Kiss - (2/2) - Complete
Title: Kiss (2/2)
Pairing: Gerard/Frankie.
Rating: R for language.
Summary: Gerard kisses Frank on stage for every night of their tour - it gets their pictures around. But what he doesn't know is how much those few kisses mean to Frankie, and how much he longs for one that actually means something.
Genre: Angst/fluff.
You press your forehead against the chilled glass, just watching the gentle breeze as it carried the leaves away.
Your chest hurt and your stomach was tied in knots for reasons you couldn’t understand. You didn’t love Gerard. You couldn’t. If not being able to kiss him was causing you this much agony, how could you possibly cope with loving Gerard Way, knowing full well that you would never hold him, never wake up to his breath on your neck, never hear him return those words?
You know that if you ever love him you’d kill yourself. Whereas right now you just wanted to kill yourself.
You let out a bitter chuckle, breath fogging the glass. You had read so many books, heard so many songs, with the writers going on and on about how you’ll find that one person who will make you want to live, but really, when you wanted someone, when you were truly obsessed with someone, it makes you want to die.
You couldn’t live with it.
Lucky you weren’t in love with him then. Right?
You shake your head hard, a ring buzzing through your ears and making your head hurt. Truly, you think, you must be going insane. Hearing things.
Just because you longed in your heart for Gerard to say your name, somehow your brain had found some way of making it real. Whatever. You weren’t in for that philosophical shit. You were just going stark staring mad.
Withdrawal symptoms. Could you suffer withdrawal symptoms from a kiss? From a person?
Your train of thought is cut off again, a tingling sensation spreading through your back.
This is getting weird.
You turn sharply.
Fuck this.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
You can’t speak. You just sit there, blinking against the light coming from the hallway, blinking to try and clear your head. It’s truly not possible, why would it be?
“You’re…I…what?” you choke, your hair falling into your eyes, obscuring your vision, and you do wish it wouldn’t, because you want to see him, you want to watch his smile as he gently laughs at you, the sound dead to your shocked ears.
“I Gerard. You Frankie. This anniversary of your birth,” Gerard grinned, talking in caveman tones as he reached down, flicking your hair from your eyes for you.
You mean to utter a thanks, or at least snipe at him for being a sarcy bastard, but you can’t. So you just sit and stare at him, his voice sliding over you like silk, suffocating you.
“Hey, Frank, you ok?” he asks, quieter this time, drawing his brow in concern, placing his hand on your shoulder.
“Uhm…sure, I’m great, how - how’d you get in?” you manage to stutter out, adopting the shield you had worn through the entire tour, pushing everything to the back of your head, just talking, not feeling. You switched yourself off. And yet there was something there, something still squirming away in your stomach, making you shift in your seat just at his presence.
This was a new feeling.
“Oh, well, I rung -“
Ah, so you weren’t hearing things. That was good.
“- but you didn’t answer, the door was open though, so I kinda let myself in,” he continued, flashing an apologetic smile.
Why was he apologising? You had shared a bus for three months, constantly barging in on each other in very awkward situations, and not once did any of the five boys apologise. What’s the point? It’s always going to happen again.
You were always in each other’s pockets, my house is your house and all that, and yet Gerard was apologising?
You looked at him for a moment, tilting your head to the side.
“Are you nervous, Gee?” you ask, blinking slightly.
“I’m - no, uhm, well, of course not,” he said, all too quickly, dropping his gaze. He sat next to you on the window seat, looking out across the street where you were looking moments earlier. Where you were looking and daydreaming and -
You stopped yourself. You couldn’t do this. Not while he was here, not while he was in front of you.
“How’s Jamia?”
You look up after he broke you from your thoughts again, voice quiet, eyes still looking at the houses lined up opposite.
“Okay I guess… she’s just getting some stuff, she said she’d be back,” you nod, surprised by how quiet your own voice is.
There’s an uncomfortable silence, and you just watch him, eyes never leaving his face as you stare at him for what must be the millionth time.
His eyes are thoughtful and bright as he looks at the window, yet not really seeing it, dark lashes brushing against hauntingly pale cheeks as he blinks. You lower your gaze, watching as he bites his bottom lip, chin held low. You know from far too much previous study that he only does this when he’s considering something.
You open your mouth and speak just to break the silence that was enveloping you both, “Look, Gee -“
“Do you really love her?”
You blink, staring at him for a moment, “Huh?”
“Do you love Jamia, Frankie?” he repeats, looking directly at you, and you can’t help but notice how his nervous habit has made his lips so damn full and pink and kissable and -
You utter a bitter laugh, looking down at your hands. “We haven’t spoken for a while have we, Gerard?” you say slowly, shaking your head.
“Don’t avoid the subject,” he almost pleads with you, rubbing his brow.
“I’m not. All I’m saying is that if we’d have been talking you would know that I left her two weeks ago…”
He looks at you long and hard, confusion in his eyes. Your heart’s throwing itself against your rib cage mercilessly as you bite your lip just as he was seconds ago.
Why would he ask such a question anyway?
You’re more confused than you were before he came in, which was definitely saying something, but you couldn’t let it show. You met his gaze bravely, resting your elbow against the windowsill and your head in your hand.
“Why?” he asks simply, tilting his head to the side.
“I don’t love her,” you say, and you wish you hadn’t, because then he’d ask why, and you didn’t know if you could carry on lying to him. To everyone. To your god damn self.
But to your surprise he doesn’t ask, he just looks away from you again, falling into that thoughtful state you know so well. He looks beautiful when he’s thinking. Not quite at piece, not quite calm, but he’s on the edge of that. He just needs to get past something first, and he’s trying with all his will and heart to figure out just how he could get past whatever obstacle was in his way.
And you have the scariest, most nerve wracking suspicion that the obstacle could be you.
Wishful thinking sucks ass.
You need to get your mind away from that suspicion before your heart explodes and you actually dare to hope, instead dropping your eyes to watch his mouth, remembering every time that his lips had met your skin. But your memory was bringing something else to your attention - reminding you of every time you had seen those lips meet someone else’s skin.
And that hurt more than the fear of hope.
“Are you having a good birthday?”
You tear you eyes away from Gerard’s face, praying that he didn’t realise you were staring at him. “It’s been ok. Kinda dull.”
“I got you a present,” he said, a mild smile breaking across his lips.
You smile in return, looking down at your hands, your hair falling to cover the faint pink blush that had managed to spread across your cheeks. “You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah I did, but there’s a problem.”
You look up, confusion etched in your eyes, “Huh?”
Gerard looks at you, inhaling deeply before speaking, “It’s a present, but… you really might not like it. You might hate it. And you might hate it so much that you’ll hate me for giving it to you.”
You shake your head, “Unless it’s a Mary-Kate and Ashley video, I won’t be angry,” you smile.
Yet you curse yourself inside. You can see he’s trying to be serious, you can see it’s taking him a lot to say this to you, and yet you crack unbelievably lame jokes.
Typical.
You watch him as he laughs softly before his features regained that solemn quality. “Promise that we’ll still be friends.”
“I don’t under -“
“Please, Frankie. Just promise me.”
He looked so desperate that you couldn’t help but promise him, causing relief to wash over his features. You loved how he looked so relaxed just at your words, loved how he smiled at you, loved how -
No. You couldn’t do this. It just wasn’t possible.
You couldn’t look at him as he spoke, his words going completely over your head, knowing that if you looked at him you’d have to stop lying to yourself.
“Close your eyes.”
“Huh?” you blink, glancing at him momentarily, your heart giving an appreciative thump.
“Just close your eyes and I’ll give you your present.”
“Oh…” You obey, eyelashes tickling your skin, holding your hands out in front of you expectantly.
And then it changes.
Your body aches and the air’s too hot and too cold and fucking suffocating you and you can’t stand it, and you want to move, to go outside and breath the fresh air, but you know it’s impossible, because you can’t breathe and you can’t even move.
You shiver involuntarily, his hands slipping over your own, long fingers lacing with yours, and you note how his hands are cold as well, and you can’t open your eyes, you can’t because you know it’ll try you crazy just to see him.
A sound escapes your throat, and you don’t know if it’s a whimper or a moan or a groan or a cry, all you know is that it’s silenced almost immediately. But it couldn’t have been silenced, because what’s happening isn’t real.
Because he can’t be pressing his mouth to yours, and that can’t be his breath mingling with yours, and it can’t be his tongue sliding against your own as he kisses you, so desperate and hot and dark.
You want to respond, you want to kiss him back with every fibre of your soul, but you can’t, because it’s not happening, it can’t be. You’ve wanted this for so long, for him to kiss you and to mean it, and he means it so much that you almost want to weep for the emotion he’s pouring into you.
And you can’t take it any longer, you can’t take the heat and the pain and the God-damn-fucking-love. So you take your hands away from his, reaching up and cupping the nape of his neck, pulling him close, pulling his body against yours. Because you’re not on stage anymore, and there’s no guitar between you, there’s not even air between you, there’s no mic to cover and no screaming audience.
There’s just your screaming beating heart as you respond, as you kiss him back, as your body seems to freeze and your breathing seems to stop and every inch of your body has caught alight.
“Happy birthday, Frank..” he whispers to your lips.
“W-why?” you stutter, struggling to form words since your lips are so numb and your body seems to have gone into absolute shock. All you can do is hold him and press your forehead against his.
“Because every time I kiss you I feel like I’m breathing for the first time, and every time I pull away something inside of me dies and my life ends.”
“So just kiss me.”
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THE END
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pairing: Gerard/Frankie.
Rating: R for language.
Summary: Gerard kisses Frank on stage for every night of their tour - it gets their pictures around. But what he doesn't know is how much those few kisses mean to Frankie, and how much he longs for one that actually means something.
Genre: Angst/fluff.
You press your forehead against the chilled glass, just watching the gentle breeze as it carried the leaves away.
Your chest hurt and your stomach was tied in knots for reasons you couldn’t understand. You didn’t love Gerard. You couldn’t. If not being able to kiss him was causing you this much agony, how could you possibly cope with loving Gerard Way, knowing full well that you would never hold him, never wake up to his breath on your neck, never hear him return those words?
You know that if you ever love him you’d kill yourself. Whereas right now you just wanted to kill yourself.
You let out a bitter chuckle, breath fogging the glass. You had read so many books, heard so many songs, with the writers going on and on about how you’ll find that one person who will make you want to live, but really, when you wanted someone, when you were truly obsessed with someone, it makes you want to die.
You couldn’t live with it.
Lucky you weren’t in love with him then. Right?
You shake your head hard, a ring buzzing through your ears and making your head hurt. Truly, you think, you must be going insane. Hearing things.
Just because you longed in your heart for Gerard to say your name, somehow your brain had found some way of making it real. Whatever. You weren’t in for that philosophical shit. You were just going stark staring mad.
Withdrawal symptoms. Could you suffer withdrawal symptoms from a kiss? From a person?
Your train of thought is cut off again, a tingling sensation spreading through your back.
This is getting weird.
You turn sharply.
Fuck this.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
You can’t speak. You just sit there, blinking against the light coming from the hallway, blinking to try and clear your head. It’s truly not possible, why would it be?
“You’re…I…what?” you choke, your hair falling into your eyes, obscuring your vision, and you do wish it wouldn’t, because you want to see him, you want to watch his smile as he gently laughs at you, the sound dead to your shocked ears.
“I Gerard. You Frankie. This anniversary of your birth,” Gerard grinned, talking in caveman tones as he reached down, flicking your hair from your eyes for you.
You mean to utter a thanks, or at least snipe at him for being a sarcy bastard, but you can’t. So you just sit and stare at him, his voice sliding over you like silk, suffocating you.
“Hey, Frank, you ok?” he asks, quieter this time, drawing his brow in concern, placing his hand on your shoulder.
“Uhm…sure, I’m great, how - how’d you get in?” you manage to stutter out, adopting the shield you had worn through the entire tour, pushing everything to the back of your head, just talking, not feeling. You switched yourself off. And yet there was something there, something still squirming away in your stomach, making you shift in your seat just at his presence.
This was a new feeling.
“Oh, well, I rung -“
Ah, so you weren’t hearing things. That was good.
“- but you didn’t answer, the door was open though, so I kinda let myself in,” he continued, flashing an apologetic smile.
Why was he apologising? You had shared a bus for three months, constantly barging in on each other in very awkward situations, and not once did any of the five boys apologise. What’s the point? It’s always going to happen again.
You were always in each other’s pockets, my house is your house and all that, and yet Gerard was apologising?
You looked at him for a moment, tilting your head to the side.
“Are you nervous, Gee?” you ask, blinking slightly.
“I’m - no, uhm, well, of course not,” he said, all too quickly, dropping his gaze. He sat next to you on the window seat, looking out across the street where you were looking moments earlier. Where you were looking and daydreaming and -
You stopped yourself. You couldn’t do this. Not while he was here, not while he was in front of you.
“How’s Jamia?”
You look up after he broke you from your thoughts again, voice quiet, eyes still looking at the houses lined up opposite.
“Okay I guess… she’s just getting some stuff, she said she’d be back,” you nod, surprised by how quiet your own voice is.
There’s an uncomfortable silence, and you just watch him, eyes never leaving his face as you stare at him for what must be the millionth time.
His eyes are thoughtful and bright as he looks at the window, yet not really seeing it, dark lashes brushing against hauntingly pale cheeks as he blinks. You lower your gaze, watching as he bites his bottom lip, chin held low. You know from far too much previous study that he only does this when he’s considering something.
You open your mouth and speak just to break the silence that was enveloping you both, “Look, Gee -“
“Do you really love her?”
You blink, staring at him for a moment, “Huh?”
“Do you love Jamia, Frankie?” he repeats, looking directly at you, and you can’t help but notice how his nervous habit has made his lips so damn full and pink and kissable and -
You utter a bitter laugh, looking down at your hands. “We haven’t spoken for a while have we, Gerard?” you say slowly, shaking your head.
“Don’t avoid the subject,” he almost pleads with you, rubbing his brow.
“I’m not. All I’m saying is that if we’d have been talking you would know that I left her two weeks ago…”
He looks at you long and hard, confusion in his eyes. Your heart’s throwing itself against your rib cage mercilessly as you bite your lip just as he was seconds ago.
Why would he ask such a question anyway?
You’re more confused than you were before he came in, which was definitely saying something, but you couldn’t let it show. You met his gaze bravely, resting your elbow against the windowsill and your head in your hand.
“Why?” he asks simply, tilting his head to the side.
“I don’t love her,” you say, and you wish you hadn’t, because then he’d ask why, and you didn’t know if you could carry on lying to him. To everyone. To your god damn self.
But to your surprise he doesn’t ask, he just looks away from you again, falling into that thoughtful state you know so well. He looks beautiful when he’s thinking. Not quite at piece, not quite calm, but he’s on the edge of that. He just needs to get past something first, and he’s trying with all his will and heart to figure out just how he could get past whatever obstacle was in his way.
And you have the scariest, most nerve wracking suspicion that the obstacle could be you.
Wishful thinking sucks ass.
You need to get your mind away from that suspicion before your heart explodes and you actually dare to hope, instead dropping your eyes to watch his mouth, remembering every time that his lips had met your skin. But your memory was bringing something else to your attention - reminding you of every time you had seen those lips meet someone else’s skin.
And that hurt more than the fear of hope.
“Are you having a good birthday?”
You tear you eyes away from Gerard’s face, praying that he didn’t realise you were staring at him. “It’s been ok. Kinda dull.”
“I got you a present,” he said, a mild smile breaking across his lips.
You smile in return, looking down at your hands, your hair falling to cover the faint pink blush that had managed to spread across your cheeks. “You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah I did, but there’s a problem.”
You look up, confusion etched in your eyes, “Huh?”
Gerard looks at you, inhaling deeply before speaking, “It’s a present, but… you really might not like it. You might hate it. And you might hate it so much that you’ll hate me for giving it to you.”
You shake your head, “Unless it’s a Mary-Kate and Ashley video, I won’t be angry,” you smile.
Yet you curse yourself inside. You can see he’s trying to be serious, you can see it’s taking him a lot to say this to you, and yet you crack unbelievably lame jokes.
Typical.
You watch him as he laughs softly before his features regained that solemn quality. “Promise that we’ll still be friends.”
“I don’t under -“
“Please, Frankie. Just promise me.”
He looked so desperate that you couldn’t help but promise him, causing relief to wash over his features. You loved how he looked so relaxed just at your words, loved how he smiled at you, loved how -
No. You couldn’t do this. It just wasn’t possible.
You couldn’t look at him as he spoke, his words going completely over your head, knowing that if you looked at him you’d have to stop lying to yourself.
“Close your eyes.”
“Huh?” you blink, glancing at him momentarily, your heart giving an appreciative thump.
“Just close your eyes and I’ll give you your present.”
“Oh…” You obey, eyelashes tickling your skin, holding your hands out in front of you expectantly.
And then it changes.
Your body aches and the air’s too hot and too cold and fucking suffocating you and you can’t stand it, and you want to move, to go outside and breath the fresh air, but you know it’s impossible, because you can’t breathe and you can’t even move.
You shiver involuntarily, his hands slipping over your own, long fingers lacing with yours, and you note how his hands are cold as well, and you can’t open your eyes, you can’t because you know it’ll try you crazy just to see him.
A sound escapes your throat, and you don’t know if it’s a whimper or a moan or a groan or a cry, all you know is that it’s silenced almost immediately. But it couldn’t have been silenced, because what’s happening isn’t real.
Because he can’t be pressing his mouth to yours, and that can’t be his breath mingling with yours, and it can’t be his tongue sliding against your own as he kisses you, so desperate and hot and dark.
You want to respond, you want to kiss him back with every fibre of your soul, but you can’t, because it’s not happening, it can’t be. You’ve wanted this for so long, for him to kiss you and to mean it, and he means it so much that you almost want to weep for the emotion he’s pouring into you.
And you can’t take it any longer, you can’t take the heat and the pain and the God-damn-fucking-love. So you take your hands away from his, reaching up and cupping the nape of his neck, pulling him close, pulling his body against yours. Because you’re not on stage anymore, and there’s no guitar between you, there’s not even air between you, there’s no mic to cover and no screaming audience.
There’s just your screaming beating heart as you respond, as you kiss him back, as your body seems to freeze and your breathing seems to stop and every inch of your body has caught alight.
“Happy birthday, Frank..” he whispers to your lips.
“W-why?” you stutter, struggling to form words since your lips are so numb and your body seems to have gone into absolute shock. All you can do is hold him and press your forehead against his.
“Because every time I kiss you I feel like I’m breathing for the first time, and every time I pull away something inside of me dies and my life ends.”
“So just kiss me.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE END
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