Ficlet: "Maps" (Frank/Gerard, PG-13)
Title: "Maps"
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Frank and Gerard, lost in Moscow. (~1600 words)
Notes: IDK. ciel_vert was bored at work and needed entertaining and prompted me with this. It - happened. *hands* Quick and dirty and totally unqualified, to boot. :D?
*
Frank's map is upside down - Problem #1. Frank's map is in Cyrillic - Problem #2, and maybe a bigger one. Gerard can't tell anymore. In fact, he can't really tell much, apart from the fact that he's still in Russia, standing with Frank under a relic of Lenin's outstretched finger in the middle of a square in Moscow and seriously, Lenin is pointing and laughing at them.
"Frank, give up, dude. We're totally lost."
"Shut your trap, I've almost got it."
Gerard sighs and taps his foot. His head is itching and his gum is getting stale and they keep getting dirty looks from old ladies in fucking handkerchiefs on their heads, which is a place he never thought he'd be. Fucking Russia. It looks like Detroit.
Frank seems totally into it, which is bizarre. He's got his CCCP t-shirt on with light sweat stains around the pits (seriously, who knew Russia got so fucking hot in June?) and he's balancing his phrasebook, his dictionary, and the map of Moscow in his grasp. He's been at it for half an hour.
"Frank. Brian told us to be back in an hour when we left." And if there is one person in this whole scenario Gerard doesn't want to piss off, it's a sleep-deprived and jet-lagged Schechter.
"God, Gee, where's your sense of adventure?" Frank mumbles without looking up.
"Back with the Roman alphabet," Gerard grumbles and walks until he can peer over Frank's shoulder at all the paraphernalia. It made more sense when he was looking at it upside down. "This shit makes no fucking sense, how can we have walked in circles and still wound up an hour out of the way?"
Frank mumbles something that definitely doesn't sound English under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Zatknis'," Frank repeats loudly, then laughs. "Hey, I did it! I totally know Russian, man!"
"What the hell did you say to me?" Gerard frowns and follows a line in the phrasebook with his finger, arm hooked around Frank's shoulder. He tries to sound it out but none of the words on the page resemble whatever the fuck Frank had just said.
But that's all right, because Frank tells him himself. "I told you to shut up! Dude, score!"
Gerard sighs and pushes him away. "Fuck you, I thought you were trying to figure out where the fuck we are, not learn to fucking cuss at me."
Frank doesn't even lose his stride at the push, he just turns nimbly and grins up at Gerard through his bangs. His hair is shiny with sweat and he looks happier than Gerard has seen him in months. He can't help grinning back and sidling closer to see if maybe Frank's joy at being totally lost in the middle of Russia will permeate his skin and perk him up.
"What if I said something nice to you in Russian, instead?" Frank asks, and his voice is low now, and mischievous. Gerard shrugs but doesn't step back. Frank cradles his books and smooshed-up map in his arms and takes the final step towards Gerard, his head tipped back. "Ya tebia liubliu," he whispers and while Gerard has less Russian in him than Chinese, something about the way Frank's eyes smile at him, the turn of his head, makes him get it. He presses closer in and wraps his hands around Frank's hips.
"Frankie -"
"Faggots," someone mutters next to them in clear, if totally accented, English, and Frank snaps his head to look at them. Gerard doesn't want to, but follows his gaze as they tear apart. Worse than getting themselves lost right now would be to wind up in the Russian slammer for starting a fight, and Frank is primed for it.
"Zatknis'!" he yells and Gerard rolls his eyes even as he tries to push Frank back behind him, and the skinhead (who knew Russia had fucking skinheads?) just bares his teeth at them and spits on Frank's shoes. Frank struggles in Gerard’s grasp, but the skinhead just mumbles something in Russian and then turns and stalks off, humming a Commie-sounding tune.
Frank is still vibrating, but at least he isn't running after the asshole and getting the shit beat out of him. Gerard pulls him in until Frank is facing him and sighs. "Frankie, don't fucking do that again, he could have fucked you up." Words are useless, but he's gotta try. It's only a matter of time.
"Yeah, well, he's a fucking douchebag, I couldn't just - you know?"
Gerard looks around at all the people passing them by, the old ladies in tweed skirts (in June), the leggy girls in denim minis, the worn-down middle aged dudes with male-pattern baldness, all of them foreign and not theirs. He looks back at Frank. "This isn't Jersey, Frankie. This shit is fucking real."
Frank shrugs him off. "I heard from this dude last night that they're trying for another Pride parade this year," he says matter-of-factly.
Gerard frowns and scratches an itch on his hand. "Where did you hear that? Also, what fucking dude?" Is Frank just walking around the goddamned Soviet Union wearing an "I'M A HOMOSEXUAL, ASK ME HOW!" button?
Frank’s defensive. "What? Last night, after the show, this techie mentioned it."
"Techie? Was he wearing a fucking pride flag?" Gerard can't believe it. What the fuck was Frank thinking?
Frank just frowns at him like he's a crazy person. "He just said he and his boyfriend were planning on taking the train to Moscow in August, seeing if it happens. It's been shut down every other time, you know? They just keep fucking trying."
Gerard is acutely aware of how close they're standing, of the line of sweat running down his spine. He's itchy everywhere, but he can't move. He's rooted to the spot. "Frankie -"
"I just." Frank breaks off and looks down at their shoes. "Aren't you - I mean. This place is fucking different, you know? And we're all about making a difference, so - why aren't we? Why can't we?"
Gerard feels like he's missing a huge piece of a puzzle, or maybe his brain. Nothing is connecting as it should be and the sun is getting unbearably bright. "What? How would we make a difference? By getting beat up by KGB skinheads?"
"KGB doesn't operate with skinheads," Frank answers irritably. "And I mean by showing it's fucking wrong to call tourists faggots. Or calling anyone fucking faggots." Frank has looked up again and there's that expression, the one that makes Gerard want to run and hide and cover Frank's body with his own all at the same time.
He can't do either, but he steps away and runs a sweaty palm over his face. He can smell himself. Maybe it's time for a shower, but he hasn't tried one of those in this timezone yet. "Frankie, we're of no use to anyone out here, right now. Look at us, we're fucking lost."
"Well, maybe we don't have to be," Frank mumbles and clutches his books to his chest.
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Shut up. It's just. I. I fucking hate this."
Gerard understands. He hates it, too. Tomorrow, they're flying out and playing Italy in two days. This will be a blip on their radar, but that techie and his boyfriend are still going to be up in St. Petersburg, ready to get beat up at a moment's notice, apparently. "I know," Gerard finally says and nods, scuffing his toes on the ground of the park. "It fucking sucks."
Frank doesn't say anything for a while, just takes out the map and unfolds it again. "There's gotta be a way to get back to the fucking hotel, I mean, it's, like, right next to the fucking Red Square."
Gerard tips his head until he's watching the map at the same angle. He follows the line of Frank's finger across the endless loops of the city. "Where's the helpful "YOU ARE HERE" red dot, huh?"
"Right the fuck behind you."
Gerard yelps and whips around. Brian's expression is pretty close to murderous, but it's also kind of the best thing Gerard has ever seen. "Brian! You found us!" he beams.
"Yeah. Maybe I need to put you two on a leash at this point," he answers, his voice nearly a growl. Gerard loves him so much. Frank giggles next to him, and Gerard feels his shoulders loosen a bit under his skin.
"Sure, you could do that. Or you could, like, provide us with bilingual maps," Gerard offers as they start off after Brian, arms bumping each other’s, Frank's map crinkling.
"Yeah, or we could get those, like, medical alert bracelets, or whatever!" Frank pipes up. "With an emergency call button! They make those, right?"
Gerard, who has no fucking idea, nods enthusiastically. "Totally! But I think we just need those chips with a GPS tracking device, like in movies - Where On Earth is My Chemical Romance?"
Brian doesn't say anything as he leads them out of the park and onto the boulevard. Frank stumbles next to Gerard as he looks around, his hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks. Gerard wants to reach out and scrape it away, tuck it behind his ears. Frank's hair's never been this long. He doesn't, though, just watches as Frank gapes like a little kid.
They'll come back here, he thinks. They'll come back when they can look around and maybe read up on Russian that doesn't involve cursing at skinheads. For now, though, he bumps Frank's shoulder on purpose and trudges on over the dirty asphalt, sweat trickling down his back and the palms of his hands itching for something he doesn't quite know how to hold.
*
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Frank and Gerard, lost in Moscow. (~1600 words)
Notes: IDK. ciel_vert was bored at work and needed entertaining and prompted me with this. It - happened. *hands* Quick and dirty and totally unqualified, to boot. :D?
*
Frank's map is upside down - Problem #1. Frank's map is in Cyrillic - Problem #2, and maybe a bigger one. Gerard can't tell anymore. In fact, he can't really tell much, apart from the fact that he's still in Russia, standing with Frank under a relic of Lenin's outstretched finger in the middle of a square in Moscow and seriously, Lenin is pointing and laughing at them.
"Frank, give up, dude. We're totally lost."
"Shut your trap, I've almost got it."
Gerard sighs and taps his foot. His head is itching and his gum is getting stale and they keep getting dirty looks from old ladies in fucking handkerchiefs on their heads, which is a place he never thought he'd be. Fucking Russia. It looks like Detroit.
Frank seems totally into it, which is bizarre. He's got his CCCP t-shirt on with light sweat stains around the pits (seriously, who knew Russia got so fucking hot in June?) and he's balancing his phrasebook, his dictionary, and the map of Moscow in his grasp. He's been at it for half an hour.
"Frank. Brian told us to be back in an hour when we left." And if there is one person in this whole scenario Gerard doesn't want to piss off, it's a sleep-deprived and jet-lagged Schechter.
"God, Gee, where's your sense of adventure?" Frank mumbles without looking up.
"Back with the Roman alphabet," Gerard grumbles and walks until he can peer over Frank's shoulder at all the paraphernalia. It made more sense when he was looking at it upside down. "This shit makes no fucking sense, how can we have walked in circles and still wound up an hour out of the way?"
Frank mumbles something that definitely doesn't sound English under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Zatknis'," Frank repeats loudly, then laughs. "Hey, I did it! I totally know Russian, man!"
"What the hell did you say to me?" Gerard frowns and follows a line in the phrasebook with his finger, arm hooked around Frank's shoulder. He tries to sound it out but none of the words on the page resemble whatever the fuck Frank had just said.
But that's all right, because Frank tells him himself. "I told you to shut up! Dude, score!"
Gerard sighs and pushes him away. "Fuck you, I thought you were trying to figure out where the fuck we are, not learn to fucking cuss at me."
Frank doesn't even lose his stride at the push, he just turns nimbly and grins up at Gerard through his bangs. His hair is shiny with sweat and he looks happier than Gerard has seen him in months. He can't help grinning back and sidling closer to see if maybe Frank's joy at being totally lost in the middle of Russia will permeate his skin and perk him up.
"What if I said something nice to you in Russian, instead?" Frank asks, and his voice is low now, and mischievous. Gerard shrugs but doesn't step back. Frank cradles his books and smooshed-up map in his arms and takes the final step towards Gerard, his head tipped back. "Ya tebia liubliu," he whispers and while Gerard has less Russian in him than Chinese, something about the way Frank's eyes smile at him, the turn of his head, makes him get it. He presses closer in and wraps his hands around Frank's hips.
"Frankie -"
"Faggots," someone mutters next to them in clear, if totally accented, English, and Frank snaps his head to look at them. Gerard doesn't want to, but follows his gaze as they tear apart. Worse than getting themselves lost right now would be to wind up in the Russian slammer for starting a fight, and Frank is primed for it.
"Zatknis'!" he yells and Gerard rolls his eyes even as he tries to push Frank back behind him, and the skinhead (who knew Russia had fucking skinheads?) just bares his teeth at them and spits on Frank's shoes. Frank struggles in Gerard’s grasp, but the skinhead just mumbles something in Russian and then turns and stalks off, humming a Commie-sounding tune.
Frank is still vibrating, but at least he isn't running after the asshole and getting the shit beat out of him. Gerard pulls him in until Frank is facing him and sighs. "Frankie, don't fucking do that again, he could have fucked you up." Words are useless, but he's gotta try. It's only a matter of time.
"Yeah, well, he's a fucking douchebag, I couldn't just - you know?"
Gerard looks around at all the people passing them by, the old ladies in tweed skirts (in June), the leggy girls in denim minis, the worn-down middle aged dudes with male-pattern baldness, all of them foreign and not theirs. He looks back at Frank. "This isn't Jersey, Frankie. This shit is fucking real."
Frank shrugs him off. "I heard from this dude last night that they're trying for another Pride parade this year," he says matter-of-factly.
Gerard frowns and scratches an itch on his hand. "Where did you hear that? Also, what fucking dude?" Is Frank just walking around the goddamned Soviet Union wearing an "I'M A HOMOSEXUAL, ASK ME HOW!" button?
Frank’s defensive. "What? Last night, after the show, this techie mentioned it."
"Techie? Was he wearing a fucking pride flag?" Gerard can't believe it. What the fuck was Frank thinking?
Frank just frowns at him like he's a crazy person. "He just said he and his boyfriend were planning on taking the train to Moscow in August, seeing if it happens. It's been shut down every other time, you know? They just keep fucking trying."
Gerard is acutely aware of how close they're standing, of the line of sweat running down his spine. He's itchy everywhere, but he can't move. He's rooted to the spot. "Frankie -"
"I just." Frank breaks off and looks down at their shoes. "Aren't you - I mean. This place is fucking different, you know? And we're all about making a difference, so - why aren't we? Why can't we?"
Gerard feels like he's missing a huge piece of a puzzle, or maybe his brain. Nothing is connecting as it should be and the sun is getting unbearably bright. "What? How would we make a difference? By getting beat up by KGB skinheads?"
"KGB doesn't operate with skinheads," Frank answers irritably. "And I mean by showing it's fucking wrong to call tourists faggots. Or calling anyone fucking faggots." Frank has looked up again and there's that expression, the one that makes Gerard want to run and hide and cover Frank's body with his own all at the same time.
He can't do either, but he steps away and runs a sweaty palm over his face. He can smell himself. Maybe it's time for a shower, but he hasn't tried one of those in this timezone yet. "Frankie, we're of no use to anyone out here, right now. Look at us, we're fucking lost."
"Well, maybe we don't have to be," Frank mumbles and clutches his books to his chest.
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Shut up. It's just. I. I fucking hate this."
Gerard understands. He hates it, too. Tomorrow, they're flying out and playing Italy in two days. This will be a blip on their radar, but that techie and his boyfriend are still going to be up in St. Petersburg, ready to get beat up at a moment's notice, apparently. "I know," Gerard finally says and nods, scuffing his toes on the ground of the park. "It fucking sucks."
Frank doesn't say anything for a while, just takes out the map and unfolds it again. "There's gotta be a way to get back to the fucking hotel, I mean, it's, like, right next to the fucking Red Square."
Gerard tips his head until he's watching the map at the same angle. He follows the line of Frank's finger across the endless loops of the city. "Where's the helpful "YOU ARE HERE" red dot, huh?"
"Right the fuck behind you."
Gerard yelps and whips around. Brian's expression is pretty close to murderous, but it's also kind of the best thing Gerard has ever seen. "Brian! You found us!" he beams.
"Yeah. Maybe I need to put you two on a leash at this point," he answers, his voice nearly a growl. Gerard loves him so much. Frank giggles next to him, and Gerard feels his shoulders loosen a bit under his skin.
"Sure, you could do that. Or you could, like, provide us with bilingual maps," Gerard offers as they start off after Brian, arms bumping each other’s, Frank's map crinkling.
"Yeah, or we could get those, like, medical alert bracelets, or whatever!" Frank pipes up. "With an emergency call button! They make those, right?"
Gerard, who has no fucking idea, nods enthusiastically. "Totally! But I think we just need those chips with a GPS tracking device, like in movies - Where On Earth is My Chemical Romance?"
Brian doesn't say anything as he leads them out of the park and onto the boulevard. Frank stumbles next to Gerard as he looks around, his hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks. Gerard wants to reach out and scrape it away, tuck it behind his ears. Frank's hair's never been this long. He doesn't, though, just watches as Frank gapes like a little kid.
They'll come back here, he thinks. They'll come back when they can look around and maybe read up on Russian that doesn't involve cursing at skinheads. For now, though, he bumps Frank's shoulder on purpose and trudges on over the dirty asphalt, sweat trickling down his back and the palms of his hands itching for something he doesn't quite know how to hold.
*