Hear What the Silence Screams

Frank was seething, his cheeks burning pink as he let his head drop on to the web created by his crossed arms. Heat radiated from his face to his arms and warmed them. His back hunched up until his shoulders were up to his ears, and he just fucking wondered why none of the smart ass scientists he was always hearing about could make invisibility cloaks. They could make floating scooters for fat-asses so they wouldn't have to stand up and maybe get some exercise, but invisibility--which, seriously, would be such a better investment on their behalf, regarding the advancement of war tactics and all that shit, and maybe Frank should just stop now before he really gets off into one of his tangents about how shitty the whole country was--was still as foreign an idea as jetpacks and hyperbolic time chambers.

So not fair. Both of those items would be immensely helpful to everyone involved, but no, fat people are more important. Frank rolled his eyes and tried not to growl too loudly.

"Frank? What's wrong? Don't you know the answer? You do so well on the tests," Frank's math teacher--and the sole catalyst for his whole mind rant about invisibility--Mr. Harding said, a gleeful tilt to his voice.

Frank wasn't stupid. Or, well, sometimes he was, mainly when he was playing with lighters a little too close to gas stations, but for the most part he was pretty adept. Mr. Harding's ill-intent wasn't lost on him. Frank had some ideas that the man was pretty fucked up because, seriously, calling on the mute kid in the middle of class? Wasn't that a little less than PC? Or an exercise in futility, because mute spells out that no fucking answers will be coming from him, so he could just stand at the front of the fucking room with his fugly-ass comb over and pitiful attempt to look professional. Tweed, man, tweed and polyester is a no no. Not professional. Just sad.

A little part of Frank's mind told him that he was just as bad for judging his teacher's appearance because Frank looked like a hobo with a bad dye job, but his style was totally grunge. At least his had a name and a purpose. That purpose notwithstanding of his original take on originality--because if he thought of it, conforming to be grunge was as bad as any other sort of conforming. He reached down between his legs to grab a corner of the flannel shirt he had slung around his waist and pick at it while he silence went on.

Mr. Harding would crack first. Normal people couldn't handle the silence for too long, it ate at them and filled their spaces with transparent smoke that clogged up their ears and made them fidgit and try not to cough. Frank knew. He used to talk. He knew all about the intricacies one must endure to talk. A whole different mindset--one involving answering things and paying attention when someone says your name. Too much work. Too much, and Frank was too grunge for that anyways.

Mr. Harding broke first. "Just go write it on the board. Or cain't you write anymore?" He gestured towards the whiteboard in the front of the room and picked up an orange marker, tossing it to Frank. A laugh bubbled somewhere behind Frank when the marker hit his thumb and rolled down the slope of his desk, but he scooped it up at the bottom and stood, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Grimaced when he felt how dry and dead it felt today--the heat. It had to be the heat. Sweltering up outside the cold rooms they were stuck in, warm and sunny and dirty. It was enough to make him feel a pang of longing when he glanced outside the window at the back of the class, for all he knew that the moment he got out there, he would be wishing for air conditioning.

With the marker fisted in his hand and pressing hard enough against the board to force the little nub of color back into the tube, he scrawled out FUCK YOU in his scratchy script, smiling self-satisfied when he leaned back and surveyed his work.

"Office, Frank."

*

Mikey walked with his shoulders hunched, a hand stuffed in his pocket, a hand messing with his bangs, twisting the hairs into little separate parts and peeling the drying bits of gel out of them. The halls were dead, him not leaving for his counseling session until the bell had rang and the mess of people had all disappeared into the classrooms. Walking in crowded halls was one of the worst parts of school for him. Was so much easier to be cornered and pushed, and even though most people were afraid to fuck with him anymore, it still happened occasionally.

His mind was buzzing, not with ideas or plans, but with the white noise left over from the debate during first period. Minimum wage, and it had created a huge explosion among the students, between the workers and the ones mooching off of their parents--Mikey could still feel the reverberations in his mind from the first loud burst of a girl sitting beside him, of the girl standing at the podium who countered with a hopelessly weak rant about machines doing the work better than people. If. If the people around him weren't so quick to defend themselves, if they had actual things to say, he might not hate the sound of their voices so much.

As the door to the counselor's office got closer, as he could see the outline of a figure moving behind the thick glass, Mikey faltered in his steps, reaching out a hand to run along the wall and steady himself. And he could spend time telling himself that he was just nervous about counseling, about having to go back in there with that woman who didn't give a shit about him and who tried to make him talk, but he already knew it was bullshit.

Behind that door, Frank was either there or he wasn't. It was that fact and that fact alone that had Mikey trailing his knuckles along the wall deep enough to tear skin and his legs to slow down to a crawl the closer he got. Mikey wanted Frank to be in the room. The sessions went faster when he wasn't the only person fending off the questions, and he was undoubtedly going to never see Frank again if they stopped having the counseling sessions together. And, well, if Mikey's heard thumped a little bit faster when he thought about Frank sitting in his chair, that was fine.

His hands shook as he reached the door, as he curled his hand around the pentagonal hunk of clear plastic that was the doorknob. Because there was always the possibility that the room would be empty but for himself and the counselor, that he and Frank would be scheduled for single sessions from now on. A deep pit hollowed itself out in Mikey's chest, stealing the space away from his other organs. The features on his face all contorted into one crestfallen look, because he was going to open the door and only the fake joy his counselor gave off will greet him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and turned the knob, buying himself a little time before he had to look into the empty room and deal with the disappointment--

"Mikey!"

He popped open his eyes to see Frank leaning back in the counselor's big black chair, hands folded over his head, dust-sprinkled shoes resting up on her desk between grouped pictures of her family and a mug with splotchy leaves painted on it. He spread his arms out, gesturing towards the empty room, corner to corner. Eyes lit with a feeling that made Mikey rather uncomfortable, he stomped his feet on the floor with a thud and stood.

"Mikey," he said again, reverence backing the words. He didn't know just how to word it or feel about it, or even if he should say anything. If he should just let Mikey find out on his own and come find him, or--or whether Frank didn't want to wait for delayed gratification and just tell him now.

Despite Mikey's attempt to squish it, bright sparks of excitement blew up in his body. Something big was happening. He stepped forward warily, stopping as the corner of the desk tapped his hip. Kept his stance impassive, crossing his arms over his chest and hunching, letting hair fall over his eyes strategically. Just so, you know, he didn't have to look at Frank. Made it a little better, at least, not to see his smirk, his outstretched arms with the little star misplaced on his forearm, the weakest tattoo Mikey had ever seen. Disregarding his own unmarked skin, arms with nothing but a tan that ended at the stitching of his sleeves.

Frank stood by, watching, gauging his reaction and making no move to elaborate further. Not without prompting, at least. Because. He was the only person he knew of to make Mikey talk, and he liked that. Lived in that safe knowledge, reigned in the power he felt over the kid. It was--a game, it was a game to see who could outlast each other. Who was stronger, who was resilient, and damned if Frank was going to lose.

A smile worked itself on his face as he watched Mikey fidget, as his eyes darted from corner to corner of the room, gliding over the toppled pictures on the counselor's desk and the brown treads on the papers she had strewn on the desktop. Simple pleasures. Simple glee, the look on a person's face that Frank had personally gotten under the skin of, burrowing, coaxing obnoxiously. It was too much fun. Too much to see Mikey's tongue dart out to his lips and lick nervously. At least. Frank hoped to God it was the nervousness that made his stomach jump.

It was. Had to be.

"Well?" Mikey asked irritably, sandpaper words scratching his insides with the exit of the word. He was reminded why Frank was at the forefront of his mind when he was walking through the halls; he pissed Mikey off.

Frank raised an eyebrow and used his knuckles to lean over the desk. His skin under the pressure of the bones on wood yellowed and two of his fingers popped. "Well what?" he prompted, grinning, the words nearly singing themselves from his mouth.

Mikey sighed. This wasn't worth it. He didn't need friends, it was stupid of him to believe that he could find one in Frank Iero. But he couldn't let it bother him. Nothing else did, he couldn't let himself be stupid and emotional just because Frank turned out to be the asshole Mikey knew he was. He shrugged off the question, stepping away from the corner where he was balanced. There wasn't enough space between him and Frank. Mikey couldn't breathe. That one word he had bothered saying just might have stolen all of the breath he had been building up inside his body since he stepped out his house this morning.

Or. The thing that really scared him, really took his breath away was the possibility that it had nothing to do with the word. That it had everything to do with Frank leaning over towards him.

He took a few more steps back, eying the door in his peripheral vision so he would know where to reach out when he was making his escape, but Frank was up and over the desk before his hand could find the doorknob.

Frank was in a blind panic as he realized that Mikey was going to leave. It hadn't really occurred to him that Mikey could do that. He'd settled himself for an argument, he was tensed and ready and itching to throw back whatever Mikey was going to say. But this put a damper on things.

"Mikey, wait," he said, hurling himself at the door and pressing his back into it. "Don't go."

"Why not? All you're going to do is fuck with me," Mikey retorted hotly, settling himself into the crevice between the wall and the bookshelf. He'd just gotten his breath back, too. Now his lungs were empty, and it was all Frank's fault.

"I won't! Just don't go, okay? C'mere, sit down." He reached his hand out toward Mikey tentatively, like he was a cornered wild animal sprung to attack at any time. Teeth bared in a snarl and hind legs bent.

Mikey stared at the hand for a minute but didn't make a move. Frank would just push him down or something when he did get his hands on him. Nope, not worth it.

"No thanks, I'll stand," Mikey said, voice turning into nothing once Frank raised his head and really looked at him. After his hand dropped and a hurt look took up vacanvy on his face. Really, Mikey should be stronger than this. He should flip Frank off and go back to class, stay away from the fucking kid. In three years, no one had been able to make Mikey act like this--reckless with his voice, his breath. He needed that shit, man.

Self-confidence failed him as he raised a shaky hand and let Frank clasp his own around it. He let himself be maneuvered into the seat he sat in last week, not quite comfortable enough in his own right to sink down and get comfortable this time. Hot prickles assaulted the tops of his ears and back of his neck, the warning that he was being watched and couldn't live properly.

Frank grinned at his own success and scooted up on the desk, leaving his legs to dangle off the side as he reached along the wood surface for something to play with. Or break, if he got in the right mood.

"You'd better tell me what's going on, Frank." And Mikey's voice was surprisingly calm compared to his earlier attempt. Smooth and demanding and just enough to send chills down Frank's back.

Mikey watched passively as Frank's picked up a stapler and pried the top up, pushing it back down and then up again like a habit. Like a replacement for a habit that was tingling at his fingers but just out of reach. His foot jangled, shoe slipping down until the skin on his ankle was showing. That. That look, the remnants of that broken look from earlier still clung to Mikey's consciousness and revived the cracked and wilted tube of lungs enough for him to find his voice.

"I got in trouble this morning," Frank started slowly, kicking against the front panel of the desk. "Mr. Harding, you know, that math fucker who thinks he rules the fucking world, he pissed me off this morning and sent me to the office. So, I got in some trouble, and they're blamin' it on the 'frustration I'm having not being able to talk', so they're putting us both in the special class."

"Like retards?"

"Yeah." Frank swallowed, then, "Yeah," again, to cement it. They were being thrown so far out of the social scene, Frank couldn't decide whether it was a good thing or a bad one.

"Why are they putting me in that class?"

Seriously? He was being put in Special Ed because Frank couldn't control his temper? First off, he was nothing like Frank. If ever he got mad, it was over something important--Frank looked like he'd get mad over anything. Get mad just so people would look at him and know he has a temper and would stay away from him. "Fuck that, I ain't being put in the retard class."

"But..." we'll have every class together. It was sort of ironic that the only person Frank wanted to talk to hated to talk. Pathetic that the tone in Mikey's voice made him lower his eyes and regret getting them both in this mess.

"But what? I don't want to be stuck in a class with you!" Mikey hissed, pushing himself out of the seat he never got comfortable in. Eyes narrowed in an attempt to shield him from that broken look that was quickly resurfacing, the tilt of eyebrows and widening of eyes and immeasurable cracks through the surface. It simply wasn't fair Frank had that in his arsenal, not when he had a tough guy act to layer over it.

Best to hurt him now while his defenses were low (or high? Was Frank's face a defense mechanism?). "'S your fault that I have to be taken out of my classes, is that what you're sayin'?"

Frank bit his lip, nodding and snapping the stapler back. "Stop--stop bitching about it, okay? It was going to happen anyways. It's not like we've really been a part of the student body since we decided not to talk. They threw us out a long time ago, you should be thanking me for getting you out of there."

Mikey's eyebrows raised at 'bitching', and he was at the door at 'thanking'. Because Frank was a fucking asshole, just like he knew he would be, and all of this was a mistake. "Fuck you."

This time, Mikey's attempt to leave didn't exactly have the same trigger on Frank's emotions as before. His blood boiled, his face heated up and he had to tighten his grip until bent staples were hitting the carpet. Silence was left in Mikey's wake, bad silence, the kind that choked him with his own game. And he spent several minutes in the silence, sternly lecturing himself. Mikey wasn't worth it, going after him would seriously be so weak and a waste of his time anyways. Because, because fuck, this wasn't Frank's fault, Mikey was just being pissy. He would be thanking Frank for getting him out of the pull of the voices and people who don't even care about him.

The way he'd said you, he didn't want to be stuck with Frank, well, fuck him too.

Frank flung the stapler at the closed door. "Motherfucker."