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During moments like this, Frank is usually very, very upset. He came here for a show and a show is nowhere to be seen. Sure, the band he's seeing is really new to the scene and obviously missing something, but he thinks that's no excuse for them to, you know, not show up at all. He's been to all three gigs these guys have ever done, and he feels personally offended that they're not here. However, for some reason, Frank isn't mad. Maybe it's because somewhere inside him, his musician's instinct is telling him they're just running late. Or maybe it's that he thinks their lead singer is hot. Whatever. He sighs inwardly and orders another beer. He's had his experiences with shitty bars, but this one is especially horrible, even for New Jersey. The beer's stale (not that he minds), the whole place looks like it received its last cleaning six months ago, and there are mysterious white stains on the stalls in the men's room that accompany the sticky floors well. He's not going to say anything about it to the bartender, though; he's gotta be 6'5" and 290-something pounds. Frank is about 5'6" and weighs in at a hefty 185. Yeah. That guy would kill him.
He sips the beer and struggles not to gag when he sees a hair floating in his glass, which wouldn't be so revolting if the bartender wasn't completely bald. He shudders and stands, crossing a beaten-down floor to make his way towards the stage. He's happy to see the guys are finally getting here, and the hot lead is flustered, though the bassist is trying his hardest to reassure the former. He makes his way to the mic, still blushing profusely.
"Hey, uh, we're My Chemical Romance, and, uh-" Cute Singer Guy fumbles. Frank almost feels bad for him. The drummer senses his singer's unease and starts up the band on a first song. The set's loud, the songs are short, and Cute Singer Guy makes eye contact with Frank at least three times, whether intentional or not, so by the end of the show he's drunk enough to think going to talk to Cute Singer Guy is a good idea. They're not total strangers; Pencey got these guys their contract with Eyeball. Frank just sucks with names. He takes a deep breath and goes backstage. Or, rather, he begins to go backstage, but a door opens in his face and he's colliding with the ground and someone's bending over him, asking if he's okay.
"Motherfuck- No, I'm not o-fucking-kay, you just hit me with a fucking door!" he slurs loudly. He can't call it yelling. He's too drunk for yelling. He opens his eyes and bites back tears and that's about the time he realizes holy shit Cute Singer Guy just hit him with a door. He now feels very bad for yelling at said singer and attempts an apology.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to yell. I did mean to yell, that was a lie. But not at you! Kind of at you, you hit me with a door. But, like, I was just gonna come in and see you. Your band. Well, you too. You're hot so why would I not wanna see you?" he rants, only realizing a little too late he just told Cute Singer Guy he think's he's hot. Damn. Cute Singer Guy doesn't seem to mind, just blushes even more, holy shit, how is that even possible, how cute can this guy get, oh my God.
"Well, you can see me now, and it seems you're really drunk. I think I'll join you for that part," Cute Singer Guy smiles, helping Frank up. "Oh, and I'm Gerard."
"Frank," he responds, nodding for no apparent reason. He lets Gerard lead him back to the bar, where the guy chugs more stale beer than anyone he's ever seen, and he doesn't really know whether to be impressed or concerned. As his blood is replaced with alcohol, they talk about everything from music to comics to movies to the pros and cons of Jersey to how much high school sucked and everything else that pops into their muddled heads. Frank's pretty sure Gerard's forgotten the whole incident with Frank calling him hot, up until now.
"So, you know how you said I was hot earlier? Well, I have seen you at all our shitty shows and you know what? You're fuckin' hot," Gerard tells him, head bobbing to nothing and with speech barely discernible. Frank smiles at that, a kind of mischievous thing that used to make his mother sigh heavily and still does, if he's an honest man. He invites Gerard to his apartment, and the other agrees after clearing up with his band-mates that he's going home with someone who was not Ray or Otter or Mikey, and they kind of sighed but let him go anyway. Frank's not sure what the sighing's about, or the walk home, but he's definitely aware of making out with Gerard, fuck yeah, and just as he think's it's going to get good, Gerard stops everything, gets up, dashes haphazardly to the bathroom, and vomits. Frank isn't an asshole, so he goes in there after him and rubs the guy's back and wipes his face and gives him mouthwash, taking care of Gerard like Frank's mom did when she found her son drunk.
"Man, I'm sorry," Gerard sighs afterwards, sitting as far as he possibly can from Frank on the sofa. Frank scoots closer and encloses Gerard in a hug.
"S'okay," he murmurs. "I'm just glad I got to make out with a hot dude."
"Hey, you're a guitarist, right?" Gerard asks.
"Yep," Frank answers.
"I think we need another guitarist, if you want to. I gotta talk to my guys about it."
"Really?"
"Yeah," Gerard sighs, leaning his head on Frank's. "Our first date was really shitty, huh?"
"Tonight was a date?" Frank asks. Gerard nods.
"Then you're right. But I refuse to settle, Gerard, because I think you can do better," Frank says. "So, how would you feel going for coffee tomorrow?"
"Coffee's always good. But how am I gonna find my way back here? I live a few towns over, and I'll be drunk still, probably," Gerard tells him with furrowed brows. Frank smiles.
"Your solution is to stay here. Stay the night. I won't try to do anything. But you should know I like being the big spoon," Frank informs him.
"Sounds nice," Gerard responds, a smile finding its way onto his face, as well. Frank half-leads, half-drags them to the bed, falling asleep with his face buried in Gerard's shoulder. He's happy he didn't get mad at the show. This was totally worth not being mad.