One-shots

The wind blows, gently, lacing the gloomy street of a town without a name with wilted leaves and a fresh patch of dust. The night is cold and misty, the street lights vaguely making anything distinguishable underneath the thick layer of fog.

It feels as if the moist in the air is whispering something in your ear, silent, like it knows something you don’t.

There are no people around, only a shadow of a man, a boy; sitting in the dark by himself, the only thing revealing his presence to the outside world being the burning cherry of his cigarette. He’s waiting for something, for someone, but he’s not sure what or who.
He just knows they’ll be here, soon. Yes, soon.

He doesn’t know for how long he’s been waiting for, it might be minutes; it might be years, but he hasn’t moved. He can’t. His cigarette has been burning ever since he’s started waiting, and the bruise that’s littering the right underside of his jawbone still hasn’t faded away. Neither has the one on his upper arm, or the ones underneath his ribcage. He hasn’t checked, but he knows; the numb pain that occurs every time he exhales a cloud of smoke into the fog assures him so.
All that might be only because he’s sat there to wait a few seconds ago, but he doesn’t believe that. He doesn’t really believe anything anymore.
He knows he doesn’t like the smell of acacia trees or grass when it’s just gotten mowed, and he also knows he likes the feeling you get when you mix Jack Daniels with sloppy kisses and the taste of fancy cigarettes.
What he doesn’t know is why he’s here, or why he’s waiting. He understands it can’t be any other way, though. This is the only way.
He doesn’t register it when it gets colder, but the wind does. Its wails become louder and its teeth become sharper, tearing through his skin and starting a war with the fire lit inside his cigarette.
He doesn’t feel it, it doesn’t get to him, he’s become rather immune to pain. You can ask his bruises to witness that.
His knuckles are chapped, so are his lips; and his mouth feels dry and salty as he takes another drag from the stick in his hand. It hasn’t shortened, no, he doesn’t believe it can.
He feels a pang of pain rush through him as he exhales but he pays no attention to it; he’s too busy listening to the wind mercilessly invading every nook and cranny around him. He almost smiles, almost; and then feels the need to take another drag.
“Save your smiles, you might need them one day,” he hears something. At first he thinks it’s just the wind or the fog or the heating pipes from the building behind him, but then he realizes his shadow isn’t the only one defiling the perfection of the night anymore.
“What?”

“What I said.” The voice is closer now and he can feel it in his bones; metallic, with an edge- something like acid green mixed with the smell of rainforest and the influence it has on his brain is equal to the one water has on a craving, dry throat.
“Are you Frank?”

He furrows his brow, trying to get used to the feeling inside his skull, but then a familiar tune flashes through his mind and yes, he remembers.
“Yeah, I think so,” he blinks a few times, and the other shadow moves, its shoulders shaking a bit like it’s laughing.

“How do you mean, you ‘think so’?” The shadow says in an amused voice, its shoulders still moving a tiny bit.

“Why are you here?” Frank ignores its question, realizing the cherry of his cigarette is slowly devouring the white of the stick, and he furrows his brow.

“Honestly?” The shadow asks, leaning against the wall elegantly. Frank nods, but the shadow stops, its breathing suddenly changing pace. Frank’s pretty sure it’s a man, the voice is masculine enough, but he can’t be completely certain since its features are very soft, and it’s dark and foggy anyway.
At some point the shadow sighs, and runs a hand through its hair, which catches a glimpse of the street lighting and melts with it, like onyx against the moonlight and it looks electric.
“I don’t know,” the shadow admits, sighing quietly.
Frank realizes his cigarette has burned out in the meantime and his fingers have cramped around it; but he pays no attention to it as he loosens his grip and lets it fall on the concrete. The corners of the shadow’s mouth twitch upwards when the sound reaches its ears, and it reminds Frank of late sunsets when everything is calm and reserved, but still somehow significant.
“Who are you waiting for?”

Frank’s teeth claw on his lower lip, he’s thinking. He doesn’t know, but it feels like he does. He still can’t comprehend it, though, not yet.
“I don’t know,” he confesses.

“Come with me,” the shadow suddenly says, and Frank’s whole body tingles.

“I can’t.”

The shadow smirks, and it looks as mischievous as honey on pepper and he knows he shouldn’t consider it, but he’s doing it anyway.
“Yes, you can,” the shadow moves and now it’s away from the wall and closer to Frank now, reaching his hand out to him for leverage. Frank takes it and it feels like feathers against his palm, it’s soft and cold and distant, but welcoming nevertheless. Like snow, the fingers intertwine with his and pull him up. Frank moves his legs, shocked, and follows suit with his hand still clutched inside the shadow’s.

“I’m Gerard,” the shadow whispers when it brings him to the light, and Frank smiles. He looks like coal against calcium hydroxide, his eyes gleaming golden as they’re shining through the midnight-colored lashes.
“Save your smiles,” he repeats.
Frank just smiles again, brighter, and one of Gerard’s eyebrows lifts up in confusion.
“No, seriously, what are you smiling at?”

Frank sighs, somehow joyfully, as he counts the dots of light reflecting in Gerard’s eyes like the threads of a dream catcher, innocent, but complex at the same time. “You.”

The alabaster of Gerard’s cheeks turns red like blue litmus paper in alkaline, and his lips part and stretch into something that could be counted as a smile.

“Save your smiles,” Frank smirks and Gerard looks down, but his lips remain curled outwards. And that’s enough for Frank, because he wipes the smile off of Gerard’s lips in the only acceptable way there is- with his own, gently. And Gerard moves underneath him, steadily, like rain dripping against windows’ glass.
And he tastes like black coffee and the smell of earth after it rains, mixed with a note of menthol cigarettes and icy peppermint.

When Frank’s lungs give out and he’s forced to move away, Gerard’s face is flushed and his eyes are glowing even more than before, with a shine that looks like sulfur but feels like lukewarm water against your skin.
Gerard looks at the bruise on Frank’s jaw and digs his teeth deep into his lip before leaning in and pressing his lips against it, gently.

“Even bruises look like galaxies against your skin.” And his voice sounds like a purple sunbeam on a January night.

Notes

I'm still not quite sure if this makes sense, or why I wrote it. Ah well.