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Heaven Help Us (Chapter 7)
Title: Heaven Help Us: Chapter 7
Author: inlovensqualor
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG-13
Warning: There's some swear words in there somewhere! Oooh! And kissing!!
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any characters depicted here...
Summary: Frank makes Gerard face up to what is going on between them.
[Heaven Help Us Chapter 7]

Fighting every cell in his body, that fought and roared and tore against him, Frank pulled away from their kiss. Their sweetly intense kiss that clawed and pulled back and didn't want to let him go. Away from Gerard's fingers that couldn't stop their frantic searching across the fabric of Frank's jeans, fingers that would for moments curl despondently around his hips.

It should have been everything he wanted, but everything in this felt wrong, everything in this felt about roar physical need. And somehow Frank couldn't bring himself to have this end as just that once more. He couldn't stand to feel used by someone that meant so much to him, not again.

Finally free of Gerard's disconsolate lips Frank stayed panting uselessly against him, still with those fingers clutching him, his body unbearably close.

Frank registered the moment of panic and rejection that flashed in Gerard's eyes, the alarm as he snaked his arms up and around Frank's waist and pulled him desperately closer.

Fighting the reality and understanding between them Gerard pressed his lips down tenderly against the curve of Frank's neck, that was frozen between compliance and resistance.

Frank squeezed Gerard's shoulders tightly and with his shuddering breath caressing his cheek, he whispered desolately into his ear, "Gerard... This... It has to stop."


Frank had watched Gerard's retreating silhouette, illuminated all around by the light beyond the dressing room door, with eyes that blurred bitterly.

He hadn't wanted for him to go, he'd wanted Gerard to stay and face this.

And standing there with his own heart cradled pathetically in his hands he'd hoped for Gerard to turn around and help him.

Words were lost in the crush in his throat and all he wanted to do was call out to him and explain.

Gerard paused by the door and for moments Frank thought it could be okay, that he would stay and fix this, but he just searched in his pockets, pulled out a woefully crumpled and stained piece of paper and laid it decorously on the seat of the chair by the door.

"I love you Gerard," Frank chocked out. "But it just... It has to be more than this... I want more than this..."

But Gerard wouldn't let him finish, as the door cut Frank's desperation off in one awful bitter slam.


Frank sank to his knees, his cheek cooling against the hard wooden grain of the dressing room's door, his note to Gerard once again clutched disconsolately in his trembling fingers, like a nocuous terrible talisman.

And he just kept asking himself why was it so hard with Gerard, what was it about this that wanted to destroy itself so easily, so completely?

Frank's hurt was an ugly tangible thing crouching within him as he slammed his already scarred fist into the surface of the door he leant against, and the only thing he felt was the relief of a hurt, if only for a moment, that was greater than the one throbbing inside his heart.


Gerard felt the boom and echo behind his head, of a blow meeting with the other side of the door that he leant hopelessly against.

Sitting there he just couldn't figure out what he was supposed to have done, he'd thought it was what Frank had wanted when he'd let go and crashed his lips longingly into his.

And it felt glorious for moments, letting go, giving in; taking what he desired with no thought for the consequences, the shattering repercussions that were bound to come tumbling down. He'd done it and there was just no room for the usual wrenching doubts that had always plagued his mind.

And when Frank had pulled away; the confusion, the hurt, it was like the fiercest blow, it wounded and winded and it took him back to that stage hours before, the eyes of hundreds upon him as Frank turned away.

And then, in that room, when Frank gave him the opportunity to walk away, he'd taken it gladly in many ways. Because staying just felt too hard, too dangerous.

Drowning, choking, in memories Gerard curled himself further into a ball, taking perverse comfort in how small he could make himself; greeting the cool surface of the door as it bit gently against his cheek, the sensation mixing with the warm tear that rolled down and felt like it shouldn't be there encroaching on that moment.

He brought his fingers up and laid them outstretched against the inches of door by his head; and felt stupidly like somehow he was reaching back into the moment he had caught Frank's lips in his own.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to that closed threshold and for a moment he thought he'd heard his sentiment returned, seeping through the crack in the bottom of the door, in total unison, in the low tones of Frank's voice.

Sighing Gerard gathered himself off the floor and let his pride start his retreat down the shadow blackened hall.

And yet as he did he couldn't stop his mind replaying the moment his lips had met Frank's, just how warm they felt; of the sensation of their bodies clashing carelessly, embroiled in an event that made regard obsolete.

He plunged himself so deeply into recalling every second of those events that he failed to hear the door open behind him, didn't register the frantic footsteps drawing closer. Just felt suddenly Frank's fingers wrap recklessly around his arm and pull him back.

And when Frank's lips came up to his own he greeted them in shock and in burning gratitude.

Unabashed and unashamed he pulled the other man tightly against his chest, clutching his back with hands that could only manage to tremble.

And this time when Frank pulled away it was to stare with a soft ferocity in his eyes and to shine up a hope filled smile.

"You know Gerard... Whatever this is... It really doesn't matter... Because I... Christ, I just want you. And I don't care what that means. Just... Fuck... Just say you want this too," Frank implored to him with a tender urgency.

Conflicted Gerard looked away, his mind reeling and racing dizzyingly, he hated himself for the fact that it was so hard to say it. But it just was... Like he'd be weakened for it.

His eyes burning a hole into the cracked linoleum below them he nodded gently, hoped somehow that that would be enough for them both.


Drowning Lessons (Chapter 1)
Title: Drowning Lessons: Chapter 1
Author: inlovensqualor
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG
Warning: Damn depressing people
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any characters depicted here...
Summary: Frank and Gerard have their own lives now, but they still cling to the idea that, in some way, they can still be together...
[Drowning Lessons Chapter 1]

You say you love me...

But that love... It's just not enough is it?

I say I love you but it's only words...

Our words make us feel like we're not apart completely.

But they're only words and they only ever will be while I'm not with you...

And sometimes they help and sometimes they make me sick inside, right down to the pit of my stomach.

Because I know they're only words and I know I can never actually be with you...


Frank stared with detachment over the dinner table, with the vacant stare of someone who dreamt of not being there in that moment at all.

'And what's stopping me? What's stopping us?' He entertained briefly; not allowing himself to think too deeply on it, hazard upon the actual answer to his question. Even if it was staring him straight in the face, even if it was taking all his energy not to know it.

Because the answer would spoil the illusion... The illusion that he and Gerard had built together.

Frank sighed lightly and pushed a few peas dejectedly, with his fork, from one side of his plate to the other; watching them roll clumsily, scattering in their own choice of direction.

Lying in the dark, at night, he could forget, forget himself, his life. But in these, the most mundane of life's moments, he looked to Gerard as a fantasy to escape into. When they were together it was wild and exciting, it was arcing electrical currents and a forest fire of burning trees, hurricanes and crashing waves and all contained in two bodies clashing in the heat of night. And then, just as wonderfully, so often it was soft and caring and sweet.

And wasn't that just their relationship? It was the sweet frosting, the sugar-coating, of love. It was all of the joy and tenderness, the quiet excitement, the screaming lust. And it was none of the dull foundations that should have stood beneath, the things a real relationship is built upon. The realities, the work and the hardship that it takes.

Frank had never sat at a table with Gerard night after night having to think of something to say, pretending to take interest in the answers that came back his way. And that's what made everything in this all the worse. |Because it taunted Frank that deep down all the things he loved about his time with Gerard, being with him in their stolen moments, was based on a lie. Based on the lie that they both believed, that if they could actually do it, be with each other together day after day, it could be the same, they could feel the same.

Would he lose the joy that just being in Gerard's company could always bring? Would they sit silently across from one another lost as to what to say? And the risk of it was almost as unbearable as the idea that Frank could never be with him...

It was what scared Frank more than anything; that if you were with anyone for long enough you'd lose all those things that you had loved about them, perhaps worse, they'd become the things you'd grow to hate.

Frank's phone vibrated dully in his jeans pocket.

"Nice dinner..." Frank mumbled quietly, rising from the table, smiling calmly, screaming desperately inside.


Gerard kissed his baby boy on the head, pulling the bed sheets gently up around his neck. His son had been the blessing that in many ways he never could have dreamed of... And yet the dreams he'd had to give up on, that he'd gladly given up on, for himself.

He didn't resent him or regret him but he felt the duty of being a father weigh down, impossibly heavy, upon his shoulders every time he looked down at that angelic face.

Gerard brushed the stray hairs from his son's eyes and grazed the backs of his fingers tenderly down his rose dappled cheek.

He wanted to give this kid the world, even if that meant giving up being with the one man that made his turn.

Gerard walked quietly away, snapping off the lights as he backed silently out the door. Closing it, he took a deep calm, cleansing, breath and made his way down the shadow littered hall; collecting his favourite, battered, jacket on his way out.

"I gotta go practice..." Gerard called out numbly towards the direction of the lounge, not waiting for an answer as he headed out the door.


Frank sunk down, conflicted, into the soft mattress of the bed in his tiny motel room. He was a few blocks from his apartment yet he felt worlds away there. Worlds away from her, worlds away from everything Frank had and the stinging reality of what really could be.

He sighed looking at his watch. He saw that Gerard was as late as ever and consequently Frank's thoughts returned to times when he'd been left waiting all goddamn night, until he fell asleep, wrapped in hurt and rejection, lying curled on top of the sheets.

And although he told himself time after time that Gerard had his life, his responsibilities; he couldn't help resenting that so much of this was on his terms.

And maybe just for once he'd like to feel like it was Gerard who needed desperately to see him, who would drop everything to sit and watch, lazily, his smile.

He knew Gerard was trying to juggle it all. But was it wrong that Frank wanted to be the one and only thing that Gerard couldn't bear to drop?

He felt like he was always wanting more, love always left him wanting more.

'And why doesn't the thought of my girlfriend stop me, the thought of his family?' Frank despaired, letting his head fall into his hands.

A faint rap of knuckles on the motels door brought Frank back to the cool reality of the room.

He pulled himself up off of the bed; feeling a smile, knowing that it might be Gerard, crawl across his face like an invasion.

Hand resting on the latch, he forced his lips into relaxed nonchalance. Somehow it was too honest, too dangerous to throw out his joy and excitement to a waiting audience... Even Gerard.... Especially Gerard...


Gerard waited with an air of urgency on his every limb, in his every inch, for Frank to open the door. Somehow he knew he didn't want Frank to see him like that as he slipped on a cooler facade just in time to watch the door swing smoothly open in front of him.

His friend was there in the doorway of the room, a casual smile splashed across his lips, that widened and deepened irrepressibly when his eyes met Gerard's and lingered there.

And Gerard had to redefine his meaning of cool as he smiled back and made his way, silently, past him and into the room.


Frank sighed against the lips pressed to his, lips that he could already feel were bracing to leave him.

He waited for the apologies, the 'I've got to get going's, the 'you know I want to stay's like a condemned man scratching the days into the concrete walls of his cell. All the while asking himself why this all had to be so inevitable. Why did they have to recite the same old lines? Play their parts so perfectly time after torturous time?

Trapped in some Shakespearean tragedy Frank silently listened as the inevitability of Gerard's words began and, with gentile savagery, engulfed him.

And he felt so selfish in these moments, so guilty just for having feelings, for wanting someone so badly even if it felt so wrong to desire him at all.

And did Gerard feel this too? Even with that stupid fake smile plastered all over his face dutifully.

But Frank returns it back robotically, not to hurt him, not to shatter their illusions. And the lie of that smile was almost as painful as the act of them parting yet again.

And he knows that he can never say what's always there on his lips, that him leaving, going back to his family, his life, no matter Gerard's reasons, it made Frank feel less than worthless, every time it hurt like hell. Because it was too selfish, it felt too wrong to put it into words.

So Frank just smiles as Gerard leans down over him and kisses him chastely, on the lips, goodbye.


Bandom Fan Fiction Challenge #1
Title: Bandom Fan Fiction Challenge #1
Author: inlovensqualor
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Prompt: Setting: Late at night in a room in someone's home, Items/Themes: A coffee table, a pineapple, broken glass, and a misunderstanding, Sentence: "I've one this more times than you."
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any characters depicted here...
Summary: Frank is locked out of the house he shares with his friend Gerard, his ice cream's melting, he's cold, and he's desperate to get in...
Author's Notes: Ah man... This sucks, but I have a shitload of excuses... :D

[Bandom Fan Fiction Challenge #1]
Frank jostled the heavy brown paper shopping bags against his chest as he searched desperately in his jeans pockets.

"Keys... Shit," he sighed, giving into the fact that they definitely weren't there, after the hundredth time of looking.

He considered his options. Gerard had definitely said he'd be out for a few more hours, his ice-cream was melting to a sludge, he never did get around to getting that spare key cut, leaving it hidden in the mantle over the door like he'd always planned he would.

He looked around himself, with no real comprehension of what he was searching for, what answers he thought he might hope to find in the crooked paving that led up to their door, the tired dead-looking shrubs that lined it miserably.

His arms quickly tiring he rested his bags down by the door and walked over to the front window. The drapes only half pulled he saw their shadow-blackened and deserted looking lounge, his keys glinting at him from its coffee table in the darkness and gloom. He could've kicked himself then, the memory of darting out to catch the shop before its late night close, stuffing his wallet into his jeans pocket, his keys forgotten laying out in plain sight. He glanced away from his keys, so close yet so far away, and caught sight of the backdoor visible from there, past the lounge and through the kitchen. The faintest possibility that Gerard might've forgotten to lock it seized him and with deluded hope buzzing in his veins he gathered up his bags and headed around the side of the house.

Wrapping his forearm awkwardly around his shopping, Frank freed up his hand to try his luck with the backdoor. But the handle just stubbornly refused to turn. The one time he'd wanted him not to and Gerard had remembered to lock it.

The chill of a New Jersey winter night biting at him through his inappropriately light jacket; Frank picked up a rock uncertainly from their patched dirt and dead grass back yard. By now getting in wasn't so much the issue, it was almost a matter of pride. He smashed out the pane of glass nearest to the door handle, without giving his mind a chance to persuade him otherwise, pulled down his jacket sleeve over his wrist and hand for protection and slid his clothed arm in through the broken jagged glass to pop the latch.

He swung open the door smugly, grinning at his victory against the house, before heading back for his shopping bags still propped on what went for their back porch.

The backdoor still open there was just enough grim light spilling into the kitchen for Frank to be able to make out the outlines and dark silhouettes of the furniture and appliances. He walked towards the small round kitchen table that stood like a terrible giant black arachnid lingering in the centre of the room; took care to try to not trip and fall in the poorly lit gloom, the random detritus littered on the floor disguised by the shadows.

Frank suddenly felt a blunt yet excruciating pain make impact and spread hotly across his back; a blow that sent him toppling forward, his bags flying into the air, their contents scattering, falling to the ground and rolling uselessly across the floor. A box of eggs crashed down and its inhabitants spewed out, whites and yolks, cracked shell peppering it. A pineapple rolled past the wreckage of eggs merrily like it'd just pulled off this year's most audacious jailbreak.

Frank heard the hollow sound of wood clattering to the floor, a baseball bat was shuddering to a stop on the tiled surface of the kitchen floor inches from his face.

He felt the air knocked desperately out of him as he hit the ground, a pain rushing through his chest, as the person above him pounced down and landed across his back.

Frank let out a strangled cry in response, an awful primal, animal like sound.
'Fuck... Am I being robbed?' he thought almost deliriously.

"Who in the hell are you huh? Think you can break into my house!" Gerard boomed angrily above him.

Frank flailed beneath him on the filthy floor, still gasping for breath; he couldn't speak, he couldn't explain, if only he could turn himself over he thought.

"I'm calling the cops," Gerard explained exultantly, shifting his position to weigh down harder on Frank below.

He'd have liked to have said he'd heard a hint of fear painted on those words but Gerard above him sounded fearless.

"It's... Me... You... Idiot!" Frank gasped through painful rasping breaths. "Get the... Hell... Off me..."

For a minute Frank thought Gerard would oblige, seemed to rise off above him but as he tried to push himself up Gerard's weight blocked him, he was kneeling across him.

Frank turned himself face up, knocking against the sides of Gerard's bony knees clumsily as he tried to negotiate the tight space Gerard had left him with.

Finally laying on his back and irritated Frank blew his fringe out of his eyes haughtily and stared daggers up at Gerard who grinned down at him with an obvious gleam of amusement dancing in is eyes.

"Fuck Gerard... My back. What the hell did you think you were doing you jerk?" Frank fumed; the warm angry sting of a bruise forming.

If Gerard was sorry, he sure as hell wasn't showing it as he smiled down at Frank, shone with a gleeful kind of smugness.

"Get off me," Frank commanded gruffly staring Gerard straight in the eyes. Gerard just smiled.

"Hey Frankie," he teased playfully. "Why're you breaking into our house?"

Frank rolled his eyes but indulged Gerard all the same, forming futility in his words.

"I forgot my keys you idiot... You're supposed to be out. And anyway what were you doing in here with all the damn lights out?"

Gerard just grinned at that, a sort of Machiavellian glee dancing within it that told Frank that he really didn't want to know.

Frank groaned, it was late, too late for this, and he was tired, he really didn't need any of this shit.

"Okay don't tell me," he sighed; knowing he must've looked more than a little defeated by now.

"Just... Please stop kidding around... I want to go to bed," he pleaded just a little.

Gerard just smiled; apparently anything was enough to amuse him now.

The darkest corners of Frank's mind thought about the baseball bat by his head, no real intention behind it, just the crazed kind of thought that comes into your head before it flashes away guiltily away again.

"Why you lookin' at that bat Frankie?" Gerard goaded. "Planning something there?"

Frank laughed, slightly embarrassed, slightly guilty.

"As if..." He smiled, but despite himself flushed pink with an embarrassed kind of shame.

"You're a terrible liar," Gerard smiled seductively, grabbing both of Frank's wrists and pinning them to the cool tiles beneath, guiding them both up above his head.

Frank raised a puzzled eyebrow in confusion but still found the air caught painfully, wildly, in his throat, and even if he couldn't let himself admit it for now there was arousal mixed up in that fear. An excitement that worked its way up and down his body like an exotic pair of hands. It felt wildly inappropriate in this moment but it also undeniably felt almost right.

And Gerard just kept staring, these apocalyptically awesome eyes, that were fierce and playful, sincere yet forever locked in some private joke. They provoked something within Frank he'd never known was there.

Frank sucked in his lower lip nervously, ran his tongue over the warm metal surface of his lip ring, a completely involuntary action but the sensation a sweet distraction nonetheless.

Flexing the fingers wrapped around Frank's wrists Gerard leaned in closer, until Frank could feel the breath calmly escaping his lips almost brush against his own anxious pair. Leaned in so far that those lips skimmed the arc of Frank's neck, left a tingling trail of goose bumps in their wake.

"This is really lame Gerard," Frank protested through shuddering lips that said so many more truths than his words. "You know, attacking me, doing this... This isn't how you seduce someone..."

Gerard laughed lightly into the curve of Frank's neck, sent vibrations and thrills scattering down his near helpless body.

"I think it might be," he murmured, still letting those lips skim Frank's desperately resisting inches.

Gerard let his lips rest open and warm upon Frank's neck, lingered there for what could have been to Frank seconds or hours before whispering hotly into Frank's ear.

"I think it might be. 'Cos I know the signs... I've done this more times than you," he explained in a voice that was so knowing and sure it was touching on sinister.

Frank felt his stomach flip and though nerves ran relentlessly through him it wasn't unpleasant to be unnerved to the point of a thrill by Gerard.

And lost in that thought Frank didn't notice Gerard's lips coming up to steal a kiss from his own, that kiss just suddenly became a reality, as Gerard grasped Frank's wrists tighter as if trying to anticipate a reaction, a rejection, a move. Stayed that way like he was waiting to make sure there was no resistance to fight. And when he found none he softened, relented, trailed his fingers from those wrists that hummed beneath them, down the long elegant curves of Frank's arms until a hand came to rest on Frank's chest, absorbed completely by the hypnotic rhythm of its rise and fall, how it was desperate and excited, uncertain yet so sure.

And the cool early morning winter hours rushed in through the long forgotten open door, flowed over and around and through them, pushed them closer into an embrace as they searched for warmth, sealed a deal that had already really been made and pushed them closer together than they'd ever been before.

Gerard clutched the fabric of Frank's jacket in a rare moment of reckless abandon, desire and joy spilling out uncontrolled until his fingers stopped dead over the sharp set of outlines in the light cloth.

Gerard pulled away slowly, his trade mark gently caustic smile cutting through the air between them.

"Forgot your keys huh?" He murmured letting his fingers disappear into his friend's breast pocket.

Retrieved two keys tauntingly and let them hang glinting lazily in the gloom.

Frank's mind raced uselessly, stuck in that awful mess of thoughts that shock always invites.

"But... I saw them... On the coffee table," he stuttered, truly dumbstruck.

"They're mine you idiot," Gerard returned, grinning. "But then I think you know that."

"Damn..." Frank muttered in irritation, the memory of himself searching every single pocket on him but the one his keys were actually in stinging at him.

His paranoia ran wild at the look in Gerard's eyes, battering at his senses, stopping him from forming a reasonable defence, and all he had was the truth, and sometimes that's the worst thing you can fight back with.

"If you wanted this Frankie... All you had to do was ask," Gerard purred. "Didn't really have to play these games..." He smiled, flinging Frank's keys away into the looming shadows; nailing Frank to the floor with the hungry gleaming intent in his eyes.

Heaven Help Us (Chapter 6)
Title: Heaven Help Us: Chapter 6
Author: inlovensqualor
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG
Warning: There's some swear words in there somewhere! Oooh!
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any characters depicted here...
Summary: Frank's tired of all these games. Gerard can't face the rejection.
[Heaven Help Us Chapter 6]

Frank slid off the ridiculously large earphones he had on and placed them down, on the desk in the claustrophobic booth at the radio station, with a huge sense of relief. He blew out a deep calming breath as he stood and shook the outthrust hand of the smiling host; before Gerard reached out confidently, nonchalantly, across Frank and offered his own. Frank gritted his teeth, bit back the anger rising within him.

'Arrogant jerk,' his mind snapped.

He just couldn't take the blasé attitude which Gerard could employ around him, the way he could brush his arm across Frank's shoulder and over his chest like everything was normal, like everything was okay. It said to Frank that to Gerard it was nothing to be around him.

Frank turned mutely on his heels and headed for the door, sensed Gerard's smiling figure behind him nodding to the station's DJ and following him out. He tried to swallow down his anger, felt it crack and splinter in his throat. Absorbed in his thoughts he simply nodded to the assistant that offered to show him out, his jaw aching with the tension freezing his muscles, forcing his teeth painfully together.

"Can't believe that guy actually asked you 'bout your face," Gerard laughed behind him, his voice bouncing around the long empty corridor they traversed.

Frank almost winced at the memory of the question, how his heart had thumped and his stomach had lurched sickeningly in reaction; clenched his fists impotently at Gerard's little assault.

"Don't worry though," Gerard carried on through smiling lips that forced themselves evident into the words they formed. "You handled it well... You definitely got away with it."

As Frank came to the polished chrome and glass doors of the exit he imagined turning around slowly, his eyes glinting with the sweet taste of revenge, and swinging his balled up fist into Gerard's carefree laughing face. Instead he limply laid his uncomfortably damp palm against the cool surface of the door and pushed, pushed the door open and his pain and his anger away.

Silently stuffing a cigarette into his mouth Frank walked away from the radio station without another word; Gerard left in the wake of his retreating shadow, blinking dumbfounded at him, through the glare of the midday sun.


Frank listened to the low humming repetitive notes spilling out around and over the stage. They were rich and heavy and seemed to curl around his body, his limbs, reverberate against and in his chest.

Frank smiled at Mikey with his bass; how he managed to make it seem elegant under his hands.

"Thanks man..." He said suddenly, glancing down shyly at his own guitar hung down on its strap and over his body.

"What for?" Mikey answered absentmindedly, moving his fingers along the thick strings beneath them, making them screech lightly in metallic tones as he did.

"You know... The other night... Outside the bar," Frank muttered staring down at his own fingers murmuring against his guitar's strings, making them almost imperceptibly knock against the frets. He couldn't make the fingers of his other hand, plectrum within them, strum the strings below them.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he muttered distractedly, concentrating on the slight yet expert twists that he made to his tuning pegs. "It wasn't me."

Frank's shaking fingers mapped out a chord, ghosted a strum.

"Ah... Don't worry. It's nothing," he mumbled down to the black hole his guitar had become, bringing his plectrum up to his mouth, securing it between his teeth; striking the backs of his fingers down over the strings, a dull pained note crashing out of the looming stacked speakers behind them and reaching his ears in a tumbling crescendo.


Frank watched as his third, and last, plectrum, spiralled away in free-fall, glinting under the heavy stage lights as it turned, as if it were all happening in slow motion. With each turn it winked up at him with a tiny flash of light streaking across its surface. He groped uselessly at thin air with fingers that shouldn't have been shaking, that were slick and unpleasant with sweat.

With the booming rhythm of a drum beat thundering in his chest, the dull march of the bass winding around it, the roar of the crowd and Gerard's voice snaking all over him like arms and hands on his hips and waist, he turned the backs of his fingers to his strings almost without letting himself think. His pride made the decision for him. And felt nothing at all at first, as he let his mind get lost in the feel of the small beads of sweat that gathered on his brow and the way on stage all the sounds around him melded into one, became nothing but vibrations and sensations.

Ahead of him on stage Gerard, swathed in the harsh blinding glow of a spotlight, quivered and swayed like a sapling caught in the forceful violence of a hurricane. And, like he had a thousand times before, his black and white silhouette made its elegant way across the stage and towards Frank; who still torn and raging bit his lip in barely concealed frustration and trepidation. For the first time he felt the burn of the strings he strummed tearing into the backs of his fingers.

He resisted darting away as Gerard leant into him. And when Gerard sang against him, spilling his hot and rich melodies out and over his cheek, lingering by his shoulder, his exposed neck, in a way that he had once had the naivety to find beautiful and intoxicating, he could only find within those actions a taunting and possessive game.

Frank turned his face sharply away, in disgust, under the dominion of bitter thoughts. Closed his eyes and concentrated on the slow burning pain in his fingers, how they suddenly cooled as he felt a wetness run down them, that he knew even through the deep red haze of anguished angry thoughts must be his own blood. He cut off all things but that dull pain, the slow meandering of blood down his fingers, as Gerard ground his hips suggestively against him.

But it was no good... Nothing can distract you from the heat of hell. And when Gerard curled his fingers into Frank's hair, that gleamed with sweat, he couldn't block any of it out. The memories of his motel room in a moment that felt years ago, the sensation of Gerard desperately tangling his shaking fingers up into his hair, locking his lips tightly against his own, came rushing back, a silent and savage attack.

Still playing Frank broke away from those domineering hands; glanced back at Gerard's devastating eyes, his viciously saccharine grin.


Frank popped the cap off a bottle of beer against the tired edge of the fold-up table in their dressing room; raised his hand out to Mikey's that was offered up in the air. Was proud of the convincing smile he sported as he returned his high-five.

"You're crazy," Mikey laughed; the fingers of his other hand grazing over the beer bottles on the table as he selected one of the many laid out there.

"Gotta admire the dedication," he joked slapping Frank warmly on the back.

Frank smiled back to his friend, tried to convey a look of embarrassed modesty, anything to get him off the subject, make him stop. He didn't feel proud as he looked down at the torn skin across his fingers, the dried blood that had turned an ugly shade of blackish-red.

And then there was Gerard, even from across the room he could feel his eyes on him, all over him. He could feel the anger pouring off him, flooding into the room in an angry black tangle, inching its way closer, threatening to reach him, work its way up his body and wrap its way around his hopelessly expectant throat.

"Thanks man," Frank replied tilting his bottle towards Mikey, clinking their bottles together, before raising it to his lips and taking a gulp that he hoped didn't look as desperate as it felt.

And could the other guys feel the tension rippling between them?

Frank kept his eyes low and his face in check as he and Mikey headed over to, and settled, on the battered and stained old sofa in the room, drank their 'rider' beers until there were none left, a mess of discarded caps and empty bottles around them.


As the hours passed by the guys all slowly dropped out until Frank was left alone with the empty room and his racing ugly thoughts.

He lit his last cigarette and threw the empty box to the floor; didn't even hear someone coming in the door, just saw the shadows cast messily across his lap. He knew who it'd be. Didn't look up.

"Congratulations man...You're our hero huh?"

Frank stared at the cigarette burning quietly in his hand, he didn't need to look up to Gerard, he could hear the bitterness and anger in his voice.

"Saved the show by... Doing that," he spat with vitriolic force. "Problem is, it was your fault in the first place. You just saved your own fuck up."

Frank guessed Gerard must've pointed down to his hand, that he stared glumly at himself.

"What's this really about Gerard?" He sighed, not really having to ask.

He was so tired of all this, Gerard's deflections, his hidden agendas, but resigned himself to the fact that it was pointless trying to avoid them.

He looked up and, despite himself, it pained him to see Gerard so mixed up, lost in the wild emotions that raged across the glittering surface of his eyes.

Rubbing his own, fatigue and alcohol pulling him toward sleep, Frank stood to face Gerard, trying to conjure something like defiance.

"That shit you pulled out there... Walking away from me... The fans expect us..."

"They expect nothing," Frank cut in. "This isn't about them."

Frank wasn't even angry with Gerard anymore, he couldn't bring it into his voice or force it onto his face. He just wanted this all to stop and, inexplicably, he just wanted Gerard to be okay.

"This is about you Gerard... It's always been about you..." He sighed taking a slow grateful drag on his cigarette, wincing at the mess that was his fingers, somehow ashamed of them completely.

"It is... They come to our shows... They come and..." Gerard stopped dead, his head dropping down, his hair tumbling lazily, somehow out of sink with the moment it resided in, obscured the pained expression Frank knew must be there. Gerard's lies, his delusions, were falling apart, falling away from him.

Frank stepped forward uncertainly, slowly, and placed his hand, an attempt at comfort, on one of Gerard's hunched over shoulders, felt him flinch under his touch.

"You made me look so fucking stupid," Gerard ragged down to his chest; blew out a long breath that made his hair jump and dance under its force.

After, what seemed to Frank like hours of stillness, of silence, Gerard raised his eyes slowly to his, and it shocked him how hurt and distant they looked.

Gerard shrugged Frank's hand off his shoulder in one resentful movement.

"You..." Gerard stopped as if struggling against himself. "You walked away from me and it hurt... It hurt so fucking bad."

Frank opened his lips to speak, to say what he'd already forgotten by the time Gerard's own crashed violently into them, when Gerard's fingers curled possessively around his face.

Frank sighed into those lips and let his cigarette fall to the floor, just to return that gesture, feel the curve of his friends cheeks below his fingertips.

I Never Told You
Title: I Never Told You
Author: inlovensqualor
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Prompt: I Never Told You What I Did For a Living by My Chemical Romance & I Brought You My Bullets... album concept
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any characters depicted here...
Summary: Frank is dead and Gerard is left alone. All he has for company is his knife and his list of names, the names of the men he must kill to bring back the one he loves.

[I Never Told You]
Have you ever loved someone so much, that you'd do anything for them? Anything conceivable in this world? Even kill for that person? Have you felt with vicious clarity the pain of not just having that person near? Have you felt these things? Because I have.

I've piled bodies a thousand high in the hope that I could reach up to him somehow and touch his face.

And I killed them all with relish… Because each drop of blood, each lifeless, milky, glazed over eye and every pallid twisted corpse drained of life, brought me closer to being with him again.

Desperation can make you do awful things… Unspeakable things. And I… Well I did them all. I did them all gladly, because I did them with love in my mind.

So you can call me insane… You can say that I'm evil. But I did everything for love… And how could that be wrong?

And now he's standing next to me, and I can hear the drip drip drip of blood falling from my knife's edge and splashing elegantly to the tarmac below my feet. It takes all my will not to reach over my gloved hand and wipe that crimson blood from the blade. My mind repeating over and over again… It will rust… Wipe it off or it will rust. But I leave my arms outstretched in a fierce show of resistance against my degrading mind.

To glance desperately to my side and see tears running hopelessly down those cheeks that I can't brush away… It's a torture that seems beyond compare when I've been through so much already just to bring him back.

'God' I want to scream. 'I've only just got you back and it feels like I might be losing you again…'

But the look that you shine back tells me that it's going to be okay, it tells me that we'll be together again… Laugh… Love… Dance again like we did.

We nod and smile to each other in guarded subtle movements and I know our plan is formed. We just know what to do. In unison we break into a run, knowing just what the cops behind us will do.

And then they come… Loud and true like we'd known.

Two shots, thunderous and bleak, tearing through the haunting silence of these usually, still, dark streets.

And then blackness for us both.


I stood in my dilapidated apartment, the hazy light of sunset creeping through the half-open blinds. The debris of our relationship surrounded me in every direction, haunting little reminders of everything I'd lost; the charred and bleached bones of my happiness.

A siren wailed out in the streets, streaming past my window accompanied by the barbaric shrieking of tires, before it faded out into the landscape and died. The streets around this neighbourhood were bad places these days, but then if I was honest with myself I couldn't remember a time when they hadn't been. I'd killed so many, I'd killed hundreds, hundreds of evil men, but that hadn't even scratched the surface, like a man dangling a mug off the edge of a boat and taking a cupful out of the ocean.

I walked numbly over to the old marble fireplace, dusty and long unused, and picked up my small black leather-bound notebook. Opening it I winced at the blood spatters, dried and discoloured, on the crisp white pages I flicked through.

All those names, hundreds and hundreds of names, crossed out in scratchy black lines. They all seemed so abstract, so unreal, not real people, who had had real lives. The loops and crosses of letters had become strange hieroglyphs, lost of all meaning, they were objectives that had been achieved and forgotten.

But there was one name… The name left unblemished, intact on the page, that name meant everything. Because that man lay in the space between me and you. He was the last mountain to climb, and now he felt like a coleuses compared to the men that came before.

Closing the pages I concealed the book in the inside pocket of my well-loved black jacket. I looked down at myself in the action, smiling at the dark material of it, there were blood stains sure, just nobody could see them.

This was all too familiar, these things, even ritualistic to me now.

I traced my shaking fingers in the air over my knife, admiring it's lethal glint, it's cold hard honesty. It'd always been a knife for me because I'd never thought to use anything else. A knife was passionate, it was personal and close, but it was also so clean and quick, so quietly vicious. This one had seen as much as I had, been to those depths with me; and in this way it had been my constant ally in something I'd been doomed to endure alone.

I ran a tired finger along it's sharp, silent, blade. It comforted me, oddly, that it had remained the same. Just as sharp, just as strong and menacing. It had remained the same but I was forever and hopelessly changed.

Even if I bring you back will you still want me as the man I've become…?

I hid the knife away in my jacket, as if I could put away those desperate thoughts with it.

My uneasy ceremony was almost complete when I had to stop suddenly, leaning both hands on the cool polished marble of the fireplace's mantle. Drawing in a shaken breath, as my heart drummed erratically in my chest, my head just wouldn't let me forget the gravity and importance of this night's task.

It meant so much, you meant so much, that I just couldn't make this last hurdle less daunting. As the number of names crossed out in my book grew my humanity dwindled with it, remorse, fear, anxieties had become all extinct in me. They'd become foreign, exotic, sensations that even the memory of felt vague and unreal.

But that night, this one, knowing that it would be the one, the one that brought you back to me… It took me back to how it had been at the start. All sweaty palms and short, sharp, panicked breaths. The way my heart raced along with the disparate thoughts in my mind.

I let my eyes flicker up to the faded picture of you, your childhood black carved ebony rosary draped over the time-pitted silver frame.

I was doing all this for you I told myself, knowing that it was untrue, knowing that it was completely untrue. It had all been for me, it was me who would destroy my soul for a chance to see your face again, to hold you and make you promise that you'd never again go.

I miss those moments when I would see you and it felt like spring…

To me it was like you were trapped in that faded photograph, just smiling back at me through the haze of time. I raised out my hand to touch you, my fingers meeting with cool hard glass; and as I did the darkness of the room behind me melted away, twisted into summer skies and melded into the green of trees. Spinning around I saw you as the dim light fled, made way for an etching of my memories of that park we'd walk through on the way back home everyday of our lives together.

I could feel a warm breeze on my face that felt as real as the effortlessly charming look in your eye.

"I'm waiting for you," you said in a dreamy warm voice that felt like a part of the sun touched air around us.

I nodded transfixed by the sight of your eyes, your tenderly upturned lips, and the comfort your being imparts on me.

"You know you have to kill him Gerard," you sighed, your expression unchanged. "So that we can be again."

The smile I returned came out melancholic, but you know I'd do all that for you and more. I wanted to tell you but my lips were thick and my tongue heavy.

"I'll see you when it's done," you said with glorious certainty, already blurring into the landscape of my memories. Until all the brightness retreated and the grey darkness deepened. And I stretched out my arms to keep you here. But you were already gone and the apartment was returning, alongside the reality and gloom and horror of your death.

Calm and desolate tears made their way down my face and I promised to the empty room, "I'll see you again soon."


I watched from the shadow shrouded alleyway, rotting garbage and a forest of broken glass stretching out before me like the stars gleaming in a midnight sky.

There was a man in my cold, businesslike, gaze. He leant back against the dull brickwork of an old and abandoned factory wall, a streetlight above his head bathing him in a shower of white light. His movements were fast and uneasy, rat-like and empty. The streets were his black and white backdrop and he seemed undoubtedly at home there. And I just knew that it was him, the one I had searched for, just like it was written above him in the ether, a neon sign there for me to see.

The last one… I was so dauntingly near… So near to you that I could almost drag the smell of you into my lungs, the soft warmth of your hair… The subtlety of your skin.

But standing in the stillness and the night what overpowered my senses was him… I could taste him… Taste the sin… Taste the dirt, the blood. And it was like I could see the tarnish of his soul. And what I abhorred the most was it was like looking out at myself, a terrible living breathing mirror.

Do you believe that our deeds could unite us? That by wanting you back so badly I had become the thing I had been sent out to destroy? Nine hundred and ninety nine evil men dead and could you tell which of us should be the thousandth?

And as I made my way through the tangle of shadows I felt the putrid flesh, the bones that shattered and snapped beneath my feet, as I traversed over the bodies that came before this man. Every man I had killed was there that night, their eyes open and expressionless and staring off into oblivion. They were all strewn before me forming a path to the man that would be the last to join them.

All the killing, the horror, the pain… It had all lead to one man, but really it wasn't him, I knew really that one man was you.

I hid in the darkness around him, silently patting down my chest, finding comfort in the sharp outline of my black leather-bound notebook sitting over my heart, taking pains to not make a sound. I slowly pulled out my knife, holding its blade up to the murky moonlight; gazing at the distorted image reflected in the glimmering steel. There was nothing but detritus and ruin around and behind us.

His shoulders were heaving with the effort of breathing, as I numbly brought my blade through the night, it giving the slightest swish as it slit apart the air, and drew to his filthy throat.

He hadn't stood a chance to see me, I had become like a ghost by those days and the shadows apart of me.

The tan and stubble below the knife's tip shivered, in uneasy contrast to my still pale hand at its hilt. He didn't make a sound as a crimson bead formed before my eyes.

He raised his hands in a way that conveyed both uncertainty and indifference.

It's all too certain, all too easy I thought, sighing as I rested my chin sharply upon his shoulder, as I twisted the end of my knife a fraction and watched the blood gather and run.

"The one thing you can rely on with people is," I breathed into his ear hopelessly. "They all bleed the same… Blood is the only thing in a man that you can call a truth."

The wind chorused around us, ripped apart the silence, and was that your voice, there below it's psalm, willing me on?

"Look bub," shuddered shrilly through his lips. "Money's in my wallet. Left pant pocket… Jus' take it eh? And we can both get back to our night's."

At that a chuckle actually fell from my lips and, amused, I took a deep controlled breath, drinking him in as I did, marvelling at his ignorance. All the evil this man had done and still he could believe that I was there for his money.

"I wouldn't touch a cent," I spat. "Everything you have is washed in the blood of the people who suffered so that you could have it." Venom was in my mind and the hot sticky blood of the victims that I imagined coated my mouth.

Dramatics were skipping off my tongue like lines from a Shakespearean sonnet, because it just felt to me like those moments deserved it. The gravity of what I was doing, the beauty, the madness…

I pressed my knife more firmly against his jugular and for a moment I could scarcely wait for the violence to start, the blood to flow. And maybe for the first time I felt it not only because it would bring me closer to the moment I would be back with you, my love, but because horrifically I conceded I wanted to see this man die. I wanted the raw adrenaline, the brutality and that beautiful finality.

I'd lost my mind and I'd lost my soul and I did it all for you…

I'd expected him to beg, a lot of them beg. They plead for their lives with the vain hope that they might mean anymore to me than just another name in my book. But this one he was quite, somehow dignified. As if the knife at his throat were nothing, as if he had no fear in death. Would this be a mercy to him? Had he waited for this moment as I had? And for that I almost pitied him.

"Don't you want to say anything… Your last words?" I asked in a way that was always going to sound like a cliché.

He stood still against the cool night.

"Don't you even want to know why?" I say in irritation, robbed of the swathe of human emotions I'd come to expect, faced with his relentless stoicism.

I pressed deeper my blade at his silence and waited for his words.

"I've led the life of a condemned man…" He whispered in angry defiance. "I've been waiting for death… I stared it in the face every time I killed a man, a woman, a child." He smiled as if recalling the memory of something beautiful and treasured. "You can't live that life and fear it. I've seen you in my dreams… I'm not afraid of this… Of you."

And in my disgust I almost forgot to take in the sensation as I slit his throat as hard as I could muster, a great crimson arc splattering out before us. The smell of iron filled my lungs as I took in the sound of his last breath failing and spluttering through the gaping wound that was once his throat.

The one thing you can count on with people… They all bleed the same…

As I clutched his twitching, dying body, I felt him ebbing away, an apron of blood flowing down his chest. I locked my wrists under his arms, my hands appearing to me over his slumped shoulders. I defied my instinct to run, because I needed to feel everything in this moment, and even in all this horror and blood I was lost enough in that moment to find an embrace.

The body against me let out its death rattle, and I felt all life dissipate within, the blood flowing from its neck slowing to a dark sombre trickle.


Staring into those bottomless, expressionless, eyes; I waited for you.

And how would it happen? How would he deliver you back to me? Was it absurd to think that you would appear in a veil of blackened smoke and the backdrop of Hell's fires?

Laughing silently at myself and floundering in absurdity a scuff of shoes from the darkened alley where I had hid stirred me back to my senses.

Could it be you?

Have I lost my mind?

It has to be…

I pulled out my notebook, my passive companion in all the violence I'd recorded in it, with a hand that shook with a heady mix of excitement and pain.

Finally I could let it go, I thought, as I tossed it down to the moon-soaked ground. Letting it fall into the blackening pool of blood on the pavement beneath my feet. Its cream-white pages turning a deeper and deeper shade of red where it lay.

It's over…

Knife still locked in my fingers, my heart reluctant to let me dream, I turned slowly to face a disappointment I knew I couldn't bare to endure.

A shadowy figure emerged, his frame slight, his strides sure and unhurried.

Your gate, your air… Your presence…

And in a moment that should have been divine, all I could see were the pale and twisted faces of the men I had murdered, their cold glazed over eyes, lips contorted in the shock and realisation that their lives had come to its violent end… In death as they were in life submersed in death and violence and blood…

I'm so sorry for what I've become. I am changed and there's nothing I can do…

And maybe that was the true price to pay to see you again…

Two eyes emerged on the shadow plagued face, two hazel eyes set below elegantly slanting brows and your shock of dyed black hair.


Agony and ecstasy stirred in me and clashed, blood falling into a pool of spilt milk.

But I'm not the same… All those people… All that life…

I couldn't bare to hold back any longer, as I rushed to you and cried "Frank" out into the vast emptiness of night.

"Frank," I sobbed in a broken voice, in the only voice I had left.

And you're walking toward me from the blue-black shadows and into the silvery moonlight that bathes you… You were like an angel under it…

"Frank you're here," I wept inconsolably, happiness and regret compelling me.

"Did you ever doubt that I'd do it? Please don't say you doubted I'd bring you back…" I cried.

And I couldn't feel the tears on my face, I knew I should, but it was like they weren't there.

I knew I was smiling, and that it must look demented and demonic, what with all the demons of the days before this one clinging to my back, their claws tearing harshly into the pallid flesh beneath. Everyday I felt them grip harder and harder and I know they'll never let go.

"I made a promise to him and you knew I'd keep it right? I kept it and he saw… He saw them all…"

I couldn't stop this nervous chatter and why won't you speak?

You just stood there... But you smiled. That smile that had both kept me company through all those deaths and had plagued my mind in the same moments. And I knew somehow then that I had begun to lose that smile in its absence, it had become an abstract of itself, a faded memory I'd recalled time after time but I'd never remembered right back then.

But seeing it again I recalled each tiny detail there that had been within every one I'd ever seen. It was beautiful and terrible and mine again.

I stretched out my arms because I wanted to hold you so bad. An addict with junk withdrawal staring endlessly into the spoon, waiting for the only thing that'd make them well again. And I rushed to you, the knife in my hands there but forgotten. My mind was so lost in relief and in gratitude and despair.

It's blade shined intermittently as the moonlight caught it's polished and bloodied blade. But my mind never took it in, every corner of my mind so taken up with you.


"This is the NYPD… Drop your weapon and get down on the ground…" Burst out into the air, the sound's forward trajectory as straight and sure as a bullet from a gun.

The man at my side remained unmoved, not scared, just as if he didn't care to respond. His arms still and outstretched at his sides, a knife clutched in certain fingers, a blissful smile upon his face.

My heart was beating so hard it hurt, it made me feel dizzy and sick and my breath caught painfully in my throat. I knew I was scared… All those natural textbook signs. The raised pulse, the merciless adrenaline kick, the maddening mixed messages of fight and flight battering at my mind; and the film of cool sweat forming over every inch of my body.

But the crazy thing was that I knew I wasn't scared of… I was never scared of the man beside me, the mad bad murderer of Hollywood lore… Something told me this wasn't that cut and dry, and something told me that he wouldn't hurt me.

I'd heard within his incoherent ramblings that he believed I was someone he loved… Had once loved, and besides that I saw something in his eyes that was peaceful and refined. I knew that made no sense, but then nothing in this really did; everything felt dream-like and unreal.

He looked over at me, caught my eye through my restless thoughts, with his tear-stained own; and nodded the subtlest of nods. As if we'd made some unspoken pact together, no fear in his features… Only acceptance and relief.

The pit of my stomach lurched as I heard again a toneless command from behind us.

"Toss your weapon and get down on the ground."

The man beside me sprang forward suddenly, not the run of a man trying to outrun a bullet, but perhaps of someone ready to accept it.

I remember screaming out… Not knowing what I said just knowing I had to try… I remember the fear I had in that moment, dark and endless, sharp and blinding. All this fear that gripped me like a vice tightening to a terrifying pressure around my chest, I can't explain it, it was never for me… It was all for him.

Frozen in a panicked stance time seemed to freeze and race by all at once.

And then two shots tore through my desperate cry, tore through these black streets; deafening and brutal.

And silence returned. Silence in every part of my reality as the figure before me staggered pitiably and fell to the cold hard ground, knife clattering down after.

And although my senses told me not to move, to curl up into a protective ball and look away from the horror before me, I didn't… I ran towards the crumple of black lying prostrate on the sidewalk, a blackish-red pool of blood slowly seeping out and surrounding it.

My mind kept repeating 'Don't let him be dead', though to this day I couldn't tell you why, all I know is I cared. I cared whether he lived or died. Because I saw something in him that was fragile and wonderful, rare and exquisite. Was it love within him in its purest form, unconditional and desperate, terrible and maddening? It was something I wanted to understand, even something in my darkest thoughts I wanted to feel.

I never got to him, not even close, as the strong, navy cotton clad, forearms of NYPD's finest wrapped around my chest and pulled me effortlessly away.


"And you say you never knew the guy?" A cynical and suspicious voice pressed once again, not without a tone of boredom evident on his desensitised lips.

"No…" I answered quietly once again, looking to the ground, trying to muster the will to talk to this guy, my mind repeating the soundtrack of the last half hour incessantly, mercilessly, as if it wanted to drive itself mad. His voice, his steps echoing on the paving, those shots…

"No," I continued, noticing that yes he did want me to go through the whole story again. "But… He… I think he thought he knew me. It's hard to explain… Even remember it right, now. But he kept saying he'd brought me back and how he'd kept his promise."

I looked up to the cop, hoping I was conveying the puzzlement and confusion that I felt, why is it that you always feel like you've done something wrong around these guys?

I sighed and rubbed my hand over my tired eyes; tried to conjure the details I knew they wanted me to have.

"So…" The officer continued dutifully, wearily. "You didn't see or hear anything before you stepped out onto the main street. And then he only spoke to you about these promises… Nothing that made sense?"

I shook my head and looked to the ground, feeling his gaze on the top of my skull, him trying to will out of me the clues that he was sure my mind contained.

"No, look I'm sorry… It's all kinda a blur, hazy like. I'm sorry… I can't help you." I sighed, trying to spell out without having to say it that I was tired, I knew nothing, and all I wanted to do was go home and forget this.

Something came over the radio of a uniformed officer to his side, I couldn't make it out, but the faces around me remained grim.

They gave me a card, said to call if I remembered anything, even the most insignificant detail. And after I watched their expressions sharpen as I tried to explain I wouldn't, I took the card meekly between my shaking fingers and turned to leave. Only slightly concerned to learn that it took me a long time to realise where I was in relation to my apartment.

They let me go and I knew I felt the relief somewhere within me.

Walking away from the once lonely street that was now buzzing with the professionals and yellow tape of a crime scene, I Looked back over my shoulder at it all. It all seemed staged and contrived and not something I'd been a part of. Camera flashes and sombre puzzled faces; and two strangers lying on the paving drenched in blood and united in only one fact, death.

Turning the corner, heading back for home, there was so much I didn't really understand. So little of the night made sense to me, through the mask of shock and memories already fading.

All I really knew for sure was that I had come face to face with a murderer that night and all I saw was the endless depths of love in his eyes.

Heaven Help Us (Chapter 5)
Title: Heaven Help Us: Chapter 5
Author: inlovensqualor
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG
Warning: There's a swear word at the end! Oooh!
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any characters depicted here...
Summary: Gerard's POV.
[Heaven Help Us Chapter 5]

Gerard paced his room plagued by the grey clinical light of early morning that gathered at his window and crowded through the drapes.

There was something about that crisp stark light that made everything under it disturbingly real.

Everything he looked at he just wanted to turn away from...

Storming past his bags and cases, clothes already streaming messily out, he kicked them bitterly. They jostled together lazily, his holdall lurching forward spilling half its contents out over the rank dusty carpet. Their stubborn response just enraged him further. With a ferocity rising up from his gut, swelling and taking him over, he reached down and gathered up the holdall, and its contents, against his chest. Swinging back with all his strength and then shooting forward he flung them with everything he had across the room. Watched as they scattered and fell like acid rain and dead winter leaves tumbling from the skies.

His other cases and bags he kicked and kicked over and over until, his energy spent, he stood panting, his head bowed over the carnage of clothes and luggage beneath him. He wanted to scream but he couldn't, he just wanted to burst out into a desperate run, escape this, but he felt as if heavy shackles weighed him down. All options felt useless.

Finally, his heart thumping raggedly in his chest, he threw himself down on the rickety chair at the motel room's equally rickety table.

His chest heaving and his mind racing he let his hand wander, as if of its own will, to his jeans pocket. He pulled out a hastily folded piece of paper, along with the memory of himself kneeling inside the door of Frank's room, his friend in uneasy drunken sleep behind him, glancing anxiously back to him as he slid it into his pocket, trying to ignore what it meant that he wanted to take it.

Gerard smoothed his fingers over the crumpled paper as he laid it out carefully on the small cluttered table before him; took a deep breath out as his fingertips travelled across its cool surface.

He felt his anger slowly die down as he began to read the words scrawled down before him. He read those words over and over until they were all that swam dizzyingly in his head. And when his eyes came to those beautiful terrible words 'I love you' they stopped stuck, until they blurred, morphed, into nothing. And although Gerard knew he had to stop this he just couldn't.

Because reading them was torture, and yet not reading them was much the same... He asked himself how on the one hand he could wish them desperately not to be true and yet... He wanted so to believe them too...

"Frank..." He sighed absentmindedly to his empty room. And felt, with that name said aloud, the sudden realisation of what that truly meant hit him.

"Shit..." He whispered in angry, anguished, tones; his fingers curling involuntarily into his palm, taking the paper below their touch with them.

Heaven Help Us (Chapter 4)
Title: Heaven Help Us: Chapter 4
Author: inlovensqualor
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Adult Concepts
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any characters depicted here...
Summary: Frank wakes up alone... And braces himself for seeing Gerard again...
[Heaven Help Us Chapter 4]

Frank had fallen asleep in Gerard's arms but awoke in a mess of sheets, the room filled with the scents of sex and the sensation of his absence. He touched forlornly the pillow by his own, ghosting across where Gerard's cheek had lain, only hours before, inches from his own.

The sun through the open drapes bathed his face with a felicitously warm glow. Although the memories that slowly flowed back into his mind, as the world gushing into the room gently brought him back to the living, seemed flimsy and unreal, he knew that they were true. He knew Gerard had been there, because he felt the moment he reached out to him and clutched his face come gliding back. He found the taste of Gerard's mouth upon his own and the sharp piercing pain in his heart from Gerard reaching in just to appease his own...

And although he could still conjure into his mind the raw, careless, touches of Gerard's assault, he couldn't find himself angry or bitter at him for it. Because blanketing over the hurt and the pain of it all was the gift of that moment Gerard had given them both. The memory of Frank's note stood shivering between Gerard's fingers was as fresh as the morning air beyond his window.

Frank glanced over to the door and saw it still there, unfolded on the carpet, just how it had fallen only hours before.

Gerard's low moans still sighing in his ears Frank rose to shower, refused to let all the doubts invading his mind conquer the peace that being with the one person that he loved had given him.


Frank made his way to that nights venue alone. Excitement and trepidation clashed inside him noisily, making his fingers twitch and play uneasily with the hem of his shirt.

His cab wound its way through the dark cramped backstreets, dim lights of backrooms and restaurant kitchens rolling past. As they pulled up by the backstage entrance Frank forced down the nervous nausea that threatened to crawl up his throat and take his body over.

As Frank reached into his pocket to pay the tired looking driver, he hoped the guy was near the end of his shift; tried to ignore, for a few seconds more, the looming bricks of the theatre to his side.

Frank stepped out into the cool half light, the uneasy glow of the exit signs over the door, pocketing his change he tried to imagine he was leaving his anxieties there with it.

When Frank reached their shared dressing room he found it empty, just the debris of his friends scattered all around him. He smiled at the chaos and disorder, shrugging his jacket off his shoulders and hanging it over the chair by door next to one he recognised as Gerard's.

Frank realised then that he'd have to wait until after their sound check and most likely after their show until he'd have a chance to get Gerard alone. He knew it'd be all business for pretty much the rest of night, and all he wanted to do was stare into the cool glaciers of Gerard's eyes... If he could just do that he knew everything could be alright...


Frank had been happy with their performance that night. A wave of electric energy rushed through him and made itself known in the way he'd played, the way he threw himself around the stage; the music shuddering through his chest, winding its way pleasantly up and down his spine. And in the countless brazen moments Frank had strolled over to Gerard, fingers still moving frantically over the frets of his guitar and he'd let the man run his hands suggestively down his heaving chest. And deep in those gestures Gerard would slip up and let Frank delve into those stunningly haunting eyes, between sporting his showman's mask, Frank thought he saw a genuine and rare smile of contentment there within them.


Frank walked purposefully through the hall that led from the old venues small bar, where he's sunk a few beers with it's equally aging owner, to the backstage room where the band had made a kind of home for that night.

Frank had prepared himself for coming face to face with Gerard and it showed in the forcibly relaxed smile he sported and the tense quality to his gait.

With a withering confidence Frank turned the battered old doorknob of their room and strolled in, holding a shuddering breath.

Frank stumbled into a room that hummed with the energy of intimacy; two entangled bodies hot and swaying in the disparate shadows, sat upon the worn leather sofa in the very corner of the room.

A pair of long pale slender legs appeared from a skirt hitched up high, around quietly elegant thighs. Their owner sat atop a person only evident by their dark jeans and their hands that clutched, palms flat, her back.

The girl turned startled her hair springing and tumbling across her shoulders in the movement, clutching her unbuttoned shirt tightly to her chest. She bit her bottom lip, an action that seemed entirely involuntary and painted with an urgent sort of shame; and to Frank that was a sweetly endearing act.

She was pretty... And Frank's first thought was one of congratulation to the lucky son of a bitch beneath...

"Errrm... I'm sorry," he mumbled awkwardly trying to free himself from the strange oppressive discomfort of the moment, somehow held still and transfixed by the nervous girl, and her intensity, that he was fleeing from.

A head emerged casually from behind the pale jutting shoulder of that girl. Deep black hair rippling lazily, hazel eyes tearing viciously through the gloom.

"No problem Frank..." Gerard's lips coolly returned.

"But..." They sighed, seductive in their sadism, drawing out every possible second they could. "Can you close the door after you when you leave?"

Frank stood dumbly, his hand shaking behind him, still clutching the handle of the closed door, palms dampening to a sickening degree.

He felt numb as he nodded back, his face draining, the smooth metal below his fingers refusing to let him find a grip. Fumbling desperately, a sick panic rising, he mercifully got it to turn, despite spinning in his palm as it did.

He struggled to feel anything at all but total shock as he stepped backwards and out, pulling the door shut in front of eyes that felt like they'd been deceiving him.

And then he just stood there staring at the door, its crappy plastic star hanging limply by one nail. 'Surely that thing must be a joke?' Frank thought bemused; staying staunchly still, until that star was a mass of a blur in front of his eyes. A demonic entity growing less and less like its true self.

Had he really seen it? And why not? Why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't Gerard be in there with someone else? Caressing hotly someone else's skin? Running his delicate fingers through the soft tangle of someone else's hair? Sighing sweet sentiments into someone else's ear?

Frank closed his eyes, clenching his fists tightly down by his sides, the blur of that absurd star still there... Like it'd penetrated his mind...


Frank felt the impact, through the haze of drink, as the world came rushing up to greet him and smashed violently into his face.

Felt the burn of a graze flash along his cheek, as dust clouded up around him, and callously stung at his eyes. He took an awful desperate inhalation of air, choked as dry earth coated his throat, crawled down to his lungs.

"And stay out," bellowed a burly voice from behind him, low and menacing, yet touched with the cynicism of a man that might have thrown out twenty more men like Frank that night.

His irritated eyes streaming Frank pulled himself up to sit in the dry filthy gravel, stared down at his palms, ripped open and raw, and stippled with small ugly stones.

Frank pulled in awful dry wrenching breaths, coughing and retching with the disgusting taste of earth on his tongue.

Wiping his eyes uselessly with the backs of his hands, Frank couldn't help but ask himself how he'd come to this. And really he knew the answer... One more drink he'd pleaded, knowing it had been one too many five ago... And he'd found no solace in the bottom of any of those glasses, as hard as he'd looked. Blinking through the eyes of a man lost in drink, he had however, seen Gerard's cutting, endless, gaze glare up at him from time to time, in the gleam of his whiskey glass, through the drunken haze of that night.

Looking down hopelessly at his knees he noted, without care or concern, that through a gapping tear in his jeans, one was exposed; a trickle and a smear of blood winking up at him, transmuting from crimson red into deep black in the moonlight.

He lifted his tear-streaked face up to the bruised, blackened, sky, the white hot pin pricks of stars spotted across it and felt so small beneath them.

Frank buried his face into the crook of his arm and gave in to the dizzying world behind his aching eyes; waited for the nausea swelling in him to die down.

"Come on Frank," he heard slicing through the night; as cool and crisp as the evening's air sweeping around him. "Let's get you back to the motel..."


Frank woke up in his room alone, a searing headache biting at him relentlessly, his stomach close to convulsions, his mouth dry and tasting of acrid stale smoke. Only the faintest flickers of memories from the night before seemed to surface and those that did only drove the lingering sickness in him further and further up his throat.

The last moment of the night before, that he remembered with any kind of clarity, was a hand reaching out to him through the blackness of night, as if it had just appeared out of the darkness, had no owner at all. A decimated version of himself before it, drowning in dust and intoxication.

He remembered everything like he was flicking through a photo album, little tableaux, disparate stills of the night before him, each countless hours apart, each disturbingly random and incongruous to the last.

The emotions were easier to recall, they clung upon him as if they were stains. Indelible sorrow, anger, pain and despair... And he ached. His whole body ached; and as he pulled himself up reluctantly in his bed his limbs screamed and resisted, protested loudly to him.

He touched two tentative fingers to his cheek and was greeted with the memory of being thrown headfirst out of the bar and into the unforgiving ground; the dust and gravel surrounding it rising up around him.

He threw off the bed sheets that somehow he knew someone had pulled up carefully around him, and bewildered, glanced down at his knee. As angry and torn as it looked, someone had washed it clean.


Hear Me Now
Title: Hear Me Now
Author: inlovensqualor
Pairing: Frank Iero/Kenneth Nixon & Frank/Gerard (kinda)
Prompt/Theme: Contest Prize: Frank Iero x Kenneth Nixon
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Adult Concepts
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any characters depicted here...
Summary: Frank meets someone that can for once take his mind off of Gerard...
[Hear Me Now]

I was frustrated, hot and bothered, whatever you wanna call it. And I don't mind admitting that. I'd just got off stage and, as ever, Gerard had been a tangle of hands and lips all down me. With the stage lights, and the resulting sweat from their heat, blinding my eyes, I could have imagined the audience weren't there; that it was just me and him and that we were doing it all for more than the spectacle of it.

But even when he strolled up to me chanting hauntingly into his mic, his eyes gleaming with mischief, and even when he planted his mouth, open-lipped, on my neck and licked off, deliberately, coolly, the sweat that beaded along it; somewhere deep in the rational part of my mind it told me I was just another prop in this man's show. But the cold hard facts couldn't stop the primal aching of my blood. Blood... The thing that creates the passion. Blood is what turned me on to the point of distraction, on stage, even when my head told me it was all a lie... That I had to stop believing in these wonderful, ethereal, dreams.

"Damn it," I muttered angrily, kicking a discarded, empty, Coke can uselessly across the long stretch of hall that led to the rooms backstage.

"Want a cigarette?" I heard behind me in a seductively Southern twang.

Shit... I hadn't seen anyone walking down these dark corridors only seconds before, but then I hadn't really been focused on looking.

I heard footsteps hastily approaching but couldn't stop myself from shoving my hands deep into my pockets shyly, my head hanging so that my fringe fell across my face and obscured my vision. So that all I could focus on was the sickeningly grimy floor below my feet.

I was never any good at dealing with embarrassment, at people seeing me lose my cool; revealing any more of me to a stranger than was absolutely necessary day to day. As stupid as I know that sounds after standing on stage literally minutes before trying with my every part to make something that was so intensely personal to me look like nothing, like business.

"Sure," I replied, my curiosity to know who was there was like a glimmer of a thought compared to my mountainous need to hide my shame at being discovered raging impotently here in the dark.

I felt a light tap on my shoulder and spun around awkwardly to find myself face to face with a set of pale slender fingers offering me over a cigarette.

"Thanks," I offered uncertainly to the blur of his T-shirt, the writing across it that I was not giving myself a chance to make out.

I pulled my lighter from out my jeans all the time thinking of ways I could get this guy to leave me the hell alone.

"You seem pretty pent up... Something go wrong with the set?" He said, interrupting my thoughts, sounding strangely genuine about the question.

I guessed it was probably one of our crew and here I was acting like a total asshole to the guy...

I looked up apologetically, already conjuring apologies and excuses into my mind, until the thoughts were stopped dead in their tracks by the person I saw in front of me. It wasn't one of our alarmingly life beaten and overweight roadies, it was a young guy, an attractive guy, and in my mixed up state of sexual frustration, god was that a welcome site.

He had a shock of brown hair, mostly hidden under a large woollen hat, just his fringe emerged out the edges, a silver lip ring contrasted with his soft pale pink lower lip beneath. He was wearing glasses but I could see that below them his hazel eyes shone down at me with an alarming intensity.

So maybe I was staring, for far too long, and in the wrong kind of way; but my love life right now felt like I was on a hunger strike, only having people coming by day to day and waving heaping plates of food under my nose.

"You're with our support act right?" I asserted, fighting violently against the stutter in my throat.

I was trying not to think about soft pale skin and hot lips and the ghosts of passionate groans thrown out into the evening air.

Goddamn Gerard. I cursed him a thousand times over in my mind.

"Guilty as charged," he replied with a playful touch to his voice, throwing his hands up in a show of mock surrender; before bringing them down and thrusting out a confident hand for me to shake.

"Kenneth... Kenneth Nixon," he smiled confidently. "But people call me Nixon... You can kinda see why." He laughed. "You know... I prefer it."

"People huh?" I returned, staring absentmindedly at the tattoos revealed on his wrist as his shirt hitched up his arm. "Well then I guess I'll do the same," I said with a dry smile.


So that's how me and Kenneth, or should I say Nixon met... We ended up spending the rest of the night together. Nixon said I looked like I needed to lighten up, and the guy wasn't wrong, said he knew just the place to put a smile on my face, and I didn't for a single second doubt him.


Standing at the entrance to the fairground I just stared dumbfounded at the metal turnstiles, the crowds of people with pink candyfloss and corndogs clutched in their hands. I looked from the Nixon to the fair and back again.

"We're really stopping here? A fairground...? What are you fifteen?" Slipped from my lips before I even thought about what I was saying, and how it mind sound.

"Yeah I'm fifteen and I'm going to the fairground," He smiled sarcastically. "And you're like... What? Twenty-five? And you're definitely coming with me... What does that say about you?"

For a moment I just stood dumbfounded staring at my new friend, before we both broke into laughter; Nixon slapping me on the back playfully as I shook my head at myself smiling.

So we paid a guy that looked far too miserable to be working anywhere where people were supposed to be having fun and enjoying themselves; and walked through the turnstiles into the crowds swarming loudly around the entirety of the fair.

A few minutes later Nixon pulled a bottle of whiskey, mischievously, from the bag he had slung over his shoulder; and I smiled broadly in response. Thought to myself that maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all...


Leaving the fair I know I'm drunk. I'm drunk and we're walking back to a motel. Except I don't know who's motel it is that we're walking back to. But I know our bands weren't checked into the same ones.

The memories of the gaudy fairground lights still burned in my mind, the garish sights and sounds, they made things even now after feel like an acid trip. The total contrast of dark empty blackened streets felt just as unreal as the bright lights and brash colours that still swam faintly in front of my eyes.

And in an unfamiliar town there was nothing around me to fix me there, bring me back to reality.

When Nixon pulled a room key clumsily from his jeans pocket I realised this was definitely not where I was supposed to be; and as wasted as I was the realisation made me feel desperately awkward. I was entering a social minefield, jumping into it drunk and headfirst.

"Well you know... It's late... I better get going," I, ever so slightly, slurred.

Nixon just laughed, looked me over sceptically before pointing out. "You really gonna make your way back to your motel like this? You even know where it is? Where you're at right now?"

He grinned at me turning his key in the lock.

"Errr...." I muttered looking around me dimly; eventually throwing my hands up in a kind of mock exasperation. It was a little surrender to intoxication that made me laugh despite myself.


It was like 4am I kind of guessed by the sky breaking into the room with a uneasy light, and I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes they just found themselves open again, before I really realised what they were doing. Fully clothed and lying on my back above the sheets, I felt ridiculous here. Nixon on the other hand lying on his side beside me looked bathed in sleep, silent, still, his lips parted a fraction, his whole body relaxed. It occurred to me that really Nixon was just that kind of guy. I didn't know if anything would faze him really, knock him off his game. And I admired that, I really did.

Finally giving up on any hope of sleep, I grabbed an empty beer bottle from the nightstand beside me and turned on my side. I rummaged in my pockets, first pulling out a crumpled carton of cigarettes and tossing them on the bed between us before going back for my lighter with fingers that still felt a little clumsy from drink.

I lit up, slightly guiltily, I had no idea if I was allowed to smoke in there; if my new friend would mind. Smiling at the memory of the moment we met, those few hours back, I lifted up my head to let my free hand settle under it, propping it up.

Was it creepy to watch someone sleep?

As I inhaled smoke I watched as he exhaled dream soaked air into the room.

I really wanted to get up and leave; felt dangerously out of my comfort zone in this room. But could I even get a cab that time of night; even be able to tell the guy where to go?

I flicked my ash lazily into the empty bottle balanced by my side, smiling at the way the man in front of me had really rescued me from myself that day. I honestly had to hold myself forcefully back from him, from reaching over and brushing away the hairs that obscured my view of those perfect features below.

There was something ridiculous about this whole situation and I knew it. I felt like a lost cause he'd picked up and decided, out of pity, to take home. It injured my pride to know all this, feel it so clearly, and have made the choice to let this happen all the same. I tried to figure out why he'd taken the time to talk me down from my bad mood. Why my childish outburst, that I'd thought I'd made only to me and the shadows alone, hadn't made him write me off before we'd even had the chance to speak.

And in the hazy early hours of a summer night, the air thick, just on the edge of unpleasant, I could remember exactly how I'd felt, sliding my guitar strap off my shoulder, and storming off stage, a smouldering mix of anger and intensity, a monument to frustrated lust.

I looked down absentmindedly at my mostly burnt out cigarette, smiling at myself through the languid arcing streak of smoke that snaked up into the air. Finally I slipped it dejectedly into the mouth of the bottle I'd been using; listened with melancholy to the hiss as the traces of beer in the bottle extinguished the last of its fire.

And for a second in that moment, still swimming in thoughts of the evening before, I swear I could feel Gerard again ghosting lips across my skin, slinking his hand up my thigh, the sound of the crowds reaction roaring in my ears. And I was there... I was back there... And it felt then a little like Hell...

"D'ya always stare at people when they're sleeping?" Crashed into my consciousness; felt like a gunshot tearing across the air.

I'd been lost in my dreams, with my eyes locked on the man sleeping across from me, and it had never even been a concern, because I hadn't really taken in what I was doing, I'd been lost in my memories of Gerard and his taunting games.

My breath caught angrily in my throat, my stomach lurched sickeningly. And as my heart thumped in my chest, my mind froze with the intensity and totality of a rabbit caught in the bright ferocity of a cars headlights.

Nixon reached across lazily and picked up the bottle sitting between us.

"And smoking in my room too?" he smirked reaching over me gracefully and placing it back on the nightstand by my head. And for dazzling moments his perfect lips hovered irresistibly over mine, his lip ring winking at me in the dull light, his hair stroking my cheek.

I found myself wanting to reach out, reach up to him and pull him down on top of me, tangle my fingers into his deep black hair, crash my lips desperately into his.

Nixon settled his hand, that had held the bottle moments before, flat on my pillow inches from my head, with glinting eyes and teasing lips.

"You wanna do more than just look?" He goaded playfully in his sweet Tennessee drawl.

And as unnerved as I felt I couldn't help a smile from crawling across my lips as I searched his deep dark eyes, just wanting a clue to his sincerity, I wanted to know if this was more than a joke, if this was real.

He traced a finger slowly down my face, starting from my brow, moving painfully slowly, until he reached my quivering lips and lingered there. Trailed two fingertips across my bottom lip, across my lip ring, before lifting them off and returning his hand to the bed, supporting himself over me.

I felt so lost for words, like there just weren't any, there weren't any good enough to use. I just smiled, shyly, hoping that it was enough for him.

And I guess it was...

Mercifully he leant into me, his hair falling all around my face, stroking my cheeks, his breath spilling out over my face in beautiful little hot waves. He stared into my eyes, as if trying to coax something out, smiling through one side of his lips; before he caught mine with them in a confident kiss.

And God was I grateful, it was like lavishing upon a starving man a feast. And without trying to sound dramatic, that man's mouth was a banquet. Sweet and warm and effortlessly inviting. I finally let my hands loose in that hair, that I had yearned to touch for hours, ran my tongue over Nixon's lower lip, running across his lip ring as I did. He ground his hips down into me and couldn't help but smile against that deep kiss when I felt he was hard against me.

For an awful moment he pulled his lips away and I had to make myself not pull his face back down to me. He looked serious, and I raised a confused eyebrow up to him. He smiled gently.

"Gerard?" He said slowly, still smiling, but reaching out into my eyes, as if he was trying to ask me a thousand more things with his own.

Hell, I wish he hadn't said that...

I hoped then that my face didn't tell him the thoughts that flashed up and flared into the forefront of my mind. The awful longing, the anger, the desire, the need I had in me to kill it all. I just prayed it didn't show.

"Gerard who?" I said, trying to conjure a sense of indifference in the words.

But then even as I said them... It was like saying them aloud somehow made them true, made all the wrong from before right. I meant it. I knew I meant it and I could feel myself grinning at the realisation, at this new sensation. It felt like being set free.

Nixon smiled too, apparently satisfied with my answer, and it was stunning. His smile lit up his whole face and shone down on me like the midday sun's glow on a summer's day.

"Okay then..." He beamed at me seductively before he captured my lips again, in a kiss that surpassed any that he'd blessed me with before. It was so strong and wilful that it's sweet intensity took me completely by surprise.

So much about this guy was surprising. He seemed so carefree and confident; fun and full of life. Yet he'd seen it hadn't he? He was more than I had thought... I wondered how many people had underestimated him before...

Freedom pumping through my veins I brought my hands up to his fly, slowly unbuttoning and unzipping, all the time rejoicing at the feeling of Nixon's lips pressed tightly to my own, his tongue caressing me into ecstasy...


I stirred from sleep, my head throbbing and my tongue thick and dry in my mouth. The sun high in the sky invaded the room, pouring in through the slight gap in the drapes, washing over my skin and warming it pleasantly.

I looked around and for a few seconds saw nothing to help me guess where I was.

But realisation and memories soon hit. I remembered those captivating eyes eating me whole, those hands that could drive me wild working their way down my chest, mapping every inch to my hip. I could almost feel that hot mouth locked over my own and smell him filling my lungs as he pressed down on me alluringly with all his weight.

I smiled at the way my body responded to the images stalking across my mind; the way a slight thrill seemed to shoot right through me.

I looked across to my right but saw only an empty space in the bed, a pillow strewn at an angle and sheets disturbed up into a messy swirl.

I had that swelling sense of peace that you can barely pin down but infects you so completely nonetheless. I knew I was smiling, could feel how my face was relaxed into it and for a minute I thought of myself stood raging in the corridor behind last night's stage... And it seemed like another me.

I rolled over and let my hand clutch the pillow laying discarded by my own, and felt the cool crisp sensation of paper under my fingertips.

Intrigued I smiled, thinking of it's writer, thinking of his own grin beaming down at me with kiss bruised lips.

Forcing my sleep blurred eyes to focus I read the scrawling inky words that seemed to have been splashed across the page in big confident arcs.

'Had to go to practice...' My eyes finally let me to read. 'Don't go anywhere. I got a whole list of people I want to try and make you forget...'

I couldn't help but laugh out loud, to the room, at that. I couldn't help but smile and imagine all the wonderful ways he might attempt to do that.

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Poker Face
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