Chants.

Frankie and Gerard sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

You were just little boys when those little girls sang that line over and over again. Any other little boys would have yelled their lungs out and spurted childish insults at the stream of dolled-up giggling girls. But you two didn't. Little Frankie and little Gerard just held hands and smiled at each other.

You never really cared about what those stupid girls said anyways. You -little Gerard- used to fluster and cry after they came and pulled your hands away: the girls, the adults, everyone who tried to separate you from Frankie. The only hand that fit yours was Frankie's. And that hand is what you -little Gerard- knew the best; you knew the creases, the fine lines, the pallid rosy little moons at the end of Frankie's cuticles, memorized their shapes even. You knew that all you had to do is cling to the hand that was created to fit yours and you would just pour with smiles.

Whether it was walking to school, sitting in classes, playing with other kids, or even just breathing, you just couldn't let go of the urge to hold his hand and feel its joints rubbing and clicking against yours. You were a little kid, you never knew any better. Forever and ever, you wanted to hold Frankie's hand. You didn't know why at the time, he was just your best friend in the whole wide world.

But why did you want to hold his hand, and only his hand, forever and ever?

*

Then comes love.
You were both sixteen when the other boys started talking. Talking and talking and talking and spreading ugly ugly words about you and Frankie. But you two never really cared about them either. Never really cared when you were beaten, shoved into walls, ended up with crimson noses. Never gave a damn when people would just stare at your intertwined fingers when you walked down the street wrapped up in your own little world.

The other night you finally had a kiss; other times you'd usually just glide your fingers across Frankie's lips, without a word, and he'd just smile at you. When you'd lift his shirt, he'd murmur low half-hearted protests or just sigh sighs that feel like gusts of warm wind coming from pitless heavens; he always felt so warm. After that you'd take off his pants, he'd kiss you back. Then you'd kiss his neck and run your hand all over his body and never let his hand out of your sight. Frankie always did what you wanted to do, even if he was just a little behind. All that he knew that you were a little confused at that time, so he didn't care. Didn't really know that you were more than a little confused. Didn't really know that you wanted him to be yours.

Wanted that hand to never let yours go.

Frankie kept smiling and holding his other hand to his chest.

*

Then comes marriage.
It was at work when people started noticing. You were always with Frankie, holding onto his hand and kissing his cheek. People called you names for that, they called you fags, gays, dicksuckers and all that charming slang they could muster up for seeing two people in love. Still, you never cared. You only saw Frankie all over the place and noticed no-one else. You never saw anyone else.

But Frankie did now. Those looks disturbed him to no end. He would push you away, gently though, would stop taking your calls for a couple of weeks, would dodge every chance to meet your eyes. He even stopped calling you in the middle of the night just to hear your voice or say goodnight.

You weren't stupid, though. You knew he was locking lips and hips with some other person. But you kept brushing that off saying he'll keep coming back to me; only our hands fit into each other. So you kept ignoring that Frankie didn't call for days, didn't come by for weeks, sometimes for a month or two. You closed your eyes and blinded yourself so you wouldn't see the hickeys and the scratch marks across his back. You shut yourself off completely when he was off to a corner, whispering and spreading his lips apart right onto his cell phone's speaker just because a dainty voice's dancing underneath his eardrums this time. But it was okay; just as long as he kept holding your hand it was fine.

Frankie's hand will only fit into yours. It's fine. That's why you kept smiling to yourself, watching the moons and the stars shine back at you and your selfish dreams through the trasperant panes.

*

Then comes Frankie with a baby carriage.
Frankie took another hand into his.

He went away and got married to that pretty pretty delicate girl with the dainty voice. You went insane. You poured your eyes out until they only bled your raw emotions. The only people who cried with you were the skies, the moon and the stars, swirling into infinity and blowing up into black holes that sucked the light and life out of everything.
You cried so hard that you felt like your ribcage was being twisted like a dirty washcloth. By the time you got over the fact that the hand perfectly fitted to suit yours wasn't going to be yours anymore, you've become more like a dried tear than anything; you lost all your glistening appeal, you lost all the warmth and the clarity of yourself. All that was left was the salt, the bitterness and the aftertaste.

You're still in shock; your heart's pounding and pounding and pounding like a rusty church bell breaking apart. Your chest was twisting and twisting into endless spirals, just like that washcloth, when you saw him walk down the altar, recite his vows, then kiss the pretty little girl in the white wedding gown. He was dressed in black and white like he was burying your memories down under his footsteps; the funeral of your pasts. Stomping on them to the ground steadily and eagerly. Your memories were always like silky-soft pink or hot blood-red, and that's what you thought when you saw the mix of colors embodied in the rose spread across the altar. The ones he was crushing with each step, step, step, step towards his figurine-pretty bride.

It was at the reception where you got to hug him, sealing away all your tears and red eyes, and hold his hand again. Then he left with that little docile girl, his face all smiles, burning with the fuel of your rose petal memories. Just like yours when he held your hand.

That's when you finally realized that...his hand didn't fit yours at all this time. That's why you smiled; tasting the sensation that your rose petal memories felt under his soles, with only the rotten perfume remaining from those welting colors.

But why did you want to hold his hand, and only his hand, forever and ever?
Now you know.