More Than You Could Ever Know 5/8
*
Given the general filth of the rest of the bus, Frank was actually surprised to find that not only was Gerard's bunk relatively neat, but it smelled faintly sweet, like something from Bath and Body Works. Then again, he wouldn't have found it the slightest bit odd to learn that Gerard had some crazy beauty routine in spite of his famed allergy to showers. Gerard was a contradiction like that, and besides, he had the most amazing skin. He had to do something to keep it so clear and smooth.
Outside, rain slanted against the side of the bus, pinging in a comforting sort of way. They had the day off and were all holding their breath that the rain would stop sometime before tomorrow morning, in time to dry before the show. Right now the grounds were one big standing mud puddle.
The weather being what it was, no one was venturing out to explore St. Louis. Some of the bands were using the weather as an excuse to start early with their partying, but Frank's band had just made puppy-eyes at him until he'd heaved the sigh of a true martyr and trudged over to craft services so they could have naked times.
Apparently there'd been an incident with MCR's coffee maker, Mikeyway, and a metal fork--Frank didn't really get the details because Gerard was babbling in his caffeine deprivation--but it meant that Gerard dragged Frank back to his bus along with the coffee from the tent, loaned him a dry shirt and sweatpants, and proceeded to pull out his various sketch pads and show Frank all his ideas for the Killjoys and unpublished Umbrella Academy storylines and characters, and random little doodles.
Sometime late in the afternoon, Brendon texted that it was safe to come back, but as far as Frank was concerned, his band could have all the sex in the world, whenever they wanted, if it always ended up like this.
"Are you seriously going to go pink for this?" Frank asked gleefully, when they flipped to the page for Gerard's character.
"What? You don't think I could pull it off?" Gerard tugged thoughtfully at his hair. "The blond was--well, it served it's purpose. I wanted to do something fun."
Frank arched his brows. "Pink is fun."
"Oh, shut up," Gerard muttered, nudging him in the side with a sharp elbow. "It's more red than pink, and like you have any room to talk."
It was true. Due no doubt to some combination of exposure to the sun and using whatever cheap shampoo was on hand when he stumbled upon a shower, Frank's hair had gone from vibrant blue to a soft, pastel lavender colour over the course of the past month. It wasn't exactly his scene, but his band liked it, so he hadn't messed with it. He grabbed a fistful of it, twisting it up and said, "I've been thinking about cutting it."
"Your mohawk?" Gerard sounded downright scandalised.
Frank shrugged. “It's not a real mohawk anyway. I've let the sides get way too long, and I don't know. I've had it like this forever. Made people uncomfortable back home, ya know, and I liked that. But now...I think I'd like it long all over." He went still when Gerard reached out and ran a gentle hand through his hair, arranging it along his cheekbone with a thoughtful expression.
"You and Brendon don't ever talk about home that much," Gerard said. Frank felt his lips pull back in a scowl.
"What's there to say, man? It's the same old fucking story. It sucked, we didn't fit in--me worse than Brendon--I did whatever I could to challenge authority and I was in trouble all the time, and I had all of four fucking friends, and once Brendon left, there wasn't much point sticking around, so I got out as soon as I had the chance."
"Sorry," Gerard said. "I--"
"Nah, look, it's just." Frank huffed a sigh. He kind of felt like the world's biggest douchebag. Getting all defensive any time Gerard brought up home or Christmas (though he probably hadn't put the two together), like he was some mysterious hero in a teen romance novel. Jesus.
"Where we come from--It was a really small town. Everyone knew everyone, literally, and you were expected to do the same job your parents had done and their parents before them, and you were supposed to like it. And the fucked up thing was that everyone did. Everyone there was so goddamn cheerful all the time, which just made it worse for us, being the two who didn't get it, who didn't want it.
“Even Pete and Patrick and Greta--they were great. I love 'em, but they were so fucking happy, and it made me want scream, like don't you get there's a whole fucking world of possibilities outside of this place? But they all had this mentality that only a crazy person would want to leave.”
Frank shook his head, frowning when he remembered the night Brendon had made up his mind to finally go. "Man, even me. When Brendon said he was leaving, I just. I didn't believe him. We wanted to, we talked about it, but it never seemed like a real possibility. We didn't know anyone, we didn't have any fucking money, how the hell were we supposed to leave? But he fucking did it, man, and when San--when they sent me to go bring him back, I knew I couldn't ask him to do that. Even before I found him and met Jon and Ryan and Spencer. I missed him so goddamn much, but how could I ask him to come back when I was so fucking miserable?"
Gerard leaned his shoulder into Frank's. "That sucks man. I mean, Jersey's never gonna win any best childhood experience prize, but at least I had Ray and Mikey and my art."
"You know, me and Brendon used to turn the volume all the way up and scream along to I'm Not Okay whenever things got really shitty."
"Yeah?" Gerard asked, the first hints of a smile curling the corners of his lips. "Hey, it's not finished yet, but." He levered himself off the bed and disappeared into the front lounge. Frank could hear clothes and papers being riffled through, and Gerard came back baring a new sketch pad triumphantly. "I only just started it a few days ago."
"We were talking about incorporating some of our friends into the videos," Gerard explained as Frank began to flip through it. "Gabe as Show Pony."
Frank could totally see him rocking the look in star-spangled spandex and roller-blades. He stopped short when he got to the page labeled Fallout Boy.
The sketch was unmistakably of him, accurate right down to the piercings and the tattoos. He looked vaguely military-esque, in his old army vest and black fatigues. The shirt was a shocking contrast in bright yellow and black, with a smoking bee across the chest. The mismatched sleeves cut off at the elbow and mid-forearm, and multi-coloured wristbands and prayer beads decorated his arms down to the black, fingerless gloves. He was wearing a pretty badass leather holster with a bright green raygun peeking out, and his mask was a bright purple and green Frankenstein head like something out of the seventies. And.
"Am I glowing?"
"That's where you get your name!" Gerard said. "It's because of your exposure to radiation, like the Glowing Ones in Fallout! You have these powers of regeneration and shit and you have your own gang that operate out of Nevada instead of California, but sometimes you guys come help us out! What do you think? I mean, I'll have to change your hair, I guess, but other than that..."
"But why am I glowing? Why does my character glow?" Frank asked. His heart was caught in his throat.
Gerard looked down at his own hands. "Sometimes when you're performing or when you're really happy you. You just...you look like you're glowing."
Frank resisted the urge to panic. It wasn't like his character could float, or make it snow. He should be focusing on the fact that Gerard Way had drawn him into his comic--wanted him to be a part of his new album. Except what if the people who saw it were fans of Frank's band, too? What if they saw videos or pictures, or came to a concert, and they noticed that Frank looked like he was glowing, too? "You can't write that in the comic," he said.
"What's wrong?" Gerard looked at the drawing and then to Frank. "I thought you'd--"
"Just, you can't write me glowing."
"What the fuck?" Gerard asked. "What's your problem?"
Frank got up from the bunk, snapping the sketchpad closed. "I have to get back to my bus."
Even back on his own bus, Frank's skin felt weird and crawly, and his stomach kept flipping over. He couldn't figure out if it was guilt or fear. Brendon found him in the miniature bathroom, getting more dye on the wall and counter than in his hair.
"Wanna talk about it?" Brendon asked, grabbing a second pair of gloves and seamlessly taking over the dye-job. He'd done this enough times before, whenever Pete hadn't been around, or had been too much of a bitch to help out. Frank relaxed at the familiar feeling of Brendon's fingers working through his hair.
Brendon listened patiently while Frank told him what happened. Then he smacked him on the cheek, hard enough to sting, leaving a black smear. "You're a fucking idiot."
There wasn't any point in getting indignant. Brendon was right, and Frank knew it. Gerard would probably never talk to him again, and it was no more than he deserved. When he said as much, Brendon just huffed a sigh. "You're being way too dramatic. Do I need to ban you from reading poetry with Ryan again?"
Frank twisted his fist through his mohawk, piling it on top of his head. "I wanna cut my hair," he said, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, thoughtful. "You wanna do it later?"
"Yeah, okay," Brendon said. "If you're sure." He secured Frank's hair with a clip and rolled off his gloves before wetting a wad of toilet paper with water and toothpaste to start on the stain. "But I don't know why you don't just tell him," Brendon said.
"It doesn't have anything to do with him," Frank said, which was mostly honest. He'd wanted to dye his hair and he'd wanted to cut it, like, eventually. Growing up in the North Pole, Frank's outlet for anger or sadness or restlessness had been altering his image--tattoos, piercings, changing the colour and style of his hair every other week, it seemed like. At the house in Vegas it had been easier to go cuddle with his dogs, or go dancing in a dark club with loud music and anonymous bodies pressed close in the dark. Without his dogs and no clubs near-by, returning to hair was a comforting routine.
"Do you really think Gerard Way is going to care that you're an elf?" Brendon asked, as he dabbed at Frank's cheek. The smell of mint filled the room, overwhelming the chemicals of the dye.
"Do you really think he'd believe it?" Frank challenged. Then he remembered the conversation he'd recently witnessed between Gerard, Ray, and Mikey about the existence of everything ranging from aliens to unicorns to Bigfoot, and maybe it wasn't completely out of the question. Still. How would he even bring something like that up?
*
In Michigan, Downpour was informed they'd be moving to the main stage at the same time as The Academy Is... was set perform on the side stage and Ryan had protested that they couldn't do that to their friends, so the coordinators had made annoyed faces and said, "Fine, you can go on right before Cobra Starship." It was no use trying to explain that Ryan hadn't been attempting to negotiate, and it didn't really matter one way or another, because that was their new stage time.
Touring was so crazy, Frank sort of forgot about all the things going on in the real world, but apparently Island was promoting them left and right and kids were actually requesting their songs on the radio. Usually there was at least one interview per concert date, and Celia had called to let them know about a photo shoot scheduled for them in Chicago.
More and more every night it became clear that the crowds were there to see them, and not just passing the time between sets at their show. The pit was a strange combination of college-aged guys cheering them on and preadolescent girls with glittery homemade signs with various portmanteaus of their names. Frank's personal favourite was either Fryan or Fencer; based purely on the comedic value, Frank didn't even care that it was just assumed they were a fivesome. Their nicknames were so much cooler than Brangelina or Bennifer.
Still, with all of that, it was hard to gauge their growing popularity from their current perspective. Their small, side-stage 2 backdrop hung from the cavernous rafters of the main stage, though, that said a lot. Along with the fact that with the side stages now closed, all of the various crowds were coming together here. Everyone, no matter their reason for attendance, were now in the audience, about to watch them.
"If Pete and Patrick and Greta could see us now," Brendon mused as they watched the audience from the wings.
Frank was certain he'd never grow homesick for the North Pole, but he did already miss some of the people there--those three and his family in particular. His mother never had understood him or why he was so unhappy, but she'd always tried to make things better for him, and he thought she'd be proud of him now. He'd been trying to send her a postcard from each state they visited. Thanks to Pete's internet savvy, it was easy to keep up with him and Patrick, and through them, Greta, exchanging emails a few times a week. But it just wasn't the same.
"We should invite them down," Frank said. "Maybe once they're here Pete would realise how much better it was than the North Pole."
"Oh my god, Patrick would marry you if you could convince Pete to leave," Brendon said.
Frank considered this. "I'm not so sure it would be a good thing, though," he said. "Pete might take over the world if he ever left."
Brendon laughed, head tossed back. "Can you imagine if he met Mikey? Or Gabe?"
"Did I hear someone mention my name in connection with world domination?" Gabe asked, insinuating himself between them, an arm thrown over either of their shoulders.
Frank threw his fangs up just because and Gabe leered at him before turning his attention on Brendon. "Your boys asked where you were and then disappeared into that room over there." Brendon flushed bright pink, but took off in that direction anyway.
"I wonder if I could convince my band of the merits of group sex," Gabe said, watching Brendon go with a distant smile.
"If anyone's band could be convinced, it would be yours," Frank told him sincerely.
Gabe made a speculative humming noise. His toe bumped the rubber outsole of Frank's shoe. When Frank looked up at him, Gabe tipped his head to the side. Gerard was leaning against an amp, the angles of his limbs sharpened by the shadows. He was staring at his feet, hair falling over his face, but even without seeing his expression, his whole pose screamed "moody bitch."
"Mikey was gonna say something, but I convinced him to let me talk to you first," Gabe said. "He seemed to think it was a hobby of yours, hurting Gee's woobie feelings, or some shit."
"Fuck," Frank said. He was such a douche.
"So what the fuck happened? I thought you were all stupid over him."
"Is it that goddamn obvious?"
Gabe gave him a pitying look and patted his arm. "I don't think Gerard notices, if that helps. He's the master of obliviousness. But whatever he said, I'm pretty sure he didn't mean it the way you took it. Kid doesn't have a mean fucking bone in his body."
"It wasn't him. It wasn't all him. It's complicated, Gabe."
"So uncomplicate it," Gabe said, shrugging. He elbowed Frank hard in the ribs to drive the point home.
"Okay, okay, Jesus," Frank said, and headed over, dragging his heels the entire way.
Gerard kind of gave him a sideways glance as Frank sidled up to him, not quite meeting his gaze. "Hey," Frank said.
"Hey," Gerard mumbled around his thumb, chewing on the cuticle.
"Look, I'm--I'm sorry about the other day. I shouldn't have--I mean, it isn't my place to challenge your artistic integrity, or whatever."
"Seriously, what the fuck?" Gerard blurted out, like he didn't want to but honestly could not control himself. "What the fuck is your deal with glowing? I've been trying to come up with a reason, but I can't figure it out."
Frank let out a sigh, head dropping back. He shoved his hands in his pockets, made fists in the fabric, bit the inside of his cheek. "It's--I'm an elf."
Gerard gave him a coolly blank glare. "What?" he asked.
Frank waved a hand through the air and then let it drop back to his thigh. "You know--North Pole, Santa's helpers--" laziest jazz hands ever to emphasize his point. He watched the techs setting up Brendon's microphone with a sour twist to his lips.
Gerard was silent for a long time, and Frank started getting antsy, worried he'd have to go on stage before this conversation was finished. "You know, you didn't have to come over here," he said at last. "If you're just going to be an asshole--"
"I'm not," Frank said. He straightened up out of his slouch. "I'm telling you: the reason I didn't want you drawing me glowing is because I didn't want anyone else to notice it!"
"Okay," Gerard said, halfway between bitter and accepting. "Okay, Frankie."
"Please," Frank said. "Gerard--"
The rest of his band passed by, looking rumpled and pleased, and Ryan caught his eye, nodding towards the stage. Frank held up his finger, silently asking him to wait another minute. Ryan looked annoyed but stayed put, and the rest of the band stopped at his side. Frank looked back to Gerard who was busy trying to learn the meaning of life from the scuffed, tape-marked floor.
"I know I was a dick, but you freaked me out. I don't know what would happen if someone figured out about us, but I was just stupid. I can't tell you how fucking psyched I am that you made me a Killjoy character."
The anger had completely melted from Gerard's expression, leaving only confusion and a bit of concern around the eyes. Ryan cleared his throat and tapped an impatient foot. Frank threw him a glare and turned back to Gerard. "I'm sorry. Please don't be pissed off at me."
Maybe it was his pathetic eyes or the tone of his voice, but whatever it was, it worked wonders. Gerard's face softened entirely. "Yeah, Frank. I forgive you."
Frank bounced on his toes, letting a smile take over his face and leaned in to wrap his arms around Gerard's shoulders in a fleeting hug. After a second, Gerard's arms came up around Frank, hands resting lightly on Frank's back.
It took all Frank's effort not to sink into it, not to light up the whole backstage with his glowing, cool off the crowd with a summertime snow-flurry. Gerard's embrace was too warm and smelled like stale sweat and cigarettes, but he was soft and just the right height, and they sort of just fit, like Frank had always imagined they would.
"Frank!" Spencer snapped, and you knew it was getting serious when Spencer got annoyed.
"Sorry," Frank said again, for his freakout, or the hug, or the fact that it had to end. Gerard's face was still puzzled when Frank turned away, but there was a smile toying around his lips. Frank could live with that. Fuck yeah.
*
"So--oh, man, I love this part," Gerard said, flopping down on the sofa next to Frank and watching in silence while the shadow of zombies flooded the tunnel. "So," he said again, when it had passed, "an elf."
Frank let his head lull to the side to regard him. Their bus had somehow become a part of the party going on outside, probably in celebration of their new stage time, and as such various and sundry people were filing in and out of the front lounge area. Frank had escaped to the back lounge where it was a little quieter and a lot less busy, and was watching 28 Days Later with the volume down and subtitles on.
He was happy, but exhausted--they'd sat through about fifty post-show interviews, completely missing all of Cobra and Taking Back Sunday, and by the time they were finished, they'd gone straight back to the bus rather than stopping by to watch the tail end of MCR.
Frank was maintaining his good humour over the whole thing, because it was down to him that the others had decided not to hide their relationship, but it was sort of hard after being asked the exact same questions by twenty different people in an hour, less to do with music and more of them dealing with their sexuality and how being in a band on the road made it difficult to keep the romance alive, or what the fuck ever.
Maybe it was sort of their own fault, the way they all piled together on the couch, sweaty and elated, sharing wide grins and pointed looks at certain questions. Frank fit in alongside the rest of them because he belonged there, and he just felt a little bad that all their fans obviously thought that meant he was fucking them, too.
After the tenth or so, Frank had just started making shit up--claiming to have a girlfriend in several interviews, naming her Greta in one and Patricia in another and Kara in yet another, waxing poetical about her alternately golden, copper, and chestnut hair. In another he'd stated that he was asexual, and the interviewer had looked more perplexed by that concept than by the idea of five guys screwing. It took pretty much all of Frank's willpower not to laugh at him, made worse by the fact that Brendon was hiding his face in Frank's back, shoulders shaking with the force of his silent giggles.
"If Pete finds those and shows them..." Brendon warned, when they'd finally stumbled across the lot to their bus. "Patrick's gonna--"
"He'd be the least of my worries," Frank interrupted. "I'm honestly more worried about your sister."
Brendon nodded as he considered it. "Trufax. She's a hair-puller. And those nails have drawn blood on more than one occasion.
Jon, Spencer, and Ryan were watching them with open curiosity like they always did when Brendon and Frank discussed their home life and little details they'd never known. Frank knew whenever they looked at them like that that it was inevitable that they'd have to take a visit up North some day. He wondered idly if Gerard would ever want to see it.
"Elf," he agreed with a firm nod.
"And that's why with all the--" Gerard waved a hand towards Frank to indicate what, Frank couldn't possibly say. "The poinsettia and the bell and the mistletoe."
Frank nodded again. "Yep."
"But then why the dreidel?"
"Oh," Frank said, and looked down at the inside of his right forearm. "That was mostly to piss off Santa. But, I mean, it's cool-looking, right? And just because I was born in Christmastown doesn't mean I'm fucking Christian or some shit. I'm an equal opportunity atheist. Atheists can like dreidels."
Gerard gave him a delighted grin and leaned his shoulder against Frank's. "So what else can Christmas elves do?" Brendon, just coming out of the bathroom, froze in the doorway, staring back and forth between the two of them. Gerard gave him wink. "Besides glow?"
Frank waved Brendon off, letting him know with a look not to worry, and Brendon just closed the lounge door on his way back to the party. "And spread Christmas cheer, you mean?"
"I hate to be the one to tell you this, Frank," Gerard said, all faux-seriousness, "but I really don't think you're performing at your full potential in that regard."
Clearly, Gerard was not buying a single word Frank was saying, which actually made it easier for Frank to tell him the truth. "Well, there's being born an elf in Christmastown which means you can glow and you can't really change that, but then there's working as an elf in Christmastown, and when you tell the big guy to 'fuck off,' your obligation to spread Christmas cheer sort of comes to an end."
"You told Santa Claus to fuck off?"
"Not in so many words," Frank said. It was a shame, too, now that he thought about it, but in the end Santa hadn't actually tried to stop him leaving, had encouraged it, and Santa had put Brendon back where he belonged, so whatever. It all evened out in the end.
"All right," Gerard said. He rubbed his palms on his truly flithy jeans. "So no drawing you glowing, or dressed in red and green, or being cheerful. Anything else I need to know?"
"Shut up." Frank punched him in the arm, but he was so tired he mostly missed, and it didn't really have much force behind it. Gerard looked inordinently fond, though, and that made Frank feel hot all over. "You can draw me glowing and floating and making it snow, but when they carry me off to some government facility to dissect me or whatever, you'll only have yourself to blame."
"I'd break you out," Gerard said, in all earnestness. "Killjoys style. Hold 'em back while you make a run for it."
Frank waved an exasperated hand at him. "I wouldn't leave you there, Gee," he said.
"Killjoys never die," Gerard said.
"Well, still, that's stupid," Frank decided. "I'd just glow really bright and blind them all, or something, then we could steal their cars and take off."
"Oh, like Yvaine, in Stardust, when she shines so brightly she destroys the witch," Gerard said.
Frank wasn't sure if Gerard realised the implication he was making, that it would be Frank's love for Gerard would allow him to shine that brightly, but he decided not to mention it and hoped that Gerard wouldn't, either.
"So you can float?" Gerard asked. Frank nodded. "Sweet."
"It is pretty rad," Frank agreed. He was tempted to prove his point by floating right the fuck now, but he decided not to push it. He'd told the truth, and if Gerard didn't want to believe him, that was his own damn fault.
"And who's the other one?"
"Hmm?" Frank asked, only half-paying attention.
"You said 'us,' earlier. Is it Jon?"
Frank hadn't meant to say that, but he wasn't surprised to learn he had. At that point he was just saying anything to get Gerard to stop looking all pissy at him. "Jon?" he said, frowning.
"Well, he's almost as short as you--ow--" Gerard laughed, rubbing the spot on his chest where Frank hit him. "And he's always really mellow and nice, and he sort of smells like Christmas."
"You go around smelling Jon?" Frank gave him a strange look.
Gerard crossed his arms and sunk further down on the couch in a defensive pose. "It's not like I, like, sniff him or something. But most people smell pretty fucking rank after a couple days on tour, and it's not hard to notice that he doesn't, when he's around."
Frank couldn't help laughing; he had to tell the others. "They all smell alike, in and out of each others' bunks, sharing the same clothes," Frank said. "And what you're smelling is not Christmas, unless at your house Christmas smells like stale sex."
"No," Gerard said, wrinkling his nose. He sucked in his bottom lip in contemplation. "No, Brendon and Ryan always smell like girl's deodorant, all flowery and shit, and Spencer doesn't smell like much of anything."
"Oh my god." Frank gasped for breath between bouts of laughter. "Seriously, what the fuck dude, you know what my band smells like? I bet if you asked really nicely, they'd let you in their foursome."
Gerard made a face. "I can't help but notice these things!" he cried. "Like you. You smell like clean."
Frank knew he probably had a stupid look on his face, but he was too delighted to care. Gerard knew what he smelled like. "You really, really don't."
"Fuck you, it could be a lot worse. You could have known me back before I was sober," Gerard said, but he sort of straighted up and away from Frank, and Frank wasn't going to have any of that.
"Aww, Gee," he said, and tugged Gerard closer by the sleeve of his tee.
"You know, some of us sweat."
"I sweat," Frank protested. "I just also shower."
Gerard glared at him. "Your hair gets a little damp, that's it. Is it part of your elf magic?"
"Yep," Frank said. He laid his head on Gerard's shoulder. You got used to the smell, after a while. It wasn't that gross going-without-deodorant smell, and it wasn't even really an unwashed smell, so much. It was more of clothing damp from sweat balled up and gone sour, cigarettes, and, oddly, mown grass. Now Frank just thought of it as Gerard smell.
They fell silent, watching the movie, and after a minute Gerard put an arm around him, drawing Frank closer. Frank's cheek slid down his chest, trying to match his racing pulse to the steady thump of Gerard's heartbeat under his ear. Gerard and his band were almost as touchy-feely as Frank and his; it didn't mean anything more than that. Gerard's thumb brushed the fringe around Frank's ear and said, "I like your hair. The black looks good with your skin."
Frank hummed, pushed his head into the touch, and Gerard scratched his scalp in a way that made Frank want to purr. "Now it's your turn, to go all pink," he said. Gerard laughed, and his fingers kept carding through Frank's hair, and Frank drifted off to sleep.
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