Gerard’s POV
All through the rest of my classes, the only subjects I can focus on are Frank and my imposing psychologist session. I am very genuinely worried about Frank. He spent the rest of the lesson in a complete daze, which I have never seen him do before. Normally he is hyperaware of every detail, pointing things out to me.

Before I could say anything subtle to indicate that I’m here for him, I was hauled off by High-five over here. Maybe I should just call him Sir Grabby Hands, because they seem to be all over my collar recently. Or perhaps I should just buy a leash? Then he can drag me by my neck rather than my clothing. It seems like the most economical decision, as it’ll stop my shirts from getting wrecked. My mind eventually wanders back to the same thoughts of Frank. I should really text him, but I know Dad can read every message I send. Somehow he managed to hook it up so that he can preview everything, which is actually super terrifying. What kind of control-freak parent stalks their kid? Well, mine, apparently.

Once again the bell rings, alerting the students to the end of the school day. I grab my bag and make my way to the car park to meet my, um, Donna. It still doesn't feel right calling her that. My stomach churns like a blender as I approach; I honestly fear I am going to be sick. I take a deep breath, telling myself to calm the fuck down, and place my hand on the somewhat blisteringly hot door handle and wrench it open. Donna peels out of the park almost immediately, before I can even click my seatbelt into its holder. My head slams against the car seat, doing nothing for the aches and bruises. Instead of groaning, I keep my lips firmly clamped together, jaw tight and the rest of my muscles tense.

We accelerate through the school gates, heading in the opposite direction to home which I guess is why Mikey isn’t sitting in the front seat. Due to the lack of his presence, the car is filled with silence rather than music. He refuses to go anywhere without a CD blaring at almost full force. I force my jaw closed tighter, refusing to feel any emotion and stare blankly out the window at the plain scenery passing by. Only the rattling of the muffler and the rolling of tyres against the rocky highway can be heard. The tension practically clouds the air between us, me slouching moodily in the backseat and Donna driving with a death grip on the wheel and a heavy foot on the accelerator just like this morning.

I estimate that maybe twenty minutes have gone by now, and that’s twenty minutes in which I am not with Frank. And that means that it’s twenty minutes in which I am not particularly happy. Just when I start to seriously consider tuck-and-roll-ing it out of this bitch, we slow to a stop next to a cliché white building, printed letters on a fogged glass panel reading “Belleville University Christian Psychologist Clinic”. Bleugh. I didn’t even know Belleville had a university.

I open the door reluctantly and hop out onto the asphalt, feeling completely out of place. Not for the first time I just want to force everything to be fine, so that it didn’t matter if I liked a boy. That I wouldn’t get my head bashed in if I said so much as two syllables to the wrong person. Donna rolls down her window to speak to me, saying, “I’ve got errands to run, so I will be late to pick you up. Just…Try to co-operate, will you?” She pronounces all of this coldly and without sparing so much as a glance at me. Amazing how people can be so blank. Who sprinkled the bitch flakes in your cereal, Donna? I make myself snort which she of course takes as indignation. Finally breaking her streak she gives me a sideways glance, as if there is something wrong with me. As if I am contagious. Maybe I should sprinkle some gay flakes in her cereal, lighten her up a bit.

I finger wave at the sealing window, and head rather gloomily towards my fate. She stays outside, watching until I am successfully inside the sanitized looking building and then drives away. She must not trust me. A golden bell hanging above the doorway announces my entry. How neat-o! I mock internally. The receptionist peers up boredly from her keyboard to fix me with a burning glare and then looks back down. I stand awkwardly half-leaning on the white bench, clearly unsure of what to do. The feel of the room is insanely sterile, which reminds me of hospitals, which reminds me of needles, which- She lets out an irritated puff of air. “Name?” It comes out exasperated and drawn out, meant to show me to how many less fucks she couldn’t give.

“Um, Gerard Way.”

Miss Moody presses a couple keys and gestures again, except this time it is through a door labelled ‘waiting room’. The glass panel in the door allows me to see a scratchy-looking polyester/plastic chair, and another boy nervously twisting his hands. He’s possibly a year or two younger than me, with a floppy fringe obscuring his face from my view. I shuffle in the direction of the waiting space whilst the receptionist just starts typing again, keys clacking in the relatively empty room.

The young looking boy flinches visibly when I open the clean white door. I sit a couple of seats down so as not to frighten him; the chair is almost as scratchy as I had predicted. The room has three closed doors leading off of it, all with name plaques screwed on. Two out of three of the plaques had the title ‘Student’ on it, which I assume means the university students. It appeared that only one doctor was in today, Dr Leonard, as under the other’s names it said ‘absent’.

The boy looks utterly terrified, mouth contorted in a sempiternal frown, and I swear he is nearly about to fall off his chair he’s shaking so violently. He not-so-subtly gawks at me, making me wonder why. Obviously I know I've got that whole vampire-like appearance going on, but am I really that bad looking? At this moment I remember I have a bruise on my jaw line, which is probably what the kid was looking at.

I turn slowly towards him, extending an open hand to him and trying to act at least marginally approachable. “I’m Gerard.” I speak gently, not wanting to startle him any more than is already evident. “I’m…um…I’m Brendon.” His voice is tiny and fragile, broken and fraying at the edges. “H-how…um, how did you get that?” he points at my jaw, then realises what he is doing and quickly lowers his hand, tucking it under his thigh and sitting on it. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.” He tacks on in a rush. I offer him what I hope is an encouraging smile, and lean in a little closer to him and shield one side of my face with my hand like I'm about to tell him a big secret. “I kissed a boy and my Dad didn't like it,” I stage whisper and then chuckle lightly. But I can’t help the frown that turns the corner of my mouth downwards, or the furrow in my brow as I think of how desperately unfunny this entire situation is. God fucking damn it emotions can you just piss off for a moment? I notice Brendon staring at me as if deciding whether I can be trusted.

Then Brendon takes in a shaky breath and looks at me with teary brown eyes. “Same,” he admits. His fingers tug absentmindedly on the hem of his shirt, eyes forcibly closed. He takes another hefty breath then lifts his shirt up to expose bruises flowering over his stomach. I gasp lightly; even though his injuries somewhat mirror my own it’s a shock to see them on someone else’s body. It makes this all the more real. My fingers reach out to brush over the marks and he inhales sharply. Acting completely on instinct I scoot over the seat separating us and pull Brendon, this boy I’ve only just met, into an embrace. I rub my hands all up and down his back attempting to comfort him, feeling his frantically heaving ribcage expanding and compressing against my chest.
“Hey, don’t cry. Don’t cry, everything is gonna be fine and you’ll be out of here soon, anyways! Away from everyone who disagrees with you. You’ll be fine. How old are you right now?”
“Six-, um, sixteen,” Brendon falters miserably into my shoulder.
“It’s not too long till you finish school then, is it? Tell you what, when I finish – which is soon, since I'm eighteen already – and have my own place you can move in with me if it’s real bad, okay?”
Did I just say that? To be honest, I can’t really believe I am offering someone I hardly know the opportunity to move in with me, but for some reason I feel awfully protective over him now.

Brendon detaches himself from me, and stares into my eyes, his forehead creased in anxiety and worry. I take in his shiny tear stained cheeks, mildly runny nose and puffy eyes and my heart pretty much breaks in two. Well, as much more as it can be broken.
“R-really?” he stutters.
“Mhm,” I approve. “It’ll be great, and you can meet my boyfriend too. His name’s Frank and he’s fantastic. Seriously, you’ll love him. Do you have a boyfriend or something?”
Brendon shakes his head sadly. “We…came to a mutual agreement.”
“Oh,” I say feeling a little dumb and intrusive for asking. “I’m sorry,” I apologise after a stretching silence.
Brendon hums absentmindedly, lost in his thoughts just like Frank this morning, except that his expression is one of more melancholy than anything else.

The psychologist’s office door rattles, resulting in Brendon jumping away from me and frantically trying to look innocent. A middle aged man with thinning dark hair steps into the waiting room. He holds a cork clipboard in front of his pudgy stomach with either of his severely wrinkled hands. “Sorry about the delay, I had a very important phone call. I’m looking for Brendon Urie?” Almost every word he says is emphasised, with particular attention paid to ‘important’. He glances down at the clipboard to read the name, and then back at us. His eyes flicker between both of us until Brendon takes a minute step forward, obviously nervous.

The doctor steps back into his room to hold the door open, then closes it once he has ushered Brendon through. Upon the realisation of the fact that I will be here for a long time yet, I reach into my bag for my sketchbook. I remove the black leather-bound hardcover from my canvas messenger bag, thumbing through the leaves till I come across a blank page. I note down my name, address, email, phone number and school onto the page, trying to keep my normally scribbly printing relatively neat so that Brendon can read it without error. Then I meticulously tear the page from its binding and fold creases into the paper so it is as small as I can make it. I tuck it in my pocket, ready to hand to him when he comes out.

The time whilst Brendon is having with the doctor is excruciatingly boring for me. Especially so since I can’t eavesdrop due to the room being practically soundproof. All I can do is glower hatefully at the barren and disinfected white walls surrounding me, at the minimalistic, colour drained art hanging from them. Nothing exciting is happening through the tiny singular window in the room, the only things I can see are the grey downy sky and the occasional car passing by, lights blurring in the rush and sending refractions flitting across the roof.

I doodle in my sketchbook with little inspiration, simply trying to pass the time. In the end I wind up drawing Mikey and I riding into battle on an army of unicorns. I'm sure he’ll love it when I give it to him later. There’s nothing more I can do on the piece, so I shut my book with a satisfying flipping of pages. I can’t find my pencil case and instantly go into search mode. I lean over my knees and scan the ground, finding it had fallen off of the chair and was now nestled under it.

Sullenly I retrieve my fallen pencil case from the carpet and pack its spilled contents and the colouring pencils I had been using back inside of it. The handle on the door jiggles – they should really get that fixed 'coz it’ll come off someday - and I glance up in time to see Brendon leaving the room. I store away the rest of my possessions while he gets his bag and readies himself to leave.
“Everything go alright?” I ask concernedly. He shakes his head in response.
“He’s a homophobic pig so be careful,” Brendon states quietly. I move towards him to press the slip of paper with my details on it into his clammy palm. It's completely understandable, given the situation he's facing.
“Don’t worry about it, okay? You can call me tonight if you need to.” Brendon nods at me with thankful eyes, then ducks his head and leaves the room.

I settle back down in my seat, watching Brendon leave through the shutters covering a narrow glass pane. He walks straight through the parking lot, and down the road. I lose track of him after that.

The doctor pops his head around the door a silent minute later, beckoning me into his room. His office looks mostly the same as the waiting room. The same crisp white paint colours practically every surface, there are identical minimalistic prints hanging from the walls. It all adds up for a very clean and pristine environment. I have to say it is rather unsettling how neat literally everything is; the scent of bleach hangs cold in the air.
“Hello…Ger- um…Gerard.” He has to take a peep at his ever-present clipboard to remember my name. Nice. Real professional. I don’t reply to his greeting, but he doesn’t take any notice. “I’m Dr Leonard. Do you know why you’re here, Gerard?”
I shake my head no, even though I have a pretty clear picture of exactly why.
“Well, your family is worried about you. They said you were, how I put this, um, dating a boy.”

Worried about me, my ass. If they were worried my father wouldn't be beating me, my mother wouldn't be treating me so coldly and ignoring the punishments from my father, my boyfriend wouldn't be terrified for us and crying in class -
“Am.” I correct him.
He shoots me a puzzled look.
“I am dating a boy.”
“Yes, well, that’s what I want to discuss with you today. Now, I am going to get to the point. Are you aware that this is not normal?”
“Yes, well,” I start, mocking him subtly, “just because something isn't normal doesn't mean that it isn’t right.”
“Hm. Interesting point. However, in this case, I do believe that it really isn’t right. Don’t you agree?” He proposes strategically.
Uhm, fucking what?
“No, I have to say that I don’t.” I challenge, purposefully being difficult. “Love is love, doctor. Surely you must know that.” I spit the last part at him fairly rudely.

This guy is starting to get on my nerves with his crappy opinions, and I've only been in here all of about five minutes. There is a brief silence where Dr Leonard shuffles his notes.
“I concur Gerard, but there is some love that should be left untouched, I believe. And your parents would agree with me, I'm sure.”
Fuck my parents, then.
“You see, Gerard, sometimes these things need to be…locked away, and never brought up again. It’s for the best and in the interests of everyone.” He speaks encouragingly, constantly pausing for the right word like he is striving to give me some kind of astonishingly sage advice.
“So I shouldn’t be happy then? I can’t love the people I want to love?” I counter.
Dr Leonard takes in a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s a gesture I see all too often nowadays. I suppose we are equally irritating each other, then. His professional mask is showing a few cracks, and I fully intend on exploiting them.
“Gerard, what I am trying to say is what you think is love is not. What you’re doing is… toxic and wrong and your family has sent you here because they can see that and are worried for both their sake and yours. The feelings you have are completely made up inside your head, and I am going to try and help you get rid of them so you can love the right people and not hurt them.”
“Isn’t everything made up inside our heads, though? I mean, everything we can see is just the way our brains perceive light and react to it, creating an image of what is most likely there. Every single feeling or emotion you have is just a calculated release of chemicals. My love is no more or less chemical and natural than anyone else’s. It’s all chemical romance.” “However,” Dr Leonard ploughs on as if I hadn't spoken at all, “If you pay attention to religion, you would realise that the Bible explains, in short, how having…relations, with someone of the same gender is immoral. You seem like a very nice boy, and I assume that earning a place in hell is not something you would want to accomplish.”

Every ridiculous word he speaks gets me more and more riled up. Anger bubbles under the cool exterior I strive to maintain; I can feel my tolerance for this conversation slipping away bit by bit. I stand up from the shitty, abrasive chair that I've been sitting in for twenty minutes – by the way: fuck you, chair – and walk over to Dr Leonard’s crappy, wobbly wooden desk.

I lean heavily over all the paper work, creating a mess of loose notes and knocking his pencil holder on its side. I think even the desk sags a little, moving from side to side in its cheap bindings. Dr Leonard’s expression is priceless, he looks utterly terrified. I shove my face right in his personal bubble, getting as close as I dare. I accidently inhale the drugstore cologne he overuses and resist the urge to gag. I think I can actually hear him trembling like a leaf.

Then I whisper menacingly to him, “You bet I’m going to hell. I’ve even got my own place reserved for me on the throne. So see you there, fuckboy.”

With that I blow him a kiss before spinning on my heel and sass walking out of the room, letting the door swing and then slam behind me as I make my dramatic exit. I take my bag, swing it over my shoulder and walk into the main reception.

The receptionist looks up with a confused expression on her face. I just pull the finger at her and push through the final door, exhaling when I finally get out.

Notes

Sorry it took ages! I told you guys it would be long (well, it was something like 6 and a half pages in a word doc so I hope it's long on here...)

- Run Bunny x