Around mid-July, I decided our petty argument had gone on long enough and walked over to his house. I knocked on the door and Ma Way answered. It was kind of funny; the second she saw it was me, she just stepped aside and let me through, not even a word about how he was up in his room. Of fucking course he was in his room. He didn't ever leave his room.
I took the stairs two at a time and didn't even knock on his door, just barged right in. Sitting on his bed, surrounded by electronics and books and paper and art supplies, with the desk lamp casting an eerie, shadowy light across the room and clothes strewn all across the floor, was him in all his damned fucking beautiful glory. I didn't say anything, just watched him work on his piece with the charcoals. Whatever he was creating, it was dark. Also, the last time we met I was pretty sure he didn't even have any charcoals.
He looked like he hadn't left his room, save for necessities, all summer. Like he hadn't been sleeping enough either. He was even paler, if that was possible, and thinner, and had dark shadows under his eyes. I wouldn't be surprised if that was charcoal, actually. His face looked kind of shallow, and the skin was this awful, sick yellowish shade. I just wanted to reach out and hug him so hard.
His tongue was pointing out the corner of his mouth, like it did when he was really fucking focused on something. He was so focused on the drawing that I didn't think he'd notice me if I just stood there for a few days. He was sitting there, wearing only a pair of microfleece Batman pajama pants, thin, pale, sick-looking torso just barely visible from the way he sat, chest the same, only I could actually see it. His face was mostly covered by long, greasy black hair that had an inch or two of brown roots showing and looked like it hadn't been washed since before school was out of session.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. "Gee?" I whispered, trying to seem like I'd just walked in.
"Not now, Frank." he replied, as if we hadn't been in the middle of a huge argument since April, and I'd just walked in like I normally used to. I was silent for a moment, waiting for his head to catch up to the rest of him, and the rest of the room, and me, and the rest of the world. Finally, a few excruciatingly long moments later, he looked up, but I still couldn't see his eyes through his dirty, black hair. "Frank?" he whispered, body language indicating that he was shocked. "What are you even doing here?"
I shrugged. Kind of sank back into the doorway a little, losing all the courage I had before. He looked like he wasn't ready to forget and forgive, and I kind of wanted to leave, just turn tail and run right then and there.
For a few moments more, Gerard's room was painfully silent. Especially in comparison to Mikey's, right across the hall. I could practically feel the Morrissey coming from his room.
"I..." I stammered. "Um..."
I didn't ever get to finish the statement, because suddenly Gerard was there, hand twisting in the collar of my shirt and dragging me close to him, smelling of coffee and cigarettes and Gerard. He cupped his other hand around the back of my head and then our lips connected and he was pushing me backwards, backwards, until I slammed into the wall and he whispered against my lips, "I missed you so much, Frankie. So much," and used my soft gasp as an excuse to gently slide his tongue between my lips.
