S T U P I D ; joshler

Frank Iero, The Four Foot Gang Member

Tyler sat in Josh's room with him, legs crossed as the two boys practiced Tyler's talking. Josh was extremely encouraging, kissing Tyler on the head at one point in a totally no homo way, but still kissing him there all the same. Tyler wouldn't object to that.

"You're stuttering a lot," Josh pointed out, "it sounds like you're unsure of what you're saying."

"It's easier to type," Tyler rasped out, still not fully used to speaking again. It sort of hurt and sort of felt uncomfortable, but Josh had just forced water down him and insisted that he speak as much as possible to get back into the swing of things. "I... I don't really know what I'm going to say, like— like until I say it."

"Did you have a stutter before?" Josh asked, Tyler promptly ignoring the little head tilt because fuck it was adorable.

"No," Tyler sighed. "I don't wanna do this, f-fucking hell, I don't wanna, Josh..."

"We don't want your dad to send you away, though... I think you're my best friend," Josh blurted out— the truest thing he'd spoken in a while and all on accord of Tyler, which was what seemed to drive most of his thought lately. Tyler just drove Josh in general, mostly because Josh couldn't deny the fact that his stupid little crush hadn't dissolved, but rather intensified in a way that made him all too eager to milk every sound from Tyler that he could. He knew it was wholly selfish and rather self indulgent, but Tyler was like a drug and his voice was just that extra edge that had him on cloud nine.

"Brendon would slap you if he heard you say that," Tyler grinned, laughing soon after; a loud laugh that made Josh go weak and his heart flutter, "but you're my best friend, too."

-•-•-•-•-

Tyler was a good artist; a modest one. He'd happily carried out his movie poster, a pretty red 100% marked on the back, shining through the thin parchment and giving it more character, as he'd explain. Really, he was just happy to finally get the assignment back so he coul frame it. He'd been fresh out of ideas and dutifully enlisted the help of Patrick, who was stuck in Visual Art I, whereas Tyler had gotten on with himself and taken that freshmen year; this meant that he was in Advanced Art which was wholly the better of the two here.

Patrick had been fucking pissed when he found out his class didn't get to draw the posters, but when Tyler asked for help with an idea, Patrick was extremely eager to press concepts to him, all of which, were astounding.

In the end, Tyler had drawn a silhouette of Patrick's face and neck, even his hair and fedora, the only in- detail feature being the black and white American flag that spanned across half of the face. Below it, he'd written the words, "The True American Psycho," the only splash of color being the last word, dropped under in a different font.

The point is, Tyler was proud. He was proud because he'd poured his heart and soul into this, with Patrick's help of course; which was flattering because Patrick never trusted people enough to draw his ideas, not unless they were Tyler Joseph or Gerard Way. That was a nice sentiment.

He held onto the flimsy paper like his life depended on it, a wide smile etched onto his face as he ran down the halls. He had to show Patrick— had to! He'd be just as proud.

He felt his shoulder collide with someone else's and he stumbled a bit, fingers almost pressing too roughly into the material of the slightly see-through poster. He gulped, noticing that the boy was one that'd called him stupid before; many times actually. But the one that stuck in his mind the most was the time when he'd said it in front of Josh; his first day there.

"Fucking art fag," the guy sneered, "watch where you're fucking going."

Tyler's eyes widened and he nodded quickly, ready to turn and run from the brutal onslaught. Tyler couldn't even throw a punch, so how exactly could he defend himself.

"Ah, but what's this?" the guy suddenly gasped, all mock surprise and dicketry, "a pretty picture?"

He snatched the poster and held it up, out of Tyler's reach. He jumped pathetically, struggling not to let any noise escape him. He huffed and felt himself tearing up— he'd never get it back.

"Say sorry and I'll give it to you."

Tyler mouthed the word.

"You really are fucking stupid, huh? I said say sorry, you little—"

"Oi, fuckboy!"

The guy paled at the voice, scowling down at Tyler, before ripping his hard work right in two. He took off down the hall after that, leaving Tyler to drop to his knees and stare at the wreckage. No, that wasn't fair! He'd been so fucking happy, he— he was going to show Patrick and Josh and Brendon...

"That fucker!" the same voice from before yelled, slowing to a halt in front of Tyler. A boy, a super short boy, at that, with dark hair curling onto his cheek and hazel eyes. He gave Tyler a sad smile, before letting his eyes fall lower onto the ground, to the crumpled mess of Tyler's happiness. "Oh, wow... I'm sorry..."

Tyler just shrugged.

"You're Tyler, right? I'm Frank Iero."

He extended his hand for Tyler to shake, but he was too busy silencing his own sniffles and wiping at his eyes to return the kindness. Frank seemed to understand, though, giving him a sympathetic glance before helping him to pick up the poster. Tyler briefly remembered him from the first day Mr Hurley had spoken in class.

For someone who was, like, 4 foot tall and about as intimidating as a puppy, Frank could clear people out. People respected him, somewhat— more or less, actually, just fearing him, because he was at proper ball hitting height. He could, and oh, he would.

"Gerard said people give you a lot of shit for not talking," Frank said, looking up a tad as they started walking. He gave Tyler another smile, which was pretty like Josh's smile but not as pretty because, well, that was just impossible. "I think those people are stupid and he does too— and, hey, anyone gives you shit, come to one of us, yeah? We most certainly will take care of it."

Tyler thought his heart might burst from his chest with happiness as he nodded enthusiastically.

"And if you can't find us, go to Ray Toro or Bob Bryar— hell, even Mikey. You're friends with his boyfriends, right?"

Another nod.

"Good! So you're covered on all fronts," he giggled. Yes, scary punk Frank Iero giggled, "Gerard said you have algebra last, yeah? So I'll walk you, that way they can't give you so much shit."

Frank and Gerard helped him patch his poster before the others got to class, and Tyler showed it off, because it was a lot like him. He was torn, completely, but his friends were slowly piecing him back together, showing him off like the artwork he was.

And slowly, ever so, Tyler was becoming okay with it.