Gloves

It seemed Billie was right about Gerard's acute personal accountability.
Frank's fear and irrational sorrow soon melted into inconsolable rage. He was screaming and yelling, slamming his fists against the concrete walls and kicking them until his toes bled underneath the shoe. Gerard sat silently on the bed, watching the boy destroy his own body for a few moments. Finally, he stood and grabbed Frank, letting him beat his chest before collapsing in a whimpering heap. His knees were weak, allowing Gerard to pick his up and set him on the bed. The smaller boy refused to let go.
"I-I don't want to die, Gerard!" he wailed, looking up with desperate hazel eyes.
A gloved hand came up to stroke his angry tear-stained face. "And you won't," Gerard assured, holding his shoulders steady. "You are my responsibility and you will not be harmed as long as I am alive." He pressed a kiss to his sweaty forehead.
Frank gazed up at him for a short-lived silence. He had seen so much in his time with Gerard; life, death, emotions at their most extreme. He had seen things his religious grandmother would consider miracles. And yet, he cannot say he got much from it. He did not walk away any wiser than he once was, he did not learn a valuable lesson, he did not grow a respect for death. No-- the only thing he can genuinely say he received from his endeavors so far was the blatant and not-at-all secret admiration for a one Gerard Way and his mystical gloves.
One thing he did not realize was that he gained the over-all loyalty of the aforementioned. As much as Gerard wanted to completely believe his own words, he knew he could not be undoubtedly sure of them. He was hesitant in his ability to stop whoever it was that was capable of slaughtering an innocent human being without a hint of indecision. In truth, he was terrified that he would break his promise, but he was more or less convinced that he would die before Frank would.
...
"Get your own guitar, Ray," said Frank irritably as he snatched the instrument from his friend's grasp. The fro-ed boy laughed lazily, leaning against the wall and watching the irate boy stow his guitar in it's case and set it in the closet. Mikey rolled his eyes and looked back at his math homework, scratching his head and chewing on the end of his pencil. Bob patted his bongos lightly, frowning in concentration at them. He jotted something down on a piece of paper and tapped the same riff again. He nodded and scribbled something else down before resuming the pattern.
A low groan escaped Gerard as he awoke, rolling over to face the room. He squinted in the harsh, fabricated light, finding Frank sulking by the closet door and Ray laughing at his expense. He grunted, calling Frank's attention to himself and motioned for the boy to join him. Frank grinned and hopped over to him in possibly the most obvious way imaginable. He sat in front of Gerard and leaned against his stomach. Gerard closed his eyes again and smiled fondly before closing his eyes again.
Frank had noticed Gerard's extreme fatigue earlier on in his death, but had put off doing something about it for too long. He finally pushed Gerard to sleep, hopefully to eradicate the deep circles under his eyes.
He let his fingers find Gerard's and lace through them his, receiving a subconscious squeeze and a light snore. Frank chuckled.
Mikey snorted and put down his pencil. "You've got him wrapped around your finger, Frank," said the youngest Way. "I mean, I've never seen him sleep on command before. Truthfully, I'm not sure if I've ever seen him sleep before."
"Why not?" asked Frank, frowning.
Mikey shrugged. "I'm not sure," he said, "he just never slept all that much. Only for a few hours at a time, at the most."
Frank looked down contemplatively at Gerard's sleeping figure. "Strange."
...
Nightmares.
Nightmares were the reason Gerard never slept.
They had plagued him ever since he was a child, starting after he discovered his ability and unintentionally murdered his own mother. Images of her cold, dead eyes and pale corpse coming back from the dead flashed through his mind. She never blamed him like on would think. No-- she simply sat there, rarely saying anything. When she did speak, it was simply to assure him that it was not his fault, that he should not have been blaming himself. The thing that made the dreams so scary was the fact that, every time he saw her, she was moving progressively farther into the process of decaying. The last time he had seen her, her skin was shriveled and peeling, her eyes dissolving.
This time, after Frank's avid requests, he saw her as barely a shadow of the figure she once was. The majority of her hair was gone, her eyes were no longer a gooey mess (they were gone, after all), and patches of skin, along with mass amounts of muscle, were missing. She stayed silent, as usual, her eye sockets gazing at him blankly. He could feel the fear rising in his stomach, alerting him to the imminent awakening he was soon to experience. He jolted from the bed when she finally moved, reaching out to touch him with her bare, bony hands.

Notes

Guess what I saw on the Big Bang Theory.
God Save the President.
It was on a poster in the background.
Everybody now: fangirl.
And sorry about the wait. I had two projects to do in two days. Ugh.
Comment and subscribe and shit.
-Stitches