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onelittlesleep (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} onelittlesleep) wrote,@ 2007-10-30 01:29:00 |
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My Chemical Romance Hetfic "I Am a Patient Boy" (Frank/Girl!Gerard)
title: I Am a Patient Boy
fandom: Sigh, MCR. BANDOM, GUYS. Mcr as in My Chemical Romance.
pairing: Frank Iero/Girl!Gerard Way
note: So this is an AU about Gerard being a girl named Helen (after her...grandmother?) and Frank being sort of, head over heels. And what else...oh! Who KNOWS about these details! It's an au! I forgot where they were from in Jersey, so I made it Trenton! Is that even right? I didn't know the first drummers name, so I didn't give it! Was Frank living with his parents before MCR got together (probably)? Who knows!
Anyway, it's MCR HETFIC. GUYS. HET.
HET.
(The title is from "Waiting Room", Fugazi)
ETA: (Waiting Room-Fugazi: http://download.yousendit.com/1B5F967A3
It’s Stephen P. from Narc One Going Down that tells him about it.
“What’s this?” Stephen asks, fingering the magenta pink pills in Tim’s sweaty palm.
“Downers,” Tim Finlan says and Frank rubs his eyes and says “I don’t know, chick bands? I’m not into it. Chick rock is scary.”
Stephen pinches one of the little pink triangles up and looks at it critically. “Why is it neon pink? That’s fucking dumb. And no, the band isn’t like, Ani, man. They’re the real deal.”
Tim tucks his other hand into Stephen’s pocket and fishes around in the cramped space for his wallet. Then he gives up and tugs on the wallet chain.
“If you’re not Kitty, you’re gonna be a shitty girl band,” Frank says, watching Stephen’s duct tape wallet pop out and swing at his ankles, chain clinking.
“You’re sexist, motherfucker,” Tim says.
“Yeah, dude. You think I’d come up here and recommend a band that was shit?” Stephen asks, reaching for his loose wallet. “Stop fuckin’ groping me. Here.”
Stephen opens his wallet and hands over a ten. Sticks the little pink pill on his tongue.
“That’s gonna knock you on your ass,” Tim says pointedly.
“Yeah, good,” Stephen agrees, grasping Frank’s arm and walking him away.
The apartment is on the top floor, up a shaky set of raw wood stairs. Stephen P. pulls him into the small hallway, all brown-gold shag carpet and there’s a completely fucked oil painting of Michael Jackson on the wall, from the early years.
“What the fuck?” Stephen says, staring at it. Then he shakes his head and looks blearily at Frank. “I’m tellin’ you dude. These kids are the next big thing, girl lead or not. You should come down with me on Friday to see them at Skateland in Trenton.”
Frank hitches up his studded belt. “Christ, if you’re not gonna let it go, I’ll come see your little girlfriend play her baby punk show.”
Stephen cuffs him in the face. “Shitfucker....Jesus, what is with the King of Pop? People are fucking weird.”
Ben runs the backroom at Trenton’s Black Tape, and he’s sucking down a slushy and playing XBox when they push through the slack curtain. He looks up and Stephen P. gives a little wave, goes for the vinyl.
“What do you want?” Ben asks Frank as Frank sits back in the broken couch, grabs a controller.
“You got those Ottawa ’95 Fugazi recordings?” Frank asks, reaching with his Chuck to tap the RESET.
“Nope,” Ben says.
“Shit,” Frank says honestly, and they play Amped.
“Fuckin’ Yellowcard,” Stephen P. says from across the room. Frank has to agree, and the next time his avatar eats snow, he hefts up and goes to pluck through the stack of handmade demos.
“Ha, check this out,” Frank lifts the My Chemical Romance cd out of the pile and waves it.
Ben looks up. “Yeah, that’s the last I got of those.”
Frank looks it over skeptically. The lettering looks like it was done by an early ‘90s tagger with metal influences. The art is gothy, two dark, red-rimmed eyes, wide and petulant. All jagged, messy pen. Frank smirks. “Can I take this shit?”
“I’ll give it to you for $15.”
Frank frowns, disgusted. “Whatever, man. This is a demo, fucker. I’m not paying fifteen for a demo.”
Ben gets up and joins him, all wide weight and angry red-skin under his crew cut. “It’s my last one, asshole. I could sell this for $20. But I’m askin’ you for $15. If you don’t want it, fuckin’ put it down and shut the fuck up.”
Stephen P. stands off to the side, arms crossed defensively over his thin chest.
“Yeah, fuckin’ fuck,” Frank bitches and reaches for his wallet.
The show is outside at dusk and full of assholes with faux-hawks and bad eye makeup. Frank hangs back, hand in his hair. Irritated. Stephen P.’s high and grinning. Eyes crinkled and lazy with the pot.
“Straight edge?” Stephen asks.
“No. I’m driving us back tonight. Don’t need two fuckups in my mom’s car at once.”
Stephen P. has his hands on his hips. Waiting. Everyone is waiting.
The chick band’s late. Fuckin’ divas.
“You listen to that demo yet?” Stephen asked in the car. Frank had shoved the thing in a stack that were going in his car, when it got back with his brother from Oregon. Forgot about it, though he’d missed that 15 dollars a few nights later, when he went to buy grinders.
“No, but what the fuck are we waiting for here?” he asks, loudly. Shouting, really. Hands cupped over his mouth.
“Ah, it’s still light out, man. They’ll be on.”
They wait. While they’re waiting, Frank lifts his chin at a passing girl. Hey, it says. The girl smiles back. She’s fuckin’ cute.
And then the crowd starts cheering, a wave of charge when the lights go on, when the band comes out.
Frank gets up on his toes to look over the crowd, frowning.
The band is all guys, which he didn’t expect. There’s a rail thin, androgynous fucker with his bass. And a big kid with hair and a guitar. A drummer he can’t really see, just a kid silhouetted in the dark.
Then there’s the girl.
She’s got her black hair short, tucked behind her ears. Little sharp chin. Solid, spread hips. She picks up the mike, waving at the crowd.
She’s wearing a flack jacket.
Frank has a moment to smirk. Because, really. Doesn’t that just prove everything he thought?
And then the drummer counts it out...
He climbs into the car, sits with his arm loose on the steering wheel. Cigarette in his mouth.
Stephen P. is standing in the headlights with the band, shaking hands. With the kid with the hair, Ray Toro. Frank’s heard of this kid. The drummer, he can’t remember. But the thin bassist was the brother. Mikey. Mikey Way.
Stephen pauses to smile at Helen Way.
Frank sucks up the cigarette, staring.
“What’d you think?” Stephen asks with a grunt, flopping into the passenger seat.
“They were good,” Frank says, passively. He puts the car in reverse.
He looks over his shoulder and rolls back quickly. Pauses as he switches gears and looks back.
Helen Way is watching them leave.
Frank looks at her and puts his foot to the gas.
“Here,” he says, throwing his Camels onto Stephen’s lap. “Light one for me.”
He sucks down one after the other, driving hunched over the wheel.
At home he goes to the bedroom. Strips down to his boxers and shivering, walks carefully down the hallway to the bathroom.
He washes his face.
Then he stands there, lost on the bathmat before he finally shoves a hand down his boxers and cups his dick.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Shaun Simon says, grimacing, going to turn off the cd.
Frank slaps the back of his head, says “Fuck you, I’m listening to it.”
Shaun looks at him hard.
Frank ignores him, tapping out Our Lady of Sorrows on the steering wheel.
“Fuckin’ shit,” Shaun bitches.
“It’s better than Nada Surf, and we’re opening for those fuckers tonight,” Frank snarls.
Shaun laughs. “Whatever. This is fuckin’ chick rock.”
Later that night, Frank twists on stage, kicks Shaun in the fuckin’ ass.
He goes to the next show alone. It’s in this basement club, red-lit and smoky. Frank stands on a chair at the back of the room. Over everyone’s head so he can get a good look.
When Helen throws her fisted mike in the air at the beginning of Cubicles, Frank lets out a loud, joy-fucked shout.
It’s loud. She looks right out at him. But the lights are bright, he doubts she can see him.
He has to climb down then, get in the moving crowd. He bashes his fuckin’ head into someone’s shoulder, but it’s good. It’s fucking great.
He lights up like Christmas, he’s so happy.
He’s got his hand plastered to his bloody head, leaving. The parking lot is full of assholes, milling around with their black hoodies, smoking menthols.
He passes a van and there’s Ray Toro, putting in his guitar.
“Good show, dude,” Frank says, and Ray looks up and they slap hands companionably.
“Yeah? Fuck. We were drunk off our asses.”
Frank smirks, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Couldn’t tell. It was tight.”
Ray frowns, looks at him. “Your head’s all bloody.”
“Yeah, got a little excited,” he says.
Frank looks pleased. “That’s awesome, dude. Good enough to draw blood, that’s all I want outta this.”
“Yeah, definitely. Anyway, good fuckin’ show. See you next time,” Frank says, backing up.
“Hey, wait. What’s your name?”
“Frank Iero, man.”
Ray nods. “Oh. Hey. Hey! You started that band with those Sector 12 guys, yeah?”
Frank nods.
“Oh, man. Wait. You should meet Mikey Way. He used to love those guys, come on.”
Frank pauses on his heels. Unsure.
“Really, dude. Kid will smack a bitch if he hears you were here and I didn’t drag you over.”
“All right, man,” Frank agrees.
Mikey Way is wasted, all spaced out and tripping along as they walk behind the venue to his car. “What’s the name. Of what you’re doing now?”
Frank follows along, ducking a look back over his shoulder, but no one’s there.
“Pencey Prep, man.”
“Right right,” Mikey slurs. He stops and smiles, clawing at his car. “Lemme. Lemme give you our demo, man.”
Frank feels a slap of heat against the back of his neck. Palms it. “I already got it.”
Mikey Way sways a little, looking at him. “Really? There were only like, 40 of those.”
“Yeah,” Frank says, embarrassed. “Bought one off the dude at Black Tape.”
“Bought one?” Ray asks, amused.
“Yeah. Bitch charged me 15 dollars.”
Ray broke up, laughing. Mikey just looks at him, scandalized.
“We gotta tell this to Helen. She’s gonna think that’s the best shit ever.” Ray says.
“Hey, I gotta go,” Frank backs away, zipping up his jacket.
“Wait wait, here she is,” Ray says, and cups his hands around his mouth. “Helen!”
She’s standing lost at the backdoor, but when she hears them, she turns to look, hair swishing.
Frank watches her walk over. She walks a little funny, loose-kneed. Bouncing a little. Her mouth is wide, split-grin. Toothy.
“You guys all left the stage and I was standing there for like, 5 minutes. I thought we had one more?”
Ray smiles. “Stupid ass, they’re closing in ten minutes.”
She shrugs. “Whatever. We could have rocked one out.”
Ray drops a hand on Frank’s shoulder. Frank’s knees give a little at the weight. He can feel the smile on his face. He can feel it twitching there, completely helpless.
“This dude is Frank Iero, from Pencey Prep. That band that’s the fall-out of John McGuire’s band. He just bought one of our demos in the South Ward for fifteen dollars.” Ray’s hand squeezed at his shoulder.
Helen blinks, looking him over. Frank has this flare of body heat, feels sweat pop out on his back, turning into sharp points of chill in the cold night air. His nipples get all tight. Basically, he’s 14 again, going haywire in an instant.
“Frank, man,” Helen says, reaching out for his hand. They shake. It’s friendly. They all shoot the shit for a half-hour, as the bar closes up. As the last kids waiting for their time with the band give up and wander off.
At one point, Mikey Way slips down on his ass, knees bent. And Frank helps him up, grinning. Slaps at his chest. “Come on, kid. Keep those knees stiff. Hold yourself up.”
When he’s got Mikey leaning safe against his car, he turns and Helen is there. Looking at him. Smiling, showing her teeth again.
“You are really, really good,” Frank blurts out. And then his face goes twitchy and he looks away.
“Ha, I know. I’m fuckin’...an inspiration, man,” Helen says, knocking her shoulder into his, rough.
Frank bites his lip, grinning like an asshole.
“We’re playing this party next weekend, at a friend’s place in Hackensack. If you want to come, you can hitch a ride in the van.”
Frank looks at her quickly, looks away. Shrugs. “Yeah, that would be cool.”
“Bring your guitar, dude,” Ray Toro says.
Frank says he will and goes to walk off again. “Holy shit, Frank Iero. Wait! Give us your fuckin’ address,” Helen calls after him.
He rolls his eyes, smiling. Swings back and she’s got a pen. She looks at him frankly, and holds out her palm.
He pulls it close, frowning. Writes it out on her hand.
The van shudders to a stop in front of his parents house, the neighborhood shabby but decked out in colored lights for the holidays. He climbs awkwardly into the back, where it’s just cold metal floor and a mattress, a few blankets. It’s dark and he can’t see much, but he can see the drummer is back there, and Helen.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey. Hey, man,” he says to both of them. Sits with his back to the wall, hugging his guitar case.
“It’s kind of a drive,” Ray says, loud so they can hear him. “If it gets cold, tell me.”
They drive silently to the show. When his eyes adjust, he can see her. The passing street light skims across her face, lights up her pale expression in the dark. She’s twisting her hair in her fingers.
He pulls out his guitar and strums at it, hips thrust forward. Frowning. Putting his guitar on was like promising he might have to bust his forehead into some asshole’s. Everyone always had something to say, some advice. Some sneering comment. He stands off to the side and loosens up.
Ray Toro comes over, sweaty from playing. “Come on. We’ve got a few minutes. Lets give it a shot.”
He sees Helen sitting on the grass. She took off her sweatshirt during the show, and is in a tight Dischord Records teeshirt with ripped sleeves.
Frank stares at her while he follows Ray blind towards the amps.
They plug in and he hitches up his jeans. Stands stiff for a second and Ray smiles. “Come on, dude. Fuckin’ blow the top off.”
So he does.
The next afternoon, Mikey Way calls him and asks him if he wants to join the band.
He hangs up and pours a glass of his mom’s Crystal Lite from the pitcher in the fridge. He scuffs upstairs, drinking it.
He puts it down on his dresser and climbs on his bed, shaking.
He almost brains himself, jumping up and down, biting his arm.
Working it out with Ray Toro is compromising and needs patience. They can’t get it together.
After an hour, Ray puts down his guitar, frustrated, and walks out. Walks out and down the street. Frank puts his guitar against the wall and scrubs his hands through his hair.
Helen watches them, but she doesn’t interfere. They go out together to smoke. Frank shivers in his short sleeves, cold and overexcited.
She smells good, like sticky, green bud and manic panic and some kind of lotion.
He can’t really look at her, because he’s already fucked up. He’s fucking this up.
He wants this so much, so sharply, he could get sick.
But then Ray Toro turns the corner and comes back, smiling a little sheepishly. He bums a cigarette and Helen goes back in.
Frank lights up again and they smoke together, shivering.
“We’re recording the album in two weeks,” Mikey Way says as they leave the basement. “I’ll give you some of the music we got now. We’re meeting tomorrow at noon again.”
“Good, sure. Okay,” Frank babbles. He’s watching Helen pull up her hoodie, cigarette in her mouth.
“Your sister,” he says, before he can help it. “Is she...and Ray Toro...?”
Mikey frowns, looks at her too. “No. Never. I don’t think. I mean, why?”
Frank puts on his jacket, stalling “I don’t know. There was a vibe or something.”
“No. She’s not like that. She’s...” Mikey pauses, thinking. “She’s sort of...she doesn’t swing that way.”
The horror runs the blood out of Frank’s head, rushes through him to his guts, which clench up defensively.
He hadn’t expected-
“What, she’s a dyke?” he spits out before he can swallow it back.
Mikey shakes his head. “No, not really. She’s kind of...asexual.”
Frank looks at her. She’s putting on her fingerless gloves, grinning at Ray Toro. She’s got a thick old lady scarf wrapped around and around her neck, her hoodie up underneath.
Frank looks away. “Oh,” he says.
He beats off in the bathroom that night with a Varla spread open on his lap, dirty as hell. But he lets it slip off near the end, pinching one out, thinking about Helen Way and what her little pale belly would look like.
And how he’d fist at her flesh and grunt-fuck the living shit out of her.
He moans, hips hitching. Shit, he’d fuck the asexual right outta her fuckin’ head.
He splats all over his Black Kat Kustoms tee shirt, his chin.
He’s nervy and sick for the first show, stone-cold sober. But Mikey Way is tripping on something, Ray Toro looks like he wants to puke, the drummer is being a bitch and arguing out back about soloing and Helen Way is drunk.
She’s drunk and reeling. Climbing on stage, she has to flail and grab a hold of Frank’s arm to keep upright.
He bites his lip, struggles to hold their weight suddenly. Gets her up there.
“Thanks, Frankie,” she says sloppily.
He pops a boner as they sound check. His forehead goes hot under the lights.
The first song is Headfirst for Halos. He knows it. Takes him until the second chorus to warm up.
And then he’s in there. He’s way in there. At one point, he slams into Helen’s side, and she’s solid. She breaks up a little, grinning. And he ruts there, suspended, guitar like a safeguard between them. Between his dick and her hip.
He laughs, right up against her sweaty neck, and only she hears it.
The next week they’re recording in the studio.
At one point, Helen gets sleepy, frowny. And after everyone coddles her, she ignores them and slips down into Frank’s lap.
Frank stills. His shackles go up, overstimulated.
She sits on his knee and lazes there, head on his shoulder, watching Ray in the booth, laying down his parts.
They’re at the Trenton mall, looking through the Christmas leftovers. Mikey picks up a stuffed elf and holds it up, smiling ruefully.
“This looks like you, dude.”
Frank smirks, shoves him. They walk down to the food court.
“You like my sister,” Mikey says suddenly, as they’re waiting in line for cookies.
Frank looks at him. Mikey is calm, looking back with clear eyes under his eyeglasses.
“Yeah,” Frank sighs. “I guess.”
“Okay,” Mikey says, and that’s that.
They tour downstate, sleeping in the van even though it’s fuckin’ cold outside. They all line up on the mattress, legs collapsed together. He’s trying to sleep with Mikey Way’s hand clawed at his back. With Ray shifting on the other side.
He hears a soft swear and sees Helen’s shadow as she gets up, moves, grumbling.
Frank hitches in a breath as she moves in between him and Ray, struggles into the space. He lifts the blanket for her.
“You’re awake?” she breathes when she settles close. Her knees to his.
“For a while,” he says back, quietly. His dick gets tight and hard as he feels her warmth, her limbs.
“Too cold on the outside. I’m sleeping in the middle for now on. If I get sick, we’re fucked.”
Frank jumps when a hand sneaks into his shirt, palms his shoulder.
“You’re warm,” she says.
He feels like he has a minor seizure, all clenching hands and twitching eyelids. Shaky bottom lip.
She falls asleep.
He’s bracketed between the two Way siblings, and she’s got her hand on his chest. He grits his jaw, thrusts a little at the blanket.
He’s awake until the sun comes up, bleary in the dirty windows.
He’s has to slide her hand out of shirt so he can get up, get out. They’re in a Burger King parking lot. He shoves inside the restaurant door and grabs the bathroom key from the counter. Jacks off with a cold hand in the dirty bathroom, grunting under his breath.
He gets down on his knees for her, skids across the stage. She’s thrashing a little, eyes closed. Grimacing.
He butts his head into her hip, once. Twice. Feels his mouth flush. Would eat her pussy out here.
He rocks his hips into his guitar. Leans in and puts his teeth into her hip.
fuck, fuck
She flourishes a hand, drops it against his scalp, nails digging in. His cock jerks in his jeans.
She presses the heel of her hand into his forehead and shoves him off.
Ray wails a little, long, rock riffs that make his teeth ache.
When he can see through the sweat, she’s singing again. All bravado, all high-pitched and full. But she keeps darting her eyes back at him. Looking at him.
He bites his lip, humps out the melody on his guitar.
Ray and him are taking free shots, surrounded by boys that follow them from shitty venue to shitty venue, grinning like they’re in love.
Ray has his crazy hair pulled back, and his lips are wet. He’s laughing and it’s good. It’s catchy. So Frank is laughing too, high-giggle. Slapping the bar.
He can’t fuckin’ remember what is so hilarious, except it is.
Mikey is sitting at a table across the bar with a girl with red hair on his lap, looking smug. Watching the hockey game on the tv.
The drummer left an hour ago, fuckin’ bitch.
Frank looks around, swivels on the stool. Still grinning like an idiot as Toro hooks them up with some Red Bull shooters.
He looks around the bar. But he can’t see Helen anywhere.
Frank gets off the stool, shoulders tight. Legs bowed. Drunk-walking.
“Hey, I set us up,” Ray says, watching him go.
“Be right back,” Frank says and stumbles into a table. Straightens up and walks out back.
She’s not by the phone. She’s not in the hall.
He sways and wonders if he should check outside, see if she’s smoking.
And then he hears her voice.
From the men’s room.
The way she sounds behind the door is strange, lost. Confused “Yessss?”
He pushes against the door to go in, but it’s locked.
“Hey!” he shouts. He doesn’t even know why yet, he’s too drunk, but his chest goes tight, anxious.
No one answers.
“Hey, open the fuckin’ door,” he says, thumping his shoulder into it.
“Fuck you!” a guy laughs inside. And then Frank’s face goes fucking hot and rigid and he’s punching the door.
“Open. The. Door. Motherfucker!” he yells and the door pops open.
Inside, it’s Helen’s hand on the doorknob. She’s looking at him with rolling, spaced-out eyes.
“Fuck,” the guy inside grunts, twisting around to do up his pants.
Helen’s pressed into the wall, pants around her knees. White thighs. White.
Frank loses his shit.
Ray has to fight him. Ray has to punch him in the back of the head and get two guys to help pull him off.
He comes away with a bloody arm, splattered. He might have broke the guy’s jaw. He’s still fighting to get back to him as they drag him out of the venue.
He’s screaming, kicking. The owner is yelling “Never again! Get the fuck out of here!”
He’s screaming and finally Ray lets him go. He punches his hand into the side of the van, leaves a dent. Sprains his wrist.
Goes to Helen whose vomiting into a bush, Mikey at her side.
“What did you take,” he says to her, hoarse. And he’s got blood on his own face. Bloodied nose.
She’s retching, pitching forward.
“What did you take?!” he yells in her ear, shaking her by the shoulders. Ray bounds back over to take him in arms again. Mikey is shoving him back.
“I don’t know. Pills. Pills and...I don’t know,” she slurs.
Frank goes loose in Ray’s arms. Loose, giving up.
“Stupid bitch,” Frank hisses. He doesn’t stop himself from crying a little, clenching his fists over and over, leaning back in Ray’s arms. Watching Helen vomit.
She’s shaky, can’t keep her hands out of her hair.
Frank comes up behind her, puts his hands there. Scrubs at her dirty hair, scalp. Scrubs in deep and leans into her a little. Feels her relax, letting him.
They stand outside the van in NYC while he scrubs at her scalp.
After, she turns around and gestures with tremoring hands. He gets down a little, gently zips up her parka.
Ray Toro is sweating at his back, asleep, and Helen is shaking. He has a safe arm around her, strong and unmoving as she shakes herself apart and grasps at him when she does.
“Shhh,” he says to her when she makes upset sounds. His thermal crawls up his belly from all her quaking.
“Can’t, shit,” she says to him.
“You’re good, Helen. I’m right here, okay? Just keep going.”
After a while she settles down, stops moving. He thinks she’s asleep but she suddenly clasps his hand and moves it.
Moves it. Down.
He gasps against the back of her head when she presses his fingers with her own, presses him to her cunt.
She whimpers under her breath, moves his fingers tight with her own, makes him rub at her heat. So hot inside her pants.
They’re silent, so fuckin’ quiet as Frank struggles his palm down the front of her tight jeans. Struggles with soft sounds until he touches along the edges of her wet cunt.
He presses his face into her neck and squirms his hand in further. Until he can finally get a long, sharp finger into her.
He presses it in all the way, slick slick. Up up. Until he’s deep. So deep in her. He whines then, wants to fuck her. Wants to get in her.
She reaches down and shakily opens her fly, zips down. And then there’s all this room. He rubs his hardon against her ass but the movement makes Ray snort, roll.
He freezes, they both do. Ray makes mouth sounds and settles back in. Frank’s lying there with his finger up the cunt of his bandmate. He breathes her in and rubs his forehead into her.
After a minute, Helen presses against his hand again and he pulls his finger out. Makes her let go of this tortured sound. All breath.
He gives her two, long fingers, presses them in. All the way.
She thrashes a little, but he gets his other arm under her and holds her. Wraps it around her and pulls her close by the shoulders. Holds her there while he fingers her off.
When she comes, he’s in the middle of pulling his fingers out and feels her orgasm on just his fingertips, sudden, tight clench. He closes his eyes and thrusts back in.
She makes a too-high sound as he gives her something to come around. And she comes hard, long, sharp clenches.
When she finishes, she collapses back. Hugs his arm. Holds it between her legs and gives little, wet twitches to his fingers.
She finally falls asleep and he gets his hand back. Fingers all pruned from her sap. He sucks at them quietly, boner like a piece of metal pipe in his pants.
He lies awake, hungry, breathing in her hair.
By the next show, she’s clear-eyed and nervous. Self-aware. Practicing in her makeup and a velvet jacket, awkward, in front of the bathroom mirror at the rec center.
He sits on a folding chair in the back of the room, warming up with Ray. Watching her.
The new drummer, Bob, is so shy his lips are turning white from the strain.
Ray thinks he’s funny, keeps shaking his head and cracking up.
Mikey is in the corner, jumping up and down. Lifting his bass, testing its weight.
Frank checks his sound equipment, checks his strings. Warms up his hands on his jeans and feels like going for a run around the parking lot.
“You guys ready?” the stage manager asks them at the door.
Helen turns around, hands absentmindedly fiddling with her jacket lapel.
She finds his eyes, and Frank nods. Stands up.
“Yeah, we’re ready,” she says.
She moves better on stage, when she’s not drunk. And her voice is good. Real good. Frank watches her, watches her dance and smile and throw her drenched hair around. The blue slash of make up over her eyes bleeding under the lights.
Frank grins, feels his knees go a little weak. He goes down on them then, playing for Ray. For Mikey Way, whose started wearing this girly peacoat that makes them all stupid-happy for him.
He plays for fuckin’ Bob, all thick arms slaying the drums.
...And for his lady love.
Ray Toro is talking shit out with the merch guys and Mikey went back to the motel room already. Sleepy and a little high. Bob followed him back, trudging with his shoulders stiff. Still the new guy.
Frank is standing by the van, smoking a cigarette, and Helen Way joins him.
He offers her the cigarette in his mouth and she smiles, nods. Takes a hit off it. He’s cold in his jacket.
“Frank. Come in the van with me?” she asks, giving him back the cigarette.
Frank Iero stares at her.
She stares back, looking uncertain.
“Okay,” he says stupidly.
“Come in the van and fuck me, okay?” she says.
He closes his eyes, “Okay.”
Frank is shaking for it. He hears the way he sounds when he asks her, and it’s a breathless-whine.
“Turn around, turn around,” he whines. “Get on your hands, okay? Shit, fuckin’...Helen, please.”
Helen has her hair in her dark eyes, but she pushes it away so she can see him. She’s looking back at him, all open, wide eyes.
It’s a gawky, humiliating struggle to get his belt and pants open. All jerking arm and under-breath swears.
“Gonna give it,” he says, hard like fuck for her.
Her mouth falls open, loose and wet and aroused.
“Oh shit, gonna fuck you,” he says, and it sounds astoundingly stupid, cinematically stupid. But he can’t help it. He loves her. Fuckin’...a lot.
When he gets his dick into her, thorny shove up and in, too hard and curved to get in all the way at first-fuck, he makes this sound.
He’s always grunted during sex, he knows that. Ugly, male sounds like “Nngnn, gnnn, ugnn.” But when he gets his dick inside Helen fuckin’ Way, he sobs a little, like a fuckin’ kid. Sobs at her “Ohh, ohhh, ohhh shit.”
All hitching and thankful.
He’s shivering over her, keening a little, rocking in the pleasure. His hips are fused to her ass. His dick in her tight, juicy little cunt. He swivels and closes his eyes. Smiles against her neck because, so good. Shit.
The nape of her neck is sweaty, spicy from her unwashed hair. She whispers “Please, Frank,” and he wrings at her hips for a moment before sliding a hand down and fingering her clit.
He moans.
“You’re all swollen,” he tells her. “Goddamn, wanna fuck you.”
“Fuck. Frank,” she breathes, hurt. Hurt from the hard dick in her soft spot. Hurt from the way he’s just roving into her, not giving her the kind of sweet thrusts a girl needs.
“Jesus. Helen. Gimme a second,” Frank trembles, on edge, before her arching sets him off, makes him jolt into her. Too excited.
When he fucks her, he grunts again, but the sounds still go high and lost when he’s close. He tugs her backbackback on his dick. Feels the van shaking. Watches her drop her head and cry a little when she comes, all new and perfect. All quavering around him like it’s too tight for her to finish good and hard.
He comes too, biting his lip, hot face against her neck. Fingers digging into her and holding her still as he unloads a big fuckin’ mess, every little dirty bit that’s been building up in his nuts since he saw her.
They lie in the chill, gasping. Faces red.
“Jesus,” she slurs, laughing.
He gives little, short thrusts. Taking it all.
They lie slumped into each other, silent. Sleepy. They pull the blanket up and he cuffs his stiff-jacketed arm around her.
They sleep in the van that night as the show lets out, as the kids yell and laugh in the parking lot around them.
Ray Toro says to him “Ha. I fuckin’ knew it,” and rolls his eyes. Mikey just keeps going on like nothing’s changed and Bob doesn’t know any better. A few months later, Bob says “You guys are engaged, right?” And Frank has to slap his ass and laugh for being so sweet.
They’re in Connecticut and Mikey needs to get back to Trenton for a radio interview. So Frank says he’ll drive the van back while the others fly home.
But then Helen says she’ll drive with him, and he grins and bounces around, packing up the van.
They take off in the morning, Helen with her striped socked feet on the dash in front of her. A Jhonen Vasquez comic book open on her lap. It’s a sun-yellow morning on the turnpike. He’s got his smokes in his jean jacket pocket and Ray left his aviators in the cup holder, so he slides those on.
Helen falls asleep as he merges onto I-95.
He’s jumped up on caffeine and in love.
title: I Am a Patient Boy
fandom: Sigh, MCR. BANDOM, GUYS. Mcr as in My Chemical Romance.
pairing: Frank Iero/Girl!Gerard Way
note: So this is an AU about Gerard being a girl named Helen (after her...grandmother?) and Frank being sort of, head over heels. And what else...oh! Who KNOWS about these details! It's an au! I forgot where they were from in Jersey, so I made it Trenton! Is that even right? I didn't know the first drummers name, so I didn't give it! Was Frank living with his parents before MCR got together (probably)? Who knows!
Anyway, it's MCR HETFIC. GUYS. HET.
HET.
(The title is from "Waiting Room", Fugazi)
ETA: (Waiting Room-Fugazi: http://download.yousendit.com/1B5F967A3
It’s Stephen P. from Narc One Going Down that tells him about it.
“What’s this?” Stephen asks, fingering the magenta pink pills in Tim’s sweaty palm.
“Downers,” Tim Finlan says and Frank rubs his eyes and says “I don’t know, chick bands? I’m not into it. Chick rock is scary.”
Stephen pinches one of the little pink triangles up and looks at it critically. “Why is it neon pink? That’s fucking dumb. And no, the band isn’t like, Ani, man. They’re the real deal.”
Tim tucks his other hand into Stephen’s pocket and fishes around in the cramped space for his wallet. Then he gives up and tugs on the wallet chain.
“If you’re not Kitty, you’re gonna be a shitty girl band,” Frank says, watching Stephen’s duct tape wallet pop out and swing at his ankles, chain clinking.
“You’re sexist, motherfucker,” Tim says.
“Yeah, dude. You think I’d come up here and recommend a band that was shit?” Stephen asks, reaching for his loose wallet. “Stop fuckin’ groping me. Here.”
Stephen opens his wallet and hands over a ten. Sticks the little pink pill on his tongue.
“That’s gonna knock you on your ass,” Tim says pointedly.
“Yeah, good,” Stephen agrees, grasping Frank’s arm and walking him away.
The apartment is on the top floor, up a shaky set of raw wood stairs. Stephen P. pulls him into the small hallway, all brown-gold shag carpet and there’s a completely fucked oil painting of Michael Jackson on the wall, from the early years.
“What the fuck?” Stephen says, staring at it. Then he shakes his head and looks blearily at Frank. “I’m tellin’ you dude. These kids are the next big thing, girl lead or not. You should come down with me on Friday to see them at Skateland in Trenton.”
Frank hitches up his studded belt. “Christ, if you’re not gonna let it go, I’ll come see your little girlfriend play her baby punk show.”
Stephen cuffs him in the face. “Shitfucker....Jesus, what is with the King of Pop? People are fucking weird.”
Ben runs the backroom at Trenton’s Black Tape, and he’s sucking down a slushy and playing XBox when they push through the slack curtain. He looks up and Stephen P. gives a little wave, goes for the vinyl.
“What do you want?” Ben asks Frank as Frank sits back in the broken couch, grabs a controller.
“You got those Ottawa ’95 Fugazi recordings?” Frank asks, reaching with his Chuck to tap the RESET.
“Nope,” Ben says.
“Shit,” Frank says honestly, and they play Amped.
“Fuckin’ Yellowcard,” Stephen P. says from across the room. Frank has to agree, and the next time his avatar eats snow, he hefts up and goes to pluck through the stack of handmade demos.
“Ha, check this out,” Frank lifts the My Chemical Romance cd out of the pile and waves it.
Ben looks up. “Yeah, that’s the last I got of those.”
Frank looks it over skeptically. The lettering looks like it was done by an early ‘90s tagger with metal influences. The art is gothy, two dark, red-rimmed eyes, wide and petulant. All jagged, messy pen. Frank smirks. “Can I take this shit?”
“I’ll give it to you for $15.”
Frank frowns, disgusted. “Whatever, man. This is a demo, fucker. I’m not paying fifteen for a demo.”
Ben gets up and joins him, all wide weight and angry red-skin under his crew cut. “It’s my last one, asshole. I could sell this for $20. But I’m askin’ you for $15. If you don’t want it, fuckin’ put it down and shut the fuck up.”
Stephen P. stands off to the side, arms crossed defensively over his thin chest.
“Yeah, fuckin’ fuck,” Frank bitches and reaches for his wallet.
The show is outside at dusk and full of assholes with faux-hawks and bad eye makeup. Frank hangs back, hand in his hair. Irritated. Stephen P.’s high and grinning. Eyes crinkled and lazy with the pot.
“Straight edge?” Stephen asks.
“No. I’m driving us back tonight. Don’t need two fuckups in my mom’s car at once.”
Stephen P. has his hands on his hips. Waiting. Everyone is waiting.
The chick band’s late. Fuckin’ divas.
“You listen to that demo yet?” Stephen asked in the car. Frank had shoved the thing in a stack that were going in his car, when it got back with his brother from Oregon. Forgot about it, though he’d missed that 15 dollars a few nights later, when he went to buy grinders.
“No, but what the fuck are we waiting for here?” he asks, loudly. Shouting, really. Hands cupped over his mouth.
“Ah, it’s still light out, man. They’ll be on.”
They wait. While they’re waiting, Frank lifts his chin at a passing girl. Hey, it says. The girl smiles back. She’s fuckin’ cute.
And then the crowd starts cheering, a wave of charge when the lights go on, when the band comes out.
Frank gets up on his toes to look over the crowd, frowning.
The band is all guys, which he didn’t expect. There’s a rail thin, androgynous fucker with his bass. And a big kid with hair and a guitar. A drummer he can’t really see, just a kid silhouetted in the dark.
Then there’s the girl.
She’s got her black hair short, tucked behind her ears. Little sharp chin. Solid, spread hips. She picks up the mike, waving at the crowd.
She’s wearing a flack jacket.
Frank has a moment to smirk. Because, really. Doesn’t that just prove everything he thought?
And then the drummer counts it out...
He climbs into the car, sits with his arm loose on the steering wheel. Cigarette in his mouth.
Stephen P. is standing in the headlights with the band, shaking hands. With the kid with the hair, Ray Toro. Frank’s heard of this kid. The drummer, he can’t remember. But the thin bassist was the brother. Mikey. Mikey Way.
Stephen pauses to smile at Helen Way.
Frank sucks up the cigarette, staring.
“What’d you think?” Stephen asks with a grunt, flopping into the passenger seat.
“They were good,” Frank says, passively. He puts the car in reverse.
He looks over his shoulder and rolls back quickly. Pauses as he switches gears and looks back.
Helen Way is watching them leave.
Frank looks at her and puts his foot to the gas.
“Here,” he says, throwing his Camels onto Stephen’s lap. “Light one for me.”
He sucks down one after the other, driving hunched over the wheel.
At home he goes to the bedroom. Strips down to his boxers and shivering, walks carefully down the hallway to the bathroom.
He washes his face.
Then he stands there, lost on the bathmat before he finally shoves a hand down his boxers and cups his dick.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Shaun Simon says, grimacing, going to turn off the cd.
Frank slaps the back of his head, says “Fuck you, I’m listening to it.”
Shaun looks at him hard.
Frank ignores him, tapping out Our Lady of Sorrows on the steering wheel.
“Fuckin’ shit,” Shaun bitches.
“It’s better than Nada Surf, and we’re opening for those fuckers tonight,” Frank snarls.
Shaun laughs. “Whatever. This is fuckin’ chick rock.”
Later that night, Frank twists on stage, kicks Shaun in the fuckin’ ass.
He goes to the next show alone. It’s in this basement club, red-lit and smoky. Frank stands on a chair at the back of the room. Over everyone’s head so he can get a good look.
When Helen throws her fisted mike in the air at the beginning of Cubicles, Frank lets out a loud, joy-fucked shout.
It’s loud. She looks right out at him. But the lights are bright, he doubts she can see him.
He has to climb down then, get in the moving crowd. He bashes his fuckin’ head into someone’s shoulder, but it’s good. It’s fucking great.
He lights up like Christmas, he’s so happy.
He’s got his hand plastered to his bloody head, leaving. The parking lot is full of assholes, milling around with their black hoodies, smoking menthols.
He passes a van and there’s Ray Toro, putting in his guitar.
“Good show, dude,” Frank says, and Ray looks up and they slap hands companionably.
“Yeah? Fuck. We were drunk off our asses.”
Frank smirks, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Couldn’t tell. It was tight.”
Ray frowns, looks at him. “Your head’s all bloody.”
“Yeah, got a little excited,” he says.
Frank looks pleased. “That’s awesome, dude. Good enough to draw blood, that’s all I want outta this.”
“Yeah, definitely. Anyway, good fuckin’ show. See you next time,” Frank says, backing up.
“Hey, wait. What’s your name?”
“Frank Iero, man.”
Ray nods. “Oh. Hey. Hey! You started that band with those Sector 12 guys, yeah?”
Frank nods.
“Oh, man. Wait. You should meet Mikey Way. He used to love those guys, come on.”
Frank pauses on his heels. Unsure.
“Really, dude. Kid will smack a bitch if he hears you were here and I didn’t drag you over.”
“All right, man,” Frank agrees.
Mikey Way is wasted, all spaced out and tripping along as they walk behind the venue to his car. “What’s the name. Of what you’re doing now?”
Frank follows along, ducking a look back over his shoulder, but no one’s there.
“Pencey Prep, man.”
“Right right,” Mikey slurs. He stops and smiles, clawing at his car. “Lemme. Lemme give you our demo, man.”
Frank feels a slap of heat against the back of his neck. Palms it. “I already got it.”
Mikey Way sways a little, looking at him. “Really? There were only like, 40 of those.”
“Yeah,” Frank says, embarrassed. “Bought one off the dude at Black Tape.”
“Bought one?” Ray asks, amused.
“Yeah. Bitch charged me 15 dollars.”
Ray broke up, laughing. Mikey just looks at him, scandalized.
“We gotta tell this to Helen. She’s gonna think that’s the best shit ever.” Ray says.
“Hey, I gotta go,” Frank backs away, zipping up his jacket.
“Wait wait, here she is,” Ray says, and cups his hands around his mouth. “Helen!”
She’s standing lost at the backdoor, but when she hears them, she turns to look, hair swishing.
Frank watches her walk over. She walks a little funny, loose-kneed. Bouncing a little. Her mouth is wide, split-grin. Toothy.
“You guys all left the stage and I was standing there for like, 5 minutes. I thought we had one more?”
Ray smiles. “Stupid ass, they’re closing in ten minutes.”
She shrugs. “Whatever. We could have rocked one out.”
Ray drops a hand on Frank’s shoulder. Frank’s knees give a little at the weight. He can feel the smile on his face. He can feel it twitching there, completely helpless.
“This dude is Frank Iero, from Pencey Prep. That band that’s the fall-out of John McGuire’s band. He just bought one of our demos in the South Ward for fifteen dollars.” Ray’s hand squeezed at his shoulder.
Helen blinks, looking him over. Frank has this flare of body heat, feels sweat pop out on his back, turning into sharp points of chill in the cold night air. His nipples get all tight. Basically, he’s 14 again, going haywire in an instant.
“Frank, man,” Helen says, reaching out for his hand. They shake. It’s friendly. They all shoot the shit for a half-hour, as the bar closes up. As the last kids waiting for their time with the band give up and wander off.
At one point, Mikey Way slips down on his ass, knees bent. And Frank helps him up, grinning. Slaps at his chest. “Come on, kid. Keep those knees stiff. Hold yourself up.”
When he’s got Mikey leaning safe against his car, he turns and Helen is there. Looking at him. Smiling, showing her teeth again.
“You are really, really good,” Frank blurts out. And then his face goes twitchy and he looks away.
“Ha, I know. I’m fuckin’...an inspiration, man,” Helen says, knocking her shoulder into his, rough.
Frank bites his lip, grinning like an asshole.
“We’re playing this party next weekend, at a friend’s place in Hackensack. If you want to come, you can hitch a ride in the van.”
Frank looks at her quickly, looks away. Shrugs. “Yeah, that would be cool.”
“Bring your guitar, dude,” Ray Toro says.
Frank says he will and goes to walk off again. “Holy shit, Frank Iero. Wait! Give us your fuckin’ address,” Helen calls after him.
He rolls his eyes, smiling. Swings back and she’s got a pen. She looks at him frankly, and holds out her palm.
He pulls it close, frowning. Writes it out on her hand.
The van shudders to a stop in front of his parents house, the neighborhood shabby but decked out in colored lights for the holidays. He climbs awkwardly into the back, where it’s just cold metal floor and a mattress, a few blankets. It’s dark and he can’t see much, but he can see the drummer is back there, and Helen.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey. Hey, man,” he says to both of them. Sits with his back to the wall, hugging his guitar case.
“It’s kind of a drive,” Ray says, loud so they can hear him. “If it gets cold, tell me.”
They drive silently to the show. When his eyes adjust, he can see her. The passing street light skims across her face, lights up her pale expression in the dark. She’s twisting her hair in her fingers.
He pulls out his guitar and strums at it, hips thrust forward. Frowning. Putting his guitar on was like promising he might have to bust his forehead into some asshole’s. Everyone always had something to say, some advice. Some sneering comment. He stands off to the side and loosens up.
Ray Toro comes over, sweaty from playing. “Come on. We’ve got a few minutes. Lets give it a shot.”
He sees Helen sitting on the grass. She took off her sweatshirt during the show, and is in a tight Dischord Records teeshirt with ripped sleeves.
Frank stares at her while he follows Ray blind towards the amps.
They plug in and he hitches up his jeans. Stands stiff for a second and Ray smiles. “Come on, dude. Fuckin’ blow the top off.”
So he does.
The next afternoon, Mikey Way calls him and asks him if he wants to join the band.
He hangs up and pours a glass of his mom’s Crystal Lite from the pitcher in the fridge. He scuffs upstairs, drinking it.
He puts it down on his dresser and climbs on his bed, shaking.
He almost brains himself, jumping up and down, biting his arm.
Working it out with Ray Toro is compromising and needs patience. They can’t get it together.
After an hour, Ray puts down his guitar, frustrated, and walks out. Walks out and down the street. Frank puts his guitar against the wall and scrubs his hands through his hair.
Helen watches them, but she doesn’t interfere. They go out together to smoke. Frank shivers in his short sleeves, cold and overexcited.
She smells good, like sticky, green bud and manic panic and some kind of lotion.
He can’t really look at her, because he’s already fucked up. He’s fucking this up.
He wants this so much, so sharply, he could get sick.
But then Ray Toro turns the corner and comes back, smiling a little sheepishly. He bums a cigarette and Helen goes back in.
Frank lights up again and they smoke together, shivering.
“We’re recording the album in two weeks,” Mikey Way says as they leave the basement. “I’ll give you some of the music we got now. We’re meeting tomorrow at noon again.”
“Good, sure. Okay,” Frank babbles. He’s watching Helen pull up her hoodie, cigarette in her mouth.
“Your sister,” he says, before he can help it. “Is she...and Ray Toro...?”
Mikey frowns, looks at her too. “No. Never. I don’t think. I mean, why?”
Frank puts on his jacket, stalling “I don’t know. There was a vibe or something.”
“No. She’s not like that. She’s...” Mikey pauses, thinking. “She’s sort of...she doesn’t swing that way.”
The horror runs the blood out of Frank’s head, rushes through him to his guts, which clench up defensively.
He hadn’t expected-
“What, she’s a dyke?” he spits out before he can swallow it back.
Mikey shakes his head. “No, not really. She’s kind of...asexual.”
Frank looks at her. She’s putting on her fingerless gloves, grinning at Ray Toro. She’s got a thick old lady scarf wrapped around and around her neck, her hoodie up underneath.
Frank looks away. “Oh,” he says.
He beats off in the bathroom that night with a Varla spread open on his lap, dirty as hell. But he lets it slip off near the end, pinching one out, thinking about Helen Way and what her little pale belly would look like.
And how he’d fist at her flesh and grunt-fuck the living shit out of her.
He moans, hips hitching. Shit, he’d fuck the asexual right outta her fuckin’ head.
He splats all over his Black Kat Kustoms tee shirt, his chin.
He’s nervy and sick for the first show, stone-cold sober. But Mikey Way is tripping on something, Ray Toro looks like he wants to puke, the drummer is being a bitch and arguing out back about soloing and Helen Way is drunk.
She’s drunk and reeling. Climbing on stage, she has to flail and grab a hold of Frank’s arm to keep upright.
He bites his lip, struggles to hold their weight suddenly. Gets her up there.
“Thanks, Frankie,” she says sloppily.
He pops a boner as they sound check. His forehead goes hot under the lights.
The first song is Headfirst for Halos. He knows it. Takes him until the second chorus to warm up.
And then he’s in there. He’s way in there. At one point, he slams into Helen’s side, and she’s solid. She breaks up a little, grinning. And he ruts there, suspended, guitar like a safeguard between them. Between his dick and her hip.
He laughs, right up against her sweaty neck, and only she hears it.
The next week they’re recording in the studio.
At one point, Helen gets sleepy, frowny. And after everyone coddles her, she ignores them and slips down into Frank’s lap.
Frank stills. His shackles go up, overstimulated.
She sits on his knee and lazes there, head on his shoulder, watching Ray in the booth, laying down his parts.
They’re at the Trenton mall, looking through the Christmas leftovers. Mikey picks up a stuffed elf and holds it up, smiling ruefully.
“This looks like you, dude.”
Frank smirks, shoves him. They walk down to the food court.
“You like my sister,” Mikey says suddenly, as they’re waiting in line for cookies.
Frank looks at him. Mikey is calm, looking back with clear eyes under his eyeglasses.
“Yeah,” Frank sighs. “I guess.”
“Okay,” Mikey says, and that’s that.
They tour downstate, sleeping in the van even though it’s fuckin’ cold outside. They all line up on the mattress, legs collapsed together. He’s trying to sleep with Mikey Way’s hand clawed at his back. With Ray shifting on the other side.
He hears a soft swear and sees Helen’s shadow as she gets up, moves, grumbling.
Frank hitches in a breath as she moves in between him and Ray, struggles into the space. He lifts the blanket for her.
“You’re awake?” she breathes when she settles close. Her knees to his.
“For a while,” he says back, quietly. His dick gets tight and hard as he feels her warmth, her limbs.
“Too cold on the outside. I’m sleeping in the middle for now on. If I get sick, we’re fucked.”
Frank jumps when a hand sneaks into his shirt, palms his shoulder.
“You’re warm,” she says.
He feels like he has a minor seizure, all clenching hands and twitching eyelids. Shaky bottom lip.
She falls asleep.
He’s bracketed between the two Way siblings, and she’s got her hand on his chest. He grits his jaw, thrusts a little at the blanket.
He’s awake until the sun comes up, bleary in the dirty windows.
He’s has to slide her hand out of shirt so he can get up, get out. They’re in a Burger King parking lot. He shoves inside the restaurant door and grabs the bathroom key from the counter. Jacks off with a cold hand in the dirty bathroom, grunting under his breath.
He gets down on his knees for her, skids across the stage. She’s thrashing a little, eyes closed. Grimacing.
He butts his head into her hip, once. Twice. Feels his mouth flush. Would eat her pussy out here.
He rocks his hips into his guitar. Leans in and puts his teeth into her hip.
fuck, fuck
She flourishes a hand, drops it against his scalp, nails digging in. His cock jerks in his jeans.
She presses the heel of her hand into his forehead and shoves him off.
Ray wails a little, long, rock riffs that make his teeth ache.
When he can see through the sweat, she’s singing again. All bravado, all high-pitched and full. But she keeps darting her eyes back at him. Looking at him.
He bites his lip, humps out the melody on his guitar.
Ray and him are taking free shots, surrounded by boys that follow them from shitty venue to shitty venue, grinning like they’re in love.
Ray has his crazy hair pulled back, and his lips are wet. He’s laughing and it’s good. It’s catchy. So Frank is laughing too, high-giggle. Slapping the bar.
He can’t fuckin’ remember what is so hilarious, except it is.
Mikey is sitting at a table across the bar with a girl with red hair on his lap, looking smug. Watching the hockey game on the tv.
The drummer left an hour ago, fuckin’ bitch.
Frank looks around, swivels on the stool. Still grinning like an idiot as Toro hooks them up with some Red Bull shooters.
He looks around the bar. But he can’t see Helen anywhere.
Frank gets off the stool, shoulders tight. Legs bowed. Drunk-walking.
“Hey, I set us up,” Ray says, watching him go.
“Be right back,” Frank says and stumbles into a table. Straightens up and walks out back.
She’s not by the phone. She’s not in the hall.
He sways and wonders if he should check outside, see if she’s smoking.
And then he hears her voice.
From the men’s room.
The way she sounds behind the door is strange, lost. Confused “Yessss?”
He pushes against the door to go in, but it’s locked.
“Hey!” he shouts. He doesn’t even know why yet, he’s too drunk, but his chest goes tight, anxious.
No one answers.
“Hey, open the fuckin’ door,” he says, thumping his shoulder into it.
“Fuck you!” a guy laughs inside. And then Frank’s face goes fucking hot and rigid and he’s punching the door.
“Open. The. Door. Motherfucker!” he yells and the door pops open.
Inside, it’s Helen’s hand on the doorknob. She’s looking at him with rolling, spaced-out eyes.
“Fuck,” the guy inside grunts, twisting around to do up his pants.
Helen’s pressed into the wall, pants around her knees. White thighs. White.
Frank loses his shit.
Ray has to fight him. Ray has to punch him in the back of the head and get two guys to help pull him off.
He comes away with a bloody arm, splattered. He might have broke the guy’s jaw. He’s still fighting to get back to him as they drag him out of the venue.
He’s screaming, kicking. The owner is yelling “Never again! Get the fuck out of here!”
He’s screaming and finally Ray lets him go. He punches his hand into the side of the van, leaves a dent. Sprains his wrist.
Goes to Helen whose vomiting into a bush, Mikey at her side.
“What did you take,” he says to her, hoarse. And he’s got blood on his own face. Bloodied nose.
She’s retching, pitching forward.
“What did you take?!” he yells in her ear, shaking her by the shoulders. Ray bounds back over to take him in arms again. Mikey is shoving him back.
“I don’t know. Pills. Pills and...I don’t know,” she slurs.
Frank goes loose in Ray’s arms. Loose, giving up.
“Stupid bitch,” Frank hisses. He doesn’t stop himself from crying a little, clenching his fists over and over, leaning back in Ray’s arms. Watching Helen vomit.
She’s shaky, can’t keep her hands out of her hair.
Frank comes up behind her, puts his hands there. Scrubs at her dirty hair, scalp. Scrubs in deep and leans into her a little. Feels her relax, letting him.
They stand outside the van in NYC while he scrubs at her scalp.
After, she turns around and gestures with tremoring hands. He gets down a little, gently zips up her parka.
Ray Toro is sweating at his back, asleep, and Helen is shaking. He has a safe arm around her, strong and unmoving as she shakes herself apart and grasps at him when she does.
“Shhh,” he says to her when she makes upset sounds. His thermal crawls up his belly from all her quaking.
“Can’t, shit,” she says to him.
“You’re good, Helen. I’m right here, okay? Just keep going.”
After a while she settles down, stops moving. He thinks she’s asleep but she suddenly clasps his hand and moves it.
Moves it. Down.
He gasps against the back of her head when she presses his fingers with her own, presses him to her cunt.
She whimpers under her breath, moves his fingers tight with her own, makes him rub at her heat. So hot inside her pants.
They’re silent, so fuckin’ quiet as Frank struggles his palm down the front of her tight jeans. Struggles with soft sounds until he touches along the edges of her wet cunt.
He presses his face into her neck and squirms his hand in further. Until he can finally get a long, sharp finger into her.
He presses it in all the way, slick slick. Up up. Until he’s deep. So deep in her. He whines then, wants to fuck her. Wants to get in her.
She reaches down and shakily opens her fly, zips down. And then there’s all this room. He rubs his hardon against her ass but the movement makes Ray snort, roll.
He freezes, they both do. Ray makes mouth sounds and settles back in. Frank’s lying there with his finger up the cunt of his bandmate. He breathes her in and rubs his forehead into her.
After a minute, Helen presses against his hand again and he pulls his finger out. Makes her let go of this tortured sound. All breath.
He gives her two, long fingers, presses them in. All the way.
She thrashes a little, but he gets his other arm under her and holds her. Wraps it around her and pulls her close by the shoulders. Holds her there while he fingers her off.
When she comes, he’s in the middle of pulling his fingers out and feels her orgasm on just his fingertips, sudden, tight clench. He closes his eyes and thrusts back in.
She makes a too-high sound as he gives her something to come around. And she comes hard, long, sharp clenches.
When she finishes, she collapses back. Hugs his arm. Holds it between her legs and gives little, wet twitches to his fingers.
She finally falls asleep and he gets his hand back. Fingers all pruned from her sap. He sucks at them quietly, boner like a piece of metal pipe in his pants.
He lies awake, hungry, breathing in her hair.
By the next show, she’s clear-eyed and nervous. Self-aware. Practicing in her makeup and a velvet jacket, awkward, in front of the bathroom mirror at the rec center.
He sits on a folding chair in the back of the room, warming up with Ray. Watching her.
The new drummer, Bob, is so shy his lips are turning white from the strain.
Ray thinks he’s funny, keeps shaking his head and cracking up.
Mikey is in the corner, jumping up and down. Lifting his bass, testing its weight.
Frank checks his sound equipment, checks his strings. Warms up his hands on his jeans and feels like going for a run around the parking lot.
“You guys ready?” the stage manager asks them at the door.
Helen turns around, hands absentmindedly fiddling with her jacket lapel.
She finds his eyes, and Frank nods. Stands up.
“Yeah, we’re ready,” she says.
She moves better on stage, when she’s not drunk. And her voice is good. Real good. Frank watches her, watches her dance and smile and throw her drenched hair around. The blue slash of make up over her eyes bleeding under the lights.
Frank grins, feels his knees go a little weak. He goes down on them then, playing for Ray. For Mikey Way, whose started wearing this girly peacoat that makes them all stupid-happy for him.
He plays for fuckin’ Bob, all thick arms slaying the drums.
...And for his lady love.
Ray Toro is talking shit out with the merch guys and Mikey went back to the motel room already. Sleepy and a little high. Bob followed him back, trudging with his shoulders stiff. Still the new guy.
Frank is standing by the van, smoking a cigarette, and Helen Way joins him.
He offers her the cigarette in his mouth and she smiles, nods. Takes a hit off it. He’s cold in his jacket.
“Frank. Come in the van with me?” she asks, giving him back the cigarette.
Frank Iero stares at her.
She stares back, looking uncertain.
“Okay,” he says stupidly.
“Come in the van and fuck me, okay?” she says.
He closes his eyes, “Okay.”
Frank is shaking for it. He hears the way he sounds when he asks her, and it’s a breathless-whine.
“Turn around, turn around,” he whines. “Get on your hands, okay? Shit, fuckin’...Helen, please.”
Helen has her hair in her dark eyes, but she pushes it away so she can see him. She’s looking back at him, all open, wide eyes.
It’s a gawky, humiliating struggle to get his belt and pants open. All jerking arm and under-breath swears.
“Gonna give it,” he says, hard like fuck for her.
Her mouth falls open, loose and wet and aroused.
“Oh shit, gonna fuck you,” he says, and it sounds astoundingly stupid, cinematically stupid. But he can’t help it. He loves her. Fuckin’...a lot.
When he gets his dick into her, thorny shove up and in, too hard and curved to get in all the way at first-fuck, he makes this sound.
He’s always grunted during sex, he knows that. Ugly, male sounds like “Nngnn, gnnn, ugnn.” But when he gets his dick inside Helen fuckin’ Way, he sobs a little, like a fuckin’ kid. Sobs at her “Ohh, ohhh, ohhh shit.”
All hitching and thankful.
He’s shivering over her, keening a little, rocking in the pleasure. His hips are fused to her ass. His dick in her tight, juicy little cunt. He swivels and closes his eyes. Smiles against her neck because, so good. Shit.
The nape of her neck is sweaty, spicy from her unwashed hair. She whispers “Please, Frank,” and he wrings at her hips for a moment before sliding a hand down and fingering her clit.
He moans.
“You’re all swollen,” he tells her. “Goddamn, wanna fuck you.”
“Fuck. Frank,” she breathes, hurt. Hurt from the hard dick in her soft spot. Hurt from the way he’s just roving into her, not giving her the kind of sweet thrusts a girl needs.
“Jesus. Helen. Gimme a second,” Frank trembles, on edge, before her arching sets him off, makes him jolt into her. Too excited.
When he fucks her, he grunts again, but the sounds still go high and lost when he’s close. He tugs her backbackback on his dick. Feels the van shaking. Watches her drop her head and cry a little when she comes, all new and perfect. All quavering around him like it’s too tight for her to finish good and hard.
He comes too, biting his lip, hot face against her neck. Fingers digging into her and holding her still as he unloads a big fuckin’ mess, every little dirty bit that’s been building up in his nuts since he saw her.
They lie in the chill, gasping. Faces red.
“Jesus,” she slurs, laughing.
He gives little, short thrusts. Taking it all.
They lie slumped into each other, silent. Sleepy. They pull the blanket up and he cuffs his stiff-jacketed arm around her.
They sleep in the van that night as the show lets out, as the kids yell and laugh in the parking lot around them.
Ray Toro says to him “Ha. I fuckin’ knew it,” and rolls his eyes. Mikey just keeps going on like nothing’s changed and Bob doesn’t know any better. A few months later, Bob says “You guys are engaged, right?” And Frank has to slap his ass and laugh for being so sweet.
They’re in Connecticut and Mikey needs to get back to Trenton for a radio interview. So Frank says he’ll drive the van back while the others fly home.
But then Helen says she’ll drive with him, and he grins and bounces around, packing up the van.
They take off in the morning, Helen with her striped socked feet on the dash in front of her. A Jhonen Vasquez comic book open on her lap. It’s a sun-yellow morning on the turnpike. He’s got his smokes in his jean jacket pocket and Ray left his aviators in the cup holder, so he slides those on.
Helen falls asleep as he merges onto I-95.
He’s jumped up on caffeine and in love.
