The raindrops fell like fishhooks and got tangled in your hair
Today was a long day, though this evening was a thousandfold better, spent hanging with luciamad and talking the achy awesomeness that is Frank/Mikey and that could be Frank/Brendon.
So I'm not buying HCT tickets because, well, (and I'll probably be kicked out of bandom for saying this) I'm not a huge fan of Panic. I like Jon and Brendon's growing on me, thanks to Luc's Brendon theories, but overall the band doesn't do that much for me at the moment.
Instead, I'd rather put my concert-going funds for this summer towards the Old 97's tour and my and djinnj's ongoing quest to stalk Rhett Miller's arse follow Rhett Miller up and down the Eastern Seaboard. (We are willing to admit we may have a slight obsession.)
Speaking of which, I'm buying presale tickets in the morning for Rhett's April Baltimore show. \0/ I was really good and talked myself out of flying to LA to see him at the Troubadour next week. Because, you know, that would be excessive. And expensive. Although if I had the disposable income you bet your bippy I'd be out there. Also? Three days and counting until my next Rhett concert. YAY. (Told you. Slight obsession.)
In other things that are making my week suck less, I am hearting Kyo Kara Maoh so hard that it hurts. Deep down. I'm in the full flush of fandom love--I get twitchy at work because I want to be home watching the next episode and I've started reading the fanfic and you guys. Yuuri/Wolfram has stolen my heart so much. Also, supergrover24 and I keep tossing seriously porny fic ideas at each other to help make our work days go faster. I seriously think she needs to write the fucking incredible Gwendal/Gunter that she's been toying with. That would be a subtle hint, Jodie. Very subtle. 'Cause, you know, I'm cool like that.
And on the subject of writing...I'm trying to finish up a Frank/Mikey I've been working on since last August. luciamad has been patiently getting it in spurts as I write a bit here and there, and she's now decided, since I'm >this close< to finishing it that my flist needs to give me a kick in the arse to get it done. So she's making me post an excerpt from it. :D
“We should share an apartment,” Mikey says one day during practice. “I’m looking at a place. Second floor of a shitty house.”
Frank looks up from his guitar. His thumbnail catches on the G string. It twangs loudly in the basement. “What?”
Mikey frowns down at his bass and tunes the strings. “You. Me. Apartment. Share. Cheaper rent.”
“Right.” Frank hesitates. His brain knows living with Mikey Way is probably not a good idea on a number of fronts. His body’s screaming at him to suck it up.
His body wins.
“Sure, dude,” he says, just as Ray comes in with a cardboard box filled with styrofoam cups and bags of milopita from the Greek bakery down the street. “I don’t need to have my mom cosign the lease do I?” Their cash flow ratio, while better than the first year or two, can still be…spotty at times.
Mikey grins at him. “My dad already did.”
“Then you’re on.” Frank takes the coffee, black with extra sugar, that Ray hands him.
“Move your shit in next weekend,” Mikey says and he plugs his bass in, his hair falling over the rims of his glasses as he dips his bass down and spins, strumming the first few chords of Early Sunset Over Monroeville.
So fucked, Frank thinks, resettling Pansy’s strap on his shoulder as Gerard ambles in, yawning and knocking aside with a growl the drumsticks Matt taps against his shoulder. Frank sighs. So fucking fucked.
***
Frank’s shit consists of two duffle bags filled with t-shirts and jeans, four guitars, three amps, two boxes of books, another box of guitar tabs, a laptop, a Playstation and a paper box filled with games, a twin bed he’s had since he was fourteen, a case of Heniken he steals from the fridge in his dad’s garage, and a worn blue gingham couch his Aunt Donnamaria (mother of the woefully flat-chested Cousin Maria) hands off to him as a housewarming gift.
Mikey bounces on the end of the couch. Frank’s framed autographed Black Flag poster shifts on the wall above. “It has some give.” Mikey studies the couch dubiously. “Think it’ll withstand a good fucking?”
Frank tries not to think about that. He fails. “Maybe.” He tugs his t-shirt down over the waistband of his shorts. “Although, really, I’d rather you not fuck on my couch, thanks.”
“I’d use a rubber,” Mikey says and he sprawls across the couch, bare feet propped on the armroll. His toenails are painted black, and flecks of nail polish are scattered across the pale skin of his big toe. His shorts bunch up around his thighs. Frank looks away.
“No fucking on the couch,” Frank snaps and at Mikey’s raised eyebrow he shrugs. “Use your own goddamn bed.”
“Whatever.” Mikey rifles through the box of Playstation games. “Dude, you have Sonic the fucking Hedgehog?”
“I’m a classic,” Frank says and he grabs two Henikens from the fridge and tosses one to Mikey. “Be nice to me and maybe I’ll let you play.”
Mikey’s already got the controllers out and is plugging the Playstation into his TV-a 30-inch monster perched on a wobbly pressboard stand purchased at Walmart. Four important screws are missing; Mikey’s rigged it with duct tape and carpenter’s glue.
“This,” he pronounces, “is going to be awesome.”
Frank just smiles faintly and sits down next to him. The couch sags a bit beneath his thighs.
He’s not so certain.
Okay. Now tell me to get off my arse and finish it, please?
So I'm not buying HCT tickets because, well, (and I'll probably be kicked out of bandom for saying this) I'm not a huge fan of Panic. I like Jon and Brendon's growing on me, thanks to Luc's Brendon theories, but overall the band doesn't do that much for me at the moment.
Instead, I'd rather put my concert-going funds for this summer towards the Old 97's tour and my and djinnj's ongoing quest to stalk Rhett Miller's arse follow Rhett Miller up and down the Eastern Seaboard. (We are willing to admit we may have a slight obsession.)
Speaking of which, I'm buying presale tickets in the morning for Rhett's April Baltimore show. \0/ I was really good and talked myself out of flying to LA to see him at the Troubadour next week. Because, you know, that would be excessive. And expensive. Although if I had the disposable income you bet your bippy I'd be out there. Also? Three days and counting until my next Rhett concert. YAY. (Told you. Slight obsession.)
In other things that are making my week suck less, I am hearting Kyo Kara Maoh so hard that it hurts. Deep down. I'm in the full flush of fandom love--I get twitchy at work because I want to be home watching the next episode and I've started reading the fanfic and you guys. Yuuri/Wolfram has stolen my heart so much. Also, supergrover24 and I keep tossing seriously porny fic ideas at each other to help make our work days go faster. I seriously think she needs to write the fucking incredible Gwendal/Gunter that she's been toying with. That would be a subtle hint, Jodie. Very subtle. 'Cause, you know, I'm cool like that.
And on the subject of writing...I'm trying to finish up a Frank/Mikey I've been working on since last August. luciamad has been patiently getting it in spurts as I write a bit here and there, and she's now decided, since I'm >this close< to finishing it that my flist needs to give me a kick in the arse to get it done. So she's making me post an excerpt from it. :D
“We should share an apartment,” Mikey says one day during practice. “I’m looking at a place. Second floor of a shitty house.”
Frank looks up from his guitar. His thumbnail catches on the G string. It twangs loudly in the basement. “What?”
Mikey frowns down at his bass and tunes the strings. “You. Me. Apartment. Share. Cheaper rent.”
“Right.” Frank hesitates. His brain knows living with Mikey Way is probably not a good idea on a number of fronts. His body’s screaming at him to suck it up.
His body wins.
“Sure, dude,” he says, just as Ray comes in with a cardboard box filled with styrofoam cups and bags of milopita from the Greek bakery down the street. “I don’t need to have my mom cosign the lease do I?” Their cash flow ratio, while better than the first year or two, can still be…spotty at times.
Mikey grins at him. “My dad already did.”
“Then you’re on.” Frank takes the coffee, black with extra sugar, that Ray hands him.
“Move your shit in next weekend,” Mikey says and he plugs his bass in, his hair falling over the rims of his glasses as he dips his bass down and spins, strumming the first few chords of Early Sunset Over Monroeville.
So fucked, Frank thinks, resettling Pansy’s strap on his shoulder as Gerard ambles in, yawning and knocking aside with a growl the drumsticks Matt taps against his shoulder. Frank sighs. So fucking fucked.
***
Frank’s shit consists of two duffle bags filled with t-shirts and jeans, four guitars, three amps, two boxes of books, another box of guitar tabs, a laptop, a Playstation and a paper box filled with games, a twin bed he’s had since he was fourteen, a case of Heniken he steals from the fridge in his dad’s garage, and a worn blue gingham couch his Aunt Donnamaria (mother of the woefully flat-chested Cousin Maria) hands off to him as a housewarming gift.
Mikey bounces on the end of the couch. Frank’s framed autographed Black Flag poster shifts on the wall above. “It has some give.” Mikey studies the couch dubiously. “Think it’ll withstand a good fucking?”
Frank tries not to think about that. He fails. “Maybe.” He tugs his t-shirt down over the waistband of his shorts. “Although, really, I’d rather you not fuck on my couch, thanks.”
“I’d use a rubber,” Mikey says and he sprawls across the couch, bare feet propped on the armroll. His toenails are painted black, and flecks of nail polish are scattered across the pale skin of his big toe. His shorts bunch up around his thighs. Frank looks away.
“No fucking on the couch,” Frank snaps and at Mikey’s raised eyebrow he shrugs. “Use your own goddamn bed.”
“Whatever.” Mikey rifles through the box of Playstation games. “Dude, you have Sonic the fucking Hedgehog?”
“I’m a classic,” Frank says and he grabs two Henikens from the fridge and tosses one to Mikey. “Be nice to me and maybe I’ll let you play.”
Mikey’s already got the controllers out and is plugging the Playstation into his TV-a 30-inch monster perched on a wobbly pressboard stand purchased at Walmart. Four important screws are missing; Mikey’s rigged it with duct tape and carpenter’s glue.
“This,” he pronounces, “is going to be awesome.”
Frank just smiles faintly and sits down next to him. The couch sags a bit beneath his thighs.
He’s not so certain.
Okay. Now tell me to get off my arse and finish it, please?