(no subject)
Part One
Pete’s looking for baby bands on his laptop in the dining room. Patrick always gives him shit for it, he says the entire point of a laptop is that you can carry it around and use it in more comfortable places like couches or beds. There’s a bit of legitimacy to the statement, but Pete has a thing for huge tables. He’s been off tour for over a year and he still hasn’t gotten over the joy of an expanse of real wood instead of five square inches of plastic covered metal.
The table in question is a beautiful mahogany, enough varnish to make the parts that are still visible shiny as hell. It’s massive, seats twelve, even though only he and Patrick live in the house and when he’s got enough friends over to need twelve chairs it’s not the sort of event that involves a dinner party. Not that he would give up his table for that bunch of fuckers anyway. His table is his baby, his day planner and his file cabinet all at once. He’s got a system; different boxes, crates, and sticky notes scattered as needed. Pete’s got seven different shades of Post It notes stuck all over the flat surface. He can only get the lime ones in a grocery store fifty minutes from the house, but it’s worth it. Bedroom laptops might bring you comfort, but in Pete’s house the dining room makes him king.
It’s the sound of something shattering that distracts Pete from the dozens of MySpaces he has tabbed. The sound came from the living room, and it only takes Pete a second to click pause and wander down the hall to investigate. Either something legitimately broke or Patrick is pissed enough to break something. Either way Pete wants to see, curiosity too piqued to rest unsated.
Standing at the open door frame of the room it's easy to see that the second guess was right. Well actually Patrick has broken two somethings: a glass frame on the wall by throwing the remote control at it.
“While I commend your dedication to the exercise we’ll get walking to the tv to turn the channel old school style, you realise we have a new tv that doesn’t have buttons?”
Patrick glares and Pete is suddenly grateful for being on the opposite side of the room. Not that he hasn’t dealt with Patrick having a fit before. Hell, half the time they were touring he was the reason Patrick was having a fit. But there are only so many times your not-quite-boyfriend, not-quite-fuck-buddy can smash you against the side of the bus and attempt to strangle you before you learn the signs. It’s not that you stop bugging your not-quite-boyfriend not-quite-fuck-buddy, you just make sure to stay out of the physical harm blast zone.
Still, ninety nine percent of the time Pete’s willfulness outweighs his need to remain safe. Nobody ever said he wasn’t a glutton for punishment. “Seriously, what?”
Patrick gestures wildly at the tv and for the first time Pete recognises what he’s watching. It’s C-SPAN, the senate committee, and Senator Kelly appears to be being a total asshat to Jean Grey. Pete can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Why are you even watching this shit? You knew it was going to piss you off when you turned it on.”
“Right, because you’ve never done something you knew would upset you.”
Pete would call it a low blow, but it isn’t, not really. If Patrick wanted to get dirty Pete can think of a dozen things to bring up. “Look, it’s not gong to pass. They won't make a registry, it’s just a Republican campaign of lameness.”
“They outed her!”
Pete doesn’t understand his outburst, and while that happens semi-often -he and Patrick and Andy and Joe all have their incoherent moments- Pete figures that this is something that needs to be understood. “What?”
“Senator dickbag, he told the entire fucking nation about a girl from Illinois that can walk through walls, and then asked what would stop her from walking into a bank vault, or into the White House, or into people’s houses.”
Okay, Patrick’s tantrum makes a lot more sense now. Patrick’s tantrum actually makes entirely too much sense now, and Pete holds back from having his own freak out. “Are you gonna call her? Call the school?”
“Jean Grey fucking works there, I’m pretty sure she’ll find out.”
Right, he should have remembered that. But it’s not like he’s ever had a chance to chat up all the professors at the school. Shit, he was lucky that the Stumps considered him enough of a family member to not kick him out when Xavier came to talk about Kathrine. “Did they say her family’s name? Do we need to-”
“What? Make a statement that I disowned her when she turned, please don’t stop buying Fall Out Boy albums, we love our royalties?”
“Fuck you!” That Patrick would think that isn’t even ridiculous. It’s just fucking offensive. Pete narrowly avoids crossing the room and punching Patrick’s stupid trucker cap off his stupid head, managing to restrain himself to merely punching a hole in the drywall. They’re kind of fucked for fixing it later, the wall is covered in wallpaper, but he doesn't care about that now.
“Fuck you Pete,” Patrick says tiredly. The older he gets the quicker the swing from meltdown rage to exhaustion. Well, too fucking bad. Pete’s not even close to being done this conversation.
“When in the hell have I ever given the impression that I’m a Friend Of Humanity dickbag?”
“I’m sorry,” he says in the same tired tone. “You’re not. Can you not break my house now?”
“It’s my motherfucking house too!” It feels nice to shout. It’s even nicer to put emphasis on the words by punching a second hole in the wall. The torn wallpaper looks almost like eyelashes. “Don’t you ever fucking say I’m like them! Ever!”
“Jesus Christ Pete,” Patrick mutters, and part of Pete knows Patrick meant him to hear it, and an even smaller yet highly sensitive part of him knows Patrick is doing this on purpose, feels better when Pete flails and rages about something so he doesn’t have to, but his tone still pisses Pete off. His knuckles are bleeding, fingers starting to swell pink under the stain of slowly browning blood, but the wall still has an expanse of plaster and calm is far in the distance.
*
Bob knew when he agreed to do free sound he was doing it for a pro-mutant band. It would have been pretty much impossible to not know My Chemical Romance’s stand on mutant rights. Bob had been crammed in a few vans over the years, and My Chem was by far the most friendly. Most band members tended to slide headphones on and close their eyes for hours at a time, trying to give themselves some semblance of privacy. These guys weren’t like that, they were always talking, a combination of musing on potential crossovers and rehashing old stories.
Among other things, they all had mutant stories. Frank had a cousin that can make it snow, the entire neighbourhood knew and nearly everyone approved of Fourth of July pre-fireworks snowball fights. Mikey’s old roommate Rob could teleport, which made last minute beer runs convenient. Ray’s favourite teacher in high school was, when it got out she could put her hand on the overhead and remove it to find a sheet’s worth of notes written she almost got fired before the students protested. Gerard’s pretty much got a bug up his ass for equality rights of all kind. Hell, they toured with Midtown, one of the first mutcore bands. Ignoring all other instances, a month with Gabe Saporta would make you either love or hate mutants.
What he doesn’t find out until he’s already agreed to replacing Otter is that the band isn’t all human. It’s not a big reveal, or a confession, just him and Ray playing MarioKart on the newly gifted My Chem bus. Mikey's on the other couch plugging away at his DS and Frank’s face is pressed into a new book, misprinted with half the words in the margins, complaining every few pages but completely unwilling to bend the book further apart to read it -it breaks the spine, dude-, with Gerard passed out in his bunk after staying up all night drawing.
Ray presses his combo button and Yoshi shoots forward beyond the computer generated characters, Bob’s Luigi still in first place. He sighs apropos of nothing and says “I hope he learns to control himself soon.”
No one else replies to him, and Bob half wonders if he’s talking about computer generated Mario spinning out thanks to Bob’s dropped banana peel, but he still says “what?”
“Matt. His emotion squaring thing. I hope he learns to hold it in. Or at least not lose control somewhere where he’s gonna get the shit beat out of him.”
“What? Do you mean a power?”
“You didn’t know he’s a mutant? It’s not like we hid it in the van. Kind of impossible considering what it was. Every time one of us would get pissed suddenly the everyone was pissed. Or tired, or happy, or nostalgic, whatever.” So maybe Bob had felt a bit randomly moodswingy, it was nothing that couldn’t have been chalked up to weird European beer and feeling concerned about Gerard’s obvious problems. “Don’t get us wrong, we didn’t kick him out for being a mutant-”
Bob snorts, interrupting Ray’s explanation. “Yeah, I can’t see Gerard letting that happen.” Even while drunk, or detoxing, it’s the sort of thing the elder Way would raise hell about.
“It wasn’t like he was the only one with control issues. I wasn’t that great at times.”
Bob blinks, a fatal move that allows Yoshi to sneak past Luigi. He can’t be blamed though, he wasn’t really expecting that. “What? You’re-”
“Is this going to be a problem?” They’re Mikey’s first words, and he sounds even more guarded than he normally does.
Bob rolls his eyes. There’s not really a huge step from pro-mutant supporters to actual live mutants. If he was a bigot he wouldn’t have travelled overseas doing sound for them. “I just wanna know who I can’t jerk off around if they’re telepathic.”
Frank grins around the edges of his paperback. “You’re planning on jerking off around the rest of us? I dunno what they did on the tech buses but there are no circle jerks on the My Chem bus. Mikey and Gerard are brothers, and they both strongly believe that the other doesn’t have sex. A circle jerk would warp their fragile minds.”
“Fuck off. You know what I meant,” Bob grumbles, momentarily taking his hand off the controller to flip Iero off.
In response Frank neatly puts his book down in the crack of the cushion between Mikey and himself, then runs the three steps across the bus and tackles Bob. He hears rather than sees his car crash, and Ray giggling as he drives to victory instead of pausing and waiting for Bob to rid himself of Frank, the big fucking cheater. Even if video and board game stipulations say you’re required to play through Random Acts Of Frank, the rule is only good until it doesn’t benefit you. Frank starts humping Bob’s side, Bob working to dislodge him, preferably onto Ray in revenge. For all intents and purposes the conversation is over.
It comes up later though. It can’t not. They’ve moved onto Donkey Kong, switching the bongos back and forth between levels, the Way beside each other with Frank in the back talking to Jamia. Bob’s sort of grateful for the lack of significant other, it makes touring life a lot easier. Gerard’s drumming out his combos and failing miserably when Ray twists to look at him and says “it’s just me and Frankie now.”
“Really?” Bob gestures across the bus. “Neither of you?” The Ways seem sort of made for superpowers.
Mikey shrugs. “God’s way of laughing at us.” Gerard make a grunt of agreement, and Bob suspects in the future he’ll get a lecture about how unfair it is. But for now at least the bus is safe from a rant. Gerard's beat count is getting dangerously near zero and he’s too focused on getting bananas to start up.
“So what can you two do?” It would be great if Frank was a healer or a regenerator, considering how often he gets sick or hurt. Though, since he gets sick or hurt so often without getting better it’s a large hint to him not having that ability.
Ray smirks. “Guess.”
“Dude there are like a billion possible things. Literally.” It’s not exactly a special snowflake situation, Bob knows, some abilities like weather manipulation or telekinesis are more common. But for every ten people that can make shit float with their brain, there’s the one person that can walk into other people’s dreams, or suck nutrients out of dirt and cardboard.
“That’s why it’s called a guess, Bryar,” Mikey explains with a lilt to his voice.
“I have no idea.” He’s about to ask for a hint when Ray’s hair springs into action, waving hello before beginning to braid itself. “Huh. That really explains more than it doesn’t.”
“I know, right? Like with something that epic it practically demands to be able to move of it’s own accord.” The distraction costs Gerard the level, Donkey Kong plummets to the foliage and his beats go to 0. He doesn’t much seem to care, not even when a hank elongates far beyond normal length to stretch and grab the controller from him. In fact, the move seems to delight him. Bob can’t really blame him, it’s sort of awesome.
“How long can it get?”
“About ten feet, last time I checked.” His hair is playing the bongos, and doing a much better job than Gerard’s hands did. Bob feels like a bit of an asshole for gawking, but it’s really fucking cool.
Mikey adds “it can pull a stalled car too. It’s bad ass.”
It’s not until the third time that it comes up that Bob starts to have his doubts about the wisdom of being in a band with mutants. Matt’s revelations makes a lot of sense in hindsight, and Ray’s is hardly frightening. But when Frank wakes him up from his nap Bob momentarily questions the decision making skills of himself, the band, the universe, and God-and-or-Fate as one so chooses. When Frank is feeling nice he wakes Bob up with a snuggle. Relatively speaking for terms of nice, ninety nine percent of the time Frank wakes him up for no good reason beyond sleeping is for night time, the sun is up, Bob! When he’s feeling more impatient he shakes him until Bob tries to hit him.
When Bob wakes to a warmth down his side and hands on his shoulders he figures Frank just talked Mikey into joining his quest. Mikey has as little regard for sleep as Frank does. Then he opens his eyes and sees Frank hovering over him while at the same time Frank is curled beside him, face half buried in his hoodie. There’s only one explanation, but Bob finds himself hoping for a correction. “You can clone yourself?”
“Up to ten copies!” hovering!Frank says, obnoxiously loudly. Snuggling!Frank just presses closer into his side. A possibility of ten Frank Ieros. The world is doomed.
*
They’ve all got a lot of stuff to do, these days. Fall Out Boy going on hiatus didn’t in any way mean a calmer life for anyone, it just meant different. Sometimes Joe wonders how different, because they all still talk and text every day, they all still get recognised, they all still make music. It’s the little things that have changed. Having an expanse of cupboards with munchies instead of a foot of counter, everything crashing to the floor with a sudden stop. Not having dog hair on everything. He wonders if it’s the details that matter, if they knew when they broke up that only the smallest things would change, or if they really, naively thought whole new worlds would open. There’s nothing new about this, it’s almost like travelling back in time; Pete setting the public opinion on what’s cool and what’s not, Patrick using instruments instead of his voice, him and Andy greasy and reeking in a van. It’s like they’re all back in 1999.
Still, hard rock and acapella and club vs pop-punk, the beat of music has to forever go on. It’s kind of scary, kind of right that Pete’s now in charge of making sure that happens. When he asks Joe to come with him to listen to a fledgling band in Nevada he doesn’t think for a minute before saying yes. Joe’s got an eye for bands, at least as good as Pete, if not better. Pete just thinks more about stuff like marketability, how to explain to those with money why it should be them. Joe’s better with just pointing and saying ‘it needs to be them’.
The band really is a fledgling band, in the baby sense of the term, not the bird sense. There’s no way they’re older than sixteen, and even though Joe was out around that age it looks different from the other side. The band is also incomplete, apparently the bassist and the drummer are both busy. Pete looks congenial, which puts the singer at ease a bit because he doesn’t know Pete’s normal attitude, doesn’t know nice doesn’t bode well for them. Yeah, it’s a pretty bad sign when half the band can’t be bothered to show up for potentially being signed, but Joe doesn’t want to leave yet. He heard the tracks on the flight, amongst other things Pete found online and had to show him. Electronica isn’t Joe’s strongest suit, but he thinks it could be a thing.
Joe’s seen people flush with frustration before. You don’t go on tour without seeing meltdowns in multiple forms. Combinations of close quarters, lack of hygeine, interrupted sleep, bad food and demanding fans can make for pretty interesting outbursts. Andy throws things, but Patrick always was the ‘blush then try to break Pete’s hyoid bone’ type. If half of Joe’s band bailed he’d be pissed, so he can understand how the kid with the guitar is feeling. The thing is, flushing involves pink to red skin. Ryan is kind of green-yellow, like the sickly glow in the dark stars still in Joe’s room at his parents house.
They start the song and it goes pretty well, sounds as decent as it can with the laptop playing the part of the missing drummer and the synth behind it. Joe can see teenagers getting into this, can picture people leaving it on rather than changing the channel when it comes on the radio while driving. And the singer, Brendon, he’s pretty hot, which might not matter if Pete was looking for metal, but matters for this type of music.
Then Brendon trips in one of the many cracks in the concrete floor of the garage. He plays it off pretty well, all considering. He doesn’t burst into a flurry of swears -again, something that could work in metal but not for electronica-, he even continues singing on his knees, like a missed handshake turns into a hair swoop, an I meant to do that movement. It’s the guitarist that lights up with fury. Literally. He gets brighter and brighter until it’s like looking into a fluorescent tube from an inch away. “Brendon, could you at least attempt professionalism?”
It’s the last word that breaks it completely. The light floods out of Ryan and hangs in the air; a five foot ten oval of light. Joe looks away immediately. Staring at that is probably as unhealthy as staring at the sun. Brendon stops singing and only the sounds from the laptop remain.
Into the relative silence Joe asks “was that necessary?” He’s not sure if he’s talking about the random showing off of mutant ability, or the intra-band yelling. A bit of both, really, both are dick moves, and it’s pretty lucky for them that Pete’s not turned off by assholish behaviour. Ryan doesn’t comment. Joe turns his head back. If Ryan’s smirking, screw the decent music, he’s gonna tell Pete it’s not happening. They’ll never get a good tour going if other bands and techs all hate them, and if he’s an asshole to someone in a higher position than him, he’ll definitely be an asshole to fans, and that’s never cool.
Ryan’s not smirking. Instead he’s staring at his hands, which hold a residual glow. Brendon is staring at him too, blinking rapidly like he never bothered to look away from the burst of light. Brendon’s shock-awe and Ryan’s shock-horror make Joe think that this is something new. Before he can ask Pete steps in. “Was that your first?” Ryan doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even move, but it’s obvious. “It’s okay, you’re all right. No one’s gonna tell. No one’s gonna hurt you.”
Brendon stands and makes his way over to Ryan, watching his feet so he doesn’t wipe out again. Joe’s expecting him to curl an arm around his shoulders, say it’s fine, or that he’ll be great to lean against in order to read in their van, or something else kind and vaguely amusing that’ll take the edge off the situation. Instead he leans in close but doesn’t actually touch him, except maybe mouth to ear. He says loud enough for everyone in the room to hear “auditioning for Pete Wentz. Pull it together, Ross.”
It’s hardly kind, or tension relieving, but it seems to work. Ryan stands up straighter, shakes his head until his fringe is directly covering his eyes. His glowing hands settle over the strings as Brendon fiddles with the computer until it starts playing their next track.
Mutant guitarist or not, they’re good. Pete looks over to Joe at the end of the three songs, but his nod is just saying what he knows Pete’s already thinking. Hell, between the soft spot he has for Patrick’s sister, and the way he likes to push equality, mutant guitarist probably makes it better. Pete gives them the yes, and it’s hardly surprising that Ryan shoots out another oval of light. If he’s a newbie he must have less than no control.
“We need to go to the hotel. We haven’t even dropped our shit off, just came straight here. But we’ll hang out tomorrow, go for lunch or something, talk about what this means, what else you guys need to do to be ready for a tour, okay?”
Both of the kids seem terrified by the idea. “Look, we’re not going to disappear. We can’t, neither of us are mutants. But if you want...” Joe plunges his hand into Brendon’s pocket, and sure enough finds a cell phone in it. He quickly programs two numbers. “Those are us. Not Decaydance, but us. If you need to call at four in the morning to make sure we haven’t turned into pumpkins, call him. He’ll most likely still be awake. Men like me need our sleep.”
Ryan coolly thanks him, obviously embarrassed at being so transparent. Brendon doesn’t have the same issues. “It’s just.... Really, you’re signing us? Really?”
If Joe was a jerk he’d laugh at his enthusiasm. Instead he just pats on Brendon on his slightly wriggling shoulder and says “yep, time to run home and tell mom and dad you made it.”
It’s like someone has slammed a door right into him. The table the laptop is on jolts away from Brendon too, only Pete’s quick movement saves it from shattering on the concrete. Of course, Joe’s the only one on his ass. Directly behind him is the table, in front of him is the invisible wall that hit him, meaning he can’t get up. “Could you, like, turn that shit off?”
“No? I don’t really know how to control it? It just sorta happened? Sorry.”
“Shit, you too?”
Pete pushes the table along the wall, leaving a space for Joe to stand up in. Of course he can’t be content with helping, he needs to explain too. “Occurs with stressors, Joe. Good or bad. It’s not every day you get signed to a label.”
Half an hour later Pete is in the middle of convincing Joe the complimentary coffee at the hotel isn’t worthy of their mouths, they need to call a cab to take them to Starbucks. Of all the members of all the bands Joe’s ever been a part of, he’s the least picky person he’s ever met when it comes to coffee. He could drink decade old grounds mixed with dirt and cookie crumbs and enjoy it. But Pete’s got a mighty whine, and most of the time it’s easier to give in than try to fight. Joe’s just about to capitulate when his phone vibrates. A quick glance reveals a text from Ryan. He wonders if it was a mistake to give them both their personal numbers, but it’s too late now if it was. Hopefully he’s just a frequent texter, not someone that’s going to post the numbers online.
went to tell spencer the news.
Joe’s pretty sure that’s the missing drummer, not the missing bassist. Joe sincerely hopes he shows up to the brunch-lunch-whatever the fuck Pete decides tomorrow, otherwise the future of Panic At The Disco is pretty fucked. One busy is on the fringe of acceptable, two is straight up bailing. As he starts to type in a reply, a second text comes in, then a few more in rapid succession.
he’s bright pink.
can blow bubbles with his mind.
he won’t come out of the bedroom.
can you tell him he’s going to be fine.
Apparently Pete’s gotten the same thing, or at least something close. “I think they need to go to the School.”
Joe knows it’s futile but he says it anyway. “You’re not their dads.”
Sure enough, “like their dads will know how to deal.” So not only is Pete their future manager, he’s also adopted them. Joe should have seen it coming. He can only hope Patrick won’t kick his ass for it.
*
The new kids have been around for about a week when Rogue decides to talk to the shaggy haired boy. Something has to be done, has to be said before he gets in too deep. In some ways she’s really most qualified. She scares people, boxes them into the arm of the couch and waits until they’re willing to listen to her. At this point it’s likely that shagboy needs to be scared straight; he wouldn’t have gotten this far if he had the ability to not succumb to peer pressure. Rogue’s not sure which one of the three forced him into it, but it should be relatively easy to make him think again. They’re losing their tight grip on each other, each having hooked up with their own mutant buddy. Rogue’s pretty sure none of the teachers actually asked someone to be the new teens’ friends, show them the ropes. Various people just stepped up to the challenge because that’s how it works here, people doing what needs to be done.
The hyperactive one is the only boy she actually knows the name of. He’s Brendon, still insisting that he doesn’t need a mutant name, that pretty soon he’ll have learned what he needs to, and the only thing anyone will have to call him is the hot singer from Panic At The Disco that I used to know. Rogue thinks it’s pathetic that he actually thinks he’ll ever have a life beyond what his power is. At most he’ll be bodyguard for a band, protecting them inside his range. That is, if he ever gains control. She only remembers his name because every time he fidgets in class his powers turn on, pushing all the desks and chairs around him away, and the teachers have to remind him about control. He and Jubilee suit each other, they’re both complete spazzes. The one with the facial expressions has fallen head over heels with Boom Boom. And the sarcastic one has bonded with King of Rude, St John Allerdyce, for which she can only be grateful. Rogue can only hope if they become best friends John will detach himself from her boyfriend. Not only will she no longer have to put up with his prescence, Bobby will stop hanging with a bad influence.
But that’s not the point. The point is Brendon and Mr Expression and Sarcastic are all having random outbursts of their power, like they should be. It’s the reason Xavier accepted their admission to the School. Shaghair on the other hand, has had a single slip of power in the seven days he’s been here. Not just not in front of her, Rogue’s asked around and everyone says the same. Brent, apparently, is in complete control of his mutant ability. Which means only one thing.
It’s surprisingly easy to get him alone. It’s a moment long inquiry to find out he shares a room with Brendon on the third floor, and all she has to do beyond that is wait in one of the games rooms until Brent splits from the herd. She can’t really blame him, his friends are being stupid. Brendon is trying to get Jubilee to shock him before his forcefield pops up, Map Walker filming the whole thing. Expressions is trying to convince Colossus to draw him a picture of Boom Boom, and Bobby and John and Sarcastic are talking about something, though she’s not really listening.
When Brent goes to his room she follows a few feet behind him. She might not be the best at stealth in the Danger Room, but she can at least handle walking behind somebody. Once he’s in the room she enters, and leans against the door. It’s foolproof, no one would risk pushing her aside. “I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“Um. I’m, uh, a mutant?”
“Hardly. You haven’t had a single flux since you got here. Unless, wait, is it just ‘cause this is a better atmosphere, and at home you were breaking out?” That would be understandable.
“No? I mean, sometimes I had to tell my mom to not use that dogfood because Whiskey hated it. And Kelly had this budgie, and it hated me, and I couldn’t make out with her if it was in the room. But no. But I mean, it’s nice here too, I’m not dissing here.”
Rogue blinks. Surely she didn’t hear right. His mom knew and only altered the pet’s menu instead of freaking out that her kid spoke to dogs? “Seriously, if your parents and your girlfriend don’t care what are you doing here? You’re completely passable, it’s not like you’re Pixie.”
“My band is here,” Brent shrugs, like it’s that simple.
“And your life is at home. Do you know how often I wish I could go home? Everyone here does, even if they pretend not to. Even if their homes were really really bad. You can’t just throw that away!”
“Pete Wentz was gonna sign us.”
“Maybe. If the rest of your band learns control. Or maybe he’ll want a drummer that isn’t bright pink, or a singer that can touch people.”
Brent shrugs again. “I don’t think that’s a thing. He’s the one that brought us here, he’s not scared of mutants. It could work. You wouldn’t really see Spencer on the back of the stage, and if Ryan lost control they’d just think it was a lighting malfunction or something.”
“There’s a difference between not being scared and thinking they’re marketable. I know the band means a lot to you, obviously it does or you wouldn’t be here. But you need to think about it. Are Brendon and Spencer and Ryan really more important than your mom and dad and girlfriend? Forget them, are your band mates really more important than your own life? You could have one, if you don’t decide to throw it away.” She’ll never have anything more than fighting for the X-Men, and eventually dying, or going insane from all the leeched people’s voices spinning in her brain. Brent though, he could be different. He could go to college, or have a career. Something real.
“Are you done lecturing me now?” His voice doesn’t give her hope. His gaze, on the other hand, does. He’s staring at his phone, and everyone knows that nine times out of ten if he’s texting he’s talking to his girlfriend. If he wants to talk to her that means he wants to see her, which means she’s won. Brent’s life sorted out she goes back down the stairs to attempt to pry Bobby from the two jerk brunets. With Logan gone Bobby’s the only other male that interests her, and she hardly wants to share him.
*
Gerard doesn’t know Frank’s going to do something until it’s already done. The set list calls for Thanks For The Venom next, but as Gerard’s waiting for the guys to start the fans seem to flip out about something, and the amount of cameras and cell phones raised in the air doubles at the least. Gerard whirls, expecting Frank to be doing a headstand or kicking Mikey in the nuts. He’s not, what he’s doing is far more interesting.
What he’s doing, is splitting. There are suddenly three Frank Ieros on stage. By no means the limit of what he can do, but they’ve been really fucking careful to cover for Ray and Frank all these years, and even two Franks would be more than anyone would expect.
It doesn’t stop there. One of them grabs Mikey’s bass, another Ray’s guitar. Gerard wonders for a moment if they were all in cahoots for this, or if Frank stealthily learned the other two parts. Either way he doesn’t have long to think about it before he has to bust in with “sister, I’m not much a poet, but a criminal...”
After they’re done, Gerard knows this is his chance to say something. Frank is going to absorb himself soon, and sure they’ll have to answer interviews for the next ten years, but this is the shining moment, the first reveal. Tonight is going to be viewed a million times or more on Youtube, and Gerard wants to make it good.
“Who here is a fuckin’ mutant!” the crowd is conspicuously quiet for Americans, it’s like they’re touring Japan again. “Who wants to be?” near silence, and that’s just not cool. “Every fucking body does! Be proud, and fucking loud! I wanna see everyone who can do something without hurting somebody show your shit off! I can feel you, can you feel me?”
A ball of flame bursts into the air in one corner, a swift breeze from another corner drifting it higher and stronger for a moment before the owner of the first extinguishes it. A girl’s voice pummels I’m oh fucking kay into his head and surely the head of everyone else in the building.
“You think me and Frank on each other is great?” Confused by the new state of affairs or not, the fangirls know what they like and are vocal about it. “You wait until it’s Frank on Frank!” A group scream erupts and somewhere between that and the thoughts he’s put in his own head Gerard finds his hand rubbing over his crotch. Unconscious move at first, he continues it long enough that he knows there will be pictures on Tumblr.
“Do you motherfuckers hear what I hear?” The fans seem to surge like being nearer the stage will let them know what he’s talking about. Gerard theatrically cups a hand to his ear. “Iiiiii hear a kiss chant.”
The fans know a cue when they hear it. Within seconds the entire stadium is rocking with kiss, kiss, kiss. For a minute Gerard thinks the Franks are gonna do it. Instead bass Frank seizes Mikey, rhythm Frank goes after Ray and first Frank attempts to get Bob on the rider. First Frank has the worst luck, Bob using his drums like a shield and rapping Frank’s knuckles when he tries to reach over. Ray gamely stands still for a peck, but Toro’s always been straight. If it wasn’t too awkward to contemplate Gerard would say Mikey seems to be enjoying his kiss with Frank. Gerard himself gets no love, but that’s fine, he can wait until after the concert.
After bass Frank is finished, Mikey reluctantly letting go of his ass, both duplicates rush to Frank. It only takes thirty seconds for him to absorb them. Gerard’ll never get sick of watching it, even if he and Frank are still best friends at ninety. It looks freakin’ cool; first he wiggles like jello then he gets sucked into himself.
The rest of the night goes by in a flash, singing and making the occasional pro-mutant comment. He’s never hidden his beliefs, but tonight’s the first night it’s come up on stage. Later, when they’re signing, a boy with a mohawk makes Gerard’s pen dance in a six inch tall tornado. He thanks him for being an out mutant, and that’s when Gerard realises lines might have gotten a bit crossed. He’s not going to take it back though, not now. Not when it’s so important.
Unfortunately not everyone feels the same way. He’s barely had time to change into a hoodie when both My Chem’s manager and the singer of the headline band climb onto the bus. Everyone else is on a munchies run, and Gerard doesn’t really want to have this conversation, but better him than Frank.
Chris starts. “Gerard, you’re seriously like one cause away from being U2. Don’t make this tour be lame. Please.”
“It’s not lame to care. And for the record I’m not the one that outed us. Not that I’m pissed at Frank or anything, it was about damn time, really.” He scratches his cheek and shakes his hair back into position. “I’m just making My Chem’s stance clear.”
“You’re lying about what you are. It’s worse than your stupid stage gay. That pisses off the fans, and this is going to make shit a lot worse.”
Gerard doesn’t even know where to start. This is exactly why he had reservations about this tour, the headliners are fucking tools. “I’m positive I’ve already informed the crowd that if they don’t like it they can break their CDs and burn their shirts, we don’t fucking want their money. It’s not stage gay, I’m not doing it to get fans off, I can make out with guys if I want to, it’s fun. And no one gave Tatu shit. Why are bi women safe and bi men aren’t?”
That’s when the manager steps in, fingers pinched on the bridge of his nose. “Holy shit, Gerard. I’m not getting into a sexuality in society debate with you right now, that’s not the point of this.”
“Then what?” Gerard’s almost certain whatever he says, he’s not going to like it.
“What do you think? Frank is a mutant, and you’re spouting mutant propaganda and I’m the one that has to deal with it.”
“No. Frank is. Frank is the one they’ll hate for no reason, Frank’s the one they might bottle, and Frank’s the one that’ll have to do a hundred stupid interviews. I’m rubbing against whoever I want to rub against, I’m cheering on every mutant fan, and you know what? Maybe My Chem will refund ticket money for every teenager that gets into a fist fight with some Friend of Humanity fucker.”
“We’re never touring with you again, just so you know.”
“Fucking gladly.” As far as ultimatums go, it’s incredibly weak. Gerard can say pretty conclusively that no one in the band actually wants to be with this group of assholes anymore.
“Fuck you, cocksucking mutie.”
Gerard smirks. “Is that supposed to be offensive? What part do you wanna hear about first, Frank’s dick in my ass, or Frank’s dick in my ass while his second body’s dick is in my mouth?” Not that that’s ever happened, Frank doesn’t duplicate in bed, but Chris doesn’t need to know that.
He takes a swing before he’s dragged out of the bus. They’ll probably want to conceal the black eye with make up tomorrow, but Gerard plans on using the darkest blue eyeshadow he can find to highlight it. If the band is taking a stance, they’re going to be active about it.
*
With Ryan and him sharing a room things really do become much easier. At least, it’s easier for what John’s planning, and for them in general. Spencer and Bobby might feel hurt but fuck them. John’s not spending another minute sleeping in the same room as Bobby, not if he doesn’t have to.
While John hates Spencer so Ryan doesn’t have to -Ryan does the same for Bobby for his benefit- John has to grant Spencer that at least he doesn’t know why Ryan and Bobby switched rooms. He even went as far as asking Jean Grey if it’s possible that Ryan’s allergic to the bubbles his pores are constantly blowing. Ryan’s truly in love with an idiot. Everyone can see how head over heels Ryan is, his poker face only works on things not Spencer Smith related. Even their spazzy, innocent Mormon friend knows. He said he felt bad for not offering to share with Ryan, but the roommate that got slotted into Brent’s spot was still having instability issues and Brendon didn’t want to make them worse.
Ryan hasn’t told Spencer how he feels, and John’s not sure he ever will. His crush on Bobby is different. It’s less secret, more unrequited. Except it’s not even that. Bobby’s told him he likes him too, but Rogue is easier. It’s the biggest load of bullshit John’s ever heard. Of course Rogue is easier, Bobby doesn’t have to show her any affection. Sometimes he doesn’t need Ryan to hate Bobby, he can do it just fine all by himself.
For the last two days they’ve been sharing a room. John used a basketful of different techniques to convince Bobby it was for the best if he moved all his shit into Spencer’s room, and between the fire nipping at his eyebrows and the threats to download gay porn onto his computer and show Blaire, who would tell Rogue, Bobby left. It’s their mutual hope that proximity widening will make their feelings less aching. John hopes more than that though. He’s never been in love before, but he does remember being at the gay youth club at home before he manifested. Wanting a particular guy with an eyebrow piercing and being turned down, only feeling pain until the guy in the mohawk took him to his car for mutual blowjobs. If love is as fickle as lust, it might be possible to force himself into wanting Ryan.
When he mentions it to Ryan, he doesn’t shoot him down immediately. Instead Ryan nestles his pen in the spine of his journal and closes the cover. John’s known him long enough to know that means he’s composing his thoughts. He’s expecting a list of reasons why he’s a moron for suggesting it. On the contrary Ryan gracefully unfolds himself from the middle of the bed and takes the few strides to him. Before John can open his mouth, Ryan’s hands are on him, pulling him tight against him. It’s moments before Ryan’s tongue is in his mouth, John provides no resistance.
Ryan pulls away, face flat. “So that didn’t work.”
“At all,” John adds, biting to Ryan’s dry.
It’s unfortunate, really. Ryan has just about the perfect personality, sarcastic, blunt, strong. And it’s not like he’s a dog either. John prefers thicker guys, but then, so does Ryan. But before Bobby he didn’t really have a type, just slept with whatever guy came up to him. If he’s to understand Brendon, Ryan didn’t really have a before Spencer. That probably makes it harder and easier.
“You want to fuck anyway?”
“Might as well.”
Ryan starts to strip, pulls the worn tongue of his studded belt out of the ornate skeleton buckle. John follows suit, sort of. He just has jeans and a long sleeved shirt, he doesn’t have a vest to hang over the desk chair, or a newsboy cap to take off.
“Do you want to top or bottom?”
“I’m not a virgin,” John snaps. He’s not in any sense of the word, though the girl thing was a mistake which is not be repeated.
“Didn’t say you were,” Ryan replies. It’s the smooth tone of someone not wanting to bog down a hook-up, John would recognise it anywhere.
“I don’t care, I just want to get off.”
“I’ll bottom then.” It’s probably a good thing, really. He’s not a virgin, but he hasn’t been fucked since he came to the school. If Ryan’s as well versed in this as he is, he’s probably much more prepared, being so new to the school.
It goes simply, like sex normally does. His fingers inside Ryan with probably too much lube dripping down his hand and onto the sheets, Ryan’s bony leg digging in where it’s curled around him. His cock inside Ryan with probably not enough lube, just a quick movement of his hand on his dick before he presses in. Ryan biting his lip, then John biting it for him. The small extras that make it different for mutants; Ryan creating a blaze of light above them as he comes, John incinerating an illicit cigarette someone is smoking on the first floor.
After, John can’t help but ask. He knows the truth of the situation, but he’s never been good at not pushing, and so he asks. “You magically fall in love with me?”
“No. You magically fall in love with me?”
“No.”
Ryan scratches at the come on his stomach, already starting to dry to a crust. “It was a long shot.”
“Yeah.”
It’s Ryan that speaks up again, minutes later, after he’s back to fully dressed and part combed to perfection. “It’ll do though, until.”
“Yeah, until,” John agrees. They can both hope, it never hurts to hope.
*
If you ask him, Frank’s power is the best of anyone he knows. Yes, June snowmen are an entertaining waste of time, and it’s true that Gabe's ability to be whomever he wants to be for a few short hours could be fun and or useful. But Frank is the only person he knows that doesn’t have to have what ifs. Maybe even the only person in the world, some abilities like telepathy are more common, but he’s never heard of another splitter.
He’s missed a lot of the earlier once in a lifetime chances, some combination of a stupid desire to be normal and lack of confidence in his control mixing to stifle himself. He never took Steve to prom, he went with Jamia instead. His major at Rutgers was psychology, even though culinary arts had a sort of siren call with it. It’s not that he regrets anything, it would be hard to look back and curse the road he took while he’s standing in the place he is. But Frank knows how to handle himself now, and he knows he never again has to worry about what ifs, or either-or situations. He is now officially done with Schrodinger box, he’s going to be both cats from now on.
Now that he’s out, Frank has plans.
Frank knows better than to check any media before he leaves. Sure, there will be a ton of people that are cool with him. But there will be just as many saying he’s going to ‘convert their children’, like it’s possible to choose to be a mutant. Just like sexual orientation, it’s at least partially genetics and hormones. And just like sexual orientation, if it was a choice, a good portion would probably choose to be ‘normal’. Gerard’s antics aside, not everything thinks being a mutant is the best thing in the world. Still, there’s only so often he can have the it’s not a choice, dickbag conversation before declaring the person a deaf, blind, and dumb lost cause. He’s in too good of a mood this morning to deal with the hate mail.
Hell, he doesn’t really even want the positive stuff. It’s only been a day, and already his inbox is full. He’s been avoiding opening any of it, he already knows what it’s all going to be. They’re going to ask him to show up at rallys, to do campaigns. Frank just wants to be out, he doesn’t want to be a spokesman of the year. They might give Gerard shit sometimes, but last night was at least partly because of him. Frank knows Gerard believes everything he said, but he might not have said it in front of a crowd of two thousand if Frank hadn’t outed himself. Gerard put himself in the spotlight to take it a least a bit off him. Now they’ll do revealing interviews of the same five questions for thirty different magazines together, instead of just Frank suffering alone.
Except this him isn’t going to be doing any interviews. Or at least not manager approved ones. He’s gonna get TMZ or Perez Hilton blitzes, unflattering pictures as he picks up dog food, because he’s going home. Or rather, one of him is, the other staying on tour. They have a very clear exception list, it’s understood and accepted that he will always have Gee and she will always have Erin. But if he can really be home all the time as well as playing all the time, life will be perfect.
Frank’s not concerned about leaving a duplicate with the band. It’s not like a photocopier, each copy of a copy getting shittier and shittier until it’s just a smear of black against the page. Each of him is exactly him, aside from the build up of different memories that he has to reconcile when he finally reabsorbs himself. He’s tested everything he can think of and none of his copies have ever done anything differently, for better or for worse, than he has. He still has that VHS recording of him at fourteen, breaking into the school music room so eight of him can all play Red Hot Chili Peppers Turn It Again together, in one of his Memories boxes. His duplicate won’t fail on stage, if he had any doubt he wouldn’t leave.
When he splits though, he opens his eyes to himself naked and his other self duplicated. It’s the one question he’s never been able to reconcile; if this is a one time accidental shift in primary consciousness, or if it always feel this way. Logically he knows he’s the duplicate, the balls that are trying to retreat into his body under the air conditioning is proof. But he doesn’t feel like the duplicate, and he knows if he questions the dressed Frank, that one will say he’s fully aware too.
“Look. You stay here, I’m going to go home.” Dressed him shrugs, and Frank grabs a dirty pair of underwear and one of the grimier shirts. He’ll have time to wash it before tour him will, might as well help alleviate some of the stink of the bus.
Frank doesn’t bother to check in during the flight home. There won’t be anything interesting going on, they won’t be at the venue yet, and even if they were they’ve pretty much been giving the rest of the asshole bands a wide berth. Mikey’s jokes and Ray watching Total Recall for the hundredth time aren’t worth it, not when he’s got one of the books a fan’s given him to read.
Knowing what’s going on with his other current bodies is like text messaging. It’s a basic summary, a content equivalent to a 150 character message. Frank asks what’s happening, and the duplicate tells him. Back in the beginning -and again after he told Mikey who instantly told Gerard- he tried, but all they can get is messages, not use each other’s senses. It’s on need to know basis though, privacy until whenever he next absorbs himself. It’s not like a parent calling home from a business trip, if he can’t trust a duplicate he literally can’t trust himself. That being said, if this is going to be a months long process he should probably brain text more often, so he’s not overwhelmed with five months worth of completely new memories the next time absorbs himself.
It’s not long from the airport to the house, and he’s got just enough cash to pay the cabbie, emergency credit card and all his other information with his duplicate. One benefit of being out is that he’ll be able to get multiple licences. Legal, even, compared to the handful of fakes he had in his Pencey era. He spaces on where the spare key is hidden this month and has to resort to ringing the doorbell, mentally apologising to Jamia when he can hear all of the dogs starting to freak out.
“What are you doing home? Oh. It’s not really you, is it? It’s one of your duplicates.”
Frank sighs and bends to pick up Bella before she can run for her favourite lamp post. “I’m going to be honest and tell you yes it is. But if I had lied you wouldn’t have noticed to be upset about it.”
“I would know.” Frank doesn’t want to start a fight so he doesn’t say anything, but she’s wrong. His selves are identical in mannerisms and appearance. Sometimes, if it’s been long enough, even he forgets if he’s the first or a duplicate until they touch and see which one absorbs the other.
“Bring her in, I’ll make coffee. I know airport coffee is shit.” Jamia’s smile is a bit weak, and Frank knows they’re going to have to talk about what the Texas show means for them. But that can at least wait until after a cup of home brew and a hug.
Part Two
Pete’s looking for baby bands on his laptop in the dining room. Patrick always gives him shit for it, he says the entire point of a laptop is that you can carry it around and use it in more comfortable places like couches or beds. There’s a bit of legitimacy to the statement, but Pete has a thing for huge tables. He’s been off tour for over a year and he still hasn’t gotten over the joy of an expanse of real wood instead of five square inches of plastic covered metal.
The table in question is a beautiful mahogany, enough varnish to make the parts that are still visible shiny as hell. It’s massive, seats twelve, even though only he and Patrick live in the house and when he’s got enough friends over to need twelve chairs it’s not the sort of event that involves a dinner party. Not that he would give up his table for that bunch of fuckers anyway. His table is his baby, his day planner and his file cabinet all at once. He’s got a system; different boxes, crates, and sticky notes scattered as needed. Pete’s got seven different shades of Post It notes stuck all over the flat surface. He can only get the lime ones in a grocery store fifty minutes from the house, but it’s worth it. Bedroom laptops might bring you comfort, but in Pete’s house the dining room makes him king.
It’s the sound of something shattering that distracts Pete from the dozens of MySpaces he has tabbed. The sound came from the living room, and it only takes Pete a second to click pause and wander down the hall to investigate. Either something legitimately broke or Patrick is pissed enough to break something. Either way Pete wants to see, curiosity too piqued to rest unsated.
Standing at the open door frame of the room it's easy to see that the second guess was right. Well actually Patrick has broken two somethings: a glass frame on the wall by throwing the remote control at it.
“While I commend your dedication to the exercise we’ll get walking to the tv to turn the channel old school style, you realise we have a new tv that doesn’t have buttons?”
Patrick glares and Pete is suddenly grateful for being on the opposite side of the room. Not that he hasn’t dealt with Patrick having a fit before. Hell, half the time they were touring he was the reason Patrick was having a fit. But there are only so many times your not-quite-boyfriend, not-quite-fuck-buddy can smash you against the side of the bus and attempt to strangle you before you learn the signs. It’s not that you stop bugging your not-quite-boyfriend not-quite-fuck-buddy, you just make sure to stay out of the physical harm blast zone.
Still, ninety nine percent of the time Pete’s willfulness outweighs his need to remain safe. Nobody ever said he wasn’t a glutton for punishment. “Seriously, what?”
Patrick gestures wildly at the tv and for the first time Pete recognises what he’s watching. It’s C-SPAN, the senate committee, and Senator Kelly appears to be being a total asshat to Jean Grey. Pete can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Why are you even watching this shit? You knew it was going to piss you off when you turned it on.”
“Right, because you’ve never done something you knew would upset you.”
Pete would call it a low blow, but it isn’t, not really. If Patrick wanted to get dirty Pete can think of a dozen things to bring up. “Look, it’s not gong to pass. They won't make a registry, it’s just a Republican campaign of lameness.”
“They outed her!”
Pete doesn’t understand his outburst, and while that happens semi-often -he and Patrick and Andy and Joe all have their incoherent moments- Pete figures that this is something that needs to be understood. “What?”
“Senator dickbag, he told the entire fucking nation about a girl from Illinois that can walk through walls, and then asked what would stop her from walking into a bank vault, or into the White House, or into people’s houses.”
Okay, Patrick’s tantrum makes a lot more sense now. Patrick’s tantrum actually makes entirely too much sense now, and Pete holds back from having his own freak out. “Are you gonna call her? Call the school?”
“Jean Grey fucking works there, I’m pretty sure she’ll find out.”
Right, he should have remembered that. But it’s not like he’s ever had a chance to chat up all the professors at the school. Shit, he was lucky that the Stumps considered him enough of a family member to not kick him out when Xavier came to talk about Kathrine. “Did they say her family’s name? Do we need to-”
“What? Make a statement that I disowned her when she turned, please don’t stop buying Fall Out Boy albums, we love our royalties?”
“Fuck you!” That Patrick would think that isn’t even ridiculous. It’s just fucking offensive. Pete narrowly avoids crossing the room and punching Patrick’s stupid trucker cap off his stupid head, managing to restrain himself to merely punching a hole in the drywall. They’re kind of fucked for fixing it later, the wall is covered in wallpaper, but he doesn't care about that now.
“Fuck you Pete,” Patrick says tiredly. The older he gets the quicker the swing from meltdown rage to exhaustion. Well, too fucking bad. Pete’s not even close to being done this conversation.
“When in the hell have I ever given the impression that I’m a Friend Of Humanity dickbag?”
“I’m sorry,” he says in the same tired tone. “You’re not. Can you not break my house now?”
“It’s my motherfucking house too!” It feels nice to shout. It’s even nicer to put emphasis on the words by punching a second hole in the wall. The torn wallpaper looks almost like eyelashes. “Don’t you ever fucking say I’m like them! Ever!”
“Jesus Christ Pete,” Patrick mutters, and part of Pete knows Patrick meant him to hear it, and an even smaller yet highly sensitive part of him knows Patrick is doing this on purpose, feels better when Pete flails and rages about something so he doesn’t have to, but his tone still pisses Pete off. His knuckles are bleeding, fingers starting to swell pink under the stain of slowly browning blood, but the wall still has an expanse of plaster and calm is far in the distance.
*
Bob knew when he agreed to do free sound he was doing it for a pro-mutant band. It would have been pretty much impossible to not know My Chemical Romance’s stand on mutant rights. Bob had been crammed in a few vans over the years, and My Chem was by far the most friendly. Most band members tended to slide headphones on and close their eyes for hours at a time, trying to give themselves some semblance of privacy. These guys weren’t like that, they were always talking, a combination of musing on potential crossovers and rehashing old stories.
Among other things, they all had mutant stories. Frank had a cousin that can make it snow, the entire neighbourhood knew and nearly everyone approved of Fourth of July pre-fireworks snowball fights. Mikey’s old roommate Rob could teleport, which made last minute beer runs convenient. Ray’s favourite teacher in high school was, when it got out she could put her hand on the overhead and remove it to find a sheet’s worth of notes written she almost got fired before the students protested. Gerard’s pretty much got a bug up his ass for equality rights of all kind. Hell, they toured with Midtown, one of the first mutcore bands. Ignoring all other instances, a month with Gabe Saporta would make you either love or hate mutants.
What he doesn’t find out until he’s already agreed to replacing Otter is that the band isn’t all human. It’s not a big reveal, or a confession, just him and Ray playing MarioKart on the newly gifted My Chem bus. Mikey's on the other couch plugging away at his DS and Frank’s face is pressed into a new book, misprinted with half the words in the margins, complaining every few pages but completely unwilling to bend the book further apart to read it -it breaks the spine, dude-, with Gerard passed out in his bunk after staying up all night drawing.
Ray presses his combo button and Yoshi shoots forward beyond the computer generated characters, Bob’s Luigi still in first place. He sighs apropos of nothing and says “I hope he learns to control himself soon.”
No one else replies to him, and Bob half wonders if he’s talking about computer generated Mario spinning out thanks to Bob’s dropped banana peel, but he still says “what?”
“Matt. His emotion squaring thing. I hope he learns to hold it in. Or at least not lose control somewhere where he’s gonna get the shit beat out of him.”
“What? Do you mean a power?”
“You didn’t know he’s a mutant? It’s not like we hid it in the van. Kind of impossible considering what it was. Every time one of us would get pissed suddenly the everyone was pissed. Or tired, or happy, or nostalgic, whatever.” So maybe Bob had felt a bit randomly moodswingy, it was nothing that couldn’t have been chalked up to weird European beer and feeling concerned about Gerard’s obvious problems. “Don’t get us wrong, we didn’t kick him out for being a mutant-”
Bob snorts, interrupting Ray’s explanation. “Yeah, I can’t see Gerard letting that happen.” Even while drunk, or detoxing, it’s the sort of thing the elder Way would raise hell about.
“It wasn’t like he was the only one with control issues. I wasn’t that great at times.”
Bob blinks, a fatal move that allows Yoshi to sneak past Luigi. He can’t be blamed though, he wasn’t really expecting that. “What? You’re-”
“Is this going to be a problem?” They’re Mikey’s first words, and he sounds even more guarded than he normally does.
Bob rolls his eyes. There’s not really a huge step from pro-mutant supporters to actual live mutants. If he was a bigot he wouldn’t have travelled overseas doing sound for them. “I just wanna know who I can’t jerk off around if they’re telepathic.”
Frank grins around the edges of his paperback. “You’re planning on jerking off around the rest of us? I dunno what they did on the tech buses but there are no circle jerks on the My Chem bus. Mikey and Gerard are brothers, and they both strongly believe that the other doesn’t have sex. A circle jerk would warp their fragile minds.”
“Fuck off. You know what I meant,” Bob grumbles, momentarily taking his hand off the controller to flip Iero off.
In response Frank neatly puts his book down in the crack of the cushion between Mikey and himself, then runs the three steps across the bus and tackles Bob. He hears rather than sees his car crash, and Ray giggling as he drives to victory instead of pausing and waiting for Bob to rid himself of Frank, the big fucking cheater. Even if video and board game stipulations say you’re required to play through Random Acts Of Frank, the rule is only good until it doesn’t benefit you. Frank starts humping Bob’s side, Bob working to dislodge him, preferably onto Ray in revenge. For all intents and purposes the conversation is over.
It comes up later though. It can’t not. They’ve moved onto Donkey Kong, switching the bongos back and forth between levels, the Way beside each other with Frank in the back talking to Jamia. Bob’s sort of grateful for the lack of significant other, it makes touring life a lot easier. Gerard’s drumming out his combos and failing miserably when Ray twists to look at him and says “it’s just me and Frankie now.”
“Really?” Bob gestures across the bus. “Neither of you?” The Ways seem sort of made for superpowers.
Mikey shrugs. “God’s way of laughing at us.” Gerard make a grunt of agreement, and Bob suspects in the future he’ll get a lecture about how unfair it is. But for now at least the bus is safe from a rant. Gerard's beat count is getting dangerously near zero and he’s too focused on getting bananas to start up.
“So what can you two do?” It would be great if Frank was a healer or a regenerator, considering how often he gets sick or hurt. Though, since he gets sick or hurt so often without getting better it’s a large hint to him not having that ability.
Ray smirks. “Guess.”
“Dude there are like a billion possible things. Literally.” It’s not exactly a special snowflake situation, Bob knows, some abilities like weather manipulation or telekinesis are more common. But for every ten people that can make shit float with their brain, there’s the one person that can walk into other people’s dreams, or suck nutrients out of dirt and cardboard.
“That’s why it’s called a guess, Bryar,” Mikey explains with a lilt to his voice.
“I have no idea.” He’s about to ask for a hint when Ray’s hair springs into action, waving hello before beginning to braid itself. “Huh. That really explains more than it doesn’t.”
“I know, right? Like with something that epic it practically demands to be able to move of it’s own accord.” The distraction costs Gerard the level, Donkey Kong plummets to the foliage and his beats go to 0. He doesn’t much seem to care, not even when a hank elongates far beyond normal length to stretch and grab the controller from him. In fact, the move seems to delight him. Bob can’t really blame him, it’s sort of awesome.
“How long can it get?”
“About ten feet, last time I checked.” His hair is playing the bongos, and doing a much better job than Gerard’s hands did. Bob feels like a bit of an asshole for gawking, but it’s really fucking cool.
Mikey adds “it can pull a stalled car too. It’s bad ass.”
It’s not until the third time that it comes up that Bob starts to have his doubts about the wisdom of being in a band with mutants. Matt’s revelations makes a lot of sense in hindsight, and Ray’s is hardly frightening. But when Frank wakes him up from his nap Bob momentarily questions the decision making skills of himself, the band, the universe, and God-and-or-Fate as one so chooses. When Frank is feeling nice he wakes Bob up with a snuggle. Relatively speaking for terms of nice, ninety nine percent of the time Frank wakes him up for no good reason beyond sleeping is for night time, the sun is up, Bob! When he’s feeling more impatient he shakes him until Bob tries to hit him.
When Bob wakes to a warmth down his side and hands on his shoulders he figures Frank just talked Mikey into joining his quest. Mikey has as little regard for sleep as Frank does. Then he opens his eyes and sees Frank hovering over him while at the same time Frank is curled beside him, face half buried in his hoodie. There’s only one explanation, but Bob finds himself hoping for a correction. “You can clone yourself?”
“Up to ten copies!” hovering!Frank says, obnoxiously loudly. Snuggling!Frank just presses closer into his side. A possibility of ten Frank Ieros. The world is doomed.
*
They’ve all got a lot of stuff to do, these days. Fall Out Boy going on hiatus didn’t in any way mean a calmer life for anyone, it just meant different. Sometimes Joe wonders how different, because they all still talk and text every day, they all still get recognised, they all still make music. It’s the little things that have changed. Having an expanse of cupboards with munchies instead of a foot of counter, everything crashing to the floor with a sudden stop. Not having dog hair on everything. He wonders if it’s the details that matter, if they knew when they broke up that only the smallest things would change, or if they really, naively thought whole new worlds would open. There’s nothing new about this, it’s almost like travelling back in time; Pete setting the public opinion on what’s cool and what’s not, Patrick using instruments instead of his voice, him and Andy greasy and reeking in a van. It’s like they’re all back in 1999.
Still, hard rock and acapella and club vs pop-punk, the beat of music has to forever go on. It’s kind of scary, kind of right that Pete’s now in charge of making sure that happens. When he asks Joe to come with him to listen to a fledgling band in Nevada he doesn’t think for a minute before saying yes. Joe’s got an eye for bands, at least as good as Pete, if not better. Pete just thinks more about stuff like marketability, how to explain to those with money why it should be them. Joe’s better with just pointing and saying ‘it needs to be them’.
The band really is a fledgling band, in the baby sense of the term, not the bird sense. There’s no way they’re older than sixteen, and even though Joe was out around that age it looks different from the other side. The band is also incomplete, apparently the bassist and the drummer are both busy. Pete looks congenial, which puts the singer at ease a bit because he doesn’t know Pete’s normal attitude, doesn’t know nice doesn’t bode well for them. Yeah, it’s a pretty bad sign when half the band can’t be bothered to show up for potentially being signed, but Joe doesn’t want to leave yet. He heard the tracks on the flight, amongst other things Pete found online and had to show him. Electronica isn’t Joe’s strongest suit, but he thinks it could be a thing.
Joe’s seen people flush with frustration before. You don’t go on tour without seeing meltdowns in multiple forms. Combinations of close quarters, lack of hygeine, interrupted sleep, bad food and demanding fans can make for pretty interesting outbursts. Andy throws things, but Patrick always was the ‘blush then try to break Pete’s hyoid bone’ type. If half of Joe’s band bailed he’d be pissed, so he can understand how the kid with the guitar is feeling. The thing is, flushing involves pink to red skin. Ryan is kind of green-yellow, like the sickly glow in the dark stars still in Joe’s room at his parents house.
They start the song and it goes pretty well, sounds as decent as it can with the laptop playing the part of the missing drummer and the synth behind it. Joe can see teenagers getting into this, can picture people leaving it on rather than changing the channel when it comes on the radio while driving. And the singer, Brendon, he’s pretty hot, which might not matter if Pete was looking for metal, but matters for this type of music.
Then Brendon trips in one of the many cracks in the concrete floor of the garage. He plays it off pretty well, all considering. He doesn’t burst into a flurry of swears -again, something that could work in metal but not for electronica-, he even continues singing on his knees, like a missed handshake turns into a hair swoop, an I meant to do that movement. It’s the guitarist that lights up with fury. Literally. He gets brighter and brighter until it’s like looking into a fluorescent tube from an inch away. “Brendon, could you at least attempt professionalism?”
It’s the last word that breaks it completely. The light floods out of Ryan and hangs in the air; a five foot ten oval of light. Joe looks away immediately. Staring at that is probably as unhealthy as staring at the sun. Brendon stops singing and only the sounds from the laptop remain.
Into the relative silence Joe asks “was that necessary?” He’s not sure if he’s talking about the random showing off of mutant ability, or the intra-band yelling. A bit of both, really, both are dick moves, and it’s pretty lucky for them that Pete’s not turned off by assholish behaviour. Ryan doesn’t comment. Joe turns his head back. If Ryan’s smirking, screw the decent music, he’s gonna tell Pete it’s not happening. They’ll never get a good tour going if other bands and techs all hate them, and if he’s an asshole to someone in a higher position than him, he’ll definitely be an asshole to fans, and that’s never cool.
Ryan’s not smirking. Instead he’s staring at his hands, which hold a residual glow. Brendon is staring at him too, blinking rapidly like he never bothered to look away from the burst of light. Brendon’s shock-awe and Ryan’s shock-horror make Joe think that this is something new. Before he can ask Pete steps in. “Was that your first?” Ryan doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even move, but it’s obvious. “It’s okay, you’re all right. No one’s gonna tell. No one’s gonna hurt you.”
Brendon stands and makes his way over to Ryan, watching his feet so he doesn’t wipe out again. Joe’s expecting him to curl an arm around his shoulders, say it’s fine, or that he’ll be great to lean against in order to read in their van, or something else kind and vaguely amusing that’ll take the edge off the situation. Instead he leans in close but doesn’t actually touch him, except maybe mouth to ear. He says loud enough for everyone in the room to hear “auditioning for Pete Wentz. Pull it together, Ross.”
It’s hardly kind, or tension relieving, but it seems to work. Ryan stands up straighter, shakes his head until his fringe is directly covering his eyes. His glowing hands settle over the strings as Brendon fiddles with the computer until it starts playing their next track.
Mutant guitarist or not, they’re good. Pete looks over to Joe at the end of the three songs, but his nod is just saying what he knows Pete’s already thinking. Hell, between the soft spot he has for Patrick’s sister, and the way he likes to push equality, mutant guitarist probably makes it better. Pete gives them the yes, and it’s hardly surprising that Ryan shoots out another oval of light. If he’s a newbie he must have less than no control.
“We need to go to the hotel. We haven’t even dropped our shit off, just came straight here. But we’ll hang out tomorrow, go for lunch or something, talk about what this means, what else you guys need to do to be ready for a tour, okay?”
Both of the kids seem terrified by the idea. “Look, we’re not going to disappear. We can’t, neither of us are mutants. But if you want...” Joe plunges his hand into Brendon’s pocket, and sure enough finds a cell phone in it. He quickly programs two numbers. “Those are us. Not Decaydance, but us. If you need to call at four in the morning to make sure we haven’t turned into pumpkins, call him. He’ll most likely still be awake. Men like me need our sleep.”
Ryan coolly thanks him, obviously embarrassed at being so transparent. Brendon doesn’t have the same issues. “It’s just.... Really, you’re signing us? Really?”
If Joe was a jerk he’d laugh at his enthusiasm. Instead he just pats on Brendon on his slightly wriggling shoulder and says “yep, time to run home and tell mom and dad you made it.”
It’s like someone has slammed a door right into him. The table the laptop is on jolts away from Brendon too, only Pete’s quick movement saves it from shattering on the concrete. Of course, Joe’s the only one on his ass. Directly behind him is the table, in front of him is the invisible wall that hit him, meaning he can’t get up. “Could you, like, turn that shit off?”
“No? I don’t really know how to control it? It just sorta happened? Sorry.”
“Shit, you too?”
Pete pushes the table along the wall, leaving a space for Joe to stand up in. Of course he can’t be content with helping, he needs to explain too. “Occurs with stressors, Joe. Good or bad. It’s not every day you get signed to a label.”
Half an hour later Pete is in the middle of convincing Joe the complimentary coffee at the hotel isn’t worthy of their mouths, they need to call a cab to take them to Starbucks. Of all the members of all the bands Joe’s ever been a part of, he’s the least picky person he’s ever met when it comes to coffee. He could drink decade old grounds mixed with dirt and cookie crumbs and enjoy it. But Pete’s got a mighty whine, and most of the time it’s easier to give in than try to fight. Joe’s just about to capitulate when his phone vibrates. A quick glance reveals a text from Ryan. He wonders if it was a mistake to give them both their personal numbers, but it’s too late now if it was. Hopefully he’s just a frequent texter, not someone that’s going to post the numbers online.
went to tell spencer the news.
Joe’s pretty sure that’s the missing drummer, not the missing bassist. Joe sincerely hopes he shows up to the brunch-lunch-whatever the fuck Pete decides tomorrow, otherwise the future of Panic At The Disco is pretty fucked. One busy is on the fringe of acceptable, two is straight up bailing. As he starts to type in a reply, a second text comes in, then a few more in rapid succession.
he’s bright pink.
can blow bubbles with his mind.
he won’t come out of the bedroom.
can you tell him he’s going to be fine.
Apparently Pete’s gotten the same thing, or at least something close. “I think they need to go to the School.”
Joe knows it’s futile but he says it anyway. “You’re not their dads.”
Sure enough, “like their dads will know how to deal.” So not only is Pete their future manager, he’s also adopted them. Joe should have seen it coming. He can only hope Patrick won’t kick his ass for it.
*
The new kids have been around for about a week when Rogue decides to talk to the shaggy haired boy. Something has to be done, has to be said before he gets in too deep. In some ways she’s really most qualified. She scares people, boxes them into the arm of the couch and waits until they’re willing to listen to her. At this point it’s likely that shagboy needs to be scared straight; he wouldn’t have gotten this far if he had the ability to not succumb to peer pressure. Rogue’s not sure which one of the three forced him into it, but it should be relatively easy to make him think again. They’re losing their tight grip on each other, each having hooked up with their own mutant buddy. Rogue’s pretty sure none of the teachers actually asked someone to be the new teens’ friends, show them the ropes. Various people just stepped up to the challenge because that’s how it works here, people doing what needs to be done.
The hyperactive one is the only boy she actually knows the name of. He’s Brendon, still insisting that he doesn’t need a mutant name, that pretty soon he’ll have learned what he needs to, and the only thing anyone will have to call him is the hot singer from Panic At The Disco that I used to know. Rogue thinks it’s pathetic that he actually thinks he’ll ever have a life beyond what his power is. At most he’ll be bodyguard for a band, protecting them inside his range. That is, if he ever gains control. She only remembers his name because every time he fidgets in class his powers turn on, pushing all the desks and chairs around him away, and the teachers have to remind him about control. He and Jubilee suit each other, they’re both complete spazzes. The one with the facial expressions has fallen head over heels with Boom Boom. And the sarcastic one has bonded with King of Rude, St John Allerdyce, for which she can only be grateful. Rogue can only hope if they become best friends John will detach himself from her boyfriend. Not only will she no longer have to put up with his prescence, Bobby will stop hanging with a bad influence.
But that’s not the point. The point is Brendon and Mr Expression and Sarcastic are all having random outbursts of their power, like they should be. It’s the reason Xavier accepted their admission to the School. Shaghair on the other hand, has had a single slip of power in the seven days he’s been here. Not just not in front of her, Rogue’s asked around and everyone says the same. Brent, apparently, is in complete control of his mutant ability. Which means only one thing.
It’s surprisingly easy to get him alone. It’s a moment long inquiry to find out he shares a room with Brendon on the third floor, and all she has to do beyond that is wait in one of the games rooms until Brent splits from the herd. She can’t really blame him, his friends are being stupid. Brendon is trying to get Jubilee to shock him before his forcefield pops up, Map Walker filming the whole thing. Expressions is trying to convince Colossus to draw him a picture of Boom Boom, and Bobby and John and Sarcastic are talking about something, though she’s not really listening.
When Brent goes to his room she follows a few feet behind him. She might not be the best at stealth in the Danger Room, but she can at least handle walking behind somebody. Once he’s in the room she enters, and leans against the door. It’s foolproof, no one would risk pushing her aside. “I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“Um. I’m, uh, a mutant?”
“Hardly. You haven’t had a single flux since you got here. Unless, wait, is it just ‘cause this is a better atmosphere, and at home you were breaking out?” That would be understandable.
“No? I mean, sometimes I had to tell my mom to not use that dogfood because Whiskey hated it. And Kelly had this budgie, and it hated me, and I couldn’t make out with her if it was in the room. But no. But I mean, it’s nice here too, I’m not dissing here.”
Rogue blinks. Surely she didn’t hear right. His mom knew and only altered the pet’s menu instead of freaking out that her kid spoke to dogs? “Seriously, if your parents and your girlfriend don’t care what are you doing here? You’re completely passable, it’s not like you’re Pixie.”
“My band is here,” Brent shrugs, like it’s that simple.
“And your life is at home. Do you know how often I wish I could go home? Everyone here does, even if they pretend not to. Even if their homes were really really bad. You can’t just throw that away!”
“Pete Wentz was gonna sign us.”
“Maybe. If the rest of your band learns control. Or maybe he’ll want a drummer that isn’t bright pink, or a singer that can touch people.”
Brent shrugs again. “I don’t think that’s a thing. He’s the one that brought us here, he’s not scared of mutants. It could work. You wouldn’t really see Spencer on the back of the stage, and if Ryan lost control they’d just think it was a lighting malfunction or something.”
“There’s a difference between not being scared and thinking they’re marketable. I know the band means a lot to you, obviously it does or you wouldn’t be here. But you need to think about it. Are Brendon and Spencer and Ryan really more important than your mom and dad and girlfriend? Forget them, are your band mates really more important than your own life? You could have one, if you don’t decide to throw it away.” She’ll never have anything more than fighting for the X-Men, and eventually dying, or going insane from all the leeched people’s voices spinning in her brain. Brent though, he could be different. He could go to college, or have a career. Something real.
“Are you done lecturing me now?” His voice doesn’t give her hope. His gaze, on the other hand, does. He’s staring at his phone, and everyone knows that nine times out of ten if he’s texting he’s talking to his girlfriend. If he wants to talk to her that means he wants to see her, which means she’s won. Brent’s life sorted out she goes back down the stairs to attempt to pry Bobby from the two jerk brunets. With Logan gone Bobby’s the only other male that interests her, and she hardly wants to share him.
*
Gerard doesn’t know Frank’s going to do something until it’s already done. The set list calls for Thanks For The Venom next, but as Gerard’s waiting for the guys to start the fans seem to flip out about something, and the amount of cameras and cell phones raised in the air doubles at the least. Gerard whirls, expecting Frank to be doing a headstand or kicking Mikey in the nuts. He’s not, what he’s doing is far more interesting.
What he’s doing, is splitting. There are suddenly three Frank Ieros on stage. By no means the limit of what he can do, but they’ve been really fucking careful to cover for Ray and Frank all these years, and even two Franks would be more than anyone would expect.
It doesn’t stop there. One of them grabs Mikey’s bass, another Ray’s guitar. Gerard wonders for a moment if they were all in cahoots for this, or if Frank stealthily learned the other two parts. Either way he doesn’t have long to think about it before he has to bust in with “sister, I’m not much a poet, but a criminal...”
After they’re done, Gerard knows this is his chance to say something. Frank is going to absorb himself soon, and sure they’ll have to answer interviews for the next ten years, but this is the shining moment, the first reveal. Tonight is going to be viewed a million times or more on Youtube, and Gerard wants to make it good.
“Who here is a fuckin’ mutant!” the crowd is conspicuously quiet for Americans, it’s like they’re touring Japan again. “Who wants to be?” near silence, and that’s just not cool. “Every fucking body does! Be proud, and fucking loud! I wanna see everyone who can do something without hurting somebody show your shit off! I can feel you, can you feel me?”
A ball of flame bursts into the air in one corner, a swift breeze from another corner drifting it higher and stronger for a moment before the owner of the first extinguishes it. A girl’s voice pummels I’m oh fucking kay into his head and surely the head of everyone else in the building.
“You think me and Frank on each other is great?” Confused by the new state of affairs or not, the fangirls know what they like and are vocal about it. “You wait until it’s Frank on Frank!” A group scream erupts and somewhere between that and the thoughts he’s put in his own head Gerard finds his hand rubbing over his crotch. Unconscious move at first, he continues it long enough that he knows there will be pictures on Tumblr.
“Do you motherfuckers hear what I hear?” The fans seem to surge like being nearer the stage will let them know what he’s talking about. Gerard theatrically cups a hand to his ear. “Iiiiii hear a kiss chant.”
The fans know a cue when they hear it. Within seconds the entire stadium is rocking with kiss, kiss, kiss. For a minute Gerard thinks the Franks are gonna do it. Instead bass Frank seizes Mikey, rhythm Frank goes after Ray and first Frank attempts to get Bob on the rider. First Frank has the worst luck, Bob using his drums like a shield and rapping Frank’s knuckles when he tries to reach over. Ray gamely stands still for a peck, but Toro’s always been straight. If it wasn’t too awkward to contemplate Gerard would say Mikey seems to be enjoying his kiss with Frank. Gerard himself gets no love, but that’s fine, he can wait until after the concert.
After bass Frank is finished, Mikey reluctantly letting go of his ass, both duplicates rush to Frank. It only takes thirty seconds for him to absorb them. Gerard’ll never get sick of watching it, even if he and Frank are still best friends at ninety. It looks freakin’ cool; first he wiggles like jello then he gets sucked into himself.
The rest of the night goes by in a flash, singing and making the occasional pro-mutant comment. He’s never hidden his beliefs, but tonight’s the first night it’s come up on stage. Later, when they’re signing, a boy with a mohawk makes Gerard’s pen dance in a six inch tall tornado. He thanks him for being an out mutant, and that’s when Gerard realises lines might have gotten a bit crossed. He’s not going to take it back though, not now. Not when it’s so important.
Unfortunately not everyone feels the same way. He’s barely had time to change into a hoodie when both My Chem’s manager and the singer of the headline band climb onto the bus. Everyone else is on a munchies run, and Gerard doesn’t really want to have this conversation, but better him than Frank.
Chris starts. “Gerard, you’re seriously like one cause away from being U2. Don’t make this tour be lame. Please.”
“It’s not lame to care. And for the record I’m not the one that outed us. Not that I’m pissed at Frank or anything, it was about damn time, really.” He scratches his cheek and shakes his hair back into position. “I’m just making My Chem’s stance clear.”
“You’re lying about what you are. It’s worse than your stupid stage gay. That pisses off the fans, and this is going to make shit a lot worse.”
Gerard doesn’t even know where to start. This is exactly why he had reservations about this tour, the headliners are fucking tools. “I’m positive I’ve already informed the crowd that if they don’t like it they can break their CDs and burn their shirts, we don’t fucking want their money. It’s not stage gay, I’m not doing it to get fans off, I can make out with guys if I want to, it’s fun. And no one gave Tatu shit. Why are bi women safe and bi men aren’t?”
That’s when the manager steps in, fingers pinched on the bridge of his nose. “Holy shit, Gerard. I’m not getting into a sexuality in society debate with you right now, that’s not the point of this.”
“Then what?” Gerard’s almost certain whatever he says, he’s not going to like it.
“What do you think? Frank is a mutant, and you’re spouting mutant propaganda and I’m the one that has to deal with it.”
“No. Frank is. Frank is the one they’ll hate for no reason, Frank’s the one they might bottle, and Frank’s the one that’ll have to do a hundred stupid interviews. I’m rubbing against whoever I want to rub against, I’m cheering on every mutant fan, and you know what? Maybe My Chem will refund ticket money for every teenager that gets into a fist fight with some Friend of Humanity fucker.”
“We’re never touring with you again, just so you know.”
“Fucking gladly.” As far as ultimatums go, it’s incredibly weak. Gerard can say pretty conclusively that no one in the band actually wants to be with this group of assholes anymore.
“Fuck you, cocksucking mutie.”
Gerard smirks. “Is that supposed to be offensive? What part do you wanna hear about first, Frank’s dick in my ass, or Frank’s dick in my ass while his second body’s dick is in my mouth?” Not that that’s ever happened, Frank doesn’t duplicate in bed, but Chris doesn’t need to know that.
He takes a swing before he’s dragged out of the bus. They’ll probably want to conceal the black eye with make up tomorrow, but Gerard plans on using the darkest blue eyeshadow he can find to highlight it. If the band is taking a stance, they’re going to be active about it.
*
With Ryan and him sharing a room things really do become much easier. At least, it’s easier for what John’s planning, and for them in general. Spencer and Bobby might feel hurt but fuck them. John’s not spending another minute sleeping in the same room as Bobby, not if he doesn’t have to.
While John hates Spencer so Ryan doesn’t have to -Ryan does the same for Bobby for his benefit- John has to grant Spencer that at least he doesn’t know why Ryan and Bobby switched rooms. He even went as far as asking Jean Grey if it’s possible that Ryan’s allergic to the bubbles his pores are constantly blowing. Ryan’s truly in love with an idiot. Everyone can see how head over heels Ryan is, his poker face only works on things not Spencer Smith related. Even their spazzy, innocent Mormon friend knows. He said he felt bad for not offering to share with Ryan, but the roommate that got slotted into Brent’s spot was still having instability issues and Brendon didn’t want to make them worse.
Ryan hasn’t told Spencer how he feels, and John’s not sure he ever will. His crush on Bobby is different. It’s less secret, more unrequited. Except it’s not even that. Bobby’s told him he likes him too, but Rogue is easier. It’s the biggest load of bullshit John’s ever heard. Of course Rogue is easier, Bobby doesn’t have to show her any affection. Sometimes he doesn’t need Ryan to hate Bobby, he can do it just fine all by himself.
For the last two days they’ve been sharing a room. John used a basketful of different techniques to convince Bobby it was for the best if he moved all his shit into Spencer’s room, and between the fire nipping at his eyebrows and the threats to download gay porn onto his computer and show Blaire, who would tell Rogue, Bobby left. It’s their mutual hope that proximity widening will make their feelings less aching. John hopes more than that though. He’s never been in love before, but he does remember being at the gay youth club at home before he manifested. Wanting a particular guy with an eyebrow piercing and being turned down, only feeling pain until the guy in the mohawk took him to his car for mutual blowjobs. If love is as fickle as lust, it might be possible to force himself into wanting Ryan.
When he mentions it to Ryan, he doesn’t shoot him down immediately. Instead Ryan nestles his pen in the spine of his journal and closes the cover. John’s known him long enough to know that means he’s composing his thoughts. He’s expecting a list of reasons why he’s a moron for suggesting it. On the contrary Ryan gracefully unfolds himself from the middle of the bed and takes the few strides to him. Before John can open his mouth, Ryan’s hands are on him, pulling him tight against him. It’s moments before Ryan’s tongue is in his mouth, John provides no resistance.
Ryan pulls away, face flat. “So that didn’t work.”
“At all,” John adds, biting to Ryan’s dry.
It’s unfortunate, really. Ryan has just about the perfect personality, sarcastic, blunt, strong. And it’s not like he’s a dog either. John prefers thicker guys, but then, so does Ryan. But before Bobby he didn’t really have a type, just slept with whatever guy came up to him. If he’s to understand Brendon, Ryan didn’t really have a before Spencer. That probably makes it harder and easier.
“You want to fuck anyway?”
“Might as well.”
Ryan starts to strip, pulls the worn tongue of his studded belt out of the ornate skeleton buckle. John follows suit, sort of. He just has jeans and a long sleeved shirt, he doesn’t have a vest to hang over the desk chair, or a newsboy cap to take off.
“Do you want to top or bottom?”
“I’m not a virgin,” John snaps. He’s not in any sense of the word, though the girl thing was a mistake which is not be repeated.
“Didn’t say you were,” Ryan replies. It’s the smooth tone of someone not wanting to bog down a hook-up, John would recognise it anywhere.
“I don’t care, I just want to get off.”
“I’ll bottom then.” It’s probably a good thing, really. He’s not a virgin, but he hasn’t been fucked since he came to the school. If Ryan’s as well versed in this as he is, he’s probably much more prepared, being so new to the school.
It goes simply, like sex normally does. His fingers inside Ryan with probably too much lube dripping down his hand and onto the sheets, Ryan’s bony leg digging in where it’s curled around him. His cock inside Ryan with probably not enough lube, just a quick movement of his hand on his dick before he presses in. Ryan biting his lip, then John biting it for him. The small extras that make it different for mutants; Ryan creating a blaze of light above them as he comes, John incinerating an illicit cigarette someone is smoking on the first floor.
After, John can’t help but ask. He knows the truth of the situation, but he’s never been good at not pushing, and so he asks. “You magically fall in love with me?”
“No. You magically fall in love with me?”
“No.”
Ryan scratches at the come on his stomach, already starting to dry to a crust. “It was a long shot.”
“Yeah.”
It’s Ryan that speaks up again, minutes later, after he’s back to fully dressed and part combed to perfection. “It’ll do though, until.”
“Yeah, until,” John agrees. They can both hope, it never hurts to hope.
*
If you ask him, Frank’s power is the best of anyone he knows. Yes, June snowmen are an entertaining waste of time, and it’s true that Gabe's ability to be whomever he wants to be for a few short hours could be fun and or useful. But Frank is the only person he knows that doesn’t have to have what ifs. Maybe even the only person in the world, some abilities like telepathy are more common, but he’s never heard of another splitter.
He’s missed a lot of the earlier once in a lifetime chances, some combination of a stupid desire to be normal and lack of confidence in his control mixing to stifle himself. He never took Steve to prom, he went with Jamia instead. His major at Rutgers was psychology, even though culinary arts had a sort of siren call with it. It’s not that he regrets anything, it would be hard to look back and curse the road he took while he’s standing in the place he is. But Frank knows how to handle himself now, and he knows he never again has to worry about what ifs, or either-or situations. He is now officially done with Schrodinger box, he’s going to be both cats from now on.
Now that he’s out, Frank has plans.
Frank knows better than to check any media before he leaves. Sure, there will be a ton of people that are cool with him. But there will be just as many saying he’s going to ‘convert their children’, like it’s possible to choose to be a mutant. Just like sexual orientation, it’s at least partially genetics and hormones. And just like sexual orientation, if it was a choice, a good portion would probably choose to be ‘normal’. Gerard’s antics aside, not everything thinks being a mutant is the best thing in the world. Still, there’s only so often he can have the it’s not a choice, dickbag conversation before declaring the person a deaf, blind, and dumb lost cause. He’s in too good of a mood this morning to deal with the hate mail.
Hell, he doesn’t really even want the positive stuff. It’s only been a day, and already his inbox is full. He’s been avoiding opening any of it, he already knows what it’s all going to be. They’re going to ask him to show up at rallys, to do campaigns. Frank just wants to be out, he doesn’t want to be a spokesman of the year. They might give Gerard shit sometimes, but last night was at least partly because of him. Frank knows Gerard believes everything he said, but he might not have said it in front of a crowd of two thousand if Frank hadn’t outed himself. Gerard put himself in the spotlight to take it a least a bit off him. Now they’ll do revealing interviews of the same five questions for thirty different magazines together, instead of just Frank suffering alone.
Except this him isn’t going to be doing any interviews. Or at least not manager approved ones. He’s gonna get TMZ or Perez Hilton blitzes, unflattering pictures as he picks up dog food, because he’s going home. Or rather, one of him is, the other staying on tour. They have a very clear exception list, it’s understood and accepted that he will always have Gee and she will always have Erin. But if he can really be home all the time as well as playing all the time, life will be perfect.
Frank’s not concerned about leaving a duplicate with the band. It’s not like a photocopier, each copy of a copy getting shittier and shittier until it’s just a smear of black against the page. Each of him is exactly him, aside from the build up of different memories that he has to reconcile when he finally reabsorbs himself. He’s tested everything he can think of and none of his copies have ever done anything differently, for better or for worse, than he has. He still has that VHS recording of him at fourteen, breaking into the school music room so eight of him can all play Red Hot Chili Peppers Turn It Again together, in one of his Memories boxes. His duplicate won’t fail on stage, if he had any doubt he wouldn’t leave.
When he splits though, he opens his eyes to himself naked and his other self duplicated. It’s the one question he’s never been able to reconcile; if this is a one time accidental shift in primary consciousness, or if it always feel this way. Logically he knows he’s the duplicate, the balls that are trying to retreat into his body under the air conditioning is proof. But he doesn’t feel like the duplicate, and he knows if he questions the dressed Frank, that one will say he’s fully aware too.
“Look. You stay here, I’m going to go home.” Dressed him shrugs, and Frank grabs a dirty pair of underwear and one of the grimier shirts. He’ll have time to wash it before tour him will, might as well help alleviate some of the stink of the bus.
Frank doesn’t bother to check in during the flight home. There won’t be anything interesting going on, they won’t be at the venue yet, and even if they were they’ve pretty much been giving the rest of the asshole bands a wide berth. Mikey’s jokes and Ray watching Total Recall for the hundredth time aren’t worth it, not when he’s got one of the books a fan’s given him to read.
Knowing what’s going on with his other current bodies is like text messaging. It’s a basic summary, a content equivalent to a 150 character message. Frank asks what’s happening, and the duplicate tells him. Back in the beginning -and again after he told Mikey who instantly told Gerard- he tried, but all they can get is messages, not use each other’s senses. It’s on need to know basis though, privacy until whenever he next absorbs himself. It’s not like a parent calling home from a business trip, if he can’t trust a duplicate he literally can’t trust himself. That being said, if this is going to be a months long process he should probably brain text more often, so he’s not overwhelmed with five months worth of completely new memories the next time absorbs himself.
It’s not long from the airport to the house, and he’s got just enough cash to pay the cabbie, emergency credit card and all his other information with his duplicate. One benefit of being out is that he’ll be able to get multiple licences. Legal, even, compared to the handful of fakes he had in his Pencey era. He spaces on where the spare key is hidden this month and has to resort to ringing the doorbell, mentally apologising to Jamia when he can hear all of the dogs starting to freak out.
“What are you doing home? Oh. It’s not really you, is it? It’s one of your duplicates.”
Frank sighs and bends to pick up Bella before she can run for her favourite lamp post. “I’m going to be honest and tell you yes it is. But if I had lied you wouldn’t have noticed to be upset about it.”
“I would know.” Frank doesn’t want to start a fight so he doesn’t say anything, but she’s wrong. His selves are identical in mannerisms and appearance. Sometimes, if it’s been long enough, even he forgets if he’s the first or a duplicate until they touch and see which one absorbs the other.
“Bring her in, I’ll make coffee. I know airport coffee is shit.” Jamia’s smile is a bit weak, and Frank knows they’re going to have to talk about what the Texas show means for them. But that can at least wait until after a cup of home brew and a hug.
Part Two