A quick update and some Frank/Mikey ficcage
A couple of quick things regarding Deletegate.
There are some discussions going on behind the scenes about what can be done, so yeah. Everyone hold tight and don't panic, okay? Secondly, does anyone have lynntownsend's email address? It's needed for some of the discussion. Also, thank you. Seriously. Fandom is incredible and I really, really, really appreciate the outpouring of support. Really. I'm totally overwhelmed by the offers of help and just the kind words. So very greatly appreciated.
I also just wanted to say I'm not locking anything down here that wasn't already locked down for privacy reasons. Which means I'm keeping my fic public.
And damn it, I'm posting fic tonight. Porn fic. Because fuck if I'm going to let someone define what I post and what I don't. Read it. Make my night better. :)
Title: The Ones Who Fall
Author: Femme
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: MCR
Pairing: Frank/Mikey
Summary: "Just pretend it was thirty years ago..."
Disclaimer: Never happened. NEVER.
Word count: ~9800
Notes: This is totally and completely written for luciamad without whom I never would have found this fandom and who taught me to love this pairing. She is the queen of Frank/Mikey and I adore her for it. Much love, Luc. Much. For everything. Including the beta. :)
Just pretend it was thirty years ago and this is the first song of the night for the kind of a band that your mother and your father used to go and cream over.
--Frank Zappa, Sweet Leilani
Frank's gotten old. Not the kind of old where you wonder where you put your glasses--or your teeth--but the kind of old where going to bed at ten doesn't seem like such a bad idea and knees and hips start to creak when pushing up out of the sofa.
He's 57 this year, and that's a weird thought. He doesn't feel 57; he doesn't think he ever will. His hair's barely graying at his temples. His only wrinkles are at the corners of his eyes. He just got a new tattoo a month ago. A curliqued MJW curled in black ink over a smaller 2008 on the back of his hand.
He thinks it's about time he inked Mikey's initials into his skin.
Thirty years together--not likely it will jinx them, after all.
He's standing in the bedroom of their suite in the Waldorf-Astoria, half-dressed, jeans hanging open as he stares into the suitcase and wonders what shirt to wear, and Mikey's in the shower. If they weren't going out tonight, he'd join him, step into the spray with his jeans still on and slide to his knees to suck him off, tongue curling around his dick. What Mikey likes is second nature to Frank now. He knows the hitch in Mikey's breath when he takes the head of his cock in his mouth, knows the shiver that will run through him when Frank licks down to his balls, sucking at his sac lightly.
Frank breathes out.
There's not time and they can't be late. They have strict orders to be downstairs for pre-ceremony cocktails (and last-minute warnings not to offend the FCC during broadcast, he's pretty damn certain) in one hour.
Frank pulls a black t-shirt from the suitcase and tosses it on the bed.
Sometimes, he thinks, this is all too good to last.
***
March 2008 - Manila, Philippines
"Do you ever think this is too good?" Mikey asked, and he leaned his head back against the edge of the mattress. "That someday it's just all going to implode on us and then where will be? Washed up somewhere, doing reunion tours where we all hate each other and haven't spoken in years, but we need the fucking money and who the fuck's going to hire a bunch of tattooed freaks like us anyway?"
Frank pulled his knees up to his chest, stared out the bank of windows across from them. They were on the fifteenth floor; Manila was spread out in front of them, lights sparkling against the dark hills. He could see their reflections in the smooth glass, both of them curled next to each other on the floor, shoulders pressed against the bed. "Maybe. Sometimes."
They'd left the other guys in Bob's room, messing around with his Wii while Gerard sketched in the corner, his General's Factis Soft Black Eraser held tight between sharp teeth as his pencil flew across the heavy white paper. Mikey'd left first, saying he was tired. Frank and Gerard had exchanged glances, and Frank had said, "I'll go after him." Gerard had just nodded. They took turns looking after Mikey. Especially now. Touring was hard on all of them, yeah. But Mikey? Mikey put too much of himself in it. It drained him, left him vulnerable, tired.
And Frank worried. He couldn't help himself. This was Mikey here--Frank shifted, breathed out. The last thing he needed to do right now was let his mind drift back to what he'd dreamt of last night. About Mikey. Like usual. He flushed slightly, let his thighs spread apart just enough. Fuck of a problem, having a crush on one of your best friends. Especially one you practically lived with. Frank didn't want to think about how much time he spent in the bathroom, jacking off at night.
Mikey chewed on his thumbnail, then sighed and lifted his bottle of mango juice to his lips. Frank looked away.
"You worry too much, man." He brushed his knuckles against the back of Mikey's hand. It was the only contact he'd let himself have. If he clenched his hand tight enough, it wouldn't shake. He'd learned that. "Buy trouble when you shouldn't."
"I guess." Mike set the bottle of juice between his knees. He twisted it, stroked his thumb over the glass rim. His hair fell forward, tumbling into his face. Frank sucked at his top lip. Shit. "I just have these thoughts in my head sometimes." He looked up at Frank then through his bangs. "I don't know what I'd do without you guys."
Frank nudged him with his shoulder. "Asswipe. We're not going anywhere."
"I might," Mikey said quietly and he stared out the window.
Frank studied the sharp angle of Mikey's jaw, the sweep of dark hair against his cheek. "Fuck that," he murmured. "I won't let you."
Mikey turned his head; their eyes met. Frank's breath caught.
And when Mikey's mouth pressed against his, almost hesitantly, a shiver ran through Frank, curled through his spine, settled at the base of his cock. Mikey pulled away, eyes wide.
"I'm sorry, fuck--"
Frank groaned and he caught the back of Mikey's head, fingers twisting in his hair as he pulled Mikey towards him again. "Shut up," he whispered, and his mouth closed over Mikey's, tongue flicking at the corner of his lips until Mikey opened beneath him, hot and wet, his hands clenching in Frank's t-shirt, twisting the thin cotton as Frank pushed him to the floor.
***
Frank picks up Mikey's half-wet t-shirt, hangs it over the bathroom door. Steam fogs the mirror; Frank wipes a circle semi-clear with a dry washcloth. He reaches for the shaving cream, and the shower turns off.
He looks over; Mikey's stepping out of the tub, naked and half-hard, his wet hair pushed back from his forehead. He's still as thin and long as he was when they were younger but he's gone grey now, a soft salt-and-pepper bob that falls messily to his chin. His face isn't as gaunt as it once was, though he's still sharp angles and planes. He always has been. Even his hipbones still jut out. Frank loves to suck them, to run his tongue beneath them, following their angle to the dark, crisp curls nestling around Mikey's cock.
"How much longer?" Mikey asks, toweling off and Frank leans against the edge of the sink, stroking shaving cream along his jaw as he watches.
"Forty-five minutes." Frank hands him his toothbrush. He's already put toothpaste on it, just the amount Mikey uses.
Mikey just smiles and dips two fingers in the shaving cream smeared across Frank's palm. He slides them along Frank's bare cheek, then down his neck. Mikey's always liked watching him shave.
"Not enough time then," Mikey says regretfully, and he presses a quick kiss to Frank's shoulder before shoving the toothbrush into his mouth. "Move," he mumbles past the bristles, and he nudges Frank aside with his bare hip. "I don't want to hear Ray if we're late."
Frank just rolls his eyes and picks up his razor. Mikey watches in the mirror as he arches his neck enough to slide the razor over his slick skin again. He taps the razor against the side of the sink that he can reach, letting the water from the faucet wash it clean.
Mikey's eyes darken; he shifts, giving Frank more room. The toothbrush slides from his mouth.
Frank smiles faintly.
They're going to be late.
As usual.
***
May 2008 - Sydney, Australia
The bed was a tangle of white sheets twisted around the down comforter. It was autumn in Australia and the air outside was crisp and cool and wet. They had a show in six hours, a soundcheck in two and they hadn't been out of bed in twenty.
Mikey groaned and arched beneath Frank, his skin flushed and damp with sweat. "Don't fucking stop--" He broke off in a gasp.
"We're going to be late," Frank whispered against Mikey's throat and he tasted the salty-sweetness of Mikey's skin. "Gerard'll be pissed."
Mikey rocked his hips up, his cock pressing against Frank's stomach and Frank moaned as he shifted deeper into Mikey. "Fuck Gerard," Mikey said and he laughed, sliding his arms around Frank's neck. "No, wait--fuck me." He kissed Frank, his teeth catching Frank's bottom lip. "God, your dick--"
"Yeah?" Frank slid his hands under Mikey's thighs, lifting them up, pushing him harder into the mattress. "Like it, do you?"
Mikey's fingernails scraped across his shoulders, rough and ragged, and Jesus he needed to stop chewing on them, Frank thought, but then Mikey tightened around him and whispered fuck, yeah, Frank, right there, come on, I want your cock and all Frank could do was thrust into him again, his balls slapping against Mikey's ass, a sharp, wet smack of skin on skin.
It'd been almost eight weeks now, and they couldn't keep their hands off each other. There were interviews floating around the web now with Frank sitting on Mikey's lap, with Mikey's arms wrapped around Frank, his chin on Frank's shoulder, mouth against Frank's ear. The one that'd caused the most uproar had been one in which Frank brushed Mikey's hair back out of his eyes. Pete Wentz had sent Mikey the link to the so-called discussion, with just yeah?? in the text of his email.
I don't fucking look besotted, Frank had protested, glaring at Mikey's laptop screen, and Gerard had burst into laughter across the room. Frank had thrown a water bottle at him.
Frank slammed into Mikey, pushing him up against the mountain of hotel-bed pillows. Mikey whimpered; his foot pressed into the small of Frank's back, sliding over sweaty skin, his toes digging into Frank's ass.
"Jesus, fuck." Mikey twisted beneath him. "God, my dick, Frank, fuck, come on--"
Mikey was hot and tight and God, Frank pulled back and then he was in him again, deeper, the muscles of his shoulders bunching with each thrust, his hair falling into his eyes. The room stank of sweat and sex and the smell of Mikey's skin was enough to send Frank slamming into his ass again, his thighs clenching. "Say it, Mikey," Frank whispered into his hair. "Come on. Tell me."
A ragged breath; Mikey's hands tightened, then loosed on Frank's shoulders. His eyes were wide, unfocused. "Frank," he breathed out, then arched into Frank's next thrust, his neck long and pale. "Shit," he cried out, and Frank could feel Mikey's body tense beneath him, could feel the hard, wet heat of his cock on his skin. Mikey was gasping, biting at Frank's shoulder. "Touch me," he choked out.
Frank rocked back on his knees, pulled Mikey over him, straddling his thighs and he slammed him against the headboard, knocking Mikey's head against the wall. Mikey shouted, pressed his heels into the bed and slid back down Frank's cock with a groan. Frank pushed his hand between them, curled his fingers around Mikey's cock.
"This what you want?"
Mikey's head lolled against the wall, he clutched at the headboard with one hand, Frank's shoulder with the other. He nodded, dragging in ragged breaths.
Frank matched the rhythm of his hand to the thrust of his cock, sliding his fingers up Mikey's shaft, palm slipping over the wet head, then back down again. Over and over and over again until Mikey was shaking, his skin flushed, his mouth open and wet and with a muffled fuck, oh, fuck he was coming hot and sticky against Frank's palm, his ass tightening around Frank's cock.
Shit.
Frank pushed Mikey's head back, his still-sticky hand on Mikey's cheek, and he kissed him, tasted the come smeared from his fingers over Mikey's skin and goddamn it was too much, his thrusts lifting Mikey's knees off the bed, slamming his ass against the headboard so fucking hard he swore it cracked. Yeah, Mikey, yeah, he said into Mikey's throat, into his jaw, his hair, his mouth, and Mikey was wrapped around him, urging him on, telling him to come for him, he wanted to see him, come on, Jesus--Frank threw his head back with a cry and he arched into Mikey, hard and fast, holding still for just a moment before he came, shaking, sliding against Mikey, pulling him down to the half-bare mattress with him, Mikey's kisses catching his harsh gasps.
Frank's hands trailed down Mikey's back, fingers feeling the knobby bumps of his long spine. Frank was limp and languid, soaked with sweat, sticky with come, and nothing in this world could be more perfect than this moment. He turned his head, pressed his mouth against Mikey's neck. Breathed him in, tasted him.
Mikey.
"I love you," Frank said, without thought and the words were barely out of his mouth before he froze. Closed his eyes. Shit. Shit. He knew Mikey, knew how it easy it could be to spook him, to send him running. Mikey fell hard and he fell fast, Frank knew that and he knew Mikey knew that, and he knew Mikey was careful about that now. Since Pete.
He felt Mikey's fingers on his face, felt them drag over his skin, across his mouth.
"We're going to be late," Mikey said finally, softly, and Frank just nodded. He opened his eyes; Mikey was leaning over him, watching him.
Frank rolled over, sat up. "I should shower." His shoulders hunched; he stared down at his feet. God, he was such a fucking idiot. "You call Gerard. Tell him we'll be there as soon as we can."
Mikey's palm was warm against the small of his back. The mattress shifted beneath his knees as he slid behind Frank. His arms curled around Frank's waist, pulling him back against his chest. He rested his chin on Frank's shoulder. "You know," he said quietly, and the soft huff of his breath against Frank's ear made him shiver. "The thing is, I think--" He hesitated; his arms tightened around Frank. "I might love you too."
There was a moment's silence. Frank could feel his heart thud hollowly against his chest.
And then it sank in.
He turned around, looked at Mikey sitting tensely on his knees, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
Frank cupped Mikey's cheek, ran his thumb along Mikey's jaw.
"We really should call Gerard," he said quietly, and Mikey pulled him back on the bed.
"Later," Mikey whispered against his mouth, and Frank closed his eyes, dragged his tongue along Mikey's lips.
Nothing could ever taste better.
***
Frank sips his wine slowly, fingers curled around the smooth crystal bowl of the wineglass. He can still taste Mikey's cock on his tongue, the salty-sweetness of his come. Mikey squeezes his fingers once, dropping his hand when the president of Reprise comes their way. Laura's fifteen years younger than either of them, is into pop and urban, and Frank doubts she's ever stopped to listen to one of their albums. But her older brother was a fan.
She airkisses them both, congratulates them, tells them how pleased Reprise has been to stable them--fucking own them, Frank thinks--before she wanders off to suck Win Butler's cock, as Mikey puts it. Metaphorically, he adds, as if it's necessary, not that Win would put up with it in any form. Frank slams his elbow into Mikey's side.
These sort of affairs bore Frank. They bore all of them, although Gerard and Bob can tolerate them better than the rest of them. Bob always shrugs and says, open bar, man, and Gerard--well, Gerard can turn on a variation of his on-stage persona long enough to make it through the evening.
Gerard rolls his eyes when he sees them, smoothes down Mikey's rumpled hair. "Tell me you at least showered afterwards," he says with a sigh and Frank and Mikey exchange an amused look. Gerard shakes his head. "Then again, I don't want to know."
Jon Walker ambles up then, hands him a tonic with lime, and smiles at Frank over his glass of Jack Daniels. "Ready for this?" he asks Gerard and Frank and Mikey, and the three of them look at each other.
A smile spreads across Mikey's face. "Hell, yeah." He tugs at his jacket, Harris tweed with leather patch elbows which looks oddly old-fashioned but hip with his faded jeans. Natural fibers are expensive now, and worn only by the wealthy. Frank can recall when t-shirts didn't cost $150 a whack. Even the new synthetic-cotton ones being sold at the merch tables on their now-infrequent tours are running $60. "Remember when we used to joke about being inducted?" Mikey shivers; Frank puts a hand on the small of his back.
"Hall of Fame, little bro." Gerard shakes his head, steps closer to Jon. He smiles at him. "Your turn soon."
"Maybe." Jon laughs his easy laugh, warm and bright, runs his hand through Gerard's short-cropped white hair, and Frank watches Gerard turn towards him without thought, his face lighting up. They're an odd couple, he thinks--a couple who won't admit to couplehood, despite the fact that Jon spends half the year split between Chicago and Vegas and the other half living in Rumson on the Jersey shore--in the house that Gerard bought ten years ago from Springsteen's estate because, dude, Springsteen.
Sometimes Mikey says he thinks he's seen the Boss still lurking around an upstairs corridor or two.
Gerard's been going to Illinois and Nevada a lot the past decade since the divorce from Colleen. Fifteen years, two kids, and she threw it all away on some fucking writer.
He and Jon? They're just friends, though. Maybe with benefits sometimes, Gerard says with a small smile, and Frank's known him long enough to know that Gerard's protecting himself, that he's scared of what might happen if he actually says how he feels. Frank doesn't really blame him. Not after the number Colleen pulled on him. It'd taken Gerard two years to get his kids back.
Elena's graduating magna cum laude from Rutgers this spring with a degree in public health. She's applied to grad school at Harvard, is certain to get in, her advisor says, and Gerard pretends the idea of her living up in Boston by herself doesn't keep him awake at nights. Adam's studying graphic design at Parson's with two years left to go. He brought home his first serious girlfriend this past Christmas.
Frank adores his niece and nephew.
"Mikeyway!"
Frank looks over. Pete Wentz is headed their way, Patrick trailing behind him, a young girl in hand, amused as always at Pete's legendary energy. They've both made names for themselves, Pete as head of a major label--and who would have thought that of Decaydance three decades ago?--and Patrick as a producer. And they'd shocked (or not, depending on whom you spoke to) the music industry when they'd up and moved to Vancouver nineteen years ago just to get married. Pete was particularly fond of the Rolling Stone article that compared them to Melissa and Tammy Lynn.
Mikey hugs Pete, hard, and Frank pushes down his usual surge of jealousy. You'd think he'd be over it by now, Mikey and Pete, but he looks at Patrick, sees his small, wry smile, and he knows he's not the only one who still struggles over the two of them. They've talked about it before, he and Patrick, late at night over a bottle of wine. Frank knows that Patrick argued with Pete about making Mikey godfather when they adopted Sam twelve years ago, that they slept in separate bedrooms for two months afterwards, that Mikey's the only one of Pete's exes that Patrick's ever been jealous of. Frank's never told Mikey.
He ruffles Sam's red curls. "Almost past your curfew, Sammy," he teases, and she wrinkles her freckled nose at him, but slides her arm around his waist, under his black jacket. She's tall for her age, only a few inches shorter than him, and she's going to be a knockout some day soon, with her pale skin and bright blue eyes. He doesn't envy Pete and Patrick having to fight the boys away. Or girls.
"Just wait until you hear my induction speech," Pete's saying to Gerard with a laugh, and Gerard raises an eyebrow.
Patrick shakes his head. "Don't worry. I made him cut all the inappropriate parts. Including the ones he was adding in the car."
"I've saved them, though." Pete pulls his vidcomm out of his pocket. "Vlog post for later."
Patrick rolls his eyes; Sam giggles and mumbles you're such a dork, Dad and Pete makes a face, points the vidcomm at her. "Be nice to me. I'm the father who got you out of having to do your civ homework tonight." He glances over at Mikey. "Remember sunrise in New Mexico?" He shakes the vidcomm. "Think it might need to be posted. Sweet little dudes again, yeah?"
"Dickhead." Mikey punches Pete's arm, lightly, and his head bends towards Pete; Pete whispers something; they laugh.
Frank's stomach twists. He drains the rest of his wine, sets his glass on a passing tray and shoves his hands in his pockets. Patrick tenses; Sam slides next to him, her fingers twined through her father's. He smiles down at her, squeezes her hand reassuringly, but Frank knows. It doesn't mean anything now, Pete and Mikey. He and Patrick both get that. Still.
Sometimes you just don't want to remember.
***
October 2008, Los Angeles, California
It was the damn Sidekick that pushed Frank over the edge.
They'd met Pete for dinner at Kay and Dave's, a tiny store-front Cali-Mexican place on Sunset in the Palisades, and Frank was picking at an avocado in his lime-and-cilantro-doused salad. He hadn't said much. Pete and Mikey hadn't noticed. As usual.
"A picture for old time's sake, man," Pete said to Mikey with an exaggerated leer that set Frank's teeth on edge, and Mikey laughed and shook his head. "Remember?"
"Yeah, I remember our old pictures. I'm not taking my shirt off with kids around." Mikey bit a tortilla chip in half, scattering crumbs across the table, along with flecks of salsa.
"Pants then?" Pete wiggled his eyebrows.
Mikey smacked the back of his hand against Pete's arm. "Dick."
Pete reached for Mikey and pulled him closer, holding the Sidekick out. "Smile, sweet little dude," and Mikey laughed as Pete kissed Mikey's cheek, arm draped around Mikey's neck.
The flash went off.
Frank bit down until pain shot through the back of his clenched jaw. It was always like this with Pete. Even after all those years, he and Mikey-Frank hated it. "I need some air," he said and pushed his chair back. He didn't look back when the door slammed behind him, cowbell on the handle clanking.
He walked half a block, stopping only to bum a cigarette and a light off an old man sitting on the retaining wall between a parking lot and a quaint stucco shopping mall filled with expensive boutiques selling stupid things that no one needed at three times the price it cost to produce them just because vapid studio wives were stupid enough to buy them.
Frank leaned against the wall and exhaled a thin curl of gray-white smoke. It'd been ages since he'd had a drag. He'd regret it, he knew, but fucking Christ, he needed one right now. Or a beer. Or fucking both.
"Girl problems?" the old man asked, his dark face crinkling into a mass of wrinkles beneath his white-grey hair. His red polo shirt was spotless; he wore a pair of perfectly shined leather loafers. A thick watch glinted pink-gold off his wrist in the early evening sun.
Frank shook his head, took another drag on the cigarette. "Boy."
The old man grunted. "'Bout as bad, my grandson says."
"Worse sometimes." Frank puffed out a tiny smoke circle. The nicotine was sharp and bitter against his tongue. He coughed. "Been a while," he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He tapped the cigarette against his finger; gray ash scattered in the faint breeze.
And then Mikey was there, with a what the hell do you think you're doing, you asshole, and he pulled the cigarette out of Frank's hand, dropping it to the asphalt and grinding it out with the heel of his sneaker. "That's not the way you fucking quit, Frank."
"This the boy?" the old man asked and he eyed Mikey, blew a stream of smoke away from them both, then handed his cigarette to Frank.
Frank took a drag off it. Mikey's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
The old man stood up. "Better talk to him," he said. "Be worse in the morning if you don't," and he dipped his head towards Mikey before ambling off, one hand in his pockets.
Mikey just looked at Frank for a long moment. "You're a dick," he said finally.
Frank shrugged. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth.
Mikey sighed and leaned against the wall, next to Frank. "It's just Pete."
"And you're just Mikey." Frank sent a puff a smoke drifting towards Mikey. "I get it."
"No, you don't."
"Pete will be Pete," Frank said dully. He watched more ash drift off the end of the cigarette. His throat tasted acrid, bitter. "And you'll let him because you're Mikey."
He could feel Mikey's glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Figure it out." Frank pushed himself off the wall, stubbed the cigarette out on the crumbling brick. "I want to go back to the hotel."
The drive back was silent. Frank gripped the wheel of the rented Land Rover tightly, barely noticing the blur of Sunset as they sped through Beverly Hills and into the Strip. Mikey stared out the window, his fist pressed to his mouth. Mikey's phone rang twice. Frank recognized the ringtone Mikey'd assigned to Pete's number. The second time, Frank grabbed the phone from the cupholder Mikey had dumped it into when he climbed into the SUV. He turned it off, angrily, and threw the phone into the backseat.
Mikey's mouth tightened. "Jesus," he muttered, and he slumped in his seat, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. He clicked his teeth together, and Frank looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Mikey only did that when he was pissed.
Fuck that. And fuck Pete Wentz.
They didn't speak in the elevator in Chateau Marmont. Or the hallway. Or the first five minutes they were back in the room.
And then Mikey came out of the bathroom and said, "you know, you act like I'm a whore for Pete," and Frank just looked at him, and Mikey's eyes widened, like he'd been slapped, and he said, "that's what you think, isn't it?"
"No," Frank started, because that's not what he thought, it really wasn't, but he'd hesitated too long and Mikey shoved him backwards and shouted you fucking dick.
The argument lasted for two hours. They'd shouted and screamed at each other, things that neither of them would ever have said otherwise, things that they meant to hurt, to tear jagged, bleeding wounds across their hearts.
It worked.
You’d rather have Gerard. I’ve seen the way you look at him--
--I can’t deal with you like this.
You want everyone to be perfect. No one’s fucking perfect, Frank. Not even you--
--The whole world has to revolve around you, doesn’t it? Mikey’s little fantasy for when things go to shit.
Fuck you, you arrogant dick. You know, sometimes I don’t even like you-
--selfish, goddamn motherfucker.
“What? You’re afraid Pete’s a better fuck than you? That I still want his cock, because yeah, who wouldn’t-
--why are we even doing this any more, Mikey? Why?
And when they finally wound down, and Mikey stood at the window, arms wrapped around himself, staring out at Los Angeles spread beneath them, bright and sparkling in the dark, and Frank sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, hands clasped between his knees, and the room was silent except for their ragged breaths, Mikey's phone rang.
Pete.
Frank just looked at him, begging him not to answer it, and Mikey turned, and he hesitated, bit his lip, and then reached for the phone with a defiant look at Frank. He flipped it open.
"Hey," he said, and Frank tumbled backwards on the bed, pulling his feet up on the comforter. His head ached; he could still taste the bitter bile of jealousy in the back of his throat.
"Can I come over?" Mikey asked softly into the phone and he wasn't looking at Frank. "I just don't want to be here right now, man." Mikey paused. "Yeah. Okay." He hung up the phone. His shadow fell over the comforter. "I'm--"
"I heard." Frank rolled over on his side, stared at the wall. "Whatever."
"Yeah," Mikey said, and Frank could hear the bitterness in his voice. "Whatever."
The door slammed shut behind him. Frank closed his burning eyes, curled in on himself. The room was suddenly freezing.
He wouldn't be there in the morning when Mikey came back.
***
Frank shivers, rubs his hands over his arms. Even with his jacket on it's cold in the ballroom, or at least he's feeling it a bit more. He hopes it doesn't cause the arthritis in his toes to flare up. He snorts. Those aren't the sort of things you think about when you're young and stupid and have a tendency to break small bones from time to time.
He flexes his feet in his boots and settles back in his chair. Mikey's draped over the row of seats in front of them to talk to Ray--and his wife and five kids--and the ballroom is starting to fill slowly. Arcade Fire's across the aisle; Will Hoge's behind them.
Frank can't quite believe this. They're going to be enshrined in Cleveland, four boys from Jersey, one from Chicago, and Christ. He grins.
A program slaps across the back of his head and he turns. Bob's taking the seat behind him, his boyfriend of the past fifteen years beside him, a jazz vocalist named Peter Cincotti who had talked Bob first into drumming on one of his albums, then into going out to dinner with him. Peter grins at Frank, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, and Bob leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"Can you believe this, dude?" he asks and Frank shakes his head and shifts to let Gerard and Jon slide past him to their seats. Elena and Adam are already on the other side, and Elena stretches over her father to hug Jon.
"Fucking insane."
Bob nods. "We're old." He flashes Frank a bright grin. "Want to go back on the road?"
"Don't tempt me, man." Frank misses touring the way they did, even though he knows it's impossible now. There are kids to be considered, families, and they could barely keep up with their schedule thirty years ago. No way would they be able to now. Still. There are times when he wishes he could get on stage every night for months again, guitar in hand, the music washing over him as he bounds across the black rubber matting, playing straight man to Gerard's camp.
There's only been one tour that he was miserable on, after all. And that was his own fucking fault.
He glances back at the stage. The PAs are rushing about, pulling cables, adding last-minute touches to lighting rigs. He can see their instruments in the wings, waiting for the traditional jam session post induction. Frank itches to get his fingers on his guitar, even though he only set it down a few hours ago after rehearsal.
Frank shifts in his seat, adrenaline coursing through him.
It's all about the music. It always has been.
***
November 2008, Atlanta, Georgia
The thing about being a dick, Frank thought, sitting on one of the black storage boxes backstage, guitar in his hand, picking out the bass line of Debaser, was that it was fucking hard to stop being one once you started.
Pride maybe, or just fucking stupidity-and Gerard had told him it was the latter, more than once.
Frank thought maybe he was right.
A roadie sidestepped him, dragging a heavy cable out to the stage. Frank didn’t look up. His fingers-one wrapped in a SpongeBob Band Aid because Bob had thought it’d be funny to stock the medicine cabinet in the bus with them-flew over the guitar strings.
They were back on tour, had been for over a week now, and there wasn’t anything fucking worse than standing on stage with Mikey, both of them as far as they could be from each other. They’d barely spoken since L.A-two weeks, four days and eighteen hours, not that Frank was counting--and Mikey spent most of his free time on his Sidekick. Texting. Calling.
He always hung up when Frank walked in the room, tucking the Sidekick in his pocket and just standing up and saying I need to-- before trailing off and slipping out the door.
Gerard would follow him out, tossing aside a well-worn issue of Doom Patrol and giving Frank an exasperated glance, and Bob would look up from his comic book and say, you two are going to have to talk sometime and Ray would nod from over in the corner, one iPod earphone falling out of his ear.
Frank’d started smoking again a few days after he’d left L.A. without Mikey. After their first phone conversation.
It hadn’t gone well.
Frank had been angry still, their argument still whirling in his head, all the bitter things Mikey had said, the vicious words, the accusations he had made. Mikey never did fight fair when he was pissed, Frank knew that. If you can’t strike first, then strike back hard, that was the Way brother motto. Frank had dealt with it when Gerard was drinking, when Mikey was mixing anti-depressants with his booze.
So he’d hit back himself. Pushed Mikey away. It was better that way, he told himself afterwards, striking a match with shaking hands and lifting it to the cigarette clenched between his lips. The flame had sputtered out and he swore.
Mikey hadn’t come back that night, after all. He’d been with Pete.
Fucking hell.
Frank’s fingers slipped; the E string caught on a hangnail, ripped it off.
Shit.
Ray stopped in front of him, sat down on the edge of the trunk. He took a swig of water from the bottle in his hand. “You okay?”
Frank wiped the blood from his finger on his jean. “Yeah.”
They were silent for a moment, then Ray pushed his hair back out of his eyes and sighed. “I think you should talk to Mikey, man. Seriously.”
“Nothing to say.” Frank rubbed his thumb over a guitar fret.
“Bullshit.”
Frank looked over at Ray; Ray met his gaze evenly. Frank sighed. “He won’t want to.”
“Then make him.” Ray twisted his water bottle between his hands. “Look, you two are killing us, man. Every concert we’ve played the past couple of weeks has been flat. Gee’s fucking out of his mind with worry for both of you, if you could get your head out of your ass and notice. And Bob and I aren’t far behind.” Ray hunched his shoulders; his heels thudded against the side of the trunk. “Come on, man. This is getting out of hand. Kiss and make up or whatever-“
“That’s not going to happen,” Frank said tightly.
Ray just looked at him.
“Fine,” Frank said after a moment, and Ray nodded.
“Okay, man.” He slid off the trunk, pointed at Frank with his water bottle. “Tonight. I’m fucking serious.”
Frank looked away. “Yeah.”
“Frank,” Ray said.
“I will. Jesus.” Frank’s thumbnail caught on the A string; it clanked against the fretboard. Ray just sighed and rolled his eyes before hopping over half a lighting rig and heading for the stage.
***
The lights on stage are hot and bright and halfway through Wowie Zowie, Frank tosses his jacket aside. He’s playing next to Andy Dunlop from Travis, and he flashes him a bright grin as he whirls, dipping his guitar as his fingers fly across the strings.
This is what Frank loves, the rush of adrenaline, the music coursing through him, blending with the others’. He turns, and Mikey’s looking at him from the back of the stage, eyes bright and dark.
It’s crowded beneath the lights, as the post-induction jam sessions always are, but there’s an energy, a joy that sparks through the music, illuminating Zappa’s lyrics and Frank can remember watching him being inducted posthumously into the Hall of Fame back in ’95, Lou Reed presenting his biography and Jesus, Frank thinks, he’s in the same company as Frank fucking Zappa and who would have thought it of some kids from Belleville, New Jersey?
Pete’s standing in the wings, hands in his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and when Frank catches his eye, he pulls his hands free, holds them up over his head, fingers forming a diamond, his grin wide and white and bright, and Frank can’t stop the laugh that bursts out.
And then Mikey’s next to him, playing, and he leans in to kiss Frank, quick and hard and it doesn’t matter if billions of people worldwide are recording this on their vidcomms and laptops and entertainment units because this is their moment, the band’s and Frank’s and Mikey’s.
They were meant to do this, Frank thinks, looking at Mikey’s smiling face.
They always had been.
November 2008, Virginia Beach, Virginia
Frank managed to put it off three days, despite Ray’s scowls and glares and pulling him aside to tell him to grow a fucking pair for Christ’s sake.
There wasn’t time, Frank protested. They had three concerts in a row, after all. So he threw himself into the music, into being on stage, in front of the boiling hot lights, in front of the screaming crowd, doing what he was meant to do.
He kept to his side of the stage every night; Mikey stayed back by the drum riser. They had a system now for avoiding each other.
Frank hated it.
They played Atlanta and then Charlotte and Raleigh and they’d barely been in Virginia Beach an hour when Frank’s cell phone buzzed.
It was Pete Wentz.
Frank ignored it.
Goddamn motherfucker.
He didn’t count on how persistent Pete could be, though.
Two hours and five ignored calls later, Pete turned to text.
jesus, iero, the first one read, you’re a dick. fine if you won’t pick up the phone, well do it this way. talk to mikey, asshole. for some god only knows why reason he loves you even if youre neurotic.
Frank glared at the LCD screen. Neurotic, Wentz? Pot meet kettle.
The reply came in less than a minute. never said i wasn’t. just talk to him. he’s worried about you, stupid fuck talk to him.
Frank snapped his cell phone shut, powered it down. He lit a cigarette, leaning against the bus. Shit. Just fucking shit.
He closed his eyes and breathed out a thin stream of smoke.
“You okay, man?” Bob asked, coming off the bus, and Frank just lifted his cigarette again.
“Yeah,” he mumbled past it, staring up into a clear, cloudless blue sky. “Will be, maybe.”
Bob gave him a long look and shrugged. “Okay,” he said quietly, and he headed towards the stage.
Frank sighed and dropped his cigarette, grinding it into the asphalt with the heel of his Chuck Taylor All-Stars.
He went to Mikey’s room after the show.
Worm was in there, sprawled across the bed, and three of the roadies were on the floor, huddled over Mikey’s computer, watching porn. Tits filled the monitor, too round and too pert, with fucking huge nipples.
Hot.
Frank pulled his gaze away, looked over at Mikey, curled in the chair next to the window, feet bare. “We need to talk,” he said quietly and Worm rolled off the bed.
“Come on, you fucks,” he said, kicking the hip of the nearest roadie. “Beer in my room.”
They looked at Frank, and then at Mikey and then back at the laptop before they clambered to their feet.
No one said anything as they left, the door snicking shut behind them.
Mikey’s toes curled into the chair cushion. “So.”
He didn’t look at Frank.
“I’m a dick,” Frank said after a moment.
Mikey shrugged. “Told you that.”
“Repeatedly.”
“Yeah.” Mikey rubbed a thumb over the upholstery. “You’re a fucking stupid dick too.”
They were silent. Frank could hear the steady tap of water from the bathroom sink. Mikey just watched him; Frank shifted from foot to foot, his hands shoved into his pockets. He sighed finally. “I hate fighting with you.”
“We weren’t fighting,” Mikey said, and his voice was weary. “We weren’t talking. You can’t fight if you don’t talk.”
Frank rubbed his thumb along the opening of the front pocket on his jeans. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” Mikey pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “Maybe.” He hesitated. “I didn’t fuck Pete,” he said quietly, and he stared down at the tweedy chenille stretched over the arm of the chair. His thumbnail scraped across it, streaking the grain of the fabric. “I’m not a whore, Frank.”
Frank let out a breath, a quick, soft huff, and his shoulders slumped. “Mikey,” he said and he took a step forward before catching himself. He bit his bottom lip. “No,” he said, looking at Mikey, his throat tight. “You’re not.”
Mikey nodded, looked up at him through his bangs. His hand stilled on the chair arm. “Just wanted that clear.”
“Yeah.” Frank wanted to touch him. God, he was such a fucking idiot. They’d all been right-Ray and Bob and Gerard. All of them.
Mikey unfolded himself, stood up. He’d pulled on a pair of ratty sweats and an old, long-sleeved t-shirt from the Warped tour. “I missed your birthday last week,” he said, brushing past Frank and Jesus he smelled like the mint soap he’d stolen from the Four Seasons back in Boston. Frank had fucked him against the wall that night, his face pressed against Mikey’s neck.
“I thought you just ignored it.”
Mikey turned then, a small smile on his face, and the t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, shifted against his thin waist. “Well, yeah.” He dug in his suitcase. “I was pissed off.”
He shoved a bag out at him, flat and square and Frank took it without thought, fingers closing over the brown paper.
The bag slid off easily enough, and Frank looked up at Mikey, eyes wide. “Freak Out,” he murmured. It was one of his dad’s favorite albums, one that Frank had heard since he was a toddler. He’d grown up singing wowie zowie up and down my spine, I don’t even care if you brush your teeth. The LP cover was in perfect condition, the hot pink and teal inks popping out against the dull black.
“1966 MGM Verve, first pressing,” Mikey said, looking at him and Frank’s breath caught. “One of the first concept albums-“
“Yeah.” Frank smoothed a palm over the album. “The Mothers of Invention’s debut.” He looked up. “Zappa rocks.”
Mikey gave him that sideways grin, the one that made Frank’s stomach twist. Frank’s hands shook as he set the LP aside. “So you’ve been hiding that…”
“I figured maybe I’d give it to you for Christmas if we were talking again by then,” Mikey said, fingers twisting nervously in the hem of his t-shirt. “Or have Gerard give it to you.”
“Mikey,” Frank said and then he was kissing him, his fingers tangling in Mikey’s hair and Jesus fuck he tasted sweet and just a little bit salty and so very, very Mikey.
They stumbled backwards, falling onto the bed, and Mikey’s hands caught Frank’s hips, his mouth hot and wet against Frank’s jaw.
“Mikey,” Frank whispered again as he slid down Mikey’s body, pushing his t-shirt up as he kissed Mikey’s chest, licked at a nipple, then ran his tongue down Mikey’s stomach. Mikey hissed, arching up. His fingers tugged at Frank’s hair, pulling him back up to kiss him roughly. “I’m such a fucking dick,” Frank said against Mikey’s mouth. “I’m sorry. Jesus. I’m so fucking-“
“Shut up,” Mikey said and he bit Frank’s bottom lip, then licked it. “Just, Frank-“ He moaned and turned his head, pressing his face into Frank’s hair. His hips jerked up; Frank could feel the heat of Mikey’s cock through his jeans. “God, I need to be fucked.”
Frank was already pulling Mikey’s t-shirt off, throwing it aside. His own followed, and he leaned back, straddling Mikey’s hips. Mikey’s eyes darkened. He ran his palms over Frank’s chest, down to his stomach, curling over the curve of black ink on Frank’s hips. His thumb traced the and between the angel wings, then slid down to stroke the thin line of hair disappearing into his jeans.
Frank’s hips bucked.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Mikey’s voice was rough, breathy. “Even if you are a fucking dick.”
Frank leaned in, caught Mikey’s mouth with his. “Tell me you’ve got lube and a condom.”
“In the travel bag.” Mikey’s teeth were sharp against Frank’s lip. Frank groaned and he pulled away.
“Get your fucking jeans off.” Mikey was already pulling at the zipper before Frank slid off the bed. The travel bag was in the suitcase-Frank knew exactly where Mikey usually tossed it-and he pulled out a razor and two toothbrushes, one still in the packaging. Frank rolled his eyes at that; Mikey was weirdly obsessive about the cleanliness of the bristles on his toothbrush. The Astroglide and the condoms were in the bottom. Frank tossed the lube on the bed and tore a condom off the silver strip.
Mikey was stretched across the comforter in his underwear, his cock pressing against the white cotton as he kneaded it. Frank’s breath caught. Mikey was gorgeous; he always had been. Long, pale arms and legs that went every which way, hipbones that jutted up, a stretch of crisp dark curls barely visible above the waistband of his briefs.
“Fuck,” Frank whispered and Mikey grinned at him. He hooked his thumb in the elastic, pulling his underwear down slightly. Frank could see the tip of his pink cock.
“Show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Asshole,” Frank said with a smile, and he pulled at the buttons of his jeans, pushing them down, kicking them off. His underwear followed, and Mikey breathed out at the sight of Frank holding his cock in his hand, rubbing his thumb across the tip.
Frank pulled the condom on, wincing only slightly. He hated the fuckers.
“Jesus, you look good like that,” Mikey said, raising up on his elbows, thighs spread. “Think you might fuck me now?”
“Maybe.” Frank put a knee on the bed. “When I’m ready.”
Mikey’s gaze dropped down to Frank’s cock. “Look ready to me.”
“Not quite.” Frank pushed him back down on the bed, dragged his mouth across Mikey’s stomach. He could feel him take in a quick, sharp breath.
“Jesus,” Mikey whispered, and his fingers curled in Frank’s hair. “Frank-“
Frank mouthed over the swell of Mikey’s cock, the white cotton of his briefs catching on Frank’s tongue.
“Oh God.” Mikey twisted beneath him. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you-do you know how many times I fucking jacked off after shows because--Jesus, Frankie, God, yes-I got so hard watching you play-“
Frank tugged Mikey’s briefs down, let the head of his cock pop out. Mikey groaned and slid his hands over Frank’s shoulders, then back to his hair.
“Come on-“
Frank sucked Mikey’s cock into his mouth; Mikey cried out, his hips jerking.
“Oh, God, yes-“
The briefs ended up at the foot of the bed, and Mikey spread his legs wider, pushing his dick up into Frank’s mouth. Frank curled his tongue around the head, sucking it lightly against the roof of his mouth.
Mikey twisted his fingers in the comforter and groaned.
“Like that?” Frank whispered against Mikey’s cock, dragging his mouth down the shaft. He shifted, let his dick press into Mikey’s leg. “God, I want you.”
“Kind of figured that out.” Mikey stretched out beneath him, pale and long. “You can do better.”
Frank reached for the bottle of Astroglide, drizzled some on his fingertips. “You think?”
“Might just have been my fantasies.” Mikey canted his hips out.
Frank grinned and pressed his face against Mikey’s balls, lapping lightly beneath them. He trailed a finger across Mikey’s ass, rubbing tiny circles against his hole.
“Frank.” Mikey’s hips jerked; he breathe out. “Come on.”
“Hold on.” Frank nuzzled the base of Mikey’s cock. “Patience is a-“
“Shut the fuck up and put your finger in me, goddamn it.”
Frank laughed, a soft huff against Mikey’s dick, and he sucked him into his mouth again, pressing his slick finger into him.
Mikey groaned. “Jesus, yes.” He tightened his hands on Frank’s shoulders. “Now fuck me.”
“Pushy little bottom,” Frank said against the head of Mikey’s cock.
“Less talk, more fucking,” Mikey choked out. “I want your fingers in me, damn it.”
Frank pushed his finger in deeper, then added another. Mikey gasped, arched up.
“Oh, shit, yeah.”
A few thrusts, slow and careful at first, and then Frank found a rhythm, matching the slide and twist of his fingers to the drag of his mouth up Mikey’s dick.
Mikey pressed up against his fingers with a gasp and a fuck, one hand flying out to push against the headboard. He spread his legs as wide as he could, dug his heels into the mattress. “More. Jesus, fuck, more.”
Frank shoved another finger into him, twisted his hand just enough to slide his fingertips across a tiny nub of flesh and Mikey cried out and tightened his fingers on Frank’s shoulder.
“Frank. God.”
That was all Frank needed. He pulled away, reached for the lube, pouring some into his hand and smearing it down his cock, over the smooth rubber of the condom. “Get on your knees.”
Mikey twisted over, and he moaned when his cock dragged across the comforter. “You’re going to fuck me, Jesus, Frank. Yeah. I’ve been jerking off every night thinking about your cock, and goddamn, fuck. Get in me, Frank. Come on.”
“You talk too damn much,” Frank whispered, sliding his mouth along Mikey’s shoulder blade. He caught Mikey’s hips, pressed his cock up against his arse. “You want to be fucked, huh?”
“Shut up and do it.” Mikey was breathing hard; his skin was flushed.
Frank closed his eyes, rocked his hips forward, letting his cock slide over Mikey’s ass. It’d been three weeks, one day and-his eyes flew to the alarm clock next to the bed-fifteen hours.
Shit.
Mikey groaned, pressed back against Frank’s hips. “Frank. Come on.”
Frank pushed into him and fuck. Mikey was hot and tight and, God, that soft moan he made as he jerked forward, falling into the mattress-
“Jesus. Fuck me.”
Frank gripped Mikey’s hips tight. “I’m going to.” He pulled back, thrust back in again, rough and deep. Mikey gasped.
“God, yes.” Mikey looked back at him, eyes bright. “Again.”
Frank slammed into him, knocked him forward, made him grab for his balance.
He angled his hips, thrust in once more and Mikey threw his head back, his breath coming in short, quick gasps. Frank slid his arm around Mikey’s waist, pulled him back against him, straddling Frank’s hips. “Want me to fuck you deep?”
Mikey’s head lolled back against Frank’s shoulder. “Yeah.” His throat was long and pale and streaked with sweat. “Want you to fuck me so hard I can’t sit tomorrow.”
“Shit.” Frank’s fingers slid over Mikey’s damp stomach. “That what you want? To think of my cock in your ass all day?”
Mikey turned his head, bit at the corner of Frank’s jaw. He slid an arm around Frank’s neck, arching himself slightly, his hips tilting forward on Frank’s cock. He groaned. “Fuck, yeah. That’s it. Think your dick’s up to it?”
“Maybe.” Frank caught Mikey’s mouth with his, pressed his tongue in. Mikey opened beneath him, making soft, quiet grunts as he kissed him, his cock rocking deeper into Mikey’s ass. Jesus fuck, nothing had ever felt this goddamn good.
One hand was on Mikey’s hip, one on his stomach, fingers twined with Mikey’s, and Frank was fucking him quick and hard and deep. He could hear Mikey’s ragged breath, could feel him tense and relax around him with each thrust of his cock, and Mikey’s head was on his shoulder, and everything smelled like sex and sweat and the remnants of mint soap and Jesus--
Mikey dragged their twined fingers down to his dick. “Please,” he whispered, his voice catching, and he pressed his ass back against Frank’s cock. “So close and I want to come on your hand and feel you lick it, Frank, God. You want to taste me, don’t you? Want to feel me come with you so fucking deep inside of me?”
Frank groaned, and he curled his fingers around Mikey’s cock, pulling roughly and Mikey gasped again and tightened his ass around Frank’s dick and God.
It was nearly too much.
Frank slammed into Mikey, twisted his hand down his cock, and Mikey cried out, arching hard and quick into Frank’s thrust. Come splattered over Frank’s hand, hot and sticky, and Mikey was shaking, falling forward.
He caught himself with one hand.
Jesus.
Frank shoved into him again and again, and his hand was still working Mikey’s cock, squeezing gently, wet and tight, and Mikey was gasping. Trembling.
“Come on, Frank,” he whispered, breath coming in tiny pants. “Come on. Come for me. Want to feel it, want to feel you-“
Fuck.
Frank shuddered, his body tensing, and he threw his head back with a groan, coming in quick, rapid jerks inside of Mikey.
Inside. Mikey.
God.
Frank collapsed on Mikey’s back, breathing hard.
They lay silent and still for a moment and then Mikey laughed, muffled by the comforter.
Frank rolled off him, and he pulled the condom off with a wince and a sigh, tossing it into the trash can next to the bed.
“Did we just have make-up sex?” Mikey propped his chin on his hands and looked over at Frank.
Frank grinned. “I think so.” He stretched, flexed his feet. “Fucking amazing make-up sex, if you ask me.” He curled in around Mikey and kissed his shoulder. “Want to argue again?”
“Give me a few weeks.” Mikey kissed Frank, a quick brush of their mouths. “This was pretty…” He paused. “Fucking miserable.”
Frank brushed Mikey’s hair back from his forehead. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Sorry about that.”
Mikey caught his hand, pressed his mouth to Frank’s palm. “Think I’ll forgive you. Maybe.” He slid his leg between Frank’s. Neither of them said anything for a moment, then Mikey leaned into Frank, his head on Frank’s shoulder. “We’re going to make it, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Frank kissed his temple, pulled him closer. “We better.” He laughed. “I think the guys’ll be pretty pissed at us if we don’t.”
Mikey snorted. “Can’t have that. Gerard’ll never shut up.”
“Your brother.”
Mikey punched him. “Asshole.”
Frank rolled over onto him, grabbing his hands and pinning them up above his head. “Your asshole.”
“Damn right,” Mikey murmured, and he leaned up to kiss Frank. “Mine.”
Frank let himself fall again.
***
One more stroke, back arched, and Frank collapses, his shoulders shaking, Mikey’s hands smoothing across his skin, his mouth pressing lightly against his throat.
Frank turns his head, catches Mikey’s mouth with his. It’s been a long night; they’d left the afterparty early, making their excuses and getting a knowing look from virtually everyone, including their niece and nephew.
Mikey had just laughed and pulled him to the elevators.
They’d barely made it to the room before Mikey had his hand in Frank’s pants.
Mikey pulls back, tucks a lock of hair behind Frank’s ear. “Ever think we’d be here?”
“The Waldorf-Astoria?” Frank asks lightly, though he knows what Mikey’s asking even without the glare and the punch that hits his arm lightly along with a murmured asshole. He runs his knuckles over Mikey’s jaw. “Hoped we’d be.”
“Me too.” Mikey smiles, and Frank feels the familiar warmth twist through him. He’d do anything to see that smile. Anything. And Mikey knows it. The thing is, he never uses that against Frank. Not in the ways that he could.
It’s one of the things Frank loves the most about him.
Mikey owns him. Frank knows he always will.
It’s been thirty years now, and Frank’s not going anywhere.
Neither is Mikey.
Frank curls around Mikey, slides his leg through Mikey’s. They sleep like this every night, have for three decades. Legs twined, arms wrapped around each other. Frank wakes up every morning with Mikey’s face pressed into his armpit.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Love you,” Mikey murmurs, and Frank brushes his mouth over Mikey’s.
“Me too,” he whispers and he turns the lamp off.
The lights of New York glow through the sheer curtains, sending shadows stretching and flickering across the bed, over Mikey’s pale shoulders.
This is happiness, Frank thinks, and he smiles as he closes his eyes.
And sleeps.
There are some discussions going on behind the scenes about what can be done, so yeah. Everyone hold tight and don't panic, okay? Secondly, does anyone have lynntownsend's email address? It's needed for some of the discussion. Also, thank you. Seriously. Fandom is incredible and I really, really, really appreciate the outpouring of support. Really. I'm totally overwhelmed by the offers of help and just the kind words. So very greatly appreciated.
I also just wanted to say I'm not locking anything down here that wasn't already locked down for privacy reasons. Which means I'm keeping my fic public.
And damn it, I'm posting fic tonight. Porn fic. Because fuck if I'm going to let someone define what I post and what I don't. Read it. Make my night better. :)
Title: The Ones Who Fall
Author: Femme
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: MCR
Pairing: Frank/Mikey
Summary: "Just pretend it was thirty years ago..."
Disclaimer: Never happened. NEVER.
Word count: ~9800
Notes: This is totally and completely written for luciamad without whom I never would have found this fandom and who taught me to love this pairing. She is the queen of Frank/Mikey and I adore her for it. Much love, Luc. Much. For everything. Including the beta. :)
Just pretend it was thirty years ago and this is the first song of the night for the kind of a band that your mother and your father used to go and cream over.
--Frank Zappa, Sweet Leilani
Frank's gotten old. Not the kind of old where you wonder where you put your glasses--or your teeth--but the kind of old where going to bed at ten doesn't seem like such a bad idea and knees and hips start to creak when pushing up out of the sofa.
He's 57 this year, and that's a weird thought. He doesn't feel 57; he doesn't think he ever will. His hair's barely graying at his temples. His only wrinkles are at the corners of his eyes. He just got a new tattoo a month ago. A curliqued MJW curled in black ink over a smaller 2008 on the back of his hand.
He thinks it's about time he inked Mikey's initials into his skin.
Thirty years together--not likely it will jinx them, after all.
He's standing in the bedroom of their suite in the Waldorf-Astoria, half-dressed, jeans hanging open as he stares into the suitcase and wonders what shirt to wear, and Mikey's in the shower. If they weren't going out tonight, he'd join him, step into the spray with his jeans still on and slide to his knees to suck him off, tongue curling around his dick. What Mikey likes is second nature to Frank now. He knows the hitch in Mikey's breath when he takes the head of his cock in his mouth, knows the shiver that will run through him when Frank licks down to his balls, sucking at his sac lightly.
Frank breathes out.
There's not time and they can't be late. They have strict orders to be downstairs for pre-ceremony cocktails (and last-minute warnings not to offend the FCC during broadcast, he's pretty damn certain) in one hour.
Frank pulls a black t-shirt from the suitcase and tosses it on the bed.
Sometimes, he thinks, this is all too good to last.
***
March 2008 - Manila, Philippines
"Do you ever think this is too good?" Mikey asked, and he leaned his head back against the edge of the mattress. "That someday it's just all going to implode on us and then where will be? Washed up somewhere, doing reunion tours where we all hate each other and haven't spoken in years, but we need the fucking money and who the fuck's going to hire a bunch of tattooed freaks like us anyway?"
Frank pulled his knees up to his chest, stared out the bank of windows across from them. They were on the fifteenth floor; Manila was spread out in front of them, lights sparkling against the dark hills. He could see their reflections in the smooth glass, both of them curled next to each other on the floor, shoulders pressed against the bed. "Maybe. Sometimes."
They'd left the other guys in Bob's room, messing around with his Wii while Gerard sketched in the corner, his General's Factis Soft Black Eraser held tight between sharp teeth as his pencil flew across the heavy white paper. Mikey'd left first, saying he was tired. Frank and Gerard had exchanged glances, and Frank had said, "I'll go after him." Gerard had just nodded. They took turns looking after Mikey. Especially now. Touring was hard on all of them, yeah. But Mikey? Mikey put too much of himself in it. It drained him, left him vulnerable, tired.
And Frank worried. He couldn't help himself. This was Mikey here--Frank shifted, breathed out. The last thing he needed to do right now was let his mind drift back to what he'd dreamt of last night. About Mikey. Like usual. He flushed slightly, let his thighs spread apart just enough. Fuck of a problem, having a crush on one of your best friends. Especially one you practically lived with. Frank didn't want to think about how much time he spent in the bathroom, jacking off at night.
Mikey chewed on his thumbnail, then sighed and lifted his bottle of mango juice to his lips. Frank looked away.
"You worry too much, man." He brushed his knuckles against the back of Mikey's hand. It was the only contact he'd let himself have. If he clenched his hand tight enough, it wouldn't shake. He'd learned that. "Buy trouble when you shouldn't."
"I guess." Mike set the bottle of juice between his knees. He twisted it, stroked his thumb over the glass rim. His hair fell forward, tumbling into his face. Frank sucked at his top lip. Shit. "I just have these thoughts in my head sometimes." He looked up at Frank then through his bangs. "I don't know what I'd do without you guys."
Frank nudged him with his shoulder. "Asswipe. We're not going anywhere."
"I might," Mikey said quietly and he stared out the window.
Frank studied the sharp angle of Mikey's jaw, the sweep of dark hair against his cheek. "Fuck that," he murmured. "I won't let you."
Mikey turned his head; their eyes met. Frank's breath caught.
And when Mikey's mouth pressed against his, almost hesitantly, a shiver ran through Frank, curled through his spine, settled at the base of his cock. Mikey pulled away, eyes wide.
"I'm sorry, fuck--"
Frank groaned and he caught the back of Mikey's head, fingers twisting in his hair as he pulled Mikey towards him again. "Shut up," he whispered, and his mouth closed over Mikey's, tongue flicking at the corner of his lips until Mikey opened beneath him, hot and wet, his hands clenching in Frank's t-shirt, twisting the thin cotton as Frank pushed him to the floor.
***
Frank picks up Mikey's half-wet t-shirt, hangs it over the bathroom door. Steam fogs the mirror; Frank wipes a circle semi-clear with a dry washcloth. He reaches for the shaving cream, and the shower turns off.
He looks over; Mikey's stepping out of the tub, naked and half-hard, his wet hair pushed back from his forehead. He's still as thin and long as he was when they were younger but he's gone grey now, a soft salt-and-pepper bob that falls messily to his chin. His face isn't as gaunt as it once was, though he's still sharp angles and planes. He always has been. Even his hipbones still jut out. Frank loves to suck them, to run his tongue beneath them, following their angle to the dark, crisp curls nestling around Mikey's cock.
"How much longer?" Mikey asks, toweling off and Frank leans against the edge of the sink, stroking shaving cream along his jaw as he watches.
"Forty-five minutes." Frank hands him his toothbrush. He's already put toothpaste on it, just the amount Mikey uses.
Mikey just smiles and dips two fingers in the shaving cream smeared across Frank's palm. He slides them along Frank's bare cheek, then down his neck. Mikey's always liked watching him shave.
"Not enough time then," Mikey says regretfully, and he presses a quick kiss to Frank's shoulder before shoving the toothbrush into his mouth. "Move," he mumbles past the bristles, and he nudges Frank aside with his bare hip. "I don't want to hear Ray if we're late."
Frank just rolls his eyes and picks up his razor. Mikey watches in the mirror as he arches his neck enough to slide the razor over his slick skin again. He taps the razor against the side of the sink that he can reach, letting the water from the faucet wash it clean.
Mikey's eyes darken; he shifts, giving Frank more room. The toothbrush slides from his mouth.
Frank smiles faintly.
They're going to be late.
As usual.
***
May 2008 - Sydney, Australia
The bed was a tangle of white sheets twisted around the down comforter. It was autumn in Australia and the air outside was crisp and cool and wet. They had a show in six hours, a soundcheck in two and they hadn't been out of bed in twenty.
Mikey groaned and arched beneath Frank, his skin flushed and damp with sweat. "Don't fucking stop--" He broke off in a gasp.
"We're going to be late," Frank whispered against Mikey's throat and he tasted the salty-sweetness of Mikey's skin. "Gerard'll be pissed."
Mikey rocked his hips up, his cock pressing against Frank's stomach and Frank moaned as he shifted deeper into Mikey. "Fuck Gerard," Mikey said and he laughed, sliding his arms around Frank's neck. "No, wait--fuck me." He kissed Frank, his teeth catching Frank's bottom lip. "God, your dick--"
"Yeah?" Frank slid his hands under Mikey's thighs, lifting them up, pushing him harder into the mattress. "Like it, do you?"
Mikey's fingernails scraped across his shoulders, rough and ragged, and Jesus he needed to stop chewing on them, Frank thought, but then Mikey tightened around him and whispered fuck, yeah, Frank, right there, come on, I want your cock and all Frank could do was thrust into him again, his balls slapping against Mikey's ass, a sharp, wet smack of skin on skin.
It'd been almost eight weeks now, and they couldn't keep their hands off each other. There were interviews floating around the web now with Frank sitting on Mikey's lap, with Mikey's arms wrapped around Frank, his chin on Frank's shoulder, mouth against Frank's ear. The one that'd caused the most uproar had been one in which Frank brushed Mikey's hair back out of his eyes. Pete Wentz had sent Mikey the link to the so-called discussion, with just yeah?? in the text of his email.
I don't fucking look besotted, Frank had protested, glaring at Mikey's laptop screen, and Gerard had burst into laughter across the room. Frank had thrown a water bottle at him.
Frank slammed into Mikey, pushing him up against the mountain of hotel-bed pillows. Mikey whimpered; his foot pressed into the small of Frank's back, sliding over sweaty skin, his toes digging into Frank's ass.
"Jesus, fuck." Mikey twisted beneath him. "God, my dick, Frank, fuck, come on--"
Mikey was hot and tight and God, Frank pulled back and then he was in him again, deeper, the muscles of his shoulders bunching with each thrust, his hair falling into his eyes. The room stank of sweat and sex and the smell of Mikey's skin was enough to send Frank slamming into his ass again, his thighs clenching. "Say it, Mikey," Frank whispered into his hair. "Come on. Tell me."
A ragged breath; Mikey's hands tightened, then loosed on Frank's shoulders. His eyes were wide, unfocused. "Frank," he breathed out, then arched into Frank's next thrust, his neck long and pale. "Shit," he cried out, and Frank could feel Mikey's body tense beneath him, could feel the hard, wet heat of his cock on his skin. Mikey was gasping, biting at Frank's shoulder. "Touch me," he choked out.
Frank rocked back on his knees, pulled Mikey over him, straddling his thighs and he slammed him against the headboard, knocking Mikey's head against the wall. Mikey shouted, pressed his heels into the bed and slid back down Frank's cock with a groan. Frank pushed his hand between them, curled his fingers around Mikey's cock.
"This what you want?"
Mikey's head lolled against the wall, he clutched at the headboard with one hand, Frank's shoulder with the other. He nodded, dragging in ragged breaths.
Frank matched the rhythm of his hand to the thrust of his cock, sliding his fingers up Mikey's shaft, palm slipping over the wet head, then back down again. Over and over and over again until Mikey was shaking, his skin flushed, his mouth open and wet and with a muffled fuck, oh, fuck he was coming hot and sticky against Frank's palm, his ass tightening around Frank's cock.
Shit.
Frank pushed Mikey's head back, his still-sticky hand on Mikey's cheek, and he kissed him, tasted the come smeared from his fingers over Mikey's skin and goddamn it was too much, his thrusts lifting Mikey's knees off the bed, slamming his ass against the headboard so fucking hard he swore it cracked. Yeah, Mikey, yeah, he said into Mikey's throat, into his jaw, his hair, his mouth, and Mikey was wrapped around him, urging him on, telling him to come for him, he wanted to see him, come on, Jesus--Frank threw his head back with a cry and he arched into Mikey, hard and fast, holding still for just a moment before he came, shaking, sliding against Mikey, pulling him down to the half-bare mattress with him, Mikey's kisses catching his harsh gasps.
Frank's hands trailed down Mikey's back, fingers feeling the knobby bumps of his long spine. Frank was limp and languid, soaked with sweat, sticky with come, and nothing in this world could be more perfect than this moment. He turned his head, pressed his mouth against Mikey's neck. Breathed him in, tasted him.
Mikey.
"I love you," Frank said, without thought and the words were barely out of his mouth before he froze. Closed his eyes. Shit. Shit. He knew Mikey, knew how it easy it could be to spook him, to send him running. Mikey fell hard and he fell fast, Frank knew that and he knew Mikey knew that, and he knew Mikey was careful about that now. Since Pete.
He felt Mikey's fingers on his face, felt them drag over his skin, across his mouth.
"We're going to be late," Mikey said finally, softly, and Frank just nodded. He opened his eyes; Mikey was leaning over him, watching him.
Frank rolled over, sat up. "I should shower." His shoulders hunched; he stared down at his feet. God, he was such a fucking idiot. "You call Gerard. Tell him we'll be there as soon as we can."
Mikey's palm was warm against the small of his back. The mattress shifted beneath his knees as he slid behind Frank. His arms curled around Frank's waist, pulling him back against his chest. He rested his chin on Frank's shoulder. "You know," he said quietly, and the soft huff of his breath against Frank's ear made him shiver. "The thing is, I think--" He hesitated; his arms tightened around Frank. "I might love you too."
There was a moment's silence. Frank could feel his heart thud hollowly against his chest.
And then it sank in.
He turned around, looked at Mikey sitting tensely on his knees, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
Frank cupped Mikey's cheek, ran his thumb along Mikey's jaw.
"We really should call Gerard," he said quietly, and Mikey pulled him back on the bed.
"Later," Mikey whispered against his mouth, and Frank closed his eyes, dragged his tongue along Mikey's lips.
Nothing could ever taste better.
***
Frank sips his wine slowly, fingers curled around the smooth crystal bowl of the wineglass. He can still taste Mikey's cock on his tongue, the salty-sweetness of his come. Mikey squeezes his fingers once, dropping his hand when the president of Reprise comes their way. Laura's fifteen years younger than either of them, is into pop and urban, and Frank doubts she's ever stopped to listen to one of their albums. But her older brother was a fan.
She airkisses them both, congratulates them, tells them how pleased Reprise has been to stable them--fucking own them, Frank thinks--before she wanders off to suck Win Butler's cock, as Mikey puts it. Metaphorically, he adds, as if it's necessary, not that Win would put up with it in any form. Frank slams his elbow into Mikey's side.
These sort of affairs bore Frank. They bore all of them, although Gerard and Bob can tolerate them better than the rest of them. Bob always shrugs and says, open bar, man, and Gerard--well, Gerard can turn on a variation of his on-stage persona long enough to make it through the evening.
Gerard rolls his eyes when he sees them, smoothes down Mikey's rumpled hair. "Tell me you at least showered afterwards," he says with a sigh and Frank and Mikey exchange an amused look. Gerard shakes his head. "Then again, I don't want to know."
Jon Walker ambles up then, hands him a tonic with lime, and smiles at Frank over his glass of Jack Daniels. "Ready for this?" he asks Gerard and Frank and Mikey, and the three of them look at each other.
A smile spreads across Mikey's face. "Hell, yeah." He tugs at his jacket, Harris tweed with leather patch elbows which looks oddly old-fashioned but hip with his faded jeans. Natural fibers are expensive now, and worn only by the wealthy. Frank can recall when t-shirts didn't cost $150 a whack. Even the new synthetic-cotton ones being sold at the merch tables on their now-infrequent tours are running $60. "Remember when we used to joke about being inducted?" Mikey shivers; Frank puts a hand on the small of his back.
"Hall of Fame, little bro." Gerard shakes his head, steps closer to Jon. He smiles at him. "Your turn soon."
"Maybe." Jon laughs his easy laugh, warm and bright, runs his hand through Gerard's short-cropped white hair, and Frank watches Gerard turn towards him without thought, his face lighting up. They're an odd couple, he thinks--a couple who won't admit to couplehood, despite the fact that Jon spends half the year split between Chicago and Vegas and the other half living in Rumson on the Jersey shore--in the house that Gerard bought ten years ago from Springsteen's estate because, dude, Springsteen.
Sometimes Mikey says he thinks he's seen the Boss still lurking around an upstairs corridor or two.
Gerard's been going to Illinois and Nevada a lot the past decade since the divorce from Colleen. Fifteen years, two kids, and she threw it all away on some fucking writer.
He and Jon? They're just friends, though. Maybe with benefits sometimes, Gerard says with a small smile, and Frank's known him long enough to know that Gerard's protecting himself, that he's scared of what might happen if he actually says how he feels. Frank doesn't really blame him. Not after the number Colleen pulled on him. It'd taken Gerard two years to get his kids back.
Elena's graduating magna cum laude from Rutgers this spring with a degree in public health. She's applied to grad school at Harvard, is certain to get in, her advisor says, and Gerard pretends the idea of her living up in Boston by herself doesn't keep him awake at nights. Adam's studying graphic design at Parson's with two years left to go. He brought home his first serious girlfriend this past Christmas.
Frank adores his niece and nephew.
"Mikeyway!"
Frank looks over. Pete Wentz is headed their way, Patrick trailing behind him, a young girl in hand, amused as always at Pete's legendary energy. They've both made names for themselves, Pete as head of a major label--and who would have thought that of Decaydance three decades ago?--and Patrick as a producer. And they'd shocked (or not, depending on whom you spoke to) the music industry when they'd up and moved to Vancouver nineteen years ago just to get married. Pete was particularly fond of the Rolling Stone article that compared them to Melissa and Tammy Lynn.
Mikey hugs Pete, hard, and Frank pushes down his usual surge of jealousy. You'd think he'd be over it by now, Mikey and Pete, but he looks at Patrick, sees his small, wry smile, and he knows he's not the only one who still struggles over the two of them. They've talked about it before, he and Patrick, late at night over a bottle of wine. Frank knows that Patrick argued with Pete about making Mikey godfather when they adopted Sam twelve years ago, that they slept in separate bedrooms for two months afterwards, that Mikey's the only one of Pete's exes that Patrick's ever been jealous of. Frank's never told Mikey.
He ruffles Sam's red curls. "Almost past your curfew, Sammy," he teases, and she wrinkles her freckled nose at him, but slides her arm around his waist, under his black jacket. She's tall for her age, only a few inches shorter than him, and she's going to be a knockout some day soon, with her pale skin and bright blue eyes. He doesn't envy Pete and Patrick having to fight the boys away. Or girls.
"Just wait until you hear my induction speech," Pete's saying to Gerard with a laugh, and Gerard raises an eyebrow.
Patrick shakes his head. "Don't worry. I made him cut all the inappropriate parts. Including the ones he was adding in the car."
"I've saved them, though." Pete pulls his vidcomm out of his pocket. "Vlog post for later."
Patrick rolls his eyes; Sam giggles and mumbles you're such a dork, Dad and Pete makes a face, points the vidcomm at her. "Be nice to me. I'm the father who got you out of having to do your civ homework tonight." He glances over at Mikey. "Remember sunrise in New Mexico?" He shakes the vidcomm. "Think it might need to be posted. Sweet little dudes again, yeah?"
"Dickhead." Mikey punches Pete's arm, lightly, and his head bends towards Pete; Pete whispers something; they laugh.
Frank's stomach twists. He drains the rest of his wine, sets his glass on a passing tray and shoves his hands in his pockets. Patrick tenses; Sam slides next to him, her fingers twined through her father's. He smiles down at her, squeezes her hand reassuringly, but Frank knows. It doesn't mean anything now, Pete and Mikey. He and Patrick both get that. Still.
Sometimes you just don't want to remember.
***
October 2008, Los Angeles, California
It was the damn Sidekick that pushed Frank over the edge.
They'd met Pete for dinner at Kay and Dave's, a tiny store-front Cali-Mexican place on Sunset in the Palisades, and Frank was picking at an avocado in his lime-and-cilantro-doused salad. He hadn't said much. Pete and Mikey hadn't noticed. As usual.
"A picture for old time's sake, man," Pete said to Mikey with an exaggerated leer that set Frank's teeth on edge, and Mikey laughed and shook his head. "Remember?"
"Yeah, I remember our old pictures. I'm not taking my shirt off with kids around." Mikey bit a tortilla chip in half, scattering crumbs across the table, along with flecks of salsa.
"Pants then?" Pete wiggled his eyebrows.
Mikey smacked the back of his hand against Pete's arm. "Dick."
Pete reached for Mikey and pulled him closer, holding the Sidekick out. "Smile, sweet little dude," and Mikey laughed as Pete kissed Mikey's cheek, arm draped around Mikey's neck.
The flash went off.
Frank bit down until pain shot through the back of his clenched jaw. It was always like this with Pete. Even after all those years, he and Mikey-Frank hated it. "I need some air," he said and pushed his chair back. He didn't look back when the door slammed behind him, cowbell on the handle clanking.
He walked half a block, stopping only to bum a cigarette and a light off an old man sitting on the retaining wall between a parking lot and a quaint stucco shopping mall filled with expensive boutiques selling stupid things that no one needed at three times the price it cost to produce them just because vapid studio wives were stupid enough to buy them.
Frank leaned against the wall and exhaled a thin curl of gray-white smoke. It'd been ages since he'd had a drag. He'd regret it, he knew, but fucking Christ, he needed one right now. Or a beer. Or fucking both.
"Girl problems?" the old man asked, his dark face crinkling into a mass of wrinkles beneath his white-grey hair. His red polo shirt was spotless; he wore a pair of perfectly shined leather loafers. A thick watch glinted pink-gold off his wrist in the early evening sun.
Frank shook his head, took another drag on the cigarette. "Boy."
The old man grunted. "'Bout as bad, my grandson says."
"Worse sometimes." Frank puffed out a tiny smoke circle. The nicotine was sharp and bitter against his tongue. He coughed. "Been a while," he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He tapped the cigarette against his finger; gray ash scattered in the faint breeze.
And then Mikey was there, with a what the hell do you think you're doing, you asshole, and he pulled the cigarette out of Frank's hand, dropping it to the asphalt and grinding it out with the heel of his sneaker. "That's not the way you fucking quit, Frank."
"This the boy?" the old man asked and he eyed Mikey, blew a stream of smoke away from them both, then handed his cigarette to Frank.
Frank took a drag off it. Mikey's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
The old man stood up. "Better talk to him," he said. "Be worse in the morning if you don't," and he dipped his head towards Mikey before ambling off, one hand in his pockets.
Mikey just looked at Frank for a long moment. "You're a dick," he said finally.
Frank shrugged. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth.
Mikey sighed and leaned against the wall, next to Frank. "It's just Pete."
"And you're just Mikey." Frank sent a puff a smoke drifting towards Mikey. "I get it."
"No, you don't."
"Pete will be Pete," Frank said dully. He watched more ash drift off the end of the cigarette. His throat tasted acrid, bitter. "And you'll let him because you're Mikey."
He could feel Mikey's glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Figure it out." Frank pushed himself off the wall, stubbed the cigarette out on the crumbling brick. "I want to go back to the hotel."
The drive back was silent. Frank gripped the wheel of the rented Land Rover tightly, barely noticing the blur of Sunset as they sped through Beverly Hills and into the Strip. Mikey stared out the window, his fist pressed to his mouth. Mikey's phone rang twice. Frank recognized the ringtone Mikey'd assigned to Pete's number. The second time, Frank grabbed the phone from the cupholder Mikey had dumped it into when he climbed into the SUV. He turned it off, angrily, and threw the phone into the backseat.
Mikey's mouth tightened. "Jesus," he muttered, and he slumped in his seat, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. He clicked his teeth together, and Frank looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Mikey only did that when he was pissed.
Fuck that. And fuck Pete Wentz.
They didn't speak in the elevator in Chateau Marmont. Or the hallway. Or the first five minutes they were back in the room.
And then Mikey came out of the bathroom and said, "you know, you act like I'm a whore for Pete," and Frank just looked at him, and Mikey's eyes widened, like he'd been slapped, and he said, "that's what you think, isn't it?"
"No," Frank started, because that's not what he thought, it really wasn't, but he'd hesitated too long and Mikey shoved him backwards and shouted you fucking dick.
The argument lasted for two hours. They'd shouted and screamed at each other, things that neither of them would ever have said otherwise, things that they meant to hurt, to tear jagged, bleeding wounds across their hearts.
It worked.
You’d rather have Gerard. I’ve seen the way you look at him--
--I can’t deal with you like this.
You want everyone to be perfect. No one’s fucking perfect, Frank. Not even you--
--The whole world has to revolve around you, doesn’t it? Mikey’s little fantasy for when things go to shit.
Fuck you, you arrogant dick. You know, sometimes I don’t even like you-
--selfish, goddamn motherfucker.
“What? You’re afraid Pete’s a better fuck than you? That I still want his cock, because yeah, who wouldn’t-
--why are we even doing this any more, Mikey? Why?
And when they finally wound down, and Mikey stood at the window, arms wrapped around himself, staring out at Los Angeles spread beneath them, bright and sparkling in the dark, and Frank sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, hands clasped between his knees, and the room was silent except for their ragged breaths, Mikey's phone rang.
Pete.
Frank just looked at him, begging him not to answer it, and Mikey turned, and he hesitated, bit his lip, and then reached for the phone with a defiant look at Frank. He flipped it open.
"Hey," he said, and Frank tumbled backwards on the bed, pulling his feet up on the comforter. His head ached; he could still taste the bitter bile of jealousy in the back of his throat.
"Can I come over?" Mikey asked softly into the phone and he wasn't looking at Frank. "I just don't want to be here right now, man." Mikey paused. "Yeah. Okay." He hung up the phone. His shadow fell over the comforter. "I'm--"
"I heard." Frank rolled over on his side, stared at the wall. "Whatever."
"Yeah," Mikey said, and Frank could hear the bitterness in his voice. "Whatever."
The door slammed shut behind him. Frank closed his burning eyes, curled in on himself. The room was suddenly freezing.
He wouldn't be there in the morning when Mikey came back.
***
Frank shivers, rubs his hands over his arms. Even with his jacket on it's cold in the ballroom, or at least he's feeling it a bit more. He hopes it doesn't cause the arthritis in his toes to flare up. He snorts. Those aren't the sort of things you think about when you're young and stupid and have a tendency to break small bones from time to time.
He flexes his feet in his boots and settles back in his chair. Mikey's draped over the row of seats in front of them to talk to Ray--and his wife and five kids--and the ballroom is starting to fill slowly. Arcade Fire's across the aisle; Will Hoge's behind them.
Frank can't quite believe this. They're going to be enshrined in Cleveland, four boys from Jersey, one from Chicago, and Christ. He grins.
A program slaps across the back of his head and he turns. Bob's taking the seat behind him, his boyfriend of the past fifteen years beside him, a jazz vocalist named Peter Cincotti who had talked Bob first into drumming on one of his albums, then into going out to dinner with him. Peter grins at Frank, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, and Bob leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"Can you believe this, dude?" he asks and Frank shakes his head and shifts to let Gerard and Jon slide past him to their seats. Elena and Adam are already on the other side, and Elena stretches over her father to hug Jon.
"Fucking insane."
Bob nods. "We're old." He flashes Frank a bright grin. "Want to go back on the road?"
"Don't tempt me, man." Frank misses touring the way they did, even though he knows it's impossible now. There are kids to be considered, families, and they could barely keep up with their schedule thirty years ago. No way would they be able to now. Still. There are times when he wishes he could get on stage every night for months again, guitar in hand, the music washing over him as he bounds across the black rubber matting, playing straight man to Gerard's camp.
There's only been one tour that he was miserable on, after all. And that was his own fucking fault.
He glances back at the stage. The PAs are rushing about, pulling cables, adding last-minute touches to lighting rigs. He can see their instruments in the wings, waiting for the traditional jam session post induction. Frank itches to get his fingers on his guitar, even though he only set it down a few hours ago after rehearsal.
Frank shifts in his seat, adrenaline coursing through him.
It's all about the music. It always has been.
***
November 2008, Atlanta, Georgia
The thing about being a dick, Frank thought, sitting on one of the black storage boxes backstage, guitar in his hand, picking out the bass line of Debaser, was that it was fucking hard to stop being one once you started.
Pride maybe, or just fucking stupidity-and Gerard had told him it was the latter, more than once.
Frank thought maybe he was right.
A roadie sidestepped him, dragging a heavy cable out to the stage. Frank didn’t look up. His fingers-one wrapped in a SpongeBob Band Aid because Bob had thought it’d be funny to stock the medicine cabinet in the bus with them-flew over the guitar strings.
They were back on tour, had been for over a week now, and there wasn’t anything fucking worse than standing on stage with Mikey, both of them as far as they could be from each other. They’d barely spoken since L.A-two weeks, four days and eighteen hours, not that Frank was counting--and Mikey spent most of his free time on his Sidekick. Texting. Calling.
He always hung up when Frank walked in the room, tucking the Sidekick in his pocket and just standing up and saying I need to-- before trailing off and slipping out the door.
Gerard would follow him out, tossing aside a well-worn issue of Doom Patrol and giving Frank an exasperated glance, and Bob would look up from his comic book and say, you two are going to have to talk sometime and Ray would nod from over in the corner, one iPod earphone falling out of his ear.
Frank’d started smoking again a few days after he’d left L.A. without Mikey. After their first phone conversation.
It hadn’t gone well.
Frank had been angry still, their argument still whirling in his head, all the bitter things Mikey had said, the vicious words, the accusations he had made. Mikey never did fight fair when he was pissed, Frank knew that. If you can’t strike first, then strike back hard, that was the Way brother motto. Frank had dealt with it when Gerard was drinking, when Mikey was mixing anti-depressants with his booze.
So he’d hit back himself. Pushed Mikey away. It was better that way, he told himself afterwards, striking a match with shaking hands and lifting it to the cigarette clenched between his lips. The flame had sputtered out and he swore.
Mikey hadn’t come back that night, after all. He’d been with Pete.
Fucking hell.
Frank’s fingers slipped; the E string caught on a hangnail, ripped it off.
Shit.
Ray stopped in front of him, sat down on the edge of the trunk. He took a swig of water from the bottle in his hand. “You okay?”
Frank wiped the blood from his finger on his jean. “Yeah.”
They were silent for a moment, then Ray pushed his hair back out of his eyes and sighed. “I think you should talk to Mikey, man. Seriously.”
“Nothing to say.” Frank rubbed his thumb over a guitar fret.
“Bullshit.”
Frank looked over at Ray; Ray met his gaze evenly. Frank sighed. “He won’t want to.”
“Then make him.” Ray twisted his water bottle between his hands. “Look, you two are killing us, man. Every concert we’ve played the past couple of weeks has been flat. Gee’s fucking out of his mind with worry for both of you, if you could get your head out of your ass and notice. And Bob and I aren’t far behind.” Ray hunched his shoulders; his heels thudded against the side of the trunk. “Come on, man. This is getting out of hand. Kiss and make up or whatever-“
“That’s not going to happen,” Frank said tightly.
Ray just looked at him.
“Fine,” Frank said after a moment, and Ray nodded.
“Okay, man.” He slid off the trunk, pointed at Frank with his water bottle. “Tonight. I’m fucking serious.”
Frank looked away. “Yeah.”
“Frank,” Ray said.
“I will. Jesus.” Frank’s thumbnail caught on the A string; it clanked against the fretboard. Ray just sighed and rolled his eyes before hopping over half a lighting rig and heading for the stage.
***
The lights on stage are hot and bright and halfway through Wowie Zowie, Frank tosses his jacket aside. He’s playing next to Andy Dunlop from Travis, and he flashes him a bright grin as he whirls, dipping his guitar as his fingers fly across the strings.
This is what Frank loves, the rush of adrenaline, the music coursing through him, blending with the others’. He turns, and Mikey’s looking at him from the back of the stage, eyes bright and dark.
It’s crowded beneath the lights, as the post-induction jam sessions always are, but there’s an energy, a joy that sparks through the music, illuminating Zappa’s lyrics and Frank can remember watching him being inducted posthumously into the Hall of Fame back in ’95, Lou Reed presenting his biography and Jesus, Frank thinks, he’s in the same company as Frank fucking Zappa and who would have thought it of some kids from Belleville, New Jersey?
Pete’s standing in the wings, hands in his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and when Frank catches his eye, he pulls his hands free, holds them up over his head, fingers forming a diamond, his grin wide and white and bright, and Frank can’t stop the laugh that bursts out.
And then Mikey’s next to him, playing, and he leans in to kiss Frank, quick and hard and it doesn’t matter if billions of people worldwide are recording this on their vidcomms and laptops and entertainment units because this is their moment, the band’s and Frank’s and Mikey’s.
They were meant to do this, Frank thinks, looking at Mikey’s smiling face.
They always had been.
November 2008, Virginia Beach, Virginia
Frank managed to put it off three days, despite Ray’s scowls and glares and pulling him aside to tell him to grow a fucking pair for Christ’s sake.
There wasn’t time, Frank protested. They had three concerts in a row, after all. So he threw himself into the music, into being on stage, in front of the boiling hot lights, in front of the screaming crowd, doing what he was meant to do.
He kept to his side of the stage every night; Mikey stayed back by the drum riser. They had a system now for avoiding each other.
Frank hated it.
They played Atlanta and then Charlotte and Raleigh and they’d barely been in Virginia Beach an hour when Frank’s cell phone buzzed.
It was Pete Wentz.
Frank ignored it.
Goddamn motherfucker.
He didn’t count on how persistent Pete could be, though.
Two hours and five ignored calls later, Pete turned to text.
jesus, iero, the first one read, you’re a dick. fine if you won’t pick up the phone, well do it this way. talk to mikey, asshole. for some god only knows why reason he loves you even if youre neurotic.
Frank glared at the LCD screen. Neurotic, Wentz? Pot meet kettle.
The reply came in less than a minute. never said i wasn’t. just talk to him. he’s worried about you, stupid fuck talk to him.
Frank snapped his cell phone shut, powered it down. He lit a cigarette, leaning against the bus. Shit. Just fucking shit.
He closed his eyes and breathed out a thin stream of smoke.
“You okay, man?” Bob asked, coming off the bus, and Frank just lifted his cigarette again.
“Yeah,” he mumbled past it, staring up into a clear, cloudless blue sky. “Will be, maybe.”
Bob gave him a long look and shrugged. “Okay,” he said quietly, and he headed towards the stage.
Frank sighed and dropped his cigarette, grinding it into the asphalt with the heel of his Chuck Taylor All-Stars.
He went to Mikey’s room after the show.
Worm was in there, sprawled across the bed, and three of the roadies were on the floor, huddled over Mikey’s computer, watching porn. Tits filled the monitor, too round and too pert, with fucking huge nipples.
Hot.
Frank pulled his gaze away, looked over at Mikey, curled in the chair next to the window, feet bare. “We need to talk,” he said quietly and Worm rolled off the bed.
“Come on, you fucks,” he said, kicking the hip of the nearest roadie. “Beer in my room.”
They looked at Frank, and then at Mikey and then back at the laptop before they clambered to their feet.
No one said anything as they left, the door snicking shut behind them.
Mikey’s toes curled into the chair cushion. “So.”
He didn’t look at Frank.
“I’m a dick,” Frank said after a moment.
Mikey shrugged. “Told you that.”
“Repeatedly.”
“Yeah.” Mikey rubbed a thumb over the upholstery. “You’re a fucking stupid dick too.”
They were silent. Frank could hear the steady tap of water from the bathroom sink. Mikey just watched him; Frank shifted from foot to foot, his hands shoved into his pockets. He sighed finally. “I hate fighting with you.”
“We weren’t fighting,” Mikey said, and his voice was weary. “We weren’t talking. You can’t fight if you don’t talk.”
Frank rubbed his thumb along the opening of the front pocket on his jeans. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” Mikey pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “Maybe.” He hesitated. “I didn’t fuck Pete,” he said quietly, and he stared down at the tweedy chenille stretched over the arm of the chair. His thumbnail scraped across it, streaking the grain of the fabric. “I’m not a whore, Frank.”
Frank let out a breath, a quick, soft huff, and his shoulders slumped. “Mikey,” he said and he took a step forward before catching himself. He bit his bottom lip. “No,” he said, looking at Mikey, his throat tight. “You’re not.”
Mikey nodded, looked up at him through his bangs. His hand stilled on the chair arm. “Just wanted that clear.”
“Yeah.” Frank wanted to touch him. God, he was such a fucking idiot. They’d all been right-Ray and Bob and Gerard. All of them.
Mikey unfolded himself, stood up. He’d pulled on a pair of ratty sweats and an old, long-sleeved t-shirt from the Warped tour. “I missed your birthday last week,” he said, brushing past Frank and Jesus he smelled like the mint soap he’d stolen from the Four Seasons back in Boston. Frank had fucked him against the wall that night, his face pressed against Mikey’s neck.
“I thought you just ignored it.”
Mikey turned then, a small smile on his face, and the t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, shifted against his thin waist. “Well, yeah.” He dug in his suitcase. “I was pissed off.”
He shoved a bag out at him, flat and square and Frank took it without thought, fingers closing over the brown paper.
The bag slid off easily enough, and Frank looked up at Mikey, eyes wide. “Freak Out,” he murmured. It was one of his dad’s favorite albums, one that Frank had heard since he was a toddler. He’d grown up singing wowie zowie up and down my spine, I don’t even care if you brush your teeth. The LP cover was in perfect condition, the hot pink and teal inks popping out against the dull black.
“1966 MGM Verve, first pressing,” Mikey said, looking at him and Frank’s breath caught. “One of the first concept albums-“
“Yeah.” Frank smoothed a palm over the album. “The Mothers of Invention’s debut.” He looked up. “Zappa rocks.”
Mikey gave him that sideways grin, the one that made Frank’s stomach twist. Frank’s hands shook as he set the LP aside. “So you’ve been hiding that…”
“I figured maybe I’d give it to you for Christmas if we were talking again by then,” Mikey said, fingers twisting nervously in the hem of his t-shirt. “Or have Gerard give it to you.”
“Mikey,” Frank said and then he was kissing him, his fingers tangling in Mikey’s hair and Jesus fuck he tasted sweet and just a little bit salty and so very, very Mikey.
They stumbled backwards, falling onto the bed, and Mikey’s hands caught Frank’s hips, his mouth hot and wet against Frank’s jaw.
“Mikey,” Frank whispered again as he slid down Mikey’s body, pushing his t-shirt up as he kissed Mikey’s chest, licked at a nipple, then ran his tongue down Mikey’s stomach. Mikey hissed, arching up. His fingers tugged at Frank’s hair, pulling him back up to kiss him roughly. “I’m such a fucking dick,” Frank said against Mikey’s mouth. “I’m sorry. Jesus. I’m so fucking-“
“Shut up,” Mikey said and he bit Frank’s bottom lip, then licked it. “Just, Frank-“ He moaned and turned his head, pressing his face into Frank’s hair. His hips jerked up; Frank could feel the heat of Mikey’s cock through his jeans. “God, I need to be fucked.”
Frank was already pulling Mikey’s t-shirt off, throwing it aside. His own followed, and he leaned back, straddling Mikey’s hips. Mikey’s eyes darkened. He ran his palms over Frank’s chest, down to his stomach, curling over the curve of black ink on Frank’s hips. His thumb traced the and between the angel wings, then slid down to stroke the thin line of hair disappearing into his jeans.
Frank’s hips bucked.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Mikey’s voice was rough, breathy. “Even if you are a fucking dick.”
Frank leaned in, caught Mikey’s mouth with his. “Tell me you’ve got lube and a condom.”
“In the travel bag.” Mikey’s teeth were sharp against Frank’s lip. Frank groaned and he pulled away.
“Get your fucking jeans off.” Mikey was already pulling at the zipper before Frank slid off the bed. The travel bag was in the suitcase-Frank knew exactly where Mikey usually tossed it-and he pulled out a razor and two toothbrushes, one still in the packaging. Frank rolled his eyes at that; Mikey was weirdly obsessive about the cleanliness of the bristles on his toothbrush. The Astroglide and the condoms were in the bottom. Frank tossed the lube on the bed and tore a condom off the silver strip.
Mikey was stretched across the comforter in his underwear, his cock pressing against the white cotton as he kneaded it. Frank’s breath caught. Mikey was gorgeous; he always had been. Long, pale arms and legs that went every which way, hipbones that jutted up, a stretch of crisp dark curls barely visible above the waistband of his briefs.
“Fuck,” Frank whispered and Mikey grinned at him. He hooked his thumb in the elastic, pulling his underwear down slightly. Frank could see the tip of his pink cock.
“Show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Asshole,” Frank said with a smile, and he pulled at the buttons of his jeans, pushing them down, kicking them off. His underwear followed, and Mikey breathed out at the sight of Frank holding his cock in his hand, rubbing his thumb across the tip.
Frank pulled the condom on, wincing only slightly. He hated the fuckers.
“Jesus, you look good like that,” Mikey said, raising up on his elbows, thighs spread. “Think you might fuck me now?”
“Maybe.” Frank put a knee on the bed. “When I’m ready.”
Mikey’s gaze dropped down to Frank’s cock. “Look ready to me.”
“Not quite.” Frank pushed him back down on the bed, dragged his mouth across Mikey’s stomach. He could feel him take in a quick, sharp breath.
“Jesus,” Mikey whispered, and his fingers curled in Frank’s hair. “Frank-“
Frank mouthed over the swell of Mikey’s cock, the white cotton of his briefs catching on Frank’s tongue.
“Oh God.” Mikey twisted beneath him. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you-do you know how many times I fucking jacked off after shows because--Jesus, Frankie, God, yes-I got so hard watching you play-“
Frank tugged Mikey’s briefs down, let the head of his cock pop out. Mikey groaned and slid his hands over Frank’s shoulders, then back to his hair.
“Come on-“
Frank sucked Mikey’s cock into his mouth; Mikey cried out, his hips jerking.
“Oh, God, yes-“
The briefs ended up at the foot of the bed, and Mikey spread his legs wider, pushing his dick up into Frank’s mouth. Frank curled his tongue around the head, sucking it lightly against the roof of his mouth.
Mikey twisted his fingers in the comforter and groaned.
“Like that?” Frank whispered against Mikey’s cock, dragging his mouth down the shaft. He shifted, let his dick press into Mikey’s leg. “God, I want you.”
“Kind of figured that out.” Mikey stretched out beneath him, pale and long. “You can do better.”
Frank reached for the bottle of Astroglide, drizzled some on his fingertips. “You think?”
“Might just have been my fantasies.” Mikey canted his hips out.
Frank grinned and pressed his face against Mikey’s balls, lapping lightly beneath them. He trailed a finger across Mikey’s ass, rubbing tiny circles against his hole.
“Frank.” Mikey’s hips jerked; he breathe out. “Come on.”
“Hold on.” Frank nuzzled the base of Mikey’s cock. “Patience is a-“
“Shut the fuck up and put your finger in me, goddamn it.”
Frank laughed, a soft huff against Mikey’s dick, and he sucked him into his mouth again, pressing his slick finger into him.
Mikey groaned. “Jesus, yes.” He tightened his hands on Frank’s shoulders. “Now fuck me.”
“Pushy little bottom,” Frank said against the head of Mikey’s cock.
“Less talk, more fucking,” Mikey choked out. “I want your fingers in me, damn it.”
Frank pushed his finger in deeper, then added another. Mikey gasped, arched up.
“Oh, shit, yeah.”
A few thrusts, slow and careful at first, and then Frank found a rhythm, matching the slide and twist of his fingers to the drag of his mouth up Mikey’s dick.
Mikey pressed up against his fingers with a gasp and a fuck, one hand flying out to push against the headboard. He spread his legs as wide as he could, dug his heels into the mattress. “More. Jesus, fuck, more.”
Frank shoved another finger into him, twisted his hand just enough to slide his fingertips across a tiny nub of flesh and Mikey cried out and tightened his fingers on Frank’s shoulder.
“Frank. God.”
That was all Frank needed. He pulled away, reached for the lube, pouring some into his hand and smearing it down his cock, over the smooth rubber of the condom. “Get on your knees.”
Mikey twisted over, and he moaned when his cock dragged across the comforter. “You’re going to fuck me, Jesus, Frank. Yeah. I’ve been jerking off every night thinking about your cock, and goddamn, fuck. Get in me, Frank. Come on.”
“You talk too damn much,” Frank whispered, sliding his mouth along Mikey’s shoulder blade. He caught Mikey’s hips, pressed his cock up against his arse. “You want to be fucked, huh?”
“Shut up and do it.” Mikey was breathing hard; his skin was flushed.
Frank closed his eyes, rocked his hips forward, letting his cock slide over Mikey’s ass. It’d been three weeks, one day and-his eyes flew to the alarm clock next to the bed-fifteen hours.
Shit.
Mikey groaned, pressed back against Frank’s hips. “Frank. Come on.”
Frank pushed into him and fuck. Mikey was hot and tight and, God, that soft moan he made as he jerked forward, falling into the mattress-
“Jesus. Fuck me.”
Frank gripped Mikey’s hips tight. “I’m going to.” He pulled back, thrust back in again, rough and deep. Mikey gasped.
“God, yes.” Mikey looked back at him, eyes bright. “Again.”
Frank slammed into him, knocked him forward, made him grab for his balance.
He angled his hips, thrust in once more and Mikey threw his head back, his breath coming in short, quick gasps. Frank slid his arm around Mikey’s waist, pulled him back against him, straddling Frank’s hips. “Want me to fuck you deep?”
Mikey’s head lolled back against Frank’s shoulder. “Yeah.” His throat was long and pale and streaked with sweat. “Want you to fuck me so hard I can’t sit tomorrow.”
“Shit.” Frank’s fingers slid over Mikey’s damp stomach. “That what you want? To think of my cock in your ass all day?”
Mikey turned his head, bit at the corner of Frank’s jaw. He slid an arm around Frank’s neck, arching himself slightly, his hips tilting forward on Frank’s cock. He groaned. “Fuck, yeah. That’s it. Think your dick’s up to it?”
“Maybe.” Frank caught Mikey’s mouth with his, pressed his tongue in. Mikey opened beneath him, making soft, quiet grunts as he kissed him, his cock rocking deeper into Mikey’s ass. Jesus fuck, nothing had ever felt this goddamn good.
One hand was on Mikey’s hip, one on his stomach, fingers twined with Mikey’s, and Frank was fucking him quick and hard and deep. He could hear Mikey’s ragged breath, could feel him tense and relax around him with each thrust of his cock, and Mikey’s head was on his shoulder, and everything smelled like sex and sweat and the remnants of mint soap and Jesus--
Mikey dragged their twined fingers down to his dick. “Please,” he whispered, his voice catching, and he pressed his ass back against Frank’s cock. “So close and I want to come on your hand and feel you lick it, Frank, God. You want to taste me, don’t you? Want to feel me come with you so fucking deep inside of me?”
Frank groaned, and he curled his fingers around Mikey’s cock, pulling roughly and Mikey gasped again and tightened his ass around Frank’s dick and God.
It was nearly too much.
Frank slammed into Mikey, twisted his hand down his cock, and Mikey cried out, arching hard and quick into Frank’s thrust. Come splattered over Frank’s hand, hot and sticky, and Mikey was shaking, falling forward.
He caught himself with one hand.
Jesus.
Frank shoved into him again and again, and his hand was still working Mikey’s cock, squeezing gently, wet and tight, and Mikey was gasping. Trembling.
“Come on, Frank,” he whispered, breath coming in tiny pants. “Come on. Come for me. Want to feel it, want to feel you-“
Fuck.
Frank shuddered, his body tensing, and he threw his head back with a groan, coming in quick, rapid jerks inside of Mikey.
Inside. Mikey.
God.
Frank collapsed on Mikey’s back, breathing hard.
They lay silent and still for a moment and then Mikey laughed, muffled by the comforter.
Frank rolled off him, and he pulled the condom off with a wince and a sigh, tossing it into the trash can next to the bed.
“Did we just have make-up sex?” Mikey propped his chin on his hands and looked over at Frank.
Frank grinned. “I think so.” He stretched, flexed his feet. “Fucking amazing make-up sex, if you ask me.” He curled in around Mikey and kissed his shoulder. “Want to argue again?”
“Give me a few weeks.” Mikey kissed Frank, a quick brush of their mouths. “This was pretty…” He paused. “Fucking miserable.”
Frank brushed Mikey’s hair back from his forehead. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Sorry about that.”
Mikey caught his hand, pressed his mouth to Frank’s palm. “Think I’ll forgive you. Maybe.” He slid his leg between Frank’s. Neither of them said anything for a moment, then Mikey leaned into Frank, his head on Frank’s shoulder. “We’re going to make it, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Frank kissed his temple, pulled him closer. “We better.” He laughed. “I think the guys’ll be pretty pissed at us if we don’t.”
Mikey snorted. “Can’t have that. Gerard’ll never shut up.”
“Your brother.”
Mikey punched him. “Asshole.”
Frank rolled over onto him, grabbing his hands and pinning them up above his head. “Your asshole.”
“Damn right,” Mikey murmured, and he leaned up to kiss Frank. “Mine.”
Frank let himself fall again.
***
One more stroke, back arched, and Frank collapses, his shoulders shaking, Mikey’s hands smoothing across his skin, his mouth pressing lightly against his throat.
Frank turns his head, catches Mikey’s mouth with his. It’s been a long night; they’d left the afterparty early, making their excuses and getting a knowing look from virtually everyone, including their niece and nephew.
Mikey had just laughed and pulled him to the elevators.
They’d barely made it to the room before Mikey had his hand in Frank’s pants.
Mikey pulls back, tucks a lock of hair behind Frank’s ear. “Ever think we’d be here?”
“The Waldorf-Astoria?” Frank asks lightly, though he knows what Mikey’s asking even without the glare and the punch that hits his arm lightly along with a murmured asshole. He runs his knuckles over Mikey’s jaw. “Hoped we’d be.”
“Me too.” Mikey smiles, and Frank feels the familiar warmth twist through him. He’d do anything to see that smile. Anything. And Mikey knows it. The thing is, he never uses that against Frank. Not in the ways that he could.
It’s one of the things Frank loves the most about him.
Mikey owns him. Frank knows he always will.
It’s been thirty years now, and Frank’s not going anywhere.
Neither is Mikey.
Frank curls around Mikey, slides his leg through Mikey’s. They sleep like this every night, have for three decades. Legs twined, arms wrapped around each other. Frank wakes up every morning with Mikey’s face pressed into his armpit.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Love you,” Mikey murmurs, and Frank brushes his mouth over Mikey’s.
“Me too,” he whispers and he turns the lamp off.
The lights of New York glow through the sheer curtains, sending shadows stretching and flickering across the bed, over Mikey’s pale shoulders.
This is happiness, Frank thinks, and he smiles as he closes his eyes.
And sleeps.