The Ghost Of You

I sit on the military bus, my body leaning towards the window and head pressed against the cool glass. I stare at the photograph in my trembling fingers, the picture of my family and me. I remember my mother crying when I’d told her I was drafted for the army, and my brother Mikey trying to help me get out of it.
A burning guilt rustles my insides, even though some would say it’s not my fault; I can’t help being drafted. But at the same time, I just accepted his fate, putting art school on hold. I slam my head against the window. God, it’s not like I was going to be an artist or anything, and now I have to wait for at least a year or so. I’m only eighteen, just out of high school. If someone’s going to college, they shouldn’t be drafted, they just shouldn’t. I had his whole life ahead of him. And now, I might even die fighting for a country I don’t believe in.
I groan. God, I just want it to be over now. I want to be home. I want to go to school. I want to see my dog. I want to stretch in my bed. Most of all, I don’t want to be here. And I don’t want to die.
FRANK’S P.O.V.
Another day of cutting the hair of new recruits. I’m dead tired; getting up at 5:00 a.m. every day for morning drills has been rough. Still, it beats being back home.
I sweep up the remnants of hair left by the most recent newcomer. Cutting the hair of a bunch of ungrateful punks into a variation of only three styles isn’t exactly ideal, but it adds extra money onto my paycheck, and that adds up. After all, when I’m discharged, I need enough money to get my own place and finish school.
I hear the bell jingle, and the chips in the leather barber chair let out an exhale as someone sits down in it. I set down the broom and empty the dust pan, hurrying back over to cut this person’s hair.
The man who sits in the chair takes my breath away. My knees just about give in as I take in his features. He looks pixie like, with a tiny, slightly upturned nose, hazel eyes, and pale skin. His hair hangs down to his shoulders, partially concealing his face. He’s wearing his longue wear, a grey shirt with ARMY printed on it and black sweatpants.
The man finally notices me, and he smiles, revealing straight rows of white, but small, teeth. “I’m Gerard Way.”
GERARD’S P.O.V.
The man who’s supposed to be cutting my hair spends the first minute or so with his back to me as he sweeps up the hair of the last person. I sit down in the chair, arousing a whoosh of air from the seat. He’s pretty small, and his raven locks are chopped above his ears. He turns around, and I’m surprised to see that he could convincingly pass for a thirteen year old rather than a soldier. He has chubby, full cheeks, that are flushed from the slightly uncomfortably warm room temperature. His lips are thin and bright pink, and he has a small amount of hair, blond peach fuzz, really, running across his upper lip and jaw, which is strange, seeing as the hair on his head is black. It could be dyed, but his eyebrows are also black, and his highly tanned skin shows indication of an Italian descent. His eyes are about twice as big as mine, and are a vivid amber color with flecks of green.
When I’m done checking the kid out, I notice that he’s been almost glaring at me the entire time. Did he figure out that I was doing that? Is he offended? God, I hope not. Trying to mend broken fences, I grin at him as nicely as I can muster, greeting, “I’m Gerard Way.”
He heads over, his steps small and stride lackluster, like he’s just learned to walk and is not fully confident. He nods, replying, “I’m Jeremy Christian. How are you?”
“Oh I’m good. You?” I ask, trying my hardest to be pleasant.
“I’m alright.”
He spins the chair around so I’m facing the mirror. Already in the hot Afghanistan sun I’m starting to tan. He tilts his head as he strings some fingers through the top of my hair thoughtfully. “Do you know what you want done? We have a thrilling selection of three styles. It may take a while to make your decision.”
“What are my choices?” I question, not wanting to be stuck with a shaved head or anything like that.
“Shaved, buzz cut, pixie,” Jeremy answers.
“What’s pixie?” I ask, all too aware of what a buzz cut is.
“It’s what I have. Short, but still enough to do this,” Jeremy explains, lifting up a strand of hair straight up.
I laugh, deciding, “I guess I’ll go with pixie.”
Jeremy grabs the scissors, and my stomach actually twists when he reaches over the clippers to get to them. He talks to me as he works, asking about how my ride was, how I got here, my family. I give the same old half assed answers until Jeremy asks,
“What are you going to do when you get out of this Hell hole?”
I smile, replying, “Going back to art school. What about you?”
Jeremy shrugs. “Eh. Not much different from that.”
Once I’m done, Jeremy questions, “So, the new squadrons are being posted today.”
“Oh, are they?” I fake, hardly interested.
Jeremy nods. “Yep. In fact, I’m off now, so do you want to go check if they’re up yet?”
“Sure,” I respond. I could get shown around the camp anyways. We walk around, and Jeremy points out all of the different squadron camping spots. “There’s A1, A2, A3, and A4,” he narrates. We end up finding the postings by one of the many gigantic water drums which lie between each camp ground.
“Your name’s Gerard Way?” Jeremy asks, scanning the sheets of paper.
“Yeah,” I tell, looking for my name as well.
“W-w-w…” Jeremy mutters. He grins. “Ah, here you are. Squadron C4.” He looks closer, and then smiles even more. “Same one as me.”
We walk over to our camp, Jeremy going on about how he hopes we have the same bunk and wouldn’t it be a coincidence if we did. When we get there, we merge into a crowd of about 40 soldiers. We are issued our attire, including war uniforms, and are assigned beds. Guess who gets assigned to the same bunk bed as Jeremy? Yep, me. I suppose I don’t mind it; the kid means well, and is hella cute.
When we go to bed that night, Jeremy calls the top bunk, scrambling up the ladder like the little squirrel he is and almost immediately falling asleep. I don’t get off as easy. About 20 minutes into insomnia, I find myself listening to the sound of Frank’s steady breathing, which finally lulls me to a deep sleep.

Notes

Note: Frank is using a fake name. You'll find out later why.

Thanks so much for reading! Please comment, and check out my other fics! I'll try to update soon.

My Tumblr: www.varsity-frank.tumblr.com

Also, read my Peterick fic! http://archiveofourown.org/works/1098466