A Frerard Fanfiction: A Murder Of Crows

Could this day get any longer? Gerard slumped, impatiently in his seat, at the front of the classroom, where he could almost feel the musty breath of the teacher on his face, as he strutted about before him, gesturing manically at the board. Was this even worth listening to? Gerard could feel the fatigue like sharp knives, cutting away at his brain, telling him he should shut down for the lesson. But for some reason, he wanted to listen. Maybe it was the thrilling subject of algebra. Maybe not. Maybe it was the penetrating glare, the sniving remarks and the crude hand actions that surrounded him. Yes. The clock loomed ahead, the hands dragging themselves round and round, taking Gerard's eyes with them. He was sure the teacher couldn't see his eyes, obviously not focused on anything but the clock on the table, ahead, due to the thick black hair, strewn across his face like he'd just fallen through a tornado. He sighed, and closed his book, determined to will the time on faster, so he could get home, away from the bullies and speak to Frank over the phone. The bell sounded. To Gerard, it felt like someone had just told him he'd won $1000000, however he was just getting off school three minutes earlier than he'd expected, as the teacher dismissed the jittering class. As he turned his back, to mill out of school with the sea of teenagers, he felt something light, preferably a paper ball, hit the back of his head, and for a split second he felt like pounding whoever had thrown it with his fists, in a sudden burst of anger. Expecting to see Steven and his cronies, gathered behind him, ready to lure him behind the bike sheds to leave him bunged up and bloody on the floor, he was taken aback to see a new boy. He was tall and muscular, a typical jock, with his ashen blonde hair, cut neatly into a crew cut, and a letterman jacked slung over one arm. His shirt was tight across his chest, the sleeves stretched over his arms, outlining the menacing looking muscles.
"Yes?" Gerard grunted, spinning round slowly, reluctant to have his face smashed in and itching to get home.
"You're Gerard Way, right?" The jock was laughing, moving forward to reveal yet another bunch on cronies, amongst them was Steven. Gerard nodded, solemn and untouched, but for some reason he kept flinching every time he saw the new arch bully's hand twitch, or his feet shift on the tiles.
"And you're dating that Iero kid, right?" He queried, making Gerard feel perplexed as to how he was keeping a straight face, and not yet jeering and swearing, his fist hitting Gerard over and over and over again.
Gerard forced himself to nod stiffly, his eyes darting to the floor in a moment of anxious thinking. He should of seen it coming.
"Well, I wanted you to know something Gerard" the boy hissed, reaching out to grab Gerard's wrist, pushing his face close to his ear, breathing heavily into it. "You're a good for nothing, fucked up little emo fag, okay? And, you and your little boyfriend are the most wrong, vile and shitty little pieces of rubbish that ever walked on this earth. So do me a favour, when you get home tonight, kill yourself. Make all that worthless shit go away. Because you're shit remember? Emo scum. Fag. A good for nothing fucked up little emo fag. A fucked up little emo fag" And with that, he finished, spitting hatefully down onto Gerard's shoes, loosening his grip on his wrist. Gerard felt empty. He felt worthless. He felt good for nothing. And the funny thing was, Gerard was used to this bullying stuff, never letting it get to him, always fighting back, with some snarky comment. Usually with a blow to the stomach, to finish it all off, as he slung his back pack over his shoulder, and sauntered out of the room, alone or with Frank in his grasp. But this time, this new guy hadn't even known him. He hadn't even spoken to him. And, yet he'd just shattered his world. Was it because everyone had told him how worthless Gerard was? Was it just because Gerard was having a bad day? Was it because... Gerard was Gerard? Whatever it was, Gerard thought, as he felt a fist pummel his stomach brutally, he certainly thought everything the boy had said to be true.

Frank hammered the phone down on the desk, hands planted to his cheeks, an air of worry about him. Where was he? Gerard had promised to call him, maybe even take Frank out of the hell hole which was his home, where his sexuality was accepted no more than the death of a relative or a swarm of angry wasps, ready to sting you to sleep. But the phone line had been dead, since he had returned home, and the window lifeless, with no Gerard, grinning as he waited for Frank to meet him outside. Sometimes they'd just go back to Gerard's house, or go to the comic store, sometimes they'd eat out, fast food or Italian and sometimes they'd simply walk in the park, in silence, yet a comfortable one. Had Gerard not wanted to speak? Or maybe he was asleep, or doing homework or working on a comic. Frank imagined Gerard in all of these scenarios. Bent over a table, biting his lip in concentration, a blanket of black hair shielding his face. Cuddled under a blanket, eyes closed, making soft noises in his sleep. Sitting at his desk, a sheet sprawled in front of him, music blasting out of some headphones. Preferably the Misfits. Metallica, maybe. Frank shook his head, eyes ablaze with worry, even though Gerard was probably doing one of the previous. However, he couldn't shake the thought that Gerard was in discomfort, doing something negative , or angry with Frank, crying into his pillow, punching a wall.

Pulling his hoody from the drawers, Frank threw himself through the open door, slamming it shut behind him, shouting a quick goodbye to his mother. He couldn't just sit there, it felt like the worry had buried itself in his brain, hidden away, yet always buzzing and calling out to him, mimicking his voice, acting out the things that could be happening as he sat there and struggled through his maths homework. Gerard's house was at the end of the block, past the park, behind the takeaway, so it took him only 10 minutes to hurry down the pavement, wishing he'd brought his skateboard, to make the running less tiresome. As he approached the door, he listened closely, trying to pick up the faintest sound of crying or breaking plaster, the sketch of a pencil as Gerard picked out the best parts of his character's to draw. But, no. The house was silent, even as Frank let himself in, after rapping at the door several times, and then giving up when no one answered. Were Gerard's parents out? He assumed so, kicking himself mentally for not realising that Gerard was alone. Frank called out, at first, quietly, not wanted to intrude into Gerard's personal space, but still no one answered. He had only visited Gerard's house a few times. It was small, and basic, with a kitchen, a living room, bathroom, two bedrooms upstairs and a basement. Everything was coloured in a sickly shade of beige, the walls white, the floors carpeted, and framed photos of a baby Gerard and a baby Mikey, toddling about or being cradled in the soft arms of their grandma, Helena. Once Frank had noted down his surroundings, in a shabby corner of his mind, he ventured into the house, hands tracing the walls, as the light was dim and he didn't know how to turn the lamps on.
That's when he found him.

The blood was what hit him first. Fast and flowing, a growing lake of deep red, inky and fresh.
He didn't look peaceful. No. But drained, stunned even and oblivious, propped against the wall, next to the coffee table. His eyes were closed, though Frank wasn't sure if he was awake, and unafraid, asleep or maybe even...dead. No, he wasn't dead, his chest heaved ever so slowly, up and down. Up and down. Very slowly. Almost unnaturally slow. Frank moved over, in alarm, splashing his hands through the blood around him, and seizing Gerard steadily by the arms.

"Gerard. Gerard, can you hear me?" Frank groaned in frustration, feeling himself shake in agitation in worry, as he patted the older male's cheek, desperate to make him speak at least. But Gerard's head only fell to his shoulder, lifeless, and sucked almost clean of blood. Frank's eyes dragged themselves reluctantly over Gerard's body, wincing at the disturbing scene before him, unlike any of those he'd pictured earlier on.

The bottle of vodka was split, all the way down the middle, harsh shards of it embedded in Gerard's upper arm, smaller pieces stuck through the thin fabric of his school shirt. No liquid oozed from it. He'd obviously downed the whole thing, but why? Gerard had never told him of any,,,troubles. But then, Frank hadn't told him any of his. Frank, now acting fast and panicked, heaved Gerard up straight, and opened his mouth; he'd seen such things on TV when people choked to death on their own vomit, after being unconscious for too long. Then, he fumbled manically in a draw or two, until he found a crystal white, vintage table cloth, obviously only used for special occasions, but this was a special occasion, and he needed it now. Very slowly, struggling to tear it apart, he applied thick wads of it to Gerard's chest and arm, not wanting to remove anything, until the ambulance got here.

Once he'd done that, there was only so much he could do. He didn't want to go home, and be questioned by his mother as to why he'd been out, but neither did he want to sit and torture himself, as he watched the drunken body of Gerard, motionless by the wall, dry blood sticking to his face, where he'd obviously touched before he fell unconscious. That brought Frank to think, how had he ended up like this, sitting in his own blood and tears? He'd downed the alcohol intentionally, that was for sure, but the glass? Frank was no Sherlock, but it looked like he'd fallen, side long into the shards, which he'd maybe smashed before, in rage or only a drunken moment. This wasn't even necessary, Frank thought to himself, all that mattered was that Gerard could recover, sort himself out, and stay here for Frank, untouched by bitter thoughts and sadness, But what if he wasn't okay?

Personally, Frank had thought himself calm, as he tendered to his casualty, but now he was allowed to collapse, right? After all, it was his boyfriend. And he'd never loved anyone more, even though he rarely expressed this to Gerard. He was shy and reluctant, over powered by the dominant attitude of the older male, but, what if Gerard didn't wake up, and see Frank? What if he never got to tell him just how much he cherished, loved and wanted him? The tears were unstoppable, and Frank made no attempt to wash them from his cheeks. He let them gather, staining his face with long trails of water and salt, leaving his skin red and blotchy. He'd never cried so much in his life.

Notes

Hope the new update wasn't too sad! New chapter should be around this week. I'm enjoying writing the plot line, so far,

Love,
Maisie-Summer
xxx