Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Gerard's P.O.V.]

I looked at his young face and suddenly felt quite appalled at the fact that I had just agreed to divulge what I had kept hidden. It probably wasn't as bad as I thought it was; perhaps he wouldn't even care. Still, due to the fact that it was something so personal, something I hadn't even shared with my brother or my dear friends, I was quite uneasy. "You had better stay quiet," I growled, frustrated as well because he had quite ruined the mood by his continued insistence in finding out what I was thinking. He might be an open book but I was a little more reserved than that.

He nodded quietly, eagerly, wide olive eyes fixated on my face. "I thought I was a fool for no one," I muttered under my breath, whispering to myself. "But oh, how I'm a fool for you." He watched me still, eyes intent on my lips, not wanting to lose a single breath of my explanation. "Oh, don't you know how I suffer?" I suddenly blurted out, watching his wretched face so beautifully entranced by my features. He blinked rapidly, startled by my sudden outburst. He obviously remembered my warning, however, for though his mouth opened, he spoke none and presently sealed his lips again.

I sighed, running a hand over my face, through the hair falling over my forehead. I opened my eyes to see him still staring at me, still watching me as though I were some fascinating specimen about to show him wonders the likes of which he had never seen. Would he be disappointed to know what was hiding in the depths of my mind? Would he be disgusted at the cowardice I was to suddenly expose to him? I felt vulnerable all of a sudden, as though my brain had been laid in front of him, ready for him to pick through. I wanted to grab my mind, to keep it safe between the confines of my dreadful skull.

I didn't want him to see it. And yet now I was willingly taking it, spreading my thoughts before him, overturned so he could only risk a vague concept as to their nature. One by one I would begin to turn them, showing him their dark faces; showing him what I was capable of. "Frank," I said now, my voice so low, so small that he had to strain to hear it. He nodded gently, urging me on without a word. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes tightly so I wouldn't have to see his sweet features staring expectantly at me.

"You want to know why, don't you? Why did I take you in? Why did I grow so affectionate for you in such a little time? You wonder what could have possibly possessed me to take in a killer without any qualms." He took a sharp intake of breath at the word "killer" but still said nothing, keeping true to my condition. I kept my eyes closed, continuing on, "It's going to be hard for you to understand, Frankie. I need a fucking cigarette." I crawled off my bed, walking to my bedside table, rummaging through the cabinet for a single pack of whatever brand I happened to have in there.

With a triumphant smirk, I extricated a Marlboro pack from amongst the assortment of junk, quickly removing one of the sticks inside, offering them to Frank. He eagerly grabbed one, his nerves just as frayed as mine were. I lit his and mine rapidly, taking a much needed drag, the ends brightly burning in the dim light of the room. The gray smoke seemed so eloquent, so very much the opposite of the both of us creating it. I stared at it for a while in silence, mulling over the tumultuous thoughts racing for attention in my mind. I sighed, taking another drag, exhaling another winding cloud of smoke.

"You don't have a good life, do you Frankie?" I asked, looking over at him. He paled and shook his head, looking down at his lap. I chuckled softly, "Mother and father divorced; probably fighting all the time before that. Fights with your mother are bad, aren't they? Leave you wanting to escape so you go to your grandparent's house and stay there a while until things die down? You've got ghosts from your past haunting you at every available minute just when you let your guard down; when you're alone. You want to know something, Frankie? My life is fucking perfect.

"And that's the problem. My life is just great. I have absolutely no problems with my parents; we get along just peachy. My brother is my best friend living in my own house with which I can talk to over just about everything. I've got actual friends who are quite supportive and help me when I fall. Yet throughout my entire existence I've felt like I don't belong. Do you get that Frankie? It makes me feel horrible because while there are other people out there suffering, really suffering, I'm eating hearty meals, getting the music I want, living the way I want to.

"I hate it. I hate it because even though I have all this, I always feel as though I don't deserve it. I mean, I virtually have my own apartment in my parent's basement! Yet every fucking night I've got to drink myself to sleep because for some unfathomable reason, I don't want this life. I don't seem to belong anywhere so I smoke to calm my nerves and go to whatever Jersey party there is so I can get absolutely trashed. I'd find some mindless girl or guy (I'm not picky) and use them to feel some sense of belonging.

"I never found that. What's some random fuck at a party going to do for me? They don't mean anything; I won't remember their faces, much less their names, in the morning. I spend my days seeking something else; something out of this boring routine of momentary pleasure and alcohol. All I found was my weekly domino game which, shit, I missed last night. James is not going to be happy. Anyway, that too became routine to the point where it was just fucking mindless everything. Nothing matters anymore. Do you think anything matters to me anymore? I just strive for whatever happiness and pleasure I can receive at any given moment.

"And then you came along." I paused, taking another long drag from my cig, anxiously studying his face. He was taking short, quick drags from his stick, brow furrowed in concentration, waiting for me to continue even though he was still processing what I had just divulged. "And you! By God! A person who shared my interests in music? A person who appreciated what I loved, who appreciated me?" I began laughing, trying to take another drag. "It's so horrible isn't it? Isn't it so very crappy?

"Don't take it wrong, though," I then said, finally taking another drag as I ceased my inane chuckling. "You're not another meaningless fuck. You're not any of those people that filled my need for one night. Frank, acceptance meant the world to me. It's not like that anymore. Now you mean the world to me. And you're driving me insane. I want to protect you and I want to save you from every night I spent, shit-faced to the point of collapse. I don't want any of what I did to occur to you; you don't deserve it at all.

"Are you happy now? Are you happy to know why I had to take you in? Do you think I was going to leave you on the streets, a kid such as yourself? A kid with a Misfits shirt and skinny jeans with smudged eyeliner that was such an obvious target from some homophobe? Sugar, I'm not heartless either. To tell you the truth, you just interested me so very much. I heard you shouting with your mom; I saw her hit you. It's funny though because at first I thought you were some guy about to shoot me to the point of oblivion for just sitting there. I know different now."

"But I am a killer," he broke in softly now, for the first time since before I had even begun speaking. "Gee, I'm a killer and you haven't thrown me from your house. Is it because I'm the only source of 'love' you have?"

"Aw, Frankie; I swear to you, it's not like that. At least, not really. I want you here because I know that here at least you're safe. Here I can watch you and know that you'll be fine. If I let you go, I probably wouldn't know about you anymore; I probably wouldn't see you again. And it scares me. It scares me to think that I'll lose you. That I'll lose the misfit that I just want to hold." My voice had dropped to a low whisper, the ash collecting on the diminishing cancer stick I held in my hand. I'm probably going to end up with lung cancer and die a horrible radiated death but at the moment I didn't care. I don't think I'll end up living a very long life anyway.

I was startled to hear a soft giggling coming from his lips suddenly after the silence that had befallen us. When I turned to look at him he was giggling hysterically, clutching his stomach with the hand that wasn't holding the cig. "What is wrong with you? Here I go and tell you everything that's in my 'pretty head' and you start laughing?"

"I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, waving a hand to and fro. "I just thought it was going to be this horrible story on how you're really a mass murderer that kept me here because I'm your next victim; not some 'I-need-affection' type of story." I gasped loudly and shoved him, glaring furiously at him.

"Damn it, Frank; you suck." He continued giggling, finding a comfortable position lying back on my mattress, contentedly taking sporadic drags from his fag.

"You want to know something, though, Gee?" I raised an eyebrow, watching him as he kept his eyes trained on the ceiling, lips delicately around the fag now in his mouth.

"What is it?" I asked him softly, gently, not wanting to disrupt the sudden peace that engulfed him. A smile began to twitch his lips and he removed the stick, exhaling a small cloud of smoke into the air.

"You can touch me now." A laugh burst from my lips and I quickly extinguished my half-finished cigarette onto my bedside table. He giggled as well, turning his sparkling gaze towards my actions. I leaned in towards him, capturing his lips in mine, reveling in the taste, in the nicotine that lingered there. His hands threaded my hair, grasping my neck, pulling me in. And I so willingly obliged, melting into him without any hesitations, without any second thoughts. I was content in melting, content with never pulling away. Because this is all I wanted; this was all the acceptance I needed.