Work Text:
(i)
You fall apart real well, Geoff says, eyes like Jersey smog – Daryl’s laughing somewhere. Frank can’t get the words to leave his head.
Yeah. Real well. He thinks of Gerard, scratched up and wrecked on Stage fucking Two; hundreds of devil-horns-handed kids screaming.
Like it’s part of the act.
He doesn’t speak for two days, not to Gerard, not a fucking inch given to those hungry eyes (as if they’d swallow Frank, maybe, if he let them). Just packs, sits, unpacks, plays. Watches anger slide from Gerard to Mikey, the rest, back. Playing a fugue with hopelessness and determination.
(ii)
Two days on tour is hard to do, watched by betrayed, questioning eyes. "You – we can’t fucking do this anymore," Frank says, and Gerard’s already nodding.
"I know. I know. I just—" he cuts off his own excuse and shrugs. Lets black hair fall in front of his eyes.
Frank sits down. "I know." He’s not sure what they’re saying between these sentences. But Gee’s never gone on without a drink (fuck, never gone on sober, not once) and there’s a quiet terror lurking behind his eyes that Frank can feel echoed in the pit of his own stomach.
(iii)
It’s not like they can stop (playing? But it’s like fucking breathing). Somewhere behind the lyrics and the drawings, the pills and the whiskey, there has to be an answer. A motivation. Some time when they were just playing in Mikey’s bedroom thrilled with their own meager competence…
Why can’t they have fun again?
Frank’s lost in thought and suddenly he’s being flopped next to (almost on) and Gerard’s saying "So where are you?", Mikey watching from the end of the bus.
"Hey, Gee," he says (is that an answer?).
Gerard smiles, tentative. He thinks that he's missed Gee’s smiles.