Ink
Habits.
“Frank?!”
The little five-foot-three mechanical boy in the chair started in horror as someone opened the bedroom door, nearly falling backwards; nearly spilling onto the floor like the indigo stain he had been contemplating slicing free. His heartbeat was fluttering wildly, one hand pressed tragically to his thin chest, as though he thought he could keep the lump of muscle inside it from failing or breaking just by holding it safely in place beneath his ribs. With a tiny whimper, he glanced upwards; dead muddy-green eyes immediately intersecting the magnetic shine of two frightened, bright hazel ones. He flinched as the piercing stare of shock and worry cut knife-blade straight through his pathetic defenses, and glanced down quickly, staring at his small fingers, which were now resting clasped in his lap. Very, very quietly, he parted his cracked lips and spoke, sounding ashamed and almost embarrassed. “Hey Gerard.”
“Wh-what the hell are you doing?” two pale lips whispered, just the smallest hint of shaky anger coming out in the words.
What was he doing? Without answering, Frank numbly let his eyes drift back upwards to Gerard’s face, staring blankly at the other boy’s black hair and finely-drawn features with a strange combination of anxiety and apathy on his own face. He didn’t know. He couldn’t even remember when he’d started trying this, or why; except that at first, it had seemed like the only cure to fill up some kind of pulsing ache on the inside. Now… now, it was just a habit.
A bad habit.
God, at the time it had seemed so much safer, easier, smarter than the alcohol or the drugs, but somewhere inside, beneath the addiction, beneath the denial, he was starting to get scared that it was just as bad.
“Frankie!”
Anxiously, he tried to focus on those disarming eyes, narrowed slightly with fear and suspicion and maybe even disgust, at a loss for fucking words. He was trembling, and only after a deep breath was he able to squeeze out a response. “I’m… I d-dunno, Ger…” the boy whispered miserably, undamaged hand crawling towards a battered pack of old Marlboros lying on the scratched wooden surface of the desk.
“How fucking long have you been sitting here?”
…banging your wrist on the edge of a fucking table?
Frank knew the unspoken rest of the question, and that there was no longer any way to avoid answering, whether he spilled his inky guts now or later. Gerard had fucking found him, him and his dirty secret, and it was too late to hide it. “A long t-time,” he stuttered pathetically, jamming a smashed cigarette between his lips with a little jerk.
The dark-haired boy took a few steps closer to him, shoes scuffing quietly against the cheap laminated wood of the floor as he moved. “Where’s your dad?”
The hand holding the unlit cigarette trembled. “N-not here.”
“He know you do this?”
Questions. So many fucking questions—
“No.”
A strained smirk slowly twisted Gerard’s almost-colorless lips. “What’d you tell him, you fucking tripped?”
The boy in the chair didn’t answer, shame flushing the curves of his pale cheeks. “Shut the fuck up,” he whispered throatily, voice so low that the words were barely more than an unsteady breath.
“Fuck’s a bad word, doll face.”
Skin coloring further; hands twisting in his lap, he managed – barely – to snarl “I’m f-fucking fifteen, you selfish who-” before Gerard interrupted caustically.
“Oh, Frankie Iero’s gonna talk fucking dirty now? What do you want me to do, pull your fucking hair again and make you moan?”
A strangled breath. One shudder—
Enough of a reaction for his body to betray his thoughts.
Like a puppet on strings, the boy staggered to a standing position, lurching unsteadily as both knees threatened to give out beneath his weight. Trembling fingers found the unforgiving edge of the desk for support, pain shooting across his face as bruised tendons tightened. “It was wrong,” he hissed erratically, partially swallowing the words. “You’re t-twenty-f-fucking-five…”
Gerard’s enticing eyes flickered towards the indigo skin of the damaged wrist, then back to the boy’s danger-white face with a spark of tenuous understanding, and he ran one slender hand tensely through his ebony hair, usually silken voice softening from its former snarl; roughening like stress cracks in bending steel as he spoke again. “Frank… Frankie, this… doesn’t have anything to do with… me. D-does it?”
“N-no,” Frankie choked, without taking another breath for the rest of the words, “I c-couldn’t. I wouldn’t d-do that b-because of you-”
“So… him?”
A nod. A flinch.
A pause, and—
“Be fucking honest: does he or doesn’t he know about this shit?”
“M-maybe. M-maybe he knows.”
Gerard’s eyes darkened. “You’re full of shit. He fucking knows, doesn’t he? What the hell did he say to you?”
“Did you b-bring my cigs?” the younger boy mumbled, pathetically trying to avoid the question.
Pale fingers slipped easily into a coat pocket, slowly pulling out a crisp, plastic-wrapped pack of Marlboros. Clear hazel eyes stayed locked with mud-green ones as Gerard tossed the shiny package onto the desk, watching it slide across the wood surface and come to a stop inches from the edge. “There. Now fucking answer me.”
The little five-foot-three mechanical boy in the chair started in horror as someone opened the bedroom door, nearly falling backwards; nearly spilling onto the floor like the indigo stain he had been contemplating slicing free. His heartbeat was fluttering wildly, one hand pressed tragically to his thin chest, as though he thought he could keep the lump of muscle inside it from failing or breaking just by holding it safely in place beneath his ribs. With a tiny whimper, he glanced upwards; dead muddy-green eyes immediately intersecting the magnetic shine of two frightened, bright hazel ones. He flinched as the piercing stare of shock and worry cut knife-blade straight through his pathetic defenses, and glanced down quickly, staring at his small fingers, which were now resting clasped in his lap. Very, very quietly, he parted his cracked lips and spoke, sounding ashamed and almost embarrassed. “Hey Gerard.”
“Wh-what the hell are you doing?” two pale lips whispered, just the smallest hint of shaky anger coming out in the words.
What was he doing? Without answering, Frank numbly let his eyes drift back upwards to Gerard’s face, staring blankly at the other boy’s black hair and finely-drawn features with a strange combination of anxiety and apathy on his own face. He didn’t know. He couldn’t even remember when he’d started trying this, or why; except that at first, it had seemed like the only cure to fill up some kind of pulsing ache on the inside. Now… now, it was just a habit.
A bad habit.
God, at the time it had seemed so much safer, easier, smarter than the alcohol or the drugs, but somewhere inside, beneath the addiction, beneath the denial, he was starting to get scared that it was just as bad.
“Frankie!”
Anxiously, he tried to focus on those disarming eyes, narrowed slightly with fear and suspicion and maybe even disgust, at a loss for fucking words. He was trembling, and only after a deep breath was he able to squeeze out a response. “I’m… I d-dunno, Ger…” the boy whispered miserably, undamaged hand crawling towards a battered pack of old Marlboros lying on the scratched wooden surface of the desk.
“How fucking long have you been sitting here?”
…banging your wrist on the edge of a fucking table?
Frank knew the unspoken rest of the question, and that there was no longer any way to avoid answering, whether he spilled his inky guts now or later. Gerard had fucking found him, him and his dirty secret, and it was too late to hide it. “A long t-time,” he stuttered pathetically, jamming a smashed cigarette between his lips with a little jerk.
The dark-haired boy took a few steps closer to him, shoes scuffing quietly against the cheap laminated wood of the floor as he moved. “Where’s your dad?”
The hand holding the unlit cigarette trembled. “N-not here.”
“He know you do this?”
Questions. So many fucking questions—
“No.”
A strained smirk slowly twisted Gerard’s almost-colorless lips. “What’d you tell him, you fucking tripped?”
The boy in the chair didn’t answer, shame flushing the curves of his pale cheeks. “Shut the fuck up,” he whispered throatily, voice so low that the words were barely more than an unsteady breath.
“Fuck’s a bad word, doll face.”
Skin coloring further; hands twisting in his lap, he managed – barely – to snarl “I’m f-fucking fifteen, you selfish who-” before Gerard interrupted caustically.
“Oh, Frankie Iero’s gonna talk fucking dirty now? What do you want me to do, pull your fucking hair again and make you moan?”
A strangled breath. One shudder—
Enough of a reaction for his body to betray his thoughts.
Like a puppet on strings, the boy staggered to a standing position, lurching unsteadily as both knees threatened to give out beneath his weight. Trembling fingers found the unforgiving edge of the desk for support, pain shooting across his face as bruised tendons tightened. “It was wrong,” he hissed erratically, partially swallowing the words. “You’re t-twenty-f-fucking-five…”
Gerard’s enticing eyes flickered towards the indigo skin of the damaged wrist, then back to the boy’s danger-white face with a spark of tenuous understanding, and he ran one slender hand tensely through his ebony hair, usually silken voice softening from its former snarl; roughening like stress cracks in bending steel as he spoke again. “Frank… Frankie, this… doesn’t have anything to do with… me. D-does it?”
“N-no,” Frankie choked, without taking another breath for the rest of the words, “I c-couldn’t. I wouldn’t d-do that b-because of you-”
“So… him?”
A nod. A flinch.
A pause, and—
“Be fucking honest: does he or doesn’t he know about this shit?”
“M-maybe. M-maybe he knows.”
Gerard’s eyes darkened. “You’re full of shit. He fucking knows, doesn’t he? What the hell did he say to you?”
“Did you b-bring my cigs?” the younger boy mumbled, pathetically trying to avoid the question.
Pale fingers slipped easily into a coat pocket, slowly pulling out a crisp, plastic-wrapped pack of Marlboros. Clear hazel eyes stayed locked with mud-green ones as Gerard tossed the shiny package onto the desk, watching it slide across the wood surface and come to a stop inches from the edge. “There. Now fucking answer me.”