You're So Dark (Frerard)

1. Some Boys Wander By Mistake

You see, Gerard doesn't like mornings. He doesn't like mornings at all. Well, in the light of truth, he doesn't like most things, but mornings? Atrocious.

The hand very lightly slapping him across the cheek is insistent though, quite dry and boney, too. It's not enough to wake him up, he could sleep through a turkey race happening on the carpet in front of his bed if he wanted to, and the slight nuisance is only making him aware he'll probably need to stick his face in the pillow in the next minute or so. But this, he can take, he really can, he's stronger than this, all up until one of the fingers ends up as deep in his nostril as something can go.

"Shit, fuck, mother, baby Jesus!" and then there's Mikey, flying across the room, slightly swindled by Gerard's impulsive shove, but also sacrificing his balance so he can cackle this one out. "You nasty little fucker."

He looks like his face is in pain from all the laughing. "I'll need to redo my hair because of this, but it was so worth it." Gerard isn't even that mad, he'd actually be so proud if Mikey made anyone else on the planet the victim of this prank- but he, in fact, did not, and now his nose hurts. "God, you should've seen your face."

"That mop can't be helped," Gerard says through a yawn, still a bit hazy. The clock reads six thirty. "Even though I could've gotten a nose bleed, thanks. I might need a shower." He lifts up his arm to sniff his pits, just so he can adequately estimate the damage. Optimism is key, but what two days without a proper wash can do to a smelly teenager is usually just a horror story by default.

"God, you're gross. Come down when you're ready. I'll get the coffee pot boiling."
Gerard nods and crawls from underneath the sheet, headed towards the dresser to find something with the least amount of holes in critical places to wear. "Hey, Mikey, where's my Peter Murphy shirt?"

"On me," he yells, already downstairs. Gerard sighs and pulls out a random clean one, and a pair of geeky boxers. They bring good luck, or at least they did back in eight grade when he'd wear them to feel more powerful in awkward social interactions, which were about as common as you can guess for a pudgy, darkly-inclined nerd in a school setting.

The shower water hits just fine over his tired, uncaffeinated body. He makes sure to soap his sweat hotspots twice, just to make sure he'll spend more time smelling like this apple cinnamon wash than a boys' locker room. He even remembers to condition his hair, a tip from his mother he got since it began getting long, and he appreciates how the comb actually runs through it once he's dried it with a towel. Thanks mom.

"Toast?" says Mikey, through a mouthful of toast, as Gerard's entering the kitchen. "Hey, your hair doesn't resemble a goth pigeon nest!"

"Caffeine," he simply says, taking the milk out of the refrigerator. He opens up the kitchen window before he lights up a smoke and takes his first sip of coffee.

Mikey swallows before talking this time. He's parted his hair in the middle and just swiped his curtain-like strands behind his ears, soccer mom style. "You told mom you wouldn't smoke in the house."

"It'll go out the window. The smoke, I mean. I'll just leave it open."

"For your sake I hope it won't rain." Mikey grabs another piece of toast from the bag. "Sure you don't want toast?"

"Positive," Gerard says, through a cloud of smoke that's left his mouth. "The school bus?"

"Seven thirty. Bus stop's down the road."

"You nervous?" he tentatively asks Mikey, not even sure of his own answer to that question.

"Kind of. Not terribly, but y'know. It's still all new and I know literally nobody." Gerard does know. And he's not sure if he'd rather make time speed up until it all has to happen, the arrival and the introduction and the looks, or if he'd sit there and smoke and drink his coffee for another year.