(no subject)
Title: Waltz In A Flat.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Ray Toro/Gerard Way or Usher Raymond/Gerard Way. Doesn't really matter, anyway.
All I ask for is quiet, my poppy-headed lover. I will come get you tonight. I’m a cartographer of moonbeams that fall into your room and get sticky in your hair, so don’t worry about me. I’ve got a doctorate in quiet.
The Cadillac is as white as our fictional wedding day and I’m sick of parking in the shadows, but when can we do when it’s 1982 and we’re heading off cross country: just two gorgeous young men with a tape-deck and some money. What can we do when we’re in love.
First there are alarms to disable: the motion detector on your window and the general one for your house. I’ve got an M.D. in disabling shit. When I do our Morse code signal and you come to the glass your eyes are all sleepy and you’re dressed all in white, even though you knew tonight was take off. It smells like swamp coolers and static.You shove a faded floral suitcase through the bars between us and I stash it under the driver’s seat. You’re twirling your hair; a lollipop dangles from between your lips; you climb up through the skylight and I catch you from below. You kiss me like it’s Saturday and you just met the queen.
This is Los Angeles, but I don’t know; the weather feels too perfect as it blows your black nails dry. With both your arms extended, you are so victorious. You could be Nixon on a holy day, if Nixon looked like Sofia Loren and had South Sicilian eyes. You could be Queen Victoria. And shit, it is a big deal that I managed to extract you from that Hades of a suburb and those bitches who’re your parents. It’s a big deal that I have one long hand splayed across your thigh and one gripping the steering wheel, because it’s midnight and Bowie’s on the sound system and if I fucked you right now in the midst of this hot highway no one would ever know.
Our first stop at a gas station outside of Barstowe reminds me of the night we met at the church on 24th street. You think I don’t remember. I remember everything. It was my baby cousin’s christening, with a lace-and-cream waltz party to follow, and you were there to volunteer, you said. Told my mother, actually. She was so impressed by your clean hands and soft demeanor that she brought me over to meet you, the ribbon on her glove catching my watch so that it tore, and you smiled under your cloak of tawdry eyelashes.
You’re smiling like that now.
We’re not sure where we’re going, quite, but you say you’ve always wanted to swim in the Great Lakes and fuck in the South. I’d like to see New York. We agree to start in San Francisco, because we’ve neither of us been there, ever.
You slip in Tony Bennett. It’s all the music you brought.
The loveliness of Paris seems somehow sadly gay....the glory that was Rome was of another day.
Here is the sunset arching across the foggy bay, like someone’s final prayer. Here we are undressing by the freeway. The rope that binds your fingers to your palms strings me up into a pitchy rosary as rosemary oceans pound inside of us.
I’ve been terribly alone and forgotten in Manhattan....I’m going home to my city by the bay.
We are baptized in the West coast and now we will go north.
I left my heart in San Francisco.
We are passing San Francisco.
Rating: R.
Pairing: Ray Toro/Gerard Way or Usher Raymond/Gerard Way. Doesn't really matter, anyway.
All I ask for is quiet, my poppy-headed lover. I will come get you tonight. I’m a cartographer of moonbeams that fall into your room and get sticky in your hair, so don’t worry about me. I’ve got a doctorate in quiet.
The Cadillac is as white as our fictional wedding day and I’m sick of parking in the shadows, but when can we do when it’s 1982 and we’re heading off cross country: just two gorgeous young men with a tape-deck and some money. What can we do when we’re in love.
First there are alarms to disable: the motion detector on your window and the general one for your house. I’ve got an M.D. in disabling shit. When I do our Morse code signal and you come to the glass your eyes are all sleepy and you’re dressed all in white, even though you knew tonight was take off. It smells like swamp coolers and static.You shove a faded floral suitcase through the bars between us and I stash it under the driver’s seat. You’re twirling your hair; a lollipop dangles from between your lips; you climb up through the skylight and I catch you from below. You kiss me like it’s Saturday and you just met the queen.
This is Los Angeles, but I don’t know; the weather feels too perfect as it blows your black nails dry. With both your arms extended, you are so victorious. You could be Nixon on a holy day, if Nixon looked like Sofia Loren and had South Sicilian eyes. You could be Queen Victoria. And shit, it is a big deal that I managed to extract you from that Hades of a suburb and those bitches who’re your parents. It’s a big deal that I have one long hand splayed across your thigh and one gripping the steering wheel, because it’s midnight and Bowie’s on the sound system and if I fucked you right now in the midst of this hot highway no one would ever know.
Our first stop at a gas station outside of Barstowe reminds me of the night we met at the church on 24th street. You think I don’t remember. I remember everything. It was my baby cousin’s christening, with a lace-and-cream waltz party to follow, and you were there to volunteer, you said. Told my mother, actually. She was so impressed by your clean hands and soft demeanor that she brought me over to meet you, the ribbon on her glove catching my watch so that it tore, and you smiled under your cloak of tawdry eyelashes.
You’re smiling like that now.
We’re not sure where we’re going, quite, but you say you’ve always wanted to swim in the Great Lakes and fuck in the South. I’d like to see New York. We agree to start in San Francisco, because we’ve neither of us been there, ever.
You slip in Tony Bennett. It’s all the music you brought.
The loveliness of Paris seems somehow sadly gay....the glory that was Rome was of another day.
Here is the sunset arching across the foggy bay, like someone’s final prayer. Here we are undressing by the freeway. The rope that binds your fingers to your palms strings me up into a pitchy rosary as rosemary oceans pound inside of us.
I’ve been terribly alone and forgotten in Manhattan....I’m going home to my city by the bay.
We are baptized in the West coast and now we will go north.
I left my heart in San Francisco.
We are passing San Francisco.