untitled dancer au
Title: untitled dancer au
Type: Bandom
Pairing: future!Frank/Gerard
Word Count: ~900
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author's Note: Originally posted here.
Summary: "Frank hates stairs."
Frank hates stairs. Particularly when they're long and step and there are multiple flights. Who the hell woke up one day and went, "You know what would be the most awesome thing ever? Forty-two stairs on a seventy percent incline"?
Some rich dude that has elevators in his house that's who, crazy motherfucker.
He shoves the mattress up a little higher on the stairwell and huffs out a surprised half-gasp when it slides right back down, knocking the wind out of him when it hits his chest. "Come on," he wheezes, scrambling up to regain the few steps he'd lost in catching the mattress.
This is ridiculous. He's already been up two flights of stairs, and he knows that his chest is all bruised to hell from taking so many hits. His shoulders burn like fuck from the strenuous work of going against gravity for so long. A bead of sweat slides down is cheekbone, down, until it tickles too close to his mouth and he rubs it off with his shoulder. Just a few more steps before he's on the fourth floor and he'll be home free. He can do this. He can totally do this.
Frank takes a deep breath and shoves. The mattress flies up the last five steps and onto the next floor, landing with a harsh, airy thud. Inwardly, he cheers (because he's too tired to outwardly cheer) as he stumbles up the steps and falls onto the mattress. In all honesty, the thing wreaks, it's stained and filthy, the rusted springs inside it are shrieking their protest, and sticking painfully into his hips.
But he's lying down and that, that is awesome right now.
He takes a shallow breaths and closes his eyes. "I'm naming you 'asshole'," he mutters, curling in on himself. "Forever." And he doesn't know why he said that, but it seemed appropriate.
He pretends he's dead so he can sleep until the end of time and sighs dreamily.
"Are you dead?"
Frank doesn't even open his eyes, just says something like, "Mrf," and assumes it can be interpreted as, "Yeah, pretty much."
"Oh." There's a pause, a sigh, and suddenly the most delicious smell in the entire would surrounds Frank and his veins pull. "I don't think the Super's gonna let dead people stay in his halls."
Frank sits up slowly, because he knows that any quick movement he makes right now is going to result in tackling this guy and yanking his cigarette right out of his hand and sucking on it until he burns himself. "You. Smoke?" he asks blandly because he can't really find more words than that.
The guy, he's got tangled black hair and possibly two black hoodies on, one on top of the other, and black jeans. His eyes are lined in thick kohl and he's blinking now, half-smiling and half-something Frank can't really think to describe right now because there is a cigarette perched between his lips, and Frank wants that five minutes ago.
The guy, he shrugs a shoulder, eyes downcast as he slips his fingers over the cigarette and flicks the growing ash onto the apartment's once-sandy colored carpeting. "Yeah. Why?"
Frank's skin feels crawly. He clears his throat and forces himself to relax. "Can I borrow one?" It's been four days now that he hasn't been able to afford to get a new pack and he's seriously been considering skipping meals to get some. He is so far past begging smokes off strangers right now.
The guy blinks again before shoving his hand into his hoodie (the one beneath the top layer) and holds out a pack.
Frank's hands have never shaken as badly in his entire life as they did when he was lighting that cigarette. Then, practiced smoothness kick in as soon as it touches his lips, and breathing is easier.
He closes his eyes and hums. "I love you forever, dude."
The guy laughs and, whoa, awesome laugh. Frank cracks an eye open and lilts the corner of his mouth into a grin as the guy says, "So, how long have you been trying to quit?"
Frank takes another breath in, holding it longer than he probably should before letting it out again. "Four days, involuntarily."
"Ow. Longer than me though. Ever." He nudges Frank's hip with his shoe. "You pull that thing up here all by yourself?"
"Uh-huh." When the ash looks like it's going to collapse onto his face, Frank finally pulls the cigarette from his lips and flicks it onto the mattress next to him. "Fucking stairs."
"You live here?"
Frank has an incredible urge to say, 'No, I pushed the mattress up here for my health,' but shuts up because this guy is pretty hot now that he can think past his lack of smokes. Also, he gave him the smokes to think with, so. "Yeah. Just." He waves down the hall. "38B."
The guy's eyebrows raise. "New?"
He nods, making smoke rings the next time he breathes out. "Mmhm. Kicked out of my old place last week, the bastards," and he says it like he doesn't give a shit. He fucking loves cigarettes so much more than he thought he did.
"Sucks," the guy nods, not like he feels pity or anything, just like he knows what that feels like and maybe sympathizes a little. "You staying?"
Frank shrugs. "Unless I get some super fucking rich eccentric dude who'll put me up real nice." He grins and Pretty Woman flashes through his head briefly. He could so kick Julia Roberts' ass at that role. "Yeah, I'm sticking around for a while."
The guy nods again. "You need some help putting that thing in your apartment?"
Frank grunts as he sits up, shimmying off the mattress and rolling onto his feet, the springs creaking hideously at the sudden change in weight. The guy, he winces a little but leans down and hefts one side of the mattress up, waiting for Frank to take the other. When he does, they both grunt softly and shift forward, hitting the walls on either side of them over and over for lack of time coordination.
"By the way," the guy huffs, cigarette still firm between his lips, "M'Gerard."
Frank nods. "Frank," except he's holding his cigarette still, too, and it comes out sounding my like 'Frnk.'
"Cool." Gerard jerks his head a little, gesturing. "I live three doors down and across in 35A if you need another cigarette or something."
Frank grins, lopsided. "Dude, my favorite person ever."
Gerard snorts. "Not your eccentric rich dude or anything, but I got your fix."
"Way better." Frank snorts because he can't laugh without dropping his cigarette, and he'd honestly rather drop the mattress on his foot that that. "Way, way better."
Type: Bandom
Pairing: future!Frank/Gerard
Word Count: ~900
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author's Note: Originally posted here.
Summary: "Frank hates stairs."
Frank hates stairs. Particularly when they're long and step and there are multiple flights. Who the hell woke up one day and went, "You know what would be the most awesome thing ever? Forty-two stairs on a seventy percent incline"?
Some rich dude that has elevators in his house that's who, crazy motherfucker.
He shoves the mattress up a little higher on the stairwell and huffs out a surprised half-gasp when it slides right back down, knocking the wind out of him when it hits his chest. "Come on," he wheezes, scrambling up to regain the few steps he'd lost in catching the mattress.
This is ridiculous. He's already been up two flights of stairs, and he knows that his chest is all bruised to hell from taking so many hits. His shoulders burn like fuck from the strenuous work of going against gravity for so long. A bead of sweat slides down is cheekbone, down, until it tickles too close to his mouth and he rubs it off with his shoulder. Just a few more steps before he's on the fourth floor and he'll be home free. He can do this. He can totally do this.
Frank takes a deep breath and shoves. The mattress flies up the last five steps and onto the next floor, landing with a harsh, airy thud. Inwardly, he cheers (because he's too tired to outwardly cheer) as he stumbles up the steps and falls onto the mattress. In all honesty, the thing wreaks, it's stained and filthy, the rusted springs inside it are shrieking their protest, and sticking painfully into his hips.
But he's lying down and that, that is awesome right now.
He takes a shallow breaths and closes his eyes. "I'm naming you 'asshole'," he mutters, curling in on himself. "Forever." And he doesn't know why he said that, but it seemed appropriate.
He pretends he's dead so he can sleep until the end of time and sighs dreamily.
"Are you dead?"
Frank doesn't even open his eyes, just says something like, "Mrf," and assumes it can be interpreted as, "Yeah, pretty much."
"Oh." There's a pause, a sigh, and suddenly the most delicious smell in the entire would surrounds Frank and his veins pull. "I don't think the Super's gonna let dead people stay in his halls."
Frank sits up slowly, because he knows that any quick movement he makes right now is going to result in tackling this guy and yanking his cigarette right out of his hand and sucking on it until he burns himself. "You. Smoke?" he asks blandly because he can't really find more words than that.
The guy, he's got tangled black hair and possibly two black hoodies on, one on top of the other, and black jeans. His eyes are lined in thick kohl and he's blinking now, half-smiling and half-something Frank can't really think to describe right now because there is a cigarette perched between his lips, and Frank wants that five minutes ago.
The guy, he shrugs a shoulder, eyes downcast as he slips his fingers over the cigarette and flicks the growing ash onto the apartment's once-sandy colored carpeting. "Yeah. Why?"
Frank's skin feels crawly. He clears his throat and forces himself to relax. "Can I borrow one?" It's been four days now that he hasn't been able to afford to get a new pack and he's seriously been considering skipping meals to get some. He is so far past begging smokes off strangers right now.
The guy blinks again before shoving his hand into his hoodie (the one beneath the top layer) and holds out a pack.
Frank's hands have never shaken as badly in his entire life as they did when he was lighting that cigarette. Then, practiced smoothness kick in as soon as it touches his lips, and breathing is easier.
He closes his eyes and hums. "I love you forever, dude."
The guy laughs and, whoa, awesome laugh. Frank cracks an eye open and lilts the corner of his mouth into a grin as the guy says, "So, how long have you been trying to quit?"
Frank takes another breath in, holding it longer than he probably should before letting it out again. "Four days, involuntarily."
"Ow. Longer than me though. Ever." He nudges Frank's hip with his shoe. "You pull that thing up here all by yourself?"
"Uh-huh." When the ash looks like it's going to collapse onto his face, Frank finally pulls the cigarette from his lips and flicks it onto the mattress next to him. "Fucking stairs."
"You live here?"
Frank has an incredible urge to say, 'No, I pushed the mattress up here for my health,' but shuts up because this guy is pretty hot now that he can think past his lack of smokes. Also, he gave him the smokes to think with, so. "Yeah. Just." He waves down the hall. "38B."
The guy's eyebrows raise. "New?"
He nods, making smoke rings the next time he breathes out. "Mmhm. Kicked out of my old place last week, the bastards," and he says it like he doesn't give a shit. He fucking loves cigarettes so much more than he thought he did.
"Sucks," the guy nods, not like he feels pity or anything, just like he knows what that feels like and maybe sympathizes a little. "You staying?"
Frank shrugs. "Unless I get some super fucking rich eccentric dude who'll put me up real nice." He grins and Pretty Woman flashes through his head briefly. He could so kick Julia Roberts' ass at that role. "Yeah, I'm sticking around for a while."
The guy nods again. "You need some help putting that thing in your apartment?"
Frank grunts as he sits up, shimmying off the mattress and rolling onto his feet, the springs creaking hideously at the sudden change in weight. The guy, he winces a little but leans down and hefts one side of the mattress up, waiting for Frank to take the other. When he does, they both grunt softly and shift forward, hitting the walls on either side of them over and over for lack of time coordination.
"By the way," the guy huffs, cigarette still firm between his lips, "M'Gerard."
Frank nods. "Frank," except he's holding his cigarette still, too, and it comes out sounding my like 'Frnk.'
"Cool." Gerard jerks his head a little, gesturing. "I live three doors down and across in 35A if you need another cigarette or something."
Frank grins, lopsided. "Dude, my favorite person ever."
Gerard snorts. "Not your eccentric rich dude or anything, but I got your fix."
"Way better." Frank snorts because he can't laugh without dropping his cigarette, and he'd honestly rather drop the mattress on his foot that that. "Way, way better."