Something I Could Hold Onto

Frank awoke in the morning feeling as if he were drowning. This sensation usually was usually the first to greet him upon awakening, yet this occasion was different: instead of feeling smothered in a storm of self-deprecation and distrust, he was drifting comfortably in a swirl of flowers, espresso, and cologne. The fragrances mingled in the air, caught up the moment like dancers in a ballroom, before settling gracefully in a veil upon the bed. The image was pretty, he thought, and allowed them to waltz delicately across his mind for a while longer.

Soon, though, the content began to ebb from his conscious. He knew how to regain the unfamiliar happiness, and sought to do so; but the imprint left in the bed did not suffice. Had Gerard left him alone?

Again?

The scent wrapped around him again like a thick sweater as he arose from his host's bed and reached for the clothes on the chair across the room. They were oversized, granted, and smelled of a different body and foreign fragrances; but Frank couldn't help but feel safe in the two-sizes-too-big sweatpants and dress-like t-shirt. It was almost as if Gerard had marked the younger boy as his own – as his to protect, as his to care for…

As his to love?

Frank shook his head violently; he was obviously hearing things. The pair had known each other for barely over a month, what reason would Gerard have had for saying he loved him? The murmurs in his ear last night had not been a declaration of certain feelings at all, he reasoned, but probably just promises of sweet dreams or restful sleep.

Because no one in their right mind could love another person in thirty-four days.

The couple had spent just shy of a week with one another in the entire history of their twisted relationship, clearly putting limits on the intensity of their affections. Besides, it was highly doubtful that Gerard had spent those days they were apart wondering about Frank.

About how he was feeling.

What he was doing.

What he was thinking.

Where he was staying.

Who he was kissing.

What he was eating.

If he still thought about their time together.

If he had ever, just for a moment, really cared.

No, Frank reasoned; it was highly unlikely that the borderline-obsessive thoughts tormenting his fragile psyche for the past month had been anything but his alone. Gerard was attractive. He was pleasant. He was almost perfect, if you overlooked his occasional vices.

But Frank?

Well, he was exactly what Rick said: he was nothing.

With a sigh and a unacknowledged lump growing exponentially in his throat, Frank left his thoughts behind along with the empty bed as he made his way towards the door. Dim light flooded the apartment, whispers of dawn invading the still vicinity. Slowly, he pushed his way forward into the hall, where he found himself met with an almost mosaic-like wall: pictures of Gerard and another boy covered the surface the way vine covers brick. Frozen moments of the two embracing, laughing, pouting – it was all contained in the odd arrangement of photos.

He would never admit to it, but seeing Gerard's arm around that other boy gave Frank one of the most intense feelings of jealousy he had ever experienced.

Frank sighed, running his fingers along the dusty glass of one particularly endearing image – Gerard and the stranger in tuxedos with a champagne glasses and cigars. The pair looked happy, enthusiastically so, with their arms around each other and cartoonish smoke billowing around their hair.

He smiled; Gerard was beautiful. The expression was soon lost, though, as the other boy was anything but homely. His hair was a dark brown, similar to that of the former, cut to a length around his ears. The thick-rimmed glasses rested atop his nose and threatened to spill over, much like the bubbling Crystal champagne. He appeared to be taller than Gerard, but only by the tiniest margin; his skinny frame may have been the cause of the illusion.

Frank frowned again. He stood at barely five inches above five feet.

Clattering from down the hall woke him from his self-pitying trance. The sounds were chronic, continuous banging combined with random swears.

Clink. "Shit!" Clank. "Fucking A'..!"

Was Gerard… cooking?

Curiosity drove Frank to half walk, half jog down the corridor to what he assumed was the kitchen. Upon entering the bright and sunny room, his suspicions were confirmed.

Gerard was standing before the sink, the cold tap running over his hands and a plate of almost charcoal waffles on the stove behind him. It appeared as though he had burned his finger whilst cooking; his reaction was almost endearing.

Slowly, with an impressed yet small smile gracing his lips, Frank made his way towards the unsuspecting figure and wrapped his fingers around his waist.

"Morning," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Gerard grinned, turning completely to sweetly peck the younger boy's lips. "Morning, sunshine!" he almost shouted. "I made you breakfast!"

The pair looked at the plate of blackened food.

"It's extra crispy, just how you like it," the taller of the two laughed.

Frank managed a dry chuckle before burrowing into Gerard's much thicker sweatshirt. He put his thin and bare arms around the fabric, squeezing tightly and praying for reciprocation.

This time, at least, his hopes were answered.

The pair stood in silence, simply hugging; both for comfort and warmth, as the temperature had even further dropped since the previous night and snow was now falling steadily from billowy clouds.

This, Frank sighed, has to be love.