"Hey, could you pass me one of those 6B pencils. They're awesome to smudge with, man," Gerard beckoned towards a pot with at least a few million different grey pencils in it. Frank rummaged through them, trying to find the correct one.
"Dude, how many fucking pencils do you need?" Frank asked, not able to find the exact one Gerard required. The red one with gold stripes at the end. It was his favourite pencil to smudge with, he said.
"I don't know, man. An artist needs at least a few dozen of the same things to live, you know?" He responded, violently rubbing his eraser over the paper.
Frank didn't know. All he knew was that Gerard was one crazy motherfucker who had shelves full of finished and unfinished paintings, drawings, sketches, what have you. In fact, he was more than slightly envious of Gerard because he felt he wasn't good at anything other than getting shoved into lockers or getting beaten up every now and again.
Every now and again meaning almost every day.
"Do you wanna talk?" Gerard enquired, again, as he'd been doing for the past three days. He wouldn't fucking give up. It annoyed Frank but at the same time he appreciated Gerard's concern.
Truth was, Frank really, really wanted to, but couldn't find the words to explain to Gerard exactly how he was feeling. What with being an orphan, living with a guy he'd met just two weeks ago, no one understanding him at school, getting awful grades, and being shipped off to live with his hateful uncle who didn't give two shits about him. He wanted to cry. To curl up in Gerard's duvet covers and cry.
"Not really," said Frank, shrugging and passing Gerard his pencil.
"It's okay, man. Whenever you want to, though, you know, I'm always here."
A goofy grin lit up Frank's face. He peered over Gerard's shoulder, still grinning, and saw what Gerard was working on. The drawing was of one of those ugly pigeons Frank often saw down at the school parking lot who always scavenged for dropped sandwiches or semi-empty crisp packets no one wanted. He didn't understand why Gerard would draw an unsightly bird like that, but he assumed artists like Gerard were always kind of weird and misunderstood so he just went with it.
Gerard noticed Frank watching him trace the animal's beak for the seventh time and looked round. Frank jolted backwards and almost fell over a pair of sneakers in the middle of the room.
"Sorry," he yelped, his voice high-pitched and eyes wide and apologetic.
"Chill out, dude," Gerard reassured him it was okay if he wanted to watch. He often didn't get people who were interested in his art. "You want me to teach you?"
Frank nodded eagerly. Gerard smiled and took Frank's hand.
"I'm tired," Frank sounded utterly defeated to Gerard's ears and he totally wished he could wrap himself around him and keep him safe and warm and not let anything touch Frank ever again. Though, he didn't think Frank would appreciate that, as he'd been acting strangely lately, like he shunned any human contact that was only slightly intimate, or whatever. On most days he'd eat his dinner quickly, thank Donna and then head downstairs into the bathroom and be in bed, snoring gently, before Gerard had even finished his dessert.
And Gerard never passed up dessert, especially if his Mom bought tiramisu from the local baker's. That stuff was fucking divine, he thought. Not this time, though.
He followed him downstairs right after dinner. It was Wednesday night and he knew Frank hadn't touched any of his homework from the past few days. He knew because all Frank did when he got home was put on a Misfits CD and crank up the volume and curl up into a little ball in his sleeping bag and ignore the whole world, including Gerard.
Gerard didn't like it when Frank refused to let him in, refused to talk to him, refused to do anything. It was almost like he didn't want to get over the fact he had no parents, like he didn't want to move on, he thought. He could understand it though, he'd been exactly the same when his grandmother passed away. Though, it wasn't as bad as losing two parents in a short period of time, he admitted, a wave of sympathy for the boy huddled in his Batman sleeping bag washed over him. He closed his eyes and sighed.
Kneeling beside the sleeping bag, he wondered whether Frank would be mad. He decided he didn't care, because what Frank needed right now, even if he didn't admit it, was someone to know how he felt, if only a bit, someone to hold him, someone to confide in for he had no one.
He cradled the Batman-clad bundle in his arms and felt it shaking. Frank was crying. Reaching for the remote control of his CD player – Gerard didn't believe in iPods – he turned off The Misfits, enveloping the room in blissful silence.
"Mmpprph."
"You okay, Frankie?"
"Mphrgmpghh"
They sat there for half an hour, both not knowing how to put into words the situation or their feelings. It didn't matter. Frank stuck his head out of the sleeping bag and it was the cutest thing Gerard had ever seen. Frank's hair stood in every direction possible and despite the tear stains and red blotchiness, Gerard thought Frank looked beautiful. He wanted to make him better again, to make him happy. Frank stared at him, eyes wide and wet with tears, red rings around them smudged with black from his eyeliner, mouth slightly open as if he wanted to say something but didn't know how.
Together they sat there for a while. Frank's sobs became less frequent and less violent and he rested his head on Gerard's stomach as they lay on the floor.
"Thanks," Gerard heard him mumble.
"What?"
"I don't know, just… thanks for being... you, you know? Thanks for just sitting here with me and not trying to make me feel like I should get over everything. Just.. thank you, Gee."
This was the most Frank had spoken in two days and Gerard was rather taken aback. He didn't think he was doing anything at all to help him, but it was apparently what Frank wanted. He didn't want sympathetic looks or pats on the back or stern words. All he wanted was a friend.
"It's okay, Frankie. I'm not going anywhere," answered Gerard, stroking Frank's hair, twirling it around his fingers as he loved to do and he didn't think Frank minded because he moaned slightly and stretched his legs in his sleeping bag, lying on his side. Frank's head was still resting on Gerard's stomach and he played nervously with Gerard's belt buckle, not really knowing what to do with his hands.
The belt buckle brushed past the lower part of Gerard's torso over his bare skin. His T-shirt had ridden up his back slightly, so his tummy was a bit exposed. Exposed to Frank's breathing. It tickled. He knew it was bad, but Gerard felt that familiar tingle downstairs. The familiar tingle that told him a certain part of his anatomy was getting excited and right now he could really do without that. Calm down, it's just a fucking belt buckle. Jesus Christ, stop doing that, he told his sensitive dick. Stop that, right fucking now.
Cringing with inner turmoil, Gerard tried his best to maintain a straight face, even though he knew Frank couldn't see him.
"Frankie?" Gerard groaned, trying to make it seem like he was uncomfortable. Which he was, obviously, but for different reasons that he was trying to show Frank.
"Oh, sorry," Frankie quickly sat straight up as Gerard exhaled loudly, sitting up and ruffling his own hair.
"It's okay, man. You've just got a heavy head, is all," he chuckled and Frank grinned and looked at his sneakers, playing with the toggles of Gerard's sweatshirt. Gerard was positive he'd not taken it off since he'd been given it. Except maybe for showers, but – Gerard don't think about that, he told himself.
He was internally kicking himself for getting an almost-boner in front of a guy who was seriously 4 years younger and was confiding in him, who considered him his only friend. And thinking about him in the shower didn't particularly help his case either. He couldn't help but feel he – or his penis – was taking advantage of Frank and he hated the feeling.
"We should be in bed, Frank, it's late," he said and almost kicked himself again because it sounded too let's-get-it-on-Frank in his head. Frank didn't seem to notice, though, since he agreed and snuggled into his sleeping bag again, while Gerard went off to brush his teeth.
In the bathroom, Gerard slapped his own face. "Pull. Yourself. Together. Man." He hit himself with each syllable. Splashing cold water in his face woke him up from his sort-of-trance. He was just tired. Tired and groggy and extremely sexually frustrated.
"What's wrong with you?" He asked his reflection, although one half of him knew perfectly well what was wrong with him. Yet the other half didn't see anything wrong with the fact that he may or not be possibly in love with Frank. The other half argued back that Frank probably wasn't even gay and that therefore pursuing a relationship would be futile. The other half responded with a 'fuck you, you don't know that. I can also still look at him, appreciate him and love him without him reciprocating my feelings'.
Gerard rammed his toothbrush into his mouth and brushed passionately, as if his plaque symbolized every bad feeling and he could brush it all away just like that. If only it were that easy, he mused, still furiously spluttering bits of toothpaste everywhere. A drop landed on his shirt. Swearing, he dabbed the white gunk with a wet towel. White fucking gunk. Gerard, stop thinking about white gunk, just stop.
Holding the wet towel to his head, scared he was coming down with a fever – a fever of sexual frustration if anything – he sighed and spit out the remaining toothpaste in his mouth, trying his hardest not to think about a certain someone spitting out other white gunk. Stop it!
Where did this come from?, he asked himself. Gerard was never a very sexual person, he knew this of himself. He never really felt the urge, when he saw what Mikey jerked off to all the time. Of course, he jerked off, but just for the relief, not the aesthetically pleasing part of looking at unnaturally large tits that Mikey enjoyed so much.
Throwing his toothpasty T-shirt into the washing basket and climbing out of his jeans and chucking his socks in after the T-shirt, he showered quickly, jerked off silently (he hoped) and got himself to bed. Once he laid down on the bed, he realised how incredibly tired he was. Turning over, he watched as Frank struggled with the zipper on his sleeping bag and how he finally gave up and threw his head on the pillow and watched the ceiling intently.
Gerard wondered whether he should ask Frank onto the bed. The thin mattress Frank was using didn't look terribly comfortable but he didn't want Frank to get the wrong idea. A voice in his head told him he was being fucking paranoid and that Frank hadn't minded the previous times at all, so Gerard gave in against his better judgment and dropped his hand down the side of his bed. Brushing a lock of hair out of Frank's face, he smiled down at him and asked him if he was okay down there.
"Can I sleep with you?" Frank looked up at him eagerly. The voices in Gerard's head went completely mental. See, I told you he wouldn't mind. No, but he's just lonely! What does he mean with 'sleep with'? Stop that, he just needs to hug someone, Gerard, stop thinking with your penis, for fuck's sake!
"Can I?" He looked more unsure, cocking his head to the side and unintentionally widening his eyes. Didn't Gerard want him anymore? Didn't he care? Gerard was awoken from his inner debate and shook his head violently, as if to shake all the voices out of his ears.
"Okay, then," said Frank, miserably, misinterpreting Gerard's head gestures.
"No, no, no, I didn't mean it that way. I just had fuzz in my head, I mean, uh, of course you can sleep with me," stammered Gerard.
Helping Frank up onto the bed, Gerard thought to himself how strange it was that only about two weeks ago they'd seen each other for the first time. Immediately, when he laid eyes upon him, he knew Frankie had a story, a different kind of story than the average fifteen year old kid. He was different, the way he sat, absent-mindedly playing with pots of glitter and laying out different coloured pencils to make a picture. Each time he saw him, he was sat in exactly the same corner, doing something else. He intrigued Gerard, yet he didn't know how to even say hello. That was, until that Friday when Frank said hello first.
All his thoughts, since that Friday had been of Frank or anything related to what was going on with him. The first few days they saw nothing of each other and he wondered if he would ever see him again. He really would have liked to, too, because their small conversation outside the art store, Gerard thought, could be a start to a friendship, even though it sounded horribly clichéd. And Gerard had never had a good friendship except his brother, and Mikey was changing and Gerard didn't like it.
In all the days and nights they'd spent together, either just talking or not talking at all, or reading comics or Gerard teaching Frank how to smudge charcoal and which pencils were used for what, or watching sci-fi movies or re-runs of Buffy, they'd grown closer under the most awful of circumstances. Frank had often cried and Gerard had never exactly known how to comfort him except stroke his hair, which Frank found oddly endearing, or hold him like a small child that yearned for its mother.