Pretty In Punk

Even though the height of it has passed, the afternoon carries on. The sun moves across the sky, sending lined shadows through the blinds, disrupting the soft plum carpet in the most rhythmic way. Conversation slows, then comes to a halt, friends say goodbye and depart, leaving Josh to himself and everyone else to their cars.
Frank completely forgets that he was the one to take the Way brothers there, so he’s more than surprised when the two silently invite themselves along for the ride home. Frank likes these boys, he decides, although Mikey doesn’t say much. Either way, he makes the unconscious decision that at this point he can now joke around with them. He tries his hand at playing coy, raising an eyebrow and gazing over at Gerard. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?”
Gerard doesn’t respond how Frank thinks he would. He knits his dark brows, frowning. “What are you talking about?” Frank’s smile drops when he realizes that Mikey, too, is looking at Frank with a total look of confusion on his face.
Frank realizes that he took them there, leaving them without a car. They didn’t get in because they liked him, but because it was their only choice. He starts to blush, stammering, “W-well you really ran for this car.”
Gerard chuckles shortly. “Yeah, you drove, numbnuts.”
Mikey bursts out laughing, which makes Gerard grin in return. Frank retaliates by punching Gerard in the arm before pulling out into the street, starting the ride home.
“So, can I get some directions to your house?” Frank asks. “I wish I could say I know where everyone in this town lives, but you guys are a new family.” Frank pauses, realizes, “Also, I only know recognize about six homes around here. I’m not good at remembering shit like that.”
“It’s okay, Frank,” Mikey offers. “Gerard asked me which car was yours when we left the garage.” Gerard rolls his eyes.
“Um, directions?” Frank asks. He’s driving at a solid fifteen miles per hour through residential Bellville. He drives down this road all the time, only now does he realize how long it is when you actually go the speed limit. That, and the fact that the boy you were getting frisky with the day you met is in the passenger seat. It doesn’t help that his oblivious little brother occupies the back.
Gerard orders, “Take a left.” Frank does. They go straight for a while, finally, Gerard instructs, “Third house on your right up here. Big porch with grey siding.”
Frank pulls up along the curb slowly. The front tire of his shitty ’97 Buick slides its way over the curb, rising the car for a few brief seconds before falling back to the street. Frank giggles. “Curb check.”
Mikey laughs too. He undoes his seatbelt, telling, “Thanks for the ride, Frank.” He’s off and inside the house, and for a moment, Frank forgets about the 185-pound lump of boy, unwashed hair and all, transferring body heat into his cloth interior. That is, until said lump of boy clears his throat, muttering, “Glad he’s gone.”
Not understanding, Frank’s grin morphed to a frown. “Why? Don’t you guys get along?”
Gerard rolls his eyes, picking at his fingernails. His gaze shifts down onto them, focusing in on the chipped black polish. “No, dumbass.”
“Well then, what is it?” Frank asks.
Gerard looks over at him, almost bewildered at the total sexual ignorance of this boy. There is Frank, totally clueless as to why Gerard wants them to be alone. This can’t be the same person that had roaming hands around Gerard’s backside, that had so willingly let his pants be taken off.
But, it is. It’s Frank in his conflicting duality, the very thing that makes him human. He’s not any different than he was before, it’s just that only now is Gerard uncovering each facet of this boy. Yeah, the totally hormone-driven sex god is one of Frank’s dimensions, but so is the fifteen-year-old, brief-wearing virgin. He’s as close to a puzzle of a person Gerard’s ever seen, and he can’t believe he’s just now beginning to put the pieces together. Realizing this, Gerard softens. He kind of coaxes himself across the console, reaching over to lace some fingers with Frank’s. He kisses the boy’s knuckles, locking eyes all the while. “I’ll text you tonight, okay?”
Frank exhales kind of heavy, his deep eyes set on Gerard’s lips, the same pair that had been pressed to him so many times all in one night. Frank has a delay almost to the words; he’s answering them what feels like hours after he’s heard them. “Y-yeah. That sounds nice.”
Gerard smiles, bearing the sort of toothy, crooked grin that was his signature. “Awesome.” With that, he leaned further and into Frank, kissing him once more for the night.
Frank lets himself go limp, completing surrendering himself to Gerard’s control. Arms at his sides and legs spread, he tilts his head back, eager for the older teen to take charge. Only, Gerard pulls away, still happy as a clam. “Bye, Frank.” With that, he’s gone, out of Frank’s Buick and up the sidewalk to his home. Frank watches his ass make its way up to the front door, and he’s surprised that he’s never noticed how damn round it is. Frank has no ass, so he figures Gerard has enough for the both of them.
When he gets home, he tries not to look forward too much to that text. He has set himself up for failure so much, only by getting his hopes high. His expectations have a tendency of running away from him, which usually ends in getting hurt. Having unrealistic standards turns a minor disappointment into a tragedy, and Frank’s dealt with his fair share.
But then again, he can’t help it. After all, he is Frank. If he wasn’t obsessing over one thing or another, who would he be? So he waits, almost in some kind of biting anticipation for that first message to light up his screen. Notifications go off all night, only to be something unrelated each time. Gerard doesn’t text him until ten thirty, just when Frank was considering calling it in for the night. The text simply reads: Hey.
Frank is careful to play his cards right. Texting is difficult because mere words remove all emotional context. There’s a lot of ways to come off wrong, to be misconstrued. He types: Yo.
The conversation starts slow, as most texting seems to go. They slowly start to build up their words. Words becomes sentences, which become paragraphs, which becomes the same meme sent six times in a row before the other person can reply once (Frank is a master at copy and paste). They end up staying up late, much later than Frank is used to on a school night. It’s past midnight when he finally turns in, texting Gerard: geez it’s late. I better go to bed. Goodnight.
Gerard’s text is one of his shortest all night. It says: it is getting late. Night Frankie.
Reading his nickname across the dimly lit screen, a smile spreads across Frank’s face. Finally, he sets his alarm for the next day, setting his phone to the side with its charger. Rolling over and falling asleep, he can’t help but think up all of the possible outcomes for the next few days.

Notes

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