Fic: "Undeniable" (MCR, Frank/Jamia, NC-17, ~4400)
Title: "Undeniable"
Pairing: Frank/Jamia
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Jamia first met Frank, he was just another stoner band boy with dreads that smelled like his illegal recreational activities and a Che Guevara t-shirt. (~4400)
Notes: IDK. This wanted to be written, apparently. (Sidenote: I know NOTHING about Jamia's family; I made this up more than I made up anything else in this fic; which I also made up. I figure, Jamia is smart. I bet she doesn't google herself.)
Thaaaaank you to brooklinegirl for the beta and to aneli8 for cheerleading. ♥
"Undeniable"
When Jamia first met Frank, he was just another stoner band boy with dreads that smelled like his illegal recreational activities and a Che Guevara t-shirt. Except that when she’d made a crack about the ganja uniform, Frank’s eyes went wide and he launched into the history of Latin American oppression and its people’s far-seeing but perhaps slightly misguided attempts at freedom through violent revolution.
“Dude was, like, amazing, okay? What happened afterwards fucking sucked, but he was a real visionary, and totally smart, like, way too smart for that shit. Damn shame.”
Despite the fact that Frank was totally baked when the conversation took place, Jamia was impressed. No other stoner knew a fucking thing about Latin American history, and half of them couldn’t tell Che from Bob Marley, which was a pathetic state of affairs in Northern Jersey, if she said so herself.
Frankie was different. He didn’t try to get into her pants by virtue of being an Eyeball pet like a ton of other boys, but she knew he was into her, because he’d always try to be around when she was headed home. He’d jog up to her in the dim hallway, because she always made sure to turn off the office lights - the electricity bill was through the roof, and even if she wasn’t the one paying, somebody still had to foot the bill - and throw her a big smile. “Up for beer?” he’d ask.
Sometimes she was and sometimes she really, really wasn’t, but every time her heart would do a little leap. She’d stare at herself in the mirror before going to bed, going through the brushing her teeth and washing her face ritual, and turn this way and that, looking. She wasn’t sure why Frank was so gung-ho set on her, but it was nice. He was cute. Kind of not her usual type, maybe, but his smile was killer.
*
She dyed her hair black because she thought maybe it’d make blend in better in the scene. Yeah, so she wasn’t exactly like all the other chicks who hung around, but she was better, dammit. She just got tired of the slanted looks she kept getting from the skinny-ass queens, and she wanted to prove something. She regretted it for maybe a few hours after coming in to work that Wednesday and getting more than a few sideways stares that told her exactly what her standing was, but then she bumped into Frank in the hallway. And it wasn’t even a studio day for him, and anyway, My Chemical Romance hadn’t even been properly signed yet, though she knew there was buzz growing around them, and Jeff was nearly peeing his pants from excitement, and he flashed her an immediate quick smile which grew into something kind of different when he took in the change.
“Whoa, that’s - huh,” he said, sounding impressed. “Not that I didn’t dig it before, but this makes your eyes go, like, nuclear green.”
Jamia blinked, then felt the slow spread of her own smile. “Nuclear green?”
Frank stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and shrugged, “Totally nuclear. Wanna get coffee?”
Jamia cracked up and lifted her chin, feeling taller, even though that was ridiculous. Everybody felt tall around Frankie. “Sure. I’m buying.”
Frank followed her on her errands that day, helping her post flyers on bulletins and light posts, made a few calls when she was overwhelmed and trying to get everything set up for the big showcase next month. It was like he had nothing better to do than be her errand boy, and Jamia would have been a fucking liar if she didn’t admit to kind of getting off on it. He was fucking adorable.
*
So, March 3rd was the big showcase. The date was, like, stamped on the inside of her brain, where everything she was doing, from rolling out of bed in the morning to marking shit on her calendar and checking things off her multitude to-do lists was headed. She barely had time to breathe, and she spent a lot of fucking time buzzing on caffeine. She got so used to the anticipation that when the day finally arrived, she took a look around, realized that everybody was doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing and everything was ready, she locked herself in the bathroom and proceeded to burst into tears.
She spent about ten minutes crying and feeling like a total jackass, and then another five trying to make herself look like she hadn’t spent ten minutes crying and feeling like a total jackass. It didn’t work, and she was still kind of puffy and blotchy when she forced herself to stop being an idiot and leave the dinky bathroom to go work.
Frank was setting shit up in the corner of the studio with Gerard and Mikey, all conferring seriously, and as soon as he spotted her, he dropped the cables and shuffled over.
His grin faded just a little when he got close enough to see her face, and Jamia grinned big and pretended she hadn’t noticed. “You guys excited?”
He chewed on his lip, shrugged, and finally said, “Think I’m okay.” He tilted his head this way and that. “Gee might be losing his shit, though,” he added under his breath and Jamia looked back to where Gerard was dropping cables and overturning mic stands on his way to pick up the cables and shook her head.
“You seriously want to leave the Ways alone where there’s precious equipment involved?”
Frank stopped looking at her tear-stained face enough to throw his head back and laugh. “Okay, point. See ya!” and jogged off.
Three bands played that night, but nobody could deny the true sweethearts of the showcase. My Chem were on fire, even as Gerard stamped his feet and sweated all over the make-shift stage, and Frank threw himself around ruining equipment and making Jamia’s heart stop - whether because she was worried for Frank or equipment, she couldn’t actually decide - and Ray shredded shit to hell. It was awesome, and the audience was eating it up, loving them, faces upturned towards Gerard’s unexpected presence bursting all over the place and setting it in flames. She stood at the side of the stage, behind the crowd, and couldn’t look away.
Afterwards, Frank hopped off the stage and - again, Jamia’s stomach rolled over, why, why was it doing that, every time? - headed straight for her, his smile taking over his face, eyes all lit up and kind of manic, but clear. He elbowed his way through the sweaty throngs and she barely had a chance to say how awesome they did before he crowded her up and kissed her right on the lips. It tasted like sweat and booze and smoke and she got into it without even thinking, by instinct, chasing his tongue with her own.
Then thought took over and she pushed Frank by the shoulders, reeling away. “What the fuck?” It came out winded, like a traitor.
Frank’s eyes were still closed, and his mouth open, pink shiny lips. Her heart lurched and she thought, oh. Oh, fuck.
When he finally opened his eyes, his gaze bore into hers. “I saw your face,” he said quietly, like it explained everything, and Jamia realized that fuck, maybe it had. She could never pretend to be anything she wasn’t. Her heart pounded and she clutched his shoulders because she couldn’t pretend to not want this; not want him.
She didn’t answer and she knew that she was risking everything she’d worked for to not be what every other scene girl was, and pulled him back in, heart hammering. He went immediately. They kissed each other breathless, and she could hear the occasional catcall or somebody’s cheer of “Whoo, Frankie, my man!” and it was almost enough to make her push him away, regain her equilibrium, but she couldn’t.
His hands clutched her hips just slightly below her waist, but not straying, and all he seemed to want to do was kiss her. She allowed her shoulders to relax, herself to fucking enjoy it, because Jesus. Frank was fucking good at this, just enough tongue and teeth to make it fun and hot but not enough to be drooling all over her face and being off-putting. She cracked her eyes open for a second and his were closed, dark eyelashes framing his cheeks. He looked so into it, it was crazy.
She pushed up against him, just to see, just to test it out, and he gasped against her. He was hard.
“Fuck,” she mumbled, pulling away. “Frank.”
“Jamia, J,” he whispered and it felt hot against her lips and she was so turned on, she thought she was going to lose it. All she wanted was to straddle his thigh, get herself off. Maybe get him off, too, see what it felt like. “Fuck, you taste so fucking good,” he whispered, and his eyes were still closed, he looked totally out of control, and she moaned when he nosed against her neck, and ran his tongue over the skin there, bit her a little.
She tossed her head back and it thudded against the brick of the wall. They couldn’t do this here. That they were going to fuck was no longer a question, but she had to retain some kind of control over her workplace, maybe, and Frank wasn’t making it easy, not by a long shot.
She pushed him away and wordlessly led him out to the parking lot with their fingers interlaced. She didn’t even care that he was probably supposed to help break down, that she probably should have been there to oversee it. Jeff was on it, and she was done with work for the night.
She took him home and let him fuck her on her bed, between her sheets. He watched her face while he did it, eyes huge in the dark, and she clutched at his sweaty skin, the pudge over his hips, the smooth skin of his back, and rocked with his rhythm. She’d wanted him for a while, but she hadn’t considered, not in any serious way, what he’d be like in bed. Now she fucking mewled as he fucked her, hard and deep and methodical, and she bit her lip and didn’t babble, even when she really fucking wanted to.
He came with his face buried in the crook of her neck, leaving it wet with spit, and she was panting, fucking needing to get off, because she loved getting fucked but it never made her come. He pulled out, slid out of the condom, tied it off, threw it over the bed, and just went down, not even fucking asking or saying anything at all, and the first time Jamia got off with Frank, it was around his fingers and against his tongue. She stared at the ceiling and tried to get her breath back. “Fuck.”
He grinned at her and licked his lips but didn't make a huge show some guys made of it, with tugging pubic hair out from between their teeth or wiping their faces, like they'd done her a huge favor. He just crawled up the bed and then passed out mid-kiss, stroking her tits. She rearranged his hands around her ribcage, settled onto her side, and stared blankly at the wall as she fell asleep.
*
She woke up the next morning as always slightly disoriented. Then she realized there was supposed to be somebody else in her bed, but it was empty, still kind of warm from his skin and smelling like pot. Jamia buried her head under the pillow and didn’t groan. She was such a fucking idiot, what kind of a fucking idiot did this. Not her, not ever. But apparently, not anymore.
She didn’t get out of bed just because she didn’t want to think about it, and must have drifted off to sleep, because when she woke up again, it was to the smell of fresh coffee and Frank, grinning down at her, already dressed, bouncing a little on the mattress.
“Morning,” he said, and she just stared up at him, belatedly remembering that she was completely naked. He set the cup down onto her night stand, crawled over her, shoes and all, and kissed her with their morning breath combined. He didn’t leave the entire weekend. They spent most of it without clothes on.
*
Not much changed around the studio after that, except for everything. Her tiny hole-in-the-wall apartment turned even tinier, because Frank would forget one of his bags there one night, then a pair of jeans another, until she got the hint and emptied out a drawer for him while bouncing along to the Souls and not really thinking about much beyond his ratty t-shirts.
He’d wait around for her, then amble along to her car and get in. He’d drive her crazy by trying to poke up her skirt as she drove, and she’d slap him and try to hide her grin, because he was a dick, but incredibly endearing, still, and she had no idea what to even do with him.
They’d stay up late telling each other their life stories, and he’d turn to her after her eyes would start sliding closed, just this edge of dropping off to sleep, and whisper, “Tell me something nobody else knows,” and she would, words pulled out of her with an invisible claw. It wouldn’t even be sexy stuff, or even really embarrassing stuff. It would just be her, all laid out for him in the whispering dark, and he would take all of it, scoop her up and hold her until morning.
*
She wanted to quit but couldn’t. Even her measly rent seemed insurmountable some days, but she moved out at eighteen and she didn’t plan on coming back. With dad long fucked off somewhere, her mom didn’t exactly live in luxury, so Jamia wasn’t about to saddle her with another person to have to care for. But Eyeball wasn’t doing it for her anymore, and she’d lay awake at night and dream of the company she’d start someday, where everyone, down to the owner - her - would believe in something greater, something better, and not just riffs and kicks.
Frank toured and she thought at first how roomy it was to have her time to herself. She could read a book on the weekends, make a full pot of coffee just for herself every now and then. Then she’d look around the place, the peeling wallpaper and the faded third-hand couch, and her chest would whine like a traitor around the hole Frank had dug for himself there.
*
She realized that she loved him at three o’clock on a Tuesday morning. Her phone rang and it took her a full minute to get her breath back and fumble for the alarm before she realized it was the fucking phone and she’d been dead asleep.
“I’m going to kill whoever this is,” she mumbled into the phone, and then she heard his voice, small, fading. “J, J, J, I need you.”
Her heart lurched.
“What’s wrong?” She jumped to her knees like an idiot because he was in fucking Ohio and she couldn’t exactly do anything, but her body leapt off the bed all on its own, anyway.
“I miss you, is all,” he croaked and she thought for a wild moment he was crying.
He was sick. He’d told her about getting sick as a kid, but she stupidly wished it had maybe passed, like measles or bad acne. He could barely talk now, and he coughed so hard, he dislodged the phone a few times. She sat up with him until the sun started slanting its way across her bedroom, illuminating the tiny green flowers on the wall, and wanted to reach through the phone, lay him down across her lap, feed him fucking soup.
She’d once promised herself she’d never let herself get taken in the way her mom had, never fall in stupid love before she even knew herself. She knew herself now, well enough to know she’d been taken in the moment he smiled at her like she was the only person in the world.
She told him she loved him that night because she had nothing left to lose; he’d taken it all, anyway. He gave it back to her, between coughs, time and time again whispered it to her until she made herself believe he believed it.
She called out sick that day for the first time in two years. Drove out to her mom’s house, cleaned it top to bottom, then baked her some brownies and left them to cool on the rack. She disappeared without seeing her get back from work, but it was better that way. Her mom always knew.
*
He stood in her doorway, skinny as fuck, startlingly beautiful even with dark shadows under his eyes. The dreads were gone, he’d buzzed them off without even trying to work them out. It was a good fucking look for him.
“Shit,” was all she said before reaching for the back of his head, feeling the short prickly hairs, and he leaned into her touch, closed his eyes and grinned like a cat.
“Hey,” he said.
“Come here,” she breathed and dragged him inside.
He had a flame over his heart now, which she discovered after skimming his shirt off, and she palmed it, flicked his tiny nipple. He gasped, pressed into her hand, then rolled them over and fucked her before even getting his pants all the way off. They grinned at each like idiots the entire time and she let him come all over her tits, fucking loved it even as her cheeks blushed.
“You guys are back for a while, right?” she asked afterwards, spooned up against his chest. She was picking at the sheets, trying not to get her hopes up. It was about the band, not her, she knew that. They were doing so well.
He nuzzled at her neck and bit it a little. He smelled good, like sex and coffee and the road. Her beautiful boy. “Yeah. I’ve got all kinds of plans for it, too,” he answered and his voice was husky in her ear. She ached everywhere a little, squeezed her thighs together.
“Plans?”
“Oh, yeah.” She could hear his smile. “Like, dates. I wanna go on dates with you. I want to take you to movies and dinners and parks and -”
“Parks?” she grinned and turned a little towards him. He immediately twisted her all the way around, slid his hands all up and down her side. He’d told her often enough he loved her body, but it was still a luxury, the sure way his hands sought out her fullness and reveled in it.
“Yeah, like, picnics and shit,” he explained and kissed her, legs sliding in between hers, grinding against her cunt.
She liked picnics. She wanted those dates.
*
The very first Reprise check Frank got, he handed over to her.
“To start our own company,” he grinned and bounced up and down. She looked at the check, not really enough to do everything, but damn near enough to start, then back at him, then down at the check again, thinking she was blind. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to hit him.
“Frank, what the fuck?”
His eyes grew huge and his smile even bigger. “You’ve talked about it long enough, you know? You’re the brains, I’m just the. The start-up, okay? I’ll help. I’ll be, like, promoter. The face, if you want. But it’s your baby.”
They named their first baby Skeleton Crew, because that was the name she’d been writing in the margins of her notepads since high school. Frank wasn’t just the start-up, but Jamia was the leader. He wasn’t always around, but he was always a phone call away, and she used his belief in her as a wall to prop herself up against when the hours grew long and ragged and her dreams slowly came into view, bricks and mortar, row by row.
She’d drive out to a show once in a while, spend the whole night driving there and back just for a glimpse and maybe a quick fuck. And he’d always greet her with that smile of his, arms wrapping around her as soon she was within reach, her name always right over his shoulder on the strap and later, hidden under shirts. Right under the flame.
She’d look at the girls yelling his name, screaming that they loved him, and feel her blood boil to the stupidest, most primal scream of all, “he’s mine.” He’d ignore the calls or let them fuel his thrashing, and he’d always know exactly where she stood, off to the side, like they were tied together by a string. She’d drive back home, ready to work again the next day on no sleep, just give her enough coffee, and the string wouldn’t snap, because he always knew, and so did she.
*
They fought about shit, all kinds of shit. He didn’t have to send her all his money; she didn’t have to pretend that things were fine and dandy, and also, she could sleep every now and then. He needed to call the fucking doctor, get some professional advice that wasn’t just ginger ale and sleep. She needed to understand that the band was counting on him, he couldn’t just up and leave and sleep the gigs away, and he was fucking fine, God.
She’d hang up, scream at the walls, bark at the cowering dogs, then go for a run. She’d come back to five missed calls, four Frank, one Gerard, and she’d wait it out, shower came first.
He always apologized, even if she was wrong. Sometimes it made her more mad, made her think he was saying it out of some self-preservation instinct, by inertia, wasn’t fucking listening to her, just humoring.
He always meant it. Once she calmed down and got a grip on herself, she always remembered, in the end. She always meant it afterwards, too.
*
It was in Pennsylvania in the summertime that she stood in line for beer right behind two girls in homemade My Chem t-shirts, and their bouncing made her grin. Then she turned her head and their conversation filtered in, word by word.
“…don’t know who the fuck she thinks she is. Frank is waa-hay too hot for her.”
“Oh my God, I know. Did you see him signing over there? Oh my God, I am soooo all over that.”
“Right? My mom’s always said that the nicest guys get snatched up by bitches like that.” Her snap shook Jamia out of herself and she turned on her heel and walked away.
She wondered, furious at them - at herself, for overhearing - how all over Frank they would be if they had to sit with him on the cold bathroom floor while he retched into the toilet; how long they would last every time he’d wake up with glassy eyes and a sore throat; how much fun it would be for them if they barely had a moment’s peace because when he was healthy, he was the most hyperactive and obnoxious little shit on the planet. How would they feel getting that one am phone call from him, or worse, Gerard, when Frank couldn’t even press a few buttons, could only whine to her while Gee held the phone to his hear and petted his hair and she could do nothing but talk him through it, trust that others were taking enough care of his stupid ass.
She fucked him up against the wall after they closed that night, tasting the sweat gathered all around his skin, pooling at the base of his neck. He held her up steady, hands on either side of her shoulders, while she thrashed and clung and went out of her mind. After he came and she got herself off with a few strokes, he slowly slid her off, helped push her panties back into place and swept her hair away from her forehead, tried to catch her eye. She fought against the urge to believe every stupid fucking word she’d heard said about herself, fought it until she could look up at his face and pretend she wasn’t a coward.
*
He always came back with different hair and more of her on his skin. In little-seen places, or ones that he held out for the world to witness. Most, no one but her and maybe the band knew about.
Nobody knew about hers, and she liked it that way. So did he, loved it, licked all the spots where she’d allowed him under her skin. Licked her all around, bit her thighs, settled between them, and got her off with his tongue. She’d repay him, fuck him hard, kiss him until he’d have to leave again, and she would have to wait.
*
She wanted to have a real wedding one day, the kind other people dreamed of their whole lives, but she never really had. If she’d thought about it, she could maybe picture a cake, a white dress, fuschia-colored bridesmaids. The groom was always faceless.
Now, she kind of wanted the dress, and she kind of wanted the garden, she maybe wanted all their boys, all their friends, standing side by side with her and Frank and watching it happen. She wanted her mom.
But more than that, she wanted to never have to run into a hospital again and yell at the nurses that she wasn’t family but she was with him; she never wanted to not be there when he woke up.
Giddy and breathless and stupid, they stood across from one another in a Vegas chapel, the first one they found on the strip, holding hands and cheap metal rings they got out of a machine. And when the minister who smelled like whiskey pronounced them man and wife and Frank's grin split his entire face like sunshine and his hands squeezed her fingers numb, Jamia didn't think she'd ever want anything else in her whole entire life but this.
~end~
Pairing: Frank/Jamia
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Jamia first met Frank, he was just another stoner band boy with dreads that smelled like his illegal recreational activities and a Che Guevara t-shirt. (~4400)
Notes: IDK. This wanted to be written, apparently. (Sidenote: I know NOTHING about Jamia's family; I made this up more than I made up anything else in this fic; which I also made up. I figure, Jamia is smart. I bet she doesn't google herself.)
Thaaaaank you to brooklinegirl for the beta and to aneli8 for cheerleading. ♥
"Undeniable"
When Jamia first met Frank, he was just another stoner band boy with dreads that smelled like his illegal recreational activities and a Che Guevara t-shirt. Except that when she’d made a crack about the ganja uniform, Frank’s eyes went wide and he launched into the history of Latin American oppression and its people’s far-seeing but perhaps slightly misguided attempts at freedom through violent revolution.
“Dude was, like, amazing, okay? What happened afterwards fucking sucked, but he was a real visionary, and totally smart, like, way too smart for that shit. Damn shame.”
Despite the fact that Frank was totally baked when the conversation took place, Jamia was impressed. No other stoner knew a fucking thing about Latin American history, and half of them couldn’t tell Che from Bob Marley, which was a pathetic state of affairs in Northern Jersey, if she said so herself.
Frankie was different. He didn’t try to get into her pants by virtue of being an Eyeball pet like a ton of other boys, but she knew he was into her, because he’d always try to be around when she was headed home. He’d jog up to her in the dim hallway, because she always made sure to turn off the office lights - the electricity bill was through the roof, and even if she wasn’t the one paying, somebody still had to foot the bill - and throw her a big smile. “Up for beer?” he’d ask.
Sometimes she was and sometimes she really, really wasn’t, but every time her heart would do a little leap. She’d stare at herself in the mirror before going to bed, going through the brushing her teeth and washing her face ritual, and turn this way and that, looking. She wasn’t sure why Frank was so gung-ho set on her, but it was nice. He was cute. Kind of not her usual type, maybe, but his smile was killer.
*
She dyed her hair black because she thought maybe it’d make blend in better in the scene. Yeah, so she wasn’t exactly like all the other chicks who hung around, but she was better, dammit. She just got tired of the slanted looks she kept getting from the skinny-ass queens, and she wanted to prove something. She regretted it for maybe a few hours after coming in to work that Wednesday and getting more than a few sideways stares that told her exactly what her standing was, but then she bumped into Frank in the hallway. And it wasn’t even a studio day for him, and anyway, My Chemical Romance hadn’t even been properly signed yet, though she knew there was buzz growing around them, and Jeff was nearly peeing his pants from excitement, and he flashed her an immediate quick smile which grew into something kind of different when he took in the change.
“Whoa, that’s - huh,” he said, sounding impressed. “Not that I didn’t dig it before, but this makes your eyes go, like, nuclear green.”
Jamia blinked, then felt the slow spread of her own smile. “Nuclear green?”
Frank stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and shrugged, “Totally nuclear. Wanna get coffee?”
Jamia cracked up and lifted her chin, feeling taller, even though that was ridiculous. Everybody felt tall around Frankie. “Sure. I’m buying.”
Frank followed her on her errands that day, helping her post flyers on bulletins and light posts, made a few calls when she was overwhelmed and trying to get everything set up for the big showcase next month. It was like he had nothing better to do than be her errand boy, and Jamia would have been a fucking liar if she didn’t admit to kind of getting off on it. He was fucking adorable.
*
So, March 3rd was the big showcase. The date was, like, stamped on the inside of her brain, where everything she was doing, from rolling out of bed in the morning to marking shit on her calendar and checking things off her multitude to-do lists was headed. She barely had time to breathe, and she spent a lot of fucking time buzzing on caffeine. She got so used to the anticipation that when the day finally arrived, she took a look around, realized that everybody was doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing and everything was ready, she locked herself in the bathroom and proceeded to burst into tears.
She spent about ten minutes crying and feeling like a total jackass, and then another five trying to make herself look like she hadn’t spent ten minutes crying and feeling like a total jackass. It didn’t work, and she was still kind of puffy and blotchy when she forced herself to stop being an idiot and leave the dinky bathroom to go work.
Frank was setting shit up in the corner of the studio with Gerard and Mikey, all conferring seriously, and as soon as he spotted her, he dropped the cables and shuffled over.
His grin faded just a little when he got close enough to see her face, and Jamia grinned big and pretended she hadn’t noticed. “You guys excited?”
He chewed on his lip, shrugged, and finally said, “Think I’m okay.” He tilted his head this way and that. “Gee might be losing his shit, though,” he added under his breath and Jamia looked back to where Gerard was dropping cables and overturning mic stands on his way to pick up the cables and shook her head.
“You seriously want to leave the Ways alone where there’s precious equipment involved?”
Frank stopped looking at her tear-stained face enough to throw his head back and laugh. “Okay, point. See ya!” and jogged off.
Three bands played that night, but nobody could deny the true sweethearts of the showcase. My Chem were on fire, even as Gerard stamped his feet and sweated all over the make-shift stage, and Frank threw himself around ruining equipment and making Jamia’s heart stop - whether because she was worried for Frank or equipment, she couldn’t actually decide - and Ray shredded shit to hell. It was awesome, and the audience was eating it up, loving them, faces upturned towards Gerard’s unexpected presence bursting all over the place and setting it in flames. She stood at the side of the stage, behind the crowd, and couldn’t look away.
Afterwards, Frank hopped off the stage and - again, Jamia’s stomach rolled over, why, why was it doing that, every time? - headed straight for her, his smile taking over his face, eyes all lit up and kind of manic, but clear. He elbowed his way through the sweaty throngs and she barely had a chance to say how awesome they did before he crowded her up and kissed her right on the lips. It tasted like sweat and booze and smoke and she got into it without even thinking, by instinct, chasing his tongue with her own.
Then thought took over and she pushed Frank by the shoulders, reeling away. “What the fuck?” It came out winded, like a traitor.
Frank’s eyes were still closed, and his mouth open, pink shiny lips. Her heart lurched and she thought, oh. Oh, fuck.
When he finally opened his eyes, his gaze bore into hers. “I saw your face,” he said quietly, like it explained everything, and Jamia realized that fuck, maybe it had. She could never pretend to be anything she wasn’t. Her heart pounded and she clutched his shoulders because she couldn’t pretend to not want this; not want him.
She didn’t answer and she knew that she was risking everything she’d worked for to not be what every other scene girl was, and pulled him back in, heart hammering. He went immediately. They kissed each other breathless, and she could hear the occasional catcall or somebody’s cheer of “Whoo, Frankie, my man!” and it was almost enough to make her push him away, regain her equilibrium, but she couldn’t.
His hands clutched her hips just slightly below her waist, but not straying, and all he seemed to want to do was kiss her. She allowed her shoulders to relax, herself to fucking enjoy it, because Jesus. Frank was fucking good at this, just enough tongue and teeth to make it fun and hot but not enough to be drooling all over her face and being off-putting. She cracked her eyes open for a second and his were closed, dark eyelashes framing his cheeks. He looked so into it, it was crazy.
She pushed up against him, just to see, just to test it out, and he gasped against her. He was hard.
“Fuck,” she mumbled, pulling away. “Frank.”
“Jamia, J,” he whispered and it felt hot against her lips and she was so turned on, she thought she was going to lose it. All she wanted was to straddle his thigh, get herself off. Maybe get him off, too, see what it felt like. “Fuck, you taste so fucking good,” he whispered, and his eyes were still closed, he looked totally out of control, and she moaned when he nosed against her neck, and ran his tongue over the skin there, bit her a little.
She tossed her head back and it thudded against the brick of the wall. They couldn’t do this here. That they were going to fuck was no longer a question, but she had to retain some kind of control over her workplace, maybe, and Frank wasn’t making it easy, not by a long shot.
She pushed him away and wordlessly led him out to the parking lot with their fingers interlaced. She didn’t even care that he was probably supposed to help break down, that she probably should have been there to oversee it. Jeff was on it, and she was done with work for the night.
She took him home and let him fuck her on her bed, between her sheets. He watched her face while he did it, eyes huge in the dark, and she clutched at his sweaty skin, the pudge over his hips, the smooth skin of his back, and rocked with his rhythm. She’d wanted him for a while, but she hadn’t considered, not in any serious way, what he’d be like in bed. Now she fucking mewled as he fucked her, hard and deep and methodical, and she bit her lip and didn’t babble, even when she really fucking wanted to.
He came with his face buried in the crook of her neck, leaving it wet with spit, and she was panting, fucking needing to get off, because she loved getting fucked but it never made her come. He pulled out, slid out of the condom, tied it off, threw it over the bed, and just went down, not even fucking asking or saying anything at all, and the first time Jamia got off with Frank, it was around his fingers and against his tongue. She stared at the ceiling and tried to get her breath back. “Fuck.”
He grinned at her and licked his lips but didn't make a huge show some guys made of it, with tugging pubic hair out from between their teeth or wiping their faces, like they'd done her a huge favor. He just crawled up the bed and then passed out mid-kiss, stroking her tits. She rearranged his hands around her ribcage, settled onto her side, and stared blankly at the wall as she fell asleep.
*
She woke up the next morning as always slightly disoriented. Then she realized there was supposed to be somebody else in her bed, but it was empty, still kind of warm from his skin and smelling like pot. Jamia buried her head under the pillow and didn’t groan. She was such a fucking idiot, what kind of a fucking idiot did this. Not her, not ever. But apparently, not anymore.
She didn’t get out of bed just because she didn’t want to think about it, and must have drifted off to sleep, because when she woke up again, it was to the smell of fresh coffee and Frank, grinning down at her, already dressed, bouncing a little on the mattress.
“Morning,” he said, and she just stared up at him, belatedly remembering that she was completely naked. He set the cup down onto her night stand, crawled over her, shoes and all, and kissed her with their morning breath combined. He didn’t leave the entire weekend. They spent most of it without clothes on.
*
Not much changed around the studio after that, except for everything. Her tiny hole-in-the-wall apartment turned even tinier, because Frank would forget one of his bags there one night, then a pair of jeans another, until she got the hint and emptied out a drawer for him while bouncing along to the Souls and not really thinking about much beyond his ratty t-shirts.
He’d wait around for her, then amble along to her car and get in. He’d drive her crazy by trying to poke up her skirt as she drove, and she’d slap him and try to hide her grin, because he was a dick, but incredibly endearing, still, and she had no idea what to even do with him.
They’d stay up late telling each other their life stories, and he’d turn to her after her eyes would start sliding closed, just this edge of dropping off to sleep, and whisper, “Tell me something nobody else knows,” and she would, words pulled out of her with an invisible claw. It wouldn’t even be sexy stuff, or even really embarrassing stuff. It would just be her, all laid out for him in the whispering dark, and he would take all of it, scoop her up and hold her until morning.
*
She wanted to quit but couldn’t. Even her measly rent seemed insurmountable some days, but she moved out at eighteen and she didn’t plan on coming back. With dad long fucked off somewhere, her mom didn’t exactly live in luxury, so Jamia wasn’t about to saddle her with another person to have to care for. But Eyeball wasn’t doing it for her anymore, and she’d lay awake at night and dream of the company she’d start someday, where everyone, down to the owner - her - would believe in something greater, something better, and not just riffs and kicks.
Frank toured and she thought at first how roomy it was to have her time to herself. She could read a book on the weekends, make a full pot of coffee just for herself every now and then. Then she’d look around the place, the peeling wallpaper and the faded third-hand couch, and her chest would whine like a traitor around the hole Frank had dug for himself there.
*
She realized that she loved him at three o’clock on a Tuesday morning. Her phone rang and it took her a full minute to get her breath back and fumble for the alarm before she realized it was the fucking phone and she’d been dead asleep.
“I’m going to kill whoever this is,” she mumbled into the phone, and then she heard his voice, small, fading. “J, J, J, I need you.”
Her heart lurched.
“What’s wrong?” She jumped to her knees like an idiot because he was in fucking Ohio and she couldn’t exactly do anything, but her body leapt off the bed all on its own, anyway.
“I miss you, is all,” he croaked and she thought for a wild moment he was crying.
He was sick. He’d told her about getting sick as a kid, but she stupidly wished it had maybe passed, like measles or bad acne. He could barely talk now, and he coughed so hard, he dislodged the phone a few times. She sat up with him until the sun started slanting its way across her bedroom, illuminating the tiny green flowers on the wall, and wanted to reach through the phone, lay him down across her lap, feed him fucking soup.
She’d once promised herself she’d never let herself get taken in the way her mom had, never fall in stupid love before she even knew herself. She knew herself now, well enough to know she’d been taken in the moment he smiled at her like she was the only person in the world.
She told him she loved him that night because she had nothing left to lose; he’d taken it all, anyway. He gave it back to her, between coughs, time and time again whispered it to her until she made herself believe he believed it.
She called out sick that day for the first time in two years. Drove out to her mom’s house, cleaned it top to bottom, then baked her some brownies and left them to cool on the rack. She disappeared without seeing her get back from work, but it was better that way. Her mom always knew.
*
He stood in her doorway, skinny as fuck, startlingly beautiful even with dark shadows under his eyes. The dreads were gone, he’d buzzed them off without even trying to work them out. It was a good fucking look for him.
“Shit,” was all she said before reaching for the back of his head, feeling the short prickly hairs, and he leaned into her touch, closed his eyes and grinned like a cat.
“Hey,” he said.
“Come here,” she breathed and dragged him inside.
He had a flame over his heart now, which she discovered after skimming his shirt off, and she palmed it, flicked his tiny nipple. He gasped, pressed into her hand, then rolled them over and fucked her before even getting his pants all the way off. They grinned at each like idiots the entire time and she let him come all over her tits, fucking loved it even as her cheeks blushed.
“You guys are back for a while, right?” she asked afterwards, spooned up against his chest. She was picking at the sheets, trying not to get her hopes up. It was about the band, not her, she knew that. They were doing so well.
He nuzzled at her neck and bit it a little. He smelled good, like sex and coffee and the road. Her beautiful boy. “Yeah. I’ve got all kinds of plans for it, too,” he answered and his voice was husky in her ear. She ached everywhere a little, squeezed her thighs together.
“Plans?”
“Oh, yeah.” She could hear his smile. “Like, dates. I wanna go on dates with you. I want to take you to movies and dinners and parks and -”
“Parks?” she grinned and turned a little towards him. He immediately twisted her all the way around, slid his hands all up and down her side. He’d told her often enough he loved her body, but it was still a luxury, the sure way his hands sought out her fullness and reveled in it.
“Yeah, like, picnics and shit,” he explained and kissed her, legs sliding in between hers, grinding against her cunt.
She liked picnics. She wanted those dates.
*
The very first Reprise check Frank got, he handed over to her.
“To start our own company,” he grinned and bounced up and down. She looked at the check, not really enough to do everything, but damn near enough to start, then back at him, then down at the check again, thinking she was blind. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to hit him.
“Frank, what the fuck?”
His eyes grew huge and his smile even bigger. “You’ve talked about it long enough, you know? You’re the brains, I’m just the. The start-up, okay? I’ll help. I’ll be, like, promoter. The face, if you want. But it’s your baby.”
They named their first baby Skeleton Crew, because that was the name she’d been writing in the margins of her notepads since high school. Frank wasn’t just the start-up, but Jamia was the leader. He wasn’t always around, but he was always a phone call away, and she used his belief in her as a wall to prop herself up against when the hours grew long and ragged and her dreams slowly came into view, bricks and mortar, row by row.
She’d drive out to a show once in a while, spend the whole night driving there and back just for a glimpse and maybe a quick fuck. And he’d always greet her with that smile of his, arms wrapping around her as soon she was within reach, her name always right over his shoulder on the strap and later, hidden under shirts. Right under the flame.
She’d look at the girls yelling his name, screaming that they loved him, and feel her blood boil to the stupidest, most primal scream of all, “he’s mine.” He’d ignore the calls or let them fuel his thrashing, and he’d always know exactly where she stood, off to the side, like they were tied together by a string. She’d drive back home, ready to work again the next day on no sleep, just give her enough coffee, and the string wouldn’t snap, because he always knew, and so did she.
*
They fought about shit, all kinds of shit. He didn’t have to send her all his money; she didn’t have to pretend that things were fine and dandy, and also, she could sleep every now and then. He needed to call the fucking doctor, get some professional advice that wasn’t just ginger ale and sleep. She needed to understand that the band was counting on him, he couldn’t just up and leave and sleep the gigs away, and he was fucking fine, God.
She’d hang up, scream at the walls, bark at the cowering dogs, then go for a run. She’d come back to five missed calls, four Frank, one Gerard, and she’d wait it out, shower came first.
He always apologized, even if she was wrong. Sometimes it made her more mad, made her think he was saying it out of some self-preservation instinct, by inertia, wasn’t fucking listening to her, just humoring.
He always meant it. Once she calmed down and got a grip on herself, she always remembered, in the end. She always meant it afterwards, too.
*
It was in Pennsylvania in the summertime that she stood in line for beer right behind two girls in homemade My Chem t-shirts, and their bouncing made her grin. Then she turned her head and their conversation filtered in, word by word.
“…don’t know who the fuck she thinks she is. Frank is waa-hay too hot for her.”
“Oh my God, I know. Did you see him signing over there? Oh my God, I am soooo all over that.”
“Right? My mom’s always said that the nicest guys get snatched up by bitches like that.” Her snap shook Jamia out of herself and she turned on her heel and walked away.
She wondered, furious at them - at herself, for overhearing - how all over Frank they would be if they had to sit with him on the cold bathroom floor while he retched into the toilet; how long they would last every time he’d wake up with glassy eyes and a sore throat; how much fun it would be for them if they barely had a moment’s peace because when he was healthy, he was the most hyperactive and obnoxious little shit on the planet. How would they feel getting that one am phone call from him, or worse, Gerard, when Frank couldn’t even press a few buttons, could only whine to her while Gee held the phone to his hear and petted his hair and she could do nothing but talk him through it, trust that others were taking enough care of his stupid ass.
She fucked him up against the wall after they closed that night, tasting the sweat gathered all around his skin, pooling at the base of his neck. He held her up steady, hands on either side of her shoulders, while she thrashed and clung and went out of her mind. After he came and she got herself off with a few strokes, he slowly slid her off, helped push her panties back into place and swept her hair away from her forehead, tried to catch her eye. She fought against the urge to believe every stupid fucking word she’d heard said about herself, fought it until she could look up at his face and pretend she wasn’t a coward.
*
He always came back with different hair and more of her on his skin. In little-seen places, or ones that he held out for the world to witness. Most, no one but her and maybe the band knew about.
Nobody knew about hers, and she liked it that way. So did he, loved it, licked all the spots where she’d allowed him under her skin. Licked her all around, bit her thighs, settled between them, and got her off with his tongue. She’d repay him, fuck him hard, kiss him until he’d have to leave again, and she would have to wait.
*
She wanted to have a real wedding one day, the kind other people dreamed of their whole lives, but she never really had. If she’d thought about it, she could maybe picture a cake, a white dress, fuschia-colored bridesmaids. The groom was always faceless.
Now, she kind of wanted the dress, and she kind of wanted the garden, she maybe wanted all their boys, all their friends, standing side by side with her and Frank and watching it happen. She wanted her mom.
But more than that, she wanted to never have to run into a hospital again and yell at the nurses that she wasn’t family but she was with him; she never wanted to not be there when he woke up.
Giddy and breathless and stupid, they stood across from one another in a Vegas chapel, the first one they found on the strip, holding hands and cheap metal rings they got out of a machine. And when the minister who smelled like whiskey pronounced them man and wife and Frank's grin split his entire face like sunshine and his hands squeezed her fingers numb, Jamia didn't think she'd ever want anything else in her whole entire life but this.
~end~