Dancing Bruises.
Hold Your Guts.
What's funny about it is that it really really isn't funny.
Just little fucking Frankie Iero stumbling around, trying to be funny, trying to be stupid with those drunken orbs and cherry-glazed dead eyelids blocking the funny out of him.
Hold your guts, Wentz. It's only Frankie-fucking-Iero.
And he's just tryin'ta have a little fun with those spotlights.
A pile of bones, a dancing skeleton; Frankie's moves -under this light- are more comical than his cartoon-like haze, where colors battled sounds and lights and those nasty visions of the letters on his fingers floating around in halos on dead skin.
His stumbling dance led him to the arms of another tattooed boy, whose lips curl into a toothy Cheshire-cat grin, holding his arms so far apart so they could swallow little Frankie whole; the puppet boy with the termite-raided joints, falling and crumbling all over every floor and body he manages to merge his stringy tentacles with to suck the life out of.
He's seen it happen so many times; empty boys and lonely girls stuck with Frankie until one of them is finally drained. Then Frankie would dance again.
He was dancing and playing under the lights, dancing and playing, playing and dancing around and around and around under the black lights. He was dancing with the walls, dancing with the lights, dancing with the crowds and dancing with his sanity.
Frankie was a little insane and we can't deny that. Nobody can.
But it was hero Pete who wanted to. Hero Pete wanted to know why Frankie was dancing every night; why Frankie would throw his small body on the floor and bang bang bang every fraction of his bony body onto the hateful concrete walls and grounds until he hears one lovely crack.
Then Frankie would start dancing into bones and flesh; dancing through gasps, through sweat, through moans and through dirty sheets.
Pete didn't know Frankie that much, no-one really did. But he knows the one on-stage; dancing with his fingers and six-string lovers; a Frankie who didn't slur, didn't spin around himself in deformed circles.
He didn't know Frankie much, not even how to fucking say his last name.
But he cared. Pete cared for that bumbling, skinny, doodle-mess.
And with those sinisterly playful giggles, tattooed arms tumbled and tangled into other tattooed arms again after a struggle with the visions invading Frankie's eyes caused by the shifting lights and colors, and Frankie was barely making an effort to lift himself up. He just hung there on Pete's arms and collarbone, muttering incoherent syllables and disfigured pleas; dead weight.
"Have you seen any Snuff movies, babe?" he starts, words colliding on the top of his breath, "Because if you did, you'd witness the dissecting of human beauty layer by layer, until there's nothing beautiful in a coat of skin laying on a slaughterhouse's floor. That's beautiful in its very being. You can see someone naked without the fear of blushing nor having an erection."
Frankie's words cascaded as his lips trailed the other boy's ear. "There's beauty in the lack of it."
The whispers, the scent of his skin, that voice; it all registered into Pete's mind as his arms held him up higher, fearing that the stirring boy will slip and break something. Something other than what's already broken.
"The ugly in the beautiful is always beautiful, but the beautiful in the ugly is never beautiful."
Frankie's words are the ones dancing now, flirting with wasted thoughts and tired sanity in the shape of relentless rambles, reeking of alcohol and bone-white powder. Hero Pete doesn't understand what Frankie's slurring now; why did he care for words that didn't even make sense?
It was like that every night; that boy just thrashed and thrashed and thrashed around the place under the dim lights, living off of sweat and hungry stares, until he left. He was beautiful, as everyone saw, but with that kind of beauty came a price; redundant scary giggles and groping unstable hands. And no-one was sure if they could afford it.
And before Pete knew it, he had left the bruised stack of dancing marionette bones to slide on the floor and walked away.
He didn't care that much.
Just little fucking Frankie Iero stumbling around, trying to be funny, trying to be stupid with those drunken orbs and cherry-glazed dead eyelids blocking the funny out of him.
Hold your guts, Wentz. It's only Frankie-fucking-Iero.
And he's just tryin'ta have a little fun with those spotlights.
A pile of bones, a dancing skeleton; Frankie's moves -under this light- are more comical than his cartoon-like haze, where colors battled sounds and lights and those nasty visions of the letters on his fingers floating around in halos on dead skin.
His stumbling dance led him to the arms of another tattooed boy, whose lips curl into a toothy Cheshire-cat grin, holding his arms so far apart so they could swallow little Frankie whole; the puppet boy with the termite-raided joints, falling and crumbling all over every floor and body he manages to merge his stringy tentacles with to suck the life out of.
He's seen it happen so many times; empty boys and lonely girls stuck with Frankie until one of them is finally drained. Then Frankie would dance again.
He was dancing and playing under the lights, dancing and playing, playing and dancing around and around and around under the black lights. He was dancing with the walls, dancing with the lights, dancing with the crowds and dancing with his sanity.
Frankie was a little insane and we can't deny that. Nobody can.
But it was hero Pete who wanted to. Hero Pete wanted to know why Frankie was dancing every night; why Frankie would throw his small body on the floor and bang bang bang every fraction of his bony body onto the hateful concrete walls and grounds until he hears one lovely crack.
Then Frankie would start dancing into bones and flesh; dancing through gasps, through sweat, through moans and through dirty sheets.
Pete didn't know Frankie that much, no-one really did. But he knows the one on-stage; dancing with his fingers and six-string lovers; a Frankie who didn't slur, didn't spin around himself in deformed circles.
He didn't know Frankie much, not even how to fucking say his last name.
But he cared. Pete cared for that bumbling, skinny, doodle-mess.
And with those sinisterly playful giggles, tattooed arms tumbled and tangled into other tattooed arms again after a struggle with the visions invading Frankie's eyes caused by the shifting lights and colors, and Frankie was barely making an effort to lift himself up. He just hung there on Pete's arms and collarbone, muttering incoherent syllables and disfigured pleas; dead weight.
"Have you seen any Snuff movies, babe?" he starts, words colliding on the top of his breath, "Because if you did, you'd witness the dissecting of human beauty layer by layer, until there's nothing beautiful in a coat of skin laying on a slaughterhouse's floor. That's beautiful in its very being. You can see someone naked without the fear of blushing nor having an erection."
Frankie's words cascaded as his lips trailed the other boy's ear. "There's beauty in the lack of it."
The whispers, the scent of his skin, that voice; it all registered into Pete's mind as his arms held him up higher, fearing that the stirring boy will slip and break something. Something other than what's already broken.
"The ugly in the beautiful is always beautiful, but the beautiful in the ugly is never beautiful."
Frankie's words are the ones dancing now, flirting with wasted thoughts and tired sanity in the shape of relentless rambles, reeking of alcohol and bone-white powder. Hero Pete doesn't understand what Frankie's slurring now; why did he care for words that didn't even make sense?
It was like that every night; that boy just thrashed and thrashed and thrashed around the place under the dim lights, living off of sweat and hungry stares, until he left. He was beautiful, as everyone saw, but with that kind of beauty came a price; redundant scary giggles and groping unstable hands. And no-one was sure if they could afford it.
And before Pete knew it, he had left the bruised stack of dancing marionette bones to slide on the floor and walked away.
He didn't care that much.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is my first chaptered story in almost a year so feedback would be appreciated <3