Any Place You'll Allow (Rogues and Queens) [2/3]
Any Place You'll Allow (Rogues & Queens)
Part One
The fetish party is actually turning out to be a lot of fun. They all have costumes, so it’s kind of like Halloween, only with less candy corn. Frank loves Halloween, he has no objection to having two of them in one year.
Frank had wanted to be a monster, but Travis told him sternly that monsters weren’t sexy and sent him back to the dressing room. The thing is, Frank’s had a lot of Halloweens now, all of them important, and he hates the idea of re-doing something he’s already done before. He wants to be original.
Not to mention, everyone else has already taken the easy ones. The girls have fetish nights on a regular basis, so they’re basically taken care of. Lyn’s dressed as a Catholic schoolgirl, hair in pigtails and wearing some serious fuck-off boots. Maja’s gone the angel route, although with that much skin showing, Frank’s not entirely sure she qualifies. White is a good color on her, though. He hasn’t seen Alicia yet, but he’d seen the naughty nurse costume hanging in the dressing room, so that’s not a huge mystery. Victoria’s dressed as a French maid, and half the staff had watched her walk in with their tongues already hanging out of their mouths. Frank had given her two thumbs up.
Pete’s dressed as a police officer, although his costume consists basically of tight pants, a hat, and a vest. Frank had expected William to go as a cowboy, since he already had the outfit, but Butcher has taken that one, wearing jeans, William’s hat, and a red bandana around his neck. William is wearing bell bottoms with a floral-print handkerchief tied around his leg, a loose, flowing shirt, and a bead necklace. He has a daisy tucked behind one ear.
“Free love hippie,” he’d explained when he caught Frank looking. It’s a good look on him, Frank has to admit. Gabe obviously agrees; five minutes before the club had opened for the party, they’d been making out on the floor, William perched on the edge of the bar and tilted into Gabe so that his hair fell forward and hid their faces.
Travis had said philosophically, “Better than on my desk,” and left them to it.
Frank waffles over ‘sexy doctor’ for a few minutes, but he’s not really feeling it. He shimmies into skin-tight leather pants instead, strapping on matching wrist cuffs and borrowing Pete’s makeup kit to color around his eyes. His hair only takes a few seconds to wash, the dye streaking bright colors through the brown, and then he thinks he’s set.
Pete raises his eyebrows when Frank walks out. “Emo Stripper Rainbow Brite?” he asks, twirling his rubber nightstick in one hand.
“Fuck you, I’m a rock star,” Frank informs him, tugging at the cuffs reflexively. He’d wanted to be a zombie rock star, actually, but he’d had a feeling Travis wouldn’t deem that sexy either.
“And a fine-looking rock star you are,” Ryland says somberly from behind the bar, all done up in a proper tuxedo with his hair slicked back and a black bow tie. “Albeit a very short one.”
Frank gives him the finger and checks out what’s going on in the club. There are people coming in more or less steadily, mostly nerdy types who seem too shy to actually approach any of the staff. “Where did they come from, Mars?” he asks, watching a wide-eyed cluster of guests practically crush each other to avoid Butcher as he walks past with a tray of drinks.
“Better,” Pete says, grinning. “They’re artists or some shit. They draw cartoons.”
“Huh,” Frank says. This seems an odd choice for a corporate cartoonist party, but it’s not like he’s complaining. These will probably be the easiest customers he has all week. Although maybe it’s not so odd, on second thought. He can see three separate people from here with sketchpads out.
Ryland drops the last cherry onto an arrangement of what looks like Blue Hawaiians. “Practice,” he says, holding out another cherry to Pete. Pete catches the end of the stem in his teeth and returns it a moment later, spitting the neatly-tied knot out between his lips with a smug smirk. “Well done,” Ryland says, with one of those faintly lopsided smiles he seems to save for Pete. “Go get ‘em.”
Pete slides the tray off the bar and takes off, hips swinging. Two tables full of cartoon nerds slowly turn their heads to watch him pass. Frank snorts and looks for a place to go be useful.
The thing is, they’re not used to having everyone work on the same night, so it’s a bit crowded. Even with a full house, this place only has room for so many people working the floor. Lyn’s onstage, coaxing one of the geeks up to dance with her, and every table Frank sees is occupied. There’s a small group of people clustered around the far corner of the stage as well, and Frank sees why when he gets closer.
“Frank!” Brendon says cheerfully, giving him a little wave. He’s perched on the edge of the stage, bare feet dangling over the side, and there are shimmery wings strapped onto his back. There’s a little wreath of flowers and leaves in his dark hair, and his entire torso is covered in body glitter. Frank’s tempted to blink a few times and maybe rub his eyes, but he’s pretty sure then when he opens them again, Brendon will still be dressed as a fairy.
“Wow,” he says. Brendon just grins at him. The reason for the crowd is easily apparent; there are at least half a dozen people ranged around Brendon, all sketching furiously. Frank shakes his head in admiration and gives Brendon a high-five that only smears a smudge of glitter over his palm.
“Is Ryan here?” Frank asks. Brendon nods and points to one of the tables in the back, where a familiar dark head is bent in conversation with someone Frank doesn’t recognize.
Ryan is Brendon’s boyfriend, and ever since Brendon started actually dancing at the club rather than working the bar and helping Bob with security, he’s shown up faithfully every time Brendon’s scheduled to perform. Since Brendon only dances when they’re short or for special occasions, it’s still not all that often, but Ryan has yet to miss a day.
It’s not some twisted possessive jealousy thing, either, which Frank would totally understand but also be slightly nervous about. Ryan seems to consider it part of his duty as Brendon’s boyfriend to provide moral support and watch him perform. He sits at a table near the front whenever Brendon dances onstage, watches quietly with his hands folded on the table, and applauds at the end, like he’s watching a real show and not a striptease. It’s one of the fucking weirdest things Frank has ever seen, but oddly endearing at the same time. And it makes Brendon happy, so whatever.
“Frank?” someone asks, and Frank twists around in confusion because he doesn’t recognize the voice, or the careful, tentative way it’s saying his name. It doesn’t take him long to place, though, not with the very familiar face standing there smiling hesitantly at him.
“Gerard?” he asks in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Bob’s not letting in anyone off the street, Frank’s pretty sure, but Gerard just smiles wider and waves hello. “This is, uh, my office,” he explains, gesturing to encompass the room full of people. “I work as a cartoonist.”
“No shit,” Frank says, suddenly feeling much better about this whole night. It will be nice to talk to someone who isn’t staff or making their best effort to swallow their own tongue. “What a weird world, huh?”
Gerard blushes. Frank watches the color bloom over his cheeks and is completely fascinated. “Actually, no, not really,” Gerard admits. “I kind of…um, they asked for suggestions on where to hold the party, and I said this place was good. I knew you did events and things, it was on one of the fliers.”
“Oh,” Frank says, slightly taken aback. He’s not sure what to say to that.
Gerard’s blush deepens. “I wanted to see you again,” he continues, shoulders hunching up around his ears in a way that Frank really shouldn’t find so adorable.
“Oh,” Frank says again, and then grins. “Yeah?”
Gerard peeks up at him and his shoulders relax fractionally. “Yeah,” he admits, and laughs a funny little seal-bark of a laugh. “It’s kind of stupid, right?”
“No, it’s really not,” Frank assures him hastily, rocking forward onto his toes and patting his arm. He’s suddenly acutely aware of Brendon watching them with undisguised curiosity. “Did you, um…?” He’s not sure how to ask if Gerard wants to go have another make-out session in one of the private rooms without it sounding really creepy. “Want anything? A dance?”
He steps forward, into Gerard’s space, but Gerard suddenly looks panicked and takes a step back. “I, um…” he begins, and is interrupted by the arrival of Butcher, who’s somehow procured a lasso.
“What’s new, buckaroos?” Butcher asks. Brendon abruptly goes from open interest in Frank and Gerard’s conversation to looking wistful in the direction of Butcher’s cowboy costume.
“Oh wow,” Gerard says, and Frank tries to evaluate whether that’s relief in his voice or just artistic appreciation. “Your tattoos are amazing. Can I see? Do you mind?” He’s much less hesitant when it comes to art, it seems, because he hardly waits for Butcher to obligingly turn his back before he starts tracing the design with his fingertips.
Butcher cranes his head a little to look back, shuffling forward when Gerard frowns and goes to move them into better light. “Yeah, I’ve been getting that reaction a lot,” he admits. “I started the night with a buckskin vest thing, but so many people have wanted to draw the tats that I decided to just leave it off.”
“This is really great work,” Gerard says sincerely. His hands are still on Butcher’s skin. Frank tries to come up with a legitimate reason to be annoyed by that. “Did you come up with the design?”
“Yeah,” Butcher says again, sounding pleased. “I went to art school, I’m finishing up a master’s degree now. Most of my work is in textiles, but I paint and sculpt and everything too.”
“Really?” Gerard asks. He sounds like Christmas came early. He is paying no attention whatsoever to Frank. “Me too. Art school, I mean. You probably knew that, I mean, a lot of us here did, but I paint, too. Is this tree yours?” He touches the twisting branches on Butcher’s arm and his fingers twitch, like he’s itching for a pen.
“That one, and this one, too,” Butcher affirms. “Oh, you should see the whole thing. Hang on. I don’t do this for just anyone, but…” He winks, and then drops his trousers so that Gerard can see the entirety of the design spiraling down from his back and over his ass.
“Holy shit,” Gerard says, awed, and his fingers reach out again. They don’t touch this time, but they do hover there like he really, really wants to.
Frank shifts back and forth on his feet. He clears his throat. He crosses his arms. Brendon blinks at him a few times. One of the cartoonists moves on from drawing Brendon to sketching Frank’s elbow. Gerard’s eyes are still fixed rapturously on Butcher’s bare ass.
Frank rolls his eyes and stomps off to serve drinks.
-
Half an hour later, things haven’t improved. Frank has done everything he can think of to attract Gerard’s attention, short of getting naked and standing on a table, but they’re in a strip club, so he’s not even sure that would attract more than a few gawking stares and a wolf whistle from Ryland.
He’s currently half on top of someone named Benjamin, doing more licking and nibbling than is strictly kosher for a lapdance. Gerard is still over next to the stage talking to Butcher, so when Benjamin grabs his ass, Frank just scoots them around a little so the appropriate people can get an eyeful of exactly how good a time Frank is currently having.
He gets bored once the song ends and thinks about going out for a smoke, but Benjamin catches his wrist. “Wait,” he says, looking horrified at his own presumption but determined to keep going. “Would you…I mean, could I call…?”
He gives up then and just goes for a kiss, smashing their mouths together with no finesse but quite a lot of drunken courage. Frank jerks back and scowls at him. He’s about to let loose when he feels Bob’s familiar firm hand on the back of his neck, squeezing with intent.
Frank allows Bob to peel him away, still scowling, and march him towards the dressing rooms. “Knock it off,” Bob says, giving Frank a little no-nonsense shake. “You’re going to start a fight, I can tell. I know what that looks like on you.”
“He went way over the line,” Frank protests, kicking at a barstool as they go past but missing thanks to Bob’s tightened grip. “He deserved it.”
“You went there first,” Bob says. “Look at these people, they’re terrified to touch you guys. They’re afraid to even breathe the wrong way in here.”
“Not all of them,” Frank mutters mutinously.
Bob gives him a none-too-gentle shove towards the door. “Have a cigarette,” he orders. “Work it off. Stop being such a fucking drama queen.”
Frank thinks about kicking Bob in the shin, but Bob’s just doing his job looking out for them, and Frank wants a cigarette more than he wants to start a fight. He thinks Bob will probably let him take a swing after this is all over if he still needs it. Bob’s good like that.
He has two cigarettes because the first one doesn’t feel like enough, and then heads backstage. Pete’s onstage but clearly not working very hard. Everyone’s paying attention to the floor show; art geeks probably spend a lot of time watching porn, but how often do they get half-dressed strippers at their very elbows? Frank waits until Pete sees him and then gives him the signal for ‘swap-out.’ Pete must be even more bored than he looks, because he barely waits to finish his turn around the pole before he comes off.
Frank goes on and dances his ass off for the rest of the night. No one else wants to work the stage because there’s no one tipping up there, so he has it to himself for over an hour, just thrashing around to the music and working out his shit. This is a good place to get stuff out, he’s found, losing himself in the beat and the movement, and it’s even better when no one’s paying attention to him and he doesn’t have to keep breaking his rhythm for tips.
He sees Gerard looking up at him at one point, sort of lost and mournful, but he doesn’t come over, so Frank ignores him. He stays until Travis gives him the eyebrows and Gabe cocks his head sideways, and even then it’s only because they’re closing and the party’s finally breaking up. He feels a fuck of a lot better now; there’s an ache in his muscles that means he’ll pay for this when he has to dance tomorrow, but right now he’s enjoying the burn.
Pete meets him at the edge of the stage with a bottle of water and a towel. “Bad night?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Frank sees Gerard give him one last quick, sad glance before he looks away hastily and shuffles out the door. Fuck him anyway. Frank drains the bottle and doesn’t answer.
A couple of guys come in as Bob’s locking up, and they both look vaguely familiar. “Hey,” one of them says, and Frank recognizes the voice faster than he places the face: Jon. “We’re here for Pete and Bill.”
“Give me ten,” Pete calls back. “I need to shower.”
“Better make that fifteen,” Ryland advises dryly, wiping down the bar. “More likely twenty. Drink?”
Frank hops off the stage, making his own way towards the bar and the liquor. He could use a drink tonight, now that he’s off the clock. William meets him there, the flower in his hair still hanging on grimly for dear life but looking a bit worse for wear.
The one who’s not Jon - Tom - chews on his bottom lip and looks amused. “Wow.”
“Fuck you,” William says tiredly. His fingers fumble over the flower stem, trying to pull it free of his tangled hair. “I was being original.”
“No, no, it looks good,” Tom assures him. “You look good.” His hands join William’s, batting him gently away. He presents the wilted flower a second later and smiles.
Frank deliberately does not look to see how Gabe’s taking this, because he doesn’t really fucking care. “Beer,” he tells Ryland, drumming his fingers on the bar. “Cut it from my tips.”
Ryland doesn’t bother asking if it was a bad night, he just pops the cap on Frank’s favorite brand and passes him the bottle. This, Frank thinks, is what makes him such a good bartender. Frank considers Bob for a few minutes, but when Bob finishes humoring him and finally asks, “You want to take it outside?” he considers for a moment and then shakes his head. He feels pretty good, actually. Fuck Gerard and his mixed messages.
“I’m good,” he promises. “Thanks, though.”
Bob just taps his fingers on Frank’s arm until he gets a swig of his beer, and then answers, “Fair enough.”
“Are you changing?” Tom asks William, who’s making short work of a glass of water. He’s gotten sloppy with it; there’s water running down his throat and curled into the webbing of his fingers. Tom’s eyes follow the path of a droplet and stop when William swallows.
“No, I thought I’d go out to the movie like this,” William says, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’m gonna catch a shower first.”
“You should show me the dressing rooms,” Tom says, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I haven’t gotten the grand tour yet.”
William only hesitates for a beat. “Okay,” he says, pushing back from the bar. “There’s not a lot to see, though.”
“Don’t get lost or I’ll drink your beer,” Jon warns as they leave.
Frank knocks back the rest of his beer and heads backstage to get his shit.
-
Valentine’s Day comes around and they’re slammed. “Fucking V-Day, man,” Butcher says on his way past with a tray full of drinks, and Frank is inclined to agree.
“Like D-Day, with less clothing,” William adds. He’s mostly dressed still, somehow, although his shirt looks decidedly less crisp than it had at the beginning of the night, damp and limply clinging to his skin. Frank imagines them all grimly stomping around in combat boots fighting off scores of leering soldiers and thinks that might not be too far off.
“Cuffs,” he orders, and Ryland gives him an eyebrow but passes them over from the shelf behind the bar. It’s nearing the end of the night, which is usually when Travis tries to keep him off the stage because guys get drunk and Frank gets pissed off, but tonight is different and they all know it. It’s all hands on deck, every year.
Andrew has a bachelorette party in the corner and is up on the table, letting them grope his ass. Frank can’t even tell who’s enjoying it more, the giggling girls or Andrew grinning down at them over his shoulder and flexing. He thinks it might be a tie.
Brendon’s working, too, and his boyfriend and cheering squad are there, discussing something animatedly over a haphazard pile of scribbled-on napkins. Brendon’s boyfriend has a best friend that comes along with him a lot, one who’s possibly the most unimpressed-looking guy Frank has ever seen inside a strip club. Frank often has to quash the impulse to go over there and straddle his lap just to see what sort of reaction he could provoke, mostly because he could just see Brendon’s stricken face if he tried it, and partly because he’s about 90% sure Pete already has.
Frank bounces the cuffs in one hand and makes his way back to the stage. Butcher’s coming off in another minute-thirty or so, as soon as this song finishes up, so Frank takes the time to limber up and shake his muscles loose. The music is a low rumble in his rib cage, vibrating in his bones, dancing across his skin. When the lights change he heads out, high-fiving Butcher as they pass, then slings his arm in a loose arc and handcuffs himself to the pole.
It’s a difficult position to dance from, because his movements are limited and there’s only so much he can do, but that seems to be part of what makes the crowd eat it up the way they do. He hears the whistling start before he even properly begins, swinging his hips and loosely grinding his way down the pole until he’s crouched on the floor. Getting up is even harder, and his thighs burn with the promise of an ache tomorrow, but it’s a good ache. It’s like the pull of your muscles straining when you fuck someone for a really long time, and he leans into it, forcing his shoulders to stretch almost painfully far when he slithers to his knees.
He stays vaguely aware of the crowd, the way he always does, but a few minutes in he actually takes stock and counts the hands, notes the faces and tallies up possible dances and side-engagements later on. He almost laughs when he sees who’s watching him from further back, eyes pinning him to the stage.
Caught you, he thinks, looking back at Ryan’s friend Spencer, and contorts himself so far that the cuffs bite into the skin of his wrists.
He thinks he sees someone else, then, someone with a pale round face and stringy dark hair falling in his eyes, but when he blinks the sweat away he can’t find him again, so he thinks he’s probably imagining things. He doesn’t like the idea that he’s imagining that, or looking for someone, because he’s not, so he scowls at himself and resolutely throws himself back into the dance, arms straining against the unyielding metal. He closes his eyes for the next few minutes, getting lost in the rhythm, and doesn’t come back to himself until the last chords die out in a grinding squeal of feedback.
Brendon comes to let him out of the cuffs, because that was one of the things he always did back when he was just helping out, but somehow it feels different now, more like a show, because Brendon’s wearing skin-tight jeans and eyeliner, crawling across the stage with the key in his teeth like they’re both under someone else’s command, and he looks more at home in his skin than Frank remembers.
Frank has sweat dripping into his eyes and every muscle in his body has started to burn, but he still grins sharply when Brendon clicks the key into the lock, and Brendon grins back. Frank’s gaze flicks back out into the crowd and now they have Ryan’s attention, too, although it doesn’t look like jealousy. It looks like…well, like Brendon’s going to be pretty sore himself in a couple of hours.
Frank saunters wearily off the stage and snorts when Brendon follows him, on his back and writhing dramatically in Frank’s wake. Frank waits until he makes it out of sight before slinging a towel at him and laughing. Brendon just grins at him harder, shaking the sweat out of his hair like a dog and taking a swig of water before rolling out his shoulders to go back on and take his turn.
It finally starts winding down, just as the adrenaline of the night begins to seep into exhaustion and Frank’s body starts clamoring for a long hot shower and a bed. He body-checks Pete out of the line for the shower, ignoring the protest because Pete did the same thing to him last week, and Pete takes twice as long to finish.
Brendon’s hanging out at the table with Ryan and his friend Spencer when Frank drags himself out of the shower, chattering excitedly and drawing on one of the napkins with the worn-down nub of a pencil. Frank’s surprised to see William and Pete’s friend Jon with them, adding in an occasional comment of his own, but when he turns around to check out the bar he sees Tom there as well, beer in hand.
“What’s up?” Frank asks, hauling himself onto a barstool with only the slightest wince. He’s going to sleep like the dead tonight, and probably through most of the morning. Thank fuck he doesn’t have to be up early.
“McMahon’s been chatting up Victoria,” Ryland informs him, wiping down glasses with professional polish. “They’re out back now, having a smoke break.” He forms the quote marks in the air with his fingers, then spins the glass into the rack above his head.
“Everyone flirts with Victoria,” Frank says dismissively. He leans over the bar and feels the pull in his spine, vertebrae going pop-pop-pop with every additional inch of stretch.
“I think the more crucial point is that she’s letting him,” Ryland says, and Frank does a double-take, eyebrows high with surprise. Fuck, even his eyebrows hurt. It’s definitely time to go home.
“Love is in the air?” he asks, just as William bumps into him from the other side, apologizing as he catches himself. Frank starts to reach out but Tom is already there, steadying him with a hand under William’s elbow.
“Sorry,” William says again, righting himself.
“Full of grace,” Tom compliments, eyes sleepy but very much focused on William. “How the fuck did you end up as a stripper?”
“It was this or The Gap,” William quips in answer, and his smile is a little crooked, familiar.
Someone’s phone goes off and Brendon jumps up, his hands doing a little dance over his pockets. “Sorry, sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he says, and bounces out into the hallway with Ryan frowning slightly after him. Jon reclaims his attention a second later with something light and offhand, and Ryan turns away from the closed door.
“Not a bad take tonight,” Ryland comments, attracting Frank’s attention again as he counts through a stack of bills. He tips his chin towards Frank and adds, “For someone who sticks to soft drinks, your runner continues to be a good tipper.”
“Gerard was here?” Frank asks, surprised into answering before he can think better of it.
Ryland gets a funny look on his face. “Yeah, for an hour at least. He kept skulking around the bar watching you onstage, I figured he was just waiting for an opportunity to pounce. He didn’t come up to you?”
“Son of a bitch,” Frank replies, and kicks the bar for good measure. He’s not sure who he’s angrier with; himself for not noticing, or Gerard for hiding from him.
Strike that; he’s definitely angrier at Gerard.
Pete’s arm drapes around his shoulders, water still beading on his skin from the shower. “He’s just not that into you,” he offers, solemn-faced, and then laughs his annoying donkey-bray laugh.
“Fuck you,” Frank says, resisting the urge to punch Pete in the face. He means well. Besides, Ryland is right there, and about twice his size. It’s not worth starting shit over something that’s probably true. He doesn’t even know why it’s bothering him so much. So they got off together once, big deal. It’s not like it means anything.
“Right, we’re out,” Tom says, pushing back from the bar. The jerk of his head seems to encompass Jon, Pete, and himself in one movement, wheat-blond hair falling over his eyes again as he sets down his empty bottle. “Johnny?”
Jon stands up, saying his goodbyes to Ryan and Spencer, and looks inquisitively over at the bar. “Change your mind, Billvy?”
Frank has no idea who the fuck he’s asking about for a second, but then William shakes his head and says reluctantly, “Class in the afternoon.” When Tom boos, he just says, “Them’s the breaks, sweetheart.” His accent is atrocious, but Jon still laughs.
Tom hugs William goodbye, and Frank’s skin prickles even before he sees Gabe watching from the door that leads backstage. He gets distracted, though, because Brendon comes back in from the other hallway and is actually physically wringing his hands in distress.
Frank is about to leave them all to their own drama, but then William goes backstage and Gabe follows him, and a few seconds later Frank can hear the sharp sound of an argument, the kind where the people involved know they have to keep it down but are still really fucking pissed. “Nothing,” he hears, not muffled enough to disguise the words. “No.”
Frank considers. On the one hand, he really doesn’t want to stick around much longer. On the other hand, his shit is in the dressing rooms, which are on the other side of the argument that has now risen in volume to the point that Frank can hear the hissed, “Fuck you,” from behind the closed door.
“My parents are coming,” Brendon says, breaking in on his contemplation. His voice is high and panicky, tight with tension. “They said next weekend, they have tickets, they want me to show them around, they said they want to see where I live.”
“That’s good, right?” Spencer says, and his tone is surprisingly gentle for someone who spends a great deal of time looking as if ice wouldn’t melt on his tongue. “You’ve been hoping they’d start talking to you again.”
There’s a story there that Frank’s missed part of, Brendon and whatever happened with his parents, but whatever it is, it can’t have been good, because Brendon is squeezing his hands together so tightly the knuckles have turned white.
“They want to visit me at work,” Brendon emphasizes, like he’s announcing the dawn of the apocalypse. “They want to visit me in my gay apartment where I spend time with my gay boyfriend and then they want to come see where I work, Spence.”
“Okay, woah,” Ryan says, speaking up for the first time like a turtle finally startled out of its shell. “You didn’t tell them you work here, though, right?”
Brendon’s laugh is a little high, a little crazed. It almost drowns out the sound of William saying, “nothing to do with this,” from the backstage hallway.
“I told them I work as a server, they think I have a job at a restaurant or something. I couldn’t tell them I work as a bartender serving alcoholic drinks in a strip club full of gay men.” His face has gone white by the end of the last strong emphasis, and Spencer pulls out a chair for him and pushes down on his shoulder until Brendon folds into it.
“So tell them you have this weekend off,” Spencer says. “They can’t stick around forever.”
“What about when I have to go to work?” Brendon counters, hands clenched on the edge of the table. “What about when I have to leave them in my gay apartment that contains actual gay porn and come to work? They’ll follow me, Spencer, they’ll track me down.”
“Travis might give you the weekend off,” Frank muses from the bar. “He’s good, you could plead family emergency.”
Brendon shakes his head. “They’ll want to come see where it is and meet the people I work with. You don’t understand, these are my parents, they want to see everything I do to check for wholesome influences.”
Ryan makes a noise that conveys his opinion on Brendon’s parents and their idea of wholesome influences. Spencer gives him a warning look across the table and kicks Ryan in the shin. Ryan kicks back and scowls, but rearranges his features into something more like sulky attentiveness.
Brendon doesn’t notice, because his head is down on the table. “I’m doomed,” he says, muffled into the tabletop. “Doooomed.”
“We’ll come up with something,” Ryan promises awkwardly. Frank silently wishes him luck with that, and wonders if he should call Bob before Brendon hyperventilates.
“Maybe I want a break from you too,” William says, slamming through the doorway, and all of them jump. William slams the front door even harder, hard enough that it rattles in the frame. Frank wonders if it’s safe to head back and grab his shit now, but something crashes backstage and he thinks maybe not. He hopes the chairs survive.
“Dooooomed,” Brendon says again. Frank thinks he might just have to agree with him.
-
The 5O4 Plan show is in a shitty bar that Frank’s been to a hundred times before, for live concerts much like this one. He sees Brendon first, bobbing up and down while he listens to something Jon is saying, a red cup in his hand. Pete and Ryland are hanging out by the bar, and he gives them a wave as he shoulders through the crowd to find his own spot. William is there, too, already working on a glass of something stronger than beer. Gabe isn’t. Frank isn’t really all that surprised.
He starts to go over to them, but then catches sight of a few friends that aren’t, miraculously, from work, and winds up pushing in that direction instead. “Mikey!” he yells over the ambient noise of the crowd, and Mikey looks up and moves his chin in a weird sort of Mikey-acknowledgement. Frank bobs his head in response and fights his way through the crush, slithering sideways at one point to squeeze between people, until he reaches Mikey’s side.
He gives their friend Ray a high-five and looks around in mild bewilderment. “Who the fuck are all these people?” he asks. Ray laughs, high and loud.
Mikey just shrugs. “Hometown band,” he says. “I’ve seen them before, they’re pretty good.”
“Yeah? Awesome.” Frank’s ready for a drink, but the crush at the bar looks pretty heavy right now. Ryland’s reaching over to accept two glasses, Pete half-hidden under his arm while everyone around them pushes forward. Frank wonders if he can get Ryland’s attention from here, but he thinks probably not. He’ll just have to head over when it thins out some.
“It’s too bad they don’t have a bigger venue,” Ray comments. “I mean, small shows are cool and all, but there’s really no room.”
There’s really not. The stacks of amps on either side of the stage have people already pressed against them on every available side, and the show hasn’t even started yet. The stage is about the same size as the one in Rogues & Queens, only with considerably more people packed onto it. Once the expansions Travis has planned for the club go through, though, they’ll have a lot more room than this place does.
“Huh,” he says out loud. Ray looks at him funny, waiting for the rest of the thought to be vocalized. Mikey’s expression doesn’t change, but Frank can tell he’s listening. He keeps his work life and his social life separate, though, so he doesn’t mention the idea slowly forming in his head. “Nothing,” he says out loud, craning his neck to check out the press near the bar. “Hey, I’m gonna get a drink, save me a spot.”
Ray calls something after him, and Frank waves vaguely over his shoulder as he bobs through the crowd. He ends up next to Brendon and Jon somehow, both of them holding down a patch of floor just out of the flow of traffic. Travis is with them, looming over everyone else in the immediate vicinity.
“Yo,” Frank greets them, eyeing the bartender hopefully. “Anyone have an extra beer?”
“Not a chance,” Brendon says, guarding his cup with both hands, and Frank almost cuffs him on the back of the head, because no way is Brendon old enough to legally drink.
“Good turnout,” Travis says, already watching the bar the same way Frank is in spite of the half-full bottle in his hand. “Means longer lines for the liquor.”
“I was just thinking,” Frank tells him. “Since you and Saporta are doing all the corporate parties and shit, we should totally rent the club out for shows on nights like this. Early evenings, or Sundays, something like that. We’ve got the room and the sound system.”
Travis strokes his chin thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea,” he admits. “Turn it into something else for a day, make some extra cash. We could pull in some local bands, maybe.”
Brendon laughs, but it sounds a little flat. “Too bad we can’t do that next weekend,” he says. “Turn it into someplace I could take my parents so they’d never have to know.”
There are lines of unhappiness around his mouth that aren’t usually there. Frank’s looking at them when his mouth opens of its own accord and says, “Why couldn’t we?”
“What?” They all look at him then, with matching expressions of confusion. Frank pushes on before the idea gets away from him.
“Why can’t we? Turn it into something else, have them come by. Sunday, we’re all off then. I’m sure people would help out even if it is their day off. We could all pool together, fake them out.” The more he thinks about it, the more excited he gets. They could be like super-spies, undercover. Frank has always wanted to be James Bond. That guy is so fucking cool.
Jon scratches his beard and then his hair, looking uncomfortable. “It would be hard to line someone up that fast,” he points out. “I’d offer, I mean, I’m sure the guys wouldn’t mind, we could play, but is a concert venue really that much more parent-friendly than a strip club?”
“Yes,” Brendon says immediately, but Frank is still thinking.
“What if it wasn’t a concert?” he says, words rushing over each other as he gets more excited. “What if we did something else? Like a, a restaurant, or a blues cabaret, or, or…”
“Who the fuck do we know that can cook?” Travis asks, while Jon says right over top of him, “Coffeehouse.”
“What?” Brendon’s eyes are as wide as tennis balls, ping-ponging between them all.
“Coffeehouse,” Jon says again, sounding a little embarrassed. “You know, like, espresso drinks and live music and shit. It wouldn’t be all that hard. All we’d need is a coffee machine and some pastries or something.”
Frank is practically bouncing on his toes in glee. “Totally, that’s totally it,” he says. Brendon’s mouth has dropped open a little bit, and when Jon finishes he whirls around to face Travis so fast he nearly trips over his own sneakers.
“Could we?” he asks, begging eyes turned on full force. “Could we, please?”
Travis hesitates, but he’s no match for the eyes and they all know it. The eyes are the reason Brendon ended up dancing last month during what was originally supposed to be a girls-only night of Britney Spears songs. “What the fuck,” Travis says, holding his hands up. “If you can get it together, you can have the space. We’re closed Sunday anyway.”
“What are we doing?” William asks, squeezing into the small circle of their discussion. Travis makes room for him automatically, arm draping over William’s shoulders. Tom is only a half-step behind William, tugging Jon’s sleeve.
“Hey, I gotta go,” Jon says apologetically. “I’ll catch you guys later though, yeah? Brendon, it was good talking to you again.”
He and Tom make their way toward the backstage while Frank and Brendon fill William in on the new Fool Brendon’s Parents plan, version one. They start talking about where they could get a decent coffeemaker and who they could get to come in and play, and before Frank knows it the lights are going down and the band is stepping out onstage.
“Motherfuck,” he says in surprise. “Gotta go.” It’s harder to find Mikey and Ray in the semi-dark, but he pushes his way through the crowd until he finds Mikey’s rail-thin frame and Ray’s hair, already bobbing in time with the beat.
“Where did you go?” Ray asks, and Frank just shrugs, yells, “People from work,” over the noise of a feedback squeal.
The band starts playing their first song, and Frank is just getting into the music when Mikey says, “Oh hey, there you are.”
“I said I would come,” someone else says, or at least that’s what Frank thinks he hears, anyway. He doesn’t look around until Mikey taps him on the shoulder, leans down to say, “Hey, there’s someone I want you to meet,” and Frank turns around and sees Gerard.
It’s definitely Gerard. Frank’s not hallucinating him this time, or seeing familiar faces when there isn’t one. Even if he hadn’t been unmistakably there, in the flesh, only a few feet away, he’s wearing a flummoxed expression that’s a dead giveaway and probably a match for Frank’s own.
“Do you two already know each other?” Ray asks, curious, and Gerard starts to answer but Frank rushes over him.
“We met once, another show, no big thing.” He likes that Mikey and Ray know him as a guy they hang out and go to shows with, and not as a guy who works as a stripper. He tries to will Gerard to keep his mouth shut with the power of his mind.
Gerard seems to get the hint, because his mouth snaps closed and he just bobs his head once in response. Mikey looks skeptical, probably because he goes to every show ever, and asks, “Which one?”
“You weren’t there,” Frank says quickly, wiping his sweating palms off on his jeans. “It was, uh, a while ago. How do you two know each other?”
“He’s my brother,” Mikey says, with the expression that passes for bewilderment on Mikey, brows drawn into a tiny pucker of confusion. Frank feels the bottom drop out of his stomach and starts swearing. Fuck fucking fuck. Of all the shitty luck.
Gerard’s looking at him with something embarrassed and plaintive in his eyes. “So, uh, hi,” he says, and Frank takes matters into his own hands before damage control becomes necessary.
“I need a drink,” he yells at the group as a whole. Then he snags Gerard’s sleeve and orders, “Come with me!”
“I, uh,” Gerard replies, but by then Frank’s on the move, dragging Gerard in his wake.
“What the fuck?” he asks when they reach a safe distance, projecting to be heard over the music blasting from the speaker stack. “You’re Mikey’s brother?”
“I didn’t know you knew him,” Gerard answers in what’s nearly a wail, his eyes skittering to where they left Mikey and Ray. “You didn’t say you were that Frank.”
“You didn’t ask!” Frank yells back in what isn’t actually a borderline-hysterical tone. This is awkward now, though, super-awkward, and Mikey has freaky-weird Jedi mind powers that mean if they’re not careful Frank is going to be so, so busted.
“So, uh,” Gerard begins guiltily. “How is everything?” When Frank just stares at him in disbelief, he shuffles his feet a little and tries again. “Sorry I haven’t, um, that I didn’t say goodbye the last time, I was kind of…”
“Whatever,” Frank says, when Gerard visibly stumbles to a confused halt. “It’s cool, I get it. Other friends, better things to do.” He really needs that drink now. He thinks about taking William’s, because he’s not too far off, but William looks miserable and alone right now and Frank thinks he probably needs it.
“No, no,” Gerard insists, his big, spooky eyes open wide and focused on Frank. “It wasn’t that, I just…I felt bad exploiting you.”
“What?” Frank asks, eyebrows knitted in confusion.
“Exploitation,” Gerard yells, obviously thinking Frank can’t hear him, and Frank does a flappy-armed dance of embarrassment to get him to shut up. A couple of people glance their way, curious, but look away again after just a second, attention drawn back to the stage. Gerard lowers his voice again and says, “I was using you, for money, and objectifying you. It’s degrading, and I like you a lot more than that, I didn’t want to be someone who…who made you like that.”
“It’s a job,” Frank says, crossing his arms. “I’m not an indentured prostitute, Jesus Christ.”
“You sell sex for money!” Gerard squeaks, and Frank is about to flail at him to lower his voice again when Gerard ducks his head. “You got me off in the back room of a strip club as part of your job,” he emphasizes, and his eyes are still huge and earnest. Frank wants to swear at him and kiss him at the same time.
“That was a freebie,” Frank protests, one second away from stomping his foot for emphasis. “I didn’t charge you for it, that was just us having a good time! If you didn’t want to then you should have fucking said something at the time.”
“I did want to,” Gerard argues, wringing his hands in the stretched material of his hoodie. “But that’s the problem, I wanted to, and I want to again, I was using you…”
“I did it because I fucking wanted to, asshole,” Frank tells him, voice rising in spite of himself. “You think I do that for every fucking customer who comes in looking for a good time?”
“You’re in a bad position and I took advantage of you,” Gerard insists, gesticulating wildly as he speaks.
“I’m a fucking stripper!” Frank yells, just as the song ends and the bar goes suddenly quiet. There’s a weird ringing noise in his ears, and he can’t look away even as he feels his ears heat up and the pressure of curious gazes on the back of his neck.
Everyone is staring at him. Jon leans over and says into the mic, “We know, but, uh…thanks Frank,” and the earth fails to open up and swallow him whole no matter how hard he wishes it.
Gerard is bright red and Frank is furious and humiliated and really fucking conflicted, because Gerard is being solicitous and understanding and all Frank really wants is for him to stick his hand down Frank’s pants. He tries to storm off to recover some ounce of his composure, but Gerard flails after him and gets a hand on his sleeve as the music starts up again, yanking him back with abrupt pressure around his collar.
“I only avoided you because I was afraid of what I would do if we were in that situation again,” he says desperately, looking earnest and pitiful and altogether too attractive for Frank’s state of mind right now. “I value you as a person. I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”
Frank shrugs him off and draws himself up to every last centimeter of his height so he can look Gerard in the eye. “I’m good at my job, and I enjoy it, and if anyone tried to take advantage of me I would take their fucking balls off,” he says. “Which you’d know if you’d fucking asked me.”
He takes off before Gerard can stop looking stricken for long enough to say anything else, and shoulders a lot of annoyed people out of his way en route to the door. Travis tries to intercept him, but Frank really isn’t in the mood and he doesn’t want to face Gerard or Mikey when the set ends, so he shoves his way out the door and leaves with the angry crash of the cymbals falling muffled behind him.
Part Three
Part One
The fetish party is actually turning out to be a lot of fun. They all have costumes, so it’s kind of like Halloween, only with less candy corn. Frank loves Halloween, he has no objection to having two of them in one year.
Frank had wanted to be a monster, but Travis told him sternly that monsters weren’t sexy and sent him back to the dressing room. The thing is, Frank’s had a lot of Halloweens now, all of them important, and he hates the idea of re-doing something he’s already done before. He wants to be original.
Not to mention, everyone else has already taken the easy ones. The girls have fetish nights on a regular basis, so they’re basically taken care of. Lyn’s dressed as a Catholic schoolgirl, hair in pigtails and wearing some serious fuck-off boots. Maja’s gone the angel route, although with that much skin showing, Frank’s not entirely sure she qualifies. White is a good color on her, though. He hasn’t seen Alicia yet, but he’d seen the naughty nurse costume hanging in the dressing room, so that’s not a huge mystery. Victoria’s dressed as a French maid, and half the staff had watched her walk in with their tongues already hanging out of their mouths. Frank had given her two thumbs up.
Pete’s dressed as a police officer, although his costume consists basically of tight pants, a hat, and a vest. Frank had expected William to go as a cowboy, since he already had the outfit, but Butcher has taken that one, wearing jeans, William’s hat, and a red bandana around his neck. William is wearing bell bottoms with a floral-print handkerchief tied around his leg, a loose, flowing shirt, and a bead necklace. He has a daisy tucked behind one ear.
“Free love hippie,” he’d explained when he caught Frank looking. It’s a good look on him, Frank has to admit. Gabe obviously agrees; five minutes before the club had opened for the party, they’d been making out on the floor, William perched on the edge of the bar and tilted into Gabe so that his hair fell forward and hid their faces.
Travis had said philosophically, “Better than on my desk,” and left them to it.
Frank waffles over ‘sexy doctor’ for a few minutes, but he’s not really feeling it. He shimmies into skin-tight leather pants instead, strapping on matching wrist cuffs and borrowing Pete’s makeup kit to color around his eyes. His hair only takes a few seconds to wash, the dye streaking bright colors through the brown, and then he thinks he’s set.
Pete raises his eyebrows when Frank walks out. “Emo Stripper Rainbow Brite?” he asks, twirling his rubber nightstick in one hand.
“Fuck you, I’m a rock star,” Frank informs him, tugging at the cuffs reflexively. He’d wanted to be a zombie rock star, actually, but he’d had a feeling Travis wouldn’t deem that sexy either.
“And a fine-looking rock star you are,” Ryland says somberly from behind the bar, all done up in a proper tuxedo with his hair slicked back and a black bow tie. “Albeit a very short one.”
Frank gives him the finger and checks out what’s going on in the club. There are people coming in more or less steadily, mostly nerdy types who seem too shy to actually approach any of the staff. “Where did they come from, Mars?” he asks, watching a wide-eyed cluster of guests practically crush each other to avoid Butcher as he walks past with a tray of drinks.
“Better,” Pete says, grinning. “They’re artists or some shit. They draw cartoons.”
“Huh,” Frank says. This seems an odd choice for a corporate cartoonist party, but it’s not like he’s complaining. These will probably be the easiest customers he has all week. Although maybe it’s not so odd, on second thought. He can see three separate people from here with sketchpads out.
Ryland drops the last cherry onto an arrangement of what looks like Blue Hawaiians. “Practice,” he says, holding out another cherry to Pete. Pete catches the end of the stem in his teeth and returns it a moment later, spitting the neatly-tied knot out between his lips with a smug smirk. “Well done,” Ryland says, with one of those faintly lopsided smiles he seems to save for Pete. “Go get ‘em.”
Pete slides the tray off the bar and takes off, hips swinging. Two tables full of cartoon nerds slowly turn their heads to watch him pass. Frank snorts and looks for a place to go be useful.
The thing is, they’re not used to having everyone work on the same night, so it’s a bit crowded. Even with a full house, this place only has room for so many people working the floor. Lyn’s onstage, coaxing one of the geeks up to dance with her, and every table Frank sees is occupied. There’s a small group of people clustered around the far corner of the stage as well, and Frank sees why when he gets closer.
“Frank!” Brendon says cheerfully, giving him a little wave. He’s perched on the edge of the stage, bare feet dangling over the side, and there are shimmery wings strapped onto his back. There’s a little wreath of flowers and leaves in his dark hair, and his entire torso is covered in body glitter. Frank’s tempted to blink a few times and maybe rub his eyes, but he’s pretty sure then when he opens them again, Brendon will still be dressed as a fairy.
“Wow,” he says. Brendon just grins at him. The reason for the crowd is easily apparent; there are at least half a dozen people ranged around Brendon, all sketching furiously. Frank shakes his head in admiration and gives Brendon a high-five that only smears a smudge of glitter over his palm.
“Is Ryan here?” Frank asks. Brendon nods and points to one of the tables in the back, where a familiar dark head is bent in conversation with someone Frank doesn’t recognize.
Ryan is Brendon’s boyfriend, and ever since Brendon started actually dancing at the club rather than working the bar and helping Bob with security, he’s shown up faithfully every time Brendon’s scheduled to perform. Since Brendon only dances when they’re short or for special occasions, it’s still not all that often, but Ryan has yet to miss a day.
It’s not some twisted possessive jealousy thing, either, which Frank would totally understand but also be slightly nervous about. Ryan seems to consider it part of his duty as Brendon’s boyfriend to provide moral support and watch him perform. He sits at a table near the front whenever Brendon dances onstage, watches quietly with his hands folded on the table, and applauds at the end, like he’s watching a real show and not a striptease. It’s one of the fucking weirdest things Frank has ever seen, but oddly endearing at the same time. And it makes Brendon happy, so whatever.
“Frank?” someone asks, and Frank twists around in confusion because he doesn’t recognize the voice, or the careful, tentative way it’s saying his name. It doesn’t take him long to place, though, not with the very familiar face standing there smiling hesitantly at him.
“Gerard?” he asks in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Bob’s not letting in anyone off the street, Frank’s pretty sure, but Gerard just smiles wider and waves hello. “This is, uh, my office,” he explains, gesturing to encompass the room full of people. “I work as a cartoonist.”
“No shit,” Frank says, suddenly feeling much better about this whole night. It will be nice to talk to someone who isn’t staff or making their best effort to swallow their own tongue. “What a weird world, huh?”
Gerard blushes. Frank watches the color bloom over his cheeks and is completely fascinated. “Actually, no, not really,” Gerard admits. “I kind of…um, they asked for suggestions on where to hold the party, and I said this place was good. I knew you did events and things, it was on one of the fliers.”
“Oh,” Frank says, slightly taken aback. He’s not sure what to say to that.
Gerard’s blush deepens. “I wanted to see you again,” he continues, shoulders hunching up around his ears in a way that Frank really shouldn’t find so adorable.
“Oh,” Frank says again, and then grins. “Yeah?”
Gerard peeks up at him and his shoulders relax fractionally. “Yeah,” he admits, and laughs a funny little seal-bark of a laugh. “It’s kind of stupid, right?”
“No, it’s really not,” Frank assures him hastily, rocking forward onto his toes and patting his arm. He’s suddenly acutely aware of Brendon watching them with undisguised curiosity. “Did you, um…?” He’s not sure how to ask if Gerard wants to go have another make-out session in one of the private rooms without it sounding really creepy. “Want anything? A dance?”
He steps forward, into Gerard’s space, but Gerard suddenly looks panicked and takes a step back. “I, um…” he begins, and is interrupted by the arrival of Butcher, who’s somehow procured a lasso.
“What’s new, buckaroos?” Butcher asks. Brendon abruptly goes from open interest in Frank and Gerard’s conversation to looking wistful in the direction of Butcher’s cowboy costume.
“Oh wow,” Gerard says, and Frank tries to evaluate whether that’s relief in his voice or just artistic appreciation. “Your tattoos are amazing. Can I see? Do you mind?” He’s much less hesitant when it comes to art, it seems, because he hardly waits for Butcher to obligingly turn his back before he starts tracing the design with his fingertips.
Butcher cranes his head a little to look back, shuffling forward when Gerard frowns and goes to move them into better light. “Yeah, I’ve been getting that reaction a lot,” he admits. “I started the night with a buckskin vest thing, but so many people have wanted to draw the tats that I decided to just leave it off.”
“This is really great work,” Gerard says sincerely. His hands are still on Butcher’s skin. Frank tries to come up with a legitimate reason to be annoyed by that. “Did you come up with the design?”
“Yeah,” Butcher says again, sounding pleased. “I went to art school, I’m finishing up a master’s degree now. Most of my work is in textiles, but I paint and sculpt and everything too.”
“Really?” Gerard asks. He sounds like Christmas came early. He is paying no attention whatsoever to Frank. “Me too. Art school, I mean. You probably knew that, I mean, a lot of us here did, but I paint, too. Is this tree yours?” He touches the twisting branches on Butcher’s arm and his fingers twitch, like he’s itching for a pen.
“That one, and this one, too,” Butcher affirms. “Oh, you should see the whole thing. Hang on. I don’t do this for just anyone, but…” He winks, and then drops his trousers so that Gerard can see the entirety of the design spiraling down from his back and over his ass.
“Holy shit,” Gerard says, awed, and his fingers reach out again. They don’t touch this time, but they do hover there like he really, really wants to.
Frank shifts back and forth on his feet. He clears his throat. He crosses his arms. Brendon blinks at him a few times. One of the cartoonists moves on from drawing Brendon to sketching Frank’s elbow. Gerard’s eyes are still fixed rapturously on Butcher’s bare ass.
Frank rolls his eyes and stomps off to serve drinks.
-
Half an hour later, things haven’t improved. Frank has done everything he can think of to attract Gerard’s attention, short of getting naked and standing on a table, but they’re in a strip club, so he’s not even sure that would attract more than a few gawking stares and a wolf whistle from Ryland.
He’s currently half on top of someone named Benjamin, doing more licking and nibbling than is strictly kosher for a lapdance. Gerard is still over next to the stage talking to Butcher, so when Benjamin grabs his ass, Frank just scoots them around a little so the appropriate people can get an eyeful of exactly how good a time Frank is currently having.
He gets bored once the song ends and thinks about going out for a smoke, but Benjamin catches his wrist. “Wait,” he says, looking horrified at his own presumption but determined to keep going. “Would you…I mean, could I call…?”
He gives up then and just goes for a kiss, smashing their mouths together with no finesse but quite a lot of drunken courage. Frank jerks back and scowls at him. He’s about to let loose when he feels Bob’s familiar firm hand on the back of his neck, squeezing with intent.
Frank allows Bob to peel him away, still scowling, and march him towards the dressing rooms. “Knock it off,” Bob says, giving Frank a little no-nonsense shake. “You’re going to start a fight, I can tell. I know what that looks like on you.”
“He went way over the line,” Frank protests, kicking at a barstool as they go past but missing thanks to Bob’s tightened grip. “He deserved it.”
“You went there first,” Bob says. “Look at these people, they’re terrified to touch you guys. They’re afraid to even breathe the wrong way in here.”
“Not all of them,” Frank mutters mutinously.
Bob gives him a none-too-gentle shove towards the door. “Have a cigarette,” he orders. “Work it off. Stop being such a fucking drama queen.”
Frank thinks about kicking Bob in the shin, but Bob’s just doing his job looking out for them, and Frank wants a cigarette more than he wants to start a fight. He thinks Bob will probably let him take a swing after this is all over if he still needs it. Bob’s good like that.
He has two cigarettes because the first one doesn’t feel like enough, and then heads backstage. Pete’s onstage but clearly not working very hard. Everyone’s paying attention to the floor show; art geeks probably spend a lot of time watching porn, but how often do they get half-dressed strippers at their very elbows? Frank waits until Pete sees him and then gives him the signal for ‘swap-out.’ Pete must be even more bored than he looks, because he barely waits to finish his turn around the pole before he comes off.
Frank goes on and dances his ass off for the rest of the night. No one else wants to work the stage because there’s no one tipping up there, so he has it to himself for over an hour, just thrashing around to the music and working out his shit. This is a good place to get stuff out, he’s found, losing himself in the beat and the movement, and it’s even better when no one’s paying attention to him and he doesn’t have to keep breaking his rhythm for tips.
He sees Gerard looking up at him at one point, sort of lost and mournful, but he doesn’t come over, so Frank ignores him. He stays until Travis gives him the eyebrows and Gabe cocks his head sideways, and even then it’s only because they’re closing and the party’s finally breaking up. He feels a fuck of a lot better now; there’s an ache in his muscles that means he’ll pay for this when he has to dance tomorrow, but right now he’s enjoying the burn.
Pete meets him at the edge of the stage with a bottle of water and a towel. “Bad night?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Frank sees Gerard give him one last quick, sad glance before he looks away hastily and shuffles out the door. Fuck him anyway. Frank drains the bottle and doesn’t answer.
A couple of guys come in as Bob’s locking up, and they both look vaguely familiar. “Hey,” one of them says, and Frank recognizes the voice faster than he places the face: Jon. “We’re here for Pete and Bill.”
“Give me ten,” Pete calls back. “I need to shower.”
“Better make that fifteen,” Ryland advises dryly, wiping down the bar. “More likely twenty. Drink?”
Frank hops off the stage, making his own way towards the bar and the liquor. He could use a drink tonight, now that he’s off the clock. William meets him there, the flower in his hair still hanging on grimly for dear life but looking a bit worse for wear.
The one who’s not Jon - Tom - chews on his bottom lip and looks amused. “Wow.”
“Fuck you,” William says tiredly. His fingers fumble over the flower stem, trying to pull it free of his tangled hair. “I was being original.”
“No, no, it looks good,” Tom assures him. “You look good.” His hands join William’s, batting him gently away. He presents the wilted flower a second later and smiles.
Frank deliberately does not look to see how Gabe’s taking this, because he doesn’t really fucking care. “Beer,” he tells Ryland, drumming his fingers on the bar. “Cut it from my tips.”
Ryland doesn’t bother asking if it was a bad night, he just pops the cap on Frank’s favorite brand and passes him the bottle. This, Frank thinks, is what makes him such a good bartender. Frank considers Bob for a few minutes, but when Bob finishes humoring him and finally asks, “You want to take it outside?” he considers for a moment and then shakes his head. He feels pretty good, actually. Fuck Gerard and his mixed messages.
“I’m good,” he promises. “Thanks, though.”
Bob just taps his fingers on Frank’s arm until he gets a swig of his beer, and then answers, “Fair enough.”
“Are you changing?” Tom asks William, who’s making short work of a glass of water. He’s gotten sloppy with it; there’s water running down his throat and curled into the webbing of his fingers. Tom’s eyes follow the path of a droplet and stop when William swallows.
“No, I thought I’d go out to the movie like this,” William says, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’m gonna catch a shower first.”
“You should show me the dressing rooms,” Tom says, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I haven’t gotten the grand tour yet.”
William only hesitates for a beat. “Okay,” he says, pushing back from the bar. “There’s not a lot to see, though.”
“Don’t get lost or I’ll drink your beer,” Jon warns as they leave.
Frank knocks back the rest of his beer and heads backstage to get his shit.
-
Valentine’s Day comes around and they’re slammed. “Fucking V-Day, man,” Butcher says on his way past with a tray full of drinks, and Frank is inclined to agree.
“Like D-Day, with less clothing,” William adds. He’s mostly dressed still, somehow, although his shirt looks decidedly less crisp than it had at the beginning of the night, damp and limply clinging to his skin. Frank imagines them all grimly stomping around in combat boots fighting off scores of leering soldiers and thinks that might not be too far off.
“Cuffs,” he orders, and Ryland gives him an eyebrow but passes them over from the shelf behind the bar. It’s nearing the end of the night, which is usually when Travis tries to keep him off the stage because guys get drunk and Frank gets pissed off, but tonight is different and they all know it. It’s all hands on deck, every year.
Andrew has a bachelorette party in the corner and is up on the table, letting them grope his ass. Frank can’t even tell who’s enjoying it more, the giggling girls or Andrew grinning down at them over his shoulder and flexing. He thinks it might be a tie.
Brendon’s working, too, and his boyfriend and cheering squad are there, discussing something animatedly over a haphazard pile of scribbled-on napkins. Brendon’s boyfriend has a best friend that comes along with him a lot, one who’s possibly the most unimpressed-looking guy Frank has ever seen inside a strip club. Frank often has to quash the impulse to go over there and straddle his lap just to see what sort of reaction he could provoke, mostly because he could just see Brendon’s stricken face if he tried it, and partly because he’s about 90% sure Pete already has.
Frank bounces the cuffs in one hand and makes his way back to the stage. Butcher’s coming off in another minute-thirty or so, as soon as this song finishes up, so Frank takes the time to limber up and shake his muscles loose. The music is a low rumble in his rib cage, vibrating in his bones, dancing across his skin. When the lights change he heads out, high-fiving Butcher as they pass, then slings his arm in a loose arc and handcuffs himself to the pole.
It’s a difficult position to dance from, because his movements are limited and there’s only so much he can do, but that seems to be part of what makes the crowd eat it up the way they do. He hears the whistling start before he even properly begins, swinging his hips and loosely grinding his way down the pole until he’s crouched on the floor. Getting up is even harder, and his thighs burn with the promise of an ache tomorrow, but it’s a good ache. It’s like the pull of your muscles straining when you fuck someone for a really long time, and he leans into it, forcing his shoulders to stretch almost painfully far when he slithers to his knees.
He stays vaguely aware of the crowd, the way he always does, but a few minutes in he actually takes stock and counts the hands, notes the faces and tallies up possible dances and side-engagements later on. He almost laughs when he sees who’s watching him from further back, eyes pinning him to the stage.
Caught you, he thinks, looking back at Ryan’s friend Spencer, and contorts himself so far that the cuffs bite into the skin of his wrists.
He thinks he sees someone else, then, someone with a pale round face and stringy dark hair falling in his eyes, but when he blinks the sweat away he can’t find him again, so he thinks he’s probably imagining things. He doesn’t like the idea that he’s imagining that, or looking for someone, because he’s not, so he scowls at himself and resolutely throws himself back into the dance, arms straining against the unyielding metal. He closes his eyes for the next few minutes, getting lost in the rhythm, and doesn’t come back to himself until the last chords die out in a grinding squeal of feedback.
Brendon comes to let him out of the cuffs, because that was one of the things he always did back when he was just helping out, but somehow it feels different now, more like a show, because Brendon’s wearing skin-tight jeans and eyeliner, crawling across the stage with the key in his teeth like they’re both under someone else’s command, and he looks more at home in his skin than Frank remembers.
Frank has sweat dripping into his eyes and every muscle in his body has started to burn, but he still grins sharply when Brendon clicks the key into the lock, and Brendon grins back. Frank’s gaze flicks back out into the crowd and now they have Ryan’s attention, too, although it doesn’t look like jealousy. It looks like…well, like Brendon’s going to be pretty sore himself in a couple of hours.
Frank saunters wearily off the stage and snorts when Brendon follows him, on his back and writhing dramatically in Frank’s wake. Frank waits until he makes it out of sight before slinging a towel at him and laughing. Brendon just grins at him harder, shaking the sweat out of his hair like a dog and taking a swig of water before rolling out his shoulders to go back on and take his turn.
It finally starts winding down, just as the adrenaline of the night begins to seep into exhaustion and Frank’s body starts clamoring for a long hot shower and a bed. He body-checks Pete out of the line for the shower, ignoring the protest because Pete did the same thing to him last week, and Pete takes twice as long to finish.
Brendon’s hanging out at the table with Ryan and his friend Spencer when Frank drags himself out of the shower, chattering excitedly and drawing on one of the napkins with the worn-down nub of a pencil. Frank’s surprised to see William and Pete’s friend Jon with them, adding in an occasional comment of his own, but when he turns around to check out the bar he sees Tom there as well, beer in hand.
“What’s up?” Frank asks, hauling himself onto a barstool with only the slightest wince. He’s going to sleep like the dead tonight, and probably through most of the morning. Thank fuck he doesn’t have to be up early.
“McMahon’s been chatting up Victoria,” Ryland informs him, wiping down glasses with professional polish. “They’re out back now, having a smoke break.” He forms the quote marks in the air with his fingers, then spins the glass into the rack above his head.
“Everyone flirts with Victoria,” Frank says dismissively. He leans over the bar and feels the pull in his spine, vertebrae going pop-pop-pop with every additional inch of stretch.
“I think the more crucial point is that she’s letting him,” Ryland says, and Frank does a double-take, eyebrows high with surprise. Fuck, even his eyebrows hurt. It’s definitely time to go home.
“Love is in the air?” he asks, just as William bumps into him from the other side, apologizing as he catches himself. Frank starts to reach out but Tom is already there, steadying him with a hand under William’s elbow.
“Sorry,” William says again, righting himself.
“Full of grace,” Tom compliments, eyes sleepy but very much focused on William. “How the fuck did you end up as a stripper?”
“It was this or The Gap,” William quips in answer, and his smile is a little crooked, familiar.
Someone’s phone goes off and Brendon jumps up, his hands doing a little dance over his pockets. “Sorry, sorry, I’ve got to take this,” he says, and bounces out into the hallway with Ryan frowning slightly after him. Jon reclaims his attention a second later with something light and offhand, and Ryan turns away from the closed door.
“Not a bad take tonight,” Ryland comments, attracting Frank’s attention again as he counts through a stack of bills. He tips his chin towards Frank and adds, “For someone who sticks to soft drinks, your runner continues to be a good tipper.”
“Gerard was here?” Frank asks, surprised into answering before he can think better of it.
Ryland gets a funny look on his face. “Yeah, for an hour at least. He kept skulking around the bar watching you onstage, I figured he was just waiting for an opportunity to pounce. He didn’t come up to you?”
“Son of a bitch,” Frank replies, and kicks the bar for good measure. He’s not sure who he’s angrier with; himself for not noticing, or Gerard for hiding from him.
Strike that; he’s definitely angrier at Gerard.
Pete’s arm drapes around his shoulders, water still beading on his skin from the shower. “He’s just not that into you,” he offers, solemn-faced, and then laughs his annoying donkey-bray laugh.
“Fuck you,” Frank says, resisting the urge to punch Pete in the face. He means well. Besides, Ryland is right there, and about twice his size. It’s not worth starting shit over something that’s probably true. He doesn’t even know why it’s bothering him so much. So they got off together once, big deal. It’s not like it means anything.
“Right, we’re out,” Tom says, pushing back from the bar. The jerk of his head seems to encompass Jon, Pete, and himself in one movement, wheat-blond hair falling over his eyes again as he sets down his empty bottle. “Johnny?”
Jon stands up, saying his goodbyes to Ryan and Spencer, and looks inquisitively over at the bar. “Change your mind, Billvy?”
Frank has no idea who the fuck he’s asking about for a second, but then William shakes his head and says reluctantly, “Class in the afternoon.” When Tom boos, he just says, “Them’s the breaks, sweetheart.” His accent is atrocious, but Jon still laughs.
Tom hugs William goodbye, and Frank’s skin prickles even before he sees Gabe watching from the door that leads backstage. He gets distracted, though, because Brendon comes back in from the other hallway and is actually physically wringing his hands in distress.
Frank is about to leave them all to their own drama, but then William goes backstage and Gabe follows him, and a few seconds later Frank can hear the sharp sound of an argument, the kind where the people involved know they have to keep it down but are still really fucking pissed. “Nothing,” he hears, not muffled enough to disguise the words. “No.”
Frank considers. On the one hand, he really doesn’t want to stick around much longer. On the other hand, his shit is in the dressing rooms, which are on the other side of the argument that has now risen in volume to the point that Frank can hear the hissed, “Fuck you,” from behind the closed door.
“My parents are coming,” Brendon says, breaking in on his contemplation. His voice is high and panicky, tight with tension. “They said next weekend, they have tickets, they want me to show them around, they said they want to see where I live.”
“That’s good, right?” Spencer says, and his tone is surprisingly gentle for someone who spends a great deal of time looking as if ice wouldn’t melt on his tongue. “You’ve been hoping they’d start talking to you again.”
There’s a story there that Frank’s missed part of, Brendon and whatever happened with his parents, but whatever it is, it can’t have been good, because Brendon is squeezing his hands together so tightly the knuckles have turned white.
“They want to visit me at work,” Brendon emphasizes, like he’s announcing the dawn of the apocalypse. “They want to visit me in my gay apartment where I spend time with my gay boyfriend and then they want to come see where I work, Spence.”
“Okay, woah,” Ryan says, speaking up for the first time like a turtle finally startled out of its shell. “You didn’t tell them you work here, though, right?”
Brendon’s laugh is a little high, a little crazed. It almost drowns out the sound of William saying, “nothing to do with this,” from the backstage hallway.
“I told them I work as a server, they think I have a job at a restaurant or something. I couldn’t tell them I work as a bartender serving alcoholic drinks in a strip club full of gay men.” His face has gone white by the end of the last strong emphasis, and Spencer pulls out a chair for him and pushes down on his shoulder until Brendon folds into it.
“So tell them you have this weekend off,” Spencer says. “They can’t stick around forever.”
“What about when I have to go to work?” Brendon counters, hands clenched on the edge of the table. “What about when I have to leave them in my gay apartment that contains actual gay porn and come to work? They’ll follow me, Spencer, they’ll track me down.”
“Travis might give you the weekend off,” Frank muses from the bar. “He’s good, you could plead family emergency.”
Brendon shakes his head. “They’ll want to come see where it is and meet the people I work with. You don’t understand, these are my parents, they want to see everything I do to check for wholesome influences.”
Ryan makes a noise that conveys his opinion on Brendon’s parents and their idea of wholesome influences. Spencer gives him a warning look across the table and kicks Ryan in the shin. Ryan kicks back and scowls, but rearranges his features into something more like sulky attentiveness.
Brendon doesn’t notice, because his head is down on the table. “I’m doomed,” he says, muffled into the tabletop. “Doooomed.”
“We’ll come up with something,” Ryan promises awkwardly. Frank silently wishes him luck with that, and wonders if he should call Bob before Brendon hyperventilates.
“Maybe I want a break from you too,” William says, slamming through the doorway, and all of them jump. William slams the front door even harder, hard enough that it rattles in the frame. Frank wonders if it’s safe to head back and grab his shit now, but something crashes backstage and he thinks maybe not. He hopes the chairs survive.
“Dooooomed,” Brendon says again. Frank thinks he might just have to agree with him.
-
The 5O4 Plan show is in a shitty bar that Frank’s been to a hundred times before, for live concerts much like this one. He sees Brendon first, bobbing up and down while he listens to something Jon is saying, a red cup in his hand. Pete and Ryland are hanging out by the bar, and he gives them a wave as he shoulders through the crowd to find his own spot. William is there, too, already working on a glass of something stronger than beer. Gabe isn’t. Frank isn’t really all that surprised.
He starts to go over to them, but then catches sight of a few friends that aren’t, miraculously, from work, and winds up pushing in that direction instead. “Mikey!” he yells over the ambient noise of the crowd, and Mikey looks up and moves his chin in a weird sort of Mikey-acknowledgement. Frank bobs his head in response and fights his way through the crush, slithering sideways at one point to squeeze between people, until he reaches Mikey’s side.
He gives their friend Ray a high-five and looks around in mild bewilderment. “Who the fuck are all these people?” he asks. Ray laughs, high and loud.
Mikey just shrugs. “Hometown band,” he says. “I’ve seen them before, they’re pretty good.”
“Yeah? Awesome.” Frank’s ready for a drink, but the crush at the bar looks pretty heavy right now. Ryland’s reaching over to accept two glasses, Pete half-hidden under his arm while everyone around them pushes forward. Frank wonders if he can get Ryland’s attention from here, but he thinks probably not. He’ll just have to head over when it thins out some.
“It’s too bad they don’t have a bigger venue,” Ray comments. “I mean, small shows are cool and all, but there’s really no room.”
There’s really not. The stacks of amps on either side of the stage have people already pressed against them on every available side, and the show hasn’t even started yet. The stage is about the same size as the one in Rogues & Queens, only with considerably more people packed onto it. Once the expansions Travis has planned for the club go through, though, they’ll have a lot more room than this place does.
“Huh,” he says out loud. Ray looks at him funny, waiting for the rest of the thought to be vocalized. Mikey’s expression doesn’t change, but Frank can tell he’s listening. He keeps his work life and his social life separate, though, so he doesn’t mention the idea slowly forming in his head. “Nothing,” he says out loud, craning his neck to check out the press near the bar. “Hey, I’m gonna get a drink, save me a spot.”
Ray calls something after him, and Frank waves vaguely over his shoulder as he bobs through the crowd. He ends up next to Brendon and Jon somehow, both of them holding down a patch of floor just out of the flow of traffic. Travis is with them, looming over everyone else in the immediate vicinity.
“Yo,” Frank greets them, eyeing the bartender hopefully. “Anyone have an extra beer?”
“Not a chance,” Brendon says, guarding his cup with both hands, and Frank almost cuffs him on the back of the head, because no way is Brendon old enough to legally drink.
“Good turnout,” Travis says, already watching the bar the same way Frank is in spite of the half-full bottle in his hand. “Means longer lines for the liquor.”
“I was just thinking,” Frank tells him. “Since you and Saporta are doing all the corporate parties and shit, we should totally rent the club out for shows on nights like this. Early evenings, or Sundays, something like that. We’ve got the room and the sound system.”
Travis strokes his chin thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea,” he admits. “Turn it into something else for a day, make some extra cash. We could pull in some local bands, maybe.”
Brendon laughs, but it sounds a little flat. “Too bad we can’t do that next weekend,” he says. “Turn it into someplace I could take my parents so they’d never have to know.”
There are lines of unhappiness around his mouth that aren’t usually there. Frank’s looking at them when his mouth opens of its own accord and says, “Why couldn’t we?”
“What?” They all look at him then, with matching expressions of confusion. Frank pushes on before the idea gets away from him.
“Why can’t we? Turn it into something else, have them come by. Sunday, we’re all off then. I’m sure people would help out even if it is their day off. We could all pool together, fake them out.” The more he thinks about it, the more excited he gets. They could be like super-spies, undercover. Frank has always wanted to be James Bond. That guy is so fucking cool.
Jon scratches his beard and then his hair, looking uncomfortable. “It would be hard to line someone up that fast,” he points out. “I’d offer, I mean, I’m sure the guys wouldn’t mind, we could play, but is a concert venue really that much more parent-friendly than a strip club?”
“Yes,” Brendon says immediately, but Frank is still thinking.
“What if it wasn’t a concert?” he says, words rushing over each other as he gets more excited. “What if we did something else? Like a, a restaurant, or a blues cabaret, or, or…”
“Who the fuck do we know that can cook?” Travis asks, while Jon says right over top of him, “Coffeehouse.”
“What?” Brendon’s eyes are as wide as tennis balls, ping-ponging between them all.
“Coffeehouse,” Jon says again, sounding a little embarrassed. “You know, like, espresso drinks and live music and shit. It wouldn’t be all that hard. All we’d need is a coffee machine and some pastries or something.”
Frank is practically bouncing on his toes in glee. “Totally, that’s totally it,” he says. Brendon’s mouth has dropped open a little bit, and when Jon finishes he whirls around to face Travis so fast he nearly trips over his own sneakers.
“Could we?” he asks, begging eyes turned on full force. “Could we, please?”
Travis hesitates, but he’s no match for the eyes and they all know it. The eyes are the reason Brendon ended up dancing last month during what was originally supposed to be a girls-only night of Britney Spears songs. “What the fuck,” Travis says, holding his hands up. “If you can get it together, you can have the space. We’re closed Sunday anyway.”
“What are we doing?” William asks, squeezing into the small circle of their discussion. Travis makes room for him automatically, arm draping over William’s shoulders. Tom is only a half-step behind William, tugging Jon’s sleeve.
“Hey, I gotta go,” Jon says apologetically. “I’ll catch you guys later though, yeah? Brendon, it was good talking to you again.”
He and Tom make their way toward the backstage while Frank and Brendon fill William in on the new Fool Brendon’s Parents plan, version one. They start talking about where they could get a decent coffeemaker and who they could get to come in and play, and before Frank knows it the lights are going down and the band is stepping out onstage.
“Motherfuck,” he says in surprise. “Gotta go.” It’s harder to find Mikey and Ray in the semi-dark, but he pushes his way through the crowd until he finds Mikey’s rail-thin frame and Ray’s hair, already bobbing in time with the beat.
“Where did you go?” Ray asks, and Frank just shrugs, yells, “People from work,” over the noise of a feedback squeal.
The band starts playing their first song, and Frank is just getting into the music when Mikey says, “Oh hey, there you are.”
“I said I would come,” someone else says, or at least that’s what Frank thinks he hears, anyway. He doesn’t look around until Mikey taps him on the shoulder, leans down to say, “Hey, there’s someone I want you to meet,” and Frank turns around and sees Gerard.
It’s definitely Gerard. Frank’s not hallucinating him this time, or seeing familiar faces when there isn’t one. Even if he hadn’t been unmistakably there, in the flesh, only a few feet away, he’s wearing a flummoxed expression that’s a dead giveaway and probably a match for Frank’s own.
“Do you two already know each other?” Ray asks, curious, and Gerard starts to answer but Frank rushes over him.
“We met once, another show, no big thing.” He likes that Mikey and Ray know him as a guy they hang out and go to shows with, and not as a guy who works as a stripper. He tries to will Gerard to keep his mouth shut with the power of his mind.
Gerard seems to get the hint, because his mouth snaps closed and he just bobs his head once in response. Mikey looks skeptical, probably because he goes to every show ever, and asks, “Which one?”
“You weren’t there,” Frank says quickly, wiping his sweating palms off on his jeans. “It was, uh, a while ago. How do you two know each other?”
“He’s my brother,” Mikey says, with the expression that passes for bewilderment on Mikey, brows drawn into a tiny pucker of confusion. Frank feels the bottom drop out of his stomach and starts swearing. Fuck fucking fuck. Of all the shitty luck.
Gerard’s looking at him with something embarrassed and plaintive in his eyes. “So, uh, hi,” he says, and Frank takes matters into his own hands before damage control becomes necessary.
“I need a drink,” he yells at the group as a whole. Then he snags Gerard’s sleeve and orders, “Come with me!”
“I, uh,” Gerard replies, but by then Frank’s on the move, dragging Gerard in his wake.
“What the fuck?” he asks when they reach a safe distance, projecting to be heard over the music blasting from the speaker stack. “You’re Mikey’s brother?”
“I didn’t know you knew him,” Gerard answers in what’s nearly a wail, his eyes skittering to where they left Mikey and Ray. “You didn’t say you were that Frank.”
“You didn’t ask!” Frank yells back in what isn’t actually a borderline-hysterical tone. This is awkward now, though, super-awkward, and Mikey has freaky-weird Jedi mind powers that mean if they’re not careful Frank is going to be so, so busted.
“So, uh,” Gerard begins guiltily. “How is everything?” When Frank just stares at him in disbelief, he shuffles his feet a little and tries again. “Sorry I haven’t, um, that I didn’t say goodbye the last time, I was kind of…”
“Whatever,” Frank says, when Gerard visibly stumbles to a confused halt. “It’s cool, I get it. Other friends, better things to do.” He really needs that drink now. He thinks about taking William’s, because he’s not too far off, but William looks miserable and alone right now and Frank thinks he probably needs it.
“No, no,” Gerard insists, his big, spooky eyes open wide and focused on Frank. “It wasn’t that, I just…I felt bad exploiting you.”
“What?” Frank asks, eyebrows knitted in confusion.
“Exploitation,” Gerard yells, obviously thinking Frank can’t hear him, and Frank does a flappy-armed dance of embarrassment to get him to shut up. A couple of people glance their way, curious, but look away again after just a second, attention drawn back to the stage. Gerard lowers his voice again and says, “I was using you, for money, and objectifying you. It’s degrading, and I like you a lot more than that, I didn’t want to be someone who…who made you like that.”
“It’s a job,” Frank says, crossing his arms. “I’m not an indentured prostitute, Jesus Christ.”
“You sell sex for money!” Gerard squeaks, and Frank is about to flail at him to lower his voice again when Gerard ducks his head. “You got me off in the back room of a strip club as part of your job,” he emphasizes, and his eyes are still huge and earnest. Frank wants to swear at him and kiss him at the same time.
“That was a freebie,” Frank protests, one second away from stomping his foot for emphasis. “I didn’t charge you for it, that was just us having a good time! If you didn’t want to then you should have fucking said something at the time.”
“I did want to,” Gerard argues, wringing his hands in the stretched material of his hoodie. “But that’s the problem, I wanted to, and I want to again, I was using you…”
“I did it because I fucking wanted to, asshole,” Frank tells him, voice rising in spite of himself. “You think I do that for every fucking customer who comes in looking for a good time?”
“You’re in a bad position and I took advantage of you,” Gerard insists, gesticulating wildly as he speaks.
“I’m a fucking stripper!” Frank yells, just as the song ends and the bar goes suddenly quiet. There’s a weird ringing noise in his ears, and he can’t look away even as he feels his ears heat up and the pressure of curious gazes on the back of his neck.
Everyone is staring at him. Jon leans over and says into the mic, “We know, but, uh…thanks Frank,” and the earth fails to open up and swallow him whole no matter how hard he wishes it.
Gerard is bright red and Frank is furious and humiliated and really fucking conflicted, because Gerard is being solicitous and understanding and all Frank really wants is for him to stick his hand down Frank’s pants. He tries to storm off to recover some ounce of his composure, but Gerard flails after him and gets a hand on his sleeve as the music starts up again, yanking him back with abrupt pressure around his collar.
“I only avoided you because I was afraid of what I would do if we were in that situation again,” he says desperately, looking earnest and pitiful and altogether too attractive for Frank’s state of mind right now. “I value you as a person. I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”
Frank shrugs him off and draws himself up to every last centimeter of his height so he can look Gerard in the eye. “I’m good at my job, and I enjoy it, and if anyone tried to take advantage of me I would take their fucking balls off,” he says. “Which you’d know if you’d fucking asked me.”
He takes off before Gerard can stop looking stricken for long enough to say anything else, and shoulders a lot of annoyed people out of his way en route to the door. Travis tries to intercept him, but Frank really isn’t in the mood and he doesn’t want to face Gerard or Mikey when the set ends, so he shoves his way out the door and leaves with the angry crash of the cymbals falling muffled behind him.
Part Three