Frank & Brendon Walk Into a Bar... PG
Title:Frank & Brendon Walk Into a Bar...
Author:cloudlessclimes
Wordcount: 1871
Rating:PG
Pairing:Frank Iero/Brendon Urie
Summary: pretty much what the title says, unfortunately
Disclaimer:I own no one I know no one. All made up. Please don’t sue me.
Notes: wrtten for random_bandom thanks to ohnoscarlett for looking it over <3
Stupid fuckin' Spencer Smith. Brendon sulks into his pint glass, hip canted against the long bar at the back of the club. The first sign of perky tits, long blond hair, and an is that a skirt or a belt? kinda cupcake, and Spencer had disappeared. So much for Brendon’'s (apparently misguided) belief that his best friend, the best friend he's had a crush on for a whole fuckin' year, had finally finally!asked him out, like on a date!.
Wrong!
But really, if it wasn't a date why the fuck would Brendon have agreed to see some lame ass band he'd never heard of? Judging from the cds in Spencer’s car (Coldplay! *shudder*) Brendon's expectations were, well, low. But he'd hoped, oh how he'd hoped, and he'd agreed and now he's here alone, again.
So he's standing by himself, like some lame ass, dorktastic loser, watching the crowd. Lots of teenage Hollister girls, travelling in packs that Brendon's always found confusing and slightly terrifying. Almost as terrifying as being at an all ages show. Honest to God; the things he let Spencer and his pretty eyes, and adorable smile, and ohgodIwannarunmyhandsthroughit so soft hair talk him into. Brendon's pretty sure any indie street cred he'd ever had died the moment he got a hand stamp at this all ages show. He sipped at his watered-down beer and tried to tell himself it could be worse. He could have paid good money to see The Fray for fuck's sake. And then he silently prays that isn’t what he’s just done.
And, well, he could leave. He really could. Spencer had (with one hand down the back of the blond’s skirt, and the other not so stealthily groping her boob in her tiny, barely there top). But, fuck it--if Spencer could get lucky, so could Brendon. Couldn't he? He tugs self-consciously at his button down shirt, and then raises an index finger to shove at his perpetually slipping glasses. Then he continues to survey the room while the house lights are still up, and there's just the crackle of canned tunes over the PA.
And oh! Well. Now. Brendon bites his lip and tries not to stare at the guy at the other end of the bar.
The guy at the other end of the bar. By himself. At least Brendon thinks he's by himself. Something in the way he's standing, leaning back on his elbows, braced on the bar, legs extended, crossed at the ankles, seems like he's trying to look like he doesn't give a fuck.
But, maybe he's waiting for his girlfriend and her pack of equally girl-esque friends. But, maybe not. Not in the way his eyes dart around, leaping from face to face, trying not to look too long in any one place. And those eyes just happen to be behind frames more of the nerd variety than even Brendon's. And, the kid's wearing a Morrissey t-shirt. Brendon considers what he once heard his older brother discussing with his friends: It's okay for a dude to like The Smiths 'cause they're cool, right, but the only dudes who ever openly admit to digging Morrissey are faggots, what with all the gladiola throwing and that shit. So, um, Bingo? Brendon thinks--maybe? Definitely worth closer inspection anyway.
Also worthy of closer inspection; the kid's dark brown hair, pale skin, wide mouth, and brows that arch in permanent bemusement over the fucking hideous glasses. Oh! And, and, lip ring! And nose ring! Brendon tries for subtlety as he weaves his way through the be-zitted couples, and girl-packs, and occasional Abercrombie board shorted dudes that dot the bar area. Sweet Jesus! Look at his tattoos pleasebegay pleasebegay please please. Brendon's gaydar--as could be noted in the year long waste of time that was his attempted seduction of Spencer Smith--sucks. Brendon tries to console himself with the fact that even if the tattooed and pierced hottie turns out to be distressingly hetero, at least he'll have some scenery to compensate for whatever musical atrocity he is about to endure.
He takes his time, attempting suave; if one can be suave in high top sneakers that had passed tattered five or so years ago, jeans that were and always would be just that much too long, and a thrift store polyester shirt that would not have looked out of place in his grandfather’s wardrobe. Whatthefuckever. Affecting nonchalance, Brendon sidles up to the guy, places his empty beer glass on the scratched bar surface, and assumes the same posture as his conquest his future hook up the guy.
Moss green eyes dart to Brendon's face and then away again, so Brendon takes a chance and says "So, like, what's the deal with this band?"
* * *
Frank's tired. Over tired, even. His nerves are jittery, he's twitchy, and his skin itches. There's just no damn way he can crash as fast and as hard as the other guys. So he went for a walk. But having zero sense of direction and being in L fucking A when you're an East Coast kind of guy, and being off your ass tired means that straying too far could be a big mistake. So he looks up and sees a bar with a band on the bill and decides what the fuck?, might kill enough time 'til he's ready to meet the sandman.
So he's nursing his drink and trying to figure out where on the scale of Lame to Fucking Totally Radical (ie Hinder to Black Flag-original line up, of course) this band falls based on their crowd. And the crowd makes no sense. But he isn't exactly sure what he expected, because nothing in La La-land makes any fucking sense. Teenage debs in their Ugg boots, and music execs in their Armani mix it up with scene kids and surfers. But who was he to judge? These days nothing that happens outside an Econoline van, or off the grid of blue spiderweb Interstate markings across a wrinkled and faded road map make any kind of sense to Frankl.
But music is music, and he’s always open to something new. Even if these guys don’t turn out to be Glassjaw or The Gallows, at least they’re something to do. And see. And Jesus he wants to sleep. He rubs self-consciously at the rough scrub of his hair, reaching out of habit to tug at his recently shorn dreads. Lowering his hand to scratch at his nose, Frank thinks maybe high school isn't so far behind him after all because, fucking hell is it some kind of law of biology or some shit that everyone in Los Angeles has to be, like Perfect and blond and beautiful?
Fuckin' plastic.
Except. Oh,except! Frank is too tired to control his involuntary brain functions, and the part of him that puts the Bi! in Bi-sexual is maybe a third of the way to a lumbering stand at attention. There's a kid, at the other end of the bar, all creamy skin and hipster-geek cool. And he's sporting a scowl that angles his gull wing brows together over his ridiculous Ray Bans, and tugs down the corners of his fuckin' perfectly pink lips. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else but here.
Shit, man. Stop checkin' the dude out.
Frank smirks into his rum and coke and fidgets, scratching at the scrawl of inked stars across his elbow, and chewing industriously at his lip ring. If one more of the Barbie-stick insect girl-tribes hits on him, he might scream. Or run. Or both. He wonders how hard he has to pray to the (fabulous!) Patron Saint of teh Gay to get the kid, who thus far seems pissed 'cause he's here by himself, to come and rescue him from this special Estrogen fueled hell.
Look to the left 1-2-3-4. Look straight ahead 1-2-3-4. Look to the right no not at HIM fucktard 1-2-3-4.
Shit. The hot kid (the hot kid? wtf, Frank, wtf?) wasn't there anymore. Frank sighs and leans back onto his elbows, feigning interest in the direction of the stage.You win some, you lose some. Sometimes you had nothing to lose in the first place.
"So, like, what's the deal with this band?"
"Uh, I dunno." Frank's tongue darts out, licking across the space between his lips before his mouth cleaves in to a broad, bright grin. He shrugs his shoulder, sheepish, "I just kinda wandered in, I guess."
"Me too!" Brendon returns the grin and amps it up with a startling burst of giggles.
Momentarily distracted by the thickness of Brendon’s eyelashes and his awesome full-lipped grin, Frank's own brand of high-octane giggle is a beat behind. WTF, man, that's not funny. But he's fucking adorable. Please don't let him be drunk. Cuz hitting on drunk hot kid is NOT cool. "Yeah, we're, I mean I'm...I'm stayin' at the Travelodge across the road..with...with my band, and uh, got bored...so..."
Brendon’s eyes widen behind his glasses before he blinks several times in rapid succession. "Band?" Fuck. Pleasebegay. Are my palms sweaty?
"Uh, yeah. We're from Jersey. Kiinda, um, hardcore. I dunno maybe punk-ish?" Punk-ish? Punk-ish? Way to rack up the cool points there, Iero. "I'm Frank. Frank Iero by the way." He extends his hand and amps up his smile, the inevitable giggle following on its trail.
"Brendon Urie." Brendon states matter-of-factly, and firmly returns Frank's handshake.
Turning to more fully face Brendon, Frank says, "So, you think the band's gonna start, like, soon? 'Cause I'm totally dying for a smoke." He withdraws his pack from the back pocket of his jeans, and directs the blinding, full force of his grin directly at Brendon.
"Shit man, me too." Brendon grins and nods towards the fire exit. The two lope side by side through the crowd of beautiful people and out into the close, smog tinged Summer night. Frank pulls out a cheap plastic lighter, and the flame flares bright in the dingy alleyway. He lights up his Marlboro and sighs contentedly before holding the lighter out to Brendon, who has taken out his own pack, puts the cigarette to his lips,and leans in. He meets Frank's gaze, and smiles around the filter between his lips.
"You have amazing eyes." They both say, at the same time. Which causes them to giggle, at the same time. Which causes them to sputter and cough and outright guffaw as the smoke from the cigarettes exits their lungs. Laughter dies and smoke curls skywards and they give each other whythefucknot looks, and then lean in, pressing their mouths together.
Author:cloudlessclimes
Wordcount: 1871
Rating:PG
Pairing:Frank Iero/Brendon Urie
Summary: pretty much what the title says, unfortunately
Disclaimer:I own no one I know no one. All made up. Please don’t sue me.
Notes: wrtten for random_bandom thanks to ohnoscarlett for looking it over <3
Stupid fuckin' Spencer Smith. Brendon sulks into his pint glass, hip canted against the long bar at the back of the club. The first sign of perky tits, long blond hair, and an is that a skirt or a belt? kinda cupcake, and Spencer had disappeared. So much for Brendon’'s (apparently misguided) belief that his best friend, the best friend he's had a crush on for a whole fuckin' year, had finally finally!asked him out, like on a date!.
Wrong!
But really, if it wasn't a date why the fuck would Brendon have agreed to see some lame ass band he'd never heard of? Judging from the cds in Spencer’s car (Coldplay! *shudder*) Brendon's expectations were, well, low. But he'd hoped, oh how he'd hoped, and he'd agreed and now he's here alone, again.
So he's standing by himself, like some lame ass, dorktastic loser, watching the crowd. Lots of teenage Hollister girls, travelling in packs that Brendon's always found confusing and slightly terrifying. Almost as terrifying as being at an all ages show. Honest to God; the things he let Spencer and his pretty eyes, and adorable smile, and ohgodIwannarunmyhandsthroughit so soft hair talk him into. Brendon's pretty sure any indie street cred he'd ever had died the moment he got a hand stamp at this all ages show. He sipped at his watered-down beer and tried to tell himself it could be worse. He could have paid good money to see The Fray for fuck's sake. And then he silently prays that isn’t what he’s just done.
And, well, he could leave. He really could. Spencer had (with one hand down the back of the blond’s skirt, and the other not so stealthily groping her boob in her tiny, barely there top). But, fuck it--if Spencer could get lucky, so could Brendon. Couldn't he? He tugs self-consciously at his button down shirt, and then raises an index finger to shove at his perpetually slipping glasses. Then he continues to survey the room while the house lights are still up, and there's just the crackle of canned tunes over the PA.
And oh! Well. Now. Brendon bites his lip and tries not to stare at the guy at the other end of the bar.
The guy at the other end of the bar. By himself. At least Brendon thinks he's by himself. Something in the way he's standing, leaning back on his elbows, braced on the bar, legs extended, crossed at the ankles, seems like he's trying to look like he doesn't give a fuck.
But, maybe he's waiting for his girlfriend and her pack of equally girl-esque friends. But, maybe not. Not in the way his eyes dart around, leaping from face to face, trying not to look too long in any one place. And those eyes just happen to be behind frames more of the nerd variety than even Brendon's. And, the kid's wearing a Morrissey t-shirt. Brendon considers what he once heard his older brother discussing with his friends: It's okay for a dude to like The Smiths 'cause they're cool, right, but the only dudes who ever openly admit to digging Morrissey are faggots, what with all the gladiola throwing and that shit. So, um, Bingo? Brendon thinks--maybe? Definitely worth closer inspection anyway.
Also worthy of closer inspection; the kid's dark brown hair, pale skin, wide mouth, and brows that arch in permanent bemusement over the fucking hideous glasses. Oh! And, and, lip ring! And nose ring! Brendon tries for subtlety as he weaves his way through the be-zitted couples, and girl-packs, and occasional Abercrombie board shorted dudes that dot the bar area. Sweet Jesus! Look at his tattoos pleasebegay pleasebegay please please. Brendon's gaydar--as could be noted in the year long waste of time that was his attempted seduction of Spencer Smith--sucks. Brendon tries to console himself with the fact that even if the tattooed and pierced hottie turns out to be distressingly hetero, at least he'll have some scenery to compensate for whatever musical atrocity he is about to endure.
He takes his time, attempting suave; if one can be suave in high top sneakers that had passed tattered five or so years ago, jeans that were and always would be just that much too long, and a thrift store polyester shirt that would not have looked out of place in his grandfather’s wardrobe. Whatthefuckever. Affecting nonchalance, Brendon sidles up to the guy, places his empty beer glass on the scratched bar surface, and assumes the same posture as his conquest his future hook up the guy.
Moss green eyes dart to Brendon's face and then away again, so Brendon takes a chance and says "So, like, what's the deal with this band?"
* * *
Frank's tired. Over tired, even. His nerves are jittery, he's twitchy, and his skin itches. There's just no damn way he can crash as fast and as hard as the other guys. So he went for a walk. But having zero sense of direction and being in L fucking A when you're an East Coast kind of guy, and being off your ass tired means that straying too far could be a big mistake. So he looks up and sees a bar with a band on the bill and decides what the fuck?, might kill enough time 'til he's ready to meet the sandman.
So he's nursing his drink and trying to figure out where on the scale of Lame to Fucking Totally Radical (ie Hinder to Black Flag-original line up, of course) this band falls based on their crowd. And the crowd makes no sense. But he isn't exactly sure what he expected, because nothing in La La-land makes any fucking sense. Teenage debs in their Ugg boots, and music execs in their Armani mix it up with scene kids and surfers. But who was he to judge? These days nothing that happens outside an Econoline van, or off the grid of blue spiderweb Interstate markings across a wrinkled and faded road map make any kind of sense to Frankl.
But music is music, and he’s always open to something new. Even if these guys don’t turn out to be Glassjaw or The Gallows, at least they’re something to do. And see. And Jesus he wants to sleep. He rubs self-consciously at the rough scrub of his hair, reaching out of habit to tug at his recently shorn dreads. Lowering his hand to scratch at his nose, Frank thinks maybe high school isn't so far behind him after all because, fucking hell is it some kind of law of biology or some shit that everyone in Los Angeles has to be, like Perfect and blond and beautiful?
Fuckin' plastic.
Except. Oh,except! Frank is too tired to control his involuntary brain functions, and the part of him that puts the Bi! in Bi-sexual is maybe a third of the way to a lumbering stand at attention. There's a kid, at the other end of the bar, all creamy skin and hipster-geek cool. And he's sporting a scowl that angles his gull wing brows together over his ridiculous Ray Bans, and tugs down the corners of his fuckin' perfectly pink lips. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else but here.
Shit, man. Stop checkin' the dude out.
Frank smirks into his rum and coke and fidgets, scratching at the scrawl of inked stars across his elbow, and chewing industriously at his lip ring. If one more of the Barbie-stick insect girl-tribes hits on him, he might scream. Or run. Or both. He wonders how hard he has to pray to the (fabulous!) Patron Saint of teh Gay to get the kid, who thus far seems pissed 'cause he's here by himself, to come and rescue him from this special Estrogen fueled hell.
Look to the left 1-2-3-4. Look straight ahead 1-2-3-4. Look to the right no not at HIM fucktard 1-2-3-4.
Shit. The hot kid (the hot kid? wtf, Frank, wtf?) wasn't there anymore. Frank sighs and leans back onto his elbows, feigning interest in the direction of the stage.You win some, you lose some. Sometimes you had nothing to lose in the first place.
"So, like, what's the deal with this band?"
"Uh, I dunno." Frank's tongue darts out, licking across the space between his lips before his mouth cleaves in to a broad, bright grin. He shrugs his shoulder, sheepish, "I just kinda wandered in, I guess."
"Me too!" Brendon returns the grin and amps it up with a startling burst of giggles.
Momentarily distracted by the thickness of Brendon’s eyelashes and his awesome full-lipped grin, Frank's own brand of high-octane giggle is a beat behind. WTF, man, that's not funny. But he's fucking adorable. Please don't let him be drunk. Cuz hitting on drunk hot kid is NOT cool. "Yeah, we're, I mean I'm...I'm stayin' at the Travelodge across the road..with...with my band, and uh, got bored...so..."
Brendon’s eyes widen behind his glasses before he blinks several times in rapid succession. "Band?" Fuck. Pleasebegay. Are my palms sweaty?
"Uh, yeah. We're from Jersey. Kiinda, um, hardcore. I dunno maybe punk-ish?" Punk-ish? Punk-ish? Way to rack up the cool points there, Iero. "I'm Frank. Frank Iero by the way." He extends his hand and amps up his smile, the inevitable giggle following on its trail.
"Brendon Urie." Brendon states matter-of-factly, and firmly returns Frank's handshake.
Turning to more fully face Brendon, Frank says, "So, you think the band's gonna start, like, soon? 'Cause I'm totally dying for a smoke." He withdraws his pack from the back pocket of his jeans, and directs the blinding, full force of his grin directly at Brendon.
"Shit man, me too." Brendon grins and nods towards the fire exit. The two lope side by side through the crowd of beautiful people and out into the close, smog tinged Summer night. Frank pulls out a cheap plastic lighter, and the flame flares bright in the dingy alleyway. He lights up his Marlboro and sighs contentedly before holding the lighter out to Brendon, who has taken out his own pack, puts the cigarette to his lips,and leans in. He meets Frank's gaze, and smiles around the filter between his lips.
"You have amazing eyes." They both say, at the same time. Which causes them to giggle, at the same time. Which causes them to sputter and cough and outright guffaw as the smoke from the cigarettes exits their lungs. Laughter dies and smoke curls skywards and they give each other whythefucknot looks, and then lean in, pressing their mouths together.