new bandslash fic: A Handholding Song
A Handholding Song | PG-13 | 15,000+
Joe/Bob, Brendon/Spencer, Frank/Gerard (with background William/Gabe, implied Jon/Ryan & blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Butcher/Siska)
“I’m gonna write a song about you,” Joe says. “It’ll be a handholding song, I hope you don’t mind if I make you a girl.”
A/N: THE HOBO JOE AU! It’s finished! And it's, like, an uber schmoopy meet-cute, but whatever. So many thanks to insunshine for beta’ing this - I’ve recently realized that I phrase things in epically weird ways, and some of it is just my style, but most of it is just stupid, and she totally calls me on it every time. And! TNBC was real, as was Hang Time, and those were my Saturday mornings for years (years spent in college and beyond! Real-life careers require California Dreams and City Guys, is all I’m saying).
A Handholding Song
“So we’re hiding,” Brendon says, sliding down to sit on the floor next to Joe.
Joe likes Brendon. Brendon’s an awesome kid, and he always gives Joe extra brownies or muffins or whatever with his coffee, even though Joe doesn’t technically work in the building. Although, whatever, Argyle Dude always sits by him on his lunch hour and gives him a couple bucks and half his sandwich, so, like, that totally counts.
Of course, not everyone appreciates Joe and the way Joe can rock an acoustic version of No Diggity or In Da Club, particularly not Smoking Hot Security Guard Bob, who’s back a full five minutes early from his morning break. Which is why Joe is paying Brendon’s coffee kiosk an especially up-close and personal visit on this fine morn. He thinks there’s some biscotti digging into his back.
Joe clutches his guitar to his chest. “Why would you ever say that?” Joe says. He’s resisting the urge to peek over the top of the counter. It’s not like he’s afraid of Bob, but Bob thinks he’s a hobo. 201 West Independence apparently has a strict no hobos in the lobby policy. It sucks, since Joe can only sneak in for some of Brendon’s spectacular coffee on Bob’s breaks or when Ray is working, since Ray’s a pushover. He’s also, like, The Fixer Of All Things, though, and he keeps giving Joe clothes and ramen noodles and free clinic pamphlets - Joe’s not sure which behavior is more insulting, Bob or Ray’s, but either way Joe isn’t a bum.
He’s got an apartment. He shares it with three other dudes, yeah, and he sleeps on a mattress on the floor of Butcher’s room, but he pays rent. Some rent. He gives Andy whatever he has each month; he’s totally contributing to society and shit. He’s bringing peace and harmony to the masses through busking - and by selling the high-grade weed he and Frank are growing in the bathroom. That’s also probably something he shouldn’t mention to Bob. Ever.
And Joe showers daily, thanks very much. Or, like, every other day. He tends to forget to brush his hair, though; it’s kind of out of control, but Joe likes how it’s enormous and flattering to his nose.
There’s a knock on the counter above him and Joe jumps a little, startled, then freezes while Brendon scrambles to his feet and says, “Hi, Bob!” and leans onto his elbows and kicks Joe on the hip with a pointy, meaningful shoe.
After a moment of silence - where Joe imagines Bob doing his I-am-not-impressed frown and eyebrow arch combination - Bob says, “Where’s Joe?”
Brendon shifts and says, “No clue, dude. I definitely have not seen him inside here. In this lobby. At all. Today.”
Joe barely resists the urge to palm his face.
Bob grunts. His grunt is full of weary skepticism. “Okay, right.”
Seriously, Joe’s not scared of Bob, and he totally doesn’t care if Bob throws him out of the lobby again, but Joe hasn’t gotten his second coffee of the day yet, and his second coffee of the day usually comes with one of Brendon’s homemade brownies, with the pecans and fudge.
Plus, it’s getting cold out. Fucking autumn. He tucks his feet in closer and shuffles sideways a little.
Brendon bounces on his heels. “Coffee?”
“No,” Bob says, “thanks.”
Joe hopes Bob doesn’t have anything against coffee - like he’s one of those nut-jobs who doesn’t need the sweet, sweet elixir to become something resembling a human being in the morning.
That would kind of fuck with Joe’s plan to marry Bob and have all his babies.
*
Spencer huffs his hair out of his face and presses the send calls button on his phone just as Ryan pushes through the revolving doors.
“You’re early,” Spencer says, but he’s already stuffing his cell into his messenger bag and getting to his feet, tugging the strap over his head and across his body. He’s not opposed to taking an early lunch, even if it makes for a long afternoon. Siska’s out sick, so there’s no one to send increasingly ridiculous IMs to, and Siska hasn’t figured out how to use his BlackBerry yet.
“I’ve got an idea,” Ryan says, hands shoved in his coat pockets.
Spencer arches an eyebrow.
“Just wait, it’s a great idea,” Ryan says, and he’s not smiling, but his eyes are kind of lit up, and Spencer suppresses a groan. “We ask Brendon to lunch.”
Spencer’s eyebrow goes higher, other one climbing up to join it. “Is this Jon’s idea?”
Ryan shrugs one shoulder.
Jon has this completely insane theory that Brendon and Spencer are in love. Which they aren’t. Brendon’s that friendly with everyone. He’s like a golden retriever, only slightly less hairy. Spencer and Brendon talk about the weather and French vanilla coffee and Hobo Joe, and that’s basically the extent of their six-month-long acquaintance.
Jon, Spencer knows, is a romantic. A fucked-up sap, obviously, given the way he keeps buying Ryan sweater-vests, but a romantic.
Spencer sighs and glances over at Brendon’s cart across the lobby. Brendon seems to be having a conversation with his feet. This actually isn’t so surprising. “Fine,” he says.
“Great,” Ryan says. “You do it.”
Spencer doesn’t even bother arguing, and it’s not like it’ll kill him to go over and ask Brendon to lunch, but it is a little annoying. Annoying that Jon’s convinced one day they’ll, like, catch each other’s eyes and time’ll stop and Spencer’s heart’ll grow two fucking sizes or something.
Spencer has a girlfriend. Spencer has a very hot girlfriend who everyone likes, because she’s a sweetheart, and Spencer’s in love with her, not some spazzy coffee guy who has some truly stupid tattoos on his arm and a penchant for brightly-colored friendship bracelets. Well, okay, maybe he’s not in love with Haley, and they’ve only been dating two months; Spencer isn’t going to jump headfirst into anything, but he at least likes her a whole lot.
Brendon looks up before Spencer even reaches the counter, huge grin blooming across his face and something catches in Spencer’s throat. He silently curses Jon Walker to the seventh circle of Hell.
“Spencer, hey!” Brendon says. He spreads his hands. “What can I get for you?”
Spencer shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. “I’m good,” he says. “Ryan and I are heading out to lunch, wanna come?”
Brendon’s eyes get as big as his grin. “Dude, that’d be awesome, just let me lock up.” He glances down and says, “Joe, we can totally smuggle you out, Bob won’t have any idea you were ever here.”
Spencer leans over the counter. Hobo Joe has his head tilted back and a coffee cup lifted in mock solute.
“If I wait for the perfect moment, wee Brendon,” Joe says, “meaning when I’m finished my fine and delicious coffee, Bob can manhandle me all he wants.”
“I’m not even going to ask,” Spencer says.
Hobo Joe nods. “It’s better you don’t.”
*
Ben looks wholly unimpressed with Gerard’s latest effort. Gerard groans and tosses his charcoal aside and shifts back onto the grass, propped up by his elbows.
“I don’t even know why I listen to you,” Gerard says to Ben, which is a lie. Ben is always right about everything. It’s kind of annoying.
Ben just cocks his head and hops up onto Gerard’s chest, tiny talons pinpricking his skin underneath his shirt.
“If you shit on me we’re having roast bird for dinner.”
Ben still looks bored, like Gerard could maybe turn into a giant cat and he wouldn’t even bat a beady black eye. The thing about budgies, Gerard thinks, is that they’re probably all tiny demons in disguise. Which is cool, so he honestly doesn’t mind sharing his living space with Ben - and Ben’s stuffed penguin, Julia, because Ben’s as co-dependent as Gerard, and Gerard has Ben, Julia and Mikey. And also Baguette Guy, who helps him feed the ducks on Fridays. Gerard’s a big fan of routine.
Whatever. The point is that Ben doesn’t like Gerard’s sketch, and Gerard doesn’t blame him. It’s lame, and there’s not enough blood, or, like, any blood at all. He fucking hates taking commissions.
“I’m a big fat lame-o,” Gerard says and flops totally onto his back, covering his eyes with an arm. His best friend is a parakeet. Okay, well, his best friend is actually Mikey, but he’s not so sure that’s any better, given that they’re related.
Gerard’s existence is enormously pathetic.
“Okay,” Gerard says. “Okay, so we scrap this and tell Saporta to go fuck himself.”
“Dude, who’re you talking to?”
Gerard freezes, cheeks heating at getting caught talking to a bird, and then-then he recognizes the voice. “Baguette Guy!” He moves his arm and grins up at him.
Baguette Guy grins back. “Are you talking to Ben again?”
Gerard’s grin turns sheepish. “Maybe.” It’s kind of weird how Baguette Guy knows his budgie’s name and how Gerard knows Baguette Guy calls his favorite mallard, the one with the gimpy waddle, Reginald, but they’ve never actually, like, introduced themselves. “Where’s your bread?” Gerard asks, struggling up and displacing Ben, who chirps in irritation and flutters up onto his shoulder.
“Did Ben just say ‘asshole’? Didn’t fucking know those things could talk, that’s awesome.”
Gerard shrugs. He’s taught Ben hello and bye-bye and Mikey’s taught him asshole and douchebag. “He can say, like, a couple words,” he says.
Baguette Guy doesn’t have any bread, though, and it’s vaguely upsetting. Gerard starts getting a little anxious - it’s stupid, but Fridays mean bread and ducks and pretty soon all the ducks’ll be gone for the winter and the fucking geese’ll flock past and, like, those fuckers are vicious and scary - but then Baguette Guy spreads his hands and says, “Not Friday, man, sorry.”
“Oh, um.” Something inside Gerard relaxes - seriously, he’s such a freak - and he shakes off his sudden panic as best he can. “S’okay.” He’s sure the dude already thinks he’s crazy, but there’s no reason to, like, draw attention to the elephant on the grass. Or whatever. Gerard never fully got what the fuck the elephant was supposed to be.
Baguette Guy doesn’t seem put off, though; he shifts on the balls of his feet and asks, “Smoke?”
“Fuck yes.” Gerard finished his last cigarette half an hour ago. If Baguette Guy had offered him coffee, too, Gerard would’ve fucking proposed.
He lights two cigarettes and hands one off to Gerard, kicking at Gerard’s sketchpad. “Tame, man,” he says.
“I know.” Fucking Gabe Saporta. Gerard doesn’t know how he lets him talk him into shit like this.
Baguette Guy squints down at the page and scratches his neck. “Maybe if you, like, make her old and shit in the background. Creepy future-look, you know?”
Gerard bites his lip. “It’s a shih tzu. Do they even look any different when they’re old?”
“Zombie shih tzu?”
“I don’t know if I could do that to a puppy.” Gerard likes puppies. In theory. Though he’s theoretically in favor of zombies, too.
Baguette Guy’s watching him expectantly.
“I guess I could try it,” Gerard finally says, slowly, nodding his head a little.
Baguette Guy beams. Like, his whole face lights up and his dark hair’s sort of hanging over his eyes, mashed down by a knit cap, and it’s right about then that Gerard realizes he puts maybe entirely too much stock in the opinion of his budgie and a hot stranger.
Time to remedy some of that. He holds out a hand and says, “I’m Gerard.”
*
Frank bangs through the front door and yells, “I’m home, bitches!”
Butcher doesn’t even glance up from his-Frank doesn’t even know; it looks like he’s carving some ricola-horn shit out of huge fucking chunk of wood. Frank doesn’t question it, though, ‘cause Butcher promised to make him a new guitar the next time Morris lets him loose in the shop.
“So Gerard,” Frank says, hopping over the back of the couch and sprawling all over the smelly but comfy cushions that usually serve as his bed - when Bill isn’t passed out on it or when Joe’s up too late for Frank to successfully stealth-snuggle onto his air mattress with him. Joe’s a cuddler, but only when he’s dead asleep.
“What?”
“The guy who sketches at the park with the bird,” Frank says. “His name’s Gerard.”
Butcher finally looks at him. “Gerard Way?”
“Um, what the fuck?” Frank sniffs a plastic cup, decides it’s probably just water, goes to take a sip, then thinks twice about it, ‘cause plastic’s, like, a fucking fun factory for bacteria and Joe has some hygiene issues. “I have no idea, man, does Gerard Way have a fucking tiny blue parakeet?”
Butcher arches an eyebrow and carefully sets aside his… maybe it’s a huge fucking pipe or something. That’d be sweet.
“Gerard Way,” Butcher says, getting up and going over to the giant plastic storage container of monthly mags, since everyone in the apartment seems to have a problem - Andy’s got a fucking D&D gamer subscription, Frank signed Joe up to Cat Fancy last spring, the telemarketer just has a fucking sexy voice, they’ve all agreed - and dumps it out over the coffee table.
“Gerard Way,” Butcher says again, “backed by Saporta, famous for The Black Parade, oft seen with the lovely Lyn-Z-aha.” He pulls out one of his Douchebag Today art magazines or what-the-fuck-ever, flips some pages and then waves the results under Frank’s nose.
Frank grabs it out of his hands, scowling.
“This isn’t-huh.” The guy in the black and white photo spread looks slick, artfully mussed, sophisticated, hot. It’s Bird Dude alright. Frank’s always thought Bird Dude was awesome, but he also comes across as kind of a complete fucking neurotic mess. This-this is his Gerard - same big eyes and wide smile and tiny, pointy nose - but it isn’t, not really. “Well, fuck me. And he’s dating a girl?”
Butcher shrugs.
“Shit,” Frank says. That’s just heartily disappointing.
*
Joe lasts approximately ten minutes after Brendon leaves, hiding out behind the counter. He finishes his coffee, tosses the cup in the silver chrome trash can just to the side of Brendon’s kiosk, then shoves his hands in his pockets, whistling.
He grins at Bob.
Bob looks like he maybe wants to kill him with his bare hands.
Joe waves.
Bob’s expression goes just a shade darker, and Joe takes a split-second to think maybe he’s pushed the dude too far - manhandling, he’s fond of, but Joe doesn’t want to, like, actually get hurt here.
He takes a step back and grabs for his guitar. Bob doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d destroy a man’s livelihood. Joe figures his best defense is to hide behind his moneymaker.
“Bob,” Joe says when Bob’s close enough to hear him, his hand resting on the pommel of his baton, still thankfully holstered at his waist - and Joe thinks the baton’s pretty funny, but he’s not ever going to make a rent-a-cop joke in Bob’s presence.
Bob doesn’t say anything. Joe’s gotten Bob to say maybe four words directly to him in the three months he’s been haunting 201. Bob’s hulking and laconic and he’s got a suspicious looking mark on his lip, like maybe he’s got a lip ring, like maybe he’s secretly even more awesome when he isn’t at his day job.
Joe, despite his earlier bravado, stutters over a, “I’ll just, um. I’ll see myself-out?” and wheels around towards the door, nervously tugging his scarf - a knit number that Ray gave him the week before, and Joe’s may be a little insulted by all the bum assumptions, but Ray gives him some badass clothes; half the awesome t-shirts in his and Frank’s collection are from him - tighter around his throat.
Bob’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, steering him steadily past the revolving doors and out into the mellow October sunlight.
He blinks a little, and by the time Joe spins around again, Bob’s already back inside. As always, their encounter wasn’t as fun as he’d been hoping it’d be. Sucks.
Sighing, he drops down onto the sidewalk, propped up against the carved stone balustrade curving left at the bottom of the front stoop, shifting his guitar into his lap. He strums a few chords, thinks about playing a Run DMC song, only that’s not as fun without Frank, and starts on an original instead. Joe’s awesome at writing songs. This one’s about how much of a douche Bill is when he’s drunk.
“I like that.”
Joe glances up to find Frank’s Bird Dude standing in front of him, Ben perched on top of his head.
“Thanks, man,” Joe says. “I call it Stop Drunk Dialing My Mom.”
“I like it better than Butcher Has A Hate Thing About Your Shoes.”
Joe bobs his head. It’s a high compliment, since Joe knows Butcher Has A Hate Thing is one of Bird Dude’s favorites.
Bird Dude hunches his shoulders, chin disappearing into the folds of his hoodie. He’s got a sketch pad clutched to his chest and something dark smudged across his forehead. It looks like Ben’s eating pieces of his hair.
“Um.” Bird Dude digs into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a crumpled paper. “Can you-can you give this to Frank for me?”
“Sure.” Joe flattens his hand on the strings, making a hollow thump. “But, like, you might see him tomorrow.”
“I might not, too,” Bird Dude says with a shrug, then bends down and stuffs the paper plus a couple bills into Joe’s upended hat.
“No problem.” Joe salutes with him with his pick.
*
Brendon is in love with Spencer Smith. It’s stupid, because Spencer has a very hot and sweet girlfriend and would never ever be interested in Brendon in, like, a million and one years, but Brendon is still head-over-heels in love with him.
He settles down next to Patrick on the front steps of 201 and leans onto his shoulder.
“Hey,” Patrick says thickly through a bite of his sandwich.
Hobo Joe is on his feet, jiving to a ditty about how much he loves fried chicken. Brendon cannot relate, as he is currently a vegetarian. Patrick smells like maple-glazed turkey and bacon. Brendon buries his nose in Patrick’s polo and pretends that he doesn’t miss meat like burning.
“See you inside,” Spencer says, pressing an overly-familiar hand to the top of Brendon’s head as he walks past them and up the stairs. Brendon thinks Spencer’s overly-familiar hand is awesome.
Lunch had been the kind of torture that he dreams of, with Spencer laughing at his jokes and flicking his hair out of his eyes in that totally fucking hot way that he does; with Ryan texting Jon and relating all of Jon’s texts back to them with a wry half-smile. Jon is Brendon’s very favorite person that he’s never met. Brendon’s half convinced Ryan’s made Jon Walker up completely, except he doesn’t actually think Ryan has that good of an imagination.
“What’s up?” Patrick asks. He carefully wraps up the uneaten half of his sandwich and sets it aside, along with a bag of sourdough pretzel knuckles.
“Nothing.” Brendon’s totally not going to be a girl about this. He’s not going to pine from afar or whatever. He’s going to get over himself and, like, ask out one of the Alexes from the mailroom.
Patrick makes a skeptical harrumphing sound, but just tips his hat back with his thumb. “So what did you think of Greyskull last night?”
“Killer, man,” Brendon says, straightening up from his slouch. “They rocked the fuck out. I can’t believe Bob didn’t tell us.”
“Bob doesn’t tell anybody anything,” Patrick says, then calls over, “Play the one about your cat, Joe,” and Brendon thinks he mainly does that ‘cause he knows it’s secretly Brendon’s favorite.
Joe says, “I changed the chorus, you’re gonna fucking love it,” and gives them a thumbs up.
*
“I’m gonna marry Bob and have all his babies,” Joe says, slumping down further into the sofa.
Frank giggles.
“Fabulous,” Bill says from beside him. And then, “Who’s Bob?”
“My future husband,” Joe says, and then Bill uncrosses his legs and Butcher groans and leans out of his armchair to slap at his knees and say, “Fuck’s sake, Bills,” because everyone knows Bill never wears any underwear with his fucking skirts, since he says his boxers bunch and briefs are just unmanly, never mind the fact that wearing a skirt makes him sort of a girl anyway.
Bill calls them kilts, but they’re really just pleated uniform skirts that Butcher’s sister tossed after graduation.
“Oh, wait. Wait, wait.” Joe hitches his hips up and digs into his back pocket. “Got something for you, Iero.”
Frank’s got half a handful of grated mozzarella up to his mouth, little pieces sprinkling his t-shirt, plastic bag cradled between his thighs. His “What?” comes out garbled.
Joe waves around the paper. “From Bird Dude.”
“Gerard,” Frank says, only he says it morosely. Bitter, even.
Butcher snickers.
The paper flutters down into Frank’s lap and Frank snorts as he looks it over. “It’s a half-assed gallery invite.”
“Dude.” Butcher snatches it off Frank and whistles. “Fuck, it’s for The Basement, we’re totally going.”
“We?”
“It says bring whoever, Iero, I’m not missing a Saporta gig just ‘cause you’re a pussy,” Butcher says, dropping the invite back onto Frank’s lap. “There’s fucking lines around the block for these things.”
“Well, I’m certainly game,” Bill says.
Bill is always game, this doesn’t surprise Joe. The Basement’s pretty awesome, though; not quite a night club, not quite an art gallery. Pete had snuck him in once, and Joe’d been mightily impressed with the sheer amount of neon lights involved in the décor around the bar area.
Joe knocks Frank’s shoulder, leans close to read over the invite, and says, “You love Bird Dude. You love his budgie, man, just go to his fucking show, say hi-oh, hell yeah, free food, I’m in, too.”
*
On Wednesdays, this kid always shows up in the afternoon, backpack slung over his shoulder. Albino pale with a shock of bright red hair, clothes that practically swallow him whole. He’s gangly enough that Joe figures he’s thirteen or fourteen, even though he’s still pretty small. He’s got a fairly large range of sullen expressions, and the first time Joe saw him he’d thought for sure the kid was gonna take off with his hat full of pocket change.
“How’s it hanging, Sanford?” Joe asks. He’s strumming a mellow morning song and hums over the part about Bill having his dick all over Frank’s pillow in deference to impressionable young ears.
“It’s Ford,” Ford says darkly, frowning down at his shoes, and Joe lets his hands fall off his guitar, because Sanford always gets a reluctant smile out of him.
“Dude,” Joe says, eyebrows arched. “What’s up?”
Ford scuffs the toe of his chucks on the sidewalk and stuffs his hands deep into his hoodie pocket. “Nothing.”
Joe’s not exactly awesome with kids, but he knows not to push. He shifts over and says, “Well, come play with me then, I’m making you do the handclaps.”
“For what?” Ford says. He sits on the bottom step, bony elbows on his knees.
“Don’t know, let’s do Alice In Chains.” He plucks out a melody. “Rooster?”
“There’re no handclaps in Rooster,” Ford says.
Joe shakes his head. “Feel the beat, man, there’s always handclaps. I thought you said your dad was a drummer.”
“Dad doesn’t do handclaps,” Ford says, and there’s that frown again, wavering on the cusp of a scowl. Joe figures that’s where the trouble’s originating from, the infamous father.
Joe’s seen his mom, this Amazonian redhead with amazing tits, but he’s never seen his dad around. That doesn’t mean Ford doesn’t usually have a million worshipful things to say about him, though. It’s like all the emo teen melts out of him, leaving behind a kid who still maybe thinks his dad’s some kind of superhero.
Except that doesn’t happen today. Huh.
Before Joe can start the beginning riff, Ford says, “I turned thirteen last week.”
“Happy birthday, kid,” Joe says.
Ford glares at his hands. “Dad said I could go watch him play after I turned thirteen, only he won’t let me go to The Basement tomorrow night.”
“Whoa.” First of all, his dad’s playing The Basement? Totally cool. Second of all, “You don’t want to go to The Basement, I’m with your dad on this one.”
Ford transfers his glare to Joe.
Joe points a finger at him. “Your first show shouldn’t be at The Basement. You should hold out for Angels and Kings.” Joe’s heard rumors about Saporta. Exposure to Saporta at such a young age could cause blindness or seizures or some shit. “Now follow my lead or you’ll fuck up my tips.”
Ford’s mouth flattens into its normal disgruntled line.
Joe just flashes him a grin.
*
Somehow, the mysterious Jon Walker has gotten a hold of Brendon’s cell number. Brendon honestly doesn’t know how, it’s not like he’s ever given it to Ryan or Spencer, and Jon’s currently in, like, Bangladesh or something.
First, it’s only: dude its jwalk
And: kitten time, with a little picture of a tiny, big-eared spotted cat.
But then it’s: u should ask spence out
And: he thinks ur cuuuute
Brendon’s cheeks heat and his palms get a little sweaty, but he still texts back: fuck off, and: hehas a gf fucker
fight for ur man u big girl, Jon sends.
Brendon bites his lower lip. It’s ridiculous. He glances up and watches Spencer across the lobby, biting his nails and staring off into the middle distance. His hair’s caught in his headset, and when he happens to catch Brendon looking at him, his whole face creases into a sudden grin. Fuck.
I hate u, Brendon texts Jon, then shoves the cell into his back pocket and hops off his stool.
Brendon has the dubious honor of being Gabe Saporta’s stepbrother.
The downside of this is that Gabe can be alternately both sadistic and oblivious, and he’d once locked Brendon in a supply closet with the captain of their high school football team who, contrary to rumors Brendon’s convinced Gabe started himself, did not actually like cock.
The upside is that Gabe’s ridiculously generous and loyal and always has Brendon’s back, which is how the captain of their high school football team ended up with a permanent limp.
Plus, Brendon always gets into The Basement for free.
Brendon’s cell vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it and makes his way over to reception. He wiggles his toes in his sneakers and thinks about what exactly he wants to say in response to Spencer’s expectant eyebrow arch, and then he just blurts out, “Greyskull’s playing The Basement this Thursday.”
“Yeah,” Spencer says, because they all kind of knew that, what with Bob working there and all and Patrick spreading the buzz.
Brendon nods. “Wanna go?” he asks, then feels like a tool and immediately backtracks with, “I mean, you can bring Haley and Ryan or whoever.”
Spencer taps his fingers on his ink blotter. “I thought it was a gallery showing, though,” he says. “Think Bob’ll put us on the list?”
“Um.” Brendon doesn’t actually want to bring up Gabe. Brendon never wants to bring up Gabe, no matter how much he loves him. Or has to love him, whatever, it’s been, like, twelve years since that fateful day when his dad went crazy and married Gabe’s mom. He says, “We’re good. We’d be good, I mean.” He fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. “No problems.” Brendon is officially a spaz, geez.
Spencer says, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Brendon bounces a little and clutches the edge of Spencer’s desk.
Spencer shrugs. “Sure, why not?”
*
Gerard never knows what to wear to these things, even though he’s been showing his stuff for going on five years, and showing his stuff with Gabe for nearly two of them.
He always agonizes over his closet for, like, an hour, and calls Mikey every five minutes and Mikey tells him to wear what-the-fuck-ever and to stop harassing him and to eat something before he works himself up into passing out.
Gerard ends up pulling on his favorite black pants and a t-shirt that he doesn’t think has any holes in it - except for the one under his arm, but no one can see that anyway - and eating a can of cold spaghettios.
Ben watches him from the back of a kitchen chair, all judge-y and shit, since he knows he’s not allowed to go. Gerard really wishes he could bring him, but Ben gets nervous around crowds and, like, starts pecking out people’s eyes. Which in theory is pretty fucking awesome, but in practice gets a little messy.
“Ford’s coming down to watch you,” Gerard says.
Ben tucks his head under a wing and starts preening. Gerard frowns. He hates it when Ben ignores him.
Gerard’s cell phone goes off at the same time as the knock at his apartment door. Ford’s knock is perfunctory, though, and by the time Gerard’s got his shoes and jacket on, Ford’s settled on his couch with a soda and the TV remote.
“Okay,” Gerard says. He clasps his hands together and stands in front of the couch. “You need to call your mom at nine.”
“Sure,” Ford says absently, craning his neck so he can see the screen around Gerard’s body.
Gerard huffs a sigh. Ford’s extra pissy tonight, Bob warned him. Gerard’s cell buzzes again - Brian’s text says hurry thfuckup - and he gestures towards a bag sitting beside the TV. “Mikey brought his PS3 over for you.”
Ford shouts, “Yes!” and Gerard hops out of the way, alarmed, as Ford dives for the console.
Mikey, Gerard concedes, is a genius.
*
Joe’s a big fan of finger foods. He’s a lover of shrimp and cocktail wieners and bacon-wrapped scallops and tiny spinach quiches and veggie dip and little blocks of jack cheese.
“Pigs in a blanket, dude,” Joe says to Frank. “Food of the gods.”
Frank grins at him over a cracker piled five-high with cheese.
The place is packed, but lit better than it had been during Joe’s previous visit, which is probably because of the art plastered all over the walls. Joe isn’t particularly cultured, but he can appreciate a good zombie massacre. Bird Dude has some talent, Joe isn’t going to lie.
Speaking of - Joe nods a hello at Gerard as he sneaks up behind Frank.
“Awesome show, dude,” Joe says. He waves a baby carrot at him.
Gerard beams. His hair is crazy and his cheeks are flushed. “Thanks. Glad you guys could make it.”
Frank tries to scowl, Joe can see the crease forming in between his eyes, but Joe knows he’s too damn impressed, and sated on cheese and fruit, so it doesn’t actually work all that well.
And then Gerard grabs Frank’s arm and says, “I finished the zombie puppy, wanna see?” and he’s dragging Frank off before Frank can even protest.
Frank tosses a half-desperate look over his shoulder at Joe, but Joe just bites into a wiener and grins.
There’s a low hum of music in the background, but it’s nothing overpowering as Joe makes his way down the buffet table. He packs a plate full of extras and strolls over to lean against a wall, in between a giant painting of a craggy old man and one that depicts some crazy Hell battle with awesome blood splatters and skeleton beasts and shit.
That’s where Bob finds him.
Joe’s got a buffalo wing between his teeth when his light’s blocked by Bob’s hulking frame, and while his body buzzes with silent appreciation - he was right about the lip ring, and Bob’s hair is angled across his face; the sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, exposing really fantastic forearms and thick wrists - he recognizes Bob’s expression; he’s only seconds away from being escorted not-so-politely from the building.
“Not sure you have authority here, dude,” Joe says, and, seriously, if Joe were really a hobo, how the fuck does Bob think he got into The Basement? Security isn’t exactly lax.
Bob looks like he wants to argue, though. He says, “Joe,” and rubs a hand over his forehead, like Joe’s mere presence in his life is so fucking tiring.
“Relax, man, I was invited,” Joe says, which is not specifically true, but close enough. “You’re not working, I’m not working-”
“You don’t work, Joe,” Bob says, and hey, a full sentence, awesome.
Joe grins up at him. “You say that because you haven’t heard me play. I’ve got an awesome repertoire. I’ve got groupies,” Joe says. “And, like, special guest stars, you should totally come jam with me one day.”
Bob’s scowling, but Joe can totally tell he’s smiling on the inside. His eyes aren’t nearly so filled with rage, for one. “Angels and Kings,” Bob says finally.
“Uh. What?”
“You told Ford to hold out for Angels and Kings,” Bob says, and holy hat stands, Batman, are they having an actual conversation here? Coolest night ever.
“Sure,” Joe says, shrugging. “Me and Pete are tight, dude.” And Pete occasionally lends him money and never actually expects it back, which is a plus. “It’s a dive, but at least the kid won’t be fucking traumatized.”
Bob nods. He watches Joe with narrowed eyes, mouth pressed together, and Joe widens his own eyes and tries to look like he totally does not need to be tossed anywhere - unless they’re talking, like, a prelude to sexin’ - and Bob makes an amused sound low in his throat.
“Stay out of trouble,” Bob says, and turns, and Joe takes a moment to appreciate his fine, fine ass as he walks away. And then he notices the drumsticks tucked into Bob’s back pocket, and he thinks, shit. Ford, drummer, The Basement.
Joe isn’t dumb, just occasionally a little slow.
And Joe can’t have all of Bob’s babies, apparently, because Bob already has one. Fuck.
*
Ryan steers Spencer around the crowd, pushing him towards the front doors. Spencer balks a little and says, “Maybe we should wait for Brendon.” This isn’t exactly Spencer’s scene, and he’s feeling a little out of place. The Basement brings out the all the crazies. Spencer’s pretty sure he spotted some dude in a spacesuit at the end of the block.
“He’s fifteen minutes late,” Ryan says. “I thought you said Bob put you guys on the list.”
“No.” Spencer shakes his head. “No, I said maybe Bob’ll put us on the list.” Brendon hadn’t seemed to think getting in would be a problem, but Spencer has his doubts. He’d rather wait and see if Brendon, like, planned on sneaking them in a backdoor or something. He doesn’t actually want to make a fool out of himself with the bouncer.
It just figures that Ryan doesn’t say a word once they’re standing out front. He pokes Spencer in the back and Spencer heaves a tremendous, put-upon sigh and says, “I think we’re on the list. Spencer Smith?”
The guy flips some pages and shakes his head. “Don’t see you,” he says, and he sounds mostly apologetic, which is nice, if unhelpful. This is ridiculous.
“Okay, thanks,” Spencer says, flicking Ryan an irritated look. “We should call Brendon.”
“Urie?” the bouncer dude says. He snorts. “Kid never remembers to give me any names.”
“Um.” Spencer wrinkles his nose, then spots Brendon jogging down the block towards them, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket and a scarf loose around his neck.
“Zack, Zack, wait,” Brendon says, coming to panting stop and hanging off of the bouncer’s arm. “They’re with-”
“I figured, Urie.” Zack rolls his eyes. “Go on in.”
“You’re the best,” Brendon says, giving Zack a quick hug before waving Spencer and Ryan forward.
“Come on, come on,” Brendon says, practically bouncing through the doors. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem,” Spencer says.
Brendon gives him a huge grin and unwinds his scarf, tossing it into the coat check window so it slithers off the counter and onto the floor on the other side. He hops up and leans into the darkened room. “Greta,” he says. “Sweetpea, darling, kindred spirit-”
“I’ve got it, peanut,” a girl, presumably Greta, says, emerging from the back. “Let Gabe know you’re here this time, though. You know he hates it when you lurk.”
Brendon tosses a weird, nervous glance towards Spencer and Ryan, and Ryan hooks an arm around Spencer’s neck. “Strange things are afoot,” Ryan says into his ear.
Spencer makes a face. “I guess you come here a lot?” he asks Brendon, and Greta laughs, like that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard, and then this tall dude with a huge afro swoops in and tugs Brendon against his side, says, “Little man.”
Ryan hisses, digs his nails into Spencer’s shoulder.
“What the fuck, Ross,” Spencer says, trying to shrug him off.
“That’s Travis McCoy,” Ryan says, vibrating a little along Spencer’s back.
The name sounds familiar. Spencer thinks maybe Travis McCoy is in one of Ryan’s bands; the weird, experimental ones that Jon got him into that use a lot of cowbells and synthesizers and beat poetry.
Ryan says, “This is going to be the best night ever.”
*
The front woman of Greyskull is a tiny blonde with kick-ass legs and an accent that emphasizes the simple lyrics just different enough to make them interesting.
Frank’s really not paying them much attention, though, because Gerard’s painted a fucking amazing picture of a zombie shih tzu. It’s freaky as hell, and pretty much the best thing Frank’s ever seen.
“I really like how you exposed the bone here,” Frank says, pointing at the puppy’s chest. “Like you can almost see a piece of his heart.”
Gerard nods, grinning this huge-ass grin that kind of makes Frank’s breath catch. “Someone loved him once,” Gerard says, and Frank grins back at him until he realizes he’s just, like, grinning at Gerard like a great big, creepy shithead, and a flush starts up from his neck.
“Um. Where’s Ben?” he asks.
“Home,” Gerard says. “Last time I brought him to one of these things, he shit all over the buffet and made Brian bleed. From his eyes.”
“Sounds awesome.”
“Totally,” Gerard says, and then it gets awkward, because Frank has this crazy, insane urge to maybe tackle Gerard into a dark nook and lick his face off, but Gerard has a girlfriend. It totally sucks.
“So, uh. Lyn-Z?” Frank says, and then considers punching himself in the face, what the fuck.
Gerard cocks his head. “Yeah? Have you seen her work?”
“No, but. My roommate mentioned her. Butcher’s a big fan of,” Frank waves a hand around.
The tops of Gerard’s cheeks pink. “Oh.”
“Yeah, so.” Frank has no idea what he’s doing here. “Maybe I should let you mingle?”
“Oh no,” Gerard says, grabbing his arm and pulling him close. “No, no, I’m not allowed to mingle, Brian says I make everyone uncomfortable.”
Frank bites his lip and tries not to laugh. “Okay.”
“No, really.” Gerard nods. He’s frowning, but Frank can see an amused light in his eyes. “I don’t get it. I mean, I paint vampires and shit, but apparently I freak everyone out in person. I don’t even know why Gabe always wants me to come to these things.”
“Maybe it’s the hair,” Frank says.
Gerard makes an alarmed sound and reaches up, runs both hands over his head, making it stand up even more, and Frank just loses it, leaning into Gerard’s arm, giggling, because Gerard’s so fucking adorable, it’s not even fair.
*
Brendon thinks maybe this whole night was a bad idea. It’s impossible to hide from Gabe, first of all, Spencer looks uncomfortable and Ryan’s been staring at him with big, creepy, admiring eyes.
“So you’re Spencer,” Gabe says. He’s leaning forward, nose-to-nose - not because he’s actually a freaky close-talker, Brendon knows, but just because he gets off on making people squirm.
Spencer holds his ground, though, and narrows his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Excellent,” Gabe says. “I approve.”
Brendon covers his face with his hands. Gabe is so embarrassing. Plus, Brendon should never ever drink on family dinner nights. Gabe can pretty much get Brendon to spill anything, including his epic and doomed love for Spencer Smith. And Brendon should totally be grateful Gabe approves, actually, because sometimes disapproval leads to Gabe groping him in public to stake some sort of fucked up claim - he really thinks it’d be easier if he was actually related to Gabe; he’s pretty sure there wouldn’t be any weird incest vibes then.
“So, um, Gabe’s my stepbrother,” Brendon says, cheeks hot.
“Nonsense,” Gabe says, squeezing Brendon up against his side. “There’re no caveats in this family, bro. Holy shit, look at the stems on that dude.” Gabe wolf-whistles, then ruffles Brendon’s hair. “I’m off. Come find me when you leave.”
“Wow,” Ryan says, staring after Gabe.
“Yeah.” Brendon tries on a sheepish smile. Why oh why did Brendon ever listen to Jon Walker?
Spencer looks kind of pissed, maybe, lips pursed, but then he just shakes his head and breaks out into this bright grin, and it’s like the whole entire room lights up.
Brendon’s in such big shit.
part two
Joe/Bob, Brendon/Spencer, Frank/Gerard (with background William/Gabe, implied Jon/Ryan & blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Butcher/Siska)
“I’m gonna write a song about you,” Joe says. “It’ll be a handholding song, I hope you don’t mind if I make you a girl.”
A/N: THE HOBO JOE AU! It’s finished! And it's, like, an uber schmoopy meet-cute, but whatever. So many thanks to insunshine for beta’ing this - I’ve recently realized that I phrase things in epically weird ways, and some of it is just my style, but most of it is just stupid, and she totally calls me on it every time. And! TNBC was real, as was Hang Time, and those were my Saturday mornings for years (years spent in college and beyond! Real-life careers require California Dreams and City Guys, is all I’m saying).
A Handholding Song
“So we’re hiding,” Brendon says, sliding down to sit on the floor next to Joe.
Joe likes Brendon. Brendon’s an awesome kid, and he always gives Joe extra brownies or muffins or whatever with his coffee, even though Joe doesn’t technically work in the building. Although, whatever, Argyle Dude always sits by him on his lunch hour and gives him a couple bucks and half his sandwich, so, like, that totally counts.
Of course, not everyone appreciates Joe and the way Joe can rock an acoustic version of No Diggity or In Da Club, particularly not Smoking Hot Security Guard Bob, who’s back a full five minutes early from his morning break. Which is why Joe is paying Brendon’s coffee kiosk an especially up-close and personal visit on this fine morn. He thinks there’s some biscotti digging into his back.
Joe clutches his guitar to his chest. “Why would you ever say that?” Joe says. He’s resisting the urge to peek over the top of the counter. It’s not like he’s afraid of Bob, but Bob thinks he’s a hobo. 201 West Independence apparently has a strict no hobos in the lobby policy. It sucks, since Joe can only sneak in for some of Brendon’s spectacular coffee on Bob’s breaks or when Ray is working, since Ray’s a pushover. He’s also, like, The Fixer Of All Things, though, and he keeps giving Joe clothes and ramen noodles and free clinic pamphlets - Joe’s not sure which behavior is more insulting, Bob or Ray’s, but either way Joe isn’t a bum.
He’s got an apartment. He shares it with three other dudes, yeah, and he sleeps on a mattress on the floor of Butcher’s room, but he pays rent. Some rent. He gives Andy whatever he has each month; he’s totally contributing to society and shit. He’s bringing peace and harmony to the masses through busking - and by selling the high-grade weed he and Frank are growing in the bathroom. That’s also probably something he shouldn’t mention to Bob. Ever.
And Joe showers daily, thanks very much. Or, like, every other day. He tends to forget to brush his hair, though; it’s kind of out of control, but Joe likes how it’s enormous and flattering to his nose.
There’s a knock on the counter above him and Joe jumps a little, startled, then freezes while Brendon scrambles to his feet and says, “Hi, Bob!” and leans onto his elbows and kicks Joe on the hip with a pointy, meaningful shoe.
After a moment of silence - where Joe imagines Bob doing his I-am-not-impressed frown and eyebrow arch combination - Bob says, “Where’s Joe?”
Brendon shifts and says, “No clue, dude. I definitely have not seen him inside here. In this lobby. At all. Today.”
Joe barely resists the urge to palm his face.
Bob grunts. His grunt is full of weary skepticism. “Okay, right.”
Seriously, Joe’s not scared of Bob, and he totally doesn’t care if Bob throws him out of the lobby again, but Joe hasn’t gotten his second coffee of the day yet, and his second coffee of the day usually comes with one of Brendon’s homemade brownies, with the pecans and fudge.
Plus, it’s getting cold out. Fucking autumn. He tucks his feet in closer and shuffles sideways a little.
Brendon bounces on his heels. “Coffee?”
“No,” Bob says, “thanks.”
Joe hopes Bob doesn’t have anything against coffee - like he’s one of those nut-jobs who doesn’t need the sweet, sweet elixir to become something resembling a human being in the morning.
That would kind of fuck with Joe’s plan to marry Bob and have all his babies.
*
Spencer huffs his hair out of his face and presses the send calls button on his phone just as Ryan pushes through the revolving doors.
“You’re early,” Spencer says, but he’s already stuffing his cell into his messenger bag and getting to his feet, tugging the strap over his head and across his body. He’s not opposed to taking an early lunch, even if it makes for a long afternoon. Siska’s out sick, so there’s no one to send increasingly ridiculous IMs to, and Siska hasn’t figured out how to use his BlackBerry yet.
“I’ve got an idea,” Ryan says, hands shoved in his coat pockets.
Spencer arches an eyebrow.
“Just wait, it’s a great idea,” Ryan says, and he’s not smiling, but his eyes are kind of lit up, and Spencer suppresses a groan. “We ask Brendon to lunch.”
Spencer’s eyebrow goes higher, other one climbing up to join it. “Is this Jon’s idea?”
Ryan shrugs one shoulder.
Jon has this completely insane theory that Brendon and Spencer are in love. Which they aren’t. Brendon’s that friendly with everyone. He’s like a golden retriever, only slightly less hairy. Spencer and Brendon talk about the weather and French vanilla coffee and Hobo Joe, and that’s basically the extent of their six-month-long acquaintance.
Jon, Spencer knows, is a romantic. A fucked-up sap, obviously, given the way he keeps buying Ryan sweater-vests, but a romantic.
Spencer sighs and glances over at Brendon’s cart across the lobby. Brendon seems to be having a conversation with his feet. This actually isn’t so surprising. “Fine,” he says.
“Great,” Ryan says. “You do it.”
Spencer doesn’t even bother arguing, and it’s not like it’ll kill him to go over and ask Brendon to lunch, but it is a little annoying. Annoying that Jon’s convinced one day they’ll, like, catch each other’s eyes and time’ll stop and Spencer’s heart’ll grow two fucking sizes or something.
Spencer has a girlfriend. Spencer has a very hot girlfriend who everyone likes, because she’s a sweetheart, and Spencer’s in love with her, not some spazzy coffee guy who has some truly stupid tattoos on his arm and a penchant for brightly-colored friendship bracelets. Well, okay, maybe he’s not in love with Haley, and they’ve only been dating two months; Spencer isn’t going to jump headfirst into anything, but he at least likes her a whole lot.
Brendon looks up before Spencer even reaches the counter, huge grin blooming across his face and something catches in Spencer’s throat. He silently curses Jon Walker to the seventh circle of Hell.
“Spencer, hey!” Brendon says. He spreads his hands. “What can I get for you?”
Spencer shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. “I’m good,” he says. “Ryan and I are heading out to lunch, wanna come?”
Brendon’s eyes get as big as his grin. “Dude, that’d be awesome, just let me lock up.” He glances down and says, “Joe, we can totally smuggle you out, Bob won’t have any idea you were ever here.”
Spencer leans over the counter. Hobo Joe has his head tilted back and a coffee cup lifted in mock solute.
“If I wait for the perfect moment, wee Brendon,” Joe says, “meaning when I’m finished my fine and delicious coffee, Bob can manhandle me all he wants.”
“I’m not even going to ask,” Spencer says.
Hobo Joe nods. “It’s better you don’t.”
*
Ben looks wholly unimpressed with Gerard’s latest effort. Gerard groans and tosses his charcoal aside and shifts back onto the grass, propped up by his elbows.
“I don’t even know why I listen to you,” Gerard says to Ben, which is a lie. Ben is always right about everything. It’s kind of annoying.
Ben just cocks his head and hops up onto Gerard’s chest, tiny talons pinpricking his skin underneath his shirt.
“If you shit on me we’re having roast bird for dinner.”
Ben still looks bored, like Gerard could maybe turn into a giant cat and he wouldn’t even bat a beady black eye. The thing about budgies, Gerard thinks, is that they’re probably all tiny demons in disguise. Which is cool, so he honestly doesn’t mind sharing his living space with Ben - and Ben’s stuffed penguin, Julia, because Ben’s as co-dependent as Gerard, and Gerard has Ben, Julia and Mikey. And also Baguette Guy, who helps him feed the ducks on Fridays. Gerard’s a big fan of routine.
Whatever. The point is that Ben doesn’t like Gerard’s sketch, and Gerard doesn’t blame him. It’s lame, and there’s not enough blood, or, like, any blood at all. He fucking hates taking commissions.
“I’m a big fat lame-o,” Gerard says and flops totally onto his back, covering his eyes with an arm. His best friend is a parakeet. Okay, well, his best friend is actually Mikey, but he’s not so sure that’s any better, given that they’re related.
Gerard’s existence is enormously pathetic.
“Okay,” Gerard says. “Okay, so we scrap this and tell Saporta to go fuck himself.”
“Dude, who’re you talking to?”
Gerard freezes, cheeks heating at getting caught talking to a bird, and then-then he recognizes the voice. “Baguette Guy!” He moves his arm and grins up at him.
Baguette Guy grins back. “Are you talking to Ben again?”
Gerard’s grin turns sheepish. “Maybe.” It’s kind of weird how Baguette Guy knows his budgie’s name and how Gerard knows Baguette Guy calls his favorite mallard, the one with the gimpy waddle, Reginald, but they’ve never actually, like, introduced themselves. “Where’s your bread?” Gerard asks, struggling up and displacing Ben, who chirps in irritation and flutters up onto his shoulder.
“Did Ben just say ‘asshole’? Didn’t fucking know those things could talk, that’s awesome.”
Gerard shrugs. He’s taught Ben hello and bye-bye and Mikey’s taught him asshole and douchebag. “He can say, like, a couple words,” he says.
Baguette Guy doesn’t have any bread, though, and it’s vaguely upsetting. Gerard starts getting a little anxious - it’s stupid, but Fridays mean bread and ducks and pretty soon all the ducks’ll be gone for the winter and the fucking geese’ll flock past and, like, those fuckers are vicious and scary - but then Baguette Guy spreads his hands and says, “Not Friday, man, sorry.”
“Oh, um.” Something inside Gerard relaxes - seriously, he’s such a freak - and he shakes off his sudden panic as best he can. “S’okay.” He’s sure the dude already thinks he’s crazy, but there’s no reason to, like, draw attention to the elephant on the grass. Or whatever. Gerard never fully got what the fuck the elephant was supposed to be.
Baguette Guy doesn’t seem put off, though; he shifts on the balls of his feet and asks, “Smoke?”
“Fuck yes.” Gerard finished his last cigarette half an hour ago. If Baguette Guy had offered him coffee, too, Gerard would’ve fucking proposed.
He lights two cigarettes and hands one off to Gerard, kicking at Gerard’s sketchpad. “Tame, man,” he says.
“I know.” Fucking Gabe Saporta. Gerard doesn’t know how he lets him talk him into shit like this.
Baguette Guy squints down at the page and scratches his neck. “Maybe if you, like, make her old and shit in the background. Creepy future-look, you know?”
Gerard bites his lip. “It’s a shih tzu. Do they even look any different when they’re old?”
“Zombie shih tzu?”
“I don’t know if I could do that to a puppy.” Gerard likes puppies. In theory. Though he’s theoretically in favor of zombies, too.
Baguette Guy’s watching him expectantly.
“I guess I could try it,” Gerard finally says, slowly, nodding his head a little.
Baguette Guy beams. Like, his whole face lights up and his dark hair’s sort of hanging over his eyes, mashed down by a knit cap, and it’s right about then that Gerard realizes he puts maybe entirely too much stock in the opinion of his budgie and a hot stranger.
Time to remedy some of that. He holds out a hand and says, “I’m Gerard.”
*
Frank bangs through the front door and yells, “I’m home, bitches!”
Butcher doesn’t even glance up from his-Frank doesn’t even know; it looks like he’s carving some ricola-horn shit out of huge fucking chunk of wood. Frank doesn’t question it, though, ‘cause Butcher promised to make him a new guitar the next time Morris lets him loose in the shop.
“So Gerard,” Frank says, hopping over the back of the couch and sprawling all over the smelly but comfy cushions that usually serve as his bed - when Bill isn’t passed out on it or when Joe’s up too late for Frank to successfully stealth-snuggle onto his air mattress with him. Joe’s a cuddler, but only when he’s dead asleep.
“What?”
“The guy who sketches at the park with the bird,” Frank says. “His name’s Gerard.”
Butcher finally looks at him. “Gerard Way?”
“Um, what the fuck?” Frank sniffs a plastic cup, decides it’s probably just water, goes to take a sip, then thinks twice about it, ‘cause plastic’s, like, a fucking fun factory for bacteria and Joe has some hygiene issues. “I have no idea, man, does Gerard Way have a fucking tiny blue parakeet?”
Butcher arches an eyebrow and carefully sets aside his… maybe it’s a huge fucking pipe or something. That’d be sweet.
“Gerard Way,” Butcher says, getting up and going over to the giant plastic storage container of monthly mags, since everyone in the apartment seems to have a problem - Andy’s got a fucking D&D gamer subscription, Frank signed Joe up to Cat Fancy last spring, the telemarketer just has a fucking sexy voice, they’ve all agreed - and dumps it out over the coffee table.
“Gerard Way,” Butcher says again, “backed by Saporta, famous for The Black Parade, oft seen with the lovely Lyn-Z-aha.” He pulls out one of his Douchebag Today art magazines or what-the-fuck-ever, flips some pages and then waves the results under Frank’s nose.
Frank grabs it out of his hands, scowling.
“This isn’t-huh.” The guy in the black and white photo spread looks slick, artfully mussed, sophisticated, hot. It’s Bird Dude alright. Frank’s always thought Bird Dude was awesome, but he also comes across as kind of a complete fucking neurotic mess. This-this is his Gerard - same big eyes and wide smile and tiny, pointy nose - but it isn’t, not really. “Well, fuck me. And he’s dating a girl?”
Butcher shrugs.
“Shit,” Frank says. That’s just heartily disappointing.
*
Joe lasts approximately ten minutes after Brendon leaves, hiding out behind the counter. He finishes his coffee, tosses the cup in the silver chrome trash can just to the side of Brendon’s kiosk, then shoves his hands in his pockets, whistling.
He grins at Bob.
Bob looks like he maybe wants to kill him with his bare hands.
Joe waves.
Bob’s expression goes just a shade darker, and Joe takes a split-second to think maybe he’s pushed the dude too far - manhandling, he’s fond of, but Joe doesn’t want to, like, actually get hurt here.
He takes a step back and grabs for his guitar. Bob doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d destroy a man’s livelihood. Joe figures his best defense is to hide behind his moneymaker.
“Bob,” Joe says when Bob’s close enough to hear him, his hand resting on the pommel of his baton, still thankfully holstered at his waist - and Joe thinks the baton’s pretty funny, but he’s not ever going to make a rent-a-cop joke in Bob’s presence.
Bob doesn’t say anything. Joe’s gotten Bob to say maybe four words directly to him in the three months he’s been haunting 201. Bob’s hulking and laconic and he’s got a suspicious looking mark on his lip, like maybe he’s got a lip ring, like maybe he’s secretly even more awesome when he isn’t at his day job.
Joe, despite his earlier bravado, stutters over a, “I’ll just, um. I’ll see myself-out?” and wheels around towards the door, nervously tugging his scarf - a knit number that Ray gave him the week before, and Joe’s may be a little insulted by all the bum assumptions, but Ray gives him some badass clothes; half the awesome t-shirts in his and Frank’s collection are from him - tighter around his throat.
Bob’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, steering him steadily past the revolving doors and out into the mellow October sunlight.
He blinks a little, and by the time Joe spins around again, Bob’s already back inside. As always, their encounter wasn’t as fun as he’d been hoping it’d be. Sucks.
Sighing, he drops down onto the sidewalk, propped up against the carved stone balustrade curving left at the bottom of the front stoop, shifting his guitar into his lap. He strums a few chords, thinks about playing a Run DMC song, only that’s not as fun without Frank, and starts on an original instead. Joe’s awesome at writing songs. This one’s about how much of a douche Bill is when he’s drunk.
“I like that.”
Joe glances up to find Frank’s Bird Dude standing in front of him, Ben perched on top of his head.
“Thanks, man,” Joe says. “I call it Stop Drunk Dialing My Mom.”
“I like it better than Butcher Has A Hate Thing About Your Shoes.”
Joe bobs his head. It’s a high compliment, since Joe knows Butcher Has A Hate Thing is one of Bird Dude’s favorites.
Bird Dude hunches his shoulders, chin disappearing into the folds of his hoodie. He’s got a sketch pad clutched to his chest and something dark smudged across his forehead. It looks like Ben’s eating pieces of his hair.
“Um.” Bird Dude digs into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a crumpled paper. “Can you-can you give this to Frank for me?”
“Sure.” Joe flattens his hand on the strings, making a hollow thump. “But, like, you might see him tomorrow.”
“I might not, too,” Bird Dude says with a shrug, then bends down and stuffs the paper plus a couple bills into Joe’s upended hat.
“No problem.” Joe salutes with him with his pick.
*
Brendon is in love with Spencer Smith. It’s stupid, because Spencer has a very hot and sweet girlfriend and would never ever be interested in Brendon in, like, a million and one years, but Brendon is still head-over-heels in love with him.
He settles down next to Patrick on the front steps of 201 and leans onto his shoulder.
“Hey,” Patrick says thickly through a bite of his sandwich.
Hobo Joe is on his feet, jiving to a ditty about how much he loves fried chicken. Brendon cannot relate, as he is currently a vegetarian. Patrick smells like maple-glazed turkey and bacon. Brendon buries his nose in Patrick’s polo and pretends that he doesn’t miss meat like burning.
“See you inside,” Spencer says, pressing an overly-familiar hand to the top of Brendon’s head as he walks past them and up the stairs. Brendon thinks Spencer’s overly-familiar hand is awesome.
Lunch had been the kind of torture that he dreams of, with Spencer laughing at his jokes and flicking his hair out of his eyes in that totally fucking hot way that he does; with Ryan texting Jon and relating all of Jon’s texts back to them with a wry half-smile. Jon is Brendon’s very favorite person that he’s never met. Brendon’s half convinced Ryan’s made Jon Walker up completely, except he doesn’t actually think Ryan has that good of an imagination.
“What’s up?” Patrick asks. He carefully wraps up the uneaten half of his sandwich and sets it aside, along with a bag of sourdough pretzel knuckles.
“Nothing.” Brendon’s totally not going to be a girl about this. He’s not going to pine from afar or whatever. He’s going to get over himself and, like, ask out one of the Alexes from the mailroom.
Patrick makes a skeptical harrumphing sound, but just tips his hat back with his thumb. “So what did you think of Greyskull last night?”
“Killer, man,” Brendon says, straightening up from his slouch. “They rocked the fuck out. I can’t believe Bob didn’t tell us.”
“Bob doesn’t tell anybody anything,” Patrick says, then calls over, “Play the one about your cat, Joe,” and Brendon thinks he mainly does that ‘cause he knows it’s secretly Brendon’s favorite.
Joe says, “I changed the chorus, you’re gonna fucking love it,” and gives them a thumbs up.
*
“I’m gonna marry Bob and have all his babies,” Joe says, slumping down further into the sofa.
Frank giggles.
“Fabulous,” Bill says from beside him. And then, “Who’s Bob?”
“My future husband,” Joe says, and then Bill uncrosses his legs and Butcher groans and leans out of his armchair to slap at his knees and say, “Fuck’s sake, Bills,” because everyone knows Bill never wears any underwear with his fucking skirts, since he says his boxers bunch and briefs are just unmanly, never mind the fact that wearing a skirt makes him sort of a girl anyway.
Bill calls them kilts, but they’re really just pleated uniform skirts that Butcher’s sister tossed after graduation.
“Oh, wait. Wait, wait.” Joe hitches his hips up and digs into his back pocket. “Got something for you, Iero.”
Frank’s got half a handful of grated mozzarella up to his mouth, little pieces sprinkling his t-shirt, plastic bag cradled between his thighs. His “What?” comes out garbled.
Joe waves around the paper. “From Bird Dude.”
“Gerard,” Frank says, only he says it morosely. Bitter, even.
Butcher snickers.
The paper flutters down into Frank’s lap and Frank snorts as he looks it over. “It’s a half-assed gallery invite.”
“Dude.” Butcher snatches it off Frank and whistles. “Fuck, it’s for The Basement, we’re totally going.”
“We?”
“It says bring whoever, Iero, I’m not missing a Saporta gig just ‘cause you’re a pussy,” Butcher says, dropping the invite back onto Frank’s lap. “There’s fucking lines around the block for these things.”
“Well, I’m certainly game,” Bill says.
Bill is always game, this doesn’t surprise Joe. The Basement’s pretty awesome, though; not quite a night club, not quite an art gallery. Pete had snuck him in once, and Joe’d been mightily impressed with the sheer amount of neon lights involved in the décor around the bar area.
Joe knocks Frank’s shoulder, leans close to read over the invite, and says, “You love Bird Dude. You love his budgie, man, just go to his fucking show, say hi-oh, hell yeah, free food, I’m in, too.”
*
On Wednesdays, this kid always shows up in the afternoon, backpack slung over his shoulder. Albino pale with a shock of bright red hair, clothes that practically swallow him whole. He’s gangly enough that Joe figures he’s thirteen or fourteen, even though he’s still pretty small. He’s got a fairly large range of sullen expressions, and the first time Joe saw him he’d thought for sure the kid was gonna take off with his hat full of pocket change.
“How’s it hanging, Sanford?” Joe asks. He’s strumming a mellow morning song and hums over the part about Bill having his dick all over Frank’s pillow in deference to impressionable young ears.
“It’s Ford,” Ford says darkly, frowning down at his shoes, and Joe lets his hands fall off his guitar, because Sanford always gets a reluctant smile out of him.
“Dude,” Joe says, eyebrows arched. “What’s up?”
Ford scuffs the toe of his chucks on the sidewalk and stuffs his hands deep into his hoodie pocket. “Nothing.”
Joe’s not exactly awesome with kids, but he knows not to push. He shifts over and says, “Well, come play with me then, I’m making you do the handclaps.”
“For what?” Ford says. He sits on the bottom step, bony elbows on his knees.
“Don’t know, let’s do Alice In Chains.” He plucks out a melody. “Rooster?”
“There’re no handclaps in Rooster,” Ford says.
Joe shakes his head. “Feel the beat, man, there’s always handclaps. I thought you said your dad was a drummer.”
“Dad doesn’t do handclaps,” Ford says, and there’s that frown again, wavering on the cusp of a scowl. Joe figures that’s where the trouble’s originating from, the infamous father.
Joe’s seen his mom, this Amazonian redhead with amazing tits, but he’s never seen his dad around. That doesn’t mean Ford doesn’t usually have a million worshipful things to say about him, though. It’s like all the emo teen melts out of him, leaving behind a kid who still maybe thinks his dad’s some kind of superhero.
Except that doesn’t happen today. Huh.
Before Joe can start the beginning riff, Ford says, “I turned thirteen last week.”
“Happy birthday, kid,” Joe says.
Ford glares at his hands. “Dad said I could go watch him play after I turned thirteen, only he won’t let me go to The Basement tomorrow night.”
“Whoa.” First of all, his dad’s playing The Basement? Totally cool. Second of all, “You don’t want to go to The Basement, I’m with your dad on this one.”
Ford transfers his glare to Joe.
Joe points a finger at him. “Your first show shouldn’t be at The Basement. You should hold out for Angels and Kings.” Joe’s heard rumors about Saporta. Exposure to Saporta at such a young age could cause blindness or seizures or some shit. “Now follow my lead or you’ll fuck up my tips.”
Ford’s mouth flattens into its normal disgruntled line.
Joe just flashes him a grin.
*
Somehow, the mysterious Jon Walker has gotten a hold of Brendon’s cell number. Brendon honestly doesn’t know how, it’s not like he’s ever given it to Ryan or Spencer, and Jon’s currently in, like, Bangladesh or something.
First, it’s only: dude its jwalk
And: kitten time, with a little picture of a tiny, big-eared spotted cat.
But then it’s: u should ask spence out
And: he thinks ur cuuuute
Brendon’s cheeks heat and his palms get a little sweaty, but he still texts back: fuck off, and: hehas a gf fucker
fight for ur man u big girl, Jon sends.
Brendon bites his lower lip. It’s ridiculous. He glances up and watches Spencer across the lobby, biting his nails and staring off into the middle distance. His hair’s caught in his headset, and when he happens to catch Brendon looking at him, his whole face creases into a sudden grin. Fuck.
I hate u, Brendon texts Jon, then shoves the cell into his back pocket and hops off his stool.
Brendon has the dubious honor of being Gabe Saporta’s stepbrother.
The downside of this is that Gabe can be alternately both sadistic and oblivious, and he’d once locked Brendon in a supply closet with the captain of their high school football team who, contrary to rumors Brendon’s convinced Gabe started himself, did not actually like cock.
The upside is that Gabe’s ridiculously generous and loyal and always has Brendon’s back, which is how the captain of their high school football team ended up with a permanent limp.
Plus, Brendon always gets into The Basement for free.
Brendon’s cell vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it and makes his way over to reception. He wiggles his toes in his sneakers and thinks about what exactly he wants to say in response to Spencer’s expectant eyebrow arch, and then he just blurts out, “Greyskull’s playing The Basement this Thursday.”
“Yeah,” Spencer says, because they all kind of knew that, what with Bob working there and all and Patrick spreading the buzz.
Brendon nods. “Wanna go?” he asks, then feels like a tool and immediately backtracks with, “I mean, you can bring Haley and Ryan or whoever.”
Spencer taps his fingers on his ink blotter. “I thought it was a gallery showing, though,” he says. “Think Bob’ll put us on the list?”
“Um.” Brendon doesn’t actually want to bring up Gabe. Brendon never wants to bring up Gabe, no matter how much he loves him. Or has to love him, whatever, it’s been, like, twelve years since that fateful day when his dad went crazy and married Gabe’s mom. He says, “We’re good. We’d be good, I mean.” He fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. “No problems.” Brendon is officially a spaz, geez.
Spencer says, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Brendon bounces a little and clutches the edge of Spencer’s desk.
Spencer shrugs. “Sure, why not?”
*
Gerard never knows what to wear to these things, even though he’s been showing his stuff for going on five years, and showing his stuff with Gabe for nearly two of them.
He always agonizes over his closet for, like, an hour, and calls Mikey every five minutes and Mikey tells him to wear what-the-fuck-ever and to stop harassing him and to eat something before he works himself up into passing out.
Gerard ends up pulling on his favorite black pants and a t-shirt that he doesn’t think has any holes in it - except for the one under his arm, but no one can see that anyway - and eating a can of cold spaghettios.
Ben watches him from the back of a kitchen chair, all judge-y and shit, since he knows he’s not allowed to go. Gerard really wishes he could bring him, but Ben gets nervous around crowds and, like, starts pecking out people’s eyes. Which in theory is pretty fucking awesome, but in practice gets a little messy.
“Ford’s coming down to watch you,” Gerard says.
Ben tucks his head under a wing and starts preening. Gerard frowns. He hates it when Ben ignores him.
Gerard’s cell phone goes off at the same time as the knock at his apartment door. Ford’s knock is perfunctory, though, and by the time Gerard’s got his shoes and jacket on, Ford’s settled on his couch with a soda and the TV remote.
“Okay,” Gerard says. He clasps his hands together and stands in front of the couch. “You need to call your mom at nine.”
“Sure,” Ford says absently, craning his neck so he can see the screen around Gerard’s body.
Gerard huffs a sigh. Ford’s extra pissy tonight, Bob warned him. Gerard’s cell buzzes again - Brian’s text says hurry thfuckup - and he gestures towards a bag sitting beside the TV. “Mikey brought his PS3 over for you.”
Ford shouts, “Yes!” and Gerard hops out of the way, alarmed, as Ford dives for the console.
Mikey, Gerard concedes, is a genius.
*
Joe’s a big fan of finger foods. He’s a lover of shrimp and cocktail wieners and bacon-wrapped scallops and tiny spinach quiches and veggie dip and little blocks of jack cheese.
“Pigs in a blanket, dude,” Joe says to Frank. “Food of the gods.”
Frank grins at him over a cracker piled five-high with cheese.
The place is packed, but lit better than it had been during Joe’s previous visit, which is probably because of the art plastered all over the walls. Joe isn’t particularly cultured, but he can appreciate a good zombie massacre. Bird Dude has some talent, Joe isn’t going to lie.
Speaking of - Joe nods a hello at Gerard as he sneaks up behind Frank.
“Awesome show, dude,” Joe says. He waves a baby carrot at him.
Gerard beams. His hair is crazy and his cheeks are flushed. “Thanks. Glad you guys could make it.”
Frank tries to scowl, Joe can see the crease forming in between his eyes, but Joe knows he’s too damn impressed, and sated on cheese and fruit, so it doesn’t actually work all that well.
And then Gerard grabs Frank’s arm and says, “I finished the zombie puppy, wanna see?” and he’s dragging Frank off before Frank can even protest.
Frank tosses a half-desperate look over his shoulder at Joe, but Joe just bites into a wiener and grins.
There’s a low hum of music in the background, but it’s nothing overpowering as Joe makes his way down the buffet table. He packs a plate full of extras and strolls over to lean against a wall, in between a giant painting of a craggy old man and one that depicts some crazy Hell battle with awesome blood splatters and skeleton beasts and shit.
That’s where Bob finds him.
Joe’s got a buffalo wing between his teeth when his light’s blocked by Bob’s hulking frame, and while his body buzzes with silent appreciation - he was right about the lip ring, and Bob’s hair is angled across his face; the sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, exposing really fantastic forearms and thick wrists - he recognizes Bob’s expression; he’s only seconds away from being escorted not-so-politely from the building.
“Not sure you have authority here, dude,” Joe says, and, seriously, if Joe were really a hobo, how the fuck does Bob think he got into The Basement? Security isn’t exactly lax.
Bob looks like he wants to argue, though. He says, “Joe,” and rubs a hand over his forehead, like Joe’s mere presence in his life is so fucking tiring.
“Relax, man, I was invited,” Joe says, which is not specifically true, but close enough. “You’re not working, I’m not working-”
“You don’t work, Joe,” Bob says, and hey, a full sentence, awesome.
Joe grins up at him. “You say that because you haven’t heard me play. I’ve got an awesome repertoire. I’ve got groupies,” Joe says. “And, like, special guest stars, you should totally come jam with me one day.”
Bob’s scowling, but Joe can totally tell he’s smiling on the inside. His eyes aren’t nearly so filled with rage, for one. “Angels and Kings,” Bob says finally.
“Uh. What?”
“You told Ford to hold out for Angels and Kings,” Bob says, and holy hat stands, Batman, are they having an actual conversation here? Coolest night ever.
“Sure,” Joe says, shrugging. “Me and Pete are tight, dude.” And Pete occasionally lends him money and never actually expects it back, which is a plus. “It’s a dive, but at least the kid won’t be fucking traumatized.”
Bob nods. He watches Joe with narrowed eyes, mouth pressed together, and Joe widens his own eyes and tries to look like he totally does not need to be tossed anywhere - unless they’re talking, like, a prelude to sexin’ - and Bob makes an amused sound low in his throat.
“Stay out of trouble,” Bob says, and turns, and Joe takes a moment to appreciate his fine, fine ass as he walks away. And then he notices the drumsticks tucked into Bob’s back pocket, and he thinks, shit. Ford, drummer, The Basement.
Joe isn’t dumb, just occasionally a little slow.
And Joe can’t have all of Bob’s babies, apparently, because Bob already has one. Fuck.
*
Ryan steers Spencer around the crowd, pushing him towards the front doors. Spencer balks a little and says, “Maybe we should wait for Brendon.” This isn’t exactly Spencer’s scene, and he’s feeling a little out of place. The Basement brings out the all the crazies. Spencer’s pretty sure he spotted some dude in a spacesuit at the end of the block.
“He’s fifteen minutes late,” Ryan says. “I thought you said Bob put you guys on the list.”
“No.” Spencer shakes his head. “No, I said maybe Bob’ll put us on the list.” Brendon hadn’t seemed to think getting in would be a problem, but Spencer has his doubts. He’d rather wait and see if Brendon, like, planned on sneaking them in a backdoor or something. He doesn’t actually want to make a fool out of himself with the bouncer.
It just figures that Ryan doesn’t say a word once they’re standing out front. He pokes Spencer in the back and Spencer heaves a tremendous, put-upon sigh and says, “I think we’re on the list. Spencer Smith?”
The guy flips some pages and shakes his head. “Don’t see you,” he says, and he sounds mostly apologetic, which is nice, if unhelpful. This is ridiculous.
“Okay, thanks,” Spencer says, flicking Ryan an irritated look. “We should call Brendon.”
“Urie?” the bouncer dude says. He snorts. “Kid never remembers to give me any names.”
“Um.” Spencer wrinkles his nose, then spots Brendon jogging down the block towards them, hands tucked in his hoodie pocket and a scarf loose around his neck.
“Zack, Zack, wait,” Brendon says, coming to panting stop and hanging off of the bouncer’s arm. “They’re with-”
“I figured, Urie.” Zack rolls his eyes. “Go on in.”
“You’re the best,” Brendon says, giving Zack a quick hug before waving Spencer and Ryan forward.
“Come on, come on,” Brendon says, practically bouncing through the doors. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem,” Spencer says.
Brendon gives him a huge grin and unwinds his scarf, tossing it into the coat check window so it slithers off the counter and onto the floor on the other side. He hops up and leans into the darkened room. “Greta,” he says. “Sweetpea, darling, kindred spirit-”
“I’ve got it, peanut,” a girl, presumably Greta, says, emerging from the back. “Let Gabe know you’re here this time, though. You know he hates it when you lurk.”
Brendon tosses a weird, nervous glance towards Spencer and Ryan, and Ryan hooks an arm around Spencer’s neck. “Strange things are afoot,” Ryan says into his ear.
Spencer makes a face. “I guess you come here a lot?” he asks Brendon, and Greta laughs, like that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard, and then this tall dude with a huge afro swoops in and tugs Brendon against his side, says, “Little man.”
Ryan hisses, digs his nails into Spencer’s shoulder.
“What the fuck, Ross,” Spencer says, trying to shrug him off.
“That’s Travis McCoy,” Ryan says, vibrating a little along Spencer’s back.
The name sounds familiar. Spencer thinks maybe Travis McCoy is in one of Ryan’s bands; the weird, experimental ones that Jon got him into that use a lot of cowbells and synthesizers and beat poetry.
Ryan says, “This is going to be the best night ever.”
*
The front woman of Greyskull is a tiny blonde with kick-ass legs and an accent that emphasizes the simple lyrics just different enough to make them interesting.
Frank’s really not paying them much attention, though, because Gerard’s painted a fucking amazing picture of a zombie shih tzu. It’s freaky as hell, and pretty much the best thing Frank’s ever seen.
“I really like how you exposed the bone here,” Frank says, pointing at the puppy’s chest. “Like you can almost see a piece of his heart.”
Gerard nods, grinning this huge-ass grin that kind of makes Frank’s breath catch. “Someone loved him once,” Gerard says, and Frank grins back at him until he realizes he’s just, like, grinning at Gerard like a great big, creepy shithead, and a flush starts up from his neck.
“Um. Where’s Ben?” he asks.
“Home,” Gerard says. “Last time I brought him to one of these things, he shit all over the buffet and made Brian bleed. From his eyes.”
“Sounds awesome.”
“Totally,” Gerard says, and then it gets awkward, because Frank has this crazy, insane urge to maybe tackle Gerard into a dark nook and lick his face off, but Gerard has a girlfriend. It totally sucks.
“So, uh. Lyn-Z?” Frank says, and then considers punching himself in the face, what the fuck.
Gerard cocks his head. “Yeah? Have you seen her work?”
“No, but. My roommate mentioned her. Butcher’s a big fan of,” Frank waves a hand around.
The tops of Gerard’s cheeks pink. “Oh.”
“Yeah, so.” Frank has no idea what he’s doing here. “Maybe I should let you mingle?”
“Oh no,” Gerard says, grabbing his arm and pulling him close. “No, no, I’m not allowed to mingle, Brian says I make everyone uncomfortable.”
Frank bites his lip and tries not to laugh. “Okay.”
“No, really.” Gerard nods. He’s frowning, but Frank can see an amused light in his eyes. “I don’t get it. I mean, I paint vampires and shit, but apparently I freak everyone out in person. I don’t even know why Gabe always wants me to come to these things.”
“Maybe it’s the hair,” Frank says.
Gerard makes an alarmed sound and reaches up, runs both hands over his head, making it stand up even more, and Frank just loses it, leaning into Gerard’s arm, giggling, because Gerard’s so fucking adorable, it’s not even fair.
*
Brendon thinks maybe this whole night was a bad idea. It’s impossible to hide from Gabe, first of all, Spencer looks uncomfortable and Ryan’s been staring at him with big, creepy, admiring eyes.
“So you’re Spencer,” Gabe says. He’s leaning forward, nose-to-nose - not because he’s actually a freaky close-talker, Brendon knows, but just because he gets off on making people squirm.
Spencer holds his ground, though, and narrows his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Excellent,” Gabe says. “I approve.”
Brendon covers his face with his hands. Gabe is so embarrassing. Plus, Brendon should never ever drink on family dinner nights. Gabe can pretty much get Brendon to spill anything, including his epic and doomed love for Spencer Smith. And Brendon should totally be grateful Gabe approves, actually, because sometimes disapproval leads to Gabe groping him in public to stake some sort of fucked up claim - he really thinks it’d be easier if he was actually related to Gabe; he’s pretty sure there wouldn’t be any weird incest vibes then.
“So, um, Gabe’s my stepbrother,” Brendon says, cheeks hot.
“Nonsense,” Gabe says, squeezing Brendon up against his side. “There’re no caveats in this family, bro. Holy shit, look at the stems on that dude.” Gabe wolf-whistles, then ruffles Brendon’s hair. “I’m off. Come find me when you leave.”
“Wow,” Ryan says, staring after Gabe.
“Yeah.” Brendon tries on a sheepish smile. Why oh why did Brendon ever listen to Jon Walker?
Spencer looks kind of pissed, maybe, lips pursed, but then he just shakes his head and breaks out into this bright grin, and it’s like the whole entire room lights up.
Brendon’s in such big shit.
part two