I would say I'm sorry, if it would chane your mind (touchof_arsenic) wrote in photoprompts,
I would say I'm sorry, if it would chane your mind
touchof_arsenic
photoprompts

Anything But. ; [prompt #1]

title ; anything but.
pairing ; andrew mcmahon [jacks mannequin] & frank iero [mcr]
rating ; PG-13 for language
summary ; "Well just get over here and make sure he doesn't light me on fire and eat my entrails, would you?"
"What, you prefer he eat my entrails?" Andrew rolled his eyes.
"Yes! No! Maybe! ANDREW!"
author's note ; for prompt #1, written an amazingly long time ago. :) Enjoy! Constructive Criticism appreciated!




"And after that rousing conclusion, who can tell me..."

Thank God for sisters, Andrew thought to himself, sliding with an awkward grace out of his seat and crouching to the door with his vibrating cell phone in hand. Hardly anyone noticed that he had folded his book over his notebook and threw his messenger bag over his shoulder so he wouldn't have an excuse to go back inside the class.

"Andrew speaking." He always answered that way, even when his caller ID flashed "Mom" or "Kates" or "Josh." He sometimes felt like if his name wasn't said, then he wasn't there, that nothing was meant specially for him.

"There's a kid pounding down our door, Andy, and I swear to God if you made friends with a pyro, or a sociopathic killer, I'll beat you to death with a piece of itallian bread." Katie sounded perturbed and slightly pissed, and suddenly Andrew wished he was back inside the classroom.

"Hey, how the hell do you know he's not your friend?"

"Because, he's got a polaroid of you, saying that you screwed his girlfriend and now she's pregnant. Andy, he sounds pissed."

You sound pissed too. "C'mon, Katie, have I been with anyone other than guys for the past two years?!" Andrew almost shouted this last part, but he didn't feel like being tackled by closed-minded, idiotic jocks. "And I don't have any friends, anyways. There's you, and...like, our cat. And lemme say, Delaney like me better than you do."

"Well just get over here and make sure he doesn't light me on fire and eat my entrails, would you?"

"What, you prefer he eat my entrails?" Andrew rolled his eyes.

"Yes! No! Maybe! ANDREW!" He hung up before Katie could start in on her frenzied rant, and sighed loudly, banging his mobile phone on the wall. Shit shit shit. Who could it be trying to rid the world of murder Katie during community college classes?

Andrew took his time walking across the campus, jingling his keys musically and even stopping to re-tie his shoes--faded dark blue converses he'd had since age seventeen. They had setnimental value! He couldn't just go fraying the laces, could he now? There was a detour for coffee--which he gulped down fast so Katie wouldn't beat him with the empty cup when he got home. After taking the long, less-used route to their shared apartment, Andrew paused to check in with the landlady, Miss Henderson.

"Darling!" She reached up and wrapped her tiny arms around his neck, kissing his cheek quite sloppily.

"Hello, Miss Henderson," Andrew grinned, picking up the mail off the table in the hall; everything addressed to Katie McMahon, Andrew McMahon, and he even grabbed a few envelopes that weren't his, to add to the ever-growing collection.

As he neared the ninth floor's third apartment, 9C, he heard the pounding n the door, that was a bit more heavy and labored now that Andrew had wasted away his time getting there.

He dropped the mail and groaned out loud at who stood near his door, holding a polaroid picture of Andrew's back side as he walked away from the laudromat, the cursed laundromat, with clean clothes thrown over his shoulder. "Give me a goddamn break!"

The picture that he held made Andrew smile, despite the outrageous comment he had just shouted. It was him, but it was such an off-guard picture that Andrew could see just how it might as well be a pure stranger. His hair was neaty mussed in a natural way, and the sun had perfectly hit Andrew so that it was a wreath of yellow, red and orange california sun setting, the light draping his shoulders like a cape.

Frank Iero stopped beating down the McMahon door long enough to smile widely at Andrew. "I'm sorry, I don't have a break, but I did have a few parties as to which you neglected to attend."

"Is he gone?!"

"No. Katie, go in the bathroom, turn on the sink and lock the door, he's a pyro!" Andrew shouted, putting the right amount of theatrical distress in his voice.

On the other side of the door, Katie shrieked and ran away.

"Look, Frank, I hardly know you," Andrew protested the man's statement. How did a near perfect stranger get offended by his not-meeting him somewhere? Andrew would have shown up if Frank were, perhaps, a lifetime friend from childhood, or a coffee-house buddy from school. But an oddball who repeatedly stalked him at the laundry mat?

"Well how else do you make good friends, Andrew McMahon?" For some reason, Andrew hated that Frank used his full name; ironically enough, it sounded impersonal. "How do you meet people then, by showing up at parties, talking to a stranger out in public--"

"Reading over their shoulder and writing about their underwear on their hand?" Despite the major reprimandment that Andrew was recieving, he grinned widely at Frank, who found the other man's smile to be contageous.

"I'm sorry, maybe I'm a bit old fashioned, but I'm not the type of person to grab another guy's underwear out of a garbage can and talk to him about it." Andrew didn't disclose the fact that he had copied down every curve of Frank's writing on his hand, and he could recite the addresses in his sleep by now.

"Okay, then. Let's try not being friends." Frank, surprisingly enough, blushed. He seemed like the man to never be self-concious, to never look back or be ashamed, but here he was, his cheeks turning at a hidden thought he was presenting to Andrew.

"Not friends like how?" Andrew knew, he knew fine well what Frank was asking, but he wanted to prlong it. This witty, odd, brave and strange creature wanted to go out with him? He needed to hear it asked.

"Not friends, like more than that." Frank's eyebrow quivered as his face shrank up in irritation; he, too, knew the other man knew, and he wouldn't let this be prolonged anymore than it had to be.

"Like fuck buddies?" If this were a movie, everyone would be wincing at how painfully long Andrew was making this out to be.

"No, like..." Frank mumbled something incoherent.

"I didn't catch that last part." For Pete's sake, man, just get it over with; look at him cringe!

"Like boyfriends!" Frank shouted, his cheeks now splotched with cherry-colored circles.

Andrew's grin was stretched out so far that the eges of his lips were aching. He burst out laughing, hands wrapped on the opposites side of his tiny waist. He had provoked this amazing creature to blush, to shout, to get his feathers ruffled. It was like a tick, a tiny little tick, that irritated a tiny, soft puppy all day long. It was adorable.

"You could have just said no," Frank snapped, throwing the polaroid to the ground, embaressed by Andrew's laughter. He haughtily tried to march away, but the pianist spun out and caught his arm, laughter fading and quelling back down into a tiny, side-of-the-mouth smile.

"That was everything and anything but a no, Frank."

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