Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Gee's P.O.V.]

The worry at his refusal to eat was the one thing spurring me to search the pantry and refrigerator for something to shove down his throat. I was not about to let him spend the entire day without anything to consume. First off, I was worried about him and secondly, it was simply impolite as a host to not offer him nourishment. I heard the door open and the customary dropping of bags in the foyer. I smiled, ecstatic; who could it be but my mother, home from another long day at work? Muttering a quick "wait" to Frank, I exited the kitchen, practically running down the hallway to my mother. I caught her in a hug as she removed her scarf and coat. She laughed, pushing me away lightly.

"What did I do that has you so happy to see me, Gerard?" I shrugged as if I didn't know, grabbing her coat and scarf to hang them up quickly. She cocked an eyebrow, running a hand quickly through her bleached-blonde hair.

"Oh, no reason," I muttered.

"Gerard, what is up with you?" I laughed, planting a quick kiss on her cheek and grabbing her wrist. "Gerard?" she asked, her voice high-pitched with an admonishing tone though it was obvious she was trying to hold back a laugh. I ignored her questions, pulling her quickly down the hallway and into the lit kitchen.

"Mom, this is Frank. Frank, this is my mom; she's going to make us dinner."

"Hello, Frank darling. Gerard, who gave you the idea that I was making dinner? I had a rough day at work, sweetie; I'm not in the mood to make dinner right now." Frank gave her an awkward hello, waving at her quickly with a slight smile on his face.

"Please, Mom; I'm really hungry and so's Frank." He shook his head, his eyes widening.

"I'm really not hungry Mrs. Way; I'll be fine, honest." He smiled at her, standing up though his entire countenance was pale and shaky, his eyes shooting warning glances at me. I blatantly ignored them.

"Don't listen to him, Mom. C'mon, just make us something real quick and easy or I'll get Mikey to do it." He cocked his head at me, obviously curious as to why I was threatening with getting Mikey to cook. He slowly sat back down, waiting for the explanation; I was glad that he was at least sticking around.

"Oh Heaven forbid that child live alone," my mother muttered, walking to the fridge as she made up her mind to cook. I grinned triumphantly, turning to Frank.

"Mikey has been known to stick forks in toasters and bring the radio with him to the bathroom when there's water everywhere in order to hear music as he takes a bath." He chuckled, shaking his head.

"So, Frank, what would you like to eat? You know, Gerard hasn't told me much about you." We exchanged glances and he set to giggling as did I; his laugh truly was incredibly contagious.

"Oh, mom, he really enjoys Cajun." She looked at me pointedly and I laughed as his giggles continued. "Make him some mashed potatoes; he'll be fine."

"I can't just make him mashed potatoes. Really, Frank, what would you like?" He shook his head and I could see the struggle he had to control himself.

"Anything you'd make would be just fine, Mrs. Way but, um...I'm a vegetarian."

"Call me Donna." My mother never liked anyone calling her Mrs. Way; she said it made her feel old. That was probably the reason for her hair bleaching as well; she wasn't fond of aging.

"Okay, Donna," he smiled a crooked smile, his eyes glinting.

"So, how'd you meet my son?" she asked, working on peeling a potato. I reached in the fridge, calling back to ask what he wanted to drink.

"I'm with Mikey in music class," he muttered, a smile lingering on his features. "Whatever's fine," he added to me, his finger tracing patterns on the countertop.

"Oh, really? Do you play an instrument?" she then asked, hard at work on peeling another potato just right. I closed the refrigerator door, handing a can of soda to Frank, my fingers brushing his lightly. I felt a small jolt and he stared at me for a while, even as his hand grasped the can. He then shook his head, snapping out of the steady gaze we were holding in order to answer my mother.

"I play the guitar actually. I've played it since I was eleven and I haven't stopped since I got my first guitar. I love it." His eyes glittered, obviously pleased by the conversation, his fingers subconsciously prying the top open.

"How old are you then?"

"I'll be eighteen on the 31st," he smiled, watching intently as she began mashing the peeled potatoes diligently.

"Ah, a Halloween child. Gerard would definitely love that." I laughed nervously, feeling a surge of heat invading my cheeks. Hoping I could quell the blush, I guzzled down a quarter of the can, trying to distract myself. My mother looked at me and laughed, adding a quarter-inch thick slice of butter to the potatoes, mashing it in. She then added in some cream to make the concoction take on a creamy and smooth texture.

We remained in silence then, my mother working hard at dinner, still in her work suit, Frank tracing patterns on the counter and me alternating my gaze between the both of them. The only sounds any of us could hear came from the stove where my mother was cooking up some vegetables. I personally hated vegetables; I had no idea how Frank survived on only that. Still, I said nothing, waiting for the food to be ready; I was starving. Finally, dinner was served, piled high on two plates for us.

I wolfed down the mashed potatoes, ignoring the vegetables completely. Frank took small bites, chewing for a long time before he swallowed. I paused in my voracious attack on the food to stare at him. He seemed queasy, his cheeks tinged in color. "Frank?" I asked, swallowing the mouthful of potatoes I had. He shook his head, holding up a hand as he brought the other to his mouth. He burped and I thought that was it. That is until he pushed aside his stool and ran down into the hallway. My mother and I exchanged glances.

"My food's not that bad, is it?" she asked anxiously. I shook my head with a laugh, though my thoughts were on him.

"'Course not, mom. It's just he's not feeling well lately," I smiled, pushing aside my own stool to follow him down the hallway. Once I was out of eyesight, I let the smile drop from my face and worry to step in. Unsure exactly where he could be but having a good idea on his whereabouts, I stepped towards the bathroom. I knocked but there was no answer. Therefore, I jiggled the doorknob and, finding it unlocked, opened the door. He was there alright, doubled over the toilet, clutching his stomach.

Noting he was in the need of some privacy, I locked the door behind me, stepping towards him as lurched forwards. In an instant where my actions were simply automatic, I stood behind him, holding him as he gushed his partially-digested dinner into the toilet. It was vile, a multi-colored mixture with a strong stench; I nearly vomited myself. Instead, though, I focused on holding him, pushing back the hair that got into his face and brushing away the beads of sweat that rolled down his feverish skin. He shook in my arms, obviously trying to hold down the bile rising in his throat. He couldn't stop himself, though, from heaving forwards and emptying his stomach.

He whimpered, tears joining the sweat on his cheeks and I shushed him softly. When I was certain he would no longer vomit, I brought him towards me, placing a hand on the back of his head. He wept into my shoulder even as he attempted to hold back the tears, his hands pressed between his chest and mine. I rocked him softly, whispering in his ear things I can no longer remember. I couldn't control myself or the surges of emotion rushing through me. Tenderly I kissed his cheek, feeling the soft touch of his skin against my lips; it poisonous bliss.

He said nothing, falling limp in my arms again. I sighed, turning around to unlock and open the door before hoisting him in my arms again. I carried him down the hallway, passing the entrance to the kitchen without a glance inside. My thoughts were simply trained on getting him safely down the stairs and onto his mattress or my bed, whichever seemed best. I paused at the landing leading to the stairs, looking into his sweet face. His eyes were closed softly, his lips relaxed, leaving me to see a sliver of his teeth. His chest moved slowly up and down as he breathed and my heart swelled.

Deciding I needed to focus in order to get him safely down the stairs, I turned my face away, looking down at the steps I needed to take. It seemed an eternity of worry before I managed to reach the bottom with him securely held in my arms. He stirred slightly, his lips moving a fraction of an inch before stilling. I let go of the breath I held, moving as softly as possible towards my bed; I wasn't about to let him have an uncomfortable night on a deflating air mattress. I lay him down gently, grabbing my sheets to wrap around his frail body, determined on keeping his delicate frame safe.

I sighed then, turning away abruptly. I couldn't go on with these surges of utter emotion bursting through my thin veins like electricity. I wouldn't be able to control myself any longer and losing self-control would probably drive him completely out of my life. After all, I didn't know his sexual orientation; we had never discussed it. And there was no reason to. Why would I, ridden with experience, wish to be completely open about my feelings since I met him? It would be a complete mistake; a wish for him to tear apart every fiber of my being. I could not possibly have that. And so I remained in silence, the edges of my insides slowly rotting, blackening beyond recognition.

I looked back at his tender face pressed against my pillow and I swear my heart simply melted right out of my chest. My lips twitched in a small smile and I turned, reluctantly beginning to leave the room; I couldn't stand watch him any longer. But then I decided that going back up the stairs to face my mom and the hopelessly filled plates in the kitchen was infinitely worse than staying here and watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. So I turned around, laying myself on the mattress, watching his profile from my position on the floor. Slowly, my vision began to leave me, fading away like ghosts in the snow. My lids slid shut and I fell and fell hard, into the abyss of sleep.