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Mikey was feeling good. They were about a week away from home, which meant he was still fresh and had a single clean tee shirt that wasn’t borrowed from Ray or Gerard. Gerard hadn’t tried to give himself a haircut in a gas station mirror yet, Ray hadn’t accidentally set himself on fire, and Frank hadn’t gotten any new tattoos. They were all still holding on to the livable standards of hygiene maintained in Mom’s house. So Mikey only felt a little sweaty and gross.
Although, that was because they were nearing the last song of their set, and it was fucking hot. It was the point during the set when his stage fright took a back seat and he could really enjoy himself. When he felt the music rather than counting every one-and two-and three-and four-and before Our Lady of Sorrows, which Ray shredded into like a fucking machine. He had a foot up on the amp in front of him, which said he meant business.
It was a happy accident they’d run into a certain band Fall Out Boy in this shithole part of Philly, and an even happier one that Frank had bullied Patrick into drumming for them tonight. Patrick, maybe as revenge, kicked the tempo into something insane. Gerard got that crazy look in his eye and then they were along for the ride. Around the first chorus, Frank started spinning and Mikey got the hell out of his way, taking shelter playing back-to-back with Ray.
The end of the song came so soon, and Mikey laughed at Gerard’s short-lived, clumsy stage dive that left him missing his tie and looking miffed about it. Then they got the hell out of there with their check, tired and dehydrated and more than a little dead.
Patrick enlisted Andy to help them pack up their shit, and Mikey would have fallen at his feet in thanks if he thought he would be able to stand up afterward. Mikey tried to be helpful, but couldn’t get the stand for their snare folded.
“Frank!” he said, aiming his voice in Frank’s vague direction. “Help me with this thing.”
Frank approached, and Mikey had to do a double-take. “What?” Frank said.
“You look like shit,” Mikey said. There were circles stamped under his eyes that definitely hadn’t been there before, and he dragged his feet like he was trying to wear a hole through the soles of his already-abused Chuck Taylors. He collapsed the stand without comment and left Mikey to pick up the snare and trail behind him, then try to find a place to cram it in the van.
It was Ray’s night to hunt down the motel, so Gerard dug in his pockets for the keys and tossed them to him. Mikey got in the back with Frank, and unceremoniously grabbed his face.
Frank sneezed.
“Gross, Iero,” Mikey said, at the same time Ray looked at them in the rear-view mirror and said, “Christ, are you sick?”
“I’b not sick,” Frank said indignantly. Mikey pressed the back of his hand to Frank’s forehead. He didn’t actually know what he was supposed to be feeling for, but it was something his mom would do. Frank's forehead felt hot, he guessed, although that might just be from moving around so much during the show.
“I’ve deduced that you’re coming down with something,” Mikey said. The fact that Frank didn’t move his face was more evidence of that. Usually, he had enough strength to put up a fight.
“I was fine before the show and I’b fine now,” Frank said. Mikey mm hmmed him and scratched his fingers through his hair. Frank sniffed, and then looked disgusted with himself. “I’b not sick,” he said again.
“Sure you’re not,” Mikey said. Frank fixed him with a glare, and then sneezed again.
Gerard twisted around in the front seat, hooking an arm around the headrest. “You were okay before the show,” he said, looking concerned. “Weren’t you?” Frank nodded.
“It’s the sudden-onset plague,” Mikey said gravely.
“Or lycanthropy,” Ray put in.
Frank groaned, sniffed again. “I’b not a fucking werewolf,” he said.
“Might be a vampire,” Gerard said. “Are you feeling any thirst for human blood?”
“Mbight suck your blood just on principle,” Frank said, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. But he was smiling a little.
“Frankie, you know how that makes me feel,” Gerard said, and fanned himself with his flat hand. Ray sighed and looked to the heavens for guidance.
In the ten minutes it took Ray to find a motel, Frank got worse. It was like he’d been holding out until the show got over to properly hack up a lung, and knowing his stubborn ass, he probably had. Ray parked the van and Frank, coughing like a motherfucker, flopped out the door with all the grace of a beached walrus. Ray, the saint that he was, patted Frank on the back and went to take care of the room.
“Should we get him some cold medicine?” Gerard asked Mikey, as they dug through the back for their bags. Each of them took two—one draped over each shoulder.
“He doesn’t need cold medicine,” Frank said, appearing at Mikey’s side. He took his own bag from Gerard and draped the strap over his shoulder. His eyes were red-rimmed and he kept batting at his nose with the cuff of his jacket. He looked miserable.
“He does,” Gerard said. “Listen, Frank, we can pump you full of NyQuil, you can sleep for fourteen hours, and be good to go tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds great, Gee, I’d love to be in a mbedically induced coma,” Frank said.
“That’s probably frowned upon by medical professionals,” Mikey said.
"You just knock it back like a Slurpee when you're trying to get a brain freeze," Gerard said. Mikey smacked him.
Ray came out of the building with a room key, folding the meager amount of cash they had left back into the Envelope—a yellowed thing older than time itself that held all their cash in the most secure place they could think of: the glove compartment. Ray put it back in its place and locked the van.
"You need me to carry you, Frank?" he asked. Frank scowled, but briefly. He couldn't stay mad at Ray and he knew it. He took him by the wrist and they marched in a train of sweaty dudes towards room 13. Gerard elbowed Mikey and pointed at the number, excited like the absolute nerd he was. Mikey wondered if Ray had requested it on purpose.
Frank’s strength was miraculously replenished enough to jump ahead of Ray and take a flying leap onto the bed closest to the TV. With his face crushed into a pillow, he said, “Dibs,” and then erupted into hacking coughs. Mikey exchanged a look with Gerard. They shared the sentiment that while either of them would be willing to scrape Frank off the duvet if he liquefied into a smear of snot and misery, they wouldn’t be thrilled about it.
“Either of you dying to take a shower?” Ray asked Gerard and Mikey. Frank let out an ugly laugh and went, “Yeah, right.” He wiggled around on the bed, trying to squirm out of his jacket but shivering as he did.
“I’b freezing hot,” he complained, picking his cuffs from his wrists. He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand, then toed off his shoes and flung them off the side of the bed, curling up in a ball of limbs. “Don’t feel good,” he finally admitted, as if he was dishonoring his ancestors by being sick.
“I saw a Walgreens on the way here,” Gerard said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the door. “I’ll go out and get some stuff.”
“Get the red cough syrubp,” Frank said. “Purple blows.”
“I’m getting purple,” Gerard said. He almost fumbled the keys Ray threw across the room at him.
“I hay you,” Frank said. Gerard threw him his best dazzling smile as he went out the door, promising to be back soon.
It took Ray all of ten minutes to shower and brush his teeth like a functional human being. In the meantime, Mikey built a mountain of pillows behind Frank’s head that turned out to be quite the feat of engineering, batting Frank's hands away when he tried to help. He got grumpy about it, although Mikey suspected most of that came from a growing headache, given the way Frank kept rubbing his temples.
Ray came out of the bathroom with a cloud of steam, dressed like he was ready for a slumber party. The hems of his flannel pants dragged on the floor as he shuffled around the room looking for the remote and channel guide.
“Budge up,” he told Frank, and when Frank didn’t move he sat down on the bed beside him anyway, swinging his legs up and tucking his bare feet underneath the duvet. Seeing him so comfortable made Mikey remember that they were living in relative luxury tonight. He’d been so concerned about taking care of Frank that he didn’t take the time to appreciate that they had two beds and a TV. Rather than a single bed and a pull-out couch, or failing that, the backseat of the van. Whenever they had two beds like this, Ray and Frank shared, and Gerard and Mikey took the other. Mikey always thought Ray got the better end of the deal, since Gerard had been a serial blanket-stealer and pain in the ass since the age of six, and all Frank did was lay there and not take up much space.
“Find a zombie mbovie,” Frank ordered Ray. Then put on his best cute face. “Please.”
“If you stop making that face,” Ray said, turning on the TV. Frank poked him in the side and he eventually relinquished control of the remote. Ray looked at Mikey imploringly over Frank’s head. “C’mere, Mikey, stop standing around.”
“I’m not standing around,” Mikey said, standing around. He dug in Gerard’s bag for his brother’s flannel Batman pants. Gerard could be mad all he wanted; Mikey was joining this goddamn slumber party. As soon as he switched his jeans out for Gerard’s pants, he jumped in bed beside Frank, jostling him and Ray. Ray laughed and Frank groaned, rubbing his temples again. He wound up for a punch with an arm like jelly and tried to make contact, failing miserably.
“Are you trying to hit me?” Mikey said, folding his knee up and leaning back against the headboard.
“Yes,” Frank said. While he was distracted, Ray took the remote back. He stopped his channel surfing on some cartoon network that was playing an animated Batman series Gerard probably knew by heart. “You’re mbean. Make my head hurt.”
“That’s your problem,” Mikey said. Then, because he really wasn’t that mean, said, “Gerard’ll be back with Advil soon.”
“Mbake him come sooner,” Frank said, and like he’d summoned him, Gerard came through the door carrying two plastic bags. He had the room and van keys in one hand, and a few magazines held securely in his teeth.
“Hah,” he said around them. “I gah medicine.”
“Drool on my Fangoria and I’ll kill you,” Mikey said. Gerard dumped the Walgreens bag on the foot of the bed the three of them were sardined into. He dropped the magazines on Frank’s lap.
“Literature,” he said. Then produced an industrial-sized bottle of ibuprofen and some red cough syrup from the plastic bag. Frank looked at the medicine like it was the holy grail.
“I lub you, Gerard,” he said.
“I lub you, too,” Gerard grinned, then saw the TV. “Ooh, we’re watching Batman?” he said. He jumped on the foot of the bed, making Ray, Frank, and Mikey bounce. Frank groaned again.
“Ibuprofen,” he said, making grabby hands. Mikey opened the bottle and shook three capsules out into his palm.
“You want some water?” he asked, but Frank was already swallowing them dry. Mikey poured him a capful of cough syrup and he downed that, too.
“That’s the drowsy kind, by the way,” Gerard said, eyes glued to the TV. “I figured you wouldn’t mind.” Frank hummed. “I got Vicks, too, for when you get really plugged up.”
“I’ll be fine tomorrow,” Frank said.
They talked quietly because Gerard was really into the show and heaven forbid they talked over the characters. Frank’s raspy coughs decreased in frequency as the medicine took effect, and they lapsed into a comfortable silence. Ray flipped through one of Gerard’s magazines, Frank blinked blearily at the TV screen, and Mikey watched Gerard swing his feet back and forth, head resting on his folded arms, engrossed in his cartoons. If Frank wasn’t sick it would be a nearly perfect evening, Mikey thought. Even so, it was pretty awesome.
A minute later Frank’s head dropped to Mikey’s shoulder. He yawned. “‘M goin’ to sleep, Mikeyway,” he said. “Don’t move, okay?”
“Okay,” Mikey said. Frank wiggled inelegantly to get more comfortable. He ignored the fact that he had at least four perfectly good pillows and opted to rest on Mikey’s shoulder instead. Mikey didn’t mind. He curled a hand through Frank’s hair, idly stroking the ridge above his ear. “Night, Frankie.”