FicWad

Fucking police. Can’t we have one gig that they don’t try to bust up? Crowd gets a little rowdy and it gets loud in the fucking downtown district and they’re all over it like maggots on a corpse. I mean, who’re we really “disturbing”? The middle-aged man and the dolled up hooker in the grungy hotel room across the street? I can’t take this shit sometimes; we’ve gotten through all these nights without a problem and at our last show, our last fucking show, the motherfucking cops just need to get involved. Did they finally reach our names on their ‘inconsiderate people we need to screw with’ list, because they sure picked a damn good time to book us. Honestly, it’s so - Oh fuck. It smells like piss in here. The stench is way too fucking strong and if we drive over another goddamn crack or bump in this road and get launched fifty feet into the air again, I swear to God I’m going to sock the first badge-wearing, blue suited pig I see right in the fucking jaw.

Our entire crew is now trapped inside this dingy, metal box with wheels, rolling down to that shithole excuse for a precinct on the other side of town. This bench is uncomfortable as fuck and the grates on the windows do absolutely nothing for the lighting in this goddamn truck. Bob’s sitting next to me, practically seething. Ray is granting him an intent “dude, calm the hell down” look and Mikey is staring intently at the giant metal door acting as the only barrier between us and freedom at the moment. And then there’s Gerard.

He’s propped up against the wall, arms crossed, all nonchalant and apathetic, pretending to be a freaking badass rocker. Even though we just got fucking arrested. Even when no one is watching, he’s got to play the part. But all the ripped clothes, leather jackets, and messy black hair in the world couldn’t change the fact that he’s a fucking drama queen. Ordinarily, he would be flipping the fuck out right now, but that stage persona still hasn’t run its course yet.

I hear a loud, high-pitched groan emit from the metal bench I’m on as Mikey stands up. He directs a question to his brother. “You still got that pocketknife?”

To which Gerard responds with a negative shake of the head, resulting in a frown from his younger brother.

“I got my Swiss army knife, it’s small but better than nothing.” Ray pulls out said object and hands it to Mikey, who steps over next to the door and kneels down. As his head is bent forward in concentration, brown hair disappears behind a spiked collar and ton of leather. Crouched down, with his back to us, Mikey is practically invisible, an amorphous black shape, blending in with the multitude of black surrounding it. Considering I can’t see him, I have no idea what he’s attempting, but Bob asks before I get the chance to.

“What the hell are you going to do with that thing?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, a deafening creak comes from the door as it swings open and the rattling of the vehicle against the dilapidated streets intensifies. I swear to God, that guy can do some crazy magical shit with his hands. I know for a fact I couldn’t open an enormous metal door, locked from the outside, with a puny Swiss army knife. The road is moving quickly and visibly before our eyes now and we all look around at each other questioning who will jump out first.

Mikey is clinging to the door hinges so he doesn’t fall. “I’ll go first; we’ll all meet at the usual spot. We -”

“We can regroup there and then go back to the van and get our shit,” Gerard interrupts. He starts to stand up, doing his best to balance himself with the help of the metal seating. Motherfucker just can’t let anybody else have the last word or make any decisions.

Mikey mumbles a “Yeah, thanks” and then steadies himself before taking a defiant leap through the doors of the truck and hits the ground, rolling, with a definite thud. Before we know it, he’s at least a mile away and then we all start lining up and following suit.

I’m the last to jump out and as I definitely wasn’t prepared for the feeling of rocks and gravel against my face as I make contact with the road. My momentum decreases and I stand up, a bit shaky, rub some of the street off my clothes and head into the cover of an unlit alleyway on my way to “the usual place”. It’s a dive bar not far from where we’d been playing our show. But, it was distant enough and hidden enough to avoid detection from the cops. The fact that we are pretty friendly with the owner helps a lot, too. I don’t have any money on me, but, man, do I need a fucking drink right now.

I run into Bob on the walk there and we have a short conversation, mostly about how much this night is pissing us off and how much of a dick Gee can be t o Mikey sometimes. As we reach the dieing neon sign that marks our destination, I can’t help but feel a sense of security and familiarity. This is home. I think I’ve spent a greater chunk of time sitting at the splintering countertops on a wobbling barstool, clutching a glass of Rum and Coke in my hand than I’ve spent doing anything else in my life. We step inside to find the place relatively quiet for a Friday night, which means no rowdy fights to attract law enforcement. Ziggy, the owner is cleaning out some glasses behind the tap and the rest of the guys are already here, waiting for us.

“What took you guys so long?” The slurred words are accompanied by a heavy arm being slung over my shoulder and the warmth of a body leaning against mine. It’s Gerard. A very liberated and very drunk Gerard. “Frankie, I missed you. We were waiting sooooo loooong.”

“Do you want some help with that?” Ray stood up, ready to offer me a hand.

“That would be great, actually.”

We manage to drag Gerard over to the other side of the bar and secure him in the confines of a boothed table. One large soft, cushioned seat that he can’t easily fall off of. After a few minutes of peace, somehow, he manages to do this anyway and Ray goes back over and helps him back into the booth.

Mikey sighs and asks Ziggy for another drink before he speaks up. “I guess some of us are a little too intoxicated to make a clean getaway tonight. We can leave tomorrow. The van’s around the corner; it’s not going anywhere. And they won’t find us here.”

We all nod in agreement, except for Gerard who is currently distracted by the fantastic world of
Pleather and Formica surrounding him on the opposite end of the room. “Hey, Zig.” I shout only because the place is usually brimming with noise, but feel a pang of embarrassment when I realize how unnecessary my volume is and turn it down a notch. Ziggy turns his attention on me. “D’ya mind if we stay here tonight?”

“No problem. Only two rooms open, though.”

“How’s three to a bed sound, guys?” I address the question to the entire band.

“Uncomfortable.”

Bob replies with, “I vote Gerard sleeps on the floor. He won’t be able to tell the difference anyway.”

“I don’t feel like sleeping yet, someone should take him upstairs and let him lay down before he hurts himself.” Mikey, always concerned. With good reason, though. As I look over to Gerard, I see he is trying to cut off a hunk of his hair with a butter knife.

No one looks willing to be that someone so I volunteer myself. “I’ll do it.” I stroll over to Gerard.

“Hey, Frankie. How s’it goin’?”

“Just swell, Gee. How about you put that down,” I say pointing to the knife, “and we head upstairs for a little bit? You remember how nice and comfy the beds here are, right?”

“ Yeah.” He says it with a giggle and then his eyelids start to droop and I know I need to get him upstairs before he passes out or I’ll be stuck with dead weight that needs to be dragged all the way there. So, I put an arm around Gerard and hoist him up from the table. He wraps both his arms around me and clings on the entire tedious journey up the stairs and into one of the unoccupied bedrooms on the upper level of the bar, giggling all the way there.

I sit him down on the end of the bed after carefully prying him off and sit on the floor in front of him to take off his shoes. They’re damp and the stench that’s stored inside is awful, so I throw them to a far away corner of the room. Gerard, who was staring off into the vast expanse of space, is now eyeing me blankly as he turns his head back and forth and fidgets unmercilessly.

“Fraaaank?”

Two hands place themselves on my shoulders. Two heavy hands, clasping on. A face finds its way towards mine, moving to an uncomfortable eye-level position. The scent of alcohol is strong as breaths manifest against my skin. The sensation is disconcerting to say the least and I can feel my face heating up. No doubt, I’m turning a bright shade of red. My suspicions are confirmed when Gerard says, “ Aww, Frankie. You’re blushin’.”

He inches closer until our lips meet and in a clouded moment of lascivious fervor his hands clutch the back of my head, my arms snake around his waist and we’re both on the floor. The kisses and caresses are sloppy, awkward. I catch up with the situation and focus on pushing Gerard off of me. It’s just a light shove, but forced to pull away, he develops a pained expression. “Frank? What’s wrong?”

“You’re drunk, Gee. Really, really drunk.”

He smiles, “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are and you need to sleep because you’re going to have a killer hangover in the morning and we’ll need to get the fuck out of here.”

He reluctantly stands, more like stumbles, up and makes his way over to the side of the bed. He manages to climb in and position himself, I presume, comfortably. As tempting as his coaxing hand patting the unoccupied expanse of bed sheets next to him repeatedly is, I just can’t do it. A fuck just for the sake of a fuck isn’t worth it, and I have a looming suspicion that this is exactly where the whole situation is headed. I know it’s just the alcohol talking and that this can only end with a massive pile of regret in the morning and I don’t want to deal with that.

I should head back downstairs; get back to the other guys. But I don’t want to leave him alone up here, at least not until sleep comes to him. It wouldn’t be right. I sit on the edge of the bed, Gerard isn’t satisfied with that.

“Come closer, Frankie.”

“No.”

“But, I-“

“No.”

“Pleeeeaaaase.”

“If I sit next to you, will you try to fall asleep?”

“Yep.”

“Fine.”

So, we sit side by side on the bed. The mattress is stiff and the sheets have a few questionable stains decorating them. Gerard wraps his arms around me. I sigh. I’m far too exhausted to deal with this; I just let him hold on. I can only wait and hope I hear snores soon. Instead, I feel the form next to me shift and hot breath at my ear.

“Frank, kiss me.”

The request is too enticing. It doesn’t make sense; there is nothing alluring about an inebriated individual putting up what they believe is a sensual front in order to seduce someone. Most often, it just comes off as laughable. But, there’s something so…so…I don’t know. I just know that resisting is absolute fucking torture and I want him.

In a second, I find myself on top of him. My tongue finds it way into his mouth and it all happens so quickly I don’t even think he is prepared for it. As my hands travel ferociously up and down his back and my tongue explores every reachable inch of his mouth, I can feel nothing but pure ecstasy and overwhelming satisfaction.

A sound distracts me from the frenzy, for only a second. It’s a very drawn-out, emphatic moan from Gerard and – Oh god, that only turns me on more.

Shit. I can’t do this, I can’t fucking do this. He’s my best fucking friend and this isn’t even really him and no matter how much I fucking want this, it just shouldn’t – just can’t happen.

I pull away and he grasps onto my shirt with an iron grip, muttering under his breath soft words that I am able to here, but barely. “Frankie, don’t stop.”

But I have and he won’t understand the reasons, at least not in this state. I return to sitting beside Gerard on the bed and wait. After a minute or so, he is still and almost silent beside me, fast asleep. His breaths are light; he seems so peaceful now and I wonder if he will remember any of this in the morning.