(no subject)
Title: Spanish Bombs.
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Ray Toro/Bob Bryar.
Summary: They are actors.
We are actors. Behind trappings of silk foliage, I raise my ductape lance and you dodge wiith the expertise of a pansy, well-bred prince. You always play the hero.
The teacher thinks you’re Broadway material, even though you tell me in a secluded dressing room that all you really want is to play music like your father. Percussion. But you sing too well for that. I sympathize and take you out for ice cream so that I can watch your hands at work. Heavy, long, and lined, the right one grips while the left works on the syrup bottle. Marry me. Stay the same.
“You know, Ray,” you’ve always said, “the stage is not in your head.”
The curtains are as plush and scarlet as parts of the hickey you gave me freshman year on that couch behind the green room. The air pushes them apart like my hands would your thighs, if you’d agree to go to prom with me.
“And as dawn pencils itself in across the horizon of her face,
I drain our last kiss and prepare to die with grace.”
Your closing lines negate the world around us. Especially my part. Rice grains and roses fall at your feet.
“Bob,” they cry, they chant like we’re at war---your high school parent fans versus my subtle frame, with you their stoic figurehead. They pin favors to your suit. Wave banners of your face. The perpetual villian and me realize that we are one and strip a cigarette of sustenence in the darkness of the left wing.
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Ray Toro/Bob Bryar.
Summary: They are actors.
We are actors. Behind trappings of silk foliage, I raise my ductape lance and you dodge wiith the expertise of a pansy, well-bred prince. You always play the hero.
The teacher thinks you’re Broadway material, even though you tell me in a secluded dressing room that all you really want is to play music like your father. Percussion. But you sing too well for that. I sympathize and take you out for ice cream so that I can watch your hands at work. Heavy, long, and lined, the right one grips while the left works on the syrup bottle. Marry me. Stay the same.
“You know, Ray,” you’ve always said, “the stage is not in your head.”
The curtains are as plush and scarlet as parts of the hickey you gave me freshman year on that couch behind the green room. The air pushes them apart like my hands would your thighs, if you’d agree to go to prom with me.
“And as dawn pencils itself in across the horizon of her face,
I drain our last kiss and prepare to die with grace.”
Your closing lines negate the world around us. Especially my part. Rice grains and roses fall at your feet.
“Bob,” they cry, they chant like we’re at war---your high school parent fans versus my subtle frame, with you their stoic figurehead. They pin favors to your suit. Wave banners of your face. The perpetual villian and me realize that we are one and strip a cigarette of sustenence in the darkness of the left wing.