Gerard’s P.O.V.
Billie leads us to his home, motioning for us to sit down on the couch. He sees that the bathroom door is shut and strides over, knocking on it.
“What is it?” Tre asks through the door.
“We gotta talk,” Billie answers.
The toilet flushes and Tre steps out, his baby blue eyes filled with worry. He scampers over to the chair, sitting down and restlessly gripping the arms.
Billie sits in the recliner next to Tre. He extends a hand and wraps it around his husband’s thigh comfortingly, stroking the denim with his thumb. Tre closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and when they’re reopened, he seems calmed.
Tre just now notices the copious amount of blood dried across the bottom half of Frank’s face, and he looks worried. Probably because he doesn’t know whose blood it is, and Frank’s black eye indicates that the blood probably belongs to Frank.
“Frank… mauled a person. He snapped their neck and ate away at their throat,” Billie chokes out. “He had an amazing amount of speed and strength, an inhuman amount. He bites his thumb, removing his hand from Tre’s thigh. He asks, “Forgive me if this sounds horribly stupid, but it’s the only explanation I can find for today’s events. Is… is Frankie a vampire?”
Frank looks at me, uncertainty in his wide doe eyes. I nod at him, silently allowing him to tell the truth. Frank turns to Billie and replies,
“Yeah. I’m a vampire. I was eleven in the seventies, and I’m only thirteen now. Physically, anyways…” Frank mutters, picking at his fingernails anxiously.
“How did you become one?” Tre inquires. I’m surprised that we don’t have to work harder to sell him on the whole truth.
“I got mugged by one and… he bit me. Attacked me, really,” Frank responds.
Billie’s eyes go large with realization. “But… you bit a kid. Doesn’t that make him a vampire now?”
Frank shakes his head, and I remain calm, having asked Frank the same question before.
“My fangs… they’re hollow. I have a secretion in them, and only if I release it do they become a vampire,” Frank explains. “He’ll have a wound, but besides that he’s perfectly fine.”
Tre nods. “That’s good.”

“Frank… we’re forgetting something here. You left a corpse on the front yard of the school. A maimed one,” Billie reminds.
“Well… whenever something like this would happen….” Frank starts to tear up. “Gerard and I would move.”
“I don’t want you guys to move,” Tre whispers. He looks at Billie pleadingly.
“If you’re going to move…” Billie starts. He gives me puppy eyes, which are the ultimate guilt trip with his deep green ones. “Maybe we could move as well?”
Frank looks at me and shrugs. “That sounds fine to me.”
“Yeah…” I agree. Suddenly, an amazing idea pops into my head. “Hey, Billie.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you… want to be our legal guardians? You and Tre?” I offer.
Tre and Billie beam at each other. Billie bursts out laughing and hugs his husband, kissing him on the cheek with joy.
Billie turns to me, hands entwined with Tre’s. “We’d love to.”
That night, we stay up late packing and planning where we are going to go. We pick some shabby apartments in Washington, and Frank suggests that he flies there and gets everything set up first, but Billie tells him he’s too young.
Frank frowns and stamps his foot. “I’m over thirty years old!”
“That doesn’t matter, because to everyone else, you’re thirteen,” Billie reasons.
Frank grumbles something about not getting any respect before storming off to pack some more. By 1:00 a.m., we’re ready to go. Billie gets into the driver’s seat, and Tre takes a nap on his husband’s shoulder. Frank and I cuddle up in the back with blankets and pillows, Frank snuggling a Stitch toy. I fall asleep easily, Frank’s hand holding mine.
I wake up with Tre shaking me, whispering excitedly, “We’re here!”
I yawn and turn over to wake up Frank, when I realize he’s already out of the car.
“What time is it?” I ask sleepily, rubbing my eyes.
“About five in the morning,” Tre responds. “Billie carried Frank in. We would’ve carried you in too, but Frank is just so much smaller.”
I nod and get out, stumbling at first. I walk over into one of the rooms where Frank is all curled up on the bed. I plop next to him, eager for bed.
When I again wake, Frank is no longer in the bed. I step out, heading to the living room, where Billie is sitting up against a wall with his laptop in his lap.
“Hey I’m looking for schools for you two,” Billie informs. He scrunches up his face and then asks, “Would you rather be the West Side Raptors or the Addison Angels?”
“Raptors!” Frank blurts.
“Angels!” I respond.
Billie looks emotionally conflicted, so he changes the subject by saying, “Ooh! Or you could be the bats! Frank, you should like that idea!”
“I’ll be a Raptor,” I inform.
“Alrighty,” Billie responds, typing. “What’s your middle name, Gerard?”
“Arthur,” I respond.
“Frank?”
“Anthony.”
“You guys have goofy middle names,” Billie mumbles.
Frank’s P.O.V.
On Monday, we start our first day at the school. Billie drives us once again, and he drops us off at the front part. As we get out of the car, a couple of kids point at us and whisper.
I look at Billie for an explanation, and he informs,
“It’s a small school. I thought it’d stop you two from getting bullied. They’re just excited to have new students, that’s all.
We walk through the halls, Gerard close by my side. I head to my first period class, which is P.E., with my stomach rumbling nervously.
The P.E. teacher is a really pretty blond lady who looks about twenty five. She’s tall, with crazy finger toes, and a small, upturned nose. She actually looks like Gerard in this way. She’s wearing a strappy pink dress with flats. She smiles at me and pats the spot next to her on the stage. I hop on, which is a little difficult due to my height. To better phrase it, my lack of height.
“So you must be Frank,” she says. She gazes out at the kids running their laps, an amiable smile on her face.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I reply somewhat sheepishly. It’s kind of weird, but I’ve never really had a crush on a teacher before. I’ve had a crush on a teacher’s helper, sure, but never a fully qualified, full time teacher.
“Well today you can just hang out, since I’m guessing you didn’t bring clothes,” she suggests. She turns to me. “I’m on the yearbook committee, and if you want, you can take some pictures of the class for me.”
I beam and she grins, guessing,
“I take it you’re the artsy type. You’re a real shutterbug, who plays an instrument and would rather pick up a paintbrush than a football.”
I nod. “I suppose that describes me.”
“Do kids call you faggot?” she asks bluntly.
My mouth drops open in surprise. I still manage to blush and admit, “They never really stop.”
She pats my back and informs, “In my class, that word’s not allowed. That and retard. I just hate it when kids use those words!” She cringes. “There’s so much better words, you know? Like… lame!”
I laugh and bob my head in agreement.
When the kids are all done running, she points to me, introducing,
“This is Frank Iero. He’s our new student. Frank, do you want to tell us a little bit about yourself?”
“Umm,” I mumble. “Not really.”
She kind of grins at me and stands, grabbing a volleyball from one of the carts and tossing it onto the court, where the kids stand.
She numbers them off, dividing them into two groups to play each other. I hop down from the stage, turning on the camera. It comes to life with a whir, and I begin snapping away.
I might like it here.
Gerard’s P.O.V.
My first period is terrible. When I get to class, the teacher looks me up in down as if to say,
“Who the fuck invited Marilyn Manson?”
He then sighs and in his monotone tells, “This is Gerard Way. He’s our new student. Let’s welcome him the best we can, alright?”
I sit down in the only spot in the room, and as I walk over, a boy plants a sign on my back. I sit in my desk, not noticing until I realize that half of the class is snickering at me. I finally reach around and pull the sign off of my back, to see that it reads,
“Die, emo fag.”
I crumble up the note and bite my lip, holding back tears. I sit there the entire period, the words bubbling up inside of me like a hot cauldron full of hurt. When I leave the class and start down the hallway, a boy from the class pulls my pants down and shoves me to the ground.
I’m at least thankful that I didn’t wear briefs today, that I instead wore Doctor Who boxers. Nonetheless, I burn red as I stand, then wiggling them up to my hips and hurrying down the hall.
At the end of the day, I go to my locker. When I open it, on the inside are dozens of notes. I pick one up, and it says on the front in red letters,
“Makeup is for fags”
I frantically paw through the rest, picking up certain phrases such as,
“No fags in our school”
And
“Cut yourself, emo scum”

My breath catches in my throat and I sprint outside, pushing through the crowds. I find Frank already sitting in Billie’s car, and I throw myself onto him, weeping loudly.

Notes

Thanks so much for reading!! Thank you and please continue to comment! New chapter should be up in a couple of days!
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