Status: Completed.
Jazz Hands
1/1
Hey, wanna come over? I need a drinking buddy.
It was the off season of touring with his band, and Gerard Way was sitting at his house, bored and quite alone with only a bottle of Captain Morgan, still frosted from his freezer, a shot glass, and a pre-poured glass of orange juice for a chaser. He sent the same text to his three closest friends; his bandmates: Frank Iero (his brother's best friend), Mikey Way (his brother and best friend for as long as he could remember), and Ray Toro (the man who would be his best friend if not for Mikey), then poured himself a shot and waited for their replies.
Ray responded the quickest:
Ugh, G, you should have texted me earlier. Date night with the girlfriend. Tomorrow?
It's cool. See you tomorrow. Always in need of a good DB.
His brother, Mikey, took a full ten minutes to respond. He took his shot, then considered another during the wait.
Can't. I'm at Frank's and we already started drinking. We're just smoking a bowl, too, so I better not. He says to come over to his place, though. We both want to see you :)
Gerard sighed, shaking his head. He should have guessed that Mikey was with Frank. They were inseparable. He would say that they were joined at the hip, he chuckled darkly to himself, but Mikey was about 5'11 and Frank was about five foot nothing, so it would be more like Frank's hip to Mikey's thigh, if anything.
He considered taking the invitation for a few moments, but decided that it wasn't worth it. He felt that they would have invited him originally if they'd wanted him over. Mikey was surely just being polite by biding him to come along as well, and even if he could get over the fact that he hadn't been offered to join them originally, he didn't really like to hang out with them alone. At least when Ray was around, Gerard could ignore the fact that Frank slipped his hand behind his younger brother's back and he and Ray could pretend that they didn't notice the too long lapses of time that the pair disappeared together.
Already started drinking, too. Gerard half-lied, because, really, he would be fine driving after only a shot. Tomorrow night instead, if you're free. My place. Ray's supposed to come over. Four's a great number for a drinking game.
Mikey's reply was much quicker this time, and Gerard had a sneaking suspicion that it was because he and Frank were spending less time discussing what to write back.
Sure thing, bro, but if we play truth, dare, or shot, you better stick to a few truths. We all know that you always end up with less clothes than I like to see you with when you pick the last two ;)
Gerard rolled his eyes. His brother was such a prick, but he supposed that that was why he liked spending time with him so much. He always made people laugh. He always made Gerard laugh. And though he wanted to be happy for his brother, Gerard felt a slight tinge of jealousy that Mikey seemed to prefer Frank's company over his nowadays.
Needless to say: Frank never texted back.
Regardless, Gerard set his phone aside, deciding to try not to think about it. He poured another shot of rum for himself and downed it, chasing it immediately, as he was not yet drunk enough for his taste buds to be numb enough not to need it.
He could always go to the bar, he supposed, as he poured a third shot, because two shots was still fine to drive on...
But then he downed the third, and he could still take a taxi...
It's better than drinking alone, he told himself, but he still poured another shot, quickly downing it, this time, not bothering with a chaser, as he poured his fifth shot instead.
At least there, he could talk to someone, if only the bartender. But that was nearly as pathetic as what he was doing now. Six shots down. But he could probably meet a girl or something, but he'd have to make sure it wasn't at a bar that had a dance floor. Seven shots. Bitches always wanted him to dance when he tried to pick them up. Eight shots. God, he hated dancing.
Nine shots. No, fuck the bar. His friends would be back from having lives to keep him company tomorrow night. Tonight, he'd probably just-
He stood before he could complete the thought, wobbling slightly. He had to piss. You could never tell, he reminded himself, how drunk you really were until you stood up, and he was way passed the point of tipsy, though thankfully, not shitfaced. At least not yet.
He relieved himself once he found his way to the toilet and he was glad that he was not at a bar, because he would have rather not had any other guys watching him as he looked down to his own dick in his hands.
Fuck.
If he went to the bar, it probably wouldn't be throbbing as much as it was right now. And a drinking game tomorrow would be a whole lot better for everyone if he invited the cute type of party girls that were always hanging around that scene. Of course, Ray's girlfriend might object to this, and, fuck, Mikey and Frank were probably content feeling each other up, but, hell, he wobbled slightly as he backed from the toilet, pulling his boxers and jeans up, not bothering with his buttons, they couldn't blame him for wanting to not be the only fucking one left out for once.
Shit.
He found his way back to the kitchen, pouring his tenth shot, but hell if he could keep account of all of them by now.
The fucking dancing and the fucking shots and the need to find a girl to be with for the night.
Fucking shots.
His hand slopped Captain down his front. What the fuck did he really need company for anyway? This Captain was fine company, as was his hand that poured the shots, and his hand could do much more than pour sloppily. His head was spinning and the euphoria from the rum was enough to make him at least alright for the night.
And as for the dancing, he'd stick to the drunken quiver that made holding the damn rum so hard. Fucking jazz hands, he told himself with an inward laugh. His hand slid downward, under the table and his eyes closed with a slight groan. They might not make him happy, but they would at least give him a similar sensation, at least for the night.
It was the off season of touring with his band, and Gerard Way was sitting at his house, bored and quite alone with only a bottle of Captain Morgan, still frosted from his freezer, a shot glass, and a pre-poured glass of orange juice for a chaser. He sent the same text to his three closest friends; his bandmates: Frank Iero (his brother's best friend), Mikey Way (his brother and best friend for as long as he could remember), and Ray Toro (the man who would be his best friend if not for Mikey), then poured himself a shot and waited for their replies.
Ray responded the quickest:
Ugh, G, you should have texted me earlier. Date night with the girlfriend. Tomorrow?
It's cool. See you tomorrow. Always in need of a good DB.
His brother, Mikey, took a full ten minutes to respond. He took his shot, then considered another during the wait.
Can't. I'm at Frank's and we already started drinking. We're just smoking a bowl, too, so I better not. He says to come over to his place, though. We both want to see you :)
Gerard sighed, shaking his head. He should have guessed that Mikey was with Frank. They were inseparable. He would say that they were joined at the hip, he chuckled darkly to himself, but Mikey was about 5'11 and Frank was about five foot nothing, so it would be more like Frank's hip to Mikey's thigh, if anything.
He considered taking the invitation for a few moments, but decided that it wasn't worth it. He felt that they would have invited him originally if they'd wanted him over. Mikey was surely just being polite by biding him to come along as well, and even if he could get over the fact that he hadn't been offered to join them originally, he didn't really like to hang out with them alone. At least when Ray was around, Gerard could ignore the fact that Frank slipped his hand behind his younger brother's back and he and Ray could pretend that they didn't notice the too long lapses of time that the pair disappeared together.
Already started drinking, too. Gerard half-lied, because, really, he would be fine driving after only a shot. Tomorrow night instead, if you're free. My place. Ray's supposed to come over. Four's a great number for a drinking game.
Mikey's reply was much quicker this time, and Gerard had a sneaking suspicion that it was because he and Frank were spending less time discussing what to write back.
Sure thing, bro, but if we play truth, dare, or shot, you better stick to a few truths. We all know that you always end up with less clothes than I like to see you with when you pick the last two ;)
Gerard rolled his eyes. His brother was such a prick, but he supposed that that was why he liked spending time with him so much. He always made people laugh. He always made Gerard laugh. And though he wanted to be happy for his brother, Gerard felt a slight tinge of jealousy that Mikey seemed to prefer Frank's company over his nowadays.
Needless to say: Frank never texted back.
Regardless, Gerard set his phone aside, deciding to try not to think about it. He poured another shot of rum for himself and downed it, chasing it immediately, as he was not yet drunk enough for his taste buds to be numb enough not to need it.
He could always go to the bar, he supposed, as he poured a third shot, because two shots was still fine to drive on...
But then he downed the third, and he could still take a taxi...
It's better than drinking alone, he told himself, but he still poured another shot, quickly downing it, this time, not bothering with a chaser, as he poured his fifth shot instead.
At least there, he could talk to someone, if only the bartender. But that was nearly as pathetic as what he was doing now. Six shots down. But he could probably meet a girl or something, but he'd have to make sure it wasn't at a bar that had a dance floor. Seven shots. Bitches always wanted him to dance when he tried to pick them up. Eight shots. God, he hated dancing.
Nine shots. No, fuck the bar. His friends would be back from having lives to keep him company tomorrow night. Tonight, he'd probably just-
He stood before he could complete the thought, wobbling slightly. He had to piss. You could never tell, he reminded himself, how drunk you really were until you stood up, and he was way passed the point of tipsy, though thankfully, not shitfaced. At least not yet.
He relieved himself once he found his way to the toilet and he was glad that he was not at a bar, because he would have rather not had any other guys watching him as he looked down to his own dick in his hands.
Fuck.
If he went to the bar, it probably wouldn't be throbbing as much as it was right now. And a drinking game tomorrow would be a whole lot better for everyone if he invited the cute type of party girls that were always hanging around that scene. Of course, Ray's girlfriend might object to this, and, fuck, Mikey and Frank were probably content feeling each other up, but, hell, he wobbled slightly as he backed from the toilet, pulling his boxers and jeans up, not bothering with his buttons, they couldn't blame him for wanting to not be the only fucking one left out for once.
Shit.
He found his way back to the kitchen, pouring his tenth shot, but hell if he could keep account of all of them by now.
The fucking dancing and the fucking shots and the need to find a girl to be with for the night.
Fucking shots.
His hand slopped Captain down his front. What the fuck did he really need company for anyway? This Captain was fine company, as was his hand that poured the shots, and his hand could do much more than pour sloppily. His head was spinning and the euphoria from the rum was enough to make him at least alright for the night.
And as for the dancing, he'd stick to the drunken quiver that made holding the damn rum so hard. Fucking jazz hands, he told himself with an inward laugh. His hand slid downward, under the table and his eyes closed with a slight groan. They might not make him happy, but they would at least give him a similar sensation, at least for the night.