Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Frank's P.O.V.]

I couldn't bring myself to confess to him that I had been visited by my own treacherous mind once again. It was simply not necessary for him to know that I see him, that I have these insane hallucinations. It was not necessary for him to think that I was some sort of escaped mental patient. Therefore I let myself get lost in his kiss, let myself forget the entire situation; there was no need for stress from either of us. I pulled away, a smirk beginning to set in across my lips.

"What are you going to do with yourself tomorrow?" He gave me a puzzled stare, trailing a finger down my neck to my collarbone. I squirmed under the touch, trying to focus on the thought that had led me to pull away.

"What do you mean?" he asked curiously, bending down to replace his finger with his lips. I allowed a whimper escape my lips before I turned my attention back to my own question and his.

"I have school tomorrow, Gee, so you're going to be all alone here, no one around. Just you and your lonesome self." In a quick moment he removed his lips from my feverish skin to gape, wide-eyed, at a loss for words.

A smirk then came over his face as he thought, "But you see; you can't go."

"And why is that?"

"Because you don't have your book bag or books or notebooks or uniform." He smirked as if the issue had been resolved. I laughed lightly, ignoring the confused look that took over his features.

"Darling," I purred, "All my school stuff is in my locker; I always leave it there on the weekends."

"Fucker!" he yelled in my face, stumped by the sudden curveball I had thrown in his direction. I began laughing uproariously; his frustration was my entertainment. He brought his face down to my neck, nuzzling it softy in an almost apologetic way to excuse his outburst. "Why couldn't you be a geek like my brother and bring everything home?"

"Because then I wouldn't be the irresponsible boy underneath you. For once irresponsibility pays off."

"Do you really want to go to school?" he asked suddenly, voice reflecting shock, raising his head from my neck. I laughed again, grabbing his face to press my lips against his.

"What normal boy wants to go to school?"

"You're not a normal boy, Frankie."

"Exactly. Therefore, I'm going. "

"You can go some other day; screw tomorrow."

"You really want me to stay, don't you?"

"No, Frankie; I want you to leave me," he said in quite a sarcastic tone, though a smile curved his lips.

"I'll leave," I said nonchalantly, struggling to rise from beneath him.

"Don't you dare," he growled, pinning my shoulders to the bed lightly. I laughed again, ruffling his hair tenderly.

"Let's make a house of cards," I suddenly proclaimed, wriggling out from beneath him. He stared at me, bewildered, obviously thinking on something quite different from building a structure out of playing cards. "C'mon," I urged, quite enjoying the way I was catching him off-guard and keeping up the appearance of joy. He sighed, a smile playing on his lips though his eyes conveyed quite a different emotion. I sighed as well, realizing that my façade was no longer doing anything. I tried not to let my disappointment show, however, as I crossed my arms over my chest, waiting for him to find a deck of cards in the clutter of his drawer.

He finally retrieved one, plunking down on the floor before me as he began opening it. He ignored me completely, face hidden by a curtain of raven hair. I took a deep breath, throwing myself down onto my knees, clasping my hands in my lap. We spoke none, simply concentrating on our attempts to strategically bend the cards to then begin to stack them up. He didn't ask me anything; didn't bother to state that I was lying to him anymore. He simply busied himself with the cards, with trying to make it so they wouldn't fall at the lightest breeze or slightest shake.

After many frustrating attempts in which the foundation fell, we finally were able to begin constructing a second layer. By this time we weren't paying attention to anything at all but the sanctity of our card building. Who cared if the building started burning if our precarious stack of cards tumbled to the floor? And we kept on, each move more cautious than the last, brows furrowed in undaunted concentration. We held our breaths, afraid that the gentlest exhale would topple those cards we had so tenderly curved, that we had so carefully placed upon each other and the ground.

We were afraid to talk, afraid to move aside from the languid movements we made to grab the next card. It was all such a horrible symbolism of our relationship, of life in general; that I barely dared think of it lest the structure would suddenly come crumbling down. Finally his trembling fingers placed the last card from the fifty-two deck at the very top. Simultaneously, we scrambled away as quickly and gently as we could. Collective sighs of relief escaped our lips as we stared upon our masterpiece, that precarious stack of cards that we had constructed.

Smiles crossed our lips as we beheld the fragile beauty before us. Yet as I stared upon it, I felt this pressing need to destroy it and confess myself of my horrid hallucination. He was oblivious to the internal emotion battle raging in my mind as I stared, seemingly transfixed by the weak bent playing cards. "Gerard?" I finally whispered, afraid to speak too loud; afraid despite it all that I would destroy what we had built. He nodded quietly, without a word, never lifting his gaze.

"I think I'm going insane," I muttered under my breath, unable to look into his face. It seemed as though I was talking to myself, telling myself of such a thing. But in reality I was speaking to him, to his blank, emotionless face. My blood pumped through my veins suddenly at a ludicrous speed, warming my cheeks. My heart began racing, pumping that crimson through my body, heating my seashell ears to an unbelievable temperature. It felt as though they were burning but still he didn't spare me a glance.

"Why would you say that?" he asked softly, hands buried in his pockets. His molten eyes were still hopelessly riveted to the miniature model.

"Because I'm fucking seeing things," I whispered harshly, my voice gaining some volume as I stared at him, as I riveted my gaze upon the smooth lines of his face.

"What do you mean?" he said then, finally raising his head to gaze at me. But it was so horribly blank. It was almost as though he were controlling himself so I wouldn't see any emotion, a neutral façade he put on so he wouldn't destroy all of this.

"I mean," I growled now, voice still rising. This entire situation was infuriating me. It was angering me the way he didn't understand what I was saying; how difficult it was to get the words out in the first place. I paused, hoping this sudden rage would seep out of my system. He was staring at me now, gaze firmly fixed onto my eyes. It disconcerted me how he was so calm, so still as he stood there. "I mean that I'm fucking hallucinating, having fucking visions; I don't know. All I know is that I'm fucking seeing him, every time you leave me alone. Every goddamned time." I hadn't realized it but I had stepped closer with each word until I was staring directly into his eyes, spitting my words out into his face.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Breathing heavily I too stared at him, waiting for a reaction; waiting for the words to spill out of his candy-red mouth. "Frankie," he whispered, hands snaking down to my waist, holding onto my hips. "You're not insane."

"Not insane? Not insane?" I laughed a frightening, maniacal laugh that sent shivers up my own spine. "I'm fucking hallucinating Gerard; that's not insanity?"

"You just went through a huge ordeal and you've still got a hell of a lot to go. You're not insane. You just traumatized." I continued laughing, a wry chuckle that scared the hell out of me. He didn't say anything more, pressing my head against his chest, holding me tight even though it didn't seem that I needed such reassurance. But the truth of the matter was that I needed it, even more than I had when I had cried my eyes out, and had bawled until I could no longer breathe. I needed it more now because if I didn't I was sure to lose all remaining traces of whatever sanity still residing within me.

My laughter died down, taking with it the rage that had built up inside my fragile frame. It was uncanny how I melted when I was held securely in his arms, his lips expressing gentle words of assurance in my ears, brushing against my skin ever so softly. He was simply gutting me now, spilling it out before him to pick apart my innards, to see all I held deep inside me. I couldn't say it was a pleasurable experience to feel so very vulnerable before him; to know that he was examining me so very closely. Still, I couldn't say it was so very horrible to have him expose the different sides of me; to expose everything that I truly was. For, who was I? Was I not a killer? Or was I the emotional boy held in his arms? Was I the numb being curled in the bathroom, unable to grasp any concept?

"There are a thousand different versions of yourself spilled out before me; for me to see, for me to fix. And I'll make sure to fix every part of yourself so you can finally be whole again, Frankie. I'll work on it even if I have to give you every ounce of my own being. I'll do it if it means you'll lose all this. I'll do it if it means you can finally glow as I know you can."

And glow, glow
Melt and flow
Eviscerate your fragile frame
And spill it out on the ragged floor
A thousand different versions of yourself.