Pinwheel
one
Gerard drives, with one hand on the wheel and one hand on the clutch, shifting whenever pavement starts to slope up and dirt starts to roll down. He does it with grace, there is something so enchanting about the way he steers so easily, shifts with no problems. Frankie blinks at him through foggy green eyes, a little smile curling at the corners of his lips. Gerard looks over at him questioningly, but Frankie doesn’t say anything, he just turns the radio off and rolls the window down.
Gerard pretends to keep his eyes on the road, but really, his caramel irises are sliding to the corner, watching Frankie’s every move. It seems like everything Frankie does is clumsy and uncoordinated, yet still beautiful and somehow childish; like Frankie just needs someone to protect him, and Gerard doesn’t mind at all.
Frankie winds the window down a little more just as Gerard shifts gears, moves through the green light, and hits I-80, cars surrounding him, newer, bluer, happier. Frankie’s lips curl into a grin, and he unbuckles his seatbelt. Gerard gets a little nervous, but keeps his speed normal, instead of coming to a complete stop, like he really wants to.
Frankie crawls up to the door and then slowly eases his body out the window, until his head, arms, and half of his torso are hanging out the window, feeling the wind hug him tight, carry him down I-80 with carefree ease. He giggles, waves his arms around and hums just a little, looking at Gerard through half-lidded eyes, shouting, “It’s fun, Ger, I swear.”
Gerard shakes his head; Dear God, pleasedon’thurthim. Finally they reach their exit, and Frankie brings himself back into the car, resting against the cheap vinyl seat, running a hand through his tousled hair. “You look like you just woke up,” Gerard says, and Frankie just grins.
Gerard drives for a long time, passing by miles and miles of animals and grass and trees and country homes, all the while listening to Frankie sing with the radio. “Ger,” Frankie slurs, and Gerard knows the drugs are wearing off, sweating out of his system. “I’m sleepy.”
“Sleep,” Gerard says, sliding his gaze to the slumped, sweaty, shaking form of his lover, friend, and partner-in-crime. But Frankie shakes his head, and when he looks up, his eyes are glazed over with need, obsession, addiction.
“I don’t want to sleep, I need more –“ Gerard cuts him off with a sharp look, and his lips form a tiny O, and blow out a sigh, his sweet breath floating over Gerard’s face.
“We don’t have that much until we can get to where we’re going,” Gerard says, determined not to give in, because he doesn’t like Frankie when he’s high, doesn’t like when his pretty green irises are glassy and foggy with the effects off the white powder sitting in the glove box. He doesn’t like that Frankie, who sticks his head out the window and always wants to go faster, faster, faster.
Because the Frankie he fell for was normal, he was gorgeous and funny and lovable, he took his time with every project, everything. He never let Gerard move too fast, never let him go further than the line was drawn. The Frankie that’s hidden and lost somewhere didn’t need white powder and coffee and no money at all; he needed family and friends and work.
But Gerard knows it’s his fault they’re in this situation, Gerard knows he got Frankie into designer drugs and running away and Gerard knows he got Frankie to go fasterfasterfaster. And Gerard knows he can’t get Frankie to stop, either. Gerard knows it’s all his fault, and it makes Gerard’s stomach twist and clench, until he feels like he might throw up. It’s like one of those pinwheels on all the older ladies in his neighborhood’s lawn, that spin faster with the wind, so fast that you can’t stop them, so fast that it makes you dizzy. Frankie is fast. And Gerard spun him, but he can’t stop him.
“P-please,” Frankie whispers. “Please, I need more.” He fidgets in his seat a little, and looks at Gerard long and hard, until Gerard takes his eyes off the road and turns his head and looks back.
“Frankie, please, don’t make me stop right now.” He reaches for his smokes, pulls one out, and offers the pack to Frankie. Frankie shakes his head and lights Gerard’s smoke with a Zippo for him. Gerard takes a drag and shakes his head. “Just not tonight, Frankie, please just not tonight.” But one look at Frankie and Gerard knows it’s too late, Frankie’s mind is completely attentive to the drug, and only the drug, and the only way to get him to stop whining is to pull the damn car over, and let him have what he wants.
So he pulls the car over, and Frankie bounces in the seat while he opens the glove box and pulls out the tiny Ziploc bag, and Gerard rests his head on the seat, listening to the sound of Frankie’s eagerness, praying to God that this will end one day.
But Gerard knows the only way it can stop is if the dizziness wears off and he can reach out, touch a finger to Frankie, and make the spinning stop.
And he doesn’t even know if that’s possible anymore.
Gerard pretends to keep his eyes on the road, but really, his caramel irises are sliding to the corner, watching Frankie’s every move. It seems like everything Frankie does is clumsy and uncoordinated, yet still beautiful and somehow childish; like Frankie just needs someone to protect him, and Gerard doesn’t mind at all.
Frankie winds the window down a little more just as Gerard shifts gears, moves through the green light, and hits I-80, cars surrounding him, newer, bluer, happier. Frankie’s lips curl into a grin, and he unbuckles his seatbelt. Gerard gets a little nervous, but keeps his speed normal, instead of coming to a complete stop, like he really wants to.
Frankie crawls up to the door and then slowly eases his body out the window, until his head, arms, and half of his torso are hanging out the window, feeling the wind hug him tight, carry him down I-80 with carefree ease. He giggles, waves his arms around and hums just a little, looking at Gerard through half-lidded eyes, shouting, “It’s fun, Ger, I swear.”
Gerard shakes his head; Dear God, pleasedon’thurthim. Finally they reach their exit, and Frankie brings himself back into the car, resting against the cheap vinyl seat, running a hand through his tousled hair. “You look like you just woke up,” Gerard says, and Frankie just grins.
Gerard drives for a long time, passing by miles and miles of animals and grass and trees and country homes, all the while listening to Frankie sing with the radio. “Ger,” Frankie slurs, and Gerard knows the drugs are wearing off, sweating out of his system. “I’m sleepy.”
“Sleep,” Gerard says, sliding his gaze to the slumped, sweaty, shaking form of his lover, friend, and partner-in-crime. But Frankie shakes his head, and when he looks up, his eyes are glazed over with need, obsession, addiction.
“I don’t want to sleep, I need more –“ Gerard cuts him off with a sharp look, and his lips form a tiny O, and blow out a sigh, his sweet breath floating over Gerard’s face.
“We don’t have that much until we can get to where we’re going,” Gerard says, determined not to give in, because he doesn’t like Frankie when he’s high, doesn’t like when his pretty green irises are glassy and foggy with the effects off the white powder sitting in the glove box. He doesn’t like that Frankie, who sticks his head out the window and always wants to go faster, faster, faster.
Because the Frankie he fell for was normal, he was gorgeous and funny and lovable, he took his time with every project, everything. He never let Gerard move too fast, never let him go further than the line was drawn. The Frankie that’s hidden and lost somewhere didn’t need white powder and coffee and no money at all; he needed family and friends and work.
But Gerard knows it’s his fault they’re in this situation, Gerard knows he got Frankie into designer drugs and running away and Gerard knows he got Frankie to go fasterfasterfaster. And Gerard knows he can’t get Frankie to stop, either. Gerard knows it’s all his fault, and it makes Gerard’s stomach twist and clench, until he feels like he might throw up. It’s like one of those pinwheels on all the older ladies in his neighborhood’s lawn, that spin faster with the wind, so fast that you can’t stop them, so fast that it makes you dizzy. Frankie is fast. And Gerard spun him, but he can’t stop him.
“P-please,” Frankie whispers. “Please, I need more.” He fidgets in his seat a little, and looks at Gerard long and hard, until Gerard takes his eyes off the road and turns his head and looks back.
“Frankie, please, don’t make me stop right now.” He reaches for his smokes, pulls one out, and offers the pack to Frankie. Frankie shakes his head and lights Gerard’s smoke with a Zippo for him. Gerard takes a drag and shakes his head. “Just not tonight, Frankie, please just not tonight.” But one look at Frankie and Gerard knows it’s too late, Frankie’s mind is completely attentive to the drug, and only the drug, and the only way to get him to stop whining is to pull the damn car over, and let him have what he wants.
So he pulls the car over, and Frankie bounces in the seat while he opens the glove box and pulls out the tiny Ziploc bag, and Gerard rests his head on the seat, listening to the sound of Frankie’s eagerness, praying to God that this will end one day.
But Gerard knows the only way it can stop is if the dizziness wears off and he can reach out, touch a finger to Frankie, and make the spinning stop.
And he doesn’t even know if that’s possible anymore.
♠ ♠ ♠
feedback is brill. :]