Current mood:	chilled out.
Current music:	The Fitness- Day Job
Entry tags:	au, bandom, gerard/frank

Day Job
Title: Day Job, or, The Ridiculous Grocery AU In Which Frank Works In The Deli, Pines For Gerard, The Hot Checkout Boy, And Is Advised By Many To Forget About It
Author: ishyface
Pairing: Frank/Gerard (with side helpings of Brian/Bob and Bert/Quinn)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Frank knows that keeping a job you hate just because it happens to involve hot people is a really bad idea, but he's always kind of liked bad ideas.
Disclaimer: We all know that Brian Schechter does not actually run a supermarket, correct?
Author's Note: This is pure ridiculousness. And features William Beckett as a night supervisor. READ AT OWN RISK IS WHAT I'M SAYIN'.
Betas: redheaded_itch, laenij

Frank decided one morning that he absolutely fucking hated his life.

He told himself after Pencey broke up that the deli job was going to be temporary. It wasn't as though it was even a good deli, like one of those independent ones where all the customers were vegan hippies and all the employees had green hair and there were vats of tofu under the glass; it was just one department in a big chain supermarket, tucked away in the back next to the bakery. It required both a name tag and a uniform, he came home every day smelling like sandwiches, and he found used hairnets collecting dust in every corner of his apartment. He told himself every Monday that this would be the week he'd hand in his notice- or just quit in some spectacular way that involved war cries and overturning the antipasto cart- and start a band again.

When he realized one morning that he'd been working at Schechter's Foods for four years already, he felt a little baffled.

"Life sucks," he muttered on his break, slumped over his coffee in the break room. Andy looked at him from across the table, eyebrows raised.

"You really shouldn't drink coffee, you know," he said. "Stunts your growth and shit."

"Yeah, well, I'm already a midget and I'm pretty sure I'm done growing, so." Frank downed half of the cup, just to piss him off. Andy liked to have the occasional Talk with other employees about the poisons they were putting into their bodies. The last person he tried it on was Travis, the assistant manager, who waited patiently for him to finish while rolling a joint on the daily totals. "I don't know why I stay here," he continued, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Because no one else will hire a punk-ass little shit like you?"

"There's always McDonald's."

"Because they didn't fire you after you got that bug tattooed on your neck?"

"That is a scorpion. Not a bug. Besides, I got written up for that. Totally unfair, since they didn't blink an eye when you got 'fuck city' across your knuckles."

"Okay," Andy said. He smiled knowingly and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose like he always did when he was about to say something Frank didn't want to hear. "It's because of Gerard."

And... well. Okay.

The last time Frank had actually typed up his notice, got it printed out and put into an envelope and ready to hand in to Brian, the store manager, had been over a year before. When he got up the stairs to Brian's office- narrowly avoiding the cloud of smoke that always emanated from the assistant manager's office where Gabe and Travis were having their post-opening pre-first-break celebratory smoke session- there had been this... this guy waiting outside of Brian's door. He'd been wearing a tie and a button-up and everything and he was drawing a fucking dragon on his portfolio. They'd waited together and started talking (well, Frank had done most of the talking until it came out that this kid really liked Batman, which he couldn't seem to shut up about) and by the time Brian opened the door and said "Gerard, I'm sorry to keep you waiting," Frank was pretty much ridiculously in love.

So when Brian had turned to him and asked warily, "Frank, is there anything I can help you with?"- warily because he knew what Frank was like and that whatever he had to say was either an elaborate joke or an indignant, vitriolic rant about one of the supervisors punctuated with profanity and enthusiastic hand gestures- Frank just shook his head and walked back down the stairs in a daze, throwing his notice into the first wastebasket he came across.

He kicked himself for it when he thought about it later. It was a stupid move, staying at a job you hated just because you thought their newest checkout boy was cute, especially considering how fast Schechter's went through cashiers. (Otter had only lasted three hours before tearing off his name tag and insisting through a haze of tears that he was going back to work in his dad's garage where people appreciated him.) But whenever Frank saw Gerard he gave him this crooked, awkward little smile and Frank secretly thought Gerard's smile should be kind of illegal, because it did pleasant, uncomfortable, twisty things to his insides.

Well, maybe not illegal, but restricted.

Specifically, restricted to Frank.

"And you haven't made a move," Andy continued, ticking points off on his fingers for emphasis. "You barely ever talk to the kid. You make eye contact maybe once a month. Hell, you're almost as awkward as he is. So not only are you staying here because you want to bone a cashier, you're staying here because you want to bone a cashier you never speak to."

Frank laid his head back on the table. "Life sucks," he said again. Andy snorted.

"Dude, try being a vegan butcher for a day, then tell me life sucks."

***

On his break Frank went to talk to Bob.

Bob ran the smoke shop attached to the front of the grocery store. It was tiny and cramped, with just about enough room for Bob, Bob's counter, a thousand different brands of imported cigars, and maybe a customer if they were skinny. Frank was skinny.

"Hey, Bryar," he said, leaning against the counter. Bob didn't look up from his portable TV. He had it on pretty much constantly, usually to watch Mr. Bean reruns. Today, however, he seemed to have tapped into the security cameras and was staring intently at the alley behind the store.

"Bert's back," he muttered, tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter. "I've already chased him out of there twice this week, I'm not gonna do it again."

Frank winced. Hobos tended to flock to the back alley, probably because one of the walls was adjacent to the bakery and tended to be warm; usually after being chased by an angry Bob they left and never came back, but Bert was persistent. "I'll get him for you later. Hey, Bob, you know Gerard?"

"Way? You mean the cashier?"

"Yeah."

"What about him?" Bob reached over and switched channels. Mr. Bean's head was caught in a turkey again.

"What do you think he'd say if I asked him out?"

Bob glanced at Frank, one eyebrow raised. "Probably yes. 'Course, you might wanna cut out the middle man and make reservations at the free clinic. A cozy little STD treatment for two."

"What?"

He snorted. "Frank, Gerard's a slut. He blew Brian to get the job here, everybody knows that."

Frank had not known this. It was upsetting news. "But- did he just do Brian, or...?"

"Brian, Travis, Gabe, Vicky... that's just upper management, too. I'm not sure how many other people he's slept with. It's just not worth it, dude. What about that new kid in seafood? Patrick whatever? He seems lonely and desperate; he'd go out with you."

"This isn't, like, me trying to find a date to a high school dance, Bob. I like this guy, okay? A lot. He makes- it's like when I see him my-"

"- heart burns?" Bob said drily, eyes glued to the television.

That was actually kind of the best way to put it ever, Frank realized. "Yeah."

Bob shrugged. "Whatever, dude. Your dick would burn too is all I'm saying. And not in a positive, life-affirming kind of way."

Frank picked up a box of Marlboros and threw them at Bob's head for reasons of catharsis. He missed.

"Out," Bob said, pointing at the door. "And stop bothering me while I'm working, Iero."

"I guess jerking off to Rowan Atkinson is 'working', now," Frank muttered, and slipped out the door before Bob could catch him and kill him dead.

***

Frank didn't want to let what Bob had said get to him. Rumours snowballed in places like Schechter's- everyone was bored and pissy, and that led to gossip, and that led to things like Alex Marshall the part-time shelf kid bursting into tears, locking himself in the bathroom, and not coming out until someone bribed him with a lactose-free milkshake. Rumours were part of working in a shitty grocery store, and Frank had just about decided to forget about it and ask Gerard out anyway when he ran into Gabe.

Gabe was an okay guy as assistant managers went- he never got on Frank's case when he started wearing fingerless gloves instead of the regulation latex, or when he started trying to make out with Ray the deli manager to freak out the day shoppers. (He did ask if he could join in, but Frank was about 75% sure he was joking.) Still, when he leant over the deli counter and said, "I hear you're planning on doing the Way kid"- all waggly eyebrows and red-rimmed eyes- Frank had to restrain himself. Laid back (and pretty obviously stoned) though Gabe was, he still might fire Frank if he punched him.

"I don't think that's really any of your business," he muttered, wrapping up a stray chunk of gouda. Gabe grinned.

"You're right," he said enthusiastically. "It's not my business, and it'd be totally inappropriate of me to ask you if you're planning to tap that. So... are you?"

"Shut up, Gabe."

"'Cause if you are- look, I know Bryar warned you about this, so I'm just going to say if he does that move, you know, with his left thumb and the warming lube? It feels good for a while but if he makes like he's going to bite down-"

"Oh, God," Frank moaned. He wasn't sure whether he was more horrified at the idea of Gabe having sex ever or turned on by the idea of the Gerard/warming lube combo.

"Yeah, that's what he said," Gabe said, giggling like a maniac. "And I thought that was good, but then Travie was like, 'Yo, move to the left,' and he-"

"Travis?" No, he was definitely more horrified. "You and Travis did him at the same time?"

"Travie and I always do people together. Otherwise one of us gets jealous." Gabe reached out to touch his arm. From anyone else it would seem like a gesture of sympathy, but from Gabe it made Frank feel kind of dirty. "I'm not saying he's not a good lay, dude. There's none better. I'm just saying, when he reaches for the double-headed dil-"

Frank threw a handful of sliced olives at his face. He went away after that.

***

Okay. So it was getting to him.

Frank figured that the only way to feel better about it would be to ask Gerard outright, so before his shift the next day he wandered over to his cash. It was a slow day, and Gerard was bent double sketching something on the back of a receipt. Frank had to clear his throat a couple times before he straightened up.

"Oh, hey," he said, and smiled, and oh sweet Jesus Frank had to mentally forbid himself to blush and giggle like a schoolgirl. "What's up?"

"Not much," Frank said, and told his mouth not to let that latent Gerard, you make my heart burn slip. Bob certainly had a way with words. "What're you drawing? Another dragon?"

Gerard chuckled, sort of to himself, and slid the receipt over. "Not really. I've been reading a lot of Sandman lately, and-"

"Sweet," Frank breathed, because it was Merv fucking Pumpkinhead, with the cigar and the wheelbarrow and everything. "You gonna put Matthew in there somewhere? Like, perched on his shoulder?"

"Nah, probably not. I just really like Merv, you know?" He was chewing gum, Frank realized. He had never considered gum-chewing erotic before, but he was totally willing to start. "He's such an underrated character- like, there's this entire pantheon of mythic heroes and personified natural forces and he just gets lost in the shuffle because he's kind of an ordinary guy, you know? Kind of a loser. But it makes me think of, well, I guess Dream's an ordinary guy, too. Like he gets mad at his siblings and depressed when he breaks up with people, and that means that even though he's an element of the human psyche he's also just a person. It's like God, you know? He's a force, or a disembodied voice in someone's head, but he's a person, in a way." Gerard cocked his head at the end of the sentence, like he was waiting for Frank's take on that.

"Uh. Wow. I just like that he has a pumpkin for a head, actually."

Frank felt kind of stupid as soon as the words left his mouth. What if Gerard thought he was this shallow motherfucker now? But Gerard just laughed again and his hair fell into his eyes and Frank was just about dying, and just as his mouth started forming the first "g" in "Gerard do you want to go out with me sometime so we can fall in love forever and get married in Vermont and possibly have each other's babies or at least adopt a Jack Russell terrier or something" William the night supervisor stuck his head out of the office and shouted, "Way! Stop flirting with the deli boy and get to work! Iero, you were supposed to swipe in ten minutes ago, get your ass in here!"

Frank wasn't really sure how William ever got promoted to supervisor- he spent most of his time in the office painting his nails. Maybe he blew Brian as well.

Oh, yeah.

He looked back at Gerard, who had started and blushed when William started yelling. He kept his eyes down as he pushed the receipt over to Frank and muttered, "You can keep it if you want. I don't, like, need it or anything."

Frank put the receipt in his pocket and made a mental note to strangle William with his own stupid hair.

***

"Schechter's Customer Service Line, this is Amanda speaking, did you know that the average Caucasian male is unable to maintain an erection roughly fifteen percent of the time?"

Frank, at home in his underwear, winced. Amanda was studying to be a sexologist. It spilled over into her everyday life sometimes. "Hi, Amanda, it's Frank."

"Hey, Frank. Did you know- hold on, other line. Hello, Schechter's Customer Service Line, this is Amanda speaking, are you psychologically or medically frigid?"

"Amanda. It's still me. And you really shouldn't answer the phone like that."

"Oh, right. Just a second."

There was a two-minute pause in which Mikey wandered into the room. He'd been rooming with Frank for a few months, got up at odd hours and left electrical appliances sitting in puddles of water. He also seemed glued to his Sidekick. He was using it now, and didn't bother to look up when he said, "Hey."

"Hey, Mikey." Frank twined the phone cord around his fingers, waiting for Amanda to come back on. "What're you up to today?"

"Hmm." Mikey looked genuinely perturbed for a minute. "What day is it?"

"There's still twelve minutes left of Thursday."

"Really? 'Kay. Going back to bed." He disappeared down the hallway, nearly stumbling over a pile of his own dirty laundry. Frank was still shaking his head- the fact that Mikey was legally considered a grownup made him question truth, justice, and the American way on a regular basis- when Amada switched back to his line.

"Hey, Frank. Sorry about that, this old lady's been calling every five minutes for the past two days. And she's not even interested in the marriage rituals of the Ju/wasi, she just wants to talk about half-priced cheddar. Can you believe that?"

"Uh. Kind of. Look, I have a question-"

"Thirty-five. Not counting college, because who counts college?"

Frank did not want to know. "Actually, it's a question about Gerard. Way. The, uh, cashier. Do you know him?"

"Biblically. He's about seven inches uncut, went about four and a half times, was into light bondage and liked to hum a certain aria from La Traviatta at the moment of climax. His favourite position-"

"Okay, okay, Jesus, shut up!" Frank snapped, although a baser part of him thought, Wow, four and a half.

"Well, you did ask," Amanda said reasonably. There was an edge to her voice, kind of like she was a total crazy person. "Sorry. I've got an exam tomorrow, I'm trying to remember everything I've ever known about sex and it's... hey, did you ever have a cousin named Vinnie?"

"I don't want to know, Amanda. I don't want to know how big he was, how good he was, or whether he called later. I just wanted to know about Gerard."

"Fair enough. Did you know that during intercourse the average American housewife thinks about Patrick Swayze about twenty-seven times? Thirty-seven if she's ovulating."

"Is that even true?"

"Who knows, I'm just making up statistics as I go along now. Oh, God, I can't believe I have an exam tomorrow. Frank, do you know anything about the five stages of orgasm?"

Frank hung up. Amanda, he decided, was not the person to go for reassurance. He'd need to try someone else.

***

"Gerard? Gerard Way?" Travis frowned, squinting at Frank through the haze. "Which one is he?"

"Um. The cashier?"

Frank winced as Travis's face split into a huge grin.

"Ohhhh," he said, drawing the word out as long as humanly possible. Longer, even. "Checkout Boy. I know him. Hell, everybody knows him. Some of us even knew him at the same time. Real friendly guy."

"Yeah. Um. I heard." Frank sighed. "Look, I know this is a little out of the blue and all, Travie, I just... I like him, and I've heard a lot of rumours about him-"

"Not rumours." Travis waved a hand, either in dismissal or to clear the smoke. "Ain't rumours if they're true."

Frank liked Travis. It was kind of impossible not to. That didn't stop him from occasionally wanting to brain him with his own red stapler.

"Look, Frankie, I'm gonna give it to you straight." Travis leant across his desk, steepling his hands. "As your immediate superior"- he paused, as though savouring the words, and repeated himself- "your immediate superior, yes, I am not at liberty to discuss certain things with you. Personal stuff, you know? Wouldn't be professional. So if you were to ask me my opinion of Checkout Boy-"

"Gerard."

"Yeah, him, I would be obligated as your immediate superior not to say a damn word. It would be totally unprofessional for me to say 'Frank, as your friend and occasional narcotic enabler I must advise against any shenaniganery with Checkout Boy, even though he is fuckin' wicked with his tongue, because there is no future there for anyone, let alone a hopeless romantic like you. Also he might have given one of the cart boys crabs.'"

Frank stared at him. "But you just said it."

"Not officially. Now, did you want to buy a gram or not?"

"Yeah."

One of the unofficial perks of Travis and Gabe being high as kites at work was that they couldn't get upset about Frank smoking up on his coffee breaks, mostly because they sold him whatever he had. He dug through his pockets for change as Travis weighed out a gram, more or less, on the scale he'd stolen from the deli counter two years ago. He wrapped it up in foil and tossed it to Frank, beaming.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, tucking his feet up on the desk. "Now fuck off, I got paperwork to do."

"By 'paperwork' you mean you have to roll another, right?"

"What do you roll joints with? Paper. S'right."

Frank pocketed the foil and headed to the door, pausing only to ask, "Which cart boy?"

"The Butcher, I think. Oh, Frank? Bert's in the alley again. Chase him out, he's making the customers uncomfortable."

***

Frank headed out back on his break, passing by the meat section to wave at Andy. Andy just rolled his eyes and kept chopping; he knew what it meant when Frank went out the back door and had long since stopped trying to make him see the error of his ways.

It was grey outside, too windy for Frank's taste, and he kept his hands cupped around the joint as he lit it. The door opened behind him, and Frank tensed- there was always the chance of it being Vicky, and Vicky could be a hardass. (Especially when people called her Vicky.)

"Frank Iero, what the fuck is up?" Sisky greeted him, smacking him on the back. The Butcher and Chislett followed him out, Chiz wrapped in a threadbare sweater and shivering. "You havin' a sesh without us, asshole?"

Frank relaxed and passed the joint on. Adam Siska, Michael Guy Chislett and the Butcher were probably the worst employees at Schechter's, aside from Frank himself. They were cart jockeys, and Frank had once asked the Butcher casually why he hadn't applied for a job in meats instead. The Butcher had tried to flush him down the toilet, and Frank never asked again.

He eyed the Butcher now, out of the corner of his eye. Someone had given him a pair of bunny ears at some point. The wire was almost gone in one ear, and he had to push it out of his eyes every few minutes. Was that the kind of guy Gerard went for?

"Hey," he said, making the Butcher jump. "Can I borrow those ears?"

Sisky laughed as the Butcher wordlessly passed them on, smoke curling out of his nostrils as he intoned, "Frank Iero: closet furry." He passed the joint on to Chislett, who shook his head and gave it back to Frank. He took a deep toke, held off the urge to cough as he felt the burn in his lungs.

"Hey, Butcher," he said as he exhaled. The pot was making him feel looser, a little careless. "Is it true that Gerard Way gave you crabs?"

Sisky shouted with laughter. Chislett gave his usual bemused smile. The Butcher, however, shook his head solemnly. "No way, man."

Thank God. Travis was wrong about that, at least.

"It was warts," the Butcher continued, looking Frank in the eye. "Genital warts. He gave them to Sisky too."

"Not to me," Chislett put in hastily. "I don't even like guys."

"Oh, right," muttered Sisky, elbowing him in the ribs, "right, it's someone else calling Butch Walker on his cell every two minutes. 'No, you hang up, Butch,' 'no, you hang up, Chizzy.' Makes me sick." He looked at Frank, his eyes widening. "Oh, shit, Frank you didn't-"

"No," Frank mumbled. All of a sudden that loose, happy feeling was gone. He just wanted to go home, eat an entire cake by himself, watch terrible movies and weep. He stubbed out the joint on the wall and headed around to the front entrance, waving over his shoulder. "See you guys later."

A few minutes later he doubled back, cheeks red. He'd forgotten to kick Bert out of the alley.

***

Bert didn't even open his eyes when Frank prodded him. "Fuck off," he mumbled. "'m sleepin'."

Frank didn't feel like fighting with him, not today. He leant against the wall, letting his shoulders sag. Life sucked.

"Life sucks," he said aloud. Bert did open his eyes at that, looking at him incredulously.

"Okay," he said. "Yeah, your life sucks. I'm sleeping in an alley, you rabbit-eared motherfucker! Don't tell me your life sucks!"

"Bert. I've met your boyfriend. You invited me to your housewarming party. I helped you name your fucking dog and pick out your fucking bedroom set. You're not actually homeless."

Bert smiled and cuddled further down into his moth-eaten blankets. There was a stain near the edge that could be any number of things, none of them pleasant. "Quinn's gonna come camp out here with me next week. It's our anniversary."

"Perfect." Frank sighed. "Hey, Bert?"

"What?"

"Ever had it bad for someone who gave someone else genital warts?"

Bert frowned. "Probably. Actually, I think that was how Jepha and I met."

"He gave you genital warts?"

"No. We were on the bus and he asked me if I wanted to see his penis."

"And you said yes."

Bert snorted. "Well, no shit."

Frank wasn't sure why he was surprised. It was Bert.

"And I said, 'Holy shit, they're full of pus!'" Bert's voice grew fondly nostalgic, like he could still see every scab. "And he said, 'Yeah, man, got 'em from a guy downtown,' and then it turned out that guy was Quinn's ex's cousin, and so then-"

"Yeah, well, okay, that's great," Frank said hastily. He was really not in the mood to play 6 Degrees of STD right now. "The thing is I've got this crush on a guy at work, and it turns out he's kind of... seen a lot of people there. And gave a few of them diseases. Also he had a threesome with the managers. Possibly in their office."

Bert scratched at his beard. It was only a few days old, but already impressively thick and bushy. "I don't see the problem," he said finally.

Frank sighed. "Why would you." He pulled himself up and started to walk away. "Do me a favour and go to the park or something for an hour, okay? It'll get Bryar off my back. It would probably do you good, too- go out in the fresh air, feed the pigeons... eat the pigeons. Whatever floats your boat, man."

"Hey, Iero!" Frank half-turned. Bert was struggling into a sitting position against the wall, only his head visible in his ratty nest of blankets. "This guy you're so hung up on- what's his name?"

Frank sighed again. "Gerard Way," he said, and braced himself.

Bert stared, then started laughing. "Oh, shit!" he shouted. Frank could still hear him when he walked through the front door.

***

Ten minutes into his Thursday shift, Brian called him into his office.

"I'm sorry I was late yesterday," Frank said as soon as he sat down. Sometimes it was better to start things off by apologizing profusely. Today felt like that kind of day. "Thing was my dog accidentally unplugged my alarm clock, and then the bus was late and I had to-"

Brian held up a hand placatingly. "It's not that, Frank," he said. Brian always looked a little worn, a little stretched- running a supermarket was, by all accounts, a difficult job, especially now that their biggest rival Ivarsson's Eats had opened a new store a few streets away, and especially for a guy like Brian, who took his job so seriously that he'd once gotten his nose broken trying to apprehend a shoplifter by himself. He looked even more tired now, and his hair was rumpled and his tie was crooked and if Frank wasn't so hung up on Gerard he would probably have thought it was kind of hot.

Actually, Gerard or no Gerard, it was still pretty hot.

"Oh," Frank said, a little at a loss. "Well... then if this is about the feta bucket, I am totally not to blame for the high bacteria count. You'll have to take it up with Ray. La la la, bananas in my ears."

"Wrong again," Brian said, massaging his temple with one hand. He did that a lot around Frank.

"In that case, it was self-defense and if Gabe says otherwise he'll have to look twice as hard for his nutsack."

Brian sighed. "Frank, has it ever occurred to you that I might want to talk to you just for the sake of talking to you? That you might not be in trouble at all?"

Such a thing had not occurred to Frank since third grade. He was always in trouble. 'Trouble' was his middle name, along with 'Danger' and 'Anthony.' "Uh. Not really?"

"Me either," Brian admitted, "but there's a first time for everything." He leant forward, his face serious and concerned. "There have been some rumours flying around about you and a... a cashier. Named Gerard."

Frank wanted to die. Not the forever kind of death, just the kind where he'd black out for a convenient space of time and wake up in an alternative reality where he'd never have to go to work and there were plenty of hot people to feed him grapes. "Um."

"Yeah," Brian agreed. He looked almost as uncomfortable as Frank, which was oddly... comforting. "I know this is a very delicate matter and it could be embarrassing for you to talk about, but from what I've heard you were intending to ask him out."

"Yeah. I was. Until anyone and everyone started giving me shit about it." Frank had perfected his glare over the course of many years. He turned the full force of it onto Brian now. Brian was not noticeably fazed.

"I see. Well, I can't say I'm disappointed. Obviously what you do on your own time is your business, but we try to discourage dating in the workplace. You remember what happened when Cash and Singer broke up."

Frank remembered, all right. Luckily Singer hadn't put them down as a reference and Andy and Matt had taken Cash in to stay with them for a few weeks to sleep on their couch, eat their soy ice cream, and sing "Wind Beneath My Wings" to their cats.

"As well..." Brian fidgeted. "I have to say, Gerard is a little... I mean, you and he would probably have-"

"Brian," Frank said wearily. "You don't have to dance around it- he's the market slut. I know."

"'Slut' is such an ugly word," Brian said reprovingly. "Although... yeah. He kind of is. I think you're better off without him, Frank. I know you think I'm a hardass, but I do care about you."

"Mm," Frank said. "Is it true he blew you to get this job?"

Brian sputtered. "Absolutely not!" he snapped. "That would be a total abuse of authority, not to mention illegal. Besides, Bob would kill me."

That made Frank feel a little better.

"He did offer, though," Brian admitted after a minute. The tips of his ears were beginning to turn pink. "I- I ended up giving him the job on the condition that he never asked again. Ever. Also, he worked at the Mini-Mart on Terrence Way. That helped."

That did not make Frank feel better at all.

"Yeah, well," he muttered. "Can I go now? That new kid Spencer was late and Ray's been on the floor three hours past the end of his shift. He'd probably like to, you know, go home. Play X-Box. Talk to his goldfish. Whatever it is he does."

"Spencer? Is he friends with Ryan Ross at the flower counter?" Brian frowned. "He's been late three times already and we only hired him last Wednesday."

"Yeah. I think Gabe asked him about that once and he just said something about how he forgets how quickly time passes when he's tapping into the collective unconscious and channeling the universal creative force."

He'd then gone behind the building with Frank and Jon Walker to smoke up, but Frank wasn't about to tell Brian that. Brian had been to Narcotics Anonymous. Brian had opinions.

"Huh," Brian said. It was a weary sort of 'huh,' the kind that went past 'I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!' right into 'oh, God, my head.' "Okay. Well, by all means, Frank, go relieve Ray. Tell him Bob and I still want him to play poker with us on Friday."

Frank was just about to tell Schechter that he wasn't about to be his fucking messenger boy, thank you, and also that everyone in the market knew his and Bob's "poker nights" were really thinly-veiled quests to find an appropriate partner for a threesome, and also that his aftershave was too strong and was bothering Frank's sinuses, and also that the boy he was madly in love with had had sex with pretty much everyone he knew (except Andy, because Matt would kill him), and how he hated his job and his apartment and his life and how it was all just too damn unfair, but then Brian glanced at the security screens behind his desk and groaned.

"Frank," he said, "it's the Hushies. You know what to do."

And Frank did.

***

The Hushies were the only real gang in town. Led by Greta Salpeter, the toughest high school girl ever to shoplift strawberry lip gloss from a convenience store, they roamed the streets at night (or at least early evenings on school nights and until ten-thirty on weekends- curfew, member Bob Morris had once explained seriously to Frank, was a bitch) looking for trouble. Trouble usually came in the form of standing on street corners yelling at passers-by, bumming smokes and spray painting four-letter words on the elementary school playground. Darren, by all accounts a very nice boy, had at first missed the full implication of "four-letter word" and for three weeks scandalized the world with such inflammatory curses as "tree," "hugs," and "pony."

Sometimes, on very slow days, trouble came in the form of storming the gates of Schechter's Foods and hanging around in the organic food aisle, knocking things over, making lots of noise, and shocking little old ladies.

Frank knew how to deal with the Hushies. He wasn't sure why- ever since she'd seen him take on two brawling customers armed with nothing but a dustpan and a prayer Greta seemed to have held a grudging respect for him, one that led her to listen when he told them to fuck off and die.

If respect didn't work, well, he still had his dustpan.

They were kindly rearranging the display of organic salsa when he found them. Sometime in the last few weeks they'd picked up matching leather bomber jackets, and someone- Chris, Frank was willing to bet- had written "The Hushies" on the back of each one in glitter glue. They slowed as they saw him approach, and Greta smiled.

"Iero," she said. "We meet again."

"Salpeter." Frank couldn't help but like Greta. She was a really sweet kid, aside from being a megalomaniacal psychopath and all. Still, rules were rules. "You know you guys have been banned for the rest of the week, right?"

Greta waved a dismissive hand. "Details. We've got a mission."

"Which is?"

"Top secret and therefore none of your fucking business!" Bob snarled, moving in behind Greta and striking a tough pose. Since he was pretty small and weighed about ninety pounds when wet it was hard to see him. As a threatening right-hand man, Bob left something to be desired. Greta seemed to agree; she met Frank's eyes and made a face and, without looking, punched Bob on the shoulder.

"Shut up, Bob," she said, and then, to Frank, "Although he's kind of right. It is none of your fucking business."

"Fair enough. You're still not allowed here."

"Tough!" Chris shouted, pumping a fist in the air. It looked like he was trying to grow a beard. It was unfortunate. "The Hushies don't listen to nobody! No gods! No masters! No organic salsa!" And with that he toppled the display. Glass and tomato sauce went flying, and Darren and Bob cheered.

And I'm done. "Fine," Frank snapped. "Do whatever the fuck you want, you little shits, I am so fucking past caring, but when you're all eventually busted for cocaine possession or arson or whatever I am going to fucking laugh, okay? I will laugh."

That quieted the boys. Greta eyed him, one eyebrow raising. "That's it?" she said, sounding a little disappointed.

"That's fucking it."

"You're not going to call security?"

"No." It was Worm's day off anyway. On those days they just paid Bob overtime to hang around the front doors on his smoke breaks and look menacing. It seemed to work.

"You're not going to get Brian to come down here and have a talk about how our disruptive behaviour hinders the flow of commerce and creates an unhealthy shopping atmosphere?"

"No."

"You're not even going to use your dustpan?"

"Fucking no! I am going to sit back and let you make a fucking mess of the whole store, in fact, and then I am going to be the one to clean it up because the maintenance guy is probably hooking up with Gerard fucking Way in a storage closet or something and I will fucking do it because there is no way it can make my life any worse than it is right now!" Frank was shaking. He wasn't sure if he was angry at the Hushies or angry at Gerard or angry at Brian or just angry at the fact that this was his life, he worked in a grocery store, and fuck it. Fuck everything.

And then Greta reached over and gave him a fucking hug.

"Frank," she said when she pulled away, "why didn't you say something?"

Frank blinked. Greta had hugged him. Greta did not hug people. Greta shanked people. "Uh..."

"You like Gerard!" Greta clasped his hands and grinned. "That's so adorable."

Frank wondered if people actually tore their hair out or if it was only a figure of speech. He was, he thought, getting close to the point where he'd actually be able to do it. "Jesus fucking Christ," he growled. "Yes, I like Gerard. Or did. Before everyone started telling me what a slut he is."

Chris snorted. "What, you didn't know that?"

"No I fucking didn't! And now everyone and his fucking dog is telling me not to go for it when I really want to, and it turns out that Gabe and Travis did him at the same fucking time, and when I talked to Bert about it he started fucking laughing at me! And he eats rats! I've seen him! And-"

Greta covered his mouth with her hand and waited for him to shut up.

"So he's had a lot of sex," she said finally. "Why does that matter? Are you some insecure asshole or what?"

Frank stared at her. "What?"

"I said. Are you. Some. Insecure. Asshole. Or. What. Sex isn't something to be ashamed of, you dumbass! I've had it, you've had it, someday even Bob might have it-"

"Hey," Bob said, looking hurt.

"- and that's okay. Chances are half the stuff you heard wasn't even true, anyway. This place is worse than high school for rumours, you know that."

"Brian said he offered to blow him to get this job."

Greta sighed. "And you've never done anything unethical here, right? Because I know for a fact Travis and Gabe get about 90% of their clientele on the floor."

She had a point. Frank hated that.

"Face it, Frankie," Greta said, patting his arm. "You're just worried that since he's had so much sex he's gonna think you're too square and shoot you down. Which won't happen. Slut or not, Gerard's a sweet guy." She grinned again. This time it had a predatory edge. "He also happens to be the only cashier on right now. And if you don't smarten up and go talk to him, I might happen to slip by and mention that you are hopelessly in love with him. You know. Maybe."

Frank looked at Greta with renewed respect. "You're not a very nice person, Greta," he said.

She bowed, then caught Bob by the arm. "Come on, Hushies," she said, "let's blow this piss-ridden meat pit. We can complete our mission at Ivarsson's Eats."

Frank caught Darren by the arm as he tried to slip away with the others. "Hey. Does your top secret mission involve corn chips?"

Darren looked shifty. "Possibly."

"Good. Save me some."

---

Before he went to talk to Gerard Frank had to clean up the salsa and broken glass. Then he had to go to the bathroom and psych himself up. Then he had to pee. Then he passed by the deli and remembered that he had an actual shift to start and an unhappy deli manager to relieve. All told, it took about six hours, and by the time he approached the cash, heart pounding, palms sweaty, he smelled like sandwich meat and had bits of feta in his hair and probably looked like shit and didn't even care, because holy shit, this was happening.

"So Gerard," he said, staring at his feet, "I was wondering if maybe you wanna-"

He looked up and felt the rest of the words dry up in his mouth. That wasn't Gerard.

"Hi," Mikey said. He looked as unenthusiastic as ever. "What's up?"

"Since when have you fucking worked here?" Frank hissed, leaning in. It wasn't that he wasn't glad to see Mikey, or anything. He had just been geared up to see someone who made his stomach do acrobatics, and not seeing that person was... well, disappointing. "I thought you were still down at the Mini-Mart!"

Mikey shrugged. "They didn't have a discount. My brother got me a job here a few months back. Did I forget to tell you?"

"Your brother? Who's your brother?"

Mikey opened his mouth to reply, but before he could it was full of Gabe Saporta's tongue. Mikey made an undignified sound and- and he actually leaned into it, and seemed to be enjoying it, and there may have been some subtle groping, and then some less-than-subtle groping, and Frank felt totally fucking confused. Not to mention a little sick. This couldn't get any weirder. It just couldn't.

When Gabe finally stopped sucking face he grinned at Frank, then grabbed a goodbye handful of Mikey's skinny ass and trilled, "See you later, Gerard!"

Okay. That was weirder.

"Mikey," Frank said, pronouncing every syllable with great care. "What is going on? What was that?"

Mikey shrugged again. "Gabe."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know that was Gabe. But why did he have his tongue in your mouth? Why did he grab your ass? And why- this is very important, Mikey, so think carefully- why did he call you Gerard?"

Lesser men would have chosen that moment to start looking embarrassed. Mikey just looked bored, like he was so over this whole thing. "Because I told him that was my name."

"Why?"

Mikey sighed and leaned closer. "Frank," he said, "you know who works here? My brother. You know who he talks to? My mom. Know who'll kill me if she hears about me hooking up with my manager? Or both of my managers at the same time?"

"Your mom?"

"Exactly. This way, if Gerard hears a rumour he'll think people are just saying shit about him and he won't care. He's never cared about stuff like that. Meanwhile, I get to have fun with-"

"- Travis and Gabe and Victoria and Amanda and The Butcher and Skisky and Brian and oh my God Gerard's your brother." Gerard was Mikey's brother. Gerard was Mikey's brother. Gerard was Mikey's brother. What the fuck, why was his life so weird?

Mikey pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded seriously. "Gerard is, in fact, my brother. And I'd really appreciate it if you didn't tell him about this. He's a good guy, but he's a little overprotective."

"Yeah, fine," Frank said, not really listening. Gerard was Mikey's brother. Gerard had not slept with anyone at work. Gerard had not given anyone genital warts.

The fact that Mikey had was enough to give Frank pause, but not enough to keep him from asking, "So, where is Gerard tonight?"

---

A loft. He should have known.

Gerard's apartment building was, not to put too fine a point on it, a dump. There was broken glass everywhere, cigarette butts scattered on the floor, a few stairs missing. Windows were boarded up and there was a faint and pervasive smell of cat piss and boiled cabbage. Someone on the second floor was playing what sounded like Polish opera at maximum volume, and the shrill melodies followed Frank up seven flights of stairs.

He had to stop and rest on the fifth landing- he'd had bronchitis as a kid, dammit, his lungs were weak.

By the time he reached Gerard's door he'd decided to quit smoking forever and start going to the gym. He was doubled over, wheezing and trying to summon up the energy to knock, when the door opened and he found himself looking at a familiar pair of shoes.

They're familiar. Fuck, I spend way too much time staring at this dude's feet.

"Frank?" Gerard reached down to pull him to his feet, looking concerned. There was a streak of blue paint drying on his jaw and dribbles of red down his shirt. "You sound awful!"

"Thanks," Frank croaked. Gerard made a face and protested that that wasn't how he meant it, and kept protesting as he ushered Frank inside and made him sit down and got them both cups of (very strong, very cold) coffee.

"I'm sorry if you knocked for a long time and I didn't hear you," he said, settling down next to him on the couch. "I was kind of wrapped up in my head- the only reason I went to the door was to see if I'd left my extra canvas out there." He took a sip of his coffee and looked surprised. "This is cold."

Frank snickered, still catching his breath. "You noticed that, huh?"

Gerard smiled sheepishly. "I told you. Wrapped up in my head." He looked down at his mug, shrugged, and took another sip. "So what were you coming over for? Mikey called me before, he said you had to tell me something- he couldn't tell me what exactly, he was in the manager's office."

"Did he sound out of breath?" Frank asked before he could stop himself. Gerard frowned.

"A little. Why? They aren't making him lift stuff, are they?"

Frank had to forcibly keep himself from describing to Gerard exactly what Gabe and Travie were making Mikey do. Instead he said, surprising himself a little, "Can I see what you were painting?"

Little spots of colour started to burn on Gerard's cheeks. "Um," he said quietly, playing with the hem of his shirt. "It's kind of stupid-"

"Don't do that." Frank nudged him with his elbow. "I haven't even seen it yet and you're calling it stupid? Come on. At least wait for me to rub my beard and make 'hmm'-ing noises."

"You don't have a beard."

Frank, remembering Greta, waved his hand and said airily, "Details." And then, "Come on, Gerard, if I didn't laugh at Merv Pumpkinhead why would I laugh at this?"

"That's the thing. It's..." Gerard gestured wildly, then seemed to give up. He sighed and stood and said, "wait here, and don't look, okay?", then disappeared into the next room. Frank closed his eyes and listened to the clatters and bangs and occasional "oh shits," smiling to himself. There was a scraping noise as Gerard dragged something into the room, then an awkward cough and a small, "Okay, look."

Frank opened his eyes and saw an easel, and a canvas, and an enormous fucking painting of... someone. Frank thought it was Merv Pumpkinhead again for a minute, because it was definitely a pumpkinhead-person, but then saw that it was wearing an apron and its skinny arms were covered in tattoos. He wasn't sure until he saw the scorpion. Then he swallowed.

"Is that," he started. His mouth was dry, so he coughed and began again. "Is that me? With a pumpkin for a head?"

Now Gerard's whole face was red. "Uh, yeah," he said, not meeting Frank's eyes. "Sorry. I guess that's a little creepy, but I remembered how much you liked the last one, and, you know, you told me once that your birthday was on Hallowe'en, so I figured it'd be a good surprise. Except I guess it's not a surprise anymore." Pause. "Sorry." Another pause. "I'm not a stalker, you know."

Frank looked at Gerard, scuffing his familiar shoes against the carpet, and his mouth started talking without his consent or input.

"I came over because I've liked you ever since I saw you drawing fucking dragons on your portfolio. And by 'like you' I mean 'been completely and totally in love with you, kind of.' Except when I told people they laughed because everyone said you were a slut and had a threesome with the assistant managers and gave one of the cart boys crabs except then it turned out to be genital warts and then I talked to Bert in the alley and he said one of his best friends had genital warts and then this gang leader told me to follow my heart and stop being such a douche, pretty much, and so I'd decided to ask you out anyway because all that sex stuff doesn't matter except then it turned out everyone thought you were your brother and actually I told him I wouldn't tell you that so. Um. I like you. A lot. And please don't think I'm some insecure asshole, because I promise I liked you just as much when I thought you'd slept with everyone as I do right now with this fucking amazing painting in front of me."

He took a breath. It felt like it had been a while.

"I'm not a stalker either," he added, as an afterthought.

Gerard stared at him, eyes wide.

"You thought I had sex with a lot of people?" he said finally.

"Uh. Well. For a given value of 'a lot'-"

"Like who?"

"Um. Travis, and Gabe, and Victoria, and Amanda, and possibly William Beckett except he'd need to wait for his nails to dry first, heh, and The Butcher, and Sisky, and Bert-"

Gerard flushed again, suspiciously. "Bert McCracken?"

No. No way. "You and Bert?"

He flapped both hands, like he was shooing away bad thoughts. "It was a long time ago! He washed his hair then! Sort of. Well, when I asked nicely."

"Anyone else?"

"No!" Gerard glared at him suddenly, his full, crooked mouth twitching. "Besides, what about all that stuff you said about not being an insecure asshole and sex not mattering?"

Frank was going to say something about how that was still true and how just because he was glad he wouldn't have to hear Amanda talk about the exact length and circumference of his penis didn't mean he'd be any less interested in Gerard's penis in general were that not the case, and how he really wasn't possessive or creepy or anything, and how Gerard was just really, really fucking pretty, but he got stuck on that last one and he closed the space between them and kissed him. Gerard made a little noise at first, like he was caught off guard, but then the noise turned into a sort of melting 'hmm' and his lips parted and Frank could taste coffee and cigarettes and mostly just Gerard. It was a good, deep sort of kiss, the kind of kiss that made promises.

"Hey," Gerard said, breaking away for a minute. Frank did not agree with this turn of events, but it did mean that he got to see how kissing made the colour rise in Gerard's lips, the way his eyes shone when he was happy. It was a hell of a silver lining. "What was that you said about my brother?"

And Frank could just see the ensuing shit fit, the frantic late night calls, the death of Mikey at the hands of his (formidable) mother, and he didn't want any of it to happen. Especially not right now. So he traced Gerard's lips with his finger and said, "Nothing. I'll tell you later. So does this mean you like me back?"

A smile. "Maybe a little."

"Sweet."

Gerard kissed him first this time, and Frank decided he absolutely fucking loved his life.