Seeking Solace

I'm taken to the nurse and told to lie down while they call my parents and tell them everything. A woman comes in to check on me soon after. She speaks softly, asking me things that I cannot hear and do not reply to. She frowns and becomes silent quickly, leaves a glass of water beside the bed, pats my hand softly and walks away.

My father comes to take me home. I wonder what they told him, if they told him about what I said to the two figures who found me. If they did, he tells me nothing, and the drive home is filled with silence.

He leaves again once I'm there, back to the work he had to leave behind to take me home. My mother's there, anxiously sitting by the window when I arrive. She jumps up and moves to hug me, only to hesitate a few feet away. “How're you feeling?” she asks softly.

I can't find it in me to speak, so I look down and shrug one shoulder, feeling even more worthless by the second. If my own mother thinks I hate her now...

I run away like the coward I am to my bedroom, letting my bag slide off my shoulder with a thud beside the door that I close behind me, and crawl onto the bed. I feel exhausted. I feel like if I just lie here, I can die peacefully in my sleep and not have to make anyone else's life a living hell any more. I think of the pills downstairs that I could so easily smuggle up here. I think about taking them. I think about slipping away like that, finally, after wishing for it for so long,

I am a coward. I am a worthless coward, so what better way than to take my life to show it? I'm sure that at this point, someone will think it's for attention. I suppose that's all the cutting ever was. I left those scars there, hoping someone would see me breaking.

As I lie there gazing up at the ceiling, I start thinking about the window. And how I could jump instead, if something goes wrong with the pills, or I can't find them. And then before long, I'm thinking about how much better it is than the pills, how good of an idea it is. I think about how I'll have to be careful when I jump, so that I break my neck completely. I don't want to survive and end up paralyzed or something. So I have to jump the right way. Yes, I have to jump so I leave nothing behind but my dead, bloody body. I have to jump so that I never wake up.

I slide off the bed, feeling more sure than I have in days. The last attempt is still fresh in my mind- the fear, the pain, the horror- but I convince myself that this will be different. This will be different, because now I know that there is nothing left to live for. This will be different, because I will succeed.

This will be different, because I'm sure it's what I was meant to do from the beginning.

“Frank?” I hear behind me, just as I'm pushing open the window. I jump, almost falling like I intended to and turn around quickly. I realize I shouldn't be acting guilty, because it's not like any one knows what my plan is.

My mother stands in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed in concern. I see the bags under her eyes and I feel even more useless. I've done all of this to her, caused her sleepless nights and terrible anxiety.

But I'm about to end it now. I'm about to take myself out so she won't have to worry any more. My selfishness will end and she'll be happy. My whole family will.

“Do you want anything to eat?” She asks, apparently oblivious to what I was about to do. I shake my head. She nods awkwardly, still watching me cautiously.

“You can talk to me, Frankie,” she says, and her voice sounds so afraid, I feel like I'm just going to break down right there, “Please just...just tell me what's wrong? So I can help you...”

I can't speak. I can't tell her everything that's going on in my head. I can't even tell her that I love her. I can't even give her that, because I'm a coward. I grip the window sill until my knuckles turn white in frustration. I was so close...

“If you want some fresh air,” she continues, her eyes wide as she watches me by the window, “You can...you can go for a walk for a few a while..it might make you feel better.”

I know she's worried that I might pull a stunt like I did last time, but she wants me to trust her. So I take her offer, even though I'd rather curl up on my bed and try to remember what it's like to breathe in and out, what it's like the keep my heart beating without feeling like it's grating against my ribs and bleeding.

I need this chance to find Gerard and apologize.

I realize as I'm walking there that I've never seen his house before. I've gotten close, in those times when we walked home together, and I pretended to forget to stop at my house, just so I could walk with him for longer. He would only ever let me get as far as a few houses away from his, as if he had to hide it from me. I meant to ask him about that- I meant to ask him about a lot of things- but I just never got around to it. New things happened, new things to talk about, new ideas, new sketches, new artwork happened. He'd been starting to tell me about this band he loved before...before everything changed.

I manage to stay calm somehow, until I'm standing right in front of the house. Of course I'm curious; all I've managed to squeeze out of him in the short time I've known him is that his friend chose the path that I almost did, but that's the most personal he's ever been. I don't know what I expect. Actually, I didn't expect anything at all. I just expected a house. That's the furthest my imagination ever got.

I definitely don't expect the overgrown grass infested with weed, grass that's begun to crawl out into the driveway, the cigarette butts and beer cans that cling to the edges of the house like some polluted skirting board, the dead windows, the filth, and the misery that pours from the house and turns the building black.

I feel like something's grabbed my throat, forcing my next breath to stick there. To think that he lives here and I did nothing...or maybe I got the house number wrong, I think, maybe...maybe it's the house next to this one, maybe no one lives here...but as much as I think about it, as much as I don't want it to be true, I know that this is the house that he hid from me. This is the place where joy went to die and this is where he lived.

No wonder he draws such twisted things.

My hand shake so bad, I can barely press the doorbell. I clench my fists and stuff them into the pockets of my hoodie, shivering as the wind snakes through the fabric and chills my face. I wait, wondering if anyone's actually there, wondering if maybe I really do have the right house. I'm debating whether I should try ringing again or just run away like I really fucking want to, when the door creaks open.

It's a very deep creaking sound, one that belongs to the ancient oak doors of a vampire's castle, but one that makes a shudder roll down my spine as I try to stop a yelp escaping my lips.

He watches me from the crack in the door, and as he recognizes me, his eyes are suddenly afraid.

I expected anger. I expected him to be furious, and for him to hit me with more words that would finally crush me.

I didn't expect him to be afraid of me. I never wanted him to. How could I make anyone afraid?

“Gerard?”

He flinches suddenly and hurries to slam the door shut. I panic, and while normal people would use their foot, I stupidly decide to use my hand to stop the door. There's a split second of shook as the door slams into my hand, and Gerard and I both stare at it, and then then the pain suddenly blooms in my palm and I'm hissing and snatching my hand back.

“Fuck!” The door's suddenly thrown open as he reaches out awkwardly to help me, Frank, I...I'm so sorry...fuck, I...I'll get ice or something, okay? Just...just...” he rushes away down the hall, and I can't help peeking around the door to see the rest of the house. Just from the carpet covered in a veil of dust and crumbs, I realize that the inside must be just as bad as the outside. Maybe worse.

He comes back, nearly tripping over his own feet to get back to me as quickly as possible, with ice wrapped in a clean washcloth. He gently takes my hand without a second thought and gingerly presses the ice against my hand. My fingers curl reflexively in response. He cradles my hand for a while, and then he looks up, his eyes no longer afraid, not angry either. “Come in,” he says.

I step through the door and he shuts it behind me.

There's a heavy fog of smoke in the house that doesn't quite cover the stench of stale beer, vomit and piss. I can't stop feeling horrified at the fact that I've left him here all this time, but then what could I do? There's nothing I can do with no money and no way to offer him somewhere else to live. It was either know and feel guilty or not know at all. I suppose I could be thankful to him for keeping me ignorant, but I didn't want him to suffer alone.

“My room's in the basement,” he says, gently leading me around piles of dirty clothes and torn magazines and empty cans, “It's...better there.”

I bite my lip, really hoping it is.

And it's better than better. It's walls covered in drawings and panels and color, piles of cartoons and still lifes and and caricatures, posters of bands and artists and shelves stuffed with comic books, boxes filled with pens and the copic markers that he loves.

I wish I had more than just an hour with him here. This place is perfect, hidden underneath the horror of the house above us. It smells of paint and paper and Gerard and it's more than I thought it could be.

He pulls me over to the bed, still holding the ice to my hand. We both watch his hands on mine for a while, saying nothing, just breathing in each others company, until I dare to lean forward and let my head rest on his shoulder. He stiffens for a second and I freeze, thinking that maybe I've pushed it too far now, but then he relaxes and pulls me to his side, adjusting our hands so that they rest on his lap.

“I'm sorry,” I say after a while, my voice quiet and breathless, my lips dry and nervous.

He shakes his head. “I overreacted.”

“What...what was that even about?” I ask, using my free hand to draw meaningless shapes on the back of his, “Why did you run away from me?”

He swallows, turns over his hand to catch my fingers before he answers. “They told me you didn't care.” He paused. “They told me...you planned it from the beginning. That you were just a distraction so they could lure me in and make me feel like shit.” He swallows again, his voice beginning to shake. “And after I saw you...after you almost died in front of me, I didn't know what to think. You didn't listen when I told you not to hurt yourself...but then why would you jump?” He turns to look at me, “Why...did you know I was there?”

“I don't even know how you got there,” I said, “I thought you were out of town.” My voice is a little more accusatory than I intend it to.

A tiny guilty smile tugs at his lips for a second. “I was...I got back kind of early. I was...” He sighs. “I was going to surprise you or something. I don't know. I kind of...ended up at your house.” I feel the heat start to creep into his face, but he goes on, “And I...followed you. Um. And I was going to say something once...once your friends were gone-”

“They're not my friends,” I cut across darkly.

He smiles. “I know. But like...I was watching and then.” His voice is soft again, quiet with remembered horror and fear, “And then you jumped and I thought... I thought 'no, he'll come back he just, like, fell in or something'. But. You didn't. And I kept watching and watching and. I went after you. I jumped after you and. I pulled you out.” He looks down at my hand in his, now still on his palm. “You weren't breathing,” he whispers.

I frown. “You know CPR?”

He blushes. “Well. I never thought it would help but. They taught us. In my old school, I mean. I mean. Well, it helped.”

There it was again, another snippet of his past that he wouldn't share with me.

“Your old school?” I tried.

He was suddenly stiff beside me. “Yeah.” And then he was silent.

Fuck. “When did you stop hating me?” I asked instead.

“Hating you?” He frowned. “I never...I can't hate you, Frank, I...”

I look up, meaning to meet his eyes, but end up in his hair instead. My lips brush against his throat as I speak. “It felt like you did.”

His breath hitches in his throat. “I...well.” He sighs. “I was messed up then.”

I press softly against the bruise on his neck and he shivers. It's only then that I realize that I'm so close to what I wanted before, something so forbidden, I've tried to lock it from my mind but failed so many times.

“Gerard,” I say softly, and he looks at me, his eyes wide, hearing the different tone in my voice. It this strange calm that I've never really felt before. Calm mixed with happiness and lust.

Before I can think about it properly- as in, before I can remind myself that it's a bad idea- my lips are pressed against his. It's completely unlike any of the spontaneous kisses in movies- my lips are dry and chapped, I'm at such an awkward angle our noses almost collide and my heart it beating so fast and loud, I'm sure he can hear it too- but it's enough to show him how I feel. How it's not about just friendship anymore. How I need him more than that. How I don't just love him anymore. How...I'm in love with him.

When I pull back, I can't. I try pushing against the wall that's suddenly appeared behind my head, but it won't budge. I panic try to duck away, but then I realize it's just his hand, holding me there.

I wait nervously, wondering what the fuck all of this means, and thinking oh god, what the hell have I done, as his lips hesitate against mine, but then he's tilting his head, and his lips part and he pulls my bottom lip in between his and suddenly everything is just...different.

He gently bites on my lip and I feel a shiver spiral all the way down my spine, crawling out across my whole body, crashing into my stomach. I push closer and he lets go of my lip, shyly pressing his tongue against my lips until I open my mouth for him. It's strange, being this close to someone and not feeling the need to push them away, of being able to twist my fingers with his and let his tongue sweep over mine and want more rather than less. There's awkward pulling away for air, and a moment when our mouths don't quite fit together, but after a little while of experimenting, we get better, learn what the other likes, how to move together in a way that makes the kiss move fluidly.

And then we break apart and there's just that moment of silence where I'm suddenly very aware of him, of where we're touching and how it feels. The hand cupping mine as the ice drips through his fingers, our other hands clasped together, our lips just far enough apart that we can breathe, but close enough that I can feel his warm breath on my wet lips. We stay like that for a while, my head on his shoulder and eyes still closed, until I gently unfurl my fingers from his and softly caress his face, being careful not to press the bruised skin too hard. He shivers slightly and sighs. His eyes open, a beautiful golden hazel that I've come to trust. And in this moment, I feel like I want to know them forever. I'm vaguely aware of how stupid that sounds, of how I couldn't possibly want this now, but I can't help those fantasies from popping up in my head, ones of us curled up together somewhere, of being able to hold him and be with him even when he was at his lowest point, of being there during the best days, being able to make memories with him. I didn't want anyone else. I didn't feel like there was anyone else. Because there is no one else who means something like this to me.

“I love you.”

There are three words I have never quite been able to say. They've always made me uncomfortable, and I'm not sure why. I have no problem thinking it about people, but getting those words past my lips is another thing entirely. So to be able to say it now, after so long waiting for the chance to, it feels like something in me has been set free. Like I don't have to keep it locked in my head any more. Like I can say it and not have it thrown back at me because it's not wanted. The love I have isn't something I ever thought someone could want.

His eyes widen for a split second, and then suddenly they seem brighter, sparked with emotion, before his lips are pressed against mine again, harder than before. The kiss is more desperate now, as if he's trying to give me an 'I love you' of his own without his voice. That's something he had said before, I remember. It's one thing to paint a picture, to say the words, to make something. But use all the wrong motions, leave out the passion and the dedication, and it all crumbles into nothing.

I don't expect it after the kiss, because I'm sure that's what he meant with it. He didn't have to say it, because he'd already shown me. But he pulls away anyway and brushes the words onto my lips with his own, painting his kisses on my skin.

“I love you”

It's simple, but it's something that I've craved for so long, I realize that the tears that come then are just the pain of waiting finally fading away.