Ish's Fic Bin

Freighthopping

Tue, 19 May 2009 00:00:53 GMT

Title: Freighthopping
Pairing: girl!Bert/girl!Gerard
Rating: I'd love to pass this off as an R, but it doesn't quite make it.
Summary: Gee should probably be afraid of Bert, but she's too busy falling in love with her.
Author's Note: Genderswap high school AU. This started off as my BBB, but due to circumstances out of my control (read: I am lazy and had finals) I never got to finish it. Instead I cut it down, edited the shit out of it, and made it into a fluffy little one-shot. Because the world needs more genderswap Bert/Gerard high school AUs, amirite?
Disclaimer: Pretty sure Bert McCracken isn't a teenage girl. Not so sure about Gerard, but either way this is a pack of lies.
Betas: yan_tan_tether, shitgun

Gee meets Bert outside of the principal's office one day when they bump into each other and Bert swears loud enough to make the secretary turn pale. She's got eyes bluer than pretty much anything and tangled black hair that is probably dyed and definitely dirty. She's not pretty, not in the way that, say, Mischa Barton is pretty or Britney Spears is pretty, but she's something.

She looks like the kind of girl her mom is worried about her turning into, the kind of girl who drinks and swears and refuses to be an asset to society. She looks like she has Problems Adjusting.

She stands up on her tiptoes, grabs Gee by the shoulders, and snaps, "Watch where you're fucking going, you cock," and then beams like she just won the lottery. That's when Gee realizes she has to know this girl.

***

Her name is Roberta, but she never calls herself that because Roberta is a name for fucking old crusty lesbians who work as children's librarians and talk to their cats. That's what she says, anyway. She's probably new, because Gee can't imagine she's just been hanging around school for years without her noticing. Bert gets noticed, one way or another. Like when she walks up to Gee the day after they meet, kisses the edge of her mouth, and says, "I'm going to the woods to smoke up. Meet me in five minutes." Right in front of the captain of the girls' soccer team.

Which means that by the end of the day half the school is gossiping about how Gina Way is a dyke and probably has AIDS, but that's par for the course and doesn't bother her more than it normally does.

When she goes out back Bert's lounging in this old ratty armchair that somebody apparently abandoned in the fucking woods behind the school. She's got her feet propped up on a stump and her face turned up to the grey sky, shivering a little. There's no real wind and the smoke hangs around her head like a cloud, pearly-thick and peppery. It looks like a picture, the kind of thing that Gee draws when she's drunk and alone and there's no one to talk to about the things she sees in her head. She doesn't move over when Gee asks her to, just raises her eyebrows and grins in this sly come-on-I-dare-you way, and Gee winds up sitting on her lap just to make her stop smirking. It works, too, right up until she lights the joint and Gee takes a deep toke and ends up coughing her fucking lungs up. It's deeply embarrassing, especially since she's been stealing cigarettes from her mother since the age of fourteen and should be used to a little smoke by now, and it makes Bert start laughing this manic laugh that's stuck somewhere between cute and crazy.

"Cute" is what Bert calls Gee a little later when she's stoned and more comfortable than she's even been in her whole fucking life, even though her feet are sticking out at a weird angle and her face is somewhere near Bert's neck and her mouth is kind of dry and cottony.

"You're too fucking cute," Bert says, one arm resting on Gee's shoulders. It feels heavy. Everything feels kind of heavy, like someone filled the world with lead when she wasn't looking. "Run away with me."

And the weird thing is she doesn't think it's weird. Doesn't say anything about how they just met, and what the fuck, and are you a lesbo or what? Instead she asks, "Where to?"

"Nowhere," Bert says. "Let's steal a car and find a road. We can set this school on fire and just fuckin' get out. Drive around the world forever. It'd probably take that long to see everything. Promise you'll come?"

Before Gee can answer that Bert kisses her again and laughs again and Gee feels weird, the kind of weird that starts in your toes and climbs up and makes your face feel hot.

Bert kisses people a lot, boys and girls and pretty much anyone who can stand her- and a few people who can't- but she kisses Gee the most and Gee's not sure how to take that at first. Mostly that's because she's never really kissed anybody before, but also because she feels a sinking twisty sort of feeling when she sees Bert kissing anyone else. She tells Mikey about that one day, and Mikey just gives her one of those blank eloquent looks she's been giving since she was three and asks if she ate the last Pop-Tart. A few days later she mentions in a sort of absent-minded way that there are a bunch of rumours going around about Bert, that she used to live in Utah and her family's Mormon, that she was a junkie and lived on the streets for a while, that she got kicked out for sleeping with somebody and maybe getting pregnant, maybe having an abortion, who knows, that this is her last chance and if she fucks up again she'll go to juvie or an asylum or something. Mikey doesn't say that she believes the rumours, but Gee yells at her anyway for giving a shit about what a bunch of asshole preps think and then goes to sulk in her room and listen to Iron Maiden for a while. Mikey eventually knocks on the door and apologizes, and Gee nods and lets it go.

She can't really blame Mikey for caring. She cares too.

***

Gee cares what people think more than she'd like. She cares that as soon as she hit junior high the kids she used to hang out with started calling her a loser. She cares about the looks she got the first time she dyed her hair. She cares about that time the bitchy girl in her math class left a SlimFast on her desk "just to help you out." She cares about the Friday nights she spends alone. She cares about the way people point at her house when they walk by and the way they look her family over when they go to Mass. She cares about every veiled insult and muffled snicker, every cold shoulder and every fucking parent-teacher conference that ends, inevitably, with somebody telling her to just try a little harder. She does her best not to care, but she can't seem to break the habit.

But Bert doesn't give a fuck. She talks back and she argues and she gets drunk in World Civ and throws up in the potted plant by the window and she flips off teachers and when Marilyn, who is the head of student council and therefore evil incarnate, says something snide about the way she smells she just grins this wide, wide grin and screams a long wordless scream into her face. People who try to fuck with her end up getting punched in the face, and even the ones who are bigger than her- which is pretty much all of them- end up bruised and bloody. The word slowly spreads that the McCracken girl is a fucking violent psycho as well as a homeless junkie slut and people start to move away from her in the halls, clearing a space to walk through.

It's not like the way they give way to the cheerleaders or the rich kids. More like the way people board up their windows when a storm's coming.

Bert's kind of like a hurricane. Unstoppable like that. Gee feels like she should be afraid of her, move away like everyone else, but when she's with her everything comes sharply into focus and the world is a fuckload more interesting. When she's with Bert things that were important, like Fs in chemistry and getting caught stealing whiskey from her mother's stash and that bitchy girl in math class, fade away. She's in colour, shaded in right to the edges. Everything else is grey.

***

Gee asks her about the rumours one time when she stays the night. It's a Tuesday, which means that Gee technically isn't supposed to have anyone over, but her mom loves Bert. The only people she ever sees Gee hanging out with are Rae, the girl she met in the comic book shop downtown, and Frankie, Mikey's friend from P.E. with the weird hair and all the band patches on her backpack. Having someone new around is a total novelty, and when Bert talks to Mrs. Way she's really polite and careful, like she doesn't want to fuck it up. Which she doesn't- she says that she's not used to parents actually liking her, and she wants to enjoy it as long as she can.

Bert's lying back on her bed, hands tucked under her head and humming tunelessly, and Gee's sitting up next to her and drawing, and the question worms its way out of her mouth.

"Bert," she says, and Bert jumps a little and opens her eyes- she must have been asleep, or at least drifting. "Are they true?"

Bert yawns hugely, like a kitten. "Are what true?"

"The things they say about you."

Bert goes very still, like someone's shone a spotlight on her out of nowhere and she can't remember how to move. She doesn't ask who “they" are because she already knows the answer. There's always a they.

"Some of them," she says. Her voice is weird and her eyes are really big and she's not moving at all, which freaks Gee out more than anything because Bert's never really still. She's a natural born fidgeter.

It doesn't all come out then, because Bert only talks about that kind of thing- home stuff- in fits and starts, but over the next few days she lets a few things slip. Carefully at first, testing the waters, then going back to add details and flesh things out. It builds up in Gee's head like a story.

Bert talks about how her parents gave her an ultimatum when they found out she'd lost her virginity to some guy- shape up or ship out- and how she chose ship out. How she spent a year moving from couch to couch, sleeping in garages and other people's cars. How she dropped so much acid that sometimes when she closes her eyes she can still see things moving. How she went a few weeks without eating because she didn't think it was safe to take food from any of the people she knew. How her parents found her one day in a park, and her mother cried and hugged her even though she hadn't showered in a long, long time and her father just shook his head and said "come home." How she said no, but ended up sneaking back into her room through the window a few days later and praying nobody would hear her.

"They didn't even say anything when I came into the kitchen the next day," she tells Gee one Friday night when they're in the basement watching Stars Wars (or, more accurately, while Gee's watching Star Wars and Bert is calling Luke Skywalker a cockfarmer and making up dirty lyrics to sing to the theme tune). It's kind of out of the blue, as though she's just picking up where they left off. "I could tell they wanted to- especially my dad- but they barely even looked at me. I wish they'd just said 'I told you so.' They were fucking thinking it anyway. But they didn't say a word. When we moved here they told me that if I didn't stay clean they'd put me in private school, and that was it. They just want to forget."

She's quiet then, maybe crying, maybe not. Probably not; Gee can't picture Bert crying, any more than she can picture Bert shaving her legs or going to church or actually enjoying The Phantom Menace. She doesn't know what to say or how to make it better, so she just takes Bert's hand and they stay like that for a while, not talking. After a few minutes Bert sits up and moves closer, sort of curling around Gee, and says, "I really like you, you know."

"I know," says Gee, but Bert shakes her head.

"No, you don't, you fucking retard," she says, and she's still shaking her head when she catches Gee's mouth with her own.

Bert's kiss is not soft or gentle, probably because Bert is not soft and gentle. She kisses like she's drowning, like if she breathes Gee in long enough she'll keep floating on. It's deep, and it burns.

It's not like it's the first time it's happened, but it feels like a first time. It feels serious, and Bert's not there when she wakes up, and Gee worries about it by herself for two straight days before telling Mikey.

***

Mikey's curled up in bed with a cold she caught from Frankie, watching Batman Returns and drinking orange juice, but when she sees Gee's face she turns off the TV and waits.

Nobody waits like Mikey. When she wants to, or even when she isn't thinking about it much, her face goes completely empty like she's waiting for you to fill her head up with whatever's in yours.

"I kissed Bert," she says, figuring she might as well get to the point before she loses her nerve.

Mikey looks nonplussed. "Well, yeah," she says. "You kiss Bert all the time. Gabby Saporta has a bet going for when you two are gonna do the nasty."

"No, I mean I kissed Bert," Gee insists, plopping down on the foot of her bed. She tries to do it gently, without making the bed dip too much; whenever Mikey's sick she's always afraid that she'll make it worse somehow, like when she had the stomach flu and Gee made her a milkshake to make her feel better and she ended up puking all over the living room floor. "I kissed her for real. For serious. It was- there were teeth in there, you know?"

"Oh." She takes a drink of her juice, tapping the edge of the glass with one idle finger. "How was it?"

Gee squirms a little. She's not exactly uncomfortable- she's never uncomfortable with Mikey- but she's the next best thing. "Well, I didn't see fireworks behind my eyes or anything. Not that I expected to, not really, but they talk about that kind of thing in books, and it didn't happen. And my lips kind of went numb at one point. And I think I might have bitten her chin."

"Are you going to do it again?"

Gee traces a stain on the coverlet, the purple one from the time they were watching Beetlejuice and Mikey got so scared of the sandworm that she spilled a glass of grape soda all over the bed. It's shaped sort of like a violin.

"I want to," she admits, and her voice is smaller than it's ever been. And she's not scared, just like she's not uncomfortable.

Mikey looks at her for a while longer, nodding a little the way she does when she's sorting things out.

"Do you love her?" she asks finally, in her raspy little sick voice.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

Of course it matters to Mikey. It always matters to Mikey. Gee considers lying, but not for very long. Lying to Mikey is verboten. She never lied to her about anything, not even Santa Claus.

"I don't know," she says instead. "I don't know how to tell."

"I think you're just supposed to know."

"That's fucking stupid," Gee mutters. She feels kind of pissed off, not at Mikey or for any good reason, but pissed off nonetheless. "Who thought up that bullshit system anyway? They should be able to diagnose you, do a CAT scan or something so you know for sure. Nobody would ever get divorced then." She looks at Mikey from under her bangs. "Do I look like I'm in love?"

Mikey shrugs. "You look like you're about to puke."

"Huh," Gee says. That's something, she supposes.

It's hard to tell what Mikey's thinking. She reaches out from under the covers and pats Gee's knee in a comforting kind of way, like she's sorry she's such a wimpy confused fuckup, but all she says is, "You'll figure it out. Can you get me a glass of juice? This one's all warm."

***

Gee sort of expects Bert to disappear for a while after that, or at least start avoiding her, and when she doesn't see her around school the next day she figures she's right. But when she gets home there she is, sitting on her lawn with her shoes off. Apparently she was sent home early for cursing thirty times during a two-minute oral presentation on The Catcher in the Rye.

"And I didn't want to go home," she tells Gee, pulling her down beside her, "because then my fucking parents would get disappointed at me. So I came here instead. Your mom made me hot chocolate." She grins like a wolf and adds, "I think I'm gonna marry her."

Gee thinks about Morrissey singing "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out" and the mournful way he says "I never never want to go home, because I haven't got one." It usually bums her out, but today, with the sun bright and warm and Bert's feet in the grass, it kind of makes her smile.

"I feel like things should be weird," she says. "Don't you think things should be weird?"

"No," Bert replies, rolling her eyes, and tries to stuff a handful of grass down the back of Gee's shirt.

And she really doesn't. Being with Bert isn't really like being with a friend- it's not like the way it is when Gee hangs out with Rae, who mostly likes to talk about comic books and Warcraft and the D&D club she wants to start at her school across town. It's not like going out with someone, either. It's not like those kids at school who hold hands all the fucking time and wear each other's rings and jackets. It's not like anything, really, except what it is.

What it is is sneaking out of the house at two in the morning even though you've got nothing to do and nowhere to go. It's smuggling vodka to school in a thermos. It's making out in empty classrooms and fields and sheds and closets and, on one memorable occasion, at a school assembly in the middle of a speech about the importance of keeping the school peanut-free. There are cheerleaders sitting nearby, and their little mumbles and hisses of disgust make Bert grin and wave her middle fingers in the air like she's directing air traffic.

("Kissing is weird," Gee says one day. "Even when you like it it's such a weird thing to like, you know? I mean, when someone spits on you that's gross, so it should be even more disgusting when someone sticks their tongue in your mouth. It's like they're spitting in your mouth if you think about it, right? It should be gross. But it isn't. Except for when it is."

Bert looks at her very seriously and asks, "So you're saying you want me to spit in your mouth?"

"No."

But she does anyway.)

Being with Bert is dangerous. It's messy. It's fucking weird.

It's kind of awesome.

And one night Gee pokes her head into Mikey's bedroom and says, "I'm in love with her."

Mikey doesn't look up from her GameBoy. "I figured," she says. "Have you guys done it yet? 'Cause I've got five bucks on you holding out until prom."

***

Gee does not hold out until prom. She holds out until the day they're home alone and it's raining outside, when the grey light in the basement makes everything softer. Bert pokes her in the side and whispers, "It's raining. Sit on my face."

It probably shouldn't be romantic, but Gee figures if she starts giving a fuck about "should" now she might as well just throw in the towel completely.

***

"There should still be trains around," Bert says one morning. They're skipping second period together, curled up on that chair in the woods. It's wet from yesterday's rain and starting to smell a little musty. "Like in old movies where bums just hop on them whenever they want. We could pack all our stuff in those bundles on sticks-“

"Bindles. Those are called bindles."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"I'm not sure." Gee closes her eyes. Everything feels damp and fresh and shivery today, even the wind. "I shouldn't, I'm failing English. And math. And probably Spanish."

"I don't give a fuck," Bert assures her. Her legs are dangling over the edge of the chair, not quite brushing the ground. "Trains, man. You don't need to pass English, you need to pack up everything and live in a fucking boxcar with me. Or a caboose. Yeah, definitely a caboose."

"I thought we were gonna steal a car."

"Nah, a caboose is better." Bert squirms a little so they're face to face and bites Gee's nose. Not for any reason as far as she can tell. Maybe she just likes the way she tastes. "We can have dogs," she whispers, her eyes lighting up like the idea has never occurred to her before. "Little ones with big black eyes and no fur."

"Right," Gee says, trying not to smile. These are, after all, serious life plans. "We're going to travel the world in a caboose. Just us and a pack of tiny dogs."

"And a banjo," Bert adds. "You, me, the dogs, and a rusty banjo. So we can, like, sing about our hopes and dreams and shit. Can you play the banjo?"

"Nope."

"Me neither." She leans into Gee's neck and sighs deeply, then bites her again. Gently this time. "Travel the world," she murmurs, in a sing-song kind of way, "and see the pyramids and the Eiffel Tower and piss off of the Great Wall of China. And that building with all the pillars and shit. We could spray-paint our names on the side of it in a big puffy fuckin' heart." She looks up at Gee and smiles sideways at her skeptical face. "Hey," she says, a little louder. "I'd do it, asshole, don't give me that look. I'd pack up everything and leave. S'long as you came with."

"And as long as we had a bunch of little dogs."

Bert doesn't even bother to respond to that. The dogs, apparently, are non-negotiable.

Bert believes in everything she says, totally and completely, so when she says that she'd pack up everything and leave Gee knows she's not making fun of her. She believes in a future that includes the both of them together, drinking and fucking and living in a caboose and seeing the sun every day. And playing banjo and flipping off the world. Bert believes in all that, but most of all she believes in love, in letting it take her over and just burn.

It should be weird. But it isn't.

"Well?" Bert nudges her with her chin, her blue eyes sharp and hopeful. "What do you think?"

Gee doesn't say anything, because she's too busy believing.

Enough To Close Your Eyes To

Wed, 10 Dec 2008 15:19:51 GMT

Title: Enough To Close Your Eyes To
Pairing: Bert/Gerard
Rating: R
Summary: There was a little spot underneath his eye- an "angel's kiss," his mother would have called it, although the irony of applying that term to a boy Bert had gotten both vomit and semen on would probably have killed her- that got redder and starker when he was embarrassed or excited or turned on or all three at once. It was darker than usual now, and Bert kind of wanted to bite it. Or kiss it. Or maybe both.
Disclaimer: Not true. No monies.

On the last day of tour, Bert was mostly asleep when Gerard asked him suddenly, "Did you ever lie as a kid?"

Bert opened his eyes and wiggled around onto his side. Gerard was sitting up in bed- or, rather, in bunk- his eyes wide and kind of soft-looking. He wasn't drawing. At some point he'd tried to tuck his pencil behind his ear and missed, tangled it up in his hair instead. Bert wondered whether he should mention it and decided it'd be funnier to let him find out for himself.

"What the fuck?" he said, because even for Gerard it was late. It was, like, day. And he hadn't slept. Bert had been with Gerard long enough to know the difference between "I'm not sleeping because I'd rather do something fun and interesting, such as suck Bert McCracken's dick" and "I'm not sleeping because my brain is going a mile a minute and I'd rather waste my time trying to keep up with it than do something fun and interesting, such as suck Bert McCracken's dick." "Why aren't you asleep, you retard?"

Gerard smiled one of those half-moon smiles that meant he was worrying about something and couldn't make himself stop. "Couldn't. Had too much coffee, I guess. You know how they say you never really get over an addiction, you just... you kind of switch to something else?"

"Lifesavers." Bert yawned. He felt a draft coming in from somewhere and curled further into Gerard's warmth, taking the blanket with him. He fucking hated the cold. Gerard was always warm, like a blow-up doll with a built-in heater. Bert had told him that once. Gerard had frowned, kind of like he was frowning now with a wrinkle deep between his eyebrows that Bert always, irrationally, wanted to do some fucking dirty things to, and asked, "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

Bert hadn't really been sure himself, so he'd done what he usually did when he wasn't sure about something Gerard wanted to know: he'd shoved his hand down his pants. It was an effective distraction, if nothing else.

Gerard poked him in the shoulder, bringing him back to Earth. Almost, anyway. "Lifesavers?"

"The first time I got off meth, when I was... what, fifteen? Fucking Lifesavers, dude. I wanted something really crunchy, something sweet, because I kept grinding my teeth. Quinn's parents started bringing me home rolls of Lifesavers, you know, the little candies? Every day. They're bring me a roll home every night and I just got addicted to the fucking things. They were kind of fun, you know. Distracting. Except the green ones. Fucking hated those." Bert reached down to the floor and felt around for Gerard's worn black hoodie. It smelt bad, like everything else he owned. "Do you have any candy in here?"

Gerard laughed a little, like Bert had surprised it out of him, and shook his head. "No. Mikey might have some Pixi Stix or something-"

"Fuck that. I want something I can chew." Bert sniffed Gerard's hoodie one more time before letting it fall back to the floor. He remembered he'd been surprised that Gerard still had his dirty Gerard-smell after he'd gotten clean, like he'd thought on some level that it was the booze and the drugs that made him stink. Surprised and kind of relieved, because he liked the way Gerard smelled.

He decided to say that then, buried his face in Gerard's greasy hair and breathed in and muttered, "I like the way you smell."

"I smell terrible," Gerard replied, but Bert could hear him smile. He reached down with one hand and cleared away the sketchbook, settling in Gerard's lap instead. He was still wearing yesterday's clothes- which had also been the clothes of the day before, and the day before that, and possibly the week before that- and his eyes were bloodshot and there were crumbs of something at the corner of his mouth and Bert wanted to taste them really bad all of a sudden, so he pulled him closer and did. He felt Gerard smile again, but this time it was against his lips and into his mouth and he never got tired of that. He really fucking didn't.

A thought occurred to him, and he broke away and asked, "What was that question again?"

Gerard's face was kind of flushed and his mouth stretched into a funny little "huh?" Kissing made Gerard stupid. Bert forgot that sometimes, maybe because kissing made him stupid too.

"Your question," he repeated. There was a little spot underneath his eye- an "angel's kiss," his mother would have called it, although the irony of applying that term to a boy Bert had gotten both vomit and semen on would probably have killed her- that got redder and starker when he was embarrassed or excited or turned on or all three at once. It was darker than usual now, and Bert kind of wanted to bite it. Or kiss it. Or maybe both. "You asked me something when you woke me up, dumbfuck."

"I- oh. Oh, yeah." Gerard blinked, like he had to clear his head. "When you were a kid, did you lie a lot?"

Bert considered the question, both hands buried in Gerard's T-shirt. (Fucking Madonna.) He could remember lying to his parents, obviously, about girls and about drugs and about places he'd go and things he'd do once he got there, but he kind of figured that wasn't what he meant. "You mean other than the usual teenage bullshit, right?" he asked, and Gerard nodded.

"Yeah. I mean, about things you'd think, or things you wanted to do. Or what you believed... I don't even know. Just important shit like that. Did you ever lie about it?"

Bert thought about it for a minute, then shook his head. "No," he said. And that was true. Bert couldn't think of any time, past or present, when he hadn't told the truth as he understood it at the time. Sometimes the truth changed, that was all.

Gerard rubbed his chin, smiled a sad little smile that Bert wasn't sure about, and said, quietly, "I did. Kind of a lot, actually. I remember when I was little... this was before Mikey was even here, so I probably wasn't three yet. I remember I was sitting on the front steps of the house, mom and dad were out somewhere and Elena was watching me from inside, I think, and I was making up stories and telling them to myself. I think this was when she was reading me Peter Pan, because it was about the Lost Boys. I think. It's a little hazy." He chuckled a little, kind of to himself, and it made Bert sort of pissy. Gerard did that sometimes- he just faded out and started rambling to himself when there were people right in front of him. Like they didn't matter. "When Mikey was born the first thing I did was tell him stories. I was so fucking excited to have a little brother because it meant someone would have to listen to me. He didn't learn to talk for a long time, did I ever tell you that? He still couldn't talk that much when he went to preschool. Sometimes I think that's my fault. Like he was too busy listening to me to learn how."

Bert waited. Gerard's stories usually had a point, eventually.

"I remember my first day of high school I was real excited. I think it was because junior high was so shitty, and in movies and stuff high school... well, it wasn't a cool place to be, exactly, but it was a place where uncool people would be able to find each other. So the night before I was telling Mikey about all the cool stuff I was going to do in high school- join an art club and write my own comic and hang out with a bunch of weirdos smoking clove cigarettes in the parking lot, blah blah blah. And... you know Mikey, he never says when he's excited about something, but he listened to me and his eyes were shining. He drank it all in." Gerard scratched his nose, frowned. "He looked up to me, I guess."

"You guess," Bert said, rolling his eyes. "Not like he fucking worships the ground you walk on or anything, asshole."

He ducked his head and smiled sheepishly, one hand straying to play idly with his hair. "Yeah, I know. Anyway. I remember the first day of high school I wore that fucking leather jacket and a Queen t-shirt and raised my hand in class for the first time in years, and some varsity asshole and his friend found me at lunch and beat the shit out of me in the bathroom. They hit here- and here-" He demonstrated with his hands, his fingers hovering just over skin on Bert's upper arms and torso, places that would usually be covered. Probably, anyway. Definitely at school, at least; his memories of high school are vague at best, but he's pretty sure it required clothing. "I fucking cried on the bus home- which, you know, didn't help the fact that I was already being called a fat fag fuck, but I couldn't help it. I'd hoped it would be different. I hoped... but when I got home Mikey was waiting for me on the steps, and he looked at me and said, 'How was school?' He'd never asked that before. And his eyes were kind of shining again, like he was waiting for me to tell him about all the awesome shit I'd been doing, how great everything was going for me, so... I just told him."

"You lied."

"Yeah. I told him I'd met some really cool guys who were into, like, Romero and the Doom Patrol and stuff, and that my art teacher let us listen to Iron Maiden, and that there was a hot girl with blue hair in my English class. Just boring, mundane shit. I could have just said 'fine' and not told him anything, but I felt like I needed to make up a story. I didn't want him to be disappointed in me." Gerard stopped and looked at Bert like he was waiting for some flash of understanding, some sort of fucking hallelujah.

Bert didn't have one. "Okay," he said, wondering if he should go the down-the-pants route again for this one. "So why are we talking about this when I could be blowing you, again?"

That little red mark flushed deeper, and Bert still hadn't bitten it yet. This didn't seem right, somehow. Gerard looked down, his voice fading out and trembling at the edges the way it did when he needed something and wasn't getting it. "I kept that up for three weeks. Would have kept it up for longer, except he saw the bruises. I expected him to get mad, but... he just looked at me for a long time and said, 'it's not good, is it?' And all I could say was no. And we never talked about it again." He sighed. "I would have kept going, though. I mean, at first it was about Mikey, about protecting him, but after a while it was like the lies got bigger on their own. I wanted to believe them. Fuck, I wanted to live them. It was so much nicer than what actually existed. And..." Gerard's nervous fingers found the pencil in his hair and he blinked, confused. "What the fuck?"

Bert burst out laughing, pressing his face in the flush of Gerard's neck. He'd been right- it was funnier for him to find out on his own. When he pulled back up Gerard looked kind of puzzled still, but also resigned, like he was willing to go along with the joke even if it was on him.

"My point is," he said- he still hadn't gotten to the point? fuck- "my point is that sometimes lies have their own truth, you know? Like sometimes I think that's all music is, that's all performance is. It's a lie we tell ourselves over and over again, because if we lie to ourselves enough that lie will become real. When you guys were touring in a van did you tell yourselves you were the best band in the world?"

"Nope," said Bert cheerfully. "Quinn told me I sucked all the time. Still does. And then I tell him I boned his mom. And, you know, this conversation has been going on for a while and your dick still isn't in my mouth, what the fuck is up with that?"

Gerard laughed a little, but it sounded dry. It rattled. He looked steadily at Bert, his wide weirdo eyes catching the light like leaves and gold and a thousand other things Bert couldn't think of in the moment, and he smiled another sad, strange smile.

"The thing is," he said, "you have to tell the truth eventually. The real world always catches up."

And just like that his tongue was in Bert's mouth and he was undoing his fly, like someone had flipped a switch.

Gerard wasn't very good at sex, which was okay with Bert. Being good at it wasn't really the point. Besides, Gerard was only not good at it because he got so into it that he lost track of what was happening sometimes and couldn't do anything but lie there and gasp and stare. That was also okay with Bert. More than. The first time they'd fucked he'd done that, collapsed backwards and just let everything happen, so ridiculous and innocent that Bert wanted to keep him on the verge of coming forever just to see that look on his face.

This was different, somehow. This was Gerard with his lip caught between his teeth, jerking him off with a kind of frantic leisure that left Bert arching his back and hissing and snapping forwards, digging into his sides with his fingers. Their kisses were messy, had always been like that, tangles of teeth and tongue and saliva that would have been disgusting if they weren't so fucking hot. Gerard pulled away after a moment, his forehead still touching Bert's, watching his face as he stroked his cock. Bert locked eyes with him, watching his pupils grow and shrink. Gerard's hands were hotter than they should have been, like he was running a fever, and there were little beads of sweat along his hairline that glittered in the morning light and Bert's fucking weirdo brain compared them to icicles and crystallized honey and a thousand other unlikely things.

Fucking Gerard was like summer, he thought, and then wondered what that even meant.

He felt like he should say something good. Usually he kept running off at the mouth even during sex, a steady stream of suggestions and obscenities (and suggestive obscenities), and usually Gerard ended up stuttering something that was probably supposed to be sexy but came out sounding like a passage from a D&D manual, but they were both quiet now, filling up the silence with heavy breathing. Bert thought about telling him what he'd thought about the first time they'd fucked, and what he thought about the last time they'd fucked, and about how those two thoughts blended together to make summer in his mind.

Instead he reached up and touched Gerard's face, gently bit the little red mark under his eye, and said, "You- you're really fucking pretty."

And it was true, Gerard was really fucking pretty. But it wasn't what he wanted to say.

Gerard's face twisted at the same time as his fingers, and Bert had to make noise when he came, which broke the moment a little. Gerard pulled his hand out and wiped it on Bert's jeans, smiling ruefully.

"How can you sleep in those?" he asked. Bert giggled, still panting a little.

"Can't now," he said. "Sleeping in your own seminal fluids makes you gay. I saw it on Oprah once. De-pants me so I can borrow your fucking capris."

Gerard rolled his eyes but helped him peel the jeans off. Bert flopped over onto his back, wiggling his toes and enjoying that just-came feeling still humming in his bones, and when Gerard popped back up again with his stupid girly pants he'd already decided to stay pantsless forever.

"I'm going to stay pantsless forever," he told Gerard, who shook his head ruefully and threw the capris back on the floor.

"You're ambitious," he said, settling back into the bunk with him. He curved his arms tight around Bert's chest and bent his legs against Bert's. Bert could feel his nose smushed into the back of his neck and the weird, unsteady way his heart was beating. Too much coffee. Way, way too much.

"That's me," Bert said. "One ambitious, pantsless motherfucker. Are we spooning?"

"Yep."

"Awesome," he murmured, because he was sleepy and happy and spooning really kind of seemed like the best idea in the world right at that moment. He thought about that and added, because it seemed like something he should say out loud and not just think about, "I like this. Spooning with you. I don't wanna do it with anyone else. Let's not, okay?"

Gerard didn't say anything, but he lifted one hand to Bert's hair and that seemed like some kind of answer, some kind of okay, let's not. Enough to go on, anyway. Enough to close his eyes to.

He must have fallen asleep, because when he opened them Gerard had started up and started muttering "fuck, I've gotta go, fuck fuck fuck, where's my fucking jacket?" He scrambled out of the bunk, picked something up off the floor and shoved it into his purse- he had a fucking purse, Jesus- and ran to the other end of the bus, cursing.

"You could stay in bed," Bert said. "We could just fuck all day and then ride off into the sunset or something. Jepha knows where to get white horses. It'd be romantic."

Gerard smiled a little, shook his head. "Brian wants us to meet up at around nine. We're thinking of putting out a DVD or something." He frowned suddenly. "Why does Jepha know where to get white horses?"

"It's a long story. I'll tell you later. When you call me, because you're definitely gonna do that or I'll never let you jerk me off again."

Gerard didn't answer that right away, just took Bert's hand and squeezed once. There was something different about his face, something sad, and Bert thought about what "later" meant for them, how it meant the few weeks kind of later instead of the few hours kind of later, and wished it away.

"I'll call you," Gerard said. "In San Diego. I'll call you." He kissed Bert once, quickly, and turned to go, and Bert was almost asleep again when he stopped and added, "I drew something for you. Six pages in. You can take it with you when..." And then he seemed to catch himself and shook his head again and said, "I'll call you," and he was gone.

Bert lit a cigarette and watched the smoke for a while, letting himself feel warm and buzzed and the good kind of empty, and then pulled out the sketchbook. The drawing was the kind that Gerard always did in the early hours when he was feeling loose and unfocused, with scraps of poetry taking up corner space and half-finished nothings crowding the edges. The centre, though, the main focus, was a drawing of Bert sleeping on his side, his face scrunched in dreamy concentration. His hand was clutching something, and Bert had to turn the sketch book a few different ways before he realized it was the edge of Gerard's T-shirt. (He didn't remember holding onto it. Maybe he let go before he woke up.) At its corner, along the folds of the blanket, he'd written so long and goodnight.

"Smartass," Bert whispered, and couldn't stop smiling.

Because it had been a good night. It had been a good night and he could see more good nights stretching ahead for the rest of the summer, long stupid nights of bad jokes and good sex and two A.M. burger runs and moments that stretched out tense and musical like guitar strings and he fucking ached with love. The kind of love that made you want to do something beautiful and destructive like set yourself on fire. He loved the summer, its long beginnings and lazy winding middles, the way it folded gracefully into autumn and never really faded away. Never faded, which meant it never ended.

Forever had always been a kind of open-ended concept for Bert, but he never got tired of thinking about it. He really fucking didn't.

He lazed around for the rest of the day, slept and drank and folded and unfolded the drawing and grinned to himself, and the next morning he got on a plane to go home and tried to call Gerard and found out he'd changed his number, that he wasn't going to call him from San Diego or any other city, that the real world had caught up and was leaving him behind.

Time To Cut It Off

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 20:42:20 GMT

Title: Time To Cut It Off
Pairing: Carl Barat/Conor Oberst
Rating: PG-13 at the most. :/ No porn this time, sorry.
Summary: Somehow Conor Oberst ended up drunk on Carl's kitchen floor. He's not sure how.
Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure these two have never ever met, let alone made out. Which is sad.
Author's Note: A silly birthday present for mresundance! Many happen returns, Jesse, sorry there's no cock. ♥

"The thing is," Carl starts, and hiccups, and has to start again. "The thing is."

"The thing is you're drunk," Conor says. He's sitting on the floor across from Carl, and even though he's leaning against the cupboard door, he's swaying a little. That, and the fact that he doesn't seem as nervous as usual, are the only clues that he's not totally sober himself. "That's what the thing is."

Carl is pretty sure that's not the thing. "No," he says, and takes a long swig out of the wine bottle. They'd been using glasses at one point, but then Conor broke his and Carl's had rolled away somewhere and, well, it was easier to drink out of the bottle like total barbarians than go to all the trouble of getting new cups from the top shelf. Especially since Carl usually has to stand on a chair to do it. He's not sure he'd be able to keep his balance if he stood on a chair now.

"The thing is," he says, straightening. He remembers now. Kind of. "The thing is. Um. The thing is. Jim Morrison."

Conor giggles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It's kind of cute. Carl tries not to think about it too hard, though, because it might make him cross-eyed. "Jim Morrison isn't a thing," he says. "'S a singer. He's dead, too."

"Yeah, I know, but look- thing about Jim Morrison is- is he was a poet, right? Drunken poet. Drunken American poet. Like you."

Conor makes a face but smiles anyway. Americans like being compared to Jim Morrison, Carl thinks. They can't help it.

"But Paul Simon," he begins, and Carl groans.

"Stop talking about bloody Paul Simon! And don't give me that Neil Young either, not again. Jim. Jim Morrison, alright, listen. When he sang 'Break On Through' it was fucking... fucking transcendental, right?" Carl has a little trouble with that word, so he says it again, more slowly. "Trans-cen-den-tal. 'I found an island in your arms and a country in your eyes.' It's like-" Conor nods fervently to everything he says and reaches out and grasps Carl's knee with one hand and there's nothing wrong with that, nothing at all, except Carl has had a lot to drink and it throws him a bit off-balance and he slips sideways onto the floor. He takes Conor with him somehow and he starts giggling away, his elbows digging into Carl's ribcage.

Carl is on his back staring at the ceiling. It is not, he decides, a particularly dignified position to be in.

"Why," he asks of his ceiling fan, "am I here?"

"That's deep," Conor says, but his face is mashed into Carl's stomach and it comes out muffled and distorted and far away. Carl shoves at him, but he clings.

"Not like that," Carl says. "I mean why am I here, drunk on my kitchen floor, with you?"

Conor looks at him. There's laughter still in his voice and he's smiling broadly, but his eyes look big and sad. Maybe they always look that way. Maybe that's just his face. "You remember," he says. His fingers dig a little into Carl's ribs. It hurts a little, like a cat kneading with its claws out. "We were at that party in 2004, in New York-"

"Whose party? We don't know the same people. I'd remember going to a party with your people. All sad boys and... and girls in quilted skirts. And boots. Why do your people wear those fucking boots?"

"It wasn't that kind of party."

"I mean it's not as if they even look good."

Conor does not respond to that, and he is slightly miffed. It is a totally valid question. "And I didn't know many people there and you hated the music-"

"Oh, fuck," Carl says, memory hitting him like a hammer with a vendetta. "Was that the one where they were playing that humps song over and over?"

"That's the one."

"I was trying to suppress that memory," Carl tells him, a little sourly. Conor grins. He has not, Carl notices, gotten up yet.

"And we ended up on the same couch and you got drunk and told me all about that dude who, like, broke your heart," he continues. "That was how you said it, by the way. 'Broke me 'eart.'" His imitation of a British accent sounds more like a Dickensian orphan than Carl. "It was cute."

"I did fucking not!" Carl objects.

"You did. And then you wrote your phone number on my neck and told me to call you if I was ever in England."

"And four years later you decide to take me up on the offer?"

Conor shrugs. "I was in town. It's been a while. Your apartment is a fucking mess, by the way."

Carl tries to cuff him around the ear, but ends up bashing his knuckles against a wall instead. This is clearly due to the planets being aligned in his disfavour and not at all to the fact that he's pissed out of his skull. "Rude boy."

"And then I called you," Conor says. "And you said that you just broke up with your girl, and I decided it was time to get drunk on the couch again."

"Floor," Carl corrects him.

"Whatever. Anyway, here I am." Conor looks at him close, drumming his fingers on his chest. He shifted at some point and now he's half on top of Carl, one bare foot hooked around his ankle. Carl feels like he maybe should have seen that happen. Then he thinks that maybe he did and just didn't say anything. "Are you really leaving your band?" he asks, and he's almost whispering, like it's a secret. Like there's anyone around to hear... anything.

He nods. "Yeah."

"Why?"

Carl can't think of anything less maudlin or more true than what he says. "Because it's time. Like with Annalisa. It's time to cut it off."

Conor nods, looks thoughtful. Maybe a little sad, too. But again, that could just be his face. "Are you gonna-"

"No," Carl says. He knows what the question's going to be. What the question always is. "No, not with Pete. That can't happen again. That's done."

Even though he wanted it to. Even though he hoped that maybe this time it'd be different. It couldn't.

Conor nods, reaches up as though to push his hair out of his eyes. There's not that much to push anymore- it had been long when Carl saw him last, an unruly mop that hid half his face, but now it's short like a regular boy's. A regular boy who does not get drunk with Carl Barat and climb on top of him on his kitchen floor. "Good," he says, softly, carefully, and kisses him. He tastes like cheap wine and nothing at all.

His body is surprised, although his mind isn't really. There's a certain part of him that has never grown past thirteen and it still gets still and silent when he is kissed, like it can't believe it's actually happening. That part of him is totally willing to go along with it, though, and the rest of him is drunk enough to think this is a good idea, and he is enjoying Conor's mouth and Conor's tongue and the breathy little noises he makes when Carl slips his hands under his shirt and touches his skin when he remembers they had been talking about something and bursts out, "Jim Morrison!"

Conor looks down at him, blinking. "Uh," he says. "Not exactly?"

"No, no, Jim Morrison, I was saying something about him and how he... um... poetry and, and decadence and the American dream and. And. Fuck."

Conor ducks his head when he smiles sometimes. It's something that Carl has noticed before, though he's never noticed how much he likes it 'til now. "I think it's time to cut you off."

He glares at him. "You kissed me," he says accusingly. "Now I'm all off my head."

Conor nods solemnly. "I did," he says, and leans closer until his mouth is an inch or two away. It's a good mouth, a soft, shy-looking thing. It's a good mouth to kiss. "Is that bad?"

"No," Carl admits after a minute, and Conor does that little smile and when he kisses him this time Carl is ready for it and it's Conor who pulls away first, a little flushed, a little, hah, bright-eyed.

"You know," he says, "when I came over here I was going to get you drunk on a couch. It was a very specific plan."

"I have a couch," Carl says. "It's in the living room. Smells a bit, though."

He looks down at him, bites his lip, and asks, "Is it roomy?"

"Fairly."

Conor pulls him to his feet, only wobbling a little. "Come on," he says, pulling him through the door. "Oh, and hey, before I forget, do you want to know something about Neil Young?"

"Not really."

He ducks his head and smiles again in a sort of bashful, mischievous way, and Carl decides that this is a good idea all on its own. A very, very good idea. "Too bad."

Clear Through A Camera Lens

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 02:28:30 GMT

Title: Clear Through a Camera Lens
Pairing: Jac Vanek/Audrey Kitching, past Jac/Ryan and Audrey/Brendon
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jac doesn't realize she's falling for Audrey until it's already happened and her whole world snaps into focus.
Disclaimer: Jac Vanek and Audrey Kitching? Not actually doin' it, as far as I know.
Author's Note: Pure fluff. If you want background info on Jac and Audrey, check out forcedmovement's scene queen primer. If you think that Jac and Audrey are no-talent skanks, don't read this. If you are either Jac or Audrey... um, really don't read this.

There are a few pictures Jac will never show anyone.

The first time she ever held a camera was when she was three and her father took her to the zoo. She'd hoped there would be tigers- except she was three so she said "tiggers"- but it was a shitty zoo and the most interesting animal there, she thought, was a single wild pony alone in a tiny pen. She'd leaned against the railing and stared at it until her father handed her the camera and said, "Take a picture. So it'll last."

She'd never used her dad's camera before, never even held it, and she remembers the thrill of its weight in her hands, the satisfying click of the shutter. She waited anxiously for it to be developed, and even though the picture turned out so blurry she could barely make it out she took it and hid it in a box under her bed. She looks at it every now and again, when she's sad or lonely or needs to remember that she can do things, that she's not some worthless Internet whore like some people want her to believe, but mostly she just likes to know it's there.

One of the first things Audrey asks her, when they meet offline, is "So do you want to take my picture?" She's got her arm around Brendon and Jac's fingers are still curled tight around Ryan's- she's held onto him like that since he got back, doesn't want to let him go- and there's a hint of challenge in her voice that Jac would usually get pissed about. Usually. Because when a girl asks you to take a picture of her in front of her boyfriend it's usually just another way for her to compete.

But the way Audrey smiles and tilts her head and bares her teeth just a little makes Jac say, "Sure. Okay."

She turns out to be a good model. Not an easy one- Audrey's never been easy in any sense of the word, and she's impatient and fights back when she thinks you're wrong and gets tired and frustrated and can make you feel stupid and shitty sometimes when she's bored, but when Jac looks at her through the lens of her camera she feels something happen. Audrey's got... something. She calls it "je ne sais quoi" at one point and Audrey laughs and asks "are you retarded?" and they buy some watermelon vodka and somehow it all goes from there.

Jac wonders sometimes if she and Audrey would ever have become friends if it weren't for Ryan and Brendon. Sometimes she thinks they wouldn't have, because in a lot of crucial, terrifying ways Audrey is absolutely nothing like her, fierce and intense and a little desperate, a little mean, a little crazy. She tries not to think about that, though, because no matter how they got here they're here, and they fit together naturally now that they've found each other, like spoons.

They sleep like that, too, which weirds Jac out at first. She knows friends stay over in each other's beds sometimes, but it feels strange when Audrey jumps under the covers and says, "Move over, God, it's cold." Not bad strange, exactly. The kind of strange that happens when you look through a camera lens and see things in focus for the first time. She tries to stay awake when she's there because they have their best conversations with the lights off. Audrey's voice changes right before she falls asleep, softens and dips and swirls in anticipation of dreams. She's dozed off mid-sentence before; Jac tries to remember where they left off in the morning, but never can.

One morning Ryan and Brendon come over early and find them curled up together in bed, and Brendon hoots delightedly. "Foursome!" he yells, and jumps onto Audrey, who laughs and shrieks and dodges his elbows and knees. (He gets Jac in the face a coupe of times, which she takes in stride. It's Brendon.) Jac turns to look at Ryan, who is still standing in the doorway, and even though he's laughing at Brendon and his dumb fucking face there's something wary and guarded in his eyes. He looks at her, just for a second, and Jac thinks, He knows. And then she thinks, What the fuck does he know? because she's still not sure herself.

Except that's not true. She knows. She can't look at Audrey and feel so giddy and perfect and surprised and powerful without knowing what's going on.

She wonders later if that's when and why Ryan decided to break up with her. Not that it really matters, because when she's crying over him and pissed at herself for crying over him Audrey is there telling her stupid jokes and holding her hand and saying, "We'll firebomb his fucking house, okay? You're my fucking yinyang, you're strong, you're perfect, we don't need anyone else."

She asks Audrey once if she and Brendon have slept together yet. (She figures the "yet" is implied.) She's not sure if she even wants to know the answer, but she has to ask, and Audrey laughs and sneers and looks away and says something flippant but Jac sees something flicker in her eyes- hurt, confusion, guilt, something- and doesn't know what to make of it.

Two weeks later Aud is visiting and in her bed and says, out of the blue, "He was pretty bad."

Jac is half asleep, and Audrey's voice pulls her to the surface of things. "Hmm?" she mutters, trying to focus. She opens her eyes and sees Audrey's face. Her eyes are huge in the dark. She can hear her breathing, deep and measured. She's calm, which is kind of weird for Audrey and maybe an indication that she's not really calm at all, that she's trying too hard.

"Brendon," she says. Jac feels her stomach twist and wonders if she can fake being asleep, because on a scale of one to ten of things she doesn't want to talk about Audrey fucking Brendon rates at least eleven. And a half. "You asked if... you know. But it was only a few times, last month. He's kind of afraid of my tits."

That makes her laugh, at least, and she can feel Audrey smiling beside her.

"I don't know," she says after a minute. "I didn't- I mean, I wanted to. Still do. But it didn't feel right with him, you know? I mean, it wasn't like we were in love or anything." She pauses, and Jac can hear her take a deep breath. "I think that'd make it different. If I loved... someone... like I love you."

The silence stretches out and roars in Jac's ears, fills Audrey's eyes and trickles into the corners of the room.

And if this was a movie, Jac thinks later, she would seize the moment and kiss her and they'd live happily ever after. But it isn't, and she doesn't, and they fall asleep without saying much else. When Audrey goes home the next morning Jac thinks she sees that flicker in her eyes again, but then she's gone and Jac's alone and has no idea whether or not she imagined it.

She lasts a month. She sleeps curled up around a hoodie Audrey left on her bedroom floor and watches Invader Zim alone in her pajamas. She drinks the last of their watermelon vodka and considers buying more, and doesn't. She takes pictures of things and does not call Audrey and does not text Audrey and does not think about Audrey except for when she can't help it, which is often. And when she realizes it's been a month she says "fuck it"- out loud, to her reflection in the bathroom mirror- and picks up her Sidekick.

aud- what did you mean? because if you mean love like friend love, im there, and if you mean love like forever kissinglaughingspooningsoulmateyinyanglove im fuckin there too. jac

She doesn't wait for a reply before going to bed, and when she wakes up there's one waiting for her. She laughs a little when she sees it- it's a picture of Audrey, from the shoulders up, naked and sly, and a text that says im close. ill be there by four.

She knocks on Jac's door at five-thirty, a little breathless and damp with rain. She brings the weather in with her, a springtime sort of cold that promises the sun.

She says, without preamble, "I broke up with Brendon."

Jac tries to keep herself from smiling, but can't. Audrey smiles back, and it's fierce and warm and beautiful. She's got that look in her eyes that says she's feeling crazy and Jac has never loved anybody more.

"I was feeding you a line that night," Audrey says, stepping inside. "I was hoping you'd take the hint."

Jac laughs, a little breathless. She's not sure when they crossed that threshold, when this girl's smile and eyes and fucking smell started to make her tingle, but they've crossed it, and they're here, and that's all that matters. "I should have," she replies, and closes the door behind her. "I'm kind of dumb, I guess."

Audrey's smile grows wider and she says, "Yeah, well, no shit."

They're close together now, almost touching, and Audrey tilts her head and bares her teeth and says, "Do you want to take my picture?"

She's still not patient, or easy, but when Jac looks at her through the camera lens she memorizes every ridiculous fucking beautiful detail. The sweep of eyelashes, the stray freckles, the shadowy place below her neck, the way her fingers curl like question marks against her soft, pale skin.

And when Audrey grins one of those fierce, happy grins again and starts taking off her clothes, Jac knows this is another picture she'll never show anyone. This is all for her.

Day Job

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 13:33:19 GMT

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.

Someone Has To

Sat, 05 Jul 2008 04:50:08 GMT

Title: Someone Has To
Pairing: Brian/Bob
Rating: R
Summary: They may not be committed, but they are constant.
Disclaimer: It's all lies and I'm not getting paid.
Author's Note: This was written for the mcr4u fic exchange for algernon_mouse, whose prompt was Brian/Bob, pre-MCR.

Bob and Brian have an arrangement.

That's what Brian calls it in his head, at least. Out loud he doesn't call it anything, because he knows Bob about as well as anyone and that means he knows that sometimes the subtleties of words make Bob nervous. It's not that he's stupid, because he's fucking not- he just likes to keep things simple when he can because life gets too complicated anyway, especially on tour.

But Brian calls it an arrangement, because that's how he thinks. He plans and he strategizes and he tries to make things official because someone fucking has to.

Part of the arrangement means that they meet when no one else is likely to be awake. For most people that would mean late at night, but for them it means the part of the morning when everyone has either passed out or moved on to greener, drunker pastures. Brian slips out of his bunk and almost falls over Gerard, who is huddled on the floor with a bottle of Jack. He's not asleep, though; his eyes are moving lazily from ceiling to floor to bunk to ceiling, and he acknowledges Brian's presence with a crooked smile.

"Hey, Bri-an," he says. He's slurring, but only a bit. That's good at least. "You're not asleep."

"I know." Brian goes to step over him, but Gerard tries to move out of his way at the same time and he ends up stepping on his hand. "Sorry."

"S'okay. I drew a picture of you," Gerard informs him, trying to sit up. He wobbles uselessly on his palms for a minute before falling down again. Brian sighs and considers leaving him there, but his arms move without him to drag Gerard off the floor and into his bunk where he sprawls limply, hand dangling over the side. Brian gets him a bucket and a glass of water and leaves, because there's not much else he can do.

He sees the drawing on the table by the door. Gerard has drawn Brian as a werewolf, his sideburns longer and bushier, with pointed ears protruding from a thick head of hair. He's baring his fangs and brandishing his claws at a... thing, a dark shapeless mass with white eyes, grinning unpleasantly. It's kind of funny, but Brian doesn't laugh. He makes a mental note to ask Ray about it later, because Ray will ask Mikey and Mikey always knows what's going on in Gerard's head even when Gerard doesn't.

He trips over a stray pair of shoes on the way out of the bus and makes another mental note to tell Mikey to clean his shit up.

They pick different meeting spots, depending on the tour and the time and the circumstance. Lately it's been one of the single-stall bathrooms in whichever venue they're due to play next. It's early enough that most people who'd recognize Brian are still sleeping it off, and he flashes his pass and nods curtly at security before padding down the corridor. He slips open the door and shuts it quietly behind him, not checking to see if Bob is there before he clicks the lock.

He doesn't check because it would only make Bob nervous. One time he hadn't shown up when they'd agreed to meet and Brian had left five messages on his cell phone before he could stop himself. When Bob finally called him back and he asked "Where were you?" he could hear the whine in his own voice, and the tight-coiled apprehension in Bob's as he replied, "My girlfriend came to see me. I couldn't just blow her off. Calm down, Schechter."

Bob is there, leaning against the sink. His hair isn't combed yet and he's got a bandage on his arm where he burned himself on a wire a few days back. "Hey," he says.

"Hey," Brian replies. He's about to say something else, because he always likes to start things off with conversation, but then Bob's hands pin him to the wall and Bob's tongue is in his mouth and he flicks off the dim bathroom light and Brian is just breathing him in through the occasional scrape of teeth.

He forgets how much he wants this until it happens. He forgets how much he needs it until it's over.

"Bob," he mumbles. Bob's pulling at his belt with one hand, not fumbling like Brian would. "Bob, I need-"

"Schechter," Bob says, and he can almost hear that lopsided grin through the darkness. Brian's already hard- he's pretty sure Bob can feel it, too, fucking embarrassing, not that it matters- but if he hadn't been the way Bob says his name would have done the trick. "You need to stop talking now, because I'm going to suck your cock."

Brian almost says "okay," but then decides it probably goes without saying.

He can hear a muffled thud as Bob drops to his knees. He did it that way the first time they hooked up (three days after they met, against the Used's tourbus, Bert made obscene finger gestures at them both for the next week and a half although that did not necessarily mean he knew what was going on) and it always makes his breath catch. When Bob wants something he doesn't care how much pain he has to go through to get it, and sometimes it's good and sometimes it's terrifying but mostly it's just fucking hot. Bob fumbles with his belt buckle and curses, presses his mouth briefly against the fabric of Brian's boxers before pulling his cock out and running his tongue, sloppy and urgent, along the shaft.

The first time Brian met Bob he noticed his mouth- not exactly in a sexual way, although there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that this guy, this solid, silent, capable guy, was going to be trouble somehow. He just... noticed, because although there isn't much about Bob that is pretty or delicate or vulnerable, his mouth looked soft. When they first hooked up Brian wondered if he should kiss him or not, if it was against the rules- he hasn't fucked many guys but there's been a few, and a lot of them have had strict no-kissing policies. After a few minutes Bob had pulled his hand out of Brian's pants and grabbed him by the collar and growled, actually fucking growled, "You gonna kiss me, asshole?" Brian had tried not to look too happy, because for some guys getting too into it was also against the rules, but he couldn't help but make noise when he tasted Bob, just like how he can't help but make noise when Bob tastes him now.

They don't have much time. Sometimes that makes it better, gives the sex that edge of urgency that makes everything clear and sharply focused. Sometimes it makes it worse, and one of them ends up not coming or they get interrupted or they have a close call and things feel ever so slightly off until the next stolen break, the next dirty bathroom, the next few minutes in the dark. Right now it feels like a problem, one he has to solve, and he grinds into Bob's mouth until Bob reaches up and pushes his hips to the wall. He pulls off long enough to mutter, "Calm down, Schechter, we'll get there, we'll get there," and he takes Brian into his mouth again, almost all the way, and Brian nearly fucking dies. Bob definitely does not look like the kind of guy who would be good at deepthroating, but as Brian discovered the fourth time they fucked (spare room, Jepha's house, there was a party and no one noticed when they slipped away), the world is a surprising place. Even when you make plans.

Bob's hands hold him steady, his mouth sliding wet and smooth. They're almost completely still together- Brian's fists clench and unclench and he can feel himself trembling in the dark and maybe it's that, the dark, that makes him say what he says. Or maybe it's the thought of Gerard curled into himself in his bunk, or the way Ray's shoulders tense up when Matt comes into the room, or the way Frank's been coming on the bus with bruised knees and bloody knuckles, or the way Mikey has been talking less and less, or the way they all look at Brian sometimes, almost pleading and almost hurt and mostly just waiting for him to fix it somehow. Or maybe it's just that Bob's tongue is curling up under the head of his cock and he's about to come and people say stupid shit in that condition, but he chokes out, "They want you in the band."

Bob pulls off and Brian can feel his breath against his cock when he says "What?" and somehow that fucking ends him and he can barely stutter a warning before he comes, just missing Bob's face. He leans against the wall, panting, before he remembers that they are still in the dark and flicks on the light. Bob is still kneeling, looking up at him with a wary, almost angry expression that Brian doesn't know how to read. His mouth looks sort of bruised and sort of beautiful and Brian wants nothing more than to kiss him right now, taste himself in someone else's mouth, but knows it's not the time.

"The guys," he pants. He knows he doesn't need to elaborate. 'The guys' means the same five people for both of them, always has. "I was talking to Ray- to Gerard." Before he passed out, anyway, once. "They want Otter gone."

"Why?" It sounds more like an accusation than a question.

And, really, why is not a question Brian has an answer for, because everything was fine right up until it wasn't. He thinks about how soundly Matt sleeps and wonders if he knows. Probably not, he thinks, because outside of this tiny fucked up circle he's part of no one seems to guess how bad it can get.

Bob's part of that circle too. Always has been.

"You know why," he says. "You've seen them. We're fucked right now, Bob. If things don't change everything'll fall apart and they'll just be another amazing band that never was. And that- that'd kill me."

He doesn't really need to say that last part. Bob knows, and Brian knows that he knows.

"Okay. Okay." Bob takes a deep breath, stands up. He is very still and very real, and the only way Brian can tell how freaked out he actually is is by watching his fists clench tighter and tighter. He's not sure if it's anger or fear or just plain wanting, because for Bob those emotions run together a little too often. "Have they- it's not official, is it?"

No. Brian shakes his head. It's definitely not official, and that bugs the shit out of him.

It seems to bug Bob as well, because his face clouds and he says, almost spits, "Why did you fucking tell me, then? You think I can just come in and magically fix everything? Make him stop drinking? Make them all happy? Is that what you want?"

And Brian's not stupid either. He knows how much Bob wants this- to be in a band, to actually make music, be a part of it instead of watching from the sidelines and fiddling with knobs. He also knows how close he's come before, how easily it's slipped through his fingers. He has learned not to trust something that is not guaranteed, and right now all Brian is running on is trust and plans and blind fucking hope.

And when he thinks about it, Bob's got it right. He's tired and worn out and God only knows how much longer he can keep this all together, and maybe if someone else took it all over he'd be able to sleep through the night.

He doesn't say that, though. Doesn't say anything, and after a few minutes Bob's face screws up and he pulls himself together- he makes a little motion with his hands that looks like that, like he's gathering himself in- and says, "Don't fuck with me, Schechter."

"I wasn't-"

"You were." Bob can be kind of intense sometimes, in the same way that the Pope can be kind of Catholic. He's like that now, half-burning. "I can't fix anything for you, Brian. And you can't fucking bribe me into making everything okay for you. 'They want you in the band,' Jesus. You've got to do this yourself." He opens his mouth like he's got more to say, things about plans and strategies and how they can all go wrong the minute they're made official, but then he shakes his head instead and goes to wash his hands. The sound of the water running is too loud, and Brian can feel a headache start to churn sickly behind his temples. He closes his eyes and tries not to think about Bob calling him by his first name, what that could mean.

"Besides," Bob says abruptly after a long moment of silence, "how long do you think this could keep going with four other people on a bus?"

Brian blinks. "I hadn't thought of that," he says, which is a lie- he's thought about it more than he wants to admit, in meetings and on buses and when he's in his bunk with the curtains drawn. He just hadn't thought that Bob had thought about it too.

Bob gives him this look that's probably not meant to be intimidating or withering but ends up that way anyway and dries his hands. "Sure," he says, and for a minute he's almost smiling which means that maybe Brian can smile back and then maybe it'll be alright and they'll meet back here or somewhere like it tomorrow or the next day or the next, but then Bob's mouth straightens out, harder than Brian is used to seeing it, and he tosses the paper towel towards the waste basket, misses and doesn't bother to pick it up again before he's out and down the hall, footsteps heavy and purposeful as always.

Brian leans against the wall, pants still unzipped, and wonders if the world will stop if he asks it nicely enough. Just for a minute.

Then he cleans himself off and straightens himself up and goes to sit in on meetings and call booking agents and pick Mikey's goddamn shoes up off the floor, because someone fucking has to.

The Kind Of Dirty Where...

Fri, 23 May 2008 23:29:09 GMT

Title: The Kind Of Dirty Where...
Pairing: Gerard/Bert
Rating: R for swearing, implied sex, and bubble bath shenanigans.
Summary: Gerard is out to save Bert's life. Failing that, he's gonna try to make him take a bath.
Disclaimer: It's all lies and I'm not getting paid.
Author's Note: Set somewhere before Gerard hit bottom and after My Chem started touring with the Used, and written for shitgun who said: i kind of want to shower with bert mccracken... because he's so dirty. and i just want to know that he is clean.
Beta: redheaded_itch, perfunctorily.

Gerard tries to break it to him gently, but there isn't really a nice way to tell your sort of boyfriend that he smells fucking bad.

"Bert," he says, rolling over to poke him in the stomach. Bert's having a rare quiet moment, humming to himself and half-watching reruns of The Partridge Family. "You smell fucking bad."

Bert makes a monkey face at him and tousles his hair. "And?" he says, something in the quirk of his eyebrows making the word both a challenge and a come-on. Gerard tries to ignore that shivery feeling in his stomach- he's still not used to feeling so into someone who is actually into him back and doesn't intend to break up with him and move to Greece or whatever, and it's a little scary and a lot awesome, but he cannot let it distract him from his mission.

"As your sort of boyfriend," he begins, but he doesn't get to the end of the last word before Bert's on top of him and fucking tickling him and shouting "Sort of? Sort of?" until he loses his balance and collapses on top of Gerard and, well, then things get kind of interesting.

***

The next day Gerard starts over.

"As your total boyfriend," he says, keeping a wary eye out for any signs of brewing shenaniganery, "I have to say I am weirded out by the fact that you never shower."

Bert burps. Gerard should not find it cute. "You never shower," he says, wiggling his toes. One of them is poking through a hole in his sock, and Gerard probably shouldn't find that cute either since he's pretty sure Bert hasn't changed his socks in about three years. The fact that seeing Bert's dirty fucking toes wiggling makes Gerard want to kiss him only reminds him of how far gone he really is.

Okay, Gerard, focus. "I do too shower," he says. "Remember that time in Chicago? I totally showered then."

"That time in- you mean the first time we fucked?" Bert's got this smirk, kind of childish and kind of dangerous and kind of ridiculous, and it makes Gerard's skin prickle in the best possible way. "That was the first time, wasn't it?"

"Mm," Gerard agrees, keeping his hands to his sides. "Unless you count that time you groped me in the pizzeria."

"That wasn't sex."

"It was as close as you can get in a public place without being arrested."

Bert sniggers and swings himself over Gerard in one smooth motion. "Unless you're sneaky," he agrees. His mouth is awfully close to Gerard's ear as he whispers about the closet off the hotel lobby that's the perfect place to be sneaky in and what with losing his shit completely and everything Gerard forgets what he's saying for a long, long time.

***

"That's just it, though," he says sometime early the next morning. The sun hasn't risen yet and Bert's trying to mix them "some fuckin' girly drink Quinn taught me how to make, it's got lime and seltzer and shit." "We've had sex a couple times-"

"Six and three quarters," Bert announces, giving up on the drink and cracking open a beer instead. "Seven if you count that time in the elevator."

"Right, okay. And I have not once seen you shower afterwards."

"Yeah, I don't think I did."

Gerard winces. "See, as the person whose mouth is in intimate contact with your dick, I have a problem with that."

Bert finishes his beer, throws the can across the room, and gives Gerard the finger. It's like ballet. Gerard wonders how long it took him to perfect that particular combination of movements. Then he starts to wonder about the other people Bert's been in a room with like this, and he can feel himself getting jealous over who else Bert's given the finger to and that's a little too much crazy for him to handle, so he tries to push the thought away. It's the kind of thing that'll come back to him, though, like a song stuck in his head.

Bert says something, and Gerard shakes his head to clear it. "What?" he asks, and Bert bounces onto the bed. Actually bounces, with his feet in the air.

"I said you never seemed to have a problem with my dick before." Bert pelvic thrusts a little, as though he just wants to remind Gerard hey, we're talking about my dick here, isn't that awesome?

"I don't have a problem with it," Gerard protests as Bert straddles him, the ends of his tangled hair just brushing Gerard's face. "It's just, you know, I'm afraid it's going to- to sprout or something."

Bert looks taken aback for a minute. "Does that happen?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Bert bites his lip. He actually seems worried, and it makes Gerard feel a little guilty. "Or maybe not. How would I know? Probably sprouting doesn't happen. Don't listen to me, I'm nuts."

Then Bert laughs again and Gerard realizes he's been had. "Dude," says Bert, snorting just a bit, "you're such a pussy. Be a man and guilt me into it. Threaten to withhold beer or sex or something." He squirms casually against Gerard when he says this, is the thing, and Gerard makes an embarrassing squeaky noise and Bert smirks again, like he knows Gerard will never be able to withhold anything.

He is wrong there.

"Bert," says Gerard, hoping he sounds firm and mature and not at all like a teenage girl, which is kind of how he feels, "if you don't take a bath in the next twenty-four hours I am never going to sing 'Like A Virgin' for you again."

Bert looks in his eyes and realizes he means it.

***

They start out slow. Gerard takes him to a drug store and they spent the better part of an hour in the shampoo aisle, browsing.

"I want something scented," Bert says, squinting at the pastel bottles. "Something really fucking fruity, too, none of that Icy Mountain Sports Jizz or whateverthefuck."

"Hmm. How about mango?"

"Nope."

"Passion fruit?"

"No. Ooh, lavender body wash."

"Put it in the basket. Hey, do you use conditioner?"

"What the fuck is conditioner?"

They eventually decide on a bar of lemon-honey soap and strawberry-kiwi two-in-one shampoo. And a bottle of butterscotch bubble bath.

"I," Bert announces as they hail a taxi, "am going to be the best-smelling motherfucker in the greater Chicago area. And you are never going to stop sucking my dick."

"Mmm," Gerard says. It's not exactly a noise of assent, but that doesn't mean it won't likely be true.

***

By the time they get back to the hotel, of course, Bert is a little more focused on the cock-sucking end of the deal than the bathing end of the deal. Eventually Gerard figures it's easier to just let him strip off, since he seems determined to do it anyway; he peels himself away to the bathroom and starts running the water, liberally splashing bubble bath into the tub.

"Smells good in here," Bert says, ambling naked into the bathroom. "Like a fucking cake."

"Maybe we should get some cake later."

"Really?" Bert looks way too excited at the prospect, like little-kid excited, and it makes Gerard want to hug him and play video games with him and make out with his stupid fucking face forever. It also makes him want to wrestle him into the bath, so he does.

"Motherfucker," Bert gasps when he's fully submerged. "I think you hit my dick against the side of the tub. It's probably all crooked now. Like a tree branch."

"Funny how everything ends up being about your dick."

"Funny." Bert scowls, but purrs when Gerard starts working the shampoo through his hair, carefully massaging Bert's scalp with his fingertips. Gerard makes him lean back, cups his hands and pours water over his head, carefully avoiding his eyes. (Because if he knows Bert- and he does- he's the kind of guy who'll yell and curse and whine if he gets soap in his eyes.) Then he scoops up some bubbles and gives him a foam beard because, fuck it, he went to art school and damn if bubble bath isn't a totally versatile artistic medium.

"So do I look like fucking Santa Claus or not?" Bert asks. And he does, kind of, but like a fucked up scary Santa Claus who's offering some poor innocent kid roast haunch of Rudolph.

"You look like a pedophile," Gerard says. "Like the creepy old guy who hangs out at the mall and waits for lost kids to sit next to him on the Cinnabon bench."

Bert laughs, then closes his eyes and hums. "The water is warm. And wet. And warm."

"Yeah, baths are like that."

"Maybe I should get baths more. I mean, as long as they smell good and are warm and end in you sucking my dick. It doesn't hurt anymore, by the way."

"Good." Gerard reaches for the soap and lathers it on Bert's shoulders, feeling him shudder and sink backwards. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slightly curved and he's got this beautiful blissed-out look on his face that makes Gerard think longingly of the sketchbook he left in his suitcase, and he's almost made up his mind to go and get it when Bert's eyes shoot open and he grabs Gerard and pulls him, fully-clothed, into the water. Soap gets in his eyes and foam bath gets into his mouth and by the time he's got it cleared out Bert's yelling, "See how you like being clean, asshole!"

If it was anyone else Gerard might be pissed, at least a little, but it's Bert and he doesn't even consider it. Instead he pushes the hair out of his eyes and rests against Bert's chest, feeling his jeans soak up roughly half the bath water. They won't be dry by tomorrow, and he's only got one pair, and he doesn't give an actual fuck right now because the water's warm and so is Bert and maybe one of these days they'll make a thing out of bathing together and even buy a towel set or a rubber duck or something. So what if it isn't likely, a guy can dream.

"I was going to come in eventually," he says, bracing his feet against the faucet. Bert's got that smirk again, like he thinks he's bested the whole fucking world. "I mean, I would've taken my clothes off first, but..."

Bert reaches up and pulls his head closer and his hands are moving, and it's strange and beautiful and fucking good, like him.

"No time for that," Bert says against his mouth, and Gerard is about to protest, he really is, but Bert's fingers are stroking music on his sides and his eyes are half-closed and he smells like a thousand different things, fruit and soap and sweat but mostly just Bert. That's the part that smells the best, he thinks, and so the fuck what if he's too far gone. It feels good, and that's what matters.

***

"Hey, Gerard," Bert says later when they're both mostly clean and smelling like butterscotch and there's Loony Tunes on TV and Gerard's brushing Bert's hair for what is by all evidence the first time in fucking years. "Do you wanna buy a rubber duck with me tomorrow?"

Gerard stares at him and thinks, holy shit, I'm in love.

"Yeah," he says when he figures he can trust his voice again, "yeah, okay," and Bert curls up into his side and closes his eyes and they fall asleep that way, the TV still on, their fingers tangled together.

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 17:09:22 GMT

Title: The Favour
Pairing: Lyn-Z/Gerard/Frank
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Gerard and Lyn-Z are newly married and head over heels in love. So why they feel the need to invite Frank over for a threeway is beyond him.
Disclaimer: Don't Google yourself.
Author's Note: I love how I wrote threesome fic and STILL couldn't bring the rating above PG-13. Also, this happens in a sad, sad universe where Jamia does not exist and Frank is ~~a loser~~ single.
Beta: redheaded_itch

Frank knows it's kind of a ridiculous, four-year-old type of reaction, but when Gerard calls him and tells him to come over for a chat his first thought is that he's in trouble. After all, it's not like he's ever heard Gerard use the word "chat" before.

He's not even sure if he wants to go over there. Not because he's afraid Gerard is going to scream at him or anything- that's happened exactly twice in all the years Frank's known him, and the first time doesn't count because he was drunk and hanging out with Bert. The second time...

Well, the second time doesn't really count either, because Frank was being really annoying and he knew that was Gerard's favourite shirt.

So it's not that he's afraid of what Gerard's going to say. If anything, he's afraid of Lyn-Z.

Frank likes Lyn. He does. She's funny and badass and kind of dorky, and she makes Gerard smile wider and laugh harder than he has in a long, long time. He's just always aware that somewhere deep inside she's making fun of pretty much everything he says, and seriously, how is a guy supposed to deal with that?

He's also always aware that she could kick his ass without breaking a sweat, which is why he shows up early.

There are still boxes everywhere from when they first started to move in- Gerard is one of those people who starts unpacking and then gets distracted by a crate full of old Justice League comics and has to sit down and read them all in order before continuing. Lyn, in contrast, is just messy; her clothes are strewn all over the carpet, and Frank is pretty sure that all the spare sandwich edges and greasy mugs on the living room table are hers. (The standalone cardboard cut-out of Gandalf in the corner might be, too. Frank was there for Lord of the Rings night, and Ray wasn't the only one sniffling when he fell down Khazad-dum.) Gerard and Lyn greet him warmly, even though Lyn has that snap in her eye that says she's keeping up a running commentary in her head on the many ways in which Frank is totally and completely ridiculous, and Gee makes coffee, and they sit down.

"So!" Gerard says brightly, setting his mug on the floor next to his chair. He reaches over to take Lyn's hand. "We're thinking about having a threesome."

***

They make him promise to think about it.

As Frank starts his car, he realizes that that's the part that weirds him out the most. And he agreed. He agreed to seriously consider having sex with one of his best friends and a woman who could kill him with her pinky.

"It's always been something I've wanted to do," Gerard had said, smiling blithely. Lyn smiled too, idly playing with his hair. "And I think it would be best if it was with someone who I really cared about and was comfortable with, you know? That way I'd be able to relax, they'd be able to relax, and everybody would have a lot more fun."

Frank looked at them both, speechless. As speechless as he ever got, anyway. "Isn't it more customary for newlyweds to have wild threesomes with, like, nymphomaniacal blonde eighteen-year-old girls?" he asked, and Lyn rolled her eyes.

"Please," she said. "After the last girl I slept with showed up on my doorstep at four in the morning with a shotgun and a gram of heroin, I kind of swore them off for a while." She grinned, showing all her teeth, and added, "Besides, Frank, you are an eighteen-year-old girl."

"And you were blonde once," Gerard added helpfully. Lyn swiveled around to look at him, apparently delighted.

"He was? Really?"

"Yup. He looked like a member of NSync," Gerard said. His wife cracked up.

"You two are really winning me over here," Frank muttered sourly, and Gerard reached over to take his hand. He was still holding Lyn's, as well, and Frank was just not going to think about what that meant.

"You don't have you say yes or no, Frankie. Not yet. Just think about it, please?"

And Frank was going to say no, but then Gerard had big eyes and twisty hands and sounded so fucking earnest that he. Jesus.

"I will. I promise."

And Gerard smiled, and Lyn smiled- okay, she smirked, really, but it could have been a smile- and Frank, in his car, thinks, I am so fucked.

***

"Your brother wants me to have a threeway with him," Frank says as soon as Mikey picks up the phone. Mikey chokes and sputters- it sounds like he was drinking something- then, when he recovers, gasps:

"Jesus Christ Iero do not ever start a conversation like that again. Ever. I will kill you."

The panic in his voice is somewhat gratifying, considering Mikey usually sounds sort of like a robot, but Frank is in no mood to appreciate it. "I'm serious!" he hisses, glancing around his house to make sure nobody is lurking in the shadows listening in on his end of the conversation, or possibly recording it to replay for his mother at the next family gathering. "He called me and was like 'We need to chat!' and when I got over there he was like, 'Oh, hey, Frankie, wanna bone me and my wife at the same time?'"

"Frank." Mikey sounds close to tears. "This is my big brother you are talking about. My brother. Do you have any idea-"

"And Lyn was just, just sitting there! All calm and, and evil and laughing and calm. Mikey, I cannot have sex with her. Ever. I am too afraid of her eating my face."

"Look, Frank, could you just-"

"And Gerard! He was all 'I need to do this with someone I care about,' and, you know, that's awesome, Gee, I love you too, but love does not necessitate my dick in your ass!"

"Seriously, Frank, I-"

"Oh, God, what if it's the other way around? What if he wants to put HIS dick in MY ass? I don't know if I can handle that, Mikey, I really don't."

"I am hanging up now. And possibly hanging myself. Just so you know."

"But Mikey-"

"Bye, Frank."

Frank listens to the dial tone and decides he needs new friends. Friends who won't hang up on him or invite him to threesomes.

***

Brian is ironing shirts when Frankie barges in. It makes him laugh a little, because who the fuck irons a cotton fucking Iron Maiden T-shirt? Brian fucking Schechter, that's who.

"Frank," Brian says without looking up, "there this thing called knocking that I think I should tell you about sometime."

"Whatever, man, not today." Frank pulls up a chair and watches Brian pressing the iron to a polo shirt. "Is that even yours?"

"It's Mikey's. Remember when he tried to iron that shirt for the Kerrang! awards and burnt it?" Frank nods. He remembers it very well, mostly because he was the one who had to coax Mikey out of the bathroom after he dissolved into tears and locked himself in. And that motherfucker hung up on him! "After that I started ironing things for him and when I unpacked after the tour I still had some of his shirts, so."

"Why don't you just send them to him?" Frank asks, tucking his feet under him and pulling his arms inside his hoodie. Something about Brian's kitchen always makes him want to curl up as small as possible and take a nap. It's homey, or something.

"And let him iron them himself? He ruins enough T-shirts as it is."

"Alicia could do it."

Brian fixes him with a Look. Frank has never been particularly susceptible to Brian's Looks- unlike Ray, whose knees turn to jelly if he even suspects someone is displeased with him- but this one makes him wince.

"Alicia," says Brian, enunciating as though Frank is a very stupid baby, "burns toast. Toast. What do you think she would do to a vintage Joy Division T-shirt?"

"Good point." Frank watches Brian iron for a little longer, then asks, trying to keep his voice casual, "So, Brian, do you think it's a terrible idea for two guys in a band to, you know, kind of bang each other?"

Brian's hands stop moving. He turns very, very slowly, his face contorting with some unpleasantly unreadable expression.

"'Cause I do," Frank adds hastily. "I know this guy who asked his friend to do him and his wife at the same time, and, whew! Bad idea, I said. Mess up the band, I said. Shouldn't do it. So he didn't. Thank God."

Brian's face relaxes a little, though he doesn't start ironing again. "Well," he says. "That's good." He takes a deep breath as if to steel himself for the worst and asks, "Frank, by 'this guy' do you mean 'you'?"

Frank looks away and coughs.

"Oh, Christ." Brian puts a hand to his temple as though anticipating a headache. Brian's headaches are pretty epic, and he seems to get them around Frank a lot. Frank's not sure why. "Look, I know you boys are close. And, well, more power to you. It means you'll probably be together for a long time. As a band. But please, please do not do it, no matter how hard Mikey and Alicia beg-"

"Wait, what?"

"- because Gerard will probably beat the living shit out of you."

It takes a few minutes to explain. Mostly because Frank is laughing so hard.

***

When Frank gets home that night he finds three messages on his answering machine. One is from his mom, one is from Ray, and the third one is Gerard asking him in a very concerned and sympathetic way if he has come to a decision yet. Frank deletes that one, but not until he's listened to it about twenty times.

He promised Gerard he'd think about it, so he does what he always does when he needs to think Serious Thoughts: puts on Batman Returns and curls up on the couch under his duvet.

It makes sense, in a weird way, that Gee asked him. Out of the four possible candidates- and Frank's pretty sure that Gee would only be comfortable asking one of the four of them- Mikey is his brother, Bob is possibly the most heterosexual guy Frank has ever met, and Ray would probably freak out and cry in the middle of things. Not that Frank has ruled out the possibility of freaking out himself.

Though he's pretty sure he wouldn't cry.

Well, not much.

He's just not sure he's ready to deal with the other side of this invitation. Gerard trusts him- that's obviously a Good Thing, there's no bad there. They've known each other long enough that trust is second-nature to them. He's just not sure how knowing each other Biblically fits into that equation.

And, okay, cock doesn't freak him out. It really doesn't. He's not one of those asshole guys who freaks out at the barest hint of attraction, or whatever. He's just... at a loss, is all, because this isn't some nameless guy on the soccer team or some drunk guy he'll kiss and forget or some hero worship crush he can dismiss out of hand. This is Gerard. This is important.

Frank sits up, fumbles for the remote, and flicks off the television. Sitting alone and mulling this over in the dark with Tim Burton won't do. He needs to talk to someone smart, someone decisive, someone ruthless.

He needs to find Bob Bryar.

***

It's damn near impossible to track down Bob when they aren't touring, because he has this dickweed tendency to turn off his cell phone and shut down his computer and wander around the city for hours on end. Frank tries all his old haunts- the burger joint that is now a vegan pizza parlour, the bowling alley he's been forcibly ejected from eleven and a half times (the half is for the time he managed to convince the manager that anyone could accidentally shatter a casement window with a ninepin), the record store he worked at as a kid. He eventually finds him bumming around outside a game rental place, smoking and wearing a knitted cap and looking generally homeless. Frank wonders when he last shaved. Bob tends to be a little bit more blasé about stuff like that than Gerard, especially now that Lyn-Z's around to coax him into the shower.

Silver lining: if he actually goes through with this, he can pretty much count on Gerard not giving him stubble burn.

"Hey, asshole," he says, stealing his cigarette and taking a long drag. Bob blinks morosely at him.

"Iero. I thought I'd finally gotten rid of you for a few days."

"Nope. I tracked you down, dude. I'm like a fucking ninja." He gives Bob his smoke back and leans against the wall next to him, breathing in the dirty city air. Fuck, he loves Chicago. Not as much as Jersey, but pretty damn close. "What've you been up to?"

"You mean in the five days since we've seen each other?"

"Hey, fuck you, man. Six. Six days since we've seen each other, and my heart has burned without you, Robert."

"Because without me whose bed are you going to short-sheet, right?"

Frank grins. That had been an awesome party, really. "Exactly."

"Thought so." Bob finishes his cigarette and immediately lights another. "I haven't been up to much. Saw Jepha and Bert the other day. Bought some shoes."

"Were they three hundred fucking dollars?"

Bob sighs. "Okay, Frank. One: You did not just say that. Two: I'm pretty sure you didn't come all the way to Chicago just to wander around 'til you found me and could say what you definitely did not just say, so get to the point. Three: Move to the left a little, the sun's in my eyes and I want you to block it for me."

"You're taller than me."

"Whatever, asswipe. Just say what you came here to say so we can go get some barbecue or something. I'm fat, I'm hungry, and I'm not feeling particularly fucking patient today."

Frank moves to the left, then takes a deep breath and asks, "What do you think about threesomes?"

Bob looks at him for a moment, his face going blank the way it does when he is contemplating something too horrific to be borne, and then he says slowly, "I really like you as a friend, Frank..."

"Oh, Jesus, don't flatter yourself."

He explains as quickly as he can, secretly kind of relishing the looks of confusion and disgust periodically flitting across Bob's face. When he's done, Bob just nods slowly, stroking his stubble.

"That move only works if you're got a beard," Frank tells him. "As opposed to, like, syphilitic growth all over your face."

"Shut up, I'm thinking." Bob finally nods, as though he's come to some big a-ha! kind of conclusion, and says, "Well, I can't say I'm totally surprised."

"You can't?"

"Not really. I mean, how many times exactly has he stuck his tongue down your throat?"

That's a good point. Frank tries to mentally add up all the times that's happened and realizes that they're kind of overshadowed by all the time's he stuck his tongue down Gerard's throat. Which he is definitely not going to say out loud, because he's relatively sure Bob would store that away in his Mental Bob File solely to use against him in the future.

"Not to mention the fact that he married somebody who looks almost exactly like you, but with tits. I mean, that was kind of a warning sign to me right away." Bob exhales meditatively into the sky, tapping ash onto the sidewalk.

"Lyn and I don't look alike."

"Whatever, dude. If you wore a schoolgirl outfit- and I'm not saying you should, Frank, Jesus Christ, Gerard is the one who wants to bone you, not me, so don't look so freaked out-"

"Who says he'll be boning me?"

Bob snorts. "Yeah, 'cause you, you're definitely butch enough to top."

"I'm butcher than Gerard!"

"I've met drag queens butcher than Gerard. Lots of them." That does make Frank laugh a little, because it's totally true. Bob grins back. "So you're going to do it, then?"

"Do what?"

"Gerard and Lyn-Z. Simultaneously."

"Oh." Frank looks at the ground, the clouds, the bank across the street, and realizes he has absolutely no fucking clue. He says as much, and Bob rolls his eyes.

"Look," he says, "stop being such a pussy. If you want to do it, do it; if you don't, call Gerard and tell him thanks but no thanks. Just don't overthink it."

"Don't you think this is a decision that maybe requires a little overthinking?"

"Nope. This is a decision that requires a pair of balls." Bob grins. "In both senses of the word."

"Jesus, you're totally getting off on this."

"Not as much as you'll get o- hey, don't fucking hit me, you fucking monkey! It's your own fault for making it so easy." Bob pulls away from him, looking at him seriously the way only Bob Bryar can. "Honestly, Frank, I'm not sure what to say to you other than that. Just go with your instinct. If you say no, I doubt their feelings will be hurt- how hard do you think it'd be for Gee and Lyn to find some other bicurious little twink to snuggle with? I mean, our entire fucking fan base, hello?"

"I am not a twink," Frank says, affronted. Bob ignores him.

"And if you do go through with it, maybe it'd even be good for you. For you and Gerard. I'm no expert, but I hear ass-fucking can really bring two guys together, you know?"

"Well, if Brokeback Mountain's taught us anything..."

Bob laughs, then pushes him away by the shoulder. "Anyway, what are you fucking bothering me for? You should be talking to Gerard about this, not me."

"I know." Frank shrugs. "I just needed, you know, an objective listener. And Brian couldn't be objective because he's thinking about whether or not this would affect the band, and Mikey can't be objective because Gerard's his fucking brother, and Ray-"

"- Would cry. Yeah."

Frank forgets sometimes that Bob was there for Lord of the Rings night. The unforgettable sight of Ray weeping over Sam and Frodo's epic love has burned itself into more than one mind.

***

When he gets home there are no messages waiting on his phone. That makes it a little easier, although when he punches in Gerard's number he almost misses the buttons because his fingers are shaking a little.

Stop being such a pussy, Iero.

He gets Gerard's machine, which makes him breathe a sigh of relief. He's not sure how he'd manage to say this to his face. He and Lyn have recorded one of those dorky couple's messages, you've reached Gee and Lyn-Z, leave your name, quest, and favourite colour and we'll get back to you as soon as possible!, and that makes Frank want to slam down the receiver suddenly because seriously, what is he doing?

But he holds on, and when he hears the dial tone he just takes a deep breath and fucking goes for it.

"Hey, Gee. It's Frank. I've, um, been thinking a lot about what you said, and, um. I want you to know that I think maybe it's a good idea. Or not a good idea, exactly, but. Um. I'm interested. That came out wrong. I mean the thing you were talking about- the threesome thing- I could be into that, if you still want me. Um. And I'm really sorry if you're listening to this in front of your mom or something, and, uh, hi, Mrs. Way, if you are, but. I just thought I should tell you, and we'll work out the details or, like, make a play or something. Like in football. Like I feint to the left and then you go right or..."

He's definitely babbling, and that needs to stop. He gets a grip on himself and says, "Okay, so, call me or email me or something," and then he hangs up before he can say anything else stupid.

Holy, holy shit.

***

They figure things out through email. It's Lyn's idea- every time they try a threeway calling conference Frank starts getting twitchy and babbles and seriously, who can deal with that while under the already considerable stress of planning a ménage a trois? So they go back and forth, with Gerard asking the steady, level-headed questions like Who should bring the lube? and Whose house should we go to? and Now I know somebody might end up getting jealous, that's totally natural, what should we do if that happens? Lyn mostly just interjects sarcastic comments (with the occasional smiley face). Frank reads the emails on one window and edits Pete Wentz's Wikipedia page on the other to keep himself from freaking out.

He's sure a thousand preteen girls will be happy to know that Pete's middle name is now "Nutsack McFacial."

Eventually the wrinkles are ironed out, on paper at least. Gerard and Lyn will host, because their bed is bigger. (Frank makes them promise to at least try to clean first. Maybe he is secretly an eighteen-year-old girl but, dammit, he wants his first threeway to be special.) Frank will bring the lube, since the guest should always bring something for the host and wine is obviously out. As for jealousy-

"We could always just take a break to watch cartoons," Lyn suggests dryly. "That always seems to make you guys feel better."

Frank is okay with that idea, really.

They don't plan everything. Frank still isn't exactly clear on who will be doing who or, and this is the vital question, who will be doing what to who. He tries bringing it up to Gerard, casually, but Gerard isn't having it.

"We can't plan everything," he says firmly. "It'd ruin it. Let's just let things happen the way they happen."

That sounds way too Yoda for Frank. It's weird, because usually he's the one who's more laissez faire about stuff and Gerard's the one freaking out. He feels as though everything's upside down, suddenly.

"Did you tell Ray about this?" he asks Gerard once, just out of curiousity. Gerard's eyes widen with horror.

"Are you kidding, Frank? Ray cried on Lord of the Rings night. How do you think he'd react to this?"

Frank decides not to tell Gerard about that panicked phone call to Mikey. Just, you know. In case.

***

On the morning of the day they decided on Frank wakes up with a churning, nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. It doesn't go away when he gets in the shower, or when he eats his Cheerios, or when he jerks off twice in a row because going into a situation like this with a loaded gun could lead to some truly embarrassing situations. He doesn't really think about anyone while he does it- he tries not to, anyway.

The time they had decided on was two-thirty. Frank is in his car by a quarter to one, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and wondering whether or not it'd be okay to go already. It's not that he's eager, or anything. He's just... the clock is ticking really slowly in his kitchen and he doesn't want to just sit there and watch time go by, alright? Maybe if he gets there early they can all watch a movie first or something. Something classy, like Lost Highway. Or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Frank does not get there early, even though he pulls out of the driveway at half past one. He turns back exactly four times, and every time he ends up pulling over onto the side of the road and telling himself (for the thousandth time this week) not to be a pussy, because if there is one thing Frank Iero does not do it is back out of prearranged sexual agreements with his best friend and his best friend's wife. Then he pulls onto the road and the doubts start building up again and all in all it's a little past three by the time he walks through their front door.

They have cleaned up, he notices appreciatively as he makes his way to the bedroom. By the looks of things someone even vacuumed the carpet, and there's a nice lemony smell to the air. Frank wonders if after today he will always associate the smell of lemon floor cleaner with sex. He hopes not, since that could make visiting his mother kind of awkward.

Gerard is lying down on his bed, his feet up on the headboard. He starts when Frank comes in, shoving the comic book he was reading under the bed and sitting up.

"Frank! You're-"

"- late, I know, I'm sorry, look-"

"Late?" Gerard frowns, looking at the alarm clock next to the bed. By the looks of it, someone unplugged it weeks ago. "What time is it? I was reading."

"Um. Around three. Where's Lyn?"

And Gerard gets this doe-eyed, embarrassed look that says he's done something... well... Gerard-y.

"Um," he says. "Well. I was reading this thing online about, um, romance and stuff-"

Frank groans softly. He can see where this is going.

"- and it said that it's really romantic to, like, scatter rose petals on the bed to make your lover- or lovers, I guess- feel... uh, sexy? Or something. So I asked Lyn to go get some roses."

"So you could scatter their petals across the bed." Frank sits down next to Gerard. "You realize it's winter, right?"

"Yeah."

"And also a Sunday."

"Is it?"

"How long has Lyn been gone, Gerard?"

"Um. A couple of hours, I think." Gerard looks at Frank sheepishly through his bangs. "I guess she's having a hard time finding them."

And Frank just fucking loses it at that, starts giggling like a motherfucker, and after a minute Gerard laughs too. They lean against each other and Frank can feel Gerard's shoulders heave and he thinks, Wow, maybe this will be okay. It's still Gerard, and they're still laughing together like a couple of enormous fucking dorks.

"I just," Gerard gasps, and he lets out one last chortle before finishing, "I just wanted this to be really special, you know? I mean, I know you're doing me a favour, and everything- I hate thinking about it like that, but I know that's what it is, and I want you to have a good time."

"It's not a favour." For a minute Frank wonders why he says that, until he realizes, hey. It's true. "I was shocked when you first asked me, but you know, I think I kind of get it. You wouldn't want just anybody for this, and I'm... actually, I'm really happy you chose me. Because I know you care about me and fuck, stop me if I sound like a teenage girl here, okay?"

And Gerard smiles that beautiful fucking simple smile and just says "Nope," and then he's reaching out and cupping Frank's face in his hands and then Frank feels Gerard's lips on his, his tongue in his mouth, their breath mingling in short, sharp gasps. Frank's eyes are closed before he realizes what's happening and he just feels it in every cell of his body, every nerve sparking with sudden electricity. Gerard makes this contented humming noise and shifts and suddenly Frank is almost in his lap, can feel his hands graze the hem of his shirt before he pulls away, flushed.

Oh, thinks Frank, in a dazed, dizzy sort of way, then, Okay, yeah. I'm really happy he chose me.

"Frank," Gerard whispers, his fingers tracing little circles on Frank's hips, making him shiver. "Did you remember to bring the lube?"

"Uhmm... yeah?"

Gerard smiles again, but this time there's a sly little curve to it, a sick quirk that suggests filthy thoughts. "It'll be a while before Lyn gets back," he murmurs against Frank's lips. "Want to surprise her?"

Stupid Teenagers Must Die!, Part II

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 02:30:43 GMT

Originally posted here and here.

Title: Stupid Teenagers Must Die!, Part II
Pairing: Gerard Way/Frank Iero.
Rating: R for swearing, gruesome zombie death, and eventual boysex. Possibly.
Summary: After realizing Belleville is full of the walking dead, Gerard, Frank, Ray, and Mikey escape to the only sanctuary they can find- Aunt Beth's home-made bomb shelter.
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies.
Author's Note: Bob's still chilling with the Used and thus will not be used as zombie cannon-fodder.
Beta: redheaded_itch

Aunt Beth's house was small and dark and unremarkable except for the overwhelming smell of cat. Frank let them in through the back door with the key left under the mat.

"She'll be upstairs," he told them, holding open the door. "She never really gets out of bed anymore- just to piss, feed the cat, and watch Days of our Lives." Gerard paused at the threshold, gestured for him to go in first, but Frank just laughed and pushed him gently through, shutting the door behind him.

He had a weird laugh, Gerard thought- high-pitched, but not girlish so much as ghoulish.

"She's got a bomb shelter in her basement, but she leaves the key under the mat?" Ray asked incredulously.

Frankie shrugged and shoved it in his pocket. "Hey," he replied, "if the Japanese eventually decide to get revenge they ain't gonna come through the back door."

He had a point, of course.

"Aunt Beth?" he called as they made their way up the stairs. The walls going up were covered in framed photographs of the whole Iero clan, stiffly posed in the finest Wal-Mart tradition. Gerard could only identify one of Frankie; he was three years old, well-groomed, and clearly unhappy about it. "Hello? It's Frank- Frankie- the ne'er-do-well? Hey, come on, it's your disappointing grand-nephew! Beth?"

The single bedroom upstairs was empty, the bed neatly made. There was no sign of how long the old woman had been gone or why she had disappeared. Frank looked suddenly cheerier.

"Well, at least now we won't have to tell her why we're crashing in her basement," he said, bounding back down the stairs. Ray looked after him with a puzzled frown.

"Hey, wait. Aren't you worried?" he asked. Frank crash-landed on the landing and turned to look at him.

"Of course not. If she had enough time to make her bed with hospital corners she's probably fine. Are you coming into the basement? There's cable."

*

Cable turned out to be unsurprisingly useless. Like the radio, all the channels were white noise except for the BBC.

"You'd think that what with the impending doom and all, they'd show something other than Are You Being Served?," Ray muttered.

The basement was shabby and comfortable-looking, more like a D&D haven than a last resort against the inevitable triumph of the shogunate. There was a fridge stocked with bottle water and a cupboard filled with canned food. There was a low bookshelf full of books apparently deemed inappropriate for its doily-encrusted doppelganger in the living room upstairs. (Gerard had looked through the books- they mostly seemed to revolve around breathless, impetuous Highland maidens and their dangerous-yet-vulnerable kilt-wearing suitors.) There were overstuffed couches, suspiciously stained on the cushions. Mikey was curled up on one now, more asleep than awake, his glasses askew over one ear. He had watched British sitcoms for the past few hours without saying a word. Every now and again he looked at Gerard in a searching sort of way, out of the corner of his eye.

When he was a little kid and Mikey was even littler, they used to go to a playground a few blocks away from their house. A kid who hung out there by himself- older, dumber, meaner- decided that Mikey wasn't allowed to play there anymore, and when their mother wasn't watching or had turned her attention on Gerard he used to hold Mikey down and make him eat sand. Gerard remembered the day he'd discovered that, this enormous asshole sitting on his baby brother's face and daring him to do something about it. He remembered Mikey's nose running, his chest hitching with angry, painful sobs, his skinny arms flailing. But what he remembered most of all was the sinking feeling as he realized that he was failing as a brother, because he couldn't protect him. Not from the important things.

He was starting to get that feeling again.

On the couch next to him, Frank yawned and stretched expansively. "I'm thirsty."

"Check the fridge," Ray muttered, eyes locked on the screen.

"That's all mineral water and shit. I want something real. I'm gonna go check the fridge upstairs." He nudged Gerard with his foot. "Want to come?"

Gerard glanced at Mikey, whose mouth had fallen open. Any minute now he'd begin to snore.

"Go on," Ray said, sparing him a glance. "I won't let the zombies eat him, I promise."

In his sleep Mikey frowned and mumbled, as though the word had punched through into his dreams. Gerard hesitated another second, but Frank had already started up the stairs.
And, well, he was thirsty.

By the time he got to the kitchen Frank had already pulled out most of the fridge's contents.

"The shit she kept in this fridge," he marveled, tossing things over his shoulder. "Prune juice, old lettuce, pickled beets, really old cheese- aha." He pulled out a tall glass bottle with a flourish. "Vodka."

"Your great-aunt keeps vodka in her fridge? Isn't she, like, ninety?"

"All the more reason. No kids, no responsibilities- just sit down to The Price is Right and do a shot every time Bob Barker shares the shit out of you. Trust me, dude, old age is prime time for alcoholism." He plonked the bottle down on the counter and reached up to the top cupboard, straining on his tiptoes. His T-shirt rode up, and Gerard could see a pale strip of his back between the hem and his thick black belt. He looked away, blinking. "Got 'em!" Frank seized two shot glasses triumphantly and set them down next to the bottle.

"You know," Gerard said thoughtfully, staring at the bottle, "when you said you wanted a drink I thought you meant some apple juice or something."

Frank snorted and poured them both shots. "Pussy. Here." He tossed his back with the studied ease of someone who'd been drinking alone in front of a mirror.

Gerard was a drinker, but he hadn't taken vodka straight in a long time. It burned his throat, making him cough and sputter. Frank grinned at him and gave him another.

"I hope you're not as much of a lightweight as your brother," he said. "He drinks a beer and a half and he's done for the night."

The second one slid down a little easier. Gerard felt his face begin to flush and tingle the way it always did when he drank and held out his glass for a refill. "Do you think we should go back down?" he asked.

"Naw, not if Mikey's asleep and Ray's topping off his supply of Briticisms. They'll be fine."

Frank downed another shot. There was a grace to the way he did it- his movements seemed wild at first, until you realized that really he was restraining himself in some way. He acted through some strange confinement, and Gerard thought about that for a minute, and then Frank turned away to get something from the cupboard and exposed the line of his jaw and neck and Gerard did another shot to keep from looking at it.

Neither of them were lightweights, but after the day they'd had it didn't take long for their tongues to loll a little, or for their minds to blur a bit at the edges. Before he knew what was happening Gerard found himself listening to a story about Mikey's first time getting drunk, and ignoring his dormant protective big brother feelings enough to laugh along.

"And then-" Frank stopped, nearly choking on his own laughter. "And then Alicia stumbles out of the bathroom, right, pissed as hell and covered in his puke, and everyone stares at her, and then out comes Mikey, pants around his fuckin' ankles, drunk out of his mind, and he says, he says, 'I promise it's usually bigger than that!'"

That was funny, Gerard decided after a minute, even though it was his brother, and so he decided to laugh, but then when he started to laugh he forgot why in the middle of it and had to think about it all over again, and that triggered a fresh burst of laughter, and by that time Frank had moved on.

"There was this other party," he started, "right after freshman year, in this kid Tobey's basement- did you hear about that? No? Fuckin' legendary, I'm telling you. I was in the bedroom with Tobey's friend Anthony, and he-"

"In the bedroom?" Gerard interrupted, wondering if he was too drunk to understand. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. "What- were you watching the coats or something?"

Frank stared at him for a minute, his eyes level and steady. "Close," he said, his mouth twitching a little. "I was blowing him."

Gerard waited for the punchline. There didn't seem to be one, and Frank's amused expression solidified after a few seconds into something else. Hostility, maybe, or the expectation of it.

"Oh," he managed, fumbling for another shot. "So you're- oh. That's cool, and all. Uh." He raised his glass, and a thought occurred to him. "You and Mikey- you're not-"

Frank let out one of those strange, explosive little laughs and shook his head. "Jesus, no. You think I want him to puke all over me too?" And Gerard smiled at that, because imagining Frank with his awkward, gawky little brother is just about ten different kinds of ridiculous.

Or maybe, he thought, watching Frank toss back the last shot, noticing the way his fingers wobble slightly, he was just relieved. Although he wasn't sure on whose behalf.

"So, ah," he said, as casually as he could. "You're gay, right?"

Frank glanced at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Me? Nah. I've had girlfriends and stuff, I just like guys sometimes. I mean, I figured out a long time ago that no matter what I did some asshole would call me a fag, so why not do the crime if you've already done the crime?" He grinned teasingly, sprawling back on his elbows. "I don't see what's so gay about blowjobs, anyway."

Gerard was suddenly faced with a pressing need to go to the bathroom.

"I'll be right back," he muttered, and lurched down the hallway to Aunt Beth's tiny, fussily decorated bathroom.

There were, he decided, some places where doilies should not be placed. Toilets were one of them.

He leaned over the sink, turning the cold tap until the water made his fingers numb. He splashed it over his hot face, sputtering as he accidentally inhaled. Stupid. He was a really stupid drunk, and he'd known it ever since his first drunken adventure at age thirteen. The details were a little hazy, but he remembered losing his pants at some point. A very public point. Couldn't remember if it was voluntary or not. He snickered to himself, leaning back against the wall. The light bulb overhead was dimming. He watched it flicker, his eyes half-closed, thinking.

So Frank liked guys, or whatever. No big deal. It wasn't as though Gerard hadn't been to art school, for fuck's sake. He remembered the day he'd gone to school as a chick, just on a whim, not for a dare or as a laugh or anything macho like that, just because- well, he'd been curious. He'd just started to grow out his hair and had had makeup left over from when he and his girlfriend of three whole weeks had gone to Rocky Horror together, and she'd forgotten one of her long skirts in his room when she'd broken up with him for her Physics tutor with the overbite, and it all just came together one morning. No one knew him very well, so it had been easy for him to lose himself in being addressed as "miss," in having doors opened for him, in people treating him more gently and generously. He'd even liked it. And when he'd looked up in his art history class and seen this French exchange student, a guy he'd seen around and even been introduced to once, giving him a subtle once-over, he'd smiled to himself and caught his eye, and the guy had smiled back and blushed, and fuck, he'd enjoyed it. He had.

It was a performance at the time. Sort of.

And maybe he was an asshole for comparing the two things, his day as a girl and Frank's... whatever. But he thought about Frank's aesthetic- the nail polish, the eyeliner- and decided that maybe he'd understand.

Or maybe he'd just had too much to drink and was now thinking too much about... about things.

"Oh, fu-"

There was a crash, then a sound like a sack full of meat hitting the floor. It took a minute for Gerard to realize what was happening, but when he stumbled back into the kitchen he was hit by the smell of rot.

Frank was on the floor, his legs flailing, struggling to keep Aunt Beth at bay with his hands. Her eyes, cast with that same milky film as Gerard's father, rolled in the back of her head as she blindly reached for him, gnashing her yellow teeth. She was still wearing a lacy pink nightgown, Gerard realized, transfixed with horror. He stood there for a moment until Frank, his head turned to escape the smell of her breath, screamed:

"It's okay, dude, I'm totally fine! Feel free to ignore the fucking zombie woman about to eat my face!"

The first thing that came to hand was the empty vodka bottle. He held it by the neck and smashed it over Aunt Beth's head. She turned and hissed, lunging for him, but he was too quick. Dodging and turning, he tired to think of some way to lure her out of the room. Maybe they could lock themselves in, escape...

Then he remembered Mikey, asleep on the couch downstairs, and squared his shoulders. He'd do it here and now.

She scrabbled at his face with knobbled veiny fingers and he suffered a momentary lapse in resolve.

"Frank!" he screamed. Frank had gotten to his feet and edged along the cabinets, towards the taps. "Could you help me out, please?" He took another swing at Aunt Beth and missed. He remembered the summer his dad had offered to send him to baseball camp and called himself all the Italian insults his grandmother never should have taught him for not taking him up on it.

Frank gesticulated wildly, calling, "Bring her closer to the sink!"

"What? Frank, she's dead already, it's not like we can drown her-"

"Just fucking do it, man! Now!"

Gerard almost felt like arguing some more just because Frank's tone was pissing him off, but Aunt Beth was so close that her spit was landing on his face. He took a deep breath and grabbed her by the shoulders, swinging her around to the kitchen sink. She struggled and snarled and took a chunk out of his arm with her broken fingernails.

"What now?" he demanded. Frank grimaced and shut his eyes, pushed the zombie's face into the sink, and flipped a switch on the wall. The garborator roared into life, churning more and more of Aunt Beth's face into so much meat the harder he pressed. For the long, terrible moment before the blade touched her brain she was still screaming; then, as it shredded her frontal lobe, she went limp. Finally Gerard let her go, half of her head crumbled away in the sink.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he whispered. Frank looked at him, then down at the blood on his hands. Gerard swallowed convulsively.

"So I had to do that," Frank said. His tone was flat. "That's how it goes, right? Your friends turn against you, and your family forgets who you are, and they don't even stop to tell you to wipe your feet, young man, I don't want you to track dirt all over my new rug"- he snickered at his own joke, an ugly sound, and continued-"before they're trying to rip open your skull and make you like. Make you like them. That's what happens, and you're supposed to just fucking deal with that?"

"I guess," Gerard replied eventually. He had never felt as inadequate as he did now, watching Frank stare at his hands. The garborator was still on, whirring happily to itself as bits of what used to be Frank's aunt fell down the pipes. "I mean, for now. Maybe once we have a plan we can think of something better, but for now we've just got to make sure we're still around to do it when we think of it. I mean, I can't think of anything else to do. But I don't want to die, and I don't want Mikey to die, and I don't want you to die. I don't even want Ray to die- I mean, he owes me ten bucks." He tried to smile.

"Well, I think that's bullshit," Frank said, and turned away. Gerard could hear him retreating down the hall, then heard the tap running in the bathroom. He sighed and leant against the counter to turn off the garborator, staring into the old woman's back yard. Typical old woman's garden, about the size of a postcard and filled with dead shrubs and cat shit and- and-

"Frank," he called over the sound of the water running. "Does your aunt usually have reanimated corpses in her backyard?"

The tap was shut off. Frank reappeared in the kitchen doorway, looking exhausted and more sober than he should have.

"How many?" he asked, still wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Lots. And I think they're breaking through the downstairs window. We need to get out of here, fast."

Part I

Stupid Teenagers Must Die!, Part I

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 02:25:29 GMT

Originally posted here and here.

Title: Stupid Teenagers Must Die!
Pairing: Gerard Way/Frank Iero eventually.
Rating: R for swearing, gruesome zombie death, and eventual boysex. Possibly.
Summary: Gerard hadn't thought his life could get worse after high school. Zombies proved him wrong.
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies.
Author's Note: Bob is not in this fic because he is chilling with the Used somewhere zombie-free. Just thought I'd mention it.
Beta: redheaded_itch

Gerard looked at the pills and wondered if he should leave a note.

He was genuinely torn about that. On the one hand, it seemed only polite- his parents and his brother and hey, maybe even Ray would be upset and confused, and he owed them a little bit of closure. Maybe owed himself, too.

But he hadn't written anything in a long time. The teenage death poems he'd written a few years before were buried inside his desk, underneath a pile of old pay stubs. He drew these days instead, and who ever heard of a suicide cartoon?

He didn't even know if he could write anything more complicated than a grocery list anymore, to be honest.

He took a deep breath and smoothed one trembling hand over his hair, trying to make himself calm down. It was a Friday night. His parents were out at some movie or play or something, and Mikey was at a friend's house. There was still plenty of time. He reached for a piece of paper and a pencil, wondering if there were rules about suicide notes. Maybe they needed to be written in blood, or at least red ink. But Gerard was a firm believer in working with what he had.

Dear Mom and Dad, he started. (And Mikey, he added as an afterthought.)

I'm not really sure how to say this, but I keep on thinking back to when I was little and I'd show you my drawings and you told me how wonderful they were, how I could be anything I wanted to be. I'm thinking about that and I'm trying not to get angry at you, because I'm starting to wonder if you lied to me all these years and I just bought it like the fucking asshole I am.

He wondered if he should cross that out, because even if it was his suicide note, it was also his mom, and she had very certain views on swearing. He left it in anyway.

I'm twenty-two years old and I work at a fast food restaurant. I haven't had a girlfriend in three years because I'm a fat fucking loser and I live in my parents' basement. Nobody will touch my art, which means that going to college and getting a degree was fucking useless. What's the point of school if I'm still drawing in your goddamn basement after that?

I'm not getting angry at you guys, I swear. I love you all so much it fucking hurts. I just can't do this anymore. I've tried, I promise I've tried, and I'm sorry. It's just too much. Maybe I can be whatever I want to be, but I don't know if I can live up to my own expectations.

Love, Gee.

He read it over a few times, then added a postscript.

P.S. Mikey, Moxie likes half a cup of dry and half of wet each morning. Remember to mix them up with a fork or she won't eat it.

He had just dotted the last 'i' when he heard glass shatter in the living room.

His first thought was vandals. This wasn't the best neighborhood and Belleville wasn't the best town- just last year someone had spray painted the word 'faggot' on the garage door. He looked around the bathroom for something to use as a blunt instrument and found a toilet plunger. Wielding it like an axe, he edged out the door and down the stairs, keeping to the shadows.

Something had broken the bay window- something big, by the looks of it. There was a strange smell in the air, like undercooked meat left out too long. Gerard tried to breathe through his nose as he padded noiselessly into the kitchen.

"Listen, you fucker," he began, and then he saw who the fucker was, and he stopped.

It was his dad. Sort of. At least, he was wearing his dad's clothes and had the approximate shape and size of his dad, and had the same irregular bald patch in his thin grey hair, but something wasn't right. He looked as though he'd been broken in a dozen different places and carelessly reassembled. His eyes were wrong, too- they were milky, like they'd grown a film.

Gerard noticed all this in less than a second, because his father- his father?- ran across the kitchen towards him with his beefy arms outstretched. He was hissing and moaning somehow simultaneously, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. Gerard didn't have time to think, just react; he swung the plunger as hard as he could, and it smashed into his father's skull with a sickening crunch. He dropped, twitching, onto the linoleum.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck!"

Gerard did not have one of those dime novel moments where he wondered who was screaming. He knew it was him. He certainly knew it wasn't his father, mostly because his father's brains were currently splattered across the kitchen floor.

Outside, he knew, the family station wagon would be waiting. He just hoped the keys were in there, too. Suicide could wait.

He had to find Mikey.

*

Frank Iero was a weird guy.

First of all he was a year younger than Mikey, but had already accumulated easily three times the suspensions. The current one was for (reportedly) setting the vice principal's car on fire. He was the only guy in his class to routinely use both hair product and eye makeup, and as a result was known around town as a fag. Mikey didn't know if he was actually a fag- he'd had a girlfriend a year or two back, but even Elton John had gotten married once. Anyway, Frank had never come on to him, so it was all okay. He was a fun guy to have around, and his mom always let him stay overnight, and they got to stay up late watching cheesy horror films and occasionally going out back to film their own. Frank had been working on one for about six months; supposedly it revolved around the exploits of a Jersey vampire, but since until recently Frank had only been able to film himself and the foliage, his vision had been constrained. Now, with Mikey in the (literal) picture, he was inspired.

"No, get your head at a better angle. Make it look like you're really dead."

Mikey squirmed on the leaves. Some of them were wet from yesterday's rain, and it was starting to get cold. "Maybe we should go inside," he offered, squinting. Frank had insisted that he take his glasses off, saying that a newly-sired child of the sinful night shouldn't wear horn-rims. "It might start to rain again."

"Fucking pussy. Here." Frank squirted a little more ketchup over Mikey's neck. It didn't quite look like blood, but they didn't have any of the good fake stuff and food colouring always came out pink. "Now rise up- slowly- there you go- turn towards the camera- show your fangs, and-"

"MIKEY!"

Both boys jumped. Frank screamed a little, but managed to cut it off and turn it into a brusque obscenity. Gerard came skidding into the yard, panting and kicking up leaves.

"Jesus, Gee, you scared the shit out of us!" Mikey grabbed his glasses off the ground and stood up, trying to clean the ketchup off his neck. "What are you doing out here? I thought it was your night off!"

"It was." Gerard stood almost doubled for a minute, catching his breath, then gasped, "Mikey, Dad's a zombie. Or was. I think I killed him with a plunger."

Dead silence.

Mikey knew that his brother was weird. Hell, he'd known it since elementary school. For the Future Careers project in fifth grade Gerard hadn't chosen astronaut or fireman like the other underachievers; he'd gone straight to Gerard Way, Vampire Hunter, and been sent for a long conference with the guidance counselor. He'd tried to shield his older brother over the years, keep him away from the worst of the assholes that always flocked to people like Gerard. This, however, was new. This was Twilight Gee.

He would have argued, had another zombie not chosen that minute to come crashing over Frank's fence.

"Shit!" Gerard yelled, his voice wavering. "Mikey, get the fuck out of here- I've got the station wagon, let's go!"

Mikey didn't need any encouragement. Frank, however, had retrieved his camcorder and started filming again.

"Iero, now is not the time!" Mikey grabbed his arm, but Frank held fast.

"When do you think I'll ever get to film this again?"

Another zombie scrambled over the bushes on the left, wheezing and fumbling blindly for the three of them. Foam dribbled from the corners of its mouth, flecked with blood.

"Some other time," Gerard supplied, and this time they all ran. The zombies followed, not at a weary shamble like in the movies but at full speed. Frank narrowly missed slamming his door on one as he got into the station wagon. Greasy, meaty fingers scrabbled at the windows, scraping against the glass.

"Oh, fuck," Mikey whispered, his eyes like saucers. They were crawling out of nowhere now, heading down the streets and staggering out of open front doors. "Where did- where did they all come from?"

Gerard didn't say anything, just threw the station wagon in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. Some of the undead were pulled under the wheels, making sickeningly juicy crunching noises.

"Did you really kill Dad?"

Gerard met his eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded once.

"With a plunger?"

"Fucking impressive," Frank snickered. Mikey glared at him, then reached out and touched Gerard's shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Nope."

"Me neither."

They drove in silence for a full five minutes. Outside the window Belleville flashed by, occasionally surrendering a glimpse of a staggering zombie before closing itself up into green, weedy lawns and dingy houses again.

"They were so fast," Frank murmured wonderingly to himself. The brothers pretended not to hear him.

"Where are we going?" Mikey asked Gerard timidly. He knew that when his brother got a certain look in his eyes it was best to just go with it; stopping him wouldn't work.

"Downtown."

"What's downtown?"

Gerard met his eyes again, briefly.

"Ray Toro."

*

Ray was a simple guy.

He hadn't always been. In high school he had considered himself to be a deep, poetic, complicated sort of person. He wrote love poetry and admired sunsets and even listened to chick bands sometimes. But somewhere between graduation and his current stint as a shelf stocker at Best Buy his lofty ambitions had simmered down to three basic objectives.

One: Eat.

Two: Drink.

Three: Get as many ladies as possible.

So far Objective Three had been a failure, but, he reflected as he sat down to microwave pizza and a six pack, Objectives One and Two were alive and well. There was a Dario Argento marathon on that night, and he didn't work until Tuesday. Things were looking good. Relatively.

Which was why Gerard crashing the station wagon into his kitchen window pissed him off so much.

Gerard hadn't intended to arrive with such a bang, of course. He just wasn't the best of drivers.

"What the fuck?" Ray snarled, casting one regretful look at his six pack before storming out the front door. The station wagon's tires spun crazily in the weedy shrubs beneath the busted window. The car's hood had given slightly on impact, but was otherwise fine.

Gerard sat in the front seat, frowning. "Huh," he said. "The airbags didn't go. I might have to tell someone about that."

Ray stood barefoot on his front step, looking from Gerard to the car to the window and back to Gerard, who seemed to realize that some sort of apology might be in order.

"Oh, right. Sorry about the... that," he said, gesturing.

"That?" Ray sputtered, his face flushing. He was not sure how to deal with this situation. "That? Dude, you just crashed your fucking station wagon through my window! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Um. Lots. But you should probably get in the car now, because if there're so many out by Frank's house there's bound to be more down here."

"More what, exactly? More lunatics in station wagons crashing into some innocent motherfucker's house in the middle of dinner?"

Next door someone lurched onto the porch, moaning.

"Not exactly," said Gerard, looking anxiously into the rearview mirror. "Just get in the car and we'll explain, okay?"

Ray sputtered for another minute or two, then, unable to think of a viable alternative, climbed into the passenger seat.

"This had better be fucking good," he said, a little weakly, as Gerard backed up over the broken glass.

"It is. Just buckle your seatbelt."

"Why? Got a grudge against some other kitchen window?"

"No, but we might have to run over a couple of people on the way. It might get bumpy."

*

Five minutes later Ray felt as though he had a better handle on the situation.

"Okay," he said. "So there are zombies."

"That's right," said Gerard.

"And they are currently rampaging around Belleville, eating people. Thereby creating even more zombies."

"Yep," said Frank.

"And you killed your dad?"

Gerard gripped the steering wheel harder than he had to. He could still see his father in his mind's eye, splattered all over the kitchen floor.

He didn't feel guilty, not really. That was why he felt so guilty.

"Uh huh," he replied.

"Okay." Ray stretched a little and leant back in his seat. It was nice to be in the know. "So, should you guys call your families or something? Mine all went to Tuscany for a week, lucky little shits. They should be okay."

"My mom's working at a steakhouse a few towns over," Frank said wryly. "If she's turned into one of the slavering undead she probably won't notice until her smoke break."

Neither of the Ways said anything. Mikey looked increasingly rabbitlike, shrinking down in his seat and staring out of the window. Gerard wished he knew what to do for him. He wondered if there was anything he could do at all.

"Maybe we should turn on the radio."

It was Mikey's suggestion. Even he looked surprised that he'd said it.

"Yeah," Gerard said slowly, reaching for the dial. "Yeah, they might be broadcasting- I mean, we can't be the only ones that noticed this, right? They can't all be..."

His voice trailed off as station after station filled the car with hot white noise and the hiss of static. The air waves were dead, and outside the car the sun was going down.

"We need to figure something out," Frank said eventually. "Gerard, where are you even going?"

Gerard shrugged, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. "I'm not really sure. I guess I was waiting for some flash of brilliance."

"Fuck brilliance." But there was a gentleness to the way he said it that made Gerard smile tightly. "We just need someplace safe. Somewhere we can barricade ourselves easily, but that has plenty of supplies. It doesn't have to be permanent, just fine for now."

"The school?" Mikey offered timidly. Gerard shook his head.

"Too much open space. Too big. We wouldn't be able to flush them out. What about Town Hall? There might be some other people there already- banding together in a time of crisis, sort of thing."

"Would you put your faith in Town Hall during a time of crisis?" Frank asked pointedly. The idea was discarded.

"Wal-Mart?" Ray said, and was met by unanimous head shakes.

"Aunt Beth's house."

Gerard glanced at Frank again, confused. "Who?"

"My great-aunt Beth. She was alive during the Second World War, and she always thought it was going to happen again. She'd go on about Hiroshima, and how someday the Japanese would get their revenge on the West by dropping an even bigger bomb on us. She made her husband build her this huge bomb shelter in the cellar before he died and filled it with cans of soup and crackers and shit. I used to play down there when I was a kid."

"You played in a bomb shelter?" Ray shook his head incredulously. "That explains so much."

Frank flipped him off and continued, "She's a real old lady, but she'd be more than willing to believe that there's some kind of apocalypse going on. Hell, she's been waiting for it long enough. And she's always wanted to meet more of my 'little friends,' so." Frank shrugged, looking around for approval.

Gerard nodded slowly, sitting up straighter. A Plan. The thought of having A Plan made him feel better, even if it was as rudimentary as this one.

"All right," he said. "Let's go see Great-Aunt Beth."

*

A few miles away, Matt Pelissier had just gotten off his second-to-last shift at the Gas-And-Go. He was optimistic, whistling even. He and his girlfriend were on good terms for the first time since she'd moved in with him; he had another job lined up at a garage a few towns over; he'd even dug out his drums and started playing again, called his old friend Greg about starting up the old band. Life, he thought, was pretty sweet.

Unfortunately, the zombies felt the same way about him.

Pucker Up, For Heaven's Sake (There's Never Been So Much At Stake)

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 02:18:08 GMT

Originally posted here and here.

Title: Pucker Up, For Heaven's Sake (There's Never Been So Much At Stake)
Pairing: Gerard Way/Sekrit Other Person, past Gerard/Bert, implied Gerard/Lyn-Z and just a smidge of Gerard/Brian Molko. Yeah, dude gets around.
Rating: PG-13 at the very most, and that's for swearing.
Summary: Gerard is invited back to Brian Molko's hotel room and gets a little more than he bargained for. But not in a pornoriffic way.
Disclaimer: Lies, all lies.
Author's Note: Oh my God. I got some 'splainin' to do. For anyone who doesn't know who Brian Molko is, here you go. This whole fic is a flimsy premise to write about Brian as the Bitchy Bisexual Therapist, and since I found out they toured together for Projekt Revolution, Gerard was promptly cast as the Hapless Bisexual ~~Victim~~ Client. I'm 75% sure I'm going to Hell for this, too.
Beta: redheaded_itch

"It's about desire," Brian says.

There were things that happened before that. They signed up for Projekt Revolution. They met the drummer and the bassist from Placebo, some weird-ass glam band Gerard had never heard of but was apparently huge in Europe, and they were nice and kind of shy and deferential, and Bob and the bassist hung out a couple of times. Then they met the singer, Brian, on a separate occasion, and he was drunk and talking shit about Linkin Park. To one of the members of Linkin Park. Gerard remembers thinking, Wow, what an asshole, and hoping that he wouldn't run into him too much on the tour.

Tonight he met Brian for the second time, and Brian, instead of calling him a fat fuck and spilling lager on his hoodie, actually smiled and shook his hand and said he was sorry for the other night. He's an asshole when he's drunk, he admitted, and even though Gerard suspects Brian is kind of an asshole all the time- he has that look to him- he found himself smiling back and telling him not to worry.

"Steve really liked the video for 'Helena,'" Brian told him, and he made it sound just gushing enough so Gerard only noticed a little bit that he never said what he thought of it. And "Helena" turned out to be the name of his girlfriend- except Brian called her his "partner," in a very effete European snob kind of way- and then Gerard found himself talking about Lyn and how shaky and wonderful and unsure they were, and what with one thing and another they ended up at Brian's hotel room.

"I never really thought I'd end up with one person like that," Brian tells him, sitting Indian style on the dingy grey armchair. Gerard is on the little couch, a loveseat, he thinks it's called. The television next to him is playing a movie with the sound turned off, something with bubblegum colours and a spunky heroine. He's glad he can't hear it. "I mean really with someone, with a house and a baby and a budgerigar and everything. Let alone be happy about it. I mean, I was kind of a slut in my younger days, you know." He winks. Gerard can believe it. "Do you want a drink?"

"Uh, no, thanks," Gerard says. He hopes that Brian will do the polite thing and not make one for himself, because he doesn't want this guy to turn into an asshole again. Brian lights a cigarette and, as though reading his mind, smiles apologetically.

"I really am sorry about the other night," he says, lighting another cigarette off of his own and handing it to Gerard. He accepts gratefully, feeling the smoke curl up in his lungs. It's a comfortable slow burn. "I haven't been that much of a dick since... well, no, I have, but I haven't felt this bad about it since I slagged off someone's wife at a release party. It's that terrible combination of British and American- I'm an asshole and a cheap drunk."

American and British. That explains the strange mix of accents, anyway, Gerard thinks, and notices that Brian just insulted him again, via nationality and apparently by accident. "It's cool," he says finally, exhaling smoke. "I got the sweater washed and everything. I don't think Chester Bennington will forgive you for a while, though."

Brian giggles, actually giggles with his hand in front of his face like a school girl in some terrible cartoon. It's kind of awesome, actually. "Oh, God, what did I call him?"

"I think 'no-talent hack' was in there somewhere," Gerard replies. He likes that even though Brian's laughing there's this slight undercurrent of shame, even mortification, itching at the corners of his mouth. "Also 'velcro-headed spaz.'"

"Christ. I need a fucking handler or something," Brian admits, still grinning. He finishes his cigarette and lights another. "Oh, well. It's not their fault they're nu-metal, I suppose. Although when he found out that we'd signed up for the tour David did call me to ask if I'd lost my fucking mind."

Gerard knows that he's supposed to ask which David and then get all awestruck when Brian eventually tells him, but instead he just asks, "David Bowie, right?" because he's not entirely stupid, he did do some research on this guy he thought was such a major league asshole, and it turns out that he's friends with David Bowie.

It also turns out that he used to have a very... eclectic... personal style. Gerard's not sure, but he thinks Brian and Lyn-Z used to own the exact same skirt.

"David Bowie," Brian agrees happily, apparently not minding his dropped name being intercepted. "He nearly fucking killed me, it was amazing."

The name makes Gerard smile. "I knew someone with a dog named David Bowie once," he says.

Brian groans. "Oh, God. Please don't tell me it was you, because then I'd tell David and he will someday find you and torment you. Without mercy. And he would find you. He has connections."

"It wasn't me," Gerard replies, rolling his eyes. "It was this guy I knew, Bert McCracken. From a band called-"

"- The Used," Brian supplies, and grins cheekily when Gerard stares at him. "Oh, please. You're not the only one who does research." He gets up and slides next to Gerard on the couch, putting his bare feet on the coffee table. His toenails, Gerard notices, are painted black like a rock and roll bitch's. "You're still not talking to him, huh?"

He has done his research. Hopefully not too much. "Nope," Gerard says tightly, and doesn't offer any more information. Brian laughs softly and nods.

"Yeah, I know how that goes." He takes a long drag on his cigarette and does what Frank would call a French inhale, because Frank is a fucking geek and has seen Grease way too many times. "That happened with our first drummer, Robert- he was this ugly Swedish prick. Looked like a toe in a wig. After our first record came out he just got weirder and weirder, like he wanted the band to be something completely different than what it was. He stopped speaking to me entirely at the end. That's when we called Steve. I think Rob's in a Dave Matthews cover band now, got a nice wife and two kids, repressing himself in proper Swedish fashion." That startles a laugh out of Gerard, too. Brian's arm, he suddenly realizes, is around his shoulders.

"This is a little different, though," he says. He's not going to say how different. Not to this guy. "I mean, Bert and I weren't in the same band, so it wasn't like our lives stopped when we did."

"Mm," Brian agrees, watching Gerard through half-lidded eyes. "He probably never fucked you, either. That's another difference."

Gerard isn't sure whether or not to be surprised about that. He definitely doesn't want to do the asshole thing and move away, but he does stiffen, and Brian's eyes spark a little at that. He thinks I'm uncomfortable, Gerard thinks, and, fuck, he is, but not for the reasons Brian thinks.

"Um," he says. "Wow."

"Make you nervous?" Brian asks lazily, wiggling his toes. It's a little absurd, the contrast between his bare feet and Gerard's sudden, total panic.

"No."

"Liar."

Gerard does not know what the fuck to do. He settles on just sitting there and letting Brian keep his arm around him, taking drags of his cigarette curled around his shoulder. It's sort of comfortable, except for the way his heart is throwing itself against his rib cage. And after a few minutes it just kind of... oh, fuck, comes out.

"I wouldn't be too sure," he says quietly, and even though Brian doesn't look at him, he can feel him listening. "About that difference, I mean."

Brian's face is transformed by a sudden demonic grin and he cackles like a madwoman. Gerard no longer feels comfortable. Gerard, in fact, feels very very uncomfortable, but doesn't see any immediate way to deflect attention from what he's said. Well, short of setting himself on fire.

"I knew it," Brian enthuses, nearly burning Gerard with his cigarette-gesticulation combo. "It's the Confused Bisexual Armchair Psychiatry Session all over again."

"Excuse me?" Gerard asks, wondering if there's a way for this conversation to get even more awkward.

"The Confused Bisexual Armchair Psychiatry Session," Brian repeats. "I have one at least once a year, and I can usually spot ‘em from a mile away. It all started... well, I guess it started just after I came out. When I moved to London and I met Stefan- you know, the tall Swedish one with no hair who gangles- we had absolutely nothing to say to one another. I mean, we'd met before, we went to school together, but there was nothing for us to talk about until he turned to me and said, 'I think I'm gay.'" Brian slaps his knee for emphasis, making Gerard jump. "This was back in my skirt-and-lipstick days, too, so everyone kind of knew about me without having to ask. And that meant that all the sexually confused boys in rock and roll would flock to me for advice. And I gave it to them! I was usually high at the time, mind you, so it was probably pretty crap advice... anyway. After Stef it was Twiggy, from Marilyn Manson. Then it was Robin Black. Then Chris Olley. Then it was Davey fucking Havok, of all people. All these people, from Julian Casablancas to Kele Okereke, coming up to me in secret and whispering, 'Brian! I like cock, what should I do!'"

And hey, it just got more awkward. He wonders if he should set himself on fire, just to introduce a change of subject.

He must be blushing or something, because Brian can't stop snickering when he looks at him. He pats Gerard on the shoulder and asks, "So who fucked who?"

"None of your fucking business," Gerard mumbles. He wishes his hair would grow faster. He could hide his face easier that way.

Brian tuts. "Come, come, my boy," he says, his Upper Class Twit of the Year accent surprisingly polished. Gerard wonders if he practices it in front of the mirror or something. "I can only help those who help themselves, and help, in this case, requires details."

"And yet, it's still not your fucking business," he snaps, feeling stupid, because he knew this guy was an asshole, he knew it all along, why did he come back to his room if he knew that-

- and that line of thought goes down a road he doesn't want to go down, so he leaves it alone.

"I was seventeen," Brian tells him, his voice suddenly gentle. "I was a year short of getting out of Luxembourg, going to college in London. There was a boy in my drama club who came over to my house after school, and I liked him a lot. Had for years. He had these eyes... green and brown, and kind of cold. We were supposed to be learning lines together, but my parents weren't home. I sucked him off in the bathroom."

Gerard makes a strangled noise of protest. This is not shit he wants to hear. Brian ignores him.

"By the time I got to school the next day he'd already told all his football friends about me," he continues. "They cornered me in the science lab after school and held me out of the window by my feet. All the blood rushed to my head and I wasn't even afraid they would drop me. I almost hoped they would. I didn't care about any of it anymore, now that they knew." Brian settles deeper into the loveseat and gives Gerard a Look.

"But they didn't drop you," Gerard says lamely.

"Nope. And I'm still here, and that's what I've learned about this whole business since then. No matter what they do to you- and some of it will be pretty bad, I have to say- it won't be half as bad as what you do to yourself."

It's a pure Oprah moment. Gerard half expects to hear the audience clapping.

"Okay," he says. "So let's say there's this guy."

Brian doesn't even make fun of him for that, although Gerard can kind of tell he's itching to because Brian is, in fact, kind of an asshole. But he holds it in. He sits still.

"It's not Bert," he adds hurriedly, because whatever he and Bert had- still have, somewhere in the back of his mind, the little nagging part that tells him he could have made it work, if- they haven't said anything civil to each other since the last fight they had, the one that ended in two slammed doors and three "fuck yous." The last one had been Bert's. "It's someone... someone else. But it doesn't even matter, you know, because that someone else has a girlfriend, and fuck, so do I, and I love her to death, she's the first girl I've had an actual mind-blowing crush on since Christina Ricci"- Brian snorts; Gerard chooses to ignore him- "but there's still this guy. Just kind of, of there. And I know it's not a crush because it's not like I go to jelly when I see him or forget what I'm going to say or do because when I'm with him I always know what I want to do-"

"- And that is unspeakable things," Brian supplies.

Gerard shakes his head. "It's not even that, really. I mean, I think he's hot, I do, but when I'm with him all I really wanna do is- is curl up on the couch and watch The Gilmore Girls and eat peanut butter cookies and adopt a fucking kitten and shit like that."

Brian stares at him for a minute, evidently at a loss for words. It's sort of satisfying.

"Wow," he murmurs, chin in his hands. "Even I'm not that queer."

Gerard is about to protest, say something defiant like Fuck you or I'm out of here or If my mother had been a teenager when she'd given birth to me I'd trade witty banter with her about boys too, but Brian keeps going before he has a chance.

"Three things," he says importantly, holding up three fingers. "First of all"- he puts down a finger- "you've got to tell your lady friend about this. Even if you think she'll freak out. Hell, especially if you think she'll freak out. Might as well get that out of the way, rather than let it come back and bite you in the ass later."

Gerard thinks about Lyn, about the people she hangs around with, about Jimmy Urine pulling boys from the mosh pit to hump, about the way her eyes widen with interest when she sees Gerard mess around with Frank onstage, and says, "You know, I really don't think that'll be a problem."

Brian nods, satisfied. "Good. Now, second of all"- he put down a second finger- "you have to tell him. No, really, you do. Because if you don't it'll just keep festering inside you and become this terrible neurotic mess and you'll take it out on other people and next thing you know you'll have to explain to your girl why you've got gay porn on the family computer and a nasty case of crabs. As for your band surviving- forget about it. Trust me, I've seen it before. Talking will help. It might not make it all better, might not make it go away, and definitely doesn't mean that he won't be freaked out, at least a little, but it will help. And third of all..."

Brian puts down the third finger, looks at Gerard consideringly, and then kisses him. He tastes like menthol and something spicy underneath that, and the room is suddenly very, very warm. And Brian is very, very close. Too close, but in a good way. A really good way.

Gerard pulls free, and Brian reaches out with a grin to tousle his hair. "There," he says. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Not so bad" isn't exactly the way Gerard would describe the experience. "Was... ah... was that the third thing?" he asks, wondering if that's a question he should even be asking.

Brian makes a face as though seriously considering the answer and replies, "Not really. I was going to tell you to stop wearing so much eye shadow- it makes you look consumptive."

"That's the point!"

"Is it? Hm. Well, I suppose I did wear camouflage tights in my day, we're all allowed our little blunders." He lights yet another cigarette, notices Gerard staring at him, and raises his eyebrows. "What's wrong?"

"You just kissed me," Gerard says. He feels himself unable to overcome this vital fact. "You- you have a girlfriend. And a baby. And you kissed me, just-"

And Brian fucking Molko rolls his eyes and says, in his drollest tones, "Yes, darling. That's the way it goes for me- my lovely Helena is well aware of what a slut I am, and she knows it's got nothing to do with her. It's about desire. It's about knowing you have someone at home who'll always love you, and knowing at the same time that there are an awful lot of beautiful people out there waiting for you to find them. That's how we work, Helena and I- and, unless I'm very much mistaken, it's the way you and your lady will have to work, too." He exhales, smoke billowing upwards in an elegant column. "Because, unless I'm very much mistaken, you have the makings of a total slut."

And, really, Gerard can't do anything with that statement but accept it.

"Thanks," he says, getting up. "For the. Uh. The cigarette and the armchair psychiatry and the, the kiss and everything. It was..."

"'Informative,'" Brian supplies, when he realizes Gerard is having a tough time finding a word that fits. "And you're quite welcome." He grins, every inch the rogue, and adds, "Once you do those three things maybe we could try it again sometime."

"Which part?"

"All parts."

Gerard opens his mouth to say something, finds himself making fish faces, and turns to go.

"Remember the third part, though!" he hears the other man call after him as he darts into the hall. "Consumption is nobody's friend, kid!"

So, Gerard thinks, getting into the elevator. (He realizes that his fingers are shaking a little- it's hard for him to press the right buttons.) Brian is an asshole, just as he'd suspected. A likeable asshole, maybe, but an asshole all the same. Still, what he was saying... well, it makes sense. In a way. Gerard knows firsthand how tensions can rip a band apart from the inside, and he'd hate himself for letting that happen. He also knows how tensions can rip apart a relationship- that was what happened with him and Eliza, him and Bert- and he doesn't want that to happen with Lyn. Or with anyone else.

When Gerard gets back to his floor everyone else is already asleep, but Frank and Ray have left their door unlocked. Gerard lets himself in, closing it quietly behind him.

He's become accustomed to their sleeping patterns over the year. Frankie's bed is a mess; he's half wrapped up in a floral-patterned sheet and the duvet's mostly twisted up around his head, and roughly two and a half limbs are dangling off the edge of the mattress. He's always been a light sleeper, tossing and turning and muttering softly about the things he sees in his head. He snores slightly, little bumbling noises like a kitten.

Ray, on the other hand, falls into bed and stays there. He sleeps on his back, his arms thrown over his head; his mouth hangs open. Gerard remembers years ago, when they all used to sleep in the same room (or, more often, the same living room floor), being awake when everyone else was asleep and entertaining himself by flicking things at Ray's open mouth. Every now and again something would actually land in there and he'd sputter, mutter something unintelligible, and turn over.

Gerard stands in the doorway for a minute, bathed in blue light from the television still playing, then goes over to Ray's bed.

"Hey, Toro," he whispers. He knows Ray won't wake up, and that's comforting. "I just wanted to tell you. Um. I was thinking about that time you came over to see me that time and I was, like, fucking drawing dragons or something, you remember, right after me and Eliza broke it off... you brought grape popsicles, remember that? And Krispy Kremes? And you made some stupid joke about me eating my pain and then you felt really bad and apologized like a thousand times and then we watched Kids in the Hall? And there was that time before that when I started fighting with Bert and I wanted to drink, like, all the time, and you just showed up whenever I needed you and fucking played The Sims with me and sang 'Here Comes the Sun' to make me smile? And, um, the time before that when I broke up with that girl from Boston who cheated on me with that asshole guy in the orchestra and you didn't even say anything about me being a pussy when I cried, you just, like, played with my hair and took me to McDonald's like I was five again?"

He looks at Ray, sleeping like the dead, and sighs.

"I never thanked you for that. For always being there for me. And I feel like I haven't been there for you in the same way, and I- I'd like to be. If you want me. And we could, like, make waffles and play with those old plastic dinosaurs you've still got under your bed or watch Monty Python or whatever you want to do."

The room is very quiet now, like the whole world's listening. Gerard sincerely hopes that's not the case.

"I fuckin' love you, Torosaurus. And not the way a friend likes a friend. I love you a lot, and more than that even. I just. Um. Wanted to tell you, before I make a mess out of it. And if I had to choose between all this rock star bullshit and money and fame and everything and just hanging out with you and listening to Iron Maiden, I'd choose you every time even though your basement kind of stinks and you're never on time and you've broken at least four of my combs with your goddamn, fucking hair." He pauses and wonders if that's enough, knows it isn't, and leans down and very gently kisses Ray on the cheek.

"I just wanted you to know," he says, and boots it out of there so fast he almost doesn't catch it when Ray turns over, rough-voiced and still mostly asleep, and murmurs, "Love you, too, Gee."

Almost. But not quite.

Denim

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 02:10:41 GMT

Originally posted here and here.

Title: Denim
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: MCR, Fall Out Boy
Pairing: Mikey Way/Pete Wentz.
Summary: It started with the jacket.
Author's Note: Turns out Mikey DOES have a unicorn patch on his jacket. A winner is me!

It started with the jacket. White denim, with a worn unicorn patch sewn onto the left shoulder.

Mikey can't even remember where he got that jacket anymore. A thrift store, maybe, or one of Gerard's hand-me-downs. He doesn't recall buying it, just wearing it. It's a little worn, and a little kitschy, and a lot ugly, and he wears it whenever he can because, well, who wouldn't?

The first time he met Pete he was wearing that jacket and watching him on stage, and when their eyes met Mikey could see him laughing a little bit. That's partly why he wears it- it makes people laugh, it even made Gee laugh when everything was terrible and he was always drunk and crazy and talking about hanging himself from the venue rafters. Anyway, Pete met him after the show and they started to talk and the next thing they knew they were in a car (possibly Pete's, probably Dirty's) driving over state lines in search of an open record store because Pete had a song stuck in his head and needed to find it before he went crazy. They couldn't find one or the way back in the dark, and they crashed in a shitty motel with one bed and too many ants, and nothing happened. Mikey remembers thinking that when he woke up, nothing happened and then asking himself why the thought had even entered his head, and if he'd wanted something to happen. He asked himself that question over and over again, silently, in the car on their sheepish ride back to rejoin their respective bands, and never came up with an answer.

He was wearing that jacket a few weeks later backstage, after his set and before Pete's. He was a little drunk- not as drunk as he used to get, but enough that the lights were golden and his skin was warm and all the beautiful people were a little more beautiful than they'd been before. Pete had been sitting next to him, and Bob had been there, Joe, Frank, a couple of nameless Warped roadies with ugly tattoos. They were playing some stupid sleepover game, probably Truth or Dare, and Mikey had asked for Dare like he always does when he's drunk, because Truth gets too dangerous after a while. Frankie, giggling, dared him to kiss the prettiest person there, and Mikey didn't even get up, just fumbled for Pete and pulled him close by the shoulders. It started as a joke kiss, Pete laughing a little into Mikey's mouth, but it stretched on too long for a joke or friendship and everything was suddenly hushed and focused and the roadies stopped guffawing and even Pete's noises died down as they leant into one another, their skin gilded where they pressed together.

Later that night he was not wearing the jacket, or much of anything. He was drunker by then, and Pete was on some strange Pete high, almost angry but not quite, almost giddy but not quite, and they were lying on Mikey's bed-for-the-night not quite touching, legs and arms at mirror angles. Pete's lips were brushing his skin, not his lips but his eyelids and his cheeks and the shivery parts of his neck. Mikey's fingers were on his forearms, barely moving. They did not kiss again that night. They just lay there, eyes on each other when they were open, shadows twisting above them like strange sea-creatures, and they fell asleep.

And later on, after the rollercoasters and the good sex and that one night on the bridge where they'd talked about God and death and sex and everything, he was wearing the jacket when he walked into Pete's room and saw him vomiting on his hands and knees. He must have been doing it for a while, because nothing was coming up. He'd protested weakly when Mikey pulled him up, and he could feel his heart pounding through the denim. Mikey lit a cigarette to calm his nerves and asked Pete if he was sick, and he said yes and then no and then yes again. Later that night he went onstage and fooled around and dove onto the mass of supporting hands like always, and came to Mikey with kisses and another ingenious plan. Mikey smiled and went along with it, but somewhere in the middle of whatever it was they were doing (stealing a urinal?- he can't remember) Pete started crying and retching again and wouldn't tell him what's wrong, although there was something in there about Jeanae, and something about Patrick, and Morgan, and Ryan, and at that point Mikey kind of tuned out and started thinking about Truth or Dare because everything Pete says seemed to be coming at him on repeat and from a thousand miles away.

He'd been wearing the jacket a few hours before, when Pete had shoved him up against the door and screamed some accusatory bullshit in his face about reality, about love, about God and sex and death and everything, and then trailed off into obscenities, his hands buried in white denim. He'd pulled it off of him and thrown it on the floor and stood back looking almost proud, like a child who'd thrown his plate on the floor and expected it to be cleaned up. Mikey had stared at him for a long time and realized that this was as much a part of Pete as everything else- the bad jokes, the late nights, the last-minute trips to water parks. He needed to feel hot and miserable in order to be in love, and Mikey doesn't. He looked at Pete and couldn't think of anything to do but take off his shirt, and then his pants, and they got on with things. Pete smiled then, as though it was all okay, and right afterwards he fell asleep after a few sloppy kisses and a mumbled unintelligible sentence or two.

He can see the jacket on the hotel floor now, greyer than white because he hasn't washed it in so long. Next to him Pete's breathing is deep and steady and he doesn't move- he has nightmares when he's awake these days, not when he's sleeping. Mikey counts sheep and shadows and recites the alphabet backwards, but he can't fall asleep because Pete left the stereo on and that song that he was trying to find is playing. He can't remember who it's by or what it's called, but the chorus keeps on telling him that it doesn't know what it can save him from. It's a quiet song, and domestic humming and the traffic outside and Pete's slow breathing breaks through and around it, but he can feel himself agreeing.

He is lying in bed and falling out of love, and he can hear the cars passing outside like a bad dream.

Pretty In Punk

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 02:07:29 GMT

Originally posted here.

Title: Pretty In Punk
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG
Summary: Patrick's sweet. Pete's pretty in punk. And kisses have colours.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything and I'm not getting paid.
Author's Note: A birthday fic for redheaded_itch

Pete has always been curious about the taste of things.

Flavours and textures acquire colours in his mind, a neat spectrum of sensuous categories. Salty is bright yellow, like lemons. Sour is green, acidic and lurid, a burning colour and taste. Spicy is the hot, damp orange of deep summer days. Bitter is pure white, the shade and shape of soulless hospital hallways.

Sweet, however, is his favorite, red like summer strawberries.

And at the end of a long day, when he's tired and sore from playing the same songs to the same kind of teenage girls as he did the last night, and the night before that, and too many nights before that, all he really wants is something sweet.

Patrick has noticed this, of course. Part of what makes Patrick Patrick is that he forgets his wallet at least once a week, and regularly locks himself out of his car, and sometimes gets lost in his own neighborhood, but still manages to remember little things about people. Their favourite colour, the first show they went to, things like that. And so, when he sees Pete slipping into one of his moods- exhausted and cranky and more than a little bit demanding, because he has always been the baby of the band, and probably always will- he will do something to bring him back to himself. Sometimes it's a bag of candy, licorice or M&Ms. Sometimes it's a sloppily-made milkshake, presented with the proud beam of a man who, upon conquering the microwave, is determined to beat the blender into submission. Once, when he was feeling particularly Smithsian and wanted nothing so much as to huddle beneath his Morrissey poster and sulk, it was a bowl of caramel popcorn and a John Hughes marathon that lasted until three in the morning.

Pretty In Pink always did cheer him up.

It had been a long day, and though Patrick struggled to stay awake with him, his eyelids began to droop halfway through The Breakfast Club. By the time Andie showed up at the prom he was snoring gently, his mouth hanging open just a little. Pete briefly considered putting something in it, like a popcorn kernel or maybe a spider, but decided instead to tuck a blanket around his legs and flick off the light and let the Psychedelic Furs seep into his dreams.

"Why do you think Andie chooses Blane instead of Ducky?" he asked Patrick the next morning. That part of the movie always bothered him, even though Ducky was supposed to be with some random girl he meets at the prom and Andie and Blane were supposed to be star-crossed lovers, because Ducky was kinder and more interesting and, frankly, cuter than Blane.

Patrick, still bleary-eyed and not quite awake, shrugged and pulled the blanket up to his chin. "I dunno. Maybe it never occurred to her to think of him that way, even though he was in love with her. She just didn't stop long enough to wonder if maybe she was in love with him too."

He nodded, because at the time it seemed like a very profound statement, and was about to reply when Patrick's eyes fluttered closed again and he drifted gently back into sleep, mumbling something inaudible before beginning to snore once more.

Pete is very interested in different kinds of mouths. This has given him something of a reputation as a slut, although that's not the strict truth. He does not have sex with just anyone (and, in fact, is far less experienced than he would like others to believe). It's the feel of different tongues and lips that he craves, the taste of people, not meaningless sex. Kissing, he thinks, is almost more intimate than sex- sex can be mechanical, disembodied, anonymous, but kissing never can.

Pete does not have sex with just anyone, but he kisses an awful lot of people, boys and girls and other people as well, because he likes the swirl of many flavours in his mouth, like layers of paint on a wall. He wonders if a day will come- after he's kissed the right number of people, of course- when the tastes blend together in his mouth to make one perfect sweetness.

But sometimes, Pete being Pete, the whole business of kissing makes him bored or upset, and he retreats to his room to huddle under the covers of his bed or play his bass until his fingers ache or read the pictures books that he loved as a kid. (He still does love them, secretly; but then, he still is a kid, secretly.)

And when that happens Patrick always calls and asks him how he's feeling, and if he wants to talk, and if Pete is in one of his blank, close-mouthed moods, he hangs up and drives over with a packet of Pop Rocks or a loaf of banana bread and carefully coaxes him out of bed. Sometimes, just to make him smile, he'll wear a sweater-vest and a pair of shorts, and Pete will remember the first time they met, how he was a shy and awkward kid who wasn't really sure how to sing to these strangers. Sometimes, when they're onstage, he remembers that kid again, and watches Patrick play and sing his goddamn throat sore with a big dumb grin. He can see the ways he's changed, the confidence, the louder laugh, but he can also see that awkward guy who searches frantically for his glasses, only to be told that they've been on his face the whole time.

Mostly because it tends to happen about five minutes before the show every other night.

And one grey weekend, when he sleeps too late and has nothing much to do but lie on the coach and (briefly) consider getting up to get the TV remote, Patrick knocks on his door, fresh-faced and well-rested and laden down with a huge basket of fruit.

Pete stares at him for a minute. He looks sheepish.

"One of my aunts sent it to me," he mumbles, and offers an apologetic grin. "I figure, since I don't eat that much fruit and I don't want it to go to waste... do you want some?" He pauses, his arms trembling slightly under the weight, and adds enticingly, "There're peaches at the bottom..."

He has a weakness for peaches, and so he lets him in and clears a space on the kitchen table, shoving aside the empty jars and ragged magazines and taking the paring knife out of Patrick's hand, because his inability to cook seems to encompass an inability to peel anything without cutting himself on the knuckle. Patrick shrugs and peels a banana instead.

The peach slices burst on his tongue like little fireworks, the reassuring sweetness stealing down his throat. Patrick looks at him and tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle a snicker.

"What?" Pete says, or tries to say, but his mouth is too full and it comes out as "Wrggh?" Patrick shakes his head, a grin stealing over his round face.

"Just the look on your face..." He shakes his head again. "It's like you're five years old. And you've got peach juice dripping off your chin-"

And that's it, suddenly. Patrick is laughing and grinning a little-boy grin and wearing one of his ridiculous hats, and all Pete really wants, in that moment, is something sweet, so he leans over and catches his face in his hands and kisses him. He feels Patrick's lips tremble under his for a minute- he might be nervous, or, more likely, he might be laughing still- but then he smooths still and Pete can breathe in the smell of him, feel him warm and soft under his hands and warmer, softer, under his mouth, and he tastes sweeter than strawberries, than licorice, than anything Pete has ever tasted.

He thinks, suddenly, of what Patrick said about Ducky and Andie, and he surprises himself into laughing, which makes Patrick pull away for a second, his eyes questioning. Pete smiles, laughs again, and says, "It never occurred to her..."

Patrick looks nonplussed, and Pete suspects that explaining would ruin it. So instead he tugs him back and kisses him again, and lets it be.

Because it makes sense- perfect sense, now that he stops to wonder- that Patrick's kiss would taste sweeter on his tongue.

For Big Sister.

Wed, 13 Apr 2005 23:43:45 GMT

I BRING U2 SLASH.

Rain In Dublin
Pairing: Bono/The Edge (U2)
Rating: PG for SWEARS.
Words: 949
Summary: Bono likes to hold moments in his hands, cherish them and commit them to memory. The Edge just wants to sleep.
Disclaimer: It’s all lies and I’m not getting paid.

PLEASE NOTE: I refer to The Edge as The Edge thoughout this fic, because just plain 'Edge' sounds stupid.

What Bono dislikes most about Dublin- other than the dirt, and the pigeons, and the bloody awful fish and chip places- is the weather.
It’s not the rain, as such- he quite likes rain in its place. But that’s the trouble. In Dublin, the rain does not know its place. It does not come pouring thunderously out of ominous stormheads, accompanied by a flash of white lightning. It does not soak idealistic couples embracing on the streets, too wrapped up in their own happiness to notice the pending pneumonia. It does not drum morosely at sad young men’s windows as they ponder loves found and lost and imagined. Irish rain does not drum at all, in fact. Not does it pound, or tap, or even fall- a simple verb, but easily romanticized. Irish rain thuds.
That could be the word to describe Dublin weather as a whole, its grey skies free of balloons and uninterestingly chilly winds completely devoid of subtle, exotic perfumes and faraway strains of music. Thud. It has no sense of drama, and that, in Bono’s mind, is wholly unforgivable.
For example. Right now, as he is turning over in his bed, still warm and heavy with sleep, soft golden sunlight should be pouring in through the window to soften The Edge’s face, make the planes of his face less… well, edgy. He ought to look peaceful and content in repose, like a slumbering angel. Instead the light at the window is grey as cracked concrete, and The Edge’s expression is one of disgruntled bafflement. It is the look of a man who has had too much to drink, fallen into the nearest bed with the most convenient person, and begun to dream about hedgehogs.
Still, this is a moment for quiet contemplation and meditation and other ‘ation’ words, so Bono props himself up on his elbow to study his lover’s face. It’s so familiar to him now that he thinks he’d be able to draw it blindfolded- the fact that he cannot draw and that it would probably end up looking more like an angry duck than a human being notwithstanding. He could easily close his eyes and trace the other man’s face with his fingertips, light as a butterfly’s kiss, and know every detail that passes beneath them. It seems like a good idea- a very solid, romance-in-depravity kind of thing- so he does it. The Edge shifts, grunting, and opens his eyes.
“Wotcher doin’?” he gruffles. Gruffling is a thing done by The Edge alone, and even he can’t do it after he’s had some coffee and a shower. “’Shoo ticklin’ for?”
“I’m not tickling,” Bono replies, his fingers still moving. “I’m memorizing your face. It’s a very romantic sort of thing to do.”
The Edge grunts. Hardly the response Bono is looking for.
“It’d be nice if you said something right now,” he presses. “Something flippant and casual but also sort of philosophical and endearing. I could write a song about it.”
“M’not ‘wake yut,” The Edge muzzes, another verb exclusive to him. “C’n’t be phil’soph’cal th’s early. Lemme go t’sleep…”
Bono sighs. “Not even a quick reassurance? A sort of ‘you don’t need to memorize me, you’ll always have me here’ sort of thing?”
The Edge is beginning to look distinctly murderous somewhere beneath the stubble. “Y’won’t always have me’f y’don’ shut up’n let me fuck’n sleep,” he warns. It is a fruitless task. Warning Bono about anything is like trying to halt a speeding train with a piece of twine- a waste of time, energy, and (possibly) valuable appendages.
“I mean, it’s not like I expect brilliance, Edgey,” he now says, reprovingly, like a teacher telling a student for the fifteenth time in a day that one comes after two. The Edge suppresses the urge to suffocate him with his own pillow. “There’s got to be some sort of editing process later, of course. But some kind of post-coital bliss would be nice-“
“S’too early for bliss!”
“- you know, just to sort of set the mood for the day. All the lounging, the lazy gratuitous sex, it’s got to start somewhere-“
“’ll start yer in a minute.”
“- and it’s bad enough with the weather not cooperating, everything being grey and cloudy-“
“S’Dublin! S’always grey!”
“- I don’t need you acting like a great prat and gruffling and muzzing just because you’re too lazy to put in the effort and-”
The Edge kisses him, just to shut him up.
It’s quite a good kiss, he thinks with no small amount of pride. It’s got the right exertion of pressure on the mouth, the slow brush of a tongue across a lower lip, the stroke of a hand on an unresisting jaw. It’s even got little shuddery breaths and some under-the-counterpane movement. All in all, it’s an A+.
Bono pulls away, smiling and snuggling closer into his warmth.
“Now, see, that would have done,” he informs him with a sigh. “Even if there isn’t any sun today.”
Sometimes The Edge wonders if Bono is a poetic genius or a complete manic. More often, he wonders if there is any difference between the two.
But right now he doesn’t wonder much. Right now he is warm and comfortable, falling back into sleep (finally); and somewhere over his head he thinks he hears the pat of rain on the roof- not thudding, but dancing on the roofs of Dublin.

Puzzle Pieces

Sat, 05 Feb 2005 07:29:12 GMT

First entry for the fic journal. Hurrah.
This was just written because I see Luna as a sort of Everyweirdo- any bizarre trait that you or someone else you know has can be expressed through her, because she herself is a bizarre person. In this case, the trait started out as walking in a certain way and grew from there.

Puzzle Pieces
Pairing: Luna/Ginny
Rating: PG at the most, I should think.
Words: 2123
Summary: Luna thinks about things. Ginny thinks about Luna.
Disclaimer: It's all lies and I'm not getting paid.

Sometimes Luna walks with her arms outstretched, placing one foot very carefully in front of the other as though she's on a tightrope in midair. She imagines she's a steadfast adventurer, crossing the Bridge of One Hair to escape from a giant and deliver a stolen bulging sack of gold to a grateful king- or that she's a knight in silver armour, riding to the rescue of a princess in the tallest tower of a castle- or that she is a lone white bird, balancing on warm updrafts of wind high above clouds painted red and violet with the sun. Sometimes she does not imagine much of anything, but simply spreads her arms and walks on tiptoe, wondering how long she can keep her balance.

Now and again people get a glimpse of her doing it. The nicest ones blink once or twice and then ignore it; the nastier ones point, or stare, or laugh. Zacharias Smith caught her at it once and neatly tripped her, so that her hair was made brown and thick with mud. (Luna didn't mind that so much at first; the ground was clean, and she had always wondered what it would be like to be a brunette. After a few hours of mud in her hair she never wondered again.) It doesn't trouble her much- she knows that the people who are horrible about things like that aren't worth the bother anyway, and that knowledge makes her carefree and secure. So some stare, and some make fun, and Luna does it anyway.

That is the way Luna has always done things, and it's probably the way she always will.

-:-

Ginny does not notice the way Luna walks until she sees her one grey October evening, with her arms spread like great wings- and with the sleeves of her robes catching the breeze she could almost be a great black bird, a raven. She is treading carefully, as though taking care not to fall, and talking to herself. No, Ginny discovers after coming closer, not talking. She's singing, trails of nonsensical poetry spinning circles round her head in the chill autumn dusk.

"Oh, silver scales and dragon's tails, sic transit gloriana, in moon and sun they learn to run and catch the train at Cana, with fox's gloves and mourning doves they settle in the mist-"

"Hello, Luna," Ginny breaks in, as gently as she can.

Luna blinks and looks up, smiling vaguely. "Hello, Ginny," she says, twirling idly around. She doesn't seem to feel particularly inspired to continue the conversation, so Ginny presses on.

"What are you doing out here all alone?" she asks, stepping closer. Luna continues to twirl.

"Dancing underwater," she says, and Ginny can see it when she looks for it. Luna moves slowly, as though feeling the weight of an ocean on her shoulders, and even her hair seems to drift in water that is not there. The power of imagination, Ginny supposes.

She likes Luna, in spite of (or maybe because of) never understanding more than half of what she says, and has since the first day they met- second year at breakfast in the Great Hall, when Pansy Parkinson was trying to taunt her into tears or obscenities and she did nothing but smile and draw pictures on the table with pumpkin juice. She likes her without particular reason or any reservation, and so she reaches out to take her hand.

Luna's eyes snap open; she looks almost startled. "What?" she asks, not rudely or angrily, simply in query.

"I want to dance too," Ginny says.

Luna understands then, and smiles, and she teaches Ginny how to dance as though the seas know you and the water surrounds you like rhythm and air.

-:-

Sometimes Luna can talk to herself for hours and hours on end, and will. On clear, warm days she will lie out on the Quidditch pitch, staring at the distant specks that are brooms and birds and telling herself stories. Her stories, she privately thinks, are the best kind- they are never written down, and so no one else will ever tell them and try to force the words into a shape that doesn't suit. Her stories can amble on for days, or weeks, or minutes, and no one will ever claim to get bored or sleepy. (Luna does not get bored, and becoming sleepy isn't a problem, as she can simple carry the stories on into her dreams.)

People pass her and hear her sometimes, and they make faces or call her names or try to interrupt her, and once Ernie MacMillan tried to make her eat dirt. (She'd always thought that perhaps soil would taste a little like dark chocolate; she abandoned that particular fancy after that day.) But Luna finds that if she smiles very pleasantly and continues talking they get discouraged and leave. If they don't, she reasons, they are either secretly interested in what she is saying, or they ought to be treated as though they don't exist, for people who interrupt stories just for the sake of calling someone a nutcase do not even deserve contempt.

-:-

She stumbles across Luna's stories one November afternoon, in high winds and watery sunlight. Luna is lying on the brown grass, one finger twirling pale strands of hair as she murmurs to herself.

"And the white queen took up her staff, which shone with centuries of ice and glass, and she charged against the giants, grim and grey and silent though they were; and although they were great and terrible, she did not falter, not even when she still had time to turn and run..." Seeing Ginny, Luna trails off and offers another of her vague Luna-smiles. (Although when Ginny looks closely she can see that it is not vague at all- quite definite, in fact. It's simply so complicated and nuanced, different shades of meaning blending and contrasting and contradicting, that it's easier to read it as vague.) "Hello, Ginny," she says, blinking contentedly up at her. "Did you want something?"

Since Luna makes no move to sit or stand, Ginny shrugs philosophically and lies next to her, propping her chin in her hands. "I want to hear your story," she replies, grinning at the look of puzzled surprise on her face. "Go on, then, Lovegood. Will I ruin it? You can pretend I'm not here if you like."

Luna shakes her head. "That wouldn't help," she says gravely. "Stories change, depending on who hears them. Whether you want them to or not."

But when she starts the story again, half-expecting the giants to have melted and the white queen to have vanished into thin air, she finds that when Ginny's around stories don't change a bit- or not much. For she does notice that the white queen is stronger, the giants less threatening, the air of the pitch sharper and clearer than a thousand saw-toothed icicles, with the redhead lying silent and intent beside her.

-:-

Sometimes Luna sees things in the common room fire.

She doesn't See things- she may be a prophet, of a sort, but she's certainly no Seer. No, what Luna sees in the fire are the things that come from looking, long and hard, and waiting for a shape to make itself clear to you- a lion rampant, striking at the embers; a castle in orange and gold, silhouetted above a deep blue sea-flame; a phoenix struggling from under the weight of its ashes, trailing smoke from its graceful throat. Once she thought she saw Ginny's face there and started up, thinking she was Flooing in, but then the face shifted and become an ocelot and a battlefield and a scattering of roses and Luna forgot why she'd gotten up in the first place.

You can learn a lot of things from fire. A part of Luna thinks that really she shouldn't be listening to fire, since that's not how the Houses work- Gryffindor belonged to fire, Slytherin belonged to water, Hufflepuffs belonged to earth, and Ravenclaw belonged to air. That was how things were supposed to go, and it made a sort of mathematical sense. Four seasons, four elements, four Houses, neat as a pin. But Luna has always enjoyed a bit of a mess, and fire has just the right kind of untidiness to suit her.

She can hear them sniggering about her sometimes, when they catch her staring all alone. "Loony Lovegood's at it again," Marietta stage whispers behind her, pitching her voice so that Luna may hear but few others will. Cho digs her in the ribs, but giggles anyway, behind her hand.

It's terribly distracting for her, although she knows very well that people unwilling to leave other people alone when they are quite happy and comfortable and not bothering anyone are not worth distraction.

-:-

December evenings are usually useless for anything but curling up in bed and waiting for sleep, but this one is all sharp winds and swirling snow against the castle walls, and it makes Ginny feel restless in her own skin. She tosses the bedcovers aside and slips through the portrait hole, padding silently through the drafty stone corridors. On the walls the paintings snore and toss and murmur in their sleep. The howling of the wind outside is muffled now, almost pleasant.

What Ginny wants more than anything right now is a broom. She would like to go flying tonight, storm and all, until she is covered in tiny icicles and her skin turns winter-blue. That being out of the question, she climbs the East Tower, highest and sharpest of them all, to Lady Jane Grey's portrait.

She has been to the Ravenclaw dormitories before once or twice to visit Michael, and although she does not know the password she knows Lady Jane to be easily distracted when she is reading (which is most of the time). Tonight is no exception. The Grey Lady is bent over a small black book of Latin scripture, the end of her nose smudged slightly with ink- how does ink get inside of a portrait? Ginny has often wondered- and doesn't even bother to ask her for a password. She swings forward, revealing the portrait hole and its little staircase, and at its landing the Ravenclaw common room, all old bronze and worn blue tapestries. Books are piled on the tables, the windowsills, even stacked in domino columns across the navy carpet and scattered across the austere sofas and chairs.

Luna is sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, staring dreamily into the coals. Ginny settles next to her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Hello, Ginny," Luna murmurs, her pale cheeks painted shifting golden-orange in the firelight. "How did you get in? The Grey Lady should have asked you for the password."

"She was reading."

"Ah. She does that, you know." Luna continues to stare, breathing deeply as though in meditation. It's on the tip of Ginny's tongue to ask her what she's doing and why, and if she can join in, but the fire's reflected in Luna's eyes and her face is a puzzle of wondering, irrational loveliness. She says nothing. Just looks.

After a long time Luna draws a breath that seems to come from the center of the world.

"It's very strange," she says quietly, as though she's talking to herself. "Sometimes when I sit here I almost think that I know how it ends." She looks at Ginny, cocking her head to the side. This is the closest she's ever come to explaining herself- really explaining herself, and not just assuming that everyone thinks the way she does- in all the time that Ginny has known her, and she finds herself holding her breath in anticipation. "Stories, you know. It's all stories that someone's writing. You're a story. I'm a story. Harry and Ron and Hermione are stories. And it's normally all... all mixed up in my head, and everyone else's, I think, about who's who and what's what. But when I'm here it all connects. Like great big puzzle pieces."

She smiles then, and Ginny thinks that smile could almost break her heart with its slow spread to the corners of her lips. That smile is its own puzzle piece.

For Ginny, anyway.

And so when the redhead plants a very careful, nervous kiss on Luna's mouth, blushing just a little and glancing shyly away, it does not feel abrupt or out of place to either of them- more like walking an imaginary tightrope, or riding a broom through a storm.

I believe that was my first finished HP fic, too. Go milestones.
(Also: note the rockin' J/J icon. fmith made it.)