beetle_may
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They’d just finished a show, one of those nights where the crowd screamed themselves hoarse and Gerard felt like he could almost float from the high of it. Now it’s hours later, the hotel room still humming with leftover noise and stale air. It’s just him and Frank now, sunk into the couch that smells like old smoke and cheap booze.
Frank still has the bottle of vodka in his hand, the label peeling under his thumb from where he’d picked at it. He’s not really drinking it anymore, just waving it around as he talks. His words spill out unevenly, slurred and stupid, and every now and then his knee knocks against Gerard’s thigh.
This, Gerard thinks, might be his favorite place in the world. Not the shows, not the stage lights, not the chaos of a thousand screaming people. This. The quiet after. Just the two of them, half-drunk, laughing about nothing