moneyes: (Default)
posted by [personal profile] moneyes at 04:47pm on 21/01/2008 under
okay, so, uh--[personal profile] onneonlights mentioned something about leathermouth!frank + gerard, and believe me, i love me some leathermouth. i also love paint-splatteredshoes!gerard, so, here you go:

untitled
frank/gerard, 2,000 words. Light R.
mikey for the win! (yes, this is a summary, idek, though)
for [personal profile] onneonlights.

Mikey’s excited in the way only Mikey can be, and with his lean stance and bone-thick arms, it’s a miracle Gerard doesn’t get an eye put out. On his way over, though, Mikey does manage to nearly decapitate on of Gerard’s recents—a bust of a disfigured nun with Frankenstein like-features, but Gerard doesn’t really make the effort to catch it, which is both surprising and terrifying. He’s been Mikey’s brother for way too long.

“Oops?” Mikey toes the spilt skull with a barely concealed indifference before bounding the rest of the way over. “Dude, guess what you’re going to do tonight.”

“Uh, finish Mr. Wolverine?” Gerard points at his three-fourths of the Marvel Hero, fingers still splattered with blue and yellow. He sucks his lips at Mikey’s frantic hand-wave, “Come on, man, it’s due tomorrow.”

“You’re doing Wolverine for a school project? A graded school project?”

“You’ve lived with me for twenty seven years and you’re still asking me that?”

Mikey shrugs, beaten. “Anyway, wrong answer. Big Daddy’s hosting the last leg of the Battle of the Bands contest.”

Gerard draws the thick line of a thigh before sampling again. “And?”

“Dude!” Mikey’s tone bleeds insulted, “Leathermouth, man! They made the last round!”

The name pings around Gerard’s head for a moment. Mikey had been going on about them since the contest began, attending shows like some dedicated, demented fangirl, coming home sweaty and energetic for weeks. He’d mentioned some of the members too, names that were instantly lost on Gerard, simply for the fact that these rants of Mikey’s usually took place at like, four in the morning. “Really, now?”

“Yeah, and Frank’s going to kick my ass if I don’t bring you.” Mikey edges around Wolverine and sinks into Gerard’s bed. “So come with. You can pull an all-nighter later, but you have to come. I like my ass. Alicia, by the way, likes my ass, and I’d kind of like to keep it that way, you know, for her.”

“Is Frank the really short one with the tattoos?”

“Yeah.”

Gerard snorts, “If he’s as short as you say, I doubt he could reach your ass.”

Mikey’s face is torn between laughing and frowning. “Just get dressed. And for the love of God, please wear something that isn’t paint-splattered.”

Gerard looks down at his dripping Converses.

*

Big Daddy’s is a scene place definitely; Gerard’s only been in here a few times, but each greets him with more scene kids than he can count, all dark-dyed hair and eyeliner and matching tattoos. He feels out of place next to Mikey, who’s both tall and thin enough to be scene, but instead rocks torn Misfits T-shirts and jeans that are small, but still actually fit. Gerard’s a little warm in a leather jacket and jeans that are two sizes too big, but Mikey wouldn’t let him leave the house until he wore something that covered the Converses.

Even now, he can hear Mikey muttering as they swim through the crowd, “My brother the art geek.”

“Your brother, the art specialist,” Gerard corrects, gratefully accepts a beer from a familiar hand. Ray peeks up from behind it, already halfway in his own, “You made it!”

“Blame him,” Gerard points to Mikey around a sip of foam, “I swear, none of you have the respect for the process of oil-painting and the concentration—“

“Bob couldn’t make it,” Mikey puts his back to Gerard, rolling his eyes, “He send you the text?”

“Job with the Fall Outs?” Ray shrugs, “We’ll YouTube it for him.”

“These guys are that good?” Gerard asks with guarded surprise, downs the last of his drink. “I mean, with Mikey, you can’t really ever tell good from bad—“

“Fuck you,” Mikey answers sharply, eyes across the room. “There’s Alicia. Watch him for me,” he says to Ray before he disappears.

Ray, forever the music geek, continues with, “Known them for years. Fucking maniacs all of them, but the best damn hardcore you’ll ever here in Jersey.”

“So they’re local? Local bands suck, dude, you know that.” Gerard taps the counter for a second. Ray chuckles around a gulp, “Within good reason, but I swear. Frank knows what the hell he’s doing.”

And if that wasn’t an omen for the entire show itself, Gerard really didn’t know what was: most of the bands that managed to stumble through their four minutes songs were loud and gritty, microphone feedback wailing at random intervals and unstructured stage dives from over enthused bandmembers. Gerard actually hears sirens from a moment, and turns his head away from the uniform red-and-blue lights, “I’m probably going to kill Mikey.”

The crowd looks a little smaller now, but not completely empty, and the stage is an empty black as the last and final band sets up. Gerard’s into his last drink, a can of Coke. “Probably with a sculpting hammer.”

“Need somewhere to dump the body?” Ray looks equally as bored, and is playing with the condensation of his cup, watching the shadowed movements.

“Nah, just gonna toss it in a lake somewhere.”

Ray’s reply is lost in a louder, recorded siren wail; something like thick fog wafts around their ankles before the shrill scream of a guitar breaks through the cheers. The music starts up quick, and before Gerard has the chance to see much of anything, a tiny, tiny blur of man, legs and ankles and arms, comes tearing straight into center stage, screaming.

Gerard squints. It is a guy, a little tattooed dude, from shoulders to forearms, guitar strapped tight against his body, eyes screwed shut, screaming and headbanging and interacting with the crowd, telling them to “scream the fuck along,” fashion lights pinging off his skin, and all Gerard can really think is, god, that would make such a fucking piece.

*

Gerard sees Alicia first, then Mikey, because they’re basically attached at the lips. He’s seen his brother make out before, and it never gets any less creepy. Mikey breaks away long enough to point to Gerard’s right, mouths “Frank” and disappears with a giggle and a flash of a wave from Alicia. Gerard is confused for a moment, then turns, conversation prepared, and nearly falls off his stool when he gets an eyeful of Frank leaning over the counter, laughing with the bartender.

They catch eyes when Frank’s plopping back into his seat, arms outstretched. “You’re Gerard! Mikey’s “drill sergeant,” right?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Frank’s grip is warm and tight, and his eyes are friendly. Up close, he looks like a guy Gerard should know, probably a kid he’d pay a lot of fucking money to draw. His tattoos are slick with sweat, but Gerard recognizes a few tribal signs and a saint, praying in astral colors on this right forearm. Oh, fuck, he’s probably staring.

“No offense,” Frank breaks the thought with a last pump of his wrist before dropping the shake, “But I’m going to take a wild stab and assume your bark is worse than your bite?”

“He said that about me?” Gerard smiles, “Fucking exaggerating, you know.”

“I know.” Frank’s grin grows a few inches. “That kid is built on exaggeration; his whole body’s one big exclamation point. You like the show?”

For a moment, Gerard’s lost. “The show? Dude—excellent. I can’t believe you have such a huge fanbase here.”

“Well, it helps if we don’t suck ass,” Frank laughs, “and your brother, believe or not, did a lot of the work, pimping us around and such. That kid has been in everyone’s face about us from day one. I can’t believe he got you to come down here, finally.”

Gerard flushes red at that. “Hey, I wasn’t blowing you off or anything—“

“Shame,” Frank cuts in, winking, and Gerard nearly sloshes someone’s drink, “—but, uh. My schedule—school and all, it’s kind of a lot.”

“Art student?”

“Is it the shoes?”

Frank looks down at them in surprise, then giggles. “Nah, you keep staring at my tattoos.”

Well, fuck. Gerard’s eyes draw themselves to the saint again. “She’s very pretty.”

“Thanks, I got her on accident, but she’s one of my favorite now. She was a bitch to get, though, and I mean that unironically.”

A scene kid pops between them unexpectedly, completely ignores Gerard. “Man, we’re due on stage. Gotta see if we won?”

Frank bounds after him, then pauses for a moment. “Hold for a second.”

The kid doesn’t hear him, continues on, but Frank leans in, smiling. “Kiss me if I win?”

“What?” Frank’s face would be completely innocent if he wasn’t nursing one wicked smile, eyes bright. “One peck, I swear. I’m the type of guy that stops on the first “no,” you know?”

Gerard shrugs helplessly and Frank chuckles, lowly, whispers, “Holding you to it,” and bounds off.

*

Leathermouth doesn’t win. Of all the protests, Gerard’s is the loudest.

Most the band stays behind anyway, and gets drunk immediately, but Frank has Gerard by the hand the minute he jumps off stage, not even looking distressed or upset in the slightest. They weave through the crowd until Frank’s pushing the fire escape open, pulling them both into the warm night. “I know I didn’t win, but uh—I’m kissing you anyway, that okay?”

Gerard barely makes out a “yes” before Frank’s has lips on his, mouth soft against his own and gently drawing him back against a hard brick wall. He tastes a bit like sweat and cigarettes, and he doesn’t press any further than innocent before Gerard makes him, scraping his nails lightly against Frank’s scalp and pressing him deeper until they can’t breathe. Gerard’s head thumps hollowly against the wall when they come up, “Fuck.”

Frank’s pressing easy kisses against his jawbone, mouth a faint twitch of warm skin, “Can we do that again? I mean, I just lost here, Gerard, cut me some slack.” He’s smiling, though, and Gerard obliges him quickly, sucking in hard pulses against Frank’s bottom lip, nipping quick before letting Frank overload him, knocking his hips against Frank’s own a little desperately and Frank absolutely laughs into Gerard’s mouth.

He has his hands down Gerard’s pants the next moment, fly already undone and scraping his palm as he cups and squeezes to the point of pain, “Just say no, okay?”

“Jesus Christ,” Gerard’s entire body clenches in step of Frank’s clutches, “Like I really want to?” He sounds like a little kid, his voice stuttering quietly, but if Frank notices or cares, he’s not showing it. He seems more interested in placing light, airy kisses over Gerard’s collarbone, shoving the collar of his jacket and shirt aside to bite hard at the soft swell of skin beneath Gerard’s neck as he finds a grip on his cock. His hand and mouth are in a steady rhythm, and Gerard’s lost in seconds, rocking and whimpering before Frank kisses the bruise one final time. “Poor baby.”

Funnily enough, Frank on his knees is no different than Frank standing, but Frank on his knees is immediately better because Frank on his knees means Frank’s mouth sucking hard on Gerard’s cock before edging further down, hand wrapping around Gerard’s base. Gerard wants to make a joke about Frank having done this before, anything to make himself sound infinitely cooler instead of a muttering idiot, but Frank takes Gerard fully just then, the back of his throat tightening around Gerard’s cock and he comes, manages to stutter out something that sounds like a “sorry” before Frank’s pulling back, catching the aftershocks on his chin and lips, smiling, fucking smiling up at Gerard.

It’s probably the hottest thing ever.

“You know,” Frank says, wiping at his chin carefully, sucking a finger into his mouth thoughtfully, “I’ve probably had the biggest crush on you forever.”

No, wait, no—that’s the hottest thing ever.

*

Mikey not making out means Mikey has sensed a disturbance in his force. He takes one look at them both and covers his face, “Oh, ew, ew, fuck—ew.

“This is what you get for pimping people out,” Gerard says and Frank laughs at the misuse. “You probably shouldn’t say pimp near me. I mean, not unless you want to be the pimp? We could switch.”

“Ew,” says Mikey from behind locked fingers.

Frank smiles, dips his finger into a nearby pint, and smears it across a bright yellow smear on Gerard’s left shoe, mussing it up quickly. His fingertips are a messy yellow when he writes his number down against the collar of Gerard’s shirt. “Come to the next show?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and manages to sound like a breathless idiot. Frank kisses him, “And trust me, I want to stay—but, uh, beating up and or destroying the van of the winning band is kind of tradition in these things, you know, so. Uh. Call me later.”

He’s gone the next moment, knocking over an umbrella rack as he selects a long thin one on his mad dash outside.

*

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