Chapter Text
PROJEKT REVOLUTION
JULY 2007
“Do it.”
“No.”
“Come on, you know you want to.”
“Sure don’t.”
Narrowing his eyes, Frank smirks as he leans into his elbows on the tabletop. “Fine, but only because you know you’ll lose.”
Across the table, Gerard aims an annoyed look from behind obnoxiously large sunglasses. “It’s actually because I’m thirty, but whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Frank snorts. “What’re you, George Burns all of a sudden? You’re not that old.”
“Too old to be peer-pressured into juvenile bullshit at eleven in the morning.”
“Whatever, like there’s an age threshold for juvenile bullshit. Live a little, will ‘ya?”
Lifting his Diet Coke, Gerard gestures to it. “Sugar-free. I’m already having my mail forwarded to the edge.”
“Wow,” Frank deadpans, “that’s a pretty sharp edge. Careful you don’t stab yourself.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “One round. That’s all I’m asking.”
“And I’m saying no.”
“Yeah, but you’re still here, so...”
Gerard shoves his sunglasses up into his dark hair and rubs at his face. A long-suffering dramatic sigh slips out, like Frank is single-handedly dragging him toward an early grave.
To be fair, Frank has been at least partially responsible for several of Gerard’s questionable life decisions. He’s man enough to admit it. In his defense, though, Gerard is always gullible enough to go along with whatever idiotic stunt Frank dreams up.
Also, it’s fucking hilarious.
Hand dropping back to the table, Gerard fixes him with that exhausted, put-upon stare he’s perfected over the years. Frank might feel bad if it weren’t so easy.
“I’m here because I was dumb enough to hang out with you,” Gerard mutters, resigned, but he still hasn’t made any effort to leave.
“So you will do it.”
“Hell no. You’re on your own.”
Leaning back, Frank basks in a victory that technically doesn’t exist. “Why’d you say it like that, then?”
“I didn’t say it like anything,” Gerard says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not doing it.”
Frank catches the way Gerard’s voice kicks up a little when he lies. It’s subtle, only noticeable if you’ve spent years dragging him by the ankles into subterfuge — which Frank has. Proudly.
“What if I throw in my copy of Kill City?” Frank tries next, changing tactics.
Low blow, and he knows it. Gerard’s been green with envy ever since Frank scored an original pressing in a Boston record shop two years ago. The thing practically glows on his shelf back home, a prized possession guarded like some rare artifact from a lost civilization.
Even still, parting with it wouldn’t be the end of the world if it winds up in Gerard's hands, so it’s worth taking the hit. If anything can crack that stubborn streak, it’s dangling Iggy Pop in front of him, and Frank has never been above leveraging a weakness.
Squinting, Gerard puckers his mouth off to the side as he weighs the offer. Frank isn’t worried, though. Gerard was sold the second the words left his mouth; he just likes to act like he’s putting up a fight. Boy Scout routine or not, Frank knows better. Underneath all that earnest morality runs a mischievous streak a mile wide, and Frank has never once resisted the urge to poke at it. Why would he? It’s practically a public service.
Besides, watching Gerard cling to his dignity for dear life right before he caves is half the entertainment. Frank wouldn’t keep exploiting it otherwise.
“Fine,” Gerard relents, visibly wishing he could take it back. “But only because I can’t find that record anywhere.”
“You don’t have to sell it to me.” Frank shoots him a smug grin. “Ready?”
“No,” Gerard says, annoyed. “You go first.”
“The safe word is Oklahoma.” Folding his hands neatly around his drink, they lock eyes and Frank smirks. “Penis.”
Gerard groans miserably, face disappearing into his palm. “I fucking hate you.”
“You can hate me after.” Frank’s smirk only gets worse when Gerard peeks at him through his fingers. “Dude, just rip the band-aid off.”
Hand dragging down his face, Gerard takes a sip of his drink. “I’m gonna put sriracha in all your underwear later. I’ve decided.”
“Duly noted.” Frank raises his eyebrows. “One round and I’ll leave you alone.”
Letting out another theatrical sigh, Gerard squares his shoulders and says a little louder, “Penis.”
“Penis.”
A few people in the catering tent glance over, but nobody cares enough to intervene. Gerard, on the other hand, looks like he’s praying for a sinkhole to open beneath his chair so he can swan dive into it.
“You win.”
“Nice try, but Iggy Pop deserves effort.”
With all the conviction of a hostage reading demands, Gerard says louder, “PENIS!”
Heads snap their way. Irritated shushing rolls through the tent from two or three different directions, and somebody in the back doesn’t even bother lowering their voice when they tell them to shut the fuck up. Frank just grins, thoroughly pleased with himself, while Gerard goes rigid across the table, shoulders inching up higher in a pitiful attempt to vanish into his jacket.
That last reaction alone would’ve been enough for most people.
But Frank is not most people. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he begins to shout, “PEN-!!”
Lunging across the table, Gerard slaps a hand over Frank’s mouth, cutting him off. “Fucking Oklahoma! I don’t even want the damn record now, Christ.”
Still smirking, Frank licks the inside of Gerard’s palm just to be gross, who flashes a grimace of disgust while jerking back and scrubbing his hand on his jacket. Then a shit-eating grin breaks loose and Gerard kicks Frank in the shin. A yelp jumps out of him and Frank kicks back without thinking, the heel of his foot catching on Gerard’s knee.
Naturally, that starts a war. The skirmish explodes under the table — a petty, rapidfire exchange of kicks and cheap shots until Gerard lands one cleanly to Frank’s balls. Agony folds Frank in half, while across from him Gerard laughs so hard he can’t even make sounds anymore. Just wheezy, delighted breaths like he’s trying not to pass out.
Before Frank can strike back, a catering staffer appears at the table wearing the tight customer-service smile of someone already at the end of their rope.
“Gentlemen,” she says, polite but insistent, “if you’re going to keep…doing whatever this is, I’m going to have to ask you to take it outside.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gerard says immediately, frantic and sincere. “We were just leaving.” One last glance cuts toward Frank, and they each sneak in a final kick.
They spill out of the tent snickering and riding the high of technically getting kicked out. Behind them comes a swell of relieved grumbling, followed by one loud, “Thank God.” A few people even clap as the flap swings shut, which only makes Frank laugh harder. Beside him, Gerard ducks his head and pulls his jacket tighter around himself, disappearing halfway into the collar.
Once they hit open air, the adrenaline starts to bleed off, Frank still grinning like a maniac as he pats down his pockets. Then he stops, realizing they’re empty.
“Shit. You got a smoke I can bum?”
Two fingers are already digging in Gerard’s back pocket before Frank finishes asking. “It’s my last one,” Gerard says. “I’ll split it with you, but if anyone asks, you shook me down and stole my lunch money.”
Frank laughs appreciatively, and they drift off together behind the tent, into the thick warmth of the afternoon. Some half-dead vending machines tucked off to the side offer enough privacy. Gerard lights the cigarette, draws in once, then passes it over with smoke still spilling from his mouth. Frank takes it and leans against the machine beside him, still not fully recovered from the shot to the balls.
“You can’t go for the nads in Fuck You Footsie, by the way,” he says after a minute. “That’s cheating.”
“Nobody said we weren’t playing by street rules,” Gerard says, teeth flashing in a grin. “Never bring a butterfly to a butterfly-knife fight.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Frank argues, hissing slightly as he passes the cigarette back.
A glance upward catches Gerard watching him with smug amusement — eyes a little too focused, mouth a little too pleased as it wraps around the filter. Frank tries for indignant and flubs the delivery, heat crawling up the back of his neck anyway.
Eventually, a grin of his own pulls at the corner of Frank’s mouth. “I’m gonna get you back for that cheap shot, you know that, right?”
Gerard shrugs. “You know where I’ll be.”
“Not like you’re that hard to find,” Frank points out, earning a laugh.
After that, they fall quiet. Off to the side, Gerard’s gaze drifts somewhere past the parking lot and tents, fixed on nothing in particular. Sunlight rests warm across his face and catches in his eyes until they turn a dusky olive-gold. His sunglasses stay abandoned in his hair, mouth softening around the filter as he takes another slow drag.
Something in Frank’s chest turns over hard. Air catches there, then rises wrong, too tight and too full all at once. Smoke leaves Gerard’s lips in a slow stream and Frank can’t stop watching.
He wants to say it.
Something reckless. Something that’s been circling and circling lately, growing more teeth every time it comes back. His mouth opens before he can think better of it, the words already right there—
—until Gerard turns. He gives a small smile, knowing and a little sly, totally busting Frank for staring.
Looking away too fast, Frank’s throat locks up and the moment slips through his fingers.
And the pain instantly blindsides him.
It’s sharp and bright, buried deep enough in his gut to steal the breath from his lungs. One hand drops to his knee while the whole world pitches sideways for a second, an ache opening hot and hollow beneath his ribs.
Then it’s gone.
Or close enough. Frank lets out a rough exhale and does what he always does with shit like this: file it under stomach problems, same as always, not worth making a whole thing about it.
“Hey.” Gerard is closer when Frank looks up, hand already settling on his shoulder. “You good?”
“I think so,” Frank says, the words coming out a little shaky. “That was weird.”
Gerard’s brow tightens. “What happened?”
“No idea.” Straightening up carefully, something inside Frank still feels unsettled. “Just got sick out of nowhere. Like—” He stops, over it already. “Never mind.”
Skeptical, Gerard asks, “You sure?”
“Yeah.” Frank waves him off. “Same shit, different day.”
Something in Gerard’s face says he doesn’t buy that, but he graciously leaves it alone. “You want some water?”
Frank nods. “That’s a great idea, actually.”
“Good, because I’m not carrying your bony ass if you pass out.”
“Please. You’d cradle me around like a Victorian maiden.”
“Only if you ask nicely,” Gerard says, grinning.
They head for the coolers with the cigarette burning down between them, smoke trailing off into the air they leave behind. By the time they get there, the worst of the pain has let go, but not all the way. Part of it still sits under Frank’s chest, quiet and waiting.
But he keeps looking straight ahead, refusing to pull at the thread.
Not yet.
NEW JERSEY
MAY 2025
If this is how so‑called rock legends are supposed to start their mornings, Frank will be respectfully submitting his resignation.
Effective immediately — no two‑week notice, no exit interview, and absolutely none of “what could we have done better to retain you?” HR can pry the laminate from his cold, dead hands. They can also take his backstage passes, his parking permit, and whatever’s left of his dignity while they’re at it.
He used to puke because he partied too hard; that at least made sense. It was a cause‑and‑effect relationship that Frank could respect. Now he pukes because the wind changes direction, or because he had the audacity to sleep weird. Usually, though, it’s because his insides woke up before the rest of him and decided to go feral, chewing through their own wiring like a pit rat gnawing through speaker cables.
Whatever the reason, it’s currently six‑thirty in the morning and he’s hunched over the porcelain throne, having an out‑of‑stomach experience he didn’t even get to enjoy earning.
Spitting, Frank wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and glares into the bowl. His knees crack when he shifts and his lower back loudly objects after he dares to sit up straight, making Frank scowl. Middle age is a fucking scam, and he’ll be demanding a full refund — preferably in cash, because he doesn’t trust store credit anymore.
Reaching up to flush, something catches his eye. A scrap of orange colored paper drifts in the bowl, singed black around its torn corners, and Frank frowns at it, thrown off. He has no idea how it got there. Maybe it fell out of his pocket? Hitched a ride on him somewhere like a clingy little stowaway?
Squinting at it, he waits for his brain to supply a reasonable explanation. However, the longer he stares, the more his body pledges to stage a sequel, so he slams the handle and watches the whole mess swirl away before he can ask any more questions he isn’t awake enough to answer.
Deciding sleep is a lost cause, Frank wanders into the living room after washing his hands and throws himself onto the couch. The house is too quiet without the dogs; he dropped them off with Steph yesterday, their regular sitter and a shelter volunteer Frank met a couple years back. He liked her from the moment she rounded the corner with a green mohawk and a Mothman tattoo on her forearm. The dogs fucking adore her, too. Half the time they’re more excited to see her than him.
The silence only bothers him because now there’s nothing to muffle the sick pit of dread that’s been chewing on him for days. It sits low and heavy, like he scarfed a lead paperweight, and every time he thinks it’s gone, it rolls over demanding attention.
It could just be the usual pre-show nerves, but it sure doesn’t feel that way. Jitters Frank knows, those are manageable. And he hates that he can’t name it, can’t wrestle the meaning into something concrete. All he knows is that it’s self-parked in his chest with no intention of leaving.
Frank doesn’t regret sending that first text to the group chat eight years ago. It made something open up within him that he didn’t realize had been sealed shut since 2013. That single shot in the dark has led to some of the best days he’s had in almost a decade.
My Chem’s first reunion show is permanently burned into Frank’s memory: the crowd, the lights, the four of them shoulder‑to‑shoulder like no time had passed at all. For a night they were that baby band from Jersey again, so fucking psyched just to share a stage with each other. The years of silence after the breakup didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was their shared relief — bone-deep, quietly overwhelming relief — of finding one another again.
Then the world took a turn for the worst and everything slammed to a halt. Tour postponed, momentum gone. They did what everyone else did: stayed home, stayed apart, and tried not to lose their minds. They skirted around the isolation with constant texting, phone calls, and video chats that always froze at the worst possible moments. It wasn’t the same as being in person, but it kept the thread between them from snapping completely.
It was all worth the wait, though. For a time, Frank didn’t think they could’ve been any better than they were on the Swarm Tour. They sounded the best they ever had, put on some of the strongest shows of their careers, and for the first time in a long time, it felt easy.
Frank’s stomach, unfortunately, didn’t get the memo.
His insides spent most of the reunion tour acting like a pissed off roommate: grumbling at all hours, screaming about eviction, and picking fights with anything he braved to eat. Some nights he’d come offstage riding the high of a perfect set, only to double over in the bathroom while his guts tried to tie themselves into balloon animals. Other nights it was just a muted, constant ache, his body so graciously reminding him that he isn’t twenty‑five anymore.
But even with all of that, Frank can’t remember the last time he had that much fun playing in this band. The pain faded into background noise, and Frank was too busy blowing out the speakers to pay attention.
Sighing heavily, he feels the uneasiness winding in his chest, a tight, restless cluster that won’t relax no matter how many deep breaths he takes. Frank presses the heel of his hand against his breastbone, as if he can physically squash the feeling back down where it belongs, but it won’t budge. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just his body being dramatic because he’s in his forties and apparently everything is a production now.
But the lie doesn’t stick. Not today.
Frank shifts on the sofa, trying to outmaneuver the feeling by changing positions. Spoiler alert: he can’t. He’s tried every angle this stupid couch has to offer, and still his heart refuses to stop pumping loudly in his ears.
And the closer rehearsal day creeps, the tighter that knot in his chest pulls. He exhales, long and shaky, staring at the ceiling like it might offer a clue, but it doesn’t. Nothing does. The uncertainty just sits there, patient and immovable, waiting for the rest of him to catch up.
Frank drags his hand over his face, digging his fingers into his eye sockets. Tomorrow is rolling in whether he likes it or not, and only time will tell if he’s fully equipped to deal with it.