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“Why are you always running away from me?” Frank asks.
“What? I’m not.” The defense falls out of Patrick’s mouth before he has time to think about whether or not Frank is right—which, upon a moment’s reflection, he definitely is. Instead of conceding, Patrick doubles down. “I don’t do that.”
“You totally do.” Frank crosses his arms, his grin incongruous as he says, “It’s starting to hurt my feelings, man.”
Well, now Patrick feels kinda bad—if Frank’s telling the truth, anyway. Patrick hates when people grin like that, like they’re laughing at a joke that Patrick’s not in on. It makes talking to people confusing and frustrating and—look, he’d rather just go back to the bus and write music, okay? Except he can’t do that, not when Pete is sexiling him every other day.
That’s why he’s not on his own bus right now, and is instead lurking by My Chem’s. He was hoping to find Ray. Gerard, Frank, and Bob are all intimidating, and Mikey is… Mikey. But Ray? Ray is cool. He never gets a manic gleam in his eyes (like Gerard) or throws his body around stage in an alarmingly aggressive way (like Frank) or wears an intense scowl (like Bob). Unfortunately, Patrick approached just as Frank was leaving, and Frank caught him with eyes like spotlights before Patrick could make his strategic escape (read: turn tail and run).
Patrick clears his throat and forces himself to meet Frank’s eyes. “Well, here I am. Not running away. What do you want?”
“Oh, nothing.” Frank rocks back on his heels. “I just wanted you to know I don’t bite.”
Patrick’s not so sure about that, but he decides the wiser course of action is not to say so. “Okay.”
“Anyway, I was gonna go hunt down a milkshake. Do you want a milkshake?”
“Actually, I was looking for Ray.” Patrick gestures at the bus. “Is he in there?”
“Nah, everyone’s out right now. Ditched me while I was napping.” Frank shakes his head with a sigh. “Probably hanging out with Adam Lazzara and them. Mikey mentioned it earlier.”
“He’s not,” Patrick says. “I mean, Mikey is…” He flushes, unable to continue, but he doesn’t need to; it’s not like Pete and Mikey have been subtle about how much they’ve been hanging off of each other these past few weeks of Warped Tour.
“Ahh,” Frank says knowingly. “In that case, we should definitely get milkshakes together.”
“I… don’t follow,” Patrick says.
“You’re trying to kill time, right? Then c’mon, hang out with me.”
Patrick, seeing no polite way out, says, “Well, okay,” and resigns himself to an afternoon with Frank Iero.
It’s not that Patrick doesn’t like Frank; he doesn’t know the guy well enough to have that sort of opinion. He is pretty confident, based on prior observation, that he and Frank won’t get along. Frank has the kind of high, chaotic energy that’s more suited to Pete, or maybe even Joe. Definitely not Patrick.
So it’s with some trepidation that Patrick follows Frank out of the festival grounds and down the street. It’s a cloudless day and the summer sun bears relentlessly down on them, making a few blocks’ walk feel twice as long. Frank complains offhandedly about the heat and Patrick grunts in agreement, too busy drowning in his sweat to contribute anything else. It’s a relief when they finally spot a diner, and the frigid blast of air conditioning that greets them as they step inside is the best thing Patrick’s felt all day.
At the counter, Frank pulls some crumpled bills from his pocket and insists on paying and, well, Patrick’s not gonna turn down a free treat. He gets chocolate, Frank gets vanilla and an order of fries, and a minute later they’re seated at a booth, Frank staring intensely across the table at Patrick.
“So,” Frank says as he dips a fry into his milkshake—Patrick kinda wishes he got fries now so he could do that, too. “You’re the singer.” Frank pops the fry into his mouth in two quick bites.
“Um. Yes?” Obviously, Patrick doesn’t add, but it’s a near thing.
There’s an awkward silence as Frank chews his fry. Patrick drags his milkshake closer to the edge of the table and takes a sip, appreciating the cold, rich chocolate just as much as the air conditioner cooling his sweat.
“But Pete does all the frontman-y shit,” Frank says after he swallows. He picks up another fry and waves it in front of him. “You know, he’s always the one talking to the crowd in between songs.”
Patrick tenses. He doesn’t really like talking about Pete with anyone outside of the band and people they work closely with. Everyone always comes in with a bunch of preconceived notions that are just wrong, wrong, wrong. He doesn’t get how so many people can look at Pete and not see him at all.
Frank blinks at him, guilelessly waiting for a response, and Patrick hates him a little bit.
“He’s good at it,” Patrick says shortly.
Frank tilts his head. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“Why would it?” Patrick shakes his head. “Don’t answer that. Look, I’m not good at being a frontman, and I’m not really interested in acting like one anyway. I just want to play music. If anything, Pete’s doing me a favor.”
Pete’s not being an attention whore, or whatever other unsavory things people like to call him. Every band does crowd work, and yet Pete gets lambasted for it because he’s not the singer? It’s so stupid. If it were up to Patrick, the band’s musical performance would be able to stand on its own, but if the audience expects the band to talk to them and get them hyped up, then Patrick’s glad he has Pete to do that job for him.
He narrows his eyes at Frank, mentally gearing up for more pushback, and is surprised when Frank nods.
“Oh dude, I totally get that. Like, I’m in a band because I want to make music, why are you making me talk? What the fuck am I supposed to even say? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love chatting with kids offstage, but I feel like such a tool acting like I’m hot shit onstage.”
Frank scrunches his face and sticks his tongue out, like blech. It’s unexpected, and unexpectedly cute; in addition to knocking the wind right out of Patrick’s sails, he has to actually bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
“Lucky me, Gerard loves that shit,” Frank finishes. “Which is funny, because he’s actually, like, kinda shy offstage. Anyway, I guess you’re lucky, too.”
“I… yeah, I am,” Patrick says. “I didn’t realize you had such strong feelings about fronting a band.” Nor that his feelings were so similar to Patrick’s own. He wouldn’t have expected it, considering the way Frank seems to behave like crashing into things onstage is more important than actually playing music, but it seems there are hidden layers to him.
“I was in a couple bands before My Chem,” Frank says, waving his hand. “I always ended up as the singer, just like by default. Too bad I didn’t have a Pete Wentz back then.”
Again, Patrick is struck by their similarities. It’s a reminder, he thinks ruefully, not to judge someone by their gaudy red eyeshadow and shiny lip ring and numerous tattoos.
“I was actually supposed to audition for drums,” Patrick shares. “But we needed a singer, so.” He shrugs.
“Hold up,” Frank says. “You’re saying it like you were their last resort. Dude, you have a fucking awesome voice.”
Patrick shakes his head, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “No, that’s not—no.”
Pete says stuff like that about Patrick’s voice, too, but he’s Pete. He’s biased, or whatever. Patrick sings, but he still doesn’t really consider himself a singer. He’s just the best they’ve got. Anyway, the stuff Patrick does, the singing, the guitar—hell, even getting up on stage at all and performing in front of a bunch of people—it’s all a tradeoff for getting to do the real thing he’s always wanted to do: write music. As long as he has that, details like what instrument he plays onstage don’t really matter.
“Dude,” Frank says again, and he shakes his head, too.
Patrick shrugs and resumes drinking his milkshake so he has an excuse not to talk. He takes three long sips before Frank stops squinting at him and leans back in his seat. He stuffs some fries into his mouth before nudging the tray towards Patrick.
“You can have some too, y’know.” As Patrick takes a fry, Frank says, “Actually, my dad and grandpa are both drummers. But I wanted to be able to write music.”
“Hold on, drummers can write music!” Patrick protests. “I’m a drummer and I write music.”
Frank giggles, a high, hiccupy sound, and Patrick is torn between annoyance and endearment. Frank laughs like he’s self-conscious about it, the way he ducks his head and bites his lip afterwards. It’s disarming, bringing Patrick down as quickly as he got worked up. He’s still a bit annoyed, though, because he’s not exactly sure why Frank’s laughing at him. At least he doesn’t seem to be mocking Patrick.
“You’re really not what I expected,” Frank says.
Patrick blinks, thrown. “I could say the same to you.”
“Yeah?” Frank props his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand. “What did you expect?”
Patrick hesitates. “Louder,” is what he finally settles on.
“Hmm,” Frank says.
Patrick waits, but Frank doesn’t say anything else. “What did you expect from me?”
Frank’s lips stretch in a slow grin. “Less opinionated.”
Patrick hunches his shoulders. “I—”
“Nah, it’s a good thing,” Frank says. “You’re interesting.”
Again, Patrick is at a loss for words. “Thank you,” he says. “I think.”
“Mmhm,” Frank says. “Now, tell me more about how you got into music.”
Patrick does, and as their conversation winds on, his knee-jerk defensiveness to everything Frank says or does fades because, as it turns out, Frank is really nice to talk to. He listens without interrupting, even when Patrick is aware in the back of his mind that he’s been going on for entirely too long. Frank is surprisingly laid-back and almost soft-spoken in his manner, and when he does get worked up, he’s not loud and aggressive like Patrick expects, but more like an excited little kid in the way he gesticulates wildly, words tripping over themselves as they fall out of his mouth. It’s not long before Patrick is forced to confront the fact that it’s not just the fangirls who find Frankie from My Chemical Romance cute; he does, too.
When their milkshake glasses are empty and the fries have run out, Patrick is surprised to realize he’s not ready to part ways. He stalls on leaving the booth by checking his phone, and he can’t contain his reaction. “Still no all-clear from Pete. Seriously?”
“Bet they fell asleep,” Frank says. “Mikey always fuckin’ knocks out after sex.”
“Uh,” Patrick says.
Frank giggles his self-conscious giggle. “Sorry, TMI. Well, the My Chem bus is probably safe. You wanna jam?”
“Yes,” Patrick says gratefully. Jamming is fun, and it means he gets to hang out with Frank a bit longer. “Let’s do it.”
“Hell yeah.”
The My Chem bus is still empty when they make it back; the back-room-turned-studio is theirs to command. Frank hands Patrick one of his guitars, and they’re off.
They run through a few covers first—which leads to a brief digression to nerd out over Jimmy Eat World’s latest album, Futures—then show each other a couple of their own band’s songs, before they start messing around making stuff up.
Obviously, Patrick collaborates with the other guys when writing Fall Out Boy songs, and the lyrics are all Pete, but the music always starts with Patrick. He brings in a rough draft of melodies and chords, and they figure it out from there. This, with Frank, starting something completely from scratch together, is a different experience. The first few minutes, Patrick is worried that there's gonna be too much competition between ideas, but Frank is surprisingly adaptable to whatever Patrick throws out, and easygoing every time Patrick says, “What if it was more like this?” even after he’s blown past the threshold where anyone else would have gotten annoyed with him.
“Sorry if I’m too bossy,” he says the next time he tweaks one of Frank’s chord progressions.
“It’s cool,” Frank says. “I like seeing how you think about music. This way I can steal all your secrets to write My Chem’s next hit.”
Patrick snorts. “I don’t think you guys need any help from me on that front.”
“I dunno, I think we’re onto something here.” Frank nudges Patrick playfully with his foot. “From the top?”
Patrick nods and counts them off. They have enough cobbled together by this point that, as they play, he starts humming and mumbling half-formed sentences, just to inject some idea of a melody over their chords. Patrick’s not the best at writing lyrics—he happily ceded that role to Pete after recording Take This To Your Grave—so it’s a lot of nonsense, but he does like the tune he comes up with.
“Nice,” Frank says when they’ve finished. “So, like—”
He starts playing, and Patrick stares, because Frank just heard him half-sing a melody once and is perfectly recreating it on guitar.
I could kiss you. That’s something Pete has said to Patrick multiple times while working on songs together, and Patrick has always rolled his eyes at it. Just Pete being Pete. Right here and now, though, Patrick gets it. Watching Frank’s fingers dance over the frets of his guitar, seeing the furrow in his brow as he concentrates—it’s hot.
Frank pauses, then says, “Or maybe…”
He starts over, this time playing in harmony to Patrick’s melody.
Patrick’s already leaning forward before Frank’s finished, so that when Frank looks up, he doesn’t even get his mouth halfway open to speak before Patrick is kissing him, quick and firm.
It’s only after Patrick pulls away that he realizes that was probably a colossally bad move. Sure, Pete says it all the time, but he’s never actually gone and done it.
“Sorry,” Patrick blurts. “That was just, um—really cool.”
Frank blinks at him. He swipes his tongue over his lower lip. Patrick regrets not lingering a bit longer to at least enjoy the kiss, because he’s already forgetting the sensation.
“Definitely don’t be sorry,” Frank says. “Do you kiss all the boys you play guitar with?”
Patrick actually bluescreens for a second imagining a version of him that regularly kisses his fellow musicians. Not that he’s opposed, but the idea of it is so incredibly removed from reality, he has no clue how Frank might think it’s true. “No, um, that was a first,” he manages, cheeks heating up.
“Cool,” Frank says. “I mean, cool either way, but… cool. Wanna do it again?”
Red-faced, Patrick nods, and Frank grins widely. He leans forward, and Patrick meets him halfway. This kiss is longer than their first—much longer, Frank’s lips moving warm and wet over Patrick’s own. They part softly, and instead of pulling away, Frank dives back in for another kiss, then another.
After the last kiss, Frank catches his teeth on Patrick’s lower lip and tugs. He presses down with just the slightest pressure before letting him go.
Frank had closed his eyes at some point while they kissed. His eyelashes fluttering as he opens them sends a tickle through Patrick’s stomach. Frank licks his lips again; he really needs to stop doing that.
Patrick is way too flustered after just a few kisses, and he scrambles for something to say besides um and wow. What he lands on is, “I knew you were lying earlier.”
Frank’s face scrunches up. “What?”
Patrick reaches out and cups Frank’s cheek. Frank’s expression smooths out, and he tilts his head into Patrick’s touch. Smiling, Patrick runs his thumb over Frank’s lower lip. “You said you didn’t bite.”
Frank giggles. God, Patrick might have to write some crappy lyrics about that sound.
Gently, Frank takes Patrick’s wrist and pulls his hand away. He leans in, but instead of kissing Patrick, he ducks his head and scrapes his teeth across Patrick’s throat. “Come to my bunk and I’ll show you how much I can bite.”
It’s not the best line, in Patrick’s opinion, but he’s not gonna call Frank out on it. Not when there’s no way Patrick is going to smoothly proceed from here himself.
Who cares anyway, when a stammered, “Yeah, yes, okay,” gets the job done?
They put the guitars away, and Frank takes Patrick’s hand to lead him to the bunks. It’s an oddly sweet gesture. As Frank pulls the curtain back on his bunk, he says, “I bet you’re glad you didn’t run away from me this time.”
“I never did that in the first place,” Patrick says loftily.
They look at each other and grin. Frank lowers himself into his bunk. He takes Patrick’s hand again and pulls, and Patrick happily falls towards him.