Archive of Our Own

It was two weeks after Christmas when Santa swung by the studio, casting disapproving looks at Frank’s uniform and the way Pete was cuddling up to Patrick when he should have been at his own job. “You know,” Santa had said, “anyone else uncomfortable living by Christmastown rules is more than welcome to leave, too.”

Frankly, two weeks was longer than Frank had thought he could manage. He’d gotten a taste of life outside in Vegas. Granted, it was just a couple days, and he hadn’t seen much outside of Ryan’s house, but it had been enough to confirm what he’d always thought. Christmastown was not the place for him.

Pete had smiled beatifically and said, “I love it here,” and Patrick had looked long-suffering in a fond way.

Frank had jumped up and said, “Shit yeah. I am so out of here.” He’d felt a little bad, because he’d miss them, and Greta, but he had a mission.

He wasn’t going to go into this all half-assed like Brendon had. He found a library in the first decent sized Canadian town he encountered. There, he’d did some research. My Chemical Romance was on tour promoting their third album, and there was no fucking way Frank was going to miss it for anything.

Maybe it wasn’t the nicest thing to do, taking all of Brendon’s DVDs and CDs, and selling them at the first pawn shop south of the Canadian border, but whatever. Brendon hadn’t come back for them and Frank couldn’t sell his *own* CDs, which he’d also brought along—some of them were really difficult to find even outside of the North Pole. And anyway, Ryan, Spencer, and Jon had a pretty impressive collection themselves, and they seemed rich. They could buy new ones.

Also, between the North Pole and arriving in America, he’d used all the special powder Santa had given him for the Brendon retrieval mission. Now he was entirely dependent on regular, human means of transportation.

Frank attended his first My Chemical Romance concert on January 11th in Seattle, Washington. Maybe it wasn’t the most glamorous of venues for his first time, but he didn’t even care. The show was everything he’d hoped for and more.

All the good seats had been sold out, but he showed up early and managed to get a fairly decently priced pit ticket from the scalpers. He would have paid a lot more. He wasn’t at the head of the line, but through a combination of being seriously tiny, possessing of sharp elbows, and being vicious as fuck, he managed to make his way to the front of the pit once inside. He planted his feet, wrapped his arms around the barrier, and fucking dared anyone to try and move him. Whether it was down to luck, or because he was just scary looking, no one really bothered him.

The opening band passed by in a blur of colour and sound. They weren’t bad. They may even have been good. But Frank was too distracted by anticipation to pay them much attention. His mind kept wandering, building scenarios, until the sound of the band just became a distant background noise.

Between the sets, the crowd grew restless. At least forty-five minutes passed between the opening set and My Chem, but Frank didn’t budge. In the dark he could see the men setting things up. The drums were assembled before his very eyes. There was Ray’s guitar, and Matt’s. Someone taped a set list in front of the microphone that Gerard Way was going to be singing into.

They came on stage at last, to roars and bright lights and Frank could only stare breathlessly. Not even the mosh pit going on rather violently behind him, feet in his ribs, people shoving, could distract him. He had to see everything.

Bob was solid and stoic and Ray was in his own zone, seemingly oblivious to the rest of his band, grinning like a madman. Mikey and Matt were engaged in some friendly, back and forth shoving and kicking, but Frank couldn’t spare much attention to any of them. He couldn’t take his eyes off Gerard, only really noticing the others when they ended up in Gerard’s space—which they inevitably did. Gerard was on fire, bouncing around the stage like a man possessed—grinding on Matt, resting his head on Mikey’s shoulder, going down on his knees at Ray’s feet.

There was a point during Cemetery Drive when Gerard got low at the edge of the stage and for a few electric, heart-stopping seconds, Gerard’s fingers touched Frank’s. Except then Gerard moved on, touching other hands, eyes far away, somewhere where the lyrics were memories.

Frank was left breathless with want—for more touch, to be a part of those memories playing through Gerard’s mind.

The band went south to Portland next, and Frank found a trucker heading that way who was nice, but not in a creepy way. The second concert was the very next night. It was general admission, and even though Frank had to fight his way there during the opening act, he ended up in the front again.

When Gerard saw him, there was recognition in his eyes and he gave Frank a bright, beautiful smile that Frank felt like a physical blow. Frank ended up with one of Matt’s picks and a drumstick, but that was more out of luck than anything else. He barely noticed the others playing.

My Chem went on to California, but Frank could only find a ride with a van-full of guys heading towards Utah, so that was where he went. From there, he found another ride to Flagstaff, and waited a few days for the band to catch up with him. In the meantime, he met a few people from the local music scene and managed to crash on their couches.

When Frank went to his fourth concert, Gerard laughed and said something about their new stalker. After that, Frank started hanging out towards the back of the venues, something heavy and sick in his stomach. Of course it was ridiculous, thinking he would be special, somehow. Instead, he was little better than some star struck teenager, writing Mrs. Frank Way on all his textbooks.

The money from Brendon’s movies ran out after a total of seven shows, ending Frank in Texas. Then it took two days, a semi, an RV of college kids and one tour bus of old ladies to get Frank to Las Vegas. Luckily, the driver of the tour was from a suburb of Vegas, and after Frank described the area where Ryan’s house was, they were able to drop him off in the neighbourhood.

It was late morning when Frank spotted the right house. He’d been on enough doggie constitutionals that he was familiar with the neighbourhood and the houses, and Ryan’s garden was different from the rest, with little eccentric touches—fancy, handmade mosaic stepping stones, and whimsical decorations.

Not to mention the faint frost that clung to only this lawn, long after the sun should have thawed it (never mind the fact that there probably shouldn’t be frost in the first place…)

Spencer answered the door wearing sweatpants and a scowl, pushing the hair back from his face. He looked as though he’d just woken up, but when he saw Frank, his eyes widened. He swung the door mostly shut and glared. “You’re not taking him back,” Spencer said fiercely.

Frank was really glad that Brendon had people who loved him so much, even if it made Frank feel a little lonely. He tried to look as unthreatening as possible, palms out at his chest. “Nope. Broke out myself. Sanctuary?”

Spencer looked suspicious, but he stepped back and opened the door wider for Frank to enter. “Well, Brendon isn’t here right now. I’m the only one.”

“Sorry I woke you,” Frank said, following Spencer down the hall.

Spencer waved a dismissive hand. “Eh, I worked a double-shift last night, but I should be up by now, anyway. Want some coffee?” He led the way through to the kitchen and started a pot before sitting at the table opposite Frank. “So, Brendon said you’ve been mailing him since he came back.”

“Yes,” Frank agreed. He gave Spencer a challenging look, tilted his chin up in that way that Pete envied, that said you gotta fucking problem? “He’s my best friend.”

The dogs came scampering in to investigate the new smell and guest and Frank got down on his knees to bury his face in Boba’s neck. “Hi guys!” he said, and giggled when Hobo painted his face in kisses.

Spencer watched them with an indulgent smile. “He didn’t say anything about you coming,” Spencer said.

Oh. Well. Maybe Frank should give the guy the benefit of the doubt. “I wanted to surprise him,” Frank said, careful to keep his lips close together against the dogs’ tongues. “You know, I never wanted to take him away from you guys. Even when Santa sent me. I missed him, sure, but I know he’s happy with you guys. We both said for years we were gonna leave and never did, and with Brendon gone, what was keeping me? So I left.”

Spencer snorted. “So you left,” he echoed. “Did you come as well-equipped for the real world as Brendon?”

Frank smirked. “I’m not dressed in my uniform and stranded in the desert, so I think I did pretty fan-fucking-tastic,” he said.

Spencer finally cracked a smile. “You’re planning on staying away for good?” Frank nodded. He patted the dogs and got to his feet, taking a seat at the table. Spencer got up to pour their coffee. “Brendon’ll be really happy,” he said.

“When’ll he be back?” Frank asked, ankle knocking rhythmically against a rung on the chair. He’d been so distracted by Gerard Way in the past week, he’d barely thought of anything else, but now all he could think about was seeing Brendon.

Spencer glanced at the clock above the stove. It was getting late in the day, the sun almost set. “We all have tonight off. He’s probably out getting something for dinner. Jon and Ryan should be getting home in an hour.”

“Aww,” Frank cooed. “Am I ruining your date night?”

Rather predictably, Spencer went pink around the ears and ducked his head. “Shut up. It’s no big deal.”

“I don’t wanna piss Ross off,” Frank said. Ryan had always been the least fond of him. “Especially if I’m going to convince you to let me stay with you guys.”

Spencer gave him a wry smile. “Not even Ryan would kick you out. It would make Brendon sad.”

“Are you saying I can stay?” Frank asked.

“We have the space,” Spencer said. “Just don’t piss Ryan off too bad.”

Frank held up his crossed fingers solemnly. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

Spencer rolled his eyes and got up from the table. “I don’t think that’s the gesture you’re looking for.” He finished his coffee in one long swig and left his cup in the sink. “I’m going to shower. If they get home before I get out, do you think you can manage to keep freezing water from coming from the pipes?"

“We’ll keep the celebrating to a minimum,” Frank said.

While Spencer was showering, Frank moved his things up to the spare bedroom. He’d bought a few outfits before leaving Canada, but he’d still need to build up a wardrobe. Maybe one of the guys could help him get a job.

Jon actually came home first, and didn’t even look very surprised to see Frank sitting on the couch when he came in. “Hey,” he said and Frank nodded at him. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a beer, and the two of them settled in to watch Animal Planet in a companionable silence.

When the garage door sounded again, Frank jumped up and ran into the hallway. Brendon and Ryan came in carrying grocery bags and arguing about beer versus wine coolers. Ryan saw Frank first and stopped talking mid-sentence, mouth snapping shut. Brendon turned to look and his smile grew larger. He dropped his bags by the door and threw himself at Frank.

There was no snow, but Brendon was still effusively excited, tackling Frank to the ground and bouncing on his lap. “What are you doing here?” he asked, tugging on Frank’s hair.

“Crashing for a while, I hope,” Frank said, with a cautious look at Ryan.

Ryan huffed a sigh and picked up Brendon’s cast-away bags. “Because we needed more inexplicable weather in our lives.”

“I’ve got that sort of thing under so much better control than Brendon,” Frank said.

Brendon nodded sadly. He got to his feet and offered Frank a hand up. “It’s true,” he said, and cuddled up between Jon and Ryan. “It’s your guys’ fault.”

Ryan shrugged him off and went into the kitchen. He didn’t exactly storm, but it was a close thing. Brendon gave Frank an apologetic look and quick hug around the neck before following. Jon gestured back to the living room. “Let them talk it out,” he advised, and Frank settled in again with him.

The discussion between Brendon and Ryan went on long enough that Spencer came down and joined in. There were some raised voices, but Frank couldn’t quite make any of it out, and eventually Jon went in for a bit, too.

In the end, they all came out to the dining room with plates of food and Brendon invited Frank to the table where Ryan, rather graciously, invited Frank to stay with them for a while.

“I don’t wanna mess with what you guys have, or fuck anything up,” Frank protested.

“Impossible,” Brendon said, and smiled an infectious smile that even had Ryan returning it, albeit small and aimed at the table. “Couldn’t happen with us.”

Frank told them his story over dinner, leaving out the parts about stalking My Chemical Romance. Well, at least until later that evening when he and Brendon were alone in Frank’s new room.

“You’re such a psycho,” Brendon told him fondly.

“It’s not like it matters,” Frank said. He was determined to be okay with it. Optimistic, even. “Like, I know I always said I was saving myself for Gerard Way, but we both know it was a joke.”

“Yeah,” Brendon said, like he didn’t believe a word of it. “But!” He perked up, bumping shoulders with Frank. “You know, now you’re surrounded by millions of possibilities. Not just the same old town of the same old people you’ve known your whole life. Look at me. I got three. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to get at least one.”

Frank punched him in the arm, hard. “Let’s just hope I don’t have the same shitty taste in lovers as I do in best friends.”

Brendon grinned winningly. “I’m gonna show you just how awesome a best friend I am. You should come to the club tomorrow night. I think the guys would like you, and there’s this bar we go to after. They have live bands sometimes, and they’re usually pretty good. Man, just wait until you see.”

Frank was pretty excited about it. After hearing Brendon go on about the club for hours on end back at the North Pole, he wanted to see if it lived up to Brendon’s description. And he knew he was being ridiculous about the whole Gerard Way thing. What were the chances of even ever meeting the guy in a real world setting? Let alone talking to him and getting to know him and convincing him they were soul mates and that they should adopt lots of dogs and maybe babies together.

“Sounds good,” he said, and Brendon sighed, like he knew Frank’s heart wasn’t in it. And even though he had three lovers waiting for him in their giant bed, he stayed with Frank, telling him all about the music Frank needed to hear, and the shows he needed to see, and how amazing it was all going to be.

Sometime well after midnight, Brendon ran out of words and Frank listened to the stillness of the house around them. “I just…I thought it would be different,” he admitted, because Brendon knew anyway, and it was stupid to pretend otherwise.

“I know Patrick’s told us the real world is nothing like movies, but I thought it would be like something from one of those lameass teenage fairytales that Pete loves. Like, he’d see me, in the middle of all the other fans, just this writhing mass of bodies and then me, there, spotlit in the middle, still and watching him, and he’d know, you know? I thought he’d touch my hand and there’d be this spark.

“Except, he touched my hand and then he grabbed a dozen other people’s hands. He probably only fucking recognised me because, I mean, the piercings and the tattoos might not stand out, but the green fauxhawk was a bit unusual even for that crowd, and all I got out of him noticing was the potential for a restraining order against me.”

Brendon laughed softly and burrowed closer under the covers. Frank had missed having his living, breathing personal heater around. He was going to have to get more blankets. And maybe convince the pets to come sleep on the bed with him from now on.

“Not everything is like it is in the movies. But I left the North Pole and I found my home. Who says you can’t have your fairytale?” Brendon said.

“I think reality and the seven concerts I went to and failed to make any progress at say I can’t,” Frank said.

“Well, Gerard Way’s a big gay idiot, then,” Brendon said decisively. “But hey, there’s this guy at the club who does Judy Garland in the show and he’s a dead ringer for Gerard, out of makeup.”

Frank punched him hard in the arm again. “You are seriously not helping. Get the fuck out. Go have weird, illicit sex with your multiple partners, or whatever, Jesus.”

Brendon kissed him sloppily on the cheek and turned off the lights on the way out, and even though he was seriously a tool, and a horrible friend, Frank still fell asleep with a smile on his face.

*

Frank seriously loved the music room. It was soundproofed and the walls were hung with some truly beautiful guitars. Spencer’s kit was pink and glittery and lit up, which was so fucking hardcore, and there was a baby grand in one corner, covered in an antique piano shawl, the back littered with sheet music in four different sets of handwriting.

The animals joined him. He chose to believe it was because he was so freakin’ cool, but he was ready to concede that the afternoon sun did a nice job of warming the room, and the cats were awfully fond of the way the light slatted through the blinds and painted the floor golden.

Ryan came home from work to find Frank on his back in the middle of an epic guitar solo and Frank froze, dropping his hips to the floor. “I love your set up,” Frank said.

He’d sort of expected Ryan to look pissed, or snap at him to get out, but Ryan just looked amused, arms crossed over his chest, posed idly in the doorframe. “Are all elves musical prodigies?” he asked.

“Nah,” Frank said, and plucked at the strings. “Just the super awesome, really fucking good-looking ones.”

Ryan snorted a laugh—it was the first Frank had ever heard from him—and came further into the room, dropping into one of the beanbags in the corner and snagging the guitar propped beside it. “What were you playing?”

“Just something that—I—” he paused, and weighed his options. He could make up something and appease Ryan, or tell the truth and potentially piss him off. Frank wasn’t the sort to lie to make people comfortable, or like him better, though. “I looked at some of your lyrics, and the notes you guys had made, and I was messing around with a few of the songs.”

Ryan blinked, Frank thought it might be in surprise, but it was difficult to tell with Ryan. “That was...you made that to go with one of our songs?”

“Well, I was just messing with the Grand Canyon one,” Frank said, sitting up and sorting through the mess of sheet music at his side. “But I was looking at some of these.” He pushed a bunch of sheets Ryan’s way, with titles like Lying, and Jon and Spencer Are Assholes. “These, where you have all these different parts, with the piano, which is really cool, but I was thinking, you could totally do with some rhythm guitar in there, too.”

Ryan looked hesitant about it, but started playing part of Lying. Frank proved his point, improvising some stuff on the spot. Ryan bit his lip. “There aren’t really enough of us,” he said. “Brendon’s doing rhythm guitar and piano, and he can’t exactly do both in the same song, not to mention the fact that he’s our lead singer.”

“Yeah,” Frank agreed, and lay back down, returning to what he’d been working on when Ryan came in. After a few moments, Ryan joined in, picking up at just the right place in the song, like he could image the same sound Frank had.

They messed around for a while, talking little, but finding some interesting sounds between them, as the sun made its progress across the room. Jon came home when it was almost dark and sat on the floor between Ryan’s legs. He mostly listened to them, saying what he liked and what he didn’t, but he occasionally joined in, so they could get a better idea of what the whole might sound like. Eventually they gave it up when the sun was all the way down and they were all too lazy to get up and turn on a light.

That was how Spencer found them when he got home from work. He surveyed the damage from the doorway—Bob Dylan pouring from the speakers, Frank playing along on one of Ryan’s particularly nice guitars, Hobo sleeping on his stomach. Jon and Ryan were making out lazily at his side, sheet music everywhere, including under Frank’s back, and that wasn’t very comfortable, and how had it gotten there?

“You guys are so fucking lame. We have to leave for Brendon’s thing in twenty minutes.”

“Oh shit!” Ryan said, pushing Jon off him. “I have to get changed.”

“Can I drive?” Frank wondered idly. He was sort of dying to try it out.

“No,” Spencer said decisively.

Frank pursed his lips. “I can drive a snow mobile.” In theory, he could. He’d seen it done lots of times, and it couldn’t be very different from driving a sled, right?

“I’ll take you out sometime in the desert,” Jon offered. “I’m teaching Brendon to drive that way. Nothing out there to hit but the occasional cactus.”

“It is your life, Jon Walker, you can end it however you like,” Spencer said blithely. “But could you move your ass for now?”

Jon levered himself to his feet, swinging his hips when he walked across the room, and he didn’t seem like the type to Frank, but it was sorta hot, anyway. “Baby,” he purred, leaning into Spencer’s space, “I’ll move my ass for you anytime.” He stood on his toes to press their lips together, and though Spencer shoved him away and pushed him toward the bedroom, Frank could see the smile tugging at Spencer’s lips.

Frank had spent most of his money on tickets, lodging and travel costs, but other than that and a couple outfits, he’d got new, non-Christmas themed jewellery for his piercings, and some kick ass boots. Yet somehow, the outfits he bought with My Chemical Romance concerts in mind didn’t seem like they’d fit in a drag club. Now, maybe if he was dressing up as Gerard Way, on the other hand…

Jon lent him a tight black tee-shirt with an oriental themed pattern, smoke like wisps trailing up the side in shapes of animals and Chinese characters, ending in a bright orange koi.

Ryan offered to do his makeup, and Frank didn’t usually wear any, but wasn’t opposed to it, and it was sorta nice that Ryan offered in the first place. In fact, even though he’d been around less than a day, Ryan, Spencer and Jon were all being a lot nicer than they had been before, and the attention was nice. He stuck with just eye liner and lip gloss, but Frank liked the way it made his eyes seem bigger and greener than usual.

Somehow, even with Ryan’s own make up job (which was really complex and involved at least six different shades of eye shadow in a swirling sunset, complete with sparkles along his brow like the stars coming out at night), they managed to make it out of the house in twenty minutes. Frank gave credit to Spencer’s seriously impressive scowl (though don’t think Frank didn’t see Spencer applying mascara and pink lip gloss, too).

The Mansion was set just off the main strip—close enough to the action to get a lot of traffic, but far enough away that it felt intimate and cosy. Tonight, a Friday, the club was busy, every table filled.

A place had been saved for them, towards the back but raised up so they had a good view of the stage. The booth was one big bench in a half-circle, but Frank had plenty of room to himself considering that Jon, Ryan and Spencer had no concept of personal space amongst themselves.

They had celebrity impersonators and just straight up drag performers, as Brendon told it, and the thing that made The Mansion different from other drag shows was that here, the performers actually sang, rather than lip-synching. When they came in there was a Shania Twain on the stage in leopard print bell-bottoms and midriff exposed.

Frank spent about twenty minutes at the buffet just looking at everything, but, okay, it was his first time in a restaurant. He’d heard of most of the food, but hadn’t had a lot of it before. He finally came back to the booth balancing two plates piled high with vegetarian options.

“You know you can go back for more,” Spencer told him, eyeing the plates.

“For real?” Buffets were fucking awesome. He managed to get through four plates before his stomach caught up with his mouth and he sat back, painfully full in the best way possible.

“You guys having fun yet?” Brendon asked, sliding up to the booth with a tray full of colourful cocktails. Jon got up to let him in and Brendon cosied up between him and Ryan.

“Who are you doing tonight?” Spencer asked. Brendon wasn’t dressed yet, wearing track pants and tank top, face clean, hair pushed back with a headband.

Brendon sank into Ryan’s side and Ryan pressed his face in Brendon’s throat, little kisses along his jaw. Jon had his arm around Brendon’s back, playing with the tips of Brendon’s hair and drawing his fingers over Ryan’s bare shoulder.

“Don’t you want it to be a surprise for Frank?” Brendon said. He was smirking smugly, not that Frank could blame him. If Frank had three hot boyfriends, he’d be feeling pretty smug, too.

“Should I be worried?” Frank asked, teasing.

“Ah,” Brendon tsked. “You have no faith in me at all, Frank Iero. I’m wounded.”

Frank half-heartedly threw one of his fries and it got caught in Ryan’s hair. Ryan looked mildly affronted and Spencer plucked it out and threw it back at Frank.

“Anyway,” Brendon said, eyes twinkling in a way that made Frank feel slightly uneasy. “I told the guys about my best friend moving out to Las Vegas, and they insisted on throwing you a welcoming party tonight, after. We’re all going to Eric and Sean’s.”

“Cher and Tina,” Spencer said, jerking his head toward the stage where the former was doing a nice cover of “The Shoop-Shoop Song.”

“A party?” Frank said. “Like in the movies?”

He’d always been curious about those. Even when their group of friends decided to have a ‘party’ back home, it had never been more than a half-dozen of them crowding at one of their houses with contraband booze and contraband movies, and Brendon and Greta inevitably making brownies at some point. It had always been fun, but certainly nothing like what they saw in movies.

“Totally better than in the movies,” Brendon assured him. “Especially when Sean’s involved. He makes these jello shots. And pudding shots, which are even better, oh my god, and, so, Sean does exotic dancing, too, and he has a fucking pole in their living room, to practice on, and work out and stuff, but it is so much fun to play with!

“You know,” he said, sitting up straighter and looking between his lovers, “we should get one of those, too. We could have it in the bedroom.”

Spencer flushed bright red and ducked his head. Jon just chuckled and said, “I could get behind that idea.”

“We can talk about it later,” Spencer said, and Ryan laughed and kissed him.

“Gotta get ready,” Brendon said, and wriggled out over Jon’s lap, giving him a lingering kiss on the way. “Just wanted to say hey.”

“Hey,” Jon said, and smacked him on the ass as he left.

It was one thing to know that they were all in some weird foursome, but an entirely different thing to actually see them interacting. They were cute together, and it all seemed to fit. It just seemed a little unfair that Brendon got three really hot dudes when Frank didn’t even have one.

“How do you guys even, like, work?” Frank wondered out loud. “Do you take turns…?”

“Frank, I do not believe you know us well enough to be asking a question like that,” Ryan said, feigning a scandalised look.

“Whatever,” Frank said, and rolled his eyes. “You know, I can just ask Brendon later and he’ll give me all the details.”

“Well,” Ryan conceded, “then I won’t have to be around to hear it.”

“Ryan likes to operate under a special kind of delusion, where if he isn’t around to hear a conversation, it never took place,” Spencer explained. Ryan pretended, rather convincingly, not to hear him.

Frank laughed. “Okay. So at least tell me how you three all managed to hook up.”

It was, surprisingly enough, Jon who blushed at the question. Spencer and Ryan looked at each other and did the whole communication through facial expression alone sort of deal that Frank had thought was unique to him and Brendon. Then Ryan shrugged and began to tell the story.

Ryan was a good story-teller, and it was a good story. The sort of story where being best friends was part of being in love, where everything seemed too good to be chance, and just fell into place. The sort of story that Patrick said only happened in movies. Frank and Brendon and Greta had always been too nice to point out that Patrick had that kind of story with Pete.

Ryan was just getting to the part about a trip between him, Spencer and Jon to the Grand Canyon—and yeah, more than one of their band’s weird song titles were beginning to make sense—when one performer left the stage and the lights dipped low. Ryan stopped talking and a smile lit up his face, rare and big.

Some exotic beat started up, heavy on the drums and the flute. “And now,” the announcer said, “let’s take a trip to the equator for something a little more sensual and a whole lot wilder. Please welcome the sexy and seductive Shakira!”

Frank recognised Brendon at once, but it was like seeing him through some diffuse light filter. He wasn’t as girly looking as his sister or mother, but he definitely looked softer and more feminine. It wasn’t just the long, wildly curly wig or the make-up, or even the costume—a halter top made of coins and shadowy makeup that hinted at small breasts, and a calf-length purple skirt set low on his hips. It was more in the way he held himself, as he began to dance his way onto the stage. He rolled his hips in a slow, sensual circle, each step precise but graceful.

“Dude,” Frank said, and, “I love the real world,” before getting up to go catcall by the edge of the stage with all of Brendon’s other loyal fans.

*

When they got to the party it was already in full swing. Music was pouring from the open doors and windows, and couples were dancing on the front lawn. Inside there was indeed a pole in the living room, on which a very nicely shaped woman with the most incredible legs Frank had ever seen (seriously, they might have been longer than his whole body) was twisting and writhing.

Sean, still in his Tina dress, though out of makeup and wig, greeted them as they came in, hugging everyone in turn, even Frank, though they’d never been formally introduced. “Frank,” he said, “Frank, Frank, Frank.”

“Hello,” Frank said, and took the red cup Sean gave him. It smelled really fucking strong, and that was saying something seeing as how Frank was used to drinking Pete’s homebrew.

“It’s a Long Island,” Brendon said, “It’s good.”

“Frank,” Sean said, and threw his arm over Frank’s shoulder. “Brendon can be so secretive sometimes. You’re going to tell me all about him…”

“Um,” Frank said, as Sean led him away from the others. He cast a look over his shoulder, and Brendon waved at him with a gleeful smile.

Frank liked people. They were interesting and crazy and fun. But he still wasn’t used to being around this many new people who actually wanted to know him and talk to him. He’d been around the same people all his life, and even at the concerts, no one was interested in him at all. Now people were coming up to Sean for an introduction, calling for Frank to join them and tell them all about himself.

And these people were freaking awesome. In the first twenty minutes he’d met a real life Danny Ocean card sharp, a dominatrix, what he was pretty sure was a hitman, several B-list actors, and more strippers than he could count.

After the grand tour, Frank broke off from Sean in search of the others. He found them in the backyard, all trying to fit onto one lounge chair with moderate success, though Frank was worried if one of them tried to get up, everyone else was going to end up as some tragic, cautionary tale.

“You guys, that David guy has a fucking gun, and he offered to show it to me, but frankly, I was a little concerned that he was either hitting on me or going to ‘hit’ me, if you know what I mean,” Frank told them excitedly. “Or, maybe he was trying to recruit me. Do I look badass enough? That’s seriously offensive, that he’d think I want to kill people, just ‘cause of the way I look. I’m a vegetarian!”

Ryan shrugged and Spencer hid what looked suspiciously like a smile in Jon’s shoulder. Jon said, “The tattoos and piercings are pretty badass, dude.”

“That’s! That’s!” Frank sputtered, waving his hand around searching for the right word, Long Island Tea splashing over the side of the cup and down his arm. “That’s body modificationphobiaist!” he finally declared.

Brendon giggled. “You are so fucking wasted,” he said.

“Impossible,” Frank said dismissively. “I’ve only had a bunch of these tea things. Which, seriously, do not taste anything like Greta’s iced tea.”

Spencer’s shoulders were shaking in what Frank was pretty sure was laughter, which was entirely uncalled for, because Frank was serious about this—tattoo profiling or whatever.

Ryan sighed. “Do they, like, train you guys to be completely socially retarded? Is that a class at the North Pole? ‘How to never fit in in the real world?’”

“Blow me, Ross,” Brendon said, and Ryan leered at him. Brendon rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t taste like Greta’s iced tea because it isn’t tea. It’s a bunch of different kinds of alcohol and some lemony stuff and soda.”

“Well, I guess that’s good,” Frank said, because, upon reflection, he had been feeling pretty drunk, and it was probably better that he actually was, and not hallucinating it. “Though, to be fair, they probably shouldn’t call it tea if it doesn’t have any tea in it. Very misleading title.” He shook his finger at Ryan. “Also, I think we should address Ryan’s speciest comments.”

Brendon laughed. “Not that paranoia isn’t adorable on you—and knowing how you like to channel your hardrock soulmate’s, like, political agenda when you’re drunk, or adapting your work uniform, but seriously, David isn’t a hitman. He’s a security guard at the same casino where Spence works. And I think Ryan’s made his favourable position on elves quite clear.”

“I don’t need to know anything about Ryan and his positions with you,” Frank said, eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I’m drunk enough yet to get that image out of my head, so I’m gonna go find more misleadingly named beverages to drown my trauma in.”

“I can make you go faster,” Ryan said, hand slipping down Brendon’s back toward his ass and Brendon giggled and waved Frank off.

The rest of the evening passed in a sort of blur. Frank had gotten drunk plenty of times, but he didn’t think he’d ever been so well and truly fucked up. When Eric found out that Frank hadn’t had any mixed drinks before, he took it as his personal duty to introduce him to as many as possible.

There was dancing with this tiny girl named Tasha, with hundreds of braids that whipped against Frank’s skin when she tossed her head, and dark skin that shone blue in the right light. There was Courtney, with a sharp smile and amazing hips in painted on jeans, and her skin was soft under his hands. There was Kevin with pale, pale skin and black hair falling in gentle curls over his forehead, who liked to bite, and was the first person Frank kissed who he hadn’t known his whole life.

Sometime in the early morning, he was stirred awake by a hand on his shoulder. He didn't even remembered falling asleep, but he was tucked into a pile on the couch with a few other vaguely familiar faces.

“Hey,” Spencer said, and smiled sleepily. He tucked an arm under Frank’s and helped him out to the car, and didn’t complain when Frank played with his hair the whole way, but Spencer had the softest, shiniest hair ever, and Frank couldn’t help it.

The car ride passed in the blink of an eye, Frank jammed in the back with his legs over Jon’s lap and his head on Brendon’s. Ryan, Jon, and Brendon disappeared upstairs, but Frank couldn’t get his feet to work and couldn’t stop burping and was pretty sure he was either going to pass out or throw up, and hoped it wouldn’t happen in that order.

“Fucking lightweight pussy,” Spencer said, but in an affectionate sort of way.

“You shouldn’t use a derogatory term for the female sex organ as an insult,” Frank slurred.

Spencer just rolled his eyes. He practically carried Frank into the living room and left him on the couch, only to return a moment later with a trash can, a glass of water, and a blanket.

“Drink some of this,” he said, and held out a spoon with pink liquid in it. Frank had barely swallowed before it was coming back up, and Spencer made a face, but rubbed Frank’s back through it.

“Sorry,” Frank said, eyes falling shut in exhaustion.

Spencer patted his ankle. “Not the first time it’s happened to me,” he said. He made Frank drink the entire glass of water and then refilled it.

“Besides,” Spencer said, “you elves have this way of being sincerely clueless that’s sort of ridiculously endearing.”

“I won’t be sweet talked into joining your deliciously sinful foursome, Mister Smith,” Frank told him.

“Get some sleep,” Spencer said, and pulled the blanket up over Frank’s shoulders before leaving.

*

Brendon looked at Frank over the rim of his mug and didn’t say anything. Very loudly.

“What?” Frank snapped, feeling irritable for no good reason. He wasn’t hung over, which was some sort of weird miracle he was chalking up to Spencer Smith giving him magic medicine, but he still wasn’t in a good mood. Something felt off. Had since he’d first woken up.

Brendon blew at the steam coming off his cup and took a slow sip. “You seemed like you had fun last night,” he said at last.

“Yeah?” Frank said.

“Hmm,” Brendon said. “Lots of fun. Three different sets of lips fun.”

“Seriously?” Frank said, with all the indignation he could manage. Which, given the situation, was a whole hell of a lot. “Seriously? That’s the argument you want to use? Because I’m pretty sure that since you regularly have fun with three different sets of lips you have no fucking room what to speak whatsoever.”

“I wasn’t—what about Gerard?” Brendon said.

Frank jumped to his feet, pacing as far from Brendon as the fence around the backyard would allow. “I told you the other night. It’s fucking stupid. It’s one thing to sit around doing nothing with my life in the North Pole where I don’t have any other choice and using Gerard Way as some unattainable object to make my life more bearable, or something. But this is the real world, and I’m not that fucking deluded.”

“Yeah, but,” Brendon started.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Frank shouted. “Shut the fuck up about it already.” He knew it was too harsh the moment it was past his lips, but he just crossed his arms and glared defiantly at Brendon.

Brendon was silent, lips drawn tight in anger and hurt. It was an expression Frank hated seeing on Brendon’s face. He was usually threatening violence against people who caused it, not being the cause of it himself. Brendon took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and closed it again. Then he got to his feet and went to Frank’s side.

“Look,” Brendon said, “I get it, Frank, I do. I had all these big ideas about what going into the real world would be like, and then I got here, and it was mean and inhospitable and a serious disappointment. I wanted to come home that first night, but I was stranded and didn’t know what to do. And then Jon came to my rescue and they were all awesome, and when I left Ryan wrote a letter to Santa, asking for me back as a Christmas present, okay? It doesn’t make sense. Shit like that doesn’t happen in the real world. But it did.”

“Brendon,” Frank said, and sighed.

“No, listen,” Brendon said. “I wasn’t trying to guilt you earlier. I was just saying. You had three really hot people all over you last night, and today you look miserable, like you hate yourself for it.”

Brendon looped an arm over Frank’s shoulder and Frank leaned his head against him. “Suppose you’re right,” Frank said. “How the hell do you propose I do something about it? I already tried the stalking bit.”

“I don’t know,” Brendon said, voice lightening. He shook Frank a little. “We become world famous rock stars, and then he stalks us?” He waggled his brows for effect and Frank couldn’t help but laugh.

“Brilliant plan,” he said.

*

The thing was, it wasn’t the worst plan. In his heart, Frank was a rock star already, and conveniently enough, he found himself living with a band. He just had to convince him that they needed him in their band.

*

Ryan and Jon made their own schedules, pretty much, and Brendon generally only worked in the evenings. Spencer had classes and work, but somehow he managed to be home more than any of the others.

On Sunday they were all free from the afternoon on, so they decided it was the perfect time to introduce Frank to Las Vegas properly. They took him to the Strip which was frankly stunning, even after Brendon’s club and the after party.

Christmastown was bright in its own way—the twinkle lights were left up all year round, after all, and some families, like the Uries, went overboard with their decorations. But in the near-perpetual dark of town, and with the snow, that all seemed muted. This was in-your-face bright.

It was gloriously warm in Vegas, and for the first time ever Frank was happy to shed his hoodie and bask in the sun. It didn’t even bum him out too much that there were so many hookers hanging around (not that women weren’t free to do whatever they wanted with their bodies, but it made Frank sad that so many of them had turned to the sex industry to support themselves in a phallic-centric society).

They went to the Venetian first and Ryan and Spencer just rolled their eyes when Frank asked if they could go on a gondola ride. “I asked the same thing the first time we all came together,” Brendon told him. “Apparently Jon did, too.”

Spencer procured the tickets and Frank reminded himself that he was going to have to get a job soon because things in the real world were really fucking expensive. Spencer didn’t complain, though, and none of the others seemed to think it was out of the ordinary for him to take care of.

Frank stopped counting how much he must owe after Spencer also bought him a t-shirt, paid for all their drinks at the pool, and covered lunch. By the time they got the casino proper, Frank was already overwhelmed. Then the servers just started bringing tray after tray of free drinks, and somehow Frank kept winning (even if the payout was really small).

“It’s like one big amusement park,” Frank said, half in amazement, when they found themselves on a gondola for the second time in one day. They’d opted for the outside ride this time since the sun was almost completely set, and Frank paid for it with some of his winnings.

He toed Brendon’s knee, looking for a response, but Brendon just muttered something unintelligible and burrowed further into Jon’s side. Brendon had maybe had a lot more drinks than Frank. Frank snorted and nudged him harder, just to piss him off. Brendon slapped blindly at his foot.

“Seriously, you guys grew up here?” he said to Spencer and Ryan. “Wasn’t that weird? Like sorta surreal?”

Ryan laughed a little in disbelief. “You’re asking us if where we grew up was weird?”

“Okay,” Frank said, “fair enough. But it isn’t even on the same scale. Sure where we grew up is weird because, you know, most people don’t believe it exists, or whatever. But it’s actually pretty boring. You’ll see. You’ll totally have to come visit at some point, to meet Greta and Pete and Patrick.”

“Visit,” Spencer said. “Christmastown?”

“Spencer still chooses to believe it doesn’t exist,” Jon explained patiently. Spencer punched him lightly on the arm

Frank laughed, and just to prove a point, started glowing. It was faint with all the light from the buildings, and the gondolier wasn’t paying them any attention, but Spencer sat up straight, flailing about and hissed “Stop glowing.”

“Sorry,” Brendon mumbled.

“Just saying,” Frank said. Ryan looked mildly amazed.

“I know what you’re up to,” Ryan said, at length.

“Okay,” Frank said, and dropped his arm to his side, and stopped glowing.

“Is it working?” Frank asked.

Ryan just gave him a steady look that told him nothing.

Brendon poked Ryan in the side, breaking the staring contest. “I wanna go to a show.”

“We’re not taking you to another magic show,” Ryan said sternly, though his eyes were sparkling.

“Dude, Frankie,” Brendon said excitedly, apparently gaining his second wind. He sat up, eyes wide. “There are all these charlatans going around claiming they can do magic.”

“Those assholes,” Frank said, with as much faux-outrage as he could muster. Spencer’s glare told Frank not to encourage this.

“Right,” Brendon said, “so it’s our duty to expose them for the big fakers they are.”

Frank took in Ryan’s stony expression, Jon’s deer-in-the-headlight impression and Spencer’s pissy glare and couldn’t help it. “If we don’t stand up against them, who will?” he asked.

“Frank gets it!” Brendon exclaimed happily.

“Frank is getting taken home. And so are you,” Spencer said, and all but hauled Brendon to the car when the gondola docked again.

They ended up ordering pizza and watching The X-Files until three in the morning and honestly, Frank thought that was a whole lot cooler than going to see some sparkly floorshow with a bunch of half-dressed chicks wearing feather hats.

“Now, Scully half-dressed in a feather hat, maybe I could get behind that,” Frank said appreciatively.

“Dude,” Jon said in vehement agreement, and disappeared upstairs. He reappeared shortly after with his bass and a guitar for Frank. “We should compose an ode to Scully.” Frank strummed his guitar obligingly and tried to think of words that rhymed with sceptic.

Ryan waved his beer bottle expressively. “Mulder is the real genius. I mean, Scully’s cool enough, but there wouldn’t be an X-Files without Mulder,” he droned. “And besides, Scully doesn’t even believe, even when the evidence points to aliens or whatever. Mulder deserves an ode, if anyone does.”

Brendon saw this as his cue to start singing, “David Duchovny, why won’t you love me?” Spencer laughed and joined in, the two of them crooning, “Why won’t you love me, David Duchovny.”

“Peptic,” Frank mused, “antiseptic?”

Ryan’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile and he hit Frank square in the face with a pillow. “Quit trying to make me like you,” he said.

*

Everyone in the house was pretty busy, some with school, some with work, some with both. There was usually someone home with Frank, but when there wasn’t, he found plenty of things to occupy his time. He’d gotten pretty good at making up drinks with the ingredients in the wet bar, was downright pro at easy mac, and had reorganised the pantry twice.

By midweek he’d beaten Jade Empire with both a male and female protagonist and finished the first Knights of the Old Republic. Jon had told him about a video game store a few blocks away and Spencer had given him twelve bucks to pick up the sequel like Frank was a kid with a fucking allowance, or some shit.

On Friday Brendon went in for the lunch and dinner shift and Spencer had afternoon lessons. Ryan and Jon were both at their respective jobs, and okay, Frank went out with the intention of buying KotOR II. Only then he got to the little strip mall Jon had described.

So, in Christmastown there weren’t a lot of businesses. There was the tailor, who made the same kind of outfits and uniforms for everyone. There was the baker (Brendon and Greta, who totally didn’t count), the candy shoppe, the general store, the toy shoppe…

This place was seriously epic. There were about five different restaurants, a candle shop, a movie rental place, a costume shop and a store called Wal-Mart that was at least half the size of the whole of Christmastown. And, nestled next to the game shop, there was an actual, for real pet shop.

Frank sort of forgot all about his new video game in the face of baby animals. The ferrets were fun until one tried to bite off his middle finger. The rabbits were cute but sorta boring. Even the snakes were pretty damn cool, particularly the one that liked to curl around his neck like a living, breathing accessory. Still, none of them were as awesome as the puppies.

Dozens and dozens of puppies, in every breed imaginable. Frank pressed his face close to the glass, watching a tiny terrier trip over his own feet and tumble into his water dish, spilling water everywhere. Two labs—one yellow and one chocolate were tugging playfully on each other’s ears.

The price tags were pretty ridiculous, though. Seriously, how could anyone justify charging over a thousand dollars for a little puppy? You could buy, like, five seriously decent My Chemical Romance tickets for that price.

And okay, maybe it was sort of bad, but Frank had heard about puppymills, okay, and he knew how places like this worked, so he didn’t feel too particularly bad about asking to see the seriously adorable English Pointer and waiting ‘til the guy was distracted at the front counter before sneaking out the door and running away at top speed.

He was expecting resistance in the form of Spencer and Ryan, but it didn’t work out that way. Spencer and Jon just laughed themselves sick over the whole thing while Ryan constructed a new puppy bed out of velvet and cotton stuffing from seriously god knew where. Frank named the puppy Pansy and Brendon showed up that evening after work with a bright orange collar for her, with her name bedazzled in yellow crystals.

For the first night since Frank had come to stay, they were all together to practice their music. Frank sat in one of the beanbags by the door and watched them for a while, dozing off in one of their quiet spells with Pansy and Clover in his lap and Boba lying over his feet.

“So,” Ryan Ross said, in an imperious tone of voice. Frank started awake, blinking to see Ryan towering above him. He was seriously unfairly tall.

It was nearly two, but that was one of the benefits of living in a nice house with a big yard. No one was near enough to hear and complain about band practice at weird hours.

“So,” Frank echoed, rubbing his eyes. His mouth was dry, but it seemed like an awful lot of effort to displace the animals in search of a beverage.

“My friends are coming through in a couple weeks,” Jon said. “They have a band.”

“Terrific,” Frank said.

“They’re pretty big,” Brendon said excitedly.

“The Academy Is…,” Jon said.

Frank shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “But you shouldn’t be offended. I mean, unless Pete smuggles it in, new music’s pretty hard to come by.”

“You’ve heard them,” Brendon said. He began playing a familiar tune on his guitar, something Pete listened to.

“Anyway,” Ryan said and waved a hand. “They talked about us maybe opening a couple shows for them when Spence is on Spring Break.”

“Wow,” Frank said. “That sounds pretty cool.”

Ryan rolled his eyes and Spencer snorted. Frank felt like he was missing something. “Yeah,” Ryan said, and kicked Frank’s foot. “So, you gonna have all your parts finished in time?”

“Wait, what,” Frank said, and it took a minute for his sleepy brain to catch up. “Wait, seriously?” He sat up and the animals scattered grumpily. Ryan bit down on a smile. “Seriously?” Frank demanded.

“Well,” Ryan said, “it would free Brendon up for the piano, and I played some of your stuff for Spencer and we all like the sound of it, so—”

Frank flung himself at Ryan, catching him in a hug and toppling them both over. “This is so hardcore!”

Ryan shoved him off, gasping dramatically for air. “Not exactly,” he said. “Look, we’re pretty mellow.”

“No,” Frank said quickly. “No, I know, I totally get it. Seriously, you guys are fucking awesome. We’re gonna be fucking awesome.”

*

On Monday, Jon had a photoshoot in the morning and was free the rest of the afternoon. He invited Frank along, with a promise to take him out driving in the desert after.

Frank wasn’t all that into photography, but he had to admit that Jon made it look like a lot of fun. The photoshoot was for a wedding done in the theme of the Wild West. The groom, some big oil guy, had rented out a saloon that looked like something from an old Hollywood western and the wedding party was dressed up like cowboys and saloon girls.

No one seemed to mind Frank hanging around in the back, trying on the extra costumes. He thought he was a little short to pull off the cowboy look without coming across like a little kid playing dress-up, but he was actually pretty fond of the way a teal boa complimented the colour in his hair.

Rose, one of Jon’s employees, drew a beauty mark on his cheek and eyeliner that swirled out at the ends all exotic-like, and mumbled under her breath about the unfairness of pretty boys and their pretty eyes.

Jon found him posing with it in front of a mirror and snapped a picture. Frank blew him a kiss in the mirror and laughed in delight when Jon took another picture.

“This is seriously a classy affair,” Frank said. “You have to promise me when you all finally make an honest man out of my best friend, it’ll be just like this.”

“I give you my word,” Jon said, in deceptively sincere voice, “that as soon as polygamous gay marriage becomes legal in Nevada, I’ll be walking down the aisle in garters and fringe.”

“Ryan would love it,” Frank said. He assumed so, anyway, after seeing Ryan’s portion of the closet. He didn’t know anyone could own that much plaid and paisley, and the scarves, my god.

“Seriously, Frank,” Jon said, with a vaguely desperate look in his eyes, “don’t even bring it up to him. He’s already talking about stage personas and costumes, and there’s this vest of his, with roses? And my point is, I like you Frank, and I don’t want to have to murder you and deal with getting rid of the body. So don’t even bring it up to him.”

Frankly, Frank didn’t see the big deal out of Ryan’s costume ideas. Wasn’t part of the point of being a rock star the crazy outfits? But he wasn’t about to compromise his part in the band over it.

They’d messed around as a group all weekend and it was really exciting to be a part of something that had nothing to do with Christmas cheer. Spring Break was over a month away, but Ryan was very serious business about the whole thing and insisted that if Frank wanted to perform with them, they had to practice every single day, no matter what.

With all the practising Ryan had planned on a little spreadsheet tacked to the door of the music room, Frank didn’t think he should bother trying to get a real job, but Jon had said he could help out around the studio and Brendon mentioned the club needing another waiter on the busier nights, which should suit Frank just fine for the time being.

By the month marker of Frank’s arrival, they’d settled into something of a routine. Tuesdays and Wednesdays he hung out with Jon at work, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays he waited tables at The Mansion, and the rest of the time he split between hanging out with Brendon and stalking Ryan and Spencer on campus.

He was sorta fascinated by the classes and the whole college experience, one of the things he’d always been jealous of at the North Pole. Ryan got all excited about Frank’s academic interests and helped him sign up to audit a few classes—Introductory Italian, Sociology of Gender, and, because Ryan was a Lit snob and because it was one of his own classes, British Literature of the Nineteenth Century.

The truth was, while it wasn’t Frank’s choice (he was more interested in the gender stuff, which was really thought-provoking and taught him a lot about stuff he’d always taken for granted because Gerard Way Said So), he really got into Ryan’s class. Spencer and Brendon spent a lot of time at home rolling their eyes while Ryan and Frank had hour long conversations over the wallpaper in “The Story of an Hour,” fighting about who was sexier, Keats or Byron, and crowding around Ryan’s laptop to watch the BBC Bleak House.

“He appreciates literature,” Ryan said haughtily, when Brendon tried to tease Frank over it.

Frank personally felt a pretty strong connection with the tragic heroines and all their consumption and shit, but he let Ryan believe what he wanted to.

“Baby,” Spencer purred, “anytime you wanna dress up in petticoats, I’ll be happy to roleplay your Heathcliff.”

Ryan huffed. “Whatever. I bet you couldn’t even tell me who wrote the character Heathcliff. And if either of us was going to be the heroine, it would be you.” He tugged pointedly on Spencer’s long hair.

All the same, Spencer had swung Ryan over his shoulder and taken him upstairs and Brendon and Jon had raided Jon’s costume trunk. Frank wasn’t going to lay any bets on who actually ended up in the petticoats, because he didn’t like to think that much about what went on behind that particular bedroom door, but he privately agreed with Ryan on the whole thing. Spencer Smith was such a pretty girl.

*

Jon’s friend Bill called a couple weeks before his anticipated visit and he sounded a lot like sex wrapped in caramel. “A five member band? Did you add to your sordid little threesome, Jon Walker?” he asked over the speakerphone.

Jon ducked his head with a sheepish smile and Spencer tried to hide his laughter by coughing.

“That is neither here nor there, William Beckett,” Ryan said primly.

There was whooping and laughter in the background on Bill’s end. “Seriously?” Bill asked, and he sounded delighted.

Another voice took over Bill’s end to shout, “You tiger you, Jonny Walker, go get ‘em boy.”

“Brendon,” Jon said, in a resigned sort of tone, “please try to wait and judge my friends when you meet them.”

“It’s okay, Brendon,” Bill said silkily, “we’re all already judging you.”

“Um,” Brendon said, with a weak smile.

“I’m not sleeping with any of them,” Frank said cheerfully.

“Oh, no,” said the second voice, “that ruins the whole aesthetic. Either the whole band’s sleeping together, or none of you are and it’s all about the tension.”

“Well,” Ryan said blandly, “I hate to disappoint you, Tom, but we’re not having sex with Frank just to appease your artistic vision.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, with dignity. Ryan patted his hand.

“See, Ryan, this is why we are destined to forever be at odds with one another,” Bill said. Frank got the impression the guy was kind of a drama queen. “You aren’t willing to sacrifice for your art.”

“Was there a point to this call?” Jon interrupted.

There was the sound of a scuffle on the other end of the line and then a deep, relatively monotone voice took over. “We got approached about doing a summer tour—sorta like Warped, you know, but more ambitious. The line up is seriously all over the place. We mentioned your name and they’re interested. They said they’d send out one of their guys to the March 26th show. Not to freak you out too much, or anything.”

“We…” Ryan blinked a few times and looked back and forth between everyone. “We don’t even have a CD or anything. We haven’t ever played a show.”

“No big deal,” Tom cut back in. “They’re just coming to listen. And if they like you guys, well, it’s a good place to start. You’d probably be playing during the day on one of the side stages, and the tour doesn’t start until June. Plenty of time to get a demo put together for fans.”

“Would it really be a sacrifice to sleep with me?” Frank wondered out loud, and the rest of the band ignored him.

*

This news kicked Ryan into overdrive. If even one person was home with him they were to be found in the music room, perfecting every last piece of every one of their songs. Frank didn’t mind too much, because he was a perfectionist when it came to music, he found. Still, it was kinda rough to watch Ryan being a bitch toward Brendon.

The first few times, Frank just let it happen, staring hard at the floor while Ryan went off about how Brendon wasn’t hitting a note just right, or what the fuck ever, when Frank would like to see Ryan do it any better. But it wasn’t in Frank’s nature to shut up about anything, let alone one of his friends getting shit unfairly.

On Saturday, after three hours of practice, Ryan pulled the strap of his guitar over his head and flung it aside in frustration, and okay, Frank could totally understand—occasionally—the destruction of a guitar for, like, dramatic effect, or whatever. But there was a time and place for that sort of thing, and now was not it, and dude, who abused their fucking guitar like that, for serious, not even in the name of art?

“I can’t work with you if you aren’t even going to try,” Ryan snapped, and Frank just had enough.

“Look,” he said, and edged between Brendon and Ryan. It didn’t work all that well because Frank was shorter than Brendon and seriously shorter than Ryan, but whatever. “I get that you’re tense about this whole summer tour thing—we all are—but it isn’t fair taking it out on Brendon.”

Ryan gave him an icy look and it was like all these past weeks of, like, fucking friendship that they’d been working on meant nothing to Ryan at all. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“The fuck it doesn’t,” Frank said.

“Stay out of it Frank,” Brendon said quietly. Spencer tightened his grip on his drumsticks and Jon wouldn’t look at any of them, and this was just fucking ridiculous.

“No,” Frank said. He put his hands on his hips. “This is bullshit,” he said to Ryan. “It isn’t fair you using your relationship to make him feel scared of you and trying to exclude me from this because I’m not part of it, but I am part of the band, and this isn’t going to be some weird, fucked up experiment that implodes on itself because of stupid co-dependency and passive aggressiveness, or what the fuck ever.”

“And you,” he said, turning on Brendon. “Seriously, dude, where the fuck is my best friend? Why are you taking this shit?”

He set his guitar aside gently, with a pointed glare at Ryan, and stormed out because he was worried if he’d stay, he might accidentally punch someone.

When he came home that night with a runny nose and a puppy under his arm, Spencer was waiting on the front step. Frank cuddled the dog closer and said, “If you’re kicking me out, I’m taking all the shit you bought me.”

Spencer shook his head and looked a mixture of pissed off and amused. “I’m not kicking you out.”

“And I’m keeping the puppy,” Frank said. He rubbed her nose to keep it warm. “She was in a box. She was the only one left in the box and the newspaper was covered in shit and piss and no one was going to take her and I’m keeping her.”

“You shouldn’t have said that earlier,” Spencer said, and Frank tensed. Spencer sighed and shook his head again. “What I mean…you shouldn’t have had to say it. I should have, or Jon…Look, just. Would you come inside? You’re going to fucking die of one of your tragic nineteenth century diseases.”

Frank was weary. “I’m not leaving Esther.”

Spencer laughed, and it was such a relief. No one’s smile was as brilliant and happy-making as Spencer Smith’s. Well, except for Gerard Way’s, obviously. “Seriously. Come inside. Ryan wants to apologise, and that isn’t something we get to see around here too often.”

Brendon made soup and they had a band meeting with lots of tense staring and crossed arms until the animals came to investigate their new sister and not even Ryan Ross could glare in the face of Dylan giving Esther’s ear a tongue bath while Hobo batted at her tail.

They made a list and Ryan wrote it down to hang on the wall by the light switch. It was the rules for their band, and what was and was not allowed in the music room. It wasn’t, Frank explained, that he didn’t understand the creative process could get messy and mean. Their rules allowed for that. Frank would be the first to admit that every now and then a screaming match could be really productive. He just didn’t like the way Brendon was made to look small by pointless picking when Ryan demanded a sound he couldn’t even articulate.

That settled, they gave up practising for the night and went down to the living room to play video games instead. “You know,” Ryan said, cuddled into the corner of the couch under a pile of pets.

Frank was flush against his side. He and Ryan both got cold a lot and they were keeping their feet warm by tucking them under each other’s thighs. “Hmm?” Frank asked. He watched fondly as Esther yawned and flopped her head against the crook of Frank’s arm, trying to catch Ryan’s eraser in her mouth.

Spencer and Brendon were currently battling each other in Halo and Jon had fallen asleep in the armchair. Ryan was grading papers, ostensibly, but it looked more like he was decorating them.

“You can’t just keep bringing home puppies,” Ryan said, in a practical tone of voice.

*

When Frank brought home Dickens the following Wednesday, he headed off Ryan’s argument with, “He’s not a puppy, Ryan, he’s almost two! And he was a stray! They were going to put him to sleep, Ryan! They were going to kill him! And his name is Dickens. It’s fucking fate, is what it is, Ryan. Would you let them kill him?”

Jon blinked at Frank with a sort of impressed disbelief. Ryan pointed a stern finger at Frank, opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and left the room. He came back a moment later, and Frank could see the smile fighting at the corners of his mouth. Or maybe that was a grimace. It was hard to tell on Ryan. “No more animals, Frank,” he said, but no one tried to make Frank get rid of the ones he already had.

“Ryan’s just a big softy,” Brendon said confidentially to Frank later that evening, when they were hanging out in Frank’s room.

The animals tended to gather there, and Frank liked that best. Especially at bedtime when they all settled down for the evening, snuffling and grumbling and crawling over each other to try to get the last pet from Frank’s hand.

Frank had been confused by the idea of a polygamous relationship at the start, and now after living with them for a month, he was even more uncertain how it worked, what with Ryan’s mood swings and Jon’s total relaxed nature and Spencer’s no-nonsense attitude. None of it really matched with what Frank knew of Brendon. But he had to admit, when Brendon talked about them, he got this dreamy, happy look on his face, and somehow the four of them did fit.

“You make me believe there’s still a thing called love,” Frank teased.

“Just listen to the rhythm of my heart,” Spencer sang, coming into the room in heart-shaped glasses and a cowboy hat. Then there were times when Spencer showed himself for the total dork he was, and it made perfect sense that he and Brendon would fall in love.

“So, Ryan’s freaking about costumes again, and I’m not suffering alone,” Spencer told them.

Ryan dragged them to this huge consignment shop in downtown Las Vegas and set them loose. Spencer and Brendon spent an inordinate amount of time trying out different hats on a good-humoured Jon. It was fun to watch, but Frank had never really had an opportunity to go shopping for himself, aside from when he first left the North Pole, and he hadn’t had much money then.

Now, with the money he’d made in tips at The Mansion, he could go wild. He ended up with a cart full of hoodies, some seriously hardcore band shirts (like, who would throw those away), and a half-dozen pair of jeans so he didn’t have to keep borrowing Brendon’s while his one pair was getting clean. He could, arguably, fit Brendon’s jeans, but he’d never wanted that much attention drawn to his junk.

“We have the money to buy you one whole pair of jeans, rather than six…partial ones,” Ryan said snottily, holding up a couple of the jeans Frank had picked.

“They’re artfully ripped,” Frank argued, jerking them out of Ryan’s hands. “Whatever, I’d tear mine up away. This way they’re broken in from the start.”

Ryan went over Frank’s haul with a mournful expression. “Wouldn’t you be happier with some nice paisley prints?”

Brendon came up rolling his eyes and dropped a floppy, brightly-coloured jester hat on Ryan’s head. It sunk down over his eyes and Ryan scowled and pushed it off. “We can each have a different theme,” Brendon said excitedly. He wrapped an arm around Ryan’s shoulder and drew him in to smack a kiss against his temple.

“Theme?” Ryan echoed blandly. He didn’t, however, try to shove Brendon off.

“Sure,” Brendon said. “Spencer can be the cool, suave one all in black, you know, and Jon can be the laid-back one in faded jeans and plain tees and no shoes, and you can be the bohemian one and Frank will be the hardcore one.”

“And who will you be?” Ryan asked coolly, but he was starting to smile.

“I’ll sing naked. It will be scandalous. I can sit behind the piano the whole time to keep from getting arrested for being indecent,” Brendon said.

“Who’s gonna be naked?” Jon asked, coming up behind Brendon and wrapping an arm around him.

“If it’s Ryan, I would like to interject that I find nudity preferable to roses,” Spencer said, and when Ryan drew a breath to begin to protest, Spencer silenced him with a kiss.

“I really wanna see this rose vest,” Frank said sincerely.

“No,” Jon said, matching Frank’s sincerity with the gravity of his voice. “You really don’t, Frank.”

Ryan drew back from Spencer, looking well-kissed and vaguely dazed. “Wear whatever you want, Frank,” he said, in a distant sort of way, and dragged Spencer into the nearest dressing cubicle.

Jon waggled his brows at Frank and began to lead Brendon after them. Brendon gave him an apologetic look and a wave over his shoulder.

“My band sucks,” Frank said, to no one, and did not think about the logistics of four people trying to have quiet sex inside a four foot by four foot square. They were tiny people, after all. Instead, he went to find the most obscenely shredded jeans and hideous t-shirt in the store.

*

They met The Academy Is… the day of the show, at about four in the afternoon. They’d had some mechanical troubles with the bus and were running late, so things were hectic. Jon introduced everyone and then Bill was running off to warm-up and the rest of the band went in several different directions to get ready.

Jon spoke to some guy, Tony, and was told they’d go on at six-thirty, and they needed to get to sound check as soon as possible. The whole process was sort of surreal, with a bunch of tech guys shoving them around on stage, getting things set up, and pointing them to microphones.

The Butcher had made a banner for the stage, when he’d learned of their name the week before, and now it hung above Spencer’s drum kit—pale blue background with huge, intricate snowflakes in white and their name in dark blue. There had been much discussion of band names. Apparently Ryan had picked a name for the band he and Spencer had in high school, but neither of them were willing to disclose it now.

Jon had been the one to suggest they name themselves after all one of their songs—it was a favourite of all of theirs, and Jon had said, with a smile for Brendon and Frank, was a subtle nod to their origins. Brendon had grinned so hard it hurt Frank to look at him, and Ryan had tried to protest naming their band after one of their songs, but didn’t hold out long in the face of Brendon’s overwhelming joy, and so they had become Northern Downpour.

Their first concert was something of a blur in Frank’s mind. They’d practised long and hard, and they were good, but Frank was high on adrenaline and the crowd’s screams. The crowd liked them, Frank could tell that, without even knowing the songs. Frank played all over the damn stage—on his knees with Ryan’s hand in his hair, back to back with Jon, even climbing up on the stand with Spencer’s kit which earned him an indulgent smile.

He kept forcing himself not to float in his joy, but when he pressed his sweaty face into Brendon’s sweaty neck, they both flashed cold enough to turn their sweat to frost. It actually felt really nice under the lights and he and Brendon shared delighted smiles, pushing off each other to share it with the others, Brendon to Jon, Frank to Ryan.

Frank loved music, always had, but he’d never realised how much he wanted to perform it until just then. The feeling was addictive—the lights, the energy of the crowd, the vibrations beneath his feet. And his band. He’d loved Brendon for years and he’d fallen in fucking love with the rest of them for being so awesome and accepting and letting him in, but it was magnified on stage. He felt connected to them in a way he’d never felt before.

He’d worried, before, that somehow he wouldn’t work out. That the connection the rest of them shared might make things awkward on stage. He was wrong. He fit just right up against what they had, part of it, maybe, on a creative level.

They came off the stage giggling and hugging, a ball of restless energy. Brendon was glowing faintly in the dark at the side of the stage, but his lovers just covered him on all sides, dragging him off for the dressing room.

Frank made to follow, but was stopped by Mike. “Frank, right?” he said. “You’re the one not sleeping with them?” Frank nodded, prepared to be annoyed. “Hardcore dude. You rocked.”

And, well, Frank knew that, but it was still nice to hear.

They changed back into their regular clothes and hung around backstage for the other opening acts and TAI. After, Frank found himself and the rest of his band being ushered onto one of the buses.

“You’ve got my Johnny, so you get to ride in style,” Tom explained.

TAI’s bus was loud, smelly, and crowded, but awesome. Bill and Tom had fun interrogating Brendon for a while before giving him their official stamp of approval. Afterwards, they celebrated with several rounds of drinking games Frank had never heard of, which included an impromptu striptease by the Butcher and pretty much everyone making out with everyone else. Frank had to say, Bill was a fucking epic kisser.

They arrived in Los Angeles in the early afternoon and had lunch at the venue, chilling out until sound check. Everyone was pretty hung over, which meant it was low key, but Frank found himself intrigued hanging out with Bill and the Butcher, listening to them talk in a way that Frank imagined wasn’t too different from how Gerard Way might.

He knew it would be different when they were touring out of a van, but still, Frank had a feeling it wouldn’t matter. He was made for this. He couldn’t wait for the summer to come, where he’d have the chance to see all the places he’d only ever heard about from books and TV.

Ryan said, over lunch, “Mikey called; he heard about the show tonight so they might come.”

Frank didn’t really think much of it—lots of people were named Mike, right? Jon told him and Brendon, “You guys’ll like ‘em. They’re cool.”

They went on first again, and somehow some of the kids had already heard their songs and were singing along with the chorus now and then. Ryan was clearly overwhelmed by it and Frank had to cover some of his vocals for a moment.

The venue was outdoors and the sun was still pretty high in the sky while they played. By the time Northern Downpour’s set finished, the whole band was dripping with sweat, and no amount of deodorant could cover the smell. They raced back to the dressing room, shoving and arguing over who got the first shower, but it turned out to be a moot point when they saw the locker room style setup.

Thankfully, the rest of Frank’s band was not opposed to the idea of showering in their boxers, because as hot as they all were, he wasn’t sure it was the best idea for him to see all their junk.

Frank was the last to come out, towel around his hips, fauxhawk plastered to his skull, dripping down his back. “I vote we never—” What Frank had meant to say died on his lips when he saw the occupants of the room.

Gerard fucking Way was standing about ten feet away, real and beautiful in a way Frank had never imagined. “Oh, Frank,” Ryan said. “About time.”

Frank had a hard time tearing his gaze away from Gerard to stare at Ryan in slack-jawed disbelief. Brendon was standing at Ryan’s shoulder, eyes wide and urgent-looking in a way that told Frank Brendon hadn’t know about this.

Gerard took a hesitant step toward Frank, smile bright and earnest. “Hey. I’m Gerard, and this is my brother, Mikey,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. Mikey nodded his head as if to say “hey.”

“I know,” Frank said dumbly, frozen.

“Oh,” Gerard said, and dropped his hand. Frank couldn’t do anything but stare. “You were fucking awesome out there, man,” Gerard added gamely.

“Um,” Frank said brilliantly.

Gerard tipped his head to the side and sort of squinted at him. “You know,” he said, and laughed, “you kinda look familiar, like this guy who came to a bunch of our shows.”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” Frank blurted, desperate. Of course Gerard Way remembered him as the creepy stalker. “I’ve never been to one of your shows. Who are you, even? Ryan said you guys were his friends? I mean, what?”

Maybe it came out wrong, because Gerard looked kinda sad and Mikey and Ryan had matching blankly pissy expressions on their faces. Brendon let out a nervous chuckle and hurried over to Frank, grabbing him by the arm and ushering him to the furthest corner of the room, behind a rack of clothing.

“What the hell, Frank,” Brendon exclaimed. “He recognised you! That’s awesome.”

“Yeah, super awesome,” Frank said glumly. “What the fuck are they even doing here?”

Brendon shrugged helplessly and Ryan appeared at his side. “He and Mikey are friends of mine, and seriously, what the fuck is your problem?” He glared at Frank and must have seen something in his face, because he went wary. “Frank…what’s up?”

Frank buried his face in his hands and let out a pitiful moan. “It was you,” Ryan said in realisation.

“Why didn’t you say you were friends with My Chemical Romance?” Frank wailed softly.

Ryan gave him a dark look. “I don’t know. Why didn’t you ever mention your obsession with them?”

Frank opened his mouth and snapped it shut again with a scowl. “I’m not obsessed,” he said at length. “Gerard’s just…hot.”

“Oh my god,” Ryan said, and looked cruelly amused. “He’s a fucking dork, and so are you. You’d be perfect for each other.”

“Fuck you,” Frank said, but it came out more defeated than venomous. “How did you even—what are they…”

Ryan shrugged. “Gerard read some of my poetry and liked it, so he wrote me and I wrote back and we kept that up for a while. Then they came through Nevada and we hung out, and me and Mikey got along, and I don’t know…we just hang out now, whenever we’re in the same place at the same time.”

“Oh my god,” Frank said. “This isn’t my life.”

“But this is awesome, Frankie,” Brendon said. “This is what you’ve been talking about forever. Go woo him!”

“Please do,” Ryan said. “I can’t wait to watch.”

“Fuck you,” Frank snapped. It was sorta becoming a mantra.

“Hey, um,” Gerard said, coming over. His voice was high-pitched even for him—nervous, or cautious, maybe. Frank found it sickeningly endearing. Oh, he was so fucked. “I don’t mean to interrupt the, uh, band meeting, or whatever, but maybe me and Mikey should go?”

Frank did his best to look indifferent and cool, when he really wanted to grab on to Gerard’s arm and never let go. Ryan rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Gee,” Ryan said, and started leading him back to the others. “Everyone’s excited to meet you. Tom and Mike planned a party.”

They all left, probably to go watch the rest of the show, and Frank just sort of collapsed onto the sofa. “I want to go back to Christmastown,” he said.

Brendon flopped down beside him and patted his knee. “I don’t understand the problem. He’s here. He’s hot. He remembers you.”

“As his stalker,” Frank said.

“Well,” Brendon said, mouth tilted sideways. “He is Gerard Way. He’s hardcore. Maybe to him stalkers are cool and exciting.”

Frank buried his face in his hands and wished fervently that one of his stupid powers was the ability to teleport himself to the North Pole.

*

The party was, predictably, pretty cool, stretching across the parking lot between the tour buses. Partially it was to welcome Gerard and Mikey, and partially it was because of Northern Downpour’s unofficial invitation to join the festival. The representative who had come had been excited about their set even before she’d had her ear talked off by Bill and Gerard about why Northern Downpour should become a part of the tour. She’d told Ryan to expect an official invitation within the next week.

Brendon went sort of crazy about the whole thing and Spencer and Jon had dragged him off until he’d stopped glowing and floating a couple inches above ground. When Ryan had finally got over his astonishment enough to notice they were gone, he’d gone off after then, saying they had to celebrate. There had been lots of catcalls and knowing looks over that, and then Frank had been left on his own.

There were craft tables set up with food and drink, music playing from one of the buses, and lots of drunken, hilarious conversation to be had. It wasn’t as if Frank would expect anything else from one of their gatherings. Still, it had to be a little weird for Gerard, given the whole recovering addict thing.

He seemed to take it in stride—he didn’t touch any of the alcohol being generously passed around, but he didn’t seem to mind others partaking, either. Frank wanted to tell him he thought it was cool that Gerard was all sober and stuff, but that would involve getting close enough to speak to him. And. Well…

Mostly, Frank just hung around the back of TAI’s bus on a lawn chair. His stomach had been bothering him since just before the show, and it had got ten times worse once he’d seen Gerard. Now he just wanted to crawl into his bunk. He was so anxious that he was afraid he was going to make everyone fall asleep.

Jon came and sat with him, looking rumpled and very self-satisfied, and didn’t say anything for a while, which was nice. But then he gave Frank this look, like he was just waiting for an explanation, and Frank sighed. “Get Ryan to tell you,” he said. “He’ll get more pleasure out of it, anyway.”

“Hang in there, dude,” Jon said sympathetically, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Frank slumped against him, because Jon was always warm, and squishy, and smelled like home. Except right now when he sort of smelled like sex. Frank wrinkled his nose in displeasure.

Gerard came ambling around the side of the bus. He spotted them and gave Frank a sort of hesitant smile and waved at Jon. “Hey, guys.”

Jon tipped his glass at Gerard and nodded in greeting. “Gerard. How’s the record coming along?"

Gerard’s smile went from hesitant to dazzling like with a flip of a switch and immediately began babbling about the whole process, from writing to recording, and post-production and how he loved the new sound they were playing with, and how the whole band was gearing up to go on tour.

“It’ll be pretty awesome,” he said, “touring with you guys.”

“Yeah,” Frank agreed, but it felt like he was swallowing his tongue, “awesome.” It must have come out weird, because even Jon was giving him a concerned look.

Gerard looked at his feet. "What about you guys? Ryan said you were going to start recording soon?"

Jon was silent, leaving it to Frank to answer, something challenging in his gaze like maybe Ryan already explained things to him. So Frank cleared his throat and took a long swig of his drink, then felt like a complete asshole for it and dumped the rest out unceremoniously. Gerard watched him with a furrowed brow. "In about two weeks. Some of Brendon's friends know some people who know some people at this studio on the strip. Pretty nice place. Lots of big names have done some work there, Wayne Newton, Eminem, Avril. Guess it's a pretty big deal."

"That's awesome," Gerard said. He'd lost a bit of his previous enthusiasm, but still gave Frank an encouraging smile. "I can't wait to hear what it sounds like, all finished and polished."

"We're just doing a few tracks for now, something to sell, just an EP." Frank was trying to play it cool, but he sounded pretentious to his own ears.

"Still," Gerard said, "That's more than most people ever get to do."

Frank nodded and there was an awkward silence, where Jon refused to say anything, and Frank had no idea what to say. Gerard finally gave up, shrugging and giving them a wave. "Well, I'll look forward to it, then, and seeing you guys on tour."

Frank waited until he was out of sight before slumping back against Jon with a pitiful moan. Jon didn't seem all that sympathetic, but he patted Frank's hand absently in comfort.

*

Recording started out a lot like the rehearsals had, with lots of bitching from Ryan, tension from Brendon, and the clear disapproval of the producer Tom had hooked them up with. Frank was ready to quit after the first day and a half, and had to keep biting his tongue to keep from cussing Ryan out, or breaking his guitar over his head, or something.

By the end of the first week, everyone was feeling pretty much the same way, and Frank would happily go back to the days of having to quickly leave the room to avoid a free screening of an orgy if it meant none of the cold looks and stiff posture. The thing was, Frank couldn't even get on Ryan's case about it, because Ryan wasn't actively directing his complaints at Brendon. There was just a lot of passive-aggressive comments and heavy sighs and eye-rolling, and each time Brendon's shoulders got higher and his head dipped lower.

Friday night when they got home, Frank opened his laptop (which was actually Spencer's old laptop, but no one seemed to mind Frank claiming it for his own) to find an email from Gerard Way sitting in his inbox. He could only stare at it for several minutes, unable to react, wondering where the hell Gerard had even got his address. Down the hall he could hear Ryan and Spencer arguing in their bedroom and Jon and Brendon murmuring in the music room. Frank thumbed up the volume on his playlist and clicked on the message, which was without subject.

Hope this isn't too weird, it read, just emailing you out of nowhere. Ryan gave me your email. I know the recording process can get intense sometimes, but it's always worth it in the end. If you ever feel like talking about it, I'd be happy to listen.

This is Gerard by the way. Way.

Even with all the stress of the day--the week really--Frank couldn't help but smile. Gerard was probably just doing it to be nice. Maybe Ryan told him how rough things were or asked Gerard to email him to distract Frank from the slow-building rage he was feeling towards his band. Ryan in particular. Frank wasn't going to respond. He didn't want to seem that desperate. Still. He wasn't going to go deleting it, or anything.

He was still sitting there with a stupid smile on his face when Brendon came in. Frank closed the laptop and scooted over to make room on the mattress for Brendon to drop down beside him. This wasn't Frank's normal, spazzy, smiley best friend, but he wasn't as mopey as he'd been earlier, either. Frank lay his head on top of Brendon's where it rested on his shoulder. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah," Brendon said. He let out a sigh and nuzzled closer. Frank looped an arm around his waist and waited. After a moment, Brendon sighed again and said, "I get it, you know? I know how important it is to him, and how much it means that he's letting me sing his lyrics. I just. I'm trying so hard, and I feel like I'm letting him down."

"Well," Frank said at length, "That's because you're a fucking moron."

Brendon scoffed. He dug his fingers into Frank's ribs right where he knew Frank was most ticklish. "Don't be an asshole. I'm trying to explain. I know you wanna, like, defend my honour or some shit, but as protective as you are of me, that's how he is about his lyrics."

"This is our band, Brendon, all of us together," Frank said. "I'm sorry you're in love with a bunch of shitheads who should be the ones defending your honour--"

There was a light rapping on the open door frame, and when Frank looked up to see Ryan, he didn't feel even remotely sorry. He jerked his chin at Ryan defiantly. "What do you want?"

"To talk to my boyfriend," Ryan said. "Fuck you."

Brendon tensed up, but Frank responded before he could. "Fuck me? Seriously? You wanna start this shit with me?"

"Guys," Brendon interrupted, putting a hand to Frank's chest. "It's cool."

"It really isn't," Frank said. "I thought we settled this ages ago, but apparently he can't even keep to the rules he helped come up with."

"I haven't said shit about Brendon's singing since we started," Ryan said.

"No," Frank agreed, "you just keep going on about how we're never gonna get things right and how we might as well give up now, after every goddamn take."

Ryan crossed his arms over his chest, curling into himself. He looked small and vulnerable, but the sharp angles of his elbows warned against touching. Brendon went to him anyway, hesitant at first, but then Ryan folded him into a hug, tight and desperate, and Frank felt like he was seeing something he wasn't supposed to. "I get it," Brendon breathed. "You need to trust us."

"I do," Ryan said, vehemence in his voice, in the way his fingers curled, one hand on Brendon's shirt, the other in his hair.

Frank balled his hands into fists and looked away. It was seriously difficult to be pissed off at Ryan when the guy came off as so fucking fragile. "You know we want this as badly as you do," he said.

"I know," Ryan agreed.

"Then maybe you could stop being such an ass and fighting us the entire fucking way, and work with us to figure it out, instead." When Frank chanced lifting his head, the look on Ryan's face suggested he'd heard this before, probably from Spencer.

Frank got it. He was a stubborn bastard in his own way, he knew, and just as emotionally fucked up as Ryan. How could he hold it against the guy? So Ryan sometimes was a douchebag to his boyfriends? At least he was nice to them a good 90% of the time, and Frank didn't doubt that Ryan loved them. Frank, meanwhile, was pretty good at convincing most of the world that he hated everyone. He was sure he'd managed to hurt Gerard's feelings entirely without meaning to, and couldn't even bring himself to apologise for it. At least Ryan was trying.

"We sound good, Ryan," Spencer said, and Frank jumped. He wondered how long he'd been standing in the dark hallway. "We're gonna get there." Then there was this seriously gay group hug going on in his doorway, because apparently Jon had been lurking out there, too, and they were all wound around Ryan who looked about ten seconds from crying.

"Jesus fuck," Frank grumbled. He levered himself to his feet, going over to them and insinuating himself into the hug. "I hate you all."

There was some wet sounding laughter, and someone licked Frank's ear--seriously, what the fuck was wrong with these people--and Jon said, "We love you, too, Frankie."

*

And it wasn't like recording got any easier after that, but Frank was a little more willing to be patient with Ryan's bullshit. Frank didn't usually worry about expressing himself and didn't care if people understood him or were offended by him, or whatever. But Ryan, for all his cool, disaffected exterior, cared a whole hell of a lot. Even after three award-winning poetry collections, speaking to thousands of eager and dedicated fans across the country, he still had this seriously wicked inferiority complex, and suddenly, instead of wanting to punch Ryan, Frank wanted to maybe shield him a little.

The others had their own ways of getting through to Ryan that tended to work pretty well, but it wasn't like they could just go down on him right there in the recording studio (their producer had the patience of a fucking saint, but Frank doubted it would stretch that far), and Spencer had rules about where and when it was acceptable to light up, and the studio was not one of those places.

After some trial and error, Frank found that, rather oddly, the best way to snap Ryan the fuck out of one of his attitudes was for Frank to be as obnoxiously loud and hyper as possible. It inevitably led to Ryan shouting and Frank shouting louder, and sometime Spencer throwing a drumstick, and then silence and lots of sideways glares and heavy breathing until Ryan would, inexplicably crack a smile, and Frank would sneer back at him, and Jon would roll his eyes, and Brendon would let out one of his little giggles, and then they were all laughing in a sweaty pile on the floor and their poor producer would put a weary hand to his weary head.

Somehow, in that fashion, they managed to record a self-titled, six song EP by the end of May. They had plenty of material for a full-length album, and the money to record it. But even Ryan agreed it was sort of pretentious, not to mention presumptuous, to record one without a label or any real fans to speak of. Northern Downpour was a pretty eclectic-sounding cd, but then again, they were a pretty eclectic band, so it worked. They'd each picked their favourite song to include, in addition to the given inclusion of Hey Moon. Brendon had picked Reinvent Love before Ryan could, so Ryan had settled on the ridiculously named (Frank had fought him on it forever) Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off, because he said Brendon sounded fucking hot singing it, and Frank had to agree. Jon had picked That Green Gentleman and Spencer But It's Better if You Do, finished off with Frank's choice of Camisado.

Their poor producer had slaved for days trying to arrange the songs in some sort of organic order before giving it up as a lost cause, and just put them in chronological order. He'd pushed pretty hard for them to reconsider the name of the album. He was rather fond of a line from That Green Gentleman, and they all had to agree that "pretty odd" did do a good job of describing them and their EP, but it felt more honest, at least for this stage of things, to stick with the self-title.

After the last day of recording, Frank took a very nervous Brendon to his very first tattoo parlour to celebrate. For Frank, it was just his way of commemorating an important moment in his life, but Brendon had been considering his own tattoo for a very long time. Ryan knew a place where he trusted the artist and Frank knew it was the right place when the guy managed to calm Brendon's nerves and help him figure out what exactly he wanted done. Frank held his hand the entire time, making sure he kept breathing when the pain got too bad. Frank's own tattoo took a lot less time in comparison--tucked between his wolf and his Frankenstein, the small, fancy font read, give me envy, give me malice, give me your attention.

They went home with pizza and beer and popped in their very own cd. It was kookie and the pacing of the whole thing was off and it wasn't the sort of music Frank had ever imagined playing or liking. But listening to it all the way through for the first time, lying together on the floor of the music room, Frank had never been more proud of anything in this life. Brendon's fingers squeezed where they were linked through Frank's, and Frank turned his head to meet Brendon's gaze. Brendon was beaming like an idiot, but Frank had a feeling his expression was pretty much the same.

"Guys," Ryan said, annoyance plain from just one syllable. He scooped up a handful of snow and blew it in their direction, but Frank just laughed out loud and it snowed harder.

*

Technically speaking, Northern Downpour wasn't supposed to have a bus. They were unsigned and unknown, and they'd never done a real show outside of the TAI one, and newbies were supposed to earn their right to a bus. But Ryan Ross was sort of a primadonna and he could afford it, and said they'd need the air-conditioning anyway since Brendon got faint in the heat, so they ended up with a bus. Frank immediately set down ground rules about where there could and could not be gay orgies. Realistically, he knew he wasn't going to stop them no matter what he said, so at least he could make sure it wouldn't be somewhere he was likely to sit.

In the end, it worked out rather well for him. They got the back lounge, but only when he wasn't on the bus, and in return he always got First Shower, and the right to the last of any food or beverage in the kitchenette, plus he got to pick his bunk first. Not that it really mattered--all the bunks were the same length and had the same flat mattresses, but it was the principle of the thing, so Frank claimed the top bunk furthest back on the right and shoved his dufflebag in the empty one beneath.

They were meeting up with the rest of the bands for the start of the tour in L.A., and Frank's stomach had been knotted pretty tightly for at least the past week. He'd never thought he was the sort to get nervous, but apparently he'd been wrong. He was fucking stoked, sure, but it would be nice if he didn't feel like he was going to barf half the time, and they weren't even at the goddamn venue yet. He had horrible visions of puking into the pit or something, and decided to swear off food for at least twenty-four hours leading up the show.

It didn't make any sense, because they'd done a few shows already, and he'd had some nerves then, but nothing like this.

"Maybe because we're not just an opening act this time?" Brendon mused, when Frank commented on it. They were lying together in Brendon's bottom bunk, Brendon with his feet tucked against the ceiling, Frank curled on his side, face buried in Brendon's neck. It was warm and comfortable, and Brendon smelled like sugar, which somehow calmed Frank's stomach. Brendon twirled a strand of Frank's newly sapphire blue hair around his finger. "Or maybe it's because you know Gerard will be there, this time."

Frank groaned, pulling the punch to Brendon's side. "God, don't remind me. You're the worst friend ever."

Like he could forget. It was pretty much all he could think about. Gerard had emailed twice more since that first time. The second one Frank wasn't even sure was meant for him, because it was a sort of rambling and incoherent dissertation on the decline of graphic novels in the 21st century. The last had only been two days before, and had simply read can't wait to see you guys :) which was generic enough that Frank rationalised Gerard must have sent it as a mass email to everyone he knew that was going to be on tour. Either way, he didn't respond to any of them.

Brendon tugged hard on Frank's hair. "Frank, you've been here for months and you haven't hooked up with anybody. And I'm shocked. And a little worried. At least five of the guys from the club are into you, and if that isn't your thing, Tara is hot. So you can say all you want that you're over him, or whatever, but I'm not buying it. You should do something about it."

"He emailed me," Frank admitted, because he could get pissy with Brendon, but they both knew he was speaking the truth.

"Oh my god, what did you say?"

Frank nosed at Brendon's hairline and mumbled, "Nothing."

Brendon was unimpressed, apparently. He shoved Frank away and rolled on his side to face him. "Dude, why are you being such a huge asshole? He's being friendly."

"Exactly," Frank said. "He's a nice guy. He probably realised what an incredible loser I am and emailed me to be nice because that's what stupidly gorgeous, famous, nice people do."

Brendon gave him a pitying look and stroked his hair. "I worry about you Frank," he said in a pompous tone that made Frank push him out of the bunk. It wasn't very satisfying; Brendon just hovered there, a few inches off the floor, smiling in a condescending sort of way. It was a sad state of affairs when Brendon was able to (fairly) give him that look.

*

Frank stepped down from the bus and was immediately hit when the scent of cheap beer so overwhelming he thought he might be able to get drunk just breathing it in. Rows of buses gleamed in the sunlight and he lifted a hand to shield his eyes. In the distance, a band was already playing on the main stage and over the music was the general chaos of the parking lot. There were techs running around everywhere, hauling equipment and arguing with headsets, vendors organising their wares, musicians in various states of undress gathered in the shade with red plastic cups.

Tom and Mike found them before they could wander very far, which was probably for the best. None of them knew what they were doing, but Frank was more than happy to figure it out through trial and error, and it would probably land them in a fair amount of trouble. Northern Downpour was set to play on side stage 2 at four. It wasn't exactly the best location or time, but it was better than some of the bands who were signed and had toured before, and Frank seriously wasn't complaining.

Jon knew his way around the backstage area and was entirely unfazed by all the famous rock stars milling about. He, along with the Butcher and Tom helped show the rest of the band around, getting their stuff unloaded and moved to stage 2. He also managed to sweet talk TAI's merch girl into handling their merch, too, which was fairly simple seeing as it consisted of two patterns of shirts, some stickers, and their cd.

Frank didn't get sick, but it was a near thing. The kids--because not a single one could have been older than twenty--were enthusiastic, dancing along and singing the choruses of their songs back at them. Frank kept looking to the side of the stage, paranoid that he'd see Gerard standing there. He refused to be disappointed when the set ended and he hadn't caught so much as a glimpse of him. He tried to be totally nonchalant when he threw a sweaty arm around Ryan and asked, "So, happen to know when the--"

"Nine-thirty, main stage," Ryan said, smiling blandly, and wow, Frank was really that pathetic.

They grabbed a quick bite to eat in the tent backstage, where Frank and Brendon commiserated over the lack of any decent vegetarian choices and ended up having muffins and oranges. The Academy Is...was performing at six, so they took the food with them and stood backstage to watch them perform. Frank had been too high on adrenaline at their first show to pay much attention, but they actually had a huge gathering of hardcore fans, holding up signs, scrambling to touch Bill's hand, screaming whenever Tom and Bill got close. Frank couldn't help but hope that Downpour would have such dedicated fans someday.

By the time TAI's set had finished, the backstage area had calmed down considerably. The side stages shut down and all the headlining bands had their own techies who handled things quickly and proficiently. William introduced them to Gabe just before Cobra Starship went on, and while they weren't his normal type of music, Frank had to appreciate the sarcasm in their lyrics and the beat that made him want to dance.

While Cobra was playing, more and more people began to flood the back stage area. Cobra, along with Taking Back Sunday and My Chem were the headliners for the show, and the ramp leading up to the main stage was over-crowded. Frank probably could have kept his space, but Ryan was clearly uncomfortable with the press of bodies on all sides, and besides, Frank didn't want to call that much attention to himself, so he convinced everyone to head out into the audience with him, lingering at the edge.

The stage was different from how it had been over the winter with the Black Parade set-up. Now it was very bare bones, straight up rock and roll. Frank figured that with as long as they'd been doing the Black Parade, they were due a break.

Matt and Mikey were the first to come out, caught in the occasional flash of the spotlight, and Frank strained forward, waiting. He was fucking lame, he knew it, because he'd seen Gerard in person now, had a chance to actually get to know him, and he'd totally fucking blown it, but he couldn't help that feeling of anticipation that rose up from his stomach as he waited for Gerard to come onto stage.

Headfirst for Halos started and the lights came up. Gerard strutted on stage in a pair of skin-tight black jeans and a fitted black tee that showed off his nicely toned, faintly tanned arms. It wasn't all that dramatic a change from his normal look, but there was something defiant and sure in his posture that made all the difference. Like he was suddenly aware of his own hotass-ness.

His hair wasn't the same shocking blond it had been, but a darker, golden colour that didn't wash him out so much, and he looked a lot slimmer, standing hips cocked at the mic as he began to sing. Then he did this thing with his hips and rolled back his shoulders, shoving his hair out of his face and...yeah. Frank was so done for.

"Ooh, Gerard," Gabe said after a minute, and tilted his head to the side, "maybe I've been spending too much time with the wrong brother."

Frank managed to tear his gaze away to see them both Gabe and William giving Gerard appreciative looks.

"Okay," Spencer said, leaning into Frank's side. "I guess you're allowed to be a little bit stupid around him."

Which? Frank already knew. And if they hadn't seen how stupidly hot Gerard was when he was all pale and dark and tragic-looking, then it was their incredible loss. But this new look really wasn't going to make things any easier...

*

Bill had taken it upon himself to make sure Northern Downpour fit in on tour. It was easy for Jon, who knew a lot of the people already. Being in with him and TAI was all it took for most of them to decide that the rest of the members of Downpour were good people. Between his post-show high and being entirely star-struck from the MCR show, the night mostly passed too quickly for Frank to really experience it. He was introduced to roughly forty people over the course of their first evening on tour. Given the alcohol he was consuming, plus the fact that he wasn't so great with names to begin with, Frank gave it up for a lost cause after the first ten.

Luckily, Gabe was happy to stick by his side after Bill had disappeared with Tom. The entirety of Cobra Starship were pretty rad, but Frank was particularly fond of Gabe. He was Frank's sort of dude--Gabe was a shameless douchebag, but fiercely loyal to his friends, and Frank totally related to that. Halfway through their fifth round of tequila shots, Frank spotted Gerard coming their way and shrank a little bit behind Gabe's impressive height.

Gabe greeted Gerard with a handshake/chest-bump thing that was sort of ridiculous. Gerard agreed, if his expression was any indication, but he went along with it. "I like the new songs," Gerard told him, with the sort of casual tone that suggested the two of them knew one another pretty well. Frank remembered reading something about Mikey and Gabe being friends, so it made sense.

"You met my boy Frankie yet?" Gabe asked, tossing an arm around Frank.

Frank ducked his head and Gerard said, "Yeah, we met a few months back."

"Sorry," Frank said, pointing somewhere over Gerard's shoulder. He really didn't trust himself not to say something really embarrassing in his current condition, and with Gerard all sweaty and bare-armed. "I gotta. Bathroom," and ducked out from under Gabe's arm, hurrying away.

Gabe found him later and Frank confessed his complete hopelessness when it came to Gerard Way, while Gabe confessed his similar hopelessness when it came to Mikey Way. Then they bonded over excessive drinking with shots on the Cobra's bus, followed by three hours of making out, followed by some very drunken soul baring, followed by some more making out.

Frank woke up in an unfamiliar bunk the next morning. He stumbled out into the front lounge where Gabe, Nate, and Vicky-T were sprawled out on the sofa watching what appeared to be a fly-fishing documentary. They mumbled greetings and scooted over to make room for him.

"What am I doing here?" Frank asked after a minute, looking around with a frown.

"Ryan said he didn't want you hurling in his bus," Vicky said.

"Like it's any worse than what they're gonna do on that bus," Frank muttered darkly. A thought occurred to him, that they'd probably engineered this situation so they could have uninterrupted sex. His frown deepened.

Gabe patted him absently on the knee. "I always say, what's a little bodily fluid between friends?"

"That's sweet, Gabe," Frank said.

It was cool and dark on the bus, and there was something vaguely hypnotic and soothing about the fly-fishing that made Frank's hangover headache recede. Gabe was a vegetarian, too, and had some awesome breakfast burritos in the mini-fridge. That, along with a Red Bull, went a long way to quell his stomach. The situation was definitely chiller than an average morning at home with Frank's band, and Frank didn't mind the chaos, he really didn't, but this was nice, too.

They were in Sacramento already, and it was close to noon, which meant that there were already bands setting up for the first set of shows. Frank sort of wanted to stay in the air-conditioning, but Ryan had mentioned going out and hanging at the merch booth to meet their fans, and obviously the heat was worth it for that.

On the way to his own bus, he saw Gerard, Ray, and Mikey standing around with another band, all laughing over something one of the dudes was doing on a skateboard. Frank ducked his head and walked past faster, but he couldn't help looking out of the corner of his eye. Gerard glanced his way, lifting his hand to wave, and Frank ducked his head disappearing between the rows of buses. Gerard didn't call out or come after him, so whatever.

*

Frank had been wrong about the demographics of his band's fans. Sure, there were a fucking ton of little teeny-bopper girls gathering around Ryan and Brendon, giggling and batting their lashes. But there were a surprising amount of older, college aged sorts hanging out, quite a few who wouldn't look out of place at a My Chem concert. Frank had a few lengthy and interesting conversations with some chicks and a dude who really knew their shit when it came to guitars and rock 'n roll.

Their crowd was nothing compared to the lines waiting for autographs at the tents for the main attractions, but it was still damn cool. They sold a shitload of cds and signed all of them, which was fucking surreal and awesome.

Brendon got asked to sign more than one set of tits; Frank could only giggle helplessly while Brendon babbled wide-eyed excuses and the rest of their band glared. Spencer's epic bitch-face was enough to scare even the most shameless of the girls off. Several of the kids kept bringing them free beer, and Frank had to eventually cut them off, as their own stage time grew closer.

When Gerard didn't show up for their second show, Frank decided he didn't give a flying fuck. He'd been right, Gerard was just being nice with the emails, and now he was busy surrounded by real rock stars and that was just fine. It made Frank's life easier. He could concentrate on crowding up behind Brendon as he sang, or biting Ryan on the neck and making him stutter mid-verse during Reinvent Love, and pressing his back to Jon's while the two of them rocked out.

And the crowd. A fair number of the fans closest to the stage were already wearing Northern Downpour shirts, singing the songs in their entirety. He couldn't help feeling a little bad about how distracted he'd been during the last show.

"It's fucking insane," Frank said, when they were headed towards their bus, too fucking hot and sore to do anything other than lounge. "They know all our goddamn lyrics already!"

"There are videos of us from the TAI concerts up online. We have a lj group about us," Ryan said, in this monotone like it didn't mean a fucking thing to him when the rest of the band knew better. Frank had to get that link and forward it to Pete so he could troll.

They rounded the building where the press had camped out and Gerard was outside, smoking a cigarette, foot braced against the wall. The gape of his shirt gave the barest glimpse of a nipple and smooth belly skin. A million scenarios ran through Frank's brain, of Frank shoving Gerard back against the wall, running a hand through his damp hair, him on his knees pushing up the shirt to taste that skin. Gerard looked like he was wilting in the sun, and Frank's hands would leave frost where there had been sweat.

Gerard blew out a stream of smoke and looked over the whole group. "Hey," he called.

Ryan cocked his head in greeting and started to make his way over, and the rest of the band followed in suit.

Frank wavered a moment. Was it worse to go over and make a total fool out of himself by drooling all over the guy, or to let Gerard go on thinking he was an anti-social asshole? In the end, it wasn't much of a choice. He flipped his hair out of his face and made sure not to let Gerard catch his eye. "I'll hook up with you guys later," Frank said over his shoulder, and legged it back to the bus.

 

*

As crazy as the pace was, as unpredictable as most days were, Frank found that he and his band fell into a fairly regular routine before the first week was out. There was usually at least a day between shows, most of them lost at least in part to travel. Those days they mostly cuddled in their front lounge playing video games and watching bad reality television.

At the venue Frank had lunch with whatever members of his band, TAI, and Cobra Starship were awake, and sometimes he and Brendon could sweet talk a venue worker out of their car for an hour or two so they could hunt down some real food.

He spent the afternoon meeting fans and watching some of the other acts, or in one notable instance sneaking onto the buses of the performing bands with Gabe, and swapping out toiletries and dirty laundry. Gabe rationalised it was a great way for the different bands to get to know one another as they ventured from bus to bus in search of their missing shit. Frank figured Gabe was full of shit, but it was fun anyway, and though no one seemed to have noticed yet, he was looking forward to the fall out.

After Downpour performed, they'd catch TAI's show, and then Cobra's. Frank went without fail to the MCR show as well, even if it meant he was hopeless. Sometimes it was a little awkward hanging out because of Gabe's thing with Mikey, and the two of them and Ryan usually managed to find each other in the early afternoons and hang out on either Downpour or Cobra's bus. That was when Frank would make himself scarce.

Frank was sure Mikey was a decent sort of dude, but Mikey had this way of looking at Frank like he knew exactly what was going on in his head, and it was creepy. Frank would not put it past the Ways to have some psychic abilities, and there was no way he was going to let Mikey read about all the x-rated Gerard flavoured thoughts running around in his brain.

In Phoenix the heat was nearly unbearable, and Frank hid out in Cobra's bus to avoid being dragged off to the merch stand. He and Gabe watched re-runs of Gossip Girl while Gabe put his hair in tiny braids and Nate painted his toenails. Ryland felt it his duty to take photos and post them on Downpour's fan lj, so Frank made sure to make plenty of ridiculous sex faces. Their most devoted fans deserved the best.

Within an hour of them being posted, the comments were off the fucking hook, fans capslocking about FRANK FROM NORTHERN DOWNPOUR HANGING OUT WITH GABE SAPORTA OMG, and Frank couldn't stop giggling.

When they left the stage that night it was starting to grow dark, but the heat was still oppressive, flattening Frank's 'hawk to his skull. Brendon had already lost his shirt five minutes after leaving the stage, so Frank didn't see the harm in losing his own.

He liked showing off his tattoos when he got the chance. They were hard won, scrounging together enough money along with Pete in a town where there wasn't so much of a functioning economy, then sneaking down to Canada together, getting them completed in fits and starts. Each one was another fuck you to the cheery North Pole populace, where it was taken for granted that everyone was happy and everyone fit in. His particular favourite was his knuckle tattoo, because he felt that if he'd been born anywhere, it should have been Halloween Town.

Backstage, these tattoos were like a badge of honour. There were a lot of guys with ink, sure, but Frank was, by far, one of the most tattooed, and he and Pete had been picky in choosing their artists, so they were all fucking quality. He'd won over more than a couple fellow bands who'd been dubious of Northern Downpour without even listening to them, just by showing off his arms around the backstage area.

Now he was getting some rather appreciative looks from the merch girls, and not a few techs of both genders. It made him put a little bit of a swagger in his walk, drawing attention to his hips, where the swallows dipped among the cursive of his search and destroy.

Cobra's set had already started by the time TAI was coming off stage, so they all rushed to the main stage, crowding in the wings. Frank was soaked in sweat. It ran in rivulets down the line of his stomach and wetting the waistband of his boxers. Carden leaned in to him, screaming in his ear over the roar of the music and the crowd. "Gerard Way is totally checking you out."

Frank almost did a double-take, but managed to remain still except for his eyes, scanning across to the other side of the stage, where Gerard was standing with Mikey. Frank wondered what he and Carden looked like, Frank leaning back against the wall, hips thrust out, Carden pressed against his side, lips to his ear. He didn't know what inspired him to throw his head back and laugh, eyes locked with Gerard's, like Carden had just told him the most delicious secret. It was a total asshole move, he knew. Gerard's shoulders went up and his gaze shuttered, shifting to the crowd.

After that, Frank didn't really feel comfortable sticking around for the MCR show. "I'm gonna try to find a shower," he told Brendon, even as more people flooded the backstage in anticipation of the next act.

Showers were a precious commodity on the tour. Nate and Gabe had their patented slip n slide left over from Warped Tour, but they usually came out looking dirtier than before, and Frank got itchy in the grass, anyway. Someone had rigged up a seriously ghetto solution way in the back, with a hose and a bucket, but Frank couldn't really complain.

By the time he'd rinsed off in the freezing water and changed into some cargo shorts and a hoodie--seriously, it had gone from sizzling hot just after sundown to fucking freezing in the course of under two hours--Motion City was already done, and MCR was halfway through their set.

Over the first week, the backstage parties had begun earlier and earlier. For the smaller bands, the appeal of lots of booze, free food, and sex with groupies had overwhelmed the rush of being able to watch their favourite bands from the sidelines.

Someone had started a trashcan fire by the line of buses, and several bands had set up kegs and tables of chips and shit. Various beats and melodies mixed, music leaking out of different of the buses, overlaid by the distant sound of Helena.

Jon and Spencer were hanging out with some of the venue workers who they apparently knew from Vegas, and Brendon and Ryan were being swarmed by some lucky contest winners. Frank should really go get Brendon a shirt--the kid was starting to glow faintly from the attention, and Frank hoped Ryan would get on that shit before someone noticed.

It would require a lot more effort on Frank's part than he was really feeling up to, though. Frank was no fan of the cold, but the heat of the day had really gotten to him, and he felt well and truly drained, not at all up to joining in on the festivities.

The Butcher and Sisky were sitting with some fold-up lawn chairs and it was a pretty chill scene, so Frank just joined them, plopping down on the gravel alongside them. The Butcher jerked a thumb towards the trailer attached to the bus. "There's more chairs inside."

Frank considered it and shook his head. "I don't feel like getting up."

Sisky laughed and the Butcher leaned over to their keg and passed Frank a solo cup. One second he was listening to The Butcher very earnestly describing the contribution of Milli Vanilli, and the next thing he was blinking awake, half his beer spilled in his lap, Sisky and the Butcher were gone, and Bob Bryar was sitting in the lawn chair closest to him, staring very intently.

"Uh," Frank said, straightening up. "Hey."

"So, I'm not exactly sure what he did to make you hate him, but Gerard isn't actually a giant asshole. So maybe if you could stop being one to him, that would be awesome, because he's going around writing all this tragic poetry and throwing himself around the bus dramatically, and it's getting kind of old."

"Um," Frank said succinctly.

Bob just patted him on the shoulder and pushed off. It was a subtle threat, letting Frank feel the full strength of the weight behind it. Before he could even fully process what Bob had said, Ray was there, curls bouncing in his excitement. "Hey," Frank said. "Bob already beat you to it."

Ray gave Frank a pleasantly confused look and plopped down on the ground next to him. "I keep meaning to tell you, you're pretty rad out there."

Frank blinked, wondering if he was still asleep. "You've watched me play?"

Ray nodded enthusiastically. "Gerard made us all go, that first night. I've been going with him since. You guys got a weird sound, but I like it, and you can shred the shit out of a guitar."

"Thanks," Frank said. He felt a little numb and a lot stupid. "That means a lot coming from you. You're a legend up there, man. I've played different instruments all my life, but you guys made me get off my ass and get more serious about it. I'd play your shit all the time to practice."

"Yeah?" Ray asked, tilting his head to the side. "Gee seemed to think you weren't into our stuff."

"Um," Frank said again. Ray probably thought he was slow, or drunk. "He caught me a little off-guard, that first time we met."

Ray nodded his head like he understood entirely. "He can do that to people. It's those eyes, you know? He's so fucking earnest."

Frank had always thought so, too. Of course there was a difference between what you saw in interviews and music videos, and how a person really was, but Ray knew Gerard and could say that about him. Frank buried his head in his knees and took a deep breath that smelled like sweat and beer. He wrinkled his nose and made himself focus on Ray before he started to think Frank was an asshole, too. And sometime soon he needed to figure out how to even begin apologising to Gerard.

*

It was early morning in Denver and Frank woke up in the back lounge, half-buried under Spencer and Brendon. He stumbled off the bus still wearing yesterday's clothes, pulling a hoodie over his sweat-stained t-shirt. It was an off day, thank god, which meant Spencer and Jon would be sleeping in most of the day. Brendon had mentioned going to see the sights, and Jack wanted to use the time to do an episode of TAI TV, so they were tentatively planning on heading out all together after noon.

The craft tent was mostly empty, just a few techies who looked like they hadn't been to sleep yet, and the majority of Relient K laughing obnoxiously in the middle. Off to the side, Gerard was sitting by himself over a cup of coffee, like some divine message written specifically for Frank. He pushed back on the wave of anxiety, grabbed his own cup of hot water and a tea bag, and made himself go over, dropping down on a seat across the table.

Gerard blinked up at him like he didn't quite believe what he was seeing, and gave Frank a slow, hesitant smile. "Good morning."

Frank dipped tea bag in the cup and blew at the steam on the surface. "I guess if you're not hung over, maybe."

"Yeah, I saw you and Gabe doing shots," Gerard said, and gave him a sympathetic look. "I have so been there. I don't think the man has a liver anymore."

Frank snorted and took a cautious sip of his tea. There was an awkward silence that threatened to stretch on forever. Gerard spread his hands out, opened his mouth, closed it again, and sighed. "I sent you a few emails. I guess I had the address wrong."

"No, uh..." Frank blew at the tea again and glanced up at Gerard over the rim of the cup. "No I got 'em."

"Oh," Gerard said. It was like watching a balloon deflate, the way his shoulders slumped and his brows drew together. Frank seriously failed at life.

"I, uh, would have replied, but I was worried you'd think I was a crazy stalker or something."

Gerard looked bewildered, brows knitting even tighter. "Why would I think that?"

Frank sighed. It was time to go all in. "Because I was that dude at all those concerts."

There were warring expressions on Gerard's face--a little bit of triumph and a lot of confusion, and something else Frank couldn't read. "But why didn't you just say so?"

"Dude, you must get so sick of people fawning all over you," Frank muttered into the mouth of his cup.

"Are you screwing with me?" Gerard asked. When Frank glanced up, there was a shrewd expression on Gerard's face.

"No," Frank said, widening his eyes for sincerity. "I shit you not. You can ask Brendon, we've been best friends forever. My bedroom wall back home was covered in your guys' posters and stickers. I totally hocked all Brendon's electronics to afford the tickets to those shows." Now that he'd started confessing, it was like he couldn't stop.

"I have all your songs, even though I had to bribe Pete to get a hold of the really rare ones for me, I've watched Life on the Murder Scene about twelve-hundred times, I--I..." He fumbled with his hoodie, shoving the sleeve back to show off Our Lady of Sorrows.

Gerard reached out and stopped short of touching. "That's my drawing," he said faintly.

Frank shrugged his right shoulder out of the hoodie and said, "And I got this one after I saw the video for Ghost of You." This time Gerard did touch the skin, finger tracing lightly over the sea of blood.

"It was so intense, you guys on the boat, and when Mikey got shot..." Frank trailed off at the grim line of Gerard's lips. He was worried he'd said something wrong or offended Gerard somehow, or, like exposed himself as an actualfax stalker and Gerard was going to call Worm and Frank was going to get his ass kicked.

Then Gerard broke into a huge, sunny smile. "You have a Frankenstein? These are awesome!" His hand brushed down Frank's arm to his wrist, turning it this way and that to see all the tattoos from every angle. "It's like a map."

Frank hadn't ever thought of it exactly like that, but when Gerard said it, it made sense. "That's from when we finished the cd," Frank explained, thumbing Ryan's lyrics. "And those are my grandmas. They both passed away a couple years ago."

Gerard nodded solemnly. "If I ever got a tattoo, it'd be for Elena."

Frank didn't know what to say to that, worried he'd come off as even more of a creeper if he showed how well he knew what Elena had meant to Gerard and Mikey. He was saved from having to say anything when some of the guys from Motion City Soundtrack and Brand New came in, laughing loudly enough to make the pain in Frank's head spike up insistently.

He got up, shifting his tea from hand to hand and said, "Look, I just wanted to say sorry for being such a jackass. I just. I thought you'd think I was lame, and I don't know. I thought I was being cool. It was stupid."

"You wanna come back to the bus?" Gerard asked, and Frank's heart legitimately stopped. "Mikey's over on the Cobra bus, Matt's on the tech bus, and Ray and Bob are still sleeping. It's pretty quiet."

There was being lame, and then there was being an absolute headcase. Frank had to stop himself from gushing at the offer. Instead he cocked a hip and took a slow sip of his tea. "That sounds cool," he said.

*

The My Chemical Romance bus was an absolute wreck. Frank actually had trouble believing that Spencer had spent any amount of time on it without having a stroke or something. Frank himself was seriously tempted to start scrubbing down the counters, layered as they were in crumbs, spilled soda, and what looked like tomato sauce, print from whatever papers had been left behind stained into the surface.

Gerard noticed him looking and gave a sheepish smile when he shoved the pile of clothes and papers off the sofa. "Sorry," he said.

Frank shrugged. "No big deal. I just didn't realise there was anyone who could give Patrick Stump a run for his money when it came to clutter." Clutter was putting it politely.

Gerard arched a brow as Frank sat next to him on the sofa. "A friend from back at the Nor--back home." He waved a dismissive hand, bending to rescue a stack of comics from under a pile of dirty clothes. "Aw, man, you have The Killing Joke? I've been wanting to read this forever. Can I?"

"Yeah, sure," Gerard said. "It's fucking genius. Moore's Joker is an absolute psychopath. I like his interpretation a lot better than most."

"No lie. I'm so sick of seeing people write him as some half-ass slacker," Frank said.

"It's just seriously fucking disappointing that he used Barbara as, like, a tool to get to her father, like that's all she's good for," Gerard said, in that tone Frank had heard before from dozens of interviews, when Gerard got all passionate about misogyny and sexism. It made Frank a little dizzy with affection for him, to be hearing it firsthand.

"Yeah, but Oracle is badass," Frank said, and Gerard nodded his eager agreement. God, he was such a dork, and so was Frank for being so gone over him.

"Hey, you mind if I put something in while you read?" Gerard asked, chewing on his lip.

"It's your bus, man," Frank said, because he just couldn't deal with this level of adorableness.

Gerard went to mess around with the dvds stacked precariously under the television screen and Frank made himself focus on the book and not the curve skin bared between jeans and shirt when Gerard bent over. "Texas Chainsaw okay with you?"

"Are you fucking me?" Frank asked, and refused to blush at his own word choice. "The original, right?"

Gerard gave him an arch look, hand on cocked hip. "Like I'd have any other version?"

Frank was torn between watching along and reading until Gerard said, "You can borrow it, if you want," thrusting his chin in the direction of the comic. And that settled it.

They watched all of Massacre and were started on some horrible Lugosi film from the 30s when Frank's phone buzzed with a text from Brendon. "I gotta run. Me and B are doing something with The Academy Is...," he said in apology.

Gerard was watching him from the corner of his eye, and Frank wanted to invite him along, but he was already tagging along with TAI, and it probably wasn't Gerard's sort of scene anyway. "It's cool," Gerard said.

"Um. We were gonna go to the zoo tomorrow. If you wanted to come, or whatever."

"Yeah?" Gerard asked, perking up. "Man, I haven't been to a zoo in forever. Mikey would love that."

"So you guys'll come?" Frank asked, and immediately wanted to smack himself in the forehead for sounding so desperate.

"We have some interviews in the morning, but maybe after we can meet you up," Gerard said. "I can call you?"

"Oh," Frank said and fumbled his phone back open as Gerard began to recite his own number. He sent of a quick text that read this is frank :D and almost tripped over three piles of clothing on his way out. "See ya later."

"Don't forget this," Gerard said. He held out the copy of The Killing Joke with one of his hesitant little smiles, and Frank couldn't help beaming in response.

Brendon found him still leaning against the side of the bus five minutes later, clutching the comic to his chest. "They're gonna leave without us," he said. He took another look at Frank and the bus behind him and said, "Hey, isn't this My Chemical Romance's bus?"

Frank was pretty sure his blush was answer enough. Brendon let out a burst of surprised, happy laughter. "Come on," he said, and looped his arm through Frank's, dragging him off towards the gates. "And start talking, asshole."

*

Brendon woke everyone up at the asscrack of dawn so they could get to the zoo as soon as it opened. "I want to see the penguins, Spencer Smith, stop grumbling at me," he whined. "We have to go now if we wanna see anything before we have to leave to get back in time for our set."

Jon, who'd fallen asleep in Spencer's bunk with him the night before, whispered something low in Spencer's ear that made him flush bright red and scramble out of the bed. Brendon showed his appreciation by pinning Spencer up against the wall and surging up against him with a rough kiss.

"Wow," Spencer said, breathless, when Brendon drew back. "I'd have thought you'd seen your share of penguins back home." Which was as close as Spencer ever came to acknowledging Brendon and Frank's origins.

"That's the South Pole," Brendon and Frank said crossly, at the same time.

"But even if I had," Brendon continued, "I'd miss them. And I do miss the polar bears."

Ryan looked vaguely alarmed. "You're not going to try to pet them," he said.

"That was one time," Brendon exclaimed. "And those weren't polar bears, and if they didn't want people touching them, then there should have been some barrier between the stage and the audience."

They were stepping down from the bus when they were approached by one of the tour coordinators. "Oh, good, you're up," she said. "Are you going out?"

"That's okay, right?" Ryan asked, striking a defiant pose.

The woman didn't seem to notice, or didn't care. "It's fine, just make sure you're back in time. We're moving you to side-stage one, same time."

"Is something wrong?" Spencer asked.

"Nothing's wrong," she said. "Line-up changes happen all the time. Have a good time today."

Frank caught Brendon's puzzled expression and shrugged. Ryan looked ready to protest as she walked away, but Jon put an arm around his waist and drew him close, nose pressed to his cheek. "It's a good thing, baby. It means more people want to see us."

Ryan subsided, and Frank knew him well enough that he could tell Ryan was overwhelmed by the thought. Jon gave him a soft kiss and Spencer and Brendon crowded them on either side making Frank feel like he was intruding on something private, until Spencer jerked his head at him and said, "Get over here, you dumbass," and pulled him into a hug.

"If anyone licks me, I am quitting the band," Frank told them. It didn't have quite the effect that he'd hoped; immediately following his announcement, his face was assaulted by four different tongues.

Behind them, someone cleared their throat. Frank jerked away, wiping his face with his sleeve and making a blech sound to indicate his disgust. Gerard was watching them with a bemused expression. "Am I interrupting something?"

Ryan laughed and swatted at Gerard's arm halfheartedly as he broke the news.

"That's seriously awesome, congrats." Gerard said. His smile made Frank a little weak in the knees. "It's not even been two weeks. That's so fast." He darted a look at Frank. "So, uh, interviews finished earlier than I thought. You guys still going to the zoo?"

Frank nodded. "Gabe's securing our method of transportation, though, so I can't guarantee your safe arrival."

Gabe had actually managed to get a van from some gullible soul at the venue, and Frank ended up squashed in the smallest row alongside Gerard. Jon gave him a thumbs up and brow wiggle, and Ryan kept shooting them these pointed, knowing looks, and Frank wanted to die. Surely Gerard was just pretending to be oblivious to it all, to save Frank the embarrassment.

"I read The Killing Joke last night," Frank said, desperate for something to break the silence hanging between them.

Gerard lit up. "Oh yeah? What did you think?"

"Not as good as The Dark Knight Returns, but I liked it."

"Aw, come on, Miller's good, but Moore really gets to the sick, twisted heart of the Joker."

"Yeah, but Nolan executed Moore's idea better, in The Dark Knight," Frank argued. Gerard gave him a bewildered, incredulous look.

"Except his origin story for Two-Face was just fucking ridiculous."

"Not any more ridiculous than what the Joker was trying to do with Gordon," Frank said. He took a moment to reflect upon the pure geekiness of this conversation, and the fact that he was having it with Gerard Way. He'd had a lot of dreams that started this way. How was this his life?

*

He knew he probably looked like an idiot, the way he was gaping at all the animals, but Frank couldn't help it. The zoo fucking rocked. He'd seen most of the animals in pictures, or sometimes in movies, but it was entirely different seeing them in person.

They went through to the flamingo pen first, because they were Spencer's favourite and they were close to the entrance. There were peacocks running around out of cages, spreading their tails like they were showing off for the crowds, and the flamingos were even more vibrant pink than Frank had realised.

Jon got yelled at by an employee for leaning over the fence to snag an abandoned feather, but Spencer had just given one of his dazzling smiles when Jon had presented it to him, so the scolding didn't seem to have much of an effect.

In their rush to leave that morning, Frank had forgotten his camera on the bus, a fact he bemoaned for the first half-hour as they wandered through the aviary. Jon offered to take whatever pictures Frank wanted for him, but it just wasn't the same, and then Ryan disappeared while they were in watching the elephants (and holy shit, but they were huge) and came back with a disposable camera and a sheepish smile. Frank loved his band the best.

As they wandered through the monkey island, Gabe and Mikey disappeared ahead, hands just brushing every few steps (Frank was distantly glad Mikey wasn't the jealous sort). Jon, Spencer, Brendon, and Ryan, on the other hand, were lagging behind, sharing none of Gabe and Mikey's decorum, hanging all over one another and openly exchanging kisses.

Frank wondered if that would get different the more famous they got, except all the fans of Ryan's poetry already knew that Ryan was sleeping with both Jon and Spencer (it was his poor publicist's nightmare), and it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for the fans to watch the three of them with Brendon and figure the rest out for themselves.

"Sorry," Frank said, as a fresh round of giggling broke out behind them. People were staring.

"Why?" Gerard asked, glancing behind them. Brendon and Jon were doing a weird two step around Ryan and Spencer as they made their way down the path at a snail's pace. "I think it's awesome. When I first met Ryan he was so closed-off. Spencer was the only person he really trusted, you know? And now look at him." Jon had grabbed Spencer, and Brendon dipped Ryan down low, pecking him on the mouth, and Ryan was fighting, and failing, not to laugh.

"And ya know, we try real fucking hard to fight homophobia, showing these kids that look up to us that it's all right to be gay, or just be different, and letting the assholes know we don't want them around, and we've changed a lot of minds and helped a lot of kids, but there's still a lot of them out there thinking it's easy for them to go up there in make-up or kiss someone on stage, and then go home and sleep with their girlfriends. But with them," Gerard jerked a thumb back at the rest of Downpour, "they're not faking anything, and you guy still got bumped up, and that means something. That's huge."

"Yeah," Frank agreed. It was halfhearted at best. He was still stuck on the whole Gerard going home to sleep with his girlfriend thing. He hadn't even known that Gerard had a girlfriend.

Gerard, apparently, didn't notice. "Oh, hey, bonobos! Let's go see if they're fucking."

They followed the trail from the bonobos to the chimps, and then towards Bear Mountain, Gerard keeping a running monologue about comics, growing up in Jersey, and the awesomeness of Mikey Way, occasionally interspersed with tidbits he'd learned from animal planet, relevant to whatever enclosure they'd happened upon. It might have been the best day of Frank's life, especially because maybe Frank missed the polar bears back home, too.

"That polar bear is seriously into you, man," Gerard commented. When they'd arrived in the polar bear habitat, the female had come up to the glass divide, sat down, and began licking the spot nearest Frank's face.

Frank laughed uneasily and started to turn away, and the polar bear put a plaintive paw to the glass. Frank sighed and pressed his hand to the same spot. The glass went cold and frosted under his hand. He held still, hoping it would melt before Gerard could see, and leaned in to whisper, "Sorry, I gotta run, but my friend is just a few minutes behind us, and I think you'll like him even better." As he walked away, the bear let out a displeased wail.

"Seriously though," Gerard said. He glanced behind them to where the bear was now standing on it's hind legs, paws stretched out. "Do you have some secret super power where you can talk to animals? You can tell me. Are you a bear whisperer?" He sounded so sincere, Frank couldn't stop himself from laughing, bent over.

"I don't know how you ever fooled anyone into thinking you're cool," Frank gasped between helpless giggles. He clung to the handrail for support, weak from the laughter and the heat.

Gerard pursed his lips, but couldn't hold the expression for very long before cracking a smile. "You know, for all your talk, you don't act like my biggest fan."

"I have your art. On my skin," Frank said, folding his arm to bare the tattoo.

Gerard's cheeks flushed and he looked away. "You're getting kinda burnt," he said. Frank frowned, looking down at his arm, which had turned a dull pink. "We could go check out the amphibian house."

"Fuck yes, please," Frank said. He was getting used to the heat, for the most part, but he'd also been dealing with it in small doses, going back to his bus whenever he needed a break. Here in the sun for over four hours, he felt like he was going to melt.

The moment the stepped into the dark, air-conditioned building, Frank was rejuvenated. Gerard was a patient listener as Frank began to babble about any and everything that came to mind, from the origin of his cobra tattoo, to his thoughts on Gabe's ridiculous obsession with cobras, to how if he ever joined a circus, he'd totally want to be a serpent charmer or something, and how could these snakes and shit survive under all the direct heat, all while bouncing from cage to cage.

"You don't really deal well with the heat, do you?" Gerard asked.

Frank shrugged. "It can tend to make me a cranky bitch, I've been told. By Ryan. And Spencer. And Brendon. Who really has no room to talk. We grew up all that way up at the North Pole and it was cold as fucking balls, man. I always thought, you know, I'd love to live somewhere it was hot all the time, but shit, son. This heat is just not on."

A moment after he said it, Frank realised his slip-up, but Gerard didn't seem to think it was a big deal. Frank seized on the closest distraction before Gerard could even think to question it, stopping short at the case of the Chinese great salamander.

"Man, nature is fucked up," Frank said. It was pretty horrific, and awe-inspiring at the same time. "It looks like something from Silent Hill."

Gerard nodded his agreement. "It's fucking sweet, is what it is. Like nature aborted it."

"That's pretty sick, dude," Frank said, and Gerard shrugged, unconcerned. His eyes were somewhere else entirely, and Frank, with all he'd read about the man, would not be surprised to learn that Gerard was plotting some story around this thing.

Brendon texted Frank to meet them at the front gates, and on the way they were stopped by some fans. Frank gladly snapped their pictures with Gerard for them, and then snagged the last by the arm and held out his own disposable camera. Gerard laughed and threw his arm around Frank and jerked him close, startling him into making a truly stupid face as the camera snapped. But Gerard Way. Had his arm. Around Frank's shoulders. And now Frank had photographic evidence of it.

Frank didn't let go of the camera the rest of the way back the venue, clutching it as Ryan messed with his hair before declaring it a lost cause when Frank kept floating out of reach. He was banished to the sofa with an admonition to "sit still and don't sweat away all my hard work." Jon gave him a look, then one aimed at the camera and said, "I'll get Tony to get them developed for you next stop. Jesus, how are you so damn cute? Are you sure you don't want to join our foursome?"

"Sorry," Frank told him very sincerely, curling up in Jon's lap and wrapping his arms around his neck. He rested his head on Jon's shoulder with a heart-felt sigh, because Jon really was the best for cuddles. "My heart belongs to Gerard Way."

*

They were in one of those northern states that bordered Canada. Frank kept saying he needed to brush up on his geography before someone noticed, and Spencer kept telling him that it really wasn't a problem since most Americans couldn't name all fifty states, let alone tell you where they were on a map. So Frank didn't know what state they were in, but he liked the sound of Wyoming, so that's what he was going with, in his own head, anyway.

It was late June, but the day was breezy and clouds drifted over the sun more often than not, casting the swaying sea of grass behind the venue a pale blue. The wind made a soft whistling sound whenever it picked up in speed, and whenever the sun broke free, the light dazzled over the plains.

Frank hadn't had a lot of opportunity to appreciate nature outside of the winter wasteland of the North Pole and the desert wasteland of Las Vegas, but when he'd imagined what it would be like in the outside world, this was what he'd thought of. He let out a sigh, small, perfectly-shaped snow flakes drifting down towards his face.

"I'm going to build a house right here," Frank declared.

Brendon snorted, flapping a hand over his head and getting Frank in the ear. "You'd be bored out of your fucking mind."

"I could have a farm," Frank said.

"A farm," Brendon said, disbelief evident in his voice.

"A puppy farm," Frank decided. "Dozens of them, frolicking in the sun. I could rescue all the puppy mill puppies and bring them here."

Brendon rolled onto his stomach, his face looming over Frank's framed by the blue of the sky. There were snowflakes in his hair and on his cheek, and that was how Frank knew Brendon was as content as he was, that he was so cold they hadn't melted against his skin. "I had no idea you had such a romantic streak," Brendon said with a teasing smile.

Frank threw a handful of grass at him, but it all just fell back into his own face. He sputtered and rolled over onto his own stomach, dirt digging into his elbows. "Seriously, though, B."

The grass was so tall that from their position on the ground they couldn't see anything in any direction but green. "We're out. We have a fucking band. We always said what we'd do and where we'd go if we ever had the chance, and now we do. And I wanna live in fucking Wyoming."

Brendon threw his own handful of grass into Frank's face. "We're in Montana, you tool. Wyoming doesn't even border Canada."

"Oh, like you're so fucking knowledgeable," Frank said. His hand darted out, grabbing at the spot on Brendon's waist where he was most ticklish. "I bet Ryan told you."

Brendon wriggled under the touch and struck out, fumbling before getting a handful of Frank's hair and tugging hard. It turned into a full out wrestling match in a matter of seconds. Years of practice on both their parts made it difficult for either of them to get the upper hand. Frank had more bulk, but Brendon was stronger. Frank was squirmy as fuck, but Brendon was way more agile. They were both vicious little shits, never fighting fair.

Back when they were kids their mothers had despaired over it, wondering how they could possibly be friends when they came home scratched and bitten with bloody noses and black eyes, and why couldn't they play nice like Patrick and Peter? Frank hadn't had the heart to tell his mom that just because you couldn't see the bruises Pete left on Patrick didn't mean they weren't there...

"Just say uncle," Brendon said in that annoyingly smug voice of his. He had Frank in a headlock, but he was off-centre and most of his body was under Frank's.

"You fucking wish," Frank muttered. He twisted hard, felt the sting on the skin of his neck of what he knew would be an Indian burn, and threw all his weight back and to the side. Brendon's breath left him in an oof and Frank elbowed him for good measure, scrambling around to straddle him. Brendon arched and made to sit up, but then flopped back, rubbing his sternum.

They were silent, panting to catch their breath, and for the first time Frank noticed approaching footsteps cutting through the grass. He sat up straighter, resting his weight on Brendon's thighs and ignoring his grunt of pain. Gerard, Mikey, and Ray were only a few yards off. Thankfully it had stopped snowing a few minutes before, though Frank could seriously do with the cold now, his clothes clinging to his sweaty skin.

"Hey guys!" Frank waved a hand and got to his feet, offering Brendon a hand up. Brendon gave him a scowl and ignored it, being a huge showoff and arching his back off the ground and leaping to his feet with that stupid bendy body of his. Gerard gave them an odd look.

"What are you guys doing out here?" Brendon asked.

"Exploring," Mikey said. If Frank wasn't used to Ryan Ross and the subtle nuances of his monotone, Frank would have thought Mikey was bored to death by the mere idea.

"Mind if we tag along?" Frank asked.

Ray shook his head excitedly. "This guy Rob at the venue said there's supposed to be some old barn out that way that's haunted," he pointed. "Nothing else around for miles, no house or anything, no one knows why it was built there."

"Wicked," Frank said. "Sounds like something from Abarat."

Gerard glanced at him quickly and then away. "You've read Abarat?"

"Duh," Frank said. He fell into step beside Gerard. "Though the second one was bullshit. Carrion is way more sympathetic than Finnegan Hob. The ugly guys never get the girl."

It was a good thirty minute walk to the barn and they spent the rest of it debating whether Christopher Carrion was truly evil or just misguided, and which island they'd most want to visit. No one was surprised that Brendon would want to go the endless carnival that was Babilonium or that Ray wanted to hear the music of Tazmagor. Mikey didn't give any reason for picking the island of Scoriae, where day met night, but Frank found it fitting.

Frank himself said Nonce, though he couldn't give a proper explanation that it was because when he'd read it there'd been over twelve feet of snow blocking his windows and it had been dark for two months straight, and the idea of napping on a tropical island where it was perpetually three in the afternoon sounded like his idea of paradise. Gerard picked the haunted isle of four p.m., where the whispers of ghosts echoed ceaselessly. Frank imagined it might sound something like the wind through the grass, and when he mentioned that, Gerard gave him a private little smile that made Frank's stomach flip.

The barn was rewardingly creepy, if not a lighthouse. Only three of the walls remained, the forth rising in a jagged edge, revealing the interior. There was a sickly-sweet smell of rot around it, stronger as they crossed the threshold and the rain-swollen boards creaked and swayed in the wind. "If the roof gives out and I break my arm, ghosts will be the least of our concerns when Ryan finds out," Brendon said, giving the place a dubious once-over.

"You can stay out here," Frank tossed over his shoulder and grinned at the scowl Brendon shot him.

In the large, open area closest to the doors, hooks were suspended from the ceiling below which were stains that were unmistakably from blood. "It's just from animals," Mikey told him, and Frank figured he was trying to be reassuring, but that only bummed him out more.

"That's pretty shitty," he said. Brendon grabbed his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "At least humans do shit to deserve getting hung by hooks."

"You think it's haunted by the animals that died in here?" Gerard asked.

It was a depressing thought. "I'd rather it be human ghosts," Frank said.

Gerard nodded his agreement, a glum look on his face. "Unless," he said, "they were, like, zombie ghosts. Getting revenge on the people that ate them."

Frank got it a second later, that Gerard was trying to cheer him up, and that, more than the actual attempt, did wonders to brighten his mood.

That night, after almost getting into a fist-fight with the bassist from The Cab over the single functional shower at the venue, Frank returned to his bus, yanked back the curtain on his bunk, and just barely caught himself before collapsing on the papers laid on his pillow.

Curious, he climbed inside, flipped on the light, and somehow managed to swallow the captive bead on his lip ring in his excitement when he realised it was a comic left for him by Gerard. The fourteen panels featured zombie sheep, buffalo, and chickens murdering and eating, in great detail, the occupants of a farmhouse.

Spencer drove him into town to get a new lip ring, shooting him pointed looks all the while, but Frank held his head high. "I am not the least bit ashamed," he told Spencer, stroking his hand fondly along his favourite frame wherein one of the hens pecked out the eyes of the still living farmer, flecks of gore staining it's grey and mouldering feathers.

*

Hanging out with Gerard was both a lot like Frank had imagined, and very different. Of course Frank had read or watched every interview Gerard had ever done, so he knew most of Gerard's hobbies and interests.

It was no big surprise to find that Gerard was a huge geek who spent most of his afternoons tucked inside the MCR bus sketching or watching horror movies, or having existential arguments with his brother and Ray. Frank was ready for random non sequiturs and rambling feminist speeches and a dark sense of humour.

What Frank hadn't been prepared for, though upon reflection should have been obvious, was that Gerard was sort of painfully self-conscious and shy as fuck when he wasn't on stage. It didn't mesh with the confident swagger Gerard had on stage, the way he demanded the attention of his audience with every movement and every word spoken.

All the same, Gerard had this weird way of going from an enthusiastic debate one second, to closed-off and defensive the next. It made it difficult to get to know him very well, their friendship progressing in fits and starts.

Frank really didn't mind. It made all the stories Frank got from Gerard that much more satisfying. There were the little things, the personal ticks that you got just from spending time around them--like the fact that the rest of the band wasn't joking about Gerard's hygiene issues, or how he chewed on his hair sometimes, or how he was always cracking his knuckles no matter how often Ray or Matt or Frank told him he'd be sorry for it later.

There were the bigger things, too. So much of Gerard's life was just common knowledge among fans that Frank took it all for granted. Assumed he really knew Gerard and Mikey from the stories they told over and over on film. But the things Gerard mentioned casually to Frank felt a lot more intimate and profound, no matter how mundane.

Gerard teaching Mikey how to tee-pee a house and not get caught; how he'd read novels much too mature for his age and acted them out for Mikey with G.I. Joe and My Little Pony figurines; the way they would lay their heads in their mother's lap in church, bodies stretched out along the length of the pew as she traced their features with her finger; the time he got stuck in a crawl space while playing hide-and-go-seek at Elena's house and he was sure he was going to suffocate there and never be found.

Everyone had a million stories along the same lines. They weren't anything special except that they were stories that Gerard didn't often have the occasion or desire to tell anyone else. They were stories that maybe no one other than his brother and his band had ever heard--not because they were particularly private, but because Gerard didn't think anyone else would care. It made Frank's heart clench to think about it when he was alone in his bunk, that Gerard knew Frank cared, or trusted that he did, and that meant a lot.

*

Frank, Brendon, and Jon were curled up on the front sofa watching Supernatural because none of them could sleep and it was on. They were somewhere in Texas in the early hours of dawn, and apparently record company executives thought this was a perfectly reasonable time of day to call.

Celia had been playing interference for a few days, trying to help talk them through it, but she worked primarily with authors and book companies and was clearly out of her depth here. Ryan was on the phone with her in his bunk, and Spencer was on the phone with the record execs in the back lounge, voice mostly soft but occasionally rising.

It wasn't that Frank was worried, because he knew they were going to get a deal. They had Reprise, Atlantic, and Island on the hook, at least, and he trusted Spencer and Celia to make sure they wouldn't get screwed over, plus William, Gerard, and Gabe kept giving them advice. But it was still nerve-wracking. Frank didn't know much about the world outside of the North Pole yet, let alone the music industry with all its own special rules.

Sam and Dean were fighting over Ruby, but the volume was so low Frank couldn't really follow what was going on. In the near silence, he heard his phone buzzing from somewhere within the depths of the couch and when he managed to fish it out from under the cushion, there was a new text from Gerard fuckin' Way!!!!. He really needed to change that label before someone saw it. Like Gerard, for example.

can't sleep it read, any chance you're awake?

Frank was tempted to just call him. For the novelty of it, because it he could, to hear Gerard's weird voice. He decided against it in the end; talking was too hard, too much of a chance to say something stupid, or alternately, running out of anything to say and sitting in awkward silence. Texting was better. He had time to think about what he should say as opposed to what he wanted to say.

good cant sleep or bad?

The screen of his phone had barely gone dark before it lit up with an incoming call. Frank bit his lip and gave Brendon an apologetic look when he got up, displacing him. With Spencer in the back and Ryan in the bunks, the only quiet place left was the stairwell. Frank sat on the top step, throwing a wave to Kevin, their driver, and answered.

"You've lived in the desert for a little while now, right?" Gerard asked, in lieu of a greeting.

Frank rolled his eyes to the ceiling in a fond sort of way and said, "Seriously? This is why you're calling at five in the morning?"

"Is it really five in the morning?" Gerard asked, honestly bewildered. Frank chuckled. "Sorry. Mikey's with Gabe, and Matt pretended to be sleeping when I tried to talk to him, and Bob just glared, so. But you have lived in Las Vegas a while, right?"

"A few months." Frank shrugged.

"Right. Well, we've been working on the new album for a while, and we were like, we're not going to do another concept album, because, ya know, everyone was done with that after this last tour. So we started writing these songs as straight up rock and roll, except then a concept began to form. Not in the music. I mean, it's not a concept album, the songs don't have some great unifying theme or anything." Frank could practically see the complicated hand gestures Gerard was no doubt making this very minute. "They're all really straightforward, and you can take them at face value, but if you look at the metaphors, right, you can put them in a different context, and that context is where the concept lives."

It shouldn't have made any sense, but Frank actually understood at least 95% of what Gerard was trying to convey. "So you're saying the context is in the setting, and the setting is the concept?"

"Exactly!" Gerard shouted, and Frank cringed on behalf of all the sleeping members of My Chemical Romance. "We're this band on the run." Frank chuckled and began to hum and Gerard said, "but not shitty." Frank made a sound of faux outrage. "Oh, come on," Gerard said.

"Okay," Frank conceded, "but you really shouldn't let the rest of my band hear you talking shit about any member of The Beatles."

"All right, we're outlaws, who happen to be a band--"

"So it's like the video you guys did for Watchmen," Frank said.

"Huh." Gerard was silent for a moment. "I never thought about that, but I guess there are some similarities. I mean, it is this sort of dystopian future where the government controls everything from the weather to your emotions, and everyone's sort of the same, trapped inside this city that they're told is paradise, and the only freedom is through rebellion."

Frank listened patiently (okay, so it wasn't really a chore, because Gerard was so fucking creative, and interesting, and seriously endearing whenever he started talking about his art and his music) as Gerard built this post-apocalyptic world.

Outside the morning dawned a slow burning orange on the horizon and traffic slowed as they neared San Antonio. He could practically see the car and the Dracs and the creepy pale Scarecrow, and of course the Killjoys, bright behind his eyelids when he closed them, fabulous against the drab landscape of the city. He said as much to Gerard and Gerard laughed, "Yes, they are absolutely fabulous. The fabulous Killjoys."

Frank smiled fondly and leaned his head against the wall, feeling the vibrations from the road. "But seriously, Gerard, what does any of this have to do with me living in the desert?"

"Oh!" Gerard said, like he'd entirely forgotten his purpose for calling until that point. "That's where it all takes place! It's sort of like Tank Girl, where the war left everything desert-like and there's all these chemicals and shit in the air, and radiation, so the only safe place is the city."

And then he was off again, but it wasn't like Frank minded. Talking to Gerard was talking to Gerard, even Frank didn't always follow his logic or how he got from topic to topic. Frank was the person Gerard called in the middle of the night when he had too many ideas and no immediate outlet for them. Frank could live with that.

By the time he got off the phone the sun was up entirely, and Frank found his band sitting at the table when he came back to the lounge. "So?" he asked. There wasn't enough room on the benches, but Spencer's knee was all conveniently angled out, so Frank just sat there.

Spencer spun his phone idly across the surface of the table. He sighed and let his forehead fall against Frank's shoulder blade. "I don't know. Island is pretty cool, but I think Atlantic would give us more financial support. Celia thinks they're the better deal, anyway."

"Fuck money," Brendon said and Frank and Jon nodded their agreement.

"If Island is a better fit, then we should go with them," Frank said.

Ryan made a tilty-face and Spencer rubbed his shoulder absently. "My lawyer's flying in to meet us. I guess Atlantic is sending someone up from Houston? And the Island guy said he'll be in San Antonio later this afternoon."

"Guys," Frank said. "We're gonna get signed either way. What's the bad?"

Jon and Ryan exchanged these looks and Spencer's muscles tightened under Frank's ass. "It's just. Poets don't get a lot of attention. Not like musicians do, anyway," Ryan said, scratching at an old stain on the tabletop.

"The guy from Atlantic asked about some pictures on a fan site of Ryan's that got posted on the band's livejournal," Spencer explained.

"Okay?" Frank said.

"Mostly just the three of us at book signings and stuff," Jon said. "But there were some candid ones." He shook his head. "I mean, it's not a big secret. We've never--it hasn't really been an issue. Celia freaks out a lot, but only Ryan's diehard fans know enough about him to look it up on the internet, and none of them care. But now we're starting to get fans for the band, and they've watched the videos and now they've seen these pictures, and they've come to right conclusion."

Frank was silent, waiting for the rest. Brendon looked tense and miserable, curled up on himself, and Frank wanted to hug him, but knew to leave it alone for now. "The label thinks that we should play it off as an act," Spencer said. He waved a hand vaguely through the air. "Stage-gay, or what the fuck ever."

"Oh, fuck that," Frank said. "You told them to fuck themselves, right?"

Silence was the answer and Frank's expression of disbelief slowly turned into a sneer. Ryan reached a hand out to lay it on Frank's wrist, then apparently thought better of it. "There are lots of famous people in plural relationships. Alan Moore, for one. And the guy who created Wonder Woman."

Ryan arched a brow. "Anyone who isn't involved in comics?"

Frank floundered about, leaped off Spencer's lap and went for the nearest laptop. "I'm googling it, you'll fucking see. There's that actress, that British chick in the George Clooney movie."

"Yeah, but there's also the issue where we're all dudes," Jon said.

The computer was taking too long to load. Frank slammed his hands down on the arm of the sofa. "Look, I'm not doing this shit if we're going to lie about who we are. It's bullshit. We don't need to fucking sign with anyone. We're doing just fine for ourselves. We could start our own goddamn label."

Spencer laughed out loud, a genuinely happy, if shocked, sound. "Frank, you're pretty amazing."

"I know!" Frank exclaimed angrily. "I'm not fucking joking. I'll quit. This is bullshit." He half wanted to call Gerard right back and know how the fuck he could have signed with such a douchey label.

"I don't disagree," Spencer said. Brendon titled his head up hopefully, arms loosening where they were crossed over his chest.

Ryan got up and came to set beside Frank on the sofa, leaning into his side. He laid his head on Frank's shoulder and said, "You always say all the things none of the rest of us will."

"Yeah?" Frank asked, half-frowning but willing to be talked out of it. "You guys are really shitty communicators."

"It's a good thing we have you, then," Ryan said.

Frank was somewhat mollified. "So we're not signing with those dickheads. You guys aren't going to pretend you're not together."

"We're going to lose fans," Jon said, not with any particular inflection. "It's gonna be hard. They'll ask us about it in every fucking interview for the rest of our career, people will post all sorts of stupid shit about us on the internet."

"People do that anyway," Frank said, hand-waving. "Have you seen the fanfiction? And everybody knows interviews suck regardless, and it'll be hard to hide it too. You guys think you can stay together when you can't dance down the sidewalk at the zoo, or hold hands, or just kiss whenever you feel like it? It'd fuck things up, and I'd rather not have a band than you guys not be together."

Brendon's eyes looked suspiciously wet and he ducked his head.

"I love you guys," Frank said. "You're my family."

"Just remember that," Jon warned, "when the sixtieth interviewer asks you if you're sleeping with us, too."

*

They actually had their first interview that day when they came off the stage, sweaty and high on adrenaline. Island had set it up for them following the press release they'd made about signing Northern Downpour.

Frank knew movies made it look easy, getting discovered and getting signed, but he'd never thought it would be that easy in real life. But Ryan's lawyer, Elanor, had looked over the contract and given her approval, and then there were five signatures added at the bottom, and it was that easy, there it was.

Nothing changed for their performance, but Frank knew it was only a matter of time. The suit was already talking about getting them into the studio, listing producers he thought would be a good fit with their sound, talked about which of the songs from their EP should be carried over to a full-length album, and maybe they wanted to do something more with their stage-show? Which had made Spencer and Ryan go on for ages about costumes and performers and themes, and even Frank was secretly pretty damn excited by the idea.

So it was going to be different, and Frank wasn't particularly worried about that. The guy they'd spoken with, Thomas, seemed decent, and he'd actually listened to their music and could talk to them about it in a way that showed he appreciated it, and he hadn't batted a lash when Spencer said, up front, that yes they were all sleeping together, and no, they weren't planning on lying about it. Frank had been so proud at the time that he hadn't bothered correcting Thomas that they weren't all sleeping together.

What was different and not in a very good way, was this interview thing. Frank mostly wanted to get out of the goddamn sun before he spontaneously combusted, and maybe find a shower, but definitely change his fucking clothes and wash his face so he didn't taste sweat every time he licked his lips. Instead, here they were in a tent with KXXM 96. printed on the side. It did little to shield them from the heat or the glare of the setting sun, and there were only four chairs, which was bullshit. Lots of bands had five members. Frank pursed his lips and sat in Ryan's lap.

"Your ass is bony," Ryan complained.

Frank gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look. "Your everything is bony." There was silence for a second and then Jon, Brendon, and Spencer started snickering. Frank wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at Ryan, and Ryan rolled his eyes, but didn't pose any further complaints.

Their interviewer was a small blonde with a beauty mark on her chin and she gave them a speculative look when she took the chair opposite them. "So, I hear I'm your first. No need to be nervous; since we're not doing it live, we can do it a few times to get it right. Before we get started..." She looked down at the notepad in her lap. "Brendon's the singer and Ryan writes the lyrics?"

"For the most part," Ryan said. "But. It's a joint effort."

She nodded like she didn't even hear him. "So we're going to be talking about the Hey Moon track from your EP, signing with Island Def Jam, and..." She trailed off and glanced up at them, eyes slightly wider than before. "Are you--" She stopped. Frank felt Ryan tense and exchanged grim looks with Spencer.

Brendon bounced in his seat and little and said, "We are." Frank nodded solemnly and stroked a hand down Ryan's cheek. Ryan swiped at his hand and the woman blushed.

"Well, anyway." She cleared her throat. "Are we ready?"

In the end, she didn't bring up their relationship. Frank wasn't sure if it was because she was uncomfortable, or maybe she didn't think it was appropriate material for the radio station, or what the fuck ever, but he wasn't going to hold his breath that other interviewers would have the same compunction.

Still, it hadn't been so bad. Brendon and Ryan had done most of the talking and they sounded interesting, like they knew their shit, and if Frank didn't know them or their music, it would be enough to make him curious.

"So we'll be airing it tomorrow afternoon, along with the debut of Hey Moon following it," she told them in parting.

"You're gonna play the song?" Ryan asked.

Frank gave him a fond pat on the head. "Why do you think we're here?" he asked.

"We should celebrate," Brendon said decisively. "Just us. Do something special."

Their interviewer made a strange, choking sound and turned bright red when they looked at her. Frank didn't know why the rest of his band had been so damned worried. This whole polyamory thing was going to be so much fun. "Yeah," he agreed slowly. "I need to get out of these clothes soon, anyway."

Spencer and Jon giggled, heads pressed close together, when Brendon shot Frank a bewildered look. Frank hooked an elbow through his and dragged him off to the bus to get changed. Let her think whatever she wanted. Frank could do a hell of a lot worse than four smoking hot dudes.

Frank felt a little bad skipping out on everyone else's shows that night, but that went away when they found out that Island had arranged for a limo to take them to dinner on the label's dime. They didn't have any nice clothing with them, but they made do with their cleanest jeans (pin-stripe pants in Ryan's case) and borrowing from Spencer's collection of sparkly t-shirts and Brendon's pastel hoodies.

The restaurant was on the riverfront and they dined on a little private patio, the breeze from the water cooling the sultry twilight. There were so many bottles of champagne that Frank lost count, and all these amazing dishes with no meat whatsoever, and even Ryan couldn't stop beaming, even though Frank was worried his face would be sore later, it was so out of practice.

It felt like being back home in Vegas before they'd started recording, though (and no insult to Spencer's cooking, which was honestly fucking good) with much improved fare. Frank knew they'd made the right choice with Island as he watched Spencer feed Brendon a bite of his dessert, and Jon leaned in to lick the chocolate it left from around Brendon's mouth. And for once Frank wasn't even a little bit jealous of what they all had; he was just too fucking happy with his weird fucking life.

They ended up in a club after, some place Frank was sure he'd never have got into without Ryan Ross along for the ride. Frank was already way buzzed from the champagne, but there were kids in the fucking club who knew them, who'd seen their show, and kept buying them shots, and who was Frank to turn that shit down?

It was close to midnight; My Chem would have already finished their set and even the most die-hard fans would be gone from the venue. Ryan texted Mikey to tell him the news and the next thing Frank knew Gabe was bursting through the front door, his band, and The Academy Is..., and My Chemical Romance spilling in behind him.

Within five minutes Gabe took over the D.J. table and Frank spent the next hour dancing with a surprisingly lithe and expressive Mikeyway before he even noticed Gerard hovering at the edge of the dance floor, bottle of water in hand. Frank disentangled himself from Mikey (seriously, the guy had to have more than the normal four limbs, and they were all miles long), and made his way over. Gerard gave him a strained smile. "You were grinding with my brother."

Frank laughed. "I think I'm probably a poor substitute for Gabe Saporta."

Gerard's brow crinkled. "I try not to think about it," he said.

"Come on." Frank grabbed him by the sleeve of his Rolling Stones shirt and tugged him towards the door. "I need some fresh air anyway."

The night had cooled down considerably and the breeze felt delicious cooling the sweat on Frank's skin. They walked to nearest bridge, and Frank leaned over the railing, watching the moon's reflection ripple. "This is all so unreal."

"But good, right?" Gerard said.

Frank flashed him a quick grin. "Amazing. But I never--Six months ago I was miserable and I hated my job and I didn't even think there was any other option, you know, and now. Now I'm fucking--I've got Brendon back, and now I've got Ryan and Jon and Spencer, too. And you and Gabe and--We're fucking rock stars, man."

He was so happy it felt like bubbles under his skin trying to spill out, making him want to giggle. Or that could be all the alcohol. He glanced over and Gerard was just watching him, a strange look on his face. "What?"

"You just...you look like you're..." Gerard lifted a hand to Frank's face, then shook his head and let it fall. He glanced up at the sky and frowned. Frank felt his happiness dim a little, and when Gerard looked back him, he shook his head again. "The moon's really bright," he said absently.

Frank looked up at it, almost a perfect c-shape. It wasn't until Gerard began to sing along softly, "Hey moon, please forget to go down," that Frank realised he was humming it.

"Hey," Frank said. "Hey, I saw a tattoo place up the street."

Gerard gave him a startled look. "A tattoo. Do you think--I mean, aren't you not supposed to get those when you're drunk?"

Frank laughed and he was drunk, so it was okay to lay his head on Gerard's arm. "You're so cute." Gerard sort of stuttered a little at that, but he followed when Frank led the way.

"Don't you need an appointment for this sort of thing?" Gerard asked.

"It's just something small," Frank said, though he would be really bummed out if they didn't take walk-ins.

There was one artist bent over the small of a back, finishing the details on a flower and the girl at the desk said it would be about fifteen minutes. Gerard glanced around the place nervously. Every time the buzzing from the next room started up, he'd jump, and he kept his back to the open doorway. "What. Ah. What are you getting?" he asked.

Frank shrugged. "I was hoping you might be able to help with that."

"Yeah?" Gerard's eyes brightened.

"Yeah. Something to remember getting signed."

The girl at the counter gave him a piece of paper and a pencil to work on and Gerard bent over it for several minutes, biting his lip, before starting. Frank crowded at his side, peering over his shoulder as the sketch began to take shape.

Broad, curling lines wound together, like vines, curving into a crescent moon from which stars tumbled down like rain. When he looked at it from just the right angle, Frank almost imagined he saw a woman's face in the shapes inside the moon. She was beautiful, wearing a mournful, haunting expression. Arching around the top and the bottom, in the same font they'd used for their name on the stage backdrop, he wrote please forget to go down. It was like Gerard had taken a peek inside Frank's head and known exactly the right thing to draw.

Gerard stood outside the tattoo parlour while the work was done; he'd turned faintly green when Frank had asked if he wanted to watch. The whole thing didn't take two hours, done mostly in black with gold and pale blue high-lights in the curves of the moon and the larger stars. It sat on his bicep, beside his forget me not and above his poinsettia (because even if he hated Christmastown, it was still his home), large enough to keep the details crisp and defined.

By the time Frank rejoined Gerard out front the alcohol had mostly worn off, replaced by the buzz he always got from a new tattoo. Gerard smashed his cigarette under his heel and gave Frank an oddly sheepish smile. "Can I see?"

Frank peeled back the tape and gauze and angled his arm for Gerard to see. Gerard's hand was cool and soothing at the red skin at the edge of the tattoo and Frank had to fight the urge to shiver at the touch. "It looks good there. Like it fits. Oh, there's blood, cover it up, cover it up quick."

"You're such a baby," Frank said, but did as asked, smoothing the tape back to his skin and sliding on his hoodie.

"Does it hurt?" Gerard asked, eyes darting anxiously in Frank's direction as they walked. He looked scared tattoos might be catching, and someone with a needle was going to jump out at him any second.

"Not anymore. Now it mostly just aches a little. The pain you imagine beforehand is always worse than when you get it done, but I wouldn't want a painless tattoo anyway. I mean, the pain is part of it. All my tattoos mean something to me--people and memories I don't want forget, or things I really believe in, things that made me feel something really profound, and that pain, that's them getting under my skin. It's like--it's satisfying, you know."

Gerard was giving the sidewalk a thoughtful look. "You must have a lot of memories of the holidays," he said. At Frank's questioning look, Gerard waved towards him vaguely. "Your knuckles, and the pumpkin on your back, and all the horror movies--"

"Oh," Frank said. "I was born on Halloween."

"No fucking way," Gerard exclaimed. "That's fucking awesome."

"Yeah, I was pretty much doomed to be a weirdo from the start." Frank grinned sidelong at Gerard from under the blue swipe of hair falling over his forehead.

"I prefer weird." Because Gerard just said shit like that that made Frank's stomach swoop and his heart beat faster, and hide his stupid face in his shoulder. "What about all the Christmas stuff?"

The problem wasn't, necessarily, that Frank didn't want to talk about it (though that was true, too) so much as he had no fucking clue how to even start. His hands balled into fists in the pockets of his hoodie as he considered it, running through a million different ways to try to explain where he didn't sound like 1.) a religious freak, 2.) a freak in general, or 3.) a greedy, commercial bitch.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have--"

"Nah, man." Frank flapped a hand at him. "It's just a long, boring story, trust me."

"Ah." Gerard's tone made it clear that he wasn't buying it and he was going to let it go, but he would like Frank to know he wasn't a fool. Frank bumped his shoulder in thanks and bit back the hiss of pain that he knew would just make Gerard freak out over needles all over again.

It was like they'd never left, back at the club. There were fewer people, but all their friends were still there, mostly dancing with more enthusiasm than talent. Brendon was a notable exception, grinding between Jon and Spencer like it was his job. Frank was waylaid on his way to them for one song by an enthusiastic Gabe, and for another song by Vicky and Nate, and when he finally managed to get away to drop his hoodie off at their booth, he ended up collecting a very unsteady-on-his-feet Ryan instead.

"What happened to you?" Frank asked.

Ryan's head flopped around from side to side and he groaned. "Bill Beckett."

The man could hold his liquor; Frank did not envy Ryan in the least. "We'll get you into bed soon."

"I shouldn't have abandoned you on the Cobra bus," Ryan said, very solemnly. "I'm sorry."

Frank tried not to giggle, but it was sort of a lost cause. Much like Ryan. "Dude, that was eight million years ago. Don't worry, I'm not going to leave you to Gabe's tender mercy."

Ryan patted at Frank's face, which given his current condition and general lack of coordination ended up with his fingers in Frank's mouth. "You're a good friend, Frankie."

Frank turned his head, sputtering and kicked at Brendon to get his attention. "I think we should probably get him back to the bus," Frank shouted.

Spencer took half of Ryan's weight and they began to make their way awkwardly through the crowd. Frank waved to Gerard, who was watching them with the mingled pity and amusement of someone who'd been in Ryan's position many times over.

The limo was still waiting for them and Frank, Jon, and Brendon crowded on the far seat so that Ryan could stretch out with his head in Spencer's lap. Spencer was the best when you were drunk, running his hands through your hair, fingers brushing the scalp in this soothing way that made the urge to hurl subside.

Brendon leaned into Frank's side and when Frank tensed, Brendon sat up straight and said, "You got a tattoo!" It was a testament to how long they'd been friends and how well Brendon knew him that there was no surprise whatsoever in the statement, just eagerness.

They all leaned in to see when Frank pulled off the bandage, Ryan moaning in protest as Spencer shifted.

"Frankie," Brendon said. The smile tugging at his lips was simple in a way it never had been in Christmastown, the look in his eyes when they met Frank's expressing the same indescribable happiness Frank had felt all day long, and longer. Like they finally belonged somewhere.

*

Given the general filth of the rest of the bus, Frank was actually surprised to find that not only was Gerard's bunk relatively neat, but it smelled faintly sweet, like something from Bath and Body Works. Then again, he wouldn't have found it the slightest bit odd to learn that Gerard had some crazy beauty routine in spite of his famed allergy to showers. Gerard was a contradiction like that, and besides, he had the most amazing skin. He had to do something to keep it so clear and smooth.

Outside, rain slanted against the side of the bus, pinging in a comforting sort of way. They had the day off and were all holding their breath that the rain would stop sometime before tomorrow morning, in time to dry before the show. Right now the grounds were one big standing mud puddle.

The weather being what it was, no one was venturing out to explore St. Louis. Some of the bands were using the weather as an excuse to start early with their partying, but Frank's band had just made puppy-eyes at him until he'd heaved the sigh of a true martyr and trudged over to craft services so they could have naked times.

Apparently there'd been an incident with MCR's coffee maker, Mikeyway, and a metal fork--Frank didn't really get the details because Gerard was babbling in his caffeine deprivation--but it meant that Gerard dragged Frank back to his bus along with the coffee from the tent, loaned him a dry shirt and sweatpants, and proceeded to pull out his various sketch pads and show Frank all his ideas for the Killjoys and unpublished Umbrella Academy storylines and characters, and random little doodles.

Sometime late in the afternoon, Brendon texted that it was safe to come back, but as far as Frank was concerned, his band could have all the sex in the world, whenever they wanted, if it always ended up like this.

"Are you seriously going to go pink for this?" Frank asked gleefully, when they flipped to the page for Gerard's character.

"What? You don't think I could pull it off?" Gerard tugged thoughtfully at his hair. "The blond was--well, it served it's purpose. I wanted to do something fun."

Frank arched his brows. "Pink is fun."

"Oh, shut up," Gerard muttered, nudging him in the side with a sharp elbow. "It's more red than pink, and like you have any room to talk."

It was true. Due no doubt to some combination of exposure to the sun and using whatever cheap shampoo was on hand when he stumbled upon a shower, Frank's hair had gone from vibrant blue to a soft, pastel lavender colour over the course of the past month. It wasn't exactly his scene, but his band liked it, so he hadn't messed with it. He grabbed a fistful of it, twisting it up and said, "I've been thinking about cutting it."

"Your mohawk?" Gerard sounded downright scandalised.

Frank shrugged. “It's not a real mohawk anyway. I've let the sides get way too long, and I don't know. I've had it like this forever. Made people uncomfortable back home, ya know, and I liked that. But now...I think I'd like it long all over." He went still when Gerard reached out and ran a gentle hand through his hair, arranging it along his cheekbone with a thoughtful expression.

"You and Brendon don't ever talk about home that much," Gerard said. Frank felt his lips pull back in a scowl.

"What's there to say, man? It's the same old fucking story. It sucked, we didn't fit in--me worse than Brendon--I did whatever I could to challenge authority and I was in trouble all the time, and I had all of four fucking friends, and once Brendon left, there wasn't much point sticking around, so I got out as soon as I had the chance."

"Sorry," Gerard said. "I--"

"Nah, look, it's just." Frank huffed a sigh. He kind of felt like the world's biggest douchebag. Getting all defensive any time Gerard brought up home or Christmas (though he probably hadn't put the two together), like he was some mysterious hero in a teen romance novel. Jesus.

"Where we come from--It was a really small town. Everyone knew everyone, literally, and you were expected to do the same job your parents had done and their parents before them, and you were supposed to like it. And the fucked up thing was that everyone did. Everyone there was so goddamn cheerful all the time, which just made it worse for us, being the two who didn't get it, who didn't want it.

“Even Pete and Patrick and Greta--they were great. I love 'em, but they were so fucking happy, and it made me want scream, like don't you get there's a whole fucking world of possibilities outside of this place? But they all had this mentality that only a crazy person would want to leave.”

Frank shook his head, frowning when he remembered the night Brendon had made up his mind to finally go. "Man, even me. When Brendon said he was leaving, I just. I didn't believe him. We wanted to, we talked about it, but it never seemed like a real possibility. We didn't know anyone, we didn't have any fucking money, how the hell were we supposed to leave? But he fucking did it, man, and when San--when they sent me to go bring him back, I knew I couldn't ask him to do that. Even before I found him and met Jon and Ryan and Spencer. I missed him so goddamn much, but how could I ask him to come back when I was so fucking miserable?"

Gerard leaned his shoulder into Frank's. "That sucks man. I mean, Jersey's never gonna win any best childhood experience prize, but at least I had Ray and Mikey and my art."

"You know, me and Brendon used to turn the volume all the way up and scream along to I'm Not Okay whenever things got really shitty."

"Yeah?" Gerard asked, the first hints of a smile curling the corners of his lips. "Hey, it's not finished yet, but." He levered himself off the bed and disappeared into the front lounge. Frank could hear clothes and papers being riffled through, and Gerard came back baring a new sketch pad triumphantly. "I only just started it a few days ago."

"We were talking about incorporating some of our friends into the videos," Gerard explained as Frank began to flip through it. "Gabe as Show Pony."

Frank could totally see him rocking the look in star-spangled spandex and roller-blades. He stopped short when he got to the page labeled Fallout Boy.

The sketch was unmistakably of him, accurate right down to the piercings and the tattoos. He looked vaguely military-esque, in his old army vest and black fatigues. The shirt was a shocking contrast in bright yellow and black, with a smoking bee across the chest. The mismatched sleeves cut off at the elbow and mid-forearm, and multi-coloured wristbands and prayer beads decorated his arms down to the black, fingerless gloves. He was wearing a pretty badass leather holster with a bright green raygun peeking out, and his mask was a bright purple and green Frankenstein head like something out of the seventies. And.

"Am I glowing?"

"That's where you get your name!" Gerard said. "It's because of your exposure to radiation, like the Glowing Ones in Fallout! You have these powers of regeneration and shit and you have your own gang that operate out of Nevada instead of California, but sometimes you guys come help us out! What do you think? I mean, I'll have to change your hair, I guess, but other than that..."

"But why am I glowing? Why does my character glow?" Frank asked. His heart was caught in his throat.

Gerard looked down at his own hands. "Sometimes when you're performing or when you're really happy you. You just...you look like you're glowing."

Frank resisted the urge to panic. It wasn't like his character could float, or make it snow. He should be focusing on the fact that Gerard Way had drawn him into his comic--wanted him to be a part of his new album. Except what if the people who saw it were fans of Frank's band, too? What if they saw videos or pictures, or came to a concert, and they noticed that Frank looked like he was glowing, too? "You can't write that in the comic," he said.

"What's wrong?" Gerard looked at the drawing and then to Frank. "I thought you'd--"

"Just, you can't write me glowing."

"What the fuck?" Gerard asked. "What's your problem?"

Frank got up from the bunk, snapping the sketchpad closed. "I have to get back to my bus."

Even back on his own bus, Frank's skin felt weird and crawly, and his stomach kept flipping over. He couldn't figure out if it was guilt or fear. Brendon found him in the miniature bathroom, getting more dye on the wall and counter than in his hair.

"Wanna talk about it?" Brendon asked, grabbing a second pair of gloves and seamlessly taking over the dye-job. He'd done this enough times before, whenever Pete hadn't been around, or had been too much of a bitch to help out. Frank relaxed at the familiar feeling of Brendon's fingers working through his hair.

Brendon listened patiently while Frank told him what happened. Then he smacked him on the cheek, hard enough to sting, leaving a black smear. "You're a fucking idiot."

There wasn't any point in getting indignant. Brendon was right, and Frank knew it. Gerard would probably never talk to him again, and it was no more than he deserved. When he said as much, Brendon just huffed a sigh. "You're being way too dramatic. Do I need to ban you from reading poetry with Ryan again?"

Frank twisted his fist through his mohawk, piling it on top of his head. "I wanna cut my hair," he said, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, thoughtful. "You wanna do it later?"

"Yeah, okay," Brendon said. "If you're sure." He secured Frank's hair with a clip and rolled off his gloves before wetting a wad of toilet paper with water and toothpaste to start on the stain. "But I don't know why you don't just tell him," Brendon said.

"It doesn't have anything to do with him," Frank said, which was mostly honest. He'd wanted to dye his hair and he'd wanted to cut it, like, eventually. Growing up in the North Pole, Frank's outlet for anger or sadness or restlessness had been altering his image--tattoos, piercings, changing the colour and style of his hair every other week, it seemed like. At the house in Vegas it had been easier to go cuddle with his dogs, or go dancing in a dark club with loud music and anonymous bodies pressed close in the dark. Without his dogs and no clubs near-by, returning to hair was a comforting routine.

"Do you really think Gerard Way is going to care that you're an elf?" Brendon asked, as he dabbed at Frank's cheek. The smell of mint filled the room, overwhelming the chemicals of the dye.

"Do you really think he'd believe it?" Frank challenged. Then he remembered the conversation he'd recently witnessed between Gerard, Ray, and Mikey about the existence of everything ranging from aliens to unicorns to Bigfoot, and maybe it wasn't completely out of the question. Still. How would he even bring something like that up?

*

In Michigan, Downpour was informed they'd be moving to the main stage at the same time as The Academy Is... was set perform on the side stage and Ryan had protested that they couldn't do that to their friends, so the coordinators had made annoyed faces and said, "Fine, you can go on right before Cobra Starship." It was no use trying to explain that Ryan hadn't been attempting to negotiate, and it didn't really matter one way or another, because that was their new stage time.

Touring was so crazy, Frank sort of forgot about all the things going on in the real world, but apparently Island was promoting them left and right and kids were actually requesting their songs on the radio. Usually there was at least one interview per concert date, and Celia had called to let them know about a photo shoot scheduled for them in Chicago.

More and more every night it became clear that the crowds were there to see them, and not just passing the time between sets at their show. The pit was a strange combination of college-aged guys cheering them on and preadolescent girls with glittery homemade signs with various portmanteaus of their names. Frank's personal favourite was either Fryan or Fencer; based purely on the comedic value, Frank didn't even care that it was just assumed they were a fivesome. Their nicknames were so much cooler than Brangelina or Bennifer.

Still, with all of that, it was hard to gauge their growing popularity from their current perspective. Their small, side-stage 2 backdrop hung from the cavernous rafters of the main stage, though, that said a lot. Along with the fact that with the side stages now closed, all of the various crowds were coming together here. Everyone, no matter their reason for attendance, were now in the audience, about to watch them.

"If Pete and Patrick and Greta could see us now," Brendon mused as they watched the audience from the wings.

Frank was certain he'd never grow homesick for the North Pole, but he did already miss some of the people there--those three and his family in particular. His mother never had understood him or why he was so unhappy, but she'd always tried to make things better for him, and he thought she'd be proud of him now. He'd been trying to send her a postcard from each state they visited. Thanks to Pete's internet savvy, it was easy to keep up with him and Patrick, and through them, Greta, exchanging emails a few times a week. But it just wasn't the same.

"We should invite them down," Frank said. "Maybe once they're here Pete would realise how much better it was than the North Pole."

"Oh my god, Patrick would marry you if you could convince Pete to leave," Brendon said.

Frank considered this. "I'm not so sure it would be a good thing, though," he said. "Pete might take over the world if he ever left."

Brendon laughed, head tossed back. "Can you imagine if he met Mikey? Or Gabe?"

"Did I hear someone mention my name in connection with world domination?" Gabe asked, insinuating himself between them, an arm thrown over either of their shoulders.

Frank threw his fangs up just because and Gabe leered at him before turning his attention on Brendon. "Your boys asked where you were and then disappeared into that room over there." Brendon flushed bright pink, but took off in that direction anyway.

"I wonder if I could convince my band of the merits of group sex," Gabe said, watching Brendon go with a distant smile.

"If anyone's band could be convinced, it would be yours," Frank told him sincerely.

Gabe made a speculative humming noise. His toe bumped the rubber outsole of Frank's shoe. When Frank looked up at him, Gabe tipped his head to the side. Gerard was leaning against an amp, the angles of his limbs sharpened by the shadows. He was staring at his feet, hair falling over his face, but even without seeing his expression, his whole pose screamed "moody bitch."

"Mikey was gonna say something, but I convinced him to let me talk to you first," Gabe said. "He seemed to think it was a hobby of yours, hurting Gee's woobie feelings, or some shit."

"Fuck," Frank said. He was such a douche.

"So what the fuck happened? I thought you were all stupid over him."

"Is it that goddamn obvious?"

Gabe gave him a pitying look and patted his arm. "I don't think Gerard notices, if that helps. He's the master of obliviousness. But whatever he said, I'm pretty sure he didn't mean it the way you took it. Kid doesn't have a mean fucking bone in his body."

"It wasn't him. It wasn't all him. It's complicated, Gabe."

"So uncomplicate it," Gabe said, shrugging. He elbowed Frank hard in the ribs to drive the point home.

"Okay, okay, Jesus," Frank said, and headed over, dragging his heels the entire way.

Gerard kind of gave him a sideways glance as Frank sidled up to him, not quite meeting his gaze. "Hey," Frank said.

"Hey," Gerard mumbled around his thumb, chewing on the cuticle.

"Look, I'm--I'm sorry about the other day. I shouldn't have--I mean, it isn't my place to challenge your artistic integrity, or whatever."

"Seriously, what the fuck?" Gerard blurted out, like he didn't want to but honestly could not control himself. "What the fuck is your deal with glowing? I've been trying to come up with a reason, but I can't figure it out."

Frank let out a sigh, head dropping back. He shoved his hands in his pockets, made fists in the fabric, bit the inside of his cheek. "It's--I'm an elf."

Gerard gave him a coolly blank glare. "What?" he asked.

Frank waved a hand through the air and then let it drop back to his thigh. "You know--North Pole, Santa's helpers--" laziest jazz hands ever to emphasize his point. He watched the techs setting up Brendon's microphone with a sour twist to his lips.

Gerard was silent for a long time, and Frank started getting antsy, worried he'd have to go on stage before this conversation was finished. "You know, you didn't have to come over here," he said at last. "If you're just going to be an asshole--"

"I'm not," Frank said. He straightened up out of his slouch. "I'm telling you: the reason I didn't want you drawing me glowing is because I didn't want anyone else to notice it!"

"Okay," Gerard said, halfway between bitter and accepting. "Okay, Frankie."

"Please," Frank said. "Gerard--"

The rest of his band passed by, looking rumpled and pleased, and Ryan caught his eye, nodding towards the stage. Frank held up his finger, silently asking him to wait another minute. Ryan looked annoyed but stayed put, and the rest of the band stopped at his side. Frank looked back to Gerard who was busy trying to learn the meaning of life from the scuffed, tape-marked floor.

"I know I was a dick, but you freaked me out. I don't know what would happen if someone figured out about us, but I was just stupid. I can't tell you how fucking psyched I am that you made me a Killjoy character."

The anger had completely melted from Gerard's expression, leaving only confusion and a bit of concern around the eyes. Ryan cleared his throat and tapped an impatient foot. Frank threw him a glare and turned back to Gerard. "I'm sorry. Please don't be pissed off at me."

Maybe it was his pathetic eyes or the tone of his voice, but whatever it was, it worked wonders. Gerard's face softened entirely. "Yeah, Frank. I forgive you."

Frank bounced on his toes, letting a smile take over his face and leaned in to wrap his arms around Gerard's shoulders in a fleeting hug. After a second, Gerard's arms came up around Frank, hands resting lightly on Frank's back.

It took all Frank's effort not to sink into it, not to light up the whole backstage with his glowing, cool off the crowd with a summertime snow-flurry. Gerard's embrace was too warm and smelled like stale sweat and cigarettes, but he was soft and just the right height, and they sort of just fit, like Frank had always imagined they would.

"Frank!" Spencer snapped, and you knew it was getting serious when Spencer got annoyed.

"Sorry," Frank said again, for his freakout, or the hug, or the fact that it had to end. Gerard's face was still puzzled when Frank turned away, but there was a smile toying around his lips. Frank could live with that. Fuck yeah.

*

"So--oh, man, I love this part," Gerard said, flopping down on the sofa next to Frank and watching in silence while the shadow of zombies flooded the tunnel. "So," he said again, when it had passed, "an elf."

Frank let his head lull to the side to regard him. Their bus had somehow become a part of the party going on outside, probably in celebration of their new stage time, and as such various and sundry people were filing in and out of the front lounge area. Frank had escaped to the back lounge where it was a little quieter and a lot less busy, and was watching 28 Days Later with the volume down and subtitles on.

He was happy, but exhausted--they'd sat through about fifty post-show interviews, completely missing all of Cobra and Taking Back Sunday, and by the time they were finished, they'd gone straight back to the bus rather than stopping by to watch the tail end of MCR.

Frank was maintaining his good humour over the whole thing, because it was down to him that the others had decided not to hide their relationship, but it was sort of hard after being asked the exact same questions by twenty different people in an hour, less to do with music and more of them dealing with their sexuality and how being in a band on the road made it difficult to keep the romance alive, or what the fuck ever.

Maybe it was sort of their own fault, the way they all piled together on the couch, sweaty and elated, sharing wide grins and pointed looks at certain questions. Frank fit in alongside the rest of them because he belonged there, and he just felt a little bad that all their fans obviously thought that meant he was fucking them, too.

After the tenth or so, Frank had just started making shit up--claiming to have a girlfriend in several interviews, naming her Greta in one and Patricia in another and Kara in yet another, waxing poetical about her alternately golden, copper, and chestnut hair. In another he'd stated that he was asexual, and the interviewer had looked more perplexed by that concept than by the idea of five guys screwing. It took pretty much all of Frank's willpower not to laugh at him, made worse by the fact that Brendon was hiding his face in Frank's back, shoulders shaking with the force of his silent giggles.

"If Pete finds those and shows them..." Brendon warned, when they'd finally stumbled across the lot to their bus. "Patrick's gonna--"

"He'd be the least of my worries," Frank interrupted. "I'm honestly more worried about your sister."

Brendon nodded as he considered it. "Trufax. She's a hair-puller. And those nails have drawn blood on more than one occasion.

Jon, Spencer, and Ryan were watching them with open curiosity like they always did when Brendon and Frank discussed their home life and little details they'd never known. Frank knew whenever they looked at them like that that it was inevitable that they'd have to take a visit up North some day. He wondered idly if Gerard would ever want to see it.

"Elf," he agreed with a firm nod.

"And that's why with all the--" Gerard waved a hand towards Frank to indicate what, Frank couldn't possibly say. "The poinsettia and the bell and the mistletoe."

Frank nodded again. "Yep."

"But then why the dreidel?"

"Oh," Frank said, and looked down at the inside of his right forearm. "That was mostly to piss off Santa. But, I mean, it's cool-looking, right? And just because I was born in Christmastown doesn't mean I'm fucking Christian or some shit. I'm an equal opportunity atheist. Atheists can like dreidels."

Gerard gave him a delighted grin and leaned his shoulder against Frank's. "So what else can Christmas elves do?" Brendon, just coming out of the bathroom, froze in the doorway, staring back and forth between the two of them. Gerard gave him wink. "Besides glow?"

Frank waved Brendon off, letting him know with a look not to worry, and Brendon just closed the lounge door on his way back to the party. "And spread Christmas cheer, you mean?"

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, Frank," Gerard said, all faux-seriousness, "but I really don't think you're performing at your full potential in that regard."

Clearly, Gerard was not buying a single word Frank was saying, which actually made it easier for Frank to tell him the truth. "Well, there's being born an elf in Christmastown which means you can glow and you can't really change that, but then there's working as an elf in Christmastown, and when you tell the big guy to 'fuck off,' your obligation to spread Christmas cheer sort of comes to an end."

"You told Santa Claus to fuck off?"

"Not in so many words," Frank said. It was a shame, too, now that he thought about it, but in the end Santa hadn't actually tried to stop him leaving, had encouraged it, and Santa had put Brendon back where he belonged, so whatever. It all evened out in the end.

"All right," Gerard said. He rubbed his palms on his truly flithy jeans. "So no drawing you glowing, or dressed in red and green, or being cheerful. Anything else I need to know?"

"Shut up." Frank punched him in the arm, but he was so tired he mostly missed, and it didn't really have much force behind it. Gerard looked inordinently fond, though, and that made Frank feel hot all over. "You can draw me glowing and floating and making it snow, but when they carry me off to some government facility to dissect me or whatever, you'll only have yourself to blame."
"I'd break you out," Gerard said, in all earnestness. "Killjoys style. Hold 'em back while you make a run for it."

Frank waved an exasperated hand at him. "I wouldn't leave you there, Gee," he said.
"Killjoys never die," Gerard said.

"Well, still, that's stupid," Frank decided. "I'd just glow really bright and blind them all, or something, then we could steal their cars and take off."

"Oh, like Yvaine, in Stardust, when she shines so brightly she destroys the witch," Gerard said.

Frank wasn't sure if Gerard realised the implication he was making, that it would be Frank's love for Gerard would allow him to shine that brightly, but he decided not to mention it and hoped that Gerard wouldn't, either.

"So you can float?" Gerard asked. Frank nodded. "Sweet."

"It is pretty rad," Frank agreed. He was tempted to prove his point by floating right the fuck now, but he decided not to push it. He'd told the truth, and if Gerard didn't want to believe him, that was his own damn fault.

"And who's the other one?"

"Hmm?" Frank asked, only half-paying attention.

"You said 'us,' earlier. Is it Jon?"

Frank hadn't meant to say that, but he wasn't surprised to learn he had. At that point he was just saying anything to get Gerard to stop looking all pissy at him. "Jon?" he said, frowning.

"Well, he's almost as short as you--ow--" Gerard laughed, rubbing the spot on his chest where Frank hit him. "And he's always really mellow and nice, and he sort of smells like Christmas."

"You go around smelling Jon?" Frank gave him a strange look.

Gerard crossed his arms and sunk further down on the couch in a defensive pose. "It's not like I, like, sniff him or something. But most people smell pretty fucking rank after a couple days on tour, and it's not hard to notice that he doesn't, when he's around."

Frank couldn't help laughing; he had to tell the others. "They all smell alike, in and out of each others' bunks, sharing the same clothes," Frank said. "And what you're smelling is not Christmas, unless at your house Christmas smells like stale sex."

"No," Gerard said, wrinkling his nose. He sucked in his bottom lip in contemplation. "No, Brendon and Ryan always smell like girl's deodorant, all flowery and shit, and Spencer doesn't smell like much of anything."

"Oh my god." Frank gasped for breath between bouts of laughter. "Seriously, what the fuck dude, you know what my band smells like? I bet if you asked really nicely, they'd let you in their foursome."

Gerard made a face. "I can't help but notice these things!" he cried. "Like you. You smell like clean."

Frank knew he probably had a stupid look on his face, but he was too delighted to care. Gerard knew what he smelled like. "You really, really don't."

"Fuck you, it could be a lot worse. You could have known me back before I was sober," Gerard said, but he sort of straighted up and away from Frank, and Frank wasn't going to have any of that.

"Aww, Gee," he said, and tugged Gerard closer by the sleeve of his tee.

"You know, some of us sweat."

"I sweat," Frank protested. "I just also shower."

Gerard glared at him. "Your hair gets a little damp, that's it. Is it part of your elf magic?"

"Yep," Frank said. He laid his head on Gerard's shoulder. You got used to the smell, after a while. It wasn't that gross going-without-deodorant smell, and it wasn't even really an unwashed smell, so much. It was more of clothing damp from sweat balled up and gone sour, cigarettes, and, oddly, mown grass. Now Frank just thought of it as Gerard smell.

They fell silent, watching the movie, and after a minute Gerard put an arm around him, drawing Frank closer. Frank's cheek slid down his chest, trying to match his racing pulse to the steady thump of Gerard's heartbeat under his ear. Gerard and his band were almost as touchy-feely as Frank and his; it didn't mean anything more than that. Gerard's thumb brushed the fringe around Frank's ear and said, "I like your hair. The black looks good with your skin."

Frank hummed, pushed his head into the touch, and Gerard scratched his scalp in a way that made Frank want to purr. "Now it's your turn, to go all pink," he said. Gerard laughed, and his fingers kept carding through Frank's hair, and Frank drifted off to sleep.

*

There was a photoshoot in Chicago, and that was totally weird. On stage they all sort of had their own look--Spencer in his dress slacks and snazzy buttondowns; Jon in bare feet and a henley, hem of his jeans frayed; Ryan and Brendon tended to match more often than not, in paisley or plaid; Frank had been true to his word as far as the shredded jeans went, and usually paired them with a band shirt.

Their photographer apparently didn't approve of their normal looks. He dressed them up in these ridiculously expensive suits with embroidered collars and gemstone cufflinks, and like, sequined ties. Brendon managed to pull the look off like some goddamned movie star and Spencer always wore a suit like a second skin, but the rest of them just looked like kids who'd ransacked their dad's closet.

It went on for their entire off day, shot after shot of what felt like the same fucking pose until it was finally right. When Jon shot them, it tended to be a good time, but Frank couldn't imagine his expression in any of these pictures would be anything other than abject boredom. Maybe some annoyance.

That didn't really go away even after it was over. Frank was fucking starving--they hadn't had any vegetarian options in the spread at the shoot, which was just about the most ridiculous thing Frank could imagine. A lot of actors and musicians were fucking vegetarians, what the fuck. Someone had gone out and come back with a fucking fruit basket, and normally Frank would have been all about fruit, but he was too pissed off to really enjoy it at the time, or do anything really other than scowl at everyone in the room.

He went straight to his bunk when they were back at the venue, shoving his ear buds in and settling down for a good skulk. The rest of his band were in the back lounge with a movie and knew better than to interrupt him anyway, so when a tentative knock came on the wall outside his bunk, he didn't really know who it would be. "What?" he snapped, jerking the curtain back.

Ray gave him a sheepish smile and lowered his hand. "Hey. Sorry, just, uh. Okay, so Matt went with some of the guys to this shady place down in Chinatown and now they all have food poisoning."

Frank was in a pissy mood, but he wasn't a complete asshole. "Is he okay?"

"Gee and Mikey are with him at the hospital. They say he's gonna be alright, but they're keeping him over night, and then they say he needs to rest for a day or two."

"Okay," Frank said when Ray finished and looked at him expectantly.

"I just remembered you saying that you used to play our stuff, to practice."

"Yeah," Frank agreed.

Ray rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I know it's asking a lot, and we could probably get one of our techs to do it, but me and Gerard wanted to ask you first."

"Wait," Frank said. He sat up so quickly his head hit the top of the bunk. Ray cringed in sympathy, but Frank didn't even feel it. "Wait, wait, wait. You guys want me to play for you? With you? Seriously?"

"Seriously." Ray grinned, hair bobbing along with his enthusiastic nodding. "Is that a yes?"

"It's a 'fuck yes,' are you kidding?"

"Cool," Ray said, like he meant it. "The guys won't be back for a bit, but you wanna maybe come over to the bus and mess around a little?"

Frank couldn't get out of his bunk and into his shoes fast enough, grabbing his guitar on the way out.

They went over the setlist, making sure Frank felt comfortable with all the songs they'd be playing. Ray was impressed and more than a little surprised that Frank knew which backup parts were Matt's and which were Ray's, and Frank had to explain that no, really, he hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Ray how much he loved My Chemical Romance.

Frank's band was really fucking indulgent of him the next day when he couldn't sit the fuck down, literally. Spencer fashioned a sort of a sling out of some of Ryan's scarves to keep Frank from hitting his head on the ceiling when they were watching cartoons at breakfast and Ryan very patiently sat aside his novel to listen to Frank ramble at him for nearly a fucking hour about how he'd dreamed of this moment his entire life, even making appropriately interested humming noises at all the right intervals.

Jon didn't bat a lash at Frank climbing all over him while Jon calmly and deftly rolled a joint. Then he and Brendon each got Frank by an arm and dragged him off the bus before the other half of their band resorted to homicide. They found an empty, and more importantly air-conditioned room in the basement of the venue, passing the joint around. It didn't do much to stop the jittery excitement that had kept Frank from sleeping last night and kept him from staying still, now.

Brendon was going to sprain his eyeballs from rolling them so hard at everything Frank said, but Jon looked thoughtful and when Frank drew a breath, he asked, "What would you do if Matt couldn't play for good?"

That shut Frank up. He closed his mouth with a click and darted a quick look at Brendon, whose eyes had gone wide. "Jon," Frank said. "I wouldn't--I mean, that's never gonna happen. I wouldn't want it to happen."

"Yeah," Jon said. "But they play the kind of music you really love, and you're good at it."

"Yeah," Frank said. He waved a hand through the air, searching for the right words, dragged it through his hair. "But you guys are my band. I wouldn't do that to you."

Jon's lips twisted to the side and he blew out a steady stream of smoke. "Brendon could play your parts. He used to play guitar all the time before you showed up."

"Are you--" Frank's heart had dropped somewhere down near his toes. "Are you saying you don't need me?"

"No," Jon said. "I'm saying you should do what makes you happy."

"This is stupid, I don't know why we're even talking about it. Matt's fine." Frank crossed his arms over his chest, slouching low against the wall.

"Frank," Brendon said, in that delicate way he had that let Frank know he was about to say something that was probably going to piss Frank off. "We love you, and we're really glad you're in our band. But we don't want you to feel obligated--" he stopped short, like he had no idea how to continue.

Jon sighed and put an arm around Frank's shoulder. "We just want you to make the music that makes you happy."

"You guys make me happy," Frank muttered, embarrassed by how soft his voice came out. "Playing with My Chem, that's just. That's like winning the fucking lottery, or scoring your dream girl, or something, and if they asked me to do it again, fuck yeah I would, but you guys are my band."

"Okay," Brendon said, and kissed Frank's cheek. "But if you ever change your mind, we'll still love you."

"I'm not changing my mind!" Frank insisted.

Brendon laughed and hugged Frank tightly, face pressed into this throat. Half in annoyance, half in affection, Frank sent a shock of cold between them. Brendon just made a contented, delighted sound, and sent back his own burst, sharp enough to frost the tips of Frank's hair. Like Frank could fit in anywhere else.

With their new stage time, Downpour actually had a longer set. They'd started covering a Third Eye Blind song and rotating in some of their songs that hadn't made it into the original cut. They did I Write Sins Not Tragedies for the first time that night and the crowd's reaction was instantaneous and fucking insane, helped in large part no doubt by Brendon camping it up.

They were as affectionate with each other on stage as they were off--kisses to cheeks and foreheads, soft touches and shoulders pressed together, sharing mics more often than not. Most of their fans seemed to dig it, but when, after playing Nine in the Afternoon for the first time, Ryan sat on the bench beside Brendon and gave him a slow kiss, the high-pitched squeals of approval from the female portion of the audience was deafening.

There were a few mutinous cries of "fag" carrying over, and Frank thought fuck that, grabbing a very surprised Jon by the back of his neck and hauling him into a wet kiss. Jon caught himself on Frank's hips and gave in after a second, parting his lips, tasting vaguely of beer and gin (Frank suddenly realised what Gerard was actually smelling). Frank would have thought it impossible, but the squealing just got higher. After, when Frank turned to grin at him, Spencer looked fairly pleased by how inaccessible his drum kit made him to the rest of his band.

Apparently, Gabe, Ryland, and William saw this display as some sort of challenge to their gay stage cred, or something. Gabe and Ryland were up in each others' and Alex's business way more than usual and when William came out for Snakes On a Plane he and Gabe moved together in a way that was downright obscene. Frank whole-heartedly approved.
"Does this mean I need to step it up tonight?" Gerard asked, as they were getting ready to go on stage. "Because my normal partner in gay is laid up at the moment, which leaves me with my brother, and you."

Frank almost swallowed his own tongue at the insinuation. "I'm not sure it'd count with me, since I sort of started the whole thing," he said.
Gerard gave him a bright-eyed, mischievous look, and didn't say anything else on the matter, striding out to the microphone.

Frank had a moment of almost crippling nerves, looking out at the darkened stage and the sea of people beyond it. They were already going wild, seeing Gerard's silhouette. Mikey bumped his shoulder against Frank's and gave him the barest beginnings of a smile on his way onstage, and Frank took a centering breath and followed him out.

Even with the lights down, the kids in the pit looked at him in recognition and surprise. Frank had to close his eyes, listening to the crash of the symbols as Bob began to play and the rest of them dove in all together, opening with This is How I Disappear. He felt the lights come up just as Gerard began to sing and had to taking a few gulping breaths before joining in on backup.

Around the second verse Frank finally opened his eyes, glad that his fringe was still long enough to fall in his face. Through it he could see the surge of the crowd towards the stage and when he turned to the side, Gerard all the fuck over Mikey--hands in his hair, around his neck, down his shirt. Mikey was handling it like a pro, laughing into his shoulder, spreading his legs so Gerard could get right up behind him and hook an arm around his shoulders. It continued like that all through Dead! as well, then Gerard went back to his stand, sliding the mic in place.

"I think you all know our friend Frankie," he said. Frank threw a hand up in greeting when the crowed screamed their affirmative. There were still some confused faces, but Frank knew he'd rocked the shit out of the first two songs, and that had to have won most of them over. "Let's give him a big hand for helping us out tonight!"

They went into I'm Not Okay and Frank finally managed to unglue himself from position in front of his mic and move around. If he just focused on Gerard's voice he could imagine he was still back in his bedroom in Christmastown, music blasting from the stereo, writhing around on his floor with his guitar. It made it easier to let go here, getting on his knees, licking down the fret, jumping around like a fucking monkey.

Gerard passed him by, running a hand through Frank's hair on his way to molest Mikey some more and Frank thought why the hell not? What other chance was he ever gonna get? So when Gerard came over to share his mic with Frank for Matt's "trust me," Frank didn't even think about it, just went up on his toes, cradled Gerard's head in one hand and pressed his lips firmly to Gerard's cheek, right at the corner of his lips.

Gerard went entirely still and let out a surprised breath that hung visibly in the air. Frank saw it with a feeling of reckless daring, wondering how Gerard would explain that, or the surge of cold that made him shiver before he started singing again, fumbling to find his place in the song that had continued without him.

After that, Gerard split his time equally between strutting across the stage, feeling up Mikey, and getting in Frank's personal space. Or maybe it wasn't that equal at all--Frank's perspective could have been skewed by the fact that his brain stopped working every time Gerard licked him or stroked his head or tugged on his shirt. Thank god he'd played these enough that his body was autopilot.

Sometime around Cemetery Drive Frank's brain finally got on board again. Downpour was watching from backstage, Brendon bouncing along cheerfully, Ryan and Spencer giving Frank these equally mocking looks, and Jon sort of confused as if to say you'll shove your tongue down my throat but you can't do more than give him a kiss on the fucking cheek?

And really, there was no way anyone was going to undermine Downpour's gay cred, no matter what Frank got up to on stage with MCR, so again, why the fuck not? He spent the rest of the set doing his best to outgay Gerard Way, which was actually quite an intimidating task. Like, Ryan, Spencer, and Brendon were legitimately gay, and Jon was the next best thing since he'd probably never sleep with another woman in his life. Yet somehow, 95 % of the time Gerard managed to come off as more authentically gay than all of Frank's band combined. But Frank never backed down from a challenge.

Gerard was a way better jungle gym than Spencer or Jon; for one thing, he didn't seem long-suffering about it, but rather enthusiastic, bending at the knees to give Frank better leverage, or slinging a leg over Frank's shoulders when Frank got between his knees. He threaded his fingers through Frank's hair and pushed his head down and Frank made his best porn face, to top the ones even from the Cobra bus, mouth open, lips swollen from his biting, eyes closed in an expression of bliss. The My Chem fans were loving every fucking second of it.

Then, after the encore, it was like someone had flipped a switch and Gerard went from being smoking hot, sexually confident (potentially incestuous) lead man to plain old dorky Gerard Way, laughing a snorting laugh and slinging an arm over Mikey and Frank as he walked. Mikey gave them both an indulgent little smirk before ducking out from under Gerard's arm and heading for the Cobra bus.

"You were so fucking hot out there," Gerard said cheerfully. It was nice to hear, but it was also so casual, like Frank's hotness had had absolutely no effect on Gerard whatsoever. "You know you have to come back, now. I bet Matt would totally be cool with you doing a number per show."

Frank didn't know how to respond to that, too busy worrying about what Jon had said earlier. Luckily Ryan and the rest of Downpour where suddenly there alongside them and Ryan said, "Only if you come out to sing for one of ours."

Gerard agreed with a surprising enthusiasm and the fans in Cleveland went crazy when he came out halfway through Downpour's set, sharing the mic with Brendon during There's a Reason These Tables are Numbered. It wasn't any big surprise to Frank that Gerard rocked it like it'd been written just for him to sing, but it was still surreal to watch and to hear. Gerard caught his eye and grinned, and Frank made his way over there, leaning against Gerard's side as he played. Okay, it was fucking awesome, too.

*

Gerard hadn't brought up the onstage cold flash, which was a relief in some ways, and disappointing in others. Part of Frank thought I have to come clean at some point while the rest of him went why, what does it hurt to let him keep thinking you're sort of crazy, or whatever? After all, Gerard clearly wasn't put off by insanity. It all would have been fine, except then My Chem decided to play one of their new songs in Charlotte.

Frank hadn't seen Gerard since the day before last; there'd been a hotel night for My Chemical Romance, and Downpour probably could have insisted on a suite, but their label was being pretty cool so far, and their bus was comfortable enough for now. They could wait until they had an actual cd and their own tour to start making demands. Then the next day had been an off day and Spencer and Jon had insisted on site-seeing. The rest hadn't minded. Charlotte had a lot of cool historical buildings and monuments, and they found this little ice cream boutique that had non-dairy vegan options that were like the taste equivalent to a wet dream.

Gerard had texted him most of the day and well into the evening, truly inane and random comments. Frank's traitorous band had taken to giggling at him every time his phone chimed with a new message, and Frank was now just preemptively flipping them off every time he sent a response.

mom invited you guys over to dinner when we get to jersey Gerard wrote him, after a long break. Frank told the others and Ryan started going on about how awesome Donna Way was, even though he wasn't too sure about her cooking skills.

Frank was distracted thinking about the fact that yeah, they'd been in Jersey in a couple days, and a couple days after that the tour would be over, and then what? Gerard and his band would be going back to California and Frank and his band would be going back to Vegas. And sure, it wasn't that far apart, but it just wouldn't be the same as getting to see each other every day.

bet you're excited it's almost over, Frank wrote, swallowing past his dismay, get to go home to your gf Even though Gerard never spoke of her, ever. Maybe he figured that wasn't any of Frank's business.

The pause this time was the longest ever, and then: ???? followed shortly by it was a hypothetical girlfriend Frankie

Then Frank couldn't stop smiling, wandering around in a daze, bumping into Brendon and trash cans and random passers-by, wishing he could see Gerard's stupid face. Like he'd read Frank's thoughts, Gerard sent a picture of himself with a towel piled on his head like a turban, red stains around his neck and cheek, giving the camera a slightly dismayed look. dyeing your own hair is *tricky* it read, and Frank laughed in glee, and sent back D: though he didn't doubt Gerard's ability to tell that Frank was thoroughly amused.

So Frank was expecting the hair. He just wasn't expecting the rest of it.

He got back to the stage sort of late after letting Gabe drag him off following the Cobra set. He wasn't really upset over the fact, because apparently Gabe had found a nice alternative for getting clean to his slip 'n slide, which involved sweet talking one of the venue workers who lived in a loft down the street to let them use his bathroom. Vicky had claimed first shower and then Nate and Alex had been wrestling each other over who got to go second and were distracted enough that Frank managed to slip in after her.

The water was delicious on his over-heated, slightly sun-pink skin, and the guy's soap left him smelling clean without much of a lingering scent, and overall it left him feeling more refreshed than a full night's rest. He felt a little guilty over taking the beer Gabe offered him out the guy's fridge, but Gabe left a wad of very large bills on the kitchen counter, so it sort of made up for the theft.

Ryan was waiting for them by the gate when they got back and gave Frank an exasperated look. Honestly, Frank was a little bewildered by it, and the way that Ryan grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him off for the stage, refusing to explain what the hell was going on. It wasn't like he was going to miss going on stage, or something. He usually went on for one of the last couple songs in MCR's set, and there was over an hour before it got to that point. But Ryan had this little secret smile around his lips that reminded Frank unnervingly of Mikey Way.

Downpour wasn't actually backstage, but in the little VIP section off to the side of the pit by the crowd, reserved for friends and family members, and some of the press. The bands didn't usually go down there--there was security, but the fans got distracted to see other famous people so close by and could get kind of stupid. No one paid them any attention, though, and a glance at the stage made it obvious why.

Apparently, Gerard's hair wasn't the only thing that had gotten a make-over.

A crimson spotlight swept frantically across the stage, almost like a searchlight, occasionally catching on faded American flag suspended over the stage. There was a dark form in the centre, difficult to make out in the shadows, but it stretched out over the flag in a vaguely sinister way. Frank knew it immediately from Gerard's sketches and began to bounce on his toes, excited and curious.

It wasn't too big of a surprise, that they would debut their new look or a new song or two to stir up publicity for the new album. The tour would be over in just about a week, and then back into the studio for a few weeks to finalise their record, which was going to be released in early autumn. It made sense to get people excited about it now. But Gerard had been weirdly shy about the actual music, for all that he'd rambled excitedly for hours on end about the universe it took place in, and Frank just wanted to hear it.

After what seemed like forever, the music started, a high-pitched squeal like feedback evening out into a single low tone, and then a voice began to speak. It was difficult to hear over the roar of the crowd, full of drunken idiots, but he got enough to know this album was going to be fucking epic. The band were caught in flashes of light, taking their spots. Frank's heart sped up at the sight and he felt like just another fan, and the thought didn't bother him.

Then the lights came up, illuminating the stage and catching on the vibrant, cherry-red shade of Gerard's hair. He was wearing his pretty much trademark by this point tight black pants that made Frank think vividly dirty thoughts about what he would do between those thighs, but now it was paired with a ripped and faded tank top showing off a lot of chest and a hint of nipple from the side.

Frank could only stare for the entire length of the first song, fucking captivated by the sight and the sound, felt every lyric like a punch to the gut, especially when Gerard caught his eye and winked as he sang about Batman.

They segued into Teenagers from what Frank was going to call the 'Na Na Na' song until he had something better to go on, and Frank realised why Ryan had brought him out here, so he could see the whole thing from the proper perspective, but now he wanted to get to the backstage. To be closer.

Ryan caught him by the beltloop before he could get very far and said, "Wait."

Now Frank was more than a little intrigued. He jumped over the barrier between the VIP section and the crowd, putting himself in the pit. Ryan looked startled at that, but Frank just pushed his way closer to the stage. Gerard watched him with a smile and knelt down at the edge of the stage when Frank got close, singing "tell me I'm an angel, take this to my grave," then tipped his microphone towards Frank.

Frank pushed up on his palms against the top of the barrier and sang "yes I am, oh yes I am," grinning so widely it hurt, uncaring of the fans around them, pressing in close at Frank's side like they wanted a piece of him, uncaring who of them noticed the way the mic frosted over when Frank reached out to wrap his hand around it below Gerard's.

Gerard straightened back up and strutted over to Matt, slinging an arm casually along his shoulders and wriggling his hips in time to the beat. His head was thrown back as he sang and Frank just watched him hungrily. It'd been a while since he'd watched Gerard from the crowd and it was so different, intoxicating, almost. Frank felt want throb low and visceral in his stomach, and it was probably a good thing he couldn't get any closer at this point, because Frank wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from doing--what, he wasn't sure, but something that was sure to fuck up their friendship.

"You mother fuckers want another new song?" Gerard screamed, when the music ended. The crowd showed their approval and Gerard turned to Ray, leaning out of range of the mic to say something before turning back to the audience. "This song is about never giving up, even when ya know you're gonna lose, and finding that one person to be your light in the dark, right up until the end."

Frank listened in rapt silence, letting the crowd jostle him, moving with the continuous forward surge. Then Gerard got the chorus, singing about stealing cars and saving yourself while he held them back and Frank had to look around in disbelief to find Ryan giving him a knowing look. The lyrics fit into the Killjoy 'verse, and it made more sense that Gerard had just been referencing this song during that conversation with Frank than the idea that Gerard had written this song after.

Except then Gerard cocked a hip and pointed a finger at Frank and sang you're a heart-attack in black hair dye and before Frank even had a chance to absorb or process that, be a burning star if it takes all night.

It ended and Frank gave up trying to push his way back towards VIP after a couple seconds. Instead he waved over a very indulgently put-upon Worm to pull him over the barrier and made his way along the edge of the stage towards the backstage area. Downpour was waiting for him in the backlot, with matching, shit-eating grins.

"What?" Frank demanded, because he hadn't even told any of them about that conversation with Gerard.

Ryan gave him a knowing look. "Come on, man."

"What?" Frank repeated.

"Mikey said you had to hear the songs they were playing tonight. That it was important that you personally hear them."

"Because I'm such a huge fan," Frank said.

"Oh my god, how are you so stupid?" Spencer said, and easily dodged the punch Frank threw at his arm.

"I don't know what you guys are trying to say, but whatever it is, you're wrong," Frank said. "They wrote this album before they came on tour. Hell, they recorded it before the tour."

Spencer put his hands on his hips. "You know they have a recording studio in the back of their bus?"

"And they're going back in the studio the week after next to add two more songs to the cd," Brendon added.

"Mikey said Gerard's original version of your Killjoy character glowed," Ryan said pointedly and Brendon gave Frank a little smirk. "And that's just the most obvious thing. I'm an English professor, Frank. I could bust out my close reading skills if you need me to spell this out for you."

Frank opened his mouth to protest and heard Vampires drawing to a close on stage. He closed his mouth with a click and cleared his throat. "I have to--I'm supposed to go on for the next song," he said.

Really, there was no reason for his band to look so fucking smug as he made his excuse and almost tripped on his own feet running towards the stage.

He had no idea how he made it through his song that night; the fans had to know something was going on, between the way Gerard had pointed at him in the audience and shared his mic, where Gerard kept getting up in his space--not in his normal campy, over-the-top way, but with purpose. With intent. Prowling close like he was circling his fucking prey or something, pressing his nose to the skin of Frank's neck and breathing deep and heavy into the mic while Frank struggled to keep his fingers steady on the strings. Thank god for his fucking guitar, or the kids in the front would know just what it was doing to Frank.

Frank all but bolted off the stage when he finished, brushing past his stupid band who were standing on the sidelines with seriously annoying knowing looks on their faces. It wasn't until he was in the cool dark of the bus that he realised he was glowing, and how brightly. The normal post-show buzz was dull yellow at best, radiating maybe a few centimeters from his skin. Now he shone a brilliant gold, and when Frank noticed it, it flared even brighter, extending in a corona all around, lighting up the entire front lounge.

It didn't make any fucking sense. Frank wasn't happy. He was turned-on--which, okay, could have explained it--but that should have been negated by the almost paralysing confusion and uncertainty and not a little bit of fear. But rationalising it didn't dim the glow. Frank cursed under his breath and went into the back lounge where all the shades and curtains were drawn and flopped back on the sofa. He cursed again when instead of the cushion catching him, his body was buoyed up by the air.

This was fucking ridiculous.

Ryan Ross wasn't as smart as he thought he was. That song couldn't be about Frank. Well. If it was true that Gerard wrote the lyrics while on tour, it was possible that parts of the song were inspired by the conversation they'd had. Sure, most song-writing was personal, but every once in a while a lyricist got stuck, and then they took inspiration from all sorts of things that happened in their everyday life. Gabe swore by getting toasted with strangers in New York City; Bill liked roaming the streets of Chicago people-watching; Ryan liked going on roadtrips, stopping at little hole-in-the-wall diners and antique malls. None of it meant that the entirety of the song was meant for Frank, or even that the part of it was held any sort of significance.

But--Mikey had told Ryan it was important for Frank to see, and if anyone knew what was going on in Gerard's brain, it would be his brother. Of course, no one really knew what was going on in Mikey's brain, either. He could have thought it was important for Frank to hear the Na Na Na song because of the Batman line, or so he could see their new backdrop, or something.

But the way he was touching you his very unhelpful inner Brendon voice piped up. Only Gerard was always like that on stage, and if Frank took that as any indication of Gerard's true feelings, then the Ways were a lot closer family than Frank ever could have guessed.

Frank's thoughts kept circling like that, and no matter how he tried to rationalise it, his stupid body wouldn't listen. His skin went on glowing like it hadn't received the message. With a sigh, he rolled over, chin propped in one hand, and traced his finger through the air, watching the trails of light. He couldn't get the song out of his head, bits and pieces looping like a cd on repeat. Something about the broken glass in morning light drew him back again and again, though he carefully didn't think about what came next in the song. Gerard didn't even believe him about the whole elf thing. Maybe he'd meant the lyrics to be an inside joke between them?

Brendon came in and floated alongside him in a contemplative silence, very pointedly not remarking on their alternative light source. "I'm starting to think you're confused about how dating works."

"What?" Frank put as much venom in the single syllable as he could, glaring at Brendon from the corner of his eye.

"I think it's from one too many of Pete and Greta's rom-com marathons," Brendon said. He turned lazily onto his back. If Frank was a violent sort of person, he might want to smack the smirk off Brendon's stupid face. "But you know, in real life you don't have to play hard to get. When the guy expresses interest by, oh say, telling you he liked your playing, or getting your email address, or writing you a fucking song you don't have to be a bitch to, like, get his attention, or make him like you, or whatever. You've already got it and he already does."

"First of all, I resent being cast as the heroine in this little scenario of yours. Secondly, dating three guys at the same time is not the same as having been in three different relationships, and you guys have been together for, what? Half a year? You're not exactly a relationship expert."

"Dude, it is totally the same as being in three different relationships," Brendon said. "Actually, it's being in like...seven different relationships, if you think about, because--"

"Brendon."

"You're missing the point, anyway. I'm not trying to give you advice, I'm just stating the facts, and they are: he's into you, you're into him. You're making it so much harder than it needs to be."

"Okay, thanks for that," Frank said.

Brendon huffed a sigh and dropped to his feet. "Fine, whatever. Stay in here being a stupid emo kid because the guy you like likes you back. I'm gonna go back to the party."

Frank waved him off. After Brendon was gone, door slid shut behind him, it seemed darker. Maybe Frank should have let him stay, see if he could dim the glow some more. Outside there was a loud crash of glass on pavement and raucous laughter; just another night on tour with this group.

They were parked next to Peelander-Z's bus, and those guys always got the party started as early as possible, and usually in ways that got them in trouble with the venue, and sometimes banished to second lots at the next city. Usually it was pretty funny to watch, and they were okay dudes, so normally Frank would go out to see what they were up to, but even if he hadn't been a human fucking glo-stick, he just wasn't in the mood.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the weird--but catchy--Japanese rock music coming from just outside the window, and sagged a little lower to the ground, like there was a mattress losing air beneath him. What if? a traitorous, hopeful voice was whispering in the back of his mind. What if Brendon was right?

Frank wasn't going to admit it to Brendon's face, because even though Brendon was his best friend, he could also be an obnoxiously smug bastard, but...for all that Frank owned in the bedroom department, Brendon really did have three-up on Frank's relationship experience (four, if you counted those three months he and Greta had tried "dating" when they were thirteen). The elves Frank had hooked up with back home had never really liked him, and he'd mostly been in it because his options had been limited, and sex was fun.

So he'd had...fuck-buddies, he supposed, except for the fact that they never hung out with each other outside of sex, but he'd never been on a date, or tried to build a romantic relationship, or what the fuck ever. The closest he'd ever come to that sort of thing was Brendon. He could acknowledge now, looking back on it, how their relationship at the North Pole probably looked to outsiders. But that intimacy had been easy--Frank hadn't ever wanted to fuck Brendon. That was so obviously not the case with Gerard. How did you put the two together and not fuck everything up?

Assuming, of course, that Gerard even wanted that.

Outside the door to the lounge, Frank heard Jon's low rumbling voice and then, in response, Gerard's, higher and clearer. Completely without his permission, the glow brightened, throbbing in time to his suddenly racing heartbeat. Jesus Christ, he wasn't twelve. It was just ridiculous, and on top of it, his stomach was twisting up so much he thought he might actually be sick.

"Chill the fuck out," he whispered, drawing in a deep breath through his nose and puffing it out his mouth. Tomorrow, once he had this glowing/floating thing under control, he'd go talk to Gerard and he'd realise he'd been right to begin with, the song wasn't about him, it was all a huge misunderstanding, and he would laugh about it. Then he could go back to being able to have an unrequited crush on an unattainable Gerard fucking Way, instead of worrying about the possibility of a very messy relationship with the stupid weirdo he might have maybe actually fallen in love with.

It was quiet on the bus now, Jon no doubt making up some excuse for Frank's absence. The lounge door slid open, and Frank lifted his head to tell which ever bandmate it was to fuck off. He froze, mouth hung open, when he caught sight of Gerard. Gerard didn't look particularly shocked, but his face split in a wide grin and he said, "You're fucking floating. Holy shit--Are you a fairy?"

"No," Frank said, and swung around so that his feet were parallel to the ground, even if they hovered several inches above it. It put him just above eye-level with Gerard. "I'm an elf." He honestly didn't mean for it to come out in such a pissy tone of voice, but he'd tried to explain this already.

"Oh, shit, yeah," Gerard said. He gave Frank an embarrassed look. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend--I mean there isn't any bad blood between the two races, is there? I'm so sorry."

Frank laughed, because there really wasn't any other way to react. "You're so fucking--" He shook his head. "I told you I could float."

"Yeah," Gerard agreed sheepishly.

"You didn't offend me," Frank said with a resigned sigh, because Gerard really worried about that kind of shit.

"You took off so fast after the show," Gerard said. There was something strange in his voice that made Frank's throat ache. So they were moving past the elf thing, then? Frank knew he shouldn't be surprised that Gerard was taking it in stride, but still.

"Just really tired," Frank lied. He couldn't tear his eyes off Gerard--the way the red seemed to make his skin glow a pale white and brightened his eyes, the way the dye had stained along his jaw and down his neck, smudged high on his cheek bone, made him look like someone's half-finished pastel painting. Frank wanted to see if the dye would smear under his touch.

"Frank," Gerard said, soft and even higher-pitched than normal. He took a step closer and laid his hand against Frank's cheek, let out a sharp gasp as the touch lifted him up. Frank had seen Brendon's floating transfer to Ryan and Spencer and Jon enough not to be surprised by it. He reached out a hand to Gerard's elbow to steady him, and it lifted them both higher. Gerard bit his lip and looked down between them at the floor. "We're floating."

"Gee, that song," Frank said and Gerard's head flew back up. His lip was still caught between his teeth, and Frank's heart and gut lurched all at once with intense want. His fingers tightened around Gerard's elbow and he gave a sharp tug.

Gerard caught himself with his free hand on Frank's shoulder and opened his mouth eagerly the moment their lips met, letting out a low groan that shot straight to Frank's dick. Frank took the invitation, licking into Gerard's mouth, tasting the sweat around his lips and the faintest tang of nicotine under fresh toothpaste. Gerard had just brushed his teeth. There was no reason that realisation should make Frank kiss him harder, but he couldn't help it.

"Frank," Gerard whispered into his mouth, pulling away gently. For a second, Frank thought he had it all wrong, that Gerard hadn't come here with this very goal in mind. But then Gerard glanced upward and Frank looked up, too, to see the crown of Gerard's head pressed to the ceiling.

"Sorry," Frank said, and silently screamed at his body to get the fuck under control. Somewhat predictably, nothing happened. "I can't--"

Gerard giggled. "We're floating," he said. His fingers fluttered against Frank's cheekbone, eyes darting over his face. "You're so cold."

"I don't really notice it unless someone else does," Frank said apologetically.

Gerard kissed him, hard and so fast Frank didn't have time to respond. "It's amazing, Frankie. You're amazing." When he drew Frank into a kiss for the third time it was slow and wondering and made Frank's stomach wriggle. Gerard kissed like he was trying to warm Frank up with it, and it was the strangest sensation, burning up on the inside, skin frosting over on the outside.

"I--I didn't realise," Gerard said, between kisses. "I'll change the lyrics, I didn't realise you were honestly worried--"

And somewhere, Frank had known already, no matter how he'd tried to convince himself otherwise, but still, hearing from Gerard directly was different. "I was being stupid," Frank interrupted. "Don't change the song, I love it." He kissed the corner of Gerard's mouth. "It's so badass." The spot of dye on his jaw. "This album's going to be epic."

Gerard grinned and dipped his head to catch Frank's mouth again. His hand snaked up Frank's throat, sinking into the hair at the back of his neck, gave a little tug to tilt Frank's head back, let Gerard kiss him deeper. Floating was nice and all, and Gerard was into the novelty of it, clearly, but Frank would actually prefer some gravity in this situation so he could have some goddamn leverage to move. And just like that, his body finally listened. Their feet hit the floor with a jolt that shuddered up Frank's legs and Gerard pulled away, startled.

"Is something wro--" he started to ask, and Frank lunged at him, knocking him back against the wall, wrapped his fists in Gerard's tank top, and went up on his toes, smashing their mouths together. This was more like it. He could feel Gerard pressed against him from head to toe, hard-on digging into Frank's thigh, the inviting tilt of his hips.

Gerard lifted the hem of Frank's tee, slid his hands underneath to Frank's back. His touch was shockingly warm on Frank's skin and Frank gasped. Gerard answered by sinking his teeth into Frank's bottom lip and tugging. He left hot, open-mouthed kisses across Frank's cheek, bit hard on his earlobe. Frank's hips jerked in answer and let his head fall back as Gerard trailed his mouth down Frank's neck, paying special attention to his scorpion, tonguing the spot over and over. Frank squirmed against him and made a high, desperate noise.

There was a sharp rap at the lounge door and Frank actually fucking jumped, catching Gerard's look of wide-eyed surprise.

"This is why you should always listen to me!" Brendon called.

Gerard hid his laughter in Frank's neck, palms resting flat against the small of his back. "Fuck off, Brendon," Frank said.

"Remember the rules about sex on the bus," Spencer shouted.

"I wrote those rules!" Frank shouted back. "They're my rules. And they explicitly allow sex in the back lounge, so I repeat, fuck off."

"But we're on the bus," Ryan said, in a reasonable tone of voice.

"Oh my god, so get off the fucking bus, you assholes." Frank gave Gerard an apologetic look.

Gerard's cheeks were bright red from blushing. "We could go to my bus," he said. "The guys aren't around, and they don't care, anyway."

"Um," Frank said. He waved his hand fast enough to cause light trails to blur between them.

"Oh." Gerard smiled. "Right." He was so fucking cute Frank had to kiss him again.

Only a short peck turned long and searching turned desperate, and Frank finally broke away long enough to say, "Fuck it; if they wanna hang around, we can give 'em a show."

Gerard wrinkled his nose. "Really?"

Frank pushed his hips up, rubbing his dick in the groove of Gerard's thigh. "Really," he said, and leaned in for another kiss.

It took a minute; Gerard was clearly hesitant about the idea of others listening in. But Frank could be really fucking insistent, and a good kisser, besides. He reached between their bodies and popped the button on Gerard's jeans, worming a hand inside. Gerard wasn't wearing anything underneath, which made Frank grin into their kiss.

"We're leaving," Spencer said.

"But I'm taking your bunk," Jon said, and Frank could just see the stupid, shit-eating look on his face.

"And I'm taking the last beer," Brendon added.

Frank could not possibly care less and mumbled something to that affect around Gerard's tongue. His fingers brushed over Gerard's dick before he closed his fist around it. Gerard let out a high-pitched whine that should not have been so sexy, and yet, Frank was already thinking of ways to hear it again. "I would really love to blow you right now," he said.

Gerard nodded his head a little frantically, fingers tugging on the long ends of Frank's hair. "I'd really like that, too," he said, and swallowed hard.

Frank wiggled his brows and dropped to his knees, grabbing the opening of Gerard's pants and tugging apart and down, watching as more and more pale skin was bared. Gerard swallowed audibly above him and Frank shot him a quick, quirky smile before taking Gerard's cock in hand and sinking his mouth down the length all at once. Gerard let out another one of those gorgeous sounds. Frank looked up to see Gerard's eyes closed, head thrown back, hands fumbling at the wall like he was trying to find a place to hang on. "Frankie," he whimpered, "fuck."

Frank hummed his agreement and Gerard's hips twitched forward. "S-sorry," Gerard said, fingers stroking softly down Frank's cheek. He stopped, pressing in where he could feel his own dick in Frank's mouth and let out a helpless little moan.

Frank pulled back, letting Gerard go with a popping sound and arched a brow up at him until Gerard managed to open his eyes and look down. He looked unsure and hesitant and fuck, Frank loved that about him, that Gerard was always so worried about others, and soft, and gentle. But Frank really didn't want Gerard to be that way with him. With Gerard still watching, Frank took his hands from Gerard's skin and put them behind his own back, holding his right wrist in his left hand.

"Go on," Frank said. He leaned in, mouthing lightly down the side of Gerard's cock, swirling his tongue around the head. Gerard exhaled a shuddering breath. His hand on Frank's cheek tucked back a bit of fringe behind his ear, sunk gently into his hair and guided him forward. Frank obligingly opened his mouth. He had to fight the urge to go lower when Gerard set up a slow, shallow rhythm; it was just a challenge. Frank was good at those.

It had been a while since Frank had last done this, and he'd forgotten how much he liked it, which was part of the reason he was so good at it. He pushed his tongue against the underside, moaning at the silky texture, the sharp tang at the back of his throat. Gerard's hips jumped again and Frank moaned again, in appreciation, in goading.

"Jesus, Frank," Gerard hissed, but at least he got the fucking idea, hesitantly rocking back and then in again a little faster, a little harder. Frank sucked around his mouthful, humming a little whenever Gerard finally found a new tempo or depth, and each time Gerard's thrusts were less controlled. Each one made Frank's cock throb in response; he could almost imagine how it would be to have Gerard fucking his ass instead of his mouth, his hole clenching in anticipation of it.

Gerard's fingers tightened in Frank's hair, and Frank was willing to bet Gerard didn't even realise it, which sort of made it hotter. Frank knew he had to be close, and still he wasn't completely letting go. Sometime, Frank was going to have to pin him down and press his nose to Gerard's skin, Gerard's cock down his throat. Show Gerard just how much he could take.

"Frank," Gerard said urgently. He pulled up on Frank's hair and Frank sat back on his heels, watching as Gerard fisted his own cock, jerking fast and rough. Frank leaned in to swipe the flat of his tongue just under the head and Gerard stuttered a groan and came just like that. Frank closed his eyes reflexively and opened his mouth to catch what he could. He'd never had anyone come on his face, but he'd seen enough porn to think it looked pretty hot, and yeah. Feeling the warm strips of come catch his cheek, the corner of his eye, his bottom lip. Yeah. Seriously fucking hot.

"Frank," Gerard said again, breathless and a little wondering, and maybe slightly dismayed.

Frank licked his lips and blinked open his eyes, smiling when he caught Gerard's. "It's seriously okay," he said. "Way fucking better than okay."

Gerard's legs were trembling and he slid down the wall, landing with his knees pressed against Frank's. "You're unbelievable," he moaned, fingers reaching out to touch Frank's face, hesitating before carefully dabbing the come away from Frank's eye. "So unbelievable."

Frank didn't know where it came from, the soft whimper that passed his lips, except he was so fucking hard and ready to come, and everything Gerard did just made it about fifty fucking times worse. Gerard kissed him, tongue slicking deep, and his hands were quick and nimble undoing Frank's belt and jeans, fishing into his boxers to close around his dick.

Frank whined Gerard's name into his mouth, thrust up as much as he could in his current position, his thighs and knees burning, screaming in protest, and he didn't fucking care so long as Gerard kept jerking him like that, rough and desperate, like he hadn't just come himself, like he needed it.

It took Frank like less than a minute to come, which was pretty mortifying. He didn't usually have a problem with stamina, but there was Gerard's mouth, okay. His weirdly tiny, full mouth and his sharp little fucking teeth catching Frank's tongue, and his hand, smooth and uncallused and so fucking hot on Frank's cool skin. Frank thought about his come alongside the red dye stains in the curve of Gerard's thumb and index, and that image was enough to fucking do him in, hips stuttering up with each pulse of his orgasm. Even with his eyes closed he could see the soft yellow light coming from his skin.

The kiss slowed, turned sloppy; Frank was too relaxed to put any real effort into it. He drew back with a dopey smile, opened his eyes to see Gerard watching him, cheeks bright red. "I--" Gerard reached out, combing his fingers through Frank's hair. "There's--you have my jizz in your hair."

Frank shrugged. "I'll just smell like the rest of my fucking band."

"I'm sorry," Gerard said.

"Jesus Christ, how are you so fucking cute?" Frank said. He was feeling inordinately fond of Gerard, which was saying something, because he was always exceptionally fond of Gerard, and this. This was way stronger. "Are you always so polite after sex?"

Gerard coloured brighter and shoved at Frank's shoulder. "Fuck you."

"No," Frank said. He caught Gerard's wrist in his hand and pulled it to his face. "I like it. I like every single ridiculous thing about you, Gerard Way."

"Yeah," Gerard said, palm cupping Frank's cheek. He looked suddenly serious, which made Frank nervous, but he didn't want to pull away. "I like every fucking thing about you, too, Frankie."

There were maybe a million ways Frank wanted to respond to that, but he couldn't get any of them past his lips. It felt small and hot and claustrophobic in the lounge. He got to his feet, wobbling a little as the blood rushed back into his legs and shoved himself back in his pants before doing them up. He needed the fresh air. He slid back the locks and pushed the window open, drawing a deep breath with his face pressed close to the screen. When he turned back, Gerard was watching him with a wary expression and Frank was at a fucking loss for what he was supposed to say or do next.

Gerard got to his feet, hand braced against the wall, a strange, worried expression on his face.

And okay, Frank didn't know what happened next, but he knew he really didn't want Gerard to leave. He sunk down onto the couch and made grabby hands. "I was gonna watch The Sarah Connor Chronicles. Join me?"

Gerard sat next to him and Frank thought about what Brendon said, about making things harder than they needed to be. So Frank just told his brain to shut the fuck up and leaned in, hand catching on Gerard's cheek and turning his face into the kiss. Gerard relaxed little by little against him. He let out a sigh when Frank drew back to grab the remote.

Twenty minutes in, Frank couldn't have possibly told the plot of the episode, but he was learning the shape of Gerard's lips against his and the planes and dips of Gerard's back by touch, so it was totally a compromise he was willing to make.

*

Frank woke to a tickling sensation on his upper arm. He twitched a little and cracked open an eye to see Gerard propped up on the sofa behind him, tracing the tip of his finger over Frank's moon. It was sometime close to dawn, pale blue light streaming through the window, cut by the occasional street lamp, and Frank's glow was mostly unnoticeable in the ambient light, but apparently it was enough to entrance Gerard.

"The light is brighter along the outlines," he murmured. The touch shifted to Frank's Ghost of You tattoo and Frank closed his eyes, feeling a warm contentment spread under his skin. "The colours look like they're under blacklight." His hand rested in the inner curve of Frank's elbow. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

Frank shrugged. "It's pretty unbelievable," he said.

Gerard laid back down, his jaw digging into Frank's shoulder. The rest of Frank was too comfortable to think about moving. "What was it like? The North Pole?"

"Lots of snow," Frank muttered. Gerard was quiet, and Frank realised he was waiting for something more. He thought about how to really answer. The others never asked him or Brendon for details. It was so like Gerard, to be curious about it, to completely bypass the kneejerk refusal to believe. "It was pretty much how I told you before. You could bake or make toys or compose Christmas carols, and some people worked with the sleigh and the reindeer, but there weren't a lot of options. I worked in the toy factory. There was a uniform."

"Yeah?" Gerard sounded gleeful and Frank laughed.

"Brendon has some pictures somewhere. I'll show you later."

"Brendon? He's the other one?" Gerard clucked his tongue. "I should have known, since you grew up together."

Frank nodded, cheek rubbing against Gerard's hair. It was surprisingly soft given how rarely the man seemed to bathe, and smelled vaguely of flowers. "Brendon was always way better at being an elf than me."

"I'm sorry it sucked so bad, Frankie," Gerard said. He reached out blindly, fingers stroking over Frank's lips and sweeping up his jaw.

Frank thought about it, trying to look past all the horrible memories that dominated Frank's impression of Christmastown since leaving. The thing was, as much as he'd hated it, he hadn't hated his life. He'd had Brendon and Pete and everyone, and they'd had good times.

"We did a lot of ice-skating and skiing," he said. "Brendon, the fucking show-off, he could probably get in the fucking Olympics. And Pete was always getting us into fucking trouble when we were kids, riding the reindeer and shit."

"I just--I just don't understand how any of it's real," Gerard said wonderingly. "What about other stuff?"

"Like what? Like the Easter Bunny?"

"And unicorns," Gerard said.

"Yeah," Frank said. "I guess. I mean, I've never seen one. They're all in Europe and the Middle East." Gerard made a weird, excited squealing noise and Frank chuckled and said, "You're such a fucking dork." It was just like any other time they'd hung out, except for how Frank punctuated the statement with a kiss.

*

There were some obnoxious catcalls and leering, suggestive looks when Frank and Gerard stumbled into the front lounge. The bus was stopped in the parking lot of a travel centre somewhere off the interstate in Virginia. The second Frank saw the IHOP he was shaking Gerard awake.

Gerard took the hackling in stride and waited patiently while Frank put on a long sleeve shirt and a hoodie, even though he insisted, "Really, Frank, you're hardly even showing anymore, and it's really bright outside anyway, and you're going to be miserable in the heat."

Brendon slung an arm around Frank's shoulder on the walk across the parking lot, grinning like he was the one who'd just gotten laid by Gerard. "You'll get better at controlling yourself," he said in a smug, condescending tone that made Frank pinch him. Brendon laughed and darted away calling, "You just need more practice, Frankie."

Frank flipped him off, but he couldn't be too annoyed when Gerard pressed his nose into Frank's cheek and said, "I can help you with that."

A lot of the bands were already inside, and the waitresses looked a little harried, not that Frank could blame them. This group could be seriously challenging. Jon tugged Spencer over to where Tom and Bill were sitting, and Ryan and Brendon followed along, filling up the booth past maximum capacity, but they were all tiny and cuddly enough. Gabe and Mikey were in a booth behind the rest of My Chem, and Gerard led Frank that way, sliding in across from his brother.

Gabe licked some whipped cream off his fork and gave Frank a knowing look. Mikey didn't really smile, but he had that same, smug air about him that all of Frank's band had. "A bunch of us were gonna check out Busch Gardens, if you guys wanted to come," Mikey said.

"Of course, it is a hotel night, so we'd understand if you had better things to do," Gabe said casually. Frank kicked him under the table, hard.

"He was trolling your fansite last night," Mikey said, rolling his eyes.

Gabe laughed, head thrown back. "Oh man, they're saying Gee's a little homewrecker, trying to break up Northern Downpour."

Gerard opened his mouth and closed it a couple times before managing, "I wouldn't do something like that." He sounded honestly distressed.

Frank reached across the table and laced their fingers together. "The fans who believe that are assholes, anyway," he said. "I don't know why they think I'd lie about sleeping with the rest of them. Like somehow five guys screwing is worse than four? Who the fuck knows? Most of them think the idea is hot, but I don't think they really care who I'm fucking in real life."

Mikey gave Gabe what, on him, passed for a sour look, and Gabe looked appropriately contrite. "Seriously, dude, it's a bunch of twelve-year-olds who day dream of having them as their own personal harem, or some shit."

"That's not what a harem is," Gerard told Gabe shortly, and Frank had to hide a smile behind his napkin. Mikey rolled his eyes again, with the air of someone long used to this sort of thing, and luckily that was when their waitress arrived; pouring coffee in Gerard's mug while taking his and Frank's order effectively distracted him from climbing on his soapbox.

As tempting as the idea of spending all day alone with Gerard in a hotel room was, they ended up at the amusement park with everyone else. Frank wasn't really disappointed by that turn of events. He'd never been on a real roller coaster before--the closest he'd come was some of the rides at the casinos in Vegas, and Spencer assured him it was not the same thing. Plus, even with all the other bands, and Worm tagging along behind My Chem like he was herding kittens, it felt almost like a date.

They trailed a little behind everyone else. Gerard distracted Frank from boredom in the long lines, speaking animatedly about his newest ideas for the Killjoys. He talked with his hands a lot, but every time he wasn't using them, he'd casually link his fingers through Frank's like they'd been holding hands forever.

Frank knew he was grinning like an idiot, but there was no helping it. Gerard kept singing along with snippets of the pop music streaming through the speakers and obligingly let Frank kiss him whenever homophobic douchebags in line with them made snide comments. Or just whenever he felt like it. That was especially rewarding when a group ahead of them in the line realised just who Gerard was (and by extension, who Frank was) and gushed at them all the way to the ride about how awesome their music was, much to the embarrassed, grumbling dismay of the detractors.

When the heat got to be too much, they snuck off to the arcade and spent a ridiculous amount of money playing House of the Dead for a couple hours. After lunch they ran into Vicky-T, Bill, and Carden near one of the photobooths and they got their picture taken dressed as a bunch of saloon floozies posed around Vicky in a badass cowboy costume. There was a horrible but oddly entrancing musical in one of the nearby amphitheatres, and by the time that had finished it was late afternoon and hotter than ever.

Frank couldn't stop giggling, tripping into Gerard's side as they walked. Gerard kept smiling in an indulgent sort of way, eventually grabbing Frank's arm to steady him. "Do you have a flask on you, or something?" he asked.

"'M not drunk," Frank said, and rubbed his face against Gerard's sleeve, giggling again. "It's the heat."

"It's better than Mikey. He just turns into a whiny bitch when he gets too hot." Frank had trouble picturing it, since Mikey was hardly capable of inflection. Whining seemed way out of his range. Gerard was quiet for a moment and when Frank looked up, there was a think-y expression on his face. "I guess it's sort of like your Kryptonite," he said.

"Well, if it drained my powers," Frank said, considering it. "Or if I had any cool powers to begin with."

"Dude, Frankie, how can you not think that floating is awesome? And that glowing thing! And the frost--"

"Frost," Frank said dreamily.

"Okay," Gerard said, shifting Frank's weight. "Let's get you back to the nice, air-conditioned hotel."

"We don't have a hotel," Frank said.

Gerard blushed, and Frank would never not finding that appealing. "Uh, I guess Mikey's sharing with Gabe and Vicky and Nate are sharing, so I get a room to myself?"

Frank answered with a wicked grin and let Gerard all but drag him to the front gates where Brian had someone waiting with a van. The interior was dark and cool, but it just made Frank feel sleepy, and he laid his head in Gerard's lap as they began to drive away.

"Not that touring isn't awesome and everything," he said, "but it's neat to do things that normal people do every once in a while. Did you and Mikey do this a lot when you were kids?"

"Not a whole lot," Gerard said. "Sometimes we'd go to the boardwalk. Mikey was a lot more social than me, but I spent most of my time at home. In my basement. I hate to tell you this, but Mikey and I aren't exactly known for our normalacy."

Frank pressed his face closer, finding a strip of skin between Gerard's jeans and t-shirt. Gerard shifted under him, stomach going taut, and Frank grinned. "Yeah, well, I probably wouldn't know what do with normal, anyway," he said.

Gerard gave a soft huff of laughter. His fingers carded through Frank's hair and the vents were aimed right at them, cold air whooshing towards Frank's face, and the road was even and straight. Frank found himself dozing the rest of the ride.

By the time they reached the hotel, he was mostly recovered from the day and his head was clear enough that, when they stepped into the hotel lobby, Frank was hit with the sudden realisation that oh yeah, he and Gee were gonna have sex. Premeditated sex. Not the swept up in the adrenaline of the show sex or possibly oh my god you're glowing sex. And maybe Frank had never done this in the context of a relationship before, but he'd seen his bandmates around each other enough that he could fake it.

Treating Gerard as proprietary seemed like a good way to start, especially since Gerard made Frank feel possessive anyway. The moment the door of the suite closed behind them, Frank had his hands on Gerard's hips, crowding him back against it. Gerard let out a startled breath right before their lips met. Frank's fingers wriggled up under the hem of Gerard's shirt, stroking bare skin, then he gave a tug upwards. Gerard finally got with the program, shrugging out of his shirt and Frank took the opportunity to get out of his, too.

"You have a thing about sex up against walls?" Gerard asked.

"Maybe," Frank said, wiggling his brows. Gerard was pale under his shirt, almost as pale as Frank. It made the tan of his arms and face stand out, and it probably should have looked strange or silly, but Frank liked the contrast. It was a reminder of what he got to see that no one else did. "Why, would you have a problem with that?"

Gerard shook his head; his gaze was somewhere south of Frank's belly-button, and Frank ran his hand across the jut of his hip, watching Gerard follow the movement. "No," Gerard said, in a dazed voice. "It's just there's this bed." He made a vague gesture across the room.

Frank hummed his agreement. He took Gerard's wrist in hand and pressed it to rounded curve of his own stomach, just below the angel dove. Gerard's hand was warm, thumbing the points of the star and sweeping along the line of the dove's breast. His fingers brushed the hair just below the word and, before slipping down to toy with the elastic band of Frank's boxers for a brief moment and continuing on to the devil dove.

Lots of people had touched Frank's tattoos--Brendon liked to trace them when he was drunk or bored, Pete would sometimes add to them with gel pins and sharpies and glitter, and of course since leaving the North Pole he'd had a few admirers from The Mansion who'd made their interest and intent clear.

But there was something in Gerard's touch, that same intent, sure, that Pete and Brendon never had, but a sort of reverence, too. Gerard had got Frank's tattoos from the start, and he touched them like he was reading the diary of Frank's past on his skin. It was unsettling and intimate and really fucking hot.

"Yeah," he said, and had to clear his dry throat. "Bed sounds awesome."

Frank kicked off his shoes and left his jeans in a pool on the way to the bed. He'd lost weight since tour started, probably because he couldn't ever find anything that fit in his fucking diet, and most of his clothes were a little loose. Gerard in his ridiculous skinny jeans was sort of a one man comedy routine, trying to wriggle out of them until Frank, laughing, got on the floor and tugged.

"You can't just decide one day you're going to start wearing skinny jeans," Frank admonished, sitting back on his heels as he worked the fabric down. Gerard braced himself with a hand on Frank's head and stepped out one foot at a time. "There's a training period, and I guess you meet the guyliner prereq, but we'd have to do something with the hair and maybe take you shopping at Delia's for the appropriate top."

"Mikey wears them," Gerard said defensively.

Frank laughed and tossed the jeans aside, but he sort of forgot about teasing Gerard when he looked up to find the hard line of his dick tenting his Green Lantern boxers. He sat up on his knees, hands wrapping around the back of Gerard's thighs, rubbing upwards, and leaned in to breath against the crease of Gerard's thigh. Gerard sucked in a shallow breath and held it as Frank nosed the slit in the fabric. He opened his mouth and let it drag damply against the shape of Gerard's cock and Gerard exhaled harshly, fingers curling in Frank's hair.

"This position seems a little familiar," Frank said.

"Not that I'm complaining--because I'm really not," Gerard said, voice faint and breathy, "but I had something different in mind."

Frank looked up, arching a brow, and sucked the tip of Gerard's cock through his boxers. "Fuck," Gerard hissed. "Seriously, you--you. I can't--"

"Sorry," Frank said cheekily, gave him an unrepentant smile. "You were trying to say?"

Gerard grabbed him by the upper arms and hauled him to his feet and the short distance to the bed. He fell back, pulling Frank down with him, and didn't seem to mind Frank's weight landing squarely on his stomach, just arched up to kiss him; Frank was happy to oblige. His hands skimmed down Gerard's sides--he was skinnier than Frank had anticipated, his ribs standing out in sharp relief with every panted breath, and whatever Frank had expected to find under his baggy shirts, it wasn't the faint lines of definition and the soft, but concave belly. All the same, Frank could feel the pucker of faded stretch marks under his fingers when he reached Gerard's waist. It was strangely imperfect; Frank wanted to touch and taste it all.

Propped up on hands and knees, he trailed his tongue along the smears of red staining the shell of Gerard's ear, mouthed down his neck, teeth dragging over Gerard's Adam's apple. The skin was salty and bitter-dry on his tongue and so fucking soft, so delicate, that Frank couldn't stop licking, tasting, pausing to press close mouthed kisses to Gerard's pulse, to the curve where his shoulder met neck, to the sharp, sweeping ridge of his collarbone.

Gerard was mostly quiet, just the sound of his throat working to swallow and high, reedy breaths, head tossed back on the sheets like an invitation for Frank to take as much as he wanted. Even without being noisy, the little jerks of Gerard's hips or the sudden rough curl of his fingers in Frank's side let Frank know when he was getting it right.

He shifted all his weight into his hips, thighs tucked firmly on either side of Gerard's body, and skimmed his hands over Gerard's shoulders and down, thumbs flicking at his nipples. That earned a cut-off groan and sharp snap of Gerard's hips before he fell back on the bed, trembling. Shaking, actually, goosebumps raised along his arms.

Frank lifted his head to see small, perfect snowflakes scattered in Gerard's hair, dusting the sheets. Gerard blinked open his eyes and they went wide. "Wow," Gerard murmured, then let out a giddy giggle and a full body shiver. He reached up, running a hand through Frank's hair, dislodging a shower of snowflakes that melted the moment they met the heat of Gerard's skin.

They scurried under the comforter for warmth. Frank caught an elbow in the chest and a mouthful of Gerard's hair before they were settled side by side, meeting in the middle in a fast kiss. Gerard's nails scraped down Frank's stomach and he didn't stop at the elastic this time, just pushed right down the front of Frank's boxers and wrapped his fist around Frank's cock.

There was no room between them, Gerard's wrist trapped, but that didn't stop Frank from arching into the awkward, jerky flicks of his wrist. He'd almost gotten into the rhythm of it when Gerard broke the kiss and pulled his hand free.

Frank made a noise of complaint that Gerard cut off with a quick bite to his bottom lip. He pressed a hand to Frank's chest, pushing him onto his back, and slid under the covers. Frank lifted his hips to help when Gerard started to tug off his boxers and they got lost somewhere down in the sheets, which was sort of the least of Frank's concerns when Gerard traced his tongue around the crown of Frank's cock in a lazy circle.

Frank fisted his hands in the sheets and pushed up, but Gerard just chuckled and leaned away, keeping his touch light and teasing while one hand reached between Frank's thighs, toying with his balls. When Frank arched up a second time, Gerard pulled away.

"It's only fair, Frankie," he said, voice muffled. He took in just the head of Frank's cock and sucked for one glorious moment before pulling off, tonguing the slit. "You got your turn last night."

"I let you fuck my mouth, last night," Frank whined. He thought better of it a second later when Gerard was silent. Like maybe he thought Frank hadn't liked it as much as Gerard had, or like Frank had only let him do it to get something in return.

Then Gerard's crazy sharp teeth dug into the Frank's hipbone. "Yeah, and I'm gonna let you fuck my ass, if you quit being such a whiny bitch," he said, in that matter of fact, slightly annoyed tone of voice that was so normal, and between that and the words, Frank's body didn't know how to react. Gerard emerged from the covers, face flushed and sweaty, grinning like a madman. He shoved his hair out of his face and said, "I take it you're okay with that plan?" Gerard leaned in to press a smiling kiss to Frank's lips.

Frank nodded dumbly and watched as Gerard rolled out of bed and padded over to his suitcase. He bent over, rummaging around through a mess of unwashed clothing and random toiletries. Frank propped himself up on his elbow for a better view, and if he wasn't already hard, the way Gerard kept wiggling his ass around would have done the trick. Gerard made a triumphant noise and came back to the bed, dropping a bottle of lube and a handful of condoms on the pillow. Frank arched a brow, but Gerard just rolled his eyes.

"It's okay if you can't keep up with me, Frankie," he said in this solicitous, gentle voice, laying a hand on Frank's shoulder. "We can save some for later."

"Oh, fuck you," Frank said, and pounced before Gerard could make any stupid comments on that. He rolled them so Gerard was on his back again, kissing him deeply, their tongues sliding together, and Gerard moaned, pressing up with his whole body. It was hot, how fucking eager Gerard was. He spread his legs at the brush of Frank's fingers at the inside of his knee, drawing them up and back to frame Frank's waist.

Frank sat back on his heels and had to just look for a minute. Gerard was like something from a goddamned pinup calendar, hair sprawled over the pillow, arms bent above his head, hips tilted in a way that accented the curve and dip of his waist.

It was sort of a pity that Gerard kept his body hidden from view so often, but it made it that much more of an impression on Frank of what it meant, that Gerard was shameless in showing it to him. Frank ran the back of his hand up the inside of Gerard's thigh and Gerard let his knees fall against the mattress and pursed his lips as if to say, well?

Frank fumbled for the lube, spilling a good handful on the sheets and Gerard's skin. He ran his fingers through it, coating his skin. He brushed the thumb of his other hand just behind Gerard's balls and with two slick fingers, pressed inside. Gerard's back arched off the bed with a low, guttural moan, his head thrown back.

Part of Frank wanted to take his time and make Gerard writhe, but mostly Frank's cock was aching and Gerard's body was so tight around his fingers. He was probably more hasty than he should have been, stretching the first two fingers and adding a third when Gerard started pushing back into the touch.

"Okay?" Frank asked. He rubbed his fingers on the comforter. "Ready?"

Gerard nodded and swallowed. "Yeah," he said. He ripped open a condom wrapper and got up on his elbows to roll it down Frank's cock. Frank had to bite his lip and think about the cold of the North Pole for a moment to steady himself as Gerard smeared extra lube down the condom. Then Gerard leaned back, feet planted on the bedspread, looking all open and welcoming. Frank went without a second thought.

Held up on one arm, Frank guided his cock inside, eyes falling closed at the feel of Gerard, hot and tight. Gerard's hands came up to grasp at Frank's hips, sliding in sweat and melted snow, before his fingers dug in hard enough to bruise. He said Frank's name, long and drawn out. Frank couldn't really get his lips to cooperate; he just moaned in response and sunk in deeper, deeper, until he was fully seated. His thighs trembled as he came to rest. Gerard's hands slid up his sides and around his back, holding him close, and Frank had to kiss him.

"Frank," Gerard breathed, nipping at Frank's lips. Frank licked into Gerard's mouth and eased his hips back then snapping them forward, harder, then again, and again, any sort of attempt at control forgotten.

It was ridiculously good. Pete always used to go on, about how much better it was when you were in love, and Frank and Patrick had always rolled their eyes. But, okay, maybe Pete had been onto something. It wasn't like Gerard was sex god--though fuck he did this thing with his hips, a sort of roll and swivel that made Frank sort of lose control--but it was just different, right?

Frank usually thought about his own pleasure. He wasn't selfish, he got his partners off, but only as a by-product of getting himself off. This, every time he thrust his hips, every time he changed his angle, it was as much to make Gerard react as it was for his own pleasure. It was seriously gratifying. Gerard kept making these high, desperate sounds and his mouth was hot trailing kisses down Frank's throat, his body rising to meet Frank's thrusts.

"Gee," Frank panted, nose pressed to Gerard's temple. "Are you--"

Gerard nodded. "I just--I can't--"

Frank reached between them, circled his thumb around the head of Gerard's cock. Gerard whined and his hips strained upwards. "It's okay," Frank murmured. He didn't even know what that meant, didn't know what the fuck he was saying.

Just, okay, Gerard's skin was damp under Frank's mouth and he was so fucking tight, and okay, maybe they would be using all those condoms tonight, because Frank didn't think once or twice was going to be enough. He didn't want to stop, didn't want to come, although that was pretty fucking inevitable at this point. He knew he was muttering something along those lines out loud and Gerard said, "Yes, fuck, Frank, please, I'm--"

Frank got a firm grip on Gerard, smearing pre-come down Gerard's cock as he jerked him off, completely losing any semblance of rhythm between trying to work his wrist and his hips at the same time. He shifted his weight onto one knee and when he thrust back in Gerard cried out sharply. "Yeah?" Frank asked, and did it again.

"Frankie," Gerard groaned, "oh, fuck, do that--keep--keep doing that."

Frank's thighs burned from the effort and his wrist was sort of going numb from supporting himself, but he kept going. "Come on, Gee," he breathed. He could practically taste his orgasm. He was barely hanging on, and he was not going to come before Gerard, not when Gerard was so desperate for it.

The bedframe was rocking into the wall from the force of Frank's thrusts and he was ready to start begging any second, and then Gerard froze except for the tiny, erratic jerks of his hips, his mouth hung open on a wordless cry as he came wet and hot over Frank's hand. Frank groaned in thanks and relief and finally let go, pleasure sweeping down his spine like a physical touch and he was coming so fucking hard. His arms gave out from the force of it and he landed on Gerard's chest, panting.

"Oh, fuck," Frank said succinctly. He was fucking shaking, and it didn't have anything to do with the lingering cold in the room; Gerard was too delightfully warm pressed against him.

Gerard petted at his hair and let out a breathless huff of laughter and chimed in in agreement.

They pretty much didn't leave the bed the rest of the day. Gerard insisted on ordering room service after round two. Maybe Frank was getting a little loopy from too much sun and really awesome sex, combined with low blood sugar, but he really wasn't going to complain.

Still, there was the novelty of ordering from room service, something Frank had only ever seen in movies. While the food was just mediocre, he did get to lick chocolate icing from Gerard's skin, which had Frank putting it very definitively in the win column.

Sometime after sundown the others got back. It was difficult to mistake, all of them thundering down the halls like a pack of elephants, laughing and shouting. Bob and Matt pounded on the door just to be douchebags. Frank could hear their smiles when they asked if Gerard and Frank would like to join the group for horror movies in Gabe and Mikey's room. Gerard very politely told them to fuck off, leaned back against the headboard, smoke spilling from his mouth. When Northern Downpour came by for their turn to mock, Frank didn't bother with polite.

Through some fucking Christmas miracle or something, Frank managed to talk Gerard into showering with him. Maybe Gerard just saw it as an opportunity for more adventurous sex, or maybe he knew they'd just get sweaty and smelly again before the night was out. Two real fucking showers in as many days; it was like Frank was in heaven. And this one came with a blow job.

In the end they had their own horror movie marathon. One of the local channels was playing movies about possession and they watched the end of The Exorcist and Frank passed out sometime near the end of The Exorcism of Emily Rose.

Frank woke with his hard-on tucked in the groove of Gerard's bare ass. His hand was resting on the flat of Gerard's stomach and he dragged it down to feel Gerard just as hard. Gerard gave a shuddery breath and worked his ass back against Frank's cock, which was all the invitation he needed. He took Gerard in hand and they rocked until Frank spilled over the small of Gerard's back.

They barely managed to clean it up, wiping with a corner of the sheets, before Frank fell back asleep. The last thing he remembered was Gerard's hand covering his, lacing their fingers together and thinking how, in all his stupid fantasies of Gerard Way, he'd never gotten it right. This was so much better.

*

The end of the tour was rushing towards them, and Frank was resolutely not thinking about it. Jon and Spencer were constantly talking to people at Island and having video chats with producers, trying to pick someone for their album, and that was great, but dealing with it meant dealing with that fact that in about a week, this was all going to be over. Short of shoving his fingers in his ears and going "lalala," Frank did what he could to avoid anything that might remind him of the fact.

Gerard was a problem in that he was Frank's number one distraction and number one reminder. They'd sneak off to some dark corner or just crowd in Gerard's bunk when the other guys were gone or making lots of noise in the front lounge, which was awesome and totally got Frank's mind off the other shit.

Except Gerard was never quiet, even in the fucking afterglow, and he was excited about tour ending, talking with his hands about all the plans they had for the Killjoys, and how Grant fucking Morrison was going to be in their video. He talked like Frank was going to be in it too, though Frank knew that was sort of up in the air and dependent on too many factors right now, but he smiled and went along with it anyway, even though it made him irrationally angry and hurt.

Frank wanted to fucking enjoy this. He didn't know what Gerard was thinking. Gerard sort of had this way of taking for granted that everyone was on the same page as he was, which was endearing 90% of the time, but really goddamn frustrating when Frank was trying to figure out if they were having a summer tour fling, or if this thing had potential to be something more.

It wasn't like Frank could fucking ask him. He didn't necessarily have a problem with talking about feelings, but he wasn't good at it, and it was a little early in the relationship for him to be making a total ass out of himself. Plus, if Gerard was just looking for something casual, it might freak him out if Frank brought up their 'relationship.' So he just kept his damn mouth shut.

Except that made enjoying it pretty fucking impossible. There was an expiration date looming ever closer, and no one seemed bummed out about it besides Frankie.

Gerard and Mikey's mom called late after one of their shows to see when they'd be coming to town, and Gerard came back into the bunk after ringing off, beaming and bouncing.

"I can't wait for you to meet her," Gerard said. He kissed Frank quick on the corner of the mouth. "I can't wait for her to meet you. She's gonna love you."

Frank shifted uncomfortably. No one's mom was ever loved him. Well, Patrick's mom had been indulgent of all of them, and Pete's mom loved everyone, but Frank's poor mother had been long-suffering, and Brendon and Greta's mothers wouldn't let him come around. Gerard was smart and creative, and Mikey was quiet and thoughtful, and they were both so fucking polite. Donna probably expected a lot better for her oldest son than a tattooed ex-Christmas elf freak who drank and cussed too much.

"Why ya frowning?" Gerard asked. His long fingers brushed over Frank's brow. Frank shook his head and rolled on his side to face Gerard, kissed him so he didn't have to answer. Not that kissing Gerard was any hardship. When there wasn't any intent behind it, Gerard's kisses were lazy and soft, and impossible to anticipate--one second nipping gently at Frank's lip, the next sliding his tongue over the roof of his mouth, or just fitting their mouths together in a slow, slick slide. Frank could spend hours kissing him like this.

"She's going to love you, trust me," Gerard said, several minutes later. "She's already excited; I've never brought a boyfriend home before."

Boyfriend, Frank's mind repeated helpfully. Gerard's eyes slanted away, towards the foot of the bunk. "I mean--you don't--"

"Gerard," Frank said, "shut up."

Gerard's cheeks flushed red and he met Frank's gaze again, biting his lip. "You're gonna come visit us out in California, right?"

"Of course," Frank said quickly. "It's just--we both have to record and then we'll be touring."

"Mikey and Gabe make it work," Gerard said. "Gabe comes with us when he's not on tour, and Mikey goes with them. They're only apart a few months of the year."

Frank knew it wasn't as perfect as Gerard made it sound. Gabe had told Frank about the year that both MCR and Cobra had put out albums and gone touring, and they'd seen each other a weekend here and there, sometimes three months or more between, for over fourteen months. But even that seemed preferable to not seeing Gerard again, or seeing him--at award ceremonies and crossing paths at shows--and not being able to touch him like this. And Gerard wanted Frank enough to try to make it work.

"I've always wanted to go to a beach," Frank mused.

Gerard laughed, open and beautiful. "There're lots of beaches near my place."

Frank rolled as much as he could in the bunk, head bumping the ceiling, and settled in place straddling Gerard's hips. "Yeah?"

"And about a billion vegan restaurants," Gerard said. His hands came up to rest lightly on Frank's waist. Frank hummed in interest as he pressed his face into Gerard's neck, tasting the skin. "And my yard is like, a doggy heaven."

"You don't really need to convince me," Frank said, but he was thinking about the implication of his dogs in Gerard's yard, and it was just crazy and too much, and probably better if he didn't really address it at the moment. "I'm already there."

"I was gonna drive the Trans Am to see you in Vegas, ya know, for an authentic experience of driving it through the desert, but Bob and Brian vetoed the idea. They said I'd end up being eaten by buzzards somewhere off the I-15 when the car inevitably broke down." Gerard sounded wistful and chagrined at the same time.

Frank patted him on the shoulder. "They're probably right."

Gerard bit the nearest part of Frank he could reach, which ended up being the inside of his arm. It turned into something of a wrestling match, which was just asking for pain, in a moving bus. "Remember what we said about no concussions this tour," Ray called, in what Frank had come to think of as his mother hen voice.

"You never let us have any fun," Frank shouted back, but he settled down, curled up on the edge of the mattress. It wasn't a big deal for him to fall out--his floating generally kicked in if he started to fall, even if he wasn't awake. Still, it was nice when Gerard wrapped an arm around him in a firm hold.

For the first time since they started this thing, Frank wasn't kept awake thinking about what they were doing or what it meant or where it was going. He was asleep in no time, lulled by Gerard's weird not-snoring and the sound of Mikey and Ray's game playing softly from the lounge.

*

Spencer was on the MCR bus pretty much the minute they pulled into the venue, tugging a still half-sleeping Frank out of Gerard's bunk and onto the Northern Downpour bus. The rest of the band was waiting on the sofa and there were a bunch of papers spread out over the table, covered in highlighter.

"I get that you're having some issue here," Spencer told him. "But unless you're quitting the band, we need some fucking input from you."

"I'm not quitting the band," Frank said, quick and defensive. He tugged his hoodie tighter around him and hunched his shoulders.

Ryan rolled his eyes and Jon gave an exasperated sigh, and Brendon just looked miserable and nervous, which made Frank feel like the world's hugest asshole, so he plopped down next to him and said, "Okay. What are we doing?"

"We're picking a producer," Spencer said, like it was going to happen before the day was over, or he was going to murder someone. Probably Frank.

"Thomas helped us narrow it down to these three," Ryan said. There were a couple pages for each of the three contenders, listing the names of albums they'd produced and artists they'd worked with, as well as hand-written notes by Spencer about pros and cons. "He's got a studio lined up in Burbank for us, if everything works out alright."

"In Burbank?" Frank said. "That's in California?"

Ryan gave him an odd look and nodded. "We kinda thought it would be good to work out there. We've been talking about maybe moving out there. Vegas is okay, but if we're going to be doing this for real, it's basically the worst place in the world to be a musician. This way we can check out LA while we're there, and if we like it, maybe find a house."

"We were just talking about this yesterday," Jon told Frank gently. Frank vaguely remembered them talking about house-shopping, and he thought maybe they wanted a bigger place, but then they'd mentioned a recording studio and he'd gone into his bunk and shoved in his headphones.

"Right," Frank said. "Burbank. LA. Awesome."

"We wouldn't move without you," Brendon said, misreading Frank's tone. "You could help pick the place."

Frank gave him an easy smile. "I think it's possible that if our record's going to sell as well as our EP as, I can probably afford to get my own place and let you guys have back some of your privacy." Besides, he could probably convince Gerard to let him crash at his place, in a pinch.

Brendon looked mildly distraught by that until Spencer said, "Maybe in the same neighbourhood," and Frank said, "Definitely."

"So, producer," Spencer said. Frank bent over the lists to read more clearly. The music they'd each produced before was at least decent--no bands or albums that made Frank cringe or automatically veto anyone.

Brendon and Jon had apparently already asked a lot of questions about the different instrumentation they wanted to play with, and Ryan and Spencer had covered the like, artistic aspect or some shit. The notes talked about integrity and how much input they'd have as artists, but Frank trusted them to figure that out. All he was really interested in was getting in there and writing and recording their music.

Gerard would understand these notes better, no doubt. Just thinking about Gerard made Frank bounce in place. He wanted to go find him and tell him about the studio in Burbank. Or maybe that would make him seem needy? Maybe Gerard would think Frank was following him home or something. Except Gerard wanted him to visit. God, Frank really fucking sucked at this.

Spencer and Brendon obviously had their heart set on one producer in particular, and Ryan and Jon were just sort of hemming and hawing over it. Ryan, Frank knew, was being weird because he probably didn't think he could trust anyone, and Jon was being supportive of his neurosis, which was sweet, but sort of counterproductive.

So Frank sided with Brendon and Spencer on Mathes. He seemed like a pretty laid-back dude, equally able to help them with writing if they were stuck, or just give input here and there if they needed it, and his list of artists the most impressive by far.

"Can I go back to my boyfriend, now?"

Jon smiled, all wide and mischievous. "So it's boyfriend, now?" he said, bumping his shoulder into Frank's.

The rest of them were giving Frank expectant looks. His band were nosy, gossipy whores. Who loved him. And wanted him to be happy. He gave them a quick smile and jumped up. "I get it, guys. I've been stupid, okay?"

"Yeah," Spencer agreed, nodding. He grabbed Frank in a rough, half-hug. "I wasn't going to put any bets on whether you or Mikey would win in a death match, but I'm glad it's not going to come to that."

Frank gave him a blank look. He might have been uncertain about where the relationship was going, but he hadn't been an asshole in a really long time. Well, over a week, anyway.

"Seriously," Ryan said. "Perfect for each other. You're both so fucking clueless."

Frank flipped him off on his way off the bus.

Gerard was still sleeping when Frank got back, and mumbled something unintelligible when Frank crawled into the bunk with him. "Hey," Frank said. He nosed at Gerard's shoulder and pressed a kiss to the sweaty skin.

"Hey," Gerard said. He threw an arm over Frank, smoothed a hand down Frank's back and groped at his ass.

Frank squirmed closer and tugged on Gerard's hair. "I have a confession," he said. Gerard made a sleepy, curious noise. Frank focused on the red blur of Gerard's hair and the contrasting pale of his skin, instead of wondering whether it was a good idea or not.

It was only a matter of time before someone in his band teased him about it in front of Gerard, and he'd rather just beat them to the chase, so to speak, and get it over with. Plus, if Gerard had been as worried about things as Frank, it was only fair. "So. You know I'm a huge MCR fan."

"Yeah," Gerard agreed, all drawn out, rising intonation at the end.

He just needed to say it. The longer he waited, the bigger a deal he made it seem. "I sorta had a thing for you."

"I'm shocked," Gerard said blandly. "Scandalised. I feel so dirty."

"Shut up," Frank said. He sighed and snuggled closer and Gerard slid a hand down the back of Frank's boxers. Frank rolled into his side, burying his face in Gerard's neck and breathing in. Gerard smelled like oranges and mold, and it was fucked up, that that scent was starting to turn Frank on.

"I just thought I should tell you, ya know. In case it was weird or freaky. I was like, your internet stalker. And then your real life stalker, and now we're fucking, so. Some people might be bothered by that."

"It's kinda flattering," Gerard said. "And hot."

"God, you're such a freak," Frank said.

Gerard squeezed him closer. Frank felt the light pressure of a kiss against his hair and it made him smile goofily. "Exactly," Gerard said. "Which is why you shouldn't have worried."

Frank nodded. "Yeah, but. It's different now," he said, because he needed Gerard to understand. "Before you were just. I thought I knew who you were, but you're nothing like that person. I mean, you are, but not in the way I imagined." He leaned up on an elbow and rubbed at his face, frustrated.

Gerard just looked up at him, patient and expectant. Frank touched his cheek, brushed his fingers over Gerard's lips and Gerard kissed them. Frank didn't think about what he was going to say, just said it before he had a chance to doubt if it was the right thing. "I just mean, I had a stupid crush on that Gerard Way, but I think I'm in love with this one."

"Yeah?" Gerard asked. The corners of his mouth were turned up, ever so slightly, and Frank took that as a good sign. He leaned down, nodding, and kissed Gerard softly. Gerard sighed and slid his free hand into Frank's hair, tilting his head and kissing him deeper. The whole bunk was lit up with a gentle glow when they parted. "Me too, Frankie," Gerard said. He traced his thumb over Frank's cheekbone.

"Dude," Ray mumbled from across the narrow hallway. "Mikey, did you turn the fucking ac down again?"

Mikey gave a muffled response that sounded a lot like "Fuck off," and Frank hid his laughter in Gerard's shoulder.

"We should probably just tell them," Gerard whispered. "If you're gonna be around, they're going to notice anyway, eventually. I mean--if it's okay with you."

Frank traced his fingers in a star shape on Gerard's collarbone. "It's not like it's a big secret, or something. Like that we have to keep it hidden from our friends, or something. We just--who's gonna believe something like that. It's easier not to tell people."

Gerard nodded, a serious expression on his face. "Mikey and the guys will believe you."

"You didn't," Frank said.

"I--" Gerard stopped short. "But you--"

Frank giggled. "It's okay, Gee. We can tell 'em, if you think it's a good idea. And you're right. It'll probably make things less awkward when I accidentally float out of your bunk in my sleep, or something."

"That is never going to stop being awesome," Gerard said.

"Oh my god, assholes, just because you're awake doesn't mean everyone else should be," Bob said from above.

There was some dramatic sheet-rustling and Gabe's obnoxious snickering and someone jumping out of their bunk and humphing before stomping off to the lounge. "You should totally make it snow," Gerard said. His grin was infectious.

Frank didn't have Brendon's easy way with their magic, able to just throw it around whenever, but he was so content right now that it didn't take much concentration to start a flurry of snow drifting through the bus.

The responses were varied and pretty immediate, from Bob's, "What the fuck?" to Gabe's gleeful attempt at starting a snowball fight with a mere dusting of snow, to Matt muttering about how, in this band, nothing surprised him any more.

"Come on," Gerard said. He nudged at Frank's hip. "Let's go make Mikey float."

*

The dinner with Gerard and Mikey's family turned out to be more like a party, with all of MCR and Northern Downpour, plus half of Cobra and Adam, Eddie, and John from Taking Back Sunday. Frank figured that would help take some of Donna's attention away from him, but he really needn't have worried.

Donna turned out to be oddly attentive and supremely laid-back and dismissive at the same time, like a weird combination of both her sons. She greeted Frank with a warm hug that made him miss his own mother and put him more at ease.

Gerard and Mikey's pictures decorated almost every surface in the living room and Donna delighted in telling Frank the story behind every one he pointed to. She had a dry, sarcastic sense of humour but it couldn't colour her fondness or pride for her children. Gerard put up with it good-naturedly for the better part of an hour before he whined, "Jesus, Mom, can't you leave a guy a little dignity," and dragged Frank off by the arm.

Downstairs the sounds of the party were muffled. The staircase and hallway were bare concrete and drywall, but the door to Gerard's bedroom was painted blue and covered in posters and stickers and an oil painting of a finger pointing back the way they'd come. Inside was pretty much what Frank had imagined.

Donna hadn't touched it in Gerard's absence. The sheets were rumpled and there were dirty clothes piling the floor and spilling from the dressers. Limited edition figurines of superheroes and comic book characters lined most of the surfaces, and the art table was littered with unfinished sketches and paintings.

"I haven't had the time to move everything out west yet," Gerard said. He looked a little sheepish, which was adorable, considering that his bus was in way worse condition than this room.

Frank sat down heavily on the bed, bouncing a few times. He leaned back on his hands and gave Gerard a once-over before patting the comforter beside him. It was a narrow bed, but far roomier than a bunk, for fucking sure. Gerard blushed, but he crowded Frank back on the bed, hands on either side of Frank's hips as their lips met. "This is so fucking naughty," Frank whispered. "Sex in your mom's house."

Gerard made a face. "Not if you don't shut up," he said and kissed Frank more forcefully. Frank let himself be pushed back on the pillows, fingers twining in Gerard's greasy hair. Gerard parted from him to struggle out of his t-shirt and hoodie, and Frank immediately reached out to touch. He'd only seen Gerard shirtless a few times, but he was already greedy for all that bare skin. When he came out to California, they were going to go days without getting dressed. Frank had plans.

The rest of their clothes came off in fits and starts; they kept getting distracted between one article and the next. When Gerard fumbled in his bedside drawer for a bottle of KY, Frank was struck with the image of teenaged Gerard in this same bed with that same bottle, desperate like Frank had been back in Christmastown, when he'd jerked off thinking about Gerard.

Frank wanted to know every part of Gerard, even the ones that had passed. He propped the pillows up between his back and the wall and sat up a little, and when Gerard tried to pass the bottle to him, Frank gave a slight shake of his head.

Gerard looked at a loss, sitting back on his heels, still in his socks, cock hard between his thighs. Frank grinned. "I wanna see," he said. He didn't know someone could get that red, but Gerard slowly popped the cap and poured the lube into his palm. Frank bit his lip and settled in for the show. Gerard's reached down jerky and hesitant, but when he wrapped his slick fist around his own cock, his hips stuttered into the touch and he let out a low groan.

"Fuck," Frank whispered. Gerard's hand stilled and Frank touched his wrist. "Keep going."

The blush spread down Gerard's throat and his chest. He started slow, but after a minute Gerard's shoulders relaxed and his movements were less forced, more natural, like Frank imagined he might look alone.

Frank grabbed the abandoned bottle of lube and smeared it over his fingers. He reached a hand between his own thighs, skipping past his aching hard-on and circling a finger around his hole. He made a small noise when he pushed two fingers inside and Gerard's eyes snapped open, his mouth falling open at the sight. Frank grinned and spread his legs wider, making a show out of it. Gerard's pace quickened, the wet sound of his hand on his cock all Frank could hear over the distant thrum of bass.

"Frankie," Gerard said, low and desperate.

Frank grinned, head thrown back on a moan. "Gee," he answered, working his fingers frantically, but the angle wasn't right. He hooked a foot behind Gerard's ass and gave a tug. Gerard fell off balance, landing between Frank's splayed thighs. "You have any condoms down here?"

Gerard shifted his weight forward, his cock nudging Frank's as he leaned in for a kiss that made Frank wriggle beneath him. Honestly, Frank could probably get off just like this, rubbing against Gerard, even with his fingers not quite deep enough, but that wasn't what he wanted.

Frank pulled his fingers free and wrapped them around Gerard's cock, positioning him lower, the head nudging Frank's hole. Gerard pushed into the touch, straining against Frank's wrist. "Condoms, Gee," he said, and bit Gerard's bottom lip.

"Yeah," Gerard said absently. "In the drawer, right there. Hurry up--oh fuck."

Frank flailed around with his free hand to grab one, tore the package open with his teeth and managed to roll it down Gerard's cock in what had to be record time. "Come on," he urged, but it was really unnecessary; Gerard was already slowly pushing inside, each inch burning up Frank's spine.

"Fuuuuck," Frank groaned. Fingers twisted in the sheets, he pushed his hips up to meet Gerard. It wasn't enough leverage and Gerard didn't have a headboard for Frank to grab. Instead, he planted one foot on the bed at Gerard's hip and slung the other around his waist, hands clawing slickly at Gerard's neck and down his shoulders.

Mostly Frank was used to being on the bottom with elves who thought it wasn't as gay if they were doing the fucking, and some of them had been pretty decent. Gerard was better. Frank was still working to reconcile the confident, hyper-sexual onstage Gerard with the sort of shy, but eager bedroom Gerard; this Gerard fucking him now was yet another facet: smooth controlled movements that were driving Frank sort of crazy and this intense look that made Frank want to turn his head. He made himself meet it head-on, instead.

Frank snapped his hips up to meet every thrust, sweat dripping in his eyes, muscles burning from the strain. This could go on forever and Frank would totally be okay with that, but there was a party upstairs and people wandering around the house, and maybe it was way better than stealing a quick handjob on the bus, but it wasn't exactly the ideal location for taking their time.

Gerard reached between them to touch him and Frank said, "No, just like this," which just made Gerard fuck him harder, fingers bruising on Frank's hips, and yeah, it didn't take long after that.

They cleaned up the best they could in the tiny, spider-ridden bathroom under the stairs, but Frank was a little to terrified one of the fuckers was going to climb on him to do a thorough job of it, and there was no way they were going to fool anyone anyway. Bob gave them a short, perfunctory round of applause when they stumbled into the backyard, and Ray and Brendon kept fucking giggling all over each other about it. Everyone else looked amused, including, Frank noticed, Donna. At least she wasn't pissed off, but Frank still sort of wanted to die of shame.

"I didn't make it snow, at least," Frank said, vaguely affronted.

Mikey shot Frank this suspicious, narrow-eyed look. He'd been doing it ever since Gerard had outed Frank to the band, like he suspected Frank was going to come up from behind and send him floating off into the starry night, or something.

Frank gave him a reproachful look, and Mikey heaved a sigh and said, "Dude, far more embarrassing things have happened in that basement during parties, trust me." Which? not as reassuring as Mikey might have meant for it to be, but it was the thought that mattered.

*

There was a park down the block from the venue and Frank and Gerard had snuck out before most of the others began to stir. On tour, that meant close to noon. Gerard was pacing under a nearby tree, talking to some guy from Warner on the phone and Frank was drifting lazily between sleep and wakefulness.

He was so not ready to go back to the real world and the change that would mean to his sleep schedule. They'd be in the studio recording within two weeks, and now, with deadlines and a label, they couldn't just fuck around. There would be a schedule to abide by, which would probably mean long hours. Frank could deal with that knowing that at the end of the day, most nights he'd be going home to an equally exhausted Gerard.

Tonight was their second to last show. Tomorrow after NYC, the bands were scattering. Most of MCR, plus Gabe and the Taking Back Sunday guys--everyone with New York, Jersey and Long Island ties--were staying for a few extra days, but everyone else left early the morning after the show for home.

Frank was actually sort of excited for the week of downtime Northern Downpour had in Vegas before heading out to Burbank. It would be nice to sleep in his own bed, and maybe it was sad to be viewing that week at home as a vacation, but after the tour, it was exactly what Frank needed.

It was time to figure out what songs they wanted to use, and what direction they wanted to take. It would be good for them. Plus, Crystal had been house-sitting during their absence, and Frank trusted her with his pets, but he just missed them like burning.

"Hey." Frank blinked his eyes open when Gerard dropped down on the blanket next to him, legs crossed. "So guess what?" Gerard said, knee bouncing against Frank's hip. He was so adorable. When Frank was feeling less lazy, he'd have to kiss him.

"What's up?" he asked.

Gerard rolled his eyes. "You're supposed to guess."

"Mmmm." Frank pursed his lips. "Grant Morrison confessed his undying love for you and the two of you are moving to Europe and adopting a bunch of African babies."

"Frank," Gerard said, around his laughter, and shoved at Frank's shoulder. "As incredibly awesome as that would be--" Frank made an indignant noise, "I'm afraid I'd have to tell him that my heart belongs to another."

"Good," Frank said decisively.

"Ray and I have been talking to Rob about supporting acts for the tour. We're pretty set on Neon Tree and Circa Survive for half each, but we needed a second opener, and after talking this over with Thom, we've been given the go-ahead to formally invite Northern Downpour to join us once they've finished recording."

Frank sat up so quickly his forehead bumped Gerard's chin. Gerard grunted in pain, holding his lip, but smiled anyway. "I mean, we'll have to make sure your band actually wants to go--"

"Are you kidding?" Frank said. Sure they had other friends that might be a better fit--The Academy Is..., for one, but both TAI and Cobra had obligations at festivals throughout the rest the summer, and then were back in the studio in the fall and winter for recording, and it wouldn't match up.

Given how insular a group they were, and generally mistrustful of others, Frank knew his band would jump at the chance to tour with friends. "How did you even manage this?"

"Being your label's favourite helps," Gerard admitted. "But the fact that you guys are fucking awesome is a nice bonus."

Frank got to his feet, shoving on his shoes carelessly. "I gotta go wake up my band. I'd invite you along, but seeing as how they had the bus to themselves last night, you might be scarred for life at what we'd find."

Gerard caught him by the belt loop and pulled him into a quick kiss. "Come by the bus after. Me and the guys are going to this awesome consignment shop this afternoon, get a head start on costume pieces--you still need something for the video."

The video. Of course. Because Frank was going to be in a My Chemical Romance video, and then he was going to go on tour with them--not even to mention the whole dating-Gerard-Way thing. How was this even Frank's life? It was July; he hadn't left Christmastown six months ago. The whole thing was still pretty surreal.

"Right," he agreed, and leaned in for another, longer kiss, let himself get distracted for a minute. Then Gerard smacked him on the ass and Frank flipped him off over his shoulder as he jogged towards the venue lot.

Frank's band was asleep in the back lounge, but they were all thankfully, mostly dressed. It was actually sort of cute. Frank let himself just look from the doorway for a moment, smiling, before he took a running leap at them, throwing himself in the middle of the pile. There were groans of protest and a very precise and painful frog punch to the thigh from Spencer. Brendon just grabbed a handful of hair and twisted hard. "Asshole," he grumbled.

"If you don't get off my bladder, I'm going to piss all over you," Jon said.

Frank leapt to his feet. "Come on, lazypants," Frank said gleefully. "I'm calling an official band meeting."

They looked unimpressed, but attentive, and they started to get up. Frank could deal with that. Proving what a great bandmate he was, Frank went into the kitchenette to start the coffee brewing.

The list of tour dates on the fridge was mostly obscured by the red lines Ryan drew through each venue name after the show, only Burgettstown and Uniondale left at the very end. For the first time looking at it felt more like a beginning to Frank, than an end.