Fic: Love and Other Cliches: bandombigbang, Frank/Gerard, PG-13, Part 1

[xaritomene]

Title:: Love and Other Cliches
Authors: xrysomou and xaritomene
Band(s): My Chemical Romance, characters from Panic! at the Disco and Cobra Starship
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Word Count: 28 694
Rating/Warnings: None serious - bad language and some violence. Also some mild sexual scenes.
DISCLAIMER: We are in no way affiliated with any of the people mentioned in this fic; they all belong to themselves, as do their various oeuvres. To make things clear: We own nothing and this is all horrible lies.

Furthermore, we're very, very aware that none of the countries or cultures mentioned herein bear any resemblance whatsoever to their actual counterparts. (Except for the weather in Scotland. That's pretty much spot-on.)

Summary: Bob Bryar is the best witch in the whole damn scene, even if he does say so himself. Which is just as well, because he's got responsibilities, most of which involve his charge, Gerard. Mainly, Bob's supposed to keep Gerard from falling down a well, or losing his sketchpad - little things, but Bob is a conscientious guardian. But when it becomes obvious that Gerard and Frank are hopelessly, silently in love with each other, Bob suddenly has bigger things to worry about. Nothing he's tried has ended in the declarations of love he'd been aiming for (not the fireworks, not the sunsets, not even the four hours they'd spent in locked in a closet). In a last, ditch attempt, he resorts to real spellwork, the epic, Cinderella kind, and now Frank and Gerard are stuck in a romance novel... with only one way out.

Masterpost: Artwork, Mix and All Parts



The first thing you need to know is that Bob Bryar is a witch. The second thing you need to know is that spells - Bob’s spells, well-worked spells, the kind that take time and patience and skill, properly worked spells - well, they have lives of their own.

Thirdly, and somewhat less importantly, Gerard Way is (embarrassingly) addicted to Harlequin romances. He likes to think it’s a secret.

Fourthly, and most importantly of all, Frank and Gerard are hopelessly, sickeningly in love with each other. They just don’t know it yet.

Bob’s about to change that.

Somehow.

He’s working on it.

**

“Gerard...” Frank’s voice was a fraction higher than normal, eyes bugging just a little. “Dude, I don’t want to harsh your vibe, or anything-”

“I’m sorry, you don’t want to ‘harsh’ my what?” Gerard stared back at him, like Frank was the one wearing indecently sheer harem pants and a laundry’s worth of diaphanous veils.

Frank averted his eyes in an unusual display of modesty. (Naked Gerard was one thing; exotic-dancer Gerard was entirely another. Frank did his best to focus his attention elsewhere, staring instead at the lavish silk pavilion, set up seemingly at random in the middle of a vast desert. It was red and stripy and Frank thought it was awesome - he just wished he knew what it was doing there.) For the moment, though, he had other problems: “I don’t want to - step on your toes, or whatever. Y’know, your whole. Thing.”

“My ‘vibe’ is not ‘harshed’,” Gerard assured him, waving his hands earnestly, tiny bells jingling gently at his wrists and ankles. It was kind of reassuring that the addition of veils and harem pants and gold anklets - and tiny jingling bells - changed Gerard not one whit, “and my toes are not stepped on. What were you going to say?”

**

One final point of interest: Bob is Gerard’s guardian... witch. Angel. Thing.

Everyone has a guardian, of some description. Gerard’s is Bob. Which is convenient because they’re in the same band now, which makes clearing up his messes a lot easier, and also because Bob rocks the awesome hulking bodyguard look, just as much as he rocks the ‘I have sparkly spell-stars around my hands, I hope that’s not a problem for anyone’ look. (Ryan Ross probably rocked that look a little harder than Bob, but whatever. Bob was far more awesome at hulking than Ross was. He’d seen Ross try. It was funny.)

So when Bob realised that his charge was ridiculously in love with his bandmate, he really pulled out all the stops. He sent them on dates (not, of course, that they realised they were dates) - he conjured up the most miraculous of sunsets for them - and finally, driven to extremes, he even locked them in a closet for four hours. He had hoped that they would at least do the decent thing and have sex against the door. (They hadn’t, Bob knew - he’d been listening. It was possible that desperation had driven Bob creepy.) When he’d finally realised that the plan was a failure and they had to be let out at some point, the pair of them had been discussing Dungeons and Dragons.

Unless they caught a clue soon, Bob decided grimly, Dungeons and Dragons would be in their near future. Real ones.

**

“I was just thinking that - you know, given your, um, previous,” Frank groped futilely for a word, “shyness! You know, your, um, physical shyness , or, um, well, your - aversion to skin-”

“Frank,” Gerard’s voice was infinitely patient but he looked confused, “use your words. What are you trying to say?”

Frank gave up the tactful approach. “Your dick is going to get sunburnt!”

Gerard went from mere confusion to outright fear. “Why would my dick get sunburnt?!”

Frank kept his eyes firmly on Gerard’s face. “I don’t know, Gee, but if I had to guess,” he said carefully, “I’d say your cheesecloth pants are part of the problem.”

Gerard stared at him for a moment longer, then glanced down at himself. “Woah, OK. This is new.” He squinted up at the sun and then sent Frank a worried look. “Maybe we should go inside?” He was already turning towards the tent.

“Sure, Dracula. Sure,” Frank agreed, trailing after him. The tent was lavish to the point of gaudiness. Huge, brightly-coloured cushions were heaped in one corner, the floor was thickly layered with soft, purple rugs and the entire thing smelt strongly of cheap incense. Frank raised an eyebrow - Gerard had other things occupying his mind.

“Dude, why’m I dressed like this?” He flumped down on the cushions, sprawled inelegantly, and Frank had to remind himself urgently that he was not going to spend this conversation staring at Gerard’s crotch. “I mean - d’you think this is, like, the porno version of turning up to school naked?” Gerard asked finally, looking remarkably reflective for one who was reclining on cushions and leaving nothing to the imagination.

“Maybe your version of turning up to school naked,” Frank agreed warily. “I think most people’s involve less veils. More to the point, wouldn’t I be dreaming about me turning up to school naked?”

“Maybe you’re projecting,” Gerard said wisely.

Frank paused. “I... don’t think so. Well, I guess I might, but I have a limited amount of dreaming time and I like to use it wisely.”

Gerard made what he clearly thought was a suggestive leer. “What’s wisely used dreaming time, then, huh?”

Frank stared at him. “I’m not answering that,” he said evasively. “They’re my dreams, OK?”

Gerard conceded the point and moved on. “OK. But this is my dream.”

Frank stared at him. “Gee, you’re in veils and harem pants. This is clearly my dream.”

**

When Bob realised that Gerard and Frank couldn’t catch a clue with both hands and a net, he had retired to his bunk and consulted his grimmerie. (His grimmerie looked an awful lot like an airport paperback, covered in pencil scribbles. His grimmerie was awesome.) His grimmerie coincidentally held the secrets of the universe. Bob was hoping it would also help pretty, idiot boys to get with the fucking programme.

And that was how Frank and Gerard found themselves in the plot of one of Gerard’s (many, many) romance novels.

**

“You often dream about me in veils and harem pants?” Gerard asked interestedly. Frank went a little pink.

“No?” he tried. The worst thing was, it was true: “Normally, there are less clothes involved.” After all, this was a dream - in for a penny, in for a pound.

Gerard grinned. “And are you normally dressed as an extra from Aladdin in these mental excursions of yours?” Frank glanced down at his curly-toed slippers and scowled, but Gerard wasn’t done. “Do we frolic through the streets of Agrabah, carpet and monkey in tow?”

“Well... there’s no monkey?” Frank offered. “The city and the carpet are generally kind of incidental, I don’t really pay much attention to them.”

“But we are frolicking in your dreams, then?” Gerard asked.

Frank leered ridiculously. “If that’s what all the cool kids are calling it these days?” Gerard crossed his arms and looked mulishly confused. “OK, never mind. Look, I really like talking to you - it’s one of the many reasons why I... well, anyway,” he broke off and started again. “I really like talking to you, but I’m probably about to wake up soon, so if we could...?”

“If we could - what?”

“Hurry things along,” Frank said tactfully.

**

It should be said at this point that the spell has a rather literal interpretation of ‘romance’. Bob had pointed it at Gerard and his romance fetish, it had devoured the books it had found and it knew romance. Nothing could convince it otherwise. Once a spell got to grips with an idea, the idea remained in its clutches until something else forcibly - forcibly - dislodged it.

Oh, it knew romance.

**

“Hurry things along - where?” Gerard asked suspiciously.

Frank eyed him. “This is weird. Dream-you is normally way more with the prog- oh, shit.” He pinched himself viciously on the back of his hand and yelped. “Ow, motherfuck!”

Gerard gave him a worried look. “What?”

“I don’t think this is a dream,” Frank said carefully.

“Of course it’s not a dream for you,” Gerard said encouragingly, “you’re a character in my dream. Like a kind of projection of all my hopes and- and fears for you and for us-”

Knowing Gerard could go on for hours if given the chance to really get going, Frank staged a quick interruption. “Don’t patronise me,” he said and pinched Gerard savagely on the arm.

“Ow!” Gerard recoiled, looking betrayed.

“See?” Frank said, unashamedly smug.

“But- if this... isn’t a dream... and it’s not some kind of psychotic hallucination, then - this is, this is- Frankie, this is bad!”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” Frank rolled his eyes, turban slipping slowly but surely down his forehead, and when he pushed it back up, it began to unravel at the back. “I thought it was wonderful to be stuck in the middle of a desert, with no food, no water, no cell phone, no way whatsoever of contacting people-”

“Frank-”

“- or leaving, with no people around for hours and hours and hours-”

“Except for those guys, Frank. The ones over there.” Gerard pointed at the large group of people heading towards them in a cloud of sand, visible through the tent-flaps, but far too close to be a mirage.

As the group got closer, they could see it was led by a man in flowing white robes edged with purple and frankly ridiculous shoes. Frank looked down at his own and felt a touch of entirely inappropriate envy.
Gerard was already half-way out of the tent, and was clearly about to hail them before the group slowed and stopped as one - which was just as well, because Frank was already wondering whether offering Gerard’s favours would get them to give the two of them a lift back to civilization. Wherever that might be.

The leader flung himself off his horse and genuflected before the tent. “Approaching the tent of his most eminent highness, Sheikh Franka al’Iero of Agrabah and the Lady Barbara McAllister, his most serene First Consort!”

Frank glanced futilely around. “Are we squatting in some guy’s tent?” he asked, checking under a particularly large cushion, presumably for the body.

Gerard had his arms crossed. “The guy is called Franka al’Iero. I don’t know about you, but that sounds quite familiar to me.” Frank glanced at him distractedly. “Frank, it’s you.”

“No, it’s not,” Frank said instantly. “I’m not a fucking sheikh.”

“And when we went to sleep last night, we weren’t in a fucking desert, but clearly, circumstances change!” Gerard said, arms windmilling wildly.

“But I can’t be this - Sheikh Franka guy! And if I am, I-”

Gerard interrupted him. “And then there’s this poor Barbara chick wandering round, god only knows where she got to-”

“Yeah,” Frank said deliberately, staring pointedly at Gerard. “I wonder who she could be?” Gerard gave him yet another confused look. “OK, Gee, follow the logic. If I’m Sheikh Franka-”

“Which you are.”

“Which I am,” Frank agreed patiently. “And Sheikh Franka has a consort called Barbara, and there’s only one person in the tent with me right now, who just happens to be wearing harem pants and veils, that would make you...?”

“Most radiant Lady Barbara!” Their leader flung himself forward in front of Gerard’s bejewelled slippers. Gerard edged backwards and looked uncomfortable. “We will escort the first Consort, the Jewel of Agrabah, to her litter!”

Gerard finally caught up. “I’m called Barbara!?” he squawked, and looked round for someone to blame.

“Awesome, you’re my consort,” Frank beamed, ignoring Gerard as well as his courtiers, who were all crouched nearby in varying degrees of discomfort - except for the ones who had begun to gather around Gerard, ushering him out the tent to what apparently was his litter.

“Frank? Where are they taking me?”

“Your litter, Barbara.”

“I’m not called Barbara!”

[’Bad news!’ the spell informed Bob. ‘He’s taken against the name!’ ‘It was that or Geraldine,’ Bob told it sourly within the privacy of his own head, and went back to his book.]

“Fine, Jewel of Agrabah.”

“That’s not even a real place! And that,” he snapped, warming to his theme and pointing dramatically at the group of classically-dressed ‘Arabians’, “is just so clichéd and ill-informed! This whole thing is just a fucking nightmare!”

“We’ve pretty much established that it’s not,” Frank said helpfully.

“Shut up,” Gerard snapped as he was ceremoniously and very insistently stuffed into his litter. He sulked violently, until Frank was shown the horse he was to ride. It was a massive stallion, totally unsuited to someone of Frank’s height and equestrian ability. Frank barely came up to its shoulder. Once on the beast, Frank perched awkwardly and, ignoring the reins entirely, clung to pommel of the saddle for grim death. Gerard, amused out of his sulk and hidden by the litter’s shimmery curtains, cackled the entire way back.

**

When they arrived in the tiny, opulent city of Agrabah - it was actually called Agrabah, what the shit - Gerard’s bejewelled feet barely touched the ground before he was almost-literally carried off by a small army of handmaidens. One terrified glance back at Frank revealed that he had ushered off just as quickly in the other direction. No help there, then.

“Where are we going?” he asked the woman nearest his head.

“To your chambers, my lady, where we will bathe you in yak’s milk-”

“Oh, of course,” Gerard agreed.

“-and prepare you for dinner.”

Gerard paused. “Am I the main course?!”

“Yak’s milk is beneficial for the skin, my lady,” the woman said, gently reproving.

“All the better to eat me with,” he giggled, then stopped as he was met with thirteen pairs of blank, uncomprehending eyes. It was possible he was a little hysterical. “...never mind. So, after you marinade me...?”

The handmaiden gave him a pained, forgiving smile. “We will dress you for the banquet, my lady,” she said, as if to a small child.

Gerard thought of the fly in the ointment which was his dick. “Well, this should be a fun surprise for all concerned,” he muttered, and allowed himself to be borne away.

**

Skin marinaded and veils firmly in place - without so much as a peep from the handmaidens when he was disrobed and shoved into the bath - Gerard finally managed to forcibly eject the ladies from his chambers for a little privacy. Once by himself, he flopped down on yet more cushions and allowed himself a long moment to take everything in.

“First consort gets a pretty sweet deal,” he murmured, taking in the gilded ceiling and the carved cedar furnishings. The only thing which seemed out of place was the bright blue paperback on the nightstand; Gerard eyed it, recognising Harlequin’s ‘Modern Romances’ line with the ease of long exposure. Curiosity piqued, he levered himself out of the cushions with some difficulty and picked it up. It read: ‘Romancing the Desert: Bride of the Sheikh!’, and the sheikh in question glared up at him from the front cover. Clutched in his arms was the heroine - an underdressed, red-headed harpy with a definite squint. Gerard squinted at the cover himself with an artist’s eye; that camel had three humps.

He looked around - there was no one there, and nothing else to do. He settled himself back into the cushions, cracked open the book and began to read.

Ten minutes later, he sat bolt upright and said, loudly, to the empty room, “Wait, what?!”

A handmaiden appeared as if by magic. “My lady called?”

“Not for you,” Gerard snapped, then, feeling guilty, added, “um, sorry. Can you get me Fra- the Sheikh?”

The young woman looked scandalised. “The sheikh does not come to the First Consort. The First Consort goes to the-”

“Then could you please get me to the Sheikh?” Gerard asked with infinite patience.

“But it is dinnertime, my lady - and we must dress you!”

“You just dressed me for dinner, like, half an hour ago!” Gerard pointed out, but was met with yet more blank incomprehension - and as a new load of handmaids swarmed into the room, he decided discretion was the better part of valour. “You know what? Knock yourselves out.”

**

“So, my consort,” Frank said, who clearly found this entire thing far funnier than it deserved, “how did you spend your afternoon?”

Gerard, who had once more been all-but borne in on the backs of his worker ants, scowled at him. Frank got to walk places. “I’ve spent the last three hours being Barbie for a bunch of grown women. Seriously, what the hell?”

“I don’t even know, Gee,” Frank shrugged. “I’m still not convinced that this isn’t just a really vivid fever dream.”

Gerard sighed. “Well, whatever it is, we have bigger problems right now.”

Frank looked wary. “How big?”

“Oh, tiny,” Gerard assured him, a bubble of hysteria appearing in his voice. “I’m pretty sure we’re stuck in a romance novel.”

Frank gave him a suspicious look. “And you came to this conclusion... how?”

“I read it,” Gerard said, brandishing the book, voice getting higher and higher with each word. “It’s all in here. You, the tall, striking, muscle-bound Sheikh Franka al’Iero,” he paused for a second to appreciate the comparison, which did Frank no favours, “and I am the sweet yet fiery tempered,” he winced, “Barbara.”

Frank had taken the book from him and was studying the front cover. “The ginger chick?”

Gerard tugged his fingers through his very black hair. “Yep,” he said grimly. “That’s me. And that’s you. Only a bit taller than usual.”

Frank glanced down at the lumbering hulk which was apparently his fictional alter-ego. “He looks as though he’s, like, made of protein shake,” he muttered, and turned the book over to read the blurb. “‘Sheikh Franka al’Iero mastered the wild lands of his sovereignty out of necessity, but the beautiful Barbara he’ll tame for fun.’”

“This is your life, Frank,” Gerard said with deceptive calm.

Frank stared at him, looking far too composed for Gerard’s liking. “But, dude, it can’t be. Look -“ he held up the book, “I look nothing like this guy.”

“Well, I’m not exactly a red-headed woman, but everyone keeps calling me Barbara,” snapped Gerard.

“And I’m not a sheikh!”

“Barbara,” Gerard repeated for emphasis. He was gratified to see Frank looking a little worried.

“And I don’t have any wild lands of my sovereignty! I have a tiny house in Newark! I cannot be this guy!” Frank took a very deep breath. “Ok. This is obviously just a pot dream that got insanely out of hand and -“

“Frank, dude, I thought we’d already established that this isn’t a dream,” Gerard interrupted. “And I’ve tried, ok? I’ve tried almost everything I could think of. I’ve hit myself, poured cold water over my head - I even said Finite Incantatem, and nothing happened. This is real.”

Frank looked as though he was grasping for the last few shreds of his sanity. “Maybe it’s a dream within a dream! Like, maybe we’re just too deep to -“

“I’m confiscating your copy of Inception when we get home,” Gerard told him and then paused as a handmaid appeared at his elbow.

“If the Most Serene First Consort would come with me, we will seat her for dinner,” the woman said to Gerard before bowing as low to Frank as her body would permit.

“Peachy,” Gerard muttered and allowed himself to be steered away, turning back to hiss, “We’ll talk about this later!”

**

As luck - or the seating arrangement - would have it, they were sitting together, at the top of a table that stretched the length of the dining hall. This particular feast, Frank had been informed multiple times, was to be held in his honour. Frank would probably have been more grateful had he not been surrounded by dignitaries or been presented with an entire plateful of chickpeas. This would have suited him down to the ground had it not been just chickpeas. Gerard had rice.

He’d thought royalty would eat better, but apparently not.

[The spell had difficulties with the food. It was one detail habitually missed in the books, and so it hadn’t really bothered. It wasn’t like Barbara would be eating anyway; the heroines never did. Instead, it had relied on what vague knowledge Bob had of Middle Eastern food and the scant information given in the books. Rice and chickpeas it was, then]/

The only really interesting part of the proceedings was when the tall evil stereotype stepped forwards, face pulled into the most epic sneer of disapproval. Gerard, due to his extensive knowledge of romance novel lore, knew just what was coming and continued to pick disinterestedly at his rice, even as Frank sat up straighter next to him and frowned.

“Nobles of Agrabah!” The man began, and even his voice was set to Evil Villain Version 2.0. “We have been dishonoured by the presence of this slut,” he pointed a dramatic finger at the high table, “in our court!”

“Who?” Frank said absently.

“Dude. Me. He’s talking about me.”

“What?” Frank asked, but there was no time to respond - the stereotype had really got into his stride.

“She has besmirched the ancient house of Al’Iero with her feminine wiles,” he continued, “ensnaring our glorious leader with her whorish tricks! See how she smiles, my lords!”

Gerard paused. “I’m - not smiling. And, hey, Frank, I’m a besmircher.”

“You’ve got whorish tricks, too,” Frank agreed.

“I’m multi-faceted,” Gerard said complacently, taking a bite of rice.

“See how she dismisses our concerns!” He turned from the assembled company to Gerard. “You mock us, whore!” He shouted, eyes bulging. “You sit there, weakening this great nation-”

“Just by sitting here?”

“Stealing our Sheikh from his bed-”

“What?” Frank looked up again.

“-weakening the line of Kings with your impure blood! You have the soul of a courtesan!” This was clearly the most dramatic insult in his repertoire, the one to which his entire speech had been building up; Gerard tapped his fingers on the table. “I demand this creature be expelled from our ancient city! Cast her out, my lord!”

All heads turned to look at Frank, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unaccustomed to scrutiny falling entirely upon him. He honestly couldn’t think of anything which summed up his feelings better than “Er, no. I, um, don’t think I will.”

“Then I must leave your court, my lord,” Gerard’s adversary announced, pulling himself up to his full height. “I refuse to associate with this group of whoresons and vagabonds!”

“Well, if that’s how you really feel,” Frank said sweetly.

Affronted, the man’s eye twitched slightly before he spat on the floor and stalked out.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out,” Gerard said, ignoring the shocked looks and pouring himself more water. “What? The guy was a dick!”

“I don’t think you’re helping matters, Barbara,” Frank told him, patting his hand.

**

An hour after dinner, Frank knocked on the door of Gerard’s indecently sumptuous chambers. A woman who was decidedly not Gerard opened the door.

“Hi!” said Frank cheerily. “Barbara around?”

The woman squeaked and flung herself into a bow before gesturing him into the room and making herself scarce. Left to his own devices, Frank wandered inside. The room was lit with only a few candles. Frank squinted through the gloom.

“Gee?” he called when he saw nobody.

“Over here.”

Gerard was reading the book, sat on a pile of cushions so massive it all but dwarfed him and dressed in yet another outfit - it was still harem pants and still covered in sequins, but thankfully a little less revealing than all the others had been. Frank allowed himself to stare for a moment, shrugged it off and tugged one of the cushions out of the pile to perch on.

“Hey, Barbara,” he said, grinning as Gerard gave him a dirty look. He was still clinging to the idea that the whole thing was a dream, and that, with one lurch of the tourbus, he might wake up. Seeing that Gerard was absorbed in Romancing the Desert, Frank clambered up the cushions to peer over his shoulder.

“What’s up?” he demanded, grabbing the book and leafing through it. “Any new ideas on how we get out of here?”

Gerard sighed. “Nope, none. I think it’s meant to mean something, but I’ve no idea what. I mean, I get that we’re stuck in it, but I’ve got no fucking clue where we go from here.”

Frank frowned at the book. “So you really think…?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re in a romance novel.”

“Yeah.”

There was a momentary silence. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah.”

Frank seemed to collect himself. “Okay. Right. So what happens in the book? That might help. I dunno. Somehow.”

Gerard frowned into the middle distance. “But it’s like every other romance novel ever.” Frank made himself comfortable on the cushions and Gerard sighed. “Okay. Frank Al’Iero is the sheikh of the great land of Agrabah -“

“Agrabah?”

“Barbara is… like, his secretary, something. She’s damaged by her tragic past -“

“Oh, of course,” Frank agreed cordially. Gerard continued, ignoring him.

“And Franka must prove his worth to be her king - and her lover,” he added, with instinctive dramatic flair. Frank grinned. “And Barbara-”

“Your name is Barbara.” Frank still hadn’t got over it.

“ - must learn to trust again,” Gerard said over him, loudly. “That’s it. Dunno how it’s going to help at all.”

“Ok, well, let’s look at this logically,” Frank said and Gerard glared at him. “it’s a romance novel.”

“No, you think?” Gerard flung the book at him, and Frank caught it, opening it randomly at a page.

“The Sheikh looked deep into his Barbara’s eyes - oh, God - and said ‘kiss me, Barbara. I know you’re longing for me!’ She sighed, relaxing against his muscled chest,” Gerard sniggered meanly, “and whispered, ‘Oh Franka, I’ve longed for you for so long!’”

“That doesn’t scan,” Gerard muttered rebelliously.

“Hey, you’re the connoisseur here. Take it up with,” he checked the cover, “Madeleine Moran.”

“Oh, I will,” Gerard promised darkly. “If I ever meet her, I will punch her in the face.”

Seeing as it was highly unlikely, Frank decided to move on. “Mm, that’ll be great publicity for the band. Anyway, we’re in a book, right?”

“Right,” agreed Gerard dubiously.

“And so far, everything that’s happened in the book has happened to us?”

“If you mean being stranded in the desert and yelled at by misogynists, yeah.”

“So,” Frank appeared to be grappling with a concept. “The book has to finish.”

Gerard stared at him. “That’s what normally happens when the paper stops, yeah. I don’t see what that -“

“So if we just follow the book, eventually we’ll end up at the end, right? Like, the book will be finished!”

“And if the book’s finished,” Gerard said slowly, “then -“

“Then we might get back home, or wake up, or whatever,” Frank said, waving his arms for emphasis. “Exactly. We follow the book, make sure we do everything it tells us to, and eventually we’ll get out. Hopefully in time for that show in Texas,” he added, frowning. “How much time do you reckon we’re losing here?”

Gerard shrugged. “No idea. Frankie, this sounds great and all, following the book, but. You get shot. Like, towards the end. How the fuck are we going to handle that?”

Frank paused and then waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. We’ll sort it out eventually. So now we wait. We’ve got a while; want me to read aloud?”

“ Anything but that,” Gerard said, rootling around in the cushions for something. “Do you have my cigarettes? Weirdly enough, my harem pants didn’t have pockets, and I can’t seem to find any.”

“I don’t suppose the Serene Barbara is meant to be a chain smoker,” Frank agreed. “Sorry, I got nothin’. And now you’ve mentioned it, I want one.” He plumped down next to Gerard on the cushions and absently leant against him. Just as absently, Gerard slung an arm around his shoulders.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he said, more confidently than he felt. “We’re gonna be fine.”

He should have known better than to tempt fate.

**

The afternoon inched by interminably slowly. They were once again separated ; Frank was gently but forcibly ushered out of Gerard’s chambers so that he could listen to the complaints and appeals of Agrabah’s many citizens and so Gerard could be manoeuvred into yet another set of ceremonial but equally diaphanous robes - in preparation for what, Gerard wasn’t able to ascertain. Whatever the occasion, it merited a lot of eyeliner and even more sequins. Frank nearly pulled something laughing when he saw it.

Frank was finally released just as the Sun was setting. He thought he’d got off comparatively lightly, on the whole. A few tedious hours of crops and goats and other things he didn’t entirely understand, and a set of purple robes which bleached him of any colour he’d had to start with, he’d been left to his own devices. Gerard hadn’t had nearly so much luck; the handmaidens followed him everywhere, and any requests he’d made for a cigarette had been met with questioning and sometimes frightened glances. He wasn’t sure what the Most Serene First Consort was supposed to do all day, but it sure as hell wasn’t much. It was almost a relief to find himself arguing with Frank later in the evening.

“If you call me Barbara one more time, Frank, so help me god...”

They were once again in Gerard’s rooms in the women’s wing of the ridiculously over-decorated palace, and Gerard, still in his absurd robes, hands on hips and with a face like thunder, was glaring at Frank from across the room.

Frank would have paid more attention had it not been for the shimmering of Gerard’s pants in the conveniently placed beam of moonlight coming through the window. “Sorry?”

“I. Am not. Barbara,” Gerard said clearly. “I am Gerard, and all of this is a an absolute fucking nightmare, only made worse by you calling me Barbara all the goddamn time. Do it again, and I swear to God, I will hurt you.”

“Dude, they’re gonna notice if I don’t call you Barbara-”

“The women who dressed me didn’t notice I had a dick,” Gerard snapped. “Frankly, they wouldn’t notice if I danced naked around this place singing ‘Man, I Feel Like a Woman’.”

“They dressed you again?”

“And rubbed me down with rose oil,” Gerard made a face. “It was horrible.”

“Man,” Frank shook his head sympathetically and tried very hard not to think about how well moonlight suited Gerard. Expressing his appreciation would probably not go down well, and warm, schmoopy love-feelings didn’t go well with a wounded ego. “This place.”

Gerard nodded gloomily, but before he could reply they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Your most Eminent Highness?” Frank, staring into space, didn’t answer. The man looked a little nervous.

“Dude, he means you,” Gerard prompted.

“Oh! Yeah?”

“It’s time for you to retire now.”

“Can’t I retire here?” Frank asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Your Highness, you’re in the women’s quarters.”

“So is my paramo- concub- her.” He jerked a thumb at Gerard, whose eyes promised death. “Have I never spent the night before?” His expression changed minutely. “Tell me I’ve spent the night before.”

“Well...” The messenger actually wrung his hands. “Normally the Moon of Serenity-”

“The what? No, seriously, what?!”

“-normally, she comes to your quarters.” He looked horrified at his own boldness.

“I see,” Frank plainly did not see at all. “Gee, I’ll see you in twenty minutes. Be there or be-”

“Yes, yes I know.”

**

Deprived of anything else to do (having counted all the cushions and the ceiling tiles, thoroughly explored the women’s wing and being well- acquainted with the contents of the book so far) Gerard spiked the guns of his handmaidens and changed into his nightgown. At least he thought it was a nightgown. It was the sheerest and frankly most indecent garment he had ever seen, and felt a sense of vague smugness when his handmaidens redundantly pitched up to shove him into it.

He did feel the need to flag up one pressing concern, however. “Guys, are we not leaving anything to the imagination?” He said, gesturing at himself. The expressions on his handmaidens’ faces made it clear that that was no longer necessary. “Huh. OK, then. Well, you, er. You - head off. I’m just going to be here. Reposing. And shit.” He gestured with the book. “Reading, y’know. Improving my mind.” If the handmaiden’s expressions were any indication, that wasn’t really necessary either.

When they’d left, he settled himself back on the vast, silk-clad bed and cracked open the book. It made for easy reading, and he’d read nearly a full chapter before the import of what he was reading dawned upon him. “Oh, shi-” he managed, and was already reaching for his dressing gown (!!) when the door burst open.

**

“Okay, seriously,” he said, twenty minutes later, hands tied behind the back of his chair, “what use is a kidnapping if you’re literally going to take me next door? You’re not very bright, are you?”

“Silence, whore!” The generic villain cried, and then backhanded him across the face.

It wasn’t the worst he’d had, but it still fucking hurt. Deciding not to cry like a little girl, he said, “’at’s ’oin’ ’o bwuise,” checking his teeth with his tongue.

Confusion reigned for a moment on his kidnapper’s face. “What did you say?”

“I said, that’s going to bruise,” Gerard snapped, then changed tack suddenly. “Wait, why are you untying me?”

“Now, whore, you will be dropped in the desert, to die!” It was said with some relish.

“Can’t wait,” he said dryly. “Though, thinking about it, you know there are more certain ways to get rid of me, right?”

“Be silent-” and then Gerard punched him in the face.

“You,” he said, nursing his hand, “are the worst kidnapper ever.”

The scene that Frank walked in on was somewhat different than he had expected. When he burst into Gerard’s room, he was expecting overturned furniture and possibly blood - what he actually found was some rather rumpled bed-clothes and a scuffling noise coming from somewhere.

“Gee?!” he called out, more than a little alarmed “Where are you? Are you OK?”

“I’m in my dressing room!”

“Oh, good,” there was naked relief in Frank’s voice. “Your, um, staff said some dude had dragged you off somewhere!”

“Not very far,” Gerard returned. “He’s a bit shit at the whole kidnapping thing.”

Frank appeared in the doorway. Gerard was stood over their villain, hand held to his chest, whilst the villain whimpered pathetically, hand over his nose; Frank took all this in at one glance, then grinned up at Gerard. “I fucking love you,” he said fervently.

Gerard smirked, and bowed.

Then the scene froze.

**

[“I’ve done it!” The spell cried triumphantly. “I did it, Bob, I did it!”

“Did what?”

“They’re in love!”

“They were already in love. That’s kind of the problem.”

“Well, they just admitted it! Oh, it was beautiful, Bob, you should have seen it! Things were going so wonderfully, and then Gerard punched the villain in the face-”

“What?!”

“I know, it’s not technically in the books, but-”

“Context. Now.” The spell told him. “Dude, Frank would tell you he loved you if you brought him coffee in the morning. And, y’know, Gee doesn’t really punch people all that often - he’s more of the hunger-strike, protest-songs type. So, that’s kind of a big deal.” There was a contemplative pause. “Better try again, dude.”]

**

Back at the palace, the world started to crackle a little, things dissolving around the edges of their vision. Frank grasped for Gerard’s hand. “What’s going on?”

Gerard shrugged. “No clue.” He gripped Frank’s hand tightly as the room started shimmer in and out of focus. Then as quickly as if someone had flicked channels, the scene changed.

**

Gerard found himself with a lapful of hot porridge when his surroundings shifted back into focus, and swore loudly, leaping up and trying to shake it off his - dress? Again? - and out of his lap. He could just feel delicate parts of him starting to blister with the heat.

“Oh my god,” someone said sounding equal parts terrified and sympathetic, and Gerard wheeled round.

He peered into the gloom of what appeared to be a hovel. “Who’s there?” he demanded, continuing to scrub at the mess of porridge in his lap. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, he recognised the speaker. “Wait, you’re - Brendon, right?”

“Yes. You’re Gerard Way!”

“Yes, I am,” Gerard agreed. “Do you - I mean, do you know why we’re here? Or where ‘here’ is?”

Brendon stared at him, big-eyed. “What?”

Before Gerard could answer, they were interrupted by a yelp followed by a loud ‘thud’ outside the doorway of - wherever they were. Gerard glanced at Brendon, who was possibly in shock, paused mid-scrub and went to investigate.

In the foreground of a vista made up essentially of ‘ostentatious castle’ and ‘moor’, was Frank, in a heap, apparently unconscious and bleeding from a head wound. A horse was casually eating its way through the vegetable patch of what Gerard could now clearly see was a hovel.

Whilst Gerard had been scraping porridge off his crinoline, Frank had been even less lucky. He had re-materialised on a horse and had promptly panicked, dropped the reins and fallen off. All that might have been embarrassing but manageable, had he not gone head first into a rock.

[The spell winced. Too far? ]

Gerard yanked up his skirts and picked his way through the vegetable garden, out of his garden and onto what appeared to be some class-A Romantically Desolate Moorland. Kneeling by Frank’s head and wincing a little as the stays of his goddamn dress bit in under his arms, he put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Frank?” No response. “Frankie?!” Gerard shook him, and desperately dabbed at the blood with a clean bit of his skirt. “Frank, wake up!”

Frank opened his eyes and focussed blearily on Gerard’s face. “Oh, it’s you. I’m glad it’s you. I love you, you know that, right? I love you. Like. Like - butter. Like butter loves bread.”

[The spell paused. “No,” Bob said wearily, without looking up from his book.]

“Yeah, I know,” Gerard said, hoisting him upright. “Come on, we’ll get you a - herbal remedy... thing. Or something.”

“It’s just that - you’re like the sun to my sunflower. You remind me of sunflowers.”

“What, yellow?”

“Yes! No. You’re cheery.”

“Frank, have you noticed the running ‘death’ theme with our albums at all?”

“Yes. I like how you’re so cheery about it,” he beamed, blood trickling down his face and beginning to stain his starched collar. “I like bacon too. The fake stuff. Not the real stuff, because that’s from animals and it’s - it’s ethically unsound.”

“Right, yeah, got it,” Gerard wheezed. “Maybe you want to lay off the fake bacon a bit, though. For the next time I have to haul you back to my hovel.”

“And that’s bad - you shouldn’t be living in a hovel, Gee!” Frank said expansively, ignoring almost everything that Gerard had been saying. “You should be living in a palace! Like last time!” One of his flailing hands almost hit Gerard in the face and he ducked to avoid another, less intentional black eye. Frank’s eyes started to slip out of focus, and Gerard whacked him ineffectually with his free hand.

“Oh, hey, no, Frankie, no! Open your eyes! You gotta stay awake, dude!” Gerard rolled his eyes when he noticed Frank ignoring him completely. “Frank, I swear to god, if you wake up, I’ll give you the best blowjob of your life. Apparently, I suck like a Hoover.”

“Wha’? Blowjob? Who’s giving blowjobs?” Frank roused for long enough to register his interest.

“Your mom,” Gerard told him, heaving him towards the shack.

“Oh.” Interest lost, Frank lapsed into unconsciousness.

Brendon had apparently unfrozen, and was sitting on the kitchen table when Gerard hauled Frank through the door.

“Is that - Frank Iero?” he asked, frowning.

“Yup.” Gerard nodded. “He had a bit of an accident involving a horse. Could you grab his legs? He’s kind of heavy.”

“Is he okay?”

“Um...”

“He’s bleeding!”

“Yes, he is. Could you-” Turned out, an unconscious Frank made a surprisingly loud ‘thud’ when he hit the ground.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Never mind,” Gerard wheezed, collapsed under the weight of his rhythm guitarist. “Look, can you ride?”

“No?”

“Good, there’s a horse outside. Head for the castle, OK, and tell them that someone important has taken a fall. Say his name is Frank, Francis at a push and,” he added whimsically, “Franka if there’s still no reaction.”

Brendon gave him a frightened look, and headed for the door. “Well, OK... but - when I get back, can we talk about some stuff?”

“Sure,” Gerard said, grimly ripping strips off his petticoat and shoving a kettle onto the fire for some hot water.

“Like - why I’m wearing a dress?”

“Oh.” For the first time, Gerard noticed that Brendon was clad in a rather bedraggled grey-pink dress. “Sorry, kid. Just. Yeah. We’ll talk. Just go fetch help.” He paused. “If it helps at all,” he added “I was kidnapped whilst wearing a see-through nightdress.”

Brendon’s expression suggested that it really didn’t. He ran.

**

He arrived back an hour later, after Gerard had cleaned the blood from Frank’s head and bandaged him up as well as could be learnt from Grey’s Anatomy. He then sat for the next forty five minute, clutching Frank’s hand and praying that Frank wasn’t going to bleed to death before he could admit his undying love. Or whatever.

He only paused from his vigil as Brendon entered, bringing with him three burly men, who bowed and honest-to-god tugged their forelocks on catching sight of Gerard.

“Lady Barbara! How can we thank you enough?” The question seemed to be rhetorical, so Gerard just shrugged rather awkwardly, still clasping Frank’s hand. “We knows as you’ve little cause to be kind to ’is Lordship!” These were, Gerard reflected, strangely piratical Scotsmen.

“Er... you do?” Gerard couldn’t quite bring himself just to drop Frank’s hand, which was reassuringly warm and solid in his, but he placed it carefully on the bed next to him, and stood, shaking out his skirts rather self-consciously.

“Oh, aye. After ’im turnin’ you out of what’s rightfully yer home, milady.”

“Oh, that,” Gerard agreed, winging it. “Terrible. Yeah.”

“So, we’re grateful to yer Ladyship. He’s a good laird, fer all ’e was uncivil to yer Ladyship.”

“Well. No good deed, and all that stuff,” Gerard had no idea what he was saying. He wanted them to get Frank out of here and maybe get him to a doctor at some point.

As if he’d read his mind, Brendon piped up, “Dude needs a doctor, guys.”

They stared at him for a moment, then outright leered. “O’ course, Miss.” Brendon recoiled and scuttled behind Gerard. “We’ll be taking him up t’ castle now, milady.”

Gerard smoothed his hands down over his skirts nervously. “I’ll come with you,” he said, a little too quickly, rather unwilling to let Frank out of his sight, especially injured and especially wherever they currently were. He countered their shocked looks with a hasty, “I must see my patient well cared for.”

“Y’always was a kindly mistress, milady,” the leader opined slavishly.

“Well, quite,” Gerard agreed, edging away from him and bumping into Brendon. “I trust you have a carriage waiting?”

“‘I trust’?” Brendon hissed at him. “The fuck?”

“I’m getting into character. Shut up,” Gerard hissed back, then smiled sweetly at the men. “A carriage, master?”

“Indeed, milady. We’ll have to walk, but there’s plen’y of room for youse and yer maid.” Since the piratical Scottish servants were really little more than grammatical constructs, Gerard felt justified in not giving a damn that they were going to have to walk back.

Brendon, however, had other worries. “Who’s your maid?” He whispered.

“You,” Gerard told him, his smile never faltering. “Well, thank you, good sirs, for your kind attention to me and your - er - laird.”

“Dude, you’re good at this.”

Gerard continued without acknowledgement. “I will see him safely back to the castle.”

“Aye, they’ll be a-waitin’ for ye back at Castle McClimmock.”

“Right. Excellent. Thank you.”

Brendon leant towards him after the door shut on the carriage, Frank slumped against Gerard. Gerard told himself firmly that the arm he had around Frank’s waist was strictly practical; the carriage ride was bumpy, and he couldn’t let Frank fall off the seat. “I have many questions,” he said carefully, “but first - why does everyone here sound like an extra from ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’?”

“Oh man,” Gerard leant back against the cushions. “It’s a really, really long story.”

**

“A romance novel? Really?”

“Second one so far,” Gerard agreed. “And I found the copy of ‘To Tame the Wild Laird’,” Brendon looked revolted, “in my workbasket, so it’s a pretty safe bet. I should warn you, you’re Miss Charlotte McIthen and you’re my maid.”

“Why am I a girl!?”

“I don’t know!” Gerard all but squawked. “If it helps at all-”

“It won’t,” Brendon prophesised gloomily.

“-I was a concubine last time, so think yourself lucky.” Brendon looked mildly interested. “Don’t say a word.”

“So, we’re stuck here forever?”

“No. I don’t think so? I think I might just have to admit wild, passionate burning love. Y’know, like in the books. That’s where they always end. With declarations of love.” Brendon’s expression went from sceptical to terrified. “Not for you! Me! For Frank!”

“Do I have to admit wild, passionate burning love for him as well?” Brendon asked.

Gerard shrugged. “Could always try?”

Brendon considered it. “Nah, I’ll stick it out. It’s not worth the bruises.” There was a long pause. “Well? Go on, then! Go admit your love!”

[The spell snorted. It wouldn’t be caught out like that twice.]

“I’ll wait till he wakes up,” Gerard said carefully.

**

Frank woke to Gerard’s face looming over him. “Dude! Uncool!”

“You know who I am, then?”

“Er. Is that a trick question?”

Gerard looked faintly disappointed. “Oh. Well. That’s good. Do you know who you are?”

“If by ‘me’ you mean Frank Iero, guitarist for My Chem, yeah, I do. If you mean the ‘me’ which involves a horse and breeches and wherever I am now-”

“Castle McClimmock,” Gerard supplied helpfully.

“Yeah, that - then no. No idea.”

“Well, you’re a laird.”

“I’m a what? Because that sounds like an STD.”

“It’s a lord, but in Scotland.”

“Huh,” Frank digested this. “Do I have a concussion?”

“Yes. Your Lairdship.”

“And - who are you?”

“I am the Lady Barbara, of course,” Gerard rolled his eyes. “You were a dick and threw me out of the castle after my uncle died, claiming to be the rightful inheritor. The book,” he waved ‘Taming the Wild Laird’ three inches from Frank’s face, “claims that I’m the rightful owner, but I think that’s pretty dubious myself. Anyway, I live in a godawful shack with my maid. Miss Charlotte.”

“Miss Charlotte?”

“Yo,” Brendon said from the corner.

Frank looked a little dazed. “Isn’t that - Brendon Urie? The kid from-”

“Yes.” They said together.

“Do you get a dress too, Charlotte?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brendon actually sounded proud. “Mine is pink. So,” he crossed his arms, “could we get this over with? Because, no offence, but this feels a little like roleplaying, and that’s really not my kink, so.”

“Get it over with?” Frank sounded suspicious.

“Yeah, y’know. The declarations of love and all.”

“Gerard?” Frank pinned him with a look. “Declarations of love?”

Gerard went a little pink. “So, I had a theory, OK? Just roll with it.” He leant forwards. “Frank, I love you,” he said sincerely. “I don’t think I could live without you or love anyone else. I love you.”

Nothing happened.

[The spell sniggered to itself. This time, they would just have to sweat it out for a little longer.]

Frank raised an eyebrow. “You need a new theory.”

“So it needs a little work!” Gerard said defensively, flushing pink and trying not to feel stupid.

“You think?” Frank said acerbically.

“So, does this mean the role-play continues?” Brendon asked, looking amused.

“Don’t sound so pleased, sunshine, you have to dress me,” Gerard said and turned to Frank. “About that, I need pants. Can I have a pair of yours?”

“Make that two,” Brendon piped up.

Frank shook his head. “Gerard, I love you and I would do anything for you-”

[The spell perked up. Bob didn’t even bother with a reply.]

“-but my breeches will not fit you. Him,” he nodded at Brendon, “they probably would-”

“No,” Gerard said viciously, “if I have to stay in a dress, he has to stay in a dress.” Brendon accepted this with equanimity. “Misery loves company.”

“Dude, I thought you were kind of - y’know, one with the girl-clothes.”

“Yeah, sure! Sometimes! For fun! For a statement! It’s not something I want to take up permanently!”

“Neither is living in a romance novel,” Brendon said, looking out the window at the theatrically driving rain and shuddering. “Dude, never moving to Scotland.”

“I don’t think this is an accurate portrayal,” Gerard returned over one shoulder, “Frank, pants, now.”

“Gerard,” Frank said earnestly, “they won’t fit. They’ll be ridiculously tight and uncomfortable, and God knows I don’t need the temptation. With my wound, you know.”

“Charlotte,” Gerard said icily, standing and shaking out his skirts with jerky, irritated movements, “we’re leaving.”

“What!?” Brendon shook his head. “No! I like it here! It’s warm here! Your hovel is fucking freezing, and we have to go through that,” a panicked gesture at the window and what had apparently become sleet, “to get there!”

“I won’t stay here a moment longer!” Gerard snapped, voice suspiciously shrill.

“Funny, book-you says the same thing,” Frank said, leafing through ‘To Tame the Wild Laird’ interestedly. “Apparently I insist you stay to show my gratitude to you - though I then offer to warm you ‘with my body’, quite insistently, so I’m still a dick.” He paused. “Barbara is apparently kind of feisty, since she says the only way she would let me warm her ‘with my body’ is if she set fire to me.” Gerard was eyeing the fireplace with rather too much interest for comfort. “Hey, I offered to share my castle!”

“You withheld pants,” Gerard said simply.

“So, we’re still going by the book, right?”

“Might as well,” Gerard shrugged.

Frank flung back the covers. “Hop in!”

In the withering silence which followed, Brendon noted absently from the window, “It’s a little creepy that you guys are all but having sex and the maid is still in the room.”

“You don’t count, you’re staff,” Gerard pointed out.

“Huh. These books are kinky shit,” Brendon said and turned back to his gloomy contemplation of the rain.

“OK,” Frank said, “I’ll be serious.” He cleared his throat and adopted a wooden tone. “Barbara, I must insist you stay. I owe you my life,” he didn’t exactly sound thrilled, “and I must show you my gratitude for.... the fine dress you’re wearin- what? Oh! Sorry, turned two pages at once. For saving me thusly. Is thusly a word?” When Gerard just shrugged, Frank held the book out. “It’s your line.”

Gerard perched on Frank’s pillow and absent-mindedly carded a hand through Frank’s hair, just above the bandage. Just as absently, Frank leant into the touch. Brendon, keen-eyed, watched from the window. “Thank you kind sir she said bitterly - wait, sorry, my bad. Thank you kind sir, but I must decline. I wouldn’t stay in the vile environs of your castle a moment longer than I had to. Come, Charlotte!”

“Where’re we going?”

“To find some pants.”

**

Unfortunately, in the romance world where all the men - even the piratical one-liners - were tall and built like brick houses, neither of them had had much luck finding decently-fitting men’s clothes.

“I look like I’ve raided my dad’s wardrobe,” Brendon said, flapping the ends of his sleeves. His breeches were rolled up to the knee to prevent them trailing in puddles. “This is ridiculous.”

Gerard gave him a look, which might have been more effective had his open-necked shirt of manliness not plunged, gaping, nearly to his navel. His jacket, when done up to preserve at least the illusion of modesty, made him look like a scarecrow, and his huge breeches didn’t exactly help the picture. “Would you prefer the dress, Miss Charlotte?”

“You know,” Brendon said, looking down at his ungainly breeches, “I just might-”

“You can if you want,” Gerard said. “I’m going to relish the feeling of pants.”

With many stops to roll the stubborn breeches back up, they made their way slowly to Frank’s room. Frank had been left with the book, and greeted them cheerily.

“Someone should get Book Me on sexual harassment charges,” he said, dropping it on the bed. “Barbara’s told me to fuck off about six times and I still keep coming on to her. And then she suddenly decides it’s A-Okay and I ravish her in a stairwell.”

“If I said ‘no’ at first, you should accept my decision,” Gerard told him, plopping himself down gloomily right next to Frank - unnecessarily, Brendon noted interestedly, since Frank’s bed was roughly the same size as a small tennis court.

“But, hey,” he said carefully, “you guys are friends, right? If you’re still going by the book, isn’t the whole ‘ravishing’ thing going to be super awkward?”

“Eh, we’ve done worse,” Frank said.

“With an audience!” Gerard added brightly.

“Um. Super.” Brendon edged towards the door. “Are you gonna do it - um, now? Because, staff or not, I think I’d better go...”

“Nope! We need a stairwell,” Gerard said stoutly.

“You’re going to go find one deliberately?”

“Yep.” On seeing Brendon’s sceptical look, he said, “look, do you want to get out of here or not?” Brendon nodded fervently. “Well, there you go then.”

**

Almost the moment Frank was given leave to get up, he and Gerard headed for the nearest convenient stairwell.

“Right, so,” Gerard said, sitting down on the stairs, “how does this go in the book?”

“I pretty much just grab you and shove you up against a wall - I’m classy - and keep saying that you’re mine. I say it a lot, actually. Like six or seven times. Not all at once, ‘cause that would be a bit weird - you’re mine you’re mine you’re mine-”

“Right, gotcha,” Gerard interrupted him quickly. “So, after the shoving and the ‘mining’, what comes next?”

“Kissing. Really ridiculous kissing.”

“What, like ‘bend me over backwards’,” he warded off any potential vagaries with a quelling eyebrow, “‘ and try not to drop me’ kissing?”

“Er, more like ‘the heat of my lips searing your very soul’ kissing.”

There was an awkward silence. “Right, so. Shall we get to the searing?”

“Ladies first,” Frank grinned.

“You haven’t shoved me, yet,” Gerard said primly. Frank put a little too much enthusiasm into his shoving and Gerard’s head hit the wall with a painful thump. “Ow,” Gerard glared at him.

Frank presented him with an innocent face. “Sorry,” he said sweetly.

“Come here, then,” Gerard gave a put-upon sigh and yanked him forwards, flush against him.

“So, you come here often?” Frank grinned, and Gerard promptly cracked up. Frank clung on to him as he laughed, giggling into his collarbone. As it turned out, tension-breaker though it was, laughter was not conducive to kissing. There was another faintly awkward pause before Frank licked his lips and leant forwards to press a dry, ungainly kiss to the corner of Gerard’s mouth.

“If that’s your definition of ‘searing’, I’m going home. Dude, I haven’t been kissed like that since third grade.”

“You got kissed in third grade?”

“I was advanced,” Gerard said stiffly.

“You were also weird,” Frank pointed out honestly, but with a sad want of tact.

“Hey!”

“What? You’re the one who offered criticism of my kissing technique!” Frank pushed back. “Maybe we should try this again when you’re in a more mature frame of mind.”

“Fine,” Gerard returned sharply. “Get off me, then.”

Awkwardly, Frank pushed himself away from Gerard and, backward glance notwithstanding, stalked off.

**

Brendon glared at him. “So, we’re still here?”

Gerard gave him a Look. “As you see.”

“Well, could you - look, I’m sorry, but could you get a fucking move on, please? Because I’ve spent today bouncing on the bed and trying to ring for room service and I’m bored. ‘Miss Charlotte’ apparently does fuck all and is woefully under-employed, and I’m bored, Gee-Way, bored.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that like somehow it’ll make a difference. We’re stuck here until whatever it is decides to let us move on!”

“Move on?”

“Yeah, you know, hopefully back to the bus. Or maybe to a different romance novel.”

“Another romance novel?” Brendon looked a little sick.

Gerard nodded, looking strangely gloomy - for him, at any rate. “Mm, this is the second one so far. I told you, last time I was a concubine. In a desert.”

“And - were you still called Barbara?”

Gerard’s estimation of Brendon went up a couple of notches - clearly, he understood the salient points. “Yes. It was awful. Though, this one time, someone called me the Moon of Serenity.”

“Awesome,” Brendon grinned, but the smile slipped off his face as a new thought hit him. “So, will I have to come too? To the new novel?”

“I don’t know,” Gerard shrugged helplessly.

“But I don’t want to!”

“I don’t think we get a say,” Gerard pointed out. “Look, I’m sorry, OK? I don’t know why we’re here, let alone you.”

[The spell sighed to itself. Humans were so slow.]

Brendon paused. “Will I still have to wear a dress?”

--
Next Part
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Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four