Heartbreak in Stereo
Heartbreak in Stereo
Frank/Gerard
~7,900 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. These characters are based on people of the same name, but that's pretty much where reality ends here.
Warnings: Angsty? But not irredeemably so.
Notes: For mrs_batman, who asked for Frank/Gerard road flangst with lots of Bob. This turned somewhat more angsty than I intended, but there's fluff at the end?? IDK. Also, fleurdeliser is a hero and held my hand throughout the whole thing and told me how to fix it when I came whining about every little thing. ♥
The first time Bob noticed something was up was when Gerard ducked into a Goodwill in Dayton, Ohio, and emerged ten minutes later smuggling a 1992 Sony ghetto blaster. Bob squinted, leaned back against the bus, and flicked his cigarette butt down onto the hot asphalt of the Wendy's parking lot. Gerard's oversize sunglasses and rumpled black hoodie made him look like he might keel over of heatstroke and he wasn't even trying to carry the stereo on his shoulder, which Bob agreed was probably a wise choice. Instead, Gerard chugged along across the cracked, weedy concrete, head down, stereo banging rhythmically against his knees. It was a little odd, Bob thought, but in the past year he'd seen Gerard do weirder.
As Gerard reached him, Bob jerked his chin up in greeting. Gerard gave him a determined nod, pace not slowing, and trundled his prize up the steps into the air conditioned bus. Bob watched after him curiously, then glanced over at the Wendy's, where he could see Mikey and Pete in line for chocolate Frosties, and decided that he might as well take a piss in a real urinal while he could.
By the next morning, Gerard had overtaken the far corner of the lounge. When Bob cracked open his eyes, clutching his sheet up around his ears, he could hear rustling and clicking and strains of music from the other room. It wasn't even six A.M., but there was no fucking way Bob could sleep with Gerard puttering around out there. Being a light sleeper on a tour bus had its advantages--early warning system for electrical fires, on more than one occasion--but it utterly sucked when someone in your band seemed to've pledged never to sleep again.
"What the fuck, dude," Bob muttered at Gerard, shuffling toward the kitchen nook and the percolating coffee.
Gerard was sitting cross-legged against the wall, frowning at his whirring tape deck, surrounded by a truly amazing litter of cassettes and cases. His lank hair fell across his forehead, shaded, as it always was lately, by an oversize hoodie. His knees poked out through the rips in his jeans, dusted with a layer of road grime. He fingernails looked bitten and painful, hands twitching slightly as he reached blindly to the right for his cactus mug. "Nnh," Gerard grunted, but Bob couldn't really tell if it was directed at him or the stereo.
"What's up?" he tried again, slurring slightly as he slurped coffee out of a plastic sippy cup without a lid that Mikey'd brought back from Pete's bus last week. Bob didn't know what they got up to over there and he really didn't want to know.
Gerard's gaze slid distractedly over Bob's face before focusing back. He started to speak and then choked on his own spit or something because he gagged, wheezing and hacking loud coughs. Bob rubbed at his eye sockets and went over to crouch down amongst the tapes and pound Gerard on the back a couple times.
"Khhk," croaked Gerard, "Thngks."
Bob shrugged, glancing over the wreckage of tapes. "Elvis?" he asked non-judgmentally.
Gerard gave a thoughtful nod, swallowing experimentally. "I wasn't sure, but, like, yeah. I think so." He picked it up and squinted. "Savers in Akron," he nodded again. "Bad selection but I got this and, um. Tears for Fears."
"Huh," Bob said. "What for?"
Gerard poked a button and the tape deck slowly, clickily disgorged a purple cassette. He discarded it somewhere to the left and inserted Elvis. "Mix," he replied shortly, ducking his head to peer at the spindles. It looked to Bob like the most arduous, painfully lo-fi mixing strategy possible; he felt a headache coming on just watching Gerard tap the deck patiently until the static turned to guitar licks. "I needed a project," Gerard admitted matter-of-factly.
"Huh," Bob said. "You got a theme?"
Gerard honked a long, mucus-y noise in the back of his throat and felt around for some particular tape he seemed to think he might be sitting on. "Heartbreak," he said, pulling a cassette out from under his ass. "Smiths," he added neutrally, waving it around in Bob's face.
Predictably, Gerard's mix tape quickly became the kind of epic project that everyone had something to say about.
"Total Eclipse of the Heart," contributed Dustin, giving Gerard thumbs-up with a sleazy click of the mouth. Bob raised an eyebrow sardonically, but Gerard just nodded seriously from his nest in the corner, as though he were taking this under consideration, which for all Bob knew, he might be.
"C'mon, man." Bob grabbed Dustin's arm and started toward the door. "Let him mope in peace."
"I'm not moping," Gerard piped after them. "I'm creating!"
Bob figured that for Gerard, the distinction between the two was probably fungible, particularly when it became clear after a week that he was serious as a heart attack about this project. Gerard worked, dozed, and mainlined coffee in the corner by his tape collection, fumbling through them over and over, becoming increasingly anti-social and greasy, only emerging to play shows and chain smoke, hidden behind his bug-eye sunglasses.
Everyone went their own special brand of crazy during tours like Warped, though, so Bob figured that Gerard was coping, at least, and he did seem content in an insomniac, monosyllabic sort of way. Ray had his studio, Mikey had his ambiguously gay fling, Frank had his increasingly bizarre pranks with his drinking buddies, Bob had his stash of suckers and the Thrice guys, and Gerard had Elvis and his ghetto blaster.
"Fat and Alone," Mikey stated, nodding seriously from his perch on the counter next to Pete. "Definitely."
Ray snorted a laugh, agreeing, "It's a classic, man."
Bob twitched a smile, feeling a little unsure what the joke was. "What's Fat and Alone?"
Gerard continued to glare steadily at Mikey, who smirked and wound his arm around Pete's waist. "It's nothing," said Gerard sullenly.
"Fuck you," Frank retorted, frowning and throwing down his controller, turning to scowl at Gerard. "Fat and Alone is too good for your retarded mix tape!"
Gerard glanced over at him briefly, unreadably, and then continued to poke through his collection of cassettes.
"Gerard doesn't care about your adolescent tragedy, Frank," translated Pete gleefully, kicking his feet against the cupboards.
Frank growled and scrunched down into the couch, darting frustrated glares over at Gerard in the corner. "Suck it, Wentz," he muttered.
Pete beamed and hopped down from the counter, grabbing Mikey's hand and tugging him. "Let's Get It On?" he suggested with a wink.
Bob groaned and threw a sweat sock at him, Gerard screeching, "Inappropriate!" Pete and Mikey ducked out the door, giggling, and Ray disappeared again into the back with a bag of Twizzlers. Frank unfroze his game, punching the volume up as high as he could and casting lingering, pointed glances at Gerard, who ignored him, producing a pair of massive headphones from somewhere in his piles of junk. Bob rolled his eyes and grabbed a Tootsie Pop from the bowl on top of the microwave before heading out.
"So, exactly how epic is this thing?" Bob finally asked in Nashville.
Gerard looked up from his work, squinched his face thoughtfully, and said, "I dunno, I guess. However epic it needs to be." He jammed a ragged-edged fingernail into the spoke of a cassette and twisted it around, reeling the tape manually backward a few inches.
Bob watched him, crashed out on the couch with Die Hard II on mute, and wondered what the hell was actually possessing Gerard to devote himself to this so completely. "Hey," he commented after several minutes, "you doing okay, dude?"
Gerard paused for a second, cocking his head to himself, and then bent down to eyeball the tape deck, adjusting a knob slightly. "Sure," he replied. "It's soothing."
"Hmm," Bob agreed, even though he was a little dubious about how soothing it could actually be to deal with such crappy electronics, seriously. "Here," he volunteered, "if you punch up the bass like half a notch on the playback, it won't crackle so much."
Gerard smiled over at him briefly, then quietly went back to his tinkering. Bob zoned out in front of the TV for a bit until the door slammed open and Frank came tumbling up the steps, giggling hysterically, red stains all over his hands and knees. "Uhh, what's up, man?" Bob asked.
Frank flung himself over the top of the couch onto Bob's knees, crying "Kamikaze mission!" and rubbed his hands all over Bob's one relatively clean t-shirt.
"Goddamn it!" Bob yelled, dumping him off onto the floor and swiping at his stained shirt uselessly. "You're such a shit, I swear," he grumbled.
Frank lay on the floor snickering. "Relax, it's just Kool-Aid," he told Bob scornfully, rolling over on his belly and eyeing Gerard, who was steadfastly ignoring their tussle.
"What the fuck were you doing?" Bob sighed, kicking resignedly at Frank's ribs. "Murdering a diabetic?"
"No," Frank snorfled into his arms. "Blowing one, what do you think? Mmmmm," he licked his lips and sucked at a few fingers suggestively. "Man, I wish I came fuckin' Kool-Aid, shit."
Bob snorted in spite of himself.
"Hey Gerard," Frank continued, eyes getting all predatory, "don't you wish I came Kool-Aid?"
Gerard spared him an uncomfortable glance. "'S disgusting," he muttered.
Frank grinned and shuffled across the carpet on his knees, latching onto Gerard's hood and pushing it off his head to muss his sticky hands through Gerard's hair. "You'd like it," he cackled.
"You're drunk," Gerard murmured in protest, ducking his head away and batting at Frank's insistent hands. "Frank, you're gross, fuck off."
Frank stuck his hands under Gerard's hoodie, clinging as Gerard tried to scramble away. "No, come cuddle with me," Frank whined. "I have Kool-Aid!"
Gerard made a desperate face at Bob, pushing Frank away. "Get off me! Frank, fucking leave me alone!"
Frank grimaced and let Gerard shove him, rolling away to rest against the foot of the couch. "Fine," he pouted to himself. "Bob likes my sugar."
"No, I don't," stated Bob, just in case there was any confusion.
It wasn't until Frank pissed on Dewees's shoes that it occurred to Bob that there might be a serious problem. Even then it took him an embarrassingly long moment to register what exactly he was seeing. He'd been knocking back a few with Dustin and the guys, so his powers of comprehension were not really at their highest.
"Shit," he blurted, eyes widening as they turned a corner and caught sight of Frank waving his dick around in front of the Reggie bus. Bob ran a hand over his newly-shaved head, got distracted for a second thinking about how that felt even better drunk, and then began bellowing and hauling Frank away. "What the fuck?" he yelled. "C'mon, you little shit!"
Frank reacted like Bob was trying to kill him, twisting and kicking, pants tangling around his thighs, screeching, "Fuck you! Fuck you, don't touch me, Bob! I can do what I want!"
"Dude," Teppei cackled incredulously as Dustin grabbed at Frank's legs, trying to help Bob subdue him.
"How fuckin' drunk is he?" Riley snorted.
"Shut up," Bob ordered shortly, in shock. This was not fucking good, Jesus Christ. "Iero! Iero, man, fuckin'--buck up, dude!"
Frank went limp suddenly, dangling dead weight between Bob and Dustin like a little kid. They stared at each other for a dazed second, and then laid him on the blacktop, still warm even hours after sunset, and stared down. Bob's heart was pounding, freaked the fuck out, because this was not standard operating procedure, even for Frank.
"Frank," Bob urged more quietly, kneeling down hear his head. "What's up, buddy?"
Frank's eyes were closed and he was breathing hard. He reached down to hike up his pants, zip himself back in. "Want to go home," he whined.
Bob frowned, glanced up at the guys, who shrugged, and then back down. "Back to Jersey?" he tried, baffled. Everyone had nights when tour broke them the fuck down, but he'd never seen it happen to Frank like this before.
"Nnn." Frank scrunched up his face. "Just, back. But no. Not back back, like--just him back."
Bob's brows knitted together, tight like a stress headache coming on. "Shit, man," he finally said. "Let's get you to the bus, okay?"
Frank allowed Bob and Dustin to carry him down the narrow, makeshift streets of the Warped bus city, arms wrapped tight around Bob's neck, whimpering occasionally about what a mess he was, how he was sorry, Bob, so sorry. Bob patted him awkwardly on the back and exchanged worried glances with the rest of the guys. When Bob lugged him through the lounge, Gerard glanced up from his tapes briefly, made a sour face, and hitched his hood further forward. Bob felt a little bad, bringing Frank back stinking of piss and beer, but then he rolled Frank into his bunk and stared at him for a second. The little dude was passed the fuck out, snoring lightly, fingers still clenched in Bob's crew neck. He carefully pried himself loose, sighed, and backed out, shutting the door behind him with a quick glance at Gerard. "Check on him, okay?" he asked.
Gerard bit his lip and ducked a shallow nod without meeting Bob's eyes.
When Bob stepped back off the bus into the humid darkness, Riley offered him a lighter. "Thanks, man," Bob murmured.
"He okay?" asked Teppei, leaning against Dustin.
"Yeah, I dunno," Bob admitted. "Fuckin' Warped."
They all nodded. "Fuckin' Warped, man."
As his hangover began to fade the next morning, Bob started to consider his options. He leaned against the side of the bus, inhaling his first cigarette of the day and watching the mill of hung over dudes near the food tent. He couldn't really stomach anything this early, but plenty of guys swore by the greasy breakfast method. Bob stuck to nicotine and drymouthing extra strength Tylenol.
After fifteen minutes and three smokes, he felt human enough to begin to worry about Frank's behavior last night. It wasn't that Frank never got drunk and rowdy, because Bob had been tackled too many times to even notice anymore, but Frank was always--always--a happy drunk. Sometimes he pulled stupid pranks, but Bob had never seen him get belligerent like that before, and it was scary as hell, following on the heels of Gerard's first year clean and sober.
Bob was aware, like they all were, that staying sober on Warped was fucking rough on Gerard, and to be honest, he assumed that was the reason behind Gerard's complete submersion in his project, to the exclusion of everything but their shows. They'd all rather have Gerard overly obsessed with one of his projects than ever risk putting the band through that kind of shit again, and Bob had always implicitly understood that this was why he'd been asked to join the band--that he was a stabilizing influence--and he didn't plan on dropping the fucking ball on that, ever. Last night had been bad, he knew that, but he hoped like hell it was a one-time deal.
Jamming his cigarette out against the wheel well, Bob cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders a couple times. He needed some perspective on this shit, he figured, turning back toward the bus. Inside was cool and quiet, Gerard fiddling with tapes obliviously in the corner, Mikey's bunk empty, Frank's a mess of sprawled limbs and dirty laundry.
Bob knocked briefly and then stuck his head into the studio. Ray was bent over his computer wearing headphones, concentrating intently on the squiggles of music running across the screen. "Can I bug you, man?" Bob asked, waving a hand in Ray's peripheral vision.
Ray started and pulled his headphones down around his neck, smiling in welcome. "Hey man, haven't seen you back here in awhile!"
Bob shrugged, settling himself on the couch. "Yeah, I dunno. Guess I've been out a lot." He tapped his fingertips arhythmically against his thigh, feeling vaguely guilty. "Anyway, dude, I think we have a problem."
Ray swiveled to face him, crossing one leg over his knee, face open. "Yeah?" he asked, concerned. "What's that?"
Bob scratched his eyebrow and tried to figure out what the hell he even meant to say. "So," he began, "have you noticed Frank acting weirder lately? Like--" he paused, unsure if he wanted to bring up the possibility, but pretty sure that it had to be done. "Like--drinking more, acting out kinda stuff?"
Ray's face pulled tight and filled with worry. He lifted his headphones from around his neck and set them down next to the laptop, hand lingering there for a short moment. "I mean," he started, "I hadn't really noticed, no. But if you have--" his eyes darted up to confirm and Bob nodded shortly, "then that's a problem, yeah. That's maybe a big problem."
"Yeah," Bob breathed out, scrubbing a hand over his hair. Hearing Ray agree with him was kind of a relief and also kind of terrifying. "I need to--I think I need to talk to Frank. I mean, he was fucking out of control last night, man." He glanced up at Ray miserably. "It was fucking crazy. Even the other day, he was bugging Gerard and I just--he can't be doing this on purpose. He would never pull this shit around Gerard if there wasn't something going on with him."
"Shit," said Ray, nodding his head, worried eyes trained on Bob's face. "That's not Frank at all. I can't even--I feel so bad I didn't notice this." He cast around the small room. "I need to get the fuck out of the studio."
"No, man," Bob dismissed, waving a hand. "I can get it. I just wanted, I don't know, a second opinion or whatever. I haven't known them forever."
"No, I need to," Ray shook his head adamantly, brows setting. "I'll check in with Gerard--see how he's holding up. You can deal with Frank. You know him, dude."
Bob shrugged uncomfortably.
"You do," Ray insisted, looking him straight in the eye. "Asshole doesn't stand a chance."
Bob took Frank to the Waffle House. It was maybe not the best setting for an intervention, but he figured the place had probably seen a couple already anyway, so who was he to balk?
"Get some fuckin' eggs, man," Bob ordered, throwing a placemat menu at Frank. "You look like shit, you need some grease and protein."
Frank glared blearily, sucking down his mug of coffee. "You want me to hurl? 'Cause I will, just for you, Bobby. No eggs nec'ssary."
Bob grunted in annoyance and then nodded to the nervously hovering waitress, who looked to be about fifteen years old. "Just waffles, I guess. With the pecans. Thanks."
The waitress--Jessica, her nametag said--scribbled studiously with her gel pen and flicked a strand of cotton candy pink hair out of her face before shuffling awkwardly toward the grill, glancing at them over her shoulder. Bob kind of remembered being that age, but he was constantly surprised by how fucking young he'd been, Jesus.
When Bob looked back over at Frank, he was resting his chin on the edge of his mug and tipping his face in, sucking the air to try to make a coffee vacuum or something. "So listen," Bob stated, "you need to tell me what the hell that was last night."
Frank blinked and released his breath, mug thumping down just slightly onto the table, shivering in a little circle. "Wha?" he asked, rubbing at his nose.
Bob watched him steadily, rotating a packet of Sweet'n'Low between his thumb and forefinger. "Last night," he repeated. "You remember any of it?"
Frank returned his level stare for several seconds, expression guarded, then replied, "Some."
Bob let out a quick breath through his nose and twitched for a cigarette. "Listen, man, you were a wreck," he said candidly. "Took me and Dustin to get your ass home, okay? This shit can't be happening, not with Gerard. So you're gonna tell me what needs to happen so that it doesn't, ever again."
Frank gave a short, bitter laugh and glanced away, eyes darting around the diner. "Right," he said under his breath.
"Excuse me?" Bob asked coolly, leaning forward. "I'm serious about this, Frank. Ray and I both are, okay, so spit it the fuck out."
"I don't gotta tell you anything, dude," Frank dismissed easily. "I'll quit with the drinking, but don't act like you've never been there, okay? I won't do it again, I apologize, end of story."
"You need to apologize to Gerard," Bob said. "And don't be so fucking flippant about this shit. I'm just trying to be a friend, dude."
Frank sighed and muttered something, rubbing his palm over his face angrily. "I know," he said after a minute, "and I'm not trying to be a jerk but it's really none of your business, so. Thanks for calling me out. I'll take up fuckin' macrame instead, all right?"
Bob frowned deeply. Frank wasn't usually this much of a brick wall, at least not to him. "Yeah, okay, man," he agreed unhappily. "But let's hang out more, okay? Not like, to keep an eye on you or whatever, just. I miss you, dude."
Frank smirked a little, a pleased look in his eyes as they poking through his splayed fingers. "Yeah, man, for sure. I'll teach you how to knit and shit." He chucked his fist across the table, bumping it against Bob's, friendly and tired.
There was surprisingly little to do on Warped that didn't involve alcohol or obnoxious pranks, Bob found, after a couple days of corralling Frank. He had new sympathy for Gerard, who remained holed up on the bus except for excursions with Ray for more cassettes. The two of them were constantly bent over the stereo, murmuring and passing tapes back and forth and laughing occasionally. Whenever Bob and Frank passed through, Frank would set his jaw and stare straight ahead, ignoring their corner so hard that he even moved stiffly, and Bob and Ray would share speaking looks, frustrated with their lack of success in getting anything concrete figured out. Gerard never even seemed to notice when Frank was there at all and Ray told Bob that he ignored any attempt to broach the subject.
Bob hadn't had much more luck with Frank, to be honest--for such a talkative little fucker, the dude could really clam up when he put his mind to it. From that alone, though, Bob figured he was right about something being seriously wrong, and it was frustrating as hell that he couldn't get Frank to let him help out. Even though he'd stopped getting wasted every night, Frank wasn't looking good--he was pale underneath his summer tan and his eyes always looked tired and unfocused. Bob hadn't seen him act like such a moody bitch since that exhausting stretch of shows and press right before Christmas. It was getting to the point where the only things that seemed to put him in a good mood were meeting fans or the promise of sugar.
"Dude," Bob prompted Frank, poking him forward in the food line. They were in Atlanta, or camped outside it, really, and the hot, sticky humidity hung heavy around them every time they set foot outside the bus. Bob was just waiting for the inevitable night when the air conditioning broke and they all had to go begging for floor space with their friends.
Frank stumbled forward in line, drooping from a long day spent outdoors, avoiding Gerard. Bob didn't feel much better, since he'd had to put up with Frank's bitching about the heat when he could've just gone back to the bus and watched a Star Wars marathon with Ray and Mikey and Pete.
"Y'okay, dude?" he asked as Frank rested his head against the pole that marked the edge of the tent. They were almost in the shade, thank fucking God.
"Uh-huh," Frank nodded slowly, rubbing his cheek against the cool metal. "Just need some Gatorade. 'N maybe a tofu dog."
"Yeah," Bob agreed, wiping the sheen of sweat off his face with the bottom of his t-shirt. "Hey, you wanna go grab us seats with Dewees, over there, and I'll get the food?"
Frank grimaced. "Dewees hates me since I pissed in his shoes."
"Dewees thought it was fucking hysterical," Bob countered, snorting and shoving Frank forward again before adding suspiciously, "besides, you said you didn't remember that shit."
Frank shrugged sheepishly.
"Fucking prick," Bob muttered under his breath. "So, then you can tell me what the hell that was all about, right?" he commanded.
Frank glared for a second and then brightened, replying, "Not in front of Dewees!"
"What the fuck does Dewees have to do with it?" Bob sighed, shuffling forward and grabbing a couple bottles of Gatorade off the table.
"No, I want blue," Frank argued, snagging one of the reds from Bob and replacing it. "It was fuckin' Dewees' shoes, man! What do you think it had to do with him?"
"Dude, you were fuckin' gone, okay, you didn't know whose bus that was," Bob said. He slid around the table, because apparently most rock stars were too dumb to notice that the line was significantly shorter on the other side, and piled a paper plate with fruit salad and scalloped potatoes. Frank's plate, he noticed, had three tofu dogs and six packets of hot sauce. "Besides," Bob continued, "I seriously doubt you were that fuckin' upset about him."
Frank grumbled but kept quiet, as if dinner would distract Bob from the information he'd been trying to get for fucking days.
"Seriously," Bob pressed as they took a seat on a somewhat bald patch of grassy knoll, "what the fuck, dude? I'm not trying to pry, but just--you freaked me the hell out that night, okay? I've never seen you like that."
Frank chugged half his bottle of Gatorade, then peered down at his tongue cross-eyed, obviously stalling. "Ith it bwoo?" he asked Bob.
Bob ignored him, scraping half his fruit salad onto Frank's plate and stealing one of his tofu dogs. Frank wrinkled his nose, ripping open a packet of hot sauce and splorting it as far away from the fruit as possible before dipping one of his tofu dogs and munching on it.
"Really, dude?" said Bob after a few minutes of scarfing potatoes and enjoying a slight, sudden breeze against his face. "You're really gonna stonewall me like this?"
Frank glanced away into the breeze, flicking his sunglasses down over his eyes and sucking on a chunk of watermelon.
"I will fucking sit on your head," Bob threatened in frustration, hauling Frank away from the bus door. Ray and Gerard had just disappeared on one of their tape quests, Frank sniping after them until Gerard turned around and, shoulders hunched up to his ears, bit out, "Leave me alone, Frank," with such vehemence that Frank looked like he was about to cry or beat the crap out of Gerard.
"You need to chill out, man," Bob ordered, pushing Frank down onto the couch, where he seemed to deflate, retreating into a corner and curling his knees to his chest. Bob watched, concerned, and then slowly sank down next to him. "What's going on with you, Frank? I'm fuckin' worried, okay?"
Frank sniffed shortly, face averted, and Bob's stomach dropped. The last thing he wanted to fucking deal with was Iero crying, shit. But then Frank spoke, voice steady enough. "It's--dude, it's not even worth talking about, that's all. Just leave it."
Bob stared down at his feet for awhile, fingers interlaced, tapping his thumbs slowly against each other. Finally, he worked up the guts to ask, "This is about Gerard, isn't it?"
Frank snorted or choked or something--an abbreviated noise that turned into a creaky laugh. "And here I thought I was being so subtle," he joked.
Bob sighed, rubbing a palm over his head, scrubbing at the crick in his neck. He was not fucking equipped to deal with the epic grade of this disaster, he was pretty sure. "So," he tried, "so, what happened, then?"
Frank rolled his head back against the cushions, eyes focused up at the ceiling, fingers picking at the holes in the knees of his jeans. "Nothing, man."
"Iero," Bob growled, "I'm being a fuckin' friend, Jesus."
"Nothing!" Frank cried in annoyance. "Nothing, dude, exactly like I fuckin' said, okay? I'm not even stonewalling you this time or what-the-fuck-ever." He uncurled a little, digging his toes into the grubby carpet. "He just--he fuckin' started ignoring me! And I don't--" he swallowed, "I didn't handle it well, I guess," he concluded, more quietly.
Bob processed this for a moment, flicking a measuring glance at Frank. The kid looked rough, eyes reddish and expression tense. "Dude," Bob said as gently as he could, "are you--did you two--" he scrubbed a brisk palm over his jaw like it would help with his coherence.
"Naw," snorted Frank, letting him off the hook. "I never, y'know--and he obviously wasn't--isn't--so. I should've let it drop, but it just fuckin' bugged me, man. Like, he can have his projects and shit, that's great, he needs that. But when he fuckin' shut me out it was like--" he stopped, paused for a long moment, eyes rooted to the ground, hair nearly falling over them, precariously suspended with a week's worth of grease. "I just couldn't deal, I dunno," he finally concluded.
Bob nodded carefully, overwhelmed and a little freaked out. "I didn't know," he muttered, mostly to himself.
"I thought, as long as I had something, but then I didn't anymore," Frank shrugged, and Bob wasn't sure if Frank had heard him or not, but then his hand crept out to squeeze Bob's knee, hard and quick. "Anyway, it's fuckin' adolescent and I know that but I can't really help it."
"Shit, dude," Bob breathed out and then shook his head at himself, trying to think what to say. Frank clearly needed good advice more than most motherfuckers did. "You need to talk to Gerard, man."
Frank turned to him, straight-on, and glared. "What the fuck d'you think I've been trying to do, asshole?"
"Drink until he hates you?" Bob suggested, glaring right back. "Fucking self-sabotage, looks like to me."
"Fuck you," Frank spat, bouncing up and stalking toward the fridge, rummaging around for a bottle of water. "You don't fucking know. He fucking--" Frank chugged it, wiped at his mouth impatiently, "fucking won't look at me, what the fuck am I supposed to do?"
"Be a fucking adult!" Bob challenged, rising. "Take some fucking responsibility even if he won't!"
Frank dismissed him with a frustrated motion. "If he doesn't wanna talk to me, I don't wanna talk to him!"
Bob snorted. "That is so patently untrue, you pathetic fuck. Grow some balls!"
Frank threw his empty water bottle at the TV violently, where it glanced off the screen. "Fuck you, Bob!" he yelled, "I'm fucking in love with him, okay? So excuse me if I don't want to fucking give him a chance to fucking kick me in the balls while I'm at it!" He pressed a hand to his chest, breathing hard and shaking a little, like he was having a panic attack.
Bob made a move toward him, furious but concerned.
"Don't," Frank warned. "I'm fuckin'--" his labored breathing broke for a second, strangling his voice, "I need to fuckin' get the hell out of here." He pushed toward the door desperately, face ashen, and Bob thought for sure he'd pass out, but he fumbled down the stairs and then he was gone.
"I think we have a problem," Ray confided to Bob as soon as Gerard was settled down with his new cache of cassettes.
"No shit," Bob murmured, beckoning Ray back into the recording studio and glancing curiously over at Gerard, whose face was pale and blank, fingers twitching on the stereo dials. Ray followed him without a backward look, face set with worry.
"Gerard--" Ray began, closing the door firmly, then frowned and started again, "I think there's more to this project of his than we assumed. I've been getting this feeling and I don't like it."
Bob blew out a breath. "Yeah, no kidding. Listen, man, there's definitely more going on than I figured. Frank's, like, a basket case, to be honest."
Ray's eyes widened and he took a seat across from Bob. "Tell me," he said.
It was late--nearly dawn--when Bob and Ray's intermittent conversation was interrupted by a persistent thumping. Gerard's voice squawked "What the fuck?" and Bob cast a wide-eyed glance at Ray and then moved toward the door, through the bunks, and stuck his head into the lounge.
Gerard was on the couch, half-awake and rubbing his eyes, glaring bloody murder at Frank, who was sprawled in the corner, chucking tape after tape at the far wall, expression blasted and blank.
"Uhh, guys?" Bob asked cautiously.
Frank's watery gaze snapped over to him, and then he sneered and lobbed a tape at the door. Bob flinched and Frank smirked. "Hey, Bobby Bryar," he slurred, "you know all my secrets. Secret secret secrets. 'N if you ever tell on me I'll--"
"Frank!" Gerard yelped, stomping over and fishing Frank up by his collar. "What the fuck," he gritted out dangerously, "did you do to my tape?"
Frank grinned at Gerard, wide and happy, raising his hands to mold them sloppily against Gerard's face. "I finished it for you, Gee," he sing-songed, pressing a chaste kiss to Gerard's nose. "It's all done!"
Bob cast a look around the dim lounge and his eyes bugged out. Magnetic tape stretched across the carpet, over the breakfast nook and cupboard knobs, spilled in tangles down the wall and ended where the cassette dangled pathetically over the edge of the couch, like Frank got as far as Gerard and forgot what he was doing.
Frank swayed against Gerard, fingers sliding over his cheekbones, almost poking out his eyes. Gerard reeled away, shoving Frank down onto the carpet, where he landed with a surprised, "Oof!"
"Why are you being such an asshole?" Gerard moaned, scurrying around after the tape, gathering it up in his arms desperately, uselessly. "What did I ever do to you, Frank? Oh my God," he whimpered, cradling his armful of mutilated mix tape.
Frank scowled from where he remained on the floor, legs kicked out to the sides. "You don't even look at me, anymore," he whined sadly. "You don't even talk to me. All you care about is your stupid tape!" He poked accusingly at another cassette near his knee.
Gerard clutched at his tape defensively. "Because you're drunk all the time, you stupid fuck! I'm fucking trying--" he hiccuped, swallowing a wounded noise, "trying to get through this, okay, and you're just fucking making it harder! And I can't--I can't anymore." He dropped his armload onto the couch and kicked at Frank's foot. "You're such a shit. It's like you don't even care what you destroy! And I'm trying so fucking hard not to and I just can't--it was working fine!" he yelled with a sob.
Bob felt Ray's hand clench against his back, and he blew out a breath, unsure whether they should get in the middle of this or let it play out.
Frank stared up at Gerard, stunned, eyes looking a bit more sober and aware. "What are you talking about?" he asked, voice cracking raggedly.
"You," Gerard sniffled, fisting his hands. "You're--you were so perfect--" he slid down the side of the couch tiredly, clutching his face. "And so I tried, I really tried to just--because I put you guys through so much and I don't want to fuck things up--I won't ever again--and I thought if I just ignored it," he waved his hands around desperately, "but you're mad at me now and I didn't mean for that to happen. I just wanted some space so I could stop."
Frank cocked his head curiously, expression washed clean of all the fury and helplessness Bob had seen there for weeks. He leaned up on his knees and shuffled forward a bit, tentatively, and reached out a hand to Gerard's forehead, palm flat like he was testing for a fever.
Gerard peered up at him nervously, and Frank's hand slid clumsily down over his eyes, smushing his nose and parting his lips. "I'm drunk," Frank said after a long, heavy moment. "I'm so drunk. I need to go to bed."
Gerard's eyes closed, squinching a little at the edges.
Frank rose to his feet unsteadily, waving off Bob's hastily-offered arm, and stared oddly down at Gerard. "I'm sorry," he added sincerely. "I'm really sorry." Then he turned and wove his way past Ray, collapsing into his bunk.
Gerard remained on the floor, scrunched up small against the side of the couch, eyes closed tight.
In the following days, Bob watched both Gerard and Frank carefully. Gerard's ghetto blaster and tapes had disappeared, spirited away in the night or some shit, and he was spending more time in the studio with Ray, or sometimes going out with Mikey, who'd started coming home a little more often, though Pete was often in tow. Frank tiptoed around the bus soberly, casting frequent long glances in Gerard's direction and making fresh pots of expensive coffee on a strict schedule, but never approaching Gerard directly. It was itching at Bob--he hadn't worked on Frank for weeks just to let him wuss the fuck out now.
"Look, it's not like that," Gerard insisted when Bob asked him what he thought he was doing, still ignoring Frank. "I mean, we're good now--we cleared the air or whatever, so it's not the same thing." He scratched at his scalp unhappily, then pulled a face at the shower of dandruff that resulted. "Ugh. Christ, I need a good hosing down."
Bob couldn't help his smirk at that image and Gerard scowled in embarrassment. Bob shrugged and redirected, "What I'm saying is, Frank obviously doesn't think anything's been cleared, okay? Just an observation."
Gerard looked off, away from their perch at the edge the crowded backstage area, and propped his chin on the metal guardrail, dangling his sneakers from his toes over the precipitous drop. His hair hid everything but his nose, which was wrinkled. "I mean," he said quietly, "I told him how I feel about...things. So. I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. I can't help it if he doesn't want to--if he wants to keep his distance, now. That's just, y'know, his decision."
Bob puzzled over that one for awhile, methodically cracking his knuckles. Finally, he replied, "You know it wouldn't fuck anything up--any of us--if you guys worked stuff out. Right?" Because he wasn't sure that Gerard understood that, not really--that his life wasn't the barometer of the entire band.
Gerard darted a quick glance over, flushing, then stared steadily downward at the heaps of trash bags in the dumpster below. He didn't comment, but Bob knew Gerard enough to bet that he was mulling it over. A knot of techs were wrestling Bob's kit out of the truck and Bob automatically tensed, watching them, even though he felt bad about it.
"I don't think it matters much," Gerard admitted after awhile, nearly inaudible under the yells and clanking and the distant crowd. "I'm just gonna give it some time. It'll get normal again."
Bob sighed heavily and set his jaw. "Okay," he allowed. "But just--keep it in mind, all right? You don't need to carry everyone."
Gerard turned to smile at him, surprised and sweet. "You don't either, Bob. Okay? It's fine."
Bob froze awkwardly in the middle of getting up. "Yeah," he muttered, "thanks."
"Everything's fuckin' weird," Bob told Dustin, sucking down his second cigarette of the morning. "I mean, more stable, but I'm on fuckin' tenterhooks, regardless."
Dustin grunted agreement, waving to Gerard and Mikey as they emerged from the bus and headed off toward the stage area. Frank followed them outside after a second, thumping down the steps and pausing to light a smoke, nodding to Dustin and Bob.
Bob flicked his ash, asking, "'S it time already?"
Frank shrugged. "Guess so. Got like half an hour, I think."
Bob pushed away from the bus, taking one last drag and then casting down the butt, scrubbing a foot over it. He touched his fist to Dustin's in goodbye and urged Frank into a reluctant walk. "So, dude," he ventured, "I gotta ask. Why haven't you and Gerard--you know?"
Frank shrugged, eyes on his feet as they trudged along the dusty pathway between the buses and vans. "He said he needed time, right? I don't really know what for, but--I don't want to rush him. I've been a shitty person lately. If he doesn't want to deal with me, then I wanna, like, respect that." He scratched his head and then stuffed his hands in his pockets determinedly.
"Uh-huh," Bob acknowledged dubiously. "But do you even know what his deal is? I mean, maybe it's one of those things where it'll only get better if you talk."
"Nah," rejected Frank thoughtfully. "I think--I feel okay about this, now. Or better, anyway. Like, I get that he was just trying to make it through tour sober and it wasn't even about me. Or," he pulled a frustrated face, "it wasn't until I started being a dickhead and getting slobbering drunk all over him. I just--he just needs time. To like, forgive me. It'll be okay. Don't worry."
As they climbed the backstage steps, Bob stared off over the never-ending lot, heat mirages swirling over top of the small city. "I think you're wrong, man," he advised quietly. "I think that's not what Gerard was saying at all."
Frank gave him an odd look, then noticed Mikey and Gerard bent together in conversation near the side-stage. "Well, whatever," he replied distractedly. "He'll talk to me when he's ready."
"Maybe," said Bob warningly, "but what are you gonna do until then?"
"Just, I dunno. Be cool," Frank sighed, nodding quick thanks as some guy gave him a good-luck pat on the back on his way down to the loading dock. "I can get over it. I mean, I've got to, so--I already got the drinking part out of the way." He laughed ruefully.
"Okay, but here's the thing--he's not gonna bring it up, Frank," Bob said, pinning him with a serious look. "I don't know exactly where his head is at, but it's not on the same page as yours, I can tell you that much." Frank continued to frown blankly, and Bob groaned. "Dude," he said tersely, "Gerard thinks he told you how he feels about you, d'you realize that? And he thinks you said Sorry."
"Wh-what?" Frank stuttered, shaking his head. "Nooo, that's not what happened, Bob." He laughed nervously, glancing unsurely over his shoulder. "I was fucking there and he didn't say any of that. He said--well, I dunno exactly, but not that."
"Frank, you were fucking plastered, okay? Even when you sobered up a little, you were not firing on all cylinders. Ray and I heard. Gerard said he didn't want to fuck up the band again, right?"
Frank nodded, bewildered.
"He as good as told you that he--that he feels the same way, man. I mean, use your fuckin' head!" Bob insisted, squeezing his hand on Frank's shoulder.
"He was talking about the drinking," Frank repeated carefully. "He wasn't--I mean. Was he? Did he?" His gaze was intense, just slightly tinged with hope, searching Bob's face.
"I think so, man. Ray thinks so. I mean, he made a fuckin' mix tape, dude. About heartbreak." Bob rolled his eyes; he couldn't help it. Christ, these two.
"Shit," Frank mouthed quietly, then took a deep breath and glanced around. His gaze hooked on Gerard, stretching alone by the curtain, and stayed there for a long moment, seeming to grow brighter and stronger with each movement Gerard made. "Okay," he said, "okay, but if you're wrong, Bob Bryar, I am going to rip your balls out through your nose, just so you know."
Bob laughed. "Okay," he agreed, giving Frank a little shove.
He watched as Frank approached Gerard cautiously, smiled at him, gestured at his shoes for some fucking reason. Bob snorted, sure that this was already going awry, but Gerard's eyes were trained on Frank's face as Frank started talking--rambling, it looked like. Bob leaned against the railing, nodded at his tech when he appeared with Bob's sticks, and then ran warm-up drills against his thighs absently, still watching. Gerard hunched into himself a bit, withdrawing and shaking his head at Frank, who frowned, reaching out and then pausing mid-air, and seemed to repeat himself adamantly until Gerard relaxed slightly, eyeing him suspiciously.
Frank kept going, gesturing and explaining until he apparently ran out of words, darting glances up at Gerard's face, and Bob watched as Gerard's mouth slowly, reluctantly formed into a half-smile and Gerard's hand reached tentatively out to squeeze at Frank's fingertips, and stayed there. Frank blurted something, and then his face flushed and Gerard's followed suit, and the two of them stood there, fingers intertwined, gazing at each other, looking a bit like stunned fish. Bob turned away, rolled a paradiddle against the railing, and laughed himself sick in relief.
He glanced back just one last time to see Frank shuffle Gerard into a mess of a hug, elbows poking out at all angles, expressions still awed. Frank ducked his head into Gerard's shoulder, eyes stuttering closed for a brief second and then opening again, smiling straight at Bob. Bob averted his eyes, biting down on his own smile, and then nodded gruffly back at Frank, who giggled, turning his face into Gerard's neck and sliding his hands upward to cup Gerard's shoulder blades.
The crowd was thick, sweaty and exhausted, screaming, and Bob gazed out at them from behind his kit. Gerard messed with his mic stand briefly, grinning at the sea of strange, familiar faces, then over at Frank, warm and excited. Mikey bounded onstage last, laughing bright-eyed back at Pete in the wings, wrapping a tight arm around Gerard's shoulders and listening as his brother yelled something into his ear, then casting a measuring glance at Frank. Frank gazed steadily back and after a moment Mikey drew away from Gerard, took his place up near the riser where he looked over, eyes confirming with Ray and then Bob, who nodded firmly.
Frank skidded across the stage at the last moment, guitar banging against his knees, and gave Gerard a fast, hard little kiss on the temple just as Bob hit his kick drum. Gerard laughed in surprise, loud and high, and everything swung into sound again.
Frank/Gerard
~7,900 words
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. These characters are based on people of the same name, but that's pretty much where reality ends here.
Warnings: Angsty? But not irredeemably so.
Notes: For mrs_batman, who asked for Frank/Gerard road flangst with lots of Bob. This turned somewhat more angsty than I intended, but there's fluff at the end?? IDK. Also, fleurdeliser is a hero and held my hand throughout the whole thing and told me how to fix it when I came whining about every little thing. ♥
The first time Bob noticed something was up was when Gerard ducked into a Goodwill in Dayton, Ohio, and emerged ten minutes later smuggling a 1992 Sony ghetto blaster. Bob squinted, leaned back against the bus, and flicked his cigarette butt down onto the hot asphalt of the Wendy's parking lot. Gerard's oversize sunglasses and rumpled black hoodie made him look like he might keel over of heatstroke and he wasn't even trying to carry the stereo on his shoulder, which Bob agreed was probably a wise choice. Instead, Gerard chugged along across the cracked, weedy concrete, head down, stereo banging rhythmically against his knees. It was a little odd, Bob thought, but in the past year he'd seen Gerard do weirder.
As Gerard reached him, Bob jerked his chin up in greeting. Gerard gave him a determined nod, pace not slowing, and trundled his prize up the steps into the air conditioned bus. Bob watched after him curiously, then glanced over at the Wendy's, where he could see Mikey and Pete in line for chocolate Frosties, and decided that he might as well take a piss in a real urinal while he could.
By the next morning, Gerard had overtaken the far corner of the lounge. When Bob cracked open his eyes, clutching his sheet up around his ears, he could hear rustling and clicking and strains of music from the other room. It wasn't even six A.M., but there was no fucking way Bob could sleep with Gerard puttering around out there. Being a light sleeper on a tour bus had its advantages--early warning system for electrical fires, on more than one occasion--but it utterly sucked when someone in your band seemed to've pledged never to sleep again.
"What the fuck, dude," Bob muttered at Gerard, shuffling toward the kitchen nook and the percolating coffee.
Gerard was sitting cross-legged against the wall, frowning at his whirring tape deck, surrounded by a truly amazing litter of cassettes and cases. His lank hair fell across his forehead, shaded, as it always was lately, by an oversize hoodie. His knees poked out through the rips in his jeans, dusted with a layer of road grime. He fingernails looked bitten and painful, hands twitching slightly as he reached blindly to the right for his cactus mug. "Nnh," Gerard grunted, but Bob couldn't really tell if it was directed at him or the stereo.
"What's up?" he tried again, slurring slightly as he slurped coffee out of a plastic sippy cup without a lid that Mikey'd brought back from Pete's bus last week. Bob didn't know what they got up to over there and he really didn't want to know.
Gerard's gaze slid distractedly over Bob's face before focusing back. He started to speak and then choked on his own spit or something because he gagged, wheezing and hacking loud coughs. Bob rubbed at his eye sockets and went over to crouch down amongst the tapes and pound Gerard on the back a couple times.
"Khhk," croaked Gerard, "Thngks."
Bob shrugged, glancing over the wreckage of tapes. "Elvis?" he asked non-judgmentally.
Gerard gave a thoughtful nod, swallowing experimentally. "I wasn't sure, but, like, yeah. I think so." He picked it up and squinted. "Savers in Akron," he nodded again. "Bad selection but I got this and, um. Tears for Fears."
"Huh," Bob said. "What for?"
Gerard poked a button and the tape deck slowly, clickily disgorged a purple cassette. He discarded it somewhere to the left and inserted Elvis. "Mix," he replied shortly, ducking his head to peer at the spindles. It looked to Bob like the most arduous, painfully lo-fi mixing strategy possible; he felt a headache coming on just watching Gerard tap the deck patiently until the static turned to guitar licks. "I needed a project," Gerard admitted matter-of-factly.
"Huh," Bob said. "You got a theme?"
Gerard honked a long, mucus-y noise in the back of his throat and felt around for some particular tape he seemed to think he might be sitting on. "Heartbreak," he said, pulling a cassette out from under his ass. "Smiths," he added neutrally, waving it around in Bob's face.
Predictably, Gerard's mix tape quickly became the kind of epic project that everyone had something to say about.
"Total Eclipse of the Heart," contributed Dustin, giving Gerard thumbs-up with a sleazy click of the mouth. Bob raised an eyebrow sardonically, but Gerard just nodded seriously from his nest in the corner, as though he were taking this under consideration, which for all Bob knew, he might be.
"C'mon, man." Bob grabbed Dustin's arm and started toward the door. "Let him mope in peace."
"I'm not moping," Gerard piped after them. "I'm creating!"
Bob figured that for Gerard, the distinction between the two was probably fungible, particularly when it became clear after a week that he was serious as a heart attack about this project. Gerard worked, dozed, and mainlined coffee in the corner by his tape collection, fumbling through them over and over, becoming increasingly anti-social and greasy, only emerging to play shows and chain smoke, hidden behind his bug-eye sunglasses.
Everyone went their own special brand of crazy during tours like Warped, though, so Bob figured that Gerard was coping, at least, and he did seem content in an insomniac, monosyllabic sort of way. Ray had his studio, Mikey had his ambiguously gay fling, Frank had his increasingly bizarre pranks with his drinking buddies, Bob had his stash of suckers and the Thrice guys, and Gerard had Elvis and his ghetto blaster.
"Fat and Alone," Mikey stated, nodding seriously from his perch on the counter next to Pete. "Definitely."
Ray snorted a laugh, agreeing, "It's a classic, man."
Bob twitched a smile, feeling a little unsure what the joke was. "What's Fat and Alone?"
Gerard continued to glare steadily at Mikey, who smirked and wound his arm around Pete's waist. "It's nothing," said Gerard sullenly.
"Fuck you," Frank retorted, frowning and throwing down his controller, turning to scowl at Gerard. "Fat and Alone is too good for your retarded mix tape!"
Gerard glanced over at him briefly, unreadably, and then continued to poke through his collection of cassettes.
"Gerard doesn't care about your adolescent tragedy, Frank," translated Pete gleefully, kicking his feet against the cupboards.
Frank growled and scrunched down into the couch, darting frustrated glares over at Gerard in the corner. "Suck it, Wentz," he muttered.
Pete beamed and hopped down from the counter, grabbing Mikey's hand and tugging him. "Let's Get It On?" he suggested with a wink.
Bob groaned and threw a sweat sock at him, Gerard screeching, "Inappropriate!" Pete and Mikey ducked out the door, giggling, and Ray disappeared again into the back with a bag of Twizzlers. Frank unfroze his game, punching the volume up as high as he could and casting lingering, pointed glances at Gerard, who ignored him, producing a pair of massive headphones from somewhere in his piles of junk. Bob rolled his eyes and grabbed a Tootsie Pop from the bowl on top of the microwave before heading out.
"So, exactly how epic is this thing?" Bob finally asked in Nashville.
Gerard looked up from his work, squinched his face thoughtfully, and said, "I dunno, I guess. However epic it needs to be." He jammed a ragged-edged fingernail into the spoke of a cassette and twisted it around, reeling the tape manually backward a few inches.
Bob watched him, crashed out on the couch with Die Hard II on mute, and wondered what the hell was actually possessing Gerard to devote himself to this so completely. "Hey," he commented after several minutes, "you doing okay, dude?"
Gerard paused for a second, cocking his head to himself, and then bent down to eyeball the tape deck, adjusting a knob slightly. "Sure," he replied. "It's soothing."
"Hmm," Bob agreed, even though he was a little dubious about how soothing it could actually be to deal with such crappy electronics, seriously. "Here," he volunteered, "if you punch up the bass like half a notch on the playback, it won't crackle so much."
Gerard smiled over at him briefly, then quietly went back to his tinkering. Bob zoned out in front of the TV for a bit until the door slammed open and Frank came tumbling up the steps, giggling hysterically, red stains all over his hands and knees. "Uhh, what's up, man?" Bob asked.
Frank flung himself over the top of the couch onto Bob's knees, crying "Kamikaze mission!" and rubbed his hands all over Bob's one relatively clean t-shirt.
"Goddamn it!" Bob yelled, dumping him off onto the floor and swiping at his stained shirt uselessly. "You're such a shit, I swear," he grumbled.
Frank lay on the floor snickering. "Relax, it's just Kool-Aid," he told Bob scornfully, rolling over on his belly and eyeing Gerard, who was steadfastly ignoring their tussle.
"What the fuck were you doing?" Bob sighed, kicking resignedly at Frank's ribs. "Murdering a diabetic?"
"No," Frank snorfled into his arms. "Blowing one, what do you think? Mmmmm," he licked his lips and sucked at a few fingers suggestively. "Man, I wish I came fuckin' Kool-Aid, shit."
Bob snorted in spite of himself.
"Hey Gerard," Frank continued, eyes getting all predatory, "don't you wish I came Kool-Aid?"
Gerard spared him an uncomfortable glance. "'S disgusting," he muttered.
Frank grinned and shuffled across the carpet on his knees, latching onto Gerard's hood and pushing it off his head to muss his sticky hands through Gerard's hair. "You'd like it," he cackled.
"You're drunk," Gerard murmured in protest, ducking his head away and batting at Frank's insistent hands. "Frank, you're gross, fuck off."
Frank stuck his hands under Gerard's hoodie, clinging as Gerard tried to scramble away. "No, come cuddle with me," Frank whined. "I have Kool-Aid!"
Gerard made a desperate face at Bob, pushing Frank away. "Get off me! Frank, fucking leave me alone!"
Frank grimaced and let Gerard shove him, rolling away to rest against the foot of the couch. "Fine," he pouted to himself. "Bob likes my sugar."
"No, I don't," stated Bob, just in case there was any confusion.
It wasn't until Frank pissed on Dewees's shoes that it occurred to Bob that there might be a serious problem. Even then it took him an embarrassingly long moment to register what exactly he was seeing. He'd been knocking back a few with Dustin and the guys, so his powers of comprehension were not really at their highest.
"Shit," he blurted, eyes widening as they turned a corner and caught sight of Frank waving his dick around in front of the Reggie bus. Bob ran a hand over his newly-shaved head, got distracted for a second thinking about how that felt even better drunk, and then began bellowing and hauling Frank away. "What the fuck?" he yelled. "C'mon, you little shit!"
Frank reacted like Bob was trying to kill him, twisting and kicking, pants tangling around his thighs, screeching, "Fuck you! Fuck you, don't touch me, Bob! I can do what I want!"
"Dude," Teppei cackled incredulously as Dustin grabbed at Frank's legs, trying to help Bob subdue him.
"How fuckin' drunk is he?" Riley snorted.
"Shut up," Bob ordered shortly, in shock. This was not fucking good, Jesus Christ. "Iero! Iero, man, fuckin'--buck up, dude!"
Frank went limp suddenly, dangling dead weight between Bob and Dustin like a little kid. They stared at each other for a dazed second, and then laid him on the blacktop, still warm even hours after sunset, and stared down. Bob's heart was pounding, freaked the fuck out, because this was not standard operating procedure, even for Frank.
"Frank," Bob urged more quietly, kneeling down hear his head. "What's up, buddy?"
Frank's eyes were closed and he was breathing hard. He reached down to hike up his pants, zip himself back in. "Want to go home," he whined.
Bob frowned, glanced up at the guys, who shrugged, and then back down. "Back to Jersey?" he tried, baffled. Everyone had nights when tour broke them the fuck down, but he'd never seen it happen to Frank like this before.
"Nnn." Frank scrunched up his face. "Just, back. But no. Not back back, like--just him back."
Bob's brows knitted together, tight like a stress headache coming on. "Shit, man," he finally said. "Let's get you to the bus, okay?"
Frank allowed Bob and Dustin to carry him down the narrow, makeshift streets of the Warped bus city, arms wrapped tight around Bob's neck, whimpering occasionally about what a mess he was, how he was sorry, Bob, so sorry. Bob patted him awkwardly on the back and exchanged worried glances with the rest of the guys. When Bob lugged him through the lounge, Gerard glanced up from his tapes briefly, made a sour face, and hitched his hood further forward. Bob felt a little bad, bringing Frank back stinking of piss and beer, but then he rolled Frank into his bunk and stared at him for a second. The little dude was passed the fuck out, snoring lightly, fingers still clenched in Bob's crew neck. He carefully pried himself loose, sighed, and backed out, shutting the door behind him with a quick glance at Gerard. "Check on him, okay?" he asked.
Gerard bit his lip and ducked a shallow nod without meeting Bob's eyes.
When Bob stepped back off the bus into the humid darkness, Riley offered him a lighter. "Thanks, man," Bob murmured.
"He okay?" asked Teppei, leaning against Dustin.
"Yeah, I dunno," Bob admitted. "Fuckin' Warped."
They all nodded. "Fuckin' Warped, man."
As his hangover began to fade the next morning, Bob started to consider his options. He leaned against the side of the bus, inhaling his first cigarette of the day and watching the mill of hung over dudes near the food tent. He couldn't really stomach anything this early, but plenty of guys swore by the greasy breakfast method. Bob stuck to nicotine and drymouthing extra strength Tylenol.
After fifteen minutes and three smokes, he felt human enough to begin to worry about Frank's behavior last night. It wasn't that Frank never got drunk and rowdy, because Bob had been tackled too many times to even notice anymore, but Frank was always--always--a happy drunk. Sometimes he pulled stupid pranks, but Bob had never seen him get belligerent like that before, and it was scary as hell, following on the heels of Gerard's first year clean and sober.
Bob was aware, like they all were, that staying sober on Warped was fucking rough on Gerard, and to be honest, he assumed that was the reason behind Gerard's complete submersion in his project, to the exclusion of everything but their shows. They'd all rather have Gerard overly obsessed with one of his projects than ever risk putting the band through that kind of shit again, and Bob had always implicitly understood that this was why he'd been asked to join the band--that he was a stabilizing influence--and he didn't plan on dropping the fucking ball on that, ever. Last night had been bad, he knew that, but he hoped like hell it was a one-time deal.
Jamming his cigarette out against the wheel well, Bob cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders a couple times. He needed some perspective on this shit, he figured, turning back toward the bus. Inside was cool and quiet, Gerard fiddling with tapes obliviously in the corner, Mikey's bunk empty, Frank's a mess of sprawled limbs and dirty laundry.
Bob knocked briefly and then stuck his head into the studio. Ray was bent over his computer wearing headphones, concentrating intently on the squiggles of music running across the screen. "Can I bug you, man?" Bob asked, waving a hand in Ray's peripheral vision.
Ray started and pulled his headphones down around his neck, smiling in welcome. "Hey man, haven't seen you back here in awhile!"
Bob shrugged, settling himself on the couch. "Yeah, I dunno. Guess I've been out a lot." He tapped his fingertips arhythmically against his thigh, feeling vaguely guilty. "Anyway, dude, I think we have a problem."
Ray swiveled to face him, crossing one leg over his knee, face open. "Yeah?" he asked, concerned. "What's that?"
Bob scratched his eyebrow and tried to figure out what the hell he even meant to say. "So," he began, "have you noticed Frank acting weirder lately? Like--" he paused, unsure if he wanted to bring up the possibility, but pretty sure that it had to be done. "Like--drinking more, acting out kinda stuff?"
Ray's face pulled tight and filled with worry. He lifted his headphones from around his neck and set them down next to the laptop, hand lingering there for a short moment. "I mean," he started, "I hadn't really noticed, no. But if you have--" his eyes darted up to confirm and Bob nodded shortly, "then that's a problem, yeah. That's maybe a big problem."
"Yeah," Bob breathed out, scrubbing a hand over his hair. Hearing Ray agree with him was kind of a relief and also kind of terrifying. "I need to--I think I need to talk to Frank. I mean, he was fucking out of control last night, man." He glanced up at Ray miserably. "It was fucking crazy. Even the other day, he was bugging Gerard and I just--he can't be doing this on purpose. He would never pull this shit around Gerard if there wasn't something going on with him."
"Shit," said Ray, nodding his head, worried eyes trained on Bob's face. "That's not Frank at all. I can't even--I feel so bad I didn't notice this." He cast around the small room. "I need to get the fuck out of the studio."
"No, man," Bob dismissed, waving a hand. "I can get it. I just wanted, I don't know, a second opinion or whatever. I haven't known them forever."
"No, I need to," Ray shook his head adamantly, brows setting. "I'll check in with Gerard--see how he's holding up. You can deal with Frank. You know him, dude."
Bob shrugged uncomfortably.
"You do," Ray insisted, looking him straight in the eye. "Asshole doesn't stand a chance."
Bob took Frank to the Waffle House. It was maybe not the best setting for an intervention, but he figured the place had probably seen a couple already anyway, so who was he to balk?
"Get some fuckin' eggs, man," Bob ordered, throwing a placemat menu at Frank. "You look like shit, you need some grease and protein."
Frank glared blearily, sucking down his mug of coffee. "You want me to hurl? 'Cause I will, just for you, Bobby. No eggs nec'ssary."
Bob grunted in annoyance and then nodded to the nervously hovering waitress, who looked to be about fifteen years old. "Just waffles, I guess. With the pecans. Thanks."
The waitress--Jessica, her nametag said--scribbled studiously with her gel pen and flicked a strand of cotton candy pink hair out of her face before shuffling awkwardly toward the grill, glancing at them over her shoulder. Bob kind of remembered being that age, but he was constantly surprised by how fucking young he'd been, Jesus.
When Bob looked back over at Frank, he was resting his chin on the edge of his mug and tipping his face in, sucking the air to try to make a coffee vacuum or something. "So listen," Bob stated, "you need to tell me what the hell that was last night."
Frank blinked and released his breath, mug thumping down just slightly onto the table, shivering in a little circle. "Wha?" he asked, rubbing at his nose.
Bob watched him steadily, rotating a packet of Sweet'n'Low between his thumb and forefinger. "Last night," he repeated. "You remember any of it?"
Frank returned his level stare for several seconds, expression guarded, then replied, "Some."
Bob let out a quick breath through his nose and twitched for a cigarette. "Listen, man, you were a wreck," he said candidly. "Took me and Dustin to get your ass home, okay? This shit can't be happening, not with Gerard. So you're gonna tell me what needs to happen so that it doesn't, ever again."
Frank gave a short, bitter laugh and glanced away, eyes darting around the diner. "Right," he said under his breath.
"Excuse me?" Bob asked coolly, leaning forward. "I'm serious about this, Frank. Ray and I both are, okay, so spit it the fuck out."
"I don't gotta tell you anything, dude," Frank dismissed easily. "I'll quit with the drinking, but don't act like you've never been there, okay? I won't do it again, I apologize, end of story."
"You need to apologize to Gerard," Bob said. "And don't be so fucking flippant about this shit. I'm just trying to be a friend, dude."
Frank sighed and muttered something, rubbing his palm over his face angrily. "I know," he said after a minute, "and I'm not trying to be a jerk but it's really none of your business, so. Thanks for calling me out. I'll take up fuckin' macrame instead, all right?"
Bob frowned deeply. Frank wasn't usually this much of a brick wall, at least not to him. "Yeah, okay, man," he agreed unhappily. "But let's hang out more, okay? Not like, to keep an eye on you or whatever, just. I miss you, dude."
Frank smirked a little, a pleased look in his eyes as they poking through his splayed fingers. "Yeah, man, for sure. I'll teach you how to knit and shit." He chucked his fist across the table, bumping it against Bob's, friendly and tired.
There was surprisingly little to do on Warped that didn't involve alcohol or obnoxious pranks, Bob found, after a couple days of corralling Frank. He had new sympathy for Gerard, who remained holed up on the bus except for excursions with Ray for more cassettes. The two of them were constantly bent over the stereo, murmuring and passing tapes back and forth and laughing occasionally. Whenever Bob and Frank passed through, Frank would set his jaw and stare straight ahead, ignoring their corner so hard that he even moved stiffly, and Bob and Ray would share speaking looks, frustrated with their lack of success in getting anything concrete figured out. Gerard never even seemed to notice when Frank was there at all and Ray told Bob that he ignored any attempt to broach the subject.
Bob hadn't had much more luck with Frank, to be honest--for such a talkative little fucker, the dude could really clam up when he put his mind to it. From that alone, though, Bob figured he was right about something being seriously wrong, and it was frustrating as hell that he couldn't get Frank to let him help out. Even though he'd stopped getting wasted every night, Frank wasn't looking good--he was pale underneath his summer tan and his eyes always looked tired and unfocused. Bob hadn't seen him act like such a moody bitch since that exhausting stretch of shows and press right before Christmas. It was getting to the point where the only things that seemed to put him in a good mood were meeting fans or the promise of sugar.
"Dude," Bob prompted Frank, poking him forward in the food line. They were in Atlanta, or camped outside it, really, and the hot, sticky humidity hung heavy around them every time they set foot outside the bus. Bob was just waiting for the inevitable night when the air conditioning broke and they all had to go begging for floor space with their friends.
Frank stumbled forward in line, drooping from a long day spent outdoors, avoiding Gerard. Bob didn't feel much better, since he'd had to put up with Frank's bitching about the heat when he could've just gone back to the bus and watched a Star Wars marathon with Ray and Mikey and Pete.
"Y'okay, dude?" he asked as Frank rested his head against the pole that marked the edge of the tent. They were almost in the shade, thank fucking God.
"Uh-huh," Frank nodded slowly, rubbing his cheek against the cool metal. "Just need some Gatorade. 'N maybe a tofu dog."
"Yeah," Bob agreed, wiping the sheen of sweat off his face with the bottom of his t-shirt. "Hey, you wanna go grab us seats with Dewees, over there, and I'll get the food?"
Frank grimaced. "Dewees hates me since I pissed in his shoes."
"Dewees thought it was fucking hysterical," Bob countered, snorting and shoving Frank forward again before adding suspiciously, "besides, you said you didn't remember that shit."
Frank shrugged sheepishly.
"Fucking prick," Bob muttered under his breath. "So, then you can tell me what the hell that was all about, right?" he commanded.
Frank glared for a second and then brightened, replying, "Not in front of Dewees!"
"What the fuck does Dewees have to do with it?" Bob sighed, shuffling forward and grabbing a couple bottles of Gatorade off the table.
"No, I want blue," Frank argued, snagging one of the reds from Bob and replacing it. "It was fuckin' Dewees' shoes, man! What do you think it had to do with him?"
"Dude, you were fuckin' gone, okay, you didn't know whose bus that was," Bob said. He slid around the table, because apparently most rock stars were too dumb to notice that the line was significantly shorter on the other side, and piled a paper plate with fruit salad and scalloped potatoes. Frank's plate, he noticed, had three tofu dogs and six packets of hot sauce. "Besides," Bob continued, "I seriously doubt you were that fuckin' upset about him."
Frank grumbled but kept quiet, as if dinner would distract Bob from the information he'd been trying to get for fucking days.
"Seriously," Bob pressed as they took a seat on a somewhat bald patch of grassy knoll, "what the fuck, dude? I'm not trying to pry, but just--you freaked me the hell out that night, okay? I've never seen you like that."
Frank chugged half his bottle of Gatorade, then peered down at his tongue cross-eyed, obviously stalling. "Ith it bwoo?" he asked Bob.
Bob ignored him, scraping half his fruit salad onto Frank's plate and stealing one of his tofu dogs. Frank wrinkled his nose, ripping open a packet of hot sauce and splorting it as far away from the fruit as possible before dipping one of his tofu dogs and munching on it.
"Really, dude?" said Bob after a few minutes of scarfing potatoes and enjoying a slight, sudden breeze against his face. "You're really gonna stonewall me like this?"
Frank glanced away into the breeze, flicking his sunglasses down over his eyes and sucking on a chunk of watermelon.
"I will fucking sit on your head," Bob threatened in frustration, hauling Frank away from the bus door. Ray and Gerard had just disappeared on one of their tape quests, Frank sniping after them until Gerard turned around and, shoulders hunched up to his ears, bit out, "Leave me alone, Frank," with such vehemence that Frank looked like he was about to cry or beat the crap out of Gerard.
"You need to chill out, man," Bob ordered, pushing Frank down onto the couch, where he seemed to deflate, retreating into a corner and curling his knees to his chest. Bob watched, concerned, and then slowly sank down next to him. "What's going on with you, Frank? I'm fuckin' worried, okay?"
Frank sniffed shortly, face averted, and Bob's stomach dropped. The last thing he wanted to fucking deal with was Iero crying, shit. But then Frank spoke, voice steady enough. "It's--dude, it's not even worth talking about, that's all. Just leave it."
Bob stared down at his feet for awhile, fingers interlaced, tapping his thumbs slowly against each other. Finally, he worked up the guts to ask, "This is about Gerard, isn't it?"
Frank snorted or choked or something--an abbreviated noise that turned into a creaky laugh. "And here I thought I was being so subtle," he joked.
Bob sighed, rubbing a palm over his head, scrubbing at the crick in his neck. He was not fucking equipped to deal with the epic grade of this disaster, he was pretty sure. "So," he tried, "so, what happened, then?"
Frank rolled his head back against the cushions, eyes focused up at the ceiling, fingers picking at the holes in the knees of his jeans. "Nothing, man."
"Iero," Bob growled, "I'm being a fuckin' friend, Jesus."
"Nothing!" Frank cried in annoyance. "Nothing, dude, exactly like I fuckin' said, okay? I'm not even stonewalling you this time or what-the-fuck-ever." He uncurled a little, digging his toes into the grubby carpet. "He just--he fuckin' started ignoring me! And I don't--" he swallowed, "I didn't handle it well, I guess," he concluded, more quietly.
Bob processed this for a moment, flicking a measuring glance at Frank. The kid looked rough, eyes reddish and expression tense. "Dude," Bob said as gently as he could, "are you--did you two--" he scrubbed a brisk palm over his jaw like it would help with his coherence.
"Naw," snorted Frank, letting him off the hook. "I never, y'know--and he obviously wasn't--isn't--so. I should've let it drop, but it just fuckin' bugged me, man. Like, he can have his projects and shit, that's great, he needs that. But when he fuckin' shut me out it was like--" he stopped, paused for a long moment, eyes rooted to the ground, hair nearly falling over them, precariously suspended with a week's worth of grease. "I just couldn't deal, I dunno," he finally concluded.
Bob nodded carefully, overwhelmed and a little freaked out. "I didn't know," he muttered, mostly to himself.
"I thought, as long as I had something, but then I didn't anymore," Frank shrugged, and Bob wasn't sure if Frank had heard him or not, but then his hand crept out to squeeze Bob's knee, hard and quick. "Anyway, it's fuckin' adolescent and I know that but I can't really help it."
"Shit, dude," Bob breathed out and then shook his head at himself, trying to think what to say. Frank clearly needed good advice more than most motherfuckers did. "You need to talk to Gerard, man."
Frank turned to him, straight-on, and glared. "What the fuck d'you think I've been trying to do, asshole?"
"Drink until he hates you?" Bob suggested, glaring right back. "Fucking self-sabotage, looks like to me."
"Fuck you," Frank spat, bouncing up and stalking toward the fridge, rummaging around for a bottle of water. "You don't fucking know. He fucking--" Frank chugged it, wiped at his mouth impatiently, "fucking won't look at me, what the fuck am I supposed to do?"
"Be a fucking adult!" Bob challenged, rising. "Take some fucking responsibility even if he won't!"
Frank dismissed him with a frustrated motion. "If he doesn't wanna talk to me, I don't wanna talk to him!"
Bob snorted. "That is so patently untrue, you pathetic fuck. Grow some balls!"
Frank threw his empty water bottle at the TV violently, where it glanced off the screen. "Fuck you, Bob!" he yelled, "I'm fucking in love with him, okay? So excuse me if I don't want to fucking give him a chance to fucking kick me in the balls while I'm at it!" He pressed a hand to his chest, breathing hard and shaking a little, like he was having a panic attack.
Bob made a move toward him, furious but concerned.
"Don't," Frank warned. "I'm fuckin'--" his labored breathing broke for a second, strangling his voice, "I need to fuckin' get the hell out of here." He pushed toward the door desperately, face ashen, and Bob thought for sure he'd pass out, but he fumbled down the stairs and then he was gone.
"I think we have a problem," Ray confided to Bob as soon as Gerard was settled down with his new cache of cassettes.
"No shit," Bob murmured, beckoning Ray back into the recording studio and glancing curiously over at Gerard, whose face was pale and blank, fingers twitching on the stereo dials. Ray followed him without a backward look, face set with worry.
"Gerard--" Ray began, closing the door firmly, then frowned and started again, "I think there's more to this project of his than we assumed. I've been getting this feeling and I don't like it."
Bob blew out a breath. "Yeah, no kidding. Listen, man, there's definitely more going on than I figured. Frank's, like, a basket case, to be honest."
Ray's eyes widened and he took a seat across from Bob. "Tell me," he said.
It was late--nearly dawn--when Bob and Ray's intermittent conversation was interrupted by a persistent thumping. Gerard's voice squawked "What the fuck?" and Bob cast a wide-eyed glance at Ray and then moved toward the door, through the bunks, and stuck his head into the lounge.
Gerard was on the couch, half-awake and rubbing his eyes, glaring bloody murder at Frank, who was sprawled in the corner, chucking tape after tape at the far wall, expression blasted and blank.
"Uhh, guys?" Bob asked cautiously.
Frank's watery gaze snapped over to him, and then he sneered and lobbed a tape at the door. Bob flinched and Frank smirked. "Hey, Bobby Bryar," he slurred, "you know all my secrets. Secret secret secrets. 'N if you ever tell on me I'll--"
"Frank!" Gerard yelped, stomping over and fishing Frank up by his collar. "What the fuck," he gritted out dangerously, "did you do to my tape?"
Frank grinned at Gerard, wide and happy, raising his hands to mold them sloppily against Gerard's face. "I finished it for you, Gee," he sing-songed, pressing a chaste kiss to Gerard's nose. "It's all done!"
Bob cast a look around the dim lounge and his eyes bugged out. Magnetic tape stretched across the carpet, over the breakfast nook and cupboard knobs, spilled in tangles down the wall and ended where the cassette dangled pathetically over the edge of the couch, like Frank got as far as Gerard and forgot what he was doing.
Frank swayed against Gerard, fingers sliding over his cheekbones, almost poking out his eyes. Gerard reeled away, shoving Frank down onto the carpet, where he landed with a surprised, "Oof!"
"Why are you being such an asshole?" Gerard moaned, scurrying around after the tape, gathering it up in his arms desperately, uselessly. "What did I ever do to you, Frank? Oh my God," he whimpered, cradling his armful of mutilated mix tape.
Frank scowled from where he remained on the floor, legs kicked out to the sides. "You don't even look at me, anymore," he whined sadly. "You don't even talk to me. All you care about is your stupid tape!" He poked accusingly at another cassette near his knee.
Gerard clutched at his tape defensively. "Because you're drunk all the time, you stupid fuck! I'm fucking trying--" he hiccuped, swallowing a wounded noise, "trying to get through this, okay, and you're just fucking making it harder! And I can't--I can't anymore." He dropped his armload onto the couch and kicked at Frank's foot. "You're such a shit. It's like you don't even care what you destroy! And I'm trying so fucking hard not to and I just can't--it was working fine!" he yelled with a sob.
Bob felt Ray's hand clench against his back, and he blew out a breath, unsure whether they should get in the middle of this or let it play out.
Frank stared up at Gerard, stunned, eyes looking a bit more sober and aware. "What are you talking about?" he asked, voice cracking raggedly.
"You," Gerard sniffled, fisting his hands. "You're--you were so perfect--" he slid down the side of the couch tiredly, clutching his face. "And so I tried, I really tried to just--because I put you guys through so much and I don't want to fuck things up--I won't ever again--and I thought if I just ignored it," he waved his hands around desperately, "but you're mad at me now and I didn't mean for that to happen. I just wanted some space so I could stop."
Frank cocked his head curiously, expression washed clean of all the fury and helplessness Bob had seen there for weeks. He leaned up on his knees and shuffled forward a bit, tentatively, and reached out a hand to Gerard's forehead, palm flat like he was testing for a fever.
Gerard peered up at him nervously, and Frank's hand slid clumsily down over his eyes, smushing his nose and parting his lips. "I'm drunk," Frank said after a long, heavy moment. "I'm so drunk. I need to go to bed."
Gerard's eyes closed, squinching a little at the edges.
Frank rose to his feet unsteadily, waving off Bob's hastily-offered arm, and stared oddly down at Gerard. "I'm sorry," he added sincerely. "I'm really sorry." Then he turned and wove his way past Ray, collapsing into his bunk.
Gerard remained on the floor, scrunched up small against the side of the couch, eyes closed tight.
In the following days, Bob watched both Gerard and Frank carefully. Gerard's ghetto blaster and tapes had disappeared, spirited away in the night or some shit, and he was spending more time in the studio with Ray, or sometimes going out with Mikey, who'd started coming home a little more often, though Pete was often in tow. Frank tiptoed around the bus soberly, casting frequent long glances in Gerard's direction and making fresh pots of expensive coffee on a strict schedule, but never approaching Gerard directly. It was itching at Bob--he hadn't worked on Frank for weeks just to let him wuss the fuck out now.
"Look, it's not like that," Gerard insisted when Bob asked him what he thought he was doing, still ignoring Frank. "I mean, we're good now--we cleared the air or whatever, so it's not the same thing." He scratched at his scalp unhappily, then pulled a face at the shower of dandruff that resulted. "Ugh. Christ, I need a good hosing down."
Bob couldn't help his smirk at that image and Gerard scowled in embarrassment. Bob shrugged and redirected, "What I'm saying is, Frank obviously doesn't think anything's been cleared, okay? Just an observation."
Gerard looked off, away from their perch at the edge the crowded backstage area, and propped his chin on the metal guardrail, dangling his sneakers from his toes over the precipitous drop. His hair hid everything but his nose, which was wrinkled. "I mean," he said quietly, "I told him how I feel about...things. So. I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. I can't help it if he doesn't want to--if he wants to keep his distance, now. That's just, y'know, his decision."
Bob puzzled over that one for awhile, methodically cracking his knuckles. Finally, he replied, "You know it wouldn't fuck anything up--any of us--if you guys worked stuff out. Right?" Because he wasn't sure that Gerard understood that, not really--that his life wasn't the barometer of the entire band.
Gerard darted a quick glance over, flushing, then stared steadily downward at the heaps of trash bags in the dumpster below. He didn't comment, but Bob knew Gerard enough to bet that he was mulling it over. A knot of techs were wrestling Bob's kit out of the truck and Bob automatically tensed, watching them, even though he felt bad about it.
"I don't think it matters much," Gerard admitted after awhile, nearly inaudible under the yells and clanking and the distant crowd. "I'm just gonna give it some time. It'll get normal again."
Bob sighed heavily and set his jaw. "Okay," he allowed. "But just--keep it in mind, all right? You don't need to carry everyone."
Gerard turned to smile at him, surprised and sweet. "You don't either, Bob. Okay? It's fine."
Bob froze awkwardly in the middle of getting up. "Yeah," he muttered, "thanks."
"Everything's fuckin' weird," Bob told Dustin, sucking down his second cigarette of the morning. "I mean, more stable, but I'm on fuckin' tenterhooks, regardless."
Dustin grunted agreement, waving to Gerard and Mikey as they emerged from the bus and headed off toward the stage area. Frank followed them outside after a second, thumping down the steps and pausing to light a smoke, nodding to Dustin and Bob.
Bob flicked his ash, asking, "'S it time already?"
Frank shrugged. "Guess so. Got like half an hour, I think."
Bob pushed away from the bus, taking one last drag and then casting down the butt, scrubbing a foot over it. He touched his fist to Dustin's in goodbye and urged Frank into a reluctant walk. "So, dude," he ventured, "I gotta ask. Why haven't you and Gerard--you know?"
Frank shrugged, eyes on his feet as they trudged along the dusty pathway between the buses and vans. "He said he needed time, right? I don't really know what for, but--I don't want to rush him. I've been a shitty person lately. If he doesn't want to deal with me, then I wanna, like, respect that." He scratched his head and then stuffed his hands in his pockets determinedly.
"Uh-huh," Bob acknowledged dubiously. "But do you even know what his deal is? I mean, maybe it's one of those things where it'll only get better if you talk."
"Nah," rejected Frank thoughtfully. "I think--I feel okay about this, now. Or better, anyway. Like, I get that he was just trying to make it through tour sober and it wasn't even about me. Or," he pulled a frustrated face, "it wasn't until I started being a dickhead and getting slobbering drunk all over him. I just--he just needs time. To like, forgive me. It'll be okay. Don't worry."
As they climbed the backstage steps, Bob stared off over the never-ending lot, heat mirages swirling over top of the small city. "I think you're wrong, man," he advised quietly. "I think that's not what Gerard was saying at all."
Frank gave him an odd look, then noticed Mikey and Gerard bent together in conversation near the side-stage. "Well, whatever," he replied distractedly. "He'll talk to me when he's ready."
"Maybe," said Bob warningly, "but what are you gonna do until then?"
"Just, I dunno. Be cool," Frank sighed, nodding quick thanks as some guy gave him a good-luck pat on the back on his way down to the loading dock. "I can get over it. I mean, I've got to, so--I already got the drinking part out of the way." He laughed ruefully.
"Okay, but here's the thing--he's not gonna bring it up, Frank," Bob said, pinning him with a serious look. "I don't know exactly where his head is at, but it's not on the same page as yours, I can tell you that much." Frank continued to frown blankly, and Bob groaned. "Dude," he said tersely, "Gerard thinks he told you how he feels about you, d'you realize that? And he thinks you said Sorry."
"Wh-what?" Frank stuttered, shaking his head. "Nooo, that's not what happened, Bob." He laughed nervously, glancing unsurely over his shoulder. "I was fucking there and he didn't say any of that. He said--well, I dunno exactly, but not that."
"Frank, you were fucking plastered, okay? Even when you sobered up a little, you were not firing on all cylinders. Ray and I heard. Gerard said he didn't want to fuck up the band again, right?"
Frank nodded, bewildered.
"He as good as told you that he--that he feels the same way, man. I mean, use your fuckin' head!" Bob insisted, squeezing his hand on Frank's shoulder.
"He was talking about the drinking," Frank repeated carefully. "He wasn't--I mean. Was he? Did he?" His gaze was intense, just slightly tinged with hope, searching Bob's face.
"I think so, man. Ray thinks so. I mean, he made a fuckin' mix tape, dude. About heartbreak." Bob rolled his eyes; he couldn't help it. Christ, these two.
"Shit," Frank mouthed quietly, then took a deep breath and glanced around. His gaze hooked on Gerard, stretching alone by the curtain, and stayed there for a long moment, seeming to grow brighter and stronger with each movement Gerard made. "Okay," he said, "okay, but if you're wrong, Bob Bryar, I am going to rip your balls out through your nose, just so you know."
Bob laughed. "Okay," he agreed, giving Frank a little shove.
He watched as Frank approached Gerard cautiously, smiled at him, gestured at his shoes for some fucking reason. Bob snorted, sure that this was already going awry, but Gerard's eyes were trained on Frank's face as Frank started talking--rambling, it looked like. Bob leaned against the railing, nodded at his tech when he appeared with Bob's sticks, and then ran warm-up drills against his thighs absently, still watching. Gerard hunched into himself a bit, withdrawing and shaking his head at Frank, who frowned, reaching out and then pausing mid-air, and seemed to repeat himself adamantly until Gerard relaxed slightly, eyeing him suspiciously.
Frank kept going, gesturing and explaining until he apparently ran out of words, darting glances up at Gerard's face, and Bob watched as Gerard's mouth slowly, reluctantly formed into a half-smile and Gerard's hand reached tentatively out to squeeze at Frank's fingertips, and stayed there. Frank blurted something, and then his face flushed and Gerard's followed suit, and the two of them stood there, fingers intertwined, gazing at each other, looking a bit like stunned fish. Bob turned away, rolled a paradiddle against the railing, and laughed himself sick in relief.
He glanced back just one last time to see Frank shuffle Gerard into a mess of a hug, elbows poking out at all angles, expressions still awed. Frank ducked his head into Gerard's shoulder, eyes stuttering closed for a brief second and then opening again, smiling straight at Bob. Bob averted his eyes, biting down on his own smile, and then nodded gruffly back at Frank, who giggled, turning his face into Gerard's neck and sliding his hands upward to cup Gerard's shoulder blades.
The crowd was thick, sweaty and exhausted, screaming, and Bob gazed out at them from behind his kit. Gerard messed with his mic stand briefly, grinning at the sea of strange, familiar faces, then over at Frank, warm and excited. Mikey bounded onstage last, laughing bright-eyed back at Pete in the wings, wrapping a tight arm around Gerard's shoulders and listening as his brother yelled something into his ear, then casting a measuring glance at Frank. Frank gazed steadily back and after a moment Mikey drew away from Gerard, took his place up near the riser where he looked over, eyes confirming with Ray and then Bob, who nodded firmly.
Frank skidded across the stage at the last moment, guitar banging against his knees, and gave Gerard a fast, hard little kiss on the temple just as Bob hit his kick drum. Gerard laughed in surprise, loud and high, and everything swung into sound again.