lyn-z/gerard universe mix-up!
Lindsey tries--fails--not to stare and grips the edge of her Coke tighter, when the curve of his Misfits shirt rises and all she can see is soft, white belly. It's just--she's seen the back bend (it's his thing, his moniker, if you will)--she's seen it on stage and off stage and behind the buses when he's being a sultry little bitch with a sultry little laugh and Lindsey just happens to catch the curve of his spine, the planted legs, the fucked smile he gives her when he catches her watching. She's just never seen it up close before, this close, where she can reach out and drag her (neat, black nail polish) nails over his bellybutton.
Gerard gives a not so manly squeal and falls over on his ass, his beer splattering the concrete just over his head. He grins up at her. Lindsey flips him off, "Show-off."
"I can teach you if you want," is Gerard's only answer when he props himself up. His hair's all matted from contact with the beer and there's a sickly, wet ring around his collar where the rest was soaked up. He connects his elbows with his knees and chin-hands up at her and fuck, fuck--he's adorable and sparkly and Lindsey's pretty much going to kiss him if he continues. "Like, females are statistically more flexible than men. There's less weight on you guys and your center of gravity is different and fuck," he giggles, "this shit wasn't easy. You ask Jimmy, he'll tell you how many fucking hospital visits we had to make before I could reach the Big Ten."
(The Big Ten is, basically, the point of all flexibility, when Gerard can reach back so far he can scrape all ten of his fingertips against the concrete. To this day, Lindsey has only seen it once--once--and damn it if she didn't have to spend two hours locked in the back bathrooms with her hand between her legs.)
"I don't think that's something I could, uh--" Lindsey twitches a bit, and--fuck it-- and carefully arranges her skirt around her thighs before she plops right across from him, her Coke between them. She's so fucking nervous--she's really fucking nervous and her hands are fucking shaking. She can even see Mikey now, in her mind, that stupid little (knowing brother) smile he gave her just minutes from now, when she'd spat something about "vocals with Jimmy" (which, now, even to her ears, sounds like a fucking rip-off. It is a fucking rip off. Jimmy never actually practices for any of Mindless' gigs, and all they ever do as fellow leads is play fucking Halo with the windows down and scream at each other until their throats grow and raw and thus, fuck up their own respective shows.) "--uh, accomplish. It's just a thing, anyway--it's your thing. It's kind of cool, it's what your fans expect..."
Gerard smirks, "Besides me, you know, actually playing the bass?"
Lindsey flushes, "Right."
"Ah, they'd get over it. There's more than enough diva to spread around, I think," he shrugs again, "besides, I'd probably have to, like, fucking make out with Jimmy before I could I get anywhere near you guys single-handedly."
Lindsey flushes harder and drops her head, groaning. "Jesus, that was a thing! A stupid thing--it just happened."
"Right," Gerard's still smirking when she looks up, "Frankie and you randomly making out--"
"Was to break the standards of the heteronormative and gender expectations!" Lindsey spits out, "She has a girlfriend!"
Gerard nods, slowly. Still smirking.
Lindsey continues, undeterred, "--and anyway, she's like my fucking sister and my bandmate, not to mention Mikey would never let me have fucking peace again and then you'd probably start dating that asshole Bert and then I'd probably never get to talk to you again or get to fucking set my plan of falling in love and moving to our own pseudo Gotham City in motion--" and there she is, freaking right the fuck out, and she falls over with a soft little slap against the pavement, shields her face. She's just had a nerd-out. In front of Gerard. And she mentioned Bert.
"Hey, hey--" she gets two seconds of dark, New Jersey sky before Gerard pops into the edges of her vision, voice and face concerned, "Let's not, uh, get ahead of ourselves here."
Lindsey blinks at him, slowly. Gerard's leaning straight over her, hands planted on either sides of her hips and the lower half of his body still planted to the concrete, but if he notices her blush or her quick squee moment, he ignores it for, "First, uh--how'd you know about me and Bert?"
"Frankie told me," Lindsey whispers from between her hands. "We were a little--drunk."
When she glances up, Gerard's frowning and mouthing something. He looks down, says, "Okay, Bert's bandmate Jepha told Dan who might've told Ray--fuck, fuck--there's always a train line with these things. But, um--point? Bert and I were a thing a long time ago. A long, long time ago. And he's not so much of an asshole, so take that back." He smiles.
Lindsey blinks slowly. "Okay."
"And anyway," Gerard continues, "I wouldn't stop talking to you, Frankie or no Frankie. Because you're fucking awesome. You like Batman and the Misfits and Black Flag, and you fucking scream on stage and touch yourself and yourbandmates and make out with girls, and you totally kicked Steve's ass in World of Warcraft the other day and you have yet to beat me in D&D." He grins, cheekily, "And you're nice to me and have a bunch of tattoos and you bought my mom that crystal figure cat, since she couldn't have a real one because of me. Fuck it,Linds, I like you, okay?"
Lindsey blinks slowly. "Okay."
"And I would totally move to a pseudo Gotham City with you," Gerard tells her, and kisses her, right on the mouth. And all Lindsey can think--
--well, actually, no. All she can really think is a bunch of exclamation points and how she really, really needs time in the fucking bathrooms again.
One of the blonds--the one Ashlee's thinking about taking home tonight, Missy--gives a delicate little titter and goes straight into snorting laughter, and the crowd does the same. Ashlee follows her thumb and catches the Beatles knock-off again, hair all gelled down to cover his ears and eyes, face wholly surprised. It makes something dip in her stomach, something unpleasant, so she turns away and pulls on the stout and continues with, "God, don't even fucking know how he gets laid. Dude, girls are lining up to hit that? Screw Arkham; I got your psycho-fucking-paths right here."
Missy's slapping her thigh, gold and glitter dress riding up a little and Ashlee kind of wants to kiss her right then, but something makes her catch the guy's eyes again, just to find the rage she's used to seeing, the awkwardness.
He's smiling at her.
Oh, Ashlee thinks.
Joe makes a pained face when she tells him, "Could you be any more of a jackass?"
Ashlee giggles. She is so fucking aware of this fact, believe her--in fact, she was so fucking aware that she'd spent the rest of the night getting drunk and feeling up Missy in a dark alleyway before Andy had found her, pulled her off--slipped a five to Missy--and hauled her into Joe's arms. They were probably going home. Probably another show. Didn't fucking matter; all Ashlee can see was that dude's face--that guy, Pete--and she giggles again, draws out a long Joe. "Joe, let's go fucking play a show, Joe. Let's go fucking play." Joe's grip is so fucking tight around her neck that she can't even move properly; when she tries to wrap her arms around his middle and dance, she ends up with a crick her neck and a serious need for a fucking beer. "Goddammit, how bad was I?"
"Not too bad," Joe shrugs, "He's got to be used to it. I mean, boy band."
"That's stereotypical," Andy chides, "They're not all ridiculed. And they're popular. Just differently."
"Well, yeah, but our fans come to hear us play music," Joe stresses, "Not to get into our pants."
"That you know of," Ashlee mutters, "Joe--Joe, I didn't mean to say it. I don't even know anything about the kid."
"That kid's twenty eight and two million dollars richer than you," Andy responds, "'The more you know.'"
She knows Joe and Andy ditch her in their motel room for the night, because that's where she wakes up, phone ringing and head pounding. God, she feels like shit, smells like it and the phone's ring is a festive tune from Cats. Ashlee fucking hates Cats.
"What?" she snarls into the receiver, kicks off the sheets.
There's a sharp pause, then: "I was going for a more of a Sex Pistols thing, actually."
"Excuse me?" It isn't Joe, it isn't Andy, and it's not room service. Ashlee is pissed. "Who the fuck is this?"
"Pete," the voice goes.
"Pete Wentz. I'm responsible for half of Arkham's population, remember?" He laughs, appreciatively, "That was a good one actually--no one gets creative enough to use Batman when describing my sex habits."
Shit, it hits her. Ashlee sits up fully, hands already scratching away at Jack's head like it does when she's nervous. "Fuck, uh--"
"I'm not mad," pause, "Okay, well--uh, I'm a little offended, but no hard feelings. I didn't want to be there either."
"Wait, woah--" nervous or not, he's not going to fucking just jump to conclusions, "What makes you think I didn't want to be there?"
"'I'm not a fucking social girl. Like, I didn't come here to fucking knock heads with the debutantes and the money-grubbers,'" Pete recites, "'Fuck, if you fucking catch my ass at a party, you better believe I'm leaving it in flames.' End quote. No flames, but I did hear you left with a bang."
Ashlee stamps a foot. "So, what--you're stalking me now? Great, I'm being followed by the world's next Ricky Martin."
"His music's too spicy," Pete says, "Again, I'm more of a lover, not an ass-shaker."
Ashlee catches eyes with the clock. She rolls over and grabs her cellphone, already scrolling for Joe's number, "What do you want?"
"To, uh--correct you on my portrayal of legendary 60s rockers?" Pete tries, "To say hello?"
"Hi," Ashlee says, and hangs up.
The next fight happens like this: crowd, crowd, crowd, chair.
Frank actually sees it fly, and stops watching a split second before it hits the opposite wall, and this time they're all stopping short at the same time, just guitars and then not, feedback surprisingly hot in all their ears. Frank actually hears Mikey curse softly andToro's thumbing the next chord impatiently, waiting to start again, and the only one of them actually annoyed is Gee, who drops the primadonna act for a more quieter half-stare-half glare. It's Frank who actually says anything before he realizes it, just grabs the mic and goes, "Whatever the fuck is going on out there, squash it, all right? We get it--you're men, you've got dicks, now tuck 'em back in, you're grossing us out."
Some girls give sharp giggles of surprise and some dudes laugh it out, but the fight keeps going and Frank is pissed. "Dude, security? Somebody?"
There's a painful grunt and the sound of screaming and the crowd parts Moses-style, until the houselights are sitting straight on them. They look like animals, wrestling and shoving and kicking and cursing, and hell--one of them Frank actually remembers. He was wearing a Misfits shirt at the last one, but this one is allBon Jovi , the collar already ripped and peeling in the other guy's fists, and this guy is definitely losing, face red and blotchy as he makes fists for the other guy's face.
He doesn't even realize he's staring until the security literally drags them off, and the crowd is eerily silent, waiting for them to fucking do something.
Gerard's super quick, and with a "Right, here goes," they all start playing again. Frank keeps watching until the guy's kicking feet disappearing into a sea of stiller, calmer ones.
He's not going to let it fucking end like this.
The minute "Skylines" disappears into static, he's jumping off the stage, landing quick on a chair and then floor and he knows he's pissed. Fuck, he can feel it everywhere, right down to his knuckles, where the need to hit something is the strongest. That's good, that's fucking great, because he knows what the fuck he's going to hit, and he's going to fucking like it.
He asks around and around and around until he gets a place, the security's back room, and he barely makes it down the hallway before the guy's getting thrown out, crashing into the opposite wall Jersey style, his face still red, his shirt still ripped. He chokes like he's been cut off mid-word, and trips on his own feet in the stumble. He even manages to catch his nose on something, and blood drops sluggishly down the front of his face. If he notices his sudden resemblance to a human punching bag, he trades in his contempt for a loud, "Fuck you," before he's pushing past Frank and down the hall.
The next guy that comes back looks like fucking Goliath, and hell no, Frank's a jerk who always knows to go for the weaker person. Actually, no--fuck that, that doesn't make him a jerk, that's common sense and if it's worth anything, he tells himself, this dude is the same asshole who's been starting fights in their shows; he kind of has the right, somewhere.
Bon Jovi shirt it is, and as Frank's catching up to him outside, pushing through bodies until they're both alone in the cold Jersey night, the guy actually stops, like he's got goddamn eyes in the back of his head or something, and says, "Don't you fucking follow me."
Frank has to skid a little on the sidewalk to avoid slamming his face into the guy's neck. They're almost the same height, exceptBon Jovi shirt has a few inches Frank'll never get and looks like he's accustomed to using them. "If you're just going to get into my fucking face about how I ruined your night, then fuck you--you got to see the fucking show, right?"
"Dude, I played the fucking show, fuck you," Frank throws right back angrily, "What the hell is your problem?"
The kid whips around so fast that he almost catches Frank right in the mouth. "The hell is your problem? You always chase down complete strangers to bitch at them?"
Frank blinks at him. He sounds a little tireder this close, and the blood's already drying on the front of his shirt. The fresh blood running down his nose doesn't give any sign of stopping, however, and despite himself, Frank's already digging out one of Mikey's arm warmers. "I do when they start shit at one my shows."
"Well, fuck--excuse me for not being a pussy." The kid eyes the warmer warily. "What the fuck is that?"
"Your nose, idiot," Frank snaps, and the kid swipes it, wipes his nose and has it back in Frank's hand before he can move his fingers. Great, warm blood.
"Violence doesn't make you look like less of a pussy." Frank drops the warmer with disgust, "It makes you look like a douchebag, really. What's your name, douchebag?"
The kid gives a Jersey sneer, and a Jersey, "What's yours, twat-face?"
Frank pulls each inch of his height up--not really scary, he supposes, but he'll be damned if he's going to take that shit--"Your mom, cocksucker."
The kid blinks like he's been slapped. Good, Frank thinks. Little fucker doesn't know who he's messing with.
Then the kid stares, keeps staring, keeps staring, and gives a New York, "Jamie."
"Frank." There's the sound of his mom in the back of his head, pushing his hands forwards for the polite shake he's been taught to offer all these years at the sign of a name, but he shoves his hands into his pockets to avoid it. "Now stop fucking up my shows, Jamie."
Jamie lifts his chin defiantly. "Stop playing like an asshole and maybe I will."
And okay--okay, Frank can't do this. He seriously left an opportunity to get drunk to exchange obscenities with an asshole. Sometimes, he surprises himself with theidioicity. "Okay, you know what? Fuck you--don't you get near one of our fucking shows again, how about that?"
"You gonna stop me?"
"What, you hard of hearing or something? Just fuck off, okay?" Frank's already turning back for the bar, head pounding. He needs a fucking beer.
Jamie hollers something just as the door opens, the sound of the bar rushing up to meet him, and Frank doesn't even want to know.
The really hi-fucking-larious thing about this shit is that the same guy trying to get his tongue down Frank’s throat is the same dude Mikey’s been hiding in his basement since day one, when Frank hadn’t even known there were actual lifeforms living in Mikey’s basement and Mikey hadn't been making the fucker up to seem even more like the Creepy McCreeperson Mikey already was. He'd even briefly mentioned—at some point, Frank’s sure, because he’s not drunk enough to make shit up and plus he felt that the description actually fits, somehow—that Gerard had been away at art school for a while, but seriously, art school geeks were always the losers in the back with the paint-splattered shoes and never had nothing to say.
They were not the guys who had pretty mouths and a fucking need to get their cock in Frank’s hands before they’re even in a room with four walls for God sakes’, but Gerard’s obviously broken some boundaries here, because—Jesus, he’s going straight for it. Frank’s a little thankful, because his legs aren’t listening and his got his own cock against Gerard’s hip and he’s going to fucking come before he can get Gerard to that ugly-ass bathroom and he’ll be damned if he’s going to fuck up his reputation with all that premature ejaculation shit all the other pussies in the world had trailing over their heads.
Gerard makes a soft sound when Frank pulls away but doesn’t stop moving his hips, his breathing heavy and warm on Frank’s neck, “Fucking—come on.”
Frank actually has to work his lips a little to speak, and it sounds like his tongue is fighting him on actual coherency, “Shut the fuck up, what does it look like I’m trying to do here? Get off, Jesus.”
Gerard makes a face and simmers down, and fucking surprise, there’s actually a line for the door. Frank sees a couple of chicks and two dudes waiting, and it takes every ounce he has not to fucking laugh in their faces when he shoves Gerard in first and squeezes in after. The pounding starts up like thunder and Frank presses his ass into the door, locks it tight with one hand.