You're So Dark (Frerard)

4. Do You Still Hate Me?

The bathwater has started its transition from scorching to bearably hot and Gerard, once again, cannot say he particularly enjoys mornings.

One could argue that the weltschmerz-implying facial expression across his face combined with the general image of a simplistic bathroom, and his naked tired body in it, is very Sylvia Plath of him. He sure feels like it, inconveniently enough right on a day he's got somewhere to be, and it would be even worse if he didn't find it oddly charming. Then again, you can surely count on Gerard to be the one to romanticize everything.

He knows his mother would eat him for breakfast if she knew he was smoking in the bathroom. But any book is arguably better paired with nicotine, just like every existential crisis feels more durable paired with a good book, which has brought him to the conclusion that the pros have outweighed the cons in this case. He'll open the window and hope for the best, later, anyway.

The book has kept his attention for as long as twenty minutes, which could be deemed a success considering the current framework of his brainwaves. What Gerard might be called on this gloomy Saturday morning, to put it colloquially, is one giant mess. And, unsurprisingly, he doesn't want to think about it. Any of it. All of it makes his stomach upset.

What he tries to focus on is the way his hair, all wet and slimy like this, almost reaches halfway down his shoulder blades. He doesn't remember it ever getting this long before, and he wonders if it might be a good idea to braid it sometimes. Cut it? Are there any split ends? How is he supposed to know what those look like? He'd never learned how to estimate these things. Brendon would probably chase him with a fork if he cut it off more than a few centimeters, too.

A trickle of thoughts he's previously forbidden himself to think then oozes through some crack in the dam he's built inside his head. Who the fuck does Iero think he is?

Gerard sighs to himself, stirring up the minimally bubbly water in front of him. He'd made a self-preserving promise not to think about it. Shit to do, places to go, people to see is a phrase he's been repeating to himself since the moment he'd hesitantly rolled out of bed. His defenses are loosening, though, he can feel it - his perpetually annoyed side of the self is seeping through and gaining access to the conscious part of his brain.

He was told his essay was sufficient. Sufficient?! Who the hell says that about five pages worth of outstanding philosophical depth?

Fine, outstanding might be too strong of a word, considering how painfully aware of its flaws Gerard had been the moment he turned it in. In retrospect, it's not quite fantastic at all. It wasn't dull, he'll give himself that, but it wasn't as profound as he'd like, and he'd drifted off excessively from his main points, which he tends to do when his heart is not entirely in it.

That being said, Gerard is still far too self-critical for his own good. Despite that, or exactly because of it, he isn't quite sure, he might just not want the evident downsides of his writing thrown into his face. Especially not by that egotistical asshead.

He's already started shriveling up like a pale, pink-toned cranberry. The anger has come again, which is something he's been trying to avoid for a full-blown twenty-something hours.

He'd spent the entirety of Friday distracting himself from pondering over this topic. There is just not enough room in his head to deal with that type of frustration right now, especially knowing he's kind of brought it upon himself.