Crossover Fic: Princess
Fandom: My Chemical Romance and Panic at the Disco (with a hint of Fall Out Boy. Hell. Let's just call it bandslash)
Pairing: Gen (Ryan and Frank)
Size: 1400 words
Note: For callsigns. I'll get the JoeTroh next time, I swear. Thanks to gigantic for being a willing ear.
"Oh. Hey, kid," Frank says when Ryan comes outside. He's standing on the balcony a story above the garden at some record exec's house, back hunched, half-silhouetted against the skyline. Light from the glass door paints a stripe over his shoulder, his profile as he turns to look at Ryan.
Ryan is at the party with Pete's gang, promised presents and entertaining pictures with celebrities. He no longer has to be showed around LA like a younger brother visiting an older sibling at college--he could find his own parties, if he wanted. But it's easier with Pete, still, and probably always. Ryan doesn't mind.
He doesn't know who Frank's here with. Frank has the classic smoker's pose going on, arm hanging down over the balustrade, fingers of his other hand flicking at a lighter, everything except the cigarette.
"Hey," Ryan says, stepping the rest of the way out the door. Frank always calls Ryan "kid" every time he sees him. Ryan's not even that young, he thinks. And Frank's definitely not that old, with his smooth face and round eyes, though he talks quickly and with a confidence Ryan wishes he had.
That was how they met, actually, the first time, early on in Panic's career. Backstage at some radio conglomerate show, or something, Ryan doesn't actually remember. He just remembers coming up behind Spencer, who was standing in a knot of people in the green room, and Frank was there, talking about something, hands gesturing quickly. Ryan had been able to recognize the look on Spencer's face because it was the same one he could feel on his own, something like, "Holy shit. Holy shit here we are." Somewhere in one of his boxes from high school, Ryan has a t-shirt with the MCR logo on it.
Frank had turned around and, at a break in his story, said, "Hey, kid, Frank Iero, nice to meet you," holding out his hand. Ryan had shaken it, and the tattoos on Frank's fingers had felt just like ordinary skin.
"Ryan Ross," Ryan had said, sticking his hand back in his pocket, closing his fingers over his palm.
"Cool makeup," Frank had said, and wished him luck out there. When asked about it later by a journalist, Ryan had said that MCR were a bunch of polite, nice guys, which was true. He didn't talk about shaking Frank's hand, that half-second of contact then release, the way Frank's palm had been warm and dry against his, how that meeting, more than anything, more even than meeting Pete fucking Wentz, had made him feel like he'd made it.
"Are you, uh," Ryan says, coming to rest on the railing next to Frank. "Are you enjoying the party?"
Frank looks at him sideways, eyebrow angled, then laughs. "Yeah." He shakes his head. "Yeah."
Ryan shifts his feet on the concrete. He knows Frank, but he doesn't know know Frank. He doesn't know why he's out here. Well, he knows why he, Ryan, is out here. A hundred competing colognes, perfumes, and bodysprays can be a potent thing. But Frank, the three other times Ryan had met him, hadn't seemed the type to hug the wall at parties.
Frank shoves back from the balustrade suddenly, straightening up and facing Ryan. "Hey, look, I'm sorry. I can't actually remember your name, man. I'm sorry."
"Oh." Ryan fiddles with the hair at the back of his neck. It's getting long; he needs to get it cut. "Hey. That's okay. I'm, uh. Ryan. From Panic at the Disco."
"Right. Right." Frank smacks at his forehead. "It was all the pot back in the day," he says apologetically. "My memory is shit now."
"That's okay," Ryan says again, and then he can't think of a thing to say. That's probably why Frank has met him four times and never remembers his name.
"So, what are you doing in LA?" Frank asks. "Are you guys based here?"
"No," Ryan says. "Well, kind of. I mean, we're from Las Vegas, but a lot of the business is here, I guess, so we end up kind of split."
"Yeah," Frank says, nodding. "Hey, at least Las Vegas is close, and you're not trying to commute from Jersey."
Ryan can think of many reasons he's glad he's not in Jersey, but he just says, "Yeah," thinking that this entire conversation feels depressingly like an interview. That's the problem with doing too many interviews. It ruins small-talk forever. "We're here for some promo shit. I'm being Pete's arm-candy tonight, though. Hey, do you want me to leave you alone? I can."
"Naw, no." Frank waves a hand. "Dude, stay, sorry to make you feel unwelcome."
"Oh. No, you weren't."
Frank laughs again, says, "I kind of was. You're a polite kid."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "I'm not actually--I'm only five years younger than you."
"Guy," Frank amends. "A polite guy," but he's smiling.
"All right," Ryan says, ducking his head and smiling at the ground.
"No, but, really, do you even have to shave regularly?" Frank asks.
"Do you?" Ryan counters.
"Ouch," Frank says, weaving like a boxer. "Hey. I get kind of scruffy after a few days on the road."
"Well. Me too." Ryan pauses.
"I don't like the way it itches, though," Frank says thoughtfully, rubbing at his chin like he's feeling phantom beard stubble.
"It's not too bad for me," Ryan says, thinking, what? No, really, what? The times that his life feels bizarre have rapidly outstripped the times his life feels normal. He suspects that eventually the bizarre will start to feel normal. They never warn you about that when they tell you not to start a rock band.
"Oh, all right," Frank says, half-laughing again. Light catches on the dark blot of the tattoo on his neck, and Ryan's fingers go to his own neck before he drops his hand.
"So, but, hey, what about you?" Ryan says. "Why are you here?"
Frank shrugs, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I thought it might be fun. I'm telling you, kid, these are not the parties I went to in LA before."
"Yeah?" Ryan says. He never went to any parties before.
Frank dips his head to the side, a quick shake of acknowledgement, before turning and looking back in at the party, face blank, and Ryan doesn't know what he's seeing, but it's probably not the same scene Ryan sees when he turns his head. "You and your band," Frank says suddenly. "They're doing okay?"
"We're. Yeah." Ryan rocks on his feet again, and the movement catches Frank's eye.
"Yeah?" he says. "I mean, whatever, like you'd tell me, right?" He sounds amused, though Ryan doesn't know who he's mocking, himself or Ryan or maybe the two of them, outside having this conversation while pandemonium rages inside.
"What, no, I'd--" Ryan feels the words tangle up in his throat, and he's regressing back to being seventeen as he stands there.
Frank laughs, raising his hand, saying, "No, man, it's cool, it's cool." He opens his mouth, looks like he's going to say something else, but the glass door slides open behind them, spilling noise out onto the balcony, and then Pete is there, bellowing, "Ryan! I thought you were supposed to stand beside me and look pretty, you asshole, why are you out here?"
Frank takes a step back, shaking his head, and says, "Hey, Pete, good to see you." The quiet balcony dissolves into a chaos of "hey, how's it going," and insults and backslapping hugs, and Ryan can see Frank slipping away, slipping back out, maybe out of the party entirely, and Pete is making noises like it's time to move on too, the night is young, come on, places to go.
Pete gets briefly distracted, adjudicating a dispute about soccer between two of his other friends, and Ryan stops at the door, looking for his coat. Frank is there already, checking his pockets, jingling his keys. He says, "Hey, kid, nice to see you again tonight."
Ryan says, "You too, kid," making Frank laugh again, and he leans close, clapping Ryan on the shoulder.
"Hey," he says. "So, you guys. You guys all take care of each other, okay?" He is a little shorter than Ryan, and the edge of the scorpion tattoo winks above the collar of his jacket.
"Yeah," Ryan says. "I will."
[END]
Pairing: Gen (Ryan and Frank)
Size: 1400 words
Note: For callsigns. I'll get the JoeTroh next time, I swear. Thanks to gigantic for being a willing ear.
"Oh. Hey, kid," Frank says when Ryan comes outside. He's standing on the balcony a story above the garden at some record exec's house, back hunched, half-silhouetted against the skyline. Light from the glass door paints a stripe over his shoulder, his profile as he turns to look at Ryan.
Ryan is at the party with Pete's gang, promised presents and entertaining pictures with celebrities. He no longer has to be showed around LA like a younger brother visiting an older sibling at college--he could find his own parties, if he wanted. But it's easier with Pete, still, and probably always. Ryan doesn't mind.
He doesn't know who Frank's here with. Frank has the classic smoker's pose going on, arm hanging down over the balustrade, fingers of his other hand flicking at a lighter, everything except the cigarette.
"Hey," Ryan says, stepping the rest of the way out the door. Frank always calls Ryan "kid" every time he sees him. Ryan's not even that young, he thinks. And Frank's definitely not that old, with his smooth face and round eyes, though he talks quickly and with a confidence Ryan wishes he had.
That was how they met, actually, the first time, early on in Panic's career. Backstage at some radio conglomerate show, or something, Ryan doesn't actually remember. He just remembers coming up behind Spencer, who was standing in a knot of people in the green room, and Frank was there, talking about something, hands gesturing quickly. Ryan had been able to recognize the look on Spencer's face because it was the same one he could feel on his own, something like, "Holy shit. Holy shit here we are." Somewhere in one of his boxes from high school, Ryan has a t-shirt with the MCR logo on it.
Frank had turned around and, at a break in his story, said, "Hey, kid, Frank Iero, nice to meet you," holding out his hand. Ryan had shaken it, and the tattoos on Frank's fingers had felt just like ordinary skin.
"Ryan Ross," Ryan had said, sticking his hand back in his pocket, closing his fingers over his palm.
"Cool makeup," Frank had said, and wished him luck out there. When asked about it later by a journalist, Ryan had said that MCR were a bunch of polite, nice guys, which was true. He didn't talk about shaking Frank's hand, that half-second of contact then release, the way Frank's palm had been warm and dry against his, how that meeting, more than anything, more even than meeting Pete fucking Wentz, had made him feel like he'd made it.
"Are you, uh," Ryan says, coming to rest on the railing next to Frank. "Are you enjoying the party?"
Frank looks at him sideways, eyebrow angled, then laughs. "Yeah." He shakes his head. "Yeah."
Ryan shifts his feet on the concrete. He knows Frank, but he doesn't know know Frank. He doesn't know why he's out here. Well, he knows why he, Ryan, is out here. A hundred competing colognes, perfumes, and bodysprays can be a potent thing. But Frank, the three other times Ryan had met him, hadn't seemed the type to hug the wall at parties.
Frank shoves back from the balustrade suddenly, straightening up and facing Ryan. "Hey, look, I'm sorry. I can't actually remember your name, man. I'm sorry."
"Oh." Ryan fiddles with the hair at the back of his neck. It's getting long; he needs to get it cut. "Hey. That's okay. I'm, uh. Ryan. From Panic at the Disco."
"Right. Right." Frank smacks at his forehead. "It was all the pot back in the day," he says apologetically. "My memory is shit now."
"That's okay," Ryan says again, and then he can't think of a thing to say. That's probably why Frank has met him four times and never remembers his name.
"So, what are you doing in LA?" Frank asks. "Are you guys based here?"
"No," Ryan says. "Well, kind of. I mean, we're from Las Vegas, but a lot of the business is here, I guess, so we end up kind of split."
"Yeah," Frank says, nodding. "Hey, at least Las Vegas is close, and you're not trying to commute from Jersey."
Ryan can think of many reasons he's glad he's not in Jersey, but he just says, "Yeah," thinking that this entire conversation feels depressingly like an interview. That's the problem with doing too many interviews. It ruins small-talk forever. "We're here for some promo shit. I'm being Pete's arm-candy tonight, though. Hey, do you want me to leave you alone? I can."
"Naw, no." Frank waves a hand. "Dude, stay, sorry to make you feel unwelcome."
"Oh. No, you weren't."
Frank laughs again, says, "I kind of was. You're a polite kid."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "I'm not actually--I'm only five years younger than you."
"Guy," Frank amends. "A polite guy," but he's smiling.
"All right," Ryan says, ducking his head and smiling at the ground.
"No, but, really, do you even have to shave regularly?" Frank asks.
"Do you?" Ryan counters.
"Ouch," Frank says, weaving like a boxer. "Hey. I get kind of scruffy after a few days on the road."
"Well. Me too." Ryan pauses.
"I don't like the way it itches, though," Frank says thoughtfully, rubbing at his chin like he's feeling phantom beard stubble.
"It's not too bad for me," Ryan says, thinking, what? No, really, what? The times that his life feels bizarre have rapidly outstripped the times his life feels normal. He suspects that eventually the bizarre will start to feel normal. They never warn you about that when they tell you not to start a rock band.
"Oh, all right," Frank says, half-laughing again. Light catches on the dark blot of the tattoo on his neck, and Ryan's fingers go to his own neck before he drops his hand.
"So, but, hey, what about you?" Ryan says. "Why are you here?"
Frank shrugs, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I thought it might be fun. I'm telling you, kid, these are not the parties I went to in LA before."
"Yeah?" Ryan says. He never went to any parties before.
Frank dips his head to the side, a quick shake of acknowledgement, before turning and looking back in at the party, face blank, and Ryan doesn't know what he's seeing, but it's probably not the same scene Ryan sees when he turns his head. "You and your band," Frank says suddenly. "They're doing okay?"
"We're. Yeah." Ryan rocks on his feet again, and the movement catches Frank's eye.
"Yeah?" he says. "I mean, whatever, like you'd tell me, right?" He sounds amused, though Ryan doesn't know who he's mocking, himself or Ryan or maybe the two of them, outside having this conversation while pandemonium rages inside.
"What, no, I'd--" Ryan feels the words tangle up in his throat, and he's regressing back to being seventeen as he stands there.
Frank laughs, raising his hand, saying, "No, man, it's cool, it's cool." He opens his mouth, looks like he's going to say something else, but the glass door slides open behind them, spilling noise out onto the balcony, and then Pete is there, bellowing, "Ryan! I thought you were supposed to stand beside me and look pretty, you asshole, why are you out here?"
Frank takes a step back, shaking his head, and says, "Hey, Pete, good to see you." The quiet balcony dissolves into a chaos of "hey, how's it going," and insults and backslapping hugs, and Ryan can see Frank slipping away, slipping back out, maybe out of the party entirely, and Pete is making noises like it's time to move on too, the night is young, come on, places to go.
Pete gets briefly distracted, adjudicating a dispute about soccer between two of his other friends, and Ryan stops at the door, looking for his coat. Frank is there already, checking his pockets, jingling his keys. He says, "Hey, kid, nice to see you again tonight."
Ryan says, "You too, kid," making Frank laugh again, and he leans close, clapping Ryan on the shoulder.
"Hey," he says. "So, you guys. You guys all take care of each other, okay?" He is a little shorter than Ryan, and the edge of the scorpion tattoo winks above the collar of his jacket.
"Yeah," Ryan says. "I will."
[END]