Follow Me Home (Frerard)

Gerard's POV

I ran a hand through my black hair, mentally making a note to cut it later; It's getting too damn long and keeps getting in my eyes. Pushing it away for the millionth time to clear my vision of the image in front of me, I tilt my head to one side. Studying the image, I purse my lips. Something's off...
"It's the left arm," My roommate, Bob, comments and the sound of his voice makes me jump. I look up, not realizing he was even sitting next to me. When did he get there? He looks unaffected by my near heart attack caused by his appearing act and continues blowing on his coffee. He watches me over the brim of his Star Wars mug and points to the newest installment of my comic series called Umbrella University-- Name in the works. "The left arm," Bob explains. "It's longer than the right. It's throwing the whole panel off."
I look back to the square and scrutinize the woman depicted there before deciding Bob is right and erasing the oddly-shaped limb. Silence falls over us again as Bob turns his attention back to the television and I scribble away, giving the girl a new arm.
Bob and I are what you call friends. Well, in a generic use of the word, I guess. I don't really have friends; I'm Gerard Way. I'm the weird "emo" kid that sat in the back of class during high school and carved things into the top of the desk. I'm the one that, even in his second year of college, didn't know more than five students names. And I didn't care to. Bob was like me in that way; We were two anti-social, awkward-as-fuck nineteen year olds who would rather sit in our dorm and do homework-- I, drawing, while Bob did whatever the hell it is music majors do-- than be invited to whatever party the fraternity was throwing that week. We didn't speak more than two words to each other on most days and the silence that filled the air when we were in a room together was comfortable. We were content to be alone, even if we were together. That's just the way we liked it.
When I'm satisfied with the new arm, I place the sketchbook on the coffee table in front of us and pull my legs up onto the couch, crossing them under myself and getting comfortable. Pulling my laptop out, I power it up and wait impatiently for my pages to load. First; Twitter.
I don't use the internet much, to be completely honest. I hated social interaction, even if it was of the medial sort. I didn't have a Facebook-- I deleted it about a month after creating it because of too much bullying. People would literally send me friend requests just to tell me to kill myself. I found a few different sites, but none of them had nearly as much lure to them as Twitter held. On Twitter, no one knew me. They didn't see my face, as I refused to post photos of myself-- My default icon was of a grunge-looking Batman I had drawn a few years back-- and I didn't post anything personal enough for them to make fun of me. My bio held nothing but my name and that I attended college in New York. That was it. It was an account dedicated to nothing but my artwork; Everything from my comic books to random doodles I drew on the side of Newspaper articles. Nobody knew me there and they didn't care to; They were there for my drawings and I only cared to post just that. No attachments, no "kill yourself" comments... Usually. Of course, just like any social networking site, there were trolls. Some people sought out my work just to criticize it. But those responses were few and far between.
Today as the page loaded, I anxiously clicked on the notifications button, seeing a few mentions pending. For the most part, they read along the lines of "This is so cool!" or "Can't wait until the next issue" and I typed back a quick response to each before one message in particular caught my attention.
"hi. i wes lokin htrogh somr og yur drwinsg and yor rely good. kep up the god work. ;)"
At first, I thought he was foreign. Maybe he was speaking some weird language I didn't know. But after putting the message through Google Translate, I realized it was definitely English he was attempting to write. It took me about five minutes and the start of a migraine to decipher the words, but eventually I understood and grimaced.
Clicking on his account-- @FrankIero-- I decided to see why the hell he had smashed his face into the computer to compliment me instead of using his big boy words. I figured he might be a kid at first glance, his features seeming young and innocent, but then the tattoo on the side of his neck caught my eye. Tattoos, a lip and nose piercing; This is not a kid. Skimming through the biography, I realize he's in college; Florida State University.
Oh great. He's another drunk frat guy.
I roll my eyes and hit the respond button, typing a quick message back.
"You okay, man? Try using your hands next time instead of your face to reply, yeah? But thanks, I think..."
I hit enter, happening to glance at the time in the corner of the computer screen. Shit, it's almost noon! I throw the computer onto the cushion next to me and jump up, racing to my room. Damn Twitter made me late for class.

Notes