My first physical therapy session is rough, and by the time I’m done my muscles feel like overcooked noodles. I’m half-hoping to look up and see Gerard there waiting for me, but he’d had better things to do than be my personal assistant 24/7. One of the nurses is nice enough to wheel me back to my room, but she keeps trying to hold a conversation and I’m not up for it. I try to nod and smile every time she pauses in whatever she’s prattling on about, but I’m honestly so exhausted, I don’t think I’m very convincing. When we reach my room, I tell her I don’t need anymore assistance and she smiles warmly before bidding me a good night. I feel slightly bad for ignoring her.

My only goal right now is to get into bed and pass out immediately, but when I roll into my room it’s apparent that that won’t be happening. Someone is laying on my bed, fast asleep. I almost leave to get the nurse, but at that moment the person turns in their sleep and I realize it’s Gerard. I feel a flash of annoyance — I just want to sleep — but that quickly dissolves as I look at Gerard’s sleeping face.

His mouth is slack and a little drool seeps from one corner, which should be gross but I swear anything is cute on that face. For the first time today I notice the dark circles underneath his eyes. Has he not been sleeping? I roll my wheelchair closer, until I’m right next to the bed.

His eyelashes are so long. And his cheekbones, my god. I don’t think I’ve seen his face this peaceful in my life. At school he was always snarling in my face or looking miserable in class. And nowadays I guess I’m stressing him out a ton. I’m not sure if I’m sorry about that.

Gerard’s eyebrows scrunch together in his sleep. I want to smooth them out with my fingers, but I don’t think I can touch him. It feels like an immeasurable distance between us instead of just a few feet. I think if I try I might just reach forever.

He whimpers briefly, quietly, and that’s when I realize he’s having a nightmare. His mouth twists down in fear, and his breathing goes from steady to panicked. As if that’s some sort of permission, I finally reach out and touch his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to notice, still whimpering and shifting in the bed.

“Gerard,” I say. It’s loud in the small room.

His eyes snap open like he expects the bogeyman to be in front of his face.

“Gerard,” I repeat. “Hey, it’s okay. Just a dream.”

He looks over at me, still breathing fast. “Frank?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He looks confused for a few seconds before he sits up, startled. My hand falls from his shoulder. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he babbles, “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I just was waiting, and I must have drifted off….” He turns his head as he tries to scramble off the bed and I see the other side of his face.

“Gerard,” I say sharply, and he freezes, looking at me like he’s afraid I’ll start yelling. I try to soften my tone as I say, “What happened to your face?”

He frowns in confusion for a moment, before his hand flies to the light bruise on his jaw. “Nothing, nothing, I just—fell—”

“Really?” I challenge him. “You expect me to believe that? That’s exactly what I used to say to my mom when I came home from school.” I neglect to mention his part in that, but he flinches anyway.

“Frank, I’m sorry—”

“No,” I interrupt, “shut up, this isn’t about me. Who the fuck did that to you?”

Gerard sighs, not meeting my eyes, and I can feel a burning sensation start up in my chest. I think it’s hatred. “It’s not important.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.

Gerard looks at me, his eyes pleading. “Drop it, Frank,” he whispers.

I glare at him. “Who,” I demand.

Our staring match lasts only a few seconds before Gerard looks down at his lap miserably. “If I tell you,” he ventures, “will you promise not to tell anyone else?”

I roll my eyes. “Who am I going to tell? My mom? Jamia? The nurses?”

Gerard looks back up at me pleadingly, as if that was exactly who he didn’t want me to tell.

“Okay fine, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Gerard searches my eyes for a moment, then, seeming satisfied, he looks back down at his hands. “My…dad doesn’t like me being here.”

I bite my lip hard so I don’t say something stupid like ‘Well I don’t like you being here either’. (Besides that’s not technically true, is it?) It is, it is — I feel like I could strangle him.

“He doesn’t…” Gerard trails off, clenching his jaw. He takes a deep breath and looks at me. “You know how I always called you names at school? Like, really bad ones?”

I raise my eyebrows. “How could I forget.” The hatred tightens in my chest.

He drops his eyes at that. “Well…it was all stuff my dad would say to me. He never wanted me to do anything…girly. He caught me playing with dolls once, as a kid. He yelled at me for half an hour, calling me a faggot loser.”

My jaw clenches. Does he thinks that’s an excuse? (I’m not really mad, am I?) The hatred inside me burns hotter.

“I never came out to him, but…I think he always knew. He always hated me.”

“He hit you?” I ask through my teeth, because I’m too furious to say anything else. I feel like hitting him myself. (But I don’t, I would never.)

Gerard shrugs like it can’t be helped. “I wouldn’t stop coming to see you.”

Hatred does strange things to you. Like pool in your stomach and make your legs feel like butter. I’m so enraged I could go outside and beat up anyone that got in my way, like a piñata. “Don’t go back there,” I growl. I don’t know what I’m saying. (Yes I do.)

Gerard glances up at me; he almost looks guilty. (Guilty has never looked so delicious.) “He kind of kicked me out, so…I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

“Stay,” I say, and I don’t remember consciously forming the word but it feels right. The hatred is still bubbling up in me.

Gerard stares at me for a long time, not saying anything. Then he smiles a little, this small crooked smile that I can’t get enough of, and says, “Thank you.” He seems to put his whole being into the word.

Sometimes when you’re super angry, you black out for a second. I think that must’ve happened to me then, because I don’t remember pulling Gerard by his shirt collar toward me, and I don’t remember crashing my lips against his, and I don’t remember how I got the most beautiful boy in the world to straddle my lap as we make out. Hatred does strange things to you — but I don’t think this is hate at all.

Notes

Sorry for the wait, doing my best. I can promise I won't abandon this story but updates are few and far between. Thanks for the support!