Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

As the barren trees whizzed past the window Frank impatiently peeled on a hangnail on his thumb to the point of drawing blood. He couldn't help it, his body was teeming with a sense of apprehension of what was to come. Suddenly, everything was uncomfortable. The leather seats of the car grew sticky with sweat as he shifted his weight from one side of his body to the other. He hated this. Frank didn't hate a lot of things, he tried to be as optimistic as possible for whatever reason—however he knew it deep inside his heart that he hated this. Hated not knowing what would happen—or even worse? Knowing but not being able to do anything about it.

The car rolled onto a cobblestone path as two double wrought iron fence gates with 'St. Raphael's School for Boys.' crowned over it in rusty worn out metal letters parted open. He lifted his thumb to his mouth and began anxiously gnawing at the hangnail, ripping it off when the car screeched to a halt.

He stepped outside meanwhile the driver pulled out his trunk from the boot before signaling him to the entrance. Frank's feeble body struggled to carry the trunk across the courtyard into the lobby. The place smelled of old wood and lemon polish, floors so shiny he almost slipped hauling the luggage in.

"Ahem."

Frank's head darted up to the woman at the front desk.

"Mind closing the door? I've got the heat on."

"Oh.. of course- sorry.."

Frank closed the door as gently as he could with a click. In a way, he didn't want to disturb this place's peace. He felt almost as if the school was made of glass and any wrong move would shatter the tranquility.

"You must be Frank! May peace always be upon you during your journey of repentance."

"Hi.." Frank looked down at his feet. He didn't know what a 'journey of repentance' was or why he was on one, but he didn't want to ask questions and look incompetent.

"You've arrived quite later than we expected. We prayed for your safe arrival incase of any trouble."

"You did? Thanks..." He paused, not sure if he should continue with his question but before he knew it words were slipping off of his tongue like rain off a windowpane.

"If it's not a bother to ask—how long ago was I supposed to arrive..?"

"About 3 hours ago," she pulled a tight lipped smile. "Never mind that, lost soul. Let's get you to your housing, shall we?"

"Ah—yeah, sure."

Lost soul? Was he a lost soul?

"Oh my apologies, it seems I've forgotten my manners. Sister Williams. I will soon be teaching you religious history."

"Religious history..?"

"Yes, religious history," she repeated. "It's important to know about the roots of our faith."

"Of course.."

The rest of the walk was spent in silence, save for the sound of heels on the waxed wooden floors.

Sister Williams stopped at a door before speaking. "This is your dormitory. You'll be sharing with a young soul your age. If anything happens , you are free to relocate. I'll see you in the morning."

With that, she strayed off, the sound of her shoes clack clacking against the wooden floors slowly fading away into nothingness. Seriously, why did she keep calling everyone 'lost souls?' He brushed it off and gripped the door handle, preparing for what was awaiting him on the other side.

Chapter Text

I opened the door slowly as to not startle anyone inside. I was harmless. I knew that because even when I tried to defend myself it was futile. A guy with long, jet black hair down to his shoulders was resting against his headboard holding a notebook. He looked up at the sound of me trudging my luggage inside with a raised brow.

"The hell?"

I flinched at the passive-aggressive tone. I looked up to his face. Across his features was etched a look of annoyance.. or maybe hate..? No. It can't be. I didn't do anything wrong- not yet at least. Maybe he just has a resting bitch face.

"What are you doing..?"

"Uh.. moving in my luggage..?"

"Yeah, no shit. Im askin' ya why."

"Because this is my dorm..?" I said it quizzically, like I wasn't sure if I belonged here.

"Like hell it is. You'll be in a new one by tomorrow night."

"Why?"

"'Cause everyone always leaves."

I stopped the battle between me and getting my luggage through the doorway.

"Everyone always leaves..?"

"Yeah. They find out I'm gay, get scared, and leave."

"Gay..?" I was dumbfounded. What's 'gay' mean?

"Yeah. You got a problem?"

"No!" I said it almost too quickly. I had no idea what I should- or shouldn't be having a problem with.

"Good."

The room had gone into an awkward hush.

"I have a question.."

I received no response- however he looked up from his notebook so I took it as an indication to shoot.

"What-... what does "gay" mean..?"

He looked at me like I had asked the most obvious question in the world.

"You're kidding."

I stayed silent, in fear of what reaction my words might invoke.

"You're not kidding.. God how sheltered are you..?"

He muttered under his breath what I could only make out to be "I can't believe this.."

"Being gay means you like boys."

"But everyone likes boys.. is everyone gay?"

"No.. not like that. Being gay is when a boy feels love towards another boy. Romantically."

Oh. He meant love. Of course he meant love.

"Oh," a pause, then: "so they leave because you're gay...?"

He scoffed. "That's just the tip of the iceberg."

"Then what else...?"

"You'll find out sooner or later."

He returned to his notebook- and after an etch of silence, he spoke to me.

"They told me about you. 'a lost soul your age' bla bla bla."

I fiddled with the hem of my shirt.

"So.. what's your name?"

"My name? Its uh.. it's Frank. Frank Iero."

"Gerard Way."

I swallowed, noticing my throat was suddenly dry before returning my attention to my trunk that insisted on being stuck in the middle of the doorway. Gerard let out a frustrated sigh- yet it sounded like it held no real irritation.

"You're supposed to flip it."

I blinked, obviously confused as to what he meant by "flip it." I mean, how does one even 'flip' a luggage?

"Flip it..?"

He pushed the notebook off his lap and stalked up to where I was, grabbing the handles of the trunk and flipping it onto its side so it was vertical.

"It takes up less space this way. Try pulling it in now."

I hauled the luggage in with ease, my brows shooting up in surprise.

"Oh.."

"Surprised you didn't know that.."

He walked back over to the edge of his bed and sat down. I could feel his eyes on my back as I unpacked the contents of my trunk into the dresser at the foot of my bed.

"Seriously..? A plush toy? I thought you were my age. Aren't you sixteen..?"

I held the plushie in my hand, fiddling with the synthetic hairs on its body. I struggled to find a response. What was so wrong with having a plushie at sixteen? I wasn't hurting anyone and that's what matters.

"Yeah I am.."

"You have a plush toy at your grown age..?"

There it was. Everyone was constantly on my case about not acting my age. How was I supposed to act? This is how I am and I can't help it. I tried but I just can't. Why cant they understand that..?

"He have a name..?"

"Yeah.. Joy"

"Joy..? Why Joy?"

"Because he brings me Joy." I answered simply.

"That's...-.." he trailed off. "Okay, I guess." he continued

I felt the corners of my lips twitch up into a small smile.

"Listen, you better not be scared of the dark or something cause I physically cannot sleep if theres a light on."

"I'm not scared. It's okay."

"Alright then. Night Frank."

I was about to respond with a "goodnight" when my stomach beat me to it with a loud grumble.

"You hungry? Theres some leftover dumplings in the mini-fridge if you want."

I hesitated before saying thank you and taking the plate of dumplings.

11 PM.

The room was dark and the only sound was the light snoring emitted from Gerard every now and then. The plate of dumplings remained in my hands, untouched. I was hungry, sure..but I was even more terrified of eating. I reluctantly picked up the dumpling and forced it down my throat. I scarfed another one down, trying my best to eat fast and not think about what's going to happen.

Chapter Text

I stirred to the sound of guttural heaving and the sound of something hitting water.

"The fuck..?"

I sat up and swung my legs off the bed, trying to adjust to the darkness around me. I pulled on the cord dangling from the lamp and immediately shut my eyes at the brightness before being brought back to reality by the sound repeating. I quickly gathered my bearings and noticed Frank wasn't in bed. I stood up, still struggling to hold myself up as I stumbled over to the bathroom door where the source of the noise was.

I turned the knob and pushed open the 6 foot block of wood in my way before taking two steps and immediately realizing what was happening.

"Holy shit! Dude, are you okay!?"

I ran over to beside the toilet where Frank was sitting hunched over the bowl, dry heaving and sobbing. I felt my hand involuntary come up to his back and start to rub it in small circles. No idea why.

"Are you feeling sick..?"

I winced as he sobbed harder.

"I-I'm sorry? I didn't mean to make you cry.."

"It's-hic! not y-your fault.."

"Do you need me to do anything? Just say the word man, I'm here for you."

Holy hell, I barely even know this guy and I'm already willing to do anything at his command. Am I fucking stupid?

"I'm fine.."

"How often do you throw up..?"

"E-everytime I eat.."

"Everytime you eat!? How- I- you-.." I took a deep breath. "How are you even alive if you throw up everything you eat!?"

"I-.. My stomach can't handle solid foods.."

"What..?"

"I throw up every time I eat something solid.."

"So what do you eat then..?"

"My mom used to make me soup.. but she's not here now.."

"Soup..? Just soup...? Thats no way to live!"

He just sniffled. Yikes. I moved my hand over to his shoulder and gave him a comforting squeeze.

"When was the last time you ate..?"

"Last night.."

"Last night?"

"I mean I..I had dumplings a few minutes ago but theyre in the toilet n-now so I don't think they count.."

"Of course they don't fucking count you didn't even digest them.. Come on."

I stood up and tugged at his arm signaling him to get up with me.

"Where are we going..?"

"To the kitchen. I'll make you some soup-.. as soon as you clean your mouth that is."

Frank giggled a little bit and stood up. I put my hand in the middle of his back in between his shoulders and guided him to the sink.

"Come to me when you're finished, yeah?" I gave him a small smile and a pat on the back before heading out to the mini kitchenette in our dorm. I was racking my brain trying to figure out what kind of soup I could make with the ingredients present in our cupboards. I opted to just use frozen peas and carrots with some chicken broth- it's not like he'd be able to eat the vegetables anyway but I wanted to give it some flavor. Groceries were dire and this was probably going to be the worst soup (if you could even call it one) he's ever tasted in his whole life but I didn't care, as long as he ate something.

"Hi.."

"Heya, Frank. Take a seat."

Frank pulled one of the chairs from the table and watched as I chopped up the frozen vegetables.

"How do you chop them so fast..?" He said in an awe-induced tone. It was honestly pretty adorable how he was entranced by little things- much like a child.

"Practice."

"Cool.. I could practice for hours and still chop as slowly as a snail.."

"Depends on if your method is correct. You can practice all you want but if your method is wrong you're never gonna get the result you want, right?"

"Right.."

He continued to watch in fascination as I chopped the vegetables in moderately sized rectangles.

"Hey, you want me to teach ya?"

"You really will?" His face lit up with what can only be described as pure elation.

"Hell yeah, I will. Get over here!"

He jumped off of the bar stool and ran over to the other side of the counter beside me.

"Show me how you chop." I say while stepping to the side to give him room.

Frank took my place and held the knife in his hands. My heart ached at the sight of how thin and slender his fingers were. I couldn't help but eye over his body- seeing just how skinny he really was. How could someone so young and full of love be condemned to such suffering? And they say Jesus Christ is all loving. What kind of deity inflicts suffering on the innocent? Some God he is. Snapping out of my thoughts, I return to the present.

"Your grip is off. You gotta hold the knife like a pencil and put your pointer finger on the top of the blade if you want to stabilize it."

"Why do I have to stabilize it?"

I sigh before giving my answer. God this guy really can't put two and two together, can he?

"Because, it helps to give you control over the knife and you'll be able to cut faster with less risk of the knife going rogue and cutting you."

"Oh. That makes sense.."

"I know it does."

I turned my attention to the pot of boiling broth on the stove, grabbing a wooden spoon and stirring it.

"Gerard it's not working! I don't know how to hold it like a pencil!"

"Haven't you ever held a pencil?"

"Yeah but this is different!"

I let out a huff of air through my nose before positioning myself behind him, placing my hand over his and guiding it to the correct position.

"God.. you have soft hands.."

"My mom used to put lotion on me every 3 hours.."

"Why'd she do that?"

"I dunno."

I couldn't help but laugh a little at his response.

Chapter Text

"You have a nice smile."

"Ah..really? You think so? Even with all my weird lookin' teeth..?"

"The imperfections are what make us human. They give us potential to make a statement."

"Jesus, you goin' all Ted Talk on me?..Anyway- dump the veggies in the pot."

"I saw it on a billboard on the way here. Perfume ad."

"Yeah, it's always the perfume ad's that have nothing to do with the perfume, huh..?

I picked up the cutting board and walked over to the stove, pushing in the diced vegetables and peas.

"Careful, you idiot!"

Gerard yanked the chopping board from me in a quick motion, dropping some of the contents on the floor. I gave him a puzzled look. I didn't understand what I did wrong. Was I screwing things up already? He sighed.

"The broth is hot, if you dump all of it at once it'll bubble up and hit you on the hand."

I tilted my head slightly. I still didn't understand what the problem was.

"You'll get burned."

"Oh.."

"Haven't you ever tried to fry something? The scalding oil jumps on to your hand."

"My mom never let me in the kitchen."

He didn't respond, he just looked at me weird.

"Seriously dude I don't know where your parents went wrong but somewhere along the path they fucked your brain up. It's like they dropped you as a baby."

Maybe he was right. I was always told I was mentally regressed but honestly I had no idea what it meant. Every time I asked my mom she just blocked me off with "Don't worry about it." or "You're perfect." There was a chance Gerard knew what was plaguing my brain and I was going to take that chance and ask.

"Do you know what mentally regressed means?"

"Huh? Yeah I guess I do..why?" he said warily, raising a brow.

"Because.. I-.. doctors always tell my mom that I have Post-Traumatic-Age-Regression."

"Post trau-.. what the fuck..? What even is that?"

"I don't even know.."

"Post traumatic something something.. you must have some sort of trauma that triggered this shit, right?"

I tried my best to think back. I knew what trauma was, I knew this one. I knew one thing for once but it was useless because I couldn't for the life of me figure out when I had experienced trauma.

"Well, yeah but— I can't remember the trauma part. Sorry.."

Gerard placed a hand on my shoulder and walked me over to his bed.

"Don't be sorry, we'll figure it out. Your mom.. did she ever hit you?"

I shook my head vehemently.

"No not my mom. My mom loves me. She would never do that."

"Okay.. okay what about your dad..? Did he ever hurt you..?"

I thought hard. I thought about when he would forget me in the car. I thought about when he would hit me. I thought about when he.. That was when it clicked.

"When he first found out about my eating disorder.."

I felt his hand on me tighten.

"Yeah?"

"He used to force feed me a-and then duct tape my mouth shut so I couldn't throw up..He thought it would fix me.."

"Are you fucking serious!? Is he insane!?"

I remember very clearly throwing up into my mouth and having some of it drip onto my pajamas through the open spots in the tape. I remember the texture of it against my tongue, warm and uneven. I remember choking on some of my own sick when I tried to ask him to stop, forcing me stay quiet. I remember what he practically bellowed at me. "You will not stain my name with an eating disorder!"

Gerard pulled me against his chest and started running his fingers through my hair. I couldn't help but start to sob. The action felt so familiar in a way. It was like my mom was right here.

"I'm so sorry Frankie, you didn't deserve that. No one does."

"But what does it mean..?"

"Well, post traumatic means after trauma.. so I'm assuming after trauma age regression..the trauma being.."

"Yeah, I get it.." I mumbled through tears.

"Sassy."

I let out a watery giggle, and Gerard let out the inklings of a smile himself.

Chapter Text

My brain still couldn't comprehend that Frank's situation was real. It was hard to realize that the kid currently sitting in my lap sniffling had gone through such an extent of abuse. What was even worse, though, was that being here wasn't exactly any better. The school was practically an instrument of oppression under the excuse of 'following Christ.'

"Hey, Frank?"

"Yeah..?"

"How old were you when that stuff happened..?"

"I was 8.. almost 9"

"Jesus.." I muttered to myself. The situation was inhumane. It felt like something straight out of a case study from a psychology textbook. His brain is ruined and now he's never going to grow up because some guy couldn't be a decent parent. I returned to the kitchen and dumped the excuse of soup into a bowl rather carelessly with soup jumping onto the counter. It was pathetic, but it was just for one night. I walked back to the bed and sat beside him.

"You feeling better?"

"Mhm." he said with a smile. He said it with a smile. He was just crying (not that he didn't deserve every right to) and now he's smiling and happy-go-lucky like the world hadn't handed him a Three of a Kind against a Royal Flush and told him to win. Despite my confusion, I found myself smiling back while handing him the bowl.

"Careful, its hot." I warned. Frank dunked his spoon into the broth and brought it to his lips, swallowing with a grimace. It was almost like he was afraid he'd throw up again— or maybe it was because broth for dinner wasn't exactly appealing. "The school...do they, uh—know?" "Know 'bout what?" He mumbled through a slurp. "The whole 'I-can't-eat-solids-or-I-throw-up' thing." "Yeah, they do. My dad told em'." "And?" "They're supposed to give me soup every month. Like...cans." "Alright...now finish up the soup so you can sleep, yeah? We've a long day of listening to nuns and priests drone on about how great Jesus Christ is tomorrow."

Frank giggled and held up the bowl to his mouth, drinking the last bits.

"Gerard—"

"Gee is fine."

"Gee, I'm finished."

I took the bowl from his hands. "Go to sleep, we gotta be up by 7:30 in the morning."

"Okay," he jumped into his bed and pulled the covers over his nose. "Night Ger- I mean Gee!"

"Night, Frank."

I woke up to something prodding at my right cheek.

"What the fuck..?" I said groggily.

It was Frank. Of course it was. He was sitting on the edge of the bed beside me poking my face like a puppy who wanted a walk. I turned my head to get a glance at the time. '6:07 AM' Why the hell was he up so early!?

"Morning, Gee! We're friends right?"

What was he even talking about? It was too early for this.

"Yeah.. yeah we're friends."

I mumbled, still not exactly awake.

"Yay! I've never had a friend before!"

"Well I'm honored to be the first then."

"There was a thud at the door, I got up to open it and ta da!!! A case of soup! It was too heavy for me to bring in all by myself so I just left it outside—"

"Frank, you're rambling. Get to the point."

"..Can you make me soup? I'm a bit hungry."

I sighed and tossed the blanket off, trudging to the door. I opened it and squinted at the sunlight spilling into the hallway. The case of soup cans sat before my feet, far too heavy for one person—well, me—to carry easily. I gritted my teeth, bent at the knees, and lifted it, wincing as the weight pressed into my arms.

The case slipped slightly in my hands, and I cursed under my breath. My arms were burning, my back aching, but I managed to get it into the room and set it down with a loud thump. Frank clapped gleefully.

"Pick a flavor." I beckoned, rummaging around for a knife, or more graciously—a pair of scissors to open the plastic seal.

"Tomato! Tomato! Definitely tomato!" Frank yelled, far too loud for 6 AM.

I grabbed a small pot from the kitchenette corner and set it on the burner. “Alright, tomato it is,” I muttered, cracking the can open and pouring the contents in. Steam hissed as it hit the pan.

Frank perched on the edge of the counter, leaning forward eagerly. “Can I stir?” he asked, eyes wide.

I hesitated. “You sure you won’t spill it everywhere?”

“I promise! I’m careful!”

I handed him the spoon, keeping a close watch as he stirred the soup with exaggerated care, tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth. I adjusted the heat, stirred a bit myself, and whispered, “Not too fast, careful…”

After a few minutes, the soup was gently simmering. I poured it into a bowl and slid it across the counter toward him.

“Mmm… it smells so good, Gee!”

“Just wait till you taste it,” I said, leaning against the counter.

Frank eagerly scooped a spoonful and… immediately yelped, jerking back. “Ow!"

I couldn’t help but laugh, even as he fanned his tongue with his hand. “Told you to wait a second!”

"No you didn't!"

"I did in my head."

"That doesn't count!"

"Hurry up and finish. We have to get ready, Jesus awaits."

"Why is Jesus so important that we have to wake up at 7:30? The man is dead!"

I shook my head, trying not to laugh too loudly. “Because, apparently, he’s still very important. Even when he’s dead.”

Frank scrunched up his nose, slurping slowly.

"Get dressed when you finish, 'kay?"

And after nod half-obscured by a bowl of soup, I grabbed my uniform and went off to change.

Chapter Text

"I'm coming!"

I walked into the bedroom and sat on Gerard's bed while he rummaged through his closet.

"Frank, today they're going to baptize you, do you know what that is?"

"No..? What is it?"

"They're going to douse you in water. Holy water."

"What? Why?"

"It's a religious act. They do it as a way to 'erase' all your sins."

"Why do I need to get my sins erased?"

He glanced back to me before going into his dresser and pulling articles of clothing out.

"Because.. this is like a correctional school. A catholic one. They take 'misguided souls' and 'fix' them. Like me being gay, that's not allowed. They're trying to fix me."

"But you don't need fixing!"

"I know, but they don't. They're against anything that is briefly pronounced as 'sin' in the bible. Fuckin' nutjobs... If Christ told em' to slit their throat open half the population would be gone," He snapped his fingers. "Bam. Just like that."

"But what are they trying to fix in me..?"

Gerard looked up at me before taking a deep breath.

"Y'know Saint Raphael? The guy this schools named after?"

"Yeah. What about him?"

"He's the patron saint of healing, and the preface of this school is to 'heal' or 'fix' lost boys."

"But still! I don't get it! What are they trying to fix in me?"

Gerard sat beside me.

"One of your conditions- or if they're as ambitious as they usually are, both."

"Really? Do you really think they can fix them?" I was beyond excited. Maybe I could learn to eat normal food or think properly like everyone else! Gerard put his hand on my thigh before looking at me with a sad look.

"No.. no Frank I.. I don't think they can. They're just dumb people who think praying to a God they've never even seen is going to heal terminally ill people. I'm sorry."

Oh. Of course they couldn't fix me. I was stupid enough to think they could. I'm always the stupidest in the room, always will be. I just wanted to be normal , but that wasn't possible. Not for me.

"Atleast you told the truth..." I mumbled.

He patted my thigh before standing up and returning to rummaging.

"Hey Frank, why don't you get dressed?"

"Get dressed? Into what..?"

"Your uniform...?"

"What uniform..?" I tilted my head to the side in a mix of confusion and curiosity. What on Earth was he talking about.

"Y'know.. the white shirt and black pants they give you? In clear plastic wrap? The shirt has a pocket on the heart?"

"I didn't get one."

"What? How come? God... not on your first day...they'll.." He trailed off.

"What? What will they do..?"

"Nothing. Don't worry, nobody's doing anything to you." He went over to his closet and made a mess of the stacked clothes to pull out a pair of black slacks and a white button up shirt. He then went to his nightstand and retrieved a rosary. The same kind that nun in the lobby had. He walked over to his desk and pulled his tie off of the chair.

"Here. Put this on."

"The necklace thingy too..?"

"Yeah, the necklace thingy too. Don't take it off. They'll hit you."

"They'll hit me...?"

"Yes, they hit anyone who's not wearing the uniform."

"What!? But why?"

" 'Discipline.'...Or something like that."

"But..—but God wouldn't want violence! Right?"

"Right. But this God is a real psycho. I bet he enjoys it, the masochist."

"Who could enjoy pain!?"

"Crazy people, and this place is full of em'."

He threw over the clothes and rosary to me before looking around in his closet again.

"But wait.. if I wear your uniform... what are you going to wear..?"

"Normal people clothes." He said bluntly.

"But.. won't you get hit..?"

"Not necessarily."

"What? How come? How come they only hit me but not you!? Is it because you're gay?"

He chuckled. "No. No its not because I'm gay. If they try to hit me I'll tell them they forgot to give you a uniform so I let you wear mine as an act of charity. No way they'll hit me on their mistake."

"Are you sure you won't get hit..?"

"Listen, in the rare case that I do, it'll be better than them hitting you. "

"No! I don't want you to get hit! Promise me you won't get hit!"

"I can't promise you, Frankie. I don't know if I will. But it's okay, I've been hit before. It's really not that bad."

"No! No! No I don't want you to get hit!"

"Okay! Okay, okay relax! I promise I won't get hit!"

"Yay!"

"Now go get changed, you idiot."

He called me an idiot, but this time was different. It didn't feel like when everyone else called me dumb or stupid. It felt like he said it with love. It's almost like he could be mad at me and it would be different because its him. He could hit me and it would feel like a kiss.

I walked into the bathroom. Normally I would lock the door, but I trust Gerard. He won't do anything wrong to me, like my mom. They were the only two people I actually trusted. I lifted my t-shirt over my head and pulled on the white button up. I worked the buttons through their holes, one by one before changing into the pants. I grabbed the long black strip of fabric and just stared at it. How does this thing turn into a tie!?

"Gerard..?"

"I told you to just call me Gee!"

"Oh.. sorry! Um Gee.. can you help me?"

"Help you? With what? Don't tell me you don't know how to close buttons or something."

"No I already did that! I just don't know how to tie this.."

"Oh.. 'course you don't.. come here."

I walked up to him and handed him the tie.

"Pop your collar."

I did as he asked and stood still, eyes wide as Gerard tugged the tie snug around my collar, knuckles occasionally grazing my throat. There was a strange kind of feeling in my stomach. The only sounds were the rustle of cotton and Gerard’s quiet breath. He worked quickly, almost too quickly, as if tying a tie was muscle memory, something done a hundred times before. But his hands slowed just before the last loop, tightening the knot with more care than necessary.

“There,” he said softly, smoothing the tie flat against my chest. “Now you look like you belong here.” I didn’t respond—I wasn’t sure how. I never belonged anywhere.. at least that's what everyone always told me. It was always "He doesn't belong in this class!" or "He's not going to fit in."

"Let's go?"

"Yeah."

Chapter Text

I held the door open for Frank as we walked out onto the hallway. Our shoes squeaked and squabbled against the wax.

"I swear to God, I never get used to just how loud this goddamn floor is.."

"It's so pretty though.."

"Yeah until it's about mid-noon and the sun is directly shining at the floor from that window over there. Whole place gets really warm and icky."

Frank didn't respond. He just continued to stare at the floor in an awe-like state.

"We haven't got time to be staring at shiny wood, Frank."

"Why're you always in a time crunch?"

" 'Cause I don't fancy my fingers getting crushed" I retorted.

Frank gave me a glare, and I put my hand on his neck and began walking him through the hallway full of other 'lost souls' or whatever they decided on for this week. There had to be some sort of encyclopedia somewhere that contained all the different names they called us.

A familiar voice called out to me. "Way! Already got your hands on the new roommate?"

"Fuck off, Ronnie.." I muttered.

"I don't think I will, actually! So...did he touch you yet?"

"Frankie, just ignore him, okay?"

"Frankie? Oh this one's gonna be special huh?"

"Gee, what's he talking ab-?"

"Don't worry about him. He's bullshitting."

"You know Gee, you should really stop cursing. I would hate for little 'Frankie' here to see you get reprimanded."

"Ronnie, I swear to God-"

"To God? I thought you were an atheist. Well hey, maybe even rapists can find God when they realize what's coming to them in hell!"

"I'm not a fucking ra-" Gerard clamped his mouth shut, pushing past Ronnie and further into the crowd of students rushing for mass with a tightened jaw. Frank eventually spoke up and asked:

"Gee, what's a rapist?"

"Don't worry about it Frank, just know that I'm not one and I would never ever be one, okay?"

"But then why did he call you that..?"

"Because he's insane. I told you theres lots of crazy people here, didn't I? Don't you trust me?"

Frank looked down then to his right before returning his head back up to look at me.

"Yeah.. yeah I do.."

"Good, then you'll know not to listen to anyone here unless I say so, yeah?

"Okay.."

I gave him a little squeeze on the back of his neck before opening the glass push doors and walking out onto the crisp spring grass. The smell of blossoming flowers sprouting onto the grass filled the air with the cool breeze from the remnants of winter filling into my nose. We walked diagonally across the field to the school church for morning Mass. I hate morning Mass. If I have to put up with everyone's Jesus bullshit I would prefer it to be in the afternoon.

Mass was already half-filled with students, some just walking in and others already settled into pews. The place always seemed to smell like incense that lingered from the previous day. I hate Mass. I hate it so much. Mass was like if uncomfortable was in one room. Someone always coughed at the worst time. The pews were hard, the air smelled like old candles and dusty carpets (and obviously that incense I mentioned earlier) not to mention no one knew what to do with their hands. Half the time I didn’t even know what the priest was saying—just long strings of words about sacrifice, or sin, or something that felt too big for 7 AM. And the silence—that thick, church silence—made every little sound feel like a crime. Your stomach growled? Everyone heard it. You shifted in your seat? The whole row creaked like some sort of a fog horn.

"God, this place sucks.."

"It smells weird."

"It always does.. let's sit over there."

Usually I would plop myself at the very back, but we've already been beat to it so I settled for the sixth row from the front. I waited for Frank to sit before scooting in.

"Mr. Way." I heard someone call. I turned around slowly — it was Father Raymond.

"Yes, Father?"

"You’re not in uniform."

"I—yeah… yeah, I know, but—"

"There are no buts. How can you present yourself in the Lord’s sacred space in such an unruly manner?"

Son of a bitch! It’s not my fault you forgot to give the kid a uniform!

"Frank didn’t receive a uniform when he arrived. I didn’t want him walking into church on the day of his baptism in just regular clothes."

"Mr. Iero could have requested one, could he not?"

"He didn’t know there was a dress code until this morning."

"Very well. While I understand your act of generosity, I still have to discipline you. I took an oath—and in the end, you broke one of the cardinal rules of the school's decorum."

"So, I’m being punished for making sure a kid didn’t feel like trash on his baptism day? Good to know."

"Intentions don’t excuse disobedience, Mr. Way. You may mean well, but you must still follow the order of things."

Defeated, I just slumped back in my seat, hitting my back against the pew harder than I'd imagined I would. Father Raymond walked with an annoyingly confident stride. He took his place at the altar, eyes downcast and hands spread wide over the pedestal. I nudged Frank.

"Hey, have you ever done this before?"

"No.."

"Figured as much.. when he says “In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit.” you gotta make a cross symbol, up then down, left then right. Got it?"

"I think so..?"

"Then when he says “The Lord be with you.” you gotta say "And with your spirit." okay?"

"Theres so much to remember..." he muttered.

"You'll get used to it."

A bell chimed. Just once- sharp and clear. The wooden pews creaked as everyone stood. Father Raymond made the sign of the cross, and began.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

A sea of hands moved — forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder — like synchronized machinery. Frank hesitated. I leaned slightly, and whispered, “Top, bottom, left, right.”

"Thanks." He whispered briefly before doing the action himself, rushed, albeit correct.

“The Lord be with you,” Father Raymond said, voice steady, and practiced. “And with your spirit,” the students replied, not quite in unison.

“Let us acknowledge our sins,” he continued.

The pause that followed was heavy, almost theatrical. Heads bowed. A few kids glanced up through their lashes.

“Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy." A few students muttered the responses. Most didn’t. I didn't either.

“Let us pray."

Frank hadn’t said a word since we sat down. He didn’t squirm, didn’t whisper, didn’t ask what came next like I thought he would. He just sat there—shoulders tight, eyes forward, hands shoved between his knees like he was bracing for something.

I glanced at him. Light from the stained-glass window hit the side of his face, casting this weird patch of deep violet and red across his cheek, like a bruise made of holy colors. He looked tired. His (my) tie was crooked. I should’ve fixed it before we walked in.

Father Raymond’s voice floated from up front, reading something from the Gospel. I wasn’t really listening. Something about the poor in spirit. Something about mercy. It all blurred together after a while.

Frank leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head down a little. Not like he was bored. More like he couldn’t hold himself upright anymore.

The silence was thick. In a way that made you notice your heartbeat.

I leaned toward him, just a little.

“You’re doing fine,” I whispered.

He didn’t look at me. But he nodded.

I figured that was it. He’d nod, I’d leave it alone, and we’d survive the next thirty minutes without anything falling apart.

But after a pause, barely louder than the air between us, Frank whispered back:

“Is it weird if I don’t believe in any of this?”

It hit like a cough in a silent room. I turned to him, not fast, just enough to make sure he was serious. He didn’t look at me. Just kept staring ahead like he was watching something nobody else could see.

“Not weird,” I murmured. “Just dangerous.”

That got him to glance over. One eyebrow twitching up like he wasn’t sure if I was joking. I wasn’t.

Because I knew what Father Raymond would do with that sentence. What this place did to kids who didn’t fit into its shackles. You couldn’t say that here—not out loud. Not if you wanted to keep yourself in one piece.

He leaned back against the pew, eyes flicking up toward the altar. Then he whispered, almost to himself:

“Good. I was a bit scared.”

"For what it's worth...? I don't believe in it either. Haven't for a while."

And then he smiled. Just a little. Like he knew I’d get it.

The air got heavier after that. Not from incense or dust — though there was plenty of both — but from the silence between us. The moment had passed, but it stuck, like gum on the bottom of your shoe you couldn’t scrape off. Father Raymond kept going. Something about wolves. Something about sheep and gates and faith. His voice echoed like a teacher reading off a worksheet — practiced, precise, like he’d already stopped meaning it.

I looked up at the altar. All polished wood and gold plating, and that stupid flickering candle that never went out. The tabernacle sat behind it, glimmering in the warm light. The crucifix hung above everything — that too-skinny Jesus nailed in place like he was supposed to be beautiful in suffering.

It used to scare me, when I was a kid. Now it just looked… tired.

I didn’t bow. I didn’t kneel. I didn’t even pretend to say the responses anymore. I just stood there, hands in front of me like I was holding onto something invisible.

Frank had asked if it was weird not to believe. It wasn’t. What was weird was pretending to.

Father Raymond raised the host. His voice lifted with it.

“This is my body,” he said.

I stared at it. Pale and round and paper-thin, like something that would dissolve if you touched it with wet fingers. People were already lining up, hands folded, eyes half-shut in fake holiness. I stayed where I was.

Frank looked at me.

I didn’t look back.

Frank leaned toward me, real quiet.

“Is that it?” he whispered. “The cracker?”

I didn’t look at him, but my voice came out low, clipped.

“It’s called the host.”

“Looks like a cracker.”

“It is.” I paused. “But don’t call it a cracker. Not here.”

He blinked. “Why?”

I finally turned to him. His face was honest. Not mocking, not smirking. Just curious. Confused.

“Because they think it’s him,” I said. “Not a symbol. Not an idea. Literally him. Body and blood. That’s what they believe.”

Frank glanced back toward the altar, where Father Raymond was lifting the chalice now, muttering Latin that no one understood.

“You’re kidding.”

I shook my head once. “I wish I was.”

He was quiet after that. He didn’t move to join the line. Just stood beside me, watching the ritual like it was happening on another planet.

...

“Do you believe that?”

I didn’t answer.

Mass ended in a slow shuffle of shoes on tile. The second that last hymn died, it was like someone let the air out of the room. Everyone stood, turned, whispered their way back into their real selves — the ones who cursed and shoved and carved names into desks.

Frank looked up at me like he needed permission to breathe.

“You did good,” I said, and nudged his elbow. “Go to the cafeteria.”

“You’re not coming?”

“In a sec. Just gotta…” I trailed off. Didn’t know how to say Father Raymond’s watching me like he wants blood without scaring him.

"I don't know the way.."

"Just follow everyone else."

He hesitated. Of course he did. He always does.

“Gee?”

I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Just gave him a smile I didn’t feel and said, “I’ll be right there.”

He believed me, because of course he did.

The minute the doors clicked shut behind him, I turned. Father Raymond was already waiting in the aisles— hands folded.

“Mr. Way.”

He didn’t say anything else, just turned and started walking. And I followed, because what else was I gonna do? Run?

We ended up in the little corner behind the altar.

“You embarrassed this institution today,” he said, still not looking at me.

I didn’t respond. I knew how this worked.

“You believe your intentions matter more than obedience.”

Still quiet. Still still.

“You dressed him,” he said, finally facing me. “Like a doll. Like a puppet. You broke a rule, and now you want a pat on the head because you meant well.”

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.

“You are not his savior, Mr. Way.”

And then — crack.

I didn’t see his hand coming. Just felt it. Right across the face. Not hard enough to knock me down, but enough to sting, enough to make my eyes water.

I staggered, caught myself on the wall, and sucked in a breath. I didn’t cry out. Just made this awful, dying-animal sort of sound I hated myself for.

“You disobeyed,” he said, calm now, like the violence had soothed him. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

I nodded, swallowing in an attempt not to scream.

He adjusted his cassock like he hadn’t just hit me and walked off.

Just like that.

I stayed there a second, hunched, trying to breathe. I straightened my collar and fixed my face.

Then I walked.

I walked with loathe for this God forsaken school, but I walked.

Back through the hallway, past the lockers and the saint paintings and the hallway that still and always will reek of lemon floor polish. I kept my head up even though my vision was swimming.

The cafeteria was loud.

The kind of loud that you, me, everyone knows. It was the clatter of metal trays, the scrape of benches on linoleum, and the chatter of kids talking like this was all normal.

I spotted Frank immediately.

He was sitting alone at the edge of a long table, hands folded in front of him like he didn’t know what to do with them. His tray was untouched. He was watching the door.

Watching for me.

I forced myself to walk like I wasn’t in pain, both mentally and psychically. I was so fucking tired of this school and everything that came with it. I kept my steps even, my face blank. One foot in front of the other. I had a whole routine for this shit.

When I reached the table, his whole face lit up.

“You said you’d be right there,” he said. “I thought maybe you got lost or—”

“I’m here,” I cut in, too fast. I sat down slowly, biting the inside of my cheek. “No big deal. Got caught by Sister Catherine on the way out. She wanted to talk about… I don’t even know. Nonsense.”

There was no 'Sister Catherine'. She didn't exist.

He didn’t question it. Not out loud. But he was still looking at me weird.

I smiled anyway, and picked up a fork like I gave a shit about food. I didn’t. My mouth still tasted like blood.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Frank poked at the mashed potatoes like they’d personally offended him.

“Okay, but seriously,” he said, glancing up with this sideways look, “when that guy started coughing, he sounded like he was choking on bees.”

I blinked. “What?”

He grinned. “The tall one. In the front row. Looked like he was trying to summon Satan by accident.”

I snorted. Couldn’t help it. But it came out wrong — more like a cough, sharp enough to make my ribs scream. I winced and dropped my fork.

Frank’s smile faded.

“You okay..?”

“Yeah.” I picked the fork back up and forced a shrug. “Just stiff.”

He watched me for a second longer, like he knew something was off but couldn’t name it.

Then, softer, he said, “I was trying to make you laugh.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t.”

I looked at him. Really looked. And that was a mistake, because he looked so hopeful and so young and so proud of himself in that awkward, earnest way that made my chest hurt worse than my face.

“I did,” I said quietly. “You just missed it.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in the way his shoulders slumped a little. But he nodded anyway.

And that? That fucking killed me more than the hit did.

Chapter Text

The classroom smelled weird. (This seemed to be a recurring theme in this place..) Like cleaning stuff and paper and something kind of dust that made the back of my throat itch.

I didn’t know where to sit, but I figured it out. Sort of. There was a desk near the window, and no one was in it, so I just went there. My chair made a loud sound when I pulled it out. I winced. I didn’t mean to make a noise. I sat down fast and hoped no one noticed, even though they probably did.

The nun didn’t say anything to me. I thought she would. Thought maybe she’d tell me where to go or say hello or something. But she just kept writing on the board with a piece of chalk that squeaked every time it got too low. Her writing was kind of messy.

I didn’t know what it said.

I mean, I could read it, but it didn’t make sense. It was something about Scripture. I think... I didn’t know what verse it was. I didn’t know if we were supposed to copy it or memorize it or just… stare at it.

I looked down at my desk and traced a scratch someone had carved into the wood. It looked like a letter. Or maybe a star. I wondered if Gerard had ever sat here. I wished Gerard was in this class. Not because I needed help. I mean, maybe I did, but mostly I just… missed him. He always looked like he knew what was going on, even when he didn’t. I liked that. It made me feel like I could figure things out too, if I just stayed close enough.

I didn’t look at the other kids, but I could feel them looking at me. Not mean exactly. Just… too long. Too quiet.

I wrote down the stuff on the board even though I didn’t understand it.

Sister Williams turned around and clapped her hands once. It was loud. Made a few kids jump. Made me jump too.

“Religious history,” she said, real clear, like the words were heavy. “Not stories. Not fables. Not bedtime nonsense. Truth. Sacred truth. Written down, passed on, and, in this classroom, respected.”

She looked at us all like she was waiting for someone to argue. No one did.

“Today we begin with the apostles,” she said. “Who can name them?”

A few hands went up. I didn’t move. I didn’t even know what an apostle was.

Sister Williams nodded at someone in the second row. A boy rattled off names like it was a song he’d been forced to learn since birth.

“Peter, James, John, Andrew, Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas—”

She held up a hand. “Enough. The rest of you can look it up in your books. Page fourteen. Now.”

Chairs scraped, books opened. I fumbled with mine a little, flipping pages too fast at first, then too slow. I finally got to page fourteen and stared at it. There was a picture of them. The apostles. I didn’t know if I was supposed to feel sorry for them or scared of them, so I just sat still and tried not to make eye contact with the ink.

Sister Williams started walking. Not up front. Around. Her shoes clicked against the floor like a clock ticking way too close. She passed by each row, looking down at pages, looking at hands, looking at faces like she could see what we were thinking.

She got closer, and I kept my eyes on the book. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe right. I could feel her stop behind me.

“Mr. Iero,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

I flinched. Just a little.

“Yes, Sister?”

“Why were the apostles chosen?”

I stared down at the page, but it meant nothing to me. I didn’t even know who the apostles were, let alone that they were chosen for something. I didn’t know what the right answer sounded like.

“I… I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry..”

The room went quiet. Not a mean kind of quiet. Just that weird stillness when everyone’s waiting to see what’ll happen next.

Sister Williams didn’t move. “You may not know yet. But you will.”

Then, softer, almost like a warning: “Pay attention.”

She walked on like nothing happened.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and sank a little lower in my seat. My hands were shaking a bit, but I tucked them under the desk and hoped nobody saw.

Someone laughed. Not loud. Just enough to make it feel like it was about me, even if it wasn’t. I kept staring at the page. None of the words were words anymore.

“Hey,” someone hissed.

I ignored it.

“Hey. Frank, is it?”

I turned my head a little. It was the guy who talked to me earlier. His dark hair was messy, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times, with a few stubborn strands falling over his forehead.

Ronnie.

He didn’t wait for me to say anything. Just leaned over a bit, like we were friends or something.

“You rooming with Way?”

I blinked. “Uh. Yeah.”

He nodded like that confirmed some theory. “Tough luck.”

I didn’t know what that meant, so I didn’t say anything. Just sort of blinked at him. Loudly.

He smirked.

“People don’t usually last long with him,” he said. “Not once they figure shit out.”

My stomach did a weird little turn, but I pretended it didn’t.

“What kind of stuff..?”

Ronnie shrugged. “You’ll see. Or you won’t. Depends how close you let him get.”

Then he leaned back like that was the end of it. Like he’d just done me a favor.

I turned back to my book, but all I could think about was Gerard’s voice last night:

“You’ll find out sooner or later.”

The bell rang and I got out of my seat fast, like maybe if I moved quick enough, I’d leave the weird feeling behind too.

The hallway was bright in a way the classroom wasn’t. Everything felt a little louder, like everyone else already knew where they were going and how they were supposed to move. I just followed the flow and tried not to bump into anybody.

Then I saw him.

Gerard was standing by the wall, arms crossed, head tilted down like he was watching the floor think. His hair was in his face again, and he didn’t move until I got close.

He looked up. Just for a second.

“You survived,” he said.

I nodded. “I think so.”

He pushed off the wall and walked next to me, like we’d done this before. We hadn’t. But it felt easy.

We didn’t talk for a little bit. I just listened to the sound of our shoes on the tile. It echoed a little in the hall, like footsteps in a dream.

“She call on you?” Gerard asked, finally.

“Yeah.”

“How bad?”

I thought about it. “Not the worst. But I kinda felt like my brain melted.”

He huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “She always goes for the new ones. Keeps the blood fresh.”

He smiled a little at his own joke. Not a big one, but it was there.

But then I remembered what Ronnie said. The words came back too clear. "You’ll see. Or you won’t." Like a shadow following behind us.

I glanced sideways at Gerard. He was looking straight ahead. No expression. Just walking.

I cleared my throat. “That Ronnie guy. What’s his deal?”

That got a flicker. Barely. Gerard’s eyes shifted my way, then back forward.

“He talk to you?”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. “Ignore him.”

“Okay, but—”

“He talks. That’s all he does.”

It was quiet for a while before he spoke up again.

"Listen, you need to trust me on this. Ronnie wouldn't know what to do if it was written on a big neon sign."

"Okay.. I trust you..."

He gave a quick smile. Too quick. Like he was doing it to shut me up. I knew what it looked like because my mom used to flash me one whenever I asked her about my condition.

The next class smelled like old papers, probably from the huge bookshelf at the back of the room. You could see the pages of the books were yellow from time discoloration. People shuffled into their chairs, claiming their places next to their friends. Gerard took my hand and led me to a seat at the back by the corner, taking the seat beside me. The classroom was full of chatter. The kind of noise that was present when everyone was trying to talk as much as they could before the teacher started the class. I glanced at Gerard. He wasn't talking- or even doing anything to busy himself. He was just staring at the teacher writing on the chalkboard. I thought 'Maybe he was just zoned out.' but his eyes followed her every move.

I nudged him. "Gee?"

"Hm." He said briefly. He didn't look away from the board.

"Why are you staring at the teacher..?"

"Her handwriting is pretty." He said simply. He said it like I asked if the sky was blue.

I decided to just leave him be. After a while of having nothing to do with my hands and just staring out the window, the teacher finally turned around and clapped her hands.

"Everyone, good morning!" The class didn't really care for the teachers theatrics, continuing to chatter amongst themselves. "Alright guys I've clapped my hands, that means you stop talking. I know it, you know it so let's do it before I have to reprimand you. Now, even though he sat at the back, it's still obvious we have a new student. Your name?"

"Me..?"

"Who else?" She looked left and right, her black ponytail swinging along with her head.

"Uh.. my name is Frank.." She gave me a look like she was expecting more. "Frank Iero."

"Very well Frank. We have a tradition in my class, new students get to pick a book from the back and read a paragraph of their choice at the front."

"Do I have to..?"

She sighed. "Yes. Yes you do. Why do I always get that question? It can't be that bad to read a couple lines can it..? Whatever—go and grab a book."

I stood up slowly, trying my best to prolong the inevitable.

"Pick a poem book! It's shorter and easier!" Gerard whisper-shouted to me. I couldn't help but smile because he knew exactly how hesitant I was and why. I wondered what it was like for Gerard when he was a new student. I looked at the thin books near the end of the shelf. One had a little drawing of a kid hanging off the edge of something. I pulled it out.

'Where the Sidewalk Ends.'

He was hanging off a sidewalk.

I walked up to the front of the class and flipped a page open. My eyes darted to Gerard- he wasn't looking. He was doing something in his notebook. I frowned, but I also wanted to get this over with, so I read the first poem I saw.

“Listen to the mustn’ts, child,
Listen to the don’ts
Listen to the shouldn’ts, the impossibles, the won’ts
Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me—
Anything can happen, child,
Anything can be.”

My voice cracked on the last line, but no one laughed. I sat down before the heat in my face could explode. Gerard gave me the tiniest thumbs-up under the desk, and that made me feel just a little seen because I thought he didn't care.

"Why weren't you looking?"

"I don't need to look to hear you read."

"Yeah but I was scared.. it would've been nice to have your eyes on me.."

"Why?"

"They make me feel safe."

He gave me a side glance but I saw his mouth turn into the slightest smile.

The class was boring. Why did I need to learn about the meaning of colours in writing?

The teacher kept going, saying something about how colors in stories meant things. Like how a red apple wasn’t always just a red apple, but sometimes it was sin, or shame, or wanting too much.

That made me think of the picture in the religion book again. The group of people with 'the chosen ones' printed out below it. Across the desk, Gerard had his notebook open. But he wasn’t writing notes. He was drawing. I peeked.

There was a skull in the corner of the page, but not a scary one. It had flowers growing out of the eye sockets. I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be sad or pretty. Maybe both. Gerard caught me looking and tilted the page so I could see it better.

Then he whispered, “Bored already?”

"Yeah.."

"You wanna draw?"

"I don't have a notebook.."

He tore a page from his notebook and handed it to me. I couldn't do anything with it.

"You don't have a pen either?"

"No.."

"He reached into the side pocket of his backpack and handed me a black ballpoint pen.

"Thanks."

I wanted to doodle like Gerard did. I wanted to make something too. I started drawing a sheep. I liked sheep. They were all fluffy and cozy.

"Is that Joy..?"

I looked back at my drawing. Yeah. It wasn't at first, but now I wanted it to be.

"I think so."

"You think so..?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's Joy."

I drew a wolf beside the sheep, with long teeth and big eyes. It looked like a caricature, but I didn’t mean it to be funny. I always thought a sheep and a wolf could be friends. It just depends on the wolf.

"What's that now? A dog? Why're his teeth so huge?"

"It's a wolf. I made them big because it shows how they're seen by everyone even if they can be nice."

"You think a wolf can be nice?"

"A sheep and a wolf can both be friends if they like eachother. Not everyone is mean, so not every wolf is mean."

"You ever heard of Little Red Riding hood? Or The Wolf and the Seven Young Goats?"

"Those wolves wanted to be mean."

"Huh..." He said in acknowledgement.

"Okay everyone, that's time. Your homework is to write a short story where the colors mean more than just colors. Must be submitted tomorrow, no excuses."

Students trickled out of the classroom saying "Goodbye Miss Lee." Or just "Bye" alone. When we were at the door, Gerard addressed her by her first name.

"Bye, Amy." He said with a smile.

"Bye, Gee." She smiled back.

Were they friends? I tugged on his sleeve when he shut the door behind him.

"Gee are you friends with Miss Lee?"

"Sort of. She likes my drawings. I er.. drew her once," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "and she liked it so much she told me we were on a first-name basis."

"Is she one of the nicer teachers?"

"Definitely."

"Can I trust her?"

"Definitely."

We'd had biology somewhere along the way, with dissecting frogs in a room that smelled like formaldehyde. I wouldn't allow myself to hurt a frag, even if they were dead. Even if they were gross and ugly and their diet mainly consisted of other gross and ugly insects, so Gerard did most of the work while I queased and groaned.

“You really never wanna be a surgeon, huh?” he said finally, glancing over at me.

I made a face. “Not unless the patient is made of Legos.”

He snorted. “You’d still freak out if the head popped off.”

“Only if it made that frog sound.”

He laughed.

We turned the corner toward our next class. I didn’t even ask what it was. I just followed him.

“Hey,” I said after a beat. “Thanks. For… all that. For not making me do it.”

Gerard looked at me for a second, then nodded like it wasn’t a big deal. Like anyone would’ve done that.

But I didn’t think just anyone would’ve. Maybe not 2 days into meeting anyway, but then again? There were a list of things Gerard had taken up on doing since last night.

We walked into the religion room. It was so quiet it felt like the walls were listening. It smelled like old paper and candles—not like the frog smell from before.

"What's the difference between religious history and religion...?" I muttered.

"Religious history talks about the backstory. How it came to. Religion makes us read and analyze the bible and other such things."

I nodded even though I didn't understand the need to read the Bible, and then ready about the Bible.

There was a big cross on the wall and I couldn't help but notice every class seems to have a Bible and a weird wooden cross hung somewhere. I sat down next to Gerard.

Sister Williams looked right at me. “Mr. Iero, would you read for us?”

Hadn't I read enough today?

My heart beat fast. I looked at Gerard. He just smiled a little.

I opened the Bible and saw words about sheep. I like sheep. Sheep are safe.

I started to read, my voice small and shaky.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

I kept reading, even though I wanted to hide under the desk.

When I finished, Sister Williams nodded. My cheeks felt hot, like I’d been outside in the sun too long.

Gerard leaned close and whispered, “You did good.”

I didn’t say anything back.

Sister Williams started talking about the psalm and what it meant. Something about trusting God even when things are scary. About how sheep follow their shepherd because they know he’ll keep them safe.

I looked down at the picture in the Bible. It had a man holding a lamb. The lamb looked sleepy, like it wasn’t scared at all.

I wondered what that would feel like — not being scared. Just being held like that.

Next to me, Gerard was taking notes. His handwriting was all messy and fast, but he looked like he understood everything. I wanted to ask him later. Maybe if he explained it, it’d make more sense.

I leaned a little closer, just to be near him.

Sister Williams walked past our row again, real slow, like she could tell if we were paying attention without even looking. I sat up straighter, just in case. I didn’t want to get in trouble. Not this soon, anyway.

She kept walking.

I let out a tiny breath and tapped my fingers against the Bible cover.

The words I read still floated in my head.

"The Lord is my shepherd…"

I wasn’t sure what that really meant.

But I hoped maybe someone would want to keep me safe like that, too.

Sister Williams wrote something on the board in neat, slanted letters.

“Today,” she said, “we’re going to talk about what it means to be led.”

The marker made squeaky sounds, and I didn’t like it. It reminded me of balloons rubbing together. I scrunched up my shoulders and stared at the cross above the board instead.

Led. Like how sheep follow their shepherd. Like how I followed Gerard into this classroom without even thinking about it.

Sister Williams turned around and looked at all of us. “Sometimes, people are asked to follow. Sometimes, they are the ones who lead. Who do you think you are?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. I didn’t even know if I was supposed to answer out loud.

She kept talking, but her voice started to sound fuzzy. I tried to keep up, but my thoughts felt floaty. Like feathers getting blown around in my head.

I looked over at Gerard.

He was still writing, his brow all scrunched up like he was concentrating real hard. I liked the way his lips moved a little when he read the words in his head. I liked the way he kept his elbow close to mine, even though the table was wide and he didn’t have to.Sister Williams kept talking.I looked up from his elbow and watched the front of the classroom again. I didn’t want to miss anything important.

Gerard nudged my knee under the table.

I looked at him, and he tilted his head toward my notebook. I’d forgotten it was even there.

“Write something,” he mouthed.

I blinked at the blank page. I didn’t know what to write. But I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t trying, so I picked up my pencil and wrote the first thing that popped into my head:

“I would be the sheep. I think.”

I didn’t show it to him. But I felt better having it there.

The bell rang, and it startled me a little. Chairs scraped, books closed, and people started talking again, like someone turned the volume back on.

Gerard didn’t rush. He closed his notebook and slid it into his bag, then looked at me. “You okay?”

I nodded, even though my chest still felt kind of buzzy.

He glanced down at my notebook. “What’d you write?”

I hesitated. Then I turned it just enough so he could see.

"I would be the sheep. I think."

Gerard’s eyes softened. He smiled a little, but not the teasing kind. Like he knew he was the shepherd.

“Yeah,” he said, like it made perfect sense.

We stood up together. His shoulder brushed mine as we started toward the door.

Chapter Text

Everyone got baptized here. That was the rule.

First evening on campus, before curfew. Didn’t matter if you’d already had one back home. Sister Williams called it renewal. Father Raymond called it necessary.

I never asked why. No one asked anything here, honestly.

Frank hadn’t mentioned it yet, but I knew they’d be expecting him. Everyone was. It was just one of those things this place did — like prayers before food.

School had finished about an hour ago, and we'd just emerged from the chapel after Mass. (Yes, again.) The patchy grass crunched under our shoes as we walked back through the field to the school once more.

"Y'know.. you have to do the baptism this evening."

He blinked. “Why?”

"It’s the rule. Everyone has to. You don’t get to stay if you don’t.”

His face pinched, like the thought of not staying stung. “Is it gonna hurt?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Just water. That’s all. It’s not scary." That seemed to settle him a bit. Following lunch we had to go back to the church for a few more prayers and other things they tried to rot our brains with. I never understood why they didn't just make us do everything in the church at once, but then again I didn't understand anything this school had to offer anyway. I held open the cafeteria doors for Frank.

Frank hovered near the doorway like he was waiting for a sign to go in. He never seemed to do anything without my approval first, like a sheep. And that makes me a shepherd.

I think I would be a shepherd.

"Oh look. They're serving soup."

His face lit up and it made my heart burn. He was so happy over the smallest things. "Really? What kind?"

"Theeeeres..," I looked around the cafeteria. People were only carrying two different soups. "Tomato and..Cream of Mushroom? I'm not sure... It's safer to pick the tomato.."

"Okay then."

"Go on. Sit at a table."

"Can't I stay with you?"

"You wanna wait this long ass line with me?" He nodded. " 'Kay then..." After what felt like eons, it was finally our turn.

The nun didn't look up as she spoke. "Tomato or rice?"

I nudged Frank. "Uh..tomato, thanks."

The nun reached for crackers to put on his tray.

"Actually—he can't eat solids."

She raised a brow but didn't question it.

"Will you be having any yourself?"

I hesitated. On one hand, I wanted crackers, on the other, I didn't want Frank to feel left out. Ultimately, I decided Frank's feelings are more important than a few measly biscuits. (Though now that I look back on it? He probably wouldn't have noticed.)

"Er—no... No I'll pass, thanks."

I took my tray and started on my way for a seat. Frank followed carefully balancing the tray like it could tip over at any second.

"You know, if you put the pad of your thumbs on the top of the bowl from either side it won't feel so wobbly."

He copied the position of my fingers with his own.

We found a table in the back corner, away from the noise and echo. Frank sat down across from me.

"Hey...you won't throw up if you have this soup, right..?"

"I don't think so. It doesn't really matter where the soup is from as long as it's liquid."

I nodded in acknowledgement. "Kay..still though, take a small sip at first."

He raised up the spoon to his face, blowing a little on it before taking it into his mouth. I waited for him to swallow and let it sit.

"You good?"

"Yeah. Tastes like the one I had in the morning."

"Mm. Makes sense." I said, stomaching a mouthful of my own soup as best as I could. Disgusting, by the way.

He didn't respond. Just started spooning away at his soup, so I did the same.

We had been slurping our soup in a rather peaceful silence (not including the noise of the cafeteria) when the familiar clack of heels inches closer.Sister Williams appeared beside our table, hands folded neatly in front of her, expression calm but expectant.

“Mr. Iero,” she said, her voice polite but not gentle. “It’s time. Please come with me to the church.”

Frank’s spoon paused mid-air. Then, slowly, he set it back into the bowl and wiped his mouth with the edge of his sleeve before remembering the napkin. He looked at me.

I frowned.

“You’ll be there, right?”

“I told you I would,” I said. “You’ll see me the second you walk in.”

He nodded once, then slid out of his seat and stood beside her. His hands were fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, but he didn’t say anything else.

Sister Williams turned without another word, and he followed.

I watched them go, and even though he was the one getting baptized, I was the one praying.

Praying for what? They wouldn't pull something stupid like kicking him in the shin for that soup stain.

Chapter Text

The church looked different at night. Everything was quiet, even the floor. Except my shoes—they squeaked every time I took a step, which felt kinda rude.

Sister Williams walked in front of me with her hands all folded neat. She didn’t talk, so I didn’t either. I just looked around and tried to keep my heart from bumping out of my chest.

Then I saw him.

Gerard was already sitting in the front pew, turned sideways like he’d been waiting. Sister Williams stopped by this big stone bowl on a stand. The water inside shimmered a little. I wondered if it was regular water or special holy water—maybe both.

She turned to me. “Come stand here.”

I did.

“You’re here to begin again. To be made new in His name.”

That sounded big. I didn’t really know what she meant, but I nodded. My hands were clenched inside my sleeves. I didn’t want them to shake.

She dipped her fingers in the water. “Frank Anthony Iero,” she said, and my name echoed through the whole place, “do you accept the light of the Lord?”

I looked at Gerard.

He nodded, slow.

“…Yes,” I said. Quiet. My voice felt stuck in my throat, but I said it anyway.

She touched my forehead. The water was cold and ran down the side of my face.

“I baptize you in the name of the Father,” she said, and put more water on my head, “the Son,” and again, “and the Holy Spirit.”

It dripped down my neck and under my collar and made me shiver a little, but I didn’t move. I just stood there and let it happen. I hoped God didn’t mind that I didn’t feel holy yet. I just felt wet.

“You may sit.”

I stepped down and walked to the pew. Gerard scooted over and I sat beside him, wiping my cheek with my sleeve.

“You did good,” he whispered.

I didn’t say anything back. I was too busy thinking about when I'd get to be dry again.

Gerard didn’t try to talk again after that. He just sat next to me, real quiet.

There were other boys sitting too. Some were whispering. Some looked bored. Sister Williams had gone back to the altar. She was talking again, saying things about light and salvation and the Lord’s mercy. Her voice sounded softer now, like bedtime stories do, even though I didn’t really get what most of the words meant. I kept thinking about the water. It was still on my skin. Cold. I felt uncomfortable.

What was the point of erasing my sins? I don't think I even have any sins, not that I know what exactly a sin is.

As if on cue, Sister Williams turned around and looked at all of us. She didn’t smile.

“There are things,” she said, “that pull us away from God. Temptations. Lies. Cruelty. Pride.”

“These are sins,” she went on. “They stain the soul. They drag the spirit down like stones in water.”

I pictured myself underwater, with rocks in my belly. Like that wolf from The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids. I blinked fast and rubbed my palms on my knees.

“They can feel small,” she said, “a whisper, a thought, a look. But sin grows. It spreads like rot if you let it.”

I didn’t know what rot looked like, but I knew what it smelled like. The garbage my father never took out. That thick, gross smell that stuck to your nose even when you ran past it.

She walked a little closer to us. Her shoes echoed across the floor like they were counting.

“We must choose,” she said. “Every day. We must choose the Lord over ourselves. We must kill the wolves that live inside us.”

I felt my eyes go wide at that part. I didn’t think I had a wolf inside me. I liked wolves. I draw them. With little skill, sure—but I didn’t want to kill one.

Beside me, Gerard didn’t move. He was staring straight ahead like he’d heard all this before, like he was used to it. His mouth was set in a straight line. A bored one.

Sister Williams raised a hand like she was pointing at the ceiling. “Those who hide their sins will be exposed. There is no secret in the dark that the light cannot see.”

“Repent,” she said. “Confess. Obey. That is the only way to be clean.”

she concluded.

I wasn’t sure if I had anything to repent for, and I didn't really feel like making an effort to do so considering I don't believe, or atleast think I don't believe. I wanted to talk to Gerard about it later.

As we walked out of the church I noticed Gerard hadn't said anything. Even though he could, he didn't. I leaned forward and peered at him, trying to take a good look at his face. I thought maybe that would help me figure out what he was thinking. I was wrong. Reading people is hard.

"What?" He asked.

"You're not talking."

"Just preoccupied."

"With what?"

He stopped in his tracks and grabbed my hand to stop me from walking as well. He pulled me alongside him, real close and whispered.

"Don't you think it's stupid? That you got baptized in there just now, but in the morning you were telling me how you don't believe in any of the words in the bible?"

"I thought about that too. But what else can I do? I don't want to leave."

"Yeah, yeah I know but.. it's just ironic is all."

He didn't say anything after that. We just walked back to our dorm and got changed. When I stepped out of the bathroom he was sitting on his bed with a sketchbook in hand.

"Whatcha doodling?"

"C'mere."

He put the book down and parted the spot beside him. Without hesitation I curled up into his bed, pulling his blanket around me.

"I wanna tell you a story."

"A story?" I loved stories. I used to make my mom read them to me every night before bed, though eventually we ran out and she had to make up her own. I wanted to ask Gerard to do the same but that sounded to be a burden. He was already making me soup three times a day, afterall.

"Yeah. You wanna hear it?"

I nodded and made myself comfortable.

“So there was this little lamb,” Gerard began, “who got really curious one day. He wandered away from the field because he saw butterflies and thought maybe they were angels in disguise.”

My eyes widened. “Were they?”

“Maybe,” Gerard smiled. “But while he was chasing them, he didn’t realize the sky was getting darker, and a wolf was following him. The wolf wasn’t bad—just hungry. He didn’t know how else to live.”

I hugged my knees. “What happened to the lamb?”

“The shepherd found him,” Gerard said. “Just in time. He didn’t yell at him. He picked him up and carried him back. The wolf followed. Not because he was planning another attack—but because the shepherd left the gate open for him too.”

“For the wolf?”

“Yeah. Just in case the wolf wanted to be good.”

Gerard kinda just looked at me, like he was expecting me to say something. So I did.

"Can you tell me another story? Please?"

Gerard didn’t even think about it. He just shifted on the mattress, pulling the blanket higher over my shoulders.

“Yeah. Alright.”

He thought for a second, then started softly:

“There was this turtle, right? He was really small. Like, smaller than a sandwich. And he lived by this big river that moved way too fast for him. All the other animals made fun of him ‘cause he was slow and scared to swim.”

“Did he ever swim?”

“Not at first,” Gerard said. “He stayed on the rocks and watched everyone else. He wanted to, but… the water was loud. And fast. And deep.”

I nodded solemnly. “That’s scary.”

“Yeah. But one day this big bird flew down. A heron. And the heron didn’t laugh at him. He said, ‘You don’t have to jump in yet. But when you’re ready, I’ll fly over the river with you. I’ll make sure nothing bad happens.’”

“Did he really?”

“He did,” Gerard said. “He flew low and slow, so the turtle could watch and learn. And when the turtle finally slid into the water, the heron stayed close. And even when the river tried to pull him under, the heron lifted him out.”

“One more. I’ll go to sleep after, I promise.”

Gerard chuckled under his breath. “You’re pushing it."

"Buut—"

"Frank you can barely keep your eyes open."

"Please?"

"Okay, fine. Once upon a time there was a boy named Frank and he slept happily ever after."

"Gee!"

"Sleep."

"I—"

"Just sleep!"

Chapter Text

I was sure Frank was just pouting under the blanket after he had pulled it up over his head. I considered tugging it down, but I reached for my sketchbook instead. A couple minutes later though, curiousity killed the cat. I tugged the blanket down from his face to find Frank sound asleep on my bed, like he did have a perfectly functioning one. I couldn't help the smile that grew on my face as I leaned over and turned off the lamp. He looked so peaceful in his sleep, almost like he didn't go through much more than he deserved. The longer I looked, the longer I thought about it, and the longer I thought about it, the more I hated the world and 'God' because why put Frank through this bullshit?Why Frank? Why anyone? He was already cursed with an eating disorder and now he was stuck in the brain of a child condemned to never age mentally again.

"Fuck you, God." I muttered under my breath.

I pulled my pillow down and settled next to Frank. I was freezing and knew I was going to be uncomfortable and cold the whole night but I was not going to take the blanket from Frank. I felt like he deserved it. I felt like I owed it to him.

Before I could stop myself, I found myself saying "Goodnight, Frank." even though I knew I wouldn't get a response. A part of me didn't care, it felt right. Something else that felt right was sliding my hand up to rest on his waist, and that's exactly what I did.

That's all it was, but then I tugged him closer, so his back was flush with my chest. Then I made my face comfortable in the tangle of hairs behind his neck. Then I laid a kiss, and then, only then, I fell asleep.

Chapter Text

The sun made weird shapes on the ceiling. I watched them move, all golden and wiggly like jellyfish. It was warm, but not because of the blanket around me. I blinked slow, trying not to wake up too fast.

Then I felt it.

A hand. Still on me. Right at my waist.

I turned my head a little and there he was—Gerard, asleep and squished up beside me like he didn’t even move in the night. His face looked softer when he wasn’t talking. His eyebrows didn’t do the worried thing and his lips weren’t pressed tight. He looked like a drawing. Like a nice one. One of his.

I smiled into the pillow.

I didn’t want to move. Not yet.

But then his eyes fluttered open, and for a second, he just stared like he forgot where he was.

Then he smiled too.

“Morning,” he said, voice scratchy like a tape that’s been played too much.

“Morning,” I whispered back.

He didn’t take his hand away, and I didn’t ask him to.

"What time is it?"

"6:30"

"I'm guessing you want your soup?"

"Yes please."

"Alright...but eat quick yeah? We gotta pick up your uniform and wash that soup stain off of my blouse."

"M'kay..."

I didn't know why Gerard made it a habit to tell me to eat quick. Soup didn't really take long to finish, even if you tried. Besides— if you left it too long, it'd get cold, and no one wants that.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The blanket slid off my shoulders, and Gerard sat up properly too, pushing his hair back. It stuck up like a crow’s nest. Bedhead. I liked it.

"Get up then, wasting valuable time here, Frank."

I shot up out of bed.

"Go wash your face, I'll be in the kitchen."

I ran off to the bathroom, opening the door with more force than necessary. I walked over to the sink and turned on the tap. I flinched at the cold water. It took a while for it to adjust to warm, but when it did I wasted no time splashing said water all over my face and drying myself off with a towel. Gerard said I needed to hurry, so I was going to hurry. (Even if I was splashing water all over my shirt collar, the sink and probably the mirror too.) I looked in the mirror for a second before I left. My hair was all over the place and my cheeks were a little red from the towel. When I got back to the kitchen, Gerard was already by the stove, pouring soup into a little mug. I noticed the shirt from yesterday—the soup-stained one—crumpled up in the sink.

“You washed it already?” I asked, stepping over the weird squeaky tile in the floor.

“Put it in to soak,” he said, not turning around. “I’ll scrub it later. Just don’t wipe your mouth on a sleeve next time, specially not mine. Napkins exist.”

"Kinda forgot it was yours.”

"Yeah cause you own a white button up t-shirt."

"I will soon."

He turned then, holding out the mug with both hands. I took it gently. It was warm, rather than hot like I was expecting.

“Thanks,” I said, looking up at him.

"Yeah."

I sat at the little table and held the mug close to my chest. I liked soup in mugs now. I blew on the surface before I took the first sip. Tomato again. Tangy and perfect.

Gerard was now scrubbing the stain off the sleeve of his shirt. I watched him like he was a television. When I finished, a I set the mug on the counter beside the sink.

"Go brush your teeth."

By the time I came out of the bathroom, he was already dressed. Kinda. His shirt was half buttoned and his hair still looked like he wrestled with a pillow. He was fixing his collar in the mirror when he saw me.

“Ready?”

I nodded. He looked me up and down and then down again at the clothes I was still wearing from yesterday. My shirt had soup stains and I think maybe a little toothpaste too.

“You look like a raccoon.” he said.

“I haven't got a uniform yet, remember?”

“Yeah, well come on then.”

We walked down a quiet hallway that seemed more upkept than the rest of the building. I stayed close to Gerard because I didn’t really know where we were going, and also because all of the sudden the floors were marble instead of wood and it made me feel like we were going somewhere more important.

Gerard opened a door with a metal number nailed to it and held it open for me. The room had big shelves with folded clothes stacked neatly and baskets full of socks and shoes and belts. There was a lady behind a desk, wearing a beige cardigan and glasses on a little chain.

She looked up at us over the top of her glasses.

“New student?” she asked.

Gerard nodded. “Frank Iero.”

The lady hummed and flipped through a folder. “Ah. One uniform set. Size small.”

I stood still while she pulled things out of drawers and cubbies — black slacks, a white button up t-shirt, a grey sweater, and one of those stiff ties that looked like something grown-ups wore on TV. Gerard took the pile for me.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’ll need to return the tie at the end of the semester,” the lady added, already turning back to her papers.

"I'm aware."

Outside in the hallway again, Gerard looked down at the sweater.

“Wanna try it on here or back in the room?”

“Here,” I said, reaching for it.

He crouched down a little to help me pull it over my head. It was scratchy and smelled like a closet, but it fit. Kinda.

“Not bad,” he said, smoothing the sleeves down. "A little big, but you'll grow into it. Hopefully..."

Chapter Text

I led Frank back through the hallway where people were already headed for Mass. We were definitely not going to get a seat at the back today. I unlocked the door and shooed him inside.

"Quickly! We gotta go Frank!"

He ran on his little feet to the bathroom and shut the door. He didn't lock it- but he closed it. I wondered if he even knew how to work the lock. The sound that followed was the rustle of clothes hitting the ground.

Frank stepped out with what looked like a black failed noose around his neck. I couldn't help but laugh a little.

"You should've just asked me.." I said already walking up to him and undoing his monstrosity of a tie.

"I wanted to try myself."

"I could teach you."

"You do a lot for me already."

I stopped my actions and looked up at him. "Frank, I do all this for you because I want to. I don't do things that I don't want to do."

"What about church."

I inhaled deeply. "That's different." "How so?" "I'm forced to go to church, much like you and everyone else here. Nothing is forcing me to help you. I'm doing it because I...I guess I love you. I love you and I want to help you."

"You love me? Like the way you love the other gay boys? But I'm not gay.."

"No. Frank, I love you as my friend. You're my friend and I love you. Does that make sense?"

"I think so.."

I smiled faintly before continuing to work on the tie.

"Alright, let's go."

I stuck my hand out for him to take and picked up our bags with the other. I slung my bag over my shoulder and carried Frank's for him.

"Does the crack-... the "host" taste good?"

"It tastes like bread."

"I wanna try it."

"What about your condition?"

"Oh."

I tightened my grip on his hand.

"I have a question.."

"Yeah?"

"If.. you dip a bread in soup, make it all mushy and soft, can you eat it?"

He looked up at me. "Uh... No idea. Never tried it."

"Do you wanna try after school?"

"Can we?"

"Why wouldn't we?"

"You're the best person I've ever met since like—my mom."

"It's nothing, seriously. I'm just doing what a decent person would do."

"But not everyone is decent."

"Yeah. You're right...but I am."

Mass was terrible, but what's new? Frank had to watch all those people eat the Jesus crackers, and I couldn't help but feel bad. Even if it tasted like stale bread.

"Why are we going to the cafeteria?"

"I haven't eaten yet, y'know"

"Oh."

"Yeah 'oh' you little selfish snob."

He didn't respond.

"You know I didn't mean that right? Just a little joke."

"Aren't jokes meant to make you laugh?"

"Not all of them. There are different kinds."

"What kinds?"

"Well, this one was sarcasm."

"What's sarcasm?"

"I was getting there, now shut up and listen."

"So, sometimes people say mean things, right?"

He nodded. Maybe it's cause I told him to shut up.

"Most of the time people mean the mean things they say, and sometimes they don't."

"Then why do they say it?"

"Because it's a little teasing joke. Look," I held my hand in front of his stomach to stop him from walking. "Say something mean to me, but jokingly."

"No, I don't want to!"

"Hey, it's not going to hurt me, it's going to be funny."

"Doesn't sound funny."

"It is."

"Well how come it wasn't funny for me when you did it?"

"Because you didn't get it back then."

"Okay..ummmm"

"You're annoying."

"Uh...not quite blunt like that. Well you could do it like that but, I mean make it joke-like, you know?"

He thought for a moment before speaking. "You're a know-it-all."

I chuckled a little. He could do better, but then again he couldn't. It was Frank afterall. "Am I now?"

"Yeah! You're an annoying know-it-all!"

"There you go, now you're smilin'! See?

"But I didn't meant it. You're not a know-it-all, you're just smart."

"Yeah cause like. You always know what to do, y'know? You're like the normal balance between us."

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think people who are ‘normal’ are just good at pretending.”

He glanced up at me, confused. “You pretend?”

“Sometimes. When I have to.”

“…Do I?”

“Nah. That’s what makes you brave.”

"But we both pretend to believe."

"Yeah. We do."

Frank frowned like he expected that to be the wrong answer. Like I was supposed to deny it.

"And that’s okay," I added.

"Doesn't feel okay."

"You'll get used to it."

He didn’t answer, but he leaned into me a little as we walked.

Frank’s sleeve had slipped up his arm, and I reached over to tug it down for him. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and he just liked it when I did things like that.

We passed through the cafeteria doors. He glanced at them, then back at me.

“Will God be mad at me?” he asked, voice low like it was a secret.

“For what?”

“For not eating the bread. For not being… like them.”

"He can't."

"Why not?"

"Because he made you like this. It's his fault."

"You think so?"

"You know what I think? I think if God is dumb enough to be mad at you for something of His doing, He's not worth believing in."

“But… we still have to go to church,” he said quietly. “Even if we don’t believe.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “We do.”

I sat staring at the seat beside me. I wish Frank were here, but instead I was listening to Pete spew his nonsensical theories back to back to motherfucking back. I hate Pete Wentz. I hate him because he was my little brother's best friend before he was sent here and apparently that makes us friends too. I don't bother myself with the supernatural, but him? He's basically just insane at this point. A gust of wind moves a few leaves on the sidewalk? Oh yeah, that's a demon from the fourth level of hell.

"I also had another theory about why they let us out during autumn only! It's clearly to ward off the really powerful demons before Halloween! Think of it like them sending an army to warn the demons! Kinda like reminding them who's boss."

"And just why would we need to remind them of that?"

"Because, they would have taken over the world by now if they didn't. They need to tell them not to do anything reckless so they send up all of us with all the powers they put into us with the daily prayers."

I let out an exasperated sigh. How was Mikey putting up with this shit? Probably because he believed it too."Yeah alright..."

I returned my eyes to the notebook laid on my desk, abandoned. I had been drafting bedtime stories to tell Frank before Pete had shown up and forced me to sit through his antics. Maybe I'll tell him a story about staying away from religious crack heads like Pete.

"Ahem." Mr Fuentes spoke up from the front of the class

He pointed at the board where Dies Irae was scrawled on in neat letters.

"Latin," he said. "It means 'Day of Wrath.' It’s part of a hymn—an old one. Used to be sung at funerals. Some churches still do. Anyone know why?" He didn’t seem disappointed. Just nodded like he expected it.

"It’s a warning. Or maybe a prophecy. Depends on who you ask. Think fire, ash, judgment, that whole deal. Today we’re looking at the first stanza."

He wrote beneath the title:

Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla

He turned back to us. "Translation time. Gerard, you’re up."

I blinked. "What?"

Mr. Fuentes tilted his head, patient. "You had the best quiz grade last week. I figure that means you’re secretly paying attention."

"Day of wrath, that day... will dissolve the world in ashes... as David and the Sibyl foretold." I hoped he didn't realize I was reading the translation from the book.

"Very good," he said. "You don't have to believe in judgment to understand poetry. Ofcourse I am not your English teacher, I'm simply here to teach you the relation between Latin phrases and the religion we believe in."

He clapped "Let’s break it down. Everyone follow along."

Mr. Fuentes’s voice faded into a low buzz as he moved on to the next line, his pen tapping gently against the whiteboard.

I glanced at the seat beside me. It wasn’t empty because Pete was sitting there, but it still felt empty to me.

"Think about the weight of the words," Mr. Fuentes said gently. "Solvet saeclum in favilla. 'It will dissolve the world in ashes.' Not break it. Not destroy it. Dissolve. That’s deliberate."

I wondered what class Frank was in right now. Biology, maybe. Or something useless like Ethics. I wondered if he was okay. If he was cold. If someone was being too loud next to him and he didn’t know how to ask them to stop.Frank didn’t like when things moved too fast. Or when people touched his chair. Or when fluorescent lights buzzed too loud. He didn't say it, but I could tell.

"And David and the Sibyl?" Mr. Fuentes continued. "Prophets from two different traditions. One Hebrew. One pagan. Both warning us the same way."

I liked that Mr. Fuentes talked like this. Like he didn’t care if we were religious or not. Like the point was that someone, somewhere, was trying to tell us something. Even if none of us were listening.

I turned back to my notebook. The page was mostly blank. Just a small line at the top in my own handwriting:

"Once upon a time"

I crossed it out.

Mr. Fuentes started pacing between the rows, telling us what we were supposed to translate as homework. I was only half listening.As soon as he dismissed us, I shoved my notebook into my backpack with less care than usual and dashed out the classroom. I wanted to leave absolutely no time for Pete to try and start up another stupid conversation, and when I heard him yelling that he wanted to tell me something? I basically ran.

I walked over to the English class. Amy still hadn't finished with them, so I just stared in through the window. I laughed as I thought how Frank wouldn't be able to see from this window unless he was on the tips of his toes. 

Eventually, Frank started packing his items into his bag. He placed the pen that I had given him into his pocket. I frowned. He said he lost it. Dick. 

"Gee! You're here!"

"Of course I am. I'm always here. I'm like a ghost."

"Ghosts aren't pale they're translucent. Vampires are pale."

"Of course you would know that."

He walked beside me and I immediately threw my arm over his shoulders.

"Soooo Religion.."

He looked up at me with a hum.

I opened the door to Religion, pushing Frank inside with a light shove before going in myself.

"Mmm..that spot in the back, c'mon."

We sat down at the table and waited for Sister Williams to finish "writing" in her chicken scratch letters.

I tore Frank a paper from my book and told him to try and take notes.

He blinked up at me like I’d just handed him a bomb.

“Notes?” he whispered. “Like…write ‘em down?”

I nodded, already scribbling the date at the top of my page. “Just the stuff she says that sounds important.”

Sister Williams finally turned around. Her veil was slightly crooked. Probably because of all the turning around she did.

“Today,” she said, voice dry as the chalk in her hand, “we are continuing our discussion on martyrs.”

“Martyrs are individuals who die for their faith,” she continued, dragging the chalk across the board in long, painful squeaks. “Often persecuted. Often misunderstood. But unwavering in their devotion to God.”

I saw Frank write something. He turned his paper slightly so I could see.

“Murdered by mean people for being good. God likes them extra.”

I choked on a laugh and covered it with a cough. Sister Williams didn’t even look up.

“One of the earliest Christian martyrs was Saint Stephen,” she went on. “Does anyone remember what happened to him?”

Frank’s hand shot up.

Oh no.

She raised a single eyebrow. “Yes, Mr. Iero?”

“He got stoned !” Frank blurted out. A few kids snickered. I pressed my face into my hands. "Elaborate, Mr. Iero." "Huh?" "Explain further as to what you mean by 'stoned'." "He got a bunch of rocks thrown at him." “Yes. Stoned to death for preaching about Christ. There are still martyrs today. People who die rather than deny their beliefs. That takes courage. That takes love. That takes—" "Devotion." Ronnie interrupted. "Precisely." Sister Williams began to write bullet points for us to copy. Frank tried to write the words from the board, but I could already see he’d spelled 'Stephen' like 'Steevin'. I'm not sure how one could spell something wrong if it's right Infront of them, but he'd somehow gone and done it anyway. "Now. I want you to take out your bibles and flip to Psalm 23:1." Pages flipping echoed throughout the room. "The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. This verse is one of the most beloved in the entire Bible. It’s a declaration of trust. The writer—King David—is saying, ‘God is my shepherd. He watches over me, leads me, protects me. And because of that, I don’t need anything else. I am taken care of.’” She looked around the room, eyes resting briefly on each student. “When a shepherd tends to their flock, they don’t just feed the sheep. They guide them. They make sure they don’t fall off cliffs or get eaten by wolves. The sheep don’t worry about where they’re going—they follow. That’s how our relationship with God is meant to be. Safe. Trusting. Close.” He had stopped all action. He was staring at her, not blinking. "But what about the people who stray from their shepherd? Let me tell you a story." I took a look at Frank. He had stopped all action. He was staring at her, not blinking. I knew he liked stories. “There was once a foolish lamb,” she said, “who strayed from the safety of his flock. He disobeyed the shepherd and wandered into darkness, where a wolf waited.” The class was silent. “The wolf devoured the lamb.” Frank’s breath hitched. I put my hand on his thigh and gave him a little squeeze. Sister Williams didn’t soften her tone. “This is what happens when you stray from God. The devil does not pity. The world does not wait. Obedience is protection. Stray, and you may not be saved in time.” We walked out of class. I’d say Frank looked like he’d seen a ghost, but it was more accurate to say he looked like a ghost.

“Hey.”

"I don't believe in God."

"Why not...?"

“Because if God is real,” I said slowly, “then he saw everything that happened to me… and didn’t stop it.”

Frank’s eyes flickered. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came.

“I don’t think a God who says he loves us would let people like Father Raymond speak in his name. I don’t think he’d let kids bleed and call it holy. I don’t think he’d send someone like you here." I breathed out. "Maybe..."

"Let's try the bread thing?"

"Yes! I'll go get it!"

He scrambled up so fast his chair nearly tipped, feet pattering against the tile as he made a beeline for where he’d left the little bun on the counter.

“Got it!” he declared, holding it up like a trophy.

“Congratulations,” I said, amused.

"Look," I demonstrated, dipping the edge into the soup, let it soak a second, then took a bite.

He grinned, wide and wild, and dunked his half straight in like a kid doing a cannonball.

“Frank—"

"It's fine! If I puke, I puke."

"I know! Just.. just take small bites, okay?"

He took an enormous one, completely disregarding my warning.

I sighed, but there wasn’t any heat behind it. I watched him chew—slower this time, like he remembered halfway through that his stomach had rules.

Good?” I asked.

He nodded, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. “Mhm.” He swallowed hard. “Tastes good.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just looked at him for a while. His hair was a mess. His collar was wrinkled. His tie was crooked.

And I loved him so much it scared me.

He glanced up and caught me staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head a little. “Just… glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

We finished slow. He didn’t finish all his bread, and I didn’t make him. When the bowls were mostly empty, I stood to clean up.

"What's brunch?"

"Breakfast at lunch time."

Frank slurped his soup way too loud, then looked up to see if I’d react. I raised one eyebrow.

“Manners.” I muttered, biting back a smile.

He kicked me under the table.

“Hey!”

“Didn’t mean to.”

“You absolutely meant to.”

He slurped again, slower this time. I rolled my eyes and looked down at my own bowl, swirling the spoon in lazy circles. It wasn’t great soup. Just a can of tomato and some water. But the way he ate it, you’d think it came from heaven.

Frank sat up straighter. “Do you think—like really think—we could ever leave this place?”

"Yeah...but like wouldn't it be cooler to sneak out?"

"And go where?"

"Your place."

"No."

He frowned but didn't push.

"Can we go to the yard?"

"Hell yeah we can go. Why don't you go change?"

"What about you?"

I motion to the dirty dishes I was holding.

He looked at the bowls, then back at me.

“I’ll help.”

“You sure?”

He nodded, already reaching for the dishrag. I handed him the bowl, still soapy in my hands, and he stood on tiptoe to reach the sink.

We washed in silence. My fingers brushed his once when we both went for the same spoon. When we finished, I dried my hands on my pants. "How come you can wipe your hands on your clothes?" "Cause it's just water." "Napkins exist, Gee." "Go change, dumbass."

He lit up and ran out of the room, socked feet skidding across the floor.

I wiped down the counter slowly. Stared at the last few drops of water Frank missed while drying sliding down the inside of the pot. Then I heard him call out from the other room:

“Gee! I wore the green one! The shirt you said made me look like grass!”

I smiled to myself and turned toward the door.

“Perfect,” I called back. “We’re going to go sit in the sun like two overgrown weeds.”

I heard him laugh. Not the big one, but the one that crept out when he wasn’t thinking too hard. He grabbed my hand the second I reached him. Not like a kid, not like he needed help balancing—just because. Just because it was Saturday and the sun was out and we could. Frank squeezed my hand tighter as we stepped outside.

The light hit our faces like it hadn’t seen us in years. Frank squinted and made a face like he was about to sneeze, then broke into a grin.

“It smells like grass and hot metal.”

I nodded. “That’s how you know it’s almost summer.”

He looked up at me, eyes scrunched from the sun. “Will they let us stay here for summer?”

I hesitated.

"You’re not gonna fall asleep sitting like that, are you?” I asked.

“No,” he mumbled.

Then silence.

“Maybe.”

I smiled and wrapped an arm around his back. “Come on. Just lie down."

He hesitated, then finally nodded and slid under the blanket. I followed, pulling it up over both of us, careful not to pull too much to his side, lest I freeze another night in a row.

I kept my voice low. “You don’t have to sleep. Just rest.”

He nodded a little.

The clock on the wall ticked faintly. The kind of sound you only noticed when everything else had gone still. I slid closer, wrapping my arm around his waist without thinking.

Silence. Then he spoke,

"I really like it when you wrap me like an envelope."

"Like an envelope?"

"That's what I call it."

"It's called spooning."

"I'm still gonna call it an envelope."

"Of course you are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just go to sleep, you idiot."

"Okay.. but only because you'll let me brush your hair in the morning."

"Yeah, yeah I'm not exactly looking forward to it."

"You should be."

"Shh! Sleep already! You're a goddamn nuisance!"

"Hey!"

"Shhhh!"

"But—!"

"Shhhhhhhhhh!"

He was quiet. I took this as an opportunity to close my eyes and get some rest until he woke me up to make him his can of tomato in the morning.

"Night, Frank."

"Goodnight, Gee."

Chapter Text

Gerard was snoring. I never heard him snore, but he was snoring. I didn't want to wake him just yet, but my stomach had other plans.

I prodded at his cheek with my pointer finger.

Again.

His brows furrowed.

Again.

He opened his eyes with a grumpy face.

"Hi."

"Soup?" he predicted.

I nodded.

"Okay."

He sat up. The blanket was tangled around his feet like it was holding him hostage. He kicked it off and walked over to the kitchen, adjusting his hair when he passed by the mirror.

"Tomato?"

"Yeah."

"You're going to get tired of it sooner or later."

"I could never get tired of it."

"That's what I said about instant noodles, but it's suddenly not so tasty when it's all you can 'cook'."

"Yeah, well this isn't instant noodles." I called out while wrapping myself up in the blanket.

I heard the cabinet open. Then the little clack of the bowl on the counter. He stirred. I could hear it. Long, slow swirls like he was trying to starve me. After waiting for an excruciatingly long amount of time, he came over to the table and set the bowl down in front of me.

"What about your bowl?"

"There's no more left."

"Then we'll share."

"No!" He said louder, not quite yelling but almost there. "No." He said it softer this time. Way softer.

"Why..?"

"You need it way more than I do. There's no way I'm going to take your food when you're hungry. Especially not when you're... in this state."

"What state?" I said crossly.

"You're skinny. You're skinny and you have a disorder and you need to gain weight."

"Why!?"

"Because you need to be healthy!"

"You too!"

"I can handle myself just fine!"

"No you can't!"

"I'm not the one who's brain is stuck at eight, Frank!"

I started eating.

Gerard let out a slow breath.

“That wasn’t fair,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, elbows on the table, hands folded like he didn’t trust them.

"S'fine..."

"Is it really?"

I nodded.

He sighed and rubbed his face with both hands, dragging down his lower eyelid a little. Gerard kind of just watched me eat, almost as if he was trying to make sure I'd finish every drop. When I'd slurped up the last gibbets of soup from the bowl,

“You tired?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Come on, then,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “Back to the bed. I’ll tuck you in.”

"You too?"

“Yeah. Me too.”

We curled up again, same as before, but maybe a little closer this time. His arm was draped over my side—not heavy, just there. Like a seatbelt.

I woke up and turned to the clock. 12:54 in the afternoon. He'd missed breakfast. Gerard was still asleep. His arm had slipped off me sometime ago, and now it was dangling halfway off the bed like he’d melted in his sleep. His mouth was open a little. Still snoring.

“Gee,” I whispered.

No response.

“Gee,” I said again, tapping his forehead this time.

He blinked, scrunched his nose, and groaned into the cushion. “Why are you like this.”

“Like what? I cocked my head to the side.

He stared at me. "Nothing...nevermind."

I narrowed my eyes. “No, say it.”

“It’s dumb.”

“I like dumb.”

He sighed and turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling like it had answers. “You keep wakin' me up.”

“I'm helping. Would you rather Sister Williams pounded on the door like a hungry beast?”

“Yeah.” He glared at me.

“You’re mean.”

He didn’t argue. Just closed his eyes again. "Still too early.."

I shrugged, pulling the blanket off his legs. “We have church.”

He grabbed a pillow and launched it at me. I dodged it and stuck my tongue out.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re awake.”

He groaned again, but he was smiling now.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s get up.”

Gerard disappeared into the bathroom with a groggy wave, and I rummaged through the little drawer with my clothes in it. I put on my clothes relatively quickly for having to unbutton every button all the way down my shirt because I had mismatched them to their holes. All that was left was for Gerard to fix my tie.

"Gee." I rapped on the bathroom door.

He came out, hair damp and eyes a little clearer.

“Look at you,” he said, buttoning his own shirt halfway. “All holy and ready.”

"Tie time!"

"That a thing now?"

"Yes."

"Can I atleast finish buttoning my shirt? My whole stomach's exposed."

"No."

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re stalling.”

He sighed, but he was already walking over. His fingers were still a little clumsy from sleep, but they found the collar of my shirt anyway.

“Stand still,” he mumbled, pulling the tie straight and looping it around.

“I am still.”

“You’re bouncing.”

“That’s just excitement.”

“Excitement for church?”

I snickered. "Excitement for bothering you."

He sighed with a smile and started knotting the tie with practiced motions.

“You always do it fancy,” I said, watching his fingers work.

Gerard breathed a laugh. Probably at the prospect of tying a tie like millions of dads all around the world do everyday 'fancy.' "“Gotta impress the nuns somehow.”

“I think they like you already.”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t look a fraction of holy.”

“It’s crooked.” I stated.

“It’s not crooked.”

"It is.”

Gerard swung my tie left and right. "Now it is." And right after that he fixed it proper.

“There,” he said. “Certified holy child.”

I beamed up at him. “You too, once you put your stomach away.”

He looked down. “I think I'll keep it open then.”

I laughed as he quickly buttoned the rest of his shirt.

“Gerard? What happens if I laugh during the prayers?”

He gave me a look while simultaneously grabbing his keys. “Don’t.”

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

I giggled again, then tried to stifle it. “Gee.”

“What.”

“We’re gonna laugh during Mass.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, rubbing his face. “We definitely are.”

“We’re gonna go straight to Hell.”

“I’ll save you a seat.”

I bumped his arm with mine. “I want a window one.”

“Hell doesn’t have windows, dumbass.”

“Oh.” I paused. “Then we better behave.”

He chuckled and reached over, gently straightening my tie again.

We picked up the pace. The church was just across the yard, where it always was. We stood at the doors. Gerard smoothed his shirt.

"Do I look tired?"

"You always look tired."

"Thanks."

“You look fine, Gee.”

He gave me a look. “That sounded extremely unconvincing.”

“Okay, fine. You look like someone who tried to sleep and then got woken up by a small goblin asking for soup.”

“Checks out.”

He pulled the door open for me. The hallway just inside was quiet, cool, and smelled like old wood and candles, as usual. The pews weren’t full yet, but the front ones already had people sitting with their hands folded and their backs straight. Real serious. Like they were auditioning for Heaven.We took a seat somewhere in the middle. Not too close. Not too far.

Gerard exhaled next to me and reached for a hymnal. I copied him, but mostly just to keep my hands busy. The pages were soft from use. A little wrinkled. Some had tiny scribbles in pencil—little crosses or underlines. Someone had even drawn a fish. I liked that page best.

Sister Williams passed by, giving out smiles that didn’t reach her eyes. When she got to us, she stopped.

“Morning, boys.”

“Morning,” Gerard said, nodding.

“Morning,” I echoed, quieter.

“Big day today,” she said.

“Is it?” I asked politely.

“God always sees Sunday as a big day.”

"Why?"

“Because Sunday is the Lord’s day. The day His children gather to listen. To thank Him. To remember who their shepherd is.”

“Oh,” I said. “I thought that was every day.”

Her mouth twitched upwards. “It should be.”

Then she moved on, footsteps sharp against the tile.

"Was she mad..?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Shh."

The prayers started. I said them slow, sometimes a beat behind, but I didn’t skip any. Gerard mumbled through his, eyes mostly closed like he was listening to something far away. When it was time to kneel, I knelt. The wood under the cushion creaked, and I felt it all the way through my legs. I peeked at Gerard. He was kneeling too, hands pressed together, thumbs resting on his lips. That’s how he always did it. Like he was asking something without saying it out loud. Sister Williams says that's how it should be done. Humble. I copied him.

Sister Williams spoke from the front. I heard “today’s homily” and “trust in the Lord” and “the rod and the staff” and something about valleys, but it all swirled together eventually. I glanced up at Gerard.

His eyes were open now. Focused. Not on her, though. On the stained-glass window above her. The one with the lamb and the shepherd. I watched it too. The blue was really blue. The red was red too, I guess.

The last prayer came and went. We stood. We sat. We bowed our heads. When the final bell rang, Gerard stretched a little, like his back hurt. I grabbed his sleeve as we stepped out of the pew. “Hey. I didn’t mess up that bad, right?”

“Nah. You did good.”

“Even when I poked your ribs with my elbow during the reading?”

He sighed and pushed open the door. “Even then.”

"Can we go to the dorm now?"

"Yeah."

"And have soup?"

"No," he blurted out, like he was a doctor telling their patients family they didn't make it. "Not yet. We will, but not right now."

"Then when!?"

"Oh c'mon, you just ate. You'll live. We only have a few errands to take care of."

I heard that word before. My mom always used to say it when she was leaving the house. Still though, I never knew what it meant.

"What's an errand"?

Gerard glanced down at me. “It’s like...little jobs. Stuff we gotta do before we go home.”

That didn’t help much. “Like what kind of stuff?”

Gerard scratched the back of his neck, looking a little tired. "They're usually done the day before work, like after the weekend is over. It's small stuff like washing your car or doing laundry."

Now I was extra confused. "But we don't have jobs! Or a car!"

Gerard huffed a quiet laugh. “I know, Frank.”

“So why are we doing car-laundry jobs if they’re not ours?”

“We’re not. I was just giving examples.” He looked like he was trying not to smile. “Our errands are smaller. We need to wash our clothes in the laundromat downstairs, we need to shower, and I need to cut your hair."

"Cut my hair!?"

"Yeah, cut your hair."

"Why!?"

"It's too long. I like long but this is too long. You can't even see."

"I like it!"

"You like being blind?"

"No! I can tuck it behind my ears!"

"That's not a long term solution."

"But—!"

"Frank."

I crossed my arms in resilience.

"You don't have to like it, but it's still happening."

"It's my hair!"

"Mhm." He nodded. "It's also your face that keeps bumping into people.

"That was one time!"

"One time too many." He paused. "Also it was like three times."

I didn't respond because that part might've been true. There was a long pause before anyone said anything. The only sound was the chatter of the other students going back inside, but it wasn't ours.

"Listen, I'll only trim the front. Just so you can see again." I didn't answer. "And.. I'll use the towel you like. The one with the ducks on it."

"Really?"

"Really."

"And you'll promise to use scissors? Not the weird buzzy thing?"

"Scissors only. Promise."

"Okay then!"

He gently nudged my shoulder with his. “C’mon. Laundry first.”

We reached the dorm and Gerard flung the door open.

"I'm gonna grab the laundry. Wait here."

I watched as Gerard disappeared into our room. I rocked on my heels. Then on my toes. Then I tried standing perfectly still to see how long I could do it without blinking. Seven seconds. New record. The door creaked a little, not from Gerard—just from being old and loose on its hinges. I peeked down the hall. Someone had taped up a paper with smiley faces and Bible verses on it. One of the smiley faces had been drawn over. I leaned against the doorframe and called out: "Do we have time to do the duck towel first?”

“No!” came Gerard’s voice from inside. “Laundry first, then duck towel!”

I groaned dramatically, just loud enough for him to hear it.

"But whyyyyy?" I whined, dragging the word out like it might convince him if it was long enough.

“Because laundry is a time-sensitive chore,” Gerard called back. I could hear him rustling through the closet. “If we miss the machine window, we’ll be stuck waiting for hours.”

I didn’t know what a machine window was, or why Gerard was acting like laundry was life or death, but it made me giggle. I slid down the doorframe and sat cross-legged on the floor, tracing a little crack in the tile with my finger. The hallway was kind of cold, but it made the warm smell from our dorm drift out even more—like detergent and old soup and Gerard’s cologne. A moment later, the door opened again. Gerard appeared, holding a big overstuffed laundry bag in both arms. A sock dangled off the edge like it was trying to escape.

“Ready?” he asked.

"Are you?"

"What—? Yeah, I am."

"Then I'm ready."

He stared at me for a second, then shook his head with a small smile. “You’re so weird.”

“Takes one to know one.” I grinned and stepped into pace beside him.

The bag was heavy, and Gerard had to shift it against his hip as we headed down the hall. I kept glancing at it, watching the sock bounce a little with each step.

“Do you think it knows?” I asked.

“Knows what?”

“That it’s the one sock without a buddy.”

Gerard looked down at the dangling sock. “Oh. Huh. Poor guy.”

“We should keep it. Name it. Give it a new purpose.”

“Like what?”

“Puppet. O a little sleeping bag for a rat.”

“We don’t have a rat.”

“Not yet.”

He didn’t argue. Which meant he might be considering it. Probably.

We reached the laundry room, and Gerard used his foot to push the door open. It let out the same tired squeak as before, like it hated being awake this early.

The whole place was crowded. Gerard pushed through like the laundry wasn't hitting at a strangers hip or shin every time he moved. He didn't care, I ruled out.

"Gee, you're hurting people."

"Then they should move."

"Would God want that..?"

"They know I'm coming and chose to stay. It's out of my hands."

"But it's crowded. They can't see you coming."

"God blessed them with two eyes, didn't he?"

I didn't answer.

He shoved our clothes into a machine and started it up, muttering to himself.

"Three..forty-five..? The fuck?"

"Three forty-five?"

"That's when it finishes. 3:45 PM."

"What time is it now?"

"1."

"That's so far apart!"

"I know.."

He continued to turn knobs and press buttons but apparently to no avail.

"Whatever. If it says 3:45 we'll come at 3:45. Who cares."

He slammed the lid shut and crossed his arms like he’d just lost an argument to a ghost. I stood beside him and stared at the machine with him, trying to be supportive.

"It's okay, Gee."

He looked up at me.

"Yeah it is." He stood up off of his knees.

"Can we do the duck thing now?"

"You're suddenly eager."

"I like ducks."

"You like all animals."

"How'd you know!?"

"Doesn't take a genius to figure it out."

He gave me a light push towards the door.

"It's not fair!"

He walked up beside me. "What isn't?"

"You know what I like, but I don't know what you like!

"I like drawing."

"I already knew that! I mean things!"

"Things..? I mean, I really like comics."

"Comics?"

"They're like little stories told by pictures."

"I know what a comic is! I'm not illiterate."

"Not totally illiterate, you mean."

Asshole.

"Do you have any? Comics, I mean."

"Back at home. They're considered contraband here.." He had a scowl on his face that I hadn't really seen before but it seemed familiar regardless. while he muttered under his breath. "I learnt that the hard way..."

"Why? What happened?"

"They threw my comics. Bad idea to bring my favourites."

I winced. "Sorry."

"Don't be. S'not your fault anyway."

"Obviously," He turned to look at me with a raised brow. "I wouldn't throw your stuff."

"I know."

"So you never answered my question."

"What?"

"Can we do the duck thing?"

"No."

"What!?"

“Shower first,” he said, pushing open the door. It had a silver plaque inlaid on it that read "Communal Showers."

"Wait! Gee!" I pulled him aside.

He stopped and rubbed his face. "What is it now?" He huffed out.

"I don't—I don't know how to shower..."

It got real quiet, real fast.

Gerard just stared at me. Like the air had been knocked out of him.

"What?" His voice cracked on it, barely more than a whisper. His whole expression shifted—anger drained clean out, replaced by something I couldn't name even if I had a dictionary in my hands.

"My mom did it for me.."

I shifted on my feet. "She’d get the water right, and put the towel on the heater so it was warm. She always knew how hot I liked it. She’d wash my hair for me ‘cause I hated getting soap in my eyes, and she’d wrap me up after like a burrito. I didn’t have to do anything."

I paused, feeling my hands shake a little.

"Then one night...She was telling me my story. She stopped to answer a call and said she'd finish when she got back but she—...she just didn’t come back." My voice cracked. I rubbed my nose with my sleeve and looked down at my socks peeping out of my shoes..

"I thought she got lost. Or just forgot they way. I waited all night. I stayed in bed so she could come say the other half of my story, but she didn’t."

I blinked up at him. "Then in the morning, someone said I had to go here. And no one said anything about the story part."

Gerard was completely still. No sarcasm. No noise. Just his eyes — wide. Like he knew what happened. Slowly, he sank down to his knees so we were eye level. His voice was soft, almost broken.

“Frank..."

He didn’t say anything else for a long moment. Just stared, like trying to make sense of a puzzle with missing pieces.

Then his hand moved carefully to rest on my arm. Not squeezing. Just there.

"I can't shower you like your mom did, but maybe I can teach you."

His voice raised in pitch at the end, like it was a question. I just nodded.

He led me inside. It was empty. We had the whole place to ourselves. He took me to a room. It has a bathtub with a shower hooked onto the wall Infront of it. It also had a niche which was filled with little bottles labelled "Shampoo" or "Body wash".

"I'm gonna help you with your hair."

"And my body..?"

"You'll have to do it yourself. I'll be right outside telling you what to do."

"Okay."

Gerard stepped closer, his hands gentle as they raised slightly. Like I was a skittish cat he was trying to coax a scratch out of. Let me help with this” he said, reaching for my tie. His fingers worked quickly, loosening the knot. He slid the tie off and tossed it haphazardly onto the bench.

Next, he reached for the buttons on my shirt.

“Okay if I take this off for you?”

I swallowed but said, “Yeah.”

Slowly, Gerard unbuttoned each one. I glanced down at his hands. Bitten fingers nails.When the shirt came off, he folded it and set it aside. He walked over to the tub, sitting on the edge and turning the little knobs beside the faucet.

"Come here. Feel it."

I walked closer, hesitantly.

"Tell me if it's too hot.. or too cold. Maybe even too warm."

I giggled and stuck my hand under the fall of the water. "It's perfect."

"Okay..um.. you need to get in there."

"With my pants..?"

"No.. that's what I'm trying to figure out.."

"What's there to figure out?"

"How I'm going to wash your hair without seeing your.. y'know..?"

He hesitated. "How do you feel about a bubble bath, huh?"

"A bubble bath?"

He tutted. "Shh no complaints." He turned back around and pulled out a body wash bottle from the built in shelf. He squeezed, deforming the bottle before messily stirring the water in the around with his hands.

"There. Now take off your pants and call me when you're sitting in here, kay?"

I nodded and waited for him to leave before peeling off my pants and undergarments. Then I climbed into the tub, slow and careful, letting the water swallow my legs. The bubbles tickled my arms when I sunk down a little deeper and hugged my knees to my chest.

“Okay,” I called. “I’m in.”

The door creaked open again, just enough for Gerard’s voice to slip through.

“You covered up?”

“The bubbles did it for me.”

“Good.” I heard the smile in his voice.

Gerard stepped inside, eyes pointed carefully at the ceiling, like it was suddenly very interesting.

“I’m not looking,” he promised, holding up a towel to block his view as he walked over. “I’m just gonna do your hair real quick.”

“Okay.”

He knelt beside the tub and set the towel down over the edge to cushion his arms. Gently, he reached forward, cupping some water in his hand and pouring it over the top of my head. I closed my eyes, letting it run down. Not because I was relaxed but rather because I was scared it'd sting my eyes. I felt his fingers in my hair, slow and careful as he worked in the shampoo.

“You’ve got so much of it,” he muttered fondly, fingertips massaging in slow circles. “You’re gonna clog the drain and cause a flood.”

“That’d be cool.”

“That’d be a lawsuit.”

I giggled. Bubbles clung to my cheeks.

He rinsed with more water, shielding my eyes with his hand as he poured. Not a single drop of soap stung. Not like I'd feared .

“There,” he said softly. “Good as new.”

He stood up and stepped back, grabbing the towel again to keep his gaze averted.

“Alright. Now the rest is you. There’s a washcloth and some body wash right there on the rim. Just get it nice and soapy, then start with your arms and chest, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll tell you where to go next. I’m right here.”

I picked up the cloth and rubbed the soap in, bubbles blooming again as I followed his directions. Arms, then shoulders. Chest. Neck.

“Good,” Gerard said quietly. “You’re doing good.”

The warmth of the water, the quiet of his voice, the way he didn’t look — it all made something loosen in my chest. I kept going, his voice guiding me like steps on a staircase.

“Now your legs. Then your feet. Don’t forget in between your toes.”

I giggled again. “Ew.”

“Hey, hygiene’s hygiene.”

I scrubbed and scrubbed, trying not to miss anything. The tub smelled like berries and I understood why bears liked them so much.

When I finally said, “Done,” Gerard answered right away.

“Alright. Drain the water."

"How?"

"There's a chain at the bottom of the tub. Pull it."

I did as he instructed. Pulling the chain was fun. I think it was my favourite part. The water made a loud glug glug glug sound as it swirled down the drain. I watched it with wide eyes, the bubbles popping and spinning like they were trying to climb their way out.

“I’m cold,” I mumbled.

“Hang on.” I heard a rustle, then his voice came closer. “I’m handing you the towel through the door. Ready?”

“Ready.”

He cracked the door open just a little and reached through, holding out the towel without looking inside.

"I wanted the one with ducks."

"That's for when we cut your hair. Dry off real well, okay? Start with your hair so it doesn’t drip everywhere.”

I did.

“I’m decent now,” I called through the door.

“Fully decent?”

“What do you think?” I spat.

The door opened again and Gerard stepped inside. He gave me a quick once-over, just to be sure, but still kept his eyes mostly above my shoulders.

“You look like a raisin.”

“I feel like one.”

"My turn. Wait on the bench outside, yeah? Don't do anything stupid."

"You're taking all the stupid with you."

He gave a small laugh and closed the door behind him.

I sat on the bench just beside the door. Some people were shuffling around now, entering and exiting shower rooms.

My hair was still a little damp, and it was starting to soak my shirt's neckline. I swung my feet under the bench.

From behind the door, I could hear Gerard shifting around. The water squeaked on. Pipes groaned. For a second, I imagined him slipping on a bar of soap like in cartoons and flying straight into the wall.

I giggled. Some students eyed me, but I'm sure they'd laugh too if they saw it.

The door creaked open a little while after, steam rolling out like a sleepy dragon. Gerard stepped into the hall with his hair damp and curling at the ends. He had a towel slung over one shoulder which was on the brink of falling with a wet splat as he tugged down his sleeves

“Alright,” he said, ruffling his hair once more. “I’m clean. You’re clean. The universe can rest.”

I stood up from the bench. “Now soup?”

He shook his head. “Now hair.”

I groaned.

“You agreed,” he reminded me, smug.

“I was vulnerable!”

"Vulnerable my ass. Let's go."

Back in the dorm, Gerard shook out the duck towel and tossed it over the desk chair that he rolled infront of the bathroom sink.

I grinned and plopped down, swinging my legs a little as he wrapped the duck towel around my shoulders and clipped it in the front with a binder clip from his desk.

I peeked down at one of the duck’s face sitting lopsided on my chest.

“You better not mess it up.”

“Would I ever?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t argue. Just pulled up another chair and sat behind me with a dramatic sigh. “Alright. Hold still. Try not to breathe like a squirrel.”

“I am a squirrel.”

“Oh, I know.”

The scissors made their first soft snip near my bangs, and I flinched, more from the sound than the motion.

“Hey, hey—stop moving.”

“You’re cutting so close to my brain!”

“That’s not how brains work, Frank.”

“That’s exactly what someone who wanted to get to my brain would say.”

The last few snips were quieter, more focused. Gerard’s fingers moved gently through my hair, fluffing and checking. I could tell he was leaning in close to make sure it was even, but I glared at myself in the mirror. It feels like staring at some double of me. Like when you're looking at someone and know there's something off.

“There,” he said at last, setting the scissors down on the sink. “You’re officially de-mopped.”

He brushed the stray hairs off my neck with the flat of his hand, then tugged the duck towel free and gave it a good shake. Some of the cut strands floated into the sink like black confetti.

I squinted into the mirror. My hair was still mine—still a little messy, still mine—but now I could see my whole face. Even my eyebrows.

“Whoa,” I whispered. “I have a forehead.”

Gerard leaned his elbows on the sink beside me, looking at our reflections side-by-side.

“You’ve always had one.”

“Yeah, but now it’s public.”

He huffed a soft laugh, brushing one last lock out of my eye.

“You like it?” Gerard asked, not looking at anything in particular.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think I do.”

"I think you're missing just one thing."

"What? Is it soup?"

"No, you fatass it's not soup." He reached over to my scalp and parted my hair to the side. He looked at me for a little, like he was analyzing everything.. like a secret agent. Then he fluffed up my hair from the back.

"You look better with a side part."

"You think I'm ugly without one!?" “And what if I did?”

“You'd be mean.”

He gave me a dry look, but I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I didn’t say you were ugly. I said the part helps.”

“So I was partially ugly?”

“Frank.”

I looked up at him.

“You’re not ugly. Not even a little.”

“Even when I had forehead bangs like a sheepdog?” I scrutinized.

“Even then.”

He reached forward and fluffed the side part again. “There. Now you just look like you eat soup and read serious books.”

I lit up. “I do eat soup!”

He smirked. “Yeah. I noticed. But do you read serious books?”

"Even better. I hear them. Audio books."

"Uh huh. And who warranted your access to those?"

"You."

"Me? Oh—! Jesus, the bedtime stories!"

He chuckled, and then it evolved into a laugh, and then I laughed.

I stared at us in the mirror for a second after we had calmed down. Me with my hair all neat and not-in-my-eyes, and Gerard just behind me, arms crossed like he was proud of a science experiment that didn’t explode.

I scrunched my nose. “I look different.”

“You look like you.” He said.

I looked back at the mirror. It was weird. Not bad weird, just..weird. Like when your voice sounds different on a recording.

“I dunno if I like it yet,” I said. “But I think I like that you did it.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Then he leaned in just enough to fix one strand sticking up on the side of my head. “I didn’t mess it up too bad?”

I shook my head. “It’s the...oddest haircut I ever got.”

"And why's that?"

"A haircut in the bathroom of a catholic school for boys."

"Yeah okay. Pretty odd."

His hand rested on my shoulder for a moment. “Alright. Outta the bathroom.”

"Guess what?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"Soup?"

“Laundry time,” he announced. “Again.”

“But we already did laundry.”

“Nope. We started laundry. Now we gotta conquer the second half.”

“Ugh. Why does it have a second half?”

“Because clothes don’t fold through sheer willpower, Frank.”

I followed him out, dragging my feet just enough to be dramatic but not enough to get left behind. My hair felt weird—lighter, like my head wasn’t weighed down anymore. Every time I turned, I felt it swish a little, and it made me grin.

Downstairs, the laundry room wasn’t as busy as before. A couple of machines were humming, and someone was asleep against the wall using a backpack as a pillow.

Gerard checked the dryer. “Huh. Still warm.”

“Is that good?”

“Yeah, means it just finished. We got lucky.”

He started pulling stuff out, tossing warm shirts and socks into the basket one by one. I grabbed a towel and hugged it close to my face.

“Warm,” I whispered.

Gerard looked over, snickered, and shoved another sock into the basket. “You good?”

“I’m bonding.”

“With the towel?”

“Yes.”

Gerard scooped the last of the socks into the basket and we trekked back upstairs, the laundry basket between us. I kept one hand on the side of it, even though Gerard was doing most of the carrying. The hallway was quieter now—most people probably off at lunch or naps or secret meetings with God or whatever kids did after Sunday Mass.

When we reached the dorm, Gerard kicked the door open with his foot.

“Clothes first,” he said. “Then soup.”

“SOUP!”

Gerard plopped on the edge of his bed unceremoniously, setting the basket down with him. He started sorting, but I didn’t really watch. I flopped down on my blanket, arms out, fresh haircut brushing the pillowcase. He started folding, and I knew I should've helped, but I stayed on my stomach, watching the light through the window fall onto the floor in little strips.

I stayed where I was, cheek smushed into the blanket, watching his hands move. He was methodical—shirt, fold, flip, stack. Socks got balled up, shirt and pants tucked into squares. Hardly neat, but that was Gerardesque.

“Do you ever miss your comics?” I asked after a bit, voice muffled by the bed.

Gerard glanced at me, then nodded. “Yeah. A lot.”

“Which one was your favorite?”

He thought about it as he folded a hoodie. “There’s this one called Umbrella Academy. It’s about a bunch of weird kids with powers who were raised by this awful rich guy and they fight crime but also kind of suck at it.”

“Why do they suck?”

“They fight each other more than the villains. It’s kinda messy. But it’s good messy.”

“Do you have a favorite character?”

“Probably Five. He’s like… a little kid but he’s actually older than everyone else.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Time travel.”

“Ohhh. That makes sense.”

He didn’t add to that. Just folded the last shirt and sat on the edge of his bed, looking at the basket like it had taken years off his life.

“You did a good job,” I said.

“I didn’t do your half.”

"We can do it together after the soup."

“Yeah,” he said. “Alright. After the soup.”

He stood up and stretched his arms over his head with a grunt, like he was sixty instead of sixteen. Then he pointed at me. “You’re helping me stir.”

“I always help you stir!”

“You always pretend to help me stir.”

I gasped. “Lies!”

“You literally spun the spoon in one circle— no, a half circle and said ‘ta-da.’”

“That counts!”

He gave a small laugh and headed toward the tiny dorm kitchenette. A sad excuse of one, really. Two cabinets inside the with an induction cooker placed ontop. Oh, and the mini fridge.

Gerard held up the cans like a game show host. “Alright. Cream of mushroom, tomato, or chicken noodle?”

“Tomato,” I said instantly.

He looked at the tomato can, then at me. “You ever think maybe it’s time to try something new?”

I froze. “Why?”

“Just to see. You might like the chicken one. It’s got noodles.”

“I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to eat the chunks,” he said too fast. “I can squish them up or pick them out. Whatever you want.”

“If I don’t like it, can we have tomato tomorrow?”

Gerard smiled. “Deal.”

He set the tomato can aside and opened the chicken noodle one with the can opener. I watched the top peel back, eyes wide. It wasnt thick and squelchy. The opposite, actually. Thin with little blobs of oil floating on the surface.

“This one smells… yellower,” I observed.

“It is yellower.”

“Okay,” I said, nervous but trying to be brave. “Okay. For science.”

“For science,” Gerard agreed, nudging my elbow with his.

He poured the soup into the pot, cranked the knob to medium-low, and handed me the spoon.

"Alright. Done." he'd declared after a while. A while too long, that is.

"Done done?"

"As done as soup gets."

He took the pot off the stove and filled up two mugs- one green and one yellow with the liquid. He handed me the yellow one. I took it with both hands. It was warm in my hands and I shuffled on over to the desk. Well, it was near scalding if I'm going to be totally honest. I set it down quickly.

The noodles floated around on the surface. They looked like my hair when Gerard pushed it off the towel.

"Let me take those out." He took it and crouched down beside the desk chair. His fingers were careful, spoon swirling slow circles as he caught the slippery shapes one by one, transferring them to his own mug.

“Too many surprises in food already,” I said.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “No surprises today.”

I watched him work. When he handed the mug back, the broth was clean- no chicken lumps or noodles hairs in sight.

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“Course.”

I took a small sip.

And then another.

"I like it."

"Yeah?"

"I do."

"Told you."

"We're still having tomato tomorrow."

Gerard huffed a laugh through his nose. “Wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

I cradled the mug in both hands, letting the steam curl up into my face.

He took another sip from his own, then leaned back on one hand and looked at me.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you did a lot of new things today.”

I blinked at him. “Like what?”

“You sat through a whole Sunday Mass. Ate a new soup. Let me cut your hair. Took a shower by yourself.”

“Oh.” I glanced down at the mug. “Yeah.”

“You did good.”

The words felt like a sticker on my chest. A gold star. A thumbs-up drawn in Sharpie.

“Oh.” I glanced down at the mug. “Yeah.”

"I'm proud of you."

I ducked my head a little, like maybe the mug could hide my smile. "Thanks." "Much obliged."

Chapter Text

"Frank." I breathed, turning my head to the side like I could make out his shape in the dark.

No hum, no snarky comment, no sparkling eyes looking up at me.

He was asleep. But—

Isn't something missing?

That's when it clicked. I didn't tell him a bedtime story. Sure he had fallen asleep without one, but I was still going to give it to him. It was tradition after all.

I folded my legs and propped my elbows on them, resting my chin on my hands. I looked at his face from across the room. Or atleast what I imagined to be his face. It could be his stuffed animal.

“Once upon a time,” I began, “there was a little bird. A very small one. Like… comically small. Just a puff of feathers with legs that looked like they came from a stick figure drawing.”

I smiled a little, watching his sleeping face.

“And this bird? He was the softest thing in the entire forest. He chirped like wind chimes and waddled like a wind-up toy. He was so cute it actually pissed people off.”

I paused, thinking about how if he were awake he would've curled up into himself and asked "Why?" or "Really?" A part of me acted like he was still there. Listening, paying attention. Asking questions.

I continued like I was responding to the hypotheticals in my head.

“No, seriously, it did. The squirrels rolled their eyes whenever he walked by. The fox said he looked like a feather duster someone cried on. The owl kept calling him ‘the embodiment of fragility.’ whatever that means.”

I let out a quiet breath through my nose. “All he wanted to do was bring everyone flowers. That was his thing. He’d pluck the tiniest petals with his tiny beak and try to deliver them to people. But they were like, ‘Ugh, not again,’ or ‘Where’d you even find a lilac this time of year?’ One time the raccoons barricaded their den just so he wouldn’t leave one on the doorstep. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t, really. That’s just what he was. Soft. Hopeful. Maybe a little dumb.”

I smiled sadly, feeling pity for my own made up bird.

“And then one day, when a storm came—big, nasty thing, tore down half the forest—it turned out that tiny bird had spent so long watching where flowers grew that he knew all the best hiding spots. He showed everyone. No big speech, no ‘I told you so.’ He just fluttered ahead, looking back every few feet to make sure they were still following.”

My voice dropped even quieter.

“They still tease him. They’re animals. But now they bring him seeds sometimes. And no one rolls their eyes when he gives them flowers. Not anymore.”

"Night, Frank."

I dragged our laundry basket beside me. We were supposed to fold these together, but I can imagine Frank wouldn't be much help anyway.

I folded quietly, thinking about a million things at once (mostly Frank). I thought about the way he breathed different when he was asleep. I thought about the weird little click his throat did we he swallowed too fast. I thought about the way he'd get excited over little things.

I blinked down at a pair of socks that didn’t match and stared at them for longer than I should’ve. One had a cartoon bat on it. The other was just black. I paired them anyway because he would've told me to.

Somewhere in the stillness, the kind that only happens when someone you love is asleep and safe, breathing in sync with the quiet, I realized something I didn’t want to say out loud.

I was scared.

Not of him. Of this. Of how easy it was to want him around. How natural it felt to fold his laundry and whisper him bedtime stories and kiss his forehead like I’d been doing it for years instead of days.

It was terrifying. Because I knew I’d kill for him. And worse—way worse—I knew I’d let myself die for him if it came to it.

I folded another shirt. Rolled a pair of pants tighter than I needed to and set it aside.

“Don’t make me need you too much,” I said, barely above a breath.

But he just kept sleeping.

So I kept folding.

Chapter Text

I tried to stay asleep but I kept hearing this weird scratchy sound, like fingernails on a chalkboard but less extreme. I tugged my pillow over my head trying to drown it out. That obviously didn't work. I pushed it off and stared at the ceiling. The lights were on. That meant Gerard was awake. Gerard was awake and had no decency to keep the lights off when someone is asleep. I hoped his brother didn't share a room with him. That'd suck. I sat up.

"Morning."

Gerard was propped up on his bed with his back against the headboard. My eyes darted to his hands. He was sketching. That was the annoying sound.

"What time did I fall asleep..?"

"After the soup."

"Oh. Do you want to fold the laundry now?"

"Already done."

I looked over to my dresser at the end of the bed. My clothes were folded and in neat rolls on top.

He spoke but kept his eyes on the sketchbook, making more weird scratches to accompany his voice. "I didn't know where to put them."

"You know everything."

"I don't."

"Yes you do."

"I really don't."

"Yes you do!"

He finally looked at me and raised a brow.

"You always know everything!"

"I don't know jack shit, you just don't—!" he cut himself off with a sigh that sounded more like a grumble. "Fine. Yeah I know everything."

"See! I got you to admit it! Now confess you're a secret spy sent by the government to watch over me!"

"I'm a secret spy sent by the government to watch over you..?"

"Aha!"

"What? No I didn't mean—!"

"Gerard the mother spy!"

"Mother spy?" He folded his arms questioningly.

"Yeah! Back up mom!"

Gerard looked like he wanted to say something but settled for a laugh instead.

"What? You think this is funny?"

"I think," he breathed out, "that you just woke up and you're already spewing bullshit."

"I'm not a mother spy. I'm your friend." he continued.

"Best friend." I corrected.

"Yeah. You're the reason I'm not alone. The reason I don't feel like I'm sleepwalking through the day."

"Alone?"

"Alone."

"How?"

"Nobody really hung around me."

"Why not?"

"Gay."

"Huh?"

"Cause I'm gay."

"Why?"

"Why am I gay?"

"No, why did they not want to be friends with you?"

"Don't worry about it."

"No! Tell me!"

"Story for another time."

"You promise to tell me..?"

"I promise- but! You have to promise not to bug me about it every second. I'll tell you when I decide to!"

"You suck."

"Dick."

"Gross!"

"Sleep."

"I just woke up!"

"I'm aware."

I grumbled under my breath as I tugged the blanket up and settled in. He sketched for a while, which was terrible because I couldn't fall asleep with the scritch and scratch of his pencil like a coin against a lottery ticket. Eventually he turned off the light and I rolled on my back. I was staring at the ceiling but everything was black so I could be staring at the wall, but I knew I wasn't. But I could be. But I wasn't. That was kinda cool.

"You didn't give me my bedtime story."

"I did."

"No you didn't!"

"I did when you were asleep."

"That doesn't count!"

"Does."

"No!"

He didn't answer.

"Gee?"

There's no way he fell asleep! He was faking!

He let out a long faux snore.

"Gerard! Stop ignoring me!"

"Not ignoring you. I'm asleep!"

"No you're not!"

He did another fake snore.

"You're so mean!"

There was no retort. He was quiet. He was quiet, but the room wasn't. I heard something rustling against the sheets and suddenly the light flicked on. Gerard was leaning over the nightstand between our beds staring directly at me.

"I'm mean?"

"Yeah!"

"Me? Gerard Arthur Way?"

"Your middle name is Arthur? Weird."

"Don't change the subject!"

"Yes! You, Gerard Arthur Way, are mean!

"I feed you! I showed you how to shower! I folded your laundry and cut your hair!"

"Yeah but—!"

"There's no buts!" I didn't like it when Gerard cut me off. I had a point to make but he wasn't listening.

"Just tell me a story and I'll make you nice again."

"Oh are you gonna put me on the nice list, Mr. Santa?"

"Yes!"

"Well then.. once upon a time there was a little boy."

I snuggled up in my blanket.

"He was reaaaallly really a handful, but everyone loved him and did things for him regardless because well—they loved him. They loved him so much they didn't care that he always wanted to eat corn on the cob and nothing else. They didn't care that he didn't know how to tie his shoe laces. They did whatever he pleased but he still got mad at them when they didn't do just ONE thing for them among all the others," 'This guy sounded really mean!' I thought to myself. "His name was Frank. Frank Iero."

That moment felt like a record scratch. It felt like a plug being pulled. It felt like.. it felt like Gerard was being totally mean!

"Hey! I'm not like that!"

"Oh yes you are! A guy you met less than a week ago does everything for you with absolutely no complaints and you fuss over a little bedtime story. Well there you have it! Goodnight!"

He flicked off the light.

I giggled.

He giggled back.

Some silence passed.

The light turned on again.

"What's so weird about my middle name!?"

"It doesn't fit!"

"Well what's your full name then?"

I sat up and puffed my chest. "Frank Anthony Iero Junior!"

He burst laughing. I was offended. My chest deflated.

"What's so funny!?"

"Junior!?"

"Yeah! I think it's cool!"

"Your name is a clone of your father's!"

"But it's cool!"

"Oh god!" he collapsed onto his bed, his laughter dissolving. "See, the thing is I'm sure your father rocked the name Frank Iero till you came along and slapped a Senior on it!"

"I didn't choose my name!"

"Alright, junior."

"Gee! It's the same name!" I squealed like a pig who inhaled helium.

"Yeah but he rocks it like a badass!"

"I'm totally a badbutt too!"

"A badbutt?"

"I'm not saying the bad word!"

"Why not?"

"God wouldn't like that!"

"He would. I do it all the time."

"Yeah, cause you're uncivilised." I spat, condescendingly.

He sat up, clutching his chest. "Pardon me? Uncivilised? Are you saying I was raised in the streets? I'll have you know Donna Lee Way—!"

"Lee!? What kind of middle name is Lee!?"

"Shut your fuckin' mouth! Your name is Frank Junior! Junior!" He said pointing a finger at me.

"Well I'm still a badbutt!"

"Badass." He said correctingly.

"Badbutt."

"Badass."

"Badbutt!"

"Badass! Come on! Say it!"

"No! I'll get it trouble!"

"No you won't!"

"You promise..?"

"Yes! Just say it!"

"Bad.."

He leaned in like he's been waiting for this his whole sixteen years of living.

"Badbutt."

He sunk back into his bed, disappointed and pulled the lamp cord plunging us into the dark again. I wondered if he would turn it on again.

"Gee?"

"Hm?"

"You know that I don't actually get mad if you don't do one thing for me, right?"

"Huh?"

"The story. I didn't mean to make you think-."

"It was hyperbole."

"Hyperbole."

"What's that?"

"When people exaggerate things."

"Like how."

"Oh I have a mountain of homework at home! You don't actually have a mountain of homework, do you?"

"No."

"Exactly."

Silence.

"I don't think you're mean."

"And I don't think anything bad of you."

"Me either."

"Good."

"Good..night."

"Night."

I woke up because something was breathing too close to my mouth.

At first I thought it was a ghost. Or a bear. Or a ghost-bear. My heart did that thump-thump-thump thing like when you almost fall but don’t. My eyes popped open and I saw a shape. A person-shape. Climbing into my bed. I was about to scream like in the movies but then I smelled him.

Gerard.

He was crawling in really slow like he didn’t wanna wake me, but surprise!

I blinked at him. “What’re you doing.”

He froze with one knee halfway on the mattress. “You’re awake?”

“No, I’m asleep.” I said flatly.

He winced. “Sorry. I just—my bed got cold. I kept waking up. I dunno. I was gonna sneak in.”

“Like a spy?” I whispered.

He nodded, climbing the rest of the way in. “Yeah. Like a mother spy.”

He curled in behind me like a comma. His arm slid over my ribs and his nose brushed the back of my neck. It tickled.

"My bed is warm."

"What?"

"My bed is warm."

"I heard you the first time."

"I told you my bed was cold. It wasn't. It was warm and I fell asleep right after you."

"How do you know you didn't sleep first?"

"I called out your name and you didn't answer."

"Maybe I didn't hear you."

"I turned on the light."

"Oh."

It was quiet.

"So what if your bed was warm..?"

"I told you I came because my bed was cold but I..."

"You?" I snapped impatiently.

"Had a bad dream."

He nuzzled his face into the junction between my shoulder and neck.

"What was it?"

"I had a dream that we were dead. Well...only you died but I died inside so technically I was dead too."

"Sorry."

"Don't say sorry for things that aren't your fault dumbass."

"Dumbbutt."

"Not this again."

"Dumbbutt."

"Yeah you're the dumbbutt and I'm the smartbutt."

"I like that."

"You like everything."

"Not everything."

"Most things."

"The good stuff."

"That's most things."

"Maybe. I like to think there's just as much good as there is bad. It balances out."

He hummed in acknowledgement before mumbling "Go to sleep."

"What time is it?"

"2 AM."

"2 AM..?"

"Yeah. Goodnight sleep tight, don't let the epipens bite."

"Epipens..?"

"It's a joke."

"What joke?"

"I have this allergic friend—"

"I thought you didn't have friends."

"Not in here. Anyway, he's allergic to chocolate, so that's how I say goodnight to him."

"Chocolate? That must be terrible.."

"He can still eat it. Just in moderation."

"What does that mean."

"That means don't eat too much."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

"Goodnight, Gee."

"Night."

Chapter Text

I stood infront of the cupboard scanning our options. Cream of mushroom and tomato. Frank obviously wanted tomato for today, considering he had chicken noodle last night. I grabbed the can opener and cracked the lid open. It made that sharp metallic pop like it always did. I poured it into the pot on the stove and picked up a wooden spoon, waiting for it to bubble.

"Gee! Tie time!"

I smiled at the dumb little name. He managed to give something so mundane a reason for him to jump around in the morning, teeth all sticky-out-y.

"Already?" I said walking over. "You took half the time to get dressed than you did last time."

"I learned from the best!"

"I didn't teach you."

"My mom did."

"So your mom's a pro dresser then?"

"Yeah. She's a pro at tying buttons and tying shoelaces and tying—"

"Ties?"

"Yeah! How'd you know?"

"Not many other clothing articles you can tie."

"Yeah that.. orrrr you're being a super spy again! I bet you're prying into my brain, finding out what I was gonna say and then just before I'd say it—BOOM! You say it before me!"

"Uh huh.. and what would I gain from that..?" I said while looping the fabric over itself to create a knot.

“Information! Super spy stuff! Like what my favorite color is or my favorite animal!”

“High-stakes intel,” I muttered, tightening the knot gently under his collar. “What if I told you I already know both of those?”

He squinted up at me, suspicious. “No you don't.”

“Red. And dogs.”

His jaw dropped.

“You’re spying!”

“No, I’m observant.”

“Same thing.”

I let him win. It was easier than explaining the difference.

“Alright, Agent Way,” he said, standing on his toes as I adjusted the collar. “Mission accomplished?”

“Not until you stop bouncing.”

He grinned. “That’s impossible. I'm too excited.”

“Why?”

"Cause you're making tomato soup!"

That brought my attention back to the soup. With a sharp snap of my head towards the direction of the stove (induction cooker) I scrambled off my knees and gave the now boiling soup another stir. It was nearly ready. He was still bouncing.

"You saved the soup."

"Yeah now go save us from the stench of your feet and put some shoes on."

He gasped dramatically. Again. "My feet aren't stinky! I just showered!"

"They must be shower repellent."

"No such thing."

"The evidence is compelling."

"Innocent until proven guilty!"

I raised my brow.

"I saw it on TV."

"'Course you did. Now go! Put on some shoes for the love of God!"

"You don't have any on!"

"Yeah but my feel smell heavenly!"

"I bet your feet smell gay!"

I blinked. “...What does that even mean?”

He just giggled and bolted toward his shoes like he’d won something.

“Okay, that’s enough out of you.”

“Never!” he yelled, hopping as he jammed one foot into a sneaker.

He was ridiculous. Loud and absurd and somehow the only part of my day that didn’t feel heavy. I let him win. I always did.

"Hurry up or your soup'll get cold!"

"Coming, coming!"

He slapped the velcro on his shoes shut and ran over to take a seat at the table. I put his bowl infront of him and headed over to the room to get changed—or at least I tried. I didn't make it a step and a half past the table before he tugged my arm with a weird look on his face. I could only describe it as "A deer in headlights but with concerned brows."

"You're not eating?"

"No."

"Why not."

"'Cause I eat at the cafeteria." "You said that yesterday but you never went." "I ate when you were asleep." "Ate what?" "Dinner." "What did it consist of?" "It consisted of Frank shuts the fuck up and eats his soup."

He let go of my hand.

"Butthole.." he grumbled. I pretended I didn't hear.

I changed quick. Didn't bother with the mirror. When I came back out, his bowl was empty, the last spoon halfway to his mouth.

"C'mon let's go. We're a little behind already."

He took one big and final slurp from his spoon before setting it down. "Can't I enjoy my soup?"

"Not when we have Mass."

He slid off the chair and went to grab his backpack with a mumbled jumble of words that sounded like 'I hate mass.' I waited by the door while he took what felt like eons. Eventually, he finally walked up to my side.

"Took you long enough."

"I had to make sure everything was there!"

"Like what!?"

"The pencil you gave me!"

"Okay you absolute dumbass, let's go." I smiled despite my annoyance and held the door open. I could've sworn I heard him say dumb butt under his breath

"Go on then."

"I'm going!"

"Not fast enough."

"Why do I have to be fast?"

"Because we have Mass and almost everyone is there."

"Oh yeah!"

"Oh yeah!" I said in an awfully high pitched and mocking tone.

"Hey!"

"Hey, you!"

"What's that supposed to mean!?"

"It means you're a dumbass!"

"Dumbbutt!"

I closed my eyes and sighed.

He bumped into my side as we walked, a little off balance from his backpack strap hanging halfway down his arm.

I reached over and fixed it without thinking.

He didn’t say thank you.

I didn’t expect him to.

"Gerard."

"What is it now?" I said it like I was annoyed, but he knew very well I wasn't.

"I never got to brush your hair. You said you would let me."

"Can this conversation wait?"

"No! Every time I see your hair I'm going to think of it!"

I sighed again, this time into the ceiling. “You’re really gonna bring this up right now?”

“Yes! You said after breakfast!”

“That was before we were late.”

“Lateness doesn’t cancel hair appointments.”

I stopped walking. Just for a second. Just enough to look at him—really look.

I rubbed my forehead. “Fine. After Mass. But no clips or things. I mean it.”

He lit up like I’d handed him the moon. “You won’t even feel it. I’ll be gentle.”

“You’ve never been gentle a day in your life.”

He reached for my hand, not to hold it—just to tug at my sleeve like a kid dragging a parent along. “Let’s go! We’re gonna be late, remember?”

I blinked. Smiled a little. I don't even know how I ended up in this situation, taking care of some random kid who showed up at my dorm. He wasn't mine. No one assigned him to me. There wasn't some form I filled out, or a box I checked that said "Yes, I'd like a human tornado with too many questions and no sense of volume control."

But he came anyway and now he was tugging at my sleeve and ranting about hair and soup like it was life or death, and I was…following. Like it made sense.

Maybe it did.

Maybe it didn’t matter how it happened. What mattered was that he was here. And he trusted me. And I hadn’t screwed it up yet.

"Gerard," he said again, snapping me out of it. “You're doing the stare thing.”

"Yeah, well, you're doing the talking thing."

He stuck out his tongue. I poked his cheek. That always made him put it back in.

Sister Williams began the Kyrie, her voice sharp and lilting like always, and I waited for it. That small glance. That tilt of Frank’s head toward me. The whisper. What comes next? What do I say now?

But it didn’t come.

Frank’s lips moved along with the congregation—mouthing the words, maybe not perfectly in rhythm, but there. Present. Focused. He even did the sign of the cross without checking mine first.

I watched him for a second longer than I should have. Not because I expected him to mess up. Just because… it felt big. Like watching a kid take their first step and not fall.

He was learning, and I didn’t even have to whisper.

God, I was proud of him.

Not in some loud, billboard way. Just... quietly. Deep in my chest, where it ached and bloomed at the same time. It was the first time I didn’t have to guide him. The first time he wasn’t fidgeting with panic or whispering "What do I say now?" between verses.

When everyone stood again, I did too. My knees cracked. So did my back, same as always.

When the final Amen echoed out, Frank looked up at me.

"Time to go?"

I nodded. “Yeah.”

The sun hit the top of our heads as soon as we stepped out. It was no longer weak. Honestly? It was kinda stuffy. The courtyard was full of students, some headed towards the cafeteria and others sitting down on the grass in little wonky circles.

We walked a few steps in silence.

Then he said, “I did good, huh?”

I looked down at him. His eyes were still squinting from the light, but his mouth had that tiny, uncertain curve. The kind he got when he wanted praise but was afraid to ask for it directly.

“You did really good.”

He nodded once, quick, like he’d been holding his breath waiting to hear it.

“I didn’t even mess up the ‘and with your spirit’ part.”

“I noticed.”

"Gerard?"

"Hm?"

"When can I brush your hair?"

I sighed, putting down my fork. "Can't you see I'm eating?"

"You've been eating for ten minutes! First period's gonna start!"

"It's called savoring the food."

"No such thing!"

"Yes there i—."

"I'm not believing a word that comes out of your mouth! You're just trying to stall so I don't have to brush your hair!"

"I swear I'm not."

"Yeah you are!"

I shoved a piece of what I assumed to be canned papaya from the fruit salad into my mouth. Nope. Peach.

"Let's go!"

I shook my head, still chewing.

"But Gee! You promised!"

I swallowed. "I did—but I'm not finished eating."

"You're taking long on purpose!"

"Didn't you want me to eat in the morning?"

He opened his mouth to say something and then retracted. "Well yeah.."

"Then that's it."

"But—!"

"That's it." I repeated.

He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head to the side.

"You're overreacting you know."

He pouted. I knew he was going to act like this until I caved. I also knew that I was going to cave, but I wanted to see how long I would last.

"Y'know," I popped a piece of melon into my mouth. "You're not really missing out here. Whole fruit salad comes from a can I'd reckon is from 1998."

His expression didn't shift.

I continued.

"I know it's only 3 years old and canned food usually lasts five, but that doesn't mean it's good, and this most certainly isn't." I peeked up at him through my bangs.

Still doing that stupid pouty thing.

"Frankie, c'mon. I promised to let you brush my hair. I'm not gonna skimp out on ya."

"When?" he muttered, not even looking at me.

"When I finish."

He let out a huff of air through his nose, puffing his cheeks and pouting harder.

I stabbed my fork into the awful, dry eggs the school served. Would it kill them to use butter? I held the fork up to my mouth and stared at Frank through the tines.

I slammed the fork down on the tray and got up. "Fine! Get up, then! Let's go!"

The motherfucker's face brightened up instantly. God, it was like he lived to muddle my life. He hopped out of his seat and skipped beside me as we walked to the doors.

"You're the worst. Seriously."

He didn't even say anything, just continued skipping like a menace.

"Hey." I pulled his arm to stop him. "You're not brushing my hair if you don't speak."

"What's there to say?"

"I dunno!" I racked my brain trying to think of what Frank would normally say if I allowed to him to do something stupid. "Like a little 'yay' or a 'thank you' would be nice." I spat.

He blinked up at me. Then he threw both arms around my middle.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

I grunted. "I asked for appreciation not an invasion of my personal space!"

He didn’t let go. "You’re the best person ever born."

"Uh-huh."

"You deserve a crown. A sparkly one. With gumdrops. Sticky gumdrops."

"You're not brushing my hair if you're sticky."

He gasped, backing off dramatically. "I'm not sticky."

"Alright you bimbo, let's go."

"What's a bimbo?"

"It's—" I paused, then turned to look at him. "Okay. Technically? It means someone who's hot and dumb."

He blinked. "...Oh."

"But," I added, lifting a finger before he could spiral, "that's not how I meant it."

"Then what did you mean!?"

"I meant," I took a moment to collected my thoughts and convert them into proper words that he would be able to process and understand. "replace the hot part with insufferably sweet. Like you're.. well I'm not going to sugarcoat it but you're really fuckin' annoying."

"I am not!"

"You are. That's final," I shoved my finger in his face before he could retort "No! Shut your hole! I'm not finished!"

He closed his mouth and scowled at me.

"You're annoying, okay? But... you're also—God—you're really, really sweet."

"...You mean it?"

I shifted on my feet. “Yeah, I mean it. Don’t make it weird.”

He nodded.

"Y'know, you're the third most important person in my life right now."

He froze. “Third?!”

“Yup.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Who’s above me?”

"Well. First place is my little brother Mikey."

"You have a brother!? A little brother!?" He exclaimed, like he just witnessed someone burn to ash infront of his very eyes.

"Yeah. Micheal James Way. You gonna make fun of his name too?"

He squinted. "Depends. Is he anything like you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Answer the question!"

"I'd hope not."

"Then no."

"What!? That's unjust! You can't seriously think James is better than Arthur!!"

"I don't, but I do."

"What does that even mean!?"

"“It means you’re mean.”

"I make you soup!!"

"You force me to eat chicken noodle."

"I do not! I was trying to open you up to new things!"

"Mmmmmhmmm.."

"Yeah that's why you're third."

He stared at me, mouth open. “Wow.”

“Don’t ‘wow’ me."

“I just—wow.” He let go of my arm like I’d insulted his entire bloodline.

“Oh my God,” I muttered.

“I give and I give,” he announced to the hallway ceiling. “And I get third. Not even second! Third!”

"What exactly do you give?"

“What do I give?” he repeated, aghast.

“That’s what I said.”

“Gerard,” he said, scandalized. “I give everything.”

“Mm. Specific.”

“I give sweetness!”

"Yeah I totally need your sweetness to survive."

"You do! You said so yourself!"

I unlocked the door to our dorm and pushed him inside. Not enough to make him fall or anything, just to get him to move. "So I did.."

He huffed. “You’re so ungrateful.”

"C'mon let's brush my hair already."

Frank scrambled into the bathroom, retrieved his duck towel, and ushered me to sit on the floor, back flush against the side of the bed. He fished out a brush from the top drawer of his dresser—baby blue with white bristles and a chipped bunny sticker that looked like it had seen the World Wars unfold. I didn’t question it.

He sat on the bed behind me, so my head rested at his knees. He crossed his legs and pulled the duck towel over my shoulders like a cape.

"Welcome to Salon de Frankie."

I braced myself, knowing full well this wasn’t going to be a quick, normal hair-brushing. With Frank, nothing ever was.

I tried to sit still, but Frank’s fingers were already tangled in my hair, pulling at knots like he was negotiating a peace treaty.

“Careful,” I muttered, wincing.

“Relax,” he said, voice all serious like. “This is an art form.”

An art form that felt like medieval torture.

His fingers worked carefully through the mess on my head. It hurts just the tiniest bit, but I obviously wasn't going to say anything.

I shifted a little so I could catch his eye in the mirror. Frank’s fingers paused, then kept moving slowly.

“You ever think about what you want when you’re older?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe a place where I don’t have to argue about brushing hair every morning.”

I snorted. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

“But seriously,” he said, voice softer, “I just wanna be with people who get me. No bullshit.”

I turned my head to look at him.

"You cursed! Willingly!"

He grabbed my head and forced it back to its previous position. "Don't move!"

“So... no grand plans? Just ‘people who get me’?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, fingers still working through my hair. “That, and maybe somewhere warm. Somewhere that feels like home.”

"Somewhere with soup."

He giggled, looking up at me through the mirror. “Yeah. What about you? You got a place like that?”

I hesitated. “Not anymore."

"Why not."

"Been dragged here instead."

"Will you go back?"

"In the summer. Then I'll be dragged here again."

"We go home in the summer?"

"Yeah. It's summer break, everyone goes home and comes back in the fall."

"Home..?" His movement ceased.

"Yeah. Home."

He didn’t say anything.

I waited for the brush to keep moving, but it didn’t. His hands just stayed where they were—resting gentle and still on my shoulders, like he forgot what he was doing. In the mirror, I could see his face, confused and a little crumpled.

"I don’t want to go back.." he said finally, quiet like he was worried saying it too loud would make it more real.

"Why not?"

"I want to be with you."

"We can visit each other."

"No! I'm not going back to that place! My dad is there!"

"Just continue doing my hair. He's not going to hurt you again."

"Then what am I going to do in the summer?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"But—!"

"Frank. I promise you're going to be fine."

He stilled for a moment before resuming his ministrations with the brush.

I wanted to say something to lighten the mood. Just something. Anything. I cleared my throat, reaching for the first dumb thing that came to mind. “Y’know, if you keep brushing this hard, I’m gonna go bald by June.”

Frank sniffled out a laugh, barely there, tugging a little too hard on a knot, then wincing like he felt it. “Sorry.”

“S’okay.” I relaxed a little under his touch. “If I go bald, I expect you to draw on my head with Sharpie.”

He perked up, just a bit. “Really?”

“Yeah. But only cool stuff. No penises.”

“That's something you would do."

I scoffed. “What? No way.”

“Yes way.” He tugged gently, a little playful now.

“Well,” I said, “if I did draw anything stupid on your head, it’d at least be anatomically correct.”

He gasped. “Gerard!”

“I mean, if you’re gonna do it, do it right.”

"Ew!"

"Aaand it'd have pubes and shit."

He let out a horrified shriek and smacked the back of my head—gently, but still.

I burst out laughing. “What? You want realism or not?”

“No!”

“That’s unconstitutional.”

“It’s Frankstitutional,” he said smugly, like he’d just declared independence.

I leaned back a little into his lap, smirking.

He huffed. “You’re gross.”

“And you love it.”

"You're lucky you're cute."

I froze.

He froze.

"Not in that way! In the cute baby kind of way!"

"You're the cute baby."

"Takes one to know one."

I gave an affirming hum.

"You done yet?" I turned my head to the clock. 8:19. Eleven more minutes till class.

He pulled my head back straight. "Stop moving!"

The brush snagged a stubborn knot, and I winced. “Fuck! You’re hurting me!”

“Relax,” he said, voice softening as he slowed down a notch. “You’re tougher than you look.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He glanced up at me through the mirror, eyes mischievous. “You know, if you really wanted me to go faster, you could stop squirming.”

I tried to sit still but the ticklish feeling of his fingers through my hair betrayed me. “I’m not squirming!”

“Uh huh.” He tugged gently, and I flinched anyway.

“Okay, maybe a little.”

He laughed quietly. I shook my head, biting back a smile.

“Done,” he announced triumphantly.

I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the slight ache from the knots but also the strange comfort that came with it. “Looks good.”

He beamed. “Told you I’m a pro.”

I turned to face him, trying to hide the smile tugging at my lips. “You’re getting there."

"You'll tell me when I am, then?"

"Yeah."

Frank handed me my backpack while putting on his own. I grabbed the straps of my backpack and swung it over my shoulders, feeling the familiar weight settle.

“Race you to class?” he challenged, bouncing on his heels.

"Absolutely not."

"Why!?" He sulked.

"With these knees? I'll be sore for days!"

He bounced up and down, eyes sparkling. “You’re such a scaredy-cat.”

"Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

We stepped out into the hallway, the chatter of other students filling the air. Frank glanced around, then, out of nowhere, he said, “Did you know baby elephants suck their trunks like pacifiers?”

I blinked. “What?”

He nodded, eyes forward, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “They do. Like how babies suck their thumbs. It’s cause it calms them down.”

“Huh.” I looked over at him. “That’s actually kind of adorable. Where'd you learn that?"

He shrugged, but I could tell he was proud of himself. “I used to watch National Geographic every day after school. Learned a lot of stuff.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He looked up at me. “I liked watching animals take care of each other. Still do."

"Sounds like a productive use of your time."

“You wanna hear another one?” he asked, voice barely above the crowd.

“Another animal fact?”

He nodded. “Promise it’s a good one.”

“Hit me.”

He leaned in like he was telling a secret. “Sea otters hold hands when they sleep so they don’t float away from each other.”

I stopped walking for a second. “Wait. That’s real?”

“Yup.” He rocked on his heels, then tucked his hands behind his back. “They find a buddy and just... link paws. It’s so they stay close.”

“That’s stupidly cute.”

“Right? Like—like even in their sleep they wanna stay together.” He looked up at me, eyes bright. "You're fascinated by sea puppies holding hands?" "I just told you the cutest thing ever and you're indifferent!?"

“I’m just saying!"

"Keep your saying to yourself!"

He jabbed a finger at my chest. “You don’t get it, Gerard! They’re in love!”

I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said they were buddies.”

“Buddies in love!” Frank declared, scandalized. “They hold hands so they don’t lose each other.”

"Okay, okay. Another one."

"Hmmm let me think," he mumbled. "Oh! Penguins give their partners the smoothest pebble they can find! It’s like a gift.”

“A pebble?”

“Yeah!” he beamed. “It’s the penguin version of ‘I love you.’ They waddle around looking for the perfect one, and when they find it, they walk up drop it at the other penguin’s feet.”

I stopped walking.

He looked back at me, puzzled. “What?”

I blinked at him. “You’re gonna end up giving someone a rock one day, aren’t you?”

He grinned like I’d just read his mind. “Maybe.”

“Oh God.”

“And not just any rock. The best rock. One that looks like a heart. Or glows in the dark. Or smells like strawberries.”

“Rocks don’t smell like strawberries.”

“Not with that attitude.”

...

“You think Mikey would want a penguin rock?”

I tilted my head. “You planning on proposing to my brother now?”

“What? No! As a friend!” He threw his hands up. “God, Gerard, don’t make it weird!”

“You made it weird.”

“I’m just trying to spread joy!” He said it like he was some kind of magical woodland creature on a mission. Probably an elf.

“Maybe I’ll get you a pebble too,” he said offhandedly, like it wasn’t the most ridiculous and sweet thing I’d ever heard.

“Thanks,” I said. “Make sure it smells like strawberries.”

Sister Williams wrote 'Crusades' on the board in big bulky letters. It was a minor upgrade from the unintelligible chicken scratch. I wondered if she knew her handwriting was terrible and couldn't help it. Either way, I was tired of it. I was tired of this school. I had been tired since 1999. That reminded me of the date. I liked to write the date at the very top right corner of my notebook. It was just a habit I'd picked up. Even if I never really wrote any notes, I would write the date anyway. It was like a tradition. I scrawled 'Mon, 8-1-2001' onto my page.

The numbers looked pointless, like everything else in this room. I wasn’t even trying to listen, but Sister Williams was already talking.

"Can anyone tell me why the Church launched the First Crusade?" Sister asked, turning around slowly, like a horror movie reveal. Her eyes scanned the room, expectant.

A kid up front mumbled something about holy lands. Another added "Muslims?" like it was a question.

She nodded, satisfied. "Yes. Jerusalem had been under Islamic rule for centuries. Pope Urban II issued a call—"

I lost interest.

I turned to my notebook and doodled a crooked sword in the corner of my notebook. Added some flame to the tip. Made the flame into a dragon. Gave it teeth.

Sister Williams droned on about the Crusades, but my mind was somewhere else. Frank was staring at the ceiling, eyes half-closed, like he was waiting for the world to get less boring. I looked at him, at the way his hair flopped over one eye, at the faint smudge of ink on his fingers, and then down at the paper between us. My dumb flaming dragon sword.

It was stupid, but I guess I loved stupid the way I was smiling like an idiot.

Frank tapped his finger once on the desk. Just once. Then he tilted his head toward me and whispered, “Do you think worms can be Catholic?”

I blinked.

He looked serious about it, which made it worse.

“Like—” he continued, “do they get baptised or do they just sort of..believe really hard underground?”

I covered my mouth with my hand to muffle the laugh. “Frank.”

“What?” he whispered, wide-eyed. “God made all creatures, Gerard. Even the squishy ones.”

“Stop." I muttered, shaking my head.

“You think I’m joking, but I bet Sister Williams would have a whole thing about it.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I said under my breath. “Five paragraphs and a closing prayer.”

He snorted.

The bell rang mid-sentence. Sister Williams raised her voice to finish her thought, but no one was listening. Not anymore. Bags zipped. Chairs scraped.

Frank stood up and stretched with a tiny, satisfied sigh.

"Can't you wait for me?"

"No."

I shook my head. “You’re the worst.”

English was in the oldest room on campus. The windows were tall, the kind that let in too much light in the morning and none in the afternoon. It smelled like old books and dried flowers—like someone had tried to bless the place with lavender once and never tried again.

Ms. Lee stood at the front.

She wore all black. Again. Sleeves past her wrists, silver rings on every other finger. Her hair was long and dark and dramatic, and she always looked like she had just stepped out of a thunderstorm, emotionally or otherwise.

Today, she was holding Of Mice and Men like it was holy scripture.

“We ended with the dream,” she said softly. Her voice carried, not because it was loud, but because people listened. “Page sixty-four.”

She looked up.

“Would anyone like to read?”

Silence.

She didn’t seem to mind. She started reading instead, voice like velvet on gravel. Slow. Careful.

Frank leaned toward me, his voice barely there. “She sounds like she’s going to cry.”

“She always does,” I whispered back.

“I like it.”

“Me too.”

She kept reading. Her eyes stayed on the page, but it still felt like she was watching us, or at least seeing into us, which was worse.

Frank leaned close and whispered, “Do you think she'd let me bring a worm to class if I gave it a name?”

“Only if it was poetic,” I whispered back. “And tragic.”

“I’ll name it Edgar,” he said. “After Poe. Or the guy from Men in Black.”

"You watched Men in Black?"

"Ah.. no."

I raised my brow, silently urging for an explanation.

“I never saw it, but my neighbor said there was this guy who was a bug wearing a human skin suit, and I thought that was kinda cool. Like maybe he just wanted to fit in but was really bad at it.”

It’s not like the bug wanted to scare anyone. He just didn’t know how to move right in the suit.” he continued his thoughts in a mumble.

“You don’t know that,” I said, keeping my voice low. “You haven’t watched the movie. You’re a poser.”

He blinked, then let out a soft huff that might’ve been a laugh.

“I am not.”

“You are. You’re projecting feelings onto a bug you’ve never even seen.”

He looked at me. “Well, someone didn’t have cable.”

I took a breath. “Alright,” I said softly, “I promise. One day, I’ll take you to see Men in Black.”

Frank’s eyes widened, like he hadn’t expected me to say it. “You mean it?”

“Yeah,” I said, voice low enough that only he could hear it.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just smiled—a small, real smile.

"Thanks.."

"Don't mention it."

The next class whizzed by in a blur of half-heard lectures and scribbled notes I’d never look at again. History was just more dates and battles and handwriting that made me wonder if these people were qualified to teach, but that didn't matter now. Not really. Not when I was walking with Frank.

We turned the corner into the next hallway, where the lights always flickered and smelled faintly like bleach and something burnt. Biology. The worst one.

Frank groaned when he saw the door. “Do you think if I lie down in the hallway and stop breathing they’ll let me skip it?”

“They’ll think you fainted,” I said. “You’ll end up in the nurse’s office with a wet paper towel on your head and a packet of crackers you can’t eat.”

His face did this small thing—surprised, but soft. Then he bumped my arm with his. “How do you know that? You must've tried it you weirdo..”

I didn’t answer. Just pulled the door open.

The classroom smelled like old paper and frog guts. The windows were too high to see anything out of, but the light still managed to come in harsh.

Frank picked our usual spot in the back corner without glancing around. I followed. His chair squeaked as he dragged it closer to mine than it probably needed to be.

I didn’t complain.

Mr. Ross was already setting up at the front, hunched over a stack of handouts like they offended him. He was the kind of teacher who didn’t really believe in eye contact. Or talking, if he could help it.

Frank had left for the bathroom nearing the end of class. When the bell finally rang for lunch, I found him waiting by the cafeteria door like he’d been saving a spot just for me. He looked up and grinned like I was the best thing he’d seen all morning.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied, falling into step beside him.

We made our way through the crowded cafeteria, trays clattering and voices rising all around us. Frank found our usual spot—a corner table. It was beside the trash, so nobody ever sat there. Of course they were overreacting though, you couldn't actually smell anything.

He glanced up at me, his grin stretching wide. “Biology was brutal.”

“We survived." I said, biting into the pizza.

He laughed softly. “Barely.”

He peeled the lid off his cup and stirred it with his straw like he was making something fancier than school apple juice.

“You ever think they’re trying to poison us?” he asked, examining the cup.

“Every day.”

He hummed like that was a fair answer and took a small sip. I watched him over the edge of my tray, the way his legs were pulled up into the seat.

He didn’t have any food, just the juice. He never did.

"Mr. Iero?" Mr. Urie's voice boomed from the front of the class. I looked up from my doodle.

"What’s the difference between telling the truth and being cruel?"

"Uh.."

"The way you say it...?" His voice raised at the end of the sentence like he wasn't sure of the answer himself.

"The phrasing of words? Elaborate."

"Well.. if I told someone their jacket didn't really match their outfit that's being honest, but if I said they looked really ugly with the jacket on that would be mean."

"Mr. Iero."

"Yeah?"

"What’s the difference between telling the truth and being cruel?" He repeated.

Frank picked at the scab on his thumb.

"Telling the truth is giving your honest opinion and being cruel is hurting others," His voice did the high thing again.

"Why would an individual purposely choose to be cruel?"

"I guess it depends.. sometimes they're just pure evil, other times they want revenge."

"Say it were revenge, would that justify blundering someone to death? If the person being murdered previously killed someone else, does he deserve death?"

"I- I don't know.."

He inched closer. "Answer the question Mr. Iero. Does the person deserve death?"

"No.. nobody deserves death and nobody has the right to take away a life."

"Say it were you who was pummeling your fist into the murderers face. Does that change your ideology?"

"I mean if I was already beating him then I guess in that situation I would've already decided it was fair.."

"But would you do it in the future?"

"N-no I don't think so.."

"What if they murdered someone you love? Someone you care deeply for? Then what?"

Frank looked at me. Stared into the back of my skull kind of look. Like he was thinking about every choice he's made in his life up until now kind of look. I put my pencil down.

"Then it would be fair."

"If they killed a loved one, would it justify your vendetta?"

"Yeah."

"Does anyone else agree with Mr. Iero? Raise your hand if so."

A couple hands raised, mine included.

"I'm sorry but no. Killing someone- anyone, should never be excused. Loved one or not." Came a voice from the very side of the class.

Ronnie.

He was leaned up against the wall, arms crossed like he had more to add.

"Why do you think so?" Chimed in Mr. Urie.

"Because, murder is a sin and only Jesus Christ has the right to take anyone's ability to breathe."

Of course he had a religious answer to back it up. He always did. I picked up my pencil and returned to my half finished drawing of a pirate ship.

"Mr. Way?"

I looked up at Mr. Urie, simultaneously setting down my pencil.

"Do you agree with Mr. Radke?"

"No. No I don't."

"What do you believe in?"

"I believe if the authorities can't serve you justice you should take it into your own hands."

He picked on someone else- someone I never really bothered to interact with because he was a friend of Pete's.

"Mr. Stump?"

"Huh-? Yeah?"

"Do you agree with Mr. Way?"

"Er.. what did he say..?"

About a minute later he was getting his hand forcefully spread open. I told Frank to cover his eyes, but of course he didn't listen. When did he ever?

Shortly after there was a silencing 'smack!' and a stifled scream from the guy.

Again.

He raised the ruler and brought it down with another loud crack!

The third and final time, the guy withdrew his hand right before the smack, causing Mr. Urie to hit himself instead.

"Motherf-!" He exclaimed, clutching his hand.

It felt nice, for him to feel what he was doing to others. I think Frank agreed because he looked like he was trying not to cracka smile. Pun intended.

"Mr. Stump! Office! Now!"

"It was an accident! I really didn't mean-!"

"Not another word out of you. Go!"

Stump slowly stood up and made his was to the door. Mr. Urie put a hand on his back and gave him a push. Not the light kind. Not the kind I gave to Frank. The kind that was meant to make you fall. He left the class behind Stump and shut the door. As soon as the lock clicked, the class exploded with chatter, mostly trying to predict what was going to happen to that guy.

I nudged Frank with my elbow. "Hey. You okay?"

He turned to me. "Why did he do that..?"

"Do what?"

"Start hitting that guy with a ruler?"

"Punishment."

"For what..?"

"Not paying attention."

"But neither was he when the guy took his hand away!"

"I know."

"How is that okay?"

"It's not."

"Then why are we letting it happen!?"

"What do you suggest we do then, huh? Rebellion?"

There was no answer.

I picked my pencil up for what felt to me like the umpteenth time, planning to finish my sketch.

"Let's go?"

"Just a sec.. I can't find my eraser."

"It's just an eraser! Use the one on your pencil!"

"No," I was now on my knees looking under our desks. "It was a gift."

"From?"

"Doesn't matter! Just help me find it!!"

"Is this it?"

"Yes! Thank you!" I took it from him and peppered a kiss to his cheek without much thought.

"It's a little box. How's that an eraser?"

"It's inside the box, smartass. It's kneadable. Look."

I opened up the box and pinched some of the eraser up.

"It's like slime!"

"Yeah, kinda. It's meant for drawing."

"Of course it is."

I dumped my backpack on the floor beside the door. Frank copied. I wasted no time going into the kitchenette, turning the stove knob to medium high heat.

"Get changed."

"You're not changed!"

"I will after I finish."

"Then I'll wait for you." He said matter of a factedly.

"No. Go get dressed."

"Why do you get to be special."

"I'm less likely to spill soup on my uniform."

"Touché."

"Go."

"I'm going!"

He disappeared into the bathroom, but I could still hear the soft hum of his voice. He kept doing that, like a way to keep himself grounded—or just to be annoying. No in between.

I stirred the soup slowly, watching as the bubbles slowly rose to the surface. I thought a lot. I thought about how I got here, making soup for some kid I met last week on a Wednesday night.

"I'm back!"

"I've missed you."

"Is that sarcasm?"

"No. You left me with my thoughts."

"You're the one who told me to get dressed."

"Not in the bathroom."

"Would you like me to change over there?" He pointed to the area behind the kitchenette, where our beds were.

"Why not? I wouldn't turn around."

"What if you did? Accidentally?"

"You'd be talking. I don't think I would forget."

"Still no."

"I wasn't being serious."

He squinted. "You totally were."

"I was." I said placing his bowl on the table.

"Where's yours..?"

"Not hungry."

"Gee-!"

"Don't push it. I'm fine."

When I returned from the bathroom Frank was perched on the bed. My bed.

"You know you have to put your uniform away, right? You can't just leave it on the bathroom floor."

He moved to the bathroom.

"I got it. Just don't do it again."

"You sound like my mom."

"I'm sure."

I opened his dresser and tucked his uniform in with the other clothes.

"Whatcha doing?" I flopped onto the bed beside him.

"Playing with a loose thread in your mattress."

"Wow. Riveting."

"I know."

He didn’t look at me when he said, “I didn’t like today.”

I rolled onto my side, propping my head on one hand.

“Do you think he’ll get expelled?”

“Stump? No. Probably detention. Maybe a call home.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No. It’s not.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, “I would’ve cried.”

“Yeah.” I looked over at him. “I know.”

“You ever want to punch someone?” he asked after a bit.

“All the time.”

He looked like he was thinking about that for a long time. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something else, but whatever it was, he changed his mind.

Instead, he said, “Thanks for the soup.”

I didn't reply, I just kissed his cheek like I did earlier in the classroom.

"You wanna nap? We have an hour till Church."

"No. I just wanna stay like this. Awake."

"Okay. That's fine."

I turned to lay on my back beside him and like clockwork, he snuggled into my chest.

"You're getting comfortable."

"You make it hard to not be."

He didn’t say anything after that, just breathed slow against my shirt. I felt it in little puffs, warm and rhythmic, and I counted them for a while because it gave me something to do.

“I like your heartbeat,” he murmured.

“That’s a weird thing to say.”

“You say weird things all the time.”

“Yeah, but mine are charming.”

He snorted. “Yours are dorky.”

“Same thing.”

He went quiet again, and I thought maybe he’d finally dozed off. But then:

“Do you think Mr. Urie believes what he says?”

“What, about punishment?”

“About… people deserving things. Pain. Justice.”

I stared up at the ceiling. “I think he believes what he thinks justice is.”

“But it’s wrong.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t like that he believes it so hard.”

“I don’t either.”

Frank shifted slightly, fitting closer somehow, like he was trying to crawl inside my ribs and live there.

“I’m scared of ending up like him.”

“You’re not gonna.”

...

"Gee?"

"Hm?"

"Who was the eraser from."

"My friend who's allergic to chocolate."

"What's his name?"

"Bert."

"Is he nice?"

"Would I be friends with him if he wasn't?"

"No."

"Exactly."

...

“Gee?”

“Yeah?”

“If Bert's your friend, how come you never talk about him?”

I swallowed. “I do. A little.”

“Not really.”

He tilted his head like he didn’t get it, but didn’t push. “Is he your best friend?”

There was a pause I didn’t mean to let happen.

Frank noticed. “Oh.”

“He’s not like you,” I said. “He’s... something else.”

Frank’s fingers went still on my sleeve. “Do you miss him a lot?”

“I do.”

"Is he second...?"

"Second what?"

"Second most important."

"...Yeah."

...

“Can I brush your hair.”

“Yeah. Fine. Go get the brush.”

“Yes!” Frank hopped off the bed, nearly tripping over his own feet. He dove for his bag, rummaging through the mess like a raccoon until he found the brush. “I cleaned it. Swear. I even picked out the fuzz.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask.”

“Well, I’m telling you anyway.” Frank marched back over.

“Should I sit on the ground?”

“No. Just in front of me.”

He hadn’t said much since he started. Just the occasional sound. The tug of the brush. I didn’t mind it. Didn’t mind the quiet, either. It wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that settles in late at night, when there’s nothing left to say and nothing that needs to be said. Just the soft rhythm of the brush’s strokes. It broke though, as soon as he asked:

“…Can you tell me about Bert?”

I blinked.

“What about him?” I said.

“I dunno,” Frank said. “You just… seem to like him a lot.”

There wasn’t anything bitter in it. Just something unsure.

“He seems important to you,” he added.

I nodded once. “He is.”

Another pause.

“You said he's your best friend..he gave you the eraser, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He must know you really well,” Frank murmured.

I didn’t say anything.

“Is he far away?”

“He’s not far. Just off-campus.”

“Oh," Silence. Then: “You guys must hang out a lot.”

"When we can," I murmured, feeling him work out the knots that had accumulated through the day. It was far less painful than this morning.

“He’s known me a long time,” I said. “Before here. Before a lot of things.”

Frank was quiet again. Still brushing. Still thinking.

“That’s cool,” he said finally, almost under his breath. “I think it’s nice. Having someone like that.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I didn’t say anything.

Then, after another long pause:

“Do you talk to him every day?”

“Not every day.”

“But you want to?”

“Definitely.”

Frank was quiet. The brush moved a little slower.

“Do you miss him when you don’t?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sometimes a lot.”

Another beat.

“Has he ever seen you cry?”

“Yeah,” I said. “A couple times.”

“Lucky…” Frank muttered.

I blinked.

It didn’t sound like he meant for me to hear that. But I did. I had this weird feeling in my chest. The feeling you get when you see something you weren't supposed to.

"Lucky..?"

Frank’s hand stilled for a second.

"What?"

"You said lucky."

"Didn't.."

“You did.”

"I did." he admitted lowly.

"Why?"

“Because you let him see you. Like that.”

I turned my head slightly. “And?”

Frank shrugged behind me, pushing my head straight again..

"And?" I pressed.

"I just.. I want you to let me see you like that too."

The silence stretched between us.

He wanted to see me break. To see me cry.

But I didn’t want him to.

Not because I was ashamed. Because I wanted him to feel safe.

“If you saw me crying all the time… if that was the side of me you knew best… I’m scared it’d.." I trailed off.

The brush stayed still.

“I don’t want to be the reason you don’t feel safe.”

He was quiet.

Then, before I could second-guess myself, I turned around and leaned forward.

Frank’s eyes fluttered closed, breath hitching. I pressed closer, slow and careful, letting the weight of everything I wasn’t saying settle between us. My hand reached up, fingers trembling, tracing the line of his jaw. His lips parted slightly beneath mine, I thought it was an invitation, to let the kiss deepen— but then I realized he wasn't kissing back.

I pulled away. I was still holding on. I'd hoped he'd do the same. But he didn't.

"Gee I—what happens now...?"

"Nothing. This didn't happen if you don't want it to."

"I don't."

"Then that's it. We continue normally."

"We don't have to talk about it..?"

"No..never."

"Good."

"Am I still third?"

"You're not moving up until someone dies."

Nobody talks about how odd it feels to kiss a guy and go into Church an hour later like it's nothing. To sit through the hymns and readings with this hollow feeling in your chest like you did something wrong, even if you don't believe. Even if you haven’t believed in years. Even if you stopped praying the same day you stopped expecting answers.

Some things stick in you like glass.

I buried my hands in my pockets. Frank tugged on my sleeve.

"Gee?"

"What?"

"If you met me before Bert, would I be second?"

"Why do you keep asking about Bert?" I asked, even though I knew the answer. He wanted to be important too, but I don't think he was going to say it. Not if I didn't press.

He shrugged.

That was it. Now he was blabbing in my right ear about how "that cloud over there looked like a popsicle."

"A disfigured popsicle.."

"It's melting! Don't be mean!"

"Sorry...what flavor?"

"Strawberry.." there was a pause, then his face lit up like a bomb coming into contact with the Earth. "Or cherry! Definitely cherry!!"

"Cherry? Ew."

He looked at me like I had ripped Joy limb by limb. " 'Ew!?' Well what flavor do you prefer then, Mr. Way?"

"Pistachio. Duh."

"Yuck!" He stuck his tongue out to emphasize his disgust.

I poked his cheek. "Keep it in before a bee lands on it."

He didn't say anything, just looked absolutely mortified.

“Are you— are you seriously scared of that?” I asked.

“No,” he said way too fast. I raised a brow. “I just—bees are gross. They do the waggle dance. It’s indecent.”

I blinked at him. “The what dance?”

“The waggle dance,” he repeated, face dead serious now, like this was a National Geographic documentary and not a conversation we were having on the grass of the school's courtyard. “It’s how they flirt. And give directions. But mostly flirt.”

“..You’re telling me you’re scared of bees because they flirt.”

“Flirt and stab,” he corrected, raising one finger. “Flirt and stab. That's messed up.”

"Thought you liked animals"

"Animals, not insects."

I laughed. Couldn’t help it.

“Still yuck, though. Pistachio tastes like old people soap.”

“Old people have good taste. They've been alive the longest.”

He wrinkled his nose.

We walked in silence, but it's never too long because Frank can't keep his mouth shut for the life of him. No—seriously If he was held at gunpoint and asked to stay quiet for two minutes he would be lifeless and bleeding out before the countdown hit thirty seconds.

“Does Bert like pistachio?” The question landed like a rock. I didn’t answer. Frank looked straight ahead, pretending he hadn’t asked it.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “He doesn’t really eat ice cream.”

“Oh.”

The gravel crunched under our shoes as we walked the back path toward the dorms. The trees were all heavy with sun now, dripping gold across the grass like they were trying to show off. I think I was going to tell a story about trees tonight. By the time we reached the dorm building, the sky was starting to pink at the edges. Frank let the door slam behind us and immediately kicked off his shoes like they were trying to kill him.

"Don't shut the door so loud."

"Why not?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Because now it knows we’re home and it’s gonna kill us in our sleep."

Frank froze halfway through peeling off his sock. "The door?"

"Yeah. You pissed it off. Doors have feelings, y’know."

He narrowed his eyes like he was trying to figure out if I was messing with him. (I was.) But it’s Frank, so naturally—

“I’ll say sorry,” he mumbled, and turned back toward the door. "Sorry, door. You're doing amazing."

I snorted. "Jesus."

“Don’t bring Him into this.” he said, flopping backward onto his bed, arms sprawled like he’d just finished a marathon.

I toed off my boots and hung my jacket on the hook behind the door.

Frank rolled over and looked at me upside down. His hair was sticking up in all directions from static, gravity, or him just being him. I wanted to brush it. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair. Frank didn’t say anything, just watched me. Still upside down, like a bat.

"Can I brush your hair?"

"You want to brush my hair..?"

"You've brushed mine."

"I don't mind."

I wasn’t expecting him to say yes, but then again- it's Frank.

"Where's your brush?"

"Desk drawer. The left one."

I crossed the room and opened it. Sure enough, his hairbrush lay on top of a scattered pile of gel pens and notebook paper.

"You have all these pens and you still borrow my pencil?"

"I like yours."

I scoffed, grabbing the brush. The bunny sticker was peeling at one of the corners. I smoothed it down without thinking.

"Besides, I don't like using pens."

"Why not?"

"Too much room for mistakes, not enough for solutions."

"Ever heard of ink corrector? Correction tape??"

"I don't like how it's obvious I made a mistake when I use those."

"You know you can see eraser marks too."

"Not if I write lightly."

I huffed and sat behind him on the bed. I hesitated for a second, hand hovering above his head. Then I let the bristles sink into his hair.

“Your hands are warm."

“Sorry.”

“No. I like it.”

The brush moved slowly through the tangles. His hair was softer than it looked— like silk.

“You’re good at this,” Frank said after a while.

“You have low standards.”

“No, you’re good.”

I just kept brushing, long and soft strokes.

“You got knots,” I commented blankly.

“I live a complicated life.”

"I do everything for you."

"Story!"

"I know. I wanna tell you a story about a tree- but not just any tree. Me and Mikey's tree."

"You guys had a tree?"

"In our backyard. Nothing special, just a plain old tree. Couldn't even climb it- but its leaves? Its leaves compensated for everything it missed. The branches were skinny, sure- but the leaves spread over half the yard. It blocked out the sun and only let it filter in through those tiny holes. It looked magical—naturally, we thought it was."

"Magic? How?"

"We used to tell it our secrets. Not something big like I cheated on a test or anything. It was little kid secrets you know. I was 9 at the time, Mikey was 6."

"Well what did you tell the tree?"

"We told it about the people we didn't like at school, who we wanted to be when we grew up, what we'd do if we ever ran away. And whenever the wind knocked a leaf down, we swore it was answering us."

Frank hugged Joy tight.

"We used to make our parents sit down and tell it secrets. I guess we wanted them to see the tree's answer too- but the leaves never fell."

Frank gasped. "It's because it only answers little kids!"

My mouth curved into a smile. Frank believed the tree was magic just like me and Mikey did all those years ago. I wanted to tell him the leaves fell for us during autumn and it was just a coincidence. I wanted to tell him we made our parents sit under the tree in the summer and that's why no leaves fell. But I didn't- actually more like I couldn't.

"Maybe."

"Do you think the tree would've liked me?"

"I think it would've loved you."

"Enough to answer me with leaves?"

"Enough to answer you with leaves."

I gave the cord on the lamp a soft pull and watched the light disappear. I rolled onto my side, facing him in the dark.

“I don’t think I’m ever gonna be one of the grown-ups who the tree doesn’t answer.”

I stared at him through the dark. Or at least what I thought was him.

“Why?”

”‘Cause I’m always gonna be little, in here.” He tapped his temple through the blanket. “And I think the tree knows.”

"Maybe it does."

"Is that a bad thing."

"Look at it this way—the tree only answers little kids because they need guidance. Adults already know what to do, right? So the tree is trying to help the kids. Is that a bad thing to you?"

"No.."

"Then that's it, it’ll always drop leaves for you.”

He nodded against his pillow, satisfied.

The week passed by agonizingly slow yet all too fast at the same time. They say when you're having fun, time passes by faster. Now I don't believe in the supernatural or anything—but, I did believe in my theorem. Why 'theorem?' Because I had seen enough to consider it proven. Because there was cold hard evidence before me, that evidence being my own experience. I felt it one too many times, this week being the record holder. When it was time for classes I swear I could've been on a plane halfway across Europe, but when that same amount of time was lunch.. it was different. Because I was talking to Frank. Maybe I wasn't having fun per se, but I was enjoying his presence. And apparently that was all Time needed to ring the bell on us mid conversation. Mid interesting conversation.

I think Time gets off on that. Dangling warmth in front of you, letting you laugh a little, and then yanking the rug out from under it before it can mean anything. Sometimes I’d try to remember what we were even talking about—what topic Time had murdered—and I couldn’t. Not a single word. Not the point we were circling, not the question he didn't know the answer to.

Time had left me the wrappers, not the candy. The phantom shapes of something sweet.

But it didn't matter now, did it? We were taking our seats in class. That said class was going to be long. Very long. I'm convinced Time is taunting me and nobody can tell me otherwise- except, well, they could. I mean they don't really need to. I'm well aware Time isn't a real entity who's out to get me. I know that Time is just..time.

I think the reason I like to believe it's alive and has a grueling hatred for my happiness is because I need someone to blame. I need something to fall back on to keep me stabilized. I guess it gives me a sense of closure or finality knowing the reason I couldn't talk to Frank for as long as I wanted was because something was trying to stop me rather than it being the normal course of life. It gave the whole situation a story. Something interesting in this school of dull.

Frank was already sitting, scribbling in his notebook with his tongue peeping out like it always did when he was concentrating. He wasn't taking notes, of course not. He was drawing.

I slid into the seat beside him. He didn’t look up.

From the corner of my eye, I could make out a blur of shapes. Definitely not academic. A circle with arms, maybe? Or wings?

He only acknowledged me once he finished whatever line he was perfecting. Then he looked up and grinned like I’d just arrived at his birthday party.

"You like bats!"

"I do. How'd you guess?"

"You have a bat pen."

"So I do."

"Do you like Batman?"

"Who doesn't?"

He turned back to his notebook, doodling again.

Two minutes passed. He tapped my shoulder.

"Look!" He pointed to the all-new drawing beside his bat.

"Cool! Uh...what is it..?"

"A raccoon! That's me! And the bat is you!"

"Why a raccoon?"

"I think Robin would be a raccoon."

I gave a "Huh.." that was supposed to be a subliminal 'That makes sense, actually.'

“Alright, everyone,” Sister Williams called from the front, loud enough to snap the air. “Books open. Page ninety-four. Let’s try not to waste time today.”

I received an elbow from Frank.

"What..?" I whispered, trying to keep my voice down as much as possible- which really wasn't much.

"I drew us again!"

He turned his notebook towards me and showed me a drawing of me helping him fly by holding his hands.

"You do realize Batman can't fly, right?"

"What!?"

"Have you ever seen Batman?"

"Not really.."

"He uses grapple hooks."

"You know," I said leaning back in my chair. "There's a Batman movie where he gets injured and Superman has to carry him. I found out I liked that. Maybe a little too much."

Frank blinked at me. He blinked a lot when he was trying to figure out how serious someone was being.

“You mean like... carried-carried?”

I didn’t answer.

He slowly lifted both hands and mimed it out- bridal style. "Like this?”

Still no answer.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, too loud. "You wanna be carried."

"Shut up."

"You wanna get rescued."

I lowered my voice. "Frank."

"Gee wants to be carried and rescued!"

"Well to be fair Batman was in a chair-"

"I don't care!"

"Frank! Shh!"

"Mr. Way, care to share?"

“He was just helping me understand martyrdom.”

Sister Williams narrowed her eyes.

“Sit up straight,” Sister Williams said finally. I scoffed and adjusted my posture as much as my spine would allow me. “And mouths shut unless invited.”

"Yes, Sister." We both muttered.

She turned back to the board.

I stared ahead. “I’m never saying anything to you again.”

"Noo I think it's sweet!" He whisper-shouted.

"Sure you do."

A month. It had been a month. We fell into a routine. Wake up, soup, get ready, school, soup, story, sleep. I stirred the pot and tied his tie each morning without question, because there was nothing to question. It worked like clockwork. Like the cogs in a perpetual motion machine- except perpetual motion machines stop eventually.

Frank still talked like none of this was unusual. Like having soup for breakfast was normal. Like the knots in his tie just tied themselves. Like bedtime stories belonged in dorm rooms with water stains on the ceiling and broken radiators.

I didn’t ask what he thought of any of it. I didn’t ask because I was scared he’d say he liked it. That he thought this was better. That this was home now.

I wanted him to eat- or to try at least, but every time I brought it up he just looked up at me with pure unadulterated fear on his face. Like I’d asked him to drink poison.

I was going to keep trying.

"Frank?" I called to him from the other side of the lunch table.

"Yeah?"

"C'mere."

He stared at me for a while. "Where..?"

"Here. Beside me."

"Why?"

"Just come."

He stood up and made his way across to my side of the table.

"Sit." I said, patting down the empty space beside me.

He obliged.

"Look," I put a comforting hand on his shoulder—or at least I hoped it was. "I know you're scared, but you have to try and eat something solid, okay? It doesn't have to be big or anything."

"But Gee I-!"

"Frank, please. This isn't normal and you need to stop treating it like it is."

"I was fine with the soup.."

"I know you were, but you're not gonna live on soup forever are you?"

He didn't reply, which probably meant he didn't really have a problem with never being able to eat solids ever again.

"Frank," I sighed, passing him my fruit cup. "Look, small fruits. Easy to swallow. If you feel like throwing up just hold it down for as long as you can."

"That sounds hard."

"Just tap my hand if you can't any longer, okay?"

"Okay.” he mumbled.

He peeled the lid back slowly. The fruit shimmered under the light. He stared at it for a long time. Too long.

“Just one piece,” I said. “Just one.”

He nodded, but he didn’t move.

I didn’t want to watch him, but I couldn’t look away. He picked up the tiny plastic spoon, dipped it in, and scooped out a peach slice.

He brought it to his mouth. His lips parted. The peach went in.

I didn’t breathe.

His jaw barely moved. He wasn’t chewing—just pressing his tongue against it like he could will it to dissolve. He set the spoon down, his throat doing a movement

I touched the back of his hand. “You okay?”

He gave the tiniest nod.

“You swallowed it?”

Another nod. A little slower this time.

“Frank,” I said, and I didn’t even know what I meant to follow that with. Thank you? I’m proud of you? I’m sorry?

But before I could finish, his face crumpled.

“I’m scared,” he whispered. “I’m still scared.”

“I know,” I said.

I kept my hand over his.

"Do you feel like you're gonna..?"

"No.."

"Okay. That's.... that's good."

"I want to try more."

"I-.. are you sure? You don't have to."

"I'm fine. I would've thrown up by now."

"Go ahead," I beckoned softly.

He picked the spoon again and lured in a variety of fruit; papaya, apple, peach, strawberry. This time he took it in quick- like he was scared if he was slow he would give his uvula time to react.

He swallowed.

"You good..?"

"Gee, I'm fine. Seriously.”

“Okay, okay.”

He finished off the whole cup. The whole thing without throwing up.

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked at me.

“What?” He asked, frowning a little. “Why are you staring?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

I shrugged, trying not to smile. “Just didn’t think you’d actually finish it.”

“Neither did I,” he admitted, like it was no big deal. Like it hadn’t just taken every ounce of courage in his body.

Then he leaned back, like the moment was over, like he’d already moved on. I hadn’t.

“Frank.”

He looked over.

“I’m proud of you.”

His ears went pink.

I finished off my jammed toast and reached for a sip of water before I noticed Frank was squirming.

“You feeling odd?”

He nodded.

Oh. Oh he was going to throw up.

“C’mon let’s go—the bathrooms only down the hall.”

He got up queasily and waited for me to scoot out beside him.

He was breathing hard by the time we reached the hallway. Shallow, panicked breaths like he was trying to hold it in with willpower alone.

“Almost there,” I said. “Just keep going.”

He nodded, but his eyes were wide and glassy.

The bathroom was maybe twenty feet away when he stopped.

“Gee,” he said.

I turned to him. “What?”

And then it happened.

No warning. No second chance. Just a heave and the warm, wet sound of it hitting my chest. My shirt. My neck.

He gagged again, this time catching most of it in his hands, but the damage was already done.

He looked up at me, horrified. Wide-eyed and shivering.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God, I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“Frank,” I said, frozen. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t know—I couldn’t—”

“Frank,” I said again, louder this time. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

But he wasn’t breathing. He was shaking, shrinking into himself like he wanted to disappear right there in the hallway. He shriveled into a ball on the ground, sobbing into his sick-stained hands.

“Get up.” I urged.

“I’m so sorry Gee-I didn’t-!”

“I told you I don’t care.” He didn’t answer me. “Frank.”

He looked up. His face was covered in everything he digested this morning. God, I hated to see him like this. I grabbed his hand—yes, the one he just puked into. There wasn’t any time to care. I felt the weird particles squeeze between our hands as I led him into the bathroom.

“Wash up.”

He nodded weakly.

I took off my sweater. I never took off my sweater, but I wasn’t exactly in a winning position here, was I? I threw it in the sink hoping to clean it up just a little before class, so I wouldn’t have to walk in the way I am now.

Then I noticed.

I noticed Frank was staring at me through the mirror. People always stared. That’s why I kept the sweater on.

“What are those..?”

“Birthmarks.” I said through my teeth.

“I’ve never seen birthmarks like those.”

I turned the knob on the faucet and scrubbed, ignoring his comment.

“They’re really straight,” he said.

My hands paused under the water.

“I mean… not like dots or patches or anything. They kinda look like… lines.”

I turned the water off.

Grabbed a paper towel. Dabbed at my neck. My chest. The parts the sweater didn't cover.

He was still behind me. Still watching. But his voice had softened.

“Did you get them when you were little?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

He waited. Then added, “Like… before I knew you?”

I met his eyes in the mirror.

“Frank can you fucking wash up?” I snapped.

He flinched.

He turned to the sink without a word. Didn’t pout. Didn’t whine. Just ran the water and scrubbed his hands like he was supposed to. Like he didn’t want to give me a reason to raise my voice again.

I stared at the mirror. At myself. God, I hadn’t meant to yell.

I watched Frank twist the paper towel too hard in his hands. Wring it like it owed him something.

“…Sorry,” I muttered.

He shrugged, still not looking at me.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You didn’t mean it.”

But he didn’t sound like he believed it.

I tried again, softer this time. “Look at me.”

He didn’t.

He risked a glance then, quickly. “Then why’d you yell?”

I exhaled. Leaned against the sink, then started my pathetic sentence. “Because I’m an idiot. Because I got scared and I took it out on you. That’s not fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

He stared at me, brow pinched. “Scared?”

“Yeah.” I rubbed my face. “Scared you’d ask the one question I don’t have an answer to.”

He nodded. “I won’t ask again.”

“You can. If you want.”

“I don’t want to make you feel worse.”

"You don’t make me feel worse,” I said.

He looked at me then. Really looked.

“You sure?”

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

"I'm still not gonna ask."

I gave him an "Okay." I didn't know what else to say.

He just stood there while I wrung out my sweater in the sink. It wasn't anywhere near dry- there was absolutely no way I'd be able to wear it without being uncomfortably wet (and there was the fact of catching a cold) or being stared at. It was a classic Catch-22 situation and I was sitting in the middle of it. Mint. I wished our school wasn't so cheap. Maybe they'd have air dryers instead of paper towels that disintegrate upon contact with water. But they didn't. I had to sling my sweater over my shoulder and walk with my arms by my sides awkwardly inverted just so nobody could see. Not enough anyway.

"Mr. Way, Mr. Iero. You're late."

We stood in the doorway.

"Don't let it happen again."

I breathed a sigh of relief and yanked Frank's hand (a little harder than I had meant to, but come on. I was on edge.) and led him to our desks.

I could feel their stares like lit matches against my spine. Being late only made it worse because now everyone was looking at the class interruption. This sweater couldn't dry any slower.

Time edged on like a bottomless zombie crawling through the desert. Slow and—well, slow. Extremely slow. On the way to our next class I had realized Frank hadn't spoken. He hadn't sent me a note or showed me a goofy doodle. Hell he didn't even draw anything to begin with! I had lingering feeling in my chest and that feeling told me black and bold "IT'S YOUR FAULT."

"Frank?"

"Hm...?"

"Are you mad at me?"

He looked up at me like an otter out of the water. (See the little rhyme I did there?) I chuckled because at the moment I thought I could've been the next Dr. Seuss—but then I remembered. Then, I composed myself and asked again.

"I'm not."

"You're not talking."

"I don't feel good."

"What do you mean you don't feel good?"

"My head hurts, my stomach is empty."

"I promise I'll make you soup as soon as we get back." I stuck out my pinky, trying to prove to him that I was all in, but he didn't take it.

"With croutons." I added hopefully.

"Really?"

I poked his side. "Yes, really. You deserve it."

"Why?"

"Cause you were brave. Really fuckin' brave, and I'm proud of you for that."

"But I threw up. All over you."

"You ate the whole fruit cup."

"And I threw it up."

"But you ate it all, Frank."

He looked down at his shoes.

"Look, if it makes you feel better.. I'll draw us as cats in Math."

"Yay!"

I huffed out a laugh. Frank was like a scale, you tip too much on one side and he's sad and insecure—do the same for the other and he's so happy he'd trip on his own glee.

A year. It had been a year—nah I'm just playing with ya. It's only been two weeks since Frank ate my fruit cup (yes I still feel guilty.) Frank hung the doodle of the two of us as cats up on the bathroom door. He says they're the 'guardians of the WC.' Honestly? We've been pretty okay—except for one thing. Exams. Exams and then summer break, and because Frank wasn't here for majority of the year, he'll have to take make-ups. I don't really know if he was homeschooled or not. I also don't know how I'm going to prep him for his tests because instead of eliminating the variables in the equation he was eliminating the eraser off of his (well, let's be honest—my) pencil.

"Frank. Focus."

He retracted the now slobber-slicked pencil from his mouth. "Sorry."

I cleared my throat and tapped the worksheet between us. "So elimination is just—you know, getting rid of one variable. Like canceling it out.”

Frank blinked at the page like it was written in Aramaic. “But why would we cancel it if we just wrote it?”

I stared at him. “Because we want to find the other variable.”

“Then why don’t we just write that one down instead?”

I rubbed my temples. “Because we don’t know it yet. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

He nodded slowly, like he didn’t believe me but was willing to pretend. He picked up his pencil and promptly drew a frog with glasses in the margin.

“Focus.”

“I am focused. He’s watching the lesson.”

“The frog is not part of the fucking system of equations.”

He gasped. “Don’t swear in front of him!”

I shut my eyes. Breathed. “Okay. Forget the frog. Look at this.” I circled the two equations. “You see the y-terms? They’re opposites. So we add the equations and the y's cancel out.”

Frank scrunched up his nose. “That’s mean.”

“What is?”

“Making them cancel each other. Like—what if they were friends?”

I blinked. “They’re variables, Frankie.”

“Still rude.”

I dropped my head to the table and groaned into my arms.

He patted my back sympathetically. “You’re not a bad teacher. You’re just using math words.”

I lifted my head just enough to glare at him. “That’s because it’s math.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Wanna take a break?”

“No. Because guess what’s not taking a break?”

“Math?”

“The entire educational system.”

He retracted his hand.

“Okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “you’ve got two equations. See them?”

He nodded.

“We want to eliminate one variable. So we make the numbers line up, and then add or subtract them. That makes one of the variables disappear, and then we can solve for the other.”

Frank tilted his head. “Disappear how?”

I tapped the y-terms. “These are opposites. When you add them, they cancel each other out. Poof. Gone.”

He looked suspicious. “But I thought math wasn’t magic.”

“It’s not. That’s just what happens when you add a positive and a negative.”

Frank stared a little longer, then scribbled a line between the equations.

“Not like that,” I muttered, trying to stay patient. “Here, I’ll show you—look.”

I took his pencil and lined up the equations properly, drawing the addition bar underneath. “Now we add the columns.”

“Like a ladder?”

“Sure. Whatever helps. This column—x plus x—that makes two x.”

He nodded slowly.

“And y plus negative y makes…?”

“…Zero?”

“Yes.”

His face lit up like he’d just cracked a safe. “Zero!”

“Exactly. Now we’re left with two x equals whatever’s on the other side. So what’s next?”

He hesitated.

I waited.

“…Divide by two?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

He wrote it down carefully, sticking his tongue out in concentration. The numbers were shaky, but they were right.

I sat back, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “There you go. You did it.”

He blinked at the answer. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He looked skeptical, like the worksheet might suddenly start laughing at him.

“You did it right,” I said again. “Seriously.”

He leaned forward and tapped the page. “But I didn’t understand the subtraction part.”

“That’s okay. We’ll go over it again.”

“I don’t wanna get it wrong on the test.”

“You won’t. Not if we keep practicing.”

He nodded, but he still looked nervous.

"Next one.” I more or less announced, flipping the paper.

He read the question silently for a minute, chewing on the end of his pencil again. His brow furrowed like he was trying to do the whole thing in his head. The silence stretched.

“Frank?” I said, carefully.

“I’m thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking for three minutes.”

He blinked up at me. “That’s not a long time.”

“It is when the question is literally the exact same thing we just did.”

He flinched, just a little. Not enough to make me backtrack—but enough to make me feel like shit anyway.

I sighed. “Sorry. Just—try starting the way we did last time.”

He nodded slowly and put his pencil to the page. He wrote the x-terms out fine, then paused halfway through combining the constants. His lips moved silently.

I watched. And waited. And watched some more.

He crossed out a number. Then wrote the same number again. Then erased the whole thing.

I leaned over and pointed. “Okay, no—don’t erase that, it was right.”

“But I thought—”

“Look,” I tried again, softer, “I know it’s confusing. But we have to get through it or else you’re gonna sit down for that test and blank.”

“I’ll blank anyway,” he mumbled.

“No, you won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ll make sure you don’t.”

He squinted at the paper. “What if my head forgets everything?”

“Then I’ll personally fight your brain.”

That got a snort out of him.

He erased again. Wrong part this time.

I lost it a little.

“Frank, please stop erasing everything every ten seconds. Just look before you—”

“I’m trying!”

"Okay...why don't we go back to the dorm? I can put some soup on while you solve."

"Yeah." He stuck out his hand and I took it.

"No- I meant give me my backpack."

"I'll carry it."

"You never let me carry anything!"

"Can't have you growing muscle."

"Why not!?"

"You'll start a rebellion and overthrow me."

"No I won't."

"Hmm.."

"Gee! You have to let me have it! It's mine!"

"Give me back my pencil?"

"No."

"Thought so."

“Gee! These croutons are terrible! They’re so soft and soggy! Aren’t they supposed to be crunchy!?”

“Do you wanna throw up again?”

“No, but—!”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Gee!” Frank crossed his arms impossibly tight as if it’d make a difference.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I dunno!”

I raised a brow. “You’re complaining and you don’t even know what you want?”

“You’re the one who knows the answers.”

“Not all the time.”

“Uh, yes all the time! You always know the answers, you’re just choosing not to!”

“Frank, you’re gonna throw up. Eat them soft or take em’ out.”

“I’ll eat them..”

“You don’t have to.”

“I will anyway.”

“Fatass.”

Only two seconds after I said that, something wet landed on my cheek with a splat. It was a crouton. A tomato soup covered crouton.

"Fran-"

Another one. On my forehead this time. It fell to the table with an almost soundless squish.

"You're wasting food."

"Oh. Sorry."

I wiped off my face with a paper towel and picked up the soggy croutons off of the table.

"You got the equation wrong."

"Oh."

I held up the worksheet. “Wanna know what you did?”

“No.”

“Tough.”

He groaned and leaned his head back like I was reading him his last rites.

“You multiplied wrong,” I said, tapping the page. “Two times negative three is not positive six.”

“Yes it is,” he said confidently.

“No, it’s really not.”

He leaned forward, squinting at it. “But two times three is six. And the negative was only on the three. So it’s positive six.”

I stared at him. “That's not how negatives work.”

“Well it should be.”

I dropped my forehead to the table.

“Are you okay?” he asked after a beat.

“No.”

He reached over and very gently patted my hair. “Do you want a crouton?”

“I want you to learn basic arithmetic.”

He put a warm, limp crouton on the back of my neck like it was an offering.

I didn’t move. “You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

“That’s debatable.”

“You made me soup.”

"Take that fucking crouton off of me Frank."

"It's a gift!"

"Frank it's dripping down my back! Take it off now!!"

"Okay, okay!!"

"You're disgusting!" I yelled through a laugh.

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m gonna put one in your pillowcase later.”

I gave him the driest look I could manage. “I swear to God.”

“You won’t know when,” he whispered. “But you’ll feel it.”

“You put one single crouton in my bed and I’m feeding you math worksheets for dinner.”

He lit up. “Can they be crouton-shaped?”

“No.”

“Gee!”

I grabbed the worksheet off the table, smudged with soup fingerprints and incorrect math. “You’re gonna finish this. Every problem.”

He pouted. “Even the ones with letters?”

“Especially the ones with letters.”

“But why do numbers need letters, Gee? Isn’t that their whole thing? Being not letters?”

I dropped the pen in front of him. “Start with problem five.”

He sighed, dramatically, like I’d sentenced him to death. But he picked up the pencil and started scribbling.

Progress.

“…Do I still get croutons tomorrow?” he asked, not looking up.

"I thought you didn't like them.”

"I do."

"So you're just making my life harder then?"

"Maybe."

"No croutons."

“Gee!”

“Frankie!” I mocked.

He continued to 'solve' the equations on the page and didn't argue again.

"No- no that was correct." I refuted as he erased the one right thing he did.

"Are you sure..?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course I'm sure."

He re-wrote the solution and just stopped moving. It's like he was playing Statues because he was stiller than a laminar flow.

"Please don't be mad."

"Mad at what?"

"I forgot what to do.."

"It's fine. I'm gonna walk you through it again. Pay attention."

Frank didn't learn.

I tried to teach him, I really did. He just didn't learn. It was always erasing and blanking out and doing something stupid instead of trying to listen. I thought about Mikey. I remembered when Mom was helping him with homework. I remembered when he wouldn't listen. I remembered how she got him to listen.

Fear.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love Frank. Like I said, he's the third most important person in my life- but, he had to pass this exam. And fear is a great motivator.

I tapped his shoulder. "Frankie."

He looked up from his drawing of a candle. A candle with eyes. "Yeah?"

"You know what happens if you don't pass your exams, right?"

"No.."

"You know it's not gonna be good, right?"

He stayed quiet for a while. Then he spoke. "What happens..?"

"You repeat the year, and I move on."

"What do you mean you 'move on?' "

"I'll pass and go to the next grade, you'll restart this year. We won't have any classes together. Hell, we might not even see eachother anymore!"

He wrung his hands.

Okay. Maybe I overdid it because we were still going to be in the same dorm, but I obviously didn't tell him that.

"I don't want that..." He whispered.

"Me neither—so, let's do number seven again."

He nodded slowly and picked up his pencil. I knew it worked when he followed through with every step. I knew it worked when he actually payed mind to what I was saying instead of drawing something on the corner of the worksheet. I knew it worked when he got it right.

Frank shook my hand like we just made a business transaction.

"Why are your hands always sticky?"

"I have better things to do than tend to my hands."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Solve equations."

"Suddenly you're Einstein?"

"I've always been. I'm his reincarnate." He said with all the nonchalance he could muster.

I blinked at him.

"You exasperate me."

"I don't know what that means."

"I'm gonna strangle you," There was a pause. "With love of course."

“C’mon,” I said. “Let’s get ready for bed.”

“Do I get a bedtime story?”

“No.”

“Gee…” he whined indignantly.

"I'm kidding. Go brush."

He skidded off to the bathroom and came out less than a minute later.

I narrowed my eyes. "Did you brush properly..?"

"Yeah."

"You're supposed to brush for two minutes."

"Nobody has time for that."

"Frank—" I set down the sud-covered bowl in the sink.

"Don't make me go back!"

"That would be a waste of toothpaste- however, tomorrow you brush longer."

I flicked off the overhead light and left the lamp between our beds on instead.

"Blanket," he mumbled, reaching up like a toddler waiting to be tucked in.

I raised a brow. "You know how to do it yourself."

"But it's better when you do it."

I sighed. Dramatically. Just to make a point. But I still pulled the blanket up over him.

“Comfy?”

He nodded, his eyes already starting to droop.

I kissed his forehead and turned to climb into my own bed when he whispered, “Gee?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not gonna sleep with me..?"

"Don't say that."

"What?"

"It's not sleep with, it's sleep next to you."

"What's the difference?"

"One is inappropriate and one isn't."

"How?"

"Because," I said, trying to pick my words carefully. "Sleeping with someone usually means… like, grown-up stuff. Intimate stuff."

He blinked at me through the dark. “Like taxes?”

I barked a laugh. “No, not like taxes.”

“Then what?”

“Nevermind,” I concluded. “Just—say ‘sleep next to me.’ in the future."

“Oh.” He looked thoughtful for a second. “So if I said I want you to sleep next to me, that’s okay?”

“That’s okay.”

He shifted under the covers, scooting closer to the wall to make room without even asking.

“Gee?”

"Yeah?"

“Can you sleep next to me?”

I didn't hesitate, not even a second. I climbed in beside him.

He sighed as soon as I settled.

“Better?” I asked.

“Mhm.”

"You gonna fall asleep before I tell you a story?"

"No.." he said somnolently.

"Okay then.. once upon a time..” I glanced down at him. His eyes were fluttering shut already.

"There was this guy. His name was Cole. He came to this coffee shop every evening just before the sunset. The shop was small and cozy. Exactly the kind of cozy you're thinking of right now- fireplace, warm and smells like baked goods."

"And tomato soup?"

"Yeah that too. Anyway- October rolled around. Cole didn't care too much about the festivities. He just sat by the fireplace and ordered his usual, a flat white. Then it was Halloween-"

"That's my birthday."

"It is?"

He nodded against my shoulder.

"Cool. Anyway so Halloween comes by and he's like 'Oh I should try a drink off the seasonal menu.' and there's these three drinks they only sell on Halloween. He scans the menu and decides on one called Ghost Roast."

"Is it made of ectoplasm?"

"Can you shut up and listen?"

He snickered. The audacity.

"So he goes back to his seat by the fireplace. That's where he's been sitting for the past two years."

"That's a long time."

"No shit. He takes a sip of the drink and all of the sudden he hears a voice speak to him- except he's alone. He returns to his laptop. 'over here you idiot!' he looks around. Nothing."

"Is it a ghost?"

"No. He looks down and see's the fireplace has it's own little face made of fire- complete with eyebrows and everything."

"Aww!"

"Not so aww when he's calling you an idiot, is he? Carrying on- this guy starts talking to the fireplace. The fire tells him he can only talk if someone drinks that coffee, and once the clock strikes twelve, he returns to being a normal fire."

"Is this real?"

I was torn between crushing his dreams or letting him live, so I settled for a "Maybe."

"And then he and the fire have a conversation. The fire tells him about all the times he watched Cole make mistakes on his laptop. He even saw the time he accidentally emailed his boss full of typos."

"I wish I had a fire friend."

"Me too."

"Continue!"

"So then he and the fire laugh and talk and before you know it- the time reads "11:57." He became good friends with the fire after tonight, and every Halloween- he orders that same drink and has a conversation with the fire."

"We have to find that café!"

"Yeah. We do. Can't live without a talking fire, can we?

"No, we can't."

"I think you're enough fire for the two of us."

He didn't say anything. Instead, he snuggled up into my arm and let himself drift to sleep. I watched Frank’s chest rise and fall, slow and steady, until the soft rhythm told me he was really asleep. One arm curled under his head, the other tucked close.

Carefully, I slipped my hand from his, afraid to disturb even the smallest movement. My heart pounded—too loud, too fast—like it might betray me. The floor creaked beneath my feet as I made my way to the bathroom. Each step felt like wading through thick water, slow and weighted. The door creaked as I pushed it open. God, why was everything so loud tonight? I stalked my way up to the sink, eyes fixed on the little cup we keep the toothbrushes and other ordinary hygiene essentials in. Fumbling, I reached inside, my fingers brushing against the cold ceramic before closing around the razor handle. I knelt by the cabinet under the sink, the hinges groaning softly as I pulled the razor case open. Inside was the small plastic container holding the blades. I picked one out, my breath catching as I grasped it carefully by the edges, feeling its weight in my palm. It felt like holding a physical manifestation of every failure, every guilt, every moment I wished I could take back.

I rolled up my sleeve, (an action I didn't do very often since I've become clean.) pressing the edge of the blade to my forearm. Not moving. Not enough pressure to break skin. And then I stopped. I lifted the blade and looked at my arm. The skin there was pale, mostly smooth now, save for the faded ghosts of old lines. I pulled my sleeve back down. What the fuck was I doing? Frank was going to see. Probably get worried too, considering he didn't believe my little birthmark lie.

I stood up—just for a second, blade still resting in my palm. My reflection stared back from the mirror, hollow-eyed and ashamed. But then I sat down against the cold bathroom floor. My back against the cabinet.

And I hiked up the leg of my pajama pants.

Because he never saw me undress. Never looked when I changed. And this? This wouldn’t leave a trail he'd find.

I set the blade down against the soft skin of my thigh.

And this time, I didn’t stop.

It was quick. A flick of the wrist, just so I could get used to it again. The line opened white first- then my capillaries burst, blood that I haven't seen in so long pouring out onto the floor. Slow and syrup-like.

Again. Slower this time.

There it was. The white line like chalk scraped across pavement. For a heartbeat, there was nothing. No pain, no blood, no sound. Just the cold sting of metal.

Then the blood came. Slowly at first. Beading along the cut, rich and red and so alive it made my stomach turn. It bloomed like ink in water, spreading in quiet trails down my leg.

The sting came after. Then the ache. Then the burning.

I didn’t stop.

One more line. Then another. Each one deliberate and controlled.

The blood painted my skin in slow ribbons.

If you'd asked me "Why?" I'd tell you:

Because I'm a creature of habit.

I dragged the blade across one more time. Shallow. Not like the first. A breath of red opened under the edge, dotting over what was already there. My fingers were sticky. My thigh burned. I sat back against the cabinet, letting my head thunk softly against the wood. I knew how this story ended. I’d lived it before.

And I still did it anyway.

The sound of the clock reverberated against the classroom walls, along with the sounds of the occasional cough and pen clicking, of course. I looked up at the wall for what might've been enough times to grow gray hairs. I don't really know why I kept looking up at it anyway, it was in the wrong timezone. Sure, it worked—only that we were in New Jersey, not Australia. Or Lithuania. God knows who's time this clock was ticking to. Every time a paper rustled I'd look to Frank. It wasn't him though. He was still on the first page, and that was fine. Except I had been teaching him this for a week and he should've been done by now but he wasn't. He should've flipped the page by now but he didn't.

I've gone through my answers no short of five times in the past twenty minutes. There was still around an hour and a half until Mr. Davis would collect our papers. I was starting to think that wouldn't be enough for Frank. The worst part was that he didn't even look confused. Just...still. Like he was trying to remember how to start. His pencil hadn't moved in ten minutes. I shifted in my seat. Tried not to look again. Tried not to make it obvious. But it was like trying not to blink. A thousand thoughts ran through my head like soldiers storming a beach. What if he just sat there the whole time? What if he handed in a blank page? What if Mr. Davis noticed and muttered "Jesus Christ, at least try." just loud enough for Frank to hear like he always did when he was disappointed.

Just then, Frank flipped the page. I don't think I've ever felt this relieved since the last time I've had a blowjob—or like. Needed to piss really bad. Praise be to our lady of sor—what the fuck am I saying? I'm an atheist. Or... at least as atheist as you can be in my circumstances. Yeah, not very much. Actually—not at all. Only in your mind I guess. I haven't even told Frank Well I did, but not really. Between you and me? I don't trust that kid to keep his mouth shut. I'll end up being beat and kicked out on my ass because of an "accident." And then what? Who'll feed him soup? Will he try to eat the cafeteria food? Poor guy'll throw up every goddamn day! More than once! God, look at me. I'm spiraling in my own thoughts. I might as well be John Nash from A Beautiful Mind, the way I'm talking like a schizophrenic.

"30 minutes." Mr. Davis informed (more like warned.) from the front of the class. Frank didn't even bat an eye. Maybe he has this? Or maybe he doesn't. He can't not. I taught him for God's sake. I taught him with all that was in me. And he was doing good! He was doing so good! Holy shit let me shut up for the love of Christ. Actually you know what? Bert's always on my case about saying 'God', 'Christ' and the likes, what with being an atheist. Every time he brings it up it makes me feel like the world is regressing. Are we serious? I've been in this damned school since I was fourteen, upraised with Jesus and God and all that other bullshit and I'm just supposed to switch it off when it's the summer? What a dumbass. I'm joking, Bert. I love you. Sort of. Maybe. I looked down at my paper. Wow, I need to stop talking to myself in my head or else I'm going to give myself brain damage and end up like Frank. Yikes, that was mean. I love you Frank. Okay I'm going to put my head down... maybe take a nap.

Smack!
Smack!
SMACK

I lifted my head so fast I started seeing those weird black splotches. I still don't know what they're called. It was the smack of a ruler. I immediately snapped my head to Frank. But he was staring at me.

"Here, Mr. Way."

I turned my head the other direction. Mr. Davis was on my left.

"Lift your damn arms off the paper."

"...Oh... sorry."

He grabbed my paper and muttered "Jesus, kid, just how much can you sleep?" under his breath—but of course I heard it. I wondered if he does it on purpose. I didn't have much time to do my little internal monologue on Mr. Davis cause he just told me I could leave and moved on to collect the rest of the students' papers. I dashed towards Frank so fast I almost tumbled on my own feet.

"Frank—"

"What were you dreaming about?"

"What? What does that have to do with anything? Anyway—"

"What did you dream about?" he persisted.

"I don't dream. Only nightmares every once in a while."

"What does that look like?"

"Just a black screen, Frank. What did you get on question one?"

"A black screen? That sounds boring..."

"You're not conscious."

"Yeah but—"

"Frank tell me your answer, for God's sake."

"For what?"

"Question one!"

"I don't remember." he said curtly.

"What—what do you mean you don't remember??"

"I don't remember!"

"Frank!!"

"You didn't tell me to remember!"

I pulled my face down from my eyelids. He was right. It didn't cross my mind. "Okay," I took a deep breath. "From now on write the answers on your hand, okay?"

"Will I get in trouble?"

"No—but hide it anyway. Just in case. When we finish we can compare and see how many you got right."

"Why do I have to...?"

"I need to know."

"Will it change my grade?"

"No."

"Then what's the point?"

I paused. What was the point? God, I'm tired. I don't even know why. I slept well. I think?

"I dunno, man. Just do it."

"You always know."

"I always tell you I don't."

"But—"

"Frank." I shot him a pointed look.

"Okay." he mumbled. Almost like we didn't know if he totally flunked the math test. I pinched his cheek and grabbed our bags.

"Gee, can I—"

"No."

"But I can carry it myself."

"I know."

We walked out of the class, my own bag slung across one shoulder and Frank’s clutched in my hand like I was trying to take all the groceries in one trip.

I was grateful exams were always last period because all I wanted right now was a nap. I still don't know why and I cannot stress that enough because I slept well.

I think.

"Get my keys from my backpack. It's the small pocket."

I stood still while he rummaged through my bag. What was taking him so long? I just wanted to sleep.

"Gee, there's nothing in here!"

"Yes there is, Frank! Just dig deeper!"

Frank started—well, there's no civilized word for it... terrorizing my bag.

"I said deeper, not harder!"

"I'm tryin—ow!" Frank hissed.

"What? Frank?"

I whipped around. There was blood. Just a line of it at first, beading at the tip of his finger like a dew drop. Then it grew. Running down slow and rich.

My eyes flicked to my pocket. The one he’d reached into.

Fuck.

"Fuck..."

I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but I did. Frank blinked up at me. My brain short-circuited. I’d forgotten it was in there—the blade. Tucked deep in the front pocket.

"You—" My voice caught. I crouched and caught his wrist gently. "You reached in my pocket?"

He nodded, not looking at me. "You said get the keys."

Right. I had. He did exactly what I told him to do. And I let him reach past a razor blade.

"It’s okay," I said quickly, pulling his hand closer to check the cut. It was a shallow cut, but it was bleeding like crazy. Right across the pad of his index finger. "Shit, Frank, I didn’t mean—I didn’t know it was there. I'm sorry, I forgot."

He still wasn’t looking at me. Just at the blood. I don’t think it even hurt yet. It was the kind of hurt that starts in your brain before your skin figures it out. "We’ll clean it up, okay?" I said. "It’s not bad. It just looks gross."

I reached into the bag and tucked the razor into the pocket of my pants. I heard a jingle inside.

My fucking keys.

“Gee, it stings!” I could barely hear his voice over the rush of water pumping through the faucet.

“I know, but we have to disinfect it.”

“Can’t we use iodine or something..?”

“You do realize that would sting more than cold water?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” I repeated, cutting the water off. “Oh.”

I motioned for his wrist, intending to wrap his finger up. I peeled the bandaid carefully and pressed it down with slow movements.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

He hissed a little, but I wrapped it tight regardless.

"Why was there a blade in there anyway..?"

I gripped his finger a little tighter, almost as if it would make the question go away.

What was I supposed to say? 'I'm a freak who needs to cut himself to feel better?'

Yeah. That'd play out well.

"I-I must've grabbed it instead of the keys." I lied.

"But how? They're so different! Why was the blade out anyway??" He pressed.

I squeezed his hand gently, pretending to fuss with the edge of the bandaid so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes.

“I dunno,” I mumbled. “I had it out earlier for… something. I must’ve forgotten to put it away.”

“What kind of something?”

I scratched at the edges of my brain for another lie. "I was fixing something . The zipper on my pencil case broke."

"But still! How did you mistake a thin blade for a set of heavy keys!?"

“Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

Frank frowned, like that answer didn’t quite sit right with him. “You’re usually careful.”

Not careful enough.

“Yeah, well,” I said, pulling my hand back to toss the bandaid wrapper in the trash. “I messed up.”

"Mother spies don't mess up." He criticized, squinting his eyes and all.

"This one does."

"They should send you back to training."

"They should send you back to your dad."

Frank’s face went blank. It was so obvious I was the last person on Earth he'd expected to hear that from. God, what was wrong with me today!?

"Frank, I didn't-" I was going to say 'I didn't mean to" but I did. I had every intention to use it as a weapon against his stupid little joke.

Frank didn’t say anything.

He didn’t move, either. Just sat there on the closed toilet lid, his finger all bandaged and his shoulders caved in like I’d knocked the air out of him. He didn’t even blink.

I could still hear the faucet dripping behind us.

“I shouldn’t’ve said that,” I said. My voice was rough, like I’d swallowed glass. “That was… I don’t even have an excuse.”

He sniffed once.

“I was just joking,” he whispered.

“I know, Frankie.” I hesitated. “You were being funny. You were being you. And I ruined it.”

He didn’t look at me, but his chin started to tremble. Just a little.

God, I wanted to reach out. But I didn’t deserve to.

“I don’t want to go back,” he said finally, barely audible.

I nodded, throat tight. “You’re not going back,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was being—stupid. Mean. You didn’t deserve that.”

He nodded.

"Soup?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten since breakfast. Is this because of what I said?" Honestly? I didn't even need to ask, because I knew. I knew damn well it was my fault. It was starting to feel like everytime Frank was upset it happened to be my fault. The time I blew a fuse on him in the bathroom, when I yelled at him for not focusing.

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated at myself. How the hell was I supposed to take care of him when all I seemed to do was mess things up?

“Frank,” I said softer this time, crouching in front of him. "It's because of what I said, right?"

He wanted to say no. I could see it in his eyes. But he couldn't bring himself to lie when a few drops were spreading making their way down his cheeks.

"I'm a dick, aren't I? All I do is upset you right?"

"No-.." he choked out.

I wasn't guilt tripping him, no. God, no. Ew. I just wanted him to know he had the right to be mad at me.

"Yes I am. I was yelling at you, I let you get hurt more than once and I made a terrible joke that shouldn't have even walked past my mind. It's okay to be mad. It's okay, because it's my fault."

"But you're trying your best."

"I'm really not. I was trying my best the first week I met you- it's just- I'm exhausted, Frank. It's making me a bad person. God knows how I get when I'm tired- but that doesn't make it okay, you hear me?"

“If you wanna hit me or something—I’ll let you. I won’t stop you.”

His head jerked up. “What? No!”

“I’m serious," I deadpanned. “You should. Just once. Right in the face. Or the arm, if you’re squeamish.”

"Absolutely not!"

“Why not?” I snapped. “Maybe I’ll finally shut up if you do.”

Frank’s face twisted, like he was trying to figure out if this was trick or not.

"I'll be fine, I prom-"

And then, without warning, he slapped me.

I blinked.

He looked horrified.

“I—” he stammered. “You said I could!”

“I did.” I nodded, slow. “Good aim.”

Frank’s lip wobbled. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

“But your cheek is red…”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I deserved that.”

He flung himself forward, arms tight around my neck like he was trying to press the apology straight into my skin.

“I didn’t like it,” he whispered. “I don’t wanna hit you again.”

“You won’t have to,” I whispered back, hand smoothing down his hair. “You won’t need to.”

“Don’t say those mean things about yourself anymore,” he mumbled. “Even if they’re true.”

I held him tighter. “Okay, but—it felt good, didn't it?"

"Not a single bit."

He was quiet for a moment, looking at the faint red mark blooming across my cheek. Then, slowly, he leaned in and kissed it.

Just a soft little press of lips against skin. So quick, so small—but I swear to God, it made my throat close.

“An apology,” he whispered.

I swallowed hard. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

"Do you know what I want?"

"Hm?" He asked, pulling away.

"I want you to eat. Now."

He sighed like I was asking him to march into battle. “Fine. But you have to sit next to me.”

“I was planning to.”

“And you have to hold the spoon.”

“I always do.”

"You know," I looked over my shoulder, just to see if Frank was paying attention. He was. "There's this game me and Mikey used to play." I heard the spring of the bed creak. He sat up. I rinsed off the bowl and placed it on the dish rack.

"It's called Hunters and Hiders—and I know you're thinking it sounds scary, but it's not. Okay, well maybe a little..but more fun. Promise." I continued.

"How do you play?" He was now standing right beside me. I shimmied to the side, making room for him.

"One of us is a hider, they has a minute to hide under the blanket and secure themselves. Then the hunter has another sixty seconds to try and find an opening in the blanket and touch the hider."

"Can we play?" He jumped on his tip toes, hands gripping the edge of the sink as he peered in.

"Right after I finish."

"Can I help?"

"No."

"But why noooot? You never let me do anything!" He whined.

"Because your bandaid'll get wet. We have to keep your cut nice and safe so it can heal, don't we?"

He huffed, but he stayed by my side as I rinsed and scrubbed the last of the dishes. I'd thought to remind myself not to let it pile up again- but you and I both know it will continue to happen anyway. The faucet shrieked when I turned the valves, cutting off the water.

"Is it time to play now?"

"Yup," I affirmed, wiping the droplets that coated my hands onto my pants. "You're the hider."

He scuttled over to the bed, immediately laying flat.

"Hey! Don't you dare start hiding, I haven't counted yet!"

I stood at the foot of the bed, hands over my eyes like it made a difference.

"One."

The blanket rustled.

"Two."

The floor groaned as the bed's legs shifted under Frank's weight.

"Threeeeeeee.."

"I'm ready!"

"You sure..? You have a good 50 seconds or so."

"I am ready!"

I peeled my hands off, the view that greeted me elicited a snicker. I pulled off the blanket, met with no challenge whatsoever. Frank squeaked as I poked his stomach peeking through his shirt.

"Gotcha."

"What? Hooow.. I hid so good!"

You didn't. That was the first thing that came to mind, but instead- I found myself saying:

"My turn."

Frank hopped off the bed and stationed himself by the dresser, just a tad bit farther from where I was standing. I pulled the blanket on over my head, making sure there were no openings.

"Twenty thr-"

"Ready." I interrupted.

"Ready or not, here I come!"

"I just said I was ready."

"And I just said ready or not, here I come."

Fair point.

"One." I started my count.

"Tw-" Frank had jumped onto my arm, knocking me out of the timer.

"Frank! That hurt!"

"Game is game!"

"You little shit!"

And that's when he released his tactic. Tickles. I wasn't ticklish, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I figured if I let him run out of energy I'd be safe.

"Forty four.." I mumbled. It was fucking hot under this blanket, and Frank hadn't managed to catch me just yet.

"I give up! It's too secure!!"

Good God. I pulled the blanket off of my face, hair sticking to my temple in the most uncomfortable way imaginable. Fresh air. Fresh fucking air. And I was breathing like a dog lapping at water. Then I started laughing. He pouted, but I saw the way the corners of his mouth curled up.

"C'mere, I'll teach you how to hide properly." I sat myself on my knees, pulled his arm and settled him in my original position.

"The key is to tuck the blanket under your weight." I said, throwing the blanket over him until he looked like a blob.

"But how?"

"Like this," I pushed the edges of the blanket under his arms and knees. "Lift your head." When he did, I grabbed whatever blanket was above him, I tucked that into the space under his head, and had him lay down on it.

"See? Now your body makes the blanket all tight. As long as you don't move, there'll be no openings."

"I can barely breathe!"

"That means you're doing it right."

"No it doesn't!!"

"Where there's air, there's an opening!"

Frank wriggled beneath the blanket, the fabric puffing up in uneven spots as he tried to move without actually moving.

“I don’t like this,” he whined, voice muffled and thin.

“You’re not supposed to like it,” I said, settling beside the blanket-blob that was now visibly pulsing with suppressed fidgeting. “You’re supposed to win.”

He groaned dramatically, limbs flailing under the covers. “I’m gonna DIE in here.”

“You’ve been under for thirty seconds.”

“I can feel death coming.”

I tugged the corner of the blanket just enough to peek at his face. His hair was plastered to his forehead, eyes squinted and full of fake suffering. And maybe a little bit of real discomfort.

“You wanna stop?”

He hesitated. “But we were playing.”

"Yeah- but.. we can play something less lethal if you like."

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move either. From where I was, I couldn’t see his face- just the shape of him under the blanket. I waited a few seconds, just to be sure, then lowered myself down and slid under the covers beside him. The space was warm. Too warm for my liking, really.

"I know you're not dead"

"Really?" He pouted. "I thought I was doing a good job!"

"You were breathing load and clear."

"Yeah well it's a furnace in here. An airless furnace."

I pulled the top of the covers down so our heads were out. "Better?"

"Much."

After a quiet moment, he mumbled, “You think Mikey’d beat you at it now?”

I turned my head toward him. “What, at Hunters and Hiders?”

He nodded. “He’s big now, right?”

“Yeah, but he was a little cheater even when he was small. He used to pretend he couldn’t breathe just to make me quit."

Frank giggled. “That’s genius.”

“It was annoying.”

“But smart.”

I let my head fall back again, the corner of my mouth tugging up. “I’m surrounded by traitors.”

"Your favorite traitors."

I groaned. “Unbelievable.”

He giggled and went quiet for a beat. Then, out of the blue:

“What were you like when you were little?”

I blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“I already told you about the tree. And the game.”

“No. Like, what did you do? Not games—just stuff. Were you weird?”

I smirked. “Obviously.”

He poked at my side, but it wasn’t hard. Just a nudge. “Tell me.”

“Like what?”

"Like a story."

"...Once upon a ti-"

"No, no. Like a real story. One that happened to you."

“I ever tell you about the time I got sent home from school for biting?”

Frank gasped under the blanket. “You bit someone?”

“I was seven, alright? It was justified.”

He didn’t answer, which meant he wanted to hear more.

“There was this kid in my class named Fred. Real confident for a second grader, and kind of a prick. He kept poking my lunch every day. Like—I’d open my box, and he’d go, ‘Ew, what’s that?’ and just jab his dirty finger right into my sandwich. Every day.”

“That’s so gross.”

“Right? I told the teacher. She said to ignore him. My mom told me to tell a grown-up. I did. Nothing changed.”

“So you bit him?”

“Not at first. I waited. Let it build. One day, I remember it so clearly. I brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—and I saw his hand coming toward it. I didn’t even think. I just turned and bit his arm. Hard.”

Frank let out a shocked laugh.

“They sent him to the nurse, called my mom. She was furious. Not ‘you’re grounded’ furious, more like ‘why didn’t you tell me it was that bad’ furious.”

“Did you get in big trouble?”

“I had to write an apology letter to Fred and spend lunch in the office for a week. But you know what?”

“What?”

“He never touched my food again.”

Frank was smiling. “That’s kinda badbutt.”

“I don’t think ‘badass’ is the word the principal used.”

He shifted under the blanket. “Did you ever get in trouble at home?”

I laughed softly. “Plenty.”

“Tell me one.”

I thought for a second. “Alright. So—when I was about eight, I got really into horror movies. Like, way too into them. One weekend, my grandma let me rent a bunch of VHS tapes, even the ones that probably weren’t age-appropriate. She didn’t care. She thought Dracula was cool.”

Frank perked up. “So what happened?”

“Well, I watched this one movie where a vampire lives in the attic. And like… I became convinced we had one too. I’d tell Mikey not to go upstairs after dark. I’d leave garlic in front of the attic door. Crosses made of taped-together pencils.”

“Oh my god.”

“It gets worse. One night, I put ketchup on my neck and ran into the living room screaming.”

Frank howled.

“I scared Mikey so bad he dropped a plate. Thought I got bit for real. I was grounded for a week, no TV, no drawing, nothing.”

“But it was ketchup?”

“Yeah. I even warmed it up so it’d feel ‘realistic.’”

He stared at me like I was an unsupervised science experiment. “You were weird.”

“I thought we agreed on that already.”

He giggled again and settled down, turning his head to face me. Gee?"

I looked at him.

"You're the first in my favorite people list. Even if I'm third in yours."

"Don't worry, you're my first in this whole entire school."

Chapter Text

"He's not coming."

"He is!" I snapped.

"No, Frank, he's not. We've been sitting here for two fucking hours."

I shifted on the curb, looking up at the now setting sun.

"Maybe you got the wrong number?"

"It's not," I mumbled. "I know it's not."

"Look, if he's doesn't atleast pick up the damn phone in 5 minutes we're going."

"Going where?"

"Bert's place isn't far."

I squirmed. I didn't want to see Bert. No hate to him or anything—he just sounded mean. I know Gerard said he was nice, but Bert sounded like the kind of guy to be nice to Gerard and throw me out like jetsam. "Okay..."

Five seconds ticked by and quickly turned to ten. That ten quickly turned into sixty, and sixty five fold.

"That's it," Gerard declared, pushing up off the curb and standing upright. "Let's go."

"Wait—!"

"No. I'm not waiting any longer, now you can come with me or sit on the side of the fucking road all night."

"Fine," I grumbled, mirroring the motion. "You don't have to be mad at me."

"M'not mad at you. I'm mad at your dad."

"Really? 'Cause it feels like you're mad at me too." I argued.

"Frank, don't be dumb. Not in the mood."

"Oh yeah, because you're the one who got stood up by their dad on the first day of summer break!"

Gerard glared at me and continued walking down the road. I huffed and followed, dragging my shoes across the gravel petulantly.

"Pick your damn shoes up."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you'll trip," he said flatly. "Bust your knee."

I kicked at a rock, sending it skittering away. The road hummed with few passing cars, headlights streaking past us. "No I won't..." I said, dragging my heel even harder just to prove a point.

“Why do we even have to go to Bert’s?” I asked. “Why can’t we just… go back?”

"School gates closed and hour ago."

“So?”

“So, we’re not sleeping on the pavement like homeless people.”

"I wouldn't mind."

"Not happening Frank," he insisted. "Besides, don't you want to meet Bert?"

"Says who?" I squealed.

"You always talk about him. More than you talk about tomato soup at this point."

"Yeah well—"

"And, I think it'd be nice."

"Well I don't!"

"C'mon, won't it be fun? He has a PS2."

"I don't care!"

He rolled his eyes and kept walking. I matched his pace.

"Y'know you don't have to sound so excited about seeing him."

“I’m not,” he said.

“You kinda are,” I remarked.

"Look, Frank," Gerard said, rubbing the back of his neck. "There's nowhere else to go."

"Can't you take me to your house?"

"No."

"Why not?" I pressed.

"I'm not allowed to have friends over."

"But you can go to a friend's house?"

"Yeah."

"How does that make sense?"

"It doesn't."

"Exactly!"

"Are you done here?"

"No—"

"Frank, I've got a headache coming on. Shut the fuck up."

"Okay...Sorry." I mumbled.

"You're fine," he sighed out. "But—can we please just walk there without arguing?”

I nodded.

Finally, we reached Bert’s street. A small house with pale siding and warm light spilling from the windows. Gerard stopped at the curb, exhaling slowly, like he’d been holding it in the entire walk. His shoulders slumped a fraction, hands loosening from his pockets. “We're here,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

I shifted, kicking at a small pebble, feeling my chest tighten.

It was almost like Gerard could feel it radiating off me. "He's nice. You'll be fine."

He stepped up to the door and knocked. Muffled shuffling could be heard from the inside, slippers scuffling against the floor before the latch clicked and the door swung open. Bert’s expression lit up like he’d been longing for Gerard.

Before I could even see his features clearly, he leaned in toward Gerard. Gerard tilted his head slightly, stiff at first, but then eased into it, lips brushing Bert’s softly. Bert’s hand came up to cup the side of Gerard’s cheek, fingers splayed gently, thumb brushing over his jaw. Gerard’s eyes closed halfway, shoulders relaxing just a little as he leaned forward.

Then Bert’s other hand slid around Gerard’s waist, pulling him a step closer. Gerard’s hands hovered awkwardly at first, then settled lightly on Bert’s upper arms. Their bodies pressed together just enough to look like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Bert pulled back just a fraction, eyes finally settling on me. "Who's this?" He gruffed out.

"Uh—I'm Frank..."

“Uh," he mocked. "I don’t think I know what’s going on?” he directed at Gerard.

"He's my friend. No one came to pick him up so I brought him with."

"Could've checked with me first." He muttered, begrudgingly stepping aside to let us in. "I'm Bert."

"I know..." I mumbled.

Gerard lingered just a step behind Bert, shoulders tight, hands awkwardly shoved into his pockets. He kept glancing at me, jaw tight, like he was silently begging me to behave.

Bert plopped down on the couch with a groan, stretching his legs out. “So… you just show up, huh?” he said, still gruff, but his eyes softened slightly as they landed on Gerard.

Gerard ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “Yeah… yeah, I didn’t think it’d be a problem. Plus—I uh... I missed you." He blushed out the last part, striding past me to sit beside him with a sheepish smile.

Bert grinned, and he leaned back on the couch, stretching his arm along the back. “Missed me, huh?”

Gerard rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down at his hands for a moment. “Yeah… I did,” he admitted quietly, voice low, almost a whisper.

I'd never seen Gerard like this. So..shy? Flustered? Inlove? Every sound suddenly felt amplified. The tattoo of Bert's fingers rapping against the couch, the soft breathy chuckles escaping Gerard whenever he was teased. Even the subtle scrape of Gerard’s sneaker against the floor as he shifted in his seat was enough to make me feel like I didn't belong here. At all.

Gerard ran a hand down his face and sighed, finally glancing at me. “Frank…uh—you can sit down."

I froze for a moment, still standing awkwardly by the door. I didn’t want to move closer, but I mumbled a thanks and perched myself on the edge of the couch. Far from Gerard, far from Bert.

"Gerard never said anything about bringing company.”

I squirmed.

Bert’s smirk widened slightly. “You don’t say much, huh? That’s… convenient. Saves me from listenin' to bullshit all night.”

Gerard whispered a 'babe, I'm gonna use the bathroom' and left, leaving me in Bert's awkward company.

"You gonna talk or what?"

"I—"

"It's fine. Just don't get in the way."

I itched to ask 'in the way of what?' but instead found myself nodding mindlessly, worrying my hoodie strings.

“So," he started. "You always this quiet? Or is it just me?”

“I… uh… usually quiet,” I muttered.

He let out a low hum, tilting his head. “Mmh. Convenient. Makes life simpler. Can’t have Gerard running around babysitting, right?”

The words he said felt sharp. Poking fun anywhere he could reach. "How long ya plannin' on stayin'?"

"Till my dad calls..."

"What if he doesn't?"

"He will."

"He probably won't. I mean if he stood you up in the first place—"

He was cut off by the click of the bathroom door and a fresher looking Gerard who quickly took his seat back by Bert.

"What'd I miss?"

"Ah not much—you hungry?"

"'Course I am."

"How's McDonald's?"

"Ehh......"

"Pizza?"

"Pizza works."

Chapter Text

The chime of the doorbell forced me to make my way out of Bert's arms and off to his wallet instead. The pizza was thirty, but I felt particularly generous today and grabbed a fifty instead.

I scampered to the front door and swung it open, practically shoving the money in the guy's face and grabbing the stack of pizzas. I didn't even notice Bert had forgotten to order for Frank 'cause I was so enraptured by the smell of cheese-stuffed crust. Setting the pizzas down on the coffee table quickly snapped me back, though.

"You didn't order any soup?"

"Why would I order soup...?" Bert said, puzzled.

"Frank needs soup."

"Why does he need soup? He can eat pizza like the rest of us."

"Bert—"

"No, don't entertain him, Gerard."

I exhaled a groan and shuffled over Bert's feet to get to the kitchen.

"Hey, Gerard! Don't go and make him fuckin' soup, the pizza's right there."

"You don't have canned soup?" I called out, hands stationed on the edges of the cupboard doors.

"Why would you need canned soup? If you're gonna pamper him, might as well go all the way, huh? Chop up some veg, throw in a little bit a chicken, why dontcha?"

"I'll be back," I said, reaching for my shoes by the door.

"No way. No fuckin' way, Way!"

"Five minutes. Don't gnaw his damn arm off, Bert."

"He's all bone anyway." He sputtered.

The bell over the door dinged as I trekked into the convenience store, already headed for the shelf by the right wall.

"Evening."

I smiled, but he probably didn't catch it. Now I looked mean. Great. I surveyed the options. Clam chowder, beef stew, french onion and fucking butternut squash but no tomato.

"Excuse me, any canned tomato soup? Maybe in the back?"

"What you see is what we sell."

He definitely didn't catch the smile.

I settled for butternut squash and stalked up to the counter. I tried my best not to make eye contact with the clerk, instead resting my eyes on the BIC lighters and Marlboro reds. It's been a while, though I decided against it.

"Bad news," I called out, kicking off my threadbare sneakers. "No tomato. Gotcha butternut squash instead though."

"That's fine." Frank called out, glancing over at the door and meeting my eyes, when his head snapped back a 'hey, I wasn't looking, you cheated!' echoed through the house followed by Bert's chuckle.

"What're you up to?" I asked, stepping into the living room—though I already got my answer. They were on the ground Infront of the TV, PlayStation controllers in hand, colorful flashes of light bouncing off their faces as they spammed buttons with focus I've never seen in either of them up until now.

"Can't punch eachother for real so you settled on Tekken?"

"Pretty much." Bert mumbled, far too immersed to snap his head away for even a second.

I was surprised to see a K.O from Frank's end, Making the score 1-1.

"You've got no skill, Frank! You're just button mashing!" Bert snapped.

"So are you!" Frank retorted.

"I didn't spend hours learning combos to be accused of something as lowly as button mashing!"

Frank giggled, Bert snickered.

"Thought you weren't fond of eachother." I murmured.

"Oh, we're fond of eachother, don't you worry. Make the kid his soup."

"Yeah 'cause you're some dude in the fifties and I'm your wife who's got nothing better to do than make you a sandwich."

"Precisely."

I cracked open the can of butternut squash and poured it into a pot, the dull glug filling the space. It smelled faintly sweet, and I wondered how Frank would take to that as I twisted the burner until flame caught.

From the living room came the sharp thwack of plastic buttons and Bert’s triumphant, “Yes—yes—got you!

“That was cheap!” Frank protested, "You kept spamming the same button!"

“That’s strategy,” Bert shot back.

I stirred the soup slowly, watching it loosen as it warmed, steam curling up toward the cabinets. For a second, I just stood there, listening. No edge in Frank’s voice. Just noise. Easy noise. That easy noise broke really quickly though, as it usually does.

“Gerard!” Frank called. “He keeps picking the same guy!”

I chuckled, pouring the soup into a bowl and grabbing a spoon from the drying rack. "Don't play if he cheats."

"But I wanna play!"

"Then suck it up." Bert grunted

"Soup." I said, balancing the bowl on the tray and setting it down on the coffee table.

"Just let us finish this match..."

"M'kay. Frank, I'm gonna go try your dad."

It was like he didn't even hear me, transfixed by the screen and the goal of beating Bert. I closed the bathroom door behind me, taking a seat on the toilet lid. One beep, two beeps, three. Click. No answer.

I tried not to sigh too loud as I dialed a second time. Same number. Same outcome. Straight to nothing. I let my head tip back against the wall tile, eyes on the ceiling crack until a different click came through.

"Hello? Who the fuck is this? Been callin' me all day." his voice crackled out.

"Hi. I'm uh... Gerard."

"Gerard? You french?"

Gerard is Germanic, dickwad. I didn't acknowledge the question.

"I'm calling about your son, Frank."

"You work at the school? He failed or somethin'?"

"No— no, I'm his friend."

"Why the fuck is his friend callin' me?"

"It's summer break. You were supposed to pick him up. I had to take him—"

"Oh I came, alright. No one was there."

"You came past five. School let out at one."

"And what, I'm 'supposed' to drop everythin' to come pick him up?"

"Yes."

"Well aren't you full of yourself?"

"I'm not! You were meant to come pick up Frank at one! One thirty is the latest you should've been!"

"Where is he now?"

"With me."

"He's safe, ain't he?"

"Yeah, but that's not the—"

"Then I'll pick him up at around twelve tomorrow."

"Twelve? Twelve in the afternoon?"

"Yeah. That's my lunch break, which I should spend eatin' or enjoyin' my time off work."

"Can't you just pick him up now?"

"Look, kid, not everybody's prancin' around in the grass this summer, free all twenty-four hours of the day." he scolded.

"Fine. Don't be a goddamn minute late." I snarled.

He laughed an ugly laugh. "Yeah alright."

The line went dead.

I stared at the mirror for a second, eyeing my reflection. Phone still by my ear, other hand clutching my jeans, probably in an attempt to not call the guy an

"Asshole..." I muttered under my breath.

I pocketed the phone and stood, pulling open the door.

"Bert, how's a sleepover?" I exclaimed, trying my best to sound excited like it wasn't a poor excuse for 'your dad wants nothing to do with you.'

"With Frank?"

"Yeah!"

"And you?" Frank chimed.

"I'll check with my mom. But—won't it be so fun?"

"Just me 'n frank?"

"Yeah. Why?"

The two looked at eachother, and for a second I thought they'd rip eachothers throats out, but instead Frank smiled and Bert yelled a "Hell yeah!"

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding and sat on the couch behind them. I glanced at the table.

"Frank," I sighed out. "You didn't eat your soup."

"Oh! I forgot!"

He scrambled over and shoved a spoon in his mouth, controller abandoned behind him. " S'cold." he mumbled.

"No shit. You let it cool too long."

He stirred the soup half-heartedly, then took another bite anyway, nose wrinkling. “It’s still good.”

“Liar,” I said, leaning back into the couch cushions. “But keep eating.”

He obeyed, slower this time, spoon clinking softly against the bowl.

“Finish that and I’ll let you rematch,” Bert said.

Frank brightened immediately. “You promise?”

“Yeah, yeah. Scout’s honor.”

"You weren't a scout." I huffed.

"Frank, do you think I was a scout?"

"Yeah."

"Then I was."

“Alright,” I said, pushing myself up. “I’m gonna call my mom.”
Frank nodded around another bite, already halfway done.

"Gerard?"

"Hi mama."

"Where the hell have you been!? I flinched at her tone.

"I-I was at Bert's..."

"You didn't think to call me?"

"Sorry 'ma... Look, can I spend the night?"

"Absolutely not! Your brother misses you, swear he's been nagging me all day. 'Whens Gerard coming?' 'Wheres Gee?'"

I couldn't hold back my grin. "Tell him I'll be home in an hour."

"That's not how this works, and you know it. I want you home asap."

I sighed out a "Kay, love you, bye." and hung up.

"Bert! Kiss." I said, already leaning down and cupping his face.

"She said no?"

"Yep."

I laid a quick peck on his lips before giving Frank a tight squeeze that I guess was supposed to be a hug.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"His mom won't let him stay over."

"Oh..."

"Don't pout. I'll be back tomorrow."

I grabbed my jacket off the back of the couch and shrugged it on.

Bert stood, stretching, then leaned down to drop his controller neatly on the table. “Don’t touch my save,” he warned lightly.

Frank scoffed. “I’m not dumb.”

“That’s debatable,” Bert said, but there was a smile in it.

I hovered for a second, hand on the doorknob, watching them before Bert was headed for me.

"You want me to walk you?"

"I'm fine. His dad'll be here at twelve tomorrow. Please make him soup."

"Yeah I kinda got that part noted down."

"You did?"

"He told me."

"What exactly did I miss when I left? Fuckin' family bonding time?"

"Maybe," he chuckled.

“Don’t let him stay up too late,” I said, slipping my shoes on for what felt like the millionth time that day.

Frank immediately protested, “Gerard—”

“Late-ish,” I amended.

"How late is late-ish?"

"Ten thirty. And that's a maximum."

"Alright, alright. See you." He punctuated with a kiss on my cheek before I was down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in my pockets.

"Hey." I greeted as Bert opened the door, rubbing his eyes.

"S'early, Gerard..."

"Did Frank already leave?"

"No."

"Is he having breakfast?" I asked with a tilt of my head.

"Also no."

My brows pinched together. "Where is he?"

"In bed."

"Bert, it's eleven."

"I know," he groaned.

"Is he asleep?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Cause he is? Damn it, Gerard, I dunno what you want me to tell ya."

"I want you to tell me why he's asleep! He usually wakes up at the asscrack of dawn, so why isn't he up!?"

"Gerard, it's too fuckin' early for—"

"What time did you send him to bed!?"

"Like two..?"

"Jesus Christ," I screeched, pushing past him, not even bothering to take off my shoes, storming up to the guest room. "Frank."

I stepped over to the bed. "Frank. Up. Now."

"Hnngh....five mor—"

"I said get up, Frank. Your dad's gonna be here soon."

"He is..?"

"Yeah. Get your ass up and wash your face," I ordered, pulling the blanket off of him and discarding it somewhere on the floor.

"Cold!" he exclaimed.

"GET UP!"

"Okay, okay!" he mumbled, scampering off to the bathroom down the hall.

I trotted back down the stairs and saw Bert lying face down on the couch. "Jesus Christ," I mumbled, heading for the kitchen. No soup, and honestly I didn't really trust Frank's dad to feed him either. I grabbed a cup of water and made my way back to the living room.

"GAH—!! GERARD, WHAT THE FUCK!?" Bert gasped, drenched.

"I need you to go get soup from the store."

"What are you talking about!?"

"Soup, store. Be quick."

"I—..what?"

"I said soup, goddamn it! Go to the fucking store down the street and buy a can of soup!"

"Why!?

"FOR FRANK!"

Bert sat, staring at the mantle infront of him dazedly and pushed himself off, slipping into his room to change, presumably. I headed upstairs again.

"Frank, I said wake up!" I sighed exasperatedly, leaning against the doorframe.

"M'awake..."

"Why're you in bed?" I mumbled, sitting beside the lump under the blanket.

"I don't wanna see dad..."

"I know. But I'm gonna talk to him."

"What if he doesn't listen?"

"You call me."

"What if I can't call you?"

"You call me anyway."

Frank popped out like a weasel, a petulant pout shaping his lips.

"Bert's getting you soup."

"I hope it's not butternut squash..."

"Didn't like it?"

He shook his head.

Chapter Text

I sat in the car, tracing shapes onto the fabric of my jeans. I didn't dare look out the window, though I could hear the muffled voices of Gerard and my dad talking. It had been a while. Five minutes, maybe ten. Or maybe it was just one and my brain was overreacting. The heel of my foot crushed the same cigarette butt over and over as my leg bounced in place. My hands itched to fiddle with the worn seam of the car seat, the same one I had been plucking and pulling at for years.

I felt my own breath hitch when the scuffled footsteps of my father's shoes moved around the car to the driver's door. My fingers found their way to the seam and pulled just as he sat inside. The engine buzzed to life as he pulled off of Bert's driveway and onto the main road. I looked out the window, catching a glance of the back of Gerard's head as he retreated back inside. I missed him already.

For a long time, the only sound between us was our breathing and the filler noises of cars passing and honking down the street. I noticed him looking at me through the rearview mirror every now and then, but I didn't say anything. Just squirmed.

"So," he piped up. "Who's this Gerald?"

"Gerard...he's my friend."

"Didn't think you'd make any."

I bit my tongue.

"You get bullied?"

"No..."

"Really?" he sounded disbelieving. Like the concept of not making fun of my conditions just couldn't quite sit right with him.

"Yeah."

"Gerald—"

"Gerard." I corrected.

"Gerard, Gerald, Jared, Jagoogidy. They're all the same to me."

My fingers tightened around the string.

"So, anyway, this Gerard guy..how'd you get the balls to talk to 'im?"

"He's my dorm mate," I muttered.

He nodded absently.

"You hungry?"

"No."

"You already eat or somethin'?"

"Yeah."

"Well don't bitch about bein' hungry later cause I ain't comin' back home till five give or take."

"Kay..."

My room was the same as I'd left it, save for the surfaces being coated in a light sprinkle of dust here and there. My bed wasn't made. That was because I hadn't made it before I left for school, but usually my mom did. She wasn't here anymore, and I had to get used to that. I had to start doing things on my own, Gerard made that clear. He didn't care that I had some whack condition, I needed to grow up anyway. Even if my brain wouldn't let me.

I guess he was trying to work around it, see if I could somehow get over it. Maybe I could, and the thought made me want to try so I grabbed the blanket and spread it out over the bed, folding the edge just like how my mom would. I fluffed the pillow up and grabbed Joy from my trunk, setting it beside the pillow meticulously.

I pulled the clothes out of my trunk and spent some time folding everything the way me and Gerard had done every Sunday throughout the school year. I missed Gerard. I didn't know when I was going back—no. If I was going back. What if my dad said no? What if I'd never see Gerard until September? I tried to block out the thoughts by rolling socks into balls but they kept swimming in.

My footsteps were light against the carpeted stairs when I made my way down to the kitchen. Nothing seemed to have changed in the house, no new candles or throw pillows that indicated another woman. I wandered into the kitchen, curious about what my dad had been eating. Was there beer? Would there be takeout leftovers? Or sustainable food? My hand clasped around the handle and the light buzzed when I pulled the door to reveal empty shelves. Not entirely barren, a jar of relish with less than a teaspoon left sat in the door next to a couple of eggs, but that seemed to be it. Even worse? No soup. Not in the cabinets nor in the fridge. It's not like he didn't know, so why wasn't he prepared? Would he bring soup home with him, or did he actually forget?

Buzz! I reached into the pocket of my jacket and checked my phone. Gerard, obviously.

Gee:Frank? U ok?

I pressed into the little keypad on my cell:

Me:yes

Gee:Just yes? Is he w u?

Me:no

Gee:Ok
Gee:Ask him when u can come over when he gets home.

Me:k byebye

Gee:bye

Gee:love u

I pocketed my phone and stood in the kitchen for a good minute before I yawned. Might as well catch up on sleep, I reasoned, and trudged back upstairs.

"Frank," a voice whispered. I felt a steady weight on my shoulder. A hand. "Wake up..."

I sat up, running my eyes. I didn't leave the lamp on. Did I?

"Hey bud."

Bud?

"I uh...I know we don't have the best track record, and I've never been good with apologies—"

"Dad, m'half asleep...not now."

He huffed a laugh and tapped my shoulder. "Alright. Come downstairs, I got soup on."

He didn't forget.

"So uh, like I said. I'm not great with apologies or anythin', but you...you need one."

"Dad—"

"Let me," he insisted. "I wasn't in the right place, after your mom. But—I've been sober. 3 months, and I have the goddamn chip."

My chest suddenly felt warm, and it wasn't the soup.

"Now, I've definitely still got an attitude...but it's not for my son. Gerard? Yeah. Not you, though."

"Gerard cares." I muttered.

"I know."

"Why don't you like him? In six months he's cared a lot more than you have in years."

"I'm aware, Frank. I'm trying. I messed up, there's no denyin' it."

I glared at him as I slurped another spoon.

"I'll be nicer to the kid if that's what ya want."

I grinned. "Deal."

He shook his head with a smile that said 'unbelievable...'

"But uh—look, there's something I gotta tell you."

"Is it bad...?"

"Depends on how you see it."

I stiffened. "What is it...?

"I—I have a girlfriend, and I want you to meet her."

My spoon clattered against the bowl, drops of soup splashing on the table. "You what!? What about mom? What happens when she comes back!?"

"She's not coming back, Frank!"

"Yes she is!"

"She isn't," he barked out. I sank in my seat. "Look, you don't have to like her. Just respect her."

"Do I have to meet her...?"

"Yeah."

"When can I go back to Gerard's?"

"Whenever you want. Just be back before five."

"Everyday?"

"It's your summer break, kid."

Oddly nice, but I wasn't about to complain. I lie in bed that night, staring at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars my mom had stuck up when we first moved in. Maybe he did feel guilty. Maybe he really was trying to change. There wasn't any beer in the fridge, or the trash, or anywhere, really. And maybe his girlfriend was nice. Or maybe she would pretend to be nice around him.

More than anything, I wanted to talk to Gerard about it.

Me:gee?

When I got no response, I set my cell on the nightstand and got comfortable under the covers. I think I slept too much today, though, cause I didn't sleep till four in the morning.

Chapter Text

“Oh fuck.”

The slick heat of Bert's lips on mine elicited another shuddered moan. His hands went to my shoulders, pressing closer, grabbing at me. I felt him shift, and suddenly I was being pulled onto his lap. My legs straddled him thighs on either side of his waist. He moved his hands, slipping underneath my shirt to grasp at my back, holding me there.

"Shit—haven't been able to do anything with Frank around," I practically moaned against his neck. "Y'know how many boners I had to fucking sleep off?"

He chuckled, pulling me back in. I leaned into him, trying to match his rhythm, pushing a little, tugging at his shirt. Then he shifted again, this time pulling me fully onto the bed, pinning me beneath him. His hands wasted no time, travelling to the waistband of my jeans, fingers pressing against the button. He popped it open and tugged at the zipper. I felt the fabric loosen as he tugged my jeans down just past my hips. The sudden exposure made goosebumps raise along my skin despite the raging heat of July.

Then he froze. His hands didn’t move. His eyes fixed on my thighs. I sat up a little, meeting his gaze. The dark, raised, scabbed lines across my thighs. Not the old ones, not the ones he already knew about—but the ones from a month ago. The ones with my back pressed against the cabinet, my pajama pants scrunched all the way up to my hip.

"I-I threw it out..the razor, I mean."

He didn't bother to respond, just looked up at me with a look I couldn't quite name. Instinctively, I leaned back towards him, trying to continue what we'd started.

"Bert, c'mon—"

His hand shot up, gripping my wrist firmly.

"Bert, please."

"No," he said quietly.

I swallowed hard. “I’m fine. I just..I wanted—”

“You’re not fine,” he interrupted gently. “Those cuts—they’re fresh.”

I sank back onto the bed. "Don't fucking lecture me, Bert."

He didn’t rise to it. He let go of my wrist and sat back instead, hands open on his thighs. “I’m not lecturing.”

“Feels like it,” I shot back.

"Gerard, I'm not gonna fuck you and pretend I didn't see it."

I scoffed and turned my head away. “So that’s it?”

“For tonight,” he said calmly. “Yeah.”

I reached for my phone. "Oh shit..."

Frank:gee?

"What," Bert mumbled, coming up to sit beside me against the headboard.

"Frank texted. An hour ago."

"So?"

"So? What if something happened?"

"You talked to his dad, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but how can I know he kept his word?"

"Whether he does or not," he sighed. "It's not really your problem."

"Bert..."

"What? I can feel the fucking worry prickling through you from here."

"For good reason!"

"You're not CPS, Gerard."

I huffed and turned my attention back to the message. "I'm his friend."

Me:Hi Frank. Whats wrong? U ok?

"You text like a fuckin' mom."

I jabbed him with my elbow. "Shut up, asshole!"

I stared at the screen for a few more seconds, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Nothing. Of course nothing.

I set the phone down on the bed, letting out a long, frustrated sigh.

"Calm down." Bert snickered.

I woke and immediately reached for my phone's beside me, only to pat the empty mattress. Checked the table, empty too. Then I looked at the ground. The cell was face down, mingling with my slippers. I huffed.

I stretched out a hand and flipped it open. One new message.

Frank:im ok
Frank:dad got a gf

I ground my teeth in a grimace.

Me:Yikes. Wanna talk ab it?

Frank:nah
Frank:are u at berts?
Frank:can i come over?

I glanced at Bert, still asleep beside me, chest rising and falling evenly. His arm was draped across the pillow, breaths coming out in small puffs against the cotton.

I shimmied closer, adjusting the blankets only for him to snork. Then his eyes cracked open, blinking blearily.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. His arm shifted slightly, brushing against mine.

“Morning,” I whispered back, keeping my eyes on the phone, thumb hovering over the keypad. "Frank texted."

"What'd he say?"

"Wants to come over."

"Right now?" Bert groaned.

"Yeah."

Bert sat up a little, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Figures. Can’t leave the kid alone for five minutes without a panic attack.”

"Bert."

"Just teasing, babe." He placated, shuffling out of the bed.

I mirrored the action, shoving my feet into the slippers and drawing the curtains. Phone still in hand, I glanced at the screen.

Frank:so can i?
Frank:hello?
Frank:gee?

Me:yeah come over.

Mr Iero's car drifted away as Frank ran up to the porch for a hug. He almost tripped on his own feet as he scrambled up and crashed into me. I returned the embrace, squeezing him.

"You okay?"

"Mhm.." he muffled into my shoulder.

"He hit you?"

Frank pulled back to glare at me. "No, Gee. What the hell?"

"What? You're the one who was scared to see him!"

"Yeah like yesterday. He's fine. I'm fine."

"Okay, shit. Didn't realize you're all buddy buddy."

"Well, we are."

"You have breakfast?"

"Yeah."

I raised a brow. "What'd you eat?"

"What do you think? Soup, obviously." he scowled.

Did he grow a fucking attitude overnight? As ticked off as I was, a grin escaped me. "Come in," I beckoned.

Chapter Text

I opened the door to Bert's car with a light click, stepping out.

"See ya." he waved.

"Bye, Bert." I returned, now turning around and walking up the path to the front door. The lights were on, but my dad's car wasn't out front. Maybe he forgot to turn them off, maybe he'd be mad about that. I twisted the knob. Unlocked. The door creaked with the force of my light push, and it shut behind me when I pressed my back up against it. Right before me, a woman. In my kitchen. Back facing me, humming under her breath and she rummaged around like she belonged here. Like she'd been here.

It didn't take long for me to realize who she was after seeing the shoes place neatly by the door, that and the fact that she was in my house. I didn't know whether to proceed forward or run upstairs and lock the door, but I eventually settled on the former.

After shedding my shoes, I walked down the wooden parquet with socked feet, so light you could hardly even hear them, but she did anyway.

"Oh, you're Frank, arentcha?" She turned when I stopped behind her. Water dripped from her fingers into the sink. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and flashed me a smile. "Pardon me, my name's Deborah, but Deb works just fine."

I nodded stiffly. I wasn't planning on calling her Deb any time soon. I just barely recalled my father saying something along the lines of respecting her and not loving her, and respect meant full name, not nickname.

"So, you hungry? I've got this nice lentil soup on—your father told me about the whole er—...condition."

"Talk about me a lot?"

"No, not much. Just that and you're a little younger that you oughta be."

Than I oughta be? Because there was some sort of quota my brain was supposed to meet? There was a start and finish line? A goal?

"Be a dear and put some cutlery on the table?"

I had half a mind to tell her she'd be just fine doing it herself, but instead found myself striding towards the cabinet and setting plates, bowls, cups, and sorts along the table.

"Anything else?" I gritted out.

She looked over at the table, brows raised, mouth in a straight line. Like something was missing. Subpar. "Napkins."

"Napkins?" I questioned.

"Well," she said almost patronizingly. "You eat a bit of soup, get some on your mouth, you wipe it on a napkin." I pressed my lips into a tight line, trying to cage my tongue before it said something stupid.

"We don't have napkins." I spoke sharper than I intended, but honestly didn't regret it for one second. "We have tissues."

"Fold em' then," she said with a wide toothy smile, like it was obvious. Like I should've known. "In threes."

I didn't know how to fold napkins—no. Tissues in threes, so I pinched a tissue between my fingers and folded it in half twice. Once horizontally, the other vertically. I didn't care if it wasn't what she asked for, afterall she could always do it herself next time around.

"I'm gonna head upstairs now," I declared, not making the mistake of offering to assist with anything else. She was perfectly capable, if not more capable than me, by her own words.

"You don't wanna stick around for the taste test?" she called.

"I can taste it just the same at the table with everyone else."

Up in my room, I closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a quiet breath. If it were up to me, I'd stay here all throughout dinner, but that probably didn't constitute as 'respect' in my father's book.

I sank onto the edge of my bed, hugging my knees a little. From up here, I could hear the faint scrape of dishes from the kitchen, the sounds of her moving about. I didn't want to text Gerard, not really. Talking about things never really makes it better. Just makes it feel more real, which makes it suck more.

I pushed myself to lay down, wondering how she was so comfortable existing in this house without feeling like an intruder. It was my own father's house and I still couldn't bring myself to call it home. Deborah? She walked around the kitchen, grabbing ladles and spoons like she knew where things were kept. I wasn't dumb, I know she'd been here before. Probably when I was at school. That made me feel weird. Knowing someone was prancing around in a place the same way my mother used to—but this time it was off. Everything she said felt like it was loaded. A smile and an insult all together, like a package deal.

Backhanded bitch.

The clink of forks and knives against the plates was sickening, but not as sickening as the simple chatter between my dad and Deborah. It was fake, I could tell. No one really ever cared about how your day was doing, not your therapist, and definitely not someone who isn't getting paid to listen. I didn't like how she laughed at a joke and closed it off with a 'that's funny' every time.

"More chicken?"

"Oh yes, please," my dad spoke around a hearty mouthful. "It's goddamn delicious. How's your soup, Frank? I bet it's just as good."

Yeah because lentil soup equates to a basted rotisserie chicken. "S'fine." I mumbled, taking a sip of the water beside my bowl.

"Just fine?"

"I don't like lentils," I spat. "They're chewy and have an odd texture and the flavor is mediocre."

"Frank," my dad shot. "Didn't we talk about being respectful?"

"It's disrespectful to voice my opinions on my disdain for lentils?"

"Well ain't disdain a big word?" Deborah chimed in.

"Not as big as your attitude."

"Frank!" he boomed, slamming his fork down. "We agreed, respect!"

I wanted to spit out a "What if I don't want to respect her?" but found myself mumbling an apology.

"It's quite alright, dear." Deborah smiled. Look at the martyr, accepting my apology with grace.

I shoved my spoon into the lentils, dragging them around with clinks every now and then. No one really seemed to notice, too engrossed in their conversation about some guy who did something, somewhere, somehow. She laughed. Loudly. Grabbing my hand with a tug. "Isn't that funny?"

I wasn't listening, but whatever it was, I'm certain it wasn't funny. I'm sure this was what she did. Made the man feel important. Like he was the center of her world, to keep him around. For what? Not sure. I didn't know if she was the kind of person to go for money or just the type that wanted all the attention. Either way, my dad was eating it up like a last meal. It probably didn't take much energy to keep this act up Deborah's end, he was hooked.

The days passed by in a blur of going to Bert's and coming home. A lot of going to Bert's. Mainly to see Gerard. Sometimes he wasn't there with us, but Bert was cool too. Gerard said he had a surprise for me, that we were going out somewhere, so I made sure to put on the cleanest shirt I had. Gerard still wore hoodies in the heat, which was weird. I kind of guessed he just really like wearing hoodies. I'd probably gift him one sometime.

Bert looked bored when he drove us, like he'd rather be anywhere else. But I knew he liked having us around. I tried to guess where we were going, but Gerard just smiled and shook his head when I asked. “You’ll see."

When we got to the cinema though, I was practically thrumming with nerves, clutching Gerard's arm so tight I probably left marks. The smell of popcorn wafting through the space and the sight of moviegoers was enough to make me vibrate with excitement. Bert stepped up front to the ticket box, leaning down.

"Three tickets for Men in Black, please."

"Twenty-four dollars. Cash or credit?"

"Uh, cash," Bert mumbled flitting through his wallet. He took his sweet time though, and I saw Gerard's smile falter as he leaned in.

"You good..?"

"Yeah, yeah I just—" Bert grumbled, pulling out a crumpled twenty and some coins, shoving it through the window.

"Sir, this is three dollars short."

"...Shit,” Bert muttered, counting again. “I…Gee, you got a five on you?”

"No." Gerard winced.

"Why don't the two of you just go? I can pick you up after—"

"No," I whined. "You have to be there too!"

"Why don't we just go back at watch it at home? We can have popcorn there too, right?" Gerard offered, trying to stay upbeat.

"Yeah, that works. C'mon."

I trudged a few steps behind Gerard, kicking at the curb without really thinking. My face probably gave me away because I was totally upset. A movie at home worked, but now that I'd seen the cinema I didn't really want to settle for less.

"You look like someone punched your happiness in the gut," Bert acknowledged.

I shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

“Hang on a sec,” he added, turning back toward the cinema. “I forgot something inside.” me and Gerard stopped in our tracks and waited by the door.

A few minutes later, he returned, a small paper box in his hand, striped red and white. He handed it to me with a grin. “Thought you might need this.”

I blinked down at it, then up at him. “…Popcorn?”

“Popcorn,” he confirmed. “Fresh 'n' buttery. No theater, but still pretty good, right..?”

I couldn’t help it. Without thinking, I leaned forward and hugged him around the waist. He stiffened for a second, and I remember he wasn't Gerard. He loosened though, giving me an awkward pat on the back and pulling apart.

The disappointment in my chest eased just a little as I dug into the popcorn, letting the warmth and smell fill the air in the car.

"Gimmie a piece," Gerard reached backwards, his hand sticking out expectantly.

"No! It's mine!"

"Don't be an asshole, Frank." Bert scolded.

"I was only kidding," I launched back, pouring a smattering of popcorn into Gerard's still extended hand. He munched on it happily, shoving one into Bert's mouth as well.

By the time we got to Bert’s, the popcorn box was lighter, though Gerard was tinkering in the kitchen to make a bigger bowl. Bert busied himself with the TV, fumbling with the remote until the opening credits rolled. It was upset it wasn't going to be the big screen earlier, but now it didn't really matter. Not with Bert and Gerard beside me, anyway.

The movie was good, I guess. Not the best I've seen I but had fun regardless. All our fingers were covered in salt and oil, Bert licked it, I wiped it on my shirt, and Gerard got up to wash his hands with a grimace directed at the two of us.

"What now?" I asked when Gerard flopped back on the couch.

"We take you home."

“Already? Thought we could, I dunno…play something or talk or—”
Bert shook his head, smirking. “Gotta get you back before your dad stops you from comin' entirely."

"But I don't wanna go back."

"Why not?" Gerard frowned. "Did you dad do something?"

"No! Deborah did!"

"Deborah? Who the fuck is Deborah?" Bert quizzed.

"Dad's girlfriend."

Gerard winced. "Did she do anything to you?"

"Not physically, but she's weird. She keeps talking about my conditions these past few days—"

"Days?" Gerard exclaimed. "You didn't think to tell me you've been living with your dad's girlfriend for days?"

"What difference was it gonna make," I huffed. "It's not like you can call my dad and ask him to kick her out!"

"But you would've had someone to talk to—"

"I don't need to talk to anyone."

"Well, what does this Deborah do, exactly?"

"She thinks my disorder is fake."

"Er," Bert chimed. "Which one..?"

"The throwing up thing. She keeps trying to make me eat normal food."

Bert raised a brow, glancing at Gerard. “Wow…yeah, that’s…not great.”

“Not great? She’s driving me insane,” I muttered, kicking my sneaker against the couch leg. “Every time I try to eat something soft, she’s like, ‘Come on, dear, just try it.’ Like I’m faking it or something!”

Gerard’s hand found mine, giving it a small squeeze. I glanced down at our hands, squeezing back lightly. “I’m fine,” I mumbled, though the tight knot in my chest didn’t exactly agree.

"She's a bitch." Bert offered.

"A huge bitch," Gerard echoed. "Can't you tell your dad?"

"I tried! He says I'm overreacting and that she's 'just trying to help!'" I scoffed.

"Well, speak up to her," Bert suggested. "Don't let her crush you under her foot."

"Can't. My dad says I have to stay respectful."

"I don't have to be respectful..." Gerard murmured with a raised brow.

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying I come over for dinner and chew her out."

I blinked at him, a mix of shock and amusement curling in my chest. “You’d…actually do that?”

“Yeah. Someone’s gotta tell her she’s outta line. You shouldn’t be walking on eggshells in your own house.” He tapped my hand and stood up.

"Right now?"

"When else?"

Chapter Text

I saw Bert reaching for the door handle once we'd parked infront of Frank's place out of the corner of my eye. "Wait," I urged. "I think it's better if you stay."

"Like hell I'm sitting my ass here," He scoffed.

"Just think about it! We're going to make a shit show, aren't we? They can always stop Frank from coming over!"

"And it's better that you go because...?"

"Because," I snapped. "It's not my house Frank goes over to, is it? As long as he's allowed to go to your place, they don't have to know I'm there too."

Bert spaced out for a second, like he was putting two and two together before nodding blankly. "Alright..yeah. I'll park a couple houses down the block."

I leaned in close, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "Kay, see you."

The doors closed behind us with a thud as we stalked up to the front door. It was a nice house, the kind you'd expect the husband to come in and say "Honey, I'm home!"

"Ready?" I said, raising my hand above the wood.

"I'm not the one doing anything to be ready for."

"Okay, smartass, are you ready to watch me?"

"Very."

I knocked obnoxiously, rapping over and over until the door was tugged open by a lady, short-haired, brown and curled at the ends. "Hi," she strained out.

"This is my friend," Frank took over. "He's staying for dinner."

"Frank, I—...I mean, I only cooked for three—"

"That's alright," I butted. "You can serve yourself less."

"Serve myself less?" She asked, incredulous.

"Yeah. You could stand to lose a few pounds."

"I weigh just fine—"

"Just fine, ain't the way a woman oughta be." I snarked, pushing past her and flopping onto the couch. Frank followed, sitting a lot more politely thank I cared to. God, he was like a mannequin in his own house.

"Dinner will be out in a few..." she mumbled, shuffling off.

"Didn't reckon your house would be this nice," I thought out loud. "I kinda wanna see your room."

He nodded, tugging my hand to lead me upstairs. I had honestly been expecting a cheesy sign on the door that said "DO NOT ENTER" in a big bulky font, but what immediately caught my attention upon going inside were the glow-in-the-dark plastic stars hung up on the ceiling.

"Huh," I huffed.

"You like them?"

"Love them. They're very...you."

I sat on the bed, neck still cramped up toward the ceiling.

"You counting them?" Frank asked, sitting beside me. I felt a twinge of embarrassment, being read so easily.

"Maybe," I admitted. "So..what else is of interest in here?"

"I have rocks."

"Rocks?"

"Yeah. Like pretty ones, I took a couple from school when you weren't looking—"

"I told you not to do that!"

"They looked cool, I couldn't help myself!" he protested.

"Okay, well show me these tempting rocks, then."

Frank grabbed a paper cup off his desk and dumped the contents into my palm. My brows raised as I held the minerals in my hand. They were literally just rocks. Nothing special about them, like a smoothed edge or slightly blue color. Just rocks.

Frank seemed to have caught my scrutinizing gaze. "I don't wanna hear it. They already have names."

"Ofcourse they do," I sighed, setting them down on the nightstand and laying flat down on Frank's bed.

"Shoes," he ordered, scooping the rocks back into the cup.

"My bad," I said, sitting up to kick my shoes off before resuming my position sprawled on the bed. Frank joined me eventually.

"So, what're you gonna do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be dumb!"

I chuckled. "I'm just playing with you...though I'll probably try and break a glass or two."

"For real?"

"If it gets to that, yeah."

The cutlery screeching against the plates was the only sound in the dining room for a while, besides Frank's father's unpleasant chewing sounds, of course. I thought maybe Deborah would strike conversation, or maybe say something in general, but she had kept to pushing the asparagus on her plate around.

I spared a glance at Frank. Bowl of soup—not just any soup. Lentils. That was my gateway.

"How's your soup," I spoke, nudging Frank in the arm.

"Horrible..."

"Frank." his father chimed immediately.

I cocked my head to the side. "What? Kid can't voice his opinion?"

"He can, in a respectful manner."

"You sure talk a lot about respect for someone who yelled profanities at me over the phone."

"I was tired—"

"That's wont hold up in court, will it? Harassment of a minor can't be excused cause you were tired."

"What're you sayin'? You'll take me to a judge?"

"No one has time for that."

"Then what's your fucking point?" he snarled.

There it was.

"I'm just saying, Frank said he doesn't like lentils. Why give him lentils?"

"He'll eat what he's served."

"Oh, because his house is a prison?"

"Gerard," Deborah interjected. "We're eating, dear." She shot me a look that said not now.

"Frank isn't. He hasn't picked up his spoon since we sat down. Wanna know why?"

Deborah’s mouth opened, then closed again. “He’s just being fussy,” she declared. “Children do that.”

Frank’s father nodded. “Exactly. He eats when he’s hungry.”

I leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “He is hungry."

"So he'd rather starve than eat a bowl a lentils?" he laughed.

"Must be the way his mother raised him..." Deborah added.

"Don't talk about my mom!" Frank cried. I sat back in my chair.

“Frank, sweetheart, no one is attacking your mother,” she said quickly, already reaching for his arm. “We’re just saying some habits get passed down. That’s all.”

"Nothing got passed down! I don't like lentils! I hate them! They leave a weird after-taste in my mouth and they feel all mushy and I don't want to eat them!"

"Frank, quiet down and eat!"

"Why don't you eat them?" I yelled.

For a moment, Frank's dad sat still, muscle in his jaw clenching. Looked like even he knew it was bad.

"And you," I redirected to Deborah. "Why don't you eat them? It's your own cooking, isn't it?"

"Well I—..I made them for Frank."

"Eat them," I pressed, pushing the bowl to the middle of the table. She remained motionless. "Oh come on, Deb, they don't bite."

"No." She said brusquely.

"Too bad."

"Gerard, I don't know if this is how you behave in your own hom—"

"This has nothing to do with my home," I cut in, raising the spoon to her face. "Have a bite, just one."

"I said no!" she snapped, pushing her chair back a fraction.

"Gerard! You've made your point!"

"No I haven't," I said, putting the spoon down on the table with a splat.

"You are not his parent!" she shot.

"Neither are you!"

Deborah recoiled. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," I spat. "You're not even married and you're playing the housewife. Admit it. You're a slut."

"That's enough! Get out of my house, now!"

I stood. “You want me gone,” I said. “Fine. But I’m not leaving him with this.”

"With what? Dinner?" she scoffed.

I wasted no time tipping the bowl. Soup surged over the rim in one thick wave, slapping against her chest and neck before she could move. It soaked straight through the front of her blouse, warm and chunky, dragging her hair down with it. Deborah gasped, stumbling back as if the air had been knocked out of her. She froze there, stunned and dripping.

The empty bowl hit the table with a clank. I looked at Frank, he was torn between laughter and concern.

"Goodnight." I spoke, turning to head out.

"No—! No, you don't get to dump lentils on my wife—"

"She's not your wife!" Frank barked.

"I don't give a fuck! You don't get to ruin everything and leave!"

"Well, I'm leaving anyway."

The door clicked behind me and I quickly made my way down the street till I saw Bert's car parked up by a blue house. I knocked on the window and he unlocked the car, allowing me to sit inside.

"How'd it go?"

"I dumped lentils on her."

"What?"

"I dumped—"

"No, I heard you the first time. Tell me everything. From the top."

Chapter Text

Dad sat with his fork and knife clutched in a white-knuckled grip. It seemed like he was debating going after Gerard and socking him in the jaw, yet he sat still. Matter of fact, everything was still. Except for Deborah's lip. It quivered, and then she let out a stream of whimpers into her hands.

"I—...I was only trying to have a nice dinner..." she sniffled. My dad nearly ran to comfort her, wrapping an arm around her lentil-clad shoulder. "Like a family..."

"You're not my family." I spoke without really thinking twice.

"Frank, whether you like it or not—"

"That's not how it works! She doesn't care about me!"

"I care," she choked out. "If I didn't care I wouldn't make you soup! I'd just tell you to eat solids like the rest of us!"

"Do you have any idea how many types of soup exist and you still insist that I eat the one I don't like?"

"I—" she mumbled, wiping soup off her cheek. "I just thought you were being picky..."

"He is." My dad said, adding his worthless two cents.

"No I'm not! It feels disgusting! I can't stand it!"

"Frank, for the love of God! They're just lentils!"

I stood from my chair, unable to believe he was being so insensitive. Maybe they were just lentils to other people, but the skin on the outside mixed with the mushy feeling when you chew them was so horrible to me I'd find myself straining my throat just to swallow. "Why are you on her side!?"

"I'm not on any sides."

"Yes you are! God, I should've known something was up when you were suddenly acting nice!"

"I'm not actin' like anythin'." He spoke flatly, standing to meet me. I caught him wiping the stray lentils on his hand back on Deborah's shirt. What a gentleman.

"You never liked me! You didn't like me when mom was here, and you certainly don't like me now!"

His jaw clenched. "Go to your room."

"Why? Can't handle when I talk about mom? Why is that? Why don't you love her anymore? What are you gonna do when she comes back and sees Deborah?"

"Frank, she's not coming back!"

"Not for you! But I'm still here, and I know she wouldn't leave me!"

"Well, she did!" He shouted. "She left me and you alike," he said, more calmly now.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I know my mom, and I know for a fact she wouldn't leave me. Not without saying bye, anyway. She can't just switch up like that, it's not how things work. And here my own father was, trying to convince me that she didn't love me all along, when in reality that was him.

My eyes ran over his face. The same face who'd yell at me constantly, the same face that still did. It filled me with ire, not at him, but at myself to believe that he really changed when I'd been at Saint Raphael's. Of course he hadn't. People like him don't change. Atleast not from what I've experienced.

I quickly found tears filling my eyes. He pissed me off so bad, and I just knew hot angry tears spilling down my cheeks wasn't going to help, so I turned on my heel and bolted upstairs, the thudding of my footsteps drowning out Deborah's pathetic victimized sobs.

"Yeah, get lost!" He called out to me, as if to make me feel like a rat scampering away. I slammed the door behind me and buried myself in the covers. I felt pitiful. Even being at Saint Raphael's was better than this because at the very least, I'd be with Gerard.

I woke up to the edge of my bed sinking down under weight which I processed to be my father's.

"Where's your phone?" He spoke quietly. It was almost weird in a way, or I was just groggy.

"On the desk," I said, still not fully understanding the reason behind the question. "Why?"

He stood, walking over to the desk and picking up the cell. "You can get it back once you learn to clamp your mouth."

I sat up. This wasn't fair, right? It's not like I'd said anything untrue. Deborah wasn't my family, check. My dad never liked me, check. He still doesn't like me...my eyes darted between the phone and the stern look on his face. Check.

"And you're grounded. Not goin' to Herbert or whatever his name is."

"Bert."

"Don't care, point is you're not goin'."

"What am I supposed to do!?"

"Help Deborah. Maybe if you worked hard to cook lentils yourself you'd like em' more."

"Nothing could ever make me like them." I spat.

He didn't speak, just walked for the door and shut it softly behind him. I sank back into the bed, the sound of his receding footfall muffled by the carpet. I hugged Joy to my chest, replaying the events that had just happened less than a minute ago. I tried to go back to sleep but unsurprisingly ended up staring at the stars on my ceiling for the better part of an hour before I decided to go downstairs and see if apologizing would get me anywhere closer to getting ungrounded.

I trudged up the stairs with an internal groan. I don't know why I thought I'd get anything better than an hour long lecture, but in hindsight that's really all there ever was on the table. Too soon, I guess. I thought to myself a lot when I sat in bed again, about how soon I could get my phone back. If I just played by the rules, surely I'd get my phone back eventually. There was a little voice inside my head though, one that said if I left it up to Deborah, she'd never give me my phone back. That meant I'd probably have to butter her up infront of my father instead, that way he could see for himself how much I 'changed.'

Then again, though, I had less than a month left before I got back to school, and I know my dad is stubborn enough to keep my phone longer than a week so that leaves me with two weeks left if I'm lucky, but there's really no telling.

Sucking up to Deborah was definitely one thing I'd underestimated would be hard to do. In all honesty, it was nothing serious—but it really made me feel like a wimp. To yell at someone and switch up as soon as I got my phone taken away. However, the bigger part of me didn't care. As long as I had my phone, I had Gerard. And Bert too, I guess. Dad had given me a looong talk before he gave it back. Something about respect (of course) and knowing my place. I was only half listening.

I flipped open my phone and took a look at my messages.

You have 7 new message(s)!

Gee:Frank. Hows everything?
Gee:Bert says hi.
Gee:Frank?
Gee:Its been 2 days, wru?
Gee:Are u OK? I came over but no one was home.
Gee:Frank seriously its been a week. Get back 2 me.
Gee:Are u mad @ me?

hi |

I typed out, not sure what to say exactly.

hi i got grounded |

I felt like I should add more, but I shrugged and hit send anyway.

Me:hi i got grounded

Gee:Frank!
Gee:Yeah, I figured.

Me:missed u guys

Gee:Yeah us too. We have school in a week, are u packed?

Me:r u serious
Me:i dont want to go back

Gee:Me neither. Anyway, bring some cash this time.

Me:cash?
Me:like money?
Me:y?

Gee:Fall fair. Theyll take us out to this place in the square. U can buy stuff if u want.

Me:how much shld i bring?

Gee:20-50. Anyway, Im going out. Bye love u.

Me:bye

Chapter Text

Walking into the front office after three months of summer definitely wasn't what anyone wanted, let alone me—though for once I looked at the glass half full and reminded myself it was senior year, and I'd finally be out of this hell disguised as heaven for good.

The office smelled the same as always, something citrusy and the faint tang of erasers. A small line of students sat before me, murmuring about dorm arrangements and other things that came with a new year. There were new faces, but most of them seemed to be in a lower year than me, so I really didn't spare more than a glance.

When it was my turn, I gave the attendant at the desk my name, and she began the print for my schedule while she dug in the drawer for my dorm key. It was agonizingly slow—the printing, coupled with the rummaging through keys and chattering of scholars and teachers alike. Finally, she dumped the key into my palm and handed me my schedule without much ceremony.

I maneuvered my way past the crowd of students outside their dorms all the way till I reached my dorm number and shoved in the keys. God, I hoped there wasn't anyone else already in there. To my relief, there wasn't. It was almost as if God had answered my prayer, but you and I both know that didn't happen.

I set my trunk down by the foot of my bed and took a seat, letting out a breath. I turned my head ever so slightly and caught a glimpse of a fresh uniform packaged in plastic sitting on my pillow. Jesus, it was gonna be a long year. Figuring I had nothing better to do, I cracked open my luggage and began to unpack, placing things into my dresser with little regard for organization. I'd know where it was. I think.

I was halfway through shoving my clothes into the drawer when the door clicked. My stomach dropped upon hearing a:

"Oh hell no!"

I whipped around to see Ronnie with a scowl plastered on his face. He pushed inside and dropped his bag onto the bed beside mine. "Absolutely not, I'm not staying here with you."

"Yeah? Then what d'you think you're gonna do?"

"Get our dorms changed cause I'm not staying here," he spat, pulling the door open forcefully and storming out. I scoffed, knowing full well the school wouldn't let him change dorms yet. Something about it being too early into the year.

He came back in with his face twisted in a glower.

"Well," I snarked.

"Well, she said to wait a couple weeks."

I huffed and sat with my back against the headboard. It was nothing I hadn't expected, but Ronnie always had a way of being proven wrong time and time again. You'd think that'd kill his ego, but all it did was inflate it and then some.

It was incredibly awkward for the past hour or so. I'd been staring at the ceiling for God knew how long, so eventually I sat up and dug through my luggage, pulling out my sketchbook. I resituated myself against the headboard and pulled the pencil from the elastic band along the edge of the book.

"You still draw?" Ronnie said.

"Yeah."

He stayed quiet for some time, however I could feel his eyes flicking towards me every now and then.

"What do you draw now," he asked eventually.

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the paper. "Same stuff."

"Comics?"

"Sometimes."

He hummed quietly, like that answered more than it should’ve.

"You still any good?"

I glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"You think I downgraded or something?"

"Who knows?"

"Guess that's up to you to decide, right?"

"Guess so."

Then, he added:

"Show me."

I flipped the sketchbook shut halfway. "Show you...?"

He nodded half-heartedly from across the room. I contemplated for a while before throwing the book down onto my bed.

"Knock yourself out."

He stepped closer and took it, flipping through a couple pages slowly. His expression didn’t change much, but he didn’t stop either.

"Huh," he said after a minute.

"Huh good, or huh bad?"

He looked up at me.

"Huh the same."

I snorted, and he huffed out a laugh through his nose, like he always used to do. People hardly change. He then pushed off the dresser and turned to his bed.

"Hey—turn off the overhead light?"

"Yeah, sure." He complied, flicking over the switch by the door before flopping onto his bed.

I flipped the sketchbook open again and tried to focus on the page, but Ronnie chimed up again.

"You going to the fair thing this weekend?"

I stopped drawing for a second. "Yeah."

He nodded slowly, like he’d expected that answer.

"You?"

"Maybe."

"Didn't you used to say you couldn't get through the year without buying cigarettes from that corner store the teachers didn't know about?"

"I don't smoke anymore."

"Oh." I shifted on the bed. "Guess you've got me beat there."

"You still smoke?"

I nodded, not quite drawing anymore, rather just scribbling to keep my hands busy.

"You shouldn't."

"Why? Cause it's a sin?"

"No, dumbass. Cause it's harmful. Which in turn makes it a sin but—"

"Since when do you care about sins?" I blurted out.

"People change."

I huffed quietly and went back to my sketchbook, dragging the pencil across the page in lazy lines.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Apparently."

When the clock hit seven, Ronnie stood and pulled his shoes on.

"You coming to dinner?"

"Uh...yeah." I said, snapping my sketchbook closed and sliding my boots on. Ronnie let out a chuckle, and I raised my head with a questioning look. "Something wrong?"

"It's nothing it's just—...you're still sporting those beat down boots. Would it kill you to buy a pair of sneakers?"

I frowned at him. “These aren’t that beat up.”

"Sure, and Sister Williams is straight."

My face blanked at the revelation, and I sat for a good second just gaping at Ronnie. "You're kidding."

"How do you think I got her to leave me alone?" he mused, leaving the dorm. I hurriedly zipped up the sides of my boots and chased him down the hall, my laces undone.

"Wait! How do you know!?" I yelled, grabbing his arm.

"Saw her frenching it up with Miss Lee."

"No..."

"Yes."

We walked in silence, with me still trying to process the mental image Ronnie had just shoved into my head.

"Are you fucking with me?" I spouted eventually.

"Dude, if you don't believe me just see what happens when you bring Miss Lee up."

“And you just… watched?”

“Watched? Nah, I just—” He paused. “Okay, maybe I watched. A little. But only to confirm the rumor.”

"Jesus!" I laughed. "You perv!"

"Like you wouldn't watch too!"

"Uh, hello!? I wouldn't! They're our teachers!"

"So?"

"So!?"

We both froze for a second, then burst out laughing at the same time, stumbling a little as we walked down the hall. By the time we'd reached the dining hall doors we'd settled down. I nudged the door open and immediately scouted for Frank.

“Where the hell is he?” I muttered under my breath.

"Who?"

"Frank." I sighed.

"The little guy?"

"You've got like three inches on him."

"Eh probably four."

"Three and a half."

"Deal."

I scoured the premises yet again, still not finding the familiar head of hair I hadn't seen in weeks.

"Y'know, I don't get why you're so whipped for him."

"M'not."

"You definitely are. Is it cause he's the only one who talked to you last year?"

"Partially," I grumbled. "And I'm still pissed at you for that."

"My bad."

"Your bad? You totally blew things out of proportion!"

"You're the one who tried to kiss me!"

"Kiss you, not rape you!" I hissed.

"I know! I was just being an ass—"

"Being an ass doesn't cover it!"

He threw up his hands. “Okay, fine! Happy? I admit it. I screwed up!”

I rolled my eyes, still scanning the tables. “That’s not the point!”

“Then what’s the point?” he shot back, voice just loud enough to draw a few curious glances.

“The point is—” I stopped mid-sentence when I finally caught sight of Frank, tucked into a corner with a bowl of soup. Relief hit me like a wave. “—he’s there.” I murmured, already weaving through the tables.

"You're just gonna leave," Ronnie called out. I didn't bother responding. Frank had seen me by now and was bounding over for a hug, presumably. "Real mature!"

"Hey," Frank chirped, wrapping his arms around my middle.

"Hey, you." I murmured, brushing hair away from his face.

"I made soup for myself this evening!"

"Really? That mean I don't have to make you any?"

"Uh, no. It tastes better when you make it."

"I literally just stir the pot Frank," I said for what felt like way more times than that sentence ever needed to be repeated ever.

"Don't care. Who's your roommate?"

"Ronnie."

"Ronnie? Like...the bad Ronnie?"

"He's not all bad."

"Why not?"

"Cause..." I trailed off. I didn't really have a reason. Not one I could explain with words, anyway.

"Cause?"

"Nothing. Who's your roommate?"

"I don't have one."

"What? Why not?"

"I dunno. Guess I just ended up like you last year." he rambled, tugging me over to sit across from him at the table he saved.

"Yeah...I guess."

"So when can you come?"

"They said a couple weeks. Probably a month."

"A month," he whined.

"Calm your ass down, I can always just stay at your dorm since you don't have a mate."

"Thought you wanted to spend more time with Ronnie."

"Who said that?" I laughed, half baffled, half amused.

"I can see it in your eyes." He said, squinting suspiciously.

I flicked a crumb off table with an exasperated sigh.

"Sure, why not?"

After giving Frank a goodnight-hug™, I returned to my own dorm, slotting the key into place and giving it a twist. Ronnie was already in bed, not asleep, yet settled in. I figured it was time to sleep as well considering the miserable hour I had to get up at tomorrow.

With a little help from my hands I managed to toe off my boots and change into something more comfortable before slipping under the covers. I tossed and turned, struggling to find a comfortable position on the bed.

"Mattress is lumpy..." Ronnie griped quietly.

"And stiff." I added.

“Seriously, how do they expect anyone to sleep on this?”

“I dunno. Probably to build character,” I muttered, turning onto my side.

Ronnie sighed and adjusted the pillow under his head, mumbling a 'night.'

I gave one back.

Chapter Text

Something thumped across the room along with the rustle of fabric. I cracked an eye open to see Ronnie struggling with his tie. I watched him fumble with it for a good ten seconds before pushing myself up on my elbows, any trace of sleep long gone, instead replaced by the mild frustration that came with watching Ronnie be foiled by his own tie.

"You're doing it wrong."

Ronnie didn't look away from the mirror. "No I'm not."

"You are."

"I've tied a tie before, Gerard."

"Yeah? Could’ve fooled me."

He huffed and tugged at the knot again, somehow making it worse. I sighed, dragged myself out of bed, and shuffled over.
"Move," I muttered, grabbing the ends of the tie before he could protest.

Ronnie flinched and leaned back like I’d just taken a swing at him.

I blinked at him, tilting my head to the side. "What...?"

"Nothing I just—"

"You thought I was gonna kiss you?"

He nodded sheepishly. I dismissed the idea with a scoff and a slight roll of my eyes. "Relax, dumbass. I have a boyfriend."

Ronnie frowned. "You didn't have one last year."

"Yeah well, people change, don't they?"

"You mocking me?"

"A little, yeah." I murmured, straightening down the tie. "Remind me how you've been in this school longer than I have yet you never learned to tie a tie?"

"I dunno, I kinda just did random movements." I raised a brow. "It worked out eventually."

"Yeah, after divine intervention."

"You always have something to say, I swear."

I ignored the comment and grabbed my uniform, shutting the bathroom door behind me. After tugging my clothes on and smoothing down my hair, I slipped on my boots and headed to the door.

"Where're you going? We've got like fifteen minutes to mass."

"You're not the only person I tie ties for."

"Frank?"

I paused with my hand on the doorknob and glanced back at him.

"Who else?"

Ronnie gave a small nod like that tracked, then pushed himself off the desk he'd been leaning against.

"Can I come?"

My face twisted. "You wanna come...?"

I looked him up and down for a second. "You're gonna scare him."

"Why would I scare him?"

"I—...I sort of told him you're a bad guy."

"What?"

"I mean, can you blame me!?" I said, throwing up my hands.

"Is this about the rape thing?"

"Of course it's about the rape thing!"

"When will you let that go?"

"No one is going to let it go. Everyone thinks I fucking touched you."

"Come on, you won't see these faces after graduation! Unless you decide to go to the reunion a couple years after—"

"That's even worse! These people are gonna tell their kids they went to school with a rapist!" I ran a hand through my hair, exasperated. "It’s not like you can just erase it, you know."

"Hey," he said, "you’ve survived it this long. You’ll survive a few more months."

I shot him a glare. "Survive? Yeah, sure. But do you have any idea how humiliating it is? How everyone looks at me like—" I waved a hand vaguely toward the door. "—like I’m some kind of monster?"

Ronnie faltered just a bit. He looked down at his shoes, twisting one in his hands. "…Yeah. Look, Gerard… about all that stuff last year. I—uh… I’m sorry. For how I made things, I mean. I didn’t… I didn’t think about how it’d hit you."

"Yeah, cause you don't ever think." I exhaled slowly, letting some of the tension drain from my shoulders. "But whatever. Let's go."

Ronnie gave a small shrug, still looking a little uneasy. "I know it doesn’t fix anything, but… I meant it. I really am sorry."

I shot him a sidelong glance, catching the flicker of awkward honesty. "Yeah… I know."

We trailed out into the hall, walking down our right till we got to Frank's door. I knocked lightly, not wanting to startle him, and waited. "Frank?" I called.

The door clicked, and Frank came out, already dressed.

Ronnie gave a small wave. "Morning, Frank."

Frank blinked at him, clearly confused, before shrugging. "Morning, I guess. I need help with my tie."

"That's why we're here," I said, pushing into the dorm to find a bowl of soup already on the desk.

"I was having breakfast," he clarified, sitting himself back down.

"So he can make soup but not tie his tie?"

"You can't either, Ron."

"Are you guys friends now?" Frank asked from behind his bowl of soup.

I exchanged a glance with Ronnie, who shrugged like it was no big deal.

"…Kinda," I admitted. "We’re… on speaking terms."

"Well, just cause you two are cool doesn't mean I have to, right?"

"Hey, I don't wanna be friends with you either." Ronnie snapped.

Frank, unfazed by Ronnie's insult kept slurping away the his chicken noodle. "Reminds me of when I first met Bert. He was a meanie."

"Who's Bert?"

"My boyfriend." I cleared up. He nodded in acknowledgement.

"Oh really? I couldn't tell by the way you were always kissing him over the summer. But don't worry! I didn't bother me, you two are cute together."

“Thanks for the commentary, Frank.”

“You’re welcome!” he said, setting the bowl down. “Anyway, can we tie this tie now?"

"Yeah yeah, c'mere." I held out my hands, already grabbing the edges of Frank's tie.

"Didn't you say Ronnie didn't know how to tie his own tie? How come it's tied."

"I tied it for him," I mumbled, still a bit more concentrated on fixing Frank up rather than the nonstop words spewing out his mouth.

He gasped, the corners of his mouth shooting up in a smile. "We're tie buddies!"

"Thought you didn't want to be buddies," Ronnie grumbled.

"Oh, I don't. But tie recognizes tie."

"How many times are you gonna say tie?"

"Tie."

"Tie." Ronnie chimed. I elbowed him.

"Frank did it first!"

"I'm not elbowing Frank."

"Why not!?"

"Cause he likes me more!" Frank gloated.

"Not true!"

"No, it is. I like him more." I confirmed, just to piss him off as I finished the final adjustments on Frank's tie. Wow, someone should get a tie-count running.

Frank spun around to look at himself in the mirror, clearly pleased, while Ronnie grabbed his backpack off the floor and headed for the door.

"Frank, shoes on." I punctuated with a clap.

Frank looked down at his feet, eyes widening. "Oh—right!"

He scrambled, sliding his socks into his boots and tugging them on, lacing up with more enthusiasm than skill. I chuckled, shaking my head.

"Frank did you get your parents to sign the slip for the trip?"

"Mhm," he hummed.

"And it's not forged?"

"Why would it be forged?" Ronnie questioned.

"It's Frank, why would it not be forged?"

"Jokes on you, I don't even know what forged means." Frank bragged.

"Doesn't mean you can't do it." Ronnie reasoned.

"No I can't."

"Yes, you can." he huffed.

"Frank, was it your dad who signed the paper or you?"

"My dad. Why would I sign the paper? It said Parent's signature. Do I look like a parent to you?"

"Hardly."

"Exactly."

We stepped out into the cool morning, Frank skipping ahead with his usual bounce. Ronnie and I fell into step behind him, our boots clicking against the wood.

Halfway down the hall, Miss Lee and Sister Williams stood over a stack of papers. Ronnie gave me a knowing glance, and I met his gaze in the same second.

"I can't unsee it now." I muttered under my breath as we stepped out under the sun.

"Yeah? Wait till you see them making out."

"No fucking thanks."

Chapter Text

"Gee, I'm boooored," I whined, tugging on his sleeve. The entire bus ride all he'd done was stare out the window, and I tried to do that too but there was nothing interesting about the pavement and passing streetlights.

"Look out the window."

"I did. It's boring."

"Then be bored."

I huffed. "What are you even looking at?"

"Nothing."

"You've been looking at nothing for ten minutes."

Let's have Gerard entertain frank

He exhaled through his nose, barely a laugh. "It’s called thinking."

"Oh." I paused. "That sounds boring too."

I tugged on his sleeve. "Entertain me."

He sighed like it was the worst thing I’d ever asked of him, then shifted in his seat a little. "...Fine. Um—okay. We can play something."

"Like what?"

"Uh…" He gestured vaguely out the window. "We make up stories about the people we pass."

I cocked my head to the side. I was expecting I spy or Two Truths and One Lie, not some game he'd conjured up in the fragment of a second.

He smirked a little. "Alright. See that guy at the gas station?"

I leaned over him to look. "Yeah—the one in the hoodie?"

"Make something up about him."

I squinted, studying him like I actually knew anything. "...He’s on the run."

"For what?"

"You pick. Don't say murder."

"He robbed a donut store."

"For the donuts or the cash?"

"Both." He shrugged.

The bus eased to a stop at a red light, cars lining up around us. No more pedestrians, no dogs being walked by their owners—or atleast, they were out of sight. I let out a long groan. "Now what?"

"I dunno… look at the cars?"

I stared at the windows. "They’re boring."

He laughed a little. "Everything’s boring to you. Don't worry. We make a right turn and we'll be at the square."

"Finally!" I leaned forward, pressing a little closer to the window, trying to see through the midday haze. Maybe there’d be pumpkins. Or a hay bale. Or something that wasn’t just asphalt.

The bus rumbled down the last stretch, tires crunching over scattered leaves, and then the square opened up in front of us. Stalls lined the cobblestones, bright colors spilling from every corner—reds, oranges, and yellows.

Pumpkins of every size sat stacked in pyramids. Hay bales were set up for sitting (or maybe just for decoration) and strings of lights hung lazily above the walkways, not yet lit but promising a warm glow once the sun has set. Kids darted between booths, clutching candy apples or small toys, their laughter mixing with the clatter of carts and chatter of vendors.

"Wow," I breathed.

"C'mon, let's get going."

We clambered out of the bus, students already flocking towards the booths. The sharp sweetness of spiced cider collided with the warm, doughy scent of bread, and I felt my nose twitch like it couldn’t take it all in at once.

I pressed close to Gerard, squinting through the crowd, and tried to take it all in. People milled past, booths spilling over with customers and vendors alike.

I crouched down a little, my eyes catching something tiny inching along the edge of the sidewalk. A snail, its shell glinting in the sunlight, left a glistening trail behind it.

“Look!” I whispered, pointing. “A snail!”

Gerard leaned down and followed my finger. “Huh."

"I'm gonna name him Mr. Slimy Trails," I exclaimed, scooping him up into my hands.

"Frank—gross..." Gerard muttered, a smile clinging to his lips despite himself.

"He's so cute! Can we keep him, Gee? Please please please—"

"No."

"But Gee—!"

"No, Frank."

"I'm not putting him down!" I said petulantly, turning around and holding the mollusk close to my chest.

Gerard sighed and crossed his hands over his chest. "Look, if he's still here when we're done, we can take him with us."

I squinted at Gerard through the slits of my eyes. "Okay...but what if he's not here...?"

"Then we don't take him."

"But—"

"Put him down, Frank."

I frowned, looking down at Mr. Slimy Trails as he slowly inched across my palm. "He’s gonna miss me,” I mumbled.

“He’s a snail, Frank.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings,” I shot back, carefully crouching down.

Gerard snorted quietly. “Pretty sure his only feeling is ‘move forward.’”

I ignored him, lowering my hands to the sidewalk and watching as the snail took his time crossing onto the ground again. “Don’t go anywhere,” I whispered.

I caught up to Gerard, slipping my hand into his sleeve like I always did when there were too many people.

“Where are we going first?” I asked, craning my neck to look around. Everywhere I looked there was something—bright signs, piles of pumpkins, jars of things I didn’t recognize.

“Food,” he said.

“Obviously,” I agreed quickly. “Can I get something?”

"If we can find something you can actually stomach, yeah."

"I want that," I gushed, pointing at the oversized milkshakes being sold down the path.

Gerard stopped. "You're not going to finish it."

"Yes I will!"

"No, you won't."

"Buy it for me and find out."

Gerard groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you."

I beamed and grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the stand. The vendor gave us a cheerful nod, clearly used to kids’ antics, as I practically hopped in place, eyes wide at all the flavors.

“Which one do you want, Frank?” Gerard asked, hands in his pockets.

“All of them!” I squealed, bouncing on the tips of my feet.

“Yeah… not happening,” he said, laughing. “Pick one before I change my mind.”

I scanned the rows of milkshakes like they were treasure. “The rainbow one! With sprinkles!”

“Rainbow?” Gerard raised an eyebrow. “What flavor even is that?”

“I don’t care! It’s colorful!” I insisted, pointing at the enormous glass as if it were a prize.

Gerard sighed and reached for his wallet. “Fine. But you’re drinking every last drop, got it?”

"Yes, Gee!"

I watched in uncontained excitement as Gerard handed over the cash. Taking the milkshake with reverence, I hardly waited a second before taking a large gulp.

"Good?"

"Great."

We walked along the sidewalk, me slurping happily, Gerard keeping pace beside me. We drifted down the row of stalls, my milkshake forgotten for a moment as I poked at little trinkets and handmade toys. Gerard’s eyes scanned the booths too, though mostly with that faintly impatient look he always got when I fussed over things.

“Look at this,” I said, holding up a tiny carved bird. “Isn’t it… kinda cool?”
Gerard peered at it. “It’s… small.”

“Small can be cool!” I insisted, turning it over in my hands, squinting at the detail. “See? Little wings… tiny beak…”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, clearly humoring me.

We wandered past rows of pumpkins and wreaths, racks of scarves and mittens, jars of honey, and stacks of bread. I sniffed a loaf here, poked a scarf there, but nothing really grabbed me.

I stopped in front of a stall crowded with little figurines—tiny animals, fairies, and gnomes carved from wood and painted in bright colors. My eyes went wide.

“Whoa… look at these!” I whispered, leaning closer. I picked up a small fox, its tail curled just so. “He’s…he’s perfect!”

Gerard bent down a little to look. “It’s… cute,” he said, his voice low, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to admit it. "How much is it...?" He murmured

I turned the figure over to see a sticker reading the price at seventy-five dollars. I scrounged my face into a frown. "Seventy-five."

"Too much."

"I know," I sighed out. "Let's go." We stepped away, and I gave the figure one last wistful glance, imagining it on my shelf at home but knowing it would never happen.

Stall after stall, the milkshake sat in my stomach, heavy and obvious—I wasn't going to be able to finish this. "Gee...I think I'm full."

"You're fucking kidding, you've got like half a gallon left!"

"I… I can't…"

Gerard sighed, shaking his head, then leaned over and took the rest of the milkshake from me, slurping away at it himself. We started walking again, weaving through the crowd. After a minute, Gerard slowed a little.

I looked up at him. “What?”

He exhaled through his nose, glancing around. “I need a bathroom.”

I blinked. “…You?”

“Yeah, me.” He nudged my shoulder. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“There’s a corner store down there," he continued. "C’mon.” I followed as he steered us through the crowd, still holding the empty cup. The bell above the door jingled when we stepped inside.

“Stay here. Don’t wander off.”

“I won’t,” I said automatically.

He gave me a look like he didn’t believe that for a second, then disappeared down the narrow hallway.

I stood there for a moment...and then, of course, I wandered a little. My eyes drifted over the shelves—chips, candy, drinks—until they landed on the rack of magazines near the counter. I slowed without meaning to, staring for a second longer than I probably should’ve.

I hovered there for a second, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. My eyes drifted over the shelves—chips, candy, drinks—until they landed on the rack of magazines near the counter. I slowed without meaning to.

The covers were glossy, brighter than everything else, and—yeah. Girls. Barely dressed, posed in ways that made something in my chest go tight and weird.

I stepped a little closer, gaze lingering longer than it probably should’ve. I knew what they were. I wasn’t that clueless. But seeing them like this—right there, out in the open—felt different.

My fingers brushed the edge of one before I stopped myself, glancing around quickly. I didn’t pick it up. I just stood there, staring, trying to figure out why I couldn’t look away.

Footsteps sounded behind me. I straightened a little, stepping back from the rack like I hadn’t been standing there for the past minute.

Gerard came up beside me, still drying his hands on his pants. “Line was stupid long.”

“Mm,” I murmured, nodding a little too quick, trying not to glance back at the rack of magazines I’d been staring at.

He tilted his head at me, frowning slightly. “You okay? You’re being quiet.”

“Yeah…I’m fine,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground. “Just…thinking.”

"Thought you said that was boring."

"Not anymore."

He didn’t press, just gave a small shrug and started walking toward the doors. I trailed behind, my gaze flicking back once more before I forced myself to look straight ahead.

"I'm fucking starving."

"Mm,"I hummed, not quite with him entirely.

“I’m getting a hotdog,” Gerard announced like he’d just solved a serious problem.

“Okay,” I said, following him over to the stand.
The line wasn’t long. He ordered quick, paid quick, and by the time we stepped away from the counter he already had the wrapper halfway peeled back.
He took a huge bite immediately.

“You weren’t kidding about being starving,” I said.

“Told you,” he replied around it.

He took another bite, the bun squishing in his hands, sauce dripping down the side. A bead of mustard slid over his thumb, and without missing a beat, he licked it off.

I didn't say anything, but I knew I was staring too much, for way too long. Heat pooled in my chest. My fingers twitched against my knees. I could feel a low, tight pull I'd never felt before welling in the pit of my stomach. Watching him like this felt wrong, I knew that—but it didn't stop me from wishing it was me. It didn't stop my pants from growing tighter and it didn't stop me from blurting out:

"Can you do that to me?"

Gerard blinked at me, genuinely confused, the hotdog forgotten in his hand. “Do what?” His voice was quiet, but there was a sharpness to it, like he was trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.

I could feel my cheeks burning, my stomach twisting. “You know…what you just did,” I muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “The…hotdog thing…”

"What hotdog thing, Frank?"

"I…I want your mouth on me," I admitted, voice trembling but firm.

"You're fucking kidding," Gerard snapped. His hands balled into fists at his sides, jaw tight. "Frank, what the hell are you saying?"

"I just—" I stumbled over my wordz. "I just…I feel like something’s missing, and I—"

"Missing?!" Gerard barked, stepping closer, voice rising. "Do you have any idea what you’re even asking me? That’s…that’s insane, Frank!"

"I know, I know, but I just—"

"Stop!" he shouted, cutting me off. His face was red now, a mix of anger and disbelief. "I am not doing that. Ever. Not now, not ever."

"Why not!?" I shot back.

"I can't believe you would ask this of me! Are you out of your goddamn mind!?"

"If anyone else asked you would've!"

"Yeah, maybe I would! But you're not anyone else!"

"Whats the difference!?"

"The difference is, you're retarded, Frank!"

“…What?”

“I said it, Frank. You heard me.”

My body shook before I even realized it. Tears spilled down my face, not because I was offended, but because it was the truth. The same truth everyone had said to me before, now being repeated once again.

Gerard froze, eyes widening as he saw me break. His jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides. “Frank…I—”

“I know,” I choked out between sobs. “I…I know.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a little, his anger faltering. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, voice low but sharp. “I just… I don’t—shit, I don’t know what to say.”

"I mean," he continued. "Why do you even want this—? Out of nowhere too."

"I don't know! Everyone else does it, I thought maybe—"

“Maybe what?” Gerard’s voice cracked a little, though his frustration was still there. “Maybe I’d… fix it for you? Make you feel normal?”

I flinched at how close he got, voice still sharp but lower now, like he was trying not to snap completely. “I… I don’t know. I just… I thought it’d help.”

"I'm not doing that for you, Frank."

The words hit harder than I expected, and before I even thought, I was yelling.

"Why can’t you just—just do it! You’ve done it for everyone else!"

Tears ran down my face. I didn’t care if he saw me like this—I couldn’t stop. I shook my head violently, sobs rattling out of me. "I’m not…I’m not normal without it! I just…I thought…maybe you’d help me!"

Gerard’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He took a deep breath, looking around. “Frank…people are watching.”

I barely heard him. “I don’t care! I don’t care who sees! I just…I need you!”

"Sucking you off isn't gonna fix shit! You can't just use me to feel normal!"

At some point I had stopped begging and pleading and screaming and just sobbed on my knees, grass and soil digging into my knees, tears soaking my hands and dripping onto the ground infront of me.

Gerard stood a few feet away, hands trembling at his sides. His eyes flicked around, taking in the fair, the people nearby, and then back to me. "Frank, get up..." he whispered.

I didn’t look up. Didn’t want to. The sound of my own sobs filled my ears. "Frank please. There's a crowd..." he said, voice strained. "People are watching."

I stayed kneeling. I knew he was staring at me. Everyone was. I knew I was being melodramatic. I knew it didn't need it that bad. I need that a part of me was blowing it out of proportion just to convince him, but I couldn't find myself feeling guilty for it. Not one bit.

"Fine!" he yelled finally. "Fine! But don't you dare think, even for a second, that I want to do this!"

I nodded shakily, my breath stuttering and stopping in my chest.

"Get your ass up. Right now." he said, yanking my arm.

I just nodded again, too overwhelmed to speak. My head spun, my heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst. He had agreed—begrudgingly, painfully, and probably only because he couldn’t handle seeing me like that—but he had agreed regardless.

The ride back on the bus was achingly silent. He stared out the window much like the first ride, but this time I didn't have the nerve to speak.

Each stop we passed made the tension stretch tighter in my chest. I could feel his frustration radiating off him in waves, even without looking.

When we finally reached the school, Gerard strode up the steps like he was trying to outrun something, keys jingling in his hand. I followed silently, heart thudding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

The dorm was quiet once we shut the door, the sharp slam echoing in the small room. I stayed frozen, unsure if I should move or just keep staring.
He finally let out a low sigh, stepping closer, voice tight. “So…how do you want to do this?”

“…However…however you think.”

Gerard’s jaw clenched. “…Right. Yeah. Okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “…God, this is insane. Sit.”

I obliged, sitting down at the edge of the bed, already half hard. He walked over and plopped himself right between my knees, hands on my thighs. He didn't make another move for a second, like he was mustering up the courage. It hadn't lasted long though, because in a second his hand was secured around my zipper as he tugged my fly down.

He eyed the tent in my boxers before slipping his fingers beneath the waistband and shimmying those down awkwardly. My erection sprang free, flopping forward before his face. He tentatively took grip of it, pumping his hand up once, twice, swiping this thumb over the tip when he reached the top.

Gerard's tongue darted out, licking the head before laying flat against the underside as he took me in whole. Nearly inaudible moans ripped out of my throat while my hands fought to remain on the bed.

I spread my legs slightly when Gerard picked up the pace, his head now bobbing along my length. One of his hands moved to hold his hair back, proving useless as it kept slipping out of his grip and falling back over his eyes.

I wasn't able to stop the bucking of my hips, eliciting a gag from Gerard. His eyes watered as he went down deeper, breaking off when he reached the top to lap at the tip. Dropping back down on my shaft, he wrapped his hand around the base and stroked whatever his mouth didn't reach.

"Mm..fuck—Gee," I whined. My hands went up to his head, tangling into the black, shaggy hairs. His own hand dropped from his scalp, bracing against the bed as he worked faster and faster.

My stomach coiled tight, the build-up pent inside aching for release. Mewls filled the room as the sensation grew stronger, coming over to a brink. Gerard pulled off, hand still working over me haphazardly before I spilled white along his face.

For a moment I just sat there, eyes glazed and chest heaving. Gerard let go of me and pushed himself up. I pulled my boxers back up, following Gerard with my eyes as he went to the bathroom and wet a rag, rubbing at his face.

When he returned, he said:

"So, did it work?" with a hint of aggression.

"No...I just feel...," I trailed off, glancing down at my lap. "Disgusting."

"Yeah, well. That's post-nut-clarity for ya." he said, throwing the rag to me and heading for the door.

"Where're you going...?"

He stopped, looked over his shoulder and said:
"Away from you."

Chapter Text

"You sucked him!? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I had to!" I defended quickly.

"I don't think you had to do anything. Didn't you say you have a boyfriend?"

"Well, yeah...but—"

"What do you mean but!?" Ronnie all but screamed.

"Will you keep it down? Last thing I need this year is the whole hallway knowing I sucked off a retard!"

"I thought you said I couldn't call him that," he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, not to his face."

"You gonna tell your guy?"

"Fuck no."

Ronnie's eyes widened a little, lifting his brows. "Don't you think he deserves to know."

"Don't you think some things are better kept quiet," I hissed. "It's not like I wanted to do it anyway.

"But you did."

I shoved his shoulder and got a punch to my arm in return.

"...Don't tell anyone." I mumbled after a while.

"I won't," he sighed out. "Still weird though."

"Oh, you'll live."

"With a stained conscience."

"Like you care about your conscience."

Ronnie gave me a look. Not joking now. Not playing around. “I kinda do, actually."

I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the wall, dragging a hand over my face. “It’s not like I planned it.”

“You still did it.”

“Yeah,” I snapped, quieter this time. “Because he wouldn’t drop it.”

Ronnie frowned. “So you just…what? Gave in?”

“He was losing it, man.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Like full-on meltdown in the middle of the field. People were staring. I didn’t know what else to do.”

"Could've just...left him."

"Are you kidding me? It's Frank. He'd probably get run over if I so much as turned the other way."

Ronnie blinked at me. "You hear yourself right now?"

"What?"

"You’re talking about him like he’s your responsibility."

"He is my responsibility," I said automatically. "Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on him."

Ronnie shook his head slowly. "You guys are the same age. You're playing the parent like ten years early, man. It's not normal."

"First? I'm seventeen. You missed my birthday. Second, I think it's too late to just drop everything I've already started right now."

"Well you're not exactly fit for the role. You sucked him off, for God's sake!

"You didn’t see him out there. He wasn’t gonna stop. He just—kept going."

Ronnie watched me for a second. "Still doesn’t mean you had to do that."

"I told you," I muttered. "I didn’t have a choice."

"...You always have a choice."

"...Looking back on it, it was a horrible decision...but—I freaked, okay!? You know how I get when people stare. My brain was just screaming at me to shut him up and the only way that was gonna happen was by giving him what he wanted!"

"Atleast that's what you think."

"What're you trying to say?"

"That maybe he would've stopped but you didn't try hard enough."

"Yeah? You can say that when you’re the one standing there next time," I spat.

"Whatever," he resigned, hopping off my bed and laying on his own. "Not really my problem."

"It's not a problem."

As long as anyone didn't know, there shouldn't be a problem, Gerard thought to himself as he pulled the lamp's cord.

"Night."

"Mm."

"What, I don't even get a goodnight?"

"No."

"Fuck you."

Ronnie tugged his blanket up over himself as he rolled onto his side. I did the same.

The next few weeks passed quieter than I expected them to. No rumors started. No one pulled me aside. Nobody even looked at me differently in the halls. Frank didn’t bring it up again either. He still walked beside me between classes. I visited his dorm every evening like always, though I often kept catching myself waiting for him to say something about the whole blow job, even after all this time. Eventually I stopped waiting. If he wasn’t going to make it weird, neither was I.

By February it had settled back into something near a clone of last year. I'd changed dorms, so now it was back to making soup first thing in the morning and late night conversations about if doodling in a grimoire would offend spirits. Sometimes he sat on my bed while I did homework and talked about things that didn’t really matter, I wasn't really listening but it was good company.

Exams and assesments popped up within the first three weeks. It was that time crunch a week before spring break where the school tried to squeeze every subject's exam in before the calendar read March first. Classes were ending early, people were packing to go home, the dorms getting louder and emptier at the same time. Frank kept complaining that he didn't want to go back home. Said we should hide in the closet when everyone leaves and stay at the school. I vetoed his idea with a laugh.

"Are we going to see Bert tomorrow," Frank asked, shoving his clothes into his luggage without a second thought.

"Yeah," I sighed out, pushing him away from the dresser and packing his clothes in neatly myself.

"I can do it on my own y'know..." he pouted.

"No, you can't."

"Yes I can."

"Frank," I sat on the bed, crossing my legs and re-folding the shirts he threw in every other direction. "These are all gonna get wrinkled."

"No they're not. Wrinkles are for old people. And old things. I got that shirt four months ago. That's not old." He stopped between every sentence like he was still trying to figure out his own point along the way.

"Wrinkles," I said, pointing to one already sitting comfortably on the shirt. "They happen when it's not folded properly."

"Why?"

"Because they do."

"Yeah," he scoffed. "But why?"

"For a reason you'll know when you're older."

"You don't know why they happen, do you."

"Maybe not," I reconciled. "But I know they happen and I know they happen when you throw your clothes anywhere without any care."

"So?"

"So, it makes you look like a hobo."

"Not a hobo."

A pause.

"What's a hobo?"

"Someone who…doesn’t care about how they look," I said, trying not to laugh at him.

Frank scrunched his nose. "I care about how I look! Wrinkles don’t count!"

I shook my head, standing to zip his bag closed. "Yeah, yeah. You do care. Just…maybe care a little more about folding, too."

"Can you make me soup?" he said, out of the blue.

"Uh, no."

"What? What do you mean no?"

"Means I've got my own shit to pack and you've figured out how to make it yourself."

"But it—"

"No, it doesn't taste better when I make it. Make yourself a bowl and go to sleep."

He shot me a glare and stomped over to the crate of soup by the door, reluctantly heating his own food.

"How come you're not going to sleep?"

God, does he think before he asks? "Because I've got a luggage to pack."

"Oh." he said, dumbly.

"Yeah, oh."

Chapter Text

"Thanks for walking me home..."

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "See? Chivalry ain't so dead after all."

She giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll see you around."

"Hey, c'mon. You can't let me off without a kiss."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. Price for my walks."

She rolled her eyes fondly, taking a step forward. "I guess you're right."

She leaned forward—

Hands blocked my eyes for what felt like the millionth time this week. "Gee, it's not fair!"

"Yes, it is."

"How many kiss scenes are you gonna block?"

"As many as I have to."

It's just a kiss!"

"A kiss too many." Gerard said dryly, removing his hand from my face once the two on the screen had parted.

"If you won't let me see any of the romance why watch a sappy movie!? Just put on a horror one!"

"Yeah," Bert added. "No one wants to watch this bullshit."

"Trust me I don't wanna watch it either, but I also don't wanna deal with you being too scared to go to bed."

Bert scoffed. "He might be 'retarded' as you so nicely put it, but I think he can handle a shitty flick."

Gerard slapped Bert on the arm with a tight scowl. "I already apologized for that!" he hissed. "Besides, you and I both know what happened when you grabbed his foot from under the bed."

Bert slouched back onto the couch with a sigh, unable to deny the fact that I refused to step foot near a bed or any place with room for an underworld arm to snag my ankle. "Okay, but like... sci-fi atleast. There's like a million genres, why's it gotta be the one we don't like?"

"Frank doesn't like sci-fi."

"I'd rather watch sci-fi than this, actually." I said, crossing my arms.

Gerard shot me an exasperated glare from the corner of his eye and clicked off the title we were watching. "Fine. Sci-fi it is."

Twenty minutes in, my eyes drooped and I couldn't deny that I would have probably taken the rom-com over this.

Bert was passed out on the other end of the couch, head nestled in the junction between Gerard's neck and shoulder.

"Can I lay in your lap?" I mumbled against my palm.

"Yeah, whatever." Gerard said, more interested in whoever was texting him on the phone. I rested against his thighs, half watching the lackluster movie while he occasionally let out giggles and huffs of laughter.

The credits rolled around ten o'clock, and I reached for the remote to put on whatever it is we were watching before because as much as I'll deny it, I wanted to see what happened next.

"What're you putting on?" Gerard butted in almost immediately.

"The first movie."

"Kay." he said, going back to clacking on his phone.

I figured him being too distracted to say anymore than one word per sentence meant I'd have the opportunity to actually watch the movie instead of being blocked out by the Gerard-Firewall. I was, of course, wrong. The bare second any PG-13 scene came on, my view was obstructed by scaggly fingers.

I tried to pry his hands away more than once but that only made him use both hands, to which I retaliated by biting him, because what else was there to do?

Gerard yelped, jerking back and startling a now-awake Bert in the process. "You asshole!"

Bert rubbed his eyes, it appeared he was forcing himself to care about what was happening so he could resume his sleep as soon as possible. "What'd he do?"

"He bit me!"

Bert's eyes put dinner plates to shame as his brows creased, like he was attempting to believe what he just heard. "He bit you? Teeth and all?"

Gerard shoved his hand into Bert's face, showcasing the faint bite mark embedded into the skin.

"Frank, what the fuck?"

"He kept blocking my eyes!"

"So you bit him?"

"Yeah!"

Bert blinked at me, long and hard. "Frank, are you dead balls ass?"

Gerard's head darted to Bert with confusion, but he decided not to comment on the unusually crude terminology in favor of scolding me.

"I just don't get why you won't let me see stupid scenes like that! You think I'm gonna pop a boner!?"

"No! It's just inappropriate—"

"I'm sixteen! I turn seventeen in two weeks!"

"You're not sixteen up here," Gerard yelled, pointing at his temple.

"Why don't you just call me retarded again, huh?"

"Frank,"

"Don't!" I took a breath, steeling myself. "Give me one good reason, one."

Gerard crossed his arms, willing himself to answer my question calmly. "I did. It's inappropriate."

"How is it inappropriate if we've already kissed before!?"

Gerard's face dropped, and for a second he looked like he'd have my head—that was until Bert spoke from behind him, then he looked like he'd seen Satan himself.

"You two kissed...?" Bert said quietly, though there was an inkling of anger already seeping in.

"We did worse!"

Bert stared daggers through the back of Gerard's head, like he was trying to get him to turn around and face him without actually saying anything. Gerard gave me a look, then he slowly turned to meet gazes with Bert. "We kissed. Once. It was last year."

"Why's he saying you did worse?"

"He doesn't know what he's talking abou—"

"I'm not stupid, Gerard!"

Gerard didn’t answer.

"Tell me."

"It wasn’t—" Gerard started, then stopped, dragging a hand down his face. "It wasn’t like that."

"Like what?" Bert shot back. "Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds exactly like that."

"Bert, please—"

"Tell him, Gerard."

Gerard's head snapped to me, his expression practically flooded with ire. "Don't act like you didn't fucking beg for it!"

"Beg for what!? Will one of you fucking tell me what you did!?"

"I—....God damn it!"

"He gave me a blowjob!"

"You what!?"

"I didn't want to—!" Gerard immediately defended, hands raised infront of him. "He made me!"

"He fucking made you!?"

"Yes! Yes, you didn't see him! He—"

"We're done."

"No!" Gerard croaked.

"You heard me. You and me? It's over. Done."

"No! Bert!" Gerard immediately broke out into hysterical sobs, grabbing onto Bert's hands and pleading like his life was on the line. "Please! Please, I'm sorry! I didn't want to!"

I squirmed on the couch, suddenly very aware that this was because of me. I hadn’t meant for it to go this far, but it had, and now there wasn’t really a way to pretend it hadn’t.

"Get out," Bert said, pushing Gerard off him and standing from the couch.

Gerard stood with him, frantically spewing apologies and promises—all of which were completely ignored by Bert.

"I want you out. Both of you." He said, staring at me from behind Gerard's shoulder.

"Bert please—we can fix this!"

"Fix?" Bert repeated.

Gerard’s hands were still shaking where they hovered in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

"It wasn’t like that," he said again. "I told you, it wasn’t—"

"He’s eight."

"No I'm not."

"God, Frank will you just shut the fuck up!?" Gerard yelled strainedly.

"Don't take it out on him."

"I’m not—" he started.

"Yeah," Bert said. "You are."

"I—"

"Out!"

Gerard choked on his sobs as he snatched his jacket forcefully and made his way to the front door, wiping aggressively at his face.

Bert watched him for a second before turning to me. "And you."

"Bert—"

"I'm not mad at you. Not entirely, anyway."

"Then why do I have to leave...?"

Bert placed a hand on my shoulder, looking over to where Gerard was waiting for me by the door. "Because something happened that shouldn’t have happened," he said finally. "And I need a minute to think."

"Okay...bye."

"Bye, Frank."

Gerard was out of the house before I even got my shoes on, and when I'd gone through the door he was already walking down the street. I ran to catch up with him, soles scuffling against the gravel.

"Gee!"

"Don't fucking talk to me!"

"Wait—" I called again, jogging harder now. "Gee, just—wait!"

"You are a piece of shit!" He said finally, turning around. His nose was red, cheeks glistening with tears.

"I didn't think he would—"

"You knew! You want everyone to think you're young but you know a lot more than you let on!"

"The last thing I want is for people to assume I'm younger than I am! It's not my fault everyone automatically treats me like a child, including you!"

"I understand things," I continued.

"No," he cut in. "You understand pieces. And then you fill in the rest however you want."

"Gee, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said only somewhat sarcastically. "It's my fucking fault for getting anywhere near your dick."

"I didn’t think it would be a big thing," I said.

"Stop apologizing. Nothing's gonna change."

"Are you mad?"

"What do you think?"

"Will you stay mad...?"

"No," he breathed. "Just go home Frank. I'll see you at school."

"But that's in four days!"

"I need space." he said curtly as he stopped walking.

"Okay."

He picked up the pace again.

"Wait!"

...

"I don't know the way home."