Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Frank's P.O.V.]

I had never truly witnessed a breakdown of such a magnitude. Never had I seen someone smash in that way before me. And it ripped apart my heart to realize this breakdown came because of me. If I had never spoken to him, if I had walked away in the very instant I was left alone, he wouldn't be in this situation. He wouldn't be sniveling, weeping, sobbing frenetically on his knees before me. And all because I would leave him. It was the logical thing, however. I had ruined things by coming to this place; I should be able to fix things to some degree by leaving.

Instead I had ruined them further. And this made me want to weep as he was; made me want to fall to the floor in tears and never get up again. I did not deserve to survive another night. But I had to, if only to appease the crying man before me. And it was with this burden that I brought him to his feet and wrapped my arms around his abdomen. I was not the one in need of assistance anymore; he could barely hold himself up anymore, weak as he was from the heart-wrenching sobs wracking his body.

"Frankie...are you...an angel?" I laughed bitterly, my heart lodged in my throat. How could I possibly be an angel? I was the damned creature; the beast walking this earth. I was the damned one.

"I'm sorry," I muttered for it was all I could think to say. I couldn't be an angel when I was so entirely heartless to have wished for death. I couldn't be an angel when I'm one of the "phony bastards" Holden Caulfield so despises. I couldn't possibly be anything sacred when my entire life has be spent being one of those I despise. With vanity and pride riddling my body, reducing me to that which I find despicable, how could I? When my own mother rejects me, ashamed at having me for a son, how could I?

"Don't be," he mutters. "You are." And I realize that no amount of arguing could shake the idea from his mind. And I realize that I don't wish to make him believe something else because of my own selfish pride. Despite my condemnation of it all, all I had ever wanted was for someone to believe the best of me. All I had ever wanted was for someone to unconditionally believe that I was something, someone; that I could do something right in my life. And that is all he believes. Yet, it seems unfair for him to live in such a fairytale where even I am angel-worthy.

I wish to ask him that but words fail me. He couldn't even answer the question on why he cared; he wasn't about to answer this when he could barely even force out a simple four word sentence. So I merely lead him back into the house, straining under his weight. I don't wish to show him the intense effort I am making; however, for fear I will injure his feelings by protesting. He doesn't seem to notice that I am more than half a foot smaller than him; he doesn't seem to notice and neither do I.

I finally reach the vacant kitchen, dropping him quite unceremoniously on a stool, my breathing harsh. He stares at me, not saying a word, just staring. Uncomfortable with the steady gaze emanating from those brilliant hazel eyes of his, I turn around, fumbling with cabinet doors in order to find the ground coffee to put in the coffeemaker.

"Lower left door," he mutters, pointing to a cabinet beneath the sink. I smile nervously, opening it to find the can smack-dab in front of me. I grab it, going to the coffeemaker and placing the required amount in. It was all completely effortless for me as I had made coffee each and every morning for my father and me when I live with him. See, my parents are divorced and it was just my misfortune to be staying with my mother this week; my father is much kinder towards me. He just doesn't realize what a fuck-up he got for a child.

Ignoring my own thoughts, I continued the task of coffee-making, immersing myself in the simple actions I had to take. I could feel his steady gaze burning into my face, watching everything I did. I stilled, turning to face the oven-top, resisting a sigh. What am I doing here? Subconsciously, I ran my hand through my hair, pressing the button on the machine with the other. A slow whirring rushed through the air and there was nothing more for me to do. Finding no other choice, I turned to face him. His features were cold, harsh, and distant; his eyes holding a faraway look. He was no longer here with me in reality.

"Gerard?" He blinks slowly, hopelessly impassive, hopelessly gone. I swallow hard, running a hand over my face, trying to wake from this horrible nightmare. "Gee?" He responds by looking at me, blinking a bit more rapidly. Still his features remain a mask and that hurts me more than hatred would. "What's wrong with you?" He blinks, jerking back suddenly.

"Nothing," he mutters under his breath, his cold hazel eyes dropping to gaze at the counter-top. I sigh; there's no use in trying to get something out of him. The machine beeped behind me and I turned, looking around for mugs.

"Upper right." I nodded, opening the cabinet and retrieving two mugs, pouring coffee into each.

"How do you want it?" I asked, moving to the refrigerator to take out milk, finding a container labeled sugar on the counter to the side of the fridge.

"I'll make it myself." Hurt, I stepped aside, grabbing my own mug in order to raise it to my lips. He stepped around me, fiddling with the milk and sugar. I walked away; there was absolutely no point in staying with him in this tension-filled kitchen. I walked aimlessly down the hallway and up the stairs, hearing voices in one of the doors to my left. I dawdle there, listening intently to the different tones and pitches. I realize it's the group and the topic of the lovely conversation is me.

"What the fuck are we going to do with Frank?"

"What can we do, Mikey? Your brother's the one who seems to have taken a fancy to the boy."

"So, what? He can do whatever the fuck he wants; I want to know about us. You guys are just as much a part of this as I am."

"Why? We don't even live here, Mikey. We don't have anything to do with this."

"You can't just leave me with all this. I don't want to have to deal with Gee and his problems alone. Honest to God, I'm not going to take responsibility for this shit. I barely know what the hell's going on. I'd like to know that first; then...ah, shit. I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Well he's not exactly your problem, Mikes. Gerard's the one who brought him-"

"But this is my house too."

"I thought you liked him."

"I do but whatever happened seems to be pretty damned serious and I want no part in it. I mean, what if he murdered someone?"

My heart leapt in my throat and I kicked the closed door before running off. Sure, it was stupid but I couldn't stand the way the conversation was turning. So maybe I shouldn't have been eavesdropping in their little talk but I have an insatiable curiosity. Still, I shouldn't have run off, simply because I had a steaming mug of coffee in my hands. That alone should have been an indication to walk away quickly, not run. So, I spilled steaming hot liquid over the front of my shirt and down my jeans. It soaked into the fabric, burning my skin instantly. Curses flew from my lips as I continued running, the mug nearly empty, seeing as the actual liquid was splattered over me and the stairs.

"What the fuck's going on here?" All I could do was cease my cursing, the question taking me by surprise, my eyes watering from the blistering heat encompassing my chest. I heard a short curse but I couldn't really see anything through the curtain of tears before my eyes. I felt hands on my hips, gently touching the hem of my shirt and brushing over my bare skin beneath it. I shivered, both from the intense heat of the coffee and the feel of his hands on my waist. God, I can be such a girl sometimes.

"What'd you do, Frank?" I sighed, unsure what to do with the coffee mug I still held in my hand. Though that was quickly solved as it was wrenched from me, thudding to a rest on a table conveniently placed near the stairs.

"I ran," I muttered, reaching a hand up to both facilitate the removal of the shirt and to wipe away the tears collecting in my eyes.

"Why the fuck did you run?" I shrugged, jerking forwards as I felt a pull on my hand. Finally I could focus my vision and I could see that we were heading in the direction of his room. I protested weakly, though I knew any protest I made would matter not to him. Therefore I simply stumbled down the stairs behind him, unable to keep up with his stomping steps. Finally, I settled into one position though he continued rushing around, grabbing a towel and a random shirt. I cocked an eyebrow, looking down to inspect my own skin. I at least wanted to know what the burning hot coffee had done to me. And, what do you know? My skin was red and splotchy, obviously suffering minor burns.

And suddenly there was a moist towel on my chest, obstructing my veiw of my own skin. I couldn't help but feel added heat rising to my cheeks, reducing me to stutters. He rolled his eyes though he smirked, still running the cool fabric over my skin. "I've got no idea how to treat burns," he confessed, tossing aside the towel. "Hold on a second," he then muttered, heading towards the stairs. Awkwardly I stood there until he came back a minute or so later, a bottle of cream in his hands. I cocked an eyebrow again but I didn't say anything as he began slathering lotion over my chest.

"Gerard?"

"What?" he asked, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrated on coating my skin in whatever was contained in that little bottle.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting lotion on you." It was obvious he didn't realize what he was doing.

"I can see that, Gee. Forget it." He shrugged, capping the bottle and tossing it aside; I could almost hear as he thought, I'll put it away later. It was something I did often. Of course, my mother tended to get quite enraged at my habits but I honestly couldn't help it. He then grabbed the shirt, extending it towards me. As I moved to grab it, he took it back, staring at me intently, obviously deep in thought. "Uh..."

"Ah, stay like that. It won't matter here."

"But-but..."

"What?"

"I'd like to wear the shirt, thanks." He shrugged, handing it to me, walking away swiftly. I honestly didn't understand him at all.