Ghosts in the Fog - [3/6]
Jan. 24th, 2008 08:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
glasspaperclipGhosts in the Fog - [3/6]
(2.141) // (Pg-13. Fluff.)
Bob Bryar/Frank Iero
'Stupid questions tend to annoy you, no matter if they come from a guy you like or someone you don’t give a damn about.'
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
we_are_cities // SEPT 16 07 + #18 Phobia - slashfic25
Not mine. Not at all. No, no.
Betalove to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sorrowful_eagle ;; for shadowpoet89, who asked me for a Bob/Frank ;; x-posted around :)
[1/6] - Beginnings ;; [2/6] - Fall
**
“Bob.”
“Hm.”
Frank tugs at your sleeve, trying to win your attention back. In another moment, you’d smile: the little shit you’re currently dating is impatient by definition, a bit on the egocentric side; he doesn’t like it when you ignore him.
“Come on, lazy ass. There's a piercing shop on the third floor, I want to have a look,” he states, giving your sweater another pull.
“Uh-uh.”
That, and a vague nod, is all he gets. You're too distracted by the big music store you noticed few minutes ago, right when you set foot inside the mall. Hands in your pockets, you’re standing in front of the main window, while your eyes run over the drum set they keep next to the guitar rack. It's a bit hidden and you cannot see it very well, but it doesn't matter, not really. You don’t need to check details to feel attracted to it like a moth to a street light.
If it wasn't for the fact that it’d make you look like a total idiot, you'd place hands and nose against the glass to better stare at it, oblivious of Frank and the whole mall altogether. Fuck. It’s beautiful, it’s what you’ve always wanted and you’d be willing to sell a kidney to play drums in a band. The problem is that there’s no band, not for you at least. Unless you strangle Branden in his sleep then, carrying the flight cases of his cymbals is all you-
“Houston, we have a communication problem today. Are you here with me or what?”
“Eh?”
This time you turn around and Frank's so near that your noses almost crash together. He’s on the tip of his toes, his fingers curled around the fabric of your sleeve, his expression somewhat annoyed. You’re somewhat deaf instead. The asshole shouted right into your ear.
“Jesus, Iero! Are you stoned?” You hiss, putting a hand over it. It's a weak comeback though, light-years from what would be your standard reaction if Frank wasn’t your boyfriend. You like him. You can threaten him ten times a day if you feel like it, but knocking his teeth out for real would be highly counterproductive.
“Well?”
He shrugs. “Bugger. I’m just pissed off. I like to talk to you, not at you.”
“Frank, shut the fuck up.”
Another shrug follows, then he leans against your shoulder, getting on his toes once more. When he starts talking, his voice is softer than the usual, his tone an understanding one, and you think you could almost forgive him for temporarily deafening you. Almost.
He smiles and points at the guitar rack.
“I know the feeling. There’s that music store in Belleville, right? Well, I used to stand in front of it for a shitload of time, just to watch the guitars and get all fed up because I couldn’t afford them. Okay, I was a kid and you aren’t anymore, but let’s not mention it.”
“I wasn't...”
“Those aren't that great anyway,” he keeps on saying, tapping his finger against the glass, “They have a fancy look, but I don't like them. LP's the best brand on market… Listen, I'll let you try Pansy when we turn back, so that you get the idea. I didn't know you were able to play guitar, though. It's cool. I like that.”
“I don't...”
He gives you a quick kiss on your cheek, and then he pulls you towards the elevators. You shake your head and follow him; you’d tell him about your stupid daydreams another time.
*
“It’s empty. Quick, before those dudes get in as well.”
Frank pushes you inside, then he presses the button with a big ‘3’ printed on, nodding when the sliding doors close. The elevator is fairly small, all dark glass and polished metal, with the customary mirror in the back. You smirk at it, thinking that you’re getting used to see Frank standing next to you in random places. You’re getting used to it and you aren’t sure it’s a good thing.
“Daydreaming again?”
“No,” you lie, smiling, “Just wondering from when you’ve become so antisocial.”
“Zip it, I wanted privacy. I shouted in your ear before, now let me kiss it better.”
For once, you resist the urge to tease him, to ask if he needs some help reaching it; he looks so determined that all you can do is step back and let him have his way. It’s happening quite often lately. Since you’ve decided to jump off the cliff and admit you were indeed having a relationship, he has changed a lot, becoming less casual, less afraid to show attachment.
It’s nice to have him around now, even if he can wear you out with all the talking and the random outbursts of hyperactivity. It’s nice, even if you have to keep feelings under control, enjoying each moment without going too far and thinking it could last. That would be a silly mistake: you’re old enough to know that happy endings are for fairy tales, and the ring he wears on his left hand serves you as instant reality check.
You sigh. When his lips brush over the skin of your lobe though, you’re shrugging already. It doesn’t really matter, does it? There’s no point in bitching and moaning over something you can’t change, and right now, he’s here anyway. In this very moment, the end of July seems far away in time, and also the girl – probably that Jamia whose name you saw tattooed on his chest – you’d have to hand him back to loses importance.
Who cares about tomorrow when you have today to live for?
Smiling, you wrap an arm around his waist and put the other on his shoulder. This kind of elevator is slow by definition, it’d take you about a minute to reach the third floor. Plenty of time for standing there and enjoying the show; the kiss-it-better thing has scaled up a notch or two, now you have hands going from your ass to your crotch, and lips going from your jaw to your neck.
You almost wish it...
A loud clank brings you down on Earth in no time. You blink, mouthing a ‘what the fuck’ as you try to understand what has just happened. It takes you some seconds to realize that you aren’t moving anymore and that the number displayed above the elevator’s doors is still ‘2’ and not ‘3’.
Your unexpressed wish has just been granted.
“Great.”
You push Frank away and adjust your jeans, wincing while the fabric pulls over your half-hard cock.
“Fucking great.”
“What? What’s going on?”
Stupid questions tend to annoy you, no matter if they come from a guy you like or someone you don’t give a damn about. This time you decide to keep sarcasm to yourself though, mostly because when you raise your head, you notice that he seems paler than before. Odd.
Shrugging, you point at the display. “Nothing’s going on. We’re stuck in between floors, I guess. Are you alright?”
“Nothing? You call it nothing?”
“Hey, it isn’t stuff worth writing home about,” you say, a bit defensively, “It happened to me a shitload of times when I lived with my parents; the elevator in their building is an old, coffin-like mess and it gets all fucked up at least once a week. We only have to press the alarm and wait; they’ll get us out quick enough.”
“Did… did you have to mention a coffin just now, right? Christ, Bob, thank you.”
Okay. Someone has replaced Frank with a fidgeting wreck while you weren’t looking, that much is plain. He’s sweating, moving too much and staring at the walls as if they’d crash on him anytime, while less than five minutes ago, all he had in mind was the best way to give you a grope. You sigh. You’ve already heard about his mood swings, but you’ve never known they’d hit so fast.
“Cool down a bit. We’ll be fine… no, we are fine, and forgive me if I don’t get what the issue is.”
“The issue is that I’m claustrophobic,” he replies after some sharp intakes of breath, “It’s the closed up space. I feel trapped. I need to get out of here.”
He pauses, rubs his wrists and pulls at the collar of his shirt, not even hearing the weak ‘ah’ you offer him as answer. Fact is, you’re inwardly kicking yourself: claustro-fucking-phobia, Sherlock. Why didn’t you think about it?
Because he isn’t freaking out the way they do in movies, that’s why. No hysterical fits, no high-pitched cries, no bumping against the doors, how the heck could I’ve figured it out? I ain’t a doctor.
Exactly, and you don’t even have any first-hand experience about how to deal with claustrophobic people. The nearest things you can think about are the show when you pulled a panicking girl off the crowd, and the frenzy your cousin went into when - at seven - you locked him in the closet.
Jesus.
“Okay. Claustrophobia. Listen, I…” you start, reaching for Frank’s hands: all the fidgeting is driving you crazy, really. Before you can get them though, he shakes his head and takes a step backward.
“No. No. Don’t touch me. It’s worse if you do. I know how to keep somewhat calm, just don’t touch me. It fucks everything up.”
“Yeah, sure. Sorry.”
Frank shrugs, telling you that it doesn’t matter, then he goes to sit on the floor, with his knees against his chest. A moment later you’re doing the same, close but not close enough to make him uncomfortable: you’re surely learning things today.
“Uh… it will be fine, believe me,” you say, hoping to sound less awkward than you feel, “You only have to keep on breathing, um? Don’t think about anything else, focus on your breath… like this, nice and slow.”
Wow. Rather than reassuring your boyfriend, you’re piling up bullshit with clichés, and the fact you can’t hold him isn’t making it any easier. It’s so weird to comfort someone this way, especially if you know you’re doing a shitty job.
When Frank turns to you, you almost expect him to start mocking your attempts; in his place, you probably would. He just gives you a tiny nod instead, and your heart sinks a little: he looks like a deer in the headlights, for fuck’s sake.
“Keep on taking deep breaths,” you instruct him again, and who cares if you’re acting like the hero of a cheap B-movie. If your bad imitation of Chuck Norris could help, let’s welcome Chuck and the whole Texas Ranger series. “Frank? Listen to me, I’m here with you and I won’t let anything happen to you, alright?”
“Alright,” he answers, slowly, “Deep breaths. I’m taking deep breaths and you’re here.”
“Yes. I am.”
*
It takes them around thirty minutes to get you out. In your eyes, it’s a reasonable amount of time, that you usually would have spent playing Snake on your mobile; you scored your personal record last time you went at your parents’ place, right before joining the Warped.
Today though, your phone remained in your cargo pants, forgotten in one of the back pockets. You’ve had other things to do than collecting snails and avoiding your tail.
“Frank?”
“Yes?”
“I suppose it’s okay now?”
You want to add ‘isn’t it’ at the end, but then you hold it back. Yours is a genuine, concerned question: his claustrophobia attack is over, sure, and it doesn’t mean that he feels safe and sound again, not necessarily. To be honest, you don’t even know if touching him could still act as trigger.
Ignoring how the big clock hanging near the counter is ticking, you press your lips together and wait for an answer. Spending half an hour into an elevator with Frank has taught you a thing or two about patience, and the lesson is too fresh to be already forgotten.
“It is,” he says after a while, and you can’t help but notice how his shoulders drop. To you, it looks as if he’s ashamed of himself; ashamed and also aware that there’s not much he could do about it. Guilty about claustrophobia? Bitch please.
“It is.”
Frank has the habit to repeat himself quite often, whether he’s nervous or not.
“I mean, you’re here, right?”
His eyes skim over body jewels he’d never buy – God knows why he insisted on going to the piercing shop, rather than turning back to the bus – so he misses how you shift your weight from one foot to the other. He raises his head soon enough though, nailing you down this way.
Fuck.
“Damn right,” you reply, and you feel the decisions you made about this summer fling starting to slip out of your grasp.
(2.141) // (Pg-13. Fluff.)
Bob Bryar/Frank Iero
'Stupid questions tend to annoy you, no matter if they come from a guy you like or someone you don’t give a damn about.'
For
we_are_cities // SEPT 16 07 + #18 Phobia - slashfic25Not mine. Not at all. No, no.
Betalove to
sorrowful_eagle ;; for shadowpoet89, who asked me for a Bob/Frank ;; x-posted around :)[1/6] - Beginnings ;; [2/6] - Fall
**
“Bob.”
“Hm.”
Frank tugs at your sleeve, trying to win your attention back. In another moment, you’d smile: the little shit you’re currently dating is impatient by definition, a bit on the egocentric side; he doesn’t like it when you ignore him.
“Come on, lazy ass. There's a piercing shop on the third floor, I want to have a look,” he states, giving your sweater another pull.
“Uh-uh.”
That, and a vague nod, is all he gets. You're too distracted by the big music store you noticed few minutes ago, right when you set foot inside the mall. Hands in your pockets, you’re standing in front of the main window, while your eyes run over the drum set they keep next to the guitar rack. It's a bit hidden and you cannot see it very well, but it doesn't matter, not really. You don’t need to check details to feel attracted to it like a moth to a street light.
If it wasn't for the fact that it’d make you look like a total idiot, you'd place hands and nose against the glass to better stare at it, oblivious of Frank and the whole mall altogether. Fuck. It’s beautiful, it’s what you’ve always wanted and you’d be willing to sell a kidney to play drums in a band. The problem is that there’s no band, not for you at least. Unless you strangle Branden in his sleep then, carrying the flight cases of his cymbals is all you-
“Houston, we have a communication problem today. Are you here with me or what?”
“Eh?”
This time you turn around and Frank's so near that your noses almost crash together. He’s on the tip of his toes, his fingers curled around the fabric of your sleeve, his expression somewhat annoyed. You’re somewhat deaf instead. The asshole shouted right into your ear.
“Jesus, Iero! Are you stoned?” You hiss, putting a hand over it. It's a weak comeback though, light-years from what would be your standard reaction if Frank wasn’t your boyfriend. You like him. You can threaten him ten times a day if you feel like it, but knocking his teeth out for real would be highly counterproductive.
“Well?”
He shrugs. “Bugger. I’m just pissed off. I like to talk to you, not at you.”
“Frank, shut the fuck up.”
Another shrug follows, then he leans against your shoulder, getting on his toes once more. When he starts talking, his voice is softer than the usual, his tone an understanding one, and you think you could almost forgive him for temporarily deafening you. Almost.
He smiles and points at the guitar rack.
“I know the feeling. There’s that music store in Belleville, right? Well, I used to stand in front of it for a shitload of time, just to watch the guitars and get all fed up because I couldn’t afford them. Okay, I was a kid and you aren’t anymore, but let’s not mention it.”
“I wasn't...”
“Those aren't that great anyway,” he keeps on saying, tapping his finger against the glass, “They have a fancy look, but I don't like them. LP's the best brand on market… Listen, I'll let you try Pansy when we turn back, so that you get the idea. I didn't know you were able to play guitar, though. It's cool. I like that.”
“I don't...”
He gives you a quick kiss on your cheek, and then he pulls you towards the elevators. You shake your head and follow him; you’d tell him about your stupid daydreams another time.
*
“It’s empty. Quick, before those dudes get in as well.”
Frank pushes you inside, then he presses the button with a big ‘3’ printed on, nodding when the sliding doors close. The elevator is fairly small, all dark glass and polished metal, with the customary mirror in the back. You smirk at it, thinking that you’re getting used to see Frank standing next to you in random places. You’re getting used to it and you aren’t sure it’s a good thing.
“Daydreaming again?”
“No,” you lie, smiling, “Just wondering from when you’ve become so antisocial.”
“Zip it, I wanted privacy. I shouted in your ear before, now let me kiss it better.”
For once, you resist the urge to tease him, to ask if he needs some help reaching it; he looks so determined that all you can do is step back and let him have his way. It’s happening quite often lately. Since you’ve decided to jump off the cliff and admit you were indeed having a relationship, he has changed a lot, becoming less casual, less afraid to show attachment.
It’s nice to have him around now, even if he can wear you out with all the talking and the random outbursts of hyperactivity. It’s nice, even if you have to keep feelings under control, enjoying each moment without going too far and thinking it could last. That would be a silly mistake: you’re old enough to know that happy endings are for fairy tales, and the ring he wears on his left hand serves you as instant reality check.
You sigh. When his lips brush over the skin of your lobe though, you’re shrugging already. It doesn’t really matter, does it? There’s no point in bitching and moaning over something you can’t change, and right now, he’s here anyway. In this very moment, the end of July seems far away in time, and also the girl – probably that Jamia whose name you saw tattooed on his chest – you’d have to hand him back to loses importance.
Who cares about tomorrow when you have today to live for?
Smiling, you wrap an arm around his waist and put the other on his shoulder. This kind of elevator is slow by definition, it’d take you about a minute to reach the third floor. Plenty of time for standing there and enjoying the show; the kiss-it-better thing has scaled up a notch or two, now you have hands going from your ass to your crotch, and lips going from your jaw to your neck.
You almost wish it...
A loud clank brings you down on Earth in no time. You blink, mouthing a ‘what the fuck’ as you try to understand what has just happened. It takes you some seconds to realize that you aren’t moving anymore and that the number displayed above the elevator’s doors is still ‘2’ and not ‘3’.
Your unexpressed wish has just been granted.
“Great.”
You push Frank away and adjust your jeans, wincing while the fabric pulls over your half-hard cock.
“Fucking great.”
“What? What’s going on?”
Stupid questions tend to annoy you, no matter if they come from a guy you like or someone you don’t give a damn about. This time you decide to keep sarcasm to yourself though, mostly because when you raise your head, you notice that he seems paler than before. Odd.
Shrugging, you point at the display. “Nothing’s going on. We’re stuck in between floors, I guess. Are you alright?”
“Nothing? You call it nothing?”
“Hey, it isn’t stuff worth writing home about,” you say, a bit defensively, “It happened to me a shitload of times when I lived with my parents; the elevator in their building is an old, coffin-like mess and it gets all fucked up at least once a week. We only have to press the alarm and wait; they’ll get us out quick enough.”
“Did… did you have to mention a coffin just now, right? Christ, Bob, thank you.”
Okay. Someone has replaced Frank with a fidgeting wreck while you weren’t looking, that much is plain. He’s sweating, moving too much and staring at the walls as if they’d crash on him anytime, while less than five minutes ago, all he had in mind was the best way to give you a grope. You sigh. You’ve already heard about his mood swings, but you’ve never known they’d hit so fast.
“Cool down a bit. We’ll be fine… no, we are fine, and forgive me if I don’t get what the issue is.”
“The issue is that I’m claustrophobic,” he replies after some sharp intakes of breath, “It’s the closed up space. I feel trapped. I need to get out of here.”
He pauses, rubs his wrists and pulls at the collar of his shirt, not even hearing the weak ‘ah’ you offer him as answer. Fact is, you’re inwardly kicking yourself: claustro-fucking-phobia, Sherlock. Why didn’t you think about it?
Because he isn’t freaking out the way they do in movies, that’s why. No hysterical fits, no high-pitched cries, no bumping against the doors, how the heck could I’ve figured it out? I ain’t a doctor.
Exactly, and you don’t even have any first-hand experience about how to deal with claustrophobic people. The nearest things you can think about are the show when you pulled a panicking girl off the crowd, and the frenzy your cousin went into when - at seven - you locked him in the closet.
Jesus.
“Okay. Claustrophobia. Listen, I…” you start, reaching for Frank’s hands: all the fidgeting is driving you crazy, really. Before you can get them though, he shakes his head and takes a step backward.
“No. No. Don’t touch me. It’s worse if you do. I know how to keep somewhat calm, just don’t touch me. It fucks everything up.”
“Yeah, sure. Sorry.”
Frank shrugs, telling you that it doesn’t matter, then he goes to sit on the floor, with his knees against his chest. A moment later you’re doing the same, close but not close enough to make him uncomfortable: you’re surely learning things today.
“Uh… it will be fine, believe me,” you say, hoping to sound less awkward than you feel, “You only have to keep on breathing, um? Don’t think about anything else, focus on your breath… like this, nice and slow.”
Wow. Rather than reassuring your boyfriend, you’re piling up bullshit with clichés, and the fact you can’t hold him isn’t making it any easier. It’s so weird to comfort someone this way, especially if you know you’re doing a shitty job.
When Frank turns to you, you almost expect him to start mocking your attempts; in his place, you probably would. He just gives you a tiny nod instead, and your heart sinks a little: he looks like a deer in the headlights, for fuck’s sake.
“Keep on taking deep breaths,” you instruct him again, and who cares if you’re acting like the hero of a cheap B-movie. If your bad imitation of Chuck Norris could help, let’s welcome Chuck and the whole Texas Ranger series. “Frank? Listen to me, I’m here with you and I won’t let anything happen to you, alright?”
“Alright,” he answers, slowly, “Deep breaths. I’m taking deep breaths and you’re here.”
“Yes. I am.”
*
It takes them around thirty minutes to get you out. In your eyes, it’s a reasonable amount of time, that you usually would have spent playing Snake on your mobile; you scored your personal record last time you went at your parents’ place, right before joining the Warped.
Today though, your phone remained in your cargo pants, forgotten in one of the back pockets. You’ve had other things to do than collecting snails and avoiding your tail.
“Frank?”
“Yes?”
“I suppose it’s okay now?”
You want to add ‘isn’t it’ at the end, but then you hold it back. Yours is a genuine, concerned question: his claustrophobia attack is over, sure, and it doesn’t mean that he feels safe and sound again, not necessarily. To be honest, you don’t even know if touching him could still act as trigger.
Ignoring how the big clock hanging near the counter is ticking, you press your lips together and wait for an answer. Spending half an hour into an elevator with Frank has taught you a thing or two about patience, and the lesson is too fresh to be already forgotten.
“It is,” he says after a while, and you can’t help but notice how his shoulders drop. To you, it looks as if he’s ashamed of himself; ashamed and also aware that there’s not much he could do about it. Guilty about claustrophobia? Bitch please.
“It is.”
Frank has the habit to repeat himself quite often, whether he’s nervous or not.
“I mean, you’re here, right?”
His eyes skim over body jewels he’d never buy – God knows why he insisted on going to the piercing shop, rather than turning back to the bus – so he misses how you shift your weight from one foot to the other. He raises his head soon enough though, nailing you down this way.
Fuck.
“Damn right,” you reply, and you feel the decisions you made about this summer fling starting to slip out of your grasp.
