More Than You Could Ever Know 4/8
*
Frank, Brendon, and Jon were curled up on the front sofa watching Supernatural because none of them could sleep and it was on. They were somewhere in Texas in the early hours of dawn, and apparently record company executives thought this was a perfectly reasonable time of day to call.
Celia had been playing interference for a few days, trying to help talk them through it, but she worked primarily with authors and book companies and was clearly out of her depth here. Ryan was on the phone with her in his bunk, and Spencer was on the phone with the record execs in the back lounge, voice mostly soft but occasionally rising.
It wasn't that Frank was worried, because he knew they were going to get a deal. They had Reprise, Atlantic, and Island on the hook, at least, and he trusted Spencer and Celia to make sure they wouldn't get screwed over, plus William, Gerard, and Gabe kept giving them advice. But it was still nerve-wracking. Frank didn't know much about the world outside of the North Pole yet, let alone the music industry with all its own special rules.
Sam and Dean were fighting over Ruby, but the volume was so low Frank couldn't really follow what was going on. In the near silence, he heard his phone buzzing from somewhere within the depths of the couch and when he managed to fish it out from under the cushion, there was a new text from Gerard fuckin' Way!!!!. He really needed to change that label before someone saw it. Like Gerard, for example.
can't sleep it read, any chance you're awake?
Frank was tempted to just call him. For the novelty of it, because it he could, to hear Gerard's weird voice. He decided against it in the end; talking was too hard, too much of a chance to say something stupid, or alternately, running out of anything to say and sitting in awkward silence. Texting was better. He had time to think about what he should say as opposed to what he wanted to say.
good cant sleep or bad?
The screen of his phone had barely gone dark before it lit up with an incoming call. Frank bit his lip and gave Brendon an apologetic look when he got up, displacing him. With Spencer in the back and Ryan in the bunks, the only quiet place left was the stairwell. Frank sat on the top step, throwing a wave to Kevin, their driver, and answered.
"You've lived in the desert for a little while now, right?" Gerard asked, in lieu of a greeting.
Frank rolled his eyes to the ceiling in a fond sort of way and said, "Seriously? This is why you're calling at five in the morning?"
"Is it really five in the morning?" Gerard asked, honestly bewildered. Frank chuckled. "Sorry. Mikey's with Gabe, and Matt pretended to be sleeping when I tried to talk to him, and Bob just glared, so. But you have lived in Las Vegas a while, right?"
"A few months." Frank shrugged.
"Right. Well, we've been working on the new album for a while, and we were like, we're not going to do another concept album, because, ya know, everyone was done with that after this last tour. So we started writing these songs as straight up rock and roll, except then a concept began to form. Not in the music. I mean, it's not a concept album, the songs don't have some great unifying theme or anything." Frank could practically see the complicated hand gestures Gerard was no doubt making this very minute. "They're all really straightforward, and you can take them at face value, but if you look at the metaphors, right, you can put them in a different context, and that context is where the concept lives."
It shouldn't have made any sense, but Frank actually understood at least 95% of what Gerard was trying to convey. "So you're saying the context is in the setting, and the setting is the concept?"
"Exactly!" Gerard shouted, and Frank cringed on behalf of all the sleeping members of My Chemical Romance. "We're this band on the run." Frank chuckled and began to hum and Gerard said, "but not shitty." Frank made a sound of faux outrage. "Oh, come on," Gerard said.
"Okay," Frank conceded, "but you really shouldn't let the rest of my band hear you talking shit about any member of The Beatles."
"All right, we're outlaws, who happen to be a band--"
"So it's like the video you guys did for Watchmen," Frank said.
"Huh." Gerard was silent for a moment. "I never thought about that, but I guess there are some similarities. I mean, it is this sort of dystopian future where the government controls everything from the weather to your emotions, and everyone's sort of the same, trapped inside this city that they're told is paradise, and the only freedom is through rebellion."
Frank listened patiently (okay, so it wasn't really a chore, because Gerard was so fucking creative, and interesting, and seriously endearing whenever he started talking about his art and his music) as Gerard built this post-apocalyptic world.
Outside the morning dawned a slow burning orange on the horizon and traffic slowed as they neared San Antonio. He could practically see the car and the Dracs and the creepy pale Scarecrow, and of course the Killjoys, bright behind his eyelids when he closed them, fabulous against the drab landscape of the city. He said as much to Gerard and Gerard laughed, "Yes, they are absolutely fabulous. The fabulous Killjoys."
Frank smiled fondly and leaned his head against the wall, feeling the vibrations from the road. "But seriously, Gerard, what does any of this have to do with me living in the desert?"
"Oh!" Gerard said, like he'd entirely forgotten his purpose for calling until that point. "That's where it all takes place! It's sort of like Tank Girl, where the war left everything desert-like and there's all these chemicals and shit in the air, and radiation, so the only safe place is the city."
And then he was off again, but it wasn't like Frank minded. Talking to Gerard was talking to Gerard, even Frank didn't always follow his logic or how he got from topic to topic. Frank was the person Gerard called in the middle of the night when he had too many ideas and no immediate outlet for them. Frank could live with that.
By the time he got off the phone the sun was up entirely, and Frank found his band sitting at the table when he came back to the lounge. "So?" he asked. There wasn't enough room on the benches, but Spencer's knee was all conveniently angled out, so Frank just sat there.
Spencer spun his phone idly across the surface of the table. He sighed and let his forehead fall against Frank's shoulder blade. "I don't know. Island is pretty cool, but I think Atlantic would give us more financial support. Celia thinks they're the better deal, anyway."
"Fuck money," Brendon said and Frank and Jon nodded their agreement.
"If Island is a better fit, then we should go with them," Frank said.
Ryan made a tilty-face and Spencer rubbed his shoulder absently. "My lawyer's flying in to meet us. I guess Atlantic is sending someone up from Houston? And the Island guy said he'll be in San Antonio later this afternoon."
"Guys," Frank said. "We're gonna get signed either way. What's the bad?"
Jon and Ryan exchanged these looks and Spencer's muscles tightened under Frank's ass. "It's just. Poets don't get a lot of attention. Not like musicians do, anyway," Ryan said, scratching at an old stain on the tabletop.
"The guy from Atlantic asked about some pictures on a fan site of Ryan's that got posted on the band's livejournal," Spencer explained.
"Okay?" Frank said.
"Mostly just the three of us at book signings and stuff," Jon said. "But there were some candid ones." He shook his head. "I mean, it's not a big secret. We've never--it hasn't really been an issue. Celia freaks out a lot, but only Ryan's diehard fans know enough about him to look it up on the internet, and none of them care. But now we're starting to get fans for the band, and they've watched the videos and now they've seen these pictures, and they've come to right conclusion."
Frank was silent, waiting for the rest. Brendon looked tense and miserable, curled up on himself, and Frank wanted to hug him, but knew to leave it alone for now. "The label thinks that we should play it off as an act," Spencer said. He waved a hand vaguely through the air. "Stage-gay, or what the fuck ever."
"Oh, fuck that," Frank said. "You told them to fuck themselves, right?"
Silence was the answer and Frank's expression of disbelief slowly turned into a sneer. Ryan reached a hand out to lay it on Frank's wrist, then apparently thought better of it. "There are lots of famous people in plural relationships. Alan Moore, for one. And the guy who created Wonder Woman."
Ryan arched a brow. "Anyone who isn't involved in comics?"
Frank floundered about, leaped off Spencer's lap and went for the nearest laptop. "I'm googling it, you'll fucking see. There's that actress, that British chick in the George Clooney movie."
"Yeah, but there's also the issue where we're all dudes," Jon said.
The computer was taking too long to load. Frank slammed his hands down on the arm of the sofa. "Look, I'm not doing this shit if we're going to lie about who we are. It's bullshit. We don't need to fucking sign with anyone. We're doing just fine for ourselves. We could start our own goddamn label."
Spencer laughed out loud, a genuinely happy, if shocked, sound. "Frank, you're pretty amazing."
"I know!" Frank exclaimed angrily. "I'm not fucking joking. I'll quit. This is bullshit." He half wanted to call Gerard right back and know how the fuck he could have signed with such a douchey label.
"I don't disagree," Spencer said. Brendon titled his head up hopefully, arms loosening where they were crossed over his chest.
Ryan got up and came to set beside Frank on the sofa, leaning into his side. He laid his head on Frank's shoulder and said, "You always say all the things none of the rest of us will."
"Yeah?" Frank asked, half-frowning but willing to be talked out of it. "You guys are really shitty communicators."
"It's a good thing we have you, then," Ryan said.
Frank was somewhat mollified. "So we're not signing with those dickheads. You guys aren't going to pretend you're not together."
"We're going to lose fans," Jon said, not with any particular inflection. "It's gonna be hard. They'll ask us about it in every fucking interview for the rest of our career, people will post all sorts of stupid shit about us on the internet."
"People do that anyway," Frank said, hand-waving. "Have you seen the fanfiction? And everybody knows interviews suck regardless, and it'll be hard to hide it too. You guys think you can stay together when you can't dance down the sidewalk at the zoo, or hold hands, or just kiss whenever you feel like it? It'd fuck things up, and I'd rather not have a band than you guys not be together."
Brendon's eyes looked suspiciously wet and he ducked his head.
"I love you guys," Frank said. "You're my family."
"Just remember that," Jon warned, "when the sixtieth interviewer asks you if you're sleeping with us, too."
*
They actually had their first interview that day when they came off the stage, sweaty and high on adrenaline. Island had set it up for them following the press release they'd made about signing Northern Downpour.
Frank knew movies made it look easy, getting discovered and getting signed, but he'd never thought it would be that easy in real life. But Ryan's lawyer, Elanor, had looked over the contract and given her approval, and then there were five signatures added at the bottom, and it was that easy, there it was.
Nothing changed for their performance, but Frank knew it was only a matter of time. The suit was already talking about getting them into the studio, listing producers he thought would be a good fit with their sound, talked about which of the songs from their EP should be carried over to a full-length album, and maybe they wanted to do something more with their stage-show? Which had made Spencer and Ryan go on for ages about costumes and performers and themes, and even Frank was secretly pretty damn excited by the idea.
So it was going to be different, and Frank wasn't particularly worried about that. The guy they'd spoken with, Thomas, seemed decent, and he'd actually listened to their music and could talk to them about it in a way that showed he appreciated it, and he hadn't batted a lash when Spencer said, up front, that yes they were all sleeping together, and no, they weren't planning on lying about it. Frank had been so proud at the time that he hadn't bothered correcting Thomas that they weren't all sleeping together.
What was different and not in a very good way, was this interview thing. Frank mostly wanted to get out of the goddamn sun before he spontaneously combusted, and maybe find a shower, but definitely change
his fucking clothes and wash his face so he didn't taste sweat every time he licked his lips. Instead, here they were in a tent with KXXM 96. printed on the side. It did little to shield them from the heat or the glare of the setting sun, and there were only four chairs, which was bullshit. Lots of bands had five members. Frank pursed his lips and sat in Ryan's lap.
"Your ass is bony," Ryan complained.
Frank gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look. "Your everything is bony." There was silence for a second and then Jon, Brendon, and Spencer started snickering. Frank wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at Ryan, and Ryan rolled his eyes, but didn't pose any further complaints.
Their interviewer was a small blonde with a beauty mark on her chin and she gave them a speculative look when she took the chair opposite them. "So, I hear I'm your first. No need to be nervous; since we're not doing it live, we can do it a few times to get it right. Before we get started..." She looked down at the notepad in her lap. "Brendon's the singer and Ryan writes the lyrics?"
"For the most part," Ryan said. "But. It's a joint effort."
She nodded like she didn't even hear him. "So we're going to be talking about the Hey Moon track from your EP, signing with Island Def Jam, and..." She trailed off and glanced up at them, eyes slightly wider than before. "Are you--" She stopped. Frank felt Ryan tense and exchanged grim looks with Spencer.
Brendon bounced in his seat and little and said, "We are." Frank nodded solemnly and stroked a hand down Ryan's cheek. Ryan swiped at his hand and the woman blushed.
"Well, anyway." She cleared her throat. "Are we ready?"
In the end, she didn't bring up their relationship. Frank wasn't sure if it was because she was uncomfortable, or maybe she didn't think it was appropriate material for the radio station, or what the fuck ever, but he wasn't going to hold his breath that other interviewers would have the same compunction.
Still, it hadn't been so bad. Brendon and Ryan had done most of the talking and they sounded interesting, like they knew their shit, and if Frank didn't know them or their music, it would be enough to make him curious.
"So we'll be airing it tomorrow afternoon, along with the debut of Hey Moon following it," she told them in parting.
"You're gonna play the song?" Ryan asked.
Frank gave him a fond pat on the head. "Why do you think we're here?" he asked.
"We should celebrate," Brendon said decisively. "Just us. Do something special."
Their interviewer made a strange, choking sound and turned bright red when they looked at her. Frank didn't know why the rest of his band had been so damned worried. This whole polyamory thing was going to be so much fun. "Yeah," he agreed slowly. "I need to get out of these clothes soon, anyway."
Spencer and Jon giggled, heads pressed close together, when Brendon shot Frank a bewildered look. Frank hooked an elbow through his and dragged him off to the bus to get changed. Let her think whatever she wanted. Frank could do a hell of a lot worse than four smoking hot dudes.
Frank felt a little bad skipping out on everyone else's shows that night, but that went away when they found out that Island had arranged for a limo to take them to dinner on the label's dime. They didn't have any nice clothing with them, but they made do with their cleanest jeans (pin-stripe pants in Ryan's case) and borrowing from Spencer's collection of sparkly t-shirts and Brendon's pastel hoodies.
The restaurant was on the riverfront and they dined on a little private patio, the breeze from the water cooling the sultry twilight. There were so many bottles of champagne that Frank lost count, and all these amazing dishes with no meat whatsoever, and even Ryan couldn't stop beaming, even though Frank was worried his face would be sore later, it was so out of practice.
It felt like being back home in Vegas before they'd started recording, though (and no insult to Spencer's cooking, which was honestly fucking good) with much improved fare. Frank knew they'd made the right choice with Island as he watched Spencer feed Brendon a bite of his dessert, and Jon leaned in to lick the chocolate it left from around Brendon's mouth. And for once Frank wasn't even a little bit jealous of what they all had; he was just too fucking happy with his weird fucking life.
They ended up in a club after, some place Frank was sure he'd never have got into without Ryan Ross along for the ride. Frank was already way buzzed from the champagne, but there were kids in the fucking club who knew them, who'd seen their show, and kept buying them shots, and who was Frank to turn that shit down?
It was close to midnight; My Chem would have already finished their set and even the most die-hard fans would be gone from the venue. Ryan texted Mikey to tell him the news and the next thing Frank knew Gabe was bursting through the front door, his band, and The Academy Is..., and My Chemical Romance spilling in behind him.
Within five minutes Gabe took over the D.J. table and Frank spent the next hour dancing with a surprisingly lithe and expressive Mikeyway before he even noticed Gerard hovering at the edge of the dance floor, bottle of water in hand. Frank disentangled himself from Mikey (seriously, the guy had to have more than the normal four limbs, and they were all miles long), and made his way over. Gerard gave him a strained smile. "You were grinding with my brother."
Frank laughed. "I think I'm probably a poor substitute for Gabe Saporta."
Gerard's brow crinkled. "I try not to think about it," he said.
"Come on." Frank grabbed him by the sleeve of his Rolling Stones shirt and tugged him towards the door. "I need some fresh air anyway."
The night had cooled down considerably and the breeze felt delicious cooling the sweat on Frank's skin. They walked to nearest bridge, and Frank leaned over the railing, watching the moon's reflection ripple. "This is all so unreal."
"But good, right?" Gerard said.
Frank flashed him a quick grin. "Amazing. But I never--Six months ago I was miserable and I hated my job and I didn't even think there was any other option, you know, and now. Now I'm fucking--I've got Brendon back, and now I've got Ryan and Jon and Spencer, too. And you and Gabe and--We're fucking rock stars, man."
He was so happy it felt like bubbles under his skin trying to spill out, making him want to giggle. Or that could be all the alcohol. He glanced over and Gerard was just watching him, a strange look on his face. "What?"
"You just...you look like you're..." Gerard lifted a hand to Frank's face, then shook his head and let it fall. He glanced up at the sky and frowned. Frank felt his happiness dim a little, and when Gerard looked back him, he shook his head again. "The moon's really bright," he said absently.
Frank looked up at it, almost a perfect c-shape. It wasn't until Gerard began to sing along softly, "Hey moon, please forget to go down," that Frank realised he was humming it.
"Hey," Frank said. "Hey, I saw a tattoo place up the street."
Gerard gave him a startled look. "A tattoo. Do you think--I mean, aren't you not supposed to get those when you're drunk?"
Frank laughed and he was drunk, so it was okay to lay his head on Gerard's arm. "You're so cute." Gerard sort of stuttered a little at that, but he followed when Frank led the way.
"Don't you need an appointment for this sort of thing?" Gerard asked.
"It's just something small," Frank said, though he would be really bummed out if they didn't take walk-ins.
There was one artist bent over the small of a back, finishing the details on a flower and the girl at the desk said it would be about fifteen minutes. Gerard glanced around the place nervously. Every time the buzzing from the next room started up, he'd jump, and he kept his back to the open doorway. "What. Ah. What are you getting?" he asked.
Frank shrugged. "I was hoping you might be able to help with that."
"Yeah?" Gerard's eyes brightened.
"Yeah. Something to remember getting signed."
The girl at the counter gave him a piece of paper and a pencil to work on and Gerard bent over it for several minutes, biting his lip, before starting. Frank crowded at his side, peering over his shoulder as the sketch began to take shape.
Broad, curling lines wound together, like vines, curving into a crescent moon from which stars tumbled down like rain. When he looked at it from just the right angle, Frank almost imagined he saw a woman's face in the shapes inside the moon. She was beautiful, wearing a mournful, haunting expression. Arching around the top and the bottom, in the same font they'd used for their name on the stage backdrop, he wrote please forget to go down. It was like Gerard had taken a peek inside Frank's head and known exactly the right thing to draw.
Gerard stood outside the tattoo parlour while the work was done; he'd turned faintly green when Frank had asked if he wanted to watch. The whole thing didn't take two hours, done mostly in black with gold and pale blue high-lights in the curves of the moon and the larger stars. It sat on his bicep, beside his forget me not and above his poinsettia (because even if he hated Christmastown, it was still his home), large enough to keep the details crisp and defined.
By the time Frank rejoined Gerard out front the alcohol had mostly worn off, replaced by the buzz he always got from a new tattoo. Gerard smashed his cigarette under his heel and gave Frank an oddly sheepish smile. "Can I see?"
Frank peeled back the tape and gauze and angled his arm for Gerard to see. Gerard's hand was cool and soothing at the red skin at the edge of the tattoo and Frank had to fight the urge to shiver at the touch. "It looks good there. Like it fits. Oh, there's blood, cover it up, cover it up quick."
"You're such a baby," Frank said, but did as asked, smoothing the tape back to his skin and sliding on his hoodie.
"Does it hurt?" Gerard asked, eyes darting anxiously in Frank's direction as they walked. He looked scared tattoos might be catching, and someone with a needle was going to jump out at him any second.
"Not anymore. Now it mostly just aches a little. The pain you imagine beforehand is always worse than when you get it done, but I wouldn't want a painless tattoo anyway. I mean, the pain is part of it. All my tattoos mean something to me--people and memories I don't want forget, or things I really believe in, things that made me feel something really profound, and that pain, that's them getting under my skin. It's like--it's satisfying, you know."
Gerard was giving the sidewalk a thoughtful look. "You must have a lot of memories of the holidays," he said. At Frank's questioning look, Gerard waved towards him vaguely. "Your knuckles, and the pumpkin on your back, and all the horror movies--"
"Oh," Frank said. "I was born on Halloween."
"No fucking way," Gerard exclaimed. "That's fucking awesome."
"Yeah, I was pretty much doomed to be a weirdo from the start." Frank grinned sidelong at Gerard from under the blue swipe of hair falling over his forehead.
"I prefer weird." Because Gerard just said shit like that that made Frank's stomach swoop and his heart beat faster, and hide his stupid face in his shoulder. "What about all the Christmas stuff?"
The problem wasn't, necessarily, that Frank didn't want to talk about it (though that was true, too) so much as he had no fucking clue how to even start. His hands balled into fists in the pockets of his hoodie as he considered it, running through a million different ways to try to explain where he didn't sound like 1.) a religious freak, 2.) a freak in general, or 3.) a greedy, commercial bitch.
"Sorry, I shouldn't have--"
"Nah, man." Frank flapped a hand at him. "It's just a long, boring story, trust me."
"Ah." Gerard's tone made it clear that he wasn't buying it and he was going to let it go, but he would like Frank to know he wasn't a fool. Frank bumped his shoulder in thanks and bit back the hiss of pain that he knew would just make Gerard freak out over needles all over again.
It was like they'd never left, back at the club. There were fewer people, but all their friends were still there, mostly dancing with more enthusiasm than talent. Brendon was a notable exception, grinding between Jon and Spencer like it was his job. Frank was waylaid on his way to them for one song by an enthusiastic Gabe, and for another song by Vicky and Nate, and when he finally managed to get away to drop his hoodie off at their booth, he ended up collecting a very unsteady-on-his-feet Ryan instead.
"What happened to you?" Frank asked.
Ryan's head flopped around from side to side and he groaned. "Bill Beckett."
The man could hold his liquor; Frank did not envy Ryan in the least. "We'll get you into bed soon."
"I shouldn't have abandoned you on the Cobra bus," Ryan said, very solemnly. "I'm sorry."
Frank tried not to giggle, but it was sort of a lost cause. Much like Ryan. "Dude, that was eight million years ago. Don't worry, I'm not going to leave you to Gabe's tender mercy."
Ryan patted at Frank's face, which given his current condition and general lack of coordination ended up with his fingers in Frank's mouth. "You're a good friend, Frankie."
Frank turned his head, sputtering and kicked at Brendon to get his attention. "I think we should probably get him back to the bus," Frank shouted.
Spencer took half of Ryan's weight and they began to make their way awkwardly through the crowd. Frank waved to Gerard, who was watching them with the mingled pity and amusement of someone who'd been in Ryan's position many times over.
The limo was still waiting for them and Frank, Jon, and Brendon crowded on the far seat so that Ryan could stretch out with his head in Spencer's lap. Spencer was the best when you were drunk, running his hands through your hair, fingers brushing the scalp in this soothing way that made the urge to hurl subside.
Brendon leaned into Frank's side and when Frank tensed, Brendon sat up straight and said, "You got a tattoo!" It was a testament to how long they'd been friends and how well Brendon knew him that there was no surprise whatsoever in the statement, just eagerness.
They all leaned in to see when Frank pulled off the bandage, Ryan moaning in protest as Spencer shifted.
"Frankie," Brendon said. The smile tugging at his lips was simple in a way it never had been in Christmastown, the look in his eyes when they met Frank's expressing the same indescribable happiness Frank had felt all day long, and longer. Like they finally belonged somewhere.
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