(no subject)
Title: Make It Smoke
Pairings: Frank/OMC, Frank/Gerard
Rating: nc17
Word count: 15714
Warnings: OMC ignoring a safeword. Moderate alcohol addiction.
Summary: It's winter 2002, and Frank Iero has been happily living with his dom for over a year. Then, on the same day that Zeke betrays their relationship and his trust, a band stops at Zeke's shop. Frank hitches a ride and does his best to not fall in love with the lead singer. It's harder than it sounds.
Author notes: Thanks carmesim for drawing this. I don't write a lot of normal pairings, but the art was inspiring. And thanks to mizubyte for her bandom timeline. It was open for days as I tried to organise this fic.
Right now Frank’s only responsibility is to go under. He’s not going under. He’s nowhere near going under. If anything, his mind is racing.
He gets what Zeke is trying to do. In different circumstances Frank would be thrilled to be doing this scene. Between the restraints and the long wait, it could be perfect. Frank is used to perfect scenes. They’ve had a little over two years to refine how they mould to each other’s expectations; perfect is the norm. It’s the particulars that make this bad. It’s frustrating, and more than a little odd. His dom is normally excellent with the finer details.
One problem is how cold the restroom is. The shop has a top notch air filtration system to combat Zeke’s allergies, just like their home. The problem with both is that they circulate the warm air out. Frank understands the need for it. Even if he wasn’t the sub, he’d submit to Zeke’s need for an expensive air system. It’s simple to make Frank not cold in a filtered room. It’s not simple to protect Zeke from pollutants in a normal, warm room. It’s just, it can be bad enough on his knees in a sweater. On linoleum in only his underwear Frank’s freezing.
Another issue is the hygiene of being nearly naked in a public restroom. Frank knows how often the shop is cleaned. Nine times out of ten he’s the one with closing chores like mopping and window washing as Zeke counts the register and refrigerates the sandwiches. The floor is not washed enough for Frank to be okay with sitting on it without a protective layer.
The most prevalent problem is that Zeke’s gas and sandwich shop doesn’t exactly draw in the best clients. For every one innocent family on a road trip to see the Atlanta Falcons there are five or six super sketchy truckers. Almost nude and cuffed to the handicapped railing in the larger of the two stalls, Frank might have the opportunity to scar a football obsessed child for life. It’s nearly certain he’ll be stared at by some trucker high on crystal meth.
Frank loves the idea of being naked and forced to wait for Zeke to want to use him. Frank has no interest in being an open mouth for some creeper in a mesh baseball cap with scars on his face from where he scratched off the spiders. The longer he sits the more detailed the confrontation becomes. It’s more than just not going under, the idea is actually making him upset. In the last two years he’s had to call the cops a few times. Tweakers don’t take no well, even ‘no, we’re sold out of bacon sandwiches, sorry’. He can’t imagine being refused a blowjob will go over better.
Finally he can’t stand it anymore. Frank clears his throat and calls out “monkey!”
Zeke doesn’t come. Frank frowns, then shrugs it off. There must be a customer. The number of people that can’t wait twenty minutes to be in the city for a snack or gas is surprisingly high. He waits long past the time it would take Zeke to complete a transaction before calling out a second time, louder. He still doesn’t come.
Frank knows Zeke can hear him. They’ve done scenes in the shop before; Zeke getting off by himself in the bathroom with Frank manning the counter, forced to only imagine it. If Frank can hear Zeke’s groan as he plays with his balls, Zeke can certainly hear his clear shouting. There’s only one conclusion Frank can make. Zeke’s not in the restroom unlocking him because he’s choosing not to.
“Monkey, motherfucker! I’m not kidding!”
It’s not fair to say he should have seen this coming. Zeke’s brought up Gorean a few times, but Frank’s always been able to talk sense into him. Total power exchange is not something he’s looking for. What they have comes close, but the few differences are the important ones. At least they are to Frank, and he thought Zeke understood that.
Most situations boil down to two end options; doing something about it yourself, or waiting for someone else to do it. It’s become abundantly clear someone else has no interest in letting him out, so Frank has to try letting himself free. Try being the operative word. He doesn’t have much optimism about his efforts actually working. Zeke has impeccable attention to detail. He wouldn’t allow for something as scene ruining as escapable predicament bondage.
His pessimism is accurate. The cuffs are too tight for his hands to slip out of, of course, that being the entire point of bondage cuffs. Throwing himself forward doesn’t result in anything except wrenched shoulders. The safety railing doesn’t as much as shift. Frank defaults to shouting monkey over and over again. Less as a safeword and more as an expression of betrayed rage. Zeke might think it’s okay to cross the thin line between keeping Frank and owning him, but to Frank it’s spitting on what they’ve had for the last twenty six months. When he finally does let him go, Frank’s going to punch him in the face and dump his ass.
If Frank’s not careful his anger is going to turn into panic. Shouting is keeping him at the precipice, so he shuts up and methodically takes in his surroundings. Mindfulness meditation doesn’t really work for him. He he tried it for a while, but it’s too similar and different from subspace to suit him. Still, acknowledging your senses without trying to change anything fits the current situation.
There isn’t much variety in a restroom stall. There are only five basic surfaces to look at. He’s got the floor, white but nastily tacky. The ceiling is white with small grey flecks. The toilet is white, thankfully without stains. There’s his own body, which, thanks to Zeke’s enjoyment of mirrors he’s seen often enough. The most interesting are the walls which are heavily marked up red metal paint. Half the graffiti is written in Sharpie, the other half scratched in. Kellie’s a skank and its followup says who, bitch can only be read so many times. And yet Frank reads it again. He’s run out of other options.
Frank’s been in the stall for a while when he hears the door on the other side of the smaller stall open. He has no way of telling the time, aside from counting to sixty ten times then starting again, which he’s not quite desperate enough to do yet. Hazarding a guess though, he’s been handcuffed to the handicapped railing maybe two hours.
About to start shouting at Zeke for leaving him so long, he notices the shoes most definitely aren’t his dom’s -his ex-dom’s- although they are male sized sneakers. There is only one set of shoes, but the guy is definitely talking. Fantastic. Nothing is a surer sign of sanity than someone who talks to himself about gumballs. Dude could win a sanity award.
Frank decides to stay silent. Alerting the lunatic of the presence of a nearly naked defenseless man probably won’t work out too well for him. Maybe if he waits a half hour he will get that innocent vacationing family to scar when he calls out for help.
The man enters the single stall and for a moment Frank thinks he’s safe. Then the guy grunts in disgust and backs out of the stall like something is going to attack him from the toilet bowl. Frank has all of three seconds to pray the guy has decided it’ll be better to hold it until he gets into the city before the unlocked door crashes open. Frank scrambles to the side as much as the cuffs allow so he’s not the doorstop. He’s not much for impact play in general, and getting smacked with a door is even less appealing than a paddle.
The man stares at him. There’s nothing Frank can do but stare back. He doesn’t want to startle him, and depending on how crazy he is, even nodding hello could come as a shock. He looks pretty crazy; his hair is long and wild and his shirt is inside out.
“Uh. Gimme five seconds,” he says before he turns and runs out. If Frank wasn’t trying to avoid being confrontational, if he wasn’t already speaking to an empty room, he’d point out that right now it’s not exactly his place to dictate others movements.
Frank’s expecting Zeke to come check when the restroom door opens again a minute or two later. If he’s got a shred of decency he’d be coming in to ask if he’s okay, and maybe undo the goddamn cuffs if he think he’s proved whatever point he was trying to make. But Frank’s becoming more disillusioned by the second, so hell, maybe Zeke’s coming in to mock him. Except it’s not Zeke, it’s a herd of people. Four, by the count of shoes. When one pushes the door open, lighter this time so it doesn’t crash into anything, Frank doesn’t recognise any of them. They’re strangers, not a group of acquaintances Zeke decided to ‘grant permission’ to use him. Which doesn’t mean he’s not about to get assaulted, just that he’s not being betrayed by yet more friends.
“Holy shit! You weren’t drunk!”
“I told you!” The man that came in alone the first time turns to a guy with glasses and horribly ratty poorly bleached hair. “You’re still not getting reception?”
Ratsnest Hair stares blankly at him. “If I could call the police I would Gee.”
“Uh, you don’t have to call the cops,” Frank replies, somewhat reluctantly. BDSM gone wrong is always the legal fault of the dom, but as quickly as Frank has soured on their relationship he still doesn’t want Zeke arrested for unlawful confinement or some shit.
“When someone kidnaps you to cut off your limbs or demand you rub on lotion you normally try to call the cops.”
Frank rolls his eyes at the group. “He’s not a serial killer, he’s just my asshole dom. Ex dom.”
The one with the big hair spazzes out. “Uh. I. Um. We don’t really know protocol here? Or at least I don’t, but I think I’m speaking for everyone. Do you want us to just leave you alone?”
“No! I want you to get the fucking key so I can get fucking free so I can break up with his ass!” he shouts the last and it feels good.
“I’ll get it.”
From the way Ratsnest leaves Frank’s line of vision a second after the thickest goes to get the key, Frank’s pretty sure he’s acting like a human doorstop. Gee and Big Hair don’t move, apparently preferring to stare at him. Frank would give a sarcastic handwave, but his hands aren’t currently available.
“-about I punch you? And then I keep punching you, until you gimme the key?" wafts in from the store, each word progressively louder. For all that Zeke is confident and powerful, he’s physically not much bigger than Frank. A threat of a brawl he can’t talk his way out of might be enough to make him hand over the key.
Ratsnest speaks from the door, smile evident in his voice. “Otter’s good at persuasion.”
Otter comes back in, key in hand. He holds it out like Frank’s just going to take it from him. Frank raises his eyebrows as sarcastically as he can, though he doesn’t say anything. To piss them off enough that they leave when he’s this close to being free would be a kick in the nuts.
“Unlock him, fuck.”
“I’m not gay!”
Gee scowls. “His cock isn’t even out! And you’d be touching his arms and back.” Otter doesn’t move. “Give it, dumbass.” He snatches the key and Frank strains away from the handicapped railing to give Gee the largest amount of space he can. Just because he’s not homophobic doesn’t mean he wants to rub up against Frank.
“So you’re free, uh-”
“Frank,” he supplies when he realises what Gee’s waiting for. He checks his wrists as he stands, a job that normally Zeke takes. They’re a bit red, sweaty despite the goosebumps on the rest of his body. But no marks along the four inches the restraints were wrapped around, nothing that won’t fade.
“Free but naked,” Ratsnest point out. “Where are your clothes?”
“I dunno. Beneath the cash register, maybe?” Frank’s not sure. Normally Zeke undresses him and redresses him afterwards.
Big Hair goes to check and comes back with them. Frank takes them gratefully, more for the warmth than the modesty. They’ve already seen his skin, covering it now wouldn’t make the Victorian unfaint. He quickly pulls on his jeans, not tightening his belt at the buckle. At this moment he doesn’t feel like more straps. The backs of his sneakers are crushed from sliding them on a thousand times without untying the laces, he does it once more. The long sleeved shirt covers his tattoos, wrists, and fingers. Frank’s got a habit of wanting oversized clothes, and Zeke allows it. After an unknown time naked on linoleum clothes are a treat.
“So you disobeyed your dom, right? By getting yourself undone? Isn’t that not allowed?”
“My porn research informs me he’ll get spanked for misbehaving.”
Another day and Frank would give Otter a firm lecture about the realism of BDSM porn being second last only to dyke porn. Another day and he’d ignore it, just let it go. But today is today. “He didn’t listen to my safeword. That’s like ‘put the gun down’ not listening compared to ‘eat your broccoli’ not listening. And I don’t fucking care how he wants to punish me, because I’m leaving.”
“Yeah?”
“I hate moving out of ex’s places. You got a friend to help?”
“No. I moved here to be with him.”
“Where you from?”
“Jersey.”
“Us too. Weird. So you gonna move back?”
“I guess.” It hits Frank how big of an issue this is about to be. He’s not changing his mind, but there’s a lot more to walking out of the restroom than just walking out of the restroom. He tugs on the end of his braid as he thinks. “I guess I’ll have to call my mom. I don’t have any of my own money.”
“What! That jerkoff demands it?”
Gee looks furious, like he’s about to walk out to the front and steal Zeke’s wallet or grab a fistful of cash from the til to compensate him. Frank figures he better explain before that confrontation happens. “No, I haven’t worked in a year. I help him here and he takes care of me.”
“Don’t call your mom,” Ratsnest says.
“Mikey, he can’t stay here.”
“I’m not saying stay here. I’m saying hitchhike with us. For the next two weeks we’re on tour. We’re in a band. Just come with, and once we’re closer to Jersey we’ll drop you off. You can get back without begging.”
“Technically I’m just changing the target of my begging from my mom to you.” Not that it isn’t an alluring idea. Being a roadie for a band of obviously decent guys in exchange for not having to tell his mother why he needs money to come home? It’s hard to see the flaws.
“Not really, we offered.”
“You offered,” he feels compelled to point out.
“Gerard doesn’t care. Otter doesn’t care. Ray doesn’t care,” Mikey replies, angling slightly to each of them in turn to confirm.
Gerard offers “we're kinda smelly, but you’re welcome.”
Big Hair -Ray, apparently- crosses his arms. “Excuse me? Who’s smelly? We left today and you didn’t shower. What kind of person doesn’t shower when they know they’ll be sponge bathing in public washrooms?”
Oh. So they’re that kind of band. Frank’s mental image of being in a bunk in a blinged out tourbus washes out in a wave of realism. It makes sense though. If these guys were the next U2, they wouldn’t give a shit about some random peon tied to a post. And really, he’ll probably have more in common with guys in a duct taped van than celebrities. He did duct taped van, for years.
“I can put up with smelly. You guys are fucking awesome. I’ll help you set up your shit, I used to be in a band. Let’s go.”
Just outside the restroom door Zeke’s planted a stool to sit on. He crosses his arms as Frank starts to cross the threshold. “I told you you’re staying in the stall. You know what happens if you don’t.”
Frank is so infuriated he can’t even answer in words. Half the band look like they want to do it for him, but Frank has a better response. He ducks around Zeke and as Gerard starts shouting indignantly he goes into the tiny kitchen. The meat scissors are hanging from a hook on the wall amongst other cooking tools. Frank stretches to get them down and unhooks the white plastic bit so the two spring loaded limbs push apart. He closes his eyes, pulls his braid to the side of his neck and squeezes the resisting limbs together.
The links of the braid rapidly start unravelling as he stalks back to the front. Frank slams it beside the cash register with an audible slap. “Keep it, you fucking prick.”
He doesn’t diminish his statement by demanding the house key so he can get his (Zeke’s) clothing or his (Zeke’s) books or his (Zeke’s) cd’s. Frank just storms out, the band following in his wake.
The van in the parking lot has a trailer attached. Once white, it’s now covered in stickers and graffiti. It makes Frank grin to see it. It’s got middle fingers sketched on, but no crosses or marijuana leaves, so at least he hasn’t somehow wound up hitching with a Christian rock or RnB group. He’d take it over nothing, but it probably wouldn’t be a great two weeks.
“What was that about?” Gerard makes a gesture vaguely towards his head.
“Grow your hair out was the first order he ever gave me, back in September 2000. He can eat that braid. I want to shave my entire head and shove it all up his ass.” He’s rocked a few different looks in his day, he can do aggressively bald next.
“Don’t be hasty.”
“What?”
“Not the symbolic break up part, you’re right, fuck him. But shaving it off. I’m not gay, but you look hot with hair that length. You should keep it. I mean, maybe trim the edges, it’s kinda uneven. But keep it long.”
“Ray, you are a biased man,” Mikey points out. Frank takes another look at Ray’s hair. His will never look like that, there’s no product that will give Frank curly frizz. But the length suits Ray. He’s only known the guy ten minutes and he already can’t imagine him with a normal short haircut.
“Just overnight. Give yourself a chance to think.”
He’s got kind of a point. Shaving it all off to spite Zeke isn’t that much different than growing it to please him. Either way, Frank’s still doing it for someone else, not himself.
Hand on the van door, Frank asks “anyone care where I sit?” He’s done this long enough to know that you claim your seat just like normal people in normal relationships claim their side of the bed.
They rearrange themselves, then start driving into Atlanta. Everyone is silent for all of a minute, before Ray twists under his seatbelt to look at Frank behind him. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I don’t get it. If you didn’t want to be tied up in the restroom, why’d you let him tie you up in the restroom?”
“Did Frank look like he could take that guy?” Gerard answers for him from the driver’s seat. Frank appreciates the effort, even though he’s wrong.
“No, it wasn’t that. He’s my dom. It’s the dynamic, that sometimes you agree to things that might not make you happy, because it’ll make them happy.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s like waiting. I can’t wait for myself, I have no patience. But for a dom, I can.”
“Is that why you got pissed off? Because you were waiting too long?”
“No,” Frank says flatly. “I got pissed off because I’m monogamous, and I didn’t want some methhead trucker thinking I was a party favour.”
“So, like, you don’t go to kink clubs.” Mikey sounds interested, for all that he’s not looking up from his retro gameboy.
“No I don’t. And even if I did, they aren’t mass orgies. A lot of states and countries you’re not even allowed to come. It breaks hygiene standards.”
“Huh.”
“So what else do you like?”
“Seriously? You seriously want me to list off my kinks?”
“If you tell us yours, I’ll tell you mine?” Beside Frank, Otter shakes his head and corrects himself. “Or like, Mikey’s. His’ll be more interesting, Mikey used to be the deviant in the van.” Ray throws a half crushed can at Otter. “What the fuck?”
Continuing to scowl, Ray says “don’t call him a deviant, dumbass. You want someone to call you a deviant because you’d rather eat out a girl than fuck her?”
“That’s not deviant.”
“Why? Because more people like pussy than whips? That’s-”
“If you’d let me finish!”
They look like they’re really arguing, like any second now Ray is going to dive over the seat and strangle Otter. Frank’s very soul protests at the idea of causing a fissure in a band over something as easy as his kinks. If he can talk about it online, he can talk about it in a van with verging on drunk people.
“So yeah. Waiting. Not just orgasm denial, although that’s part of it. But the whole lead up. Like, back before Zeke was a huge douche, this one time he made out with me every half hour for a whole day without once sticking a hand down my jeans. Or hell, even just talking about it. He’d tell me he’d fuck me after midnight and I’d have the whole day to imagine it.”
“So like the whole ‘I see you shiver with antici dot dot dot pation’ thing?”
“Yeah. I like sharp pain stuff too. Like, pinching and play piercing, not flogging.” Frank shrugs. “I dunno. I mean, do you want a jerk off fantasy?”
“Gerard likes to hold people down.”
“Fuck you!”
Mikey offers out of brotherly loyalty, “Ray likes facials. You’d think he’d have sympathy the way his hair is. But he totally doesn’t.”
As the conversation moves off of him specifically, Frank grins and settles in. He can do this. He knows how to get shit on stage, he knows how to talk shit with other guys, and he knows how to avoid thinking about the future. Fuck being home in two weeks, right now he’s on his way to some venue in Atlanta, and that’s enough.
***
The venue is midsized, Frank notes when he actually has a chance to wander around out front after all the gear is inside. Bigger than anywhere Pencey Prep ever played. It’s not just a basement, or a bar with an even smaller capacity than the average suburban basement. It’s a real club. There are actual designated dancing areas and drinking areas, drawn out in the differences in flooring.
A small part of Frank wonders if they could have made it this big eventually, if he’d have stayed. Most of him doesn’t believe it. He wouldn’t have deserted a successful band just for love. That Pencey was disintegrating was just as much of an impetus as the stark realisation that people that you didn’t even know hated you so much they wished you were dead, and were actively trying to kill you, so you might as well enjoy life until then.
To be honest, the venue looks too big for this band. Frank doesn’t wish it to be true. He wouldn’t wish an empty dance floor on anyone. Well, maybe a few people, the same people he wishes would be buried in spider laden coffins, or forced to take intro to Spanish. But not these guys. Gerard saved him, hell, they all had a part in it. For that alone they deserve good lives. Beyond goodwill as a concept, everyone in the band seems like good people, people he could actually be friends with. They’ve made him laugh more than once, Mikey the most of them. Once they got settled into the back room and Otter pulled out a case of beer seemingly out of nowhere, he gave him a can. Gerard shared a cigarette.
But they don’t seem like the kind of guys that have much stage presence. They don’t even seem to want to play. The longer they sit in the back room the drunker they all get, and a few times the other three have taken a gulp in unison when the fourth mentions the oncoming show. Frank can understand pre-show jitters, but it’s supposed to be a combination of dread and excitement, not dread and apathy.
Finally he can’t take it anymore. He stands, muttering as he leaves “I’m gonna see if I still have a bank account.”
It was primarily an excuse to get out of the club, but once he sees an gas station down the street he heads towards it. It’ll have an ATM of some brand. Even if it’s not his own he should still be able to use it, he’ll just have to pay a fee. Assuming Frank’s nearly empty account hasn’t gotten closed for inactivity. His wallet has a client card, that much is true. Which is about all it holds. A few years ago he would have had cash, change, a Rutgers student card, a library card, probably a few dollars left on a gift certificate. As Zeke’s sub, the man bought everything he might need. Or at least everything Zeke thought he wanted, and deserved. The wallet only stayed in his pocket in case Zeke took him out and he needed ID.
Not having used his bank card for a year, it takes a moment of concentration to think about what his password might be. Luckily he’s always done what the website FAQs tell people not to; use the same one or two phrases for all his accounts. Frank’s second password works. He’s got about a thousand dollars, which is more than he thought he’d have. A lot more. The only thing he can think is that his mom got worried and transferred him money some time in the last year. He hasn’t talked to her since he left. She didn’t approve of him moving states away to be with a boyfriend, and when she hadn’t answered when he’d asked if a girlfriend would have made it acceptable, Frank had pretty much decided to make a clean break.
He thinks for a second before withdrawing two fifties. A fifty buys a lot of gas, and fledgling bands need gas money more than they need nearly anything else. He can supplement their income a few times until they’re back in Jersey. It’s only fair. The other bill he’ll use for shit he’ll need in the next two weeks, a second pair of socks and underwear, toothpaste, a book to read. Further down the block is a strip mall, he should be able to get necessities there.
Before he knows it it’s nearly seven, which is the time Gerard said they’re on. Out of loyalty Frank goes back to the club. He hasn’t had time to borrow a merch cd and listen, though he did help them haul in their boxes and display the merch. The title was interesting; I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love. The cover was interesting too. At first it just looked like purple and yellow run through a few filters in Photoshop, but the longer Frank looked at the purple section the more the grainy flecks looked like faces. The initial moment of oh shit, religion panic at the track called Our Lady of Sorrows is tempered with another track titled Vampires Will Never Hurt You. Frank’s pretty sure Christians are against stories of rising from the dead, except for Jesus. Besides, Otter talks way too much about sex to be religious.
Judging by the type of people that are milling around, it’s going to be his type of band. Over half of the women have their hair tied back, and no one is wearing the poseurific metal stud jewellery that hurts in the pit. And the pit is gearing up already, people already jostling for the middle, with a wide berth around its edges for those that just want to listen without sweat and bruises.
They look different when they come on stage. Otter’s hard to see, the plight of all drummers always. But Mikey, who’s been talking with his hands since Frank’s known him, locks into place like a set of cogs. Frank can nearly hear the ka-chink of his knees. And Gerard is no longer the indignant man with a cause, or the backstage drunk. He’s a fury when they start a song called Honey This Mirror Isn’t Big Enough For The Two Of Us. Mikey stands firmly in place and Ray is headbanging with the occasional step forwards or backwards, but Gerard is shaking, four limbed flailing like he’s a Pentacostal parishioner speaking in tongues. Frank can’t really blame him, the backbeat of this song commands it. The entire crowd feels it too, already, only ten seconds in and people are shoving each other.
The guitarwork lasts about forty seconds, then Gerard’s shouting more than singing that the pills he’s taking counteract the booze he’s drinking, and Frank has a brief moment to wonder if that’s true, he didn’t actually see any pills, and then he’s swept up and he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even really tune in until the chords change to plucking and Gerard’s saying don’t. care. how. much, like each word is its own sentence. And as soon as he says we’re not working out and Ray repeats it a bit later, Frank can’t help that the words rip out of his throat. It’s like Zeke is in front of him, and regardless of the words Gerard is half screaming, he just keeps bellowing ‘we’re not working out’, and they fit the music perfectly. Or at least the pain does, and that’s the point.
The next song is Drowning Lessons, and it’s just as good, and so is Best Day Ever after that. Frank pushes for the center of the pit, and so does everyone else, and anyone that doesn’t doesn’t belong here, in Frank’s opinion. If this music doesn’t make them want to shove the entire world, them don’t belong here. He wants to drop to his knees and blame others, he wants to fall onto his back and let other people hit him, he wants hump the air and touch everyone on stage. And everyone on stage is feeling it as much as the crowd is. He mentally takes back anything he thought about My Chemical Romance not having stage presence, apologises to the band for what is obviously slander. Ray’s going to break a tendon in his neck for how hard he’s banging, and Mikey’s so intense it’s like staring into a black hole. This is the third incarnation of Gerard in as many hours and Frank’s not sure which is his favourite, but he knows that he wants to suck this one off. He’s so fucking hard, but doesn’t even reach down to adjust. The music is more important than his dick.
He wants to listen to the cd now. The dichotomy of how a song sounds live compared to how it sounds recorded is generally fascinating. He wants to hear what this all sounds like when it’s the perfection of the hundredth take, when it’s exactly what they intended. He wants to know if they still provoke the same gut reaction. Somehow he thinks it will.
***
Touring with My Chem is different in a few ways than Pencey was.
For one, they smoke less pot but drink more alcohol. A lot more. Frank isn’t even close to straight edge, being a violent sanctimonious prick has never been his idea of fun. But Gerard and Otter are drunk pretty much constantly, Mikey and Ray not far behind. It seems like a little much, sometimes. Luckily it doesn’t really affect their playing. Although Frank can’t help but wonder how much better they could sound sober.
For another, Gerard wasn’t kidding. They seem to smell worse by the hour. Although that could just be that he hasn’t been around van-stink for a while. It’s possible that Pencey Prep actually did reek this badly.
Another difference, an awkward one, is that Shaun and Hambone and the rest of his buddies never turned him on. The same can’t be said for My Chem. In less than forty eight hours Frank’s quietly head over heels. Not over Ray or Mikey, who would make more sense. They at least seem to have the calm needed to control a scene. Instead he wants Gerard. From what Frank’s seen, all Otter meant by Gerard liking to hold people down is that everyone’s gotten pinned by random drunken hugs at least once.
Frank’s not entirely full of self loathing about it. It’s actually kind of logical. Leaving the situation he did, and walking into the one he’s in now, it’s practically mandatory to have an inappropriate crush. Imprinting on heroes. Frank’s sure rescued victims have gotten crushes on firefighters or cops before. It’s just awkward because they get to walk away from their rescuers, pine from afar aside from maybe visiting the station once to say thank you. Frank’s trapped in a moving vehicle with Gerard for the next two weeks.
Which is one of the things that isn’t different at all. My Chem or Pencey, either way there’s a complete lack of privacy. Not that they don’t try ignoring each other, by means of iPods and hoodies with hoods up, and on one occasion, a back seat blanket fort. But so far Frank hasn’t been out of sight of at least one of them since the washroom.
It’s near impossible to get a chance to jerk off. Frank’s best opportunity is while My Chem is on stage, but he doesn’t want it then. He’s only seen them perform twice. Throwing away watching them turn into something so other isn’t a sacrifice he’s prepared to make yet.
When he finally does get the chance- a supportive fan has offered two guest rooms and a couch that they don’t think for a second about turning down- Frank doesn’t waste it. He’s got the couch, otherwise known as all the space and time in the world. Instead of just putting a hand on his dick he does it the way he likes it. Jerking off can be a solo-scene, if he does it the right way. He strokes himself slowly, letting the skin of his palm touch every millimeter of his cock. It’s not as good as when Zeke would do it; play with his dick for an hour of prime time television without letting him come close to coming.
He slips into a fantasy. Zeke used to like playing with predicament bondage. In his mind Gerard would like the same. Frank’s kneeling, legs warm and comfortable on fluffy carpet. His arms are held out straight behind him, not shaking yet, though he knows from experience they will be soon. His wrists are tied with a purple rope that’s strung through a wide eye screw in the ceiling.
The other end of the rope falls down against the length of his spine. It’s firmly knotted to the anal hook inside him. Every time his arms try to sink, the hook moves inside him, stretching him deeper. The ball on the end is as wide as the trailer hitch ball on a truck, the same steely grey. It doesn’t matter that he couldn’t take it in real life, he can fantasize what he wants.
Gerard’s watching from across the room. Frank tries to keep his arms up for him, but he’s struggling. His arms are trembling, body not liking the position even though his brain is more than happy to comply. He’s been waiting so long, cock so hard. It feels like Gerard will only walk over when Frank’s arms are against his back and the hook is so deep inside him that it’ll never come out and he’ll just be stuck kneeling for Gerard forever.
Or maybe Gerard straps him to a table, thick three inch straps of leather spaced every few inches down Frank’s tattooed arms. Gorgeous double strapped ankle binders go halfway up his calves, not attached to anything, just smooth and curled around him. Gerard sterilizes his back, liquid cool against his skin. Once it’s safe -or as safe as it can be- he slowly starts curling rings into him. The heat of it makes Frank come between his stomach and the table, just like every other time.
After, Gerard strings a ribbon through the rings. Red maybe, or black. Frank can’t see his back, and the only mirror is in the bathroom. The cuffs are unbuckled and Gerard feeds him sugar and potassium. Each movement Frank makes causes the surface piercings to drag and pull. He can only keep them in so long before they migrate, but he’ll never forget the feeling.
Or maybe Gerard puts a leash on him, and drags him onto stage tomorrow night. He ties the end to the microphone stand and leaves Frank to wait. He quakes around the stage, intruding on Mikey and Ray, never gracing Frank with as much as a touch. But it’s okay, because Frank knows he’s his. It’s more than okay, being forced to kneel, hard and waiting, an entire audience looking at him.
Frank comes, burying his face in the brown suede of the sectional. There’s no clock in the room, not even the glowing light of an old VCR. He has no idea how long he’s been touching himself. Probably not long. He’s got no one to please anymore.
***
Sometimes Frank wishes he was the same person, but in a different era. It comes from reading so much; he can’t help but place himself in the situations he reads about. Most fade until a month or two after reading you can’t remember more than the general synopsis. Not every book touches your soul, and no avid reader could afford that. But some books stick. The stories that draw Frank in the most are set in very clear eras; the grunge scene, or Nazi Germany, or feudal England. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like to live in very specific bubbles of time.
His kinky side wants nothing more than to be his age in San Fransisco, in the seventies. From what he’s read the gay scene and the kink scene were practically the same, slings and fisting in every direction. Back then if someone wore leather or a collar it meant something. Now every teenager wears a studded belt or a choker. It’s harder to find those that are serious about the scene, or even realise that wearing a D ring collar represents something.
On the other hand, in this day and age Frank’s less likely to get beaten to death if he flirts with the wrong guy. That’s important, considering he’s not sure where he’d go to find a kink opportunity in Flint Michigan. He doesn’t have time to attend a munch. They’ll only be in the city for a day.
Once again Frank bails on the motivational preshow drinking. The backstage room is more crowded than normal, this venue is playing a revue of three or four metal influenced bands. Exploded Artery is already playing, no doubt that’s why the guys think he’s leaving. Instead he stands on the fringe of the pit, barely listening to the band. He’s focused nearly entirely on scanning the mass of people for potential kinky one night stands. Or, more accurately, few hour stands. When the guys pile into the van he’ll need to be ready to leave with them. Frank’s window of opportunity is small. He doesn’t want to miss My Chem if he doesn’t have to, but he’s willing. His need for subspace is eating at him. He hasn’t gone so long without something since before he got into the cyber-scene.
Thankfully, there are a few solid possibilities. Frank awards points of potential to any male protecting girls and smaller guys in the pit. Strong, rough, and compassionate is a good combination for a one night dom.
The first guy Frank picks out has multiple piercings, and gages big enough to put a fist through. While Frank’s not insane enough to think a play piercing scene should be done in the backseat of a car, the guy might understand the sweetness of pain. He wades through the crowd until he’s beside him, and gets a hand up. A polite tap on the shoulder gets the guy’s attention the way an elbow wouldn’t.
“You wanna fuck me?” It’s easier heard over the shredding guitars than a long sentence, and the phrasing makes it obvious what he’s looking for in a way mess around or fuck wouldn’t.
The guy shrugs. “Straight!” he shouts over the song.
Frank backs off. He’s not worried. Somewhere in the crowd will be a gay or bi guy willing to slap him a few times in order to get his dick in some ass. It won’t be a true scene, but at this point he just needs some sort of release. Even if it doesn’t fit all his needs, it’s better than nothing.
The second guy is obviously gay; he’s got a rainbow stripe on his shirt. He’s got a bear lite look; medium build, a bit chubby, strawberry blond beard with a green beanie. When Frank asks he says he’s a bottom. Frank doesn’t mind topping if he’s being hurt, or if the other is clearly still in control, but that doesn’t seem like what this is going to be, so he just says a simple ‘me too’ and moves on.
As it turns out, the cliche holds true. Third time is the charm. The guy’s good looking, shorter with a round face, which is Frank’s type. He obviously has good taste, he’s wearing a My Chemical Romance shirt from the merch table. He doesn’t shout anything as he leaves the girl he’s half curled around, which leads Frank to think he doesn’t know her, he was just being a good Samaritan. Good news for him.
“You said fuck you, right?” the guy asks, following Frank out of the pit where they can talk more easily. “‘Cause I don’t-”
Frank interrupts him. “Yeah. And I’m down for rough, if you want. I want it, actually.”
“Uh. Okay? Yeah, I could. Like what, though?”
Frank’s wired so that the longer it’s been since he’s had a scene, the easier he drops into subspace. It’s probably since he’s got such a big anticipation kink; the should be innocent waiting is like foreplay to him. It was nice, when he had a long distance boyfriend. It’s maybe a bit dangerous when he’s single and can go down in thirty seconds with a stranger. It makes it a little harder to negotiate.
“Like pinching, and scratching and stuff? Pinning me in place?”
“Can do.” The guy looks at him and smiles, maybe a little sarcastically, like he doesn’t think what Frank requested was all that rough. Screw the smirk though. Frank’s not about to ask for impact play just to impress someone when he doesn’t even like it.
“So, where’d you park?”
“I bused here,” the guy says apologetically.
“That’s okay,” Frank replies after only a moment of thought. “We can find somewhere with a lockable door backstage.” It’s that or the van, and it seems kind of unfair to the guys to bring a hookup back there.
The guy -Mark maybe? Frank didn’t hear it clearly, and it doesn’t matter enough to ask for clarification- leads the way. Leads Frank, his arm stretched behind his back, big hand holding both of Frank’s wrists together. It’s not a belted arm binder, but as long as he doesn’t struggle he won’t get free. He’s not interested in struggling.
They get maybe five feet into the back area before they’re stopped. Not by any staff member, but by Gerard and Ray and Mikey. Following so close Frank can’t really see over the guy’s shoulder, but he knows what the band’s shoes look like by now.
“What are you doing?”
Frank knows that’s directed at him, not the stranger. “Uh?” It’s taking him a second to think clearly. With the man’s hands clamped a little too tight and pinching skin he’s already sinking. Fortunately -or not, really really not, in Frank’s opinion- the guy lets go of him and takes a few steps back.
“Sorry, he won’t be having sex with you. Please leave.”
Ray and Gerard glare, a gaze made no less potent for the alcohol swimming in it. Mikey’s got no visible response, for or against Ray’s statement. His supposed one night dom cracks under the doubled harsh looks. With a shrug in Frank’s direction, he turns and leaves the way they came.
“What the hell! What the hell was that about? Apart from cockblocking, which fuck, thanks for that.”
Apparently Mikey’s not much for confrontation. Without having said a word or moved a muscle during the exchange, he disappears into one of the rooms. Gerard and Ray don’t seem to share the shyness.
“You can’t just abuse our fans.”
“What? He was gonna abuse me! Well, not really, but still. I wasn’t gonna abuse him.”
“He’s a groupie, Frank. He’s followed us three venues now. He was following you to get to us.”
Ray adds, “and it was gonna work because you were taking him backstage!”
“There wasn’t enough room in a bathroom stall. Also I have kind of an aversion now, so. There was no hidden agenda!”
“You still can’t do it. Don’t fuck with anyone at the shows. It’s just wrong.”
Wrong. Motherfucking wrong. Like he’s got any other options at this point? Frank returns the glare with the added heat of sexual frustration and unmet desperation, then shoves past them. Otter should have a beer or two left to share. He needs it.
***
Frank is slowly going crazy. He never realised how much he needed the release of submitting, but now that he doesn’t have it it’s all he can think about. Even forms he doesn’t normally like. At this point he would totally go for objectification and act as someone’s table, or let someone spank him.
He’s gone through three cigarettes and is feeling a bit woozy from the nicotine rush when Mikey finds him outside the venue. Before he can say anything, Frank speaks. “Could you, like, tell me to do something?”
“Uh?” Mikey looks at him. There’s no accusation, just confusion, but Frank realises with a jolt that there should be. It’s not okay to get someone to unwittingly dom him.
“Sorry. Nevermind. Sorry.”
“Oh, you mean for the submission thing? Uh, go kneel by soundboard. Oh, but find somewhere to charge my phone.” Mikey fishes it out of his pocket and holds it out.
Frank shakes his head and runs in the other direction. He doesn’t know where he’s going, apart from away, but he knows away is best. It’s stupid. He’s stupid. He shouldn’t be so desperate. It’s only been a week since Zeke kissed him then cuffed him to the handicapped railing. In another week he’ll be back in Jersey, able to get whatever scene he needs. Two weeks shouldn’t be long enough to make him freak out.
Mikey doesn’t chase after him. Still, it’s less than ten minutes before the bassist is standing casually beside him, again. “You should ask Gerard the same thing. He actually wants that kind of thing. Not that it disgusts me, because whatever. And the dick thing too. But wanting is way better than willing to accommodate.”
“I can’t do scenes with someone drunk.” No matter how much he likes Gerard, it’s a line he can’t cross.
“Tell him that then.”
Frank would really like it if it was that simple. But everyone knows that ultimatums don’t tend to work. “You really think it would be that easy?”
Frank can see Mikey’s face grow pensive. After a minute of silence he answers “Gerard drinks because he’s got reasons to, and because it’s fun. You get that, right?”
“Yeah,” he answers.
He’s not just agreeing to continue the conversation. Both parts are clear. Anyone over the age of fifteen or sixteen knows drinking is fun. And while he doesn’t claim to know anyone’s life story, crossing the East coast in a van leaves time to talk, and they spent enough time together that a lot of what isn’t said can be inferred. He knows they’ve all got stage fright, even though they’ve been touring a year and have followers. He knows Gerard has body image issues that seem to fade away when he’s intoxicated. He knows Gerard actually saw the towers go down. With all that, drinking makes sense.
“So if you tell him you like him, but you can’t or won’t have sex drunk, well. That would give him reasons not to drink and something fun to do sober.” Mikey shrugs. “It would just even the playing field.”
Frank doesn’t think it works like that. Any relationship that’s him versus a constant habit is probably doomed before it starts. But he’s not an asshole, so he doesn’t ask Mikey, who is so obviously on something pharmaceutical that’s not prescribed, if that solution would work for him. He wants to enjoy his last week with these guys, not start a fight with everyone’s little brother.
part two
Pairings: Frank/OMC, Frank/Gerard
Rating: nc17
Word count: 15714
Warnings: OMC ignoring a safeword. Moderate alcohol addiction.
Summary: It's winter 2002, and Frank Iero has been happily living with his dom for over a year. Then, on the same day that Zeke betrays their relationship and his trust, a band stops at Zeke's shop. Frank hitches a ride and does his best to not fall in love with the lead singer. It's harder than it sounds.
Author notes: Thanks carmesim for drawing this. I don't write a lot of normal pairings, but the art was inspiring. And thanks to mizubyte for her bandom timeline. It was open for days as I tried to organise this fic.
Right now Frank’s only responsibility is to go under. He’s not going under. He’s nowhere near going under. If anything, his mind is racing.
He gets what Zeke is trying to do. In different circumstances Frank would be thrilled to be doing this scene. Between the restraints and the long wait, it could be perfect. Frank is used to perfect scenes. They’ve had a little over two years to refine how they mould to each other’s expectations; perfect is the norm. It’s the particulars that make this bad. It’s frustrating, and more than a little odd. His dom is normally excellent with the finer details.
One problem is how cold the restroom is. The shop has a top notch air filtration system to combat Zeke’s allergies, just like their home. The problem with both is that they circulate the warm air out. Frank understands the need for it. Even if he wasn’t the sub, he’d submit to Zeke’s need for an expensive air system. It’s simple to make Frank not cold in a filtered room. It’s not simple to protect Zeke from pollutants in a normal, warm room. It’s just, it can be bad enough on his knees in a sweater. On linoleum in only his underwear Frank’s freezing.
Another issue is the hygiene of being nearly naked in a public restroom. Frank knows how often the shop is cleaned. Nine times out of ten he’s the one with closing chores like mopping and window washing as Zeke counts the register and refrigerates the sandwiches. The floor is not washed enough for Frank to be okay with sitting on it without a protective layer.
The most prevalent problem is that Zeke’s gas and sandwich shop doesn’t exactly draw in the best clients. For every one innocent family on a road trip to see the Atlanta Falcons there are five or six super sketchy truckers. Almost nude and cuffed to the handicapped railing in the larger of the two stalls, Frank might have the opportunity to scar a football obsessed child for life. It’s nearly certain he’ll be stared at by some trucker high on crystal meth.
Frank loves the idea of being naked and forced to wait for Zeke to want to use him. Frank has no interest in being an open mouth for some creeper in a mesh baseball cap with scars on his face from where he scratched off the spiders. The longer he sits the more detailed the confrontation becomes. It’s more than just not going under, the idea is actually making him upset. In the last two years he’s had to call the cops a few times. Tweakers don’t take no well, even ‘no, we’re sold out of bacon sandwiches, sorry’. He can’t imagine being refused a blowjob will go over better.
Finally he can’t stand it anymore. Frank clears his throat and calls out “monkey!”
Zeke doesn’t come. Frank frowns, then shrugs it off. There must be a customer. The number of people that can’t wait twenty minutes to be in the city for a snack or gas is surprisingly high. He waits long past the time it would take Zeke to complete a transaction before calling out a second time, louder. He still doesn’t come.
Frank knows Zeke can hear him. They’ve done scenes in the shop before; Zeke getting off by himself in the bathroom with Frank manning the counter, forced to only imagine it. If Frank can hear Zeke’s groan as he plays with his balls, Zeke can certainly hear his clear shouting. There’s only one conclusion Frank can make. Zeke’s not in the restroom unlocking him because he’s choosing not to.
“Monkey, motherfucker! I’m not kidding!”
It’s not fair to say he should have seen this coming. Zeke’s brought up Gorean a few times, but Frank’s always been able to talk sense into him. Total power exchange is not something he’s looking for. What they have comes close, but the few differences are the important ones. At least they are to Frank, and he thought Zeke understood that.
Most situations boil down to two end options; doing something about it yourself, or waiting for someone else to do it. It’s become abundantly clear someone else has no interest in letting him out, so Frank has to try letting himself free. Try being the operative word. He doesn’t have much optimism about his efforts actually working. Zeke has impeccable attention to detail. He wouldn’t allow for something as scene ruining as escapable predicament bondage.
His pessimism is accurate. The cuffs are too tight for his hands to slip out of, of course, that being the entire point of bondage cuffs. Throwing himself forward doesn’t result in anything except wrenched shoulders. The safety railing doesn’t as much as shift. Frank defaults to shouting monkey over and over again. Less as a safeword and more as an expression of betrayed rage. Zeke might think it’s okay to cross the thin line between keeping Frank and owning him, but to Frank it’s spitting on what they’ve had for the last twenty six months. When he finally does let him go, Frank’s going to punch him in the face and dump his ass.
If Frank’s not careful his anger is going to turn into panic. Shouting is keeping him at the precipice, so he shuts up and methodically takes in his surroundings. Mindfulness meditation doesn’t really work for him. He he tried it for a while, but it’s too similar and different from subspace to suit him. Still, acknowledging your senses without trying to change anything fits the current situation.
There isn’t much variety in a restroom stall. There are only five basic surfaces to look at. He’s got the floor, white but nastily tacky. The ceiling is white with small grey flecks. The toilet is white, thankfully without stains. There’s his own body, which, thanks to Zeke’s enjoyment of mirrors he’s seen often enough. The most interesting are the walls which are heavily marked up red metal paint. Half the graffiti is written in Sharpie, the other half scratched in. Kellie’s a skank and its followup says who, bitch can only be read so many times. And yet Frank reads it again. He’s run out of other options.
Frank’s been in the stall for a while when he hears the door on the other side of the smaller stall open. He has no way of telling the time, aside from counting to sixty ten times then starting again, which he’s not quite desperate enough to do yet. Hazarding a guess though, he’s been handcuffed to the handicapped railing maybe two hours.
About to start shouting at Zeke for leaving him so long, he notices the shoes most definitely aren’t his dom’s -his ex-dom’s- although they are male sized sneakers. There is only one set of shoes, but the guy is definitely talking. Fantastic. Nothing is a surer sign of sanity than someone who talks to himself about gumballs. Dude could win a sanity award.
Frank decides to stay silent. Alerting the lunatic of the presence of a nearly naked defenseless man probably won’t work out too well for him. Maybe if he waits a half hour he will get that innocent vacationing family to scar when he calls out for help.
The man enters the single stall and for a moment Frank thinks he’s safe. Then the guy grunts in disgust and backs out of the stall like something is going to attack him from the toilet bowl. Frank has all of three seconds to pray the guy has decided it’ll be better to hold it until he gets into the city before the unlocked door crashes open. Frank scrambles to the side as much as the cuffs allow so he’s not the doorstop. He’s not much for impact play in general, and getting smacked with a door is even less appealing than a paddle.
The man stares at him. There’s nothing Frank can do but stare back. He doesn’t want to startle him, and depending on how crazy he is, even nodding hello could come as a shock. He looks pretty crazy; his hair is long and wild and his shirt is inside out.
“Uh. Gimme five seconds,” he says before he turns and runs out. If Frank wasn’t trying to avoid being confrontational, if he wasn’t already speaking to an empty room, he’d point out that right now it’s not exactly his place to dictate others movements.
Frank’s expecting Zeke to come check when the restroom door opens again a minute or two later. If he’s got a shred of decency he’d be coming in to ask if he’s okay, and maybe undo the goddamn cuffs if he think he’s proved whatever point he was trying to make. But Frank’s becoming more disillusioned by the second, so hell, maybe Zeke’s coming in to mock him. Except it’s not Zeke, it’s a herd of people. Four, by the count of shoes. When one pushes the door open, lighter this time so it doesn’t crash into anything, Frank doesn’t recognise any of them. They’re strangers, not a group of acquaintances Zeke decided to ‘grant permission’ to use him. Which doesn’t mean he’s not about to get assaulted, just that he’s not being betrayed by yet more friends.
“Holy shit! You weren’t drunk!”
“I told you!” The man that came in alone the first time turns to a guy with glasses and horribly ratty poorly bleached hair. “You’re still not getting reception?”
Ratsnest Hair stares blankly at him. “If I could call the police I would Gee.”
“Uh, you don’t have to call the cops,” Frank replies, somewhat reluctantly. BDSM gone wrong is always the legal fault of the dom, but as quickly as Frank has soured on their relationship he still doesn’t want Zeke arrested for unlawful confinement or some shit.
“When someone kidnaps you to cut off your limbs or demand you rub on lotion you normally try to call the cops.”
Frank rolls his eyes at the group. “He’s not a serial killer, he’s just my asshole dom. Ex dom.”
The one with the big hair spazzes out. “Uh. I. Um. We don’t really know protocol here? Or at least I don’t, but I think I’m speaking for everyone. Do you want us to just leave you alone?”
“No! I want you to get the fucking key so I can get fucking free so I can break up with his ass!” he shouts the last and it feels good.
“I’ll get it.”
From the way Ratsnest leaves Frank’s line of vision a second after the thickest goes to get the key, Frank’s pretty sure he’s acting like a human doorstop. Gee and Big Hair don’t move, apparently preferring to stare at him. Frank would give a sarcastic handwave, but his hands aren’t currently available.
“-about I punch you? And then I keep punching you, until you gimme the key?" wafts in from the store, each word progressively louder. For all that Zeke is confident and powerful, he’s physically not much bigger than Frank. A threat of a brawl he can’t talk his way out of might be enough to make him hand over the key.
Ratsnest speaks from the door, smile evident in his voice. “Otter’s good at persuasion.”
Otter comes back in, key in hand. He holds it out like Frank’s just going to take it from him. Frank raises his eyebrows as sarcastically as he can, though he doesn’t say anything. To piss them off enough that they leave when he’s this close to being free would be a kick in the nuts.
“Unlock him, fuck.”
“I’m not gay!”
Gee scowls. “His cock isn’t even out! And you’d be touching his arms and back.” Otter doesn’t move. “Give it, dumbass.” He snatches the key and Frank strains away from the handicapped railing to give Gee the largest amount of space he can. Just because he’s not homophobic doesn’t mean he wants to rub up against Frank.
“So you’re free, uh-”
“Frank,” he supplies when he realises what Gee’s waiting for. He checks his wrists as he stands, a job that normally Zeke takes. They’re a bit red, sweaty despite the goosebumps on the rest of his body. But no marks along the four inches the restraints were wrapped around, nothing that won’t fade.
“Free but naked,” Ratsnest point out. “Where are your clothes?”
“I dunno. Beneath the cash register, maybe?” Frank’s not sure. Normally Zeke undresses him and redresses him afterwards.
Big Hair goes to check and comes back with them. Frank takes them gratefully, more for the warmth than the modesty. They’ve already seen his skin, covering it now wouldn’t make the Victorian unfaint. He quickly pulls on his jeans, not tightening his belt at the buckle. At this moment he doesn’t feel like more straps. The backs of his sneakers are crushed from sliding them on a thousand times without untying the laces, he does it once more. The long sleeved shirt covers his tattoos, wrists, and fingers. Frank’s got a habit of wanting oversized clothes, and Zeke allows it. After an unknown time naked on linoleum clothes are a treat.
“So you disobeyed your dom, right? By getting yourself undone? Isn’t that not allowed?”
“My porn research informs me he’ll get spanked for misbehaving.”
Another day and Frank would give Otter a firm lecture about the realism of BDSM porn being second last only to dyke porn. Another day and he’d ignore it, just let it go. But today is today. “He didn’t listen to my safeword. That’s like ‘put the gun down’ not listening compared to ‘eat your broccoli’ not listening. And I don’t fucking care how he wants to punish me, because I’m leaving.”
“Yeah?”
“I hate moving out of ex’s places. You got a friend to help?”
“No. I moved here to be with him.”
“Where you from?”
“Jersey.”
“Us too. Weird. So you gonna move back?”
“I guess.” It hits Frank how big of an issue this is about to be. He’s not changing his mind, but there’s a lot more to walking out of the restroom than just walking out of the restroom. He tugs on the end of his braid as he thinks. “I guess I’ll have to call my mom. I don’t have any of my own money.”
“What! That jerkoff demands it?”
Gee looks furious, like he’s about to walk out to the front and steal Zeke’s wallet or grab a fistful of cash from the til to compensate him. Frank figures he better explain before that confrontation happens. “No, I haven’t worked in a year. I help him here and he takes care of me.”
“Don’t call your mom,” Ratsnest says.
“Mikey, he can’t stay here.”
“I’m not saying stay here. I’m saying hitchhike with us. For the next two weeks we’re on tour. We’re in a band. Just come with, and once we’re closer to Jersey we’ll drop you off. You can get back without begging.”
“Technically I’m just changing the target of my begging from my mom to you.” Not that it isn’t an alluring idea. Being a roadie for a band of obviously decent guys in exchange for not having to tell his mother why he needs money to come home? It’s hard to see the flaws.
“Not really, we offered.”
“You offered,” he feels compelled to point out.
“Gerard doesn’t care. Otter doesn’t care. Ray doesn’t care,” Mikey replies, angling slightly to each of them in turn to confirm.
Gerard offers “we're kinda smelly, but you’re welcome.”
Big Hair -Ray, apparently- crosses his arms. “Excuse me? Who’s smelly? We left today and you didn’t shower. What kind of person doesn’t shower when they know they’ll be sponge bathing in public washrooms?”
Oh. So they’re that kind of band. Frank’s mental image of being in a bunk in a blinged out tourbus washes out in a wave of realism. It makes sense though. If these guys were the next U2, they wouldn’t give a shit about some random peon tied to a post. And really, he’ll probably have more in common with guys in a duct taped van than celebrities. He did duct taped van, for years.
“I can put up with smelly. You guys are fucking awesome. I’ll help you set up your shit, I used to be in a band. Let’s go.”
Just outside the restroom door Zeke’s planted a stool to sit on. He crosses his arms as Frank starts to cross the threshold. “I told you you’re staying in the stall. You know what happens if you don’t.”
Frank is so infuriated he can’t even answer in words. Half the band look like they want to do it for him, but Frank has a better response. He ducks around Zeke and as Gerard starts shouting indignantly he goes into the tiny kitchen. The meat scissors are hanging from a hook on the wall amongst other cooking tools. Frank stretches to get them down and unhooks the white plastic bit so the two spring loaded limbs push apart. He closes his eyes, pulls his braid to the side of his neck and squeezes the resisting limbs together.
The links of the braid rapidly start unravelling as he stalks back to the front. Frank slams it beside the cash register with an audible slap. “Keep it, you fucking prick.”
He doesn’t diminish his statement by demanding the house key so he can get his (Zeke’s) clothing or his (Zeke’s) books or his (Zeke’s) cd’s. Frank just storms out, the band following in his wake.
The van in the parking lot has a trailer attached. Once white, it’s now covered in stickers and graffiti. It makes Frank grin to see it. It’s got middle fingers sketched on, but no crosses or marijuana leaves, so at least he hasn’t somehow wound up hitching with a Christian rock or RnB group. He’d take it over nothing, but it probably wouldn’t be a great two weeks.
“What was that about?” Gerard makes a gesture vaguely towards his head.
“Grow your hair out was the first order he ever gave me, back in September 2000. He can eat that braid. I want to shave my entire head and shove it all up his ass.” He’s rocked a few different looks in his day, he can do aggressively bald next.
“Don’t be hasty.”
“What?”
“Not the symbolic break up part, you’re right, fuck him. But shaving it off. I’m not gay, but you look hot with hair that length. You should keep it. I mean, maybe trim the edges, it’s kinda uneven. But keep it long.”
“Ray, you are a biased man,” Mikey points out. Frank takes another look at Ray’s hair. His will never look like that, there’s no product that will give Frank curly frizz. But the length suits Ray. He’s only known the guy ten minutes and he already can’t imagine him with a normal short haircut.
“Just overnight. Give yourself a chance to think.”
He’s got kind of a point. Shaving it all off to spite Zeke isn’t that much different than growing it to please him. Either way, Frank’s still doing it for someone else, not himself.
Hand on the van door, Frank asks “anyone care where I sit?” He’s done this long enough to know that you claim your seat just like normal people in normal relationships claim their side of the bed.
They rearrange themselves, then start driving into Atlanta. Everyone is silent for all of a minute, before Ray twists under his seatbelt to look at Frank behind him. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I don’t get it. If you didn’t want to be tied up in the restroom, why’d you let him tie you up in the restroom?”
“Did Frank look like he could take that guy?” Gerard answers for him from the driver’s seat. Frank appreciates the effort, even though he’s wrong.
“No, it wasn’t that. He’s my dom. It’s the dynamic, that sometimes you agree to things that might not make you happy, because it’ll make them happy.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s like waiting. I can’t wait for myself, I have no patience. But for a dom, I can.”
“Is that why you got pissed off? Because you were waiting too long?”
“No,” Frank says flatly. “I got pissed off because I’m monogamous, and I didn’t want some methhead trucker thinking I was a party favour.”
“So, like, you don’t go to kink clubs.” Mikey sounds interested, for all that he’s not looking up from his retro gameboy.
“No I don’t. And even if I did, they aren’t mass orgies. A lot of states and countries you’re not even allowed to come. It breaks hygiene standards.”
“Huh.”
“So what else do you like?”
“Seriously? You seriously want me to list off my kinks?”
“If you tell us yours, I’ll tell you mine?” Beside Frank, Otter shakes his head and corrects himself. “Or like, Mikey’s. His’ll be more interesting, Mikey used to be the deviant in the van.” Ray throws a half crushed can at Otter. “What the fuck?”
Continuing to scowl, Ray says “don’t call him a deviant, dumbass. You want someone to call you a deviant because you’d rather eat out a girl than fuck her?”
“That’s not deviant.”
“Why? Because more people like pussy than whips? That’s-”
“If you’d let me finish!”
They look like they’re really arguing, like any second now Ray is going to dive over the seat and strangle Otter. Frank’s very soul protests at the idea of causing a fissure in a band over something as easy as his kinks. If he can talk about it online, he can talk about it in a van with verging on drunk people.
“So yeah. Waiting. Not just orgasm denial, although that’s part of it. But the whole lead up. Like, back before Zeke was a huge douche, this one time he made out with me every half hour for a whole day without once sticking a hand down my jeans. Or hell, even just talking about it. He’d tell me he’d fuck me after midnight and I’d have the whole day to imagine it.”
“So like the whole ‘I see you shiver with antici dot dot dot pation’ thing?”
“Yeah. I like sharp pain stuff too. Like, pinching and play piercing, not flogging.” Frank shrugs. “I dunno. I mean, do you want a jerk off fantasy?”
“Gerard likes to hold people down.”
“Fuck you!”
Mikey offers out of brotherly loyalty, “Ray likes facials. You’d think he’d have sympathy the way his hair is. But he totally doesn’t.”
As the conversation moves off of him specifically, Frank grins and settles in. He can do this. He knows how to get shit on stage, he knows how to talk shit with other guys, and he knows how to avoid thinking about the future. Fuck being home in two weeks, right now he’s on his way to some venue in Atlanta, and that’s enough.
***
The venue is midsized, Frank notes when he actually has a chance to wander around out front after all the gear is inside. Bigger than anywhere Pencey Prep ever played. It’s not just a basement, or a bar with an even smaller capacity than the average suburban basement. It’s a real club. There are actual designated dancing areas and drinking areas, drawn out in the differences in flooring.
A small part of Frank wonders if they could have made it this big eventually, if he’d have stayed. Most of him doesn’t believe it. He wouldn’t have deserted a successful band just for love. That Pencey was disintegrating was just as much of an impetus as the stark realisation that people that you didn’t even know hated you so much they wished you were dead, and were actively trying to kill you, so you might as well enjoy life until then.
To be honest, the venue looks too big for this band. Frank doesn’t wish it to be true. He wouldn’t wish an empty dance floor on anyone. Well, maybe a few people, the same people he wishes would be buried in spider laden coffins, or forced to take intro to Spanish. But not these guys. Gerard saved him, hell, they all had a part in it. For that alone they deserve good lives. Beyond goodwill as a concept, everyone in the band seems like good people, people he could actually be friends with. They’ve made him laugh more than once, Mikey the most of them. Once they got settled into the back room and Otter pulled out a case of beer seemingly out of nowhere, he gave him a can. Gerard shared a cigarette.
But they don’t seem like the kind of guys that have much stage presence. They don’t even seem to want to play. The longer they sit in the back room the drunker they all get, and a few times the other three have taken a gulp in unison when the fourth mentions the oncoming show. Frank can understand pre-show jitters, but it’s supposed to be a combination of dread and excitement, not dread and apathy.
Finally he can’t take it anymore. He stands, muttering as he leaves “I’m gonna see if I still have a bank account.”
It was primarily an excuse to get out of the club, but once he sees an gas station down the street he heads towards it. It’ll have an ATM of some brand. Even if it’s not his own he should still be able to use it, he’ll just have to pay a fee. Assuming Frank’s nearly empty account hasn’t gotten closed for inactivity. His wallet has a client card, that much is true. Which is about all it holds. A few years ago he would have had cash, change, a Rutgers student card, a library card, probably a few dollars left on a gift certificate. As Zeke’s sub, the man bought everything he might need. Or at least everything Zeke thought he wanted, and deserved. The wallet only stayed in his pocket in case Zeke took him out and he needed ID.
Not having used his bank card for a year, it takes a moment of concentration to think about what his password might be. Luckily he’s always done what the website FAQs tell people not to; use the same one or two phrases for all his accounts. Frank’s second password works. He’s got about a thousand dollars, which is more than he thought he’d have. A lot more. The only thing he can think is that his mom got worried and transferred him money some time in the last year. He hasn’t talked to her since he left. She didn’t approve of him moving states away to be with a boyfriend, and when she hadn’t answered when he’d asked if a girlfriend would have made it acceptable, Frank had pretty much decided to make a clean break.
He thinks for a second before withdrawing two fifties. A fifty buys a lot of gas, and fledgling bands need gas money more than they need nearly anything else. He can supplement their income a few times until they’re back in Jersey. It’s only fair. The other bill he’ll use for shit he’ll need in the next two weeks, a second pair of socks and underwear, toothpaste, a book to read. Further down the block is a strip mall, he should be able to get necessities there.
Before he knows it it’s nearly seven, which is the time Gerard said they’re on. Out of loyalty Frank goes back to the club. He hasn’t had time to borrow a merch cd and listen, though he did help them haul in their boxes and display the merch. The title was interesting; I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love. The cover was interesting too. At first it just looked like purple and yellow run through a few filters in Photoshop, but the longer Frank looked at the purple section the more the grainy flecks looked like faces. The initial moment of oh shit, religion panic at the track called Our Lady of Sorrows is tempered with another track titled Vampires Will Never Hurt You. Frank’s pretty sure Christians are against stories of rising from the dead, except for Jesus. Besides, Otter talks way too much about sex to be religious.
Judging by the type of people that are milling around, it’s going to be his type of band. Over half of the women have their hair tied back, and no one is wearing the poseurific metal stud jewellery that hurts in the pit. And the pit is gearing up already, people already jostling for the middle, with a wide berth around its edges for those that just want to listen without sweat and bruises.
They look different when they come on stage. Otter’s hard to see, the plight of all drummers always. But Mikey, who’s been talking with his hands since Frank’s known him, locks into place like a set of cogs. Frank can nearly hear the ka-chink of his knees. And Gerard is no longer the indignant man with a cause, or the backstage drunk. He’s a fury when they start a song called Honey This Mirror Isn’t Big Enough For The Two Of Us. Mikey stands firmly in place and Ray is headbanging with the occasional step forwards or backwards, but Gerard is shaking, four limbed flailing like he’s a Pentacostal parishioner speaking in tongues. Frank can’t really blame him, the backbeat of this song commands it. The entire crowd feels it too, already, only ten seconds in and people are shoving each other.
The guitarwork lasts about forty seconds, then Gerard’s shouting more than singing that the pills he’s taking counteract the booze he’s drinking, and Frank has a brief moment to wonder if that’s true, he didn’t actually see any pills, and then he’s swept up and he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even really tune in until the chords change to plucking and Gerard’s saying don’t. care. how. much, like each word is its own sentence. And as soon as he says we’re not working out and Ray repeats it a bit later, Frank can’t help that the words rip out of his throat. It’s like Zeke is in front of him, and regardless of the words Gerard is half screaming, he just keeps bellowing ‘we’re not working out’, and they fit the music perfectly. Or at least the pain does, and that’s the point.
The next song is Drowning Lessons, and it’s just as good, and so is Best Day Ever after that. Frank pushes for the center of the pit, and so does everyone else, and anyone that doesn’t doesn’t belong here, in Frank’s opinion. If this music doesn’t make them want to shove the entire world, them don’t belong here. He wants to drop to his knees and blame others, he wants to fall onto his back and let other people hit him, he wants hump the air and touch everyone on stage. And everyone on stage is feeling it as much as the crowd is. He mentally takes back anything he thought about My Chemical Romance not having stage presence, apologises to the band for what is obviously slander. Ray’s going to break a tendon in his neck for how hard he’s banging, and Mikey’s so intense it’s like staring into a black hole. This is the third incarnation of Gerard in as many hours and Frank’s not sure which is his favourite, but he knows that he wants to suck this one off. He’s so fucking hard, but doesn’t even reach down to adjust. The music is more important than his dick.
He wants to listen to the cd now. The dichotomy of how a song sounds live compared to how it sounds recorded is generally fascinating. He wants to hear what this all sounds like when it’s the perfection of the hundredth take, when it’s exactly what they intended. He wants to know if they still provoke the same gut reaction. Somehow he thinks it will.
***
Touring with My Chem is different in a few ways than Pencey was.
For one, they smoke less pot but drink more alcohol. A lot more. Frank isn’t even close to straight edge, being a violent sanctimonious prick has never been his idea of fun. But Gerard and Otter are drunk pretty much constantly, Mikey and Ray not far behind. It seems like a little much, sometimes. Luckily it doesn’t really affect their playing. Although Frank can’t help but wonder how much better they could sound sober.
For another, Gerard wasn’t kidding. They seem to smell worse by the hour. Although that could just be that he hasn’t been around van-stink for a while. It’s possible that Pencey Prep actually did reek this badly.
Another difference, an awkward one, is that Shaun and Hambone and the rest of his buddies never turned him on. The same can’t be said for My Chem. In less than forty eight hours Frank’s quietly head over heels. Not over Ray or Mikey, who would make more sense. They at least seem to have the calm needed to control a scene. Instead he wants Gerard. From what Frank’s seen, all Otter meant by Gerard liking to hold people down is that everyone’s gotten pinned by random drunken hugs at least once.
Frank’s not entirely full of self loathing about it. It’s actually kind of logical. Leaving the situation he did, and walking into the one he’s in now, it’s practically mandatory to have an inappropriate crush. Imprinting on heroes. Frank’s sure rescued victims have gotten crushes on firefighters or cops before. It’s just awkward because they get to walk away from their rescuers, pine from afar aside from maybe visiting the station once to say thank you. Frank’s trapped in a moving vehicle with Gerard for the next two weeks.
Which is one of the things that isn’t different at all. My Chem or Pencey, either way there’s a complete lack of privacy. Not that they don’t try ignoring each other, by means of iPods and hoodies with hoods up, and on one occasion, a back seat blanket fort. But so far Frank hasn’t been out of sight of at least one of them since the washroom.
It’s near impossible to get a chance to jerk off. Frank’s best opportunity is while My Chem is on stage, but he doesn’t want it then. He’s only seen them perform twice. Throwing away watching them turn into something so other isn’t a sacrifice he’s prepared to make yet.
When he finally does get the chance- a supportive fan has offered two guest rooms and a couch that they don’t think for a second about turning down- Frank doesn’t waste it. He’s got the couch, otherwise known as all the space and time in the world. Instead of just putting a hand on his dick he does it the way he likes it. Jerking off can be a solo-scene, if he does it the right way. He strokes himself slowly, letting the skin of his palm touch every millimeter of his cock. It’s not as good as when Zeke would do it; play with his dick for an hour of prime time television without letting him come close to coming.
He slips into a fantasy. Zeke used to like playing with predicament bondage. In his mind Gerard would like the same. Frank’s kneeling, legs warm and comfortable on fluffy carpet. His arms are held out straight behind him, not shaking yet, though he knows from experience they will be soon. His wrists are tied with a purple rope that’s strung through a wide eye screw in the ceiling.
The other end of the rope falls down against the length of his spine. It’s firmly knotted to the anal hook inside him. Every time his arms try to sink, the hook moves inside him, stretching him deeper. The ball on the end is as wide as the trailer hitch ball on a truck, the same steely grey. It doesn’t matter that he couldn’t take it in real life, he can fantasize what he wants.
Gerard’s watching from across the room. Frank tries to keep his arms up for him, but he’s struggling. His arms are trembling, body not liking the position even though his brain is more than happy to comply. He’s been waiting so long, cock so hard. It feels like Gerard will only walk over when Frank’s arms are against his back and the hook is so deep inside him that it’ll never come out and he’ll just be stuck kneeling for Gerard forever.
Or maybe Gerard straps him to a table, thick three inch straps of leather spaced every few inches down Frank’s tattooed arms. Gorgeous double strapped ankle binders go halfway up his calves, not attached to anything, just smooth and curled around him. Gerard sterilizes his back, liquid cool against his skin. Once it’s safe -or as safe as it can be- he slowly starts curling rings into him. The heat of it makes Frank come between his stomach and the table, just like every other time.
After, Gerard strings a ribbon through the rings. Red maybe, or black. Frank can’t see his back, and the only mirror is in the bathroom. The cuffs are unbuckled and Gerard feeds him sugar and potassium. Each movement Frank makes causes the surface piercings to drag and pull. He can only keep them in so long before they migrate, but he’ll never forget the feeling.
Or maybe Gerard puts a leash on him, and drags him onto stage tomorrow night. He ties the end to the microphone stand and leaves Frank to wait. He quakes around the stage, intruding on Mikey and Ray, never gracing Frank with as much as a touch. But it’s okay, because Frank knows he’s his. It’s more than okay, being forced to kneel, hard and waiting, an entire audience looking at him.
Frank comes, burying his face in the brown suede of the sectional. There’s no clock in the room, not even the glowing light of an old VCR. He has no idea how long he’s been touching himself. Probably not long. He’s got no one to please anymore.
***
Sometimes Frank wishes he was the same person, but in a different era. It comes from reading so much; he can’t help but place himself in the situations he reads about. Most fade until a month or two after reading you can’t remember more than the general synopsis. Not every book touches your soul, and no avid reader could afford that. But some books stick. The stories that draw Frank in the most are set in very clear eras; the grunge scene, or Nazi Germany, or feudal England. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like to live in very specific bubbles of time.
His kinky side wants nothing more than to be his age in San Fransisco, in the seventies. From what he’s read the gay scene and the kink scene were practically the same, slings and fisting in every direction. Back then if someone wore leather or a collar it meant something. Now every teenager wears a studded belt or a choker. It’s harder to find those that are serious about the scene, or even realise that wearing a D ring collar represents something.
On the other hand, in this day and age Frank’s less likely to get beaten to death if he flirts with the wrong guy. That’s important, considering he’s not sure where he’d go to find a kink opportunity in Flint Michigan. He doesn’t have time to attend a munch. They’ll only be in the city for a day.
Once again Frank bails on the motivational preshow drinking. The backstage room is more crowded than normal, this venue is playing a revue of three or four metal influenced bands. Exploded Artery is already playing, no doubt that’s why the guys think he’s leaving. Instead he stands on the fringe of the pit, barely listening to the band. He’s focused nearly entirely on scanning the mass of people for potential kinky one night stands. Or, more accurately, few hour stands. When the guys pile into the van he’ll need to be ready to leave with them. Frank’s window of opportunity is small. He doesn’t want to miss My Chem if he doesn’t have to, but he’s willing. His need for subspace is eating at him. He hasn’t gone so long without something since before he got into the cyber-scene.
Thankfully, there are a few solid possibilities. Frank awards points of potential to any male protecting girls and smaller guys in the pit. Strong, rough, and compassionate is a good combination for a one night dom.
The first guy Frank picks out has multiple piercings, and gages big enough to put a fist through. While Frank’s not insane enough to think a play piercing scene should be done in the backseat of a car, the guy might understand the sweetness of pain. He wades through the crowd until he’s beside him, and gets a hand up. A polite tap on the shoulder gets the guy’s attention the way an elbow wouldn’t.
“You wanna fuck me?” It’s easier heard over the shredding guitars than a long sentence, and the phrasing makes it obvious what he’s looking for in a way mess around or fuck wouldn’t.
The guy shrugs. “Straight!” he shouts over the song.
Frank backs off. He’s not worried. Somewhere in the crowd will be a gay or bi guy willing to slap him a few times in order to get his dick in some ass. It won’t be a true scene, but at this point he just needs some sort of release. Even if it doesn’t fit all his needs, it’s better than nothing.
The second guy is obviously gay; he’s got a rainbow stripe on his shirt. He’s got a bear lite look; medium build, a bit chubby, strawberry blond beard with a green beanie. When Frank asks he says he’s a bottom. Frank doesn’t mind topping if he’s being hurt, or if the other is clearly still in control, but that doesn’t seem like what this is going to be, so he just says a simple ‘me too’ and moves on.
As it turns out, the cliche holds true. Third time is the charm. The guy’s good looking, shorter with a round face, which is Frank’s type. He obviously has good taste, he’s wearing a My Chemical Romance shirt from the merch table. He doesn’t shout anything as he leaves the girl he’s half curled around, which leads Frank to think he doesn’t know her, he was just being a good Samaritan. Good news for him.
“You said fuck you, right?” the guy asks, following Frank out of the pit where they can talk more easily. “‘Cause I don’t-”
Frank interrupts him. “Yeah. And I’m down for rough, if you want. I want it, actually.”
“Uh. Okay? Yeah, I could. Like what, though?”
Frank’s wired so that the longer it’s been since he’s had a scene, the easier he drops into subspace. It’s probably since he’s got such a big anticipation kink; the should be innocent waiting is like foreplay to him. It was nice, when he had a long distance boyfriend. It’s maybe a bit dangerous when he’s single and can go down in thirty seconds with a stranger. It makes it a little harder to negotiate.
“Like pinching, and scratching and stuff? Pinning me in place?”
“Can do.” The guy looks at him and smiles, maybe a little sarcastically, like he doesn’t think what Frank requested was all that rough. Screw the smirk though. Frank’s not about to ask for impact play just to impress someone when he doesn’t even like it.
“So, where’d you park?”
“I bused here,” the guy says apologetically.
“That’s okay,” Frank replies after only a moment of thought. “We can find somewhere with a lockable door backstage.” It’s that or the van, and it seems kind of unfair to the guys to bring a hookup back there.
The guy -Mark maybe? Frank didn’t hear it clearly, and it doesn’t matter enough to ask for clarification- leads the way. Leads Frank, his arm stretched behind his back, big hand holding both of Frank’s wrists together. It’s not a belted arm binder, but as long as he doesn’t struggle he won’t get free. He’s not interested in struggling.
They get maybe five feet into the back area before they’re stopped. Not by any staff member, but by Gerard and Ray and Mikey. Following so close Frank can’t really see over the guy’s shoulder, but he knows what the band’s shoes look like by now.
“What are you doing?”
Frank knows that’s directed at him, not the stranger. “Uh?” It’s taking him a second to think clearly. With the man’s hands clamped a little too tight and pinching skin he’s already sinking. Fortunately -or not, really really not, in Frank’s opinion- the guy lets go of him and takes a few steps back.
“Sorry, he won’t be having sex with you. Please leave.”
Ray and Gerard glare, a gaze made no less potent for the alcohol swimming in it. Mikey’s got no visible response, for or against Ray’s statement. His supposed one night dom cracks under the doubled harsh looks. With a shrug in Frank’s direction, he turns and leaves the way they came.
“What the hell! What the hell was that about? Apart from cockblocking, which fuck, thanks for that.”
Apparently Mikey’s not much for confrontation. Without having said a word or moved a muscle during the exchange, he disappears into one of the rooms. Gerard and Ray don’t seem to share the shyness.
“You can’t just abuse our fans.”
“What? He was gonna abuse me! Well, not really, but still. I wasn’t gonna abuse him.”
“He’s a groupie, Frank. He’s followed us three venues now. He was following you to get to us.”
Ray adds, “and it was gonna work because you were taking him backstage!”
“There wasn’t enough room in a bathroom stall. Also I have kind of an aversion now, so. There was no hidden agenda!”
“You still can’t do it. Don’t fuck with anyone at the shows. It’s just wrong.”
Wrong. Motherfucking wrong. Like he’s got any other options at this point? Frank returns the glare with the added heat of sexual frustration and unmet desperation, then shoves past them. Otter should have a beer or two left to share. He needs it.
***
Frank is slowly going crazy. He never realised how much he needed the release of submitting, but now that he doesn’t have it it’s all he can think about. Even forms he doesn’t normally like. At this point he would totally go for objectification and act as someone’s table, or let someone spank him.
He’s gone through three cigarettes and is feeling a bit woozy from the nicotine rush when Mikey finds him outside the venue. Before he can say anything, Frank speaks. “Could you, like, tell me to do something?”
“Uh?” Mikey looks at him. There’s no accusation, just confusion, but Frank realises with a jolt that there should be. It’s not okay to get someone to unwittingly dom him.
“Sorry. Nevermind. Sorry.”
“Oh, you mean for the submission thing? Uh, go kneel by soundboard. Oh, but find somewhere to charge my phone.” Mikey fishes it out of his pocket and holds it out.
Frank shakes his head and runs in the other direction. He doesn’t know where he’s going, apart from away, but he knows away is best. It’s stupid. He’s stupid. He shouldn’t be so desperate. It’s only been a week since Zeke kissed him then cuffed him to the handicapped railing. In another week he’ll be back in Jersey, able to get whatever scene he needs. Two weeks shouldn’t be long enough to make him freak out.
Mikey doesn’t chase after him. Still, it’s less than ten minutes before the bassist is standing casually beside him, again. “You should ask Gerard the same thing. He actually wants that kind of thing. Not that it disgusts me, because whatever. And the dick thing too. But wanting is way better than willing to accommodate.”
“I can’t do scenes with someone drunk.” No matter how much he likes Gerard, it’s a line he can’t cross.
“Tell him that then.”
Frank would really like it if it was that simple. But everyone knows that ultimatums don’t tend to work. “You really think it would be that easy?”
Frank can see Mikey’s face grow pensive. After a minute of silence he answers “Gerard drinks because he’s got reasons to, and because it’s fun. You get that, right?”
“Yeah,” he answers.
He’s not just agreeing to continue the conversation. Both parts are clear. Anyone over the age of fifteen or sixteen knows drinking is fun. And while he doesn’t claim to know anyone’s life story, crossing the East coast in a van leaves time to talk, and they spent enough time together that a lot of what isn’t said can be inferred. He knows they’ve all got stage fright, even though they’ve been touring a year and have followers. He knows Gerard has body image issues that seem to fade away when he’s intoxicated. He knows Gerard actually saw the towers go down. With all that, drinking makes sense.
“So if you tell him you like him, but you can’t or won’t have sex drunk, well. That would give him reasons not to drink and something fun to do sober.” Mikey shrugs. “It would just even the playing field.”
Frank doesn’t think it works like that. Any relationship that’s him versus a constant habit is probably doomed before it starts. But he’s not an asshole, so he doesn’t ask Mikey, who is so obviously on something pharmaceutical that’s not prescribed, if that solution would work for him. He wants to enjoy his last week with these guys, not start a fight with everyone’s little brother.
part two