My Theater Romance

Chapter 4

Frank never really realized when it happened, but suddenly Gerard Way had a really nice butt. Frank supposed he always had – people don’t grow asses overnight – but now that they’d been rehearsing lines together in class (actually just talking about Smashing Pumpkins and Billy Corgan’s smirk, but whatever, it ensured Gerard’s gayness to Frank and that made him feel slightly better about the future) Frank had started noticing more things about him, like the way his incisors were slightly pointed and he liked to bite his slightly chapped lips, the way his hair fell in his huge hazel eyes, and how he had a penchant for wearing extremely tight skinny jeans that made Frank’s skin crawl.

It was Monday, and Frank hated Mondays, and all he really wanted was to go home and have a smoke and go to sleep, but that wasn’t an option, so instead he stumbled through the hallways to Drama, nearly late, pushing through the door and collapsing in the back next to Gerard just as the bell rang.

Mr. Wentz stood up. “Work on your lines. I have to talk to Mr. Stump for a while. Don’t light anything on fire.” With that, he left, the door slamming behind him.

“Yay, running lines,” Gerard muttered in the least enthusiastic way Frank had ever heard anyone speak about anything other than cockroaches. “I fucking hate Mondays.”

“Welcome to the club. I just want to go home, have a smoke, and sleep,” Frank sighed, leaning back against his chair and almost falling over.

“Don’t die,” Gerard grinned, steadying his chair with a hand. Gerard had nice hands, Frank decided, long, pale fingers, nails slightly ragged.

Frank stood up. “Wanna ditch? We can go to the skate park or something.”

Gerard smiled even wider, as if his day was made. (It didn’t take a lot to make a Monday.) “Sure. Lemme grab my backpack.”

Drama was their last period, so it didn’t really matter if they ditched, because they’d think of some bullshit to feed Mr. Wentz, who didn’t really give a fuck about anything anyway, and so Frank and Gerard, not caring about whether or not anyone saw, left through the back door at the end of the school, Frank grabbing his skateboard, and off they were to the skate park.

The walk was about eight minutes from the school, and Frank could’ve made it in five if he was skateboarding, but he doubted Gerard could walk that fast, and he didn’t want to leave him, because it had become apparent to him that he may have a small – VERY SMALL – crush on the weird kid with the Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt and greasy black hair and the butt that Frank had extremely strong feelings about.

Gerard attempted to make conversation, but at some point they lapsed into comfortable silence, arriving at the skate park. Frank steered clear of the slide for various reasons, but mostly because it smelt like rat piss and he didn’t feel like hitting his head on it again, because at this rate he’d have a major concussion, no doubt, and he really couldn’t deal with any more brain damage at this point.

They sat down on the swings, and Gerard had forgotten how much he fucking loved swings, and both boys pumped their feet and leaned back, the wind running through Gerard’s hair and, in Frank’s opinion, Gerard Way with messy hair and a reckless smirk was as close as he’d ever get to home, but after a moment of wide-eyed staring he decided to cut the sappy shit and started swinging on his own swing, soon at the same height as Gerard, and fuck, Frank hadn’t been on a swing in ages.

After a while they slowed down, and Frank jumped off his swing, stumbling a bit and collapsing in the grass. He stared up at the sky. Gerard curled up on his side, next to him. “Do you ever wonder if clouds look down on us and say, ‘What the fuck do humans even think they’re doing?’”
“I’m not a cloud, and I think that all the time,” Frank answered honestly.

Gerard giggled, because the fact that Frank Iero’s views on homo sapiens were the same as his made it just a little more homo and a little less sapiens. (A/N: I have no idea what I just did there please don’t kill me.)

“Can I have your number?” Frank asked suddenly, and Gerard’s stomach suddenly was full of acid and butterflies. (Acid and Butterflies. There is your band name.) “You know,” he added quickly, “to rehearse lines and stuff.”

That should’ve killed Gerard a little bit, but he was Gerard fucking Way, and the only thing that hurt him was when he was out of coffee, so he scribbled it on Frank’s hand with a Sharpie that he scrounged from the black hole of his jacket pocket. “You should try texting me at three in the morning. I’ve been told it’s entertaining.”

Frank giggled slightly. “Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

“That’s not how you do it!” Tay screeched for the millionth time. She yanked the eyeliner out of Mikey’s hand while Taylor watched, amused. They’d been trying for about two hours now to teach Mikey “how to be gay”, which apparently included being able to “rock eyeliner” and “look damn fine in girl jeans”. So far, Mikey hadn’t been able to fit into any of Tay’s jeans, which probably had to do with her being about a foot shorter than him and having about twelve times more butt, and his eyeliner game wasn’t too strong but he was slowly getting it, emphasis on slowly.

“Fuck, I can't get it even!”

“Here.” Taylor got off Tay’s bed, where she’d been perched for the last two hours, and grabbed the eyeliner from his hand.

In about five seconds Mikey had perfectly done eyeliner. “How do you do that?" he asked incredulously.

Tay laughed. “Jesus, Mikey, it just takes practice and patience.”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA THE THOUGHT OF MIKEY BEING PATIENT!” Taylor collapsed once again on Tay’s bed and Mikey flipped her off.

“C’mon, assbutt, we’re taking you to a party.” Tay tugged on Mikey’s hand.

“But – I can't go out like this – I’m wearing fucking eyeliner and girl jeans and if someone I know sees me I’m screwed!”

“Mikey.” Taylor fixed her hair in the mirror. “The people we’re taking you to see will not give a flying fuck about your eyeliner – in fact, they’ll probably appreciate it.”

“I –” before he could protest anymore, Tay and Taylor each took one of his hands and tugged him out of the room and downstairs, out the door, and to Taylor’s Chevy, where he sulked in the back as Taylo attempted to drive and suck each other’s faces off at the same time.

The drive wasn’t long – about five minutes through a labyrinth of streets that Mikey would likely get lost and perish in – but once they stopped in front of a paint-peeling, tiny house with an overgrown lawn and grimy lace curtains in the window, Mikey was 200% positive that no one he knew would willingly set foot inside a place like that, seeing as most of the people at his school were huge pricks who didn’t believe in dirt and the ones who weren’t were far too lazy to make their way through the knot of streets that led to the shitty little cottage.

Taylor detached herself from Tay and dragged a still sulking Mikey through the weed-choked path up to the front door and rung the doorbell furiously.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Mikey said nervously. He shifted from one foot to the other. Thirty seconds passed, then thirty more.

Mikey was just turning around, about to say, “C’mon, this is a bust,” the door opened a crack, the sound of the Misfits playing faintly in the background and distinct smell of pot making Mikey sneeze slightly.

“Password?” a cigarette-gravelly voice asked warily.

“Seriously, Bob?” Tay rolled her eyes. “You know I’m never able to remember where I’m supposed to be, let alone some stupidass password that’s an alphanumeric backwards spelling of a band that’s so obscure you’re their only fan.”

“Fine,” “Bob” sighed, opening the door wider to reveal a muscular blonde man with watery blue eyes, a tattoo of a mermaid on his arm, and a septum piercing. He gestured inside. “There’s food and booze in the living room, and everyone’s already here.” He pointed at Mikey. “Who’s the kid?”

Mikey blushed, wanting to correct him with an I’m nearly sixteen! but he held back. “This is Mikey,” Taylor said. “He’s our weird gay friend who likes D&D and Fangoria.”

It was probably the most accurate description Mikey had ever heard of himself. “Cool,” Bob said. He turned away, and Taylo followed him to what was presumably the living room while Mikey awkwardly tagged along, nearly tripping multiple times over his untied Chucks.

“The living room” consisted of a worn couch where a black-haired girl in bright red lipstick and a tartan skirt sat sprawled out reading a battered copy of the Outsiders. Another girl sat leaned up against her twirling a drumstick, her other hand intertwined with Lipstick Girl.

A brown-haired girl wearing the most ripped up jeans Mikey had ever seen was cussing out a guy with a blonde mohawk who was impishly grinning and looked like he could literally give no fewer fucks, but was still slightly scared of being punched in the balls, the face, or both.

Next to the record player that sat on the table hosting large amounts of Cheetos, beer, and cigarette ash stood a tattooed blonde guy with his arm around

holyshitholyshitholyfuckingshitholyshitholyshitholyholyholyholyholyfuckohdamnohFUCKohFUUUCK

a tan guy with a toned body, wicked green eyes rimmed with eyeliner, spiky black hair, tight black jeans, tattoos, a Medusa piercing, a UK Subs t-shirt, and a silver hoop in one ear. He caught Mikey staring and winked in what he probably thought to be a friendly manner but one that Mikey took as an I-want-to-ensure-your-homosexuality-and-sexuality-in-general way, and fuck, he was hot, and winking with eyes like that was fucking cruel, and Mikey used his imagination to photoshop out the guy who stood with his arm slung around him, the guy he was leaning against with his hand in his back jeans pocket, because god, Mikey was gay as fuck.

“THE PARTY IS HERE!” Taylor announced, grabbing a bag of Doritos from the table and devouring it within seconds. Nobody looked up, probably because they couldn’t hear her over the “FUCK YOU”’s and “YOU FUCKING DICK” emanating from the brunette girl cussing out Mohawk Guy, and the loudness of the Misfits that Mikey was surprised couldn’t be heard from outside the house.

“Hey, Taylor.” Lipstick Girl looked up, smiling slightly. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” Tay replied in place of Taylor, who was slightly incapacitated due to rapid Dorito consumption. “This is Mikey.”

“Hey, Mikey. I’m Lindsey,” Lipstick Girl smiled.

The girl holding Lindsey’s hand looked up, dropping her drumstick in the process and fumbling to grab it. “I’m Kitty.”

“Hi,” Mikey said awkwardly. If people paid money for social awkwardness and general shyness Mikey would be rich as fuck.

“Here.” Bob tossed Mikey a pack of cigarettes and disappeared into an adjacent room. Mikey looked at the pack in his hands as if it was a foreign object. He’d never smoked before, and had no idea how. Also, he didn’t even have a lighter.
“Hey.” Mohawk Boy sauntered over, followed by the girl who had thankfully stopped cussing him off and was now somehow smoking and eating a Hot Pocket at the same time.

“This is Mikey,” Tay grinned. “Mikey, this is Tré and this is Jamia.”

“Hi.” Mikey smiled awkwardly.

“Want some gum?” Tré offered Mikey a pack.

Mikey reached out to take it. Taylor slapped his hand away quickly and glared at Tré. “Way to make friends, by electrically shocking people when all they want is a piece of Trident, for fuck’s sake.”

Tré rolled his eyes, grinning. “Geez, Taylor, get your panties out of their twist. It’s just a joke.”

Jamia smirked. “That’s what got you beat the shit out of last week. Some joke.”

Tré flipped her off and made his way over to the kitchen counter, grabbing a piece of pizza and retreating to a corner. Jamia grabbed a piece too and retreated to the diagonal corner to glare at him.

The hot guy’s boyfriend who Mikey was still pretending didn’t exist left the room calling, “Bob?”, and, much to Mikey’s happiness and yet utter pain, the hot guy made his way over casually to where he was standing next to Taylo, Kitty, and Lindsey. God, the way he fucking walked was attraction in itself – a slight swing of the hips, and the way his jeans were slung low on his sharp hipbones, and oh god, Mikey was fucking sold, emphasis on fucking.

“Hey,” the guy grinned, showing cocaine-white teeth and a silver flash that meant a tongue piercing, and Mikey was about to fucking faint, and his voice was sin itself.

“H-hi,” Mikey stuttered at a volume much too low for anyone who spent their time listening to the Misfits that loudly.

“Hey!” Tay squealed in a Tay-like manner. “This is Mikey.”

And Mikey dreaded what was coming next, but “Hey, Mikey,” and the way he said Mikey’s name, with that voice, Mikey was fucking gone, and dear lord, it was perfection at it’s fucking highest. “I’m Billie Joe.”

Dear god, his initials are BJ, that makes everything worse, or better, depending on your perspective, Mikey thought, stifling hysterical cackling that wouldn’t really put him in Billie Joe ha, BJ’s good books. “Hey,” Mikey said, at a point where he honestly could not make more of a fool out of himself and was also too lovesick to care.

“What’s up?”

How the fuck am I supposed answer that question, especially when you say it like that? Mikey thought, perhaps because Billie Joe probably would be really creeped out after hearing what was literally up.

“Want a light?” Billie Joe held up a lighter between slim, tan fingers that Mikey could think of doing things that were probably not so good to imagine in tight-fitting jeans. “C’mon, let’s head into the backyard. There’s enough nicotine in this house.”

Mikey grinned, flashing Tay a you better not fucking interrupt me glance. She smirked and made extremely obscene hand gestures. Mikey flipped her off and turned around, following Billie Joe into the backyard, and maybe staring at his butt, just a little.

_________________________

Yes, I am aware no one ships Billie and Mikey, but it's not gonna happen, don't worry, kids.
Also, I'm having trouble editing Chapter Three bc my computer is shit, but I put Gerard's grandma's name as Elena Way and it was actually Elena Lee Rush, which was pointed out to me, so sorry for fucking that up. *tosses you cookies* Also, I realize this chapter is ridiculously long and mostly about Billie Joe Armstrong, so I'm sorry for that, and I'll be focusing more on the Frerard and Ryden aspects of this in the next chapter.
Awkward question: Do you guys want smut? There will probably be some slightly smutty scenes, but if y'all want full-out smut, please comment, or, if you don't feel comfortable with that, please feel free to message me.
P.S. Thank you for all the subscribers and votes. You guys are the best <3
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Notes