slashfic25 prompt 13: Letters
Gerard/Bert
Standalone
R (swearing)
written May/June 2006
Notes: Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney.
He doesn't know what time it is, and if he's honest, he doesn't give a shit. It's still dark -- he knows that much -- and the air feels icy, crisp as he sucks it into his lungs through slightly pursed lips. It must be late. No ... early. Christ, who knows? Right now, his breath is devoid of cigarette smoke, his blood of alcohol, his skin of needle-marks, his mind of exhaustion. It's as close to being pure, feeling pure, as he ever gets.
And he's got no-one to share it with. No-one that matters, anyway.
Bert wishes he could sleep. He wishes he could close his eyes and feel sleep drop over him like a blanket; warm, safe, secure. An arm draped across his waist from behind, a face nuzzling into the back of his shoulder. A gentle land of steady breathing and childish dreams. But tonight, that's elusive. His brain is more alert than ever, while his feet, instead of being heavy from the day's activity, keep time to the song on his stereo and never miss a beat.
It doesn't help that he loves everything about this song; the gravelly desperation in the singer's voice, the accusation in the lyrics, the bass-heavy rhythm that almost lures the listener into the guitar solo ... The passion. The emotion. The life -- it's everything he loves about music. Everything he tries to recreate in his own.
Yes I'm lonely, wanna die
I'm lonely, wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Girl you know the reason why
He's sprawled on the sofa in his living room, ankles crossed, hands behind his head, eyes closed. Drinking in the music.
It sounds so much better on vinyl, Bert thinks, reaching out for the album cover on the floor. It's huge, compared with a CD cover. Flat. Cardboard with a dull, comforting sheen -- none of that plastic crap. It feels more real than today's digital bullshit, almost earthy.
The vinyl makes him remember being a kid and using his dad's LPs as frisbees, then being sent to his room when he broke his parents' lamp. The warm crackling sound of the needle skimming the record's surface reminds him of going to his first parties -- back when you could still buy vinyl in stores. It reminds him of being fifteen and smoking weed in his best friend's bedroom, listening to Nirvana and arguing over the Kurt Cobain murder theories.
It reminds him of feeble attempts at DJing and drunken, stumbling waltzes through tourbuses with Gerard. It reminds him of half-serious arguments with Gerard, trying to piss him off by insulting Iron Maiden and Morrissey. It reminds him of shows with Gerard, parties with Gerard, nights with Gerard ...
Everything reminds him of Gerard, if he thinks hard enough.
The stark white album cover has nothing but the band's name on it. The Beatles. Simple, self-explanatory. Everything that needs to be said. Bert envies this, he realises as his index finger traces the shape of the letters, because it's all the things he's not. He's never been simple, never been able to explain himself adequately -- whether drunk or sober, mellow with laughter or shaking with fury. Unless it's accompanied by a vicious rhythm section and howling guitar licks, Bert's words mean nothing ... to himself or to anyone else. Unless he's standing in front of thousands of screaming kids and screaming right back, Bert means nothing. He's not real -- he's an image, an idea, a cartoon character.
Maybe, he thinks, it would be easier if he could strip back every layer, every wall he's built over the years, and just be Bert. Just the normal guy behind the walls of indifference, of rehearsed rebellion, of insane laughter. But then he remembers -- he doesn't know who that guy is any more. Or whether he even existed. The last time he really felt comfortable with himself, he was fourteen years old.
Sometimes, Bert thinks he's like an anagram, jumbled letters that have been in the wrong order for so long that the right order has been forgotten. Twisted and tangled, like knotted, matted strands of hair. I'm a dreadlock that hasn't been washed in forever, he muses, grinning at the irony. People have been calling him on his dirty hair for years.
But there's a problem with dreadlocks, Bert says to himself, scraping his own hair behind his ears. You can't untangle them; they have to be cut off. Amputated, forgotten. Consigned to the past, like dusty photo albums and old report cards and outdated diaries. Boxes in the attic sealed with masking tape. And the unsolved anagrams are pushed into the "too hard" basket. People don't have the time or interest to decipher things these days. Not when everything else is so instant, so in-your-face.
But what about people with dyslexia? People who always see things in the wrong order, people who literally look at the world differently ... how would they see me? Would I be in the right order to them? Would their letters be as screwed up as mine are?
The thought makes his stomach twist with guilt and he rolls onto his side, the album cover falling onto the carpet. He closes his eyes and listens to the end of the song, focusing on his breathing. In, out. In out.
He knows the answer, and it hurts to think about. He knows there is one person who can always read him, who is dyslexic enough to read him, regardless of the mixed-up letters. The person who hides behind hair as tangled as his own. The person who knows that the walls he puts up are transparent and can be broken down. The person who can see the word Bert and everything it implies, not just Bert-McCracken-Rock-Star or Black-Sheep-of-The-Family or Brat McCrackhead or whatever the fuck the media's calling him these days ...
Gerard.
The number's in your phone, Bert tells himself. Grow some balls and call him.
But the fluttery, tight feeling in his stomach is still there -- whether it's from nerves, or fear, or pride, or love, or a mixture of them all, he's not in the mood to analyse things too closely -- and he shakes his head. Abstract metaphors are one thing; swallowing his pride is something else entirely.
Sliding off the couch, he crawls along the floor and adjusts the needle to play track six. He grins as the familiar riff reverberates through the living room, the bassline throbbing into the floor. Much better.
You may be a lover, but you ain't no dancer ...
Bert doesn't consider himself an expert on the Beatles. He's a fan, not a fanatic; sure, he's bought a few albums, read a few books, but that's all. Oh, and there was the time he flipped off Yoko Ono in New York. He can't remember why he did it, now he thinks about it. It was probably a funny idea at the time, he says to himself. Most of my stupid ideas are funny at the time.
Yoko didn't respond; she didn't even acknowledge the greasy-haired, overgrown adolescent walking past, giving her the finger and laughing uproariously for no reason at all. There was no raised eyebrow, no frown. Nothing. She wouldn't stoop to his level. Hidden behind her sunglasses, her expression wooden, betraying nothing, she moved on.
Just like Gerard.
He knows Gerard won't be lying sleepless in Jersey, listening to old records and thinking about him; because unlike Bert, Gerard has a life -- he has friends, family, people who care. He deserves them. Bert has a girlfriend who's just screamed at him to grow the fuck up and gone to crash at a friend's house for the night. Bert has a family who are ashamed of him, even if they pretend they're not. Bert has friends who eventually get pissed off and drift away. Bert has hangers-on and groupies who think he's cool and want a fuck respectively.
Every person in his life is staring at the jumbled letters and reading them differently -- seeing the words and the Berts they want to see. They're all him, but they're not him, not really. He doesn't know who he is, and he doesn't know why.
Bert hates being alone, but he doesn't know how to let people in -- not really. Not the way he should. Gerard got beyond the walls before Bert knew what was happening, and now there's a breach, a hole temporarily plugged. A permanent weak spot.
With shaking fingers, Bert pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and searches through his directory until he's found the number he wants. He listens to the dial tone a few times before the familiar voice hits him, reaching through the phone to pull him through the radiowaves.
"Why are you calling me?" Gerard's tone is more curious than angry, and Bert can only sigh.
"Gee -- what's wrong with me?"
There's a pause. "Are you drunk?"
"Completely fucking sober."
A small, bitter laugh escapes Gerard. "You really wanna know what I think?"
"You're the only one who tells me the truth."
"Okay. Fine." Gerard takes a deep breath. "You're scared. You're a fucking scared little boy who's too afraid to let people love you. You're so wrapped up in what other people think of you, you've forgotten what you think about yourself. You've got all these stupid damn ideas about what you're supposed to be, you don't think about what you want to be. And that's why you're not fucking happy, Bert."
He exhales shakily. "You done?"
"Well -- that's just what I've got off the top of my head. Give me time and I'll think of some more ... "
"I'm sorry," he says softly, not sure whether Gerard will hear.
"Are you really? Or are you just lonely and feeling sorry for yourself?"
"Both."
He laughs. "At least you're honest, I guess."
"You're the only one who gets it," Bert whispers. "Sometimes -- sometimes I wish I could make you love me again."
"So you could fuck me over again? Ha. I'm not that naive."
"I know."
"You gonna tell me what's wrong?"
Bert grips the phone tightly. "Why? Do you care?"
"Well, I'm pretty fucking curious, put it that way."
"I was just thinking, that's all ... "
"Thinking? About what?"
"About what an asshole I am. About how much I've fucked up -- how I always fuck up. And out of all the stupid things I've done, the way I treated you was the worst. And I wish I could take it back."
"And make me love you again, I suppose?"
"Mmm."
"Pathetic," Gerard says, but there's a catch in his voice.
"I still love you."
"Good. Let it eat away at you. Maybe then you'll know how I felt," is the reply, Gerard's voice growing hoarse. He sighs again. "Look -- fuck, I can't talk about this right now -- "
"I want to see you."
"And I want world peace, but that doesn't mean it's gonna happen."
"Please -- "
"Christ Almighty, Bert, why d'you have to be like this? It's not as if either one of us is single anymore ... What the fuck are you thinking? That we're gonna run into each other's arms like we're in a fucking movie?"
"I don't know," Bert says helplessly, the tears beginning to sting his eyes. "I just -- "
"Stop! Stop, or I'll hang up."
"You're the only one I think about."
"I'm serious ... don't say another word about this."
"I miss you."
"I -- I have to go, Bert. Don't call me again," he says.
"Gerard?"
"What?"
"Could you ... "
"What? Love you again?" There's a pause. "No."
"No?" Bert repeats faintly, feeling like he's been punched in the stomach. When Gerard speaks again, his voice is strained.
"How can I love you again when I never stopped the first time?"
Then the line goes dead, and Bert wishes he'd never said a word. The one person who can read him is the only one who doesn't want to.
Standalone
R (swearing)
written May/June 2006
Notes: Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney.
He doesn't know what time it is, and if he's honest, he doesn't give a shit. It's still dark -- he knows that much -- and the air feels icy, crisp as he sucks it into his lungs through slightly pursed lips. It must be late. No ... early. Christ, who knows? Right now, his breath is devoid of cigarette smoke, his blood of alcohol, his skin of needle-marks, his mind of exhaustion. It's as close to being pure, feeling pure, as he ever gets.
And he's got no-one to share it with. No-one that matters, anyway.
Bert wishes he could sleep. He wishes he could close his eyes and feel sleep drop over him like a blanket; warm, safe, secure. An arm draped across his waist from behind, a face nuzzling into the back of his shoulder. A gentle land of steady breathing and childish dreams. But tonight, that's elusive. His brain is more alert than ever, while his feet, instead of being heavy from the day's activity, keep time to the song on his stereo and never miss a beat.
It doesn't help that he loves everything about this song; the gravelly desperation in the singer's voice, the accusation in the lyrics, the bass-heavy rhythm that almost lures the listener into the guitar solo ... The passion. The emotion. The life -- it's everything he loves about music. Everything he tries to recreate in his own.
Yes I'm lonely, wanna die
I'm lonely, wanna die
If I ain't dead already
Girl you know the reason why
He's sprawled on the sofa in his living room, ankles crossed, hands behind his head, eyes closed. Drinking in the music.
It sounds so much better on vinyl, Bert thinks, reaching out for the album cover on the floor. It's huge, compared with a CD cover. Flat. Cardboard with a dull, comforting sheen -- none of that plastic crap. It feels more real than today's digital bullshit, almost earthy.
The vinyl makes him remember being a kid and using his dad's LPs as frisbees, then being sent to his room when he broke his parents' lamp. The warm crackling sound of the needle skimming the record's surface reminds him of going to his first parties -- back when you could still buy vinyl in stores. It reminds him of being fifteen and smoking weed in his best friend's bedroom, listening to Nirvana and arguing over the Kurt Cobain murder theories.
It reminds him of feeble attempts at DJing and drunken, stumbling waltzes through tourbuses with Gerard. It reminds him of half-serious arguments with Gerard, trying to piss him off by insulting Iron Maiden and Morrissey. It reminds him of shows with Gerard, parties with Gerard, nights with Gerard ...
Everything reminds him of Gerard, if he thinks hard enough.
The stark white album cover has nothing but the band's name on it. The Beatles. Simple, self-explanatory. Everything that needs to be said. Bert envies this, he realises as his index finger traces the shape of the letters, because it's all the things he's not. He's never been simple, never been able to explain himself adequately -- whether drunk or sober, mellow with laughter or shaking with fury. Unless it's accompanied by a vicious rhythm section and howling guitar licks, Bert's words mean nothing ... to himself or to anyone else. Unless he's standing in front of thousands of screaming kids and screaming right back, Bert means nothing. He's not real -- he's an image, an idea, a cartoon character.
Maybe, he thinks, it would be easier if he could strip back every layer, every wall he's built over the years, and just be Bert. Just the normal guy behind the walls of indifference, of rehearsed rebellion, of insane laughter. But then he remembers -- he doesn't know who that guy is any more. Or whether he even existed. The last time he really felt comfortable with himself, he was fourteen years old.
Sometimes, Bert thinks he's like an anagram, jumbled letters that have been in the wrong order for so long that the right order has been forgotten. Twisted and tangled, like knotted, matted strands of hair. I'm a dreadlock that hasn't been washed in forever, he muses, grinning at the irony. People have been calling him on his dirty hair for years.
But there's a problem with dreadlocks, Bert says to himself, scraping his own hair behind his ears. You can't untangle them; they have to be cut off. Amputated, forgotten. Consigned to the past, like dusty photo albums and old report cards and outdated diaries. Boxes in the attic sealed with masking tape. And the unsolved anagrams are pushed into the "too hard" basket. People don't have the time or interest to decipher things these days. Not when everything else is so instant, so in-your-face.
But what about people with dyslexia? People who always see things in the wrong order, people who literally look at the world differently ... how would they see me? Would I be in the right order to them? Would their letters be as screwed up as mine are?
The thought makes his stomach twist with guilt and he rolls onto his side, the album cover falling onto the carpet. He closes his eyes and listens to the end of the song, focusing on his breathing. In, out. In out.
He knows the answer, and it hurts to think about. He knows there is one person who can always read him, who is dyslexic enough to read him, regardless of the mixed-up letters. The person who hides behind hair as tangled as his own. The person who knows that the walls he puts up are transparent and can be broken down. The person who can see the word Bert and everything it implies, not just Bert-McCracken-Rock-Star or Black-Sheep-of-The-Family or Brat McCrackhead or whatever the fuck the media's calling him these days ...
Gerard.
The number's in your phone, Bert tells himself. Grow some balls and call him.
But the fluttery, tight feeling in his stomach is still there -- whether it's from nerves, or fear, or pride, or love, or a mixture of them all, he's not in the mood to analyse things too closely -- and he shakes his head. Abstract metaphors are one thing; swallowing his pride is something else entirely.
Sliding off the couch, he crawls along the floor and adjusts the needle to play track six. He grins as the familiar riff reverberates through the living room, the bassline throbbing into the floor. Much better.
You may be a lover, but you ain't no dancer ...
Bert doesn't consider himself an expert on the Beatles. He's a fan, not a fanatic; sure, he's bought a few albums, read a few books, but that's all. Oh, and there was the time he flipped off Yoko Ono in New York. He can't remember why he did it, now he thinks about it. It was probably a funny idea at the time, he says to himself. Most of my stupid ideas are funny at the time.
Yoko didn't respond; she didn't even acknowledge the greasy-haired, overgrown adolescent walking past, giving her the finger and laughing uproariously for no reason at all. There was no raised eyebrow, no frown. Nothing. She wouldn't stoop to his level. Hidden behind her sunglasses, her expression wooden, betraying nothing, she moved on.
Just like Gerard.
He knows Gerard won't be lying sleepless in Jersey, listening to old records and thinking about him; because unlike Bert, Gerard has a life -- he has friends, family, people who care. He deserves them. Bert has a girlfriend who's just screamed at him to grow the fuck up and gone to crash at a friend's house for the night. Bert has a family who are ashamed of him, even if they pretend they're not. Bert has friends who eventually get pissed off and drift away. Bert has hangers-on and groupies who think he's cool and want a fuck respectively.
Every person in his life is staring at the jumbled letters and reading them differently -- seeing the words and the Berts they want to see. They're all him, but they're not him, not really. He doesn't know who he is, and he doesn't know why.
Bert hates being alone, but he doesn't know how to let people in -- not really. Not the way he should. Gerard got beyond the walls before Bert knew what was happening, and now there's a breach, a hole temporarily plugged. A permanent weak spot.
With shaking fingers, Bert pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and searches through his directory until he's found the number he wants. He listens to the dial tone a few times before the familiar voice hits him, reaching through the phone to pull him through the radiowaves.
"Why are you calling me?" Gerard's tone is more curious than angry, and Bert can only sigh.
"Gee -- what's wrong with me?"
There's a pause. "Are you drunk?"
"Completely fucking sober."
A small, bitter laugh escapes Gerard. "You really wanna know what I think?"
"You're the only one who tells me the truth."
"Okay. Fine." Gerard takes a deep breath. "You're scared. You're a fucking scared little boy who's too afraid to let people love you. You're so wrapped up in what other people think of you, you've forgotten what you think about yourself. You've got all these stupid damn ideas about what you're supposed to be, you don't think about what you want to be. And that's why you're not fucking happy, Bert."
He exhales shakily. "You done?"
"Well -- that's just what I've got off the top of my head. Give me time and I'll think of some more ... "
"I'm sorry," he says softly, not sure whether Gerard will hear.
"Are you really? Or are you just lonely and feeling sorry for yourself?"
"Both."
He laughs. "At least you're honest, I guess."
"You're the only one who gets it," Bert whispers. "Sometimes -- sometimes I wish I could make you love me again."
"So you could fuck me over again? Ha. I'm not that naive."
"I know."
"You gonna tell me what's wrong?"
Bert grips the phone tightly. "Why? Do you care?"
"Well, I'm pretty fucking curious, put it that way."
"I was just thinking, that's all ... "
"Thinking? About what?"
"About what an asshole I am. About how much I've fucked up -- how I always fuck up. And out of all the stupid things I've done, the way I treated you was the worst. And I wish I could take it back."
"And make me love you again, I suppose?"
"Mmm."
"Pathetic," Gerard says, but there's a catch in his voice.
"I still love you."
"Good. Let it eat away at you. Maybe then you'll know how I felt," is the reply, Gerard's voice growing hoarse. He sighs again. "Look -- fuck, I can't talk about this right now -- "
"I want to see you."
"And I want world peace, but that doesn't mean it's gonna happen."
"Please -- "
"Christ Almighty, Bert, why d'you have to be like this? It's not as if either one of us is single anymore ... What the fuck are you thinking? That we're gonna run into each other's arms like we're in a fucking movie?"
"I don't know," Bert says helplessly, the tears beginning to sting his eyes. "I just -- "
"Stop! Stop, or I'll hang up."
"You're the only one I think about."
"I'm serious ... don't say another word about this."
"I miss you."
"I -- I have to go, Bert. Don't call me again," he says.
"Gerard?"
"What?"
"Could you ... "
"What? Love you again?" There's a pause. "No."
"No?" Bert repeats faintly, feeling like he's been punched in the stomach. When Gerard speaks again, his voice is strained.
"How can I love you again when I never stopped the first time?"
Then the line goes dead, and Bert wishes he'd never said a word. The one person who can read him is the only one who doesn't want to.