FIC: Probably A Train--15/mature JustFrankie Verse



Title: Probably a Train
author: lisa roquin
rating: 15/mature
fandom: bandom rps (mcr)
pairing/characters: Frank Iero, Matt Cortez, (reference to Frank/Jamia)
series/sequel: Just Frankie Verse
disclaimer: lies, fiction, untrue. completely and totally made up. I know no one, know nothing of their personal lives. I make no claims of knowing much of anything.
Summary: All that happy horseshit about bright sides and light at the end of the tunnel and all that? Yeah, right. Whatever. Frank's pretty sure that light is probably another damned train.
warning: transgender, language, alcohol, angst
author notes: written for kynx_fic's not an xmas fic type thing 2008 thanks to gwionfawyr and jiltanith for the quick beta. They got the sucky christmas even if they didn't quite hit anti-christmas.
prompt: there is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.



The Paramore had been a fucking nightmare. Mikey was gone. Back in New Jersey now finally. That fucking house had nearly wrecked them all. Cursed or haunted or whatever the hell it was. The place just felt wrong. Not like there were ghosts and weird shit, just wrong and oppressive and it had about driven them all nuts.

Or hell, maybe just everything caught up to everyone, though most spectacularly with Mikey. Mikey was sober and getting help, had something like three or four shrinks and spending most of his days shuffled from one counseling session to another that Brian had managed to get all organized and sorted out.

Brian had found the rest of them places—at The Apartment Complex of Porn Stars. Jesus. He actually recognized his next door neighbor from Matt's crap. And Frank meant the crap. Ray had nearly wet himself giggling when the first time Gerard had seen Judy-from-next-door he'd whispered ridiculously, “Isn't that the grocery list lady?” Frank didn't really think it was, just Judy was from the same washed out bored-stoned mold. Who knew? Maybe Judy was the grocery list lady. Gerard was distracted from falling apart over Mikey to be amused by that thought so why not?

They were trying to cobble a fucking album together without a bassist and it was still up in the air if Mikey was coming back or not. If Mikey could come back or not, could handle the road and just everything again. And how the hell Gee was going to manage without Mikey? Ray's nearly non-existent temper had gone to hair-trigger and scary like it had by the time Europe was at an end with Otter. Bob was trying to figure out where to hide a body in Los Angeles, if he figured that out fool proof enough, Stump was probably dead. Bob had ended up with Fall Out Boy's singer for a roommate and that worked except for the fact that Patrick tended to leave trails everywhere distracted by some bit of music and Bob was going to strangle Patrick for the trails of shit that had him tripping constantly.

Jamia had been out for nearly a month. As long as she could be commuting by phone and computer. Thanksgiving had been fun actually. Weird, but fun with Fall Out Boy and tofu for Frank and Andy, who'd gone on about some anarchist anti-establishment spiel about how awful a holiday it was while he ate a whole pecan pie himself. Hurley's convictions didn't effect his appetite when there was pie involved. Other than the guilt-tripping worried phone calls from mothers in New Jersey, Wisconsin and Chicago, it had been good.

Two nights before Jamia flew back had been a mistake. They'd gotten pretty well hammered on wine. And one thing they'd always had in common was getting horny as hell when they were drunk. Oh god that had been a mistake.

Jamia loved to look and touch and....that had barely been bearable way back when he was still fighting to try to be her. The scars left from the chafing of Ace wraps bugged the fuck out of her and Frank had been pissed as hell she'd been so insistent on getting his shirt off. Tears and hurt feelings and a hole kicked in the cupboard door under the kitchen sink Brian was going to go ballistic over.

That it had been two weeks and Frank's toe still hurt like a bitch when he stepped wrong, yeah, he'd probably broken it. Everything else, well, that had pretty much put the nail in the coffin of anything ever ever working out with Jamia that way.

They'd both known that for years. Still fucking hurt. She was his best friend, had been since they were three, always would be. That at least was unbreakable, unchangeable. He'd been head over heels for her since, since hell since he really even had the thought that kissing might not be so bad. Even before that he remembered telling his mom he wished he could marry Jamia when they'd been probably five or six.

His mom and his grandma were both disappointed he wasn't going to be back for Christmas which was four days away. Ray was going home. He had left that afternoon Frank thought. Gerard and Bob went to Tahoe or Salt Lake or something, somewhere. Frank could have gone with them. Brian had a rampaging fit bordering on nervous breakdown that they better not break their necks pretending to ski. Frank had tuned that out and decided it was best not to bring up the hole in the cupboard door or his sore toe.

He scowled at the doorbell's ring. Damn it. He wanted to get drunk and wallow in peace. He had a bottle of pre-mixed Mudslide and vanilla Bryers and Hershey's syrup, ice cream—real made with milk ice cream—was his one rare lapse into any animal food-product.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You look like shit.” Frank blurted at Matt standing there with rings under his eyes, greasy hair, two duffel bags and a backpack. “And you smell like you haven't showered in a week.”

“Haven't. Panic's tour wrapped up last night. Can I bum a shower and crash on the floor a day or two?”

“You don't shower I'm kicking your ass and you're not sleeping on the floor,” Frank shook his head. “You heading home for Christmas?”

“Fuck no.”

Frank tilted his head at the harsh sound of that reply. That...huh. “You got a place. You got a place in Jersey too. Jamia was asking if you'd be home anytime soon when she was out here. Think she's pretty well decided you're her other roommate.”

Matt shrugged. “Don't know what the hell I'm doing. I need a shower and sleep, and maybe a can of gas and a match for my clothes.”

“I can believe that but you're the one explaining it to Brian when we get arrested for arson,” Frank agreed.


*

“Well, now you look like a drowned rat,” Frank said as Matt came back into the living room, freshly showered in vaguely clean sweats and Bob's hoodie Frank had stolen to wear home from the studio the other night when it had been cool, dragging a blanket from the bed. “Feel any better?”

“Nope,” Matt muttered and settled himself on the couch with his head in Frank's lap, pulling the blanket around him. “Feel like shit.”

“Okay. You be miserable and I'll wallow quietly while I get hammered. Just get us to bed at some point tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” Matt agreed eyes drifting shut. Frank pressed his hand to Matt's forehead. Maybe a little warm but he thought mostly just worn out. He'd picked up jobs teching for a couple different shorter tours since Warped unable to afford any more time off than the few days at Frank's back in September.

*

Something furry had crawled in his mouth and died and it's friend had taken a sledgehammer to his head. “Ugh,” he mumbled and pressed closer to the warmth next to him, pressing his face against skin. His hand slid over more skin, warm and nice. “Mmm,” nice. He pressed a little closer and willed the dead thing taste in his mouth and the headache to fuck off. It didn't really work, but he tried. Burrowed against skin was too rare, too nice to let a mother of a hangover trying to encroach stop sleepy enjoyment of skin next to him.

“Frank,” the strangled sound of his name caught his attention, and the hand that covered and pressed on his. His thumb was resting in the dent of Matt's belly button, his pinky wasn't completely on skin but just the barest tip of elastic.

“Oh fuck.”

“S'okay,” Matt's fingers laced with his and hauled his hand upward to his chest. “You still drunk?”

“Don't think so. Not the way my head's pounding. Just blurry yet.”

Matt made a soft yawn of amusement and squeezed Frank's hand just a little. “You made a dent in that all right.” He rolled just a little more onto his stomach and was back asleep within seconds and still felt kinda warm.


*

“That thing is kind of sad looking. Why do you have it?”

“Jamia thought I needed a plant and wasn't likely to kill a cactus.”

Matt snorted. Cactus or not, it really did look half dead. “Aren't the plants at your place like all fake?”

“Yeah, Jamia's got a black thumb,” Frank grinned. “You finally back among the living?”

Matt shrugged. “Don't feel like I've been ran over by a truck anymore. Sorry for—”

Frank rolled his eyes. “You needed the sleep, you were ran ragged.”

“Frank, I pretty much slept for the last three fricken days,” Matt said with a wince.

“Four. It's Christmas Eve.”

“Fuuck,” Matt groaned he hadn't thought he'd slept that long, other than staggering, mostly sleepwalking trips to the bathroom and for a drink of water he pretty much had obviously.

“Jamia brought out my tapes when she was here.”

“Your tapes?”

“Rudolph, Frosty, Charlie Brown Christmas. All of 'em. Vintage commercials and all, taped off tv way back.”

“You—Frank, You didn't skip out on goin' home cause of me?”

Frank shook his head with a dark look. “I...talked to Dad on the phone about Thanksgiving. Weekend after...”

“And?”

“Don't ask,” was the abrupt answer, a shuttered look closing over Frank's face.

Matt swallowed. “Yeah... yeah. Okay. You got popcorn?”

Frank frowned. “Uh no.”

“Get your shoes on. Gotta have popcorn for Christmas cartoons,” Matt said, then frowned. “Do I have anything wearable?” The jeans on top of the laundry basket by the door looked too long for Frank but...

“I threw a couple pair of jeans and a couple shirts that were on top of your bag in with mine when I did laundry yesterday. You can steal some socks.”

“Get your shoes on. We need popcorn. And beer.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “Clothes are there. You can fold later.”

“See how you treat company,” Matt teased.

“You're not company, Cortez,” Frank smiled. “I'll be out in a few.”

*

The SuperTarget was a picked over nightmare. It was also four in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, like it was going to be anything else. They argued half the way there, and to Frank's disgust hit the Burger King drive-thru on the way there. Frank won, he declared himself the victor because he put up with dead cow in his car. They split up in the store and met after they'd checked out separately.

“Asshole!” Frank shouted when Matt went and locked himself in the bathroom with the three bags of crap he bought. Laughter was his answer as he headed into the bedroom with his own sacks and roll of wrapping paper.

*

Frank carried the stack of small neatly wrapped gifts out to the coffee table only to burst out laughing.

“What?” Matt poked his head out from the kitchen, disappearing again as the microwave dinged.
A three pack of plain white fruit of the loom t-shirts had been used in place of wrapping paper. Two wrapped rectangle/squarish boxy sort of things with the shirts folded around it and shoe-strings for bows. The third shirt had been tied into a lumpy sack with shoestrings. Frank assumed that at least part of the lumps in the t-shirt sack was the rest of the socks that went with the one laying on top stuffed with, fuck knew what by the weird lumpiness but had peanuts and Hershey's kisses spilling out of it and “Frank” written on it with red sharpie.

“I suppose you already opened all your shit from your mom and Jamia?”

Frank shook his head still grinning at the pile Matt had on the table.

“Oh fuck you. Figures you can wrap shit all fuckin' pretty. I always conned my older brother into wrapping shit for me. He was good at that sort of shit. Everything always had to exactly so with him. I'd do presents for him up like that. Mom would howl I should have let her wrap whatever and Dad would laugh his ass off.”

“I didn't know you had a brother.”

Matt shook his head. “He died in a car wreck when he was nineteen, I was fifteen.” he said quietly.

“Shit. Sorry.”

“S'okay,” Matt said and dropped one of the two bags of popcorn he was carrying on the couch. “Ow fuck hot,” He hissed as steam from the bag he still held burnt his fingers a bit when he opened it.

Frank snickered as Matt stuck pieces of popcorn to the cactus' needles. A candy cane shoved into the dirt in the pot and a package of tinsel ripped open with a handful unceremoniously dumped on the top.

“There. Got a fuckin' tree too,” Matt declared.

“Are you stoned?”

“Not yet I'm not but drunk sounds good,” Matt shook his head.

“Presents or movies?” Frank shrugged. “Or we savin' the shit for the morning.”

“I ain't opening up shit hungover when there's no one around to bitch or cry about it if I don't.”

“Point,” Frank agreed.

“Go get your presents Jamia brought.”

A CD and a t-shirt and a couple gift cards from Jamia. A new mp3player, a videogame, a couple tshirts and package of socks from his mom. A gift card for song downloads, a watch, wallet and belt from his grandpa. The box from his grandma made his hands shake even before he got a look inside. To Frances. Yeah. He wasn't surprised at the absolutely gorgeous soft pink cashmere sweater. It was a beautiful sweater, not godawful handknitted with a lopsided snowman caliber you had to wear and get your picture taken in so the great-aunt who couldn't remember your name any way didn't get insulted type thing. Just...fucking hell.

“Jamia'd look pretty in that. Or your mom, but your Grandma's less likely to see Jamia in it,” Matt sighed and took a swig of his beer.

“She's never going to get it...” Frank swallowed. Hell, sometimes he wondered if his grandma even tried to get it.

“Probably not,” Matt agreed.

“Here, these are yours.”

“What?”

“From mom and Jamia and...this says to Sleezeball. I was supposed to find out where you were and make sure you got 'em.”

Matt unwrapped the CD from Linda and the two paperbacks from Jamia, stunned. The handwriting on the final package wasn't Frank's. Shaky with age and the same as the tags on the gifts from Frank's grandpa by himself, not the sweater which his grandma had obviously picked out and had from both of them. “He did write Sleezeball on it” Matt laughed disbelieving.

Frank forced the grin, trying to forget the fucking sweater kicked aside. He wanted to scream or bawl or maybe break another toe on the wall, instead he grinned as Matt rather dumbly unwrapped a wallet with a twenty-five dollar Walmart gift card in it. “Jamia's getting perfume and a gift card. He called to ask what kind she wore, and what kind mom did.”

Matt shook his head and turned the wallet over and over in his hands. “Huh. When you call—tell him thanks. I...huh.”

Frank glanced over at the sweater. “Yeah,” he managed to grate out, voice cracking just a little. “Yeah...fun call. I will.”

Matt stood and grabbed the damn sweater and the box it was in taking it back toward the short hallway. The linen closet door opened and shut.

Well, at least he didn't have to look at the fucking thing.

“Open your shit.”

Frank managed a strangled laugh at the sock of peanuts and kisses held out in front of him. “You're fucking insane.”

“Yeah, and so?”

Frank took the stocking and shook his head. “What the hell is that for?” He frowned at Matt pulling the Target bag from his pocket and shoving it at Frank.

“Dump your stocking in.”

Frank rolled his eyes.

“A fucking hot wheel?” He stared when he did as he was told and rummaged through the sack.

“Fucking tradition. We were in fucking junior high and high school even and there was a damn hot wheel in our stocking. Hell Mike was in college and still got a hot wheel.” Matt shrugged. “It was kinda a fuckin' rule almost. Birthday cake for breakfast on Christmas Eve morning and a fuckin' hot wheel in our stockings.”

Frank took a second to realize what the hell--”Your brother's birthday was Christmas?”

“Yeah. Christmas Eve. We'd have birthday cake breakfast in front of the TV. We had the Grinch Stole Christmas on tape and would watch that.”

Frank winced. “We can skip that one.”

“Nah, nah, that's...it's okay. I haven't seen it in years.”

Matt laughed at the package of socks he unwrapped and seemed to like the CD and book and hoodie. Frank was amused as hell he got basically the same back though it was a couple plain dark sweatshirts and the rest of the socks that came in the package with the one used as his stocking in the t-shirt turned sack.

The Night Before Christmas with the sixties style kinda puppet-looking-but-not animation. Frank had no idea what the hell to call the style of it but it was distinct, and almost all the classic Christmas specials had that style. Visions of sugar plums. Fuck nightmares of pink cashmere and having to thank his grandmother for it or make her cry trying to get it through her head yet again that...neither option was...just. Fuck. Rudolph really just made him want to cry rather than turn out to be anything enjoyable.

Matt got up halfway through the Grinch and headed for the kitchen. Frank slammed down the remainder of what he thought was his fifth beer and followed.

“Hey,” Frank whispered.

Matt sniffed and wiped at his eyes back to Frank. “Hey.”

Frank pressed himself to Matt's back, wrapping his arms around Matt's chest and holding on just as tight as Matt ever did when Frank lost it.

“Sorry.”

“Don't be.”

“Nice hole. That why you were limping a bit?” Matt kicked his foot in the direction of the cupboard under the sink.

“Yeah. Jamia and I got hammered on wine and almost had sex when she was here,” Frank said tiredly.

“Went that well, huh?”

Frank choked and let go of Matt just enough to slap him on the shoulder before wrapping his arms back around the taller man. “Yeah, went...just great. On the bright side we can maybe both move on 'cause yeah no chance in hell ever again.”

“Bright side?” Matt choked.

“Yeah. Kinda like the fucking light at the end of the tunnel mom came up with over Mikey getting help and all. Be that much better with everybody sober and healthy and all that. I figure it's a fucking train.”

“Yeah. Probably. Way shit goes a train's more likely.”

Frank pressed his face into Matt's back.

“C'mon. What else you got to watch?” Matt managed shakily a while later.

Frank tilted his head. “Sounds like Charlie Brown at the moment.”

“Well, we got Charlie Brown beat. Our Cactus looks better than his tree.”

Frank choked. “Asshole.”

“Yeah, c'mon.”