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It was like the second they hit the stage, they were immortal. Timeless fucking gods. His knees didn't hurt, and his back didn't hurt and his heart didn't feel like a patched tire. When Frank stepped up and screamed 'TRUST ME' into his microphone, Gee looked over at him and it was like the first time they'd ever locked eyes, a million fucking years ago. Frank standing in the crowd, chanting Gee's lyrics up at him.
They were all feeling it, Frank could tell. From the way Mikey was bleeding focus and Ray was ripping into his guitar like a stuck lawnmower. Frank couldn't stand still, moving from one end of the stage to the other and then up to the drums. He shouldn't go to him. A half-assed promise to himself. Nothing on stage. That's what had fucked it all up before.
So instead Frank paced and crawled and drooled and mostly he played the guitar until his fingers hurt, and his arm felt like he'd been jacking it for an hour. Still, he was being good- which is why when Gerard’s hand slid into his sweaty hair, Frank slipped up and just fucking moaned. He’d been so good, after all, and it was Gee who’d said no, who’d said never again, that it wasn’t fair to the band, whatever the fuck that meant. And now here he was, gloved fingers scratching Frank’s scalp, like he wanted him to roll over and wag his fucking tail.
Oh god, Frank wanted to.
Instead he made his fingers keep moving, let his head hang back, and closed his eyes against the feeling.
So that was the reunion concert. A fucking outstanding sucess fiscally, and surprisingly even for them, emotionally. Frank hadn’t felt so fucking alive playing in years, even though he wouldn’t ever, ever say it. Couldn’t say it and disappoint every other person he’d played with. Jamia, who supported him in everything but knew him well enough to wish he’d grow the fuck up. Frank had never known how to not want what he wanted though.
They’d had other dates scheduled even before the reunion concert had happened, which meant Frank was on a plane to Australia before they had a chance to talk about it.
“So…”
Gerard didn’t answer him, just looked at him, and it should be weird, silences were always weird for Frank, but it was sort of like after everything nothing could be weird>
“... we probably shouldn’t do. The hair thing again.” Frank said, and Gerard was still just looking at him, dressed in airport fashion- black sweats and shades, an energy drink in his hand.
“What hair thing?” Gerard asked and Frank shifted the strap on his shoulder feeling fourteen and way more fucking awkward than when it had just been silent.
“Uh. Y’know. When you, grab me.” Frank said and Gee nodded, still looking pretty blank.
“Sure, man.” He’d said and drained his Rockstar. “Whatever you need.”
Australia was honestly pretty wild too.
Different pyrotechnic laws than they were used to meant the stage was insane. The crowd was massive as this was one of only two shows they’d booked on the continent and they were fucking pumped. Gerard opened hard, leaving him and Ray battling their frets to keep up with him, his voice a gasping, rasping rollercoaster Frank had missed screaming over. A fucking thrill ride, and Frank let himself get lost to the pure joy of channeling music from the source, his body an instrument in this moment.
Nothing’s supposed to be better than a first time. Sex and drugs and shows- you’re not supposed to ever be able to catch that first thrill, and they all tell you that, all the old flies at the bar, because they don’t want you to even try, that’s how it is, kid, don’t you get it?
What do you do if it doesn’t end, Frank wondered.
What if that moment is instead never-ending the second you step on the stage? What the fuck do you do? How does he go on stage every night and accept that here, with these guys he feels like he’s twenty and his bloods on fire?
He’s expecting this time, even though he’d told him not to. Shit, maybe because he had. He knew better than to put a rule in sight of Gee’s gun. He knows when Gee sidles up behind him, hip cocked, voice throaty and raw, and Frank remembered thinking, so many fucking years ago, that his throat was tighter around him after a concert.
Swollen and raw, just like them, still covered in sweat, messing up the hotel sheets.
Hand in his hair again, and Frank was fucking gone again. One sharp tug opens his eyes, even as Gee pulls him against his chest, forcing an unnatural curve to his back so he could put his head on Gee’s shoulder and Gerard could put all of himself on him and for one blissful fucking moment it was like they were one instrument, pouring out the sound of the gods.
And then Gee kicked his knees out from behind him and Frank went down hard, and Gee’s hand was still fisted in his hair and he couldn’t stop playing, his hands wouldn’t let him. Sharpest fucking Lives and Gerard was rocking against the side of his face and Christ, he smelled the exact fucking same, and Frank thought, just this .
He’d be so good, he’d be the fucking best, he wouldn’t watch his mouth when he spoke, or his ass when he danced, he wouldn’t do any of that shit, better than the best, if he could just have this.
Turned his head and let his open mouth rub over Gee’s fly while the stage burned down around them. He was going to live forever. Frank Iero, American hero.
Nobody else even seemed to give a shit.
“Fucking amazing guys!” Ray shouted. Threw his head back, a waterfall of curl. “Holy shit!”
“I need a cigarette.” Mikey said, going ahead. Ray chased him, and Frank could feel Gee watching him, waiting for him to make it another ‘thing’ between them, another hard no, another closed door. He should. He should do that.
Frank should absolutely set some boundaries between himself and the best bad idea he’d ever had. This shit on stage was going to be on youtube forever, he knew that now, which meant he needed to think about what the fuck he was doing. He needed to fucking think for once. The last time he’d let Gerard have him however he wanted to, he’d- he’d fucked everything up.
“You coming?” He asked and gave Gee his back. Frank knew that he was a coward, what’d it matter if Gee knew that too?
He thought he was a fucking genius, was the thing.
At the next concert, he wore a hat. It was fucking weird, he never wore hats and never to shows, and he had to remember not to head bang or everyone would see his hat hair. Fucking genius still. No hair pulling, with no hair, get it?
Until DESTROYA and Gee’s hand is on his fucking throat while he stuttered out moans behind him and Frank was fucking dizzy and heartsick and a little hard on stage, and he couldn’t fucking breath and he knew Gee’s microphone picked up his own moan off beat and too fucking real, because he heard it. Too real for tv, and then the tempo’d picked up again and Gee’d bounded away. Across the stage, leaving Frank hot and cold and fucking lost.
Between Australia and Japan, Jamia called him. She knew, he knew. They’d always been open, they had too many good, gorgeous people in their life not to be, but she also knew how he got around Gee.
Fucking stupid .
“Miss you, Frankie.” She told him. “Been watching you on the tv. Pretty sexy stuff, babe.”
“Thanks.” He told her. It made him feel warm to even hear her voice. He was sitting in an airport and everyone around him was a stranger, including himself at this moment. “How's our little garden?”
“The kids are good.” She told him simply. He knew that, he’d been getting the pictures, but it was still nice to hear. “I’m good, too. Frank… are you good?”
Was he?
“I’m-”
“I’m not asking for me.” She told him, voice steady. “I’m asking for you, Frankie.”
“I’m good.” Frank said, after a moment, but he was watching Gee smoke through a pane of glass twice as tall as him. Like a window through time. “Hey, we’re about to board, I gotta go.”
It wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t a lie. They weren’t boarding yet, but Frank really had to go. He wanted to see if Gerard would give him half a cigarette, let him timeshare on some smoke and a secondhand kiss.
“Checking in with the missus?” Gee asked. “I called Lynz before we left the hotel.”
He didn’t say it like it meant anything, but Frank thought it might.
“Yeah. She said hey.” Frank said. She hadn’t. She hadn’t ever really forgiven Gerard for fucking off back to his life without giving Frank any last rites. Frank had understood though. Why hang out at a crime scene? “Gimme a drag.”
“Sure.” Gee said agreeably, but he didn’t pass the cigarette. Just sucked in a long puff, before blowing the cloud out over Frank’s face. Just that easy to get addicted kids, Frank thought wildly. All you have to do is breathe in.
He hated that he wanted to, smoke and want hot in his lungs, staining his fucking bones yellow.
The first time they’d been to Japan it had been a shitshow. Frank didn’t even remember some of the pictures he was in. A clusterfuck. They’d thought so, and the press had agreed.
This time, they were fucking killing it. Ray had ordered like a metric ton of food up to their rooms that morning so Frank was full and relaxed, maybe a little greasy feeling.
It was a decent sized venue, but it was packed. He’d already seen a few fan complaints about Australia getting two shows. Frank wasn’t sure if he should be glad that kids these days felt just as fucking hopeless as they always had, if all their shit about death and vampires was still granting them such an eager audience. Still, for better or worse a packed venue meant they walked onto the stage and into the roar of the crowd, a wave of sound they had to fight against.
This setlist was hardly the longest they’d signed up for, but Frank wasn’t surprised when it started falling apart. They’d originally agreed to play mostly Danger Days, but that first show in Australia they’d ended up launching into Thank You For The Venom like parachuters, so now the set was all over the place. Still, just because Gerard had listened to the radio before they’d left, Frank shouldn’t have to free form Havana at top fucking speed while Gee worked the stage like a stripper. Thank god his fingers know his guitar, so he was playing with his heart instead of his mind. He’d always loved watching Gee play to a crowd, but it’s been so long, he can’t keep his eyes off him. Just lets his knees go weak, lets his body run into the motion like he was a chainsaw and his arm was the blade. Like he was serrated and dangerous.
It was amazing. Killer. A shitshow still, sure, but this time they were riding it. The crowd was loving it and all Frank could think was that it felt like the first time, everytime. His weak knees wanted to sink to the floor, so he did. He wanted to bang his head hard enough to hurt, so he did. He wanted to spit, so he did, right at the fucking crowd, and they scream for it, and they beg for it, and god, Frank loved this. Always had.
Gerard stalked across the stage toward him. Frank knew he was coming from how the audience reacted to him, screams louder and more. He raised his head and Gerard reached out and grabbed his tie, pulling him close, only the mic between them. They’re singing, Frank knew, but it feels like they were summoning a fucking demon, with sweat and spit and the steel of the microphone brushing his lips. Gerard’s eyes are on his, clear, so fucking clear. No drugs, no bullshit, he’s not even sad today, and Frank still wasn’t sure he can say that about himself most days. Only the chorus between as they both get high on a pure chemical rush. Adrenaline. Dopamine. Endorphins.
Oxy-fucking-tocin.
And then Frank jerked away, and Gee was gone again, bouncing like a thrown toy, one hand holding the mic, the other directing the opening whirl of a mosh pit like a conductor.
Frank, even now, wasn’t sure he could stop loving this.
Hadn’t he tried? Tried singing the chemicals out of his blood, tried detoxing, tried just not fucking thinking about the way Gee shook his ass to the beat they gave him. Hadn’t worked from the start, but Frank was no fucking quitter. Never knew when to give up, even when it meant banging his head bloody on a wall.
They used to fuck and that was great, but they also used to fight. They used to write together and sing together and get stoned together and those had been some of the best times of his fucking life. Now, they saw each other at interviews and at gatherings of friends not close enough to know not to invite them both. And now, now suddenly they were right next to each other and all Frank could think about was the last time they were in Japan and Gee had done a line of coke off his bare hip, Frank fucked out and still hungover.
All Frank could think now was that this was going to end too, just like before and it was fucking shredding him inside. So, he did what he always did and let his fingers talk for him, let them shred and beed and fret for him. Cleaner that way, and Gee just doing what he did best, singing his fucking heart out. It felt good.
Felt better when Gee came back over during House of Wolves and humped his leg, but Frank hadn’t ever said he was sane.