Paint Me By Numbers:: Frerard

1- When You Find a Smol Child at a Park Smoking You Should Be Worried

A/n this literally has been in my drafts for like a year okay imma try to actually write it
Updated a/n this is shit I hate it

I had just gotten off work so I decided to stop by my apartment to pick up my art supplies; a canvas, my portable easel, paint, and brushes. I started my walk down to the city park. After working at my boring ass job, I usually let off some steam by painting. I wouldn't go as far to say I'm an artist.

Artists have some sort of an idea of what they're doing. Me, on the other hand, not so much. I was told by my professor that my art was like an elephant shitting on canvas and then stepping in it. That may have hurt, but I haven't stopped. I don't paint or draw for others, I do it for myself. It helps me relax, get away from the stressors of this cruel world.

I arrived at the park, completely out of breath, and set my stuff down on a large rock. I'm not exactly the athletic type, so walking half a mile is kind of a lot for me. Especially while carrying all this shit. I set up my easel and began painting the pond in front of me. I usually paint portraits of Lindsey or random human anatomy, as stated before, I'm fascinated by people. Today I felt like something different, something refreshing, and new, for me at least.

I painted and painted, for what seemed like days. It was more relaxing than I thought it would be. Considering it's summer and it's fifty-six degrees out. Shit, it's freezing. I was distracted by my thoughts and the brush slipped out of my hand, splattering green paint all over my white shirt. The one day I decided to wear white, instead of my usual band tee, and this happens.

I set down my palette and left my easel. Desperately trying to find some source of running water, I really don't want the stain to set; I also don't want to wash my shirt in the grody ass pond. Who knows what's in there?
I could see a water fountain, next to a park bench, about twenty yards away. I kept walking, when I got closer I noticed a small child sitting on the bench next to the fountain. He looked to be in about the seventh grade. Maybe he got ditched by his friends, or ran away from home. I didn't really want to find out. He looked scary, something was off about him. However, I was interested.
I got even closer and  recognised a familiar plume of smoke, similar to the one that would come off my cigarettes... Wait. This isn't right... Why is a small child smoking? Granted, I started at sixteen,  he looked thirteen, maybe fourteen. Still, that's way too early, he should know that smoking isn't cool. I wanted to smack the cig out of his petite, but rough, tattoo riddled hand. Wait. Kids can't get tattoos. Not legally.

I was awoken from my thoughts when the boy spoke, his voice deeper than I expected, "Um, dude, you okay? You've been standing there, staring at me,
for like five minutes straight." My faced immediately heated up, my cheeks blushing a deep red. "Oh, um, I-I'm fine, bro."

"Do you need something?" He replied with a smile. I don't know him, like at all, but this seems very out of character for him. He was covered in tattoos, his hair was shaved and bleached on the sides, black fringe curling near his pretty fleeky eyebrow. He was dressed similarly my usual, black skinny jeans, boots, leather jacket, and... a Misfits shirt?
"Oh, no. I just... You like the Misfists?"
"Yeah, course, they're fucking awesome."
"I like your taste in music." I actually just like your face.
"Ditto," he said, sticking out his tongue and smiling. "So, what are you doing here? Not that you're a bother or anything. Oh and what's with the huge green splotch? New fashion statement? Or just a deathwish?"
"What? Um, no. I was painting and... white shirt," he nodded, "and I needed to get it out before the stain sets, and I never get to wear this shirt again."
"Oh, I get it. You're a pretentious motherfucker who goes to brunch and paints ponds in parks." He wasn't wrong. He went on, talking more to himself than to me. "Well, you have nice music taste, and you're hella cute, so you might not be that bad. My name's Frank by the way."
Damn, this kid talks a lot, and fast for that matter.
"Gee, well Gerard, but my friends call me Gee." All of two friends, one being my brother, but I wasn't going to mention that part. I kept my focus to the ground, eyeing my dirt encrusted, slightly damp converse.

"Does that make us friends then, Gee?" He interlocked his fingers behind him, raising to his tippy toes in a child-like manner.
Is he flirting with me?
"I guess," I blushed harder, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
"Doesn't asking if you can ask me something defeat the purpose of asking to ask?"
"What?" I said, confused.
He giggled at my confusion and put his hand on my shoulder.
"You're pretty cool, Gee."I loved the way he put emphasis on my name every time it rolled off his tongue.
"So are you, Frankie."
He looked surprised at first of the new nickname, then he seemed to accept it and gave me a soft smile.
"What was that thing you asked if you could ask me?"
"Shut up," I playfully pushed at his shoulder. He laughed and I joined in. Giggling like we were kids again.
"This is kind of awkward, but how old are you?"
He stopped laughing and looked a little more serious. I felt my anxiety rise to my throat, did I say something wrong? Fuck, he's gonna hate me now. His face broke into a smile again not long after and he replied, "Well," he paused for dramatic effect, "I have to be offended now, because can't you tell, I'm obviously a twelve year old boy." He was no longer smiling, a stern look plastered on his face.
"I, uh, I'm sorry..." I awkwardly shifted around between my feet and kept my gaze down, my chest tighter than before. He burst out laughing, I glanced up, wondering what was so funny. "Dude, you know I'm not serious, right?"
"Oh, um, yeah," I half-chuckled, half- exhaled, trying to hide my embarrassment.
"I'm twenty-three, not twelve. I mean, yeah my height says otherwise, but I can assure you I am a fully grown adult. What about you?"
I let out a relieved sigh, "twenty- six."
I left it to that, and we parted ways, I didn't enjoy conversation that much. No one ever talked to me, so I didn't know what to say. I do like talking to Frank though, he's different. A good different.
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A/n okay I'm leaving it at that bc the more I read the more I wanna kill myself lmao
-xojay