in the twilight of my youth

For a boy.

__more — Fri, 26 Oct 2007 05:30:49 GMT

Run away with me.

Yes, I mean it,
let's run away tonight
with only the stars to
guide us through the
immovable dark.

I want to know you
in a place I can't even
pronounce, wrap my legs
'round you on crisp
but unfamiliar sheets.

The people around us will
whisper, whisper about how
we smile too much but
they will speak a language
we don't understand.

Once the city fails to
keep up with us,
we will gather the few
things we need and take
to the trails man has not yet made.

So, my dear, I have
presented my case and ask
you, in all seriousness, if
such an existence sounds
suitable to you, to please

Run away with me.

Life

__more — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 19:26:22 GMT

I suck, seriously. I haven't written anything in forever, due to work and school.

And, well, you see, there's also a boy. He takes up an awful lot of my time these days, and I don't mind one bit.

But I should start writing again soon. Promise promise promise.

A Series of Blurs

__more — Sun, 24 Jun 2007 03:39:51 GMT

Title: A Series of Blurs
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
POV: Third person
Rating: R for language
Length: 700 words
Author's Note: For we_are_cities' 05/12/07 prompt.
Disclaimer: Fiction!

The roof of a venue, some September midnight in the past

Pete stares out into the dark night air and says, “The kids were nuts tonight. Seriously, fucken crazy.”

“Hm,” is all Patrick offers in response as he swings his legs rhythmically from his perch atop the building’s air conditioning unit.

“This is all gonna happen so fast, man.” Pete leans over the edge a little more and tries to count the cars speeding by below him until he gets too dizzy. “It’s gonna eat us alive.”

Patrick pokes the toe of his left shoe into the back of Pete’s thigh. Pete joins him on the unit and slips an arm around his waist.

“We’ll be fine, Pete. We always are.”

A dressing room, circa “the incident”

“Oh, look,” Patrick mumbles, “another article about us that turned into an article about your dick.”

“Are you ever going to let that go?”

Patrick doesn’t look up from flipping pages in a magazine. “Not yet. I’m still pissed. You’re stupid as hell.”

Pete grits his teeth. “Okay, fine, I’m sorry! I’m sorry for this, I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done, and I’m sorry for everything I’m ever going to do. Is that better?”

There is silence and Patrick doesn’t move. Pete punches the wall.

Pete’s living room, a Saturday afternoon in April

Patrick’s brain is trying to make sense of things. “So,” he says slowly, “what you’re telling me is that you fucked Ashlee Simpson?”

“I. Uhm. Yes.” Pete fiddles with the tag of his shirt.

“Are you trying to make it a goal to fuck every trashy, talentless whore in the business?”

Pete glares. “I fucked you.”

For a moment, no one has anything to say.

“You’re right, you did. What a mistake we made.” Patrick turns on his heel and heads for the door. And quietly, “You were so much less of an asshole when Jeanae was twisting your balls.”

“You fucking leave Jeanae out of this,” the door slams, “Goddamn son of a bitch.”

Ashlee’s bedroom, 11:30 that night

Her fingertips press against the skin of his cheekbones while she allows her lips to graze his neck. Pete stares at the ceiling and wonders how he ended up here. He can feel her smile and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she teases, tracing her fingers down his chest until her fingers meet his belt.

Pete pushes her to the side and scrambles off the bed. “I, oh God, I can’t do this anymore.” He pulls his shirt on as he heads for the door.

The driver’s seat of Pete’s car, 12:17 A.M.

“Hello?” Her voice sounds tired, disoriented.

“Jeanae? I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t call, especially so late, but I just…I needed to talk to you.”

He can hear her rub her eyes. “Pete, what’s wrong?”

“I think I fucked everything up.”

12:49 A.M.

Jeanae chews the inside of her cheek. “You know you need to go to him.”

“I’m outside his apartment.”

She hangs up. All Pete can hear is Go to him.

1:02 A.M.

Pete pounds his fist against Patrick’s door. He sees Patrick peek out the window.

“I’m not opening the door,” Patrick says.

“Yes, you are. We need to talk. About how I fucked up, and how I’m sorry, and how.” Pete stops. “And how I think I love you.”

The door opens a crack. Pete pushes it open wider and steps inside. Patrick is sitting on the floor.

“I know you’re mad. You’ve got every right. I have done…I have been so stupid lately. But I’m going to change that, and I’m asking you to help me.” Pete inhales. “I’m realizing how much I need you. I’m asking for your help because I love you; you’re it for me, kid. And, maybe, you love me too.”

Patrick stares up at Pete blankly. Pete’s heart falls.

“Oh. I, never…never mind then. I just thought…I’ll be going.”

“Don’t you dare ever leave me again, you bastard.”

Pete turns, only to be greeted by Patrick colliding with his chest. They are a tangle of arms and hungry mouths and shirts over heads.

1:13:07 A.M.
This.

1:13:08 A.M.
Is.

1:13:09 A.M.
Love.

Suspended

__more — Wed, 28 Mar 2007 01:01:41 GMT

Title: Suspended
Pairing: Ryan/Spencer
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 550 words
Author's Note: For we_are_cities' 03/20/07 prompt. Also, love to Matt Nathanson for suspension.
Disclaimer: Fiction!

There are these days of the past that blend together behind Spencer’s closed eyes. All he sees is Ryan and suburbia and nothingness. But little bits are clear, so clear, and he feels them every time he breathes.

He is suspended in a series of moments during a hot day in August the summer before eleventh grade. He chases Ryan around an empty park at noon. Ryan laughs and looks over his shoulder.

“Spence,” Ryan calls behind him. “Spence, you run too slow.” He stops to catch his breath, head down and hands on knees, and waits until Spencer can almost touch him before taking off again.

Spencer doesn’t follow, he just shakes his head. “I gotta sit down,” he says before flopping unceremoniously on the grass. Ryan jogs back and crouches down next to him. He sits carefully, almost daintily, next to Spencer, who is wheezing slightly.

“You ok?” Ryan asks, leaning back on his hands.

“I’m fine. Just not used to that sort of thing.” He lies down and tilts his head toward Ryan, squinting one eye shut. “You’re fast.”

Ryan smiles, rolls to his side, adjusts so that his head is resting on his palm. “You’re getting there, believe me.”

Spencer doesn’t believe him.

There is silence between them as Spencer’s vision moves toward the sky and Ryan shifts onto his back.

There are thick clouds moving in to cover the sun and Spencer wonders if it might rain when he feels warm, thin fingers covering his own.

“Dude, are you fucking holding my hand?”

Ryan pulls his hand back. “I…yeah, I was,” he says shyly. “Sorry.”

Spencer turns to face him. “Uhm. Well. It’s okay. I think.

“Yeah?” Ryan takes Spencer’s hand again, laces their fingers together. He smiles a little. “So,” he says and moves his head so that his nose is almost touching Spencer’s. He pushes himself forward a bit and lets their lips meet.

Spencer doesn’t know what he’s doing but he finds himself kissing back.

Something touches the side of his face, his hair, his back and he realizes he was right about the rain. He laughs into Ryan’s collarbone and his lips trail their way to Ryan’s neck. Ryan is throwing his head back and blinking the rain away from his eyes. Their lips meet again and Spencer closes his eyes.

Surrounding them is warmth and the smell of wet grass, warmth and the sound of rain on the asphalt parking lot. Spencer opens his eyes and wonders how he never noticed Ryan before, not really, not in any way that actually mattered. But now he’s so close and his hands are on Spencer’s hips. There’s no way of avoiding him now and Spencer thinks that maybe some things are better late than never.

When the rain stops, Ryan shakes the water from his hair and places his cheek on Spencer’s chest.

“You know,” he whispers and his breath tickles Spencer’s ribs through his drenched shirt, “We’re gonna be something. You and me. We’re gonna make it big, We’re gonna get out of this godforsaken place and people will know our names. We’ll be great. Believe me, Spence…we’ll be huge…” His voice trails off as he drifts to sleep.

Spencer remembers kissing the top of Ryan's head and how he believed.

Fade In (Breathe Out)

__more — Wed, 21 Mar 2007 07:46:54 GMT

Title: Fade In (Breathe Out)
Pairing: Mikey/Bob
POV: Third person
Rating: Oh-so-PG
Length: 860 words
Author's Note: For we_are_cities' 03/20/07 prompt
Disclaimer: Fiction!

Fade in to that night Bob is teching a show and Mikey is lingering about because it’s fascinating just to watch Bob work. When he spots Mikey, Bob lifts his headphones off of one ear and asks, “What do you want?” in a way that isn’t particularly rude or kind – it just is. Mikey shakes his head and makes his way toward Bob so he can get better look at what’s going on. They try to talk but the music is loud and most of what is said between them that night is lost beneath the sound.

It doesn’t seem like it would mean a thing but, in retrospect, Mikey knows it meant everything. He knows now that they’ve always lived beneath the sound.

It’s not long before Bob is teching the band’s shows on a semi-regular basis and meeting them for drinks afterwards. There are grazes of hands on knees and looks that rest on faces longer than they ought. Mikey asks Brian if Bob can do their shows more often. He says Bob will do them for free. What he doesn’t say is why.

No one questions Mikey’s insistence that Bob join the band. They’re good friends, it all adds up, one plus one equals two. The only problem is, here, one plus one equals one.

For months they live through a series of late-night phone calls between hotel rooms and nothing else. There are no touches, no kisses, nothing at all. Even the calls are void of any clues. This is out of fear. This is out of denial. This is something that can’t be ignored for much longer.

When they get to Chicago, Bob shows him around, takes him to all the big things people always want to see, leads him through some sprawling suburbia filled with pseudo-Mediterranean style tract homes. They comb through the clutter at nearby garage sales and, when Mikey finds a cheap brass ring, he (not so) jokingly proposes to Bob who (not so) jokingly accepts. The moment turns awkward and Bob pockets the ring but they will both think about it while watching TV at night. Somehow, however, it makes it decidedly less unexpected when Bob’s fingers make their way to Mikey’s hair and their mouths meet. The first kiss is quiet and unsure but the second is so much more.

It takes nearly a year for the rest of the band to catch on.

“Ten months,” Gerard says when the truth finally spills and he looks in his mind for a hint he might have missed but there are none. He repeats himself and Mikey moves nervously, thinks ten months one week and two days, and says nothing.

There are no real changes among the band, only that Mikey stands a little closer to Bob occasionally. No one looks down or acts uncomfortable because it’s okay.

Mikey meets this girl Alicia, who is cute and he sort of likes her. When he starts to feel like he’s supposed to, he proposes. He thinks of Bob and the garage sale and thinks that brass ring means more to him than this diamond one ever will.

They all put on their nice clothes and go to Frank’s wedding with Alicia sitting in the chair where everyone else knows Bob should be.

Mikey masters the art of deception and he holds onto Bob through the entirety of the album recording and its subsequent tour.

It takes three weeks for Bob’s laughter to last too long and sound so loudly. Five more days and Mikey is asking for things that Bob will never be ready to give.

Bob lets himself in to Mikey’s hotel room after a radio gig in Chicago. He puts his hands in Mikey’s pockets, pulls him close, and lets his chin rest on his shoulder for a moment.

“I’m out.” He says it so plainly but there is hurt pulling at the corners of his mouth. Mikey disentangles himself and takes a step back.

“What do you mean?”

“You two will make a beautiful family.”

There is a pause while the realization hits. Mikey reaches into his right pocket and pulls out the brass ring. He lifts his eyes to find Bob staring at the floor.

“I don’t…”

“You’ll be fine. You will love her and you will raise your children in a nice house in a nice town far away from any mention of me. There will be a boy and, and two girls who will look just like their mother and a swing set in your backyard and then she’ll smile at you when the kids are laughing and I promise you, I promise you I won’t even cross your mind.”

Mikey flinches. “That’s not true.”

Bob looks him straight in the eye. “Yes. It is.”

The wedding is gorgeous, there’s no denying it. The band put on their nice suits again and mingle with the other guests but, when it comes down to it, there is an empty chair where everyone knows Bob should be. The pastor finishes and tells Mikey to kiss his bride. Alicia beams. Mikey just closes his eyes, breathes in, and breathes out.

Catch

__more — Sat, 03 Mar 2007 02:36:34 GMT

Title: Catch
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 500 words
Author's Note: For we_are_cities 01/16/07 prompt
Disclaimer: Fiction!

Pete has spent his life in places he can’t wait to be rid of. Every town, every place he’s ever called home is only temporary because there’s always (and somehow never) been something better.

So he flits around as though trying to catch the wind and he never stops, just keeps flying. He knows if he slows down that someone will catch him and he can’t have that, oh no. He’s scared to know what it means to be caught.

What he doesn’t know is that Patrick is scared to know what it means to do the catching.

Each relocation means new clothes, new words, new man. Chicago sees a Pete entirely different from the Pete in Atlanta the next week and his band members don’t know what to believe. Patrick breathes a little slower and realizes that he has finally stopped trying to keep up.

San Diego is Pete’s last straw. He looks into the crowd and doesn’t see a single person worth his time. After the show, he changes his clothes, brushes his hair and then he’s gone.

He rents a car under a fake name and drives from one coast to the other, Pacific to Atlantic, straight across the country. Maybe, he thinks, maybe this is what freedom is supposed to feel like. But this freedom feels like asphyxiation and he’s not quite sure that’s right. Still, he keeps moving because at least movement almost feels like progress.

The car becomes everything else that Pete has ever tried to escape so he leaves it on the shoulder of a road somewhere just a little north of Absolutely Nowhere. He walks for hours, waiting for anyone to drive by and take him just a little farther in some direction that leads away from here. It’s been weeks but it doesn’t really matter. There’s time to kill; he’s young and, to the young, time is something than can be stopped and started at will.

Pete sleeps in the bathrooms of truck stops and dive bars. The men in these places buy him drinks and he tells them pretty things in the words he’s almost forgotten how to use. It is in these men that he sees what he is not supposed to be. He’s not supposed to be scared or lonely or here.

He hitches his way back to California and lets himself into his house. Every light in the whole place is on and Patrick is curled up on Pete’s bed, one of Pete’s shirts held tightly in his fingers. Pete sits beside him and strokes his hair.

Patrick blinks awake and looks questioningly at Pete, who smiles.

“You came back.” Patrick isn’t sure if this is the right thing to say.

“You waited.”

Patrick’s eyes close. “I had to.”

“So did I,” and he folds Patrick into his arms and they lie there, in silence.

Pete realizes later that he is Orpheus and Patrick Eurydice – only Pete is smarter than Orpheus. He knew he couldn’t look back.

---------------------------------
So I fell off the face of the earth for a bit. I apologize. I should be back now, though. Or, at least, I shall try.

Warmth

__more — Sun, 31 Dec 2006 04:49:15 GMT

Title: Warmth
Pairing: Gerard/Quinn
POV: Third person
Rating: R
Length: 700 words
Author's Note: For normalhumanbein because she's been waiting far too long for this. It's not good enough for you but but but Quinn!
Disclaimer: Fiction, yes.

Gerard checks his watch (it’s quarter past five) and glances toward the door in time to see Quinn enter through it. Quinn searches the room, spots Gerard, and makes his way over.

“You’re late,” Gerard isn’t rude but he sometimes sounds like he might be.

“Nice to see you, too,” Quinn says as he slides into the booth. “Tell me again why we’re meeting in a Denny’s?”

“They’ve got these fried, these bacon-cheese fries that are pretty much heavenly when you pour ranch dressing on them. They, oh fuck, they are so good.”

A tired-looking waitress deposits the fries on the table between them. It’s nothing but a heart attack in a basket and, for some reason that Quinn cannot discern, Gerard is actually eating them. He’s pouring the little container of ranch over them and all Quinn can think is that the fries are swimming in liquid heart failure.

Quinn makes a face. “Those things are actually going to kill you.”

Gerard stuffs a few fries in his mouth. “Sweet, delicious death,” and he grins. Quinn just shakes his head.

“So,” he asks. “How’s life?”

Gerard swallows before he answers. “Dude, all this stuff with the new album is just...amazing.” He waves his hand and, consequently, a french fry, through the air, leaving drops of ranch on the table. Quinn decides to leave the questions until Gerard finishes eating.

“Hey,” Gerard pushes the empty basket to the end of the table. “You wanna see my apartment?”

Quinn raises an eyebrow.

“No, it’s, like, decorated and stuff now! Not like last time.”

So Gerard pays the check and they talk about nothing and life while wandering down the streets in the general direction of Gerard’s place.

Which, for some ungodly reason, has temporarily taken on an oven-like state. It probably has something to do with the fact that it’s 103 degrees outside and the air conditioning is broken or something because it sure is doing fuck-all to cool the place down. Gerard is opening every window that isn’t painted shut and praying for a breeze while Quinn lies on the tile floor of the kitchen in a futile attempt to stay cool.

“Christ, Gerard,” Quinn calls out. “Next time I come visit you, it had better be snowing. At least the Denny’s had air conditioning.” Gerard laughs.

“Pansy,” he teases as he forces the last window open and then lies down next to Quinn. The tile isn’t as cold as he’d been hoping but it is colder than the air and he’ll take what he can get.

There is a rustling sound and Gerard turns his head to see Quinn pulling off his shirt.

“I’m dying, man,” Quinn explains as he tosses the shirt toward the kitchen table. “I mean, I’m fucking melting here.”

Gerard moves to his side so he can face Quinn. “What, it doesn’t get hot in Utah?” he says and gives Quinn a little shove.

“You leave Utah out of this,” Quinn shoves back. The laziest fight breaks out between them – a slap fight of miniscule proportions – and it ends with the two of them laughing so hard they can barely breathe and Quinn sitting on Gerard’s stomach.

“We are so stupid, you know that?” It takes Gerard a few seconds to realize that Quinn has stopped laughing, and that the palms of Quinn’s hands are placed in the hollows below his cheekbones. Without even thinking, Gerard closes his eyes and waits until Quinn’s lips meet his.

Quinn can feel Gerard smiling into the kiss, feel fingers undoing his belt, and it isn’t long before they are skin on skin on tile. They move against each other, Quinn positioning himself on Gerard, riding slowly until a rhythm emerges. Gerard is pushing into Quinn, whose hands are pulling on Gerard to make him push a little harder. Everything is sweet and smooth, like they are slow dancing in a burning room.

After they both come, Quinn slides off of Gerard and lies beside him. There is silence for a moment and then Quinn starts to chuckle.

“Fuck, man. Now it’s even hotter in here.”

Gerard just punches him in the arm and tells him to shut up.

Fitzcarraldo

__more — Thu, 28 Dec 2006 08:29:15 GMT

Title: Fitzcarraldo
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 400 words
Author's Note: For we_are_cities Dec. 26th prompt and also slightly inspired by "Fitzcarraldo" by The Frames.
Disclaimer: Fiction.

This has never been an easy road and Frank thinks maybe he walked stretches of it barefoot. Still, he knows if he stops now he’ll be lost for good so he just keeps walking, despite the broken glass and snow. His feet are blue and bleeding but it is one step and then another and he will continue moving because that’s what you do in times like these.

He remembers the beginning when everything was warm mouths and wandering fingers that became something like affection but not quite what affection is meant to be. How that faded to tired nights where they fell asleep side by side but miles apart without a kiss goodnight that became Gerard lying through his teeth so he mightn’t hurt Frank (but Frank knew they were lies because there is close and there is together and they had been together long enough for Frank to separate fact from fiction).

So he squints his eyes against the memory of Gerard’s back in the parking lot outside that hotel where he was left to inhale the cold night air and the smoke of his cigarette. He’d stuck his hand into his coat pocket, with its crumpled bits of paper and pocket-fuzz, looking for the matches Gerard had not returned.

There will always be a place in the back of Frank’s mind for the way Gerard tastes, and for how Gerard’s cheek feels on his chest. For the blank look in Gerard’s eyes as he said, “I was only thinking of you” and walked away. For how Frank cursed the skies for days afterward, punching walls and slamming doors.

What Frank knows now is that Gerard is a lot like the moon to the sun – he will eclipse you, if given the chance, but only for a little while. Then he will move on. But Frank can’t move on.

Frank still visits that parking lot when he gets the chance. He stands next to the lamppost that held that night and stares out to where Gerard disappeared from his view, for that night and for the rest of his life.

It aches the most when he realizes that he loved Gerard as perfectly and purely as he could. It should have been enough.

So Frank will live with this but he will not regret it, not a second of it, not ever.

It is a long way home.

Dear Chicago

__more — Sun, 24 Dec 2006 08:19:38 GMT

Title: Dear Chicago
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 625 words
Author's Note: In which I ramble terribly.
Disclaimer: The piece is fiction. The title is a Ryan Adams song, I'm just borrowing it.

The heart of this city is cold, nothing but interweaving roads for veins. Every time the wind blows, lovers scatter like leaves and no one seems to notice – only Patrick, and Patrick can’t stand it. This may very well be because, sometimes, Pete scatters too. Never for very long, but it’s enough to make Patrick nervous.

It doesn’t really bother Patrick much that Pete has other lovers (except for the part where it does, bothers him so much that he shakes uncontrollably and cannot sleep) but he does want to know why he’s just not enough. He gives Pete everything he has and so he thinks that he’s obviously missing some vital component that Pete needs.

When Pete comes to see him with clothes that smell of someone else’s cologne and a tongue that tastes of someone else’s saliva, Patrick pushes his hips against Pete’s a little harder to try and ignore it. It doesn’t particularly help him but he thinks maybe it does help hide all the things in his mind from Pete.

So instead of talking, Patrick hums the tune his words would take if he could only say them and doesn’t notice Pete is running out of lyrics, out of notes, and out of time.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It sounds like there’s a clock in Pete’s chest and it’s slowly winding down. These days he’s nothing but a mess of ink and electricity, bits of what he’s never wanted and pieces of what he always hoped he wouldn’t become. He is the hugest lie ever told and he’s just waiting for someone to figure it out and call him on it.

Patrick lies awake on the nights when Pete is gone. He gets so anxious and antsy that he changes the channels on the shitty hotel TV fast enough that he can’t even tell what’s on; it’s just something for his hands to do. If he doesn’t then he gets to thinking, and when he thinks about the whole situation his heart starts to ache so badly that he digs his fingernails into the skin covering his sternum and tries to split himself right down the middle, tries to make everything about him that hurts stop. These are the nights that Patrick is an absolute mess.

Pete gives himself to any boy in the club with pretty eyes and prettier words. The nights are fine but the mornings-after, oh, how those kill. When he steps outside and the sunlight greets him, he feels like everyone knows, everyone can see all of his sins. He wants to fall to his knees and scream his apologies, scream out, “I never meant for it to be like this,” but he just buys an overpriced coffee and walks back to whatever hotel he should have been in last night.

The circles under his eyes are darker every day and Pete knows it won’t be long before he falls if he doesn’t stop this soon.

It’s been too many footsteps over worn carpets in hotel hallways for Patrick so he makes a choice and prays that he is strong enough for it.

When Pete comes sneaking into his room for a shower the next morning, Patrick is waiting.

“Listen,” he says. “We never made any promises so there’s none to keep but something either needs to start or end right now and it’s up to you which it is.”

Pete moves in to stand inches away from Patrick and whispers in his ear, “I’m everything that will destroy you.”

Cold hands take Pete’s face. “You don’t have to be,” Patrick answers gently.

“I don’t know how to not,” Pete’s voice is nearly inaudible.

Patrick twists his mouth into something like a grin. “I can teach you.”

Runaway

__more — Mon, 27 Nov 2006 02:01:12 GMT

Title: Runaway
Pairing: Spencer/Ryan
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 400 words
Author's Note: Just something small. I'm experimenting with the fandom.
Disclaimer: Lies.

No one has seen Ryan in over a week. He just disappeared after a show one night and hasn’t been seen since. Spencer doesn’t say anything to the others but he knows it’s his fault, knows he has to fix this somehow. The only problem is he’s not sure what to do.

So he spends hours dialing Ryan’s number, leaving hundreds of messages that are all variations of “I’m sorry for everything and I miss you, please don’t run away like this.” Then he spends hours pacing the floor of his hotel room. This all hurts so much that he can barely breathe.

The band keeps canceling shows, and the press release they put out says something about Ryan being terribly ill. Fans are sending get-well cards to a boy that doesn’t really exist anymore (a boy who may have never existed in the first place) and so they go straight into the trash. Spencer digs the pretty ones out of the dumpster and tapes them into a notebook. He doesn’t even know why; it just seems like the right thing to do. He laughs a little at all of this because he knows Ryan will never see the notebook. Then he thinks he might cry because he worries that the reason Ryan won’t see it is because he’ll never come back.

When Spencer wakes up every morning, he reaches next to him and finds nothing but empty space. Again. Today, he slides out of his bed and onto the floor. For the first time in years, he prays.

This time, when Spencer calls Ryan, the message he leaves is a little different. This time, he says, “Ryan, I can’t do this for very much longer. I’m trying one more time and then I’m going to stop. You need to find me tonight. If you think, you know where I’ll be.”

That afternoon, Spencer goes out and buys a dozen roses from a street vendor. He walks to the bench in the park where Ryan kissed him the first time and waits for night to fall. He waits an hour, then two. By 10:30, he’s set the flowers on the ground and is lying asleep on the bench. Ryan never comes.

Four days later, the cops find Ryan’s body in the reservoir. The papers and TV are full of him for days. Then silence.

Spencer doesn’t go to the funeral.

Developing

__more — Sun, 26 Nov 2006 05:17:37 GMT

Title: Developing
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 232 words
Author's Note: Written for the we_are_cities Nov. 25 prompt
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction

The camera whirrs softly as it winds itself. Pete is sitting on the edge of a hotel bed in a pair of pajama pants with Patrick standing a few feet away. Patrick lifts the camera to his face and closes his left eye. He focuses the lens and takes another picture.

“Hm,” Patrick muses, stepping closer to Pete and brushing the hair out of his eyes. “That’s better.”

Pete looks up, more at Patrick than at the camera but Patrick snaps a picture anyways. The flash is bright against Pete’s face but he barely notices such things these days.

At this point, their toes are touching, Pete’s bare ones and Patrick’s socked ones. Patrick places the camera against Pete’s chest, just below his collarbone, and clicks. Places the camera on Pete’s temple and clicks. Places his lips on Pete’s neck and sets the camera down.

Pete dips his head down to meet Patrick’s lips with his own, his hands pulling Patrick onto the bed. He reaches for the camera and there is a flash when Patrick’s shirt comes up over his head, when he straddles Patrick and when they are lying side by side after everything is finished. Pete holds the camera above them both and uses the last picture on the roll.

The man at the one hour photo place isn’t quite sure what to think of the pictures he’s developing.

Fading

__more — Tue, 14 Nov 2006 05:46:23 GMT

Title: Fading
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 398 words
Author's Note: Written for the we_are_cities Nov. 7 prompt
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction

There’s a balcony outside of Gerard’s apartment where he likes to sit in a little white plastic lawn chair some nights. Tonight is one of those nights. He’s just sitting and staring out across the bits of city that can be seen between the skyscrapers down the street. Above him is the moon, but only the tiniest smile of it.

Gerard turns his phone over and over between his cold hands. His fingers trace out the buttons that would lead him to Mikey but he doesn’t push them. It’s too late or too early or something and Gerard knows that Mikey is sleeping next to someone who is not him. Someone who doesn’t look like him, sound like him, or feel like him.

The air is chilly and Gerard pulls his jacket tighter because it almost makes him feel like he’s got Mikey’s arms wrapped around him. Not quite, but almost. The almost is almost enough for him.

Gerard closes his eyes and sees a muted photograph of Mikey in the summer of the year he turned seven and in the picture he’s running through a sprinkler in his bathing suit. Everything is so clear to Gerard that he can even see the light spray of freckles dusting Mikey’s shoulders. He remembers how sunburned Mikey got that year and how they had spent so many nights peeling bits and pieces of Mikey’s skin. He feels the heat of the summer sun on his cheeks and tastes the salt of July sweat on his tongue.

This time, when Gerard’s fingers dance along his phone, he actually calls Mikey and is not terribly surprised when it’s her that answers.

“Hey, Gerard,” she whispers. “Mikey’s sleeping.”

“Tell him something for me. Tell him he needs to see the moon.”

She sighs and Gerard can hear her say something to Mikey.

“Gerard?” Mikey’s tired voice sounds across miles to reach Gerard’s ear.

“The moon. You need to go outside and see the moon.”

“What about the moon?”

“Are you looking at it?”

Gerard can tell that Mikey is irritated now but he doesn’t care because this is important. He’s never needed someone to see anything the way he needs Mikey to see the moon tonight.

“Yes, I’m looking at it. Now what about it?”

“It’s us, Mikey. You and me. We’re fading, just like that moon. Can you feel it, the fading?”

Middle of Nowhere

__more — Fri, 03 Nov 2006 08:58:48 GMT

Title: Middle of Nowhere
Pairing: Frank/Mikey
POV: Third person
Rating: PG-13ish
Length: 875 words
Author's Note: I have been entirely devoid of all inspiration lately. Goodness.
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction

The sun is beating down mercilessly, baking the earth. Frank stands up and peels off his shirt, flinging it to the ground.

“Fuck this shit,” he mutters and tramples a path through the dry brush towards the puny river running not far from the poorly-paved highway. Mikey’s eyes follow him until there is a splash and Frank is shaking the water from his hair. Then he turns away, allowing his eyes to rest on the very much out of gas car that has gotten them as far as this.

“Mikey,” Frank calls. “Mikey, this water is so amazing right now. Stop thinking about the car and get in here.”

Mikey shakes his head. He’s still too mad for Frank’s bullshit.

”Look, there’s a gas sta- goddammit Frank! We’re going to run out of gas!”

“Oh, come on. We’ve got almost a quarter of a tank. We’ll make it to the next town.”

Mikey leaned back in his seat. “I hope you’re right.”

There’s sweat in Mikey’s eyes and every time he rubs them his fingers turn black with smeared eyeliner. He looks at his cell phone, knowing it’s useless this far out in the middle of nowhere and yet he’s hoping that maybe, just maybe, there will be a miraculous bar of service. Of course, there isn’t. He sighs and lies down on the dirt because, really there’s nothing else to do. His eyes squint against the glare of the sun.

Frank looked down at the dashboard. “Oh…oh shit.”

“What’s ‘oh shit’? What’s ‘oh shit’? Don’t you dare say what I’m thinking.”

The car coasted slowly to a stop on the side of the road. Mikey threw the door open and crawled outside, hands in his hair.

“Fuck. I...fuck, Frank. I don’t even know where we are!” He crouched down and lowered his head.

Mikey thinks he feels something dripping on him. He opens his eyes to find Frank grinning down at him.

“Go away,” Mikey says. “You are not forgiven.”

“That’s just too damn bad for you, now isn’t it?”

Frank swings his right leg over Mikey’s body and sits on his stomach.

“Get the hell off.” Mikey struggles to hit Frank, arms in the air.

Frank pins Mikey’s arms to the ground. “Just for the record,” he says, “I did this on purpose.”

Mikey stops fighting. “What? Why?”

“Because. Because you need to get away from her. Because I want to spend more time with you. Because I’ll die if I don’t get to do this.” Frank’s lips press against Mikey’s and there is no response at all. Frank opens his eyes in time to see Mikey’s close. Mikey’s arms go limp in Frank’s hands and his body starts to arch up to meet Frank’s – it’s just a slight change in friction but it’s enough.

Frank’s heart stops beating long enough for Mikey to regain himself and push Frank off. He stands up and paces, four steps away and then four steps back over and over again, and Frank is just sitting on the ground, watching.

“I…Frank, we’re friends, right? Like, just friends? That was just…just friends. Right?” Mikey is clinging to anything that would help this make sense.

“Right.” Frank answers dryly.

“Okay. We’re friends.” Mikey walks closer to Frank and stands in front of him. He thinks for a moment, about Alicia and Gerard and his parents but Frank is sitting there, staring at his ankles, being so goddamn real. “Friends,” he whispers one more time.

But before Frank can even respond, Mikey is in his lap, kissing his neck and jaw and collarbones. Frank exhales, his breath moving Mikey’s hair. His fingers trail along Mikey’s spine, tracing each individual vertebra. Everything slows down and becomes softer, sweeter. All that Frank can think is that this is more than a string of moments but rather what living is meant to be. This is what life feels like.

Hours later, the sun has gone down and the heat is starting to fade. They are lying on their backs on the sand and staring into the clear night sky. Though they had started to count the stars, they gave up around five hundred seventy three and contented themselves with holding hands. No words exchanged, just the silent knowledge that this is good.

It’s nearly two in the morning and they’re sleeping in a tangled mess of limbs when the crunch of tires stopping on asphalt fills the air. Frank opens one eye to find a path illuminated by the headlights of a Highway Patrol car parked only a few feet away. He disentangles himself and sits up, waking Mikey in the process.

“Do you two need a ride somewhere?” the patrolman asks, leaning against the frame of the car door. There is a questioning look but he says nothing. Frank smiles weakly and nods.

Soon enough, they’re in the back of a car, heading towards any place with a name. The patrolman is radioing for a tow truck to come get Frank’s car but the backseat is silent. Mikey’s hand gropes for Frank’s in the darkness, fingers interlocking. Frank leans his head on Mikey’s shoulder. Friends keep your secrets, even when you don’t ask them to, but mostly they love you more than anyone else ever will.

__more — Sun, 17 Sep 2006 01:13:19 GMT

In response to this entry:

I don't even know how to begin this except by saying I am so very upset by these accusations against me. Like, really upset. I just hyperventilated. That's how upset I am.

Yes, I have read her fic. It's a great fic, and I enjoyed it. I did not, however, steal it. I was simply interested in entering the mcrawesomeness challenge but I couldn't pick a prompt to do. I sent the prompt link to my friend Ted. Ted automatically replied with, "The first one. Zombies." Even still, I wasn't sure what to write; so Ted gave me a plot, an outline. I simply stretched it into a story. Everything except the actual choice of words really belongs to Ted. And Ted has not read her fic. He's not even in the fandom. How could he possibly rip off an idea from something he's never even read?

And, to be honest, the idea has been made into only about a million movies - Resident Evil, Dawn of the Dead, etc. If I stole from anything (and I really don't think I did), then who is to say I didn't steal from the screenwriters for all of those movies and not miserablefaith at all? Because seriously? Zombies and the apocalypse are not terribly uncommon ideas.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is there was obviously no intent for anything to read as "ripped off" because I really didn't do any ripping off. I'm trying to save what little credibility I've worked so very hard to earn. I also don't want anyone mad at me.

If you'd like to talk about this further, feel free to comment, email me, or IM me over AIM at squirlymoo.

A Lonely Impulse

__more — Mon, 11 Sep 2006 02:20:27 GMT

Title: A Lonely Impulse
Pairing: Gerard/Frank
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 400 words
Author's Note: It's a bit short, but I haven't written anything in a while. Also, this is what happens when Courtney listens to too much Ryan Adams.
Disclaimer: I am so full of shit.

Night is falling on New York and Gerard is slowly getting dressed. As he heads for the door, he pulls on a jacket. It’s starting to get cold now that it gets dark earlier.

There’s no place in particular that he’s going; he’s just walking because it’s better than being in his apartment. There’s too much there. Too much of him. Gerard wonders how one person can make him feel so…well, however this feels. It’s good, almost, but it hurts too, and he can’t decide which bit wins.

Somewhere in the back of his mind is this picture of Frank from the beginning of everything. In it, Frank is laughing and he’s beautiful. It scares Gerard, really, because he knows that things have changed and he’s not sure what that picture means anymore. He just wants to drink until Frank is so blurry that he can’t be made out.

He raises his glass to the bartender and takes a shot. He knows he shouldn’t be drinking but it doesn’t really matter because, whether he drinks or not, he’s dead. A broken soul in a broken body, he thinks and laughs bitterly. It’s so cliché but he’s always been a cliché. He drinks some more and wonders if this will help him sleep at all tonight.

Three in the morning and he’s at Frank’s front door. He knocks twice, quickly, and waits until the door swings open.

Frank is still fully clothed and there is a blue light coming from the living room. Gerard stumbles over sounds for a minute because he never meant to be here but he is so he’d best think of something to say. All that spills out is, “I still need you.” Frank is silent but he takes Gerard’s hand. Gerard is suddenly filled with something that reminds him of hope.

“Who is it?,” a sleepy, distinctly female voice calls from the other room. Frank’s eyes narrow.

“No one,” he replies, and closes the door.

Gerard returns home and hangs his jacket on the back of a chair. He sits on the edge of his bed for a while before he reaches over to turn off the light. In the dark, he slides to the floor and curls up there. He won’t sleep tonight, he knows. He won’t cry either. He just lies there, staring into the darkness and knowing that this is all his fault.

Of Words and Heat

__more — Tue, 18 Jul 2006 08:48:01 GMT

Title: Of Words and Heat
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey
POV: Third person
Rating: PG-13
Length: 600 words
Author's Note: There needed to be something a bit happier after the last one.
Disclaimer: Lies! Lies I say!

Gerard’s writing bits of songs that no one will ever hear on pieces of blank paper and pieces of blank skin. They are burning, urgent words for a boy who doesn’t see them, a boy who doesn’t know. He just stares right through.

What Mikey doesn’t see is that his big brother is changing and it’s entirely his fault. What Mikey doesn’t know is that Gerard would gladly build him entire cities - big cities, like Tokyo or London. He’d build them, even if Mikey only wanted to play at being Godzilla and destroy them. But Mikey, he’s too busy in his own world to pay any attention to Gerard’s. The tide is rising behind Gerard’s eyes but Mikey doesn’t even notice.

He can feel his skin thinning every day, Gerard can. It’s almost tissue paper now and he’s afraid when the others touch him, afraid that it will rip open and afraid that maybe he will bleed the words meant for Mikey in front of everyone, or maybe that he won’t bleed at all. His tongue is dry in his mouth and feels vaguely of dull razorblades. Sometimes he wants to lick Mikey’s wrists, just to see what he would bleed.

So Gerard sits in his room and he lights every match in a pack just to watch them burn and thinks that he’d like to set fire to himself or to this whole fucking hotel. He lets the matches burn as close to his fingers as he can stand before he blows them out and suppresses those thoughts. Instead, he thinks maybe he’d like to burn Mikey’s wings so he can’t fly away anymore.

They play shows and Gerard laughs because the teenage girls think that he’s singing to them. They don’t know, don’t know, don’t know what it’s like. He wants to scream at them but he knows better and it’s not their fault (though he wishes it was because then he could blame someone but himself).

In the morning, he wakes up alone again. He reaches out and is disappointed when there is no one there, not even the ghosts of past lovers. He misses the days when Mikey would crawl into his bed and fall asleep, breathing those sleepy little boy breaths that would keep him awake.

It’s still early and Gerard knows everyone else is asleep so he walks down the hall and knocks on Mikey’s door. It swings open and Mikey is already walking back to his bed. Gerard enters uneasily and closes the door behind. He follows Mikey back to his bed and lies down beside him.

Mikey turns to face Gerard and his eyes are awake now. Gerard wets his lips and starts to talk. Mikey silences him with a mouth planted firmly on his own. For a moment, nothing happens. Count five four three two and their hands are in a race to see who can touch every inch of the other first. Gerard is gasping for breath against Mikey’s hair and Mikey is kissing everything and Jesus, Gerard feels like every word he’s ever written is spilling out of his mouth but all he’s really saying is Mikey’s name over and over again (but don’t they both mean the same thing?).

The blankets are too warm for comfort and the sun is filtering through the curtains now. They get up, wash their faces, and dress. Mikey leaves earlier than Gerard to avoid any suspicion. Gerard walks to breakfast alone and thinks to himself that maybe the next songs he writes will be a little bit happier than their predecessors.

Acrimony and Moonshine

__more — Sun, 16 Jul 2006 20:53:23 GMT

Title: Acrimony and Moonshine
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey
POV: Gerard's
Rating: R
Length: 800 words
Author's Note: I blame this on too much caffeine and sugar and 2 in the morning. I don't even know. And the title? All Ted's doing.
Disclaimer: I hope to God this hasn't happened.

When Mikey was born, I was watching through the window of the little hospital room. He was so tiny and wet with something I didn’t understand at the time. I was holding him and he looked up at me and wrapped his whole hand around my finger and I knew, I knew that it would be my job to protect him forever.

But I failed. Because right now, he’s on the floor and he’s looking smaller than he did then, covered in something I understand far too well because it’s blood and it’s his and Christ, what have I done?

See, in the beginning, there was this thing, this thing. It’s not something I’m proud of but it happened, okay? It was one of those situations where it starts as something small but it escalates into something beyond all control. A one night stand turns into once a month turns into three times a week turns into a daily occurrence; that’s the kind of thing it is. Only I’m fucking my brother and there isn’t anything that can excuse that.

I wish I could explain it. There’s something about how well he knows me, about how his hands feel like mine but better, about how perfectly we fit against each other that doesn’t make any sense but is just so right, even though it’s terribly wrong. It’s like…fuck, I don’t know.

It started after some bullshit record label party. We’re outside a hotel, by the pool at about 3 in the morning, just smoking and talking if we have something to say. I don’t even know how it happened, but somehow we ended up on a deck chair and I was sucking him off.

Neither of us mentions it but one night he comes to me; it’s late and he’s sneaking into my room and I’ve got my legs over his shoulders. Then it happens again. And again. It lasts one year, four months, and seventeen days.

So when he shows up at my door tonight, I think I know what I’m in for but, when he comes inside and doesn’t even take of his coat, I know I’m wrong.

He just looks at me and takes this deep breath - it’s that breath you take before you shatter someone’s world - and he says, “This is fucking over. Us. We’re over.” There’s no way he’s leaving, not like this, not like an asshole, not like I’m nothing. I reach for him but he stops my hand, so I take a swing. This is where it all falls apart.

We’re throwing punches and hoping for connections, tallying up another point for every sickening sound of fist on flesh. There’re no rules of decency here; everything is fair game. There’s a sense of traveling, he stumbles backwards a few feet and we’re moving towards the kitchen. I’m not scared until he’s holding me off with one hand and grasping behind him with the other and I see this flash of metal and shit shit shit he’s thrashing about with this knife from the sink.

I cut and run towards my bedroom and manage to find the handgun I keep in my nightstand while he’s catching his breath. He’s in the doorway and I’m screaming, “I’ll fucking do it! Don’t you fucking think I won’t!” He doesn’t even look like Mikey anymore. He’s got a black eye and a split lip and a bloody nose and he’s limping a little but he’s got this look and it’s not even human. It’s animal at this point. And he’s raising the knife and he’s coming toward me so I just close my eyes and squeeze the trigger. Four times. I hear two shots hit the wall but the other two I hear hit bone and flesh. There’s silence and one three five seconds and then the noise of something hitting the ground.

I open my eyes and there’s Mikey only it’s not Mikey because the whole top half of his face is gone and sprayed across the carpet. I mean it’s fucking gone and there’s a red splatter spreading around his chest because the other bullet hit his lung or something and that brings us to now.

It’s six steps exactly to bring me to his side. I kneel and cradle what’s left of his head in my hands. I’m not crying because this isn’t registering yet. There are things slipping through my fingers and I can’t help but throw my head back and laugh because this, this is a song gone awry. So I gently lower him back onto the floor, wipe my hands on my jeans, and walk to the front door. Outside it’s snowing enough that my footprints are erased soon after they are made and it’s easy enough to disappear.

Devastation pt.2

__more — Sat, 15 Jul 2006 03:38:25 GMT

Title: Devastation pt.2
Pairing: Ray/Mikey
POV: Second person (you is Ray, he is Mikey, she is Alicia)
Rating: PG-13
Length: 575 words
Author's Note: I wanted something more for them.
Disclaimer: I'm so full of shit.

part one?

Everything’s been a little weird since she left him. He ghosts around a lot, doesn’t say much and eats even less. This is when you start to realize that maybe, just maybe he needs more than what you can offer. Maybe, just maybe, you aren’t enough. He’d never say it, but you’re starting to feel it and, fuck, does it hurt.

What can you do at this point besides overcompensate or leave? You’re scared of what leaving might do, and not just to him. You don’t really have a choice. So you stay and when his bony, greedy hands pull at the hem of your shirt or the elastic of your boxers, you go with it. You let him inside of you and when he collapses on top of you, crying so hard that he can barely breathe, you just hold him and let him cry. This ritual has become a nightly occurrence and he cries for hours so it’s not like you’re getting much sleep lately, but that’s almost okay because you feel as if you deserve this, don’t you?

The band is starting to figure everything out, of course. They’re not stupid. They saw her leave with the suitcase and they saw you two standing in that room, staring at everything but each other. The things they say are hesitant and circumspect, though, limited to “Have you been sleeping well?” or “Hey Mikey, maybe you should have another bowl of cereal.” Bob’s the first one to take you aside, because he always was the bluntest.

“I’m not going to fake this happy-go-lucky blind bullshit anymore. What the hell happened between you and Mikey and Alicia?” He’s waiting for an answer and you know you have to give him one and that “Nothing” will not suffice. So…you explain.

He listens intently and scratches his chin a little when you’re done. You stare hopefully at him, like maybe he can remedy this whole situation, but he just walks away.

When Mikey comes to you that night, there are no skinny fingers tugging on you. He sits on the edge of your bed and says, “Bob talked to me. He said I need to fix this and that, if I thought about it enough, I would know how.” He turns to face you. “So I thought about it. I spent all goddamn day thinking about it.” One of his hands reaches out for yours as this funny little noise escapes him. It’s almost a high pitched laugh but it sounds like it’s covering tears. “It occurred to me,” he begins, “that I liked my time with her because it was safe. Walking down the street, talking, even the kisses were safe.” He clears his throat before he continues. “But I don’t really want safe. Safe gets old, even if it is comfortable. That’s why I wanted you. You’re…I don’t know. You’re different and a little dangerous and a little scary but that’s what I want.”

He kisses you and, for the first time in so long, it’s sweet and soft instead of furtive and scared. This time, it’s your hands pulling off the clothes. His body on yours is warm and he moves so lovingly against you. You arch your back and he pushes a little faster. And when he comes, it’s your name he whispers into your neck, which is new and nice and enough.

This time, you know it’s all going to be okay.

Devastation

__more — Mon, 10 Jul 2006 17:41:02 GMT

Title: Devastation
Pairing: Ray/Mikey
POV: Second person (you is Ray, he is Mikey, she is Alicia)
Rating: PG-13
Length: 725 words
Author's Note: I have no idea where this came from; it just sort of fell from my fingertips. And haha I submitted this to mychemicalslash without linking to the fic cuz I'm a dweeb.
Disclaimer: I'm a compulsive liar.

You still remember when you first met the kid. There was that party and he was sitting in the corner with a beer that he wasn’t drinking. He caught you looking at him and took a tentative sip that was followed with an embarrassed and yet disgusted face. You’d smiled a little and sat down next to him.

“I’m Ray,” and you’d offered him your hand, which he’d stared at for a minute like he’d never seen one before. When he finally reached out to shake it and told you his own name (which was Mikey), you started tossing out conversation starters because, for some reason, you wanted this kid to like you. By the end of the night, it was obvious he did, or he probably wouldn’t have had his hand under your shirt and his tongue in your mouth.

Though he’s still pretty gangly, he’s hardly a kid these days. Hell, he’ll be getting married soon. It’s weird knowing that he’s got a girl at home when he crawls into your bed at night and says he needs you. You feel pretty guilty when he fucks you because you know she’d be so devastated if she knew (she loves him so much and you can see it when she looks at him but goddammit you love him too and probably just as much) but it’s not like you can just say no when his lips are on your neck and whispering such beautiful things.

She flies out to see him one day and it’s like everything’s perfect except you know it’s one big perfect lie. You can’t help but blame her for this sometimes (she should notice that Mikey’s hand on your arm lasts just a little too long and, and, and if he was satisfied with her he wouldn’t turn to you) but you know you really shouldn’t be because this isn’t her fault at all- it’s yours and it’s his. You’re just making up excuses so that you feel better about this whole situation.

But your excuses are running low now and you think she’s maybe starting to catch on and then she comes to you looking hurt and so very afraid and you know. Her eyes are wet and her armor of faith is full of gaping holes.

“I don’t know who else to talk to,” she says. “I came to you because you know him so well and…” She’s crying now and you don’t know if it would be right to hold her so you just take her hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to cry but, God, I just, I don’t think he loves me anymore.” Any semblance of dignity is gone now and she has flung herself into your chest. You stroke her hair with some uncertainty and the words are falling out of your mouth before you even know what you’re saying.

“I’m so sorry, so, so sorry. This is all my fault. I should never have…I’m so sorry.”

She pulls away and looks at you and you can see her eyes change from confused to knowing. There is a momentary pause where she is just staring and her fingers are pulling her hair away from her face. There are still tears on her cheeks but she’s starting to laugh a little, then louder and louder still. The laugh scares you because it’s so hollow. She stops laughing and slaps you but you don’t flinch. You close your eyes as she punches you in the chest, somewhat hard at first but gradually softer as she starts to cry again and she buries herself in your arms because she doesn’t know what else to do.

This is when Mikey enters and all he can offer is a very soft, “Oh, shit.” You don’t even look at him- it’s not like you could if you wanted to- and whisper, “Just for the record, she knows.” She whirls around to face him and smiles the bravest smile she can muster. Her lips meet his and she’s gone, gone, gone.

He tries to start something that night, with a kiss here and touch there but you just turn away from him because this is all leaving you very nauseous. The very scent of him turns your stomach. You don’t know it yet, but this was the beginning of the end.

What You Get

__more — Mon, 10 Jul 2006 02:44:48 GMT

Title: What You Get
Pairing: Frank/Mikey
POV: Third person
Rating: PG-13
Length: 700 words
Author's Note: Written for the frankxmikey challenge.
Disclaimer: I'm a compulsive liar.

Frank’s sitting outside whatever hotel they’re staying at in some generic, faceless city. It looks like he’s reading a magazine, but really, he’s listening to Mikey spout some puke-inducing bullshit to Alicia about which one loves the other more. Frank snorts a little and shakes his head because he doesn’t understand where all of this came from. This isn’t exactly the Mikey he’s used to, you know? Still, Frank can’t quite help but think that he’d like to be on the receiving end of Mikey’s bullshit, because it’s ever so pretty and so is Mikey.

Mikey tries to push his no longer existent glasses up his nose and Frank hears, “I love you. I miss you so much, baby. I wish you were here,” and he wants so badly to have Mikey call him baby but he knows how unlikely that is.

“All right, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you later. I love you. Bye.” Mikey ends the call and walks over to where Frank is sitting, putting his arm around Frank’s shoulder. Frank doesn’t look at him because this touch, this touch hurts more than any of Mikey’s words ever could. Because this touch is completely platonic, Frank can feel his heart breaking just a little more.

It’s only at night, when the band is out clubbing, that Frank sees the Mikey he used to know. This Mikey is melting against Frank, bodies pressed together and hands in places they ought to not be. With Mikey’s fingertips tracing designs across his chest, Frank feels like he can fly. Truly, he lives for these moments, and he’s praying as hard as he can that this night lasts forever, even if forever is only ten more minutes. It’s far too early when last call comes and the music fades away, doors closing behind them like so many lost opportunities. Frank is silent the whole way to the hotel.

Back at the hotel, Frank’s sitting on the edge of his bed with the lights off. He’s not crying but he thinks he might like to. There’s a knock at the door and he pauses before opening it because he already knows who’s there.

Mikey’s standing there in his slightly pigeon-toed way. Frank steps to the side so he can glide into the room and stand near the bed. He looks concerned and it’s making Frank nervous.

“You okay, man? You haven’t been acting right lately,” Mikey says and Frank sighs because there’s nothing left to do. He steps closer to Mikey and stands up on his toes a little bit. There’s a five second countdown in Frank’s brain, during which he does not breathe, and then he leans in and lets his lips graze Mikey’s. He’s taken entirely by surprise when Mikey’s fingers find the back of his head and pull him in for a kiss that Frank has only ever seen in some chick flick.

Suddenly there’s shirts over heads and hands undoing belts and Frank is on his back so fast that he doesn’t even know what’s going on. They fit together so well, if a bit awkwardly. It doesn’t take long for them both to get close and as Frank comes, the words “I love you” spill out of his mouth. Mikey finishes and gets up, pulling his clothes on as fast as he can. When Frank stands to stop him from leaving, Mikey snarls and punches him in the face. Frank’s on the ground now, not curled up in fear because he won’t give Mikey that satisfaction, but there’s blood dripping, no, not dripping, it’s pouring from his nose. Mikey smoothes his shirt, and looks down at Frank.

"That's what you get for falling in love," Mikey spits out as he slams the door.

Frank steadies himself enough to stand up and walk to the bathroom. The blood almost covers the bottom half of his face, except for the little paths where the tears fell. He’s fairly certain his nose is broken, but that doesn’t hurt anywhere near as bad as his broken heart. He wipes at his face with one of the pristine hotel washcloths and thinks that, despite this, he wouldn’t mind ten more minutes with Mikey.

Fireworks

__more — Fri, 30 Jun 2006 05:30:08 GMT

Title: Fireworks
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
POV: Frank's
Rating: PG
Length: 400 words
Disclaimer: I'm a poor girl who just likes to lie.

You place your hand in mine and whisper, “Come with me, Dante; I can lead you to the very gates of Paradise.” I can’t pass up an offer like that so I close my eyes and trust you. There’s something about you that puts me together, piece by piece, breathing life into me with every touch of you fingers against my skin, fire igniting in my veins at the very thought of your kiss. I am a being of your creation, bits of what I was and bits of what you will be, sewn together with lengths of capillaries and twine.

The way you love is like a nuclear blast and I am the epicenter – the fallout travels for miles but the major damage is mine and mine alone. When we are pressed together, I know what it means to melt, to sweat, to be. Only when your nails scrape my back and draw blood do I feel alive.

Your breath is the wind in my sails and your hips the sea that rocks my ship. You surround me; there is nothing but miles and miles of you as far as my tired eyes can see. There is no land to be found though my ship is sinking and I, like any good captain, will go down with it. As the waves swallow what remains of my beauty, I feel your arms engulf what is left of me. This water is warmer than it looks. My body moves to its liquid rhythm and I am soon gone, so long gone.

My tongue against your collarbone and fireworks explode across skin, redwhiteblue sparks in the shape of our bodies. Hands traced along ribs and fireworks explode behind eyes, warm and bright and disorientating. There are no solid lines marking where I end and you begin, only amorphous stretches of body that press and slide together to form two very different but altogether too similar things.

Eyelashes against cheeks, mouths against necks, two against six billion plus and it’s okay. Together our limbs form a trellis upon which roses climb and bloom, soft and beautiful but nowhere near as beautiful as us. Thorns puncture our flesh but all I see is the petals that comprise your delicate skin, pale and smooth. I run my hands along your sides and pull you close. We are simple creatures and this is all we need.

Amen

__more — Mon, 24 Apr 2006 03:37:34 GMT

Title: Amen
Pairing: Harry/Hermione
POV: Third person
Rating: PG-13
Length: 635 words
Disclaimer: The characters belong to JK Rowling, the song belongs to Jewel. I just like to play.

His eyes used to burn bright like his mother’s but this night has fallen inside him, heavy and thick, with no intention of lifting and the brightness is gone as he crawls through the undergrowth, naked belly to the ground. Filth coats him; it has been so long since there was even time to think of a shower or a change of clothes. He leans against a tree and wonders what the final battle will be like. The thought of failure spreads through his mind like a forest fire, every thought a leaf soon engulfed in flame. He shudders and feels a small, cold hand take his own.

Hermione stares up at him softly though there is a wall between them now, keeping them in shadow. She quotes the Bible in the dark, speaks of sinners and saints, demons and angels, and Harry knows that although the angels can fly, the others must wait for their savior. He is terrified that the savior is supposed to be him.

Faces lifted to the sky and Harry screams, his dry tongue spitting dry words against the horizon but the wind, the wind just breathes them in and dissolves them. Harry can almost see the words as they disappear into the darkened air. There is no sun these days or, if there is, it is hidden by the smoke from burning homes and burning bodies. The Death Eaters thrive on the grey enveloping everything, but to Harry it reeks of the lost, the losing, and the ones who will fall altogether too soon.

Fingers eagerly explore his face, tracing features, resting along the jawbone. Hermione is searching for hope in the lines and creases that make Harry look so much older than he did just a few short months ago. Her hands drift down and one pauses at his heart, praying for a beat but that piece of Harry is long dead. Pieces of them die every day but the only way to make it to tomorrow is to pretend that they are whole. One must not give into the exhaustion of mind and body.

She fits herself beneath his arm and Harry remembers church as a child and being told that each person had fallen from God. He thinks that maybe Hermione never left Him because she sure makes him feel better than God ever did. Her lips on his skin give him warmth like nothing else can these days. Harry thinks that maybe she is an angel, that she will wrap him in her wings and rescue him but when he looks she has no wings, only kind eyes and a heart with which to love him.

Every hero who was supposed to save them all has succumbed and Harry doesn’t know if there are any more who are going to come. Maybe they’ve all been defeated, or maybe the one to deliver them is still yet to be born. Harry isn’t sure they can last long enough if the latter is true.

They share things in the silence that passes between them. Simple things, but they are enough in this war-torn, God-forsaken place. His hands are rough against her skin but being able to feel him makes this all tolerable for her. When they kiss, she thinks she might drown - when he touches her, shyly and yet so desperately, holding her close to him with strong arms that shake, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she has to save him so he can save her and everyone else.

He presses his shivering body against hers and he cries, partly out of fear, partly out of frustration, but mostly because, despite all this, he is lucky enough to have someone who loves him. She is the answer to his every needy prayer, glory glory hallelujah.

Fog the Mirror

__more — Mon, 24 Apr 2006 03:27:08 GMT

Title: Fog the Mirror
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey
POV: First person- Mikey
Rating: PG-13
Length: 425 words
Disclaimer: Lies, lies and more lies.

Damned are the sinners and, my God, what sinners are we. There is nothing holy about us or this moment. We live and breathe in the dark, sneaking kisses and touches when nobody’s looking; fucking silently in dirty bathrooms when we’re sure we won’t be missed. Our friends have no idea because if they did, oh, what world of hurt we’d be in. They’d never be able to look at us again.

Our only saving grace is that we know this is wrong – we’ve no delusions there. This will lead us straight to hell but we just can’t seem to stop this no matter how we try. The heat of our bodies pressed together mimics the heat of the flames we will spend eternity in but I need this, Lord how I need it.

Your mouth leaves burning trails along my skin and fills me with lust, with greed that no amount of you will ever satiate.

When we’ve finished, I’m too overwhelmed to move from the bed. As I lie there, drenched with sweat and shaking with the knowledge of what it is we’ve done, I can hear the water running while you wash your face in the bathroom. The water shuts off and I hear the door creak open and click closed ever so carefully without a word from you.

I head into the bathroom myself and turn the shower on as hot as it will go. Steam fills the room and fogs the mirrors and I step under the stream. It scalds my skin but I couldn’t care less. If anything, I feel cleaner, as though I’ve burned Gerard’s touch off of me.

The water goes cold so I turn it off and step out in front of the mirror. On the outside, I am perfectly clean but inside, inside, I am filthy. The room spins and I vomit. Once everything settles down and I can stand again, I wipe the mirror in front of my reflection. The sight of myself is sickening. I can’t stand it any longer. Suddenly the mirror is shattering, splintering and my knuckles are pulsating with the most excruciating pain as the mirror shards make contact with the counter, the noise enough to wake the dead.

I sit, dizzy and wounded, and wait. No one comes. The silence is debilitating. When the door finally opens, I don’t even move. Your shoes crunch on the broken glass and your arms envelope me. “I know,” you whisper and I feel your tears on my neck. “Oh Mikey, I know.”

Underwater

__more — Thu, 30 Mar 2006 04:10:20 GMT

Title: Underwater
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 400 words
Disclaimer: Lies, lies and more lies.

Today is one of those days where Frank feels like he’s trying to move underwater, and it has nothing to do with the fact that the air outside is thick and wet. No, it’s because nothing he does seems to have any impact, no matter how hard he tries. He’s throwing punches and throwing kisses and no one even notices.

Frank opens the front door of the hotel and walks slowly down the street, staring at everything and nothing all at once. When the clouds are finally too full of water, they let the rain fall and he is glad because now the tears can slide down his cheeks and no one will see them.

It’s been over a year, but he remembers the summer nights in Gerard’s car like they were yesterday. Those were nights when he meant something to someone. He remembers Gerard’s arm around his shoulder and feeling like he actually had a chance in the world to be…to be what? Frank doesn’t know, but he thinks it had to have been something more than what he is right now. Right now…right now, he’s just empty space.

But Gerard doesn’t want him anymore and that’s fine with Frank, really it is. Only that’s a lie, even though Frank is the sole person to see it as such. Every breath seems like a lie now. Frank doesn’t see the point in breathing at all when he’s got no one to breathe for.

It isn’t long before Frank ends up on the beach, watching the wind create enormous, violent waves. His shoes are weighing him down so he just takes them off and lets his feet tackle the sand by themselves. He stands with his toes just barely in the water, the waves moving back and forth against them. The water is cool for August but Frank doesn’t even feel it. He hasn’t felt much of anything in days.

First one step and then another and another and Frank is marching himself out into the choppy water until his feet no longer touch the bottom. The waves are pounding over his head, pinning him down, keeping him from the air. Frank smiles despite the salty water in his nose and eyes and mouth.

The water is filling his lungs now, pressing him from all sides. He closes his eyes and knows that, sometimes, drowning is all you can do.

__more — Sun, 26 Mar 2006 05:38:24 GMT

Title: Post-It Notes
Pairing Pete/Patrick
POV: Third person
Rating: G
Length: 370 words
Author's Note: Holy crap, first FOB fic ever.
Disclaimer: Such a lie.

The snow is melting and you can see the grass and flowers coming up through the slush, but Pete doesn’t notice because, in his heart, it’s still winter. He writes Patrick bits of love songs on Post-It notes and puts them in a notebook he never intends to give to anyone else. The verses are simple enough; just lines that would make teenage girls cry - lines that make Pete cry because they are more honest than anything he’s ever written for the band. He wishes he was braver and could tell Patrick but there so much danger in that transition from platonic to romantic and Pete never was one for danger. He’s safe (stupid sometimes, but always safe).

He tries to hint by letting his hand settle too long on Patrick’s, or by resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder but either Patrick doesn’t notice any change or he just doesn’t care. Pete finds a pair of scissors and cuts himself a little heart out of newspaper, which he pins to his sleeve. His friends laugh but no one gets it so he throws it away in the bathroom of a venue in Whatever City, Middle America; Pete doesn’t remember city names anymore because the kids all look the same no matter where they are.

These days, Pete can look in the mirror and count his ribs, can look in the mirror and see bones protruding from his skin. His face is too thin and his skin is losing some of its color. He decides it’s time to take a chance and so he writes one last Post-It note, his shortest one yet because all it says is “Please love me,” and he sticks it on his bare chest before walking to Patrick’s hotel room. He stands outside the door for a few minutes, gathering courage. When he finally knocks, it only takes about four seconds for Patrick to appear in the doorway. Pete has nothing to say; he simply points at the square of yellow. Patrick’s eyes soften and he takes Pete’s hand in one of his own, placing the other along Pete’s jaw. Pete is surprised when Patrick’s lips meet his forehead and he whispers, “I always have.”