gala_apples

Title: Bus Stop 50437
Pairing: Ray gen, slight unrequited Ray/Frank
Rating: G
Wordcount: 2033
Summary: It's either Gerard's fault, Mikey's fault, or a frat boy's fault that Ray ends up cuddling a stranger for warmth. He can only be certain it isn't his own.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
Author's Notes: A sequel to Last Period; Best Choice, but you don't necessarily have to read that first. Hope you like your Ray fic, darling (and hope I spelled your holiday right, Google has several common ways)


The problem with hanging out with the Ways is it’s always two against one. It doesn’t come up as often as one might think. Their tastes are similar enough that nine times out of ten they’re all enthusiastic about something, rather than Ray being voted down. They like the same activities, they’d attend the same events whether they go as a trio or not. It only becomes an issue when they want to hang out at someone’s house rather than go see a movie.

Simply put, Gerard and Mikey hate Lou. Ray doesn’t blame them. More often than not he hates Lou. But them refusing to go to his house means he’s always going to the Ways in Gerard’s car and busing home at whatever time he can say for the thirtieth time that he really needs to go home and they stop trying to distract him with another full speed run-through of Mario. The buses are almost always nearly empty that late, Friday nights being exceptions. Of course he tends to sleep over Fridays, so his testing pool is small. He doesn’t hold a real grudge about it though. Empty buses are better anyway, less people breathing his air.

It’s another night of the same. He could be a regular, like the people that order the same special coffee mix every morning, except route seventeen seems to be manned by someone different every day. Ray flashes his pass at the driver -tonight a black woman in her fifties at least- and heads for his favourite seat. He and Mikey and Gerard don’t have any special spots at school, but Ray definitely has a bus spot; the second front facing row of seats. Close enough to the front that he can use the driver controlled front door instead of the back one that sometimes gets stuck, but not any of the seats that a stroller or a wheelchair can get him kicked out of.

Ray sighs when a can bumps into the back of his foot. It’s not like he’s a stickler against littering, Gerard leaves a trail of cigarette butts wherever they go. It’s just he can hear the rattling over the music pumping out of his headphones. The volume is turned down low so he can hear the automated machine call out each stop. So late at night it’s impossible to see out the windows, the lights on the inside of the bus make it like being on the wrong side of mirrored glass. The sound is annoying, and it’s not going to stop until he gets off the bus.

Correction. It’s not going to stop until some teenager crawls halfway under his seat and attempts to grab it. The teen fails. The only other person on the bus pulled the cord half a block ago, and when the bus stops the can goes clattering up to the front. The teen doesn’t stand up, just -well, the best word for it is scampers, really- on his hands and knees to where it’s momentarily resting. Ray’s not particularly germaphobic, but he winces at the idea of rubbing his hands along the floor of public transportation. It doesn’t seem to faze the teenager, who says ‘victory is mine!’ loudly enough for both Ray and the driver to hear.

It’s three days later when the guy is on the bus again. This time nothing falls. Ray only knows he’s the same guy because as he passes he waves a silver bottle at Ray and says “canteens are heavyweight motherfuckers that don’t allow momentum to push them around.”

Clearly he’s been made as witness to Monday by his hair. It’s his most distinguishing feature, something he has in common with both Gerard and Mikey. Gerard’s the only guy with bleached hair at school. Then there’s Mikey, who’s got the whole hair shellacked with spray to the side of his face thing going on. Lou thinks only girls have long hair, but Lou wears baseball caps backwards. As far as Ray is concerned, Lou doesn’t get to dictate style choices.

Ray isn’t Gerard. He can’t just follow the guy to the back of the bus and have a friendly conversation about recyclable cans vs chemical leaking water bottles vs reuseable metal bottles. He’s not Mikey either, he can’t comment that it’s easier to smuggle alcohol in a metal canteen than it would be in a plastic bottle. Ray is Ray, and there are not a lot of people he feels comfortable talking to. He’s better than he was last year, that doesn’t mean he’s good.

When the guy passes him again on his way out, Ray still doesn’t say anything. He does watch him get off the bus. He’s got a plaid backpack with duct tape patches, and white hair with a black streak down the middle. He’s hot, from the back at least. His face might look like roadkill.

It’s a rare Friday that Ray doesn’t spend overnight with Mikey and Gerard. The next day is one of those times. He’s over for a few hours, most of which he spends mocking Mikey. It’s his first date with some girl with dreads. Her Facebook profile that Mikey eagerly shows them says her name is Moe, but Ray doubts it. Mikey offers to try to get her to bring her friends for a double or triple date, but they both refuse. Not just because they don’t want to sabotage him, although that’s true. Gerard is sick, every sentence he speaks punctuated by a sniffle and wiping his nose on his hoodie sleeve. For his part, Ray is pretty sure he doesn’t want to go on any date with any girl. Not that he’s quite ready to tell anyone that yet.

After Mikey leaves with a vow to not be back until tomorrow, Gerard puts on the first of the Resident Evil quartet. He passes out halfway through Extinction, just before Isaac is bitten. The snores start almost immediately, his mouth open against the worn velvet as he can’t breath through his nose. Ray nudges up the volume a few points and keeps watching.

When the credits start rolling and Gerard hasn’t as much as twitched, Ray decides to leave. He’s got permission to stay, of course. Or at least implied permission. He never asks to come over, and neither of them ever ask if he can stay. But just showing up is a system that’s worked since October last year. If Mr and Mrs Way don’t like him enough to actively want him over, they certainly like him enough to not give a shit. Home just seems the better option though. If he’s going to be watching movies by himself, he might as well watch them somewhere where Gerard isn’t farting in his sleep every five minutes.

It’s a bad sign when a tall muscled blond guy walks on wearing mismatched flipflops and an improperly buttoned Hawaiian shirt. It’s January, he’s clearly a frat boy at a summer in winter party. But he has fare, so the driver lets him on. Ray quickly slams his bag onto the seat beside him. It’s unlikely the guy would sit beside him, he’s probably not going to sit beside the hot mohawk guy in the back either. Unsaid bus law; everyone fills a individual bench until none are left and you have to start doubling up. He’s still not taking any chances.

Approximately seven minutes later frat boy is puking in the aisle. It’s the first time Ray has ever watched someone vomit. He can’t say he’s ever even imagined it. He drinks at the Ways sometimes. He’s no straight edge asshole, and it’s safer to do it there. His parents are thrilled he has not one but two friends, and Mr and Mrs Way practically act like they don’t own the basement. No one ever questions him staying until mid-afternoon, even if it should be obvious he’s sleeping off a hangover. But when they’re drinking, Mikey and Gerard can both hold their alcohol. The most that ever happens is Mikey gets really sweaty and strips down to underwear, and Gerard starts talking about drugs he’s heard mix well with liquor. Ray’s only a little turned on by Mikey, not enough to make it awkward, and Gerard knows no one to buy hard shit from. It’s always fine.

Whatever the frat boy ate during his drinking party was obviously a bad choice, the puke is chunky and stinking. It smells horrible. It’s not much of a surprise they all get kicked off the bus. Even if they didn’t have to leave based on sanitary reasons, the driver’s scowl is proof he hates everyone and wants everyone to die horribly.

Which, as Ray stands there, he realises is entirely possible. It is fucking cold. It’s January, and yeah, he’s wearing a heavy jacket, but that’s about it for outdoor protection. Mom bothers him about wearing a scarf so often that he stopped taking one completely out of spite, and he doesn’t know a single teenager that actually wears boots and changes into shoes at school, even though the bottom of their lockers have a boot well. The only accessory he has are his mittens, and when he pulls them out of his backpack they are soaking wet. Most likely the lid of the half drunk bottle of Pepsi from lunch wasn’t screwed tight enough, they smell a bit like cola. It’s probably safer for his fingers if he doesn’t wear them. At the very least he’ll need to keep them uncovered while he calls the number posted on every bus stop and checks for the next bus.

“Mother of all fucks,” he mutters viciously three minutes of going through the menu later. He could walk home, maybe. The next bus isn’t for half an hour, plus travel time. It would only take him forty minutes to walk. Except he lives in kind of a shitty area and walking past body dump lake is always unsettling. Standing on the edge of the road isn’t a lot safer, but at least there are a handful of people to stand with.

“Hey man, can I share your jacket?” It’s mohawk guy asking, as he trudges over. When he comes to a stop he kicks his shoes against the bus stop post to get the snow off. It’s too late, the red canvas is burgundy from the damp.

“No.” Just because he’s hot doesn’t mean he can knife people under the guise of huddling. Ray is sixteen, and a horror film connoisseur, he knows you don’t cosy up to strangers.

“Come on, man. I was too broke for coat check. I’m gonna freeze my balls off.”

He is shivering near violently, bare arms already turning bright pink against the wind. But Ray is wary. “I don’t even know your name. Cuddling is a bit further down the dating spectrum.” It only occurs to him after he’s spoken that the average guy is probably not okay with another guy mentioning dating.

“Seriously? Oh my god. Fine. Frank, I’m a Scorpio, I don’t like long walks on the beach, especially when you’re wearing shoes and sand pours into your heels but if you don’t you’re gonna get poked with an AIDS needle. That enough for not letting me freeze to death?”

It goes against Ray’s better judgement. Or maybe that’s just the social anxiety talking -Mikey found a label for him on Wikipedia, and he’s got one for himself too, even if neither of them are telling adults that’ll try to force therapy on them- because he’s pretty sure Frank doesn’t actually have a machete hidden underneath his Iron Maiden shirt. But he does it anyway. He unzips his jacket and lets Frank curl his arms around his back.

Once Frank draws near Ray attempts to close the parka. He can’t get the zipper rezipped, but two of the eight snaps close without popping open seconds later. In a way he’s almost happy it’s a stranger, this close and personal either Way would smell bad. He’s just gotta not get a boner in the next half hour and he’ll be good.