MeinAuthor: spleenjournalRecipient: blindmadnessWord Count:
R-ishRequest: College AUs! I am in love with college AUs of any sort. Anything in which one half of the pairing is pining/in love with/in lust with the other and said other half is or seems completely oblivious.Summary:
Gerard's an art-school student, and Frank's the model. AN:
FORGIVE ME FOR BEING LATE. I HAVE THE PLAGUE.
"You like D&D, Audrey Hepburn, Fangoria, Harry Houdini and croquet. You can't swim, you can't dance, and you don't know karate. Face it, he's never gonna know who you are." It's not as if Ray's trying to put the kaibash on how Gerard feels about this new kid in his art class - not even another student, but the body model - but the way Gerard's been moping around since (Frank? is it Frank?) started posing... well. It's been a little too much OH SIGH and BIG WISTFUL EYES.
"I know," Gerard tries to reason. "But- but maybe if he saw how I see him-"
"Do you even know if he's into guys or whatever?" Ray's known Gerard for just about ever, and even though there's no bones made about Gerard being gay, it's not a word Ray likes using. So it's always 'into guys or whatever', like 'whatever' could be... anything. He sneaks a peek down at his watch, and quirks a smile at Gerard. "Time for class. Just- fuck it. Go and say hi, or something. If you want him that much." Not that Ray wants to be thinking about his best friend wanting anyone
Gerard can't find the words he wants to say to Ray, not quite fuck you
or even to ask for advice on how not to fuck this up, like he's fucked everything else up, so far, and gathers up his books to shove them into his backpack. "Beers later at my place, okay?" Ray nods, slinging his own backpack on, and watches the back of his departing friend, the resigned slump of his shoulders, even the way he tugs his hood up to hide himself from watching eyes.
That little fucking punk must be something really spectacular if he sets Gerard into a depression this deep.
The instructor's talking to Frank when Gerard comes in the room, a hand on Frank's shoulder, and Gerard's startled - again - to realize how very small
Frank is, slim and compact, tattooed arms startling against the plain white of his tshirt. And maybe, just maybe, Gerard's jealous of the way his instructor's touching Frank, how they look at each other. How avid and expressive Frank's face is, and Gerard almost drops the brushes he's pulling out of his art kit when he hears Frank laugh.
"Afternoon, artists! As you can see, Frank's back, probably because he's getting paid for this, but today we're doing a study of the human body, rather than portrait work. Frank, if you don't mind..."
It's everything Gerard can do to keep a straight face, to pretend his skin isn't the colour of roses as he sets up his canvas and paints; everything Gerard can do not to pretend that Frank's laugh doesn't shatter through his thoughts like so much broken glass cutting into skin. His stomach twists into a knot when Frank unselfconsciously strips his shirt off, folding it into quarters, and drops his jeans, kicking them aside. Gerard finds his fingers itching for a pencil, a piece of charcoal, a stick of chalk, anything
, to capture Frank right now, right this moment before he sits, poses for everyone. Wanting to capture him just as he is, pistols crossed across his back, doves licking low on his hips, winks of colour and blackwork etched into Frank's skin as he turns and moves.
And then it's too late, Gerard's opportunity passed as Frank sits, striking one goofy pose after another until the art instructor steps in and maneuvers Frank into the position he's supposed to stand in. "Shorts off, Mr. Iero. Don't be shy, now."
Gerard thinks he's about to choke.
At least Frank's back is turned to him, and god, Gerard thinks, Frank's built like a cereal box, all straight up and down, with no give to his body, no real definition. But on him, it looks good, good enough that Gerard has to clear his throat and fumble through his kit so he can find his charcoal pencil. From there, it's almost
easy to sketch Frank's body, the cant of his shoulders and hips, the Jack O'Lantern on his back, and those fucking pistols.
Gerard finds himself wondering what they taste like, skin and gunmetal and sweat. How they'd move under his fingers, if he were to touch them.
It's easier to draw Frank when no one's around, when it's up to Gerard's imagination and both of his hands - one down the front of his jeans and the other sketching furiously, shaggy hair and knowing eyes and tattoos - and when he shades out the curve of Frank's smile, he has to stop, the fragile stick of charcoal snapping between his fingers and hips shivering with the heated force of his climax.
Wrong, so wrong, Frank would never want someone like him, never know how Gerard feels. Ray listens as Gerard gets drunk and talks about him, how fucking perfect he is, every line, every detail. He nods sympathetically when Gerard gestures with his bottle of vodka, trying to show Ray what he sees in Frank, tell him how his voice sounds.
But Ray gets tired of listening, of being there for Gerard, and finally tells him "For Chrissake, just talk
to him. What's the worst he's going to say? No? At least you'll have an answer, right?"
Three weeks after Frank stops coming to Gerard's class, stops taking off his clothes with that grace that leaves Gerard breathless, Gerard finally finds Frank outside the college pub with a plastic cup of watery beer in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.
"Hey," Frank greets, giving Gerard that smile that could light up the world, if its energy could be harnessed. Gerard coughs.
"Hi. Can I bum a smoke?"
Frank holds his pack out, and even lights Gerard's cigarette for him. "I know you from living arts, right? You're one of the students." Frank's brows knot for a moment, trying to find a name for this face, pretty and innocent and open
, and... "Gerard, right? I'm Frank. Good to meet you. Properly, you know."
Gerard forgets about the cigarette in his fingers, enthralled by the way Frank's mouth works, how his voice sounds when he's talking to him
, instead of anyone else. He's got Frank's attention. All of it.
"Yeah," Gerard breathes. "Nice to meet you, Frank." And he lifts his hand to scud the pad of his thumb over Frank's lower lip, pausing for a moment on the ring of metal that cuts through it. Frank doesn't pull away, but looks up with eyes that are warm and hazel in the harsh bright of the streetlamp above his head. He smiles.
"I wondered if you'd ever talk to me."