GERARD'S P.O.V.

~

Fuck. That's the exact word that popped into my head as I felt a heavy arm push against my black leather cladded back. The pressure that was put onto it made me know they wanted me down on the ground. They wanted me to fall. And what was I supposed to do? Try and stand my ground? Not here. Not today. This wasn't going to be my big stand off moment where I make some unforgettable speech hoping to earn the respect of said bully and then suddenly woop di doo, the wonderful is pushed into my life like I can forget everything else because ol' big brawny there accepted me. No. As the strong hand pushed again, I let myself fall. What was one fall versus a nightmare of hell for trying to portray my life as some teen idol movie. But then again, I felt all my logic and thoughts for letting the fall happen recoil back as I saw a familiar figure cross in front of me at the moment of impact. Band shirt bound and spliced from the real world with those earbuds pushed deep into his drums. Frank Iero. His back was to me as I quickly and heavily fell forwards from the shove. The feel of his cotton shirt brushed against my neck as I toppled on top of him from the brunt force of the push. And then we smacked into the ground. The cold, gum, spotted ground that covered the entire place. Immediately I felt the air zoom straight out of my already dried up lungs from years of smoking. That ground was fucking unforgiving. Through the shrill pain of it all I could hear was the commotion taking place around us, even though everyone seemed like a blur, as I desperately tried to kick myself off Frank, but failing miserably as I only managed to roll on top of him several times before he summoned up some strength and pushed me off of him.

Through my hazy vision and ringing ears I heard vaguely one of those fucking jocks sound pleased at the fact he got "two faggots at once." Really, was my life a game to them? Did he get bonus points for hitting us both? Was their some achievement unlocked? internally I knew the answer, but didn't bother thinking it up. Blinking through the pain was all I could really do at this point, and letting my air intake slowly calm itself and creep back into my lungs. I nudged my head to the side. Feeling the sheer pain crinkle through my deltoid. Fucking Ow. Then I caught sight of a fuming 5 foot tall frank Iero, bounding up the steps to come face to face with my torturers. Admirable. Yes. Fatal? Mhm.

My vision had totally come back as I watched in awe the showdown unraveling in front of me. I realized that I was still on the floor and the greater student body of Queen Of Peace had been stepping over me, bitching. Still, through the dirty looks and sniggers I stayed put on the floor. It had been deemed the safest and best seat in the house for what was befalling before my eyes, by myself of course. Trisha Adam's, i had her in Chemistry and shit, she was such a whore, was tiptoeing in between my calves when my ears pricked up at the sound of frank threatening the assholes. His voice was thick with anger and hate and dripping with disgust as he spat out the words.

"Listen here you little asshole." When did Frank grow these so called balls? And where can I buy some? "Don't you dare fuck with me. If you ever call me a name like that or are the reason why I fall down again, I swear on all that is good, you will regret it." The last words rolled off franks tongue so viciously that from even my spot on the floor, a good 10 feet away from all the action, I shivered, and it wasn't from the cold floor I was posted on. "Now get the fuck out of here." And miraculously with that, Bret Farve look alike and all his little minions fled the scene looking as if they were 5 seconds from pissing and shitting their pants. I felt vaguely pleasured at the fact that Frank stood up to them. But then that quickly dissipated as I saw him turn his 20/20 fire blazing vision with a vengeance on me.

I suddenly felt myself wishing that the floor would swallow me whole and hid behind my hair. I was still to weak, or just well lazy, to get up. But there was no way in hell I wanted to go through this. He sauntered over to me, a deadly bound in his step and sneered. I was pretty sure he was about to stomp my face in before he opened his pert little mouth to snap at me.

"Get this straight Way." I couldn't help but smirk inside at the way he spat out my name as if it was some curse word far more vile than would ever be acceptable coming out of the Jersey youths mouth. "You're fucking lucky it was their fault you ran into me." Frank looked at me, well glared was more like it, and I tried desperately to sink into the cold gray floor. I was looking pretty pathetic and wanted nothing more then for this horrible stare off that I was obviously losing by occupying my eyes with Franks smooth jaw, to be over. Though as if reading my thoughts the figure twisted back into place and shoved what I was sure had to be the Misfits blasting through his earbuds into his ears and turned hot on a heel, slinking down the school front steps as I sat up and leaned my head against a random blocker.

Sighing heavily. I was pretty sure that "making people hate me for all of their natural born life" within 24 hours would not look impressive on my résumé. And even as the first bell to get to class rang and I was still staring out into the space where franks figure had disappeared into the morning fog, I knew that I had kind of sort of fucked up his life. I knew that there was no way we would ever be friends. And I also was positive that I deserved the startling pain in my hamstrings as I shot up from my seat on the floor. I had health next. Maybe I could learn how to handle a torn muscle, or how to mend a broken friendship.

Sighing exasperatedly and grabbing a book with a man on a bicycle treading up some dusty mountains displayed itself before me, with comic book like font proclaiming "HEALTH" on it, I trailed off to class. Just barely slipping in when the final bell rang, and desperately trying to push the insistent thought of Frank. Out my mind. But finding that I failed miserably at my task when I looked down into my math notebook and found a sketch of frank shooting a laser gun at little algebra monsters with spider legs and goofy hats.

FRANKS P.O.V ((After the coffee shop.))

~

I crashed into my room after spending eight antagonizing hours at the horrific coffeehouse. It wasn’t that the place was shabby or had bad coffee and dry scones, it was just that I was filled with sadness and angst, making the only places I wanted to be either my room or my grave. I collapsed onto my bed, nearly landing on my white Epiphone Elitist, Pansy. My entire life began to haunt me as I turned to lay on my side, pulling my short, skinny jean clad legs into my heaving chest. The fetal position was definitely not helping my air flow as I found it increasingly difficult to draw my labored, sorrowful hugs. Maybe I was weak; here I was, sobbing my life away because of some long dead dog and the fuckwit that caused his untimely death. Most people would see a counselor for six months to a year tops and be fucking done with it, but not me. No, I – Frank fucking Iero – had to drag every goddamn emotional hump out twenty times longer than it needed to be. I couldn’t get over a goddamn thing; even what those asshole called me – faggot – was contributing to my sorrow.

Prostrated on my bed, every mistake I had ever made, every hardship I had ever faced, every name I had ever been called, every glare I had ever received, every negative thought I had ever conceived – it was all coming back to me with a heinous vengeance. This wasn’t the first time this had happened; in fact, it happens more that I’d like to admit, another determinant in the fact that I was weak. There was only one way to reconcile these thoughts with myself, and it was enough to end me in a mental institution. I released myself from my sideways position, connecting my palms with the plush black cotton sheets that covered my full sized bed and pushing myself into an upright position. I chewed on my lip nervously as I contemplated what I was about to do. I always contemplated the act: flashing my eyes all around my settings, biting my lip, ruffling my hair, ringing my fingers – there was always a hesitation, but the coin always landed heads up.

My blood began to boil like plastic over a Bunsen burner, terrorizing my delicate, frayed sanity. My breath picked up involuntarily as I rose shakily to my feet and walked solemnly toward the brown hand-me-down dresser that housed my release. The drawer opened with a screech, making me flinch at the thought that someone might have heard it, even though I knew I was home alone. I fished around for a few seconds until I located the pair of black dress socks that my grandmother had gotten me for Christmas two years prior. I kept my secret in the dress socks for two obvious reasons: I would never need them, and no one would ever think that I would be ironic enough to keep the instrument of my sorrow in a distinct symbol of conformity.

The blade glistened in the light that dared penetrate the dusty blinds that hung over my window; it was tragically beautiful. I plucked a piece of stray fabric off of its side as I examined it with intense admiration. My forearm was bare, save some purple scars that would probably never ware away. I picked a starting point, over an age old purple line, and let my dearest friend sync itself with my depression. I breathed inward sharply, creating an unpleasant hissing noise, at first, but with each new laceration, I relaxed finding solace in the blood that was pouring out of my arm like gasoline as opposed to agony in the tug of breaking skin. Running messily across my face, familiar hot tears reminded me viciously of my own mortality and ever-threatening weakness.

“Frank! Are you home?” The voice of my mother startled me, causing the razor blade to implant itself alarmingly deep into my skin.

“AH!” I yelped at this unexpected intense pain, one that I hadn’t dare to feel before. I was scared how much I liked it after the initial shock had worn off.

“Frank?” I could hear my mother trudge slowly up the stairs; she didn’t dare go too quickly, considering the poor condition her heart was in.

“Yeah, Ma, I’m home.” I called, hoping that the tightness in my throat and nose wasn’t too apparent in my tone. She was continuing her ascent, so I had to erase the evidence of the gruesome act from the rest of the world quickly, we’re talking world records here, seeing as how there were only ten steps separating the main floor and the upper floor on which my bedroom resided. My mother would probably be up about four of those by now – her heart was really bad.

“Ma, you don’t need to come up here, it’s okay, and I’ll be down to make dinner in a couple minutes. I’m just tidying up a bit.” None of that was technically a lie, it was just that “tidying up” meant something radically different to me than it did to my precious mother.

“Okay, Frankie.” She called breathlessly, and I could hear her turning around sluggishly and retracing her steps to the couch. I grabbed a black towel and wrapped my arm in it; black wasn’t invincible to the stain of blood once the liquid dried, but until that happened, no one could see it on the dark cotton. I took the paper towel that I made sure was always in my room and wiped my blade clean before returning it to the dress socks and the dress socks to the drawer and the drawer to its closed position. Thighs feeling like jelly due to the loss of blood and the pain, I propelled myself to the bathroom that was conveniently kiddy-corner across from my room.

Once inside I took a solid black make-up bag from under the counter where I kept my bandages and super glue safely and snugly next to my every day make-up. Not only was the first-aid a daily reminder of what, unfortunately, controlled my sanity, but it was the last place someone would look for evidence of self-harm. I ran my arm under a slow stream of warm water, ignoring the burning sensation that accompanied it, cleaning approximately thirteen new wounds. I examined the severity of the lucky thirteen cuts, seeing if any of them required super glue to hold them shut. Maybe I did want to die, but I knew that this wasn’t the right time to do so, not when my mother needed me so much. The last one did; it probably could have used several stitches, but there was no way that was going to happen.

Satisfied with its closure, I wrapped nearly my entire forearm in white ace wrap, securing it surely with a square of medical tape. I threw the paper towel that cleaned my razor into the toilet and flushed it away for the fishes to see and cleaned any remaining blood that I found in from the bathroom to my room before I buried the black cloth towel at the bottom of my hamper. Thank fuck I did my own laundry. I threw on an oversized sweatshirt that came from god knows what outlet store before hopping downstairs with as much energy as I could muster to make some vegan-fied dinner for my mother and myself, since my father was working late tonight.

“How about some vegan spaghetti?” I asked my mom with a fake smile plastered on my face; I didn’t want anything but happiness surrounding her at a time like this.

“Sounds good to me, darlin’” She responded while flipping through today’s newspaper. I honestly wasn’t sure how she was even home, last time I knew she was supposed to stay in the hospital until the operation. I decided not to jinx anything with my stupid curiosity; if my mother wanted to tell me about her hospital stay then she would, but I would not be the one to bring it up.

“How was your day, Frankie?” She asked, looking up. I set a pot of water on to boil before turning around to answer her.

“Good. I didn’t even get homework today.” Once more, context meant everything, and I was abusing that advantage.

“If it was good, then why is your face red and your eyes puffy? I’m not stupid, I know that a post-cry face looks like.” Damn my mom’s 20/20 vision. Seriously, why couldn’t her eyes be going bad instead of her heart?

“It’s no big deal mom,” I said, stitching a grin onto my face again, just for her.

“Frank, sit down.” I looked at her cautiously, scrutinizing her intentions, but I obliged after a moment or two. “Listen, I know that you think you have to protect me because of my condition, but you’re wrong. I’m not too fragile to hear about the thing that’s troubling my son. I think the only thing that might send me into cardiac arrest because of shock was news that you got a girl pregnant, and only because you’re gay.” I guffawed at my mother’s odd humor.

“So, you wouldn’t even care that I would be officially eligible for MTV reality shows?” We both laughed at the thought.

“Frank,” my mother got dangerously serious. “These walls that you insist on putting up around yourself have to come down at some point. They’re only going to drive you insane, and when you do lose your mind, there will be no one there to fix you, because the wall that you have now is solid brick. I don’t want to see that happen to my son.” My mouth opened into a miniscule “o” and my eyes blinked amazedly at the woman who raised me, unsure how she held so much wisdom; I guess I just never gave her enough credit. There was only one problem with what she said – my walls protect me, they don’t drive me insane. It’s best for me to be alone. I sighed to myself and gave her a small nod. Not wanting to pry on the subject any further. She sensed this and pursed her lips, flicking her gaze back to the newspaper with a small shake of her head. I turned my attention back to sizzling Pan over the fire and pretended the noodles I began drowning in the water was the object of my hate, Gerard Way.

Notes

YAY. UPDATE.

Gerard's POV written strictly by Marina - let's all take a second to recognize her amazing talent.

Frank's written by yours truly. (Minus the Gerard Spaghetti analogy at the end).

Sorry for any weird spacing - my phone doesn't like doing updates and my dad was hogging the laptop. Another due in a week or so.

Much love from both of us *posh smooches *

xo Bunny