Fic: The Boys of Summer
Title:The Boys of Summer
Authors: s0ckpupp3t & dapatty
Artist: wilde_stalyn
Bandom: MCR with guest appearances by Pete Wentz and Brendon Urie
Characters/Pairings: MCR GSF: Frank/Mikey, Ray/Christa, Ray/Frank, Ray/Gerard, Frank/Brendon, Mikey/Pete, Frank/Mikey/Gerard, Ray/James + mentioned /wives
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Enticements: incest, bondage, blindfold, rimming, crossdressing, threesome, double penetration
Summary: The four core members of MCR (and their wives) are in open relationships with each other, but lately Ray has been playing a lot of music with James Dewees offstage. Frank and Christa are encouraging, but Gerard has some reservations. Meanwhile, Pete and Brendon pay a surprise visit to Mikey and Frank. All problems can be solved with sex adult rational discussion without pants.
Disclaimer: The authors are unaffiliated with people in this story and none of this happened; it’d just be really hot if it had.
Authors’ Notes: Thanks to dear_monday for the beta and putting up with us and being amazing and charming and delightful as well as shadowrider and hangemhigh_27. This fic wouldn’t have been half as good without you girls! ♥
See the ultra-shiny magnificent art and mix HERE and give wilde_stalyn ALL THE LOVE for being so awesome.
The thing about being tied together as a band for ten years was that not only were they really on musically, they were also a family. And since they were in each other’s pockets day in and day out, especially on tour, ending up wrapped in each other was really the only way they would have wanted it to go (even if it took nearly that long to make it official). Frank had always known it was only a matter of time, though, from his first kiss with Gerard to when they first asked him to be in the band to the first orgy in London -- and the way Gerard, Ray, and Mikey had surrounded him, taken him apart, and put him back together. It had been like coming home. There was just as much love with his boys as when he was back in Jersey with Jamia and his two little girls.
The tour had been good, even after the whole Pedicone thing. And Frank was not getting mad about that anymore, no way, even though this wasn’t the first time they’d had a problem with a drummer. Not when Jarrod was working out musically and what with how he didn’t seem to be a Scooby Doo villain. No one stole Ray’s underwear again, even though Frank insisted it was a good idea. But Dewees was right -- they’d have to gather more lacy undergarment replacements. Because if one was going to steal someone else’s underwear, one should just steal it all and leave something in its place. There were rules.
Besides, Dewees had been busy, as far as Frank could determine. Busy having music sex. With Ray. Yeah, Frank had noticed. Ray hadn’t noticed that was what they were doing yet, because, well, he was adorably clueless like that.
Frank remembered how long it took Ray to get Gerard’s hints. Gerard was about as subtle as fourth-grader, and it still took Ray a whole European leg to get it. Ray would figure it out with James eventually, Frank was pretty sure. That, or Christa would have to help him out, because Frank just didn’t have time for that shit. He was hoping to collect some betting pool winnings on the second half of this tour. Or maybe to get Gerard and Mikey in the same room again, because that shit would never get old.
What he wouldn’t be doing was planning another orgy. That shit was stressful. The next orgy was totally Mikey’s to plan, and besides, this tour had precious few hotel nights to begin with. It was hard to plan involved kinky sex without adequate hotel nights. But two orgies weren’t bad for a whole touring cycle, in Frank’s book. Not that he was keeping track -- but he totally would be, now that he’d finally gotten them all in bed at once.
No, all their wives were, in the form of a betting pool. Of course that somehow meant that Pete Wentz was too, but really, there were worse things. Far worse. Besides, Wentz was a perfectly good lay. Not that Frank had any firsthand experience, surprisingly, but he could always ask Mikey. Mikey would at least say something in eyebrow about it.
Speaking of Mikey, it was probably time for Frank to go find him. There were always shenanigans to be pulled, possibly involving nudity. Frank needed some shenanigans. He didn’t know exactly what his deal was, but he’d been restless lately. And bus call was soon, for another show in another city. Not that he minded this tour right now, but it was work, and Frank was still trying to figure out how to clone himself. He ruffled his hair and massaged his forehead, trying to figure out if he was tired, or hungry, or what. This was the part of the tour when he started wondering how he could do it. It was like flying to Neverland. If he started thinking about how impossible it all was, he’d never make it there. He bit a thumbnail, worrying away at it with his teeth.
Two hands grabbed him around his waist and maneuvered him over to the nearest wall.
“What?” he gasped, shoulders hitting brick while he tried to figure out who was manhandling him. “Mikey?”
“You are the twitchiest little fucker,” Mikey said, eyebrow cocked disapprovingly to mask the concern underneath.
“Maybe,” Frank said.
“Are the girls okay? Cherry? Lilly?” Mikey asked.
“Yeah, they’re okay,” Frank answered. “Maybe I should call again to be sure? Is the Force telling you something?”
Mikey’s shoulders relaxed a little. “They’re probably still fine,” he said, smiling crookedly.
“Yeah,” Frank nodded, feeling the scratch of brick on his neck.
“Yeah,” Mikey quirked an eyebrow and reached for Frank’s belt.
“What?” Frank squawked. “Here?”
“I am not getting any more come on my sheets this tour, and your bunk smells funny,” Mikey said simply.
“My bunk does not smell funny,” Frank protested.
“It smells too clean,” Mikey shrugged.
Frank rolled his eyes and giggled. “Too clean!” Unbelievable.
Frank was reminded of an afternoon, years ago, when Gerard had fussed at him for washing his sheets too often. “I like the way you smell,” Gerard had complained, “and as soon as things start to smell like you, you wash it all away so I can’t smell you anymore.” Poor, long-suffering Ways.
“Shut up,” Mikey licked the side of Frank’s neck and bit down, sucking on the skin.
Frank made a fascinating groan, squeak noise that he couldn’t help. “Shit.” He swallowed, and Mikey chose that moment to reach his hand into Frank’s boxers and wrap his long fingers around Frank’s already half-hard cock. “Oh fuck, Mikeyway. That’s cheating.”
Mikey hummed against Frank’s neck and Frank shivered as Mikey twisted his fingers, swiping his thumb over the head of Frank’s cock.
Frank gasped, hips jerking forward, his hands wrapping around Mikey’s biceps, grasping for purchase, as Mikey gave Frank’s neck one final lick.
“Yeah?” Mikey asked. He could have been asking any number of things. Frank wasn’t completely sure. He thought his brain might be leaking out of his ears, and the way Mikey looked wasn’t helping. Lips wet, hair over one eye and heat suffusing his gaze.
“Yeah,” answered Frank encouragingly as Mikey started jacking him off, hard and fast, making Frank pant.
“Yes, that,” Frank needlessly clarified and Mikey kissed him, tongue teasing Frank’s bottom lip and sliding in, fucking Frank’s mouth.
Frank came with a muffled gasp and slumped against the wall, breaking the kiss.
“Better?” Mikey quirked an eyebrow again and then licked the come from his hand.
Frank moaned, “Yes, except for you trying to kill me with hotness. Kiss me again so I can taste.”
Mikey smirked and obliged while tucking Frank neatly back into his pants.
“Okay,” Frank said, standing and dragging Mikey toward the bus. “We’ll snuggle in your bunk and I’ll swallow.”
“No,” Mikey said and Frank stopped walking and looked at Mikey, concerned.
“Why not?” Frank asked.
“We’re gonna snuggle in your bunk,” Mikey answered. “It’s still too clean.”
“Oh, okay!” Frank beamed and went back to dragging Mikey to the surprised cackling of Dewees, who probably saw that whole handjob thing. Frank wouldn’t put it past him. The guy was inexplicable, oddly stealthy, and a bit of a mad scientist. Ray really needed to get his act together and boink his brains out.
*********
Sometimes You Have to Listen to Those Smarter Than You
After sound check, Gerard had to go get changed, Frank wanted to check in with the girls, and Mikey just disappeared somewhere. Ray went back to the bus to pick up a cleaner shirt and maybe try out a new riff he was thinking about. He waved at Dewees on his way to the back, picked up a guitar, and started trying out the line. It didn’t sound quite right, so he let his fingers wander over favorite songs, video game themes, half-snatches of barely remembered tunes, sewn together with things he made up out of thin air. It was only about four minutes of what probably sounded like channel-surfing before he settled on a progression, something comfortable to expand upon. It sounded a little harmonic minor but probably wasn’t, and he didn’t worry about it, just closed his eyes and felt his fingers travel over the fretboard.
Somewhere around there he’d heard a thump, had written it off as one of the guys picking something up and slamming around the bus as usual. What he didn’t expect was a melody to join his, pinning it up from underneath one moment, soaring above it the next. He opened his eyes on James, looking quietly happy, playing the shitty little 61-key they kept in the studio. He paused for half a second before the next note, looked up and smiled. James smiled back, and they kept going, climbing up the scale before he did something on the keyboard, swinging them effortlessly into a tempo change. It turned something that might have sounded depressing (if you weren’t playing it) into a driving, almost peppy piece, something sort of morbidly moshable.
It was perfect, and they wound up losing a full twenty minutes trading licks before remembering that they needed to eat and get dressed.
Dinner was decent, and the show was pretty awesome. Ray loved playing for fans, but there was an energy to summer crowds, too, people who maybe hadn’t come for MCR but were determined to have a good time, and the way you could feel them warming to the band, the way you knew they’d pick up a CD on their way out, or hit iTunes when they got home, or tell a friend. It was different, but it was good. And it made the band different. They could all feel it, and it made them shine, made them play off each other. Sometimes, it made them fight for it. Always, they won.
Eventually, the night was drawing to a close, and he could go call Christa. It was always so good to hear her voice, even it was just her voicemail, but she picked up, said hello, asked him how his day was.
“Nothing really interesting. Ate like four bowls of Lucky Charms for brunch. Oooh, but I got a nap!” He interrupted himself excitedly.
“All this glamour and hedonism, I don’t know how you stand the rockstar life.” He could hear her smile, almost taste it.
“Wound up jamming with James after sound check.” Ray had meant to go on and talk about dinner, and how the show went, but he stopped there for some reason.
“Been jamming with James a lot lately.” Christa said it with the kind of lightness that meant she was being overly careful with her words.
“What’s that mean?” He didn’t sound defensive or anything. Not very, anyway.
“Nothing - it’s been good, right?” If Ray didn’t know better, he’d have thought she sounded concerned.
“Shit, yes, it’s been good. You know how it is, when you’re doing improv, and it’s like you’re in each other’s heads, and sometimes he’ll come out of nowhere with this, this line, and...” Ray abruptly realized he was rambling. “And it’s good, yeah.”
“Thought so. You know I’d be okay with you going there, right?”
“Um...” Ray felt his face heat up a little. “I don’t know if anything’s heading in that direction.”
“I’m not saying it’s going to! Or you’re going to, or he’s going to, or whatever. Just...” She took a breath, laughing a little, “I’m okay with it if you do. He’s with the band. You like him. You like playing with him so much that even when you’re touring you’ve been finding time to jam every week. I don’t know him as well as the other guys, but I like him, and I like people who make you happy.”
“Oh. I mean, good? But I wasn’t...! I hadn’t thought of it!” It was hard to communicate the churning feeling in his stomach to himself, let alone to Christa over the phone, miles and miles away.
“Uh-huh,” she said flatly. Then she changed tactics. “Good music is like sex, isn’t it?”
“God, yes,” he agreed fervently, happy to be back on a subject he could navigate with ease.
His darling wife, of course, promptly turned that right on its head by saying, “And you and James have been having music sex for months, and lately you’ve even been doing it offstage, and all I’m saying is you should feel free to explore having sex-sex with him too, if you want.” She sounded incredibly reasonable. All of it sounded incredibly reasonable.
“Shit.” The churning in Ray’s stomach blossomed into an ache of anxiety and anticipation. “Aw, shit.”
“Uh-huh.” There was a lot more approval in her voice this time.
“You think I’ve been leading him on? Has the rest of the band noticed? Should I stop? Should I apologize? What do you say? Should I give him flowers? Fuck.”
“Ray.” She was gently chiding, oceans of calmness and patience.
“Sorry. Things are already so complicated, and I wasn’t paying attention, and what if I screw everything up?” It wasn’t a question, really. Ray was pretty sure he was going to.
“So what if you do? We’re solid, you and me. ‘Til the wheels fall off. Same with you and the guys. You’re allowed to screw everything up every once in a while. We’ve all done it, we’ll all do it again. I’m not saying anybody’s noticed, I don’t think you have to reinvent the wheel, and things are complicated but they’re awesome. Also, flowers? Not necessary, but James would probably make an amazingly interesting face if you sent him some.” Ray could practically see Christa counting off each point on her fingers.
“Who ARE you, and how the fuck did I find someone this reasonable to marry?” Ray cracked up, giving in to the grin that had been building during her brief speech.
“I’m not that reasonable,” she cautioned, laughing back. And just like that, everything was right with the world, and he knew exactly what to say next.
“Uh-uh, if Jamia wants pictures she’s just going to have to get them for herself. None of this ‘pics or it didn’t happen’ shit.”
“Who said it’s Jamia who wants pics?” she asked coyly.
“I’ll see what happens,” he said, snickering. “Gotta go. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Ray hung up and looked at his phone, pushed his hair back, looked at the ceiling. His life was just a progression from weird to awesome to weirder to awesomer.
After he got back on the bus, he slept better than he thought he would. This was serious territory, the kind he’d never found himself in before. When it came to partners, well. With Christa, things had just fallen together. With the guys in the band, he’d just sort of found himself quietly interested, then happily surprised to have a tongue down his throat (Frank) or a hand stuck down his pants (Mikey). Gerard had been... a little different, but Gerard was always a little different. This was the first time Ray had ever really needed to pursue someone, let alone realized (or, okay, been made to realize) that he was already mid-pursuit. He drifted off in his bunk, head full of happy memories and what-ifs.
The next day, he was a little afraid the conversation with Christa would make him act weird. Maybe he’d need to come up with random shit to do to avoid James so Ray wouldn’t be creepy at him. Maybe he was just going to exude some sort of weird Ulterior Motives for Improvising vibe now, and there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe Dewees was exuding Ulterior Motives vibes and Ray just hadn’t noticed.
But after about five minutes of vague fretting over coffee, the day took over, and he realized there wasn’t time to be creepy, or find random shit to do, or make his Sense Motive rolls. They were on tour, playing shows, doing press, meeting fans... it just kept going, and Ray went with it.
Before he knew it, a couple of days had passed and he and James were waiting for setup, and somehow James managed to snag his keyboard from a tech and they were jamming again. It was a little ridiculous, Ray plugged into some random Pignose, James using his keyboard’s onboard speakers, but it passed the time, and nobody seemed to mind. Ray couldn’t put a name to what they played this time, but it started out tentative and went somewhere through gritty-angry blues into this dissonantly filthy rhythmic vamp, and when it ended, they were laughing, the stage was ready, and the rest of the guys had materialized, Frank smiling, Gerard scribbling feverishly in his sketchbook while Mikey looked over his shoulder approvingly.
Ray and James laughed again, fistbumped, and got their gear onstage. Inwardly, Ray crowed. That hadn’t been awkward or creepy! Sound check was easy, the gig was pretty great. Ray was really pleased by how well Jarrod was working out, and all of them seemed to be flowing, shredding, fierce grins lighting up the stage. Gerard wound up on his knees holding the mic in both hands more than once, Mikey strutted, Frank was crazy and sweat-covered and distracting as all hell, and James... Ray was really starting to get used to James onstage, the thread of keyboard connecting their songs into a cohesive whole, the way he worked around Ray and Frank melodically, supported Gerard’s vocals, did rhythmic counterpoints to Mikey’s bass. And every once in a while, when Ray wasn’t wrapped up in the song or the crowd or the ebb and flow or whatever crazy-hot thing one of his bandmates was doing to a microphone, he got to notice James throwing in some blisteringly gorgeous passages. Ray just played, and played, and sang, and let himself drift on it all.
And if that night he found himself shoved up against a wall with Frank’s hard-on pressing into his thigh, well. He could handle that, too. It was a short stay before a long drive, and he’d figured on only seven hours of sleep. But with clever fingers sliding up under his shirt and the heat in Frank’s eyes, Ray decided five hours would be plenty.
“I’m about to say something that I think will make you happy,” Ray mused, looking down at Frank.
“‘Time to get naked’?” Frank said hopefully, with a grin.
“In a manner of speaking. I want a fucking shower, and I think I have a walk-in,” Ray grinned back.
“Fuck yes,” Frank agreed fervently, and began to scramble about. In the two minutes it took for Ray to find his bag and throw his clothes on the floor, Frank had started the hotel’s shower, gotten naked, stocked it with soap and lube, and gotten in, beaming as he let the water pound his skin. Ray walked in after him, shoving him out of the spray.
“Such a fucking water sign, I swear,” he said affectionately.
“Sez the Cancer to the Scorpio.” Frank hip-checked Ray closer to the wall, and started covering the both of them with soap, something bright and citrusy.
Ray sniffed. “Hey, this isn’t the honey stuff.”
Frank’s eyebrows waggled. “I haff manny kindts off soap.”
Ray threw a washcloth at his face. “Ve haff veys of making you tolk?”
“Ja, exactement!” Frank giggled, picking the washcloth up off his forehead and soaking it in soapy goo.
“That’s German and French, weirdo.”
“You understood them, didn’t you?” Frank retorted.
Ray was going to think of something clever to say back, but Frank was behind him and scrubbing his shoulders, lifting his hair to soap up his neck, washing off the sweat of the show. Ray closed his eyes and let somebody else take care of him. For once, he could hear his wife say.
He reached for the shampoo and lathered his hair while Frank did the rest of him, lingering distractingly on all of his favorite spots. The oversized shower cabinet was nicely steam-filled now, and Ray turned around as he smoothed conditioner over the ends of his hair, looking at Frank.
“What is that?”
“This is what happens when you take out your contacts, Toro. It’s a loofah.” Frank shrugged.
“You don’t own a loofah.” Ray was pretty sure.
“I do now!” Frank grinned. “I’m taking this one from the hotel.”
“Hotels have loofahs now?”
“And those mesh things! I’m the only guy in the band who pays attention to this shit, aren’t I.” Frank’s shoulders slumped. It was adorable.
Ray took the loofah from him, drizzled it with soap, and turned Frankie around to face the wall, scrubbing his lower back until he purred, then made whisking strokes up to his shoulders and down his ass and thighs.
“Shit, why don’t I room with you all the time?” Frank leaned into Ray’s scrubbing, eyes closed in pleasure.
Ray put down the loofah and leaned up against Frank. “Because I suck at Mariokart?”
Frank gasped, rubbing his ass against Ray. “It’s your devotion to Yoshi I find disturbing.”
Ray picked up the lube. “Says the guy who’s always Mario.” It was warm from the shower, so he just poured it down Frank’s crack, grinning when he gasped. Whoops. Maybe it was still a little bit cold, but there was plenty of it, and they didn’t have to worry about being messy.
“You got something against short Italian brunettes, you oughta tell me now. Shit.” Frank arched his back, pressing up against Ray, smearing the lube over his cock.
“So long as you don’t grow the moustache again, we’re good,” Ray murmured, getting a hand on his cock and angling the head against Frank’s asshole, nudging gently to make him groan. He was going to pull back, get some more lube on his fingers, but Frank interrupted him.
“Don’t stop.” He’d pressed his cheek against the tile, and his mouth was open, lips a distracting red against all that soothing beige.
The words made Ray’s stomach flipflop. “Spread?”
Frank made a needy noise and reached back with both hands, his forehead against the tile now, pulling his cheeks apart. Ray groaned at the sight, lining up and nudging again, again, rubbing the head of his dick against Frank’s asshole until he arched his back harder and said, “Goddamnit,” in exasperation. Ray pressed in, then, his cock sliding into perfect warmth, tight and familiar and so Frank it made his jaw ache. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah,” Frank whispered, still holding himself open. Ray got a hand on Frank’s hip and kept pushing in, agonizingly slowly. “Ray,” Frank growled, turning his head to get a glimpse over his shoulder. Ray leaned in for a messy kiss, bracing his hands against the tile, and screwed him a little deeper, opening him up with little jerks of his hips to make Frank gasp and writhe and finally put his hands next to Ray’s and lean back into it.
Finally, it seemed like Ray could move, and he did, moaning when Frank cursed and scrabbled at the tile with his fingers, trying to get better purchase so he could thrust back, but Ray just planted his feet and fucked him into the wall.
“Ohmygod,” Frank panted, his palm slapping against the wet tiles, bracing himself. “Ray, yes,” he hissed through gritted teeth, and Ray just plowed into him, again and again.
“Fucking love the way you take it,” Ray managed, licking beads of water off Frank’s neck.
Frank reached down to jerk himself off, pressing his cheek against his other hand, milking Ray in time with his strokes. “Don’t stop,” he said again, desperate and almost threatening, and so Ray didn’t, didn’t stop, didn’t think, just lost himself in Frank’s ass and the little noises that bounced off the walls of the shower, until his thighs burned and the soles of his feet itched with how close he was. Frank got louder, and Ray felt tight all over, and finally slammed into him good, once and twice before he pinned Frank there, both of them groaning in satisfaction, Frank clenching around Ray’s cock weakly in aftershocks.
Ray leaned against Frank and the wall, slipping out a little while he waited for the pleasant fuzz to clear from his mind enough to consider rinsing off and lying down. Frank laughed, and Ray kissed the back of his head lazily. Frank turned around, fumbling for the soap again, and wiggled until they were in the spray, washing them down again, but lazier this time. Ray opened the glass door to a completely fogged-over bathroom mirror, and handed Frank a towel. Ray wrapped his around his waist and started brushing his teeth.
Frank dug around in his bag, pulling out his own toothbrush, and stole Ray’s toothpaste. He always did.
Ray spat, rinsed his brush, started drying his hair.
“Sr, whrnr oo rn eeemes grr scroo?” Frank said around his toothbrush.
“When are...? Aw, Jesus, we’re not screwing.” Ray shook his head, finally deciphering Frank’s toothpaste-speak.
Frank spat. “But you’re gonna, right?”
Ray flipped his hair up in the towel and squeezed. “I don’t even know.” Frank hung up his towel, went to go untuck all the sheets on the hotel bed like he always did, and Ray followed him. “Christa said if I sent him flowers he’d probably make a great face, but beyond that I have no. Goddamn. Clue.”
“Dude. It’ll be okay. I have faith in-- okay, I have faith in your cock,” Frank laughed, and Ray covered his eyes, mortified, but joined in. “Also, James is not some kind of fainting wallflower who needs his hand held. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” He coughed. “Gerard.” Cough. Frank laughed some more, but Ray groaned.
“Aw, Jesus wept.” Frank looked over. “Gerard,” Ray explained. “What’s he gonna think?”
Frank was still grinning. “Gee?”
“Yeah.” Ray waved his hand, like, have you been paying any attention here, then sighed.
“Ray.” He looked up, to Frank’s earnest expression and four fingers held in front of his nose. “Ray, Gerard is one man fucking four guitarists, only one of whom is his wife, all of whom are fucking other people. You and James haven’t even talked about doing anything yet. He’s not going to throw a fit or throw you out of the fucking band. Just, y’know, keep him in the loop.” Ray looked at Frank, wondering how all the people in his life started sounding so goddamn reasonable all of a sudden, and who had kidnapped Frankie and put an alien relationship counselor in his place, when Frank continued, “Then use the loop to tie him down and fuck the shit out of him so he knows you still want his ass. That shit works like a charm.”
Somehow, Ray was completely reassured.
Next
Authors: s0ckpupp3t & dapatty
Artist: wilde_stalyn
Bandom: MCR with guest appearances by Pete Wentz and Brendon Urie
Characters/Pairings: MCR GSF: Frank/Mikey, Ray/Christa, Ray/Frank, Ray/Gerard, Frank/Brendon, Mikey/Pete, Frank/Mikey/Gerard, Ray/James + mentioned /wives
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Enticements: incest, bondage, blindfold, rimming, crossdressing, threesome, double penetration
Summary: The four core members of MCR (and their wives) are in open relationships with each other, but lately Ray has been playing a lot of music with James Dewees offstage. Frank and Christa are encouraging, but Gerard has some reservations. Meanwhile, Pete and Brendon pay a surprise visit to Mikey and Frank. All problems can be solved with sex adult rational discussion without pants.
Disclaimer: The authors are unaffiliated with people in this story and none of this happened; it’d just be really hot if it had.
Authors’ Notes: Thanks to dear_monday for the beta and putting up with us and being amazing and charming and delightful as well as shadowrider and hangemhigh_27. This fic wouldn’t have been half as good without you girls! ♥
See the ultra-shiny magnificent art and mix HERE and give wilde_stalyn ALL THE LOVE for being so awesome.
The thing about being tied together as a band for ten years was that not only were they really on musically, they were also a family. And since they were in each other’s pockets day in and day out, especially on tour, ending up wrapped in each other was really the only way they would have wanted it to go (even if it took nearly that long to make it official). Frank had always known it was only a matter of time, though, from his first kiss with Gerard to when they first asked him to be in the band to the first orgy in London -- and the way Gerard, Ray, and Mikey had surrounded him, taken him apart, and put him back together. It had been like coming home. There was just as much love with his boys as when he was back in Jersey with Jamia and his two little girls.
The tour had been good, even after the whole Pedicone thing. And Frank was not getting mad about that anymore, no way, even though this wasn’t the first time they’d had a problem with a drummer. Not when Jarrod was working out musically and what with how he didn’t seem to be a Scooby Doo villain. No one stole Ray’s underwear again, even though Frank insisted it was a good idea. But Dewees was right -- they’d have to gather more lacy undergarment replacements. Because if one was going to steal someone else’s underwear, one should just steal it all and leave something in its place. There were rules.
Besides, Dewees had been busy, as far as Frank could determine. Busy having music sex. With Ray. Yeah, Frank had noticed. Ray hadn’t noticed that was what they were doing yet, because, well, he was adorably clueless like that.
Frank remembered how long it took Ray to get Gerard’s hints. Gerard was about as subtle as fourth-grader, and it still took Ray a whole European leg to get it. Ray would figure it out with James eventually, Frank was pretty sure. That, or Christa would have to help him out, because Frank just didn’t have time for that shit. He was hoping to collect some betting pool winnings on the second half of this tour. Or maybe to get Gerard and Mikey in the same room again, because that shit would never get old.
What he wouldn’t be doing was planning another orgy. That shit was stressful. The next orgy was totally Mikey’s to plan, and besides, this tour had precious few hotel nights to begin with. It was hard to plan involved kinky sex without adequate hotel nights. But two orgies weren’t bad for a whole touring cycle, in Frank’s book. Not that he was keeping track -- but he totally would be, now that he’d finally gotten them all in bed at once.
No, all their wives were, in the form of a betting pool. Of course that somehow meant that Pete Wentz was too, but really, there were worse things. Far worse. Besides, Wentz was a perfectly good lay. Not that Frank had any firsthand experience, surprisingly, but he could always ask Mikey. Mikey would at least say something in eyebrow about it.
Speaking of Mikey, it was probably time for Frank to go find him. There were always shenanigans to be pulled, possibly involving nudity. Frank needed some shenanigans. He didn’t know exactly what his deal was, but he’d been restless lately. And bus call was soon, for another show in another city. Not that he minded this tour right now, but it was work, and Frank was still trying to figure out how to clone himself. He ruffled his hair and massaged his forehead, trying to figure out if he was tired, or hungry, or what. This was the part of the tour when he started wondering how he could do it. It was like flying to Neverland. If he started thinking about how impossible it all was, he’d never make it there. He bit a thumbnail, worrying away at it with his teeth.
Two hands grabbed him around his waist and maneuvered him over to the nearest wall.
“What?” he gasped, shoulders hitting brick while he tried to figure out who was manhandling him. “Mikey?”
“You are the twitchiest little fucker,” Mikey said, eyebrow cocked disapprovingly to mask the concern underneath.
“Maybe,” Frank said.
“Are the girls okay? Cherry? Lilly?” Mikey asked.
“Yeah, they’re okay,” Frank answered. “Maybe I should call again to be sure? Is the Force telling you something?”
Mikey’s shoulders relaxed a little. “They’re probably still fine,” he said, smiling crookedly.
“Yeah,” Frank nodded, feeling the scratch of brick on his neck.
“Yeah,” Mikey quirked an eyebrow and reached for Frank’s belt.
“What?” Frank squawked. “Here?”
“I am not getting any more come on my sheets this tour, and your bunk smells funny,” Mikey said simply.
“My bunk does not smell funny,” Frank protested.
“It smells too clean,” Mikey shrugged.
Frank rolled his eyes and giggled. “Too clean!” Unbelievable.
Frank was reminded of an afternoon, years ago, when Gerard had fussed at him for washing his sheets too often. “I like the way you smell,” Gerard had complained, “and as soon as things start to smell like you, you wash it all away so I can’t smell you anymore.” Poor, long-suffering Ways.
“Shut up,” Mikey licked the side of Frank’s neck and bit down, sucking on the skin.
Frank made a fascinating groan, squeak noise that he couldn’t help. “Shit.” He swallowed, and Mikey chose that moment to reach his hand into Frank’s boxers and wrap his long fingers around Frank’s already half-hard cock. “Oh fuck, Mikeyway. That’s cheating.”
Mikey hummed against Frank’s neck and Frank shivered as Mikey twisted his fingers, swiping his thumb over the head of Frank’s cock.
Frank gasped, hips jerking forward, his hands wrapping around Mikey’s biceps, grasping for purchase, as Mikey gave Frank’s neck one final lick.
“Yeah?” Mikey asked. He could have been asking any number of things. Frank wasn’t completely sure. He thought his brain might be leaking out of his ears, and the way Mikey looked wasn’t helping. Lips wet, hair over one eye and heat suffusing his gaze.
“Yeah,” answered Frank encouragingly as Mikey started jacking him off, hard and fast, making Frank pant.
“Yes, that,” Frank needlessly clarified and Mikey kissed him, tongue teasing Frank’s bottom lip and sliding in, fucking Frank’s mouth.
Frank came with a muffled gasp and slumped against the wall, breaking the kiss.
“Better?” Mikey quirked an eyebrow again and then licked the come from his hand.
Frank moaned, “Yes, except for you trying to kill me with hotness. Kiss me again so I can taste.”
Mikey smirked and obliged while tucking Frank neatly back into his pants.
“Okay,” Frank said, standing and dragging Mikey toward the bus. “We’ll snuggle in your bunk and I’ll swallow.”
“No,” Mikey said and Frank stopped walking and looked at Mikey, concerned.
“Why not?” Frank asked.
“We’re gonna snuggle in your bunk,” Mikey answered. “It’s still too clean.”
“Oh, okay!” Frank beamed and went back to dragging Mikey to the surprised cackling of Dewees, who probably saw that whole handjob thing. Frank wouldn’t put it past him. The guy was inexplicable, oddly stealthy, and a bit of a mad scientist. Ray really needed to get his act together and boink his brains out.
*********
Sometimes You Have to Listen to Those Smarter Than You
After sound check, Gerard had to go get changed, Frank wanted to check in with the girls, and Mikey just disappeared somewhere. Ray went back to the bus to pick up a cleaner shirt and maybe try out a new riff he was thinking about. He waved at Dewees on his way to the back, picked up a guitar, and started trying out the line. It didn’t sound quite right, so he let his fingers wander over favorite songs, video game themes, half-snatches of barely remembered tunes, sewn together with things he made up out of thin air. It was only about four minutes of what probably sounded like channel-surfing before he settled on a progression, something comfortable to expand upon. It sounded a little harmonic minor but probably wasn’t, and he didn’t worry about it, just closed his eyes and felt his fingers travel over the fretboard.
Somewhere around there he’d heard a thump, had written it off as one of the guys picking something up and slamming around the bus as usual. What he didn’t expect was a melody to join his, pinning it up from underneath one moment, soaring above it the next. He opened his eyes on James, looking quietly happy, playing the shitty little 61-key they kept in the studio. He paused for half a second before the next note, looked up and smiled. James smiled back, and they kept going, climbing up the scale before he did something on the keyboard, swinging them effortlessly into a tempo change. It turned something that might have sounded depressing (if you weren’t playing it) into a driving, almost peppy piece, something sort of morbidly moshable.
It was perfect, and they wound up losing a full twenty minutes trading licks before remembering that they needed to eat and get dressed.
Dinner was decent, and the show was pretty awesome. Ray loved playing for fans, but there was an energy to summer crowds, too, people who maybe hadn’t come for MCR but were determined to have a good time, and the way you could feel them warming to the band, the way you knew they’d pick up a CD on their way out, or hit iTunes when they got home, or tell a friend. It was different, but it was good. And it made the band different. They could all feel it, and it made them shine, made them play off each other. Sometimes, it made them fight for it. Always, they won.
Eventually, the night was drawing to a close, and he could go call Christa. It was always so good to hear her voice, even it was just her voicemail, but she picked up, said hello, asked him how his day was.
“Nothing really interesting. Ate like four bowls of Lucky Charms for brunch. Oooh, but I got a nap!” He interrupted himself excitedly.
“All this glamour and hedonism, I don’t know how you stand the rockstar life.” He could hear her smile, almost taste it.
“Wound up jamming with James after sound check.” Ray had meant to go on and talk about dinner, and how the show went, but he stopped there for some reason.
“Been jamming with James a lot lately.” Christa said it with the kind of lightness that meant she was being overly careful with her words.
“What’s that mean?” He didn’t sound defensive or anything. Not very, anyway.
“Nothing - it’s been good, right?” If Ray didn’t know better, he’d have thought she sounded concerned.
“Shit, yes, it’s been good. You know how it is, when you’re doing improv, and it’s like you’re in each other’s heads, and sometimes he’ll come out of nowhere with this, this line, and...” Ray abruptly realized he was rambling. “And it’s good, yeah.”
“Thought so. You know I’d be okay with you going there, right?”
“Um...” Ray felt his face heat up a little. “I don’t know if anything’s heading in that direction.”
“I’m not saying it’s going to! Or you’re going to, or he’s going to, or whatever. Just...” She took a breath, laughing a little, “I’m okay with it if you do. He’s with the band. You like him. You like playing with him so much that even when you’re touring you’ve been finding time to jam every week. I don’t know him as well as the other guys, but I like him, and I like people who make you happy.”
“Oh. I mean, good? But I wasn’t...! I hadn’t thought of it!” It was hard to communicate the churning feeling in his stomach to himself, let alone to Christa over the phone, miles and miles away.
“Uh-huh,” she said flatly. Then she changed tactics. “Good music is like sex, isn’t it?”
“God, yes,” he agreed fervently, happy to be back on a subject he could navigate with ease.
His darling wife, of course, promptly turned that right on its head by saying, “And you and James have been having music sex for months, and lately you’ve even been doing it offstage, and all I’m saying is you should feel free to explore having sex-sex with him too, if you want.” She sounded incredibly reasonable. All of it sounded incredibly reasonable.
“Shit.” The churning in Ray’s stomach blossomed into an ache of anxiety and anticipation. “Aw, shit.”
“Uh-huh.” There was a lot more approval in her voice this time.
“You think I’ve been leading him on? Has the rest of the band noticed? Should I stop? Should I apologize? What do you say? Should I give him flowers? Fuck.”
“Ray.” She was gently chiding, oceans of calmness and patience.
“Sorry. Things are already so complicated, and I wasn’t paying attention, and what if I screw everything up?” It wasn’t a question, really. Ray was pretty sure he was going to.
“So what if you do? We’re solid, you and me. ‘Til the wheels fall off. Same with you and the guys. You’re allowed to screw everything up every once in a while. We’ve all done it, we’ll all do it again. I’m not saying anybody’s noticed, I don’t think you have to reinvent the wheel, and things are complicated but they’re awesome. Also, flowers? Not necessary, but James would probably make an amazingly interesting face if you sent him some.” Ray could practically see Christa counting off each point on her fingers.
“Who ARE you, and how the fuck did I find someone this reasonable to marry?” Ray cracked up, giving in to the grin that had been building during her brief speech.
“I’m not that reasonable,” she cautioned, laughing back. And just like that, everything was right with the world, and he knew exactly what to say next.
“Uh-uh, if Jamia wants pictures she’s just going to have to get them for herself. None of this ‘pics or it didn’t happen’ shit.”
“Who said it’s Jamia who wants pics?” she asked coyly.
“I’ll see what happens,” he said, snickering. “Gotta go. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Ray hung up and looked at his phone, pushed his hair back, looked at the ceiling. His life was just a progression from weird to awesome to weirder to awesomer.
After he got back on the bus, he slept better than he thought he would. This was serious territory, the kind he’d never found himself in before. When it came to partners, well. With Christa, things had just fallen together. With the guys in the band, he’d just sort of found himself quietly interested, then happily surprised to have a tongue down his throat (Frank) or a hand stuck down his pants (Mikey). Gerard had been... a little different, but Gerard was always a little different. This was the first time Ray had ever really needed to pursue someone, let alone realized (or, okay, been made to realize) that he was already mid-pursuit. He drifted off in his bunk, head full of happy memories and what-ifs.
The next day, he was a little afraid the conversation with Christa would make him act weird. Maybe he’d need to come up with random shit to do to avoid James so Ray wouldn’t be creepy at him. Maybe he was just going to exude some sort of weird Ulterior Motives for Improvising vibe now, and there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe Dewees was exuding Ulterior Motives vibes and Ray just hadn’t noticed.
But after about five minutes of vague fretting over coffee, the day took over, and he realized there wasn’t time to be creepy, or find random shit to do, or make his Sense Motive rolls. They were on tour, playing shows, doing press, meeting fans... it just kept going, and Ray went with it.
Before he knew it, a couple of days had passed and he and James were waiting for setup, and somehow James managed to snag his keyboard from a tech and they were jamming again. It was a little ridiculous, Ray plugged into some random Pignose, James using his keyboard’s onboard speakers, but it passed the time, and nobody seemed to mind. Ray couldn’t put a name to what they played this time, but it started out tentative and went somewhere through gritty-angry blues into this dissonantly filthy rhythmic vamp, and when it ended, they were laughing, the stage was ready, and the rest of the guys had materialized, Frank smiling, Gerard scribbling feverishly in his sketchbook while Mikey looked over his shoulder approvingly.
Ray and James laughed again, fistbumped, and got their gear onstage. Inwardly, Ray crowed. That hadn’t been awkward or creepy! Sound check was easy, the gig was pretty great. Ray was really pleased by how well Jarrod was working out, and all of them seemed to be flowing, shredding, fierce grins lighting up the stage. Gerard wound up on his knees holding the mic in both hands more than once, Mikey strutted, Frank was crazy and sweat-covered and distracting as all hell, and James... Ray was really starting to get used to James onstage, the thread of keyboard connecting their songs into a cohesive whole, the way he worked around Ray and Frank melodically, supported Gerard’s vocals, did rhythmic counterpoints to Mikey’s bass. And every once in a while, when Ray wasn’t wrapped up in the song or the crowd or the ebb and flow or whatever crazy-hot thing one of his bandmates was doing to a microphone, he got to notice James throwing in some blisteringly gorgeous passages. Ray just played, and played, and sang, and let himself drift on it all.
And if that night he found himself shoved up against a wall with Frank’s hard-on pressing into his thigh, well. He could handle that, too. It was a short stay before a long drive, and he’d figured on only seven hours of sleep. But with clever fingers sliding up under his shirt and the heat in Frank’s eyes, Ray decided five hours would be plenty.
“I’m about to say something that I think will make you happy,” Ray mused, looking down at Frank.
“‘Time to get naked’?” Frank said hopefully, with a grin.
“In a manner of speaking. I want a fucking shower, and I think I have a walk-in,” Ray grinned back.
“Fuck yes,” Frank agreed fervently, and began to scramble about. In the two minutes it took for Ray to find his bag and throw his clothes on the floor, Frank had started the hotel’s shower, gotten naked, stocked it with soap and lube, and gotten in, beaming as he let the water pound his skin. Ray walked in after him, shoving him out of the spray.
“Such a fucking water sign, I swear,” he said affectionately.
“Sez the Cancer to the Scorpio.” Frank hip-checked Ray closer to the wall, and started covering the both of them with soap, something bright and citrusy.
Ray sniffed. “Hey, this isn’t the honey stuff.”
Frank’s eyebrows waggled. “I haff manny kindts off soap.”
Ray threw a washcloth at his face. “Ve haff veys of making you tolk?”
“Ja, exactement!” Frank giggled, picking the washcloth up off his forehead and soaking it in soapy goo.
“That’s German and French, weirdo.”
“You understood them, didn’t you?” Frank retorted.
Ray was going to think of something clever to say back, but Frank was behind him and scrubbing his shoulders, lifting his hair to soap up his neck, washing off the sweat of the show. Ray closed his eyes and let somebody else take care of him. For once, he could hear his wife say.
He reached for the shampoo and lathered his hair while Frank did the rest of him, lingering distractingly on all of his favorite spots. The oversized shower cabinet was nicely steam-filled now, and Ray turned around as he smoothed conditioner over the ends of his hair, looking at Frank.
“What is that?”
“This is what happens when you take out your contacts, Toro. It’s a loofah.” Frank shrugged.
“You don’t own a loofah.” Ray was pretty sure.
“I do now!” Frank grinned. “I’m taking this one from the hotel.”
“Hotels have loofahs now?”
“And those mesh things! I’m the only guy in the band who pays attention to this shit, aren’t I.” Frank’s shoulders slumped. It was adorable.
Ray took the loofah from him, drizzled it with soap, and turned Frankie around to face the wall, scrubbing his lower back until he purred, then made whisking strokes up to his shoulders and down his ass and thighs.
“Shit, why don’t I room with you all the time?” Frank leaned into Ray’s scrubbing, eyes closed in pleasure.
Ray put down the loofah and leaned up against Frank. “Because I suck at Mariokart?”
Frank gasped, rubbing his ass against Ray. “It’s your devotion to Yoshi I find disturbing.”
Ray picked up the lube. “Says the guy who’s always Mario.” It was warm from the shower, so he just poured it down Frank’s crack, grinning when he gasped. Whoops. Maybe it was still a little bit cold, but there was plenty of it, and they didn’t have to worry about being messy.
“You got something against short Italian brunettes, you oughta tell me now. Shit.” Frank arched his back, pressing up against Ray, smearing the lube over his cock.
“So long as you don’t grow the moustache again, we’re good,” Ray murmured, getting a hand on his cock and angling the head against Frank’s asshole, nudging gently to make him groan. He was going to pull back, get some more lube on his fingers, but Frank interrupted him.
“Don’t stop.” He’d pressed his cheek against the tile, and his mouth was open, lips a distracting red against all that soothing beige.
The words made Ray’s stomach flipflop. “Spread?”
Frank made a needy noise and reached back with both hands, his forehead against the tile now, pulling his cheeks apart. Ray groaned at the sight, lining up and nudging again, again, rubbing the head of his dick against Frank’s asshole until he arched his back harder and said, “Goddamnit,” in exasperation. Ray pressed in, then, his cock sliding into perfect warmth, tight and familiar and so Frank it made his jaw ache. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah,” Frank whispered, still holding himself open. Ray got a hand on Frank’s hip and kept pushing in, agonizingly slowly. “Ray,” Frank growled, turning his head to get a glimpse over his shoulder. Ray leaned in for a messy kiss, bracing his hands against the tile, and screwed him a little deeper, opening him up with little jerks of his hips to make Frank gasp and writhe and finally put his hands next to Ray’s and lean back into it.
Finally, it seemed like Ray could move, and he did, moaning when Frank cursed and scrabbled at the tile with his fingers, trying to get better purchase so he could thrust back, but Ray just planted his feet and fucked him into the wall.
“Ohmygod,” Frank panted, his palm slapping against the wet tiles, bracing himself. “Ray, yes,” he hissed through gritted teeth, and Ray just plowed into him, again and again.
“Fucking love the way you take it,” Ray managed, licking beads of water off Frank’s neck.
Frank reached down to jerk himself off, pressing his cheek against his other hand, milking Ray in time with his strokes. “Don’t stop,” he said again, desperate and almost threatening, and so Ray didn’t, didn’t stop, didn’t think, just lost himself in Frank’s ass and the little noises that bounced off the walls of the shower, until his thighs burned and the soles of his feet itched with how close he was. Frank got louder, and Ray felt tight all over, and finally slammed into him good, once and twice before he pinned Frank there, both of them groaning in satisfaction, Frank clenching around Ray’s cock weakly in aftershocks.
Ray leaned against Frank and the wall, slipping out a little while he waited for the pleasant fuzz to clear from his mind enough to consider rinsing off and lying down. Frank laughed, and Ray kissed the back of his head lazily. Frank turned around, fumbling for the soap again, and wiggled until they were in the spray, washing them down again, but lazier this time. Ray opened the glass door to a completely fogged-over bathroom mirror, and handed Frank a towel. Ray wrapped his around his waist and started brushing his teeth.
Frank dug around in his bag, pulling out his own toothbrush, and stole Ray’s toothpaste. He always did.
Ray spat, rinsed his brush, started drying his hair.
“Sr, whrnr oo rn eeemes grr scroo?” Frank said around his toothbrush.
“When are...? Aw, Jesus, we’re not screwing.” Ray shook his head, finally deciphering Frank’s toothpaste-speak.
Frank spat. “But you’re gonna, right?”
Ray flipped his hair up in the towel and squeezed. “I don’t even know.” Frank hung up his towel, went to go untuck all the sheets on the hotel bed like he always did, and Ray followed him. “Christa said if I sent him flowers he’d probably make a great face, but beyond that I have no. Goddamn. Clue.”
“Dude. It’ll be okay. I have faith in-- okay, I have faith in your cock,” Frank laughed, and Ray covered his eyes, mortified, but joined in. “Also, James is not some kind of fainting wallflower who needs his hand held. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” He coughed. “Gerard.” Cough. Frank laughed some more, but Ray groaned.
“Aw, Jesus wept.” Frank looked over. “Gerard,” Ray explained. “What’s he gonna think?”
Frank was still grinning. “Gee?”
“Yeah.” Ray waved his hand, like, have you been paying any attention here, then sighed.
“Ray.” He looked up, to Frank’s earnest expression and four fingers held in front of his nose. “Ray, Gerard is one man fucking four guitarists, only one of whom is his wife, all of whom are fucking other people. You and James haven’t even talked about doing anything yet. He’s not going to throw a fit or throw you out of the fucking band. Just, y’know, keep him in the loop.” Ray looked at Frank, wondering how all the people in his life started sounding so goddamn reasonable all of a sudden, and who had kidnapped Frankie and put an alien relationship counselor in his place, when Frank continued, “Then use the loop to tie him down and fuck the shit out of him so he knows you still want his ass. That shit works like a charm.”
Somehow, Ray was completely reassured.
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