Gin and Tonic
Title: Gin and Tonic - Standalone
Author:
soulsdisband
Pairing: Gerard/Bert
Rating: PG.
POV: Gerard's.
Disclaimer: Don't know. Don't own. Don't sue.
Summary: When I think of alcohol... Johhny, Jack and Gordon come to mind.
A/N: There is a type of gin called Gordon's Gin - in case you didn't know
When Bob thinks about alcohol, he thinks about yeast, malt and hops. The big barrels and large warehouse of his uncle’s brewery. The weekends he spent running through the factory as a boy, smelling the fermented ingredients as they boiled. He remembers sitting at the end a large wooden table, which at the age of 10 looked fit for a king, and eating a feast with his family, feeling like the most important person there. He thinks about laughing along with jokes he didn’t understand and cutting his own steak, and how, when his father handed him a glass full of amber liquid he took too big a gulp. He thinks about tasting the bitterness and how he wanted to cry or vomit but didn’t because he was suddenly a man in his father‘s eyes. He remembers hating beer for years, but drinking it for his father, not wanting to let him down. And he remembers how he didn’t end up working in the brewery, letting his family down anyway.
When Ray thinks about alcohol, he thinks about sophistication and red wine. The collection of prized, vintage bottles kept in the basement and the dust which settled over the distinguished labels. He thinks about the dinner parties his parents had and how he had to wear a collared shirt which made his neck itch. The intrigue about his father’s colleague’s daughter, who only came occasionally, but always sat in the corner with a glass of chardonnay as if she were posh enough to be belong. He remembers her low cut black dress on the night she finally noticed him, and the way he thought she might taste as he took a smokey caramel sip from her glass.
When Frank thinks about alcohol, he thinks about rage and mottled blue on innocent skin. He thinks about the nights he stayed sober to help everyone back to bed. The petty fights about one more drink! and vomit stains on his new pants. He thinks about the great girls at parties he’s given up to keep us all from breaking something valuable, or from breaking ourselves. The one with the choppy black hair and grey-blue eyes who had a quiet way with words and made his insides squirm when she smiled. The five-dollar bill she wrote her number on and how, when I’d run out cash, I stole it and spent it on another high. He remembers when he called me a selfish asshole and I punched him in the jaw, wheeling back and clobbering my head on the corner of the table. The way he looked after me first, and didn’t care about the loose tooth or metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He thinks about how he forgave me when, for the first time in three years, I was the designated driver and actually stayed sober.
When Mikey thinks about alcohol, he thinks about sweaty clubs and neon lights. The delirious feeling of being a no one in the crowd and being able to dirty dance with whomever he wants. The girls - Alice, if that’s even her name, who smiles and always whispers Follow me down the rabbit hole, as she hands him Mary Jane in a small baggie, while hiding a dingy bathroom. He thinks of the cab rides home, where the drivers always swerve as they glance in the rear view mirror seeing Mikey, doing something nice boys wouldn’t think of. He thinks of collapsing on his front step, to expel the taste of vodka and Mary Jane, and sometimes Alice, from his curdled insides.
When Bert thinks about alcohol, he thinks about drugs and sex. The boys - Johnny and Jack, and the way the have a distinct cologne of Fuck yeah! He thinks abut the fast paced, frantic grasp for another bottle, another needle, to get him back to that untamed moment where everything is OK. The need to forget; beautifully, blissfully escaping existence by blotting out the memory of it ever happening. He remembers not remembering, the blur of headaches and dizziness as the room spins while he sits still. He thinks about nights with girls, and nights with boys and nights where he can’t remember their names. The seediness of it all, and the morning after as he peels himself of someone else’s floor, someone else’s couch, someone else. The constant craving and sickness for hectic recollections and stained perfection.
When I think about alcohol, I think about Bert. The way he is an intoxication, just like he’s always intoxicated and leaving behind messy beds and messy heads of hair. The way we are different to all the others. The way we fall through the air, cushioning together on the stale mattress, tangling together with a furious calm which sweeps behind us, tangling our hair with the wind. I think about the addiction I kicked by getting myself addicted to him. The type of drinks I mix him - the ones I used to have - even though I know they’re not his favourite. I remember asking him what alcoholic beverage he was and the way he answered, cackling slightly I’m gin baby, and you’re my tonic. The way I smiled, and recklessly kissed him, trying to taste something other than Gordon, but failed miserably. When I think about alcohol, I think about then and now, and how the most important man in my life has found himself tangling tongues with three more important than me.
Author:
soulsdisband
Pairing: Gerard/Bert
Rating: PG.
POV: Gerard's.
Disclaimer: Don't know. Don't own. Don't sue.
Summary: When I think of alcohol... Johhny, Jack and Gordon come to mind.
A/N: There is a type of gin called Gordon's Gin - in case you didn't know
When Bob thinks about alcohol, he thinks about yeast, malt and hops. The big barrels and large warehouse of his uncle’s brewery. The weekends he spent running through the factory as a boy, smelling the fermented ingredients as they boiled. He remembers sitting at the end a large wooden table, which at the age of 10 looked fit for a king, and eating a feast with his family, feeling like the most important person there. He thinks about laughing along with jokes he didn’t understand and cutting his own steak, and how, when his father handed him a glass full of amber liquid he took too big a gulp. He thinks about tasting the bitterness and how he wanted to cry or vomit but didn’t because he was suddenly a man in his father‘s eyes. He remembers hating beer for years, but drinking it for his father, not wanting to let him down. And he remembers how he didn’t end up working in the brewery, letting his family down anyway.
When Ray thinks about alcohol, he thinks about sophistication and red wine. The collection of prized, vintage bottles kept in the basement and the dust which settled over the distinguished labels. He thinks about the dinner parties his parents had and how he had to wear a collared shirt which made his neck itch. The intrigue about his father’s colleague’s daughter, who only came occasionally, but always sat in the corner with a glass of chardonnay as if she were posh enough to be belong. He remembers her low cut black dress on the night she finally noticed him, and the way he thought she might taste as he took a smokey caramel sip from her glass.
When Frank thinks about alcohol, he thinks about rage and mottled blue on innocent skin. He thinks about the nights he stayed sober to help everyone back to bed. The petty fights about one more drink! and vomit stains on his new pants. He thinks about the great girls at parties he’s given up to keep us all from breaking something valuable, or from breaking ourselves. The one with the choppy black hair and grey-blue eyes who had a quiet way with words and made his insides squirm when she smiled. The five-dollar bill she wrote her number on and how, when I’d run out cash, I stole it and spent it on another high. He remembers when he called me a selfish asshole and I punched him in the jaw, wheeling back and clobbering my head on the corner of the table. The way he looked after me first, and didn’t care about the loose tooth or metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He thinks about how he forgave me when, for the first time in three years, I was the designated driver and actually stayed sober.
When Mikey thinks about alcohol, he thinks about sweaty clubs and neon lights. The delirious feeling of being a no one in the crowd and being able to dirty dance with whomever he wants. The girls - Alice, if that’s even her name, who smiles and always whispers Follow me down the rabbit hole, as she hands him Mary Jane in a small baggie, while hiding a dingy bathroom. He thinks of the cab rides home, where the drivers always swerve as they glance in the rear view mirror seeing Mikey, doing something nice boys wouldn’t think of. He thinks of collapsing on his front step, to expel the taste of vodka and Mary Jane, and sometimes Alice, from his curdled insides.
When Bert thinks about alcohol, he thinks about drugs and sex. The boys - Johnny and Jack, and the way the have a distinct cologne of Fuck yeah! He thinks abut the fast paced, frantic grasp for another bottle, another needle, to get him back to that untamed moment where everything is OK. The need to forget; beautifully, blissfully escaping existence by blotting out the memory of it ever happening. He remembers not remembering, the blur of headaches and dizziness as the room spins while he sits still. He thinks about nights with girls, and nights with boys and nights where he can’t remember their names. The seediness of it all, and the morning after as he peels himself of someone else’s floor, someone else’s couch, someone else. The constant craving and sickness for hectic recollections and stained perfection.
When I think about alcohol, I think about Bert. The way he is an intoxication, just like he’s always intoxicated and leaving behind messy beds and messy heads of hair. The way we are different to all the others. The way we fall through the air, cushioning together on the stale mattress, tangling together with a furious calm which sweeps behind us, tangling our hair with the wind. I think about the addiction I kicked by getting myself addicted to him. The type of drinks I mix him - the ones I used to have - even though I know they’re not his favourite. I remember asking him what alcoholic beverage he was and the way he answered, cackling slightly I’m gin baby, and you’re my tonic. The way I smiled, and recklessly kissed him, trying to taste something other than Gordon, but failed miserably. When I think about alcohol, I think about then and now, and how the most important man in my life has found himself tangling tongues with three more important than me.