Come the Devil
Come the Devil billie joe armstrong stories

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A short story by jetblackmirror (orphan_account) posted on commaful. find the rest: https://archiveofourown.o...

Come the Devil

Gerard couldn't sleep.

It wasn't a new thing for him. Or unfamiliar. Or strange. He rarely slept much. Six hours if he were lucky. His mind would roam, replaying the things from the day.

How the crowd looked at the show. How gross that BLT on rye had tasted. The exact number of Coke Zeros he'd drank before nearly imploding from caffeine.

What Frank's hair had felt like as he'd helped him wrangle it into punk rock godliness.

This was different. This was the kind of non sleep. The kind of Insomnia. The kind of lying in bed and please oh please god I know we haven't talked in a while but please let me sleep.

The kind of dry tongued, red eyed, wakefulness he'd felt when he was first getting clean.

Things kept swishing in the peripheral. In the corners of his vision that Frank and Ray often occupied. This was not a blur of red and black X's. Not a glimpse of hair like wool.

Not even the light glinting off Mikey's glasses. It was bits of rust. Flashes of carmine. Black and white tabby stripes.

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