I could say I'm doing well;
May. 31st, 2011 11:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skeletonlettersTitle: One of Those Days.
Author: CJ; also known asskeletonletters
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG13
Warning: Kissing and profanity and SCHMOOP.
Disclamer: Meh. Don't own the boys, you know the drill.
Summary: Gerard has quirks, and Frank just has to love them.
(A/N: Well, this was a request byvinvy, because she wanted a grammar fic. My grammar isn't very awesome, so I tried!! I hope you like it. :D Oh, and PS, nobody should have to feel ashamed of secretly liking Wiz Khalifa or Gallows. NOBODY. STOP HIDING IT. I KNOW YOU DO. )
Everyone says that Gerard has quirks.
And maybe it's because he's an artist –at least, that's what he likes to tell himself. But every week it's a new problem, a new thing that just pisses him off and gets under his skin. Frank knows better than arguing it, because he doesn't want to be blamed when Gerard has 'canvas block' and can't paint; 'if everyone would have just stopped chewing with their mouths open, it wouldn't have happened'. That was always the excuse, just changing the annoying habit weekly. He knew the drill. So, Frank always comes prepared on those days, smile bared and fresh cup of coffee in hand. He fell in love with the artist, and he's going to pay for it, too.
“Hey,” He says softly as Gerard walks in, face streaked with creases from the bedsheets. He looks sulky and withdrawn, and Frank knows that it's one of those days. It's one of those dreaded, annoyed days where Gerard decides a new something is getting under his skin. And he is an artist – he does everything with a passion.
“I made you breakfast,” Frank says, putting the eggs down in front of his moody older lover. Gerard mumbles a quiet 'thank you', and Frank just hopes he can find out what the hated action is today, so he can correct it and move on. It's not like Gerard is some abusive asshole or anything, but Frank knows what it's like to be grumpy and frustrated, so he doesn't like to make it worse. Gerard knows never to play music when Frank can't write chords, and Frank knows to not piss Gerard off when he hasn't touched his paints in three days.
Unexpectedly, Gerard stands up and walks to where Frank is standing, grabbing him and pulling him into a long, hot kiss. Frank puts his palms against the countertop, steadying himself as Gerard sucks hard on his neck, making him gasp.
“I'm going to hate work today, so I might as well have a nice morning,” Gerard says into Frank's collarbone, licking and biting at the tender skin. Frank nods, head tilted back to the sky, breathing shallow. Gerard's hands are even grumpy, rough and touchy against Frank's ribs and chest.
“Today seems nice to me, so far.” Frank says, a little breathless. Gerard just shakes his head, grabbing his coat from the chair and leaving his breakfast untouched. Frank is a little hurt by that, but says nothing. It's just one of those days where Gerard is in a mood, and there's no telling what he'll do.
“Have fun at the gallery,” Frank calls after Gerard, but he's already out the door, leaving Frank to his own devices and empty kitchen.
When Gerard goes to work, he realizes how ignorant people are to the English language. When his first customer comes in, all he wants to is choke him. But he forces out a pleasant smile, tiny teeth stretched wide along his jaw.
“How are you today?” Gerard asks, gently fingering his face in the hopes that the marks from his bed have disappeared. This is one of his better customers, and Gerard really doesn't need to take his messy artist look any further than it already is.
“I'm good, and you?” The man looks at him with a casual smile, already half distracted by an old piece Gerard did in college. He feels a hot flash of anger in his chest, and before he can fight it, he's correcting the man.
“You're doing well.” Gerard says flatly, and then he secretly cringes. The man raises an eyebrow and shrugs. Even his best critics claim Gerard as socially inappropriate, despite his good work. People have just learned to love it or leave it over time.
The man leaves without buying anything, the tight wad of annoyance sparking up as he realizes that he wasted half of an hour talking to a man who wasn't even that interested. He walks up the clear stairs of the gallery, not even bothering to smile at the new intern as she walks by.
“You doing okay, Gerard?” She calls after him, sounding confused. Gerard's jaw tightens as he calls back;
“I'm doing well, thanks. I'm doing really well.”
He makes this game the pinpoint of his focus, and he realizes that he can almost tell a person's personality by how they react when Gerard corrects their grammar. Some of them roll their eyes at him, then continue to talk. Others correct themselves and re-state their answer, and most ignore the correction completely. Gerard monitors these answers, and realizes that he hasn't been able to so much as lift a single finger to the sketch pad – but it isn't his fault, because if people just spoke proper English, he wouldn't be suffering through this dilemma.
Throughout the day, Gerard takes a poll in his head. The girl he buys lunch from at the local cafe seems annoyed with him, the eighth customer of the day seems offended, the postman seems perplexed, and his receptionist, Bob, tells him to shut the fuck up. There are fake people, sensitive people, stupid people, and best friends, and you can tell each one of their characters by correcting their speech. Gerard contemplates this as he eats his chicken salad, guiltily remembering the forgotten eggs on the kitchen table. Gerard didn't want to forget that, but he never really means to do those things. It comes with being an artist, most suppose. Just one of those quirks.
Gerard knows that by the end of the day, he has become a misanthrope. Everyone leaves gladly, happy to be away from Gerard and his grammar rants, hoping that by tomorrow he'll forget about his hate for improper wording and will actually start painting. They've got a gallery showing in two weeks, and they need him to give out one more piece. They know better than to pressure him, but the clock is ticking. Someone volunteers that it's even worse than the time he decided he hated tap water – and everyone has to agree with that, because let's just talk about being an uppity tri-state area boy, here.
The tipping point is when he hangs up on Mikey within the first thirty seconds of conversation, when Mikey forces out the words 'I'm doing really good, dude' and Gerard nearly blows a gasket.
“How is this for good?” Gerard yells into the receiver, than presses the 'end' button a good three or four times, earning a few turned heads on the train ride home.
He sends a text later, saying he lost reception.
When he gets home, it smells like pasta and warmth, and Frank is in the kitchen again, hovering over a pot. When they first moved in together, Frank couldn't cook a thing to save his life, and in the past year he has become quite involved. Gerard doesn't have to look into the simmering pool of pasta to know that Frank is making one of his favorites.
“Hi, baby,” Frank says, sounding a little bit nervous. Gerard stands at the opposite end of the kitchen, staring intently at Frank. Frank shifts a little, and the way the light Is hitting Frank makes Gerard suddenly itch for a sketch pad for the first time in a good few days. That causes a bit of the annoyance to dissipate, but Gerard still has to know about Frank, too.
“How are you, Frankie.” He demands, staring at him so thoroughly that Frank blushes hard, completely at a loss of what kind of test this may or may not be. Gerard stares at him expectantly and Frank shrugs.
“Uh, I'm doing well, thanks? Skeleton Crew called this morning, and I -” Frank doesn't finish his sentence before he's attacked for the second time that day, Gerard's whole body slamming him into the wall. Frank sighs and just lets it happen, smiling tiredly into Gerard's fast and ferocious kisses.
“Well, you're doing so well,” Gerard breathes into his ear, nearly knocking Frank unconscious with his insistent kissing. Frank just nods, unfazed at Gerard's reactions. He's got his quirks, and Frank wouldn't have it any other way.
Gerard breaks the kiss and turns off the stove, then leads Frank into the bedroom, knowing that tomorrow he could finally start on that fucking painting he was dreading. But for the moment, he needs to strip Frank of his clothing, and after that he's going to fuck Frank senseless, breathless on the bedroom floor.
Because Frank is doing well, but Gerard could make him do so, so much better.
Author: CJ; also known as
skeletonlettersPairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG13
Warning: Kissing and profanity and SCHMOOP.
Disclamer: Meh. Don't own the boys, you know the drill.
Summary: Gerard has quirks, and Frank just has to love them.
(A/N: Well, this was a request by
vinvy, because she wanted a grammar fic. My grammar isn't very awesome, so I tried!! I hope you like it. :D Oh, and PS, nobody should have to feel ashamed of secretly liking Wiz Khalifa or Gallows. NOBODY. STOP HIDING IT. I KNOW YOU DO. )Everyone says that Gerard has quirks.
And maybe it's because he's an artist –at least, that's what he likes to tell himself. But every week it's a new problem, a new thing that just pisses him off and gets under his skin. Frank knows better than arguing it, because he doesn't want to be blamed when Gerard has 'canvas block' and can't paint; 'if everyone would have just stopped chewing with their mouths open, it wouldn't have happened'. That was always the excuse, just changing the annoying habit weekly. He knew the drill. So, Frank always comes prepared on those days, smile bared and fresh cup of coffee in hand. He fell in love with the artist, and he's going to pay for it, too.
“Hey,” He says softly as Gerard walks in, face streaked with creases from the bedsheets. He looks sulky and withdrawn, and Frank knows that it's one of those days. It's one of those dreaded, annoyed days where Gerard decides a new something is getting under his skin. And he is an artist – he does everything with a passion.
“I made you breakfast,” Frank says, putting the eggs down in front of his moody older lover. Gerard mumbles a quiet 'thank you', and Frank just hopes he can find out what the hated action is today, so he can correct it and move on. It's not like Gerard is some abusive asshole or anything, but Frank knows what it's like to be grumpy and frustrated, so he doesn't like to make it worse. Gerard knows never to play music when Frank can't write chords, and Frank knows to not piss Gerard off when he hasn't touched his paints in three days.
Unexpectedly, Gerard stands up and walks to where Frank is standing, grabbing him and pulling him into a long, hot kiss. Frank puts his palms against the countertop, steadying himself as Gerard sucks hard on his neck, making him gasp.
“I'm going to hate work today, so I might as well have a nice morning,” Gerard says into Frank's collarbone, licking and biting at the tender skin. Frank nods, head tilted back to the sky, breathing shallow. Gerard's hands are even grumpy, rough and touchy against Frank's ribs and chest.
“Today seems nice to me, so far.” Frank says, a little breathless. Gerard just shakes his head, grabbing his coat from the chair and leaving his breakfast untouched. Frank is a little hurt by that, but says nothing. It's just one of those days where Gerard is in a mood, and there's no telling what he'll do.
“Have fun at the gallery,” Frank calls after Gerard, but he's already out the door, leaving Frank to his own devices and empty kitchen.
When Gerard goes to work, he realizes how ignorant people are to the English language. When his first customer comes in, all he wants to is choke him. But he forces out a pleasant smile, tiny teeth stretched wide along his jaw.
“How are you today?” Gerard asks, gently fingering his face in the hopes that the marks from his bed have disappeared. This is one of his better customers, and Gerard really doesn't need to take his messy artist look any further than it already is.
“I'm good, and you?” The man looks at him with a casual smile, already half distracted by an old piece Gerard did in college. He feels a hot flash of anger in his chest, and before he can fight it, he's correcting the man.
“You're doing well.” Gerard says flatly, and then he secretly cringes. The man raises an eyebrow and shrugs. Even his best critics claim Gerard as socially inappropriate, despite his good work. People have just learned to love it or leave it over time.
The man leaves without buying anything, the tight wad of annoyance sparking up as he realizes that he wasted half of an hour talking to a man who wasn't even that interested. He walks up the clear stairs of the gallery, not even bothering to smile at the new intern as she walks by.
“You doing okay, Gerard?” She calls after him, sounding confused. Gerard's jaw tightens as he calls back;
“I'm doing well, thanks. I'm doing really well.”
He makes this game the pinpoint of his focus, and he realizes that he can almost tell a person's personality by how they react when Gerard corrects their grammar. Some of them roll their eyes at him, then continue to talk. Others correct themselves and re-state their answer, and most ignore the correction completely. Gerard monitors these answers, and realizes that he hasn't been able to so much as lift a single finger to the sketch pad – but it isn't his fault, because if people just spoke proper English, he wouldn't be suffering through this dilemma.
Throughout the day, Gerard takes a poll in his head. The girl he buys lunch from at the local cafe seems annoyed with him, the eighth customer of the day seems offended, the postman seems perplexed, and his receptionist, Bob, tells him to shut the fuck up. There are fake people, sensitive people, stupid people, and best friends, and you can tell each one of their characters by correcting their speech. Gerard contemplates this as he eats his chicken salad, guiltily remembering the forgotten eggs on the kitchen table. Gerard didn't want to forget that, but he never really means to do those things. It comes with being an artist, most suppose. Just one of those quirks.
Gerard knows that by the end of the day, he has become a misanthrope. Everyone leaves gladly, happy to be away from Gerard and his grammar rants, hoping that by tomorrow he'll forget about his hate for improper wording and will actually start painting. They've got a gallery showing in two weeks, and they need him to give out one more piece. They know better than to pressure him, but the clock is ticking. Someone volunteers that it's even worse than the time he decided he hated tap water – and everyone has to agree with that, because let's just talk about being an uppity tri-state area boy, here.
The tipping point is when he hangs up on Mikey within the first thirty seconds of conversation, when Mikey forces out the words 'I'm doing really good, dude' and Gerard nearly blows a gasket.
“How is this for good?” Gerard yells into the receiver, than presses the 'end' button a good three or four times, earning a few turned heads on the train ride home.
He sends a text later, saying he lost reception.
When he gets home, it smells like pasta and warmth, and Frank is in the kitchen again, hovering over a pot. When they first moved in together, Frank couldn't cook a thing to save his life, and in the past year he has become quite involved. Gerard doesn't have to look into the simmering pool of pasta to know that Frank is making one of his favorites.
“Hi, baby,” Frank says, sounding a little bit nervous. Gerard stands at the opposite end of the kitchen, staring intently at Frank. Frank shifts a little, and the way the light Is hitting Frank makes Gerard suddenly itch for a sketch pad for the first time in a good few days. That causes a bit of the annoyance to dissipate, but Gerard still has to know about Frank, too.
“How are you, Frankie.” He demands, staring at him so thoroughly that Frank blushes hard, completely at a loss of what kind of test this may or may not be. Gerard stares at him expectantly and Frank shrugs.
“Uh, I'm doing well, thanks? Skeleton Crew called this morning, and I -” Frank doesn't finish his sentence before he's attacked for the second time that day, Gerard's whole body slamming him into the wall. Frank sighs and just lets it happen, smiling tiredly into Gerard's fast and ferocious kisses.
“Well, you're doing so well,” Gerard breathes into his ear, nearly knocking Frank unconscious with his insistent kissing. Frank just nods, unfazed at Gerard's reactions. He's got his quirks, and Frank wouldn't have it any other way.
Gerard breaks the kiss and turns off the stove, then leads Frank into the bedroom, knowing that tomorrow he could finally start on that fucking painting he was dreading. But for the moment, he needs to strip Frank of his clothing, and after that he's going to fuck Frank senseless, breathless on the bedroom floor.
Because Frank is doing well, but Gerard could make him do so, so much better.
no subject
Date: 2011-05-31 11:47 pm (UTC)I secretly judge people based on their grammar. (Not very harshly unless it's absolutely atrocious because, really, who am I to cast judgement?) How did you know this? XD God, may I just please hug your brain?
/END RAMBLE OF AFFECTION
no subject
Date: 2011-06-01 12:22 am (UTC)Buuuuuuutttt thank you, hug my brain, please. I love brain hugs. And I judge people based on grammar, ESPECIALLY ON THE INTERWEB.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-01 12:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-01 01:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-01 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-01 03:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-01 10:11 pm (UTC)