Could've Moved Mountains
Title: Could've Moved Mountians
Author: Me --> maxwelldeamon
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG-13 - references to alcohol abuse, other than that it's very clean
Summary: I'll apologize for this in the morning and I'll promise it won't happen again. It will, of course, but we can always pretend this time might be different. I don't know why he's here, standing outside on a freezing night with the emotional train wreck that he calls a boyfriend.
A/N: Gerard's POV. Pretty short.
"You alright?" he asks, voice soft and concerned but still cutting sharply through the crisp silence. I don't reply. Instead, I just exhale, sending a cloud of smoke out of my mouth and then watch the grey fade to black as it gets lost in the dark. He must have moved closer to me while I was lost in that moment, because the next thing I'm aware of is a hand on my shoulder. "Come back inside."
"I like it out here," I croak, my voice low and gravelly after a few too many cigarettes and from the burn of the vodka I've been drinking all night. The hand tightens on my shoulder, a familiar grip that should be reassuring.
"You've been drinking."
"I'm drunk."
I hear him sigh, exasperated. The hand remains on my shoulder. I'll apologize for this in the morning and I'll promise it won't happen again. It will, of course, but we can always pretend this time might be different. I don't know why he's here, standing outside on a freezing night with the emotional train wreck that he calls a boyfriend.
Three months. Three months he's been trying to keep me away from the drink, and he's blamed himself every time he's seen me getting more and more trashed and not being able to stop it. He slides his hand from my shoulder down my arm and gently prises the bottle out of my hand. I'm too drunk to realize what he's doing, or to even care.
I hear a piercing smash as glass hits concrete, the bottle hurled at the ground with more force than needed. I guess that's just his way of getting rid of the frustration. It's still enough of a shock to make me jump. I can almost feel him grinning behind me. He steps closer and I feel his arms snake around my waist and he rests his chin on my shoulder.
"Come back inside," he whispers, his breath warm against my cheek.
"I'm drunk."
"I don't care."
I turn my face to look at him, meeting eyes that are pleading with me to go with him. I nod. He unwinds his arms from around me and takes hold of one of my hands. My first thought is how warm his hands are considering the temperature, then I remember the way Frank always had the sleeves of his hoodie pulled down over then. He leads me gently back inside, carefully taking my weight against him as I stumble, tripping over my own feet.
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my spell check is American, and I'm not. So sorry for the continuity errors between US and UK spellings.
Author: Me --> maxwelldeamon
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG-13 - references to alcohol abuse, other than that it's very clean
Summary: I'll apologize for this in the morning and I'll promise it won't happen again. It will, of course, but we can always pretend this time might be different. I don't know why he's here, standing outside on a freezing night with the emotional train wreck that he calls a boyfriend.
A/N: Gerard's POV. Pretty short.
"You alright?" he asks, voice soft and concerned but still cutting sharply through the crisp silence. I don't reply. Instead, I just exhale, sending a cloud of smoke out of my mouth and then watch the grey fade to black as it gets lost in the dark. He must have moved closer to me while I was lost in that moment, because the next thing I'm aware of is a hand on my shoulder. "Come back inside."
"I like it out here," I croak, my voice low and gravelly after a few too many cigarettes and from the burn of the vodka I've been drinking all night. The hand tightens on my shoulder, a familiar grip that should be reassuring.
"You've been drinking."
"I'm drunk."
I hear him sigh, exasperated. The hand remains on my shoulder. I'll apologize for this in the morning and I'll promise it won't happen again. It will, of course, but we can always pretend this time might be different. I don't know why he's here, standing outside on a freezing night with the emotional train wreck that he calls a boyfriend.
Three months. Three months he's been trying to keep me away from the drink, and he's blamed himself every time he's seen me getting more and more trashed and not being able to stop it. He slides his hand from my shoulder down my arm and gently prises the bottle out of my hand. I'm too drunk to realize what he's doing, or to even care.
I hear a piercing smash as glass hits concrete, the bottle hurled at the ground with more force than needed. I guess that's just his way of getting rid of the frustration. It's still enough of a shock to make me jump. I can almost feel him grinning behind me. He steps closer and I feel his arms snake around my waist and he rests his chin on my shoulder.
"Come back inside," he whispers, his breath warm against my cheek.
"I'm drunk."
"I don't care."
I turn my face to look at him, meeting eyes that are pleading with me to go with him. I nod. He unwinds his arms from around me and takes hold of one of my hands. My first thought is how warm his hands are considering the temperature, then I remember the way Frank always had the sleeves of his hoodie pulled down over then. He leads me gently back inside, carefully taking my weight against him as I stumble, tripping over my own feet.
---------------
my spell check is American, and I'm not. So sorry for the continuity errors between US and UK spellings.