Folie a Deux

I could not get him out of my head.

No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't.

If I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, I would start imagining that he was curled up on the floor in a pile of blankets again, hiding from the storm outside. I would start thinking about how he's always looked at me in awe when I came down there to lay next to him, how he looked at me like I was a saint when I told him that I wouldn't let the storm hurt him. And then, after the remembering, I would start to move down there, to lay with the boy I so desperately missed. But then when I realized he wasn't there, I would just drag all of the sheets off of my bed and lay in the pile of blankets that I wish he had made instead of me, because he seemed to be so much better at those kinds of things, and try not to think about anything at all.

If I tried to draw, my pencil would only sketch the lines of his smile. And then of course his nose would come in to shape above it, and then the eyes would become his, too, and my paper would transform into a memory of his life, frozen in cheap paper and expensive pencil led. If I tried to draw something else, it would turn into a butterfly, something which I guess I've started associating with him- Frank was the butterfly in my stomach, he send my insides tumbling into mayhem every time he smiled. The curve of his lips would become that of the pattern on the burtterfly's wing, and after that, not much made sense but the butterfly and his smile.

If I tried to sleep, I would dream of him. Most of the time in my dreams we were back in the diner, still just friends, not touching but only smiling and laughing. And then I'd always do something stupid- touch his hand or brush my ankle against his, by accident- and he'd run off before I could even speak his name. I would wake up crying and gasping for air, and once I think I woke up with the syllables of his name starting to form in the back of my throat.

Eating to distract myself only resulted in throwing up on the bathroom floor, struggling to keep my hair out of my face and trying not to loose too much fluid, seeing as I wasn't exactly drinking enough, either. Sometimes I don't think I'm even throwing up because of the food- I think my emotions have started to take a physical toll on my body. Thinking of him made my eyes water, thinking of his touch made my fingers tremble, thinking of his voice made my head hurt, thinking of his rejection made my stomach churn.

I've thrown up four times in the past fourteen hours. I'm so dehydrated that I'm surprised I'm not dead yet, and the last time I had something to drink was about sixteen hours ago.

I rolled my eyes, realizing how horrible it would be to die of thirst.

I wonder how long it would take to smother myself- instead of letting my lungs go dry, I could just stop them from working all together. That'd be a much quicker, much easier death.

It was already getting hard to breathe, laying with my face pressed into my pillow. If I just pressed a little harder and held my breath, eventually I would run out of air.

It's been four hours since I last left my bedroom, four and a half since I last threw up, and three since I last stood up. It's now been five days since I've touched another human being. Four since I've spoken. Two since I've allowed myself to say his name in my own thoughts.

I've been laying on my stomach for two hours and seven minutes, I've been laying with my hands under my pillow and my face pressed into it for four minutes and eighteen seconds precisely.

If I just pressed my face down a little harder...

Someone started knocking on my door.

I ignored them, just like I've done every other time.

"Gerard?"

I stayed quiet.

"You've been too depressed lately," my brother said coldly, through the door. "If you feel like gracing us with your presence, I'd appreciate it if you'll come out for a few minutes. It's important." (I assume he walked away after that.)

I rolled my eyes, both at his sarcasm and his word choice, because he was wrong in his use of the word "depression."

This wasn't depression- he's impossibly wrong about that. That's not this new emotion. Depression is when you feel hopeless, it's when you think you're inadequate... And granted, I've felt like that for a long time, and I still do feel like that, but there was something more, now.

There have always been three emotions that have come naturally to me- depression, melancholy, and sadness.

The depression has been there the longest. I've never been good enough for anyone or anything, and I never will be. I'm a lost cause. The melancholy, well, that comes and goes. Melancholy is sadness without cause, and sometimes I fall deeper into depression without even knowing why. And sadness...? Well, I've, hardly ever been just plain sad. Sadness has a cause, it appears for a reason other than inadequacy or hopelessness.

Now, however, I think I am sad. In fact, I know that I'm sad.

I was very, extremely sad at the moment, and the cause of that emotion didn't seem to care. He probably wouldn't even notice if I died from this sadness.

"Gerard."

I rolled my eyes again at the sound of my brother's voice.

When was he going to learn that I didn't want to talk to him?

I didn't want to talk to anyone, for that matter.

I didn't want to talk to anyone, I didn't want to see anyone, I didn't want to touch anyone.

I didn't even want to think anymore, because I hated the sound of my own voice, and I could hear it in my head. I didn't want to open my eyes, ever, because I'd end up seeing my hands and then I'd remember how annoyingly alive I am. I didn't want to touch anyone or anything, because the only touch I craved was that of the boy who I wasn't allowing myself to think about, and everything else seemed either dull or painful in comparison.

Quite honestly, I'd rather be dead.

I have nothing left to live for, anyway.

My brother, well, he'd be better off without me. He could finally learn to be on his own, to stand up for himself and make his own decisions.

My mom would have one less mouth to feed- we've been struggling with money for quite some time now. It would take a lot of stress off of her shoulders.

And the boy with the honey-hazel eyes and the butterfly wing smile? I doubt he'd even notice I was gone.

Mikey knocked on my door a few times.

I pressed my face further into my pillow. Maybe if I pretended to be dead he would believe it... Then they could just bury me alive, and I could die in peace.

Or maybe if I just died for real, he'd go away and assume that I didn't want to talk.

That would save us both a lot of trouble.

The knocking got louder. "Please come out, it's important..."

The fabric of the my pillow case clung to my lips as I breathed in. I hadn't meant to do it now- I never do. I've done this several times in the past by accident, breathed in so that my pillow case sucked towards my mouth and clung to my lips, but I've always jerked my head back immediately.

I heard Mikey mutter something outside of my room, and then the knocking started again.

It was a different kind of knock, that was coming from the other side of my door. It was a quieter, scared knock. It almost sounded like someone besides my brother was knocking, but I knew that wasn't right.

I closed my eyes, almost subconsciously, letting my breathing pull the too-light fabric closer to my lips.

The pillow case was limiting the amount of air coming into my lungs. I breathed in a little deeper, only resulting in my head feeling light.

I pressed my face further into the pillow case- this was starting to get interesting.

Suddenly, something in my lungs malfunctioned.

I don't know what it was.

Maybe the pillow case was doing it's job, maybe the suffocation was working.

All I know was that I was gasping for air that wouldn't come, and the pillow case was blocking the air flow.

With every gasp, my lungs constricted more. With every constriction, my head felt more-so light.

One more breath and I'd be dead.

"Gerard...?"

My head snapped up, surprise shooting straight through my veins and into my chest. I gasped for air, staring at the door.

I was wrong about suffocation- it wasn't the most pleasant experience. Something was about to happen, though, something worse than death by suffocation. What, I didn't know, but it was going to be big.

Either I was going to spontaneously combust, explode, cry, throw up, or all four, or my door was going to turn into a black hole and eat the person on the other side.

I hoped for the first two options- I didn't want to cry or throw up, my poor lungs wouldn't be able to keep up with tears after the torture I just put them through, and I didn't want the person on the other side to get sucked into a black hole... But I wouldn't mind dying. I wouldn't mind it at all.

The scared knocking started again.

"Gerard, please," his voice quivered.

Just hearing his voice made my insides twist into knots. Whether it was because I wanted to see him or because I wanted him to go away or because I'd almost just suffocated myself to death, I couldn't tell. All I knew was that I still felt as sick as I had for the past few days, and there was a disgusting feeling rising in the back of my throat.

He knocked again, harder this time, his voice pleading.

"Please just talk to me," he said, desperately. "Say something. Anything."

I didn't reply- I didn't see a reason to, and I didn't want to waste anymore air than I had to. He knew I was here, I knew he was there. We were acknowledging each other's existence and that was enough.

"Gerard, please. I understand if you're mad, just... Just talk to me, please? We're still friends, aren't we?"

Mad?

I wasn't mad.

I missed him, was all. I missed him so much that it hurt.

Missing him was worse than suffocation.

I hauled myself off of the bed, cringing as it creaked, flinching with each noisy step as I crossed the room.

"Right?" He knocked on the door, lightly; shakily, almost. "We're still friends?"

I wanted to cry. His voice was so desperate that it made me want to cry.

"Please?"

I walked to the door and sat down, leaning back against it.

He knocked again and I closed my eyes as the door vibrated against my spine. "Gerard, I'm begging you, please just-"

"Hello," I said quietly.

His voice and the knocking stopped immediately.

I figured that he wanted me to say something more, to keep talking, to hear my voice clearly, but I didn't feel compassionate enough to give him that luxury at the moment.

I honestly felt like I was going to throw up.

"Gerard?" It was Mikey, this time. He knocked several times. "Can we come in?"

"No."

"Well, can-"

"No."

There was a silence that lasted exactly fourteen seconds.

The other voice spoke up again. "Can we talk?"

I considered for a moment. "Yes."

I could hear their voices, muffled as they spoke to each other.

"I'll be in my room if you need me," my brother told the other boy quietly.

I heard Mikey walking away, and then the scratch and scrape of fabric as someone sat on the other side of the door.

Neither of us spoke for a minute and forty-two seconds.

"Are you okay?" he asked suddenly.

I leaned my head back, resting it against the door, and closed my eyes. Knowing that the only thing separating us was a few inches of wood and a few layers of paint sent my heart sputtering.

Breathing was getting hard again, but this time there was no physical blockade that I could just move away from.

"Yeah." I could have told the truth- I really should have, I guess. Lying to him was hard.

I wasn't at all okay.

My head still felt light when I stood up- just sitting up straight made me dizzy, and I could barely walk six feet without having to reach out and touch something to steady myself. No matter how many times I brushed my teeth, I could still taste the bile from the emotion-induced sickness. I smelt like shit, my hair was disgusting and my roots were starting to grow out again, and I'm convinced that I don't need to eat, even though it's been at least eighteen hours since I last looked at food.

"I don't believe you."

I let out a soft breath of air. I was very scared of this conversation- I've been missing him, but I've also been dreading seeing him again.

How were we supposed to act, after what happened?

Were things supposed to go back to normal, was I supposed to kiss his cheek and smile when he blushed, or were things supposed to be like they were when we first met, awkward touching of hands and small smiles that were too shy and too scared to properly express emotions?

"Well, what about you?" I whispered. I didn't trust my voice to get any louder; it was rough and hoarse and sounded annoyingly dry. "How have you been?"

"Tired," he said almost instantly. "I've had a stomach ache all week."

"What about school? How has that been?"

"I haven't been this week."

I almost wanted to start lecturing him about the importance of education but I guess I couldn't really complain- before I stopped talking to anyone, I'd talked my mom into giving me a week break in exchange for my normal spring break week. It kind of sucked, because then I wouldn't be free from schoolwork at the same time Frank was, but I needed a week to just not do anything.

There was a faint tap against my door. "Why won't you let me in?" he asked softly.

I tapped back, but didn't say anything.

"Are you mad at me?"

I took in a sharp breath of air. Why on earth would I be mad at him? The only person I was fed up with was myself. "No."

"But Mikey said-"

"Mikey was wrong."

If Mikey had told him I was mad, he was right, because I was furious with myself for screwing things up, but if Mikey had told him that I was mad because of something he had done, then he was completely wrong.

We were both quiet.

He tapped a few times on the door and I repeated the pattern back to him.

"That's Morse code," he told me.

"I know."

I tapped the pattern out again.

"S. O. S," I translated. "'Save our souls.'"

We tapped the pattern back and forth three more times, before he didn't reply.

I scooted away from the door, staring at the piece of wood that separated us.

"Are you leaning on the door?" I asked, even though I was sure that he was.

"Yeah..."

"Scoot away from it. Face it... Face me."

I listened to the ruffle of fabric and then he said a quiet, "Okay."

The crack under my door was just wide enough for me to slide my fingers under.

His hand touched mine instantly, almost making me jump.

We couldn't exactly lace fingers, but we were touching, so it was a start.

I almost wanted to cry.

I didn't realize how much I could miss physical contact.

He was suffocating me once again with the simple fact that I'm human- he kept reminding me over and over again about all of these instincts, all of these needs and wants and cravings and hormones that needed attention.

His fingers pressed down on mine and all I really wanted was to touch him- he was touching me, but I wasn't touching him.

This was his choice, he was showing me that he cared.

I wanted to prove the same to him.

"I miss you," he confessed, pulling his hand away.

I smiled a sad smile, moving my fingers away from the door and back into my room. "I've missed you, too."

"'Missed?'" he asked, questioning my use of past tense.

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. "You're here now, aren't you?"

"But you can still miss people even when they're right in front of you," he argued. "You're just a few feet away and I miss you more than I ever have."

"But you're here," I said, trying not to frown in confusion. "And I'm here. Isn't that enough?"

His voice quivered when he spoke. "But I can't see you, Gerard. I can't touch you. And I miss that. I miss you."

I paused for a long second, trying to make up my mind about something.

I stood up and slowly unlocked the door, before sitting on the edge of my bed, facing the door. I tripped a few times on the way there, but once I gained my balance, I was sure of my decision.

"The door is unlocked," I said loudly.

There was a short moment that passed, and I briefly wondered what was going on in that pretty little head of his.

Was he thinking about me?

The door pushed open, and for thirty seven seconds, we just looked.

He looked at me, I looked at him.

He looked stunning.

His shirt was wrinkled, probably worn for the second or third day in a row, and he was wearing a pair of jeans that I'm completely positive belong to me. He'd done something to his hair, it was shorter, and it was tangled and soft looking, and fell in the most unruly way. A few strands fell over his eye but he didn't make a move to brush them out of his face. He just stood there, staring at me.

He was recklessly beautiful. I let out a soft breath, wanting to reach out and touch him. I didn't, though- I was scared of breaking him.

"I like what you've done to your hair," I told him.

He looked at his feet, brushing the few strands of hair out of his face. "Thanks," he said softly. "I don't think I'm going to keep it like this though."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "I was bored this morning and chopped random bits of it off until I got this. I wasn't really paying attention. It's too different."

I felt the corners of my lips pull up into a slight smile. "You cut your hair because you were bored? Sounds like something I would do."

He smiled a small smile, too. "That's kind of why I did it."

My smile dropped a bit. "Well, I like it. It may be different, but it's cute."

His face flushed a light shade of uncertain modesty. "Thanks," he said again.

His gaze locked on to his shoes.

"I've missed you," he said, his voice cracking.

"I've missed you, too."

I couldn't stop staring at him.

"Are we okay?" Frank asked suddenly, looking up at me.

I blinked a few times. "What?"

His cheeks went pink again. "I mean- are we- uh." He shifted a bit, looking uncomfortable. "Are we still together, I mean?"

I blinked.

Were we still together?

The fact that he was asking me almost made me want to scream in relief. I'd been wondering that exact same question the past five days- were we still together? Was Frank still mine, was I still his?

"I don't know," I confessed. "Are we?"

He stared at me, eyes wide. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

I shook my head. "I- I just don't. I was hoping you would..."

He looked very confused and very scared.

"You decide," I said softly. I was surprised I was even giving him permission to do so... By giving him permission to end our relationship, I was giving him permission to end my life.

I didn't want to live without him.

It's so foolish, I know. Four months of togetherness and five days of sadness shouldn't be enough to become this attached to him, but somehow, it was.

Frank was the first friend that I've made in years. He's the only boy that I've honestly wanted to have a future with; this wasn't some teenage romance, not to me, at least.

I wanted to fall in love with him, one day.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Gerard..."

"Say whatever you want to," I told him. "This is completely up to you."

"What if... What if I said no?"

I felt my heart stop.

If Frank said no...

I gave him a weak smile. "Then I guess we're just friends."

"You'd be okay with that?" he asked, surprised. "Being just friends?"

"I wouldn't exactly be content," I said honestly, not looking at him. "But I'd deal with it... A friendly relationship is better than no relationship, right?"

I wish I had just gone ahead and suffocated myself.

Before I knew what was happening, though, I was being tackled backwards onto my bed- Frank was hugging me.

He was a momentary blur of over sized tee-shirt and my old favorite pair of jeans and black hair, all pulled into focus by that infamous pair of honey-hazel eyes and that brilliant smile that was the butterfly in my stomach. He hugged me so hard that it made us both fall back into the pile of blankets on my bed.

"Well, you don't have to just deal with it," he said, pressing his face against my shoulder. "Because we're together, Gerard. Maybe not completely, but mostly. Forever."

"Forever?" I asked, not believing him. Could I trust someone, even Frank, for the rest of forever? Could I willingly let him have ownership over my emotions for that long? I felt my voice quiver as I spoke, "Promise?"

"Promise."

I grinned, hugging him back for a second but then prying him off of me, just looking at him.

He laid on his side, and I did, too, about half a foot away and staring at each other.

"You could have just said so," I laughed softly. "Not that I don't like the hug, it's just that my head hurts so I've been a little dizzy..."

His face flushed a slight shade of pink. "Sorry. I just- I'm excited, you know? I've missed you."

I grinned. "It's okay. I understand."

I reached my fingers up and tucked strands of his messy black hair behind his ears, not sure how much I should be letting myself get away with... His hair was so gorgeously unruly that I wanted to kiss him.

He just gave a small, careful smile, letting me brush my fingers down his cheek.

"You look tired," he told me.

"That's because I am. You look tired, too, though."

"Oh. Yeah. The storms kept me up..."

I nodded. I'd been fairly concerned about the weather recently- I'd almost been tempted to call him several times to see if he was okay.

I noticed that he was staring at me, and I stared right back.

He really was beautiful.

Liquid hazel eyes that I could melt into, fingers that I wanted to hold forever, and a smile that I wanted to taste every day for the rest of my life. And of course there were his flaws, too, but those were irrelevant. All I needed was that butterfly smile.

I felt guilty for a moment, but then realized that his eyes had paused at my lips, too.

"I'm sorry," I said instantly, making him blink at the sudden movement.

He met my eyes quickly, surprised. "What?"

"I'm sorry," I said again, sincere. "For the other day."

He stared at me for a long second. "Why are you apologizing? You didn't do anything wrong."

"But-"

"But you shouldn't- I mean-" He looked down. "It wasn't your fault."

But it was. It was all my fault, everything was my fault.

I shouldn't have been such an idiot. If I had just masked my emotions, just for a little while... Maybe we wouldn't have had to of suffer through that five day separation.

"I shouldn't have run out like that," Frank argued. "I should have just told you..."

"Told me what?" There was nothing to tell. I understood- he didn't want to kiss, I did. It was as simple as that.

He rolled onto his back, pressing his hands over his face. "I should have just told you how scared I am," he mumbled.

"Scared? Of what?"

His reaction time was four seconds longer than normal. He was deciding something, I could tell- he was deciding whether or not he should tell the truth. "I'm scared of a relationship with a boy," he admitted, almost sounding annoyed.

I sighed.

I didn't know what to say.

I didn't know how to make him better.

I'm so fucking clueless, sometimes, and I hate that about myself.

I could have told him to not be scared, but I knew that wouldn't work. He has every right to be scared.

"I was scared, too," I told him, trying to comfort him with my own painful past. "When I realized that I liked boys, I mean."

He turned his head, looking at me. "What? Really?"

"I was thirteen," I said quietly, nodding. "It was when I was still in public school... There was this kid, who'd just moved here from Sweden."

I laughed, remembering how awkward of a child I was in middle school.

"I was absolutely fascinated with him. I don't really even remember his name, we didn't know each other for that long, but he was really sweet and had the cutest voice, and the fact that he was from Sweden and wasn't just another boring American who's speech patterns I could predict made the whole thing so much more interesting... I really liked him. I really, honestly did. But no body else did, and I never understood why all the other boys hated him so much... Until I learned that he was gay." I sighed. "I didn't have a problem with it, though- I could never see what was wrong with being gay, or bisexual, or even transgender. It's never bothered me. All that's ever made sense to me are instincts, and if instincts told you to like someone of the same gender or to turn yourself into someone of the opposite gender, I've never minded."

I stared over at Frank and he gazed back.

"The boy, the Swedish kid... He was so different than anyone else at the school, and he was nice to me. He sat with me at lunch when no one else would. In gym, when all the other kids were running and I was sitting on the side, he'd take a bad grade for that class period and come sit with me."

I'd just be sitting there in sweatpants and a long sleeve shirt because I hated my body, failing the class completely, and he'd come over and sit with me, and tell me that I looked perfectly fine to him. He's just smile and nod when I said, "Really?" and then tell me that the people who called me fat were wrong.

I blinked a few times, trying not to remember.

Out of everything I've ever been called, I've always hated the word 'fat' the most. 'Faggot' may be rude, 'emo' might be annoying, but they were just stereotype labels. The truth hurt, and 'fat' had always been true, when I was younger. Granted, I've lost a lot of weight since middle school- and when I say a lot, I mean that... But I still feel fat sometimes. Once you see all of that excess weight, hanging off of your skin in ugly rolls and lumps and curves, you can never stop thinking about it.

I'm always noticing how I'll never quite be thin enough.

Sure, my collar bone sticks out sometimes, but what about the weight in my legs? That still hasn't gone away. And yeah, maybe I'm not heavy around the stomach, but my face? It's far too round to ever be considered attractive.

I'm fat.

I know I am.

And when people point it out, it stings. They don't do it much anymore- no one has for years, they all call me skinny, but I know they're just trying to make me feel better because I know it'll never be true- but when I was younger? Some days it made me want to kill myself.

"His instincts were to be nice to me," I said, forcing myself to keep talking. "And I liked that about him. So we stayed friends... And I guess I sort of started falling for him."

Breathing was becoming painful again.

"I was so terrified," I whispered.

I let Frank slip out of the focus of my vision, until he was a blur and everything else was, too. I was seeing without observing, something that I haven't allowed my self to do in a long time.

It was nice, not noticing everything. The world was so much more simple when it was all out of focus lights and blurry shapes.

Not thinking too much was a luxury that I very much needed right now.

"I didn't understand my own emotions- I was raised liking girls, it was the only sexual attraction that I understood on a social level at that age. I got that I liked boys, I knew for a fact that I did, I knew that my instincts were telling me that I liked boys, but I didn't know how to handle that feeling. I couldn't tell anyone. Liking a boy made me feel so... So dirty," I realized. "It made me feel unwanted. I came home every day for a week straight crying, because I didn't know what to do. I'd heard the names people called that boy, but I didn't want to be called those things, too." I smiled a weak smile, my voice cracking as I spoke. "I just wanted to be like everyone else."

Frank's fingers touched mine, not quite holding my hand.

"But eventually," I continued, trying to keep my voice steady. "I realized that it didn't matter. Everyone else's opinion didn't matter. That boy... He was my everyone else- I wanted him and he wanted me, and it worked out."

Frank studied the side if my face as I finished my story. "So what happened?" he asked, sounding honestly curious. "Did you ever date him?"

I offered a small smile, one filled with painful nostalgia. "We kissed once, before I moved out of town..."

"Just once?" he said, looking surprised. "Is that all?"

I chuckled. "I was a fairly innocent kid, Frank."

"'Fairly' is the key word there."

I just laughed. "Yeah, I guess. But like I said, he made me realize that gender didn't matter... Hell, if someone likes me because of who I am, I'm not going to object. He was the first person besides my family that ever looked at me like I was an actual person, and not just some annoying creature that took up space. I don't even remember much about him, but that Swedish boy changed my life more than anyone else I've ever known."

We were silent for a long few seconds, and then Frank said, very softly, "What about me?"

"What about, 'what about' you?"

"Am I your 'everyone else,' Gerard?" he asked quietly. "Can I be your next Swedish boy?"