The Cruelty-Free Sausagefests of Pleathermouth Vegan Cafe
Bandslash, R, ~4700 words. Frank/Gerard. Thanks to zarathuse for the beta.
EDIT: This fic now has a coda: "Nibble Clamps"
***
"PETA contacted us once and I was like 'dude, what are you doing? I'm wearing a leather jacket!' I mean, I didn't kill it, I just saw it in a secondhand store. It's a cool jacket." --Gerard Way
***
Pleathermouth Vegan Cafe, says the sign in front of the next place on Gerard's job-seeking list, and he decides that it may be prudent to finish his cheeseburger before entering.
He leans against a street lamp, examining the front of the place as he chews. There are shoes displayed in the window, which is kind of weird for a restaurant. The inexpertly-applied window paint proclaims RAW OPTIONS AVAILABLE and--Gerard snorts--FISH ARE FRIENDS NOT FOOD.
He swallows his last bite of burger, tosses the wrapper in a trash can, and pushes open the door. Just inside, a menacing-looking guy with long, curly hair shoots him a disdainful glance and says, "I hope that jacket is made of recycled leather."
"Absolutely," Gerard assures him. He doesn't actually know what that is, but he's pretty sure buying something from a consignment store makes it recycled. "Um, I was wondering if you're hiring?"
He's met with a haughty expression that clearly says "not you, we're not." Gerard is about to give up and leave when the guy sighs and says, "Hang on." He disappears into the back.
Gerard sticks his hands awkwardly in his pockets and looks around him. The cafe is clean but rough, with the sort of grunge rock diner vibe he's mostly seen on the West Coast. The tables and walls are painted black, the floor is a black and red checkerboard pattern, and the art on the walls ranges from '50s advertisement parodies to thrash metal concert posters to modern abstract paintings. There's only one customer, sitting at a table near the back with a sandwich. Gerard came in the middle of the afternoon on purpose, knowing that it was likely to be emptier during the lull between lunch and dinner. No point in showing up in person to make a good impression if the manager is too busy to shake hands with him.
He turns slowly, taking in the shelves of fake-leather shoes and belts and wallets lining the wall underneath the front window. He startles at the sight of a blonde human head above the door, mounted like a hunting trophy. A closer look determines that it's made from wax. Not that he thought it was real, of course.
"Hi!" someone chirps from behind him. Gerard turns to see a short, pierced, extremely attractive man behind the counter at the back of the room.
"That," Gerard says, pointing at the head above the door, "is fucking disturbing. How on earth do you stay in business?"
"People don't see it until they leave," the guy says, grinning. "That's after they've tasted how awesome the food is. I'm Frank, I own this place." He holds out a hand.
Gerard hurries over to take it, remembering the folder full of resumes and reference sheets he's clutching. "Gerard, nice to meet you," he says. "I'm looking for a job."
"And I am looking for a kitchen bitch," Frank says cheerfully. "Eight bucks an hour, twenty to thirty-nine hours a week, no benefits, no dress code. Job duties include dishwashing, sweeping, running, fetching, carrying, listening to Andy rant about the establishment, and looking pretty."
Gerard is definitely desperate enough to wash dishes, and there are worse places to wash them than a cute little punk cafe run by a cute little punk dude. "I think I can handle that," he says.
"Are you vegan?"
"Yeah." He runs his tongue over his teeth to make sure there's no incriminating evidence stuck between them.
"You cook at all?"
"No." That one would be harder to fake. "I'm interested in learning, though?"
Frank smiles. "At least you're honest."
Guilt emanates from the cheeseburger in Gerard's stomach. He tries to ignore it. "Um, and I could redo your windows if you want. The lettering kind of..."
"Looks like it was done by a five-year-old?" Frank asks. "Yeah, none of us are so much with the art. That would be awesome, if you could make it look less asstacular. Can you start on Monday?"
***
Pleathermouth is open for lunch and dinner, from eleven to seven. Gerard comes in at nine on his first day for training. The training mostly consists of Andy showing him where the mop closet is and explaining the classifications on the menu.
"Wait, so raw means, like, actually raw? There are people who don't eat cooked food at all?" Andy's glaring at him, but Gerard can't get over it. "Why? Like, I respect their personal choices and all, but what is the actual nutritional difference between a cold, crunchy carrot and a hot, mushy carrot?"
"Cooking destroys healthy enzymes and creates acidic toxins," Andy explains coldly. "It's healthier to eat food in its natural state."
"Holy shit," Gerard says. "This is like those anarchist commune people who are against technology, except the technology is fire."
He makes it twenty minutes into his first shift before Andy stops speaking to him. Fortunately, he locates the window paint on his own, and spends the rest of the morning reproducing the storefront signs more neatly. He starts painting a border of happy-face tomatoes around the edge of the window, then remembers the hardcore atmosphere of the place and gradually changes them to angry-face tomatoes, then adds in a knife and makes them scared-face tomatoes, ending with a pile of finely diced tomato chunks and a dripping red, self-satisfied knife. It would make an awesome flipbook.
He's almost done with an ocean scene underneath the Finding Nemo quote when Frank comes out to unlock the front door. Gerard is so preoccupied with getting the petrified eyes just right on his clownfish that he barely notices Frank is there until he says, "Damn, that looks amazing."
Gerard jumps and turns. Frank and another guy he doesn't recognize are standing there, admiring his artwork.
"Thanks." Gerard scratches his head. "So, uh, I think I pissed off Andy. I might have accidentally compared his lifestyle to pre-caveman society? I didn't mean to."
"Yeah, I heard all about it." Frank doesn't look too concerned. "Don't worry, it's not his lifestyle. Raw diets make you hungry all the time, he couldn't handle that. He's just being bitchy. Anyway, pissing him off is a rite of passage around here. We've all gotten the silent treatment from Andy for at least a few days. Try not to bring up the caveman thing with the customers and you'll be fine." He gestures to the guy next to him. "This is Brendon. Brendon, Gerard. When you're done here, can you go help him in the kitchen?"
Gerard shakes Brendon's hand. "Sure, yeah, just let me finish up the shark?"
"No rush." Brendon grins adorably--the eye candy is going to be the best thing about this job, Gerard can tell--and wanders into the back. Gerard finishes the shading on the teeth of his emotionally conflicted shark, then packs up the paints and follows him.
The kitchen is much brighter than the front of the cafe, all shiny chrome and white counters. Brendon is chopping vegetables on a giant cutting board. "Handwashing sink is over there," he says, pointing. "Twenty seconds lather, make sure you get your fingernails."
"Am I supposed to do actual food prep?" Gerard asks dubiously. "Frank said I'd just be washing dishes and looking pretty."
Brendon cracks up. "He said that? Seriously? Man, you should sue for sexual harassment."
Gerard smiles, turning on the water. "It's cool. Guys that hot are totally allowed to sexually harass me."
"Ooo-aaa-ooooo," hoots Brendon obnoxiously. So far, Gerard likes him a lot better than Andy.
After Gerard washes his hands, Brendon sets him to work slicing mushrooms at the other end of the cutting board. He shows Gerard how to slice them without cutting off any body parts, rocking the knife with the tip always touching the board and keeping his fingertips vertical. Gerard is pretty sure he's supposed to have some kind of license before he handles food, but he doesn't object. It's better than scrubbing pots.
He ends up scrubbing pots too, though. And stirring things on command, and even delivering a plate of tofu scramble to a customer when the others are too busy. There don't seem to be set roles, like chef and waiter. Everyone just does whatever needs to be done. Frank stays in the front of the restaurant serving customers for most of the day, but when they close and Brendon and Andy leave, he actually comes back to the giant sink and helps Gerard clean up.
Gerard passes the time imagining what else Frank could be doing with his soapy hands. It's the most fun he's ever had washing dishes.
***
Frank doesn't really have a set menu. He cooks whatever he feels like cooking, regardless of its national origin or whether it goes well with the rest of the food he serves. One day he's whipping up veggie burgers and tacos, the next he's serving lettuce-wrapped spring rolls with African peanut stew. It's weird, but Gerard hasn't heard a single customer complain.
There's a giant chalkboard behind the counter with menu items scribbled all over it. Frank explains that he used to print up new paper menus every time he changed something, but Andy kept yowling about wasting trees and the environmental inefficiency of the recycling system until he stopped.
Gerard eyes the mess on the chalkboard. There's a badly erased anarchy symbol visible behind the beverages section, and the lines Beans, beans, the magical legume/you get more protein the more you consume scribbled along the bottom in Brendon's handwriting. "I could, if you want," he starts diplomatically.
"Please," Frank says fervently, so Gerard spends a few hours wiping down and rewriting the menu. He adds a border of vegetables to go with the one on the window. They take revenge on the knife for their fallen tomato comrade. At the end of the border, he draws the knife stabbed into the wall with a flowery inscription on a scroll reading, "Whoso pulleth out this knife from this wall is rightwise Chef, born of the kitchen." It's utterly ridiculous. Frank loves it.
"I should've hired an artist years ago," he says happily.
Gerard ducks his head, embarrassed. "I don't even know what half this shit means," he says, gesturing to the menu items he copied out onto the board. "What the hell is a samosa?"
Frank yelps and grabs Gerard's arm. Gerard resists more than he otherwise might, just for the sake of prolonging the time he gets to spend being grabbed. But Frank is strong for his size, especially when he's on a mission, and Gerard's virgin palate seems to be sufficient motivation for manhandling. He drags Gerard into the kitchen and points imperiously at a stool. Gerard relents, sitting down and watching Frank bustle around like a pissed-off chipmunk.
He takes a tupperware container of what looks like seasoned mashed potatoes out of the fridge and cranks up the deep-fryer, then starts throwing flour and salt and water into a mixing bowl. "You're supposed to wear gloves when you touch the food, you know," Gerard points out when he starts stirring it with his fingers.
Frank rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I'm not selling this, I'm giving it to you. The rules don't apply." He works the dough until it's smooth and elastic, then pulls off a piece and flattens it on the counter. Gerard can't quite follow what he's doing with it, but a few seconds later Frank is spooning the potato mixture into a doughy pocket and tossing the whole thing into the hot oil.
Gerard hides his bare arms under the counter. He's seen the burns on everyone who gets close to the deep-fryer on a regular basis. The dots of shiny pink skin all over Frank's wrists look kind of cool and intentional, but body modding is not part of Gerard's job description.
"Here," says Frank, fishing out the little wedge with a pair of tongs. The surface of the dough is all bubbly and golden, and it actually looks really good. Frank pushes it over to him on a paper towel. "Break it open, it'll cool faster," he says.
Gerard gingerly tears it apart. A spicy scent wafts out to meet him. "Holy Christ, that smells great," he says honestly.
Frank grins widely, leaning forward onto his elbows and bouncing on his toes. "Blow on it, try it," he says eagerly. He looks excited, like it's important to him that Gerard likes it. It probably is. The guy did open his own restaurant; he must really want people to enjoy his cooking. Gerard finds himself wishing that he'd tried the food earlier, if it makes Frank pay this much attention to him.
He tests the heat of the potato filling with his tongue, and ends up stuffing half the samosa in his mouth at once. "Mmmmmnghf," he declares. "Fuck, can I marry you? Please?"
Frank beams with his entire face. Gerard almost chokes.
***
Frank actually makes his own meat substitutes from scratch. There are about five kinds of tofu in the cafe's fridge and pantry, and the shelves are lined with different types of soy protein and wheat gluten and similar mysterious powders used in the manufacture of fake meat. None of it tastes like any particular meat Gerard's ever had, but if he didn't know better, he'd probably believe it was some kind he hadn't tried. In any case, it's not bad.
"Fuck you," Frank says good-naturedly, up to his elbows in flour. "Not bad, my ass. My fake meat is better than anything Whole Foods sells, and you know it. Morningstar Farms can suck my sweet dangly nuts."
Gerard doesn't know it, actually. He's never heard of Morningstar Farms in his life. "I'm gonna take a smoke break," he says and ducks away from all discussion of the qualities of Frank's nuts.
He's glad Frank is a smoker, both because it means he understands the necessity for breaks and because it means Gerard isn't the only one being constantly pestered by Andy about secondhand smoke and how smoking outside in a heavily populated city is virtually the same thing as smoking inside. It's annoying, but it's pretty funny when Frank gets fed up and threatens to equip all the tables in the restaurant with ashtrays.
Brendon is sitting on the concrete steps behind the cafe, eating. Gerard isn't an expert on the subject yet, but the folds of turkey in his sandwich really don't look like any of the fake meat he's seen Frank making. "Hey," he says.
Brendon jumps and stuffs the sandwich into a paper bag. "Hey, hi, Gerard," he says brightly, tucking the bag up against his other side like he thinks there's a chance Gerard could have missed it.
Gerard grins as he lights up. It looks like he's not the only secret omnivore working at Pleathermouth. "Want me to take my cancer sticks elsewhere?" he offers.
"Nah," says Brendon, fidgeting. "You're fine, just stay downwind of me."
Gerard can't think of a way to say "it's cool, you can go ahead and consume your flesh" without giving himself away as a fellow cheater, so he sucks down the cigarette as quickly as he can and goes back inside, leaving Brendon and his illicit lunch in peace.
In the kitchen, Frank has his hands in a bowl of what looks like dirty water, kneading a hunk of... something. "Seitan," says Frank when he sees Gerard looking. "I'm working on some kind of meatloafy thing. I think I'm gonna shape it like a brain and call it Zombeef. Or Graaaains, I haven't decided yet." He holds his arms out in front of him, dripping murky water all over the spice jars on the counter, and groans, "Graaaaaaains!"
Gerard wishes he hadn't asked Frank to marry him over the samosas, just so he could do it now instead. It would probably look a little desperate to propose twice. Or jump Frank's bones, which is what he really wants to do.
No. This guy signs his paychecks. Do not touch. Gerard clenches his fists and tries not to watch Frank lovingly massage his seitan.
***
Gerard's resolve to refrain from actively seducing his boss lasts approximately a week.
It's not actually his fault. The two of them are alone in the kitchen after close, Gerard washing the mountain of dishes and Frank trying out a new nutritional yeast mushroom gravy recipe. He's wearing a red apron that reads CANNIBALISM: THE LOGICAL SOLUTION TO OVERPOPULATION + STARVATION.
"I'm pretty sure human meat isn't vegan," says Gerard over the sound of water running in the sink.
"Neither is semen, technically, but I eat that," Frank says cheekily. Gerard almost swallows his own also-not-vegan tongue. Frank doesn't seem to notice. "Here," he says, holding out the wooden spoon he's been using to stir the gravy. "Taste this."
Gerard dodges the spoon. "I am not going to get germs on that and then wash it so you can put it back into the pan," he tells Frank.
Frank sighs, exasperated. "I'm not serving this to customers, it doesn't matter if there are germs in it."
Gerard shuts his mouth firmly and narrows his eyes at the spoon.
"You're like some kind of OCD five-year-old, bitching about the bugsies and then never washing your damn hair," complains Frank. He tilts the spoon, dripping a bit of gravy onto his finger. "Here, no germs in the food, you fucking paranoid baby."
Gerard forgets to object to the comment about his hair, because Frank appears to be offering to let Gerard lick him. He opens his mouth dumbly, and Frank actually puts his finger inside.
There's a brief window of time during which Frank could pull away, or Gerard could turn his head, and they could stop it from turning into anything more than a gravy sample. Neither of them does. They stay frozen like that for a long moment, then Gerard slowly runs his tongue over Frank's knuckle, purses his lips and sucks.
Frank's eyes flicker shut and he breathes, "Fuck, Gerard."
Gerard has no clue what the gravy tastes like.
He opens his mouth and lets Frank's finger slip out, catching his lip briefly. Frank trails his spit-dampened fingertip along Gerard's jaw, then wraps his hand behind Gerard's neck and pulls him into a kiss. Gerard grabs his ass and drags him forward, forgetting about the soap all over his hands, but Frank doesn't seem to mind the suds getting smeared on his pants. He presses up against Gerard, hands slipping under his shirt and tongue into his mouth, and Gerard can feel that he's hard.
He tries to undo the button on Frank's jeans. Frank wriggles his hips back. "Dude," he pants, "you cannot be that anal about saliva in the food and then be perfectly okay with having sex in the kitchen. There are health codes."
Gerard processes this up to the word "sex" and then his brain stops functioning. "My place," he says, and Frank nods and reaches over to turn off the stove.
They stumble out the door with their hands in each other's pockets, leaving the pile of dirty dishes and the pan of gravy in the kitchen. Frank has a car, which is good because Gerard really does not feel like riding the bus at the moment. He tries not to twitch too much as he gives directions to his apartment, but Frank is right there and Gerard is finally allowed to touch him, and it's not easy to keep his hands to himself.
He somehow manages not to cause a wreck, and waits until they're inside to tackle Frank again. Frank responds eagerly, kissing him hard and wrapping his legs around Gerard's waist. In the smoothest damn move of his life, Gerard hefts him up and staggers into his bedroom with Frank clinging to him like a koala, smacking Frank's head on the door jamb in the process.
"Fuck, ow!" Frank says and starts laughing.
Gerard deposits him on his sheets, which he would have changed this morning if he'd known ahead of time what he'd be doing on them. "Sorry, you okay?"
"Fine, I'm fine, get your ass down here," Frank says. He tugs on Gerard's shirt.
Gerard crawls on top of him, kissing up his neck. "Top or bottom?" he murmurs into Frank's ear. "I'm good either way."
Frank hooks a leg around Gerard's hip and rolls them both over, straddling him. "How 'bout I fuck you until I come and then ride you until you come?" he suggests, grinding down.
"Jesus fuck," says Gerard and yanks off his shirt.
***
He wakes up alone, which triggers a morning-after freakout until he hears the shower running and the echoes of Frank singing "This Is The New Shit." Gerard grins and lets himself relax for a moment. It'll probably be okay. Frank is pretty chill about his business operations. As long as they agree that Gerard won't sue for sexual harassment and Frank won't take unfair advantage of him, they'll be fine.
The shower turns off and he can hear Frank puttering around the bathroom, still growling Marilyn Manson lyrics. It's almost painfully adorable. Gerard snuggles down into the warm covers. He's almost dozed back off when the refrigerator opens and the humming abruptly stops.
Frank appears in the doorway, buck naked and arms akimbo. "I was gonna cook you breakfast in bed," he says. "Looks like I could make you some tasty eggs and bacon if you want. You gonna tell me that shit's your roommate's?"
Fuck. No point in trying to cover up now. "I don't have a roommate."
Frank rubs his face. "God damn it," he says with feeling. "This always fucking happens, every single time I meet someone I want to date. I get my hopes up, I think it might be going somewhere, and then they turn out to be a complete cockwattle."
Gerard sits up. "You want to date me?" he says like a moron.
"Not anymore!" Frank snaps and starts gathering up his underwear and pants.
Shit. Putting on clothes is never, under any circumstances, a good sign. "Wait, so I'm a jerk because I'm not vegan?" demands Gerard. "What about Brendon?"
"No, you're a jerk because you said you were vegan when you're not. Brendon never lied to me."
Gerard's forehead wrinkles. "You knew he ate meat?"
Frank zips up his jeans viciously. "If you thought I didn't, telling me was a hell of a dick move." He snatches up his shirt and stomps out without putting it on.
Gerard listens to the door slam, then pulls his blanket over his head and doesn't move for the next three hours. His phone rings twice. He ignores it.
Eventually, the voicemail alert gets irritating, and he emerges to check his messages. The first one is Brendon, worried because he didn't show up for his shift. He deletes it and listens to the second one.
"Hi, this is Darcy from Burger King. I'm looking for Gerard Way, I met you a few weeks ago when you came in to drop off your application. We've got an opening now for a part-time drivethrough operator. Give me a call ASAP if you're interested, I'm hoping to get this filled this week."
Gerard calls her back.
***
Fast food service is the worst job in the world. It's hot and stifling and monotonous and Gerard can't stand any of the people he works with. He wears a crappy headset over his stupid baseball cap, and he hands out hamburgers through the window, and he endures abuse from customers when the awful intercom system makes him mishear orders, and by the second hour of his first shift, he hates America with a passion.
Burger King sells a veggie burger made by Morningstar Farms. Gerard recognizes the name as the fake meat brand Frank said wasn't as good as his. Gerard tries one of the patties on his break. Frank was right--the quality doesn't even come close.
When he gets home after his first day of do-you-want-fries-with-that, Gerard puts System of a Down on his stereo and turns up the volume, collapsing on the sofa. His neighbors are going to complain, but he really needs a few minutes to decompress. He misses Frank, but he's surprised to find that he also really misses making food that looks like food, not plastic. He misses working in a kitchen instead of an assembly line.
Someone knocks on the door. Gerard sighs. So much for decompression. He turns down the volume knob and opens the door, ready to apologize for the noise.
It's Frank.
He stares at Gerard's baseball cap. "Burger King? Seriously?"
Gerard absently touches the hat. He'd forgotten he was wearing it.
"Whatever." Frank sticks his hands in his pockets. "You haven't been answering your phone."
Gerard shakes his head mutely.
"I just wanted you to know I wasn't firing you or anything. I don't want you to leave Pleathermouth because of personal shit between us."
"It wasn't personal," says Gerard. "It was professional shit. I lied to get the job. It was a crappy thing to do, and bringing Brendon into it was crappy too, and I'm really, really sorry. It would be awesome if you'd leave me alone now. Seeing you is kind of setting me back on my twelve-step plan to get over you." He shuts the door.
***
"BK Veggie, no cheese, no mayo," says the scratchy voice in Gerard's ear. He puts together the burger on autopilot and leans out with the paper bag outstretched, then almost drops it into the flowerbed under the window when he sees who ordered it.
"I'm getting sick of watching him oversalt all the food by crying into it when he thinks no one's watching," says Andy. "Get in the car and let's blow this corporate popsicle factory."
Gerard blinks.
"Come on, you are not this stupid," Andy says impatiently. "You want to get the guy and you want a job that doesn't suck. This is not difficult. Get in the damn car."
And maybe it's the shock of Andy suddenly being on his side, or maybe it's the hole in his happiness where Frank is supposed to go, or maybe it's just that Gerard has secretly always wanted to climb through a drivethrough window. Whatever the reason, he suddenly finds himself ripping off his headset and clambering over the sill, ignoring the confused shouts from behind him. Andy waits for him to close the passenger-side door behind him and takes off.
It's late afternoon, and no one is eating at Pleathermouth. Frank is sitting at one of the tables, idly flicking at the salt shaker. He looks up when they come in, and his eyes widen at the sight of Gerard. Gerard sits down across from him and stares at his lap, not sure what to say, how to fix it.
Frank saves him by breaking the silence. "I'm sorry too," he says. "You didn't give me a chance to say. I didn't mean to imply that you had to be vegan to get the job. I shouldn't have put you in that situation."
"Okay," says Gerard. "We both suck. I think I suck more, but I'm willing to call it even if you are."
Frank leans forward and takes Gerard's hand. "Deal," he says quietly, and brushes their lips together. Gerard tries not to smile enough to break the kiss.
He's distracted by the sensation of his hat being yoinked from his head. He turns his head to watch Andy drag one of the chairs over to the door and stand up on the cracked vinyl seat. He fits the Burger King cap on top of the weird wax head. "There," he says triumphantly. "Stick it to the man."
Frank giggles. "You go, Andy," he says fondly. "C'mon, Gerard, I just made six batches of chocolate chip cookies to test different butter and egg substitutes. I think I'm gonna go with Nucoa and Ener-G, but you should tell me what you think."
Gerard follows him into the kitchen, because there are cookies to be eaten and he doesn't want to let go of Frank's hand.
EDIT: This fic now has a coda: "Nibble Clamps"
***
"PETA contacted us once and I was like 'dude, what are you doing? I'm wearing a leather jacket!' I mean, I didn't kill it, I just saw it in a secondhand store. It's a cool jacket." --Gerard Way
***
Pleathermouth Vegan Cafe, says the sign in front of the next place on Gerard's job-seeking list, and he decides that it may be prudent to finish his cheeseburger before entering.
He leans against a street lamp, examining the front of the place as he chews. There are shoes displayed in the window, which is kind of weird for a restaurant. The inexpertly-applied window paint proclaims RAW OPTIONS AVAILABLE and--Gerard snorts--FISH ARE FRIENDS NOT FOOD.
He swallows his last bite of burger, tosses the wrapper in a trash can, and pushes open the door. Just inside, a menacing-looking guy with long, curly hair shoots him a disdainful glance and says, "I hope that jacket is made of recycled leather."
"Absolutely," Gerard assures him. He doesn't actually know what that is, but he's pretty sure buying something from a consignment store makes it recycled. "Um, I was wondering if you're hiring?"
He's met with a haughty expression that clearly says "not you, we're not." Gerard is about to give up and leave when the guy sighs and says, "Hang on." He disappears into the back.
Gerard sticks his hands awkwardly in his pockets and looks around him. The cafe is clean but rough, with the sort of grunge rock diner vibe he's mostly seen on the West Coast. The tables and walls are painted black, the floor is a black and red checkerboard pattern, and the art on the walls ranges from '50s advertisement parodies to thrash metal concert posters to modern abstract paintings. There's only one customer, sitting at a table near the back with a sandwich. Gerard came in the middle of the afternoon on purpose, knowing that it was likely to be emptier during the lull between lunch and dinner. No point in showing up in person to make a good impression if the manager is too busy to shake hands with him.
He turns slowly, taking in the shelves of fake-leather shoes and belts and wallets lining the wall underneath the front window. He startles at the sight of a blonde human head above the door, mounted like a hunting trophy. A closer look determines that it's made from wax. Not that he thought it was real, of course.
"Hi!" someone chirps from behind him. Gerard turns to see a short, pierced, extremely attractive man behind the counter at the back of the room.
"That," Gerard says, pointing at the head above the door, "is fucking disturbing. How on earth do you stay in business?"
"People don't see it until they leave," the guy says, grinning. "That's after they've tasted how awesome the food is. I'm Frank, I own this place." He holds out a hand.
Gerard hurries over to take it, remembering the folder full of resumes and reference sheets he's clutching. "Gerard, nice to meet you," he says. "I'm looking for a job."
"And I am looking for a kitchen bitch," Frank says cheerfully. "Eight bucks an hour, twenty to thirty-nine hours a week, no benefits, no dress code. Job duties include dishwashing, sweeping, running, fetching, carrying, listening to Andy rant about the establishment, and looking pretty."
Gerard is definitely desperate enough to wash dishes, and there are worse places to wash them than a cute little punk cafe run by a cute little punk dude. "I think I can handle that," he says.
"Are you vegan?"
"Yeah." He runs his tongue over his teeth to make sure there's no incriminating evidence stuck between them.
"You cook at all?"
"No." That one would be harder to fake. "I'm interested in learning, though?"
Frank smiles. "At least you're honest."
Guilt emanates from the cheeseburger in Gerard's stomach. He tries to ignore it. "Um, and I could redo your windows if you want. The lettering kind of..."
"Looks like it was done by a five-year-old?" Frank asks. "Yeah, none of us are so much with the art. That would be awesome, if you could make it look less asstacular. Can you start on Monday?"
***
Pleathermouth is open for lunch and dinner, from eleven to seven. Gerard comes in at nine on his first day for training. The training mostly consists of Andy showing him where the mop closet is and explaining the classifications on the menu.
"Wait, so raw means, like, actually raw? There are people who don't eat cooked food at all?" Andy's glaring at him, but Gerard can't get over it. "Why? Like, I respect their personal choices and all, but what is the actual nutritional difference between a cold, crunchy carrot and a hot, mushy carrot?"
"Cooking destroys healthy enzymes and creates acidic toxins," Andy explains coldly. "It's healthier to eat food in its natural state."
"Holy shit," Gerard says. "This is like those anarchist commune people who are against technology, except the technology is fire."
He makes it twenty minutes into his first shift before Andy stops speaking to him. Fortunately, he locates the window paint on his own, and spends the rest of the morning reproducing the storefront signs more neatly. He starts painting a border of happy-face tomatoes around the edge of the window, then remembers the hardcore atmosphere of the place and gradually changes them to angry-face tomatoes, then adds in a knife and makes them scared-face tomatoes, ending with a pile of finely diced tomato chunks and a dripping red, self-satisfied knife. It would make an awesome flipbook.
He's almost done with an ocean scene underneath the Finding Nemo quote when Frank comes out to unlock the front door. Gerard is so preoccupied with getting the petrified eyes just right on his clownfish that he barely notices Frank is there until he says, "Damn, that looks amazing."
Gerard jumps and turns. Frank and another guy he doesn't recognize are standing there, admiring his artwork.
"Thanks." Gerard scratches his head. "So, uh, I think I pissed off Andy. I might have accidentally compared his lifestyle to pre-caveman society? I didn't mean to."
"Yeah, I heard all about it." Frank doesn't look too concerned. "Don't worry, it's not his lifestyle. Raw diets make you hungry all the time, he couldn't handle that. He's just being bitchy. Anyway, pissing him off is a rite of passage around here. We've all gotten the silent treatment from Andy for at least a few days. Try not to bring up the caveman thing with the customers and you'll be fine." He gestures to the guy next to him. "This is Brendon. Brendon, Gerard. When you're done here, can you go help him in the kitchen?"
Gerard shakes Brendon's hand. "Sure, yeah, just let me finish up the shark?"
"No rush." Brendon grins adorably--the eye candy is going to be the best thing about this job, Gerard can tell--and wanders into the back. Gerard finishes the shading on the teeth of his emotionally conflicted shark, then packs up the paints and follows him.
The kitchen is much brighter than the front of the cafe, all shiny chrome and white counters. Brendon is chopping vegetables on a giant cutting board. "Handwashing sink is over there," he says, pointing. "Twenty seconds lather, make sure you get your fingernails."
"Am I supposed to do actual food prep?" Gerard asks dubiously. "Frank said I'd just be washing dishes and looking pretty."
Brendon cracks up. "He said that? Seriously? Man, you should sue for sexual harassment."
Gerard smiles, turning on the water. "It's cool. Guys that hot are totally allowed to sexually harass me."
"Ooo-aaa-ooooo," hoots Brendon obnoxiously. So far, Gerard likes him a lot better than Andy.
After Gerard washes his hands, Brendon sets him to work slicing mushrooms at the other end of the cutting board. He shows Gerard how to slice them without cutting off any body parts, rocking the knife with the tip always touching the board and keeping his fingertips vertical. Gerard is pretty sure he's supposed to have some kind of license before he handles food, but he doesn't object. It's better than scrubbing pots.
He ends up scrubbing pots too, though. And stirring things on command, and even delivering a plate of tofu scramble to a customer when the others are too busy. There don't seem to be set roles, like chef and waiter. Everyone just does whatever needs to be done. Frank stays in the front of the restaurant serving customers for most of the day, but when they close and Brendon and Andy leave, he actually comes back to the giant sink and helps Gerard clean up.
Gerard passes the time imagining what else Frank could be doing with his soapy hands. It's the most fun he's ever had washing dishes.
***
Frank doesn't really have a set menu. He cooks whatever he feels like cooking, regardless of its national origin or whether it goes well with the rest of the food he serves. One day he's whipping up veggie burgers and tacos, the next he's serving lettuce-wrapped spring rolls with African peanut stew. It's weird, but Gerard hasn't heard a single customer complain.
There's a giant chalkboard behind the counter with menu items scribbled all over it. Frank explains that he used to print up new paper menus every time he changed something, but Andy kept yowling about wasting trees and the environmental inefficiency of the recycling system until he stopped.
Gerard eyes the mess on the chalkboard. There's a badly erased anarchy symbol visible behind the beverages section, and the lines Beans, beans, the magical legume/you get more protein the more you consume scribbled along the bottom in Brendon's handwriting. "I could, if you want," he starts diplomatically.
"Please," Frank says fervently, so Gerard spends a few hours wiping down and rewriting the menu. He adds a border of vegetables to go with the one on the window. They take revenge on the knife for their fallen tomato comrade. At the end of the border, he draws the knife stabbed into the wall with a flowery inscription on a scroll reading, "Whoso pulleth out this knife from this wall is rightwise Chef, born of the kitchen." It's utterly ridiculous. Frank loves it.
"I should've hired an artist years ago," he says happily.
Gerard ducks his head, embarrassed. "I don't even know what half this shit means," he says, gesturing to the menu items he copied out onto the board. "What the hell is a samosa?"
Frank yelps and grabs Gerard's arm. Gerard resists more than he otherwise might, just for the sake of prolonging the time he gets to spend being grabbed. But Frank is strong for his size, especially when he's on a mission, and Gerard's virgin palate seems to be sufficient motivation for manhandling. He drags Gerard into the kitchen and points imperiously at a stool. Gerard relents, sitting down and watching Frank bustle around like a pissed-off chipmunk.
He takes a tupperware container of what looks like seasoned mashed potatoes out of the fridge and cranks up the deep-fryer, then starts throwing flour and salt and water into a mixing bowl. "You're supposed to wear gloves when you touch the food, you know," Gerard points out when he starts stirring it with his fingers.
Frank rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I'm not selling this, I'm giving it to you. The rules don't apply." He works the dough until it's smooth and elastic, then pulls off a piece and flattens it on the counter. Gerard can't quite follow what he's doing with it, but a few seconds later Frank is spooning the potato mixture into a doughy pocket and tossing the whole thing into the hot oil.
Gerard hides his bare arms under the counter. He's seen the burns on everyone who gets close to the deep-fryer on a regular basis. The dots of shiny pink skin all over Frank's wrists look kind of cool and intentional, but body modding is not part of Gerard's job description.
"Here," says Frank, fishing out the little wedge with a pair of tongs. The surface of the dough is all bubbly and golden, and it actually looks really good. Frank pushes it over to him on a paper towel. "Break it open, it'll cool faster," he says.
Gerard gingerly tears it apart. A spicy scent wafts out to meet him. "Holy Christ, that smells great," he says honestly.
Frank grins widely, leaning forward onto his elbows and bouncing on his toes. "Blow on it, try it," he says eagerly. He looks excited, like it's important to him that Gerard likes it. It probably is. The guy did open his own restaurant; he must really want people to enjoy his cooking. Gerard finds himself wishing that he'd tried the food earlier, if it makes Frank pay this much attention to him.
He tests the heat of the potato filling with his tongue, and ends up stuffing half the samosa in his mouth at once. "Mmmmmnghf," he declares. "Fuck, can I marry you? Please?"
Frank beams with his entire face. Gerard almost chokes.
***
Frank actually makes his own meat substitutes from scratch. There are about five kinds of tofu in the cafe's fridge and pantry, and the shelves are lined with different types of soy protein and wheat gluten and similar mysterious powders used in the manufacture of fake meat. None of it tastes like any particular meat Gerard's ever had, but if he didn't know better, he'd probably believe it was some kind he hadn't tried. In any case, it's not bad.
"Fuck you," Frank says good-naturedly, up to his elbows in flour. "Not bad, my ass. My fake meat is better than anything Whole Foods sells, and you know it. Morningstar Farms can suck my sweet dangly nuts."
Gerard doesn't know it, actually. He's never heard of Morningstar Farms in his life. "I'm gonna take a smoke break," he says and ducks away from all discussion of the qualities of Frank's nuts.
He's glad Frank is a smoker, both because it means he understands the necessity for breaks and because it means Gerard isn't the only one being constantly pestered by Andy about secondhand smoke and how smoking outside in a heavily populated city is virtually the same thing as smoking inside. It's annoying, but it's pretty funny when Frank gets fed up and threatens to equip all the tables in the restaurant with ashtrays.
Brendon is sitting on the concrete steps behind the cafe, eating. Gerard isn't an expert on the subject yet, but the folds of turkey in his sandwich really don't look like any of the fake meat he's seen Frank making. "Hey," he says.
Brendon jumps and stuffs the sandwich into a paper bag. "Hey, hi, Gerard," he says brightly, tucking the bag up against his other side like he thinks there's a chance Gerard could have missed it.
Gerard grins as he lights up. It looks like he's not the only secret omnivore working at Pleathermouth. "Want me to take my cancer sticks elsewhere?" he offers.
"Nah," says Brendon, fidgeting. "You're fine, just stay downwind of me."
Gerard can't think of a way to say "it's cool, you can go ahead and consume your flesh" without giving himself away as a fellow cheater, so he sucks down the cigarette as quickly as he can and goes back inside, leaving Brendon and his illicit lunch in peace.
In the kitchen, Frank has his hands in a bowl of what looks like dirty water, kneading a hunk of... something. "Seitan," says Frank when he sees Gerard looking. "I'm working on some kind of meatloafy thing. I think I'm gonna shape it like a brain and call it Zombeef. Or Graaaains, I haven't decided yet." He holds his arms out in front of him, dripping murky water all over the spice jars on the counter, and groans, "Graaaaaaains!"
Gerard wishes he hadn't asked Frank to marry him over the samosas, just so he could do it now instead. It would probably look a little desperate to propose twice. Or jump Frank's bones, which is what he really wants to do.
No. This guy signs his paychecks. Do not touch. Gerard clenches his fists and tries not to watch Frank lovingly massage his seitan.
***
Gerard's resolve to refrain from actively seducing his boss lasts approximately a week.
It's not actually his fault. The two of them are alone in the kitchen after close, Gerard washing the mountain of dishes and Frank trying out a new nutritional yeast mushroom gravy recipe. He's wearing a red apron that reads CANNIBALISM: THE LOGICAL SOLUTION TO OVERPOPULATION + STARVATION.
"I'm pretty sure human meat isn't vegan," says Gerard over the sound of water running in the sink.
"Neither is semen, technically, but I eat that," Frank says cheekily. Gerard almost swallows his own also-not-vegan tongue. Frank doesn't seem to notice. "Here," he says, holding out the wooden spoon he's been using to stir the gravy. "Taste this."
Gerard dodges the spoon. "I am not going to get germs on that and then wash it so you can put it back into the pan," he tells Frank.
Frank sighs, exasperated. "I'm not serving this to customers, it doesn't matter if there are germs in it."
Gerard shuts his mouth firmly and narrows his eyes at the spoon.
"You're like some kind of OCD five-year-old, bitching about the bugsies and then never washing your damn hair," complains Frank. He tilts the spoon, dripping a bit of gravy onto his finger. "Here, no germs in the food, you fucking paranoid baby."
Gerard forgets to object to the comment about his hair, because Frank appears to be offering to let Gerard lick him. He opens his mouth dumbly, and Frank actually puts his finger inside.
There's a brief window of time during which Frank could pull away, or Gerard could turn his head, and they could stop it from turning into anything more than a gravy sample. Neither of them does. They stay frozen like that for a long moment, then Gerard slowly runs his tongue over Frank's knuckle, purses his lips and sucks.
Frank's eyes flicker shut and he breathes, "Fuck, Gerard."
Gerard has no clue what the gravy tastes like.
He opens his mouth and lets Frank's finger slip out, catching his lip briefly. Frank trails his spit-dampened fingertip along Gerard's jaw, then wraps his hand behind Gerard's neck and pulls him into a kiss. Gerard grabs his ass and drags him forward, forgetting about the soap all over his hands, but Frank doesn't seem to mind the suds getting smeared on his pants. He presses up against Gerard, hands slipping under his shirt and tongue into his mouth, and Gerard can feel that he's hard.
He tries to undo the button on Frank's jeans. Frank wriggles his hips back. "Dude," he pants, "you cannot be that anal about saliva in the food and then be perfectly okay with having sex in the kitchen. There are health codes."
Gerard processes this up to the word "sex" and then his brain stops functioning. "My place," he says, and Frank nods and reaches over to turn off the stove.
They stumble out the door with their hands in each other's pockets, leaving the pile of dirty dishes and the pan of gravy in the kitchen. Frank has a car, which is good because Gerard really does not feel like riding the bus at the moment. He tries not to twitch too much as he gives directions to his apartment, but Frank is right there and Gerard is finally allowed to touch him, and it's not easy to keep his hands to himself.
He somehow manages not to cause a wreck, and waits until they're inside to tackle Frank again. Frank responds eagerly, kissing him hard and wrapping his legs around Gerard's waist. In the smoothest damn move of his life, Gerard hefts him up and staggers into his bedroom with Frank clinging to him like a koala, smacking Frank's head on the door jamb in the process.
"Fuck, ow!" Frank says and starts laughing.
Gerard deposits him on his sheets, which he would have changed this morning if he'd known ahead of time what he'd be doing on them. "Sorry, you okay?"
"Fine, I'm fine, get your ass down here," Frank says. He tugs on Gerard's shirt.
Gerard crawls on top of him, kissing up his neck. "Top or bottom?" he murmurs into Frank's ear. "I'm good either way."
Frank hooks a leg around Gerard's hip and rolls them both over, straddling him. "How 'bout I fuck you until I come and then ride you until you come?" he suggests, grinding down.
"Jesus fuck," says Gerard and yanks off his shirt.
***
He wakes up alone, which triggers a morning-after freakout until he hears the shower running and the echoes of Frank singing "This Is The New Shit." Gerard grins and lets himself relax for a moment. It'll probably be okay. Frank is pretty chill about his business operations. As long as they agree that Gerard won't sue for sexual harassment and Frank won't take unfair advantage of him, they'll be fine.
The shower turns off and he can hear Frank puttering around the bathroom, still growling Marilyn Manson lyrics. It's almost painfully adorable. Gerard snuggles down into the warm covers. He's almost dozed back off when the refrigerator opens and the humming abruptly stops.
Frank appears in the doorway, buck naked and arms akimbo. "I was gonna cook you breakfast in bed," he says. "Looks like I could make you some tasty eggs and bacon if you want. You gonna tell me that shit's your roommate's?"
Fuck. No point in trying to cover up now. "I don't have a roommate."
Frank rubs his face. "God damn it," he says with feeling. "This always fucking happens, every single time I meet someone I want to date. I get my hopes up, I think it might be going somewhere, and then they turn out to be a complete cockwattle."
Gerard sits up. "You want to date me?" he says like a moron.
"Not anymore!" Frank snaps and starts gathering up his underwear and pants.
Shit. Putting on clothes is never, under any circumstances, a good sign. "Wait, so I'm a jerk because I'm not vegan?" demands Gerard. "What about Brendon?"
"No, you're a jerk because you said you were vegan when you're not. Brendon never lied to me."
Gerard's forehead wrinkles. "You knew he ate meat?"
Frank zips up his jeans viciously. "If you thought I didn't, telling me was a hell of a dick move." He snatches up his shirt and stomps out without putting it on.
Gerard listens to the door slam, then pulls his blanket over his head and doesn't move for the next three hours. His phone rings twice. He ignores it.
Eventually, the voicemail alert gets irritating, and he emerges to check his messages. The first one is Brendon, worried because he didn't show up for his shift. He deletes it and listens to the second one.
"Hi, this is Darcy from Burger King. I'm looking for Gerard Way, I met you a few weeks ago when you came in to drop off your application. We've got an opening now for a part-time drivethrough operator. Give me a call ASAP if you're interested, I'm hoping to get this filled this week."
Gerard calls her back.
***
Fast food service is the worst job in the world. It's hot and stifling and monotonous and Gerard can't stand any of the people he works with. He wears a crappy headset over his stupid baseball cap, and he hands out hamburgers through the window, and he endures abuse from customers when the awful intercom system makes him mishear orders, and by the second hour of his first shift, he hates America with a passion.
Burger King sells a veggie burger made by Morningstar Farms. Gerard recognizes the name as the fake meat brand Frank said wasn't as good as his. Gerard tries one of the patties on his break. Frank was right--the quality doesn't even come close.
When he gets home after his first day of do-you-want-fries-with-that, Gerard puts System of a Down on his stereo and turns up the volume, collapsing on the sofa. His neighbors are going to complain, but he really needs a few minutes to decompress. He misses Frank, but he's surprised to find that he also really misses making food that looks like food, not plastic. He misses working in a kitchen instead of an assembly line.
Someone knocks on the door. Gerard sighs. So much for decompression. He turns down the volume knob and opens the door, ready to apologize for the noise.
It's Frank.
He stares at Gerard's baseball cap. "Burger King? Seriously?"
Gerard absently touches the hat. He'd forgotten he was wearing it.
"Whatever." Frank sticks his hands in his pockets. "You haven't been answering your phone."
Gerard shakes his head mutely.
"I just wanted you to know I wasn't firing you or anything. I don't want you to leave Pleathermouth because of personal shit between us."
"It wasn't personal," says Gerard. "It was professional shit. I lied to get the job. It was a crappy thing to do, and bringing Brendon into it was crappy too, and I'm really, really sorry. It would be awesome if you'd leave me alone now. Seeing you is kind of setting me back on my twelve-step plan to get over you." He shuts the door.
***
"BK Veggie, no cheese, no mayo," says the scratchy voice in Gerard's ear. He puts together the burger on autopilot and leans out with the paper bag outstretched, then almost drops it into the flowerbed under the window when he sees who ordered it.
"I'm getting sick of watching him oversalt all the food by crying into it when he thinks no one's watching," says Andy. "Get in the car and let's blow this corporate popsicle factory."
Gerard blinks.
"Come on, you are not this stupid," Andy says impatiently. "You want to get the guy and you want a job that doesn't suck. This is not difficult. Get in the damn car."
And maybe it's the shock of Andy suddenly being on his side, or maybe it's the hole in his happiness where Frank is supposed to go, or maybe it's just that Gerard has secretly always wanted to climb through a drivethrough window. Whatever the reason, he suddenly finds himself ripping off his headset and clambering over the sill, ignoring the confused shouts from behind him. Andy waits for him to close the passenger-side door behind him and takes off.
It's late afternoon, and no one is eating at Pleathermouth. Frank is sitting at one of the tables, idly flicking at the salt shaker. He looks up when they come in, and his eyes widen at the sight of Gerard. Gerard sits down across from him and stares at his lap, not sure what to say, how to fix it.
Frank saves him by breaking the silence. "I'm sorry too," he says. "You didn't give me a chance to say. I didn't mean to imply that you had to be vegan to get the job. I shouldn't have put you in that situation."
"Okay," says Gerard. "We both suck. I think I suck more, but I'm willing to call it even if you are."
Frank leans forward and takes Gerard's hand. "Deal," he says quietly, and brushes their lips together. Gerard tries not to smile enough to break the kiss.
He's distracted by the sensation of his hat being yoinked from his head. He turns his head to watch Andy drag one of the chairs over to the door and stand up on the cracked vinyl seat. He fits the Burger King cap on top of the weird wax head. "There," he says triumphantly. "Stick it to the man."
Frank giggles. "You go, Andy," he says fondly. "C'mon, Gerard, I just made six batches of chocolate chip cookies to test different butter and egg substitutes. I think I'm gonna go with Nucoa and Ener-G, but you should tell me what you think."
Gerard follows him into the kitchen, because there are cookies to be eaten and he doesn't want to let go of Frank's hand.