So I heard from a few people that my dad was home for 48 whole HoUrS Omg!!
He just started another project in the library.
I expected to find him in the library, so I went to see if I could go talk to him. It took me 10 minutes to find the library… whoops.
Leaving my tainted windowed room and entering a room overflowing with bright light because of all the balconies and windows by the library were kind of overwhelming. White pillars stood tall, and large book cases stood all around the room.
The last time I had been in the library was probably when I was around 9 when playing hide-and-seek with my friends. All of the friends I had back then either moved or have been turned into snotty bastards like the rest of the school by their parents. I mean I don’t mind there’s so many of them; I’ve lived with it my whole life, but the fact there is absolutely nobody who wears band shirts and too much make-up is what makes me upset.
Anyway, since I thought there would be an old man painting whatever my dad wanted, and my dad would be overlooking him and walking around to see if all the books are still in order I walked around the room with my sweats and most comfortable Nirvana tee shirt. When I couldn’t find my dad I decided to call out to him, it echoed for a while; but for the rest it stayed silent. Once I walked around the library for a little longer and decided I wanted to go back to my Green Day music and dark room, I started for the enormous, carved, wooden doors. The work on it had been done by a 50-year-old woman. She had stayed with us for about 5 years to complete the doors. Her name was Thalia and she had talked to me whenever she could, and she is probably the favorite helper we have ever had.
As I sighed and opened the door, I heard some creaking of the wooden floor, “it must be me or the weight of the door” I thought. Yet somewhere in the back of my mind I hoped it was my father. I turned around, shut the door and waited for another sound. A few seconds later I heard something fall and wild cussing. I knew that definitely not my dad, but I also knew the painter wasn’t an old dude. This made me curious as to what the artist looked like. I knew it wouldn’t affect me in any way possible, so I told myself just a quick peek and maybe help clean up whatever mess has been created and then run back to my room. As I got closer the cussing became a rhythm of muttering “shit” in a way possible it led me to a trance to find where it was coming from. Once I stood only a few feet away and I saw the boy’s jeans I stopped walking and looked up, the boy himself turned bright red and turned to the spilled paint. He had messily cut dark hair, and his perfect green eyes had me awestruck in seconds. I felt my shoulders slump and my face grow hot as he glanced over at me. “Who are you?” I asked with a voice so small I bet he could barely understand me if at all, and he would think I’m some retarded kid who can’t talk, great going Frank. Yet he answered blushing, “Gerard Way. Pleasure to meet you, if you don’t mind me asking; who are you?” I smiled dryly and told him I was the son the man who hired him and he kind of looked at me like “Oh, that makes sense.” And we ended staring at each other for what seemed like forever. Until suddenly Gerard felt the need to ruin the moment and clean up the paint. I helped him and it was the most I’ve smiled and simply been happy since Thalia left.

Notes

so I'm kind of tired rn, so it's probably pretty bad...
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and here's the first Frerard scene in this story :3 (yw).
more fluff coming and I might not be on for a while since I'm kind of busy ):
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well, comment and subscribe 'n shit, and well. frerardthough. xx