Ink
Faggots.
“H-he- He th-thought it wasn’t a b-big fucking surprise,” Frankie managed, reaching unsteadily for the fresh package of Marlboros. “I d-don’t think he knows how I d-do it, b-but-”
“Believe me, it doesn’t take fucking rocket science,” Gerard muttered, hard hazel eyes drifting slowly over the scratched wood of the old desk, drawing the other boy’s gaze to follow his like a magnet.
“I don’t know,” the other boy whispered quietly, hoarsely; sounding submissive and exhausted now as he stared at the brutal desk edge. “I d-don’t know what he knows.”
“He say anything else to you, Frank?”
“N-no…”
Piercing hazel.
He knows. He knows every time—
“M-maybe.” The contours of his voice were pulpy and raw, rough in all the wrong places, like his throat was constricting; scarred red trachea walls folding, collapsing inwards on themselves. “Said s-s’cos I’m a-” He inhaled shakily, nearly choking. “H-homo.”
Gerard’s face transformed into an icy mask as the younger boy gasped out the last word, lips curving slowly in another question. “He say ‘homo?’”
Frankie stood frozen; no air in dry, burning lungs, all the life in his fucking body draining into a gelatinous puddle by his feet—
And then because he hadn’t gotten the answer he already knew, Gerard Way decided to open his filthy mouth again.
“Faggot, Frankie,” he spat poisonously, cold façade slipping; crashing hard to the dusty floor and revealing the vicious anger that had been boiling all along beneath the frost. “Faggot faggot faggot. It make you sick? Make you wanna bang your fucking wrist on a desk, maybe? You stupid faggot. Stupid sick little shi-”
He stopped in the middle of the word.
It was more than the awful shade of grey the kid turned as the abuse hit home; more than the heart-attack way his fragile chest was heaving, breathing instantly shallower, as though a malfunction, a sudden spurt of crimson into his overloaded aorta, had accidentally sent a wave of thick, un-oxygenated blood pouring into his veins; more than the tortured scream of “shut ups” and incoherent profanity that ripped through his larynx like a bloodstained sawblade—
Frank Iero lost it.
The pathetic little fifteen-year-old fuck-up went completely over the edge, so fast that Gerard could barely even saw it coming, let alone find the ability to stop the disaster, already barreling forward with the speed of a derailed train, spurting sparks and gasoline-blue flames.
With no warning, Frankie’s skeleton just fell apart at the fucking joints. He crumpled hard against the side of the desk, splinters digging into his ribcage, the fingernails of one hand clawing animally at the wooden surface to keep him from collapsing completely as he slammed his previously-damaged wrist down against the edge with all the force left in his body. The glossy dark bruises connected with the faux-mahogany, a strangled whimper of pain blending with the familiar sickening thud of flesh, muscle, sinew, bone hitting wood.
THUNK.
The hideous sound was louder now.
Two cold eyes were bolted to the scene, immobile.
THUNK.
A strangled cry of pain spilled from between parted cherry lips like a wave of hot crimson splashing against the bedroom floor, and a sudden flicker of desperation flashed in the hazel irises.
One awful minute later, just as two pale arms wrapped tightly around his torso, trying to pry him roughly away from the desk, Frankie’s agonized shriek and the unmistakable sound of violently cracking bone made even Gerard’s stomach cave.
When it was all over, the old house was still again, hushed and vacant except for two boys in the second-story bedroom, their heartbeats the only fragment of rhythm left within the chipped walls except for the ominous ticking of an inaccurate clock downstairs.
Frankie was lying on his side on the floor, whimpering awfully, his broken wrist cradled in the space between the hardwood and his shuddering abdomen as he rocked his body just barely back and forth, back and forth, hot, acetic tears streaking his burning face.
Gerard was kneeling; leaning over him, slender hands shaking nervously in the air like they wanted to fucking do something, but never once so much as brushing the younger boy’s skin. “Let me see your wrist,” he hissed, running his fingers anxiously through his own dark hair as if to compensate for the desire to do the same to the kid in front of him. “Let me see your fucking wrist.”
“N-no… No, d-don’t touch me…”
“I’m not fucking touching you,” he snapped, more throaty concern in the words than he would have liked. “Fucking look at me!”
The boy on the floor rolled over, very slowly, gasping like a dying fish as the pain slowly suffocated him. His green eyes glowed an unsettling olive color in the pale autumn light from the window. “Your f-face looks f-funny,” he whispered, something that could’ve been terror creeping into his voice. “Th-there’s nothing there.”
Gerard Way felt an awful chill run down his spine.
“Believe me, it doesn’t take fucking rocket science,” Gerard muttered, hard hazel eyes drifting slowly over the scratched wood of the old desk, drawing the other boy’s gaze to follow his like a magnet.
“I don’t know,” the other boy whispered quietly, hoarsely; sounding submissive and exhausted now as he stared at the brutal desk edge. “I d-don’t know what he knows.”
“He say anything else to you, Frank?”
“N-no…”
Piercing hazel.
He knows. He knows every time—
“M-maybe.” The contours of his voice were pulpy and raw, rough in all the wrong places, like his throat was constricting; scarred red trachea walls folding, collapsing inwards on themselves. “Said s-s’cos I’m a-” He inhaled shakily, nearly choking. “H-homo.”
Gerard’s face transformed into an icy mask as the younger boy gasped out the last word, lips curving slowly in another question. “He say ‘homo?’”
Frankie stood frozen; no air in dry, burning lungs, all the life in his fucking body draining into a gelatinous puddle by his feet—
And then because he hadn’t gotten the answer he already knew, Gerard Way decided to open his filthy mouth again.
“Faggot, Frankie,” he spat poisonously, cold façade slipping; crashing hard to the dusty floor and revealing the vicious anger that had been boiling all along beneath the frost. “Faggot faggot faggot. It make you sick? Make you wanna bang your fucking wrist on a desk, maybe? You stupid faggot. Stupid sick little shi-”
He stopped in the middle of the word.
It was more than the awful shade of grey the kid turned as the abuse hit home; more than the heart-attack way his fragile chest was heaving, breathing instantly shallower, as though a malfunction, a sudden spurt of crimson into his overloaded aorta, had accidentally sent a wave of thick, un-oxygenated blood pouring into his veins; more than the tortured scream of “shut ups” and incoherent profanity that ripped through his larynx like a bloodstained sawblade—
Frank Iero lost it.
The pathetic little fifteen-year-old fuck-up went completely over the edge, so fast that Gerard could barely even saw it coming, let alone find the ability to stop the disaster, already barreling forward with the speed of a derailed train, spurting sparks and gasoline-blue flames.
With no warning, Frankie’s skeleton just fell apart at the fucking joints. He crumpled hard against the side of the desk, splinters digging into his ribcage, the fingernails of one hand clawing animally at the wooden surface to keep him from collapsing completely as he slammed his previously-damaged wrist down against the edge with all the force left in his body. The glossy dark bruises connected with the faux-mahogany, a strangled whimper of pain blending with the familiar sickening thud of flesh, muscle, sinew, bone hitting wood.
THUNK.
The hideous sound was louder now.
Two cold eyes were bolted to the scene, immobile.
THUNK.
A strangled cry of pain spilled from between parted cherry lips like a wave of hot crimson splashing against the bedroom floor, and a sudden flicker of desperation flashed in the hazel irises.
One awful minute later, just as two pale arms wrapped tightly around his torso, trying to pry him roughly away from the desk, Frankie’s agonized shriek and the unmistakable sound of violently cracking bone made even Gerard’s stomach cave.
When it was all over, the old house was still again, hushed and vacant except for two boys in the second-story bedroom, their heartbeats the only fragment of rhythm left within the chipped walls except for the ominous ticking of an inaccurate clock downstairs.
Frankie was lying on his side on the floor, whimpering awfully, his broken wrist cradled in the space between the hardwood and his shuddering abdomen as he rocked his body just barely back and forth, back and forth, hot, acetic tears streaking his burning face.
Gerard was kneeling; leaning over him, slender hands shaking nervously in the air like they wanted to fucking do something, but never once so much as brushing the younger boy’s skin. “Let me see your wrist,” he hissed, running his fingers anxiously through his own dark hair as if to compensate for the desire to do the same to the kid in front of him. “Let me see your fucking wrist.”
“N-no… No, d-don’t touch me…”
“I’m not fucking touching you,” he snapped, more throaty concern in the words than he would have liked. “Fucking look at me!”
The boy on the floor rolled over, very slowly, gasping like a dying fish as the pain slowly suffocated him. His green eyes glowed an unsettling olive color in the pale autumn light from the window. “Your f-face looks f-funny,” he whispered, something that could’ve been terror creeping into his voice. “Th-there’s nothing there.”
Gerard Way felt an awful chill run down his spine.