Part the fourth: The Second Cumming of MCR

 

Gerard has been smoking since he woke up and yelping to warm his voice. Everytime he does, Frank echoes like a homing beacon. Frank slings his guitar around himself the moment he gets out of bed (at the crack of noon – apparently angels are not morning people); it's extra weight on his front and he struggles under it. His features have lost their listlessness, though, replaced by a nervous thrum of excitement.

 

Bob keeps wandering into a corner to do jumping jacks, not making eye contact with anyone; Ray tunes and re-tunes his guitar, running through the set list; Mikey sits on the couch. Occasionally he turns a page in US Weekly.

 

Dropping down beside Mikey, Gerard burrows into his neck. "Stop not freaking out, Mikey."

 

Mikey hmmms, turns a page. "I'm not worried. We have done this before, y'know."

 

Gerard sits back, drumming his knee. "Not sober."

 

"Not sober," Mikey agrees. "We've got something better than booze, though."

 

"Whassa?"

 

With a smirk, Mikey flourishes his hands at Frank. He's hopping next to Bob, who is mid-set on some more jumping jacks. "We have God on our side," Mikey says. "Or, close enough."

 

It made Gerard hoot with laughter, and that made everyone look at him. He jumped up from the couch and thrust his fist up in the air. "We. Are on a mission from Gawd."

 

Mikey rolls his eyes. Ray looks doubtful. Bob has no opinion on any of it, judging from his blank look. Undeterred, Gerard runs to Frank and lifts him up from behind, staggering only a little, thank you very much. "Can music save your mortal soul?" he sings wildly, without regard for pitch.

 

There's a wave at his back, building and building, and fuck if he's not gonna ride it as far as it will take him. "Frankie, we're gonna save some souls, okay? We're on a mission from Gawd!"

 

"Don't break my fucking guitar, motherfucker," Frank yells, but he's laughing, too. On a reckless impulse Gerard bites his earlobe, sucks at it once, then puts him down carefully. His heart jumps in delayed reaction and his brain trails far behind muttering in disapproval; it feels like all his organs are firing at different moments, a chaotic flurry of chemical reactions.

 

Frank looks over his shoulder. His eyes are a little wide.

 

"5 pm," Bob says, with all the easy punctuality of a tech.

 

"You know I'm going to have to break you of all your good habits," Gerard tells him.

 

"Don't, Bob!" Ray rolls up the set list, tucks it in his back pocket with a grin. "Don't let him break you. I'm counting on you for backup."

 

You'll never break me, Gerard thinks. He'll have to remember that, for later.

 

"Okay," Gerard says, glancing around at all of them in whole, the five. He'd loved the idea of a foursome, before, him and Mikey and Ray and Matt; he'd drawn caricatures of them as the Horsemen, Mikey as Famine ("I'm not that skinny," Mikey had protested), Ray as War, Matt as Pestilence, and Gerard as a pale Death. Good things came in fours: Beatles, Stones, Queens.

 

He can't think of any legendary fivesomes, and resolves to change that. "Let's ride, motherfuckers."

 

-o-

 

The Tulliver is not a well-known club. It's a squarely second-tier punk club that started out a disco, but then had the good goddamn sense to change with the times. There's still something of a dance floor with black-and-white tiles.

 

It's not a place that's naturally built for bands – the stage is a little small and far from the back entrance. The bands that play here have to lug their stuff all the way from the back entrance down a narrow hall – whose walls have been pockmarked over the years by the corners of amps banging into them – up a small flight of stairs, and onto the stage. Having made the roundtrip once, most local bands don't want to make it again, and it's too small to house anyone big enough to supply their own slave labor (i.e. techs).

 

The concert is not a big deal. The bands are a motley assortment of gothic and horror-themed groups that probably get a lot of gigs around this time of year, and no other.

 

Ray has wrangled up a van from somewhere. They arrive at 7 pm sharp by Gerard's estimation, 7:21 by Bob's watch. "We've talked about this, Bob," Gerard says, mostly to cover the way his hand is drumming so fast on the seat that it might need an exorcism.

 

Things get worse inside: it's a fucking bar and he's fucking nervous. That used to be a simple equation, a matter of shots (his Getting Through the Night system). Now, he helps Bob lug in his kit, and the amps, and the guitars. When there's nothing else to carry he fiddles with his microphone. Bob's pretty much taken over the club's sound equipment with Ray at his shoulder. Gerard watches them argue about levels for a bit before he says, "Hey, guys, where's Frankie?"

 

Ray, who probably knows every tone of Gerard's voice, glances up. Bob does not. "Think he's in the bathroom."

 

He is. Someone has propped the door to the Men's open, so Gerard walks in unheard to find Frank standing in front of the mirror. He silently reaches for chords on the guitar neck. His eyes are closed; mouth moves slowly.

 

Gerard stands there watching him, his breath soft and quiet. When Frank's eyes open to find his, he smiles apologetically at Frank's surprised twitch. "Sorry. Hey."

 

"Hey," Frank greets him, looking a little uncertain. He ducks his head, fiddles with his guitar.

 

The scent of disinfectant fills Gerard's nose as he edges closer. It's not the worst thing to smell in a public restroom. "You okay?"

 

One of the other bands has arrived. They shout down the long hallways to each other with voices made hoarse by adrenaline; a few shadows flicker across the bathroom walls as they pass by the door, but no one comes inside.

 

"Fucking nervous," Frank mutters. His long dark hair hangs in his face.

 

Swinging the backpack off his shoulder onto the sink counter, Gerard says, "You, uh, wanna try on some makeup? I wear some, in the shows, just some eyeliner and shit. It… it helps. Like you've got some extra defenses?" He gets out his makeup bag, the Hello Kitty one Mikey bought him in Japan, self-conscious under Frank's gaze. "You don't have to."

 

"What's it look like?"

 

"Pretty fucking cool, if you can pull it off. Here, watch." Gerard leans into the mirror and does his own eyes with quick strokes, then turns to Frank. "Kinda like that."

 

Frank hesitates, then reels his guitar in close to his chest and pivots his hips toward Gerard fully. "Okay."

 

"Okay?" The uncapped eyeliner pencil wavers in Gerard's hand. "Um. Close your eyes."

 

Frank's eyelids slide obediently shut and Gerard swallows at the sight of two perfect sets of eyelashes against smooth cheekbones. Catching the corner of Frank's right eye with his pinkie, he gently draws a line of kohl across that lid, then repeats the process on the left. "Okay, now open. Look up."

 

Frank lifts his eyes to the ceiling, eyes fluttering automatically while Gerard draws a thin line of black on the bottom lids. "Hold still," Gerard murmurs, hunching close.

 

"I fucking can't," Frank mutters, comically stretching out his mouth as he tries to hold his eyes still. "They're, like, possessed or something."

 

"The power of Christ compels you," Gerard tells Frank's eyelids sternly, and Frank giggles.

 

"You're a dork," Frank whispers.

 

"Yup," Gerard answer, smudging the black lines with his thumb then leaning back to eye his handiwork. "Maestro!"

 

Frank leans in and kisses his mouth clumsily, catching just the corner.

 

When Gerard pulls away half an inch, Frank rears quickly back. He drops his face, but Gerard can see the pink splash on his cheeks, the tightness around his lips.

 

"Frankie," he starts.

 

"Sorry," Frank says shortly. "Fucking stupid. Oh, and fuck you." His eyes dart up quickly, rimmed in black.

 

Carefully, Gerard sets down the eyeliner. Carefully, he steps into Frank's space. Frank doesn't look up and Gerard has to bend and twist down and push Frank's hair back to kiss him. At first Frank doesn't reciprocate, keeps his mouth closed stubbornly until Gerard licks the small silver lip ring that Bob bought for him. Then his mouth opens and Gerard crowds him against the wall without hesitation, slides a thigh between Frank's legs.

 

Frank gasps and arches, head dropping back loose on his neck. Taking advantage of the angle, Gerard drops his mouth and presses wet kisses along his jaw.

 

"Careful," Frank gasps. "Pansy."

 

"You're the fucking pansy," Gerard murmurs.

 

"No. Guitar. Pansy."

 

Gerard leans back. "You named your guitar Pansy? What, you gonna start sleeping with that thing?"

 

Frank clutches the guitar's neck tight. His eyes are dark, intense, and he leans forward again. "Find out, motherfucker."

 

Gerard lets Frank kiss him for a few moments, then gently cups his jaw and tugs him away a few inches. "Not now. We gotta – fuck, Frank," he says quickly, seeing the change in Frank's face, "I want to, okay? But we can't right now. We have to go onstage in a bit."

 

Frank looks like he wants to argue, or punch something, or both; but he licks his lips and says, "After?"

 

Gerard leans in again. "Okay." He moves his thigh a little, just to prove his commitment or whatever, and Frank groans loudly.

 

Behind them, someone clears their throat.

 

Gerard freezes with his mouth against Frank's. He knows that throat-clearing, and the parts of him that aren't insanely turned on or nervous about the show curl up in abject embarrassment. He detaches his lips from Frank with a soft wet noise that echoes like a fucking avalanche in the bathroom – the public bathroom. "Um. Hey, Mikey."

 

Mikey has his head bowed and one hand wedged over his eyes. "Hi."

 

"We were, um."

 

"Putting on makeup," Frank puts in, his voice rough and his eyes on Gerard. Jesus, Gerard thinks. That must have been some good porn that Frank watched because he's giving Gerard this look, and Gerard has to turn his head away again quickly or he's going to shove Mikey out the door and do unspeakable things to Frank right there against the sink.

 

Instead he snatches up the eyeliner and waves it around like evidence. "You wanna. Put some on?" he squeaks.

 

Mikey lowers his hand slowly, peeking to make sure that it's safe before he drops it all the way. "Sure," he says slowly, looking back and forth between them.

 

Frank giggles and claps a hand over his mouth.

 

"Shut up," Gerard hisses then raises his voice to Mikey. "You want just a little, or raccoon?"

 

"Just a little," Mikey says, edging closer.

 

"Okay. Eyes closed."

 

Mikey closes his eyes, but then immediately opens one. "Don't kiss me or anything."

 

Behind Gerard, Frank giggles again. "Shut up!" Gerard tells them both desperately, but he's laughing, too, now, helpless titters that make him shake.

 

Mikey leans away, eyebrow arcing in alarm. "And don't stab my eye, either."

 

"Shut up and hold the fuck still, motherfucker." Gerard tilts Mikey's face up.

 

(Years later, Gerard will remember nothing about the Tulliver. He'll save the date and celebrate it every year – staunchly ignoring the eyerolls – but the walls and tiled floor of the Tulliver will be lost in the jumble of a million venues all around the world. The only thing that he'll recall of the building itself is the bathroom, the way its light catches in the fine bones of Mikey's upturned face, the heat of Frank at his back, the echoes of their rising, giddy laughter off the hard walls.)

 

When he finishes with Mikey they all check themselves out in the mirror. "Cool," Frank says. He waits until Gerard looks at his reflection then licks his lips.

 

"Oh my God," Mikey mutters, wedging his hand back in place.

 

-o-

 

There's a snaking line out front, mostly a bunch of kids and almost-kids. Apparently there's a costume contest later because Gerard sees a lot of masks, witch hats, and schoolgirl outfits.

 

A whole group has come in 'blood'-splattered clothes as the start of a zombie apocalypse. They've got to be fans.

 

Casually as possible, Gerard makes his way over to what looks like their zombie leader, a chunky, laughing guy who's waving a cigarette around. A bunch of homemade intestines spill out of a hole in the front of his shirt. It's pretty gruesome. Gerard grins and taps him on the shoulder. "Scuse me," he says politely.

 

"This ain't the back of the line, dude," the guy beside The Zombie Leader says.

 

"Not cutting," Gerard says, "just want a lighter. You got one?"

 

"Oh," the Zombie Leader says, eyeing Gerard with a puzzled frown. "Um, yeah. Shelly?"

 

A girl with a bloody wound on the side of her neck is staring. "You're," she gasps.

 

One of her friends plucks the lighter out of her hand and tosses it to the Zombie Leader, who hands it to Gerard. "Thanks," he says cheerily, and quickly lights the cigarette in his mouth.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shelly grab her friend's shoulder and whisper in her ear.

 

"Enjoy the show, guys." Gerard waves to them all. Zombie Leader has definitely caught on, too, and fumbles the lighter when Gerard hands it back, dropping it.

 

Gerard would stop and pick it up, but he has a feeling that if he stays much longer he's going to be mauled by zombies. He walks quickly away around the corner of the building then breaks into a run the moment he's out of sight, giggling wildly.

 

At the back door he waves his yellow wristband to the security guard and is just walking inside when he slams into Mikey, who's hurtling out. "Oof! Mikey."

 

"Gee!" Mikey grips him, his eyes wide.

 

Gerard clutches him back. "You okay? What's wrong?"

 

"Where were you?" Ray says from behind Mikey, his face squeezed up in worry.

 

It takes Gerard two more heartbeats to realize that he'd wandered off while they were playing in a club with alcohol, and that Mikey is currently staring at his eyes and probably silently smelling his breath. His insides waver between feeling angry, hurt, ashamed, or, weirdly, relieved. "I was out front," he says slowly. "There were some kids out there and I wanted – it'd be cool if people found out. Like – that guy Tim."

 

"Okay," Ray says just as slowly and carefully. "I thought the whole point was to have it be a secret?"

 

"Well, yeah, but the best part about secrets is the reveal. And, like, the kids should know. It'd give them hope and stuff."

 

Mikey's fingers ease off. There'll be bruises on Gerard's arms tomorrow. "God. You're a huge dork," he murmurs in an exasperated, affectionate voice.

 

Gerard settles for relief and wraps his arms around Mikey's waist as they head back into the club. It's – they have a fucking right to worry about him. It's okay.

 

He passes through the back door of the club with Mikey as his side and Ray in front of him and thinks, suddenly, clearly, like an opening inside of him, It's love. It's love that makes them look for him, worry that he's still sober; the shame is all inside his own head, not theirs. He loves Frank and Bob in equal and totally different way, but Mikey and Ray were there for the worst and they'll still follow him onto a club stage. They'll still love him.

 

He tightens his arm around Mikey's waist and reaches ahead blindly to catch the back of Ray's shirt as they walk back inside.

 

The front doors have opened. Gerard can hear the jukebox playing, a bit of preliminary music before the main event. There's not much space to hang around backstage so Gerard finds himself standing outside the bathroom; it's lost its aura of hushed excitement in the clatter and reverberating shouts of the other bands. There's an all-female band in there right now, a line of slender necks and punk hairdos in front of the mirror; one of them wears a halter top and the bare skin of her shoulders reads 'BITCH' in huge, flourishing letters.

 

"The Juno Sisters," Mikey says in a low voice, his eyes sweeping over their delicate bones and fierce stances.

 

Gerard rolls his eyes and nudges him forward. After making out with Frank, he kind of owes Mikey one. "Go exchange makeup tips."

 

"I'd need you for that."

 

Mikey heads for the shortest Sister, who has the most hair and eye makeup. When she looks up, Gerard catches the glint of a nose ring and the arch of a thin eyebrow.

 

Ray sees the same thing, and says, "Christ. He knows how to pick 'em."

 

The first band has started up out front. Their muffled sound echoes down the hall and makes Gerard think of the conversation they'd had at the City Gardens. He touches Ray's arm. "Hey. Thanks."

 

Ray squints at him in the dim light, leaning against the side of the doorway. "For what?"

 

"I dunno. Being Ray fucking Toro." Gerard shrugs.

 

Ray flushes but nods. "I am pretty awesome." He grins. "This is such a Hallmark moment."

 

"Kodak, too. Double-whammy." Gerard affects a blubbery macho voice. "I love you, man!"

 

A flicker way down the hall draws Gerard's eye. Bob's there, at the bottom of a staircase up to the backstage area, and Frank sits atop his shoulders. They're having some kind of conversation with Bob tilting his head back against Frank's stomach and Frank leaning nearly double to speak back; they both look up when they hear Gerard's laughter. Frank waves one hand frenetically, a giant grin on his face. Bob uncurls all but his thumb and index finger from around Frank's ankles to waggle them at Gerard.

 

"Oh, Jesus," Ray says, tipping his shoulder back to look. "Maybe we all know how to pick ‘em."

 

"Hey," someone says and Gerard turns to find the singer of Sled Dog Afterbirth staring at him. "Aren't you – "

 

"Yup," Gerard tells him cheerily. "Sh! Don't tell anyone!" And he runs away down the hallway toward Frank and Bob, catching Ray's hand as he goes. Mikey will just have to fend for himself.

 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Ray groans, laughing, but runs with him.

 

-o-

 

The Juno Sisters go on just before them. Gerard knows this because when the stage manager yells down the hall “Juno Sisters, two minutes,” Mikey emerges from the bathroom with his mouth still attached to the Shortest Sister.

 

“Alicia!” the BITCH Tattoo Sister groans. “Oh my God, keep it in your pants.”

 

Alicia, aka the Shortest Sister, detaches momentarily. She has a bass guitar slung across her back and even Gerard has to (very grudgingly) admit that she looks kind of cool, all punk-rock-chic-chick.

 

Mikey steers Alicia down the hall backwards, talking in low voices and pecking at each other’s mouths. “Stop watching,” Gerard hisses at Frank.

 

Frank laughs blithely. He leans into Gerard as the first three Sisters pass them, pinning Gerard against the wall and pressing back against him. “I’m taking notes,” he murmurs over his shoulder.

 

Gerard coughs his tongue back out of his throat and steels himself, then very deliberately slides his hand up Frank’s hip onto his ass. Nobody out-molests him. He’s slept with Bert McCracken.

 

Then Mikey draws abreast of them and Gerard realizes that he’s got his hands shoved right up Alicia’s shirt, fingers moving over her breasts under the fabric. Apparently, he thinks as he brains himself on the wall in an effort to save his poor, scarred eyes, Mikey is the best molester in all the land.

 

“Gee!” Mikey says, cheerfully unaware that Gerard has just been dealt an eternal wound which will never, ever heal. “This is Alicia. We’re getting married.”

 

“Hi,” Frank says to Alicia. “I’m Frank. Do you like threesomes?”

 

Gerard recovers enough to snake an arm around Frank, who grins back at him slyly.

 

Alicia rolls her eyes and pulls Mikey’s hands out of her shirt. “Wow, what a buncha gentlemen.”

 

“You’re not a lady,” Mikey says huskily. Alicia grins.

 

“Oh my God oh my God.” Gerard splays his fingers around his head, trying simultaneously to block his eyes, his ears, and, for some reason, his nose. He supports a woman’s right to express her sexuality but not in front of him…okay, maybe he supports that, too, just not with his little brother.

 

Fortunately Alicia swings her bass down from her back and departs with a final peck to Mikey’s lips. A few minutes later the opening guitar rift plays and the lead singer starts screaming.

 

"Mikey Way on the prowl," Ray crows, his hair bobbing as he chuckles.

 

Mikey leans against the wall beside Gerard and says over the music, "I always forget how hot scene girls are."

 

"They are," Bob concurs solemnly. "Once, I promised to tech a whole four-month tour for free just to get this woman's phone number."

 

Ray gasps, exaggerated. "No way!"

 

"Way," Bob says. "Worth it, too. She was six-foot-four,  two hundred pounds, and worked as a bounty hunter. Knew six different ways to kill me with her bare hands. Zora was her name. She told me to come back with my drum kit, or on it."

 

There's a brief pause, filled by the snarling chaos of the Juno Sisters – who aren't bad, actually, they're doing cool things with the drums – and then Frank turns slowly around to Gerard. "He's lying, right?"

 

Gerard hides his face in Frank's hair.

 

"He's lying! Right? Gerard! You fucker!" Frank elbows him. "Tell me if he's lying!"

 

Ray busts up laughing. He could never keep a straight face.

 

"You're lying!" Frank flings out an accusing finger. "You're a lying liar who lies! Bob Bryar!"

 

Gerard claps a hand over his mouth, laughing helplessly against the back of Frank's neck. Frank yells something muffled that sounds like, "My sworn enemy!" against Gerard's palm.

 

Ray hooks Bob around the shoulders and pulls him against him, their heads ducks together. On the other side of Frank, Gerard can see the white flash of Mikey's big dorky teeth.

 

(This, too, he will remember. The sight of Ray and Bob leaning against each other, trying to keep their laughter silent, the sound of Mikey chuckling soft in his ear, Frank's tongue licking his palm and then the feel of his grin stretching wide over Gerard's fingers.)

 

"The Black Parade, five minutes," the stage manager calls.

 

Gerard waits for the moment of panic, the spike of fear and the desperation to escape it. It doesn't come. "Okay," he says. "Let's go, motherfuckers."

 

-o-

 

They play something new, first: the 'Gerard is a Terrible Person' song (he only calls it that inside his own head, though; Mikey and Ray would worry, and he's had enough of that to last him a lifetime). The reception's good, some surprised yells of encouragement for what they think is a small-time band.

 

Then, they play "I'm Not Okay."

 

It's the same song they've always sung, but with something more. Maybe it's the presence of an absolutely devoted fucking drummer – Bob is flinging himself at the drums, pounding away until his hands become a blur – or an actual rhythm guitarist instead of Ray busting his ass trying to fill the sound out on his own – Gerard takes a moment to wonder how much of it had just been that: Ray running himself into the ground trying to keep them afloat all on his own, and coming up just short – or the presence of a former angel as that rhythm guitarist.

 

In the end, it doesn’t matter. It's what it was meant to be.

 

He can actually hear the moment that it clicks over for the crowd. It's about halfway through, when all the guitars and drums go quiet for Gerard's whispered voice.

 

"Oh my God," someone screams in the blank void of crowd under the lights. "It's THEM!"

 

Gerard had his eyes closed, getting into the feel of things; when he hears the scream, though, he straightens, opens his eyes, and yells, "BOO!" into the microphone, cutting off Ray's bellowed "Trust me!"

 

Then they're singing again and Gerard is laughing, his head thrown back and his arms up.

 

Fair is fair, though, and at the next song break he says quickly, "Hi, we're My Chemical Romance and we're not dead yet."

 

After that, things get a little… crazy.

 

They go on, playing a mix of old and new songs. Gerard was totally right about the zombie kids, they all elbow their way down in front and are fucking flipping out, cheering and crying and calling people on their cell phones then holding up the speakers toward the stage. He makes sure to play to them, dropping to his knees right on the edge of the small stage to exchange high fives and hand grabs; it's been a long time since they've played a club this small and he didn't even know how much he'd missed this intimacy with the crowd.

 

After a while, though, the faces multiply. Gerard climbs up from his knees and, wow, there are a lot more people in the club than he remembers fifteen minutes ago. The Juno Sisters were the second-to-last act, big enough on the local circuit that the club owners had planned for most of the crowd to filter out during the last act.

 

That doesn't happen.

 

Gerard finally turns around, between "The Ghost of You," and the 'Mikey Has Left Me Alone' song, to stare at Mikey himself. "Did you?" he shouts.

 

Mikey shrugs, his bass shrugging with him. "I emailed a couple people," he shouts back.

 

There's a flood of people at the door. Gerard feels a little stab of anxiety and turns away, sings the next song to his band.

 

Ray's the only one who looks familiar, same wide, stable stance, his curly hair swinging as he plays. Gerard would know Mikey anywhere, but he doesn't look the same at all without his glasses and with a new determined set to his mouth. Where Matt was dark and laid-back, Bob is a pale blur of energy, driving them forward.

 

And Frank – Frank is fucking staring at Gerard, fixed, his face sweaty and his mouth hanging open.

 

It's enough to make Gerard miss a few words and then he picks it back up, spinning away across the stage and out of his head. The stage is too small to hold him and he jumps off it, sings into a mass of limbs gripping the front of his shirt; the club can't hold their sound and he imagines it swelling outward as he climbs back onstage with a handup from Ray. A wave grows at his back and Gerard flings himself up to ride it, singing and screaming wild shit between songs about God and Fate and squids, or something. This is his, this belongs to him and no one else. He owns this motherfucking stage, someone else has just been borrowing it.

 

At some point Frank loses his continually precarious balance and falls over; but he just starts writhing around on the floor of the stage like he meant to do it. Gerard had started over to him, but manages to cover, too, by standing over Frank and putting one shoe on his neck. That gets them some screams.

 

Frank stares up, wide-eyed and wild.

 

Gerard leans over him, careful to keep his weight off that foot, watching the way that Frank keeps playing, his tattooed 'HALLOWEEN' fingers moving over his guitar like it's what they were made to do. Maybe it fucking is.

 

That gives Gerard an idea and he pushes away from Frank, heads back to center stage. "You motherfuckers are amazing," he croons, pushing his sweaty hair back and blinking around the sting. A wave of screams is his response. "So, I know you guys will do anything I ask, right? 'Cause I got a special request.

 

"You see this guy over here?" He spins around with his arm outstretched, pointing. Frank's just climbed up onto his knees and kind of freezes that way when Gerard's sharp finger lands on him. "This is Frankie, and today…today is Frankie's birthday. So I want all you beautiful motherfuckers to sing for him with me, okay? You ready? Count of three, I want everybody to sing a big fat punk rock "Happy Birthday" with me. One…twooo… Happy birthday to you…"

 

The doors to the club are open. People spill out of them onto the sidewalk, not even people in costume anymore; people in jeans and T-shirts that look like they just ran from home; people who aren't even their crowd, just there to see what all the racket is about. Gerard stares out at them all as they sing. He's distantly aware of the club owner dithering around backstage, probably freaking out about fire ordinances and public safety, but what the fuckever, they're not stopping this. They can't.

 

A face jumps out at him from the crowd, literally. Gerard fastens his gaze on the waving, tattooed arm and the spiked hair and furious glare, and screams, "Brian!"

 

It's Frank, though, that shouts and takes a running leap off the edge of the stage.

 

Gerard's heart, which had been rising with joy, spins in place and does a belly-flop. He lurches after Frank instinctively, hopping off the edge of the stage and distantly hearing Ray's nervous, "Hey, hey, guys, careful with the birthday boy, there."

 

He lands at the front, but there's no way through the press of bodies and he wavers there, torn between just shoving his way through and having faith in a bunch of strangers to return Frank back to him. There's a lot of shouting out in the crowd and Gerard thinks about how small Frank is, how just a few weeks ago he'd been so breakable as he lost his wings. The club hasn't got much in the way of security. Such a stupid fucking idea – great for the ambiance and the excitement, but not if Frankie got hurt, not worth it at all…

 

Then a familiar pair of bare feet came hurtling in his direction, followed by a head of spiky brown hair. "Where's the fucking stage entrance?" Brian bellows. He's got Frankie up in a fucking fireman's carry on one shoulder, even though he's not much bigger.

 

Gerard grabs Frank's feet; it doesn't help much, but it sure makes him feel better as he leads the way toward the side of the stage.

 

There's a moment when Gerard is just focused on getting them through the door and away from the screaming crowd and when he turns around Brian has set Frank down on the ground and grabbed him by the collar and is staring at him.

 

"What the fucking fuck are you doing here?" Brian yells wildly. Gerard's never seen that look on his face, a kind of wild amazement. Brian's always so together, always the one in control.

 

Frank grins up at him, completely unfazed. "I followed you!" he shouts back. "I fucking followed you, motherfucker!"

 

Gerard stares at them both. At tiny little breath of time opens up around them. There's something hanging over this moment. He can hear Ray, Bob, and Mikey playing some kind of riffs to keep the crowd going, but this space between him and Frank and Brian is insulated from all that, and above them hangs… something. He hasn't seen it yet, but it's there ready to descend.

 

MCR, the crowd has started to chant. MCR.

 

"How?" Brian shouts. His eyes are kind of bugging out of his head.

 

"I came to help you!" Frank curls a hand up over Brian's shoulder, gripping him. "I checked up on you, man, I always did! And then I saw – " His gaze goes past Brian to settle on Gerard, and his grin spreads out through the rest of him.

 

Brian turns and the thing hanging above them drops into Gerard's brain. His eyes feel like they're bugging out, too, staring back at Frank and Brian standing there, side by side, looking at him.

 

They're the same. The tattoos, the dark features, they're even around the same freaking size.

 

He reels backward. Brian reaches for him, his face twisting up. "Gee!"

 

Gerard catches his hand on reflex. Brian, who had talked him through his breakdown, who kept him from killing himself. Who had fought so hard for Gerard to get clean, and seemed so fucking worn out and defeated when it hadn't worked. Who's been there from the beginning.

 

Who's staring at him with eyes suddenly full of fear.

 

MCR, MCR.

 

Gerard has no fucking idea what to do, so he pulls Brian over to him. Hugs seem like a good idea.

 

"You motherfuckers started back up without me," Brian says shakily in his ear.

 

It's something that Gerard's got to see with his own eyes, and he finds himself shoving a hand under Brian's shirt, turning him around and lifting. Brian goes easily, like he knows exactly what Gerard is after.

 

Right on Brian's narrow back, atop both his shoulder blades, are a pair of tattoos. Wings.

 

MCR, MCR.

 

Gerard laughs wildly and pulls Brian back to him. "You?" he croaks.

 

Brian grins in the dim glow of stage lights, shrugs. "Saw a Misfit concert once. Knew I wanted in."

 

Beyond them, Frank laughs at the top of his lungs, joyous and completely at home.

 

Brian steps back and looks between them both. Gerard can see the person that he knows fall into place, taking the place of the angel.

 

Grabbing both of their arms, Brian shoves them at the stage. "Get out there, you motherfuckers, or there's gonna be a riot. I'll find a fucking getaway car."

 

Frank is still laughing and grabs ahold of Gerard's hand when Brian lets go. Gerard feels like he'll be reeling for years, but he lets Frank lead him back out under the lights.

 

And the crowd goes wild.