New Story: Exponential
This is just a little something I came up with. Fluffy, self-indulgent, MCR gen. Yeah, I don't know either.
Huge thanks to giddygeek, calathea, and kristiinthedark for looking at this at various points. I swear to god, I don't normally need three betas for a story this small.
Title: Exponential
Fandom: MCR
Gen
915 words
Gerard has rehashed entire tour for the fourth time with his mom and dad, shown them the pictures of the new place, ("Do they have real pizza in Portland?" his dad asked.) and promised approximately six hundred times that he'd call if he needed anything. It's not like Gerard was ever home for more than a few weeks at a time, but it meant something to them that he was finally, officially moving out. Gerard got that.
Just as he was about to make the final call to the movers, the doorbell rang. Gerard opened the door, blinking in the bright sunshine, to find his entire band assembled on his front steps. "Uh, what--" he got out.
"We're helping you move," Ray said, holding up packing tape and a Sharpie. Gerard saw that Frank had already used the Sharpie to label himself, helpfully, "Frank."
"What kind of shitty friends do you think we are?" Bob asked, shrugging his shoulders.
Frank elbowed his way to the front. "We demand pizza and sugary drinks. It's the first rule of moving."
"I'm just here to see Ma," Mikey said. "Your belongings scare me."
Gerard grinned. His fucking band, man. "Come on in." He opened the door wider. Apparently Mikey wasn’t joking about visiting Ma, because he made a beeline for the kitchen. "You guys know I have movers, right?" he laughed. "I'm not exactly piling my shit in a van and driving myself to Portland." He led them down the stairs to the basement. "Besides, everything's in boxes already."
Frank opened the door to the basement room. "Right," he said, giggling. "The movers will loooove this."
Okay, so it had been a while since Gerard had actually packed the boxes. And some of those boxes were more like crates. And shoeboxes. And a few shopping bags. And maybe he'd gone through them a few times when he was back from touring.
The guys surveyed the teetering, dusty, chaos with an insulting lack of surprise. "Okay," Ray sighed, pulling latex gloves from his pocket. "Let's do this."
"Step one," Frank said, grabbing Gerard's hand and scribbling on it. "Now, hand me that tape, Bryar."
"No fucking way," Bob said, already cross-legged next to a pile of CDs. Gerard suspected that there might be alphabetizing going on. "You're dangerous with that shit. Get some boxes."
Frankie took off and Gerard lifted his hand. "GERARD," it read, the middle A made into an anarchy symbol. He smiled. "Now I won't lose myself," he said.
"No, no, you're not getting philosophical. Sort this shit," Bob said, shoving a box in Gerard's arms. "You can write a song about the transient existence of cardboard when we're done."
Gerard laughed. "Yes, sir."
For the next hour or so, Gerard listened to his favorite sounds in the world, next to the sounds of ten thousand screaming fans.
"Toro, you're what, thirty? And you can't operate packing tape?"
"I bet I can tape your fucking mouth shut, Bryar."
"Frankie, why does this box say 'sparkly shit'?"
"Slow clap for Mikey Way, gentlemen. He has decided to grace us with his presence."
"......!"
"Will someone get the tape off Bob's mouth?"
"Someone other than Frank?"
"...dude, Bob looks really mad."
"You assholes, that shit hurts. Ow, my fucking beard."
"Why is there a box marked 'FOR EBAY'?"
"Come on! His underwear is just going to end up on there anyway."
"...Frank!"
When the last box was packed and Gerard had called out for two pepperoni pizzas, one veggie calzone, (no cheese) and three more bottles of soda, the guys all flopped in a semi-circle around the tower of neat, clearly labeled boxes. Gerard stretched out on his back, working the kinks out of his muscles.
"Pizza should be here soon," Gerard said, just to fill up the space. He watched his words kick up a nebula of dust motes, spinning into the late afternoon light.
"Do they even have pizza in Portland?" Frank asked. Gerard heard the muffled thump of Bob's foot connecting with Frank's leg.
"I don't know," Gerard said. "Not like Jersey, I bet." He trailed his fingers along the carpet, feeling the twists of the fibers, as familiar as his own skin. "It's just that. I just--"
"You don't have to explain," Ray said quickly. "Portland's awesome."
"We should get a private jet," Frank announced. "So we can visit Gerard in Portland and Bob can visit his family in Chicago whenever we want."
"We live together eight months out of the year," Gerard laughed. "I'm a big boy now. I can handle it."
"Hmmmm," Frank hummed worriedly, and Gerard knew that he was going to be fending off 24-hour text messages and cross-country pizza deliveries for the first few months he was out there.
And Ray would send him .zip files of random riffs he was working on and Bob would send him another file with those same riffs set to drums and some random stupid YouTube clip about surfing kittens and Mikey....well, Mikey was fine, finally.
Gerard could get up and move onward and upward, like a green and growing thing, through the cracks in the sidewalk, up from the basement, out of the pavement, unfurling his leaves, drawing strength from his roots.
Before the metaphor could get away from him, the doorbell rang and the guys thundered up the stairs, shoving and yelling at each other. Gerard followed behind, onward and upward, out of the basement and into the light.
Huge thanks to giddygeek, calathea, and kristiinthedark for looking at this at various points. I swear to god, I don't normally need three betas for a story this small.
Title: Exponential
Fandom: MCR
Gen
915 words
Gerard has rehashed entire tour for the fourth time with his mom and dad, shown them the pictures of the new place, ("Do they have real pizza in Portland?" his dad asked.) and promised approximately six hundred times that he'd call if he needed anything. It's not like Gerard was ever home for more than a few weeks at a time, but it meant something to them that he was finally, officially moving out. Gerard got that.
Just as he was about to make the final call to the movers, the doorbell rang. Gerard opened the door, blinking in the bright sunshine, to find his entire band assembled on his front steps. "Uh, what--" he got out.
"We're helping you move," Ray said, holding up packing tape and a Sharpie. Gerard saw that Frank had already used the Sharpie to label himself, helpfully, "Frank."
"What kind of shitty friends do you think we are?" Bob asked, shrugging his shoulders.
Frank elbowed his way to the front. "We demand pizza and sugary drinks. It's the first rule of moving."
"I'm just here to see Ma," Mikey said. "Your belongings scare me."
Gerard grinned. His fucking band, man. "Come on in." He opened the door wider. Apparently Mikey wasn’t joking about visiting Ma, because he made a beeline for the kitchen. "You guys know I have movers, right?" he laughed. "I'm not exactly piling my shit in a van and driving myself to Portland." He led them down the stairs to the basement. "Besides, everything's in boxes already."
Frank opened the door to the basement room. "Right," he said, giggling. "The movers will loooove this."
Okay, so it had been a while since Gerard had actually packed the boxes. And some of those boxes were more like crates. And shoeboxes. And a few shopping bags. And maybe he'd gone through them a few times when he was back from touring.
The guys surveyed the teetering, dusty, chaos with an insulting lack of surprise. "Okay," Ray sighed, pulling latex gloves from his pocket. "Let's do this."
"Step one," Frank said, grabbing Gerard's hand and scribbling on it. "Now, hand me that tape, Bryar."
"No fucking way," Bob said, already cross-legged next to a pile of CDs. Gerard suspected that there might be alphabetizing going on. "You're dangerous with that shit. Get some boxes."
Frankie took off and Gerard lifted his hand. "GERARD," it read, the middle A made into an anarchy symbol. He smiled. "Now I won't lose myself," he said.
"No, no, you're not getting philosophical. Sort this shit," Bob said, shoving a box in Gerard's arms. "You can write a song about the transient existence of cardboard when we're done."
Gerard laughed. "Yes, sir."
For the next hour or so, Gerard listened to his favorite sounds in the world, next to the sounds of ten thousand screaming fans.
"Toro, you're what, thirty? And you can't operate packing tape?"
"I bet I can tape your fucking mouth shut, Bryar."
"Frankie, why does this box say 'sparkly shit'?"
"Slow clap for Mikey Way, gentlemen. He has decided to grace us with his presence."
"......!"
"Will someone get the tape off Bob's mouth?"
"Someone other than Frank?"
"...dude, Bob looks really mad."
"You assholes, that shit hurts. Ow, my fucking beard."
"Why is there a box marked 'FOR EBAY'?"
"Come on! His underwear is just going to end up on there anyway."
"...Frank!"
When the last box was packed and Gerard had called out for two pepperoni pizzas, one veggie calzone, (no cheese) and three more bottles of soda, the guys all flopped in a semi-circle around the tower of neat, clearly labeled boxes. Gerard stretched out on his back, working the kinks out of his muscles.
"Pizza should be here soon," Gerard said, just to fill up the space. He watched his words kick up a nebula of dust motes, spinning into the late afternoon light.
"Do they even have pizza in Portland?" Frank asked. Gerard heard the muffled thump of Bob's foot connecting with Frank's leg.
"I don't know," Gerard said. "Not like Jersey, I bet." He trailed his fingers along the carpet, feeling the twists of the fibers, as familiar as his own skin. "It's just that. I just--"
"You don't have to explain," Ray said quickly. "Portland's awesome."
"We should get a private jet," Frank announced. "So we can visit Gerard in Portland and Bob can visit his family in Chicago whenever we want."
"We live together eight months out of the year," Gerard laughed. "I'm a big boy now. I can handle it."
"Hmmmm," Frank hummed worriedly, and Gerard knew that he was going to be fending off 24-hour text messages and cross-country pizza deliveries for the first few months he was out there.
And Ray would send him .zip files of random riffs he was working on and Bob would send him another file with those same riffs set to drums and some random stupid YouTube clip about surfing kittens and Mikey....well, Mikey was fine, finally.
Gerard could get up and move onward and upward, like a green and growing thing, through the cracks in the sidewalk, up from the basement, out of the pavement, unfurling his leaves, drawing strength from his roots.
Before the metaphor could get away from him, the doorbell rang and the guys thundered up the stairs, shoving and yelling at each other. Gerard followed behind, onward and upward, out of the basement and into the light.