rivers_bend

Title: We’re all Okay
Fandom/Pairing: MCR RPF; Frank/Gerard (but these characters are in high school and there’s some casual making out along the way to finding true love)
Rating: NC17
Words: 28,000
The Obvious: I do not know any of the people whose names and music-video/public personas are used in this story, and neither believe nor mean to imply any of this ever happened.
Warnings: there is not actually any incest in this story but if you are particularly sensitive to mentions of it, this might be one to skip.
A/N: This is sort of a mashup between a HS AU plot bunny from blue_soaring and the world of the I’m not Okay (I Promise) video. Liberal poetic license has been taken with both.
Summary: A story in which Frank is not a stalker, Gerard is not a psycho, and Mikeyway is nobody’s boyfriend.

Now podfic'd by the awesome cee_m m4b or mp3

Blue was an invaluable cheerleader, celtic_cookie provided much needed comics-geek assistance, isweedan did beta duties (and her best to rein in my Frank’s babbling) and miss_begonia was a patient and helpful sounding board when I realized that this wasn’t actually going to be the 3k PWP I’d planned on, and maybe I needed to find a plot somewhere. Thanks also to my impromptu twitter-feed vocab committee.



Frankie was totally fine with his old school, but when the second kid in a month got caught with a gun in his locker, his mother decided she'd had enough of it. (The first time was only a cap gun, and the second time it wasn't even loaded; Danny was only worried his mom was gonna use it on his dad who had just come home from eighteen months inside, but that didn't seem to matter to her.) Her solution was private school, which she convinced Frank's dad to pay for with this dramatic speech about how his son's future, nay, his very life was in danger. She's really into the idea of Frank going to college. And, like, sure, it’d be great to live long enough to see his eighteenth birthday and all, but he doesn't see why he can't do that in a school where he doesn't have to wear fucking slacks and a tie and a fucking ugly blazer. Besides which, her plan of keeping Frank safe totally backfired, because sure, no one has ever brought a gun to school here, but there's this one kid, Frank's heard all about him, and he apparently ate a live frog in biology class, and at his old school, tried to pull a kid's tongue out with his bare hands. Which, in Frank's book? Is way more psycho than trying to keep your mom from killing your deadbeat drunk of a daddy.

Frank would like to point out, if he had anyone to point it out to, that he didn't get his information about psycho boy because people are lining up to share gossip and good times with the new kid. It's more that he's so invisible that no one thinks to check their conversation just because he's sitting right at their fucking lab table in chemistry or standing at the next bench in the locker room during gym. Even half the teachers can't be bothered to learn Frank's name around here. He's almost tempted to bring a gun to school himself, just to see if his mom would send him back where he belongs if he did. Except, no, she'd probably send him to fucking boarding school or something, where he'd have to shine the older boys' shoes with his tongue. Which is not one of his things. (He's pretty sure.)

So Frank goes to class and does his homework and lets his mom iron his uniform shirt every morning even though he’s tried to tell her that it’s not going to make any difference. It makes her feel better, and he figures that at least one of them should feel good about something. At this point it’s pretty unlikely that it’s going to be him.

He’s been a Beaver (and seriously? What the fuck kind of high school has the beaver as a mascot?) for almost three months when he finds out psycho boy’s name. Frank thought he was going to be in the dark forever, since everyone just calls him “psycho boy” or “that crazy kid”, except one boy from the lacrosse team—obviously not scared of having his tongue ripped out by the roots—who calls him “fagtard”. Even though Frank’s curiosity grows with each time he hears the guy mentioned, there is no one for him to ask. But the weather’s getting cold and wet enough that Frank can’t sit outside to eat his lunch anymore so he has to go to the cafeteria, which apparently is the secret.

Like the administration knows there are going to be kids without friends, there’s a row of small, four-person tables lining the back wall. Frank finds an empty one and puts his brown bag down—his dad’s help with tuition for this place doesn’t stretch to the meal plan, which, fine, whatever, the food doesn’t look that great anyway. There’s a short girl with greasy brown hair at the next table, and two boys at the table beyond her. They have even greasier hair than the girl (is Frank the only outcast at this school who showers? What the fuck.), and are bent over a notebook, or maybe a sketchbook; Frank can’t really see from his vantage point. The two tables beyond them are empty. With luck, Frank can finish his food and get the fuck out before those fill up and someone expects him to share his table in the corner. Not that it wouldn’t be nice to have a friend, or at least someone to sit with sometimes, but Frank would prefer it if he got some say in who that person was gonna be.

Half of Frank’s peanut butter sandwich is still sitting on his torn-open bag when two of the biggest jerks in his gym class bump his chair from behind. “Freak,” one of them mutters at him, and he bristles, but before he can respond they’ve moved on to hissing, “Loser,” at the girl at the next table as they pass. She doesn’t even look up from her apple or her book, and Frank figures she’s probably gotten immune to the assholes around here. Not that she was their main target anyway. They actually stop at the table with the two boys, and glare down at them. Frank can see the one with long, dyed-black hair clutching a pen in his fist as he glares back. The bony one with glasses is watching his friend instead of the assholes. Frank’s own hands grip the edge of the table in anticipation.

“Hey, foureyes,” asshole number one says. (If they won’t learn Frank’s name, he sees no reason to try to learn theirs.) “You get psycho boy there to suck your dick yet?”

Frank’s eyes snap to the kid with the pen in his fist. That’s the violent maniac everyone’s been talking about? It’s kinda hard to tell when he’s sitting down, but the dude doesn’t look a whole lot bigger than Frank. He does look pretty pissed, though, straining against his friend’s hold, trying to lunge at his taunters, pen first.

“Ignore them,” the friend says, and when psycho boy growls and—WTF—barks at the assholes, glasses boy snaps, “Gerard! I said leave it.”

The gym-class jerks laugh, and asshole number two says, “I wouldn’t put your dick anywhere near those teeth, Way, he might bite it off.” Gerard growls again and nearly lunges out of the Way kid’s grasp to snap the teeth in question in the assholes’ faces.

They keep laughing, but they leave, stumbling off towards the jocks’ table, slapping each other on the back in congratulations. But Frank doesn’t even notice.

Gerard. Psycho boy’s name is Gerard, and he’s little, and kinda emo looking, and somehow, he has a friend. Frank’s idle interest in the dude tips over into fascination.


Frank figures now he knows who Gerard is, he’ll start to see him everywhere. That’s how these things work. Or at least it’s how they’re supposed to work. But even though he eats at the losers tables every day for the rest of the week and into the next, and lurks near the bike racks and the janitor’s closet and the bathrooms near the library—all the places the unpopular kids tend to gather—he doesn’t catch so much as a whiff of unwashed hair. Well. Not of Gerard’s unwashed hair. Considering half the kids in this school could probably afford to buy a shampoo factory, there are a disturbing number who take the grunge aesthetic a little too seriously.

But the point is, Frank would like to get a better look at his new school’s resident psychopath. Unfortunately, Gerard doesn’t seem to want to be found.


It’s Thursday morning, and Frank is at school super early, because his mom has a first-thing dentist appointment and needs to drop him off on the way. He’s got his book, and also his math homework which he hadn’t bothered to do the night before, and he’s hoping the doors will be open, because it’s fucking December, but if they’re not, he’s got his grandfather’s old duffle coat which comes almost down to his knees, and like three scarves because he keeps forgetting he has one in his bag and grabs another one off the coat rack, and the steps are pretty sheltered from the wind. He’ll be fine. “No, seriously, Mom. I’ll totally be fine. I promise I won’t get sick, or, like, kidnapped. Go get your filling.”

She drops him by the school gates and goes.

It figures that the first day in over a week Frank isn’t actually looking for Gerard is the day he finds him. Most of the kids who drive to school have to park in the big lot around the back of the grounds. But the lacrosse team gets to park in a special lot right up by the school’s front doors. Frank has gotten used to walking past their cars every day, because the team’s always at school early for practice, and so, nose buried in his book, he doesn’t even notice them this morning. Until a clatter and an unexpected movement draws his attention.

“Mikey, be quiet,” someone hisses, and if the dude thinks he’s whispering, he seriously needs some lessons in the art.

The stage whisper is followed by a noise like someone slapping a car’s door, and more movement about three rows in. Frank tracks it, and sees two boys all hunched over, shuffle-crawling towards a bright red SUV. The one with his back to Frankie looks like a small Professor Snape in a frayed, grey coat dragging on the ground, and the other one, who Frank can see in profile, has short hair and glasses. Is, in fact, the kid with glasses who was sitting with Gerard the other day at lunch. Frank stops breathing and moves a little closer so he’s better hidden by the rows of cars between them. And maybe so he can hear better. Whatever.

Snugged up against a blue four-door, Frank has a good view through the windows to where the kid who must be Mikey, and Snape—who, now that he’s turned a little bit, is definitely Gerard—have stopped to squat against the back tire of the SUV. Mikey has a screwdriver the length of his forearm in his right hand, and is clutching Gerard’s sleeve with his left. Gerard seems to be holding a bottle of something with a red label. Frank doubts it’s water if the way he’s wobbling and the volume of his whispers are anything to go by.

“Mikey,” he’s saying. “Mikey, do it.”

Mikey, who actually understands the concept of whispering, even if he did—Frank assumes—drop his screwdriver, says something back that Frank can’t hear. Gerard frowns in response, eliciting a flat-eyed stare from his friend. They tussle for a minute, still squatting, and the only thing that keeps them from taking each other down is that they’re mostly shoving each other into the fender of the SUV. Mikey relents first, plopping onto his ass, just watching Gerard who is now holding the bottle in one hand and the screwdriver in the other. He doesn’t seem sure what to do with either of them. After a moment, he hands Mikey the bottle and goes to his knees. Before Frank even has time to wonder if he’s going to do it, Gerard rears back and slams the screwdriver into the tire.

Or. Slams the screwdriver onto the tire, where it rebounds, sending Gerard’s wrist careening into the wheel arch. “Motherfuck!” Gerard yells, with not even the tiniest pretense at whispering now. Mikey manages to keep a straight face for about two and a half seconds, and then he just sort of tips over onto his side, curled up on the asphalt, laughing like he might die from it.

He and Frank notice at the same time that Gerard is bleeding. It’s only obvious when Gerard pulls back the too-long sleeve of his coat and starts sucking blood off his hand. Frank’s starting to suspect that licking blood does not fall into the same not-his-thing category as licking upperclassmen’s shoes where he’s concerned, but he’s not going to think about that right now. He’s also not going to edge closer. He’s really not. Because that is likely to get him caught, and this is a kid who ate a live frog and tried to tear a boys tongue out with his bare hands, and gets drunk at seven in the morning and eats his own blood. Frank doesn’t want to sneak up on him when he’s armed.

Mikey apparently doesn’t have any conflicted kinky feelings or fear of an armed Gerard, because he’s wrenching Gerard’s hand out of his mouth, and gesturing pointedly, and Frank can hear words like filthy and toxic and then tetanus, which makes Gerard flail backwards and fall on his ass, holding up both hands like he’s warding off a ghost. Mikey ignores that, and grabbing Gerard’s arm again, pushes his sleeve up farther and pours what Frank’s now 99% sure is vodka onto the wound.

Gerard lets him do it, but before Mikey can deplete the level of alcohol too much, Gerard takes the bottle back and downs a healthy gulp or two. They argue too quietly for Frank to hear, but only for a moment, and then Mikey unscrews the valve cap, picks up the screwdriver, and jams the tip into the valve, letting the air out that way. It’s way more effective than Gerard’s attempt, and still pretty fucking badass. Frank’s fascination officially becomes obsession.

Before Frank can get too distracted by all the ways his stomach’s twisting up as he watches Mikey and Gerard half clinging and half shoving at each other on their knees in the players’ lot, he hears the scuff of footsteps behind him. He spins, trying to look innocent, but the two girls haven’t seen him, their heads close together, attention caught by the phone they’re holding between them. One of them is in his English class. She’s never talked to him, but he’s never seen her talking to the jock assholes either, so even if she does notice him lurking around the lot, he’s probably safe from her tattling if the car’s owner starts looking for a vandal. He still edges away from the cars, circling around behind the girls to let them go into the school first. When he turns back around, Mikey and Gerard are gone.

This time, though, Frank’s luck is better. It’s still half an hour to first bell, and only the entrance hall with the admin offices and bathrooms are open. Frank sits himself on a bench in a corner where he can keep an eye on the girls by the drinking fountain and on the front doors, where Gerard and Mikey will have to appear eventually. Probably. He reads three pages of his book before they do. There’s no sign of the screwdriver or the bottle, but Gerard still has a smear of blood on his cheek, and Mikey’s holding onto his arm like he’s afraid Gerard won’t come with him if he doesn’t. A burst of giggles from the drinking fountain catches Mikey’s attention, but Gerard just keeps staring down at his feet, or maybe the weird shit-colored flecks in the floor.

“Hi, Mikey Way,” the girl from Frank’s class calls, still giggling a little and giving him a twiddly finger wave. Frank thinks she’s making fun of him, but then sees her friend is bright red and elbowing her in the side, and he realizes the friend has a crush.

Mikey gives them a half nod, which makes the girls clutch each other’s hands, but he doesn’t slow down as he drags Gerard into the boys bathroom. Frank really wants to follow them. But he has no idea what he’d say, and he doesn’t exactly want to get his dick out in front of either of them (because he really kind of does), and his hands and face are clean so he’d look like he has OCD if he went in just to wash his hands, and going into a stall to eavesdrop is a level of creepy he’s not sure he’s ready for.

So he sits and pretends to read his book, keeping half an eye on the bathroom and half an eye on the girls, who aren't pretending to do anything but wait for Mikey to come back. The three of them hold their ground as the doors to the rest of the school open and kids start to filter in, and as the hallway fills so Frank has to stand on his bench to keep sight of the bathroom door. The girls finally give up when first bell rings, but Frank gives it another two minutes, until if he doesn't go right now he's going to get a tardy and detention. But Gerard and Mikey still don't come out of the bathroom.


Though he makes it to homeroom on time, Frank completely forgets to do his math homework while he’s sitting and ignoring the principal’s announcement over the PA and the teacher’s announcements for the class. He’s too busy wondering what Gerard and Mikey were doing in the bathroom for so long, and whose tire they were trying to slash and why, and if they’ll get caught or if they’ll get away with it. He also can’t help wondering if some of the stuff he’s heard about Gerard was actually stuff Mikey did the way the stunt in the parking lot today was. Maybe Mikey’s just better at not being seen. Frank would probably be pissed if he had a friend who kept doing shit that Frank got blamed for, but maybe Gerard likes that. Maybe the whole point is his reputation. Maybe Mikey’s helping him.

The bell rips him out of his reverie and Frank clambers to his feet to get to English class. At least he’s done the homework for that one.

Mrs. Canetti is probably Frank’s favorite teacher. She gives interesting assignments and cares what people have to say about the books they’re reading, even if it’s something she’s never heard before. Especially if it’s something she hasn’t heard before. Also, when she has them do group work she always draws their names out of a hat, which means that Frank doesn’t have to sit in the corner hoping someone might actually pick him. There’s always that feeling of dread while he waits to see how annoyed his partners are to see they got landed with him—it ranges from indifferent to hostile, usually more of the former than the latter—but that’s still better than being left ’til last the way he always is in History.

Today Mrs. Canetti wants them in pairs so they can interview each other as though the interviewee is a character in Nineteen Eighty-Four. Frank only has to wait for three teams to be drawn before his name comes out of the hat. His partner is Janine Brewster. He doesn’t recognize the name, but when he turns to see who’s making a that’s-me face, it’s the girl from this morning. The one who knows Mikey Way. If she doesn’t hate him, this might totally work out for something more than keeping his grades up.

Janine is chilly to start with, but once she finds out he’s not only read the book but loves Orwell and wrote an essay on him at his old school, she’s positively toasty. By the time they’ve chosen their characters and written about half the interview questions, she’s dropping in queries about what he likes to do when he’s not reading, and they’re chatting a little about music and stuff, and he feels pretty comfortable saying, “So, you know Mikey Way?”

If she thinks it’s a weird question, she doesn’t let on. “Sure,” she says. “He’s in my bio class. Kinda weird, but, you know, pretty cool.”

“Huh,” Frank says. Before an avalanche of questions like, “Weird how?” and “How well do you know him?” and “Do you know his friend too?” and “Are they having sex?” come spilling out of his mouth, Frank covers it with two layers of scarf, biting down as hard as he can on the wool.

“He’s probably going to be at this party me and Rachel are going to tomorrow night. At least Rachel hopes so. She’s got a massive crush on him.”

Frank wonders if there is a way of asking if Rachel has any chance at all without sounding like a total asshole. He’s still debating when Janine says, “You should come. It’s at Bob’s house. Bob’s awesome.”

Given Frank has yet to meet anyone awesome at this school and he’s been here since the beginning of October, he’s not sure how convinced he is by this news. Except that Janine actually does seem pretty nice, and Frank does have to admit that he hasn’t exactly gone out of his way to actually chat to anyone. “Bob?” he says.

“He goes to Central. He’s a senior. But he was really good friends with my brother before he went to college, and he likes me. He’s chill with sophomores coming to his parties. It’ll be fun.”

“Okay.” Frank tries not to chew his scarf while he waits for Janine to write down Bob’s address. He’s mostly successful. A party. And Mikey might be there. And he might bring Gerard. Plus, everyone at school doesn’t hate him. Today is totally made of win.


He still has to sit on his own in the cafeteria at lunch, but Mikey and Gerard are there again, right at the next table this time so it totally looks natural if Frank’s gaze happens to fall on them occasionally. Gerard seems to be blood free, but Frank can see the edges of several bandaids sticking out of the cuff of his shirt as he lifts his spoon to his mouth. He and Mikey both have some kind of red soup in old-fashioned blue thermos flasks like Frank’s dad used to have. Frank imagines them down at the thrift store picking through the junk, finding a matching set, probably stuffing them into the pockets of Gerard’s coat instead of paying the fifty cents or whatever they were marked. Or maybe Mikey’s mom has two thermoses and she made the soup and Mikey brings lunch for Gerard, because he’s drunk before school and can’t remember to bring his own. That’s probably it, because they also both have saltines in a little baggie to go with the soup, and cookies afterwards. And it would be super weird (like, weirder than eating live frogs in biology class) if they have a matching lunch schedule.

After they finish eating, Gerard swaps his thermos for a sketch book and a pack of pencils, leans his head on Mikey’s shoulder and starts drawing. Mikey rests his cheek on Gerard’s head and watches him. Right there in the cafeteria, like that isn’t asking for commentary from the gang of assholes. Sure enough, less than a minute later, someone calls, “Fags!” from across the room, accompanying his shout with an apple missile. The apple falls short and rolls to rest against Gerard’s foot. He doesn’t seem to notice either the taunt or the fruit. Mikey doesn’t move either, but something in the set of his jaw makes Frank think he’s not oblivious but actively ignoring it.

When Gerard pauses to swap pencils, Mikey looks up and catches Frank watching. Frank gives him his best winning smile—the smaller, sincere one for people he actually likes, not the one for teachers and other people’s parents and anyone he’s trying to impress with his general innocence and good behavior. Mikey doesn’t exactly smile back, but his face relaxes in a way that suggests he’s not about to sic Gerard and his pointy pencils on Frank’s eyes. Frank totally views this as a step forward.

He also views it as permission to continue watching them, but then he remembers that he still hasn’t done his math homework, and he has math right after lunch, so he gets that out of his backpack and starts working on it. He occasionally hears Mikey and Gerard murmuring to each other over the general hubbub of the lunch crowd, but he does his best to keep his eyes on his work, and manages to get all but the last two questions done before bell. Those he can totally bang out while Mr. Bromley takes attendance and deals with Tiffany’s inevitable complaining about whatever today’s topic is.

The lacrosse team seems to be holding an impromptu kangaroo court on Frank’s usual route from Math to History, so Frank goes the long way around, and clearly his luck is still in, because right outside the art room, he spies Gerard putting books in a locker. The pictures inside the door aren’t cut from a magazine, but pulled from a sketch book, and seem, from what Frank can see as he passes, to feature zombies, and blood, and possibly a human-sized cat thing. Frank can see why Mikey likes to watch him draw; he’s really good. Frank would love to stop and look closer, and he’s already opening his mouth to say, “Hey, zombies. I love zombies,” when the bell rings and Gerard slams the door, turning with a scowl that would wither Voldemort. Frank’s mouth snaps shut, and he remembers that he really does have to get to History.

Friday, Frank finds an excuse to go past the art room between almost every class. Even the two that are three doors down from each other on the other side of the school. But he sees Gerard four more times, and is able to determine that yes, it’s totally a human-sized cat—possibly Cat Woman without the leather; he doesn’t get quite close enough to see for sure—and its claws are shredding Freddy Kreuger’s chest. Mikey is never with him, but Janine told Frank—after they kicked ass on their interview-presentation thing—that Mikey was in Bio and he confirmed he’s definitely going to be at Bob’s party. Rachel apparently nearly peed herself.

Frank’s bladder has no interest in the news at all, and he ignores anything else in the region that takes notice. Mostly because he’s pretty sure Mikey has a boyfriend. One who Frank’s a little scared of. (And more than a little turned on by, as long as he’s being up front here. And is it weird to maybe want to do two dudes who are probably already doing each other? Like. If you’re not in porn or whatever, because he’s totally seen that in porn.)

Frank’s still thinking about Mikey and Gerard when he bumps into Janine and Rachel outside his locker after seventh.

“So we’ll see you at the party, right?” Janine asks, interrupting Frank’s musings on the likelihood of his getting to experience an actual gay threesome while he’s still in high school.

“Uh, yeah.” Frank is so going to be there.


His mom is so excited that a girl invited him to a party that she doesn’t even ask where it is, or if anyone’s parents will be home. She even offers him a ride. It’s cold, and too far to walk sober, so he finds an address a couple blocks away and lets her drop him there, making it the rest of the way on foot. It’s still early enough that the party’s contained in the house, and Frank’s not sure if he should knock or ring the bell, and is standing on the porch like an idiot when a tall dude with a mane of curly hair and a guitar case comes up the walk. “Just go in,” he says. “No one will hear you anyway. Bob’s always got the music up.”

Because the dude has his hands full with the guitar and a six-pack, Frank does as he’s told. And wow. Yeah. The music’s much louder than he expected. Bob must have good storm windows. “Thanks!” Frank shouts over the music coming from a giant set of speakers in the archway to their right, shutting the door behind the guitar guy. “I’m Frank!”

The guy looks around for a second before propping his six-pack on the hall table so he can hold out his hand to shake. “Ray,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

They shake, and kind of nod and smile for a minute, then Ray picks up his beer and heads toward the back of the house, probably in the direction of the kitchen. Frank fully intends to investigate the kitchen soon, because he fucking needs a drink. He’s hoping this is the kind of party where it’s okay to bring cash instead of an actual alcohol offering, because there’s no fake in the world that would make the asshole down the LiquorMart believe Frank was twenty-one, and he didn’t have time to wait around the parking lot to find someone to buy for him this afternoon. He doesn’t want to look like he’s following Ray like a lost puppy though, so he turns right and checks out the crowd in the living room first.

About a quarter of the kids he recognizes from his new school—including Rachel, though he doesn’t see Janine—and at least half the crowd looks like they’re old enough to have graduated, and then he sees a knot of kids in the corner from his old school. Waving his arm above his head as he makes a point is Larry, who Frank’s known since junior high, and two of the other dudes were in his World Studies class before he transfered, so Frank heads over to say hello. They all shoot the shit for a while, the guys ribbing Frank about having to wear a uniform now, and asking if the pussy at private school is any easier to come by than at public school, which, Frank doesn’t even know what to say to that except, “Are you fucking kidding me?” and they decide that’s totally a front for him getting laid every weekend. They’ve got a flask they’re passing around, which Frank’s pretty sure has an inch or two from each of the bottles in Larry’s dad’s liquor cabinet in it, and it’s disgusting as hell, but it warms his chest and makes him feel like life is pretty fucking sweet.

After a while they run out of booze and Frank volunteers to go on a mission for more. Halfway across the room he’s waylaid by Janine, who slides her arms around his neck and gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek. Her breath smells like bubblegum schnapps. His friends in the corner start cat-calling and whooping at him, toning it down a little but not stopping when he flips them off behind his back, because Janine’s still clinging to him. “I like you,” she yells in his ear. “But I don’t think I want to make out with you tonight, because we really only started talking two days ago, and I’m not a slut.”

“Okay,” Frank says. He had no idea making out might be on the cards. Like, none. “Don’t worry. I didn’t think you were a slut. Not that I’d think you were a slut if you did want to make out. With anyone. Not necessarily me. Because I didn’t. Think that. Okay. Yeah.” Trying to back away, Frank pulls Janine’s arms from around his neck. She’s pretty hot, and also cute, and she’s almost definitely never tried to pull out a dude’s tongue, because she just doesn’t seem like that kind of girl. He would be pretty much totally into making out with her. If she were less not in to making out with him. Like, if she wanted to. The thought doesn’t give him quite the same scary-dirty thrill as thinking about making out with Gerard or Mikey (or Gerard and Mikey) does, but it’s almost definitely more likely. Because he’s pretty sure what she meant is that she doesn’t think they should make out tonight but she would be into it in the future. After they’ve talked more. He can do that. He likes talking.

“Bob has a lot of parties,” Janine says, patting Frank on the shoulder. “You should sit next to me in English.”

“Right. English.”

“Now I have to go see if Rachel’s found Mikey Way’s tongue yet.”

Frank is going to be thinking about tongues forever.

Janine wobbles off, and Larry shouts, “Dude, go tap that!” and Frank flips him off again, and heads in the direction Ray went earlier.

The kitchen is not hard to find; he just follows the chants of, “Drink! Drink! Drink!” to their source. Ray is doing a beer bong being held by a dude with red hair standing on the kitchen counter wearing an inside-out t-shirt and shorts. When it’s fucking forty degrees outside. As you do. There’s a guy with huge arms covered in ink leaning against the fridge door. Frank wonders if that’s Bob guarding the booze. But then people start chanting, “Bob! Bob! Bob!” and the guy in shorts jumps off the counter and takes the business end of the beer bong from Ray. Mr. Tattoos gets two beers out of the refrigerator and pours them into the funnel end without a word. Bob nods his thanks before handing the funnel to a pretty girl with long dark curls and wide, brown eyes. Once Bob gets the tube in his mouth she lets Ray help her climb onto a chair and lifts the funnel above her head. The chants of, “Drink! Drink! Drink!” start up again.

While everyone’s distracted watching the beer bong, Frank takes a look around, spying a cluster of bottles in the corner by the door that goes through to the dining room. The area is refreshingly free of muscled booze guards. When no one tries to stop him edging closer, Frank gets bolder and aims directly for one of the three mostly full bottles of vodka he spies right at the edge by the door. He grabs it just as the chanting reaches a frenzied peak, and darts into the dining room. Perfect. They can re-fill Larry’s flask, leave the bottle in a corner somewhere, and no one will know.

The dining room is playing host to a drinking game that seems to involve cards, several many-sided dice, the board from a Candyland game, poker chips, and a system of tapping shot glasses with a spoon. Frank gets lost watching for at least ten minutes, but he’s pretty sure he fails to figure out even one of the rules. When two of the girls playing launch into a round of high-speed pat-a-cake while the rest of the people at the table flick cards at them, Frank decides he’s seen enough. He fortifies himself with a slug of vodka from his bottle, and heads back out into the hallway. Where he runs into Rachel again. Literally. Apparently she did find Mikey Way’s tongue. Also, his tonsils.

Mikey’s leaning against the wall, legs spread wide with Rachel between them. Even after Frank tripped on Mikey’s foot and stumbled into Rachel’s shoulder, they’re still fused at the mouth. “Sorry,” Frank mumbles. Mikey takes a hand off Rachel’s ass to wave at him in what Frank takes to be a Don’t worry about it, she’s still attached, it’s all good gesture. He’s looking at Frank, but with no loss of kissing skill at all. It’s pretty impressive. “I’ll just, yeah,” Frank says, and checks his path for any further trip hazards before hurrying back to the living room.

His dudes have disbanded by the time he gets there, which means more vodka for him, yay, but also means he doesn’t really have anyone to talk to. But that’s cool. If Mikey’s here, that might mean Gerard is too, and Frank can get a chance to see what he’s like not at school, or maybe Janine has decided she and Frank have known each other long enough now and wants to make out with him.

There are people on the stairs and the landing, so Frank figures it’s okay to head up and see what’s shaking in the rest of the house. And, hey, maybe there’s a bathroom up there. Somehow the vodka bottle he’s carrying is emptier than it should be, which is probably why he’s gotta piss. He reaches for the first door he comes to, but a guy in a t-shirt with a bow-tie painted on around the neck (why?) says, “Don’t bother. Linen closet,” so Frank moves on. No one stops him trying the next door he comes to, so he turns the handle and opens it. It’s not a bathroom.

It’s a bedroom, Bob’s probably, unless he has a brother, and there’s a couple making out furiously on the bed. Frank has time to recognize Ray’s hair and bright-green shirt as he’s attempting to back out again without being heard, but before he escapes, the girl pushes Ray off and sits up. It’s Janine.

“Oh, Frank. Hey, hi,” she says, sounding a little slurry. “I’ve known Ray for two years, so this is totally not slutty.”

Frank is starting to strongly suspect Janine’s parents still make her go to Mass and confession every week.

“Okaaaaaaay,” Frank says, sort of hovering in the doorway.

“You’re not mad, are you? Don’t be mad.”

“Oh god,” Ray says, looking back and forth from Frank to Janine and back. “Are you guys? Did I? I don’t want to be stepping on any toes here.”

So awkward. How did this even get so awkward? Frank only came to this party to stalk the school psycho and his maybe-boyfriend, and suddenly he’s trapped in the middle of a love triangle (kissing triangle? Talked-about-kissing triangle?) with a girl from his English class and a beer-bong-doing dude who plays guitar. Probably. Unless he was just carrying it for someone. Maybe Bob plays and Ray just borrowed it and was bringing it back, and god, why won’t Frank’s brain just stop.

“No toes,” he says. “Stepping. There hasn’t been stepping. We just, English.”

“He was Winston,” Janine says, clarifying absolutely nothing. “We just met.”

“I thought your name was Frank.” Ray looks supremely puzzled. Frank knows how he feels.

“I am Frank. Winston was a thing for English class.”

“Ray was in my brother’s band,” Janine continues. “But he doesn’t think of me as Josh’s little sister anymore.”

“Oh god,” Ray says again. He looks like he’s going to throw up.

Janine pats him on the face sloppily. “Don’t worry! Josh likes you. And you’re not— You’re still— I’m allowed to date boys if they’re still in high school. As long as my dad doesn’t find out.”

“Your dad.”

Frank wonders if he should hand Ray the wastepaper basket by the desk. Bob probably doesn’t want puke on his bed. Instead, he says, “Okay then. I’m gonna go.” And he goes.

Conveniently, someone is coming out of the room across the hall as Frank finally escapes, and he can see it’s a bathroom, and no one else is waiting to dart in before him. He doesn’t bother turning on the light, just locks the door behind himself and stares at his reflection in the mirror in the glow of the nightlight. He’s skinny, and little, but he looks okay—hair the right amount of messy, shirt and jeans the right amount of baggy, pretty good face—but he knows he can’t compete with in-a-band. Well, not in-my-brother’s-band. Because Frank could totally be in his own band. If he had some guys to play with.

Remembering what he came in here for, Frank pisses, washes his hands, and takes one last look in the mirror. “Whatever,” he mutters, and heads back to the party.

The door to the room where he left Ray and Janine is closed, so Frank is guessing they either worked out the whole brother’s friend/friend’s sister thing, or another couple got in there in the time it took Frank to empty his bladder. He’s not going to check. What he is going to do is head back downstairs, because so far tonight, downstairs has worked out better for him.

The stairs are wobbling just a little bit, and he’s clutching the banister with both hands when he realizes that means he must have left the vodka in the bathroom. But that’s probably best, what with the whole stairs wobbling thing. Or, or, maybe Bob’s house is like Hogwarts, and the stairs are actually moving. That would be awesome. But dangerous.

“Frankie! Sup!” someone yells from below him. Frank focuses and finds Larry and the other dudes from before. “You missed beer bongs!”

“Sorry,” Frank says, even though he’s not. He concentrates on the last four steps, only looking up again once he’s on stable ground.

“Woah, dude,” one of the guys whose name Frank can’t remember says. “Looks like you found the alcohol anyway. You okay?”

“I’m great,” Frank tells him. “Definitely great.” He’s not great. He needs to sit down.

There’s a dim room off to his left that looks like some sort of den. There’s probably a sofa in there. Or a carpet at least. “I’m just—“ Frank waves his hand and heads for the dark.

It’s perfect. Somehow there’s no one in here, and there is a sofa. Even better, there’s a large pile of pillows on the floor, the kind you sit on to watch TV. They look amazing. Frank collapses onto them and closes his eyes. Just for a few minutes.

The sounds of whispering and—god, seriously, again?—kissing wake him up. He considers keeping his eyes closed, but of course they pay no attention whatsoever to the fact that he’s seen enough kissing tonight to last him a month. A year. Unless he’s doing the kissing. That could happen any time now and he’d be good. And hey, look. Right there, not three feet away on the sofa Frank had been eyeing up as a bed, is Mikey Way. Again. Only this time he’s macking on the girl who was holding Bob’s beer bong earlier. Maybe his thing with Gerard is that he can kiss any girls he wants, as long as he doesn’t kiss any of them twice.

“Really?” Frank says, totally without meaning to. Mikey and the bong girl leap apart. Now he’s interrupted, he figures he might as well continue. “I’m right here.”

The girl laughs like she thinks that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Mikey looks at him like he doesn’t get the point.

“Right here. You could have at least told me to get lost.” Frank is aware that he’s not being rational and is probably breaking like ten party rules to boot, but he’s drunk and he just woke up, and he doesn’t really give a fuck.

“Didn’t even see you,” Mikey says at the same time the girl says, “You were sleeping.”

“Fine,” Frank grumbles, struggling to get his feet out of the mound of pillows. “Fine. You two just have fun.”

“Hey,” a voice says from the doorway, sending Frank flailing back onto his ass. “I’m the one who gets to decide who has fun around here.” The speaking silhouette is wearing shorts, so Frank figures it’s Bob. Also, he’s the logical person to be saying, “My house; my rules.”

And the girl and Mikey both say, “Hey, Bob.”

“Colette’s looking for you. You have her phone,” Bob says.

The girl starts patting her pockets. “Shit. Yeah.” She stands up. “Later, Mikey. Later, sleeping dude.”

“Later, Roxie,” Mikey says.

Roxie pinches Bob’s cheek as she squeezes past him out the door. He glowers at her then comes in and plops down next to Mikey on the couch.

“If you two are going to start making out, can I leave first?” Frank asks, and god, he really needs to wake up and engage that brain-to-mouth filter.

“Mikey’s not really my type,” Bob says. He doesn’t look offended, though, which is awesome.

“Yeah, well,” Mikey says, jabbing Bob in the ribs with both hands, ratta-tat-tat, “I don’t make out with drummers, so you’d be shit outta luck anyway.”

Bob turns and looks at Frank. “Hi,” he says. “Do I know you?”

“Janine invited me?” Frank says.

“He goes to school with me and Gee. I’ve seen him around.”

“Oh. Okay.” Bob nods a little. “Janine’s good people. Wish her brother didn’t have to fucking go to Arizona for college, though. What the fuck. Who goes to Arizona?”

“People whose grandparents live there, I think,” Mikey says.

“Gee like Gerard? Is he here?” Frank says. Because his mouth hates him so fucking much.

Bob snorts, and Mikey’s nose wrinkles a little bit. “You know Gee?” he asks.

“No. I mean. Just I’ve seen him. You. Guys. The two of you. At school. Around. Like you said.”

Bob snorts again. “I bet,” he says. “It’s practically fucking impossible to get that dude to come to a party.”

Mikey frowns. “You know a lot of the guys at school are assholes to him. It’s not that he doesn’t like to party.”

“That’s the truth,” Bob says, then when Mikey jabs him again, harder this time, “Aww, come on, Way. You know I like the guy. But even you have to admit he’s kind of a weird fucker.”

Mikey glares for a moment longer, then he relaxes back against the cushions. “He’s a fucking genius. You just don’t appreciate the art of being Gerard.”

“Guess I don’t.” Bob nudges Mikey’s knee with his own. “You guys coming to our gig tomorrow?”

“Duh,” Mikey says. “We’ll see about Gee, though.”

“You should come too, friend of Janine’s,” Bob says, turning his attention to Frank again. “It’s gonna be good.”

“Sure,” Frank says. “Where is it? Also, I’m Frank.”

“Hawkshead on Washington.” Bob squints at him. “Over eighteens. You got a fake?”

Frank has an old Rutgers ID he found in the street a couple years ago that looks a little like him. In dim lighting, if you kinda scrunch your eyes up. “Sorta?”

“Come with Mikey,” Bob says. “He’ll get you in.”

“Cool,” Mikey says. (Cool. Like Bob didn’t just suggest he take a dorky stranger from his school to a gig.) “Meet you outside at eleven.”

“Yeah.” Frank’s voice doesn’t squeak or anything. “Cool.”

“Well, boys,” Bob says, planting his hands on either side of his knees, “gotta go make sure there’s enough music lined up. Wouldn’t want to ruin my rep.” Which means he’s leaving Mikey Way alone in a room with Frank with no filter and no chaperon. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea.

“Me too!” Frank says, rather more loudly than he intended. “I’ve gotta— Tomorrow. Eleven. Washington.” Somehow he finds his feet, and rushes out of the room. He is such a fucking tool.

While he’s still drunk enough to not mind the cold, Frank digs his coat and scarf out of the pile in the corner, and sets off on the two-mile walk home.


By the time he gets there, his teeth are chattering and his legs are numb, and he’s sober as hell. But his mom is sound asleep, and she left the heater on in his room, and he’s going to a gig tomorrow night with a kid who’s not afraid to get creative slashing tires, and who everyone, except apparently Bob, wants to make out with. Plus, Janine wants to kiss him. So she wanted to kiss Ray more, whatever, she at least thought about kissing Frank. And the guys at his old school haven’t forgotten him completely. Life could be way worse.

Just in case, Frank takes a handful of vitamins and a couple aspirin with two big glasses of water to counteract the vodka and the walk home in the cold before he heads for bed. He plans to go to sleep, but there’s Janine all pressed up against him, sugar-sweet breath on his face, and Mikey, in jeans and a hoodie instead of their stupid uniform, his mouth moving slow and determined on Rachel’s, his hands up under the back of Roxie’s shirt, the way he held Gerard’s bloody hand away from his mouth in the parking lot, Gerard drawing, so focused it’s like nothing else (except maybe Mikey) exists, the way he doesn’t care about pissing people off, the way he stands at his locker, hip cocked but shoulders hunched, like he’s caught between diva and emo, and Frank’s got his hand down his pants, jacking hard and fast and rough, thinking about how Mikey and Gerard pushed and shoved and grappled with each other in the parking lot, somehow gentle and careless all at once, imagines them treating Frank like that, maybe Mikey kissing him while Gerard jerked Frank’s dick, both of them pinning him down, and he’s caught between them while they have their way with him, and he’d do it, whatever they wanted, if they’d just let him— fucking just— just fucking let him come.

After, Frank’s chest feels tight, and he can’t catch his breath, but it’s just because he came so hard. He’s not getting sick. He’s got a fucking gig to go to.

When he wakes from the nightmare he’s having the next morning (or one forty-five in the afternoon, whatever, it’s Saturday), his lungs feel full of ground glass, and he wants to fucking cry. But then he takes a deep breath, and it’s just whatever he was dreaming lodged in there, stress tight and choking, and he actually feels fine. No sniffles, no sore throat, not even the hint of a headache. Clearly it’s a sign that going to Bob’s party was the right thing to do, and that he’s fated to meet Mikey at Hawkshead, and they’re gonna have a great time. Or he’s gonna have a great time. Mikey might ditch him the second he gets him through the door, and that would be okay. Frank likes the music Bob was playing at his party last night, so he’ll probably dig Bob’s gig.

But maybe Mikey won’t ditch him. Maybe he’ll let Frank hang with him, and maybe Gerard will come and they’ll all three hang out, and Mikey and Gerard will think, Hey this Frank kid’s pretty cool, we should sit with him at lunch, and maybe tell him next time we’re gonna fuck some asshole’s car up, and— Yeah. Whatever. Cool stuff could totally happen tonight.

Frank did not even dare to dream big enough.

part 2