(no subject)
Title: A Fortune For Your Disaster(2/?)
Author: oxygen_losers
Pairing: There's some Frank/Pete(Wentz) in this chapter, Gerard/Frank overall.
Rating: PG-13. Swearing and drug useage.
POV: Third
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: “Yeah,” he managed finally and he wasn’t, he couldn’t be, because every time he glanced up, there was Gerard with those dead black eyes and the way he flickered and God, God, why hadn’t the movies warned him? Gerard was fucking creepy.
Chapter One
Author Note: Okay, Matt and Brian? They're M. Shadows and Synyster Gates from Avenged Sevenfold. You might already know that, you might not, I just thought I'd avoid confusion.
Also, I need to stop watching horror movies.
Chapter Two
“Frank? Frank, man, are you okay?” It had to have been what, the sixth time Matt had asked him that and he looked concerned, really concerned, and Frank imagined that the way he kept his eyes down wasn’t helping things, but seriously.
He didn’t want to look up.
“Yeah,” he managed finally and he wasn’t, he couldn’t be, because every time he glanced up, there was Gerard with those dead black eyes and the way he flickered and God, God, why hadn’t the movies warned him?
Gerard was fucking creepy.
And he was standing right behind Matt, not doing anything, just watching Frank evenly, staring, and Frank could sort of understand why haunted people always looked so crazy. Gerard had only been there a few hours and Frank skin had been crawling the whole time, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickling and he was cold, so goddamn cold, how was Matt sitting there in just a T-shirt and jeans? Gerard was right next to him.
“Because you don’t look so good, man,” Matt said and no, Frank probably didn’t, all twitchy and reluctant to lift his head, not to mention he was wearing his heaviest hoodie inside on a spring night and Matt probably had a right to be worried, Frank was quite possibly losing his mind. “Did you take something?”
“No,” Frank mumbled, and didn’t follow it up with ‘but I probably should,’ even though that was really seeming like a good alternative. “Few OxyContin. Earlier. Nothing that’d make me trip.”
Shit.
He did look up then-and Gerard was gone, what the hell, where did he go?-and Matt was frowning at him, the way he’d been frowning at the things Frank said since they were twelve. Because Matt was Frank’d best friend, wasn’t he, and that ‘trip’ comment was worrying, mostly because Frank really didn’t do so well with hard drugs and a little bit because Matt didn’t like those sorts of drugs at his parties, in case cops showed up.
Frank thought maybe one bad acid trip wasn’t enough for Matt to make him swear off almost everything.
But he’d left him with the prescriptions, which Frank was mostly okay with, except the fucking OxyContin wasn’t making Gerard go away and that was probably asking a lot of it. He needed, like, antipsychotics. Or something.
“Are you even listening to me?” That voice would make most people cringe, but Frank was used to it-even if most of the school was terrified of Matt, he had no reason to be. Matt had never so much as patted him harshly on the back.
“You e so little,” he was fond of saying, with that wide, pierced grin. “I’m afraid I’d break you.”
“I’m listening.”
He wasn’t.
“Then look at me.”
He would have, he really would, but as much as he’d hated Gerard hovering over him, not knowing where he was? Yeah, just as creepy. And he shivered-he was so damn cold--and Matt sighed. “I don’t get you, man. It’s a party, there’s a fuckin keg in your kitchen and you’re just sitting there staring like-“
Don’t say it.
“--like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Which was too ironic for words, really, especially since Frank actually glanced up and nearly had a goddamned heart attack because there he was, casual, grinning like a maniac and sitting right next to Frank.
He jumped a fucking mile, actually made it off the sofa and stumbled into Brian who caught him easily-years of practice, probably, and there was no way he could write this off now, not with the way he was shaking and stumbling over his own apologies.
“Frank. Frank. Come on, breathe, what are you-“
But he didn’t want Brian’s reassurances right now, didn’t want Matt’s concern, didn’t want the clamour of people everywhere and the way he couldn’t breathe, the way Gerard just smiled, flickered, focused and laughed.
He took off.
Out of the house, down the stairs and away, fuck it he didn’t care, he just couldn’t, not now he couldn’t, oh God.
He ran until every inch of him ached, until each breath was a knife to the lungs, until his legs trembled, until his shirt was soaked through with sweat, already plastered against his back while his breath hung rasping loud in the air.
He stopped, more because he had to than because he really wanted to-his legs were threatening to give out--because maybe Frank wasn’t really overweight, but he certainly wasn’t in shape. Not like Matt. Not enough to run like he had.
So he slowed to a trot and then to a walk, arms wrapped around himself, shivering despite the warm spring air because that? That was fucking, he didn’t, he couldn’t-Jesus Christ.
He slumped wearily against a mailbox, resting his forehead against the cool steel for a brief moment before he slid to the ground heavily, panting, legs splayed out on the concrete and sping pressed hard against the mailbox pole. This was the part in horror movies where he’d have some great idea, wasn’t it? The part where he’d conveniently look up and there would be a neon sign for palm readings and he’d go inside and she’d turn out to be some hot bohemian chick with bills to pay and real, honest-to-God psychic abilities. And she’d help him because he was scared and lost and kind of cute-she’d tell him exactly how to get rid of Gerard, how to, to lay him to rest or whatever. And they’d go back to his house and kick some serious ghost ass and then she’d collapse into his arms all exhausted and they’d fuck. Maybe. At the very least he’d get a phone number and a witty parting line.
But he did look up and was met with the yellowish glow of a 7/11 and a pitiful purple sign for an adult bookstore. Not the most encouraging of pursuits.
Because seriously, where the fuck was he supposed to go from here? He didn’t know anyone who even marginally would have known how to deal with this shit and Frank? Frank didn’t know jack about ghosts and spirits and what-the-fuck-ever. A few hours ago, he hadn’t even believed in them.
His phone rang.
His phone rang, and Frank jumped a mile. Made it to his feet, crouched like he was waiting for an attack.
His phone rang and there was no name on the screen, no number, just a series of symbols and the little ringing phone icon and he didn’t know why he pressed it to his ear. He didn’t.
“H-hello?” Panting, Jesus, was that him? It wasn’t even words, not really, because he couldn’t speak with his heart jackhammering in his throat, but it didn’t matter because he knew. The moment the word was out of his mouth he knew and his eyes flicked up and there they were, three little letters, curling gold against the black steel of the mailbox, catching the glow of his cell phone.
Way.
And he bit his tongue hard, flooded his mouth with the sudden tang of his own blood and wondered if a few years of picking on someone meant he deserved this. Wondered how much worse this was going to get because seriously, it had only been a few hours.
His phone crackled once, twice, hissed, “I think it’s time for you to come home now, Frank. “
The line went dead.
```````````
He brushed Matt off with more force than he’d intended-Matt looked wounded, if that was possible, and Brian had called him an asshole-and he resolved to fix it in the morning. When he could think and his limbs weren’t shaking from cold and fear.
Because he knew Matt was just worried, he knew that he must have looked like hell, sweat-soaked and trembling, face bloodless, eyes wide and frantic. Not that that mattered once he was in the fray of bodies pressed tightly together because everyone looked like that, to some degree.
And once he had a few beers in him, he relaxed. Just a little bit, just because he hadn’t seen Gerard in an hour and maybe he was busy haunting someone else, but the lights and the steady thump of the bass line and the boy pressed close to his back and the girl with the hand on his hip drove the dark and cold out.
Especially when the boy leaned his head forward on Frank’s shoulder, skin hot on the side of his neck and moaned in the sort of way only the truly fucked-up can and suddenly Frank really wanted to know where he’d gotten whatever he’d taken. Anything to make his hands stop trembling.
He brushed the boy’s hair away from his ear and the kid fucking nuzzled at his hand-E, then. Probably. “What’re you on?”
In response the boy slipped a hand into the back pocket of a pair of impossibly tight jeans and pulled out, of all things, an Altoid container. He flipped the metal lid, licked his finger and when he held it up there was a little white tab stuck there, shaped like a stop sign with a heart pressed into the middle.
Frank didn’t think twice, he opened his mouth and let the boy slide his finger in. A hand, heavy and hot and too masculine for this kid, slid to his hip, knocking the girl’s hand away and made-up eyes narrowed at him. “Chew it,” he instructed softly and Frank could barely hear him over the music. “Works faster that way.”
The E was bitter between his teeth, gritty, and Frank pulled a face, which made the boy laugh, a flash of impossibly-white teeth against olive skin. “You prefer to swallow?” he asked and it was Frank’s turn to smile-he knew what he was asking, and the boy’s eyes were dilated and his skin was hot and it was only a few minutes before the drug worked its way into his blood. They should find a bedroom.
Or a couch, hey, Frank wasn’t picky.
“You’re shaking,” the boy observed, mumbled against Frank’s collarbone. “Mm. And sweaty. What the hell have you been doing?”
That was possibly the last thing Frank wanted to talk about right now with a party going on a a boy on his lap, so instead he slid a hand under the boy’s soft black shirt and skimmed his fingers over sharp hipbones. The drug lived up to its name and the boy’s eyes dropped to half-mast-he arched down against Frank with a groan. “Not interested in talking. Got it,” he whispered. “Do I at least get a name?”
“Frank.” It would have been a better introduction, but he was palming the boy through his jeans and much preferred to watch the way he rocked against Frank’s hand. “You?”
“P-pete,” he managed, and then “Fuck.”
“In public?” Frank smirked. “Kinky boy.”
Pete grinned again, this time not quite as confidently, and jerked his head at the hallway. “Wanna see if the bathroom’s free?”
He did, actually, this was so much better, with the chemicals hot in his blood and Pete warm against him, moving, pushing him forward into the crowd, past grinding bodies and to the relative emptiness of the hallway-it wasn’t late enough in the party for the bathroom to be occupied by unfortunate kids puking their guts out, and Pete pulled Frank inside before slamming the door shut behind them and locking it, black-painted nails scrabbling against the silver doorknob.
“Fancy kinda house, isn’t it?” Pete asked, nudging Frank up against the door and slipping his leg between Frank’s.
“My kinda house,” Frank replied. “I live here.”
“Seriously?” Pete said with a grin. “S’fuckin’ awesome, man. Gonna be a wreck tomorrow.”
“So’re you,” Frank replied, sliding a hand down Pete’s lower back and cupping his ass and Pete said something witty back, probably.
See, Frank had gone all cold a stiff suddenly and only half-heard Pete’s repeated, “What’s wrong?” because he’d made the mistake of looking up.
And there he was, the fucker, in the mirror and nowhere else, still smiling that sick fucking smile and he pressed a bone-white finger to red lips.
Frank screamed.
Author: oxygen_losers
Pairing: There's some Frank/Pete(Wentz) in this chapter, Gerard/Frank overall.
Rating: PG-13. Swearing and drug useage.
POV: Third
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: “Yeah,” he managed finally and he wasn’t, he couldn’t be, because every time he glanced up, there was Gerard with those dead black eyes and the way he flickered and God, God, why hadn’t the movies warned him? Gerard was fucking creepy.
Chapter One
Author Note: Okay, Matt and Brian? They're M. Shadows and Synyster Gates from Avenged Sevenfold. You might already know that, you might not, I just thought I'd avoid confusion.
Also, I need to stop watching horror movies.
Chapter Two
“Frank? Frank, man, are you okay?” It had to have been what, the sixth time Matt had asked him that and he looked concerned, really concerned, and Frank imagined that the way he kept his eyes down wasn’t helping things, but seriously.
He didn’t want to look up.
“Yeah,” he managed finally and he wasn’t, he couldn’t be, because every time he glanced up, there was Gerard with those dead black eyes and the way he flickered and God, God, why hadn’t the movies warned him?
Gerard was fucking creepy.
And he was standing right behind Matt, not doing anything, just watching Frank evenly, staring, and Frank could sort of understand why haunted people always looked so crazy. Gerard had only been there a few hours and Frank skin had been crawling the whole time, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prickling and he was cold, so goddamn cold, how was Matt sitting there in just a T-shirt and jeans? Gerard was right next to him.
“Because you don’t look so good, man,” Matt said and no, Frank probably didn’t, all twitchy and reluctant to lift his head, not to mention he was wearing his heaviest hoodie inside on a spring night and Matt probably had a right to be worried, Frank was quite possibly losing his mind. “Did you take something?”
“No,” Frank mumbled, and didn’t follow it up with ‘but I probably should,’ even though that was really seeming like a good alternative. “Few OxyContin. Earlier. Nothing that’d make me trip.”
Shit.
He did look up then-and Gerard was gone, what the hell, where did he go?-and Matt was frowning at him, the way he’d been frowning at the things Frank said since they were twelve. Because Matt was Frank’d best friend, wasn’t he, and that ‘trip’ comment was worrying, mostly because Frank really didn’t do so well with hard drugs and a little bit because Matt didn’t like those sorts of drugs at his parties, in case cops showed up.
Frank thought maybe one bad acid trip wasn’t enough for Matt to make him swear off almost everything.
But he’d left him with the prescriptions, which Frank was mostly okay with, except the fucking OxyContin wasn’t making Gerard go away and that was probably asking a lot of it. He needed, like, antipsychotics. Or something.
“Are you even listening to me?” That voice would make most people cringe, but Frank was used to it-even if most of the school was terrified of Matt, he had no reason to be. Matt had never so much as patted him harshly on the back.
“You e so little,” he was fond of saying, with that wide, pierced grin. “I’m afraid I’d break you.”
“I’m listening.”
He wasn’t.
“Then look at me.”
He would have, he really would, but as much as he’d hated Gerard hovering over him, not knowing where he was? Yeah, just as creepy. And he shivered-he was so damn cold--and Matt sighed. “I don’t get you, man. It’s a party, there’s a fuckin keg in your kitchen and you’re just sitting there staring like-“
Don’t say it.
“--like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Which was too ironic for words, really, especially since Frank actually glanced up and nearly had a goddamned heart attack because there he was, casual, grinning like a maniac and sitting right next to Frank.
He jumped a fucking mile, actually made it off the sofa and stumbled into Brian who caught him easily-years of practice, probably, and there was no way he could write this off now, not with the way he was shaking and stumbling over his own apologies.
“Frank. Frank. Come on, breathe, what are you-“
But he didn’t want Brian’s reassurances right now, didn’t want Matt’s concern, didn’t want the clamour of people everywhere and the way he couldn’t breathe, the way Gerard just smiled, flickered, focused and laughed.
He took off.
Out of the house, down the stairs and away, fuck it he didn’t care, he just couldn’t, not now he couldn’t, oh God.
He ran until every inch of him ached, until each breath was a knife to the lungs, until his legs trembled, until his shirt was soaked through with sweat, already plastered against his back while his breath hung rasping loud in the air.
He stopped, more because he had to than because he really wanted to-his legs were threatening to give out--because maybe Frank wasn’t really overweight, but he certainly wasn’t in shape. Not like Matt. Not enough to run like he had.
So he slowed to a trot and then to a walk, arms wrapped around himself, shivering despite the warm spring air because that? That was fucking, he didn’t, he couldn’t-Jesus Christ.
He slumped wearily against a mailbox, resting his forehead against the cool steel for a brief moment before he slid to the ground heavily, panting, legs splayed out on the concrete and sping pressed hard against the mailbox pole. This was the part in horror movies where he’d have some great idea, wasn’t it? The part where he’d conveniently look up and there would be a neon sign for palm readings and he’d go inside and she’d turn out to be some hot bohemian chick with bills to pay and real, honest-to-God psychic abilities. And she’d help him because he was scared and lost and kind of cute-she’d tell him exactly how to get rid of Gerard, how to, to lay him to rest or whatever. And they’d go back to his house and kick some serious ghost ass and then she’d collapse into his arms all exhausted and they’d fuck. Maybe. At the very least he’d get a phone number and a witty parting line.
But he did look up and was met with the yellowish glow of a 7/11 and a pitiful purple sign for an adult bookstore. Not the most encouraging of pursuits.
Because seriously, where the fuck was he supposed to go from here? He didn’t know anyone who even marginally would have known how to deal with this shit and Frank? Frank didn’t know jack about ghosts and spirits and what-the-fuck-ever. A few hours ago, he hadn’t even believed in them.
His phone rang.
His phone rang, and Frank jumped a mile. Made it to his feet, crouched like he was waiting for an attack.
His phone rang and there was no name on the screen, no number, just a series of symbols and the little ringing phone icon and he didn’t know why he pressed it to his ear. He didn’t.
“H-hello?” Panting, Jesus, was that him? It wasn’t even words, not really, because he couldn’t speak with his heart jackhammering in his throat, but it didn’t matter because he knew. The moment the word was out of his mouth he knew and his eyes flicked up and there they were, three little letters, curling gold against the black steel of the mailbox, catching the glow of his cell phone.
Way.
And he bit his tongue hard, flooded his mouth with the sudden tang of his own blood and wondered if a few years of picking on someone meant he deserved this. Wondered how much worse this was going to get because seriously, it had only been a few hours.
His phone crackled once, twice, hissed, “I think it’s time for you to come home now, Frank. “
The line went dead.
```````````
He brushed Matt off with more force than he’d intended-Matt looked wounded, if that was possible, and Brian had called him an asshole-and he resolved to fix it in the morning. When he could think and his limbs weren’t shaking from cold and fear.
Because he knew Matt was just worried, he knew that he must have looked like hell, sweat-soaked and trembling, face bloodless, eyes wide and frantic. Not that that mattered once he was in the fray of bodies pressed tightly together because everyone looked like that, to some degree.
And once he had a few beers in him, he relaxed. Just a little bit, just because he hadn’t seen Gerard in an hour and maybe he was busy haunting someone else, but the lights and the steady thump of the bass line and the boy pressed close to his back and the girl with the hand on his hip drove the dark and cold out.
Especially when the boy leaned his head forward on Frank’s shoulder, skin hot on the side of his neck and moaned in the sort of way only the truly fucked-up can and suddenly Frank really wanted to know where he’d gotten whatever he’d taken. Anything to make his hands stop trembling.
He brushed the boy’s hair away from his ear and the kid fucking nuzzled at his hand-E, then. Probably. “What’re you on?”
In response the boy slipped a hand into the back pocket of a pair of impossibly tight jeans and pulled out, of all things, an Altoid container. He flipped the metal lid, licked his finger and when he held it up there was a little white tab stuck there, shaped like a stop sign with a heart pressed into the middle.
Frank didn’t think twice, he opened his mouth and let the boy slide his finger in. A hand, heavy and hot and too masculine for this kid, slid to his hip, knocking the girl’s hand away and made-up eyes narrowed at him. “Chew it,” he instructed softly and Frank could barely hear him over the music. “Works faster that way.”
The E was bitter between his teeth, gritty, and Frank pulled a face, which made the boy laugh, a flash of impossibly-white teeth against olive skin. “You prefer to swallow?” he asked and it was Frank’s turn to smile-he knew what he was asking, and the boy’s eyes were dilated and his skin was hot and it was only a few minutes before the drug worked its way into his blood. They should find a bedroom.
Or a couch, hey, Frank wasn’t picky.
“You’re shaking,” the boy observed, mumbled against Frank’s collarbone. “Mm. And sweaty. What the hell have you been doing?”
That was possibly the last thing Frank wanted to talk about right now with a party going on a a boy on his lap, so instead he slid a hand under the boy’s soft black shirt and skimmed his fingers over sharp hipbones. The drug lived up to its name and the boy’s eyes dropped to half-mast-he arched down against Frank with a groan. “Not interested in talking. Got it,” he whispered. “Do I at least get a name?”
“Frank.” It would have been a better introduction, but he was palming the boy through his jeans and much preferred to watch the way he rocked against Frank’s hand. “You?”
“P-pete,” he managed, and then “Fuck.”
“In public?” Frank smirked. “Kinky boy.”
Pete grinned again, this time not quite as confidently, and jerked his head at the hallway. “Wanna see if the bathroom’s free?”
He did, actually, this was so much better, with the chemicals hot in his blood and Pete warm against him, moving, pushing him forward into the crowd, past grinding bodies and to the relative emptiness of the hallway-it wasn’t late enough in the party for the bathroom to be occupied by unfortunate kids puking their guts out, and Pete pulled Frank inside before slamming the door shut behind them and locking it, black-painted nails scrabbling against the silver doorknob.
“Fancy kinda house, isn’t it?” Pete asked, nudging Frank up against the door and slipping his leg between Frank’s.
“My kinda house,” Frank replied. “I live here.”
“Seriously?” Pete said with a grin. “S’fuckin’ awesome, man. Gonna be a wreck tomorrow.”
“So’re you,” Frank replied, sliding a hand down Pete’s lower back and cupping his ass and Pete said something witty back, probably.
See, Frank had gone all cold a stiff suddenly and only half-heard Pete’s repeated, “What’s wrong?” because he’d made the mistake of looking up.
And there he was, the fucker, in the mirror and nowhere else, still smiling that sick fucking smile and he pressed a bone-white finger to red lips.
Frank screamed.