Chickens,Crop Hops and Newbs (1/?)
Title: Chickens, Crop Hops and Newbs (1/?)
Author: pretty_paulie
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG for this chapter, overall NC-17
Disclaimer: This is fiction. Frank does not live on a farm as far as I know.
Summary: As a young boy growing up on a secluded mixed farm in rural Virginia, Frank had a thing for baby chicks. Yes, he knew that they would eventually develop into ugly, loud chickens, but he couldn’t help himself. He loved that they were all soft and small, with fluffy wings and adorable black eyes. He loved the way they waddled and they way they hopped awkwardly to him whenever he fed them in his family’s barn.
As a young boy growing up on a secluded mixed farm in rural Virginia, Frank had a thing for baby chicks. Yes, he knew that they would eventually develop into ugly, loud chickens, but he couldn’t help himself. He loved that they were all soft and small, with fluffy wings and adorable black eyes. He loved the way they waddled and they way they hopped awkwardly to him whenever he fed them in his family’s barn.
By far, chicks were his favourite animals (or birds, whatever, not like he cared about specifics). He could spend hour after hour petting their feathers and making one-sided conversations with them. He’d tell them how his day at school was or how upset he was because HE wasn’t going to the city for the weekend and that HE had to be stuck on the farm with his stupid parents and that how HE just wished that maybe one day his parents would get him a guitar.
He didn’t have many friends at school. Well, how could he? The population of the town was 1,100, mostly made of old folks over 65 years old. Frank wasn’t very interested in befriending any of his classmates either. There were about 25 kids in his grade, all who were just interested in country music, getting wasted on the weekends at random bush parties and trying to prove to the whole town that they weren't just country hicks by dressing in Abercrombie and Fitch and bragging about which university they’ll be attending upon leaving this hellhole.
In other words, the 17-year-old Frank did not fit in, especially with his multi-colour fauxhawk (boy, his mom FREAKED out). Nobody in this too-fucking-small town liked Black Flag or horror movies or could thrash on guitar (fiddle perhaps, but that’s just lame) or had read X-Men comics, so Frank decided he‘d better stick to hanging out with the baby chicks.
So he wasn’t too thrilled when Mr. Jeffrey Heistad, the town Mayor, approached him one day after school asking if Frank could perform some “little ditties” on his guitar at the town’s local “Crop Hop”, the town’s pathetic excuse for an actual ‘fair’. Of course Frank had to accept, since his mother insisted that he HAD to and plus, he’d be out of this stupid town soon, off to New York or somewhere that by definition DID NOT “suck”.
Frank didn’t really know any “little ditties” to perform for these old people and superficial preps. He decided just to write his own music and learn some less heavy stuff for the music newbs of the town (come on, they LISTENED to country). Maybe some Smashing Pumpkins or something kind of mellow. That’s mellow, right? He wouldn’t know. The newbs from this town probably would think that “Tonight Tonight” is too heavy.
“Stupid newbs,” he muttered as he hopped off the bus. Being the last kid to get off, the bus driver (who usually found Frank quite “strange”) bid Frank farewell by shouting out: “Frank, try not to hang out so much with those damned baby chickens. It’s goin’ to yer head, talkin’ about 'nudes’ and whatnot.”
“It’s NEWBS!” Frank turned to shout, dismayed to find that the bus was backing up along the gravel driveway. “Fuckin’ newb,” Frank muttered, kicking the gravel which lead to the two-story ivory farmhouse that was probably older than Frank’s grandparents. God, he couldn’t wait to get out of here… to meet real people, to play in real bands, to experience sex and drugs (well, he didn’t want to party with the preppy newbs that’s for sure), he just needed to leave. He had to get away from this damn farm that was miles away from civilization, except for that town and some Indian reserve close by.
He threw his book bag against the ugly rust-colored, badly painted fence that surrounded the house and decided to go check on the chicks. Man, he really needed to rant about the dumb newbs in this town.
Frank jogged to the tiny, white barn, only a few yards from the house, seeing the baby chickens run up to wired chicken coop fence to greet him.
“Sup Dudes?” Frank greeted the birds as he unlatched the door, sliding in quickly so that the baby birds could not escape. “I had a shitty day,” he commented, sitting on a milk crate, which he left there for his time with the birds. “Mayor Jeffrey Heistad wants me to play some music for the Crop Hop and I don’t know what the fuck to play for these newbs,” Frank reached down to stroke the chicks gathered around his feet. “I can’t wait to get out of here. I can just feel that I’ll make something of myself somewhere else, you know?” he asked, as the birds chirped happily. “I just want to make a difference and not have to try to fit in with those stupid-”
“FRANKIE!”
Frank stopped petting the birds, raising his head to the direction which his name was called from. “What?” Frank yelled back. He could see his mom’s head poke out of the open kitchen window.
“Get over here! I got some good news!”
Frank gently lifted the baby chicks off of his lap and leaped off the milk crate, slamming the chicken coop gate shut, almost knocking over a bird in the process.
As soon as he reached the house, his mom shouted, “We’re having some visitors next weekend. Ya know, on the day of the Crop Hop. You know my best girl friend from high school, Donna? Well, I invited her to bring her family down for the weekend since I haven’t seen her for...what? Four or Five years?” Frank’s mom smiled enthusiastically, wiping her hands in a dish towel.
Frank was not impressed. “You called me to the house to tell me that?” he asked sceptically, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, Frankie. You’ll get to socialise for once. Donna’s bringing her boys too.”
“What do you mean ‘socialise for once’?” Frank asked, hand on his hip trying to achieve a more aggressive stature which unfortunately left him looking very, very gay.
“Frankie, you just socialise with those chickens. It’s not normal….and neither is that hair of yours,” Frank’s mom swatted at Frank’s long raven bangs.
“WHY IS EVERYONE AGAINST ME AND THE BABY CHICKENS?” Frank shouted, waving his hands dramatically.
“Frankie, honey. Take a deep breath,” she motioned for him to leave, dish towel in hand. “Go listen to your heavy metal music to calm down.”
“It’s called punk, newb.” Frank groaned, slamming the door behind him.
A/N: Should I continue, Y/N?
next chapter
Author: pretty_paulie
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG for this chapter, overall NC-17
Disclaimer: This is fiction. Frank does not live on a farm as far as I know.
Summary: As a young boy growing up on a secluded mixed farm in rural Virginia, Frank had a thing for baby chicks. Yes, he knew that they would eventually develop into ugly, loud chickens, but he couldn’t help himself. He loved that they were all soft and small, with fluffy wings and adorable black eyes. He loved the way they waddled and they way they hopped awkwardly to him whenever he fed them in his family’s barn.
As a young boy growing up on a secluded mixed farm in rural Virginia, Frank had a thing for baby chicks. Yes, he knew that they would eventually develop into ugly, loud chickens, but he couldn’t help himself. He loved that they were all soft and small, with fluffy wings and adorable black eyes. He loved the way they waddled and they way they hopped awkwardly to him whenever he fed them in his family’s barn.
By far, chicks were his favourite animals (or birds, whatever, not like he cared about specifics). He could spend hour after hour petting their feathers and making one-sided conversations with them. He’d tell them how his day at school was or how upset he was because HE wasn’t going to the city for the weekend and that HE had to be stuck on the farm with his stupid parents and that how HE just wished that maybe one day his parents would get him a guitar.
He didn’t have many friends at school. Well, how could he? The population of the town was 1,100, mostly made of old folks over 65 years old. Frank wasn’t very interested in befriending any of his classmates either. There were about 25 kids in his grade, all who were just interested in country music, getting wasted on the weekends at random bush parties and trying to prove to the whole town that they weren't just country hicks by dressing in Abercrombie and Fitch and bragging about which university they’ll be attending upon leaving this hellhole.
In other words, the 17-year-old Frank did not fit in, especially with his multi-colour fauxhawk (boy, his mom FREAKED out). Nobody in this too-fucking-small town liked Black Flag or horror movies or could thrash on guitar (fiddle perhaps, but that’s just lame) or had read X-Men comics, so Frank decided he‘d better stick to hanging out with the baby chicks.
So he wasn’t too thrilled when Mr. Jeffrey Heistad, the town Mayor, approached him one day after school asking if Frank could perform some “little ditties” on his guitar at the town’s local “Crop Hop”, the town’s pathetic excuse for an actual ‘fair’. Of course Frank had to accept, since his mother insisted that he HAD to and plus, he’d be out of this stupid town soon, off to New York or somewhere that by definition DID NOT “suck”.
Frank didn’t really know any “little ditties” to perform for these old people and superficial preps. He decided just to write his own music and learn some less heavy stuff for the music newbs of the town (come on, they LISTENED to country). Maybe some Smashing Pumpkins or something kind of mellow. That’s mellow, right? He wouldn’t know. The newbs from this town probably would think that “Tonight Tonight” is too heavy.
“Stupid newbs,” he muttered as he hopped off the bus. Being the last kid to get off, the bus driver (who usually found Frank quite “strange”) bid Frank farewell by shouting out: “Frank, try not to hang out so much with those damned baby chickens. It’s goin’ to yer head, talkin’ about 'nudes’ and whatnot.”
“It’s NEWBS!” Frank turned to shout, dismayed to find that the bus was backing up along the gravel driveway. “Fuckin’ newb,” Frank muttered, kicking the gravel which lead to the two-story ivory farmhouse that was probably older than Frank’s grandparents. God, he couldn’t wait to get out of here… to meet real people, to play in real bands, to experience sex and drugs (well, he didn’t want to party with the preppy newbs that’s for sure), he just needed to leave. He had to get away from this damn farm that was miles away from civilization, except for that town and some Indian reserve close by.
He threw his book bag against the ugly rust-colored, badly painted fence that surrounded the house and decided to go check on the chicks. Man, he really needed to rant about the dumb newbs in this town.
Frank jogged to the tiny, white barn, only a few yards from the house, seeing the baby chickens run up to wired chicken coop fence to greet him.
“Sup Dudes?” Frank greeted the birds as he unlatched the door, sliding in quickly so that the baby birds could not escape. “I had a shitty day,” he commented, sitting on a milk crate, which he left there for his time with the birds. “Mayor Jeffrey Heistad wants me to play some music for the Crop Hop and I don’t know what the fuck to play for these newbs,” Frank reached down to stroke the chicks gathered around his feet. “I can’t wait to get out of here. I can just feel that I’ll make something of myself somewhere else, you know?” he asked, as the birds chirped happily. “I just want to make a difference and not have to try to fit in with those stupid-”
“FRANKIE!”
Frank stopped petting the birds, raising his head to the direction which his name was called from. “What?” Frank yelled back. He could see his mom’s head poke out of the open kitchen window.
“Get over here! I got some good news!”
Frank gently lifted the baby chicks off of his lap and leaped off the milk crate, slamming the chicken coop gate shut, almost knocking over a bird in the process.
As soon as he reached the house, his mom shouted, “We’re having some visitors next weekend. Ya know, on the day of the Crop Hop. You know my best girl friend from high school, Donna? Well, I invited her to bring her family down for the weekend since I haven’t seen her for...what? Four or Five years?” Frank’s mom smiled enthusiastically, wiping her hands in a dish towel.
Frank was not impressed. “You called me to the house to tell me that?” he asked sceptically, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, Frankie. You’ll get to socialise for once. Donna’s bringing her boys too.”
“What do you mean ‘socialise for once’?” Frank asked, hand on his hip trying to achieve a more aggressive stature which unfortunately left him looking very, very gay.
“Frankie, you just socialise with those chickens. It’s not normal….and neither is that hair of yours,” Frank’s mom swatted at Frank’s long raven bangs.
“WHY IS EVERYONE AGAINST ME AND THE BABY CHICKENS?” Frank shouted, waving his hands dramatically.
“Frankie, honey. Take a deep breath,” she motioned for him to leave, dish towel in hand. “Go listen to your heavy metal music to calm down.”
“It’s called punk, newb.” Frank groaned, slamming the door behind him.
A/N: Should I continue, Y/N?
next chapter