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Texas is roughly eight hundred miles of hellscape from east to west, and Ray had been piloting their shitbox van through the last three hundred, his sanity flaking off in crispy layers like a sunburn somewhere around Wentworth.
The band was barreling toward El Paso for a last-minute gig, blissfully ignorant of how difficult and annoying driving through the Lone Star State’s was. Mikey had given up on navigation hours ago and resorted to start humming the Jaws theme every time an eighteen-wheeler loomed in the rearview.
"Fuck if I know where I-20 goes," he’d admitted at eleven, tossing his map onto the floor and letting his phone die heroically beside it.
Sometime past ten, Ray had stopped talking entirely. That was their cue that the situation had officially progressed from "annoying road trip" to "we are so fucking screwed".
Outside, the highway stretched forever, a ribbon of black asphalt beneath their almost broken headlights, occasionally interrupted by a semi-truck going at Mach I-Have-A-Deathwish. One more gust of wind and their van would’ve cartwheeled into the mesquite.
Civilization had become a politician’s promise after they passed Dallas-Fort Worth. Since then, there had been nothing but desert, trucks, and the growing suspicion that Texas was personally trying to kill them.
Ray’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. He stared down the road with the intensity of a dude trying to start a fire with his mind, he looked about three seconds away from swerving them onto the next unsuspecting cactus. "I am fucking done with Texas."
Gerard blinked, half asleep. "What?"
"I am done with Texas!" Ray shrieked, strangling a styrofoam cup so hard a crack shot up its side like a fault line. Cold, ancient coffee wept onto his jeans.
"You’ve said that before."
"This time I mean it."
Frank, who had been taking a nap on top of Mikey’s bass case like a disgruntled gargoyle, chimed in. "What did Texas do to you?"
Ray death-glared at an eighteen-wheeler trying to merge into their trunk. "This state does not fucking end! Also those trucks are driving me insane, my hands are so fucking sore!"
"It’s a big state" Mikey mumbled into his own knees, not looking up from the map crumpled in his lap.
"I know, Mikey!." Ray vibrated for a full half-minute before smashing his palm against the steering wheel. The whole van shuddered. "Eight-hundred miles! Who–"
"You did," Gerard reminded.
"I didn’t"
"You literally said, ‘It’s just Texas.’ yesterday."
Ray almost dropped his head into the steering wheel, but then remembered he had the lives of his best friends on his hands, so he just groaned louder. "I was younger then!"
Frank cackled like a hyena, which was fitting. Ray seethed through five more miles of highway before sucking in a breath loud enough to be heard over the engine and violently flicking the turn signal on.
Gerard peeled his cheek off the window. "Where to?"
"Stopping," Ray declared.
"Why?"
"Road Madness."
Mikey dragged a hand down his face, still not making eye contact. "That’s not a thing."
"It is now," He killed the engine but let the radio scream for a full five seconds like a dying animal caught in a trap before it choked into silence.
"Out. Now. Before I end up on America’s Most Wanted," Ray barked, flicking off the child lock like a dictator declaring war on the south. Of course they needed a child lock for a band of four adults. Of course. They had almost lost Mikey to the I-95 once because no one checked last time and the sliding door slammed open when he tried to take a nap.
Nobody tried to fight with Ray, especially now that looked genuinely capable of anything. If you asked him right now, he was already packing his bags to go and start a new life among the scorpions.
Frank didn’t need telling twice. He launched himself out onto the gravel, threw his arms skyward, and twisted his torso until his spine produced a sound like a tree splitting in a storm.
Gerard flinched. "Jesus, Frank."
"That one’s been marinating since Baton Rouge," Frank announced with pride. "Felt like a bag of rocks in there. Good shit."
"Ow, fuck!" Mikey followed, looking like someone had just dug him out of a grave, his hand immediately dropping to his numb hip. "I can’t feel my ass."
"That’s probably for the best," Frank grinned, circling one leg like he was stirring the air to try and get some blood flow going. "Which cheek? Left? Right? The mysterious middle?"
"All of it," Mikey moaned, collapsing onto the van’s bumper. He rubbed at his numb legs before going abruptly still, his eyes drifting upwards.
Ray climbed out last and slammed the door behind him hard enough that the van rocked on its suspension, which was bad because they had just repaired the catalytic converter and that shit wasn’t cheap, like at all, and also because Mikey was still sitting on the bumper.
"Hey!" Gerard said, pointing at the van as he got up. "That’s our home!"
"That’s our hostage," Ray corrected. "It’s been holding me prisoner for six hours. It owes me a million fucking dollars right now"
"For driving?"
"For emotional labor." Ray kicked a tire. The tire did not apologize.
For a few seconds, nobody said anything.
The highway was still there, but it sounded impossibly far away now. An eighteen-wheeler blasted past, its horn blaring like a dying elephant. Frank gave it the finger without even looking. Mikey shifted on the van’s bumper, rubbing his legs like he was trying to start a fire with his own numb flesh.
"My ass is still numb, man."
"Nobody asked," Frank said, crossing his arms against his chest. The air had gotten surprisingly cold.
Another truck roared past, its headlights washing over them and turning all four of them into pale ghosts for half a second before disappearing down the highway.
Mikey looked up again, properly this time. He craned his neck so far back that his glasses threatened to slip right off his face and he had to catch them with one hand without ever taking his eyes off the sky. "Holy shit. Look up."
Gerard followed his gaze.
And–
"Damn," Gerard whispered.
The sky was unlike anything he’d ever seen in New Jersey. It was vast and black as ink, absolutely crawling with stars. Not the handful of pinpricks he was used to seeing through the light pollution back home. This was a whole goddamn universe, spilled across the darkness. Stars in clumps, in lines, some scattered ones that blinked green and red like Christmas lights somebody forgot to take down in March.
Mikey didn't answer. He just kept staring, mouth slightly open, his numb ass apparently forgotten.
Frank looked up too. "That’s…" He stopped. "That's a lot of stars."
Ray finally lifted his head.
"Holy mother of fuck" He said quietly, which from Ray was basically poetry.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the Milky Way. Maybe he never had, not like this. The band of light stretched across the sky like a pale scar, bright enough that it almost hurt to look at, like somebody had taken a razor to the blackness and let the light bleed through.
For once, nobody had anything stupid to say.
They just stood there for a while. Four exhausted idiots in the middle of nowhere, staring up like they’d never seen the sky before. Gerard counted six shooting stars in as many seconds and gave up counting because it felt greedy, Mikey almost reached for his shitty Nokia to try and take a picture, Frank also counted stars under his breath for about four seconds before giving up and just making a number up instead.
Then Frank gasped.
Gerard immediately knew that was bad. He looked over. Frank was staring at the ground with the wide-eyed horror of someone counting the seconds on a bomb.
"Oh, also…" The words came out in an ominous little hum, the same tone you’d use to mention there’s a spider on someone’s neck.
Gerard didn’t even want to look at him. "No."
"Someone needs to take care of the piss bottles."
Ray pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to pop his own eyeballs back into his skull. Mikey let out a noise that was less of a groan and more of a dry heave, a long, dying syllable that climbed half an octave before giving up. "Ffffffuuuuuuuck."
Gerard, ever the diplomat, tried to sound reasonable even though he knew it was pointless. "Frank, for the love of–"
"I stepped on one," Frank cut in cheerfully. "I think it’s leaking"
Ray’s left eye developed a frantic twitch. "Please tell me it was empty."
Without hesitation, Frank yanked the van door open, a determined look on his face. He stepped out, triumphantly brandishing a Gatorade bottle that seemed to radiate an eerie glow in the starlight, as if it were some kind of alien artifact. The liquid inside sloshed around with a squelching sound that was far too enthusiastic for anyone’s comfort.
"«Mikey–DO NOT OPEN»" Frank read aloud with mock solemnity, holding it up to the sky like a priest presenting a relic. "It even has a little smiley face"
Mikey looked like he wanted to become one with the sand under his feet, or possibly be buried in it until only his glasses showed. "Just– Fuck, just throw it away"
Frank held it at arm’s length like it might bite and surveyed the horizon, focused like he was choosing where to bury a body. "I don’t wanna litter, your call: Cactus? Ditch? Your mouth?"
"Can we fucking not?" Ray rasped, staring into the middle distance as if seeking divine intervention. "Who even produces this much… liquid?"
"I’m investing in my future!" Mikey shot back, looking offended. "When we’re forty, you’ll look like a raisin, wait and see. I’m staying moist"
"If you say ‘moist’ one more time," Ray warned, already pacing tight circles in the sand like a tiger somebody forgot to feed, "I will bury you right here under the stars. Let me stargaze in peace, motherfucker."
"Stunning sky," Frank remarked casually, waving the bottle toward the Milky Way. "Very romantic. Ten out of ten, would recommend. Anyway, Gerard–you’re on piss duty with me."
"Why?"
"Moral support."
"Why me?"
Frank stared gravely into the dark beyond the shoulder. "Coyotes."
Gerard squinted at him through the starlight, almost ready to just leave Frank out there and let the desert sort him out. Let the vultures have him. "There are no coyotes out here."
"It’s Texas!" Frank’s face went dead serious. He leaned in close enough that Gerard could smell the gas station coffee on him.
Ray, without opening his eyes, flung one arm toward the dark desert like he was directing traffic for ghosts. "Just dump it out! Both of you! Bye!"
"Thanks, Ray." Frank grinned like he’d won something.
"And don’t come back until it’s empty and triple bagged!"
"He believes in us." Frank said to Gerard, already backing toward the darkness with the bottle held outstretched like a torch.
"I don’t." Gerard sighed.
"Too late! C’mon" Frank held the bottle at arm’s length as they walked forward, treating it like a venomous snake that had just made eye contact. "You know, technically, this is advanced recycling. Closed-loop system or some shit like that"
Gerard shot him a look that could curdle milk. "How the fuck is that recycling?"
"I’m returning the nutrients to the ecosystem."
"You’re returning someone’s piss to a cactus."
"Exactly! Circle of life! The cactus hydrates, a bird pecks the cactus, I hunt the bird, I piss in a bottle–"
"You’re pouring Mikey’s kidney-juice onto a plant. And birds don’t eat cactuses, you maniac" Gerard kicked a rock so hard it ricocheted off a highway marker with a sharp ping. "God, I hate you."
They walked a little farther, the sand was starting to get into their shoes. Frank squinted into the abyss like a confused astronomer. "… Do you think the cactus feels it? Like, does it know? Does it get offended?"
Gerard stared at him, sleepy and beyond done with the situation.
"What?" Frank asked, swinging the bottle in a lazy arc that made the contents slosh uncomfortably.
"Why" Gerard said, very slowly, as if speaking to a toddler. "In the fuck would you ask me that?"
"I’m curious."
"You’re an idiot."
"Yeah." He said it so easily that Gerard didn’t bother arguing.
A few more steps passed in relative silence before Frank pointed ahead. "There." Gerard followed his finger. A squat cactus stood a little way off the shoulder, barely visible against the dark, its shadow lumpy and wrong in the starlight. Frank nodded like he’d found the Holy Grail. "Perfect."
"Why is it perfect?"
"Look at it!" Frank tilted his head, one hand cupped under his chin like an art critic. "It’s built like a fucking tank. I bet it has seen some shit"
"It’s a plant."
"It’s a warrior." Frank took a step toward it, then stopped, bottle held aloft. "Wait. Should we introduce ourselves first? This feels formal."
"We are not introducing ourselves to a goddamn cactus."
"It has a name, probably. Carlos. It looks like a Carlos." Frank squinted. "Or Brenda. Gender’s kinda fluid out here in the dirt, you know? Hard to tell without asking."
Gerard looked again. The cactus did, unfortunately, look both unkillable and deeply unimpressed with them. It probably was already drafting a strongly worded letter of complaint to the universe about them.
"Fine," he muttered, surrendering to the absurdity. "Go water your spiky friend."
Frank's grin widened. "Let’s go then"
"I am not participating!"
"You're moral support."
"I regret everything."
"You’ll regret it more when the coyotes descend" Frank whispered dramatically, eyes scanning the ink-black horizon. "They smell fear. And piss."
Gerard wanted to laugh but also punch him, which was normal, actually. "There’s no coyotes!"
Frank looked around at the darkness.
"That's exactly what they'd want you to think." Frank lowered his voice to a conspiratorial hush, he grabbed Gerard’s sleeve with his free hand and hauled him forward. "Come on, before Carlos gets impatient. You know how he gets."
Gerard sighed and followed Frank into the darkness.
He had decided that he was not going to be a willing witness to what was probably an environmental conservation crime, he pivoted on the sand and faced the opposite direction, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he was waiting for a bus.
The stars kept just looking amazing overhead, and Gerard stared at them like someone had just presented him with an original Monet, the good shit, the ones he did when the blindness started taking over. There was something about the vastness of it, the colors, the way some of them blinked and twinkled: planets, probably, or UFOs, or God finally getting fed up with them as a whole.
Gerard stared up at them, trying to decide which one was judging him the hardest. Probably that smug little fucker twinkling right above Frank’s head.
Behind him there was a small wet sound, then another, a wet, shameful pitter-patter while Frank began whispering "I’m so sorry" to the cactus.
Gerard clamped his hands over his ears and hummed the bassline to "Cubicles" loudly, off-key, and with slightly aggressive vibrato. It did not help.
Frank sighed from where he was squatting next to the cactus, taking care of the biohazard. "Man, we are so, so gross. We are what aliens warn their kids about."
Gerard nodded. "I try not to think about it."
Frank’s grin was audible through the dark. "That’s why you’re my favorite."
Once the whole cactus situation had been handled, Frank got up, dusted his knees and followed his gaze up to the great above, letting out a low whisper as he mirrored Gerard and began wearing his hoodie properly, hood up, hands seeking warmth on the front pocket.
Gerard watched him out of the corner of his eye. Frank’s mouth was hanging open, his tongue doing this weird little poke against his canine like he was trying to taste a planet. Then, miracle of miracles: Frank shut the hell up.
"Doesn’t it just..." Gerard started, squinting at the sky like the words were hiding somewhere in Orion’s belt. "I dunno. Make you think?"
Frank made a noise that was between a laugh and a groan. "Here you go again," he said, but it sounded fond. He said it the way you’d say it to someone who always fell asleep first at the sleepover, or who cried at nature documentaries, or who couldn’t help but chase every stray dog on tour.
Gerard shrugged. "I get it, though. The universe is out there being infinite, and we’re here…" He trailed off, unsure if the math was going to make them feel better or worse.
"Pissing in Gatorade bottles?" Frank finished for him, oozing the confidence of a man who had just committed a bio-crime.
"That’s one way to put it."
"And you see this–" Frank gestured wildly at the cosmos, nearly elbowing Gerard in the ribs. "–and your brain just goes ‘must make a song about feelings now’ Like a fucking Pavlovian dog."
Gerard chuckled, eyes lost in what was maybe Saturn. "You say that like it’s a bad thing"
"It’s not that bad." Frank shifted all his weight onto his right hip. "I mean, if that’s what gets you to write those songs, I would personally rip the Big Dipper out of the sky and mail it to your doorstep."
"You’d do that for me?" Gerard kicked sand at Frank’s old Vans, aiming for the laces and hitting mostly ankles instead. He tried to sound incredulous, letting his voice drip with sarcasm, or at least attempting to. "Bullshit"
Frank shrugged, but his eyes were soft in the starlight. "Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta enable your bullshit."
Gerard had learned to read Frank’s silences over the years and this one meant he was actually looking at the sky, really looking, not just pretending to while thinking about how many veggie pizzas would be left by the time they reached the next Pilot. They stood there for a moment, the quietness comfortable in a way that felt rare these days. Gerard could hear the faint hum of the highway in the distance, and somewhere out in the darkness, a coyote actually did howl, or maybe it was just Frank’s wishful thinking manifesting.
"Do you ever think about how insanely tiny we are?" Gerard whispered, as if the Milky Way herself might gossip back.
Frank snorted. "All the time. Especially when I’m standing next to Ray, big dude"
"Not like that." Gerard bumped his shoulder. "I mean… out here, with all of that…" He gestured vaguely upward. "We’re, like, cosmic lint."
"We’re My Chemical Romance," Frank offered. "If that helps."
"Does it?" Gerard cocked an eyebrow at the void.
Frank shrugged, then the stars finally got to him. "Kinda? No. That feels weird to say, actually."
Gerard tore his gaze from a particularly twinkly patch of sky. "Why?"
"‘Cause I joined… what? Six months ago?" Frank muttered, pulling his hood so tight only his nose and mouth were visible. "I remember seeing you guys play that basement show in Newark and just thinking ‘holy shit they’re gonna be huge. I wanna be their friend or their getaway driver or something'"
Gerard’s lip quivered in that twitchy way you get when you’re nauseated at how cute something is. "You wanted to be my friend?"
"Obviously" Frank side-eyed him from the depths of his hood.
"That’s so cute I might throw up."
"Eat shit."
"You were a fan!" Gerard sang, popping a little victory dance in the sand. "You thought I was cool."
Frank rolled his eyes so hard it echoed. "Yeah. You wore that jean jacket all DIY with safety pins. Fuckin’ badass."
Gerard grinned, a proper shit-eating one. "So you did fangirl. You stood in the back and fangirled."
"I did not fucking fangirl. I moshed until my lungs felt like they were full of battery acid. There’s a difference."
"A dude who moshed and then wanted to buddy up with me."
"Loads of people wanted your autograph-slash-friendship."
"Not like this." Gerard blurted before he could swallow it.
Frank stared. The desert muted itself, save for Gerard’s heartbeat doing the cha-cha-cha in his ears.
"What?"
"Nothing," Gerard croaked, swallowed by the cosmic void.
The hush stretched, comfortable and full of starlight.
Frank shrugged, staring back up at the stars like they owed him money. "I just thought you were the coolest fucking person alive." He sighed. "Like, I'll never understand you, and that’s why you’re so great"
Gerard went quiet. The words weren’t dramatic, but they slid under his skin and started a small, stupid campfire behind his sternum. He squinted at the sky like it might cough up an explanation. "That’s a lot of pressure."
Frank laughed softly, the sound like gravel under a boot. "Yeah, well. My bad."
"S’alright."
They stood there for another moment, the desert air cooling around them, the only sound the distant hum of the highway and the soft rustle of Frank’s hoodie as he shifted his weight. Gerard nudged him with a shoulder, the worn denim of his jacket brushing against Frank’s sleeve. "You know what’s funny?"
Frank didn’t turn. "What?"
"You actually became my friend."
A slow smile broke over Frank’s face, visible even in the dark. "…Yeah, I did."
"And then you joined the band."
"Yeah." Frank’s voice was low, almost lost to the vastness around them.
"And now you’re standing in the middle of the fucking Texas desert with me at two in the morning," Gerard said, his voice low and amused, "dumping piss bottles in the sand."
Frank looked down at the empty bottle in his hand, now sealed inside a plastic bag with a triple knot, waiting for a proper trash can. He held it up like a trophy. "This is what I signed up for. This is the rock and roll lifestyle they warn kids about." A giggle escaped him, breathy and tired as he tipped his head back to the stars and whatever secret language they were whispering at them. "Dreams really do come true, man."
Gerard laughed, quiet and genuine. Frank smiled wider, cheeks aching.
"That one," Frank said, pointing at a star doing a slow blink over the highway. "That’s us."
"That’s a star."
"That’s our star now. I’m claiming it."
"You can’t claim a star."
"I just did." Frank bumped him with his hip. "It’s ours. It’s gonna watch our whole stupid tour."
"Okay, but if NASA comes after us, you’re taking the blame."
"Deal." Frank didn’t lower his arm. The star kept blinking, indifferent. "It’s watching us right now. It thinks we’re cute."
"Great. So now there’s an entire celestial body out there that knows we peed in bottles."
"It already knew." Frank nodded gravely. "Stars see everything, Gerard. They’ve seen worse."
Gerard laughed and didn’t move away from him. "You’re such a dumbass."
"Your dumbass." Frank patted his shoulder twice, like he was calming a horse. "I enable you, you keep me safe from coyotes, that’s like, our thing"
"God." Gerard covered his face with both hands, but he was grinning behind them, laughing.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The dry desert air moved over them. Somewhere far off, the whine of a semi-truck faded down the highway. They just stood there, just two small figures under the crushing spread of stars, on a patch of dirt beside a dying van, exactly where neither thought they’d ever be.
Then Ray shouted from somewhere in the darkness, his voice cutting through the dry air. "Are you two fucking dead already?!?! Did the coyotes get you?!"
Gerard blinked against the starlight.
Frank turned toward the van, a dark shape against the darker horizon, its brake lights off but its parking lights still throwing two small yellow smears onto the sand. "Not yet!"
"Then get your asses back in here! I’ve been yelling for three minutes!"
"He’s so pissy when he drives," Frank muttered, then cupped his free hand around his mouth, breath fogging faintly in the cold. "We are having a moment, asshole!!"
"I don’t care! I wanna see what a Love’s looks like!" Mikey intercepted, sounding a whole lot better now that his butt was probably back online. "They have showers! And actual food!!"
"Like we could afford it" Frank said, not turning around.
Gerard started laughing, a sound that carried too far in the open emptiness.
Ray’s voice came again, fraying at the edges as it crossed the desert. "We have a show in El Paso! Not a wilderness retreat!"
"They have showers," Mikey insisted, quieter now, like he was already halfway to the soap aisle.
They started walking back toward the van, sand giving under their boots with every step. Frank kicked at a drift as they went, sending a pale arc of it scattering into the dark, then shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pocket and hunched his shoulders against the cold.
"Your moment," Gerard said. "Ruined by a truck stop."
"Our moment was fine." Frank’s nose was going red. "Our moment was great. You can’t ruin something that’s already over."
"It’s not over."
"No?"
"It’s ongoing, think" Gerard said, his eyes flickering briefly at the star Frank had pointed out earlier, Their star, apparently. "It’s tour-long. It has legs!"
Frank laughed, and neither of them moved away from each other. His shoulder stayed right there against Gerard’s, warm through the thick cotton.
"Hey."
"Yeah?"
Gerard looked down at his jacket, at the frayed cuff where he’d chewed it on the drive down, then over at Frank. The hood had slipped back and Frank’s hair was flat on one side from sleeping against the window. "Am I still cool?"
"Fucking idiot." Frank laughed, shaking his head, and kept walking toward the van slowly as a turtle, like the sand was pulling at his soles. "Yeah, the coolest motherfucker north of Texas. Congratulations."
"Well, thanks."
"Still don’t think I fangirled."
Gerard turned to look at him, the biggest and stupidest grin on his face. "You absolutely did. You probably had a little shrine in your closet of our merch and Ray’s picks."
"Fuck you."
"Get in the van, fangirl."
Frank shoved him, hard enough that Gerard stumbled sideways and one boot started sinking past the ankle on some loose sand before he caught himself. A small puff of dust rose around him.
"Asshole!"
"You deserved that!"
From the van, Mikey screamed, "If you start making out here, we’re leaving you!!"
Both of them stopped mid-step. The sand under Gerard’s boot went quiet. He could feel the blood climb his face, hot from the collar up, and he was suddenly grateful for the darkness and the hood.
Frank’s grin came slow, unhurried, a white sliver in all that black. "See?" he whispered, leaning close enough that Gerard smelled coffee and cold air off him. "He believes in us. He thinks we’re gonna repopulate the desert with little punk rock babies."
Gerard shoved him toward the van with both hands, full force. "Get the fuck inside!"