Disclaimer: This is all fiction.

***

Red:

Frank has hated high school and Bob knows this. He's listened to many of Frank's stories about school because Frank likes to tell them to Bob when they're alone and Frank's in a less than pleasant mood. They're told in a way that seems as if Frank feels like he's got something to prove to Bob, even though Bob couldn't possibly think any more of the 5' 2" guitarist.

There's been some colorful tales that made Bob blush and Frank grin like a harlequin. For example, there was the 'Sex in the Locker Room' story. Apparently, Frank played lacrosse for about a week on the school team before getting kicked off in Junior year. He had stayed late after practice because his boyfriend at the time, Sonny Moore, had met him there and started giving him a hand job, much to Frankie's pleasure. One thing lead to another and Frank ended up propped against the green lockers with Sonny thrusting into him. The coach came back down the get his game schedule and caught Sonny and Frank fucking. Needless to say, Frank and Sonny both got suspended. Bob cringes thinking of this now because he doesn't like imagining his Frank with someone else. Bob heard this story long before he started going out with the ex-lacrosse player.

From the faraway scowl on Frank's face, Bob knows he's going to hear another one of the high school stories. The pop-tart Frank was holding is set down on the plate and he turns to face the blonde drummer sitting next to him at the tiny kitchen table. "Did I ever tell you about the time I got suspended for sending this guy to the hospital?"

There's laughter threatening to escape Bob's lips at the bluntness of Frank's words. Instead, he smiles politely. "No, I don't think so."

"Haha, well, I'll tell you. This guy, um, Mark I think his name was, had been messing with me all year. He wrote FAG in my history book and called me a pansy in the hallways. And you know, I'm a person too, so of course it hurt my feelings. But it pissed me off more. You have no idea, man. This kid, he was such an asshole, and I was fucking sick of it. After my chemistry class, I was going to my locker to put all my books that said FAG and QUEER and whatnot away and there was Mark and his friends, just standing around my locker. I knew they were gonna start shit with me but I tried to be the better person and ignore him. You believe that, right, Bob?" Frank pauses in his story to take Bob's hand and peer at him.

"Yeah, baby, I believe you."

Frank smiles and pulls his lip ring in his mouth for a moment before continuing. "Well, when I asked him to get out of my way, he just pushed me back and said, 'Fuck you, faggot'. I finally snapped. And I mean really snapped. I punched him in the face and broke his cheekbone. I was screaming at him too. I can't even remember what I said because I was so furious. Like, I think I seriously saw red. He was bleeding and everything, from his eye. I didn't even feel remorseful because it was my revenge on this asshole who made me miserable. I guess Gerard has the right idea when he talks about revenge."

"Yeah, he does." Bob doesn't really need to say anything else because Frank knows that he listened and he feels better saying it.

Bob thinks that Frank can be scary sometimes.

Orange:

Under the clammy orange glow of the streetlight was one Frank Iero with his back flat against the hood of Bob Bryar's '98 Honda Civic. The dingy gray clouds hovered low in the filthy night sky and seemed to smother the Earth in stillness. Frank wasn't entirely sure why he was lying on the hood of Bob Bryar's car in the middle of the night on November 19, but he was. He tucked his hands in his coat pockets (well, Ray's coat) and felt the smooth metal band with a delicate diamond attached to it. Oh yeah. That's why.

The sound of Bob's front door opening caught Frank's attention and he felt a flurry of emotion flutter in his stomach. Bob's footsteps shuffled through the grass as he approached the man on his car.

"What's up, Fra-a-a-nk," Bob managed through a yawn. He sat down next to the guitarist and shivered as the cold metal seeped through his pants.

Frank withdrew his hand from the pocket and dropped the ring on the hood of the car, tracing its movements through melancholy eyes as it skated down the metal.

"It's over," Frank mumbled, closing his eyes and exhaling. Bob's hand shot out and closed around the gold ring before it slid to the pavement. As he looked at the gleaming diamond, Frankie pulled a cigarette from Ray's coat and placed it gingerly between his lips. Jamia was so happy when Frank had given her that ring in its entire glitzy, lovely splendor. She'd showered the Mohawk-ed man with kisses and tears of joy. Now the ring sat in Bob's palm, the latest reminder of the failure of love through phone lines and hearts that drifted elsewhere.

"You want me to hold onto this for you?" Bob asked quietly, holding out the ring towards Frank.

Frank shifted and looked up through his limp hair at Bob, at the sky, at nothing, at everything. He tapped his cigarette over the edge of the car and held it out to Bob, hitting away the hand that exposed that ring of regret.

"Yeah." And that was that. The drummer pocketed his best friend's engagement ring and took the cigarette out of the tattooed fingers.

"You're gonna be alright," Bob stated simply, taking a drag on Frank's Marlboro Red and laid back next to the slightly crumpled man next to him. Frank found solace in the cool, strong hand resting next to his and squeezed it lightly. Bob placed the cigarette back in Frankie's mouth and held onto his hand, hoping that it was enough for now.

"You wanna stay with me for a while?"

"Yeah, I do," Frank breathed through dry lips and even drier eyes. He closed his eyes and rolled onto his side, pressing his forehead into Bob's shoulder.

The streetlight flickered and diminished leaving the two in their comfortable understanding. Forgotten on the pavement, burned the orange tip of their shared cigarette.

Yellow:

The bruised flesh gracing Bob's strong jaw line had taken on a sickly yellow tone. It stood out as a garish reminder that silence was not golden. Silence was the noose around the pirate's neck. Silence was the trigger.

Frank's fists were clenched at his sides and the ring in his nose shimmered each time he heavily exhaled.

"Say something! I can't read your fucking mind!" His words were tense, frustrated, hurt. Bob didn't move, didn't glance away from the fierce look on Frank's face, didn't expand towards the hopeful gleam in his eyes. He remained stoic and silent despite the pounding in his chest and buzzing in his ears.

"Either you wanna be with me or you don't!" Frank screamed, grabbing the neck of Bob's shirt. The twisted fabric in Frank's fingers felt like the warped confusion in Bob's head. I do.

All he could do was close his eyes and block out that face in front of his.

Now standing in his own reflection, Bob ran his fingers along the swollen, disgusting bruise, hearing the sound of Frank's knuckles colliding against his jaw and seeing the pain in his eyes. In his mind he thought, 'I've never deserved a punch more than that one.' Cautiously, he pressed his fingertips to his lips and sighed in the most defeated way.

"Bob, please," Frank moaned in a desperate voice, looking up at Bob's closed eyelids. "Please." His grip loosened on the shirt and he pushed his body closer to the drummer. Bob didn't react even though his mind was screaming at him to just fucking touch Frank's face or wrap his arms around his body or just tell him that you want him.

And now there was no time to think it over because Frank's lips were covering his and those perfectly callused fingers were on his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks. Bob kissed back, because it was exactly what he wanted but for some reason the morals of everyone else won out and he pushed Frank off. There was a gasp that almost came from Frankie's soul as he stumbled back and looked at Bob with the most wounded eyes you could ever imagine.

"Don't, Frank. I don't want this." Bob was the most brutal liar to ever cross the path of Frank Iero. That selfish lie cut past every smile that had ever been on that mouth and suddenly he was irate about the blatant confusion that encompassed Bob.

"You're a fucking liar," Frank breathed in the most menacing way and Bob flinched, rightfully so. And he saw Frank haul his arm back, fist clenched, knuckle white, but did nothing to deflect the pain that was coming because he knew, he knew, that he deserved it and he knew that Frank was wholly right in his accusation.

Bob stepped away from the reflection of the Most Brutal Liar and stepped back into the realization that he made the worst mistake of his life. He'd never been so furious with his own confusion because it was blatantly clear now how much he wanted Frank, even though he knew it before. He almost picked up the phone but he didn't. He didn't want to complicate things further for the reason that it would hurt to feel Frank's rejection because he was almost positive that Frank would never want him now even though Bob was almost certain that Frank did. But that didn't make sense, and Bob was tired of trying to make sense out of everything.

Green:

Bob was subtle. His wounded eyes and shaking hands were subtly hidden behind dark glasses and in sweatshirt pockets. He felt blank and furious enough to reach equilibrium.

Envy.

A jealousy so strong that it was making him sick and he was certain that that phrase 'green with envy' didn't even begin to portray how resentful he actually was.

He was envious of Ray. Ray. Why? Because the minute he saw Halloween tangled up in Ray's hair he felt like he was going to throw up. Maybe he'd spill his guts in more way than one.

He was envious of Ray's full lips that claimed Frank's and ran so smoothly over his and tugged so hungrily at Frank's lip ring.

In that moment, Bob could almost hear the sound that lip ring would make colliding with his own.

He was envious of the adoration and love that smoldered in Frankie's eyes when he stared into Ray's.

But remember, Bob was subtle. Therefore, he put on his sunglasses, slipped his hands into his pockets, and turned his back on the scene in front of him. He waited until he was as far away as he could get from them before he threw up all over the floor, grasping the wall for support.

Blue:

"Doing that could kill you, you know."

"Huh?" Frankie's head turned in Bob's lap so that he was looking up at him instead of at the TV. The tip of his thumb was between his lips and his teeth were gently and unconsciously biting at his dark blue painted nail.

Bob took his hand off Frank's stomach, where he'd been tracing random words before, and pulled Frank's hand away from his mouth.

"Your nail polish could be poisoned," Bob said in a lazy voice.

"What the hell?" Frank's prettily shaped eyebrows drew together as he raised one at Bob.

"Yeah, I heard about this girl who chewed her nails a lot. Her dad bought her all this nail polish but he put, like, cyanide in it or something and when she bit her nails, the polish chipped off into her mouth and she swallowed it and died."

"That's fucked up. Are you trying to poison me or something, Bob?" Frank asked, smirking up at Bob.

"'Course not." Bob smiled back and wiped a small chip of blue polish off Frank's bottom lip and leaned down to kiss him lightly, "But that doesn't mean someone else isn't trying too. I'd watch out for anything Gerard buys you." Bob lifted his eyes back to the TV.

"I think you watch too much House," Frank said, turning back to the TV as well, firmly lacing his fingers with Bob's instead of back in his mouth.

Indigo:

There's a minute satisfaction that Bob gets from counting things. He supposes it's a factor in his ability to play the drums. On stage he counts out the beats, counts the amount of times Gerard says fuck, counts how many times Ray starts head banging, counts the moments when Mikey steps forward to stand beside his big brother, counts how many times Frank throws his head back and spits, and counts how many times he looks at Frank. Fifty-eight is the current record holder.

Right now he's adding up the amount of times the thunder cracks and calculating the seconds before the lightening strikes all in a distant, melancholy manner. Though the weather outside is loud and dangerous, it's not enough to distract him from Gerard and Ray's voices that are drifting into the bunks. Bob clearly sees in his mind how Gerard and Ray are sitting: Gerard is probably leaning back against the armrest with his thighs lying over Ray's legs which are crossed as he sits with his back against the back of the sofa. They've always looked so natural and Bob thinks that they really are fucking perfect together. Somewhere deep down or really close to the surface, he isn't quite sure; Bob wants something like that with Frank. But he knows that it wouldn't really be anything like what Ray and Gerard have because they've known each other for ages and he and Frank are nothing at all like that. Frank likes to play games and wrestle and sit on Bob's shoulders, which is the kind of perfection that Frank would aim for. But Bob thinks that's okay because he wants his own perfection with Frank, not Ray and Gerard's perfection. Bob mentally shakes himself though, because there is no BobandFrank.

Bob has totaled six moments in their conversation where Gerard has let out a breathy, gentle laugh which was probably caused by Ray leaning in to kiss Gerard's bunny nose, run his fingers along Gerard's hips, or press his lips against Gerard's ink stained hands because Ray just does those types of things. There are four sharp intakes of breath followed by 'Gerarrrrd!' from Ray and Bob knows that Gerard must have had fingertips easing their way past Ray's waistband a few times accompanied by teeth grazing the fluffy haired guitarist's ear and collar bone because Gerard really likes getting Ray all hot and bothered. Gerard has been called a tease twice which causes Bob to remember when he called Frank a tease once.

Bob shifts slightly when he hears Ray and Gerard talking about Demolition Lovers. He smirks because he bets that Gerard is going to tell Ray that he wrote that song specifically about him.

"I was thinking of you when I wrote that song, you know," Gerard declares, probably laying his palm against Ray's cheek. The bus shakes when thunder bellows from the sky and there is silence for 1, 2, 3 seconds.

"No you weren't! Obviously I don't have 'icy blues'," Ray answers hotly, in a facade of resentment.

Gerard huffs at his lover and Bob would bet that he's just crossed his arms and turned up his nose because it's just a very Gerard-esque gesture. "Well, 'hand in mine into your awesome browns' just didn't seem tragic enough."

"Why, Gerard! You think my browns are awesome?" Ray responds in a fluttery voice. Except that it's not really fluttery because Ray's voice sounds too young to come off as swooning.

"Baby, I think all of you is awesome," Gerard growls in a seductive way that maybe only Ray finds sexy. Oh, the millions of girl fans might find it sexy too.

And suddenly, Bob decides he's heard enough because there's been seven seconds of silence which is enough for him to realize that Ray and Gerard have switched to 'Romantic Ray and Gerard' and that might depress him more. Also, he doesn't want to hear Ray getting sucked off.

Bob pauses for a moment before turning on his iPod because Frankie has only moved once in the past hour, which means he is wide awake. Frank is one of those people that shuffle and twitch in their sleep.

Closing the door would be a very liable reason to get out of his bed and to let Frank know he's awake as well. Bob rolls out of his bunk onto the floor, gets to his feet, and slides the door to the living area closed, blocking out the muffled sounds Gerard is making from Ray's neck. The door shuts with a quiet click and Bob resists the urge to close it again just so it will click an even number of times.

"Bob?" Frank's voice slithers out from the semi-darkness, smooth and almost dangerous.

Bob pads to Frank's bunk and bends awkwardly to get a good look at the man lying there. The guitarist is curled on his side looking up at Bob through wide, glossy eyes. His black and indigo hair (the seventh different color Bob has seen it) is sticking up and laying flat on his forehead; it seems kind of like an oxymoron but isn't. There's make-up smudged under his eyes and Bob thinks Frank looks really sexy, even if he feels sort of awkward thinking it.

"They're really in love, aren't they?" Frank asks. It's not really a question; it's more of an observation. For a second, Bob almost didn't hear Frank because the glint from the rings in his friend's mouth distracted him.

"Yeah. Kinda makes you want to find your soul mate," Bob says coyly. Mikey grunted from above Gerard's empty bunk and Bob crouches down reflexively. Frank laughs because Bob looks like a kid who's just been caught doing something naughty. His laughter dies somewhere in his throat as he summons up his courage.

"Maybe we could, you know, hang out sometime. Kinda like them. Um, Ray and Gerard, I mean." Frank nervously pushes his hair off his forehead and gazes up at Bob expectantly.

"That sounds really good, yeah. I, um, think that would be really good." Bob stumbles over his answer a bit, but smiles the most honest smile Frankie who appears relieved.

"Yeah, you really want too? That's good. Hug!!" Frank stretches out his arms and Bob leans forward to wrap his own around the bluish-purple and black haired man covered in a blanket with 74 squares on it. He loves hugging Frank because they fit and he's warm and smells irresistible and Bob shivers when Frank's hands run up and down his back.

"So, should I like, give you my number or something?" Frank jokes in Bob's ear, evoking a laugh from the drummer. When Bob pulls away, Frank is grinning and waggling his eyebrows at him and Bob knows that this is the kind of perfect that he wants.

"Night, Frank."

"Sweet dreams, Bobby."

Violet:

"People are gonna say you're gay," came Frankie's voice from the doorway of his and Bob's bedroom.

"I am gay."

Frank grinned at Bob, who was sitting at the bottom of the bed tying his shoes.

"Seriously, what's up with the purple sweater?" Frank was eyeing the offending sweater as he sauntered into the room.

"Gerard bought it for me," Bob responded, not looking up, "And it's violet," he added softly.

A low chuckle escaped Frank's throat as he flopped down on their bed.

"Why the fuck would Gerard buy you a violet, argyle sweater?"

"How the fuck should I know? He always buys people random shit," Bob said, glancing up at Frank as he rolled onto his back and placed a cigarette between his lips. The bed creaked as Bob shifted, grabbed the lighter from his boyfriend's hands, and lit the cigarette for him. The end ignited and the smoke began to rise to the ceiling, which was already stained from the tobacco.

"Thanks." Bob nodded in reply.

"The sweater looks good," Frank sighed, exhaling smoke from his nose. Bob cocked his head and drew his mouth down in a Yeah, right kind of expression.

"But," Frank drawled, letting his fingers dance across Bob's thigh and up towards the zipper of that violet sweater, "It would look much better on my bedroom floor."