FicWad

Title: Push and Pull
Pairing: Franky/Iceburg
Rating: R
Spoilers: Water Seven but not Enies Lobby, I think
Word Count: 4,500ish
Notes: I started this in December of 2005. It has been the bane of my life, but now it is done. I'm ecstatic. Incredible amounts of gratitude to Karen (lj name snarkymonkey) who was there from the start and even took time out of her horridly busy schedule to see it through to the end; and Tro (lj name megalotro), who raped the hell out of it and made it readable and is one of the best people I know. I'm lucky to have you both, guys.
Summary: Iceburg just wants to work and live his life in peace but Franky keeps pushing his way in. But if Iceburg thought about it hard enough, he'd admit that he was always the one to start pushing -- away. And Franky would pull him back in.




Push and Pull
-=-




A cannon blast thundered across the shipyard. The unfinished ship shook violently in its cradle. Iceburg swore. His toolbox trembled and teetered close to the edge of the scaffolding . He had to scramble to steady it and the wilted remains of his sparse salad lunch as the boom of the explosion faded away to be followed by a wild whooping from the other end of the yard.

Damned incorrigible idiot and his heavy weaponry/. Iceburg had been foolish enough to start hoping that Franky would cease building those damn dangerous warships of his. Franky'd sweated and bled alongside Tom and Iceburg, cried and laughed just as hard as -- and often harder than -- they had at their losses and victories. Been a steady source of amusement and annoyance and, Franky insisted, /super sex for Iceburg for something close to ten years. Iceburg had never had any illusions as to what Franky did in his spare time -- when he wasn't attempting to accost Iceburg, of course. But he had hoped that, once the train and all four of its lines were finished, Franky would keep being a productive member of Tom's Workers.

Too much to hope for, apparently, judging by the insane crowing approaching him from across the shipyard. It probably signaled the launching of Battle Franky number... what? Thirty-six?

"BATTLE FRANKY NUMBER THIRTY-FIVE! My super battleship is done!"

Thirty-five, then. Iceburg kept his eyes firmly fixed on the rough wood in front of him to spare himself Franky's victory dance.

"Assburg! Hey, Assburg!"

"Nma. What, Franky?" It seemed that the idiot was going to insist on his input. He looked down from the scaffolding to see Franky grinning up at him like a loon. "I'm busy. Go away." He'd been working on this ship all day, hoping to get this section of hull done before the sun set.

Iceburg fished out another nail, and took a second to locate his displaced hammer. Steadying the nail, he raised his arm to take a swing when his hand was abruptly caught by another.

"Grumpy much?"

Iceburg threw a scowl over his shoulder and yanked his hand out of Franky's grip. He had turned back to his project when he felt broad hands slip around his waist and a slim body sidled up behind him.

"I could help you take care of that."

Breath, then, hot on his neck in the cooling near-evening air. Followed by teeth and lips, a tongue rough on his jaw. Hands tugged his tank free of his tool belt, coarse palms sliding over his sweat-slicked stomach. He inhaled sharply as teeth sank into his shoulder, and the hammer fell from suddenly-nerveless fingers to the ground below. A quick flare of irritation skittered across his nerves in counterpoint to the slow burn of Franky's hands and lips.

Shit/. He really didn't have time for this. Even if the hands under his shirt were skimming suggestively over his hips. He had /work to do. He didn't need Franky gnawing possessively on his neck. He was tired and it was getting on sunset and Franky really needed to learn that work came before him and his stupid ships. No matter how -- fuck/, as Franky pulled Iceburg's head back to descend on his throat -- how tempting Franky was /trying to be.

Iceburg growled. "Franky..."

"Aw, come on. I just finished the greatest Battle Franky ever! You heard the cannon. Don't ya... like it?" The last breathed hotly in his ear, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine, accompanied by a frisson of building anger.

Iceburg shot an elbow back, satisfied at the grunt as it impacted into bare belly.

"Fuck off, Franky! I'm busy and I'm not interested in your irresponsible shipbuilding!"

Franky rubbed his stomach, looking peeved.

"Ass. Burg. I just wanna celebrate." A grin crawled across Franky's face, and he leered at Iceburg. "I'll even let you top."

Iceburg felt his eyebrow twitch, and firmly ignored the other part of him that perked in interest.

He lunged forward instead, fisted Franky's hideous shirt in his hands, and turned sharply to slam Franky into the hull of the ship, grinding Franky's shoulders into the strakes, yards above the ground.

"Nma! Look, Franky! I. Am. Busy/." He punctuated each word with a shake, glaring at Franky and mouthing each syllable with precision, lest the idiot miss his meaning. "I'm /working/. You, on the other hand, have been making more of your idiotic, dangerous ships. I am not interested in /celebrating a new and more dangerous phase of your stupidity."

"So you do think this one's better," came the smirking reply. Franky seemed completely unperturbed at being suspended by his shirt collar against the side of a ship.

Iceburg sputtered. He was about to release Franky and let the incorrigible brat drop when he felt long, bare legs wrap around his waist and pull him in. A laughing mouth landed on his, and before he'd properly registered being ravished, Franky was kissing him; taking advantage of his surprise to run a slick tongue over his lips and into his mouth. Franky pulled back and nipped at his bottom lip in parting when he felt Iceburg start to protest, and whispered, "Aww, Icey. Thanks. I knew you cared."

Franky tasted like sweat and gunpowder. Iceburg tried to ignore that, keep his temper and various other urges under control as he began sternly, "Look, Bakanky --"

"I know, I know. And I do want to thank you--" Franky wriggled against him, thrusting his hips against Iceburg's torso and tangling his dirty hands in Iceburg's hair, "--properly." Iceburg shuddered, then, feeling Franky smirk and whisper, hot and wet against his ear again. Damn the bastard, he should never have let him know about that. Franky, knowing the effect that had, nipped at his earlobe, grinding lightly against him. Iceburg pried an arm out from between them, slamming it against the wood by Franky's head in an effort to support the both of them.

Franky snickered and looped an arm around his shoulders, freeing the other so he could walk his fingertips down Iceburg's front.

Iceburg's eyes were crossing as he tried to meet Franky's. He frowned. "Get off."

He barely had time to catch the mischievous twinkle in the brat's eyes before he was suddenly thrown off balance, Franky's weight dropping off him in unexpected compliance with his command. Franky took advantage of the moment to whip them around, shoving Iceburg's shoulders roughly against the hull, one of Franky's hands next to his head and the other resuming its interrupted trek down towards his belt.

Franky leaned in to purr in his ear. "Oh, I will. But what about /you/?" and Iceburg grunted as he was unceremoniously groped through his heavy jeans.

Iceburg shoved him away, hard. Franky stumbled backwards, surprised, and tripped over the toolbox to land roughly on the hard wood. The ensuing annoyed pout only caused Iceburg's irritation to flare, his pulse quickening with his breath.

"Dammit, Franky! Lay off! Nma! I need to work!"

Franky continued to pout up at him, undeterred. "You could take a break. I'll make it worth your while." He waggled his eyebrows lewdly. "It'll be /super/."

Iceburg opened his mouth in another vain attempt to shout some sense into the idiot when a lanky leg shot out to sweep at his knees. He was quite suddenly sprawled on the scaffolding, winded, the tools in his belt clattering to the floor at his side and Franky seated on his hips, pinning his arms down.

Fuck, but the bastard had gotten /fast/.

"Come on," Franky cajoled, giving him his best you know you want to look. Iceburg glared at him.

His options were limited. A struggle would invariably give the persistent bastard every opportunity to grope him. And yet, as always, Franky had him aching for a fight, for a bit of screaming and a lot of yelling and probably also some hitting to top it all off. Franky probably thought it was all a lot of fun foreplay to some mildly violent sex. A game. The results were predictable; frustratingly peredictable. As were Iceburg's reactions. He'd get angry as Franky frustrated him in every damn way imaginable, being both an incessant troublemaker and an incorrigible tease. He'd shout, first at Franky, for being an irresponsible, stubborn idiot, then because of him, for his hands and lips and grin.

He'd long since realized that the anger was part of it, part of this mad addiction, part of the sex, part of this thing with Franky -- all of it. He hated it, hated the smirking, irresponsible bastard, hated the hands he'd worked beside and the tears and blood they'd shared together. But even now those hands were on him, and Franky's eyes were laughing at him, and Iceburg was as helpless as he'd always been; caught in Franky's elusive charm and the idiot's irritating, impossible likeability. Ten years and Iceburg still hadn't figured it out; couldn't decide if he wanted this or not. He knew one thing -- he didn't want it to be this way, and it couldn't last. Shouldn't last.

He sighed and tried to slow his breathing, preparing to reason. With himself, with the leering loon sitting on him. If he didn't let Franky frustrate him into the usual heated grappling, he might actually get something done today.

"Bakanky, it's getting late. I need to finish up here."

Franky's grin faltered. Iceburg wasn't playing anymore. Then a smile spread on his lips, big and earnest, and Iceburg tried to steel himself against whatever charmingly, frustratingly earnest proposition was coming. He should have known by now that giving up wasn't really in Franky's nature.

"I'll help out tomorrow!"

Dammit/. Against his will, Iceburg felt some of his resolve melting. Irrationally, that made him even more irritated. He /knew that Franky forgot his earnest offers more often than not, that Franky was annoying and irresponsible. He still fell for them just about every damn time. Still wanted to believe that this time, the idiot would grow the hell up. Franky was charming in spite of himself, but knowing that didn't stop Iceburg from giving in to him. Exasperated with the both of them, Iceburg fell back on his irritation.

"No you won't. You'll take that warship of yours out to see what innocent sea life you can riddle with holes and forget all about your /responsibilities/."

The last word tasted like acid coming out, and Franky's eyes went wide and young. Iceburg felt a wrench in his gut but scowled stubbornly anyway.

He knew that Franky understood as well as he did that Iceburg wasn't just talking about tonight, or tomorrow. Part of him didn't care, even liked it, exulting a little bit in causing the source of so much frustration some -- well-deserved, that part whispered -- pain. But that wasn't what made him angry.

Franky's hurt look didn't last long, but the sharp tug in Iceburg's gut settled into a knot of guilt, and all that did was feed his irritation with himself. He should know better; he'd seen it a thousand times. The brief flashes of something resembling sense and responsibility, the years of working together, the brotherhood and reluctant companionship and the few moments they'd shared when Iceburg had been content -- it shouldn't be enough. Weighed against even more years of irritation and irresponsibility, of slowly building anger and frustration, against every moment Iceburg had spent -- wasted -- thinking about Franky against his own will, weighed against the sheer stupidity of the idiot's pursuits... it shouldn't be enough to make him give in like this.

Franky must have caught the slight softening of Iceburg's scowl, and pressed his advantage. "I /promise/. I'll help out tomorrow. All day." He leaned in again to drop a surprisingly chaste kiss on Iceburg's thinned lips.

Iceburg waited until Franky's mouth had pulled back beyond immediate pouncing reach. "You won't go running off with new ideas for your damn projects? You'll give it your full attention?" He didn't try to keep the skepticism from creeping into his voice.

Franky's eyes lighted with mischief again, and his answer was breathed against Iceburg's firmly closed mouth. "All my super skills at your disposal." Iceburg felt him grin and deposit a slightly more insistent kiss while Iceburg valiantly tried not to smile, exasperated, at the obvious double entendre. Franky was taking an unusually subtle approach to getting into his pants today. That made Iceburg want to smile, too, though he wasn't sure why. When the idiot wasn't screaming his head off, he could be moderately pleasant -- usually when he wanted something. The lips soft against his jaw felt nice, and even as Iceburg knew he was probably -- if unintentionally -- being conned, he felt the same tired hope that this time Franky would realize how irresponsible he was being, how dangerous his pastimes were. It was a worn hope, but Iceburg kept slipping into it, just like he kept slipping into Franky's arms. He aggravated himself almost as much as Franky did, but he couldn't help thinking of those brief moments when Franky's arms was exactly where he wanted to be.

Franky's mouth was on him again, and he felt something he strongly suspected was the last of his resolve slinking away as he kissed back. The acrid taste of gunpowder returned, and the persistent tongue slipping over his own, salty with sweat. He wasn't sure when his hands had drifted up to slide under the loose fabric of Franky's shirt, but his palms were sliding over skin gritty with sawdust, skimming over muscles slick in places where grease had smeared.

He felt Franky grin at his touch, and a last, desperate spark of annoyance flared up, sharp enough to make him break away and drop his hands. "Proud of yourself, are you?"

The bastard was still grinning. "Maybe." Franky looked not in the least ashamed. He sat up slightly and looked around the scaffolding. Iceburg followed the casting of his gaze until it settled on something to the left of Iceburg's head, by his toolbox.

Franky leaned over him to reach for it, and when he sat up again Iceburg eyed the bottle of olive oil he'd packed with his salad lunch with disapproval. "That's expensive."

The look Franky gave him for a second was somewhere between incredulous and insulted, but it melted quickly away to be replaced by a crooked expression that wasn't quite a grin. It made Iceburg slightly uncomfortable, but at the same time a thrill of something akin to anticipation ran up his spine. He suppressed a shiver, and scowled again.

"You know, if you aren't gonna play nice, Assburg..." Franky leaned in until he could almost hiss the words against Iceburg's lips. "...Neither am I."

And then those hands were on him again, the bottle of oil clunking down somewhere near his waist, abandoned but not forgotten. He couldn't spare it much attention as his tank was rucked up again, as teeth nipped at his lips and a hot tongue demanded access to his own. He allowed it in a gasp as Franky ground his hips into Iceburg's bared stomach, hot and hard; as hands fisted harshly in his hair.

He felt a vague urge to bite, but all thought fled his mind as he felt a hand on him -- Franky's palm on his jeans, teasing him, and he'd be damned if the smirk against his lips didn't still spark something annoyed and breathless in him. This wasn't what he wanted -- this wasn't what he wanted to want. Franky was sliding fingers in below his belt, and Iceburg wanted to stop him, push him off, get back to his work and his life without the worry and god damn annoyance. But the heat pooled low in his belly anyway, undeniably wanting, and he growled in frustration at all the years wasted wishing he could let go of this.

Franky took the sound as a challenge and grinned, leaning forward again to work at Iceburg's neck and ears. A hand by Iceburg's head to steady himself, another flicking open his belt buckle. Iceburg's breath had quickened again in response to Franky's actions and the welter of emotions; Franky captured his sharp panting breaths in a kiss for a moment before moving away to work his belt loose. He made short work of Iceburg's zipper, tugged two sets of fabric down and one up, and Iceburg was distracted from his scattered thoughts and from the awkward fumbling of knees involved in Franky's one-handed removal of his swimsuit by the firm stroke of a callused hand on him.

He wanted this to be over. Each stroke of Franky's hand, each nip of teeth, the sound of his own uneven breaths, each twinge of pain from his shoulders against the hard wood of the scaffolding made him want this more, and quicker, and harder and /done with/. He wished it were just about this, just the sex and Franky's slick touch. He could walk away from sex.

But he hadn't walked away from this. From the glint of mischief in Franky's eyes as he made entirely too liberal use of the oil, the smirk playing around the edges of his grin when he noticed Iceburg noticing. The uneven bursts of hot and cold in Iceburg's veins; off-kilter heat in time with every stroke of Franky's hand and every time he said something stupid. From quick chills that weren't evanescent enough coming in the too-clear moments when Iceburg thought about how this shouldn't be or how it might end, or worst of all, if it had never happened at all and Iceburg had been left to live in peace. Countercurrents of something slower and fleeting at the rare guileless smiles, at the bumpy arch of Franky's neck and the soft shadow of his closed long lashes as his head tipped back and he sheathed Iceburg into himself. The pressure, the heat, the sound of Franky's breath harsh above him -- they made Iceburg's blood boil, but not nearly as much as the moment of softness in Franky's face after a long hiss as he adjusted.

The light was dying. The air was cooling, and he felt feverish as Franky set the pace, slower than he was used to. He wanted Franky to speed up, make it rougher, get back to sex that was half-fight, with clawing and biting and just enough pain to be distracting. But when he made to grab at the slim hips above his own, Franky caught his wrists. The look he gave him to accompany the firm pressure wasn't cold or teasing. It was steady, and Iceburg had to look away first before Franky would move again and stop staring, get back to the pace that was neither lazy enough to slow Iceburg's thoughts nor fast enough to make him forget them.

He hated it most when Franky had something to prove. It reminded him of the first time, the looks that dared him to stop what was happening, daring him to call Franky on being afraid and knowing he wouldn't because Iceburg was much more terrified. There had been a fight involved, naturally, but the sex was awkward and determined more than violent.

When Franky slowed down, when he stopped laughing and started /looking/, Iceburg didn't want to think about it, because that meant listening to what Franky had to say. He didn't want to hear it. He hadn't wanted to hear it the first time, when Franky tried to tell him with fumbling hands and too-wet lips that it was /more than brothers/; or now, when it /was more than sex/.

This was more than sex, and he knew with damned certainty that Franky wasn't going to let it go until Iceburg acknowledged the point. The idiot had fought tooth and nail against admitting he had a family, and fought even harder against admitting that he wanted one. Iceburg was pretty sure Franky would torture him with slow, thoughtful thrusts until he dragged the confession out of Iceburg. Until Iceburg admitted that he cared, too.

Franky's intent stare was boring into him, even as the younger man moved above him. The challenge in the increasingly unfocused but no less stubborn gaze made the blood pound harder in his ears even as he tried to avoid Franky's eyes. They were half-lidded and liquid, but the hint of steel under the pleasure-haze was searing, white-hot and piercing; his breath was hitching more in response to those eyes than to Franky's faster and increasingly erratic pace.

He slid his own eyes away instead. Franky's loose shirt had slipped off, and sweat had streaked sawdust and gunpowder and grease into dark runnels. The stains followed the hard curves of flexing muscles, tensing with anticipation and challenge and languishing in need. Iceburg's hands moved to follow his gaze, one smearing and rough over wiry muscle, the other settling on sweat-slicked hardness.

He did look up then, flushed and close. Met eyes dark with lust and pride and, always, mirth.

"Franky--" he panted.

A smug grin broke across Franky's face as his eyes slid shut and his head tipped back.

Franky changed the pace, changed the angle so that Iceburg's shoulders were digging into the hard wood with each thrust. The slight change gave Iceburg more leeway and he could keep up better; the tension melted into a breathless anticipation.

He still couldn't catch his breath, couldn't keep his eyes and his hands off of Franky. The building insensibility was making him clumsy, clouding his mind and taking the edge off the heat and the frustration and maybe it should be like /this/. Tacit agreement, still stubborn enough to be infuriating, but building slowly into something that was warm and uncomfortable instead of searing, angry heat alternating with cool flashes of foreboding.

It was over too soon.

Franky's teasing, their violent little games, the taut, stubborn gaze and the feel of scars and muscles under his hands -- he'd stumbled over the edge. A few moments where none of it mattered and all he could think to do was demand with rough, quick hands that Franky follow him there, too.

Iceburg's head cleared a moment too soon and he caught the arch of Franky's back and a fleeting instant when all challenge and stubbornness and guile vanished. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again Franky's face was near his, grin back in place. The sun had gone down and the breeze was shifting. Shadows rested cool in the hollow of Franky's throat where hot sweat had pooled earlier, and his eyes were bright in the twilight.

A hint of smugness hovered around the grin and Iceburg felt dissatisfied again. The swelling tide of frustration and anger was slowly pulling back in, diminished in the quiet moment but there, always there.

He knew he was more frustrated with himself than anything else. He knew his stubborn refusal was hurting Franky. But he needed to hold this back, to try to figure it out and get himself together because he also knew this would end badly. He felt reckless and stupid when he was like this, giving ground inch by inch, because he knew that the idiot would do something stupid; that one day something would go horribly, seriously, wrong. But the worst part was...

The worst part was now. This. These moments, when Franky set his elbows and rested his chin on one hand, head tipped slightly to the side and pupils still wide; when Iceburg was still languorous and unwilling to move so the only thing to look at was Franky's messy hair being tugged by the errant breeze. These times, when his mind wandered and he thought maybe this could work and they'd scream less and stop fighting and maybe Franky would grow out of his damn hobbies but still look at him /like that/, make him heat and sweat and swear.

But Iceburg couldn't afford maybes; he could barely afford /this/, whatever it was. Tom was getting older, and so was Kokoro, and the city was recovering too slowly and he needed to learn and build and be reliable and respected and take care of them. Not be caught up in something he knew, with a chill certainty, was going to implode in his face.

"Hey, Icey."

"Nma. What, Franky?"

"I dunno where the bottle went."

Iceburg snorted. The absurd little things that should be the ones to annoy him... didn't. He could forgive expensive condiments, but forgiving Franky for being himself was apparently out of reach.

"It probably fell over the edge. Make up for it tomorrow."

The grin inches away from his face turned impish.

"I get a reward then, right?"

The sheer audacity was going to make him smile, so he kissed Franky instead, a little too rough to make up for wishing it were gentle and easy. He knew Franky wouldn't mind, that he liked it rough, and had pried enough out of Iceburg for one day. Franky kept pushing Iceburg were he didn't want to go; pulling him to where it was warm and comfortable and annoying.

He didn't push often, apparently content with the usual games and half-angry sex and noncommittal responses. If Iceburg thought hard enough about it, he'd admit that he was usually the one to start pushing -- away. And Franky would pull him back.

He broke off the kiss before Franky got any more ideas.

"Come on, Bakanky. Let's go inside. The trial's in a week. We need to get up early if we want to get this order done before then."

Franky grinned.



---

End.




A/N: For those who are confused and/or don't remember canon, Battle Franky No. 35 is the one Franky shoots Spandam with. Franky, Iceburg, and Tom will meet Spandam in four days.

A strake, in case any of y'all noticed that and wondered what it was, is one of the long horizontal boards that makes up the side of a ship.

Decided to include this in my fanfic100 (lj name) Water Seven claim, which I made ages ago and have so many WIPs for it's not even funny.