I Hope You Choke On Those Words, That Kiss, That Bottle- I Confess

Frank doesn't know how the fuck he even ended up at this party.

He has a feeling it's got something to do with Bob's horrible intuition and the fact his own self is half-wrecked despite the fact the clock hasn't even struck one AM yet. He's not a party animal and both Bob and Brian are painfully aware of that, but they're also shitheads and Frank is so going to piss on everything Schechter loves tomorrow when the hangover kicks in. He reeks of juice-vodka and he's got someone's lipstick smeared across his cheek- probably Lindsey's, she's all over the place tonight- and he feels like he's going to puke if he doesn't get some air in his lungs real soon.

It's so stuffy in there that he doesn't think his blood can pick up any actual oxygen to carry around. He finds a glass door that leads into the back yard and he leans against the wall outside, breathing in the summer air and shutting the noise inside his head up for a little bit. He’s wearing a purple tank top that’s sticking to his skin from the moist and his throat is still a bit clogged from the pressure, but that doesn’t stop him from pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket.

Just as he’s trying to force his Bic to catch, he hears shuffling from behind, and the back door’s creak muffled by noise from inside the house. “’Stein,” is thrown at him, and he grins real big before he turns around to face the person calling him; unlit cigarette still dangling awkwardly from the side of his mouth, lip ring in the way of it fitting between his lips.

“Bert McCrackhead,” he smiles fondly and reaches out to ruffle Bert’s filthy spaghetti-like hair. “Got a lighter, maybe? Mine’s dead apparently.”

Bert fumbles through his jeans’ pockets, muttering out a ‘sure, just let me find it’ as Frank’s leaning against the damp wall. “Here you go. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Done with tour,” says Frank as he lights the smoke and hands the lighter back to Bert, “Want one?” When Bert shakes his head, he continues, “This is Brian’s way of congratulating us for surviving, I suppose.”

“Bob and Lindsey?” Bert asks, glancing through the glass door at the people inside.

“Somewhere in there,” Frank nods in the direction of Bert’s eyes and looks at the fag between his fingers. “You sure you don’t want one?”

“Nah, man, I’m fine, still waiting for Wentz and his pot. That kid’s practically Jesus,” he says, giggling a bit. He’s probably on something, Frank reckons, it’s nothing unusual for Bert- Frank doesn’t mind.

“Pete Wentz? I’ve heard of him,” Frank nods, beckoning Bert to keep babbling. Guy’s voice is kind of calming in a borderline hysterical way, and they haven’t talked in a while.

“Yeah, I just have no idea where he is. He should’ve been here at, like, midnight tops. Fuck, maybe he’s been here the entire time, but there are so many people inside. Brian is a real shithead about these parties, I can’t fucking breathe in there.”

Frank nods again, taking another drag of his cigarette and letting Bert keep on with his thing. He talks about how he should cut down with the pot because he can literally hear his brain cells dying from it, about how he punched this guy in the nose the other day for making a transphobic comment about his girlfriend, about how the color of his fingertips is turning somehow green and how he thinks it’s because his guitar strings are getting moldy.

And Frank listens to him talk, it sobers him up a little- brings him back to Earth. That is, until he’s pulled back by a rather harsh nail-grip on his bicep, and he quickly throws the already dead filter of his cig somewhere in the bush before he’s tugged inside. Bert tags along and Lindsey’s chipped black nails leave Frank’s arm when she’s hugs Bert tight, and it’s obvious that he’s laughing into her shoulder even though Frank can’t hear it above the beat hammering into his scalp.

They talk a bit, and Lindsey bites Frank’s chin when he complains about her nails drawing blood on his arm. Bert is constantly yelling something at their ears that neither of them understands and when they respond he probably doesn’t understand either, but none of them cares enough to worry about it. At some point Bert notices Pete’s head somewhere in the crowd and runs to catch him before he disappears again, and Frank is taken aback when Lindsey’s eyes widen and she follows him there.

But then he sees it. Sees him.

He’s less than 30 feet away and his face has glitter all over it, his hair knotted and shining dark blue and probably smelling like cheap dye if you got close enough. Since Lindsey’s all over him, Frank can’t see well but he’s pretty sure he’s wearing a shirt that says ‘WHOREHOUSE BLUES’ and his lips are redder than the jag fucking Molko played while they were on tour together.

Frank feels a knot in his stomach, the same one he felt when he first laid his eyes on that face- in Mikey Way’s living room in ninth grade, night before the most important Chemistry exam he failed throughout his entire high school career… because he was too distracted to study.

A tad bit skinnier, taller, wearing a bit more makeup and a bit less clothes- but Frank is fairly certain that Gerard Way is the reason he might miss at least seven chords at practice tomorrow. Because of simple distraction, lack of focus, or the sense of impending doom [and nausea]? Guess he’ll have to find out for himself.

*

It only gets worse when the cops show up. Frank just wants to unsee Gerard completely, erase the mental image of him from his mind, because it had been there for way too long before he hit delete once and for all, and he really isn’t the guy to repeat his mistake. But Bert has a car and Pete has weed and a criminal record, and Frank has no idea where Bob is, but he does have an idea of the way Gerard’s fishnet-clad leg is radiating body heat whilst cramped in the back seat of Bert’s Trans AM Pete is currently trying to drive.

Frank’s just slightly panicking since his head is pretty much boiling inside the smelly car, and a loud sigh escapes his mouth when they get to the main road.

“Woman up, Frank, we’ll be home soon.” Lindsey shakes her head in amusement, and Frank’s so pathetic at that second that second he wishes he could just shove his head into her shoulder and forget about planet Earth’s existence for a while.

“Here,” Gerard suddenly says, and Frank needs a moment to understand he’s talking to him, “take this.”

Frank’s eyebrows knit together and Gerard just smiles, handing him a small packet. “What is this?”

“Dark chocolate. It’s the ultimate calming drug for when you run out of Xanax.” Frank huffs out a surprised ‘huh’ and takes the chocolate. “Gerard, by the way.”

And when Frank sees the smirk he’s wearing on those cherry lips of his, he doesn’t regret the three weeks of summer school Gerard earned him back in freshman year. "Frank. Frank Iero."Not even a single bit.

*

“Wild fuckin’ ride, wasn’t it?” Lindsey smirks as she’s stretching her torso like a cat, black hair dangling down her back and over her makeup-smudged face. She looks wrecked, but in a good way, neck full of violet hickeys left by some unnamed girl with red hair neither of them is going to see again.

Frank doesn’t respond; he feels like silent poetry this morning because it’s raining outside, but the heat still sticks to his skin like post-show glitter Lindsey shakes out of her hair every time they get off stage. He doesn’t really know, the words sometimes fly out of him differently and it’s usually never here, inside their shitty little apartment, but he thinks he’s going to waste the inspiration this time. He doesn’t want to write a song about him.

“Frank?”

But Frank’s already left for the kitchen- maybe a black without sugar will knock some sense into him.

Notes

yo. sorry for the wait, i had issues.

tell me about your summer/winter plans. xo