(no subject)
TITLE: Oil paints and non-believers
CHAPTER: Oneshot, two parts.
PAIRING: Frank/Gerard.
RATING: NC-17 overall
SUMMARY: Frank and Gerard have odd metaphors for the relationship they don't actually have together, both trying to use them and gather the courage to get what they really want.
DISCLAIMER: Not real, never happened.
A/N: Fic for prompt. Dedication to my anonymous prompter <3.
Sometimes, it's like being a priest.
Imagine if you will, a priest. A priest that truly believes in God. Truly. Now, this priest has a duty to God, and a duty to his followers, his Parish, everyone really. But whilst he believes in God, he also went to school and loved science. So simultaniously, although he does believe, he also feels the need to side with the populace that doesn't, because he's not as blinded by his faith as he perhaps should be. And he's envious that his non God-worshipping friends have other friends to devote their time to.
So sometimes, Frank feels like a priest. A rather non-conventional one, but nonetheless, Jamia is his God, his marriage-his faith, and Gerard is his non-God-worshipping friend. Who happens to have a friend of his own. Lindsey.
When Frank thinks about it in more simple terms, he knows his devotion should lay with his wife, but his heart? That hasn't for the longest time. Not the part that skips out of rhythm at a simple touch, or the part that dies when it can't connect to the piece of it that's missing. He wonders what it might be like to break away from the Church, become a rebel and make up his own destiny, afterlife, follow his own non-believer into the forbidden land... If he were really a priest, he'd be destined for Hell for even thinking the things he does most of the time, let alone if he were actually able to do them.
It's not that he always thinks in terms of religion, but having gone to Catholic school it's sometimes a litttle hard to escape from when he's had a beer too many and needs to ramble his thoughts aloud. A little easier to use as a metaphor when Jamia's around and he's just seen Lindsey hanging off of Gerard's neck like an embarrassment, even though he knows it's not like that. That he's being stupid about it, because honestly, she's never actually done anything to piss Frank off, except be able to get so close to what he wants himself. And he wishes, really wishes he could be rational about it, get over it, grow the fuck up, but there's nothing rational about wanting your best friend sprawled out beneath you, telling you how much they want you, that they love you.
Seeing Lindsey lean into Gerard as he smiles, so close she must be able to feel his heartbeat under her fingertips, Frank spits out his beer onto the dirty grass between himself and Jamia. Passes it off as tasting like shit when she asks if he's okay, and tries not to flinch at the warmth of her head on his shoulder, because it's not the right body part of the right person that he longs to have touching him. Knowing that Gerard can see them, can see the way Jamia keeps putting her hand in his pocket or how she straightens out his shirt, kisses his cheek, he doesn't want to let her linger there doing that. Even though it should feel as if he's cheating on her just because of the thoughts in his head, most of the time? Most of the time it feels like cheating on Gerard, what they could be, could have together if only he'd make the scariest move of his young 'priest' life, and just turn his back on his God. He tells her he's going to go sulk under the apple tree at the back of the yard because somebody over-barbequed the tofurky, she smiles simpathetically and slaps his ass as he walks away. He really hopes Gerard didn't see that.
............................
Gerard smiles because it's the only thing he can do. If he didn't smile he'd grimace at the attention Jamia pours over Frank when she's next to him, or at the side of the stage when they play, or at the other end of the country on the phone. It makes him sick to wake up with Lindsey's arm over his chest, or with her bringing him coffee in bed, because he knows that miles away, Jamia is probably doing the same thing for Frank. Probably getting to kiss him awake, watch him dress or even undress. And he wonders if maybe, just maybe he'd stopped using his water colors and markers a long time ago, and given oil paints a real try, he may have been good with them, had a chance of being good with them. And he kind of feels bad for his water colors because he's supposed to love them, right? He tells them he does, and they say it back, but it makes his heart twist uncomfortably in his chest each time, because as much as Lindsey would freak out about it if she knew, it's not really her he's betraying; not with the thing in his chest that beats so hard for the person he's longed for for longer than he can remember. And he has to wonder, can you really betray something that only exists for you?
The answer, of course, is yes. If you believe in it enough. Gerard believes in him and Frank so much it scares him sometimes.
That's where the metaphor stops being useful to him, because when he starts talking about the things he could do with oil paints-high on way too much caffiene and too little sleep-the way he wants to mix with them and spread them out, hold them and never let them go, be something beautiful and dirty with them at the same time, is when Lindsey playfully pats him on the back and suggests he should maybe go for a walk to clear his head.
There are lots of people around though, and not much room for head-clearing, but he takes her advice and heads inside where it isn't quite as packed with the friends and family gathered at his brother's house. He wanders around aimlessly, looking at the photos of Mikey and Alicia, so happy for them both but at the same time, sad. He knows there's a love more complete, more satisfying than the one he shares with his watercolors, but. It's good enough, right? Lindsey...she's good for him, but he can't help thinking someone else could be better, had the potential to be better if he'd just make the transition. Have some guts.
Looking out over the garden, Gerard can see his wife and Jamia, standing together, talking, looking around at people, and he wonders if they know. If Lindsey knows how much he wants to act out the stage-gay but without the stage. Just him and Frank alone. Wonders if Jamia knows how much Gerard wishes sometimes that looks could kill. Maybe not literally, he doesn't hate her. Just hates that she's with Frank, that she got to him first, knew him first, even.
Then right at the back of the garden, Gerard spots Frank, sitting under the large apple tree that Mikey will never go near because it's too far away from the house if a bear were to come strolling in, and he's not as confident with the rifle Alicia got them as he'd like to make out.
And suddenly it's like Christmas. Frank's alone and isolated and all Gerard has to do is get to him. His fingers itch, every inch of his skin craves to be closer, so he makes his move, flies down the stairs and past everyone else until he knows that around the slight bend, behind the pond, Frank is there still. Like the never used but always thought of box of oil paints, just sitting in his desk begging to be taken out and lovingly handled.
He stops at the last bend, the last point at which Frank won't see him, and lights a cigarette, all nonchlance and confidence and fucking wracked with nerves because he really, really wants to tell Frank how he feels.
Frank however, thinks about getting up. He'd seen Gerard in the window, staring down, and counted the seconds he estimated it would take him to come down there to the tree. He wasn't far off when Gerard eventually came sloping around to sit with him.
"What're you thinking about?" Gerard asks, and Frank wastes no time in answering.
"The Church. Priests, specifially. You?" He thinks about the irony of Gerard having been the only one to actually wear a priest's outfit as Gerard starts talking.
"Painting. I'm thinking... I'm thinking I wanna stop using water colors. Y'know?"
They've talked about this before, had vague conversations about how God is a pretty safe bet for a priest, as he should be, and how water colors are just so much easier, less hassle for Gerard. It's kind of a code by now, with each sort of getting what the other is saying, but still unsure, wary of making the first move. What it could mean for them if they took their stupid metaphors and turned them into reality.
"Oh, really?" Frank hopes he's got it right, hopes he's not reading too much into it when Gerard says he's really been craving oil paints, thinks he could make something beautiful with them. "How come you've never given it a real try before?" he asks nervously, steals a draw on Gerard's cigarette as he waits for the answer.
"They're complicated, I guess. Hard to use unless you know what you're doing, easy to..." he chances a long look at Frank, sees the tension in his brow. "Easy to mess up but, I wanna try." Gathering all the courage he can, Gerard asks, "What do you think? Think it's worth a try?" before he can chicken out. There's always the chance Frank won't have a clue what he's going on about, anyway.
Frank takes a deep breath to steady his voice, stop it shaking when he nods and replies, "Sometimes a priest has to just, um, stop being one? I don't think I wanna be one anymore."
"Huh?" For a moment, Gerard looks thoroughly confused before it finally dawns on him when Frank reaches out and touches his hand. His fingers are trembling. "Oh, right," he squeezes Frank's hand, threading their fingers together across his stomach, and leans over, not quite pressing his lips to Frank's but close enough for them to brush as he whispers, "Frank, I. Not here?"
"Bathroom, five minutes."
part two
CHAPTER: Oneshot, two parts.
PAIRING: Frank/Gerard.
RATING: NC-17 overall
SUMMARY: Frank and Gerard have odd metaphors for the relationship they don't actually have together, both trying to use them and gather the courage to get what they really want.
DISCLAIMER: Not real, never happened.
A/N: Fic for prompt. Dedication to my anonymous prompter <3.
Sometimes, it's like being a priest.
Imagine if you will, a priest. A priest that truly believes in God. Truly. Now, this priest has a duty to God, and a duty to his followers, his Parish, everyone really. But whilst he believes in God, he also went to school and loved science. So simultaniously, although he does believe, he also feels the need to side with the populace that doesn't, because he's not as blinded by his faith as he perhaps should be. And he's envious that his non God-worshipping friends have other friends to devote their time to.
So sometimes, Frank feels like a priest. A rather non-conventional one, but nonetheless, Jamia is his God, his marriage-his faith, and Gerard is his non-God-worshipping friend. Who happens to have a friend of his own. Lindsey.
When Frank thinks about it in more simple terms, he knows his devotion should lay with his wife, but his heart? That hasn't for the longest time. Not the part that skips out of rhythm at a simple touch, or the part that dies when it can't connect to the piece of it that's missing. He wonders what it might be like to break away from the Church, become a rebel and make up his own destiny, afterlife, follow his own non-believer into the forbidden land... If he were really a priest, he'd be destined for Hell for even thinking the things he does most of the time, let alone if he were actually able to do them.
It's not that he always thinks in terms of religion, but having gone to Catholic school it's sometimes a litttle hard to escape from when he's had a beer too many and needs to ramble his thoughts aloud. A little easier to use as a metaphor when Jamia's around and he's just seen Lindsey hanging off of Gerard's neck like an embarrassment, even though he knows it's not like that. That he's being stupid about it, because honestly, she's never actually done anything to piss Frank off, except be able to get so close to what he wants himself. And he wishes, really wishes he could be rational about it, get over it, grow the fuck up, but there's nothing rational about wanting your best friend sprawled out beneath you, telling you how much they want you, that they love you.
Seeing Lindsey lean into Gerard as he smiles, so close she must be able to feel his heartbeat under her fingertips, Frank spits out his beer onto the dirty grass between himself and Jamia. Passes it off as tasting like shit when she asks if he's okay, and tries not to flinch at the warmth of her head on his shoulder, because it's not the right body part of the right person that he longs to have touching him. Knowing that Gerard can see them, can see the way Jamia keeps putting her hand in his pocket or how she straightens out his shirt, kisses his cheek, he doesn't want to let her linger there doing that. Even though it should feel as if he's cheating on her just because of the thoughts in his head, most of the time? Most of the time it feels like cheating on Gerard, what they could be, could have together if only he'd make the scariest move of his young 'priest' life, and just turn his back on his God. He tells her he's going to go sulk under the apple tree at the back of the yard because somebody over-barbequed the tofurky, she smiles simpathetically and slaps his ass as he walks away. He really hopes Gerard didn't see that.
............................
Gerard smiles because it's the only thing he can do. If he didn't smile he'd grimace at the attention Jamia pours over Frank when she's next to him, or at the side of the stage when they play, or at the other end of the country on the phone. It makes him sick to wake up with Lindsey's arm over his chest, or with her bringing him coffee in bed, because he knows that miles away, Jamia is probably doing the same thing for Frank. Probably getting to kiss him awake, watch him dress or even undress. And he wonders if maybe, just maybe he'd stopped using his water colors and markers a long time ago, and given oil paints a real try, he may have been good with them, had a chance of being good with them. And he kind of feels bad for his water colors because he's supposed to love them, right? He tells them he does, and they say it back, but it makes his heart twist uncomfortably in his chest each time, because as much as Lindsey would freak out about it if she knew, it's not really her he's betraying; not with the thing in his chest that beats so hard for the person he's longed for for longer than he can remember. And he has to wonder, can you really betray something that only exists for you?
The answer, of course, is yes. If you believe in it enough. Gerard believes in him and Frank so much it scares him sometimes.
That's where the metaphor stops being useful to him, because when he starts talking about the things he could do with oil paints-high on way too much caffiene and too little sleep-the way he wants to mix with them and spread them out, hold them and never let them go, be something beautiful and dirty with them at the same time, is when Lindsey playfully pats him on the back and suggests he should maybe go for a walk to clear his head.
There are lots of people around though, and not much room for head-clearing, but he takes her advice and heads inside where it isn't quite as packed with the friends and family gathered at his brother's house. He wanders around aimlessly, looking at the photos of Mikey and Alicia, so happy for them both but at the same time, sad. He knows there's a love more complete, more satisfying than the one he shares with his watercolors, but. It's good enough, right? Lindsey...she's good for him, but he can't help thinking someone else could be better, had the potential to be better if he'd just make the transition. Have some guts.
Looking out over the garden, Gerard can see his wife and Jamia, standing together, talking, looking around at people, and he wonders if they know. If Lindsey knows how much he wants to act out the stage-gay but without the stage. Just him and Frank alone. Wonders if Jamia knows how much Gerard wishes sometimes that looks could kill. Maybe not literally, he doesn't hate her. Just hates that she's with Frank, that she got to him first, knew him first, even.
Then right at the back of the garden, Gerard spots Frank, sitting under the large apple tree that Mikey will never go near because it's too far away from the house if a bear were to come strolling in, and he's not as confident with the rifle Alicia got them as he'd like to make out.
And suddenly it's like Christmas. Frank's alone and isolated and all Gerard has to do is get to him. His fingers itch, every inch of his skin craves to be closer, so he makes his move, flies down the stairs and past everyone else until he knows that around the slight bend, behind the pond, Frank is there still. Like the never used but always thought of box of oil paints, just sitting in his desk begging to be taken out and lovingly handled.
He stops at the last bend, the last point at which Frank won't see him, and lights a cigarette, all nonchlance and confidence and fucking wracked with nerves because he really, really wants to tell Frank how he feels.
Frank however, thinks about getting up. He'd seen Gerard in the window, staring down, and counted the seconds he estimated it would take him to come down there to the tree. He wasn't far off when Gerard eventually came sloping around to sit with him.
"What're you thinking about?" Gerard asks, and Frank wastes no time in answering.
"The Church. Priests, specifially. You?" He thinks about the irony of Gerard having been the only one to actually wear a priest's outfit as Gerard starts talking.
"Painting. I'm thinking... I'm thinking I wanna stop using water colors. Y'know?"
They've talked about this before, had vague conversations about how God is a pretty safe bet for a priest, as he should be, and how water colors are just so much easier, less hassle for Gerard. It's kind of a code by now, with each sort of getting what the other is saying, but still unsure, wary of making the first move. What it could mean for them if they took their stupid metaphors and turned them into reality.
"Oh, really?" Frank hopes he's got it right, hopes he's not reading too much into it when Gerard says he's really been craving oil paints, thinks he could make something beautiful with them. "How come you've never given it a real try before?" he asks nervously, steals a draw on Gerard's cigarette as he waits for the answer.
"They're complicated, I guess. Hard to use unless you know what you're doing, easy to..." he chances a long look at Frank, sees the tension in his brow. "Easy to mess up but, I wanna try." Gathering all the courage he can, Gerard asks, "What do you think? Think it's worth a try?" before he can chicken out. There's always the chance Frank won't have a clue what he's going on about, anyway.
Frank takes a deep breath to steady his voice, stop it shaking when he nods and replies, "Sometimes a priest has to just, um, stop being one? I don't think I wanna be one anymore."
"Huh?" For a moment, Gerard looks thoroughly confused before it finally dawns on him when Frank reaches out and touches his hand. His fingers are trembling. "Oh, right," he squeezes Frank's hand, threading their fingers together across his stomach, and leans over, not quite pressing his lips to Frank's but close enough for them to brush as he whispers, "Frank, I. Not here?"
"Bathroom, five minutes."
part two