wearemany wrote:i have this conversation all the time. [...] but i've been saying now for months how it's not a story i'm so interested in writing any more, and i think maybe that's not true at all
( Read more... )
Brian doesn't tell people how he convinced My Chem to hire him. Well, he does, he brags about how he followed them everywhere and pitched to them night and day until they finally gave in out of sheer exhaustion. He's still fucking proud of himself for it, of course he's going to brag. But he doesn't tell the story about the night when they said yes.
"This guy," Gerard says, "fuck."
"What?" Brian says, leaning over the amp. Gerard makes a frustrated noise and scrubs at his mouth with the back of one hand, smearing around the sweat. "Someone giving you shit?"
"Frankie," Gerard says, "He's saying shit to Frankie."
Brian goes up on his toes to peek over the amplifiers. Frank looks normal, is the thing; he glances back at Gerard, who shakes his head. The crowd is starting to chant, and Ray says something that makes them all laugh. Brian looks back at Frank, doubtful.
Frank, Brian realizes, hasn't moved. He isn't moving at all. His head is turned away from the edge of the stage, and he's staring at Ray. Brian swallows and says, "All right, I'll check it out."
"You don't need to," Gerard says, but Brian shakes his head. He takes his wallet out of his pocket and leaves it with one of the roadies, stretches his neck out, and wades into the crowd. He's calm; he can feel his pulse beating firm and steady in his neck. The crowd is surging around him, but he's small enough that he can duck and slip around people, insinuate himself between bodies. He gets himself into the middle of the room, about, and then he waits.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen," Gerard says, warming them up again, "Sorry, I had to powder my nose."
Some guy yells, "Fucking faggot, you dirty fucking faggot whore!" Brian goes cold. He rolls his shoulders back, looks for Gerard's eyes; Gerard nods, and Brian heads left, towards the guy.
He's got maybe fifty pounds and ten inches on Brian. Over the music, Brian hears the guy yell, "You pussy faggot." He breathes in deep, through his nose, and gets closer.
It's easy, really. Once you've done it, you can do it again. Brian used to have to psych himself up for it, but now he doesn't even pause. Two steps, drawing back from the shoulder, and then all of his weight behind his fist, straight into the soft flesh of the guy's cheek. He swings through it and catches himself.
The guy's head rocks sharply on his neck, and spit flies out of his mouth. He flails over, into a couple of people, but doesn't fall down. A girl yelps and curses, but it's lost in the noise of the song. "What the fuck?" he yells, turns and sees Brian standing there. "What the fuck, asshole?"
"Fuck you," Brian yells back, and drives his shoulder into guy's stomach. His shoes slip on the beer-splattered floor, and they both go down, people screaming, Brian's forehead bouncing off of the floor. His ears ring, but he ignores it, scrambles up to shove at the guy's chin. "Don't call him a faggot, you dicksmack, you--" The guy gets a good shot in his gut, and Brian grunts. He jams his fist up under the guy's chin and grinds down until he's choking, scrabbling at Brian's forearm. "You need some fucking manners," he shouts, spit flecking the guy's beet-red face. When the guy manages to shove him off, Brian goes flying into another clutch of people, sending them surging back. He scrambles back to his feet and ducks the next punch.
Fights are never as pretty as they look on the movie screen. They don't have a choreographer for this shit, they aren't faking. It's why Brian's good at fighting, though; if he went up against someone who really knew what he was doing, he'd probably get his ass handed to him. Against any normal guy, though, Brian will win. Most everyone is scared as hell when they get in a fight, and all they really want to do is get out. Brian isn't scared. Brian wants to kill.
You pretty much summed up how I like to think about him, in a way that... it's just a perfect summary, even though I couldn't have come up with the words myself. I think you read my brain. AWESOME.
"This guy," Gerard says, "fuck."
"What?" Brian says, leaning over the amp. Gerard makes a frustrated noise and scrubs at his mouth with the back of one hand, smearing around the sweat. "Someone giving you shit?"
"Frankie," Gerard says, "He's saying shit to Frankie."
Brian goes up on his toes to peek over the amplifiers. Frank looks normal, is the thing; he glances back at Gerard, who shakes his head. The crowd is starting to chant, and Ray says something that makes them all laugh. Brian looks back at Frank, doubtful.
Frank, Brian realizes, hasn't moved. He isn't moving at all. His head is turned away from the edge of the stage, and he's staring at Ray. Brian swallows and says, "All right, I'll check it out."
"You don't need to," Gerard says, but Brian shakes his head. He takes his wallet out of his pocket and leaves it with one of the roadies, stretches his neck out, and wades into the crowd. He's calm; he can feel his pulse beating firm and steady in his neck. The crowd is surging around him, but he's small enough that he can duck and slip around people, insinuate himself between bodies. He gets himself into the middle of the room, about, and then he waits.
"All right, ladies and gentlemen," Gerard says, warming them up again, "Sorry, I had to powder my nose."
Some guy yells, "Fucking faggot, you dirty fucking faggot whore!" Brian goes cold. He rolls his shoulders back, looks for Gerard's eyes; Gerard nods, and Brian heads left, towards the guy.
He's got maybe fifty pounds and ten inches on Brian. Over the music, Brian hears the guy yell, "You pussy faggot." He breathes in deep, through his nose, and gets closer.
It's easy, really. Once you've done it, you can do it again. Brian used to have to psych himself up for it, but now he doesn't even pause. Two steps, drawing back from the shoulder, and then all of his weight behind his fist, straight into the soft flesh of the guy's cheek. He swings through it and catches himself.
The guy's head rocks sharply on his neck, and spit flies out of his mouth. He flails over, into a couple of people, but doesn't fall down. A girl yelps and curses, but it's lost in the noise of the song. "What the fuck?" he yells, turns and sees Brian standing there. "What the fuck, asshole?"
"Fuck you," Brian yells back, and drives his shoulder into guy's stomach. His shoes slip on the beer-splattered floor, and they both go down, people screaming, Brian's forehead bouncing off of the floor. His ears ring, but he ignores it, scrambles up to shove at the guy's chin. "Don't call him a faggot, you dicksmack, you--" The guy gets a good shot in his gut, and Brian grunts. He jams his fist up under the guy's chin and grinds down until he's choking, scrabbling at Brian's forearm. "You need some fucking manners," he shouts, spit flecking the guy's beet-red face. When the guy manages to shove him off, Brian goes flying into another clutch of people, sending them surging back. He scrambles back to his feet and ducks the next punch.
Fights are never as pretty as they look on the movie screen. They don't have a choreographer for this shit, they aren't faking. It's why Brian's good at fighting, though; if he went up against someone who really knew what he was doing, he'd probably get his ass handed to him. Against any normal guy, though, Brian will win. Most everyone is scared as hell when they get in a fight, and all they really want to do is get out. Brian isn't scared. Brian wants to kill.
Reply
YES. This is exactly the dude I imagine, the one who takes defense of non-normative masculinity with such normative masculine measures.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment