November 1st (Frerard)

20: Saturday, October 20th

Gerard doesn't spend enough time in Frank's house.

Truth be told, Gerard doesn't have a lot of time left to spend in Frank's house.

But today is Saturday.

His second to last Saturday.

Ever.

And that held a sort of weight in his chest, right where his heart was, as he looked at Frank in the mid morning light: Saturday air, little said between them, and two mugs of coffee made by Frank even though he was bad at making coffee, and his house empty, and the two of them sat in his bedroom on the windowsill that extended inwards into some sort of seat thing, with Frank at one end and Gerard at the other and ashtray between them - an ashtray only Frank used, because Gerard would never smoke, he knew that. Much like he knew that this was one of the last times.

The last times it could be like this.

And here he was, not even making the most of it, just sat there in thought, and fuck, he had so much time to think when he hardly slept.

He had slept some last night, though: a mere three hours, but it was something, and he was starting to worry that his body had become accustomed to not sleeping, and that he'd live out the last stretch of his life as an insomniac, not that it mattered, at all, in the short period of time he had left, but still, it was something else to think about other than killing himself, wasn't it?

Frank was like that too.

Just something else to think about.

Except he wasn't.

That had been evident from the very start of October.

Frank had always been more than that.

Frank had made him coffee even though he didn't really know how to make it well, and Frank had given up his Saturday to sit, and not even talk, but sit in silence with some weird guy who he'd somehow found himself acquainted with.

And Frank was of course absolutely beautiful, but not just aesthetically: fully, through and through, beautiful, a beautiful person, not just a pretty face.

He wondered what state of hell he'd find himself in next Saturday.

Saturday the 27th. His final Saturday.

Gerard's stomach began to churn as he thought about it, and the very real prospect of an ever approaching end, and then the silence and the nothingness, and the end of the world for him at least, and the end of Saturdays, the end of Sundays, the end of Mondays too. He'd always hated Mondays.

"It's Saturday," Gerard finally said with a certain stupidity in his tone, to which Frank only smiled at, taking a drag of his cigarette, because he knew, and Gerard knew he knew, but still Gerard wanted to tell him nonetheless, and wanted to express the fact that he thought it important, or the fact that he'd been thinking about it.

Frank was getting better at it now.

Understanding Gerard, that was, of course, he'd never be perfect, because no one would, and he was already doing better than Kat as he'd accepted that.

But Frank was still far, far off, because he'd by this point concluded that Gerard had nothing to do with the letters, and let Lindsey take them down to the police station, which was easily what they should have done in the first place, but didn't, because Frank... honestly, Frank didn't know. Frank didn't know why, but he felt an odd importance and connection with those letters: one he couldn't put his finger on.