3:56 a.m.
Title: 3:56 a.m.
Author: squoze_so_hard
Pairing: Gerard/Bert
Rating: M for language
POV: You=Bert
Summary: The first thing you want to say to him when the two of you are properly introduced to one another is that his name is stupid.
Disclaimer: Not real.
Author Note: Does anyone else miss Gerard/Bert slash?
The first thing you want to say to him when the two of you are properly introduced to one another is that his name is stupid. He's fumbling with a beer and cigarette, trying to clear his hands to give yours a proper shake, and the words are on the tip of your tongue, but you don't say it. Because as dumb as it is, the moment he pushes the styrofoam cup into your hand and tucks the still-lit cigarette behind his ear, holding his now empty hand out in triumph, you realize that it's perfect for him.
He takes your unoccupied hand in his and shakes it eagerly, making your entire skeletal system rattle all at once. He's all, "Hey, man. Bert, right? I'm Gerard. Is it fucking hot out here or what?"
He's grinning with two rows of sharp baby teeth (that you instantly love) and you're momentarily blinded by how the sun bounces off their shiny surface. You want to tell him to take off the long, dirty pajama pants and leather jacket that he's wearing and maybe he won't be so warm.
But he's too fucking cute. And you're too easily distracted.
Instead, you chuck his coffee over your shoulder (it hits Geoff from Thursday in the head and explodes all over his chest. You warned him about walking around shirtless all the time). He instantly looks like you just sucker punched his scrawny looking baby brother in the chest.
You bite his nose and grin like a mad man.
"You're adorable."
He blushes a violent shade of pink and mumbles a shy thanks.
The next time that you see him, see him is when he invites you to listen to him and 'the fellas' (his words, not yours) warm up. You want to tell him that there are too many fucking words in his songs. That when you listen to him during his band's practice, the lyrics suck you into his head and you don't like it there. There are too many thoughts and things that don't make sense. Like unicorns that bleed neon ink that glows under UV lights. And vampires that only suck the juice from vegetables (legit vegetarian vampires, he later explains, as you roll your eyes).
He says that they're not just lyrics. They're like replays of every significant conversation he's ever had. He says that you should try it some time. You think probably not.
Gerard is one sick fuck.
Onstage, he jumps around like a god damn lunatic. His perfectly etched face turns into a mess of sweat, eyeliner and white theater face paint. Quinn giggles and says that he looks like a washed-up prom queen.
You think that he looks pretty. Jeph says that 'pretty' isn't the right word to use for a boy.
"He looks...handsome," He suggests, then reconsiders. "In a deranged sort of way."
Dan walks up with a handful of chocolate chip cookies and chews thoughtfully.
"That's just plain awkward." He says. He shakes his head, then walks away (He's still convinced that he's the only straight one in the band).
You can't help but think that he's sort of right. You're all sort of right. He is pretty.
Handsome.
Awkward. Yeah.
Days later, you have yet to figure out how he could possibly be that spastic in those skinny ass pants that he wears.You wonder what the damage would be if you told him that his favorite pair of jeans are too tight and look fucking ridiculous on a grown man. His camel balls have been the topic of discussion on more than one occasion on the bus that you share with Quinn, Jeph and Dan. Jeph teases you for liking such an "over-grown-Peter-Pan-loving fairy boy". You tell him that tea is for pussies. Quinn asks if Gerard has any fairy dust that he could snort. You say that you don't know, but you'll look into it.
Dan just sits there, not willing to comment on the condition of another man's balls, with a white bandana tied around his neck. Jeph asks him why he has that "scene kid dog tag" around his neck when it's 101 degrees outside.
"Someone is hiding a love bite!" Quinn teases and grabs at the knot. Dan flails and bats the other man's hand away while scooting to the other side of couch, his blush deepening at he shifts. You wonder where he got a hickey. There isn't a single band with a girl at this stop in the tour and the only people that you saw him with last night were yourselves and the My Chem guys. Huh.
Every morning for the next week and a half, Dan is wearing some version of a scarf, ascot or whateverthefuck at breakfast.
You wonder how Gerard would feel about having sex for the first time outside, right up against the tour bus. He's going on and on about some half-assed theory that he's got about death and parades.
"...and I would be the leader of this marching band, right? And confetti would fall from the sky every time someone died..."
He's flapping about all excited, and you're trying to listen, you really are, but fucking fuck, it's 4 o' clock in the fucking morning and it's freezing balls outside. The only way that you can think of to shut him up is to literally shove your cock into his mouth. It's an idea that you truly consider before you hear this rustling coming from some bushes up ahead. You tell him to shut up for a second and drag him down with you to duck behind the bus.
You peer into the darkness as two figures emerge. One pulling up his pants and the other straightening out his baseball cap.
The same dirty ass cap that you'd recognize anywhere, even in shitty florescent lighting. The one that Dan never takes off.
"Who's that with my brother?" Gerard whispers harshly in your ear.
"Dan." You say. You turn and look at him directly in the eye.
"Your brother is the fucking neck sucking champion of the world."
Two months later, you want to tell him that you have never gone this long without sex. You're in the back of your empty bus (there was an impromptu kickball game after Quinn challenged Mikey's mad skills), snuggling in your bunk and you feel like you might just explode. You could just tell him to take off his pants and bend over, but it's not that fucking easy. It never is. That's not how you want shit to go down.
You want to tell him things and you want him to understand. You want him to know that he's ruined you. He's made all of these tiny little cuts in your heart that scab and dry and flake and heal, only to appear again every time that he smiles. You want for his rambling to not makes sense to you all of a sudden. You want to feel like your thoughts are your own, not like him mixed with you and you with him. Blood mixed with love from fist fights and knock-outs.You want to tell him what you thought of him the first time you met him. About his stupid name and complex songs.
But before you get the chance, he looks up at you with those eyes. And just like that, you are suddenly defenseless and completely melted.
"Bert," he mumbles. "You gonna try to get some sleep? There's only a few hours 'til the sun comes up."
He blinks sleepily with a lazy smile and all of the hot air inside of you rises. You try to hold it in, but it escapes out of the top of your head. You check the alarm clock next to your bunk. The bright blue numbers blare 3:56 a.m. You can do nothing but sigh in resignation.
He is right. He will always be right, for as long as it is hard to tell where one of you ends and the other begins.
This is how it feels, you think, to be completely invaded. Defeated, you lay back down and nuzzle your face into his neck.
"Yeah, babe. So sleep now. I'm right behind you."
You take a torn, frayed page from his book and mark this moment in your mind.
The sun comes up and now you have a chance again...the world falls down, we all forget where to begin. The world collapses. You hold it in...
You realized that the next song will be about him. Maybe you'll write him a whole damn album.
Maybe two.
Author: squoze_so_hard
Pairing: Gerard/Bert
Rating: M for language
POV: You=Bert
Summary: The first thing you want to say to him when the two of you are properly introduced to one another is that his name is stupid.
Disclaimer: Not real.
Author Note: Does anyone else miss Gerard/Bert slash?
The first thing you want to say to him when the two of you are properly introduced to one another is that his name is stupid. He's fumbling with a beer and cigarette, trying to clear his hands to give yours a proper shake, and the words are on the tip of your tongue, but you don't say it. Because as dumb as it is, the moment he pushes the styrofoam cup into your hand and tucks the still-lit cigarette behind his ear, holding his now empty hand out in triumph, you realize that it's perfect for him.
He takes your unoccupied hand in his and shakes it eagerly, making your entire skeletal system rattle all at once. He's all, "Hey, man. Bert, right? I'm Gerard. Is it fucking hot out here or what?"
He's grinning with two rows of sharp baby teeth (that you instantly love) and you're momentarily blinded by how the sun bounces off their shiny surface. You want to tell him to take off the long, dirty pajama pants and leather jacket that he's wearing and maybe he won't be so warm.
But he's too fucking cute. And you're too easily distracted.
Instead, you chuck his coffee over your shoulder (it hits Geoff from Thursday in the head and explodes all over his chest. You warned him about walking around shirtless all the time). He instantly looks like you just sucker punched his scrawny looking baby brother in the chest.
You bite his nose and grin like a mad man.
"You're adorable."
He blushes a violent shade of pink and mumbles a shy thanks.
The next time that you see him, see him is when he invites you to listen to him and 'the fellas' (his words, not yours) warm up. You want to tell him that there are too many fucking words in his songs. That when you listen to him during his band's practice, the lyrics suck you into his head and you don't like it there. There are too many thoughts and things that don't make sense. Like unicorns that bleed neon ink that glows under UV lights. And vampires that only suck the juice from vegetables (legit vegetarian vampires, he later explains, as you roll your eyes).
He says that they're not just lyrics. They're like replays of every significant conversation he's ever had. He says that you should try it some time. You think probably not.
Gerard is one sick fuck.
Onstage, he jumps around like a god damn lunatic. His perfectly etched face turns into a mess of sweat, eyeliner and white theater face paint. Quinn giggles and says that he looks like a washed-up prom queen.
You think that he looks pretty. Jeph says that 'pretty' isn't the right word to use for a boy.
"He looks...handsome," He suggests, then reconsiders. "In a deranged sort of way."
Dan walks up with a handful of chocolate chip cookies and chews thoughtfully.
"That's just plain awkward." He says. He shakes his head, then walks away (He's still convinced that he's the only straight one in the band).
You can't help but think that he's sort of right. You're all sort of right. He is pretty.
Handsome.
Awkward. Yeah.
Days later, you have yet to figure out how he could possibly be that spastic in those skinny ass pants that he wears.You wonder what the damage would be if you told him that his favorite pair of jeans are too tight and look fucking ridiculous on a grown man. His camel balls have been the topic of discussion on more than one occasion on the bus that you share with Quinn, Jeph and Dan. Jeph teases you for liking such an "over-grown-Peter-Pan-loving fairy boy". You tell him that tea is for pussies. Quinn asks if Gerard has any fairy dust that he could snort. You say that you don't know, but you'll look into it.
Dan just sits there, not willing to comment on the condition of another man's balls, with a white bandana tied around his neck. Jeph asks him why he has that "scene kid dog tag" around his neck when it's 101 degrees outside.
"Someone is hiding a love bite!" Quinn teases and grabs at the knot. Dan flails and bats the other man's hand away while scooting to the other side of couch, his blush deepening at he shifts. You wonder where he got a hickey. There isn't a single band with a girl at this stop in the tour and the only people that you saw him with last night were yourselves and the My Chem guys. Huh.
Every morning for the next week and a half, Dan is wearing some version of a scarf, ascot or whateverthefuck at breakfast.
You wonder how Gerard would feel about having sex for the first time outside, right up against the tour bus. He's going on and on about some half-assed theory that he's got about death and parades.
"...and I would be the leader of this marching band, right? And confetti would fall from the sky every time someone died..."
He's flapping about all excited, and you're trying to listen, you really are, but fucking fuck, it's 4 o' clock in the fucking morning and it's freezing balls outside. The only way that you can think of to shut him up is to literally shove your cock into his mouth. It's an idea that you truly consider before you hear this rustling coming from some bushes up ahead. You tell him to shut up for a second and drag him down with you to duck behind the bus.
You peer into the darkness as two figures emerge. One pulling up his pants and the other straightening out his baseball cap.
The same dirty ass cap that you'd recognize anywhere, even in shitty florescent lighting. The one that Dan never takes off.
"Who's that with my brother?" Gerard whispers harshly in your ear.
"Dan." You say. You turn and look at him directly in the eye.
"Your brother is the fucking neck sucking champion of the world."
Two months later, you want to tell him that you have never gone this long without sex. You're in the back of your empty bus (there was an impromptu kickball game after Quinn challenged Mikey's mad skills), snuggling in your bunk and you feel like you might just explode. You could just tell him to take off his pants and bend over, but it's not that fucking easy. It never is. That's not how you want shit to go down.
You want to tell him things and you want him to understand. You want him to know that he's ruined you. He's made all of these tiny little cuts in your heart that scab and dry and flake and heal, only to appear again every time that he smiles. You want for his rambling to not makes sense to you all of a sudden. You want to feel like your thoughts are your own, not like him mixed with you and you with him. Blood mixed with love from fist fights and knock-outs.You want to tell him what you thought of him the first time you met him. About his stupid name and complex songs.
But before you get the chance, he looks up at you with those eyes. And just like that, you are suddenly defenseless and completely melted.
"Bert," he mumbles. "You gonna try to get some sleep? There's only a few hours 'til the sun comes up."
He blinks sleepily with a lazy smile and all of the hot air inside of you rises. You try to hold it in, but it escapes out of the top of your head. You check the alarm clock next to your bunk. The bright blue numbers blare 3:56 a.m. You can do nothing but sigh in resignation.
He is right. He will always be right, for as long as it is hard to tell where one of you ends and the other begins.
This is how it feels, you think, to be completely invaded. Defeated, you lay back down and nuzzle your face into his neck.
"Yeah, babe. So sleep now. I'm right behind you."
You take a torn, frayed page from his book and mark this moment in your mind.
The sun comes up and now you have a chance again...the world falls down, we all forget where to begin. The world collapses. You hold it in...
You realized that the next song will be about him. Maybe you'll write him a whole damn album.
Maybe two.