A hand moves in the dark to a zipper

Keep my Heart Somewhere Drugs Don't Go }}

Sun, 27 Aug 2006 23:32:22 GMT

Title: Keep my Heart Somewhere Drugs Don't Go }} #2/#28
Author: cinematic_razor
Pairing: bobxxbert, bertxxgerard, adamxxbob, gerardxxfrank. Ooh, threw in new ones and some oldies!
Rating: from PG-13 to...NC-17, just not here
POV: 3rd
Summary: And when he’s left alone too long with just his head and a space and stretch of dry air, Bob starts to fear that Bert can’t love him without help. There’s got to be a shade of truth to it, because Bert’s habit has been increasingly worse since he started...started with Bob....“Whoever else it is you want, go find them.”
Disclaimer: MUHAHAHA!!! THEY'RE ALL MINE!!! *lawyer takes away rights* OH NO!!! :O
Author Notes: Part two! Get ready! Dedications inside!

[ don't torture yourself with what you could have given }}

Dedicated to }}
xxdance for poking me!
xunderzenithx for being so goddamn supportive!

Adam loves North Carolina. Granted that this is a very, very recent development, because as of lately, he had been holding onto a grudge against the state like you’d hold onto your cheating boyfriend’s dick while he begs you to let go. But when you’re twenty-four, a bit lonely, and you need a place to crash where you won’t get lost, hell, North Carolina is an over-heated heaven.

There’s a small city about an hour from Charlotte, tucked in between country, hills and a few other run-down towns and areas, named Hickory. Adam Lazzara loved Hickory, for some reason he’d never know. It wasn’t much better than where he grew up, but it was always so fun to go downtown and dodge skateboarding high schoolers who hardly recognize him with newly dyed blonde hair and a pair of big sun glasses. Everything’s old and gray in downtown, but he loves the burst of yellow on the front of Drips coffeehouse. One of those places you can’t find unless you know it’s there.

Drips is open all night long, and there’s always no one there. His friends and old schoolmates, Devon Lail and Delaney Henderson, bought the place years ago, and he gets free coffee—which most bands are envious of because he doesn’t even have to flash his punk-star-emo face for it.

Hands tucked in his pockets, fingering a key to a house who’s locks have changed a long time ago and his silenced cell phone (just in case), the man shuffles up the slanted sidewalk and smiles at Delaney, a little twentysomething rockstar girl who’s life didn’t go quite right.

“Look who it is, Dev!” The woman throws a dish-rag soaked in spilt coffee at Adam, who ducks his head even though Delaney is completely off her mark. She grins and kisses the star’s cheek on her retrieval mission to the rag, and Adam thinks about his friends. Still stuck in North Carolina, still wishing the same things they did in high school. What right did he have to get his wishes come true when these two deserved it more?

He settles down next to the wall for a long talk about everything that was wrong, right, and didn’t even matter.

Hours later, after he’s had enough caffeine to make even Gerard and Mikey Way both shudder and want to puke, Adam Lazzara is wondering how far into the city of Charlotte he is, and which tour buses belong to which bands. He never checked the sheet of friends that he could have crashed with; it was always Matt or Mark who did that for him. Adam was way too much of a dreamer and creator than allowed for his own good. He forgot his keys somewhere between lines in a song, or singing along to his favorite tune, he lost his wallet. What did he do without band mates and best friends?

Maybe, he thinks he should go back to New York. He’d had enough coffee to hitch hike or cab his way there, and if he could pay taxi fares with emotional twists and turns, pave him a way to India, he can make it with gas to spare.

Adam’s way too lazy, though, and he winds up sitting down on the curb outside the Stadium, holding his head in one hand and letting his creative mind warp heartache into such fine threads it could make him a sweater. He’s such a dramatic bastard; the voices in his head remind him so. One is his father, whom he’s quite happy to avoid at all cost; one is the combined effort of all his ex-girlfriends, and the other is the one person that Adam wants to at least insult him to his face, or somewhere it could be real.

On cue by the director Destiny, the star’s phone rings, the name on caller ID perhaps the one to insult him in reality and not his head? His pocket vibrates for a minute, and he hesitates to at least sound okay before answering.

“Hey, Bob, what’s up?”

“I’m...a good person right? I’m easy to get along with; I haven’t got any vices but coffee...Who wouldn’t love me?”

Desperate. That’s what Bob thinks he sounds like as he crouches under an awning in Brooklyn, hiding from the rain and anyone who might wonder why rain was falling on him when he wasn’t out in the open.

Adam understood the drummer, maybe in a way better than anyone he had ever worked/played/lived/been with in his entire life. Sure, he was a bit self-absorbed, and a bit of a lush, but it couldn’t be any worse than Bert, right? No, never. Adam, Bob could put up with. He wasn’t too hard to work with.

“What’s the matter? Who kicked your heart to the curb?” the younger man sounded angry suddenly, very defensive, and it made Bob’s face light with pride and love at a man he couldn’t even see.

“I’ll kick their ass, just tell me where he went and I’ll be there in...eight hours.” Bob chokes on coffee.

“Eight hours? Where the fuck are you, Lazzara?” A mother ushering her three children (who are giggling at the use of extreme language) almost steps forward to cuff Bob around the head, but the drummer steps away quickly to head down the street.

“Um...North Carolina. I kinda took off last night. But don’t change the subject! Where the hell is Bert and I’ll be there to kick his ass!”

What’s a guy to do with friends like this?

Keep My Heart Somewhere Drugs Don't Go }}

Sun, 27 Aug 2006 03:07:27 GMT

Title: Keep my Heart Somewhere Drugs Don't Go }} #1/#16 [???] at least
Author: cinematic_razor
Pairing: bobxxbert, bertxxgerard, adamxxbob, gerardxxfrank. Ooh, threw in new ones and some oldies!
Rating: from PG-13 to...NC-17, just not here
POV: 3rd
Summary: And when he’s left alone too long with just his head and a space and stretch of dry air, Bob starts to fear that Bert can’t love him without help. There’s got to be a shade of truth to it, because Bert’s habit has been increasingly worse since he started...started with Bob....“Whoever else it is you want, go find them.”
Disclaimer: MUHAHAHA!!! THEY'RE ALL MINE!!! *lawyer takes away rights* OH NO!!! :O
Author Notes: Dedicated to...*sigh* Well, look inside, I'm too nice to spam...

Dedicated to }}
sidereal for, well, making me want to kill my writing, and stop even getting on the 'net.
xxdance for agreeing to poke me to get my ass moving, and being my unofficial beta, even though I rarely send her anything at all.
xunderzenithx for being my on-line ho and dedicating things to me just cuz it makes me giggle, and she reads my song lyrics and loves me :).
cubiclefever because I'm kissin' ass, and I'd rather it be her's than anyone else, lmfao.

Bob is afraid to go in bathrooms anymore. The five times he’s caught Bert, he watches for a minute until the younger man either catches on, or he finishes, then Bob pretends he didn’t see anything. Bert sniffs twice and wipes under his nose, hugging the drummer to his chest with sloppy arms, messy kisses and hazed eyes.

And when he’s left alone too long with just his head and a space and stretch of dry air, Bob starts to fear that Bert can’t love him without help. There’s got to be a shade of truth to it, because Bert’s habit has been increasingly worse since he started...started with Bob. The blonde can’t find a specific word for it; more than fuck buddies, but less than boyfriends. Bert never really would answer questions about it to anyone. So maybe...he didn’t love Bob as much as the drummer thought he did?

All Bert can think when he’s fucking Bob is how pretty the ceiling is. And he’s trying not to hate himself for being caught in the act of ruining a heart and life. He thinks of Gerard when he’s with Bob, and he never can keep his mind on the man that’s either on top of him or underneath him. Nothing’s the way he and Quinn wished it would be when they tried to run faster than the heat in Utah. He’s so messed up that even withdrawing into his own head is a dangerous business.

Another night in an anonymous place, and the singer is shocked when he almost doesn’t realize that they’ve paused in the act; he was tracing the outlines of the titles in the ceiling. Bob is looking at him, and the look alone is enough to break Hitler’s heart, which is saying the world of how hurt Bob is.

“Who ever else it is you want, go find them,” Bob says quietly, balling up his hoodie and using it as pillow, turning away from Bert. And all the other man can think is ‘I did this.’

“What makes you think I want someone else?” Bert snaps, managing to come off as mad, when he’s only feeling a sliver of the pain his lover is. He pushes his body up with one elbow, his clammy chest on Bob’s shoulder, midnight black hair hanging in clumps in both their faces.

“I know it, okay? You can look at me and see a million different faces.” What hurt so much was it the fact his words were true.

What else could Bert do but take Bob’s advice? Horror on his face, the drummer turns to sit up as the Mormon tugs his jean shorts on and runs as fast as drugged legs would take him, which was pretty damn fast, considering Bert liked to convince himself that whatever he was running away from was right on his heels.

Who was he running to? A man? A woman? Another band mate, a lazy hipster? One of Bob’s friends? He wanted to know with a sick, twisted need pulling his muscles into painful shapes, curling him up on the floor. The man hadn’t had a good cry in two decades, and here was a twenty three year old, formerly-homeless, Mormon druggie who was making him do it for the first time in a long while.

After much two hours (two hours too long), the place where two hot and cold bodies had once laid was vacant again, with only two signs they were ever there; a drum stick that had fallen from the blonde’s back pocket, and an immortal sharpie message on the ground; “hearts are not to be trusted where drugs can get to them. – B.B.”

Two hours, two bodies, two signs and two B’s burn on the inside of the note writer’s skull. Maybe he’ll go to Starbucks?

Three streets, seven blocks and a million miles away, Bert is trying to remember which number Gerard Way’s apartment is, and is vaguely wondering if Mikey was pulled out by Alicia, who always wanted them to be a party couple when he’d rather cuddle on couches. But he wouldn’t hardly ever argue with her, because love stamps your will to a pretty pile of pulp, squeeze in a cup and frozen like orange juice.

He’s all twitches and jerks, so completely ripped in half. Only one-third of his heart is back, following Bob to the nearest Starbucks, ordering the coffee that he likes, but having it remind him of the man he just let run away; the other two-thirds weren’t just with Gerard; one part was watching him do all this, saying in an obnoxious, but right, voice, “He’s the best thing you ever had, and, you fuckwad, he actually wanted you! Dumbass!” The other was, of course, knocking down the door.

“Mikes, if that’s you, go back downstairs before she hunts you down with a tranquilizer gun.” Just as fallen-angel-heavenly as he sounds belting lyrics, the generic sounds of shuffling and groaning and t.v.-turning-down make Bert much more happier than he should ever have the right to be. Bert just keeps on knocking, and he would have laughed in any other occasion, but he’s too anxious, on-edge for such petty acts as laughing right now.

Locks click into place; just everything should be happening in a grand, cosmic world that above-the-influence Bert likes to believe is complete bullshit.

“What the fuck’re you doing here, Bee?” Gerard sounds surprised, laced with happiness and worry. “Where’s Bob? I thought you were with him?”

“I was, but...man, shit, I just...can’t anymore. Gee, I love ya, okay? One more publicity kiss and I think I might fuck you then and there. I can’t even like Bob anymore, he’s nothing like you! He won’t argue back when it’s completely pointless, he doesn’t act like you do, talk like you, and I hate him for it!” By now, no air is left in Bert’s normally bottomless lungs, and he’s leaning on the doorway, crying silently and panting, sweating, looking like a lost, hobo puppy—which he was, actually.

“Who d’you hate?” Frank Iero asks very innocently, standing behind Gerard, and Bert almost misses the protective arm around the taller one’s waist. His heart sinks to the floor beside the Welcome mat.

Author's Note Pt. 2 }}
So, I've decided. This is the one that I'll keep up with. School/work sucks, ya, and recent diagnosed illnesses [don't worry about it--I'm not] I'm not letting hold me down. I love writing, I'll keep on doing it until the day I die, and I'm putting all this energy into this story. Tell me, in up-and-coming chapters, if you cry/scream/show lots of emotion, I'm going for a powerful-emotional fic here.

A Lack Of Color }} #1

Sat, 12 Aug 2006 01:30:04 GMT

Title ;; A Lack Of Color }} #1
Author ;; cinematic_razor
Pairing ;; Jared&&Gerard ;; Mikey&&Bert
Rating ;; R to NC-17
Summary ;; Jared Leto deals with death, everyday. In the morgue where he works, it's cold, and it's dark and it's not the right stable enviroment for any living being--hence why it was made a morgue. So why does this art student want to spend all his time down there? Is it how he claims? That he just wants to sketch? Or does the Jared notice he's only there for most of the hours of his own shift?
Disclaimer ;; not mine, nope, no way, jose! But some OC's might pop up...
Author Note ;; I want to dedicate this to my little gummy bug, you know who you are! To xxdance for saying I'm cool, xunderzenithx for hot boysecks, and everyone who will follow this story! I plan on it being about..oh, thirty some chapters, maybe more, maybe less. :D

Definately an AU, this story I think will be my favorite, but it will go on according to the guys's lives, slightly. Gerard will wind up forming My Chem, and Jared will move to LA to start acting, just not right now. :) Enjoy!

Gerard Way’s pencil scratched against the grain of his textured sketch paper, leaving a long, thin dark gray line on the center of the white sheet. He stared at it for a minute, before quickly flipping his pencil over and erasing his last move. He let his hand draw a stroke in the air before promptly uncrossing his legs and tossing the notepad on the bed, frustrated.

His brother, Mikey, watched all this with a fascination that only little brothers can hold for their older ones, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose every few minutes.

“Can’t get it right?” Mikey asked sympathetically, swinging his legs forward on the floor against scratchy black carpet and narrowly missing a stacked pile of comics.

“No.” Gerard paused, running the pad of his finger over the almost-finished project of his drawing. “There’s something about the bullets...”

The girl on his paper screamed ‘beautiful’ and ‘real’ in the way only a true artist could breathe life into his pictured art. Her shaded-in black hair masked sad and dead eyes, and there were smudges on her skin, indicating dirt and/or blood, depending on the shading. Her arms were held out at awkward angles that made it impossible to believe that they weren’t broken into shattered shards of white porcelain bone and liquid red blood. There were supposed to be bullet holes in her chest and stomach, but Gerard was having trouble making it look real.

“Go look at the trash cans,” Mikey suggested, referring to the gun shots in green plastic.

“I don’t think that’ll really...” the older teenager paused, trying to articulate the right words, “...get the effect I wanted.” Spotting Mikey’s fallen expression from a mile off, he smiled gently and touched the top of his ash-brown head. “But great suggestion.”

He didn’t want to tell his brother that he needed to see the imprint in human flesh.

*****

Tightening the front flaps of his sterile white lab coat, Jared Leto checked his watch and picked up the speed. It was three past twelve, and he was late.

“Three minute, Bob. Just three, okay?” His face and tone pleaded as soon as he rounded the corner, to the other morgue worker, clipping his identification tag on the pocket of his coat, beside his hip. It bounced as he came to a stop as Jared reached over the front counter and pulled out his time slot card.

“Three minute, Jared.” He didn’t look mad, just annoyed and amused. But you could never tell with Bob Bryar.

“It’ll never happen again?” A question, not a statement.

“Whatever. I punched in you card at twelve, so you’re not late.” Bob shrugged and threw the twenty-one year old a pair of white latex gloves, hitting him in the face. He managed to place his card back under ‘L’ and snap on his gloves with enough time to follow the taller man and catch the door closing on the hinges to break room. Bert McCracken was already there, playing in the freezer. He giggled maniacally, seeing Jared.

“Dude, you’re late every night, and I’m late once. I get the third-degree from Mr. Club Bouncer Bob here?” He pulled out of the freezer with a cup of ice cream and hoisted himself up onto the stainless steel counter.

“Bert, I’m late within ten minutes. You were gone for three hours. Plus,” Jared hugged Bob from behind. “Bob loves me.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do, Bob. Don’t deny your heart! You clocked him in, I saw it!” Bert placed a hand over his heart, pretending to be hurt but smearing vanilla all over his coat. “You adore Jared, the little hottie! You wanna bend him over a metal gurney and—“

Jared threw the rest of his doughnut at Bert’s head and rolled his eyes. Bob’s face had turned moderately pink, and the doughnut-less man glared at the third staff member in the room.

“Who did we get tonight?” the twentysomething pushed his two friends into the “cooler” room, where all the corpses were stored.

The temperature was bitingly cold when the warm heat from the break room mingled and met the air that had to be constantly chilled to avoid body decomposition. The black tile floor cast a morbid look that not even the white-washed walls, light-gray ceiling and fluorescent lighting couldn’t fight to redeem. The term cold metal had never been more rightly used when it came to the walls that were lined in square, 3x3 door panels that hid lost life and lost souls behind them. The room in it’s self was just shy of the same footage as a ball room, but with a much darker purpose.

And something was wrong there.

All the bodies in the morgue—with the exception of the three men—were supposed to dead. One was not.

number one [with a bullet] }} #1 || #1

Sun, 06 Aug 2006 19:26:45 GMT

Title: number one [with a bullet]
Author: cinematic_razor
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Rating: PG
POV: first
Summary: For all the noise I make on stage, I can't scream at you, to shout, "Stare at me!"
Disclaimer: nuh-uh, no way, I wish it was mine, but it's not!
Author Note: Thanks to my WONDERFUL beta, xxdance, because she's just plain coo', yo.

I see the way you look at him, don’t get me wrong. I may just sit here, but I notice things. Frank Iero, you loved me first, and how could you just go and forget about me?

You work me up. I’m tuned to perfection, I’m ready to go, and then, your hands around my neck and you’re laying me to the side to say, “maybe tomorrow.”

For all the noise I make on stage, Frank, I can’t scream at you to pay attention to me! Love me! Look at me like that, okay? You loved me first, but now that passion is hidden in your guitar case, hardly ever to see the light of day again, while you bat those long eyelashes at him, and I can only sit here and glare at you.

Ray sometimes looks at me like you used to. He always will. Ray’s always admired you for having me, and he’s angry that you ignore me like this. He places his hands around my neck, but not to lay me aside, to shove me away. We can spend hours together, just talking, without really saying anything at all. Ray is amazing with me...I feel wanted, loved, admired, all the things that, yes, this guitarist can show me, but I want it from you.

See? Frank! Look, all I want—all I ever wanted was you! I was your first! You came to me, crying when boy after girl after boy broke your little heart, and with songs I pieced you back together! I always strived to find the right note to write you, to sing the right songs, but you were on AM and I was FM.

And this is all so absurd.

You need Gerard, I can see that. You were my first love, and I’d like to fool myself over that I was yours, but now, Gerard Way has taken my spot in your heart, the spot that was so huge with adoration for me.

I was your first love, Frank Iero, but all I am is just Pansy, your guitar.

HAHAHA!!! Bet choo weren't expectin' that, huh? :)

thunderstorms could never stop me }} #1

Fri, 04 Aug 2006 02:40:50 GMT

Title: thunderstorms could never stop me
Author: cinematic_razor
Pairing:
Andy/OC
Andy/Mikey
Patrcik/OC
Bert/Patrick
Bert/OC
Rating: R, NC-17 later
POV:
Prologue = 1st
Rest Of Story = 3rd
Summary: The Sleeping Oranges of Belleville County Library are reunited some five to six years later by an email from their only girl member, Ace O'Malley. Tour dates are re-scheduled, gas tanks are filled and plane tickets are bought as Andy, Mikey, Patrick and Bert all face the question "Why?" that accompanies memories of the best, worst and most challenging times of their lives.
Disclaimer: Hm...I don't own these people, because if I did, that would be slavery, and I happen to be friends with quite a few african americans who would kick my ass if I said I owned someone. But I do hold all rights to Alice O'Malley. :)
Author Note: It's a bit long, check inside, please? :) But I do need a beta, because asrto_mandie never replied! :( pooh.

Dedicated To;;
xxdance
maxvinyl
sidereal
logic_fails

Because you all are entirely amazing, okay? You rock, and you four are my absolute favorite authors ever! You all have a way with words that just grabs me and makes me cry in a way that only real life heart break, I think, would come close. You are masters with words and emotions, and I hope you guys never slip and lose this wonderful gift that you've found.

There were five of us in the beginning, and finally, five of us in the end. Ace, Bert, Preacher, Andy, and me, aptly named Skinny. Oh, and Beefer. We all loved Beefer, no matter how much we fell out with each other.

Ace O'Malley. Her real name was Alice, but she despised it. She turned her luck at drawing double aces in poker into her nickname. She was from the south, North Carolina, so she was always complaining about the cold.

Bert McCracken was gawky and hyper--a real stoner. Really, no one else ever called him Cannon--except Alice, who gave him the name in the first place. He was always Bert to the rest of us. Never quiet and always breaking awful, awkward tensions with off-colored jokes.

Preacher was Patrick Stumph because he never could stop hesitating when we came up with a stupid plan. He was always telling us off, adjusting his glasses. Short and slightly pudgy, Patrick never had any luck with girls, but he was completely smitten with Ace.

And Andy. Andy Hurley. He was amazing and funny and thoughtful and sweet. Curly but not coiled copper red hair, tattoos up and down his arms and black frammed glasses.He was mellow but not lazy, conservative but not a prude. Andy was...perfect, but perfection is so easy to break into fine little pieces.

We were the Sleeping Oranges of Belleville County Library, and there's a part of us that still is and always will be. We were changed for the best and worst, we'll all admit it but never be the first to. How we became known as Sleeping Oranges we wonder to this day, but it sure as hell stuck; Ace's band has the same name.

We stuck together since the age of eleven, when, on their first day of school, Bert and Ace got into a fight in the sand box. In the office with sand pouring out of their pants, they were seated next to Peter Wentz (he sucessfully got rid of the full first name, going by Pete within the next few months), who had dragged Patrick and Andy into a food fight in the cafeteria. My older brother worked in the office, and he introduced us all while laughing at Pete and ACe getting into it, as they did quite often. The rest...is our history.

Most of us still keep in touch. Hell, Patrick and Andy are in a fucking band together. I've toured with Bert, but none of us had heard from Ace in years--since her brother's funeral--until she sent us an email a few weeks ago. And that's where I am right now. I've convinced Andy and 'Trick to cancel a few Fall Out Boy show dates; Bert's flying out from Utah, where he's recording the next the Used album. None of our band mates completely understand how we cold drop everything and fly to North Carolina, but I know they try their best. In truth, I don't think they want to, or can, face the fact that they'll never be as good as friends as the five of us were. No matter how much of our souls we show them. Personally, I try to make Gerard, Frank, Bob and Ray as close to me and my heart as I can, but there are secrets and understandings and memories with the people that loved you before you had to hide because of society.

"I wish we had Beef," Andy mutters sadly, and Patrick laughs just a bit, making my hands tighten over the shift stick and steering wheel.

"That dog was the shit," I agree with a smile, but really all Beefer will remind me of is a Chevelle tire wheel and leaving for college, leaving us all behind.

The three of us are almost to the North Carolina state border, and we're running out of quarters. Patrick has stopped loosening his scarf and taken it completely off finally, and we're all anxious to get to Hickory. We're all wondering what changes have happened to Ace, because she's the only one of us who, despite all her talk of getting out of Jersey, hasn't made it to fame. She and the Sleeping Oranges have been particularly silent.

Now, we're in Hickory, and the roads areslightly confusing, but we've been all over the United States and none of us are admitting defeat to the road maps.

In her drive way, I feel like we're nineteen again. A few more piercings, a bit taller (except for Patrick) and more ink. Heartbreak, Heartache, and more history and pages behind us. A rental car that we've been waiting on finally pulls in, and a never-before-seen nervous Bert steps out, tapping his legs with his fingers.

I can't wait to see what made Alice O'Malley call us from New York, what she has to say to us that an email wouldn't cut it. We were best friends, we fell in love with one another, and for short bursts of time we all hated someone. What, in an interval of five years later, could we possibly have to sum up about our amazing time as the Sleeping Oranges of Belleville County Library?