fakebrain: (roger rocket)
[personal profile] fakebrain
Frantic Frenetic Frenzied
Author: [profile] sharon_hate
Rated: R 
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.

“Look,” Frank pulls at the too-tight collar of his t-shirt. It’s new still and not worn like the others, fraying at all the edges and rice-paper thin. “The reason I came here is because I had something to tell you.” (Bob/Frank)

An extremely belated birthday fic for the entirely amazing [personal profile] matchsticks_p


6:43 pm
Seven short, sharp knocks rouse Bob from his late-afternoon reverie. As he pulls himself off the throw blanket-covered couch, he wonders gruffly who could it fucking be and ambles over to the front door.
 
“Hold on,” he murmurs, voice rising on the final word. (Fucker, open up, the visitor responds brazenly.) The dead-bolt unlocks noisily, and so does the chain-lock, before Bob turns the knob, opening the door to face the unknown guest.
 
A suspicious and sickly sweet smile greets him.
 
“Frank,” Bob exclaims, blinking, “what are you doing here?” The dubious mindset he was previously sustaining drips off him.
 
Behind Frank, the skyline is made up of the tall, metallic buildings in the distance and a purplish-blue atmosphere. With the way the skyscrapers are positioned around him, the city backdrop seems as if it’s radiating off of him, or. Or like maybe the city is only there because Frank is.
 
Bob almost believes it.
 
“C’mon, dude,” prompts Frank, “like I need a reason to see you.”
 
Wordlessly, Frank begins to step into the small house, leaving Bob to back up instinctively. It has something to do with his aura, he had once decided; Frank’s just felt stronger than his.
 
7:55 pm
While the purples and slight blues began to ebb away, midnights and a dark navy began to seize residence. It sneaked into the living room in slivers through the Venetian blinds, settling across Frank’s face.
 
But the brightness of the television flashes across him, lighting up his otherwise dark features. Bob keeps his eyes trained forward on the figures trailing transversely on the screen and his hands clutch at the soft couch cushions beneath them.
 
“Bob?” calls Frank softly. The tone grabs Bob’s attention; yeah?, his features reply. “Tell me something.” His confusion must be apparent, because he reiterates momentarily, “Anything. Just—tell me anything.”
 
Bob begins, “Well.” The possible topics have such range and variety, that he doesn’t really know where to begin. ‘Anything’ is quite vast, considering. “I was just thinking how I’m going to need a new coffee table,” he lies.
 
“Oh,” the guitarist lowers his eyes to the table set in front of them. Frank’s right leg is perched atop it, right over a sticky red stain present for some indefinite time period. There are coffee mugs and soda cans littered arbitrarily between stacks of magazines and mail. (Both addressed quite formally to a Mr. Robert Bryar.)
 
A few of the characters on the TV-set in front of them exchange pitiful dialogue that feels like some moth flapping incessantly by Bob’s ear. Apparently, Frank feels the same and grabs at the remote, brushing accidentally at the drummer’s hand. MUTE, reads the screen in large, red block-lettering.
 
“Look,” Frank pulls at the too-tight collar of his t-shirt. It’s new still and not worn like the others, fraying at all the edges and rice-paper thin. “The reason I came here is because I had something to tell you.”
 
His earlier words prickle at the nape of Bob’s neck. “I thought you said there wasn’t a reason,” he reminds.
 
Twisting along the couch, Frank tucks his left leg underneath him, and faces Bob head-on. Bob barely even notices the touch to his shoulder. Barely.
 
“Okay, I lied,” Frank’s hand twitches and his index skims along the piece of clavicle the t-shirt reveals. “So fucking what. The point is—” he hesitates, “is I have something really important to tell you.”
 
Important? Bob asks, wetting his lips.
 
Frank’s fingers leave the curve of his shoulder, skimming briefly along his bicep and forearm, and grab firmly at Bob’s hand.
 
“I’m really in love with you, man.”
 
Seven words that seem to be powerful enough to hit Bob square in the chest, forcing out a massive exhale of air. Like blowing too many bubbles on a cheap, neon-orange wand, his head is light and he’s quite dizzy, so he squeezes back the tiniest amount. He’s almost positive Frank didn’t even notice.
 
“And, and I’m going to go right now,” announces Frank precisely, eyeing their hands clasped together, “because I don’t want to freak you out any more.”
 
Using his free hand, Bob threads his fingers cautiously through his own side-swept bangs; he gives an affirmation. His hands, which have always been too cold, as long as he can remember, feel cool against his rising temperature.
 
“Okay,” he nods.
 
“Just,” Frank coughs into his fist and looks back to Bob with large eyes. “Call me or whatever when you’ve processed it. Okay?”
 
“Okay,” he nods.
 
4:24 am
Even at such an early hour, headlights from passing cars can still be seen through the cracked blinds in Bob’s room. They create artificial constellations against his walls and ceiling. Sometimes, he wishes they already had names, so maybe he wouldn’t struggle to create his own original titles.
 
(Catch-22, Will Shakespeare, Mikey, Ray, Gerard, Frank.)
 
In the daylight, the walls are a warm cream color, but at that moment, in the early morning, they stand a pristine white. They’re bare, almost entirely, save for a few pictures of friends and family. (Mostly friends.)
 
On the nightstand next to his full-sized bed, next to his alarm clock, lies his tiny, black phone, which lay quiet all night. It’s face is lit up, but it just reads the time and life-length.
 
Bob’s fingers are twitching unconsciously against the dark sheets and his toes are curling into the soft carpet. He thinks, now, finally, he knows what he can say.
 
His fingers jab at the flat buttons until Frank appears on the screen and a dial tone chimes into his ear. It’s only five or six seconds before the ringing stops suddenly, and a muted silence takes over.
 
“Hey,” Frank greets, clearing his throat. “What’s up.” It’s not really phrased as a question, Bob notes.
 
“You meant it, right?” he exhales the question out, palm and fingers gripping tighter at the phone pressed to his ear. “That you—that you love me.” He can hear Frank take in several short breaths before replying slowly:
 
“Yeah, of course.”
 
“Okay, okay,” Bob stops. “I mean, me, too.”
 

DUDE. I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT. HAPPY (LATE) BERFDAY! :D
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J. Gomez

May 2009

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