frerard one shots | ✔️

seventy-one ~ tattoos, piercings, and gigs frank plays

this one is barely canon to reality haha sorry

Wiping off his sweaty brow with his sweaty arm, Frank took his shirt off and threw it near his gear, managing to miss his pedals and cords. He didn't look where it landed, instead he scurried backstage to help the owners of the small place break everything down. As soon as all the amps and drum kits were loaded into everyone's cars, Frank returned to the stage. He packed away his pedalboard and sweaty shirt into his bag and walked towards his car, scrambling for his keys. They must be somewhere in one of his cargo pants' pockets, right?

As soon as he fished out his keys, he saw a figure standing at his car, face ever so dimly lit by the end of a cigarette since the lamp above his head was out. Frank's eyes widened. 

"Gerard Way?"

The figure looked up, nodding. "Frank Iero?"

The streetlamp flickered on and Frank saw that he was smiling.  

"Gerard Way, to what pleasure do I owe this visit?" Frank mocked, suddenly self-conscious about his lack of a shirt. 

"No need for formality, just call me Gerard," he replied. 

"Likewise. Well then, what brings you here tonight, Gerard?" 

"Trying to support local music, really."

"For real?" Frank asked quizzically, his eyebrows knitting up in confusion. "But you're the Gerard Way."

"I'm here trying to forget that my parents work at Wallstreet and—"

"And are the most insufferable bastards to manipulate the place? Fat chance," Frank said sadly. 

"Actually, your music is really easy to lose oneself in. I've been listening to it for a little while and I wanted to check one of your gigs out. It's such an experience to see you guys live."

"Well, uh, thank you, Gerard," Frank said, cursing the way his cheeks were starting to get red again. "I'm really glad you think so."

Frank unlocked his car and pulled a clean shirt out of the back. When Gerard didn't move, he looked at him, confused. 

Gerard stuttered, "Oh, actually, I was actually gonna ask if I could exchange a cigarette for your conversation."

"Totally, I'd love to," Frank said, pulling the shirt over his head and putting his arms through the holes just in time to see Gerard take another cigarette out of a battered packet. He took the time then to really look at Gerard. He didn't look like the son of two corrupt Wallstreet workers. He wore an old band shirt that was hand-cut into an almost crop-top, worn-out black jeans that were clearly not pre-ripped even though there were holes in both the knees and a pair of Converse that looked like they were five years old. Oh, and his red hair was definitely dyed at home. 

When their eyes met again, Frank bit his lip in apology. "Sorry, didn't mean to stare you down like that." 

"It was pretty intense," Gerard said through a laugh, "but I can't pretend that I didn't do the same to you during your whole set." 

Gerard handed Frank the cigarette and leant in close to his face to light it, shielding the end of the cancer-stick from the wind—the wind that Frank didn't feel on that muggy summer night in the middle of New Jersey. Frank blushed—the thought that Gerard had done that just to flirt sent his heart fluttering away. 

"So what brings you to Belleville?" Frank asked, suddenly interested. 

"Well, I moved here to get away from my parents. But music, and art, really. I draw comics, but I'm more interested in standalone pieces. Like your tattoos. I've been looking at them all night, they're all super cool."