Several Ways To Die Trying }} #1/#1
Title: several ways to die trying
Author: touchof_arsenic
Pairing: Brendon xx Gerard Way
Rating: PG-13 for suicidal thoughts/themes
POV: third
Summary:
But Brendon isn’t supposed to care. He never cared about Gerard, he even said so. Brendon Urie doesn’t feel, and he certainly didn’t (want) to feel for Gerard.
Disclaimer: nope, nunuh, not mine, no way Jose!
Author Note: Okay, so, I really like this one. :) I was just bored, and got to thinking about how I roll my cigarettes between my fingers. So have fun! :D Tell me if you want a sequel. ;)
Gerard rolls his cigarette neatly between three fingers; his thumb, his pointer finger and his middle finger, which has seen quite a lot of use lately, as he’s been in a bit of a bad mood. He doesn’t know why he rolls the stick back to the webbing of his fingers then out to the tips of his finger pads three times before even putting it between his dry lips, but it’s just something he’s always done. Maybe he thinks that it will rid it of cancer, which means then it won’t kill him-or that it won’t add to the pile of death that’s already twisting in his stomach.
Sometimes, Gerard thinks if he lies real still and everything is completely quiet, that he can feel his death. It’s not a black shadow, or a huge beast that has demonic red eyes. It’s just gray. Everything is gray, and he thinks he’s caught up in one screwed snow storm. But it’s a funeral, or the clouds at one, where he’s the only one laying down. Mikey is sobbing into Frank’s shoulder, Ray’s looking like he has no where to go, like he’d rather run than face this, and Bob is standing there, looking as strong as the band’s support beam, but the drummer really is rotted inside, about to snap in half because he’s been chewed at and eroded down to nothing but human.
And there’s a placenta of bands behind the four, all with various tones of sobriety and emotion on their face. There’s Sonny Moore, Geoff Rickly, Matt Good, Zacky Vengeance, Adam Lazzara, and all their respective friends behind them. But for some reason, Mikey’s reaching back through a sea of black jackets and swimming eye liner rain drops, and he’s pulling Brendon Urie to him, closer to his chest, because Brendon Urie is having the worst break down of all.
But Brendon isn’t supposed to care. He never cared about Gerard, he even said so. He said it as clear as the crystal that hangs from the porches of lovely homes, of horrible, broken, hidden homes, that twists and spins and collects sun light and cast it back out as gold. Brendon Urie doesn’t feel, and he certainly didn’t (want) to feel for Gerard.
Brendon rolls his cigarettes too. This makes Gerard cry, suddenly, and he’s remembering the song by The Cure, “Boys Don’t Cry.” What about gay boys? They’re humans, even regular boys are. What human can resist love pulling it’s strings close just to get them tangled up again? It’s like a sick game, and Gerard just has to keep on playing, because it’s the lottery of life. You get paid big time, but you keep on getting card after card that loses, that only gives you five, ten, twenty bucks. And no matter how much disappointment you’re set up for, maybe...just maybe you’ll hit the jackpot one day.
Brendon Urie was a jackpot. He was a jackass, a pothead-only sometimes, but a jackpot never the less. Gerard had that prize money for one night, but he never spent it. He was saving up for something better, and Brendon got ripped away.
Why did he leave?
Gerard was a fine man, really. Sure, he had his...ups and downs, but what man worth having doesn’t? Alcoholism, drugs, but he was better now, much, much better. Not perfect, never perfect. If Gerard Way were perfect, the world would be one out-of-sync place.
And that’s the funny thing. Perfection to one person is complete and utter hell to the next. Gerard Way is most religious icon’s nightmare, but to every straight teenage girl and crooked teenage boy who have ever felt alone or rejected, and then heard that he feels the same way, they think the lead singer is an angel from hell. He’s saddened that people like his music, and that’s a really twisted thought, but it’s true because everyone searches in music, and they find a feeling that they can relate to. If these people can relate to his pain, then that’s not a completely good thing.
Brendon said that he felt what Gerard was singing. He said it when he really didn’t mean to, but Gerard was happy. Brendon was opening up. He brought up the line that drew the singer to his attention in the first place.
And Gerard held Brendon’s hand close, and he remembered thinking that the singer’s wrists were like ribbon. Silky, smooth, and even looked like it from the tan line his bracelets left. But Brendon snatched back his limb all too soon, breaking off another piece of Gerard’s heart as if it were a Kit-Kat bar.
Gerard pats at his thighs for a lighter, and lets out as long string of curses, in which every other word is fuck, because he has no lighter. He has no fire, so he lies on his back on the damp ground and just looks at the sky for a minute.
Why the hell is he so screwed up? He wants to scream like he did on stage, but when you’re thrust into lights and in front of a microphone, it’s okay to shout. In the middle of a parking lot, on the only space of damp grass, where you’re even more confused than you were on stage, it is not okay to shout about love, the lack there of, and every sickening, raw emotion in between.
“I would say I'm sorry, if I thought that it would change your mind...” Gerard’s voice is broken when he sings this out loud, barely enough to hear over the roar of motors. But it’s heard by at least one person.
“But I know that this time I have said too much, been too unkind.” And Brendon meant it when he peeked around the corner of a black, sleek bus. He was too mean to Gerard. The singer was fragile, like glass, though they would never say it out loud.
The ironic thing was that when Brendon and Gerard hugged, jeans wetted by late night dew and skin chilled by wind, they cried whole singing the chorus together, foreheads and hearts touching.
fin.
A/N ;; I wrote this a long, long time ago. I think it's the first thing I ever wrote. But I never posted it here. :) Enjoy! And if you spot the lyrics, you so rovk and get something special!
xoxo.
Pistola Hazzard
Author: touchof_arsenic
Pairing: Brendon xx Gerard Way
Rating: PG-13 for suicidal thoughts/themes
POV: third
Summary:
But Brendon isn’t supposed to care. He never cared about Gerard, he even said so. Brendon Urie doesn’t feel, and he certainly didn’t (want) to feel for Gerard.
Disclaimer: nope, nunuh, not mine, no way Jose!
Author Note: Okay, so, I really like this one. :) I was just bored, and got to thinking about how I roll my cigarettes between my fingers. So have fun! :D Tell me if you want a sequel. ;)
Gerard rolls his cigarette neatly between three fingers; his thumb, his pointer finger and his middle finger, which has seen quite a lot of use lately, as he’s been in a bit of a bad mood. He doesn’t know why he rolls the stick back to the webbing of his fingers then out to the tips of his finger pads three times before even putting it between his dry lips, but it’s just something he’s always done. Maybe he thinks that it will rid it of cancer, which means then it won’t kill him-or that it won’t add to the pile of death that’s already twisting in his stomach.
Sometimes, Gerard thinks if he lies real still and everything is completely quiet, that he can feel his death. It’s not a black shadow, or a huge beast that has demonic red eyes. It’s just gray. Everything is gray, and he thinks he’s caught up in one screwed snow storm. But it’s a funeral, or the clouds at one, where he’s the only one laying down. Mikey is sobbing into Frank’s shoulder, Ray’s looking like he has no where to go, like he’d rather run than face this, and Bob is standing there, looking as strong as the band’s support beam, but the drummer really is rotted inside, about to snap in half because he’s been chewed at and eroded down to nothing but human.
And there’s a placenta of bands behind the four, all with various tones of sobriety and emotion on their face. There’s Sonny Moore, Geoff Rickly, Matt Good, Zacky Vengeance, Adam Lazzara, and all their respective friends behind them. But for some reason, Mikey’s reaching back through a sea of black jackets and swimming eye liner rain drops, and he’s pulling Brendon Urie to him, closer to his chest, because Brendon Urie is having the worst break down of all.
But Brendon isn’t supposed to care. He never cared about Gerard, he even said so. He said it as clear as the crystal that hangs from the porches of lovely homes, of horrible, broken, hidden homes, that twists and spins and collects sun light and cast it back out as gold. Brendon Urie doesn’t feel, and he certainly didn’t (want) to feel for Gerard.
Brendon rolls his cigarettes too. This makes Gerard cry, suddenly, and he’s remembering the song by The Cure, “Boys Don’t Cry.” What about gay boys? They’re humans, even regular boys are. What human can resist love pulling it’s strings close just to get them tangled up again? It’s like a sick game, and Gerard just has to keep on playing, because it’s the lottery of life. You get paid big time, but you keep on getting card after card that loses, that only gives you five, ten, twenty bucks. And no matter how much disappointment you’re set up for, maybe...just maybe you’ll hit the jackpot one day.
Brendon Urie was a jackpot. He was a jackass, a pothead-only sometimes, but a jackpot never the less. Gerard had that prize money for one night, but he never spent it. He was saving up for something better, and Brendon got ripped away.
Why did he leave?
Gerard was a fine man, really. Sure, he had his...ups and downs, but what man worth having doesn’t? Alcoholism, drugs, but he was better now, much, much better. Not perfect, never perfect. If Gerard Way were perfect, the world would be one out-of-sync place.
And that’s the funny thing. Perfection to one person is complete and utter hell to the next. Gerard Way is most religious icon’s nightmare, but to every straight teenage girl and crooked teenage boy who have ever felt alone or rejected, and then heard that he feels the same way, they think the lead singer is an angel from hell. He’s saddened that people like his music, and that’s a really twisted thought, but it’s true because everyone searches in music, and they find a feeling that they can relate to. If these people can relate to his pain, then that’s not a completely good thing.
Brendon said that he felt what Gerard was singing. He said it when he really didn’t mean to, but Gerard was happy. Brendon was opening up. He brought up the line that drew the singer to his attention in the first place.
And Gerard held Brendon’s hand close, and he remembered thinking that the singer’s wrists were like ribbon. Silky, smooth, and even looked like it from the tan line his bracelets left. But Brendon snatched back his limb all too soon, breaking off another piece of Gerard’s heart as if it were a Kit-Kat bar.
Gerard pats at his thighs for a lighter, and lets out as long string of curses, in which every other word is fuck, because he has no lighter. He has no fire, so he lies on his back on the damp ground and just looks at the sky for a minute.
Why the hell is he so screwed up? He wants to scream like he did on stage, but when you’re thrust into lights and in front of a microphone, it’s okay to shout. In the middle of a parking lot, on the only space of damp grass, where you’re even more confused than you were on stage, it is not okay to shout about love, the lack there of, and every sickening, raw emotion in between.
“I would say I'm sorry, if I thought that it would change your mind...” Gerard’s voice is broken when he sings this out loud, barely enough to hear over the roar of motors. But it’s heard by at least one person.
“But I know that this time I have said too much, been too unkind.” And Brendon meant it when he peeked around the corner of a black, sleek bus. He was too mean to Gerard. The singer was fragile, like glass, though they would never say it out loud.
The ironic thing was that when Brendon and Gerard hugged, jeans wetted by late night dew and skin chilled by wind, they cried whole singing the chorus together, foreheads and hearts touching.
fin.
A/N ;; I wrote this a long, long time ago. I think it's the first thing I ever wrote. But I never posted it here. :) Enjoy! And if you spot the lyrics, you so rovk and get something special!
xoxo.
Pistola Hazzard