The Hue of Perception (frerard, petekey)

He Was Always A Lilac Sky

Frances couldn't get over the bath bomb of colours that splashed into her life all of a sudden, tainting her clean white canvas with an explosion of rainbows and emotions, tubes of acrylic squirted onto her life all of a sudden, and the acrylic didn't seem to be washable.

Because that was acrylic, wasn't it? Acrylic was supposed to stay, whether you liked it or not.

And Frances couldn't say she didn't like what the acrylic did to her life. The mild watercolours of the setting sun from a camera's lens surely painted her a mellow purple and indigo but the acrylic was stronger, a stronger and brighter set of colours that gave her a whole new palette to paint from.

All the feelings and emotions suddenly intruding her life and her mind, just because Gerard Way so much turned his head to meet her eyes that one afternoon.

"Hey," The word slipped from her lips just like that, without any thought: and this was every cliche ever, the sky was a lilac purple and her hair was flowing and Gerard was stopped in his tracks and time itself seemed to stop.

"Frank?" came Gerard Way's answer.

And Frances's world came crashing down, because she hated this. Gerard Way called her Frank. Why would she in any time and space be a Frank? It was morally wrong. No one could just change themself because they wanted to, much less Frances. Frances was a girl through and through, despite however times she wanted to be a boy, despite the times she cried over her body, despite the times she felt uncomfortable being a girl.

"It's Frances."

"No, why'd you say that?" And in Gerard's eyes were genuine confusion, it was as though Gerard couldn't get how Frances would stay as her origanal gender.

"Because... I'm born a girl." The wind blew again, but this time colder. Frances was rethinking everything, and the waves seemed to crash onto the rocks again. Frank, Frank, Frank, there was no way she could be one, it was impossible, it was wrong, it was all wrong.

Then came the furrowing of those eyebrows. "Sure you were, but what about your own feelings? I thought you were trans.. Or am I wrong?"

Frances chuckled forcedly. "You're being ridiculous... I don't know, maybe I am a Frank. But no, that's wrong."

Gerard smiled slightly, as if he understood everything. "Sure, of course," then Frances's teen heart kept beating faster as he walked closer and all this hetero was killing her slowly but let's not discriminate people for their sexuality and not hate on how hetero Frances is being. "I've seen you take pictures here for so long, can I see any of them?"

As Frances died from all the tubes of acrylic emotions squirted onto her plain canvas she forgot the one streak of blue that she tried to hard to cover with pink and tried so hard to forget. She forgot that one streak of ballpoint pen blue that screamed out her true identity louder than any acrylic tube of feeling and any watercolour concept of traditionality.

Louder than the watercolour pink Frances always thought lined her life. Louder than the music she used to block out herself. Louder than all the internalized transphobia planted into his mind.

Because that one streak of ballpoint pen blue, as striking as it had been, was starting to spread as the water washed away the watercolour concepts of traditionality and the watercolour pink that covered the lilac base that was so cleverly hidden by the wrong genitalia.

Because he was always like the lilac sky he loved so much: he'd always been blue, just tainted with the red that was never supposed to be there.

---

It wasn't his fault he kept staring at the brown-haired boy in front of him.

It wasn't his fault that the very same brown-haired boy had just gotten the worst haircut in the world and still looked good.

It really wasn't Brendon Urie's fault that Ryan Ross was just really, really cute. And milky.

"Hey, hey, hey, Ryan, hey," Brendon poked the back of Ryan's stupid scarf-protected neck with a pen as he tried to catch the boy's attention relentlessly. "Ryan, Ryan, Ryan Ross, hey, hey, hey." He could admit it: it was indeed a ploy to get Ryan to turn over so he could bop him on his cute little nose--not that he'd ever get the courage to do it, of course.

"What do you want?" Ryan muttered, swatting away Brendon's hand indignantly, the poor blue pen falling to the ground tragically like a fallen soldier in war with a clatter. War is hell.

"Ryan, can you lend me your um-" Brendon tried to think of an excuse most people would use when they repeatedly poked someone's neck for a whole lesson. "Um, scarf? I feel like, really cold. There are vampires at my neck."

Ryan sighed loudly as he wondered why Brendon would be hunted down by vampires, because seriously, his forehead was way to big for him to be a decent vampire, let alone human being.

"Then you have to stop poking me," the milky coconut boy looked up at the blackboard and the surprisingly completely oblivious teacher as his pen moved rapidly over the paper, copying down notes that were never going to be read again.

"Yah, maybe, sure," Brendon rolled his eyes. There was no way he was going to stop harassing Ryan in his whole life, ever. It wasn't his fault it was fun, and Ryan deserved it, it was his fault he was fucking cute as hell.

And that was that one moment of concentrating on his own thoughts rather than the milky boy in front of him that led Brendon Urie to his demise.

He got bitchslapped.

By a fucking gay ass rainbow scarf.