Thin Line(a Gerard Way/Frerard fanfiction)

It's Not A Dress You Dickhead

One month.

There's one month left on the road, until finally--finally-- it will all be over.

It's only one month, thirty one days, a little over four weeks; yet it still feels so far away, just out of my grasp, like that story I learned back in middle school about the greek dude sent to Tartarus by Zeus, his punishment to always be starving--food and water just out of his reach.

I think of the dude as myself, I'm always punished, I'm always starving, everything that I crave so badly just out of my reach. Only it's not the man upstairs punishing me--it's myself.

The days drag on, and our hometown show, which is also our closing, is drawing closer, lurking everywhere, teasing me with the relief it possesses I cannot yet have. The shows are not shows anymore. They're no longer a city, a crowd, a song-- just a collection of numbers and letters on a spreadsheet taped to the fridge door in the bus.

Everyone is tired, I can see it. Our energy is slowly draining. Even Frank, the usual energetic, tells me he finds it hard to keep going some nights. He also tells me his stomach is acting up again, and that sends me into a fit of paranoia. I hate seeing him sick. I hate seeing him poured over the toilet bowl, wrenching in agony. I hate it because there's nothing I can do but watch. He tells me not to worry about it though, tells me that it comes and goes, and there's nothing anyone can do but prescribe a bottle of pills and a jug of syrup and wait it out.

So it's our night in Chicago(I'm impressed with myself for actually knowing our whereabouts) when I'm settled into my bunk after a show, and it's a good night for once, I feel strangely happy, and I try my best to savor it as I pull the blanket around me, knowing that for sure it won't be there in the morning.

The bus is dark, blinds drawn to a close, allowing little moonlight to peek in through the edges, everyone else sound asleep in their beds. I think Frank is still awake though, I can his frantic breathing still high off the show. His eyes pop up next to mine as he stands.

"You ok?" He murmurs quietly.

I prop myself up on my elbow, hair falling carelessly over my eyes. "Yeah," I grin.

Frank eyes light up and he takes my wrists, pulling me out of my bunk and into his arms. "C'mon then, let's get out of here." Is all he says as we shrug on our shoes and jackets, sneaking off of the bus in a fit of stifled giggles. God, I am so drunk at this point I can't even fathom the consequences of our actions. He laces his fingers with mine as our shoulders press up tightly against each other, the wind and icy air of the thawing winter trying to steal our warmth.

"Where...?" I begin as we trek out of the parking lot our bus was parked at, but Frank just shhs me and squeezes my hand. We cross the freeway that lays behind the lot, avoiding stray cars driven by drunk boys hooting out the windows as they leave their girlfriends houses they just snuck out of and middle age business men scrambling home from the local strip club, trying to get home to their wives and children in the suburbs. We topple over once we reach other other side, laughing our asses off over the fact that we almost got killed by a eighteen wheeler. Death just doesn't faze us right now, if anything, it's the least of our fears.

We've reached a hotel that sits sadly on a hill on the side of the freeway, its droopy frame lit with scattered lights desperate for customers, the sign that displays a 'free continental breakfast!' as one last vain attempt to lure in lonely girls and tired truck drivers. We're probably the most unlikely people the lady behind the counter expects to see at eleven at night on a Wednesday, dressed in smudged red eyeliner and jet black skinny jeans, but the piles of mortgage payment letters piled next to her tells me she doesn't give a fuck as long as she's getting money.