Folie a Deux

Author's note: This chapter is the longest one so far... And it flows really awkwardly... Sorry about that... Anyway... Enjoy!

---

I fumbled around uselessly in my room for a few hours, bored out of my mind without Frank there.

I'd managed to sleep for a while. It wasn't the best sleep, because I woke up for a few minutes because of a mild nightmare, but it was okay. It was sleep.

I woke up fully from my nap to a growling stomach, forcing myself to stumble in to the kitchen and fix some coffee, and eventually, Mikey convinced me to eat some cereal, too. Even though I'd kind of been boycotting normal dietary habits, having a full stomach felt both good and uncomfortable. I felt fat after eating, but I also didn't feel quite as lightheaded as before.

"Drink," Mikey said, setting a glass of water next to my coffee mug as he sat down at the other side of the table with a bowl of cereal that I knew he didn't really like. "I swear you're just going to pass out and die one of these days. You can't live off of coffee forever."

I snorted, rolling my eyes and taking a sip of water. "It's worked up until this point... Sorry about your toast. I'll get you some tomorrow, okay?"

My little brother just gave me a small smile. "Thanks... You know I was just kind of being an ass this morning, right?"

I rolled my eyes. "I kind of guessed. I got into a lot of trouble with Frank, ya' know... Over fucking toast."

Mikey laughed. "I didn't mean to do that! I just wanted toast! I didn't expect him to flip-shit like that! Speaking of the midget, where it he?"

I chuckled, shaking my head. "If he hears you calling him that..."

Mikey grinned. "Seriously, though, where is he? I have a question about guitar and your advice sucks."

I flipped him off, thankful my mom wasn't there to see. "He's at his house, dork."

"His house? So he doesn't actually live here now?"

I rolled my eyes again. "While that would be nice, no, he does not live here."

Mikey just rolled his eyes back at me. "Seems like it."

"It's not like he's always here, though..."

"Not always, but most of the time."

I shrugged. "I dunno. I guess. I've been considering just giving him a key, if mom'll let me."

"I'm sure she would, she loves him. I'd just go ahead and get a key made, if I were you."

"Yeah?" I asked, raising my eyebrow. "Maybe I will."

"You should," Mikey told me. He stood up, setting his cereal bowl in the sink. "I'm gonna' go practice, 'kay?"

I nodded, smiling. "You're gonna grow up and be the world's best bass player, kid."

He laughed.

I just grinned.

I didn't really know what to do with myself- Mikey was busy, Frank had gone home for a little while, after a very angry exchange on the phone with his mom... I didn't have much to do but draw, watch mind-numbing TV, and sleep.

I'd told Frank that he didn't have to go; I'd tried every method of trying to convince him to stay. I would have loved for him to just stay enjoy the rest of Sunday with me, to curl up with me in bed and nap all the way up to our date, because I was suddenly very, extremely tired, now that I'd admitted that I really hadn't been sleeping as much as I should be.

(Something about knowing that Frank used to have nightmares too made it all seem not quite as bad... I wondered if his nightmares were anywhere as bad as mine, though.

Did he always wake up screaming? Did he think they were real? Did he feel like he was dying, did he cry for hours on end once he woke up? Did he ever wish that his inner demons would just go ahead and kill him, to put him out of his misery?

Probably not.)

I'd practically stuck to Frank like a leech as he had tried to leave the bed, though, whining and clutching his clothes, pulling him back down every time he tried to stand up- I think at one point my hand had actually been beneath his shirt, which had made him shiver and squirm and turn red- but he said that his mom would probably kill him if he didn't leave. And besides, all he had to wear were evidently old shirts that belonged to me and over-size skinny jeans, and neither of those were acceptable "first date clothing," according to him. (Which worried me. What the fuck was I supposed to wear, if that was the case?)

The call hadn't been the most pleasant thing to hear, especially knowing that I was "that boy" that Frank's mom was screeching about, so I just took his word for it and let him leave.

The phone had been on the speaker-phone setting by habit, because Frank always kept it on, as did I. We tended to listen in on each other's calls (which were rare, but still,) to offer advice, considering that the only time either of us talked on the phone was with our family, and if one of us did happen to take a call in private, neither of us mentioned it, because we didn't keep too many secrets from one another. I'd lied a few times, but within good reason and with good intention, and if he had been telling me less than the truth about anything, well, I didn't notice, and I didn't mind, if he had a good reason for it.

And besides, I already knew what Frank's mom thought of me. Even though we had never met or spoken, I knew she hated me, so it didn't matter much if I heard her ruthless insults.

She hated me. Truly, honestly hated me.

When Frank picked up his cell phone, he had done a big eye roll at the caller ID. The first thing Mrs. Iero asked was where he was.

"Gerard's house," Frank had insisted, leaning into the pile of pillows, stretching out across my bed. I'd been curled up next to him, covers draped over my feet, tugging on the waistband of his jeans, begging quietly and whispering for him to lay down with me. "I told you, mother," he'd said, swatting my hand away and glaring at me, which I answered by pouting. "We went through this like a week ago. He's my friend."

That was met with a suspicious silence, which I'd taken as an opportunity to take his hand and kiss his knuckles.

"I'm spending the week over here while his mom is away," Frank continued, rolling his eyes at the phone and it's insulting, disbelieving silence, and then at me and my silent pleas for attention. "So he and his little brother aren't alone."

At that I had raised a tired, confused eyebrow- I hadn't expected Frank to tell the truth about that. It wasn't often that he lied, like I said, but when he did, it was almost always to his mother.

"I want to meet him," she'd said almost instantly. "Can I meet you both somewhere for dinner?"

At that, we had both frozen.

She's never once asked to meet me... It wasn't that I didn't expect her to want to meet me, I just hadn't thought that she would ever actually ask, and I didn't expect that she'd want to meet me so soon. I was just a friend, as far as she knew. She was treating the situation like Frank and I were engaged and having a drive-through Vegas wedding, or something.

"Not tonight," Frank had said, thinking fast and sharing a glance with me. "I have school tomorrow, I was planning on going to bed early."

Of course, that was complete bullshit. We had a date scheduled tonight, and there was no way in hell that we were ever going to miss that. I felt my heart pick up speed just thinking about it- it was a stupid thing to be so excited about, I know, but I was confused about his sudden change of heart and I was glad that he had changed his mind and I was scared of hurting him, all at once. It was taking a weird toll on my body; one second my fingers were itching to touch him and the next I couldn't make eye contact, all because my stupid brain was running a mile a minute and nothing quite made sense anymore.

Then there had been a short silence, on Mrs. Iero's end of the line. "Fine. What about five, tomorrow afternoon?"

Frank had turned to me for an answer and I had just nodded, absentmindedly, suddenly distracted by my racing thoughts, because oh, fuck, what if I did manage to screw something up? I had sent Frank a glance, then, not really paying attention to what he and his mom were arguing about now, but more concerned and confused than anything.

He talked on the phone for a little while after that, and I'd fallen half-asleep by then, bored with uninteresting conversation. Eventually Frank agreed to his mom to go home for a little while.

"You take a nap, or something," he'd ordered, prying me off of him as he clamored away from my bed. I'd sent him a tired glare, muttering about how I wanted him to stay. "We're skipping the date if you don't get sleep."

And so, I'd slept.

For two hours, probably, which helped a lot.

And then Mikey and I had cereal, and then I drew for a while, and then Mikey and I sat in the living room, watching the news.

I realized what time it was half way through the six day forecast.

"Half past one, already?"

Mikey nodded, glancing over at me. "Yeah. Why? When was Frank supposed to get back?"

I shrugged, kind of uncomfortable. "He said he's be home about half an hour ago, but..."

"His mom probably just started lecturing him about something," Mikey snorted. "He's fine, bro. Just take it as a chance to get more sleep."

I sighed, concerned, but did as he said. I needed the sleep, anyway- I was a lot more tired than I thought I was.

I managed to get about another hour of sleep in, but I woke up, eventually, nervous for two reasons: the fact that Frank was so late, and our date.

I was worried about Frank. Really, very worried. It would have been different, had he texted or called, or something, but he hadn't, and the walk from his house to mine really couldn't have been but maybe thirty minutes.

I tried to distract myself with date clothes and my stupid forever-tangled hair and by taking a shower. It helped a little- the shower did it's job of calming me down well. There was something about warm water and steam that was very relaxing.

I let the spray soak my hair, running my fingers through it. I was still getting used to having black hair; it was different and dark, and sometimes I missed my red hair and the way people actually payed attention to it, but Frank liked it, so I didn't see too much wrong with it. I twisted my fingers around a few locks of it, watching the water drip.

I like showers. I like the steam, I like the warmth, I like the drip of the water down my skin. I didn't like my body- I hated it, actually- but when there's nothing but water and skin and steam I can't help but feel invincible. I can't help but feel like the longer I stand here, the longer the water is beating down on my skin, the cleaner I'll be, the more sins and whatever else are being washed away. By the time I'm out of the shower, I feel clean. I feel renewed, as stupid as it sounds.

There's something very intimate about showers, too. The nakedness of it all. The fact that the water was touching you everywhere and anywhere at any given moment, the cold and smooth tile all around you contrasting the warmth of the water... Taking a shower was like making love to the water. It felt beautiful. It was beautiful.

Thinking of intimacy and of all things beautiful, my mind wandered to Frank.

I had him memorized- not just his face, but him. His eyes and lips and nose and smile, his body and arms and legs, his hands and fingers and eyes. I knew the sound of his voice, I recognized the tones of it, too. I could read his expressions before he even realized I was looking at him.

I perfectly knew his body language, and everything else, too.

Everything.

He was engraved in my memory, every bit of him, from his body to his voice to his personality.

I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, letting the water hit my neck, the sensation strange and slightly painful.

I let my mind wander some more, and I was making the dangerous choice to let myself think about Frank, and his butterfly smile, and those thin fingers of his. I made the mistake of letting my mind linger there, though, on his fingers and his smile, for too long. He was so distracting that I just couldn't help myself.

And showers were not good places to be distracted in.

I pinched the skin on my arm, forcing myself to focus on something else.

"Show some self control, Gerard," I muttered to myself, staring at the tile wall of the shower, trying to shake his image out of my head.

I couldn't help but wonder what, exactly, was going to happen during our date. I already knew where I wanted to take him; I had it all planned out, perfect:

Park.

Sunset.

Tree-climbing.

Candy shop.

Just the summary was making me smile.

There was a sudden pounding on the door and I almost jumped, surprised.

"What the fuck do you want, Mikey?" I yelled.

"I have to pee!"

I rolled my eyes. "Can't you wait?"

"Can't you stop worrying about your boyfriend and get out of the shower? I know that's why you're in there."

I glared at the door, even though he was right- I always took a shower when I was worried or nervous (or mad, but that wasn't the point, this time,) about something, because it helped me relax. "He's not my boyfriend," I said, because he had been wrong about that.

I was met with silence as I rolled my eyes, turning off the shower and wrapping a towel around myself.

I exited the bathroom, glaring at Mikey. "He's not my boyfriend."

My little brother just laughed.

"I'm serious," I said loudly, pacing to my room. "He's not!" I insisted, shutting my door.

And he really wasn't.

I mean, we were together, but I wouldn't call him my boyfriend. To qualify as boyfriends, I'm pretty sure a date and a kiss and mutual agreement on that label were all required. And even though, yeah, sure, two of those things would happen eventually, I wasn't too sure if Frank would like that term.
"Boyfriend," I said quietly, wiggling into a pair of skinny jeans. "He'd hate that."

He'd probably blush so much that he died of over-heating if I even said the word once.

I pushed the word, that stupid word that I knew would probably haunt me for the rest of the night, out of my head and turned to my closet, concerned.

Like Frank had said, old and over-sized shirts weren't exactly the best thing to wear on a date. I really didn't have much of a choice, though. I ended up with a shirt that had some band logo on it- it was so faded that I couldn't even read the name of the band, anymore- and a black leather jacket, which almost looked acceptable, and then I just plopped down on my bed, waiting.

I really had nothing to do except for wait, and eventually I got bored and started drawing. I didn't mean to, but I drew Frank...

---

It was about four by the time he got home.

I jumped up the second he knocked on the door- don't ask how I knew it was him, because I just did. I guess it was because he had a very distinct way of knocking; everyone did, really. Frank's was quiet, timid, barely there. My brother's was loud, demanding, impatient. My mother's was rhythmic, always set to a certain, consistent beat, like mine.

I got to the front door before Mikey did, and flung it open, not quite knowing what to expect.

Frank pushed his way inside immediately, wiping at his eyes and nose, not looking at me. I didn't even see his face at first, because of the way his hair fell as he averted his eyes.

I felt a little pissed that he being rude. He gets home three hours late, and doesn't even provide an explanation? I started to ask where he'd been, and why he was being so quiet, and then I started to ask if he was okay, but I had to stop mid sentence.

Because was that- Was that blood?

I couldn't think straight, suddenly. My thoughts were even more scattered than before.

"Frank-?"

"I need toilet paper, or something, unless you want blood stains on the carpet," he said quietly, interrupting me, tipping his head back and pressing his jacket sleeve to his nose. He sniffled.

I noticed Mikey standing in the hall and sent him a panicked look- my brother sprang into action, racing to the bathroom to get something to stop the blood flow, bringing back a handful of tissue.

Frank was bleeding.

"Here," I said, not quite sure what to say, handing Frank the tissue. He pressed it gingerly to his nose and I just looked at him, putting one hand on his cheek, using my other hand to push hair out of his face, not sure what to do.

He was hurt, quite obviously, and I felt the need to check for more injuries besides the bleeding nose.

He looked up at me, hazel eyes dark.

My fingers skimmed down his face and my eyes ran down his body, looking for any obvious signs of pain.

"I'm fine," he told me quietly, as my fingers skimmed down him in concern. He flinched a bit as my fingers ran down his ribs, so I paused, touching his sides gingerly, but he didn't flinch again. "M-my jaw hurts and my nose has been bleeding for a while now," he told me, looking down. "But I'm fine."

I didn't speak.

I couldn't speak.

I was too confused and worried and shocked to speak.

"I'm fine," he said again.

"A- are you okay?" I said, though, the words burning my throat. "You don't look okay."

Frank stepped away from me and I reached out, worried, but he just turned away, not looking at me.

"Frank?"

He walked to the bathroom, shutting the door tightly behind him. I heard the door click, locked.

Mikey looked at me and I just stared.

"What do you think happened?" he whispered.

I shook my head, wide-eyed. I wrapped my left hand around the fingers of my right one and then reversed, pulling on my own fingers nervously. I was probably wrecking some muscles or tendons in my fingers right now, but I didn't know what to do with my hands and I felt too clumsy and useless to even cross my arms over my chest. I just stood there, wringing my hands and trying not to just burst through the bathroom door and hug Frank until he was all better.

"I- I don't know..." I confessed.

I stood in front of the bathroom door for eleven minutes, waiting, my ear pressed against the door in concern.

No sound came from anyone in the house, the only thing I could hear was my own breathing.

Eventually, though, I heard Frank take a deep, shuttering breath, and release it in a terribly painful manner.

He was crying.

I closed my eyes, not sure what to do.

I listened for a few minutes, the sound of his tears making my heart hurt.

Eventually, he called my name, loudly, voice wavering and cracking and turning into a half-desperate shout midway through the word, breaking the syllables into a terrible wail.

"Yeah?" I whispered immediately.

He paused for a moment, his voice shaking. "I- I'm sorry."

I paused, too. "For what?"

Something inside of the door clicked, letting me know the door was unlocked, and I pushed the door open immodestly.

He plopped back in to a sitting posisiton on the bathroom floor, back pressed up against the wall, a small crumpled mess of blood-stained toilet paper on the tile floor.

The skin between his right nostril and upper lip was stained red.

He looked... Pitiful. Pitiful and young.

Pitiful, and young, and scared.

He looked broken.

He sat with his legs pulled up, against his chest, his arms wrapped around them and his chin resting on his knees. He hadn't bothered to wipe away any of his tears, and he didn't try to hide them.

I dropped to my knees next to him, and he just looked at me.

His hair had gotten long-ish again, I noticed, his bangs falling over his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. A tear rolled down his cheek, clinging to his chin, and I reached over, wiping it away with my thumb.

"What are you sorry for?" I whispered. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I'm sorry for making y-you worry," he said quietly, hiccuping.

I stared at him and he just looked up at me with that pitiful look in his eyes, and that scared, terrified, trembling and shaking of his fingers.

His hands were scraped and bloody, the tips of his fingers stained red.

"Come here," I whispered, standing up.

He did as I asked, wrapping his arms around himself, not seeming to notice the blood on his hands. He still had on his jacket, and he was shaking everywhere; I couldn't tell if he was cold, in shock, or just plain sad.

I patted the surface of the sink counter and he seemed to get the message, sitting there, using his torn-up hands to push himself up. I almost smiled as I noticed his feet didn't touch the floor. I pushed the observation out of my head, though- there was a job to be done here, so I might as well get to it.

"Are you cold?" I asked him.

He shook his head, so I helped him take off the jacket, tossing it over the edge of the bathtub. The end of the sleeve was stained with blood, and there was mud and dirt on it, too- it needed to be washed.

I looked back at Frank and noticed the dirt smudged on his face, and his fingers, and everywhere else, too. He looked like he'd been hit with some type of disgusting mud ball, or something. Like a really violent snowball war had turned nasty.

He noticed the mud and blood on his jacket, too, sighing. "I'm glad I wasn't wearing the cardigan. Dark green fabric and red and brown don't exactly mix."

I nodded.

I ducked down to get a wash cloth from under the bathroom sink, and then wet it, sending Frank a look from the corner of my eyes.

He was just staring at his hands.

I sighed, using one hand to push the hair out of his face and using the washcloth to wipe that still red spot above his mouth, and then the side of his face, and then I wiped his forehead, too. He looked up at me while I did that, and I sighed again, trying not to meet his eyes. "Your forehead..." I wiped at the small cut there and he flinched, closing his eyes. "Sorry. Does it sting?"

"Kind of."

I nodded. "Okay. Just..." My teeth scrapped the inside of my bottom lip, chewing nervously. "It's gonna' sting, I guess, okay?" I felt so useless. "I don't... I'm not good at this stuff, so..."

"It's okay," he said quietly. He gave me a small smile that was so fake it hurt. "You're trying, and that's what counts."

I just avoided eye contact- I didn't know how to deal with this situation. I didn't know what to say or do, or even where to look. I didn't know if asking questions about what happened would make him uncomfortable or not.

He was so fucking covered in dirt and blood, and it was making me so frustrated that I was considering just taking him out to the backyard and striping his clothes off so I could hose him down with warm water until he was clean... And then my imagination might have started to play with my head, and his boxers just might have been gone, too, but I shook the mental image away and got back to reality.

Maybe I was the one who needed to be sprayed down with a hose.

But with cold water instead of warm, thanks to Frank.

I really do need to learn to control my hormones. The fact that they were starting to play with my imagination really should be a sign that they were getting out of hand.

Frank sighed, quietly, as I pulled my hand away from his face.

I took his fingers in mine, wiping carefully at his skin. His hands were completely torn up, the left one more-so than the right.

It looked like he'd fallen off of a bike and skidded a few feet.

"Y- you don't have to do this," he told me, as I lifted his other hand. I kept my eyes focused on his hands, because he was staring at me. I kept my eyes focused on his pale fingers and his smooth palms and his callused fingertips, and at first they did a very good job distracting me, because I've always kind of had a thing for Frank's hands, but I couldn't help but see him staring at me.

He was looking up at me through his bangs, like an adorable little puppy or something, his bottom lip trembling, slightly.

"I can take care of myself," he whispered, staring at me. "I'm not a kid."

"I know," I whispered back, even though he really did look only about fourteen years old right then. I let go of his hand and he dropped it into his lap. "But you're not all grown up, either, Frank..."

"But neither are you," he protested.

"I'm older than you," I reminded him. And I was struck with the sudden realization that I really was older than him.
My eighteenth birthday would come, soon enough.

Not that I wasn't going to tell him when it came around this summer, because he'd figure it out himself eventually, but I felt uncomfortable with the knowledge that I would legally be an adult soon, and he was still a teenager.

I didn't feel like an almost-adult, not at all. I felt about as helpless as a baby, sometimes. I still felt like a kid, most days, like the same clumsy middle school idiot I've always been, the "faggot with the attitude and weird hair," as my classmates used to put it.

"Just by a little bit," Frank protested, voice small. He watched as I dropped the now dirty and slightly blood-stained washcloth in the sink. "No more than a year."

"Yeah," I sighed, leaning down, kissing his forehead. "Just by a little bit."

He sighed a heavy sigh, and kept his gaze away from mine.

I carefully put my fingers on his jaw, and then his neck, and then his shoulder, and then my fingers came to a rest on his side. He shivered, slightly.

"Where does it hurt?" I whispered.

"Everywhere," he said. He looked up at me, leaning in to my touch, something he didn't do often. "Everything hurts."

I sighed and hugged him, and I knew it was probably making it hurt worse, but he didn't protest.

His face nuzzled against my shoulder and his fingers pressed against my spine, softly.

"I'm sorry," he said, breath warm against my neck. "I'm sorry for making you worry."

I sighed, closing my eyes. I just wanted to hug him forever. "Don't apologize, Frankie. It's not your fault."

"But it is," he protested, pushing me away, slightly. His hands stayed on me, though, which I was both thankful for and scared of. His palms rested flat against the bones of my hips, his fingers spread out, pressing against me. I wanted to both run away and kiss him, all at the same time. "It's all my fault."

His eyes were watering.

"No it's not," I told him again, pulling his fingers off of me. "Whatever- whatever happened, whoever did this, wasn't because- just don't blame yourself, okay?"

"You don't know that," he said, voice quivering. He closed his eyes, tight, and I just wanted to kiss him, because oh, god, I knew that look far too well. "It's all my fault."

"It's not," I said again. "You know it's not, Frankie."

His watering eyes finally spilled over, like rain, like someone had shattered the sky, and it broke my heart.

I didn't like seeing Frank cry.

It made me feel terrible, and guilty, like he shouldn't be crying, ever, as long as I was there.

I should be able to protect him, so why the hell wasn't it working?

"Stop that," I whispered. I sat on the counter next to him. "Frank, don't- don't cry..."

He just kept crying, though, and I knew I wasn't at all helping.

I'm a terrible person. I know that now, I know that I really am horrible. I couldn't offer any comfort to Frank, not one ounce of help. I didn't know how to.

I'd never been taught how to make someone happy. I'd been taught how to please, of course, I knew how to give people what they wanted and how to make them content, but no one had ever taught me how to dry up tears and plant a smile on a face, and no one had ever taught me how to make that smile bloom.

"Please," I whispered. My fingers touched his shoulder, and his neck, and his face, and he just pulled himself away. His fingers pressed against his face and he was sobbing. "Please," I begged. "Don't do this. Don't cry, baby, please..."

"I hate this," he said, voice shaking, everything shaking. "I hate it. All of it."

"Hate what?" I whispered, putting my hand on his shoulder. To my relief, he didn't try to move away.

"Everything!" he half shouted. He looked at me and it hurt, it physically hurt to look at him, at the pain that twisted his face like that. "Life, Gerard!" he yelled. "I hate life! I hate living! It's not fucking worth it anymore!"

I didn't know what to say, because honestly, I agreed. There wasn't much purpose to life, not at all. In a hundred years I won't matter. I might be someone's great great grandpa or someone's great great uncle, or something, but I won't make a difference. In a thousand years I'll be someone's ancestor, some name in the back of someone's family history book. In a million years, I'll be an unnamed, unremembered part of human history, nothing more than a pile of bones, decomposing with the rest.

And, well, in a billion years, the sun probably will have exploded by then, and the entire earth will have gone up in smoke and flames and nothing, no one, not a single person or thing that's ever existed or happened will ever make a difference, because eventually, the human race is going to die out, and it's pointless to just make ourselves suffer.

Frank didn't stop crying for a while.

We sat there, the two of us, on the bathroom counter, my arm around his shoulders. To my surprise he leaned willingly into my touch, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing his face against me; sometimes he cried into my neck, and sometimes into my shoulder, and sometimes he'd rest his head in the crook between them and get really quiet, and then he'd just start sobbing all over again.

I didn't mind. I really didn't. I understood. He hadn't cried in a while, as far as I knew, not since December, not since right before our "togetherness" started. He needed to cry, I think.

There was a certain relief, in tears. Like a pressure was being removed from your chest. It was nice, most of the time, in the long run of things. Sometimes it made your head hurt and sometimes it got hard to breathe, but in the end... It was nice.

"I hate life," Frank whispered suddenly, startling me. "I don't like it. I never have." I sighed, looking him. "I want to die," he whispered. We'd been sitting here for thirty-seven minutes, in complete silence, up until this point. "I don't fucking care anymore. No one would miss me but you and maybe Mikey and your mom and maybe my mom, but that'd be it."

"No you don't," I told him, quietly. "You don't want to die. People would miss you."

"Yes I do, and no, they wouldn't."

And I didn't aruge, because I did, too, and I knew that it was the same situation for me.

I pressed my lips to the top of his head, instead, at least pretending to be saying no. His hair was soft, and warm, and honestly, I did have something to say, but I'd completely lost my train of thought.

"Thank you," he whispered, against my shoulder.

"For what?" I whispered back, into his hair.

"For not asking questions."

I sighed, resting my head on top of his. "Y- you're welcome, I guess... But if you want to, uh, talk about it, or-"

"Talking would be nice," he said, pulling away from me, nodding. His fingers reached up, touching his jaw. "My face hurts," he whispered.

I sighed, standing up off of the counter, in front of him. He tilted his head back to look up at me, and I just looked back, running my thumb gently across his cheek, smearing more than wiping away his tears. "I know, baby," I whispered, pressing my lips against his forehead. "I know it hurts."

He flushed a slight shade of pink, keeping his head down but still looking up at me, those honey-hazel eyes making me warm. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because... Just... I don't know. I'm not used to it."

I looked down. "Okay..."

He looked at me, warily. "You're totally still going to call me that, aren't you?"

I laughed, slightly, ducking my head and avoiding his gaze. "Have I really gotten that predictable?"

Frank just shrugged. "Well, I just know for a fact that when you have your mind set on something, you don't let go of it easily..."

"Oh, is that a bad thing?"

"No. No, not at all." He allowed himself a tiny smile. "I mean, that's how we ended up here, isn't it?"

I chuckled, nodding. "Yeah, I guess that's right..." I trailed off, noticing how a slight bruise was already beginning to form on his jaw. My fingertips touched the side of his face again. "What happened to you?" I asked finally. "Who did this to you?"

He looked down. "I- it's no big deal."

"They made you cry," I said, dropping my fingers away from my face. "They hurt you." My fingers curled into fists. "It's a huge deal."

Frank just looked at my hands for a few seconds, the angry fists that I hadn't meant to form. "This kid named Ross and some of his friends, if you must know... Called me a faggot and shoved me around a bit, and I fell in the road, and... Well, it's nothing new, I mean-"

"So you know them? This has happened before?"

He nodded. "Y- yeah. They go to school with me."

I felt my fingers curl tighter together. If they went to school together, then there was no telling how long stuff like this had been going on.

His hand touched mine gingerly, both of his hands wrapping around one of mine. He forced me to stretch out my fingers. "Don't be mad," he said, quietly. "It's nothing new."

"Which makes it even worse, Frank!" I pulled my hand away from him. "If they've been beating you up like this, then-"

"It's fine," he said. "I can take care of myself!" he insisted, glaring at me.

"Not-"

"I don't want you involved in this crap, okay? I don't want you to get hurt."

"I'm not going to-"

"I can handle it myself," he said. I just looked at him. "I'm not a kid."

"But you're not an adult, either," I reminded him.

"But neither are you, so..."

I looked away and he stared at me.

"Right?" he said, catching my strange expressions. "You're seventeen, right, Gerard?"

"Not for long," I muttered.

He paused for a second, eyes going wide. "Wait. What? When do you turn eighteen?"

I shrugged, not bringing myself to look him in the eye.

"It's no big deal, I mean..."

"No bid deal? Gerard, it's a huge deal, it's your birthday. When is it?"

I glared at him. I wasn't in the mood to argue about this- my age wasn't relevant to the situation.

"Your jaw," I said instead. "Where does it hurt?"

He stared at me, twitching his head slightly to make his bangs move from in front of his eyes. "Gerard... When's your birthday?"

I reached my fingers up to his face, pressing on his cheek slightly. "Does that hurt?"

"Gerard, I'm serious, wh-"

I touched another spot on his cheek, trying to ignore him. "What about that?"

"Gerard?"

I kept touching different spots on his jaw.

"When the hell is your birthday, Ger-" He stopped, suddenly, flinching away from my hand as I evidently found where his jaw hurt. "Stop, goddammit. That hurts!"

I sighed, rolling my eyes and pulling my fingers away from his face. "In a month, okay?"

There was a small pause, one that I took as a chance to internally scream at myself for being an idiot.

"How are you in the eleventh grade, then, if you're turning-"

"I'm not."

He paused. "What?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm going to be eighteen soon, and I'm a grade higher than you in school, now, okay?" I looked away. "That's it." I could feel him staring at me. "That's all there is," I said quietly.

He stared at me. "So you've been lying."

I sighed.

"Why did you lie?" he asked, loudly. He looked so offended.

I looked away, knowing he was about to get mad.

"Gerard?" he said loudly, foot tapping me. "Why did you lie to me?"

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath, and his fingers wrapped around my wrist.

"Gerard, answer me!"

"Frank-"

"Gerard!"

I looked at him, tearing my wrist away from his hand. "Because I didn't think you'd like me, okay?" I admitted, louder than I meant to be. I was pissed at myself and I was pissed at him, and I was pissed at my age and my grade and school systems and the entire fucking world. "Honestly, I forgot I even fucking lied in the first place! I don't even know why I did it."

"But-"

"I guess I just thought that if you knew that I had to go to college in a year, you'd freak out on me..."

I couldn't even remember lying to him. How long ago had that been? When we first met?

Dear God, I regret every word of it.

He stared at me and I looked away again.

"So you lied," he repeated, quietly. "About what grade you're in?"

"Yes. It wasn't like I lied about my actual age, or anything, though, and-"

"Because you thought it'd scare me off?"

I looked at my feet.

When he put it like that, I sounded like an idiot.

And I really was an idiot.

I could hardly even remember lying- that seemed like it happened so long ago, and I guess it was. Before Frank and I were even really friends, let alone in a relationship.

I'd honestly just done it because I thought the age difference, even though it was small, would scare him away. I didn't want to deal with the fact that I'd be out of high school before him, I didn't want to deal with the fact that I'd be an adult before him, I didn't want to deal with the fact that I'd be doing everything before him.

I didn't want the future to come so fast.

I just wanted to be with Frank.

Everything else, at this point, was irrelevant.

"Gerard, you should have told me," he said. "You should have just told me."

"But-"

"But I wish you had," he said, sounding hurt. "If you have to go to college next year, then- I- I don't-"

He was looking everywhere but me.

"You have to leave... Fuck, Gerard, you have to leave," he whispered.

I sat on the counter next to him.

"I know," I told him, covering my face with my hands. "I'm sorry."

"College," he spat. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think it was that important-"

"Important? Of course it's fucking important! Our relationship is important to you, isn't it?"

I nodded, blinking. "O- of course, but-"

"And the fact that you have to go to college, which is something that could possibly end that relationship, isn't?"

"Frank, I-"

"You didn't think that maybe I would want to know?"

"I'm serious! I didn't realize..."

He stared at me for a long second. "Fuck you," he said, quietly, voice defiant. He raised his chin a bit, looking straight at me. "Fuck you and fuck this stupid fucking relationship, Gerard."

I looked away, because he was right. There wasn't much more to say, but, "I'm sorry."

His reaction was instant, taking me by surprise, his arms going around my shoulders, his face pressed against my neck.

"You have to leave," he said, voice angry. "You lying asshole." His fingers dug into my shoulder. "You have to leave me next year, Gerard, you bastard."

"I'm not-"

"Don't lie," he said, and I could feel his lips against my neck as he spoke, and oh, god, this was a terrible time for him to be touching me with his lips. "You have to go." His voice shook. "I know you do."

"I'm not lying," I said. "I'm not going to-"

He pulled away suddenly, staring at me. "Yes you are," he said. "You have to. You're going to college Gerard, and you can't take me with you. I'm not worth that."

"I-"

"You're not fucking skipping out on college because of your pansy excuse for a best friend," he said, blatantly insulting himself. "I'm not worth that!"

"But-"

"You're going to art school," Frank insisted, sad and angry and serious. "Or something like that. And you're going to grow up and be the world's best artist, or piano player, or whatever."

"Frank, I'm not leaving you," I insisted.

He crossed his arms, glaring at me. "How is that going to work out?"

I rolled my eyes. He really was clueless, wasn't he?

"Look, North Carolina may not have the best art schools or anything, the one in New York is like ten times better, but I'm gonna' make it work, okay?"

He looked away. New York had been my first choice for college- it always had been, and he knew that.

"But, Gerard, New York... New York City, and art, and-"

"And I'm not going out of state for college," I told him. "I don't have the money to, anyway. I'm staying right here, with you... In fact, I'm probably gonna' live off campus, anyway. I'd die if I had to live with a roomate that I didn't know well."

He laughed, once, because he knew it was true.

"I'll probably be in this fucking house until I die," I told him.

Frank paused for a long second, and then turned his gaze to our feet, mine just barely scrapping the floor and his dangling there. "That's not true," he said.

"Frank-"

"You're not going to live here forever, Gerard," he insisted. "You've got a future. You've got so much potential, Gee..."

He looked up at me, peering through those too-long bangs again. I was considering just taking a pair of scissors and cutting them myself, because he was so cute that it was toxic.

"I refuse to stay with my mom forever," he said. "And you're gonna' start annoying your mom with that piano, ya' know..."

I felt the ghost of a smile on my lips as I realized what he was saying.

"And your mom's not gonna like it once we get a dog, either," he said, distantly, eyes slightly out of focus. He stared at the floor. "She'll kill it if it pees on the carpet." His nose wrinkled. "And I guess once we get that cat of yours, we're gonna' have to have like a closet or something for the litter box, because that shit's not going in the kitchen and it sure as hell isn't going in the bedroom."

I felt my heart skip a beat when he said "the bedroom," as stupid as that sounds. "The" implied one, and "one" implied one bed, and that implied... Well, it implied a lot.

"And we're going to have to have like an extra room for your art or something, and then somewhere to keep your piano and my guitar, so I guess we'll have to have like a music and art room or some shit like that..." He looked up at me, smiling slightly, shaking his head. "And damn, Gerard, what are we going to do with all of your clothes...?"

I blinked at him, unable to keep the smile off of my lips. "You're totally construction blueprints in your head right now, aren't you?" I asked quietly.

He chuckled a bit, looking away. "Damn right, I am... We're gonna' have a nice house, Gerard. And you're gonna' pay for it with that art of yours."

I rolled my eyes dramatically "Oh, yeah, make me do all of the work. What do you want to be when you grow up, anyway, kid?"

He rolled his eyes, too, but was slowly turning a shade of pink. "Long story..."

"Come on, I won't laugh... Maybe."

He glared up at me, and then glared at his shoes, and then back at me, but he was still smiling. "I don't exactly know. Something with pictures or music or writing or... I don't know." He shrugged. "Pictures. Photography. Photographs."

I raised an eyebrow. "You like photography?"

He shrugged, still a light shade of cherry red. "Yeah. I- I mean, have you ever looked in to how cameras capture light? It's some pretty badass stuff..."

I just laughed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because! No one really knows, except for my mom. But that's just 'cause she paid for my camera. Those things are expensive."

"Bring it," I said. "Next time you go home grab your camera."

"Why?"

"Because... I'll play piano for you and show you all of my art, if you play guitar for me and show me all of your pictures."

Frank laughed and blushed, looking up at me. "You do realize that you basically just said 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours,' right?"

"Yes," I snickered. "But I said it in a really geeky, art-involved way, so it doesn't count."

His shoulder bumped against mine and I just looked over at him.

"Ya' know, Frankie," I said quietly, resting my head on his shoulder. "I'm glad that... That we're... Well, that we are whatever we are."

He laughed, setting his head on top of mine. "I am, too, Gee."

My hand snuck around his waist, fingers curling around the bottom of his t-shirt. "You have dirt all over you clothes."

Frank nodded, looking at my hand. "I know. I was gonna' change before the date, anyway, don't worry."

I looked up at him, my head fitting perfectly in the curve of his shoulder at this angle. "Can I help?"

He flushed red. "No."

"But-"

"Absolutely not."