Frerard Oneshots

tաɛռtʏ tɦʀɛɛ; Frank Iero - The Italian Skier

Frank Iero was fucking pissed.

No, he was more like a volcano ready to explode and melt every inch of snow in the Alps and kill every single participant of Tour de Ski.

He was fucking done, done with the snow, done with skiing, done with losing and done with the fucking Norwegians who seemed to win every single shit.

And lastly he was fucking done being that small Italian who was constantly glaring at Peter Northug Jr and couldn't get a better place than 30 something.

It was not fucking fair how Norway managed to provide that many good cross-country skiers and managing to get 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 5th and 6th place. Hell, even the women from Norway managed to get 1st place.

Frank thought of himself as a decent good skier, he was participating in Tour de Ski for a reason, but nothing more pissed him off as those Norwegians, especially Peter Northug Jr that cocky little shit. Sure, he wasn't as tall as the other skiers, but he was fast, but not fast enough it seemed.

And even though he was pretty small for a guy, the journalists from Italy never let him hear the end of it, he had a lot of anger bottled up inside, like a fucking wasp or something.

Well maybe not, Frank absolutely loathed yellow.

Yeah, he let some of the anger and frustration out in the ski course, but it wasn't enough for him to feel entirely calm, nor to let his shoulders relax.

What Frank needed was a good gig and some time in a mosh pit.

-

Frank was feeling somewhat content as he walked down the streets of the city in Switzerland, he'd already forgotten the name of the city, in search of some bar.

He really needed to let out some frustration and anger; he had not ran away from his trainer for nothing.

After walking for about 20 minutes, he finally found a bar with a shitty punk band playing loud and heavy- just his kind of scene. The bar itself lay on a side street where Frank was pretty sure that journalists wouldn't search for him or spot him. They would just have bothered him to the point of where the satisfaction of punching and breaking someone's nose would be knockin' on heaven's door.

Frank walked arrogantly into the shitty pub, head high and not caring that the door slammed hard behind him which made people turn their heads. He just continued straight up to the bar and ordered a beer. He didn't want, or needed, to get shitfaced right away, even if something above 20 percentage would taste like the sweetest nectar right now.

Letting out a groan of relief after a huge gulp, Frank sat down at one of the ridiculous tall bar stools and turned to the band who were currently playing in the front. He was surprised at the amount of fans and audience crowding in front of the German punk band, they seemed like a pretty big deal for a small country like Switzerland.
Frank had never really heard of any big bands coming from Switzerland, but they were good, Frank had always liked some German music like Rammstein and Nina Hagen, so he let himself relax and fall into the beat.

After his third beer, Frank decided to slow down, he still hadn't been in the mosh pit yet which seemed to grow after each song. After all he had training in the morning and nothing was worse than skiing surrounded by the blinding snow while being hungover. Not that three beers was enough to get him drunk, but he wasn't a person to take chances.

Swallowing down the rest before slamming the bottle into the bulky yet polished wood, again ignoring the stares from strangers boring into his back, Frank made his way into the constantly moving and vibrating mosh pit. He'd already made up his mind that he wouldn't leave until he was at least bleeding from one place on his body.