The Technicolor Daydreamer; Folie A Deux.

Gee and I dropped Amia off at her house, and I gave her the customary kiss on the doorstep.Cliche, yeah, but who asked you anyway?

I was a little more in control of myself this time, but not much. And I was much more awkward than usual.

Now, I was stuck in the car with Gerard.
Quiet, seething, pissed-off Gerard.
A suffocatingly thick cloud of tension filled the tiny space.
It was crushing, and it seemed to be expanding by the second.
Expanding...too much.

Too, too much. Crushing...getting bigger...flattening me against the window.
Air leaving my lungs. Life...breath...breathe.
I...I can't breathe. Can't breathe.

Need air.Too small. No air. Can't breathe.
Can't breathe, can't see, can't breathe--HELP!
NO!

...oh, wait.
I'm okay. I'm safe.
Frankie's safe.Frankie's not in the corner holding the knife.
Frankie's not covered in blood.
Daddy's not on the floor.
Frankie's safe and sound and...oh.

So embarrassing.
Claustrophobia's a bitch.
Paranoia, too.
Pardon my French.
Ahem.

"Does the 'tomorrow' comment apply still?" Gerard asked dryly, apparently not so tired that sarcasm was out of his grasp.

I guess we could talk a bit," I sighed, with a pause.

"You don't have to do this."

"I do. Can you see me-- any of us-- getting out of this town without a decent amount of money? Art school's expensive, and there's no way my parents can afford it and Mikey's college..."

"There's scholarships--"

"No one wants to give one to a kid who spent the first two years of his high school career in the counselor's office," he snorted bitterly. I believe I just hit a sore spot. Oops.
"Gerard's a sweet boy, but he spends a lot of his times on drawings and imaginary characters..." he mocked, tears streaming down. "I'm a mess. My GPA is screwed because I spent so many days at home, and I stayed home because of some fuckers who got a kick out of shoving the fat kid in his locker and dumping his lunch on him!"

He'd pretty much floored it at this point, hands locked onto the wheel as trees we passed melded into a menacing, ominous blur. His voice rose to a yell.
Oh, God.

"I hate this! I hate high school! I hate that I have to take all this shit for four years and then get tossed out into the real world like nothing happened! I hate that my mom and dad spend all their time sniping at each other-- as if they weren't already divorced! I hate my fucking life!"

He'd started screaming now, a horrid, animalistic sound that seemed like it was being ripped out of his soul while tears streamed down his face.

"Gerard! Calm the fuck down, or you'll kill us both!"

The car was flying down the road, all four wheels in the air every time they hit one of the street's abundant potholes.

I'll admit, I was scared out of my wits.

But most of all, I was angry that my best friend-- my brother, basically-- was hurting so badly. And angry that I'd experienced most of those things, too.

My eyes were stinging now. My chest was hurting.

"Gee, pull over." my voice was weary now. Just...tired.

He slowed down this time, still gripping the wheel, until the car rolled to a stop. His shoulders fell, and he rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

Finally, he looked up and turned around to face me, with tear-streaked cheeks and an agonized look.

"I'm sorry. I sound like I'm PMSing or something..." He sniffled softly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. It just...sucks, having to resort to this." He got quiet.

"I just....I don't want to do this. I have to. Mikey's too smart to not to go college, y'know? And with Mom blowing all the money on booze...it's just not an option,"

"Yeah," I admitted reluctantly.

"And that's why I wanted to ask you if you wanted to help."

Dead silence.

Aw, crap. It would help with the bills...my father, the crazy drunk he was, blew his trust fund within a month of turning 18. Which leaves his wife andkids kid scraping together a meager living as he rots 6 feet under.

Completely useless, from beginning to end.

"I'll...think about it."

"Okay."

Another silence.

"Frank?"

"Hm?"

"I really am sorry." he looked like a 5-year-old who'd been scolded.

"I know." I pulled him into a hug, and he sniffled again.
"I'll pick up some Midol for you tomorrow." I murmured and patted him on the back.

"Shut up, Frodo." he sniffled again, and pulled back to punch him in the shoulder. I giggled, loud, as he put the car in drive. Buckling my seatbelt, I laid my head back against the tobacco-scented, scuffed leather of the seat and turned to look out the window, squinting at the moonlight and counting stars all the way home.