gerard is halfway home from the city when he changes his mind about going straight there and decides to detour to frank and mikey's place on the other side of town. it's been a boring, trying sort of day at the network; lots of tedious, bullshit meetings, with no actual creativity expended of any kind.
the sketchbook he carries is actually full of lyrics he'd scratched down while on a conference call with some production executives in la. he's been in a grumpy kind of mood, but he'd tried to write stuff about getting out of a mood like that.
it was just so fucking hard to be excited about cartoon network now that he had the band to focus his time and energies on. as the train approached the lyndhurst station, gerard hefted his bag up, and fished his cigarettes from one of the pockets of his coat.
he was down to the last three in the pack, so when he came to the last corner store before mikey and frank's street, he ducked to grab another pack. on a whim, he grabbed a six pack of heineken as a 'i didn't call before i came over, hope you guys aren't doing anything, also, we haven't really spoken in a few days, anything new?' gift.
the buzzer on the intercom is pretty fucking old and useless, but it coughs up a sputtered bzzt when gerard mashes it hard. in the minute that passes before he gets a response, it occurs to him that frank and mikey might not even be home and he thinks how it would suck to have to lug the beer back to the station and then all the way home from there.
but then frank chirps a staticky 'yeah?' through the box.
"frank, it's gerard?"
another pause, and then the door clicks, and gerard juggles the beer, his backpack, and cigarette to tug it open.
frankie greets him at their door, in sleep pants and a fucking masterpiece of dreadloc'd bed-head.
"i brought beer," gerard says, holding the cans out to frank lamely. "did i wake you up?"
"not really," frank lied. "it's cool. we've got a show tonight, so i would've been up soon. come on in."
gerard hasn't been over in a while, actually, but the place looks exactly the same. piles of eyeball promo shit on every surface, posters up, and the sofa pullout covered in frank's tangled blankets and pillows.
he follows frank into the kitchen, which allows him an eyeful of the jack-o-lantern he'd never seen before on frank's back. he's probably totally staring, but frank doesn't seem to notice. he opens two beers, and hands one to gerard.
"you on your way from work?"
"yeah. i thought i'd stop by. just some stuff about the band i wanted to talk to my brother about." he shrugs a little. he totally hadn't thought of what he'd do if frank was there without mikey. it hadn't ever really happened before.
"oh, man. it's still so fucking awesome that you guy's are doing this." frank says as he heads back to the living room/bedroom, and gerard just follows him and there's no where to sit but on the edge of the pulled-out bed next to frank. "i ran into ray and matt a couple days ago. jersey's so fucking small, right? they were at jason d.'s place, in east orange."
"right, the guy with all those fucking vintage guitars. ray's like, almost in love with that fucking guy."
frank cackled, "no, shit! you should see his face while he's playing this 1965 les paul, it was pretty awesome."
gerard snuffs the last of his cigarette out in an ashtray on the coffee table.
"ray's fucking insane about that shit. but i can't blame him."
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FIC TEIM NOW PART 1
Date: 2008-04-18 06:19 am (UTC)the sketchbook he carries is actually full of lyrics he'd scratched down while on a conference call with some production executives in la. he's been in a grumpy kind of mood, but he'd tried to write stuff about getting out of a mood like that.
it was just so fucking hard to be excited about cartoon network now that he had the band to focus his time and energies on. as the train approached the lyndhurst station, gerard hefted his bag up, and fished his cigarettes from one of the pockets of his coat.
he was down to the last three in the pack, so when he came to the last corner store before mikey and frank's street, he ducked to grab another pack. on a whim, he grabbed a six pack of heineken as a 'i didn't call before i came over, hope you guys aren't doing anything, also, we haven't really spoken in a few days, anything new?' gift.
the buzzer on the intercom is pretty fucking old and useless, but it coughs up a sputtered bzzt when gerard mashes it hard. in the minute that passes before he gets a response, it occurs to him that frank and mikey might not even be home and he thinks how it would suck to have to lug the beer back to the station and then all the way home from there.
but then frank chirps a staticky 'yeah?' through the box.
"frank, it's gerard?"
another pause, and then the door clicks, and gerard juggles the beer, his backpack, and cigarette to tug it open.
frankie greets him at their door, in sleep pants and a fucking masterpiece of dreadloc'd bed-head.
"i brought beer," gerard says, holding the cans out to frank lamely. "did i wake you up?"
"not really," frank lied. "it's cool. we've got a show tonight, so i would've been up soon. come on in."
gerard hasn't been over in a while, actually, but the place looks exactly the same. piles of eyeball promo shit on every surface, posters up, and the sofa pullout covered in frank's tangled blankets and pillows.
he follows frank into the kitchen, which allows him an eyeful of the jack-o-lantern he'd never seen before on frank's back. he's probably totally staring, but frank doesn't seem to notice. he opens two beers, and hands one to gerard.
"you on your way from work?"
"yeah. i thought i'd stop by. just some stuff about the band i wanted to talk to my brother about." he shrugs a little. he totally hadn't thought of what he'd do if frank was there without mikey. it hadn't ever really happened before.
"oh, man. it's still so fucking awesome that you guy's are doing this." frank says as he heads back to the living room/bedroom, and gerard just follows him and there's no where to sit but on the edge of the pulled-out bed next to frank. "i ran into ray and matt a couple days ago. jersey's so fucking small, right? they were at jason d.'s place, in east orange."
"right, the guy with all those fucking vintage guitars. ray's like, almost in love with that fucking guy."
frank cackled, "no, shit! you should see his face while he's playing this 1965 les paul, it was pretty awesome."
gerard snuffs the last of his cigarette out in an ashtray on the coffee table.
"ray's fucking insane about that shit. but i can't blame him."