Summertime (Frerard)

10: You Won't Know

It doesn't take long before I find myself faced with the red haired figure leaning out over railings in the hospital car park, a cigarette dangling from his chapped lips - he clearly wasn't in favour of the no-smoking rule, which was far too excessively regulated via the means of flocks of anti-smoking propaganda fit with pictures of decaying lungs. Decaying lungs wasn't my number one choice of propaganda, and the scattered photographs weren't exactly pleasant to look at, but of course, the hospital had been far too persistent with their campaigns, leaving me stuck with a decrepit lung in the corner of my eye, no matter where I looked.

I was too scared to approach him at first; I was scared he might just disappear, smoke into thin air, because really he just doesn't seem real, I can't consolidate his existence ever again - the fear of him being imaginary had been too forcefully hammered into my mind over the past few weeks. He just seemed like a mystery, a barely breathing enigma, a shadow cast unnaturally into the corner of the room, and not someone I couldn't stop myself from referring to as my best friend.

I wondered if I was his best friend. I wonder if he had any friends. Any human contact apart from the inevitable arguments with his brother? That scared me, that worried me, because someone like Gerard could definitely not afford to be alone; I mean he was independent and more than happy to live like a hermit, but if he could, he would, and that was where the problem lay.

It sounded selfish, but I wanted to be his best friend by choice, not his best friend by default. I'm human, it's okay: I'm allowed- in fact, I can't help being selfish. Selfish was in my blood, selfish was a part of me just as much as the beating heart, the nervous wreck of a brain, the shattering skeleton and the thankfully uncharred lungs; I couldn't help but imagine them charred, though - I think the propaganda was messing with me.

He tapped his cigarette against the railing, cigarette ash floating through the air like toxic pixie dust. "Hello Frank." His words are expressionless, empty, devoid of feeling. And he still never quite feels real enough. I feel like I need to grasp onto him, simply to stop him from floating away like the ash from his cigarette.

I don't want to lose him, and the whole ordeal is nothing but selfish, and the only way I can convince myself not to leg it is the outstanding fact that I care. I think maybe I shouldn't, but overall I'm far too glad I do. I like to rationalise it with the fact that simply someone has to, and somehow that someone happened to be me, but I care because I want to, I care because Gerard matters, Gerard's special. He shouldn't be; I barely know him, but really, according to fate, he just is.

And I wasn't one to mess with fate.

"Hello." The word stumbles out in a mess of distorted and barely coherent syllables; Gerard doesn't comment upon my sudden inability to form a word, in fact he doesn't even look at me. I think, he too, is scared, but with Gerard, I could never really tell.

Gerard was awfully good at masking his emotions, awfully good, too good for it to impose nothing but a threat towards him, because that pale, bleak face could never tell someone he cared; the only thing that face could do was lie. And that made me sick.

The silence grips around us for at least another two minutes, before my throat lets enough air in to allow me to walk the few steps forward to meet him without collapsing against the pavement due to lack of air. That, though dramatic, wouldn't be exactly to my advantage in this situation; Gerard would just be crept out and leave, or maybe he wouldn't care; maybe he'd just watch from the corner of his eye and smoke until I regained my composure. I think I preferred the latter, and I think he did too, but needless to say, that didn't exactly make it in any way a desirable situation.

He still doesn't look at me, even as I stand centimetres away from him, leaning against the same pole his cigarette ash falls upon. I find the awkward silence a time to take note of the weather. It's awfully cold and the feeling of metal against my bare skin can do nothing but remind me of that. Gerard seems unphased by it, though. But really, I'm not at all surprised, let alone concerned, because really, Gerard seems unphased by everything.