Ghosts in the Fog [1/6]
Jul. 26th, 2007 01:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
glasspaperclipGhosts in the Fog - [1/6]
(2.493) // (Pg-13.)
Bob Bryar/Frank Iero
His lips are still slightly curled up and despite the embarrassment, you can't help but think that he's really cute when he smiles, even if he's doing it not very well and at your expenses. How cool.
Prompt #8 Beginnings @![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
slashfic25
Not mine. Not at all. No, no.
Betalove to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sorrowful_eagle
"Oh, Frank…" *
Do you remember the beginning? Yes, of course you do. It's still fresh in your mind, so near to you that you need little effort to recall it . All it takes is silence, your eyes closed, and bam! You're back in that big service station, Middle of Nowhere, United States of America.
It was… no, it is June, the end of June again, it's well past three in the morning and you're sitting on the narrow sidewalk at the bus' side, wide awake and with a full cup of coffee in your hands. It tastes foul, despite the Starbuck's green logo printed on the cardboard, so you're just toying with it, letting the cup swing between your thighs as 'the best beverage in the world' slowly turns cold.
If Mikey were around, you would hand him the cup. Mikey or Gerard, it wouldn't matter. The Way brothers are never picky when it comes of coffee, it could as well be dish-water and they'd drink it anyway, all happy for your help in feeding their addiction to caffeine. They aren't there though; Mikey and Gee are both sleeping in their bunks, just as much as everyone else. You're all alone in a desert service station, you and your awful coffee, looking at the car lights as they run past you, little red eyes staring into yours but for a moment before disappearing behind the motel, where the highway makes a slight turn to left.
Sighing, you turn around to put your back against a wheel, chin up and eyes closed while your thoughts keep on roaming free.
It's a quiet night and the smell of gasoline makes you think about old songs, B-movies, artificial lights and people having cheap sex in the men's bathroom, against doors covered with writings. It's a quiet, peaceful night and you listen at its noises, at moths repeatedly hitting the street light above your head, at the buzz of too many mosquitoes flying past your ears, at a dog howling at the moon somewhere in the backyard.
It's a quiet night and you're enjoying it to the fullest.
The Starbuck's cup is still swinging between your legs. It goes back and forth, back and forth, prompting you to pull a light smile at the liquid noises it makes. Somehow it reminds you of your childhood, of how you used to splash your hands in the kitchen's sink, pretending to be playing on the beach rather than in the smallest room of your mother's house.
Good times.
"You're going to get your balls wet with that coffee, kiddo. Just warning you."
"Huh?"
You open an eye, wondering who the ninja is who sneaked up on you unnoticed. And there he is, standing right next to you with a serious look on his face.
Dude's all blond hair, beard and blue eyes, a bit on the chubby side. You also think that more than a ninja, you’ve stumbled over one of those Nordic guys. Norwegian or Swedish, you reckon, perhaps a tourist who's having a coast to coast holiday, a tourist whose insomnia strikes hard and that's why he's wandering out at such ungodly hours, ready to give unrequited advices to each stranger he meets.
You look at him from head to toe, trying to decide if he's worth the pain of getting worked up about. You should. You usually cannot stand people who share bits of wisdom without being asked to, but this one doesn't look like he's mocking you or anything. Perhaps he's playing smartass in a weird, Nordic way - hell, it's common knowledge that all the European folks are strange - but since you can't tell, you decide to play safe and give him a cautious nod.
"I'll be careful."
He shrugs. Whatever, that's what his shoulders are saying, he warned you and that's about it. Your business, not his.
Perhaps he isn't a wannabe know-it-all preacher looking for an audience, after all.
'Hmm…'
Feeling the first prick of curiosity, you intently watch him as he leans against the bus, almost a meter away from you, as if he values personal spaces enough not to intrude upon yours. One point for him.
Still, given the place he picked for himself, you expect him to start talking again in a minute. You even count backwards just for fun, from sixty to zero, but much to your surprise Nordic Dude's still keeping silent for when you reach the last number. Fuck, he isn't even looking at you anymore, preferring to stare into the darkness. Obviously, you aren't that interesting to him.
Oh, well.
You turn your head to the highway. Nothing has changed over there; all you see are cars, cars, cars, a truck, cars, cars, more cars, even more cars, a sight so boring that you have to yawn. You turn to your newfound, silent companion then, and nothing has changed over there as well. He's still standing against the bus, all thoughtful.
He keeps a hand into the pocket of his hoodie and it's only when he raises the other that you notice how he's holding a white cup, identical to your own. Another one who fell for the Starbuck's trick they're pulling in this service station.
"It tastes foul. The coffee, I mean. It wouldn't be a great waste if it ends on the sidewalk, both mine and yours," you comment, attempting to warn him if not to start up a conversation. Where that urge to make small talks with a stranger comes from is unknown to you and you don't even want to think too much about it. You're offering him advices for free, just as he did before. You're curious. You're bored. Weird how you notice that just now.
"I know," he answers, taking long, slow sips. Everything about him is so calm that you have to wonder if even his blood runs slower in his veins or what, "I know and I agree. Piss would taste better."
"So why are you drinking it?"
"Addiction. Or I'm just too thirsty to care."
You smirk at this guy and his attitude, he's just as cool as you always imagined Nordic guys to be. It's weird though, as he has no foreign accent. Perhaps he was just born overseas? Tapping your fingers against your knee, you tilt your head to your side and study him for a while, trying to guess about his place of birth. A game like any other, to pass the time.
"What?" He asks after scarcely twenty seconds, telling you that he doesn't like being subjected to your staring.
"Nothing, it's that it's… well, Oslo? Helsinki? Stockholm? Or rather one of those small towns far up in the North? You know the deal, cute houses with wooden roofs that almost touch the ground, all colored in green and yellow and pink, seamen, a shitload of snow and Santa popping up all the time?"
"Now, what the heck are you talking about?"
"You. I'm talking about you," you explain and your hands go up in the air, drawing circles as you try to make yourself clear. "I want to know where you come from. I mean, I placed my bets on Norway but I might as well be mistaken, so I'm asking. You know, I'm curious."
He looks at you - better, he stares at you with those blue eyes he's got, piercing you on the spot. You think that hey, you wouldn't mind to get to know Nordic Dude better if he's into males. You wouldn't mind at all. Heck, he's really cute.
Perhaps he is into males, gay or bisexual at least, and wouldn't it be great if you ended up making out against the bus? Of course there's the little problem of introducing the topic, but you confide in him for making the first move if he's interested enough. Cliché states that Europeans are far more open-minded than Americans, right?
"Or you're Danish? Dutch?"
Hmm, you just hope you haven't met a shy one. Perhaps he's so quiet because talking to people makes him blush or shit like that. Not that he was exactly blushing when he spoke to you before.
"German?" you insist, trying to earn at least a yes or no. There's nothing wrong in valuing one's privacy, but if he's so reticent in telling you about such a harmless detail, God forbid you'd ask him about his sexual preferences. Fuck.
You wave your hand in the air, half-resigned already.
"Okay, leave it. Doesn't matter."
"A bit to the left. West wise, that's it," he says, interrupting you and there's nothing in his voice that would make you think he's mocking you. He's the epitome of seriousness, really.
"To the left? Well, there's Belgium as far as I remember, the Netherlands, but I mentioned it already... France? Dude, you don't strike me as Frenchman," you babble, lowering your head a bit to see him better. He straightened his back so his face is half hidden in the shadows, but you can still see how he flashes you a smirk before covering his mouth with his cup.
He takes a longer sip this time, so long that he has to cough once or twice against his palm once he's done with it. Then he looks at you again and there's a glint in those eyes, that and a light dimple on his cheek, signaling you he's biting at it from inside.
"I said left. Chicago," he says in the end, amused. Chicago. Hello angel, Nordic Dude's an American boy, just like you.
At first though, your mind doesn't click. Images of fjords, lakes and dreamy, Scandinavian landscapes are still overloading it and you just don't get what he told you. After all you dug your grave with your own hands, so what's better than jumping inside, headfirst?
"Ah... you mean there's a… Chicago over… ah, uh, okay?" You hear your big mouth saying before you manage to shut it up and your cheeks turn bright red in a split second. You must look dumber than you sound and his next remark makes you feel even worse. Of course he got what you meant.
"I don't know if there's a Chicago in France but sure as hell there's one in Illinois., You know, United States of America."
"Well, yeah, thank you, I know."
More than an answer, yours is a pitiful mumble as you never felt so stupid in whole life. Jesus. You let out a loud sigh, shaking your head.
"Listen, I'm sorry."
"About?"
His lips are still slightly curled up and despite the embarrassment, you can't help but think that he's really cute when he smiles, even if he's doing it not very well and at your expenses. How cool.
"Well, you'd think I'm a big fat fool now and… nothing, it's just that I really thought you were from Norway or so, since you're all… well, blond. Not that there aren't blond people in the States, but you really look like a Viking, so… that's it. I didn't mean to make a fool of myself nor to offend you."
This time, he's the one who waves a hand in the air, telling you to stop being silly, please.
"No offence taken. If I felt like you were trying to imply something nasty, you'd already be looking for your teeth under the bus."
"Whoa."
"Yeah."
His smile is slowly growing bigger, soon it would look like a regular one and not just a sedated version. At least you achieved something, you made him loosen up a bit and he's gaining points over points now that he's getting rid of that stick shoved up his ass. You smile back, trying not to look too awkward. You already reached your share of awkwardness and dumb moments for ten months to come, thank you so much.
"So, since we both agree on the fact that you hail from Chicago, Illinois and not from Chicago, France, what's your name?" you ask, propping your chin on your palm. He kind of owes you some answers after he witnessed your verbal trip and fall. Luckily, he seems to agree with you, because this time he gives you the info you want without going through another round of hide and seek.
"Well, according to my mom, it's Robert. The rest of the world just goes with Bob."
"I'll do that too then. I'm Frank, by the way. Just Frank."
"Pleasure's all mine, Just Frank."
Are your eyes deceiving you or is he grinning? You blink once and it's gone already, replaced by that poker face he masters so well, but he indeed grinned and you think that whoa, that's something to write home about.
You cough, pull a face and stick out your tongue, wanting to see if he does that again. No luck this time, so you pout.
"Very funny. It's as old as the Earth itself, but let's pretend to find it highly amusing the same, shall we?"
"As you say, mister."
He lifts his cup one last time, drinks from it and then he throws it in the trash bin. "Three points," he comments as it disappears right into it. "Three points, game's mine and I gotta go. I'll see you around, Frank."
"Ah."
You scramble on your feet, leaving your cup on the sidewalk and stuff your hands in the back pockets of your jeans.
"We're joining the Warped. Me and the guys and… nothing. Just saying, I'd hang around it for a while, it's fun."
You're babbling again, kicking small stones with the tip of your shoe and wondering why you're telling him all that. Okay, there are a bunch of tour buses in that service station, all heading to the Warped but that doesn't automatically make him a musician, a fan or a guy of the crew. Besides, you don't even know him.
He flashes you that grin again before pulling up the hood of his sweater.
"Look for what claims to be Used," he says and turns around, disappearing behind your bus. Talk about cryptic messages, eh?
*
"Oh, Frank…"
You blink and you're back to the future, back to today, all crouched in your bunk because some smartass with a killer grin, Nordic features and a Chicago background thought it funny to occupy almost all the available space there. Your elbow finds its way into his side and he grunts.
"Scoot. I'm about to fall off."
He grunts again, then two hands grab you by your shoulders and in a split second you're sprawled all over him.
"Shut the fuck up, I'm trying to sleep here and I can’t if you keep on poking me. Keep your bones to yourself," he says before kissing you. He tastes good, and as his piercing presses into your lower lip, you think that for not being a Frenchman, he's amazingly good when it comes of French kisses.
Chapter #2
(2.493) // (Pg-13.)
Bob Bryar/Frank Iero
His lips are still slightly curled up and despite the embarrassment, you can't help but think that he's really cute when he smiles, even if he's doing it not very well and at your expenses. How cool.
Prompt #8 Beginnings @
slashfic25 Not mine. Not at all. No, no.
Betalove to
sorrowful_eagle"Oh, Frank…" *
Do you remember the beginning? Yes, of course you do. It's still fresh in your mind, so near to you that you need little effort to recall it . All it takes is silence, your eyes closed, and bam! You're back in that big service station, Middle of Nowhere, United States of America.
It was… no, it is June, the end of June again, it's well past three in the morning and you're sitting on the narrow sidewalk at the bus' side, wide awake and with a full cup of coffee in your hands. It tastes foul, despite the Starbuck's green logo printed on the cardboard, so you're just toying with it, letting the cup swing between your thighs as 'the best beverage in the world' slowly turns cold.
If Mikey were around, you would hand him the cup. Mikey or Gerard, it wouldn't matter. The Way brothers are never picky when it comes of coffee, it could as well be dish-water and they'd drink it anyway, all happy for your help in feeding their addiction to caffeine. They aren't there though; Mikey and Gee are both sleeping in their bunks, just as much as everyone else. You're all alone in a desert service station, you and your awful coffee, looking at the car lights as they run past you, little red eyes staring into yours but for a moment before disappearing behind the motel, where the highway makes a slight turn to left.
Sighing, you turn around to put your back against a wheel, chin up and eyes closed while your thoughts keep on roaming free.
It's a quiet night and the smell of gasoline makes you think about old songs, B-movies, artificial lights and people having cheap sex in the men's bathroom, against doors covered with writings. It's a quiet, peaceful night and you listen at its noises, at moths repeatedly hitting the street light above your head, at the buzz of too many mosquitoes flying past your ears, at a dog howling at the moon somewhere in the backyard.
It's a quiet night and you're enjoying it to the fullest.
The Starbuck's cup is still swinging between your legs. It goes back and forth, back and forth, prompting you to pull a light smile at the liquid noises it makes. Somehow it reminds you of your childhood, of how you used to splash your hands in the kitchen's sink, pretending to be playing on the beach rather than in the smallest room of your mother's house.
Good times.
"You're going to get your balls wet with that coffee, kiddo. Just warning you."
"Huh?"
You open an eye, wondering who the ninja is who sneaked up on you unnoticed. And there he is, standing right next to you with a serious look on his face.
Dude's all blond hair, beard and blue eyes, a bit on the chubby side. You also think that more than a ninja, you’ve stumbled over one of those Nordic guys. Norwegian or Swedish, you reckon, perhaps a tourist who's having a coast to coast holiday, a tourist whose insomnia strikes hard and that's why he's wandering out at such ungodly hours, ready to give unrequited advices to each stranger he meets.
You look at him from head to toe, trying to decide if he's worth the pain of getting worked up about. You should. You usually cannot stand people who share bits of wisdom without being asked to, but this one doesn't look like he's mocking you or anything. Perhaps he's playing smartass in a weird, Nordic way - hell, it's common knowledge that all the European folks are strange - but since you can't tell, you decide to play safe and give him a cautious nod.
"I'll be careful."
He shrugs. Whatever, that's what his shoulders are saying, he warned you and that's about it. Your business, not his.
Perhaps he isn't a wannabe know-it-all preacher looking for an audience, after all.
'Hmm…'
Feeling the first prick of curiosity, you intently watch him as he leans against the bus, almost a meter away from you, as if he values personal spaces enough not to intrude upon yours. One point for him.
Still, given the place he picked for himself, you expect him to start talking again in a minute. You even count backwards just for fun, from sixty to zero, but much to your surprise Nordic Dude's still keeping silent for when you reach the last number. Fuck, he isn't even looking at you anymore, preferring to stare into the darkness. Obviously, you aren't that interesting to him.
Oh, well.
You turn your head to the highway. Nothing has changed over there; all you see are cars, cars, cars, a truck, cars, cars, more cars, even more cars, a sight so boring that you have to yawn. You turn to your newfound, silent companion then, and nothing has changed over there as well. He's still standing against the bus, all thoughtful.
He keeps a hand into the pocket of his hoodie and it's only when he raises the other that you notice how he's holding a white cup, identical to your own. Another one who fell for the Starbuck's trick they're pulling in this service station.
"It tastes foul. The coffee, I mean. It wouldn't be a great waste if it ends on the sidewalk, both mine and yours," you comment, attempting to warn him if not to start up a conversation. Where that urge to make small talks with a stranger comes from is unknown to you and you don't even want to think too much about it. You're offering him advices for free, just as he did before. You're curious. You're bored. Weird how you notice that just now.
"I know," he answers, taking long, slow sips. Everything about him is so calm that you have to wonder if even his blood runs slower in his veins or what, "I know and I agree. Piss would taste better."
"So why are you drinking it?"
"Addiction. Or I'm just too thirsty to care."
You smirk at this guy and his attitude, he's just as cool as you always imagined Nordic guys to be. It's weird though, as he has no foreign accent. Perhaps he was just born overseas? Tapping your fingers against your knee, you tilt your head to your side and study him for a while, trying to guess about his place of birth. A game like any other, to pass the time.
"What?" He asks after scarcely twenty seconds, telling you that he doesn't like being subjected to your staring.
"Nothing, it's that it's… well, Oslo? Helsinki? Stockholm? Or rather one of those small towns far up in the North? You know the deal, cute houses with wooden roofs that almost touch the ground, all colored in green and yellow and pink, seamen, a shitload of snow and Santa popping up all the time?"
"Now, what the heck are you talking about?"
"You. I'm talking about you," you explain and your hands go up in the air, drawing circles as you try to make yourself clear. "I want to know where you come from. I mean, I placed my bets on Norway but I might as well be mistaken, so I'm asking. You know, I'm curious."
He looks at you - better, he stares at you with those blue eyes he's got, piercing you on the spot. You think that hey, you wouldn't mind to get to know Nordic Dude better if he's into males. You wouldn't mind at all. Heck, he's really cute.
Perhaps he is into males, gay or bisexual at least, and wouldn't it be great if you ended up making out against the bus? Of course there's the little problem of introducing the topic, but you confide in him for making the first move if he's interested enough. Cliché states that Europeans are far more open-minded than Americans, right?
"Or you're Danish? Dutch?"
Hmm, you just hope you haven't met a shy one. Perhaps he's so quiet because talking to people makes him blush or shit like that. Not that he was exactly blushing when he spoke to you before.
"German?" you insist, trying to earn at least a yes or no. There's nothing wrong in valuing one's privacy, but if he's so reticent in telling you about such a harmless detail, God forbid you'd ask him about his sexual preferences. Fuck.
You wave your hand in the air, half-resigned already.
"Okay, leave it. Doesn't matter."
"A bit to the left. West wise, that's it," he says, interrupting you and there's nothing in his voice that would make you think he's mocking you. He's the epitome of seriousness, really.
"To the left? Well, there's Belgium as far as I remember, the Netherlands, but I mentioned it already... France? Dude, you don't strike me as Frenchman," you babble, lowering your head a bit to see him better. He straightened his back so his face is half hidden in the shadows, but you can still see how he flashes you a smirk before covering his mouth with his cup.
He takes a longer sip this time, so long that he has to cough once or twice against his palm once he's done with it. Then he looks at you again and there's a glint in those eyes, that and a light dimple on his cheek, signaling you he's biting at it from inside.
"I said left. Chicago," he says in the end, amused. Chicago. Hello angel, Nordic Dude's an American boy, just like you.
At first though, your mind doesn't click. Images of fjords, lakes and dreamy, Scandinavian landscapes are still overloading it and you just don't get what he told you. After all you dug your grave with your own hands, so what's better than jumping inside, headfirst?
"Ah... you mean there's a… Chicago over… ah, uh, okay?" You hear your big mouth saying before you manage to shut it up and your cheeks turn bright red in a split second. You must look dumber than you sound and his next remark makes you feel even worse. Of course he got what you meant.
"I don't know if there's a Chicago in France but sure as hell there's one in Illinois., You know, United States of America."
"Well, yeah, thank you, I know."
More than an answer, yours is a pitiful mumble as you never felt so stupid in whole life. Jesus. You let out a loud sigh, shaking your head.
"Listen, I'm sorry."
"About?"
His lips are still slightly curled up and despite the embarrassment, you can't help but think that he's really cute when he smiles, even if he's doing it not very well and at your expenses. How cool.
"Well, you'd think I'm a big fat fool now and… nothing, it's just that I really thought you were from Norway or so, since you're all… well, blond. Not that there aren't blond people in the States, but you really look like a Viking, so… that's it. I didn't mean to make a fool of myself nor to offend you."
This time, he's the one who waves a hand in the air, telling you to stop being silly, please.
"No offence taken. If I felt like you were trying to imply something nasty, you'd already be looking for your teeth under the bus."
"Whoa."
"Yeah."
His smile is slowly growing bigger, soon it would look like a regular one and not just a sedated version. At least you achieved something, you made him loosen up a bit and he's gaining points over points now that he's getting rid of that stick shoved up his ass. You smile back, trying not to look too awkward. You already reached your share of awkwardness and dumb moments for ten months to come, thank you so much.
"So, since we both agree on the fact that you hail from Chicago, Illinois and not from Chicago, France, what's your name?" you ask, propping your chin on your palm. He kind of owes you some answers after he witnessed your verbal trip and fall. Luckily, he seems to agree with you, because this time he gives you the info you want without going through another round of hide and seek.
"Well, according to my mom, it's Robert. The rest of the world just goes with Bob."
"I'll do that too then. I'm Frank, by the way. Just Frank."
"Pleasure's all mine, Just Frank."
Are your eyes deceiving you or is he grinning? You blink once and it's gone already, replaced by that poker face he masters so well, but he indeed grinned and you think that whoa, that's something to write home about.
You cough, pull a face and stick out your tongue, wanting to see if he does that again. No luck this time, so you pout.
"Very funny. It's as old as the Earth itself, but let's pretend to find it highly amusing the same, shall we?"
"As you say, mister."
He lifts his cup one last time, drinks from it and then he throws it in the trash bin. "Three points," he comments as it disappears right into it. "Three points, game's mine and I gotta go. I'll see you around, Frank."
"Ah."
You scramble on your feet, leaving your cup on the sidewalk and stuff your hands in the back pockets of your jeans.
"We're joining the Warped. Me and the guys and… nothing. Just saying, I'd hang around it for a while, it's fun."
You're babbling again, kicking small stones with the tip of your shoe and wondering why you're telling him all that. Okay, there are a bunch of tour buses in that service station, all heading to the Warped but that doesn't automatically make him a musician, a fan or a guy of the crew. Besides, you don't even know him.
He flashes you that grin again before pulling up the hood of his sweater.
"Look for what claims to be Used," he says and turns around, disappearing behind your bus. Talk about cryptic messages, eh?
*
"Oh, Frank…"
You blink and you're back to the future, back to today, all crouched in your bunk because some smartass with a killer grin, Nordic features and a Chicago background thought it funny to occupy almost all the available space there. Your elbow finds its way into his side and he grunts.
"Scoot. I'm about to fall off."
He grunts again, then two hands grab you by your shoulders and in a split second you're sprawled all over him.
"Shut the fuck up, I'm trying to sleep here and I can’t if you keep on poking me. Keep your bones to yourself," he says before kissing you. He tastes good, and as his piercing presses into your lower lip, you think that for not being a Frenchman, he's amazingly good when it comes of French kisses.
Chapter #2
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-08-01 05:52 am (UTC)I'm working on the sequel these days, it should be ready pretty soon *crossing fingers*
Thank you again :) <3
no subject
Date: 2007-08-01 11:41 pm (UTC)Chicago France!
And... I got to practice my Italian by reading your comments! YAY!
no subject
Date: 2007-08-04 10:47 am (UTC)Thank you :D I seem to have a problem in writing smuts when I'm on my own [as weird as it sounds, I can't slash myself, lol] so I try to concentrate on the story itself and make it as believable as possible. I'm forever terrified I wouldn't make it, though, or that what I write would make sense to me only, so I'm glad to know I managed it this time :D
Do you understand Italian? :DDD
no subject
Date: 2007-08-04 03:35 pm (UTC)I love it, though!