The Piano Player

Was it honestly a dream? If he thought about it, he could still feel the spiky stubble that had covered his head. He could still smell the divine smell of a sober Frank. How could all this be a dream? Rob pulled himself to his elbows and looked around the bedroom. The early morning sun tinted the room red. He looked over to the clippers lying on the dresser. In a heart-stopping moment, he thought he saw a pool of blood around the device. He blinked it away, however, blaming it on sleep.

He hadn’t been dreaming of blood though.

He slipped from between the crisp bed-sheets and cupped himself as he wandered around the bedroom, looking for suitable clothes. The notion was pointless; there was no one here who hadn’t seen it before. Finally, he found his boxers, on the floor, half hidden by the rug. He pulled them up his skinny thighs and padded downstairs.

The familiar, comforting whirr of the coffee machine melted his slight paranoia. As he made his way into the living room, he collected the post, most of which was fan mail for Frank. The warmth of the mug seeped into his hands, sending shivers pulsing through his creamy skin. The leather of the couch was unbearable; Rob chose the floor instead.

He aimlessly channel hopped for a few minutes, before deciding to satisfy his Pop Tart craving. He met Frank in the kitchen. The mornings were always delicate, Frank could go either way. On one hand he could have a monstrous hangover and reply with short remarks. On the other hand, he could be fine and happily share the morning with his beautiful boyfriend.

“Morning,” Rob mumbled, wrapping his arms around Frank’s neck. Here was the crunch: either Frank shakes him off sharply, or he turns and grins lazily. Thankfully, he turned and predictably grinned lazily at his boyfriend.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Frank smiled, wrapping himself further around Rob, in a search for warmth.

“Pop Tarts.” Frank chuckled to himself, before planting a kiss on Rob’s lips.

“I love you,” he smiled. His short tattooed arms reached for the cupboards he knew he couldn’t reach. At times like these, the shorter man cursed his genes. Rob picked him up, so he could search the cupboards.

“This is so gay,” Frank laughed, in reference to his lift.

“I tried to install lower cupboards, you know,” Rob reminded. “However, a certain someone insisted we should make use of the high ceilings. You stubborn ass.” He prodded Frank in the side.

“Stubborn?!” Frank gasped in mock horror. His hands finally found the garish orange Pop Tart box. He turned around so he was straddling Rob. Just as Rob leant up to meet his lips, Frank rammed the box into the side of his head.

“Make your own Pop Tarts, bitch. I refuse to put up with your abuse,” and with that, Frank hopped down, stuck his nose in the air and stomped out of the room.

“Just so you know,” Rob yelled to the retreating back, “you broke my Pop Tarts, love.” He opened the packet to find, sure enough, the Pop Tarts were shattered beyond toastabilty. Deciding cold Pop Tarts were better than no Pop Tarts, he tipped the contents onto a plate and followed Frank into the living room, armed with cold Pop Tarts and a now cold coffee.

“I suffer because of you, you know.” The statement hit a raw nerve. Both men realized, subconsciously, Rob was not referring to the cold Pop Tarts. Frank’s eyes filled with remorse. He bowed his head, hiding from problems, as usual.

“I’m sorry, I really am,” Frank said, barely audibly.

“Dude, I don’t mind about some Pop Tarts, lighten up,” Rob joked uncertainly. Frank looked up sadly, meeting Rob’s eyes.

“Rob, I do know what I put you through. I’m not that heartless. I wish I could meet you again in a different world. A world away from all the drugs, the fame, where we could just be happy. I want you to know this while I’m sober, Rob. I love you. I love you more than anyone I have ever known.” Rob’s little heart filled with joy, he was shit at deep stuff.

“Frank, honestly I’m fine with it.”

”It’s just not enough, is it?” Frank questioned, before getting up and leaving the room.

Rob sat back, slightly shocked. Were they really having that conversation? Would it turn out to be one of those shockingly real dreams? He knew it was early days, but his mind began to wander. He began thinking of how he would slowly coax Frank from the booze, the blow. It would be hard, after all, he had no euphoria, all he could offer was love. Frank Iero didn’t seem like the kind of man who would settle for love.