FicWad

Hello!
I'm actually really excited about this, not having posted in a while and all. I'm probably going to edit it tomorrow, especially the part in Gerard's POV, because I think I can do better on that. But I wanted to post it, and my excitement ended up getting the best of me :) I hope you guys like it! Please lemme know what you guys think :)


FRANK'S POV


I’m skipping along the empty snow splattered streets, twirling under happy snowflakes and the howling wind. The trees seem to be waltzing in the blizzard, and houses are smiling down at me, amber windows like merry, excitable eyes.

I’m not high or anything—in case that’s what you’re wondering. Nope. Not me. I guess it’s just happiness, really. Infinitely simple yet incredibly hard to maintain sometimes. It makes you want to twirl under charcoal grey thunder clouds, prance excitedly like small children on Christmas morning under golden rays of sunlight, and hug almost everyone you see, stranger or not. Just a few moments ago I was leaning against and icy brick supermarket façade, cigarette dangling from my inky fingers as I looked into his friendly yet guarded hazel eyes. Gerard, the reason I’m smiling broadly as I slosh down the deserted streets. Everyone seems inside, putting up holiday decorations, snuggling against chimneys and radiators, with candles, reefs, and small menorahs on the window sills.

The wind howls as it tunnels through the streets, blowing a messy mixture of snow, sleet, and hail in my face which I’ve failed to cover with the berry red scarf that’s tied snugly around my neck. I can’t actually feel my feet as they scramble up the path, pounding in and out of piles of toffee coffee colored slush, and my cheeks are on fire. I stare into the frosty window pane at my reflection; my nose seems to have decided to idolize Rudolf the Reindeer. It’s so red it could just start glowing any second, and it wouldn’t seem out of place.

But nothing can destroy my good mood tonight. I even manage to wave merrily at the grouchy old Grinch-lady across the street as my numbed fingers fumble for my keys. It’s the type of mood that erases everything that’s happened recently. I’m not crying, mourning, wasting away, chaning…I’m not sniffling over weaknesses anymore, but rather pushing them to the back of my mind, and focusing on the beauty of the white snowflakes against the purple sky. I shove my way inside, narrowly missing a pile on entwined fleece lined snow boots. I shake my hair furiously like a puppy, and notice that that faint uneven buzz of the kitchen fan at the back of the house is drowned out by the soft murmur of the TV, so before bounding up the stairs and wrapping up in fluffy blankets, I peek cautiously into the living room, but I fail to notice any human presence in the room. My parents don’t usually leave the TV on in the background, as it’s the cause of many complaints from the seething beast I unfortunately share blood with. My mother’s photo album, the one she works on weekly with her small scrapbooking club, is lying closed on the coffee table, and a show on crocodile reproduction is playing dully across the television screen. Everything could seem perfectly natural, but as Is step further towards the couch I have the feeling something else is in here, shallow breaths are coming from right in front of me, and a strange shadow is darkening the wall. And that’s when I realize that the couch is now noticeably smaller, covered by a midnight black crumply suit which is sinking into it. I glance swiftly into the kitchen to see if my mother’s there, but it’s deserted. My breath hitching in my chest as my throat dries up, I turn back to face the dark, couch-swallowing shadow, catching a glimpse of hazel eyes I recognize instantly, despite my attempts to avoid looking in them throughout my life.

I don’t even bother to conceal my surprised gasp as my eyes widen.

The crumply, indistinguishable blur falling slightly off the sofa is my father.

I rub my eyes, chasing away the happy thoughts of snowflakes, glistening eyes, and cranberry colored scarves, and I even poke him tentatively to see if he responds, but he barely twitches. If it wasn’t for the fact he lives here, I might not even have recognized him. His normally perfectly styled hair is drooping off to the side as he lies half-slumped-half-falling form the couch. His usual clear, cool and crisp eyes no longer have that smug look they’re always folded into, but are glazed over and numbed. I tiptoe closer, watching him apprehensively.

He’s planning something. He must be. One of his sick jokes, a story to tell later to his equally cocky colleagues. However, he shows no signs of having noticed me, but keeps staring blankly into space with widely dilated pupils.

I might’ve normally been delighted: no sneers or taunts, but something isn’t right, and it’s starting to scare me, rising in my throat as a prickly companion I’ve grown a little too accustomed to. I advance closer still, like a kid approaches a stranger, as I search his expressionless face for any sign of a grin. And I even surprise myself when I realize I’d actually even rather see one, than the lifeless, glazed over way his eyes are drooping right now. I look down in his lap, to see him clutching the phone tightly in a sweaty hand, and what looks like a tear spashles down onto it.

As it does, I jump back as my face screws up uncomfortably. That couldn’t have been a tear. He’s not capable of emotions other than smugness or pride. He’s fucking with me, he must be, planning something, something that will make him peel over with laughter afterward, I mean—he’s…him. He chucks beers with his colleagues while discussing the last kind that got beat up for a good reason, he hurts my mom’s self-esteem by gawking at young, curvy women’s asses, while completely ignoring her rare attempts to dress up, and he considers tears a sign of weakness. I’d say he was pretending, staging what he’d refer to as the best fucking time when my son attempted to finally strangle me, but I clocked him instead, but the something in the air is dead serious, and everything is eerily silent, despite the enthusiastic crocodile-mating-calls-related babbled form the TV. The small phone twitches slightly in his hand, and I watch as a small amount of slimy drool slides down onto his chin. He stayes there for a few minutes, mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish out of water as I stay rooted in place, unable to move, fear crawling further up into my throat. Then,
“…She’s really dead.” He states. The dreaminess in his tone pairs strangely with the hoarseness in his voice. I blink, trying to figure out what the hell he could possibly be on about.
“Um…Huh?” I’d love to move, to back away, to go back to twirling among snowflakes, but I’m just stuck in the carpet, invisible vines trapping me in place as I watch the little drop of bubbly drool drip onto his shirt.
“She’s dead.” He says abruptly. “Your grandma. My mom…she’s really dead.” My mood plummets instantly. If he actually is plotting to shower me with mocking taunts he’s the biggest bastard on the planet. He’s make Hitler proud—a feat I wouldn’t actually have put passed him if he’d been alive during that time.

But just then, a very, very human emotion flickers in his dead, glazed over eyes. It’s just there for a moment, but it’s enough for me to notice it: sadness. And that’s when I somehow know he’s not going to sneer, or scoff, or anything at all. And I start shaking even more, because it’s extremely unnerving. I even almost reach out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but I don’t, because I’m too confused, too scared, and too shivery. He’s not going to taunt me. No. But something about this is much, much scarier.

Because he doesn’t know how to be sad...he’s not capable of any human emotions other than pride. At least he’s never showed it.


“You were right.” He adds faintly, before continuing in an airy voice that sends chills down my back. “Lovely women named Edna answered the phone.” A weak, strained smile twitches at his lips before his eyebrows lower into a frown
“I thought you were just screwing with me…but…no…” his frown disappears as he slides further into the sofa, unconsciously waving the TV remote in front of his face. I stare at his colorless eyes as I stumble away slightly, when a tired voice floats down from the stairs.
“He’s been like that all day.” I turn around to see my mom standing there, holding another one of her cups of stale coffee, eyes soft and caring as she pushes a limp strand of hair from her face. “…All day.” She shakes her head and sighs, before turning around and trudging back up the stairs. And I’m suddenly very, very aware of just how cold I actually am.


GERARD’S POV

Stage lights blind me as I jump around on stage, leather jacket bobbing off my shoulders as I catch a glimpse of golden-brown eyes slightly covered by floppy black bangs. I smirk, and slip the microphone cord through my fingers, as I feel music flow through me, own me, as I do my best to dominate it. I’m Glenn Danzig, and I’m on top of the world as I get lost in the music around. Suddenly, pretty lilac clouds start twirling around me, and I then find myself balancing haphazardly on a polished broom stick.

Chants and cheers are erupting from the colorful, crows below, and I notice a green flash dart down towards a small gold glimmer. Following my instincts, I plunge downwards, and, without having any idea what I’m doing, I next find myself clutching the small, buzzing golden snitch as Frank Iero beams admiringly at me, Gryffindor scarf tied snuggly around his neck. I’m Harry Potter, and I’ve just one the house cup. Everyone is cheering my name loudly as they all pour onto the rustling green grass of the pitch in a rainbow blur, and Frank’s arms wrap around me.

The pretty lilac clouds form again, and I find myself cuddling into a warm misfits hoodie as I sit on top of the curly hill, watching as zero floats around, barking happily. Frank’s hand squeezes mine gently and—

“Oi, Gee, wake up!”

Frank has just handed me a little emerald glass bottle

“Wake up, fuckface.”

I wrap my fingers around the cork and pull it out, and watch as a beautiful translucent butterfly flutter out of--

“Gerard come ON! I’m hungry and there are pop-tarts in the kitchen!”

I reluctantly open my eyes at the sound of my brother’s whining, and look up at him. He’s holding a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, like an ogre waiting to be seated, his glasses threatening to slip of his nose as he peers at me expectantly. That’s when I realize that I’m not Glenn Danzig, nor Harry Potter, nor am I cuddled up with Frank at the top of the curly hill. Instead, I’m being chased into the kitchen by my moronic little brother who’s currently singing some sappy love song to a packet of strawberry pop-tarts. I swear; he’s so deranged sometimes that even Voldemort wouldn’t even bother torturing him. He’d probably just put him in a pop tart and unicorn lined cage and just bring him out whenever he wanted a good laugh.

But that’s beside the point, because Mikey is now holding out a plate in front of me, waiting for me to place his strawberry pastry on it.

I do so, and then I stomp ill-temperedly over to the coffee machine.
“Whatph’s wiph few?” Asks Mikey over a mouthful of sugar coated pop-tarts, spraying bits of it all over the linoleum kitchen floor as I scowl unattractively. Right, because that’s what he needs. More sugar. As if he isn’t annoying enough. I was Glenn Danzig, fuck, I was fucking Harry Potter and Frank was snuglled up right against me and my brother wakes me up so that he can start making out with a mouthful of pop-tarts.

I could strangle him.

I know I say it every day, but this time I might just actually take hold of his thin little neck and hang him from a noose made from icing coated pop-tart wrappers.

And I still have to pay for his new glasses.

I stare at the prehistoric coffee machine as it spits and splutters little bits of coffee grains and a thin dribble of yellowish piss-resembling water, before it stops working altogether.
“Fuck” I snarl, as I contemplate the old machine with a look of hatred on my face. I turn around, getting ready to tell Mikey that the coffee machine’s just died and that he should run to Starbucks to get me something, when I decide instead to storm off to my room and stay locked in there for the next 12 hours.

Why? Because Mikey is lying on the kitchen floor, acutally moaning as he licks bits of strawberry jam off his fingers, pop-tart placed snugly against his chest.



FRANK’S POV


The day has sort of slipped by as if time just didn’t exist anymore. I’m sitting on my bed, clutching Pansy, as my fingers just fumble aimlessly along the strings. It’s nighttime again, and I’m sitting in puffy-eyed in the dark as the occasional shadow floats past the crack under my bedroom door. I’m just plucking a few strings with my fingers, watching as soft purple snowflakes flutter around in the window. I think the Smashing Pumpkins are playing softly from my CD player, since I recognized the few chords my fingers were trying to play, but I’m not really paying attention. It’s like the snowy window has turned into a time capsule, and through it I can see the smiling faces of my family back when it fit the definition of a family. No one growled and punched, no one kicked and bellowed, and people could still tell when coffee had gone stale. I can see myself when I must been about three, rolling around the carpet excitedly on a little plastic red and white fire truck. I can see Gerard fumbling his backpack’s zipper as he timidly pulls out a sketchbook. I can see John Mitch’s pasty hands clapping together as he attempts a welcoming smile, a bit of his lunch still stuck on his front teeth. I can see my father’s bloodshot eyes and messy hair, and my mom’s endless cups of stale, lukewarm coffee. But then if I focus my eyes and squint in the darkness, I can see my reflection, a pale, trouble face surrounded by dark, floppy hair, and arms wrapped tightly around a snowy white guitar as if it was the only thing left in the world.


After carefully placing Pansy on my comforter, I stand up nervously and start waddling unevenly towards the door. I swing it open, and I’m greeted by the smell of lasagna wafting up the stairs, and the undistinguishable voices from channel 4. I make my way down the stairs, socks scraping against the wall and finally enter the living room, where the same blurry shape is still sinking into the couch, barely having moved at all. In fact, the living room hasn’t changed at all. It still seems ominously eerie, and the same dark, disheveled figure is still occupying the couch, sleeves rolled up unevenly and the occasionally drop of saliva that falls onto his shirt. The only thing that seems to have changed is that it’s now a program about iguanas instead of crocodiles, and my mother’s photo album is now lying opened on the floor. The pages are neatly decorated, with small brightly colored stickers. I sit down next to it, and start turning the pages.

Disarm with you a smile
And cut you like you want me to

I actually almost smile faintly; she’s done a really nice job on it. The pictures are resting on patterned paper.

Cut that little child
Inside of me and such a part of you

As I flip through it, I can’t help but admire the attention to detail and time she’s obviously put into it. She’s almost made us look like an ideal family; colorful pictures and fun captions, dates with in swirly letters and child stickers.

Oh, the years burn

Finally, I turn the last finished page, and tears well up in my eyes. We’re all sitting in my grandparent’s living room, and I’m grinning proudly as I hold a black guitar case tightly in my arms. It’s the day I got Pansy, the last day of happy family memories before everything fell apart. Wiping my eyes, I look up and notice my mom’s sad, soft eyes on my own. And I realize that it isn’t the last page of her album by accident.


It’s the last page before everything went to shit, and crumbled into stale remains and lingering grudges.

Oh, the years burn

I used to be a little boy
So old in my shoes
And what I choose is my choice
What's a boy supposed to do?
The killer in me is the killer in you
My love
I send this smile over to you
Disarm you with a smile
And leave you like they left me here
To wither in denial
The bitterness of one who's left alone
Ooh, the years burn
Ooh, the years burn, burn, burn

I used to be a little boy
So old in my shoes
And what I choose is my voice
What's a boy supposed to do?
The killer in me is the killer in you
My love
I send this smile over to you

The killer in me is the killer in you
Send this smile over to you
The killer in me is the killer in you
Send this smile over to you
The killer in me is the killer in you
Send this smile over to you


Um, well, that's it...I hope it was decent enough. I tried hard, but then again I havent written in a bit. :S
Song at the end by the Smashing Pumpkins, so as much as I would like to take credit for it, I can't.
hugs and kisses to all of you,
xx, a.

PS: reviews are much appreciated :D