zeegoeshere

This scene was originally sort of kind of part of a longer fic that I haven't written yet (and probably won't get around to writing, but hope springs eternal), but I felt like jotting this bit down. Frank/Bob, PG-13, set during the recording of The Black Parade.


With Our Diamond Slippers On


It's really not a very pretty night. It's L.A., so of course Bob can't see a single star, there's no moon, and the air is smoggy and hot, too hot considering it's not even the middle of summer yet. The air out on the lawn isn't any fresher than the air inside the house, and no one gives a shit about smoking inside, but it's quieter out here, at least.

Beside him on the lawn, Frank squirms until his body is at a slight diagonal to Bob's, his legs pointing in a different direction but his hair touching the side of Bob's head. He's smoking, too, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "It's just that I pretty much thought that we were past this stage," he says in the middle of the silence. "I really thought that once Gerard got sober, we'd be golden, and now I feel like the most naive motherfucker on earth."

Bob leans towards Frank when he exhales so that the smoke from both their lungs curls and bleeds together, going up and up. "I don't think it was naive to believe that. You have faith in him."

Frank sighs. "I know it's not just him. I feel like we've all kind of turned into dickheads lately. But it's like, okay, we've all been thinking, thank *fuck* that Gerard is off the drugs and the booze because nothing can ever be that bad again, and then we start recording this album that was supposed to be amazing and brilliant, and. And it's fucking Deja Vu, man, you know?"

Bob doesn't know because Bob wasn't there, not when Gerard hit his absolute worst point and made his turn around, but Frank knows that so Bob lets him vent. Bob doesn't have anything to compare this to; all Bob knows is what he was hoping for, and what the reality of this album is turning out to be.

He takes another drag on his cigarette and watches smoke from both of their mouths disappear into the sky again. "It's gonna get better."

"Right," Frank says, his voice tight. "Of course it will, because it's not like Mikey *screamed* at me during recording today, not like he thinks he's hallucinating evil spirits, it's not like Gerard has practically stopped talking, or anything. Oh, yeah, we'll get through this and there'll be a moral to the story and a big life lesson at the end. And a rainbow."

Bob has plenty of practice ignoring Frank's sarcasm. "Hey," he says, nudging Frank's side with his elbow. "You know this isn't going to end, right?"

Frank looks at him, and Bob knows that Frank is wondering whether Bob means the band, or this thing between them. Bob meant both: the two have become interchangeable in his mind.

Frank reaches down to cover Bob's hand with his own, and Bob lifts his fingers so that they fit in the spaces between Frank's fingers, their knuckles fitting together. "Sure, I know," Frank says.

They're quiet for a while, and Bob stubs out his cigarette when he smokes it down to the filter. Frank does the same, and gives Bob's hand a light squeeze. Bob would kind of like to be making out right now, but just lying here is quiet and pretty nice, even if it's too hot. Besides, Frank is still agitated from the fight with Mikey.

"I just don't get what's going through their heads," Frank says, as if he knows what Bob was thinking. "They're not fucking *talking* about it, not really. That bullshit fight in the studio--you know that Mikey wasn't really pissed at me about the guitar drowning the bass line, but I don't know what his actual deal is, not really. And Gerard--" Frank snorts, and Bob knows that he's about to say something possibly mean. "At least when he was drunk he was willing to talk about what's bothering him. At least he wasn't fucking *mute.*"

Bob nods. "It's a little strange." Gerard collapses inwardly while Mikey explodes: it's not how Bob would have expected either of them to handle whatever weird nervous breakdown they're going through, but then, he never expected his first album with the band to be like this.

Frank bangs the heel of his hand against the grass a few times. "Fuck it," he says. "I just want to settle down and record music and have a boring life and go to bed early every night with no drugs, no craziness, no haunted house, no drama."

"So settle," Bob says, and Frank turns his head. When they kiss, Frank tastes like the cigarette smoke still in the air, tastes like Bob's own mouth. And Bob knows that this--the album, Frank, *this*--is going to be entirely worth it if they can just push through. He holds Frank's hand tightly and kisses him again.