Folie a Deux

I was slowly pushing the limits of our relationship. It wasn't that I wasn't content with the little touches and kisses on the cheek, it was just that as of today we had been together for a full four months. I had this nagging curiosity that was driving me insane, and my body was craving physical contact.

Four months, now. Four entire months.

That was a third of a year.

Frank was still always so nervous- he still trembled, sometimes, when we held hands. I wanted to kiss him but I didn't want to break the careful trust we had.

My room had become his, more or less.

He knocked before he came in, however, like always, and I sighed. "Frank, you don't have to knock anymore."

He came in and shut the door behind him, blinking at me. "Okay..."

I shifted slightly on my bed, to the side. "Come here. Lay with me."

He did as I asked, slipping off his shoes first, and then sitting next to me, curling up slightly.

"Gerard?"

"Yes?"

"Are you okay?"

I closed my eyes. "Yeah. I'm fine."

His fingers brushed my cheek. "Are you sure?"

I took a shaky breath. "I'm fine, Frank. I'm not wrong about my own emotions, that would just be stupid."

He sighed, resting his hand on my chest. "Okay. You just seem..."

"I don't 'seem' anything. I 'am.' I don't mask my emotions."

He stopped talking after that.

I felt momentary regret for being rude, but I didn't really care. I was angry. At what, I wasn't actually sure, but I was mad and that was enough. I was angry and I was upset and I was sad, and I hated everything and everyone and myself.

Ugh, how pitiful am I? I'm drowning in a sea of self-loath and I don't even have a reason for it.

Realizing that I didn't have a reason to be in such a foul mood just made it worse.

I felt like I wanted to throw up.

"Your mom and Mikey are out," Frank said suddenly, leaning forward. "Let's go sit in the living room. Smoke a cigarette. It'll help take your mind off of things."

I wanted to argue but I went with him, anyways.

We sat in silence for a long time, Frank curled up in my lap with his head on my shoulder and my arms looped loosely around him. We passed the cigarette back and forth. I wasn't in the mood for talking- I just wanted to touch and smoke.

I pressed my lips behind his ear, drowning in the feeling of our skin brushing, closing my eyes as I traced careful kisses down his jaw.

"Gerard," he said quietly, taking a drag from the cigarette.

"Yes?" I whispered, breathing in the second-hand smoke, touching my nose to his neck.

He looked embarrassed. "Can you not... Uh..."

I blinked up at him. "What?"

He ducked slightly, looking away. He put the cigarette between his lips, mumbling around it. "Can you just not... Do that?"

I felt the realization settle in my stomach. He didn't want me to touch him anymore than I had to. "Oh."

He looked down. "Sorry, I'm just..."

I sighed, shaking my head, trying not to look too frustrated. I didn't want to get angry with him- I just had hormones, was all, and they were being particularly annoying today. "No, whatever. It's fine."

He was flushed twenty shades of sorry, and every pink and red hue made me want to kiss him. He handed me the cigarette and I thankfully accepted it.

"I'm sorry that I'm so, uh, reserved, it's just... I'm not used to all of this..."

I resisted rolling my eyes, breathing the smoke out through my nose. "Well, how are you ever going to get used to it if you don't start trying new things?"

He was quiet for a second.

"I mean, really," I continued. "You can't ever get used to it if you don't at least try it."

He looked at me for a long second, blinking. "You're right..."

I raised an eyebrow. I hadn't expected him to agree with me. "I am?"

He nodded. "Yeah..."

I wasn't sure I understood where he was going with this, but he certainly seemed to know.

His lips brushed my jaw, taking me by surprise. I lifted the cigarette to my lips, trying to force away the confusion with nicotine. For as long as Frank and I had been together, he had never once made a move to touch me beyond holding my hand. His fingers rested shakily on my collar bone and he twisted in my lap, using my shoulder to lift himself up. He pressed his lips to my cheek for the first time, everything about him scared and shaking.

I put my hand on the side of his face, sighing, the other hand pressing the cigarette to my lips. "Frank, stop..."

He shook his head, closing his eyes. "No, I have to face this sometime. You can't have a relationship without touching."

"But-"

He stood up suddenly. "Let's go back to your room, in case your mom and Mikey come in."

"But Frank-"

He took my hand, pulling me with him, pausing only so I could put the cigarette out.

As we walked, I found myself infatuated with him.

I'd never wanted to remember someone like I did him.

I didn't want to memorize the sound of their voices or learn to read their expressions, but I had already done that with Frank. I didn't want to know why they looked so sad when certain things were said, but most of the time, I knew Frank's thoughts before he did. I didn't want to know why they laughed at the senseless jokes that people told, and yet, I knew all of Frank's favorite forms of humor. I didn't want to know why they didn't like a certain flavor of ice cream, and I honestly could care less if they liked musicals or not, but I knew senseless things like that about Frank. I didn't want their names sticking in the back of my head, I didn't want to know their favorite songs or their favorite books or their favorite day of the week, and I didn't care if they liked history better than math, and I didn't care what they wanted to be when they grew up- I didn't want to bother myself with the people they disliked or the people that they loved.

But with Frank, I was extremely involved in all of that already.

There was one simple fact that I had known and believed all my life: The only person who's inner most thoughts really mattered were my own.

According to statistics, I would only be alive for a total of approximately seventy-five years, give or take a few months.

That meant I had fifty-eight years left to live.

Fifty-eight years to have my own emotions, my own thoughts, and my own opinions.

Fifty-eight years was not a long time.

Fifty-eight years is barely enough time to process every thought, every emotion, every opinion that I've ever had and will ever form. Most people stopped trying because they realize that they only have one chance at life, and they don't want to waste it analyzing thoughts.

I did want to do that, though.

I wanted to fully explore every possible outcome of every possible situation and I wanted to discover every possible answer to every possible equation. I wanted to know why living organisms could feel the sensation of touch when in reality it's impossible for atoms to get that close. I wanted to know why we felt pain if, according to the scientist, it's just a chemical reaction in our head. I wanted to know why emotions are so often connected with our heart when in science emotions are apparently nothing but chemicals and hormones rushing through our bodies, and I wanted to know how to shut down the emotions that made me hurt.

I wanted to know how reality exists when over half of it is just in our heads.

I wanted to do everything in that fifty-eight year span... I wanted to do everything and learn everything but I also wanted to do nothing and keep the blissful ignorance that so many people possessed these days...

But fifty-eight years is barely even enough time to prepare myself for my own death.

I needed that entire fifty-eight years if I wanted to make something of these thoughts that were always swimming around in my head. I needed every last second that could be spared.

There was no time for anyone else.

There never has been, and I doubted that there ever would be.

But I wanted there to be time for Frank.

Couldn't I do that? I realized that I had been asking myself that ever since Frank had walked into my bedroom this morning.

Couldn't I trade half of my estimated remaining time for Frank?

Twenty-nine years of my life isn't that big of a loss. I don't mind dying twenty-nine years early, not if it means learning to be with Frank. I am a naturally selfish creature, but I didn't want to be selfish anymore. I don't mind not understanding the world around me if it means trusting Frank and being with Frank and having his hand in mine. I wouldn't mind staying ignorant for the rest of my life if it meant I had a chance at falling further into whatever this mess was that we were creating for ourselves.

I just wanted to know Frank. I wanted to get inside of his head, I wanted to understand him, I wanted to be able to seep down deep beneath his skin and pull out all of the bad things that haunted his dreams. I wanted to take the nightmares out of his subconscious and put them in my own. I already had such horrible nightmares, anyways, adding Frank's demons to mine couldn't possibly change anything. We didn't talk about it often, but Frank had mentioned depression before. He said he hadn't felt depressed very much lately, but I could tell when he was sad. He didn't smile as much, and when he did, it didn't quite reach his eyes. He lied about being happy a lot. (But then again, so did I.)

I wanted to save him from that. I wanted to save him from the monsters that lurked beneath his very own thoughts.

I could almost feel it then, through our linked hands, all of the dark, black things seeping through his blood like oil in water.

I could drain that, though. Frank's heart didn't have to be gray and darkening every minute, not anymore. No, I could cleanse his blood stream of all of the ugly things and drink it straight into my own.

I would easily give up twenty-nine years of my life and the pureness of my own heart for Frank.

Easily.

Hell, I'd cut off a limb for that kid.

Because... Because I needed him.

Wait.

No.

No, that wasn't the right word.

I don't think I needed him...

If he weren't here, I could manage. I was able to live without him before, so surely I could live without him now.

I wanted him.

That's what my problem was.

I wanted him with a burning passion that settled deep inside of my chest and started eating away at my heart. I wanted him and I wanted everything that he had to offer; I wanted the stupid conversations late at night when we mulled ourselves over pointless topics, I wanted the insecure shaking of his fingers, I wanted the way he fumed and cursed when he was angry and I wanted the way he smiled and laughed when he was happy.

I wanted him. All of him.

I wanted the quirks and the habits and the emotions and the opinions that annoyed me, and I wanted the flaws and the depressions and the pain that he hated about himself. I wanted to be there for him, no matter how much he annoyed me or no matter how much he annoyed himself.

I didn't want Frank to hurt anymore.

I didn't want him to feel like he had to hide from the world, I didn't want him to shy away from all of the people and places that he was missing out on. He was so timid the first time we met, and I didn't want him to feel like that.

I didn't want Frank to be afraid anymore.

I wanted him to feel like he was wanted.

I wanted him to know that I wanted him.

I wanted him all to myself. I wanted Frank to be mine and no one else's- I was the only one responsible for his blush, I was the only one that made his fingers stop shaking when he was scared. Frank's emotions already belonged to me but I wanted everything else to come with it, too.

I craved for him. I craved him like a mother craves her child's love and I craved him like a child craved his mother's attention.

But I couldn't tell Frank that.

Oh, god no, I couldn't tell Frank that. I stared at the back of his head as he pushed my bedroom door open and led me inside. I was his friend. I was his best friend, his only friend, the first friend he had made in the past seventeen years, according to him. Frank trusted me. He trusted me to be there for him... Not to want him. Not to crave him. He didn't want me to have this monster-like obsession that was so suddenly taking me over. We were together but I don't think he was emotionally there yet, he didn't quite grasp the extent of human emotions and how chemicals could set things off oh-so quickly in our heads.

If I confessed how badly I felt the need to protect him, to be with him... If I were to tell him that I wanted to be completely and undeniably and uncontrollably in love with him, as badly as I did, and if I admitted how badly I wanted to fall head over heels for him until I lost myself in those hazel eyes... Well, that would ruin everything.

I would have crossed the already thin line that he had set for our relationship, and I knew that he'd never let me back in.

And that hurt.

Realizing that I wanted Frank more than anything I had ever wanted before, and knowing that I could never have him, seared me to the very core.

It tore apart my insides and sent a horrible feeling straight through my stomach.

It was an extremely physical pain, and it pressed up through my intestines and through my stomach, and it heaved it's way up through my throat and put pressure behind my eyes and forced a sound from my lips that I had no control over.

I was crying.

I was crying and I was sobbing and I was leaking these desperate, desperate tears, and my fingers shook, and it hurt everywhere. It hurt in my head and it hurt in my limbs and, oh, god, it hurt in my heart, too. I was crying like I did when I was alone and couldn't sleep, like I cried when I was stuck screaming in my own head, but this was worse. It was much worse, horribly worse, impossibly worse. It was so bad that I couldn't even breathe, I was suffocating on my own sorrow.

I was worried what Frank would say, but he didn't even notice at first, his back was still turned to me. Only seconds had passed since he had pushed my bedroom door open, but it seemed like ages.

I wanted him with every ounce of my very being. I wanted to feel him next to me and I wanted his fingers between mine and I wanted, oh, god, I shouldn't even go there, but I wanted his lips against mine more than I had ever wanted anything in the whole wide world. I craved to for him to be mine.

I wanted to love him.

"Gerard?"

He had turned around.

I'd never wanted to love another human being in my life.

"Gerard? What's wrong?"

Love was a useless emotion. All it achieved was anger, pointless attachment, and pain.

"Why are you crying, what happened, what's wrong?"

I just shook my head and dropped to my knees, not knowing what to say or do or how to act. Fingers were pressed against the back of my neck and also against my chest, and he was trying to force me backwards, he was trying to make me look at him, but no. No, no, no, I wouldn't. I couldn't. I would never-

Our eyes met and I cried harder than I have ever cried in my life.

"I'm sorry," I gasped through the tears, feeling like a fish out of water, shaking my head. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't get oxygen to my lungs fast enough, I couldn't get oxygen to my veins, I couldn't get blood to flow through my arteries. Everything was malfunctioning, nothing was working, I was dying, dying all because I was crying over him. "Frank," I forced out. I would die here. "Oh god, oh, Frank," I had to make my last words count.

"Gerard, wh-"

"I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

There, I said it.

I could die in peace now.

I continued to cry, my shoulders heaving. It felt so nice, crying what I'm sure were my last few moments away. There was something relieving about the way my chest heaved.

I stared at the ground, watching it convulse beneath me as I shook, my head going light.

Was this it?

Was this what it felt like?

Did everything get dizzy, did your head feel empty and your chest heavy and did everything else quake so uncontrollably that all you could do was lay there and cry?

Was I dying, or was I falling in love?

"You're sorry for what, Gerard?" he said, scared, confused, desperate.

Oh, god.

Oh god, oh no.

No.

No, no, no.

No.

This wasn't happening!

It couldn't!

I shouldn't let this happen!

"Frank, I need you to leave," I gasped through the tears.

I guess I wasn't dying, after all.

"What?"

But I don't think I was falling in love, either.

"You heard me! You need to leave!"

"I'm not going to-"

"Please!" I nearly screamed. I was doubling over and my forehead touched the floor. I was clawing my fingers through my hair and screaming for him to go, because, oh god, I had to end it here. If I let myself be around him any longer I'd just end up hurting him, and I didn't want that.

I had to leave him because I didn't want to break him.

If I reached out and touched him he would shatter.

"It can't happen like this," I cried.

"I can't feel like this!" I screamed.

I've always had so much control- I was always able to keep track of my thoughts and keep my emotions in check, but that was all until Frank came along. He'd found a way inside of my head and he was ripping that careful skill to shreds.

"You can't feel like what?"

I just let the tears all come out in shaky gasps.

He didn't leave. Frank just sat there with one hand on my back and one on my shoulder, crouched next to me until my shoulders stopped shaking.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, looking up at him. I almost broke into tears again, my body lurching, my voice cracking. "I'm so sorry."

The sad look in those honey-hazel eyes of his was gorgeous. He was devastatingly beautiful.

"Gerard," he said softly. "For what?"

I shifted my body until I was sitting completely on the floor, moving my legs slightly so they were tucked off to the side. I felt like a little kid, looking up at him as he sat on his knees in front of me, wiping beneath my eyes with his thumbs.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, keeping his hands on the sides of my face.

I closed my eyes and leaned my cheek into his hand, sighing. His fingers ran through my hair and I felt myself let out a shuddering breath.

"Gerard," he whispered.

I opened my eyes only to see his in front of mine, my breath catching in my throat as his forehead touched mine.

"Frank," I breathed. "What-"

"Shh," he hushed, his fingers running across my face. His fingertips dragged across my lips, pulling my skin, and his breath mingled with mine in the air.

"Frank," I repeated. "Don't-"

"No," he whispered, leaning forward. Our noses slid past each other. "I have to do this. Because... Because this is what you want, isn't it?"

I felt my insides swirl into a flurry of motion, while on the outside, my limbs froze up. "What?"

I just wanted Frank. I wanted all of him.

"That's why you're crying? Because you don't think I want you?" He scooted forward and stayed sitting on his knees in front of me. "I do want you Gerard. I want all of you."

I felt my breath catch in my throat. He closed his eyes and I did, too, drowning in his voice as he whispered. My words sounded so much more beautiful coming from his lips then they had been in my head. Then they had been ugly, shaky, forbidden, but now... Now that he was saying them out loud, it almost felt like everything would be okay.

"And it's all going to be all right, Gerard... I think you'd be happy, for once, if- if I-"

"But you don't have to-"

"But I want to."

This was different.

This was very different than the scene I'd pictured in my head.

I hadn't thought that I'd be crying, I hadn't thought that Frank would be the one to initiate it, I hadn't thought that we'd both be scared and shaking with our eyes squeezed shut and our fingers trembling...

But oh, god, did he taste wonderful.

The second our lips touched, though, he jerked away.

My eyes flew open. "Frank-"

"I'm sorry." He pulled his hands away from me, his eyes wide at what he had just done. "Oh, god."

"But Frank-"

He was scrambling to his feet, tripping away from me and shaking his head. His fingers were touching his lips and his cheeks and his forehead, and then they were back on his lips. His eyes were wide and horrified and disgusted.

Disgusted.

Was kissing me really that repulsive?

"Oh, god," he said, his voice low.

And then he was gone. I could hear his footsteps all through my house, I could hear him running away from my room and down the hall. And I guess that my mom and Mikey must have come home because I heard surprised voices and then I heard my mother calling, "Frank? Frank, honey, are you okay, what's wrong?" And then I heard him slam the door behind him.

My mother came up to my room a few minutes later to find me sitting in the same spot Frank had left me.

"Gerard?" she asked softly.

I shook my head, feeling the tears prick at my eyes again. "I broke him," I whispered.

"What?"

"I-I kissed him," I confessed. "And it broke him."

She was just silent for a moment, and then she turned, clicking the door softly behind her.

Of course she would leave. I mean, how should she know what to say to her pansexual son who just broke the first boy he'd ever truly wanted to love? How should she know what to say to someone as horrible as me?

I curled my legs inwards, bringing my knees to my chest, and I wrapped my arms around my legs, sobbing into my knees.

I felt dirty. I felt like I was guilty of much more than just kissing Frank.

I felt like I had committed murder.

And I guess, in some twisted way, I had.

I had just destroyed everything I had with Frank.

I had just committed suicide.