The Kiss of Vanity Blessed Me With A Spiritual Murder

Sunday morning, Gerard decides to take a walk.

The sky isn’t blue; it’s almost purple with the way dark clouds roll beneath the red of the trees. But it’s the last thing on Gerard’s mind as he shrugs an old straight-cut, black coat over his shoulders. He can feel the skin of his cheeks drying; it smells like soap, early November and things he wants to forget about. The road outside is dry, but not for long, he can sense the chill down, deep inside his spine. There’s a storm coming later, it’s already the air- the wind is too warm for it not to rain.

He doesn’t plan on going to the cemetery, at first. It’s too much, in his head and on his hands, but he can’t help it as he skips the few steps it takes to get to the ingrown stone path. It’s prettier in daylight, all gravestones a slightly greener hue- the moss sort of makes it look like home; the one of the living, not the one of the dead.

Perhaps it’s simple despite Gerard’s inability to comprehend: perhaps he just can’t resonate with the living. There he has to speak, speaking makes him nervous- fuck,thinkingabout speaking makes him nervous and he can’t do anything about it. Perhaps the dead are easier to talk to. Simply because they don’t ask you for words when you can’t find them.

Gerard is not good with words.

But what does being good with words even mean?

He walks around the cemetery a bit. He likes the way his shoes feel against the grass, the wind around his arms warm, ruffling his hair. He spreads his fingers apart, lets them dance in the weak sunlight and closes his eyes. His lungs are yelling at him to stop, to think but he doesn’t let himself care, he doesn’t let himself be afraid now. Now it’s just him- him, the wind and a bunch of dead people who are never going to ask questions he doesn’t want to answer. And it feels right, for the first time in ages- it feels right.

“Having fun?”

Gerard almost falls to the ground. His heartbeat changes pace abruptly, so abruptly it feels dangerous, but the face he’s met with when he turns around doesn’t make it any better.

He isn’t wearing a jacket, but he doesn’t seem to be freezing in just a long-sleeved sweater. He’s only in jeans, as well, and his shoulders are loose, like he isn’t even pretending to like the temperature- as if it’s somehow engraved into his bones. Gerard supposes that someone so cold inside couldn’t freeze even if they tried.

His hair is a mess, but a mess that rounds his face like it was made to be; and Gerard can’t help but to hate himself because he wants to curl some of it around his fingers.

“How long have you been here?” Gerard breathes, air thick in his mouth, stumbling a bit backwards even though Frank doesn’t move from his spot. His face is stern, eyes set, he seems strangely at peace for someone whose general setting is so hostile.

“Long enough,” he says casually, hands in his pockets as he’s leaning backwards slightly. “Why are you out here, all alone? Haven’t you heard about the attacks?”

Gerard breathes through his nose, popping his joints in order to calm himself. “I could ask the same thing.”

Frank laughs airily, as if Gerard told a joke only he understands. It makes goose bumps appear all over his arms and the fact that he’s alone in a cemetery with Frank suddenly starts flashing all over his head in big, bold letters. He doesn’t let himself feel like it’s a warning.

“You should relax, you know,” Frank adds, moving one of his hands into his back pocket and even before it happens, Gerard knows he’ll pull out a pack of Marlboros. “You always seem so jittery.”

At first, the remark doesn’t do anything to him. Gerard feels nothing at all, he’s heard that so many times before that he can’t bring himself to react with anything more than a shrug.

But then it suddenly stops, and it feels like something collapsed inside his lungs and it almost starts physically hurting somewhere inside his brain, his bones, limbs- it’s a sensation that burns the pit of his stomach and puts a match to all of his organs that have been soaked with gasoline for way too long.

“I can’t,” it feels poisonous to pronounce it, as if his tongue is made out of cyanide and his teeth coated with sulfuric acid- but he feels angry. It’s so strange because Gerard doesn’t do angry. He does scared, confused, terrified, anxious and awkward, and now that all of the above are gnawing at his insides, he feels angry, and it feels like hell just as it feels like heaven at the same time.

Frank looks up from his lighter and the fire is still burning inside of Gerard when he tells him, “I know. Want a smoke?” He flicks his wrist sideways, making one of the cigarettes poke out from the pack.

Silence. The anger doesn’t stop, it just lowers its volume into something like a dull roar as it tests the limits of all the breaking points in Gerard’s head.

“Do you really?” Gerard senses his eyes turning into daggers pointed at Frank, but he seems unfazed with it. It just makes it worse, it just makes it stronger, but it doesn’t seem to upset Frank as he looks him in the eyes.

“Yeah, I do,” he says nonchalantly, as Gerard looks at him in confusion. “I only said it because I knew it would make you mad.”

“You’re a giant asshole, you know that?” It takes guts, but considering the mood he’s in, Gerard can spare some. He doesn’t know when the next time he has a chance like this will be.

“I know,” he says, taking another drag. “It feels good, doesn’t it?” He’s looking at Gerard through his eyelashes, and Gerard can swear nothing in his life has ever felt as strangely familiar as this. “Now, you want this smoke or not?”
*

Voluntarily hanging out with Frank isn't something Gerard thought would happen in his life.

But as it turns out, it's not exactly uncomfortable. Gerard feels a bit tense since they're sitting so close, in between two unmarked graves, smoking cigarettes as if they're just old friends who don't have much to talk about nowadays. Frank refused to sit on Gerard's coat, but he let Gerard smoke a half of his pack without mentioning a word of it. Gerard thinks it isn't like him to do that, but he doesn't say it. It's a relief, if anything.

Another thing Gerard has noticed about Frank is that, when he isn't being snarky, he isn't conversational at all. Weirdly enough, Gerard doesn't think it's because he's boring to be around. His gut feeling tells him it's just the way Frank is. It's different with other people- Gerard's brain is usually so adamant on telling him he knows what they think, what they feel about him that there's no room or time for him to actually observe the whole thing perceptively. But with Frank, he never knows what page they're on- he doesn't even know what page he, himself is on, let alone such an ambiguous person like Frank.

“You know,” Frank says, breaking the silence, “I sometimes feel like you never get tired of thinking.”

Gerard bites his lip, closes his mouth. He brings his half-smoked cigarette to his lips, but changes his mind before taking a drag. “I do.”

Frank looks at him, eyes wide and big as always, eyebrows slightly raised as if they’re signaling for Gerard to keep talking.

“I get tired of thinking a lot,” Gerard admits, sucking both of his lips between his teeth now, “I’m just… not in command, I suppose.”

Frank sighs, long, so long that it could’ve easily lasted an hour. He takes a drag and says, “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

He looks up and Gerard looks at him- jaw solid and strong, lips curled upwards just like the soft tips of chocolate brown hair against his neck. Then Gerard looks into the clouds as well and back at him, and he can’t help but notice the resemblance between Frank and the oncoming storm.

“It’s raining,” Frank simply says, even though a single drop hasn’t fallen yet. Gerard is about to say something, but then he feels it.

For a second or two, it’s just one drop on the tip of his nose, but then the sky opens up.

“Fuck,” he hisses, standing up and grabbing his coat from the ground. It hasn’t been ten seconds, and he’s already soaked. “I haven’t got an umbrella. I’m going to get, like, three pneumonias by the time I get home.”

Frank laughs. There’s no sign of bitterness to it, he laughs, and it’s the most peculiar thing Gerard’s ever seen. His eyes close, eyelashes dark and wet against his cheeks because of the rain. “Come with me,” he grabs Gerard’s hand, laughing still. He’s got a dimple on the left side of his mouth. “I know just the place.”

*

“You’ve broken,” Gerard heaves, “into a mausoleum.”

“It’s not like any of them really care.” Frank rolls his eyes. “They’re dead.” He pulls out what’s left of his pack, laying it on the floor to dry. “Besides, I come here all the time. No ghost activity spotted.”

Gerard smiles a bit, leaning against the wall. He doesn’t know why, but it’s warm in here. Frank’s sat on the floor, testing his lighter to see if it still works. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Frank doesn’t look up from the lighter. “No.” It sparks. “Do you?”

“I don’t really know,” Gerard says, running his fingers through his damp hair. His fingertips hurt, he’s bitten his nails too much. “I guess I don’t, not specifically. But I still hope they exist.”

The lighter ignites. “Why?”

“It would make death easier to handle,” he tells him. “I suppose it’d be comforting to know people that died still exist on some different level.”

“But what if they don’t want to exist?” Frank says, looking into the wall opposite of him. His fingers are dancing around the flame, going through it. “What if that’s the point?”
He lays his palm directly onto the lighter.

“Jesus Christ, Frank, you’re going to burn yourself!” Gerard runs up to him, takes his hand away from the lighter. He is about to examine the damage when he feels Frank looking at him.

“I’m fine,” he says, quiet. “See?” He shoves his palm in front of Gerard’s face. There’s no sign of injury on it whatsoever. Gerard reaches out to touch it before he can stop himself.

When he realizes what he’s doing, he can feel the horror hit the back of his eyeballs. He’s about to recoil, or run away- but he realizes it’s still pouring outside and he really has nowhere to hide. Frank’s eyes are wider than ever, but he catches Gerard’s hand before it slips away.

Gerard can hear the lighter hitting the ground beside them, it’s invasive how it echoes against the mausoleum walls. Frank’s other hand is reluctant, but when Gerard doesn’t protest, it touches his neck and his fingertips brush through the hair behind Gerard’s ear, pulling him closer. Gerard’s on his knees in between Frank’s thighs, one of his hands touches Frank’s chest. It’s warm and his heartbeat is really, really slow- Gerard doesn’t know how that could be since he looks just as scared as Gerard feels. Frank tugs him even closer, so that their noses are barely a millimeter apart, and Gerard can sense the heat of his breath; he can hear it ringing in his ears, as well.

Gerard’s fingers curl into Frank’s shirt before Frank kisses him.

It’s soft, Gerard’s cheeks are damp and he knows he feels cold against Frank’s skin. He supposes Frank won’t mind- even though he feels warm right now, it doesn’t change the fact Gerard is ice on the inside whenever he spots him from across the room. His lips feel so tentative, but demanding at the same time, and Gerard doesn’t know if this means anything to him at all. His eyes are closed and the backs of his eyelids look dark blue, everything looks dark blue- but blue had never been a warm color before he met Frank.

It’s silent when Frank stops kissing him. It’s so silent Gerard can feel the dead talking even though there’s a storm raging outside.

Frank’s hand in Gerard’s hair was gentle only a moment ago, but now it’s stiff and hard across his scalp. Everything is cold again.

“I should probably go.”

And just like that, he does.

Notes

wow, ok. i'm a piece of shit. i hope y'all haven't died.
xomls