(no subject)
Title: Synthesized Okay.
Pairing: Gerard Way/Frank Iero...if I continue, it will be Gerard/Ray.
Author: androgynous_ken.
Rating: Soft R, I guess.
Summary: AU. Journalist Gerard Way conducts a disastrous interview with pop star Ray Toro before meeting a mysterious Frank Iero. Probably one-shot; set in San Francisco.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these men and am not in any way affiliated with Spin or Rolling Stone magazines. Or Dave Eggers, or McSweeney's.
Author's Note: Gerard is about thirty. This is the first time I've ever attempted writing sex...it was going to be more graphic, but I'm really inept.
Mr. Toro sits across from me, a twinkle in his eye. The scene: a satiny diner on the
uprise of town, populated by waitresses in teal rollerskates and scene kids with mint cars.
Mr. Toro wears a jacket made from milk and honey-fed calves. We’ve spent an hour
discussing the state of my hair, which I’ve just had treated with currant-colored dye and
some rough scissors. He’s trying to convince me to change it, and fast. I laugh along like it’s
a funny thing that he’s wasted half of our time together pressing this trivial issue, while I’ve
been trying to ask him the questions that Rolling Stone chalked up for me in a southerly
room of their headquarters: how’s the girlfriend, what’s the new album sounding like, and
what about all this scandal stuff. He just won’t drop the hair long enough to answer.
“It’s plum. That’s what it is. Plum, or even porpoise. What possesed you? You must
be at least twenty-five. I’m shocked that the magazine allowed it.”
The man is so spun out on cocaine.
“Look, Mr. Toro,” I say, trying to gloss over the lisp that’s plagued me since fifth
grade, “I have to do this interview, or I’m going to get fired.”
“They ought to fire you, with hair like that.”
“Mr. Toro.”
He’s gotten up. He is chasing a waitress through the mirror-coated breezeway,
demanding a refund on something he did not even request, just because he is Ray Toro
and god damn it he could have her job. He knows the owner, he knows the company, he
could shut down her whole life...I haphazardly take notes, trying to sketch out the scene in
the margins of my notebook. I fucking hate this gig. My daughter Mielo says that journalism
is the noblest proffession one can pursue, and that I’m lucky to’ve been born into it. She’s a
sucker for public information. I often remind her that reporting on musicians isn’t really
helping readers to shape their worldview or shake up the system, but she maintains that
that’s how we do: we transform from the inside out, like a tarantula wasp. She’s thirteen
years old.
Mr. Toro has gone through the ceiling, quite literally, having followed the mortified girl
through a hatch in the building’s attic. I can hear them on the roof. With a violent sigh and a
final sip of chocolate Coke, I decide to turn in an honest report to my editor and see if he
wants me to make something up. Mr. Toro won’t remember either way, and definitely won’t
read it.
The San Francisco fog is bitter on my face as I trudge into the street, and it takes me
fifteen minutes to get a cab. The West Coast is my nemesis. Mielo’s home in Jersey with
Mikey, my brother, playing video games and listening to Bush; I consider the letter that I’ll
write her when I’m back in my hotel. I’ll tell her everything the editor will never know about
Ray Toro. Descriptions of the flyaway curls that haloed his coked-out head even as he
berated my hair will cross the monogrammed stationary, along with illustrations of the
goose-chase in the diner. Mielo and I are great fans of Mr. Toro’s, musically, and she will
delight in knowing of the madness behind the guitar.
The cabbie demands that I pay far too much. I do it, flipping him off for good
measure, even though I’m apathetic and it’s on the magazine’s tab. Gardenias bloom
around the hotel’s ornate entrance. There aren’t any elevators in this city, so I huff up the
spiral staircase, focusing on the Victorian banister to keep from losing balance. A man
stands on the second landing.
“Hello,” he says to me, deterred from his track. “Aren’t you that journalist?”
I gape. No one’s heard of me. “I’m a journalist, sure, but how did you know?”
“Well. I’m sort of in the business,” he says, grinning like a wolf. A vampy wolf with
fabulous muscles beneath his Earl Grey suit.
“Oh really?” I lean against the rosy wall of the landing, gazing casually past him.
“What magazine?”
“Spin.”
“Oh.”
“Dave Eggers is my boyfriend; fenagled me a gig. My name’s Frank, anyway. Iero.
I live here.”
“In this hotel?” He nods. I am impressed.
“Wow. Dave Eggers is my hero.”
He grins, “Yeah, mine too.” He shifts. “I was just going out.....would you like to join
me? I could use some industry hints, if you’re willing to get a little unloyal.”
My insides twist; I haven’t been out with a man since my lawyer friend kicked me
out...even one so attatched. In Jersey, we don’t say boyfriend like it’s normal.
I concede.“I’d love to. The Stone is just the devil who pays me.”
“Good,” he says. “Let’s go.”
The bar is in the Castro, which I find a bit cliche. The walls are plastered with pride to
an extent I haven’t seen since I hung out in downtown New York City. Frank Iero orders a
brandy--such a classic sort of man. I take a rum and Coke and wonder what I’m doing here.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m alone tonight,” he says, “and how I recognized
your face.”
The tragedy is that I wasn’t.
“Dave is out of town..... doing something with McSweeney’s NYC.”
I smirk at the way he pronounces all the letters of the acronym.
“And I remember you from that press summit in Vegas, sixth months ago. I watched
you interview the Killers. Very impressive stuff; very proffessional. I wanted to be like you,
so I memorized you.”
“Oh.” I glow a little.
He notices and gets slightly sexier, smiling that lupine smile that gives me instincts to
suppress. “I don’t even know your name,” he murmurs.
“Gerard,” I whisper.
“What?” His face drifts closer to mine, and he whispers, too, “What?”
“Gerard. Gerard Way.”
He whisper-laughs and looks down, “That’s beautiful.”
I can’t help mouthing, “You’re beautiful,” and seconds after he wraps organdy fingers
round the back of my neck and leans in to kiss my lips. Candle wax drips from the
torches of my closed eyes. His mouth is salacious and clean and it ghosts over my cheeks,
sucking gently at the trails of ocean there. Kisses me again.
I’ve never done this before.
My affair with Mielo’s mother---a drawn out holiday in Spain wherein we languished
on the beach and tried to express our fascinated love through physicalities we knew we
didn’t want---is the closest that I’ve gotten to the romance of tonight. We abandon our drinks
on the bar and slink out of the rainbowy club, his right hand inside the pocket of my coat. I
barely make it up the stairs of the hotel because I am shaking like the earthquakes of last
century; he places his other hand on my stomach to steady me. He takes me to his room. It
is a lived-in delicacy of creamy grey and white, complete with dark furniture and noir film
posters. He makes no pretenses of offering wine or tea, but takes my hand and leads me
to the central, queen-sized bed. I think about the celebrated writer who no doubt slept here
before and will likely do so again. My nerves clench up a little, but Frank Iero is removing
my clothes as though they are a wrapping paper he wants to save for scrapbooking, and I
forget anxiety and place my hands upon his waist. His lips move to my throat. My fingers
trace his beautiful hips, delving tenatively down to touch the silk of pricey underwear. His
teeth sink delicately into my flesh. We move together; shadows under water. We scream
together, my hands covering his mouth as he lays in front of me and laughs in elation at the
ceiling. Industrial music beats in our ears without summoning, and the smell of gardenias
reaches me as I fall asleep on his sticky chest, blown through the open window.
Pairing: Gerard Way/Frank Iero...if I continue, it will be Gerard/Ray.
Author: androgynous_ken.
Rating: Soft R, I guess.
Summary: AU. Journalist Gerard Way conducts a disastrous interview with pop star Ray Toro before meeting a mysterious Frank Iero. Probably one-shot; set in San Francisco.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these men and am not in any way affiliated with Spin or Rolling Stone magazines. Or Dave Eggers, or McSweeney's.
Author's Note: Gerard is about thirty. This is the first time I've ever attempted writing sex...it was going to be more graphic, but I'm really inept.
Mr. Toro sits across from me, a twinkle in his eye. The scene: a satiny diner on the
uprise of town, populated by waitresses in teal rollerskates and scene kids with mint cars.
Mr. Toro wears a jacket made from milk and honey-fed calves. We’ve spent an hour
discussing the state of my hair, which I’ve just had treated with currant-colored dye and
some rough scissors. He’s trying to convince me to change it, and fast. I laugh along like it’s
a funny thing that he’s wasted half of our time together pressing this trivial issue, while I’ve
been trying to ask him the questions that Rolling Stone chalked up for me in a southerly
room of their headquarters: how’s the girlfriend, what’s the new album sounding like, and
what about all this scandal stuff. He just won’t drop the hair long enough to answer.
“It’s plum. That’s what it is. Plum, or even porpoise. What possesed you? You must
be at least twenty-five. I’m shocked that the magazine allowed it.”
The man is so spun out on cocaine.
“Look, Mr. Toro,” I say, trying to gloss over the lisp that’s plagued me since fifth
grade, “I have to do this interview, or I’m going to get fired.”
“They ought to fire you, with hair like that.”
“Mr. Toro.”
He’s gotten up. He is chasing a waitress through the mirror-coated breezeway,
demanding a refund on something he did not even request, just because he is Ray Toro
and god damn it he could have her job. He knows the owner, he knows the company, he
could shut down her whole life...I haphazardly take notes, trying to sketch out the scene in
the margins of my notebook. I fucking hate this gig. My daughter Mielo says that journalism
is the noblest proffession one can pursue, and that I’m lucky to’ve been born into it. She’s a
sucker for public information. I often remind her that reporting on musicians isn’t really
helping readers to shape their worldview or shake up the system, but she maintains that
that’s how we do: we transform from the inside out, like a tarantula wasp. She’s thirteen
years old.
Mr. Toro has gone through the ceiling, quite literally, having followed the mortified girl
through a hatch in the building’s attic. I can hear them on the roof. With a violent sigh and a
final sip of chocolate Coke, I decide to turn in an honest report to my editor and see if he
wants me to make something up. Mr. Toro won’t remember either way, and definitely won’t
read it.
The San Francisco fog is bitter on my face as I trudge into the street, and it takes me
fifteen minutes to get a cab. The West Coast is my nemesis. Mielo’s home in Jersey with
Mikey, my brother, playing video games and listening to Bush; I consider the letter that I’ll
write her when I’m back in my hotel. I’ll tell her everything the editor will never know about
Ray Toro. Descriptions of the flyaway curls that haloed his coked-out head even as he
berated my hair will cross the monogrammed stationary, along with illustrations of the
goose-chase in the diner. Mielo and I are great fans of Mr. Toro’s, musically, and she will
delight in knowing of the madness behind the guitar.
The cabbie demands that I pay far too much. I do it, flipping him off for good
measure, even though I’m apathetic and it’s on the magazine’s tab. Gardenias bloom
around the hotel’s ornate entrance. There aren’t any elevators in this city, so I huff up the
spiral staircase, focusing on the Victorian banister to keep from losing balance. A man
stands on the second landing.
“Hello,” he says to me, deterred from his track. “Aren’t you that journalist?”
I gape. No one’s heard of me. “I’m a journalist, sure, but how did you know?”
“Well. I’m sort of in the business,” he says, grinning like a wolf. A vampy wolf with
fabulous muscles beneath his Earl Grey suit.
“Oh really?” I lean against the rosy wall of the landing, gazing casually past him.
“What magazine?”
“Spin.”
“Oh.”
“Dave Eggers is my boyfriend; fenagled me a gig. My name’s Frank, anyway. Iero.
I live here.”
“In this hotel?” He nods. I am impressed.
“Wow. Dave Eggers is my hero.”
He grins, “Yeah, mine too.” He shifts. “I was just going out.....would you like to join
me? I could use some industry hints, if you’re willing to get a little unloyal.”
My insides twist; I haven’t been out with a man since my lawyer friend kicked me
out...even one so attatched. In Jersey, we don’t say boyfriend like it’s normal.
I concede.“I’d love to. The Stone is just the devil who pays me.”
“Good,” he says. “Let’s go.”
The bar is in the Castro, which I find a bit cliche. The walls are plastered with pride to
an extent I haven’t seen since I hung out in downtown New York City. Frank Iero orders a
brandy--such a classic sort of man. I take a rum and Coke and wonder what I’m doing here.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m alone tonight,” he says, “and how I recognized
your face.”
The tragedy is that I wasn’t.
“Dave is out of town..... doing something with McSweeney’s NYC.”
I smirk at the way he pronounces all the letters of the acronym.
“And I remember you from that press summit in Vegas, sixth months ago. I watched
you interview the Killers. Very impressive stuff; very proffessional. I wanted to be like you,
so I memorized you.”
“Oh.” I glow a little.
He notices and gets slightly sexier, smiling that lupine smile that gives me instincts to
suppress. “I don’t even know your name,” he murmurs.
“Gerard,” I whisper.
“What?” His face drifts closer to mine, and he whispers, too, “What?”
“Gerard. Gerard Way.”
He whisper-laughs and looks down, “That’s beautiful.”
I can’t help mouthing, “You’re beautiful,” and seconds after he wraps organdy fingers
round the back of my neck and leans in to kiss my lips. Candle wax drips from the
torches of my closed eyes. His mouth is salacious and clean and it ghosts over my cheeks,
sucking gently at the trails of ocean there. Kisses me again.
I’ve never done this before.
My affair with Mielo’s mother---a drawn out holiday in Spain wherein we languished
on the beach and tried to express our fascinated love through physicalities we knew we
didn’t want---is the closest that I’ve gotten to the romance of tonight. We abandon our drinks
on the bar and slink out of the rainbowy club, his right hand inside the pocket of my coat. I
barely make it up the stairs of the hotel because I am shaking like the earthquakes of last
century; he places his other hand on my stomach to steady me. He takes me to his room. It
is a lived-in delicacy of creamy grey and white, complete with dark furniture and noir film
posters. He makes no pretenses of offering wine or tea, but takes my hand and leads me
to the central, queen-sized bed. I think about the celebrated writer who no doubt slept here
before and will likely do so again. My nerves clench up a little, but Frank Iero is removing
my clothes as though they are a wrapping paper he wants to save for scrapbooking, and I
forget anxiety and place my hands upon his waist. His lips move to my throat. My fingers
trace his beautiful hips, delving tenatively down to touch the silk of pricey underwear. His
teeth sink delicately into my flesh. We move together; shadows under water. We scream
together, my hands covering his mouth as he lays in front of me and laughs in elation at the
ceiling. Industrial music beats in our ears without summoning, and the smell of gardenias
reaches me as I fall asleep on his sticky chest, blown through the open window.