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Frank paces around the perimeter of the dressing room. He can't concentrate, can't seem to focus. Not even the silly spinner toy a fan gave him can keep his attention.
Evan gives him a look. "Seriously, dude?"
He shrugs, trying to pretend he doesn't know what Evan is talking about.
"After all this time, you're still nervous?"
Frank's shoulders lift again in a half-hearted movement. "No, of course not, it's just—" He stops, because he doesn't have a rational explanation. At least, not one that would make any sense outside of his head.
But Evan's been family for almost as long as the guys from My Chem, and he knows Frank. "Liar."
"Fuck you," Frank snaps back, and then deflates, because he knows Evan doesn't mean anything by it. "Sorry, sorry." He pushes his hair back out of his face, rubs at the stubble on his jaw. "I just don't want to disappoint them."
Evan actually fucking laughs at him. "Dude, I've seen these guys watch you play, and every time, you can actually see the little hearts in their eyes. They have so much love and respect for you—"
"Yeah, yeah," he says, because he needs to keep some cool around his kid brother.
"You are ridiculous," Evan says, pointedly opening his comic book and ignoring Frank.
Evan had been ecstatic in Denver, geeking out over comics and dropping a significant chunk of change on filling out the gaps in his collection. Frank loves watching Evan being passionate about the things that he loves; it makes him happy.
His stomach is bothering him. He wants to blame what he'd eaten for breakfast, but he knows it's nerves. It's always nerves, no matter what he says to Evan.
Second to the last show on the tour, and in so many ways, one of the most important ones. This album is the best thing he's ever done, and the guys know that; they've talked about it endlessly over the phone, through text, in chat.
They haven't heard him play it live, and he's so worried he's going to fuck it up, that they won't get it—
The alarm on his phone goes off; it's time for soundcheck, thank Christ. That'll distract him.
Soundcheck doesn't occupy him for long. At this point in the tour, his band and crew are working well together. They have everything down to a science, and he's really not necessary to the process anymore. They've got it, and the best thing Frank can do is just stay out of the way.
He tries not to let it bother him, tells the control freak that whispers in his ear to shut the hell up.
The venue staff is amazing as well, but it's the Troubadour. Frank's lost count of the number of times he's played here over the years, both alone and with My Chem. It helps that most of the staff are professional musicians of one sort or another, and they know how it is.
It's a little early to start his pre-show rituals, but Frank's gonna crawl out of his skin if he doesn't do something, anything.
He starts stretching, trying to work out some of the stiffness from the day's travel. His shoulder aches a little, but that's his new normal. It's a reminder, like his LET LOVE IN tattoo. The words are more than just a Nick Cave album title, it's a promise. Life is too fucking short.
His doctors tell him to be patient, that soft tissue damage can take a long time to heal. It's feels a little better every day, though. Frank will take what he can get.
Frank works on the exercises that his PT showed him, and after a bit, his muscles warm up and loosen. His hands feel good, strong and dexterous, as he twiddles his fingers.
There's an electric kettle next to the coffee pot. He digs around in his kit, pulls out some tea bags, and makes a cup. He adds honey, grimaces at the taste. He got this tea on someone's recommendation; it tastes like shit, but it really seems to help his throat.
He wraps his floofy scarf around his neck and sits in a chair, closing his eyes and trying to center himself.
All he can think about is fucking up. It's what he's best at.
Frank's phone rings, Jamia's ringtone, and he automatically starts to pick it up, but something stops him. His throat tightens and his stomach twists, because she knows him better than he knows himself, and he just can't deal with that right now. His hand shakes a little when he curls his fingers around the phone, but he pretends not to notice.
The ringing stops after a while, and Frank expects there to be the ding of a voicemail message, but instead, there's the beep of a text. He swallows, loud in the quiet room, before flipping the phone over to read it.
i know what youre doing
He barks out a choking laugh, because it's so her. He loves her so fucking much, he doesn't know what to do with himself.
Matt and Alex tumble into the room, like unruly puppies. They jostle each other, loud and obnoxious, and start grazing at the food set out by catering.
"But the guy was wide, like a truck, and his fists were huge," Matt says to Alex. "I knew if he hit me, I was going to the hospital, so I tried to talk the dude down."
Matt has an endless repertoire of bar stories which are improbably full of free beer, fist fights, and hot women. He's full of shit.
Frank's still fond of him.
Matt's also so effortlessly talented it makes Frank a little angry, but he's used to keeping that under wraps, close to his heart. It's not Matt's fault.
"Your guys are gonna be here tonight, right?" Alex asks, assembling some sort of mutant monster sandwich. It makes Frank's chest hurt with sympathetic heartburn just watching him put it together.
"Yeah," he says, trying for casual. Matt gives him a sharp look, and Frank glances at his watch, avoiding Matt's gaze. Still hours to go.
"Here." Matt hands him a bottle of water and a plate of crackers and veggies, some fresh fruit. "Eat something."
He's not really hungry, but arguing with Matt about this is useless. He gives in gracelessly, crunching resentfully on a carrot.
Matt squeezes his shoulder carefully and herds Alex out of the room. Frank's grateful.
And suddenly time speeds up, goes into overdrive, too much to do in too little time. He starts his vocal warmups, drinks more tea, changes into his show clothes, talks to the stage manager, drinks even more tea, takes a piss.
He thinks that the Caribbean is nice this time of year; he could walk out the back door, hail a cab, hit LAX, never be seen again. Spend the rest of his life hanging out on the beach. It's a nice little fantasy he has sometimes, when the stage fright threatens overwhelm him.
For some fucked up reason, it always helps calm him down.
Dave's band always kills it. Frank's in awe of them, night after night of putting their all and more into their performance. The kids eat it up, even those that had never heard of Dave before. He hums along with Dirty Fucker and tries not to think about the fact that it's almost time.
In the wild seconds before they walk onto stage, as the sound of the crowd rises, Frank freezes. He can't do this, he can't go out there under the lights and play these songs that are so close to his heart, that mean so fucking much to him, when Gerard and Mikey and Ray are watching, listening. He can't.
He blinks, and the moment is gone, swept away under the excitement and adrenaline and sheer joy of being on stage. This is what he is meant to do.
He scans the crowd, squinting a little. A lot of familiar faces, and new ones, too. He knows the guys are up in the VIP section, and he deliberately doesn't look their way as he greets the crowd with a smile. "Hi. I'm Frank."
"Hi, Frank," the crowd roars back.
A deep breath, and he starts to pick out the first notes, slow and careful, letting them rise and layer on top of each other. Alex adds the thrum of his bass, and Evan joins in. The sound is soft, almost delicate, but it's getting inexorably louder. Matt's cymbals are almost reserved, a subtle backbone under the guitars, and they let it build, and build, before they crash into World Destroyer.
Frank gets goosebumps, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He loves this; every note and every beat coming together perfectly.
The show is a blur of sweat and sound. Frank lets the music move his body, gives himself over to it, loses awareness of everything except his fingers moving over the frets, pressing against the strings.
Before he knows it, they're slipping into Oceans, and the crowd sings loudly along with him. It's overwhelming, and he makes himself look out into the crowd, to see the sea of faces, some tear-streaked, some ecstatic. The connection is electric, doubling back and reverberating through him.
This is why he does this.
As the last notes fade away, Frank can't stop grinning. He flicks his last pick into the air above the audience, sets his guitar on its stand, grabs his tea, and exits the stage.
"Great show," the stage manager says, and Frank nods.
"Thanks," Frank says, voice rough. He gulps down the rest of his tea and heads back to the dressing room while the crew starts tear down and load out.
Ray sees him first, and Frank doesn't even have time to say anything before he's wrapped in a bear hug, a Ray-hug. Ray holds him so tight that he can't breathe, and for a moment his feet leave the ground, but Frank doesn't care. He hasn't seen the guys in months and he's missed them.
He hugs Ray back as hard as he can, and doesn't want to let go.
"C'mon Ray, stop hogging Frank," Gerard says. Mikey laughs, and suddenly Gerard is throwing his arms around Frank, pressing his face against the side of Frank's head.
When Gerard lets go, Frank can't help himself. "What the fuck is that on your face?" His thumb rasps across the uneven and unfortunate proto-mustache that shadows Gerard's face.
"Wouldn't talk, Mario," Gerard retorts, rubbing his fingers against the bristles on the underside of Frank's chin.
They grin at each other, wide and bright, and the years drop away.
Frank turns to Mikey. "You're a dad!" It's still so surprising. "How's it feel?"
Mikey hugs him, holding him close. "I don't know, I haven't slept in a week. Running on nothing but caffeine and sugar."
Frank snorts out a laugh; he remembers those days. Misses them, the tiniest bit, if he's truthful. There was something. . .magical about standing with his arm around Jamia, looking into the crib at the two amazing babies they'd somehow managed to create.
"Here's my tip for surviving the first six months with your sanity intact: let people help when they offer," Frank says solemnly. "Take time for yourself, for Kristin. It's important." Ray and Gerard nod in agreement.
Ray slings his arm around Frank's shoulders, steering them towards backstage. "I love what you've done with the songs, Frankie. The album's great, but hearing it live—" Ray shakes his head and smiles.
"Yeah!" Gerard says, excitement brightening his face. He turns and walks backwards in front of them, hands gesturing. "It's a completely different experience when you play them, God, they're so fucking amazing, I love the intro you do for Oceans, the way you psych everyone out—"
Gerard trips over some cords, Mikey lunges and grabs Gerard's arm to keep him upright. Frank giggles, because nothing has changed. This is his family, and always will be.
-fin-