(no subject)
Title: MaybeMemories
Author: Me & swordandfaith
Pairing: Quinn Allman//Frank Iero
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Chaptered fic! No sex. The letters are set in the present. The story is set in the past. This story is being REPOSTED cause I didn't know what I was doing before.
Disclaimer: It's fake.
[[A/N]]This is set in the future after the whole story takes place.
Dear Frankie-pants, (you always hated that name)
So I suppose any wandering children might be wondering why for the love of koalas is a 26 year old man was just doing as he was peering behind a shelf full of furbys like a 50 year old pedofile. Well, there is no easy answer to that question, Frank... But I guess I've got a bit of an explanation.
I just saw you there, Frank. My oldest friend, my best friend, my one and only, the love of my life, and my Frankie. So why aren't I behind this wall of freaky plush animals holding your hand and playing with the hoola hoops like we used to? You know why? I do... It's cause you're there right now, and there is a difference this time. This time you don’t have make up smeared all over your face, and those tight pants, and skeleton gloves. Nope. Now you've got your scruffy beard, you're holding hands with some red head that is extremely and noticeably pregnant.
How long did it take you to move on, Frank? I mean, it's only been two years. You've already found someone else you just 'absolutely love and need more than anything in the word'? Did you use those lines to get her in bed? You did it to me, so I guess it could work on anyone. I pray to God that she didn't fall for your lines, like I did. You break hearts kid.
You're a fucking magician. (And not the kid that pulls bunnies out of hats - remember how we used to make fun of those guys?)
So as I slid down the shelf as though I've witnessed a hideous car wreck (and I have), I continue to clutch this stupid notebook, and scribble in absolutely everything I'm thinking. Everything and anything that has crossed my mind in the past two years is in here. Every letter, every stupid suicide note, every heartbreak poem, and every poem spilling how much I miss you is in here. Everything you've ever given me is taped in here. The movie ticket stubs, the poems, the songs, and the beautiful notes on the guitar that you would teach me to play (the ones you wrote for me). Everything is here. And where are my memories, Frank? Burnt to ashes? Or do you secretly have them hidden under your bed (that you share with her)?
You’re out there living life, even if you’re only an aisle over. You’re buying diapers, and baby clothes, and such… You and your girl are having petty arguments about what colour pajamas you should buy the little thing. Though at the end of it all, you give her a kiss, and you kiss her belly where your new baby is growing. I remember when you would kiss my stomach, as your tongue slid down… (Let’s not get into that)
So anyway, you’re shopping for things for your new baby that’s due soon, and I’m still staring through the furbys. They’re telling me to go home, I swear it. They’re mocking me. But whom do I have to go home to? Nothing but dirty dishes, a television, and an endless amount of books. It didn’t even matter before, cause we were practically always on tour together. We don’t tour a lot anymore… Especially together, ever since Gerard and Bert had another stupid falling out that split us apart even more. I still remember the days when we were on tour and I would go home to my bus, only to sneak out to yours later in the night. I miss those 1 A.M kisses more than anything in the world. What do you miss? Do you even remember my face? If I were to peer around this corner, and tap you on the shoulder… Would you recognize me? How would you react to that? Just staring at you now, I want to push you to the floor and smother you with kisses. Imagine if you were inches away… I don’t think I could contain myself. I mean, trying to drown you away with prostitutes didn’t exactly help, did it? If it did, I really wouldn’t be here right now, gazing at you like a peeping Tom.
Well, my dearest Frankie... All these words have flew out of my mind and have crashed together and spewed across the paper intended for your eyes (but we all know they wont get there). I guess all of this is just one more stupid letter to be left in this book. I don't know how many more pages and pages of unwritten letters this notebook can hold.
I hope I never find out. (Because without these memories, I have nothing left)
Sincerely, Quinny (I always hated that name)
Author: Me & swordandfaith
Pairing: Quinn Allman//Frank Iero
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Chaptered fic! No sex. The letters are set in the present. The story is set in the past. This story is being REPOSTED cause I didn't know what I was doing before.
Disclaimer: It's fake.
[[A/N]]This is set in the future after the whole story takes place.
Dear Frankie-pants, (you always hated that name)
So I suppose any wandering children might be wondering why for the love of koalas is a 26 year old man was just doing as he was peering behind a shelf full of furbys like a 50 year old pedofile. Well, there is no easy answer to that question, Frank... But I guess I've got a bit of an explanation.
I just saw you there, Frank. My oldest friend, my best friend, my one and only, the love of my life, and my Frankie. So why aren't I behind this wall of freaky plush animals holding your hand and playing with the hoola hoops like we used to? You know why? I do... It's cause you're there right now, and there is a difference this time. This time you don’t have make up smeared all over your face, and those tight pants, and skeleton gloves. Nope. Now you've got your scruffy beard, you're holding hands with some red head that is extremely and noticeably pregnant.
How long did it take you to move on, Frank? I mean, it's only been two years. You've already found someone else you just 'absolutely love and need more than anything in the word'? Did you use those lines to get her in bed? You did it to me, so I guess it could work on anyone. I pray to God that she didn't fall for your lines, like I did. You break hearts kid.
You're a fucking magician. (And not the kid that pulls bunnies out of hats - remember how we used to make fun of those guys?)
So as I slid down the shelf as though I've witnessed a hideous car wreck (and I have), I continue to clutch this stupid notebook, and scribble in absolutely everything I'm thinking. Everything and anything that has crossed my mind in the past two years is in here. Every letter, every stupid suicide note, every heartbreak poem, and every poem spilling how much I miss you is in here. Everything you've ever given me is taped in here. The movie ticket stubs, the poems, the songs, and the beautiful notes on the guitar that you would teach me to play (the ones you wrote for me). Everything is here. And where are my memories, Frank? Burnt to ashes? Or do you secretly have them hidden under your bed (that you share with her)?
You’re out there living life, even if you’re only an aisle over. You’re buying diapers, and baby clothes, and such… You and your girl are having petty arguments about what colour pajamas you should buy the little thing. Though at the end of it all, you give her a kiss, and you kiss her belly where your new baby is growing. I remember when you would kiss my stomach, as your tongue slid down… (Let’s not get into that)
So anyway, you’re shopping for things for your new baby that’s due soon, and I’m still staring through the furbys. They’re telling me to go home, I swear it. They’re mocking me. But whom do I have to go home to? Nothing but dirty dishes, a television, and an endless amount of books. It didn’t even matter before, cause we were practically always on tour together. We don’t tour a lot anymore… Especially together, ever since Gerard and Bert had another stupid falling out that split us apart even more. I still remember the days when we were on tour and I would go home to my bus, only to sneak out to yours later in the night. I miss those 1 A.M kisses more than anything in the world. What do you miss? Do you even remember my face? If I were to peer around this corner, and tap you on the shoulder… Would you recognize me? How would you react to that? Just staring at you now, I want to push you to the floor and smother you with kisses. Imagine if you were inches away… I don’t think I could contain myself. I mean, trying to drown you away with prostitutes didn’t exactly help, did it? If it did, I really wouldn’t be here right now, gazing at you like a peeping Tom.
Well, my dearest Frankie... All these words have flew out of my mind and have crashed together and spewed across the paper intended for your eyes (but we all know they wont get there). I guess all of this is just one more stupid letter to be left in this book. I don't know how many more pages and pages of unwritten letters this notebook can hold.
I hope I never find out. (Because without these memories, I have nothing left)
Sincerely, Quinny (I always hated that name)