"Run" - Frank/Gerard, My Chemical Romance (bandom), NC-17, Part I
First Moon
The door shuts behind Frank with a hollow bang, and the hallway is totally abandoned. That's good. That's really, really good, because he cannot possibly deal with other people right now, like, at all. Other people bumping against him, or hearing their too-loud voices, or smelling their sweat, or anything at all. He feels like his skin is burning right off his body, he's at the boiling point, and he barely has time to get to the nearest bathroom, and once he does, he should be okay.
He's running past lockers and skidding across the linoleum flooring, down, down to the end of the corridor, where the weakest light is spilling through the frosted windows. When he finally ducks into the bathroom, he looks around for a second and runs into the nearest stall. It's smelly and sticky and the lock gets jammed when he tries to shut the door, but it'll do, it'll do.
The first touch of his hand on his own dick has him shouting out loud, that's how much of a relief it is, Jesus. Christ, he hopes no one heard that, but whatever, whatever, this feels - oh, so fucking good. It's not the usual feel-good of jerking off, it's like his entire body has been dunked into a vat of Vaseline when he's been itching forever. He fucking needs this. Right now.
He takes huge, gulping, dizzying breaths, his hand flying over his dick, and his orgasm rams into him, like he's been smashed into a wall head-first. He gets bent in half with the force of it, and he can't take a breath for a long time. Once he does, he comes up coughing and, Jesus, his hip is sore from where he'd banged it on the wall. Fucking hell.
He spits into the toilet and takes his hand off his spunked dick. He wipes it on his pants and leans against the wall for a minute, just breathing. Okay, so that was fast. But it usually is, at this point.
He lets himself calm down and put himself back together before walking out of the stall. The shadow on the floor is all the warning he gets - and then he sees him, someone else in the bathroom, sitting on a radiator by the farthest sink.
It's a new kid. He's got dirty long hair and bright red cheeks under his lowered eyelashes. They probably match Frank's face, but whatever. Frank tries to get himself riled up enough to get pissed, but he can't, his body feels too good, even though he knows it won't last. So what - he jerked off with someone else in the bathroom. Just because he sounded like a buffalo dying doesn't mean shit. It's natural, right?
He ignores the dude in the corner - what's he doing lurking in the corner, anyway? Oh. Frank spots the cigarette a second later - and walks to one of the sinks to wash his hands. He slams the soap dispenser a few times, but it's empty, of course, so he leans over to the next dispenser over and freezes. The guy's knee is directly in his line of sight, and something about the shape of it outlined through the stiff material of his uniform makes Frank's stomach flip over and - oh, fuck.
Fuck, there it goes again - that itchy-crawly feeling of his dick coming to life and the need spreading all across his body, from skin to meat to bones, he's vibrating.
"Fuck."
He doesn't mean to say that out loud, but he hears it once it's out. The kid shifts and Frank follows the progress of his knee as he lowers himself to stand on the floor. Frank's frozen in place with his hand on the soap dispenser, and his eyes stuck looking at the guy's feet. He thinks he might vomit.
"You all right?"
The kid's voice is a bit rough from smoking, and Frank jerks his gaze up until he's looking him in the eye. He swallows and doesn't answer, but he does fall to his knees. What? What? His brain is screaming at him to get up, get out, what are you doing?, but his body's separated itself again. He's in full lizard-brain mode, and when he goes for the guy's belt, then his button, and then his zipper, the guy doesn't stop him. Frank thinks he might be frozen in shock, but so is Frank, really, apart from this crazy fucking need.
The first taste of the guy's half-hard dick and Frank moans so loud, his ears pop. Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, that feels good, it's been so long - and it feels even better when the guy's dick hardens right in Frank's mouth, the head filling out and spilling out that taste, fucking hell. Frank's shoulders hurt and he doesn't get why, at first, and then realizes that the dude whose dick he's sucking has him in a vise grip, like he can't even stand without help.
Frank moans louder and clutches the guy's hip with his left hand, while fumbling for his own zipper with his right, his dick throbbing, so fucking painful, he barely even wraps his hand around it before he's coming hard and hot all over it. He accidentally bites a little, and the guy shouts over him, but Frank doesn't think he's hurt.
"Oh, Jesus God, fuck, what are you - what are you - oh, fuck, oh God."
Frank is so blissed-out and turned on at the same time, all he can do is keep sucking the dick in his mouth until he feels the kick of the pulse, the tell-tale sign, and pulls off quickly, replacing his mouth with his slick hand.
Not quickly enough, because when the guy gasps and lets out a high keening noise, Frank forgets to duck and gets jizzed right in the face. If he had gotten hard again in time, he'd have come again, just from that. He slips out his tongue to taste the stuff on his lips, then finally looks up at the guy he just blew.
He's seriously pretty. And messed up - eyes totally black, cheeks flushed, mouth cracked and bitten, and he's wearing eyeliner. He's watching Frank like Frank is the messiah and the devil all rolled into one. Then he takes one hand off of Frank's shoulders and slowly wipes the come off of Frank's cheek.
Frank shudders and pants and Jesus, he can feel it, it's so close, it is so close. He just has to get through the day.
For a second, he blacks out from the pull of the coming moon on his skin, and when he comes to, he's been tucked away and more or less cleaned up. He's still on the floor, but now the guy's eye-level, their knees touching not at all casually.
"What's your name?"
"Frank." He doesn't mean to answer, but what the hell. It's not like the dude's gonna report him for surprising him with a blowjob, right? Fuck. What if he does? "You?"
"I'm Gerard. I'm new."
Frank snorts despite himself. "I know."
"Are you - you're not new, right?"
Just freaky. "Nope, this is my domain." He means the bathroom. The rest of the school can choke on his dick.
Gerard seems to get that, and laughs. His smile is wide and surprising. Frank bites his lip and can't stop from smiling back. "Good to meet you, Gerard," he says after a minute and finally struggles to his feet. He goes over to the sink and washes his hands with just water, which is gross, but it'll have to do. It takes him a while to get all the come off his fingers this way. He catches Gerard's reflection in the mirror. His smile is gone, and his eyes are wide. Frank turns around and leans with his ass on the sink, wiping his hands on his pants.
"I'll be out sick tomorrow, but if you want, we can have lunch together on Monday," he says, before he can stop himself. What the hell.
Instead of saying 'yes' or 'no,' Gerard asks, "How do you know you'll be out sick?"
Frank laughs kind of without humor and lets his head fall forward. "Getting that sickly feeling."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Okay."
Frank looks up again. Gerard is still on the floor, like he's forgotten that it's cold and hard. Frank lifts his shoulders in question. "Okay what?"
"I'll have lunch with you." He sounds magnanimous, like he's doing Frank a huge favor. Frank snorts and shakes his head, pushing off the sink.
"All right, I guess. See you Monday."
He leaves Gerard kneeling on the floor, and right before the bathroom door shuts behind him, Frank throws over his shoulder, "Locker J15, fifth period. Be there." He has no idea why he just did that.
The itchy-crawling feeling doesn't come back until he's leaving for the day and a sharp new smell invades his nostrils. Gerard. Somewhere in the same corridor.
Great. Now Frank will never get his scent out.
*
By the time the bus drops him off, Frank is ready to crawl out of his skin. Which fits, considering he's only a couple of hours from doing just that. He takes the shortcut through the cemetery, running so hard, his bag is beating a permanent bruise into his thigh, but he's finally fucking free. It feels amazing.
For a moment, he just wants to keep going - forget running home, his brain whispers at him, keep running to the woods, just do it, it'll feel so good, just run until you can't run anymore - but he pushes the thought down, squashes it so hard, it almost hurts. He can't.
His skin is burning up under his uniform, his feet hurt from hitting the paved paths. He's almost, almost there. He just needs to get home and get locked up, and then it'll just be him and nothing - nothing else.
He whines as he skids down the bend, then runs through the opened iron gates and speeds down the narrow lane that leads to the house.
He's panting by the time he jiggles his keys in the lock and his mom is already there, grabbing his backpack and helping him out of his shirt.
"Take your slacks off here, Frankie, I can't afford another pair," she admonishes, and he stops, barely able to do it, and shucks them off. They get tangled and he goes sprawling on the floor. "Baby, your shoes are still on," Mom adds, like he hadn't noticed.
"Fuck fuck fuck."
Everything hurts, he can barely even feel it where he banged his knees because that pain's too easy. It all feels worse this time around and he really, seriously hopes it's not the start of some pattern or anything. Once he's managed to chuck both the shoes and the pants, he runs down the basement stairs, his toes slipping on the wood. Mom is on his tail, his pants still bundled in her arms, and she catches his cheek for a quick kiss.
"Stay safe, baby, I'll see you in the morning."
He squeezes her hand, and then he's falling through the iron doorway, which she clangs behind him and starts in on all the catches and locks.
He looks out the iron bars lining the basement window and settles on the hay in the corner. Now he's got nothing at all to distract him from the wait, or the quickly worsening pain running through his whole entire body.
*
There's so much pain, it blinds him through the change. He sees nothing but red, and feels nothing but the ripping of his bones, the tearing of his skin. His claws curl out the next second; his fur rips through his every pore. He howls and lunges for the bars at the window, and then there's nothing but deep and mindless horror of the wolf who's been caged into his own mind.
The darkness lasts forever.
*
When he comes to in the morning, he watches the sun leaking across the ceiling and the empty scratched-up walls. He takes a couple of careful breaths before he can tell if he's cracked any ribs this time around. It doesn't hurt to breathe, but when he moves his arms and legs, pain blooms out of every single pore and he just barely stops himself screaming.
He can't stop himself from sobbing a little as he attempts to lever himself up and then falls back down. Fuck, that really was worse than usual, what the hell. He settles back in against the hay stack and just breathes through it.
He doesn't hear his mom come down the set of stairs outside the door, the metal's too thick for that, but he hears it when she unlocks and unlatches the whole thing. She's wearing slippers, making quiet shuffling sounds, but even that feels like somebody's pounding on his head.
"Oh, honey," she breathes when she sees him and hurries down the last few steps.
He doesn't say anything as she wipes her cool hand across his sweaty, bloody forehead, then helps push him up and wraps him up in a blanket. He grits his teeth through the pain and breathes in and out as it recedes bit by bit. It's not fully gone by the time he's made it up the stairs and down the hall to his room, but it's less immediate, which is a small blessing.
Mom goes through the motions of getting him set up for the day. Remote on the nightstand, next to the Tylenol and two liter water bottle. Phone wedged in between his pillow and the wall. Cereal in a bowl on the tray, with a cup of milk next to it, so nothing gets soggy if he falls back asleep too soon. When he was first turned, it was like they'd traded the irregular but stupefyingly common illnesses for this monthly crap. Frank has never settled on what he prefers, really, and hasn't ask Mom, either. It's just what they do. He doesn't miss the bouts of pneumonia, though.
"Rest up now, okay? I'll call you on my break, see how you are."
Frank looks over at where she's leaning against the doorway, her hair in a slightly crazy halo around her head. He clears his throat. "Thanks, Mom. I'm good," he rasps.
"All right." She looks like she's battling her feet for a while, but then she finally leaves and he hears the car tear out of the driveway before he passes out again.
*
"Hey, Iero, you missed a quiz!"
Frank sighs. His math teacher is such a fucking tool. The dude is, like, fifty thousand years old, and he thinks he and Frank are buddies. Frank is a loser, but he's not loser enough to be buddies with the aging hippie who attempts to teach them pre-calc on a daily basis and fails ninety percent of the time.
Frank is tempted to just keep walking, but he knows Masters is pretty likely to run after him. How is this Frank's life, seriously.
"Hey, Mr. Masters, sorry," he calls out after swiveling back around and jogging up to the classroom where Masters is leaning against the door frame like he's James fucking Dean. James fucking Dean with scraggly long grey hair and a vest from the Ye Old West. "I was sick again, my mom wrote a note. Do you need to verify?"
Masters gives him that indulgent I know you were really sick with a hangover, but I'll let it slide this time, I've done worse things in my youth, ho ho ho smile and pats Frank on the arm.
"Not a problem, dude, I'll be giving a make-up after school tomorrow. Chapter Three - know it, love it."
Frank bites the inside of his cheek and nods before turning back around and heading towards his locker. Who the fuck gives make-ups on quizzes, he wants to know. Fucking Masters, fucking useless…
Frank sniffs the air when a scent hits him and brings him up short six lockers away. That new kid Gerard - the guy you blew, a little voice reminds him - is standing right by his locker, chewing on a ragged black-painted nail. He's got a messenger bag slung over his chest and Frank can just make out an Iron Maiden button on the strap. His dark hair is hanging in his face and he looks really…nervous. He smells really nervous, too.
Frank swears under his breath, looks around, and walks the last few steps that bring him to his locker.
"Uh, hey," he says when he's got his hand on the lock, twirling it into opening. "What's up?"
Gerard shrugs and sweeps hair out of his eyes. "You mentioned lunch, so, I don't know." He's kind of shifting and twitching beside Frank and Frank has a quick unhelpful flashback to how he looked when Frank was on his fucking knees in front of him three days ago, which he has to forcibly squash down. Thank God the moon is waning. He can't believe he fucking forgot about telling him they'd have lunch together. He can't believe he blew him in the school bathroom. What was he thinking?
"Right," he says finally, his face practically inside his locker, pretending like he's looking for something in there. It smells pretty rank - did someone slip him rotten meat again? Fucking meat-loving assholes - and he can only take so much before slamming the door closed. Which helps with the smell not at all, and also brings him face to hopeful face with Gerard.
"So, yeah?" Gerard asks and then his face breaks into a smile that immediately transforms him into a weird mix of little kid and fucking, just - beautiful guy. Frank takes a step back and watches Gerard's grin fade, leaving him looking simply awkward.
Frank fiddles with the strap of his bag and curses the fucking moon for bringing this on him in the first place. But of course, it wasn't entirely the fucking moon, so sure. Sure, he'll suck it the fuck up and have lunch with this kid today, and then maybe a few more times before he's dropped like a sack of rotten potatoes for being a fucking freak of nature. Why the fuck not, he's got nothing else on his social fucking agenda, and not like it'll be the first time.
"Sure. Let's go," he finally says and turns around to lead the way.
*
Walking through the cafeteria is a trial, as always. Even though he's through this month's change, he can still taste the disgusting smells in the back of his throat, and it's pretty fucking foul. Normally he'd just skip this place entirely and eat his salad under some tree out in the courtyard, but it's fucking pissing down outside, and it looks like Gerard didn't bring a lunch, anyway. He probably doesn't know better yet.
And speaking of Gerard, he is currently trailing Frank like a pale puppy, not engaging in conversation, but definitely present and kind of unrelenting. He's not yet a familiar presence, but already recognizable. Frank doesn't know if it's his own brain supplying the memories, or if Gerard is thinking about their little bathroom encounter, too, but there's an undercurrent of sexsexsex invading Frank's nostrils, beneath all the grease and meat and bodies.
He shakes it off as much as he can and plops down at the farthest table. His elbow instantly lands in something sticky, but whatever, at least they'll be out of the way here.
"Are you buying your lunch?" Gerard asks, hovering over Frank uncertainly.
"Nah, I bring my own. They've got, like, nothing vegetarian here worth eating at all," Frank answers, dragging out his tupperware.
"Oh. Okay." Gerard is glancing between Frank and the lunch line filled with rowdy assholes, and Frank can't really blame the dude for not wanting to join in, but he isn't about to throw himself under that particular bus, either. "Uhm. Okay," Gerard says again and visibly steels himself before trudging off to join in the fray.
Frank's almost done with his salad by the time Gerard returns with his lunch tray. It smells pretty vile, even if it's just chili. But it's the school chili, which means it's mostly goopy beef and overcooked beans swimming in some tomato sauce. Gerard doesn't look too thrilled with it, and Frank feels kind of bad for him.
"You should bring your own," he says. "It's really not worth the carnage, you know?"
Gerard nods miserably and tucks in, making a face. Frank can't help cracking up. "I have some pop-tarts for dessert, if you want," he offers before he can think better of it. Gerard looks up at him, spoon halfway to his mouth.
"You sure? I might need some, this shit is seriously grossing me out."
Frank can't exactly say "no" now, so he just rips into the package and slides out a pop-tart, putting it on the cleanest part of Gerard's tray he can find. "Knock yourself out."
After Gerard's eaten less than half of what's in his bowl, he pushes it away and they finish off their pop-tarts in similar silence. Frank hasn't eaten lunch with another person in a while, so he can't quite remember if it was always awkward, or if it's just him.
"So, uh," Gerard starts, then pauses. Maybe it's not just him. Frank waits him out, because he sort of has an idea where Gerard might want to lead the conversation, and he isn't sure if he really wants to go there. Ever. Jesus, he still can't believe he did that. "So, like, are you a senior?"
Frank mentally adjusts whatever he thought Gerard might ask, and kind of snorts. "I fucking wish. Junior. Still have almost two years at this place."
"Oh," Gerard nods.
"You?"
"I'm a senior."
Frank sighs a little. "So how come you're just switching schools now? Did you move?"
Gerard shrugs. "Yeah, kind of."
Frank wonders how you can only "kind of" move but doesn't push it. Not like he's willing to answer any questions pretty much ever, so.
He looks around the cafeteria, and watches all these jerk-offs in their natural habitat. From his vantage point, he can see Heidi Mack rolling her eyes at her minions, and Hillman's got some poor freshman's face in his armpit, receiving a fucking noogie like it's the fucking 1950s, and the smells hanging around are enough to make Frank want to vomit up his own lunch, and seriously, it's like a Frank-particular circle of Hell.
He turns back at Gerard, who's watching him in a careful and weird sort of way and shakes out his shoulders. "Listen, wanna get out of here?"
"Fuck yes."
"Let's get the fuck out of here."
*
Frank shouldn't actually give up the one place he can get some peace and quiet around these parts to a dude he barely knows, but he does, anyway.
"But don't abuse the privilege, this is my spot, all right?" he warns and watches Gerard nod at him silently.
He jiggles the loose lock until it gives and slips through the doorway. At some point, this was probably a janitor's closet, but it's become kind of remote, ever since they added on that other huge-ass wing on the other side of the courtyard, so now it's just a tiny little room with a single light bulb to illuminate it, and Frank has made it his own.
It's kind of small and it plays on his claustrophobia in a big way, but it's better than being stuffed in a locker, and he'll take what he can get.
He slips in, nodding at Gerard to join him, then reaches over and pulls the door shut. Then, as a ta-da kind of moment, he turns on the light and slides down to the floor, using his jacket for a cushion.
"Cool," Gerard breathes, looking around. Frank settles back against the wall and watches him take it all in. "Shit, are these yours?" Gerard picks up last month's X-Men issue off the pile and starts flipping through it. Frank reaches over and snags the one underneath it.
"Yep. I've been keeping some here in case I forget to bring something with me, so this way I'll always have reading material." He's pretty proud of himself, and so far, nobody's discovered this place. He really should have thought a little more before bringing Gerard here, but at least he knows that if any of his stuff goes missing from here, it won't be because Gerard is a spiteful asshole. He seems genuinely excited about the comics.
"Wow, dude," Gerard says now, still looking through the issue. "Man, my little brother snagged this one and I totally forgot to get it back, shit. Uh, do you mind if I read it now?"
Frank shrugs. "Be my guest, just don't get any crap on it."
Gerard gives him a huge smile, looking like a little kid again, and settles in until he's comfortable - it, apparently, takes a while. He keeps shooting little hopeful glances in Frank's direction that Frank chooses to ignore for the time being. Instead, he takes out his cell to look at the time. They've got a good twenty minutes of lunch left, and now he doesn't have to make awkward conversation. Score. He takes out his iPod and scrolls through until he finds "Zero." It's a Pumpkins kind of hour.
*
"So, uh, I guess I'll see you?" Gerard says once they've climbed out of the closet, and Frank bites his lip and shrugs. It hadn't been, like, horrible or anything. It was actually kind of nice, just sharing space with someone like that, with no interruptions or much tenseness or anything. Gerard had maybe been kind of twitchy, but Frank is starting to think he's just a twitchy kind of guy. More importantly, Gerard hadn't demanded an explanation for the impromptu blowjob or, like, asked for another one, so Frank is maybe willing to cut him some slack.
"Sure. Tomorrow? Same time?"
Gerard shrugs on his bag and gives him a grin through his messed up hair. Dude seriously needs a wash. "Cool. See you then, man."
Frank gives him a quick nod and then flees. He's got French next period, and you do not mess with Monsieur Chevalier. Monsieur Chevalier wears horribly patterned ties with buttons on them that play "I Love Paris" and looks like that Mephistopheles guy they read about last year. Frank isn't afraid of too much shit, but Monsieur Chevalier really kind of fucking scares him.
*
The next day, Gerard does meet him in the same spot, and this time he's brown-bagged it. Frank can't help cracking up a bit at his winning expression, and he leads Gerard through the maze of hallways into his wing with a slightly lighter heart. Any day he doesn't have to fight through the jockstraps in the cafeteria is a better day than yesterday.
"So, how long have you been collecting these?" Gerard asks as soon as his ass hits the ground across from Frank.
Frank shrugs. "I don't know, a while, I guess. I mean, like. I've been buying them for a while, but only started bringing them here this year."
Gerard nods seriously. "Man, that is so cool. I always wanted to have a spot, like, all to myself in my old school, but it was crap. Mikey kept me company at lunch, though, last year."
"Mikey?" Frank had been thinking that they'd have another quiet lunch hour, but doesn't seem like it's going to happen.
"My kid brother," Gerard says, a smile quirking his lips a bit. "He's a sophomore now."
Frank frowns. "How come he's not here with you, then?"
Gerard's smile fades a little and he shrugs. "Just didn't work out." He doesn't say anything for a while, just rummages through his backpack for a long time. Frank wonders if it's the tuition. If it weren't for his dad's help, he wouldn't be able to afford this place, either, not like he's been dying for it, at any rate. But it's the better school, so his mom waded through a whole lot of crap to make it happen for him. He feels ungrateful every time he skips class, but some days are just unbearable. He's been getting vaguely decent grades, anyway, when he's bothered to put in the effort.
Gerard finally drags something out of his bag - it's like a Mary Poppins bag, seriously, Frank can tell from over here that there's a shitload of crap in it - and it looks like a sketchpad. Then out come markers and pens and shit, huh.
"You draw?" Frank asks as Gerard flips through a bunch of sketched-in pages to a clean one.
Gerard gives him a look from under his bangs. It's, like, calculating and unsure at the same time, and Frank can't actually hold it for long, it's like staring into fire, hurts your eyes after a while. "Yeah, a bit."
It doesn't just look like ‘a bit' to Frank, so he pushes himself forward to try and get a better look. He's only ever drawn, like, stick figures and bags of flaming poop, even though at some point in grade school, his art teacher told him he'd be really good if he "applied" himself. Frank didn't really care to "apply" himself at drawing, and then he got turned, anyway, and stopped even trying. "Can I see?"
Gerard tucks a strand of greasy hair behind his ear and, after throwing Frank another vaguely uncertain glance, turns the sketchbook towards him.
"Whoa, dude," Frank breathes. Okay, Gerard clearly doesn't draw ‘a bit.' The entire page looks like a comic book got thrown together, all panels into one - there's, like, vampires and The Team from Doom Patrol on there, too, and Frank flips page after page. Gerard's got style. It's all black inky lines and blood-red slashes. "This is super cool," Frank says, his finger hovering in the air over a really awesome Wolverine sketch. "Did you teach yourself?"
Gerard is actually blushing and radiating heat across from him. "Nah, I mean. My grandma taught me at first, then I started taking extra lessons and whatnot. I'm applying to art schools for next fall." He says the last sentence like he's planning a trip to the moon. Art school, shit. Frank hasn't even gotten much past finishing this year, forget getting past high school. For a second, he's so furiously jealous, he can't even breathe. Then he forces himself back onto his leash, and says, "Wow. That's awesome, dude," because it is. He shifts until he's sitting back down against the wall. "You're really talented."
Gerard smiles and ducks his head, his fingers already sketching something on a half-filled in page. "Thanks. I'm really excited, like - this one school? SVA? It's in the city, and it's all art, not just, like, a major. And they've got a comic program there."
"Wow, seriously?" The sounds way cooler than any other college Frank has ever heard of.
Gerard nods, never stopping sketching. "Well, it's illustration, but, like, that's part of it? And they teach you how to ink properly and plan out panels and - yeah, it's fucking sweet. I wanna, like, write and draw my own comic someday."
Frank thinks he might be staring. "Dude, that is so cool. Do you have, like, ideas?"
"Shit, I got a ton," Gerard says, and this time, he even pushes his sketchpad aside and sets down his marker. His eyes are practically glowing from excitement. "Like, I'm really interested in supernatural shit? Vampires and stuff, but not even that, it's more like - the idea of something totally freaky happening under the surface, and people not ever knowing it, you know? I just think how cool it'd be if the real world actually did have something like that, and I'm not even talking Superman or any shit like that, I'm talking something more interesting, different and, like, edgy, you know? Like X-Men, maybe, only grittier. I don't know. Or, like, something totally different but that occurs in nature and no one knows about it, you know?"
Frank does know that, unfortunately. He shifts around on the floor, trying not to think about how this is skating just a bit too close to home for comfort. "Uh, yeah?"
"So, I have this idea about how - oh."
"What?"
Gerard's torrent of words completely dries up, and now he's staring at Frank and chewing on his lip. "I'm babbling, I forgot - I mean - you're probably not interested. Sorry." He breathes the last word, like he's been chastised, and Frank feels bad despite the fact that he didn't actually do anything.
"No, dude, you should totally tell me. Or, like, draw your ideas and shit." There, that's showing genuine interest, right?
Gerard scrunches up his nose. "You sure?"
Frank rolls his eyes, just to prove his point. "I'm sure. But I think we gotta go, dude, the bell's gonna ring in a minute."
After they stumble outside, Frank is about to sprint off to French when Gerard holds him back by his sleeve. Frank blinks at him. "Uh."
"Just, I don't know," Gerard says, letting go of Frank and toeing the ground. It makes him look like a little kid again, maybe. It's really pretty cute. "Thanks, I guess. That's a sweet place you've got here."
Frank shrugs like it's no big, even though it totally is, he knows. "No problem, dude. Show me those drawings, all right?"
He doesn't really wait for Gerard to answer, but whatever, he's got a class to get to and jocks to skip past.
Part II.