The Ghost Room (Frerard) - DISCONTINUED TEMPORARILY

"Weird interesting." (1)

Hey everyone! So, after mulling it over for a while, I've decided to post The Ghost Room here (I was originally going to post it only on AO3.)
As a general warning, before you start reading: this fic is going to be dark. Like, a character hears voices, a character has dreams involving necrophilia, there's ghosts, there's depression, there's drinking, emotional abuse, cheating, lying... A lot. I know you might not see a lot of that in this first chapter, but I figured I should go ahead and warn you, haha.

Well, here's not much left to say except that I'm really hoping you guys enjoy this fic! Happy reading!

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Cigarette smoke is my second home. It is all-consuming, it is dirty, and it is disgusting. It makes me hate myself. It's just like anything else that leaves my mouth, it makes me feel stupid and reckless and it makes me want to shoot myself in the head. But it's familiar. It reminds me of my mom, my grandma. It reminds me of the kid I looked up to as I was growing up who turned out to be a drug addict. It made me feel all warm and fucking fuzzy inside.
That only applied to my own cigarette smoke, though. I couldn't stand other people's cigarettes. Why should I breathe your fucked up, tainted air? Keep your smoke in your lungs, I'll keep my smoke in mine. This isn't fucking preschool, we're not sharing things here. That's not how this world works. Sharing doesn't work anymore.
I've always had a personal belief that it's never too early in the morning for a cigarette. No matter how dense the fog, if you had the ability to fuck up the air even more with pre-rolled suicide smoke, I say go for it. Screw up the planet as much as you fucking can. Make your mark.
That is, as long as you do it in a place that doesn't involve me breathing your goddamn cigarette smoke.
"Fuckers," I said, wiping my nose on the back of my sleeve. I hated the group of assholes who stood on the corner by the tattoo shop and smoked every morning. Who the hell wakes up before the sun rises to smoke a cigarette with friends? Only inconsiderate assholes. If you're going to smoke early in the morning, please, for the love of god, do it in private.
I had a hunch they were all gay, too. Don't get me wrong, I was all for attractive boys- but it fucking pissed me off that they hung out in a pack, like wolves or something. Couldn't I go five minutes without thinking about how I wish I had the guts to ask at least one of them out on a simple date? Apparently not. They had to go and be gay and travel in groups and remind me that I was just gay and fucking lonely.
Assholes.
I was lucky that day, though. I was running late so there were only three or four of the beautiful bastards out smoking, and none of them took much notice in me when I walked by.
The record store was cold. "Turn up the heat, bitch. It's almost winter. You want me to get pneumonia, or something?"
"Well, you just want it to get hot enough for me to take off my clothes."
I flipped Ryan off as I crossed the room to lean over the counter. His clothes were cute, I found- a pastel yellow, floral button-up shirt and a brown vest. He had on tight pants, and a weird, old-ish looking gray scarf. It was typical Ryan Ross and it was motherfucking adorable, but it wouldn't exactly look better on a bedroom floor than it did on him.
"I hate you," was all I could think to say in response.
He winked, all long eyelashes and leather brown eyes. "You couldn't get me in bed if you tried, babydoll." Ryan spoke in such a casual manner that I would think he was flirting with me if I didn't know him better. He could make a snowstorm in July sound regular with that voice of his.
"Fuck off, man," I spat, standing up straight, pushing my shoulders back. I hoped if I looked intimidating enough, he would shut up. "And don't call me that."
His eyebrows rose in realization. "Someone's being a bitch today."
"I had a shitty morning, I'm not in the mood for joking. And don't call me a bitch, either, dickwad."
My best friend pouted at me, like he wasn't being a jerk. "Frankie have a rough morning getting his lazy ass out of bed?"
"Ryan Ross," I said, glaring at him. "Fucking fuck off. I said I'm not in the mood."
He stretched as far over the counter as he could until I leaned forward, letting him kiss my temple. I didn't understand why he did that, but he always had since we were kids and for some stupid reason it was comforting. I couldn't help but wonder why his parents had been so surprised when he came out of the metaphorical closet, though. When your son always has his mouth on his best friend's face it should be, like, a red fucking flag.
"I'm sorry, man," he said, and for the first time that morning he sounded like he cared. He stood up from his stool and walked around the counter to stand in front of me. His fingers brushed across my wrist, reminding me of how he had such girly hands.
Everything about Ryan was girly. Delicate fingers, slim body, nice cheekbones. He had thin arms and thin legs, and he even sort of dressed like a chick sometimes. It was cute, though, so I didn't tease him about it too often.
"What happened? You wanna' talk about it?"
"The usual happened," I said, walking away, heading across the record store. I loved him but I didn't want to deal with his 'I'm gonna try to help you' bullshit. I didn't want to deal with him touching me. Even though he'd asked and I'd said no, I knew he would still hug all over me and try to make me talk about it.
It was Saturday and we had school in two days and all I wanted to do was listen to The Misfits and get fucked up. Was that too much to ask for?
He was watching me as I crossed the room, though, there was no escaping him. "You're not doing this today, Frank," he said, voice tainted with a considerable amount of annoyance. My hands faltered as I straightened a stack of flyers for some concert happening this weekend that I didn't care about. "You're not shutting me out of your head again, that never helps anything. I'm worried about you."
I didn't answer. I didn't want to answer, he didn't deserve one. Fuck him and fuck my guilt. They could both rot in hell.
I glanced around the store, not sure what to do with myself. The room was wide, the roof was low; there were the typical weird type of carts that held records, four of them all lined up. There were two tables towards the front of the place, one on each side of the tall, wooden door. I was standing in front of the table on the left, we kept it stacked with CDs and flyers and other shit people liked to have quick access to. The other table was covered in folded up band shirts. The rest of the store was room for walking, because sometimes the store became more of a social gathering area than a place of business.
"Dude, stop fucking ignoring me."
No one who worked here was exactly popular, but the kids who hung out here with Ryan and Patrick and I were all the same. None of us had anyone but each other. It felt sort of lame, but Ross Records was the only record store in town and was therefor an excellent place for meeting other people who didn't have much of a life beyond their love for music.
Ryan's father had owned the shop for, like, twenty years, and the staff consisted of Mr. Ross, Ryan, me, and this polite kid called Patrick Stump. Sometimes our friend Brendon Urie would fill in if needed, like if one of us got sick or had plans we couldn't cancel. We had a rule that there always had to be at least two people working unless Mr. Ross was the one by himself.
It never felt like a chore, though, not to any of us. We got to pick which music played in the store and we could take money out of our paycheck to get what felt like free records and shit. Plus the back room was like a second home to everyone, so it was always a comfortable place to be. There was an old couch, a CD player, and a coffee machine, and there was always some type of food in the mini-fridge, even if it was only girl scout cookies or a bowl of mac-and-cheese that someone's mom had sent. It was a good place and we all loved it, Ryan and I practically grew up together behind the counter.
Ryan cleared his throat and I sighed, asking, "What?"
"You're my best friend," he said, sounding annoyed. "Just tell me what's wrong." I focused my eyes on a half-fallen poster on the left wall of the store, making a mental note to grab some tape and fix it later. There didn't seem to be a free inch of wall space in the room, we kept it as covered with posters, album art, and show flyers as possible. "We do this every time, I ask what you're being so pissy about and you feed me bullshit about not wanting to talk about it." He shut up after that, which confused me, because as laid-back as he acted, when he got annoyed he could talk about it for hours.
I turned, and- and goddammit. I'd fallen for it.
He was leaning against the gray, hip-height counter, pretty fingers holding the edge and his knees bent at the relaxed angle that meant he knew he was winning. "I'm just trying to figure out how to help, okay? Who else could you go to about this, anyway, who else is gonna' put up with your shit? I don't know why you never accept my help, you obviously need it."
He meant well but he was being an asshole about it, he always was. We both knew I was addicted to how shitty he could make me feel and that he was addicted to watching me crack beneath that beautiful voice of his.
It's how we worked, it's why we worked. He kissed my face and broke me down and I held his hand and let him fuck with my head. It was toxic, it was shitty and fucked up. He felt like battery acid, sometimes, but it was worth the friendship.
When I got upset or annoyed, he liked to push my buttons and make me feel like a complete dumbass. I let him do it because I had a guilty conscious- when we were kids I'd beaten the shit out of him more than once.
I'd always had anger issues, it was part of the reason I didn't have many friends. I always ended up snapping on people. I'd broken two of Ryan's ribs and his left pinky in seventh grade. Most days it surprised me that his parents let me near him. He'd never fought back, though, and he'd always forgiven me after I hurt him. I didn't get that, like, why would you let the little punk who used you as a punching bag continue to be your best friend?
Since then, though, I felt I owed something to Ryan, something I could never give back. That's why I let him treat me like a complete basket case. He knew I was fucked up and he knew I needed to talk about it, even if I pretended to be okay, even if he did become a complete dick when he was trying to help.
I was an angry, whiny son of a bitch, I was a raging ball of fire who destroyed everything he touched. Ryan was a nonchalant, laid back sort of dude, he was this delicate flower of a boy who could cure cancer with his voice. We balanced each other out by reversing the roles every once in a while, when Ryan got his revenge for how I tortured him when we were younger. I became the flower and he turned into the little asshole who came along and played with matches until he'd found a thousand different ways to burn my petals.
Our relationship felt fucked up and always had, but it was sort of perfect. I'd beaten the physical shit out of him, so he got to beat the emotional shit out of me.
"Nothing is wrong that you can fix, man," I said. "I'm lonely."
"I'm here." His voice was almost as cold as the early-October air. He could hook me so well- he understood how I worked, what made me tick, and he knew how to fuck with it. "You're not alone."
"Being alone and being lonely are two different things." I almost rolled my eyes but it hurt, it sort of stung to think about. I had friends, I wasn't alone. But it felt like it, and that made it worse.
"Come here," he said.
Crossing the room to get to him was a walk of shame. He was watching me and I'd never felt more self-conscious. I felt like I was doing everything wrong. Was I standing straight enough? Were my pants hanging right on my hips? Was my shirt straight, did my hair look okay? What the fuck was I supposed to do with my hands?
"Calm down," he said. It sounded like an order, one I didn't know how to follow.
"Sorry," I said. My fingers were trembling so I folded my arms across my chest and tucked my hands under my armpits. He was making me feel guilty and stupid for being lonely and there was nothing worse I could think of that one human being could do to another. "I'm sorry."
He lifted his hand to my face and I blinked, his fingertips brushing hair away from my forehead. "What's wrong with you, huh? You're acting like a child."
And he was right, I was. This wasn't the normal reaction he got out of me. We bickered and argued all the time, but I almost never gave up the fight.
"You know what's wrong," I said. "You of all people should know what's wrong."
That was always when things got rough, when I started pulling my 'no one understands but you' bullshit.
Ryan tried, he tried so fucking hard to understand, but he didn't have a full idea of what was wrong with me. I think maybe that was why he had stuck around even after I hurt him. He got that he had an advantage over me, even if the advantage wasn't clear.
My germ phobia had somehow ruled Ryan as the only exception among my friends, he'd slipped mentally into a place that not even I could grasp the concept of.
I was a walking contradiction of emotions and I didn't know how to explain it, not even to myself. I felt so lost inside of my own head. I hated touching other people but I craved to be held. I hated my body but I could never stop cleaning it. I couldn't stand ashes on the floor but I spent all my free time smoking.
But Ryan felt clean to me. It was a delicate feeling, but a clean one all the same, and it was amazing. He was as close as I felt I could get to having an intimate relationship with another human being, even if it was strictly platonic. I needed him because I wanted to feel normal, I wanted to be able to touch things without feeling like puking, like everyone else.
Ryan didn't know, though, how sometimes even words and memories, tastes and voices could feel dirty, but he'd listened to my drunken ramblings before. He knew he was the only person I felt okay to touch and I think he liked having that power.
I was staring at my shoes.
"Tell me what's wrong, besides that. Besides being lonely. You look like you feel like shit."
"My parents were arguing about money again." I leaned all my weight on my left foot. The carpet was old and gray and rough- my shoes were black and torn up, but clean, and they looked familiar there. "It fucked up my mood."
"How much have you done this month to mess up the finances?"
I dug my teeth into the inside skin of my bottom lip, my fingers curled against body.
"Not much," I said, but I had to force my voice to stay steady. I was lying and we both knew it. My obsessive showering and hand washing was killing my family's water bill. The way I burned through cleaning supplies didn't help much, either. My phobias seemed to be getting more and more expensive.
I watched as Ryan's feet moved forward, felt those girly fucking fingers of his slip across my shoulders as he pulled me into a hug. I didn't hug back but I let him hold me, anyway.
"It's not your fault," he said. Ryan's arms were warm and his hair was soft as it brushed against my right cheek. "It's not your fault, man." The inside of my mouth tasted sharp, like blood, but Ryan smelt like autumn air. The combination of the two made my chest feel heavy.
I sighed, letting my cheek smush up against his, and he tightened his arms around my shoulders.
There were some things Ryan could make me feel like complete shit about for hours, but he knew my parents arguing was something to drop before I got too upset.
When he stopped hugging me, he turned away like he was sorry. "I love you," he reminded me. "We can drop it if you want to."
I kissed his neck and he made a soft sound, smiling the tiniest of smiles.
"Yeah, I know," I said, because I loved him too.
It was funny because if anyone who didn't know us were to walk into the store, they'd think we were dating. People had asked so many times about it that sometimes we went along with the joke and Ryan used it as an excuse to sit in my lap.
We'd only ever tried dating once, but we'd never had awkward sexual encounters, or anything like that. We'd known each other since we were three, we met at a fucking Burger King and our moms became friends, and since then we'd been what most people call an 'abnormal' amount of close. Ryan was the first non-relative I ever held hands with, he was my first kiss, he was the only boy to ever see me naked. But it had never been weird, it had never been awkward or embarrassing. It was always so natural with him.
Ryan was messing with the scarf around his neck. I walked around the counter to where our two stools were and sat on the left one- it had a nick in the edge of the seat that I liked to pick at with my thumbnail sometimes.
Ryan came to sit next to me on his stool, which had a top that spun around. He refused to let me sit there because he was an asshole and liked to hog all the fun.
"Are we having dinner at my place or yours?"
Ryan shrugged. "If it's your place, which of the 'rents is cooking?"
"Dad, I think." I was lying because I knew he hated my dad's cooking, we both did, and I just didn't want to go home tonight until I had to.
He nodded. "My place. For sure. Now, what'll it be today?" Ryan pointed a slim finger towards the shelves beneath the counter, where a small collection of our favorite records made their home. "Any requests?"
"It's a Misfits day," I decided.
Our default mood setting for the record store was almost always to put on American Psycho and sit there together in silence until something interesting happened.
The coolest thing on the counter had always been the record player, everything else was just business cards and three dollar CDs that we switched out every Friday.
Ryan stood up after he put the record on, glancing around the room. "To be honest there's not much that needs to get done," he said. "Patrick did inventory yesterday out of boredom, shit was so slow last night. I'm gonna' make hot chocolate, want some?"
"No thanks," I sighed, leaning my elbows on the counter and sitting my chin in my hands, looking out the half-length window in the door. "But if you could bring me coffee that'd be great of you."
Ryan nodded and patted my shoulder before abandoning me for the back room. I was half-suspicious he was only trying to give me a minute alone but I guess I was thankful for it.
I zoned out for a while, nodding along to the music, until someone walked in the shop. It was weird 'cause we'd only been open, like, half an hour, and no one in their right mind came to a record store at nine thirty in the morning. But then again, maybe the guy wasn't in his right mind. He made a beeline for the records, didn't even look at me. He jumped when the door dropped shut behind him, like he didn't know that that was how the fucking laws of physics work, and that of course the door would close behind him. He reminded me of a baby deer walking for the first time, awkward and scared of everything but with a basic goal in mind.
I cleared my throat, saying, "If there's anything you need help finding, let me know."
The boy's hands flinched, like he wasn't expecting me to talk to him. He looked up, eyes wide. "Oh, uh, okay," he said. "Thanks."
I nodded, waiting for him to stop looking at me. It was awkward and weird and maybe there was something wrong with my face or maybe he was just a freak. After a few seconds, though, he turned his green gaze back to the records and I looked out the window again. Ignoring each other's existence seemed to be the best thing to do.
Ryan walked out of the back room, cup of hot chocolate in one hand, my coffee in the other.
"Thanks," I said, my fingers brushing his long, thin, pretty ones as he passed me the warm cup.
He sat on his stool and glanced at the guy, who was flipping through a row of Smiths records.
"Oh, hey, Gerard."
Gerard jumped like he had when I spoke to him, eyes wide again. He looked up at Ryan, giving a forced smile. "Oh," he said, before looking back down at the records. "Hey."
Gerard was pretty, that was undeniable, but he gave off a weird vibe. He was pale, and not exactly thin but not chubby, either, and he had dark, messy hair. He dressed well, though, which struck me as odd, because who the hell wore button-up shirts on a Saturday? It was more business casual than just casual, and it ticked me off. I mean, Ryan wore button-ups with vests and scarves all the time, sure, but that was just Ryan being an adorable hippie douche-bag. Gerard had on a black button-up and leather jacket, with skinny jeans. There was a dark, gray and black striped scarf hanging around his neck. Who the hell pulled that off? To be honest, I was starting to feel a bit under-dressed.
The guy looked familiar from somewhere, though, so I had to ask. "You two know each other?"
Ryan nodded, pushing strands of his wavy hair out of his face. I resisted rolling my eyes, realizing he'd put on one of those thin headbands that made him look even more like both a hippie and a douche. "We're in the same English class," Ryan explained. "Gerard is a genius when it comes to poetry."
Gerard gave a hesitant glance in our direction. "I wouldn't say genius," he said, voice hard to hear over the music.
"But you're good," Ryan insisted. "You're a damn good poet, Gerard."
Gerard blushed. He had a weird way of looking around, staring at random objects for too long like his eyes were too slow to follow his brain.
"Want some coffee?" Ryan offered. "Or hot chocolate? We've got plenty."
I watched Gerard pushed strands of hair out of his face, his fingers long and pale. He didn't look at Ryan, still looking at records. "Sure, yeah, coffee would be nice. Thanks."
"No problem," Ryan said. He glanced at me. "Oh, yeah, uh. Frank, this is Gerard. Gerard, this is Frank." He'd disappeared into the back room before he'd finished the sentence.
Gerard was staring at me again. Would it be impolite to stare back or was looking away worse?
"Your mom works at the hospital, right?"
I stuck my hands in my pockets. "Yeah, that's right. She works in the cafeteria."
He kept fucking looking at me and I sort of wished something catastrophic would happen to distract him. Like maybe someone would crash through the store window, that'd be neat. A Hulk-sized cop could throw some random criminal's body into the store, and then proceed to beat the shit out of them, while The Misfits still played in the background. That'd be badass, and maybe then Gerard would have a reason to look away.
"She's nice," he said, like bringing up a stranger's mother was no big deal. "She gives my brother and I free coffee sometimes. My mom and her talk sometimes."
I nodded and sort of rolled my shoulders forward, not being able to stand how fucking creepy he was starting to be. "She's a good person," I agreed, wondering why he'd spent enough time in a hospital to know who a cafeteria worker's son was.
He'd focused his gaze back on the records, away from me. I couldn't sit there and stay all fucking quiet, though. Who the fuck meets someone for the first time, stares at them and mentions their mother, and then shuts up? That was complete bullshit.
"So you go to Eastern with me and Ryan?"
"Yeah."
I cleared my throat, fucking confused out of my mind. It wasn't exactly a small school, but it was weird to meet someone that I spent seven hours suffering with in the same building who's name I didn't know. "What lunch do you have?"
"Third."
I blinked a few times. "Ryan and I have third too, I-"
"I don't eat in the cafeteria."
"Oh," was all I could say. "Why do you- uh, why not?"
He shrugged and looked at his shoes, his hands in his jacket pockets. "They said I need counseling so I go to the counselor during lunch."
The staring game seemed to reverse, he wouldn't make eye contact, and I had no fucking idea what to say.
Maybe he was a violent person and the school administration was scared he would blow other student's brains out if he ate in the cafeteria. But if that was the case, I should've been in there with him. I'd never admit it to anyone but school shootings made for interesting fantasies when certain people pissed you off.
But no, Gerard didn't seem like a violent kid. He seemed too scared of his own shadow to bring any harm to people.
But maybe that was it, maybe he did harm to himself. Suicidal thoughts, depression, I could tell he definitely had some form of social anxiety just by looking at him. It was all stuff I could relate to.
"I'm sorry," I said, once I'd decided maybe he was fucking sad, like I was. "They shouldn't separate you from other people like that. It's not fair."
"It's okay," he said, slim shoulders rising and falling in a shy shrug. "I don't mind. Talking to someone about things helps. Sometimes."
Ryan came out of the back room and Gerard walked over to take the coffee. If I didn't know it were impossible, I would almost say his skin was even paler up close.
"Thank you," Gerard said, his eyes focused on Ryan.
Ryan, unlike me, didn't seem to panic under Gerard's gaze. He gave an easy smile and looked at the strange boy, saying, "What's your favorite Misfits song? Frank is obsessed with just about their entire discography."
Gerard considered for a moment, like he was just noticing that The Misfits were blaring. "The lyrics to Who Killed Marilyn? have always caught my attention."
I grinned. "I practically have that engraved in my memory, I could recite it like a poem if someone asked me to. I'm sort of obsessed with Angelfuck, too."
Gerard's lips pulled back in an awkward half-smile. "Ever listen to The Smiths?"
I nodded, glad to get such an odd person involved in a regular conversation. "Unloveable is pretty much my anthem."
Gerard nodded, and he graced us with an almost nervous sounding laugh. "Yeah, mine too."
"You should come by tomorrow," Ryan said, glancing at me and then back at Gerard. "Sundays are Frank's guitar day, and if you ask nice he'll take requests, sometimes."
I sort of wanted to punch Ryan in the face. "Don't fucking volunteer that information," I said. "You know I don't like to play for strangers."
"Gerard isn't a stranger," Ryan said, shrugging. "He's a nice guy."
Gerard turned his gaze to his coffee cup. "I won't come if you don't want me to," he said. "But I'm a sucker for good music."
I sighed. If I said no, Ryan would give me so much shit for it. "I don't mind," I forced myself to say, even though I could already feel the anxiety claw it's way up my throat. I'd just met this guy. Why the hell should I have to play music for him?
"Do you know anything by Pantera?" Gerard asked.
I nodded, fidgeting my fingers around my coffee cup. "Yeah."
Gerard nodded, too, looking at the wall behind Ryan and I, holding his cup with both hands. It felt like he had picked up on my sudden change of mood. "I should go," he said, speaking to the wall like it would miss his company. He looked soft compared to the cream colored, rough surface of his paper cup. "You guys probably have important stuff to do."
Ryan grinned. "Gonna' walk into my record store and not buy anything, man?"
"I'll buy something tomorrow," Gerard promised, giving one of his half-smiles, no teeth, thin lips stretched back like it was hard for him to be happy. "I was looking for a friend, anyway. He can wait another twenty-four hours. But I'm serious, I don't want to bother anyone." He glanced at Ryan and then at me, and that was the first time I saw his eyes do anything except for stare. "Have a nice day," he said, and turned to leave.
I didn't do much but blink as he crossed the store and let the door fall shut behind him, cold air rushing in the room for a quick moment.
"What the fuck?" was all I had to say.
Ryan laughed, his body language demanding my attention again. He was sitting so close to me, and his fingers brushed against my wrist as he spoke. He liked to be my center of attention and it occurred to me that he might've felt bothered by how interested I'd been in Gerard. "He's an odd one, isn't he?"
"Weirdest fucking human being I've ever met," I said, watching Ryan's hand fall back into his lap. "But he's sort of cute, in like, an unsetteling type of way. Why does he eat lunch in the counselor's office?"
Ryan shrugged, twisting around on his seat. "I have no idea," he said. "But there's some rumors."
"Rumors?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.
Before Ryan had a chance to start explaining, the door cracked open and a nervous looking Gerard stepped half-way into the room, coffee in one hand and unlit cigarette in the other. "Sorry," he said, using the cigarette hand to push strands of his raven hair away from his face. "But do either of you have a light?"
Knowing there were some type of rumors about Gerard (rumors that were worth Ryan's time, which scared me because he wasn't one to waste time on shit like that,) freaked me out a bit. "Yeah," I said, anyway, my smoker's brain getting the best of me. I stood up, sitting my coffee cup on the counter. "I was about to go out, anyway." I slid a cigarette and lighter out of my pocket, realizing I hadn't even bothered to take off my hoodie yet. "You mind company?"
Gerard shook his head a fraction of an inch and as I got closer to him, I decided he was pretty enough to make up for the hesitation.
Gerard held the door open for me and I tried to make myself as small as I could while I walked out the door, careful not to let any part of my body touch his.
He let it swing closed behind us and kept a close distance as I placed my cigarette between my lips and lit it. "Here," I said, handing him the red lighter, my cig wiggling in my mouth. He was standing maybe six inches away so I took a careful step back, turning my head and blowing smoke out of my lungs to hide how unsettled our proximity was making me.
Our fingers bumped together, his hand careless as he slipped the lighter from between my fingers, his cigarette already between his lips.
My hand flew to the pocket of my hoodie, slipping my stupid, embarrassing hand sanitizer out. I balanced my cigarette between my lips and prayed to whom-fucking-ever that he didn't notice me cleaning the germs off of my skin and returning the hand sanitizer to my pocket.
Gerard sat his coffee cup on the ledge formed by a protruding brick in the wall next to us. His pale hands cupped around my lighter, flame leaping to the cigarette in a familiar pattern. He hadn't seemed to notice my hand-cleaning compulsion and I was thankful because sometimes my phobia could be embarrassing.
"Thanks," he said, not making eye contact as he passed my lighter back. I was careful not to touch his skin that time.
With his head tilted away his cheeks looked round, soft and child-like, way too young to be smoking. I felt like an adult standing next to him, I was turning seventeen later on that month. Knowing I had only a bit more than a year until I was "grown" was a terrifying thought.
"No problem," I said, stiff, putting the Zippo back in my pocket, hoping I would remember to wipe off everywhere his fingers had touched later.
We stood and smoked in silence for a few minutes, and he didn't look at me the whole time. I kept sneaking glances as he picked up his coffee cup, though, and sipped at it between doses of his cigarette. He had such a sweet face it was hard to believe he could be any older than fifteen, but god, his body gave his age away.
It wasn't like I had been paying attention or anything, but I think I had the right to notice an attractive boy when he was standing a foot away and smoking a cigarette that was only burning because of a lighter that belonged to me.
He was taller than I was, and his pants were fucking tight like, not David-Bowie-in-Labyrinth tight, but almost there. His hands were smooth and pale and moved like a pattern, pushing his hair back, adjusting his scarf, shifting his cigarette between his pink lips. They fixed the collar of his shirt and flicked ashes from his cigarette. Every movement he made was a slight variation of one he already had, and it was memorizing.
"So," I said, not being able to take the way his lips were having such an interesting conversation with his cigarette instead of me. He sort of jumped at the sound of my voice, looking over with raised eyebrows like it was surprising that I was talking to him, out of all people, even though we were standing on an otherwise empty street. He had his cig balanced between his fore-and-middle fingers as he removed it from his mouth and let out a breath of smoke. "Do you have to eat with the counselor, like, everyday?" I asked. "Is it mandatory or do you have an option?"
Smoke curled out with his breath as he talked. "Well, it was never mandatory. My mom wants me to go because my doctor said it could be helpful or whatever, and there's nothing for me in the cafeteria, anyway."
"You should- I mean, could- sit with us Monday," I said. I felt like I was asking him out on a date. "You and Ryan know each other, and you shouldn't be alone during lunch."
His eyes fixed on his hand, watching paper burn. "Maybe," he said.
"I don't want to impose," I said, looking out across the road. Across from the record store was a small bar that I'd only ever bothered sneaking in once. It was small and smelt like sex, or at least sort of like my room did when I was home alone, but with a lot more sweat. The one time I'd been in, I hadn't even walked two feet into the place before I realized that almost everyone in there was underage, like me, and any hopes I had of doing something with an older guy were hopeless.
I mean, I didn't always go for older guys, but I'd had a bet with Ryan that whoever kissed someone five years older first didn't have to pay for anything for three months. That was a huge deal since Ryan and I bought each other food, and Ryan had fucking expensive habits. I felt like some type of lame-ass, kiss-only hooker when I tried to do stuff in hopes of winning the bet, but the extra money in my wallet would be worth the humiliation and number of times I would have to brush my teeth and gargle mouth wash.
"You're not imposing," Gerard said. "I just don't get invited to eat lunch with people that often. Well, like, ever. Never."
I glanced at him, his soft face looking cold behind his tobacco rod. "Well, I don't invite people to eat lunch with me that often, like, ever, never, so..."
He took a deep breath, like he was considering.
"I'm not inviting you because I feel sorry for you, man," I said, clarifying. If I had said that to anyone else I would feel rude, but everything about Gerard was so odd it felt like a reassurance. "I want you to have lunch with us, I want to get to know you. You're strange and all but I sort of- I dunno, we just met, maybe I'm being weird. But you seem like someone I'd want to hang out with so I want to make that happen."
He looked up at me and I looked back, and for the first time in my life, staring a stranger in the eye wasn't awkward. With Gerard, it felt like a language.
His shoulders pushed back, his hand moved his cig away from his face. He breathed out the smoke, slow and considering from between his lips. "Okay, yeah. What class do you have before lunch?"
"Algebra Two. With Gallagher, or whatever that dick teachers's name is."
Gerard didn't turn his head, his eyes were on my face and my hands and I felt so uncomfortable, it hit me like a train and I wanted to puke. I felt like an animal in a cage and we were no longer equals, the second his eyes left mine I became an art exhibit and he was an expert trying to stick a price tag on me.
I nodded at nothing, focusing my gaze on my shoes. "Ryan and I could meet you by the main stairs," I said, pressing my cigarette between my lips, sucking hard.
"Okay," was all he said. "Sure."
He wasn't looking at me anymore, he was looking at the shitty bar across the road. His face in profile was fascinating, he was like a porcelain doll and I'd never met someone who looked so, I dunno what the word for it was, fragile. Maybe not porcelain, I guess. The lines of his face, the shape of it wasn't sharp enough to be called fragile. He was hard to describe.
"I'm nervous," he confessed.
"Don't be," I said. "We're just people. We're not gonna' hurt you."
He gave a short, unamused laugh. "Yeah, you being 'just people' is what makes me nervous."
And then he dropped his cigarette, squashed the burning end with his shoe, pushed out his last lung-full of smoke, and walked away.
"See you tomorrow," I said, raising my voice as he got further away.
He had his left hand in his back pocket but his other hand swung outwards, two fingers waving near his hip in a lazy form of acknowledgement. I blinked as I saw that he had sat his coffee back down without me noticing, the cup sitting a fourth of the way full on it's protruding brick.
I watched him turn the corner by the tattoo shop and then I dropped and crushed my cigarette, too, saying, "Damn," as if he were still standing right next to me.
I turned and re-entered the record store, leaving his coffee there like it would call him back, and Ryan looked up as the door closed.
"What happened?" he asked, pressing for details.
"He's still coming tomorrow," I said. "And he's eating lunch with us Monday. And also I need to wash my hands."
Ryan nodded, slow, following me to the back room of the record store and into the one-person bathroom, standing behind me and watching as I washed my hands, scrubbing each of my fingers clean individually.
"Are you gonna go for it?" Ryan said.
I blinked at him in the mirror. "Go for it?"
"Y'know," he said, hushed, like Gerard would still be able to hear us. "He's totally your type."
I rolled my eyes and dried my hands on my jeans, and then I flipped him off, letting him turn off the sink water for me. He followed me out to the counter and I sat on my stool, lifting my almost-cold coffee cup. "He is not 'my type.'" I made the stupid little air-quotes and everything with my free hand, because fuck. Types. Did people seriously have those? My mouth still tasted like smoke and it was a nice mix with the coffee. "I don't have a 'type.'"
"Everyone you have ever dated had dark hair at the time," he said flatly. "Every boy you have ever kissed smokes, excluding, y'know, me when we were fourteen." He poked my shoulder. "You think pale skin is pretty, and I know that 'cause you told me once when you were drunk. You like guys who wear skinny jeans, you've got a total thing for that, don't even deny it, and you like boys you don't understand. You've always had a thing for that 'dark and mysterious' bullshit."
"Fuck off," I said, turning away so I wouldn't have to see him and his ridiculous fucking headband making more sense than I was. "I met him ten minutes ago, I don't want him like that. Anyway, that is all so cliche. I don't have a type and I don't like him. And 'dark and mysterious,' what the fuck? He's just dark and weird."
"Then how do you want him?" Ryan asked, and I wanted to punch myself because I did sort of leave that open for interpertation.
I hesitated, being careful with how I chose my words. "I want him to be my friend. He seems interesting, and shit. Weird interesting."
"At first, yeah," Ryan said. He leaned a bit closer to me. He smelt like coffee and it reminded me of my first kiss, our kiss, 'cause it had been winter and he'd tasted like coffee and peppermint and it had been awesome at the time. "But you're gonna' wanna' screw him eventually."
"I've never screwed anyone," I said, looking at Ryan. "So how do you know what types of guys I wanna' screw? You know I wanna' date certain types of guys but maybe the guys I wanna' screw are completely different. Those things don't always go hand-in-hand."
He leaned back and drank the last few sips of his hot chocolate. "So you wanna' date him, then? You haven't been on a date in, like, six months, Frank. Not since Jamia."
I stood up and sat my cup back down on the counter. "I don't wanna' date him, and I don't wanna' fuck him, either. I want to be his friend. You're acting like a bitch."
"You look angry," Ryan observed. "Did I piss you off?"
"Yeah," I said, walking away from his stupid fucking big brown eyes and long eyelashes and innocent face. "I'm trying to make a friend and you're making assumptions."
Ryan rolled his eyes and I hated him because, okay, yeah. I was sort of attracted to Gerard. But I was attracted to Ryan and to Patrick and to a lot of guys I had no interest in dating or kissing or screwing, so why did he have a right to assume I wanted to do any of that with Gerard? I had no problem admitting when I found a guy attractive, but hell, because I thought he was hot did that mean I wanted to be with him?
And fuck Ryan, fuck him for bringing up Jamia. I date one girl and that means I'm a confused fuck up who can't even figure out if he's gay or not? Had it been that wrong of me, anyway, wanting to get to know her as more than a friend? She had been cute and she liked to tuck flowers behind my ear when we went on dates, and fucking hell, I'd never met anyone nicer than her. She got my Danzig references and she had understood how our relationship was never meant to be a permanent thing. She'd put up with how I had to wash my hands all the time, she didn't argue when I wouldn't kiss her if I didn't have access to a toothbrush, and she took my glances at guys as glances at other girls- she never asked about my sexuality or my issues with germs, and when I told her that, yeah, I like you a lot but I think I'm gay and this thing isn't working for me, she didn't freak out. She just kissed my cheek and nodded and we'd talked a lot since then, we'd stayed good friends. I loved her and she loved me, but it was platonic, even though Ryan still had his doubts.
I stood in front of one of the rows of records and flipped through them. Those things were so fucking hard to keep organized, couldn't people put shit back where they found it? It's all alphabetical by artist and sorted by year, was that so hard to understand?
"Frankie," Ryan said, soft.
I rolled my eyes. He was putting on his "innocent" voice, the voice that sounded like he could do know wrong in the world, the voice that always caught me in the end.
"Don't be mad, please. I'm sorry for bringing up Jamia."
I sighed. He had me wrapped around his slim fucking fingers and he knew it.
He'd figured out the first time I hit him that I would do just about anything if he made me feel guilty enough. I was a violent person, I wasn't going to lie to myself about that, but I'd never meant to hurt Ryan. We were best friends and I loved him and I hated the thought of doing anything that could ruin that, so he'd gotten good at using my guilt against me.
"I'm not mad," I said. "But I wish you wouldn't jump to conclusions."
"I'm sorry," he said again.
I nodded. "I know."
Everything fell into the music playing, The Misfits blaring like a good dream you never wanted to forget. It was amazing how sometimes music could say everything you were too scared to.
I glanced up, hearing Ryan's footsteps close by. He was standing next to me and his mouth was on my cheek, apologetic.
"I hate you," I said, soft, his fingers brushing mine as he reached to help organize the records.
"I love you, too, asshole."