The pirate boy (Frerard, Petekey)

Chapter eight - Gerard's britches are evil

Chapter eight - Gerard's britches are evil

tongues on the sockets of electric dreams

where the sewage of youth drown the spark of my teens

and I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me

-- -- -- --

"Common sense is like deodorant. The people who need it the most never seem to use it."

-- -- -- --

Tobacco mingled with rum and cotton was starting to become one of my favourite smells.

It was a hideous combination. I hated smokers, I hated chewers, I hated rum. But the smell was familiar. My head was blurry and I kind of felt like my brain was full of sawdust though, so I couldn't pinpoint why it was so familiar.

Things started to come together in my mind, and vague memories of getting spectacularly inebriated seeped into focus. I groaned and buried my face in my pillow, curling up into a ball. My legs brushed against another body and I jumped, but when soft arms wrapped around my waist and the body curled closer to mine I sighed and relaxed.

I remembered drinking late into the night, so late that the sun had started to rise and white light had started to creep under the door. I supposed that was why I still felt kind of tipsy, and why I wasn't backing away from the stranger in my arms.

"Mm," the other person mumbled. I couldn't tell if it was a noise of discomfort or contentment and I was too groggy to ask. "Frank."

I groaned. "Hwhat?" I had intended to ask who I was talking to, but my mouth and my mind weren't coordinating.

"You smell good," the person slurred 

"Who'sit?" I muttered.

"Ge-Gerard," he said. "Hm."

"Wait, what?" I mumbled. There was something off about that. Gerard. I didn't like Gerard. I fucking hated Gerard. "Gerard?"

"Frankie?"

"Don't call me that," I hissed. "What happened? Why the fuck am I-" I froze. "Where's my shirt?" I scrambled out of the covers in search for the item, but squeaked in shock and hid back underneath the blankets again when I realised I was just in my underwear. I curled the blankets tightly around me like a shield. In pulling the blankets closer to me, my hand closed around Gerard's jacket, and I flinched and tossed it at him. I buried my face in my hands and shuddered. "Please," I moaned, traumatised. "Please, for the love of god, tell me I didn't sleep with you."

"Well," Gerard said. "I'm dressed. 'Cept for my jacket."

I wasn't sure whether the dominating emotion was relief or stress from the fact that I was still in my underwear. I made a weird uncomfortable noise to get my point across.