MCR Drabble Fic
7/25/2007: Auburn, Washington.
Tour Opener: Backstage Frank’s jumping in place on his toes. Gerard’s pacing around, shaking his arms out and rolling his neck in slow circles. Ray is bent over his guitar, his fingers adjusting the tuning pegs - more out of habit than necessity. Bob’s offside, drinking from a bottle of water. Frank watches him, watches the rhythmic bob of his adam’s apple in his throat.
A stage hand flashes them three fingers.
Frank jumps hard and kicks the wall with his foot coming down. He fucking loves touring. Loves the lights, and the noise, and the crowd. Loves this fucking band.
7/27/2007: Marysville, California.
Onstage Frank can feel the amps vibrating up through his vans to his feet. The floor is tacky with Gatorade but all Frank can think about is the way sound feels when it travels up his thighs, wrapping around his groin, electric and warm like a pulse - or a mouth - that’s been magnified a thousand times over. He can feel it in his arms and fingers, in the back of his throat, in his middle ear. It’s like being plugged in and tuning out all at once.
He doesn’t think onstage. He doesn’t do anything except inhale, and exhale.
7/28/2007: San Bernardino, California
“Matt’s cool but he’s not Mikey.” Frank’s not talking shit either, it’s just a fact. He puts his feet up on the bench and stares at the scuff mark on the toe of his shoe, waiting. Bob makes a soft grunting sound and Frank yawns.
“Gerard kissed you,” Bob says eventually.
“What? Oh. Yeah.”
“So. You guys a…thing…again?”
“No. Just. Y’know, stage stuff.”
Bob nods his head, a slow up and down motion, like he’s absorbing something big. Frank pulls his knee up to his chest and scrubs at his shoe with his thumb. The scuff mark won’t come off.
7/29/2007: Mountain View, California
It’s a strange dream, but vivid. Frank wakes up in his bunk, breathless and chilled under a thin sheen of sweat. He swallows, concentrating on the too-fast thump of his heartbeat against the cage of his chest and the ceiling overhead. It’s like sleeping a coffin.
He’d forgotten that.
“Little early into this shit for nightmares, isn’t it?” Gerard has popped his head through the curtain. Frank twists his face against the pillow to stare at him. Gerard holds out the short stub of his cigarette and Frank shakes him off, ungluing his tongue.
“I dreamt I was in prison.”
7/31/2007: Chula Vista, California
Frank makes a candy run while the bus refuels off the I-5. He stumbles back leaving behind a trail of twizzlers, gummie bears, Swedish berries, and sour patch kids in the parking lot. Bob follows after him - stopping every five steps to pick up something else Frank’s dropped.
“Fucks sake, Frankie.”
Frank stops his jog and turns to blink at him. He’s got a bag of Doritos pinched between his teeth but his eyebrows are arched and he manages a muffled, “Dude? What?”
“Never mind,” Bob grumbles. “Just go.”
Frank grins and climbs the steps. Bob catches the twizzlers midair.
8/1/2007: Phoenix, Arizona
It rains but it doesn’t take the edge off the heat.
Backstage Gerard is peeling off his jacket. There’s a black stain on the back of his shirt where the dye has bled through. Frank blinks at it. He’s so tired and hot that it feels like he’s seeing a mirage. He has a shower after that. It isn’t long but it’s cold. His nipples feel hard against his palms while he soaps up. Frank lets out an indecent groan and scrubs the shampoo out of his eyes.
It was over a hundred degrees, they’re told. Frank fuckin’ believes it.
8/3/2007: Selma, Texas
He sleeps on the red-eye and wakes with a crick in his neck. Frank tries rolling it out but the muscle only twitches. He slumps forward in his seat, pressing his face against the airline tray in front of him. The plastic is cool against his forehead and he licks the corner crease of his mouth.
Frank is thinking about the pale swatch of skin on his arm, when he closes his eyes. He mouths ‘mia famiglia’ against the tray and pays attention to the rough brush of plastic against his lips.
Outside the clouds are shifting from purple into lavender.
8/4/2007: Dallas, Texas
Ray is the first one to push back the sleeve of Frank’s t-shirt.
“It’s awesome, huh?” Frank looks at him expectantly and Ray smiles.
“Yeah, yeah, man. It’s cool.” Ray’s voice cracks and Gerard pushes in behind him, peering at it. The skin is red and raised, and black with ink and clotted blood. “You should put some Polysporin on that.”
Onstage, the t-shirt covers the new tattoo but Frank can feel the hidden burn of it while he plays until they strip off their shirts.
He plays that night like he’s possessed, spine bending until it ought to snap.
8/5/2007: Woodlands, Texas
Frank is bored and takes it out on Bob.
He spends twenty minutes shredding and balling up Gerard’s discarded sketches into the tiny pea-shaped balls and then declares open war with a Bic pen.
The first spit ball misses. Ray gives him a look. The second, because Frank’s out of practice, goes wide too.
Bob quirks his eyebrows. “Hit me with that shit motherfucker and I will hurt you.” He says it mildly, turning the page of his magazine.
Frank giggles and reloads.
“Hey Gee?” Ray clears his throat, nervous. “Frankie’s gonna die. Can I sit over by you instead?”
8/7/2007: Atlanta, Georgia
Frank naps in the lounge and wakes up to the smell of toast and Bob's thigh nudging the top of his head as he sits down. "Shove over." Bob's talking around a mouthful of peanut butter. Frank rubs his face and yawns.
"Gimme a bite," Frank says. Bob scowls. "Get your own."
Frank thinks about it. "I'll blow you if you give me half."
Bob grins. "You'd blow me anyway."
"This is true but you should at least allow me the illusion of leverage."
Bob considers this. "No," he says after a minute.
"I always fuckin’ hated you." Frank grumbles.
8/8/2007: Charlotte, North Carolina
There are fights that spring up like tropical storms. Usually, like now, Frank’s fronting them. Pissed off. Shouting. Lips thin against his teeth, the vein in his throat purple with blood. Once Gerard drew a sketch of him like that: chin thrust forward, venomous stare.
Frank can be a prick.
He’s a miserable fuck and he never forgets a thing. It doesn’t mesh with everything else about him, he knows. He’s not proud of himself either when he knocks Gerard’s feet off his lap. Matt’s staring at him, mouth open and stupid.
Frank wants to kick him in the face.
8/10/2007: West Palm Beach, Florida
Onstage Frank leans into Gerard, rubbing his head into the back of his shoulder and giving him almost all of his weight.
The girls in the pit scream. It sounds like a distant roar, thick and muted. Frank feels Gerard’s arm come up around him, his fingers hooking over the sweaty curve of his neck. Frank pushes into it and then launches off again - back to his mic, back to his corner of the stage.
Afterwards, he’s pinned under Bob. Still sweating, still moaning - the noises still muted and thick. Through clenched teeth he rasps,
“C’mon-c’mon. Do it. Do-it, do-it, do-it.”
8/11/2007: Tampa, Florida
Frank’s eyes are raw and scratchy, as though he’s been standing too long in the middle of a sandstorm. And maybe he has.
He slides out of his bunk with a soft thud, opens the door to the fridge and drinks the orange juice straight from the container. His fingers are callused, his muscles stiff. There’s an ache - a soft, well-fucked ache - that makes him blush.
Bob’s in the lounge when Frank shuffles out.
“Oh, hey.” Frank stops and waves. He feels stupid.
“Is this?” Bob looks at him and falters. “Like a thing? It can be a thing, right?”
8/13/2007: Raleigh, North Carolina
Avoiding people, in the confined space of a bus, is difficult but Frank assures himself that Bob’s not going to confront him in the kitchenette. Frank is wrong and somehow he manages to get backed into a corner by the business end of a pineapple.
“You’re being, like, all confrontational.” Frank accuses.
“You’re being, like, all dickhead.” Bob gestures with his hands around his head. He looks like an air traffic controller.
Frank frowns. “Are those supposed to be air quotes?”
“Fuck you.”
“You already did,” Frank chirps.
Bob goes still. Frank can feel the colour drain out of his face.
8/14/2007: Virginia Beach, Virginia
Bob, angry, is surprisingly polite.
Frank’s not sure what to make of it and he finds himself hesitating whenever Bob stops and holds the door open for him. He’s pretty sure Bob’s not going to stab him in the back or anything, but then Frank’s been wrong before.
“You fucked him?” Gerard squeaks.
They’re in the back lounge and Frank is slumped forward over his knees fidgeting with the hole in his sock. Gerard makes a long, low whistling-sound. “I just. Wow. I never figured Bob for a catcher, you know?”
Frank rolls his eyes. “He wasn’t. You know, catching.”
8/15/2007: Wantagh, New York
Frank can feel Bob staring at him onstage. After their set he jerks off alone.
He jerks off all the time now: in the shower, in his bunk, in the bathroom. He’s even jerked off in the lounge into a tube sock that he’s pretty sure wasn’t his.
Usually he bites his lips to stifle the urge to groan out loud. Sometimes he bites his forearm or the back of his hand. It marks him leaving a perfect ring of teeth bruised into his skin for him to trace later.
Afterwards he feels wiped out; itchy for sleep and wide awake.
8/17/2007: Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio
“I’m a dick,” Frank announces. Bob shakes his head and moves to walk out of the room. Frank snaps his hand out, curls his fingers over Bob’s bicep, and squeezes him to a stop. “I said, I’m a dick.”
“Yeah. You are.”
“Well, I’m sorry I’m a dick.”
“Great. I’m sorry you’re a dick too.”
“You’re not making this easy.” Frank lets his hand drop and flexes his fingers for something to do.
Bob raises his eyebrows and sets his jaw. “I’m supposed to make this easy for you?”
“Um. It would be nice?” Frank winces at his hopeful tone.
8/18/2007: Darien Centre, New York
“If he were a chick I’d know what to do.”
Gerard twists his sketch pad and angles his head in the opposite direction. “If he were a chick he wouldn’t have fucked you up the ass,” he deadpans.
Frank halts his pacing and gives Gerard a sharp look and points out, “There’s always pegging.”
“I read a fic about that once.” Gerard sounds dreamy. He pinches his pencil between his teeth and grins. It makes his smile look wide and wolfish.
“You need to stop Googling yourself.”
Gerard smirks. “It was about you, asshole.”
“Then you need to stop Googling me.”
8/19/2007: Bristow, Virginia
“Enough!” He doesn’t yell it, exactly, but it’s terse enough to get Bob’s attention. It’s sharp enough to make him stop walking away.
Bob’s sneakers make a sharp squeaking-noise against the linoleum. He doesn’t say anything and Frank licks his lips. “Look, I’m sorry I was a dick. Just --” He drops his head and stares at the floor, his hand wrapped over the back of his neck, “just stop ignoring me.”
Bob’s shoes turn around. They take three steps forward. Frank inhales, holds it, counts the seconds in his head - ten of them --
“Okay,” Bob says.
and exhales.
8/21/2007: Toronto, Ontario
It almost rains.
All day long it almost rains.
Frank can’t stop himself from checking the cloud cover. If he’s not talking about the weather, he’s looking at it, forehead screwed up, accusing. Finally, when Frank paces past the couch in the lounge again, Bob reaches out and pulls him down. “Stop,” Bob says. “Stop it, okay?”
They sit like that, quiet and mostly still. Frank looks down at their thighs aligned together against the upholstery. Bob’s jeans are blacker than Frank’s. Frank can feel the moist heat from Bob’s leg bleeding through the denim.
It’s been an uneasy truce.
8/22/2007: Clarkson, Michigan
Frank’s never been good with apologies that stick; he’s not good at keeping his distance when he should. He’s shit at a lot of things.
They’re sitting behind the bus as it idles and Frank’s getting buzzed off the fumes. For a few minutes Bob listens to him rant and mostly nods.
Finally, when Frank runs out of steam, Bob leans in to kiss him. It’s tentative and soft and Frank’s hand comes up to bracket Bob’s chin as he does. They knock heads, a gentle deliberate bump, when they break apart and Frank blinks.
His thumb is bleeding again.
8/24/2007: Mansfield, Massachusetts
They fuck against the counter in the kitchenette.
It feels like a punishment and Frank opens his mouth under it. He asked for this - begged for it hard - and his eyes roll closed. His breathing has been reduced to uneven jags that flair - red and painful - in the middle of his chest. When he makes a high-pitched keening sound Bob fucks him harder.
Frank’s palms skid over the countertop, no longer bracing, knocking over dirty coffee cups.
Afterwards, they sleep in Bob’s bunk, Frank’s nose buried in gray cotton and his hand tucked between Bob’s thighs.
8/25/2007: Hartford, Connecticut
Frank wakes up with his hand already threading down the front of Bob’s boxers. Bob makes a tired sound but shifts into it; his hips torque forward and he stifles a groan against the side of Frank’s neck. Anticipation turns over in Frank’s stomach, slippery and wet.
Bob is breathing sharply against Frank’s throat - hot and moist - and Frank holds him there with the back of his hand. “Fuck you feel so good,” Frank mumbles. “Love your cock, dude. Love feeling you fall apart like this. Love feeling you come in my hand.”
Frank smiles against Bob’s closed eyelids.
8/26/2007: Syracuse, New York
They fuck with their mouths hung open; their breath ragged and muffled. They fuck with callused hands in hotel rooms, at radio stations, in bathrooms. They fuck in the back lounge, and in their bunks.
Once they fuck in Matt’s bunk and then feel shitty about it afterwards.
They fuck standing up, kneeling over, and in cramped closets that smell like chemicals. They fuck with Frank’s fingers stuffed into Bob’s mouth, and Bob’s hand around Frank’s cock. They bite, pinch, grab, and choke orgasms from each other.
They fuck with their jeans half off.
And in Syracuse, they get caught.
8/28/2007: Holmdel, New Jersey
Frank has always been called a faggot. It doesn’t mean he likes it, but he’s used to it. Gerard doesn’t say much. He’s been stunned into a stupid silence that makes Frank want to vomit.
Bob still looks ill and Frank wants to sit down and say that it’s not a big deal, but it kinda is. Even he knows that. They all know it.
There are text messages to Brian, terse-sounding phone calls, and Bob’s fist through a door.
Ray makes worried face from the back of the bus; Frank goes to bed alone.
8/29/2007: Noblesville, Indiana
“It’s cool if you want to end it.” Frank says.
His head is down and he can feel a red stain creeping up his neck when he takes a deep breath. “Okay, it’s not cool. It’s probably the only thing I’ve ever wanted in a long time. But if I have to give up then fine, I will. But yeah. It’s not cool. Not fucking cool.”
Frank shifts his weight around and lets out a choked sound that is supposed to be a laugh.
“I don’t want to end it,” Bob sighs. “I just didn’t want my dick on YouTube.”
9/01/2007: Tinley Park, Illinois
Frank comes too with Bob breathing against his cheekbone. Bob whispers, “Hey. C’mon. Wake up.”
He’s rented a car and they drive the 30 minutes into Chicago in silence. Frank has propped his feet up on the dashboard and he’s mostly asleep when Bob finally parks. They spend the next half hour at some mill drinking coffee and watching the clouds break up overhead.
“So where are we?” Frank asks.
“Just this place I used to hang out at sometimes.”
Bob blushes in his seat. Frank grabs his hand. It feels warm and he curls his fingers around it.
“S’nice.”
9/03/2007: Englewood, Colorado
There is something soft and quiet about Bob that Frank never found in Gerard; something stable and solid that at the end of the day lets him sleep. Bob is easy in ways that Frank hadn’t known he was looking for.
He feels guilty, sometimes, about comparing them - disloyal even.
It’s just that there is something about Gerard that makes Frank feel like he’s in cyclone of perpetual motion: before the storm, during the storm, after the storm. It’s exhausting, like being a dove looking for dry land.
Not that Frank’s a bird; he just wears swallows on his skin.
Note: Thanks to eloquentice for tracking this last photo down for me.
C'est fin.