black empty spaces (for B&G prompts, slashfic25)
Bert/Gerard
Standalone
R (swearing)
written August 2006
Notes: Angsty, flashes between past and present. Written for the bert_and_gerard challenge 002, prompt 2 (key, knot, winter, chain) and slashfic25 prompt 10, snow. Title is a lyric from Sound Effects and Overdramatics, by The Used.
"I hate waiting."
"Mmm, yeah, me too."
"And I hate it when you ignore me."
"I'm not ignoring you."
"Whatever. Put that shit down and look at me, will ya?"
"Why? I can do two things at once."
"No, you fucking can't."
"Yeah, I -- "
He rolled his eyes. "Would you get your ass over here and kiss me already?"
It's too damn cold, Bert thinks, blowing on the tips of his fingers as they swell and redden in the winter chill. His hands are thick and clumsy when the temperature falls, and part of him wishes he'd worn normal gloves, rather than fingerless ones. But when his fingertips are covered, he can't pick things up properly, he can't grip strongly enough, he can't write ... he's damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. Ah, to hell with it, he says to himself, pushing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and sighing loudly.
He's standing in line at a convenience store, frowning and trying to ignore the cold. The line moves slowly -- no, it doesn't move at all. There are two, maybe three people ahead of him, but the middle-aged man at the counter can't seem to choose between pie and cake, and Bert grits his teeth with impatience. Come on, come on, he mouths, but doesn't say the words; he shifts his weight to one leg, then to the other, shrugs his shoulders, checks his watch. The man's hesitation has turned to tension, and everyone in the store can feel it.
Eventually, he turns away from the counter, carrying a pie and a knot-shaped loaf of bread, and Bert takes a few steps forward with a sigh of relief. All he wants is a cup of coffee -- just a quick caffeine fix to get him through the next hour or so. Until he's on the road. Something warm that'll thaw him out as it charges him up. Ooh, and maybe a Snickers bar ...
He pulls one hand out of his pocket and reaches out to grab the chocolate, looking behind him to make sure no-one's stolen his place in the line. Fortunately, the woman standing behind him looks either blazed or half-asleep, and doesn't seem to notice his absence. He grins at her gratefully, and she blinks a few times before mumbling, "I fucking love your band".
"Yeah?" he says, keeping one eye on the counter. Wasted, he thinks; definitely wasted.
"Mmm. Frank's my favourite."
Frank?
With a superhuman effort, Bert manages to keep a straight face and makes a mental note to remember this conversation. "Mine too," he says confidentially, leaning towards her. "He's way cooler than me."
"Nah, you're cool ... I'd totally do you. You talk too much though. In interviews and stuff," she says slowly, gesturing with her hands to emphasise her point.
Bert coughs into his fist to stop himself laughing. "I'll keep that in mind," he says after a moment. "Thanks."
***
"Coffee is, like, the best thing ever," he said, slurping his drink with a blissful look on his face.
"What about sex?"
A pause. "Oh ... well, uh, I guess it depends who you're having sex with."
"Sex with me is better than a cup of fucking coffee."
"How would I know? I've never had sex with you. Dumbass."
"You wanna?"
He nearly choked. "What?"
"I'm serious. 'Cause if you do, I'd totally be up for it."
Ten minutes later, Bert's sitting in his car, hands wrapped around the steaming paper cup, sipping contentedly. He glances at the chocolate bar on the passenger seat, and although his stomach rumbles longingly, he chooses warmth over hunger and turns his attention back to the coffee.
Once he's finished, he crushes the cup and throws it over his shoulder, listening to the soft thud as it lands on the back seat, then pushes his key into the ignition and turns the car on. The engine idles for a second as Bert reaches for the Snickers bar and unwraps it, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. With a deep breath, he puts the car into drive and releases the handbrake, one gloved hand on the wheel, the other clutching the chocolate.
As Bert drives, he thinks. Not coherently, not logically, but he thinks nonetheless. Bert doesn't often talk about his thoughts, usually because he knows most people won't understand them. Hell, he barely understands them a lot of the time, and they come out of his head ...
He thinks about faces and voices and words that may or may never have been said. He thinks about soaring happiness, biting anger, sinking pain, aching loneliness. He thinks about love, and fear, and chances lost. He thinks about days and nights, seasons and temperatures, silences that hurt more than screams. And it's disjointed, rushed, lacking in rhythm like a badly edited film, but it's raw and it's real and it makes Bert care more than a thousand slick blockbusters ever could.
When the thoughts get too much, he reaches over to switch on the radio, hoping the next song on the playlist will ease the churning, fluttering feeling in his stomach. Nope, no luck. Because it's one of those lightweight so-called emo bands -- the ones who dress like New Romantics from the mid-1980s -- singing about feelings they've never felt with an intensity that's laughable. Bert wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. Sure, the lyrics are clever, but do they mean anything? And how can you make heartbreak sound so fucking boppy?
"Pete Wentz needs to die and go to hell," he murmurs, leaning across to change the station.
***
"What's this?"
"It's for you."
"You bought me a present?"
"Yeah. C'mon, open it."
Hands fumbled at the tissue paper, revealing a silver musical note attached to a chain. He held it up to the light, watching it shine, and flashed a grin at the other man.
"Think of it as a good luck charm."
"Why? Do I need luck or something?"
"Everyone needs luck ... I guess it's kinda like love. Sure, you can survive without it, but life's a lot better when you've got some."
As he gets closer to his destination, Bert grows more and more nervous. He's not exactly sure why. He's almost sure he'll get a good reaction from this midnight visit, but he can't help feeling apprehensive anyway. The road stretches out in front of him, dull and dark, the only variety provided by a broken line dividing the two lanes. And he's cold, he's so cold -- emotionally and physically. Somehow, he feels as though it's winter in his soul, as well as in the world around him. He feels frozen, dormant.
Waiting for spring.
With a sigh, Bert takes one hand off the steering wheel and reaches for the musical note hanging from the rear-view mirror. His fingertips run across the surface, the sweat from his skin dulling its shine, and he smiles faintly. Such a stupid little thing, and yet ... it means so much. Maybe it shouldn't, but it does. Because it means music, and that means everything. Music is the reason he's alive, it's the reason he can still feel the blood pumping through his veins. Music is his motivation, his passion, his career, his soul.
It's the reason they met. It's the one thing that unites them. It's the one thing that tears them apart every time.
It's the one thing they love more than each other.
The same notations circle Bert's right wrist (covering the scars from a suicide attempt that only a handful of people know about), and he's always appreciated the symbolism. Music is an avenue to express his pain, but it also helps him to hide it. It doesn't stop the pain; it just makes hurting a little bit easier to bear. He closes his eyes briefly, blinking away irrational tears before focusing on the road again.
Because, if Bert's honest, music may be the reason that he's alive -- but Gerard is the reason he wants to live.
He glances at the rear-view mirror again, the silver note swaying, and looks at the long stretch of road behind him. There's still a long way to go, but that doesn't really matter. I know where I'm going, and I'm getting there, he thinks. Look how far I've come.
The note's not my good luck charm. You are.
Standalone
R (swearing)
written August 2006
Notes: Angsty, flashes between past and present. Written for the bert_and_gerard challenge 002, prompt 2 (key, knot, winter, chain) and slashfic25 prompt 10, snow. Title is a lyric from Sound Effects and Overdramatics, by The Used.
"I hate waiting."
"Mmm, yeah, me too."
"And I hate it when you ignore me."
"I'm not ignoring you."
"Whatever. Put that shit down and look at me, will ya?"
"Why? I can do two things at once."
"No, you fucking can't."
"Yeah, I -- "
He rolled his eyes. "Would you get your ass over here and kiss me already?"
It's too damn cold, Bert thinks, blowing on the tips of his fingers as they swell and redden in the winter chill. His hands are thick and clumsy when the temperature falls, and part of him wishes he'd worn normal gloves, rather than fingerless ones. But when his fingertips are covered, he can't pick things up properly, he can't grip strongly enough, he can't write ... he's damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. Ah, to hell with it, he says to himself, pushing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and sighing loudly.
He's standing in line at a convenience store, frowning and trying to ignore the cold. The line moves slowly -- no, it doesn't move at all. There are two, maybe three people ahead of him, but the middle-aged man at the counter can't seem to choose between pie and cake, and Bert grits his teeth with impatience. Come on, come on, he mouths, but doesn't say the words; he shifts his weight to one leg, then to the other, shrugs his shoulders, checks his watch. The man's hesitation has turned to tension, and everyone in the store can feel it.
Eventually, he turns away from the counter, carrying a pie and a knot-shaped loaf of bread, and Bert takes a few steps forward with a sigh of relief. All he wants is a cup of coffee -- just a quick caffeine fix to get him through the next hour or so. Until he's on the road. Something warm that'll thaw him out as it charges him up. Ooh, and maybe a Snickers bar ...
He pulls one hand out of his pocket and reaches out to grab the chocolate, looking behind him to make sure no-one's stolen his place in the line. Fortunately, the woman standing behind him looks either blazed or half-asleep, and doesn't seem to notice his absence. He grins at her gratefully, and she blinks a few times before mumbling, "I fucking love your band".
"Yeah?" he says, keeping one eye on the counter. Wasted, he thinks; definitely wasted.
"Mmm. Frank's my favourite."
Frank?
With a superhuman effort, Bert manages to keep a straight face and makes a mental note to remember this conversation. "Mine too," he says confidentially, leaning towards her. "He's way cooler than me."
"Nah, you're cool ... I'd totally do you. You talk too much though. In interviews and stuff," she says slowly, gesturing with her hands to emphasise her point.
Bert coughs into his fist to stop himself laughing. "I'll keep that in mind," he says after a moment. "Thanks."
***
"Coffee is, like, the best thing ever," he said, slurping his drink with a blissful look on his face.
"What about sex?"
A pause. "Oh ... well, uh, I guess it depends who you're having sex with."
"Sex with me is better than a cup of fucking coffee."
"How would I know? I've never had sex with you. Dumbass."
"You wanna?"
He nearly choked. "What?"
"I'm serious. 'Cause if you do, I'd totally be up for it."
Ten minutes later, Bert's sitting in his car, hands wrapped around the steaming paper cup, sipping contentedly. He glances at the chocolate bar on the passenger seat, and although his stomach rumbles longingly, he chooses warmth over hunger and turns his attention back to the coffee.
Once he's finished, he crushes the cup and throws it over his shoulder, listening to the soft thud as it lands on the back seat, then pushes his key into the ignition and turns the car on. The engine idles for a second as Bert reaches for the Snickers bar and unwraps it, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. With a deep breath, he puts the car into drive and releases the handbrake, one gloved hand on the wheel, the other clutching the chocolate.
As Bert drives, he thinks. Not coherently, not logically, but he thinks nonetheless. Bert doesn't often talk about his thoughts, usually because he knows most people won't understand them. Hell, he barely understands them a lot of the time, and they come out of his head ...
He thinks about faces and voices and words that may or may never have been said. He thinks about soaring happiness, biting anger, sinking pain, aching loneliness. He thinks about love, and fear, and chances lost. He thinks about days and nights, seasons and temperatures, silences that hurt more than screams. And it's disjointed, rushed, lacking in rhythm like a badly edited film, but it's raw and it's real and it makes Bert care more than a thousand slick blockbusters ever could.
When the thoughts get too much, he reaches over to switch on the radio, hoping the next song on the playlist will ease the churning, fluttering feeling in his stomach. Nope, no luck. Because it's one of those lightweight so-called emo bands -- the ones who dress like New Romantics from the mid-1980s -- singing about feelings they've never felt with an intensity that's laughable. Bert wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. Sure, the lyrics are clever, but do they mean anything? And how can you make heartbreak sound so fucking boppy?
"Pete Wentz needs to die and go to hell," he murmurs, leaning across to change the station.
***
"What's this?"
"It's for you."
"You bought me a present?"
"Yeah. C'mon, open it."
Hands fumbled at the tissue paper, revealing a silver musical note attached to a chain. He held it up to the light, watching it shine, and flashed a grin at the other man.
"Think of it as a good luck charm."
"Why? Do I need luck or something?"
"Everyone needs luck ... I guess it's kinda like love. Sure, you can survive without it, but life's a lot better when you've got some."
As he gets closer to his destination, Bert grows more and more nervous. He's not exactly sure why. He's almost sure he'll get a good reaction from this midnight visit, but he can't help feeling apprehensive anyway. The road stretches out in front of him, dull and dark, the only variety provided by a broken line dividing the two lanes. And he's cold, he's so cold -- emotionally and physically. Somehow, he feels as though it's winter in his soul, as well as in the world around him. He feels frozen, dormant.
Waiting for spring.
With a sigh, Bert takes one hand off the steering wheel and reaches for the musical note hanging from the rear-view mirror. His fingertips run across the surface, the sweat from his skin dulling its shine, and he smiles faintly. Such a stupid little thing, and yet ... it means so much. Maybe it shouldn't, but it does. Because it means music, and that means everything. Music is the reason he's alive, it's the reason he can still feel the blood pumping through his veins. Music is his motivation, his passion, his career, his soul.
It's the reason they met. It's the one thing that unites them. It's the one thing that tears them apart every time.
It's the one thing they love more than each other.
The same notations circle Bert's right wrist (covering the scars from a suicide attempt that only a handful of people know about), and he's always appreciated the symbolism. Music is an avenue to express his pain, but it also helps him to hide it. It doesn't stop the pain; it just makes hurting a little bit easier to bear. He closes his eyes briefly, blinking away irrational tears before focusing on the road again.
Because, if Bert's honest, music may be the reason that he's alive -- but Gerard is the reason he wants to live.
He glances at the rear-view mirror again, the silver note swaying, and looks at the long stretch of road behind him. There's still a long way to go, but that doesn't really matter. I know where I'm going, and I'm getting there, he thinks. Look how far I've come.
The note's not my good luck charm. You are.