When Sin's Deep In My Blood...

Tue, 17 Oct 2006 04:16:59 GMT

MOVED!

New username, guys. :D

Please add voxxbox. Thank you, and sorry for the inconvenience!

Fri, 28 Jul 2006 00:38:26 GMT

Title: Blithe {Standalone}
Pairing: Brian/Zack
Rating: PG-13 [slight language]
Disclaimer: Don't Know, Don't Own, Didn't Happen.
Summary: Early mornings are Zack's favorite times.
A/N: Fluff. Short, 520 words.

Blithe

They’ve all got a story to tell.

His tattoos, you mean. Ink sprawls across his sun-kissed skin in dark, seemingly cancerous waves, some colorful, others a basic, traditional black. They all have a certain voice, you think—each one speaks to you, some loud and obnoxious, and others a bit more demure and composed.

Your fingertip slides along the delicate curves and bold lines of each, almost by memory, body heat meeting your caresses. A soft murmur passes over your head, unheard, and you glance up, fixing a dreamy stare on his squared jaw. Almost inaudible, you ask him to repeat himself.

“... Early.” He grunts oh-so-conversationally, slowly looking down to meet your gaze. Smiling lazily, you press the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he sighs. It’s a rare moment in time, this sort of simple exchange between you; you waste no time in taking note of every detail.

In early, dimly lit hours like this, the memories that keep you together are made. Without these airy mornings, without these seconds, minutes, hours of ‘just-the-two-of-us’, you would have nothing. There would not be a great deal to stop you from slamming the bedroom door for the last time after a particularly nasty argument, nor would there be a reason for you to forgive the things he says too carelessly for comfort.

Nothing to fix.

Nothing to salvage.

Wordlessly, he lifts a hand to tilt your chin up, thumb tracing over the plain metal rings adorning your lower lip. “Sleep, then.” You murmur flippantly, though it sounds more like a meek whisper. The corners of his mouth tug up into a semblance of a smirk, and he snorts quietly, his forehead resting lightly against your own.

“Nah, I’ll just stay up and look at your sorry ass.” He breathes, but his tone completely betrays his words. Scoffing under your breath, you brush your lips against the spot just below his ear, successfully earning the slightest shiver. Letting your eyelids fall shut, you manage a little nod, dull fingernails skittering along the thinner lines adorning the arm draped over your waist.

Exhaling noiselessly, your hand stills, finally brushing along his shoulder and slipping up into his hair. This feels intimate. This feels right, you think, and when you open your eyes he’s regarding you with thinly veiled thoughtfulness. Realizing he’s been caught, he offers a sheepish grin, one that you unconsciously return.

“Hey, Princess.” Inhale, pause.

“What, fucktard?” Expectant stare.

He’s silent for a good, long minute before he smiles openly, honestly.

“I... Me n’ You. Yeah.”

It’s none too poetic, but you grin, because it’s just Brian being Brian, and kiss his lips, quick but affectionate. A snapshot of this moment is stored away somewhere in the mess you call a mind, and you can’t help but laugh a little and kiss him once more, if only for the hell of it. Nodding again, your palm finds his forearm, and you begin the process all over; fingertips, fingernails, ink.

“... Yeah.”

They’ve all got a story to tell, and you’ll be damned if you don’t know them all.

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 22:47:58 GMT

Title: Replete {Standalone}
Pairing: Brian/Zack
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't Know, Don't Own, Didn't Happen.
Summary: Zack doesn't exist, so much as others exist for him, really.
A/N: Purely experimental. Dedicated to ogodthe and underxumbrellas. Because they're awesome.

Replete

It was the very start of winter.

Or, maybe it was closer to the end of autumn. In any case, the trees had become deadened in the chill of the bitter weather, spindly branches spreading hopefully toward the gray skies above. Their pleas for life went unanswered, he thought with a wry smile—for leafless they remained—and he sat silently on a worn wooden park bench, just as predictable as the shifting seasons.

It was there, in that icy spot in the middle of an equally icy park, that he wasted his time, patiently, wordlessly. The smallest remnant of a smile played at his full, painfully chapped, lips, and he watched the world pass by him with a something that teetered dangerously between apathy and content.

This, perhaps, was mostly due to the fact that he squandered the limitless minutes living through others (for a lack of a better term). He was a voiceless shadow, really, carefully tracing the footsteps of others who seemed so very animated in a meek attempt to fill his own emptiness. Eventually, he would move on, in an almost mechanical process of forming a reality that never was.

The gears cradled safely within his skull whirred to life as a small-framed young man, wrapped in a leather coat and colorful scarf to keep warm, ambled by, and his lips remained sealed once again. Without a single moment’s hesitation, vivid green eyes traveled along the expanse of the nameless man, ever curious and darkened just slightly by a sort of hunger, thoughts tumbling from his slightly parted lips as he exhaled noiselessly.

‘Twenty, or twenty-one... currently single, but with a love interest. Enjoys long walks, nicotine, and the company of other bar haunts. Mild-mannered, but with a quick tongue; very concerned with appearances, and disliked often because of an obnoxious, drunkard persona. Secretly lies about his unemployed status, and tries to drown his problems in warm whiskey.’

Of course, he was aware that he would never know if his gratuitous assumptions were correct. Still, for a fleeting moment, he felt connected to another, and a massive void was filled. As his eyes followed the young man’s retreating form, the emotions stirred by this senseless process ebbed, then faded completely, leaving him very much alone and hollow once more.

Heaving an inaudible sigh, he watched the stranger disappear in the distance, his attention shifting once more with an inward, ‘Next.’ Ever the tender lover of detail, the corners of his mouth tugged up into a flawless replica of a smile, and his mind was again filled to the brim with baseless thought as yet another crossed his path.

Unlike the previous object of his scrutiny, this man looked older, perhaps by a few years. Like the other, he was bundled in warm clothing; a worn leather jacket, and what looked like a faded sweater beneath. A hat, a fedora, specifically, sat precariously atop a head of feathery brown hair; slightly tilted, the spectator noticed (enough to look accidental to the untrained eye, he thought).

Nothing extraordinary was the verdict, as always.

But, as he shuffled along the sidewalk, he gradually locked eyes with the one still sitting on the bench and, even more astonishing, never once looked away.

Said observer was... startled, if nothing else.

Never before had anyone met his gaze in such a manner, in a way that felt so intimately invasive. All thoughts dwindled away slowly, trickling quietly as his heartbeat thudded rhythmically in his ears.

The man even went so far as to smile, and cease motion altogether.

With an air of unnerving nonchalance, he moved to take a seat next to the quiet observer, uninvited (but surely not unappreciated).

“You were staring,” the stranger stated ungracefully, almost in greeting, “weren’t you?”

“I was.” The other rasped, his voice weak from disuse.

“It’s impolite.” The stranger continued coolly.

“Agreed,” the other nodded, oddly content, “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, no need to apologize. I'm flattered, really.” The nameless man smiled again, and the corners of his kohl-lined eyes crinkled in a way that was nearly endearing. After a moment of silence passed between them (during which the other made no mention that he always stared at passer-bys, and today was no special instance), the man said lowly, “Name’s Brian, by the way.”

Shifting slightly, the observer replied simply, “Zack.”

“Ah. I don’t think I’ve seen you around, Zack. Shame, right?” Brian said conversationally, holding out a gloved hand. The other took it silently, shaking it once, twice, and then pulling away gently.

“Yeah... Shame.” After this initial exchange of words, they sat wordlessly, occasionally sharing glances without a trace of awkwardness to be detected. Brian twiddled his thumbs idly, and then spoke once more, breaking the stillness that had since settled.

“I get the feeling you’re not a conversationalist.” Zack shrugged noncommittally.

“I'm... More of an observer, I guess.” Brian nodded in understanding, offering another smile.

“Yeah? I figured... and, actually... It’s a little late for this, but... It’s nice to meet you.” And it was in the way he said this that made Zack believe that he meant it, and for the first time in ages, well, he felt wholly and utterly complete.

“Likewise...” He said softly instead, despite the overwhelming urge to divulge this newfound feeling.

“I’d hope so,” Brian murmured good-naturedly, “since I kind of just sat here like an asshole.”

Zack chuckled like he’d forgotten how and, in a way that shouldn’t have made even the slightest bit of sense, he replied, his voice still quiet and now slightly hesitant.

“The feeling is staying.” Not bothering to wait for a response, he continued on just as cryptically.

“Feels like... existing.”

Without missing a beat, Brian smoothly corrected, “It is existing.”

And Zack, left with not a single assumption or thought of any kind, didn’t dare argue.

@ $ * # !

Fri, 28 Apr 2006 03:04:07 GMT

A7X

Aestival; Brian/Zack
01

Blithe; Brian/Zack
01

Replete; Brian/Zack
01

Solitare; Brian/Zack, one-sided Johnny/Zack
01

Transient; Brian/Zack, one-sided Matt/Zack
01

THE USED

Worst To December; Bert/Quinn
01

Love Song; unrequited Bert/Quinn
01

Complicated; Bert/Quinn
01

Ever and A Day; Bert/Quinn
01 | 02 | 03 | 04

MY CHEM. ROMANCE

Reprieve; Gerard/Frank
01

Destination Anywhere; Gerard/Frank
01

Interlude; Gerard/Frank
01

Secondary; Gerard/Frank
01

CROSSOVERS

I'm No God; Gerard/Bert
01

Ennui; unrequited Adam Lazarra/Conor Oberst
01

Head Up; Gerard/Frank, Mentioned Bert/Quinn
01 | 02 | 03 | 04

Tue, 18 Apr 2006 01:35:16 GMT

Title: Ever and a Day [4/4]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Summary: Bert goes away to rehab, and comes home to find that with sobriety comes awareness.
POV: Second-Person [Bert]
Notes: FINALLY FINISHED. So sorry for the wait. I love everyone who updated-- thank you so much. You guys are amazing. ♥

One.

Two.

Three.

Ever And A Day

Lines.

You’ve been following them for some time now, the steering wheel warm to the touch. It feels alive, as your sore fingertips throb lightly, like it has a steady pulse. The thought sends shivers dancing along your spine, a soft breath escaping your lips. With a trembling hand, you turn on the radio, the rough static almost soothing as it fades into the soft beat of a song.

The road before you stretches endlessly, winding in some places, the dull scenery passing by in a blur of monochromatic colors. Driving had always been a sort of cathartic ritual for you, as you headed down unfamiliar roads with an easy smile and a pack of cigarettes. You knew not what your destination was, but the soft purr of the engine and the quiet noise of miserable Indie crooners was enough to satisfy your desire for direction.

Now, as you head down another foreign route to nowhere, you only feel the anxiety of all the events leading up to your departure. Turning into a nearly deserted gas station, you park in one of the many empty spaces, sliding out of the car and sauntering towards the small diner next to the garage. The smell of gasoline is pungent, and the car hood is slick beneath your fingers as they smear the affectionately written words ‘Wash Me’ into the grime.

“What’ll it be?”

A waitress with a kind, care-worn face stands before you after you’ve slid carefully into a booth, folding your hands in front of you atop the small table. Swallowing hard, you keep your gaze fixed to the plastic saltshaker, shifting slightly. You can almost feel her pity as she takes note of your haggard appearance, and the gleam of tears that just will not fall in your pain-filled eyes.

“Coffee, please.”

The reply is simple, and she nods, offering the smallest of sympathetic smiles as she heads off to fill your order, her hips swaying naturally as she disappears into the kitchen. As soon as she’s gone, you move to let your head rest in your hands with a shuddery sigh. You will not cry. Not because you fear for your masculinity—you’re far too self-assured, and it shows in the way you held his hand tightly, fingers laced, even when others sneered and mocked you.

No, you won’t cry because you can’t. The emotion is there, as is the desire for release, but even so, it’s an attempt in vain. And this only makes it more painful, as another choked noise of despair forces it’s way out of your aching throat. “Fucker,” you hiss, and the heaviness of melancholy settles like lead in your stomach. And all you can think of is how nice it would be to drown all of this with the warm, bitter poison that slowly fed your disease.

“I need a drink.”

Even as you say the words, your stomach churns and all you want is to close your eyes and sleep for days. The waitress returns with your coffee, whispering, “It’s alright, it’s on the house,” and you’re too touched to even thank her properly. A weak smile is all you can manage, one that she rewards with another nod and a small wave before she wanders off again. You drink the coffee as is, scalding your tongue and wondering briefly what her name was before setting the warm mug down, closing your eyes.

You can see his face now, disgustingly vivid in your mind’s eye, as he finally shows up to the house, a frown marring his handsome features and an apology searing a hole through his tongue. His gaze falls on the key you left in the lock, and as the door swings open with a quiet creak he’s horrified. Because strewn about the floor is the broken glass of picture frames with indescribable sentimental value, and all he can think is how fucking sorry he truly is.

His steps are cautious and slow as he examines each destroyed room as though it were a disturbingly emotive work of art, eyes wide. When he reaches the bedroom, he notes that the closet doors are open, the bed has been stripped of its sheets, and that your clothes gone and his are torn to unrecognizable shreds. As he looks at the shattered vanity, his mouth is horribly dry and he thinks he might collapse where he stands.

Simple words have been written on the glass, in an area that is still intact, in permanent marker. They make his blood run cold and his lower lip tremble, bold and vulgar and ugly. His fingers trace them slowly, as though to validate their existence. Disbelief is blatantly displayed in his expression, and his hands shake violently as he pulls them away quickly. His voice, sickeningly beautiful as ever, read the words aloud, wavering slightly.

“Welcome home.”

When you open your eyes again, you rise from your seat, setting a few bills next to the cup of lukewarm coffee before leaving the diner. The sky is a deep purple, laced with dazzling pinks and oranges, the setting sun shining harshly in your eyes. Getting back into the car, you take a deep breath before starting it up once more, pulling away from the gas station and the little diner with the kind waitress and back onto the endless road. Where you’re going remains unimportant as always.

Halting at a stoplight, you rub gingerly at your eyes, grimacing unconsciously. They’re wet, and you laugh cheerlessly, slamming your fist hard against the steering wheel. The light flickers green, and you’re speeding off, still laughing and wishing desperately for anything to make you forget the last two days completely. All you want is to forget, you think with a sigh as everything becomes lines and pavement and monochromatic scenery like before.

Forget everything. There’s a certain weight to the words in your mind that is light enough to leave you almost content, but too heavy to put faith in completely. The only thing you can see now is road, and the fading light as another day draws to a close. Forget him, forget the house, forget the forever he promised he’d wait. Everything. It’s the last thought you have before you switch on the radio once more, losing yourself in the infinite static and the soft words of those who share your sort of painful reality.

He finds the key in the lock, carefully opens the door...

And you’re miles away.

Thu, 02 Mar 2006 19:15:10 GMT

Title: Ever and a Day [3/4]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Summary: Bert goes away to rehab, and comes home to find that with sobriety comes awareness.
POV: Second-Person [Bert]
Notes: This is gonna be one chapter longer than I originally planned. Sorry for taking so long. ♥

One.

Two.

Ever and a Day

Light.

When your eyes finally reopen, brilliant rays of gold light shine in your eyes, a groan escaping your lips. You don’t bother to check what time it is—it doesn’t seem all that significant, really. With another soft noise of annoyance, you sit up slowly, unsuccessfully attempting to run your fingers through your tangled hair. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you stretch, careful to ignore the blatantly vacant spot beside you.

It only takes a minute for the memories of the previous night to flood your mind. You think you hear birds chirping merrily outside, and you somewhat nastily murmur, “Fucking birds should choke.” Hesitating for a moment, you rise from the bed, the floor cold beneath your bare feet. Shivering slightly, you wrap your arms around yourself, gradually sauntering into the living room.

You’re almost surprised at the emptiness that greets you. Part of you expects to hear the clatter of silverware from the kitchen, his voice loud and welcoming to your ears. A bitter smile plays at your lips—you never used to eat breakfast before he began scolding you daily for being “too fucking skinny”. Smirking childishly, you pass by the kitchen, plopping on the floor in front of the TV instead (for, unconsciously, you’ve avoided the couch).

Despite the fact that it’s completely irrational, you almost wish he’d scold you again, forcing a plate of toast into your hands. You almost wish he’d smile and giggle at the way you pout, teasing you affectionately. And you almost, almost, wish that he’d walk through the door and pull you into his arms, saying that yesterday never happened.

But you don’t.

Ignoring the sick, nauseous feeling in your growling stomach, you hug your knees to your chest, sighing softly. The stillness is driving you insane, as is the distant, painfully cliché tick of the clock. You silently debate on whether or not it’d be a good idea to rip the damned thing off the wall—what use do you have for it anyway? It’s only a reminder of the hours, minutes, seconds that he’s been gone.

You don’t need a reminder.

But life ignores your request for a moment of obscurity, and the shrill brrriiiing of the phone echoes obnoxiously in the stillness. Mechanically, you make your way over to the phone, and a second later, a hoarse voice that you recognize as your own murmurs, “Hello?”

“Bert? It’s me.”

Jepha. An odd mix of dread, relief, and anger fills you as you register the familiar drawl. Soft static hums in your ear as you ponder how to reply, toying idly with the smooth, curling phone cord. After what seems like an eternity, you finally trust yourself to speak.

“What do you want?”

In your mind, you can see a clear picture of his puzzled expression, the same sort that passes over his handsome features when you attempt to explain why you hate techno. You can hear the quiet sound of his breathing as he searches for the right words, the exhaustion in his voice as he silently decides, Fuck it.

“... Dude, look, Quinn’s over here, and—”

“Yeah? Does he have his head in your goddamn lap?”

“Bert, come on, can’t you just—”

“No.”

His sigh is loud, too loud in your ears, and to you, it’s a sound of defeat. Automatically, you know that he’s bracing himself for a long argument, but you know there won’t be one. You know where you stand, and it’s not up for discussion. He’s wasting his precious time if he thinks he can change your mind. The word betrayal ghosts through your mind as he continues his weak coaxing.

“He’s been crying all night, man...”

“Do you really think I give a fuck?”

“Bert, please, he’s a wreck—”

Something in you is wearing thin; you can feel it. Already, that familiar surge of anger is coiling dangerously inside of you, something like a deadly time bomb. With each of his gentle, pleading words, you feel your grip on self-control slipping. After a moment or two, you’ve lost it all, and your voice is low and cold as you interrupt him.

“Listen, Jepha. I don’t know what fucking planet you’re from, but here on Earth, when you find your boyfriend about to fuck your friend, there’s not much to talk about.”

Silence is his only reply.

“Tell Quinn to come right over,” you snarl, “I’d love to ask him if he gets off on being a fucking slut.” The irrational part of you feels guilty for saying these words, meekly whispering Blasphemy. Swiftly, you squelch any trace of it, repulsed by your own disloyalty. Minutes after your 'request', there is no reply, just as you expected.

“Oh, and Jeph?”

Apprehensively, he answers with an almost inaudible, “Yeah?”

Smiling sardonically, you hiss, “Next time, fuck around at your place.”

Without another word, you slam the phone back down onto the cradle, stalking away from it with the beginnings of hysteria caressing your insides. Like you said, there’s not much to talk about. This is the only thought in your mind as you step back into the bedroom, making a beeline for the closet. Yanking the doors open, you carelessly toss a worse-for-wear suitcase onto the bed, followed by armfuls of clothes still with the hangers.

Heading for the dresser next, you find that your smile has grown broader, a choked sob forcing its way out of you. There is no sound save your harsh breathing and the quiet thump of clothes as they form a pile. Letting a breathless laugh escape your lips, you gradually sink to your knees. Feeling the carpeted floor scrape mercilessly against your skin, his words purr faintly in your head.

It meant nothing.

You couldn’t agree more.

Thu, 12 Jan 2006 23:31:37 GMT

Title: Ever and A Day [2/4]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Summary: Bert goes away to rehab, and comes home to find that with sobriety comes awareness.
POV: Second-Person [Bert]
Notes: I'm sick, which means another long wait for updates. Sorry this is short. Thanks for the comments, I love you all like Geetard loves himself. ♥

One.

Ever and A Day

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

When you finally looked up from your spot on the floor (you refused to lay on the bed), three obnoxious numbers glowed brightly in the darkness. “One.” You utter this with surprise—time seems to have slipped from your grasp, the minutes trickling through your cupped hands like murky water. Grimacing, you rise slowly, giving the bed a wistful glance before walking out to the kitchen.

“I still believe.”

His words won’t leave you in peace, ringing clearly in your mind. Feeling lazily for the light switch, the lights flicker on a minute later, bathing the small kitchen in a sickly yellow light. It reminds you of something, but you don’t try to remember. After all, what good are memories if they only bring bitterness?

Shaking your head, your gaze lowers to your wrist, bare and unmarred. There used to be at least one hundred bracelets there, most of them black, with a few coloured ones wedged between them. He bought them for you ‘just because’. They slowly disappeared over the years, due to general thoughtlessness and a million trips up to the hill where you went on your first date.

And now they’re gone.

Just like he is.

You thought it’d be nice to leave it all behind, back then. There was something in living the way you did that made it easy. Too easy, when you really think about it. “I need a drink,” you whisper to the warped shadows you create as you make your way to the refrigerator. One o’ clock, and all you want is to forget again. Forget it ever happened.

Forget he ever happened.

“Fuck.” Even in his absence, you can feel him watching, eyes filled with sorrow. It was for him that you changed. You would do anything, if it meant his lips pressed lightly against yours, calloused fingers tracing imaginary circles on your inner thigh, his heartbeat rapid and in sync with your own…

Despite your best efforts to ignore the tightness in your chest, it won’t go away. His voice is still in your ears, a faint whisper above the pounding of your sick heart. Shutting your eyes tightly, you take a deep breath and count to five. One... Was he sorry? Two... Did he think of you? Three... Is he somewhere safe? Four... Does he still love you? Five. You don’t know.

And you know you’ve lost.

Slowly, with slight hesitation, you open your eyes, taking a few steps back towards the living room. Reaching your hand out, you turn the lights back off. After lingering for a few moments, you head back to your room, unsure of what to do without him here with you. Everything feels wrong. Frowning at the silence, you mutter under your breath. “You bastard.” You don’t mean it.

You lay down on the bed with a heavy sigh, on your back, staring up into the darkness. He told you once that if you stare at the ceiling long enough, it begins to look like it’s falling towards you. For the second time, your eyelids fall shut, and you watch the lights and colors dance behind them. Part of you is enjoying this for one simple reason.

It doesn’t remind you of anything.

And that’s all you want.

go to chapter 3.

Sun, 08 Jan 2006 19:41:03 GMT

Title: Ever and A Day [1/4]
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Summary: Bert goes away to rehab, and comes home to find that with sobriety comes awareness.
POV: Second-Person [Bert]
Notes: Written to kill my Writer's Block. Dedicated to underxumbrellas for being uber sexy and eating conformists.

Ever and A Day

Four months.

That’s one hundred twenty-two days, two thousand nine hundred twenty-eight hours, and one hundred seventy-five thousand six hundred eighty minutes. You know this, because he actually worked it out on paper, the day before you left. It’s a mouthful, and he prefers to call it “forever”. That’s how long he’s been waiting. Waiting for you.

If there’s one thing you know about him, it’s that he has an infinite amount of patience when it comes to you. He often jokes about how you’re “a pain in the ass” (you think it’s true), but he never seems to mind. In those days, when you spent your nights purging the treasured poisons from your stomach, he’d hold back your hair and rub your back, singing soft words into your ear.

That time seems so far away now. It wasn’t so long ago, you know, but things are so different now. You’re different now. You can remember everything you did yesterday, and most of the things from last week, and it brings a smile to your face. You remember. Memories as clear as the night sky, and the full, glossy moon that casts a comforting glow over the neighborhood.

"It’s the same as when I left," you murmur. And indeed it is—the same quaint home you share, with the worse-for-wear car parked in the driveway and the mailbox covered in tacky Sharpie drawings. Running your fingers gently over the dusty hood of the car, you giggle a bit, writing ‘WASH ME’ with your fingertip. Everything is exactly the same. And it feels like home.

Humming softly to yourself, you saunter up the worn walkway, suitcase in hand, immediately stricken by nostalgia. The feel of his palm warm against yours, the subtle feel of lips against the curve of your neck... it’s all terribly poetic, you think, and you feel like writing a song. You think he’d like that. "Music is the best aphrodisiac," he told you once with that million-dollar grin.

"And handcuffs don’t hurt either."

Chuckling, his voice still ringing pleasantly in your mind, you slip a hand into your pocket, waiting to hear the familiar clink of metal. After a few moments of fruitless searching, you check the other, smirking triumphantly when you retrieve your keys. You take your time sliding the appropriate key into the lock, rewarded with a soft click.

It’s dark when you step inside. This immediately strikes you as odd—upon checking your watch, you discover that it’s still quite early in the evening. Still, there is a sliver of moonlight streaming in from a window, and as your eyes adjust accordingly, your jaw drops with an imaginary creak. Because he’s there...

But he isn’t alone.

His back arches with an almost grace, a melodic whimper escaping his kiss-swollen lips. Lips that are now pressed hungrily against another’s, his slightly sun-kissed skin illuminated beautifully in the ethereal lighting. You feel ill as another small moan reaches your ears, foreign hands tracing the small of his back. And when you find your voice, you’ve lost your composure.

"What the fuck Quinn?"

Immediately, he leaps up at the sound of your voice, meeting your livid gaze with a small gasp. To your astonishment, he runs towards you with outstretched arms and a bright smile, as though there isn’t a half-naked man that isn’t you sitting up slowly on the couch. His voice is slightly breathless, and his touch sends unpleasant shivers throughout your body as he hugs you tightly.

Placing both palms upon his chest, you shove him violently, watching with slight satisfaction as he stumbles back in surprise. You search his eyes for remorse, and, upon finding none, look towards your replacement. "Get out," you spit viciously, "get the fuck out." Without a single word of protest, you feel him brush past you, gone with a whisper of, "It meant nothing."

"Bert, I missed you so much, baby." His words anger you—he seems to forget that you just walked in on him sharing what is for you only. Your stomach lurches violently, and you feel just like you did all those nights ago. Sick. So, so sick. It’s all wrong, you think. He offers a smile, which you refuse to return. Your words are laced with unmasked venom, sweetened only by your pain.

"You told me you’d wait."

"I did, I waited for so long... He said you wouldn’t come back, but I knew—"

"You promised you’d fucking wait for me."

"I did, Bertie. It’s been so long... I-I was so alone without you, and..."

"So, what? Did you just forget me?"

"I-I’d never—"

An icy glare silences him instantly. The one person who believed in you, the one who you shared so many bleak days with, the one who gave you a reason to live... Gulping quietly, he stares past you, whispering broken apologies. You don’t hear a single one of them, shaking your head again. He steps towards you, wincing unconsciously as you step back, lowering your gaze.

"I... I love you. I knew you could do it... I never..."

You decide then that you’ve heard enough. Clenching your jaw, you gradually raise an arm, pointing towards the door. "Go, now," you hiss, and he’s shocked by the finality of your words. He gives you a blank look, and you almost feel guilty. After a few moments, he nods, looking almost like a scolded child, and leaves without protest. As he rests a hand on the cold brass of the doorknob, he utters just three words.

"I still believe."

And he walks out of the door.

Long after he’s gone, you make your way to the bedroom (careful not to spare the couch a single glance), standing motionless in the doorway. Because it’s not the same, it’s not the same, it’ll never be the same. Sinking to your knees, a soft breath escapes your lips, deafening in the silence. And you think it’s ironic, because you remember.

You remember everything.

go to chapter 2.

Sat, 05 Nov 2005 19:46:09 GMT

Title: Complicated
Rating: PG-14
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Summary: Bert has a question, and Quinn doesn't want to give him an answer.
Notes: First fic for fanfic100, prompt 035: Sixth Sense. Dedicated to noheadlines; thank you for giving me the name Bertha. ♥

Complicated

He always seems to know.

You think this as you sit outside with him, gazing up at the stars and chain-smoking. He has his knees drawn to his chest, chin resting atop them, a cigarette held between his slender, calloused fingers. When he smiles at you, it shows in his eyes. It’s the kind of smile that makes you smile back, simply because it makes you feel good.

And you like feeling good.

It’s another night of those talks that only come with special people. The kind of talks that you think of long after, pondering the meaning of the words you exchanged. He always leaves you with something to consider, and you’d like to think that it makes as much of a difference in his life as it does in yours.

Without warning, he raises his hand, pointing to a far-off star. You gaze at him with confusion, pulling a face. His laughter is light and cheerful, and, like his smile, is infectious. “The answers,” he says, flicking his wrist in a vague motion, “are right in front of you, y’know?” You shake your head slowly, honestly perplexed by his statement.

Laughing again, he shakes his head, blonde hair swaying gently. “How long have you known me?” he asks, taking a drag from his cancer stick. You watch with mild fascination as he makes smoke rings, something you’ve never been able to accomplish. After several moments, you reply slowly.

“A long time.”

“And I’ve known you, too.”

A grin spreads across his handsome face, as he nods, tapping the cigarette into a clay ashtray, messily painted with little skulls. You remember making it for him in art class after he helped you make you an eighth note, laughing that you would never forget it. And maybe you didn’t.

“You have,” you agree, stubbing your own cancer stick and looking back at the sky. You’re waiting for him to get to the point, and he knows it. It’s like he has a sixth sense, able to feel your impatience. He stalls a little longer, handing you the almost empty box of smokes and a lighter.

Grunting in annoyance, you stare intently, attempting to force the words out of him with pure will. When he remains silent still, you give in with a slightly childish, “Well?” Chuckling, he again motions to the heavens above with a simple movement of his hand.

“I’m still confused.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Well I fucking am!”

“You can’t rush things.”

“I want answers, Quinnifer.”

“Then think, Bertha.”

In him, you’ve met your match. He’s the one person who you feel is an equal, in the sense that he’s just as stubborn as you are. You’re still confused, and he isn’t being helpful at all. Snorting quietly at your obvious frustration, he decides to finally address the ‘issue’ at hand. That smile is back, this time brighter than the one before it.

“It’s not so complicated.”

With a laugh, he kisses you gently on the corner of the mouth, before standing up. Brushing the dust off of his faded blue jeans, he casts you a careless glance before retreating back into the dark house. You faintly hear his amused apologies to Jepha, apparently having just woken him up with his laughter, and unconsciously raise a hand to your lips. And you think, once again, he’s right.

It’s not so complicated.

Fri, 21 Oct 2005 22:58:11 GMT

Title: Love Song {Standalone}
Pairing: Bert/Quinn
Rating: PG
Length: 414 Words
Disclaimer: Don't Know. Don't Own. Didn't Happen.
Summary: Bert can't give Quinn what he needs. Quinn can't forgive him.
Notes: This makes NO sense whatsoever to me, and probably won't to anyone else.

Love Song

He makes you nervous.

Pacing like a caged animal, eyes wild, he turns to face you, fists clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed. He looks ready to fight, and you vaguely wonder if he’s going to strike you. All at once, everything leaves him, and his shoulders slump with defeat. You’re puzzled― what is his problem? you wonder. When you ask, the anger returns, and his voice is a frustraited whisper.

“I don’t need a friend!”

Ever perplexed, you watch him warily as he fumbles with his hands, and leans his back heavily against the wall, eyes downcast. You absently think that he complicates things― you’re more of a black and white person, there is no gray. His eyes raise, and instead of anger there is sadness in his eyes, eyes of sweet chocolate and freshly dug earth.

“I need a lover.”

He sighs; a soft sound that sends little shivers up your spine. His palms rest flat against the wall, short nails peeling idly at the faded paint. He speaks in quiet tones, and hesitates with every word. You watch the way his chest rises and falls, the only sign he’s alive as he momentarily falls into a hopeless silence. You break it with a gentle reply.

“I know.”

The distance between you grows shorter, and his eyelids fall shut as you brush your knuckles against his cheek. He shudders visibly, and shakes his head slowly as you kiss his forehead, then the corner of his mouth. You know why he resists, and close your eyes to it as you press your lips to his.

“I love you.”

You know he’s hurting, and it pains you to see him this way. He stares at you miserably, pressing back against the wall as though wanting to sink into it. Your touches are gentle as you pull him into your arms, holding his lithe frame to your chest. You want to make it go away, and you know you can’t, you can’t give him what he wants.

“I’m sorry.”

Singing softly to him, you run your fingers tenderly through his hair as he sobs violently, clutching to you as though he’ll die. He loves you, and you’re breaking his heart. All you can do is calm him with your handwritten lyrics, the lyrics you wrote for him, because you’re sorry, so, so sorry. He listens to your apologies, and, leaning into you, speaks with an empty smile.

“It’s alright.”

And you don’t believe him.

Thu, 20 Oct 2005 00:10:11 GMT

Title: Secondary {Standalone}
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't Know. Don't Own. Didn't Happen.
Summary: It’s a story, he thinks, and he wonders how it ends. So he listens carefully, and hears nothing.
Dedications: To deadxonarrival and everyone else who comments on the stuff I write. I LOVE YOU.
Notes: Very short... Very vague.

Secondary

It’s seven AM.

Or at least Frank thinks so, staring at the clock with half-lidded eyes and blurred vision. It’s a Friday, or, rather, a Saturday, and the sun is creeping up from the horizon. Or at least he thinks it is, the view obscured by cream-colored walls and drawn curtains of navy. His head lolls to one side slowly when his name is called, and he blinks in response to the dusty whispers of the boy beside him.

“There was a boy.”

Was there? His neck aches dully, and he gazes absentmindedly at the ceiling, unmotivated and unresponsive. With his back against the foot of the bed, Frank sits on the worn carpet, one knee drawn to his chest, on which he rests his forehead. The small voice from the corner seems to be getting softer, muffled as though the speaker is drowning.

“And there was a girl.”

He grunts unintelligibly, groping blindly at the floor for his cigarettes without moving anything else. Finally finding the small box, he wedges one between his lips, lighting it carefully with a discarded lighter. Inhaling deeply, he gives the other a sort of dreamy smile, distracted by the smoke that curls and disappears into the dirty air.

“The boy had a gun.”

Frowning, he removes the cancer stick and exhales, fascinated by the visible chemicals as they dance before his eyes. He picks idly at the frayed hole in his jeans; delighted at the way it shrinks back away from his numb fingers. It’s a story, he thinks, and he wonders how it ends. So he listens carefully, and hears nothing.

“The girl had a dream.”

Holding out the smoke, he watches silently as the storyteller reaches with thin, pale fingers and takes it. Said boy places the newly acquired cigarette into his own mouth, a faded smile pulling at the corners of his dry lips. Frank sits still, and plays a guessing game with himself. High and dazed, he tries to remember what he took. The other continues, words yellowed with age.

“The boy was in love.”

Frank wonders if he’s ever been in love. He thinks he was once, but isn’t sure, because he might’ve dreamt it. Shifting sluggishly, he turned, crawling up onto the creaky bed with the dirty sheets. The voice follows him, and he almost groans in annoyance. The squeak of the springs beneath him is sharp in his ears, and makes him whimper softly. But still he listens.

“The girl was dead.”

Smiling, his eyelids slip shut, thick eyelashes concealing the hazy green-brown-green irises that the other can’t forget. The boy in the corner rises, his joints popping in complaint as he staggers to the bed. Flopping next to Frank, he laughs airily. The aforementioned unconsciously moves a little closer, drawn in by the murmurs that ghosted across his skin and left him warm.

“He stole the boy’s heart.”

Sighing, Frank draws ever closer, the other’s laughter echoes in his head like the sirens passing by the house. They share the stale air, and their heartbeats are out of sync. Without looking, he sees the boy’s face, resembling a thunderstorm. He knows the story is not over, and parts his lips, letting a single question pass through as a hoarse whisper.

“How does it end?”

The storyteller smiles, just before their lips collide in a fatal kiss.

“They live happily ever after.”

Tue, 18 Oct 2005 23:10:47 GMT

Title: Head Up
Pairing: Frank/Gerard, Quinn/Bert
Rating: PG-15 for language
Disclaimer: Don't Know. Don't Own. Didn't Happen.
Summary: ...All this, and you don’t even know what he looks like...
Dedications: To iwalkalone84 and noheadlines, because you leave the best comments. ♥

Previous Chapters: |one|two|three|

Chapter Four

Your heart stops.

For one full, agonizing minute, you can’t breathe and you can’t think. The clock laughs at your ignorance, and at the fear creeping up into your chest. Automatically, your mind calculates that it should take another fifteen minutes to meet your dear Gerard, and Quinn’s excited chatter falls upon deaf ears. Just as suddenly, life returns to you like a suckerpunch in a drunken fight.

“SHIT.”

Snatching the sketchbook up from where you left it on the counter, you search for your shoes, slipping them on roughly and heading for the door. In your haste, you almost knock the vase of roses off of the table (which, you remember, Bert gave to Quinn the other day), but you manage to catch and replace it. Great job, Frankie. You think you deserve the World’s Biggest Dork Award.

Sigh.

Grabbing your keys off of the hook by the door, you hurriedly bid Quinn goodbye, darting out into hall and down the stairs. Most of the time, you take the elevator― you happen to be extremely lazy, and not in the best shape. You remember this as you reach the third flight down, panting as you head for the fourth. Who’s bright idea was it to move to the fifth floor, anyway!?

Finally reaching the bottom, you smile triumphantly as you round the corner, only to run smack into Dirty Jesus Man. “Bert?” Said man grins and hugs you. “Hey, Frankie,” he greets, shaking the toussled hair from his azure eyes and releasing you. He whistles appreciatively, looking you over. “Where’re you running off to all dolled up?” he giggles, and you sigh, because it isn’t in your nature to be rude.

“Out.”

“So you won’t join us, then? It’s a shame, ‘cause you’re ho―”

“Bert... I’m in a hurry!”

“Ah. Date?”

Is he psychic? You almost ask him, until you remember that you’re in a rush. Darting around him, you look back over your shoulder, waving. “Sorry, I can’t talk, I’m late,” you say quickly. “Have fun with Quinn!” He laughs girlishly and waves energetically, replying with a loud, “Will do, Frankie!” With that, you’re out of the lobby doors and down the sidewalk, ignoring the pain in your legs.

Pathetic.

You really need some exercise. Scolding yourself inwardly, you maneuver around a few parked cars, taking a shortcut through the parking lot. Reaching a chainlink fence, you remember that it surrounds the entire lot. But you can’t wait― because it would mean taking the longer way, and time waits for no man. And so, checking that the sketchbook is safe, you scale the fence.

Once again, you’re reminded of your lack of athletic ability. Landing clumsily on the other side, you sprint out of the allyway and onto the sidewalk, coming to the familiar road. You grin― you’re so close, you can get to your destination in no time! You’re slowing down when you notice a hunched figure retreating, heading in the opposite direction.

“GERARD!”

He turns around, looking surprised as you finally reach him, completely out of breath. You wonder vaguely how you managed to get here without dying. Fighting to regain your composure, you look up at him, smiling wearily and handing him the sketchbook. His features light up, and you’re gasping for air― but not because you’re out of shape, or because you’ve been running.

“Sorry I’m late...”

“It’s okay.”

“I lost track of time.”

“You look nice.”

Does he know that your heart just lodged itself in your throat? You just might choke. Coughing lightly, you stare at the ground intently, too nervous to meet his eyes. You're afraid of what you might say to him, so you simply thank him quietly. Without meeting his gaze, you can feel his honey-colored eyes on you. Somehow, the knowledge makes your stomach flip and your knees weak. You almost laugh at how cliché that is, but realize you might sound crazy if you do.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

You stare at him as though he’s insane, straightening up a bit. “Are you kidding!?” you cry, and then you blush, realizing what you just said. His smile is slow and warm, and you can’t help but return it. Running his fingers lovingly over the worn cover, he holds the sketchbook to his chest, almost in a longing hug. You find yourself envying the book, turning scarlette at the thought.

“It wasn’t my best work.”

“Huh?”

Chuckling at your reply, he turns to the page with your portrait, smiling. “This, I mean,” he says, taping the corner with a slender finger. “Oh,” you murmur dumbly, cursing your lack of intelligent replies. Part of you wishes he’d ask for a chance to try again, and, lo and behold, he does! “If you don’t mind, of course,” he adds shyly, blushing lightly.

You’re torn between squealing like a little girl and jumping his bones, and you opt for nodding. “If you really want,” you say softly, having a little inner ‘Go-Frankie’ party. Without another word, he leads you over to the tree, plopping down on the grass. You sit next to him, fiddling with your fingers and eyeing him timidly.

“Stay real still.”

“Okay.”

“Mhmm...”

Humming to himself, he pulls out his trusty pencil, resting the sketch pad against his knees in a way that you can’t see. “Remember, no moving,” he warns with a childish smile. Sitting completely still, you watch him work, noting the way his tongue pokes out from the side of his mouth. As you wait patiently, you think of how cute he looks like that, and wonder if he thinks you’re cute too.

Rolling your eyes inwardly, you resist the urge to shake your head. You really are a woman, and they should call you Francine. You’re thinking of girly names you’d like better, when Gerard makes a soft noise of annoyance. “Fuck,” he mutters, setting the sketchbook aside. He crawls towards you, getting very close.

Your breath mingles with his, as he stares into your eyes with concentration. Smiling smoothly, he pulls away, leaving your heart hammering loudly and your palms sweating. Sitting back in his former position, he picks the sketch back up and the pencil resumes its frenzied motion. When you let out a shakey breath and bite your lip, he glances up, blinking slowly.

“You alright?”

No.

“Fine...?”

Laughing softly, he moves forward again, and you sigh in frustration. Or at least you would, if you weren’t prevented from doing so by his soft, sweet, lucious, dear lord lips. It’s not a heated, lusty kiss or anything, just a chaste peck, but it leaves you breathless all the same. When he pulls away, he gives you a bright smile and goes back to sketching. “You know,” he comments. "I like this expression better."

Score one for Mr. Spazz.

Sun, 16 Oct 2005 00:01:18 GMT

Title: Head Up
Pairing: Frank/Gerard, Quinn/Bert
Rating: PG-15 for language
Disclaimer: Don't Know. Don't Own. Didn't Happen.
Summary: ...All this, and you don’t even know what he looks like...
Dedications: To iwalkalone84 and noheadlines, because you leave the best comments. ♥

Previous Chapters: |one|two|

Chapter Three

“Too slutty.”

You sigh in frustration― this is the third outfit you’ve looked at. In only your boxers, you stand in the middle of your bedroom, groaning. Quinn sits nonchalantly on your bed, watching you scurry about, looking for a decent outfit. He hasn’t offered his opinion, and for some reason, that irritates you.

As if on cue, he looks up casually from fiddling with his wristband. “Tie,” he states simply, grinning deviously. Blinking, you look in the closet, finding a simple black collared shirt and a red tie. He laughs at your puzzled expression, and shakes the bleach blonde hair from his eyes.

“I’ll do your hair, if you want.”

This surprises you. Quinn never seemed like the girly-make over type... the thought immediately dissolves in your mind when he giggles softly. “Okay,” you reply hesitantly, unsure of whether you should trust him or not. After all, your hair is very important to you. Too important, really.

Sad? Yes.

You’re about to refuse his offer, but he juts out his lower lip, his eyes wide and glassy. The puppy face. Damn him. Sighing in defeat, you nod, pulling a pair of tight black pants on. “Yay!” he squeals, leaping off of your bed. He makes a show of skipping to the bathroom, singing ‘I Feel Pretty’ at the top of his lungs.

“Pansy.”

“One word― Girl pants.”

“That’s two, dickweed.”

“... So is ‘Fuck you’, bitch.”

Sighing again, you put on the shirt and tie, shuffling after him. As soon as you reach the doorway, he yanks you in by the tie, shoving you against the counter. “Don’t you look sexy,” he purrs in your ear, running a finger down your chest. Rolling your eyes, you shove him away. He howls with laughter as you sit on the toilet, scowling.

“Relax! Just having some fun.”

“How can I? You’re crazy.”

“Crazy and talented.”

“No, crazy and gay.”

Pouting, he shakes the comb in his hand at you. “Watch it, Iero, or I’ll dye your hair green whilst you slumber.” Seeing your horrified expression, he cackles, bouncing over to you with assorted hair-care products. Humming a song you can’t remember the name of, he works at styling your damp hair, a smile gracing his features.

The fact that he has a box of hair dye set aside sets off little sirens in your head, and you stare at it fearfully. "What are you--" you begin, but he interrupts. "Just let me work. I'm a professional!" You attempt to argue that he's hardly qualified to tie his own shoes, but he shoots an irritated glance your way, and you remain silent.

Trust him. Trust him.

Oh, what have you gotten yourself into?

You examine his expressions carefully, searching for any sign that he’s trying to screw you over. Idly toying with your tie, you shift uncomfortably. “I know how important this is,” he murmurs, as though reading your thoughts, “so don’t worry.” This doesn’t do much to calm you, but you relax a little.

Just a little.

“Done!”

An hour and a half later, you’re standing at the mirror, looking more shocked than you mean to. Because it looks good, with deep red streaks, hanging over your left eye. “Wow,” you mumble. Quinn chuckles, then smirks triumphantly, twirling the comb and blowing on it, seemingly pleased with himself.

“I is a genius.”

“Didn’t mommy tell you not to brag?”

“She also told me to find a nice girl.”

Before you know it, the two of you are doubled over, your laughter echoing pleasantly through the apartment. Wiping a tear from his eye, Quinn straightens up, leaning against the bathroom counter as you finish applying red and black eye makeup. “Say, Frankie,” he says, smiling sweetly, “y'know, you’re looking lovely today.”

Uh oh.

Staring at him, you raise an eyebrow, eyeing him suspiciously. “What is it?” you ask flatly, sighing. He hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. Picking at invisible lint on his shirt, he glances up at you through a curtain of blonde bangs. “Me and Bert have... er... ‘plans’ tonight,” he mutters softly, and you groan, walking out of the bathroom.

“God, do you two ever stop?”

“Hey, we went to his place last time! It’s only fair.”

“But he doesn’t have a roommate!”

“C’mon, what’s the big deal?”

Smacking your forehead, you give him a half-hearted glare. “You end up having very loud sex,” you reply, “and I end up scarred for life... not to mention sleepless.” He smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can join us?” he offers, and you can’t help but crack a smile.

“No thanks. I like clean sex.”

“You’re such a bitch, Frankie.”

The two of you laugh again, and against your better judgment, you nod. “Fine.” He squeals and hugs you, hurriedly thanking you before rushing back to his room to get ready. You giggle at this and cast a careless glance towards the clock mounted on the wall. Panic rises in your chest and your jaw unhinges with an imaginary squeak.

2:40 PM.

You’re late.

Sat, 08 Oct 2005 20:35:17 GMT

Title: Head Up
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG-15 for language
Disclaimer: Don't Know. Don't Own. Didn't Happen.
Summary: ...All this, and you don’t even know what he looks like...
Dedications: To iwalkalone84 and noheadlines, because you leave the best comments. ♥
Notes: Quinn makes an appearance. YAY. Look, Mandie! It's dialogue-driven and fluffy. :D Wewt.

Previous Chapters: |one|

Chapter Two

Five days.

It’s been exactly five days since you met him. In that amount of time, you have not called him. It isn’t because you don’t want to― oh, you do very much. It isn’t because you don’t have time― you have all the time in the world, too much time. The reason is, simply put, because you’re chicken.

Oh yes. You, Frank Iero, should be called chicken-boy and mocked for your cowardice. In fact, you have been, by your oh-so-helpful roommate, Quinn. “Just pick up the fucking phone and call him!” he shouts at you for the nineteenth time. You know this, because you’ve counted.

“What if he isn’t home?”

“Try again.”

“What if it’s not his number?”

“It is, I’m sure.”

“What if―”

“What if I smack you until you call him?”

You remind yourself never to argue with Quinn again. Soon enough, you’re in the kitchen, sitting on the wooden counter, dialing the number you’ve (sadly) memorized. Mr. No-Excuses sits across from you, knowing that you would fail to call Gerard otherwise. Damn him. Damn him.

Pouting, you listen to the monotonous ring, becoming increasingly nervous. Just as you’re about to triumphantly declare that he isn’t home, you hear a soft click. “Hello?” It’s a voice that you don’t recognize, and that worries you.

A lot.

Swallowing hard, you decide it’s now or never. “H-Hi,” you reply weakly, “It’s Frank. Is Gerard there?” You feel like you’re in Junior High all over again, and you blush intensely. Quinn chuckles under his breath, obviously enjoying this. You glare at him so intently that you almost miss what this mystery person says.

“Ohh, you’re Frank. Gee told me ‘bout you. Hold on a second.”

Gerard’s been talking about you? What has he been saying? Good things, or bad things? Your mind races, and your heart beats so hard that you’re sure it might crack your ribs. It occurs to you that you don’t even know whom you’re conversing with at the moment. God, you’re going to have a heart attack.

There’s a short silence, and then―

“GEEEEEE! PHOOOONE!”

Almost dropping the phone in surprise, you regain your composure quickly, shooting Quinn an irritated glance when he giggles. You hear a distant, “Fuck, Mikey!” and then, “Who is it?” in the background, to which Mr. No-Name replies, “Frank.” Again, silence, before, “Gimme!”

“Jump for it!”

“You fucking suck, give me the phone!”

“Say pleeeeease.”

“GIVE IT HERE, BITCH!”

Needless to say, you’re listening helplessly, confused beyond belief. Glancing over, you realize that Quinn moved so that he can hear, and is trying hard not to fall off the counter laughing. Shoving him away with a soft snort, you turn your concentration back to the phone.

“Ha! I showed you, bizznatch.”

Ah, it seems that Gerard has won the battle. “But not the war!” the one you assume is Mikey cries. “Go away,” Gerard snaps playfully, then seems to remember what he was fighting for. “Frank?” he says hesitantly, and your heart skips a beat.

“Y-Yeah,” you answer, still in awe that he can make any word sound like music. “Hey, I was wondering if you’d call,” he says, and you picture his toothy grin. This makes you smile yourself, and you lean against the counter with a little sigh. “Sorry about that, by the way. My brother is a bitch,” he adds.

“I am not!”

“Dammit, didn’t I tell you to get outta here?”

Unable to help yourself, you giggle, cursing inwardly when it comes out a little girlish. “See?” he sighs, and laughs too. You can’t help but love the way he laughs― it’s warm and reminds you of bells. Apparently, you look really stupid, because Quinn imitates your smile and cackles.

Bastard.

Sticking your tongue out at him, you turn away, directing your full attention to Gerard. “I...er...have your sketchbook,” you state ungracefully, tossing a well-aimed spoon from the sink at Quinn, who makes kissing noises and howls with laughter. It hits him upside the head.

“Shut up, Quinnifer.”

“Oh em gee, you BITCH.”

Whining loudly, he rubs the ‘injured’ area, pouting. “You don’t play nice,” he murmurs, “Meanie.” You smirk with amusement when he gives you a one-finger salute when leaving, and then listen to Gerard’s reply. “My sketchbook?” he asks, “Seriously?” You nod, and then remember that he can’t see. “Yeah, I figured you’d want it back,” you say softly. He pauses.

“Did you... look at it?”

“I might’ve taken a peak...?”

“Um... what did you think?”

Alright, Mr. Spazz. The floor is all yours. Tell him what you think. Opening your mouth, you find that the words won’t form correctly. Even if they did, you highly doubt they’d make it past the knot in your throat. “Amazing.” Did you say that? Well, congratulations― you can speak.

“You really think so?”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly, he sounds as shy and self-conscious as you felt from the minute you met him. “Thank you,” he says, and you almost melt at the sincerity of his words. “Hey, how about I bring it to you?” Wow, you’re on a roll. You’re surprised at your own boldness, and even more surprised when he agrees.

“When?”

“Is two-thirty good?”

Are you sure it’s you talking?

“Yeah. Meet you by the tree.”

Grinning because you know what he means, you nod unconsciously. “Okay, see you then.” Leaning back against the cabinets, you let the phone slip out of your grasp and onto the cradle. Deliriously happy, you slip off the counter, past Quinn who’s smirking and saying, “Told ya so!”

Because you don’t have time to deal with him.

You’ve got a date with Mr. Art.

Fri, 07 Oct 2005 00:55:31 GMT

Title: Head Up
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't Know. Don't Own. Didn't Happen.
Summary: ...All this, and you don’t even know what he looks like...
Dedications: To iwalkalone84 and noheadlines, because you leave the best comments. Luff. ♥

Head Up

Alright.

You’ve walked this path a thousand times. That makes today a thousand and one. He’s been there just as many times, but you’ve never actually seen his face. This is due to the fact that every time you pass him by, he sits off to the side, knees pulled to his chest, head bent. You used to wonder what he was doing, until once, you saw him shift, revealing a sketchbook.

An artist.

Soon after, you began wondering what he was drawing. One time, you heard him swear, apparently having broken his pencil. He pulled another swiftly from the pocket of his jeans, which were, you noted, torn creatively at the knees. Much like your own. Maybe not so creative. Needless to say, this piqued your curiosity further― he had a nice voice.

And so, today, as you head up the walkway once more, you vow to speak to him. You silently rehearse everything you’ll say, and work up all of the ‘cool’ that never really existed. You even wore your favorite t-shirt― the one that fits in all the right places― and your nicest pair of jeans. All this, and you don’t even know what he looks like.

You can do this.

Ignoring the nervous churning of your stomach, you approach him, steeling your resolve. Because it isn’t tomorrow anymore, it’s today. It isn’t later, it’s now. Taking a deep breath, you jam your hands in your pockets and lean against the trunk of the tree he sits under. At once, the pencil ceases motion.

He noticed you.

A start.

Clearing your throat softly, you let one single word slip past your lips. “Hey.” Easy, right? Glancing up, he blinks at you, acknowledging your presence. Every bit of ‘cool’ slips away in an instant, because he’s more gorgeous than you imagined. There goes your self-confidence.

“Hey.”

Is he talking to you? Resisting the urge to glance around to make sure, you smile. Coherent words fail to form in your mind, and suddenly you’re thankful that you’ve got the tree to support you. You take the opportunity to take in his lovely features― maybe you were wrong. He isn’t an artist, he’s art.

With jet black hair framing a perfectly pale face, he’s the epitome of classic beauty. His eyes remind you of honey, smooth and sweet, and you wish you were a poet so that you could put into words everything you’re thinking. He doesn’t smile, but somehow, you know he isn’t being cold. And you like that.

Finally regaining your composure, you continue. “I see you a lot.” It sounds stupid, incredibly stupid, but it’s something, and you’re at least happy that you can speak again. This time, he does smile, and you almost lose yourself all over again. “And I see you a lot,” he replies simply, moving his sketchbook so that the picture is against his chest.

Damn.

You wanted to know what he was drawing. Oddly, he’s clutching it as though his life depends on it. You’re so caught up in his smile, and the mystery of his sketchbook that you almost miss what he says next. “Take a seat.” Hesitating slightly, you do as he says, finding that for the first time in your life, you’re shy.

“I’m Frank,” you say softly, holding out your hand. He takes it, his voice washing over you and leaving you with tingling skin. “Gerard.” A strange name, but for him it’s perfect. You smile when you notice the pencil smudges on his fingers, which are warm and comforting. Five minutes, and you feel as though you’re old friends, although you just learned his name.

Back to Earth. “Gerard,” you echo under your breath, testing the way it sounds. Idly, you think that it sounds better when he says it. “So, Frank,” he says, and you’re delighted that he’s still smiling. “Where were you headed? If you don’t mind me asking.”

In somewhat of a daze, you reply, “Nowhere.” Then he does the most amazing thing― he laughs. You’re beside yourself with glee. You made him laugh! You! Grinning like a complete idiot, you flick some of your long hair out of your eyes. He sets the sketchbook aside, laying it facedown on the grass.

He’s hiding something, isn’t he?

Time passes by, as it is known to do, too quickly for your liking. Before you know it, the both of you are standing, brushing away loose soil from your clothes and chuckling quietly. Part of you cannot comprehend that Mr. Art himself has conversed with Mr. Spazz for this long, and the rest of you is in heaven.

Without warning, he takes your hand and, using the pen tucked behind his ear (when did that get there?), writes something. With a final smile, he bids you farewell, leaving you to think the conversation over. Looking distractedly at your hand, you read the seven digits scrawled neatly across your skin.

You didn’t think it possible, but your smile grows ten-fold. Plopping back onto the grass, you gaze into the sky dreamily. The whole conversation is on repeat in your head, his voice still humming pleasantly in your ears. And what a lovely sound it is. Suddenly, it hits you.

The sketchbook.

It sits beside you. You think how ironic it is that he forgot something that he obviously treasured so much. The urge to take a look is just too great― soon enough, it sits in your lap, open to the page he had so diligently worked on. Your eyes drink in the smooth, dark lines, and your jaw drops.

Because you recognize the picture, in all it’s stunning detail, and your heart skips a beat.

It’s you.

Wed, 05 Oct 2005 21:22:05 GMT

Title: Interlude
Pairing: Gerard/Frank
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Suggested murder, one swear word, and...blood?
Disclaimer: Don't Know. Don't Own. Didn't Happen.
Summary: ...All at once, the room plunges into darkness with the click of the lock...

Interlude

“Frankie...”

Artificial light streams through the open door. I notice the dust dancing through the dense, impure air― your shadow stretches across the dirty floor. My eyes slowly travel to your silhouetted figure. All at once, the room plunges into darkness with the click of the lock. The sound of your footsteps drawing nearer falls in time with the steady tick of the clock. It’s too loud, and I stare vacantly as the bed creaks.

You pull me up gently. My head lolls to one side limply― I have nothing to give you. I have nothing to say. Yanking me closer, you hold my head against your chest, stroking the small of my back. Your words reach my ears, but I fail to understand them. My eyelids snap shut, and I count to ten. Something warm and damp is against my cheek, and a sour smell reaches my nose. It fills my lungs like the nicotine we’re so fond of these days, stale and nauseating, heavy with death.

“Promise you’ll keep it a secret.”

The moon is out tonight, but there are no stars. The air is heavy, with the faint smell of cologne. It’s almost comforting, and I lean into your touch. I crave oxygen, and my breaths are shallow. I can’t breathe, and you refuse to relent your vice grip on me. Tracing little circles against my chilled skin, you mumble into the stillness. “It’s our little secret. I fucking love you, Frankie.” Your heart beats loudly, or is that mine? My mouth is dry, and I dare not speak.

“Don’t you love me?”

Your face is so pale― it glows with a divine light. I can’t help but admire how beautiful you are. Feeling nails against my scalp, I attempt to breathe again. You take my chin in one hand and force me to look up. Eyes, brilliant and bright, a polished, glassy sort of hazel. With a lopsided smile, you pull me closer, so that our breaths mingle. The warm substance is on your hands, I notice, and it runs along the side of my face.

My eyes burn.

You close the gap between us, suckling on my lower lip gently. I’m unresponsive, but you seem satisfied as you move away, cooling my swollen lip with your whispers. Your whispers echo long after they are said, sending shivers along my spine, so much like music. “He tried to take you from me, Frankie.” Pausing, you lick the mysterious liquid. “I had to kill him.” Drowsiness overtakes me― you’re so much like a drug, your threats lulling me to sleep. You kiss me again, and the taste is different this time.

It’s metallic.

I cough a bit, trying to clense my lungs, but you refuse to let me go. Your lips are firmly planted on mine, and I think how pretty you were...are. “Our little secret, babe.” The steely taste in my mouth is comforting, like razorblades and needles. “I love you.” You rock back and forth, cooing in my ear as the room fades from my vision. I'm choking on the thickness in my throat, and I can feel you smile. “I love you,” you repeat quietly, as I drift into blissful unconsciousness.

“Sleep, sugar.”

Wed, 05 Oct 2005 00:33:00 GMT

Title: Destination Anywhere
Pairing: Gerard/Frank
Rating: PG-13?
Disclaimer: Don't Know. Don't Own. Didn't Happen.
Summary: Frankie never gets to drive.

Destination Anywhere

You never drive.

It’s always been at the back of your mind, nagging slightly. It’s stupid, you remind yourself, to get all bent out of shape over something as trivial as who drives. All the same, it bothers you. Tonight is no different then the nights before it― you’re in the passenger’s seat, fiddling with the radio, while he drives, a cigarette held between his two fingers.

You think that he smokes way too much, even for you. Plucking it away gently, you set it between your own lips, inhaling the bittersweet chemicals deeply. He eyes you with playful annoyance, then stares back out at the road. This does little to quell your growing irritation, and it quietly gnaws at your insides until you finally open your mouth.

“Why don’t I ever drive?”

Blinking, he looks at you in surprise, clearly asking, ‘What the fuck?’ without words. Jutting out your lower lip, you attempt to explain. “You never let me drive,” you state weakly, lowering your gaze to the floor, “why?” Looking away, he shrugs slightly.

“Dunno,” he replies slowly, running a thumb along the steering wheel. “It just happens that way.”

Maybe it does, but it doesn’t answer your question. Taking another drag from his cancer stick, you stare intently. “You never let me drive,” you repeat, “or ask me if I want to.” His smile is smooth and careless as he pulls over on the side of the deserted road. Turning toward you, he leans an elbow against the steering wheel, running a hand through his hair.

“Do you want to?”

Nirvana’s ‘Come As You Are’ is on the radio, you notice. You happen to like this song― and mention it aloud, without meaning to, while putting out the spent smoke. He gives you a confused stare, which you shrug away. “I do,” you say defensively. Laughing softly, he shakes his head.

“Do you want to?” he repeats, and it’s your turn to be confused.

“What?”

“Drive.”

All you can do is look back at him, wondering if he’s fucking with you or not. “Why...?” you inquire hesitantly, and he chuckles.

“You asked why you never get to drive,” he says coolly. You do want to, but part of you still doesn’t trust him. Before you can stop yourself, you say, “Yeah,” with the slightest hint of hesitation.

He surprises you yet again when he unclasps his seatbelt with a soft click. You’re starting to believe that he’s actually going to let you, but instead, he leans forward, capturing your lips with his. Pulling away so that your breath mingles, he speaks quietly.

“Do you want to?”

It occurs to you that he isn’t talking about driving.

Nodding mutely, you swallow with some difficulty. “Y-Yeah,” you repeat, letting your eyes slip shut as he kisses you once more. He’s warm against you, and his hands are soft as they creep up under your shirt. Massaging your skin tenderly, he goes no further than that, and you savor the feeling of his lips against yours. He smells like cinnamon and cigarettes, and you like that.

Suddenly, he pulls away, putting his seatbelt back on and pulling back onto the road. Understandably, you’re pissed. “What the fuck!?” you cry angrily, glaring daggers into the side of his head. He smiles calmly, casting you a careless glance.

With a snicker, he looks back onto the road once more. You resist the urge to throttle him, and wipe that amused smirk off his face. It’s then that he chooses to address your question. “I couldn’t do that if you were driving,” he states idly, lighting another cigarette.

“That’s why.”

Tue, 04 Oct 2005 22:52:03 GMT

Title: I'm No God
Pairing: Gee/Bert
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't Know, Don't Own, Didn't Happen.
Summary: Because what goes up, must come down.
Dedications: To iwalkalone84, and anyone who's ever woken up with sleep in their eyes and a heavy heart.

I'm No God

It’s disgusting.

The way that you stare at me with hollow eyes, in a world where you can do nothing but stumble. I’ve been there a hundred times to hold you through the pain. I’ve been there a thousand times to catch you before you fall to the concrete. I’ve been there a million times to wipe your tears away.

But it’s not enough for you. Day by day, the need is greater. The stakes are higher. I don’t know how much longer I can gamble― is it worth the risk if we know we won’t win in the end? I wish you’d stop crying. It makes you seem small and fragile... and I can’t afford to break you.

Don’t touch me. The touch that sent sparks along my skin leaves nothing but a chill, so cold that it burns. Fragile fingers caressing my back make me want to strip my skin away― stripping what little there is left with my painted fingernails. The mental image isn’t appreciated, mind you.

It’s disturbing.

When you stagger through the door, reeking of booze and blood, with a split lip, I want to scream. Scream until my lungs are on fire, and I can’t breathe. Even now, it’s hard to take a breath― the air is stale, filled with something I’ll never be able to identify. You make me nauseas with your metallic kisses. But I say nothing, because you need me.

You look at me like I’m your knight in shining armor. Like I’m here to save you. But I can’t save you, I can’t deliver you from evil. Even now, I can barely stop trembling. You look confused, and it makes me want to laugh. Because I’m worse off than you are, and you don’t seem to notice.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t push you away. Even when you grasped the side of my face, raking your fingers through my greasy hair with a violence that’s so unlike you, I was overcome with sympathy and guilt. An invisible force bound me to you, and I couldn’t escape it. I accepted my destiny― I didn’t expect a reward. I just wanted you to smile again... You never did.

It’s depressing.

Remember when we went to the park? It was pouring rain, and we were stuck under a little umbrella, crushed together. But I wasn’t uncomfortable― were you?― and we laughed at the way our makeup ran. You kissed me and told me it was alright, that we could go have some coffee. I wrapped an arm around you and you said it was nice and warm. I miss that.

Please, don’t cry. Don’t waste your precious tears― I won’t be around to catch them. It’s better this way, I think. You’ll find someone to save you. That’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it? I’m no savior. Stop saying you love me. Stop promising you’ll change. Don’t ask me to stay. Can you feel that? It’s raining again.

The chilly air doesn’t bother me― I embrace it with open arms. You’re not trying to stop me. I don’t want you to. I’m so close, I can taste it like the bitter drink we favor. Just a few more steps and I’m free. Just a few more feet and you’re done. I’m smiling because I knew, and you didn’t. I won’t look back.

Welcome to reality.

I’m no god.

Tue, 04 Oct 2005 22:47:16 GMT

Title: Worst To December {Standalone}
Pairing: Quinn/Bert, implied Gee/Bert
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't Know, Don't Own, Didn't Happen.
Summary: And you think how cliché it seems, the heartbroken lover sitting in the rain...

Gerard is gone. Bert is broken. Quinn is concerned.

Worst To December

He’s out there again.

No matter how many times you tell him that he’ll get sick, that it’s too cold, too damp, he never moves. It’s like your words ghost over his head, unheard and unimportant. It doesn’t bother you, though, because it seems that you’re no better. Silently, you walk outside, standing next to him with an umbrella, frowning slightly. And you think how cliché it seems, the heartbroken lover sitting in the rain.

He’s soaked.

A soggy cigarette is set limply between his chapped lips, his tangled hair sagging gently in the dim light. You think how beautiful he looks like that― raindrops caught in dark, grimy locks, sparkling in the dim, gray light. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t thank you. Instead, he lets his cancer stick fall wetly to the dirt, his voice hoarse as he speaks.

“Got a smoke?”

You do.

He hums appreciatively when you hand him the small, white box and a lighter, but does nothing with them. You stare down at him, free hand in the tight pocket of your faded jeans, and open your mouth. He interrupts you and, in his usual fashion, seems to have read your mind. “I know he isn’t coming back.” Sighing, he finally looks up, normally vibrant eyes seeming washed out and tired.

It’s not raining anymore.

“You’re soaked,” you say dully, biting your lower lip hesitantly. “Aren’t you cold...?” He merely shakes his head in response to your concern, smiling emptily.

“No. No, I’m not,” he murmurs, like he’s surprised. You decide this needs to stop, and now. Closing the umbrella, you toss it back behind you, not caring where it lands.

He looks confused.

You almost laugh at his expression― it’s everything he is... anxious, puzzled, curious. Wordlessly, you scoop him up into your arms, noting that he’s too thin. He does nothing but stare, murmuring questions that pass you by. As soon as you’re at the back of the bus, you set him down, grabbing his arm when he makes to leave once more. “You’re soaked,” you mumble again, “Stay inside.”

He laughs.

“Fine, mother.”

Smiling meekly, you instruct him to undress while you gather a towel and dry clothes. To your surprise, he does what you ask without protest, standing still. You avert your eyes from his bare body, gulping quietly. Face burning with shame, you hand him the items you so carefully gathered. As you retreat in silence, his whisper almost goes unnoticed, although you wish it had.

“He used to kiss me in the rain.”

Sighing for the umpteenth time, you continue walking away, head bent and shoulders slumped. Part of you is disappointed. You don’t understand why― you knew that he wasn’t going to confess his undying love for you, take you into his arms, declare that he’d never let go. It shouldn’t be at all shocking that he still talks about him― they were in love. Were.

“Can you brush my hair?”

To most, it would seem like an odd request from a grown man, but to you, it’s as normal as can be. He follows you to the ratty couch, worn with memories of drunken nights and meaningless sex. You sit behind him, brush in hand, his back towards you. His hair is longer than you remember. It’s then that you realize that you haven’t done this in ages, and that you missed it.

“He used to do this, y’know?”

You do know.

It was you, after all, who watched with envious eyes, hating him. Hating that he could do everything that you could not, and more. With aching fingers, you pull his unruly mane back, working at the stubborn knots tenderly. He continues murmuring under his breath to you, and you hear how unhappy he is. Unhappy. It seems simple, the way they can put a prefix in front of a word and ruin a life.

“He used to hold me.”

When you have completed your task, you slide your hands experimentally through dark silk, admiring the way it shines. “Done,” you say, trying not to let your constant discontent show. Without seeing it, you know a small smile graces his features.

“Thanks,” he replies, leaning back against your chest. Automatically, you wrap your arms around his lean figure. It doesn’t bother you that he isn’t thinking of you, but of another.

It doesn’t. Really.

Because the fact of the matter is, you’re holding him, and he’s just as warm. His heart beats all the same. Closing your eyes, you pretend he loves you. Like you know he could if he wasn’t in the picture. “You’re wonderful, Quinny,” he mumbles tiredly, as though speaking is too energy-consuming. You nod mutely, tightening your grip slightly. It doesn’t bother you. It doesn’t bother you.

It does.

Eyes snapping open, you gaze down at him, surprised that he’s looking back at you. “I love you,” you state ungracefully, and he’s the first one to stop the staring contest.

“I know.” He leans up and captures your lips briefly. You think that it’s less of an actual kiss, and more of a silent apology. “...I know,” he repeats, “....you know.” You chuckle softly.

He knows.

And it isn’t a dramatic love declaration, and he doesn’t take you in his arms, and he isn’t saying he’ll never let go. This isn’t hopelessly romantic, nor wonderfully cliché and perfect. But it’s everything to you, and something to him, and it’s a start. Really, that’s all you need. You smile slightly when you realize that it all makes sense, and you understand. Because, like he said...

You know.

Thu, 15 Sep 2005 22:07:03 GMT

Title: Reprieve
Rating: Pg-13
Pairing: Could be anyone... {GeexBert in my mind}
Summary: And even as my defenses fall apart, you remain the unfazed...
WARNING: Not a happy ending. At all. {Not really a tear jerker, but...sad.}
A/N: Alrighty, this is an apology for not updating "Swing, Swing". Dedicated to flapapalooza, because the next chapter was supposed to be dedicated to her. So...er...Yeah, not happy fluff, but try to enjoy it anyway?

Reprieve

You don’t know.

Perched haphazardly on the very edge of the balcony railing, cigarette dangling from your lips, you’re perfect. Balanced, composed, flawless. The moonlight shines solely on you, leaving me to bask in your ethereal glow.

You realize I’m there, watching, holding my breath unconsciously. My confessions flow silently from within me, lost in the cool midnight air, as I exhale quietly. Time slows as you turn to face me, your handsome features hidden in shadow.

I look a little closer and see that you’re smiling, albeit a little empty. It still manages to take my breath away― never failing to render me helpless. I don’t like the weak feeling, nor the way I shrink beneath your powerful gaze.

Sliding from the railing, you gradually raise your arms, holding them out. Reaching for something that I can’t give you, but wish I could. Taking a few uncertain steps, I view the invitation warily. Your soft laughter, reminding me of bells, reaches my ears, drawing me to you.

I want to escape.

Embracing me, your whispers ghost across my neck, warming me considerably. The chilling wind whips around us, but I don’t feel it. Heat surges along my skin, like little bolts of electricity. You’re slowly breaking my barriers, and I don’t like it.

And even as my defenses fall apart, you remain unfazed. In one fluid motion, you toss the cancer stick to the ground, crushing it with a carefully placed heel. Then I’m back in your arms, transfixed by the low, comforting tones of your voice.

It’s almost like being enchanted― there can’t be any other explanation. I’m under your spell, caught in the depthless emotion of your eyes. Being so close does so many things to me, and yet you are unaffected, with that serene smile that drives the chaos from my mind.

In that moment, the world falls away, and I see only you, still glowing divinely. But then the image shatters, and I hear a soft click. The barrel of the gun rests soothingly against the side of my cheek, but I’m unafraid. I continue to stare deeply into the murky pools before me.

You’re just out of my reach now. I wish to touch you, prove to myself that you are real, but I find I cannot do so. Content, I feel lightheaded― am I holding my breath again? The icy metal falls away, and you smile again. You really are beautiful, you know.

Stepping away from me, you stand against the pure light that frames your form, casting grotesque shadows. With a final whisper, you pull the trigger. You fall, but I make no attempt to catch you. Your breath dies away instantly, but I don’t cry.

Crimson paints the concrete with an artist’s flair, and you lie still, a violent picture of something I can’t recall. I continue to stare with a sort of fascination― even now the light only shines upon you, leaving me in shadow. Your eyes remain open, a smile still playing on your cold lips.

Even like this, you leave me breathless. The air cuts into my bare skin sharply, but I take no note of it. All I see is the explosive masterpiece before me, a product of madness I still admire. Someone is screaming, but it falls upon deaf ears as I sink to my knees. Even now...

You’re beautiful.