Work Text:
"Gerard?" I hear someone call through the darkness, their voice echoing off of the darkened ally walls and torn road. I recognize it as Frank's soothing, concerned-filled voice. He's always so nice; he'd save me from anyone. Protect me from anything. He'd pretty much do anything for me, even if it meant taking the fall for my stupid, unplanned actions.
I choose to ignore his calls, instead cradling myself, body aching, bruises sore, cuts and gashes leaking fresh blood. My lip is also busted, I believe, as I taste the distinct and metallic-tinged liquid encrusted on a particularly painful section of my lip. What exactly happened to me, I forget. I know that it had initially started with some name-calling, a few shoves, screaming, and then lashing out violently. I close my eyes, attempting to recollect the lost memory.
"Hey, fag!" a voice jeers, and I spin around, not knowing any better than to answer whenever I'm called. I suppose that's just the way my mother has wired me. As the figure approaches me, I'm filled with an aching dread when I realize that the person is the bully of the school. Unfortunately, I am usually the victim of his little "games", which I believe include "Punch the Gerard", "See How Hard You Can Kick Gerard Before He Hurls", "Which Of Gerard's Bones Are The Easiest to Break?", and "Gerard Makes The Perfect Dummy".
He plays these games maliciously, with a band of other loners at the school who have nothing better to do than to beat up a harmless, worthless piece of trash such as myself. However, I don't even know his name. In fact, I don't know what I did to upset him or to cause all of these violent games. He just hates me. Him and his band of misfits hate my guts.
I roll my eyes, turn around, and continue walking down the sidewalk, my head buried in yet another comic. I spend most of my time flipping aimlessly through these illustrated books, admiring lines and pictures and plots. Besides blaring music in my ears, comics are one of the only things that can block out reality for me. Instead of taking my initial sign of "go away", or "whatever", the bully catches up with me, snatching the book from my hands.
I don't cry out. I don't try to take it back. No; I shamefully shove my hands into my pockets and throw my head towards the ground, looking at my scuffed up Converse. They really are quite old, which is a fact I comprehend while trying to hide my embarrassment. I'm almost a senior in high school, yet I still read comics. Normally, I wouldn't care, but this guy is my age, twice my size, and tough even in appearance.
"You're such a fucking nerd," the boy spits ruthlessly, throwing the comic to the sidewalk. I bite my lip, my face reddening, and I look at where I am. I'm actually in the city, on my way home, in front of some abandoned ally. That sounds really cliche, but there are lots of sketchy parts of New Jersey. It's not all bakeries and sunshine here; not in the least.
With another serving of dread, I notice that the bully has his usual crew of guppies with him. The worst part is that my brother just happens to be one of them. Though he doesn't really take part in the beatings and is normally the one to call them off, the fact that my own brother bullies me for the fun of it is fucking depressing. It's too much at times. Mikey, who tries his best to not look directly at me, has his hands shoved into his own pockets, sort of hiding behind another one of the teenagers.
I look straight at him, knowing that it'd make him feel guilty. Even though it's quite pathetic, maybe if I look at him long enough, he'll feel really guilty, and he'll make them end the fight before I get too beat up. "You really are gay, staring at that boy and always hanging out with him and holding his hand," the leader of the group scolds me, and I wince at the indirect mention of Frank, "You're both faggots, but the only difference is that you're easier to catch than he is. If I could get my hands on him, maybe we wouldn't have to beat you up so often."
The reason I get defensive when someone speaks illy of Frank is because he's my best friend. Even though he's a few years younger than me, we've lived in the same neighborhood ever since I can remember. We were pretty young when we met, and we just kind of grew up together. We're not afraid to show our affection towards each other, as we both know it's nothing more than a sincere, affectionate friendship.
But I don't feel that way.
In fact, I feel a love for him that is more than just a friendly admiration. At times, I fear that I may love him, and that he'd be freaked out if he found out about it, but fuck, I really do love him. He's there through thick and thin. He always stands up for me. He's always there.
My usual form of defense kicks in; nothing. I don't defend myself ever. In fact, I don't even try to stop them as the main bully instructs Mikey to hold me while they all take swings at me. Mikey does so hesitantly, but he still does it. I glare at him through tearful eyes, shaking my head softly in disappointment and betrayal. He always does this. He always succumbs to peer pressure. And even though he's gently with my wrists as he holds them behind my back, the nagging pain in my heart suddenly cannot bare the fact that my brother would do this to me. That I would let anyone do this to me.
"JUST SHUT UP, YOU CUNTS!" I scream out of nowhere, and the bullies stop and exchange surprised glances, "I HOPE YOU ALL ROT IN HELL! YOU'RE FUCKING BULLIES AND YOU'RE ALL UGLY AS FUCK! I HOPE YOU ALL GET A PAPER CUT AND RUB HAND SANITIZER ON IT, BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT LITTLE PIECES OF SHITS YOU ALL ARE! INSULT FRANK AGAIN, SEE WHAT HAPPENS, YOU FUCKWADS!" I finish my rant with a small, regrettable gasp, and the result is a quick, brutal punch at my face.
It hits me in the lip, the skin busting open and gushing blood. The beatings continue, and I cry out as each of them come. Tears fall freely from my eyes, raspy sobs shaking me. My emotions take control of me, just like they always do. All of my self-esteem issues crash down upon me, my anxiety consuming me like a dark, crashing ocean that I can't escape from. I try to breathe, I try to swim, but all that fills my lungs are the tears that make up the ocean of emotions.
"Call us cunts," the leader sneers with disgust etched into every line of his face, straightening his shirt, "You're the only cunt around here. You and your slutty little boyfriend. Drop him, Mikes. Let's go." Mikey lets his shaky hands release my wrists, which are sore. As a second thought, the main guy orders one of his other groupies to drag me down the ally, and to leave me by the trash can, where I actually belonged. The boy did so, kicking me one last time before joining the rest of the gang. I simply lie there in a fetal position, sobbing, screaming, holding my aching body and cursing at the intense agony.
My eye is swollen, I'm bleeding, I'm bruised, and more than anything, I'm being eaten alive by my sadness. The sadness which is my life. I'm a tragedy.
"Gerard Arthur Way, are you down here?" Frank cries again, his quick, jogging steps approaching me. I'm still suffering from the aftermath of the attack, small sobs occasionally racking my whole body. Other than those noises and Frank, the city of New Jersey is silent when confronted with the dark of the night, minus the few night prowlers and buzzing cars. Once again, I ignore Frank's presence, not wanting any comfort. I don't want anyone's pity, especially not from someone I'm so scared of sharing my deeper feelings with.
I give a surprised shriek as Frank nearly trips over my foot, but he quickly regains balance and throws himself onto the ground beside me, scrambling towards my head. I quickly cover my face with my hands, not wanting him to see me so broken. "Oh my God, Gee, holy shit, what the fuck happened?" he slurs, tears obvious in his voice, "Are... Are you bleeding? Is anything broken? Jesus, do I need to call an ambulance? Gerard, please answer me!"
I can't help the sobs that begin pouring out of my mouth. I can't help the tears that fall so shamefully, no more than I can't help the fact that my cheeks burn with utter embarrassment at Frank having to come to my rescue once again. He's always saving me from the bullies that have an obsession with beating me up and calling me stupid names, yet I can't even look him straight in the eyes at times because I'm too scared of what I may do. And as a result of what I do, I'm afraid of what he'll say; I'm afraid that it would ruin our strong, undying friendship.
Frank realizes that I can't talk. Not in this state, at least. He silently places an assuring hand in my hair, running it through my jet black locks, just as he usually does when I'm crying or need comfort. He leans down and buries his head in the crook of my neck, and I tremble with sobs as he consoles me. "Oh, Gee," he whispers, and I am more than aware of the fact that his lips are pressed against the point where my jawline meets me ear. Of course he's doing this out of comfort, because even though I'm blushing in the darkness, it's not in any way meant to be romantic.
But I wish it was.
My throat eventually grows hoarse, and I can no longer sob and bawl my eyes out, so instead, I settle for the occasional hiccup and slow, hot tear. Frank and I stay in this position for what seems like hours. To anyone else, it would appear as though we may be a couple, but we're not. Wish I may, and wish I might, Frank just doesn't love me the way I love him. Why can't I just accept this?
"Hey, c'mon, let's go home," Frank suggests quietly, and I nod sadly. Home. Where Mikey would be waiting, guilty and silent. He would avert my eyes, and would leave a room if I entered it. Where I would get yelled at by my mother for not coming home at an appropriate time. Where I would go to my dark room and sit on my bed, empty and unfeeling.
Home.
Frank stands up to his feet, squatting as to assist me with the difficult task at hand. I can't stand without feeling dizzy and tipsy, my vision a blur, though one of my eyes is swollen shut anyways. Once I'm finally on my feet, wincing and crying out as all of the pain and agony dawns upon me at once, Frank places a steadying arm around my back to support me. He takes my backpack as well, which the leader of the bully gang had had thrown at me as well.
The walk–or wobble–home is silent. We don't talk. We don't make any noises. The only noise I make is the occasional sniffle, but otherwise, the only sound is the buzz of the city.
I prepare to take a turn for my house as we approach my street, but as I lean that way, Frank jerks me back up and we cross the street instead. "Wh-Where are we...?" I ask dryly, but Frank hushes me with a loving "shh". He continues to walk me in the direction, and we walk a few more building down the road until I realize what he had meant by home.
His home.
I mouth a small "oh" to myself, and we approach the apartment that he lives in. Though it's quite small and quaintly modest, I honestly love it more than any other house in the world. My house is nice, but I like Frank's because it smells like him. I like Frank's apartment because that's where I feel at home.
Home.
We ascend the undersized, untouched driveway. Frankie doesn't own a car, so he doesn't use it. He had left home about a year ago, wanting to finish high school closer to the city. His mother had let him, because she loves him more than he'll ever know. Though she did so tearfully and with many warnings and the sweet repetition of "I'm so proud of you, Frankie, baby", she had let her only son go to live by himself. We still make frequent visits to her house, and she always makes our favorite dishes when we come over.
I snap out of my bittersweet memories as Frank struggles to pull his keys out of his pockets, which belong to jeans that are way too tight on him. But I'll never tell Frank that they're too small, because heaven knows his ass looks fine in them. Not only that, but they're incredibly tight around his... Well, you know. I won't weird myself out with that thought.
Finally withdrawing the keys from his pockets brings Frank brief triumph, and he quickly inserts the key into the lock while balancing me with his other arm. When the door finally clicks, he shoves it roughly and lifts me inside, flicking on the lights to the small hallway. I breathe in the familiar scent of Frank. It's crazy how even the slight aroma of Frank sends me over the edge. That scent is the bitter mixture of cigarette smoke and coffee, which always pleases me when I smell it.
We hobble to the living room, and Frank gently places my broken frame onto his couch. I groan as a bruise on my back is rubbed against the chair of the couch, and Frank gently caresses my hair, rubbing my arm with his free hand. I quite like the way that he consoles me, and though I initially hadn't wanted anyone's comfort or love, I do now.
"Can I turn this light on? Would that be okay?" Frank asks quietly, referring to the living room light. I nod smally, closing my untouched eye, and he crosses the room the switch.
The overhead light comes on with a flicker, dim and tainted yellow. I wince slightly, moving only a few inches, and causing an immense uproar of pain. How can a small group of little shits cause so much pain?
I cry out in agony, and Frank quickly returns to my side with a low, saddening gasp. "Fuck, Gee..." he whispers emotionally, running his finger above various cuts and bruises littering my arms. I don't remember having too many injuries, because the prominent ones are the large scrapes and the ones throbbing with pain. I hear Frank wince as he examines my eye, just inches away from my face. I can even feel his cool breath against my forehead, and I grit my teeth.
"Gerard, how... Who... What happened?" Frank decides on, and I'm not exactly sure how to answer. For one, I don't know the names of the bullies. Well, I know the name of one, but I won't mention him. Secondly, though I was able to recall the unfortunate events, it still pains me greatly to repeat them, especially aloud and to another human being. "I..." I start slowly, drawing a deep, shaky breath, "I don't know who. Just some... Some guys from school. They called me... They called you a fag, Frankie. They called me a fag, and they called you a fag, and I lost it and started yelling at them, because I was fed up with their bullshit and their little games. I couldn't take it anymore, so I mouthed off, and I got what I deserved." I rush through the part where I mention Frank, because I had accidentally let that slip into the conversation.
His features soften, but I sense the darkness that suddenly settles over him. "Why did you do it, then?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Do what?"
"Mouth off."
I stop quickly, biting my lip in thought. I can't tell him. I want to. I want to so bad.
But I just can't.
"Look, Frankie," I whisper back, "I can't... I can't tell you why. I was upset, I was angry... They just... They insulted you and I couldn't control myself. I can't. I love you more than you know, more than as a friend, and... Shit. Just shit. Pretend you didn't hear that." Something like realization dawns upon him, and I wince at this. His eyes widen slightly, and he shifts.
Damnit, I knew this would happen.
If he found out, he'd be disgusted. He doesn't know I like guys; no one does. In fact, I don't even know if I like guys. I'm not necessarily attracted to them. It's just Frank. It's like I have a very biased attraction to Frank Anthony Iero, and that's it. Tits don't make my mouth water like they do for guys, but in general, dicks don't make me feel turned on, either, like they do for girls.
It's complicated, is all I'm saying. I haven't thought out this whole "who do you like?" question. Girls or guys? Guys or girls? Frank. I like Frank. I would dare to say that I even love Frank, and I know that love is a very strong word.
And I had just fucked up all of those feelings and thoughts by telling him.
I bring my hands up to my face, mumbling something against my ruined arms. We sit in silence for what seems like eternity, before Frank draws a steadying breath.
God, here it comes.
"Fuck, well..." he says, almost in a submitting tone, "I didn't want to tell you. I didn't want to. But I'm kind of in a pickle, aren't I? Here goes, then. Ever... Ever since we met, I thought you were cute. The way you'd bite your tongue when you colored, or that small, toothy smile... I thought it was adorable. But I'd never catch you looking at me, and when people would say you did look at me, I couldn't believe them. I've loved you forever, damn. And I just thought that you'd never love me like that. Well, like me like that...
"Shit, whatever, just... Let me go get a washcloth and some water and peroxide. You look like you're starving. You're so torn up, Jesus... I'll–I'll be back."
I watch Frank rush to leave the room, my eyes wide and my jaw dropping.
Frank likes me?
"Wait!" I cry hopelessly, and he doesn't come back. I sigh and sit back, recovering from the pain that moving had brought. Maybe he's making it up. Maybe he just feels like he has to say that, just so that I'm not embarrassed by accidentally confessing my own feelings for him. A few moments later, Frank enters the room with a brown bottle and a wet washcloth.
He doesn't say anything as he carefully dabs at my cuts and scratches with the washcloth, and when I wince and writhe and cry out in pain, he shushes me and runs a careful hand through my hair. This movement seems refined; now that he's at least said that he likes me–loves me, correction–I feel like his movements mean so much more than a "between friends" kind of thing.
The real pain happens when he begins applying the hydrogen peroxide to the scrapes and scratches, at which I actually scream as he pats the injuries. At one point, the pain is so excruciatingly unbearable to the point where Frank actually puts down the washcloth and stands up. For some reason, I think he's going to leave me, but instead, he laces his hands in my hair and leans down slowly, closing his eyes.
Shit.
I close my own eyes, heart racing, a fleeting feeling of panic arising in my chest. This beast is put to rest as Frank's warm, careful lips meet my own, moving slowly and diligently. Gently, lovingly.
My own arms find their way up to Frank's hair, though they're sore and throbbing, and I pull Frank in closer. There's a particularly painful area where the guy had busted open my lip, and Frank kisses me as carefully as he can. The cold of his lip ring against my own mouth sends chills down my spine, and I moan against the kiss.
Whenever I had imagined–or even dreamed of–Frank and I kissing, it was awkward and fast, rough and playful, with the awkward teenager in me popping a boner at contact. But no. This kiss, though awkward and slightly uncertain, is slow, deliberate, planned. Loving. Gentle. Kind. Real.
This is all real.
I part my lips, hoping that maybe Frank would be interested in moving a little quickly, to which he gladly responds by slipping his tongue into my mouth. I moan softly as the warmth fills me up, and Frank is really, really trying to be soft and gentle with me. Some part of me wishes that he'd be rougher with me, but then again, I don't need to be in any more pain that I'm already in.
Frank slowly pulls back, lightly biting my bottom lip as he stands back up. I pant wildly, which is pathetic considering the fact that we had only kissed for a few minutes, extremely slowly. Frank closes his eyes and bites his lip, and I let my hands fall back down to my sides, a shadow of Frank's lips still against my lips.
"I..." Frank starts, almost apologetically, and I shake my head quickly, causing me to cry out at the sudden movement. As I recover, I whisper, "N-No, Frankie, God, I... You don't know how long I've wanted to do that." He smiles and opens his eyes, and I can't help but smile as well. He's adorable like that.
"Now toughen your ass up so I can prevent you from getting infections, you little fucker."
"Shit, Frank. No!"
He shrugs and picks the washcloth back up, to which I dryly cry, "Neh-heh-heh!"
"I love you though, Gee. And I know we say that all the time, like, friends, but I love you a lot more. A lot more than that. You're... You're an angel, I've decided," whispers Frank happily.
"I love you too, Frankie. But please go easy on me with that lemon juice from the depths of hell."