Archive of Our Own ^beta

Suits were always the problem, Bert thinks. All the major problems in the world could be traced back to assholes in suits, white teeth flashing, something sinister hidden deep in one of their jacket pockets. Suits like the ones sitting across from him at this table. Quinn is next to him, back hunched like he's ready for a fight. Jeph's on his other side, hand warm and steady on his knee.

"We really think this would be a win-win situation for everyone," the suit is saying, and Bert thinks about Gerard and his stupid grin and his fucking wife, and the look on his face, how priceless it would be. Gerard expected him to say no. Gerard expected him to back down. Gerard didn't fucking know him at all.

"Yeah, sure," he says, his smile dark and feral. "Why the fuck not."

*

The press is insane the first day of tour. Bob should be used to it, but he's not—the flashbulbs in his face make it hard to see through the dots of light echoing on his retinas. He snarls a little and Brian's hand is warm and warning on his arm. It's twenty more feet of torture and he's in the cool of the bus.

"Why is this a story?" he asks again, fumbling angrily for his cigarettes. He and Ray have this bus; they could have had one each this time, but the Used boys stuck with two, so MCR stuck with three, to keep from seeming like ostentatious bastards.

Brian snorts. "You know the answer to that question," he says with a sigh. There's a knock on the door of the bus and Bob opens it warily, just a few inches. He steps back quickly when a stick gets shoved through, a few dry leaves still sticking to it.

"What the fuck?" he yelps and the stick rustles a little.

"It's an olive branch!" Jepha yells from the other side of the door. Bob grins despite himself and opens the door wide enough to let Jepha squeeze on. "Hey! Great set!" he says brightly and hugs Bob tight around the middle. Bob just sighs and leans into it. "I foresee another two months of wonderful camaraderie and kick-ass music," Jepha says sagely into Bob's shoulder. Bob looks up to see Brian's eyebrows reaching into his hairline.

"Who the fuck bought you The Secret?" Brian asks with actual concern.

"The power of positive thinking, my friend!" Jepha says with one arm stretched above his head. Bob's not so sure about that, but it's damn good to have Jepha around.

"Whatever you say, man." He pats Jeph's shoulder. "Pizza?"

*

They didn't do press together, nothing was said about 'mended fences' or how 'rumors got out of hand'. They just piled into a bunch of buses and headed out on tour, MCR headlining, the Used their major opener. Bert wasn't supposed to say yes, Dan got that much. There was history there that he'd picked up over the last two years, but it was all spotty and skewed through Quinn's snide comments and Bert's shuttered eyes and Jeph's sad sighs. Dan knows this whole thing wasn't supposed to happen, and that it might go cock-up any day now, but…

Dan is having fun on this tour.

He's known Bob for a while, through Jeph, and Brian is still tight with Bert, so he feels okay about hanging with them. But the rest of the band is okay too, even Gerard who says things like "You kick ass out there, man, holy shit" after a set in Denver when Dan breaks four sticks. (Dan didn't even know Gerard had been watching.)

Frank punks him the third week—toilet paper and honey and climbing through a window are involved—and Dan doesn't bother being clever in response; he just grabs Frank after dinner one night and flips him upside down, carrying him around like that as Frank thrashes for fifteen minutes. He even drinks a beer with one hand, just to piss him off more.

It's fun.

*

Gerard is curled into Frank's side on the green room couch when Bert busts in laughing, Jepha a step behind him. The whole room stops, Gerard can feel it, and his skin prickles all over. Bert's face doesn't slide into anything—he's never been able to mask a single fucking thing he's ever felt, which is one of the things that always terrified Gerard most about their relationship. Bert's face crashes from joyous to surprised to hurt to pissed with no grace at all, and Gerard feels Frank's hand curl tighter over his shoulder.

"Sorry, wrong room," he bites out and Gerard doesn't know what makes him say, "Wait."

Bert stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his fingers scratching absently at his elbow. He looks better than he had the last time they were in the same room together, but that was, god. Years ago. "I. It's good. That you came," he says awkwardly and Bert snorts, but he ducks his head, looks up through his hair like he always did when he was unsure. "It's gonna be a good tour," he says lamely.

Gerard had been too much of a coward to say yes to this tour directly, and too much of a coward to say no, either. He'd put the decision firmly in Bert's hands—whether or not to open for MCR, admit his band was less successful, stand in front of a crowd of Gerard's fans every night and take the shit that was going to go with it, see each other backstage every day. Bert said yes. Gerard isn't sure if that was stupid or crazy, but he's irrationally proud of him for it.

Bert pauses in the doorway and shrugs. His expression is defiant now, but not unkind. "Fuck yeah, it is."

Gerard turns his face into Frank's shoulder as Bert and Jeph close the door behind them, and Frank's fingers are warm on the back of his neck. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Gerard mumbles. "Yeah."

*

Quinn hates Gerard with a fiery passion. He has whole fantasies about kidnapping him and beating him senseless and setting his body on fire in the desert. They are good fantasies. Satisfying. They've served him well over the past four years, and he's happy with them.

So being on this motherfucking tour is so fucking insanely shitty he can't even put it into words. Standing in front of kids with that cocksucker's words tattooed on their skin is offensive to everything he believes to his very core. But Bert said yes. And so here they are, in San Diego, rubbing elbows with dudes he hates at a fucking barbeque that Jepha and Brian and Ray organized.

If this is team bonding bullshit, he's not impressed.

Bert finds him sitting with his back against a wall, picking at his overdone burger and sucking a bit of mustard out from under his fingernail. He sits down next to him and steals a chip off his plate and grins. Bert shouldn't be grinning, Quinn thinks. Bert shouldn't find this funny at all. "Food's pretty decent, huh?" Bert asks and digs in his pocket for his pack. Quinn makes a face at his plate. "Don't be a dick," Bert says around a cigarette and Quinn watches for a few seconds as Bert pats down his pockets for a lighter. "Hey, uh," he says a second later, and Quinn just rolls his eyes and pulls his own out, Bert's hand curling around his as he holds the lighter close.

Their fingers tangle together as Quinn tries to pull away and Bert nips the end of one with sharp teeth. "Don't be a dick," he says again, softer, and Quinn feels a surge of anger. Who the fuck is Bert to tell him not to hate this whole thing? How can Bert forgive so easily?

Quinn isn't made like that.

But Bert still has his hand, and they're sitting close enough that their legs are pressed together, and when Quinn looks up, Gerard is watching them from across the parking lot. Quinn holds Bert's hand tighter and Bert leans in to press his face into Quinn's neck, and Quinn catches Gerard's gaze defiantly. Quinn can read regret in his eyes, a hint of sadness, and thinks, yeah. Yes. You fucked up, Way, and you can't have him.

Gerard smiles, just a little, and raises his bottle of Coke in salute, or surrender.

Whichever, it's enough to make Quinn feel just a little better.