25 Reasons Why I Hate You

Getting drunk during the weekend is most people's idea of fun, but Frank guesses not when you're drinking by yourself, miserable and kinda want some gay action.

Or maybe that's exactly when it is.

However, Frank was skeptical about the whole thing but it turned out to be better than expected. Admittedly, there were a few bad ideas wrapped up in the over-all amazing idea.

1. He came to school. Well, outside it.
He is currently sitting behind a dumpster, more or less, leaning against the wall and holding whiskey in his hand. Jump on it, ladies.

2. He snuck out at 3 AM.

It's about 3:30 now, and he still has time before either of his parents wake up, but he's not sure how exactly he is going to get home in this condition.

3. It's fucking cold.

There's not much to add, it just really is- granted, Frank's wearing a hoodie but his jeans are ripped and his shoes are starting to soak through, which, hey, carries out onto no 4. magnificiently.

4. It's raining.

Well, starting to, anyway, but sitting on the gravel isn't a good idea at the best of times, let alone when it's raining. (more or less)

So now Frank's got a half-empty (he preferrs to think of it as half-full) bottle of whiskey, wet shoes and nowhere to go because he may not be well on the road drunk yet but he doesn't want to wake his parents with his drunken rampaging so he maybe should wait until he sobers up. If that happens anytime soon.

Frank's always been skeptical about the idea of 24-hour libraries because who the fuck wants to go to a library, at, what, almost 4 in the morning?

He does. He needs to.

So, drunk people. That's the answer.

But there are some people who don't really look that drunk in here- a girl with dark, curly hair with her nose in a book who doesn't even look up when the door opens, two guys with dark under-eye circles, who look barely alive but are reading from the same book (well, reading is maybe not the term. Running their eyes over the same three sentences and holding eachother up so they don't fall asleep, that's more like it.) and a pale-skinned guy with greasy hair who Frank would assume to be dead, if it wasn't for his hand tapping away on a pile of books next to him.

Maybe miserable people is better. Yeah, miserable.
The guy whose hand is currently tapping something by the Smashing Pumpkins that Frank can't place looks pretty familiar, but his face is cast downwards and his hair is covering his face so Frank can't really see.

None of them even bat an eyelash as Frank walks around, trying not to look drunk and going behind a shelf that has the sign 'Music' on it, so at least he can be vaguely amused until he can walk normally again.

He leans against the shelf to look at the titles and only then it dawns on him how tired he actually is- he doesn't think he's gotten proper sleep in the last 2-3 days at all. He finds that, sometimes, the amount of sleep you had has nothing to do with how refreshed or not shitty you'll feel- it's in the quality. He's ran better on good 1 hour naps than on this constant waking up that continues through 6 hours of slipping in and out consciousness.

Frank picks out a random book and slides down onto the floor. Fuck tables. They ain't ever did anything good for humanity.

He's not sure how long he's been reading but when he looks up to the clock on the wall it's sometime past 4, and he's pretty sobered up by now. He doesn't remember where he discarded the whiskey but a quick look around confirms that maybe he at least had the presence of mind to put it in a dumpster somewhere.

Skin buzzing and actively random thoughts running through his mind (How much wood could a woodchuck chuck for real?My dad has a friend named Chuck. Does he chuck wood? What even is chucking wood), he stands up and puts the book in what he thinks could be its original place but he's not that sure.

He looks around, and he's got maybe another half an hour before he needs to go home- he's pretty sure he knows what street his house is in now, so that's an improvement. A look out of the window proves it hasn't stopped raining, but he can deal.

Frank's butt feels damp still from sitting on the ground outside, but he ignores it and looks at the music collection you can put in the music player. He finds an album he thinks he's heard of (something from Blink that he recognizes the artwork of) and puts it into the music player and tries to forget about the world for a minute.

It's been more than a minute (3 songs) when he feels a tap on his shoulder, and then regrets turning around, because, his luck- the boy is there, and he's not drunk enough to not recognize him, sadly.

He can also see Gerard's eyes go wide and then back and then wide again but he's stuck on the red in them, as if he's been crying. His hair is greasier than ever but that's just Gerard. Doesn't look like he's been eating much, since Frank can see that he literally has started getting skinnier, and he's not sure if he digs-

Anyway. He should be eating if he wants to go to that college and leave Frank again, and that just gets him fired up.

„What?“ Frank spits out, taking the headphones off but he can still hear the distant instruments and the occasional vocal (why leave when you claim it is love but why stay when you're not the only one) but mostly focusing on Gerard's chapped lips and the sounds that should come out at any moment.

„Um. Music player? The other one is broken.“ Gerard manages and Frank rolls his eyes. It's a good ten second awkward silence before he rolls his eyes again, stands up, takes the album out and hands Gerard the headphones. He tells himself he only did it to avoid conversation.

He also tells himself that it was the cold and not Gerard's touch that made him shiver when he handed him the headphones.

Frank hears him call out as he's walking away, a reluctant „Franki- Frank?“ and he can't help but turn around.

The fuck you want, Frank doesn't say. I hate you, he doesn't say. I love you, he doesn't say. Fucking Steve would never take my music player away, he doesn't say.

Instead he nods his head at Gerard as to ask what the fuck do you want and why now.

Gerard seems to get that and shrugs. Frank thinks maybe this is a bit chill for the situation they are in, but then again it could be that there was over-reacting in the past, so this is just a weird change.

„Can we talk?“ Frank sighs and nods, he's too tired to struggle but plans to do no talking. He's already planning excuses, and he really does need to be home soon anyway, so.

Frank steps closer and thinks Gerard might have forgotten what talking is, because, if Frank remembers correctly, what they're doing now is kissing.

Well, kissing, more or less. Gerard's teeth are surely out to get Frank's lip and make it bleed and they're succeeding, and his hands are cupping Frank's face uncomfortably but the little alcohol that's left in him tells him to kiss (or whatever, fucking bite) back, so he does.

He is vaguely aware of Gerard's wandering hands on him, but all he can think about is how much he missed his fucking mouth but he doesn't taste like coffee anymore. Gerard tastes like emptiness and sorrow, regret and broken hearts. Fuck that, he tastes like breaking hearts, Frank remembers.

Frank has three choices now.

1. Continue kissing, the easiest option of them all- but kissing, however nice or hot or nostalgic it feels, is not the way to deal with problems like these. If anything, it leads to more problems.

2. Run away, which he is best at doing, but there's the chance that Gerard might follow.

3. Actually talk to him, like a human being, because bloody fists and bloody mouths have literally never helped anyone. Maybe wrestlers. And other martial arts, um, people. Point is, it's not healthy.

But then Frank does the only thing he's good at doing. That's right, you guessed it. He punches Gerard straight in the face.

Which, might have been a bad idea, but even worse is their faces were still mostly connected.

Now he's got a sore nose, a confused Gerard on the floor who may be bleeding and the librarian glaring at him. Well. If possible, the situation is more fucked up than it was when he first walked in. At least he smells less like whiskey now, and more like blood. Somehow, he fails to think it's a plus.

Notes

I always get the violent chapters.

-Rogue