Dancing in shadows (Oneshot)
« previous entry | next entry »
Jun. 26th, 2009 | 01:56 pm
Title: Dancing in shadows (Oneshot)
Pairing: Frerard (Frank/Gerard)
Summary: We all love strip clubs.
Word Count: 1,737 words
Authors Note: No beta apart from MSWord, so point out any obvious problems and i'll fix them pronto.
Disclaimer: This isn't real (as far as we know). Please don't sue me, i'm a student and can't afford it.
Frank’s cigarette flared burnt orange as he took a drag, and exhaled; he lowered his hand, tapping the growing ash end off onto the concrete. He could see a few stars, but everything was overshadowed by the lurid glow of pink neon. God forbid a strip club be tactful,
The dull thud-thud-thud of music from inside was making every surface vibrate; Frank hadn’t been inside yet, but his friends were eager to see skin and had left him to smoke outside. He watched another group of men roll up, jostling each other and brandishing notes. They were all the same, all of them, and Frank was about to spend the rest of the night in a room full of these testosterone-fuelled morons. And, to make it worse, he was going to have to act like one. Sighing out his last lungful of smoke, Frank discarded the butt and made his way inside.
He had to blink a few time before his eyes adjusted to the light, and he could make out the frenzied movements of his friends right next to the central catwalk. Frank made his way over to them, carefully trying not to touch anything; he had no idea what went on in here, and his immune system was absurdly weak – the last thing he wanted to do was end up with a mystery disease, or a broken ankle from tripping over one of the low stools.
There was a seat and a drink already waiting for him, and the second he was seated some dollar notes were shoved his way. Frank knew what was expected of him, as he watched Reggie tucking a few notes into some girl’s g-string.
He sighed, silently cursing his own stupidity; if he’d just come out to these guys the second he was asked girlfriend questions instead of making up some ‘girl-next-door turned bunny-boiler’ story, he wouldn’t even be here right now. Instead, Frank had no choice but to agree to a night on the town because his new pals wanted to get him laid.
Some new dancers shimmied their way onto the stage and the lights flared up. Frank caught a glimpse of the group opposite his own, and for a second he swore it was some kind of magic mirror; directly across from him sat an equally gloomy-looking guy, who was being cajoled by a group of guys as drunk and rowdy as Reggie’s lot.
The lights stayed bright enough for Frank’s persistent staring to garner some eye contact, and he frantically waved hello. The guy waved back hesitantly; he looked pale, but that could have just been the synthetic lights – they bleached the colour out of everything that wasn’t covered in glitter. Frank pointed at the group the guy was with, but his question didn’t transmit well between the legs of the dancers. To clarify, Frank exaggeratedly pointed at himself, then to Reggie, then to the group opposite, and shrugged. The guy’s face lit up with understanding, and he rolled his eyes, nodding and waving a hand towards his group. They smiled at each other, both glad they had found someone in this dark, clammy room that wasn’t completely insane.
All of a sudden a hand clapped on Frank’s shoulder, and Reggie was slurring something about it being his round. Seeing this as an opportunity for escape, Frank made the international hand signal for ‘drink?’ across the catwalk to his new friend before making his way to the bar. It only occurred to him while ordering the drinks that he only had a vague blurry outline of an idea what this person looked like. He only had a vague blurry idea of who they were – no name, no actual conversation, nothing. Then, Frank realised that asking a complete stranger for a drink through the gap between a stripper’s ankles was the closest he’d come to a date in months. How depressing.
Frank turned to face the guy; under the clearer less garish light of the bar, he could see his fellow escapee’s face properly. His skin was pale, startlingly so, but still looked like it had a tan to it; his hair hung in messy black bangs down his cheeks, framing large brown eyes. The only visible blemish was a small burst blood vessel above one cheekbone. Frank realised he was staring, and tried to kick his brain into gear. Names. He should probably start with names.
“Hey. Uh, my name’s Frank.”
“Gerard.” He smiled back a smile full of perfect tiny teeth. It was a fantastic smile, full of warmth but twisted with nerves. Frank could feel himself getting carried away, and so he focussed on the fact that they were in a strip club. Dancing girls. Nudity. Jiggling. There could be a million reasons why Gerard wasn’t happy to be here, and it was unlikely to be because of any of those things.
“So, you’re having fun?” Gerard smiled while he talked.
“Oh yeah, living the dream,” Frank smirked, “there’s nothing I love more than fishnets and clumpy glitter.”
“Me too!” They laughed, another flash of teeth. Frank noticed Gerard’s gaze fixed on one of his tattoos, so he turned his arm to show it properly.
“It’s Our Lady of Sorrows. I got it a while back; it’s one of my favourites.”
“You’re Catholic?” Gerard’s voice sounded uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure to be disappointed or not.
“Born and raised. And schooled,” his arm tensed as Gerard’s fingers brushed along the ink, “It taught me a lot – how to tie a tie, how to run really fast...”
Gerard giggled, moving his hand away and running it through his hair.
“I wonder how many Catholics have been caught hanging around in strip clubs.”
“Ones with girls in them? Not many, probably,” Frank grinned, “Of course, that’s the other thing I learned.” He quirked an eyebrow, almost like a challenge. Hook, line...
“I knew there was a reason I liked Catholics.” Sinker.
The conversation took a different tone; they continued discussing Frank’s tattoos, spinning off into side stories such as Gerard’s fear of needles and how much it actually really hurt to get inked, but everything else was fluttered eyelashes (Gerard) and sly winking (Frank).
Gerard was patting his pockets theatrically, and Frank heard the words before they were even said.
“Do you smoke?”
Frank waved his lighter, and they ducked outside. They smoked in silence in the alley next to the club; it all felt hideously clichéd, like they were in some stupid homoerotic trash book or something. Frank didn’t really care. He liked it, actually; when he saw Gerard flick his spent cigarette butt away, still slumped against the wall, Frank took his chance.
He moved slowly towards Gerard, which not only allowed time for his target to get out the way if they wanted to (you could never tell these days, flirting didn’t mean much), but also made him look all suave. He thought so, anyway, but Gerard just looked amused; that wasn’t fair, and his confidence made Frank falter briefly. They stood barely an inch apart, waiting for something to happen but enjoying the tension too much to actually do anything. Gerard bared his pearly teeth again, and leaned in. The second their lips touched it was like magic, fireworks – perfect electricity for a quick fling.
It wasn’t affectionate, and there were more romantic things going on inside the club; Frank had one hand pushed fiercely into Gerard’s hair, the other pulling their hips together. Gerard was pawing along Frank’s arm, digging his nails into the cherry reds and cobalt blues and making Frank jolt and gasp. Things heated up fast, their fingers desperately tracing paths under shirts and along waistbands, searching for something more and pressing into skin to find it. Frank was in heaven, not quite believing how fast everything had changed; this was supposed to have been an evening of torture and ridicule, and definitely wasn’t meant to involve grinding against some guy he’d just met. With every movement he could feel himself being pushed towards the edge, small shockwaves making his stomach tense; he could feel how hard Gerard was and Frank pressed closer to him, trying to control himself, trying to make it last.
Frank’s vision blurred, all his muscles tensing and rippling in pleasure; his legs shook with the effort of standing up, and he gripped onto Gerard frantically. He closed his eyes, savouring the release, finally, it had been far too long. It wasn’t until he opened his eyes he realised Gerard was shaking too. Frank slid his arms beneath Gerard’s open jacket, clasping his hands together in the damp, hot small of his back. They stood propping each other up until their breath slowed, trusting their own bones to support them. Gerard straightened his jacket and smiled again; Frank was beginning to like that smile, and had a horrible feeling he was going to miss it if it went away. He stood back a little, and cleared his throat.
“I have to go,” Gerard cut in, “but, if you want, I’d like to get coffee some time?”
Frank noticed the inflection, more of a carefully placed question than a statement, and smiled back.
“I like coffee.”
They swapped numbers, and Frank hung back in the alley while Gerard returned to the club – if not to prevent suspicions, then so he could have a quiet smoke. When he’d finished the last sweet drag, he made his way back to Reggie; he cast a quick look over to the other side of the catwalk, but Gerard and his friends were gone. Reggie slung his arm heavily around Frank’s neck, his face full of inebriated sympathy.
“Duuuude, we are never going to get you laid!”
All Frank could do was nod and try to look upset. This just made the thing with Gerard even better – he knew about it, what he’d just done, and no-one else did. He sat through a painfully embarrassing lap-dance before Reggie finally agreed he could leave. Frank bundled everyone into cabs, making sure everyone’s journey was paid for (and keeping a tab to remind everyone what they owe him in the morning), and hailed a cab of his own. He thought about the alley, the nerves and the friction, the small pearly smiles, and thought about whether it was too early to call yet.
Maybe in the morning.