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When the drive ahead was long, and you had run out of distractions inside the shitty van that moved them from show to show, all you had left was staring out of the window.
Gerard had volunteered for copilot duty, mindlessly taking note of how many miles they had traveled. So far they'd traveled a little less than fifty miles from Detroit, which meant they still had another hour or so before the next stop and he was already bored out of his mind, he had run out of conversation to keep Ray busy behind the steering wheel. That was until his eyes landed on a very particular sign.
"Wait, turn right!" He yelped while lifting his head off the window, pointing at the next exit with his whole body.
Ray didn’t take his eyes off the road, instead just lifted them up slightly to read the same boring road sign. "You’re so childish"
Hell. Next exit.
Ray just laughed, gave Gerard a quick side-eye, and slowly turned the van towards the right. Gerard immediately grinned and turned his back to face the rest of the band on the backseats, Frank was half asleep at the two empty backseats, using the merch boxes as a makeshift pillow, and Mikey was still texting whoever the fuck it was that he was talking to nowadays.
"We’re going to Hell!" He announced, quite proud.
Frank lifted his head approximately two inches from the merch boxes. "What?"
"Hell."
"Yeah, I heard you."
"We’re going there."
Frank blinked at him, still visibly halfway inside a dream. "Why?"
Gerard pointed dramatically toward the windshield. "It's the next exit."
"Okay."
Frank dropped his head back onto the boxes, Mikey didn’t say much except for a witty couple of lines about how "they were always in hell", making everyone in the van chuckle to themselves as they approached the small town. It was still somewhere around five PM when they began fighting about parking, and dinner, and why the fuck were they now in front of a small souvenir shop when they collectively had maybe six dollars each for food.
"Do they have food?" Frank murmured from the back once they parked, hair going in several, very contradicting directions.
"They have an ice cream shop" Gerard answered, already undoing the seatbelt and clicking the door open.
"Ice cream is not dinner" Mikey said, also getting off the van with very reluctant body language even if he was grinning.
Gerard hurried to the entrance of the shop, trying to get a look inside before anyone else. "Not with that attitude!" He opened the door, finding a full on halloween operation inside, in the middle of July. He couldn’t help but smile in surprise as he set a foot inside "Hurry up!"
Inside, the black and orange checkerboard floor greeted them first thing, only to be completely outshinned by the shelves upon shelves of dumb merchandise and decorative stuff, it was a goth’s wet dream, almost. One glance at the little ice cream parlour was enough to decide that ice cream was, in fact, not dinner, at least for today.
"I’m not paying $3.50 for a sundae" Frank said, trailing behind the group as they looked around.
Gerard pointed at the sign just above their heads. "It’s the Gravedigger!" He chuckled, completely fascinated by the way the whole town seemed to commit to the bit, even if he was sure none of them could afford it.
"And?" Frank said, looking at the aisles upon aisles of souvenirs, he didn’t say much else, but Gerard could see the small twitch of his lips upwards every time he encountered a new pun slapped on a mug or a particularly clever fridge magnet. "Can I use the bathroom for free or does that come with an infernal tax too?"
He just glanced back at him quickly before going towards the keychain section. "Mikey’s in the bathroom, we’re just waiting for him. Ray is looking for food"
Frank nodded, only half listening. His attention had already been caught by a display of little plastic pitchforks and a rack of postcards hanging beside them.
"Holy shit."
Gerard turned around. "What?"
He watched Frank picking up a small piece of cardboard, scorched at the edges, it smelled like an actual fire. It was a postcard, with the slogan "GREETINGS FROM HELL!" printed on big letters, there was also a cartoon devil standing beside a cartoon lake of fire, giving a thumbs up.
Frank looked down at the scorched postcard in his hand, still pinched between two fingers like it might infect him with mediocrity if he gripped it too tightly. "This is terrible"
"It's beautiful." Gerard leaned over his shoulder, so close that their hair mingled for a second.
"It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
Frank flipped it over. "Seventy-five cents," he announced, as if this alone proved his point.
"What?" Gerard crowed. "You can’t put a price on true kitsch."
"You wouldn’t know kitsch if it hit you in the face. If I sent that to my family, my mom would send me back to catholic school" Frank shot back. He tucked the card into the rack where it belonged. "You want it, get it yourself."
Gerard patted his pockets with exaggerated anguish before stopping dead on his track in front of the keychain section, finding a small little one tucked in the back. He immediately picked it up: Horribly photoshopped flames, crooked lettering, even the resin felt cheap, it read "I ♥︎ HELL", it was so bad that it circled back to being downright charming. He didn’t even realize he was smiling until he checked the price and set it back.
"$2.50" He murmured, mostly to himself, like he had done the math inside his head and found the result devastating. He sighed before picking it back up.
Oh his peripherals, Frank was still making a show of making fun out of the postcards. Picking several back up like a deck of cards, laughing, and setting them back down. Gerard placed the keychain back on the rack, along with the stickers and pens and the cheap pins, and set about on finding Ray.
He found Ray near the back of the shop, half-hidden behind a rotating rack of novelty mugs, squinting down at his phone like he was delivering bad news to himself before having to deliver it to anyone else.
"Any luck?" Gerard asked. He kept his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t have to think about the hoodie hanging directly to his left, which was black and said ‘Raising Hell’ across the chest in the kind of font a youth pastor might use for a flyer.
Ray looked up. "There’s a diner."
"Actual food?"
"Yup"
"How much?"
Ray’s face did the rest of the talking. "Gas station’s just outside of town, too."
"As long as they have hot dogs." Gerard nodded, like this was a solemn agreement between two reasonable men. "Bummer though. I had my heart set on a Satan dog."
Ray reached out and turned one of the mugs to face him, it had a grinning skull on it and said ‘A HELL OF A MORNING’ in dripping red letters, then checked the price sticker on the bottom and set it back like it was on actual fire. "Five bucks a mug, five bucks a sundae, even more for the Satan dogs. I’ll take the gas station, at least it fills you up."
"Deeply optimistic of you," Gerard said.
Ray laughed through his nose, glancing past Gerard’s shoulder toward the bathroom door, where Mikey had just reappeared looking mildly inconvenienced by existence. "We’re in Hell, man."
"Yeah." Gerard looked back at the shelf. "Fair enough."
Mikey wandered over, still adjusting his hoodie. "Did I miss anything?"
"We're eating hot dogs."
"Okay."
"In Hell."
Mikey paused. "Okay."
They filed out of the shop, Frank was still looking half-dead, Mikey wasn’t looking up from his phone, and Ray was already ten paces ahead, a man on a mission. Gerard trailed after, feeling his stomach do the usual dance and song of hunger, their van was parked on the far end, and from this angle, he could see why so many cops pulled them over, it looked like a textbook picture of a kidnapper's vehicle of choice. He laughed to himself and kept walking, stopping just short of yet another dumb tourist bait.
"Oh my god." He stopped walking, his worn sneakers scuffing on the blacktop. A tiny chapel, no bigger than a toolshed, was painted a garish, peeling fire-engine red. A lopsided white steeple extended from its roof, and a string of battery-operated fairy lights was being clumsily tacked along its doorway by a man on a ladder. His whole body pivoted toward the van, an unspoken command for the others to come and see this.
Frank materialized at his elbow, hands shoved deep into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. He took one look and let out a sharp, disbelieving bark of laughter. "Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Who wants to get married in hell?"
The structure was less a chapel and more a repurposed tool shed. There was a hand-painted sign hammered into the ground nearby that listed rental rates by the hour. The rest of the band drifted over, forming a loose half-circle of judgment and a hint of delight.
Mikey’s eyes scanned the sign. Then they cut to Gerard. "No."
"I didn't say anything!" He protested, looking up at the sky and then doing a sharp U-turn towards the van.
"Your face did." Mikey said flatly, falling into step beside him.
"I was just looking!"
"You're always just looking right before you suggest something stupid."
Ray had quietly unhooked one of the little tri-fold brochures hanging from the signpost. He walked slowly beside them, thumbing through the pages, the more he read the more he smiled. "They actually do weddings here,"
"Imagine explaining that to your family." Frank chuckled, kicking a loose chunk of asphalt.
Ray lifted an imaginary phone to his ear, pitching his voice up. "Hey, Mom, guess what? I got married."
"Where?" Frank bit back a grin, playing along.
"Hell."
That made everyone laugh again. Ray grinned widely, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the moment, the sound of their laughter was way too bright for the desolate parking lot. Even the man on the ladder paused, glancing down at them before waving at the band.
"That's actually kind of sweet," He said, craning his neck back at the chapel like he was leaving something behind.
Frank's laughter faded a bit. "You think?"
"I mean." He shrugged, falling back into step right beside Frank. "It has a good premise, I think."
Ray’s face did something complicated. He was still patting himself down, looking for the van keys. "You are not getting married in Hell."
"I didn't say I was!" Gerard barked, glancing sideways at Frank. "Would you, though?"
"What?"
"The chapel." He jerked his thumb back at it. The man on the ladder had resumed tacking up fairy lights, unbothered. "Get married here"
Frank squinted at him. Then at the chapel. Then back at him. "In Hell?"
"I mean, why not?" He gestured vaguely toward the sign as he nodded. "If you start in Hell, you can only go up, right?"
"That’s the most fucked-up logic I’ve ever heard" Frank laughed, but it was a little breathless.
"It’s airtight."
Frank scuffed his boot against the asphalt, sending a loose pebble skittering toward Gerard. It bounced off his shin. "No, it’s not."
"Ow!" He quipped, looking for another pebble to respond but finding none. "Prove it!"
"I'm not marrying you in Hell just to test your bullshit theory."
Gerard’s smile twitched like a faulty neon sign. "Didn't say it had to be me."
"Asshole" Frank muttered after a second, rolling his eyes before they reached the van.
"...Unless you wanted to." Gerard said it like he was joking, laughing a little too quickly as he yanked the passenger door open and practically folded himself inside. Suddenly the joke had become just slightly harder to laugh at.
The drive to the gas station was mercifully uneventful, which for them was a small miracle, or maybe everyone was just tired enough both from the show in Detroit that earned them a beer cup launched at the stage and the little stop at Hell.
Ray’s hands were precisely at ten and two, flipping the blinker on at every dusty crossroad, even when there was no one else on the road to see it. Mikey barely looked up from his phone, probably responding to a group chat that didn’t include any of them. Frank had collapsed back into the very backseat, both hands on the back of his neck as he hummed, low and tuneless, probably just to annoy Gerard. Which worked, partly.
Gerard was mostly staring out the window, playing the loneliest game of identifying the roadside flowers that were starting to wilt. His mind was replaying the whole wedding-in-Hell scenario on an endless loop, but the more he tried to dismiss it as a cheap joke, the more it stuck, somewhere between the ribs and the lungs. He could feel Frank’s eyes on the back of his neck, or maybe he just wanted to.
The road bent and the gas station appeared.
The door to their battered van opened and everyone spilled out, starting a very heated argument about who’s turn to drive was next.
Mikey interrupted without looking up from his phone. "I don't care who drives as long as someone buys me a Coke."
"Fine," Gerard said. "I’ll buy you one."
Frank held the gas station door open with his foot, hands in his pockets, looking like he had already done the math. "With what money?"
He patted his pockets. Front, back, front again. "Shit."
"That’s what I thought." Frank muttered, letting the door wheeze shut behind them.
Inside, the gas station smelled like burnt coffee. Gerard wandered toward the rotating hot dog grill the way a moth flew to a lamp, each cylinder of meat doing a slow, boring rotation under heat lamps.
"Don't laugh at me" He said, feeling Frank behind him slowly approaching the same station.
"You're broke"
"So are you, idiot"
Frank drifted after him, arms crossed, squinting at the coffee station across the aisle. "Yeah, but I’m better-looking."
Gerard picked up a bun, examined it, put it back, picked up a different one. "That’s debatable."
"Oh?"
"Extremely debatable."
Frank’s lips turned upward in that shit-eating grin he despised so much. "You wanna elaborate on that?"
Gerard started assembling two very sad looking hotdogs. "No." He said, eyes glued to the way the ketchup slowly drifted on top of his dinner.
"Coward."
"Strategic."
"Same thing." Frank’s eyes drifted toward the flickering neon sign above the hot case, which advertised a three-for-one deal on taquitos. Each one cost exactly a dollar and nineteen cents, and they looked like rolled-up socks.
"I’m conserving my energy."
Frank leaned across him to grab the tongs, his shoulder pressing into Gerard’s just long enough to feel the worn denim of his jacket. "Whatever you say". He then turned toward the hot food display. "I'm getting taquitos."
Gerard’s nose wrinkled. "Those?"
"They're a dollar."
"That's how they get you."
Frank turned and pointed the tongs at him like a prosecutor presenting Exhibit A. "You’re gonna buy me something better?"
Gerard uncurled his fist to reveal three crumpled dollar bills and approximately $1.74 in loose coins. "No."
"Then shut up." Frank declared, plucking three pale, cylindrical taquitos from the warmer and letting them tumble, one after another, onto a flimsy paper plate.
They regrouped at the checkout, Ray had three black coffees balanced in a paper tray, Mikey was eating something that looked like it belonged in a laboratory, and Frank was already blowing some air into the paper plate to try and cool down the food inside.
Mikey volunteered for the graveyard shift on the condition that someone bought him a can of Pringles, which at this point in the tour was basically extortion, but nobody else wanted it, so Ray dug through the cupholder change and made it happen. Ray took the passenger seat with his hot dog, occasionally reading exit signs to at least try and get to Grand Rapids in one piece.
He and Frank ended up in the back. Eating dinner in silence. The van smelled like burnt coffee and ketchup packets and outside, the flat midwestern sky was doing that thing where it couldn’t decide between orange and gray.
He watched as Frank took another bite, making his entire face scrunch up in what looked like disgust, or maybe just hatred.
"You okay?"
Frank nodded rapidly, chewing with grim determination. He had made a financial decision and intended to stand by it. "Mm-hm."
"That bad?"
"It's fine." Frank swallowed. Barely. "I'm eating."
"You're suffering."
"Same thing."
He squinted at the taquito. It looked like a prop."You could've bought a hot dog, you idiot."
Frank shrugged. "This was cheaper."
He watched Frank attempt, for the third time, to cool the taquito down by blowing on it like it was a birthday candle. Then his eyes dropped to Frank’s other hand. Empty. He looked at the cupholders. Also empty. "Wait." He looked at Frank. "Where’s your coffee?"
Frank froze mid-blow. "Oh." He reached into the front pocket of his hoodie with his free hand, rooted around in there for a moment like he was checking for a heartbeat, and then emerged clutching something small and plastic.
"Right. Here."
Frank’s fist uncurled to reveal a small resin keychain. Gerard recognized it immediately: the same one from the souvenir shop, the flame graphic that looked like it had been illustrated by someone who had seen fire once back in 1987. Under the passing streetlamps it glowed a deeply eye-straining orange.
I ♥ HELL.
He stared at it, then at Frank. "You bought it?"
"Yeah." Frank had returned to the taquito situation, which was still a crisis.
Gerard plucked it from Frank’s hand. It was stupidly light, like something that would blow away in the breeze. "You gave up coffee for this piece of shit?"
"Coffee was like a dollar." Frank said like it explained everything, which, to him it probably did.
He turned the keychain over. The stamped MADE IN USA was crooked, the letters uneven, like a child’s first art class project. "You’re a fucking idiot."
Frank took another defiant bite of the taquito, his whole face tightening before he forced himself to chew. "You’re welcome."
"It’s so fucking terrible." He couldn’t stop turning it over in his hands, tracing the cheap seam with his thumb.
"Yep."
"I love it."
The weird tenderness of the moment vanished as quick as it appeared. Frank, in a move both inevitable and very tragic, tried to shove another taquito into his mouth. Immediately his entire face spasmed, eyes wide and wet, coughing a little before his hand flew to his lips to keep from spattering cheese all over the backseats.
"Fuck!!" Frank howled, barely swallowing in time to keep from choking.
Gerard quickly pocketed the keychain before asking, more to laugh at Frank rather than help. "What happened?"
Frank started panting, tongue already lolling out like a cartoon dog, the tip was clearly burned. He couldn’t even form words, just pointed at the taquito like it was a bad dog. "Hot!"
Gerard felt the laugh bubble up before he could stop it. It was the kind of laugh that started as a snort, then caught fire and spread until he was doubled over, leaning for support on one of the headrests. Even Ray was snickering from the driver’s seat.
Frank tried to look angry but couldn’t stop blinking back actual tears, making a face so miserable and dramatic even Mikey started to giggle behind the wheel.
"Dumbass," Gerard managed, voice hoarse from laughing, "it’s been under a heat lamp since the nineties. What did you think was going to happen?"
Frank made a wounded little sound and glared at him, refusing to dignify the question with an answer. He gingerly poked at his tongue, as if testing for nerve damage. "Shut up" he croaked, but the words came out so pitiful it just set Gerard off again.
Once Gerard stopped laughing, he reached over and grabbed his coffee from the cupholder. Pressed the back of his hand to the side of the cup to check the temperature, it was cool enough. He held it out toward Frank.
Frank looked at it like it was a trick. "That’s yours."
"I know."
Something passed between them in the half-second before Frank took it. He drank with both hands wrapped around it, hunched slightly forward, and Gerard turned to look out the window at the dark fields going past and felt something sit down heavily in his chest and stay there.
He became aware, slowly, that Frank had stopped drinking and was just holding the cup. Looking at the keychain, or at least what poked out of his pocket.
"You really like it." Frank said, abandoning the taquito predicament entirely.
Gerard looked down at it too. The orange flames. The crooked lettering. Something that cost exactly two dollars and fifty cents and was worth a lot somehow.
"Yeah," Gerard said. "I do."
Frank turned back to the window. "Good" he said, quietly, mostly to himself.
Outside, the highway kept unraveling into the dark. Gerard pressed his thumb into the cheap seam of the keychain and held it there until he could feel his own pulse in it. He watched Frank take one final sip from the lukewarm coffee, this time neither of them getting burned.