FIC: Buenas Noches From A Lonely Room 1/2 (Frank/Mikey, Frank/Bob, Frank/Gerard, Pete/Mikey)
This weekend luciamad is moving out of town, and this just breaks me a bit. I can't even begin to tell you guys how much I adore Luc and how incredible of a friend she's been to me over the past two years. I'm going to miss sprawling across my couch with her and watching Supernatural and Project Runway and all our other shows so fucking much. Hell, I'm going to miss her so fucking much.
I first started this fic almost a year ago because Luc asked me to write some Frank/Mikey for her, and she's been an endless cheerleader for me finishing it, even though she's only seen bits and pieces of it here and there. So this? This is entirely for you, Luc. With all my love and affection.
Title: Buenas Noches From A Lonely Room
Pairing: Frank/Mikey, Frank/Bob, Frank/Gerard, Pete/Mikey
Fandom: MCR
Rating: NC-17
Word count: approx. 14,700
Summary: Frank wants to touch Mikey, to slide his fingers across the sharp angle of his cheek just below his glasses, to drag his thumb along the curve of his bottom lip, to smooth his palm down Mikey's long throat.
Disclaimer: All the boys belong to themselves and this never happened.
Warnings: Semi-canon AU. (based on canon events, but some elements--such as the lack of girlfriends--may have been tweaked for story purposes)
Author Notes: Many thanks to supergrover24 and ze_dragon for their betas. And much, much love to luciamad. Thank you so much for everything. *hugs* Title stolen shamelessly from Dwight Yoakam.
"Do you ever wish you knew the future?" Mikey asks Frank one night. They're cross-legged on the hood of the van, doors open, Hendrix blaring from one of the mix CDs Ray burned the other day. Beer bottles between their knees, they stare out at a near-empty parking lot in Tulsa-or maybe it's Plano, Frank can't recall. He just knows it's fucking hot and dusty and flatter than his Cousin Maria's tits.
He takes a long drag off his cigarette and curses the broken air conditioner in their rattrap hotel. Matt and Ray have walked down the block for food-given that they won't get paid until after their gig tomorrow night, it's going to be seventy-five-cent burgers from McDonald's again, Frank knows, and he swears someday he's really going vegetarian, he doesn't care what the others say-and Gerard's back in the room, up to his neck in an ice-cold bath. Knowing Gerard, he's chilling the beer in the water with him. Frank lets the bitter cigarette smoke roll across his tongue before blowing it out in a thin gray stream. It twists in the humid, heavy air, hanging for a moment before it fades into the almost starless sky. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple, drips into his eye. He blinks away the salty sting.
"What the fuck for?" Frank taps his cigarette against the white paint of the hood, leaving behind a black streak of ash. "Takes all the fun out of life."
Mikey just shrugs and lifts the bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon to his mouth. It's all they could afford from the 7-11 down the street, scraping together nickels and quarters from beneath the back seat of the van. "Just want to know if all this is worth it someday, you know?" He licks his bottom lip, and Frank's stomach twists in that way he knows is entirely a Bad Idea.
It's not that Frank's confused about his sexuality. He was pretty damn certain about it the first time he sucked off his senior mentor, Andy Tisch, during Rutgers' orientation. But this is Mikey, for Christ's sake, and Frank knows the rules. It's one thing to fuck around with your friends on stage. Totally different once you step off.
Mikey's looking at him curiously and Frank flushes, takes a sip of beer. He recognizes the tone in Mikey's voice, the self-doubt. Mikey's never been entirely certain of his place in the band. Frank thinks that's stupid. Mikey's Mikey. That's all that matters.
Frank shrugs and looks around them. "Beats the hell out of Borders, don't you think?"
A bright grin flashes across Mikey's face for just a moment. It's enough. "Maybe, yeah."
Frank taps his bottle to Mikey's. "Screw health insurance and 401ks. We're fucking rock gods, man."
"You, maybe." Mikey's mouth quirks wryly to one side. "Me on the other hand-"
"Fuck you." Frank stretches out across the van hood, the heels of his Chuck Taylor All Stars dangling over the grille. Gerard's black Sharpie comic book doodles-half of them obscene in at least thirty states-are spread across the red sneakers. He takes another drag off the cigarette and passes it to Mikey. Thunder rumbles in the distance and whispers of a faint breeze stir the thick air for just a moment.
Mikey shakes his head and exhales a puff of smoke. "Gee's the talented Way, man, you know that. I'm just plain old Mikey-"
Frank rolls onto his side, mouth twisting down. "Shut the fuck up," he says, almost too roughly, and Mikey blinks at him, ash from the cigarette tip drifting into his lap. Frank looks away. The vacancy sign beneath the hotel name blinks red-orange at them. "You're not just plain old Mikey," he says after a moment. "So, just-" He breaks off and looks back at Mikey. "You're not, okay?"
"Okay," Mikey says slowly and he's looking at Frank, his eyes dark in the harsh halogen glare of the streetlight above them.
Frank wants to touch Mikey, to slide his fingers across the sharp angle of his cheek just below his glasses, to drag his thumb along the curve of his bottom lip, to smooth his palm down Mikey's long throat. Instead, he doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't breathe, doesn't think.
And then the rain falls, thick fat hot drops that slap against the pavement and the van, slowly at first and then faster, hard and heavy. Mikey pulls away, lifts his face up into the rain, lets it splatter his glasses and slick his cheeks, his hair, his mouth as he laughs.
"Fuck, yes," he says, sliding off the van. He stretches his arms out, his Anthrax t-shirt sticking to his thin chest, his shorts hanging low off his hips as he turns a slow circle, grinning at Frank, and Frank knows then if he didn't know before.
He's lost.
***
"We should share an apartment," Mikey says one day during practice. "I'm looking at a place. Second floor of a shitty house."
Frank looks up from his guitar. His thumbnail catches on the E string. It twangs loudly in the basement. "What?"
Mikey frowns down at his bass and tunes the strings. "You. Me. Apartment. Share. Cheaper rent."
"Right." Frank hesitates. His brain knows living with Mikey Way is probably not a good idea on a number of fronts. His body's screaming at him to suck it up.
His body wins.
"Sure, dude," he says, just as Ray comes in with a cardboard box filled with styrofoam cups and bags of milopita from the Greek bakery down the street. "I don't need to have my mom cosign the lease do I?" Their cash flow ratio, while better than the first year or two, can still be, well, spotty at times.
Mikey grins at him. "My dad already did."
"Then you're on." Frank takes the coffee, black with extra sugar, that Ray hands him.
"Move your shit in next weekend," Mikey says and he plugs his bass in, his hair falling over the rims of his glasses as he dips his bass down and spins, strumming the first few chords of Early Sunset Over Monroeville.
So fucked, Frank thinks, resettling Pansy's strap on his shoulder as Gerard ambles in, yawning. With a sleepy growl, he knocks aside the drumsticks Matt taps against his shoulder and his brother laughs, sharp and bright. Frank doesn't even have to turn to know exactly where Mikey is behind him.
He sighs. So fucking fucked.
***
Frank's shit consists of two duffle bags filled with t-shirts and jeans, four guitars, three amps, two boxes of books, another box of guitar tabs, a laptop, a Playstation and a paper box filled with games, a twin bed he's had since he was fourteen, a case of Heineken he steals from the fridge in his dad's garage, and a worn blue gingham couch his Aunt Donnamaria (mother of the woefully flat-chested Cousin Maria) hands off to him as a housewarming gift.
Mikey bounces on the end of the couch. Frank's framed and autographed Black Flag poster shifts on the wall above. "It has some give." Mikey studies the couch dubiously. "Think it'll withstand a good fucking?"
Frank tries not to think about that. He fails. "Maybe." He tugs his t-shirt down over the waistband of his shorts. "Although, really, I'd rather you not fuck on my couch, thanks."
"I'd use a rubber," Mikey says and he sprawls across the couch, bare feet propped on the armroll. His toenails are painted black, and flecks of dark polish are scattered across the pale skin of his big toe. His green madras shorts-vintage from Goodwill's dollar bin-bunch up around his pale thighs. Frank looks away.
"No fucking on the couch," Frank snaps and at Mikey's raised eyebrow, he shrugs. "Use your own goddamn bed."
"Whatever." Mikey rifles through the box of Playstation games. "Dude, you have Sonic the fucking Hedgehog?"
"I'm a classic," Frank says and he grabs two Heinekens from the fridge and tosses one to Mikey. "Be nice to me and maybe I'll let you play."
Mikey's already got the controllers out and is plugging the Playstation into his TV-a 30-inch monster perched on a wobbly pressboard stand purchased at Wal-Mart. Four important screws are missing; Mikey's rigged it with duct tape and carpenter's glue.
"This," he pronounces with obvious glee, "is going to be awesome."
Frank just smiles faintly and sits down next to him. The couch sags a bit beneath his thighs.
He's not so certain.
***
The apartment's tiny.
Frank's bed nearly fills his entire bedroom, and he has to climb over it to get to his closet. He gives up on hanging anything up properly; he just throws his laundry into two piles on the floor-clean and dirty. Usually he remembers which is which.
Mikey's a worse slob than he is. Frank's the one who has to go around picking up glasses and plates and copies of AP and Blender and Guitar Sound and the occasional shitty Rolling Stone when they get suckered into buying it for an article or two. And Frank's the one who insists on them recycling. Mikey just blinked up at him when he first complained about the piles of bottles and cans in the trash and said, okay, whatever, man, then went back to reading In Cold Blood.
It takes Frank two months to train him to put them in a box to load in the back of Frank's tiny hatchback Honda-circa 1991-for the weekly trip to the recycling center. The first time Mikey remembers without Frank bitching at him, Frank walks into the living room-where Gerard is sprawled across the floor, sketching a new comic while informing Mikey exactly how badly he sucks at Kingdom Hearts-and throws himself across Mikey dramatically, kissing his temple.
Somehow, Frank manages to hide his shiver at how soft Mikey's skin is against his mouth.
Mikey pushes him away, controller clutched tight in both hands, and tells him he's fucking crazy. Frank waves a crushed Pepsi can in front of him. "Such a good little recycler," he says, wiping away a fake tear from the corner of his eye and Mikey flips him off and swears when Goofy is killed by Oogie Boogie.
Gerard just laughs and the next day a sketch of Mikey as The Recycler (complete with too tight briefs, a flowing green cape, and shoulders brawny enough to hoist a dumpster on) is taped to Mikey's mic stand.
Frank steals it when Mikey jumps Gerard, laughing as he pushes his brother to the floor. He folds it into fourths and tucks it in a box in the back of his closet. He feels like such a fucking girl.
He doesn't really care.
***
The thing about Mikey is that you have to protect him from himself sometimes.
It's not that he's stupid. Frank bristles any time anyone suggests that-even Gerard. Mikey's not fucking stupid, Frank knows. He's smart, and he's funny, and half of what he says in that dry tone of his goes right over most people's heads because they don't really listen. Mikey's odd, people think, and Frank would agree with that.
But he likes odd.
Mikey's also fucking smart. He just tends to exist in his own world sometimes, and Frank teases him about Mikeyland, where it's okay to take a heater into the shower, or put a fork in the toaster, and Mikey just smiles back at him, shrugs ruefully and points out that toasters just short out when you stick a fork in them; they don't actually kill you...he doesn't think.
Frank confiscates the forks.
He knows, though, that he has to watch out for Mikey's silences. Frank learns the different kinds-the quiet that Mikey needs when he's been around people for too long, when he has to retreat into himself, to recharge. Frank gives him space at those times, lets him spend a weekend in his room, curled up on the bed with a back issue of NME from the mid-70s.
And then there's the quiet that comes after a cheerful burst, the quiet that's deep and heavy and bitter. The quiet that wraps itself around Mikey and sucks the joy out of him, the quiet that's dangerous, angry and deep.
Those are the quiets that Frank dreads, the ones that have him knocking on Mikey's door, pushing it open despite his sullen go the fuck away. Frank curls up on the bed with Mikey and just lies there, waiting. And finally Mikey sighs and turns towards Frank, and says I don't know how the fuck you put up with me and Frank just smiles faintly and says, hey, man, half the rent money, right which always makes Mikey snort.
Frank puts on Portishead's Dummy. They lie stretched across the afghan Mikey's grandmother knitted, and they listen to Beth Gibbons whisper about this silence I can't bear as they stare at shadows that twist across the ceiling each time headlights sweep across the cheap aluminum blinds hanging cockeyed across Mikey's windows. And when Mikey lays his head against Frank's shoulder, Frank barely moves, holds his breath, almost afraid to scare Mikey until he feels him relax against his side. Frank touches Mikey's hair, a quick, light brush of his fingers across Mikey's temple, and his hair is soft against Frank's fingertips. Mikey breathes out slowly. He closes his eyes.
When he wakes up the next morning, Frank knows, the quiet will have broken. He smoothes his hand over Mikey's hair again, brushes his knuckles across Mikey's cheek. It takes hours for Frank to fall asleep.
They never talk about it afterwards. They never talk about a lot of things, though.
***
Halfway through their first Warped tour the lead singer of The God Awfuls punches Mikey in the face. Frank doesn't stop to find out why or what (though later he discovers something was said about Gerard and Mikey told the shit to fuck off-although perhaps maybe not as nicely as that); he just throws himself onto De Franco, fists connecting with whatever body parts he can come in contact with.
Frank ends up with a black eye and bloody nose and a vague memory of Fat Mike pulling him off Kevin as Ray decked the guitarist.
A beer's pressed into his hand, and his head is tilted back, someone's wadded-up Bob Marley t-shirt up against his nose.
"Scrappy little shit," Fat Mike says approvingly, and Ray snorts.
"He's a fucking Italian from fucking Jersey, man," Ray says. "What do you expect?"
Frank grins, then winces. He lowers the t-shirt (which smells like beer and cigarettes and sweat). Mikey's frowning at him from a few feet away, sitting spread-legged in a shaky lawn chair with a frayed blue-and-green plaid plastic woven seat. His elbows are on his knees. He leans forward, and his hair falls into his eyes. His glasses are cocked slightly; one leg is held on by duct tape swiped from the road crew. A bruise purples on his cheek.
"Nice repair job," Frank chokes out. He can taste blood in the back of his throat.
"Fuck off," Mikey says, mouth tight and Frank's stomach twists. Mikey stands up; the chair falls over to one side. Frank can't help but stare at Mikey's ass in retreat, jeans from the clearance rack in Bloomingdale's juniors department sliding low on his hips.
"Mikey," he starts and he tries to stand up, but Ray's hand on his wrist stops him. Frank sinks back into his chair.
Ray doesn't look at Frank. "He'll get over it," he says after a moment, and Fat Mike nods and claps Frank on the shoulder.
"Drink your beer, Iero," he says and he taps his own bottle against Frank's before lifting it to his mouth. "Fuck knows you earned it."
Frank drinks.
***
Warped is one big maintenance drunk. Frank doesn't know who the hell's bus he's ended up in or how many bottles of Heineken he's finished, but he's draped between Maja Ivarsson and Juliette Lewis and, with Adam Lazzara, they're singing along to the entire Born to Run album.
He lights a cigarette with shaky hands and wonders how the hell he doesn't just ignite himself. Ray could probably explain it. Ray can explain anything.
And then Mikey's there, hands in his pockets, and whatever he's saying Frank can't hear because the music is too loud. Juliette shouts something in his ear as she and Maja push him up, their hands on his ass, and she takes his cigarette as he stumbles forward. Mikey catches him. Frank runs his hand down Mikey's cheek.
"You haven't shaved," he says, and Mikey's pushing him to the door and down the steps. Frank only trips once. Mikey's hand is on his elbow, steadying him.
A light rain falls from the dark sky, faint drops that barely strike Frank's skin before they're gone.
He falls against the side of a bus, and he laughs just because he can. Being drunk is incredible. Wonderful. He presses his shoulders against the cool metal, raises his hands above his head. The window is smoothly slick against his knuckles, and Frank lifts his face, lets the rain sprinkle against his cheeks. It's cold and light and Frank isn't certain anything's ever felt so fucking good.
He hurts still from earlier. Fat Mike says his nose isn't broken; Frank thinks that's shit, but right now he doesn't care. Nothing matters at this moment, in this breath, and he lolls his head to one side, looking at Mikey. "You're angry," he says, and his brow furrows. He doesn't want Mikey angry with him.
"You're drunk," Mikey says, and he's leaning against the bus now with Frank. He reeks of beer and two-day-old sweat, and Frank's breath catches because even underneath the tour stink, he still smells like Mikey.
Frank nods. "Shit, yeah." Rain catches on the edge of his eyelash; he blinks and it seeps into his eyes, burning slightly. "You're mad because I hit what's his face--De Franco."
"I'm mad because you're a fucking idiot," Mikey says, and he touches Frank's nose lightly. Frank hisses, and Mikey drops his hand. "Look, don't fucking fight my battles, all right?"
Mikey's eyes are dark in the shadows. Frank can hear someone laugh in the bus behind him and he knows this is a bad idea, knows it's a really fucking bad idea, but he wants and Mikey's looking at him and Frank can't fucking think anymore.
He touches Mikey's cheek, drags his fingertips across the sharp angle of his jaw, smoothes his thumb over the soft swell of Mikey's bottom lip and Mikey whispers Frank with the slightest hitch in his breath.
Frank kisses him.
Mikey tastes like beer and Jack and Pringles, and Frank can't get enough. He grabs the belt loops of Mikey's cargo shorts, grasping them tightly as he presses Mikey back against the bus. Mikey's hands are in Frank's hair; he gasps softly as Frank rocks up against his hip.
Frank scrapes Mikey's bottom lip with his teeth. He licks the sting away.
"Frank," Mikey says again, his voice almost broken now, and when Frank slides his hand between them and rubs Mikey's dick through his shorts, Mikey groans.
The rain falls harder, spotting Mikey's glasses, and Frank licks across the wet skin of Mikey's throat, buries his face in Mikey's damp hair. Their t-shirts stick together. Frank works at Mikey's hardening cock, then slides his hand under the edge of Mikey's shorts, pushing them up his thigh until Frank's fingers catch the edge of Mikey's white briefs. He kisses Mikey roughly and smoothes his fingertips over soft cotton and hot skin.
"Please." It's a soft huff of breath against Frank's jaw and Mikey pushes his hips forward, kisses Frank roughly, hungrily, sucking at Frank's lip ring.
Frank drops to his knees, warm, wet asphalt beneath him, and he jerks open Mikey's shorts. Mikey pushes at his underwear, his other hand still caught in Frank's wet hair. His half-hard dick hits Frank's mouth. Frank catches it eagerly, tongue sweeping across the head.
Mikey's hips buck; his hand tightens. "Fuck," he whispers and Frank looks up at him.
He's beautiful. Wet and lean, his hair sticking to his gaunt cheeks. Mikey's pushed his t-shirt up just enough to rest his hand on his stomach. His fingers tense with each stroke of Frank's mouth along his cock.
Frank loves the way Mikey's dick tastes. Salty-sweet and hot and damp--he slides a finger beneath Mikey's balls, stroking just enough to make Mikey groan his name again.
He pulls back to watch him.
There are voices a few buses over, Frank can hear them, but he doesn't fucking care. It's just him and Mikey and the rain and the tiny square of warm light spilling over Mikey's face from the window above and Jesus fuck...
Frank shoves his hand down his shorts. He's already fucking hard. Mikey watches him, tells him to let him see his cock, Christ, and Frank has the zipper undone and his cock in his hand as Mikey slams his head back against the side of the bus with a sharp cry. Rain streams down Mikey's neck, thin rivulets that gleam wetly in the shadows, and Mikey's light and dark against the side of the bus.
"Suck me," he gasps. Frank has him in his mouth again. His tongue curls around hot skin, his nose rubs against crisp, sweaty curls and when his finger brushes back against Mikey's ass, smoothing over soft, puckered skin, Mikey jerks, eyes wide, his fingers twisted tightly in Frank's hair. "Frank," he chokes out again, and Frank sucks him harder, drags his mouth up Mikey's cock as he presses his fingertip into Mikey just enough.
Mikey shouts, and he shoves his hips forward, nearly choking Frank on his dick. Frank can barely swallow down fast enough as Mikey comes, thighs shaking.
It only takes a few quick strokes for Frank and then he's leaning against Mikey's hip, face pressed against the sharp jut of Mikey's hipbone as he gasps for breath. His fingers are sticky and wet, and the rain washes his come off the asphalt.
Mikey pulls away, tucks himself back together. "Frank," he says, and Frank looks up at him blankly. Mikey hesitates for a moment. He squats down, zips Frank's shorts. The brief brush of Mikey's fingers over Frank's cock makes him shiver. Another five minutes and he'll want-
"Come on, man," Mikey says quietly and it's the blank look on his face that snaps Frank back. "The bus..."
Someone walks past then, a group of laughing and shouting shadows in the rain and Frank's shaking. His stomach roils, and he knows he's drunk. Too drunk. He tries to push himself up; the world twists just enough to send him back down to his knees. Mikey, he tries to say. Instead, he dry heaves.
Mikey catches his shoulders. "You okay?"
Frank nods. He climbs to his feet, rocking only slightly. "I should-"
He barely makes it to the narrow stretch of grass behind the bus before he hits his knees again, retching.
Mikey's there, hands on Frank's skin. The rain pours down.
Frank falls against the grass and presses his face into a puddle.
He's fucked everything up.
***
Frank's in the catering tent nursing a Dixie cup of coffee, a cigarette, and a splitting headache when Mikey sets a plate of fried bread in front of him. His stomach lurches and he taps his cigarette against the side of the folding table, sending ash scattering across the scarred laminate top.
"Eat." Mikey sits down next to him.
Frank exhales a stream of smoke, then stubs his cigarette out on the edge of the paper plate. He flicks the butt to the ground and tears off a corner of the bread. It's standard breakfast fare every morning. A hangover necessity.
They're silent for a good two minutes before Mikey says anything. Frank's been waiting for it. Knows it's coming.
"Last night," Mikey begins but Frank cuts him off.
"I was drunk." He chews a bite of greasy bread and swallows. The nauseous twist isn't the hangover. "You weren't much better."
"Yeah. I guess." Mikey doesn't say anything for a moment, then he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He looks everywhere but Frank. "You know I'm not gay."
He's been expecting it. That doesn't make it any easier. "A mouth's a mouth when you're hard," Frank says finally. His voice is surprisingly even.
"I guess." Mikey looks up at him. "I mean, it was good, but..." He trails off, his cheeks flushing.
Frank stares down at his plate. The bread's half-gone; grease still streaks the plate, soaking into the thick paper. "It happened; we'll forget it, okay?"
Mikey leans back in his chair. "Frank," he says hesitantly, before he catches his bottom lip with his teeth. His glasses are smudged with fingerprints. "I don't want you to think-"
"I said I got it." Frank stands, picks up his coffee. It's barely lukewarm. "Look, I told Gerard I'd go through a few new riffs with him before lunch." It's a lie and they both know it, but Mikey won't say anything.
He doesn't, just nods, and Frank can feel him staring at him as he heads out of the tent in search of Matt or Ray or, hell, even fucking Fat Mike.
Anyone but a Way.
Fuck.
Frank pulls his hoodie tighter around him and steps out into the rain.
***
Word gets out soon enough. Frank knew it would. He sucked off a bandmate in the middle of the fucking parking lot for Christ's sake.
It's whispers at first, and a few mutters of faggot when he passes some of the bands. Frank just flips them off and walks on. They'll be off tour in another week, heading for Japan and there's other stuff he has to worry about anyway. Like Ray's shouting matches with Matt every time they come off stage, and the fact that Chris pulled him aside yesterday to tell him about Gerard's coke problem.
Frank runs a hand through his hair and drags his tongue over his lip ring. It's cold and metallic-tangy. He's hiding behind the row of buses, in some city that he can't fucking remember. The heat of the bus burns through his t-shirt. He doesn't care. He just needs some space away from everything. Everyone.
Mikey.
Gerard finds him.
"Hey," Frank says hesitantly and he's just dropped his cigarette to the ground, scraping the toe of his Chucks over it when Gerard punches him in the gut.
Frank's bent over, gasping, and Gerard pushes him back against the bus, fingers twisted in Frank's hair. Frank winces at the smack of hot metal against his skull. "Don't fuck with my brother, Iero," Gerard says, jaw set, and Frank just nods and breathes out slowly, blinking past the pain.
Gerard lets him go.
"It was a mistake." The words come out in huffs. Frank leans his head against the back of the bus, gingerly this time, and touches his stomach. It's going to bruise. Fuck Gerard's fucking bony knuckles.
"Damn right," Gerard says, mouth clenched around a cigarette. He lights it and takes a drag, then breathes out a smoky puff and doesn't say anything for a moment. "I punched him too," he adds finally and hands the cigarette to Frank.
Frank inhales. The tobacco is sharp, unfiltered. He rolls the smoke across the top of his mouth before exhaling. "Wasn't his fault."
"Wasn't just yours." Gerard takes the cigarette back. They stare out through the chain link fence at the dull brick back of some squat building across the alley. Graffiti's sprayed across half the wall-badly. Just some kids with a couple of bottles of spray paint and too much time to kill.
"Faggot," Gerard says finally, lightly, not looking at Frank.
Frank grins. "Fuck you."
"Got a thing for Ways, Frank?" A small smile quirks the corners of Gerard's mouth when Frank doesn't answer. Red eyeshadow's still smeared beneath his eyes, and his hair is filthy and snarled. He takes another drag off the cigarette and tilts his head to read the graffiti. "I don't think that's how you spell pussy." He runs a hand through his hair, then pulls a whiskey flask out of his jeans. He uncaps it and takes a swig, then another. Frank can smell the Jack from here.
They're silent.
"I talked to Chris." Frank flattens his hands against the warm metal beneath him. Gerard looks at him then, slides the flask back into his pocket, and his eyes are dull. Empty. It scares Frank. "You've got to do something, man."
"Maybe." Gerard drops the cigarette, grinds it out with the heel of his boot. His lank hair falls into his face; his shoulders hunch as he shoves his hands in his pockets.
Frank bumps Gerard's shoulder. "You've got us."
Gerard smiles at that. "You sure that's a good thing?"
A siren wails in the distance. Frank stares at the graffiti. Someone's tried to draw a face. The nose is too big. "Not really," he says and he tugs at his lip ring again, "but it's all any of us have at the moment."
Gerard just sighs and looks away.
***
Japan's the turning point, a few weeks from hell that they struggle through. Afterwards Gerard sobers up, and they fire Matt and replace him with Bob. Frank knows it's the right thing to do, for the band, but it still hurts like hell. Frank's never been good with friendships ending. It's too painful for him.
Sometimes he misses Matt. He waits for the call, for the silence crackling over the phone, and then the hey, man, let's meet at the Brewhouse, yeah? that'll mean everything's okay.
It never comes.
He and Mikey are careful around each other at first. Too quiet. Too uneasy. Ray pretends he doesn't notice that Frank sometimes leaves the room as Mikey comes in or that Mikey sometimes falls silent when Frank's talking. Bob just watches them curiously. Frank guesses Ray's told him. He hopes he has, at least.
It's weird living with someone you don't see that much. Frank spends a lot of time in his room. Alone. Sometimes he crawls out through the window onto the slope of shingled roof that angles out over the front stoop, ashtray in hand, and sits for hours at dusk, watching the sun set over Winthrop Street. It's quiet out here, the tar shingles scratchy and hot against his bare feet, and it's peaceful, or as peaceful as Jersey gets at least. He watches the Lims across the street, wheeling their two-year-old down the sidewalk in a scraped-up wagon; next door Eddie's in the driveway, working on his '82 Malibu that's broken down again.
The needle on his turntable catches at the start of Rudimentary Peni's Cosmic Hearse, hanging for a just moment before the guitars kick in.
Mikey climbs through the window and sits next to him. Frank doesn't say anything, and he manages to hide his surprise well enough he thinks. Instead he hands over the cigarette and pulls another from the pack in the pocket of his shorts. The cellophane is slick under his fingertips.
They sit silently for a while, the smoke from their cigarettes curling up into the tree branches above them. Frank can see the last quarter of the Jets game flickering from one of the apartment windows two houses down. Nick Blinko screams behind them.
"Gerard says we're being shits," Mikey says finally, and he stretches his legs out. His heels dangle over the gutter.
Frank flicks a bit of ash off the tip of his cigarette. It drifts into the cracked ceramic ashtray that has Greetings from Asbury Park emblazoned across the rim. He rubs his fingertips over his eyebrow. "Yeah," he says, and he takes another drag.
Mikey hunches his shoulders, rocks forward, tense. His fingers drum against the shingles. "So we're good?" he asks, almost hesitantly, and Frank's throat tightens.
He looks over at Mikey, at hollow eyes watching him nervously and he smiles. "Yeah," he says again, and it's true, he knows. There's not anything he wouldn't give Mikey, not if he asks.
It's worth it when Mikey's grin nearly blinds him.
***
"So," Bob says one morning when Frank's standing half-awake in front of the coffeemaker in Mrs. Way's kitchen, still in his black peacoat and woolen cap, "man, you got to get over Mikey."
Frank jerks at that, and his gloves drop to the floor. He bends to pick them up, and Bob just raises an eyebrow. "Fuck off," Frank says, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and the coffeemaker beeps. He pours a cup and drains it immediately, straight and black, and he swears he can feel the caffeine hitting already-even if Mikey always tells him that's only psychological.
Bob shrugs. "It's true." He brushes past Frank and pours a cup of coffee for himself. Frank pulls his hat off and shoves it into the pocket of his coat. Bob leans against the counter and watches him. "How long has it been since you've been laid?"
Six months, two weeks and three days, Frank thinks, and he can still feel the gravel of the parking lot beneath his knees. But who's counting?
Instead he snaps, "You offering?" and he hangs his coat on a hook next to the door.
Bob just looks at him over the rim of his coffee cup.
Frank flushes and walks away.
***
They fuck in the back of Bob's rented Blazer, parked in the loading dock of the old K-Mart. Frank doesn't mean for it to happen, but Mikey'd come home the night before with some girl and Frank had spent what felt like half the goddamn night listening to the steady thump of Mikey's headboard against the wall. He didn't give a fuck if it'd actually only been half an hour at most.
He can still hear her gasps in his head as he ruts against Bob, his jeans pushed down his thighs, their cocks dragging together, hot and hard and slick, and his mouth tightens. Bob pushes up against him, his hand splayed on the cold window above him, and he swears in Frank's ear, bites his throat.
"Fuck, come on, man, harder," Bob says and Frank turns his head, kisses him roughly just to get him to shut up, and Bob groans.
Afterwards they lie sprawled together, breathing hard. The windows of the Blazer are steamed up, except for Bob's handprint. Frank can see snow starting to drift again, piling on the rusted chains of the dock.
He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Bob's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he chokes out, and Bob strokes his fingers through Frank's hair and whispers "It's okay, dude, all right? It's just fucking."
Frank just nods. He can still feel their come, sticky and warm against his stomach.
For the first time since he lost his virginity, he feels guilty about a fuck.
***
Much to his grandmother's dismay, Frank stopped going to Mass the summer after high school. He'd done his time with Monsignor Fadrowski and the sisters, and he figured that should stand him good stead for at least another twenty years. Maybe more.
And yet he finds himself dipping his fingers into the font of holy water inside the church door, wet fingertips pressing against his forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder.
Frank slips into the back pew of the nave, the kneeler creaking softly beneath his weight as he murmurs a quick prayer. An old woman in front of him looks back sharply, then smiles as he dips his head and mouths sorry.
He doesn't know why he slipped out of bed at dawn after a night of no sleep, doesn't know why he's here at early Mass for the first time in years-except he does.
Since his baptism, there's been only one way he's been taught to deal with guilt.
There's something strangely comforting about the familiarity of the liturgy, the ritual of standing and sitting and kneeling, the quiet Lord, hear our prayer after each petition in the General Intercessions.
Rain streams down the windows of the small stone church, muting the jewel-toned light of Saint Dominic and Saint Anthony of Padua as Frank kneels again, murmuring Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Grant us peace.
The old woman in front of him looks back again. Monsignor Fadrowski holds up the chalice, and Frank closes his eyes and just breathes.
When he leaves, he pulls out his cell phone and dials.
"Hi," he says when Bob answers. "Do you want to pick me up?"
***
They use a bed this time, a hard queen-size in the extended-stay suite-with-kitchenette that Bob's been renting in downtown Belleville. Frank didn't even know there were extended-stay motels in Belleville. Most people just want to get the fuck out.
He bends over Bob's back, his hands slipping on slick, flushed skin and gasps as he pushes in again. Bob's muscles tense beneath his fingers; he arches and shoves back against Frank with a gasped fuck, and Frank drags his mouth across Bob's shoulder. He tastes like sweat and skin and cigarettes and Frank's balls jerk. Bob's tight around him and hot, Christ.
Frank shoves at him, pushes Bob down against the mattress, thighs spread wide as he fucks him. Bob grunts and twists, gasping Frank's name into the thin motel pillows with each rough thrust of Frank's hips.
This is what he wants, Frank knows. This is what he needs. A good friend, a good fuck. He groans and bites the side of Bob's neck.
Bob swears and twists his fingers in the sheet. Frank slams into him again, pushing him harder against the mattress.
He tells himself he's not thinking of Mikey.
For a little while, he believes it.
***
It's May when Bob looks at him one Sunday morning over the top of the Sun-Times and says, "You're still not over him, are you?"
Frank sets his coffee cup down, stares out the window of Bob's apartment. Geraniums are blooming in terracotta pots on the fire escape across the alley, bright bursts of pink and red against filthy brick. Frank's always liked Bob's kitchen. It's small, but it's bright and airy. Not like his and Mikey's. Frank sighs and twists the coffee cup across the worn wood of the table. "Probably not," he says quietly.
Bob doesn't say anything for a moment, then he folds the paper and nods. "When's your plane?"
"Four," Frank says. He catches his lip ring between his teeth.
Bob's fingers curl around his. They're warm and soft and large, and Frank's always felt safe when Bob touches him.
It's just safe isn't always enough.
"That gives us time for a last fuck," Bob says as he pulls Frank towards him.
Frank's already reaching for his belt.
***
Mikey picks him up at Newark, driving Frank's rattletrap Honda. "So how was Chicago?" he asks as he tosses Frank's duffel bag into the back seat, and Frank shrugs and catches the keys Mikey throws at him. He's lit up a cigarette already, as soon as he stepped out of baggage claim.
"I don't think I'm going back," Frank says as he slides behind the wheel of the car. "Alone at least."
Mikey just looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah?"
Frank eases the car out into the lane. "Yeah." He exhales a stream of smoke through the half-open car window. "It's cool though. Bob and me."
"Well, good," Mikey says. "Gerard'd be pretty pissed if you fucked up the band right before Warped." A moment later he squeezes Frank's arm quickly, then props one sneakered foot on the dash as Frank takes the Route 21 exit off the Newark Airport Interchange.
Frank relaxes.
He's home.
***
They're two weeks into Warped when Frank walks in on Mikey on his knees, sucking Pete Wentz's cock.
"Fuck," Frank says numbly and he stumbles off the bus. He grabs Gerard's arm as he reaches for the half-open door. "You don't want to go in there."
Gerard frowns at him, one foot on the step. "What the fuck, man, it's ninety fucking degrees out here."
"Seriously, dude, I'm telling you." Frank pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the back pocket of his shorts. "You don't want--"
"Jesus Christ, Mikey, fuck," he hears and a few seconds later Gerard stumbles out of the bus, ashen-faced.
Frank hands Gerard a cigarette; Gerard lights up silently. He leans against the bus, next to Frank, and exhales. "There are some things you don't want to actually see your little brother doing, you know?"
"Told you not to go in." Frank takes a long drag off his cigarette and closes his eyes. He can still see Wentz's fingers twisted in Mikey's hair, can still see the pale, shadowed curve of Mikey's bare shoulders in the dim light of the bus lounge, can still hear the soft suck of Mikey's mouth on someone else's dick. Frank's chest aches; he can taste metallic bile in the tightness of his throat. He opens his eyes and stares up into the brightness of the sun, not caring that it makes his eyes water. It's an excuse, after all.
Gerard scratches his upper lip. Smoke curls around his dirty hair. "You okay with this?" he asks after a moment and he doesn't look at Frank.
No, Frank wants to say. Instead he just shrugs, a quick tensing of his shoulders that he knows Gerard will read into. "It's Mikey's life."
They both fall silent; there's nothing else to say.
Part Two
I first started this fic almost a year ago because Luc asked me to write some Frank/Mikey for her, and she's been an endless cheerleader for me finishing it, even though she's only seen bits and pieces of it here and there. So this? This is entirely for you, Luc. With all my love and affection.
Title: Buenas Noches From A Lonely Room
Pairing: Frank/Mikey, Frank/Bob, Frank/Gerard, Pete/Mikey
Fandom: MCR
Rating: NC-17
Word count: approx. 14,700
Summary: Frank wants to touch Mikey, to slide his fingers across the sharp angle of his cheek just below his glasses, to drag his thumb along the curve of his bottom lip, to smooth his palm down Mikey's long throat.
Disclaimer: All the boys belong to themselves and this never happened.
Warnings: Semi-canon AU. (based on canon events, but some elements--such as the lack of girlfriends--may have been tweaked for story purposes)
Author Notes: Many thanks to supergrover24 and ze_dragon for their betas. And much, much love to luciamad. Thank you so much for everything. *hugs* Title stolen shamelessly from Dwight Yoakam.
"Do you ever wish you knew the future?" Mikey asks Frank one night. They're cross-legged on the hood of the van, doors open, Hendrix blaring from one of the mix CDs Ray burned the other day. Beer bottles between their knees, they stare out at a near-empty parking lot in Tulsa-or maybe it's Plano, Frank can't recall. He just knows it's fucking hot and dusty and flatter than his Cousin Maria's tits.
He takes a long drag off his cigarette and curses the broken air conditioner in their rattrap hotel. Matt and Ray have walked down the block for food-given that they won't get paid until after their gig tomorrow night, it's going to be seventy-five-cent burgers from McDonald's again, Frank knows, and he swears someday he's really going vegetarian, he doesn't care what the others say-and Gerard's back in the room, up to his neck in an ice-cold bath. Knowing Gerard, he's chilling the beer in the water with him. Frank lets the bitter cigarette smoke roll across his tongue before blowing it out in a thin gray stream. It twists in the humid, heavy air, hanging for a moment before it fades into the almost starless sky. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple, drips into his eye. He blinks away the salty sting.
"What the fuck for?" Frank taps his cigarette against the white paint of the hood, leaving behind a black streak of ash. "Takes all the fun out of life."
Mikey just shrugs and lifts the bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon to his mouth. It's all they could afford from the 7-11 down the street, scraping together nickels and quarters from beneath the back seat of the van. "Just want to know if all this is worth it someday, you know?" He licks his bottom lip, and Frank's stomach twists in that way he knows is entirely a Bad Idea.
It's not that Frank's confused about his sexuality. He was pretty damn certain about it the first time he sucked off his senior mentor, Andy Tisch, during Rutgers' orientation. But this is Mikey, for Christ's sake, and Frank knows the rules. It's one thing to fuck around with your friends on stage. Totally different once you step off.
Mikey's looking at him curiously and Frank flushes, takes a sip of beer. He recognizes the tone in Mikey's voice, the self-doubt. Mikey's never been entirely certain of his place in the band. Frank thinks that's stupid. Mikey's Mikey. That's all that matters.
Frank shrugs and looks around them. "Beats the hell out of Borders, don't you think?"
A bright grin flashes across Mikey's face for just a moment. It's enough. "Maybe, yeah."
Frank taps his bottle to Mikey's. "Screw health insurance and 401ks. We're fucking rock gods, man."
"You, maybe." Mikey's mouth quirks wryly to one side. "Me on the other hand-"
"Fuck you." Frank stretches out across the van hood, the heels of his Chuck Taylor All Stars dangling over the grille. Gerard's black Sharpie comic book doodles-half of them obscene in at least thirty states-are spread across the red sneakers. He takes another drag off the cigarette and passes it to Mikey. Thunder rumbles in the distance and whispers of a faint breeze stir the thick air for just a moment.
Mikey shakes his head and exhales a puff of smoke. "Gee's the talented Way, man, you know that. I'm just plain old Mikey-"
Frank rolls onto his side, mouth twisting down. "Shut the fuck up," he says, almost too roughly, and Mikey blinks at him, ash from the cigarette tip drifting into his lap. Frank looks away. The vacancy sign beneath the hotel name blinks red-orange at them. "You're not just plain old Mikey," he says after a moment. "So, just-" He breaks off and looks back at Mikey. "You're not, okay?"
"Okay," Mikey says slowly and he's looking at Frank, his eyes dark in the harsh halogen glare of the streetlight above them.
Frank wants to touch Mikey, to slide his fingers across the sharp angle of his cheek just below his glasses, to drag his thumb along the curve of his bottom lip, to smooth his palm down Mikey's long throat. Instead, he doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't breathe, doesn't think.
And then the rain falls, thick fat hot drops that slap against the pavement and the van, slowly at first and then faster, hard and heavy. Mikey pulls away, lifts his face up into the rain, lets it splatter his glasses and slick his cheeks, his hair, his mouth as he laughs.
"Fuck, yes," he says, sliding off the van. He stretches his arms out, his Anthrax t-shirt sticking to his thin chest, his shorts hanging low off his hips as he turns a slow circle, grinning at Frank, and Frank knows then if he didn't know before.
He's lost.
***
"We should share an apartment," Mikey says one day during practice. "I'm looking at a place. Second floor of a shitty house."
Frank looks up from his guitar. His thumbnail catches on the E string. It twangs loudly in the basement. "What?"
Mikey frowns down at his bass and tunes the strings. "You. Me. Apartment. Share. Cheaper rent."
"Right." Frank hesitates. His brain knows living with Mikey Way is probably not a good idea on a number of fronts. His body's screaming at him to suck it up.
His body wins.
"Sure, dude," he says, just as Ray comes in with a cardboard box filled with styrofoam cups and bags of milopita from the Greek bakery down the street. "I don't need to have my mom cosign the lease do I?" Their cash flow ratio, while better than the first year or two, can still be, well, spotty at times.
Mikey grins at him. "My dad already did."
"Then you're on." Frank takes the coffee, black with extra sugar, that Ray hands him.
"Move your shit in next weekend," Mikey says and he plugs his bass in, his hair falling over the rims of his glasses as he dips his bass down and spins, strumming the first few chords of Early Sunset Over Monroeville.
So fucked, Frank thinks, resettling Pansy's strap on his shoulder as Gerard ambles in, yawning. With a sleepy growl, he knocks aside the drumsticks Matt taps against his shoulder and his brother laughs, sharp and bright. Frank doesn't even have to turn to know exactly where Mikey is behind him.
He sighs. So fucking fucked.
***
Frank's shit consists of two duffle bags filled with t-shirts and jeans, four guitars, three amps, two boxes of books, another box of guitar tabs, a laptop, a Playstation and a paper box filled with games, a twin bed he's had since he was fourteen, a case of Heineken he steals from the fridge in his dad's garage, and a worn blue gingham couch his Aunt Donnamaria (mother of the woefully flat-chested Cousin Maria) hands off to him as a housewarming gift.
Mikey bounces on the end of the couch. Frank's framed and autographed Black Flag poster shifts on the wall above. "It has some give." Mikey studies the couch dubiously. "Think it'll withstand a good fucking?"
Frank tries not to think about that. He fails. "Maybe." He tugs his t-shirt down over the waistband of his shorts. "Although, really, I'd rather you not fuck on my couch, thanks."
"I'd use a rubber," Mikey says and he sprawls across the couch, bare feet propped on the armroll. His toenails are painted black, and flecks of dark polish are scattered across the pale skin of his big toe. His green madras shorts-vintage from Goodwill's dollar bin-bunch up around his pale thighs. Frank looks away.
"No fucking on the couch," Frank snaps and at Mikey's raised eyebrow, he shrugs. "Use your own goddamn bed."
"Whatever." Mikey rifles through the box of Playstation games. "Dude, you have Sonic the fucking Hedgehog?"
"I'm a classic," Frank says and he grabs two Heinekens from the fridge and tosses one to Mikey. "Be nice to me and maybe I'll let you play."
Mikey's already got the controllers out and is plugging the Playstation into his TV-a 30-inch monster perched on a wobbly pressboard stand purchased at Wal-Mart. Four important screws are missing; Mikey's rigged it with duct tape and carpenter's glue.
"This," he pronounces with obvious glee, "is going to be awesome."
Frank just smiles faintly and sits down next to him. The couch sags a bit beneath his thighs.
He's not so certain.
***
The apartment's tiny.
Frank's bed nearly fills his entire bedroom, and he has to climb over it to get to his closet. He gives up on hanging anything up properly; he just throws his laundry into two piles on the floor-clean and dirty. Usually he remembers which is which.
Mikey's a worse slob than he is. Frank's the one who has to go around picking up glasses and plates and copies of AP and Blender and Guitar Sound and the occasional shitty Rolling Stone when they get suckered into buying it for an article or two. And Frank's the one who insists on them recycling. Mikey just blinked up at him when he first complained about the piles of bottles and cans in the trash and said, okay, whatever, man, then went back to reading In Cold Blood.
It takes Frank two months to train him to put them in a box to load in the back of Frank's tiny hatchback Honda-circa 1991-for the weekly trip to the recycling center. The first time Mikey remembers without Frank bitching at him, Frank walks into the living room-where Gerard is sprawled across the floor, sketching a new comic while informing Mikey exactly how badly he sucks at Kingdom Hearts-and throws himself across Mikey dramatically, kissing his temple.
Somehow, Frank manages to hide his shiver at how soft Mikey's skin is against his mouth.
Mikey pushes him away, controller clutched tight in both hands, and tells him he's fucking crazy. Frank waves a crushed Pepsi can in front of him. "Such a good little recycler," he says, wiping away a fake tear from the corner of his eye and Mikey flips him off and swears when Goofy is killed by Oogie Boogie.
Gerard just laughs and the next day a sketch of Mikey as The Recycler (complete with too tight briefs, a flowing green cape, and shoulders brawny enough to hoist a dumpster on) is taped to Mikey's mic stand.
Frank steals it when Mikey jumps Gerard, laughing as he pushes his brother to the floor. He folds it into fourths and tucks it in a box in the back of his closet. He feels like such a fucking girl.
He doesn't really care.
***
The thing about Mikey is that you have to protect him from himself sometimes.
It's not that he's stupid. Frank bristles any time anyone suggests that-even Gerard. Mikey's not fucking stupid, Frank knows. He's smart, and he's funny, and half of what he says in that dry tone of his goes right over most people's heads because they don't really listen. Mikey's odd, people think, and Frank would agree with that.
But he likes odd.
Mikey's also fucking smart. He just tends to exist in his own world sometimes, and Frank teases him about Mikeyland, where it's okay to take a heater into the shower, or put a fork in the toaster, and Mikey just smiles back at him, shrugs ruefully and points out that toasters just short out when you stick a fork in them; they don't actually kill you...he doesn't think.
Frank confiscates the forks.
He knows, though, that he has to watch out for Mikey's silences. Frank learns the different kinds-the quiet that Mikey needs when he's been around people for too long, when he has to retreat into himself, to recharge. Frank gives him space at those times, lets him spend a weekend in his room, curled up on the bed with a back issue of NME from the mid-70s.
And then there's the quiet that comes after a cheerful burst, the quiet that's deep and heavy and bitter. The quiet that wraps itself around Mikey and sucks the joy out of him, the quiet that's dangerous, angry and deep.
Those are the quiets that Frank dreads, the ones that have him knocking on Mikey's door, pushing it open despite his sullen go the fuck away. Frank curls up on the bed with Mikey and just lies there, waiting. And finally Mikey sighs and turns towards Frank, and says I don't know how the fuck you put up with me and Frank just smiles faintly and says, hey, man, half the rent money, right which always makes Mikey snort.
Frank puts on Portishead's Dummy. They lie stretched across the afghan Mikey's grandmother knitted, and they listen to Beth Gibbons whisper about this silence I can't bear as they stare at shadows that twist across the ceiling each time headlights sweep across the cheap aluminum blinds hanging cockeyed across Mikey's windows. And when Mikey lays his head against Frank's shoulder, Frank barely moves, holds his breath, almost afraid to scare Mikey until he feels him relax against his side. Frank touches Mikey's hair, a quick, light brush of his fingers across Mikey's temple, and his hair is soft against Frank's fingertips. Mikey breathes out slowly. He closes his eyes.
When he wakes up the next morning, Frank knows, the quiet will have broken. He smoothes his hand over Mikey's hair again, brushes his knuckles across Mikey's cheek. It takes hours for Frank to fall asleep.
They never talk about it afterwards. They never talk about a lot of things, though.
***
Halfway through their first Warped tour the lead singer of The God Awfuls punches Mikey in the face. Frank doesn't stop to find out why or what (though later he discovers something was said about Gerard and Mikey told the shit to fuck off-although perhaps maybe not as nicely as that); he just throws himself onto De Franco, fists connecting with whatever body parts he can come in contact with.
Frank ends up with a black eye and bloody nose and a vague memory of Fat Mike pulling him off Kevin as Ray decked the guitarist.
A beer's pressed into his hand, and his head is tilted back, someone's wadded-up Bob Marley t-shirt up against his nose.
"Scrappy little shit," Fat Mike says approvingly, and Ray snorts.
"He's a fucking Italian from fucking Jersey, man," Ray says. "What do you expect?"
Frank grins, then winces. He lowers the t-shirt (which smells like beer and cigarettes and sweat). Mikey's frowning at him from a few feet away, sitting spread-legged in a shaky lawn chair with a frayed blue-and-green plaid plastic woven seat. His elbows are on his knees. He leans forward, and his hair falls into his eyes. His glasses are cocked slightly; one leg is held on by duct tape swiped from the road crew. A bruise purples on his cheek.
"Nice repair job," Frank chokes out. He can taste blood in the back of his throat.
"Fuck off," Mikey says, mouth tight and Frank's stomach twists. Mikey stands up; the chair falls over to one side. Frank can't help but stare at Mikey's ass in retreat, jeans from the clearance rack in Bloomingdale's juniors department sliding low on his hips.
"Mikey," he starts and he tries to stand up, but Ray's hand on his wrist stops him. Frank sinks back into his chair.
Ray doesn't look at Frank. "He'll get over it," he says after a moment, and Fat Mike nods and claps Frank on the shoulder.
"Drink your beer, Iero," he says and he taps his own bottle against Frank's before lifting it to his mouth. "Fuck knows you earned it."
Frank drinks.
***
Warped is one big maintenance drunk. Frank doesn't know who the hell's bus he's ended up in or how many bottles of Heineken he's finished, but he's draped between Maja Ivarsson and Juliette Lewis and, with Adam Lazzara, they're singing along to the entire Born to Run album.
He lights a cigarette with shaky hands and wonders how the hell he doesn't just ignite himself. Ray could probably explain it. Ray can explain anything.
And then Mikey's there, hands in his pockets, and whatever he's saying Frank can't hear because the music is too loud. Juliette shouts something in his ear as she and Maja push him up, their hands on his ass, and she takes his cigarette as he stumbles forward. Mikey catches him. Frank runs his hand down Mikey's cheek.
"You haven't shaved," he says, and Mikey's pushing him to the door and down the steps. Frank only trips once. Mikey's hand is on his elbow, steadying him.
A light rain falls from the dark sky, faint drops that barely strike Frank's skin before they're gone.
He falls against the side of a bus, and he laughs just because he can. Being drunk is incredible. Wonderful. He presses his shoulders against the cool metal, raises his hands above his head. The window is smoothly slick against his knuckles, and Frank lifts his face, lets the rain sprinkle against his cheeks. It's cold and light and Frank isn't certain anything's ever felt so fucking good.
He hurts still from earlier. Fat Mike says his nose isn't broken; Frank thinks that's shit, but right now he doesn't care. Nothing matters at this moment, in this breath, and he lolls his head to one side, looking at Mikey. "You're angry," he says, and his brow furrows. He doesn't want Mikey angry with him.
"You're drunk," Mikey says, and he's leaning against the bus now with Frank. He reeks of beer and two-day-old sweat, and Frank's breath catches because even underneath the tour stink, he still smells like Mikey.
Frank nods. "Shit, yeah." Rain catches on the edge of his eyelash; he blinks and it seeps into his eyes, burning slightly. "You're mad because I hit what's his face--De Franco."
"I'm mad because you're a fucking idiot," Mikey says, and he touches Frank's nose lightly. Frank hisses, and Mikey drops his hand. "Look, don't fucking fight my battles, all right?"
Mikey's eyes are dark in the shadows. Frank can hear someone laugh in the bus behind him and he knows this is a bad idea, knows it's a really fucking bad idea, but he wants and Mikey's looking at him and Frank can't fucking think anymore.
He touches Mikey's cheek, drags his fingertips across the sharp angle of his jaw, smoothes his thumb over the soft swell of Mikey's bottom lip and Mikey whispers Frank with the slightest hitch in his breath.
Frank kisses him.
Mikey tastes like beer and Jack and Pringles, and Frank can't get enough. He grabs the belt loops of Mikey's cargo shorts, grasping them tightly as he presses Mikey back against the bus. Mikey's hands are in Frank's hair; he gasps softly as Frank rocks up against his hip.
Frank scrapes Mikey's bottom lip with his teeth. He licks the sting away.
"Frank," Mikey says again, his voice almost broken now, and when Frank slides his hand between them and rubs Mikey's dick through his shorts, Mikey groans.
The rain falls harder, spotting Mikey's glasses, and Frank licks across the wet skin of Mikey's throat, buries his face in Mikey's damp hair. Their t-shirts stick together. Frank works at Mikey's hardening cock, then slides his hand under the edge of Mikey's shorts, pushing them up his thigh until Frank's fingers catch the edge of Mikey's white briefs. He kisses Mikey roughly and smoothes his fingertips over soft cotton and hot skin.
"Please." It's a soft huff of breath against Frank's jaw and Mikey pushes his hips forward, kisses Frank roughly, hungrily, sucking at Frank's lip ring.
Frank drops to his knees, warm, wet asphalt beneath him, and he jerks open Mikey's shorts. Mikey pushes at his underwear, his other hand still caught in Frank's wet hair. His half-hard dick hits Frank's mouth. Frank catches it eagerly, tongue sweeping across the head.
Mikey's hips buck; his hand tightens. "Fuck," he whispers and Frank looks up at him.
He's beautiful. Wet and lean, his hair sticking to his gaunt cheeks. Mikey's pushed his t-shirt up just enough to rest his hand on his stomach. His fingers tense with each stroke of Frank's mouth along his cock.
Frank loves the way Mikey's dick tastes. Salty-sweet and hot and damp--he slides a finger beneath Mikey's balls, stroking just enough to make Mikey groan his name again.
He pulls back to watch him.
There are voices a few buses over, Frank can hear them, but he doesn't fucking care. It's just him and Mikey and the rain and the tiny square of warm light spilling over Mikey's face from the window above and Jesus fuck...
Frank shoves his hand down his shorts. He's already fucking hard. Mikey watches him, tells him to let him see his cock, Christ, and Frank has the zipper undone and his cock in his hand as Mikey slams his head back against the side of the bus with a sharp cry. Rain streams down Mikey's neck, thin rivulets that gleam wetly in the shadows, and Mikey's light and dark against the side of the bus.
"Suck me," he gasps. Frank has him in his mouth again. His tongue curls around hot skin, his nose rubs against crisp, sweaty curls and when his finger brushes back against Mikey's ass, smoothing over soft, puckered skin, Mikey jerks, eyes wide, his fingers twisted tightly in Frank's hair. "Frank," he chokes out again, and Frank sucks him harder, drags his mouth up Mikey's cock as he presses his fingertip into Mikey just enough.
Mikey shouts, and he shoves his hips forward, nearly choking Frank on his dick. Frank can barely swallow down fast enough as Mikey comes, thighs shaking.
It only takes a few quick strokes for Frank and then he's leaning against Mikey's hip, face pressed against the sharp jut of Mikey's hipbone as he gasps for breath. His fingers are sticky and wet, and the rain washes his come off the asphalt.
Mikey pulls away, tucks himself back together. "Frank," he says, and Frank looks up at him blankly. Mikey hesitates for a moment. He squats down, zips Frank's shorts. The brief brush of Mikey's fingers over Frank's cock makes him shiver. Another five minutes and he'll want-
"Come on, man," Mikey says quietly and it's the blank look on his face that snaps Frank back. "The bus..."
Someone walks past then, a group of laughing and shouting shadows in the rain and Frank's shaking. His stomach roils, and he knows he's drunk. Too drunk. He tries to push himself up; the world twists just enough to send him back down to his knees. Mikey, he tries to say. Instead, he dry heaves.
Mikey catches his shoulders. "You okay?"
Frank nods. He climbs to his feet, rocking only slightly. "I should-"
He barely makes it to the narrow stretch of grass behind the bus before he hits his knees again, retching.
Mikey's there, hands on Frank's skin. The rain pours down.
Frank falls against the grass and presses his face into a puddle.
He's fucked everything up.
***
Frank's in the catering tent nursing a Dixie cup of coffee, a cigarette, and a splitting headache when Mikey sets a plate of fried bread in front of him. His stomach lurches and he taps his cigarette against the side of the folding table, sending ash scattering across the scarred laminate top.
"Eat." Mikey sits down next to him.
Frank exhales a stream of smoke, then stubs his cigarette out on the edge of the paper plate. He flicks the butt to the ground and tears off a corner of the bread. It's standard breakfast fare every morning. A hangover necessity.
They're silent for a good two minutes before Mikey says anything. Frank's been waiting for it. Knows it's coming.
"Last night," Mikey begins but Frank cuts him off.
"I was drunk." He chews a bite of greasy bread and swallows. The nauseous twist isn't the hangover. "You weren't much better."
"Yeah. I guess." Mikey doesn't say anything for a moment, then he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He looks everywhere but Frank. "You know I'm not gay."
He's been expecting it. That doesn't make it any easier. "A mouth's a mouth when you're hard," Frank says finally. His voice is surprisingly even.
"I guess." Mikey looks up at him. "I mean, it was good, but..." He trails off, his cheeks flushing.
Frank stares down at his plate. The bread's half-gone; grease still streaks the plate, soaking into the thick paper. "It happened; we'll forget it, okay?"
Mikey leans back in his chair. "Frank," he says hesitantly, before he catches his bottom lip with his teeth. His glasses are smudged with fingerprints. "I don't want you to think-"
"I said I got it." Frank stands, picks up his coffee. It's barely lukewarm. "Look, I told Gerard I'd go through a few new riffs with him before lunch." It's a lie and they both know it, but Mikey won't say anything.
He doesn't, just nods, and Frank can feel him staring at him as he heads out of the tent in search of Matt or Ray or, hell, even fucking Fat Mike.
Anyone but a Way.
Fuck.
Frank pulls his hoodie tighter around him and steps out into the rain.
***
Word gets out soon enough. Frank knew it would. He sucked off a bandmate in the middle of the fucking parking lot for Christ's sake.
It's whispers at first, and a few mutters of faggot when he passes some of the bands. Frank just flips them off and walks on. They'll be off tour in another week, heading for Japan and there's other stuff he has to worry about anyway. Like Ray's shouting matches with Matt every time they come off stage, and the fact that Chris pulled him aside yesterday to tell him about Gerard's coke problem.
Frank runs a hand through his hair and drags his tongue over his lip ring. It's cold and metallic-tangy. He's hiding behind the row of buses, in some city that he can't fucking remember. The heat of the bus burns through his t-shirt. He doesn't care. He just needs some space away from everything. Everyone.
Mikey.
Gerard finds him.
"Hey," Frank says hesitantly and he's just dropped his cigarette to the ground, scraping the toe of his Chucks over it when Gerard punches him in the gut.
Frank's bent over, gasping, and Gerard pushes him back against the bus, fingers twisted in Frank's hair. Frank winces at the smack of hot metal against his skull. "Don't fuck with my brother, Iero," Gerard says, jaw set, and Frank just nods and breathes out slowly, blinking past the pain.
Gerard lets him go.
"It was a mistake." The words come out in huffs. Frank leans his head against the back of the bus, gingerly this time, and touches his stomach. It's going to bruise. Fuck Gerard's fucking bony knuckles.
"Damn right," Gerard says, mouth clenched around a cigarette. He lights it and takes a drag, then breathes out a smoky puff and doesn't say anything for a moment. "I punched him too," he adds finally and hands the cigarette to Frank.
Frank inhales. The tobacco is sharp, unfiltered. He rolls the smoke across the top of his mouth before exhaling. "Wasn't his fault."
"Wasn't just yours." Gerard takes the cigarette back. They stare out through the chain link fence at the dull brick back of some squat building across the alley. Graffiti's sprayed across half the wall-badly. Just some kids with a couple of bottles of spray paint and too much time to kill.
"Faggot," Gerard says finally, lightly, not looking at Frank.
Frank grins. "Fuck you."
"Got a thing for Ways, Frank?" A small smile quirks the corners of Gerard's mouth when Frank doesn't answer. Red eyeshadow's still smeared beneath his eyes, and his hair is filthy and snarled. He takes another drag off the cigarette and tilts his head to read the graffiti. "I don't think that's how you spell pussy." He runs a hand through his hair, then pulls a whiskey flask out of his jeans. He uncaps it and takes a swig, then another. Frank can smell the Jack from here.
They're silent.
"I talked to Chris." Frank flattens his hands against the warm metal beneath him. Gerard looks at him then, slides the flask back into his pocket, and his eyes are dull. Empty. It scares Frank. "You've got to do something, man."
"Maybe." Gerard drops the cigarette, grinds it out with the heel of his boot. His lank hair falls into his face; his shoulders hunch as he shoves his hands in his pockets.
Frank bumps Gerard's shoulder. "You've got us."
Gerard smiles at that. "You sure that's a good thing?"
A siren wails in the distance. Frank stares at the graffiti. Someone's tried to draw a face. The nose is too big. "Not really," he says and he tugs at his lip ring again, "but it's all any of us have at the moment."
Gerard just sighs and looks away.
***
Japan's the turning point, a few weeks from hell that they struggle through. Afterwards Gerard sobers up, and they fire Matt and replace him with Bob. Frank knows it's the right thing to do, for the band, but it still hurts like hell. Frank's never been good with friendships ending. It's too painful for him.
Sometimes he misses Matt. He waits for the call, for the silence crackling over the phone, and then the hey, man, let's meet at the Brewhouse, yeah? that'll mean everything's okay.
It never comes.
He and Mikey are careful around each other at first. Too quiet. Too uneasy. Ray pretends he doesn't notice that Frank sometimes leaves the room as Mikey comes in or that Mikey sometimes falls silent when Frank's talking. Bob just watches them curiously. Frank guesses Ray's told him. He hopes he has, at least.
It's weird living with someone you don't see that much. Frank spends a lot of time in his room. Alone. Sometimes he crawls out through the window onto the slope of shingled roof that angles out over the front stoop, ashtray in hand, and sits for hours at dusk, watching the sun set over Winthrop Street. It's quiet out here, the tar shingles scratchy and hot against his bare feet, and it's peaceful, or as peaceful as Jersey gets at least. He watches the Lims across the street, wheeling their two-year-old down the sidewalk in a scraped-up wagon; next door Eddie's in the driveway, working on his '82 Malibu that's broken down again.
The needle on his turntable catches at the start of Rudimentary Peni's Cosmic Hearse, hanging for a just moment before the guitars kick in.
Mikey climbs through the window and sits next to him. Frank doesn't say anything, and he manages to hide his surprise well enough he thinks. Instead he hands over the cigarette and pulls another from the pack in the pocket of his shorts. The cellophane is slick under his fingertips.
They sit silently for a while, the smoke from their cigarettes curling up into the tree branches above them. Frank can see the last quarter of the Jets game flickering from one of the apartment windows two houses down. Nick Blinko screams behind them.
"Gerard says we're being shits," Mikey says finally, and he stretches his legs out. His heels dangle over the gutter.
Frank flicks a bit of ash off the tip of his cigarette. It drifts into the cracked ceramic ashtray that has Greetings from Asbury Park emblazoned across the rim. He rubs his fingertips over his eyebrow. "Yeah," he says, and he takes another drag.
Mikey hunches his shoulders, rocks forward, tense. His fingers drum against the shingles. "So we're good?" he asks, almost hesitantly, and Frank's throat tightens.
He looks over at Mikey, at hollow eyes watching him nervously and he smiles. "Yeah," he says again, and it's true, he knows. There's not anything he wouldn't give Mikey, not if he asks.
It's worth it when Mikey's grin nearly blinds him.
***
"So," Bob says one morning when Frank's standing half-awake in front of the coffeemaker in Mrs. Way's kitchen, still in his black peacoat and woolen cap, "man, you got to get over Mikey."
Frank jerks at that, and his gloves drop to the floor. He bends to pick them up, and Bob just raises an eyebrow. "Fuck off," Frank says, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and the coffeemaker beeps. He pours a cup and drains it immediately, straight and black, and he swears he can feel the caffeine hitting already-even if Mikey always tells him that's only psychological.
Bob shrugs. "It's true." He brushes past Frank and pours a cup of coffee for himself. Frank pulls his hat off and shoves it into the pocket of his coat. Bob leans against the counter and watches him. "How long has it been since you've been laid?"
Six months, two weeks and three days, Frank thinks, and he can still feel the gravel of the parking lot beneath his knees. But who's counting?
Instead he snaps, "You offering?" and he hangs his coat on a hook next to the door.
Bob just looks at him over the rim of his coffee cup.
Frank flushes and walks away.
***
They fuck in the back of Bob's rented Blazer, parked in the loading dock of the old K-Mart. Frank doesn't mean for it to happen, but Mikey'd come home the night before with some girl and Frank had spent what felt like half the goddamn night listening to the steady thump of Mikey's headboard against the wall. He didn't give a fuck if it'd actually only been half an hour at most.
He can still hear her gasps in his head as he ruts against Bob, his jeans pushed down his thighs, their cocks dragging together, hot and hard and slick, and his mouth tightens. Bob pushes up against him, his hand splayed on the cold window above him, and he swears in Frank's ear, bites his throat.
"Fuck, come on, man, harder," Bob says and Frank turns his head, kisses him roughly just to get him to shut up, and Bob groans.
Afterwards they lie sprawled together, breathing hard. The windows of the Blazer are steamed up, except for Bob's handprint. Frank can see snow starting to drift again, piling on the rusted chains of the dock.
He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Bob's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he chokes out, and Bob strokes his fingers through Frank's hair and whispers "It's okay, dude, all right? It's just fucking."
Frank just nods. He can still feel their come, sticky and warm against his stomach.
For the first time since he lost his virginity, he feels guilty about a fuck.
***
Much to his grandmother's dismay, Frank stopped going to Mass the summer after high school. He'd done his time with Monsignor Fadrowski and the sisters, and he figured that should stand him good stead for at least another twenty years. Maybe more.
And yet he finds himself dipping his fingers into the font of holy water inside the church door, wet fingertips pressing against his forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder.
Frank slips into the back pew of the nave, the kneeler creaking softly beneath his weight as he murmurs a quick prayer. An old woman in front of him looks back sharply, then smiles as he dips his head and mouths sorry.
He doesn't know why he slipped out of bed at dawn after a night of no sleep, doesn't know why he's here at early Mass for the first time in years-except he does.
Since his baptism, there's been only one way he's been taught to deal with guilt.
There's something strangely comforting about the familiarity of the liturgy, the ritual of standing and sitting and kneeling, the quiet Lord, hear our prayer after each petition in the General Intercessions.
Rain streams down the windows of the small stone church, muting the jewel-toned light of Saint Dominic and Saint Anthony of Padua as Frank kneels again, murmuring Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Grant us peace.
The old woman in front of him looks back again. Monsignor Fadrowski holds up the chalice, and Frank closes his eyes and just breathes.
When he leaves, he pulls out his cell phone and dials.
"Hi," he says when Bob answers. "Do you want to pick me up?"
***
They use a bed this time, a hard queen-size in the extended-stay suite-with-kitchenette that Bob's been renting in downtown Belleville. Frank didn't even know there were extended-stay motels in Belleville. Most people just want to get the fuck out.
He bends over Bob's back, his hands slipping on slick, flushed skin and gasps as he pushes in again. Bob's muscles tense beneath his fingers; he arches and shoves back against Frank with a gasped fuck, and Frank drags his mouth across Bob's shoulder. He tastes like sweat and skin and cigarettes and Frank's balls jerk. Bob's tight around him and hot, Christ.
Frank shoves at him, pushes Bob down against the mattress, thighs spread wide as he fucks him. Bob grunts and twists, gasping Frank's name into the thin motel pillows with each rough thrust of Frank's hips.
This is what he wants, Frank knows. This is what he needs. A good friend, a good fuck. He groans and bites the side of Bob's neck.
Bob swears and twists his fingers in the sheet. Frank slams into him again, pushing him harder against the mattress.
He tells himself he's not thinking of Mikey.
For a little while, he believes it.
***
It's May when Bob looks at him one Sunday morning over the top of the Sun-Times and says, "You're still not over him, are you?"
Frank sets his coffee cup down, stares out the window of Bob's apartment. Geraniums are blooming in terracotta pots on the fire escape across the alley, bright bursts of pink and red against filthy brick. Frank's always liked Bob's kitchen. It's small, but it's bright and airy. Not like his and Mikey's. Frank sighs and twists the coffee cup across the worn wood of the table. "Probably not," he says quietly.
Bob doesn't say anything for a moment, then he folds the paper and nods. "When's your plane?"
"Four," Frank says. He catches his lip ring between his teeth.
Bob's fingers curl around his. They're warm and soft and large, and Frank's always felt safe when Bob touches him.
It's just safe isn't always enough.
"That gives us time for a last fuck," Bob says as he pulls Frank towards him.
Frank's already reaching for his belt.
***
Mikey picks him up at Newark, driving Frank's rattletrap Honda. "So how was Chicago?" he asks as he tosses Frank's duffel bag into the back seat, and Frank shrugs and catches the keys Mikey throws at him. He's lit up a cigarette already, as soon as he stepped out of baggage claim.
"I don't think I'm going back," Frank says as he slides behind the wheel of the car. "Alone at least."
Mikey just looks at him out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah?"
Frank eases the car out into the lane. "Yeah." He exhales a stream of smoke through the half-open car window. "It's cool though. Bob and me."
"Well, good," Mikey says. "Gerard'd be pretty pissed if you fucked up the band right before Warped." A moment later he squeezes Frank's arm quickly, then props one sneakered foot on the dash as Frank takes the Route 21 exit off the Newark Airport Interchange.
Frank relaxes.
He's home.
***
They're two weeks into Warped when Frank walks in on Mikey on his knees, sucking Pete Wentz's cock.
"Fuck," Frank says numbly and he stumbles off the bus. He grabs Gerard's arm as he reaches for the half-open door. "You don't want to go in there."
Gerard frowns at him, one foot on the step. "What the fuck, man, it's ninety fucking degrees out here."
"Seriously, dude, I'm telling you." Frank pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the back pocket of his shorts. "You don't want--"
"Jesus Christ, Mikey, fuck," he hears and a few seconds later Gerard stumbles out of the bus, ashen-faced.
Frank hands Gerard a cigarette; Gerard lights up silently. He leans against the bus, next to Frank, and exhales. "There are some things you don't want to actually see your little brother doing, you know?"
"Told you not to go in." Frank takes a long drag off his cigarette and closes his eyes. He can still see Wentz's fingers twisted in Mikey's hair, can still see the pale, shadowed curve of Mikey's bare shoulders in the dim light of the bus lounge, can still hear the soft suck of Mikey's mouth on someone else's dick. Frank's chest aches; he can taste metallic bile in the tightness of his throat. He opens his eyes and stares up into the brightness of the sun, not caring that it makes his eyes water. It's an excuse, after all.
Gerard scratches his upper lip. Smoke curls around his dirty hair. "You okay with this?" he asks after a moment and he doesn't look at Frank.
No, Frank wants to say. Instead he just shrugs, a quick tensing of his shoulders that he knows Gerard will read into. "It's Mikey's life."
They both fall silent; there's nothing else to say.
Part Two