Chapter Text
**gerard’s pov**
getting into art school is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me, which is a pretty low bar considering most of my life has consisted of drawing monsters in the margins of my homework and getting yelled at for not paying attention in class.
still, i get in. i get the acceptance letter, i get the scholarship, i get to pack up my life into a handful of boxes and move somewhere new where nobody knows me as the weird kid who used to bring sketchbooks to gym class. i get to start over.
i’m eighteen, which feels old enough to know what i’m doing until i actually have to do something, like figure out how to work the washing machine in my apartment or buy groceries without calling my mom three times. the independence is nice, though. i like having a place that’s mine, even if the kitchen is approximately the size of a closet and the radiator makes a noise like a dying animal every night at two in the morning.
the campus is beautiful in a way that makes me feel like i should be doing something productive with my life. old brick buildings, enormous windows, ivy growing up the sides of the art department. people sit on the grass with their laptops and cigarettes, looking like they belong in movies about pretentious college students who fall in love with people they meet in bookstores.
i mostly just get lost.
on my third day, i find a little cafe tucked between the library and the building where i have my introductory drawing class. it’s small, with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu covered in handwriting that’s almost impossible to read. there’s a collection of plants on the windowsills, most of them looking like they’ve been through something traumatic, and the whole place smells like coffee and cinnamon.
immediately, i decide it’s the best place on campus.
the prices are cheap enough that i can afford to come here more than once a week without having to live exclusively on instant noodles. there are pastries in a glass case, too, and a table by the window where i can sit and draw without somebody looking over my shoulder every five minutes.
i join the short line, studying the menu even though i already know what i’m going to order. coffee, black, and whatever pastry looks least likely to give me food poisoning.
when it’s my turn, i look up at the guy behind the counter.
he’s got dark hair, a handful of piercings, and a black shirt with some band logo i recognize but can’t immediately place. he looks about my age. maybe a little younger. there’s a small tattoo peeking out from beneath his sleeve, and he has the sort of face that makes me think he’d be good at insulting people in a way that somehow makes them want to be his friend.
he’s looking at me.
not in a weird way, exactly. more like he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to be doing.
“hi,” i say.
he blinks. “hi.”
i glance at the menu again. “can i get a black coffee and, uh, one of those?”
i point at a pastry that looks like it might be a cinnamon roll, although it could also be some kind of elaborate muffin.
“the cinnamon roll?” he asks.
“yeah. that.”
“good choice.”
there’s something odd about the way he says it. not unfriendly, just a little too quiet, like he’s distracted by something.
i pull out my wallet. “i’m trusting you with my life here.”
that gets a laugh out of him, short and surprised. it’s a nice laugh. i notice that before i can stop myself.
“i’ll try not to let you down.”
he turns to make my coffee, and i take the opportunity to look around the cafe again. someone has written a little message on the wall beside the register, something about being kind to yourself. the handwriting is terrible. i like it.
“you go to the art school?” the guy asks suddenly.
i look back at him. “yeah. how’d you know?”
he shrugs, setting a cup on the counter. “you’ve got the look.”
i look down at myself. i’m wearing an old band shirt, ripped jeans, and sneakers that have seen better days. there’s probably graphite on my fingers. my hair is falling into my eyes because i haven’t gotten around to cutting it since i moved.
“what look?”
“like you haven’t slept properly in three days.”
“that’s just my face.”
he smiles.
i feel a strange, immediate urge to make him do it again.
“well, you’re not wrong,” i tell him. “i’ve been trying to figure out where all my classes are, and i think i’ve walked into the same building four times by accident.”
“impressive.”
“thank you. i’m very talented.”
he hands me my coffee and pastry. our fingers almost touch, and for some reason i become painfully aware of the fact that he’s cute.
which is inconvenient. i’m trying to be a functioning adult. i’m trying to make friends, pass my classes, and not accidentally burn down my apartment. i don’t have time to develop a crush on the first guy who sells me coffee.
“have a good one,” he says.
“you too.”
i take my things to the table by the window, pull my sketchbook out of my bag, and settle in.
the coffee is good. the pastry is even better.
i think i’m going to become a regular.
**frank’s pov**
i nearly drop the fucking cup.
it’s not dramatic. there’s no shattering ceramic, no coffee flying across the counter, no customer gasping in horror. it’s just my hand slipping for half a second, the cup tilting dangerously toward the floor before i catch it against the edge of the counter.
but for that half second, i genuinely think i’m going to throw up.
because standing in front of me is gerard way.
gerard way, who used to wear his halloween costume for three days straight because he thought the vampire cape made him look cool. gerard way, who once cried because he thought i was mad at him when i was actually just sick and hadn’t answered my phone. gerard way, who kissed me behind my garage when we were twelve and then spent the entire walk home asking if i’d had a good time.
gerard way, who i haven’t seen in years.
i know it’s him immediately. i know it’s him before he even opens his mouth, before i hear his voice, before he makes that stupid little face at the menu like he’s trying to solve a mathematical equation instead of choose a pastry.
his hair is longer than i remember, dark and falling around his face in a way that makes him look older than he is. he’s taller, too. his shoulders are broader, his features more defined, and there’s something about the way he carries himself now that makes it clear he’s grown into a person i don’t know.
but he still tucks his hair behind his ear when he’s thinking.
he still looks at the menu like he doesn’t trust it.
he still has that little crease between his eyebrows when he’s trying to make a decision.
i have spent years remembering these things. i have spent years remembering everything.
and he looks at me like i’m a complete stranger.
“hi,” he says.
i forget how to speak.
it’s ridiculous. i’m eighteen years old. i’ve had jobs, i’ve passed classes, i’ve kissed people, i’ve done all the normal things you’re supposed to do when you’re growing up. i can handle a customer asking for a complicated drink while somebody behind them complains about the price of oat milk.
i cannot handle gerard way saying hello to me.
“hi,” i manage.
he orders coffee and a cinnamon roll. of course he does. he always liked sweet things, even when he pretended he didn’t. when we were kids, he’d steal frosting off my birthday cake and swear he was only doing it because he didn’t want it to go to waste.
i want to ask him if he remembers that.
i want to ask him if he remembers anything.
instead, i make his coffee.
my hands are shaking, which is humiliating. i keep my eyes on the machine because looking at him for too long feels dangerous. if i look at him long enough, i might say something stupid. i might ask him where he’s been. i might ask him why he stopped calling, even though i know exactly why.
we went to different high schools. we got older. our parents stopped arranging things for us. the calls became less frequent, the messages shorter, and eventually we became two names in each other’s phones that neither of us knew how to reach out to anymore.
at least, that’s what i tell myself.
i don’t know what happened on his end. i only know what happened to me.
i spent the first year missing him so badly that my chest actually hurt. i spent the second year pretending i didn’t care. by the third, i’d gotten good at acting like his name didn’t make me feel sick.
i deleted our messages once. then i cried and recovered them from an old backup because apparently i have the emotional resilience of a wet paper towel.
i still have pictures of us. i still have the bracelet he made me. i still remember the exact day we went on our first date, down to the stupid movie we watched and the way he held my hand like it was something precious.
and now he’s standing in front of me, eighteen years old, asking me for coffee.
“you go to the art school?” i ask, because apparently my brain has decided to start making conversation with the boy who broke my heart when we were children.
he says yes.
i want to laugh. i want to cry. i want to reach across the counter and shake him by the shoulders until he remembers me.
instead, i tell him he looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.
he jokes that that’s just his face.
god, i missed him.
i missed the way he talks, the way he makes jokes without thinking, the way he looks at people when he’s genuinely interested in what they’re saying. i missed him so much that there were nights when i’d lie in bed and try to remember the sound of his laugh, terrified that one day i’d forget it completely.
i didn’t.
he’s still just as strange as he used to be. he’s still gerard.
but when he takes his coffee, he doesn’t recognize me.
he doesn’t recognize me.
i smile anyway. i tell him to have a good day, and i watch him walk over to the window table with his sketchbook and his stupid cinnamon roll.
he sits down, takes a sip of his coffee, and immediately starts drawing.
i watch him for a second longer than i should.
then somebody behind him calls out an order, and i have to turn away.
the rest of my shift passes in a blur. i make drinks, wipe counters, restock the pastry case. i laugh at my coworker’s jokes at the appropriate times. i answer questions about the wifi. i do everything i’m supposed to do.
all the while, gerard sits by the window.
he stays for almost two hours.
i know because i check the clock every few minutes, and because every time i look over, he’s still there, bent over his sketchbook with his hair falling into his face.
at one point, he laughs at something on his phone. it’s a small sound, barely audible over the music playing through the speakers.
i have to look away.
when he finally packs up his things, he throws the paper from his cinnamon roll into the trash and brings his empty cup to the counter.
“thanks,” he says. “this place is great. i’ll probably be back.”
i stare at him.
“yeah,” i say, and pray that my voice sounds normal. “see you around.”
he smiles at me.
then he leaves.
i stand behind the counter, holding his empty cup, listening to the bell above the door ring as it swings shut.
i used to think that if i ever saw gerard again, i’d have a thousand things to say to him. i’d tell him how much i missed him. i’d tell him about all the birthdays he wasn’t there for, all the songs i wanted to show him, all the times something funny happened and he was the first person i wanted to tell.
i’d ask him if he ever thought about me.
i’d ask him if he ever cried, too.
instead, i rinse his cup out in the sink.
then i go into the back room, sit on an overturned milk crate, and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
i don’t cry this time.
i think i’ve run out of tears for a boy who doesn’t even remember my name.
i wonder what he’d do if he knew that, for a little less than a year, i was the person he called his whole world.
i wonder what he’d do if he knew that, after all this time, he still is mine.