FicWad

Hey!
I'm uploading this in the tiny bit of internet time I do have...so...yeah...
Well, it's a frerard oneshot, Frank's POV, and I hope you enjoy it :D




Scratch Scratch. Sigh. Scribble. Another sigh. Crumpling. Tiny glowing ball of paper whizzing through the air. Slight thud. Another sigh.

Um…Ivory--the color. Skylines and turnstiles. 9/11, don’t ask me why…. The color lavender….
No. Not right.

Gold. Silver. New year’s eve. Orange cake. Pfffft. Come on. You can do better than that.

Unleash the fucking bats baby! Descending Angel (the song). Red: crimson, bright, blinding. Dream catchers, and alabaster feathers. Well, that’s a little better…that one’s okay…but no. The beginning? Nah.

I sighed again, tapping the tip of the ballpoint on the small table, and glanced around me. The beige blinds had been drawn across the windows a while back now, draping slightly over the oak colored paneled walls, as I sat opposite our small kitchenette, silence hovering above me as only the soft hum of the bus and my repeated sighs could be heard. The room was covered in a sheer veil of amber light, coming from the tiny light bulb above the mini stove we always left on as an emergency light, as midnight shadows danced around from within the room, the singing lights of humanity blocked out by the beige, drawn canvas. The neon green digital clock display on our microwave indicated that it was 1:27 am, as the numbers slowly drowned in the darkness of the bus, only reminding me of my frustration, and my desire to impress him; my desire to prove to both of us that I could come up with something good. The heather grey curtain to the bunk area was closed tightly, keeping the others completely unaware of the fact that I was here, scribbling and sighing by what was only as powerful as candle light, trying to impress him instead of snuggled away in the narrow comforts of my bunk. Of course, only he could come up with something like this, and expect all of us to come up with equally deep and meaningful fragments of speech. He being, of course, Gerard Way. A fallen angel in the eyes of many, but an angel to mine nonetheless.

Someone whom I was allowed to kiss, straddle, and excite on stage. Someone who, despite my desperate desires for things to be otherwise, simply considered me their best friend. Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining of my friendship with the man, I value it above anything; I’d die for both him and anyone important to him before taking any chance of him getting hurt. But sometimes…just sometimes I wish that his soft lips would find mine offstage too…that his hand would wander affectionately over to mine, and grasp it firmly…lovingly.

Come on Frank. Focus. Angels. Right. Gerard. And his questions, dares, and general wanderings he chose to impose on us too. The wide insightful, intelligent, random, batshit crazy, and hilariously funny array of thoughts that just popped out of his head, and occupied us for a little while on the road. And try and guess what it had been today? Yesterday, it had been how many pieces of popcorn you could stuff in your mouth without gagging. All right, that had been a pretty fun one. Especially when we found out that Ray could stuff more in his ‘fro then in all of our mouths combined. The day before that it had been what guitars sounded like when they were delicately strummed: tears or laughter. And the day before that had been whether or not I could fit in one of the tour bus kitchen cabinets. They were all somehow amusing or thought-provoking, and actually helped us live through the long hours of sitting in between the dream we lived every night and the dreams we dreamt after. Well, except for the kitchen cabinet thing, that was not at all amusing nor thought-provoking. The only thing it had provoked in me was the sudden urge to kick him in the balls in front of a thousand screaming fans. But today…today he had asked us what we thought of when someone mentioned angels.

Bob had been grumpy due to the fact I had eaten his lunch, so he had mumbled something about a salad with fries, beating me with drumsticks and keeping me out of his bunk. I had, for some reason unexplainable to myself, found this extremely funny and began giggling wildly, prompting him to add ‘force Frank to watch Mr. Bean for hours’ to his already long list of ways to get back at me for various incidents including lunches, skittles, throwing microphone stands into his drums and the like.

Ray had gone into a long ode about how lucky he was to have met his wife and be able to spend the rest of his life with her, guitar picks and passion fruit scented curl-enhancing shampoo. Mikey had said something about saving lives, his new fender bass, how lucky he was to have both us and his family, and how thankful he was Gerard was still here with us. But what was I thinking about? You. You Gerard. But of course I couldn’t say that.

Nine hours later and here I was. Sleep deprived, emotional, and rightfully pissed yet bent over the small tour bus table, gripping on tightly to a partially broken indigo colored leaking ballpoint pen, watching its shadow glide across the snow white paper, as that small light above the stove kept me from waking the others with bright, overhead fluorescents. The thoughts of angels clouding my mind, my heart urging me to tell him what I really thought of, while my head pressed me to come up with something original, something to make him think…

So far I was at 23 sheets of paper wasted, half of our ink supply drained, no more coffee grains, five packs of Mikey’s skittles downed, and one shot of vodka. Yet I was still here, the desire to impress him consuming me, forcing me to keep going, tiny fragments of my skull inked onto paper, crumpled, and thrown across the room. Every time forcing myself to try again, to use the strangely motivating atmosphere I was in as inspiration. Because there’s something strangely and fascinatingly romantic about the hybrid hum of a tour bus, the sound of really progressing forward as gravel seems to wash away below, and a small, russet flickering of old light bulb similar to that of a candle’s. Just try...let your mind wander, and write while it does...]
Isnt’ that what I’ve been doing all along?
[/Just try again, Frank
Don’t ‘Frank’ me. Don't do it. I’m warning you, you don’t piss some randomer off at 1 something in the fucking morning
You don’t tell me what to do, I tell you what to do.
I am you, shit face. But fine fine, all try again. I debated whether or not reaching for another shot of booze, the gleaming, translucent throat burning liquid so appealing right now, but decided against it. My mind seemed fucked up enough, the fact that my braind had split into two and was now arguing should serve as sufficient proof, and besides, if I got drunk I’d end up writing something painfully idiotic.
Just…let your mind wander…let inspiration come to you…angels...angels...angels.

American Idiot. Seriously. Tomato soup. Funerals. My grandmother’s lifeless figure open caskets. That poem…the one with the secret heart thingy--- Are you fucking serious? Tomato soup?!? You think you’re gonna impress Gerard with Tomato soup?! I sighed again, aimlessly dropping the now almost inkless pen, and lowering my throbbing head into my arms. This is hopeless…Even that damn light over the thing we called a stove could come up with something better than I could.

A cloudy day…a foggy background. Late afternoon, almost dusk. Skulls. Another ball of paper flying across the dimly lit room.

A trumpet thingy. Christmas…Christmas ornaments. Candy canes. Peppermint and cinnamon. Eggnog. Dew. Snow shimmering in the sun. glimmering snowflakes. Inspiration that won’t come. Fuck you mind. But…maybe… keep the glimmering snowflakes…

Graveyards. More clouds. Black converse. My first guitar that sounded like Satan sneezing whenever I strummed it. Glimmering snowflakes. Never mind. Don’t keep glimmering snowflakes.

Headfirst for halos. Powdered sugar. Wheezing kettle, boiling water. Alabaster white and heather grey. Hospitals: I hate them, but they supposedly save lives, so I won’t bitch about them. Wow. That’s romantic.

Mint flavored toothpaste, piercings, silver. Titanium. Baseballs. Even better, you’re on a roll, mind.

Puppies. Bunnies with big eyes and floppy ears. Tails wagging. Shut up.

Christmas lights around my very first epiphone Les Paul, eggnog, coffee, loved ones. Snow outside, nighttime. Comfy couches… torn gift wrappers scattered around. The best present ever. You like eggnog don’t you? Well Gerard doesn’t. Reminds him of cows.

I angrily slammed my inked fist against the table, watching it’s plastic surface rattle as a sharp pain rang through my arm, the light bulb flickering, the dark grey curtain rattling and one curtain opening as I violently kicked the darkly paneled wall. Frustration boiled up in me as the shadows stopped dancing, a few, shaky and warm tears welling up and balancing on my bottom lid. Blink. Those few tears angrily storming down my cheeks, eventually calming me, only leaving an itchy trail of invisible poison ivy behind them. I smiled faintly as the last tear reached the tip of my lips, my tongue moving swiftly across to capture it, a small, salty speck drowning in saliva. You’re never gonna come up with anything good. Just write what you really want to write. Embarrass yourself. At least it won’t be as dumb as what you came up with before. I inhaled briefly, and picked up the pen again, partially smirking up at the shadows.

What do I think of when you mention angels? Stage lights. The fact that they’re the only things that keep me sane anymore. Because they are what allow him to smirk at me through the sweat and screaming fans. They are the only thing that let him traipse over to me seductively, the echoing microphone dangling off the tip of his artist fingers, as he draws it up to his think, pink, and moist lips. The only things that allow me to slam down onto him and forcefully grind against him during Ray’s guitar solos…They are the only thing that let both of us ignore Mikey’s ‘here we go again’ expressions of annoyance, and the only things that let me smirk down at him while I can hear Ray chuckling. Well, I got to do that when I proved to him I could balance on Bob’s shoulders (hence the origin of Bob’s ‘things to do to get back at Frank’ list). But they are what separate us from the eyes of the fans as we crash our lips together, as fireworks explode above us. Stage lights, angles in themselves are what allow me to have the man that I’m furiously in love with, no matter how many times I swore to Ray I wasn’t, for a few hours a day. Hours of heaven. Because that’s where angels live isn’t it? I sighed again as another few tears rolled over my upper lip, part of me smirking when I thought of what it would be like to really give him that answer. Because that, that would really make him think, wouldn't it? At least he'd know just how much he could make me suffer. I put the pen down, ready to crumple that sheet of paper and dispose of it, now that all the frustration had washed out of me, and ready to continue trying to answer his damn question. In the dim light of an expiring light bulb, writing the truth-even when you know you’ll scratch it out and crumple it up- really helps…it’s like a basic inhale-exhale exercise, only for people on a sugar and caffeine high. It was like a sweet, hybrid form of Revenge. Something you could dream of shoving in his smug face without actually doing it. Another dream to dream.

I picked up the sheet of paper, ready to shred it to pieces and resume working on the answer I would actually give him, when a both shaky and shallow breath grazed the back of my expose neck, freezing me in place. Shit. Major bat fucking whale screwing motherfucking shit. My breath had hitched in my throat the moment I had realized someone else’s presence in the room, and it still remained trapped, as I prayed that I hadn’t properly recognized said person.

“Is that really how you think of me?” Shit. The forbidden whisper lingered through the air, reaching me as I released my breath, breathing in his trademark nighttime scent. A thin undertone of coffee, followed by chamomile makeup remover, face soap, and the smell of pajamas that hadn’t been cleaned in a while. Yup. Definitely him. I brought a shaky, quavering hand up to my face, hoping to chase away reality, and to relapse in a dream.
“Ge-Gerard?” I whispered, stammering, my cheeks started to flame while my heart pounded madly in my chest, my back still turned to him.
“I-Is that really how you think of me?” he repeated, his words only parting the tension around us for a split second. I closed my eyes painfully, and slowly turned around, raising my watering eyes to his entrancing hazel ones. “Answer me!” he hissed angrily, turning his face away to escape my pleading eyes, and the hurt that shone in them. Because no one needs to be told he regretted all the stage acts, to be told he couldn’t even look at me right now. Just knowing that he would say it was enough to sting as if someone had ripped out my heart, and was now ambitiously feasting on its remains, forcing me too lose all my control on my emotions, and on my heart itself. It might as well just stop beating.
“Frankie answer me” he pleaded, his voice cracking as he sniffled a little, his eyes seeming on fire. There's no point in lying now, is there? Just tell him. It’s over anyways .Just do it. Admit it to him. Spit in his angelic face and fall from the stage lit heaven.
“What’s it to you?” Okay, not what I had in mind, but that works too.
“Just. Fucking. A-answer m-me” he demanded again, his voice this time completely devoid of confidence, never venturing above a whisper.
“fine” I sneered, tears burning the insides of my eyes as I knew this would completely destroy our friendship, and perhaps even end my career. But I didn’t really fucking care about my career right now,did I? I was about to shatter years of friendship, of me cradling him in my arms as he cried over his addiction to Xanax. Of hugging him when he got clean, of the joy sparkling in everyone’s eyes. Years of living the life we only ever dreamed of. Of laughter, and tears, and guitars, and stupid dares. Years of that feeling of safety. But I was just going to ruin it. All. Watch it all drain away, the stage lights, the dares, everything. But who was I too care? You're going to hell anyways, so might as well go there for a reason.

“that’s really how I think of you…" I admitted, as regret,hurt, shame and anger slammed through me in a violent storm, toppling me out of safety's way. "And… for the record I don’t appreciate you kicking me out of the ban--” The violent crashing of his soft lips against my chapped ones silenced me, as the little bit of air left in me knocked out as I desperately searched for the stage lights, only finding the soft amber glow that casted over the bus shadows. Suddenly it hit me that this wasn’t a stage act, and I wriggled away, my wide eyes starring confused into his dancing hazel irises.
“I…um…Gerard...wha—but I thought…the…stage acts…you” I stammered out, my mind a confused lump, struggling to find the words...any words. What did I want to ask again? Oh, right. I climbed onto the tip of my tiptoes, pressing my forehead to his, trying to balance on the tip of my worn, scruffy doc martens. Soft hand delicately pushed me back down, our foreheads still rubbing against each other, as his eyes shimmered in the darkness.
“Tell me the truth...about the stage stunts” I whispered, trying my best to be stern, but only succeeding to sound pleading, defeated and desperate. But that's only what I was...pleading,defeated and desperate. I held my breath as I waited desperately for his answer, my breath frozen in place like a doe caught in headlights. I watched his long, spidery eyelashes sweep down as he blinked, before I noticed the caramel in his eyes fixed on mine, little green flecks staring deep into me.
“You…really love me?” he asked, a bit of his stage confidence returning, as a few strands of his ebony hair brushed against my temple. I nodded, that only followed by a sharp pain shooting through my head, and Gerard pulling away, cupping his forehead as he mumbled a few curses. At that sight I got an uncontrollable need to giggle, and began doing so furiously, only to be joined in by Gerard, his adorably familiar laugh taking over the dormant room, like jingle bells at the dawn of a white Christmas. His ivory color arms snaked around my waist, the tip of his button nose gently nudging mine as he began to nibble tentatively on my lip ring, his hazel orbs mesmerizing me, capturing me. “So do I…”
“So…it wasn’t just... stage shit?” I whispered cautiously, our breathing mixing together. He shook his head, a few tendrils of his jet black hair falling into his face, brushing against my half-closed eyelids. And all these years I thought they were.
“Bastard” I whispered, smirking up at him as he stopped nibbling on my lip ring, only to replace it with his tongue. He slowly glided it across my bottom lip, trying furiously to part them, begging for the entrance I soon granted him. His tongue danced with mine, slowly at first, like the shadows of the midnight room were, but sooner in a much more violent way, a way that soon escalated into a fight for dominance, all the shadows slipping away before us, only the fake imitation of candle light remaining as his hand hungrily danced up my shirt, and as he urgently picked me up, clawing into my back only to gently throw me onto the soft, dark couch, his body meeting mine within seconds.



A soft, early morning light shone through, a gentle glow imitating the canopy of heather grey cotton that was the sky. My eyes fluttered open a little, enough for me to recognize the main area of the bus, before I allowed them to close again, as I wandered along the thin path between consciousness and sleep. Everything around me was pleasantly warm, the soft hum of the bus advancing on the paved road mixed with the roaring of the heating system. My mind filled with delicious memories of what had been only a few hours ago, memories laced with moans, lips roaming over each other and fingers lacing together, strong, inked and calloused ones over delicate, soft, artist ones. I subconsciously let a hand trace down my abdomen at the images of sparkling eyes glazed over with lust, of fistfuls of moist dark, hair… and the sound of urgent pants…the feeling of Gerard insid—

“Ehem” I shot up, chasing all those wonderful memories away and, panicky, turned in direction of the voice. Oh no.

Mikey, Ray, and Bob were leaning against the counters, all looking fairly unimpressed, all with morning hair, all staring at me weirdly. My eyes wandered around the room quickly, as I tried to picture what they saw: tiny shreds of paper mimicking snowflakes scattered all over the floor, along with fist sized balls of crumpled paper, a few broken (and leaking-may I add) pens, an open bottle of vodka, three mugs of coffee, and, of course, sitting in the middle of all this; me. A blushing, naked, and embarrassed me. Wonderful.

I bit my lip as I looked at each of them: Bob was scanning the room, obviously trying to figure out what the hell I’d been doing, Ray was trying to hold back laughter, and Mikey was annoyingly holding an empty pack of coffee, staring at me menacingly and, my…well…manhood, shall we say. The lights were on, and all I could do was thank whoever’s up there that the heat had fogged up the window, shielding me from the eyes of the Chicago morning commute.

“What the FUCK happened HERE?!?” sneered a fuming Mikey. “IT LOOKS LIKE A FUCKING TORNADO BLASTED TRHOUGH MY SENIOR YEAR GEOGRAPHY TEACHER’S DESK!” he finished off yelling, advancing towards me, the menacing empty coffee aluminum wrapper threatening to beat me bad as I backed away from him shyly. Note to the public: Never, ever cross paths with Mikey without his morning dose of caffeine. Unless you have a death wish of course.
“Better question; why the fuck are you naked?” Bob mused, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.
“And about to jerk yourself off?” Ray added, smirking. I glared at him evilly, before protesting
“I wasn’t about to jerk off!” I squealed, waving my arms around me in attempt to sound convincing. Ray simply raised his eyebrows before mentioning my package, which was, indeed, standing proudly, enjoying its full attention.
“fuck you Toro” I grumbled, reaching for the closest black hoodie, and tying it around my waist to try and conceal myself.
"Hey! That's mine!" Mikey wailed, staring at me in disbelief when I simply shrugged and finished tying it around my waist.

It was, right then, behind him that I noticed someone had inscribed something on the fogged up window. A small scribbled line made up of finger marks, allowing a tiny bit of clear light to pass through. Squinting, I advanced towards it, smirking as I read it. On the far left window, signed by hand print I recognized perfectly, was: angels for life, baby, fuck the stage lights. I spun around as a soft, familiar giggle rang through the air, and saw, in the glowing doorway, wearing nothing but the old, tattered jeans I recognized as my own, a smiling Gerard. ]




...well...there ya go...This is the first one shot of the kinf I'm posting, so it would really mean the world to me to hear what you guys think, so, please rate & review!!

Note: I have no idea which shampoo Ray uses, I just tried my best to guess and in the end just made something up according to what I thought went well with his gorgeous locks. So please don’t go to the supermarket with a shotgun, stomp up to the store clerk and be like ‘dude, which brand manufactures passion-fruit curl enhancing shampoo, cause that’s what Ray fucking Toro uses, and I’ve spent years trying to track down his shampoo. So WHERE IS IT?!?’ and later threaten to shoot said clerk when he goes ‘Ray is fucking who?’. (awkward moment where I realize that only I would so such a thing...)

anyways,
I should be able to get full access to the internet back soon (yay!), so for those of you reading where the animals should go, the next chapter will definitely be up in the next week (blame shitty itnernet service...)

xx, a.
(ps: If you do know which shampoo Ray uses, please let me know. I promise I won’t threaten anybody with a firearm :P)