intertwined -- (Frerard)

• 5. You Create a Rarity of My Genuine Smile •

12/05, Sunday

I call Frank the next morning at noon.

"Morning sunshine," I hum, trying not to laugh.

I can't make out his response. All I hear is some sort of groan.

"What was that? I didn't catch it," I push.

"Fuck you," he mutters, groggily, and then laughs, and then winces in pain from laughing.

"Drink some water, honey," I demand of him in my best 'mom' voice.

He just grumbles on for a bit more, and then I end the call, being merciful to him.

***

12/13, Monday

By now I've gotten completely used to the snow laced grounds and frost graced windows. The holiday spirit is actively shoving itself into your face around the school, especially today because it's nearing the last day before the holidays. One of the things I love the most about being a teacher is that I get Summer and the holidays off. It's pretty great.

Mrs. Walters asked if I could paint a Christmas banner to hang up in the front hall for the week. I was a bit taken aback considering the sudden request and how it'll only be up for a couple days, but she insisted that she's sorry for delaying it, and that she just had a lot on her mind.

I ask Frank to help me with it anyways. We work on it all through lunch and my spare period.

"I have no artistic ability whatsoever," he'd said once I'd asked him.

"Nonsense. Everyone can draw something if they try," I assure him.

"Not me!" he insists, and I ignore him, dipping my brush in some paint.

"Remember we're writing 'Happy Holidays' so it can be inclusive," I remind him, starting on the 'S'.

He sighs, sponging a colour and taking his tool to start some sort of doodle off to the side.

I check back in on Frank's side about twenty minutes later, and am taken aback by whatever it is that he'd drawn.

"What fuck is that?" I furrow my brows, stopping my own strokes.

"It's Santa and his reindeer," he answers, hurt.

"Oh," I start to see it now. Kind of. Not really.

"See? I. Told. You," he jabs at me, turning back to his painting.

"Yeah you are shit at art," I laugh.

He turns to me with an offended expression. "Well I'm sorry we can't all be Mr. perfect artist, Gerard Way," he huffs and walks to the sink, intending to wash his brush.

"Hey! It's not... bad," I lie, then choke. "Okay yeah it is-"

"Fuck you!" Frank turns around, before he could turn that faucet on, and so flying at me is a liquid brown. His eyes widen immediately, comically almost.

I gasp, dramatically. "How dare you?" Then I dip my brush into a can of green, and fling it at my opponent.

Frank runs to the other paint cans and grabs the thing with both his hands, abandoning his paint brush, and sways it into my general direction, thus resulting in a mess of colour now drenching my clothes. I stare at him, stunned, and watch as he realizes what he's just done.

My reaction is quick, reaching for a paint can faster than I can comprehend the thought. Suddenly a pool of scarlet drips down Frank's face as I dump it over his head.

This creates a chain reaction of running around and throwing as many paint cans as we can at each other, which lasts for about ten minutes until all that's left is evidence that is similar to that of a murder scene.