(no subject)
someday, i'll write something with substance.
knee deep
gerard/frank(ish)
PG-13
~1150 words
Gerard wakes up in the middle of the night with Frank's breath against the back of his neck, a hot huhh puffing against his skin almost every four seconds, almost regular enough to make him think of clockwork.
The van is hot and smelly and sticky and too cramped for any real kind of comfort, but Gerard finds himself curling inwards a little, a little towards Frank anyway. Frank mutters something in his sleep, twitches forward; their arms press together, radiating heat.
*
The parties are the strangest part of it. It should be being up there on a stage, microphone in hand and the guys around him, behind him, backing him up, but somehow that slips into being a natural part of him. Gerard mark two: a secret, confident kind of guy who only emerges when he's ready to sing, with the right combination of beer and liquor and jittery pre-show cigarettes. But Gerard has spent what feels like a good half of his life in a basement (and perhaps not, but he's always been good at exaggeration) and while the other guys are used to parties, used to go to them anyway, they've never particularly been his thing.
So it's always odd, when the kids who come to the shows invite them along. Probably just for the stories they can tell, bragging to their friends that they were hanging out with that band -- you know, the one with the guys, and the screaming, that time -- but it's worth it, most of the time, when they can fit it in and don't have to drive off right away.
A lot of free booze, sometimes a bed, or a couch or a large space of floor; Gerard usually, uncomfortably hitches an approximation of a smile on his face when someone tells him their show was good, and always takes whatever they're offering him.
*
"Hey, man, your band was fucking awesome tonight," someone says.
Gerard looks at them, and he was pretty drunk before he got onstage, before they were even invited to this party that Mikey and Frank agreed to at once, so the words take kind of a while to sink through to his brain. "Thanks," he says. Slowly. A little belated, just a little.
The guy nods at him, grins in the same wide, uneven way most drunk people grin, and then turns around to disappear; Gerard watches him go, and it's like he gets swallowed up by the crowd around him. It's -- strange.
He wonders where Mikey is. Or Frank or Ray or Matt; it's like his whole band has managed to pull a disappearing trick. Like, magic, he thinks. They'll appear, soon, out of a fucking hat.
Strange. He needs some space, and he wishes slightly for the packed in safe solitude of the van for a moment. There's a table of drinks a few steps away from him and a bottle of vodka on it, unguarded; Gerard doesn't know whose it is and there's hardly any of it left, but he grabs it anyway before he heads outside, a little unsteady, but determined.
*
Outside there are a few people, smoking or talking, one couple against a wall a little way away and pressed together as though their lives depend on it. It's better than being in the party though, surrounded by so many people and more uncomfortable than he ever feels under the scrutiny of a crowd watching them play, so Gerard sticks around. He finds a chair that looks clean enough. He brushes a couple of leaves off of it and it's a little damp, but he sits on it anyway.
As soon as Gerard has fished his cigarettes out of his pocket, tapped one out of the packet and is holding it in his mouth so he can light it, the bottle he commandeered from inside held between his thighs, Frank appears. Of course Frank appears then. It's, like -- strange, a little like he senses it, a little like he's summoned.
"Smoke, motherfucker," Frank says. He grins in that drunk-wide way, expectantly, and holds out his hand. Gerard blinks, and does absolutely nothing more to acknowledge Frank until he's stashed his lighter back in his pocket and inhaled, a long deep drag that soothes the spiky edge of his nerves just a little bit.
Frank's hand is still held out, but Gerard ignores it and just lifts his, extends his arm clumsily and holds the filter end of the cigarette out in front of Frank's mouth. He can pretty much feel Frank roll his eyes, but Frank leans forward anyway to take a drag; his lips pucker forward slightly around it as he breathes in, and brush the sensitive skin of Gerard's fingers.
Gerard's fingers twitch forward and he drops it, almost, then, but.
He is a little drunk.
So.
*
Somewhere in the near distance to the side of them, a guy's voice says to someone, low and clearly under the impression that no one else can hear him, "Hey, can I kiss you?"
Gerard doesn't look at Frank as the words seep in through his ears, as he imagines saying them, maybe; threading them through his mind to his mouth and feeding them out into the small space between them. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he thinks he sees Frank grin; maybe in amusement, maybe a little of something else.
(He doesn't think of how that grin would feel under his lips, how he'd taste beer and his own cigarettes and probably, doubtlessly, something completely Frank as well; he doesn't think about how Frank would feel under his hands, angles and smooth plains, compact, ready to explode, to set something like that off in Gerard.)
Instead of leaving his imagination time to morph into probably not very good at all ideas, he takes a deep swig from the vodka bottle and then passes it across to Frank, manages, "Gotta fucking piss, man," before heading straight back inside where he doesn't want to be.
*
spinning lights
&
blinking stars ?
&
voices, from somewhere, the overwhelming urge to find frank, chase up that urge--
Gerard isn't sure who helps him back to the van, but for a single, shockingly clear moment, he manages to feel grateful before he passes out.
*
The hammer trying to force its way out of his skull does nothing whatsoever to overshadow the tickle of Frank's breath on the back of his neck again, when Gerard briefly stirs at some point that night. Almost every four seconds. Huhh. Gerard wants to set his watch by it.
*
Gerard glances across the stage just in time to see Frank grin at him; a little encouraging, a little challenging, radiating heat.
He turns back to the crowd, closes his eyes and screams.
knee deep
gerard/frank(ish)
PG-13
~1150 words
Gerard wakes up in the middle of the night with Frank's breath against the back of his neck, a hot huhh puffing against his skin almost every four seconds, almost regular enough to make him think of clockwork.
The van is hot and smelly and sticky and too cramped for any real kind of comfort, but Gerard finds himself curling inwards a little, a little towards Frank anyway. Frank mutters something in his sleep, twitches forward; their arms press together, radiating heat.
*
The parties are the strangest part of it. It should be being up there on a stage, microphone in hand and the guys around him, behind him, backing him up, but somehow that slips into being a natural part of him. Gerard mark two: a secret, confident kind of guy who only emerges when he's ready to sing, with the right combination of beer and liquor and jittery pre-show cigarettes. But Gerard has spent what feels like a good half of his life in a basement (and perhaps not, but he's always been good at exaggeration) and while the other guys are used to parties, used to go to them anyway, they've never particularly been his thing.
So it's always odd, when the kids who come to the shows invite them along. Probably just for the stories they can tell, bragging to their friends that they were hanging out with that band -- you know, the one with the guys, and the screaming, that time -- but it's worth it, most of the time, when they can fit it in and don't have to drive off right away.
A lot of free booze, sometimes a bed, or a couch or a large space of floor; Gerard usually, uncomfortably hitches an approximation of a smile on his face when someone tells him their show was good, and always takes whatever they're offering him.
*
"Hey, man, your band was fucking awesome tonight," someone says.
Gerard looks at them, and he was pretty drunk before he got onstage, before they were even invited to this party that Mikey and Frank agreed to at once, so the words take kind of a while to sink through to his brain. "Thanks," he says. Slowly. A little belated, just a little.
The guy nods at him, grins in the same wide, uneven way most drunk people grin, and then turns around to disappear; Gerard watches him go, and it's like he gets swallowed up by the crowd around him. It's -- strange.
He wonders where Mikey is. Or Frank or Ray or Matt; it's like his whole band has managed to pull a disappearing trick. Like, magic, he thinks. They'll appear, soon, out of a fucking hat.
Strange. He needs some space, and he wishes slightly for the packed in safe solitude of the van for a moment. There's a table of drinks a few steps away from him and a bottle of vodka on it, unguarded; Gerard doesn't know whose it is and there's hardly any of it left, but he grabs it anyway before he heads outside, a little unsteady, but determined.
*
Outside there are a few people, smoking or talking, one couple against a wall a little way away and pressed together as though their lives depend on it. It's better than being in the party though, surrounded by so many people and more uncomfortable than he ever feels under the scrutiny of a crowd watching them play, so Gerard sticks around. He finds a chair that looks clean enough. He brushes a couple of leaves off of it and it's a little damp, but he sits on it anyway.
As soon as Gerard has fished his cigarettes out of his pocket, tapped one out of the packet and is holding it in his mouth so he can light it, the bottle he commandeered from inside held between his thighs, Frank appears. Of course Frank appears then. It's, like -- strange, a little like he senses it, a little like he's summoned.
"Smoke, motherfucker," Frank says. He grins in that drunk-wide way, expectantly, and holds out his hand. Gerard blinks, and does absolutely nothing more to acknowledge Frank until he's stashed his lighter back in his pocket and inhaled, a long deep drag that soothes the spiky edge of his nerves just a little bit.
Frank's hand is still held out, but Gerard ignores it and just lifts his, extends his arm clumsily and holds the filter end of the cigarette out in front of Frank's mouth. He can pretty much feel Frank roll his eyes, but Frank leans forward anyway to take a drag; his lips pucker forward slightly around it as he breathes in, and brush the sensitive skin of Gerard's fingers.
Gerard's fingers twitch forward and he drops it, almost, then, but.
He is a little drunk.
So.
*
Somewhere in the near distance to the side of them, a guy's voice says to someone, low and clearly under the impression that no one else can hear him, "Hey, can I kiss you?"
Gerard doesn't look at Frank as the words seep in through his ears, as he imagines saying them, maybe; threading them through his mind to his mouth and feeding them out into the small space between them. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he thinks he sees Frank grin; maybe in amusement, maybe a little of something else.
(He doesn't think of how that grin would feel under his lips, how he'd taste beer and his own cigarettes and probably, doubtlessly, something completely Frank as well; he doesn't think about how Frank would feel under his hands, angles and smooth plains, compact, ready to explode, to set something like that off in Gerard.)
Instead of leaving his imagination time to morph into probably not very good at all ideas, he takes a deep swig from the vodka bottle and then passes it across to Frank, manages, "Gotta fucking piss, man," before heading straight back inside where he doesn't want to be.
*
spinning lights
&
blinking stars ?
&
voices, from somewhere, the overwhelming urge to find frank, chase up that urge--
Gerard isn't sure who helps him back to the van, but for a single, shockingly clear moment, he manages to feel grateful before he passes out.
*
The hammer trying to force its way out of his skull does nothing whatsoever to overshadow the tickle of Frank's breath on the back of his neck again, when Gerard briefly stirs at some point that night. Almost every four seconds. Huhh. Gerard wants to set his watch by it.
*
Gerard glances across the stage just in time to see Frank grin at him; a little encouraging, a little challenging, radiating heat.
He turns back to the crowd, closes his eyes and screams.