Folie a Deux

I only have fifteen minutes to write this author's note / edit, so please excuse the rushed manner and terrible editing of this. Anyway, there's a few important things I want and need to say:

Wow, high school is stressful. I think I took out a lot of my depression out on this chapter, so I apologize for that.
I'm just going to go ahead and slap a giant TRIGGER WARNING across the rest of the story. (If you don't already know what that means, then you probably don't need to know, but I would still google it just to be sure.) Like, a huge, giant, flashing sign "trigger warning" outlined in neon yellow, and bolded, twice italicized, slapped across the cover of this. There's no actual action of it (you know what I mean,) in this chapter, but there is quite a lot of talking about it.
A short bit of background on your author- Frank and Gerard's stories (you'll see what I mean, once you start reading,) are both a combination of my own, but my methods and most of my reasoning for my madness are Gerard's.

If you know me in real life, I'm just going to go ahead and say that, no, I do not want to talk about, nor will I ever want to talk about it. If you're my girlfriend (hello, Kayleigh!) and you happen to be reading this chapter... Well, I'll just say that I wish you weren't, and if you want to talk about, then I guess we can try.

Well, I'm running out of time (actually, this entire note only took six minutes to type, I'm proud of myself,) so I have to go!

Enjoy the story.

---

Frank swimming was probably the single most entertaining thing I had ever witnessed in my life. His hair stuck to his forehead and he scrunched up his nose when he realized this as he sat next to me on the ground, carefully pulling wet strands away from his face.

"I look like a dork," he said, blinking at me.

I just laughed, reaching over and moving as much hair out of his face as I could. "At least it's shorter than it was yesterday, it's a good thing you cut it last night. You'd have hair stuck to your nose if you hadn't."

He rolled his eyes and waved his hand around a bit in attempts to knock mine away from his hair. "Whatever," he said, looking down. "It's cut, it's over with. Can't change it now."

I blinked rapidly, frowning at him. He'd been so moody lately, perfectly fine one minute and then seeming upset or annoyed about something the next. "Are you okay?"

He looked up, returning the rapid blinks. "I'm fine. Why?"

"It's- it's nothing," I said, looking away, focusing my eyes on the surface of the pool water. Maybe if I stared at it long enough, the glare of the sun's light would blind me. "You just... Never mind. It's not important."

"Gerard, it is too important if-"

There was a sudden yell of, "Cannon ball!" which drowned out Frank's voice, followed by a loud splash that made me duck behind Frank, who hid himself pointlessly behind his hands.

Someone started shouting, "Andy Hurley, I will fucking kill you if you get my radio wet," and there was a burst of laughter followed by two more people jumping into the pool.

I jumped, water hitting my face.

Frank snickered at me. "Idiot. If you don't want to get wet, don't come to the pool."

I rolled my eyes, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand, trying to judge how cold the water was. "Pete invited all three of us, and anyway, you and Mikey are both really enjoying yourselves. I'm perfectly fine sitting here with my pizza. It would've been impolite to not accept the offer."

"Speaking of pizza," Frank said, stealing the plate off of my lap. He took a bite and then proceeded to speak with his mouth full, making his voice sound like a little kid's; "I'm hunwy as fwuck."

I laughed at him and he grinned.

"What?" I asked, giggling. "I'm laughing at you, you're not supposed to smile! What are you smiling about, fucker?"

"Your laugh," he said, smile widening. "It's cute as fucking hell, man."

I think I was blushing, but Frank was laughing at this point, so I didn't really care, because Frank had a great laugh.

"I guarantee you that yours is cuter," I said.

"Yeah? Wanna' bet?"

"I'll bet, but who would we get to decide? And don't even say Pete, he's biased."

"Hm..." Frank pressed his lips together. "Oh well. I guess knowing in my heart that I'm right is enough."

A dripping wet, slightly more tan than yesterday Pete Wentz sat next to us suddenly, shaking his head like a dog and flinging water everywhere.

"Dude," I said, wiping my face with the back of my hand, yet again. "Keep the water in the pool."

Pete laughed. "You used my name in vain, I heard it. You deserve to be splashed."

I rolled my eyes and laughed too, producing a small smile from Pete.

I don't think he liked me very much; I don't think he hated me, but I defiantly wasn't his favorite person in the world. I think he resented me a bit, and I knew that he wished that the relationship between Frank and I were different. I was hoping that he'd start warming up to me eventually, though, he seemed like a nice person.

"It was cool of you to do this, Pete," Frank smiled, putting his hands on the ground behind him and leaning back a bit, tilting his face up towards the sun.

I had to admit, I wasn't surprised that Pete liked Frank. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if I found out that everyone at their school liked Frank. He was just too gorgeous to not want to fall in love with.

"It was cool of you to help me, Frankie," Pete said, looking away. "I don't think I could've asked everyone over if it was just me."

I kind of flinched at the way Pete called Frank 'Frankie,' but I didn't say anything. I kind of zoned out, searching out Mikey from across the pool. He smiled when I caught his eye and waved.

I probably wouldn't have come if Pete hadn't invited Mikey too, because Mikey really seemed to be enjoying himself. I was glad that he was getting along with everyone so well, I had been kind of worried since he was so much younger than everyone else, but no one seemed to mind.

Frank poked me lightly on the shoulder, and I raised an eyebrow, asking "Yes?"

"You're not going to get in the pool, not at all?"

I shook my head, pulling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around my legs, resting my chin on my knees. "No, I'm fine. I'll just sit here."

Pete was already gone- jumping in the pool, laughing, talking to Mikey; so it was just Frank and I again.

He reached one hand over, pushing hair away from my face, tucking what he could behind my ears.

"Let me guess, you just don't want to take your shirt off in front of a bunch of people, right?"

I laughed, at no one but myself. I felt so foolish sometimes. "Is it that obvious?"

"To me? Yeah. I don't think anyone else knows though."

"Okay. That's good, I guess."

Frank tilted his head at me. "I think you look fine," he said, "no matter what you're wearing or not wearing or whatever."

I paused for a long minute, not sure what to say. "Thanks," I said eventually. "But I must disagree."

"Well, I know how beautiful you are, even if you don't."

I looked at him for a few seconds, studying his eyes and the curve of his nose and the line of his jaw. "Thank you," I said softly. I didn't believe it, not a bit, but I figured he wouldn't give in if I tried to push my side of the debate, and I didn't really feel like arguing, anyway. "Thank you, really."

"Hey, Frank," Mikey called from the pool. "Come on, we're gonna' have a 'who can make the biggest splash' competition."

Frank looked at me, lips parting like he was about to say something.

I just forced a smile and said, "Go on, I don't mind. I'll be the judge," even though I really did mind. I started calculating who'd make the bigger splash based on height and what I guessed their weight was.

I guessed Ray. I was right.

---

By the time we got home, ate a weak dinner of popcorn and chips, and talked to Mikey about how his day at the comic book store went, it was midnight.

"Fuck," Frank said, yawning, flopping face-first into my bed. "I'm tired."

"Yeah, me too," I said, hovering near my bedroom door, not tired at all.

He rolled over, shifting his way up the bed, stretching his limbs and rolling his shoulders. "You coming to bed, Gerard?"

"In a minute, yeah. You go ahead and go to sleep. It's only Thursday, you still have school tomorrow. Get some rest, I'm gonna' go watch the news, or something."

Frank frowned, tilting his head. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"No reason," he said, face confused. "Just- I'm just over-thinking, I guess."

"Oh," I said quietly, blinking at him. "Okay."

I left the room, abandoned it for cool tiles and a locked door.

I didn't know why I went to sit on the bathroom floor, of all places. I guess I could've gone to the living room or kitchen, but the bathroom seemed like a better place because it assured that no one would try to start talking to me if they happened to get up.

I hadn't just sat on the bathroom floor in a long time. Not since the last funeral I attended, actually. I used to come here a lot to think, if I was too lazy to take a shower, but recently I've decided that people would get annoyed if I just hogged the bathroom and wasn't actually doing anything useful.

The bathroom floor was a great place to think. The silence gave me a chance to listen to myself, the vacant blankness of it all gave me room to spread the thoughts out and examine each one completely. The brightness of the lights let me clear my mind, the cool tiles beneath me and on my fingertips kept me awake and interested.

The bathroom floor was a great, spectacular place to think.

I leaned my back against the wall, letting my head rest against it. I didn't feel well. I wasn't exactly sad, I wasn't angry. There was nothing to be upset about. I think I was just worried about Frank, and how off he'd been seeming lately.

It wasn't that much of a difference, I don't think Mikey or anyone Frank went to school with noticed, but it was small things that were beginning to stand out to me.

He would be fine one minute, and then he'd snap at me the next. He'd be laughing, but then become disturbingly serious.

Something was defiantly wrong, it just wasn't clear to me what it was, yet.

I stood up, stared at myself in the mirror.

I realized, blinking at my stupid messy hair and my tired eyes and the jeans that I'd been wearing for two days and my stupid wrinkled shirt with some forgotten band name slapped across the front, that maybe it was me.

Maybe I was what was wrong. Not what was making him upset, exactly, but I defiantly don't think I was helping.

I considered talking to him about it, I thought about walking in there and waking him up and asking about it, but there was a knock on the door before I even made up my mind.

"Gerard?"

"Frank? Why are you-"

"I can't sleep without you there. I'm scared."

I paused for a second, and then unlocked and swung open the door. "Scared?"

He was holding a pillow, squeezing it against his front like his life depended on it. "Sorry. It's just- it's dark, and I- I think it's raining, and-"

"It's okay," I said, a bit confused. "I'm coming to bed, I promise."

He nodded, shifting from foot to foot slightly. "Can I-? Can I have a hug?"

I blinked a few times in surprise. "You don't have to ask to hug me, Frank."

He dropped the pillow and latched his arms around me, his face pressing so tight against my shoulder I was sure he would have trouble breathing.

He didn't seem to mind, though, so I guessed it was okay, and hugged him back, resting my chin on top of his head and curling the fingers of my left hand into his hair.

"Shh," I said, the sound of my voice quieted by my lips pressed against the top of his head as his tears wet the shoulder of my shirt. "It's okay, Frankie, it's okay..."

We stood like that for a while, him clinging to me a bit tighter every so often and I just running my fingers through his hair and touching his back.

"What's wrong?" I whispered, pressing my hand against his shoulder. "Hm?" The same hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Why's my sweetheart so upset?" My fingers tangled into his hair as he leaned away from me, looking up with red eyes and a runny nose and parted lips.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I- I don't know why-"

He stared crying again so I didn't try to ask any more questions, I just hugged him again.

"It's okay," I whispered, closing my eyes and squeezing him tight. "Everything is going to be fine."

I knew I was lying, and I think he knew too, but it was a nice false hope to have.

---

I fell asleep. I felt like such a jackass, I fell asleep while he was crying and upset and shaking with unexplained tears in bed next to me.

He was asleep when I woke up, though, at six the next morning. He was holding one of my arms like it was the only thing tying him to reality, my elbow tucked nicely between both of his and all ten of his beautiful fingers tangled loosely with mine.

I kind of had to pee, but I didn't want to wake him up by accident. I also really wanted to draw him like this, lips parted and eyelashes still wet from crying and hair a complete mess of dark curls pressed into strange angles from the pillow that belonged to me, but seeing it in person and engraving the memory in the back of my mind seemed like a much better choice.

He had school today; it was Friday, and my mom would be home sometime the next day.

He also had to meet that friend of his mom's today.

I couldn't decide if I should make him go to school or let him stay home. Obviously he'd missed so much school lately, and it was all my fault, but I also knew we were nearing summer and his finals had already passed. (Miraculously, he actually did pretty well on them.)

Maybe he could just skip the last two weeks of school.

"Gee?"

My eyes focused on his face, and his nose scrunched up as he frowned at me. "You 'kay?" he muttered, sleepy voice slurring the words.

"I'm okay," I confirmed.

One of his hands left mine to touch my face, sloppily pushing hair out of my face, his palm resting flat against my cheek.

He continued to look at me for a few seconds, and then slowly asked if I had been crying.

"What?" I asked, confused. "Me?"

"Yeah," he said slowly. "You look upset."

I reached the hand that Frank's wasn't holding up to my face and touched my cheek and nose and below my eyes, and was surprised to find the strange, smooth paths of dried tears.

"I guess I have," I said, confused, not remembering ever crying. I seemed to recall being upset when Frank just kept sobbing, not having a reason for his tears other than "sad," but I didn't realize that I had cried with him.

"I'm so sorry," he said softly, letting his fingers slip off of my face. "I wish you hadn't cried."

"I wish you hadn't cried, either," I said back.

He frowned. "I don't want to go to school today, Gerard."

"I don't want you to go either, but you need to."

He sighed. "The only good part of school is that I have Pete to hang out with now and you to come home to."

I kissed his nose, and he surprised me by tilting his head to catch my lips with his.

I think I made a small, surprised sound when he kissed me, but he didn't seem to mind, one hand still holding mine and the other skimming down my side, coming to a rest on my hip.

He ended the kiss with a soft sigh.

"I'm sorry about last night," he said. "I don't know what happened."

"I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry that I didn't know how to help."

He kissed me again, just for a few seconds this time.

It was soft, and sweet, and he tasted like cigarettes.

He spoke almost immediately after our lips parted.

"I think I love you."

I blinked at him. "What?"

He blinked back. "I think I'm in love with you," he said again, sounding so sure of himself.

I didn't know what to say.

I felt like I was choking, my stomach dropped, my heart was beating so fast I was sure I was going to have a heart attack.

Love?

He thought he was in love?

With me?

He wasn't in love, I wasn't, he couldn't be, I knew I wasn't, he just couldn't-

"Frank," I said finally, my voice strained. "Don't say things you don't mean. You don't, you-"

"I do," he insisted, looking confused. "Gerard, I'm pretty sure I do-"

"But I don't," I said, too fast and too angry and not thinking before I spoke.

I don't know what felt worse, the way I wanted to hurt myself for hurting him, or the expression on his face.

He looked horrified, he looked so very, extremely fucking hurt.

He was crying.

"I'm so sorry," I said, my voice pleading with him. "Frank, I'm sorry, I'm not-"

He wailed through the tears; a sad, ugly, "Don't," escaping his lips, a terrible noise of distrust and anger and pain.

They were all very real, very disgusting emotions. Emotions that I had caused him by not saying the six simple words that said that I thought I loved him too.

He rolled over, flinching away from my touch, and told me to leave.

He yelled it, shouted it, screamed it from the very top of his lungs, his voice raising through "leave" and cracking halfway through "me" and turning into a raspy sob during "alone."

And so I stood up. I curled my arms around myself, hugged my own body because he wouldn't let me hug his. I apologized again, and again, and again, until he yelled at me to leave, and I kept saying it, shaking and crying and sobbing; "I'm sorry, Frank, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry," over and over and over.

I felt like I was dying, I felt like I was being stabbed in the heart when he yelled, "Just leave!"

I stumbled down the hall, just barely catching myself next to the bathroom door.

I wanted to die.

I wanted it, I wanted to choke and die or drown and die or get punched to death or hang myself and die.

I didn't want to feel this sick, I didn't want to feel this guilty, or this confused, or like my heart was going to shove it's way up my throat and spill it's way onto the cold bathroom floor; being dead would be better than this.

I had just hurt Frank, in the absolute worse way possible, and I felt more like I had killed him, than anything.

I couldn't say it, I realized as I half-fell into the bathroom, collapsing onto the floor, barely sure that I had even closed the door.

I wanted to love him, I did, I really thought I did, but love was so painfully strong that I couldn't commit myself to that.

I didn't like loving things, I didn't want to love people.

I couldn't even love myself, I was so scared of it.

I'd loved before, I'd loved and laughed and fallen so sweetly into the emotion that when it was taken away from me, I didn't know how to function. Love is so deep, it's such an intensely powerful part of you, that when something comes in it's way, you feel hollow.

Having love taken away from you is like someone draining all of your blood and then telling you to make your heart beat; it just didn't work.

I didn't want to love Frank, because if I lost him, it would feel like dying.

If I let myself love him, I wouldn't be able to stop myself. I would love him with my whole heart, every ounce of my very being, every aching muscle and every blood-filled vein.

And if someone or something took his love away from me, I would have nothing left.

I couldn't love Frank because I couldn't give someone that power over my heart, I needed to be in control of my own self, and not let an emotion control me.

I felt like shit. Absolute shit.

I didn't like hurting Frank, it made me want to hurt myself.

I didn't like feeling so guilty for the pain the was evident on his face.

I found myself staring at my fat legs and somehow bony knees, my too-obvious stomach and my strange hips, my chubby arms and my weird elbows, my stupid hands and my awkward fingers. All of the disgusting features that made me human.

And it was being human, being a living, breathing human being, who didn't know how to love without the constant fear of being abandoned, that had caused me to hurt Frank like I just did.

I hated it.

I hated myself.

I didn't want Frank to hurt, Frank should never hurt, and he shouldn't suffer, either. I should be taking the weight, the blame, the pain of this, not him.

He hasn't done anything wrong, I was the one who had screwed everything up.

He looked like he wanted to die, but hell, I was the one here who should just drop dead.

I really did feel like I deserved to hurt for what I had just done to him.

I deserved to hurt, to cry, to be screamed at and yelled at and kicked and hurt and insulted and punished for the pain I had caused him. Heart-break was punishable with death, and I'd just committed first degree murder.

I stood up and kicked my jeans off, and then stared at my feet and wondered if I was being irational, and then sat back down on the cold bathroom floor, because I decided this was completely rational. My legs were cold and the material of my boxers were not doing much to keep me or the scars that I'd avoided looking at for so long warm.

I pressed my thumb against my inner left thigh, pulling the fabric up far enough to see the lines that were there, the lines that you could only see from certain angles. They were what I guess you would call "stretch marks," even though I tend to think of them as just disgusting, wrinkled skin. They were lines that the constant weight changes, both loss and gain, had left behind on my legs.

I closed my eyes, pressing my legs flat against the cold bathroom tile, letting my head hit the wall with a soft thump that felt more like a hammer hit to the head.

I hadn't felt like this in a while. A long time, really. Not since before Frank left after kissing me for the first time.

I wanted to die. I honestly believed that dying would be better than what I was feeling at this moment.

I felt stupid. And disgusting. And like a complete failure. And like I was a fool, and an ass, and a disappointment, and like dying.

I felt like I'd just ruined Frank's life, like I'd just ripped his heart out and called it ugly, too.

I felt sick to my stomach, like throwing up.

I dug my fingernails into my skin, not looking down, keeping my eyes steadily focused on the wall across the room. I thought about the other lines, the non-stretch mark lines that resided on the outsides of my legs, and the state of mind I'd been in when they'd been created, and the state of mind that I was in now.

There weren't many of those lines. I knew other people had a lot more lines like this than I did; self inflicted scars, skin that wouldn't go back to it's original state after an angry moment's torment.

I had less than seven on my right leg, I think, seven or eight, but I was hoping for seven, and two or three on my left that I could see from this angle. A lot, lot less than some other people had.

I didn't count them, they were one of the few things that I couldn't. I wanted to; I really, really wanted to count them, but some were so faded that I couldn't even tell if they were scars or not.

I wanted seventeen.

Seventeen or twenty-four or forty-two or maybe just four or eight, but I'd passed both the four and eight marks, and I already had seven, so the closest thing I had was seventeen.

I think I had a total of maybe ten or eleven, but that didn't mean that at some point, there hadn't been more.

There had been one time in fourth grade that I'd written some now forgotten word over and over again on my leg until it stood out, puffy and red and angry and innocent.

Breaking skin with a paperclip hurt like fucking hell, if you were doing it right.

You had to get just the right angle, dig the metal in every time you pressed down. You had to hit the same spot, over and over.

It wasn't a clean break, like I assumed any other method of cutting your own skin was. It was making a line; only one at first, a thin red line that stung just a bit. And then, it was tracing the line. It was hitting the line again and again, it was making it sting and sing and scream in the same spot over and over again until it burned. It was hiting the same spot until pieces of your skin tore away, until it was puffy and hurt even if you so much as stretched your leg, and until sometimes, it bled.

Trying to produce blood with a paperclip? Not an easy job.

I traced one of the lines with my thumb.

I missed it.

I hadn't hurt myself in a long time, I hadn't wanted to in a long time, either.

I thought about getting up, putting my jeans back on, walking to my bedroom, stumbling to my desk, ignoring Frank crying on my bed. I thought about picking out a paperclip, one that felt right between my fingers. I thought about bending it, in just the right way, to make it easier to hold.

It wasn't like I was going to actually hurt myself, not tonight.

I was stronger than that. (I think.)

I just wanted to feel the cool, sleek, silver form of it beneath my fingers.

That would be enough, right? To remind myself that I don't need it?

I was digging my thumbnail into my outer left thigh, sliding it slightly forward.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It was a weak imitation of forming a scar, but with none of the same mental reactions.

Scars to me are memories. I want them on my body, to remind myself of how ugly I felt when they were formed. To remind myself of how worthless I am.

Because really, when it all boils down, what's another scar or two? Just marks on the skin, right? As long as I didn't hurt anyone but myself, what was the trouble?

There was a light knock at the door.

"Gerard?" His voice was slurred, thick with tears. "Gerard, you okay?"

I blinked a few times, staring at my disregarded jeans laying in a sloppy pile in front of me, willing the boy behind the door to go away, wondering why on earth he would ask such a ridiculous question.

Of course I was okay, of course I was fine.

He shouldn't have to ask those types of things.

"Gerard?" There was more knocking on the door. He took a deep breath of air, so sloppy and suffocating that I could hear it. "Can- can we please, just, talk?" There was a short silence, and then he asked me again; "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay."

"You don't sound okay," he said, ignoring me. "And I don't feel okay." He knocked once, softly. "So can I come in?"

"I'm not wearing pants," I mused lightly, digging my thumbnail deeper into my skin.

"I don't really care. If you're upset, you need me, and I'm upset, so I need you."

I sighed, letting my head hit the wall. "Frank, okay, whatever. I'm upset. Fine. Just... Let me deal with it, on my own, okay? This entire stupid thing is my fault. I'm sorry."

The door pushed open to an upset looking Frank. "Yeah, that's not good enough of a 'talk' for me."

I watched with interest as he sat next to me, politely averting his eyes.

"Why are you upset?" he asked, looking at the wall across from him.

I stared at the side of his head. "You're kidding, right?"

He looked down at his hands, folded up in his lap. "Okay. Stupid question." He cleared his throat. "Whatever."

I felt exposed, blatantly disgusting, sitting without pants on next to him, the scars on my legs clearly exposed.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

I found his hand with mine, wrapping my fingers loosely around his.

"You worry me sometimes," he said quietly, squeezing my fingers. "When you get upset like this."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't- don't be sorry. You don't have anything to be sorry for."

There was a short, silent moment between us.

"I'm sorry I can't say it back," I murmured, looking down, ashamed.

"Don't apologize for that," he said, closing his eyes for a few seconds. "I wasn't really expecting a response. I just thought I should let you know."

We were silent again.

"Can I look?" he asked suddenly.

I blinked a few times. "At what?"

His eyes met mine. "Your scars. Do you mind?"

I stared at him. His eyes hadn't focused on my legs, not once that I had noticed. "How did-?"

He smiled a weak smile. "I caught a glance when I walked in."

"Oh." I looked away, moving my leg slightly, angling the torn skin at Frank. "Yeah. I guess."

I watched him study the scars; his fingers flinched in my direction. "Can I-?"

"Yeah, uh, sure..."

His fingers skimmed the scars, softly.

"We match," he said thoughtfully, tilting his head as he studied my skin. "Kind of."

My hand grabbed his, squishing his fingers.

It was an instant reaction of emotion in my chest, like someone cut a string that dropped a weight into my heart, and suddenly, I wanted to die again.

"Frank. Frank, no, please-"

His other hand covered mine, he held my hand tightly between both of his.

"Hey, calm down," he said, softly, calmly.

I was staring at him, his honey hazel eyes, his soft pink lips that I forgot were even capable of frowning.

Terrible thoughts were running through my head, bad images.

Frank. Blood. Silver metal, shaking fingers. Scars. Blood. Tears. Scars. Frank.

"I'm clean," he said, leaning forward, face close to mine. "Hey, don't worry yourself, I'm clean. By a few days. I'm okay now."

I shook my head, I focused myself in a blank stare at his hands.

He was crying again, I knew he was, I could see the tears falling.

I wasn't, not this time. I rarely cried anymore.

When I'm sad I tend to just stare.

"Frank," I said, staring at his hands. "I want to see."

"You asking me to get naked, Gerard?" he said with an upward twitch of his lips, through the tears.

"I'm asking you to be honest with me," I corrected, not in the mood for games.

He sighed, but did as I asked. He worked his way out of his jeans, adjusted the fabric of his boxers until I could see the scars in question.

I felt like throwing up.

"There's so many," I said, not being able to look away.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's what I meant when I said we 'kind of' match."

I felt like crying, but I couldn't do it.

I just looked away instead. "Why didn't you tell me?" I said, voice quiet and stunned and confused and hollow, just like the rest of me.

He shrugged, sniffling a bit. "Didn't think it was important."

I didn't know if I wanted to laugh at the statement or yell at him.

"Why?" I managed finally, just barely finding my voice.

He shrugged, leaning back against the wall, and I wiped the tears off of his cheek with the back of my hand. "It's- it's a long story."

"You're super late for school," I pointed out, glancing at him, feeling the weight in my chest sink a little more. "Just don't go. Talking about this is a lot more important."

He was quiet for a while, and then sighed, "Okay."

---

We sat outside on the front porch and drank coffee and smoked, and we talked a lot, too.

"I started when I was fourteen," he said, honey hazel eyes focused on the tip of his cigarette. "I'd heard about it somewhere, like online or in an overheard conversation or something, I don't even remember, but I started to wonder if it would work, to- to make me feel better and stuff. Because it worked for other people, right? It worked for a lot of other people, so I figured it would work for me, too."

I took a long drag from my cigarette and tried to listen instead of getting upset.

"And so I went home one night, one night when the name calling and shit with my friends and the arguments with my mom were all really bad, and- and to be honest I don't remember much of it." He closed his eyes, tight, for a few seconds, before forcing them open again. "Just a lot of pain that I wasn't prepared for, and the feeling of wanting to die afterwards." He brought his cigarette up to his lips, breathing in deep, breathing out slow. "I didn't realize I was doing anything wrong. I think I kind of scared myself straight, for a while, because it hurt so much I didn't know why the fuck I was doing it. There was this girl in my gym class, though, she was always covering herself up, and one day the sleeve of her jacket rose up a bit and I saw the scars, and I thought- well, I don't know what I thought. I guess I kind of got mad at myself, because if a girl has that many scars and I have, like, four, well, what type of person does that make me? If this girl who was about half my size and a year younger than me can handle that much pain, why can't I?"

I wanted to say a lot of things, but I didn't know how to put any of them into words.

"I started doing a lot of really stupid stuff after that." He took a slow sip from his coffee and cringed a bit at the flavor. "I got really sloppy with it. I stopped caring how much harm I did to myself, as long as it hurt more than it did the last time. There were some nights when I lost so much blood I'm surprised I'm even still alive."

I took a sip from my coffee, too, burning my tongue but not caring. "Did your mom ever catch on?" I asked, barely finding my voice.

"No. She found a broken pencil sharpener once and yelled at me for destroying the only one in the house, but she didn't say anything beyond that. I don't even think she noticed that part of it was missing, and if she did, she clearly didn't give a fuck."

I nodded, lighting my second cigarette and lifting it to my mouth.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, smoking and sipping our coffee, before I got the courage to speak up.

"I was either nine or ten," I said. "That was long before it became a habit, before I even knew that I was hurting myself. I didn't comprehend that what I was doing was bad."

Frank stared at me. "Nine or- or ten?"

I nodded, looking down.

"Fuck," he said. "Fucking hell, Gerard. When was that, like, fourth grade? Elementary school?"

I laughed, a dry, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, it was. I know."

"What happened?"

"Sad thing is, I don't even know." I took a long drink from my coffee mug. "I was sitting in my room, organizing things, cleaning it or something, and found a paperclip on the floor, kind of twisted up and shit. It looked sharp, and I felt sad, and- well. I started writing on myself, right? With- with the paperclip."

Frank looked so confused.

"Because, if you trace letters on skin with a paperclip enough times, it makes your skin red and puffy and you can actually see it."

Frank paused before speaking, looking unsure. "What did you write?"

"I don't remember. Something shitty and sappy, whatever it was. Maybe 'love,' or 'pretty,' or something. I don't know. It was just something I didn't think I had that I wanted."

Frank's lips parted, like he was going to say something, but instead, he just looked at me for a very long time.

"Frank?"

He closed his mouth, and then parted his lips again. "You have both of those things now, Gerard."

I ran my fingers through my hair. "Yeah. I guess I do."

Frank took a long sip of coffee, so I kept talking.

"I didn't touch a paperclip with the intentions of hurting myself for a long time after that, not until about a year ago. I'd heard of other people hurting themselves, with, like, blades and stuff, but I didn't like that. Blades and blood are so meaningless." Frank looked distressed, like he wanted to argue, and I ignored it. "What, a piece of metal that's used to shave your face?" I asked, laughing a small, humorless laugh. "Where's the symbolism in that? I never thought about pencil sharpeners, though- shit, that could've been interesting."

"Symbolism, though?" Frank asked, looking confused and a bit insulted.

I shrugged. "I don't know why other people do it, but I do it for- for the metaphor."

Frank shifted around a bit, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. "Gerard, what are you talking about? There's no metaphor in self-harm, it's not like a fucking art form or anything-"

"Maybe not to you," I said defensively, "but the metaphor is so obvious to me."

He didn't say anything, but I didn't expect him to.

"Paperclips," I said. "It's just- god, it's so fucking obvious, Frankie. It's the best thing I've ever come up with. It's like the poem I've fucking been wanting to write for years, or something- the very things that are supposed to hold my words together, are the things that tear me apart."

His lips parted, he stared at me for a few seconds. "Gerard," he just said, voice faltering. "That's terrible."

I shrugged again, looking away. I didn't think it was terrible. I thought it was beautiful.

It made me feel beautiful.

"You don't think so?" he realized sadly. "You don't think that that's terrible?"

"No," I admitted, looking at him, sitting my coffee mug down next to me. "But I have to ask- if you don't do it for the metaphor, then why?"

He sat his coffee mug down, too. "It's a nice distraction and a good punishment."

"Punishment?"

He nodded, and his voice got quiet. "F- for all the shit I screw up."

I felt my lips part in concern, my face fall slightly in worry. "Frank, you haven't screwed anything up, you're perfect, you shouldn't-"

"I'm not perfect," he said, suddenly angry. "Okay? Don't say that. I'm not fucking perfect."

"Yes, you-"

"No," he said, shaking his head, rolling his eyes. "Don't even fucking start with me, Gerard. You're perfect. I'm just- I'm like a fucking dead leaf, or something, I'm fucking useless, and you're the whole damn living tree, okay? You're-"

"I'm not perfect," I corrected, raising my voice slightly to be heard over his. "You are. We have two very different definitions of perfect."

He didn't speak for a second, and then he said, very quietly, the very last thing I wanted to hear at that moment.

"I love you," he said. "And that makes you perfect, doesn't it?"

I didn't know how to answer, so I didn't, and he just said, "Yeah, I thought so," and flung his finished cigarette into the yard.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I'm so sorry," I told him, ashamed.

"Don't," he said, shaking his head.

"Frank, please, just let me explain-"

"No, Gerard! There's nothing left to explain. You don't love me, and that's that."

I wanted to cry. "Frank, please, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, I just-"

I reached for his hand.

"Fuck, Gerard-" He looked around, glared at me, glared at my hands, jerked his hands away from mine. "Fuck." He lifted his mug. "Can I throw this? Fuck, I'm gonna throw it."

I asked him not to. I stood up when he did, told him to stop when he dumped the coffee in the bushes, I held out supportive hands and started crying when he pulled his arm back, lurched when he threw the mug as hard and as far as he could, cringed when it shattered into the driveway.

Both of his arms dropped down to his sides, and he stood there, breathing heavily, looking at the driveway where the mug had landed.

"Fuck," he said, clenching his fists.

I just stared at him, feeling my own hands tremble.

"Fuck," he said again, turning around, going inside, slamming the door behind him.

I couldn't stop staring, right at the spot where the back of his head had been when the door had shut.

"You didn't finish your coffee," I told him, through the door, so quietly I wasn't even sure I heard it myself. I wrapped my arms around myself, lips parting in a struggle for air as the tears clogged my throat. "And that was my favorite mug."