I Know I Know I Know

Gerard pokes at the bridge of Bert's glasses and bites down on his lip. "And then," he says solemnly, raising his eyebrows, "they didn't stop. Just acted like we weren't in the room with two microphones. It was so disappointing. And kind of gross. Not, not that Pat's gross or anything--well, the fact that it was Pat was pretty gross, but I'm not saying that Patrick has a gross body or anything. He's kind of cute and pudgy, but, um. What was I saying?"

Gerard, instead of backtracking his words and overstimulating his brain, watches Ryan walk from a bus to a tree and just stand there.

"Hey, I'm gonna go stare at that tree with Ryan," he tells Bert, hitting him lightly on the chest and pushing himself up off of the couch. His bones crack when he's standing because he's been on the couch since Pete disappeared for sound check, and that was at least two hours ago. Before he steps off he stretches his back, leaning this way and that with his arms stretched over his head, until there's several satisfying pops and a dull warmth seeping into his joints.

Sometimes, Gerard likes to think that he's sneaky. Which might be why he tiptoes behind Ryan and doesn't say anything for a long time. But. He likes standing there without having to make small talk. He likes feeling the warmth of another person so close, the feeling of emptyness spilling from his parted lips instead of stories. Ryan's frozen, transfixed on the tree, reaching out a hand to run along the bark and looking up and down, first at the roots and then at the leaves.

Gerard has it made up in his mind that he's writing poems about the tree in his head, transcribed onto the lobes of his brains so the words won't be lost when he steps away from the naturistic hold and back into the world. It's just the way he likes to see Ryan. As, as an artist. He doesn't want to think about what Ryan does when he's not being amazing and part of a really successful band, because. There's no guarantee that it'll be the same as what Gerard expects and that's always disappointing. He doesn't want to see Ryan laying on an outdoor couch drinking beer and cupping some idiot's crotch. He only wants to see him thinking and writing and playing. It's a lot to ask of a person.

Ryan reaches back and grabs onto one of Gerard's arms, pulling him and arranging him until Gerard's the one standing in front with Ryan's arms wrapped around his waist. The firm weight of Ryan's chin is digging into his shoulder and he tilts his head to meet it.

"Hi, Ry," he greets, closing his eyes when his head is resting on top of Ryan's.

"Heya, G." The grip around his waist tightens and he's pressed up against the buttons on Ryan's vest. "Are you dating Bert McCracken?"

"Nuh-uh. Bert's married. This is just how we interact. He likes my dick lots."

So Gerard's not a ninja and he's prone to word-vomit. All's good, he's been told those qualities are endearing. Apparently not qualities to make up the perfect boyfriend, but he has a lot of friends who seem to be able to tolerate him. In short bursts.

Ryan's laughter makes him shiver pleasantly and grab onto both of his wrists.

"I can tell, actually. I think most people on this tour do."

"Hm." Gerard's confused. "What do you mean? Because really, Bert's the only person who grabs it. I haven't really had anyone else try it. Well, okay, Pete, but that's Pete. Mmm, and Vicky made me chocolate chip cookies. Does that mean she likes my dick? Cause she can have it, dude. Cookies," Gerard stresses, so Ryan knows the magnitude of the food and what effects it has on Gerard.

Ryan laughs again, scratchy and light. Gerard can feel it on his back and it makes him tingle. "You're in a goofy mood, aren't you? Normally you're so quiet."

Gerard freezes. Does--is he being annoying? He's just been hyper today, but people have been treating him differently all day, and what the hell? Did someone switch his tea with magic potion this morning? It was Patrick, wasn't it? Of course. This is just like him.

"It's nice to see you happy for once," Ryan goes on, giving Gerard an affectionate squeeze. "For a while there..."

"I was being emo about Frank?" he finishes, figuring that he doesn't want to hear it from Ryan. Not really. "I know. It hurt. But everyone here's been so nice to me, I don't really care that much anymore." A lie, but not a big one. Pete makes him forget about Frank. Bert does, Gabe does, Ryan does, Vicky and Hayley and Patrick all do, but he still cares. He still gets up every morning wondering if Frank's waking up alone or--or with his brother, and in that case, what about Alicia? Does she know about all of this?

He feels the brush of lips on his neck and sighs, missing the feel. Just. Missing it. Wanting to melt into it and never surface again because the feeling's beautiful, it's rare, and what's the use of letting something like that go?

"It's good you're over him."

"Yeah, well. This is only temporary, because I'm going to go home at the end of the summer and go emo again," Gerard sighs. He's really done with tiptoeing around the bad things in his life. They're there whether you talk about them or not, so. Why not?

"Or go on tour with Fall Out Boy some more?" Ryan suggests.

"By then Pete will have found someone else to hang around with."

"Is that what you think of Pete? He'll drop you?" There's a sympathetic tilt to Ryan's words, and Gerard groans.

"I--it's not that I think he'll do it on purpose, but. Really, how long can someone tolerate me? He's always having to make me feel better, and all I do is drag him down or get him into trouble, and why would he want to keep that up? When, when I don't even fucking belong here, really! I'm just here because no one at home wanted me. And I was stupid enough to think that I'd be coming here to help."

And now he's weighing Ryan down with his worries and complaints.

"You're too much like Pete, you know. He likes getting into trouble. Don't worry about that. He likes having a friend as weird as him." Ryan kisses the back of his neck again, not removing his lips to go on. "He just. Picked the wrong Way the first time around."

Gerard gives a strangled laugh. Strangled, because now he's thinking that maybe this isn't really as friendly as he originally assumed looking at a tree would be. It's personal, tender, Ryan's listening to him and has his arms around him and it feels like someone gives a shit. Like they are starting to, at least. Like this is a beginning of some alternate world where Bert doesn't tell him to go fuck himself every two seconds and he hasn't really picked up his sketchbook in days.

"I'll forgive you for that pun, dude," he says, bumping Ryan's chin with the side of his own. "But only if you'll come with me to catch the last of the FOB set so Pete doesn't get mad at me for not being there."

"Okay. Why do I need to come?"

"Human shield."

*

The graphite stains on his fingers transfer onto his face when he wipes at his eye and Patrick tells him that it looks like he's been knocked out. Gerard feels a pang of nostalgia, a memory in his mind playing of Frank and himself sitting on a bed doing each other's makeup. Frank always made it look like Gerard had been knocked out. Or previously dead. He'd pile on the red shadow underneath Gerard's eyes, giggling the whole time because he knew that Gerard would end up being asked about thirty times what the hell happened to him.

The lines on his paper slowly curve into tentacles attached to a central machine that pumps ink into them. In the background, the TV is showing a rerun of Jaws and Gerard does his best not to think about his brother crawling into his bed when they were little after dreams of sharks. He draws a shark with glasses on a corner of the page.

Pete bursts through the door fuming; it's the first time Gerard's seen him all day and the first thing that happens is Pete throwing a badly-aimed stale bagel at Gerard's neck.

"Gerard, what the fuck is wrong with you!" he screeches. Gerard looks up at Pete, startled and confused. He has no idea what he's done, but it doesn't really surprise him that he's fucked something else up.

"What?"

Pete flails. He plops on the couch next to Gerard and punches him in the arm. "Are you looking to fuck everyone on tour, or something? Because Ryan's my friend, dude." He hits Gerard again. "And he's ten years younger than you, perv."

"I didn't do anything with Ryan! He has a girlfriend, fuckwit! And stop hitting me!" He bats at Pete's hands and scoots himself into the corner of the couch as far as he can fit. It doesn't really serve to get him out of Pete's way, and soon he finds himself being pinned down, head resting on the arm rest and his body blanketed under the weight of Pete's. They're face to face, breathing each other's air.

"Then why was he kissing you?"

"A lot of people kiss me, you think I know why? Just--just get off of me, okay? I'm not doing anything with anybody." He pushes at the the man crushing him but fails to free himself, so he resigns to slump into the cushions.

"I think making out qualifies as something, okay?"

Gerard tries to disappear into the couch, but the forces of illusion are working against him. His body stays visible and he continues to get death-glared at.

"I. I didn't mean to. He kissed me first, and. What the hell was I supposed to do?" At Pete's growing expression of disappointment, he sighs. "He knows that I don't want to date him or anything, why are you getting so upset? I'm not--I would never hurt him, you know that."

Pete chokes out a shaky laugh and runs his thumbs over Gerard's cheeks. "Oh my God, you're so dumb, Gee."

"I know that. Just so we're on the same page, what are we calling me dumb about?"

"You're sort of painfully oblivious, aren't you?"

When Gerard nods animatedly, Pete smiles and leans down to touch their noses together. From the other end of the room Patrick gives a long warning, "Pete," and Pete sighs.

"I'm going to draw you a picture, 'kay Gee-face?" He tweaks Gerard's chin and jumps to his feet, dashing off into the bunk room.

Gerard sits up, motions to Patrick across the room with his sketchbook. "Was that only weird to me?"

*

He's sitting on a bench, blowing smoke into the darkness. There's a bonfire somewhere around, Gerard can hear the exuberant hoots of drunks and smell the alcohol, and it hurts just a little bit that it's better for him to stay away. It's never been easy, exactly, being in a band and being sober. But being in a band, on tour, without the rest of your band to support you? With the rest of them at home, hanging out with each other, laughing behind your back? Gerard kind of wants to bash his head into the cement. But then he'd be right to square one with his problems with alcohol, and he might as well just start drinking again.

A paper plane sails right into his lap, crumpling at the tip as it collides with his thigh. A giggle sounds far off but Gerard doesn't turn in time to catch who it was. Instead he turns his attention back to the plane and unfolds it.

There's a drawing. It's. It's no masterpiece, done in a scratchy hand by crayolas and smudged with fingerprints. But it's sweet in its simplicity. There's a big, squiggly circle drawn in the middle with green continents splattered across it. It takes him a minute to see it as the Earth. He flips it over, and, written in red, are words that make water tingle behind his eyes.

Let me give the world to you.
(Because you deserve it.)
Love, Pete.