Follow Me Home (Frerard)

Gerard's POV

"Are you going to get up?" Bob wondered from the doorway. He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, scrutinizing me with an arched eyebrow.
I don't even bother returning to glance, all of my attention focused on the sketchpad in my lap. I move the pencil across the paper, the dark granite immediately smearing against the smooth white and leaving a messy streaked path where my hand drags. "Nope. Busy." Is the only response I manage. I take a second to erase a few badly placed lines and retrace the torso of my newest creation.
"Gerard, it's already almost two," Bob repeats. "Your Philosophy class starts in like ten minutes and it will take you that long just to get across campus."
"I'll be there in time..." I mumble, but the words aren't registering. Fuck... I flip the pencil around and scrape the pink eraser across the page, quickly brushing the shavings off onto the bed. I make another oval over the one I just erased, bigger than the last, and start defining the jaw line.
"Gee?" Bob's voice pulls my attention to him once again and I sigh exasperated, looking up at him. He smirks. "Okay. Now that I have your attention. You're going to be late for class."
"Oh..." I mutter, and this time the words really do register. "Oh!" I jump up off the bed, closing the sketchbook and shoving it, along with the pencil, into my backpack. Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I'm completely prepared to race out of my bedroom and sprint across campus, but Bob remains in the doorway, watching me with an amused expression. "What now?" I demand.
The other man bites his lip and points a single finger downward, his gaze not once leaving my own. "Gee, you're not wearing pants."
I look down, my face heating up
when I realize I'm standing there in nothing but a pair of Star Wars boxers and a loose Tshirt. I groan and drop my bag, taking the time to throw on a pair of- hopefully clean- jeans and shoes, before I grab my pack once again and I'm out the door.
Class is, no surprise, useless. I spend the entire time with my head down, hunched over my sketchbook with a pencil working away on my newest masterpiece. Shading, refining, adding and erasing. When Philosophy finally ends, I shuffle out of the building behind the others, my sketchbook clutched tight in my hands. I keep my head down, black hair falling into my face and shielding me, if only a little, from the harsh wind that whips around me. Snow is starting to settle in a thin layer on the grass, no longer melting as soon as it's touched the ground. I scuff my shoes along the white, leaving streaks in the untouched snow.
I don't see the other figure before I walk directly into them. A shoulder hits mine, pain immediately surging up my arm and causing my book to drop to the concrete path beneath me. I instantly look up, prepared to mumble a "sorry," but before I even have the chance to speak, I'm met with an angry glare set under furrowed and bushy eyebrows. "Watch where you're walking, faggot," The boy snarls and then continues down the walkway.
My stomach twists and clenches uncomfortably and I move in a mechanic motion to retrieve my sketchbook. I flip through a few pages, frowning slightly when I see the edges of some pages are wet and crinkled. I sigh heavily and roll my eyes, trying to brush off the entire incident, but the name still rings out in my head. Taunting, patronizing, just plain cruel.
When I finally reach my destination, I push the glass door open, enjoying the small ding that sounds when I enter the heated building, as if they're welcoming my arrival. I quickly make my way across the carpeted floor to the front counter of the comic book shop, dropping my sketchpad on the counter and stepping behind the desk. No one is seated in the uncomfortable looking chair, as they usually would be, so I abandon my backpack on the floor and go into the back room instead. Gabriel is sorting through a few comics when I step up behind him and grin. "Just the man I wanted to see."
Gabriel spins on his heels, momentarily forgetting about his duties, and beams. "Hey, Gee-Way!" I'm ambushed with a too-tight hug from the older man, but I don't argue. I laugh softly, and Gabriel releases me. "What's up? Shaun's not here if you wanna bitch about the whole not-getting-paid-yet thing."
I quickly shake my head, stuffing both hands into the pocket of jacket. "Actually, I came to see you," I admit. "I need your help with something."
A grin stretches across Gabriel's face and he's nodding, already deciding that he's going to help no matter what my request. The last time I asked him for help, we created Umbrella Academy. I trust him wholeheartedly with what I'm going to do.
I lead him back into the main room, grabbing my sketchbook and flipping open to the page I've been focused on for the past four hours. In the middle of the white page is a man, comically drawn, with a guitar hanging loose in his hands. Tattoos cover most of his bare chest and arms and his cartoon face is a look of pure joy.
To anyone else, it's just another random comic-book character I've created. A punk edge mixed with a badass visage. But, as I glance down at the sketch, I know exactly who I had in mind drawing it.
Frank.
I turn the drawing so Gabriel can see and watch as he studies the image, nodding slowly. "You want me to add color," He guesses.
I nod fervently, biting down on my thumb nail. "Can you scan it in and send it to me when you're finished?" I wonder.
Gabriel sighs, still watching the drawing like it might start moving if he looks away. "Give me a challenge every once and awhile, Gerard. This shit is easy peasy."
"I need it by tonight," I blurt out. I tap a few fingers nervously on the counter and watch Gabriel with innocent eyes as he slowly looks up at me. It's short notice, I know this. But if anyone can get it done, it's him.
And then an even wider smile stretches across his face and he's nodding again. "There's the challenge." Gabriel narrows his eyes, and I can see the gears turning, already planning in his head.
"I'll have it done by midnight," He says.
"Can we aim for eight?" I cock an eyebrow.
Gabriel runs a few fingers absently across the page. "I better get started."
I grin. "You're the best, Gabe."
"Yeah," He rolls his eyes and tosses me my backpack. "I know."
•••
I tap my fingers anxiously on the side of the laptop propped open atop my desk. I lean back in the chair, laughing along with Frank and enjoying the tug in my chest when he grins and waves one hand around, the other shaking slightly where he holds the phone. It's addicting to watch, the way his pink lips stretch out and curve upward, and I find myself craving it more. And his laugh... God, the way he giggles. It's seductive, captivating, and I find that I would do just about anything to hear that sound.
"I can't help but notice," Frank says suddenly, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes me through the screen. "The whole two hours of this call, you haven't once tried to hide your face." He grins, probably very aware of the blush that's lighting up my face. "Why is that?"
I look down at the keyboard, shrugging and feeling nervous all of a sudden. "I don't know," I admit, but that isn't completely true.
Though it doesn't really make sense to me, Frank makes it pretty obvious that he wants to see my face when we talk. By giving in and showing myself, Frank is happy. I like it when he's happy. He smiles more when he's happy, and I like knowing that I cause that smile. When he sees my face, he makes small comments that make my heart flutter. Meager things, like referring to me as beautiful or winking. They probably mean nothing to him, perhaps doing them just out of habit, but I like to pretend that he simply wants to compliment me. It's definitely an appealing alternative to being invisible, or called names such as faggot or emo. But I can't tell Frank that. That would only make him think I'm creepy...
A small ding sounds in the silence and my heart begins pounding harder and I minimize the screen. Frank instantly becomes a small square in the corner of the screen and I focus on the most recent unread email in my inbox. Grinning, I open the message; It's from Gabriel, and he's right on time at eight'o'clock.
I immediately open the attached image, my drawing of Frank appearing on the screen, this time with color and a few added details. It's perfect.
"You're smiling like an idiot," Frank states, a small smirk playing on his lips as well. "What are you grinning at?"
I shake my head quickly and save the image file, sending Gabriel a thank you email and closing the window. "I can't tell you," I tease. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you. And I'm just beginning to like you. I don't want to kill you yet."
Frank frowns, a clear facade as I can see the amusement glimmering in his deep hazel eyes. "Aww, don't frown, Frankie." I say with a wink. "You'll find out soon enough."
Frank's eyebrows shoot up in surprise and even my own breathing falters. Did I just wink at him? Oh shit... I see a blush alight his cheeks and he grins, looking down. "Look," I say, smirking and feeling somewhat more confident. "I have to finish up some homework and call my brother, but... Umm... Will I talk to you again soon?"
"Tomorrow," Frank replies without hesitation. He nods fervently, as if confirming with himself that tomorrow is good. "I'll call you. Same time?"
"Definitely," I grin.
When I hang up the call, I exit out of Skype and focus my attention back on the comic drawing of Frank. Gabriel's color talents never cease to amaze me and I spend a few minutes just staring at the image in awe. And then I pull up Twitter.
I haven't really checked any of my mentions since reactivating, though I now take the time to scan through the tweets. Some are kind and curious, asking why I had deactivated in the first place, while others demanded to know-- in all capital letters-- why I bothered to come back. I sigh, shaking my head and deciding to ignore them all. Just as I was about to compose a new tweet, something caught my attention. Frank's icon on my timeline, near the bottom of the page, with a link. "Stage Four Fear Of Success. Old song, new meaning..."
I curiously click on the attached link, waiting while YouTube loaded, and then I was staring at Frank once again. He clears his throat, fiddling with his guitar for a moment, before he begins playing. His singing filters through the room and I find the familiar chills running down my spine at the sound of his voice. It's mesmerizing and incredible and I find myself completely absorbed in the words that seem to anchor in my brain, tugging at some deeper part of me.
When the song is finished, Frank pulls the guitar off, abandoning it on the floor and turning to the camera once again. He's staring directly into the lens and, in turn, at me, as he winks and says, "For Gerard."
And then I pee my pants.
No, not really. But my heart drops, my stomach churns, and I think I might throw up on my computer. My breathing seems to instantly become more shallow and I drag the thin red line back a few seconds just to confirm that I didn't mishear him. But even after hearing those words seven more times-- "For Gerard"-- it doesn't seem any more plausible. There is no way that this song was meant for me. It just wasn't possible. Guys like him didn't sing songs like that for guys like me. Guys like him usually walked into guys like me and called me a freak before scoffing and walking away. But Frank was different. He was cool and he was attractive and he was... Amazing.
I sigh in content and relax back into the comfortable chair. I favorite the tweet, but don't bother responding. I'm sure I'll fangirl about it tomorrow night when he calls me again, anyway. Right now, I compose a new tweet and upload the new photo that Gabriel sent me. Adding the text "For Frankie ;)" I click tweet and exit out of the page, still smiling.

Notes