Chapter Text
Frank had gone to one of the first My Chemical Romance gigs in New Jersey back in 2002. He’d enjoyed it thoroughly despite how drunk the band were. And, naturally, had fallen in love with the lead singer. His face, his hair, his voice, his mannerisms. The oddly erotic way he flicked his fingers to encourage the crowd.
The admiration for the singer had started off healthy. Whenever he heard that My Chemical Romance were playing, he would be there. He made a few friends from going to these, or forced his own to join him. Not that they minded. They enjoyed the music as well.
He could have met the band at any point before their blow-up. He’d tried. Several times. But his nerves had gotten the best of him, and he ran away before he could. There was one time he succeeded. It was when he was beginning to feel his adoration for the band grow. He’d thought that, if he had a conversation with them, he would see them as normal human beings in a band – just like him – and stop idolising them.
They were all gathered outside the venue long after their gig was over. They were alone – not a single other fan in sight. This was his chance. And, yet, he was stuck to the concrete beneath him. He just stared at them as they spoke among the glows of lit cigarettes.
This wasn’t like him. He was confident. He’d met celebrities before, and had spoken to them easily and fluently. These guys were different though. He didn’t know what it was about them – but they were different.
Mikey Way – Frank knew all their names by now – was the first to notice him. A single glance his way. Then another. Disconcerted by the staring, but too awkward to mention it to the others.
He forced himself to walk. Stiff and embarrassing, but at least he wasn’t just staring at them.
Now, the others were turning. And, when Gerard Way turned his head, Frank was back to square one. He was frozen once again. The four of them exchanged looks, clearly thinking this man was on something, assessing whether or not he was dangerous.
“You okay, dude?” Ray Toro asked bravely.
Frank kept his eyes on Ray. He was the most comforting out of all the men Frank couldn’t take his mind off over the past few months. Had a soft voice that Frank rarely heard, but loved whenever he did.
“Big fan,” Frank spluttered.
The four of them chuckled.
“I love your music so much,” Frank said. He was ten metres from them. He had to get closer for this conversation to be comfortable. But Gerard was looking at him. He could feel that man’s eyes staring right at him.
“Thanks, man,” Ray said. “Do you smoke?”
Frank nodded.
Ray held out a pack of cigarettes to Frank in offer.
Frank’s eyes made the mistake of gliding over to Gerard. His stomach lurched, limbs turned fizzy. Gerard was smiling at him, blowing smoke out the corner of his mouth.
Gerard Way was not just another guy in a band like Frank was. Right here, right now, Frank was finding out that Gerard was way more than that. He was way more than Frank had ever anticipated. His smile, his lips, his teeth. The way his eyes scrunched up, glistened. Long fingers plucked the cigarette delicately from between his lips.
“No, I lied. I don’t smoke,” Frank said, turned around, and speed-walked in the opposite direction.
When he was out of their sight, he was running. He had to be as far away from that band and that man as physically possible. Why had he said that? He could have just said he was rushing to another destination. He could have declined politely.
He sprinted down the dark street as though he’d just witnessed a shooting – as many frightened onlookers must have thought. Then, the lingering symptoms of the bronchitis that he’d just gotten over caught up to him, and he was keeled over against a brick wall, coughing up phlegm and spit onto the footpath.
Frank gasped in a breath, coughed again, and then stood upright, leaning back on the wall with his hands behind his head. A stitch in his side had him wincing.
He could never speak to that band ever again. He could never speak to Ray Toro ever again. Not after what he’d done. He’d acted like a total weirdo that day. If they ever met him again, some time that he was ready to see them, they would all see him as the weird dude who stared at them for thirty seconds straight without speaking, lied about smoking, and ran away.
He thought back to Gerard. That dude and his beautiful eyes and his beautiful smile and the way he made smoking look so pretty and effeminate. Eye contact that made his knees weak. His mind was racing. Replaying the same four seconds of Gerard’s eyes on his. He wished he’d stayed. He wished he’d spoken with them, but he knew he would’ve embarrassed himself even worse than he had just now.
It took him a while, even after catching his breath, before he mustered the strength to start walking again. He really shouldn’t have been in this part of town when it was this dark out.
Then, as My Chemical Romance grew dramatically, as fans began screaming for them in venues, Frank felt a sense of jealousy, a sense of ‘I was here first’. Everyone he’d met then who knew about this band was because of him. Now, he would bring them up, and they’d respond emphatically about how much they loved the band. Frank felt a grim sense of irritation at that. No, you don’t love them as much as I do. No one does.
The second album they released was played twenty-four-seven. Frank would have it playing in his earphones on the way to, during (as long as he didn’t get caught) and from his shift at a shitty little corner store near his place. He blasted it at home even after several complaints from Jamia and his neighbours.
Frank plastered every wall with posters, cut-outs from magazines and photographs he’d printed out. He loved to be surrounded by them. By him. While he slept. While he fucked. Though, he pretended he didn’t glance at the pictures whenever he had sex. He pretended it didn’t get him off. In fact, he pretended this to himself for years. He couldn’t allow the obsession to go that far.
Either Jamia didn’t notice, or she didn’t care. Despite Frank’s strange quirks, she didn’t seem to mind. She would occasionally complain about his decoration of their bedroom, of the music being played at all times. But Frank was eternally grateful that she was mostly quite supportive of his adoration for this band. She would sit and listen to him tell the same stories. She would chuckle and light-heartedly mock him. And Frank was so glad to have her.
It didn’t come without its occasional lows. Days where Frank would do nothing but indulge in his fixation. Jamia would beg him to do something – to clean up, to write, to play something on the guitar other than MCR.
Since Pencey Prep broke up years ago, he’d been struggling to find anyone to make a new band with. He was stuck taking up shitty commissions that brought in very little money, but enough. The obsession taking over his life didn’t help him be any more productive while they struggled financially, which didn’t stop Frank from following My Chemical Romance to as many shows as he could afford.
When Life on the Murder Scene was released, Frank was even less productive. He watched five times in a row when he got his hands on it. He loved to hear each and every one of their voices. Jamia managed to spot him in the crowd of one of the concerts shown in the documentary. Frank would never have noticed. He was too mesmerised by Gerard to be looking at the crowd.
Each time he watched it, he found himself shamefully, jealously skipping the segment involving Bert McCracken. He felt stupid for being jealous over seeing another man’s lips on Gerard’s. He felt stupider about skipping this bit than he did when he’d cried over Gerard’s addiction the first time he watched it with Jamia.
The turning point for his infatuation was definitely the day he first masturbated to Gerard. It had been a long day at work. He’d gotten yelled at three times. Twice by his manager, once by a customer. Jamia was gone, and Frank just wanted to hear another voice in the room, so he switched on Life on the Murder Scene.
A lot of the time, while indulging in this particular interest, he found himself holding back. He found himself caging his obsession behind a barricade as it pushed and shoved and tried to break through. It seemed dangerous, all-consuming. No one knew just how bad this would become – not even him. But he was scared.
Sometimes, it was exhausting for him to listen to the albums, to watch this documentary, to watch any of the interviews he had taped and labelled, because he would spend the whole time holding back this strange itchy feeling to overfeed himself with this stuff, to let his mind wander.
Today, he was already exhausted and upset. So, his mind wandered. He lounged on the couch, eyes fixated on Gerard whenever he was present – whether he was the speaker or not. He melted into the sound of his voice. So soft in comparison to how it was during the shows he’d gone to. Not that Frank minded the way Gerard shouted and commanded the audience.
Frank pinned his lip between his teeth, chewing on it absent-mindedly.
Gerard tucked his hair behind his ear, and Frank wondered how it would feel between his fingers. If he were to twirl it around his index finger while Gerard spoke to him. So close he’d be able to feel his breath.
Gerard smiled, and Frank wondered how those lips would feel against his. How it would feel if Gerard smiled against his mouth. Just before their tongues met.
What noise would Gerard make if Frank’s lips wandered down to his neck? Would he make a noise, or would he be too shy to? The coy nature Frank had heard that he had around people who flirted with him. Frank was sure he could break him out of his shell if he had the chance.
Before Frank could stop it, he was fantasising an entire scene as he watched Gerard speak onscreen, using his mere image as fuel.
Frank could see it. Those pretty eyes on him. Those delicious thighs welcoming him in. Those defined hands around his cock. And he couldn’t help but aid his imagination, using his own hand in the place of Gerard’s.
Frank’s ribcage shuddered. His body took over, throwing his head back against the couch. Eyes closed, and, behind his eyelids lay Gerard, stretched out for him. So clearly. His voice bounced around the room from the TV. He was talking about something else. Frank didn’t know what. All he was listening was the sound of his voice. His tone and pitch and melody.
When his orgasm was creeping up on him, he forced his eyes open to get one last look at Gerard’s face onscreen before his hips jumped, and he came into his underwear with a ragged, pitiful, “Gerard!”
Frank collapsed back. The TV droned on in the background. His hand was sticky. His skin was sweaty. He was mortified with what he had done. Mortified, but he came harder than he had in a long, long time.
Seeing Gerard’s face now made him feel nothing but shame, so he turned off the TV, and went to shower. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d done, further worsening his already bad day. He promised himself he would never let his attraction to Gerard lead him to masturbating to the idea of him, but, then again, it was only a matter of time.
His guilt and embarrassment didn’t stop him from doing it again. And again. And again. It was addictive. Sometimes, he jerked off to Gerard’s voice in interviews, sometimes in songs, sometimes just a picture, sometimes a mixture. The more he did it, the less guilty he felt about it. Until, eventually, it was routine. Whenever Frank felt in the mood, he would seek out a video or a song or a picture, kick off his trousers, and enjoy.
He grew more and more comfortable with the idea of it. It invaded his mind. Any fantasy he would have created in those moments crept up on him throughout the day, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The kinds of situations he’d imagine Gerard in were disgraceful to say the least.
Sometimes, they would creep up on Frank when he was having sex, but he would smother them with the feel of his own partner’s skin under his hands. He would invade his senses with her. The overwhelming amount of Gerard Way on his walls did not help him keep his mind on her, but it worked most of the time.
Paradoxically, the one day he couldn’t stop Gerard from creeping into his mind was a turning point in his life – for the better. He embarrassingly spluttered the man’s name right into the ear of his beloved girlfriend. Immediately, he pulled back, stared at her shocked expression for a moment, and then started to profusely apologise and explain himself.
He expected her to be angry. He expected this to be the last straw with her. He was waiting for her to demand he pack up his stuff, and leave. But, instead, she laughed. Bright, entertained laughter. She didn’t care. She found it funny. She knew Frank had been thinking of Gerard while having sex with her, but she didn’t care. She merely giggled and teased him.
That was the day Frank decided to start saving up for an engagement ring.
Before their wedding, Frank was working his ass off to try to make enough money to both have a nice wedding and honeymoon, and also go to a few concerts after the release of The Black Parade. He was dying to see them live again. So much so that, during the wedding, he couldn’t get his mind off how excited he was for the tour.
So, he followed them. From gig to gig. From tour to tour as the years went on. Eternally grateful for how much they were touring lately. His bank account wasn’t, but he was.
He always marked this time of his life as the best. Getting married, seeing MCR live again, and finally finding a band with a group of people who agreed musically with him, igniting his love of writing music once again. Jamia, too, was thrilled about this new establishment.
The new band managed to dampen Frank’s fixation, but didn’t get rid of it completely. It hindered his work with the band more than he liked to admit, and, as furious as it made his bandmates, they were forced to push the deadline for their album back over a year because of it.
Frank listened to Na Na Na when the single came out. He listened to it over and over. He studied Gerard’s voice throughout it. He masturbated to it at home. And it was as he was showering, washing off the shame of a brilliant orgasm, that he thought about the first time he’d met My Chemical Romance.
That day had not been very exciting for him. He had not enjoyed the opportunity to meet them. He had not enjoyed the opportunity to humanise them. Whenever he saw pictures of fans with Gerard Way, he didn’t feel the jealousy that he expected to, because that wasn’t what he wanted. He could have met them if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t. He had no desire to ever speak with them. They were not people to him. They were and always would be gods in his eyes – no matter how humble Gerard was in interviews.
Which was why he wasn’t that thrilled to come face to face with Mikey Way in a toy shop while trying to find something nice for his new-born daughters.