midnight madness |frerard; boyxboy|

You Can't Play With Us

Before the read:

unedited, for now. revenge!Gerard and Frank with his buzzcut

Frank Iero, lead singer for Pencey Prep, was a grade-A, first-class, all-around asshole. Read the tabloids, read the online horror stories of local punk kids meeting their "idol", Frank, only to come home crying not-so-punk-tears, ask your neighbor-- everyone knew that Frank was not someone you wanted to mingle with.

Gerard was a struggling musician and artist, struggling an understatement to describe how awful life had been going since he dropped out of college. But this flame inside him, this colorful imagination and drive to cut through barriers with his strange art, refused to be extinguished so easily. Not that much of the last three years had been easy, that is.

Apart from his underappreciated art and glaring self-loathing, Gerard wanted to meet Frank Iero. No, he wasn't a glutton for punishment, nor was he one of those fans who turned a blind eye to well-documented accusations against any old lead singer they fantasized about. Gerard wanted to meet Frank Iero because he wanted to piss him off and possibly, maybe, perhaps join his band.

Gerard was self-conscious about his singing; he never sang in front of people, only in his car so no one could hear him or in the pub's after hours after bribing the owner a few years ago. Whether it was driving to the gallery he like to wander around staring at honored art he wished was his own, or just bellowing into the empty pub, that was his time to let it all out without any fear of judgment or failure. And though he was this self-conscious, part of him knew he had something to offer.

He also knew what his own style was, morbid and dark, leaning toward the edge of revenge-seeking vampiric fantasy, something that he knew would clash in the most gorgeous way with Frank's more full-on, spit-in-your-mouth, gritty style. And if Frank was about to turn down that offer, he wasn't just an asshole, he was a goddamned fool.

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It was Saturday night, the night Gerard planned to finally meet Frank Iero at the local pub he was performing at. He got dressed and packed a satchel full of things he would need to make his point to Frank: tapes of singing samples, headphones, a small pad of paper, two pens, and a few bottles of liquid courage.

He laced his boots with shaky hands and stormed out of the house, the brisk wind stinging his cheeks and sending a chill up his spine. He went to the bus station, tapping his foot nervously as he waited, wondering what the fuck he was doing and why. This is never going to fucking work, I know it. He's just going to laugh at me and I'll end up crying in my pillow like every other punk kid who's approached him.

Pencey Prep's show was fantastic, exhilarating for everyone who was there. The pits were brutal and sweaty and something Gerard desperately avoided. Though he loved the loud and aggressive music that boomed in the speakers above, he didn't particularly love the loud and aggressive men jumping and punching each other, so he stayed at the bar and watched Pencey play in a safer environment.

As the show came to a close, he downed the final beer he had in his bag. He couldn't deny his cheeks were warm and his confidence had shot up a couple notches. The band left the stage and Gerard made his way toward the back of the pub, entering the dimly lit hallway. There were rooms there that the band could dress in and prepare for, or wind down from, shows. Frank opted to have his own room instead of sharing one with his band and that didn't surprise Gerard one bit.

Standing there in front of the chipped door, staring at the sign in front of him that read Frank Iero (Pencey), Gerard was suddenly aware of how sweaty his palms were. Fuck, come on, just knock. You already know the outcome. Ignoring the instinct churning in his stomach, telling him to sprint right the fuck out of the pub until it closed, he knocked hard on Frank's door. As he waited for an answer, he clutched the strap of his satchel tighter in his hand.