Dancing Bruises.
The Saint With the Used Boys.
This was the second night; and Frankie was there, looking worse than the night before; eyes wide and unsettling surrounded with ill-patterned violet, clumsily hidden under peachy creams and powders.
Pete just stared at him now, standing next to one of the fluorescent-blue highlighted walls Frankie would dance with. He saw him last night, on that glaring stage, and he swore that the kid playing guitar with all his heartbeat and strings was nothing like this broken hurricane of a human-being.
That boy wasn't like this walking shell beating itself over nothing and everything... but yet again he didn't know much about Frankie.
Just that he's the guy with the beaten heart and body that plays guitar with every last ounce of passion dripping from his soul; and that's why he looks so drained when he goes dancing his crazy dance.
It wasn't a dance really, just aimless moves with no order, crazy crazy strange moves that meant nothing; but it had a... it had a rhythm, it had this hypnotizing feel; you can't stop watching his wild un-choreographed dance. How flashes of those pink-red slim hips would protrude through moving fabric, how his sweat-damp locks would swirl in seductive black around his lips and cling helplessly to his creamy complexion.
Now he's throwing green-glimmering glances at the brown-eyed boy avoiding preying hands and intoxicated slutty cackles. The only boy who ever left Frankie Iero hanging and sprawled on the filthy floors between restless feet untouched.
Nobody doesn't touch Frankie. It was either take Frankie home or get out of the way.
Nobody ever ever leaves him intact.
That boy... that boy with the brown eyes and the Nightmare Before Christmas tattoos was different. He didn't look right through him like the rest of them did; he didn't drape long sticky gazes along every taut inch of his body like he was a faceless whore. His looks resembled gleams of faded interest and concern, instead of smirking wanting apathy.
They were different. He was different.
And for the first time in his not-so-glamorous life, Frankie was scared.
Not that kind of scared, the good kind, the one you have before almost tripping over yourself on your way to the scorching spotlights.A good kind of scared.
And he didn't like that. No he didn't. Nobody likes that shine when the sun comes up, especially if they loved the dark.
It made him feel empty; because no boy left Frankie unharmed.
Not even if they wanted to.
*
Frankie's hovering to the boy huddled with shadows and hollow conversations; he's throwing himself into his arms like a sunny schoolgirl high on crystal-meth, preparing fractured random information and words on his tongue, useless information that hung around buzzing between the blurs of his thoughts and realizations.
Frankie's clinging to Pete's neck like it was a frozen safety rope in hell, but Pete doesn't mind; he doesn't do anything, doesn't fight him back or shrug him off. He just waited for words to tickle his ear.
"Why do you stare?" They come out whispered, raspy and harsh. "Why do you always stare, Wentz?" And that voice is all over his head now, penetrating every fold of stacked grey-matter and every sense that got a hold of it. He could hear, feel, smell and taste the need in that voice; the voice of that vacant crust of a human-being, knelling from the inside only to amuse deaf ears.
"Why don't you attack?" his rotten whispers hiss.
The shades don't let the curved smirk show, "Not a fan of used boys."
"Ain't you a fucking saint?" His chapped lips are digging into Pete's neck, skin moist with dewy breaths.
"And you're the little devil with the broken horns." He props up the small boy from slipping from his hands; so wet and so clammy.
"You know better than that, Wentz. I see you. I know those looks..."
"And I see you, too... but I don't know much. " He hides his truthful words under coats and coats of newly-surfaced apathy. He doesn't really know the boy that's grasping to his veins and vertebras with all his fucking might and bare-bone fingers.
"Wanna know more than you ever wanted?" Frankie's fingertips are lacing with the hems of the crisp cotton shirt adhering to his lower body.
Gently, he's mouthing giddy chuckles between cracked exhales onto the other boy's flesh, thoughts and other words popping and bursting before they reached his throat like doomed bubbles in crystal-blue whirlpools.
Pete knew it when he felt sneaking spider hands run all over his back and sweat-clad spine; hands overflowing with stinging agility aiming to cripple his words; Frankie's little way of hoping he'd cave in through prickles and prickles of goosebump shocks clogging his mind. That semi-disbanded group of weightless limbs was on its way to engulfing him and every care he had.
Not that he had any.
"Claws off, kid." A smirking lead singer strutted into the frame of clashing wills, hazel-green eyes scrutinizing the two bodies each careless in its own way; one who's flipping off the world and the second flipping through the other's eyes.
"Well, well if it isn't Mr. Buzzkill." Frankie's eyes rolled along with that upturned corner of his mouth, scrawny arms still wrapped up around the bassist's neck.
"Wasn't Mr. Buzzkill last night." The lead singer's smug impression was almost carved into his lips as he flung heedful glances towards Pete's cornered status in an all-too-knowing manner.
"Fuck you." Was all fell off of Frankie's mouth as he disregarded the seemingly unwanted company. "I'm still waiting for my answer." His lopsided smile twisted and turned as he glanced back between the two pairs of brown and hazel adding, "So if you feel like answering... you know where I'm dancing." Waves of shivers ran across gasping bones and ribs as the younger boy's throat reverberated against his own, enticing and inviting in its velvety texture as it invaded his ears so closely once more.
And with that Frankie's little arms let him loose before he twirled on his heel and went dancing within the piles of skimpy outfits and raging hormones.
All what was left for Pete now was a bulge in the pants and two pair of eyes torching holes to his skull. "Slut's got you all worked up." A vaguely murmured sentence skulked into his ear.
"What?" A hoarse question dropped out into the air between, a voice so disfigured by breathlessness he barely realized it was his own.
"Frankie."
"Oh."
Damndamndamn. He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't fucking care about Frankie-fucking-Iero.
It was scary how this was all dawning on him like a blow to head; spark and rainbows shining like a thousand suns before his eyes. He just wanted to know why Frankie was dancing like he is now. Orderless and chaotic acts against similar reckless beings.
"Frankie's a drug, Wentz. Kills you as you consume it. Put that in mind next time you're hanging around here," Hazel Eyes mumbled lighting up a cigarette lying between his lips as he passed the distant boy.
Kills?
That's why he was interested in his little crazy dances; they're the dance of death; distracts you long enough as he eats you up alive like skeleton-pearled acid.
He just stood there, images whirring by his eyesight as he focused on the blur of black hair and pink flesh clothed in streaks of navy blue and black.
Why?
Pete just stared at him now, standing next to one of the fluorescent-blue highlighted walls Frankie would dance with. He saw him last night, on that glaring stage, and he swore that the kid playing guitar with all his heartbeat and strings was nothing like this broken hurricane of a human-being.
That boy wasn't like this walking shell beating itself over nothing and everything... but yet again he didn't know much about Frankie.
Just that he's the guy with the beaten heart and body that plays guitar with every last ounce of passion dripping from his soul; and that's why he looks so drained when he goes dancing his crazy dance.
It wasn't a dance really, just aimless moves with no order, crazy crazy strange moves that meant nothing; but it had a... it had a rhythm, it had this hypnotizing feel; you can't stop watching his wild un-choreographed dance. How flashes of those pink-red slim hips would protrude through moving fabric, how his sweat-damp locks would swirl in seductive black around his lips and cling helplessly to his creamy complexion.
Now he's throwing green-glimmering glances at the brown-eyed boy avoiding preying hands and intoxicated slutty cackles. The only boy who ever left Frankie Iero hanging and sprawled on the filthy floors between restless feet untouched.
Nobody doesn't touch Frankie. It was either take Frankie home or get out of the way.
Nobody ever ever leaves him intact.
That boy... that boy with the brown eyes and the Nightmare Before Christmas tattoos was different. He didn't look right through him like the rest of them did; he didn't drape long sticky gazes along every taut inch of his body like he was a faceless whore. His looks resembled gleams of faded interest and concern, instead of smirking wanting apathy.
They were different. He was different.
And for the first time in his not-so-glamorous life, Frankie was scared.
Not that kind of scared, the good kind, the one you have before almost tripping over yourself on your way to the scorching spotlights.A good kind of scared.
And he didn't like that. No he didn't. Nobody likes that shine when the sun comes up, especially if they loved the dark.
It made him feel empty; because no boy left Frankie unharmed.
Not even if they wanted to.
*
Frankie's hovering to the boy huddled with shadows and hollow conversations; he's throwing himself into his arms like a sunny schoolgirl high on crystal-meth, preparing fractured random information and words on his tongue, useless information that hung around buzzing between the blurs of his thoughts and realizations.
Frankie's clinging to Pete's neck like it was a frozen safety rope in hell, but Pete doesn't mind; he doesn't do anything, doesn't fight him back or shrug him off. He just waited for words to tickle his ear.
"Why do you stare?" They come out whispered, raspy and harsh. "Why do you always stare, Wentz?" And that voice is all over his head now, penetrating every fold of stacked grey-matter and every sense that got a hold of it. He could hear, feel, smell and taste the need in that voice; the voice of that vacant crust of a human-being, knelling from the inside only to amuse deaf ears.
"Why don't you attack?" his rotten whispers hiss.
The shades don't let the curved smirk show, "Not a fan of used boys."
"Ain't you a fucking saint?" His chapped lips are digging into Pete's neck, skin moist with dewy breaths.
"And you're the little devil with the broken horns." He props up the small boy from slipping from his hands; so wet and so clammy.
"You know better than that, Wentz. I see you. I know those looks..."
"And I see you, too... but I don't know much. " He hides his truthful words under coats and coats of newly-surfaced apathy. He doesn't really know the boy that's grasping to his veins and vertebras with all his fucking might and bare-bone fingers.
"Wanna know more than you ever wanted?" Frankie's fingertips are lacing with the hems of the crisp cotton shirt adhering to his lower body.
Gently, he's mouthing giddy chuckles between cracked exhales onto the other boy's flesh, thoughts and other words popping and bursting before they reached his throat like doomed bubbles in crystal-blue whirlpools.
Pete knew it when he felt sneaking spider hands run all over his back and sweat-clad spine; hands overflowing with stinging agility aiming to cripple his words; Frankie's little way of hoping he'd cave in through prickles and prickles of goosebump shocks clogging his mind. That semi-disbanded group of weightless limbs was on its way to engulfing him and every care he had.
Not that he had any.
"Claws off, kid." A smirking lead singer strutted into the frame of clashing wills, hazel-green eyes scrutinizing the two bodies each careless in its own way; one who's flipping off the world and the second flipping through the other's eyes.
"Well, well if it isn't Mr. Buzzkill." Frankie's eyes rolled along with that upturned corner of his mouth, scrawny arms still wrapped up around the bassist's neck.
"Wasn't Mr. Buzzkill last night." The lead singer's smug impression was almost carved into his lips as he flung heedful glances towards Pete's cornered status in an all-too-knowing manner.
"Fuck you." Was all fell off of Frankie's mouth as he disregarded the seemingly unwanted company. "I'm still waiting for my answer." His lopsided smile twisted and turned as he glanced back between the two pairs of brown and hazel adding, "So if you feel like answering... you know where I'm dancing." Waves of shivers ran across gasping bones and ribs as the younger boy's throat reverberated against his own, enticing and inviting in its velvety texture as it invaded his ears so closely once more.
And with that Frankie's little arms let him loose before he twirled on his heel and went dancing within the piles of skimpy outfits and raging hormones.
All what was left for Pete now was a bulge in the pants and two pair of eyes torching holes to his skull. "Slut's got you all worked up." A vaguely murmured sentence skulked into his ear.
"What?" A hoarse question dropped out into the air between, a voice so disfigured by breathlessness he barely realized it was his own.
"Frankie."
"Oh."
Damndamndamn. He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't fucking care about Frankie-fucking-Iero.
It was scary how this was all dawning on him like a blow to head; spark and rainbows shining like a thousand suns before his eyes. He just wanted to know why Frankie was dancing like he is now. Orderless and chaotic acts against similar reckless beings.
"Frankie's a drug, Wentz. Kills you as you consume it. Put that in mind next time you're hanging around here," Hazel Eyes mumbled lighting up a cigarette lying between his lips as he passed the distant boy.
Kills?
That's why he was interested in his little crazy dances; they're the dance of death; distracts you long enough as he eats you up alive like skeleton-pearled acid.
He just stood there, images whirring by his eyesight as he focused on the blur of black hair and pink flesh clothed in streaks of navy blue and black.
Why?