fic meme parts one through four
done for the pairing, color, verb, smell meme. these are actually the pieces i am most proud of to date. there will be more later as i finish the remaining memes.
for hello___manda
-ray/gerard
-white
-dance
-jellybean
The first girlfriend Gerard had, Amy, had short curly brown hair and big brown eyes and was an art geek. He was a senior and she was a junior, and Gerard’s mother was ecstatic. She invited Amy over for dinner, and Gerard was almost offended because it seemed to him that his mother was thanking the girl for dating him. But she was invited so she came over, and they ate dinner, and afterwards they went downstairs to his bedroom and watched Night of the Living Dead.
Their clammy palms were pressed together, as was to be expected; their fingers loosely laced. And about halfway through the movie, Amy laid her head on his shoulder. And he could smell her shampoo and perfume; sweet like a candy shop, like jelly beans. Achy and smothering. It made his eyes and nose hurt, and his palm was too hot against hers, so he made some excuse to get her out. And she went, with a frown on her face.
And in his panic, he calls Ray. They are sort of almost best friends, Gerard thinks, so he doesn’t feel bad calling him so late on a night when most teenagers are partying. Ray and he are not most teenagers though, and Ray picks up the phone on the second ring, and agrees to go over to Gerard’s house.
When Gerard answers the door, Ray’s t-shirt does a fair impersonation of a flash bulb, momentarily blinding him. It is fresh, just-bleached white, and against his tan, it is even more striking. Gerard stares at it, mouth open, and it makes him glance at the pale underside of his arm, to compare. He steps aside to let Ray in and they go downstairs where it still smells like candy; like bubblegum and coconut jellybeans, exactly like it, Gerard thinks to himself as he watches Ray’s shirt move in the dankness of his room. The overhead lightbulb had burnt out days ago, so the only light is coming from a desk lamp, making everything more of an idea than an actual material thing. Ray asks him what he was so upset about, and Gerard remembers. He remembers the dinner and her clammy palm and the way her perfume made him sick to his stomach. He thinks he can still smell it, but surely it should’ve been gone by this time.
Ray presses play on Gerard’s stereo and grins widely as Iron Maiden fills the room, and he nods along while he listens. And Gerard, he’s more mumbling to himself than anything, staring at the way Ray’s shirt contrasts against his stomach when he stretches. And it feels like something snaps in his chest, and he is yelling, asking Ray why it has to be the way it does. He gestures to encompass himself, Ray, the room, maybe the entire universe. And Ray, he just walks over to Gerard and wraps one arm around his waist, flinging the other over his shoulders. Gerard is aware of the crisp smell of the bleach replacing the sweet scent she had left behind, and that they are swaying, arms around eachother. Like a slowdance. And Gerard looks down at the white of his arm blending into the white of Ray’s shirt and is wholly amazed that they are dancing. Or as close to dancing as either of them has been thus far. And they are both smiling, though neither of them can see it.
for sympathy_martyr
-pete/frank/mikey
-crimson
-squeal
-vanilla
Pete knows he is setting himself up for disappointment. He knows this is just some fun; an activity to alleviate boredom in the between-tour lull. He knows he should be laughing at the squeal of bedsprings (he can’t because it is too intimate, too intrusive) or the squeal of tires outside (he can’t because the sound is how he feels). He knows that the crimson tinge to the skin and lips on his; the blood right below the surface, as if it wants to touch him like the vessels carrying it, shouldn’t enrapture him like it does. He knows the smell of vanilla shampoo, sweet and making the air he breathes heavy, masking the saltiness in his mouth, it shouldn’t make his chest ache. The contrast of their three bodies, the difference in the skin with its beauty marks and scars and ink - it should be something to be briefly praised and then forgotten, but he can’t.
He can hardly act for staring. He doesn’t move until he has hands directing him: Mikey’s on his shoulders, Frank’s on his waist. They both lean in on either side of him, and he would cry from the perfection in the way they fit together, but he seems to be silenced by words he can’t or won’t say.
And afterwards, insomniac that he is, he won’t sleep. The air is cloying; like eating cotton candy at the beach - it should be perfect but it knots his stomach. He is riveted by the two hands entwined in the hollow of his hip. His arm is thrown over Mikey’s chest, and the disparity of their skin makes him choke. Frank’s leg wrapped around his, flesh tugging at his, makes him shudder. Whether it is good or bad, he doesn’t know. He rarely does.
He is acutely aware of the sun beginning to rise behind the blinds, and it makes him feel like an intruder to witness it. This should be perfect and he has managed to ruin it. The temperature in the room is rising and Pete can feel his hope and bitterness in the film beginning to cover his too-tight skin.
He knows the way Frank and Mikey look at eachother. And because he knows this, he knows this isn’t going to happen again. When something is perfect you don’t bring an outside factor into it; it knocks the entire balance off. So, knowing he is a catalyst and always will be, he pulls his pants on. He tosses a shirt over himself and ties his shoes and makes sure that the men he is leaving are covered by the blanket. He writes them a note.
He knows it could say “I love you both, and you are so in love with eachother that you don’t see it, but that’s ok, as long as I know that love can exist.”
Instead, it says “Thank you.”
He knows they will know what he means.
for grey_willow
-frank/mikey
-grey
-procrastinate
-rain
Every day in Jersey is grey. The seasons and weather are of no consequence; the entire state is permanently muted from the toxic blanket that covers it. The houses seem to be coated in grime even when they’re freshly lacquered. Nevermind the concrete and metal giants towering over everything. Mikey thinks that Jersey is one big industrial accident waiting to happen. He is probably right. But on this particular day, he thinks it’s not that bad.
He and Frank are loitering in some nondescript playground, smoking cigarettes and not talking. They have gotten to that point; they can just sit and not have to say anything. Mikey can’t decide whether that makes him happy or horrifies him.
So they are sitting. And Frank is sucking on his cigarette, staring at nothing. Definitely not staring at Mikey. And he is blowing phantoms into the sky to mingle with the rain beginning to drizzle half-heartedly from the haze. Mikey wrinkles his nose as a fat drop splatters onto his glasses. He sighs, he hates the decaying smell that rain leaves. Now Frank is looking at him, thinking. Mikey knows he is thinking because after almost a year of living with him, he knows that Frank raises his left eyebrow and pushes at his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue when he thinks. So he looks back, smiling wryly.
“You want to hear something funny?” Frank says and Mikey knows it isn’t a question. “The main reason I moved in with you is so I would have an excuse not to live with her,” Now Frank has that same half-smile ghosting over his mouth; bemused. Mikey is not so much shocked as almost kind of flattered. He has never been used as a procrastination tactic before. He looks down at his cigarette, burned down to the filter. He steals Frank’s from his hand and draws on it, deeply.
“And?” He asks. Frank’s cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, blocking his speech and making him sound like some sort of gangster or cowboy. And Frank, he just stands up and takes his cigarette back, crushes it under his toe. Then he leans down and presses his mouth against Mikey’s bottom lip, gently. Mikey is not quite sure if he reacts to it or not, but when Frank pulls back, his smile is a little more solid. Less of a ghost.
“And now, I miss you when I’m with her,” And Mikey wants to yell “Then leave her!” but it seems he’s forgotten how to form words. So he stands up with his hands in his pockets and kisses Frank. His lips taste more strongly of nicotine when he pulls away and licks them, but that’s it. No special taste, just a strengthening of something that was already there. And maybe the grass is greener now, the bricks redder. They turn back home, and all Mikey can think about is Frank breathing out grey, not saying the things that need to be said.
for fortuitously
-ray/frank
-purple
-mask or hide
-burning plastic
Warped tour in Arizona has a bizarre smell of burnt plastic surrounding it. All the tarps and the shoes and tires on pavement and the porta-porties’ hard plastic sitting in the sun all day is nauseating. And being around that smell all day, Ray starts to get sick. That night he throws up in between the busses with the hot, acrid air stinging his eyes and lungs.
He feels someone pull the hair out of his face, and rub his back. When he’s done a bottle of water is thrust towards his face. He takes it, and looks up into Frank’s worried face. The slightly darker circles around his eyes look purple in the fading light. They sit against the bus, leaning and catching their breath. Ray swigs and spits, nodding at Frank. His smile is wan.
“I miss home sometimes, you know?” Frank sighs.
“Yeah, I know,”
And they sit in silence, hidden between the busses. After a while, Frank leans over and presses a kiss against the side of Ray’s mouth, not quite close enough for it to be more than friendly. They sit and sit and sit. And finally, Ray leans over and kisses Frank, full and firm on the mouth, trying to connect to something to remind him of home.
In the coming dark, Frank’s lips match the purple around his eyes, and Ray can’t help but stare. Frank gets up, and goes into the bus, pausing as he opens the door. He turns back.
“But sometimes, it feels perfect where I am,” And they are almost completely eveloped by dusk, so now Ray’s not sure if the shine in his eyes is meant for him, or if it’s just a trick of the light. But he hopes.
“Yeah…Yeah, I know,”
for hello___manda
-ray/gerard
-white
-dance
-jellybean
The first girlfriend Gerard had, Amy, had short curly brown hair and big brown eyes and was an art geek. He was a senior and she was a junior, and Gerard’s mother was ecstatic. She invited Amy over for dinner, and Gerard was almost offended because it seemed to him that his mother was thanking the girl for dating him. But she was invited so she came over, and they ate dinner, and afterwards they went downstairs to his bedroom and watched Night of the Living Dead.
Their clammy palms were pressed together, as was to be expected; their fingers loosely laced. And about halfway through the movie, Amy laid her head on his shoulder. And he could smell her shampoo and perfume; sweet like a candy shop, like jelly beans. Achy and smothering. It made his eyes and nose hurt, and his palm was too hot against hers, so he made some excuse to get her out. And she went, with a frown on her face.
And in his panic, he calls Ray. They are sort of almost best friends, Gerard thinks, so he doesn’t feel bad calling him so late on a night when most teenagers are partying. Ray and he are not most teenagers though, and Ray picks up the phone on the second ring, and agrees to go over to Gerard’s house.
When Gerard answers the door, Ray’s t-shirt does a fair impersonation of a flash bulb, momentarily blinding him. It is fresh, just-bleached white, and against his tan, it is even more striking. Gerard stares at it, mouth open, and it makes him glance at the pale underside of his arm, to compare. He steps aside to let Ray in and they go downstairs where it still smells like candy; like bubblegum and coconut jellybeans, exactly like it, Gerard thinks to himself as he watches Ray’s shirt move in the dankness of his room. The overhead lightbulb had burnt out days ago, so the only light is coming from a desk lamp, making everything more of an idea than an actual material thing. Ray asks him what he was so upset about, and Gerard remembers. He remembers the dinner and her clammy palm and the way her perfume made him sick to his stomach. He thinks he can still smell it, but surely it should’ve been gone by this time.
Ray presses play on Gerard’s stereo and grins widely as Iron Maiden fills the room, and he nods along while he listens. And Gerard, he’s more mumbling to himself than anything, staring at the way Ray’s shirt contrasts against his stomach when he stretches. And it feels like something snaps in his chest, and he is yelling, asking Ray why it has to be the way it does. He gestures to encompass himself, Ray, the room, maybe the entire universe. And Ray, he just walks over to Gerard and wraps one arm around his waist, flinging the other over his shoulders. Gerard is aware of the crisp smell of the bleach replacing the sweet scent she had left behind, and that they are swaying, arms around eachother. Like a slowdance. And Gerard looks down at the white of his arm blending into the white of Ray’s shirt and is wholly amazed that they are dancing. Or as close to dancing as either of them has been thus far. And they are both smiling, though neither of them can see it.
for sympathy_martyr
-pete/frank/mikey
-crimson
-squeal
-vanilla
Pete knows he is setting himself up for disappointment. He knows this is just some fun; an activity to alleviate boredom in the between-tour lull. He knows he should be laughing at the squeal of bedsprings (he can’t because it is too intimate, too intrusive) or the squeal of tires outside (he can’t because the sound is how he feels). He knows that the crimson tinge to the skin and lips on his; the blood right below the surface, as if it wants to touch him like the vessels carrying it, shouldn’t enrapture him like it does. He knows the smell of vanilla shampoo, sweet and making the air he breathes heavy, masking the saltiness in his mouth, it shouldn’t make his chest ache. The contrast of their three bodies, the difference in the skin with its beauty marks and scars and ink - it should be something to be briefly praised and then forgotten, but he can’t.
He can hardly act for staring. He doesn’t move until he has hands directing him: Mikey’s on his shoulders, Frank’s on his waist. They both lean in on either side of him, and he would cry from the perfection in the way they fit together, but he seems to be silenced by words he can’t or won’t say.
And afterwards, insomniac that he is, he won’t sleep. The air is cloying; like eating cotton candy at the beach - it should be perfect but it knots his stomach. He is riveted by the two hands entwined in the hollow of his hip. His arm is thrown over Mikey’s chest, and the disparity of their skin makes him choke. Frank’s leg wrapped around his, flesh tugging at his, makes him shudder. Whether it is good or bad, he doesn’t know. He rarely does.
He is acutely aware of the sun beginning to rise behind the blinds, and it makes him feel like an intruder to witness it. This should be perfect and he has managed to ruin it. The temperature in the room is rising and Pete can feel his hope and bitterness in the film beginning to cover his too-tight skin.
He knows the way Frank and Mikey look at eachother. And because he knows this, he knows this isn’t going to happen again. When something is perfect you don’t bring an outside factor into it; it knocks the entire balance off. So, knowing he is a catalyst and always will be, he pulls his pants on. He tosses a shirt over himself and ties his shoes and makes sure that the men he is leaving are covered by the blanket. He writes them a note.
He knows it could say “I love you both, and you are so in love with eachother that you don’t see it, but that’s ok, as long as I know that love can exist.”
Instead, it says “Thank you.”
He knows they will know what he means.
for grey_willow
-frank/mikey
-grey
-procrastinate
-rain
Every day in Jersey is grey. The seasons and weather are of no consequence; the entire state is permanently muted from the toxic blanket that covers it. The houses seem to be coated in grime even when they’re freshly lacquered. Nevermind the concrete and metal giants towering over everything. Mikey thinks that Jersey is one big industrial accident waiting to happen. He is probably right. But on this particular day, he thinks it’s not that bad.
He and Frank are loitering in some nondescript playground, smoking cigarettes and not talking. They have gotten to that point; they can just sit and not have to say anything. Mikey can’t decide whether that makes him happy or horrifies him.
So they are sitting. And Frank is sucking on his cigarette, staring at nothing. Definitely not staring at Mikey. And he is blowing phantoms into the sky to mingle with the rain beginning to drizzle half-heartedly from the haze. Mikey wrinkles his nose as a fat drop splatters onto his glasses. He sighs, he hates the decaying smell that rain leaves. Now Frank is looking at him, thinking. Mikey knows he is thinking because after almost a year of living with him, he knows that Frank raises his left eyebrow and pushes at his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue when he thinks. So he looks back, smiling wryly.
“You want to hear something funny?” Frank says and Mikey knows it isn’t a question. “The main reason I moved in with you is so I would have an excuse not to live with her,” Now Frank has that same half-smile ghosting over his mouth; bemused. Mikey is not so much shocked as almost kind of flattered. He has never been used as a procrastination tactic before. He looks down at his cigarette, burned down to the filter. He steals Frank’s from his hand and draws on it, deeply.
“And?” He asks. Frank’s cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, blocking his speech and making him sound like some sort of gangster or cowboy. And Frank, he just stands up and takes his cigarette back, crushes it under his toe. Then he leans down and presses his mouth against Mikey’s bottom lip, gently. Mikey is not quite sure if he reacts to it or not, but when Frank pulls back, his smile is a little more solid. Less of a ghost.
“And now, I miss you when I’m with her,” And Mikey wants to yell “Then leave her!” but it seems he’s forgotten how to form words. So he stands up with his hands in his pockets and kisses Frank. His lips taste more strongly of nicotine when he pulls away and licks them, but that’s it. No special taste, just a strengthening of something that was already there. And maybe the grass is greener now, the bricks redder. They turn back home, and all Mikey can think about is Frank breathing out grey, not saying the things that need to be said.
for fortuitously
-ray/frank
-purple
-mask or hide
-burning plastic
Warped tour in Arizona has a bizarre smell of burnt plastic surrounding it. All the tarps and the shoes and tires on pavement and the porta-porties’ hard plastic sitting in the sun all day is nauseating. And being around that smell all day, Ray starts to get sick. That night he throws up in between the busses with the hot, acrid air stinging his eyes and lungs.
He feels someone pull the hair out of his face, and rub his back. When he’s done a bottle of water is thrust towards his face. He takes it, and looks up into Frank’s worried face. The slightly darker circles around his eyes look purple in the fading light. They sit against the bus, leaning and catching their breath. Ray swigs and spits, nodding at Frank. His smile is wan.
“I miss home sometimes, you know?” Frank sighs.
“Yeah, I know,”
And they sit in silence, hidden between the busses. After a while, Frank leans over and presses a kiss against the side of Ray’s mouth, not quite close enough for it to be more than friendly. They sit and sit and sit. And finally, Ray leans over and kisses Frank, full and firm on the mouth, trying to connect to something to remind him of home.
In the coming dark, Frank’s lips match the purple around his eyes, and Ray can’t help but stare. Frank gets up, and goes into the bus, pausing as he opens the door. He turns back.
“But sometimes, it feels perfect where I am,” And they are almost completely eveloped by dusk, so now Ray’s not sure if the shine in his eyes is meant for him, or if it’s just a trick of the light. But he hopes.
“Yeah…Yeah, I know,”