Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Gerard's P.O.V.]

"Self-defense, was it?" she asked, leaning her head on one hand, staring directly into his eyes, cocking an eyebrow. "Are you certain of this? You do realize that if it's found to not have been in self-defense-"

"But it was!" he exclaimed, his eyes wild as he desperately tried to get her to believe him. "It was," he murmured more quietly, tears building in his gorgeous eyes.

"However, you could be found for imperfect self-defense. This is where the," she paused, making air quotes, "'victim' believes he had reason to kill or fatally injure someone when in reality there is a lack of such. This will not excuse you from charges but will degrade it. Such as, if you were being charged for murder, you'll instead get the sentence for manslaughter which is a lesser offense. Also, I'm not entirely certain you know for sure that self-defense will acquit you of all charges. If you're found guilty, you will be charged with murder."

Her words hung in the air, impregnating it with tension. I glanced at him and, without realizing what I was doing, took his hand in mine, rubbing his knuckles gently with my thumb in an attempt to relax him. He shook his head, looking down at his lap, tears slipping silently down his cheek. "The thing is," he finally muttered, looking up at her, "I'm not even sure if he's dead."

She shook her head, bewildered. "Okay, I'm just going to need you to explain everything for me because honestly, I'm confused right about now." He opened his mouth, taking a deep breath, gripping my hand tightly. He looked at me, his eyes pleading with me for some answer, some encouragement. I nodded slowly, trying to communicate every single feeling through my eyes; I couldn't speak. He nodded back, turning his head to look at her, opening his mouth to begin his story.

"It's going to be complicated if I begin with the actual event so I'm going to start at a point some years before," he began, looking directly into her eyes with the intent to make her listen to and understand him. She nodded, flashing him a smile, motioning for him to speak. And he began to speak, the tainted words flowing from his lips to create this intricate web of his life.

It had been in the fall nearly three years ago when Frank met Dorian Vane at a comic book store. He was fifteen at that time and his parents were having countless problems, which forced him into another city, hence a new school. He was alone, as any boy would be and desperate for someone that would understand him. When he saw this other kid, so very much like him, he felt intrigued and they struck up a conversation. From then on, they forged this damned "friendship". Dorian was eighteen or nineteen, he couldn't remember at the moment, so he was amazed that someone of his age would want to hang out with a "punk kid" like him. He just didn't know what he really wanted.

This continued on for about a year before things got a bit sketchy. He became closer to him, would begin becoming incredibly liberal with his touches. Frank simply thought he was a touchy-feely kind of person despite the fact that he had never exhibited this type of behavior before. Still, the strange behavior continued until finally, one day, he made his move, attempting to corner him into kisses and other "stuff" he refused to specify. He refused every attempt, managing to escape but just barely.

Dorian Vane was not a man you refused. The incessant phone calls to both his cell phone and house began – calls that only carried heavy breaths and heated threats. His parents became concerned but did nothing at the moment; they didn't know the extent of his anger. The letters then began – letters that promised of a "rightful" revenge. He was not done either. The letters stopped as did the phone calls and the entire family was lulled into a false sense of security. They believed he had gotten bored; had lost interest in the boy that rejected him.

It wasn't the end, far from it. One night, as Frank walked home from a visit to a friend's home, he was pulled into an alleyway. Jersey will possibly never be a peaceful area and news of assault and murder is common. Still, he was stunned; this only happened in the news, never to one, never to you.

"I shouldn't have been alone; my friend had offered me a ride home but I refused, saying I would rather walk. Perhaps if I had accepted the offer, Dorian would have forgotten about me. I doubt it though; he would wait it out. He would wait until the day I put my guard down, until the day I thought I was safe and take me at my most vulnerable. He would wait, I know it. He didn't have to wait long though and I couldn't do anything as I stared down the barrel of the gun. It's a scary thing to look at and believe you're going to die. I thought I was going to lose everything at that moment; I would never be able to see my family again, never see my grandpa..."

He trailed off, taking a deep breath, obviously trying to hold back the emotion coursing through him. His hand grasped mine firmly, clutching at it as if it were the only means of support he had and at the moment, it was. I looked into his eyes, noting the battle that raged on in them. His precious jade eyes were filled with such hurt that it was all I could do to not simply take him in my arms and smash my lips into his. He took another deep breath, raising his eyes to the officer, never once looking at me.

"He spoke to me, telling me that he had already gotten rid of my parents; that I was alone. Now, I could either go with him as he had originally wanted or I could receive a bullet through my heart; whichever was perfectly fine with him. I tried pleading with him, tried to appeal my case. He just laughed and laughed and laughed..." He trailed off again, closing his eyes tightly, the sound obviously replaying itself over in his mind. He winced, his lower lip quivering.

"'Don't kill me, please,' I had begged, stupidly trying to see if I could reason with him. He laughed again, darting the gun down towards my chest.

"'And who's going to save you, Frankie dearest? Who's going to step in front of your speeding bullet? No one cares for you Frank and those who did are long gone. Face your death, Frankie; it's all you've got left.' And I believed him; I believed every word and I fell to the floor, just crying. He laughed again, raising a foot to kick me in the stomach. 'You're gone, Frankie.'

"I rolled over, struggling to my feet. His finger tightened on the trigger and his lips curved into a smirk. I jumped to the side as he pulled it and the bullet clipped my arm. The pain is," he laughed bitterly, shaking his head, "excruciating. He looked stunned at what had happened and I took the opportunity to run. He didn't waste much before he was running after me, shooting blindly in my general direction. His rage blinded him and instead of hitting me, he smashed apart trash cans and other stuff just lying in the street.

"He never caught up to me; I could hear the hollow click of the empty barrel echoing off the buildings around me. He kept running though and the blood was just streaming down my arm. I finally reached the police station and I begged for help. One officer just rolled his eyes, following me out of the building. He was gone and the officer rolled his eyes again, telling me to go home and to put a bandage on my arm. We pursued the case but without concrete evidence, we could do nothing more than get a restraining order in which he couldn't approach our house. Fat load of good that does me," he finally scoffed, squeezing my hand once, looking away with his eyes brimming over with unshed tears.

Kathleen said not a word, staring at him intently. Minutes passed and neither of them made any attempts to speak, Frank's shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "And how does that relate to this case?" she asked gently, cocking an eyebrow. He raised his free hand, motioning for her to be quiet as he regained his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he spoke now.

"He came back." And he fell apart, releasing the stream of emotions he had held deep within himself throughout his memories. I was stunned, finding myself at a loss for words as I stared at him, mouth agape. I didn't know this boy at all; not at all. He launched himself, quite painfully I might add, into his next story, relating how he came to find the man again. He spoke every single detail, down to the way his blood ran down his body, the way the wound gaped on his throat, the way his breath rattled in his wounded throat as he slowly began to die.

She still didn't say anything and in a way it infuriated me. I wanted her to react but her face was completely blank. I wanted to shake her, to get her to listen to his heart-wrenching story, really listen. I was rooted to the spot, though, and could do nothing more than stare at her in rage. I wasn't really infuriated with her; I was infuriated with my total lack of knowledge. I should know all this; I should be nodding my head sadly as he spoke. Instead, I sat there, completely stunned by this overload of information. This boy, despite his age, was more experienced than someone twice his age.

He finished, staring down at his lap. I could do nothing but squeeze his hand gently, wishing there was a way I could fix this; there was none. She spoke now about the possible ways he could lose his case. I shook my head, cursing under my breath, glancing at the paper she had before her; it was covered in words that swirled before me, melding into each other. My rage pounded through my veins and I wanted to rattle her, to wipe that business-like tone from her voice. I wanted to drill compassion into her mind and make her understand as I did. I just sat there, immersed in the way her ring sparkled from the overhead light. I wanted to smash that ring.

She finished whatever she was saying, rising slowly to her feet. "I will try to do everything I can Mr. Iero, but there are no guarantees." She mispronounced his name; I wanted to throttle her. "Goodbye Mr. Iero, Mr. Way. Have a pleasant day." I resisted the urge to sneer, politely excusing us from her office. She walked us quickly down the tiled floor towards the door, her hands empty of the papers she had had. I was pulling Frank along behind me, ignoring his slight protests. I was angered beyond belief; so angry in fact that hot tears sprang to my eyes. She began speaking to him and I growled under my breath, shoving the doors open and walking through before they even began closing. Down the steps to the railing and my emotions were wreaking havoc upon my system. There was nothing I could do but stand there and wait for him to come towards me and I wanted nothing more than to pull him to me and kiss him.

I tried controlling myself but found it difficult, brushing away the tears angrily. This was not supposed to be this way, not at all. I managed to compose myself somewhat, the tears gone from my face. I had to be strong from here on in; it was going to be a tough trial for the both of us.