fucking grass and nowhere near a bed of any kind, that they're both so drunk they probably won't remember shit in the morning. But then there's this niggling feeling that this could be his only chance, and he needs her. He wants her, has ever since he saw her on that stage the first night, wild and raw and so intense. And it's only been eating away at him ever since, propelled even more by her red lips and sashaying hips at the concert earlier tonight.

And then she's pulling away, pupils dilated and breathing heavy, and Frank curls his fingers around her wrist, silently begging her not to go. When she stands up though, she pulls him with her. Their hands stay locked together, which Frank guesses is as good a sign as any, and when she sways on her feet a little she giggles, pressing her face into his shoulder to stifle the sound. His arm goes around her waist automatically, trying to help her stay upright even though he's not exactly sober himself., and She just laughs again, and then presses a finger to his lips as though he's the one making noise. "Come inside, please?" she asks, and it's so quiet Frank almost thinks he's imagining it, but she's staring at him intently, expectantly, and so he nods.

She grins then, grabbing his hand and dragging him inside. He doesn't really even get to see much of the house; she’s pulling him past the living room where Bob and Ray are still tangled on the couch, past the kitchen and down the hall. And then he's being pushed inside what he assumes is her bedroom. There's a giant fucking poster of Journey on the wall and he laughs before she's stepping closer again, pulling him towards the bed. He goes down, and he can't even think when she crawls on top of him, taking his bottom lip between hers and kissing him hard. She's pressing up against him and she can probably feel how hard he's getting but he doesn't care. Instead, he just kisses her back, hard as he can. His hands are on her hips, keeping her against him and they're pressed together so tightly he feels like he's going to melt into her. And he wants to, so bad. He wants to get in under her skin, wants to put himself in her hands and let her do whatever. His skin is burning hot, so hot. Desperately, he slips his hands under the hem of her shirt, feels the bare skin on her hips, her waist, and he groans again, pushing his hips up towards her, practically begging. And she seems to get it, because she kisses him once more before she sits up, straddling him, and tears off his shirt. Then she's back again, this time with lips trailing across his jaw and down to his neck, nipping at the skin there before moving up to suck on his earlobe. She's everywhere, and he can't help but moan, running his hands up her back, her shirt dragging upwards until it bunches around her chest. She laughs and pulls away again, and Frank takes the hint, pulling her shirt up over her head and letting it fall through his fingers and onto the floor. And then there's bare skin covering his, expanses of soft, cream-coloured flesh for him to stroke and caress, and she whimpers against his throat.

"Gee, Gee," he pants as her fingers fumble for his jeans. She's not shy by any means. He's learnt that already, and it's all he can do to keep up while she touches, explores with fingers, lips and tongue, working him up until he thinks he's going to die. He wants her like he's never wanted anything in his life, and he's burning for it. He rolls them so that he can hover over her, jeans undone but still up around his hips, and he kisses her again, feels her moan into his mouth. He moves down to suck on the tender skin at her neck before tracing her collarbone with his lips, kissing in between her breasts. She's breathing hard, gasping, but she's beginning to slow down, and it's less urgent. She closes her eyes and rolls her head back, exposing her throat, and Frank can't help but move back up to kiss it. And then her breathing starts to even out again, and her eyes open just barely as she smiles lazily, drunkenly.

"Frankie," she whispers, and then her eyes slip closed again. Frank kisses her, runs his hand up her side and cups under her breast, and then he realises that she's falling asleep, the alcohol finally catching up with her. It's all he can do not to laugh.

"Night, Gee," he whispers into her ear, and then he kisses her cheek before pulling the blanket up over both of them. His arm snakes around her waist and he holds her to him, not wanting to let her go. Automatically, she snuggles in, tucking her face into his neck and breathing out heavily, and Frank kisses her hair before closing his own eyes.

Part Two

BBB Fic - Stay Right Here, part 3

lightisbreaking — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 05:43:24 GMT

Part Three

It's one of those days, where Frank doesn’t know what day it is, what time it is or whatever the date is. None of it matters anyway. His days consist of barely eating and sleeping, where Linda practically has to beg for Frank to eat something just for his medications, for himself, for any reason he has out there. Turning his head to the window, Frank sees light starting to crawl inside through the half opened curtain, the sun going down. He tries to push himself to sit up to try and get a better look at the sunset and it takes him so much effort that he gets so frustrated and almost gives up until he sees himself only halfway through sitting.

It's almost painful to watch himself like this; he tries to think of the chances of him being able to get on the wheelchair by himself without falling. There's a 50/50 percent chance of him falling in the process, he either does or doesn’t. Even though, when he compromises with himself, there's always falling down and then pulling himself up again. He smiles bitterly at the irony of the whole thing. He knows that he could stop this circle of self-pity he's putting himself through and give it a shot, or at least be thankful he's alive, or just think optimistically for once. Whatever, just. Something to get him out of this mentality that's tearing him down.

Letting out a long breath, Frank grabs a pillow next to him and props himself up, turning around and watching whatever he can of the sunset. Layers of palest of blues, pink and tinges of orange start to come down and it's the most peaceful thing a person could experience. For a minute there, Frank almost forgets that he's paraplegic, that he's in a wheelchair, everything that clouds his mind. For a second there, he forgets about the band and playing and just enjoys the way colors blend in with each other so naturally, and he lets himself breathe.

Frank hears a knock on the door, and he knows who it is, knows that it's his mum, probably with food or just coming to hang around –

"Iero, you shithead. Why the hell do you have your phone switched off?"

Frank shakes his head. "Fuck you, Bob."

Then Frank sees in the corner of his eyes someone punching Bob's arm, then an afro hanging behind and he doesn’t even have to guess to know that the trio of Mikey, Bob and Ray are over. The first thing Frank thinks of is how he's so fucking glad that Gerard's not with them. It's not like he doesn’t want to see Gerard, because fuck, he misses him, so much. But it's still hard, still hurts and he doesn’t want to go through a whole emotional rollercoaster right now.

"Ignore Bob, it's that time of the month," Ray says as he rolls his eyes and comes in the room, followed by Mikey.

"Yeah, the time of the month where Ray is winning at Halo and Bob is being a pissy bitch about it," he says, shaking his head.

Ray sits himself on the edge of the bed; Mikey jumps on the bed sitting next to Frank while Bob sits on Frank's desk chair and wheels himself closer to the bed, on the other side of Frank.

"What's up?" Bob says as he looks at Frank.

"What do you think is up, Bob? Seriously. I'm either chained to this bed or that wheelchair. There's only so much I can do," Frank says, looking tiredly at Bob.

"There's only so much you allow yourself to do, Frank," Bob says, looking pointedly at Frank.

Frank ignores him, setting his head back on the pillow and sighs.

"Honestly, dude. Ignore Bob," Ray says with a smile. "How have you been doing?"

Frank considers thinking about how to answer; there's no reason to be a complete asshole and answer bitterly to his friends. They didn’t have anything to do with the accident and they sure didn’t have anything to do with Frank being so closed up to himself.

"I'm okay. Tired the whole time, sleep a lot and shit-"

"Yeah, right." They all turn around to see Linda looking pointedly at Frank with a smile on her face, holding a tray of coffee mugs.

Frank can't help but let a small smile crawl on his face as his mother hands the last coffee mug to him after everyone collected around her to grab one. Frank can see Mikey next to him inhaling the coffee before drinking it and can't help but instantly think about Gerard, who does the exact same before drinking his coffee. Gerard always used to say he does it to see if it has the right amount of sugar or not. Frank used to tell him that he doesn’t give a fuck, as long as it's coffee. Only then does Frank realize that he's zoned out while everyone's talking, his mother laughing as she heads out of the room. Frank only catches the last sentence she says, something about letting them hang out by themselves while she goes to get things done and whatnot.

"So, Frank. We kinda came here to tell you something, or actually just ask you something," Ray starts and Bob cuts him off.

"No, dude. We're telling him, not asking him. We're not even compromising this shit," Bob says as he turns to Frank with the hugest shit-eating grin on his face.

"Bob, honestly shut up," Mikey says from next to Frank while he fidgets with his phone, turning it upside down, flipping it open and closing it.

Bob throws his hands back in defense. "Jesus."

"What the fuck are you guys talking about?" Frank says, confused as hell with what's going on around him, looking between Mikey, Ray and Bob.

They all exchange glances. Mikey's still fidgeting with his phone and it's starting to make Frank nervous because what the hell? Ray then clears his throat and they all look at him, or at least Frank gives him his full attention, maybe he'll care to explain what they're all trying not to say.

"Frank, we need you to come up to LA with us, to record the new album and-"

"What the fuck?" Frank says furiously. He can't fucking believe this. "Do you guys think this is some kind of joke? No, Ray. I can't, I don’t even. How the fuck-"

"Frank, shut up," Bob says and cuts him off. Mikey looks at Bob alarmingly, eyes wide and Ray is just on the edge of his seat, but they all look at Bob.

"Just." Bob runs his hand through his hair. "You don’t need your legs to play guitar, Frank. And Jesus fuck, no one else out there can ever replace you. Cortez is good, but he's not amazing and you're a part of the band, we need you for this one, asshole. Don’t back out now," Bob says, looking at Frank hopelessly.

"How the hell do you expect us to make a new album without Frank fucking Iero?" Ray says, and Frank turns his head to the other side of the bed, where Ray is sitting. "Seriously, dude you know that no one else writes riffs better than you and our playing goes so perfectly well together, it actually almost hurts to have anyone else play your bits," Ray says genuinely.

And Frank? Frank doesn’t even need the compliments, or cheering up or soul lifting whatever to get him to play with their band, but it's hard to even think about that. But Frank feels too fucking guilty to say no and he's too fucking scared to say yes. It would be so easy to say no, but then there's Mikey and Ray and fucking Bob practically pleading with their eyes (only in Bob's case, he'll probably punch Frank if he doesn’t say yes) and it's like one huge ass tug of war inside Frank.

"Guys, it's just that. I don’t even know if I can. It hurts too much, it's not the same," Frank says, and he doesn’t even have the heart to look and meet their eyes.

"Fuck you, Iero. You're coming with us and recording this album, even if it means carrying your ass all the way to LA," Bob says and punches Frank in the arm.

"Screw you, Bob," Frank says as he swats Bob's arm away.

"Come on though, seriously. Nothing's going to be different; it's just you, us, jamming like usual. So whatever, you're in a wheelchair, you can still rock the shit out of that guitar, Frank," Mikey says as he nudges him with his shoulder. "Don’t do this for us if you don’t want to. For the band, at least. For the fucking fans out there, dude."

Frank sighs and then Ray looks at him. "We miss you, man. It's so fucking boring with Mikey on his phone twenty-four seven, Bob talking to himself, or actually just shouting at the screen while playing Halo and Gerard living in his room and never coming out. It's getting creepy, seriously," Ray says defensively, like he honest to god is worried about the mental stability of everyone in the band. Frank can't help but huff a small laugh.

"You in? Come on, Brian will practically piss glitter and shit butterflies if he hears about this," Mikey says.

And they all look at Frank with hope-filled eyes and Frank doesn’t know if he can say no. He knows one thing for sure - that he needs to get his act together and straighten his shit up. He's mourning himself when it could've ended up worse, his band is surrounding him practically begging him to come and record the new album with them and he's being a downright resisting asshole, for what? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t have a reason to say no. Yeah it hurts, but sometimes you just have to press on the wound to make the bleeding stop.

"Dude, seriously, we already have a ticket to LA with Frank motherfucking Iero stamped on it, come on, say yes. I'll even make Mikey do his happy chicken dance or something." Bob nudges him with his fist.

"Okay, just. Don’t expect-"

"Fucking finally," Bob says, "and now? We ignore anything you say after that 'okay,' alright?" Bob grins at him, and stands up to wrap his arm around Frank.

"Glad to have you on board, shit-head," Bob says to Frank and Frank can't help but smile because this is Bob, and Frank doesn’t want to be an asshole when he says this, but Bob really just doesn’t hug around whenever he's happy like Frank does, it's almost heartwarming. Almost. That is when Bob punches Frank's arm again.

Mikey is smiling so hard he looks like he might actually break his face. He starts dialing someone's number on his phone while high-fiving Frank as Ray comes up to him and hugs him. Frank hasn’t felt this good since he left the hospital, and it feels almost out of place, not feeling like shit or thinking that his life is over. And he can't help but to thank his fucking band, seriously. It doesn’t make him less nervous or unsure about the whole thing, but he trusts his friends, trusts Mikey, Ray and Bob and they all understand Frank. Maybe he should just go for this, not think twice and leave the consequences to come whenever they do. Maybe he just needs to swallow down the fear and hurt for a while and hope that it'll help him move on.

Bob and Ray start talking to Frank excitedly about LA, almost relieved that Frank decided to join them. Frank just smiles as he watches Bob and Ray already arguing about something. Mikey gets on the phone two seconds later and gets off the bed. Somewhere in the corner of Frank's room he starts talking and Frank can't hear what he's saying over Ray and Bob. All that Frank can see is Mikey's smile fading a bit, but he's trying to force it back up, then Mikey looks back at Frank hesitantly and Frank's stomach churns. Frank knows that Mikey's talking to Gerard over the phone, their eyes lock for a second, and Frank can read Mikey. He knows that Gerard wants to talk to Frank - he can see it in Mikey's face, the way Mikey's stuck between the two. Frank shakes his head, telling Mikey no, just in case. Mikey gets it from Frank and the turns around, finishing off the conversation with Gerard before hanging up.

Frank feels relieved that he doesn’t have to deal with Gerard now; he's trying to postpone the whole thing until he gets there, and it only hits Frank right then that this isn’t going to be the same at all. But he can't take it back now, he can't say no. Not when Bob's calling first dibs on the seat next to the window and Ray's swearing he's not sitting next to Gerard who flops his head around like a dead mop when he falls asleep. Frank's not going to lie, he missed his friends so fucking much, he misses having them argue about the most random shit, about the tiniest of things, complaining about each other to each other, all of the tiny little things that he never really thought he'd care about, not until he realizes how much he needed it.

Two seconds later, Mikey flops himself next to Frank, on the phone with someone, laughing about something.

"You guys," Mikey flaps with his hand towards their collective general direction, and they all turn around to look at Mikey. "Yeah, Brian, Frank's coming with us to LA. No, I'm not fucking around- dude! I swear! I have witnesses, Bob and Ray, and Frank himself. Oh okay, so you don’t trust me now? Fine, I'll put you on speaker." Mikey clicks a button or two on his phone and Brian's voice is for all of them to hear.

Bob starts howling and Ray says hi to Brian over the phone. Brian ignores all of that. "Iero, speak up, you in with this shit? You better be," Brian says, and everyone knows that he's on the edge of his seat, begging for this to be true.

"Yeah, they got me in, Brian," Frank says with a smile on his face.

"Oh god, fuck yes," Brian says over the phone.

"That's what she said," Bob says and everyone bursts out laughing, even Frank. He's so fucking glad for these people in his life it's almost ridiculous.

Then Mikey brings the phone close with Brian still on the line. "Brian, did you just piss glitter and shit butterflies? Please tell me did, dude." Mikey's almost giggling, Ray already far off laughing at the whole thing while Bob's shaking his head.

"What? Dude, I'll do whatever I need to do as long as Frank's with us, I'll get the glitter and butterflies and whatever shit you're going on about," Brian says, and the guy almost sounds serious, which sets them all laughing again.

They finish off Brian's call after a couple more jokes and Brian tells them that he'll set up all the tickets and hotel and everything they need by like, tomorrow or something. They sit around and talk, joke and argue as usual, just spending time with each other, like there's a weight lifted off their chests and they're all, or at least most, relieved that Frank is coming with them. Mikey eyes Frank from time to time, just checking on the way he looks, and Frank knows that Mikey can feel him nervous and unsure about the whole thing. Mikey leans up close and puts his hand on Frank's shoulder.

"It's going to be okay," Mikey whispers to him with a smile.

Frank is unsure, but he doesn’t have the heart to say that to Mikey, so he just smiles and thanks him. Maybe, Frank thinks, maybe they can actually manage to pull this off somehow. Perhaps with a bit of luck and faith, they'll get there.

For once in the last couple of months, Frank throws the consequences to the back of his mind and sits back to listen to Bob talk about Dixie and his epic love of endless proportions for his dogs. For once now, Frank just sits back, laughs from time to time and just concentrates on breathing and not thinking.

Just for now at least, just for now.

-

Frank's sitting in the passenger seat, Bob driving next to him, Mikey talking about something in the back, over the phone with someone. Frank's in this hazy, weird nervous mood and he can't even concentrate on a single thought. Things keep jumping to him, making him fidget with his hands, bite his nails, itch at his neck and look outside the window only to look back at Bob again the next second. He knows he shouldn’t be nervous, but he can't help it. They're on their way to the studio and it doesn’t feel right, none of this feels right. Like Frank shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t be with Bob and Mikey, it feels so wrong, and it feels even worse knowing that he's going to go in there and everyone's going to keep staring at him. Wondering why the fuck is Frank Iero in a wheelchair, what the hell is he doing in a studio?

Shaking his head to himself, Frank wishes that he could stop feeling like that, or thinking about a million little different things all at once. Everything's becoming a heavy buzz inside his head, too much for him to handle. His stomach twists and turns and knowing that they're getting there, so close to the studio, Frank just wants to open the car door and push himself out of the car. But he can't do that, he can't back out now, there's no turning back. And everyone around him, so hopeful, so fucking happy that he's there, he's doing something other than moping in his own self-pity, that he's making some form of fucking progress, all that shit his mum told him before leaving the hotel, just fifteen minutes ago. This should be fine, everything's going to be okay. He'll just play his bits, make a new record, he can just pretend that he's jamming with his friends like always.

But it's not fucking like that anymore. It's not the same.

Not when everyone's standing up and have microphones and headphones and all the right gear, all at the right height, all that shit. It's going to take them a whole lot more than just a slight adjustment and Frank hates the idea of being such a heavyweight and slowing the band down with the recording and the making of the whole album. He feels like he's taking away from the band more than adding to it, Frank doesn’t even know how but it all works in his head in a fucked up kind of way. He thinks that they're getting closer, but he knows they're there. When Bob turns to the parking lot near the front door of the building and there's this quiet and nervous air around them starting to build up and Frank hates the fact that it's because of him. He knows that they don’t mean to feel nervous, and they're trying to make it easier on him, but it's got to happen, it's just there.

As the car stops and Bob pulls the gear out, they all start shuffling out of the car one by one. Frank hears the trunk of the car open up and Ray pulling his wheelchair out, and he knows that this shouldn’t be as embarrassing as it is, because they're all his friends, his brothers and it's okay. But that doesn’t take away the twisting in his stomach or the bitterness in his throat, just makes it worse. Then there is Bob helping Frank down, carrying him up while Ray opens up the wheelchair and then placing him down. Frank's pretty fucking sure that this won’t ever stop being so humiliating. He forces a smile on his lips and mumbles a whispered thank you to Bob and Ray, getting a nod from Bob in return and a smile from Ray.

Frank doesn’t let any of them touch the wheelchair, grabbing the wheels himself and strolling inside as they all follow next to and behind him. There's this clenching feeling inside Frank's chest as he gets inside the building, a heavy and nervous weight, like his body is suddenly double its weight. Frank feels a hand on his shoulder, a reassurance and he knows that he'd push it away or not want it anywhere near him, but he'd be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he needed it. Just the firm pressure of the hand reminds Frank to take a deep breath and let out, it'll be okay somehow, it'll be fine. He silently thanks Mikey for understanding, even if Frank may obviously look nervous as hell, but it’s not like he can help it.

Bob takes the lead and walks to one of the main recording rooms, turning the door open, they're greeted by familiar faces. Jeff sits on one of the couches and Brian is sitting on one of the chairs near the operating system, and then there's Gerard. Standing nervously next to Brian biting his nails and hiding behind his sunglasses, Frank can barely look up at him for two seconds before turning around to face Brian. They're all standing up to greet them all, hugs and pats on the shoulders, a joke or two, but Frank knows they're all looking at him, still not sure how to handle the whole situations. And Gerard, he's just standing there, unable to move, hiding behind his huge sunglasses with his hands under his arm pits and his eyebrows furrowed. Frank can see him chewing at the corner of his lip and he knows that Gerard is just as nervous as he is. A part of Frank wants to turn around and go back home and the other part of him wants to swallow down this fear and insanity running wild inside him and just do this.

"Hey, Frank. Good to have you back," Brian says before bending down and enveloping Frank in a tight hug. Frank knows that a part of him wants to push Brian away, but he doesn’t, he just welcomes the embrace and even wraps an arm around Brian.

"Thanks, Brian," Frank says, and then he sees Jeff do the same right after Brian lets go of him. Frank smiles to himself and hug Jeff back.

Someone says something behind Frank, a joke, and they all laugh, Frank even manages a small laugh. Frank knows that he's trying to distract himself from looking at Gerard, he hasn’t even said a word to him since he got into the room but Frank knows that a part of him is glad.

They spend around twenty minutes chatting up with each other and catching up with one another, Frank knows that they're all nervous for what's about to come and that they're trying to make this go as smoothly as possible, he can tell. From the way Gerard only spoke two whispered words to Mikey, Brian's almost subtle glances back and forth between them all and the constant cracking of his knuckles. The next thing he hears is a single clap from Jeff, making them all turn to look at him.

"Are we going to get started with this or what?" he says with a smile on his face, looking excited but with a hint of nervousness on his face.

Frank looks away from Jeff, feeling his stomach churn, and he looks at Gerard. He lets his eyes linger for about three seconds and he knows that behind the sunglasses, Gerard's looking right back. Frank knows that he's been looking at him the second he got in, and Frank knows that he just can't deal with all of that right now, he just needs to concentrate on recording this album. He's just doing this for the band, for their band, not for Gerard or for anyone else. He needs to do this to know that he hasn’t completely lost it, that he didn’t completely lose himself.

They all stand up and head to the recording room, Bob heading first and sitting behind his drum kit, followed by Ray and Mikey all adjusting to their positions. Jeff goes in the room and sits behind the controls along with two other guys, Frank and Gerard can see them from the tiny room they were sitting in. Brian flips his phone open, probably in an excuse to leave the room, leaving Frank and Gerard by themselves.

There's this awkward silence that hangs between them and Frank doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t want to deal with this, not right now. He feels Gerard hesitating before taking a couple of steps closer to Frank, his fingers twitching and chewing his lips.

"Frank. I. I'm really glad you're here," Gerard says and it's like he can't help it when he wraps his arms around Frank and holds him tight. Frank clutches the arms of his wheelchair tight, unable to let go, like a part of him doesn’t want Gerard to be this close and the other part of him just needs to hold down so that he doesn’t explode.

Gerard lets go after he notices that Frank doesn’t react to him, Frank takes the chance to wheel himself out and goes into the recording room, pushing the door in with Gerard right behind him. Everyone's getting plugged, with their guitars, drum sets, microphones and headsets. On Frank's usual side, right behind Gerard and off-center to his right, Frank's gear is ready to be used.

Today they're recording a song that Ray had written the riffs for with only Frank looking over it a couple of days before, after Ray came over to check him, telling him he could add or remove or just write his own bits if he wanted. Do their own thing that they have going, like they used to in the previous albums. They'd complete each other, their styles matching and fitting with one another. But this time it's different, way too different. Everything feels so out of place, like he's not a part of this anymore. Yes, he didn’t want any of it and rejected it until Bob, Mikey and Ray had asked him to do it, just for the band, but still. None of it feels right, not with the way his guitar is resting on his lap, not where the headset feels like it's pressing too hard against his ears, not when he strums the strings of his guitar, his hands start to shake. No, this isn’t supposed to be like that. This is supposed to come in and out, flowing and smooth right between his fingers without having to think twice about it, without having his fingers fucking shaking.

Closing his eyes tightly and trying to breathe in deep, it's for the band, I need to do this for the band for myself, for the fans, for whatever fucking reason out there that's making me do this. Frank feels a hand on his shoulder, he looks up to find Bob standing in front of him.

"You okay?" Bob asks him, with his eyebrows furrowed in worry and looking hesitant. Frank shakes and nods his head simultaneously.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I can do this," Frank says and Bob nods once before heading back to his position. Frank doesn’t know if he's lying to himself or the whole band altogether, but he needs to do this, not because he wants to because he has to. Closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, Frank grabs the headset and covers his ears. He looks around the room and there are half glances of everyone bouncing back and forth between each other, all nervous. But then Bob hits his drumsticks and Gerard taps along and the music kicks in.

Everyone starts with their own bits, going into the usual rhythm and flow of it all, each in their own zone and concentrating on getting this right. Frank's hands start shaking and he starts cursing to himself, this can't be fucking happening.

He triest to his the notes and play his part but his hands are shaking and he can't bring his fingers to work against the string and his grip on the neck of the guitar is too tight and it's throwing everyone off balance. He sees someone gesturing to cut the music off, so they can start from the beginning. Ray walks up to Frank and squeezes his shoulder.

"You can do this, Frank. Come on, we've practiced this a couple of days ago," Ray says with a warm smile.

"It's not working, I just. I can't. My fingers are too fucking shaky and my hands are starting to sweat and, I don’t know. I don’t know if I can do this, Ray," Frank says, starting to get frustrated at himself for slowing the band down. He can't just do this to them now, there's no time for messing up, there is no time to delay anything.

"You can do it, I know you can. Just relax and play normally," Ray says and Frank nods hesitantly in return.

They start from the beginning again, Bob's drums hit first followed by Ray's guitar strumming and Frank knows it's his turn after three more notes, and when he strums his fingers against the guitar the notes come out broken and out of rhythm.

Fuck.

"I can't, I just. Fuck, I can't do this," Frank says between gritted teeth before throwing the guitar on the floor, pulling the headset off and throwing it next to the guitar and starts wheeling out of the room.

His hands and arms ache, something inside his chest burns and he doesn’t want any of this, none at all. Why did he even agree to come to LA in the first place? It doesn’t make shit for sense, he knows that he's not good enough anymore. Rushing out of the building, Frank ignores the calls of his name coming from inside, he doesn’t want anyone following him out and trying to treat him like he's a fucking kid, coaxing him into believing what they want, because they don’t get shit. They don’t know what it feels like, not just on the outside, but the way it eats at your insides too.

Pushing out through the doors of the studio, Frank inhales one deep breath filling his lung with the outside air, he doesn’t want to go back in at all. He feels like he's can't breathe, like he's choking on his own breaths, like normal inhaling doesn’t cut it anymore, not when you're throat feels too tight and your fingers are still shaking.

Wheeling towards the parking lot, Frank finds a small spot and just presses the palms of his hands deep into his eyes, he wishes for nothing more than for all of this to end, at least to cut the torture short, not have it hurt over and over again. Over the tiny little things and the massive things. The way Gerard's eyes always flicker back to Frank every two seconds, the way everyone is so fucking nervous around him and trying to hide it, he just wants it all to stop.

Closing his eyes as tight as he can against his palms, Frank lets himself drown in the darkness behind his eyelids, at least for the next two seconds.

He can't stand anything, he just wants his old self back.

Pulling his headset off and throwing it hard against the wall, Gerard feels like punching the microphone in front of him, feels like tearing at his own skin and smashing into whatever is right before his eyes. Fisting his hands, turning his knuckles white, Gerard walks out of the room and paces in the next room, not know what the hell he's supposed to do now. Sitting on one of couches, he puts his head in both his hands and shuts his eyes tightly, hoping everything would be fixed when he next opens them, or none of this would be happening, just anything but this. He feels someone sitting next to him, and he doesn’t have to turn around, move or even open his eyes to know that it's Mikey.

"Why is everything falling apart, Mikey? I can’t. I don’t even know what to do," Gerard whispers to Mikey.

Mikey lets out a sigh and then looks at Gerard.

"It gets worse before it gets better, you know that. You told me that," Mikey says, nudging Gerard's side.

"I just don’t know what the fuck to do, Mikey. It feels like I'm at loss at every single point. He won’t even talk to me, barely look at me. I don’t know what I didn’t, I don’t even know what I'm supposed to do," Gerard says in frustration.

"Put yourself in his position, Gerard. This is seriously hard for him and yeah it might take a while still, but we'll get there eventually. We can’t expect things to work out right away. Just, give him some time," Mikey says with a sympathetic shrug.

"I don’t want to pressure him. I don’t care how long it takes this album to be done, just as long as Frank's doing it with us, just as long as we're together then just. Fuck all, I just need him to be okay," Gerard runs a hand through his head.

"Go talk to him, you guys need to sort your own shit out as well. He's been too quiet lately, I can’t even imagine what's going through his head. Just, listen to him, hear him out, it might help." Mikey says it like it’s the simplest of things, but Gerard knows it’s far from simple.

"What if he doesn’t want to talk? He's being ignoring me since god knows when and I can’t stand it, it fucking hurts, Mikey," Gerard says with his lips pressed tightly against each other.

"Fuck, Gerard. You love Frank like crazy, that's a good enough reason to keep trying with him," Mikey says with a solemn look on his face.

Mikey has a point (Mikey always does, really), and Gerard knows that he can’t just get rid of that nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach, he knows that Frank wont suddenly just open up to him and just talk, but he can’t try. He knows he has more than one reason to and there's nothing to stop him. He loves Frank and he needs him, they all need him, and Gerard knows that it's a strong enough reason to get up from the couch and head outside. Gerard needs to fix things, and it doesn’t matter how long it might take, just as long as something is working, things are changing for the good of one another and for each other, they can’t fall apart now.

Pushing the front doors of the building, Gerard skims the area outside, looking for Frank. He doesn’t see anyone and starts to slightly panic, wondering where Frank could've possibly went, because right now he just cannot handle anything going worse than it already is. Gerard starts looking around the corners, but he doesn’t find anything. No sign of movement other than workers moving back and forth, some on their cell phones and a few cars heading to the parking lot. Gerard takes the left turn from the building and head to the side of the parking lot, he almost misses the small figure in the corner when he realizes that it's Frank. He doesn’t seem to notice Gerard approaching him, with his cigarettes held between his fingers, shoulders slumped down in defeat and eyes lost in a gaze that floats somewhere between half his eyelids and the horizon. Just as Gerard is about to say something, Frank beats him to it.

"Don’t. I know what you 're here to say, so just don’t." Frank says with a monotone voice and with his eyes still locked at his gaze in front of him.

"Frank, please just stop doing this to yourself," Gerard takes a step closer to Frank, "you don’t have to worry about the album it's fine, we'll take our time with it. Just, whatever, okay? You're more important, I need you to know that," Gerard says pleadingly.

"Gerard. Just stop, please. I'm not going to pull down the band, not since I agreed to fucking come here and do this shit. And I'm doing this for you or anyone else, I'm just doing it for the band. What else is the point of me being here anyways?" Frank says. And that hurt more than Gerard expected it to. It shouldn’t though, because at least this way Frank has a reason because it's their band and it's how Frank should be thinking, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. Gerard just doesn’t understand why Frank is being so closed on himself, why doesn’t he want to talk to Gerard, out of everyone?

"Frank, don’t be like that. You can’t just-"

"No, Gerard. You stop treating me like I'm a fragile little thing, constantly on the verge of breaking and you just want to fix me. Like it would happen in a second, because you know what? It doesn’t. Stop trying to push me through my own limits, this pressure is not helping. And just. For fuck’s sake, this shit isn’t easy. I have to fucking live like this for the rest of my life," Frank says gesturing to his body, the ashes of his cigarette flickering with the harsh movement of his hands. There's this hint of something in his voice that Gerard can’t put a finger on, but he knows that right there, that's his Frank, somewhere under the hurt, bitterness and anger of it all, lying right under his skin.

Gerard doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t know what he's supposed to say. Everything that's going through his mind is racing wildly, his fingers fidgeting and he starts scarping off the skin around his nails, biting his inner lip. He can’t take this, he can’t handle Frank being cold, and they way he won’t even let Gerard in to tell him what's going through his mind. Gerard can’t help it either, he's reaching a point where the whole situation is just too overwhelming to handle. Everything inside him is raging and his eyes are burning because Frank isn’t even looking back, too caught up in lighting another cigarette and staring away from Gerard.

"Frank. I just want us to be happy again, I just need you." And it may sound like a hopeless and desperate attempt, but at this point it's all that Gerard's got, it's all that's left inside him. Everything else is pretty much far gone and when it comes down to it? It's pretty much all that Gerard wants and needs at this point.

"You don’t always get what you want, Gerard," Frank says, without even looking up at Gerard's direction, just inhaling the cigarette that's between his fingers.

"Fuck, Frank. If this is about us then all I want is for you to love me again, because I can’t fucking stand anything else, I can’t handle not having you around, not talking to you not being with you," Gerard's voice starts to lower with each word, knowing how much he misses it all, how much he wants it back, how much he needs Frank again.

"Gerard, for fucks sake, don’t expect everything to fall back into place the second I said I'd give recording a shot. Things are different now. I’m not," Frank takes in a deep breath, "I'm not who I used to be and I never will be. You can’t see or feel what's going through inside me, how it drives me fucking insane every single day. No one can see that," Frank's eyes hover downwards and he looks at the dangling cigarette between his fingers. Gerard can’t help but feel the pang of guilt that hits him.

"How are we supposed to know what's going inside if you don’t tell us, Frank? We need to know, we want to know," Gerard says, on the verge of simply just begging Frank to let him inside his head, just anything other than this murderous torture.

Frank shakes his head, with a bitter smile on his face.

"You don’t get it, Gerard. you just don’t," Frank says as he throws his cigarette to the side, turns around and wheels past Gerard.

"Frank! Frank, where are you going?" Gerard tries to go up to him.

"I'm leaving," Frank says and he doesn't even turn back to look at Gerard, making it clear that he doesn’t want him to follow him.

Gerard just stands still in his place, feeling defeated and on the verge of collapsing. He feels something inside him break, like it fucking hurts physically to see Frank just turn away from him.

Gerard just hopes this isn’t the last chance he has to get things back together, to fix whatever is possible. Because if it is? Well, there goes nothing.

-

When Brian tells them all that they’re going to have to do an interview about Frank’s absence, Frank wants nothing more than to just disappear. The last thing he needs is to hold an interview where he’ll be stared at the entire time, and people will pity him, and fucking Gerard will probably talk for them like he usually does and Frank really doesn’t want to hear what Gerard has to say about his condition. Nonetheless, despite his best intentions, he ends up on some show - MTV, maybe, he doesn’t care enough to ask - with Gerard to his left and Ray to his right and Bob and Mikey on the other couch.

The interviewer - he thinks she introduced herself as Becky - is a girl who looks about early twenties with platinum hair and a bright smile, and Frank can barely look at her. The first question out of her mouth is an easy one, asking Gerard about the new album as an ice-breaker, something to relax them. Gerard falls into his element and Frank tunes out. He’s thinking about how Worm had picked him up out of his chair to set him on the couch, of how even now, nobody watching will know what’s wrong until he tells them.

Finally, Becky manages to find a break in Gerard’s rambling and asks the question. “So Frank, you’ve been absent from tour fo quite a while now. Can you tell us why?”

Frank sees Gerard’s face fall and he realises that Gerard had been rambling for his sake - to delay the question they all knew was coming.

“Yeah,” Frank says, and he contemplates lying, telling her he’s just had the flu or something, but he knows that then it would just come up again on the next tour, and really, he can’t keep hiding. “I was uh. Actually, I was in an accident a few months ago.” He feels Gerard squeeze his hand, and he’s caught between wanting to squeeze back and wanting to pull his hand away. He swallows, feels that lump in his throat again. “I was hospitalized, and now I...” He stops. He can’t help it, he looks at Gerard. He sees Gerard’s eyes deep and serious and all the comfort in the world and he says, “I’m paralyzed below the waist,” all the while with his eyes trained on Gerard’s. It’s the first time he’s said it aloud, and it feels strange on his tongue, almost too clinical, not real.

There’s silence, and the girl stares at him with shock and pity. This isn’t what she had expected. She stammers out an apology, sincere, and that’s what almost breaks him, but he squeezes Gerard’s hand and holds himself together. The producer is gesturing crazily from off-camera, and Becky nods and looks back at Frank.

“So I guess what everyone wants to know is... Is this the end of My Chemical Romance?”

Frank’s can’t answer. He can’t. He looks at his band, sees them solemn and supportive and he can’t answer. It’s Gerard who finally says, “No,” firm and steady. “Frank Iero is still an integral part of this band. This is a setback, not an end. We’re still here.”

“What about touring? Will you continue?” she asks.

When Frank closes his eyes, he can hear the crowd, feel the lights beating down on him, t-shirt clinging to sweat-soaked skin and the rush in his veins. He loves the music, and touring is everything. Watching them do it without him will be killer but he can’t stop them from doing what they were meant to do. In the end he looks at Gerard, wordlessly tells him that it’s up to them. Gerard takes a deep breath, looks panicked for a moment, and then says, “Yes,” so quiet Frank almost misses it.

They finish then, and Frank sits on the couch while the band get up and shake hands and say thank you and everything else. Worm comes over from the wings to carry Frank backstage, and deposits him in his chair.

“I’m so proud of you,” Brian tells him, and Frank forces a laugh.

“Don’t get all teary on me now, Brian,” he jokes, but his heart isn’t in it and Brian just looks at him. “I think I need some air,” Frank says, and wheels himself towards the exit before Worm can offer to push him.

As soon as he gets outside, he lights up a cigarette and inhales, tries to regulate his breathing and not freak the fuck out. They’re going to tour without him, they’re going to do this. He knows that it’s right, but it doesn’t stop his chest from tightening.

He hears the door open and he can’t help but hunch down into himself, not wanting to be engaged in any sort of conversation right now. Regardless, he feels a hand land on his shoulder, and when he looks up, Gerard offers him a smile.

“You did what was best for the band,” Frank says softly. “That’s all that I could ask.”

Gerard takes a deep breath, gets down on his knees in front of Frank and reaches for his hands. Frank wants to tell him to fuck off, tell him not to get down on his level like he’s a child, but he doesn’t have the heart to do it. Gerard’s eyes are wide and earnest, and Frank knows he’s not doing it to belittle him.

“Please stop making this about the band.” He looks at Frank hard. “It’s about us. You know it, and I know it, you’re just too scared to say it. And I’m scared too, Frank, but we can do this. We have to do this.”

Frank looks down at his fingers, intertwined with Gerard’s. "What do you want me to say?"

“Stop bottling everything up and just talk to me Frank. Tell me what you want me to do because I’ve tried guessing, and I always seem to guess wrong."

“Just do what you can Gerard. I’ll be here watching you guys, and that's all I can do, and you know I’ll be so proud of you no matter what." Frank looks away, can’t stand to look at Gerard while he signs away his future in music.

Gerard shakes his head firmly and grips Frank’s hands tighter. "No. You’ve got to come on tour with us! I don’t care if you can’t play, you have to be there. You can't just sit in Jersey, I need you to be there, I can't do this without you."

"Gerard-" Frank starts, ready to tell Gerard he needs time to think, needs time away from Gerard’s earnest eyes and furrowed brow so that he can get himself together, but Gerard cuts him off.

“No, stop right there. Don’t. Don’t, just please don’t try and say that you don’t want to talk about this, or that there’s nothing going on between us anymore or any of that bullshit."

Frank looks down, still avoiding Gerard’s eyes and feeling that lump in his throat all over again, his stomach turning with guilt because Gerard’s always known him better than anyone.

“Look at me, Frank. Seriously. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me and I’ll be more than happy to just be your best friend, I don’t care, I just don’t want to fucking lose you. Look at me, and say it."

Finally, Frank looks back at him, and he can’t help but pull his hand away. "Please don't ask me to do that, Gerard. Anything but that, not right now."

Gerard’s eyes narrow and his hands fall to the thighs that Frank can’t feel. Frank wonders whether he does it on purpose, bu Gerard looks so intense and determined that he doubts he notices anything right now. “No, Frank. If you want to end this, you end this right now, but you don't avoid it, and you don't hang me out to dry because you know damn well I’ll wait my whole life for you."

Frank looks at him. He knows that he’s fucking Gerard around, that this is getting a little bit ridiculous and that Gerard is going to keep on holding his hand no matter how many accidents he’s in. He thinks of the way Gerard was right there by his bedside when he woke up, the way Gerard made sure he was the one to tell Frank the results rather than making some doctor that Frank’s never met do it. He remembers the first show he had the guts to go and watch after the accident, of the way Gerard had looked at him from the stage with such ache and Frank had felt his heart break with want. He knows that nothing’s changed, but at the same time, everything has changed. In the end, there’s only one answer left to give.

“I still love you," he says and Gerard smiles this little smile of relief and happiness that breaks Frank’s heart all over again. He can tell that this is it, to Gerard. That as long as Frank still loves him it’s all okay, that everything else will just fall into place. He doesn’t know how to tell him it doesn’t work that way.

Slowly, Gerard moves one hand to Frank’s hip, the other sliding up to cup his neck, and he leans in and kisses Frank, so soft and sweet that Frank can’t think. Instead, he kisses back, because it’s been so long since he felt Gerard’s lips, so long since he even think about this without feeling like his whole world was coming crashing down. Gerard’s fingers dig into his throat, desperate, and Frank runs his hands up Gerard’s arms, into his hair and never wants to let go again. This is where he’s supposed to be. Gerard makes a small, needy sound in the back of his throat and presses closer until Frank forgets how to breathe.

Finally, Gerard pulls away and breathless, asks, "So then what's the matter? Talk to me babe, seriously you have to tell me."

Frank sighs, sees the tears gathering in Gerard’s eyes as he starts to realise that kisses and words don’t solve everything. He swipes his thumb across Gerard’s cheek as the first tear falls, and tries to keep his voice steady. "I just don't know if I can. Everything will be different. What if it doesn't work and what if you don't love me the same? Everything's so different."

Gerard laughs, a choked sound forced out of his lips. “How could you be so fucking stupid? I love you no matter what happens to you, or what you can and can't do, because you're Frank and how could I not love you?”

And Frank can feel his heart beating out of his fucking chest. He's just so fucking scared that Gerard can't love him, that sooner or later Gerard will realise how hard it is to be in love with someone who can't look after themselves entirely, and why doesn't Gerard see that, why can't Gerard just promise him it'll all be okay?

Eyes pleading, Gerard kisses him again, hard and desperate, all want. "What do you need for me to prove it to you, Frank?” he mumbles against his lips. “You name it, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for fuck’s sake, don’t you get it Frank?” He pauses and takes a breath before continuing, lips moving faster and voice racing, tinged with desperation and fierceness, and Frank can’t look away. "You want me to quit the band, I will. If it's too hard watching me sing and you not being able to play, I get that, and I’ll stop. I’ll give up everything and just be with you Frank, if I have to, because you mean more than any of that ever will."

And jesus Frank can't ask Gerard to quit the band because that's just ridiculous and that's what Gerard loves more than anything in the world, that's what saved Gerard’s life, that's what saved all their lives. He can’t ask anything of him, because he doesn’t need it.

“I just need you,” he says, and he doesn’t give a fuck if it’s cheesy or stupid. He feels so ridiculously full of something and he can’t tell anymore whether his heart is breaking or bursting. Everything feels so overwhelming and he barely remembers where they are, or that the rest of the band are still inside. All that’s left is Gerard, kneeling in front of him, with those fucking eyes.

Quietly, calmly for the first time in the conversation, Gerard says, "I’m not quitting on you if you’re not quitting on me, Frank.
I can't promise that things will always be okay, but I can promise you that I’m going to do the best I can, and I’m going to love you when the sun comes up and when it sets at night. And things are going to get hard and we're going to yell, and we're going to hate each other, but it won't matter Frank because in the end I have you and that's all I ever really wanted."

For the first time, Frank starts to feel like this is going to be okay. Like just maybe, they can make this work. "I’m not quitting on you, Gerard, I promise.”

-

When My Chemical Romance takes the stage again for the first time since Frank’s Tell All interview, the crowd is like nothing Frank’s ever seen before. This time, watching them get up there doesn’t hurt. He feels nothing but pride for the band that overcame the biggest obstacle they’ve ever seen in their career. Cortez is alive, a permanent member of the touring band, and Frank admits that even if he can’t be up there, he’s glad that Cortez is the one filling his place.

Gerard takes his place in the center of the stage, and Frank sits in the sound booth to watch them, so that he can watch properly, instead of hiding in the wings. To his surprise, there’s silence. Gerard just stands there, searching him out, and when their eyes meet, Gerard smiles, and the music starts up. It’s nothing, at first. It’s quiet, and soft and slow, and Gerard just keeps staring at him with his little half-smile, as though he knows something Frank doesn’t.

It seems like forever, but finally, the band kicks into gear properly, and Frank’s eyes widen because oh. He knows this song, he knows this music. He remembers this, remembers practising this with the guys again and again, remembers the way Gerard would watch him from across the room as he sang.

When Gerard hits the chorus, Frank can’t help but grin at him. “Someone out there loves you after all,” Gerard sings, and Frank watches Gerard sing his heart out, and he knows it's all for him and that's all he needs, really. He doesn't need to be playing next to Gerard because here, he can watch him from a different perspective, and he can see every raw emotion and every word Gerard spills out for him, and that's more than Frank could ever ask for.

end.

BBB Fic - Stay Right Here, part 2

lightisbreaking — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 05:40:16 GMT

Part Two

Gerard can feel Worm’s eyes on him all throughout sound check. They’re all a little - okay a lot - nervous, but Worm’s paying special attention to Gerard. He supposes that Brian asked him to. Gerard didn’t miss the way Brian looked at him, so sad and helpless, as he left them two days prior.

Gerard watches Ray go through sound check, and he keeps seeing the way the light fell on Frank, half expecting it to do the same to Ray.

Somehow, they get through it alive, and a couple of hours later, Gerard is standing backstage, hearing the crowd and panicking. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve played with Matt, but this is different. This time, they all know that the whole band is at risk, that Frank might not ever play with them again.

“Ready?” Bob asks him, and Gerard doesn’t have the heart to say no. Really, all he wants is to get away from the venue and run to Frank, but the band needs him, and the fans paid good money to see them, and Gerard can’t let them all down, not again. And so, he nods and follows the rest of his band - plus Matt - onto the stage. He stands behind his microphone and hears the band start up with The Sharpest Lives. He sings, hears the crowd roar, and this should feel amazing, this should feel like home, but all he can think is this is wrong. It’s wrong, all of it. Frank isn’t going insane beside him, isn’t humping his leg or kissing him or smiling at him, and it’s wrong. He remembers the way Frank looks in that hospital bed, the way he avoided Gerard’s lips like poison, and Gerard sings harder, stronger, desperate.

He barely says a word to the crowd throughout the set - a half-assed greeting and a dejected goodnight and not a whole lot more - and he knows that the fans will be wondering, knows that the band will be worried, but he just can’t. He knows that his voice will crack if he tries, and he doesn’t want them to see him like this. He’s supposed to be their idol, their hero, and he can’t do that if he’s falling apart at the seams.

When he has to tell the crowd that Frank is away due to temporary personal matters, he hears his voice hitch and immediately throws himself into the next song.

Eventually, they’re powering into the second-last song, and Gerard is just so tired, so drained, that he misses a handful of lyrics. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to do this, and luckily, Ray steps in for him and belts out the lines he misses, glancing at Gerard worriedly. Gerard, in return, ignores him, turning away and shaking his hips, throwing himself around the stage and trying to look like he’s okay, that he’s Gerard, pretends for the crowd that he planned to miss that line all along.

When they come to a finish on Cancer, Gerard pretends that the tears in his eyes are just to emphasise the song. Just for show. Not for Frank, and not for the way he feels like he’s dying. No, not that.

Finally, he’s allowed to stumble off stage, and Bob wraps an arm around his shoulders, Mikey hands him a bottle of water and Ray helps Worm ensure that Gerard can get back to the bus without being hounded by fans. And Gerard, he remembers why he has the best band in the world, but it still doesn’t change the fact that Frank’s not here, and everything is just so fucking wrong. There’s still no Frank and Gerard needs him, needs him to be bouncing and smiling again because Frank’s the one who has always held him up. He relies on Frank’s energy to draw on, to laugh at and shut everything else out, but Frank is gone, and worse, he’s hurting. Frank is hurting even more than Gerard and that kills, because Gerard knows he’s supposed to be concerned for Frank and he is, it just hurts so bad and he can’t help but get a little selfish. Frank needs him, but it’s too much and this is killing him as well. It’s just not fair.

So he climbs onto the bus and heads straight for the bunks and throws himself in. And just his fucking luck, he can smell Frank on his pillow, or maybe that’s just his imagination. Gerard rolls over, tries to ignore the scent and pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes, because he’s not going to cry, he’s not, he won’t. He has to be strong for Frank, be strong for the guitarist he gave his heart to.

But he can still see Frank in that hospital bed, not moving, not smiling, and he can’t do this. He can’t.

-

Cold tingles numb the tips of Frank's fingers, it's an early warm morning and the last thing Frank wants to do is open his eyes. He knows today is the day, today and this morning is when he no longer can hide under from the world. His eyes flicker open and Frank wishes he's blind, because he doesn’t want to see the sun outside, he doesn’t want to feel it against his skin, he doesn’t want to wake up to things that remind him of what he can no longer do. Frank's eyes automatically go to his limp legs and he lifts his head slightly, his hands instantly curling up into angry fists before falling back and shutting his eyes tightly.

"I can't fucking do this," he says to himself, hands trembling.

Frank reminds himself that his mom is going to be here shortly, he has to at least act like he's got shit controlled. Like he's not about to burst and start punching his face in. But it's hard not to have the urge to destroy everything around him, because he's the one demolished and broken, and it's on the inside and outside. It's all emotional and physical, everyone can see it, everyone can see him incapable now. Frank tries breathing deeply, hoping it will calm the raging inside him, but he just ends up shutting his eyes tight and letting out a sharp exhale.

Turning around to his left side, his eyes fall on the view outside the window, grey and almost dark, silhouettes of trees in the distance, with branches entangled into each other. Frank's mind drifts off as he starts thinking about where's he's going from now. Sure, his mom will be here in about five minutes, wheel him out of this hospital, stay with her, until fuck knows when…then what? What's going to happen next? Is he going to be confined to a bed and wheelchair for the rest of his life? Wallowing in his own sorrow and self-pity and hiding it behind his masked brave face? All sorts of questions twist and turn in Frank's head, he can't answer them and he's pretty sure no one wants to give it to him straight. Everything is coaxed to him, sugar-coated with, "it'll be fine, it'll be okay, we're here". Frank knows that, but that's not what he wants right now. Far from it.

A part of him wants to curl up and explode on the inside so he can disappear. It's always better to go completely rather than being tortured without knowing what's next to happen. How will he make it? Frank hates the thought of having his mom take care of him, not because he loves her any less than he did before the accident or after, just because it's not supposed to be like that. It's supposed to be the other way round. Frank can’t live with the thought, can’t even think about it for more than two seconds without squeezing his eyes shut and wishing for death.

Then there’s the whole thing with the band and Frank can’t stand the single thought; it makes his stomach physically clench and his hands turn into fists. It's not their fault or any of that, but the bitterness in knowing that there's a good chance he'll never get to play hurts, so fucking much. Knowing that he'll never be able to experience that rush of adrenaline of being on stage and playing his heart and whole body out until he's drained and everything aches and feeling so good after a show makes Frank want to strangle himself until he can no longer breathe, see or exist at all.

Just as Frank lets out a long breath, he hears a knock on the door. He lifts his head slightly up to see his mom coming in the room, a small smile on her face.

"Hey, sweetie," his mom says as she walks to him, planting a kiss on his left cheek, "how are you feeling?"

Franks lips don’t even move a muscle. Those kinds of questions have become rhetorical - everyone should know the answers, why do they even bother asking anyway? How would a person feel like if they were in Frank's position? It's all obvious and right there, but yet again no one gets it. No one really understands the situations unless you're in it yourself. But people try to care, pretend to at least, or try to have any form of normality after such change. Like asking how Frank's doing or how lovely the weather is outside, or changing the television channel is like every other day, like nothing has ever happened. That doesn’t make it normal or better or the same, that just makes it hurt even more.

He ends up shrugging and looking away, to the window again. Frank can hear his mother sigh in distress and doesn’t bother saying a word, she's only trying to help, trying to make it better. Right now, Frank doesn’t know how to give back or communicate, because he's not in the mentality to do that, he knows it, and he knows that he should be trying, working on himself. But everything feels so stuck in place, Frank feels so drained out of his body and soul that all he ever wants to do is sleep forever and wish that one day he'll simply not wake up.

Everything in the next half hour goes in a hazy blur. Frank notices nurses come and go, a wheelchair being dragged in and Frank doesn’t even want to look at the thing, doesn’t want his skin to touch it and doesn’t want to acknowledge it. His mother is talking to someone, then the doctor comes in, or maybe two doctors, but it's all the same. Squeaking white shoes against polished floors, hushed whispers and precautions exchanged from the doctor (or was it doctors? It's starting to really get to Frank), pens and the slide of signatures against discharge papers.

Then there are arms around him, lifting him up and picking him off the bed, encouraging words of, "come on, Frank, here we go," are too close to his ears and Frank wants to punch people in the face because he's not a fucking child. None of this was his problem or fault, why does-

"Frank? Sweetie, help us out here," his mom's words come out low and caring, and Frank lifts his arms up and he's hauled off the bed into the wheelchair.

Frank's stuck between not wanting to touch the armrests of the damned thing or wanting to put his hands between his thighs. Because neither of them, neither of them fucking work. It all doesn’t fit and it feels too out of place, but Frank's only human and he can’t help but hate this whole thing. A blanket covers his legs and it’s that hideous shade of blue-grey, the color his grandfather used to wear, he can’t even stand looking at that. Frank crosses his arms against his chest and presses them against him tightly.

Then all he notices is the slight change of scenery, from his room to the endless corridors of the hospital, leading out. Frank can almost feel the eyes of people around him burning holes into his skin, but he tries to ignore it. He's probably imagining it all, but it's so hard not to feel like that. Feeling exposed and vulnerable in front of everyone, whether they're watching him or not. Someone is pushing him from behind and he only knows that it's not his mother because she's pulling softly at Frank's locked arms, pulling his hands and intertwining their fingers together. Frank doesn’t protest because he knows that this is comfort for his mom as much as it’s for himself. She squeezes his hand and Frank can feel her gaze on him; he doesn’t look back, he just squeezes.

"It'll be okay, Frank. It'll be okay, sweetie," she whispers, just for him to hear.

Frank swallows hard, a salty ball around his throat, and he nods slowly.

"It will be," Frank says to his mom, and he can see the smile on her face. All he knows that his mind is screaming the opposite, screaming the denial, Frank can’t believe this is actually happening.

He squeezes his hand tighter around his mom’s.

-

At first, Frank wants to fight his mother every inch of the way. The very idea of watching his band play without him and knowing in his heart that he’ll never join them again makes his skin crawl and his stomach churn. For some reason though, she seems to think that it will be good for him, give him closure or something fucked up like that. Really, all Frank wants to do is go back to bed and sleep forever so that he doesn’t have to deal with any of this anymore. He knows it’s cowardly and selfish, and he keeps the thought to himself so that he can put on a brave face for his mom and Brian, but he can’t help thinking it. Linda’s hands are firm and steady as she pushes Frank along, and she smiles and talks of how excited he must be to see his band play, and how glad he must be to be out of bed. She talks in the tone of voice that Frank knows she doesn’t mean anything she’s saying, she’s just talking to fill the silence as if it will make him feel better. As if she can fill in the void, the giant fucking hole in himself that he’s feeling with only her voice. He wishes it would work, he really does. Instead, it just makes him itch more to get away and hide, and when he closes his eyes, she stops talking abruptly, like she’s just realised he doesn’t want to listen.

Brian reaches down to put a hand on Frank’s shoulder, and Frank has been in this band long enough - was in that band long enough, he corrects himself bitterly - to know that Brian is reprimanding him silently. Frank opens his eyes and looks at his mom, sees the hurt written across her face and feels the guilt sink into his stomach like a stone.

“Mom, I’m sorry, I. You’re right. It’ll be great.” He has a feeling it’s the most words he’s spoken to her in a row since the accident, and he sees the way her eyes light up again, and there’s the barest hint of a smile as she looks down at him.

“It’s okay to be scared, Frank,” she says simply, “Just try and remember that we’re here to help.” She has this way of speaking that’s soft, quiet, the kind of voice made for talking to her child, and at the same time, successfully drops another stone of guilt into his already queasy stomach.

“Thanks mom.” He reaches up and pats her hand, forces out another weak smile for her, and then thinks of what lies ahead. He’s going to see his band play. He’s not sure he can do this. But he looks at Linda Iero, and he knows that he has to, if only for her. She needs to know that he’s okay, that he’s looking towards recovery rather than wallowing in his own self pity. And when he thinks of it that way, he feels guilty and selfish all over again, but at the same time, he’s the one who’s now a fucking paraplegic. In his mind, he has every right to be pissed off at the world. Especially his band, who get to go on living the dream without him while he watches from the sidelines. Especially fucking Gerard. Frank still feels sick every time he thinks of Gerard’s face, the way he looked so disappointed and upset every time Frank turns away from him, every time he gets no response. It’s not Gerard’s fault, and Frank knows this, somewhere in the back of his mind. But he’s scared, so fucking terrified that Gerard’s going to leave him, because Frank’s in a fucking wheelchair and Gerard. Gerard’s got the whole world at his feet, and it’s not fair to make him leave that all behind for a man who can no longer be everything he used to.

Before he really knows what’s going on, they’ve stopped moving and Brian is picking him up out of his chair to deposit him inside Brian’s car.

“Good thing you’re so fucking small,” Brian mutters, and it’s meant as a joke, something to lighten the mood a little, but Frank isn’t sure he’s ready for jokes. He knows that Brian is trying to cheer him up, trying to get him feeling okay before he has to go and face everyone else, but it’s all too soon, too raw. He’s in no position to joke about his situation, and he doesn’t feel like hearing it out of anyone else’s mouth either.

Brian seems to realise his mistake, and he makes sure Frank’s settled before he shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side without another word. Linda slips into the back seat, and together, they make their way to the gig. Frank leans back against the leather of the seat and tries to focus on breathing, and not the erratic beating of his heart and the sick feeling in his stomach. He can’t quite figure out why he’s nervous - he must have done this a hundred times, even if then it was a little different.

There’s no speaking on the way there, and Frank is grateful, because he’s forgotten how to make his voice work. When Brian pulls up and security arrive to hustle them away and out of sight before anyone can see Frank, the worry and nerves only get more intense. He closes his eyes again as they fuss around him, hiding him from any stray fans who somehow managed to wander away from the front of the venue, and only once he’s backstage does anyone relax. Sort of. Worm still keeps a firm grip on Frank’s shoulder, eyes peeled for danger and looking as though he’s ready to pick Frank up and run at the first sign of trouble.

By the time they get everything sorted and get to the gig, Frank’s missed most of the set. The band are on stage and about to plough into the second last song and Frank sits in the wings, carefully shielded from fans, photographers or anyone else who might recognise him and tell the world he’s in a wheelchair. The first thing he notices is the way Gerard sings. To anyone else, it probably looks like a flawless set. There’s no fucking up, nobody’s missing any notes or cues or anything, and Gerard’s belting out the lyrics perfectly, never missing a beat. And yet, Frank can tell that something’s off. The wildness, the danger in his voice, in his very persona is gone. There’s no shine about him, none of the usual razzle dazzle that Gerard shows off to the audience every night. Instead, he’s singing but not feeling. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know exactly where he is, like he can’t see what’s right in front of him. Frank watches him, and he feels his heart clench. He feels torn between wanting to leave right that second and wanting to take Gerard in his arms and soothe him, assure him that it isn’t his fault Frank’s being bitter towards him.

He looks up at Worm, and Worm’s hand moves to ruffle his hair, a wordless sign that whenever Frank wants to go he can go, and Worm will be the one to do it himself. It takes some effort, but Frank turns his eyes back towards the stage, feeling a lump grow in his throat but forcing himself to ignore it and concentrate on the performance. When he looks at each of them in turn, it’s the same. They’re all the same as Gerard - perfect to the naked eye, but shattered underneath. He’s never seen them play like this and his heart aches just to watch. His eyes catch sight of Cortez, and he stops breathing for a second. Cortez plays flawlessly, but he’s obviously the odd one out. Frank can see it immediately. Where the others are dejected, torn apart from inside out, Cortez is in his prime. He plays for the crowd like the others can’t, and Frank feels the jealousy welling in his stomach and he can’t help it. That should be him. It should be him out there, playing like his guitar is oxygen.

Frank wheels his chair back a fraction, and as if he’s disturbed something in the very essence of time and space, Gerard chooses that moment to glance over to the wings, and when he catches Frank’s eye, he misses his next cue. Ray covers it up like usual, and Gerard stumbles through the next few lines like a drowning man, flicking his eyes towards Frank every now and then with such fierce pain and longing in his eyes that Frank feels it in his bones. They finish the song after forever it seems, and rather than talk shit at the crowd like he usually would, Gerard just stares. Ray takes over the job and talks like he has no idea what to say, and the whole time Gerard is just staring at Frank like he holds the answers to the fucking universe, but at the same time like Frank’s very presence is killing him slowly. Gerard makes a sound, strangled in the back of his throat and torn out his lips, and Frank thanks God that Gerard has the microphone dropped away from his mouth because the very sound of it shatters Frank’s soul and leaves him breathless, struggling as something pushes down on him until he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t speak.

The crowd are beginning to wonder what the fuck’s going on, why Gerard keeps staring at the wings of the stage like he’s forgotten where he is, and why the rest of the band are looking awkward and thrown off, like they don’t know how to continue. Frank feels like he’s just fucked up their entire set just by being there, but he can’t tear his eyes from Gerard’s. They hold him locked and each second leaves him feeling more like he’ll break under the pressure until finally, finally the others begin the next song and Gerard stumbles a bit in shock, catching himself and singing the beginning lines with his eyes back on the audience, his voice hoarse.

With a short look at Worm, Frank nods, and the lump in his throat grows bigger and bigger as Worm wheels him away, because Frank can’t stand it anymore. The longer he stays, the closer he is to his own demise, and it’s only hurting all of them. They weren’t ready for it, weren’t expecting it, and the look in Gerard’s eyes is going to haunt Frank’s dreams forever.

“He loves you,” Worm says, as though he thinks Frank needs to be told, like Frank wasn’t just reminded of that in the worst fucking way possible 30 seconds ago.

Frank opens his mouth to reply, but his throat seizes up and he can’t get the words out. His eyes sting but he refuses to be that much of a pussy. Instead he clenches his hands into fists until his knuckles go white, and Worm doesn’t say anything else as he hands Frank over to Brian and they get him as far away from the venue as they can, as soon as possible.

-

The next time Gerard looks over at the wings expecting to see Frank staring back at him, there’s no one there except the crew. His heart lurches and he stumbles through the song in a daze, glancing over every now and then as if his eyes have deceived him and Frank really is sitting there watching. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he checks though, and by the time they’ve finished the set, Gerard feels something heavy in the pit of his stomach and his chest feels like it’s going to burst.

He’s about to say goodnight to the crowd and leave to find Frank when Ray leans over and whispers that they still have an encore to do. Gerard stares at him, willing him to take his words back like it never happened. He can’t stay for another song. For all he knows, Frank is already gone, moving further and further away from Gerard every second, and he can’t. There was something there, just then, that makes Gerard feel like if he follows Frank now, grabs him and kisses him, that maybe they can work through this just fine. The look in Frank’s eyes, and the way he stared at him like nobody else existed was almost like Frank used to look at him when he thought nobody was watching. Like he couldn’t bear to take his eyes away. Like Gerard was the very air he breathed. Gerard needs to find him now because he’s seen how torn up and shattered Frank is, how this could be his only chance to finally get through to Frank and make him see that he loves him no matter what happens.

But Ray is looking at him, with this apologetic but firm look, and there’s nothing he can do. The crowd paid for this, are expecting this, and it’s one last song and then he can go. Surely Frank can wait around. Gerard hopes to God that Frank hesitates long enough for him to reach him. Or that Brian is a slow fucking driver or something, anything that will buy him enough time.

With a heavy heart, he breaks into Famous Last Words and feels his stomach clenching further with every word that exits his mouth.

When it’s finally over, Gerard’s heart is racing almost as fast as his mind, and he doesn’t even think before he drops the microphone to the floor and runs off stage. He’s halfway out of the venue before he realises that a stunt like that is going to cost him, that everyone will be pissed at him for ruining what almost looked like a normal performance. Until now they’ve been good at acting like nothing happened, like Frank is just away visiting his mom or something, like he’ll be back to playing shows in less than a week. He knows that after tonight, the fans will go home wondering, and it won’t be long before the rumours start.

He can’t bring himself to care. All that matters right now is finding Frank and telling him, showing him everything. He saw the look in Frank’s eyes at the very end, like it hurt him just to be there, and Gerard knows that right now, Frank is probably getting as far away from them as he possibly can. Gerard knows how Frank’s brain works, even in distress, even when he’s so confused and conflicted that he hardly knows what he wants. If there’s anyone Gerard knows better than himself or his brother it’s Frank, and he knows that in this state, Frank isn’t himself. Once, Frank would have stood up to any problem that dared approach him, and kick and bite and punch like a motherfucker until it backed down and everything was okay again. Now, Gerard remembers the terror in his eyes at the end, and he knows that Frank will be running as fast and as hard as he can. Fuck, he reminds himself. In the fucking figurative sense, of-fucking-course.

“Gerard!”

Gerard turns at the sound of Worm’s voice, and rounds on him in an instant. “Where’s Frank, have you seen him? Where’d he go?” he demands, grabbing hold of Worm’s hoodie and refusing to let go until he has an answer.

Worm looks at him sadly, pity in his eyes, and shakes his head. “He’s gone, Gerard. He left five, maybe ten minutes ago.”

Gerard feels his stomach churn heavily once more and then disappear completely. He feels weightless, light-headed, like his very existence has just been torn out from under his feet. Frank’s gone, and he never got a chance to act on anything. He knows that every second Frank gets further away, the more he’ll close in on himself and refuse to let Gerard in, and he can’t help but feel that he’s lost Frank all over again.

-

Rain drops carelessly flowing down the windshield, swipes moving from right to left, foot steady on the pedal. Gerard knows himself, he doesn't want to rush or go too slow to get there. Today had to be raining this heavily and clouds had to be that dark; Gerard isn't superstitious or anything, it is the time of year where shit weather is all Jersey ever sees, but it's really not helping Gerard. Hands on the steering wheel slightly shaking with nerves, Gerard takes a deep breath in and lets it out. He hasn't gotten any sleep for the past two or three days, he can't remember, and he doesn't feel the need to, not when he's back home already, back in Jersey. The familiar damp smell of the streets greeted him when he got here, the previous night, the dark skies and the everlasting stillness of the dark, its home, it's familiar and Gerard almost feels in the right place. Almost.

Slowing down his car and taking the right turn, Gerard parks his car in front of the place he's been both nervous and impatient to visit. Switching the ignition of the car off, Gerard tries to steady his breathing.

I know I can do this. It's been too long since I saw him. I need to see him.

I miss him.

Gerard's chest tightens at the thought of Frank, this close, both of them so near, just doors stopping him. Gerard feels like he hasn't heard Frank's voice in years, and it's tearing at the seams of Gerard's soul, leaving him hollow, like he's nothing without Frank. And he misses Frank so much that it hurts every bit of him, stings his eyes, tightens his thoughts and clenches his stomach. Gerard swallows the lump in his throat, he has to stay strong for Frank, and Gerard can't get all choked up before he even gets to see Frank. He's been waiting for the god damned tour to finish, counting the days, hours and fucking minutes. When it comes down to it, he's sitting in his car, right outside Frank's house, and being emotional about everything? Fuck that. Gerard needs to see Frank, and he's strong enough to do so.

Pulling himself together, Gerard takes a deep breath in and opens the car door while pulling his hood up from the rain and walking towards the porch. Thoughts are racing in his mind, he’s scared of how he'll find Frank, Gerard isn't sure what he’s supposed to do or say exactly, but he knows one damned thing, he needs to see Frank. Everything else is just insignificant details now. Standing in front of the front door, Gerard's hands are shaking; he keeps convincing himself that it’s the cold weather, not the nerves. Pushing all thoughts into the back of his mind, Gerard knocks on the door.

There’s shuffling and movement on the other side of the door, Gerard keeps moving from one feet to another, hands buried deep in his pockets, chewing his lips. God, someone answer the damned door already, fuck. The second the thought runs through his mind, the door creaks open and Gerard looks up to see Linda's face greeting him.

"Gerard," she says with no surprise in her tone, like she almost expected him to be here. There’s a look in her eyes, Gerard tries to read it but isn't able to. It’s somewhere between worried and…something else Gerard can't figure. Gerard shakes the thought away and gives Linda a small smile.

"Hi, Linda."

"Come on in, it's freezing outside." Linda opens the door further for Gerard to step in. Gerard pulls his hood down and walks behind Linda into the living room.

Gerard settles on the couch as Linda disappears into the kitchen; he hears the soft rattling of something being prepared as he looks around the living room. It still looks exactly the same as it used to since he was here at the beginning of the year, when they were on holiday and over for dinner. Gerard remembers Frank spilling his drink and Linda hitting him on the back of the head, calling him clumsy just like his dad. He can't help but let a small smile creep on his face at the memory; it seems like it was forever ago, like it was something ancient, something so distant, and Frank's smile and laughter, the thought of it makes Gerard's chest ache at the longing.

Startling from his thoughts, he hears Linda talking while handing him a cup of steaming hot coffee. That's been happening a lot, zoning out and being too engrossed in his own thoughts to really concentrate on what's going on around him. But he catches the last couple of words from Linda and manages to give a half decent reply.

"Yeah, tour was okay I guess. Just tiring like usual, you know."

"Yeah," Linda nods as she settles on the arm chair on Gerard's left.

They both stay silent for a bit, both almost avoiding the inventible. It's obvious to Gerard that Linda knows why he's here, they both do, they just don't say anything. Gerard feels like Linda is worried about Frank's reaction of Gerard being there, it's all etched on her face, glancing at Gerard and giving him unsure and almost troubled looks. Gerard knows it, of course he does, but nevertheless, this isn't going to stop him from seeing Frank, this running around in circles and avoiding the whole-

"Gerard."

Turning to look at Linda, Gerard settles his coffee down on the small table in front of him.

"I know you're here to see Frank. Just know that he's. I don't know how to put this, but-"

"Linda. I just really need to see him. It's been too long and I miss Frank like fuck. I know he's been…isolated and not wanting to talk or see anyone, but it kills not hearing from him or seeing him in forever. Just please, I won't take long."

Letting out a sigh, Linda finally nods and stands up, Gerard following right behind her. Gerard’s about to take the stairs, to go to Frank's room, but Linda walks to the guest room downstairs and Gerard has to hold whatever he had in himself not lose it right then and there. Frank…Frank’s in the guest room because he can't fucking get to his own bedroom, fuck. Of course he can't - just fuck. Swallowing whatever that was choking him, Gerard breathes through his nose and lets it out. They’re standing in front of the guest room now, Linda softly knocking on the door.

"Frank? Frank, honey? Someone's here to see you." There's silence on the other side of the door, no response and Gerard's heart skips a beat and his throat goes dry. Maybe Frank's asleep, maybe Gerard came in the wrong time. But it's not even six o'clock. Linda turns around and gives Gerard a small smile.

"I know he's awake. Do you want me to go in before you or anything?"

Gerard shook his head. "No, it's fine. I'll just go in if you don't mind."

Linda nods before turning around and walking back to the living room. Gerard keeps looking at the door knob hesitantly before pulling his guts in and opening it slowly.

The room is completely dark, the only source of dim light coming from the window, curtains drawn back, silence filling the air and. He's right there. Back to the door, facing the window, watching the rain pour outside. In the wheelchair. Gerard's knees suddenly go weak and he feels like turning around and running away, dropping himself in the darkest of holes, falling of the steepest of cliffs, anywhere, just not here, not seeing Frank like this. And Gerard hasn't even seen Frank's face yet, and Frank's right there, body still as stone, Gerard hasn’t seen a muscle move since he opened the door. Not even turning to see who it is or anything, just frozen in his place. Gerard closes the door and hears the click of the door knob, eyes still locked to the back of the wheelchair, still no movement.

Walking towards Frank, Gerard doesn't know whether to stand up behind him, next to or in front of Frank. Or should he sit on the bed? Or should Gerard just turn around and go back home and hide under his own covers and scream until his lungs give out? Forcing all thoughts to the back of his mind, Gerard walks to Frank and the only sound heard is the splatter of rain against the window.

"Hey, Frankie." Gerard crouches next to Frank to meet his eye level and just as he's about to give a smile –

"Can you please not do that?" Frank looks at him and Gerard can't help but furrow his eyebrows in confusion. What did he do? Shit, he didn't even get past saying hey and Frank’s already upset.

"I. What did I-"

"I hate it when people kneel down so they can talk to me, just don't do it. Just act like you normally would, or just. Whatever." Frank gives Gerard a smile sad smile before turning around on his wheelchair and moving next to the night stand, looking through his drawer.

Oh. Oh, shit. Fuck. Gerard is such an idiot, what the fuck, of course Frank doesn't want to be treated fucking differently and Gerard’s already messing up being all careful and stupid and shit

"I'm sorry, Frankie. I. I didn't know."

Frank pops a bottle of pills open and swallows them followed with water and then stays in his place, head titled backwards before looking up at Gerard.

"It's fine." Frank says with the calmest of tones and tries to force another smile on his face.

Gerard can't help but see Frank's eyes blank with dark bags of, what Gerard guesses to be signs of sleepless nights. No sparkle or life in them anymore, just exhaustion and despair, just looking defeated and so broken. Yet Frank manages to mask all of that behind a calm persona and quiet tone and Gerard isn't used to that. Gerard knows that Frank's hurting, and it's fucking Frank up bad enough to turn him the complete opposite of who he was.

There’s silence now lingering in the air, just frozen in place between the two of them. Gerard doesn't know what to say to make it better, doesn't know what to do with his nervous hands and storming thoughts. Moving towards Frank, Gerard sits on the edge of the bed facing Frank.

"I miss you, Frank. We all do, everyone does. It feels so fucking different without you around."

"Yeah."

"I've been trying to call you and get to talk to you for ages, but your phone was off the whole time. I miss talking to you." I miss having you around, touching you, holding you, breathing you in. I miss everything about you, Frank. Everything. Gerard feels like a part of his fucking soul has been torn away from him since Frank went back home. And it fucking kills, to come back here, and see Frank in such a state. It's as if something cold and strong is clutching at Gerard's guts and pressing against his chest, and everything just seems too fucking hard.

"Yeah, I've. I've been tired I guess, sleeping a lot."

Not from the way he looked, Gerard doesn't buy it. But whatever Frank's reasons are, all that Gerard wants is to make Frank feel better, make him smile genuinely, ease off some of the pain, maybe cheer things up a little. Just be there for him in any way possible. So maybe Gerard has to just fucking talk to Frank like he’s okay, like everything is normal, just hang out with him and maybe it'll make things better, ease off the tension or whatever it is that's clogging the air and making hard to breathe.

"Hey! Have you seen that video Bob took of all of us? Dude, that day was like one of the worst during tour, seriously. Then Bob was all like, 'hey let's take a video and send it to Frank' then we all made faces and shit. It was kinda stupid but it was like 3AM, so." Gerard’s now full on, cheerful voice and a smile on his face, trying to get Frank along, change the subject that hurts at heart to something that'll maybe get Frank saying more than two words.

"I, uhm. Yeah, I don't know. I haven't checked my email in a while."

"Oh. Well anyway, whatever. Also-"

"Gerard." Frank stops Gerard in mid-sentence and looks at him with tired eyes. Just as Gerard’s about to say something-

"I can't do this, Gerard. I'm sorry, I just can't."

And Gerard's breathing stops at Frank's words. What does Frank mean? He can't- No, Frank doesn't mean that. It can't. No, god, no. This isn't happening. No, he’s misinterpreting all of this. Frank, Frank can't do that.

"What do you mean, Frank?" Gerard's voice comes out quiet and quivers while he lets the words pass his lips. Because no, this isn't happening.

"We. We can't do this anymore, Gerard. We're lying to ourselves by saying we can make it through as if nothing happened. And just. I can't. I'm sorry, okay? This, all of this, is already hard enough."

Then Gerard's standing up before he even realizes, his eyes are stinging and his throat is closing up and he keeps trying to swallow it down but the pain and tightness won't go away. Looking down at Frank, Gerard's shaking his head, because no.

"Frank, no. You don't mean that. Just, you're tired and just no, Frank. I won't let you do this to yourself, okay? I just won't allow it. You're not doing this, are you?"

Frank's still in his position, not a muscle moving, face fixed into whatever's behind Gerard's figure, not meeting Gerard's eyes. And Gerard can't take it, can't fucking believe how Frank can simply say such things and think that Gerard would just agree to it and move on like nothing has happened, because fuck, shit happened, serious shit happened but it's not like Gerard’s going to fucking turn around and just leave Frank, not going to give up on his boyfriend because of some fucking accident. Anger is starting to crawl through Gerard's veins, and confusion and most of all just hurt that Frank would say such things. It's Gerard, it's him, Frank should know better than to just give up and not answer.

"I'm not letting you give up on this shit, Frank, I don’t fucking care." Before he knows or realizes himself, Gerard is standing up and his eyes are burning against Frank's.

"You don’t fucking get it, Gerard. Put yourself in my situation, think of how it's like for me." Frank's tone starts getting louder, ferocity crawling up his neck and Gerard can see Frank trying to hold it back, but it's not working.

"I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through, Frank, okay? I don’t. But you're not letting me in! I just want you to stop pushing us away. Stop pushing me away." Gerard grits his teeth but he can't help it, everything inside him is too caught up and heated and Frank's right there, pushing and not wanting anyone around and it's not helping.

"Stop pretending you give a fuck, Gerard. Not everything revolves around you and your own fucking band, stop trying to make shit better when it’s not." Frank's words come out sharp and hit where it hurts. Gerard almost recoils back, Frank's not the kind of person who'd ever say shit like that, no matter what.

"Frank, fucking hell, stop thinking that we don’t care about you, we all do. This is just as hard for us as it is for you!" Gerard's hands are shaking and this whole shouting back and forth is making his hands shake. The fact that he's scared of losing Frank, so easily, and the anger of knowing that Frank thinks that they'd go on without him. The whole band, forgetting him, how is that even remotely possible?

Frank looks up, straight through Gerard's eyes, and for once Gerard sees Frank's eyes with life, not the one he would like to see, but the angry burning life of everything that's caught up inside Frank that he can't let out. The shit that Frank won't allow himself to let out.

"Get out," Frank says, sharp and clear pointing towards the door, still looking straight into Gerard's eyes. "Leave me alone. Get out."

"No, Frank. You can't push me away, I'm not going to let you do this on your own," Gerard shakes his head, his eyes not leaving Frank's for one second. "Fucking talk to me, damn it. Stop bottling shit up inside, it's only hurting you more."

"Why the fuck would you care if it’s hurting me more? Everything's already fucked up to the max, hurting more won't make a difference," Frank says, throwing his hands towards Gerard, like he wishes he could punch him or put some sense into Gerard, like there's any of that shit in Frank's head.

"Because I love you, we all do and you're not letting any of us in to make this easier –"

"It doesn’t get fucking easier from here, Gerard! You don't know what this is like. Fuck," Frank says as he pushes the nightstand with his hand angrily and half his medication, bottles and pills are all over the floor.

Gerard tightens his fists, eyebrows furrowed and his eyes tingling with the burning. He wants to do something, say something, do anything to calm Frank down, make things better instead of worse.

"Frank," Gerard starts and doesn’t know where to go from there, but he doesn’t even have the chance to finish off whatever he was saying when Frank's lips start moving.

"No, Gerard. Don’t, don’t even." Frank's lips tremble and Gerard can see him trying to refrain himself from breaking down, just the sight of Frank like that makes Gerard's knees weak, makes his vision blur.

"You have no fucking idea what it's like, watching you guys play and knowing that I'll never be on that stage with everyone. Knowing that this is it, there's no more to my life than this, you know full well that music is my fucking life." Frank's gesturing with his hands, voice loud and trembling, bits of himself breaking down and it's the first time Gerard sees tears run down Frank's face since the whole accident happened.

"Frank just-"

"No, Gerard. You don’t know what it’s like knowing that I won't ever get on that stage and play my soul out, having that snapped off you without warning or anything, just like that…" Frank snaps his trembling fingers and his angry and harsh words echo into the room. Gerard doesn’t even know what to say back.

Silence falls between them for two seconds as Frank rests his head between his hands. Gerard can hear him muttering curses and softly crying to himself. Stepping closer to Frank, Gerard reaches out to rest his hand on Frank's shoulder and Frank flinches away from Gerard so fast that Gerard thinks that he actually might have hurt him.

"Don’t even," Frank says and it hurts, it hits the core, right inside and it almost physically hurts. Like a punch through the guts, burning and tearing inside Gerard's chest. He holds himself back and curls his fingers into fists, he shouldn’t be hurt because this is all too much in the first place, he hast to hold himself from exploding.

Letting out a long breath, Gerard looks at Frank and tries to think of what to say, he has to say something, he doesn’t care how it sounds, just something.

"Frank. Please, don’t cry. You've been so strong," Gerard's voice is small and quiet in the room, as if he's the only living thing in there.

"Yeah well if you cared enough to look properly, maybe I fucking wasn’t. Too busy living it on stage and shit," Frank says sniffing to himself, head still between his hands, now wiping tears off his face.

Gerard tries to swallow that one down, but he just can't. Out of all people, Gerard's been the one who's feeling like shit not having Frank around, the one who feels like he's being tortured the whole time for being so far away from Frank, it's unfair. Frank can't blame this on Gerard because Gerard's been trying so hard to keep himself composed for Frank, for the band, in front of Brian, in front of Mikey. Because this hurts Gerard as much as it hurts Frank, seeing him like that and not knowing what to do or say, especially when Frank does nothing other than push him away and not let anyone in.

"I want my old Frank back, the old Frank wouldn’t have given up this easy," Gerard says, voice trembling and so close to breaking down himself.

"Stop being so fucking melodramatic. The old Frank died since the accident, Gerard. You don’t even know who I am anymore," Frank says with a sniff, grabbing the wheels of his chair and turning around to give Gerard his back.

"I don’t fucking care what you say, you're still our Frank. Nothing that'll ever happen will change that," Gerard says, feeling like he's losing the last chance of hope, last thread to hold on to, like there's nothing else left and Frank's not helping with the way he's shutting him out.

"Stop contradicting yourself, Gerard. Nothing's going be lovey-dovey with a happy ending, this is real life. So just." Frank's head lifts up from where he was looking down and he fixes his eyes on the window. "Stop trying to fix the unfixable. Just leave, Gerard." Frank's voice is so monotone, so low and filled with despair that he's trying to hide.

Gerard doesn’t want to do anything more than walk up to Frank and hold him so that Frank can actually let it all out, the anger, sorrow, the heavyweight he's been carrying and bottling up inside him, just letting all of it out. At this point, Gerard doesn’t care if Frank pushes him away. Walking up to Frank, Gerard stands in front of him and puts his right hand on Frank's cheek and the other hand on his shoulder. Frank resists and tries to push Gerard's hands away. Gerard doesn’t let him.

"Frank. Please, we can do this. I know we can. Just let it out, stop hurting yourself more." And right before Gerard is about to continue, Frank pushes him with all his force, making Gerard end up on the floor, on his back and looking up at Frank in shock.
Gerard can see the raindrops from outside reflecting on Frank's face and nothing other than Frank's screaming fills his head.

"Get out, fucking leave," Frank starts shouting, at the top of his lungs, angry fists tight together hitting the arms of the wheelchair, his face red and flushed in anger. Gerard is too startled to even notice Frank's mom rushing inside, her gaze darting back and forth between Frank and Gerard, not knowing what to do, or who to deal with first.

Somehow Gerard manages to stand up by himself as Linda stands next to Frank, trying to calm him down. Frank's face is turned away from Gerard and Gerard can't tell what his expression is. Gerard considers holding Frank's hand before he leaves, or giving him a quick kiss - he knows he's not going to give up on Frank this easily, but it hurts so much to see him in such a state. Looking up at Linda, Gerard can see her pleading with her eyes for him to leave, because everything is just too sensitive to be dealt with now.

Gerard mouths, 'I'm sorry,' to Linda before leaving and she just shakes her head, then he turns to head to the door, but not before turning around to look at Frank's back.

"Goodnight, Frank," he says with a barely audible whisper.

Staying still in his wheelchair, Frank doesn’t even move a muscle.

-

There’s something welling up inside him, something he can’t stop, that he has no control over. It feels like it’s been there ever since the accident, growing and growing until it’s this horrible lump in his throat, clogging his airways, a sickening swell in the pit of his stomach. He feels like he’s choking, and he needs it to stop because he doesn’t think he can go on like this much longer.

He sits in the middle of his room after Gerard leaves, and it’s covered in so many painful reminders. Over the years his mother has played the part of the adoring parent, keeping his room clean and decorating it with evidence of his success. There’s newspaper clippings, front pages of every magazine My Chemical Romance has covered, photos of when they were still that tiny band in Jersey, photos of them standing on stage in all their glory. And fuck, it hurts. He looks around and all the pictures stare back at him. In every photo he’s holding a guitar, and Frank feels like he’s going to die. A choked sound forces its way out of his mouth and he rolls his chair forward, desperately reaching out to tear it all down, strip his walls of reminders, of things that he can no longer be. In his ears there’s the dull roar of the crowd screaming, the sound of the guitars, drums and bass mixing together, and Gerard’s voice, singing in his ear like there’s no tomorrow. He can hear it all crashing around him, feel it suffocating him, and his eyes widen horribly. There’s a photo in front of him, and he looks at it, the image of himself thrashing around on stage, eyes closed and lost in the music, and Frank rips it down and hurls it into the waste paper basket because it’s all just so unfair. He pushes himself around the room madly until he forgets how long he’s been in there.

Finally, Frank stops, his chair stilling in the middle of the room. The bin is overflowing and the floor is littered with scrunched up papers, of torn photos and magazines. As he surveys the ruin before him, he spots it. The last shred of an old life, one last stab to the heart that leaves him breathless.

His favourite guitar.

The others have been taken on tour, stowed on the bus or at the apartment he shared with Mikey. This is the last of them, the one treasured possession that he had left behind, knowing that it would be looked after. And it has. The guitar in front of him looks almost brand new, and Frank’s fingers itch to pick it up, to strum the strings and lose himself in the melody like so many times before. It’s a beautiful acoustic, gorgeous in all its simplicity, and Frank feels his heart ache just looking at it.

Slowly, he edges his chair forward, and shaking fingers reach out to grasp the neck, feeling something unidentifiable run down his spine. The lump in his throat grows larger as he pulls the guitar into his lap, settling it on legs he can’t feel. His fingers hover over the strings and it’s this indescribable need, this desperation to touch, to play, but he can’t. He looks down at it and his knuckles are going white where he grips the neck too hard. He’s spent his entire life playing the guitar but for some reason, he sits there and he just can’t. It’s all too much, too soon, and the lump is getting bigger all the time. He thinks he might even be sick if he looks at it too long.

He lets it sit on his lap and begins to push himself towards the door. He has to pause three times to look down and make sure that it’s still there, because he can’t feel the weight on his dead thighs. Hands firm on the wheels of his chair, Frank pushes himself out of his old bedroom, and keeps going until he reaches the front door. He’s glad his mother has gone out shopping, and he knows that undoubtedly, she’ll run into someone she knows in the supermarket and end up chatting and staying even longer. With one hand steadying the guitar, he reaches up with the other and opens the door, letting himself outside. There’s a chilled bite to the air, and he shivers a bit, but keeps going. It takes him a while, and he curses the chair continuously, but eventually, he reaches the backyard.

And from there it’s just a matter of time. He wheels himself further into the center of the yard, and places the guitar on the ground. He can’t help but stare at it for a moment, watching the way it settles amongst the grass peacefully before he’s wheeling away, turning his back on it. He keeps moving, not allowing himself to stop because otherwise, he’s scared that he’s going to have second thoughts, and at the moment, this seems like the only logical course of action. He has to do this because it hurts too much not to, and he needs to drill it into himself, needs to force himself to accept the fact that this is it, and nothing can change what happened. He’s not who he used to be.

Eternally grateful that Linda left the door open when she reversed the car out, Frank wheels himself into the open garage and searches. Dusk is falling fast, and he peers through the darkness until he finds what he’s looking for at last.

He retrieves the matches from the shelf and pockets them easily, but as he leans forward in his chair to pick up the fuel can, he swears at the chair again, because fuck, it’s just making everything ten times harder and he doesn’t want to deal with it. His hands curl around the plastic handle, and he has to use both to haul it up. It’s fucking heavy, and he’s glad that the time he’s spent in the chair so far has done a little to build up his upper body strength. He eases it onto his lap where the guitar once was, and begins to push himself back.

He can see the guitar lying where he left it, and he makes his way over to it, at long last coming to a stop. He peers over the edge of his chair and feels his heart clench. Not allowing himself time for second thoughts, he unscrews the cap of the fuel can and begins to pour, squeezing his eyes shut as he hears the liquid splash against the wood. He realises that his breathing is out of control, that his heartbeat is accelerating, and once it empties, he throws the can to the side, not daring to open his eyes. His hands are shaking, and the lump is swelling so fast that he feels like any second now it’s going to cut off his air and he’s going to die in his backyard, sitting in front of a petrol-soaked guitar. An odd way to go, and maybe he’d like that, something a little out of the ordinary. But he can’t think about that now because he needs to do this, needs to do it just as much as he needs to breathe. And so, with trembling hands, he reaches into his pocket and withdraws the matches. All he can hear is his own breathing, and that unnerves him a little. But he needs to do this now, because it’s getting darker, the sun almost completely set and soon enough, he won’t be able to see properly.

Frank’s shaking, and he knows that it’s not from the cold. Turning around and wheeling himself back to a safe distance is a bit of an effort, but he manages, and then he’s staring at the guitar from a couple of meters away. The wood is glistening in the sliver of moonlight that’s appearing, and Frank thinks it looks eerily beautiful. And then he strikes the match and without giving himself a chance to blow it out, he throws it forward, and to his relief, it manages to stay lit until it lands on its mark.

And Frank, he watches with a mixture of horror and awe as the flames engulf the last thing tying him to a passion he no longer wants in his life. Because it’s not fair to look at that guitar every day and know that he can never play with the band again, can never play on that stage with all of his heart. He can’t stand to even look at the object he once loved like nothing else, and so he destroys it. Out of sight, out of mind, only, he knows that isn’t really true. Still, he forces himself to believe that this is it, and as he watches the fire lick against the instrument, swallowing it whole, he tells himself that he can rest okay now. He firmly ignores the small voice telling him that it will do nothing of the sort.

The lump dies down a little, but it still doesn’t feel right. It’s almost as if it’s starting to go away out of mere tiredness, out of defeat. It doesn’t feel at all like Frank’s won, more that he’s hollow, that he’s destroyed something he can never get back, and rather than making it all better, it’s all just so much worse.

He sits in his chair, unshed tears shining in his eyes as he watches the flames. He holds the tears at bay and refuses to cry over something that he himself caused, something that he wanted, needed. He blocks out all of the noise, all of the feelings, everything. He sits there until the flames die down and come to nothing but a flicker, a few sharp flicks of orange-red against the now black, charred remains of the guitar.

He sits there until Linda comes home and finds him, and he doesn’t even register her as she fusses over him, wheeling him back inside. He can see the tears in her eyes too, knows that this is hurting both of them, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything but empty, hollow.

Hollow as the guitar he just sent into oblivion.

Part Three

BBB Fic - Stay Right Here

lightisbreaking — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 05:38:05 GMT

Stay Right Here
MCR; Frank/Gerard
by swagneto and idktbh

Gerard likes to watch Frank. He almost can’t believe how energetic, how full of life he is. Frank grins at him from across the stage as they wait, and Gerard feels himself automatically smiling back. Frank kind of has that effect on people.

“Gerard? Gerard. Sing something, please.” The voice snaps him out of his thoughts and reluctantly, Gerard tears his eyes away from Frank to look back at the guy standing in the sound box, Ray beside him. Nodding quickly and pretending like he had been paying attention all along, Gerard belts out the first few lines to Helena. It’s so second nature he barely has to think about it, and after a quick double check that his microphone is all set to go, he’s allowed to stand down. Bob’s on the drums then, and Gerard and Frank continue to share secret smiles and glances as they wait.

Just as it’s Frank turn for sound check, he’s stopped. “Frank, maybe just move to the other side of the stage for a minute. That light above you, it’s been fucking up lately. Almost fell and took a swing at Brian before,” the guy grins, and Frank laughs, looking over to where Brian is in fact standing.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up Iero,” Brian snaps, but he’s smiling as he says it. Frank looks back at Gerard, shrugging his shoulders.

“Don’t stress. I’m used to this side of the stage, is all,” he answers, and none of them can really argue with that. Frank’s always on Gerard’s right and Frank’s in to that sort of superstitious lucky charm bullshit. After the guy reassures Brian that it’s totally been fixed since that morning when Brian had his run-in, he seems to chill out a little, and Frank’s allowed to continue.

It’s all so casual, so routine, and maybe that’s what Gerard would remember later. The way it all seemed so normal, watching Frank shred without a care in the world. He gets a little carried away, thrashing with his guitar in a way that’s so Frank, it’s expected. Accidentally, he kicks out and his foot snags on a cord, and then, it’s almost like Gerard’s watching a movie.

There’s a horrible screeching sound, metal scraping on metal, and Gerard’s head snaps up just as it begins to fall. His mouth opens, a silent scream for Frank, move, fucking get out of the way, but Frank hasn’t noticed. And it’s almost ironic how the way he loses himself in a guitar - something that Gerard had once thought so beautiful - is now going to be his downfall. And speaking of falling...

It’s all over so quickly Gerard barely has time to comprehend it properly, but then he’s staring, eyes wide and jaw slack. That’s his Frank on the ground. And shit, it’s fallen, just like they said. It’s a big fucking stage light, and Frank, he’s fucking under it. They’re all on their feet at once, the band, Brian, the sound guy, but it’s Gerard who reaches him first, one hand on Frank’s still shoulder, the other pushing desperately at the thing trapping him. And what the fuck, seriously? It’s so fucking unlikely, a freak accident, and that sort of shit isn’t supposed to happen to them. But it seems to, what with Gerard’s ankle and Bob’s leg and all the other fucking injuries Frank’s sported over time... Only this, this is a whole lot worse.

Brian and Bob are there now, more concentrated on moving the light than Gerard is. He’s far too busy staring at the way Frank’s so still, his breathing shallow and wheezed, knocked right out of him. “Frank,” Gerard says, and something’s tearing at his throat, stopping him from saying all the things he needs to say - Get up, move, talk to me, oh my god - until all he can do is stare. Somewhere in the background he can hear Brian on the phone, and dumbly, he registers that someone’s hand is on his shoulder - Mikey, he thinks. Brian hangs up the phone, tells them that an ambulance is on the way.

“Just don’t move him. Whatever you do, don’t move him until the paramedics get here.”

Gerard thinks there should be a medic around here somewhere, and he goes to tell Brian this, but their manager is looking at him in a way that screams, ‘please don’t make this difficult’, and Gerard decides to keep his mouth shut. Brian isn’t stupid, he knows what he’s doing. But fuck, it’s so hard to trust when Frank’s lying there in front of him, not moving and barely breathing, and Gerard almost feels like he’s been crushed as well.

The ambulance comes, and someone pulls Gerard away from Frank as two of the paramedics take over. Gerard feels Mikey’s arms around him, and he’s thankful for the comfort, even if he doesn’t really feel it.

“He’s fine,” Mikey whispers, and Gerard doesn’t say anything, because something tells him that Frank’s really, really not okay.

-

Wild rushing, instruments beeping, words too loud, everyone's moving in a hazy blur in Gerard's head. Sitting on the cold plastic chair, he feels a hand resting on his shoulder; he doesn't have to look up to know that it's Mikey. Someone's saying something to him, someone familiar and it sounds like reassurance, so he ignores it, because he doesn't want that now, he wants Frank, he wants a stranger, a doctor, someone who knows to tell him what the fuck is going on. Why Frank is limp and unmoving, how they can fix it, just everything. Gerard's head hurts, his mind is exploding with the consequences of what can or what will or what did happen.

Gerard still sees Frank's body strapped to the gurney, Brian next to him on the ambulance, his hand holding Gerard's as Gerard's heart races. It all happened too fast, everything, from getting ready, to messing around and then…it just fell. Right on Frank, hit him in the back and just. The crashing, the, rush and the ambulance. Gerard could barely stand the sight of Frank's limp body sprawled on the floor, just like that. Then everything was happening too quick for him to register, and there were lights, noises, blue and red, then a whole crowd surrounds Frank and Gerard was fighting against them to just hold his fucking hand and stay with him while they carried Frank to the ambulance. The whole band rushed after him, dropping all their things and just-

I'm sorry, sir, only two people can get in the ambulance..

From the look on Brian's face, you could tell that he was about to punch someone's lights out, but Brian was strong enough to hold it in, and in between a silent agreement by all of them, Gerard and Brian got into the ambulance right away. Brian on the phone, canceling the show, whatever, burning down the fucking stage and those damned fucking lights.

Then there was Frank, and tubes were already attached, and people being careful, needles, machines, and beeping, and Frank. Right there, unmoving. And Gerard's body starts shaking again when he sees Frank's face.

Standing up on weak knees, Gerard moves for the sake of moving and starts pacing up and down the hallway, the reception, and over and over again in front of the room they took Frank into. Gerard's fingertips are numb and trembling, he's nervous and scared and starting to panic all over again, worse than when he did on stage. Leaning against the wall, he closes his eyes and tries to even his breathing, focus on just breathing. He tries to ignore the smell of the hospital, the squeaking of shoes against the floor, the small chatter between nurses and just breathe.

"Gerard, just-" and Gerard jolts up standing straight, eyes big and expecting. Mikey's suddenly in front of him.

"Is the doctor out yet? Did they say anything?" Gerard doesn't even wait for Mikey's response and goes to the main desk, where Brian and Ray have been rooted since they came.

"Have they said anything, Brian? How long will they take? For fuck’s sake, I need to see him!" and there's that violent shaking of Gerard's hand again, and all he can see in his mind is Frank's face, and it's limp and quiet and unmoving.

Ray puts his arms around Gerard, and it helps, just for a few seconds, but it still helps.

"He'll be okay, Gee. They'll fix him. It's going to be fine." Gerard is trying to believe it, trying his hardest to let the thought sink in, but it won't. And then he tries to breathe in again, tries to calm himself down, but the smell of the hospital is making him sick and he feels dizzy.

Letting go of Ray, Gerard goes back to pacing and walking around aimlessly, does it for the sake of having something to do, passing time. Then he stands and looks at everyone around him. Brian is still heatedly discussing with the receptionist about when the fuck would they get out, it's been more than four hours, damn it. And Ray's still right next to him, close to the edge himself, trying to be calm and reassuring. Then there's Bob standing right with one of the male nurses that brought Frank in, seeming like he's about to punch him for not doing anything, for not having any progress to tell them about, and damn it it's been four fucking hours.

And Worm is right there, with at least ten cups of empty coffee, and he's refilling and standing there, worried too, but trying to do something distracting, and just bringing more coffee around, and it helps them stay awake and be there, because they need to. Then there's Mikey, on the phone, probably with Alicia or someone important, and Gerard knows they're talking about him, because Mikey keeps stealing glances towards Gerard, his face completely drained with worry and gives Gerard a small smile of reassurance, but it just helps Gerard think about Frank, and he's shaking again.

Just about the second Gerard was taking a step to head to the plastic chairs, the door of the operation room flings open and everyone is right in the doctor's face in mere seconds. And Gerard doesn't even wait two breaths before he's interrogating the doctor.

"Is he okay? What happened? Why did you take so long? Can I we see him? Is-"

"Sir, sir, please. I'll explain what needs to be explained. Just give me a second to-"

"Give you a fucking second? Are you fucking serious? You've been inside that fucking room for the past four hours and you want another second? Wha-"

"Bob. Bob, hold it." And Ray's arms are firm and tight on Bob's shoulders, because Bob was an inch away from the doctor's face, and his fist already set to punch. The doctor narrows his eyes at Bob and turns to Brian.

"Okay, I'm Doctor Kane, are any of you related to Mr. Iero?" He looks around the group that's surrounding him and they all start talking at once, some even shouting, telling him that fuck yes they're all related to him, they're in one band, they're all family and –

"Guys, guys. Chill, okay?" Brian looks around them and they all fall quiet and look at the doctor expectantly. Gerard is the worst of them all, clutching to Mikey's arm, about to collapse on the floor if the doctor doesn't say anything right now.

"Doctor, you can tell us what's going on, all of us, it's fine."

And the doctor looks around them all again before sighing and giving in, because really, if he doesn't, he will get his face punched in, it's on everyone's face.

"Well. Mr. Iero suffered a severe spinal injury. We did the best we could to try and fix as much of the damage as possible." The doctor looks down and starts fiddling with some of the papers he had in hand, taking a second or two too long, and fuck was Gerard about to just pass out or wrap his hand around that man's throat.

"Okay, what the fuck happened? Is he okay now?" Brian speaks for the whole group, they all had the same questions in mind, and they just needed to be pushed out.

"Well, Mr. Iero damaged the thoracic disks in his back. We tried the best we could to surgically fix it, but the bones were crushed in together. We put him on steroids to reduce the inflammation from the shock of the injury. All he needs right now is a long rest. He won’t be awake for at least another twenty four hours." And they’re all staring at him, all confused, and for fuck’s sake they just need it in straight forward simple words. A definite yes or no, okay or not.

"In fucking English, damn it," Bob sneers at the doctor. Dr. Kane looks at them all again before speaking.

"Mr. Iero has lost all sense of movement from below the hips. The discs in his spine that affect the movement and feeling of his legs and hips have been completely crushed. There’s a good chance Mr Iero will be a paraplegic. We tried all we can. I'm sorry."

They all fall silent. This isn't happening, that. No, no way in hell. It has to be something else, Frank can’t just. No. Gerard's shaking his head frantically, his fingers bruising Mikey's arm and he's shaking. No, this isn't happening. Gerard's misinterpreting all of this, he heard it wrong, he must have. Why isn't anyone moving and why is everything around him is spinning? Why-

"D-Does that mean he's. He's paralyzed?" And Brian's the strongest, the only one able to actually say the word, and Gerard clutches the wall and holds himself, and he feels an arm wrapped around him, but he's not holding back, he's just standing stiff in shock and about to collapse.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. We're not sure if it's-"

"NO! It can’t, Frank isn't. No. Fuck no. Frank's not paralyzed. He's-He's okay, you-" and Gerard is moving towards the doctor, fist ready to act but he's held back by Ray and Mikey. Just away from the door of the surgery room, just away.

Gerard allows himself to be taken away, and just doesn't want to see that doctor’s face right now. Going back to the waiting area, Ray and Mikey's grip on him loosen and Mikey is about to say something before Gerard lets go and heads for one of the walls.

"No. just fucking no." He doesn't even know what his mind is setting him up to do before Gerard's hitting. Punching and thumping against the white walls. Once. Twice. He keeps punching the goddamned walls until his knuckles are passed the pain and are just throbbing numb.

No. this isn't happening. Why the fuck did this happen, of all people it had to happen to Frank. Fucking fuck. No-

"Gerard! Gerard for fuck’s sake just stop already." And there's Mikey again, hand on Gerard's shoulder, and Gerard's in too much anger, boiling right inside him, in his chest, stomach, his blood is hot and explosive and just no and he keeps punching, ignores Mikey.

"Would you just stop? Frank doesn't need this right now, Gerard." And hearing Frank's name is all that Gerard needs to go stiff and numb all over, and he stops and stares at the wall. "He needs you to be strong for him, be there for him. He doesn't want these kind of fits, okay? Just. Just sit down, for now. We'll figure things out."

He doesn't know if he's moving with or against his will, but he's moving again and the surface of the plastic chair greets his shaking figure. Somehow everyone's back around him, Brian still with the doctor. It's all too quiet and no one's saying anything.

Gerard's sitting but he feels everything around him twisting and turning, spinning and collapsing. Resting his head in his hands, Gerard closes his eyes and he sees Frank, and his whole body shudders. Then there are arms all around him, and he feels all three pairs of them, and they just hold them there. They all hold each other there, no one saying a single word.

Then Gerard feels the world falling down on him and all he sees is dark and crashing, all he feels is blood burning and boiling, body trembling.

This can’t be happening.

-

Gerard tells them firmly that he’ll spend the night at the hospital. None of them want to leave him there alone, but Gerard isn’t budging, and there’s only room for one person in the tiny spare bed in Frank’s room. Reluctantly, the rest of the band and Brian find a hotel nearby, promising that they’ll be there first thing in the morning. Gerard is barely listening to them. He’s finally allowed in Frank’s room, and now all he can do is stare. Stare at Frank as he lies motionless, eyes closed and breathing even, and that’s the tiniest of comforts, but it’s still nowhere near enough.

When Gerard can’t stand to look at Frank anymore, he crawls into the bed and turns his face to the wall, willing sleep to come. He lies awake all night, imagining how Frank will react when he wakes up.

Gerard is woken by soft chattering, and when he opens his eyes and looks up, he can see Brian and Mikey in the doorway.

“Morning, Gee,” Mikey says when he sees that Gerard is awake, crossing the room to inspect Gerard, as if he’s the one who’s in hospital. Cautiously, Gerard turns his head to see Frank. He’s still asleep, but Gerard guesses that soon enough, the drugs will wear off and Frank will wake up, demanding to know what the fuck happened to his body.

“I don’t want the doctors to tell him,” Gerard says suddenly, surprising himself with how fierce his words are. Mikey nods, as if he almost guessed Gerard would want that. “He doesn’t need to hear it from them. It should be us. We. We know him, we love him and he’ll. He’ll trust us,” Gerard finishes quietly, as if Mikey needed an explanation. He didn’t, but he listens patiently anyway, patting Gerard’s shoulder affectionately.

Gerard looks at Brian. “You think so too, right?”

And Brian nods, and the decision is made. Gerard follows them out into the waiting room where Bob and Ray are sitting. They stand up as soon as the others enter, and Bob shoots Gerard a look that he thinks is meant to be reassuring, but just makes his stomach churn. He’s not the one who needs comforting - Frank is. Frank, who’s still lying in a fucking hospital bed, who’s about to wake up and find out that he no longer has the use of his legs. Gerard knows he doesn’t want to be the one to tell him, doesn’t want to see the heartbreak, frustration and anger on Frank’s face, but at the same time, he knows that it’ll be him.

They sit in the waiting room silently, none of them wanting to say anything that would upset anyone else, and really, there’s nothing else to talk about. Brian has made a few calls, told any interviews or shows they had lined up for the next few days that they’ll have to be cancelled, and in the back of his mind, Gerard feels a little guilty about all the kids they’ve undoubtedly disappointed, all the people who will be wondering why their concert was cancelled. And then he thinks of Frank in that bed, and it seems a small price to pay. Because Frank, he’s just paid more than should ever have been asked of him.

“Who’s going to tell him?” Ray asks finally, and Gerard puts his head down.

“Do you want to, Gerard?” Brian asks him, soft and careful not to upset him. Gerard didn’t think he was making it that obvious how much he’s dreading going in to see Frank, but Brian has always been good at reading him. If he’s admitting it, he’s a little nervous about seeing Frank awake. Watching Frank be so fucking still is heartbreaking, but Gerard has a horrible feeling that seeing him awake and in pain is going to be a thousand times worse.

“I guess I’ll tell him, sure,” Gerard says slowly, refusing to look at them. He knows that their eyes are on him, carefully watching to ensure that he doesn’t lose it, doesn’t break down again, but he’s past that, he thinks. Now, there’s just this dull ache, this resignation that this is how it’s going to be, and he has to be strong for Frank. But it’s hard, so hard, not to run out of here and never come back. Only, that wouldn’t be fair to Frank, and who’s Gerard to complain, really? He has perfect use of his legs, of his body. He’s not the one who got crushed by a fucking stage light, and so really, he has no right to even think of leaving Frank here alone.

The doctor appears an hour later, and even though he hides it, putting forward the professional persona, Gerard can tell that he’s almost nervous. Scared of telling them that Frank is awake, that he wants to see them. Gerard bites back a sneer, knowing that the doctor can’t be nearly as fucking terrified as the rest of them. Brian looks at Gerard, and he nods, following the doctor into the room before the others. Better to get it over and done with straight off. Brian had asked the doctors to keep the information from Frank until Gerard was ready to explain it to him in a way that Frank would understand. He knew that Frank wouldn’t appreciate a whole bunch of medical terms and dodging around the facts.

When Gerard walks into the room, Frank is lying there, head propped up by a couple of pillows and staring at the opposite wall. His eyes are dull, blank, and Gerard is suddenly really fucking terrified of talking to him. And it shouldn’t be that way, it shouldn’t. He’s shared everything with Frank. Frank is the last person he sees at night, the person he wakes up to in the morning. Frank is the one Gerard kisses, holds. Gerard’s used to seeing a sparkle in Frank’s eyes, a childish mischief that’s a delight to witness. He’s not used to this Frank, the one who’s staring blankly ahead as though he can’t even see.

Gerard edges forward, lowering himself into the chair beside Frank’s bed, and finally, Frank turns his head.

“Hey Frank,” Gerard tries, and he can feel his heart racing, his pulse thumping.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Frank whispers, and his voice wavers as he speaks. Gerard feels his heart break, and he reaches forward for Frank’s hand, gripping it tightly and trying to lend Frank whatever strength he has.

“There was an accident, on stage. The light, it fell and. Frank, it fell on your back and you.” And Gerard has to stop there, because where’s he supposed to go from here?

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Frank asks, and Gerard realises that so far, he’s doing a really shitty job of hiding his own fear and apprehensions from Frank.

“It’s. I. Yeah, it uh. It kind of is,” Gerard admits, and he squeezes Frank’s hand as he says it, hopes to feel Frank squeeze back. There’s nothing, just Frank staring at him, drilling holes through his mind as if looking for the answers himself, and Gerard swallows stiffly. “It uh, it damaged your spine, Frank. You’re.” He can’t bring himself to say it. You’re a paraplegic. You won’t walk again. It’s too harsh, too hard, and Frank doesn’t deserve this, any of this.

“Gerard, please. Just tell it to me straight,” Frank pleads, and Gerard stares at him a moment before he gives in.

“The doctors say you’re. You’re a paraplegic, Frank. Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Gerard forces out, and he can feel his eyes stinging, but he’s not going to cry. He won’t do that to Frank. Now is Frank’s time, and if Frank wants to cry, fine, but Gerard’s job is to be strong for him, and that’s what he’s going to do. It’s just so unfair. Frank shouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed. Frank’s supposed to be bouncing, jumping, thrashing on his guitar and full of energy.

“I. A what? It won’t - the feeling - it won’t come back?” And Frank’s practically pleading with him now, as if Gerard’s the one who can restore the feeling in his legs, as if Gerard holds all the answers. Gerard wishes he did.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, because he can’t bring himself to shut Frank down, to tell him that no, it’s permanent. Gerard doesn’t have any experience with this sort of thing. He’s not used to having to deliver such heartbreaking news, not used to having to crush a person’s dreams just because of some shitty freak accident.

“But. But that means... That means I can’t play.”

The words hit Gerard hard, and it’s the first time he even thinks of that. But he’s right, and that’s more devastating than anything they’d thought of before. Frank’s going to have to be in a fucking wheelchair. Frank can’t get on that stage again, can’t thrash around and play his little heart out, can’t tour with them and keep living the life they’d been living. Frank’s going to need special care, he’s going to have to be looked after, and there’s no way in hell they can do that on a tour bus, constantly on the move.

Gerard can’t even speak, can’t reassure Frank, can’t make it all better. He watches him, watches the way Frank’s mind ticks over everything, the way he slowly begins to realise that this is the end of his career, that he’s done with, that his dream is over, and Gerard can barely stand to watch. He can see every piece of heartbreak, every fall and twitch in Frank’s expression, the way he avoids Gerard’s eyes and goes back to staring at the wall, ignoring everything around him. Gerard feels tears welling up in his eyes again, and he brushes them away angrily, because if Frank’s not even crying, he shouldn’t be either.

“Are the others here?” Frank says finally, and Gerard nods wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak.

“I’ll. I’ll go get them,” he says, and Frank nods stiffly.

As Gerard walks out of the room and back to the waiting room, legs feeling like jelly, he can’t help but feel a little bit hurt at how unresponsive Frank was with him. He already misses his Frank, misses the way Frank smiles, the glint in his eyes. He tries to tell himself that it’s okay, that Frank will be back with them as soon as he’s out of hospital and on the road to recovery, but he can’t make himself believe it. Frank’s eyes. They had been so dead.

The band stands up as soon as Gerard enters the room, and he looks towards the ground. “He wants to see you,” he says, and he feels them bustling past him. Mikey pauses, puts a hand on his shoulder and Gerard looks up.

“You coming?” Mikey asks, and Gerard shakes his head.

He needs a few minutes alone, to gather himself before he has to go back in there and face Frank. He knows that if he goes back in there now, he’s going to lose it, and he doesn’t want to upset Frank any more than he already is. Mikey nods and leaves him there, following the others to go and see if they can repair some of the damage.

Gerard, he sinks down into a chair and hopes that the next time he goes in there, Frank is smiling. He knows it won’t happen.

-

They're all sitting scattered in one room, each one of them trying to process and comprehend the shock that was just dropped on them. Gerard’s sitting next to the open window, sunglasses on, gripping his cigarette too tight and practically crushing the filter. Mikey can tell the anger is still there. Ray's on the floor, leaning against the wall and on the phone with someone, talking in whispers. Bob is sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together and eye cast downwards, a concerned frown plastered to his face. Mikey can't help but turn to his brother again.

Mikey and Brian had to physically drag Gerard out of the hospital to come to the hotel. Gerard didn't want to leave; he sat there rooted and stubborn, in Frank's room just waiting, just watching Frank. He wouldn't listen to them when they told him he needed to sleep, to call it a day and just go and rest. No, Gerard wasn't buying any of that shit. Not until he was manhandled out of the hospital, curses under his breath and barely keeping himself together in one piece.

Since they got to the hotel, Gerard has smoked one cigarette after the other, rubbing at his eyes from under his sunglasses from time to time. Mikey doesn't want to think about whether Gerard’s crying or not. Seeing him as he broke the news to Frank was already hard enough. Mikey had to keep it together, for Frank's sake and for Gerard's.

Just as Mikey is about to stand up and go to Gerard, just sit with him and just be there, the door opens and Brian walks in.

"Hey, guys."

A round of mumbled responses echoes from everyone and Mikey notices how Gerard doesn't tear his gaze from the window.

They all fall silent and Mikey can see that Brian’s almost struggling, wanting to say something. Mikey keeps looking between Brian and everyone else. They all seem to end up looking at Gerard then back to Brian, and it’s quiet.

Brian lets out a sigh, knowing that someone just has to say it, that it's there on everyone's mind, but no one's doing or saying anything.

"What's up?" Mikey really intends to ask, what happens now? What do we do? What's the next step? How bad is this going to hurt us all? How big are the consequences? But Mikey can't get himself to say it, he just can't.

Running a hand through his hair, Brian looks at all of them and they all look back, even Gerard now, from behind his sunglasses as he stubs out his cigarette.

"We need a replacement for Frank, obviously. I’ve got Cortez and he's ready to go any time. Cancelling the show the other night was, well, kind of seriously disappointing to the fans, especially seeing as we decided to cancel a couple more until further notice. But we need to get this together, you guys, you know it." Brian looks like he really is trying to make this as easy as it possibly can be, and Mikey can see his struggle.

Mikey turns around to see everyone else's reactions. Bob’s nodding in silent agreement and Ray’s looking at Gerard. So does Mikey now, and it kills seeing Gerard like that. Completely drained and so close to simply shattering. Then Gerard's lips are moving, tight with the anger still there.

"Fuck. It's. It's not like it’s the first time Cortez has fucking filled in for Frank. Let's just get this shit over and done with."

Mikey swallows hard. The anger is still burning in Gerard and Mikey feels like walking up to him and just holding him there to just calm him down. He can see Gerard's hand starting to shake from where he's sitting. Gerard holds his hands together and looks down, jaw clenched tight, an angry frown on his face.

"Yeah, exactly. So we'll just finish off the tour with Cortez. Everything's already sorted. You guys are cool with that right? I just have to let the-"

"We are, Brian. It's okay." Gerard settles it firmly and Mikey's looking at him, but Gerard hasn't moved from his position, and it's starting to scare Mikey.

"Alright. Just try and get some rest and sleep, you guys. I haven't seen one of you in a bed in two days, please." And that's the end of whatever meeting-update thing that just happened, and Mikey expects Brian to leave or go handle the rest of the shit that needs to be managed.

But Brian's half angel, half God and Mikey sees him walking towards Gerard and sitting down next to him. They talk quietly and Brian puts his hand on Gerard's shoulder and then they both look at each other before Brian wraps his arms around Gerard and just hugs him.

Mikey feels helpless and useless, like he should be the one there, doing that for Gerard. But he can't and he doesn't even know why. And Mikey can't stand looking at his brother, weak and vulnerable like that; it's killing him. Mikey can't even start to think about Frank and Gerard's relationship, or the whole picture, the band, the touring, the new album. It's all too much, it's all too raw and it scares Mikey when he thinks about what this could do Gerard and Frank. It could end them and-

A hand is on Mikey's shoulder and he's torn from his thoughts. He looks up from where he's sitting and sees Brian's figure standing in front of him.

"Hey, Mikey. I just spoke to Gerard for a bit, and we'll be going to the hospital later to tell Frank what's happening, keep him updated. "

"Um. Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."

Brian sits down next to Mikey on the opposite chair and leans forward.

"I know that all of this is too sudden and quick, Mikey. But you seriously need to look after Gerard, don't let him get too caught up in himself."

And out of all people, Brian is telling Mikey this. But Mikey knows Gerard, knows his brother maybe a little too much. Mikey knows how Gerard works, how he thinks. He knows that deep inside him, Gerard's playing the guilt and blame game and is probably convincing himself that it’s somehow his fault. Gerard won’t stop thinking about all sorts of shit, not when he’s in the middle of all of this. But Mikey, on the other hand, can't just give up on his brother and skip the whole situation like it means nothing. It’s worse, the whole situation means everything.

"I will, don't worry about it, Brian. Gerard's my brother, I know how he's like. He just. He just needs some time right now." And Brian nods because he does understand.

"I know. It all just needs time. And we'll just take this a step as it comes, just look after him."

"I will, Brian, you know I will."

Because Mikey knows that he will take care of Gerard, even if he knows he can't just go up to his brother and make him spill his heart out. Everything's too raw and it's too soon, and Mikey knows that Gerard will come and talk to him, at some point, sooner or later. And Mikey will be there, right next to him, listening. Mikey knows his part before Gerard comes to talk, Mikey will just be there, as a distraction, a reassurance, to hug Gerard when he needs it, at any time, the whole time. Tell him it'll be okay just when he needs to hear it because he knows that it'll keep Gerard going for a while, and just, Mikey's going to be there for Gerard. Period. He always did and he always will; it’s just something that happens, something natural and as familiar as skin on bone.

Then Brian is standing up and patting Mikey on the back before he's out the door. Mikey looks back at Gerard. He's curled in on himself and leaning against the now closed window. Standing up and walking to his brother, Mikey doesn't wait for Gerard to acknowledge his presence before wrapping his arms around him. Mikey can sense that Gerard was about to tell him to just fuck off, because he knows that Gerard doesn't want this bullshit sympathy, not when the anger is still there and Frank's too far away. But Gerard doesn't, because he's a notch more vulnerable than he makes himself seem, so he leans in to the embrace and holds Mikey back.

"I'm scared, Mikey. So fucking terrified," Gerard whispers in Mikey's ear, and Mikey's close to lying to him and telling Gerard that there is no reason to be scared, but Mikey knows better.

"I know, Gee. We all are, we just have to be strong for him"

"I'm not sure if I can, Mikey."

-

Forcing his eyelids open, Frank squints as he tries to adjust to the light. It takes him a couple of minutes to register the fact that he's still in the hospital, that this is all actually happening. It's not a nightmare that he can wake up from, it's real. He closes his eyes tightly again. He doesn't want this, none of this is supposed to happen. Everything hurts everywhere, his back, his neck. It’s somehow worse that there’s no pain in his legs, that he can’t feel them at all. Frank's heart clenches at the thought whenever it comes back to him. Gerard's words, in his mind over and over again.

You're a paraplegic, Frank.

Paraplegic.

Never walking again. Never moving. Never on stage again.

Never.

And the words keep turning and spinning inside his head, and they won’t go away. They swirl and mix in with the thoughts and emotions, and it's all too heavy and he wishes that he never woke up. He wishes he was sleeping again, and he curses the sedatives for wearing off.

Looking around, there are tubes, monitors, machines and everything around him. Nothing looks hopeful and no life looks back at him, just machines and himself. Then he turns to the window and stares outside with a broken look on his face.

I can't do this.

And Frank has to look away from the blank window pane and the still life that looks back at him. He can't stand it, he can't stand the fucking thought that he won’t be able to just simply move, get up and go.

He can't do this.

Resting his head back on the pillow and taking in a deep breath, Frank already feels exhausted and drained from just those simple movements. Trying to push himself with his elbows, Frank looks down on himself, looks at his legs, and a part of his soul just closes in on itself and breaks at the sight. His legs, limp and unmoving, and he tries, tells his brain and his body to correlate and coordinate, but nothing, nothing responds.

Frank has to hold himself and not breakdown right then and there. He holds it and it burns his chest, burns in his back and sets fire through him. But nothing's moving, and he's just there, just a body, a corpse. He feels like pulling out all the wires and throwing himself to wherever he lands, just not on this bed, not in this hospital, not in those legs. Then he starts trembling and he's clutching to the bed covers so hard his knuckles are white and painful, and he just wants to rip everything to shreds, everything.

Just as Frank is about to try and sit up on his own again, trying his best to ignore the shooting pain that cripples his body, he sees the door being creaked open. Two familiar figures are walking in and Frank knows who they are, and closes his eyes shut. Gerard and Brian come towards Frank's bed and Frank can feel their presence, but they don't realise that Frank's awake until he forces his eyes open again. And Frank just looks past Gerard and Brian, to the wall behind them. He can’t stand to look at anyone, no one at all. Especially not Gerard. Not when he's right there, in front of him, holding his hand now, warm and familiar, but Frank still feels numb.

"Hey, Frank," Gerard whispers softly, and tries to lean in for a kiss, but Frank turns his head to the other side and locks his eyes on the window frame.

He can't stand this. Everything and everyone's acting like all of this is normal, like nothing fucking happened. None of them get it, not even Gerard fucking understands. Frank feels Gerard's hand tense when he refuses to look at him, but Frank just can't, it all hurts too much, at every seam.

"Frank. Frank, please look at me."

And Frank can feel the warmth of Gerard's palm against his face and he can’t help but close his eyes and lean into the touch. It's enough comfort for just this split second, enough warmth to make him forget just for a fraction of a breath, just enough to give him the energy to open his eyes and look into Gerard's.

"Hey," Frank manages to croak out, and his voice is scratchy and it almost hurts to use his vocal cords, but it's better than nothing. At least that part of him is actually functioning.

Frank sees Brian grabbing a chair for both himself and Gerard and they both sit down, Gerard not letting go of Frank's hand while he's sitting. Brian gives Frank a small smile and looks at him.

"How're you feeling today, Iero?"

And Frank shrugs because really, what can he fucking say? ‘Oh, I still can’t feel my legs and probably never will. I'm still stuck in this bed and feel like a corpse, like a useless piece of wood, just being there.’ Has he mentioned that he feels like shit? Like he wants to rip out all the wires and throw himself out of the building?

"I'm fine, just a bit tired." Because really, he just can’t register the thought and can’t form it into words. Because maybe saying that he's fine will make him fine, saying that he'll be good to go soon might actually make himself believe so. Maybe lying and denying might work, Frank doesn't know, and at this point, Frank just wants to go back into nothingness, just deep dark sleep, where nothing happens.

"Yeah, you need to rest up and get better now. We just wanted to come and tell you about something." Brian looks pointedly at Gerard, and Frank knows it’s Gerard's turn to continue. And it feels like something bad, because he can already feel his stomach twisting, and Frank looks at Gerard and waits for it.

Gerard's grip on his hand tightens. "We wanted to ask you. The tour. We." Gerard has to take in a deep breath and lift up his head to look at Frank before he continues. "We have to continue with the tour, we already cancelled a couple of shows and. Brian got Cortez to fill in, and I know that-"

"I can’t believe you're asking my fucking permission for this. Fuck yeah you have to finish the tour, we're not just. Not because of me, no, I don't want you guys to. Cortez is great. It's not the first time." And probably won’t be the last, Frank thinks to himself. Frank feels Gerard's lips kissing his hand softly and Frank has to look away, because he still can’t, this is all too much, but he won’t allow it to show, he just forces himself to breathe.

"It's just for now, nothing permanent, just to finish off the tour with. Then, then we'll get this sorted."

Of course it's fucking permanent, all of it. Frank's unmoving legs are permanent, Frank not being to walk, move or play on stage ever again is fucking permanent. All of this is plain and perfectly permanent.

"Yeah, I guess. That's what you guys need to do. Just don't call off anymore shows, just. Yeah."

Gerard stands up and holds Frank's hand against Gerard's chest and looks at him directly, Gerard's eyes burning against Frank's dull ones. Frank can see Gerard trying to hold on, not break loose. He sees the broken pieces of him, just right at the rims of his pupils, edges of olive, all masked with faux strength.

"I'm here, Frank, It'll be okay. I promise," Gerard whispers close again, and he's clutching Frank's hand right over his heart, against his warm chest.

Frank's stuck in between pulling his hand away and telling Gerard to just leave the fucking room and to stop lying, and wanting to pull Gerard close and hold him with him right there on the bed. Just to feel some familiarity, some normalcy, just Gerard. But he can’t, it's all too much, everything and everyone's too much, and there's still the anger and there are still freshly opened wounds and shocks are still unabsorbed and it all hurts too much. It all feels like a heavy weight collapsing on his chest and holding him there, making him struggle for breath. Every limb of his body feels like they're in a world of their own. He can’t feel his legs and nothing is willing to coordinate with each other. His arms and body all feel heavy and there are too many wires and too many monitors.

Then Gerard's leaning forward, and Frank has to shut his eyes, because he doesn't want this, not now. It's too much. Warm lips settle on his forehead and Gerard plants a kiss there and rests his forehead against Frank's.

"I love you," Gerard whispers softly and Frank can feel his warm breath tingling against his face, and he can’t. He can’t say it back, or say anything for that matter. All of Frank's energy is focused on just breathing.

"Gerard." And that's all that Frank manages to say, that's all his heart and his energy allows him too.

"It's alright, Frank. Just rest up now, okay?" Gerard stands up straight and waits for Frank to respond, and Frank gives the merest of nods and hopes that's enough to just keep Gerard quiet and away, because having him too close is just too much.

"Yeah." Then Frank closes his heavy eyelids and wishes for sleep to overcome him. He tries not to think about Gerard and Brian leaving. He tries not to think about his unmoving legs.

And most of all he tries not to think about the screaming and the crowd cheering for them, but they're all there, still cheering, and Frank's here.

Still motionless.

Part Two

Bonus Content - Fanart!

lightisbreaking — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 05:32:50 GMT

Not only did we receive fanmixes, we got ART!

So basically, this is probably the best thing I have ever seen in my life. We're both so, so incredible blown away by it, and we both stared at it like, all fucking day when we got it, it's fucking amazing. It makes me want to cry whenever I look at it, it's that perfect. Thank you so, so, so fucking much troddenpath ♥

And Frank has to look away from the blank window pane and the still life that looks back at him. He can't stand it, he can't stand the fucking thought that he won’t be able to just simply move, get up and go.

He can't do this.

Resting his head back on the pillow and taking in a deep breath, Frank already feels exhausted and drained from just those simple movements. Trying to push himself with his elbows, Frank looks down on himself, looks at his legs, and a part of his soul just closes in on itself and breaks at the sight. His legs, limp and unmoving, and he tries, tells his brain and his body to correlate and coordinate, but nothing, nothing responds.

my heart you have no idea.

as before, AIM!

monthofdecemberx: EEEEEEEEEEEEEE
mlolwtf: OMFG FRANK
mlolwtf: I CANT EVEN
mlolwtf: IDEK
mlolwtf: I LOVE IT OMFG
monthofdecemberx: oh my god.
monthofdecemberx: oh my god
mlolwtf: YES?
mlolwtf: IHFDSOKJSDHAGF
mlolwtf: YES!!!!!!!!!
mlolwtf: FRANK JFC. JFC.
mlolwtf: ITS PERFECT JESS
monthofdecemberx: FRAAAAAAAAAANK ;____;
mlolwtf: EXACTLY
monthofdecemberx: WHAT DID WE DO TO HIM OMFG
mlolwtf: ;_____________________;
monthofdecemberx: OKAY OKAY
monthofdecemberx: CALM DOWN
mlolwtf: AND THE ANGLE THE PIC IS DRAWN
mlolwtf: FUCKING PERFECT
mlolwtf: OSDFHLU.KSDJ
monthofdecemberx: I KNOW I KNOW OH GOD

Thank you so much bb, it is incredible and we are in awe ♥

AND THEN:

BECAUSE MARYAM AND I HAVE THE BEST FUCKING FRIENDS IN THE WORLD, amplifiedstatic DREW US THIS FUCKING AMAZING ART BECAUSE SHE IS THE BEST AND SHE DIDN'T EVEN HAVE TO BUT SHE DID AND OMGGGG <3333333

You totally already know how amazing we think this is, I think we have ranted at you enough the other night. But thank you so much bb seriously, I can't believe you did this for us ♥♥

And last, but nowhere near fucking least,

of_evangeline drew us this, again by her own will, which, I am still in fucking awe baby. It is the best thing I have ever seen. It's gorgeous, so, so much, we can't even believe what we're looking at. Thank you so much Margot, it is amazing and we cannot thank you enough. It's perfect ♥♥♥

Seriously, it's amazing. i can't even. Yeah. Babeee ♥

WE ARE THE LUCKIEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD, BASICALLY.

Bonus Content - Fanmixes!

lightisbreaking — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 05:05:39 GMT

GUESS WHAT. idktbh and I co-wrote a BBB fic and we received 3 fucking amazing mixes!

First off!

Still Motionless - fanmix by emcay

1. All For Believing - Missy Higgins
2. Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking - Snow Patrol
3. World Spins Madly On - The Weepies
4. Spaceboy - Smashing Pumpkins
5. Breathe - Anna Nalick
6. Don't Forget Me - Way Out West
7. Iris - Goo Goo Dolls
8. Before You Go - Candice Alley
9. Best Beating Heart - Sing It Loud
10. These Hard Times - Matchbox Twenty
11. You Got Me All Wrong - Dios Malos
12. Broken - Seether feat. Amy Lee
13. The Sun Always Shines On TV - The Delays
14. I Miss You - Blink-182
15. Just Say Yes - Ben Lee

download it here!

Second!

Ignite Your Bones by revii and manhattan_blue

1. Smashing Pumpkins - Bleeding the Orchid
2. Athlete - Wires
3. Bif Naked - Lucky
4. The Used - Noise and Kisses
5. Green Day - Restless Heart Syndrome
6. Coldplay - Violet Hill
7. The Killers - I Can't Stay
8. Snow Patrol - Open Your Eyes
9. Funeral For A Friend - Recovery
10. The Fray - How To Save A Life
11. Tool - Schism
12. UB40 - Lean On Me (Originally by Bill Withers)
13. Breaking Benjamin - Break My Fall
14. Coldplay - Fix You
15. Madonna - Intervention

download it here!

Thirdly!

Fanmix by ciel_vert

1. "angels, devils, and the noises in my heart" by grovel, from statically yours (1998)
2. "Inertiatic ESP" by The Mars Volta, from De-loused in the Comatorium (2003)
3. "Friday" by Sunny Day Real Estate, from LP2 (1995)
4. "Hospital Song" by Ben Folds Five, from The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner (1999)
5. "I'll Be The One" by The Capsules, from Reverser (2002)
6. "Casimir Pulaski Day" by Sufjan Stevens, from Come On Feel The Illinoise (2005)
7. "This Housecall Could Kill" by Benton Falls, from Guilt Beats Hate (2003)
8. "Talking in Code" by Margot & The Nuclear So and So's, from The Dust of Retreat (2006)
9. "Down Is The New Up" by Radiohead, from In Rainbows (2007)
10. "If I Ever Feel Better" by Phoenix, from United (2000)
11. "Publisher" by Blonde Redhead, from 23 (2006)
12. "Transatlanticism" by Death Cab For Cutie, from Transatlanticism (2003)
13. "Feelin' The Future" by Republic Tigers, from Keep Color (2008)

download it here!

SO BASICALLY OH MY FUCKING GOD. THEY'RE ALL SO INCREDIBLE AND PRETTY MUCH MAKE US CRY EVERY SINGLE TIME WE LISTEN TO IT. YOU GUYS. THEY'RE SO PERFECT WE DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH OURSELVES.

to try and get my point across about how much we love it, I'm going to show you guys our aim conversation, which we got while Maryam and I were already on aim:

monthofdecemberx: I WILL HOLD ON OMG
monthofdecemberx: WE HAVE THREE MIXES
monthofdecemberx: OMG THEY'RE SO GOOD
mlolwtf: CARO/LILY AND EM!
mlolwtf: ILTHEMSFM
mlolwtf: <33333333333333333333333
mlolwtf: OMFG
mlolwtf: MEL MIXED FOR US?~!~??~?~
mlolwtf: L;KEWA.HJFLKSADGLIFDSAHJGSFDKJFDSO
mlolwtf: I JUST PROLLY JIZZED MY PANTS SO HARD
monthofdecemberx: OMG WTF WE HAVE 3?!
mlolwtf: YES
monthofdecemberx: I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW
mlolwtf: CAROLILY MEL AND EM
mlolwtf: DID YOU SEE CAROS COVER ART?
monthofdecemberx: YES
mlolwtf: I JIZZED MY PANTS TO THE NEXT CENTURY
monthofdecemberx: HOW GOOD ARE THEY
mlolwtf: AMAZING
mlolwtf: SO DSKFHLKSJDHFKJSD UGH
mlolwtf: AND MEL! MEL! I DIDNT KNOW SHE FANMIXED OH MY GOD
mlolwtf: \o/ \o/ \o/
mlolwtf: UGHHHHHH OUR FANMIXES
mlolwtf: ARE SO PERFECT. JESUS.
monthofdecemberx: IKR JFC :'D
mlolwtf: *flails* oh my god
mlolwtf: oh my god the mixes
mlolwtf: theyll fucking make me cry what is this
mlolwtf: ;_____________________;
mlolwtf: i wanna listen to it with you so we can flail together omg
mlolwtf: OHGOD
mlolwtf: I KNOW I KNOW OH MY GOD
mlolwtf: AND I SWEAR WHENEVER I LISTEN TO THE MIXES
mlolwtf: I CANT GET OVER HOW PERFECT THEY ARE
mlolwtf: LIKE
mlolwtf: EVERY SINGLE ONE IS DIFFERENT AND AMAZING
mlolwtf: AND IT FITS!
mlolwtf: HOW DID THEY DO IT? IDEK DEFEATS ME TBH
monthofdecemberx: NRGHHHHHHHHHHHHH
monthofdecemberx: IDEK

so in other words we love them like, a crazy, crazy, crazy lot. they're so perfect you guys, thank you so, so much ♥♥ :D :D

BBB Fic - All We Are - part 2

lightisbreaking — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 05:02:01 GMT

Gerard likes Brendon. Really, he doesn’t know what Bob was so tense about. It’s not like an Agent could fake that kind of speed, and besides, they’d probably all be dead by now if he were. Also? Brendon’s really, really awesome.

He doesn’t know if it’s the fact that Ryan and Spencer were the ones who found Brendon, but the more Gerard watches them, the more suspicious he gets. Brendon loves everyone (at least once he’s decided they’re not going to turn him in to the Agents) but he seems to reserve something special for Ryan and Spencer. It’s not until a week later when Gerard finds Brendon in Ryan’s lap, Spencer pressed against his back, that Gerard decides yes, definitely a special kind of love for Ryan and Spencer.

The odd thing is, seeing the three of them proceed, cautiously, into the middle of an odd kind of three-way relationship that seems to work for them only succeeds in making Gerard’s stomach flip even more unsteadily when he looks at Frank.

It’s kind of ridiculous really, but Frank has this fucking smile and an even more outrageous laugh and Gerard kind of wants to kiss him all over.

“Your thing for Frank is totally obvious, you know,” Brendon says to him when they’re alone watching cartoons.

And if Brendon wants to judge, then fuck him, because at least Gerard’s known Frank for about a month. Brendon had his hands all up in Ryan and Spencer’s clothes after a couple of days.

Brendon doesn’t judge. Instead, he gets this stupid little grin on his face that Gerard just knows means trouble. “I’m going to play match-maker,” he declares grandly, and Gerard just muffles his groan into Brendon’s shirt.

Brendon is actually rather dreadful at match-making. His first attempt eventually ends up being his last. After what Gerard assumes must have been at least three seconds planning, Brendon pushes Gerard into a linen closet head first and then tries to get Spencer to cooperate by getting Frank in there as well.

“I’ve seen it all in the movies,” Brendon says determinedly, and then crosses his arms in satisfaction and leans backwards. Brendon isn’t even that heavy, so it’s a wonder that when he leans back, the closet door slams shut under his weight so hard that the doorknob fucking falls off, before Spencer has even left to find Frank.

“Oh. Well, that doesn’t usually happen in the movies,” Brendon admits, holding the doorknob in his hands, eyebrows wrinkled in confusion.

From inside the closet, Gerard manages to extract himself from the mess of assorted items shoved inside over the years. “You’ve locked me in, haven’t you. I’m stuck in a fucking closet.”

Curiously, Brendon disappears to find Spencer after that, and Pete sits in the living room with a joyous grin on his face. “Just come out of the closet, Gerard!” he shouts merrily, like the joke hasn’t been used ever since Gerard got stuck in the fucking thing. “We’ll all still love you the same!”

“Wentz, I will fucking kill you, as soon as I’m done with Brendon,” Gerard promises, gritting his teeth and telling himself that this isn’t simultaneously the most embarrassing and idiotic thing that has ever happened in his life.

Ryan sits with Pete, adamantly ignoring Gerard’s plight. Gerard knows that Ryan could use his powers to re-attach the doorknob and let him the fuck out but Ryan just laughs and refuses to help on the grounds of “You let Brendon lock you in a closet? Have you met Brendon? You don’t deserve to be let out”. Ryan is totally off Gerard’s Christmas Card list.

“Hey, what’s with the closet?” Gerard hears Frank ask as he walks into the room, and oh god Gerard’s life sucks.

“Gerard’s stuck in the closet,” Bob answers from where he’s trying to wrench the door open. “The real one. Not the metaphorical one.”

Gerard’s about to give Bob a heartfelt thank you when Bob hesitates a moment, then continues. “Well. We all know he came out of the metaphorical one at birth.”

“Fuck you, Bob,” Gerard says instead.

**

“Why don’t you just read his mind or something? Find out all the juicy details about all the awesome sex he wants to have with you,” Gabe suggests one day, and Gerard sighs long and hard.

“I don’t do that, Gabe, I’ve told you that already.”

“I thought you were kidding. Don’t try and tell me you’re not poking around in my head right now, you liar.” Gabe looks almost offended at the idea of Gerard not wanting to know what he’s thinking.

“I really, really don’t need to know what goes on in your head,” Gerard tells him, and Gabe laughs.

“Well then, good luck seducing Frank the normal way.”

Gerard thinks about this for a moment. How hard could it be? All he has to do is suck up the nerve to go and tell Frank he maybe sort of loves him, and then that’s it, right? It can only really go one of two ways. Either Frank’s willing to give it a go, or he’s not. And either way, it’d be better to know, right? Yeah, Gerard thinks. He’ll go and talk to Frank, lay everything on the table and send the ball soaring into Frank’s court.

In the end, he goes and sees Mikey.

“No, Gerard.” Mikey rolls his eyes for the hundredth time and goes straight back to the comic he was reading.

“Come on, Mikey,” Gerard groans, flopping onto the bed beside him and poking Mikey in the side. “Just tell me.”

“You won’t use your power to seduce Frank. Why should you ask for help from mine?”

Mikey has this infuriating way of making sense, all the fucking time. Sometimes, Gerard just wants a brother who doesn’t think so much, or maybe just one who doesn’t think quite so fucking logically.

“Because mine would be like, an invasion of privacy or some shit. All you have to do is tell me if it’s a possibility.”

Mikey sighs, and finally puts down his comic. “You know I’m not some gypsy at a carnival, right? I can’t just scrounge around in my deck of cards and find one that tells you you’re going to fall romantically in love the day your goldfish dies or something.”

Gerard frowns. “I don’t have a goldfish. And you could never pull off the gypsy look.”

“Oh my god, why do I even bother.” Mikey has the most annoying older brother in the world. “Look, you know I don’t tell anyone my visions, okay? Not that I’ve had any about you and Frank,” he adds when he sees Gerard’s hopeful look.

“Fine. You suck.”

“You love me,” Mikey returns with the easy confidence of knowing he’s right, and Gerard grumbles the entire way out the door.

**

Frank tries his hardest, but no matter how much he concentrates, he can’t get the flame to go out. Which is infuriating in itself, having this power that he can’t even properly control. It’s all only made worse by the fact that Gabe is sitting across from him, lining up little wooden soldiers and making them explode.

“You just have to want it,” he says, and proves his point by blowing up another toy soldier. “See? Easy.”

Frank nods, lays his hands on the table and curls them into fists, thinking desperately about putting the fire out, imagining it quieting and slowly burning away to nothing. Please go out, he thinks, please. Gabe watches intently, a slight frown on his face. When sheer mind and willpower don’t appear to make anything work, Frank raises his hand, tries to channel his power through it. He knows that Patrick finds it easier to use his power if he uses his body as a conduit, and he’s noticed himself that it’s a lot quicker to conjure the fire in the first place if he uses his hands. When he gives it a flick towards the jar, nothing happens, and Frank groans loudly, throwing himself back in his chair, exhausted.

“It’ll never work. Maybe it’s not even supposed to go out,” he sighs.

“You’ll get it. You will. It’s just part of learning your power, how it works, how to exercise it in the best way. We didn’t just get born with perfectly working powers, you know? You have to work with it, make it part of you.”

It’s kind of strange that out of everyone, Gabe is the one giving him lessons on control and self-discipline. In silent answer, Gabe moves his hand lazily and the last of the toy soldiers explode.

“Fuck you, man,” Frank says without any heat, and Gabe grins.

The most infuriating thing is that Frank knows Gerard would be able to help him. Nobody has to say it, but they all know he’s stronger than Bob will ever be without even trying, and Gerard knows things about the mind that most people could never even imagine. Having Gerard’s mind in his own would be like having an entire extra energy source to draw on, something to kick-start his own and allow him to put out the fire easily. He knows that if he could accomplish it just once, he could probably do it again. All he needs to do is train his mind so that it knows how, and the easiest way to do that is to have Gerard monitoring the entire process.

Having asked Bob to help after Gerard’s refusal, Frank has found out a few things about the way their powers work. Bob’s theory is that they lie on the very outskirts of what he calls the Void. The Void, he had said, is in the very centre of the mind, unreachable except in the last moments before death. This is where the mind flees when dealt with irreversible harm - essentially, this is where they go to die. According to Bob, their powers don’t just come from anywhere.

“I think everyone has them, they just don’t know they’re there. Or at least they wouldn’t until they’re on the brink of dying. Somehow, some of us were born with an awareness of it, as if we know the way around our own heads better than that of anyone else, and it’s this that allows us to draw on the power,” Bob had told him, utter conviction in his voice.

Neither of them were able to come up with a reason for their state of being, why they should be different from everyone else, though Bob assumes it’s just natural evolution of the mind - that perhaps, in time, the rest of them will catch up too.

And then the crunch - according to Bob, Gerard visits the Void frequently. It’s all top secret, hush hush, tell anyone and I will kill you, Iero, but Bob says he’s seen Gerard do it. If Gerard can keep his knowledge of the Void and how to get there secret, then Bob can keep his knowledge of Gerard’s secret to himself. It makes sense, in a twisted kind of way.

To Frank, this just means that Gerard is the key. If Gerard knows how to get there without getting into trouble or losing himself in the emptiness, then he could probably manage to take Frank there, where his powers are, which is certain to help him use them. Now, the only task that remains is to convince Gerard.

Frank finds him in the living room, curled up on one of the couches with his legs tucked under him, hair falling into his eyes as he leans over the book in his lap. Frank feels a small twinge in his stomach as he stands in the doorway and watches, fingers itching to go in and brush the hair out of Gerard’s eyes, put the book aside gently and kiss him until neither of them can breathe.

And he knows that Gerard says he doesn’t read their minds, but he still can’t help the way he immediately silences himself and starts humming some fucking elevator music inside his head.

“Gonna stand there all day?” Gerard asks, and Frank startles when he sees Gerard staring at him, a small, self-conscious smile stealing onto his lips.

“Maybe,” Frank answers, but he heads towards the couch anyway, perching on the arm rest beside Gerard and looking over his shoulder. “What’re you reading?” He tries his best to keep his voice calm, resists the temptation to sit himself closer to Gerard’s skin.

Gerard goes back to his book, hair falling back into his eyes. “Just something Patrick leant me,” he mumbles, and Frank spots the telltale signs of Gerard’s interest in the conversation wavering. He’s already slipping back into the story, forgetting where he is and that Frank is sitting just beside his elbow.

Frank can feel the heat coming off Gerard’s body and the only sound is that of their breathing, steady and quiet. It takes all of Frank’s willpower not to touch him, but he manages, until Gerard moves to turn the page and accidentally brushes his hand against the inside of Frank’s wrist.

The contact sends a sudden jolt through his nervous system, and Frank flails, unbalances, and lands sprawled on the couch next to Gerard. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.”

Gerard looks like he’s about to apologise - for what, Frank has no idea - but Frank just shifts, lying back against the couch and draping his legs across Gerard’s lap comfortably. Gerard stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, before he smiles hesitantly, softly, rests a gentle hand on Frank’s ankle and goes back to his book.

**

So far, Pete’s rostering system hasn’t done so well. It started off okay, but now people keep forgetting their job of the week and are too lazy to go and check the roster (see: Gabe). Which was bad enough until someone accidentally set the damn piece of paper on fire in his desperate attempts to make his power work (see: Frank). Pete is not impressed. He calls a house meeting.

“You guys,” he pleads once he has them all assembled. “Would you please try and make this rostering system work? We don’t need five different people doing the shopping and no one taking out the trash.” Really, he loves them all, but they’re horrible at organisation.

Patrick raises his hand with a grin. “It’s your day to take out the trash, Pete,” he says, and Pete glares at him.

“Anyway, I’ve put a new roster up, seeing as the other one has been turned to ash-“ Frank pointedly looks away, suddenly very interested in the carpet. “And this one, we’re going to keep.”

Looking after a houseful of awesome guys with mutant powers sounds like a lot of fun. Until it’s actually applied in theory, and they all realise that having this many grown men living in a house together pretty much immediately equals mess. Especially when the Way brothers are included in the equation.

“Then tell us, almighty Pete, who is doing what today?” Brendon asks dramatically. Pete scowls at him, but his heart isn’t in it. Brendon has been with them only about a week and a half, and already the little fuck fits right in and everybody loves him. It’s kind of insane, what Brendon Urie can do to a grown man’s heart.

Ryan grins at him - the kind of smile he usually reserves only for Spencer - and links their hands together. Spencer is lying across them both on the couch, head in Ryan’s lap and Brendon stroking his sides. It all sort of came out of nowhere, and yet at the same time they make it look so fucking natural that nobody has questioned them once. They just fit, and it’s like Brendon was all they needed to make it work, like their own personal puzzle piece.

“First off - Frank, Brendon, you’re shopping. And none of the rest of you are so don’t even try it.” Mikey scowls, but nods, and Pete counts it as a small victory. He’ll take them where he can get them. “And now that’s done with, Patrick, get over here, I want to kick your ass at Mario.”

**

Frank and Brendon haven’t really had that much of a chance to talk, but they bond easily, both of them having been brought here by Ryan and Spencer.

“Pity. You could have been in my position, if you were as cute as me,” Brendon says with a dramatic sigh as they head towards the markets.

“Who says I’d want any of you anyway?” Frank retorts, and immediately thinks of Gerard.

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re way too busy trying to get into Gerard’s pants,” Brendon says, and Frank wonders whether Bob or Gerard has been teaching him how to read minds. Creepy little fucker.

Brendon wriggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and Frank just shakes his head. “Suck it, Urie, suck it.”

Brendon hates walking. The temptation to grab Frank’s wrist and run is overwhelming, and it takes more effort to keep his pace normal than it would to run a mile at his own pace. It takes conscious effort to keep his feet moving slowly, and he has to glance down every now and then, just to make sure that he’s still moving at a steady pace. It would really suck, after everything they’ve found in each other, for them to get caught now. It took Brendon nineteen years to find a safehouse like Pete’s - he’s not planning on throwing it away just so that he can let his feet do what they want.

“You’re jittery,” Frank notes, and Brendon shakes his hands by his sides, as if that will dispel some of the trembles running down his legs.

“Not really used to walking like this,” he admits. It had been one of the advantages of growing up out of the city. He had plenty of deserted land to run around in until he was tired. Now, he spends his days cooped up in Pete’s place, and while the others don’t mind if he dashes around the house at his usual speed, there’s not exactly any room to let out all of his pent up energy.

“That why you’re so fucking bouncy all the time?” Frank cracks a grin.

“Shut up, Iero, or else I’m telling Gerard all about your huge mancrush.”

“It’s not that obvious,” Frank protests, and Brendon raises an eyebrow.

They’re heading up the lane towards the markets, just around the corner from their destination when Frank spots them. “Oh fuck,” he says with feeling, and Brendon comes to a dead stop beside him.

“No. No fucking way.”

They’re not even on a main street. Brendon had suggested using the back way, not wanting to be too far out in the open in case they accidentally draw attention to themselves. As it turns out, they would have been better off going the other way.

“Keep walking. Whatever you do, don’t run,” Frank hisses under his breath.

Brendon forces his hands to stop shaking, does the best imitation of a normal walking pace as he can, and beside him, Frank has shoved his hands into his pockets, as if that will stop him from accidentally setting anything on fire. They’re probably the worst two to be in this situation, Frank thinks. The two most inexperienced, the two who are the newest in the group of misfits they have assembled at Pete’s house, and Frank will kill himself if he’s the one to blow their cover.

There’re two men at the end of the lane, unmistakable. The red sash they wear over the black police uniform stands out like the fucking sun. They’re both just standing, almost waiting, and Frank doesn’t dare to turn around, even if every instinct in him is screaming to. They’re the only ones in the lane - if they were to turn back now, it would be far too obvious who they were trying to avoid, and right now, they can’t afford to draw any suspicion whatsoever.

Frank walks as casually as he can, and as they pass the Agents, Frank allows himself to hope. They’re almost around the corner when he hears a whisper of “Yes, them,” and then a hand lands on his shoulder. Frank spins, panic flaring in his stomach so bright and sharp that the urge to send the entire alley up in flames is overpowering. Instead, he forces himself to be calm, tries to keep his heartbeat normal and look innocent.

“Can we help you, officers?” he says in his best Concerned Citizen voice, but he can tell from their faces that they’re not buying it for a second.

He hears Brendon cry out, and when he turns his head to the side, one of them has Brendon face first up against the wall, cuffing his hands roughly behind his back. The second Agent takes advantage of the distraction and has his hands on Frank in seconds. He knows it’s probably a bad idea, but every instinct in his mind is telling him to use his powers, to get the fuck out of there, and so he focuses his gaze on the Agent’s red sash, and thanks God that even if he can’t put things out, he’s damn fucking good at setting things on fire in the first place.

The Agent screams, tears the sash off and throws it away, and Frank can see the way his fingers burn horribly when he touches it. Frank turns, ready to grab Brendon’s arm and tell him to fucking run - in fact, he has no idea why Brendon hasn’t used his ridiculous speed already - but then he hears a click, and when he looks down, there’s a rubber circle tight around his right wrist.

“What the fuck?” he says in confusion, noting that Brendon’s cuffs are made out of the same rubber, and the Agent cuffs his other hand with apparent renewed confidence. He’s smirking like a motherfucker, and Frank turns his power on the guy’s uniform this time. He doesn’t care if he burns him alive, he just wants out. And then he stares in horror as nothing happens.

“Fuck you, mutant,” he sneers all up in Frank’s personal space, and then something hits the back of his head from behind, and Frank goes down.

When he wakes up again, he’s in the back of a police car. Brendon is beside him, still out cold, cuffs still firmly around his wrists. The wild panic and terror rise up in Frank’s stomach again, tightening his chest and making it hard to breathe. All of a sudden it all seems far too real. He’s in a car with fucking Agents, and they were caught, and how the fuck did they know where to find them? Frank can’t think of anything they did to give themselves away until they were already being arrested, but there’s no way in hell the Agents arrested them on chance. Frank could see it in their eyes - they knew. As soon as they walked past, they knew what they were, and were quick to act. It doesn’t make any sense.

Frank struggles, but the cuffs are tight around his wrists, and there’s no way he’s getting out of them any time soon. Again, he tries to use his powers, and there’s nothing. He remembers a conversation he had with Gerard one night, when Gerard recounted his own capture by the Agents, and the way the cuffs had locked him in his own mind. Frank hadn’t really understood at the time - Gerard was not entirely sure what they had done to him, but Frank knows it’s them stopping him from using his powers. Somehow, they’ve discovered a way to block their minds, reduce them to perfectly normal human beings.

In an effort to quell his fear, Frank sets his mind to looking out the window and trying to memorise everything they go past. He has no idea where they’re going, and he’s going to need to know how to find his way back. Brendon is still unconscious - it’s up to Frank.

They drive for about twenty minutes, and neither of them says a word to Frank. Instead, he sits, continues to stare out the window, and thinks of all the things he’s going to do to them as soon as he gets the cuffs off. Still, the niggling voice in the back of his mind asks him what he’ll do if he never gets them off, and Frank tries to stop thinking about it. They can’t afford for that to happen. They can’t.

When they pull up outside the blank, grey building, Frank looks at Brendon, still unconscious in the seat beside him. He knows he needs to take his chances now, before they get inside. Once inside, there’s no telling if he’ll ever be able to get out. But there’s no way he can carry Brendon, and definitely no way he can get an unconscious body safely back to Pete’s. The car comes to a stop, and Frank hesitates just one more second, panicking.

“I’m sorry Brendon. I’ll get help, I promise,” he tells him, and then he flings the door open and hits the ground running.

**

“Frank and Brendon have been gone for three and a half hours,” Gerard says to Patrick with a frown.

“Do you miss your Frankie, Gerard?” Pete teases as he flops down onto the couch beside him, and Gerard shakes his head.

“No, I’m being serious. They should have been back by now.”

Pete’s expression sobers, but he still doesn’t seem that worried. “They probably just got carried away. I’m sure they’re fine.”

“But what if they’re not?” Gerard insists, brow wrinkled with worry.

“They’ll be fine, Gerard,” Patrick says, and while his conviction is more comforting than Pete’s, it still doesn’t set his mind totally at ease.

And then Mikey walks in, trembling and white as a sheet. Gerard feels his heart leap into his throat.

“They’re in trouble,” Mikey says quietly, and Gerard gets off the couch and bundles him in his arms, trying to warm Mikey’s freezing skin and ease his shakes. Gerard’s never seen a vision have this bad of an effect on him. “We have to help them,” he mumbles into Gerard’s neck, and Gerard nods firmly.

“We will, Mikes. Of course we will.” He looks at Pete and Patrick, and both of them are staring back at him, eyes wide.

“We just have to trace their steps, see if anything shows up,” Bob suggests, but Mikey is shaking his head emphatically.

“No. You won’t find them. They’re being moved.” Mikey is still clutching at Gerard like he can’t breathe, and Gerard holds him and tries to soothe him, even though he has no idea how. He doesn’t even want to think about what Mikey has seen, doesn’t want to know who has Frank and Brendon, or what they could be doing to them.

“Was it the Agents?” Ryan asks, and flinches at his own words.

The dead look in Mikey’s eyes in answer enough, and Spencer lays a hand on Ryan’s thigh when he starts to tremble. “He’ll be fine, Ry, they both will,” Gerard hears him whisper in Ryan’s ear, and he wishes he could believe it himself.

“So how do we find them, then? Mikey, we’re going to need more fucking information than this.” Gabe’s tone is clipped, and Mikey flinches a little in surprise. Immediately, Gabe’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, Mikey, it’s just. We need to find them before...” He doesn’t finish his sentence. It’s probably better for all of them that he didn’t.

“I didn’t see anything useful,” Mikey moans, and Gerard can hear the evident despair in his voice. “They were just in a car. They were handcuffed, and Brendon was.” He pauses, and Ryan bites his lip hard. “He was unconscious.”

“He’s not dead?” Ryan asks desperately, and Mikey shakes his head.

“Why would they cuff him if he was dead?”

Ryan nods, allows himself to be bundled further into Spencer’s arms, and continues biting his lip. Gerard shuts his eyes, and hopes to God that Frank is okay.

Mikey tenses then, and Gerard knows he’s not telling them everything. “What is it?” he asks softly.

“The Agents. They know. They knew what they were because they’ve got someone.” His eyes are wide. Gerard doesn’t understand.

Neither, apparently, does Gabe. “What do you mean someone?”

Mikey looks at Spencer, and when their eyes meet, Spence looks terrified. “Someone like Spencer. They could feel them.”

**

Brendon is expecting to be killed almost as soon as he gets inside the building. He knows the stories. Anyone who is taken inside this building doesn’t come out. He doesn’t expect his situation to be any different.

Instead, what happens is that he’s shoved into a holding cell, and an hour later, a tall boy with dead eyes approaches the bars. There’s an Agent standing behind him, hidden just over his shoulder. The boy looks to be about eighteen, though sunken cheeks and hollow eyes give him the appearance of being older. Brendon looks at him, and almost can’t stand it. He looks helpless, like he’s forgotten how to smile.

“Who are you?” Brendon whispers, and his tone is not demanding or suspicious, but aching, like he wants nothing more than to take this boy under his wing and run away from everything.

“William,” he says, in a tone as dead as his eyes, and Brendon flinches. “You run,” he says simply, and Brendon’s eyes widen. It’s said so simple, calmly stated facts, and Brendon feels his head spinning. He’s used to Spencer, who can feel out a power, but he’s never met someone like William, who can sense what power he has just by looking at him. Somehow, Brendon knows that William is what led the Agents to their capture. He knew.

Brendon can’t imagine someone like them ever willingly helping the Agents. But then he looks at William’s face, at the yellow bruises discolouring his arms and his too thin frame, and Brendon knows that William did nothing willingly.

“Enough,” the Agent says from behind William, and he flinches at the sound. “Leave us.”

William scurries away as quick and silent as he appeared, and Brendon hadn’t thought it was possible to hate the police so much as he does now.

“You will never leave this place,” the Agent says, as though he takes pleasure in telling him of his demise, and then he leaves in the opposite direction to William.

Brendon stares at the spot where William exited. He has a feeling William’s eyes will haunt him to his grave.

**

Gerard is sitting on the floor of the living room with Mikey. It had been Pete’s idea, and Mikey had been adamant that Gerard be the one to do it. Gerard closes his eyes, rests his hands on Mikey’s knees to strengthen the connection, and lets himself slide past his own barriers, and then past Mikey’s. Mikey lets him in gracefully, and Gerard blocks out Mikey’s thoughts with practised ease. Those are not what he came for.

He searches methodically, ducking and diving through Mikey’s mind, further in until he knows that he’s getting closer to the Void. He keeps his distance, uncertain of what would happen if he were to get too close to that area of someone else’s mind, and instead, he hunts for Mikey’s power, where the visions are stored. In a second, the memory of the vision is suddenly right in front of him, and Gerard recognises Mikey trying to help by thinking of it as hard as he can. With a silent thank you to his brother, Gerard is about to push his own mind into Mikey’s memory and view it for himself in order to find any details Mikey may have missed, when he’s suddenly torn out of Mikey’s mind.

At first, he’s dazed, his abrupt departure leaving his head throbbing and dizzy. “What the fuck?” he mutters, clutching at his forehead, and Mikey puts a careful hand on his forearm.

“Sorry. But it’s Frank. He’s coming.”

Gerard doesn’t know whether he was shoved out of Mikey’s mind by the incoming vision, or whether Mikey had pushed him out himself, but either way, he doesn’t care. Frank. He’s about to ask Mikey when, but is cut off when the door slams open and Frank looks at them, eyes wide and terrified.

“They’ve got Brendon,” he says, and his voice almost breaks in the middle. “We have to help him.”

It only takes half a second before they have everybody assembled in the living room, and Frank rushes his way through what happened, breathing hard and stumbling over words. Gerard can see his hands shaking, and he wants to take them in his own to make them stop. Instead, he shoves his own hands into his lap and reminds himself that this is really not the time.

“Do you know how to get there?” Patrick asks gently, and Frank looks distressed.

“I think so.” Frank looks nervous, but determined.

“Gerard, Bob, Ryan and Frank are coming with me. And maybe you should too, Patrick,” Gabe announces as he stands up and begins to head for the door.

“What? We’re coming too!” Pete yells angrily, and Spencer and Mikey stand up and nod firmly, crossing their arms like they’re a force to be reckoned with.

Gabe just rolls his eyes. “You’re not. Pete, I’m sorry, but what are you going to do? Yell at them? We need anyone who can fight.”

“And so you’re taking Gerard?” Mikey snorts, and Gerard’s cheeks redden as he ducks his head. “Gerard won’t hurt anyone, you know he won’t.”

“We need him to alter their memories once we get out of there. Otherwise they’ll just keep coming,” Gabe explains carefully, but Mikey still doesn’t seem convinced.

“Bob can do that.”

Bob shakes his head. “Just because Gerard won’t fight them actively doesn’t mean I won’t. We’ll need his energy, in the end.” Unspoken is the knowledge that if something happens to Bob, they’ll need Gerard anyway.

“You need me to find Brendon. I can sense him.” Spencer seems adamant, and in the end Gabe has to admit he has a point. Spencer looks apologetically at Mikey and Pete before he sidles on up to Ryan and prepares to leave.

“Good luck, then,” Pete sighs, throwing himself back onto the lounge and resigning himself to defeat.

Mikey stares at Gabe long and hard before he says, “You bring back my brother, okay?”

Gabe nods, and herds everyone out the door.

**

In the end, it takes Frank’s memories and Bob inside his mind (Gerard adamantly refused) enhancing the memory to get them where they want to be. Gerard sees Spencer take Ryan’s hand and squeeze, and they all look over at the building they all hoped they would never have to go inside.

It’s Spencer who takes the first step forward. “Come on. Brendon’s in there.”

It’s enough to get them moving, the thought of Brendon alone, trapped in the place of everyone’s nightmares. Spencer leads the way around the back of the building, and eventually they find a back door. It has a huge fucking padlock on it, and for half a second, Gerard despairs. Then, Gabe steps forward, hand raised, but Ryan shoves him out of the way.

“No!” he hisses, glaring at Gabe. “You’ll make too much noise. I can do this,” he promises, and then he puts his hands on the lock and concentrates. There’s nothing for a moment, and then Gerard sees the lock slowly coming undone, until finally, it opens with a click, and Ryan throws it away. Admittedly, it takes a little longer than what Gabe had in mind, but it’s certainly more effective.

They split up once they’re inside, and Gerard has a heavy feeling in his stomach. Situations like this never end well. Still, he holds his tongue, and when Spencer takes Ryan and Gabe to find Brendon, he watches them go without a word.

“Guess we’ll play look out, then,” Frank whispers.

**

Spencer feels like something out of a fucking movie, creeping through the halls of the enemy building on a rescue mission. It all feels so surreal, and he kind of really wants to be back home watching Brendon laugh as Gerard and Bob argue about comics and superheroes. Growing up, he always wished that he was a superhero, that he could use his powers to save the world rather than just to make Ryan stop yelling. Now, everything is all of a sudden becoming too real too quick, and Spencer takes back everything he ever said.

“He’s close. I can feel him now,” Spencer says with a jolt of surprise, and begins to lead them down another corridor. He’s just thinking about how strange it is they haven’t run into anyone, when suddenly someone steps out in front of them and Spencer stifles a shout of surprise.

He can feel Ryan and Gabe tensing behind him, ready to fight, but then they hesitate when they take a look at the guy. He’s not wearing a police uniform, nor the red sash indicating the Agents. He looks up at them almost with hope in his eyes, and when Spencer finally forces his heart to stop beating a mile a minute, he realises that he can feel him.

“You’re one of us,” he whispers, incredulity in his tone, and he hears Ryan’s “what?” from behind him.

“He’s that way,” the stranger says, and points through a door to their left. “I’m William.”

Spencer has no idea who William is or why he’s here, or why Spencer can feel the power radiating off him, but in any case, they don’t have time. Gerard, Bob, Patrick and Frank are still back there, waiting for them, and Spencer wants to get Brendon out before they alert any trouble.

“Thank you, William,” he says because it’s polite, and maybe it will prevent William from going off and alerting the Agents.

He nods, satisfied, and then drifts down another corridor, like he never even saw them. It’s the weirdest thing Spencer has ever fucking seen, but again, no time.

“Come on,” Gabe says, and they follow him through the door William had indicated.

And at least, if nothing else, William seems to have told them the truth. There’s a line of cells, all empty save one, and Spencer’s heart lurches when he sees Brendon curled up in the furthest corner.

“Brendon!” The word leaves Ryan’s lips with a powerful sense of longing and desperation, and Brendon raises his head, eyes wide. Spencer sees that he has a black eye, a cut lip, and tries not to think about it.

Ryan practically throws himself at the bars, and Brendon’s eyes light up. “You guys,” he gushes, breathless, and stands up on shaking legs. Spencer can see the flicker of concern in Ryan’s eyes when more bruises become apparent on Brendon’s skin, but they say nothing. There will be time enough for that later, when they can get him back to Patrick.

This time it’s Gabe who blasts the lock on Brendon’s cell, and whether this is due to time restraints or the fact that Ryan seems incapable of doing anything but grinning at Brendon, Spencer doesn’t know or care. What matters is, they have Brendon, have him safe, and now they can get out of here. Spencer wraps his arms around Brendon’s neck once he’s free, and Ryan attaches himself as well. Gabe allows them a moment, then sighs and hurries them along. They have to get back to the others.

**

They come out of nowhere, really, and Gerard swears loudly as they’re surrounded. Bob shoves Patrick behind him, protecting him, and Gerard’s eyes flicker to where Frank is standing, eyes hard.

“More,” one of the Agents says with eyes bright. “Just get rid of these ones, we don’t need them.”

Frank tenses visibly beside Gerard. They wait, and as soon as the first Agent points a gun at them, Frank flicks a hand and his pants start to burn. The Agent screams, Frank grins, and Gerard hopes to God that the others get back soon.

There’s a flurry of movement around them, and there’s guns being pointed at them from all directions. Frank can’t defend them against this many at once. Gerard whispers a sorry, Mikey inside his mind. And then everything is changing, moving again, and Gerard sees Gabe, Ryan, Brendon and Spencer burst through a door at the same time as the guns that had been pointed at them seconds before rise into the air.

“Don’t fucking move!” Gabe yells at them, and for all of his words and bravado, Gerard can see the fear in his eyes. This is more than they expected to encounter at once. Brendon doesn’t look like he’s in any shape to run anyone out of here, and really, if they’re being honest with themselves? They may have superpowers, but none of them are cut out to be superheroes. Gerard looks at the Agents in front of him, and he feels no bravery, just the heavy feeling of fear in his stomach, making his heart beat fast and his breathing come rapidly.

And then he sees two of them creeping in the door that the others had just brought Brendon through. Gerard opens his mouth to warn them, but before he can get the words out, a shot is fired, and he watches in horror as Gabe screams and hits the floor. It’s not fatal, Gerard tells himself. He can see that, see the way Gabe is crying out in pain and clutching his thigh, eyes burning with hatred and terror. Spencer drops to the floor beside him in a second, trying to help stop the blood flow, and the rest of them stand in shock, unable to move.

Patrick tries to take a step forward, like he’s going to run right over to Gabe and heal him right then and there, in front of all of these people who despise him and his powers, but he pauses when the gun is pointed at Gabe’s head.

“None of you move, I swear to God,” the Agent is saying, and Gerard realises that he’s not the only one scared out of his mind. They might be up against guns, but the Agents are up against unknown powers, and Gerard realises that for now, they have an advantage, even when it doesn’t look like it.

Gerard breathes hard, in and out, keeps his face impassive, and lets his mind fly. He targets Bob, feeling him out without looking at him, and then allows himself to sink into the very forefront of Bob’s mind. Bob recognises him, dissolves his initial shield immediately, and welcomes him.

“We need to get Brendon out. Then, we’ll have to fight them,” Gerard tells him swiftly.

“Yes. I can immobilise them, but there’s so many, I won’t be able to hold them for long. Patrick has to get Gabe and Brendon out.”

Gerard gives the mental equivalent of a nod. There’s no sense in Patrick staying, if they’re going to fight. They need him to take care of Gabe and Brendon. “Do it now,” Gerard tells him, and then returns to his own head.

There’s a split second where nothing happens, and then a blank look passes through the eyes of each Agent, and Gerard knows Bob has them.

“Patrick, take Gabe and Brendon and go. We’ll hold them off, and follow you,” Gerard tells Patrick quickly. To his relief, Patrick just nods and figuring out that Bob has a hold on the Agents, runs forward to kneel beside Gabe. Gerard is expecting him to get him outside, but instead, Patrick just rests a hand on his leg and closes his eyes, and Gabe breathes easier, and when he opens his eyes, they’re clearer.

“Thank you,” he says, and rests a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick just nods, helps him to his feet.

Bob gives Gerard a frantic look, and Gerard nods. “You have to go now.”

Patrick nods and grabs Brendon. He heads for the door, but Gabe doesn’t move. “I’m staying,” he says through gritted teeth, and Patrick hesitates.

“You can’t! You just got fucking shot, Gabe, have you got no common sense?” Ryan is practically pushing Gabe out the door, glancing worriedly from Bob to the Agents.

“We don’t have time for this!” Gerard shouts, and Patrick sighs, drags Brendon towards the door, and leaves Gabe with them. Spencer follows them out, helping keep Brendon steady and whispering to him that it'll be okay.

“You’re an idiot, Saporta,” Ryan mutters, and when he moves to stand beside Gerard, Gabe follows without a word.

“Let them go,” Frank says, and the second Bob withdraws, he lets loose, setting an Agent’s hair on fire. He screams, and Gerard resists the urge to run as the smell of burning hair fills his nose.

And then it’s chaos. They move, duck and dodge around and Gabe’s eyes are hardened with hatred as he makes a part of the wall explode. Chunks of cement fly into the air and Ryan manipulates them, crushing them against bodies without hesitation. Gerard watches, feeling totally ridiculous in the way he does nothing. Occasionally, he’ll see an Agent aiming a shot at someone who’s not prepared, and Gerard will slip into his mind and hold him for the second it takes for them to turn and fight back, but he can’t bring himself to actively harm them. He knows that given the chance, an Agent would kill him without second thoughts, but Gerard struggles with the idea of having a man’s death on his conscience, and can’t do it.

And then before he knows it, he’s on his back, and there’s a gun pointed at his forehead. “Oh!” he exclaims dumbly, and the Agent above him grins, breathing hard.

“Gerard!” Frank screams, and just before the Agent can pull the trigger, flames are suddenly covering his hands, and he drops the weapon, stumbling back with a silent scream on his lips. Frank’s eyes are burning red, and as soon as Gerard scrambles to his feet, Frank shoves him out of harm’s way. “Motherfuckers!” Frank yells, and when he flings a hand out, there’s a wave of heat as fire erupts in the room, a wall of it effectively blocking the Agents from getting to them.

Gerard breathes a small sigh of relief, before he realises that Frank is on the other side. “Frank, no!” he shouts, and runs forward. Someone catches his wrist, dragging him back.

“Are you fucking stupid? That’s a wall of fucking fire, you ass!”

Gabe keeps his hold on Gerard firmly, even as he struggles, and Gerard watches as Frank is backed into a corner. “Someone fucking help him!” he screams, but there’s nothing they can do, blocked off by Frank’s own power. Gerard is reminded at the worst time that the only power Frank lacks is in extinguishing the fire that’s just sealed his death warrant.

Bob’s eyebrows are screwed up in concentration, trying to block the actions of each of the Agents approaching Frank, but his earlier efforts have already wearied him, and Gerard knows there’s no way he can hold them for the time it will take the fire to burn out. With the way it’s burning, Gerard doesn’t know if it will burn out. There’s nothing fuelling it, and yet it rages like it will never stop, encouraged by Frank’s anger.

And fuck this. If there was a time Gerard could overcome his morals, it’s now. With raging fury, he delves into the mind of the Agent closest to him, tearing apart everything he finds, going deeper and deeper until he’s destroyed almost every shard of memory, every feeling, every notion of thought. When he withdraws, the Agent looks around dumbly, like he doesn’t even know who he is. Gerard doesn’t even allow himself time to regret; he just moves on to the second, rendering this one defective as well.

It’s still not enough. There’s a gun pointed at Frank’s chest, and it doesn’t matter that both Gerard and Bob are working their asses off, they can’t stop all of them at the same time. Ryan’s face is screwed up in concentration, trying to tear the gun out of the Agent’s hand, but by the look of it, he’d been expecting that after last time. Every time Ryan manages to wrench it away, the Agent grabs it back by the tips of his fingers and holds tight.

“I’m not strong enough!” Ryan yells in despair, and Gerard ignores him, ripping into another mind.

Gerard hears Frank swear, and the sound of his voice leaves Gerard breathless, staring at the way Frank is up against the wall in horror. He’s trying to burn things, Gerard can tell, but it’s like conjuring the wall of fire has drained everything from him. This is a concept they haven’t explored before - none of them have ever exerted their powers to this extent - and Gerard is reminded of how tired and weary Mikey always is after a vision. Frank looks that way now, and every time he moves his hands, there’s nothing. Gerard can’t take his eyes off him, even as his heart and stomach clench painfully.

Frank looks over and meets Gerard’s eyes, and then the ringing sound of a gunshot fills the room.

Nothing slows down. If anything, Gerard thinks it moves faster, in flashes, so that he can barely comprehend what’s happening. He sees Frank hit the ground. He can hear someone shouting, and then he realises it’s himself. He flings himself forward, and this time Gabe doesn’t hold him back. He wonders why, for a split second, and then he realises that the flames are disappearing, like they never existed. Gerard has a sudden thought of that’s not possible, Frank can’t put it out before he realises that they can be put out, because Frank is on the floor, and there’s nothing to keep them burning. Their powers are in their minds. He tries to tell himself that’s it’s not true, Frank is fine damn it, but the evidence is right in front of him, in the form of non-existent fire.

**

“No!” Mikey screams and opens his eyes with a jolt to find Pete staring at him, eyes wide.

“What is it?” Pete asks, and Mikey just stares at him in horror. “What? What!”

Mikey blinks his eyes rapidly, wills himself to have been wrong for the first time in his life. It can’t be real, there’s no way in hell.

“Mikey!” Pete shouts, desperate, and Mikey shakes his head, feeling himself shaking.

“Frank,” he whispers, and Pete doesn’t have to ask.

**

Gabe and Ryan quickly dismantle the rest of the weapons, Ryan tearing them out of hands and Gabe rendering them to fragments. There’s Agents dropping to the ground all around him, and Gerard knows that it must be Bob’s doing. None of this matters. It doesn’t matter that they’re safe to get out, that they’ve won, because Frank is on the ground, and he’s not moving.

Crashing to his knees beside Frank, Gerard ignores the sharp pain in his kneecaps at the fall, and leans over Frank, eyes searching for any sign of life. Shaking fingers search for a pulse, and find just the barest response. He’s alive.

“Patrick! Get Patrick!” Gerard screams, and Ryan disappears outside for a second, and returns with Patrick.

In seconds Patrick is next to Gerard, not bothering to ask any questions. Hands settle over the wound in Frank’s chest, and Gerard watches as Patrick’s powers work to pull out the bullet, heal over the wound until all that’s left as a reminder is the blood on Frank’s shirt. Frantically, Gerard feels for his pulse again, and frowns when he feels it just as faint as before.

“What’s going on?” he asks Patrick desperately, eyes wide. This can’t be happening. Patrick fucking healed him, he can’t still be dying, he can’t.

“He’s too far in. Too late,” Patrick murmurs, eyes on Frank.

“Too far in where?” Gerard asks, even though he knows the answer.

Patrick looks at him, apology in his eyes, and Gerard doesn’t want to look at him anymore.

Gerard feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Bob staring at him intently. “You know how to help him, Gerard. I know where you go.”

Gerard doesn’t even have time to be worried about the fact that Bob knows his secret. He looks at Patrick for confirmation, and Patrick searches out Frank’s pulse again, and nods. “But you have to do it now.”

There’s a flare of panic in Gerard’s chest at the knowledge that he’s about to invade Frank of all people, without permission, but then he reasons that Frank’s hardly in a position to give him consent. He’d kill himself if Frank died because of his own fucking hang-ups, and so he just nods, closes his eyes, lets his mind fall into Frank’s.

The inside of Frank’s mind is frighteningly empty. There’s nothing at the forefront, just darkness, but there’s a flicker of light further in, and Gerard races towards it, willing it not to wink out before he gets there. He’s passing Frank’s subconscious when he sees it, a bright flicker of his own face, attached to an intense feeling of affection and devotion. Gerard stares at it in wonder for a second before he remembers what he’s here for, and keeps going.

When he finds the Void, he hesitates. He’s never been this far into another person’s mind, and there’s nothing to say that entering it won’t cause him to lose himself. He may never be able to fight his way out again, even if he did manage to save Frank. Still, he thinks, it’s worth the risk. Frank is worth the risk. And so he dives in.

The familiar darkness envelopes him, and he searches frantically for Frank, knows that this is where he has to be. He also knows that if he takes too long, Frank will be lost to him, but he carefully blocks out those thoughts. And then he feels him, edging dangerously close to the center of the Void, and Gerard darts after him, clamping his own mind tightly around this fragment of Frank’s. He grabs him so hard that there’s a brief feeling of being sucked out of himself, and then he finds himself melded with Frank in a way he never thought possible.

“Gerard?” Frank’s voice echoes in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

Gerard steels himself, fighting desperately against the sudden urge to merge with Frank entirely and let them both fall into nothingness. He’s never done this before, and he’s panicking, but he has to stay strong for Frank, so that he can get them both out of here. After this, he thinks, he never wants to visit the Void again.

“Bringing you back,” Gerard answers shortly, and then with great effort, pulls himself free and loosens his hold, still firm enough to drag Frank away from the danger. Frank fights him, his mind automatically trying to go back to where there’s no pain, nothing trying to force him back to consciousness, but Gerard keeps a tight hold on him.

“Not letting you go now, fucker,” he thinks, and he hears Frank’s answering laugh weakly, then gives one last heave that pulls them both completely free of the Void, and flying back through Frank’s mind. Not until they’re at the top level, where he knows Frank will regain awareness of the world around him, does Gerard let go. Carefully, he extracts himself from Frank’s mind.

He finds himself back in his own body with a rush, and when he hears a rattling gasp, he opens his eyes to see Frank staring at him.

“You’re okay,” Gerard says. “Frank, you’re okay.”

Frank launches himself forward, locking his arms around Gerard’s neck and pulling him down. Their lips clash together and Frank holds him and doesn’t let him go, kissing him frantically. As first kisses go, it’s nothing spectacular. Frank is still lying on the floor in his own blood, and their teeth click as Gerard fists his hands into Frank’s shirt, slipping through the hole in the material and feeling the smooth skin where the wound should have been. Patrick’s a miracle worker, Gerard thinks, and when he pulls away, he stares in wonder of the way Frank’s chest heaves and he grins, so amazing when he’d been so still just moments before.

“Thank you,” he says, and Gerard laughs, hysterically happy, and kisses him again.

**

“You’re a bunch of crazy motherfuckers,” Pete says with a shake of his head, once they’re all home safely.

Gerard just laughs, clutches Frank’s hand tighter in his own, feels Frank’s answering squeeze.

“They should know better than to fuck with us,” Bob says casually, and Gerard thinks of the way Bob demolished the memories of every Agent in the place before they left, of the way he carefully constructed fake memories accounting from the moment before they found Brendon and Frank until after they were all safely out the doors.

“You are a fucking superhero, Bob,” Gerard sends past Bob’s shield, and Bob grins across the room at him.

“You weren’t too bad yourself, saving people from the dead and all,” he answers, and Gerard looks at Frank with a relieved smile, still not able to quite believe that Frank is here, that he’s okay, and that Gerard can hold his hand. Frank smiles back, and Gerard directs his mind away from Bob’s and in to Frank’s. Frank senses him immediately, relaxing into the way Gerard curls protectively around him mentally as well as physically. It’s new to Frank, but he likes the way it feels, and Gerard revels in the intimacy and closeness in a way he never really thought was possible.

“I love you,” he whispers into Frank’s mind, and even though Frank can’t reply mentally, the way he grins and kisses Gerard softly is answer enough.

end.

BBB Fic - All We Are

lightisbreaking — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 04:59:48 GMT

The first time the police kick down his door, catch him by the arm and drag him outside, Gerard just goes with it. He lets them shove him in the car and haul him down to the station despite how bewildered he is. When he was growing up, the police were the good guys. He was taught to respect them, to obey the law without question. And so the first time, he goes with them because what could go wrong? No matter what they think he’s done, he knows he’s innocent. All he has to do is go down to the precinct and set the record straight and he’ll be fine. It’s only when one guy shoves a small red pill in his mouth and slaps a pair of rubber cuffs on him that he begins to worry. The drug makes his head spin and his senses distort and now, Gerard really starts to panic. The rubber feels awkward against his skin, and all at once he knows what it is to be truly afraid. Now that he thinks about it, they’re not acting like normal cops. There’s no following protocol, no reading him his rights. Gerard knows he’s in trouble - he just can’t figure out why.

For the entire trip to the station, he sits and contemplates, trying his hardest to think through the fuzz now heavily clouding his mind to think of something illegal he must have done, but he can’t come up with anything. It’s the rubber around his wrists and the buzzing in his head that gives him the most to worry about. He feels trapped inside his head for the first time in his life. Somehow, he knows that it isn’t a coincidence. These aren’t like any handcuffs he’s seen before, and never has his mind felt so contained. But how could they possibly know? Gerard’s not stupid - he knows that what he can do isn’t what’s perceived as normal. It’s hardly something he goes shouting from rooftops. The only people who know are his brother and his best friend. Mikey wouldn’t tell anyone - it would only cause trouble for him as well and besides, Mikey’s his brother. In his heart, he knows that Mikey would never rat him out. Which leaves Bert, whom Gerard had told his biggest secret to just the night before. He had thought it would be okay, but now Gerard thinks back, and he remembers the fear in Bert’s eyes, the tinge of envy and resentment. Perhaps he had been wrong.

Well, he thinks, there’s no sense worrying about that now. It’s then he realises that he hasn’t been brought to the police station after all. They’ve pulled up outside a tall, white building completely devoid of signs indicating its purpose. But he’s heard stories about this place, and none make him keen to stay. And so, he begins to plan. As one of them grabs his arm and pulls him out of the car, Gerard waits until they’re outside before putting all of his strength into elbowing the guy hard in the stomach. His head swims dangerously, but he forces it away with an adrenaline rush. The cop doubles over, winded, and Gerard spins, pulling the gun out of the cop’s holster before he can reach it.

Gerard’s not a violent person by nature, but his father had warned him about this place, these people, and trained him to know how to look after himself and his brother. He’s surprised at how calm and steady his hands are when he lifts the gun and points it at the other cop, who’s just exited the car in a rush.

“Take these off,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. His heart is hammering and his hands are sweating, but he manages to keep the gun pointed at both men until one steps forward and unlocks the cuffs slowly. They fall to the ground and immediately the buzzing disappears. The static gone from his mind, Gerard breathes a sigh of relief. He’s free again.

When Gerard was fifteen, he vowed he would not exercise his power on people without permission. It seems immoral, and he knows that he’d hate it if someone did it to him. Eight years later, he’s gathering his wits and preparing to break his vow for the first time. Taking a deep breath, Gerard lets his mind reach out (for Mikey, he thinks), suddenly elated at the feeling of exercising his power. Gently, he slips into the mind of the first cop and searches for his own face amongst the many files of memory. When he finds it, he suppresses a stab of sadness at the feelings of hatred and fear attached to the memories, and sets about his task. He has to move quickly - the cops are still held immobilised by gunpoint, but he can feel this one growing restless, trying to think of a plan. Gerard quickly tears apart the memories, making sure the cop will remember nothing of him after this meeting before he begins to move again. Realising he must still have absolute control until the last minute, Gerard lets his mind keep a loose hold on the first man as he begins to slide into the second. It’s a strain, but he does the same to his second victim and then hesitates. If he lets them have control of their minds again now, they’ll merely see him staring at them, gun raised, and commit him to memory once more as someone to arrest.

He sighs, and with regret, he slams his own mind hard against both of theirs, as if delivering a physical blow. Immediately, their minds shut down and retreat in order to prevent further harm, and Gerard quickly withdraws seconds before their now unconscious bodies hit the ground. His task completed, Gerard feels panic threatening to cloud his senses. He just tampered with and assaulted the minds of two police officers. What was he thinking? He tries desperately to calm himself and get a grip. There’ll be time to think about morals and regret later - now, he needs to run. His legs are tired, his body weak (effects of the drug they fed him, he supposes), but he keeps running, stumbling until he gets home. It doesn’t take him long to collect his essential possessions, and then he clicks speed dial and waits for Mikey to pick up the phone.

“Hi,” Gerard says when his brother answers. “We need to go. Now.”

To his credit, Mikey doesn’t ask questions or protest, and an hour later they’re in Gerard’s car and getting out as fast as they can. Gerard curses Bert the entire time he drives.

**

Ryan and Spencer are the kind of friends who can hold entire conversations with a quirk of the lips or a twitch of an eyebrow. It’s been that way since Ryan can remember. When he was six years old, Ryan moved a spoon just by thinking about it. After that, it wasn’t long before his parents dropped him on the doorstep of an orphanage with a hundred dollars and a bag of clothes. Ryan tries not to resent them for it. He doesn’t remember much of his childhood with them anyway, and he knows that having to raise a kid like him can’t be easy.

Four years later, Spencer arrived at the orphanage in a similar fashion, and drawn together like magnets, they gave each other comfort where they could find it nowhere else. Spencer remembers more of his old life than Ryan. Ryan’s not sure whether this is due to the fact that he spent longer with his parents, or the queer ability he has of being oversensitive to emotions. Sometimes, Spencer knows what Ryan’s feeling even before Ryan does. It’s not quite as obvious as what Ryan can do, and Spencer often says he sees Ryan’s as more impressive, but Ryan thinks of how Spencer calms him down whenever he’s angry or upset and enables him to think clearly again, and Ryan can’t discredit it as any less useful.

Despite having Spencer, Ryan hates the orphanage where he’s been forced to grow up. Spending eleven years in and out of the place takes its toll. He’s stayed in a few foster homes, even been on the verge of adoption once, but as soon as he lets his guard down and accidentally reveals his abilities (when he was younger it was due to ignorance rather than recklessness) they send him straight back. He knows the only reason they don’t say anything is because they think no one will believe them. Strangely enough, the same day he and Spencer grab their things and run (like anyone will miss them anyway) is the same day they meet Frank.

Spencer feels his anger before he can see him. At first he thinks it’s Ryan - that maybe he’s still pissed off at the way they almost got caught sneaking out - but it’s not in his shoulders or his expression. With a hand on Ryan’s shoulder to stop him, Spencer pauses.

“Something wrong?” Ryan asks, and Spencer furrows his eyebrows, yes.

“I can feel...” He stops, because the source is moving.

Ryan follows Spencer obediently as he starts to move. If there’s one thing he’s learnt, it’s that Spencer is amazing. He’d never lead them into trouble, and Ryan would trust him with his life and more. They walk in silence until Spencer stops again and flinches.

“Close. Whoever it is, they’re furious,” Spencer murmurs, and Ryan frowns. He knows Spencer can feel everyone who’s not actively trying to keep a sealed lid on their emotions, but usually he tries to block it out. Ryan’s never seen him try and track down the source of one random emotion before.

“Spence, why...?” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

Spencer looks at him, face twisted in confusion. “Because he feels like you,” Spencer answers, and Ryan is left clueless. He had no idea that he felt any different to everyone else. “I can feel his power,” Spencer clarifies, and Ryan’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Spencer never mentioned that. Ryan’s about to question him further when the flowerbed to the left of them bursts into flame and a guy of around twenty storms down the steps of the house they’ve just ended up outside.

“Shut up! Just let me go or I swear to God...” the boy is yelling, backtracking down the drive and pointing his finger threateningly at whoever is standing in the doorway. Something is shouted back at him, and the guy shrugs his shoulders and stabs a finger at the second flowerbed. The flames spring up in an instant, just like the first, and Ryan stifles a shout of surprise. Spencer flinches as the anger hits him anew.

The door slams shut and the stranger storms towards them with a bag slung over his shoulder. Ryan wonders whether the boy doesn’t have the power to put the flames out, or whether he just doesn’t care. Either way, he leaves them burning down to piles of ash while he storms off, and Ryan and Spencer are quick to follow him.

“What do you want?” he snarls, barging past them.

Spencer’s reaction is instantaneous. A hand lands on the stranger’s shoulder, and Ryan feels the calm settling over him and knows it’s Spencer’s doing.

“Hey, come with us for a minute. What’s your name?”

The look Spencer receives is one of bewilderment and annoyance, obviously struggling to fight off the calm Spencer is projecting. “Frank. What do you want?”

“We know what you are,” Ryan blurts out before he can stop himself, and Spencer shoots him a frustrated look. If Ryan lacks anything, it’s subtlety.

Frank narrows his eyes, and for a second, he looks like he’s going to run. Or perhaps send something else up into a ball of fire. All of a sudden, Ryan remembers a conversation he overheard his parents having the first time they saw him do something abnormal. How they spoke of handing him in to the special police. Ryan’s heard of them but never come to see one. He knows what they do - Agents designed to find them, study them, and inevitably, wipe them out. He sees the fear in Frank’s eyes, and he knows he’s heard the stories too, maybe even met them.

“We’re not Agents,” he rushes, and when Frank still looks sceptical, “We’re like you.”

Spencer nudges him, reminding him wordlessly that they’re in public and they’ve already said and revealed too much.

“Come,” Spencer urges. Frank hesitates just a moment longer before he gives a sharp nod and follows.

**

Pete finds it hard not to be at least a little bit envious of Gabe, Bob and Patrick. He’s well aware that it’s that sort of attitude - the resentment, the jealousy - that would see his three best friends killed, but he can’t help it. He loves them with all his heart, but then he watches the way Gabe vents his anger by destroying things with willpower alone, the way Bob knows what he’s thinking before even Pete does, or the way Patrick can heal over all their cuts, grazes, burns, you name it, and he can’t stop the feeling from creeping in. These are usually the times that he disappears for a while and goes to visit Andy and Joe (the only friends he has these days where things are normal) and waits until the jealousy dissipates. It’s not often, once every few months or so, and he knows they understand, but he still feels awful about it.

Pete remembers how hard it was for them to tell him what they can do, how terrified they had been that he would turn them in, and he feels a surge of gratitude at their faith in him. Sometimes it’s hard being the only one with what he defines as a normal brain, but he’s long since learnt that Bob, Gabe and Patrick are worth more than anything that might come between them.

“Gabe’s making ramen, you want some?” Patrick calls from the dining room, and Pete shouts back his thanks. He’s halfway through telling Patrick that he wants it spicy this time (“not that weak shit you eat, pussy”) when there’s a frantic knocking on the front door, and a guy stumbles in, dragging someone else behind him.

“Hide us. Please.”

**

At first, Gerard doesn’t want to agree. But Mikey is pale and shaking, which Gerard has come to associate with Mikey’s true visions. Once, Gerard might have doubted this sort of future-telling, but that was before he learnt he could see into people’s minds. After that, anything seems possible. And so, when Mikey looks at him, eyes still half-glazed and only just becoming aware again and tells Gerard firmly where to go, Gerard says nothing, merely changes their direction.

An hour later, he finds himself knocking on some stranger’s door, chewing his lip nervously. “Hide us. Please,” he says when the door opens, and he drags poor half-conscious Mikey over the threshold as the owner of the house stares in shock.

Later, when Mikey is asleep in one of the bedrooms, Gerard sits at the kitchen table with a bowl of ramen and prepares to lie through his teeth. He doesn’t know why Mikey’s brought them here, but he’s not about to give away their secret (and with it, their lives) to a bunch of total strangers. There’s three of them, he discovers. Pete, the one who he first met, Gabe and Patrick. So far, they haven’t asked any questions except for his name, and for that, he’s grateful.

“I’m sorry for throwing us on you like this, it’s just. We have nowhere to go and my brother saw - uh, heard that you could help us.”

If they caught his slip up, they don’t say so. “Oh? You just might need to tell us what’s the matter, first,” Pete says with a smile.

Gerard returns it hesitantly, unsure of where he’s supposed to go from here. Mikey had been adamant that these people could help them. He never discloses the details of his visions unless it’s important, but he had sworn that this was where they had to go. Had it been a less dangerous secret he’s hiding, Gerard might have trusted Mikey’s instincts enough to tell these people everything. But he knows all too well the cost of people finding out about them - it was still just that morning he almost got himself caught out. They’ll have him on file now, thanks to information nobody but Bert could have handed over, and there’s no way he can just start walking the streets again anytime soon. The whole situation leaves him at a bit of a cross road, and he’s terrified that both ways will lead him and his brother to capture.

“How about we start with the other guy? Can you tell me what’s wrong with him?” The second guy, Patrick speaks up.

“He... He’s tired, he... I’m sorry, I can’t...”

They exchange a look, and the one called Gabe cracks a smile like something’s been decided.

“Look, Gerard. Whatever trouble you’re in, we’re not calling the cops on you. And sad as it is, it’s as much for our own benefit as yours. You’re not the only one hiding things, huh?” He winks, and Gerard can’t help but stiffen. For all he knows, he’s stumbled on a house full of wanted criminals. But at the same time, Mikey said they would find help here, that they would be safe. And if these people don’t want to police around either...

“My brother, he... He has dreams,” Gerard starts slowly, waiting to see their reaction. When none of them do anything out of the ordinary, he continues, slowly, cautiously. “Thing is, his dreams. Well, they come true.”

This is where he expects them to either herd him out onto the street or call the police. With a sidelong glance, Gerard can see their refrigerator and there’s no mistaking the red flyer stuck to it. He’s seen them more times than he’d like to count, though he tries not to. They’re the flyers the government released last month declaring it every citizen’s duty to keep an eye out for what they called ‘mutant defects’, people with a ‘disease’ inside their brain which leads them to believe they can do extraordinary things. Gerard’s well aware that the entire campaign is just to make the people think they’re deranged and have them all locked up as soon as possible. In order to keep the peace, the flyer dictates calmly that people will be cared for and treated where they can no longer harm society. And yeah, Gerard supposes, if you count killing someone as treating them.

He sees the familiar red piece of paper tacked up on the fridge, and all of a sudden he’s convinced he’s doing the wrong thing. Obviously, they support the campaign. They’re probably acting nice to him now just so that they can haul him off when he’s not expecting it. Maybe they even already have the cops on their way.

“I should go,” he says in a rush, and he grabs his jacket and has almost reached the door to Mikey’s room before a hand grabs his arm and pulls him back.

“Don’t go. I promise you, you’re safe here,” Pete swears, and Gerard searches his eyes for any signs of insincerity. He finds none, but the flyer is still hanging there clear as day, and it sends his mind into a frenzy. It would be easy, he knows, to slip into one of their minds and find out their real intentions. After all, he’s already done it once today; he might as well break his promise in a big way. Still, something prevents him from going through with it, and instead he tugs his arm out of Pete’s grip.

“We can’t stay here. Mikey!”

“Gerard, listen to me!” For the first time, Pete’s voice is sharp and urgent, and Gerard turns his head back in shock to stare at him. “We can help you.” He glances back at Patrick and Gabe, and when Gabe gives a slight nod, Pete smiles. “Gabe and Patrick? They’re like your brother. I swear to you we’re not going to tell anyone.”

Gerard waits a minute, trying to sort this new information out in his head and make sense of it all. It would explain why they don’t want police here. But he’s grown up thinking he can’t trust anyone but his brother, and this was proved only that morning when Bert sold him out.

“And you’re not?” he asks, not knowing whether he’s trying to stall for time or just find out all the facts. Pete shakes his head, and Gerard frowns. Strange, for someone like Pete to be living with the others when he knows what they are. “And you don’t care?” he continues, resisting the urge to find out himself.

“No, Gerard. They’re my best friends, okay? Friends don’t do that kind of shit to each other.”

Gerard thinks of Bert, and scowls. “Some,” he mutters, but nobody hears him. And then Mikey chooses that moment to wander out of the bedroom, hair mussed and looking like he still has no idea what’s going on.

“Gerard? You okay?” he asks, and the concern in his eyes throws Gerard off balance.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Look, why don’t you go back to sleep? Everything’s... Everything’s fine, Mikes, we’re okay.” He says this last looking straight at Pete, and receives a warm smile in return.

“Were you arguing? I told you they were safe.” Mikey rolls his eyes as if Gerard should know better than to second guess.

“Mikey, is it? Come here for a second,” Patrick says before Gerard can reply, and Mikey walks towards him with trust in his eyes. Gerard sort of envies the way he can put all of his faith into something and know for certain that it’s not going to turn on him. He looks at Patrick now as if he’s finally safe, tucked away in this house where nobody can find them. And maybe for a while, Gerard can believe in that too. But he knows they can’t stay here forever.

“Still tired?” Patrick asks, drawing a hand up to rest on Mikey’s forehead.

“A bit, yeah. Sort of draining, you know?” Mikey shrugs his shoulders. To him, it’s just something that comes with the job, a side effect of his power that he has to deal with. So what if he gets headaches every now and then, at least he can get them somewhere he knows is okay.

“Let me help.” Patrick closes his eyes for a moment with his hand still touching Mikey’s skin. When he pulls away and opens his eyes half a minute later, Mikey is looking lively and healthy for the first time since he had his vision.

“Wow, that’s. Okay, yeah, that’s awesome,” he says with a grin, turning to Gerard to prove that he was right.

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point,” he mutters, and Pete shoves his shoulder playfully.

“See? We’re the good guys.”

Gerard is sitting alone at the coffee table, contemplating whether or not they really did the right thing. On the one hand, Mikey keeps swearing that these guys are okay, and if they really are just like he and Mikey, then he might be right. But then, that also ups the risk factor of them being here in the first place. If these guys ever get found out, they’ll drag Gerard and Mikey straight down with them, and Gerard has fought his entire life to stop that from happening to both him and his brother.

He’s spent so long trying to make sure that his and Mikey’s powers were hidden, that the idea of throwing everything they’ve worked for to chance is a lot to ask. Pete is showing Mikey around the house while Patrick and Gabe discuss something in the kitchen. They moved Gerard into the living room earlier, armed with a mug of coffee and free reign of the TV, but so far he hasn’t even turned it on. He can’t get his brain to shut up, for one, and he doesn’t think he could concentrate on what he was watching even if he tried.

It’s then that the door slams open, thrown off its hinges in a way that makes Gerard’s bones jump out of his skin, and his first instinct is fight. Which, again, is odd, considering he’s never been pro-violence, but ever since he and Mikey were thrown so outrageously out of their comfort zone, he feels wired and jittery and he’s itching to let his energy out somehow. Fighting for his life seems a good way to do so, really, so when the door opens that hard and fast, Gerard has two thoughts: cops, and fuck. He spins on his heel in an instant, totally forgetting about the mug of coffee as it falls from his hands and crashes into the carpet, spilling everywhere. He draws back his arm to get in his first swing, and without even thinking, slams his fist into the stranger’s nose.

The stranger shouts in surprise and stumbles back, clutching at his nose and dropping what he’d been holding, blood running between the cracks in his fingers.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” the guy yells, and he looks at Gerard with such shock and confusion and pain that Gerard is forced to hesitate before kicking him in the stomach.

There’s the sound of footsteps, and suddenly Gabe and Patrick are there, Gabe’s hand on Gerard’s shoulder. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up; Gerard’s body is full of adrenaline and he’s not thinking straight. When he does, however, his eyes widen and he slaps a hand against his mouth.

The things the guy had dropped are shopping bags. He’s not holding a weapon of any kind, not wearing a badge or a police uniform, and Patrick steps forward to inspect the guy’s nose like he knows him. To his right, Gabe is shaking with laughter, and Gerard’s stomach is flooded with guilt at the realisation that this guy is definitely a friend to them.

“Okay, seriously, what the fuck,” the stranger says, looking at Gerard, though his voice comes out sounding strange and Gerard thinks he may have broken his nose.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I thought. I-“ he looks at Gabe frantically, eyes wide, and Gabe just laughs harder.

Apparently the only person still with their mind in the right state, Patrick moves the stranger’s hand away from his nose and touches it lightly with his finger and Gerard stares in horror as he watches the bone heal and look normal again. There’s still blood everywhere, but the look of pain is gone from the stranger’s eyes, and he looks at Patrick with gratitude.

“Thanks, man. Who is this guy?” He gestures to Gerard a little wildly, and Gerard kind of wishes he could run and hide.

All the noise draws Pete and Mikey from wherever they had been earlier, and Pete looks between the three of them in confusion. “Bob, what the hell? Why’s your face all fucked?”

Bob scrunches his nose up, moving it around to ensure that it’s back to normal and without pain anywhere before he answers. “This fucker punched me in the fucking face.”

Gerard supposes Bob has a right to be angry, and he immediately wishes that he was back to his old self. Usually, Gerard would have paused, hesitated, evaluated the situation and then acted, but apparently all of that instinct has vanished over the past twenty-four or so hours. Gerard’s never been great at first impressions, but he thinks that he’s kind of on a roll today. Breaking and entering with a half-conscious brother on his arm earlier that day had been bad enough, and now upon meeting the apparent fourth resident of the house, he breaks the guy’s face. He probably needs to work on his tact.

Pete looks like he’s trying not to laugh, and so Patrick cuts across before he can say anything. “Gerard, this is Bob. He lives here. Bob, this is Gerard and his brother Mikey, they got here this morning.” He gives Bob a meaningful look as to say he’ll explain the finer details later.

Gerard scratches the back of his neck awkwardly and grimaces. “Um, hi?” he offers.

To his surprise, Bob laughs. “Must’ve surprised you, huh?”

Gerard gets the feeling that this isn’t the first time Bob has walked in on strangers in his house. Come to think of it, all four of them are taking Mikey and Gerard’s sudden invasion pretty well, and Gerard wonders how many other people like them have come here. Maybe there are other people out there with Mikey’s kind of power, and somehow, they’re all led to this house. It’s odd to think about, and he wonders why none of them stayed.

“Nice punch though, Gerard, seriously. Where’s your defense, Bryar?” Gabe knocks Gerard’s shoulder happily, and Gerard has never felt more awkward in his life.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t know-“ Gerard tries, but nobody wants to hear it.

“It’s fine, really, Bob’s like a man of steel. He can take it,” Pete assures him, and Gerard wants to point out that if Bob was made of steel, his face wouldn’t be covered in his own blood, but he refrains.

“Listen, I’m going to go and wash this off,” Bob gestures offhandedly to his face, “And you fuckers can unpack those,” he finishes, pointing at the groceries that are now all on the floor.

He disappears in search of a bathroom, and Gerard is the first to pick up the groceries. It’s the least he can do.

**

Ryan knows better than to ask Spencer where they’re going. His face is screwed up in concentration and he’s walking with a purpose. Beside Ryan, Frank looks like he’s in a permanent state of confusion.

Having been hiding out with Ryan and Spencer for three days, Frank feels kind of like he belongs somewhere for the first time. It took a while before he could trust them, and maybe he still doesn’t entirely, but they’ve shown him what they can do, how they’re like him, and for now, that’s enough to make Frank go with them. It’s unlikely they’re going to turn him over if it means risking themselves.

Now though, Frank is lost. That morning, Spencer had gotten this weird look on his face and told them to be quiet, and then they’d started walking. That was at least two hours ago, and they still haven’t stopped. Spencer’s barely said a word - just enough that they know not to interrupt whatever he’s doing, and that this will be good for them in the long run. Spencer can feel something, Frank’s gathered that much. He doesn’t entirely understand the way Spencer’s power works. It’s not like his at all. Frank just sends things up in flames by thinking about it. His only problem is that he hasn’t yet worked out how to put the flames out, because water appears to be a lost cause. So far, he’s figured out that if he just thinks about things flaring up for just a second or two and then dying down, he can sort of keep the fire under control, but this only appears to work in the case of smaller flames.

Spencer’s power though, is constant. Where Frank uses his actively, consciously, Spencer’s is constantly at work, transmitting feelings to his brain without ever stopping. Frank thinks it must get annoying, but Spencer seems to block it out somehow, and only really focus on things that are important. Which, apparently, this is.

“Where are we going?” Frank asks because he can’t help it, and Ryan rolls his eyes. Frank guesses that this is his way of telling Frank he’s an idiot, but it’s too late now. He shrugs in Ryan’s direction and keeps his attention on Spencer, waiting for him to answer.

“Somewhere we can belong, I think,” Spencer says finally, and Frank falls silent because that’s probably the last thing he’d been expecting. “I can feel a group of people like us. We’re going to find them.”

This is more than Spencer has said to them in two hours, and so Frank counts his victories and decides not to push it. Ryan looks a little miffed that Frank got answers where Ryan couldn’t, but he gets over it soon enough, and Frank suspects that has something to do with their new destination. Ryan hasn’t had somewhere to belong since he was a kid, and if that’s important to anyone, it’s Ryan.

Frank expects that they won’t get wherever they’re going for at least another few hours, but to his surprise, it only takes 40 minutes before Spencer is coming to a stop. They’re standing outside of a two-storied house on the top of a slight hill. It’s the only house around them as far as Frank can see, and he wonders who the hell it is they’ve come to find. Spencer pauses for the first time and glances back at them.

“We can leave, if you want,” he says.

Ryan shakes his head. “I trust you.”

Frank nods his agreement, because they might as well check it out. If Spencer can feel what he says he can feel, then there really might be people there who can help them. Or at least people who will understand their predicament. Frank doesn’t want to be on the streets any more than Spencer and Ryan do. He’d kicked away his chance at a safe home when his girlfriend threatened to call the police. Accidentally setting her hair on fire with his mind during a fight had probably been the biggest mistake of his life, and he had paid for it dearly. He should have known it was coming ever since those fucking red flyers were distributed, but something had made him think he could still pursue a relationship even with his... condition. Apparently, he was wrong, and he had been forced to hightail it out of there before she called the Agents on him.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Frank says brightly, and knocks on the door before Ryan can stop him or warn him to be careful.

When the door opens, the first thing Frank hears is “You’re kidding”.

“I’m afraid I didn’t say anything,” Frank says in reply, and the guy laughs and holds out his hand.

“I’m Pete. And you’re Frank, right? I was expecting you to make as much of an entrance as the other two.”

Frank’s eyes narrow. If there’s one thing he’s learnt, it’s never to trust somebody who knows more about you than you do about them. “How do you know my name?” he asks, tone wary. Ryan nudges him from behind, a wordless I told you so and Frank resists the urge to roll his eyes. Ryan is too careful for his own good sometimes, but now, Frank is wondering whether Ryan was right.

But then, Spencer had said they would be like them. And so maybe... “Is that like, your power? Knowing my name before I tell it to you?” Frank says before he can stop himself, and he hears Ryan make a noise of distress behind him.

He apparently can’t help himself, because the next thing he knows, Ryan is hissing into Frank’s ear, “Shut up, Frank! You’re going to get us killed!”

“Spencer said they would be like us,” Frank counters, and Pete watches the exchange with a confused smile on his face. “How did you know?” Frank asks again, and Pete spreads his hands in a gesture of acquiescence.

“A friend told me. I think it’s best if you came in and spoke to him.” Pete stands aside and motions for them to come inside, and Frank hesitates just a second before he steps over the threshold.

When Frank meets Mikey Way, he’s half-expecting some wise old man to peer at him over the top of his glasses and tell Frank everything about his future. Pete tells him enough that Frank understands Mikey Way can see the future, and that’s all the preparation he gets before he, Ryan and Spencer are shown through a door and all of a sudden Frank has to re-think all of his perceptions about Guys Who See the Future.

As it turns out, Mikey Way is definitely not the all-seeing oracle that Frank had been expecting. Which really, he should have figured out himself. There’re no rules about who receives the kinds of powers they have; they’re just born with them. Mikey looks like he feels just as confused and unsettled and nervous about his powers as the rest of them. Frank feels a small stab of triumph at the sight of the glasses, but not even those are the half-moon sort of deal he’d been imagining. Frank puts Mikey around the same age as himself, with carefully straightened brown hair and a scrawny frame. He looks kind of dazed, and Frank wonders whether they’d caught him in the middle of a vision. Actually, he quickly finds that this is how Mikey looks for the next couple of hours after a vision.

“Hi, Frank,” Mikey says without having to ask his name, though Frank had expected that, at least.

“Hi, Mikey,” Frank answers, not to be outdone, and Mikey gives a wry smile.

“I know you’re probably really freaked out and everything right now, but don’t worry. You’re safe here. My brother and I came here a couple of days ago, and no one’s ratted us out yet.”

“So what is this, a hideout for freaks?” Frank asks and Spencer glares at him.

“We’re not freaks,” Ryan mutters, but it’s almost like he’s trying to convince himself more than Frank, so Frank doesn’t bother replying.

“Pete, Gabe, Patrick and Bob live here, originally. My brother, Gerard, is upstairs watching X-Men with them,” Mikey pauses and grins. “I think it makes him feel like he’s cool, like a superhero or something.”

Frank catches the very slight bitterness under Mikey’s tone, and he knows exactly how he feels. It’s like they should be some kind of superheroes, like if God or Mother Nature or whoever is going to give them these insane powers, they should be able to use them to help people. Instead, they’re forced to hide them from everyone, unless they want to be thrown in a cell and murdered under the false pretence of a “cure”. Frank doesn’t want to know what the Agents tell everyone once they’ve killed off another one. That the cure didn’t work? That they were condemned to be mentally defective the rest of their lives? Frank bets they tell everyone they’ve got them safe and sound, where they can’t hurt anyone including themselves. Some nice padded prison where they can get the help they deserve. If Frank ever meets an Agent, he’s going to fucking kill the asshole before he even gets a chance to land the cuffs on Frank’s wrists.

“So what, you saw us coming?” Frank guesses, and Mikey nods.

“Yeah, sort of. I saw you coming. Not these two-“ he points at Ryan and Spencer, “-but I guess it just wasn’t that clear.”

Frank gets the feeling there’s something Mikey’s not telling him, and there’s this odd twist to his lips that stirs Frank’s curiosity, but he doesn’t bother asking. In all the movies and books he’s seen and read, the person who can see the future is never allowed to tell anyone anything, so what’s the point?

“Come on,” Mikey says, beckoning for them to follow, “I’ll show you where you can stay.”

They follow Mikey through the house until they come to a spare room on the second floor. “This one’s free. Gerard and I are just across the hall. Bob and Patrick are downstairs, and Pete and Gabe at the end of the hall.” Mikey rattles it all off like he’s been living there his whole life, and Frank just goes with it, pretending that he’s not totally overwhelmed.

“Bunking up like old buddies, huh?” Frank says, just to give his mouth something to say, and Mikey shrugs.

“It’s a four bedroom house. There should be four people living here. We had to make adjustments.”

All of a sudden, Frank is reminded that they’ve just thrown themselves on the doorstep of a bunch of strangers and expected them to take the three of them in. “This is. Kind of saintly of them, right? Just letting five random guys crash at their place?”

Ryan looks like he vehemently agrees, and also like maybe he doesn’t quite trust the setup yet. Which is understandable, really, considering just how easy it all seems. Nothing should be this easy, not when they’re who they are. There should have been long, tiring conversations late into the night, and pleading desperately for them to understand, and then, Frank supposes, the three of them inevitably ending up back out on the street, possibly with Agents on their tail. And yet somehow, somehow it all just seems to click.

“It’s the best option we have,” Mikey answers in this matter-of-fact way that Frank feels is appropriate considering nothing should really be a surprise for Mikey Way. His face is dead-pan, and Frank is hit with the realisation that Mikey has already come to accept this place as his home, as the only place he has left in the world.

“I guess you’re right,” he says, and Mikey seems satisfied.

He heads towards the door and looks over his shoulder briefly as he says, “Get yourselves settled. And then we’ll talk.”

**

Sometimes, Gerard just likes to sit and watch everything unfold around him. It’s one thing having three people with strange powers living together; it’s quite another to throw together eight of them.

It gets a little crazy having nine people in a house (let alone what they can do) and sometimes there are arguments, but Gerard is happy to say that so far, it’s been relatively drama free. He really does have to hand it to Mikey - he picked the best spot in the world. Finally, he actually allows himself to feel safe, like maybe he can have a life here, as long as they all stay under the radar. It’s been a couple of weeks, and the fuss about Gerard seems to have died down. He doesn’t get furtive glances and whispered conversations if he walks down the street anymore, and he guesses that the TV and radio ads and flyers displaying his name and photograph have died down.

Now, Gerard sits in his favourite chair and watches while Bob has a game of chess against Mikey. At first, it sounds unfair - Mikey can see the future, after all. Usually, Mikey’s gift is sporadic and his visions only really come into play if it’s something important, and more often than not, connected to either himself or Gerard. (Mikey confessed in whispered tones the night that Frank, Ryan and Spencer arrived that he thinks that’s why he only saw Frank. When Gerard asks what he means, Mikey just laughs, which is more infuriating than the vision in the first place.) However, he does have an uncanny ability to sense things, an extension of his power which gives him incredible instincts and powerful hunches. Enough, usually, to beat Bob in a game of chess easily.

What Mikey hadn’t taken into account when he agreed to play (with a rather cocky smile on his face, if Gerard’s being honest), was that he’s not the only one with a gift. Bob obviously doesn’t have the same qualms about reading minds as Gerard does, and Gerard can feel him hovering over Mikey’s mind and dipping in every now and then to even the playing field again. At first, Gerard had been surprised when he found out about Bob’s power. The others all have gifts individual to them, and none of them have ever come across somebody with the same abilities as themselves. And yet the second Gerard stopped freaking out about Bob’s sudden entrance and became himself again, he could feel him in a way that the others are invisible to him.

"You’re cheating", Gerard laughs inside his head, sending the thought with swift ease to Bob, and watching the faint smile that appears as a result.

Bob doesn’t even look up, but Gerard can feel his answering chuckle in his own mind. "So’s he."

Which is a reasonable argument, Gerard supposes, so he keeps his mouth (or rather, his mind) shut and watches the game unfold. In the end, it comes down to the final move, and Gerard lets his mind slip closer so that he can track Bob, feel out what he’s trying to get from Mikey. He doesn’t have to actually penetrate either of their minds to feel the frustration radiating from Bob, or the smugness from Mikey. He taps against Mikey’s mind gently, politely, and Mikey’s so used to Gerard’s touch by now that he doesn’t even blink. Mikey can’t communicate with him telepathically like Bob can, despite the fact that Gerard is close enough for him to feel. It’s something that comes with the talent, Gerard supposes.

It’s interesting, living with a group of people so similar and yet so different at the same time. For the first time, they’re able to experiment with their powers in an environment where it’s accepted,where they can test out their differences and how each of their powers work. The strange thing is that while Gerard knows any other human being can’t feel him, no matter whether he’s just hovering or deep inside their minds, every single person in this house (with the exception of Pete), can feel him in an instant. Regardless of their power, they can sense each other. Not in the way that Spencer does, being able to feel out their power, but it only takes Gerard or Bob letting their minds drift just a little too close before someone will tense, and know that someone is close to breaching them.

Mostly, they’re powerless to stop it. With his power, Gerard knows his own mind back to front and inside out. He knows its corners, dips and curves, the way certain areas seem to blur together (old memories he can barely grasp) and the fresher, newer part that’s crystal clear. He and Bob know their minds in ways the others could only dream of, and this is how they’re able to shield themselves. It’s only against each other, really, as theirs are the only power which involves any kind of entering the mind, but it’s fun sometimes, to see whether he can break Bob’s defences (while still staying clear of his thoughts, of course).

Mikey though, is the exception. Hovering, Gerard can feel Bob trying to slip into Mikey’s head in order to win, but Mikey is determined. It’s the last move of the game, the decider, and Mikey has spent nineteen years living with Gerard. It’s almost like a natural defence, the way Mikey has learnt to block Gerard out. Even after Gerard decided to stop entering a mind without permission, he couldn’t stay away from Mikey’s. There’s something intimately comforting about being able to wrap his mind around someone else’s, and once it was a way of calming both himself and his brother down after a particularly close call. So, despite the fact that Mikey never really actively tried to block Gerard out, he learnt how. He’s doing it now, fiercely protecting his thoughts so that Bob can’t get through.

Bob’s shoulders drop and he sighs, and Gerard feels the moment when he withdraws and gives up on trying to breach Mikey’s mind. “Jerk,” he mutters under his breath, and Mikey laughs. Bob makes his move, and the second his hand moves from the board Mikey moves his queen in a flash, hooking Bob in checkmate with a grin.

“I win,” he says.

Bob nods and admits defeat, and Gabe jumps up, rushing to take his place at the kitchen table.

“I wanna play the future-teller!” He grins like it’s a challenge he can’t back down from, and Mikey raises an eyebrow. Gabe is not Bob. Gabe can’t read the visions out of his head and stand a fighting chance. He keeps quiet though, and sets up the pieces as though it’s a game to be taken seriously.

In the end, it takes three moves before Mikey has Gabe beat. “Well, fuck,” Gabe says, and blinks, and then before Gerard even realises what’s happening, all of the pieces on the board have exploded. Well. All except one.

“Ha, I win!” Gabe shouts triumphantly, and points at his king: the last piece still standing.

Gabe, Gerard has to admit, has a pretty fucking awesome power.

Mikey just rolls his eyes, and Gerard wonders whether he saw that coming, or whether it is possible to catch Mikey by surprise. “Yeah, but now we have no chess set,” he points out, and Gabe’s face falls momentarily.

“Maybe Patrick can heal them!” he declares, and refuses to listen to any protesting until he has Patrick standing over the table, looking down at the broken pieces in dismay.

“Gabe, honestly,” he sighs, but he lets his hand rest over the largest pile of fragments anyway, and closes his eyes. After a moment, though, he opens them again and shakes his head. “They’re just objects, Gabe. I can heal people, or animals, or living things. Not this.” He gestures at the broken game and Gabe shrugs.

“Oh well. It was worth a shot. Besides, now I can remain the undefeated champion!”

Gerard considers pointing out that Gabe totally and utterly cheated, but then he thinks of the way Mikey plays, and it’s hard to accuse anyone of anything. If they’re both cheating, it’s fair, right?

He’s startled out of his day dreaming when Pete starts shouting and brandishing around a piece of paper. “Alright fuckers, listen up! Now I know you all have like, fucking superpowers or whatever, but you’re still people, which means I’m still making you help out. Chores list!” He declares this proudly, beaming from ear to ear, oblivious to the groans resonating around the room.

Ryan and Spencer choose that moment to come down from upstairs, and Pete launches himself at them. “You two are on shopping duty today.”

Bob lets out a joyous whoop. It’s usually he who does the shopping, not that anyone really knows why. It’s just sort of always been Bob’s thing, though he seems glad to have it taken away from him.

“Don’t get too excited, Bryar, you and Gerard are washing up.”

Bob’s face falls. “Fuck you, Wentz.”

Gerard doesn’t comment on his assigned job. He’ll do whatever he can to help out, considering Pete is putting his credibility and freedom on the line to hide eight people wanted by the government. He likes to watch the others though, as Pete continues to assign duties. He’s even given himself a job, which Gerard is surprised at, and Pete takes a bow at the end as if he’s done something truly wonderful for them all.

Ryan and Spencer disappear shortly after to do their shopping, and Gabe and Mikey hunt around for some other game they can play which doesn’t give either of them an advantage.

“Here, Frank,” Pete says quietly, and throws a plain jar so that Frank can catch it. At first, Gerard doesn’t understand and he frowns, but then Frank’s eyes light up and he smiles like it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for him. Gerard kind of wishes that he could be the one to make Frank’s eyes shine like that.

“Thanks, Pete. Really,” he says, and the words are heartfelt and meaningful, and Gerard still can’t quite grasp why Frank is so touched by a jar.

Frank seems to notice Gerard’s confusion, and he laughs. “It’s uh. To help me out with my power, you know? I have a little trouble with keeping the fire under control. I can’t put it out, for instance.” Frank laughs again and it’s probably the nicest sound Gerard has heard in his life, this little breathy giggle that warms his heart.

“So what’s the jar for?” Gerard asks.

Frank shrugs. “So that I can practice conjuring the fire and putting it out without burning everything to dust.” He says it with a sheepish little grin, and Gerard is reminded of the curtains Frank had destroyed two days ago after Bob beat him at Mario Kart. It had been amusing, at the time, but Gerard gets why Frank’s a little embarrassed.

“Awesome,” Gerard says, and Frank seems to appreciate it.

Then, he opens the jar and gives a casual flick of his hand. The reaction is instantaneous, and the fire springs alive inside the jar even when there’s nothing to burn. Frank sets it down on the table and leans forward, concentrating hard. Then, another gesture of his hand. Nothing happens, and the fire still flickers against the sides of the jar, unable to destroy anything within its confines. It is a good idea, Gerard decides. Much better than having Frank practice on furniture. He looks a little disheartened when it doesn’t work, but he sets about trying it again, and again, and again, and Gerard has to admire his persistence.

“You’ll get it, eventually,” he tries to reassure him when Frank shows the first signs of being frustrated, and Frank smiles at him.

“Thanks. Hey, what if you, like,” he gestures at Gerard and then taps his own temple, “You could go in my head and find the part that makes this work and like, help fine tune it?”

It sounds like a reasonable theory, and Gerard thinks that if he were to enter Frank’s mind, he could probably lend some of his own strength of mind to help. But still, he hesitates, and then shakes his head.

“I. I can’t, I don’t like. Doing that. In your head, I mean.” He sounds inarticulate even to himself, and he hurries to try and explain properly, stumbling over his words. “I mean, I don’t like invading other people’s minds, you know? It’s like, immoral or something.”

Frank’s face is blank for a moment, confused, and then he laughs loud and startling, and Gerard practically jumps in his seat. “You mean you don’t sit here and read our minds all the time? Man, isn’t it even the least bit tempting?”

Gerard shifts a little uncomfortably, and after a moment, admits it with a short nod. “Well, yeah. But I respect you guys. It wouldn’t be fair.”

While apparently contemplating Gerard’s words, Frank gives another half-hearted wave of his hand in the direction of his jar, but doesn’t seem surprised when nothing happens. “That’s cool. That you care like that,” he says finally, and Gerard smiles hesitantly. “But I’m giving you permission, right?”

The thought of entering Frank’s mind is tempting to say the least. Gerard’s curious about what it’ll look like, what his thought patterns will dictate, how Frank exercises his power. Every mind he enters is different, and it’s exciting to imagine what each of them will be. Still, it leaves a sick sort of feeling in his stomach when he thinks about it, even with Frank giving his permission.

He shakes his head, in the end, and Frank shrugs and takes it with a grain of salt. “Okay. Maybe I’ll ask Bob, or something.”

Gerard feels a sharp twinge of something in the pit of his stomach, and he frowns. “Yeah, Bob’ll help out,” he says, but there’s this tone of discomfort in his voice that Frank picks up on immediately.

“You okay?”

Gerard nods quickly and stands up, the sudden desire to move away from Frank and get himself under control overwhelming. It’s not until he’s safely curled up on his bed that he allows himself to shut his eyes and disappear into his own mind for a while. He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but there’s nothing like the comfort of withdrawing into himself until he can’t even feel the world around him. He can’t even feel the bed beneath his back as he goes deeper, deeper, pushing himself into the very core of his mind, past thoughts and memories until he’s just floating in darkness, suspended in nothing. There’s no room for thought in this kind of place, and all notions of Frank and the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach when he looks at him disappear, and it’s almost as if they never existed in the first place. Almost like he himself never existed. He stays there for what feels like forever, and he loses complete track of time.

He’s still drifting aimlessly in the Void three hours later when something clenches him hard, tugging him out of the darkness and up through the levels of his mind, faster, faster, faster until he’s forced roughly back into consciousness, into awareness, and when he opens his eyes Bob is looking down at him.

“Motherfucker,” Bob swears loudly. “I almost couldn’t reach you. How do you do that? Go so far in?” There’s a lot of frustration and the tiniest hint of awe in his tone.

Gerard frowns. “I’ve always been able to do it,” he answers with a shrug. It’s a lie, but he has been able to do it for a long, long time, and he doesn’t feel like getting into details about how he found out the Void existed, or how to get there.

Shaking his head impatiently, Bob lets go of the hold he had on Gerard’s arm. “Not that deep. I’ve been to my subconscious, maybe, but not that. That place that you were in. I wouldn’t have been able to reach you if I hadn’t been touching you, or if you had really wanted to stay there.”

Gerard avoids Bob’s eyes and doesn’t tell Bob what the Void is. In reality, he’s surprised that Bob could find him. He didn’t think it was possible to venture that deep into someone else’s mind - it was risky enough for him to find it in himself. If Bob knew what it meant, what it was originally for, he’d probably make someone guard him to ensure Gerard never went there again. He knows it’s dangerous, but he’s been doing it for a long time, and it’s the only place that he can really let go. Gerard knows his own mind, backwards and inside out, and he knows he can keep control. He doesn’t think they’ll believe him, though.

“Anyway, that’s not important now. Ryan and Spencer - they brought someone home.” He says this warily, like he hasn’t decided just yet whether their new visitor is trustworthy or not, and Gerard stands up off his bed in an instant.

“Who?”

**

Spencer hates shopping, and he especially hates doing it with Ryan. Having grown up in an orphanage, Ryan in a supermarket is like a kid in fucking Disneyland. As soon as they’re in the door he grabs Spencer’s hand and drags him around in a rush of excitement, picking up anything that catches his fancy and throwing it in their shopping cart. Spencer doesn’t bother to argue, and hey, they’re shopping with Pete’s money and he obviously doesn’t care what they buy (“Just get whatever, go crazy, I don’t give a fuck,” he’d said as he pushed them out the door), so where’s the harm?

Only when the cart is completely full does Ryan agree to hit the checkouts, and Spencer breathes a sigh of relief. Ryan smiles at the girl scanning their items, but she doesn’t seem to notice, and Ryan doesn’t care either way. Finally, they get through the checkout and Spencer is again given the task of pushing the cart around.

Ryan wanders out of the supermarket and his eyes are immediately drawn to a small bakery stall to his left. The smell of fresh baked bread is intoxicating, and he drags Spencer closer. They’ve still got some of Pete’s money left burning a hole in their back pockets and it’s not like he’ll care if they grab something to eat. They’ve probably missed lunch by now, anyway.

It’s then that he spots the guy, and at the same second Spencer goes rigid, and it’s so much like the day they met Frank that it puts Ryan’s teeth on edge. He looks jittery, glancing from a loaf of bread to where the stall-keeper is happily chatting with another customer, his back turned, and Ryan knows what’s going to happen before it does. Almost unnaturally fast, the guy grabs the loaf of bread and runs, and it shouldn’t be possible, Ryan knows it’s not possible, but somehow, he’s around the corner and out of sight before the baker even turns around.

Spencer and Ryan exchange a glance. Ryan asks silently with his eyes, and Spencer nods, and in a second they’re running, tearing after the guy like their lives depend on it. It shouldn’t take them long to catch up with him at the speed they’re moving, even despite the shopping bags weighing them down, but there’s no sign of him anywhere, and it doesn’t make any sense.

“How did he disappear like that?” Ryan groans out loud when they finally come to a stop, hunched over and trying to catch their breath.

Spencer shakes his head, speaking between gulps of air. “No. Not disappear. Speed.”

Ryan’s eyes widen in understanding. “He ran like that? That’s his power?”

“I can’t read powers, Ryan, just feel them. But I’d say so, yeah.”

After they manage to get their lungs in working order again, Ryan tugs on Spencer’s sleeve and they head back to Pete’s house. There’s no point in trying to run after the kid - he’s probably long gone, if Spencer’s right about his power. Ryan’s not a very fast runner to begin with, let alone against someone with fucking super-speed. The whole idea is kind of cool, he admits. All of them, even Frank with his pyro-antics, all of their powers are based in the mind. Ryan had assumed their own brains had evolved or something, leaving them with the kind of abilities that the rest of the world hadn’t quite caught up to. Probably, this is the case with the speed guy as well, something about nerves and brainwaves, but it’s all too complicated for Ryan to deal with. What it comes down to is, awesome, this guy has an actual super power.

To be fair, Frank could probably be counted in that category as well. Ryan’s seen enough superhero movies and read enough books to agree that fire counts, yeah. He can’t see himself or Spencer in there, though. He smiles wryly, wonders what it would be like to use his powers for something worthwhile, rather than holding up at Pete’s house and trying not to be discovered.

They’re almost home when Ryan spots him a second time. He’s hunched over under a tree, tearing apart bits of bread and shoving them into his mouth. Ryan notices he puts half of it aside delicately while he munches on the rest.

“There,” Ryan whispers, nudging Spencer’s side. As it turns out, the action is unnecessary - Spencer is already staring at him intently, and Ryan assumes that he felt his presence. “What if he runs again?” Ryan asks, but Spencer isn’t listening. He’s already started towards the guy, careful, slow steps, as if he’s trying not to startle a small animal.

“Hi,” he says, once he’s reached the tree. “I’m Spencer. We saw you just before.”

This, apparently, is the wrong thing to say. “You don’t understand!” the guy shouts, and there’s a look of terror in his eyes that has Ryan pitying him. “It’s not like I can get a job anywhere and I have to eat somehow and I-“

Spencer cuts him off gently, and Ryan can feel his powers at work, gently soothing. “It’s okay. We’re not here about that. What’s your name?”

The guy doesn’t answer, just continues to look at Spencer warily, and Ryan knows that at the first sign of trouble, he’ll run and they’ll probably never catch him.

“We’re not going to turn you in, I promise,” Spencer tries desperately, and Ryan steps forward.

“Hey,” he says, and lifts the half-loaf of bread into the air with his mind.

Spencer groans aloud, and Ryan immediately lets it fall. It’s the first time he’s used his powers in public since he couldn’t control them, and he knows there’s the risk of losing his cover, all just to try and get this guy to trust them. Ryan can’t help it; he has this feeling that they need him. He kind of wishes they had Mikey with them.

“Did you just-“ the guy starts, blinking rapidly, and Ryan lays a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“There are more of us. People like you. Don’t run.”

Ryan wonders if he and Spencer are going to be appointed the official recruiting agency or something else ridiculous. He’s got the most acute sense of déjà vu he’s ever had in his life, and he keeps seeing Frank all over this guy’s face. Frank’s fear, Frank’s unease, Frank’s wonder, the barest hint of excitement. Ryan has grown up with Spencer, always having someone else, knowing that he wasn’t the only one. People like the guy in front of them, people like Frank, they didn’t have anyone. He probably thinks he’s alone, and Ryan is suddenly desperate to show him otherwise.

He seems to consider for a moment, and his eyes are fixed on Ryan’s the whole time. “I’m Brendon,” he says finally.

Part Two

Bandom Big Bang - Bonus Content!

lightisbreaking — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 03:53:09 GMT

Somehow, I was lucky enough to receive both a fanmix and art for my Bandom Big Bang fic, All We Are.

The amazing queen_of_goat has made me this incredible fanmix, which I cannot stop listening to. It's perfect, thank you so much <3

TRACKLISTING:

1. Silversun Pickups - Future Foe Scenarios
When present tense gets strangled in the woes / Made of our future foe scenarios

2. MGMT - Destrokk
It's just the way the bones fall down. / We be the ritalin calm you down.

3. The Magnetic Fields - Young and Insane
We're deprived and depraved / And we won't get away with it

4. The Gossip - Fire with Fire
All you gotta do is stand up and fight fire with fire

5. Flogging Molly - Lightning Storm
There's no resolution without remorse / With ignorance bliss defend / 'Let's stay the course'

6. Thanks to Gravity - Someone Said Your Name
Someone said your name / And i would never be the same again

7. The Monkees - Pleasant Valley Sunday
Creature comfort goals / They only numb my soul / and make it hard for me to see

8. Richard Shindell - Darkness, Darkness
Cover me with this endless night / Take away, oh, this pain of knowing

9. Tegan & Sara - Nineteen
I felt you in my legs before I ever met you

10. Pintandwefall - Hero Sounds
Just you and I (and my roommate) / We didn't need no Barry White

11. The Ditty Bops - In the Meantime
Is there something I'm supposed to be doing / If there is I just don't know

12. Pintandwefall - Beef Rice
This is terror, don't do error / Or I'll flip it, whip it, quit it

13. Carbon Leaf - Desperation Song
I've waited by the phone. Cold as river stone / Anxiety. Alone...

14. Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - Straight to You
This is the time of our great undoing / This is the time that I'll come running

15. My Chemical Romance - Desolation Row
And the riot squad they're restless / They need somewhere to go

16. Ben Gibbard - You Remind Me of Home
But the foundation is crumbling / And becoming one with the ground / While you lay there in slumber

Download!

Thank you again, it's seriously the best. <3

Aaaand the absolutely wonderful klena has drawn me this amazing piece of artwork for my BBB fic, and you guys. I am totally in awe.

He’s startled out of his day dreaming when Pete starts shouting and brandishing around a piece of paper. “Alright fuckers, listen up! Now I know you all have like, fucking superpowers or whatever, but you’re still people, which means I’m still making you help out. Chores list!” He declares this proudly, beaming from ear to ear, oblivious to the groans resonating around the room.

Ryan and Spencer choose that moment to come down from upstairs, and Pete launches himself at them. “You two are on shopping duty today.”

Bob lets out a joyous whoop. It’s usually he who does the shopping, not that anyone really knows why. It’s just sort of always been Bob’s thing, though he seems glad to have it taken away from him.

“Don’t get too excited, Bryar, you and Gerard are washing up.”

Bob’s face falls. “Fuck you, Wentz.”

click for larger

THE NOTES. THE NOTES ON THE WALL YOU GUYS. MY FAVOURITE EVER. 'PICK UP YOUR SOCKS', 'MIKEY STOP CHEATING @ CHESS' AHAHA OH GOD.

Basically, this is the most amazing thing I have seen and I am so, so thrilled, and haven't been able to stop staring at it EVER. Frank! His tattoos! And Ryan and Spencer all <3 <3 in the background. And Gerard! And PETE! WITH HIS LIST! "House Chores Motherfuckers"! COULD IT GET ANY BETTER, I THINK NOT. I think my second-favourite part is Mikey, his profile is just so amazingly done and the chess set just off screen! I am in love.

Thank you so much klena, I still can't believe what I'm seeing <3 <3 <3

Fic: The Coffee Shop AU - part 6

lightisbreaking — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 14:23:58 GMT

Part Six - Last one!

Patrick still kind of can’t believe what he’s done. He’s not usually one to leave things to chance, and even in a fit of desperation, once, he would have liked to think this would never even occur to him. He knows that by now the others will have realised that he’s not around, and maybe they’ll even have cottoned on. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He’s done what he can, what he had to do, because if there was ever any chance of saving the shop, Patrick had to at least try.

He holds his breath, cashes in his chips, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pete running towards him.

“Patrick you idiot!” he cries, and his words are muffled into the material of Patrick’s shirt as he clings to him. “You could have said something, I was worried!”

Patrick carefully untangles himself from Pete’s arms and sees the rest of them - including Gerard, he’s a little surprised to note - standing behind Pete and looking anxious.

There’s a momentary silence, and then Frank steps forward, eyes wide and sad. “Patrick, you know that we were trying. You didn’t have to throw everything away.”

Patrick shrugs, feeling his cheeks redden. He smiles shyly, holding up his hand and showing them. “But you guys... I won.”

***

It turns out to be not quite enough, but then Gerard holds out a cheque with a sweet twist of the lips and tells them that he sold more pieces than he was expecting, and Ryan tops off the very last of it without a word to anyone except to tell Patrick not to argue. Frank beams, flings his arms around Gerard’s neck and kisses him, and Gabe announces that everyone is to be at The Basement in an hour to celebrate.

Brendon’s on his way there when he gets a phone call.

“What’s going on, Brendon?” Ryland asks, and it’s not a casual question of how he’s going.

“I just need a little more time, Ryland. Just an ending, that’s all.”

Ryland sighs, long and hard, and Brendon waits him out. “Fine. But Brendon, you need to get a move on.”

“I know,” Brendon says, and hangs up. He does know. And he’s close, so close, all he needs is an ending, some way to close up the story that works.

When he gets to The Basement, Gabe is there to cheer him up immediately, ushering him inside and pushing a beer into his hands, all wide smiles and bright eyes. The atmosphere inside is like it’s never been. The Basement has always been a good place to unwind, relax, let everything go for a night, but tonight, there’s a sense of triumph, of ecstasy, and Brendon forgets all about Ryland.

“Brendon!” Frank greets him happily, and Brendon wanders over to where Frank and Gerard are sitting on one of couches in the corner - Gabe calls it the Makeout Couch and right now, he doesn’t appear to be wrong. Gerard still looks a little out of place, but he holds tight to Frank’s hand like he’ll be okay so long as Frank’s there.

“How goes my favourite lovebirds?” Brendon sighs, settling down onto the couch beside them and allowing an already drunk Frank to kiss his cheek happily.

“Wonderful,” Frank announces, beaming brightly at Gerard. “Gerard’s perfect, Brendon.”

Gerard blushes, clearly not as far gone as Frank, but Frank doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he attaches his lips to Gerard’s, and Brendon laughs, spotting Ryan and Spencer and deciding that they’re probably going to be more entertaining than Frank and Gerard right now.

Gabe and William are in the middle of the dancefloor, and tonight, Gabe appears to have claimed Bill as his own. “How long, do you think?” Brendon asks Spencer.

Spencer just rolls his eyes and laughs. “I don’t know, but when they do? I am not putting up with it at my place. They can go to Gabe’s.”

“You could always move back in with me,” Ryan suggests, and once, they would have thought he meant it. Now, he’s smiling, laughing, and Jon and Greta are just a few meters away, the ones who have gladly taken up Spencer’s role in holding Ryan up. Though Ryan is looking less and less like he needs it these days.

“And trade one pair of lovebirds for another? Not likely,” Spencer snorts.

It doesn’t take long for everyone to get outrageously drunk. Everything flies by in a whirl of colour and laughter, and Brendon feels at ease like he hasn’t in a while, forgets all about the book he’s supposed to be writing and the ending that’s evading him, and lets himself go.

At around midnight, Gabe starts singing loudly, an on-the-spot tribute to Patrick’s coffee shop, and Patrick laughs and calls him an idiot, even though they all know he’s probably memorised the words. Eventually, Frank and Gerard tear their lips apart and join the rest of them, and Frank introduces Gerard to everyone in an exceedingly drunken manner. Brendon sees Gabe and Bill hooking up on the floor, and he says nothing. It’s probably wiser not to. There’s no telling whether tomorrow they’ll agree they’ve been pining after one another, or whether they’ll pass it off as another fling. It’s safer just to wait and see what happens.

Despite his best intentions, he finds himself watching them a little longer, taking notes in his head and wondering how he’s going to end their story. Maybe he could end it here, with Gabe and William kissing on a dancefloor, totally in bliss. It would be nice, he thinks. As he watches, they separate, and even from across the room Brendon can see the sparkle in Gabe’s eyes - he’s always been his most adoring of William when he’s drunk. Sober, it’s a difficult feat to get Gabe to admit that his feelings breach beyond friendship and drunk hook-ups, but under the influence, it’s all there in his eyes. Sometimes, Brendon thinks it’s a wonder William doesn’t see it.

Happily, stumbling, the two make their way over to the bar. William trips and falls, and when Gabe catches him, he slurs out a thank you that gets lost in the noise around them. Gabe orders more drinks from Matt, and while he eyes them both carefully - Matt’s always careful about how much he gives Gabe to drink, because they all know how that goes - he hands them over anyway, because they’re celebrating and who cares if tomorrow they’re going to being feeling like death and wishing that alcohol didn’t exist. Bill downs his in seconds, and then sways dangerously. Brendon can’t help but laugh, and he heads over to talk to them, now that they haven’t got tongues down each other’s throats.

“Brendon!” William garbles when he reaches them, “I think you should shout me another drink!”

Technically, they’re not paying tonight, but whatever. William’s fingers are clutched in Gabe’s shirt like he can’t stay upright without Gabe holding him, which, to be fair, he probably can’t. Brendon’s never seen William this messy, but he doesn’t think anything of it. It’s a party, they’re celebrating, he can get as shitfaced as he likes.

He leaves as William leans over to start arguing with Matt about another drink, and immediately finds himself in Patrick’s embrace. “I just want to say thank you for all the support,” he says earnestly, and Brendon shrugs.

“It’s nothing you wouldn’t have done for us,” Brendon tells him honestly, and Patrick nods fervently, eyes wide and quite a bit intoxicated, and Brendon laughs and hugs him again, just because he can.

Another few hours pass, and things begin to settle down. Gerard and Frank disappear back to their corner, and Patrick follows to talk to Gerard about his exhibit, which leaves Frank looking progressively more frustrated that he can’t get Gerard alone. Tom, Greta and Jon are laughing at the bar, Greta resting her head on Jon’s shoulder and looking positively content. Still on the dancefloor, Travis and Pete are slow-dancing ridiculously, showing off low dips and elaborate turns while Pete bats his eyelashes. Brendon’s eyes search out Gabe and William again, and this time, he finds them laughing near the bathrooms, William lying on the ground with his fingers curled around Gabe’s wrists.

It’s the sound of William’s laughter turning into retching that’s the first sign. He sees William stumbling into the bathroom and heaving his guts up, and when he returns, Travis gleefully tells him that he’s probably had too much to drink, but then hands him another beer anyway. William wipes at his mouth, grins sloppily and accepts it. He finds his way back to Gabe, and Travis continues dancing with Pete, and slowly, everyone gets their second wind and is up again, the noise beginning anew.

It’s nearing 4am when Brendon starts to wonder whether he should head home, and he goes to tell Gabe so. Instead, he finds Gabe huddled in the corner, and when Brendon gets closer, he sees that he’s got William’s head in his lap. Bill is pale and shaking a little, and when his eyes flicker open, he doesn’t even seem to register Brendon’s presence.

“Gabe? Is he okay?” Brendon asks stupidly, even though it’s obvious that William’s not okay, and jesus, how much did he have to drink?

“He’ll be fine. Fucker’ll have a killer hangover tomorrow, though,” he laughs, and Brendon is about to say his goodbyes when William starts shuddering, breath coming ragged and irregular.

“He’s not going to be fine, shit!” Brendon falls to his knees beside them, rolling William over onto his side and feeling the edges of panic beginning to take hold. He looks at Gabe with wide eyes, sees Gabe staring back at him with fear. “Call a fucking ambulance,” he says, and Gabe moves quicker than Brendon’s ever seen.

It takes only moments before everyone catches on to what’s happening, and the party is over so suddenly it’s like it never even began. The club is closed down and Patrick takes charge, sitting with William and waiting for the paramedics, while Gabe herds all the guests out the door.

When the paramedics arrive, William’s breathing is already too shallow, and Brendon can’t remember how long it’s been since he closed his eyes. They’ve been trying so hard to keep him awake, but William is beyond reasoning, eyes rolling back and eyelids falling shut despite their attempts. Gabe paces back and forth, wringing his hands and looking like he’s going to punch someone.

The paramedics are hunched over him, fingers checking for a pulse and pushing Patrick away, and then they exchange a glance that makes Brendon’s heart drop to his knees.

“He’s going to be okay, right?” he can’t help but ask, and they don’t answer him. Instead, they lift him on to a stretcher, and as they’re moving towards the ambulance, one of them shakes his head. Brendon’s heart is pounding and he doesn’t even want to think, but then Gabe is charging forward, hands clenched into fists. His fist connects with the guy’s nose before anyone can pull him back, and then Gabe is shouting, William’s name over and over.

“We need to get him to hospital right now. Who’s in the ambulance with him?” the paramedic asks Brendon as Pete and Travis struggle to get Gabe under control and pull him away, and Brendon just stares at him, drawing a blank. Gabe is obviously in no state, and so Brendon calls over Patrick, who’s the most sober and probably the calmest.

Patrick clambers into the back of the ambulance, and then the doors shut, and Brendon doesn’t want to look anymore. It’s Frank who takes control then, calming everyone down and closing the club on Gabe’s behalf, and Brendon rejoins the others as they call cabs and get ready to leave.

***

Three hours later, and they’re still sitting in the waiting room. William had been wheeled in to have his stomach pumped immediately, and Patrick had come back with a white face and trembling hands. “Is it bad?” Gabe had asked, and Patrick hadn’t answered.

Now, Gabe is sitting hunched in the waiting room chair, Travis by his side. They wait for what seems like forever, cup after Styrofoam cup of crappy hospital coffee and anxious glances towards the ER. Finally, when the doctor comes out, Gabe’s head shoots up hopefully and he turns huge eyes on the only person who can give him what he wants.

“William Beckett?” the doctor asks the room at large, even though they’re pretty much the only ones in there. Gabe nods firmly, and the doctor sighs heavily and blinks. “I’m really sorry. We’ve done everything we can.” As soon as the dreaded words leave his lips, Gabe is shaking his head, stepping forward.

“No, you’re wrong. There’s got to be something you can do, anything. He didn’t have that much to drink, I promise! I was with him. You have to let me see him.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the doctor says, placing a hand on Gabe’s shoulder. Gabe shrinks away from the touch, collapses back into the chair and allows Travis’ arms to circle his shoulders.

“I never even told him,” Gabe is muttering, head in his hands, and his shoulders shake despite the way Travis holds him, trying to calm him. “I never told him,” Gabe says again.

Brendon stares at the floor, and with sudden clarity, remembers his conversation with Ryland. When he looks up, Gabe is staring at him with tear-streaked cheeks, and Brendon realises with a clenched heart that he’s found his ending.

End.

Fic: The Coffee Shop AU - part 5

lightisbreaking — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 14:22:46 GMT

Part Five

Patrick is surprised at how easy it is to fall asleep on one of the lounges in the café. He has a pillow and blanket, but he had been expecting that awkward feeling that you get when you’re sleeping somewhere other than your own bed. Instead, he finds himself drifting to sleep fairly quickly, and he supposes that it has something to do with the fact that he’s in his shop, his favourite place in the world, and nothing is quite as familiar as here. Even his own apartment - his old apartment, now, he supposes - isn’t the same.

Selling his car and being evicted from his home seem like the kind of things that should happen slowly, over time. Not in the short span of less than a week, leaving him falling asleep at work with all his belongings stashed in the back room. He’s not stupid - he knows that obviously, Pete and Frank are going to find it the next morning. If he’s being honest with himself, Patrick probably knows that Frank saw him turn back around and re-enter the shop, but he likes to keep some of his dignity intact, so he’ll go on pretending like Frank is oblivious. Tomorrow morning, he’ll wake up, stow his bed things away as best he can and pretend like he just got here early to get a headstart on things. And he’ll ignore that look in Frank’s eyes all over again, because it’s the only way he knows how to cope.

Sometimes, Patrick wishes that his friends weren’t so fucking caring, simply because it leaves him with this ache in his chest that he doesn’t know how to relieve. It’s nothing horribly bad, exactly; just that feeling of inadequacy, of knowing he has the best friends in the world, friends who would go to the end of the earth for him, and yet he can’t seem to give anything back. He thinks of Ryan, and the way that he’d be willing to give Patrick everything he has just to fix the problem, and he feels his heart twinge with regret. Patrick prefers to be the one taking care of people. He doesn’t like to be the centre of attention and he doesn’t like people looking after him. He feels awkward being the focus of someone’s time and affection, and he finds it much easier if he’s allowed to dote on all of them like they deserve, and take nothing back. Unfortunately for him, Ryan is of much the same mindset, and this is where they tend to clash. Both will do their best to look out for the other, to care for them when they hit a snag, and in turn, the other will resent it if only because they hate playing the victim. It’s a sort of stalemate that Patrick doesn’t know how to correct, but if Ryan’s willing to keep playing this game, pretending that he isn’t getting money sent over at this very second, then Patrick will roll with it.

The sound of keys rattling wakes Patrick up the next morning, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Frank closing the door behind him, obviously trying to be as quiet as possible. Patrick immediately feels a stab of shame and terror that Frank is getting here early, that he now knows for sure that Patrick stayed here the night, but Frank just smiles when he sees that he’s awake.

“I bought us muffins from that bakery around the corner,” Frank says. “You know the guy who owns it, Ray Toro? Real awesome guy. Anyway, he says that fresh baked chocolate chip muffins - the hot kind where the chips fucking melt on your tongue - he says they’re awesome for cheering someone up in the morning.”

Frank holds out a small paper bag as proof, and Patrick can smell the muffins even from across the shop. He lets himself be persuaded, and tries to forget that Frank found him in this predicament. It’s obvious from the way he’s acting that Frank knew anyway. Instead of saying anything about it, he hands Patrick a muffin and bites into one himself, closing his eyes and relishing the taste.

“Mmm. Toro fucking knows what he’s talking about, man,” he says through a mouthful, and Patrick smiles indulgently and takes his own bite. And he has to be honest: it’s fucking good.

Patrick forces himself off the lounge with a yawn, setting his muffin down on the counter for a second while he stashes his things out the back. When he returns to the front of the shop, it’s a mark of how much Frank is worried about him that his muffin is still sitting there waiting for him, rather than halfway through Frank’s digestive system.

“So there’s this guy that lives in my building. His name’s Gerard,” Frank starts, polishing off his muffin and making himself his morning coffee, while at the same time filling up the cabinets with the sponge cake and lemon tarts he made the night before. They don’t usually stock much food - Ray’s bakery is just around the corner and Spencer usually drops in there before he comes to the coffee shop, laden down with treats for everybody, and it’s not like any other customers ever really stay that long.

In turn, Patrick goes about his own business, murmuring for Frank to go on. Frank likes to talk while he works, and Patrick is more than happy to listen. If anything, Frank’s stories usually turn out to be good for a laugh.

“He’s this whacked out artist type, but he’s awesome, like, he just starts talking to me as I’m walking up to my apartment. Knows my name and says hi to me every time I see him and everything. And last night, we just stood there and had this full on conversation. And he’s standing on the fucking balcony, a total mess and drawing at like, 9pm.” He pauses, and there’s this fond smile on his face that makes Patrick wonder what they talked about. Not that it’s really relevant. Frank has this awful tendency of not knowing how to really speak about his feelings ever, so even if he was already in love with the guy, he probably would have started up a conversation about the weather. “You just don’t meet people like that anymore, you know? He’s just so open and friendly and it was really cool,” he finishes, and Patrick smiles at him.

“Sounds like a great guy. Bought him flowers yet?” Patrick teases, and Frank goes a tiny bit red.

“No, I just think he’s a good guy,” Frank protests. “I barely even know him.”

“Whatever you say, Frank,” Patrick says agreeably, pulling over a stool from the corner and standing on it so that he can reach the blackboard on the wall. He’s not the best artist in the world, but he’s been drawing up the specials board every morning for eight years, so he has a knack for it. Sometimes, he wonders why he bothers doing the shop up like he’s going to have real customers one day, but it’s the thought that counts, and he likes the feel of it. The routine of the morning gives him something to do, and it doesn’t matter that by the end of the day, someone (read: Gabe) will have drawn nonsense all over it.

They work in silence for a while after that, and Patrick adds the finishing touches onto his blackboard masterpiece and wonders how the hell he’s going to keep his shop.

***

“We need a fucking lemonade store, man,” Gabe says firmly. “It’s classic. And they do it in all the movies when they need cash.”

He looks so adamant that Spencer almost feels bad laughing. Almost. “Gabe. We’re looking at a couple hundred thousand, here. I don’t think a lemonade stand is going to cut it.”

“A giant lemonade stand,” Gabe amends, and Spencer just rolls his eyes.

“Car wash?” Travis suggests, and this meets much the same reaction.

“Besides,” Pete adds, “the car wash would only work if we were all hot chicks in bikinis.”

Greta looks a little indignant at this, and Pete rushes to assure her that while she may be a hot chick, they can’t all be as great as her. She closes her mouth with a smile, and everyone laughs at Pete’s utter inability to hurt anyone’s feelings.

“So now that that’s out of the way, I have a real idea.” Frank’s eyes shine with something that says his idea may actually be worth listening to, so they all shut up and let him have the floor. “I know this guy who’s got an art exhibit next week. He’s really good, and he promises that whatever he makes, he’s willing to donate to the cause.”

There’s a stunned silence, and Ryan opens his mouth incredulously. “You mean some random guy who none of us know is willing to just hand over all his takings? He’s an artist, it’s not like he’d be rolling in it. I mean, is he sure about this?”

Frank kindly neglects to remind Ryan that they all know he’s willing to fork over his entire account balance to Patrick’s cause, let alone the takings from one art show. Ryan doesn’t really see his own money as something that’s difficult to part from, so even if Frank did bring it up, he wouldn’t understand anyway.

“He’s kind of awesome like that.” Frank shrugs, and makes a note to talk to Gerard about meeting everyone so that maybe they don’t feel so weird asking help from a total stranger.

“Maybe I could talk to him about putting in some of my photography?” Tom suggests quietly, and Frank beams at him.

“Hey, that’s a great idea! Both of you together would be fantastic, you’d make a killing!”

Tom shuffles his feet and grins self-consciously, and there’s a murmur of chatter while everyone takes it all in.

“This could actually work,” Spencer says with a grin, and it’s by unspoken agreement that no one mentions the fact that they all know this won’t make up all of the money. It’s all unsaid that they all know Ryan is bound to want to fill in whatever’s remaining. And so far, it’s the best idea they’ve got, so they take it and run with it. It’s bound to get them further than car washing and lemonade stands, at least.

“You think Patrick will actually take the money?” Brendon asks, and there’s a hint of worry to his voice that suggests another fear they hadn’t wanted to think about. The idea that maybe Patrick will tell them to fuck off in the end despite everything, because he’s never been good at accepting charity, even from them.

“If he doesn’t, I’ll sing nursery rhymes until he does,” Pete says, dead-pan, and he manages to do what Pete can always do, and lightens the mood.

“And in the meantime, no more freebies.” William says this firmly, as if it wasn’t already agreed on, but they all nod anyway.

“We can get him through this, I know we can,” Frank says with such heartfelt determination that Gabe punches his arm and calls him a sap. All in all, it ends up a more successful meeting than they’d been counting on, and they leave Spencer and William’s place feeling like they’ve actually accomplished something.

Ryan and Pete end up staying a little while longer after the others have left. Ryan just really wants to see Spencer and catch up - it’s been a week already and he’s barely seen his best friend since he moved out. “How’s Jon?” Spencer asks, handing Pete and Ryan a mug of coffee each and sitting back down on the couch opposite Ryan.

“He’s great, actually,” Ryan answers, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s not as good as Patrick’s, but it’s much better than the instant shit he’s been living off at home. He kind of misses having Spence make him good coffee. “He’s falling in love with Greta.” It doesn’t matter that they’ve only known each other a month or so - there’s no mistaking the looks they give each other. And even if it’s only the kind of ridiculous infatuation most couples get in the beginning of a relationship, Ryan has a feeling that Jon and Greta are built to last. Just the day before, he’d brought home a painting one of the kids did for him, and when he stuck it on his wall, Greta’s eyes went wide and she grinned forever, and then they spent the rest of the afternoon with the door locked, and Ryan doesn’t really want to think about that.

“I told you,” Spencer says, and Ryan is reminded that it was Spencer’s idea to have Jon move in. “And everyone falls in love with Greta when they meet her. To be honest, I always thought you were a bit in love with her,” he says with a wry smile over the rim of his mug, and Ryan laughs.

“She’s like a sister, Spencer, that’s just weird. Besides, if I did, you know I would have told you first.”

And it’s moments like these that Ryan misses Spencer, because even if it hasn’t been that long, it already feels like Spencer doesn’t belong to him anymore. Now, Spencer lives with William, being all independent without Ryan for the first time, really, since they were nineteen. Ryan appreciates it, in a way; it’s brought him to Jon, who’s amazing, and allowed him to open his eyes a bit more and learn what it’s like to take care of himself.

“You know you can still talk to me whenever you want, Ry. You’re welcome here at any time,” Spencer says carefully, quietly, and it’s like Pete isn’t even in the room anymore. There’s this added tone to Spencer’s voice that says he knows exactly what Ryan’s thinking and feeling. Ryan smiles, and feels better in an instant at the knowledge that Spencer is still his best friend, and can still read him like an open book without even trying.

“I know,” he says finally, and when he finishes his coffee and tells Spencer he better go, he feels a lot lighter.

Pete rolls his eyes as soon as they leave, and makes gagging noises until Ryan hits him. “He really is your boyfriend, isn’t he, Ross?”

Ryan doesn’t even bother replying.

***

As Frank’s climbing the stairs to his apartment after coming home from Spencer and William’s, he spots Gerard out on his balcony again. Before he knows it, a smile is creeping over his lips and he takes the last couple of steps to his floor at a skip and a jump.

“Hi!” Gerard greets him brightly as soon as he sees him, and Frank waves back, not able to stop from laughing at the sight of the man in front of him. Gerard’s clothes are almost entirely covered in paint, so much that Frank can hardly tell the original colour of the material. There’s streaks of yellow and red on his cheeks and next to his left eye, and a strip of green across the side of his neck. His hair is in disarray, and yet he’s grinning at Frank the very sun lives behind his eyes.

“How are you, Frank?” he asks, and Frank notices that he likes to attach Frank’s name onto each sentence, as though he likes the way it feels on his tongue.

“Given up on charcoal, have we?” Frank returns, and Gerard laughs, this breathy little chuckle that warms Frank’s heart.

“I felt like painting today. It’s a good day to paint.”

Frank can’t really tell that today is any different from any other day, let alone a day particularly for painting, but he doesn’t say this. Instead, he just smiles like it makes all the sense in the world. “This for your exhibit?”

Gerard glances back at the painting he’d been working on, and then at Frank. “Maybe. I don’t know yet, exactly.” He smiles his crooked little smile as he says it, like he’s not going to know what to put in the exhibit until the very last minute and the thought thrills him. Gerard’s an odd sort of guy, but Frank can’t help but warm to him immediately.

Taking up the chair on the balcony, Frank brings his knees up to his chin and looks up at Gerard, who’s staring at him a little stunned. “Is it okay if I watch?” he asks, and Gerard smiles his most brilliant smile yet, and nods.

***

When Gabe calls to tell Pete that he’s been arrested, it really shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s Gabe - they’ve long since stopped questioning anything he does, because usually, it’s safer just not to ask.

“Come bail me out,” Gabe says, and Pete laughs, automatically switching his destination. Apparently he’s going to be late for work today.

“Why are you in prison?”

“It’s not just me. Bill’s in here, too!” Gabe says, as though this makes it all better.

“Okay, why are both of you in prison?”

“Nude run,” Gabe says simply. “You know, people sponsor me, I run naked down the street, they pay me, Patrick gets money. Only apparently there’s some law against public indecency or what the fuck ever.”

Pete just laughs again, knows better than to tell Gabe that a nude run is hardly going to save Patrick’s shop. “And Bill?”

“He was filming it.”

Pete hangs up, calls Patrick and Frank to tell them what happened and that he’ll be in late, and pulls up outside the precinct. His friends are more trouble than they’re worth.

The bail isn’t high, and the guards let Gabe and William out with something between amusement and disgust. Pete just shakes his head and figures that this isn’t the best place to congratulate them on their daring. Instead, he leads them to the car and drives back to the shop, listening to Gabe bitch about the law the entire way.

Upon entering the shop, there’s a loud round of applause, and Pete follows Gabe and Bill inside to find Frank, Travis, Spencer and Jon giving them a standing ovation. Patrick, on the other hand, has his head on the desk.

“You are ridiculous,” Brendon says, grinning from ear to ear, and then he grabs a pen out of his pocket and starts scribbling notes all over the piece of paper in front of him.

Trying and failing to be inconspicuous, Travis leans over Brendon’s shoulder, but Brendon’s arm is covering the paper in an instant. “Brendon, lemme see!” Travis protests, poking Brendon in the shoulder. “What’s so top secret? Are you a government spy? The mafia? Were you sent here from some outer planet to make notes on human existence, what?”

Brendon blinks, looks up, and raises his eyebrow. “Who even thinks of that?”

“So the question that remains,” Spencer starts, cutting off Travis’ protesting, “Are you still in possession of the tape?”

With an air of extravagance, William withdraws the tape from his pocket and there’s a clamour of laughter and movement as Frank turns on the old TV they’ve long since given up on using. There’s usually no point in TV when they have a shop full of live entertainment.

“Why are there so many close ups of Gabe’s dick?” Ryan asks dryly.

Gabe laughs uproariously, and William shrugs. “It’s a nice dick.”

Patrick groans again.

***

“I’m fine, Pete,” Patrick insists, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he scrubs down the shop counter.

“No, you’re not,” Pete answers firmly, and Patrick doesn’t have to be able to see him to know that Pete is frowning, twisting the phone cord around in his fingers in agitation.

“You all worry too much,” Patrick tries, but Pete just laughs.

“You’re staying at my place tonight and I don’t even care what you say.”

Patrick groans, pushes his glasses up his nose with his free hand and stows the rag under the counter. “I’m an adult, Pete.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then the shop door opens and Pete hangs up his phone. “That doesn’t mean you don’t need help sometimes,” he says, and closes the door behind him.

Patrick simultaneously has the best and worst friends in the world. “Maybe I’ll just fuck off to Vegas and drink and gamble my life away,” he jokes, and Pete stares at him with an intensity that wipes the smile right off Patrick’s face. “I was kidding,” he says, and Pete still doesn’t look convinced, but he drops it.

They go about their work in silence, and when Frank arrives, they both greet him happily like there’s no tension whatsoever.

“You guys coming to Gerard’s exhibit tomorrow?” Frank asks, and there’s this stupid fucking smile on his face that makes Patrick’s heart warm a little.

“Sure thing.” If anything, they’ll get to meet this Gerard guy that Frank’s so suddenly infatuated with.

As it is, they don’t even have to wait that long. As midday approaches, the bell over the door rings and Patrick glances up, expecting to see Gabe, or Brendon, and instead is presented with a stranger. It’s been a while since he had an unknown customer, and Patrick slips over to the register automatically.

When the guy approaches the counter, he pushes his sunglasses up to sit atop his head, and his mouth crooks in an awkward little smile. “Hey, I uh. I’m Gerard?” he says a little helplessly. Patrick notes the streak of paint on his jacket, the wild hair, and his eyes widen in acknowledgement.

“Oh!” he exclaims. “Are you... You’re looking for Frank?”

At the sound of his name, Frank appears from out the back, and when he spots Gerard, the same smile lights up his whole face. “Gerard!” His tone is surprised, delighted, and Gerard smiles back, scratching the back of his neck nervously. Patrick gets the impression Gerard doesn’t go out in public much.

“Hi. I just. Well, I came to ask if you were going to uh, be there, tomorrow?” He’s still smiling hopefully at Frank, his eyes cautious like he’s preparing himself to be told no, but willing to take the risk all the same.

“Of course! I wouldn’t miss it. And um, these guys might come too, if that’s okay?” Frank gestures at Patrick and Pete vaguely. Gerard just nods, shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps on smiling, and the awkward air settles over the shop like thick fog.

“It’s time for your lunch break, isn’t it Frank?” Patrick says pointedly, and Frank’s eyebrows crinkle in confusion for a second before he grins.

“Yeah, thanks Trick.”

Slipping around the counter, Frank touches Gerard’s arm lightly and motions for him to follow. Patrick watches them leave with amusement.

***

“So, the exhibit starts at eight,” Gerard says once they’re sitting at one of the few tables outside. Normally, Frank would take his lunch break inside, but there’s no way in hell he’s letting Pete sit there and eavesdrop for the entirety of Gerard’s visit.

“Cool,” Frank says, and his fingers twitch a little like they want nothing more than to touch Gerard’s skin. Frank hasn’t been this hung up about someone in a long time, and he feels like a thirteen year old with a crush.

“That’s Patrick?” Gerard asks, trying to keep conversation going, and Frank takes the opportunity and runs with it.

“Yeah! Yeah, he’s a great guy, really. Stubborn, though. So uh, don’t tell him what we’re doing until we hand him the money? He probably won’t take it, otherwise.”

Gerard nods, fingers the sleeve of his jacket and tries not to grin like an idiot. Frank stares at Gerard’s fingers, the nails bitten down to almost nothing and the stain of charcoal on the tips, and can’t help himself. He gives in, curls Gerard’s fingers into his own and looks up, heart hammering. Gerard twines their fingers together more firmly, properly, and smiles brightly.

***

Patrick doesn’t do it with conscious thought. It had been a joke, just something to try and lighten the mood and make Pete lay off. Now though, his fingers brush over his wallet in his pocket and he wonders. Frank is inside, having offered to close up the shop and let Patrick go home early and get some sleep. Patrick knows that this is partly because Frank hopes Patrick will go to Pete’s if the shop is still occupied, and partly because Frank doesn’t want to go home just yet and face Gerard. The exhibit begins in three hours, and Frank has been nervous and jittery all day.

With a deep breath, Patrick looks down at where Frank’s bike sits, stationery, just waiting for someone to climb on. Patrick’s going fucking crazy. He looks back to the shop, where Frank is pottering around cleaning tables and stacking chairs, and then back to the bike, where Frank has left his keys in the ignition. It’s almost too easy. He closes his eyes for a moment, tells himself firmly that he’s just borrowing, that it’s just because he’d had to get rid of his car, that he’ll have it back by the morning.

In the end, whatever excuses he gives himself don’t matter. He climbs on, kicks the stand and twists the throttle, and he’s gone before Frank even notices.

Walking into the casino is probably the most nerve-wracking thing of Patrick’s life. His mind is screaming at him that this is wrong, that he doesn’t need to resort to this, that there are other options, but try as he might, he can’t seem to figure out what those options are. He knows that the others are trying to help, but there’s nothing really they can do - you can’t just fundraise that kind of money - and he doesn’t want to have to lean on them, anyway. It’s up to him to put it right, to fix this, and this is the easiest option he can think of.

Patrick takes another deep breath, exchanges money for tokens, and prepares to put himself on the line.

***

When Frank arrives at the exhibit, his stomach is full of nerves. There’s people milling about everywhere, none of which he knows, all artsy types who look at Gerard’s paintings and nod thoughtfully, chattering about style and technique. If he’s being honest, Frank knows shit about art except that he likes what he sees, and so he carefully avoids everyone in order to prevent landing himself in the middle of a conversation he knows nothing about.

He does like what he sees, though. Gerard has a style that’s kind of really fucking out there, and sometimes it takes a while before Frank can actually figure out what he’s supposed to be looking at, but he likes the wildness. It reminds him of Gerard, and if Frank could actually afford to buy any of it, he probably would, just so that he could have a piece of Gerard’s soul in his home.

The downside, is that Frank can’t find Gerard anywhere. Patrick has apparently changed his mind about coming, because as far as Frank can see, he hasn’t turned up either, and he feels really out of his element. He’s already been here for half an hour, and while he’d love to sit and stare at Gerard’s artwork all day, he’s beginning to feel like he really doesn’t belong, and that maybe he should just go home and forget the entire thing happened.

And then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and a delighted “You came!” and Frank forgets that he ever wanted to leave.

“Gerard!” he answers a little breathlessly, taking in Gerard’s appearance. Frank had been wondering how Gerard would present himself at this sort of thing, and he’s a little bummed out to see that Gerard has made the effort to ensure there isn’t paint streaked over his skin tonight. He’s dressed more casually than most of his guests, having rejected a tie in favour of just the suit jacket, but Frank prefers him this way. He’s pleased to note that Gerard’s hair still looks like it has a mind of its own.

“See anything you like?” Gerard asks with a smile, and Frank feels his skin buzzing at the realisation that Gerard’s hand is still lingering on his arm. Who ever thought that in trying to save Patrick’s shop, Frank would fall ridiculously and embarrassingly for his neighbour?

Fran resists the urge to say something stupidly cheesy like ‘you’ and just nods instead, unable to keep the grin off his lips.

“I’m really glad you came, Frank,” Gerard says, and then slides his hand down Frank’s arm until he catches Frank’s hand.

Frank shivers. “Me too,” he says, and squeezes Gerard’s hand back.

Gerard beams at him, using their clasped hands to pull Frank around the exhibit, giving him the guided tour. Every now and then, they’re stopped by people asking Gerard question, inquiring about prices, and Frank listens to the way Gerard talks to each of them animatedly, his free hand gesturing wildly while the other stays firmly in Frank’s. His eyes light up as he talks, like nothing makes him happier than telling different people the same thing again and again, and Frank thinks he never stood a chance.

Finally, Gerard’s free for the moment, and he turns back to Frank, apologetic. “I’m sorry you had to sit through all of that. Here, I want to show you something.”

He leads Frank to the back corner, where there’s just one painting on the wall, and Frank recognises hints of his own face in and amongst a swirling expanse of colour. There’s no real pattern to it, no real shape, and Frank feels drawn to it, can’t stop staring. Gerard nudges his side gently, and when Frank looks up at him, he’s biting his lip anxiously.

“What do you think?” he asks softly, and Frank opens his mouth uselessly. He has no idea what to say, and so instead, he rests a hand on Gerard’s neck gently, fingertips pressing against his jaw and Gerard’s breath fanning across his cheek.

“It’s perfect,” Frank says finally, and Gerard smiles at him, that same smile he seems to reserve for Frank alone. Gerard’s hands settle on Frank’s hips, and alone in the corner, below Gerard’s painting, Gerard kisses him. He’s soft, shy, but firm enough, and Frank pushes back insistently, his free hand coming up to stroke his finger across Gerard’s cheek. Frank never wants to leave, wants Gerard like this forever, but then his phone rings, and Gerard pulls away reluctantly.

Frank’s really, really fucking tempted to just ignore it. Gerard cocks his head to the side, still smiling with his hands still touching Frank’s hips, and Frank groans aloud, plunges his hand into his pocket and retrieves his phone.

“This better be fucking important, or I swear to God,” he growls into the phone, and Gerard laughs a breathy little giggle into Frank’s neck before kissing behind his ear.

“Patrick’s missing,” Pete says, and Frank’s body goes rigid. Gerard pulls back, eyes concerned.

“What do you mean he’s missing?”

“He didn’t come over, so I went looking for him at the shop. The place is still all closed up, and he’s not there.”

Frank thinks, remembers how his bike wasn’t there when he finished up for the night, how he’d walked the rest of the way home assuming that it was just Pete messing around.

“Where would he go?”

There’s a pause, and then Pete says, “I think I might know.”

Frank feels awful, but Gerard promises he understands, and when Frank starts to apologise again, Gerard just kisses him quiet and offers to drive.

They pull up outside the shop five minutes later, and immediately Pete is on them, wringing his hands. “I called the others. Everyone’s on their way,” he says before Frank’s even out of the car.

“I think he might have gone to a casino,” Pete says once they have everyone assembled.

Gerard shifts awkwardly beside Frank, and Frank holds his hand tighter and squeezes, silently asking him to stay. “Why would he have gone to a casino?” Frank asks, even though it’s the most obvious question in the world.

“Surely he wouldn’t...” Brendon starts, but Pete just shrugs.

“You know how stubborn he is. And how else would he plan on getting that much money himself?”

“So we go and stop him, easy,” Gabe says, and is already heading back towards his car before anyone can say anything in reply.

“He’s been there at least three, maybe four hours,” Ryan says slowly. “He might have blown everything.”

They don’t need telling twice. They pour into cars, Travis, Pete, Gabe and Bill going in Gabe’s, and Brendon, Ryan and Frank clambering into the back of Gerard’s car. Greta and Jon agree to do a search of the neighbourhood, and they all leave with the unsaid knowledge that they have to get there now.

Part Six

Fic: The Coffee Shop AU - part 4

lightisbreaking — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 14:21:27 GMT

Part Four

It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he stares down the figures, they don’t change. It’s a little bit unfair, really. They manage to scare the shit out of him, and they’re just numbers on a page. Really, he should be able to intimidate them into changing. He frowns, re-reading the statement again, slowly and carefully, to ensure he hasn’t missed anything. And unfortunately for him, even as he pores over the page again and again, it all stays the same.

“Patrick? You okay?” Frank’s voice startles him, and he accidentally knocks over the stack of papers next to his right elbow. When he snaps his head up, Frank is looking at him with concerned eyes, and Patrick forces a smile.

“Yeah, Frank, thanks. I’ll be out in just a second,” he assures him, and when he sees Frank leaning forwards to try and get a glimpse of the papers, he shuffles everything around a little until it’s hidden from view. He doesn’t need this getting out just yet. He can work through this on his own, he knows, and he doesn’t need them worrying. Frank hesitates just a moment longer, clearly itching to know what Patrick is doing, but then he shrugs his shoulders and disappears back out to the front of the shop. Patrick breathes a small sigh of relief, his secret safe for now, and tucks the papers back in his bag and out of sight.

When he makes his way back out to the shop-front, Frank gives him another one of those looks, all confused and curious and more worried than Patrick would have thought, and he has to avoid Frank’s eyes. Luckily for him, Pete walks in the door just as Frank looks like he’s about to ask what’s going on, and Patrick greets him loudly before Frank even gets a chance to open his mouth.

“Hey Trick. What’s up?” Pete saunters into the shop like he always does, confident, easy sway with bright eyes. He’s got a bright smile on his face - the kind that Patrick isn’t used to seeing on his face before at least midday. As it is, it’s only 9 o’clock on a Monday morning, and usually, Pete would be glaring at them all and refusing to be spoken to. He’s never really been a Monday person.

“You look happy,” Patrick notes, the question in his voice easy enough for Pete to pick up on.

Pete grins at him as he slips behind the counter, dons his apron, and clocks into the computer. “It’s a beautiful day, Patrick!” he announces loudly.

Patrick pauses, glances outside and then back at Pete. “It’s cloudy and looks like it’s about to rain.”

With a laugh, Pete claps Patrick on the shoulder. “All in the attitude, Stump,” he says, and Patrick without bothering to come up with a reply, Patrick just shakes his head, and Pete hums contentedly to himself as he goes about making himself his morning coffee.

Taking advantage of a moment where Pete is occupied, Frank carries the bottle of caramel he’d been re-filling over to where Patrick is standing and continues as if he was meant to be standing there all along. Patrick barely suppresses a groan, but he plays along, going about his own work quietly and with no acknowledgement of Frank’s move.

“Read anything interesting lately?” Frank starts, and Patrick can’t help but smile. Never let it be said that Frank Iero isn’t a devious little fuck.

“I’m actually reading this really good book about statistics, if you want to borrow-“

“Okay, okay, you win. Ugh my ears are burning.” Frank groans like he’s actually in physical pain, and claps his hand over his ears just in case Patrick decides to talk to him about statistics further. When Patrick stays obediently silent, Frank uncovers them again. “But seriously, Trick. Is everything okay?”

Patrick shifts his feet awkwardly, feeling Frank’s eyes digging into his fucking mind and wishing that he wasn’t such a shitty liar. “I told you, everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

Unfortunately, Frank is like some kind of super-human liar detector or something because he only narrows his eyes further and puts a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “You know that you can tell us anything. Are you in trouble?”

It’s the concern in his eyes that almost makes Patrick slip up, but he holds his tongue in check. This isn’t something that he needs to land on Frank’s shoulders, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to cause worry over something that he can handle himself. “I’m fine, Frank, really. Thanks, but I can handle it.” He hopes he doesn’t sound too harsh, but Frank is acting almost as stubborn as Pete, and that’s never a good thing when Patrick’s trying to avoid something.

“If you say so,” Frank answers, but he continues looking at him as if he’s not going to let it go that easily. Patrick pretends not to notice.

As much as he wants to keep the information to himself, he’s not avoiding it simply because he doesn’t want to tell Frank what’s going on. If he’s being honest, he just wants to keep his own mind off it. He’s not usually the kind of guy to adopt the “if I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist” theory, but in this case, he just wants to forget about it for a little while and work in the shop he loves with the friends he loves. He doesn’t need to think about debts and payments and the fact that he might not have a shop to work in if he doesn’t do something soon. He’ll think about it tonight, and maybe go and see an accountant, but for now, he’s content to shove it to the back of his mind.

Besides, it’s Monday morning, and his customers are going to start arriving any minute. Customers, the little voice in the back of his head reminds him, who he doesn’t charge most of the time. And that’s always going to be the root of the problem, he supposes. He’s too stubborn to get up and move the shop to somewhere busier, somewhere he might actually get some business. And he knows that there’s no way he could have the same sort of setup if he moved. Here, the guys are free to be themselves, to have a little fun, to be a family. Here is the one place that they can all come to relax and it doesn’t matter where they all came from, they’re together. They need this place, just as much as Patrick does, and he can’t bring himself to take that away from them.

At the same time, staying put and ignoring the problem isn’t going to fix anything, either. If he doesn’t act soon, he’s going to lose everything, and the day he has to close his shop is the day his heart stops beating. It’s like he’s tied to it, like his own health and sanity lies within the walls, bound to the foundations. There’s no way he can just let it go.

The sound of giggling snaps him out of his thoughts and he looks up to see two barely familiar faces stumble in, followed by one very familiar one. Ryan does not look terribly impressed, though Patrick has the sneaking suspicion that it’s all for show, and that secretly, his own heart is warming at the sight of the laughing couple. Patrick’s good with faces, and despite the fact that he’s only met the two once or twice, he knows instantly who they are. Jon Walker, the guy rooming in with Ryan, and Greta, Ryan’s sometimes maid, sometimes best friend. The only time he’s met Jon was the first day Ryan brought him here, but Jon has the kind of face that makes you feel like you’ve known him forever. He’s easy laid-back and open, and there’s a bright smile on his lips, so warm that Patrick can practically feel it. And there’s Greta, who he’s only ever met upon the occasional visit to Ryan’s house.

Considering the fact that Jon only moved in with Ryan a few weeks ago, Patrick is a little surprised with how quickly Greta has taken to him. Though, he remembers, she’s always been fairly accepting and friendly, and Jon looks like the kind of guy you can’t help but get close to. Patrick watches them come in with a smile on his face, a tiny bit envious of the way they’re laughing so hard at something they’re leaning on each other and tripping over as they try to find a table, and Patrick can tell they’re going to be the new couple on the block that everyone is envious of, because it’s the kind of relationship that most people want. Greta waves to him over Jon’s head, and he grins back at her, and then Ryan is standing in front of him with a tired smile.

“Hey Trick,” he says, and Patrick begins to get drinks ready automatically, only half-thinking about what he’s doing. Ryan looks like he needs a strong coffee, and perhaps something sweet and with caramel for Greta and Jon.

“That was fast, then?” Patrick nods his head to the two, who are now sitting and talking with shining eyes and matching smiles. Patrick only hopes that they haven’t rushed into anything too hard and too fast, because he’d hate to see either of them crash and burn if something goes wrong.

“Yeah. As soon as she found out he was a kindergarten teacher, neither of them had any hope,” Ryan says dryly, a wry smirk lifting one corner of his lips.

“He’s a kindergarten teacher?” Patrick glances back over at Jon, at the bright smile and open arms, and he can definitely see it.

“Uh huh. And you know how Greta is with kids.”

Patrick doesn’t, but he nods his head anyway, frothing milk for Ryan’s cappuccino. Now with extra people in the shop, Frank hasn’t got a chance to get Patrick alone, and even though he can see Frank brooding over it, he’s enjoying it. He trusts Frank with his life, with his shop, but that doesn’t mean he wants to throw his own burdens onto Frank’s shoulders. Maybe, down the track, he’ll ask for some help, but only once he knows that he definitely can’t do it alone.

“No one else is here yet?” Ryan asks, and Patrick catches the silent plea of help me underlying his words. He grins to himself, finishing off Ryan’s coffee and passing it over. Ryan’s eyes keep flickering to the door, itching for somebody else to come in and give him someone to talk to other than the lovebirds. He can only keep Patrick distracted for so long before Patrick starts just nodding, going about his work and not really listening.

“I assume they’ll be along any minute now. Pete’s on shift, so they’ll be here.”

Ryan nods, takes a sip of his coffee and digs around in his bag. Patrick turns around to finish with Greta and Jon’s drinks, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ryan lean over the counter and tuck a few bills into the till. He puts his head down and tries to fight the urge to run out of the shop in order to fight the swell of emotion rising in his chest. He’s at risk of losing his shop, his life, and he doesn’t know how to tell Ryan thank you from the bottom of his heart. On some level, he feels guilty and wants to shove the money back into Ryan’s bag as soon as he turns around, but he knows that he needs it, and that, to be fair, he did make him a coffee. And then there’s the way Ryan leant over so casually, knew just how to nudge the till open and how to do it all so silently that there’s no way it was the first time he’d done it. Patrick wonders just how long Ryan’s been slipping him money in secret, and doesn’t know whether to be ridiculously grateful or embarrassed. He settles for somewhere between the two, and avoids Ryan’s eyes when he gives Greta and Jon their drinks.

The bell over the shop door rings, and Travis raises his hand in greeting as he comes through the door, Gabe, Spencer and Bill in tow, as per usual. For the morning, things will be a little hectic, and Patrick will have to play babysitter while they all treat the shop like a playpen, but he knows that Spencer and William have a class at 11 o’clock, and that Gabe usually spends the time going over his accounts and re-stocking his bar, filling out order forms and chatting to Matt about new ideas for the place. Alicia will due at Ryan’s in the late afternoon, which means that Pete will also clock out and follow him home. He assumes that Greta and Jon will drift out at some stage during the day as well. Patrick feels a little uneasy at the knowledge that this will leave him alone with Frank for the afternoon, and then he feels guilty. He loves having Frank around, but he hates being pestered about things he doesn’t want to talk about. Luckily for him, Brendon is usually in sometime around late afternoon to take advantage of the peace and quiet once the others have all gone, and maybe Patrick can use him as a distraction for a little while.

He thinks over all of this, and all of a sudden it hits him how much of a routine this all is. He knows the usual schedules of everyone in this shop, knows when they’ll be in, knows when they’ll be out, and who they’ll be with. And it’s because they’ve been doing the same thing ever since Patrick opened the place a couple of years ago. It doesn’t matter that they do the same thing over and over; there’s no sense of boredom or monotony because it’s the kind of routine that’s welcome, comfortable. There’s never a dull moment with Gabe and Pete around anyway, so it’s no wonder they all still keep coming back. And for the hundredth time, Patrick feels a sting to his heart when he even thinks about letting the place go.

He’s so busy watching them all interact, these people who he loves, who he relies on, that he doesn’t notice when Pete takes over what Frank was doing, and Frank disappears into the back room with a determined look on his face.

***

Frank’s not a fan of the word snooping. It’s not like he has no right to be here; he works here just as much as Patrick, more than Pete, and has as much reason for any of them to be out in the back room. He has Pete covering his ass - a task Pete is always more than willing to take up - and Patrick won’t even notice him gone. He can’t help it; curiosity is clawing apart his insides, and the look of unease and upset in Patrick’s eyes is enough to convince him that something is wrong, and he needs to help. It’s not in Frank’s nature to stand back and let someone hurt, especially someone who he cares for as much as Patrick. He’s obviously in some kind of trouble, and damned if Frank isn’t going to try and get him out of it. Only, he has no way of helping if he doesn’t know what’s wrong, and if Patrick won’t tell him, he’ll just have to find out for himself.

As he suspected, the papers aren’t where Patrick was looking at them earlier. However, it only takes him half a minute before he spots Patrick’s bag a few metres away. Patrick is not a good liar, nor is he terribly good at hiding things, and Frank knows him well enough to know that he would have just shoved them somewhere fast and easy so that Frank would stop looking at him. Checking over his shoulder and feeling more and more like a jerk the longer he stays out here, Frank reaches for the bag and sits down on an upturned milk crate. Taking a deep breath, he unzips the bag and shoves his hand in, feeling his fingers brush against paper almost instantly. There’s one last moment of hesitation, of his conscience making a firm stand, before it crumbles, and he closes his fingers around the paper and tugs.

Once he has them in his hands, he can’t help but glance back at the door, checking that Patrick isn’t about to come bursting in and fire his ass for going through his things. Frank’s heart is racing, and it only makes him feel more guilty, but he’s come this far now, he might as well go all the way. And so, he looks down, and feels his eyes widening with the more he reads.

And oh shit they’re in trouble. They’re all in trouble, but especially Patrick because this place is everything he is, it’s his baby, his life, and Frank knows that to lose the coffee shop is to lose everything. It’s not even something that he can imagine, really. He sits, and tries to think of what life would be like without it, and he can’t. He’d have no job, and he doubts very much if he were able to find a boss as awesome as Patrick. Brendon won’t be able to stay after hours scribbling tiredly until Patrick has no choice but to ask him to leave (and even then, he asks if Brendon wants to continue at his house). There’s no way any other coffee shop in the world would let Gabe, Travis and Will in with the way they act. Spencer will no longer have a quiet place to study with free coffee and Patrick’s ridiculously large fountain of knowledge (he’s the trivia master). Tom’s favourite photography subject will no longer be an option, and there’ll be no more breathtaking black and whites of Brendon hunched over paper, of a brilliant smile on William’s face when he looks at Gabe.

Frank looks back at the paper, the numbers and figures jumping out at him so large that he knows Patrick has no chance in hell of paying them. He won’t take money as charity, he barely charges anyone, and he won’t ask for the bank’s help, even if they would give it to him. On the other hand, he knows that there’s no way in hell Patrick will just let it go and not fight for his shop. And you can’t fight something like this without paying off the debts. Frank has no idea what Patrick’s planning, or even if he’s planning anything. And if Patrick has no idea what to do, maybe it’s time Frank stepped up and helped him out for a change. With one final look at the numbers, burning them into his memory until he can see them on the backs of his eyelids when he closes his eyes, Frank returns the papers to where he found them, and stands up. First thing tonight, after Patrick has closed up and gone home, Frank’s going to rally the troops. It’s time they showed Patrick exactly what they can do.

When he slips back out into the front, Pete winks at him, and Frank breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Patrick with his back turned, completely oblivious. Frank only has to look at Gabe, his eyes saying everything he needs, and Gabe nods. It’s not so much a matter of them having some crazy close connection, but more that Gabe knows when someone needs him to make trouble. If he’s good at anything other than running The Basement, it’s causing distractions, and the look in Frank’s eyes tells him clearly what he needs to know. In turn, Gabe gives the same kind of look to Travis, and then turns back to nod at Frank. Frank feels a little bit ridiculous already, like they’re in some kind of shitty spy movie, but he rolls with it. Let Gabe have his fun. And that’s exactly what Gabe does. Travis recognises the look immediately, and in seconds they’re staging a large fight in the middle of the coffee shop. Frank has no idea about what, exactly, but there’s a lot of yelling, and then they’re rolling on the floor, and Gabe is threatening to start throwing chairs. Patrick is alert in seconds, rushing forwards and trying to pull them apart, probably to salvage his shop more than them, but regardless, it has the desired effect.

Taking only a minute to admire their handiwork, Frank grabs Pete’s arm and drags him to the back room. Pete has as much of a right to know as anyone, considering it’s his pay-check that’ll be going if they have to shut the place down. And he needs someone to back him up, when he takes his idea to the whole group. Pete doesn’t even question it, just lets himself be dragged, and when Frank shoves the statements in front of his eyes, he reads them calmly and without thought. He pauses a moment, re-reads, and Frank bounces on his feet impatiently, not even noticing the fact that his hand is still clenched tightly around Pete’s arm.

“This isn’t good,” Pete says when he finishes, and turns his eyes slowly towards Frank. “This really isn’t good.”

Frank rolls his eyes, shoving the piece of paper back in the bag for a second time. “Of course it isn’t. Which is why we’re going to fix it. Make sure the others all get here tonight, after Patrick’s closed up and gone home.”

To his credit, Pete doesn’t even blink, just nods. For once, he seems to understand immediately. Frank thinks it probably has something to do with the way Pete’s head works. He can mess around and be as stupid as he wants, but the second something is serious, the second one of his friends is in trouble, he can be counted on to take it as a life or death situation. Frank knows that Pete will force the others to turn up no matter what kind of prior commitments they may have had.

“They’ll be here,” he says simply, and then he disappears back out to the front of the shop, Frank following.

The second they reappear, Gabe holds his hand out solemnly in an apparent offer of truce to Travis, despite the fact that two second before, he’d been screaming that he was going to tear his limbs off. Frank stifles a snort of laughter, because Gabe is anything but subtle. Patrick looks bewildered, but he doesn’t turn to look suspiciously at Frank or Pete, so Frank counts it as a victory. And tonight, after he’s spoken to the others about what he wants to do, he’s sure that sooner or later, it won’t matter that they went behind Patrick’s back, because it’s so worth it. At the end of it all, or maybe even before, Patrick will know what they did, and he’ll be forced to just say thank you and suck it up. There’s no way Frank’s going to all this trouble just for Patrick to refuse their help.

***

Patrick has just closed up shop, and Brendon is packing away his things, ready to go home and finish writing the chapter he’d been working on. He doesn’t even need to be told to head out, just watches as Patrick gathers his bag and his keys, and he gets up and follows him and Frank on their way out. After saying quick goodbyes, he turns to head home, but is stopped as a hand grips his arm and pulls him back.

“Wait,” is all Frank says, and they watch as Patrick get in his car and drive away. Brendon waits patiently, resisting the urge to ask Frank what’s going on. Frank likes to keep people in suspense, and it’ll be over quicker if he just lets him have his way. “Follow me,” Frank finishes as soon as he’s sure Patrick is gone, and when he grabs Brendon’s hand and starts pulling him in the other direction, Brendon just goes along with it. Frank’s never really understood the whole concept of personal space and that some people might see two straight men holding hands a little odd.

Brendon admits that he’s a little surprised when they round the other side of the block and Pete, Gabe, Travis, William, Spencer, Greta, Ryan, Jon and even Tom are all assembled, obviously waiting for them. He tries to think of what could possibly bring them all to this particular corner at the same time on a night that most of them usually have things to do, but he can’t. By the looks on their faces, none of them seem to know what’s going on either, except for Pete, who has the same sort of determined expression on his face as Frank.

“What’s going on?” he finally can’t help but ask, and there’s a murmured agreement from the rest of them. He almost expects Frank - and apparently Pete - to look smug about the fact that they know something the others are clueless about; Frank’s always loved knowing secrets. Instead, there’s only this grim set of the lips and eyes that wordlessly speak of something devastating on the horizon.

It’s that look that renders them all silent. Usually, with all of them assembled, there’d be some form of chaos, something to keep them laughing, keep them on their toes. Now, they stand completely still, waiting anxiously. Spencer is biting his fingernails so intently that Brendon wonders if he’ll have any left by the time Frank finally tells them why he brought them all here. It’s getting dark, and Brendon wraps his arms around himself as the cold start to set in, hoping that they can hurry up and do this quickly, or take it somewhere else.

“It’s about Patrick,” Frank blurts out as though he can’t hold it in anymore, and Brendon nods. That explains why Patrick wasn’t invited to this little gathering, then.

“But his birthday isn’t for another... Eight months.” Ryan points out what Brendon had been thinking, doing the maths quickly in his head. It’s almost like he took the words straight out of Brendon’s mouth - the only time Brendon can imagine them holding a secret meeting without the person being talked about, would be to plan some form of birthday surprise. He supposes that maybe they’d do it if they were bitching each other out, but the situation has never really arisen. Brendon can’t really imagine being that angry with any of the people assembled, and especially not Patrick.

“It’s not about his birthday,” Pete says, cutting across Frank just as he opens his mouth. “He’s in trouble.”

And that’s all it takes, really. There’s a flurry of voices, of questions, of concerns, and Brendon adds his own to the mix, because if Patrick is in trouble there’s no way they’re not all going to go out of their way to help him. This is Patrick and it doesn’t matter what happened, he doesn’t deserve anything bad to happen, ever.

“He might lose the café. He owes... A lot of money.” Frank leaves it there, waiting for the information to sink in, and watching the way everything unfolds. Brendon does the same, looking on as slowly, they come to grips with the idea and realise what it means, how shattered Patrick would be. And then as if they’re all working in sync, everyone rearranges their expression into one of determination, and looks fiercely at Frank.

“So, what’s the plan?” Gabe asks, already knowing that Frank and Pete have something up their sleeve. No matter what it is, they’ll all pitch in. They’ll lend whatever money and resources they have if it means saving Patrick and the shop.

Frank grins at them, and Brendon waits to hear what kind of plan he’s hoarding. “Well, first, we pitch in what we already have,” he says simply, and it’s the first that catches Brendon, the knowledge that Frank has some other idea that he’s not letting them in on just yet. They obey, and there’s the shift of movement as they all start digging around in pockets and withdrawing whatever they have as a start. Later, there’ll be inspections into bank accounts and balances, but for now, anything that they have on them could be a little help.

Unfortunately, after careful scrounging, the pile they have in front of them is a little pathetic. Gabe unearthed a condom, William a couple of buttons and a paperclip, Frank has a monopoly piece (which he looks at with a puzzled frown, not quite sure of how it got into his pocket), Brendon a ballpoint pen and Pete a guitar pick. Travis, at least, managed to contribute a handful of pennies, three quarters and a dime. Spencer threw in a crumpled twenty, Tom an empty canister of film, and Jon and Greta make up a ten and a bottle cap between the two of them. With a shy mutter, Ryan fumbles for his wallet and pushes a hundred into Frank’s fist, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Spencer smiles at him encouragingly, and Ryan’s voice is maybe a little more confident when he says he can ask his uncle to send over more to his account. All in all, it’s not much, despite Ryan’s additions.

“I don’t think that odds and ends from our pockets are going to let Patrick keep his shop,” Travis says dryly, and Frank’s eyes gleam.

“Which is why, dear friends, we’re going to fundraise.”

Knowing Frank, “fundraising” won’t just involve lemonade stands and car-washing. Brendon feels a tingle of unease, but then he looks around at the grinning faces, and caves. They’ll do what they have to in order to help Patrick, even if it means obeying Frank’s bizarre ideas of raising money. It’s only fair, after everything he’s done for them.

“When do we start?” Tom asks, and if anyone’s a little surprised at him joining in the conversation - usually, he keeps the talking to a minimum and the picture taking to a maximum - they don’t show it.

“This weekend. For now, I want everyone brainstorming possible fundraising ideas.”

It feels a little bit like a class project in elementary school, but Brendon keeps his grin to himself and just nods. “Yes Mr Iero, sir,” he can’t resist saying, and when Frank beams at him, he knows that this is all going to get really out of hand, really fast. Somehow, he can’t bring himself to care.

***

Ryan’s never really been that comfortable with his bank account. There’s more than enough in there, more than he could ever hope to exhaust, but he doesn’t like talking about it. He knows that his friends often struggle to make ends meet, and it doesn’t matter how many times he tries to offer help, they won’t take it. Sometimes, he wishes that he didn’t have the money, just because it makes him feel awkward and selfish. There are millions of people in the world with nothing, and here he is, all of this wasted money building up without him lifting a finger. It makes his skin crawl, makes him feel guilty in ways he didn’t think were possible. In an effort to counteract it, he gives large sums of money to charities whenever he can, but it still doesn’t stop the squirming of his gut. Patrick is more than a worthy cause, and Ryan would donate everything he had if it meant Patrick was okay, but he feels ridiculous even bringing it up.

He watches everyone dig around in their pockets and come up with nothing but miscellaneous pieces of junk, and when his fingers feel out the edges of the bill in his pocket, he has to fight the urge to throw up when he withdraws it and shoves it into Frank’s hand before anyone can get a good glimpse of it. And it’s kind of ridiculous, because he knows most people would kill to have what he has, and that makes it even worse. He’s not proud of his money, and he doesn’t like to flaunt it. He gave the family business to his uncle for that very reason.

Truth be told, he knows that if he made one phone call, he could probably have everything Patrick needed in about a week. Then, none of the others would have to sacrifice their time or their money, and for once, Ryan’s money would be doing something useful. At the same time, he knows that the others would feel inferior, awkward, and hate it if he managed to pay off all of Patrick’s debts in one go, where they couldn’t even contribute the tiniest amount. He sees the gleam in Frank’s eyes, and he knows that this fundraising idea is going to be crazy, that he’s going to go overboard, but he sees the excitement and doesn’t want to ruin it. If they don’t manage to raise enough money, then he’ll step up and donate everything he has, because Patrick is worth more than his own feelings. If Patrick gets to keep the shop, then Ryan can deal with people treating him a little awkwardly for a while. For now though, he’ll let things play out, and every time Patrick’s back is turned, he’ll slip more and more money into that till.

When Frank dismisses them, Ryan gets into his car and pulls out his cell phone. The number is quick off his fingers with hardly any input from his brain, and then before he knows it, he has his uncle on the line.

“Chris? I need a favour.”

There’s a small chuckle on the other end of the line, and then, “Little Ryan Ross, what can I do for you?”

“A friend’s in a spot of financial trouble. I need a few thousand, just in case.” He keeps it clipped, keeps it short. The sooner this conversation is over, the better.

“Playing the Good Samaritan, huh? Sure thing, Ry, I’ll get it to you as soon as possible.”

And this is what Ryan loves about his uncle. He may be a bit brash at times, and treats Ryan a bit like he’s still ten years old, but he has a good heart, and he doesn’t ask too many questions. Not that Ryan’s planning on using the money for anything illegal or immoral, but he doesn’t feel like talking out the whole situation, and the quieter he can keep this all, the better.

“Thanks, you’re a life saver.” Ryan pulls into his driveway and juggles his phone and his keys a little awkwardly as he slides out of the car. Jon and Greta have gone out for dinner, and he’s home alone for a few hours.

Chris laughs again. “It’s your money, Ryan. I just babysit it.”

Ryan has no means of arguing, and so he just shrugs, forgetting his uncle can’t see. “Thanks all the same. I’ll talk to you later,” he says, even though he doesn’t have any intentions of doing so. His uncle reminds him too much of the fortune he hides from, and the ties to his parents that he’s trying to dull. His uncle replies in kind, probably knowing that Ryan won’t call until he needs something else, and then Ryan hangs up the phone.

That’s done, and now he has a backup plan ready if the fundraising doesn’t go as well as he hopes. He wonders briefly whether this exempts him from the brainstorming task, and then figures that knowing Frank, it definitely doesn’t. Besides, he has no intention of telling anybody what he’s planned unless the circumstances call for it, and he doesn’t want to show up on the weekend with nothing. He knows that they’re going to be subject to ridiculous ideas from Gabe and Pete, and more practical ones from Spencer. Ryan, on the other hand, has absolutely no idea, and he’s never been the most creative person ever. Instead, he decides to sleep on it, and forces his feet up the stairs, collapsing into bed the moment he closes the door to his bedroom.

He hasn’t eaten dinner, but he’s not really that hungry. It’s getting late, and the house is empty and quiet, and Ryan hates being the only one at home in this place. He lays back and shuts his eyes, and tries to fall asleep rather than waiting anxiously for Jon and Greta to get home, if only so the place feels a little fuller. It works better than he expected, and soon, he’s falling into dreams of lemonade stands and Gabe in a school-girl uniform.

***

When Patrick arrives at the shop the next morning, he’s surprised to see that Frank is already there, and has opened the place up on his own. It’s not like Patrick’s late - he’s never late - and yet Frank is already pottering around, whistling to himself as he unstacks chairs from the tables and arranges everything neatly. Patrick allows himself a quick moment of amazement before he goes with the flow, assigning himself to whatever jobs Frank hasn’t already completed. They work in companionable silence for a few moments before Patrick notices that Frank’s whistling has stopped, and when he turns around, Frank is looking at him with something resembling pity and concern.

“What’s wrong?” Patrick asks immediately. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s listening. He likes to listen to people, likes to hear what’s going on in their heads, what they can’t make sense of, and see if he can work anything out in his own head. Sometimes, thoughts are easily arranged when you allow someone else to look at them. Everyone has a different viewpoint on things, and Patrick is good at picking up on things that someone may not have thought of, and helping them work through their problems. He’s a good listener, and he’d much prefer that to talking about himself, and so the question is off his tongue before he even has time to think about the fact that Frank looks like he feels sorry for Patrick. But that wouldn’t make sense, because Patrick doesn’t allow himself to be pitied. He’s quite capable of standing on his own two feet, most of the time, and he hasn’t done anything to spark that kind of look in Frank’s eyes. The only thing he could think of that comes even close is the fact that he’s slowly slipping further and further into debt, but there’s no way Frank could know about...

“How did you find out.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. His voice is flat, eyes dead and resigned to his fate. This only appears to send Frank’s concern spinning even more out of control, and his eyes shine with it as he lays a cautious hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

“We can help you. You’re not alone in this,” Frank says, and he says it with such conviction that Patrick can’t help but believe him for a second. Just a second, before he’s shrugging the feeling off and reminding himself that this is his burden, and he’ll carry it, and he’ll work it out himself. In a way, he’s a complete hypocrite because no matter how many times he encourages everyone else to talk things out, he can’t seem to do it himself. An excellent listener, but an awful speaker.

“Don’t worry about me, Frank.” The words sound dead even to Patrick’s own ears, and the forced smile does nothing to help his case. He’s worried. He can admit that. He’s never really been the type to lie to himself, to pretend that he’s okay in order to shove everything to the back of his mind. Sure, he prefers to keep it to himself, but he doesn’t hide his own emotions from himself out of fear of acknowledging them. He can acknowledge this, and in time, he’ll deal with it.

“We’re all worrying about you, Trick. You can’t stop that.”

Patrick allows himself an inward groan. All. He’s already told the others. He wonders who exactly is encompassed in all, and whether or not he’ll have to face the same sort of ridiculous pity in their eyes when they look at him.

“Have you told Ryan?” Patrick asks, because if there’s one person who doesn’t need this on his shoulders, it’s Ryan. Patrick knows that Ryan’s okay, can hold his own, but he can’t help but still treat him with a little bit of fragility. He watched as Ryan fell apart after his parents’ death - nineteen is far too earlier an age to see both of your parents disappear - and he knows what it’s like to see that haunted look in Ryan’s eyes. It’s only just beginning to fade and be replaced with happiness, with acceptance, and Patrick isn’t about to go throwing more things at him. Ryan needs to work through his own problems, look after himself before he goes tackling other peoples’, and Patrick knows that it’s not in Ryan’s nature to ignore a friend in trouble.

And then there’s the money. It doesn’t matter that Ryan does his best to keep it all hushed up. They all know about the contents of his bank account, and while they might not know any exact figures, they know that it’s a lot. And they also know that Ryan can have more added to it with just a simple phone call to his uncle. Ryan doesn’t like to talk about it because it makes him feel uncomfortable, Patrick knows this. Ryan would have happily given the money to start his club to Gabe without expecting anything in return, had Gabe not been so determined to pay him back. He sees it as something heavy, something that weighs him down and makes him different to the rest of them, and Patrick knows that if they would accept it, Ryan would have given them all more than their fair share. He knows, therefore, that it would take only one word from Patrick’s lips, and Ryan would be on the phone making arrangements. It would put a considerable fucking dent in his wallet - Patrick’s not oblivious to exactly how much he owes - but he knows that Ryan would do it anyway. Ryan’s not the richest man in the world, but he has enough to his name that he could probably pay off Patrick’s debts and still leave himself enough money for food and rent and everything else. Ryan’s good with money, whether he likes it or not.

But Patrick isn’t going to take it. In fact, if he thinks about it, he knows that Ryan’s probably already made the phone call. It would be just like Ryan to start making arrangements the second he knew about the problem. It would be foolish of Patrick to think that Ryan would delay, having seen the way he whisked his money away to Gabe so quickly. But Patrick isn’t fond of acting as a charity. He’s not a charity case, and he won’t have his friends giving away everything they have just to pull himself out of a rut that he got himself into. He got himself in, and he can get himself out, and he accepts the support and the concern, but he doesn’t need their money.

Frank doesn’t even bother to deny it. He just shrugs, and Patrick can see in his eyes, in his body language, that all definitely includes Ryan. Patrick’s willing to bet a limb that the rest of them know too.

“I won’t take his money,” Patrick says firmly, feeling as though he needs to speak the words aloud, make it known, make it firm, so that they all know where he stands. “Tell him that.”

Frank just shrugs again. “You know Ryan,” is all he says, and really, that’s all he needs to say. Patrick does know Ryan.

Deciding that the conversation is over for now, Patrick turns and strides to the door, flipping the sign to open and avoiding the way Frank continues to watch him, as though he’s going to fall apart any second. For a moment, Patrick understands the frustration Ryan must have felt when they all watched over him like hawks, back when it didn’t matter how many times Ryan said he was fine, none of them believed him. And just because he can’t resist knowing, Patrick calls over him shoulder, “I’m fine.”

He can’t help but grin to himself when Frank answers with a “you’re not”.

The morning runs smoothly, and Patrick avoids any more confrontations with Frank. He feels a surge of déjà vu, and it’s almost exactly like working with Frank yesterday, trying to dodge around him so that no awkward conversation arises, and Frank watching him with keen eyes. The only difference is that now Frank definitely knows what’s going on, which in turn, makes Patrick even more determined to avoid him.

Their dancing around each other is interrupted when Ryan appears at around 11. Patrick has these conflicting urges to both run and hide, and to stay and evaluate Ryan’s reaction. It’s a little odd that Ryan’s thoughts on the matter are the most important to him. They’re close friends, but Patrick isn’t Spencer or Greta, and it’s rare that Ryan lets anyone else too close. He wonders whether it’s just the money issue that’s making him feel awkward around Ryan, and then he scolds himself, because that’s the exact reason Ryan keeps it quiet. And so instead, finally, he offers up a bright smile.

“Hello, Ryan,” he greets him happily, and Ryan smiles back. Any other person would see nothing wrong with it. It’s bright, it’s cheery, it’s the perfect morning greeting. But any other person isn’t one of them, and they know that for Ryan to smile like that, there’s a good chance it’s a front. Patrick has no doubts in his mind that the front is for him - one of those, chin up, you’ll be okay smiles that Patrick feels he’s going to be getting a lot of.

“Pete here, yet? Mike’s going to be at my place soon; I thought he might want to come over.”

Personally, Patrick doesn’t really understand how Ryan puts up with Pete in his house - his house which is littered with valuables and things Ryan treasures - for extended periods of time. It’s one thing at the shop, where Pete is forced to act somewhat civilly and get work done lest Patrick fire him (not that he ever would, but Pete doesn’t need to know that). Ryan’s house is something entirely different, and Patrick doesn’t even want to think about the possibilities of what could go wrong every time he steps foot inside that house.

“Not yet. I imagine he will be soon, though,” Patrick answers.

Ryan nods, and then he pauses, the cautious pity showing through his eyes, and when he opens his mouth to speak, Patrick turns away and pretends he didn’t see. To his relief, Ryan shuts his mouth and disappears to the lounge. Patrick makes him his usual without having to think about it, and when he sets it down in front of him, Ryan firmly hands him a twenty and tells him to keep the change. Patrick falters, not sure what he’s supposed to do. He really doesn’t want their pity, but he can’t afford to keep giving out free drinks anymore. Finally, Ryan makes the decision for him, and slips the money into the pocket of Patrick’s pants calmly.

“Think of it as a tip, if it’ll make you feel better,” Ryan says, and there’s a daring smile on his lips, mocking him. Patrick knows Ryan’s tactics, knows that if pity and concern won’t work, Ryan tends to try bullying people into accepting generosity, and so, with a reluctant sigh, he accepts the money before Ryan can work his persuasive techniques any further. The kid can be a compelling bastard, when he wants to be.

He’s about to argue further, but then he’s interrupted as Pete throws the door open with a crash. Pete’s always been fond of making an entrance.

“Ryan! I bet you were looking all over for me. Well, here I am, at your beck and call, oh good sir. May you do what you will with me.” He says this with an air of extravagance, arms thrown wide and chin up proudly, and his eyes zero in on Ryan in an instant.

For his part, Ryan looks like he’s trying to hold back a mocking grin, struggling to keep Pete’s dignity intact, because if Ryan doesn’t, no one will. Certainly Pete won’t.

“Mike’s lesson is soon, if you’re interested,” Ryan says instead, and manages to keep a straight face.

For a second, Pete looks a little put out that Ryan isn’t continuing with his charade, but in the end he just nods enthusiastically. “Awesome. When?” He grins, and Patrick is struck anew at how much Pete really does care for Ryan’s kids.

“In about an hour,” Ryan answers easily, without having to think. Ryan’s always been the kind of guy who can remember everything without writing anything down. Patrick thinks that he probably has some extra part to his brain, like his memory storage is bigger than everyone else’s, because it seems that no matter how many things he shoves in there, he doesn’t push anything else out. Ryan is the only one who can remember everyone’s birthdays, favourite colours, favourite foods, and pretty much their entire history. It makes things a little awkward when Ryan can remember a conversation that happened three years ago, which he deems terribly important, and nobody else can remember.

“Oh, excellent. The joys of a temperamental fourteen year old. I am ever so excited.” Somehow, Pete manages to make even sarcastic words sound genuinely exciting.

“Yes, well, he wouldn’t be half as bad if you didn’t torment him all the time,” Ryan throws in, gathering up his things and looking pointedly at Pete.

“I’m not expected to be the mature one all the time, Ryan, god. I leave that job to you. You do make an excellent Grumpy Adult Face.” Pete grins at him, and Ryan scowls deeply. “That’s the one!” Pete declares cheerfully, and Ryan glares at him harder, but Pete remains unfazed. “Coming?” he asks, and Ryan has no choice but to roll his eyes and follow him out the door.

For a second, Patrick panics, knowing that this will inevitably leave him alone with Frank again, but then William and Travis are tumbling through the door in Ryan’s wake, and he smiles. There’s no doubt in his mind that Bill and Travis will be able to provide an excellent distraction. He feels maybe a little guilty, like he should be more grateful about the lengths Frank is obviously willing to go to in order to offer a little advice and help out, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t like the thought of everyone looking over him like he doesn’t know how to look after himself.

“Where are those two off to?” Travis asks with a nod in the direction of Ryan’s back. Patrick can’t help but think that it’s a bit of a revolving door most of the time. It feels like every time one person leaves, another two will enter. There’s never really a moment that his shop isn’t a place for someone to hang out, and it’s almost like they time it.

“A lesson,” Patrick explains, and Travis catches on immediately, nodding his head.

“Is Gabe here?” William changes the subject with ease, and Travis laughs.

“We’ve split up the dream team for at least an hour and they start to lose their shit. Just get married already, Beckett, seriously.”

Frank snorts from behind Patrick. “There won’t be any marriage soon, I can assure you. Not when the both of them still have their heads in the sand.”

William makes a squeaking noise of indignation and splutters, “I’m right here you know!”

Patrick doesn’t know what he hopes to achieve with this statement. It’s not like they’ll stop talking about him if he’s standing there. Especially if it’s tormenting him about Gabe.

And maybe hanging around William enough has allowed Gabe to cotton onto Beckett’s unique talent of appearing when called, because in that second, the bell above the door jingles and Gabe offers up a bright smile. “You can all stop talking about me now, I know, I know, I’m amazing.” It’s a statement common of Gabe, and they’re used to him thinking everything is about him, but for once, it’s true, and it leaves them all shuffling their feet a little awkwardly. Bill goes a bit red, even, and when Gabe sees it, he grins. “I was right this time, wasn’t I? You were talking about me! Awesome.” He doesn’t seem the least bit fazed, like the thought that they could have been saying something bad about him doesn’t even cross his mind.

“Get over yourself, Gabe.” Travis rolls his eyes and lobs a scrunched up napkin at Gabe’s face.

Before it can turn into an all out war, Patrick lifts his hands and calls, “I’m going on my lunch break. If anyone breaks anything while I’m gone, you pay for it.”

Once, they would have laughed. Now, they just look at him with solemn looks of agreement in their eyes, and Patrick knows what they’re thinking. That yes, they will pay for it, because now Patrick can’t afford to. It’s this knowledge that has him forcing his way out of the cafe quicker than usual, determined to get as far away from their stares as he can.

***

Gabe likes to watch Will. It’s not anything creepy, he tells himself. He just likes to observe the way he moves, the way he speaks, the sparkle in his eye when he grins. He likes the way Bill crosses one long leg over the other, settles clasped hands on top of his knee and leans forward when somebody speaks, like they have his full attention. Gabe kind of wants Will to look at him like that, like he’s the only person in the world. Only, he knows that he’ll never have that, because William isn’t the kind of guy to devote all of his attention to one person. He has this notion that everybody is worth his time, that everybody deserves his attention equally, and Gabe supposes it’s a kind thing, but he sort of resents it. If William is constantly talking to everybody when will he ever just talk to Gabe?

It’s a selfish thought, but one that he can’t help. He finds that when he’s around William Beckett, most of his thoughts turn selfish. And despite all of this, he knows that he’s never going to open his mouth and say anything, because Gabe Saporta is a stubborn motherfucker, and if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that he’ll never let his guard down. He can’t afford to bare himself like that, even if it’s just to William. Because then there’d be an obvious opening for someone (most especially Bill) to hurt him, and Gabe can’t afford that. His first instinct is self-preservation, even before the second one of following Bill to the ends of the world.

He’s aware that he’s at least a little pathetic. Unfortunately for him, Gabe does have a conscience, and it is of the frequent opinion that he’s being a fucking idiot. Sometimes, Gabe wishes he was just a hollow shell, so that he wouldn’t have to listen to either the yearning of his heart (which sounds unbelievably lame, even to him) or the insults of his brain.

“Gabe? You in there?”

Someone’s waving their hand in front of his face, and Gabe snaps back to reality within a second, recognising the hand as belonging to Travis. He nods, still a little absently, and Travis laughs. Gabe rarely zones out, but when he does, it’s usually thinking about William. Travis knows this, and as a consequence, he’s probably going to tease him until forever.

“You opening the club, tonight?” Travis asks, and it’s a stupid question really, but Gabe knows that it’s a favour to him, to turn his thoughts to something more welcoming, something he can really invest himself in and forget about Bill. It’s something to stabilise him, and he shoots a thankful glance at Travis before replying.

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s like, Tuesday though isn’t it? Won’t be busy.”

Gabe opens his club six days a week. Sundays are off limits, mainly because by then, Gabe will be so hung over he can barely move, let alone deal with flashing lights and loud music and people. Still, he opens on weeknights if only to offer a place to the others. It’s somewhere to go once Patrick closes, somewhere to go and hang out and relax and let everything go. There’s not usually too many other people there on a weekday, and so they’re given free reign.

“Cool. We’ll probably be over later.”

Gabe doesn’t bother asking who “we” includes, nor why exactly Travis felt the need to tell him this in the first place. Usually, they’d just turn up. It’s not like they need an invitation.

When Patrick returns from his lunch break, he has a satchel thrown over his shoulder that looks like it’s about to burst from being stuffed full, and a blanket and pillow. He takes everything into the back room without a word, face looking as though it’s carved from stone. They all fall quiet, and stare at him as he crosses the shop, slamming the door behind him. Nobody can find the words, and so they sit in silence, and when Patrick doesn’t look like he’s going to come back, things only get worse.

“I’m uh. Better go and get things ready at the club, then,” Gabe says awkwardly. He’s grateful when none of them point out the fact that it’s only midday, and he doesn’t need to be at the club until at least five.

In fact, as soon as he heads for the door, Bill and Travis get up and follow suit, and Frank watches them go before turning back to face the staff room door with a desperate look of helplessness on his face.

***

When Frank finishes his shift that night, he shuts off the lights and the fans, double-checks that the safe is locked, collects his bags and is out the door at the same time as Patrick. It doesn’t escape his notice that Patrick is moving slowly, untying his apron and pulling on his jacket with exaggerated movements. He turns to lock the door of the café behind them as Frank swings one leg over his bike, and then they both turn to look at each other in the same moment.

“Night, Frank,” Patrick says quietly, and Frank kicks the stand and pulls throttle, his eyes still on his boss. Patrick is showing no signs of moving, despite the fact that Frank knows by now, Patrick should be in his car and disappearing around the corner.

“Everything okay, ‘Trick?” he asks even though he knows he’s going to get a bullshit answer. As he suspected, Patrick just nods and tries to smile encouraging, and Frank slips his helmet on and resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” There’s really no point in arguing with him, not now.

Patrick waves, grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder as Frank’s bike roars and he begins to move. For a second, Patrick starts walking in the other direction, like he’s going home. When Frank reaches the corner, he looks over his shoulder, and feels his heart plunging into his stomach when he sees Patrick turn around, open the shop back up quickly, and slip inside. For a moment, Frank considers stopping and going after him, offering up his place as somewhere to crash, but he knows that all he’ll receive from Patrick is indignant rejection. In the end, he continues on home, not able to throw the guilt.

Frank lives in a pretty crappy apartment building, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He parks his bike in the shared lot and grabs his bag, slipping inside and heading up the rickety staircase. He lives on one of the top floors, and he can hear his footsteps echoing through the corridor as he moves upwards, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Night Frank,” someone calls as he passes the balcony next door to his apartment. It’s the one he shares with the entire floor, and it’s small, barely enough room for two or three people. Frank rarely ventures out there; all in all, he doesn’t like spending much time at home at all.

He pauses, craning his neck to see out onto the balcony and smiles. The artist guy from next door - Frank thinks his name is Gerard but he’s not 100% - is grinning at him, hand lifted in a wave. Gerard has this crazy knack for remembering the name of everyone in the building, even though he looks like he forgets everything else. Right now, he’s standing out in the cold with one sock on his left foot, his right completely bare. His cheek is smeared with charcoal, which Frank attributes to the stick between his thumb and index finger. It’s almost used down to nothing, and Frank thinks it must be at the point where Gerard’s fingers scrape against the paper every time he draws. With just a look, Frank can tell that Gerard hasn’t showered or changed in a few days - his clothes are wrinkled and dirty, streaked with paint and charcoal and torn in places, and his hair looks rather like birds have taken up residence. Frank grins at him and waves back, because as addled and absent-minded as Gerard is, he’s probably the sweetest neighbour a guy could have.

“Long day at work?” Gerard calls as he sweeps charcoal across his already crammed canvas - why he’s drawing on the balcony Frank doesn’t know, and doesn’t care to ask.

“Not too bad,” Frank answers, and contemplates asking Gerard if he knows how to raise a couple hundred thousand dollars in order to save his boss from going bankrupt. Then he remembers the state of Gerard himself, and thinks the better of it.

“I’ve got an art exhibit next week, you should come.”

Frank doesn’t know whether inviting almost-strangers out to art exhibitions is common practice for Gerard, but he doesn’t stop to question it.

“Gonna sell anything?” he asks instead, and Gerard gives him a wry smile.

“That’s the plan.”

Frank’s phone rings just as he’s about to reply, and he digs it out of his pocket, holding up a finger to Gerard in a quick effort to excuse himself. “Hello?” he answers it without bothering to check the caller ID.

“Patrick’s sleeping at the shop, isn’t he?” Pete asks, and Frank doesn’t bother to ask why Pete’s asking him this now, or why he’s calling at all.

“Yeah, that’s what I gathered. You know he wouldn’t listen if I asked him to stay.”

He can hear Pete sigh from the other end of the line. “All right. I’ll offer again tomorrow, but I don’t know.”

“It’ll be fine, we’ll figure it out. We’ll come up with the money somehow, promise.” He doesn’t know who he’s trying to fool; he doesn’t particularly care.

When he says goodbye and hangs up the phone, Gerard is still watching him, head cocked to the side. “Financial problems?” he asks, like privacy doesn’t exist and it’s perfectly fine for him to stick his nose into Frank’s personal life. Frank doesn’t really mind that much. It’s not like Gerard’s the kind of guy to make fun of him or use it against him, and he gives off this vibe of openness, like you can tell him anything and he’ll listen and nod and offer advice without judging.

“A friend. He might lose his business.” Frank feels a sharp twinge of guilt, wondering whether it’s okay for him to divulge Patrick’s business, but it’s too late now, and Gerard is looking at him with thoughtful eyes.

“If the exhibit goes well, I promise I’ll help out.” Frank tries to cut him off - Gerard barely even knows Frank let alone Patrick, they can’t ask him for that kind of shit - but Gerard won’t hear it. “Hey. Gotta feel like I’m making a difference somewhere, right?”

And Frank can understand that, so he keeps quiet, takes a few quick steps forward so that he can clasp Gerard’s charcoaled hand in his own and nod. “Thank you so much, that’s more than we could even- I can’t believe- Just. Thanks, Gerard, really.”

Gerard looks pleased that Frank remembers his name if nothing else, and he squeezes Frank’s hand in response, smiling brilliantly. “I’m glad to help, Frank,” he says, and Frank makes a note to buy Gerard his own fucking art studio if he’s able to help Patrick in any way.

Gerard smiles at him again and lifts a hand in a short wave as Frank lets himself into his apartment, and Frank feels his heart warm at the knowledge that it’s people like Gerard who give him faith in humanity.

Part Five

Fic: The Coffee Shop AU - part 3

lightisbreaking — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 14:19:13 GMT

Part Three

William has cut his hair. Gabe stares at him, eyes wide, unblinking. This is impossible. This is inconceivable. The fact that it looks totally hot is completely irrelevant. His hair. Is gone.

“Are you on some crazy voyage of self-discovery? Did Victoria put you up to this?”

In response, William narrows his eyes and puts his hands on his hips. “Thanks, Gabe. I’m glad you like it,” he says dryly, and when he moves to walk into the club, Gabe panics and puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“No, Bill. It. It looks really good.” The words almost get stuck halfway up his throat, but he forces them out and is rewarded with William’s bright smile. The way his heart leaps a little is personal information that Gabe will keep to himself and never share with anyone, ever.

“Aww, thanks Gabe! You don’t look half shabby yourself,” William says with a glint in his eyes, and Gabe finds that the easiest thing to do when confronted with this situation is just to grin back and force himself to relax.

“Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you make out with me later,” he says, only half-joking, and wonders whether or not William will pick up on it. He can never really tell, with him.

“And maybe Patrick will actually show up.” The sarcasm is evident, and Gabe laughs and tries not to show his disappointment.

“Pete threatened to chop his limbs off this time, though.”

Bill raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms, jutting out his hip. Bill is quite the diva. “And last week, he threatened to stick pins in his eyes. He still didn’t show.”

Shrugging, Gabe slings an arm around William’s shoulders and leads him into the club. “Eventually, he’ll come up with a threat that actually works.”

Luciani’s already at the DJ booth, holding one headphone to his right ear and shuffling CDs with his spare hand. When he spots them, he waves and beckons Gabe over, and William slips out of Gabe’s grip and wanders towards the bar.

The place is still pretty much empty except for a few close friends. He doesn’t technically open the place for another half hour. The Basement, to him, is sort of like the café is to Patrick, he supposes. When he dropped out of college and decided that he’d much rather run a night club, he was surprised at how simple it was to find an old bar that the owner was more than willing to sell, and jazz it up a bit. At first, he didn’t quite have the money to pull off all the refurbishments and hire people like Luciani, but this is where it comes in handy to have friends like Ryan Ross. Gabe felt a little guilty asking him (after all, the poor kid’s parents had only just died), but Spencer assured him that Ryan would be more than happy to help out. As it turned out, Ryan actually seemed almost glad to be doing something with the fortune that had suddenly landed itself on his shoulders. He leant Gabe the money with a whispered thank you, and then a month later, signed off ownership of his parents’ stock and hotels to his uncle, so that he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Sometimes, Gabe wonders if Ryan regrets choosing to do what he did, but he knows that his uncle still sends him a large chunk of the income, and Ryan seems happier for having it out of his hair.

Within a year of Ryan’s donation, Gabe had the place up and running, newly done up and having hired a couple of friends to come in and do the DJ work, the lights, and everything else Gabe had no idea how to work. It became his second home, his favourite place to be, and it wasn’t long before he got a steady flow of people walking through the doors. As it happened, a man named Matt Rubano came in one night, asked Gabe if he could mix his own drink, and before long, had a queue of people lining up and asking him to do theirs. Gabe isn’t stupid, nor is he blind, and he hired Matt on the spot.

He can see Matt at the bar now, if he looks over his shoulder, checking the stock and disappearing out into the back room, coming back a moment later with a large crate of beer. Gabe is kind of amazed at the way Matt can hold down the bar all on his own, even though Gabe has offered several times to hire someone else in. Every time, Matt insists he can do it alone, that he wants to do it alone, and Gabe has seen the evidence, he’s more than capable, so he leaves him to it. Only having to pay one person hardly bothers him.

Gabe can’t see Will, but he assumes that he’s gone out the back to rifle through Gabe’s stuff. He does it fairly often, and Gabe still hasn’t bothered to ask why. He’ll get bored eventually, and toddle back out into the club to socialise by the time Gabe opens the doors. For now, Gabe turns his attention back to Ryan J, convinced that everything is running smoothly.

“What’s up Luciani, my man?”

Ryan J rolls his eyes and puts a CD on one of two piles. Gabe doesn’t bother asking what the two piles indicate. Luciani is a kickass DJ and Gabe will never, ever question his methods. He has this uncanny knack for knowing what people want to hear, what people are feeling, and he bounces off them, picking up on moods that Gabe didn’t even know existed and playing them for the masses. It’s kind of like an art, Gabe thinks, and you never ask an artist to explain why they do what they do.

“Pete just called, he’s on his way over,” Ryan tells him, and Gabe grins. Pete brings something to the party that you can’t find anywhere else, and Gabe loves him. Hopefully, tonight Pete will bring an extra thing nobody else can. A certain thing by the name of Patrick Stump.

“Did he say whether Patrick’s coming?”

Ryan laughs, and shakes his head. “Said that he’d threatened him, but that he wasn’t sure if he got a yes or a no. You know Patrick; if he doesn’t want to give a definite answer, he can be one vague motherfucker.”

Gabe does know Patrick, and does know just how elusive he can be when he doesn’t want to be somewhere. Crowds just aren’t really Patrick’s thing. Personally, Gabe thinks that if he could, Patrick would probably live in his coffee shop and never leave. Except occasionally to buy more milk, and even that would be a stretch. Maybe he’d carry coffee beans in his pockets so that he had a memento, a keepsake, while he was in the outside world. He wouldn’t doubt it.

“Got any special requests for tonight?” he asks as he shifts another CD over to a pile - the one on the right, this time.

Gabe shakes his head and pats Ryan on the arm. “You just work your magic Ryan J.”

Ryan smiles at him in response, lifts the headphone back to his ear and starts moving things around again. Gabe takes it as his cue, and wanders back towards the bar, checking the large clock on the wall. A couple of minutes until he opens. Donning a bright smile, Gabe makes his way over to the front door, and is happy to see that there’s a line formed. Nothing huge, no big names, but he’s beginning to make a name for himself and his club, and the regulars always come back. He’s ridiculously proud of what he’s created, and the line outside puts a smile on his lips and in his heart.

Pete is at the front of the line, and behind him, to Gabe’s delight, is Patrick. He looks awfully uncomfortable and out of place, and Gabe loves him for it.

“Oh my god, it’s a miracle. Patrick Stump, has left the coffee shop. I repeat: Stump has left the coffee shop.”

Patrick scowls at him, but really, he looks happy to be here, despite the fact that he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. It’s not often that they get Patrick out of a night, and Gabe doesn’t really expect him to be totally at ease. He’s probably not helping matters, but that’s what friends are for.

“Yeah. He gets to keep his legs tonight, I suppose,” Pete says in a dejected little voice, as if he’s a bit disappointed he doesn’t get to invoke his wrath on his best friend. He doesn’t really know why; in Gabe’s opinion, yelling at Patrick wouldn’t be much fun. Gabe prefers people who will shout and scream back - throwing things is always a bonus. Patrick seems like the kind of guy who would just stand there and try and make you see reason, and sigh in pity when you didn’t calm down.

“Unless I break them in there,” Patrick mumbles, looking down at his feet with cautious eyes.

Gabe can’t help but laugh. “Don’t worry, Trick. We’ll take good care of you. Scout’s honour.” He raises the scout’s salute, and Patrick huffs.

“You were never a scout,” he points out, and Gabe waves him off with a dismissive hand. Whatever. He could have been a scout if he really wanted to.

“Let’s open this baby up, yeah?” Gabe says to his security - this awesome guy called Bob who’s been with him from the start. Bob gives him a nod and cracks a smile, and Gabe is glad that Bob is the kind of security guy you can have a bit of a joke around with. He’d probably be too scared to even hire one of those burly, silent types.

He can hear Bob talking to the assembled line, but Gabe doesn’t wait around to listen. He’s about to head back into The Basement when he realises that Pete and Trick aren’t behind him. Rolling his eyes, he reaches back and grabs Pete’s arm, dragging him under the rope.

“You’re the owner’s best friends, and you think you have to line up with everyone else? I’m not that cruel.”

Pete gives him a look, one of those annoying oh really? looks, and Gabe pointedly ignores him. Gabe takes them to the bar first, and Matt slides them a few drinks across the bar in a quicker time than Gabe would have thought possible. This is why he hired him.

“Is Ryan going to be social tonight?” Gabe asks, turning to Pete. Pete just shrugs in response, taking a long swig of his beer (“mixed drinks are for chicks and wimps”) before answering.

“I have no idea. He said something about wanting to clean the house before Jon moves in tomorrow.”

Gabe raises his eyebrows and stares Pete down. “Liar. That’s Greta’s job.” He lets himself bask in temporary triumph. Catching people out in poorly formed lies is one of his favourite things to do, third after annoying Patrick, and staring at William.

“Greta’s gone to visit her parents for the weekend,” Pete replies easily, and Gabe scowls. Stupid Ryan being far too nice and letting people have time off when he could be here, enjoying himself. “Besides, Ryan likes cleaning. Says it calms him down.”

Gabe will never understand people. Honestly, how could cleaning his house even come close to comparing against partying in The Basement?

“His priorities are messed up, man,” Gabe says forcefully, and he tries not to let it show that he’s disappointed. Really, it doesn’t matter all that much. He just likes to know that he can give something back. It doesn’t matter that he’s paid off the money he owed to Ryan. It doesn’t matter that Ryan wasn’t expecting payment back in the first place. Ryan was the one who believed in him enough to lend him the money, and Gabe would like to think that he could show Ryan what he’s done with it, how seriously he’s taken it, and how well the club is going. So far, he can count on one hand the amount of times Ryan has set foot in The Basement since it opened. William’s here every weekend, sometimes even on weeknights.

In fact, Gabe thinks as he manoeuvres his way through a close-knit crowd of people on the dance floor, he’s going to call Ryan right now and give him a piece of his mind. Leaving Patrick and Pete in a daze behind him, Gabe makes for the back exit. He’s moving fast, intent on getting Ryan the hell over here before the party kicks off in full and he misses all the fun, when he stops dead in the middle of the floor.

He has to double check to make sure that it is what he thinks he’s seeing, before he’s moving with a new purpose in mind. His eyes are narrowed as he stalks toward the middle of the floor (just his luck that this has to happen in front of everybody). He reaches them, and is further enraged to see that the subject of his fury has his eyes closed and looks rather like he’s enjoying what’s happening.

William is dancing with his arms around some guy.

With a low growl in the back of his throat, Gabe clamps a hand down on the guy’s shoulder and tears him roughly backwards. He can hear a muffled “oh fuck, Gabe” from behind him, but he doesn’t stop to see who it was.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he says, and the voice that tears out of his throat sounds unfamiliar even to him. The usual laughter and carelessness is gone from his tone; all that remains is pure anger, betrayal, and the desperate desire to rip this guy to shreds.

“Who are you?” the guy retorts, flipping his bangs out of his eyes with a smug smile, and Gabe resists the urge to lunge at him.

“Who the fuck am I? I’m Gabe Saporta, and I own this place, so you better get your hands the fuck off him before I get security on you.” His hand still hasn’t loosened its grip on the guy’s shoulder, and he can see his knuckles turning white.

“Gabe, c’mon, don’t do this.” A hand settles on his upper arm, Patrick’s whispered voice in his ear. “Let it go, Gabe. Walk away.”

Gabe rolls his shoulders in an attempt to shrug the hand off, and Patrick complies, quietly. He can feel the soft reproach in Patrick’s eyes burning holes through the back of his head, and he flinches, but doesn’t let up. His skin is so heated he thinks he might start burning, and he’s never been so angry in his life. Bill fucking around with their guys, he can deal with. Sitting in Ryan’s lap, kisses on Travis’ cheek, he can deal with. Not some random fucker in his club.

“Look man, I didn’t know he was yours, okay?” The guy holds his hands up, palms flat in surrender, and Gabe takes his hand off his shoulder, but continues to stare at him, eyes icy.

“I’m not his,” Bill interjects quietly, but Gabe talks right over the top of him.

“You don’t touch him.”

He’d been drinking before the club opened, just to get himself loosened up, ready to flitter among his regulars and socialise. He’s not too drunk yet, but he can feel it beginning to affect his mind, his feelings, and he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter if he’s overreacting. He wants William away from this guy, now.

“Gabe, what the fuck?” It’s Bill’s voice that stops him where Patrick’s couldn’t, and he turns to face him, bewildered. Stuck for words, he just stares, beginning to realise what he’s done, beginning to realise that William probably liked dancing with this guy. He stands back, fighting the urge to punch the guy that William would choose over him, and puts his hands up in surrender.

He opens his mouth to say something, but can’t manage to get the words out. And then he just shakes his head before he turns on his heel and heads for the back room. The quicker he can get away from the anger in Bill’s eyes, the better. He hears someone start after him, his name dropping from lips in a rush, but then they stop, and he’s left alone. On his way past the bar, he swipes a beer from Matt without pausing, and then throws himself into one of the storerooms where he can berate himself in peace.

***

Brendon has an idea. It’s not much, but it’s an outline, the barest edges of what might one day become a plot, and that’s at least better than nothing. However, it’s the fifth idea that he’s tried to make work, so his hopes aren’t particularly high. The last four left him in this sort of mood as well. As if he can do anything, like he’s standing on the top of the world, and everything is perfect because finally he has the idea that’s going to send pages and pages churning from his fingers, the idea that’s going to make Ryland smile in relief and his publishers satisfied.

It’s nothing spectacular. But it’s the first thing that’s given him hope since... Well, since the last idea, if he’s being perfectly honest. But this feels different. This feels like it might be able to go somewhere, like he might have something to write about this time. The last four fell dead on the nose because he had no interest. He tried his best, but in the end he was just writing something that he was told to write, not what he felt. He couldn’t relate to the characters, nor their situation, didn’t understand their thought patterns, couldn’t put himself in their shoes. And that’s the only way Brendon knows how to write. To throw himself in all at once, submerged in the deep end of a character’s thoughts and write for them. To tell their story because he’s the only one who can. It doesn’t work if he’s just a bystander, writing for a deadline.

This time, he thinks, he might have something. This time, he knows these characters, knows them better than himself, sometimes. The only thing holding him back, is the knowledge that his... inspiration, may not be too happy with the end results. But oh well. He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. For now, he has a novel to plot.

Brendon takes a sip of his coffee a little too fast, and it scalds its way down his throat. He winces, but takes another large sip anyway. He’s bent over the notebook in front of him, writing so fast he’s a little wary that he might snap his pencil. His hand has already cramped up at least four times, but he does his best to ignore it and keeps writing.

Ryland would be proud of him, he thinks. Maybe he’ll call him tonight, just to gloat. Except that he knows doing so would only result in more pressure. He’s better off surprising them; slapping a manuscript down on Ryland’s desk and reaping the bragging rights afterwards. And so, he keeps his pencil to the paper, and doesn’t let up until he’s covered ten pages with notes and ideas and characters, his universe beginning to take shape before his eyes.

He’s not entirely sure that it’ll hold, but for now, it’s all he’s got, so he’ll take it and run with it.

It’s around midday that Gabe stumbles into the coffee shop. He looks miserable to say the least, but he brightens slightly when he sees Brendon. With a quick glance to the bin beside the table, Gabe is grinning.

“Brendon! Your bin is almost empty!” he shouts as if it’s a miracle. Brendon doesn’t answer, scribbles down a few more lines before the words register in his brain, and then his head snaps up and he falls out of his zone. Brendon supposes that it is kind of a miracle, really. This is the first time in months that he’s been able to keep writing, keep getting everything down, without filling the bin until it’s overflowing.

“Things are good, Gabe,” Brendon answers easily, shifting his arm to cover the piece of paper he’d been writing on. He knows that all the regulars are desperately eager to know what it is he’s writing, but he’s not about to tell them any time soon. Maybe, one day, he’ll show them all and let go of his secret, but for now, it’s something he wants to keep hidden. This place feels like home, the regulars like family, but that doesn’t mean that they have to know every little thing about each other.

“At least one of us is on the right track, huh?” Gabe says dryly, and Brendon abandons his pencil for the first time in four hours to look up and raise his eyebrows.

“Oh? And what have you done now?”

Gabe seems a little put out at the way Brendon automatically assumed that he’s the one who’s done something wrong, but he recovers quickly and opens his mouth to respond before Frank cuts him off.

“He almost beat up some poor guy at the club last night,” Frank snickers, and if looks could kill, Frank would on the floor in seconds with the way Gabe is looking at him. Frank seems unfazed, and just keeps grinning like it’s Christmas come early.

“Oh,” Brendon says, a small sound of acknowledgement. He tries to hold back his grin, and fails miserably. “This guy was somewhere in the vicinity of William Beckett, I assume? Perhaps looking at him from across the room? Brushed against his shoulder? Or heaven forbid, Gabe, did he dare to dance with your William?” Brendon throws a hand to his mouth dramatically, and Frank cackles madly. Gabe turns his glare to Brendon, full force, and Brendon can almost feel the acid pouring through to his bones.

“I hate you both,” he snaps, and then storms off to his usual booth. Brendon just rolls his eyes - Gabe’s tantrums are always more of a call for attention and joking than actual malice, but Patrick sighs and attempts to keep the peace by making Gabe his favourite lemon frappe, this time with added sprinkles. Gabe’s face lights up and Patrick allows a thank you but no payment, and Gabe slurps at his drink happily, all anger at Frank and Brendon forgotten. Most of the time, Gabe is easy to please.

He goes back to his papers with a drawn out sigh, nibbling on the end of his pencil. The interruption has left him stranded, and he can’t quite grasp the same ideas he was playing around with before Gabe entered the shop. He furrows his eyebrows and hunches down, worrying the eraser on the end of the pencil between his teeth and trying to think, but nothing is coming, and he lets out a loud groan of frustration.

Patrick notices and looks up from behind the counter, his eyes worried. “You okay, Bren?”

Frank turns his head to listen to the exchange, and though Gabe pretends like he hasn’t heard anything (probably more out of wanting to retain a facade of anger more than any respect for privacy), Brendon sees him cock his head to the side a little, and his eyes stay focussed in one place instead of scanning the newspaper he has in his hands. There’s no such thing as a private conversation in this place.

“I’m stuck,” he admits, and Patrick makes his way around the counter in a second. With a casual ease, Frank picks up where Patrick left off, washing coffee mugs with his eyes still trained on where Brendon is sitting.

When Patrick sinks into the chair beside him, he ducks his head and makes sure he keeps his voice low. No matter how much disrespect for personal conversations Gabe has, or how curious Frank is, Patrick will ensure that nobody overhears them. Brendon’s glad that he trusted Patrick with his secret.

“Can I help at all?” he asks softly, and Brendon knows that if there was something he could do, he’d do it in an instant. Patrick is awesome like that. Unfortunately, Brendon can’t think of any way Patrick could save him from Ryland’s wrath.

“Not unless you want to write a novel for me,” Brendon sighs, scribbling aimlessly on the piece of paper in front of him. “Ryland is going to have my head.”

Patrick frowns and reaches out to take the paper. Usually, Brendon is paranoid about anyone knowing anything about his novel before he finishes it. Some stupid superstition, like letting it out into the world before its time will see it crashing towards the ground. Right now though, it’s not like it’s shaping up to be a best-seller anyway, so why the hell not?

It takes a moment, and then Patrick is frowning, and then slowly, a small smile flitters across his face. “Gabe and William?” he questions, lowering his voice even further so that Gabe doesn’t hear them.

Brendon’s a little amused that Patrick figured it out so quickly, and his lips quirk at the corners. “That obvious?” It probably is, once he thinks about it. The names are different, and so is the situation, just barely, but it’s still fairly clear. His characters are just as clueless, just as infuriatingly oblivious, just as infatuated.

And he’s got it, he knows that he can make this one work, only... He can’t think of how it ends. He shuffles his papers around, slipping them into his folder and tucking his pen behind his ear. It’ll come to him, he hopes. For now, he wants to set it aside and think about something else for a change. The more time he spends on this, the harder it’s getting, and what he really needs is a break.

“If you know them well enough,” Patrick answers, handing Brendon the last piece of paper. Brendon adds it to the folder and shoves the whole thing in his bag just as Ryan enters the café with a lost sort of look on his face.

“Ryan! You, sir, are in so much trouble I can’t even begin to explain it.” Despite his words, Gabe is smiling, and it appears that whatever Ryan apparently did, it isn’t as bad as Frank and Brendon picking on him.

Ryan edges into the shop looking a little more wary now, keeping his distance from where Gabe is sitting, glancing towards Patrick for reassurance. “He’s not going to kill me, is he?” he asks as he passes the table, eyes shifting from Patrick to Brendon.

Patrick grins, and looks at Gabe. “I think that he deserves dismemberment at the least. After all, that was the threat put to the rest of us.” Sometimes, Patrick can be just as teasing as the rest of them, even if he usually prefers to be the only sane one around.

Now though, Ryan stares at him as if he’s sprouted an extra head. “You’re supposed to be sticking up for me!” he protests, as if Patrick has committed the highest form of betrayal there is. And perhaps he has. Going into league with Gabe isn’t something one does lightly.

Patrick gives an apologetic shrug, and Gabe’s eyes gleam. “You didn’t come to The Basement last night, Ryan.” He says it as if Ryan’s being accused of a crime. In Gabe’s eyes, he probably is.

And Ryan pauses, as if trying to think of what he did last night, before he rolls his eyes. “I was cleaning, Gabe. I promise I didn’t blow you off for someone cooler.” Something in Gabe’s eyes says that’s not all, that there was some other reason Ryan should have been there last night, but he doesn’t say anything, so nobody pushes it. You don’t push Gabe for details. If he wants to say something, he’ll say it (usually bluntly and offensively). Without making a sound, Patrick rises and slips back behind the counter, taking milk out of the fridge and mixing something into the blender. For a moment, that’s the only sound heard in the place, until Patrick stops the machine, pours the contents into a plastic cup, shoves in a straw and hands it to Ryan. In turn, Ryan raises his eyebrows in confusion, and Patrick grins.

“The Apology Special. Use it wisely,” he says simply, and a look of understanding dawns on Ryan’s face before he hands the drink over to Gabe. The fact that it was Patrick’s idea and handy-work doesn’t appear to matter; Gabe takes it anyway, putting the straw between his lips and taking a long slurp before he nods at Ryan solemnly.

“You’re forgiven.”

Brendon thinks that if everything in life was as easy as getting back in Gabe’s good books, everyone would be living the high life. Unfortunately, most things aren’t. Like writing a book for a deadline, for one.

Now safe from imminent death, Ryan slips into a seat and kicks his feet up. Patrick eyes him, flicking his gaze from Ryan’s face to his feet, and without him needing to say a word, Ryan gets the message, and pulls his feet down with a blush. Patrick will put up with Gabe and Travis knocking things over constantly, spilling drinks and breaking coffee grinders, but the second someone puts dirty feet on his precious couches, they’re in trouble. Patrick has an odd sort of outlook on things, sometimes.

“Has anyone seen Spencer lately?” Ryan asks, and though he tries to make it sound nonchalant, everyone can hear the undertone of worry to his voice.

“Missing your boyfriend already? It’s only been what, two days?” Gabe teases, but his eyes are warm, watchful, and there’s none of the earlier malice. This is how Brendon likes the shop; full of his favourite people and easy, laid-back laughter, something easy, quiet, relaxing. Here, he can... well, not kick his feet up, but sit back and let things roll off his shoulders. Here, he can forget about Ryland and the publisher’s stupid deadlines, and just relax.

Ryan snorts, so used to Gabe by now that the ‘boyfriend’ crack doesn’t bother him in the slightest. Instead, he just shrugs, and even he can see the way that, despite being apparently concerned about Spencer, Ryan is a lot more open and relaxed than he used to be. Brendon has no idea what caused it, but he’s beginning to think that maybe Spencer moving out is proving to be a good thing. If it means that Ryan is finally going to open his eyes and learn to be a little more independent, they’re all for it. And with Spencer having moved in with William, at least that seems to keep him a little more occupied and spending less time with his tongue down Gabe’s throat. It’s an Everybody Wins situation. Except perhaps Gabe. But then, he can’t always have what he wants, especially after going around and almost beating up poor guys in his own bar.

“He just hasn’t been around in a while, that’s all.”

A quick glance to the clock tells Brendon that it’s nearing on midday, which usually means that the suspects in question will be here soon. He had been considering making his way home before they arrived so that he could actually get some work done, but in light of recent events, he thinks that perhaps he’ll stay and wait. After all, watching Will and Gabe attempt to stay civil in the same room as each other after last night could prove to be very entertaining. From what he’s heard, Bill was less than impressed with Gabe’s behaviour, and Gabe being Gabe, will be adamant that he was in the right. It’s not in his nature to admit defeat and apologise. He might be remorseful for what he did, maybe, but there’s no way that he’ll tell William that he’s sorry. Which is saying something, really, because no matter how stubborn Gabe is, he’ll usually fold for Bill.

William Beckett has this odd knack for showing up exactly as he’s being talked or thought about. It would be annoying really, if it wasn’t so fucking creepy. None of them have any idea how he does it, and more than once it’s led to an awkward confrontation whether he’s just walked in on someone bitching him out (Victoria) or someone admitting feelings they hadn’t wanted William to know about (Gabe). It’s the sort of talent that Brendon doesn’t think he’d even want, really. Who wants to turn up just as someone’s saying how much they hate you? Not that the conversations ever really turn that venomous - along with this clever knack, William is also the kind of guy it’s impossible not to love at least a little - but either way, there’s got to be certain things he just wouldn’t want to hear. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

It’s through this ridiculous knack that William strolls through the door at that exact moment. Brendon has the sudden urge to think of something, someone else, as if he also has the power to know Brendon was thinking of him. All seems to go quiet as the playful chatter that had been filling the shop by Frank, Gabe and Ryan stops abruptly. They’re all left sitting there, at a complete loss for what to do, and the bright smile that had been on William’s face when he enters vanishes in a second.

“Did I just walk in on a funeral or what?” he says, forcing out a weak chuckle, and Brendon almost feels bad for him. Or at least he would, if this wasn’t so fun to watch.

Gabe and William used to be the sort of best friends you wanted to be like, the ones who could hold entire conversations in a glance, a quirk of the lips, a wriggle of an eyebrow. There were no secrets, no slipping around each other. And then Gabe discovered what it was to fall in love, and everything went downhill from there because he’s still too afraid to actually tell William. And Gabe will swear up and down that he doesn’t love him, that it’s “just a random hook up every now and then, whatever”, but Brendon can see, they can all see, what both Gabe and William can’t. It doesn’t matter how oblivious William is, or how stubborn or in denial Gabe is.

“Hi, Bill,” Gabe speaks up, and when William turns to look at him, the expression on his face is almost surprise. A bit of surprise, maybe a tiny bit of resentment still, and this aching need to forgive that Brendon can’t look away. His folder is completely forgotten now, and the idea of going home to finish working sounds ridiculous. “Feeling okay?” Gabe continues, his voice gaining confidence as he goes. He’s quick to recover, if nothing else, and despite the fact that he still wants to slaughter anyone daring to put their hands on William, he doesn’t like having Bill angry at him.

They all know that after Gabe stormed out of the club last night, William had proceeded to get himself drunker than drunk, completely and utterly off his face until he stumbled outside and collapsed in a heap at Bob’s feet. Always the kind soul, Bob had picked him up and taken him home, staying while William threw his guts up. Brendon can see why Gabe hired him, really, and he’s glad that at least someone was in the right sort of mind to look after William. At any rate, nobody was really expecting to see him until tomorrow, or at least not until late afternoon.

And yet here he stands - admittedly, looking rather under the weather. “Fine, thank you. Bob’s a saint, really. He and Patrick will be facing off for Kindest Person Alive any time now.” He’s rambling, he knows that, but he can’t help himself. At least it brings a small smile to Patrick’s face, though he tries to hide it by busying himself making coffee for no one in particular. Maybe that’s the one bad thing about rarely having any business outside the regulars: there’s no one to come in and distract him when he doesn’t want to be the centre of attention.

“At least you didn’t get hit on by some woman in her fifties,” Frank mutters from behind the counter. Brendon likes Frank. He’s good entertainment value, and he’s usually pretty good at lightening any kind of sombre mood. Whether it be with projectile sprinkles or clever remarks, Frank knows how to get a smile on almost everyone’s face. Today is no different, and there’s an appreciative laugh from William, turning his attention to Frank gratefully.

“It’s because you’re so sexy, Frank. Why the hell was there a woman in her fifties at the club anyway?” he asks, and Brendon has to second the question. It’s not exactly the most Family Friendly place.

Frank shrugs his shoulders, placing his palms flat on the counter and leaning his weight on them, a sparkle in his eyes. “I’ve no idea. To pick up hot guys like myself?”

With a snort, Patrick finishes making his coffee and turns to his colleague. “She wasn’t sixty, Frank, she was like, forty. It’s that motorbike. Must’ve worked after all,” he says wryly, and they must be missing out on some inside joke, because Frank laughs loudly and nudges him in the side.

“Maybe I’ll let you borrow it, Trick. You could get yourself a nice lady for the night.”

To his credit, Patrick doesn’t even falter. “Maybe we could ask her if she’s interested in a threesome, huh? On the motorbike, even. You wear the jacket.”

That’s all it takes, and Frank is screwing up his nose and throwing his hands up in surrender. By the sound of disgust coming from Gabe, he quite agrees. “I don’t want to even think about you two screwing any old ladies on motorbikes anywhere near my club. In fact, just for dirtying your mouths and our ears with that kind of talk, I’m enforcing life bans. Neither of you are allowed to step foot in my club ever again.”

William laughs and flops down into the chair beside Gabe so easily that no one notices at first, and then William stiffens up as if he’s just remembered he’s supposed to be angry. Brendon watches - and takes notes in his head, but no one need know about that - and William eventually seems to finish arguing with himself and relaxes, apparently content to blow the whole thing off for now. Brendon expected as much, as by the look on Patrick and Frank’s faces, they did too. When Gabe and William fight, it never really lasts long. They’re sort of like twins who’ve been separated at the hip (or perhaps lips) sometimes, and it’s almost like one can’t function properly without the other. They need each other for their own sanity, and usually, one or both of them will cave in a matter of hours or less. As far as Brendon can remember, the longest fight they’ve ever had lasted a week, and was when Gabe dropped out of college to pursue the idea of running his own night club. William had seen this as another one of Gabe’s “I can’t do anything right” phases, and immediately demanded that he pick back up his courses and graduate. Gabe decided that William was being too pushy, William said that Gabe was being too insecure, and they ran around in circles for a week before Patrick forced them to call a truce.

“Jon’s moving in this afternoon,” Ryan says to fill the silence that follows, and William’s eyes gleam. They all know about Ryan renting his place out, but only William has properly met Jon, while the others were busy engaging in the Sprinkle War.

“Are you excited, Ry? It’s the beginning of your new life without Spencer. Really, this afternoon will be a day for the history books. The Day Ryan Ross Grew Up. The children of the future shall know of your sacrifice Ryan Ross, and the way you bravely rented out your home to those in need.”

Sometimes, Ryan really hates Gabe. He has an annoying tendency to frequently take things too far, and one day, Ryan’s going to get sick of being the subject of 90% of Gabe’s teasing. Or perhaps that’s an exaggeration. Pete probably gets it worse, but then, Pete probably deserves it. “While you’re informing the world of my accomplishments and re-writing all the school history textbooks, Gabe, do remember to add in that part about you being an asshole. I’d hate for the children of the future to miss out on that vital piece of information.”

Gabe nods, his grin still firmly in place, and really, it’s like he was never miserable about William at all, let alone five minutes ago. The guy’s mood swings are ridiculous. They roll with it though; it’s safer to just go along with it than to remind them that they’re supposed to be pissed off. It’s a lot more fun dealing with a laughing and happy Gabe and William than it is to deal with angry and brooding Gabe and William.

“Is he the only one?” Frank asks, and the real question underlies the words without him having to say them.

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Pete is definitely not moving in with me. I don’t care how nuts Victoria drives him, he’s not living in my house. You know how much mess he makes.”

“Where is Pete today? Shouldn’t he be working? The slacker.” William looks around as if Pete is going to pop out from behind a couch or a pot plant, don his apron and jump behind the counter, ready for work.

Patrick just laughs. “Where was Pete last night, William?”

“The club...”

“And where do you think Pete is now?”

A look of realisation dawns on Bill’s face and he grins. “Throwing up in a toilet, most definitely. So he was worse than me?” He appears to take joy in the fact that he wasn’t the worst case scenario last night, despite the fact that Pete writing himself off like that every weekend is a common occurrence.

“Pete will never, ever, work a Sunday. It’s pretty much a fact of life,” Frank explains, and he doesn’t seem that fussed that it means he and Patrick each have to work 7 days a week. Once upon a time, they used to both get Sundays off. Patrick left the shop in Pete’s charge, and hired a kid just out of high school, Alex DeLeon, to help bring up the slack. And then Gabe opened The Basement so Pete was no longer an option, and Alex quit soon thereafter in order to pursue his dreams of starting a band. It’s a wonder that Patrick and Frank haven’t put their collective foot down and told Pete to pull his weight and work a Sunday shift or two, but they seem content enough to fill the slot. Working seven days a week doesn’t do much for a social life, but then, their friends spend most of their time in the shop anyway, so it’s not like they’re missing out on anything. According to Pete, it’s a perfectly fair trade-off.

“So, when can we come over and meet Jon?” William asks. “Spencer’s dying to meet his replacement.”

Ryan groans and puts his head in his hands. “If any of you act anything like you usually do, none of you will ever meet him. He seems like an awesome guy, and he doesn’t need to be scarred and tainted by any of you lot.”

They each do their best to act shocked and appalled, which really, just ends up leaving them with twisted facial expressions similar to that of someone who’s just swallowed a lemon, and Ryan shakes his head at them.

“We are model citizens, Ryan. Jon Walker could learn a thing or two from us,” Gabe insists, and Ryan ignores him in favour of looking over at Brendon. He seems to have gone quiet again, and when Ryan looks over, he sees why. Some form of inspiration must have snagged Brendon while they were talking, because he’s fished the piece of paper he had before out of his bag and is scribbling over the back of it hastily (the front is already covered in his tiny scrawl). As Ryan watches, Brendon grins to himself and reaches for his cell phone, stuffing the paper back into the bag at the same time.

“Gotta run guys. I have a phone call to make,” he says to the room at large, and then before anyone gets a chance to reply, he’s running out the door. With every day that Brendon sits here and writes, Ryan grows more curious to know what he’s working on.

“I best be off too, actually.” Ryan follows suit and stands up. “Don’t want to leave Jon stuck outside.” He doesn’t know whether to be excited or nervous about having someone new living with him - a complete stranger at that - but he brushes it aside and smiles bright.

“Good luck!” Frank calls, and Ryan nods his thanks and takes a deep breath. He waves quickly to the others, and leaves just a few seconds after Brendon, shutting the door behind him and stuffing his hands into his pockets. This is something he can do, he’s sure of it. It’s just a little nerve-wrecking, having someone in his house who isn’t Spencer or Greta. He’s not the most gracious host; he tends to forget that there are people around and goes about his daily routine as per usual. However, he has to remind himself, this is different. He doesn’t have to play host because Jon Walker is not a guest, he’s a roommate. Technically, Ryan could probably go about his life without having to ever speak to Jon. The house is certainly big enough to accommodate the both of them without any awkward run-ins. But Ryan has met Jon, and he seems like the kind of guy he wants to get to know, and so maybe this won’t be so bad. He hopes.

He walks home in order to clear his head, and takes the time to think about how Spencer is getting on with William. He’ll call him tonight, he decides. It’s only been two days, but he’s so used to seeing Spencer first thing every morning, and the past couple of days have been weird. Ever since they were kids, Spencer has spent most of his time in the spare room across the hall from Ryan, and then he moved in, and Ryan stopped trying to imagine what it would be like when they grew up and Spencer left, because they were grown up, and Spencer was still there. When his world fell apart, Spencer was just across the hall, ready to pick him up and put everything together again, and Ryan has come to rely on him more than he would like to admit. What is all comes down to is: Ryan misses his best friend.

By the time he gets to the house, Jon is waiting outside after all. Once he spots the figure learning against the wall of the house, Ryan breaks into a jog and starts apologising as soon as he’s within ear-shot.

“Jon? Oh, I’m so sorry. I got caught up at Patrick’s, sorry, sorry. Have you been waiting long?”

Jon smiles, that same easy-going smile he had the day Ryan met him, and Ryan automatically feels himself relaxing. “Not long, it’s fine. My stuff’s just in my car; I was wondering if you could help me move everything inside?” Jon indicates to the only car sitting in the driveway (Ryan’s never bothered with buying one) and Ryan nods.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. That’s fine.” First, he unlocks the door and lets them both inside, figuring he should show Jon around before they start to move in any of his belongings. It must be kind of weird for Jon, to be moving into a house he’s never even seen.

“Wow, it’s beautiful,” are the first words out of Jon’s lips as they move into the entrance, and Ryan breathes a sigh of relief at the tidy appearance of the house. He hadn’t gotten around to finishing all of the cleaning on Saturday night, but even the piles of random crap he’d started to toss out of the storage cupboard (when Ryan cleans, he can’t help but clean everything) are gone. The only explanation is that Greta has come home from her parents’ early. He feels a new wave of affection for her, and revels in the knowledge that he doesn’t have to spend his first day getting used to Jon Walker alone.

Motioning for Jon to follow him, Ryan begins to move through the house, showing Jon each room on the first floor quickly. They pass the living room, the study, the kitchen and the dining room before they run into Greta, and Ryan smiles at her, trying to convey his thanks.

“Jon, this is Greta, Greta this is Jon.” They shake hands and smile, and Ryan struggles to find the words he’s looking for. “Greta is... Well, technically, she picks up after me, but she’s also one of the most awesome people in the world.” It’s probably not a very accurate description of Greta - with the excellent cleaning job she’s done for him, he’s beginning to think universe is more appropriate - and he hopes that Jon won’t be the kind of guy to treat her as below him just because she’s the maid, but his smile doesn’t falter.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Jon Walker, I’m your new roommate.”

Ryan appreciates the way he refers to Greta as their ‘roommate’ and he makes a mental note saying something along the lines of Jon Walker is Awesome.

“Don’t make too much of a mess and I’m sure we’ll get along spectacularly,” Greta says, and then, with a wink at Jon, “but don’t worry, I’m used to picking up after Ryan and nobody makes as much mess as that kid.”

Ryan blushes and scuffs his feet like a child being scolded. “’m not that bad.”

She just laughs and gestures around her. “Look at how spotless this place is! Well, it certainly wasn’t like that when I came home this morning and found the place full of piles of trash.”

“I was cleaning out the storage,” he says, as if that explains everything, and she puts her hands on her hips.

“Oh were you? Wonderful. Don’t do it again.”

Ryan flashes a grin and salutes her. “Yes ma’am.”

“Don’t mind him, Jon,” Greta says, and when she smiles at him, there’s a little something extra that Ryan’s never seen before. “He may be a total slob and a bit of a tool, but he’s a sweetheart, really.”

Choosing not to say anything about the sparkle in her eye, Ryan decides that while he may not say anything about that particular discovery, he’s certainly entitled to standing up for himself. “I’m tidy and I’m nice, Greta. Jon’s going to be living here; the least you could do is keep him from running for the hills just yet.”

If Jon’s feeling at all overwhelmed or awkward, he doesn’t show it. His posture is relaxed, even standing in the middle of an unfamiliar room, and he’s got one of those smiles people talk about, the ones that could rival the sun. Ryan has never really believed people when they talk about that kind of smile, but it’s hard to ignore something when it’s right in front of you. Jon has that ridiculous talent of making people feel comfortable wherever they are. He radiates this casual confidence and ease that’s contagious, and before he knows it’s happening, Ryan can feel any tension oozing out of his shoulders, his lips turning up into a smile without any conscious effort. He thinks he’s going to like having Jon Walker around.

They leave Greta in the kitchen where she agrees to make lunch for the three of them, and then Ryan takes Jon up the stairs. Jon immediately falls in love with the little bedroom down the hall. It’s nothing special, but the sun hits it just right of a morning, and it’s got this bright, sweet glow to it that Jon looks perfectly at home in. It’s small, but Jon doesn’t seem to mind, and it’s far enough away from Ryan’s room that they won’t be constantly knocking each other over in the hall, but close enough that Ryan is reminded that somebody else is going to live with him. Before, he was anxious, but watching the way Jon grins and sets his suitcase down on the bed, Ryan is glad that Jon’s bedroom is kind of close. Now that he has it, he realises he’s been kind of craving companionship, someone who isn’t Spencer being there to talk to of a morning and night, and now he has Jon, and Jon is more than satisfactory.

And though he tries to ignore it and shove it to the back of his mind, Ryan is a little relived that Jon didn’t choose the room across the hall. It doesn’t matter that he’s moved out; that room is Spencer’s, and will always be Spencer’s. He’s been there for years, and it would feel weird for someone else to sleep there, to live there. Suddenly, Ryan begins to understand the “boyfriend” remarks, and promptly turns his thoughts elsewhere.

When they head back downstairs, Ryan finds Greta dishing out ramen, and grins. Who cares if it’s nothing gourmet, Greta knows just how he likes it, and it’s quick and easy and it tastes good, so Ryan is more than happy to eat it. After all, Greta isn’t his cook, and he’s learnt in the past that there’s a good reason for it. Had she attempted anything much trickier than ramen or sandwiches, there’s a good chance that Ryan would have had to call the fire department, and then refurbish his kitchen. Ever since the Hamburgers Incident, Ryan has learnt not to trust her alone in the kitchen.

They sit down at the table and dig straight in, and nobody says a word for the first few minutes. Ryan’s at a loss for what to say, really, and Jon looks like he’s too hungry to bother speaking until he’s finished eating. Greta watches them both with a vague smile, but Ryan doesn’t miss the way her eyes brighten when she looks at Jon. The silence is beginning to seep into Ryan’s bones, and he purposely scrapes his fork against the bowl in order to fill the room with some sort of sound, and Greta just laughs at him. She knows him too well, and in the next second, she clears her throat to speak.

“So what do you do, Jon?”

Ryan snorts and puts his head down, shovelling noodles into his mouth as a means of distraction, because he knows that despite what he originally thought, Greta isn’t asking for Ryan’s benefit.

Jon flashes a grin, and has this look of such contentment in his eyes that even Ryan is eager to hear what he does for a living, now. Maybe something artistic to give him such a glow, or maybe it’s just that he makes a lot of money. And then, “I’m a kindergarten teacher,” Jon says, and Ryan thinks of course. There are only two types of people who can listen as well as Jon and be so calm and collected around new people: teachers and psychiatrists. Ryan might have had a little trouble imagining Jon as a teacher, if only because he doesn’t think Jon has it in him to be very firm, but the idea of Jon working with kids that young is probably the cutest thing Ryan has ever heard.

“You enjoy it?” Ryan asks, even though the look on Jon’s face pretty much gives him his answer.

“I love it. The kids, you know, they sort of make up a little part of you. Once you’re in, they grab on with their tiny little hands and refuse to let go. We actually mean something to them, y’know? It’s not like... Like teaching older kids, who just tolerate you because they have no choice, or go out of their way to drive you insane. These kids actually love you. It’s awesome.” He shrugs, smiles, and slurps up another noodle, and from the way he speaks, Ryan has this sudden urge to go and teach kindergarten. Jon’s only been here a day, and already he’s doing ridiculous things to Ryan’s brain.

“That’s really cool. You don’t hear of many guys enjoying that kind of job, these days,” Greta says, and she has this look on her face like she’s really impressed, and Ryan can almost see the little hearts in her eyes. As adorable as she is when she’s like this, he wonders what kind of affect this will have on his house. He didn’t rent it for some sort of Perfect Match meet-up, but as long as things don’t go horrendously bad, he’s happy for her. It’s been a while since Greta met someone who treated her right, and if Jon’s the guy to do it, then Ryan wishes them all the best.

He finishes his lunch quickly, and then makes up some excuse for retreating to his room as fast as possible. Really, he’d just prefer not to be in the room when the kissy-faces start.

Part Four

Fic: The Coffee Shop AU - part 2

lightisbreaking — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 14:16:55 GMT

Part Two

For the majority of the time Spencer had lived with Ryan, he tried convincing Ryan to enrol in college. Earlier, around six months after the death of his parents and when Spencer decided to move in, Spencer brought it up as a means of distraction. At least if Ryan was swamped down in college courses and assessment work, he wouldn’t have so much time spent to himself and dwelling in his own head. Ryan was never really one to cope with things. He doesn’t possess the ability to acknowledge something, accept it and move on. Instead, he brushes past it and doesn’t allow himself to think on it until it’s built up to something he can’t deal with, something so large not even Spencer can drag him out of his room when it hits him. And so, Spencer enrolled alone, and when he met William and Gabe, he thought that perhaps they would be able to convince Ryan where he couldn’t.

Gabe proved to be exceedingly wrong for the task. In fact, after just one semester, he himself dropped out, declaring that he was going to open his own bar, do what he wanted, and be damned everyone else. And they had to give him credit. Once the most unmotivated person in the world, within a year, Gabe became the successful night club owner of what he named “The Basement”, and maybe it’s not home to the rich and famous, but it’s a nice escape, an awesome hangout once Patrick closes the coffee shop for the night.

And so, at twenty-three, Ryan finds himself without any proper career or tertiary education. What he does have, however, is his tutoring business. It’s nothing major, nothing special, just teaching guitar to the few kids who seek him out. Ryan is good with money; he knows how to save, knows to budget himself and not go overboard with the luxuries, even if he could afford to. He does well with the inheritance he has, and the money his uncle puts into his account as something of a thank you. In all honesty, he doesn’t need a job for the money. But he likes teaching, likes the look on the kids’ faces when they master something they’ve been trying for weeks. It’s something quiet, small, something he doesn’t need to spend every day on, but still gets him out of the house every now and then.

His Saturday appointment is with Alicia, the sharp-eyed and intelligent beyond her years twelve-year-old he’s been tutoring for the past six months. Like most of his other students, Alicia’s mother firmly insists that she be taught at Ryan’s home. Why, he’s never bothered to ask. If anything, he prefers to hold their lessons in the comfort of his own home.

It’s getting into the late afternoon, and she’s due in about half an hour. That gives him plenty of time for the coffee he’s been craving all afternoon, and so he trudges into the kitchen, hearing his own feet slap against the tile and frowning at the sound as it seems to echo. The house is disturbingly empty since Spencer moved out, and it’s only been a day. It’s just that it’s so big and he feels so small in comparison, and there’s no way in hell that one person needs this much room. It sort of scares him, if nothing else.

He deliberates for about half a second before he decides that he really can’t be fucked with the plunger, and reaches for the instant. It doesn’t taste nearly as good, he knows, but it’s quick, it’s easy, and that’s exactly what he wants right now. Just as he’s adding sugar, there’s a loud knock at the door, and Ryan places his mug back down on the counter with a groan and goes to answer the door.

It flings open just before his hand reaches the doorknob, and Pete grins at him. “Ryan! Hope you don’t mind I’m here a little early.” He steps in without waiting to be invited.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work for another hour? My student and I booked this time for a reason,” Ryan answers dryly, and Pete laughs.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily. No, Patrick let me off early, because he loves me. And maybe, because Gabe broke the coffee grinder, and he decided to close up shop until tomorrow. But mostly because he loves me.”

Ryan resists the urge to roll his eyes, but just barely. Really, he’s not that upset. Pete showing up on everyone’s doorsteps at random intervals is actually kind of commonplace. He’s not too fond of his own apartment (which, to be fair, does kind of always smell like rotten eggs), and prefers to spend as much time as possible annoying everyone else. As soon as he found out about Ryan’s guitar tutoring, he jumped on the opportunity. Not only did it give him a chance to get out of the house, but now he’s able to fuck around on his guitar in a place where it’s actually encouraged. Patrick won’t let him play at the café, for obvious reasons, and his roommate is this girl, Victoria, who’s into all of that discover your inner self stuff. She spends the majority of her time meditating, and doesn’t like to be disturbed by Pete’s guitar playing.

Personally, Ryan thinks it’s all a bit of a fruitless activity, taking into consideration the fact that Pete rarely plays guitar when he comes over.

“Alicia will be here soon, so you might want to hide for a minute. You know how much her mother hates you being here.” Ryan doesn’t blame her, not really. Having arrived to pick up her daughter early one day, and overhearing Pete teaching her what he deemed to be the acceptable time and place to say ‘cunt’, Ryan had been expecting to be fired on the spot. Thankfully, she only demanded that Pete never be allowed near her daughter again. Ryan wasn’t about to lose this student; for all her stubborn attitude and sarcastic remarks, she’s a good kid and a fast learner, and Ryan enjoys teaching her.

“You mean you’re letting me stay?” Pete looks way too ecstatic to be around for teaching a twelve year old girl, but Ryan’s not about to question it. If there’s one thing he’s learnt over the years since he’s known Pete, it’s never to question his motives. You’ll only end up regretting it after you spend four hours listening to him ramble on and spinning off the subject at least ten times before he remembers what he was saying.

“If you behave yourself,” Ryan says warningly, and Pete bats his eyelashes at him.

“I always behave myself,” he insists, and Ryan just rolls his eyes, shooing Pete into the study when the doorbell rings.

Alicia’s mother doesn’t wait for Ryan to open the door. Instead she just strides in, head held high, long red fingernails clutching sharply at her purse, lips formed into a thin line. Ryan’s never really had a lot of time for the mother, but she pays the bills, so he’s learnt to put up with her.

“Hello, Mrs Simmons. May I ask how you’ve been?” Let it never be said that Ryan Ross wasn’t raised to be the proper little gentleman. He doesn’t particularly like it, but the hawk woman is that kind of person, the sort you have to be ridiculously polite to lest she tear his throat out. As Mrs Simmons glances around the room - probably checking that Pete isn’t anywhere in sight - Ryan sneaks a wink at Alicia and she grins back at him.

“As well as can be expected.” Ryan resists the urge to gag at her tone. She speaks with that air of superiority, aloof and with a permanent streak of disdain. She’s still staring around the room, and Ryan knows that it doesn’t matter that the house is gorgeous - his parents had excellent taste in furnishing and decorating - she’ll still see it as below her.

There’s a dull thud coming from the study, and Ryan’s mind starts up with a healthy round of cursing.

“What was that?” Mrs Simmons asks dryly, as if daring Ryan to admit that there’s someone else in the house. Ryan’s not going to give her the satisfaction. He may be in his early twenties - the raucous, good-for-nothing age (second only to teenagers), according to her - and he may play guitar, and he may prefer to spend his free time with a group of chaotic misfits, but he’s one hell of a liar.

“Probably just the maid, I assume. She’s always dropping things.” There. He supposes that ought to satisfy her. Insult the hired help and she’ll probably agree with him in a second. Ryan really hates the woman. In fact, his maid is a delightful girl, and Ryan feels guilty having her clean up after him. Still, she’s the daughter of his parents’ best friend, and she refuses to take no for an answer. Ryan pays her back by doubling her wage and trying his best to treat her like a roommate more than anything else. It helps that Greta treats him nothing like her boss.

The Hawk Woman makes some stupid noise of disgust before she turns to her daughter. “I must be off darling, terribly busy today.”

Alicia lets herself be kissed on the cheek, but as soon as her mother is out the door, she starts scrubbing furiously at the lipstick stain. “Blergh. Hey, Ryan. So Pete’s in the study, yeah?” She grins at him, and Ryan can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah. He probably broke the computer desk or something, I have no idea.”

She runs ahead of him and into the study, and Ryan hears the wild laughter of a child before he even makes it to the door. When he does, however, he finds Pete sprawled on the floor, foot caught in a wastepaper basket and papers all over the floor. Alicia stands off to the side, doubled up with laughter and making no move to help him whatsoever.

“How did you manage that?” Ryan asks wryly, fighting to keep the smirk off his face and failing miserably.

Pete glares at him from the floor, but the sting of the look is ruined by his current predicament. “I was trying to be quiet! And then I went to sit down on the chair, and well, missed, and then one thing sort of led to another and now here I am. And she’s just laughing at me and not helping!” Only Pete could manage to make out that the twelve year old was picking on him. Ryan thinks this is perhaps why the two get along so well. He’s as much of a child as she is.

“Who here is the independent twenty-four year old?” Ryan taps his finger to his chin, and Pete scowls.

“I am.”

“And who’s the twelve year old girl?”

“Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean-“

Pete cuts Alicia off before she can start on one of her feminist rants. For a twelve year old, she’s ridiculously opinionative. “She is.”

“And who’s the one on the floor with his foot stuck in a bin?” Ryan finishes with wide eyes.

If looks could kill, Ryan would be dead five different ways to Sunday. “I am,” Pete says through gritted teeth.

“I’d say, that gives her every right to pick on you. Wouldn’t you, Alicia?”

She puts on her stern face and nods. Then she pokes Pete in the side and laughs again, and the facade is broken. “Get off the floor, Pete. It’s time for my lesson.”

Ryan doesn’t really want to know whose lesson she’s talking about - his or Pete’s. It’s probably safer not to ask. Instead, he frees Pete from the bin and hauls him off the floor, and herds them both into the living room. Greta passes them on her way out the door, suitcase in hand and blonde hair thrown up into a rugged ponytail.

“I’m heading out to see my parents for the weekend, Ry. I’ll be back Monday, if that’s cool?” She smiles at him, lips curved up prettily and eyes shining, and Ryan thinks that she’s the type of girl he’d be attracted to if he hadn’t always known her as the Greta Who Cleans His Toilet. She feels like his best friend, second only to Spencer, and she knows things about him that Ryan doesn’t even remember telling her.

“Of course, take as long as you want,” Ryan tells her. It really is the worst boss-employee relationship ever, but he feels better for it.

“Awesome. I’ll see you later. Bye Pete, Alicia.” She disappears out the door with a small wave, and Pete whistles as soon as it closes.

“Still don’t understand why you haven’t tapped that Ryan, honestly. She’s hot.”

Ryan smacks him in the back of the head, shooting a warning look in Alicia’s direction. Pete shrugs. “She’s said it before, too.”

Alicia smiles at him innocently, eyes wide, and Ryan huffs. “Betrayed by my own friends. Maybe I’ll just leave you two here and go and hang out with Gabe.”

Both of them snort in unison, and Ryan thinks that they really need to stop spending so much time around each other. They’re getting far too similar, far too used to insulting his intelligence. And besides, it can’t be good for Pete’s reputation as a respectable citizen if he’s always hanging around twelve year old girls. And yet he likes having Alicia around twice a week. She’s got one of those brains that’s always a step ahead, and you can never catch up. She’s wise beyond her years with a keen eye for things, and Pete has taken her education up as a personal challenge. Though Pete’s idea of teaching differs greatly to that of the accepted curriculum.

From the corner of the room, Ryan fetches both of his guitars and the one that Pete usually leaves over. Alicia takes one happily, sitting down on the floor and resting it on her lap. Pete leans against the wall, and Ryan takes the couch. He loves Saturdays like these, where he gets to play his guitar and let himself relax around the only two people who don’t watch him constantly. And if he gets paid for it, that’s a bonus, too.

“Pick up where we left off on Wednesday?” Ryan asks to the room at large, receiving murmured responses of agreement in return. He smiles; they’re all in that space, now. The joking is gone, and it’s time to let the music take them. At least until Pete decides it’s time for another lesson.

***

The café is quiet, for once, and Patrick hums quietly to himself as he runs the damp cloth along the counter. He’s getting ready to close up for the day, which means that Gabe, Travis and William have already headed off to Gabe’s bar, and Pete is probably on his way over to join them, having been at Ryan’s place for the past few hours. It’s not often that he gets some peace and quiet around here, and as much as Patrick loves his friends, he revels in the times where he can close up shop in peace.

“Trick? I made you a smoothie, before I clean up.”

Patrick starts with a jolt, realising that he’d stopped cleaning and had been staring off into space. Frank’s voice snaps him back to reality, and he turns with a smile, accepting the drink from him with a thank you.

“You can clear off as soon as you want, Frank. I can finish up.”

Frank shrugs. “It’s cool, I’ll help you close. Got nowhere else to be.” He flashes a quick grin, and Patrick remembers why hiring Frank was one of the best decisions he’d ever made. The kid came in, fresh out of dropping out of college and looking for somewhere to help him pay the bills. Patrick works all day every day, at the time with only Pete to help out, and he could use the extra help. Normally, it’s fine, the place never really gets that busy. There’ll be the occasional new customer, but Patrick knows most of them by now, the ones who haven’t been scared off by the loud cluster of people in the corner every day. He knows that he should probably try and move, find a better location, more business, but honestly, he prefers it where he is. He doesn’t mind making less money if it means he gets to keep the atmosphere he’s built up here, and he knows that he can keep himself on his feet. Frank though, Frank turned out to be a real asset, and Patrick would trust his life in that man’s hands. He even trusts Frank with the café, and this place is his baby, his home.

When Patrick looks up from where he’s cleaning the coffee grinder (he’d had to have Frank fix it after Gabe broke it earlier during the day), he spots a figure hunched over in one of the corner tables. With a sigh, he recognises the lips chewing on the end of a pen, the usual basket overflowing with paper on the floor beside him. He thought he’d gone home for the day, but apparently not.

Abandoning his cloth, Patrick slips around the counter and goes to sit in the seat beside him, touching his elbow lightly to announce his presence.

“Everything okay, Brendon?”

Patrick takes the time to get to know his customers, but in Brendon’s case, it’s something entirely different. Patrick’s known him for years, and is one of the few who Brendon has trusted enough to talk to, to tell him all about his double-personality.

Brendon looks up sharply, as if he hadn’t noticed Patrick sit beside him despite Patrick touching him. When he sees who it is he relaxes, lips twisting into a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, Trick. You’re trying to close, of course. I’ll clear off.” He’s already collecting scattered papers into a pile and tucking his pen behind his ear when Patrick stops him.

“Woah, Brendon. It’s fine. Pushed for time, huh?”

Brendon groans, rubbing a hand through his hair roughly and dislodging the pen. It falls to the ground with a quiet clatter, and Brendon ignores it. “Ryland called this morning.”

Patrick makes an ah sound and nods slowly. He doesn’t need to ask any more about that particular conversation; Brendon’s posture says it all. “I thought you went home around midday? I didn’t even see you hiding out in the corner here.”

Again, Brendon shrugs and gives an embarrassed quirk of his lips. “Came back. This place helps me write, y’know? Just the. The atmosphere, and. All of you.” There’s a tiny secretive smile on his lips now, like Brendon knows something he doesn’t, but Patrick doesn’t bother pushing it. If Brendon wants to tell him, he will.

“I get it. You know you’re welcome here whenever you want, Bren.”

Brendon smiles for real this time, grateful, before he ducks down to pick up his pen again. “Thanks Trick. I appreciate it. Really.”

Patrick stands up and lets Brendon get his things together, retreating back to the coffee grinder. When Brendon leaves, Patrick waves his goodbyes and shakes his head. “Poor kid’s being pressured too much,” he mutters.

“Gonna head over to the club later, Patrick?” Frank calls from the back room, and Patrick finishes up cleaning and follows him. Frank is already shrugging on his backpack, apron off and stuffed in his bag, leather jacket hugging his frame over his work shirt.

“Not sure. Pete called me up earlier and threatened me with dismemberment or worse if I don’t,” he answers with a shrug, undoing his own apron and hanging it on the wall. He doesn’t bother to take it home with him. Frank grins back at him and throws him his bag.

“Ah. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Wentz. At least he’s been with Ryan all afternoon and has probably burnt off all that annoying energy.”

Patrick snorts and makes sure the safe is locked before he leads the way back out through the front of the shop, flicking off fans and lights as he goes. “I wouldn’t count on it. Pete doesn’t burn that shit off. It’s a permanent state of being.”

“He’s a good guy,” Frank says, and Patrick nods. Frank has this knack for seeing things in people that others don’t, and Pete is no exception. He’s loud, he’s crude, and he’s got more energy than humanly possible, but Patrick knows what’s underneath, knows that there’s a heart of gold and a keen desire to please, and he’s glad to know that Frank can see it, too.

“You going?” Patrick asks, and Frank laughs.

“’Course. I’m kind of fond of my limbs.” Frank grabs his motorbike from where he has it chained up, and settles the helmet down over his head. Patrick shakes his head as Frank climbs on, revving the engine and beaming.

“I still can’t believe you ride that thing,” Patrick says, eyeing the way the large bike seems to almost swallow him whole. Frank’s too small for this kind of thing; Patrick’s still not used to seeing him on it, and it’s been months.

“Gets me from A to B, doesn’t it? And it’s totally hot, admit it. You want me, just because of the bike.” Frank smirks, as if that will be enough to make Patrick say anything of the sort.

Patrick just snorts. “You get all the girls that way?”

With a shrug, Frank revs the bike again. “I’ll let you know after tonight,” he says with a wink, and then he’s gone, waving to Patrick over his shoulder. Patrick laughs to himself and digs his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the door of his car - he drives. Like a normal person - and slipping behind the wheel. Tonight will be... Interesting.

Part Three

Fic: The Coffee Shop AU

lightisbreaking — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 14:13:53 GMT

So there's this thing called NaNoWriMo. I signed up, though unfortunately it came in the middle of my school finals and so I never got around to hitting the deadline. However! A few months later I decided to finish that son of a bitch, and so this is that fic!

A huge thank you to rockerelly for the beta look through. Also to idktbh for all of the handholding, and forcing me to write this story in the first place, and for being the person I annoyed about this fic for fucking months. You guys are the best <3

So, without further ado, I bring you fic full of ridiculousness, just because I love to write bandsmash where hardly anything goes according to plan! Oh also! I fail at titles, and this has been called 'The Coffee Shop AU' ever since I started planning it, and I can no longer think of it as anything other than that.

Sorry it had to be divided into 6 parts - LJ is a bitch and won't let me post it all in one hit. D:

The Coffee Shop AU
Bandsmash with most of FBR + MCR and some others; Gabe/William, Frank/Gerard
~37,100 words

For the past two years, Spencer has tried everything he can possibly think of to get a reaction off Ryan. There’s little things, of course; he’s still capable of smiling, of laughing. He’s tried getting Ryan angry, tried making him laugh until he cried, tried locking him in a room and forcing him to confront everything he’s kept buried. So far, nothing has worked, and Spencer’s beginning to think that Ryan is impossible. It doesn’t matter how many times Ryan promises that he’s fine, that he’s moved on, that he’s accepted the untimely death of his parents, Spencer doesn’t believe him. So, he keeps trying to make Ryan crack, to break down and finally take notice of his own anger, regret and sadness.

In the end, all it takes is three words.

“I’m moving out,” says Spencer, and Ryan drops the plate he’d been drying and turns to stare at him with betrayal burning in his eyes.

“You can’t,” Ryan answers, and it’s not a question, not pleading, just a statement, clear as day. You can’t, as if Ryan’s voice controls the universe.

Spencer doesn’t answer. Instead, he bends down and picks up the largest pieces of broken porcelain, disposing of those before he goes to the laundry to find the dustpan and broom. He cleans, and there’s silence as Ryan stares at him, eyes wide and still flashing. And then there’s no more broken fragments on the floor, and Spencer is forced to stand up and face his best friend.

“I need my own life, Ryan. You’ll be perfectly fine, you’ll see.” Maybe Spencer is pleading a little, begging Ryan to understand. He’s been living in this house with Ryan for a year, only six months after Ryan began to fall apart, and now that he’s stable, healthy and generally happy, Spencer needs to get away.

“Where would you go?” Ryan asks, as if he’s expecting to hear Spence say he hasn’t thought about it, or that he doesn’t have anywhere to go just yet. As though he can buy more time.

Spencer shakes his head. “William and I are going to get a place together.”

Ryan stops and strides out of the room. Spencer doesn’t bother following him. He’ll calm down. He always does.

***

A week later, Spencer is proven right. He’s lazing on the couch, his feet resting up on the last box he needs to pack into his car. Everything else has already been moved over to the apartment he and William will be sharing. For a second, he feels a sharp stab of regret, knowing that this is the last time he’ll sit on this couch as a resident of the house, knowing that he’s leaving Ryan alone for the first time in two years. The only thing keeping him from changing his mind, is the letter Ryan holds in his hands.

“Jon Walker, twenty-four. Promises that he is neat and respectable, despite the appearance of facial hair and frequent wearing of flip-flops. Looking for a place he can be sociable, and yet have time to himself when he requires it.” Ryan looks up from the first letter, eyebrow raised. “What do you think?”

“He sounds perfect, Ryan. Honestly you’re being way too picky about this. Just give it a go,” Spencer says, rolling his eyes.

“Fine. I’ll call him in a minute. Happy?”

Both of them know that Ryan isn’t talking exclusively about the fact that he’s agreed to call Jon Walker. It was Spencer’s idea to put the ad in the paper, despite all of Ryan’s protesting that it wouldn’t work. And now here they sit, with a letter in response from a seemingly fitting candidate, and Spencer can’t get that smug fucking grin off his face. Ryan kind of has the urge to punch Spencer right in the nose, but then, he also kind of loves him. As much as you can love a gloating bastard, anyway.

Spencer doesn’t bother to answer, which really, is a common tactic when it comes to Ryan. Refuse to give him an answer, and he’ll submit out of sheer frustration. Ryan isn’t fond of silence, and Spencer doesn’t like to dwell on why. He watches as Ryan fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and dials the number scribed clearly on the paper, eyebrows scrunched in either concentration or annoyance.

“Hello? This is Ryan Ross, I just got your letter in regards to boarding? Yeah, hi... Coffee, perhaps? That sounds perfect. There’s a place just a few blocks down from my place... You know it? Great, well, I’ll see you there... Bye.”

“Well?” Spencer prompts, because it’s clear from the look on Ryan’s face that he’s contemplating getting up without telling Spencer a thing, just to get back at him for the ad in the first place. Spencer crosses his arms warningly, and Ryan grins.

“I’m going for coffee tomorrow, to meet him. And no, you’re not invited,” he says, pre-empting Spencer’s next question. “You’re moving out, Spencer. I’m being independent,” he continues, still with that grin on his face that says if he can’t convince Spencer to stay, he’s going to be an asshole about kicking him out. This is the Ryan Spencer enjoys; the one he can joke around with without worrying about saying something wrong, the Ryan who’s willing to tease. And so Spencer smiles despite himself. Maybe getting out of this house will be a good idea. If nothing else, it will force Ryan to become more independent, to stop relying on Spencer when things go bad.

Ryan wraps a scarf around his neck even though it’s not particularly cold, and grabs his cell, wallet and keys. He pauses, about to yell up the stairs to tell Spencer he’s leaving, and then remembers that Spencer left that morning, and is currently unpacking in an unfamiliar apartment. Shaking off the unease that threatens to sink in, Ryan steps outside and locks the door behind him. This is good, he tells himself. It’s about time he got back out into the real world and met some new, normal people. This will be good. He’s going to make it.

The bell over the door jingles as Ryan pushes open the door to the coffee shop. It’s a quiet little place, tucked away and out of sight of those who don’t know it’s there. It’s a short walk away from Ryan’s house, and he likes the fact that he can always count on it to be open, and that he’s familiar with all of the usual customers. Here, he can curl up with a coffee surrounded by people that he knows. This is familiar, this is comfort.

Patrick beams at him when he approaches the register. Patrick owns the place; His father owned it before him, and he’s been working here for eight years - since he was eighteen - and knows the names and preferences of every regular customer he has. Ryan can’t help but laugh when he sees that his usual order is already sitting on the counter ready for him.

“How’d you know I was coming in, huh?” he asks casually as he takes his coffee.

“Ryan Ross, you have been coming here at the same time nearly every day for the past two years. How could I forget? Besides, if on some day, you decide not to come in - though the day this happens is the day Pete starts making sense - then someone here will gladly take it off your hands.” Patrick gestures around him to his usual employees, each of whom nod their agreement.

“I eagerly await the day, Ross. It looks a damn good coffee he makes you, and he still won’t tell anyone what he puts in it.” Frank’s head pops around the corner from the back room. “How are you?” he adds as an afterthought.

Frank and Pete are Patrick’s right-hand men. Not a day goes by that the three aren’t in the coffee shop, and still, Patrick keeps the ingredients of his favourite experiments to himself. The menu on the wall is scarcely consulted; Patrick has a knack for looking at a person and deciding exactly what they want, though it’s never something you could find on the board. Most of the time, Patrick makes Ryan the same coffee. Ryan doesn’t really like to think about what that means Patrick sees in him. He gets the feeling it’s something akin to the way Spencer looks at him sometimes, that calculating look in his eyes and the twinge of pity in the corner of his lips. Contrary to popular belief, Ryan can stand on his own two feet. He doesn’t always need Spencer and Patrick looking after him and making sure he keeps himself safe. Long passed are the days that Ryan felt like giving up.

This in mind, Ryan doesn’t bother answering Frank’s question. He knows what he’s looking for; the same assurance that Patrick and Spencer need. Instead, Ryan rolls his eyes. It’s been a year and a half; he’s learning to move on. “I’m actually here for a reason today. Spencer moved out, so I’m meeting with a potential new boarder.”

“Spencer moved out?” Frank repeats it like it’s a fucking sin, or maybe a miracle, Ryan can’t really tell.

“Yeah. Him and Bill are moving in together. He does have his own life.” Ryan knows that he’s contradicting what he originally thought of Spencer moving out, but he doesn’t care. He’s had time to think, and he really does think this will be good for the both of them. Or maybe he just wants to prove them all wrong. Either way, he’s okay with this.

“Spencer and William? Does Gabe know about this?” Frank asks teasingly, and Ryan shrugs. “Well, okay. Whatever you say, Ross.”

Ryan dwells in the momentary triumph and with a nod to Patrick, heads for his usual place: the table in the far corner of the coffee shop. He’s flipping absently through a magazine when the bell above the door rings again, and Ryan looks up out of habit. He’s always liked to observe the different people who come in here. There’s Brendon the Writer, a guy who Ryan sees every day, sitting at the same table, always with a mug of coffee and scattered bits of paper and notebooks, scribbling furiously. Patrick even produced a small wastepaper basket from the back of the shop and set it down next to the table for all of the scraps and paper Brendon is constantly scrunching up and throwing away. One day, Ryan wants to go over and ask him what he’s always working on. For now, he’s content to watch.

There’s Tom the Photographer, and Ryan only knows his name because of the way Pete greets him loudly every time he enters the shop. Most of the time, he comes with a camera slung around his neck, snapping pictures of anything he finds interesting, and occasionally even people. Ryan makes sure he stays out of Tom’s way, not wanting to be caught unaware of a flash, and find himself imprinted permanently in one of Tom’s photo albums.

And then there’s the people Ryan knows well. People like Gabe, Travis and William, who rather enjoy causing chaos and making Patrick’s life a bundle of hysterical hell. Several times, they’ve attempted to make Ryan come out with them, but Ryan doesn’t even want to know what they get up to once Pete finishes work and they steal him away.

This time though, when the door opens, it’s no one Ryan expects. Brendon is already in his corner, his wastepaper basket already half full at only 9 in the morning. Tom is nowhere to be seen as of yet, but Ryan guesses he’ll probably stumble in some time around midday, still looking half asleep. To his relief, it’s not Gabe, Bill or Travis, either. He assumes Patrick is probably feeling a similar sort of relief. Instead, it’s a guy in jeans and a simple grey shirt, looking around anxiously and scratching absently at his cheek. Ryan spots the flip-flops, and the stubble of facial hair, and grins. He watches as the guy approaches the counter, and when a few words are exchanged and Patrick points in the direction of Ryan’s table, Ryan supposes that yes, this is definitely Jon Walker.

“Jon, right?” he says as he stands up, looking for confirmation anyway. Jon nods and he relaxes, smiling and offering his hand. “Ryan. Take a seat.” He gestures to the empty chair opposite him, and Jon flops into it with a casual air that Ryan only wishes he could achieve.

“Saw your ad in the paper, and well, thought I’d give it a shot. ‘M looking just for somewhere to settle, y’know? Place to call home.” Jon grins, if a little hesitantly, splaying his hands. Ryan wonders where exactly Jon’s been living lately, but he knows better than to ask.

“Awesome. The place is more than big enough for two. My roommate is moving out, so I’m just after someone to help out a bit with the rent, and a bit of company. I’m asking about $250 a week. I haven’t got any terribly strict rules, so don’t worry about that. Treat it as you would your own place. Take your pick of a bedroom, there’s a couple with en-suites, so you’ll have your own bathroom. All I ask is that you treat it with respect.” He leaves off the fact that the house is worth a lot more than what he’s asking, or that it’s the same house he grew up in, despite the death of his parents. He doesn’t really like to talk about the money in his bank account, or the string of hotels now under his uncle’s name. Ryan likes to play guitar, not own hotels, and he certainly doesn’t need the reminder of his parents. Living in that house is memory enough.

“Perfect. When am I able to move in?” Jon asks with a smile, and Ryan thinks that this is far easier than he ever expected it to be. He’s certainly not complaining.

“As soon as you want. I look forward to it,” Ryan says genuinely, and Jon smiles warmly.

“So do I, Ryan, so do I.”

Ryan is just reaching across the table to shake Jon’s hand when there’s a loud crash, and the sound of ringing laughter. Looking up, Ryan spots the source of the noise: the three usual suspects have arrived, and Travis has tripped over Brendon’s wastepaper basket, and gone sprawling into one of the tables, knocking it over.

“Ryan!” shouts William from the door, and Ryan can’t help but laugh as Gabe rushes forward to try and extract Travis from a tangle of chair and table legs.

“Friends of yours?” asks Jon, bemused, and Ryan laughs again.

“You could say that,” he supposes, watching as William fights his way past his friends (who are still in a tangled mess on the ground) to reach their table.

“Who’s your friend, Ryan?” William grins and stares at Jon, and Ryan can practically see the gears going to work in his head.

“This is Jon Walker. Jon, this is William Beckett. Jon’s wanting to move in to the house, and no you can’t initiate him into your... Whatever you call your demon group of... People. You’ll eat him alive.”

William’s face falls a little, but he covers it up with a wry smile and a wink at Jon. “Don’t worry about Ryan. He acts like a closed-in hardass, but really, he’s just a ball of squish.” As if to prove his point, William throws himself down into Ryan’s lap and wraps his arms around his neck. “Aren’t you, Ryry?”

“Don’t call me that. And you know Gabe won’t approve of this.” Ryan gestures to William’s current position, and raises his eyebrows. “Any second now...”

Sure enough, there’s a scuffling sound as Gabe and Travis right themselves, and then Gabe is shouting. “Hey! Ross! Hands off my bitch!” His tone is light, laughing, but there’s a warning glint in his eyes that Ryan has seen far too many times before. Coincidentally, it appears every time somebody touches William Beckett. Not that Gabe has any official right to William’s chastity, but it’s best not to let Gabe hear anyone say that.

“He’s the one molesting me,” Ryan swears, and when he stands up, Bill slips off his lap easily. Fucker weighs less than a feather. William attempts to look offended, and opens his mouth to blurt some excuse, but is cut off as Pete comes out from the back room and spots his best friends, more or less launching himself over the counter.

“Travie! And Gabe, you appear to have lost your dog.” Pete looks around exaggeratingly, before his eyes settle on William. “Oh! I found him! Here, Bill, here Bill!”

Ryan watches them, resisting the urge to cover his face with his hands. This is nothing unusual; more often than not, the urge to run away screaming arises whenever he’s around the people he calls his friends. Rarely does anything normal take place, and Ryan has come to accept this, sort of. It’s something else when it happens in front of the man he’s about to be living with. There’s no doubt in his mind that the presence of those four are enough to send any potential boarder running for the hills.

And then Jon defies all of Ryan’s expectations and stands up with a grin. “They always like this?” he asks, a twinkle in his eye.

Ryan nods with a sigh. “Twenty-four, seven.”

This, in part, is what makes Patrick Stump the most patient man in the world. It’s become a daily routine for his coffee shop to be invaded by raving lunatics, and he accepts it with a smile and a quiet nod. Despite knowing that along with Pete comes the other three, Patrick hired him as soon as he found out Pete was in a spot of trouble financially. The place is quiet, a small family-owned business, and rarely does a new customer step through the doors. Over the years, it’s become their place, and Ryan doesn’t think there’s anywhere else in the world like it. Patrick and Frank ensure that everything is done by the end of the day, and that any remnants of chaos have been corrected, and in return, Pete gets paid more than the average wage so that he can keep up with his bills.

It’s common knowledge around the shop that Patrick Stump is not only the most patient man in the world, but a registered saint.

It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, and the usual routine has begun.

“Four frappes, on the counter. William, coffee. Travis, strawberry. Pete, vanilla without whipped cream and yes there’s extra caramel in it. And Gabe, your lemon.” Patrick sets each of the drinks on the counter and grins.

“Patrick, my love, you know me so well,” Pete coos, scooping his drink off the counter and cradling it as if it were his child.

Gabe narrows his eyes and inspects his cup. “Patrick. Excuse me. I believe I ordered sprinkles.”

Frank rolls his eyes at him from behind the counter. “Technically, you didn’t order anything. Once again, Patrick does it all with his creepy mind powers. Also, why the hell are you putting sprinkles with lemon?”

Gabe looks as though he’s been mortally offended. Ryan watches, waiting patiently to see how it will unfold. “Mister Iero, I suggest you stay out of this. I am making a formal complaint to the manager.” Somehow, he manages to keep his tone brusque and sharp, but the glint in his eyes gives him away. “I’m prepared to take this matter to court, Mister Stump.”

Patrick snorts and goes to reach for the sprinkles, but Frank beats him to it. “Ever so sorry, Mister Saporta. It won’t happen again. In fact, I’ll gladly provide you with more sprinkles than you could possible dream of.”

Gabe narrows his eyes again, suspecting foul-play, and yet, Frank still manages to catch him off guard, throwing a handful of sprinkles across the counter and into Gabe’s face.

“Frank you fuck! Sprinkles in my eye, what the hell!”

Frank cackles, ducking behind the counter again as Gabe lunges for him. Patrick, ever the peacemaker, quietly takes the sprinkles from Frank and adds them to Gabe’s drink, passing it back across the counter. “Please, no attempted murder in my shop. It’s bad for business.”

Gabe grumbles, but obeys, following Travis, William and Pete to their usual table next to Ryan’s.

“Ten minutes, Pete,” Patrick warns, and Pete waves a dismissive hand at him. Everyone knows that Pete’s break will end up being closer to an hour, but Patrick never seems to mind.

“Well, uh. Welcome to the family, I guess,” Ryan says to Jon with an apologetic shrug.

“It’s fantastic,” Jon says in response, eyes wide and shining. Ryan thinks he looks a bit like a kid on Christmas morning, and he’s certainly not about to turn anyone who can put up with their shit away. And so instead, he grins, and when Jon says his goodbyes to everyone, Ryan walks him outside feeling considerably lighter.

When he re-enters the shop, he sees Frank pop his head up from behind the counter again, a mischievous grin on his lips, and Ryan catches on and ducks. A second later, the sprinkles land in Travis’ hair.

In the midst of the following chaos, Ryan is able to slip some money into the till quietly (Patrick doesn’t approve of charging his regulars the full price, but Ryan’s beginning to get a little worried that Patrick will soon go broke). Satisfied that he’s completed his good deed for the day, Ryan says a rushed goodbye to the assembled parties, though Patrick is the only one able to answer; everyone else is far too preoccupied with being interrogated by Travis.

Frank winks at Ryan as he walks out.

***

As much as Brendon enjoys the laughter and the chaos of the coffee shop throughout the day, today is not a day he can afford to be interrupted. Leaving an overflowing wastepaper basket behind him, Brendon thanks Patrick and exits quietly, trying not to draw attention to himself. It’s easy enough; he’s had a fair amount of practice. Brendon has spent the past two years keeping to himself, making sure he keeps his head down and not letting things slip to the wrong sorts of people. It’s not too hard, not really. He never was the social type. Mostly, he prefers to curl up with a good book, or set his palm racing across a page, pencil clasped firmly between his fingers so hard he nearly always ends up with muscle cramps.

As of today, it’s been almost a year and a half since he published his first book. It’s the sort of achievement he’s spent his whole life working up to, the only thing he ever really wanted. The thought of seeing a book on that shelf, with his name on it, was what propelled him at an accelerated pace through high school and then college, and seeing his dreams finally realised had been the pinnacle of his life. Though, granted, when the time rolled around, it wasn’t technically his name. Of course, like most others, Brendon wanted his book to be successful enough that he could make some earnings from it, and that perhaps it would be enough to propel himself through the industry and make a name for himself.

And then Brendon met Alex Suarez. His former college professor had a keen interest in writing himself, and it was due to him that Brendon was able to get in touch with Ryland Blackinton. The day he received a letter in return for his query, was perhaps the day Brendon knew that something was about to happen. It was with Ryland’s help that he got that first book on the shelves, but after careful deliberation, decided that he had changed his mind about putting his own name on it.

At the age of twenty, Brendon was becoming increasingly interested in the friendships he was forming, in having a good time and remembering that despite his intelligence, he was still a young man who wanted to finally experience going out. And so, Brendon signed his contract with Ryland, and insisted that his name not be put to any of the books he may publish. When the success of the first hit, he was glad he did. Still, he allows himself a grin whenever he sees Boyd Renie’s book on the shelves.

Now, despite having escaped book signings and tours, the pressure is beginning to settle on his shoulders. It’s been a year and a half, and Brendon is trying, but the words aren’t coming.

In an effort to force himself to sit down and write, Brendon has begun going to the coffee shop every day, and refusing to leave until he’s satisfied with the amount of progress. Unfortunately, the only progress of late is that Patrick has invented an entirely new blend for him, and Brendon has watched that wastepaper basket fill up more times than he’d like to count. He’s walking home from the shop, knowing that doubtless, he’s soon going to receive another call from Ryland. Usually, Ryland’s a pretty awesome guy. He understands Brendon’s needs and wants, knows that Brendon likes his privacy, likes his professional and social lives to be completely separated. Ryland understands, he respects Brendon’s decisions, and most of the time, he tries to keep the pressure to a minimum. But it’s been almost a year since Brendon started trying to write his second book, and nothing is working.

He feels his cell vibrate in his pocket before the ringing starts, and he’s already rolling his eyes by the time he fishes it out of his jeans. He doesn’t need to look at the caller ID.

“Ryland.”

There’s a sigh from the other end of the line, and Brendon waits patiently. Usually, it’s safer to just wait it out. If he tries to interrupt, or argue, Ryland gets frustrated.

“Brendon Boyd Urie. Talk to me.” Ryland sounds tired, and Brendon can practically see him rubbing his hand over his eyes, wishing like hell that he wasn’t on the phone to his slacker of a client.

“Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” Brendon asks innocently. He knows that he’s falling behind, knows what Ryland wants from him, but unfortunately, has no idea how to give it. He’s never been good at busting himself out of writer’s block.

“Perhaps about why there isn’t a finished manuscript sitting on my desk,” Ryland answers immediately. He’s always been good at playing this game with Brendon. Ryland is good at playing the impatient agent. And if he tries, Brendon can be pretty good at playing the ignorant writer.

“I’m working on it, Ryland. Just give me time.”

Ryland sighs again, and Brendon is beginning to wonder if it’s something Ryland practices. “You’re busting my balls, Brendon. Bren. Are you listening to me? My balls.”

“I understand perfectly. Your balls are in incredible pain. Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

Brendon makes it to his front door, and faces the difficult task of holding the phone against his ear with his right shoulder while he digs around in his pockets for the key to his apartment. He can feel them, the jagged edge cutting against the tip of his index finger.

“Very funny, wise guy. Now come on. Is anything wrong?’

Brendon’s known Ryland for long enough to realise that this is him actually attempting to care. The theatrics and jokes are over. It’s the usual routine. Once he realises that scolding and joking isn’t going to cut it, it’s time to bust out the sympathy and the cautious suggestions.

“Happy as Larry, Ryland. Promise. I’m just at a bit of a block, that’s all.”

“How big of a block? Look, Brendon, maybe you need an assistant or something. One of those people hired specifically to help you get over this sort of hump.”

Brendon frowns, finally digging his keys out and fumbling one into the lock. “I don’t want an assistant. It’s my book, Ryland, and I’m going to write it myself. What’s the point in selling something under my name if I didn’t even do the work?”

Ryland laughs, and again, Brendon knows that if he was there, he’d be able to see Ryland kicking back in his chair, fiddling with something with his spare hand and contemplating whether or not to hang up. In fact, he rather thinks that Ryland will hang up soon. He knows, because they’ve had this conversation three times in the past month, and every time, it’s ended the same way.

“But Brendon you don’t sell it under your name. Boyd does. Oh, god, why am I even trying to reason with you. Just for Christ’s sake, write something before the publishers gnaw my ear off. I’d appreciate it.”

Brendon smiles despite himself, pushing into his apartment and throwing his bag down on the couch. “I promise I’ll try harder. God knows, we wouldn’t want you missing both an ear and your balls, would we?”

There’s a pause, as if Ryland doesn’t know whether to stutter indignantly at the knowledge that he’s been beaten, or hang up on Brendon after all. With a wicked grin, Brendon decides that he’ll beat him to the punch, and save him the dilemma. He closes his cell phone with a snap, and allows himself a tiny moment of triumph before he remembers that Ryland actually has a point. The bastard.

Part Two

fic: it's all in the wording

lightisbreaking — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 02:32:20 GMT

Just something that I wrote for the hell of it. Lots and lots of thank yous to valmontheights for the beta job. Arlyn you are my favourite. ♥

it's all in the wording
MCR - Frank/Gerard, Gerard/Lindsey
~3,160 words.
PG

The strange thing is, Gerard must have made a thousand wishes over the years - on stars, blowing out candles, pleas to no one in particular - and not one of those wishes had the same effect as this.

“I wish I wasn’t so nervous,” he’d whispered under his breath while giving a speech at college, and suddenly he spoke with confidence and ease, gesturing and engaging the audience. He goes with it - what else can he do, really - and as soon as he’s done he gets out of there as quick as he can.

He’s hiding under a tree on campus when he sees his professor heading towards him, smiling widely. Gerard can almost picture the conversation he probably wants to have (about his sudden confidence and where it came from) and Gerard really doesn’t want to deal with that right now. He’s weirded out enough as it is. He groans, gives a short laugh at his own ridiculousness, and says, “I wish I couldn’t be seen or heard,” half-sarcastically. His jaw drops as his professor stops and looks around like Gerard just vanished into thin air.

“Holy fuck,” Gerard says with feeling, and runs home to tell Frank.

When he throws the door open, Frank looks up from where he’d been reading the paper with a jolt.

“Frank, oh my god, the weirdest thing just happened to me,” Gerard rushes.

Frank doesn’t answer, just gets up to close the door Gerard had left open, and frowns at it, seemingly bewildered.

“Frank? Are you listening to me? Frank!”

Frank continues to ignore him, sits down and picks up his paper. Gerard steps right in front of him, waves his hands, shouts Frank’s name again. Nothing. And fuck no, there’s no way. Frank’s never ignored Gerard like this, like he doesn’t even exist, and Gerard can’t think of another explanation. He spins on his heel, running a hand through his hair in frustration, and yells in surprise when he sees the woman standing right in front of him.

She’s attractive, Gerard notes immediately. All long legs and slim waist and black hair thrown into messy pigtails. Her lips are ruby red and she grins at him, looking over his shoulder to where Frank is sitting, apparently totally oblivious.

“Awesome, isn’t it? He has no idea you’re here.” She’s grinning like it’s the coolest thing in the world, and Gerard just stares at her, dumbfounded.

“Who are you?” he manages to ask, and she holds out her hand for him to shake awkwardly.

“Lindsey,” she says, simple.

His mouth opens and closes wordlessly, and she just laughs. She reminds him of the fucking Cheshire Cat.

“What are you?” he tries, but she shrugs.

“I’m sort of not allowed to tell you.” As if this is supposed to satiate his curiosity, put him at ease.

“Did you do this?” he gestures helplessly at himself, at Frank.

Lindsey puts her hands in the pockets of her jeans and smiles again, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Technically, you did. Invisible, remember? Dumb wish, if you ask me, but whatever man, your life.”

Gerard just stares. Behind him, Frank gets up, goes to the fridge and drinks juice out of the carton without a glance in their direction. Gerard can’t be here anymore. He storms out, and is extremely grateful that at least Lindsey doesn’t follow him.

He walks aimlessly, finally ending up on a park bench, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. And then something feels different, and he doesn’t have to look up to know she’s sitting beside him.

“I wish I was visible again,” he says into his hands, and she sighs.

“Doesn’t work that way, kiddo. You can’t wish something and then try and wish it away as soon as you’re bored with it.” Now, Gerard does look up, staring at her.

“You mean I’m stuck like this.”

The look in her eyes is answer enough. Gerard drops his head back to his hands.

“Why can I see you now and not before? Why are my wishes all of a sudden coming true?” he demands after spending two days completely invisible to everyone except Lindsey, who follows him day and night like she has no choice.

“I don’t know. I just make things happen, I don’t ask why.”

“So why don’t you not make things happen? If I’m about to do something stupid, ignore me!”

They’re in Gerard’s apartment, and Gerard is almost about to lower his voice before Frank hears, and then remembers that Frank can’t hear him. Frank, who has spent the past two days calling everyone to try and find out where Gerard has disappeared to, when Gerard was sitting beside him the whole time.

On the third day, Mikey comes over to the apartment, and Gerard sits on the couch beside him and feels his chest grow tight as he watches Mikey break down.

“He’s never just left like this before,” Mikey says, and Gerard can see the way he’s trying not to lose it. “Something’s happened to him, oh god, Frankie he’s in trouble.”

Frank puts his arm around him, and Gerard has to look away. He catches Lindsey’s eye, and she shakes her head sadly.

“I’m sorry.”

Gerard spends two weeks living with Frank and his brother. Mikey moved in a week ago (“In case he comes back,” he’d said). Sometimes, Gerard swears they look right at him, and his heart lurches, hope fading as soon as they turn away.

Gerard likes to watch Frank. He can’t really help it. He thinks back over everything, and it almost feels like someone else’s life. Which is ridiculous, in a way - he’s only been in this situation a couple of weeks. Still, he thinks of Frank and how short a time they had together. He thinks of the way Frank used to smile - because he doesn’t now, not since Gerard disappeared - and the way he used to nudge Gerard’s side until Gerard accepted him snuggling in to his warmth.

So far, Gerard has made no attempt to alert them to his presence by touch. He’s fairly sure it could still work - after all, he made no mention of it in his wish - but he can’t convince himself it’s a good idea. It would freak him out, he knows, if he was suddenly being touched by something he could neither see nor hear.

When Frank goes to bed that night, Gerard follows. At first, he just sits in the chair beside the door and watches. He feels a bit like a creep, but Frank is lying there, staring at the ceiling and making no effort to sleep, and Gerard feels his heart ache at the sight of it. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s moving forward and off the chair, stepping closer until he’s standing over the side of the bed. He sits on the edge of the bed to Frank’s right, and when the bed dips under his weight, Frank shifts in confusion.

“Frankie,” Gerard whispers, though he knows Frank can’t hear him. His hand is shaking when he reaches out, and then all of a sudden he can hear Lindsey’s voice in his ear.

“Don’t,” she whispers harshly. “He doesn’t know you’re here. You’ll send him crazy.” Her tone is warning, her words clipped and breath feeling hard against the back of his neck.

“You don’t understand,” Gerard answers, and let his hand stretch the rest of the way. When he rests it on top of Frank’s hand, Frank jolts, sitting upright.

His eyes dart around nervously, and Gerard swallows hard and lets his hand slide up Frank’s arm, over his shoulder until he’s cupping his jaw, just like he used to. Frank is breathing rapidly, eyes wide.

“What the fuck,” he says quietly, and for a second Gerard thinks he’s going to run, but then he stops. Gerard slips his hand across, knows he’s pushing the boundaries but doesn’t care, and rests his fingertips against Frank’s lips.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s ironic that the first time he ever says the words, Frank can’t hear him.

His hands are trembling, his eyes beginning to sting, and Gerard can practically feel Lindsey holding her breath behind him, as nervous as he. Gerard can’t help himself. He removes his fingers, holds his weight up with a hand on the bed on the other side of Frank, and leans in to press their lips together. Frank inhales sharply and recoils in an instant. Gerard lays his other hand gently against Frank’s waist and tries again, kissing Frank softly, slowly.

“Oh god,” Frank whispers, and he closes his eyes as if it will make it more normal. “Gerard.” The name is pushed out of his lips in a strangled tone, and Frank finally kisses back. “I’m going insane,” Frank whimpers against Gerard’s lips, and Gerard pulls back. “Talk to me,” Frank says. “Gerard, tell me you’re there. Why can’t I see you?”

It’s enough that Gerard can’t stop the tears pooling in his eyes.

“You can’t,” Lindsey says, and Gerard nods.

Frank doesn’t come out of his room the next day. Gerard knows because he sits, and he watches, but he doesn’t touch. Now, he has to watch the consequences of his own actions, and he understands why Lindsey cautioned him against it. Frank thinks he’s losing his fucking mind. He won’t talk to Mikey, won’t eat, won’t sleep. Gerard hears him whispering, knows that Frank is calling out his name and then quickly berating himself for it, and Gerard can’t stand to watch it anymore.

“Make him happy,” Gerard says to Lindsey, and she shrugs.

“I can’t. I can only do what you wish,” she groans.

“So what are you, a fucking genie?” Gerard bites back, because if he can’t take his frustration out on anyone else, she’s the only outlet he’s got.

She snorts derisively, and waves her hands about in a dismissive gesture. “Fuck no. Then I’d have to live in like, a fucking bottle, wouldn’t I? That would suck.”

In any other given time or situation, Gerard thinks he would have really liked her. Now, all he can think is that she’s the reason his life is falling to fucking pieces, and it’s hard to like anyone with that sort of title on their shoulders. More than once, he’s thought about wishing her away. Every time, her words come back to him, clear as crystal - “You can’t wish something and then just wish it away as soon as you’re bored with it” - and he knows that if he did, he’d never get her back. And as infuriating as it is, having her sit across from him and talk like his whole world isn’t fucking ending, he knows that it would be worse to go it alone.

She sighs, loud and heavy, and Gerard wonders how many people she’s had this same conversation with before.

“How many before me?” Gerard asks.

She raises her eyebrow, and grins. “What makes you think you’re not the first?”

“You sound tired,” he answers, and it’s simple enough that she frowns, wrinkles her eyebrows and sighs again.

“Three, before you. I’m kind of new at this,” she admits with a shy grin.

“What happened to them?”

She hesitates, like she doesn’t want to tell him, but Gerard stays silent, waits for her to speak. “The first one, she killed herself. The second told me it was a sign from God, that he was willing to accept everything I’d told him, and then he wished for me to leave, and I did. The third?” she stops, biting her lip.

“The third?” Gerard presses, though he’s not really sure he wants to know.

“He wished for everything he could think of. Every wealth and fortune he could ever come across.” It’s like something out of a fucking children’s book, stuffed full of morals and ethics, and for a second Gerard thinks she’s making it up as a warning. “Eventually, he fucked up. Got greedy, didn’t think his wishes through. He died.” She doesn’t say how. Gerard doesn’t ask.

This new revelation gets under his skin. That he’s not the first to have lived through this, that he probably won’t be the last, that Lindsey has seen this again and again.

“What do you think will happen to me?” he asks, and she doesn’t answer.

Mikey knows Gerard inside and out, knows that he wouldn’t just up and leave without telling somebody, and it’s this that makes living with him almost unbearable. Mikey takes leave from work and spends his days wandering the house, looking at old photos and laughing almost hysterically. Gerard’s never seen him like this, never knew that his own disappearance would have so much of an effect on his little brother.

“Lindsey,” Gerard whispers, as he sits beside Mikey and looks at the photos with him, almost as if he can pretend Mikey knows he’s there. “This is my mom, see?” He points to the photo on the page, his mom’s arms wrapped around both of her boys, smiling.

Lindsey peers over Gerard’s shoulder and sighs. “Stop this,” she says, firm. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re not dying.”

Gerard almost says I wish I were, and stops himself just in time. “I don’t know how long I can do this,” he says instead, and then the next day, he discovers the answer.

When Mikey calls their Ma and tells her Gerard is missing without a trace, Gerard stands behind him and listens to his mother’s sobbing from the other end of the line. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Mikey is crying right along with her. When Gerard looks up and sees Lindsey standing against the opposite wall, he has to turn his head away.

“It’s not. This isn’t fair to them. Make them stop hurting,” he pleads, and when he gets the courage to look at her again, she’s staring at him with pity in her eyes.

“They love you. Of course they hurt. I can’t just make it go away. Every time they think of you, they’ll hurt.”

Gerard nods, steels himself, and forces his voice to be steady when he says, “I know. So make them stop thinking about me.” He pauses, she waits. “I wish they would forget me,” he says, so quietly she couldn’t possibly hear him from where she’s standing, but she nods.

Mikey wipes the tears from his cheeks, frowning like he doesn’t know why he’s crying. “Ma? What was I calling about?”

Gerard nods stiffly, gathers his things, and leaves. Lindsey follows him without a word.

It doesn’t take long before they find somewhere to stay. There’s a house for sale, a few blocks down from Gerard and Frank’s apartment, and when Gerard takes up residence inside, nobody tells him to leave. Of course they don’t.

For a while, Gerard is careful not to wish for anything other than the essentials - he can’t exactly go down to the supermarket and do his shopping. He and Lindsey talk about art and comics and movies things they wish they could have accomplished in life. Gerard wants to tell his family and Frank that he loves them, so that they can hear. Lindsey wishes that she could have made a difference in the way each of these scenarios went, and Gerard notes the way she says wish with wry humour.

“So quit,” Gerard says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You ever think ruining people’s lives isn’t the best occupation out there?”

Before he even realises it, he’s in one of his moods, wanting to tear down anyone he can until they feel the same way he does. Once again, Lindsey is his only available target. She usually takes it calmly, keeps her composure, and Gerard is reminded that she’s probably been raged at like this before.

“Maybe you should be more careful what you wish for,” she answers, and her voice has the first hint of fire to it.

Gerard says nothing, knows that she’s right. “I wish I had a bottle of fucking vodka,” he says instead, because faced with a sudden truth like that, the easiest thing to do is get outrageously drunk.

“I wish for world peace,” Gerard declares grandly, knocking back another large swig of vodka. He’s sitting on the living room floor, drunk off his ass and not giving a fuck.

Lindsey watches him with a tilt to her lips, somewhere between amusement and pity. “I know it sucks and all? But you don’t get to wish for things that don’t involve you specifically. You can’t like. Alter someone else’s life, you know? Just your own.”

Gerard frowns at her. “So you’re encouraging reckless, selfish behaviour.”

She shrugs. “I don’t make the rules,” she says plainly, and Gerard downs another shot.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because he’s drunk, and he misses human contact, misses fucking acknowledgement, and these days she’s the only person who even looks at him.

“I’m not human. I can’t-“ she cuts herself off, and sighs, placing a hand on his shoulder to prove her point. It falls straight through, like she’s a ghost, like she doesn’t exist.

Gerard is not deterred. “Then I wish I could. Touch you, kiss you. That’s personal, you have to do it.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but he knows it worked when she presses her lips against his and he can feel them, warm and full. They keep kissing, and Gerard holds to her hips tight as he drags her to the floor.

Later, when Lindsey is lying against his chest, naked and warm, Gerard thinks, feels his chest seizing up and his throat closing at the knowledge that this is forever. That he can’t take anything back, that Lindsey is the only person he’ll ever come into contact with again. He thinks of his mom, of Mikey, of Frank, and how he’s been completely wiped from their memories. He isn’t seen. He isn’t heard. He isn’t remembered. For all intents and purposes, Gerard Way no longer exists.

He thinks briefly of the three people Lindsey described, and wondered whether anyone will ever make it work, or whether Lindsey is destined to go from person to person, watching them crash and burn in front of her and still having to do everything they say. It’s sad, really, and for the first time, he pities her instead of the other way around.

“Lindsey?” he says softly, and she opens her eyes and looks at him. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles.

“Yes, Gerard?” It’s the first time she calls him by name. There’s probably something profound in that, he thinks. He can’t bring himself to care.

“I wish I was dead.”

the value of free thought

lightisbreaking — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 08:09:09 GMT

In the resulting flailing of the release of Desolation Row I somehow ended up writing fic. This is for unrequited_rain who encouraged the writing of this, and for everyone else who wanted Desolation Row AU.

the value of free thought
MCR, mostly gen, some frank/gerard thrown in if you squint.
~7,400 words. PG.

If Frank closes his eyes and forces himself to think back, to remember, he can almost feel the guitar under his hands, solid and firm, sending a thrill straight to his heart. He can hear the sound of it, powerful and lovely to his ears. Sometimes (though this is what takes the most effort) he can even remember the names of those he used to look up to. They called themselves a band, he remembers that. He can’t remember the names of the members, never those, but if he stretches his memory to the limit, he can recall words like Black Flag and Bouncing Souls and while they mean nothing now, he knows that once, they meant a lot.

These tiny fragments of memory in the back of his mind are what keep him with hope. Like if he can remember the past, even if only barely, then it still existed. If they forget, who’s to say that it never happened? That this is what life should be, that this is what it’s always been.

The sad thing is, he knows that Gerard doesn’t remember. He knows that he can feel it, but not see it. It’s like he understands there’s something worth fighting for, that once there was a world of free speech and expression, but he doesn’t remember it. Sometimes, Gerard gets this strange look on his face, and Frank knows that he almost has it, that he’s had a flash of something from the past, but he can never catch hold of it fast enough, and it slips through his fingers.

Gerard keeps books (government approved of course) and the strange thing is, according to the dates written in the history books, the Revolution only occurred twelve years ago. Most people should be able to recall life before the Revolution, but nobody seems to. Or at least, if they do, they have sense enough to keep quiet. Frank doesn’t tell anyone about what he can remember, knows that he would be arrested if he ever did. A year ago, Frank had confessed everything to Gerard, told him what he could remember and watched as Gerard’s eyes widened and lit up for a brief second and then fell back to impassive almost immediately.

“You shouldn’t talk like that, Frank,” he’d said, “You never know who could be listening.”

When Frank was sixteen, the Revolution began. According to government teachings, the past is something to be forgotten, as it was a dark age filled with chaos and unruly behaviour. Now, there are strict laws regarding almost every aspect of daily life, and Frank wishes he could remember more about his childhood.

A loud siren rings out for ten seconds exactly, spilling from the loudspeakers every hundred meters down every streets. It’s impossible not to hear it, and the reaction is instantaneous. At the sound of the Curfew Siren, anyone out on the street or visiting a friend begins to make their way home at a hurried pace, not stopping to talk to anyone.

Once, Frank would have nodded his head, turned on his heel and walked home. This is what he has done every day for the past twelve years. Today, he has allowed himself to spend far too much time dwelling on the past. He can remember the feel of a guitar more clearly than he has in years, since the Revolution was new and people still thought to question. Frank is well aware of the consequences of staying outside past curfew. He no more wants to end up in prison than the next person, but he can’t make his feet move.

“You should go,” Gerard says, with a frown of confusion on his face.

They’d spent the day together as it was Frank’s only day off work, lazing around Gerard’s apartment and watching horror films. It doesn’t matter that Gerard doesn’t remember the past like Frank sometimes does; he still fantasises, still has the imagination to create what he believes the world should be. It’s this quality that allows him to keep a stash of old horror flicks, movies he’d managed to keep from before and hide, even when all of his ‘unsuitable’ books were taken and burned. Even if they have to watch them with the screen facing away from the camera. There’s no way they’d get away with this if they were seen.

And so, Frank doesn’t move. They’re already committing a punishable offence by watching Gerard’s films, and he has the sudden urge to defy those who control his life.

“Things used to be different,” Frank says to Gerard.

“Things are better now,” Gerard says, and the conviction in his tone of voice is almost perfect. To the untrained eye, Gerard is the perfect picture of a model citizen, following the government’s teachings without a blink of an eye. But Frank knows him better than that, can see the flicker in Gerard’s eyes for a split second that tells him everything. That Gerard agrees, but this isn’t the time or place to discuss it, that Frank should close his mouth unless he wants to end up in a prison cell or worse. That Gerard wants to change things as much as Frank does.

When Frank leaves Gerard’s, he does so with a hopeful tightening in his chest, the feeling that finally, it’s time.

The next morning, Frank ignores his alarm, and sleeps in late. He’s given an extra ten minutes of peace, before the speaker built into the wall of his apartment crackles to life.

“Frank Iero, report for Inspection immediately.”

He groans inwardly, remembers the look in Gerard’s eyes, and takes a deep breath. With a surge of bravery, he rolls over, faces the tiny camera he knows is there, and raises his middle finger.

“Frank Iero, report for Inspection immediately and proceed to Area 4.” The voice is still controlled, but there’s a clipped tone that lets Frank know he’s pushed too far.

Funny, how such a simple action can land him in trouble. Area 4 is reserved for those suspected of criminal activity and sedition. Frank smiles, and then gets out of bed, dresses, and prepares for Inspection. One step at a time, he tells himself. It would do no good to not show up at all.

He meets Gerard at Morning Inspection with a broad smile, and Gerard immediately shoots him one of his looks. Frank is getting a lot of those lately. Gerard usually switches them on when Frank is in danger of giving too much away. Frank decides this isn’t a good time to tell Gerard about his morning rebellion. But then he takes a closer look at Gerard’s eyes, and barely holds back a gasp of surprise. There’s the faintest line of black outlining Gerard’s eyelids, just enough to make his eyes stand out in a way Frank has never seen before. He raises a questioning eyebrow, but Gerard shakes his head firmly and Frank drops it.

Instead, he takes his place in line, and waits as one by one, people disappear into the small room in front of them. Gerard goes in before Frank and Frank notices that he takes longer than usual. Normally, Gerard will be in and out in under thirty seconds. Gerard is careful about sticking to the rules on the outside, so that he doesn’t give anybody cause to look any deeper. Today, Gerard is wearing eyeliner and Frank doesn’t really want to think about what kind of shit he’s getting in to.

When Gerard finally reappears, the eyeliner is gone, and for once his eyes hide none of his fury. Gerard doesn’t look at Frank on his way out, and Frank knows it’s for his own protection, so that he doesn’t get associated with Gerard’s act of indecency. Clutched in his hand is a summons to Area 4, and Frank closes his eyes briefly in regret. Gerard’s always been a little terrified of Area 4, heard the stories of torture and interrogation, and Frank knows it will take everything he has just to show up when he’s supposed to.

The person standing behind him nudges Frank’s shoulder, and he jumps back to attention, slipping into the Inspection room. He stands perfectly still while an abrupt government official scans him over, recording every piece of clothing he’s wearing, his hairstyle, whether or not he’s wearing makeup. Once, Frank had piercings. That changed fast when the Revolution occurred.

The official makes one last mark on her clipboard before she nods sharply at him, and Frank lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Every morning, he’s afraid they’re going to up the Inspection and check every inch of their skin for modifications. Every morning, Frank thanks God that they haven’t yet decided this is necessary. For now, his tattoos are covered by strategic clothing, his last means of expressing himself, of personality he can call his own.

Straight after Inspection, Frank makes his way to the plain office building beside Government House. He feels eyes on him the entire way, can feel their disgust and fear, as though he might contaminate them just by being close. Anyone sent to Area 4 is immediately deemed a threat. From now on, Frank knows that he can throw away whatever credibility he may have had in society. No longer will people smile on him on the street, no longer will someone invite him over for coffee or dinner. He will become an outcast, because the easiest way to avoid suspicion, is to keep perfect company.

At least Gerard will still keep him company, Frank thinks bitterly. Gerard, who all of a sudden picked today to wear eyeliner for the first time in twelve years. Frank wonders what possessed him to do it.

Upon entering Area 4, Frank is immediately taken by the arm in a firm grip and directed down a corridor to the interrogation rooms. He’s never been down here before, and he can’t help the sharp clench of his stomach, despite all of his bravado that morning about not caring what the government think of him. The reality is in front of him now, and while he knows they can’t do any serious harm to him for something so small, he can’t help the uneasy feeling in his gut.

The door is locked behind him with a loud click that seems to echo off the metal of the door, and Frank forces himself to sit down. The man sitting across from him shows no expression on his face whatsoever, and Frank feels a chill down his spine just looking at him.

“Frank Iero.” It’s not a question, but Frank nods anyway, because he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to do. “You’re accused of disrespecting the Government and disrupting the peace.”

Frank bites back a retort. Disrupting the peace? All he did was flip off a fucking camera, Jesus.

“What was the cause of your actions?” the office asks him, still in the same neutral tone of voice which puts Frank on edge more than any shouting could.

Frank shrugs. “Wanted to sleep in a bit.”

“You were aware of the consequences of your actions?”

And really, where is this getting them? They know what he did because they watched him, and he knows what he did, and they know that his reasoning is probably the same as every other person who’s wound up in Area 4.

Frank shrugs again, because he doesn’t know what the right answer to give would be. If he says yes, then it’s obvious he’s going against government policy on purpose, but if he says no, he’s not stupid enough to think they’ll believe him. Either way, he’s still in Area 4, and his reputation is fucked over because of it. All that remains to see is what punishment they’ll dish out.

“Frank Iero, you’ve been found guilty of a minor crime. You will receive a cut in your food rations by half this week.”

Frank tries not to let his emotions show on his face. It’s difficult. Their food rations are small enough as it is, without being cut in half! There’s no way he can feed himself properly for a week on what they’ll give him, but he has no choice but to nod. Briefly, he thinks of asking Gerard to share his portions this week - maybe if they pool it all together they can both live fairly comfortably. But then he remembers that Gerard is in the same position right now, and will have barely enough to feed himself, let alone Frank.

After that, he’s released from the interrogation rooms, and Frank expects to be escorted outside. Instead, he’s taken down a further corridor, and Frank gags at the smell of something horrible burning.

“Where are we going?” he asks, forgetting his place, and receives a whack across his spine with the guard’s baton.

The guard opens another door, and this time, Frank’s stomach drops through to the floor. Most of the time, people live according to the new laws without question, because the fear of consequence holds them in check. As such, Frank had forgotten the markings of a seditioner. He’s shoved roughly into the room, and Frank’s can’t help it; immediately, he tries to push back, to get out of there as quick as he can. He receives another whack with the baton for his efforts, this time to his stomach, and Frank doubles over.

Taking advantage of his momentary vulnerability, the guard grabs him, holds his arms behind his back and kicks the door shut. Frank looks up, breathing hard, and sees another man standing in front of him. He’s holding a branding iron in his hand, and Frank can hardly believe this is actually happening. He struggles, once more with feeling, but the guard’s grip is strong, and Frank is forced to stand still as the man reaches out with his free hand and catches Frank’s left arm, holding it so that the underside faces up.

Frank swears loudly as he pushes the sleeve up to expose Frank’s wrist. Frank bites his lip hard. The iron comes down on his skin, and Frank smells burning flesh.

That night, there’s an announcement declaring those who had been denounced as seditioners that week. The reporter reads the names out in a deadpan voice, and Frank catches his own name between a Ray Toro and a Robert Bryar. Gerard’s name is at the end, and Frank burrows down into his blankets, and wishes he could do something to make a change.

Gerard doesn’t let Frank see him for a week. He doesn’t answer his phone (though it’s not like they’d be able to talk freely on that anyway considering all of their phones are tapped) and he doesn’t answer the door when Frank goes to see him. By now, the symbol on the inside of Frank’s wrist is beginning to heal, and everywhere he walks, people avoid him like the plague. The three small circles form a triangle, burnt permanently into his skin where everyone can see it, letting them all know that he’s a seditioner and not to be trusted. And now Gerard appears to have abandoned him as well.

It’s by chance that Frank manages to catch Gerard unaware. He turns up on his doorstep unannounced, ready to pound on the door until Gerard lets him in just to shut him up (it’s never wise to create a scene). As it turns out, he doesn’t need to, because when he arrives, Gerard is already outside hugging a stranger. In itself, this is a dangerous action. Hugging implies intimacy, friendship, loyalty. It’s dangerous to be too open about who your friends are, and Gerard is running a huge risk by hugging some guy out on his driveway like they’re not all being watched twenty-four hours a day.

“It’s good to see you, Mikey,” Frank hears Gerard say when he comes into earshot, and he frowns. Gerard has never mentioned a Mikey before.

The two men release each other reluctantly, and Mikey leaves, shooting Frank a curious look as he walks past. Frank stares at him in shock for a moment before he rounds on Gerard. Gerard looks guilty already.

“Who’s Mikey? You’ve never mentioned him before! You know that kind of thing is dangerous, Gerard, we’re in enough trouble as it is!”

Gerard hisses for him to be quiet, grabs his arm and drags him inside, and Frank realises that he’d been shouting in the middle of the street.

“Jesus Frank, you’re telling me to be careful and you pull shit like that?” He’s not really mad, Frank can tell, but he feels guilty anyway. “Mikey’s my brother. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

This is nothing unusual. Family no longer means anything in regards to having a close relationship. Gerard and Mikey are obviously doing better than most, if the hugging is anything to go by. Since the Revolution, it’s become hard to trust anyone, and Frank is lucky he even has Gerard. He hasn’t seen his own parents or sisters in years.

“I’m sorry,” Frank says, and he means it, but Gerard doesn’t appear to be listening. Instead, he’s staring at the mark on Frank’s wrist, and Frank quickly moves his arm to hide it.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Gerard says wryly, and Frank gives a surprised laugh, and lets Gerard inspect his wrist. Gerard runs his fingers over the burn lightly, and Frank can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine. Whether Gerard notices or not, he can’t tell, but either way, Gerard brings Frank’s hand up and kisses the mark softly.

“Mikey wants to help,” he says quietly, the sound mumbled against Frank’s skin, and Frank knows why. He avoids looking at the camera on the ceiling by sheer willpower, and nods at Gerard using only his eyes. Now, they can’t afford to be found out too early. Gerard is avoiding them reading his lips. And it’s absurd, really, that they should have to resort to this, an entire lack of privacy in their own home, and if anything, it only makes Frank more eager to start shit.

On Gerard’s own wrist is the same marking as Frank, only somehow, it looks even worse. Frank is used to seeing his own skin modified and covered in marks, even if it’s in the form of secret tattoos, not brands. But he looks at Gerard’s, an angry mark seared into normally flawless pale skin, and somehow it’s a thousand times worse.

“How about that announcement this morning, huh?” Frank says, and at least this, they can discuss freely. It will be the subject of conversation in almost every house today, so they can hardly get in trouble for it. “More names than usual.”

Gerard gives a wry smile, and Frank can’t help but grin back. It’s like they’re already doing something, just by having those marks on their wrists and their names broadcasted across the city. Frank wants to meet Ray Toro and Robert Bryar, wants to shake their hands and say thank God someone else out there sees because it’s like a sheet of wool has been pulled over the eyes of the rest of the population.

Frank leans forward, tucking his face into Gerard’s neck. Gerard stands shock still, because this is dangerous, showing affection for someone with no blood relation so obviously. This is not to say that relationships and marriage aren’t allowed. They just aren’t common practice anymore, due to the issue of trust, and all of the effort required in lodging a formal announcement.

It’s understandable for Gerard to worry, therefore, but Frank uses his neck to hide his own lips, taking Gerard’s example. “I’m going to buy a guitar,” he whispers, and Gerard tenses further in understanding. Frank is willing to risk showing affection, because the alternative of letting them see what he’s saying now is even more dangerous.

“Frank.” Gerard turns so that his back is to the camera. “Frank that’s not possible.”

Frank shakes his head, and Gerard feels the movement of lips against his skin again. “I know a guy. We have to do this, Gerard.”

Gerard’s inclusion in the statement, we, tells him all he needs to know. Frank sees Gerard there right with him, and Gerard knows how. Once, long ago, he sang. It’s almost a forgotten memory now, like Frank and his guitar playing, but somewhere in the back of his mind Gerard knows that he used to have a decent voice, used to dream of singing on a stage with guitars and drums at his side.

“Dangerous,” is all Gerard says, and he feels Frank’s answering nod.

“I know.”

Frank skips work the next day to go and visit an old friend. He knows that this is going to land him in severe trouble, but he can’t seem to care. It’s only been a week since he was condemned as a seditioner, and really, he should wait, lay low until his name is gone from at least the newspapers if not the system, but he can’t. He can feel that this needs to be done now, that if he really wants to make a change, it has to happen today. There’s something, he doesn’t know how he knows but he does, that will happen today, and only today.

Frank checks over his shoulder three times to make sure no one is watching him before he knocks on the door. Brian’s house is on the very outskirts of the city, a necessary protection. It’s not much, but it at least stops anyone visiting him frequently.

Brian answers the door with a frown on his face, and when he sees Frank he goes rigid. “Fuck, Frank, get inside,” he hisses, and Frank obeys immediately, ducking past Brian as he slams the door shut as fast as possible.

As soon as he’s inside, Frank relaxes. He glances up at the mandatory camera in Brian’s house, knows that they’ll wonder why he’s visiting someone so far out. This is hardly the first time, however, and Frank feels safe here in a way he can’t anywhere else. Here is Brian, who shares Frank’s views and takes his own steps to show his support.

Brian beckons for him to follow, and Frank can see the brand on the inside of Brian’s wrist. All of a sudden it’s a symbol of unity to Frank, rather than of a condemned man. These people are his kin, those who think like he thinks and want to make a difference. He finds himself staring at the mark with a new sense of gratitude. The government have provided them an easy way of knowing who they can trust without even realising it.

“The usual?” Brian sighs.

Frank shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets casually and tries to pretend nonchalance. Their disguise is essential. “Yeah, you know. Could use some company.”

“Coffee?” Brian asks, and Frank nods.

Brian leads the way, and they move into the kitchen until they’re out of eyeshot of the camera. Frank allows himself to relax momentarily. Brian doesn’t make coffee, but instead leads Frank through a door to the basement. It’s unusual for houses these days to have basements, and Frank has always wondered how Brian managed to keep his. Every time he’s asked though, Brian changes the subject, and Frank knows it’s in the interest of safety. The less people know, the better.

Frank’s been down into this basement several times, but this is the first time someone else has ever been there.

“Guys this is Frank Iero. Frank, this is Bob and Ray.”

Frank can already hear the change in Brian’s voice. The stiff formality is gone and the easy tone of voice returns. It’s like in this basement, the Revolution never happened.

“Hi,” the one Brian introduced as Ray says, “Brian told us you’d probably come.”

Frank raises an eyebrow at Brian, who grins. “Heard the announcement. As if you wouldn’t come to me afterwards. You want another one, right?”

Frank thinks for a moment. This isn’t his purpose in coming, but the more he thinks about it, the more the idea appeals. One more sign to show that he’s different, prove that he has his own thoughts and feelings, and not those drilled into him by the government.

“That’d be awesome,” he says in the end. “But I actually came for another reason.”

Brian ushers Frank over to a chair, grabs some latex gloves and pulls them on. Beside Frank’s chair is a tray of needles and ink - another thing Frank doesn’t bother to ask about. Brian would never tell him where he gets them anyway.

“Oh?” Brian asks, a gesture for Frank to continue, and then, “What do you want this time?”

“I want to buy a guitar. I know you have them.” Frank’s seen them, once out of the corner of his eye, the last time he was in this chair. “And I want the tattoo on my neck. Scorpion, I think.”

Brian raises an eyebrow, and the talk of guitars is momentarily forgotten. “Hope you’ve got some fucking turtle necks or something, Iero. You can’t cover that shit with a collar.”

Frank meets his eyes and doesn’t back down. “I know. I don’t plan to.”

To his credit, Brian only hesitates a second before nodding, and immediately gets to work.

As Brian works, Frank talks to Bob and Ray. It’s some sort of crazy coincidence that he’s meeting them so soon after deciding he wanted to, but he reasons, if he was going to meet them anywhere, Brian’s would be the obvious choice. Brian’s been hauled in for questioning certainly more than once regarding seditioners frequenting his place.

“You’re interested in guitars?” Ray asks, and there’s a light in his eyes that tells Frank he’s found another kindred spirit.

“Yeah. I used to play. Well. I think I used to play,” Frank says, and frowns at the odd way everyone’s memories seem to distort when it comes to the past.

“Oh man, me too. I got my hands on one a couple years ago. Can’t play it, obviously, but just looking at it sort of feels like relief, you know? Like one day, things could change.”

Frank grins. Ray is exactly who he needs. Frank turns to Bob, the question already on his lips. “You play?”

Bob seems to have known the question was coming, and he grins back. “Drums. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I have a friend. A singer,” Frank says in reply, and all of a sudden the three of them are beaming like the change has already occurred.

Brian pauses, looks at Frank warningly. “You’re bringing Gerard into this?”

Frank nods. “His brother too, I think.”

Brian looks like he’s about to argue, something like not pressuring Gerard into anything, that Gerard isn’t as reckless as Frank, but Frank cuts him off. “We have to, Brian. Gerard gets that.”

Instead of arguing further, Brian goes back to the finishing touches of the scorpion on Frank’s neck. When it’s done, he sits back and sighs, allowing Frank to inspect it in the mirror before he bandages it up. “You better not fucking let them see this, at least until it’s healed. I don’t even want to know what they’ll do to you if they find it brand new.”

Frank nods, takes the scarf Brian throws at him with a laugh, along with a small container of aftercare salve. “Hey Brian, you mind if we use this as a practice space?” There isn’t really anywhere else, Frank knows. Brian’s basement is probably one of the last safe places in the city.

Brian sighs long and hard, but Frank knows it’s all for show. There’s a glint in his eyes that gives him away. “Fine. But you be fucking careful, okay?”

It takes about three weeks before Frank deems the tattoo properly healed, and he looks at his wardrobe thoughtfully. He’s spent the past three weeks wearing long sleeves and scarves, or anything with a high collar, and Gerard had looked at him suspiciously, but Frank said nothing. Now, he wonders whether to just ditch the scarf and show the scorpion, or wear a t-shirt for the first time since his original visits to Brian, and expose the designs covering his arms.

In the end, he takes out his usual business shirt - long sleeves. He doesn’t know whether it’s his own decision or some precaution drilled into him over twelve years, but either way, he’s not ready yet. Frank introduced Gerard and Mikey to Bob and Ray the other week, and they’ve been practising in Brian’s basement ever since. Maybe the day they get the nerve to begin advancing in public will be the day Frank selects a t-shirt.

As it is, his clothing selections don’t give him any protection anyway. Frank lines up for Morning Inspection, his heart beating a mile a minute and threatening to jump into his throat. Everyone is staring at his neck with wide eyes, but nobody has the nerve to say anything. Gerard and Mikey are the only people standing anywhere near him. Since their decision to start a change, Mikey has been a permanent figure in Frank’s life, and he can see the effect it’s had on Gerard. He’s braver, more willing to defy and think for himself, like all he really needed was his brother at his side telling him it’s okay.

Frank also knows that Mikey got called to Area 4 a week ago to be questioned about Gerard. It’s a little sad, Frank thinks, that as soon as the brothers start acting like brothers, people get suspicious. Mikey had left the building with the same brand as the rest of them, and Frank smiled at the way he wore it almost proudly, like he was happy to be one of them.

“That’s what you’ve been hiding,” Gerard says, deadpan, when they line up.

Frank just nods, lets Gerard think what he will. Gerard sighs, but says nothing further, and Mikey stares at him intently, like he understands and is in awe of Frank’s daring. Gerard and Mikey pass Inspection with a green light. Gerard doesn’t wear eyeliner anymore. Instead, there’s a look in his eyes that means even more.

When it’s Frank’s turn, he steps into the room feeling numb, stands in front of the official with his head raised defiantly, and waits. For a moment, the official is stunned silent, like he doesn’t believe what’s in front of him.

“Mr Iero, you realise that you are marked with a tattoo.”

For a second, Frank is surprised that this guy even knows what they’re called. Then, he nods. Really, how could he not have realised?

“You are aware that this is in direct violation of the law.”

None of these statements are questions. Frank nods anyway, his eyes hard. Out of nowhere comes the slap of a baton, and Frank leaves the Inspection room with bruises on his hip and a summons to Area 4 in his hand.

His second visit to Area 4 is no different from the first, except for the fact that Frank is filled with a sense of purpose. He’s doing something, at least. They can all stare at him in disgust, but at least he’s not one of them, controlled sheep not even thinking to question what they’re told.

This time, his summons had required him to be there at 8pm, and Frank wonders why they’ve waited until nightfall, this time.

He’s not taken to an interrogation room this time, he notes. He suppose it’s because it’s pretty fucking obvious what he’s done, and that he’s certainly aware it’s against the law. The scorpion stands out on his neck, a symbol of defiance, and the guards grip him a little more painfully than usual because of it.

They move down endless corridors, and Frank never knew that the place was so fucking big. He doesn’t want to know what all of the others rooms are for. The memory of his own branding is still far too fresh in his mind, and he wonders what else they’re going to do to him. Prison, maybe, so that he can’t go gallivanting around the streets with a symbol of hope on his skin. Something worse.

As it turns out, the room they shove him into is completely empty. He waits, wonders whether this is it, whether his punishment is just to stay in here forever until they’ve all forgotten he’s there. Until he dies of starvation and thirst, perhaps. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but it feels like hours, and Frank thinks of Gerard, Mikey, Bob and Ray, and wonders whether they’ll continue the band without him. He hopes to God they do.

Finally though, the door opens, and the two guys that enter are roughly three times Frank’s size, and one is holding a black case in his hand. Frank forces himself to stand to attention, look the guy right in the eyes and not think about what could be in the case. He tells himself he’s not afraid, that they can do whatever they like and it still won’t break him. He thinks of Gerard, and tells himself to stay strong.

Without a word, the man opens the case, and Frank’s heart starts hammering again. Just barely, he holds back the shout of disbelief as the officer takes the whip out, holds it threateningly and stares Frank down.

“A fucking whip?” Frank can’t help the words that tumble from his lips. His eyes are wide with incredulity, and surely this is illegal. But then it doesn’t matter, because these guys are the law, and they can do whatever the fuck they want.

Frank is shoved roughly to his knees, and the second man tears off Frank’s shirt easily, throwing it down in front of Frank’s hands. There’s a stunned silence for a moment, all of Frank’s tattoos on display, his defiance written clearly in the designs littering his skin.

He half expects them to say something, offer him up for even further punishment, but they don’t. Instead, there’s a cracking sound, and the whip comes down against his skin, cutting a straight line down between his shoulder-blades. It catches him by surprise and he yells in pain, feeling the pain in his fucking bones, feeling the blood begin to drip. The whip comes down again, and Frank braces himself, biting his lip hard and clutching at the tatters of his shirt in front of him. He tries his best to shut out the pain, but the image of his back keeps coming back to him, imagining the way the his tattoos will have been cut through, the Jack-O-Lantern shredded to pieces.

And still, the whip comes down.

Frank is surprised they actually let him out of the building. As it is, he’s shoved back out onto the street half-conscious and bleeding. Everything hurts, and it’s agony to try and put his ripped shirt back on, so he doesn’t bother. Instead, he hauls himself to his feet because it’s the only thing he can do.

It’s almost midnight, and there’s no one on the streets to see him. Curfew is long past, and Frank realises why he was summoned to Area 4 so late. Nobody is to see his punishment. Nobody will see him, nobody will pity his wounds and think twice about their perfect government. Frank can’t help the bitter feeling rising up though his chest, and he turns his anger into energy, propelling himself forward.

Gerard answers the door when Frank knocks despite the late hour, though his eyes are blurry and he rubs at them tiredly.

“Frank?” he questions in confusion, and then his brain properly registers the sight of his best friend bleeding on his front doorstep. “Frank!”

Frank allows himself to be herded inside, and Gerard flaps his hands around a lot and keeps saying Frank’s name, distressed and not knowing what to do.

“What happened?” he manages to get out finally.

Letting his eyes slip closed, Frank lies on his stomach on Gerard’s couch. “Got whipped,” he mumbles into the cushions.

“The scorpion?” Gerard guesses, and Frank nods dumbly, finding it increasingly harder to speak. All he wants to do is sleep, really. It’s been a long night, his back still feels like it’s on fire, and Gerard’s panicking is doing nothing for his own mental state. He’s still practically shaking with fury, and he knows that if he doesn’t let go soon, he’s going to do something stupid.

It takes a moment, but Gerard finally pulls himself together and rushes around to find bandages and ointment and an armful of other crap that Frank can’t be bothered registering. Gerard straddles his legs carefully, and Frank would probably be worried about the camera if he could bring himself to care. Gerard’s hands are gentle as he cleans and dresses Frank’s wounds, but he still flinches under the touch, gritting his teeth and trying not to cry out.

“Gerard?” he says through his teeth after a moment, and Gerard pauses.

“Yeah?”

Frank turns his head to look Gerard in the eyes. “Tomorrow? We play,” he says firmly, and doesn’t wait for Gerard’s answer before he drops his head back on to the couch and closes his eyes again. Gerard doesn’t say anything in reply, but somehow, Frank can feel his answering yes in his hands.

The next morning, Frank’s name in once again on the list of dangerous seditioners. To his delightful surprise however, today there are another ten names joining his, including Brian. Frank looks at Gerard with astonishment in his eyes, sees Gerard looking back at him with the same expression.

“They’re thinking,” Gerard whispers at the same time as Frank says, “It’s time.”

They meet the others in Brian’s basement, and Brian watches as they throw themselves around with their instruments. It still feels as amazing as the first time Frank picked up a guitar in Brian’s basement. To his right Gerard sings with his fucking soul laid out for everyone to see, and Frank knows that they can make a difference. They just have to get people to listen.

Brian has a black eye and a cut lip, yellowing bruises covering almost every inch of visible skin. When they ask, he admits quietly that he’d been punished for harbouring seditioners, and Frank knows he means them. It’s proof of Brian’s commitment to their cause that he doesn’t kick them out there and then.

They soon find out that Mikey has connections amongst most seditioners, and it only takes a few careful phone calls, hidden messages layered under a casual conversation about the weather, and suddenly their message is being distributed throughout the city.

“Pete will make sure everyone knows,” Mikey says when he hangs up his last phone call. “He’s careful, don’t worry.”

Frank feels the thrill thrumming in his veins, the knowledge that tonight, they’re going to make a stand ringing in his skin.

They begin to pour in by midnight, careful not to be seen, and soon, the old theatre is filled with more people than Frank could imagine. They’d scouted the place out for its size (Brian’s basement would never fit everyone, and if things didn’t go according to plan, they didn’t want to incriminate him more than they had already), and as it turns out, it’s even more perfect than they’d imagined.

There’s no way this will stay secret. Frank knows that before long, they’ll be found out, and the police will flood in. All of that becomes irrelevant now. Now, all that matters is getting the word out, showing everyone that there can be more to life than mindless control, that music did exist, can still exist. They’ve been practising for weeks, skills from the past remembered with an uncanny ease, like unlocking a portion of their brains that had been sealed off during the Revolution.

Frank hopes that tonight, they’ll unlock the same area in the minds of their audience. They can’t have forgotten completely. Somewhere underneath the Revolution’s teachings and the careful warping of the law are memories of a life before.

They take the stage with nerves jumping and hearts pounding, and the crowd assembled are already vibrating. Frank can see it in the way they look at him. Many of them hold their wrists to the air, showing their brands proudly, and Frank raises his in answer. To his delight, the majority of the crowd don’t even have brands. These aren’t just condemned seditioners looking for someone like them. These are people willing to listen, ready to question.

As soon as they start to play, the crowd goes insane. It’s like flicking on a switch, like the opening sounds of the guitar are almost enough to throw out the old ideas and policies. There’s people fucking crowd surfing, and Frank remembers that from concerts as a kid, and plays harder as a result.

“Music is freedom!” Gerard screams during the guitar solo, and they lose it.

Almost like Gerard’s words are the cue, there’s a scuffling in the back of the crowd and Frank sees a group of teenagers go down. The police shove themselves through the crowd violently, not afraid to hit and fight their way to the front. Frank half expects the crowd to step aside, let the police through to arrest them. Instead, he can hardly believe his eyes as they begin to fight back in an attempt to push the police back outside the venue.

Ray is the first one to throw himself into the crowd, grabbing his beloved guitar by the neck and using it as a fucking weapon. They attack him as a group, and Frank watches Ray get hit again and again before he goes down. He wants to throw himself off the stage and help him, but he knows better. Frank keeps playing, throwing himself into the song harder and harder. They’ll keep playing until they’re forced to stop, because otherwise this means nothing.

One drags Ray out a side door, hands cuffed behind his back as he struggles, and more of them climb up onto the stage, heading straight for Bob. The drum kit is knocked over in the fight, and Bob fights back with fists and drumsticks, but in the end he goes the same way as Ray.

Frank looks over at Gerard. Gerard nods in answer and keeps singing, keeps rallying the crowd to think, to fight, and Frank plays with him, throwing his heart and soul into his fingers. It’s inevitable, he thinks, but he still struggles when they descend on him, rough hands taking away his guitar and throwing it away like it burns, tearing his shoulders back and cuffing him. Frank feels the answering sting of his back, knows that his wounds have probably re-opened in the midst of playing and fighting, but he doesn’t care. He kicks out, feet, fists and teeth fighting to throw them off him as he’s dragged outside.

It all happens in a matter of seconds, and Frank is thrown into the back of a police van where Ray and Bob are already sitting, sporting cut lips and chests heaving, eyes feral. Frank twists in his seat, watching as Mikey is dragged out of the door. Gerard struggles the hardest, and Frank feels a flare of affection for him, fighting hard for everything Frank has evoked in him. The officer slams him down onto the hood of a police car in an effort to break him, and Gerard just struggles harder until he’s thrown in the van with the rest of them, breathing hard and nose bleeding.

Mikey’s in last, and Frank can’t resist looking up and poking his tongue out childishly as the police slam the doors shut. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been arrested - they got through to them, Frank knows they did. They won, in the end, and no matter what they do to him, to their band, they at least got the message out there.

“Fucking awesome,” Ray says, and he’s grinning despite everything.

Frank grins back at him. “Fucking awesome,” he echoes, and the van begins to move.

Even If It Kills Me.

lightisbreaking — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 14:23:10 GMT

Just a quick standalone written for blackeyedwicca , based on a song prompt she wanted written. Based loosely off Even If It Kills Me by Jason Mraz, but when I say loosely... I mean it. You don't even have to have ever heard the song to understand what's going on.

Hope you like it hun, and that it stands up to expectations.

Even If It Kills Me
Simple Plan; Pierre/David
~2100 words.

There’s this look David gets sometimes. Most often, it appears when he finds something out; something he already almost assumed, but not entirely. Something anyone else could have guessed, and yet David stays oblivious until the very end. And perhaps that says a little something about his character, the way he’s so much more absent than anyone else, the way they can all see in the blink of an eye what David takes ten years to see. Pierre loves this look. Loves the way it lights up David’s eyes, the way his face flushes a little out of embarrassment because all of a sudden he knows he’s the last one to see it. Sometimes, Pierre likes to surprise him with things, just so that he can see that look on his face. And maybe, sometimes he sees that flush of the cheeks, that twinkle in his eyes... And it’s enough to keep Pierre going. Enough to keep him going for years.

Seb has always been more observant than David, than any of them, really. And so, it’s not too much of a surprise when he finds the perfect moment to catch Pierre alone. It’s after a show, and the others have rushed off to fight over the showers and work out some of the show-jitters. Their bodies are still humming with adrenaline, and sometimes the best way to work it out is a good old-fashioned water fight. Pierre is on his way to join them when Seb grabs him by the elbow, steering him off his path and pushing him behind the bus.

Pierre raises his eyebrows. “Yes, Seb?”

Seb has one hand firmly on his shoulder, keeping him from slipping away, though from what, Pierre isn’t sure. They’re a close band, all, I’d take a bullet for you and I've seen you naked in the shower more times than I’d like to count. There’s no such thing as keeping secrets when you’ve been in the same band, with the same people, for ten years. Touring leaves no room for privacy, and so it’s not really a surprise when somebody finds out about something you thought you’d kept hidden. And yet, Pierre had thought he’d been doing a reasonably good job on this one. Apparently not.

“I know about David,” is all Seb has to say, and Pierre can already feel his stomach dropping into his knees. Amazing how Seb has such a way with words, how his usually cheerfully smiling face can twist into an expression of such suspicion and worry.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Pierre says the words automatically, even though he knows how ridiculous he sounds. But put in a situation like this, it’s the best his brain can come up with on the spot. He’s never been good at improvisation.

Seb rolls his eyes and okay, yes, Pierre deserves that. “Cut the shit. Look. I’m the last person to try and condemn you for your chosen lifestyle-“ Pierre doesn’t miss the shift of the eyes, the quirk of the lips. Seb is hiding secrets, too. “-but if this ends badly... If something goes wrong and this fucks up the band... Pierre... Just. Don’t let that happen, all right?”

Pierre is at a loss as to what to say then, because well, for once, maybe Seb is missing something. How can Pierre’s stupid little secret fuck up the band? It’s not like he was planning on anyone finding out, and besides, David’s been seeing that guy. The tech guy for The Getaway Plan. Pierre doesn’t think it’s very serious... After all, the two bands are touring Australia together and then going their separate ways. Meeting on tour isn’t the best way to start a lasting relationship, both Pierre and David know this. Still, let David have his fun while he can. God knows it’s not like the rest of them are getting laid.

“Back up, Seb. What’s happening with David?” Maybe playing dumb will get him out of this. Probably not, but it’s worth a shot.

“I’m not an idiot.” At least he tried.

“Neither am I, Seb, so stop treating me like one. Either tell me what’s going on or let me go,” Pierre snaps back, unable to help the frustrated set of his jaw, the sharp edge to his words. He’s getting impatient, wanting Seb to just hurry up and get to the fucking point already because he’s getting sick of toeing around this.

“You and David. Fucking around behind everyone’s backs.” And oh, has he got it wrong. Seb is wrong, for perhaps one of the first times in his life, and Pierre is going to have a lot of fun informing him of this.

“You’re wrong, Seb. So far off it’s not even funny.” It’s not. Really it’s the furthest thing from a joke Pierre has ever heard because all it does is make his chest feel even heavier. He wishes he and David were fucking around behind their backs. By god, he wishes.

“I’m never wrong,” Seb laughs, but there’s still that eye of suspicion, the I know more than you think look he’s always got.

“Trust me, we’re not. He’s fooling around with the tech guy, remember?” Pierre feels the slightest stab of jealousy, and he ignores it. A little competition is good for him, he supposes. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and all that jazz.

Seb doesn’t say anything, just fixes Pierre with that look once more before letting go with a nod. “All right. But please, just. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Stupid? I’m never stupid.” Bull-fucking-shit, but Seb doesn’t need to know that. Getting himself into this mess in the first place was stupid. Letting it fester for as long as it has was stupid. Being jealous of that goddamned guitar tech is stupid. Pierre doesn’t even know his fucking name, for Christ’s sake, how close can he possibly be to David and -- Stop. Jealousy. Stupid, right.

Seb laughs again, and this time it’s more easy-going. Pierre knows that he’s gotten off pretty easily, and he smiles, hoping that Seb keeps this little chat to himself. Because really, the last thing he needs is Seb skipping off to the others all, ‘you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with Pierre. I actually thought he liked David! I know, huh, how stupid could I be?’

One day, Pierre will tell him. One day, when David isn’t fucking a tech and Pierre isn’t such a chicken.

“You look a little off,” David tells him when they’re allowed to relax on the bus that night. Pierre sighs, unable to help himself, and rubs at his temples. He’s had a splitting headache ever since his confrontation with Seb, and all he really wants to do is lie down and sleep forever. Unfortunately, his body won’t let him do that, and would rather keep him up, torturing him for as long as possible. As further punishment, he has to sit on the bus with David. Alone. David, who has just gotten out of the shower and has hair dripping endearingly into his eyes, smelling freshly of soap and shampoo and god this is unfair. Sometimes, Pierre wants to punch David in the face, just as payment for what he puts him through every single day. It would be rather satisfying, he thinks. The downside of course would be messing up David’s pretty little face and then what would he spend his days staring at? Maybe he’ll just punch him in the shoulder.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?” Pierre mutters, more to himself than anyone else, but David hears him anyway.

“It’s... Fine? Are you okay?” David’s eyebrows are furrowed, and he’s leaning forward a little, concerned.

“Headache,” Pierre says in reply, and David ahs sympathetically.

What Pierre really wants him to do is crawl over and kiss him better - even just on the forehead would do, though he’s opting for the lips - and tell him that it’s going to be okay. Or tell him that he’s dumping the tech and wants in Pierre’s pants; that could work, too. Basically, Pierre’s mind is in the gutter and if he doesn’t pull it out soon, he’s in danger of going into cardiac arrest. There’s only so much one man can handle. And David is more than that, already. The Gods hate him; that much is obvious. Really, Pierre doesn’t know what he did to piss them off so much.

“I’m just tired,” Pierre continues, because if he keeps talking, maybe he’ll be able to refrain from kissing their guitarist. It’s such a crazy idea, it might just work.

“D’you want to go to bed?” David asks, and Pierre accidentally groans out loud. But honestly, how can he be blamed? Here’s David, innocently asking if he wants to go to bed when yes please, he would like that very much. Only he doesn’t think David means it in exactly the same way Pierre does.

“Yes,” he whimpers pathetically instead, because David or no, he still does want to sleep. His head is killing him. David isn’t helping.

“C’mon, then,” David says, standing up and helping Pierre to his feet, wrapping one arm around his waist and helping him to the bunks as if Pierre can’t walk for himself. Pierre doesn’t mind. The arm is comforting, warm against his lower back and around his waist, fingers tickling against bare skin where his shirt has ridden up. Pierre shivers, and assuming he’s cold, David wraps his arms around him tighter. Pierre doesn’t know whether to thank God or tell him to fuck off and stop teasing.

When he’s settled in his bunk, wrapping the covers around him and closing his eyes, hoping against hope that sleep will come easy that night, David finally kisses him on the forehead. Pierre smiles sleepily, feeling David’s lips on his skin and his breath in his ear, and thinking that tonight is possibly the best night of his life, despite everything.

“Better?” Pierre whispers in his ear, careful not to wake the others. Pierre nods, because it is. It really is. Everything seems better when David is this close.

He cracks his eyes open just a tiny bit to find David closer than he originally thought he was. He frowns in confusion when he sees that David is hesitating, not appearing to want to continue on to his own bunk.

“Something the matter?” Pierre asks, because it’s the least he can do after David has looked after him so nicely.

David hesitates, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before he sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’m going to dump Andrew,” he says finally. Sleep is making a valiant effort at claiming Pierre, and despite his earlier wishes, he fights to clamour through the haze and listen to what David’s saying.

“Andrew?” he echoes, and then remembers, oh. “The tech?”

“It’s... touring, y’know? You can’t. It doesn’t work.” David seems oddly distressed for something that looked like such an easy-going fling. “And there’s... something else.”

Pierre waits. David says nothing further. “Something else?” he prompts.

“Well. Someone else,” David corrects himself. “Mind if I jump in there?” He gestures to the mattress, and Pierre scoots over, allowing David to crawl in beside him and hoist the blankets up to his chest. “I just feel so confused.”

Pierre watches David’s face closely, and all of a sudden, there’s that look. And Pierre knows. Knows that David has finally cottoned on, that his secret is out.

Regardless of the nervous beat of his heart, Pierre’s slowly slipping away, lulled into sleep by the soft, soothing sound of David’s voice. He hums in an effort to get David to keep talking, to let him know that he is listening, even if he’s lying there with his eyes closed. Because if David keeps talking, he doesn’t have to own up to anything just yet.

“It’s just, awkward, y’know? I’m so worried I’m going to fuck everything up...” David’s still whispering, and while Pierre struggles to stay conscious and listen, he can’t help it. He’s falling asleep. “Pierre? You still with me?” David’s breath fans across Pierre’s cheek as he turns his head to look at the singer, and Pierre half-smiles amidst half-consciousness. “Gone to sleep on me, huh?” David laughs, soft and breathy, quiet. And then he heaves a long-suffering sigh, and props himself up on one elbow. “The funny thing is... I think I might love you,” is the last thing Pierre hears, before sleep claims him fully.

And then there’s a pair of soft lips against his own, and he can no longer distinguish between dream and reality. Either way, it doesn’t matter. For now, real or no, he has David. And really, that’s all he ever wanted.

Genuine and Unprepared.

lightisbreaking — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 11:00:20 GMT

So this has been in the works for a while, and finally it's all finished and beta'd and ready to go.

Thanks to boobookittifukk for the beta job, much appreciated. This is the first Gerard/Lindsey that I've written that's well, het, and canon, so I'm hoping I did okay. We'll see. Hope you like it.

Genuine and Unprepared
Gerard/Lindsey
~5100 words.

Gerard’s maybe a little jealous. There’s this sharp pang in his stomach, or maybe his heart, and it kind of makes him want to throw up. He supposes he should be excited about this. About the fact that they’re embarking on a tour that should be one of the best of their lives, but he can’t bring himself to crack a smile. All he can feel is this churning in his stomach, this fear, this anxiety. He can’t stop fidgeting, shifting and moving on the couch, his leg bouncing, his hands twisting, constantly changing his position and unable to stay comfortable. From the way Bob is looking at him, he’s seconds away from getting up and slapping Gerard until he sits still, but he can’t stop. He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but no matter how many times he tells himself to sit still to calm down and act like he’s okay, he can’t. He’s been restless lately, on edge. On the other couch Mikey and Alicia are snuggling, his nose pressed into her neck. Occasionally, she lets out a giggle as he nips at her skin, and Gerard has to look away. There’s something unsettling about seeing his younger brother happily married before Gerard himself even settles down. He’s happy for Mikey - over the fucking moon - but he can’t help the nagging voice in his head telling him to get a move on. If he’s being honest, he really just wants to meet someone. He’s sick and tired of people who only see him as the front-man of a successful band, sick of being hit on by girls who wouldn’t have looked at him twice if he wasn’t Gerard Way. He fiddles with his ring finger, wonders what it would be like to be happily, comfortably married. With one quick glance back over at Mikey, he stands up and hurries to the bunks, feeling the rest of the band’s eyes on him as he walks away.

Usually, Gerard’s used to the rumble of the bus moving, the small bumps along the road. It’s become ingrained into him like every other part of touring, and never before has he had a problem sleeping because of it. Now though, he’s tossing and turning, unable to sleep until just as he thinks he’s about to nod off, the bus hits a pothole or a bumpy gravel road and he’s wide awake again. It’s nearing on four am and he’s at that point where he’s so tired he feels like crying, but he can’t make himself fall asleep. Instead, he kicks the blankets off before pulling them back up to his chin, turns onto his back, then his stomach, his side, and then tries kicking the blankets off again. Nothing feels comfortable, nothing is working, and he lets loose a string of curse words as he fumbles around in his bunk. He knows that if he keeps this up, he’ll probably wake everyone else up, but he can’t bring himself to care. Part of him even takes some twisted pleasure at the thought of someone else waking up and having to share his pain. He can’t sleep, and it’s not fair that everyone else has been out of it for hours now.

When he can’t take it anymore, he rolls out of his bunk and stomps into the kitchenette, boiling the kettle and setting about making himself a shitty cup of instant coffee. There’s no way in hell he’s sitting around waiting to drink proper coffee, so he figures the instant shit will do. After all, he’s also pretty used to shitty coffee after six years on the road, give or take. He’s just about to sit down and watch whatever crappy shows are on television at this time of morning when he hears someone else stumbling out of the bunk area. He cranes his neck to look behind him out of curiosity, feeling half-guilty and half-delighted. Frank staggers into view, rubbing his eyes sleepily with his pajama pants threatening to slip right off his hips. Gerard can’t help but grin at him, and when Frank shoots him a glare in return, he holds up his cup of coffee as a peace offering. Frank mutters something that sounds a little like fucking ass, but he takes the cup regardless, cradling it in his hands as he shuffles back out into the lounge. Quickly, Gerard makes himself a new cup before he follows.

“Fucking insomniac,” Frank grumbles as Gerard sits on the couch beside him, but all of the malice from his tone is killed by the scratchy sound of his tired voice.

“It’s not like I came knocking on your bunk,” Gerard points out, keeping his voice low. It’s one thing to wake Frank up, it’s another thing entirely to wake up Bob. Bob isn’t afraid to throw a shoe at his face. Frank is - most of the time - more rational when it comes to Gerard’s bouts of insomnia.

“Might as well’ve.” Frank stifles a yawn and slouches further down onto the couch, and Gerard watches the mug of coffee in his hands a little fearfully. Any second now Frank’s going to slosh it all over himself, surely.

Somehow, Frank manages to manoeuvre both himself and the mug however, and he makes it safely into a comfortable position without drenching himself or Gerard in coffee. “You need to stop thinking so hard,” Frank says, and Gerard wrinkles his brow.

“Stop thinking? That’s more your department, Frankie.”

Frank apparently isn’t into teasing at four in the morning, and he rolls his eyes, elbowing Gerard in the side. Again, his coffee comes dangerously close to spilling. Frank takes a sip, and Gerard sighs a little in relief, hoping that it might not be full enough for any more close calls.

“Whenever you can’t sleep it’s always because you think too much,” Frank explains, like he knows how Gerard’s mind works better than Gerard himself.

“I’m not thinking. Well, I am, but not like. Not things that would keep me awake usually.” Gerard has been thinking. Been thinking an awful lot about this tour, and the bands they’re on the road with, but mostly, about the fact that he feels fucking lonely. As lame as it sounds - and he’s well aware that it does - he still feels lonely even with his best friends and band-mates living with him 24/7. It’s just the usual bout of homesickness he supposes - missing having friends he only sees occasionally, because somehow that made the times he did see them even better. He loves his band to death but sometimes it feels like they’re all he’s got, and that’s not always such a great thing. He’s always been one for affection; always needed physical and emotional contact, like he’ll shrivel up and die if he’s not around people for long. In a way he’s a walking contradiction because as much as he loves human contact, he’s a fan of curling up by himself with his iPod for hours on end. Now though, the idea of being alone sickens him. And it’s not just friendships anymore, he knows that. He’s thirty, and he doesn’t care that he’s on the road all the time. That it’s going to be hard to settle down no matter what. All he really cares about is the fact that he’s thirty, and craving the attention he can only get from a lover. Or more than that, really. Hopeless romantic and all, he’s wishing he had someone to cuddle, someone to nuzzle and smile with. Not just a fuck buddy or a friends-with-benefits sort of thing because really, it’s just not his scene.

“You’re doing it again,” Frank notes, and Gerard snaps to attention.

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Frank asks, and he’s not pushing it, and he’s not saying it just because he feels obligated, either. Gerard knows Frank, and he knows that it’s just Frank’s way of letting him know that he’s there if he needs to talk, that he’s approachable at any time. Gerard sort of loves that about Frank.

“I’m just. I’m just lonely, I guess,” Gerard admits, and Frank stays quiet, waiting to see whether he’ll continue. After a moment he does, setting aside his almost empty coffee mug so that he can use his hands like he’s used to. “I just kind of want to meet someone who’s not just looking to fuck me around, y’know? Like, someone who I can just be me with, and not any shit to do with the money, or the name, or the band.” Gerard frowns, looking Frank dead in the eyes. “You’re a lucky fuck, you know. With Jamia and all.”

And that brings a warm smile to Frank’s eyes and lips. That’s what Gerard wants. He envies Frank for meeting someone before the band, someone who’s stuck with him through all of it, and not changed just because the situation became a little different. Gerard wants that.

“Yeah, I know,” Frank replies, and he has this dopey smile on his face, like he’s got half a mind to get up and call Jamia, regardless of time differences and the fact that he has no idea what unreasonable time he could be calling her in. “You’ll meet someone, Gee. Sure you will.”

Gerard isn’t so sure, and for a brief second he severely regrets writing fucking Cubicles. Motherfucker didn’t know what he was asking for. Hindsight is always 20/20, he supposes. As if sensing that Gerard’s still on edge, Frank reaches across and takes his hand, squeezing it reassuringly and smiling. It’s all comfort, all relaxed support and Gerard loves that about their friendship. There’s no awkward boundaries, no worries about whether holding hands or hugging or kisses on the cheek is a little bit too far, a little bit too close for comfort. They’re best friends, have been for years, and they’ve been living together, eating together, breathing together for so many years that they can’t help but be affectionate. Jamia understands, and it’s never been something they’ve had to worry about. Gerard feels a surge of relief and gratitude for what he has with Frank. Someone to talk to at ungodly hours of the morning. Someone who understands.

They end up watching re-runs of Will and Grace, and eventually, Gerard falls asleep with his head on Frank’s shoulder.

He’s the last one off the bus, shades firmly covering his eyes from harsh sunlight. There’s already people moving quickly, bustling around with equipment and walkie talkies, headsets and badges. It feels like home, even in a strange venue so far away from Jersey. The sights and smells are still more or less the same though - the sweat, the static of equipment and radios, fast-paced chatter and the occasional burst of laughter. There’s a group of guys - Linkin Park from what he can see - already kicking a ball around a little to his right, and it’s all easy and familiar. A new tour, new bands, new people to meet sure, but still everything he loves, still the comfort of doing what he knows.

“Gerard Way, you lazy fuck!”

Gerard snaps to attention, seeking out the voice and finding it in the form of a woman striding towards him. There’s a wide smile on her lips, a little all-knowing, a little teasing.

“Heard you only just decided to join us,” she continues once she reaches him, and Gerard smiles back, an automatic reaction to seeing an old friend.

“Had some things I had to clear up first,” he lies. What he had really been doing was spending a little bit longer moping around the bus, not wanting to face people. He knows that Jamia is coming out to see Frank midway through this tour, and that sort of brings his mood down even further. Mikey has Alicia, and Frank has Jamia, and Bob and Ray have their girlfriends waiting patiently for them back home. And then there’s Gerard, drifting back and forth without being able to decide what he wants. He knows what he wants to an extent - wants someone to love, simple as that - but he can’t bring himself to find the right girl. There’s always something holding him back.

“Listen, so your guys wanted me to tell you they want you over at the stage when you’re ready, but I was thinking we could talk for a bit before I hand you over. What do you say?” Lindsey is still smiling at him, red-painted lips curved perfectly. She’s not in her stage outfit yet - the school girl uniform that he rather guiltily enjoys seeing her in - but she looks as gorgeous as he remembers her in tight fitting jeans and a simple t-shirt. He can remember the way they hit it off back when they first met. The way they’d clicked so easily with music and art and ideals and suddenly he wants to hide for the entire day and just talk to her.

“That’d be awesome,” he says genuinely, and she rocks forward on her heels to nudge him with her shoulder and grin again.

“Well then let’s go.”

Gerard’s quickly losing track of time. The longer they sit and talk the more he wants to stay here forever. All he can focus on are the words pouring from her mouth, the way she just seems to get everything. She’s smart, she has a lot to say and she’s not afraid of saying it, and it’s everything Gerard’s ever admired in people. He kind of wants her to keep talking forever. And then there’s the way her lips move, painted ruby-red and curving and twisting to form the words she wants to say, the way he can’t help but stare at them as they move, transfixed. Every now and then she lifts a hand to brush hair back from her face and he notices that, too.

And then suddenly she stops, glancing at her watch and laughing. “Holy shit! That’s the time? Fuck. We should get back.”

She stands up and Gerard refrains from catching her wrist, from pleading with her to stay. She’s right. They have jobs to do.

“Yeah. It’s been awesome talking to you though,” he says, and again he genuinely means every word. He’s never found himself so intrigued with what one person has to say.

She smiles warmly, none of the old teasing grin, and he knows that she can see he means it. “Yeah, you too. We should do it again some time.”

Gerard’s about to offer to take her out for dinner if they get time, and then he remembers that this is the first day of tour. That it’s only their first day of catching up since they met, and he should probably keep in mind that he hasn’t known her for his whole life, even if that’s what it feels like.

“Well, we’ve got a whole tour together,” he says instead. And then he can’t figure out what the standard procedure here is; whether he’s supposed to hug her or shake her hand or just say goodbye, and he hesitates.

She laughs a little, as if she can hear his thoughts, and shuffles a little closer. “It’s a rock tour, Gerard, not a business meeting.” And then she embraces him for a second and he can smell her shampoo before she’s pulling away. She waves goodbye and hurries back to her own band, and Gerard stands there for a minute with a stupid smile on his face before he remembers that his own band is probably wondering where he is.

“Where the fuck have you been, Gerard?” Ray is already herding him towards sound check, yelling at him that there’s only a couple of hours until the show starts, and that it’s the first day of the tour and they have to be prepared, yada yada yada. All Gerard can really think about is the red of Lindsey’s lips, and the way she spoke of things he couldn’t talk about with anyone.

“Dude, he’s not even listening,” Mikey says, and Gerard looks up to see his brother grinning at him.

“Fuck off, Mikey, I was too,” Gerard counters, even though he knows Mikey’s going to pull the usual ‘What did he say, then?’ trick and he’s not going to have an answer past about the first two minutes of Ray’s speech.

Mikey says exactly that and Gerard counts off a small triumph on his mental Gerard versus Mikey tally. And then he remembers that he really doesn’t have much of an answer and Mikey’s about to get his own little stroke under his name.

“I’m in lots of trouble because I disappeared and we’re on tour and I have to be responsible and be where I’m supposed to be, etcetera, etcetera. Was that all?”

Mikey crosses his arms in front of his chest and raises an eyebrow. “You passed, I guess. Barely. But where were you? We were looking for you everywhere. We even sent Lindsey from MSI to go looking for you.”

Gerard allows a tiny smile and thinks that oh yeah, Lindsey found him, and he’s more or less counting down the minutes until he can corner her alone again. “We were just talking.” He shrugs, and figures that whatever, they shouldn’t question that. People talk and get distracted all the time.

It seems to suffice for now, and they leave him alone while everything’s being set up. They get on stage and play something quick, easy and second nature, and Gerard sings when instructed to and otherwise thinks of Lindsey.

It’s halfway through their second song of the night that he spots her. He’s striding over to Frank’s side of the stage, singing his lungs out and feeling the music reverberate through his entire body. He can’t see much when he looks out off the stage, the lights blinding any chance of real sight, but he heads towards Frank, knowing that even if he can’t see them, they can see him, and anything he does with Frank is sure to get a reaction out of them. He’s halfway there, strutting and giving it all he has when his eyes drift to the side, to where the lights aren’t quite as blinding as they are straight ahead, and he can see her in the wings, grinning and tapping her foot along to the beat. Gerard catches her eye and grins straight back, and then he nuzzles his face into Frank’s neck, biting the skin when there’s a break in the vocals. Frank leans back against his shoulder and laughs, eyes wild and stage-crazed, and Gerard knows that Frank saw her too.

He powers through the rest of the set then, the knowledge that she’s watching, that she likes what she sees only fuelling his performance, encouraging him to give everything he has. To work the crowd more, to show off a little more, play the crazy motherfucker he can be on stage and occasionally glancing back over to wink at the woman just off to the side of the stage. And Lindsey grins back at him every single time, until she blows him a kiss during Give ‘Em Hell, Kid and he shakes his hips in response. The rest of the band have realised that she’s there by now, and Mikey keeps giving Gerard this warning look, mixed in with a smile.

It’s one of the most carefree, relaxed and fun shows Gerard remembers playing in a while, and the crowd feed off it. She stays until the end of their set, which is more than he could ask for. Mostly, they get a chance to maybe catch a couple of songs from someone else’s set before they’re being hauled off to do something else. And yet, somehow, she’s managed to avoid band members, managers, tour managers and everyone else on her back just to watch their show.

When they finish their set and head off stage, she’s disappeared. He’s a little disappointed he didn’t get a chance to talk to her, but he supposes it’s about time she got back to her own band. He can always try and catch her later anyway.

His opportunity comes later that night when Kitty and Lindsey knock on the door of their bus. Frank opens the door and when he spots who it is, he grins and calls for Gerard.

“Hey,” Lindsey greets him with a smile, and he returns it warmly. “So we were wondering if you anti-social geeks wanted to come out tonight. Everyone’s going - first night of tour and all.”

Gerard hesitates. There’s nothing he’d rather do than spend the night with her, but he also knows that everyone on tour going out will involve a lot of drinking. He finds it’s easier to avoid these situations altogether. They all respect his sobriety, but being the only sober person in the place gets depressing and lonely fast. And then there’s the added risk factor. Usually, he’s okay with people around him drinking. Hell, he lives his life on the road and seeing his own band mates or other bands drinking had become mundane. Still, in a room full of intoxicated people who wouldn’t notice if he slipped up, sometimes it’s hard to hold himself in check. As much as he likes Lindsey, he’s not about to go fucking up everything he’s worked for. He’s about to make an excuse not to go when something flashes across Lindsey’s face.

“Oh! You. Of course. Listen, um. Well, I’ll stay, if you’d like?”

Gerard doesn’t catch on right away, but then Frank’s nudging him in the ribs. “Awesome. I’ll go ask the guys,” he says before he disappears, leaving Gerard on the doorstep.

There’s an awkward silence before Gerard remembers he should probably invite them in. Kitty shakes her head and declines politely, assuring him that she’s following Jimmy and Steve out as soon as she picks up the MCR boys. On cue, the other four members of his band reappear and nudge Gerard out of the way so that they can climb off the bus.

Soon enough, it’s just him and Lindsey, and he finally clues in. “Oh! I don’t. Don’t let me keep you from going out, really.”

Lindsey rolls her eyes good-naturedly and pushes past him. “I invited you for a reason, Gerard.”

He falters, unsure of what exactly he’s supposed to say to that and realising that this is the first time in a long time that he’s been left without words. Having Lindsey on the MCR bus is one of those things Gerard doesn’t entirely know how to deal with. She’s awesome, and he’s totally looking forward to spending time with her without having to worry about interruptions or being on time to sound check or a show or quality time with band mates that he sees 24/7 and yet somehow still want to spend every waking minute with each other. He’s not sure exactly what she’s expecting.

“Relax, kid. I’m just here so that you don’t get so lonely.”

And maybe he’s overanalysing. Maybe he needs to calm the fuck down, but...“just”? She laughs, seeing the look on his face and understanding immediately.

“I want to be here, you over-thinking fuck. Stress less.”

Gerard forces a smile and makes for the kitchen. If he can keep moving, keep busy, maybe he won’t make a total idiot out of himself.

“Coffee?” he calls out and can hear her following him into the kitchenette.

“Would be great, thanks.”

And that gives him a few moments of distraction, of mundane activity. She potters around beside him, humming to herself and after a second or two, he realises it’s one of MCR’s songs.

“What did you think of the set tonight?” he asks, because there, that’s conversation. He can talk about the music, no problem. He does so in interviews every day, and he can get through this easily. Besides, it’s not like they’ve never talked before. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous all of a sudden.

“I loved it. You guys are really something to watch on that stage,” she says, and she’s staring straight at him, a light smile on her lips. Gerard likes hearing that they played a good show, that they gave the audience what they paid for. And it means even more coming from her.

“I’m glad. Maybe I can swing by and watch you tomorrow,” he suggests, and she nods, sidling a little bit closer.

“I’d like that.”

He finishes making them coffee and hands her a mug, noticing briefly that it’s the one Ray normally uses.

“So, how would you like to spend the evening?” he asks her, feeling as though he should be entertaining her more than he is. This is his bus, his territory. He’s the host, and yet he’s at a complete loss as to how to amuse a gorgeous woman on a tour bus.

“Seriously, Gerard. Relax. Anyone would think you’d never been around people before. We can just talk, you know.”

He calms down a little, smiles at her thankfully, and leads her back into the living room. They end up lazing on the couch, and her knees bump against his. It doesn’t take long before conversation becomes easy, and he starts to remember how much of a geek she is, how much they have in common, how comfortable it is just to talk to her. It’s not long before they get into art, and when she asks him whether he’d like to see some of her stuff one day, his eyes light up.

In the time they’ve been talking, he’s barely noticed that she’s shifted a little closer, that their thighs are now rubbing together. Their empty coffee mugs are abandoned on the table to his right, and he’s too comfortable to bother getting up and putting them in the sink. Instead, he listens to her talk, adds in his own two cents every now and then, and lets himself get caught up in conversation without worrying. They get talking about past lovers, past relationships and she laughs a little awkwardly when she says she always ends up dating the assholes. There’s a surge of something in his stomach that makes him want to find anyone who ever hurt her and punch them in the face, but then she’s changing the subject as if it makes her uncomfortable.

He’s halfway through describing every detail about his favourite scenes in Little Miss Sunshine (“And you know, the part where he finds out he’s colour blind and can’t become a pilot? My god, it was just so perfectly soul destroying. Can you imagine that? Imagine having the one thing you want most in the world taken away from you?”) when Lindsey smiles, cocks her head to the side slightly and says, “I haven’t seen it.”

Gerard’s off the couch in seconds, rummaging through the drawer of DVDs they have to keep them relatively sane on the road, and after a moment, he pulls his head back up triumphant, clutching the movie in his hand. “We’re watching it. Right now.”

She looks a little bemused but she goes with it, settling back on the couch and nodding. “Put it in then.”

He does so as fast as he can before he rushes back to the couch and settles back down, hitting play on the remote.

An hour later and they’ve slipped down against the couch. The lights are all off and the light from the TV washes over them gently. Both caught up in the movie and hardly paying attention to who they’re sharing the couch with, both have resorted to the usual bus tendencies. When you live on a bus with the same people for so long, personal boundaries and space cease to become an issue, and without realising it, both of them are lying down on the couch, Lindsey’s legs dangling over the arm rest and Gerard’s head on her stomach. It’s only when she starts gently threading her fingers through his hair that he realises he’s not watching the movie with his band, and being this all up in her personal space is probably not a good idea. He startles, makes to move away, and when she laughs, he can feel the vibrations against his skin.

“Gerard, it’s fine. Really,” she assures him, and he smiles up at her before laying back down again. Her fingers immediately go back to playing with his hair and scratching gently against his scalp, and it’s soothing in all the best ways.

It’s not long before the credits are rolling, and she’s doing her best to stretch underneath him without jostling him too much. He sits up anyway, allowing her to shift a little and regain the feeling in her limbs. Her shirt rides up a little as she does and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s tracing fingertips gently against the sliver of exposed skin above her waistband. She shivers beneath his touch and he snaps his hand back, eyes catching hers immediately.

“I’m sorry, I-“

“It’s okay,” she says again, and this time she edges closer, pushes him back on the couch until he’s pinned against the armrest. Her right leg slots in between his thighs as she leans in close, and this is pushing the boundaries, this is going beyond casual movie-cuddling and relaxed friendship. Then she kisses him, and Gerard couldn’t give a fuck about personal boundaries.

He kisses back almost immediately, pressing forward and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Her fingers find their way back to his hair again, and this time she’s tangling, tugging, meeting his tongue with hers and pushing closer, closer.

When he breaks away to breathe, she’s grinning and her lipstick is a little smeared at the edges. He can’t help but laugh, reminded of teenagers making out on his parents’ couch once they’d gone to bed. She brushes her hair away from her face and kisses him again, simple but sweet.

“I’m not that guy,” he says a little breathlessly, his fingers sliding up the back of her shirt and touching skin.

“I know.” And she smiles, kissing him again.

When Mikey corners him the next day and gives him the usual lecture on being careful and not falling too fast, not getting hurt so easily, Gerard just shakes his head.

“She’s it, Mikes,” he says, simple as that, and Mikey hugs him tight.
</div>

Where We Feel

lightisbreaking — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 14:01:53 GMT

Once upon a time, idktbh posted a picspam of which contained pictures of Gerard looking a little more towards the feminine side. Doing so apparently inspired me to write genderswap...

I have never ever written genderswap in my life, so this was kind of fun. I'm hoping I did okay. Feedback would be immensely appreciated.

Where We Feel - Nc17
My Chemical Romance - Girl!Gerard/Lyn-Z
~4780 words

Gerard’s always been about respecting the women, about gender equality and treating them how they deserve to be treated. He’s been spouting off these sorts of ideals and values for as long as he can remember, and every now and then, maybe he wishes that he could get in to a woman’s mind, see what really makes her click, figure out the very essence of females. Despite his fascination and admiration for the opposite sex, Gerard’s no saving grace among men - he’s still at a loss when it comes to how to act around a woman with PMS and he doesn’t always understand when he’s said the wrong thing. But he tries, at least, and he’s always thought he could figure out the final pieces of the puzzle if he could actually experience it. He wonders about it sometimes, about if one day, technology will be able to allow people the opportunity to switch genders for a certain amount of time. Gerard does like his cock, and he’s perfectly fine with the way he was born, but sometimes, it doesn’t hurt to wonder.

It’s one thing to think about it, to wonder... And another thing entirely for it to actually happen.

He wakes up with a pleasant smile on his face, the kind that lets him know that even if he can’t remember it, he’d been having a nice dream. He’s still in that dreamy half-state of mind where he’s not really awake yet, but is conscious enough to start feeling his surroundings. The sheets are twisted around his legs again, his head rolling a little bit off the pillow, and well, Gerard’s never been the most gracious sleeper ever, so he’s used to this. It’s when he rolls over and tries to snuggle back down into the warmth for a few minutes more bliss that he starts to feel a little unsettled. There’s something... Weird, but he’s still half-asleep and can’t really force himself to concentrate enough to figure out what it is. Groaning, he rolls over again and fights his way into conscious thought, and then it hits him like a ton of fucking bricks, and he sits up so fast he whacks his head on the bunk above his own.

“Ow, fuck!” he swears, but the dull pain is quickly forgotten when he remembers the reason for his abrupt awakening. Something doesn’t feel right, and there’s this... He doesn’t even know how to explain it but something fucking weird is going on with his dick. It’s just... Totally not right, and yeah, what the fuck? Quickly, he shoves his pajama pants around his knees, all ready to double check that everything is normal when - hold the fucking phone. He tries to bite back the shout of surprise so as not to wake everybody else up, but he can’t help it; it tears itself out of his throat anyway. There’s a chorus of groans and a few muffled ‘shut the fuck up, Gerard’s, but that’s hardly the biggest problem on his mind. Because holyfuckingshit! At first it kind of looks like someone’s cut his entire fucking dick clean off, and then he leans down, reaching out with cautious fingers to find out what the fuck is going on... And that’s when he goes completely rigid. In seconds he’s biting down on his forearm so hard he almost breaks the skin, but the shooting pain does nothing, and either this is some fucked up dream that he can’t wake up from, or something has gone seriously, seriously wrong.

“M-Mikey,” he tries, his voice a little weak at first. He’s still staring at his groin, the place where he’s supposed to have a cock, but all of a sudden he’s... His dick is gone and there’s... Oh god, he’s going to die of embarrassment and plain fucking confusion. With a good round of healthy cursing, Mikey appears beside Gerard’s bunk and pulls the curtain to the side.

“Gerard, what the fuck-“ and he stops dead when he sees his brother with his pants around his knees, sitting in his bunk with that stricken look on his face. With the practised ease that comes from many a time walking in on Gerard jerking off when they were teenagers, Mikey doesn’t even spare a glance at Gerard’s crotch. And for the first time, this seems to distress Gerard immensely.

“Mikey, fucking look. What the fuck? Tell me I’m dreaming, this isn’t happening, oh my god...” And he’s rambling now, but really, what’s to be expected? He gestures helplessly to the apparent problem at hand, and reluctantly, Mikey shifts his eyes lower. Gerard watches Mikey’s face, and he cringes when Mikey’s eyes widen and he stumbles back a bit, tripping over a pair of shoes left in the tiny hallway and falling into the bunk behind him. There’s a shout and a scramble of limbs as Mikey and the figure he’d landed on - Frank - struggle to right themselves. Frank is fully awake and pissed off by the time he manages to clamber out of the bunk, but all of the anger disappears when he comes face to face with Gerard’s open bunk. Frank has never been quite as respecting of personal space or privacy as Mikey, and apparently he has no qualms with staring right at Gerard’s exposed crotch.

“Oh my god!” he squeaks, and it’s the weirdest sound Gerard has ever heard - some sort of mix between horror and amusement. It takes a couple of seconds, and then, “dude holy fuck, you’re like. Gerard you’re a girl.”

It’s the sort of statement that at any other given time, Gerard would be used to. He doesn’t have enough fingers or toes to count the amount of times he’s been called effeminate, or that he’s acting like a girl, or a drama queen, or a princess, or- he doesn’t really need to go on. But this, this is different. Because this time, it’s so, so not funny.

“What the fuck, seriously? I don’t, oh my god, what?” He can’t seem to get his head around it, and everything is just so all over the place and how could this even happen? Gerard doesn’t remember shooting down any estrogen lately and he’s pretty fucking sure that he’s had a cock for the past thirty years of his life so why the fuck has it decided to go MIA now?

Frank’s laughing now, and Bob and Ray are waking up to come and see what all the noise is. When they reach Gerard’s bunk, they stop dead and stare, and Gerard’s beginning to feel a little like he’s in a fucking freak show. Which, he thinks, he could probably pull off, right about now. Because his fucking cock is gone and apparently he’s got a fucking vagina and that’s not normal, at all, he’s pretty certain. Bob and Ray are staring, dumbfounded, Mikey is averting his eyes and looking like he’s going to be scarred for life - Gerard can already picture him in therapy in a few years, crying over the day his brother turned into a girl for real this time - and Frank’s fucking laughing his ass off, tears running in streams from his eyes, doubled over and clutching his stomach.

“Oh, god. Gerard. Gerard, you’re. Fuck, this is.” Frank can’t even get a full sentence out through his laughter, and Gerard hauls his pajama pants back up around his hips frantically. Briefly, he notices that his hips are kind of rounder now, a little fuller, and there’s no jutting ‘v’ that he’s used to seeing. To be completely honest it’s almost like he’s back in high school, feeling the bit of pudge rolling over his hips. But now it’s totally fucking different because these are girl’s hips and he’s got a fucking cunt, and oh god, what. And then Bob’s stifling a laugh behind his fist, and Gerard’s eyes snap to him.

“Nice rack, Gerard,” he says as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, and Gerard barely refrains from tearing Bob’s throat out. Instead, he settles on staring down at his own chest, and oh god. It’s not like all of a sudden he has D cups or anything, but there’s definitely lumps where there were no lumps before, and Jesus Christ.

He orders them all out immediately and tugs the curtain closed, closing his eyes and praying to god that this isn’t real.

Gerard refuses to leave his bunk for the rest of the morning. The rest of the band have decided to give him some alone time, some time to try and figure out what the fuck is going on, and he kind of appreciates it, but at the same time, being alone like this terrifies him. He spends the time lying naked in his bunk, running shaking hands over his body, and it feels familiar and strange all at the same time. He’s not used to having the swell of breasts on his chest and even though they’re not huge, they’re a little uncomfortable and he’s not used to it at all. He avoids the lower half of his body as much as he can for now - he’s really, really not ready for that just yet - and instead goes to work on exploring his face and torso. After feeling himself up to the point where he feels almost a little guilty, and after being handed a mirror by a giggling Frank, Gerard has come to one conclusion.

He’s a fucking girl.

He can’t explain why, or when, or how, but his hips are round, his stomach is maybe a little flatter now with his body fitting into his newly found curves, his skin’s softer, he’s got breasts, his lips are fuller, his eyelashes longer, darker, even his hair’s a little shinier, a little more full of life. He still looks like Gerard, he supposes, if he had been born a girl. He’s still recognisable, he just looks more feminine, and he hopes that if he somehow straps his chest down and keeps his clothes on, maybe he’ll get away with it. They’re on fucking tour, and he can’t afford to have people questioning why he’s suddenly turned into the opposite sex.

After spending all morning in his bunk, it suddenly hits him. Because holyfuck, his wife is on this tour with them. Mindless Self Indulgence are in the bus just behind theirs, and what the hell is he supposed to say to her? 'Hey hun, so apparently I turned into a girl overnight, how hilarious is that!'? There’s no way he can face her, not now, possibly not ever. But they’re almost at the venue, and he knows that as soon as they stop, everyone will clamber off their respective busses and she’ll be wondering where he is.

Another hour later, he gets up the courage to face the rest of his band again. He dresses quickly, and his jeans don’t fit right around his hips, his shirt is a little baggy, and all of a sudden, he understands the necessity for bras. He feels awkward, to say the least, and he wrinkles his nose up in annoyance before he pads out into the little kitchenette. The rest of the band are having a whispered conversation over cups of coffee, and they stop talking as soon as he walks into the room. Gerard rolls his eyes and fidgets nervously at the door.

“You can stop talking about me now,” he half-jokes, and it’s a tiny relief to hear that his voice is mostly the same. Although, maybe that’s even worse because now he fucking looks like a girl and sounds like a guy.

Mikey looks up, seeing how uncomfortable his brother is, and offers a sympathetic smile. “Sit down, Gee.” He motions to the spare chair, and Gerard does so, crossing his arms over his chest self-consciously.

“This is so weird,” Ray moans, and Gerard shrinks a little further back in his chair. He feels awkward enough, he doesn’t need them confirming his own fears. What if he never changes back? What if he’s stuck this way forever?

“Have fun feeling yourself up?” Frank grins, and Gerard glares at him.

Gerard’s still going over it all in his head - what he’s going to say to his wife in a couple of hours - and he’s beginning to get so frustrated that in the end, he just blurts it out. “What am I going to say to Lindsey?”

They all look at him, and there’s a stunned silence before Bob cracks a grin. “Good luck with that, man,” he snorts, and Gerard flips him the finger before stalking back to his bunk.

Far too soon than he would have liked, really, the bus is coming to a stop and Gerard is cut off halfway through a mental debate on correct pronouns - is he a she now? - by a sudden flare of panic. Mikey calls out to tell Gerard that they’re here, like he wouldn’t have figured that out on his own, and Gerard forces himself to get out of his bunk. When he stands up, he readjusts his shirt, half wishing he had a bra to support his tits because they keep moving when he walks. At the same time, he’s maybe a little terrified because wouldn’t that make them even more obvious? And besides, it’s not like he can borrow a bra off any of the guys, and there’s no way in hell he’s going lingerie shopping.

When he steps off the bus he puts his sunglasses on in an instant, a force of habit. The sun beats down on his shoulders but he pulls his denim jacket on anyway, hoping that if nothing else, it’ll maybe hide his tits. It doesn’t, not really, but at least he can fool himself into thinking it helps. His jeans feel even more awkward around his waist and hips when he’s moving, and he scowls as he steps outside into the open. He can’t help but feel self-conscious, terrified to his core that someone is going to notice immediately. He’s never been the most masculine-looking guy, so he thinks that he might be able to pull this off for a little while, hopefully long enough to change back. That is, if he changes back. He crosses his arms over his chest again, and kind of wishes that he could just wait it out on the bus. But they have a show tonight, and he’s got to do sound-check, and check out the venue, and Lindsey would probably come looking for him anyway. In fact, he thinks that him being in his bunk, alone in the bus, would probably be even more of an incentive for her to come looking. With a sigh, he follows behind Ray, and hopes that he’ll be hidden from view.

“Gerard!”

He hears his voice being called and groans, wondering whether he has time to dive back onto the bus and hide, but then there’s a hand on his shoulder and reluctantly, he turns around. Brian is looking back at him, and Gerard doesn’t remember Brian saying he was coming to this show with them, but okay. Brian’s looking at him with this strange expression on his face, and it’s making Gerard a little nervous. Still, Brian narrows his eyes, scrutinizing every inch of Gerard’s face.

“Holy shit you are a chick,” he says finally, and Gerard frowns. “Mikey called earlier. Said that I needed to meet you here because you uh... Turned into a girl? I was going to tell him that you’re always acting like a girl but then he actually sounded kind of serious, and wow. Okay then.” Brian’s talking fast, as if forcing out a jumble of words in a rush will help him get over the fact that yes, Gerard Way is apparently female.

“Do you think we should cancel the show tonight? I don’t know what happened, or how long this will last, or-“ Gerard stops, because oh god, this is all so ridiculous and he can’t believe he’s actually taking this seriously. But it is real and sooner or later he’s going to have to come to grips with that.

Brian frowns. “I don’t think so. You feel okay, right? Maybe you’ll be fine by tonight. If not, we can just uh, hope nobody notices? We’ll use like, bandages or something and strap your chest down, and uh. Yeah.”

It doesn’t sound like a very full-proof plan, but it’s all they’ve got, and so Gerard nods. He doesn’t want to let down the band by cancelling, and besides, it shouldn’t really fuck up his ability to perform - he’ll just be doing so as a girl. Which he figures, can’t be too different. Hell, it might even make the stage-gay between he and Frank less bizarre, who knows. That kind of defeats the purpose of the entire thing, he thinks, and then he realises that there’s really no point in even worrying about whether or not Frank’s going to kiss him on stage that night. Another second later, he discovers that the reason he’s rambling to himself is because Brian’s left him all alone, and Lindsey is heading towards him. Fuck.

She’s smiling, her hair is let down today, tumbling in messy waves to frame her face. Her eyes are alight with a kind of mischief, and as soon as she reaches him, her thumbs find their way into his belt-loops. His stomach does a little flip and he realises that even as a girl, his reactions to her haven’t changed. He forces a smile back at her, and feels a little awkward with the look she’s giving him. It takes him a second to realise that it’s almost the same sort of look Brian gave him moments ago, only hers has a... There’s a hint of something in her eyes and Gerard can’t quite figure out what it is.

“You’re a pretty hot chick, Gerard,” she says, and then he gets it. Oh god.

“I-“

“Frank tells me you were freaking out a bit over what I would think,” she continues, and Gerard kind of wants to disappear. Where the fuck does his band get off on telling everyone what happened? He’d been planning on keeping this as quiet as possible, thank you very much, but with the way it’s going, everyone down to the last tech and roadie will know by lunch time. And Lindsey is still staring at him, and he feels his stomach turning, his heart beating kind of fast. She looks fucking gorgeous, he thinks, and there’s a stirring in the pit of his stomach as she presses close to him.

“Want to come to my bus for a while?” she asks, and she’s grinning. Gerard kind of really wants to kiss her. And then she takes the initiative before he can, pressing her lips to his. She moves hers against them, gently coaxing his lips open and only barely sliding her tongue into his mouth. And it’s different. Not in a bad way and not so much that it’s uncomfortable or strange, but there’s definitely something new. There’s a tingling feeling running through him, shooting to his stomach again and a little nervously, he slides a hand to cup the back of her neck, pulling her closer. She resists however, pulling back and smiling at him again.

There’s this feeling of need flowing through him, and he can still feel her touch on his lips. He’s a little scared of what might happen if he follows her back to her bus, and it’s not like they’ve never done this before, but it’s their first time like this. He can’t help but feel nervous, because it’s going to be different, and he doesn’t know what he’s expected to do. He knows what gets him off usually, how to move to make her feel good as well, where to kiss and where to touch, but he’s a little scared he won’t be able to do it right this time. His cock is gone and it’s been replaced with parts that he’s not used to, that he doesn’t really know how to use in order to please her. At the same time however, she’s still pressed against him, and her lips are shining, and he really, really wants to try this. Who knows how long he’s going to be a girl for; he might as well make the most of it, right?

He nods, and she grins wider, slipping her hand into his and dragging him in the direction of Mindless Self Indulgence’s bus. He’s never been more nervous in his life.

She assures him quickly that the rest of her band won’t be back until after lunch time as she leads him on to the bus. She heads straight for the bunk area, and normally, Gerard appreciates how forward Lindsey is, but at the moment, it’s sort of just making him lose his head. He needs time to work through this, time to breathe. And then she stops, as if she understands. Standing in front of him in the tiny hallway, she puts her hands on his hips and leans in close.

“I love you, and I really, really kind of want to see what you look like as a girl, naked. But we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” she says, and Gerard remembers for the thousandth time why he married the most amazing girl in the world. A little bit of confidence replaced, he kisses her reassuringly. She smiles against his lips, and this time it’s he who makes the move of deepening the kiss, slipping his tongue past her lips. Gently, she eases him backwards and pushes him down onto her bunk, slowly enough that he has time to duck his head. He’s about to crawl into her bunk properly when she stops him, keeping him firmly where he is.

“You don’t even want to attempt that,” she laughs, getting on her knees in front of him. And oh. Oh. “There’s no way in hell there’s room for me to do this in there.” She gestures offhandedly to the bunk before she leans up and kisses him again, hotter, deeper. Her hands are at the hem of his shirt, lifting slowly, the tips of her fingers trailing along his bare skin. He shivers, his stomach writhing under her touch as she pulls the shirt up and over his head. He’s self-conscious all over again under her eyes, and he has half a mind to cross his arms over his chest again, but then she’s leaning forward to suck on his neck, and he forgets. Her hands skim over his skin, and everything feels so much more intense, his body trembling as she nibbles at his neck, her hands cupping his breasts. He’s heard countless women complaining about having tits and earlier that morning, he might have agreed with them, but now, he’s changed his mind. There’s tingles and shocks running through him, and still there’s that strangely pleasant churning in the bottom of his stomach. Lost in her touch, he arches, and his jean-clad crotch rubs against hers. It’s not as much as it would be had his cock been there, he supposes, but it’s definitely something, and he whimpers.

Lindsey moves away and Gerard seizes the opportunity, pulling her shirt over her head as well. And at least this is something he’s done before, and he knows how to caress her until she moans, how to trace his fingers over the lace of her bra teasingly. She shivers against him before she kisses him again, and then her hands are going to work on his belt. It hits the ground with a thud and she unzips him, pulling the denim down his legs.

“Guess you don’t own panties, huh,” she laughs when she notices his lack of underwear, and he blushes. Fingers skim over his thighs and he trembles again, an aching need throbbing throughout his entire body, now. He can feel that he’s wet, and it’s an odd experience, but he can’t help but want more. Her fingers edge closer as she moves up to force their lips together again, and her tongue moves against his. At the same time her fingers move closer to where he wants them and he strains against her.

And then she sinks one finger into him, and his eyes shoot open. He takes a moment to get used to it, because wow, and then he whimpers, bucking into her hand. She adds another finger, pushing deeper until she’s in as far as she can manage, pumping them in and out. He moans into her mouth again, and she separates their lips, grinning at him as she moves down his body, and shit.

Her tongue drags against sensitive skin and fuck that must be his clit. He remembers the way she’s always arched underneath him when he did this to her, and he never imagined it could feel this fucking good. Her fingers move steadily in and out of him and then she crooks them inside, pushing against his walls and tonguing his clit at the same time, and he throws his head back, knuckles turning white where he clutches the sheets desperately. She glances up at him to check how he’s doing, and he can’t help it, he nestles his fingers in long, dark strands of hair and moans. She grins again before she goes back down on him, removing her fingers and instantly replacing them with her tongue. He’s never felt anything like this before and it’s incredible, and then he’s coming, a strangled cry on his lips and his fingers tugging at her hair.

She kisses him, hot and languid, and he can taste himself on her tongue. She’s done this before, but he tastes different now, though he can’t pinpoint what it is. He wants to touch her, to show her how much he appreciates everything, wants to make her feel as good as she did for him. His fingers move to the hem of her skirt and he slides his hand up her thigh. As they kiss, he moves both hands up under her skirt and pulls her panties down from underneath until they’re around her ankles, and from there, she kicks them off. He sits up and she presses against him. He fingers her clit and he feels more at ease now, more in the norm. He can do this, he knows this, and it’s okay. She moans and lets him work her for a few more minutes before she pushes his hand away.

“This is about you. I want you to take everything while you still can,” she whispers against his lips, and pushes her fingers back into his heat, straight to the hilt. Immediately he whimpers and is hit by the sudden realisation that he could very much come again. She works her fingers in and out of him, grinding against his thigh as she does, and he feels a little guilty. Despite what she had said, he wants to make this good for her as well. It doesn’t take him long before he comes for the second time, and after catching his breath quickly, he moves and switches their places. He sinks to his knees in front of her and before she can protest, he pushes up her skirt and nestles his face between her thighs, flicking his tongue out for a taste. She moans, loud and broken, and he knows what she likes, knows how to get her there as best he can. Her legs wrap around him and he goes faster until he can feel her thighs tensing, hear her ragged breathing and hitched moans. She comes, shaking, and he continues to lick her out, easing her through it before he crawls back up her body.

“You’re amazing,” she breathes against his lips, and he kisses her. He traces his fingers over her bra again, caressing her and holding her close, and yeah, he’s definitely the luckiest guy - girl? - in the world.

They move themselves into her bunk properly and she tucks herself into his side as he holds her. “Love you,” he whispers into her hair, and she returns the sentiment, her lips moving against his neck. Her breathing is deep and even against his skin and he closes his eyes, thinking that okay, maybe he can deal with this for a little longer.

Legalities of the Heart

lightisbreaking — Sat, 14 Jun 2008 15:51:21 GMT

So six months later this is finally finished. This has been the sole focus of my writing for six months and I'm a little nervous putting it out there for you all, but I hope you enjoy it.

Mega thank yous to idktbh for all the hand-holding, encouragement, flailing and generally being amazing ♥. For x__keepthefaith for being so patient with the time it took to get this finished. And to boobookittifukk and gee4president for the amazing beta job - I know it was a lot to ask and I really appreciate it.

Legalities of the Heart
My Chemical Romance; Frank/Gerard
~20,900 words.

Mikey knew that the one thing that exasperated his brother even more than the far-more-frequent-than-they-should-be phone calls due to Mikey sticking a fork in the toaster again, was when he visited Gerard at work.

However, Mikey managed to safely make himself two pieces of toast that morning, and in his humble opinion, that granted him one free pass to see his brother. The glass doors swung open without a sound as he stepped inside, his Doc Martins clicking along the shining marble floor. It had been cold outside, and Mikey had been counting on the inside of the building providing him with at least a little bit of warmth. He was sorely mistaken, and really, with the amount of time Mikey spent in the building, he should have known that by now.

Alicia, the young girl who worked at the front desk, was in her usual place. Mikey was rather fond of her. With a wide grin, he strode across the entrance towards her.

‘Morning, Alicia!’

Suave as he was, Mikey leant casually against the desk, elbow propped up on the smooth oak surface and shot her his winning smile. Ever the charmer, that Mikey Way.

‘Your brother is in a meeting. Kindly get off my desk.’

‘You love me, Alicia. One day, I'll be famous and making millions of dollars and you'll wish you had expressed your undying love when you still had the chance.’

She looked up at him for the first time since he’d entered, one sharp eyebrow raised sceptically.

‘Famous doing what, Mikey? You work in a comic book store. Though work probably isn't the right word. It's more a case of being employed, but never turning up to your shifts. You spend all of your time here, making my job, and my general existence, far more difficult than it should be.’

Unfazed, Mikey grinned again. ‘And this is why we're such good friends, Alicia! No one can insult me like you can.’

With a frustrated groan, Alicia turned back to the pile of papers in front of her, knowing all too well that Mikey Way was the last person to try and reason with. She sometimes wondered how he’d made it this far in life without being strangled to death by anyone unfortunate enough to have to live with him. Dealing with him was becoming part of her job description, but at least she was paid for it. When she thought about it though, he did seem to liven the joint up a bit and really, she’d gotten so used to him being around, she almost couldn’t imagine her job without him bothering her.

‘So is this meeting of his important?’ Mikey questioned, casually lifting various items from her desk -- pen, stapler, hole-punch, calculator -- and examining them briefly and pointlessly before putting them down again, always in a different place from where he had taken them.

Reaching out to prise the calculator from Mikey's curious fingers, Alicia scoffed. ‘It hardly matters what my answer is. We both know you're going to storm on up there making as much noise as you can regardless.’

‘You have a keen eye, Alicia.’

‘Mr Way won't be happy. You know that.’

Mikey shrugged, standing up straight and flashing another wide smile. ‘I'm his brother. I have special privileges like that. He's under strict rules that he has to love me unconditionally, no matter how many meetings I interrupt. Besides, this is important.’

Not bothering to argue with him, Alicia picked up the phone and began to dial. ‘I'll let him know you're here.’

‘I was in the middle of something, Mikey. Couldn't you have waited at least ten minutes?’

Gerard had been working too hard again. At that moment in time, he certainly didn't look like the head of a prestigious law firm he was supposed to be. Dishevelled hair, tired eyes, loose tie... he looked a mess.

Mikey had always known it wasn't the lifestyle Gerard was cut out for, but any arguments were quickly extinguished. Gerard both hated and loved his job with a fiery passion. It ran him down, kept him on his toes, took over his life and ruled out any chance of a social life, but Mikey knew Gerard wouldn't give it up for the world. The firm had been started by their father, and as the eldest child, Gerard was intent on running it until he retired. Despite what may have happened with a certain Bert McCracken.

‘I was bored, Gee. The shop was dead and I've already read Batman ten times over today.’

Mikey leaned back in Gerard's chair, making himself comfortable as Gerard stood in front of him.

‘You can't just pull me out of meetings with important clients whenever you get bored! You said it was important. This isn't rating very high on my priorities list so far.’

‘I know. Which is why I only do it every second day,’ Mikey retorted, steepling his fingers in front of him.

Gerard groaned, running a hand through his hair and making it stick up even more, then splaying his hands on the desk in front of him and leaning forward, staring across at his younger brother.

‘Please, Mikey. Things are really crazy around here at the moment.’

Mikey Way was never quite as thick as everyone made him out to be. Contrary to popular belief, he did know where to draw the line. He just preferred not to, most of the time. He knew that Gerard was under a lot of stress, and that it frustrated him when Mikey showed up without any prior warning. But Mikey Way also knew his brother better than anyone else, and he knew that while Gerard put up the usual act of being tired, exhausted and fed up with Mikey's visits, to his younger brother, it was clear as day that he didn't really mind as much as he pretended to.

Mikey walked over to the office most days for one sole purpose: to save Gerard from himself.

There was a knock on the door, and Gerard was cut off half way through preparing to kick Mikey out of his office.

‘Come in!’ Gerard called, and Mikey leaned further back in the chair, kicking his legs up on the desk and crossing his ankles.

‘Mr Way?’ a head popped around the corner of the doorframe and Mikey beamed.

‘Hayley!’

In seconds he had shot out of the chair, wrenched the door all the way open and threw himself at the girl. Despite his thin stature, the force sent the two of them flying backwards, the girl's head clunking into the doorframe with a loud thud.

‘Sorry, sorry!’ Mikey rushed, stepping back and glancing at his brother guiltily.

Gerard was watching, his arms crossed against his chest, one eyebrow raised, a bemused smirk adorning his lips.

‘Mikey, if you're going to come here just to be a pain in the ass, please refrain from knocking out my employees in the process.’

Rubbing the back of her head with one hand and wincing playfully, Hayley giggled. ‘Yeah, hi Mikey.’

‘It's really saying something when you're on a hugging -- or tackling -- basis with my secretary,’ Gerard continued. ‘Maybe it's time that you actually got a life and stopped invading mine.’

It's a difficult thing to make Mikey Way feel ashamed, and his brother's words did nothing more than make him laugh. ‘More than just your secretary, really. You know Alicia, down in reception? I'm going to marry her one day.’

‘Get out of my office Mikey.’

‘Alright, alright. I can see when I'm not welcome.’

‘So why are you still here every day, huh?’ Gerard opposed.

Hayley stood awkwardly between the two of them, her eyes darting from one to the other and debating on whether she should just come back later.

‘Because you need me to be,’ Mikey answered shortly, all the teasing and humour gone from his voice. Gerard faltered, and Mikey didn't give him a chance to come up with a witty reply.

‘See you later Gerard,’ he grinned, bounding out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

Gerard stood, staring at the door his brother had just exited through and hating him for knowing him so well. He blanked out for a few minutes, lost in his own thoughts until a voice snapped him back to the situation at hand.

‘You know, he's just trying to help.’

Gerard turned to see his secretary looking at him pointedly, clutching a folder full of papers to her chest.

‘Haven't you got something you're supposed to be doing?’ he sighed, running a hand through his hair and walking around his desk. He settled himself in his chair and leant over the desk, moving aside a mountain of papers in search of one sheet in particular.

‘Adam asked me to give this to you. He says it's important.’

She shrugged, stepping forward and making her heels clack against the floor. Gerard held out his hand for the piece of paper she was offering, frowning as soon as he saw the first line.

‘Is this his idea of being funny?’

Hayley grinned. ‘Everyone else can see it except you. Just do it, for all of our sakes.’

Gerard stuffed the paper into his drawer, refusing to look at it. She rolled her eyes, muttering something about men and their self-righteous values.

‘As much as I love you and all, I'm sure you could be doing something more useful than hassling me about how I choose to run my own firm. Go, I don't know, file some things, or something. I don't care.’

With a mock salute, she turned on her heel and left. Gerard put his head in his hands, thinking for the millionth time that he'd be far better off with some employees who actually treated him like their boss.

‘It looks like you tried to cut yourself.’

Frank was sitting across from her, holding her hand lightly in his own and inspecting the white bandage wrapped around her right wrist. At his words, Jamia snatched her hand back, cradling it to her chest and glaring at him.

‘As tactful as always,’ she muttered. Frank shrugged.

‘Well, that's what it looks like!’

They were sitting outside the tattoo shop, Jamia just having put up with a great deal of pain for the intricate design that was currently hidden by the gauze. As part of their deal, Frank himself sported a brand new tattoo in the shape of a scorpion on his neck.

‘Come to think of it, this was actually a really stupid idea,’ he mused, indicating to the bandage on his neck.

Jamia frowned at him, shaking her head firmly. ‘Hell no. That is the coolest tattoo I have ever seen. How can you possibly even think of calling that a mistake?’

With a scowl, Frank stood up, holding out his hand for her to take. She did so easily, her fingers interlacing with his as he dragged her back down the street towards his car. ‘You know how hard it is for me to get a job already. Now I have a fucking scorpion on my neck. You can't cover this shit up.’

Jamia pressed a finger to her lips, her eyebrows screwing up in thought. A disobedient strand of blonde hair fell into her eyes and she swiped it away in annoyance, contemplating as she stared at her best friend's new tattoo.

‘You have a point. But I still stand by what I said before.’

‘I’m feeling like coffee. You in?’ Frank grinned as he started up his car, Jamia sliding into the seat beside him. He pulled out of his parking space easily, watching out of the corner of his eye as she fiddled with the CD player.

‘Always,’ she answered quickly without having to think.

Jamia climbed out of the car, Frank following quickly and locking it. She headed straight towards the entrance of the coffee shop but Frank held off a bit, glancing across the road.

‘Jamia? I'm just going to go into the comic store real quick, okay?’

She didn't even bother to turn around, continuing on her way into Starbucks.

‘See ya later, geek!’ she called back. Frank couldn't help but laugh again, watching her for a moment as she pushed the door open, striding in and letting it shut behind her.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Frank checked each way -- proof of his mother's good parenting -- before he crossed the street, dodging the traffic with practiced ease. There was a tiny bell above the door that tinkled lightly as Frank stepped inside the shop. Shelves and shelves of old and new comic books, collector's items and crappy cheap ones lined the store, and Frank grinned, immediately feeling at home.

He wandered aimlessly for a while, not really having a particular thing in mind as he strolled up and down aisles. He couldn't spy any salesperson yet, and he was grateful. He wasn't in the mood to be hounded; Frank just wanted to spend a little time to himself, in a place surrounded by one of his many loves.

Soon enough, a tall, thin body appeared from the back room, seemingly startled when he saw Frank. He jumped, a pair of glasses sliding down his nose and he dropped the stack of comics he had been holding. The boy blushed furiously, bending down to pick them up in a rush. Frank reached out a hand to offer his help but the boy brushed him off, collecting the comics off the ground and throwing them onto the desk before straightening up.

‘Er, hi,’ he greeted Frank, pushing his glasses back up to where they belonged.

With a wry smile, Frank nodded in acknowledgement, reaching out a hand. ‘Frank,’ he introduced himself when the guy took his hand lightly. It wasn't a strong grip by any means, and Frank grinned, his eyes running over the guy's frame quickly. Long legs were covered in a pair of blue jeans that looked too big for him, a plain black t-shirt covering his chest, and old Converse on his feet.

‘Mikey,’ he answered when Frank let go of his hand.

There was an awkward silence, a hesitant shuffle of feet before Frank realised that he was staring. He dropped his gaze immediately, disappearing back amongst the shelves.

He roamed the aisles aimlessly for a few more minutes. Every now and then his eyes would catch something that looked interesting, but nothing that really sparked the urge to pull his wallet from his back pocket. Eventually, he made his way back to the shop front, ready to leave.

‘Tattoo?’ a voice said suddenly, and Frank looked up to see the boy -- Mikey -- looking at him, his eyes fixed on the bandage on Frank's neck.

‘Oh,’ Frank nodded, his brain catching up. ‘Yeah. A new one. Scorpion.’ He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, narrowly avoiding said tattoo. He felt a little strange in the shop, as if the boy was looking straight through him.

‘That's cool,’ Mikey nodded his head in a similar fashion, propping his glasses further back on his nose.

Frank shuffled his feet again, wanting to leave but for some reason feeling as though there was something more this boy wanted.

‘Well, I uh. I'm off, I guess. Thanks for um,’ and he waved his hand around the shop, stuck for what he was meaning to say in the first place.

‘No problem,’ Mikey answered before he went back to sorting out the comics on his desk. Frank hesitated once more, still not sure exactly what he was doing. The boy in front of him intrigued him for God only knows what reason, and he didn't want to leave just yet.

‘Hey, uh, Mikey, was it?’

Mikey looked up again, eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he nodded.

‘Yeah, that's me.’

‘You wanna maybe go for coffee? My friend and I are just going across the road, and I thought-’ Frank trailed off, because really, he doesn't know what he thought.

Mikey cocked his head a little in confusion, and slowly, he nodded. ‘Um, okay, sure. Just give me two minutes to pack this shit up, and I'll be with you.’

It struck Frank that the shop really mustn't get a lot of business then, and he felt a little better for inviting Mikey out. It was obvious that the boy was near going out of his mind with boredom.

Frank nodded, waiting patiently. Mikey looked back down at the stack of comics on his desk, sighed, and turned his back on them, stepping around the counter and towards Frank.

‘Fuck it, I'll do it later,’ he said with a careless shrug, and Frank grinned.

It wasn't something that Frank did often, inviting strangers out for coffee, but he was glad he did it. The three of them sat in a small booth in the corner, sipping coffee and talking about nothing, and Mikey actually seemed like a guy he'd like to get to know.

‘So Frank, what do you do, then?’

It's a question that Frank still felt uneasy answering, even after the millionth time. It wasn't that he was ashamed of what he did, or that he didn't want anybody knowing - it was more that they never took him seriously.

‘I'm uh. I'm an attorney,’ he said at long last, and there was a sudden shine to Mikey's eyes.

‘Oh? What firm?’

Frank looked down into his mug, feeling the shame rising in his cheeks. ‘None, at the moment,’ he answered quietly.

Frank was good at his job. Really good at his job. The problem was, it was hard to be a successful attorney if no law firm would even look at you twice. And it wasn’t that Frank lacked the skills. Far from it. It was always his appearance. People were never willing to look past the haircut, the tattoos, the clothes. As soon as they found out he liked playing the guitar it was a lost cause.

He looked up only to find Mikey staring at him intently. He shifted a little under the heavy gaze, but Mikey didn't relent.

‘You work privately or something?’ he questioned, and Frank drowned a little further in his shame.

‘No... I uh. I haven't found anywhere to um, take me in, just yet.’

And finally, Mikey understood. A small 'oh' of realisation sounded from his lips, and Frank wished he could just hide, right then and there.

‘They don't know what they're missing out on, really,’ Jamia cut in, determined to defend Frank's honour no matter what. He smiled gratefully at her.

‘You know, my brother runs his own law firm,’ Mikey started, a slow hint.

Frank looked up, and he couldn't help but hope, maybe just a little bit. ‘You mean...’

Mikey nodded, taking a sip of his coffee patiently. ‘He’d never admit it, but he’s drowning under his own creation.’

Frank bit his lip, wondering whether Mikey really was hinting at what he thought he was.

‘He’s trying to handle too many of the cases himself, see? The idea of snatching some new guys in to help him seems foreign...’

And surely, surely Mikey wouldn’t be that teasing. Frank leant forward a bit, eager not to ruin his first opportunity in forever.

‘What would I have to do to say, get an interview?’

Mikey grinned. ‘Now you’re getting it. Come with me, right now. The sooner, the better really.’

There was a twinkle to Mikey’s eyes that made Frank wonder whether he had his own motives for doing this, but really, he didn’t care too much. This was his chance, and he wasn’t going to blow it.

‘Alright, let’s go,’ Frank said quickly, draining his mug and getting to his feet.

He threw Jamia a worried smile, and she gave him a reassuring one in return. ‘Go get ‘em.’

Frank couldn’t help but grin. This was better, so much better than he had envisioned. When Mikey had so easily offered him up an opportunity, he was sure the place was going to be run down, some shitty firm in the backstreets that nobody had heard of, with Mikey’s brother struggling to keep it together.

But here he was, and he was officially impressed. He’d only just set foot in the lobby, but with marble floors, high ceilings and bright sunlight streaming in, it looked perfect. To the side, there was a large desk, a girl sitting behind it and clacking away at the keys of her computer. Mikey grinned at him, and Frank was given just enough time to raise one eyebrow before Mikey was bounding over to the desk.

‘Alicia!’

She looked up, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. Frank could tell that this was obviously almost routine.

‘What now, Mikey?’ she asked, exasperated, turning away from her computer as if it was pointless trying to work with Mikey around.

‘Where’s Gerard?’ Mikey questioned easily, ignoring her tone.

Frank hung back a little awkwardly, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do in this place.

‘Busy,’ she answered shortly, going back to her computer.

‘He’s always busy. In his office, right?’ Mikey continued, and she nodded finally, reaching for her phone. She dialled the familiar number quickly, with expertise gained only through practice, waiting for the other line to pick up.

‘Mr Way? Reception...yes, I’m afraid so...okay. I’ll send him up.’ She hung up moments later, smirking at Mikey. ‘Seems he knows you too well.’

Frank watched as Mikey winked at her before he was heading down the hall, beckoning for Frank to follow. Eventually, they reached a large door, and Mikey turned to Frank.

‘So, just a warning. Gerard...he’s...he’s stressed. A lot. Okay?’

Frank nodded, getting what Mikey was hinting at before the other man reached for the doorknob and swung the door open easily, not bothering to knock.

‘What’s the problem now, Mikey? Read Batman so many times you want to puke?’ a tired voice greeted them, and Frank walked in the room to find a man younger than he expected sitting behind a large desk, drowning in papers.

‘Well, yes, actually, but I have other motives as well,’ Mikey retorted, and the man behind the desk looked up.

‘Mikey I don’t have time-- Who are you?’

Eyes fixated on Frank squarely, and he opened his mouth and closed it again uselessly. Yes. He definitely wanted this job. Hell, he’d have the shittiest job in the entire firm if it meant he got to stick around and stare at that face all day.

‘This is Frank. He uh...’ Mikey trailed off, looking at Frank and realising that the man was struck still.

Frank fumbled, seeing that he was expected to talk. ‘I uh. Yeah. I’m Frank.’

He cursed himself. Fucking pathetic.

Gerard frowned, going back to the mountain of papers in front of him. ‘Look, I have work to do, Mikey. I don’t have time for you to bring friends in here just to annoy the fuck out of me.’

Frank immediately felt guilty, though he wasn’t sure why.

‘He’s not a friend, Gerard. I mean, well, sorry Frank, but...okay, never mind. Let’s start over,’ Mikey laughed, turning back to his brother. ‘He’s an attorney, Gerard.’

Gerard looked up sharply, his eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been talking to Adam? Because I swear, I’m going to rip that man’s throat out next time I see him...’

Mikey rolled his eyes tiredly as Gerard stood up, his fingers clenched into fists. ‘Would you just shut up and listen, for once?’ Frank could tell that he was infringing on private matters, and he had the urge to walk out of the room right then and there. This was a mistake, he was sure of it.

‘You need help, Gerard. Everyone can tell. The firm’s going to go down the drain and it’ll all be because your fucking pride got in the way.’

Frank slowly began backing out of the room.

‘This has nothing to do with you, Mikey. I’ll run this place how I think it needs to be run. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Gerard turned to Frank suddenly, and Frank was stuck like a deer in headlights. ‘I’m sorry that my brother dragged you all the way down here, but we’re not looking for anybody new. My secretary will show you the way out. Hayley!’

As if tuned in to appear at his every command -- which Frank reasoned, she probably was -- a young woman appeared in the doorway behind him.

‘Yes?’

Gerard turned to her, teeth gritted. ‘Could you please show this young man the way out? My brother and I need to talk for a moment.’

She hesitated, but did as she was told, beckoning for Frank and letting the door close when they were both safely in the hall. Immediately, there was shouting, and Frank was somehow glad he had left.

‘Sorry about that. What exactly are you here for?’ she questioned, adjusting the glasses on her nose and leading him down the hall again, her heels clicking against the floor.

‘Oh. Mikey. He...uh...he said that I could maybe apply for a position.’

She nodded, a look of understanding crossing her features. ‘That explains that then. I’ll talk to him about it, don’t worry. He does need you. He’s just too stubborn to admit it,’ she grinned, and Frank wondered how long she had been working there that she was able to discuss her boss with such ease.

‘Is he... Is he always like that?’ Frank asked, wondering whether he really wanted to work in a firm with a boss that was apparently intent on his own wishes, and well, stressed out of his mind. Scratch that, he thought. He wanted this job, regardless.

‘Gerard? Oh, no. He’s a sweetheart, really. He’s just… He’s under a lot of pressure, and he doesn’t cope too well,’ she explained with a frown, and just from the few glimpses he had gotten, Frank knew that Gerard appeared to be the only one who couldn’t see this.

‘Oh, there’s Adam,’ she said suddenly, her eyes veering off to the side. ‘Listen, come back tomorrow. We’ll try and talk some sense into him.’

Frank nodded absently, his mind still a blur from the sudden change of events before he found himself back at the front door. He stepped out, remembering the look of the man’s eyes, the way his hair tumbled around and framed his face, and Frank had to hold himself in check.

Yes, he would be back tomorrow.

‘Another one?’ Adam questioned disbelievingly. Surely Gerard wasn’t that ignorant.

‘Yeah. He’s so intent on doing everything himself, he doesn’t realise what he’s doing half the time,’ Hayley sighed, following Adam into his office.

He gave her a sympathetic glance, ushering her in and shutting the door behind her.

‘Forget about him. We’ll talk to him; he has to come around eventually.’

‘Yeah, when the entire firm goes under,’ she retorted, rolling her eyes.

‘Forget about Gerard,’ Adam repeated. ‘He’s just a stubborn asshole.’

‘Adam! Get out here!’ Mikey’s voice interrupted.

‘Fuck you, Mikey!’

Regardless, he moved towards the door, opening it to allow a disgruntled Mikey Way in.

‘Anyway, I should probably go and get some work done. I’ll tell you about this guy later,’ Hayley nodded to Adam, and he grinned in response.

‘Sure thing. I wonder if the poor bugger will even come back.’

Hayley shrugged her shoulders in defeat before slipping out of the office. As soon as she was gone, Mikey stepped over to the desk, shoving Adam’s stack of notes to the floor to make room for his ass.

‘Oh sure, Mikey. Make yourself at home,’ Adam said sarcastically, and Mikey just grinned, shifting on Adam’s desk to make himself more comfortable.

‘Okay, so I actually did have a point in coming here. We need to have like...an intervention for Gerard or something. I don’t know,’ Mikey sighed, picking up a sheet of paper from beside him and putting it back down two seconds later.

‘Last I checked, Gerard wasn’t an alcoholic, or a drug addict, or any of that shit,’ Adam replied, picking up a ruler and promptly hitting Mikey’s thigh with it.

‘Maybe not an alcoholic, but a workaholic and-- ow! What the hell was that for?’ Mikey flinched, jumping off the desk and rubbing his leg.

‘To get you off my desk. It worked. See?’ Adam retorted, and Mikey shrugged.

‘Anyway, we do need to talk to Gerard. After everything with Bert, I don’t think he trusts anyone else to step in anymore.’

‘Schechter offered, didn’t he? Y’know, from that firm in New York?’ Adam circled the desk and threw himself back into his chair, looking up at the younger Way.

‘Yeah. Gerard’s refusing. When Bert walked, he took half the fucking firm with him. He doesn’t want that happening again if he lets Brian in to help.’

‘Brian’s not Bert. Gerard knows that,’ Adam argued, and Mikey laughed.

‘Since when has Gerard ever heard the voice of reason for this sort of thing? Look. It comes down to this. He needs to get a new partner. You need some more lawyers before you all drown in the workload. Someone has to talk to Gerard.’

It wasn’t often that Mikey made assumptions about people, but when he did, he was usually right. It was through previous experience that Adam shut his mouth and nodded, knowing that when Mikey Way had a hunch, he was going to follow it through until the end. And really, if it helped them get Gerard back to living outside his office, it was bound to end well. The entire firm was sick of seeing Gerard locked away behind his towers of papers. Adam knew that he hadn’t left the office before midnight for two weeks.

‘So, time for you to do what you do best then,’ Adam smirked. Mikey laughed, raising one eyebrow in questioning.

‘And what would that be, Lazzara?’

‘Annoy the shit out of Gerard.’

As soon as Gerard opened the drawer, he regretted it. In all honesty, he had no idea why he even kept the damn thing in the first place, but there it was, staring at him mockingly. He had only wanted his favourite pen for fuck’s sake. Unable to ignore it now that he had been rudely confronted by the annoying sheet of paper, Gerard pulled it out, making a half-assed effort at smoothing out the creases it had sustained when he shoved it in there in the first place. Scanning his eyes over the words, Gerard re-skimmed the paper with a mixture of amusement and frustration. He wasn’t quite as oblivious as they all thought. He knew that he was struggling, that they were all struggling, and that if he didn’t figure something out soon, the firm would start going under. He groaned in annoyance, knowing that if it were to happen, he wouldn’t cope. As much as it killed him, he needed the place. There wasn’t anywhere he felt quite as at home.

The sheet of paper clearly instructed Gerard to ‘stop being an ass’ and ‘haul in some poor bugger to do your dirty work’.

Sometimes, Gerard hated Adam’s sense of humour.

Letting the paper fall out of his hands and onto the desk in front of him, Gerard ran a hand through his hair, not caring that it probably stuck up at various angles afterwards. It was time for him to get over himself and hire someone to help pick up the slack, he knew. It was easier said than done.

Fred...? No, Frank. Gerard felt a tiny twinge of regret for sending the kid away without even a second glance. There was another one gone.

‘Hayley?’

It took her a few moments but soon enough, she was poking her head around his door. ‘Yes?’

Gerard let his head fall into his hands where he leant on the desk with his elbows. Splitting his fingers and tilting his head upwards, he peered up through the cracks in the fingers sheepishly. ‘That kid. Did you actually do what I told you to this time?’

She frowned. ‘You mean haul his ass out of the building and tell him not to come back?’

‘Not quite so blunt but...in effect, yes.’

Laughing, she shrugged. ‘Sort of. Maybe. Why? You thinking of hiring the poor guy, Gerard?’

‘It’s Way to you,’ he replied indignantly.

‘Whatever hot-shot. I told him to come back tomorrow.’

There was a God. Gerard thanked it profusely.

He suspected she was rather smug that she had caught him out. Bitch. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled a sheet of paper out from the pile of folders in her arms.

‘Here. Contact details. Call him.’

Gerard took the sheet reluctantly, setting it on his desk and looking back up at her.

‘I hate you.’

‘Love you too,’ were the words quickly shot out of her lips, before she disappeared out the door.

Once she was gone, Gerard glanced back at the paper. Frank Iero. Divorce attorney. Gerard skimmed over the qualifications half-heartedly, more interested in just getting some help as quickly as possible. On second thoughts, he looked back; no one would appreciate him hiring on the basis of...Gerard didn’t know if he even had a basis. Because he was sick of living his life in his office? Because the guy had a nice ass?

Email or phone?

He supposed he should call. Easier, quicker. No, email. Surely calling would make him look desperate? He had to at least act like he had tons of these applications handed in every day. Like Frank was nothing special.

Cut the shit, Gerard.

Still, he found himself pulling up a new email page before he even took a second glance at the phone.

From: Gerard Way < g_way@mccracken&way.com >

Gerard paused, glaring at the automated address. He still hadn’t gotten around to changing the damn thing. Bert fucking McCracken, ungrateful piece of-- Back on task, Gerard.

To: Frank Iero < fiero@yahoo.com >
Subject: Job offer.

Mr Iero,

In regards to your application, I’d like to offer you an interview. This is awfully short notice, but if you could come by the office tomorrow at 11:00am, that would be much appreciated.

Kind regards,

Gerard Way.

There. Gerard sat back, staring at the screen. One more lawyer, not a huge deal. He clicked send. Automatically, the page pulled him back to his inbox, and Gerard found himself glaring at the screen again. As if he couldn’t help himself, he pulled up an already read email.

From: Brian Schechter < brian_s@gmail.com >
To: Gerard Way < g_way@mccracken&way.com >
Subject: Here to help.

Gerard,

I’ve been talking to Adam. Remember that day I was talking about leaving the firm? Gabe and William are going to be fine without me. You, on the other hand... Gerard, we’re worried.

You know that I’m always willing to help out. Even if you don’t want me around permanently, I’m happy to come in and try and ease the load. Forget about Bert and all of those dirty plans of revenge - I know that they’re there - and focus on what’s happening to your precious firm.

Drop me a line and I’ll be there before you know it.

-Brian

With a groan, Gerard closed the window and leant back in his chair, shutting his eyes. Brian wasn’t Bert. Brian wouldn’t walk and take everything. But at the same time, Gerard was convinced that he could do this. He didn’t need their help. He just needed to hire this new guy, for starters. Get some new lawyers in. Get his feet back on the ground. It’d be fine.

Frank tugged irritably on the cuff of his suit. ‘I hate wearing these things,’ he muttered, and Jamia snorted from the kitchen table.

‘Suck it up, hon. It’s your big day!’ she grinned over the rim of her coffee mug. Frank flipped her off. The last thing he needed was her patronising him.

‘It’s not my first day of school.’

‘Look, you’ll be fine. Promise,’ she said reassuringly, standing up and holding her arms out. ‘C’mon. Gimme a good luck hug before you leave.’

He did so, embracing her gratefully for a few seconds before he pulled away. ‘Can you see the tattoos?’

Jamia snorted. ‘Your arms are covered, so is your back, your chest, obviously. Your knuckles? Not so much. Oh. And the uh...the scorpion,’ she giggled, sitting down again and hiding her face back behind her mug.

‘The scorpion. I knew it. I told you! He’ll never hire me. Oh shit.’

‘Frank! No hyperventilating. It’ll be fine. Go.’

When Jamia used that tone, Frank knew there was no arguing. He nodded meekly, kissing her on the cheek quickly before he left.

When Frank entered the building, he was unsure of what to do with himself. The sweeping foyer and marble tiles that had before looked delightfully impressive now served only to terrify him. He had aimed too high, surely. Cautiously, Frank edged his way over to reception, feeling uncomfortable in his suit, his briefcase too heavy in his right hand.

‘Uh, hi,’ he tried when he reached the desk, and the girl looked up.

‘Yes?’

‘I uh. My name’s Frank Iero, I have an interview?’ Frank couldn’t help the way it came out sounding like a question, and she smiled at him, seemingly sensing his nerves.

‘I’ll just let Mr Way know you’re here. Head right on through,’ she told him before picking up her phone and dialling. ‘Mr Way? Hi, it’s Alicia. Mr Iero is here to see you.’

She hung up moments later and nodded to Frank. He took it as his cue. Nervously, he headed up the hall until he reached the familiar door. There was a simple gold plaque attached, and Frank paused. With a deep breath in, he attempted to calm the racing of both his head and his heart, and knocked.

‘Come in!’

Frank took a quick moment to smooth down his suit, take in another shaky breath and open the door slowly. When he poked his head around the doorframe, the man wasn’t even looking up. His head was down, pen scribbling hurriedly and lips drawn into a tight line. Frank could see the way his shoulders hunched, tensed, and even as an outsider, he could tell that the man was stressed.

‘Uh, Mr Way?’ Frank questioned cautiously, feeling awkward and not wanting to interrupt. Immediately, Gerard’s head snapped up.

‘Oh! Iero, right? Come in. Have a seat.’

Quickly, Frank let the door fall shut behind him and shuffled towards the desk, seating himself in the chair offered to him. He glanced up and noticed that Way was staring at him, an amused lilt to his lips.

‘You’re nervous.’

Frank couldn’t help it; he let out a breathy laugh, trying to expel the nerves in one go. It didn’t work. If anything, it only seemed to make Way more amused, smiling fully now.

‘So you’re a divorce attorney. Where’d you study?’ Way asked, settling back in his chair and eyeing Frank calmly.

Frank shifted a little. ‘Rutgers School of Law. Newark.’

The other man grinned. ‘You’re a Jersey kid, huh?’

Frank nodded. ‘Born and bred.’

There was a pause, and Frank was growing steadily more uncomfortable until finally, Gerard spoke again. ‘And you’ve worked in firms before this one?’

And here was the part of the conversation that Frank had been dreading. He had followed this same routine at countless firms, each of them turning him down as soon as they hit this block. He kept his cool, straightened up in his seat and shook his head.

‘Only much smaller ones. None like this, no.’

And Frank knew, here would come the inevitable question. Taking notice of his imperfections, his flaws, everything that they thought would ruin their reputation if they employed him.

‘Halloween?’ Gerard questioned, seeming to have forgotten his previous question as he gestured to Frank’s fingers. Instinctively, Frank moved his hands off the desk and settled them in his lap, out of view.

‘My birthday,’ Frank admitted, figuring that there was no point in denying what Gerard had already seen.

The older man nodded, pausing again, weighing something up. ‘And a scorpion on your neck. Is that all?’

Frank shifted again guiltily. ‘Nothing else that you can see when I’m wearing a suit...’

This seemed to delight Gerard more than anything previous. His eyes lit up and he chuckled, leaning forward. ‘You seem like a good kid,’ he started, and then his eyes dulled.

‘There’s a ‘but’, right?’ Frank sighed. There was always a but.

But you’re not exactly what we’re looking for, I’m afraid.

But we pride ourselves on looking and acting professional.

But I’m not entirely sure you’re the right man for this job.

This time, Gerard didn’t laugh, and inwardly, Frank started up with a healthy round of cursing. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He’d blown another one. Oh shit. What would he tell Jamia? He couldn’t lose another one. Not after it had looked to being set up so perfectly.

‘I don’t want to lie to you, Frank. Just between you and me? I’m already stretched tight here. I’m struggling to make sure that this firm keeps the reputation it’s got, no matter what. I’m just not so sure with...’ He gestured offhandedly to the tattoos.

‘I promise you, Mr Way. You hire me and I’ll wear gloves if I have to. And...a scarf, or. Just, please. I really need this.’

The last thing he wanted to do was look pathetic, but Frank was fast approaching desperation. Gerard was still staring at him, muddy hazel eyes sizing him up carefully. And Frank could understand, in part. From what he had heard, and what he had seen of Gerard Way, there was something going on behind closed doors. Something was already going under, and Frank knew that employing some guy who looked anything but professional could be the last straw. Still, he wasn’t willing to believe that he had no hope. He had to get this job. Had to.

‘I’m sorry, Frank. Good luck though,’ Gerard said finally, before he tilted his head down and scribbled another line of writing on the piece of paper in front of him. Frank stood up slowly, looking down at the older man. Another one. At this rate, he’d end up working at some shitty fast food place.

‘Thanks anyway then,’ Frank said, before he grabbed his briefcase and exited the office.

To his surprise, he collided with the girl he remembered as Way’s secretary, and another unfamiliar man.

‘So?’ the secretary prompted, her eyes shining.

Frank frowned. ‘No such luck,’ he told her with a shrug of his shoulders.

The stranger beside her shook his head and grabbed Frank’s arm as he was about to leave. ‘No. No, come with me,’ he said quickly, ushering him back to the door. ‘You’ll get this job. Trust me. Hayley, you go in first. He likes you.’

Hayley snorted but opened the door anyway, poking her head in. Despite the original plan, the stranger holding Frank didn’t bother to wait for an introduction. He merely shoved Frank inside the room and followed, the door falling shut behind him.

‘What the-? Adam, get out. I’m serious this time,’ Gerard groaned, but Adam just nudged Frank forward.

‘I think you have something you want to say to him,’ Adam said, and Gerard looked up, eyebrows raised.

‘Are you kidding? Get out or I’m firing your ass, Lazzara.’

‘Gerard, will you just-’ Hayley tried, and Gerard rounded on her.

‘Hey. Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side. I like you. Don’t you mess me around now. Adam, stop polluting her mind.’

Adam threw his hands up in defence. ‘I had nothing to do with it. But, she’s right. It’s time for you to get over yourself. Meet your newest attorney, Frank Iero,’ Adam informed his boss firmly, and Frank was again left in awe that none of them appeared to be about to get fired, despite Gerard’s obviously empty threats.

Gerard sighed, turning his eyes on Frank. ‘I better not regret this.’

Adam beamed. ‘We knew you’d come around!’

Ignoring him, Gerard continued, ‘9:00am tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.’

Frank was grinning widely. Oh thank God. He had a job. He had a job. He couldn’t wait to tell Jamia. ‘Thank you so much Mr Way. I won’t let you down,’ Frank gushed before Hayley led him out of the office.

‘You’re showing him the ropes tomorrow, I hope you realise,’ Gerard told Adam as soon as the other two had left.

‘I know.’ He turned to leave and as he reached the door he turned back to face his boss. ‘You did the right thing.’

From: Jamia Nestor < jnestor1@gmail.com >
To: Frank Iero < fiero@yahoo.com >
Subject: Good luck!

Breathe in. Breathe out. Through your nose. That’s it, you’re doing great. Don’t forget to take your lunch. I’ve packed you a nice baloney sandwich and an apple. Have fun on your first day!

From: Frank Iero < fiero@yahoo.com >
To: Jamia Nestor < jnestor1@gmail.com >
Subject: Re: Good luck!

I hate you. That is all.

Frank was more nervous than he could ever remember being. So far, he had tried on and abandoned two shirts, four ties and a pair of pants. For a brief moment, he entertained the thought that he should just go without any clothes at all. At least he would make an impression on his first day.

It was when Frank craned his neck to look behind him at the clock that a snap decision was made. He settled for whatever he happened to have on at the time and headed for the door. Already running late, shit. As he reached his front door, Frank hesitated, and on a whim, ran back to his bedroom and grabbed a grey scarf and a pair of gloves from the back of his closet.

‘He’s late,’ Adam noted with a hint of amusement.

‘Who?’ Ray asked distractedly, sorting through his pile of notes on the Whitman case. He was supposed to be in a meeting five minutes ago but he couldn’t find the damn piece of paper he -- oh there it was.

‘The new guy. Iero. I’m supposed to be showing him the ropes today.’

Ray flashed a quick grin. ‘Gerard finally came ‘round? About time.’

As Ray raced down the hall to his meeting, Adam did another lap of the foyer, quickly growing bored with his surroundings.

‘Not a great first impression, kid...’

He paused as the front door opened, and Frank Iero rushed in. Adam raised his eyebrow. Scarf and gloves with a suit. What?

‘Iero!’ Adam called, and Frank looked up, catching his eye and hurrying over.

‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry I’m late,’ he breathed out, and Adam held back a laugh, knowing that the guy had probably run all the way to the office. He shook his head and led Frank down the hall. Gerard had been run off his feet all morning -- if Adam didn’t tell him, he didn’t have to know. Besides, Gerard didn’t need a free excuse to get rid of this guy already.

‘It’s okay. Just don’t let it happen too often, alright? Gerard’s pretty lenient when he knows that you’re worth your place. Just don’t piss him off and you’re good.’

‘Don’t piss off the boss, got it.’

‘I’m going to give you a quick tour of the place. Make sure you know where you are and all that, and then I’ll introduce you to the main team. You’ll want to know who you’re working with, who you’ll need to see for certain things, etcetera.’

Adam glanced at him to check how he was doing. He looked fairly level-headed so far, nodding along as Adam spoke, eyes taking in the firm as they walked. Shoes clicked on marble floors and became casual background noise as Adam droned on, pushing out the usual compulsory welcome speech. We pride ourselves in blah blah blah. We hope you’ll turn out to be a valuable asset to our firm, blah blah blah. Adam was getting bored just listening to himself. He was expecting Iero to be half-asleep, but every time he looked over, he seemed relaxed, confident, listening to everything Adam said and taking it all in patiently. He had to give him points.

‘Okay, this is Ray’s office in here. He’s in a meeting at the moment, so you’ll have to meet him later. Ray’s pretty much been here since pre-historic times. Gerard’s right-hand attorney or whatever you want to call it. The best. No pressure.’ Adam winked, and Frank couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Hierarchy. And I’m at the bottom of the pit.’

Adam kind of liked this guy.

‘Afraid so. Okay. So, down here’s where all our nifty little helpers hang out,’ Adam continued as he knocked on the next door along. It opened to reveal a larger room, blocked out into three sections.

Two men and a woman looked up as they entered, and Frank offered a small wave.

‘Guys, this is Frank Iero, the new attorney. Frank this is Jon Walker, our trusty IT guy, Brendon Urie in finance, and Lindsey’s our marketing babe.’

Lindsey tastefully flipped Adam off at the pet name.

‘Don’t worry about her. She gets a little snappy,’ Adam said in a false whisper, and Lindsey rolled her eyes.

‘And Adam’s a bit of a douche but hey, you learn to deal,’ she retorted, turning her head back to face her computer.

‘So Way finally got a new guy in, huh? Welcome to the team, then. Things get a little uh...crazy, and people yell, and swear, and generally just insult each other. But we love each other, really.’ Brendon held out his hand with a grin, and Frank shook it, forcing a weak smile.

He would be the first to admit it - he was getting a little nervous.

‘Brendon, you idiot,’ Jon laughed, hitting Brendon over the head. ‘Don’t worry, Frank. It’s not all that bad.’

Frank found this all a little hard to believe, but he was willing to stick it out. Of course he was willing to stick it out. This was the first opportunity he had been offered in... Well, Frank couldn’t really remember the last firm he had been allowed to even set foot in. And so, Frank smiled at them all, the three newest people to add to the ever-growing list of staff to remember, and followed Adam back out of the room.

‘And now I’ll show you where your office is,’ Adam said finally, and Frank breathed a small sigh of relief, eager to get away and immerse himself in what he could tell was going to be a heavy workload. Frank wasn’t entirely sure what to expect in that respect. From what he had seen, there was something going on under wraps around the place that only Way, Adam and Hayley seemed to know about. His new boss was keeping something from the rest of them, and if Frank had learnt anything in his brief interview with Gerard Way, it was that the firm was in trouble. Frank had no idea why exactly, but that hardly seemed to matter. And if there was as much work to be done as Adam seemed to think, Frank would be swamped. Still, he thought, maybe he would have to wait until he gained Mr Way’s trust before he was properly brought into the team.

Frank wondered how long that would take.

It turned out that Frank’s office was two doors down from Ray. He felt a sudden burst of pride at the sight of the plaque on the door, already stating his name and job. They certainly didn’t waste time around here.

‘There’s a file there,’ Adam pointed to said file on Frank’s new desk, ‘that will brief you quickly on the case you’ll be taking up. The Johnsons are nice people. Simple divorce settlement. We reckon he’ll give her whatever she wants. Still hung up,’ Adam explained, and Frank nodded absently. He’d had cases like this plenty of times. He almost felt sorry for the poor bastard.

Adam grinned then, laughing a little and shaking his head. ‘Also? Seriously, what is with the scarf? And the gloves? You got like, skin diseases or something, man?’

Frank went red, ducking his head and fiddling with his hands. ‘I uh. No. I, yeah, uh, never mind?’

‘Whatever, kid.’ Adam shook his head again as he left, and Frank really couldn’t decide whether he liked the guy or not.

Taking a deep breath, Frank settled himself down behind his desk, the padded office chair seeming to mould into the shape of his ass as he sat down. He reached for the file and immediately began sifting through it, sorting through relevant information, and in the back of his mind, though he would try to deny it, wondering what Mr Way was doing.

‘No, Schechter. Look, I’ll talk to you later, alright? I’m busy. Seriously. I’m hanging up on you now, you persistent son-of-a-bitch. No, I’m not joking, asshole.’

Gerard slammed the phone down and groaned, letting his head fall into his hands. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately, and he hated himself for it. He needed out.

‘Hayley!’

He could hear the clicking of her heels before he saw her, and then she was stepping through the doorframe into his office. ‘Yes?’

‘The new guy was starting today, right? How’s he going?’ Gerard questioned. He probably should have done the whole meet-and-greet thing with the kid, but frankly, he really didn’t want to leave his office. The rest of the building was full of people that he was terrified of letting down. Of Adam, who he knew would hassle him if he even set foot into the foyer. No. He was fine here, thank you. He had a comfy chair, a pretty painting on the wall and nice carpet. And yeah, Gerard needed out.

‘Fine. He’s stuck into the Johnson case at the moment. Adam didn’t say much, only that the poor guy’s wearing gloves and a scarf...?’

Gerard snorted, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself. ‘Good. I’m going to lunch. If anyone comes looking for me, tell them...tell them I died.’ He stood up from his desk and stuffed his cell and his pager into his pocket, shrugging on his suit jacket and heading for the door.

‘Will do, boss,’ Hayley replied. He barely acknowledged her as he made his way out of the office.

Gerard had successfully avoided the majority of his employees and was finally on his way to lunch when he spotted the kid in the foyer. He frowned, stopped walking, and tilted his head to the side. The kid looked out of place, nervously biting at fingernails and staring around the room like he didn’t know how he managed to get there. Bewildered, Gerard moved to the front desk, leaning over and lowering his voice.

‘Uh, Alicia? Any idea who that is?’ Gerard whispered, feeling decidedly ridiculous but ignoring it.

She looked up, a wry smile on her lips. ‘Ryan Ross. Your new apprentice.’ Gerard stared at her blankly.

‘You don’t remember, do you?’ she laughed and he grimaced, shaking his head. ‘He’s here for a year to start with. First year of law school.’

Looking over at him again, Gerard nodded. ‘Okay. And why is he standing in the foyer? Shouldn’t he be doing something?’

‘I told him you’d be down to greet him,’ she replied, smiling at him and going back to her computer, fingers clacking at the keys hurriedly.

Gerard hesitated a moment longer before he strode towards the kid. He looked up as Gerard approached, hearing his footsteps on the marble, and instantly, he was attempting to straighten his suit, stand up straighter. Gerard bit back a laugh.

‘Ryan Ross, right?’ Gerard began, holding out a hand. The boy took it gingerly, with a smile so strained he looked almost like he was in pain.

‘Yes sir. It’s a pleasure to be here, Mr Way,’ he rushed out, and Gerard couldn’t help but grin.

‘Well, how about I set you up with my secretary, to start with? She’ll show you around and hand you over to Adam in Human Resources. He’ll be in charge of all of your training.’

Ryan nodded enthusiastically, and Gerard shook his hand quickly before paging Hayley. She appeared in the usual record time that he had come to admire and rely on, red hair flying around her face as she hurried into the foyer. From the corner of his eye, Gerard could see the boy’s eyes widen.

‘Hayley, this is Ryan Ross,’ Gerard introduced them once she came to a halt beside him, ‘Ryan, this is Hayley Williams, my secretary. Sorry to greet and run, but I’m going on this lunch break while I have the chance.’

As he continued on his way out of the building, Gerard groaned. Great. Another new guy hanging around the place. Gerard knew that this, in effect, could be something rather useful but at the same time, he loathed the fact that there were two extra people to learn to trust. Two new people to get used to.

Gerard thought of Frank Iero. The guy had seemed desperate, that much was obvious. Gerard suspected that he was not the first person to turn Frank down. Relief flooded his system at the knowledge that at least Frank had finished his degree. At least Frank should know what he was doing. Only time would tell. And oh, scarf and gloves. Gerard had to give him points for that, at least. The guy had a sense of humour. Also? He was really, really hot. That ass, and the eyes, and the tattoos. Gerard was even maybe beginning to regret the joke about covering them up. So what if Gerard couldn’t stand to have needles even in his vicinity. It didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate what they did to other people. People like Frank Iero. And-- Stop it. Stop it now, Gerard.

He was just about to step foot into the café across the road when his pager beeped.

Way - Need you in the office. Client complaint.

He hesitated, staring at the notice before glancing back at the café longingly. With a sigh, he stuffed the pager back in his pocket and turned on his heel, heading back to the office.

Frank kind of already wanted to shoot himself. It wasn’t that the job was horrible, or that he regretted the decision, or even that he was already being worked so hard. It was himself. No matter how hard he tried to stick his nose into the case and not resurface, his mind strayed to Mr Way. It was ridiculous, but in a way, Frank was almost disappointed that he hadn’t made any effort to greet Frank on his first day. Not that he was required to or anything, and Frank understood that he must have been overly busy, but still. It might have been nice. Frank fought images of Way smiling at him all afternoon until at 3pm, Adam appeared in his office.

‘Iero, what are you doing?’

Frank’s head snapped up, and he frowned. ‘I, uh. Working?’

Adam laughed, and Frank was beginning to think that Adam’s amusement stemmed entirely from other people’s stupidity. ‘Have you had a break yet?’

Frank thought back over the course of the past six hours. ‘Come to think of it, no.’

Shaking his head, Adam gestured for Frank to get up. ‘C’mon. Lunch break. Don’t want you dying on your first day.’

And okay, maybe Adam redeemed himself in Frank’s book just a little. He got up, followed Adam out the door and into the foyer, where they were suddenly met by Mr Way as he returned to the building.

‘Gerard! What are you doing? I saw you walk out of here five minutes ago.’ Adam frowned, and Way sighed, almost as if he’d been trying to avoid the very people now standing in front of him.

‘You mean you saw me leave, and didn’t try and annoy me?’

Adam raised one eyebrow. ‘Would you prefer it if I did, sir?’

Frank still couldn’t really get a grasp on how things were run here. It amazed him that Adam was able to speak freely in front of his boss, and Frank wondered just how long the two had been working together.

‘No. Frank, hi,’ Way brushed Adam off, turning instead to Frank. In return, Frank nodded, offering a smile and trying not to open his mouth because if he did, he was pretty much guaranteed to make an idiot out of himself. Way’s lips curved into an amused half-smile, and he looked from Adam to Frank, and back again.

‘Thought you said he was wearing the scarf and glove combination?’

Frank went red. ‘It got a little hot, Mr Way.”

He laughed then, a small, amused chuckle, and it looked like he was holding back. Frank wondered when the last time Way had laughed properly was, and then caught himself. Surely that wasn’t being very professional.

‘You’re surviving?’ Way asked suddenly, and Frank nodded, surprised. He thought he was surviving pretty well, really. If you don’t take into account the constant fantasising and dreaming about his boss.

‘Then welcome to the team, Frank.’

Frank couldn’t keep the grin off his face even if he wanted to.

‘Jamia!’

She appeared immediately, a party blower in one hand and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice-cream in the other. Frank eyed them both a little warily. ‘What’s this?’

She shrugged, lifting one and then the other, acting as a human scale. ‘I figure, party blowers if this new job is a hit... Ben and Jerry’s if it’s well...not so much a hit.’

Frank laughed, encircling his arms around her and hugging her close delightfully. ‘You’re the best, Jam.’

She sighed dramatically as she disentangled herself, a wicked grin on her face. ‘I know. So what’s it gonna be, Frank?’

He paused, eyes shining before he lunged for the party blower and blew it loudly, the sound squeaking through the air. ‘Definitely a keeper.’

Jamia squealed and hugged him again, and they jumped around the room like immature five year olds for a few moments. Frank revelled in the feeling of knowing that Jamia was proud of him. That he had a real job now, a steady source of income, and well...a pretty fucking hot boss. That didn’t hurt, either.

‘So, how’d it go?’ she asked, and Frank couldn’t help himself.

‘Way is the hottest specimen I have ever laid eyes on,’ he admitted, and she bounded into the living room, shoving the ice cream at him. He followed, grabbing two spoons from the drawer in the kitchen on the way, before they both collapsed onto the couch.

‘Okay, okay spill,’ she demanded, reaching forward and tugging the ice cream out of his hands, prying the lid off and digging her spoon in. Frank pushed his own spoon into the frozen desert and took a bite before he replied, choosing his words carefully.

‘You’ll have to see him, somehow. I can’t really do him justice with words. But god, Jamia. I don’t know whether I’ll even get any work done in that place with him around.’

‘Is he gay?’

Frank laughed, digging his spoon into the ice cream again. ‘How should I know?’

‘Well, I suppose you’ll just have to figure that one out. Flirt a little, see if he responds.’

‘And get fired,’ Frank reminded her.

‘Minor detail.’

And this was why Frank loved Jamia. He would have married her if there wasn’t the whole Frank-likes-boys thing. Back in college, there had been numerous rumours about him and Jamia dating, and they had entertained them for a while. Frank so that he could explain the lack of girlfriends without admitting to being gay, and Jamia so that she would stop being set up on blind dates by well-meaning classmates. It had worked well -- almost too well -- to the point where the two began to question their relationship themselves. One awkward fuck and an even worse morning after later, it was quickly decided that yeah, no. That was never, ever going to happen.

‘Just give it a go, Frank. What’s the worst that could happen?’

Part Two.