Follow Me Home (Frerard)

Gerard's POV
My pencil jerks across the page in quick motions. It's monotonous work by now; Darken a few lines, erase where it's gone too dark, wipe away the granite that falls to the sketchbook page like dust. I put the book down and look at the latest drawing-- It's a charcoal black woman with white strings lining the front of her body. Her features are outlined with the same alabaster as well as the violin that she has clutched in her left hand. I've drawn this same figure seven times, each one differing in slight ways, but nothing looks right. She seems off. This time, at least, she's closer to being finished, though her dark frame still clashes too much with the personality I have created in my head. Her name is Vanya and the black seems to defining for such a beautiful character, cloaking her in a dark color that holds so much impure meaning. I bite down on my lip and flip to a clean sheet of paper, beginning to sketch her yet again.
When I've finished, I sit back and admire my own work. Her slender body is now a pure white, black outlining her musical features and making a stark contrast to the other characters I have planned out. I pull my cell phone from where it rests on my nightstand and take a picture of my newest creation. I smile and set the sketchbook aside, sliding off the bed. It's Friday night and here I am; Drawing comic book characters in the solitary comfort of my dorm. Bob disappeared a few hours ago, not that we would see much of each other anyway. Most college students-- hell, the majority of High School students-- would be spending their Friday night at some party or out with friends, not camped out in their bedroom figuring out which images to upload to their Twitter next. But hey; When have I ever been normal?
I make my way to the living area of the apartment, finding my laptop right where I left it on the coffee table. I open the computer, letting it start before logging on-- with my new password, in case Bob figured out how to change it or decided to hack my account to screw with more people. I plug my memory card into the driver and wait for the tabs to come up before uploading my finished Vanya to Twitter, adding the tag 'My newest creation-- Vanya Hargreeves. Should be adding her into the usual Umbrella University comics soon!'
When the picture has appeared, I post the tweet and check my mentions. I have a few from dedicated fans, complimenting the drawings I uploaded last week, and a few new followers, but nothing else. I then move onto my messages. Of course, a new one from Frank Iero has appeared.
"Look, I am short for a guy, it's true. But you don't have any photos of yourself to prove your of any advance. I mean, for all I know, you could be some mega midget in front of that keyboard, soo your not one to talk hun ;)"
My fingers tap lightly against the keyboard, not hard enough to actually type anything, as I read the words. He's forward, I'll give him that much, the cocky little guy. And there is that damn wink again! It's a question I've been asked a few times before, but never felt like answering truthfully; Why don't you post pictures of yourself?
What I told people, when they asked this, was that I felt my account was focused on my art, not my appearance. If they saw what I looked like, their opinion on my art might be filtered through what they saw in my looks.
Of course, that was a load of bullshit.
I loved recognition for my artwork. I wanted people to know that I was the one drawing it, that's why I went by my own name. The real reason I never posted photos of myself was because I was self-conscious. My whole life, I had been made fun of for the way I looked, whether it be my hair or my clothes or just my face. When I created this Twitter, I vowed to myself to remain visually anonymous; No photos of myself. That way, if someone had something mean to say, it would be critical of my art, not of myself. In the art, I could create what I wanted and be proud of my work. But in myself, I was just some weird kid who's nose was too perky or teeth were too small.
So what was I supposed to tell him? That I had low self-esteem and hated the way I looked? Or I could keep with the usual bullshit response I would give. Before I reply, I find myself clicking once again on his profile. I swear, at this rate, I'm going to hit stalker status by Thanksgiving. The first thing I notice is a retweet near the top of his page initially posted by some @raytoro. The attached image is of Frank, shirtless and glistening with sweat, posing for the picture with a guitar in his hands. I find my breathing stuttered suddenly at the sight. He's..... Damn, he's attractive. Tattoos cluster his exposed skin in different designs and inked images. He's not overly buff, but I can make out the defined muscles under the pale flesh, though the one that catches my eye is the V-shaped muscle that dips down into his loose jeans.
Dammit, Gerard. You're getting creepy again.
I immediately close out of the photo and re-read the message he had sent. He's challenging me again and I feel obligated to prove him wrong-- I'm tall. Well, tall-ish. 5'9 is tall, right?
I slide the computer off of my lap and stand up. Pacing the room doesn't help me think any better, but the motion seems mandatory before I decidedly grab my phone from the arm of the couch and head for the bathroom.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I feel awkward. I shift the weight on my feet and hold up the cell phone, angling it at the mirror and, before I can re-think what I'm about to do, I take the picture. But when I look at image across the screen, I cringe and just as quickly delete it.
After a few more awkward 'selfies,' switching up the lighting and the angle and my expression, I realize that this is stupid and leave the bathroom dejectedly. Scrolling through the pictures of myself, I remember exactly why I don't post photos of myself. I can practically hear the taunting words; Your skin is too pale, Gerard. Is that a double chin? Your hair is too greasy, do you even wash it? Eww look at your smile, it looks like you're in pain! Is it painful to smile? Because it's painful to watch.
I delete the remaining images and fall back onto the couch, sighing, and realize I still have no response to Frank. If posting a picture of myself is out of the question, my only defense is sarcasm.
I bring back up the Twitter screen and open a new message.
"You sound defensive, Frank... And 5'9 is far from considered a midget. What are you-- 4'2? That guitar in your picture looks as big as you! Hun. ;)"
I hit send and lean back, wondering why I keep messaging this guy anyway. He's just some frat guy who has nothing better to do than harass me. Then again; Maybe I wouldn't mind frat guys so much if they were all as cute as him...

Notes