InsaneJournal

FIC: Make It Up As They Go-- MCR--Bob/Frank/Jamia mature 1/2
title: Make It Up As They Go
author: lisa roquin
rating: mature
fandom: My Chemical Romance
pairing/characters: Frank/Jamia, Frank/Bob, Bob/Frank/Jamia, Bob/Jamia
disclaimer: lies, fiction, untrue. completely and totally made up. I know no one, know nothing of thier personal lives. I make no claims of knowing much of anything.
summary: sometimes two and two is eventually three.
warning: slash, het, threesome
author notes: cheer up/birthday fic for dreamyraynbo & much belated birthday fic for ink_on_the_page hope you don't mind sharing, girls.
word count: ~16,000




When she'd said if something happened with one of the guys, she wouldn't get upset as long as he came home to her, as long as he was honest. The guys wouldn't ever dream of fucking things up for them. And really? She'd kinda expected it to be Gerard. Almost. She pretty much knew it would never be Ray, or later Cortez, those two were so straight it wasn't even funny. And Otter wasn't even a consideration. That kinda left just Mikey or Gerard.

Honestly there had been a few times with Gerard. The first time a hung over hyperventilating and nearly in tears Frank had called home and confessed. But then there was the whatever the hell it was with Bert kinda starting and it had only been a couple times and really nothing more than drunken making out and handjobs with Gerard.

The calls from Europe the first time they'd gone. The sound guy Bryar was mentioned repeatedly. Along with Otter's behavior and Gerard's and how shit was barely holding together and Bryar was cool.

Bryar wasn't one of them then. He was only the sound guy who'd agreed to go along for the free trip through Europe. Off-limits then.

It was a little while later that Bryar joined the band. That Bob was one of their own. She had to admit she'd been fucking terrified when that had happened. She knew Frank too well. And just from the calls home from Europe, she was pretty damned sure Bob could hurt her Frank badly. Hurt them badly.


*

It had been some fucking place in the south, festival circuit, outdoor venues. The heat was goddamned unbearable. Everyone was wilted and sunburnt and bitchy as fuck. Gerard still shaky, barely counting sobriety in weeks. Everyone's nerves were raw and strained, the heat making it worse when they had the energy to do more than glare and curse under their breath.

Ray had signed himself up for Gerard duty. The two of them holed in the back of the bus fucking around with Ray's new garage band program or maybe playing a game on Ray's laptop. Mikey had hared off god knew where. Techs were still loading up shit everyone was pulling out in another couple hours, onto the next show. Night hadn't brought much of a cool down, not really. It was too still and way too fucking sticky to really appreciate the lack of the beating down sun because the breeze there'd been that day went down with the sun.

He'd been wandering, no direction in mind, just intended to finish the beer someone had handed him before going back to the bus. The beer had at least started cold, and after the heat and sun and now the goddamn smothering humidity, too good to pass up. Just for the cold factor, and maybe the minimal alcohol enough to take the edge off sunburnt skin that he might have a chance in hell of getting a little sleep.

If it hadn't been for the shaky in drawn breath, that sounded almost like it was a struggle to take, He would have walked right past, wouldn't have noticed the small form balled up against a tree, knees drawn to his chest, arms tight around his shins and head down. It struck him how fucking small Iero looked. Okay, yeah, Frank was plain fricken tiny, that was a simple fact. He wasn't that big of a guy and he felt like a goddamned clumsy ogre next to Frank. And still had to understand exactly how he'd become Frank's favorite fucking personal jungle gym to climb. Frank was short, fine boned and kinda like a goddamned little imp or something everywhere and driving everyone batshit. Especially him. He had fucking Iero-knee shaped bruises under his armpits. He had Iero-shoe shaped bruises on his hips and stomach and thighs. He was pretty sure he was going to have a permanent indent on his shoulder that was the exact size and shape of Frank's fucking elbow.

Frank filled up ten times the actual space he took though. Laughing, climbing, irritating, bouncing, fucking climbing people. Frank had a presence that was impossible to ignore. He was pretty fucking sure every teacher Frank had growing up wanted to superglue him to a chair and pour ritalin or some fucking thing down his throat. Hell, he wanted to, and he didn't see how it was possible Frank didn't have more energy when he was six, seven, eight, nine years old.

Frank was a fucking runt yeah, but he had too much energy, too much presence to ever seem as damned small as he looked right now.

“Frankie?” He said softly. He moved toward the younger man slowly. Almost scared that Frank would bolt. God knew Frank was a fast little fucker. He'd chased Frank enough to know that. He only caught Frank when Frank was sure he wasn't going to kill the irritating little menace. He was worse than a kid pulling pigtails on the playground.

He sat down beside Frank and offered the half drank half warm beer.

Frank took it and swallowed at least half of what was left in a huge gulp. Frank burrowed into his side, never mind they were both hot and sticky and the humidity had Frank practically glued to him on contact.

“Gee and Mikey got into it earlier. It was pretty fucking nasty.”

“They're brothers.” he said. “They know exactly how to draw blood. Years of practice. Everyone's fried. Ray's got Gee in back. He seemed tired and kinda shaky but—”

Frank nodded and leaned further into him. “Just--”

“Yeah.”


*


She never asked. She cut him off more than once when he'd tried to say things as time went on. He'd hemmed and hawed when she managed to get a couple days out with them. They'd been in Boston. He'd asked. He'd also sworn he wouldn't if she said it bothered her.

He'd looked so damned tired. Everything with Gerard had taken it's toll. Otter. Just everything.

She'd managed to corner Bob for all of three seconds just before she'd left. She'd sent Frank back to get something she hadn't even brought let alone left on the bus. “Take care of him, or I'll slice your nuts off and feed you them. Don't you dare fucking hurt him.”

Bob had stared at her in utter shock, baffled at how anyone could conceive of hurting Frank. Throttle him for being an annoying little shit, yes. But hurt him, no. It was in his voice as he said “I won't. I promise” half worried, half scared and completely fucking confused.

She'd had a hellish time on the drive home. She was surprised she didn't wreck she was shaking so bad the whole way. Bob could possibly take Frank if it ever occurred to him, that would kill her, but even worse, Bob could destroy Frank and maybe be too much of a goddamned idiot to ever realize.

She'd never go back on her word. Frank had never been less than honest. She'd never have offered or ever dreamt of agreeing if Bob had been in the band then, if she'd ever dreamt someone like Bob would be in the band. Otter—oh Christ no. Ray, and later Matt, laughable to even contemplate and neither Mikey nor Gerard could ever be a threat. Wrong clashes of energy, of neediness that anything with either of them would amount to more than friends taking the edge off of the road. But Bob...solid and steady and quiet. Kind of gave off the impression of a little slow and boring maybe at first. Maybe a little asshole because he was quiet until he had had enough bullshit and exploded.

She'd watched him though. Watched him watch the guys. Not quite believing he was really part of them yet. Not quite sure of his place. Wanting so damned bad. To play, to be a part of the band, of them. The way he watched, and didn't chase Frank as seriously as he could have when Frank really deserved a boot to the ass for being such a shit.

It took her months to breathe easy. Frank's calls came regular as clockwork, daily when schedules and time zones worked out that it could be possible. Emails and texts. As the months passed Frank settled. He was better, easier when he was home, when she got the chance to visit. Not strung so tight and struggling. Maybe it was Gee evening out, even with the fucking spectacular blow out with Bert, maybe it was the band really, really making it despite everything that could have ended them already. That was part of it, a lot of it. But mostly it was the quiet blonde guy that stood mostly in the back, and almost tried to fucking hide behind Gerard and Frank in pictures, or was climbed by Frank in others. He was the reason Frank came home human rather than a powder keg ready to blow. Frank would never blow up at her, but god help the sorry bastard who cut him off in traffic or maybe looked at her a second too long when they were out because Frank would be in their face and spoiling for a fight.

She never asked when exactly it began with the two of them. But as much as Bob Bryar terrified her, for the power he held, whether he knew it or not, she silently thanked him for keeping her Frank sane and safe on the road.


*

He never saw it coming. He honest to god never saw it coming. It was even longer before Jamia's threat of castration was remembered and floored him when he realized...

He'd learned though as time went on as Gerard started counting months instead of days and weeks. They were too intertwined for there not to be the give and take, the flaring of tempers in specific patterns depending on heat and weather and headaches and stress from home and directions outside the band. Days when Gerard and Mikey had to be separated because they were both hitting the end of their ropes for different reasons and the easiest safest target to shred was the other and that made them both that much worse for a couple days after because they were too close, too tight to really stand to go at each other like that even if they did. Ray would most often go off with Mikey, Frank would entertain Gee. When the brothers settled enough they were glued to each other for days and Frank was that much more manic. Winding himself up into a frenzy when he was distracting and entertaining Gerard, even if it wasn't concious he was doing it. That much more insane on stage. That much more frantic about everything. Ray would retreat to his computer and the back of the bus. Fiddling with garage band or playing world of warcraft or some damned thing.

He would catch Frank. Watch. Wait. Gritted his teeth through new Frank inflicted bruises as he waited out being Frank's personal human jungle gym. And when the monkey climbing him suddenly wasn't there, he would go and look. And let Frank lean on him when he seemed to deflate and shrink to almost nothing, all tired and scared.


He'd sat up terrified Frank was going to stop breathing one night they were riding, freaking seventeen hour all night drive and good part of the day drive that the only redeeming thing was there was a hotel at the end of it. A night to collapse in a real bed before their next show and the road again.

Somehow, he'd ended up sideways on the couch in the front lounge with one leg along the back of the couch, one foot on the floor and Frank leaning back against his chest fevered, sicker than a dog and his breathing absolute shit.

He'd steered Frank into the hotel, and into the shower, Jepha's babble about his little girl getting all croupy one week he'd had her way back actually useful. Jepha had been fucked up to almost beyond coherent and babbling, he'd missed something of his girl's—a preschool program or kindergarten graduation. Something when he had been out on tour with them doing sound and hell, by the time Jepha had been dumped on him to keep an eye on, he really didn't think Jepha had the remotest damned clue what it was he'd missed he'd been so fucked up.

“Timzzit jmia sposedta call”

He wasn't sure. He dozed off a little as well with Frank breathing easier. And, no, he'd honest to god not really thought anything of Frank latching onto his arm and being pitiful until he crawled in bed with him. Or that they wound up with him leaning back against the headboard propped with pillows and Frank's head on his chest.

“Here.” he fumbled and stretched, grabbed his own phone off the nightstand where he'd put it, just in case he had to call for an ambulance or something. Frank's phone was, at best, in his clothes on the bathroom floor. Possibly still on the bus. He hadn't bothered to think of things like that. Hell, Gerard had been the one to gather up some clothes and Frank's overnight bag which held his shaving kit and toothbrush and stage makeup and shampoo and shit. “What's the number.”

Frank mumbled it out. He dialed. “Jamia? It's Bob.” Her voice was tight and somewhere between pissed and terrified as she told him she'd been trying to call for over an hour and just got voicemail.

”He's sick?” she broke off her carefully controlled tirade as Frank hit another coughing spell and could be heard.

“Yeah, up all night coughing. We both dozed off, here he is.”

“Mm sorry, baby, didn't wanna miss your call.” Frank said with great effort to sound somewhere near normal, but only managed weak and wheezy.

He would have moved, gone to the balcony for a smoke, gone to the bathroom to see if Frank's phone was in his clothes in there. A missing phone was a bit of a damned issue, especially if it got stolen or just found and everyone had to change their fucking numbers or some shit like that.

Frank wouldn't let him move though. Burrowed and clung and in general just plastered against him like the sick little monkey Frank was. He rubbed Frank's back awkwardly, and felt like the worst kind of voyeur as Frank wheezed and mumbled barely coherently at Jamia about how much he missed her.

Frank passed back out. Literally.

He carefully took the phone from Frank's hand. “Jamia? Frankie fell back asleep.” he whispered into the phone.

”He sounds like pure shit.”

“He looks worse.” he said shakily. He shouldn't have said that, worried her even more when she was so far away. But Frank was scaring the fuck outta him.

”He'll be okay” Jamia kinda sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much him. “Just watch him when he starts feeling a little more human. He'll try going full tilt once he can kinda move again and wear himself right back down.”

He nodded and slid his hand over Frank's back again. “I'll remember that. Watch his little ass so he doesn't wear himself back to half dead before he's better. He woke up and started in you were calling I just grabbed my phone before he could work himself up.” And because she sounded so shaky and worried hereself. “I'll take care of him for you, Jamia, I swear.”

”Yeah, I know, one of you call tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

”Sooner if you have to—no matter when.”

“I will.”

The next afternoon Bob was seeing red. Matt should be playing, not Frank. Frank was being a stubborn little fucker and threw a fit. Gerard let him have his way. Mikey and Ray reluctantly agreed.

Frank disappeared for about ten minutes before soundcheck. When he came back he had the dopey smile on his face that gave away where he'd been—hiding somewhere on the phone with Jamia. Frank went straight to him, wrapped his arms around his waist and hugged him tight, then one arm slid back around, up his chest and around the back of his neck gently tugged his neck to pull his head and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “That was from Jamia, for taking such good care of me.”

He stared as Frankie meandered away to Gerard with very little of his usual hyper bouncing. He shook his head. That Jamia had said something to the effect of that to thank Bob for watching over Frank made him wonder what she had been thinking—because she had to have known Frank would do exactly that. It was Frank.

He shook his head, shoved away how soft Frank's lips were and warily watched Frank all through soundcheck and the show. If the stubborn crazy little shit collapsed or something, he was going to beat Frank all the way to the emergency room for oxygen and antibiotics and shit like that.


*

She'd been so scared and pissed. A fucking hour. A fucking hour and then some and just the goddamned voicemail. And it wasn't just calling out of the blue, it was fucking planned for days. Frank asked a dozen times was she really going to call. And...

And then Bob called sounding so tired and spooked and Frank trying to hack up a lung in the background.

She'd known they were going to hit the hotel a good couple hours before she was going to call that day. Or at least a good couple hours was what was planned. Traffic and shit happened that's why the waiting a couple hours after they were to be at the hotel.

She was a little ashamed of herself for thinking the worst, that Frank was too busy getting fucked by Bob to remember she was going to call. Especially when so sincere and so fucking honest and scared Bob had said ”I'll take care of him for you, Jamia, I swear”

It was about three weeks later she got the chance to be out with them. Ten whole days. Frank didn't keep his hands off her the moment they had the least bit of privacy, or at least could close the curtain on his bunk. He was happier and settled down more than he had been in ages. Gerard was doing well, and they had a stage on Warped again with a couple weeks off home before that started up. They were working on songs for the next album which hopefully they'd really start in on hard in the fall. Get off the road, go hole up and get the tracks down and nailed and then to the studio. Everything was good. Really really good. The fear of things falling apart seemed to have eased.

Bob was simply standing outside the bus having a cigarette shaking his head at Frank, Gerard and Mikey. She raised an eyebrow in their direction. It looked like a game of keep away, with Gerard and Frank throwing Mikey's hair straighteners at each other. At least the straighteners wrapped up tight in a plastic bag so not flapping apart or the cord flying around but Christ.

“They're really six.” Jamia muttered.

“Some days, yeah.”

She knew rides got long and her Frank never really was one for still. There was only so long he could be occupied and distracted before he got annoying. She loved him more than life but a bored energy-to-burn Frank with a case of cabin fever was the stuff of nightmares. They needed someway to get the energy out.

Mikey finally just tackled Frank—sorta, more like a flying stumble—and reclaimed his hair straighteners. Frank got revenge by starting a tickle fight.

Bob chuckled and shook his head with a smile.

She looked up at Bob and smiled herself. “What? You don't have days you're six?”

“Not often. Usually don't go past twelve.”

She laughed and leaned against his arm. “Well, someone has to pretend to be the grownup.”

“Hey! You trying to steal my woman, Bryar.”

“Just keeping her company while you revisit Kindergarten, Iero.” Bob laughed.

The more she saw of it, the more she liked Bob's quiet. The wicked sense of humor that peeked out now and again and the remarkable ability to withstand all of Frank's energy. Frank wore people out. He didn't mean to, he tried not to, but he did, and then he kept going until someone invariably bit his head off. Bob seemed to be catching him, pulling him back and keeping that from happening so often.


**

He really, really liked Jamia. Sharp mind, sharp dry sense of humor. She seemed fucking fearless, but then she almost had to be to keep up with Frank. And she did. Keep up with Frank that was. She could match every bit of his energy in her way, which, yes was more sedate, but just as passionate, just as determined and maybe even more stubborn. But then again, she was with Frank. She had to be or he'd run over her and go onto something else, not out of asshole but out of simple need to have someone that could be at his side rather than collapsed from exhaustion miles back. Frank was a really lucky guy.

Liking Jamia, really, well it kind of sucked.

It just made it that much worse. Because somewhere along the way being annoyed at getting turned on by Frank and Gerard on stage, praying to god Frank didn't notice how being pawed and climbed got to him—he'd went and done something really fucking stupid. Really spectacularly beyond belief fucking stupid. He'd gone and fallen for Frank.

It was the last night before they were all headed home for a couple weeks. Before Warped again. He was catching a flight out, home to Chicago rather than riding all the way to Jersey and flying back from there.

He was a little buzzed. Aw, hell he was just this side of wasted. He still knew what he was doing, would remember and regret it in the morning, but buzzed kinda flew by a couple hours and six pack ago.

“You have fun?” Frank grinned as he came in the room.

Frank looked all lazy and sated, with the phone on the nightstand and the wad of tissues on the floor kinda a clear indication Frank had been on the phone while Bob was at the party a few rooms down. Which, kind of had been the point, to give Frank some privacy to talk to Jamia without it being whispers and hiding in his bunk or in corners. And it really kinda looked like they'd been talking about just what they were going to do to each other when Frank got home. And that thought—Frank sprawled out on the bed he was sitting on now, jacking off –just didn't help.

“The lighting guy's girlfriend is a bitch.” he shrugged. “She got pissed at him and spent the last half hour climbing on me.”

Between her rubbing against and pawing at him, and his thoughts kinda stuck on Frank, which they always seemed to be then coming back to the room and... yeah. He needed to head into the bathroom and take care of the renewed hard-on he had before passing out on the bed.

“Need a hand with that?”

He stared dazed. Frank was licking his lips and staring straight at his crotch. Oh. Good. God. “Frankie.” he grated out.

Before he realized it Frank was plastered against him—which kinda was almost normal, except he was hard as hell. That wasn't exactly new either, but Frank's belly pressed up against his crotch was. Frank's hands around his neck pulling his head down for a kiss that was nothing short of a mess, sloppy and scared and oh my fucking christ... “Frankie,”

“I-- we have an agreement about the road. No groupies, nothing stupid but-- I-- she's okay. With this. With you. It's okay.”

“I like her,” as far as protests went, that probably wasn't the clearest or necessarily the most logical but suddenly the just this side of wasted was a really damned bad idea and Frank felt too fucking good against him.

“She likes you too. That's why it's okay.”

That made no sense to him but somehow he was on the bed and Frank on him, kissing and kissing and a fumbling hand at the fly of his jeans, on his dick, Frank grinding against his hip even as he awkwardly jacked him off, hand dry and calloused and uncomfortable, trapped between their bodies with not all that much room to really move.

He didn't understand why Frank was so frantic, almost desperate. But it was Frank, and he just didn't have enough resistance sober let alone just this side of wasted, no matter how much he liked Jamia, how much this was probably going to eventually destroy him even if he deserved that.

And it wasn't long before he came just from that, and Frank was still on top of him when they woke up in the morning. “Don't get fucking stupid Bryar, I've wanted to do that since you did sound for us in Europe.” Frank muttered in place of Good Morning.

He groaned as Frank shifted against him. “Jamia?” he questioned softly. “I like her.” his head hurt, and beyond the headache any blood that might assist in thinking was on its way south as Frank shifted a little more and the smaller man's morning wood pressed against his own. “Don't want to hurt her like this.”

“The road is the road...and Jamia's Jamia—she--she doesn't mind as long as it's someone safe, she trusts not to fuck us up or whatever.”

His head was aching and his chest was tight and hurt and Frank moved against him again and he pretty much figured he was screwed, but that didn't stop him from swallowing and saying okay and pulling Frank's head down to kiss him.



*



She had never asked when things had started. But she pretty much knew when Frank had fallen for Bob.

He'd come home. The two weeks they had before they went back out on Warped. Frank had been quiet, and almost guilty. Frank said he was worried he'd fucked up Bob. That Bob was upset about her...and for a split second she saw red and was about ready to hop a plane to chicago and rip the son of a bitch's eyes out because he didn't have that right. Frank was HERS. Frank could have Bob on the road but goddamn it Frank was HERS and she'd fucking fight anyone for him.

She was almost in a blind rage by the time Frank took his next breath and said Bob liked her, didn't want to hurt her—that whatever could. And...

Jamia's breath caught. Frank held her a little tighter “I—Jame, I”

Jamia swallowed. “I know.” Frank loved Bob. Maybe not like her, and she knew that Bob wouldn't, just wouldn't, use that against Frank, against her.



*


Warped.

Hot, humid, miserable, sunburns and sweet little dudes—Christ he didn't get that one, and he really didn't want to try. Mikey was happy and distracted. Gerard was still sober and a little stronger and steadier each day. Hurt and fucked up over whatever the hell had happened with Bert but hanging in there and hadn't slipped yet even with that shit.

Things were good.

Really good.

His place with the others actually felt right, no longer the odd man out except for...except for yeah. The strange, whatever the hell.

It should have been more fucked up than it was in someways. Frank was still Frank. Still hyper and climbing and wound up like a top and usually glued to Gerard's hip, slipping along on interviews even if he wasn't technically supposed to be there wound his way in and slid next to Gerard or onto Gerard's lap on days Gerard was tired, hadn't slept and wasn't the steadiest. And when Frank slipped away, he would go find him and let Frank lean.

It had changed a little, because Frank leaning now ended up more of Frank on him or under him or maybe pinned against a wall, kisses and handjobs.

Jamia was out twice.

He felt like a bastard. And he really couldn't figure out what the fuck Frank was doing when he had her. When she was really, kinda amazing.

And she leaned against his side and laughed as Frank and Matt and Gee fucked around and acted like a bunch of damned six year olds, which only got more chaotic when Mikey, Pete and the rest of Fall Out Boy ended up on the same patch of grass acting like hyper little idiots.

The one morning the second time she was out, the day before she left she rolled out of Frank's bunk before Frank was up. The idiot was heat sick and rundown and starting to get actually sick. She stumbled out and helped herself to a cup of coffee in a tank top, a pair of Frank's boxers, eyeliner smeared all over fuck and down her cheek a bit, no bra and hair a fucking rat's nest. She eyed them. Gee and Mikey at the little table, Ray, Matt and him all on the couch in the lounge. Ray and Matt working on a rematch of the game they'd played the day before.

She walked over to him and plopped in his lap. “Mornin'.”

“Hi,” he managed.

“You're going to have to sit on his stupid ass, you know that?” she said.

“I know. I will.” he agreed. Ray kind of looked at them sideways which caused him to lose his life and it was Matt's turn. Gerard looked up, tilted his head and went back to drawing after another drink of coffee. Mikey didn't look up from his phone, earbuds to his ipod in. He was pretty sure Mikey didn't even notice. Matt, if anything, looked kind of relieved. That was strange but whatever.

Frank stumbled out about twenty minutes later, really looking like shit. He grabbed his own coffee and moved toward them. Pulled Jamia to her feet, plunked himself down, pulled her into his lap. Hell, even Mikey kinda twisted and glanced over his shoulder at them.

Ray really looked then. When Frank's head landed on his shoulder and Frank mumbled into his neck. “I feel like fucking hell.”

“You look like it too,” he managed and caught himself rubbing Frank's back out of reflex, even as Frank slid his hand back and forth over Jamia's thigh.

“At least you've got Bob to keep your ass in line when I'm not around.” she said and sounded like she meant it. “I'm counting on you, Bob.” she leaned and kissed Bob's forehead.

“I'll make him behave.”

“I'm right here, you two. No fair ganging up on me.” Frank grumbled, face buried in his neck.

Ray really really stared and made a high little squeak.

Yeah, she kinda was really amazing. Because he wouldn't have been able to share Frank if he'd had Frank first, hell, didn't think he'd be able to stand whatever the hell if it wasn't her, if Frank didn't love her so much and she was just as obviously as nuts about Frank. But she did, and he was too fucking weak to push Frank away.

And Ray kept looking at him and Frank oddly til the end of Warped.



*


The Paramore was hell. She knew that and she was in goddamned Jersey and they were in California.

Something was wrong with Mikey, he was withdrawing and getting just strange. Not eh, that's just Mikey some days strange, but goddamned fucking scary strange, like they were half afraid they were going to find him dead or just, drifted off into space staring at the wall and not come buck strange. The house was driving them all fucking nuts.

Even Bob sounded just weary and worn and scared when she'd called him. Once he got over his stuttering shock she'd called him. Frank had been so down and tired, and worried about Bob as much as Mikey. Hell, yes she called. Though she had a seriously what the fucking hell moment herself once she was assured they were both at least holding on.

She knew they didn't—that they kept it quiet, that they weren't—fucking like rabbits when she was home alone. Hell the guys reactions the last couple days she was out on Warped and Frank had been half-sick. And none of the guys had acted the least bit twitchy before that-- none of them were that good at lying. Or attempting to. Well, Ray just never was. Cortez didn't really lie as much as avoid with babble, a tactic he employed much more smoothly than Gerard who did about the same. Real-Gerard that was. Stage-Gerard could lie like a fucking rug when he felt like it. Thing was Jamia would know she was faced with nothing but bullshit if she had Stage-Gerard telling her something so he never attempted that. Mikey, well, he was, Mikey. He tended to just not say anything. That worked for him.

“Frank says you're tired and not so hot.”

She could picture him, almost hear his thoughts and his mouth working wordlessly.

“Jesus.” he whispered.

“You're his friend you know.”

He made a strangled sound.

“I--” she broke off and wondered what the hell she was doing. “I happen to like you too. All of you guys. But it'd be kinda strange if I out of the blue called Gerard or something.”

Another strangled sound. And even she had to realize that as strange as it would be calling Gerard out of the blue, this was probably more surreal.

“Why? I'd fuckin' hate me if I were you.”

“You don't hate me, you're not asshole when I'm around...”

“Jesus! I- I--” he broke off, his breath harsh and ragged. “Jamia....he's yours. I have no right--I”

“I—gave him my blessing back when-- I mean fuck. Otter? Ray? Even Mikey not really. Him and Gerard getting drunk and stupid I could see, and it never would go anywhere beyond making out and dry humping or something and better Gerard than some groupie or some shit, some one who'd try to take him and fuck things up for us and-- it was never, ever anything. If it was one of the guys okay, just so nothing fucked things up, and Frank wouldn't fuck up the band or us so...You—years before you. And never ever dreamt you'd come along and...”

“I--”

“You love him.”

It wasn't a question, but he still answered. “Yeah.”

She could hear how miserable he was, could picture his face so easily. “Go to his room, crawl in and hold him for both of us, okay? I—it's okay, it really is. I--”

“You are-- he's so fucking lucky to have you. He knows it.”

“Move your ass, Bryar. You need it as bad as he does. The guys can fucking deal if they catch you so what? Are you embarrassed that--”

“NO!” Bob's voice came through the line actually forceful, determined and sure for the first time since he answered.

“Then--”

“You don't deserve that--” he whispered.

“They know Frank. They know you. They know you and Frank wouldn't fuck me over or go behind my back or any damned stupid thing like that. Now get. Go crawl in with Frank and both of you get some rest.”

“Okay—I-- get some rest and take care of yourself. He worries about you too. A lot.”

“I will.”

She curled up on the edge of the couch and swallowed. Frank was better with Bob. Calmer, something. Bob had something Frank needed and hell, she needed it too. Needed Frank calmer, less of a loose canon. Grounded when he was off on the road because he wasn't alone anymore. Calls never lessened neither did the texts or the emails or the out of the blue gift showing up just because Frank saw something and thought of her. Even if it was a really stupid postcard from a truck stop he sent.

And hell had she really sent her fiance's boyfriend to his bed? She laughed out loud a little at the surreal insanity of that. But life with Frank kinda had been surreal insanity from the get go.

She kinda felt a little sorry for Bob, even as much as he scared the hell out of her, because...because he could destroy Frank. Destroy them. She got to call Frank hers. She was the one he called and came home too.

She knew how loving Frank snuck up on a person. He was...Frank. All boundless energy and persistence and somewhere in there he'd steal your heart when you weren't looking, somewhere from between being utterly exhausted just watching him and ready to just throttle him because he never knew when to give up.

She was jealous of every minute Bob had with Frank she didn't. Viciously, unforgivingly jealous. But at times the same was said of Gerard, Mikey, Ray, Matt, even Brian when he was out with them.

But she knew, especially after the last couple days out on Warped, after that call, Bob's time with Frank might actually be less than her own. When it was just the two of them and the rest were elsewhere, and...that almost made her sad. Bob was a good guy, a good friend. He deserved more, but Frank was hers. And she wasn't giving him up. And—hell it'd probably be worse because Bob was Bob if she tried to step back.

It was kind of just a fucking mess. But so far it was a mess that was working, and she thought Bob maybe loved Frank about as much as she did. So somehow it would work out because it had to. She wasn't losing Frank, and even if she still had him when the dust settled, she kinda thought she'd lose a big part of Frank, if not all of who Frank had grown into since Bob and—she didn't want that, either.

No, she...she really wasn't scared of Bob anymore, not really. It was more just scared of where the hell this would end, how this would turn out, but she—she knew one word and they'd both end what they had, or at least try to and be quietly miserable and she couldn't do that anymore than she could let go.


*


“Hey,”

Frank looked up. “Hey,”

“Jamia called me.”

“She did?”

“Yeah.” he knew his voice sounded strange and shaky. And Jesus.

“What'd she have to say?”

“Wanted to know how I was and that I needed to get my ass over here and hold you.” he swallowed. “She's—pretty fucking amazing.”

“Yeah. Yeah she is.” Frank agreed.

He climbed into bed, Frank was plastered against him in a heartbeat. Nothing more than a kiss as they tried to rest. Too fucking drained from everything, from this fucking house, for more.

Brian was there the next day. And they got the fuck out. And Mikey was gone. Getting help. Gerard was just fucking lost without Mikey and that was coming out in vicious temper and a little bit of everything. Ray was pissed as fuck. Everything they'd been through and here they were once again in goddamned limbo, with not knowing if they even had a future as a band again and...

He had nearly wilted with relief when Jamia showed up. He ended up the odd man out as far as the apartments Brian had managed to get them in the Apartment Complex of Porn Stars. Jesus. Only in fucking California really. Then all of a sudden he had a room mate—Stump. Who wasn't bad at all except for he didn't stop humming and was, well, kinda like Pigpen from the Peanuts as far as leaving a disaster in his wake. It was a bit fucking much for him despite living in vans and busses for years now, even before joining My Chem he was teching, doing sound. It invariably got messy, crammed spaces got littered with the general debris of living-- gum and candy wrappers and empty cigarette packs, empty cans and bottles and styrofoam cups spilled or overflowed ashtrays would have the stray butt in odd places. After a week or so everything smelled like stale coffee, well these days, booze in the past, cigarette smoke, sweat and dirty socks. You got used to it. Hell, his nose barely registered Gerard a week from showering half the time, especially in the winter. But even as bad as the bus got, they never tripped over things like Bob was constantly doing with Patrick. It was fucking dangerous to walk around barefoot or in socks. Other than that Patrick was a decent enough roommate but goddamn.

He didn't kill Stump.

The album somehow finally got finished and they had fucking gold. Bob was sure of it. Mikey was clean and sober and the antidepressants and whatever all else he was on helping, therapy too. Gerard less shaky and frail and terrifyingly volatile with Mikey back. Stage costumes and singles and tour dates being discussed along with videos and Gerard had some fucking insane ideas.

It was a strange kind of not exactly limbo busy but not once the recording was done and in the final stages of mixing as they sorted everything else out. Jamia had to head back to Jersey and Stump really didn't think anything of the couple nights Frank crashed over. By the time Stump got back from Fall Out Boy's own recording session, there was nothing to see or overhear. Bob and Frank sound asleep and no, Stump wouldn't think much of the fact that Frank was sprawled on top of Bob. His best friend was Wentz for god's sake.

If not for Wentz near hysterical phobia of anything involving two dicks not separated by a couple layers of denim and Stump so happily, kinda ridiculously straight the two of them would already have moved to Canada to be married or something. It wasn't like Wentz and Stump didn't have their sleepovers—and Wentz actually said it was a sleepover once.


*

“BOB WAS ON FUCKING FIRE!”

She took a moment to register the high shaking, voice caught somewhere between hyperventilating and hysterical as Frank's. It took a moment more for the words to sink in. It was barely past six in the morning and the coffee maker wasn't even done brewing.

“He was on fucking fire and the motherfucking idiot kept fucking playing!”

“What?” she managed.

She could feel the blood drain away and her heart miss a beat as she sat down woozily against the kitchen wall. Oh God.

“The video there was fire and Bob was on FUCKING FIRE!”

“Breathe, Frank, breathe. What? What happened?”

Just...fuck. She somehow managed to get the story from Frank and got him calmed, or partially calmed. Gerard tore ligaments in his ankle—or something. The back of Bob's leg, his calf had caught fire as they burned the float behind them. Oh god. Bad enough but just the back of his calf. Just.

Fucking hell. She could hear Frank trying to suck down his cigarette in two drags. She was going to kill them. Fire? She was going to hunt down and kill whoever thought the guys having fucking real flames close enough to burn them was a good idea. Starting with Gerard. Then Brian. Then Bayer and...

Fifteen minutes—and she's damn sure she doesn't want to know how many cigarettes later by the way she can hear Frank huffing and puffing—Frank was settled enough to go back inside the hospital. He was headed for Bob directly, as if anything could stop him now that he'd flooded his system with nicotene and talked to her. She knew her Frank, he would have held it together, been actually calm until Bob was settled then stole his few moments for a breakdown. For all his manic energy, Frank really was dependable in a crisis. Ray was with Gerard and Mikey. Brian was—somewhere between the two.

She put the phone down on the floor next to her and just shook. Bob had gotten fucking BURNT. Bob had gotten fucking burnt and her boys were on the other side of the goddamned country at the moment.

Her mind came to an almost painful stop as that thought actually sunk in. Her boys. Bob wasn't hers. Just Frank. But Bob was Frank's. And if anything happened to Bob it would destroy Frank. And....And...And Bob was just fucking necessary and that made him hers goddamn it and he had been on fire. If they were ever so fucking stupid as to try anything like that she was going to kill them all. Starting with Gerard since it would probably be his idea. Then Frank and Mikey because they probably would have encouraged it. Then Bob and Ray for being so fucking stupid as to think it would be cool and letting the other three run with the idea, and then Brian, and then whoever the hell else came into her path. Bob had been on fire and if she never got a phone call about something so fucking disastrous and insane again it would be too soon.


next