An abridged translation of feelings
Author: inpurity
Title: An abridged translation of feelings
Genre: Angst/Romance
Rating: R for language
Fandom: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Summary:It's 2002, the early days of the band. A beginning marred by too many drugs, too much alcohol, a persistent wannabe manager, and the confusion that is born out of feelings that are too scary to make sense. It's the subtle change when affection and friendship become a rope suspended over a ravine.
Word Count: ~2000
Dedication: To the lovely x_missdarko_x, because she is poorly and because I love her.
Disclaimer:This is a work of fiction, not written for profit. I claim no connection with any member of MCR their families or friends. The events hereby narrated are absolutely false and are not meant to reflect the person's private life. No harm, misrepresentation, libel, malice or copyright infringement is intended. At no time is this meant to be construed as reality.
“Jesus Christ, he’s here again!”
Frank’s voice comes muffled, stretched and gooey like cotton candy in Gerard’s head, the soft tingle of alcohol having being numbed by the three downers he had scored from the kid by the ticket booth. He raises a hand in front of his face just to make sure he still has all his five fingers and smiles when he does.
His reply to Frank comes some time later, and it’s not an answer, because Gerard doesn’t have one; it’s another question, slurred and sticky in his mouth.
“Who?”
Frank is on the wrong side of getting tanked, and his reply it’s to throw his empty packet of Camels at Gerard’s head.
“That stupid motherfucker with the tattoos that wants in your pants, and keeps saying he wants to manage us. Why don’t you just let him fuck you, so we can get on with our lives, and he can fucking stop stalking us?”
If Gerard was more coherent, or even just less high, he would have caught the undercurrent of bitterness that bites the edges of Frank’s voice, and makes his eyes shift from gold to burnt grass; but he is wrapped tight in a cocoon of his own brand of self-pity, and all he does is rolling off the small, ratty couch backstage at Maxwell’s. He stands up, smiles dopily at Frank, grabs his hand and slips it inside his dirty, warm jacket.
“Let’s fuck this place up, Frankie.”
It’s like being bound tight, and Frank can almost feel the rope cutting through his wrist where Gerard is holding onto him, blood thick like Gerard’s voice.
Ray is grabbing his guitar, just as Matt manages to drag Mikey away from the toilet where he had been puking the last of the Oxicodone he had stolen from Elena’s prescription bottle.
“Come on MikeyWay, let’s go. Can you stand?”
Mikey nods with glazed eyes, his chin wet with water, teeth chattering just a little.
The place is half full, a smattering of kids with too much eyeliner and fake IDs, eyes turned bright and too hopeful towards the stage.
Gerard can’t see them, but Frank has each and every one of them stamping their feet against his spine, and the first lick of his guitar it's a fiery burst of pain.
Gerard sings through it.
“You were awesome, guys.” Brian grabs two beers, holding one out for Mikey to take. Mikey has switched from opiate to alcohol, and his level of numbness is allowing him to nod slowly, glasses slipping down his nose, a pretty girl hanging from his elbow, the red bruises under her eyes slick with sweat.
“Yeah… We’re fucking inspirational, man.”
Brian watches Mikey with some sort of benevolent worry, and touches his skinny elbow, passes him the beer.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that yet. But fuck, you did good, and the sound was much better than last week when you played The Factory.”
“Frankie-boy had a sprained wrist when we played The Factory.” Matt interjects, knocking at Frank’s shoulder with some sort of conspiratorial camaraderie. The two of them had gotten into a fight over some cunts after they had called Gerard a faggot, and had taken down two huge guys before someone had called the cops, and they had to run away. Frank had played with a sprained wrist for three weeks.
Frank looks at Brian with ill-concealed animosity, his small fists clenched at his sides, he watches how Brian seems to be talking to the five of them, but he is instead looking only at Gerard. Gerard who has just finished his fourth beer, Gerard who takes out the orange bottle from his pocket, and swallows his two Nortriptyline dry, brushing his mouth with the back of his hand.
Frank can see Gerard working the pills down his throat; Gerard’s eyes are all burnt black pupils and nothing else by now, and his crooked mouth holds a tiny smile by a feeble thread, and Frank wants to punch Brian in the mouth for stealing that from him, when he realizes that Gerard is indeed smiling at Brian.
Gerard is holding onto Rays’ shoulder, his face half-pressed against the sweaty fabric of Ray’s t-shirt.
“Frankie is hardcore like that. Also Frank said you want in my pants. Is that true?”
Brian’s laughter rings clear in the dimmed fog inside Gerard’s head. It’s a sound that makes him try to pay more attention, a sound with something unaffected and sincere.
“I assure you that, albeit those are rather nice pants, I have no intention to get into them.”
“Are you saying my brother is not good enough for you?”
Mikey pushes his glasses up his nose, hazy eyes zeroing on Brian, body tense under the wiring of his nerves, bones sharp in the see-through of his pale skin.
Brian laughs again; his hand pushes at his short hair, fingers scraping his scalp. He has the beginning of a headache pushing sharply at his temples, and he wishes these guys were less diffident, less guarded, but most of all more aware of the fact that they are amazing, and that they could go very far if they let him help them.
“Your brother is plenty good, Mikey. But I am here for the music not the sex, I can guarantee you that. Listen, let’s just sit down and talk, okay? Let me tell you what I can do for you, not what I want from you. Guys, I can help you. I know I can.”
Gerard’s teeth ache with the scrape of sincerity he can feel, hear in Brian’s words, he swallows the bitter taste of his antidepressant and chases it with more alcohol, then pushes through the fog in his head to bring words to his lips. “K… Tell us about stardom and fucking playing the Madison Square Garden, Schechter.”
Frank’s hands are heavy with a tension poisoned with a kind of love he cannot spell. Something so much different from what he has with Jamia, something jagged, with sharp teeth and greedy desires.
Something that makes him angry and scared.
Frank sits by Ray, half perched on his sturdy thighs, he nurses a beer and stays away from the whiskey for once. By the end of the night he is still sure that Brian has second motives, but they also have five dates booked to play in Connecticut and Pennsylvania. He gives Brian a chance, but his teeth feels coated with sand when he mutters: “I’m in.”
Philadelphia is cold, with a thick curtain of fog wrapping everything in grey. The air is wet and Frank is freezing, his body wrapped in a think blanket, lying in the back of the van. Ray has scored a pretty thing with dark hair and he is spending the night at her place, Matt and Mikey have passed out, lying half on top of each other on the front bench.
Frank lays awake, body curled against the boxes of merchandising. Gerard is out with Brian.
”Fucking awesome show, guys!”
Brian’s eyes had been liquid with whiskey and the high of success, bright on Gerard’s face, sincere in their clear invitation. ”Let’s celebrate, Gee.”
Frank had bitten the inside of his cheek, downed his beer and let a pretty, tanned girl suck him off in the dirty toilet at the back of the venue.
“I love you too, Jam.”
And it had not been a lie, not then, not with his head light with beer, heart heavy with guilt. Guts tense with desire.
It starts to rain around three in the morning; Frank is jolted awake by the sound of an engine sputtering to life (Brian’s old Jetta. He is pretty sure), and the van’s back door being pulled open, a gust of wet, cold air hitting him square in the back, tensing his spine with anger.
“Close the fucking door, Gee. It’s fucking freezing.”
The sound is loud when Gerard bangs the door closed, Mikey mutters something, but Matt doesn’t stir. Gerard is dripping water over the carton boxes, and Frank can hear the wet, squishy sound of fabric being peeled off of skin.
When he opens his eyes it’s to Gerard’s pale, soft belly, the shadows painting paralleled lines from the stiff circles of his nipples. Frank swallows.
It’s too dark for Gerard to find the bag with his clothes in, so he just grabs one of the hoodies from the boxes and slips it on, skin sticking to the fabric.
“We’re supposed to sell those….”
Gerard’s smile is sharp, a too fast shard of light in the darkness of the van; Frank can feel the ragged edges of Gerard’s teeth writing new scars on his skin.
“I’ll pay for it tomorrow.” Gerard’s voice is soft, clear. There is no sticky numbness in his words, and Frank wants to know how that voice tastes, what it is to have it slide inside his mouth, poured clean.
“Lay down, or you’re gonna catch your death, you idiot.”
Gerard’s shake his head like a dog, wet hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead, droplets of water landing on Frank’s face who promptly mutters a curse and grabs Gerard’s hand to pull him down.
“You’re so gonna pay for that, you bitch.”
Gerard digs out an old pillow and moves the hair off his eyes, hands cold, shaking with the very beginning of withdrawals, eyes heavy with sleep.
Frank moves his blanket and pushes the corners over Gerard’s shoulders, shivering when Gerard’s cold hand grabs his wrist.
“What?” And Frank hates that it comes out half pleading and half angry, voice threading the darkness way too loudly.
The rain has started to lash out, fat, noisy drops hitting the van, marking the windows with streaks of dirt and mud. Gerard slips his other hand under Frank’s shirt, finding warm skin, blood rushing fast under the sharp of Frank’s hip. Gerard touches him lightly, fingers cold, so cold over the scabbing Braille of his newest tattoos.
“I’d let you. I’d let you. You know that, right?”
Frank doesn’t know what Gerard means; it’s as if he has lost the ability to translate any real emotion out of words, his own and everybody else.
“What?” Frank’s voice is getting smaller, swallowed by the rain and Gerard’s hand.
Gerard stills his hand, fingers shaking under the constant vibrating of his nerves, and his words are jagged teeth, biting into Frank’s skin. “Pretend this had never happened. Afterwards I mean. I’d let you.”
Frank thinks about the words he told Jamia, how he can easily believe they weren’t a lie.
But Gerard, Gerard is different, Gerard will mean something. Maybe too much. Too much.
Frank thinks about Brian, about how Gerard had disappeared with him for hours, about how much he had hated the moment when Gerard had smiled that tiny smile at Brian, about how he had had to power down three whiskeys before being able to find that girl and let her blow him.
Frank thinks about Gerard’s hand on his hip, the humming bird of his nerves always vibrating, the soft pallor of Gerard’s skin, the clenching of his own heart, the blood viscous and bitter in his mouth. Frank thinks about how much he wants it all, all of it.
Gerard breath ghosts on Frank’s neck, sour and bitter and Frank closes his eyes, brings both of Gerard’s hands to his mouth, exhales a kiss to each finger, counts backward from one hundred. Whispers a truth to Gerard’s ear and he knows he is not lying.
“I won’t pretend, though. I won’t.”
And he means it.
He is sure of it.
----------------
Now playing: The All-American Rejects - Another Heart Calls
http://foxytunes.com/artist/the+all-american+rejects/track/another+heart+calls
Title: An abridged translation of feelings
Genre: Angst/Romance
Rating: R for language
Fandom: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Summary:It's 2002, the early days of the band. A beginning marred by too many drugs, too much alcohol, a persistent wannabe manager, and the confusion that is born out of feelings that are too scary to make sense. It's the subtle change when affection and friendship become a rope suspended over a ravine.
Word Count: ~2000
Dedication: To the lovely x_missdarko_x, because she is poorly and because I love her.
Disclaimer:This is a work of fiction, not written for profit. I claim no connection with any member of MCR their families or friends. The events hereby narrated are absolutely false and are not meant to reflect the person's private life. No harm, misrepresentation, libel, malice or copyright infringement is intended. At no time is this meant to be construed as reality.
“Jesus Christ, he’s here again!”
Frank’s voice comes muffled, stretched and gooey like cotton candy in Gerard’s head, the soft tingle of alcohol having being numbed by the three downers he had scored from the kid by the ticket booth. He raises a hand in front of his face just to make sure he still has all his five fingers and smiles when he does.
His reply to Frank comes some time later, and it’s not an answer, because Gerard doesn’t have one; it’s another question, slurred and sticky in his mouth.
“Who?”
Frank is on the wrong side of getting tanked, and his reply it’s to throw his empty packet of Camels at Gerard’s head.
“That stupid motherfucker with the tattoos that wants in your pants, and keeps saying he wants to manage us. Why don’t you just let him fuck you, so we can get on with our lives, and he can fucking stop stalking us?”
If Gerard was more coherent, or even just less high, he would have caught the undercurrent of bitterness that bites the edges of Frank’s voice, and makes his eyes shift from gold to burnt grass; but he is wrapped tight in a cocoon of his own brand of self-pity, and all he does is rolling off the small, ratty couch backstage at Maxwell’s. He stands up, smiles dopily at Frank, grabs his hand and slips it inside his dirty, warm jacket.
“Let’s fuck this place up, Frankie.”
It’s like being bound tight, and Frank can almost feel the rope cutting through his wrist where Gerard is holding onto him, blood thick like Gerard’s voice.
Ray is grabbing his guitar, just as Matt manages to drag Mikey away from the toilet where he had been puking the last of the Oxicodone he had stolen from Elena’s prescription bottle.
“Come on MikeyWay, let’s go. Can you stand?”
Mikey nods with glazed eyes, his chin wet with water, teeth chattering just a little.
The place is half full, a smattering of kids with too much eyeliner and fake IDs, eyes turned bright and too hopeful towards the stage.
Gerard can’t see them, but Frank has each and every one of them stamping their feet against his spine, and the first lick of his guitar it's a fiery burst of pain.
Gerard sings through it.
“You were awesome, guys.” Brian grabs two beers, holding one out for Mikey to take. Mikey has switched from opiate to alcohol, and his level of numbness is allowing him to nod slowly, glasses slipping down his nose, a pretty girl hanging from his elbow, the red bruises under her eyes slick with sweat.
“Yeah… We’re fucking inspirational, man.”
Brian watches Mikey with some sort of benevolent worry, and touches his skinny elbow, passes him the beer.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that yet. But fuck, you did good, and the sound was much better than last week when you played The Factory.”
“Frankie-boy had a sprained wrist when we played The Factory.” Matt interjects, knocking at Frank’s shoulder with some sort of conspiratorial camaraderie. The two of them had gotten into a fight over some cunts after they had called Gerard a faggot, and had taken down two huge guys before someone had called the cops, and they had to run away. Frank had played with a sprained wrist for three weeks.
Frank looks at Brian with ill-concealed animosity, his small fists clenched at his sides, he watches how Brian seems to be talking to the five of them, but he is instead looking only at Gerard. Gerard who has just finished his fourth beer, Gerard who takes out the orange bottle from his pocket, and swallows his two Nortriptyline dry, brushing his mouth with the back of his hand.
Frank can see Gerard working the pills down his throat; Gerard’s eyes are all burnt black pupils and nothing else by now, and his crooked mouth holds a tiny smile by a feeble thread, and Frank wants to punch Brian in the mouth for stealing that from him, when he realizes that Gerard is indeed smiling at Brian.
Gerard is holding onto Rays’ shoulder, his face half-pressed against the sweaty fabric of Ray’s t-shirt.
“Frankie is hardcore like that. Also Frank said you want in my pants. Is that true?”
Brian’s laughter rings clear in the dimmed fog inside Gerard’s head. It’s a sound that makes him try to pay more attention, a sound with something unaffected and sincere.
“I assure you that, albeit those are rather nice pants, I have no intention to get into them.”
“Are you saying my brother is not good enough for you?”
Mikey pushes his glasses up his nose, hazy eyes zeroing on Brian, body tense under the wiring of his nerves, bones sharp in the see-through of his pale skin.
Brian laughs again; his hand pushes at his short hair, fingers scraping his scalp. He has the beginning of a headache pushing sharply at his temples, and he wishes these guys were less diffident, less guarded, but most of all more aware of the fact that they are amazing, and that they could go very far if they let him help them.
“Your brother is plenty good, Mikey. But I am here for the music not the sex, I can guarantee you that. Listen, let’s just sit down and talk, okay? Let me tell you what I can do for you, not what I want from you. Guys, I can help you. I know I can.”
Gerard’s teeth ache with the scrape of sincerity he can feel, hear in Brian’s words, he swallows the bitter taste of his antidepressant and chases it with more alcohol, then pushes through the fog in his head to bring words to his lips. “K… Tell us about stardom and fucking playing the Madison Square Garden, Schechter.”
Frank’s hands are heavy with a tension poisoned with a kind of love he cannot spell. Something so much different from what he has with Jamia, something jagged, with sharp teeth and greedy desires.
Something that makes him angry and scared.
Frank sits by Ray, half perched on his sturdy thighs, he nurses a beer and stays away from the whiskey for once. By the end of the night he is still sure that Brian has second motives, but they also have five dates booked to play in Connecticut and Pennsylvania. He gives Brian a chance, but his teeth feels coated with sand when he mutters: “I’m in.”
Philadelphia is cold, with a thick curtain of fog wrapping everything in grey. The air is wet and Frank is freezing, his body wrapped in a think blanket, lying in the back of the van. Ray has scored a pretty thing with dark hair and he is spending the night at her place, Matt and Mikey have passed out, lying half on top of each other on the front bench.
Frank lays awake, body curled against the boxes of merchandising. Gerard is out with Brian.
”Fucking awesome show, guys!”
Brian’s eyes had been liquid with whiskey and the high of success, bright on Gerard’s face, sincere in their clear invitation. ”Let’s celebrate, Gee.”
Frank had bitten the inside of his cheek, downed his beer and let a pretty, tanned girl suck him off in the dirty toilet at the back of the venue.
“I love you too, Jam.”
And it had not been a lie, not then, not with his head light with beer, heart heavy with guilt. Guts tense with desire.
It starts to rain around three in the morning; Frank is jolted awake by the sound of an engine sputtering to life (Brian’s old Jetta. He is pretty sure), and the van’s back door being pulled open, a gust of wet, cold air hitting him square in the back, tensing his spine with anger.
“Close the fucking door, Gee. It’s fucking freezing.”
The sound is loud when Gerard bangs the door closed, Mikey mutters something, but Matt doesn’t stir. Gerard is dripping water over the carton boxes, and Frank can hear the wet, squishy sound of fabric being peeled off of skin.
When he opens his eyes it’s to Gerard’s pale, soft belly, the shadows painting paralleled lines from the stiff circles of his nipples. Frank swallows.
It’s too dark for Gerard to find the bag with his clothes in, so he just grabs one of the hoodies from the boxes and slips it on, skin sticking to the fabric.
“We’re supposed to sell those….”
Gerard’s smile is sharp, a too fast shard of light in the darkness of the van; Frank can feel the ragged edges of Gerard’s teeth writing new scars on his skin.
“I’ll pay for it tomorrow.” Gerard’s voice is soft, clear. There is no sticky numbness in his words, and Frank wants to know how that voice tastes, what it is to have it slide inside his mouth, poured clean.
“Lay down, or you’re gonna catch your death, you idiot.”
Gerard’s shake his head like a dog, wet hair sticking to his cheeks and forehead, droplets of water landing on Frank’s face who promptly mutters a curse and grabs Gerard’s hand to pull him down.
“You’re so gonna pay for that, you bitch.”
Gerard digs out an old pillow and moves the hair off his eyes, hands cold, shaking with the very beginning of withdrawals, eyes heavy with sleep.
Frank moves his blanket and pushes the corners over Gerard’s shoulders, shivering when Gerard’s cold hand grabs his wrist.
“What?” And Frank hates that it comes out half pleading and half angry, voice threading the darkness way too loudly.
The rain has started to lash out, fat, noisy drops hitting the van, marking the windows with streaks of dirt and mud. Gerard slips his other hand under Frank’s shirt, finding warm skin, blood rushing fast under the sharp of Frank’s hip. Gerard touches him lightly, fingers cold, so cold over the scabbing Braille of his newest tattoos.
“I’d let you. I’d let you. You know that, right?”
Frank doesn’t know what Gerard means; it’s as if he has lost the ability to translate any real emotion out of words, his own and everybody else.
“What?” Frank’s voice is getting smaller, swallowed by the rain and Gerard’s hand.
Gerard stills his hand, fingers shaking under the constant vibrating of his nerves, and his words are jagged teeth, biting into Frank’s skin. “Pretend this had never happened. Afterwards I mean. I’d let you.”
Frank thinks about the words he told Jamia, how he can easily believe they weren’t a lie.
But Gerard, Gerard is different, Gerard will mean something. Maybe too much. Too much.
Frank thinks about Brian, about how Gerard had disappeared with him for hours, about how much he had hated the moment when Gerard had smiled that tiny smile at Brian, about how he had had to power down three whiskeys before being able to find that girl and let her blow him.
Frank thinks about Gerard’s hand on his hip, the humming bird of his nerves always vibrating, the soft pallor of Gerard’s skin, the clenching of his own heart, the blood viscous and bitter in his mouth. Frank thinks about how much he wants it all, all of it.
Gerard breath ghosts on Frank’s neck, sour and bitter and Frank closes his eyes, brings both of Gerard’s hands to his mouth, exhales a kiss to each finger, counts backward from one hundred. Whispers a truth to Gerard’s ear and he knows he is not lying.
“I won’t pretend, though. I won’t.”
And he means it.
He is sure of it.
----------------
Now playing: The All-American Rejects - Another Heart Calls
http://foxytunes.com/artist/the+all-american+rejects/track/another+heart+calls