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Gerard always drink. He gets drunk and he’s reckless, he crawls from the stage to the club before finally passing out in his bunk at 3 AM. At first, Frank would follow him. The 21 years old would be next to his 25 years old idol and watch him downs another beer and coughs up cigarette smoke.
When they started to hit the road, Gerard has snuggled up against Frank in the crowded van, trying his best to not wake up the rest of the band. His hoarse voice growled against Ray’s soft snore.
“Wanna get out of here?” He smiled.
Why on Earth would Frank says no?
Frank himself is not virtuous either. His shirt is stained with burn marks from his highs and his breath stinks of booze. He lived for the smell of beer, sweat and piss that lingers on each crack and crevices of every shithole of a bar, crawling on the walls like some kind of parasite. The same way that he’s falling over Gerard right now. Or Gerard on him. Drunk Gerard is just a more confident and more outgoing version of the nerdy singer that he sees the next morning. Drunk Gerard would do things that sober Gerard could never. The shy man tugging at the hem of his hoodie and awkwardly giggled at the sight of Frank outside the window of the studio could never trade drinks with nameless girls that he didn’t even bother asking for. The shy man that never leave his mother’s basement before 9/11 would never hold Frank close and make a fool of Frank.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Gerard buzzes, “You’re cute.” His hand slithers to the back of Frank’s neck.
“Ye. I’m cute as fuck.” He snorts.
“Fuck yeah you are. Frankie, our sweet baby.” Frank didn’t like the way Gerard’s finger is digging into his neck, nor the way he tilts his head and let the loose raven hair sticks to his cheeks. He stares at the hazel forest as it flashes every colour of the light. Perhaps it was the alcohol blurring his vision because Gerard’s tugging him in closer with every word.
“Weirdo.” He laughs it off, feeling the stench of yesterday’s show warms on his skin.
“That’s my party trick.”
“Being weird is not a party trick, dumbass”
“Fuck you, I’m drunk I can say whatever I want.” The beer is speaking, loud and clear. And it’s acting too. Gerard’s lips brush on Frank’s cheek. Slimy and wet and gross. “Cutie, wanna buy me a drink?” He giggles when they part.
“Nope. This cutie doesn’t buy, he only accepts drinks.”
Frank never admits it but he loves the weight of his friend’s head resting on his shoulder the next morning. They’re both a mess of clothing from the previous nights, headache and hangover. He loves Gerard waking up and falls back onto his lap with a groan, “Why is everything spinning?” The older one asks, voice cracking. They both ignore Mikey’s stare of disapproval as Gerard closes his eyes again.
“Wake me up before soundcheck?” And Frank never says no.
Perhaps that’s the reason why he keeps saying yes to Gerard. The thing about being a frontman is, everyone thinks that they know Gerard. They saw interviews, they watched him on TV, has his signature. And they would think they know everything about Gerard. From his hometown down to his favourite band. His likes and dislikes. Frank finds that fucking lovable. Kids would come up to them and they talk as if they have known the band for their entire life. Like close friends that you’ve never met before. Frank loves it, being so close to fans. But sometimes he hates it. Gerard is a magnet attracting everyone towards him. People that would soon come to adore him.
And it’s not just that. Everyone in the band is so close. They know everything about each other. But when Frank goes out with Gerard, the two of them share this moment that no one else knows. Sure, they know Gerard and he went out to get shit faced, but that’s all. They didn’t know the loud music drumming in his ears and the filthy heat of skin against skin. That’s only for the eyes of both of them. And Frank starts to treat them like dirty little secrets from a middle schooler’s diary.
Maybe that’s why Frank finds himself programmed to say yes whenever he feels a hand tugging at his shirt at night or Gerard smiles landing on him after a show. And it always ends the same, with one hand around a shoulder, a parasite leeching on the other all the way back to the van. And the next morning Gerard would sleep or keep drinking just simply because.
“You can’t be hungover if you’re never sober.”
It didn’t take long for preshow drinks to become a routine. Sometimes it’s the entire band, other time it’s just Gerard. He called it a switch that he holds in the palm of his hand, a poison to wakes him when the sun comes up and puts him to sleep at night. Like a refillable fuel tank that you can buy off the sale section of Walmart and makes you go dumb, numb and at the same time more aware.
It’s not a rare sight to find the lead singer of My Chemical Romance crashes onto the counter of the nearest store with a 6 pack in his hand right before soundcheck. Gerard would tell Frank before chucking a beer, “The kids like me better when I’m drunk. Drunk Gerard is My Chemical Romance.”
And Frank would tell him he’s wrong. But Frank doesn’t have the right to lecture anyone either when he’s high off his head. So Gerard’s drinking is just Gerard’s drinking. Gerard’s drinking is just Gerard’s drinking.
Daily trips at night that results in Frank carrying Gerard back to the van, the many times Frank found his bandmate passing out on the pavement or in a back alley before a show. A member of the 27 Club started to seem inevitable. One day, Frank thought, he would wake up and there will be no Gerard Arthur Way. One day, the weight of Gerard on Frank’s shoulder would be unbearable. And he would have to break the news that Gerard killed himself. He would have to face Mikey and tell him he let his brother dies. Frank stopped drinking, just on pure sprite and hatred towards Gerard. He hated every time his friend places a kiss on his lip with a can in his hand. He dislikes the bitter taste of alcohol pressed against his mouth and the hot breathe fumed on his cheeks. The younger would follow Gerard’s drink as he downs one after another. The sight sores Frank’s eyes and everywhere the older’s hand brushes through feels like a burn mark on his skin.
One day, Frank thought, he would turn his back and leave. And Gerard would follow him out because he cares. And when they are both sober, Gerard would taste like strawberries and candy. His caress would be nothing but cotton candy against Frank’s. One day, he would.
One day, Frank promises before closing his eyes as the beer soaks Gerard’s t-shirt. One day.