Just Smoke. [Gerard/Frank, past Gerard/Bert, R.]
Title: Just Smoke.
Author:
fictionallies
Pairing: Gerard/Frank, past Gerard/Bert.
Rating: R.
Summary: Gerard's on his break and smoking when someone he really doesn't want to see comes to bum one.
Author's Note: Inspired by Alejandro by Lady Gaga
It's late and it's raining and the undercover parking lot is a lot emptier than it was when Gerard started work four hours ago. He's got two hours to go now - well, one and a half, it'll be, once he finishes his break - and he's been counting down the minutes since he arrived.
He's alright with working at the coffee shop, he really is. Sometimes he wished he'd gone to Starbucks instead so, in theory, he wouldn't be stuck working so many hours because they were always short-staffed. The new manager seems to have fallen in love with Gerard's work ethic and hey, another good thing in theory, but in practice... well, he has three assignments due by the end of the week, it's Wednesday, and he's barely made a dent in any of them. Part of that's due to his procrastination, but the fact that he's another night short on time because of work doesn't help either.
He tries calling Frank twice, but the call goes unanswered. It kind of figures - it's already nine o'clock and he knows Frank's sleeping has been shit since he broke his toes last week. He doesn't mind, not really. Gerard gets it, gets what it's like to need the sleep - if he could, he'd be in bed right now.
He finishes half his sandwich before deciding he's really not hungry anymore. His diet's gone to shit since he started working again, and he knows it - hence the fact that he's now sworn off all fast food and most junk until he loses a few pounds. He's on his last thirty bucks of the month, too, and if he wants money to spend when he goes to Chicago for his dad's friend's wedding next month he can't go spending it all. So, instead, he's been bringing salads and sandwiches and healthy shit from home.
Of course, most of it ends up in the trash because he just doesn't feel like eating by the time he gets a break lately.
He dumps the remainder of the sandwich in the trash, setting his bag on the edge of the bin so he can dig through it for his lighter and the couple of smokes he shoved in from the pack that hides under his bed. He used to be really weird about the nicotine habit - he'd only ever smoke in the quiet of his room in the middle of the night, as he flicked through comics or watched horror movies. Places no one could see him and get the shits with him or whatever for doing it. And, well, he was only sixteen. He wasn't meant to have cigarettes at all, let alone a lit one in his mouth.
But since he met Frank, it's been different. Frank rolls his own fucking smokes, for chrissake. Gerard steals them from his mom when she's not around or - if he's really desperate - empties the ashtrays and takes the decent-sized butts for himself. Frank rolls his own, has his own stash, smokes them out in the open and just doesn't care. Gerard remembers the first time he smoked with Frank - they were out in the open, near the mall, close to where he's standing now, actually. He remembers how Frank laughed and said he'd never expected an innocent, naïve little one like Gerard to have a nicotine habit. And then, of course, they'd just stood there in the cold and kissed and passed smoke between their mouths, not giving a fuck who thought what about anything.
Of course, everything has changed since Gerard and Frank got together.
Gerard shakes his bangs out of his eyes. His hair's at an awkward length again but he doesn't want to cut it. He pulls a stray strand of hair behind his ear, pulls out a cigarette and a bullet-shaped lighter that he bought for five dollars - expensive, but also really cool looking... also bought after he met Frank, of course - and lights it up.
He never stays in one place when he smokes. He just wanders around the undercover parking lot, searching for nothing. He likes how dark it gets, how the orangey glow of the parking lot lights contrast with how dark the streets and sky beyond it are. The rain tonight only adds to the atmosphere - he's always loved the rain.
So, as he walks, he smokes. Every now and then he'll stop for a minute, maybe to check no one's following him or something stupid like that, maybe just because he really is tired.
“Hey.”
Gerard doesn't turn around. He's made a fool of himself in public so many times by turning around when he thought he heard his name, or someone talking to him, or anything, and responded. He's just made it a habit of not responding to it at all nowadays. It's safer.
“Hey!”
Then, he stops. He stops and takes a quick drag, huffing out the smoke, ready to flick the barely-touched cigarette away and surrender everything else and god-knows-what, and turns around.
His stomach clenches and drops. He wants to be sick. He wants to run. He wants to take one long-ass drag and smoke the entire cigarette in one big breath. He can't move, can't speak, his mouth is suddenly dry. He's rooted right to the fucking spot.
“Hey, Gee.”
It's Bert. It's Bert who moved to fucking Utah and isn't meant to be here and it's Bert who Gerard never, ever, ever wants to see again. Gerard is terrified. Petrified. The cigarette is slowly going to waste and he can't think about it at all. He's stuck.
Bert knows about the cigarettes, knew before Gerard and Frank got together. He knows Gerard and Frank are together. He knows a lot of things. And right now, Gerard just wants to piss-bolt. Home, work, a stranger's car... anywhere but here right now.
“I just wanted to bum a smoke, jesus. Look like a deer in fuckin' headlights,” Bert says, all casual. Like they were friends.
“Since... since when do you smoke?” Gerard chokes out.
Bert laughs and shrugs. “I dunno, since I started drinkin' at these parties back home. 'S kinda the one thing that gets me up when I'm hungover as fuck, y'know?”
Gerard swallows. “Okay.”
“So, you gonna give me one, or am I gonna have to steal butts outta the communal fuckin' ashtrays?” Bert asks, his voice still light and joking. It's not right.
Gerard delves his hand into his bag and pulls out a cigarette, holding it out to Bert as if he were holding a steak out to a fucking lion or something. Bert smiles and takes it.
“Got a light?”
Gerard nods, reefing blindly through his bag again, not wanting to take his eyes off Bert now he's relatively close. He produces the bullet-shaped lighter, which Bert snorts at before lighting his smoke and handing it back.
Gerard really, really wants Bert to leave now. Mutter a thanks and skip off into the rain and back out of his life forever. He wants Frank here, right now, to hold his hand and walk away with him, maybe utter a threat or some curses in Bert's direction for good measure. Maybe to take Gerard home and curl up together on the bed and watch reruns until they fall asleep to take his mind off of things. Maybe to share a cigarette to tide them over and share a joint or two when they get home. Anything. Anyhow. He wants Frank right now.
“So, I hear you and Frank Iero are still together,” Bert murmurs as he blows out a puff of smoke.
Gerard nods. “It'll be five months next month.”
“Also hear you're using.”
Gerard chokes on the drag of smoke. “What?”
“Dunno, man. Some guy I knew said he heard from someone else you and Iero've been doing pot or some shit,” Bert shrugs. He's so fucking casual about it Gerard wishes he could punch him in the face.
“So?”
“So you have?”
“What does it mean to you, huh?”
“It doesn't,” Bert sighs softly. “You used to keep that shit on the down-low, though. If I remember. Never even smoked a fag outside your fuckin' room, now look at you.”
“What the fuck are you trying to say, Bert?” Gerard asks, thoroughly exasperated. He wants to leave, now. Right now. He might just be able to do it. He can't really leave without Bert following him at this point in the conversation though, which, put simply, is just as scary as his presence is.
Bert takes a moment to respond, dramatically dragging on his cigarette. “'M tryin' to say, Geeway, my love, that when I told you to find someone else I didn't fuckin' mean go out and start smoking pot, I didn't fuckin' mean go out and spread your legs within the first fuckin' month, I didn't mean for you to just fuckin' ditch me like that, y'know?”
Gerard swallows. Nerves have been hit, something terrible. He needs to leave and he has opportunity right now if his tongue would cooperate so he could say something. Something that would give a clear fuck off and then Gerard will stub out his cigarette on the closest trashcan, shove the butt in the pocket of his bag, and go back inside. Go back inside and hang around the coffee shop until his break is done, and then he'll work the rest of his shift, and then he'll finish the smoke and start another two or three when he gets home.
“I have to go. Hope the cigarette's to your standards,” Gerard murmurs, turning around to leave. He takes off, eyes on the ground, hand bringing his smoke to his lips as he inhales and exhales far faster than normal. It's probably going to give him a headspin, moving this fast and smoking so fast at the same time.
“Gerard-”
“Don't say my fucking name, Bert. I'm not fucking yours anymore,” he calls out behind him, swallowing between drags as he keeps moving.
He never, ever, ever wants to see those eyes, that hair, that face, ever again. He never, ever, ever wants to hear that fucking voice that rang inside his head, taunting him for three fucking years, ever again.
He sniffs as he stubs out the cigarette and shoves the butt in his bag. He wants Frank. Frank makes him okay. Frank loves him enough to make him okay.
Frank hasn't ever, ever hurt him. Not like Bert. Not like anyone.
Gerard just needs some painkillers now, and Frank's the best thing he's ever had for numbing.
Author:
fictionallies
Pairing: Gerard/Frank, past Gerard/Bert.
Rating: R.
Summary: Gerard's on his break and smoking when someone he really doesn't want to see comes to bum one.
Author's Note: Inspired by Alejandro by Lady Gaga
It's late and it's raining and the undercover parking lot is a lot emptier than it was when Gerard started work four hours ago. He's got two hours to go now - well, one and a half, it'll be, once he finishes his break - and he's been counting down the minutes since he arrived.
He's alright with working at the coffee shop, he really is. Sometimes he wished he'd gone to Starbucks instead so, in theory, he wouldn't be stuck working so many hours because they were always short-staffed. The new manager seems to have fallen in love with Gerard's work ethic and hey, another good thing in theory, but in practice... well, he has three assignments due by the end of the week, it's Wednesday, and he's barely made a dent in any of them. Part of that's due to his procrastination, but the fact that he's another night short on time because of work doesn't help either.
He tries calling Frank twice, but the call goes unanswered. It kind of figures - it's already nine o'clock and he knows Frank's sleeping has been shit since he broke his toes last week. He doesn't mind, not really. Gerard gets it, gets what it's like to need the sleep - if he could, he'd be in bed right now.
He finishes half his sandwich before deciding he's really not hungry anymore. His diet's gone to shit since he started working again, and he knows it - hence the fact that he's now sworn off all fast food and most junk until he loses a few pounds. He's on his last thirty bucks of the month, too, and if he wants money to spend when he goes to Chicago for his dad's friend's wedding next month he can't go spending it all. So, instead, he's been bringing salads and sandwiches and healthy shit from home.
Of course, most of it ends up in the trash because he just doesn't feel like eating by the time he gets a break lately.
He dumps the remainder of the sandwich in the trash, setting his bag on the edge of the bin so he can dig through it for his lighter and the couple of smokes he shoved in from the pack that hides under his bed. He used to be really weird about the nicotine habit - he'd only ever smoke in the quiet of his room in the middle of the night, as he flicked through comics or watched horror movies. Places no one could see him and get the shits with him or whatever for doing it. And, well, he was only sixteen. He wasn't meant to have cigarettes at all, let alone a lit one in his mouth.
But since he met Frank, it's been different. Frank rolls his own fucking smokes, for chrissake. Gerard steals them from his mom when she's not around or - if he's really desperate - empties the ashtrays and takes the decent-sized butts for himself. Frank rolls his own, has his own stash, smokes them out in the open and just doesn't care. Gerard remembers the first time he smoked with Frank - they were out in the open, near the mall, close to where he's standing now, actually. He remembers how Frank laughed and said he'd never expected an innocent, naïve little one like Gerard to have a nicotine habit. And then, of course, they'd just stood there in the cold and kissed and passed smoke between their mouths, not giving a fuck who thought what about anything.
Of course, everything has changed since Gerard and Frank got together.
Gerard shakes his bangs out of his eyes. His hair's at an awkward length again but he doesn't want to cut it. He pulls a stray strand of hair behind his ear, pulls out a cigarette and a bullet-shaped lighter that he bought for five dollars - expensive, but also really cool looking... also bought after he met Frank, of course - and lights it up.
He never stays in one place when he smokes. He just wanders around the undercover parking lot, searching for nothing. He likes how dark it gets, how the orangey glow of the parking lot lights contrast with how dark the streets and sky beyond it are. The rain tonight only adds to the atmosphere - he's always loved the rain.
So, as he walks, he smokes. Every now and then he'll stop for a minute, maybe to check no one's following him or something stupid like that, maybe just because he really is tired.
“Hey.”
Gerard doesn't turn around. He's made a fool of himself in public so many times by turning around when he thought he heard his name, or someone talking to him, or anything, and responded. He's just made it a habit of not responding to it at all nowadays. It's safer.
“Hey!”
Then, he stops. He stops and takes a quick drag, huffing out the smoke, ready to flick the barely-touched cigarette away and surrender everything else and god-knows-what, and turns around.
His stomach clenches and drops. He wants to be sick. He wants to run. He wants to take one long-ass drag and smoke the entire cigarette in one big breath. He can't move, can't speak, his mouth is suddenly dry. He's rooted right to the fucking spot.
“Hey, Gee.”
It's Bert. It's Bert who moved to fucking Utah and isn't meant to be here and it's Bert who Gerard never, ever, ever wants to see again. Gerard is terrified. Petrified. The cigarette is slowly going to waste and he can't think about it at all. He's stuck.
Bert knows about the cigarettes, knew before Gerard and Frank got together. He knows Gerard and Frank are together. He knows a lot of things. And right now, Gerard just wants to piss-bolt. Home, work, a stranger's car... anywhere but here right now.
“I just wanted to bum a smoke, jesus. Look like a deer in fuckin' headlights,” Bert says, all casual. Like they were friends.
“Since... since when do you smoke?” Gerard chokes out.
Bert laughs and shrugs. “I dunno, since I started drinkin' at these parties back home. 'S kinda the one thing that gets me up when I'm hungover as fuck, y'know?”
Gerard swallows. “Okay.”
“So, you gonna give me one, or am I gonna have to steal butts outta the communal fuckin' ashtrays?” Bert asks, his voice still light and joking. It's not right.
Gerard delves his hand into his bag and pulls out a cigarette, holding it out to Bert as if he were holding a steak out to a fucking lion or something. Bert smiles and takes it.
“Got a light?”
Gerard nods, reefing blindly through his bag again, not wanting to take his eyes off Bert now he's relatively close. He produces the bullet-shaped lighter, which Bert snorts at before lighting his smoke and handing it back.
Gerard really, really wants Bert to leave now. Mutter a thanks and skip off into the rain and back out of his life forever. He wants Frank here, right now, to hold his hand and walk away with him, maybe utter a threat or some curses in Bert's direction for good measure. Maybe to take Gerard home and curl up together on the bed and watch reruns until they fall asleep to take his mind off of things. Maybe to share a cigarette to tide them over and share a joint or two when they get home. Anything. Anyhow. He wants Frank right now.
“So, I hear you and Frank Iero are still together,” Bert murmurs as he blows out a puff of smoke.
Gerard nods. “It'll be five months next month.”
“Also hear you're using.”
Gerard chokes on the drag of smoke. “What?”
“Dunno, man. Some guy I knew said he heard from someone else you and Iero've been doing pot or some shit,” Bert shrugs. He's so fucking casual about it Gerard wishes he could punch him in the face.
“So?”
“So you have?”
“What does it mean to you, huh?”
“It doesn't,” Bert sighs softly. “You used to keep that shit on the down-low, though. If I remember. Never even smoked a fag outside your fuckin' room, now look at you.”
“What the fuck are you trying to say, Bert?” Gerard asks, thoroughly exasperated. He wants to leave, now. Right now. He might just be able to do it. He can't really leave without Bert following him at this point in the conversation though, which, put simply, is just as scary as his presence is.
Bert takes a moment to respond, dramatically dragging on his cigarette. “'M tryin' to say, Geeway, my love, that when I told you to find someone else I didn't fuckin' mean go out and start smoking pot, I didn't fuckin' mean go out and spread your legs within the first fuckin' month, I didn't mean for you to just fuckin' ditch me like that, y'know?”
Gerard swallows. Nerves have been hit, something terrible. He needs to leave and he has opportunity right now if his tongue would cooperate so he could say something. Something that would give a clear fuck off and then Gerard will stub out his cigarette on the closest trashcan, shove the butt in the pocket of his bag, and go back inside. Go back inside and hang around the coffee shop until his break is done, and then he'll work the rest of his shift, and then he'll finish the smoke and start another two or three when he gets home.
“I have to go. Hope the cigarette's to your standards,” Gerard murmurs, turning around to leave. He takes off, eyes on the ground, hand bringing his smoke to his lips as he inhales and exhales far faster than normal. It's probably going to give him a headspin, moving this fast and smoking so fast at the same time.
“Gerard-”
“Don't say my fucking name, Bert. I'm not fucking yours anymore,” he calls out behind him, swallowing between drags as he keeps moving.
He never, ever, ever wants to see those eyes, that hair, that face, ever again. He never, ever, ever wants to hear that fucking voice that rang inside his head, taunting him for three fucking years, ever again.
He sniffs as he stubs out the cigarette and shoves the butt in his bag. He wants Frank. Frank makes him okay. Frank loves him enough to make him okay.
Frank hasn't ever, ever hurt him. Not like Bert. Not like anyone.
Gerard just needs some painkillers now, and Frank's the best thing he's ever had for numbing.