glasspaperclip (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
glasspaperclip) wrote2007-08-25 02:04 pm
glasspaperclip) wrote2007-08-25 02:04 pm
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Ghosts in the Fog [2/6]
Ghosts in the Fog - [1/6]
(2.361) // (Pg-13.)
Bob Bryar/Frank Iero
He's... well, weird in that sense. He could mercilessly tease you about minor stuff, as he’s got quite a sharp mouth, but so far he never unleashed it on you when he knew it would hurt, even if he had the chance. On the contrary, he seems to care about you enough to know when to stop. It's weird, really, and at the same time it's strangely comforting.
Prompt #6 Fall @![[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
[1/6] - Beginnings
**
"Oh, Frank..."
If you keep your eyes closed, you can pretend it's still him. You don’t need to make a big effort to do so, picturing his lips rather than your fingertip.
It isn’t your index, slightly calloused due to the guitar’s strings. It’s his tongue instead, teasing you just as he was doing few hours ago, right after you amused him to no end by kicking Mikey and Brian out the bus.
It isn’t your finger but his lips, slightly wet as they brush past your mouth, kissing you in that slow, affectionate way you’re already so fond of.
It’s his lips and, Jesus, you’ve turned into a big pussy in less than two weeks. A big girly pussy, to be precise. Good thing that you're still in your bunk and that it's early in the morning, so early that the sunlight still has to make it to the bus. This way you can indulge in sugar-coated thoughts that would better fit a teenage girl rather than you, a grown man of twenty-three.
After all, it's always easier to dive into silly stuff when outside it's still dark, no?
Pfft.
Before your mind could give birth to other bullshit, you sit on the edge of your bunk and let your legs swing in the air, very child-like.
If Ray sees you, he'd grab you by your ankles and pull you down, face flat on the floor. His bunk is right below yours and he’s warned you more than once against having your feet so near to his face, no matter if the curtain is pulled over or not. Ray's still asleep though, so you continue to do it, with the typical glee of a kid who's pulling a funny prank at someone's else expenses.
You cut with it pretty soon though. You're bored already and your mind is straying elsewhere, insistently urging you to turn around. Another girly fit is coming, you can tell that much, so at first you resist, refusing to give in and fulfil that sudden... well, what? Need? Wish? Whim?
Whatever, you aren't able to nail it down and in some ways, you don't even want to. It’s such a funny feeling, really. It’s just like that game you played when you were little, when your friends blindfolded you and you had to find them that way. You knew who you had to look for but since you couldn't see them, it made it harder and awfully awkward.
Yes, this is exactly how you feel when it comes to him. Awfully awkward, forever afraid to say or do something wrong. Perhaps it's because of your first meeting, of your spectacular blond moment. Admittedly, that ruined it a bit for you and now you're always trying your best to make up for it. Not that he ever asked you anything. He doesn’t even mention that night anymore, as if he’s already forgotten about it or he just doesn’t care enough to bring it up again.
He's... well, weird in that sense. He could mercilessly tease you about minor stuff, as he’s got quite a sharp mouth, but so far he hasn’t unleashed it on you when he knew it would hurt, even if he had the chance. On the contrary, he seems to care about you enough to know when to stop.
It's weird, really, and at the same time it's strangely comforting.
You let out a soft sigh and turn around, giving in to the impulse you felt before without even noticing. When you realize what you've just done, you're already staring at the pillow you gave him before. Oh, screw it. No one can see you now, so it doesn’t really matter what you do.
You inhale, looking at your fingertips as they touch the white fabric, the slight dent left by his head, and you smile at how familiar having another pillow next to yours already looks. You stole it from Gerard’s bunk just for him. Gee sleeps with two and you decided he could as well spare one for your... huh, part-time boyfriend? Could you go that far and call him so? It probably is too much and Mikey’s right: he’s just a fuckbuddy you really like. Still, you don’t want to define him so.
You sigh.
Yes. You truly are a big pussy.
*
"Oh, Frank..."
Forty minutes later and you're outside. It's almost seven in the morning and there are few people around, some early birds like you, and very late night owls who probably didn't go to sleep at all. You don't care about them anyway, nor about how wasted the majority of them look. You have your coffee, fags, a new lighter. The hood of your sweater is pulled up and there's nothing else in the world you need.
For a long while you just stroll around, sipping your coffee and playing with your lighter, apparently heading nowhere – at least, that’s what you keep on telling yourself. You’re out just because you had nothing to do in the bus, you were getting bored and you’ve never been able to get back to sleep once you're awake. The truth is another thing though and your legs seem to be well aware of that, because they're slowly leading you up to a very specific destination. It is as if your brain is busy whistling and looking elsewhere, playing the fool while your legs do all the dirty work.
It takes you other ten minutes of pointless walking before you reach your target, the tour bus with a broken window on the left side and blue paint fading at the edges.
A quick peek at your watch informs you that it's half past seven and you nod. Perfect.
Your empty cup ends in the nearest trash bin – well, to be honest, it spectacularly misses, earning you a sarcastic cheer from a passing-by dude, but you don't notice anything because you're busy checking the surroundings already. Hands in your pockets and a cigarette hanging from the corner of your mouth, you’re ready to resume your stroll by circling the bus, trying your best to look casual, as if you were there by chance and not by purpose.
Yeah. Right.
You shrug. In the worst case, you'd just blame your legs for taking over while your brain was distracted with other things and that would be it. Period. End of the story. As simple as it sounds. No further discussions allowed. You keep on repeating all that, quickly making it a personal, silly mantra to utter as you walk.
For some reasons, you’re so concentrated on it that you end up lowering your head and turning Jamia’s old ring around your finger, something you do only when you feel nervous. That's why you almost miss him.
Of course, it doesn't really help the fact that he isn't trying to attract your attention at all. He's just standing there, a few meters or so away from you, among dozens of flight cases scattered around. He carries one in his hands, too. It looks quite heavy but he seems not to be bothered by the weight: his eyes are on you, piercing you on the spot.
You’ve only known each other twelve days, and you admittedly spent a good part of them fucking rather than discussing philosophy and Shakespeare’s sonnets, but you can already tell much of what goes on in his mind just by eye contact.
It should give you the creeps. It just gives you a warm, fuzzy feeling you're too ashamed to admit the existence of, but that makes you feel good. Hopefully, it works the same for him.
"Oh, Frank..."
You blink as his voice resounds in the back of your mind, focusing on him again. He didn't move, he's still staring at you with that case in his hands.
Your eyes meet. You give him a short nod, a silent 'hey you, I was totally thinking about something else but then I saw you from afar and I thought it nice to stop and say hi'. He looks at you for a moment and you know that that small smile on his face stands for 'yeah, I bet you did'.
He points at the cases with his chin then, including them all with a sharp gesture before turning to his left, to the direction of the main stage. Once he turns to you again, you see how his eyebrow is arched in silent question and you nod, your cool attitude already forgotten. Of course you want to have breakfast with him at the small bar located near the main stage; you went all the way up there with that idea in the back of your mind, no?
You raise your thumb, winking at him. He missed it though because he's already back to work, moving cases away from the passage, so you just shoot an appreciative glance at his ass and then you're gone, wondering once more how the heck he managed to make you fall head over heels for him.
*
An hour later you're sitting on the stairs that lead up to the skater’s zone, you with an orange juice in your hand and him with a can of Red Bull. You're both staying silent. You’re enjoying his company, the warm feeling you get only by having him sit next to you on a narrow step, while he... well, you can’t really tell, but so far he has neither complained nor made witty remarks about anything, so you just assume he’s alright.
Didn’t he teach you already that you shouldn’t ever assume anything about him?
"Frank?"
Yes, he did.
Tiny, alarmed bells start to ring in the back of your mind. Holy shit. You don't like his tone at all, his tone and his face, they're both too... uhm, not serious, because hey, he's serious for about 364 days per year. He's just too... dark? Lame choice of word, you know that much, but it's the only one that somehow fits his expression. He looks dark-ish bordering on gloomy while he stares at his Red Bull, as if it was that old Greek Oracle about to give out a fucking prophecy.
"Yeah?" You urge him, nudging at his arm with your elbow. Not that you're really looking forward to hear what he’s coming up with. You know you won't like it.
Your suspicion becomes true as soon as he opens his mouth.
"We should cut with it."
"Cut with what? Be specific, man, I ain't a mind reader yet."
Is it just you or is your voice a bit shrill?
"With all this. This whole 'man oh man, we're always around each other and we fuck ourselves up to high heavens but shoot me if that doesn't happen by mere chance each time!' You get me? Personally, I got bored about five days ago."
Your grip around the can of orange juice tightens, deforming it a little before you manage to stop yourself. That's exactly what you thought he would say, word by word. Jesus. And now?
You swallow, cough twice or thrice and turn to him. Okay, you have to handle it the best you can, carefully avoiding traps and... and fuck with all that shit. It wouldn’t work this way.
You have to tell him that no, you don't want to cut with anything because you like him and you want to keep on seeing him. You have to tell him that you don't want to lose what you have, that you're getting to know him and he’s a cool, special guy. You want to ask him to give you a chance, because you might act as dumb as a monkey but you never joke when it comes to people you care about and yes, you fucking care about him.
You want to tell him all that and then some, so obviously that's why the only word that comes out your mouth is a small, squeaky, "Uh?"
He raises an eyebrow and you’d love to hide behind your can rather than drink from it. He's thinking you're a sad person, what else?
"I mean, if you want to ask me out, then fucking do it. Stop popping up every day and playing the 'but I don't give shit!' card on me. Are you afraid I’ll kick your ass if you do? Or that I’ll tell you to back off? Come on, Frank. We've been sort of dating for two bloody weeks, do you really think I like to stick around people I loathe?"
This time, the fit of coughs that strikes you down is real and not a fake like the last one. So this dickhead you picked up at that service station - or was it the other way round? You still have to figure that out - almost made you shit your pants for nothing?
"You... asshole!" you rant in between coughs, spitting orange juice all around, "Bastard! You scared... thought you wanted... and I didn’t want to... go fuck yourself... with a pitchfork!"
"Yes, yes," he answers, patting you on your back. He doesn't look impressed by your outburst, but he's just patiently waiting for you to calm down. His expression has changed by now, the gloom’n’doom from before is gone. Now he even seems quite happy to be on the receiving end of your rant.
"Fucker!" you spit out in the end, together with a last cough. Your cheeks are so red you can almost feel them burning; luckily most of it has been caused by the heavy coughing.
“Better?”
“Yes, better.”
You sigh. Enough with games.
"Bob?"
“Yes?”
“Would you want to... ah, shit, go out, have fun, get laid and generally do all the things two guys dating do when they’re together and they like each other? Because we would inch up a notch, up to ‘real dating’, dropping the ‘sort of’ you mentioned before and you know...”
The ‘of course, shithead’ you’re half expecting doesn’t come. He just laughs and says yes, instead, putting a hand on your back and giving it a small, affectionate rub before pulling you nearer.
Chapter #3
(2.361) // (Pg-13.)
Bob Bryar/Frank Iero
He's... well, weird in that sense. He could mercilessly tease you about minor stuff, as he’s got quite a sharp mouth, but so far he never unleashed it on you when he knew it would hurt, even if he had the chance. On the contrary, he seems to care about you enough to know when to stop. It's weird, really, and at the same time it's strangely comforting.
Prompt #6 Fall @
slashfic25 Not mine. Not at all. No, no.
Betalove to
sorrowful_eagle[1/6] - Beginnings
**
"Oh, Frank..."
If you keep your eyes closed, you can pretend it's still him. You don’t need to make a big effort to do so, picturing his lips rather than your fingertip.
It isn’t your index, slightly calloused due to the guitar’s strings. It’s his tongue instead, teasing you just as he was doing few hours ago, right after you amused him to no end by kicking Mikey and Brian out the bus.
It isn’t your finger but his lips, slightly wet as they brush past your mouth, kissing you in that slow, affectionate way you’re already so fond of.
It’s his lips and, Jesus, you’ve turned into a big pussy in less than two weeks. A big girly pussy, to be precise. Good thing that you're still in your bunk and that it's early in the morning, so early that the sunlight still has to make it to the bus. This way you can indulge in sugar-coated thoughts that would better fit a teenage girl rather than you, a grown man of twenty-three.
After all, it's always easier to dive into silly stuff when outside it's still dark, no?
Pfft.
Before your mind could give birth to other bullshit, you sit on the edge of your bunk and let your legs swing in the air, very child-like.
If Ray sees you, he'd grab you by your ankles and pull you down, face flat on the floor. His bunk is right below yours and he’s warned you more than once against having your feet so near to his face, no matter if the curtain is pulled over or not. Ray's still asleep though, so you continue to do it, with the typical glee of a kid who's pulling a funny prank at someone's else expenses.
You cut with it pretty soon though. You're bored already and your mind is straying elsewhere, insistently urging you to turn around. Another girly fit is coming, you can tell that much, so at first you resist, refusing to give in and fulfil that sudden... well, what? Need? Wish? Whim?
Whatever, you aren't able to nail it down and in some ways, you don't even want to. It’s such a funny feeling, really. It’s just like that game you played when you were little, when your friends blindfolded you and you had to find them that way. You knew who you had to look for but since you couldn't see them, it made it harder and awfully awkward.
Yes, this is exactly how you feel when it comes to him. Awfully awkward, forever afraid to say or do something wrong. Perhaps it's because of your first meeting, of your spectacular blond moment. Admittedly, that ruined it a bit for you and now you're always trying your best to make up for it. Not that he ever asked you anything. He doesn’t even mention that night anymore, as if he’s already forgotten about it or he just doesn’t care enough to bring it up again.
He's... well, weird in that sense. He could mercilessly tease you about minor stuff, as he’s got quite a sharp mouth, but so far he hasn’t unleashed it on you when he knew it would hurt, even if he had the chance. On the contrary, he seems to care about you enough to know when to stop.
It's weird, really, and at the same time it's strangely comforting.
You let out a soft sigh and turn around, giving in to the impulse you felt before without even noticing. When you realize what you've just done, you're already staring at the pillow you gave him before. Oh, screw it. No one can see you now, so it doesn’t really matter what you do.
You inhale, looking at your fingertips as they touch the white fabric, the slight dent left by his head, and you smile at how familiar having another pillow next to yours already looks. You stole it from Gerard’s bunk just for him. Gee sleeps with two and you decided he could as well spare one for your... huh, part-time boyfriend? Could you go that far and call him so? It probably is too much and Mikey’s right: he’s just a fuckbuddy you really like. Still, you don’t want to define him so.
You sigh.
Yes. You truly are a big pussy.
*
"Oh, Frank..."
Forty minutes later and you're outside. It's almost seven in the morning and there are few people around, some early birds like you, and very late night owls who probably didn't go to sleep at all. You don't care about them anyway, nor about how wasted the majority of them look. You have your coffee, fags, a new lighter. The hood of your sweater is pulled up and there's nothing else in the world you need.
For a long while you just stroll around, sipping your coffee and playing with your lighter, apparently heading nowhere – at least, that’s what you keep on telling yourself. You’re out just because you had nothing to do in the bus, you were getting bored and you’ve never been able to get back to sleep once you're awake. The truth is another thing though and your legs seem to be well aware of that, because they're slowly leading you up to a very specific destination. It is as if your brain is busy whistling and looking elsewhere, playing the fool while your legs do all the dirty work.
It takes you other ten minutes of pointless walking before you reach your target, the tour bus with a broken window on the left side and blue paint fading at the edges.
A quick peek at your watch informs you that it's half past seven and you nod. Perfect.
Your empty cup ends in the nearest trash bin – well, to be honest, it spectacularly misses, earning you a sarcastic cheer from a passing-by dude, but you don't notice anything because you're busy checking the surroundings already. Hands in your pockets and a cigarette hanging from the corner of your mouth, you’re ready to resume your stroll by circling the bus, trying your best to look casual, as if you were there by chance and not by purpose.
Yeah. Right.
You shrug. In the worst case, you'd just blame your legs for taking over while your brain was distracted with other things and that would be it. Period. End of the story. As simple as it sounds. No further discussions allowed. You keep on repeating all that, quickly making it a personal, silly mantra to utter as you walk.
For some reasons, you’re so concentrated on it that you end up lowering your head and turning Jamia’s old ring around your finger, something you do only when you feel nervous. That's why you almost miss him.
Of course, it doesn't really help the fact that he isn't trying to attract your attention at all. He's just standing there, a few meters or so away from you, among dozens of flight cases scattered around. He carries one in his hands, too. It looks quite heavy but he seems not to be bothered by the weight: his eyes are on you, piercing you on the spot.
You’ve only known each other twelve days, and you admittedly spent a good part of them fucking rather than discussing philosophy and Shakespeare’s sonnets, but you can already tell much of what goes on in his mind just by eye contact.
It should give you the creeps. It just gives you a warm, fuzzy feeling you're too ashamed to admit the existence of, but that makes you feel good. Hopefully, it works the same for him.
"Oh, Frank..."
You blink as his voice resounds in the back of your mind, focusing on him again. He didn't move, he's still staring at you with that case in his hands.
Your eyes meet. You give him a short nod, a silent 'hey you, I was totally thinking about something else but then I saw you from afar and I thought it nice to stop and say hi'. He looks at you for a moment and you know that that small smile on his face stands for 'yeah, I bet you did'.
He points at the cases with his chin then, including them all with a sharp gesture before turning to his left, to the direction of the main stage. Once he turns to you again, you see how his eyebrow is arched in silent question and you nod, your cool attitude already forgotten. Of course you want to have breakfast with him at the small bar located near the main stage; you went all the way up there with that idea in the back of your mind, no?
You raise your thumb, winking at him. He missed it though because he's already back to work, moving cases away from the passage, so you just shoot an appreciative glance at his ass and then you're gone, wondering once more how the heck he managed to make you fall head over heels for him.
*
An hour later you're sitting on the stairs that lead up to the skater’s zone, you with an orange juice in your hand and him with a can of Red Bull. You're both staying silent. You’re enjoying his company, the warm feeling you get only by having him sit next to you on a narrow step, while he... well, you can’t really tell, but so far he has neither complained nor made witty remarks about anything, so you just assume he’s alright.
Didn’t he teach you already that you shouldn’t ever assume anything about him?
"Frank?"
Yes, he did.
Tiny, alarmed bells start to ring in the back of your mind. Holy shit. You don't like his tone at all, his tone and his face, they're both too... uhm, not serious, because hey, he's serious for about 364 days per year. He's just too... dark? Lame choice of word, you know that much, but it's the only one that somehow fits his expression. He looks dark-ish bordering on gloomy while he stares at his Red Bull, as if it was that old Greek Oracle about to give out a fucking prophecy.
"Yeah?" You urge him, nudging at his arm with your elbow. Not that you're really looking forward to hear what he’s coming up with. You know you won't like it.
Your suspicion becomes true as soon as he opens his mouth.
"We should cut with it."
"Cut with what? Be specific, man, I ain't a mind reader yet."
Is it just you or is your voice a bit shrill?
"With all this. This whole 'man oh man, we're always around each other and we fuck ourselves up to high heavens but shoot me if that doesn't happen by mere chance each time!' You get me? Personally, I got bored about five days ago."
Your grip around the can of orange juice tightens, deforming it a little before you manage to stop yourself. That's exactly what you thought he would say, word by word. Jesus. And now?
You swallow, cough twice or thrice and turn to him. Okay, you have to handle it the best you can, carefully avoiding traps and... and fuck with all that shit. It wouldn’t work this way.
You have to tell him that no, you don't want to cut with anything because you like him and you want to keep on seeing him. You have to tell him that you don't want to lose what you have, that you're getting to know him and he’s a cool, special guy. You want to ask him to give you a chance, because you might act as dumb as a monkey but you never joke when it comes to people you care about and yes, you fucking care about him.
You want to tell him all that and then some, so obviously that's why the only word that comes out your mouth is a small, squeaky, "Uh?"
He raises an eyebrow and you’d love to hide behind your can rather than drink from it. He's thinking you're a sad person, what else?
"I mean, if you want to ask me out, then fucking do it. Stop popping up every day and playing the 'but I don't give shit!' card on me. Are you afraid I’ll kick your ass if you do? Or that I’ll tell you to back off? Come on, Frank. We've been sort of dating for two bloody weeks, do you really think I like to stick around people I loathe?"
This time, the fit of coughs that strikes you down is real and not a fake like the last one. So this dickhead you picked up at that service station - or was it the other way round? You still have to figure that out - almost made you shit your pants for nothing?
"You... asshole!" you rant in between coughs, spitting orange juice all around, "Bastard! You scared... thought you wanted... and I didn’t want to... go fuck yourself... with a pitchfork!"
"Yes, yes," he answers, patting you on your back. He doesn't look impressed by your outburst, but he's just patiently waiting for you to calm down. His expression has changed by now, the gloom’n’doom from before is gone. Now he even seems quite happy to be on the receiving end of your rant.
"Fucker!" you spit out in the end, together with a last cough. Your cheeks are so red you can almost feel them burning; luckily most of it has been caused by the heavy coughing.
“Better?”
“Yes, better.”
You sigh. Enough with games.
"Bob?"
“Yes?”
“Would you want to... ah, shit, go out, have fun, get laid and generally do all the things two guys dating do when they’re together and they like each other? Because we would inch up a notch, up to ‘real dating’, dropping the ‘sort of’ you mentioned before and you know...”
The ‘of course, shithead’ you’re half expecting doesn’t come. He just laughs and says yes, instead, putting a hand on your back and giving it a small, affectionate rub before pulling you nearer.
Chapter #3