Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Damned If I Do Ya (Damned If I Don't)
Damned If I Do Ya (Damned If I Don't)
9 reviewsPossible NC-17 later. My first ever highschool fic :3 Frerard, obviously.(Title taken from ATL) Frank's the new kid in town and his neighbour might just help him settle in...
3Exciting
A/N: Alright so this is my first fic ever it's Frerard, Obvs.(And no-one is going to read it so I don't know why I bothered, oh well.) Please read and maybe review? Idk how these things work so... enjoy ♥ Frank's POV. Chapter 2 will be up possibly if there is sufficient interest :)
The grey clouds hang ominously over the dull, geometric skyline of New Jersey. The journey has not exactly been comfortable, an array of unsettling thoughts have been fighting for attention inside my tired mind. New home, new school, new friends (hopefully), but the same old Frank. Short, black mini-mohawk, pierced, tattooed. Not to mention incredibly shy, yet with a serious attitude problem. Just the guy people here would wanna hang out with, right?
I think not.
I don’t really give a fuck though, I enjoy solitude. I never had any real friends back home, anyway.
Home.
Bronx, NY. Seriously fucked up place, with some seriously fucked up people, but that’s why I love it, I belong there. But not anymore. Mom decides she wants to get a different job, up sticks and move to shitty little Belleville in shitty little New Jersey.
Trust me, I‘ve seen it, Google Earth never lies.
“Frankie, darlin’?”
“Uurnompf?”
“Come on, we’ll be there in an hour or so, take those blasted things out of your ears and enter the real world for a sec, would you?”
“Hrmpf.” I consent, rip my earphones out, wind down the window and peer cautiously out of our banged up Ford Model T.
Alright, so maybe we are moving to a better-than-average part of New Jersey, the streets are lined with trees that are well into their autumn phase, their leaves are a beautiful palette of orange, red and yellow, making the street look as if it is on fire. A faint blaze of hope ignites inside me, my love for photography exciting me as I think of the new locations, people, and light that I can work with here. The beauty of the street is marred somewhat by the graffitied garages and gum-strewn pavements, the choke of car fumes threaten to overwhelm me and I start coughing violently, frantically rolling up the window. Urgh.
“See? Wasn’t that nice? It’s a new thing called fresh air.”
Ha. Ha.
Blatantly ignoring my recent fit of coughing, mom continues to ramble on about the new house and her new job, but she soon just becomes background noise when I insert by earphones again, escaping into my own world, where there is no new shit to deal with. Just familiar beats and lyrics to soothe my worries.
*
My shoulder is shaken violently, and my peaceful half-asleep, half-awake state is disturbed. Well. I say peaceful, yet Henry Rollins has been screaming into my ear for the last hour we’ve been driving, blocking out the dull, mundane sounds of the surrounding traffic.
I am aware of someone calling my name, and I only register who it is when she rips my iPod earphones out.
“Mom to Francis! Mom to Francis! Come on love, we’re here, finally. The removal van was right behind us, they’ll be here any minute, we have to unload it, honey.” I can see the pleading in her eyes and grudgingly decide to consent. She feels bad for making me move. But I’m going to let her.
“Urgh. I cannot believe you made me move here.” I step out of our beat-up vehicle, slouch onto the pavement and sigh, waiting for the bloody van to get here. I absent-mindedly look around, the street is lined both sides with identical houses in perfect suburban fashion. People rush by, going about their daily business, it must be the end of the school day as kids of all ages are happily walking past, anticipating the up-coming weekend.
“Look Frank. We have been over this a thousand times. I have a better job here, I can make more money and we can live much nicer than we did in Bronx.” she pleads again. To express my annoyance, I fold my arms over my chest and exhale heavily, avoiding her eyes. She sighs, defeated. “You can pick your room first, if you like.” She reaches out to touch my shoulder, but I shrug away. Never letting anyone in. Even my own mother.
I am adamant that I will not fall victim to this obvious bribery.
Alright.
Maybe I will.
I turn around to face the house, 70 Salter Place. It’s actually not too bad, set back from the road with a rustic quality to it, and - ohmygod - an attic. I have always wanted an attic room, they are soundproof, compact (I don’t have much stuff) and isolated from the rest of the house. For the first moment since mum said we were moving, I am truly happy, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
Mom smiles smugly, “I knew you would like that attic, I haven‘t seen you this happy since before…” she cuts off suddenly, but I understand.
I am literally staring open-mouthed, probably drooling, up at the attic window. I clear my throat and shrug dismissively, but I cannot hide my sudden elation.
The removal van has arrived at long last, chugging up the road, its vile, raucous drivers laughing to each other and shouting at some mini-skirted girl across the street. I am suddenly grateful all our stuff got here safely, with these Neanderthals (so-called) ‘driving’.
I try to interact with them as little as possible while unloading our boxes, and an hour later, it’s all finally in the hall of our new house and they have left, leaving mom and I to unpack them all. Thank God our bulky furniture is already here or I think we would never have the motivation to get started.
“Coffee?” mom suggests.
“Sure”
“You’d better start looking through these for a kettle, then” she smiles, knowing I can’t go without my fix for long. I sigh, and take a wild guess where the kettle would be, and settle for a box with ‘KITCHEN’ emblazoned on it in black marker. I am in luck, and I pluck out the appliance handing it to mom, and I figure I might as well unpack the rest of the box.
With that box unpacked, I think I deserve a break, and with a mug of steaming hot coffee clutched in my gloved hands, I ascend the stairs to find the ladder up to the attic. Its hidden behind a door in the ceiling, and I have to ask mom to come and reach for the latch, as its too high for me. We agree to get a pole so I can undo it myself in the future. The ladder swings down in a swift motion, just brushing the hardwood floor and I begin to climb rapidly, barely able to contain my excitement.
I skip the rungs of the ladder two at a time in my scramble to get up into the attic, and I look around, trying to take it all in. It’s actually quite big, with a sloping ceiling and a lonely small circular window at the end, the only source of natural light. It smells good, musky and of oak, with a slight injection of cigarette smoke and I guess its previous owner was a smoker, like me.
It is absolutely perfect.
I look around, still taking in the room, my room, and the doorbell rings.
I exhale heavily, descend the ladder and make my way to the front door, knowing mom will want me to greet them, as she is still lumbering boxes around.
I turn the golden brass knob, open the door, and find myself facing the most beautiful human being I have ever had the pleasure to lay eyes upon.
A/N: So you have probably guessed who the stranger is, hmm? Well I guess you will have to read on to find out. Man, I love blackmail.
The grey clouds hang ominously over the dull, geometric skyline of New Jersey. The journey has not exactly been comfortable, an array of unsettling thoughts have been fighting for attention inside my tired mind. New home, new school, new friends (hopefully), but the same old Frank. Short, black mini-mohawk, pierced, tattooed. Not to mention incredibly shy, yet with a serious attitude problem. Just the guy people here would wanna hang out with, right?
I think not.
I don’t really give a fuck though, I enjoy solitude. I never had any real friends back home, anyway.
Home.
Bronx, NY. Seriously fucked up place, with some seriously fucked up people, but that’s why I love it, I belong there. But not anymore. Mom decides she wants to get a different job, up sticks and move to shitty little Belleville in shitty little New Jersey.
Trust me, I‘ve seen it, Google Earth never lies.
“Frankie, darlin’?”
“Uurnompf?”
“Come on, we’ll be there in an hour or so, take those blasted things out of your ears and enter the real world for a sec, would you?”
“Hrmpf.” I consent, rip my earphones out, wind down the window and peer cautiously out of our banged up Ford Model T.
Alright, so maybe we are moving to a better-than-average part of New Jersey, the streets are lined with trees that are well into their autumn phase, their leaves are a beautiful palette of orange, red and yellow, making the street look as if it is on fire. A faint blaze of hope ignites inside me, my love for photography exciting me as I think of the new locations, people, and light that I can work with here. The beauty of the street is marred somewhat by the graffitied garages and gum-strewn pavements, the choke of car fumes threaten to overwhelm me and I start coughing violently, frantically rolling up the window. Urgh.
“See? Wasn’t that nice? It’s a new thing called fresh air.”
Ha. Ha.
Blatantly ignoring my recent fit of coughing, mom continues to ramble on about the new house and her new job, but she soon just becomes background noise when I insert by earphones again, escaping into my own world, where there is no new shit to deal with. Just familiar beats and lyrics to soothe my worries.
*
My shoulder is shaken violently, and my peaceful half-asleep, half-awake state is disturbed. Well. I say peaceful, yet Henry Rollins has been screaming into my ear for the last hour we’ve been driving, blocking out the dull, mundane sounds of the surrounding traffic.
I am aware of someone calling my name, and I only register who it is when she rips my iPod earphones out.
“Mom to Francis! Mom to Francis! Come on love, we’re here, finally. The removal van was right behind us, they’ll be here any minute, we have to unload it, honey.” I can see the pleading in her eyes and grudgingly decide to consent. She feels bad for making me move. But I’m going to let her.
“Urgh. I cannot believe you made me move here.” I step out of our beat-up vehicle, slouch onto the pavement and sigh, waiting for the bloody van to get here. I absent-mindedly look around, the street is lined both sides with identical houses in perfect suburban fashion. People rush by, going about their daily business, it must be the end of the school day as kids of all ages are happily walking past, anticipating the up-coming weekend.
“Look Frank. We have been over this a thousand times. I have a better job here, I can make more money and we can live much nicer than we did in Bronx.” she pleads again. To express my annoyance, I fold my arms over my chest and exhale heavily, avoiding her eyes. She sighs, defeated. “You can pick your room first, if you like.” She reaches out to touch my shoulder, but I shrug away. Never letting anyone in. Even my own mother.
I am adamant that I will not fall victim to this obvious bribery.
Alright.
Maybe I will.
I turn around to face the house, 70 Salter Place. It’s actually not too bad, set back from the road with a rustic quality to it, and - ohmygod - an attic. I have always wanted an attic room, they are soundproof, compact (I don’t have much stuff) and isolated from the rest of the house. For the first moment since mum said we were moving, I am truly happy, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
Mom smiles smugly, “I knew you would like that attic, I haven‘t seen you this happy since before…” she cuts off suddenly, but I understand.
I am literally staring open-mouthed, probably drooling, up at the attic window. I clear my throat and shrug dismissively, but I cannot hide my sudden elation.
The removal van has arrived at long last, chugging up the road, its vile, raucous drivers laughing to each other and shouting at some mini-skirted girl across the street. I am suddenly grateful all our stuff got here safely, with these Neanderthals (so-called) ‘driving’.
I try to interact with them as little as possible while unloading our boxes, and an hour later, it’s all finally in the hall of our new house and they have left, leaving mom and I to unpack them all. Thank God our bulky furniture is already here or I think we would never have the motivation to get started.
“Coffee?” mom suggests.
“Sure”
“You’d better start looking through these for a kettle, then” she smiles, knowing I can’t go without my fix for long. I sigh, and take a wild guess where the kettle would be, and settle for a box with ‘KITCHEN’ emblazoned on it in black marker. I am in luck, and I pluck out the appliance handing it to mom, and I figure I might as well unpack the rest of the box.
With that box unpacked, I think I deserve a break, and with a mug of steaming hot coffee clutched in my gloved hands, I ascend the stairs to find the ladder up to the attic. Its hidden behind a door in the ceiling, and I have to ask mom to come and reach for the latch, as its too high for me. We agree to get a pole so I can undo it myself in the future. The ladder swings down in a swift motion, just brushing the hardwood floor and I begin to climb rapidly, barely able to contain my excitement.
I skip the rungs of the ladder two at a time in my scramble to get up into the attic, and I look around, trying to take it all in. It’s actually quite big, with a sloping ceiling and a lonely small circular window at the end, the only source of natural light. It smells good, musky and of oak, with a slight injection of cigarette smoke and I guess its previous owner was a smoker, like me.
It is absolutely perfect.
I look around, still taking in the room, my room, and the doorbell rings.
I exhale heavily, descend the ladder and make my way to the front door, knowing mom will want me to greet them, as she is still lumbering boxes around.
I turn the golden brass knob, open the door, and find myself facing the most beautiful human being I have ever had the pleasure to lay eyes upon.
A/N: So you have probably guessed who the stranger is, hmm? Well I guess you will have to read on to find out. Man, I love blackmail.
Sign up to rate and review this story