Fic: Not So Silent Treatment
Title: Not So Silent Treatment
Author: lovelypoet
Rating: PG
Pairing: Frank/Mikey
Summary: In the van days, Frank commits an almost unforgivable sin
Word Count: ~1000
"I'm not talking to you," Mikey says, the words coming out blurred through his yawn. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning as far away from Frank as he can in the packed-in middle seat of the van. They're the only ones there, the rest of the guys wandering the rest stop in a desperate quest for ten minutes worth of personal space and a hot meal. "Because you're a dick."
"Okay," Frank says, not looking up from the fraying edges of the newest hole in his jeans.
"I just thought you should know."
"That you're not talking to me." Frank twists the pale blue strands of cotton tight around his finger, and Mikey watches the tip of his finger turn dark with trapped blood.
"Right. Hey, you shouldn't do that. You cut off the circulation bad enough and you'll get gangrene or something. Mom said it happened to one of my cousins, and you need that finger to play." Mikey says. "Or go ahead and have to get it amputated. I don't care. And, anyway. Like I said, I'm not talking to you."
"Ahh," Frank nods, pulling his finger free and shaking his hand out. "Right."
"Yeah." Mikey starts the not talking then, putting his earbuds back in and turning up his iPod. He makes it through half of Rusholme Ruffians before he pauses and looks at Frank, who's digging through his bag. "Your duct tape is in the glove compartment."
"I thought you weren't talking to me." Frank says, scrambling awkwardly up over the back of the seats, and Mikey has to dodge quickly to avoid getting kicked in the head.
"I'm not. But those are your last pair of jeans." Mikey knows this because Frank's been bitching about it all week. Everybody on the tour knows that Frank's been wearing the same pants since Des Moines. "I just don't want to have to listen to you whine it anymore than necessary."
"Oh. Well, thanks. You can go back to whole strong and silent thing now." Frank yanks the glove compartment open and swears under his breath at the spill of pens and napkins and ketchup packets and condoms that spill out. The duct tape is there, just like Mikey said it would be, and Frank shouldn't look so surprised. Mikey remembers the important things. Unlike some people. "Don't suppose you remember what happened to my sewing kit?"
"You let Ray use it and he left it at that bar in Denver. I told you to buy another one."
"When you were talking to me still." Frank says. Mikey watches him rip a strip of tape and fit it against the tear in his pant leg.
"Duh. I didn't stop talking to you until this morning." Mikey rolls his eyes.
"No, I know," Frank says, peeling the tape away and readjusting it. "Is it about that thing that you were all cranky about when you woke up?"
Mikey gives Frank the most whithering look he can manage, but considering the circumstances, it's just not as powerful as he'd like.
"Oh. So now you actually manage not talk to me." Frank shoves the debris around him back into the glove compartment and slams it closed, a trap waiting for the next person to need a napkin or ketchup or tape (but not condoms because, with the exception of Frank and Mikey, nobody's been getting laid this trip out. And now Frank most definitely won't be getting laid. Which means, by extension, Mikey won't... and Mikey is willing to admit he thinks that's a damn tragedy, to the point that it makes him rethink the whole thing for a second).
Mikey shrugs and slumps back against the seat, looking up at the ceiling. There's a tear in the fabric, and a doodle that looks like a dog or maybe a horse right above his nose. He's tired and thirsty, and he's totally not going to answer Frank.
"Mikey," Frank says, and when Mikey tips his head down, Frank's face is close in front of his, close enough that Mikey can't actually focus on him. And Frank is grinning.
"Stop it." Mikey says. "I'm pissed at you."
"I know." Frank tilts his head to the side, his hair flopping down into his face. "I can tell. You haven't said one word to me all day. It must be something seriously serious. Right?"
"Seriously? You're an ass." Mikey shoves at Frank's chest.
"You love me." Frank grabs at Mikey's hand and twists their fingers together. "I'm totally your best-friend, bandmate, boyfriend thing."
"I have sucky taste in boyfriend things. And worse taste in friends. I mean, I'm friends with Gabe. Me liking you is just, like, proof that you're a total fuckhead. But you're a decent enough guitarist, I guess."
"Uh-huh," Frank crawls back over the seat, landing half way across Mikey's lap.
"You drank my last Coke." Mikey doesn't move, letting Frank stay where he is, calves resting heavy over Mikey's thighs, their palms sweating together. "I was saving it. I told you I was saving it for this morning, and you drank it. So I'm pissed, and I'm not talking to you anymore. Would you just shut up so I can get back to giving you the silent treatment?"
"I’m sorry. That was wrong and I should be shot and hung and murdered in lots of different ways. But how about this, I’ve got eight dollars to my name, and I've been wearing the same pants for five days and twelve hundred miles, and I will take all eight dollars, everything I have in the world, and spend them on overpriced diet soda. Just because I can't bear the thought of you not talking to me for even one more second. I will be dirty and smelly and destitute, and I'll probably starve to death before we get to Los Angeles. But you'll be well caffeinated. Is that what you want?"
Mikey just smiles and doesn't say anything at all.
"Fucker," Frank grins, tucking his face against Mikey's shoulder. "Okay. Okay. Fine. I'll get you your fucking soda. Baby."
Author: lovelypoet
Rating: PG
Pairing: Frank/Mikey
Summary: In the van days, Frank commits an almost unforgivable sin
Word Count: ~1000
"I'm not talking to you," Mikey says, the words coming out blurred through his yawn. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning as far away from Frank as he can in the packed-in middle seat of the van. They're the only ones there, the rest of the guys wandering the rest stop in a desperate quest for ten minutes worth of personal space and a hot meal. "Because you're a dick."
"Okay," Frank says, not looking up from the fraying edges of the newest hole in his jeans.
"I just thought you should know."
"That you're not talking to me." Frank twists the pale blue strands of cotton tight around his finger, and Mikey watches the tip of his finger turn dark with trapped blood.
"Right. Hey, you shouldn't do that. You cut off the circulation bad enough and you'll get gangrene or something. Mom said it happened to one of my cousins, and you need that finger to play." Mikey says. "Or go ahead and have to get it amputated. I don't care. And, anyway. Like I said, I'm not talking to you."
"Ahh," Frank nods, pulling his finger free and shaking his hand out. "Right."
"Yeah." Mikey starts the not talking then, putting his earbuds back in and turning up his iPod. He makes it through half of Rusholme Ruffians before he pauses and looks at Frank, who's digging through his bag. "Your duct tape is in the glove compartment."
"I thought you weren't talking to me." Frank says, scrambling awkwardly up over the back of the seats, and Mikey has to dodge quickly to avoid getting kicked in the head.
"I'm not. But those are your last pair of jeans." Mikey knows this because Frank's been bitching about it all week. Everybody on the tour knows that Frank's been wearing the same pants since Des Moines. "I just don't want to have to listen to you whine it anymore than necessary."
"Oh. Well, thanks. You can go back to whole strong and silent thing now." Frank yanks the glove compartment open and swears under his breath at the spill of pens and napkins and ketchup packets and condoms that spill out. The duct tape is there, just like Mikey said it would be, and Frank shouldn't look so surprised. Mikey remembers the important things. Unlike some people. "Don't suppose you remember what happened to my sewing kit?"
"You let Ray use it and he left it at that bar in Denver. I told you to buy another one."
"When you were talking to me still." Frank says. Mikey watches him rip a strip of tape and fit it against the tear in his pant leg.
"Duh. I didn't stop talking to you until this morning." Mikey rolls his eyes.
"No, I know," Frank says, peeling the tape away and readjusting it. "Is it about that thing that you were all cranky about when you woke up?"
Mikey gives Frank the most whithering look he can manage, but considering the circumstances, it's just not as powerful as he'd like.
"Oh. So now you actually manage not talk to me." Frank shoves the debris around him back into the glove compartment and slams it closed, a trap waiting for the next person to need a napkin or ketchup or tape (but not condoms because, with the exception of Frank and Mikey, nobody's been getting laid this trip out. And now Frank most definitely won't be getting laid. Which means, by extension, Mikey won't... and Mikey is willing to admit he thinks that's a damn tragedy, to the point that it makes him rethink the whole thing for a second).
Mikey shrugs and slumps back against the seat, looking up at the ceiling. There's a tear in the fabric, and a doodle that looks like a dog or maybe a horse right above his nose. He's tired and thirsty, and he's totally not going to answer Frank.
"Mikey," Frank says, and when Mikey tips his head down, Frank's face is close in front of his, close enough that Mikey can't actually focus on him. And Frank is grinning.
"Stop it." Mikey says. "I'm pissed at you."
"I know." Frank tilts his head to the side, his hair flopping down into his face. "I can tell. You haven't said one word to me all day. It must be something seriously serious. Right?"
"Seriously? You're an ass." Mikey shoves at Frank's chest.
"You love me." Frank grabs at Mikey's hand and twists their fingers together. "I'm totally your best-friend, bandmate, boyfriend thing."
"I have sucky taste in boyfriend things. And worse taste in friends. I mean, I'm friends with Gabe. Me liking you is just, like, proof that you're a total fuckhead. But you're a decent enough guitarist, I guess."
"Uh-huh," Frank crawls back over the seat, landing half way across Mikey's lap.
"You drank my last Coke." Mikey doesn't move, letting Frank stay where he is, calves resting heavy over Mikey's thighs, their palms sweating together. "I was saving it. I told you I was saving it for this morning, and you drank it. So I'm pissed, and I'm not talking to you anymore. Would you just shut up so I can get back to giving you the silent treatment?"
"I’m sorry. That was wrong and I should be shot and hung and murdered in lots of different ways. But how about this, I’ve got eight dollars to my name, and I've been wearing the same pants for five days and twelve hundred miles, and I will take all eight dollars, everything I have in the world, and spend them on overpriced diet soda. Just because I can't bear the thought of you not talking to me for even one more second. I will be dirty and smelly and destitute, and I'll probably starve to death before we get to Los Angeles. But you'll be well caffeinated. Is that what you want?"
Mikey just smiles and doesn't say anything at all.
"Fucker," Frank grins, tucking his face against Mikey's shoulder. "Okay. Okay. Fine. I'll get you your fucking soda. Baby."