DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE OR THEIR ESCAPADES. THIS IS FICTION, FICTION, FICTION. DON'T GET YOUR KNICKERS IN A KNOT.

He turns his head to me, and I lock up. My throat closes; I have to work extra hard to swallow the post-show beer I'm drinking.

"Hey, Gee. Good job tonight."

"Uh," I stammer, "you, too, Frank. But honestly, it was just like any other show we've ever done."

Frank looks all cute and indignant. "Two songs or not, we rocked that shit."

I smirk. "Plus that was only our, what, fourth gig?"

"Stop with the negativity! I was trying to stroke your ego, you know."

I grin at him. "Well, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

He walks away and I stay sitting here, sipping at my drink. I watch them all celebrate like they do, high fives and grievances and all that. I would, too, but I'm just never in the mood. I attribute this to being too tired from performances, but I know in the back of my mind that my depression hasn't gone away. No amount of pills or therapy is getting rid of it, and honestly, things are looking pretty grim. I hate to sound needy or something, but I know why I'm depressed. Sure, September Eleventh was awful, and it really triggered my depression, and I know I'm prone to it, but it's because of all my repression, especially the fact that-

"'Rardy?"

My reverie is interrupted by my brother. "Yes?"

"Wanna come back to my place? Everyone's gonna."

I think about Mikey's dodgy, shithole of an apartment. I'd much rather sit at home and drink myself to sleep. But if everyone's going… that is, if Frank's going… "Sure, why not?"

Mikey grins and claps me on the back. I finish the rest of my beer and chuck the can someplace. I stretch once I get out of my crappy little folding chair and follow Mikey and the rest out to our cars. We'd taken mine and Matt's cars to get here, and we've got to take the same ones to get back. Matt takes Frank and Ray, while I take myself, Mikey, and Bob, our sound guy.

Mikey's apartment is a little ways away, and he won't stop incessantly chattering. I tune out after thirty seconds and focus on the road. God knows I need focus right now. And Bob doesn't say or do anything. Bob's a good guy; everyone underestimates him. In a way, I think he and I are the same. We don't need to talk, we like to sit, we appreciate a good sound, and we like to drink. Like I said, good guy.

I take what seems like an entire night to parallel park and get into Mikey's place. It's dark, dirty, dingy, and the air is stagnant. He flicks on the light, kicks his shoes off, and heads to his tiny kitchen. The rest of us follow suit. Mikey tosses us a cooler each, and I see when he backs away that alcohol is all he's stocked his fridge with. I'll admit that I feel a pang of guilt; after all, I am his older brother and I should be setting an example better than the one I'm setting right now, but then I remember: I don't give a fuck. About… anything.

We're sitting on Mikey's couch, me looking at Frank, and Frank looking at me. Every so often, I or he takes a drink form our bottles, never breaking our gaze. It's nice. But it's dulled. It's like… I know I should be feeling something of substance, I understand that I should feel some sensation, some butterflies or sparks. But I'm not. I used to. When we first met, when I caught him staring at me during our first gig, but even that was dulled by my state of mind.

"You alright?" he inquires suddenly.

"Mhm. Why d'you ask?"

"Just curious. You seem a little out of it."

"I'm kind of wrecked right now, in case you didn't notice," I point out dumbly.

"I see that, but that's not what I meant. You seem… sad."

"I'm clinically depressed. You've seen my meds, in that Tupperware container…"

"Again, Gerard, not what I meant. You look like you're in some sort of pain."

So he's caught on. "Ah," I sniff. "It's nothing. Tired. My eyes hurt."

Frank laughs. "Okay, man," he brushes off as he takes a drink, "whatever you say."

I nod, but I don't want the conversation to end here. I adore getting to know Frank, because even though he's in the band, he's not quite my friend yet. We're more acquaintances, but I feel like I owe him my company because he's gotten us all our gigs so far. Plus, he's a cool kid. "Hey, I'm goin' outside for a smoke. You comin'?"

Frank nods. "Yeah, I could use one."

We head outside without saying a word. I offer him a cigarette from my pack and he takes it with a smile. He sticks it in his lip and looks at me expectantly. I take my lighter from my pocket and flick it on. I light the smoke for him and he takes a long drag. I light up and take a pull. Before I exhale, I run my hand through my hair. Wow, it's getting long. And kinda greasy. I should shower and get a damn haircut.

"So," Frank rasps after blowing the smoke away from him. I'm focused on its dancing from his perfectly shaped lips so much that I barely hear him. "what's up?"

"Not much. And you?"

"Same as you. Standing here, freezing my balls off, having a smoke."

"You didn't have to come," I say, a little bitterly.

"I wanted to. You're better company than the rest of them. That's how it goes with lead singers," says Frank.

"That's true. So, hey, while I've got you out here, why don't you tell me about yourself?"

Frank looks taken aback by my brashness, but after blinking a few times, he looks like he's gotten a handle on himself. He's probably attributing my niceness and intrigue to the alcohol.

"Hmm… what's there to tell? I'm twenty, I like Black Flag, I drink like a fish, I'm pretty damn awesome at rhythm guitar, and I'm essentially pretty boring."

"I see. And that compares to my being twenty-five, liking The Misfits, drinking like a dehydrated fish, having quite a voice, and being more boring than you."

"Nah," Frank says. "You've had five more years. There had to be something exciting in there."

"Clinical depression isn't that exciting, buddy."

Frank looks at me like he's sorry he made me say it. And so am I. I've probably wrecked my nonexistent chances with him by now. "I bet not."

I shake my head. "But I'm being a downer when I shouldn't. Probably scaring you shitless."

Frank suddenly laughs. "Takes a lot to scare me."

"Right," I reply, taking the last pull my smoke will offer and stomping on the butt. "Coming in?"

Frank inhales largely from his cigarette and stamps it out. "Sure," he says, blowing the smoke in my face and walking past me.

I follow him back into the apartment building, staggering slightly, as I chase my prey. I want him. All it took was that little gesture of nonchalant masculinity, and now I want him. If he's straight, he fucking won't be for long.

Ray notices our presence first; my guess is the rest of them are too bombed to care. "Hey! Where were you?"

"Smoking," Frank answers.

"Oh, I see. Anyone know what time it is?"

"Fucked if I-" I start to say, but I'm interrupted.

"One thirty. Why, Toro? You got someplace to be?" interrupts Frank. My stomach churns and it takes me by surprise at first. I'm not used to feeling things, let alone feeling butterflies. It's actually kind of… nice. Albeit irritating, as butterflies often are.

"Nope, just wondering. Good show tonight, by the way. Nice energy."

"Aw, thanks. But I'm never without energy," Frank boasts as he gets himself a beer from the mini-fridge. He spins round with two cans in his hand and lobs me one. I open it and catch the foam with my mouth before it can go anywhere. I'm a master at that.

I see that Mikey's passed out on his couch, Ray's on the floor, Bob's somewhere else and Matt is probably near Bob. We're practically alone. I feel that same flutter in my stomach as I did before. I shrug to myself, look around, and plop down on the floor where I'd been standing. I stretch my black-skinny-jean-clad legs out in front of me, then pull them up to my chest. I am nervous. I haven't been nervous in a long, long time. It's new, it's foreign, and it's annoying. It gets worse when Frank comes and sits beside me.

"To gigs and shitty apartments," Frank toasts, holding up his beer can. I touch it with mine and take a swig. Liquid courage indeed.

"Cheers."

Frank nods. There's something about him, something that makes me want to pounce on him right here. Repressed homosexuality, no doubt, but there's something more. He's got an air about him that attracts me like nothing else has ever attracted me to anyone before. I stare as his licks his chapped lips and drinks from his can. I see in his eyes some form of need that I recognize in my own before I medicate myself. Frank is addicted to some form of narcotic. I'm not observant, just experienced. I want to ask him what it is he wants in his bloodstream, but he answers my question for me.

"I gotta go to the bathroom…" he trails off and heads to the back of the place. There are a few bathroom drugs. Cocaine is the most popular, with heroin and ketamine coming in at second and third.

When Frank comes out, I know. He isn't in a k-hole, and he's not sluggish. Frank is a cokehead. He's even all strung out to confirm my theory. "Hey," he pipes.

"What's up?" I ask patronizingly.

"Not- um, not much. Do you wanna do something right now?"

"At quarter to two in the morning?"

"Yeah, man, yeah! We could like, go for a walk or something!"

I roll my eyes and follow him out of the apartment. It's a muggy August night, and so the walk is kind of refreshing. I'm glad Frank decided to get high just now; the fresh air is clearing my head. Well, as clear as a drunken haze can become.

"God, is no place open?!" Frank rambles. He's speaking so quickly I have to really focus on what he's saying in order to understand.

"I don't think so. Like I said, it's almost two in the morning."

"There're bars!"

"I'm drunk enough."

Frank makes an exasperated noise and stomps his foot. I grab him by the shoulders. "Okay, Frank, I know you're strung out right now, by try to rein it in? You don't know how hard it is to keep up with a cocaine addict when all you are is inebriated."

Frank looks at me all doe-eyed, like he's shocked that I figured it out. I decide to keep walking and confide in him. "I've done it all, Frank. I know what it's like. I've been there. You said I had five years on you. Well, it was only last year that I stopped snorting everything in sight. You'll notice how I'm always stuffed up. Long-standing effects from four years of cocaine, ketamine, and heroin. So I know, alright? I know."

Frank blinks. It looks like I've sobered him up. "You? Really?"

"I'm not a fucking angel, kid."

Frank sniffs and rubs his nose. "If it like, offends you, I didn't mean to-"

"No worries. That was a lot of stuff I just said. Whatever, it's no issue."

Frank grins at me and holds out his hand. "Thanks."

I shake it. "Anytime."

I don't want to let go of his hand, and make this contact end. He's warm, and soft, and his hands are calloused but comforting in a way. And he doesn't seem to be inclined to let go, either. He spins his hand to interlace our fingers, but I jerk it away. "Dude!" I exclaim. "I don't… I'm not… I don't swing that way." I wince at my lie.

Frank looks shocked at himself, not at me. "I don't even know why I… me neither."

"Should we go back?"

"Can't we stay out here for a little bit longer? Just 'til I come down a little."

I sigh and, against my better judgement, slide my hand back to its former spot and squeeze. "Just a little bit longer."