Current mood:	drained
Entry tags:	challenge, fall out boy, my chemical romance, panic! at the disco

MCR/FOB/P!ATD: Frankie in Wonderland
title: Frankie in Wonderland or Several Reasons Why You Should Never Follow Patrick Stump
pairings: Frank/Pete, Frank/Joe, Jon/Spencer/(Frank watching), Gabe/Gabe, Brendon/Ryan/Frank, Bob/Frank
rating: nc-17
summary: Frank goes on a life-changing, eye-opening, pants-dropping journey. Alice in Wonderland
disclaimer: I disclaim.
a/n: One day I’m going to write 20 pages of nothing but Andy getting it any way he can to make up for the total sexual injustice I continue to do to him. However this is not that day. Written for band_princesses. Thank you likealocket for your support, your beta work and for the delivery of cajones to actually post my baby this fic. 14,509 words.



Frank loves being on the Projekt Revolution tour. It’s like this big new thing to add to all the other Big New Things that he’s had the privilege to be able to do since falling in with the guys. He likes hanging out with these bands that he respects and learning from them; and he knows that someday he’ll have grandkids at his knee and he’ll be able to tell them about how he hung out with guys who changed the world; and he and his guys, they saved lives.

He loves the Projekt Revolution tour but he thinks that maybe – just maybe – he’s working a little bit too hard, not getting enough sleep, putting in too many hours. And this is singularly because while sitting on a curb with Bob having cigarettes, drinking Coke Zeroes and laughing about the drink’s latest ad campaign, he sees Patrick Stump jog by carrying a pocket watch and wearing a dark green suit jacket and a purple bowler hat… with a red feather.

Frank blinks, shakes his head, and then looks at his soda. “Dude,” he says, staring straight ahead.

“What?”

“You didn’t put anything in my Coke, did you?”

Bob looks over at him, his eyes masked by dark sunglasses but his face blank like a brand new slate. He takes the bottle from Frank, sniffs at it, and then hands it back. “What do you think, I slipped you a roofie? When I can have you any time without even trying?”

“Ha ha,” Frank says dryly. There’s a twinge of disappointment, because surely a roofie would be reason to have some strange vision of Patrick Stump. He glances sideways at Bob and brings the bottle to his own nose and sniffs; and then he leans forward, looking in the direction that Patrick had gone. “Did you just see Patrick Stump run by?”

“Maybe he’s looking for another band to produce,” Bob jokes, his voice tinged with laughter. He snuffs his cigarette out into the asphalt and then stands, his soda bottle hanging loosely from his fingertips. “Don’t hang out here too long. Maybe you just need a nap and some water.”

Frank doesn’t say anything right away, but when he does, he is vague: “Maybe.”

The stones that are kicked at Frank’s ass are sent on purpose – he knows it – and he stares straight forward as he listens to the sound of Bob’s retreating foot steps. “Patrick Stump,” he says to himself, and it’s as if he calls Patrick out of oblivion, because Patrick runs past, going now in the other direction.

“I’m late!”

The cigarette falls from Frank’s mouth, between his legs to the pavement below. He stands, watching Patrick jog away from him, round a corner and disappear from sight. Needing something to do, Frank puts his foot on the butt and twists his ankle, crushing it out.

Then he waits because Frank still thinks that maybe this is just his imagination and he is tired and he probably isn’t drinking enough water and Bob’s usually pretty good about knowing what the healthy decision would be. He stands for what feels like a long time and then just as Frank is ready to give up, Patrick is back.

“I’m so fucking late,” he whines. He stops and stares at Frank a moment, and Frank stares back. He’s reminded of driving, and seeing a dog run into the street and stop. For a long moment neither Frank nor Patrick can move. But then Patrick speaks: “Jesus Christ, I’m late.” He puts his hand to the hat, pushing it down more, then turns and runs away from Frank.

Frank follows. “Patrick!” For a short, chubby guy, Patrick runs fast; and though Frank keeps up, he doesn’t catch up.

Patrick runs into the venue and deftly dodges stage crew members as they set up for the night’s show. Frank doesn’t maneuver quite as well as Patrick, but it’s not until he nearly runs into a guy holding a packet of gels in two hands, that Frank thinks that it doesn’t look as if anybody else is noticing Patrick fucking Stump running through the backstage obstacle course.

Their feet pound simultaneously on cement and then cement turns to stage as they come out into the open of the empty pavilion. Frank is finally gaining on Patrick and he just wants to know what the fuck but then Patrick is gone, through a hole in the stage floor. Frank tries to stop but can’t and falls in after Patrick.

And he must be dreaming, because instead of landing on Patrick or on what he knows ought to be hard cement, he slides, slides, slides down the smoothest slope he’s ever felt, and then falls.



Frank is falling for-fucking-ever. He must be dead. Or dreaming. Or dead. Maybe he broke his neck falling into the stage. Maybe he’s passed out somewhere from exhaustion and exposure to heat. Maybe he’s allergic to Splenda and he didn’t know it – who would? Maybe somebody did put something into his Coke, even if it wasn’t Bob.

And Frank has been falling for so long that he knows sitting on the curb with Bob, drinking their sodas and having smokes literally was hours ago.

He’s bored. He’s still falling and he doesn’t have anything to do except contemplate his life and how it must be over. Frank wonders if he’s done enough in his lifetime. Has he helped enough people? Should he have gotten another tattoo? How were the next Harry Potter films going to turn out?

If Frank had his guitar, he could try and play, maybe write something out. He sings to himself, a song about falling down a hole and it’s never going to end and maybe he’s dead and maybe he’s not but it’s a big fucking hole, ooh ooh ooh.

He is so. Fucking. Bored.



Frank’s ass hits a trampoline, and he bounces once, high in the air and then lands on the softest grass he’s ever felt. He stays where he is for a moment, getting his bearings. The sky is dark; it’s either dusk or dawn. He stands, then turns, and sees that it isn’t a trampoline at all but a giant mushroom; the biggest portabella he’s ever seen. Frank realizes he’s hungry.

He approaches the mushroom and looks around it. On the far side he sees the wooden post, shoved roughly into the ground. ‘Eat Me’ the sign commands unceremoniously, in roughly cut lettering. He looks at the fungus. “Are you going to hurt me?”

The mushroom – predictably – doesn’t respond. Frank’s stomach rumbles and he decides that he can’t be poisoned: he’s either dead already or dreaming. And if he’s dreaming, it’s probably about time he wakes the fuck up.

Frank stands on his tip toes and can just barely grasp at the mushroom top, but he can’t pull a piece off. Plan B, Frank decides, is to climb on. He grunts as he pulls himself up until he’s standing on the mushroom top. Frank can see forever, he thinks, but he doesn’t see Patrick and really, he doesn’t see much of anything except for green grass and dark blue sky.

Bending low, Frank grasps the edges of the mushroom and pulls back. It doesn’t budge. He pulls back harder, but still nothing. Shouting now with the force, Frank pulls at the mushroom with all that is in him. It breaks suddenly and he falls backward. He rolls once along the top then off the side, landing on his back with a gentle bounce.

“Fuck…”

Patrick runs past again, one hand on the pocket watch, the other hand on the purple bowler. The red feather sticks up between two fingers. “Patrick!” Frank shouts as he runs by, but Patrick is oblivious.

“I’m so fucking late!”

“I’m going to be too,” Frank says. He jumps up and runs after Patrick because there’s nothing else to do. He can’t go back the way he came and he needs to get back to do the show. It’s one thing to need a replacement because your body’s a little fucked up and you’re too sick to play. It’s another thing altogether to not show up for a show – that would break the guys’ hearts.

He shoves pieces of mushroom into his mouth as he runs, not the safest way to eat he knows – and especially not with his propensity for getting injured – but he’s starving and doesn’t know when – if – he’ll see Patrick again.

And finally - finally - Frank is gaining on Patrick. He can feel it, like an extra burst of energy: they’re getting closer to each other.

There’s a door in front of them, and Frank doesn’t know where it came from, or when he started seeing it. Only he knows that one second he didn’t see a door, and suddenly now he does. Patrick slows as he approaches the door but doesn’t stop completely; his body bangs against it. It looks to Frank like Patrick could rip the door from its hinges when he opens it, but the door remains intact, opening easily for Patrick who runs through.

Frank starts to duck his head to get into door only now that he’s approaching it, he’s at least twice as big as the door itself. “What the fuck?”

The door slams shut.

He knows that he and Patrick aren’t that much different in height and Frank hasn’t a clue why he can’t get through the door. He looks down at himself, examining his hands and feet, and then looks at the door, reaching out for the knob slowly. “What the fuck?”

“Watch your language, if you please,” says a voice, and Frank jumps.

“What?”

“Watch your language, if you please.”

Frank looks around, his breath quickening. “Who said that?” He’s entirely alone.

“Who said that, he asks,” says the voice. “Grabbing at me like a boy in a whore house and who said that, he asks.”

Frank looks down and wonders if perhaps he isn’t mistaken, but the voice is coming from the door. He gets down, lying on his stomach to get a closer look. “You’re a door,” he says.

“You’re brilliant,” the door says. There’s a mail slot in the wood, or what looks like a mail slot but that actually serves as a mouth. He looks for a tongue but can’t find one. Frank reaches out for the door knob again. “Stop that,” the door says. “Contrary to popular belief, one good turn does not deserve another,” it admonishes.

Frank stares dumbly, completely lost. “How do I get through there?” he asks. “How did Patrick get so small?”

“He didn’t get small,” the door says. Its voice is disturbingly unisex and Frank wonders what he’s grabbing every time he goes for the knob. “You got big.”

“I didn’t,” Frank says. But even as he says so he looks down at his hands and then down at the grass and realizes that the door is right; he’s huge. “Shit.”

“Watch your language, if you please,” the door says again.

“Sorry,” Frank says. He shakes his head. “I’m apologizing to a fucking door.”

“Watch your language,” the door begins but Frank cuts it off.

“If I please, right, sorry.” He clears his throat and puts his elbows into the grass, resting his chin in his palm. “So how do I get small again?”

The door is entirely unhelpful: “I don’t know. I’m but a mere door.” Frank sighs. “How did you get big?”

“I don’t know,” Frank says. And then it occurs to him: “I ate a mushroom.” He sighs again. “It said eat me.”

The door doesn’t respond right away. “Do you make it a habit to eat food that talks to you?”

“It wasn’t talking to me,” Frank says, defensively. He puts his hand to his forehead. “Says a guy to a door,” he murmurs. He closes his eyes.

“Perhaps you should try these then,” says the door.

“Try what?” Frank asks. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“These,” the door says again.

“What?” He opens his eyes, looking at the door.

“These.”

“WHAT?”

The mail slot opens wide and there is no tongue behind it, just blackness. Frank is more than a little disconcerted. “I HAVEN’T ANY ARMS NOR HANDS WITH WHICH TO POINT!”

Frank concedes this point and turns his head first right, then left; and when he sees nothing he drops his head down. Between his elbows, nestled in the grass is a small chest filled with what looks like… “Are those cucumber sandwiches?” He picks one up and examines it. “I don’t know…” he doesn’t like the results from the last time he ate something.

“It says to eat it.”

Frank squints at the bread of the sandwich and sees that this is true – toasted into the bread are the words ‘eat me’ and he sighs. “What if this turns me even huger or green or something?”

The door doesn’t say anything right away. And then when Frank’s ready to give up and go searching in another direction, the door speaks: “You won’t know unless you try it.”

This requires some consideration, and Frank knows that he’s probably already late for the show, and he thinks about the interviews that Bob is probably screwing up without Frank there to guide him down the path of right answers. He crosses himself and then puts the tiny sandwich into his mouth.

At first nothing happens; but then it looks like the door is getting bigger. Frank wonders, for a moment, if it is the door changing size, but the grass appears to be getting bigger too and he is, in fact, closer to it than he was moments ago. It’s strange to Frank, that he could be growing and then shrinking without even feeling anything. Then again, he reminds himself, he is having a conversation with a door.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Frank tilts his head up, looking up at the door. He stands and it’s only a little taller than him.

“Much,” Frank says. He reaches out and puts his hand on the knob. “May I?”

“That’s what it’s there for,” says the knob; Frank notes disappointment in his voice.

“Hey,” Frank says. “Thank you.”

“Turn it slowly,” the door says and Frank nods, turning the knob. He thinks – but he’s not sure – that he hears a sigh from the door as he twists and pulls. He licks his lips and walks through the doorway. The groan he hears he attributes to squeaky hinges and nothing more.

And when the door is closed, he’s surrounded by darkness.

“Hello?”

There isn’t a response, and Frank tries again: “Hello?”

Again, Frank doesn’t hear anything. He pulls out his lighter before he tries a third time, but the flame is quickly snuffed out by what sounds like someone blowing on it. “Hello?”

This time he hears it: the distinct sound of someone humming. “Hello?” Frank tries the lighter a second time, and again it’s blown out. “Patrick?” But still no response. “Bob?” He tries hopefully.

“No…” the voice is sing-song and Frank looks around, trying to determine the direction from which it came.

“Who’s there?”

“No one…” that same sing-song voice, but this time from the opposite direction.

Frank turns on his heel. “Who are you?”

This time there’s no response but from the corner of his eye, Frank sees a glow. He turns toward it and takes a step back in shock: there’s a disembodied smile beaming at him out of the darkness. It’s floats above him, not quite menacingly, but not quite friendly either. “Who are you?” The grin is speaking to him, and Frank thinks he’d rather be talking to a door.

“Who am I?”

“You’re Frank Iero,” the grin says.

“I,” Frank starts, but he doesn’t know where to go from there.

The grin is joined suddenly by a pair of eyes, dark yet shining eyes; and it’s even like the eyes are grinning at him too. Frank wants to punch the glowy face in the, well, face. “Who are you?” he asks again.

“Who am I?” Laughter now, and a body slowly materializes to go along with the face. At first Frank thinks he’s looking at a boy for a moment before he realizes that this is no boy.

“Pete?”

“Who am I?” Pete says again. He puts his hands on his belly and leans back laughing.

Light seems to emanate from Pete, but this surely can’t be real. But whatever the light’s from, Frank is quickly able to see where they are. Pete is sitting in a tree, and actually leaning rather precariously. Frank takes a step forward, one hand out, as if he can help Pete, who’s probably 15 feet up. “What are you doing up there?” Frank asks.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“I’m not sure,” Frank says.

“I’m sitting.” Pete laughs again and Frank sighs.

“Have you seen Patrick?”

“Why are you looking for Patrick?” Pete pushes himself forward and drops to his feet. Frank’s hurt just watching the landing, but Pete doesn’t register that he even felt anything; and Frank is jealous. “I saw him,” Pete says. “Why are you looking for him?”

Frank doesn’t know; he shrugs.

“He went that way,” Pete says. He points.

“Thanks,” Frank says.

“Unless,” Pete says, and Frank jerks a little. “He may have gone that way.” Pete points in the opposite direction. “It was dark.” Frank balls his fists, squeezes them tightly until his nails dig into his palm. “Why are you looking for Patrick?” Pete asks again.

Frank frowns. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Why are you looking for Patrick?” Pete asks again. He’s grinning; clearly having the time of his life. Frank kind of still wants to punch Pete in the face, and at least now he’d have the satisfaction of knowing that there’s skin, bone and cartilage with which his fist can connect.

“I don’t know,” Frank says. “I saw him where he wasn’t supposed to be.”

“That’s no reason to go all Tommy Lee Jones on him,” Pete says. They’re practically nose to nose. Frank balls his fist; he could totally punch him.

He sighs instead. “Why are you making this so difficult? Is he your boyfriend or something?”

“No,” Pete says. A firm hand cups Frank’s dick in his jeans, and maybe it’s the atmosphere or the growing and shrinking that already occurred, or the cockiness in Pete’s movements but Frank immediately begins to harden at the touch. “Do you want to be?”

“No,” Frank says. He puts his hand on Pete’s wrist and pushes it away. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he says.

“Yeah,” Pete says, but he’s still grinning. “Okay.” He takes a step back and puts that same hand on his own cock, still looking Frank in the eye. “He went that way.” He gestures with his other hand and Frank tries to look at the pointing hand, and not the one that Pete is using to slowly stroke himself through his jeans.

He turns away from Pete and starts walking. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Pete calls after him.

Frank shuts his eyes when he hears Pete moan, and he tells himself that Pete is just doing this to get a rise out of Frank.

It works.



Frank knows that he has missed his show, and he feels shitty about it. He’s thirsty and he’s hot and he has a headache. He’s tired and he doesn’t know where he’s going and there’s no sign of Patrick and Frank doesn’t understand why he’s even following Patrick any more. He ought to turn back and ask Pete where he should go, but then he gets a vision of Pete pressing him up against that tree, and despite the shiver that dances through Frank, he tells himself that this is wrong and shakes his head. He keeps walking.

There’s an incline and the higher Frank gets, the more he notices a sickly sweet scent. He tilts his head up, smiling a little, and follows the smell. It’s similar to the always-tempting smell of the pot he once favored, but there’s something different about it too. Whatever he’s following, it’s not the herb he was used to back in Jersey.

He climbs over low rocks, moving in a straight line across any obstacles set before him, much like an ant; then moving downward until he approaches a man, sitting on a mushroom similar to the one that Frank had eaten. The man’s eyes are closed, his head tilted down, and he is smoking from what is literally the biggest pipe that Frank has ever seen.

“Joe?”

Joe tips his head up, smiling at Frank. “What’s up Iero?” He says Frank’s last name slowly, holding out each syllable like it’s its own word. “Want some?” He tilts the mouthpiece toward Frank and Frank takes a step forward, taking a sniff.

“What is that?” he asks instead.

Still smiling, Joe looks at the large pipe nestled between his legs. “The stuff that dreams are made of.” He turns his head to look in the direction that Frank had been walking, and then turns his attention to Frank. “You want to take a puff on my pipe?” he asks.

“Um,” Frank isn’t sure if Joe meant for that to sound the way it did. “What?” In this strange place, after Pete just manhandled him, Frank is ready to believe anything.

“You want to take a puff on my pipe?” Joe asks again.

“Um,” Frank says. He licks his lips. “You mean that one, right?” he gestures at the pipe in Joe’s hand and Joe smiles at him, and then he starts to laugh. Frank feels like an idiot. “Of course you do.” He takes a step closer and puts his hand out, and though Joe moves the mouthpiece closer to Frank, he doesn’t hand it over.

For a few seconds, Frank’s nerves get the better of him. But then he reminds himself that he’s either dead or dreaming. And that Pete fucking Wentz just molested him. Drugs are the natural response to that, aren’t they?

Frank tries to take the pipe from Joe, but Joe won’t let go of it. The best Frank can do is put his hand on the long neck that connects the mouthpiece to the pipe. He breathes out a moment, smiling faintly at Joe before putting his mouth onto the cylinder Joe is holding out to him and inhale.

At first, nothing happens. He looks up at Joe plaintively, almost childishly, and Joe smiles at him before putting his free hand onto Frank’s head and nudging it back down so that Frank can inhale a second time.

And this time, when he pulls up, Frank understands the high that Joe has. He licks his lips, smiling at Joe, and then leans on the mushroom top, folding his arms on the foamy, smooth surface. “Wow,” he says. He blinks heavily and then rests his head on his arms. “That’s…” he laughs lightly. “What is that?”

“It’s my own special blend,” Joe says, and Frank doesn’t remember when Joe became interested in horticulture; but he’s so glad he is.

“Cool,” Frank says. He looks up at Joe, eyeing the pipe nestled between Joe’s legs, and then he shifts his gaze up to Joe’s face. Joe returns Frank’s look until Frank feels like he weighs at least three hundred pounds. He licks his lips again.

Joe takes his hand away from Frank’s head and rests it in his own lap, but Frank keeps his eyes locked on Joe’s for a moment. “Do you want another?” Joe asks, putting the mouthpiece back between his own lips. His eyes close as he inhales, and he keeps them close as he holds the smoke in. His other arm is limp against his leg.

“I do,” Frank says. He puts his hand on top of Joe’s on the neck of the mouthpiece and brings it back to his mouth. He keeps his eyes on Joe’s, but when he inhales, he sees that Joe has unzipped his jeans and pulled out a thick, dark erection. He smiles around the smoke and lets go of the pipe, putting both hands around Joe’s cock instead.

Really, he doesn’t know why he had been so anxious about smoking with Joe; and he doesn’t know why it had seemed strange that Joe had offered him a puff on his pipe. Frank moves his hands deliberately along Joe’s warm skin, and Joe sighs softly, his breath mingled with smoke. Frank runs his thumb over the head, pulling just the smallest amount of pre-come with him.

Frank feels light-headed, nearly ready to choke, and he releases, blowing smoke against the damp skin. Joe moans and puts his hand back into Frank’s hair, fingers moving through Frank’s hair, pushing him closer; and yes, this is exactly what Frank wants to do right now.

He forgets about the show, about finding Patrick with his stupid fucking feathered hat. He’s having a good time with Joe. Joe’s a cool guy. Why didn’t they hang out more often, when they had so much in common? Frank takes one hand away from Joe and slides it down his own jeans, finding the hardened cock that hadn’t gone down at all after Pete had grabbed him.

With slow motions, Frank twists his wrist and slides his palm back and forth along his own dick even as he also bobs up and down on Joe’s. Joe’s moans and sighs are accompanied by puffs of the sweet smoke that wafts into Frank’s face, and Frank happily breaths through his nose, taking in this contact high as he moves faster over Joe, pressing his tongue against the hard vein he finds.

“God,” Joe says. The mouthpiece falls and bounces off of Frank’s head and comes to rest on his shoulder. Frank just moans around the shaft and leans in more, swallowing once, twice and then a third time until Joe jerks and Frank can feel the liquid hitting his throat and immediately sliding down. He gags a little but only pulls back enough to allow some breathing space. He feels heady, a little slow, and relaxes against the mushroom; but his hand on his erection moves faster.

Joe pants, one hand still in Frank’s hair, and the other rests on the pipe. Frank gasps, his whole body now moving with the fervor with which he’s stroking himself, and Joe touches his shoulder. “Come up here.”

Frank doesn’t want to stop, he’s so close; but Joe touches his shoulder again and Frank lets go, puts his hands onto the mushroom and hoists himself up. Maybe it’s the smoke, maybe it’s the urgency, maybe it’s the fact that he’s done it before but Frank has a much easier time getting up on top of the mushroom than he did the first time.

“I’ll just…” and Joe unzips Frank’s jeans, slides his hand into the slit in his boxers. “There we go.” He actually smiles at Frank as he pulls out the erection and immediately begins stroking it. “Good time?” He asks and Frank nods. He bites on his lip, but his tongue dances along his lip ring and he’s already so close that it doesn’t take long before he’s shooting into Joe’s hand.

Grinning, Joe rubs his palm along the top of the mushroom. “That’s awesome,” he says. Frank nods, feeling light-headed again. Joe holds the pipe out to him, but Frank puts his hand up. “Hey,” Joe says, but he’s not speaking to Frank now.

Frank turns and sees Patrick run by. “I can’t,” Patrick explains to Joe. He stops long enough to fix his hat. He glances at Frank, who embarrassedly tucks himself into his jeans, and then back at Joe. “I’m so fucking late.”

“I understand,” Joe says. He waves as Patrick runs off, hand pressed to his hat. “¡Va con Dios, mi amigo!” he shouts at Patrick’s quickly retreating form.

“What?” Frank asks. He slides off the mushroom and lands on shaky legs. He doesn’t stick around for an answer though. He’s embarrassed and a little freaked out and Patrick, Patrick must know how to get him out of here, since Patrick led him in.

“Go with God my friend,” Joe yells as Frank puts his head down and runs. He needs to watch his feet as he moves. He needs to get the hell out of here.



Every time Frank thinks that this is ridiculous, he’s pretty sure he sees that damn red feather; which is actually more promising than when he was looking for Patrick and chanced upon Joe instead. His cock jumps even as he runs and Frank shushes himself, needing to go on without being distracted by such things as his libido.

The feather bobs out of sight yet again and Frank takes a deep breath and picks up speed. Now he hears music, the sounds of an acoustic guitar and bongos. Frank hurries; running faster than he thought he could. Anything involving a guitar is promising. From what Bob has said, those – drums and guitar – are two instruments at which Patrick excels. Perhaps he has stopped and is having a jam session.

When he’s running late? Not fucking likely. Frank slows, disappointed.

But! What if this is what Patrick was late for? Energy renewed, Frank hurries forward, rounding a hedge cut into a corner, and he stops at the unusual sight before him.

It’s the middle of the day, but Jon Walker and Spencer Smith are sitting beside each other on a log in front of a large bonfire. The fire pit itself is sand, but it’s closely surrounded by the same plushy grass that he’s been walking on. Logs encircle the fire, so that other than the day light and the grass, it looks like your average summer bonfire. Frank doesn’t know why he didn’t see the smoke when he was approaching, but now that he’s looking up at the tips of the fire, there curiously is none. He licks his lips and sniffs the air, is disappointed that there also isn’t the comforting scent of campfire smoke.

“Hey,” Jon says, looking up from his guitar. “Wanna join?” He nods at Spencer and Spencer smiles for just a moment before bending his head back down to gaze at his hands moving slowly over the bongos.

“Um.” Frank looks around, wondering where Patrick went. “I’m looking for Patrick?”

“Stump?” Spencer looks up at Frank but he doesn’t break rhythm. He’s used to being around a superbly good drummer, but this is still a little strange for Frank. He takes a step back.

“Um,” Frank says again. “Yeah.”

“Haven’t seen him.” Spencer drops his head back down and continues his drumming. Frank turns his attention to Jon, who’s at least smiling and looking somewhat normal.

“Haven’t seen him,” Jon concurs. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us?”

Frank isn’t sure that he said he didn’t want to join, but he shakes his head. “No thanks,” he says. “I’ll just watch.”

Jon nods and keeps playing. “It’s cool, it’s cool.” He smiles again. “Some people just like to watch. But who are we to judge?”

“Who indeed?” Spencer throws in. He looks at Jon. “Ready yet?”

Momentarily pausing his strumming, Jon picks up a metal stick and examines a marshmallow on it. They rest, propped up, are at least a foot away from the fire, nowhere near in danger of being burnt, or even more than moderately warmed. Spencer is once again looking at his bongos. Jon smiles at Frank, “Not quite yet. They need a few more minutes.” The naked sounds of the bongos bounce around in Frank’s head and he wishes that he had something to drink. Like, some water. Or really, anything at this point would be awesome.

Jon starts playing again and Frank closes his eyes, tries to steady his breathing. He coughs. “Need some water?” Jon asks. Frank nods, and Jon uses his chin to indicate a spot only a foot away from Frank. “There’re bottles in the cooler.”

Frank turns to look and he would bet his mom’s life that there wasn’t a cooler there just two seconds ago. He looks at Jon questioningly, and Jon winks before singing along with his playing. Frank pulls a bottle of water out of the cooler, being careful not to upset the chocolate bars that are stacked inside. He twists the bottle open and then studies Jon and Spencer. They sit close, knees touching; jamming casually like their band isn’t riding some sort of strange tsunami of popularity.

It feels like he hasn’t been sitting long; like he’s just been resting his legs for a moment. But the sky grows darker, hues of cerulean moving into indigo. The fire – though never stoked nor fed – continues to crackle welcomingly, only now its glow is much brighter. Feeling his eyelids seem to grow heavy, Frank shakes his head quickly and looks up at the darkening sky, before concentrating again on Spencer and Jon.

“So you guys are having s’mores?” Frank asks.

Jon nods. “You want some?”

Frank’s afraid of what will happen if he has some. So far he’s eaten a mushroom that made him grow huge, a sandwich that made him shrink, and smoked something that turned him incredibly gay for Joe Trohman. Frank is more than a little concerned that eating s’mores with Jon and Spencer will find him on his hands and knees with his ass in the air, taking it in either end. “No thanks,” he says. “Gelatin.”

“That’s cool,” Jon says. He sets the guitar down and finally picks up the sticks holding the marshmallows. “Mind if we start?”

“Not at all,” Frank says. He hands over the cooler with the chocolate, but not without helping himself to a few pieces – a little chocolate never hurt anybody, right? – and also a graham cracker to make a little sandwich out of it. Chewing slowly, he watches Jon hold the marshmallows over the fire, introducing them to the heat slowly. “So do you guys, uh, hang out here often?”

Spencer looks up, still drumming. “It’s Jon’s unbirthday party.”

Frank blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“My unbirthday party,” Jon says. “Tomorrow is Spencer’s.”

“But…” Frank takes a bite of the little chocolate sandwich and chews it thoughtfully, trying to wrap his mind around the absurdity of celebrating one unbirthday at a time. “Isn’t every day your unbirthday?” He wonders if a little bit of graham cracker and chocolate ever hurt anybody – he’s really fucking hungry.

And fucking thirsty too, after all of that running. With Jon concentrating on the marshmallows and Spencer on his bongos, Frank has ample time to move to the end of his log and reach into the cooler to pull out another bottle of water.

The marshmallows catch on fire. Spencer finally stops the bongos and Jon lifts the sticks out of the fire and brings them to his lips to blow on them. Frank thinks that Jon looks eerie in the red light of the fire, but that Spencer looks just a little bit… beautiful.

Spencer holds up chocolate and graham crackers, and Jon places the marshmallow between. Frank shifts uncomfortably. There’s something about the way they’re moving that makes him uneasy, but Frank can’t leave. He’s drowsy and warm and it feels so good to just be sitting and there are so many bottles of water in the cooler – he knows this – he saw them.

He shifts and looks at the fire and not at the way Spencer feeds the s’more to Jon. Frank doesn’t even like s’mores. He glances up, and then down, putting his water bottle into his lap for safe keeping.

“Mmmm…” Jon says. His eyes are closed, his cheeks pink and Frank shoves his hand into his lap instead, willing his dick to stay down. Stay down!

“Yeah…?” Spencer’s voice is breathy and Frank licks his lips, looks anywhere but at the way Jon is now putting the s’more into Spencer’s mouth, and actually leaving his fingers in so that Spencer can suck chocolate and marshmallow off of them.

“Oh God,” Frank groans, uncomfortable and yet unable to stop watching.

“It’s cool,” Jon murmurs, watching Spencer’s lips. Frank watches them too and he shifts again.

But now, at least, they’ve eaten the s’mores. Frank relaxes, picking up his water bottle and he takes several more gulps, finishing it. He drops the plastic bottle on the ground at his feet and gasps when he looks up.

Spencer is on Jon’s lap, long legs wrapped around Jon’s waist as Jon diligently holds two sticks in the hand that rests against Spencer’s hip, warming two more marshmallows. Frank doesn’t know what to think. He’s impressed. He’s disgusted. He’s incredibly fucking turned on and therefore really embarrassed. One of them moans, Frank can’t tell; and the sound of a zipper moving down is really too close to be either of them.

For the second time that day, Frank is erect and he absently runs fingertips along his skin.

“Didja hear that?” He can just barely hear Jon murmur against Spencer’s lips. “He’s already out.” Spencer giggles – Frank does a double-take – and moans softly. “We haven’t even begun the show yet.” Now Frank moans.

Jon drops the sticks and he turns his body until he can press Spencer into the grass. Frank shifts, trying to keep his view; but as long as they’re not looking, he switches logs, moving closer for a better vantage point. He’s glad he does this, and he’s totally embarrassed about it too.

On his back, Spencer writhes up against Jon. Jon moves his hips slowly against Spencer’s as they lazily kiss. They must do this regularly, Frank thinks; and he can’t help but wonder if the position is dependent on whose unbirthday it is. He kinda wants to come back the following day just to find out.

Spencer moans again and a second zipper goes down and Frank shifts, suddenly nervous that he’s going to be sitting here jerking off and then he’ll see Jon Walker fucking… fucking Spencer Smith. He licks his lips and grips his cock so tight he gasps and then relaxes again, teasing his fingers across the skin, instead of gripping it.

The second zipper is followed quickly by a third, but instead of being disturbed, Frank cranes his neck to get a better view. But even as he does this, Jon shifts up on his knees and turns toward Frank. His cock, sticking straight out in front of him, glows red in the fire and Frank licks his lips and needs to consciously force himself to look at Jon’s face. “Dude. There’s some ah…” he nods at the ground near Frank’s log and Frank is absolutely not surprised to find a backpack he knew hadn’t been there earlier. He digs in the back pocket and pulls out a bottle of lube, then smiles. He starts to toss the bottle but Jon shakes his head. “You want some?”

Frank looks down and bites his lip, then obediently squirts some of the liquid – warm from the fire – onto his hand before tossing the bottle to Jon. “Thanks,” Frank murmurs and Jon grins before showing the bottle triumphantly to Spencer.

“Give it here,” Spencer says, reaching for the lube, but Jon doesn’t give it to him. Instead he leans away from Spencer, who leans up, following him. They press toward each other, Jon laughing at the situation, until Spencer silences him with a kiss so emphatic that Frank’s mouth waters and his dick jumps at the sight. And it is in this position that Spencer is able to take the bottle from Jon; he breaks the kiss, now wearing a triumphant expression.

Jon shakes his head, smirking, and leans back so that Spencer can cover his cock with lube, and then get his own as well. “Now, you come here, you jerk,” Spencer says. He puts his hand on Jon’s shoulder and pulls him back down, and this time Jon is only happy to oblige.

They move against each other, Frank thinks in slow motion, except that their voices sound normal. It’s hot, and while Frank blames the fire, he knows it’s not actually that at all. His own slick cock slides easily through his curved palm, and he puts his other hand in his lap as well, squeezing his tender sack rhythmically.

“Please,” Spencer stage whispers, his breathy voice moving through the evening like it was a message for everybody. He whimpers at Jon, and Frank realizes that he is looking down at his own cock that he can see all the time. He quickly lifts his head and watches Jon and Spencer murmur at each other, their lips brushing as they speak. “Please,” Spencer whispers again, and he thrusts up against Jon, who moans and smiles.

“Okay…” and Spencer grins, turning his head to look at Frank with that same shit-eating-grin as before.

Frank ducks his head, but immediately shifts his gaze so that he can still see what’s going on despite his lowered head. He watches through damp strands of hair, focusing on the space between the bangs over his face. Jon reaches for the bottle of lube again, and then leans back. His erection still glows red from the fire, but now it glistens too, from the lube, and Frank licks his lips. He is en-fucking-tranced.

With one quick glance in Frank’s direction, Jon applies lube to his fingers and then rubs them around Spencer’s asshole. Already Frank knows what’s going to happen and he wants to look away but he can’t. His tongue teases against his lip ring as he watches, tugging on it a little, and his hand tugging on his own cock as Jon uses first the tips of two fingers to lube Spencer up, and then slides those two fingers all the way in to the second knuckle.

Spencer gasps, lifting his legs, his hips; knees pressed to his chest. “Yes,” he hisses, and he looks at Frank again, still smiling. Frank’s hand slips off of his cock and he gasps a little before looking down, then back at Spencer. Jon moans, moving his arm faster, and Spencer rocks his body up toward Jon. Frank moves his arm faster too, and at first he doesn’t notice that it’s the same rhythm that Jon uses.

And the thing is… Frank wants to go help. He can see Jon’s erection, hanging out, alone. It’s pressed against Jon’s sweaty stomach and practically screaming out to him and Frank can’t move. He can only grip his own cock, tease a finger and then two into his own hole, twisting his body in order to do so. He bites down hard on his lip, tugging at the ring there, and he gasps when he comes onto his hand while Spencer continues to writhe on the other side of the fire.

Frank looks around, thinking about how he could really use a rag and of course the, bag at his feet. He gingerly sticks a hand in and almost immediately comes out with a rag that he can use to clean himself up. He moves it carefully over his sensitive skin, and then wipes his hands as well. Jon and Spencer are lost in each other, and Frank stands slowly, pulling his jeans up and fastening them again.

His legs are weak, like jelly, but he can’t stay. Spencer is murmuring for Jon to go deeper and as much as Frank wants to watch – which is disturbing in itself – he knows that he needs to leave, or that – at least – he shouldn’t stay here anymore.

He needs to continue looking for Patrick. He needs to get back to the show, to his band. He licks his lips and leaves, forcing himself to face forward and not look back.

The heat stays with him, burning red on his cheeks long after he leaves the fire behind.



“Did you lose him?” Pete’s voice is disconcerting, and then distracting, and Frank whirls around, arms swinging around his sides before looking up and then forward, seeing Pete walking through the darkness toward him. At first Frank thinks that Pete’s eyes are so bright they’re shining light on him, but then Pete tosses a flashlight at him, and Frank realizes it was just a trick of… something. Pete’s, he guesses. “You haven’t lost him,” Pete says. He doesn’t wait for Frank to respond. “But it’s too dark. You should get some sleep.”

“But,” Frank finally says. “Where?”

“Right here.” Pete turns, swinging the beam of light onto a canvas tent. “It’s not a bicycle,” he says. “But it was built for two.” He walks slowly toward the tent and Frank stands where he is, absolutely unable to move. At the entrance, Pete stops and shines his light on Frank. “Come on,” he yells across the grass. His voice so loud in this silent place makes Frank uneasy, like he should shut Pete up or something. “I’m not going to fuck you unless you want me to.”

He’s not going to what? Frank licks his lips and tilts his head up. There are stars and a big fat moon. It could be the night sky back on the tour, instead of in this crazy place he accidentally followed Patrick into. The land under the stage? Or something else equally insane, perhaps. But what happens if he allows Pete to… do what he said? There were horrible results just from eating a mushroom. What’s Pete sticking his dick into him going to do? “I knew you’d see it my way.”

Pete and Frank are nose to nose, and the canvas tent is so close Frank can touch it. And he has no idea how they got so close. He doesn’t remember walking over here at all. “This is one fucked up place,” Frank finally says.

“Tell me about it,” Pete responds. He takes Frank’s hand and tugs him into the tent. “You are in one fucked up place.”

Frank can’t respond; he’s too busy watching Pete tug his jeans off by the light of the two flashlights. He puts his hands on his own belt buckle, fingers deftly working at the clasp, and thinks to himself I am in one fucked up place.


Continued...