Moon Hanger

He's at William's, a party recklessly tearing apart the house. Laughter's buzzing throughout the people, half-dead smiles thrown carelessly. Girl's tilt their hips and bat their eyes, boys grin and use the same line they used on her best friend. A girl moans from a back room in the corner of the house having sex she doesn't really enjoy with a boy she doesn't really like, trying to fill a void inside her chest all taped up with caution tape and bloody gauze, but the boy doesn't see it or doesn't care, it's all the same- they're all the same- men.

In theory, he should be celebrating with his friends, however he's found that it's much harder to pretend you're okay at night. Something stirs inside of him, aches in his very bones, it wails above the sound of the party. The winter air breathes into his hair and he can't seem to untangle the knots twisted in his stomach. The last days border between insanity and depression. He tries not to think of his name, it turns to glass in his mouth. Strangely it's so much easier to be alone in a crowd. He's got hands reaching for his and mouths calling his name,that aren't the right hands, that aren't the right mouths. He hasn't seen him in years but he can still see him in the world. He can feel his fingertips pushing through his hair when the wind blows. He can hear his voice in between the rain and thunder and it's been a long time since his head lay upon his pillows, but he can still smell him when he tries hard enough.

Eyes glassy, he scrolls through his contacts and stops at his name. Frank's lungs seize and his heart races violently in his chest just seeing his name sitting there, glowing at him,daring him to do something about the pain his chest. The alcohol in his system swirled his anxiety and usual timidness into a memory. A dream. With a hesitant press of his finger, he puts his phone to his ear. He can feel his anxiety meds mixing with the stale beer, cheap fun feels no good- feels like another stomachache. He forgets that he's pressed call, he forgets that the phone's pressed to his ear -the meds and the alcohol affecting him much more than he thought- he has totally forgotten about him for a second, but he hears it. It being a faint rustling, a yawn and the sound of someone exiting a room, a sleepy "Hello?" drawled questioningly over the phone's receiver. Now he remembers. He remembers putting the phone to his ear, he remember's pressing call, he remembers who this is and why they haven't talked. He remembers laughter and screams and arguments and jokes. He remembers music and stages full of lights and screaming girls. He remembers drunk nights and stomachaches and hangovers and coffee addicts who break their necks coloring in sketch pads, chain smoking their lungs away. He regrets. He is in full-blown panic. A walking fucking disaster. Breathing heavily he hears another sleepy "Hello? Hellooo?" and a aggravated "I can hear you breathing." Mostly he hears the blood in his ears again, a tsunami, a hurricane of self-hatred and regret. In his chaotic frenzy he doesn't hear Gerard hang up, but before he finds out that the call has been ended, connection lost, he mumbles,
"Gerard? Gerard I'm sorry. I'm sorry for never calling. I'm sorry for never answering. I'm sorry that I have anxiety and am stupid. I'm sorry that you started drinking again. I'm sorry that Mikey is still on drugs and drinking bad. I'm so so sorry."

-When he does realize, realizes Gerard probably heard none of that. He doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed. Exhausted from his anxiety attack, he pukes a little and lies down the opposite way, stretching out his feet on the front lawn and closing his eyes. He can't stop thinking. Thinking about Gerard and Mikey and Ray. Thinking about Jamia.

Before he drifts off, he remembers a little passage from The Catcher in the Rye ,remembers Holden talking about bein the catcher, saving people when they fall into the rye. He wonders what he would be. He calls Gerard again, leaves him a voicemail telling about who he'd be. Telling him, "I'd be the moon hanger. You probably don't know what that means. I'd be the star gazing kid who climbed the cracks in the sky to hang a moon from the ceiling. I'm the kid who'd carry peoples dreams to the top and hang em amongst the stars. I'd be the moon hanger. The dream fulfiller who could never find his own." He doesn't actually send it, deleting the message and falling asleep right there in the grass, but he dreams about it. About climbing in the star-freckled sky.


He wakes up however, with some new ambition. Goes home, cleans up, gathers all the songs he's been recording, changes the folder from "untitled" to "stomachaches." and takes his meds without thinking about any metaphors about the moon and the sun or the stars. He goes to sleep at a decent hour and actually sleeps. Maybe he's getting better. It's like a less significant epiphany. He is zen. He asks Jamia if there's a word for that but she just laughs and tells him she doesn't know. He'll email Pete later and ask him, they aren't close but he knows words like that, Pete's just that kind of guy.

Frank, for once, doesn't feel like he's gambling with the cracks in the sky.

Notes

This is supposed to be rambly and incoherent if you're wondering. (writing style very mildly influenced by Pete Wentz's Gray) Since Frank is going through some major anxiety+is drunk/high throughout most of this, a lot of his thoughts are supposed to be sort of stranded and a little off-hand.