Fic: Of Bruises and Baby Oil (A Crack!fic Co-op) [2/2]

[ladyfoxxx]

Fandoms: My Chemical Romance & Green Day (You don't need to like both bands to read it, in fact liking only one band will give you someone to root for)
Title: Of Bruises and Baby Oil
Authors: ladyfoxxx & villiagegreen
Rating: R
Warnings: Consensual athletic violence (think Fight Club)
Length: ~12k. Complete in two parts
Pairings: Frank/Gerard, Billie Joe/Mike, implied blink-and-you'll-miss-it Billie/Gerard
Disclaimer: So completely didn't happen.

Summary: Two skinny, short, slightly femme front men pick a fight. Battle of the century ensues.
Author's Notes: So villiagegreen and I decided it would be a good idea to write a fic where Gerard Way and Billie Joe Armstrong fight in a cage. (Don't even ask.) It was huge amounts of fun to write and I'm going to miss seeing new chapters from villiagegreen in my inbox making me smile like a loon. If it isn't obvious she wrote all the Green Day parts, while the MCR fun was mine.

Part One

Part Two



Gerard feels about a hundred years old when he drags himself to his feet. His jaw feels loose, his throat aches, there's a sharp pain in his shoulder and he can feel the warm ooze of blood trailing from the bite wound Billie used to take out the round.

He keeps the wincing pain out of his movements as much as he can while he ambles out of the cage, the exit feeling much too far away. His side of the crowd are somewhat more subdued than the victorious screams coming from the Green Day contingent. But they're still calling him, encouraging him, yelling for him to pick it up, throw it aside, he can still win this.

Frank's waiting for him at the gate, pulling him into a loose hug, gingerly avoiding Gerard's more tender areas.

When he pulls back, concerned amber eyes are searching him and Gerard's putting on his best face. You can't win 'em all.

"He got lucky." Frank's trying to sound reassuring.

"Lucky? He fucking bit me, the fucker." Gerard counters as Frank laces their fingers and eases him over to a chair in the midst of his bandmates. Gerard finally gets a decent look around at his crew and how they're coping. Bob looks frighteningly angry, Gerard makes a mental note of the expression, wondering if he can recreate it once he's back in the ring for round three. Though even Bob's neutral expressions can be pretty fucking scary so he has an unnatural advantage over Gerard.

Brian looks concerned, but he's pretty good at hiding it. Gerard can only pick it from years of close-living familiarity. It's the same look he used to get when Gerard was on a three-day bender and just generally fucking up and vomiting all over the place.

Then there's Ray. He just looks sad. Sad but with a fierceness underneath it like it's taking everything he's got not to crowbar the fucking cage open and get between Billie and Gerard each round. Protect Gerard. But that's Ray anyway. Gerard knows not to expect anything else.

Mikey just looks ill. He's pale and gray and there's a tremor in his hands that he's trying to hide by keeping his arms folded. He's glancing over at Gerard occasionally but every time he does his eyes flick away, like he keeps forgetting not to look. Like it physically hurts him to see his brother all wrecked.

Frank's on the other end of the spectrum. He's thrumming with movement like stillness is the enemy, dragging a bucket of water across the cement and dipping a sponge in it. He's patting gently at Gerard's wounds, wiping away the blood, hissing and cursing out Billie Joe and all of fucking Green Day.

Gerard feels like the biggest ass for putting them all through this.

"I'm sorry, you guys, this was really stupid-" He starts, but Bob doesn't let him finish.

"Don't you fucking apologize, you asshole."

It pulls Gerard's mouth into a grin, tugging at his split lip painfully. Trust Bob to get mad at him for caring.

"If anyone should be apologizing it's that motherfucker." Bob's hand waves vaguely in Billie's direction.

"Yeah Gee," Ray's chiming in, looking braver than he did a minute ago. "Don't psyche yourself out. Look at him. He's had it. He can't do that again."

Gerard lets his eyes alight on his opponent, yards away on the opposite side of the arena. He's not sure if he'd use the term "had it" but Billie is looking worse for wear. So is Gerard, though. And he's feeling it too.

God he just wants it to be over already.

It takes everything in him not to give a "in case I don't make it speech" dividing his worldly possessions, records and comic books between them all. That would be a bit of a downer. He's crashing a hand through his hair, trying really hard not to notice how much it hurts to just lift his arm when Frank grabs his wrist.

"Fuck Gee, you're acting like you lost already."

"I just did." And just like that Gerard is whining again.

"One round, man." Frank counters, and Brian chimes in, using the hard-ass tone that usually only comes out when Gerard's trying to get out of doing interviews.

"You're down one, he's down one. Forget round two. Next round is the only one that counts. Now stop acting like a fucking pussy." Brian punctuates it by prodding one of the few un-marked parts of Gerard's chest. That's kind of him, given the amount of pain Gerard's in.

"Do I need to read you the fucking article again?" Frank threatens, trying to shake the sulk out of the frontman.

"Utter tripe!" Bob interjects, affronted.

"Emo-tard. He said fucking emo-tard." Ray growls.

"We are not fucking emo. Emo is shit!" Gerard finally bites, starting to get fired up.

"So are you gonna go cry in the corner and cut yourself like a little emo princess?" Okay Frank's fucking pushing it now. Gerard jumps up, blood rising, feet feeling light on the concrete, like he wants to run, wants to kick.

He grabs Frank by the back of the neck, eyes glittering dangerously.

"Who're you calling emo you fucking little shit?" Gerard's panting out the words in a dangerous growl. Frank nods slowly, corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Yeah that it's. That's fucking it. Keep that." Frank grabs the back of Gerard's neck and turns him to face the other band members.

"Fucking take him out." Says angry-face Bob.

"Show him, Gee. Show the goddamn traitor he's messing with the wrong band." And Ray is actually kinda scary when he's ticked off.

Finally Mikey's meeting Gerard's eyes and not looking away. He has the final words, saying simply and fiercely, "Hurt him."

Yeah Gerard's pretty sure he can do that. His blood's high and he's fucking pissed off. He's as fired up as he'll get but still not quite ready when the announcer's voice booms out over the speakers again.

"Opponents. Final round."

The crowd just loses it. Frank gives Gerard's shoulder one final squeeze, eyes saying more than his mouth can.

Gerard can't hear shit over the screaming but he knows his crew are yelling encouragement at him as he strides back to the cage. He can feel the vibration of the thrumming crowd rolling up through his body from the floor. He's holding onto Frank's words, rolling his hate around in his mind, bathing in it.

When the cage is locked up and he looks over to see Billie Joe snarling at him twenty paces away it hits him.

Jesus this is really it.

Okay he's done this twice now. He can do it once more.

"Gerard Way, are you ready?"

A million tactics race through his mind as he throws his arm skyward. Only one really sticks which is simply: survive.

"Billie Joe Armstrong, are you ready?"

Gerard watches Billie's arm fly up, heart racing. The announcer counts them in.

"Three, two, one... fight!" When the siren squeals this time Gerard doesn't run. He's not repeating his round two mistakes. Billie doesn't either, both of them stalking slowly forwards, eyeing each other off. When they get closer the movement turns into circling, neither one of them ready to break the stalemate and get within arm's reach of the other.

Gerard's waiting for the right moment to move. He's studying Billie's face, waiting for any hint of distraction. One of Billie's eyes is blackening and there's blood encrusted at the corner of his mouth. He looks angry. Really fucking angry. And incredibly focused on the man in front of him.

He has to blink sometime, Gerard's thinking. That's when he'll move.

There's a shriek and a rattle somewhere to Gerard's left. Gerard doesn't look, but Billie does, eyes flicking ever-so-briefly to whatever just happened over Gerard's shoulder and that's when Gerard rushes him. He slams the older man hard in the solar plexus, sending him flying backwards. Before Billie has time to regain his footing Gerard punches him the face and then like he's in some kind of berserker fury he just keeps hitting everything he can reach, grunting and panting and pummelling for all he's worth.

It's not the smartest thing he's ever done. Sure he gets a few bloody good hits in, but his focus is all over the place and he totally doesn't see it coming when Billie ducks out of his field of punching and wrenches Gerard's arm backwards and nearly out of the socket. Gerard squeals in protest, pain shooting up his limb. Billie gives him a hard shove and the concrete's coming up to meet him before he can even get his free arm in front of him to hold it back. He lands hard on his shoulder and chin, pain rocketing through his jaw and he can see blood on the concrete in front of his face.

Billie's still got a grip on his arm and Gerard can feel him hunkering down over him, putting a knee on his back ready to press him into the ground and jesus it could be an embarrassingly short round. But Gerard's not having any of it. He starts kicking his legs out and back and somehow manages to make contact with one of Billie's legs, sending him off balance enough that Gerard can squirm out of the death grip Billie's got on his arm. Gerard flips over onto his ass and kicks up with his legs, getting Billie in the other knee before he smarts up and jumps backwards, out of kicking range.

Gerard springs up as fast as he can, going at Billie and getting nothing but a faceful of knuckles as thanks. He can feel his face swelling and more blood rolling down his skin when he goes for Billie's throat, getting a grip on him but not a good one. Billie grabs a handful of Gerard's hair and wrenches, choking a groan from Gerard as he struggles to keep his grip. Then he remembers he has legs as well as arms and tries to hook one of them behind Billie's, scooping Billie's legs out from under him and they both topple to the ground.

They land awkwardly, a sprawl of arms and legs, impact jarring both of them for a moment before each of them scuffle to get on top. Billie's faster and Gerard's feeling the hard slam of rough concrete against his back as Billie's body presses his down into the ground. Fuck this, he thinks, pushing up with all he's got, scrambling and wriggling and somehow (he doesn't even know exactly) he rolls them over so Billie's on the bottom.

Billie's not happy about it either, kicking and growling, then he's coming up with bared teeth and oh no you motherfucker no more biting Gerard backhands him hard, sending Billie's head flying sideway, spitting blood but also throwing Gerard off balance. Billie recovers quickly and squirms hard enough to unseat Gerard, throwing him off so he falls sideways onto the concrete then Billie's scrambling backwards out of reach.

They both rush to hoist themselves to their feet, neither wanting the disadvantage of being the last one on the ground. Then they're back in a stalemate, both eyeing the other off, panting and bloodstained, leaning low over bent knees.

"Was it worth it?" Gerard shrieks at Billie, knowing he looks crazed, seeing droplets of blood-spittle flying out of his mouth as he speaks. "Is this what you wanted you fucking traitor?" He barely finishes getting the words out because Billie rushes at him, slamming him hard with his shoulder and going for a punch, but Gerard wises up and gets an arm in the way, the blow vibrating up his forearm as he counters it, stopping Billie's arm right in front of their faces. This leaves Billie's middle wide open so Gerard knees him in the guts. Billie falls forward bending double, but instead of folding he grabs Gerard around the waist and pushes, slamming his opponent back against the cage.

Gerard's winded, curled over and coughing blood all over Billie's back, but it's not enough to stop him, he's still upright he's got more fight in him. He grabs a handful of Billie's hair and wrenches upwards till Billie's head comes up with it, pained expression on his face. Gerard snarls and backhands Billie across the face, feeling the whiplash in the hand that's still stuck in Billie's hair. While Billie's recovering from that he grabs him by the shoulders and spins them around, slamming Billie backwards against the cage, then pulling him forward and slamming him back again, the crosswire shaking and rattling behind them. He's going for a third slam when Billie headbutts him, hitting him square in the forehead, sending Gerard flying backwards.

Pushing off the side of the cage, Billie catapults himself forward in an impressive tackle, landing hard on top of Gerard and grappling with him till both of Gerard's arms are trapped and his body and legs are being held down by Billie's. Gerard growls and writhes, trying to unseat the smirking frontman, but it's not cutting it this time, he's landed perfectly and there's weight on every part of Gerard's body but his head.

Billie knows he's won now, can feel that Gerard's completely trapped. He's grinning smugly with bloody teeth and one eye nearly sealed shut with swelling. Gerard doesn't think he's ever hated anyone so completely as he hates Billie at that moment.

Think, think, think! Gerard's screaming internally as his every limb is shaking and pulling and squirming trying to unseat this smiling asshole from on top of him but nothings budging. All he's doing is winding himself and scraping up his back on the rough concrete.

The announcer starts to count backwards from ten, crowd shrieking along hysterically and Gerard feels nothing but white-hot panic as Billie's steely grip on him doesn't shift an inch. He must've sweated off most of the baby oil because squirming around ain't doing shit except make Billie smile wider and more smug, leaning down on Gerard, sweat and blood falling off him onto Gerard's face.

He's too close to headbutt, but Gerard has a mad thought, an insane notion and completely lacking a better plan he puts it into play immediately, lifting his head and kissing Billie Joe full on the lips.

There's nothing sexy about, it's a mashing of faces all blood and teeth and lips but Billie is completely not expecting it. There's this split second where his grip falters and that's all Gerard needs to launch into a fully fledged fit, kicking and squirming and grabbing until he's got his arms free and his hands around Billie's neck, rolling them over, pressing Billie into the floor.

Then Gerard's the one fucking smiling. But not for long. He hasn't managed the perfect landing Billie had, his grip on the older man is dubious at best as they wrestle and roll, each of them trying to get the upper hand, get the other to the floor. They roll over three more times and by the time Gerard's on top again he's pretty sure he's seeing double. He can't even remember what all this is aid of anymore, he's just got his hands full of squirming man and they're both panting like they've got emphysema and gripping and growling and scratching.

Gerard manages a pretty decent pin on Billie, holding his arms down at the wrists, straddling him fairly firmly despite the writhing and kicking. He's starting to think this might be it, he has it. When the announcer starts counting he holds firm, holds Billie down, determined not to lose the upper hand this time.

"Ten, nine, eight." The crowd are howling along and Gerard's fighting a smile. Billie looks so fucking helpless, growling and spitting underneath him, fighting his grip, and tossing his head.

"Seven, six, five." Feeling cocky, Gerard counts along, panting the numbers out as he holds Billie down, somehow feeling stronger, or Billie's fighting less, maybe he tired him out.

"Four, three, two." It should have been a warning, that Billie seemed subdued, because why the fuck would he be? But Gerard's not using the right part of his brain so when he's mouthing the word "one" and Billie throws his upper body forward and headbutts Gerard with all the force of his torso he is not expecting it, is not ready for it, he just goes flying backwards, landing hard on the ground, head cracking on the concrete.

And it all goes black.

***

'Come on Armstrong, you only win if you pin, lift your arms, just set your hand on him... why isn't my hand moving.... or my arm....why can't I feel them?' Billie thinks, his world shrinking to his hand and the passed out kid's back. He thinks he's won, but something’s wrong, his body doesn't listen and he can see that he's falling back, back flat against the cement, he can here the muddled roar of the crowd, but it's so far away, like he's floating at the bottom of a pool.

He can see that kid, the skinny little thing covered in sweat, grease, and blood, it might have been the repeat head injuries talking, but there was something pitiful and sweet about him being all knocked out.

Billie wonders how he’s moving, he’s not telling his feet to move...

Another set of feet is in his eye line, then ankles, and a waist, it's Frank, how is he looking at Frank?

It takes too long for his nerves to tell him he is being held, familiar hands.

Things feel wrong and Billie notices he is zoning out, he tries to focus, his friends are here, Mike still holding most of him, he can pick out Mike's voice.

“Don't fall asleep.”

Billie tries to say Mike's name, but his ears tell him it's all coming out as sore groans.

Billie can't understand how he’s gotten to the car without leaving the arena, but he must have, how did he miss it, and next thing he knows Mike is fireman-carrying him, he wants to ask, figure out how time got all jumpy but he can't.

Things slow down once he knows the doctors are there, he hates them and somehow the anger in him helps him focus.

“Mr. Armstong, how did you wind up in this condition?” The stuffy man asks while already scribbling in his notepad.

Mike answers for him, “He got mugged”.

“I got into a fight.” Billie says, but it comes out a whispered slur, it turns out his tongue won't listen either.

The doctor grumbles and continues his line of questions, “Do you remember getting here, Mr. Armstrong?”

Billie tries to focus but the answer won't come, the doctor continues, “Mr. Armstrong, can you tell me your phone number?”

Billie's eyes widen as his brain scrambles to find those numbers, how can he not know those numbers?

The doctor turns to Mike, “I think your friend here, along with all the obvious injuries, has a MTBI”.

'What's a MTBI? Am I dying, that little fucker killed me, I'm dying of a MTBI, whatever that is, I knew it...” Billie thinks but all that fumbles past sore raw lips is a tired, “Wha?”

The doctor turns back to Billie Joe, “A concussion, you have a minor traumatic brain injury...”

“Oh” Billie mumbles, Mike reaches out and holds him close.

The doctor looks up at Billie, “We'll keep you here overnight for treatment of the larger abrasions and for continued monitoring of your MTBI”.

A nurse rushes in and whispers to the doctor, the doctor looks up at Billie with contempt, “Now, in the name of medical professionalism, I should not ask what I am about to ask. Mr. Armstrong, you didn't happen to get into a fight with a man, about your build, and did you...” The doctor gives a heavy sigh, “Did you bite him?”

Billie knows the answer but he doesn't know if he should open his mouth.

Mike is holding his head in his hand.

The doctor seems like he hates his job just about now.

The doctor excuses himself and a nurse bounds back in to start cleaning Billie up and sewing all the little leaky holes torn in him shut.

Billie feels he has got his tongue under control as the nurse takes safety scissors to his pants, “Mikey... What happened?”

“You got fucked up pretty bad.” Mike sounds really upset, he's mad but he's holding it in for Billie's sake.

Billie watches the girl peel one pale weak leg free, “No I mean, what happened? Did I win?”

“Nope…”

Billie feels his brain ache as he tries to remember, “But he was on the ground, his eyes were closed”.

“You both lost Billie Joe....”

“Oh.” Billie sighs as he is now almost naked in a sterile office with a woman he doesn't know squirting saline into scratches as Mike holds his hand.

Billie wonders if this is really happening or if his concussion is playing tricks on him.



A little over a week has passed and Billie and Mike are strewn out by Mike's pool. Billie has been spending more and more afternoons at Mike's house since Adie will not stop calling him 'dumb-ass' and hovering over him, making sure he is not dead.

Mike has had the decency to wear swim trunks as he occupies his lounge chair, Billie has refused to remove his boxer shorts and bath robe, dark navy flannel framing the bandages wrapped around his stomach. The doctors tried to bandage each one individually, but it became a mess and he is wrapped up like one big boo-boo. He is wearing a pair of Adie's large white sunglasses because they are the only ones big enough to cover the fact that his eye is still swollen shut. Billie is picking at an exposed scab on his wrist. Mike is watching intently.

“Stop it, you are going to get an infection and your hand will fall off and you won't be able to play guitar and you will go insane and you will break up the band and hide in your garage wearing tissue boxes on your feet.”

Billie takes a few moments to turn his head, it does hurt to move still, and looks over the lenses of his glasses, squinting, “You are insane Pritchard, I would never wear tissue boxes on my feet, I would wear bright blue strappy pumps.... or something a little more fruity.”

Mike gives a mocking frown and looks out over the cement and teal water, “So are you ever going to call him, or write him, shit got way out of hand Bill, you have to handle this like a grown up.”

“I am handling things like a grown up.”

“You are outside in your jammies, refusing to let mommy kiss your cuts and make them better, and refusing to play nice with the kid that beat you up on the playground after you called him an 'emo-tard'.” Mike states blankly.

“Oh fuck you, Mike.”

“I'd like you to, but you are allowed no strenuous activity.” Mike smirks.

Billie glares and sticks his tongue out.

Mike pushes a white slip between himself and Billie on the little garden table between them, “You have to read it sometime.”

“No I don't.” Billie snaps.

“Yes you do, you beat his ass in, and he gave you a big smooch, so you owe Gerard enough to open his little letter.”

Billie makes a grimace at one of the memories that refuses to blur from his head wound, he remembers in vivid detail the blood, pain, lips, and confusion. That tricky little bastard, Billie usually would be all for kissing strange young men but this is the exception, ingesting blood kinda kills the mood.

“I really have to, don't I?”

“You have been avoiding it for a full 24 hours now.”

“Fuck.”

Billie takes pink and bandaged fingers and pats at the envelope, taking his dear old time to tear the envelope open, eventually resorting to using freshly capped teeth.

Billie pushes the glasses up into his unbrushed nest of curls, making the black mess look like a living creature with wide black eyes. Billie Joe chews his lips as he reads.

“Is there little greasy baby oil finger prints on the letter?”Mike mocks.

“I'm trying to read.” Billie pouts.

Billie reads the letter carefully, twice.

“Oh fuck me running....” Billie drops the letter on his lap.

“What's wrong? Does he want a rematch?” Mike pokes.

“No.... the letter was all nice and stuff, full of 'let's put this all behind us, 'I'm sorry for hurting you or your loved ones', and 'I think of you as a big brothers.…’ all that shit.... Mike? I have to do something nice don't I?” Billie moans, sinking further into his lounge chair.

“Well, you have to do something other than converting sunlight into vitamin D.”

Billie settles in, deciding that if he is quiet and still maybe Mike will forget he's there and not press the issue.

Mike notices Billie trying to melt into the plastic lawn furniture and moves to sit on the edge of Billie's seat, resting a hand on Billie's left knee, the single expanse of skin seemingly spared from being sore.

“Billie-Baby... I'll help, what are we going to do about this?”

Billie sighs, defeated, “I don't like admitting I was wrong.”

Mike sounds fatherly, “But you were wrong, and now you have to make amends or risk being the world's biggest douchebag”.

Billie pouts, “Mikey, I can barely walk, I was beat up by a guy smaller than me... shouldn't you just pity me, baby me, and offer me blow jobs?”

Mike holds in a giggle, “We'll talk after you say you're sorry.”

Billie huffs and hold his arms out, “Fine then, help me up, I need to get to a phone...”

Mike slides his shoulder under Billie's arm and lifts, Billie winces but looks the part of the good little wounded soldier.

“While we are inside can I convince you to wear something other than the same shorts you have been wearing for 3 days?” Mike laments.

“No way in hell Mikey, no way in hell.”

****

Gerard hurts. A lot. In fact he's pretty sure it would take less time for him to count the number of areas where he doesn't hurt than the ones where he does. Like his left eyebrow. It seems to have come out of this whole thing okay. His right eyebrow is another story, it's scabbing over nicely though. He might even have a small scar.

He's tucked up in bed, granny blanket over his knees, trying very hard not to move too much because movement causes pain and he's a bit over the whole pain thing at the moment. He's finally at a point where the headaches are more or less bearable. It's the whole being nursed thing he's not handling.

Frank's head is poking around the door, he's got that whole "I'm trying not to look concerned even though I really am" expression which Gerard is getting way too familiar with lately. Not that he can't understand it, he looks like hell. He's all scabs and bandages and his face is more purpling bruises than white skin.

Frank slips into the room and climbs onto the bed, flopping down next to Gerard. This makes the bed bounce a bit which causes movement and movement hurts.

"Ow." Gerard can't even summon the energy to put much force into the protest.

"Oh suck it up." So much for the nurturing and caring Frank.

Frank rolls his head to the side to see Gerard's bruised face. "So, what's your name?"

Not this again.

"I'm not fucking concussed, Frank."

"What day is it?" Frank's firing out. For some reason he's taking the whole "Gerard having a concussion" thing really seriously, asking these questions like, every five fucking minutes.

"Fuck man, when do I ever know what day it is?"

"Who's the president of the United States?"

"An asshole." Gerard snorts. But his mouth is quirking at the side in a little smile that's making his split lip sting a bit.

"Gerard...." Frank's whining.

"Frank..." Gerard whines back, trying to sound extra-annoying. He narrows his eyes at Frank and pulls a face even though it makes his poor right eyebrow hurt. And his cheek. And his chin. And...

"Can you at least try to take this seriously?" Frank's asking.

"Nope." Gerard's not playing.

"Are you gonna ask me about the letter?" Frank's leading.

"Nope." Gerard's pouting a bit even though it hurts to do it. Fucking letter. "I can't believe you made me write that stupid letter. Such a suck."

"Come on Gee, one of you guys had to step up."

"I thought my original letter was fine." Gerard's pouting really fucking hard now.

"Gee, ripping the lyrics to Venom out of the liner notes and putting your autograph on them is not a fucking apology letter."

"I don't see why I am the one who had to apologize!" Gerard's voice is pitching up with fury and it's making his headache a bit worse but whatever, this is important. "Fucking emo-tard Frank. Emo-fucking-tard." Gerard's glaring at Frank, but he's really glaring at Billie Joe.

"So it got out of hand. We let it get out of hand. It's not too late to fix it. This doesn't have to be world war fucking emo-tard."

"Yeah okay right." Gerard hates it when Frank's right. He sighs. "So what about the fucking letter then? Did the biter write back?"

Frank smiles like he knows a secret. "Better than that." Then he's shifting around on the bed and pulling something out of his back pocket and it's messing a bit with Gerard's concentration because fuck - movement - bad, remember?

It's a fresh Rolling Stone magazine. He unfolds it and turns to a marked page, handing it to Gerard.

"Read it."

And Gerard does. And his mouth drops further and further open as he reads which makes his split lip sting and yeah, maybe there's some drool coming out but he's not really concerned about that now because, shit. What a fucking interview.

"Now that is a fucking apology." Frank announces, poking his finger at the magazine spread.

Frank's right. Again. The interview is almost embarrassingly complimentary. There's even a fairly convincing story about how Billie Joe wound up listening to some cock-eyed leaked version of the album with a fucked up mix which was where all the bad opinion came from. All the bad opinion that the print on the page in front of Gerard is blanketly erasing.

"Hmmmm." Gerard's not ready to make words yet.

"So, truce? Call it over? Done? Can we move on now?" Frank's pressing.

"Yeah all right fine. Fucking truce. Send him a fruit basket or something." Gerard's got his grumpy voice on, but he's smiling pretty hard and so is Frank. Looking way too smug too.

"I think he used the word genius too many times, though. It gets a bit repetitive." Gerard decrees, catching a bit of Frank's smug. Frank just slaps him with the magazine, totally heedless of Gerard's injuries and yelping protests.

"Great." Frank dumps the magazine on the ground, tucking his hands behind his head as he settles back on the bed, all smug self satisfaction. "So can we throw out the baby oil now? Because we are so not doing that again."

"Hey!" Gerard's protesting "No need to throw it out. It has... other uses. Unrelated to cage fighting."

Frank just looks at him sideways, then he's grinning and kissing Gerard very, very gently and it still hurts but Gerard doesn't even mind that much. Because he's tough. He fought Billie Joe Armstrong in a fucking cage.

That's better than tough. It's fucking hardcore.



end