The artist and his muse

Chapter 1.

A/N: Hey! So this will be a Frank/Gerard fic, not like my other WIP with OCs. Also VERY different plot. Love y'all!

Frank was anything but a morning person, and the prospect of a new school made any morning far worse. His bed groaned as he stood up, and a similar sound escaped his lips when he felt his back pop. Wishing to stay in bed was a meaningless venture, though he could've stayed there for eternity if it meant never picking up a pencil again. It was beginning to get cold outside. The once green leaves crisped at the corners, to an ombré of yellow and orange. The air was that cold where you couldn't overdress, yet running made your throat ache. It was the weather that made Frank want to either hibernate until halloween arrived, or to wander around pretending his life was the intro to some sad, knockoff Hallmark movie. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and stumbled into a crumpled pair of skinny jeans thrown askew in the labyrinth of his bedroom floor. Miraculously he made it out of his room in record time, then promptly fell down the stairs. He threw the sweatshirt that hardly cushioned his fall over his head, whilst tumbling into the kitchen in a sort of avant-garde deranged dance.

I could probably be in rocky horror

Frank's mind was always finding new ways to expel his absurd amount of creative energy, but that thought flew out the window once he slammed his forehead into the refrigerator. It's a miracle his brain functions anymore, for the amount of coffeeless fights he's had with inanimate objects could put him in some league. Or hospital.

Scratch rocky horror, gonna be a boxer, who also only uses music Michale Graves salutes. Something dope like that.

He poured coffee into a thermos, and popped open a bottle of sooth the new school jitters. The smell of cheap whiskey filled his nose and he grimaced, burning the toast he threw together in the process. His eyes wandered to the clock precariously hung above the mantle, and swore when he saw the time.
"Fuckin- damn shoes"
He threw boots on and slung his tattered backpack over his shoulder. His zipper crunched as a small notebook toppled out of the side. Frank debated opening it, because he knew it was from the last school he went to. Though it was just down the road, he liked to pretend it was in a different dimension. The last page read

October 1st, 2005

I never want to grow up. How could I? With all that is said and done throughout history and beyond; life is but one giant metaphor for loss. I've always rotted alive beneath the front of my smiles. I've managed to drown in the colorless abyss of hate for you, but not enough to bury the truth. Each one of my ribs holds an ache to your vocal range. To your eyes, and how colorless they truly become once my ribs have bruises. I look like the paintings I've seen you grumble over, though, human art seems to be far less visceral, more agonizing. Though I hate you, I'll give you just my heart and bones, because I know you'll find better use than I ever have for them. That way, at least, the artist may bury his muse.
Frank closed the notebook and continued his walk to school. Though his old artist made life hell, his life was art. So in other words, he was always in hell. Or purgatory. Or basically just constantly faking everything.