mcr ficlet.
I wrote a self-indulgent ficlet about the four remaining members of MCR. It's also for Julie, who was awesome and gave me paid account time. ILU JULIE!
untitled.
mcr gen, 2363 words.
Bob's presence is still strong, even after he's gone.
Frank's standing in the empty spot where Bob's drums used to be when Gerard walks in, his head pressed down and arms hanging limp at his sides. Gerard stops in front of Mikey's bass that's sitting in its holder close by the door, and pushes his sunglasses up on the top of his head.
"Frankie?"
Frank snaps his head up, glancing at Gerard over his shoulder. "I didn't know you were here."
"I just came in," Gerard gives him a shrug against the tension in his shoulders. He tries a small smile for Frank's benefit, testing it out, but it feels like it comes out more like an ugly grimace. "You been here long?"
"Nah, just," Frank starts, looking around aimlessly. "Just long enough to feel like shit?"
"Ha. So, not very long."
Frank hums, going to sit on top of his amp, folding his arms on his knees and resting his chin in his hands. If he inhaled a whole damn bucket of coffee, he'd still look like Death, Gerard thinks, eyeing the circles under Frank's eyes, his messy hair and brushwood beard. He's been bunking out with Gerard, Lindsey and B for the past three weeks while Jamia's in Jersey, and Gerard's so relieved for Frank's company. Sometimes he gets this burning need to leave it all behind for a house in the countryside, big enough for all of them and their pets. The dogs would roll around in the backyard with their dough-bellies hanging out, and B would grow up away from the chaos of the city life. But when he really thinks about it --and he has, amusing himself with all these ideas-- it starts to feel too much like Little House for his liking.
"Hello," Mikey's voice sounds from the doorway as he wanders in. He scoops Gerard in for a warm, bony hug and then goes to hug Frank in turn, his back arching like a bow as he bends down.
"Mikey Murderface!" Frank croons as Mikey's pulling away from him.
Ray is the last to arrive. He's wearing a distracted frown as he gives them all a collective nod, walks to his guitars, picks one up and slides the belt over his head. He plays a chord, and another one, fingers gliding along the fretboard, eyes sharp and jaw set when he looks up at them.
"I went over a couple of songs last night because I thought something felt off, so I made a few changes to the riffs."
"Okay," Frank says with a solemn voice, heaving a sigh as he stands up and goes to get his own guitar; the edges of the monster face sticker on her belly are starting to fray and peel off.
Gerard watches as Frank and Ray talk about the kind of music stuff he could never really understand, not paying much attention to their words but rather to their body language, frowning at the visible tension in both their backs and the almost forced patience that both are giving the other. It gets a little better when Mikey joins in, and after a half hour they're deep in discussion, almost like the old times, occasionally playing random melodies, all huddled together in the corner furthest from the empty space that used to belong to Bob.
Sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the side of Gerard's folded leg, Frank starts to jam something random that spontaneously turns into an old favorite, Otis Redding's On The Dock Of The Bay. It pulls a smile from Gerard, totally unexpected, so he starts humming along to the tune, fingers tucked in the hood of Frank's sweatshirt on his upper back.
Lindsey's feeding Baby B pureed green beans from a glass jar on the living room couch, pulp gliding down B's jaw and dropping onto the bib under her chubby chin, when the phone rings. She bounces B on her leg when she tries to make a fuss, humming into her ear.
"I'll get it," Gerard says unnecessarily, eyeing at the mess B is making with a mixed sense of horror and pride. Lindsey's arm is shiny and sticky from the baby food and B's drool, and strands of her hair are slicked together and covered in a layer of something yellow and gooey. Jeez, their kid's a total pig.
On the other end of the phone line someone's asking for an interview in all seriousness, questions about Bob and the state of the band following after another, and how they even got this number is beyond Gerard's understanding. "I'm sorry, but we're not giving any interviews at this point," he tries to explain. The guy just responds to him with even more questions, making Gerard feel trapped in his own house.
"Who are you talking to?" Frank asks from the doorway, bleary-eyed as he scratches his head and yawns big.
Gerard eyes at him nervously while telling the phone in hushed tones that, "No, I dont want to add anything," not really wanting Frank to know who's calling.
"Who's he talking to?" Frank asks Lindsey who's pursing her lips, an irritated look on her face.
There's a pause, and then Frank seems to figure it out.
He snatches the receiver from Gerard's hand and spits into it, his previously sleepy eyes fierce and sharp now, "Listen, jerkface, I don't know where you got this number from, but if you ever call here again, I'm personally going to look into suing your hairy ass for violating people's privacy. Who the fuck do you think you are? The fucking Queen Mother? Listen -- no, listen. Why don't you do the world a big fucking favor and fuck off." He hangs up, chucking the phone on the couch next to Lindsey and B, and runs a shaky hand through his hair, glaring at the white oblong of plastic with menace.
"Uhhh. Well. I think he got the message," Gerard says, feeling kind of disconnected, like he's watching someone else's life in the ringside seat.
"Fuck," Frank says with feeling. Baby B gurgles and pumps her arms up and down, up and down, then tries to reach for Frank's hand with her weenie fingers. "Those fucking bloodhounds, I swear to fucking god. Why didn't you just hang up on him?" he adds, letting B grab his forefinger into her tight fist.
"I just, I guess I didn't want him to write about how fame turned us into assholes?"
Frank looks utterly perplexed. "I don't fucking care what he writes, they can't just call us up expecting to get a scoop handed to them on a silver platter."
"I agree with Frank," Lindsey says, keeping a steady eye on B who's trying to make a meal out of Frank's finger, chewing on it with vigor. "She's teething. Does it hurt a lot?"
Frank's eyes are watering, and he pulls a face, which just urges B on. "Like a bitch," he replies, huffing out a laugh that lights up B's entire face, making her giggle loud around his finger. He clenches his free hand into a tight fist, knuckles growing white under his ink.
"Fine, okay, sure. Next time someone asks me for an interview, I'll just tell them to go fuck themselves," Gerard says, still a bit hesitant. They do have a point, but then he has a hard time telling the occasional telemarketer that he isn't interested in buying their shit, so he isn't all that optimistic about actually going through with it if and when the time comes.
Frank makes a pained noise at the back of his throat so he goes to extract Frank's finger from the clutches of B's crocodile-jaws. Her face crumples up and goes red, like when she's about to cry, so he sticks his own finger in her mouth and lets her chew on it for a while. Frank sinks down on the couch on Lindsey's free side and rubs his nose and cheek on her shoulder before finding a comfortable nook there to rest his head on. He still looks a little distressed, his finger throbbingly red and spit-shiny. Lindsey leans down to kiss the side of his face, smiling gently, and Gerard reaches out with his leg, hooking their ankles together over Lindsey's shins. They sit there for a long time, Gerard thinking about how important these people are to him, all in different ways, while lady B chews on his finger and drools all over fucking everywhere.
A week later and they're stuck in the studio, the four of them, Ray, Mikey, Gerard and Frank. Mikey's wandering around with his bass hanging from his shoulders, seeming almost reverent as he avoids walking into Bob's empty space. Ray's chosen a wall and is staring holes in it, absently stroking his fingers along the body of his guitar, eyebrows knitting together every once in a while.
"I'm fucking hungry," says Frank when the silence begins to feel deafening, so they order pizzas and wolf them down on the floor after moving Gerard's mic stand out of the way. It's only when Gerard can't possibly stuff another slice into his face that he realizes, with a start, that he needn't have picked out all the mushrooms and placed them on the lid of the box because Bob's not around to bitch about them always ordering the one thing in a pizza that he can't stand.
Then he feels like if he can't swallow down the thick, irritating lump in his throat fast enough, he's gonna choke.
"Goddamn it," he says, voice already watery as he gets up from the floor and rushes towards the open doorway, practically fleeing the spot with a tail between his legs. He barely gets out, "I'm going for a smoke," before he's already exited through the door, blinking against the sting in his eyes while striding down the long hallway.
Mikey finds him minutes later and comes to lean next to him, propping the sole of his shoe against the wall. Gerard swallows down compulsively like he's got a big fat loogie in his throat, curling and uncurling his hand around the worn pack of Marlboros.
"We thought you like, fucked off or something," Mikey says, cocking his head to the side.
"I said I was going for a smoke," Gerard snaps, feeling guilty about his tone of voice. "Besides, my haterblockers are still inside, no way am I leaving the Bat Cave without some protective gear on."
Mikey's mouth tips up. "God. You're such a geek."
"Takes one to know one," Gerard says, bumping his elbow against Mikey's arm.
"I thought you were gonna cut back on smoking," Mikey says then, folding his arms on top of his chest and tucking his fingers under his upper arms. He doesn't sound like he's judging him for once, which would be refreshing if Gerard didn't already feel so fucking pathetic by default. "You know, after the doctor gave you that ultimatum and everything," he prods, studying Gerard's face.
"I guess this is just one of those times when I don't give a shit."
"Nice," Mikey says, and now his voice is starting to get an edge. "Did you read what Frank wrote on the website?"
Gerard glances at Mikey, hugging the pack of smokes in his hand with more force, feeling it crease and crumple against his palm. He really doesn't feel like jumping from topic to topic every other sentence, even if Mikey is known for his randomness. "Of course I did."
"Okay, then you should remember what he said about one chapter closing and a new one beginning," Mikey says, maybe not so random after all. He sounds so final, face so fierce that Gerard can only stare at him. "If we don't want this record to be our fucking swan song, then we have to stop treating it like one."
"Mikey, I--"
"No, just. Let's get back in the studio, okay? When you left, Frank looked like a kicked puppy and Ray, god, I don't even know what to say about Ray. It's like, one moment he's all business, right? Ready to take on the world. And the next he just sits there staring into space like he's trying to remember something he's lost but he never does remember. And I'm so sick of it. It fucking sucks."
Gerard smiles wanly, mostly out of habit for when Mikey gets like this. He tucks the pack inside his jeans pocket and drapes his arm around Mikey's shoulders, tugging him closer.
Mikey's right, right about everything.
"Okay, little brother," he says, as he starts steering them back inside. "Let's go remind Ray what My Chem is all about."
"And give Frank a hug," Mikey reminds him, wrapping his own arm around Gerard's back, the sides of their heads touching.
"And give Frank a shitton of hugs," Gerard agrees, giving Mikey's shoulder a tight squeeze.
When they get back, Frank and Ray are still where he left them, Frank scowling at his knees while Ray's just sitting there, staring at the empty pizza box in his lap.
"I miss playing gigs," Gerard says, feeling something stirring in him. "Don't you all miss playing gigs? Come on, we're still a band, right? I think we should start acting like one."
Frank turns his scowl into a small smile, eyes shining when he picks himself up from the floor and throws himself at Gerard, burrowing into his chest. Gerard fists Frank's shirt on his back, scratching at his spine while he watches Ray slowly standing up and stepping closer, that familiar tension in his forehead still very much present.
Ray heaves a sigh and gives Gerard a short nod, looking so intense that for a while Gerard thinks he's gonna get punched in the face, but then he's joining in the hug, arms draping around Gerard and Frank's backs, butting Gerard's temple with his forehead.
"Mikey," Frank's voice sounds muffled and warm, "Get the fuck in here."
Mikey ducks under Gerard's arm, drilling his fingers between Gerard and Frank's chests and starts tickling Frank's side, holding him stuck in the middle while Frank tries to squirm away.
untitled.
mcr gen, 2363 words.
Bob's presence is still strong, even after he's gone.
Frank's standing in the empty spot where Bob's drums used to be when Gerard walks in, his head pressed down and arms hanging limp at his sides. Gerard stops in front of Mikey's bass that's sitting in its holder close by the door, and pushes his sunglasses up on the top of his head.
"Frankie?"
Frank snaps his head up, glancing at Gerard over his shoulder. "I didn't know you were here."
"I just came in," Gerard gives him a shrug against the tension in his shoulders. He tries a small smile for Frank's benefit, testing it out, but it feels like it comes out more like an ugly grimace. "You been here long?"
"Nah, just," Frank starts, looking around aimlessly. "Just long enough to feel like shit?"
"Ha. So, not very long."
Frank hums, going to sit on top of his amp, folding his arms on his knees and resting his chin in his hands. If he inhaled a whole damn bucket of coffee, he'd still look like Death, Gerard thinks, eyeing the circles under Frank's eyes, his messy hair and brushwood beard. He's been bunking out with Gerard, Lindsey and B for the past three weeks while Jamia's in Jersey, and Gerard's so relieved for Frank's company. Sometimes he gets this burning need to leave it all behind for a house in the countryside, big enough for all of them and their pets. The dogs would roll around in the backyard with their dough-bellies hanging out, and B would grow up away from the chaos of the city life. But when he really thinks about it --and he has, amusing himself with all these ideas-- it starts to feel too much like Little House for his liking.
"Hello," Mikey's voice sounds from the doorway as he wanders in. He scoops Gerard in for a warm, bony hug and then goes to hug Frank in turn, his back arching like a bow as he bends down.
"Mikey Murderface!" Frank croons as Mikey's pulling away from him.
Ray is the last to arrive. He's wearing a distracted frown as he gives them all a collective nod, walks to his guitars, picks one up and slides the belt over his head. He plays a chord, and another one, fingers gliding along the fretboard, eyes sharp and jaw set when he looks up at them.
"I went over a couple of songs last night because I thought something felt off, so I made a few changes to the riffs."
"Okay," Frank says with a solemn voice, heaving a sigh as he stands up and goes to get his own guitar; the edges of the monster face sticker on her belly are starting to fray and peel off.
Gerard watches as Frank and Ray talk about the kind of music stuff he could never really understand, not paying much attention to their words but rather to their body language, frowning at the visible tension in both their backs and the almost forced patience that both are giving the other. It gets a little better when Mikey joins in, and after a half hour they're deep in discussion, almost like the old times, occasionally playing random melodies, all huddled together in the corner furthest from the empty space that used to belong to Bob.
Sitting on the floor, leaning his back against the side of Gerard's folded leg, Frank starts to jam something random that spontaneously turns into an old favorite, Otis Redding's On The Dock Of The Bay. It pulls a smile from Gerard, totally unexpected, so he starts humming along to the tune, fingers tucked in the hood of Frank's sweatshirt on his upper back.
Lindsey's feeding Baby B pureed green beans from a glass jar on the living room couch, pulp gliding down B's jaw and dropping onto the bib under her chubby chin, when the phone rings. She bounces B on her leg when she tries to make a fuss, humming into her ear.
"I'll get it," Gerard says unnecessarily, eyeing at the mess B is making with a mixed sense of horror and pride. Lindsey's arm is shiny and sticky from the baby food and B's drool, and strands of her hair are slicked together and covered in a layer of something yellow and gooey. Jeez, their kid's a total pig.
On the other end of the phone line someone's asking for an interview in all seriousness, questions about Bob and the state of the band following after another, and how they even got this number is beyond Gerard's understanding. "I'm sorry, but we're not giving any interviews at this point," he tries to explain. The guy just responds to him with even more questions, making Gerard feel trapped in his own house.
"Who are you talking to?" Frank asks from the doorway, bleary-eyed as he scratches his head and yawns big.
Gerard eyes at him nervously while telling the phone in hushed tones that, "No, I dont want to add anything," not really wanting Frank to know who's calling.
"Who's he talking to?" Frank asks Lindsey who's pursing her lips, an irritated look on her face.
There's a pause, and then Frank seems to figure it out.
He snatches the receiver from Gerard's hand and spits into it, his previously sleepy eyes fierce and sharp now, "Listen, jerkface, I don't know where you got this number from, but if you ever call here again, I'm personally going to look into suing your hairy ass for violating people's privacy. Who the fuck do you think you are? The fucking Queen Mother? Listen -- no, listen. Why don't you do the world a big fucking favor and fuck off." He hangs up, chucking the phone on the couch next to Lindsey and B, and runs a shaky hand through his hair, glaring at the white oblong of plastic with menace.
"Uhhh. Well. I think he got the message," Gerard says, feeling kind of disconnected, like he's watching someone else's life in the ringside seat.
"Fuck," Frank says with feeling. Baby B gurgles and pumps her arms up and down, up and down, then tries to reach for Frank's hand with her weenie fingers. "Those fucking bloodhounds, I swear to fucking god. Why didn't you just hang up on him?" he adds, letting B grab his forefinger into her tight fist.
"I just, I guess I didn't want him to write about how fame turned us into assholes?"
Frank looks utterly perplexed. "I don't fucking care what he writes, they can't just call us up expecting to get a scoop handed to them on a silver platter."
"I agree with Frank," Lindsey says, keeping a steady eye on B who's trying to make a meal out of Frank's finger, chewing on it with vigor. "She's teething. Does it hurt a lot?"
Frank's eyes are watering, and he pulls a face, which just urges B on. "Like a bitch," he replies, huffing out a laugh that lights up B's entire face, making her giggle loud around his finger. He clenches his free hand into a tight fist, knuckles growing white under his ink.
"Fine, okay, sure. Next time someone asks me for an interview, I'll just tell them to go fuck themselves," Gerard says, still a bit hesitant. They do have a point, but then he has a hard time telling the occasional telemarketer that he isn't interested in buying their shit, so he isn't all that optimistic about actually going through with it if and when the time comes.
Frank makes a pained noise at the back of his throat so he goes to extract Frank's finger from the clutches of B's crocodile-jaws. Her face crumples up and goes red, like when she's about to cry, so he sticks his own finger in her mouth and lets her chew on it for a while. Frank sinks down on the couch on Lindsey's free side and rubs his nose and cheek on her shoulder before finding a comfortable nook there to rest his head on. He still looks a little distressed, his finger throbbingly red and spit-shiny. Lindsey leans down to kiss the side of his face, smiling gently, and Gerard reaches out with his leg, hooking their ankles together over Lindsey's shins. They sit there for a long time, Gerard thinking about how important these people are to him, all in different ways, while lady B chews on his finger and drools all over fucking everywhere.
A week later and they're stuck in the studio, the four of them, Ray, Mikey, Gerard and Frank. Mikey's wandering around with his bass hanging from his shoulders, seeming almost reverent as he avoids walking into Bob's empty space. Ray's chosen a wall and is staring holes in it, absently stroking his fingers along the body of his guitar, eyebrows knitting together every once in a while.
"I'm fucking hungry," says Frank when the silence begins to feel deafening, so they order pizzas and wolf them down on the floor after moving Gerard's mic stand out of the way. It's only when Gerard can't possibly stuff another slice into his face that he realizes, with a start, that he needn't have picked out all the mushrooms and placed them on the lid of the box because Bob's not around to bitch about them always ordering the one thing in a pizza that he can't stand.
Then he feels like if he can't swallow down the thick, irritating lump in his throat fast enough, he's gonna choke.
"Goddamn it," he says, voice already watery as he gets up from the floor and rushes towards the open doorway, practically fleeing the spot with a tail between his legs. He barely gets out, "I'm going for a smoke," before he's already exited through the door, blinking against the sting in his eyes while striding down the long hallway.
Mikey finds him minutes later and comes to lean next to him, propping the sole of his shoe against the wall. Gerard swallows down compulsively like he's got a big fat loogie in his throat, curling and uncurling his hand around the worn pack of Marlboros.
"We thought you like, fucked off or something," Mikey says, cocking his head to the side.
"I said I was going for a smoke," Gerard snaps, feeling guilty about his tone of voice. "Besides, my haterblockers are still inside, no way am I leaving the Bat Cave without some protective gear on."
Mikey's mouth tips up. "God. You're such a geek."
"Takes one to know one," Gerard says, bumping his elbow against Mikey's arm.
"I thought you were gonna cut back on smoking," Mikey says then, folding his arms on top of his chest and tucking his fingers under his upper arms. He doesn't sound like he's judging him for once, which would be refreshing if Gerard didn't already feel so fucking pathetic by default. "You know, after the doctor gave you that ultimatum and everything," he prods, studying Gerard's face.
"I guess this is just one of those times when I don't give a shit."
"Nice," Mikey says, and now his voice is starting to get an edge. "Did you read what Frank wrote on the website?"
Gerard glances at Mikey, hugging the pack of smokes in his hand with more force, feeling it crease and crumple against his palm. He really doesn't feel like jumping from topic to topic every other sentence, even if Mikey is known for his randomness. "Of course I did."
"Okay, then you should remember what he said about one chapter closing and a new one beginning," Mikey says, maybe not so random after all. He sounds so final, face so fierce that Gerard can only stare at him. "If we don't want this record to be our fucking swan song, then we have to stop treating it like one."
"Mikey, I--"
"No, just. Let's get back in the studio, okay? When you left, Frank looked like a kicked puppy and Ray, god, I don't even know what to say about Ray. It's like, one moment he's all business, right? Ready to take on the world. And the next he just sits there staring into space like he's trying to remember something he's lost but he never does remember. And I'm so sick of it. It fucking sucks."
Gerard smiles wanly, mostly out of habit for when Mikey gets like this. He tucks the pack inside his jeans pocket and drapes his arm around Mikey's shoulders, tugging him closer.
Mikey's right, right about everything.
"Okay, little brother," he says, as he starts steering them back inside. "Let's go remind Ray what My Chem is all about."
"And give Frank a hug," Mikey reminds him, wrapping his own arm around Gerard's back, the sides of their heads touching.
"And give Frank a shitton of hugs," Gerard agrees, giving Mikey's shoulder a tight squeeze.
When they get back, Frank and Ray are still where he left them, Frank scowling at his knees while Ray's just sitting there, staring at the empty pizza box in his lap.
"I miss playing gigs," Gerard says, feeling something stirring in him. "Don't you all miss playing gigs? Come on, we're still a band, right? I think we should start acting like one."
Frank turns his scowl into a small smile, eyes shining when he picks himself up from the floor and throws himself at Gerard, burrowing into his chest. Gerard fists Frank's shirt on his back, scratching at his spine while he watches Ray slowly standing up and stepping closer, that familiar tension in his forehead still very much present.
Ray heaves a sigh and gives Gerard a short nod, looking so intense that for a while Gerard thinks he's gonna get punched in the face, but then he's joining in the hug, arms draping around Gerard and Frank's backs, butting Gerard's temple with his forehead.
"Mikey," Frank's voice sounds muffled and warm, "Get the fuck in here."
Mikey ducks under Gerard's arm, drilling his fingers between Gerard and Frank's chests and starts tickling Frank's side, holding him stuck in the middle while Frank tries to squirm away.