Alone In A Crowded Room [2/?]
Title ;; Alone In A Crowded Room || Spining On That Dizzy Air
Author ;; notmadeof_steel
Rating ;; PG, PG-13, MAYBE R
Pairing ;; Gerbert [Gerard & Bert] && Frank/Gerard
Summary ;; Bert's fuming for no good reason other than it feels great to have his insides burn, because then he can't feel hurt and sad when he brushes past Frank on his way out.
Author's note ;; I promised you guys I'd have it up tonight, except it's only been a few hours, not six. When I deliver, I deliver! :)
it's always been my thing, for better or worse
Gerard wonders what’s wrong with Bert as he paces his way back and forth in the bus, rubbing the back of his neck so that it’s raw and pink, but he can’t see it for his messy black hair. He has the letter in his other hand, and he’s thinking about Frank; his curious habit of chewing on his lip ring, laughing out loud at nothing in particular-all the little things that make him Frank Iero. And yet he’s wondering why Frank can’t be more open, more inane; like Bert is.
So Gerard pockets his paper heart and walks off the bus not a few seconds after his friend. His face is the perfect look of curiosity as he watches a sniffing Bert slam the door shut to his band’s own van, looking mad and sorrowful and hurt beyond belief. But Gerard can’t put two and two together, so he takes his time walking up to the convenient store.
“Hey, Gee, they have those Skittles that you like here!” Mikey Way shouts out, laughing and tossing a blue bag at his brother. It misses and hits him in the forehead.
“Where’s your head at?” Frank shouts from the soda coolers, and instantly every musician starts out singing rifts and choruses from the song.
Gerard tries to laugh and sing with Jepha Howard, who has grabbed Gerard and started spinning him in the aisle, but he’s confused as to why Bert was acting the way he did.
When the singing has died down (it was easy to see why the other members hadn’t taken up the vocals in either band), Gerard purposefully stands behind Quinn in the checkout line, which consists of ten grown men, none of them completely that mature yet. “Hey, has Bert been havin’ an off day or something?” he whispers low, head hovering above Quinn’s shoulder.
The blonde turns his head slightly, looking puzzled. “He seemed fine, but he sat there while we were driving, staring off for three hours.” Now, Ray, Mikey and Jepha have all decided that their banter is much less interesting that the low conversation these two are engaged in, and lean in, candy and money jingling musically.
“Dude, maybe he’s just not feeling that good,” Ray suggests, just to get the wrong answer out of the way.
“Or maybe it’s none of your business.” All six snap their heads straight like they’ve been caught talking in class, and Bert strides forward before them all and slams his water and Hershey’s bar on the counter, carefully setting the Pringles chips beside them, because, no matter how mad he’ll ever get, he won’t ever purposefully break a Pringle. Bert’s fuming for no good reason other than it feels great to have his insides burn, because then he can’t feel hurt and sad when he brushes past Frank on his way out.
“There’s gonna be an intervention on the bus tonight,” Branden mutters, standing aside to wait for his band mates.
“You guys should take Bob, he’s perfect for these situations,” Frank pipes up, nodding with his hazel eyes wide and glossy in admiration. “He listens and doesn’t judge-plus he’s straight to the point with no pussy-footin’ around.”
“What are you volunteering me for, pip squeak?” Bob asks with a slight friendly frown, resting his arm on Frank’s shoulder. By now the cashier has finished his fifteen minutes of Hell, and rung up everyone, looking with pleading eyes towards their buses in suggestion, but all the crowd does is move to stand in front of the door.
“Bert. We’re volunteering you for Bert,” Gerard says firmly, pushing his drummer to the door and then backing away quickly as not to get hurt.
“Will you get those fuckin’ cameras out of my face on the van?” Bob asks after a moment’s consideration, scratching his fuzzy blonde chin. All the My Chemical Romance members nod feverishly, and the tall man groans, taking his soda and walking out of the store.
“We love you Bob!” Quinn adds as an after thought and they all collapse into giggling like little school girls.
But Bob hasn’t heard them, or chooses to ignore them, because he’s busting open a glossy black door without knocking or shouting, because that’s just his way. Bert is sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest, back to the wall on the lounge couch that’s littered with wires and controllers and baled up pieces of paper with pizza grease stains. He’s sniffing but not crying; perhaps he’s sniffing to stop from crying, or maybe that’s the only think that keeps him from crying altogether. Either way, he’s not ready for thundering, passive but strong Bob to almost break down the door and shove the used man over to sit down.
“We wanna know what the Hell’s wrong with you,” Bob demands simply, poking at his own lip ring with the side of his tongue as he waits for Bert to explain; because Bob never prompts, he waits for his friends.
And everything falls out through tremoring lips, like there’s a hole in his mouth and it doesn’t hold secrets that well. One of the best and worst things about these ten minutes of confession is that the blonde doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t look judging, but he looks in no way sympathetic either. He just listened without talking at all, until he was positive that Bert was done.
There’s a raw moment where tears are making a pattern on the dark red Used couch, and Bert McCracken is completely exposed, naked in a way that involves trying to scramble to get his emotional clothes back on and his eyes back from an image of his favorite face.
Bob doesn’t say a thing. He just nods and stands up. “My drink’s cold,” he announces, and the singer almost burst out laughing because that was perfect. No judgment, no hate, no pity or sympathy or war, tight hugs that squeeze out the last bit of your patience.
The drummer leaves and almost whacks the other four members of The Used in the head because they’re trying to find out what’s hurting their best friend without directly asking.
“You guys are dumbasses” is all they are told before they fall over each other, pushing to be the first one on the bus. Bert’s wondering why he’s trying to keep secrets; nothing is hidden after falling asleep on other men and your bus driver quitting while claiming that “there’s way too much gay shit going on in that bus for my personal comfort.”
And a parking lot and a million miles away, secrets are being spilled, because there are no secrets when you fall asleep on your best friend.
Author ;; notmadeof_steel
Rating ;; PG, PG-13, MAYBE R
Pairing ;; Gerbert [Gerard & Bert] && Frank/Gerard
Summary ;; Bert's fuming for no good reason other than it feels great to have his insides burn, because then he can't feel hurt and sad when he brushes past Frank on his way out.
Author's note ;; I promised you guys I'd have it up tonight, except it's only been a few hours, not six. When I deliver, I deliver! :)
it's always been my thing, for better or worse
Gerard wonders what’s wrong with Bert as he paces his way back and forth in the bus, rubbing the back of his neck so that it’s raw and pink, but he can’t see it for his messy black hair. He has the letter in his other hand, and he’s thinking about Frank; his curious habit of chewing on his lip ring, laughing out loud at nothing in particular-all the little things that make him Frank Iero. And yet he’s wondering why Frank can’t be more open, more inane; like Bert is.
So Gerard pockets his paper heart and walks off the bus not a few seconds after his friend. His face is the perfect look of curiosity as he watches a sniffing Bert slam the door shut to his band’s own van, looking mad and sorrowful and hurt beyond belief. But Gerard can’t put two and two together, so he takes his time walking up to the convenient store.
“Hey, Gee, they have those Skittles that you like here!” Mikey Way shouts out, laughing and tossing a blue bag at his brother. It misses and hits him in the forehead.
“Where’s your head at?” Frank shouts from the soda coolers, and instantly every musician starts out singing rifts and choruses from the song.
Gerard tries to laugh and sing with Jepha Howard, who has grabbed Gerard and started spinning him in the aisle, but he’s confused as to why Bert was acting the way he did.
When the singing has died down (it was easy to see why the other members hadn’t taken up the vocals in either band), Gerard purposefully stands behind Quinn in the checkout line, which consists of ten grown men, none of them completely that mature yet. “Hey, has Bert been havin’ an off day or something?” he whispers low, head hovering above Quinn’s shoulder.
The blonde turns his head slightly, looking puzzled. “He seemed fine, but he sat there while we were driving, staring off for three hours.” Now, Ray, Mikey and Jepha have all decided that their banter is much less interesting that the low conversation these two are engaged in, and lean in, candy and money jingling musically.
“Dude, maybe he’s just not feeling that good,” Ray suggests, just to get the wrong answer out of the way.
“Or maybe it’s none of your business.” All six snap their heads straight like they’ve been caught talking in class, and Bert strides forward before them all and slams his water and Hershey’s bar on the counter, carefully setting the Pringles chips beside them, because, no matter how mad he’ll ever get, he won’t ever purposefully break a Pringle. Bert’s fuming for no good reason other than it feels great to have his insides burn, because then he can’t feel hurt and sad when he brushes past Frank on his way out.
“There’s gonna be an intervention on the bus tonight,” Branden mutters, standing aside to wait for his band mates.
“You guys should take Bob, he’s perfect for these situations,” Frank pipes up, nodding with his hazel eyes wide and glossy in admiration. “He listens and doesn’t judge-plus he’s straight to the point with no pussy-footin’ around.”
“What are you volunteering me for, pip squeak?” Bob asks with a slight friendly frown, resting his arm on Frank’s shoulder. By now the cashier has finished his fifteen minutes of Hell, and rung up everyone, looking with pleading eyes towards their buses in suggestion, but all the crowd does is move to stand in front of the door.
“Bert. We’re volunteering you for Bert,” Gerard says firmly, pushing his drummer to the door and then backing away quickly as not to get hurt.
“Will you get those fuckin’ cameras out of my face on the van?” Bob asks after a moment’s consideration, scratching his fuzzy blonde chin. All the My Chemical Romance members nod feverishly, and the tall man groans, taking his soda and walking out of the store.
“We love you Bob!” Quinn adds as an after thought and they all collapse into giggling like little school girls.
But Bob hasn’t heard them, or chooses to ignore them, because he’s busting open a glossy black door without knocking or shouting, because that’s just his way. Bert is sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest, back to the wall on the lounge couch that’s littered with wires and controllers and baled up pieces of paper with pizza grease stains. He’s sniffing but not crying; perhaps he’s sniffing to stop from crying, or maybe that’s the only think that keeps him from crying altogether. Either way, he’s not ready for thundering, passive but strong Bob to almost break down the door and shove the used man over to sit down.
“We wanna know what the Hell’s wrong with you,” Bob demands simply, poking at his own lip ring with the side of his tongue as he waits for Bert to explain; because Bob never prompts, he waits for his friends.
And everything falls out through tremoring lips, like there’s a hole in his mouth and it doesn’t hold secrets that well. One of the best and worst things about these ten minutes of confession is that the blonde doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t look judging, but he looks in no way sympathetic either. He just listened without talking at all, until he was positive that Bert was done.
There’s a raw moment where tears are making a pattern on the dark red Used couch, and Bert McCracken is completely exposed, naked in a way that involves trying to scramble to get his emotional clothes back on and his eyes back from an image of his favorite face.
Bob doesn’t say a thing. He just nods and stands up. “My drink’s cold,” he announces, and the singer almost burst out laughing because that was perfect. No judgment, no hate, no pity or sympathy or war, tight hugs that squeeze out the last bit of your patience.
The drummer leaves and almost whacks the other four members of The Used in the head because they’re trying to find out what’s hurting their best friend without directly asking.
“You guys are dumbasses” is all they are told before they fall over each other, pushing to be the first one on the bus. Bert’s wondering why he’s trying to keep secrets; nothing is hidden after falling asleep on other men and your bus driver quitting while claiming that “there’s way too much gay shit going on in that bus for my personal comfort.”
And a parking lot and a million miles away, secrets are being spilled, because there are no secrets when you fall asleep on your best friend.