Things We Meant To Say Yesterday (Frerard)

Things We Meant To Say Yesterday (Frerard One-Shot)

Frank hears the front door slam and that's when he finally let his guard down. He keeps his back along the wall as he slides down, his knees stopping once they touch his chest. He's shaking all over and tears are streaming down his cheeks and landing on his bare knees through the hole in his jeans. His hands are dangling uselessly on the floor, clenched in fists before he brings them up to wipe angrily at his tears. It's always this bad, but he'd never leave.

Frank stares at the destruction that is his living room. The picture frame that hung by the front door is on the ground beside him, the protective glass completely shattered and littering the floor. He couldn't remember when it had ended up there, but it was probably just after the yelling started, or at least he that's what he wanted to believe. Maybe that's what they were fighting about. Frank couldn't be too sure though because there was always something to be angry about.

Shakily, Frank picks up the broken frame and sobs loudly at the picture inside; it's of him and Gerard when they took a vacation to the beach just last summer. The Frank in the picture is smiling happily with his hand in a smiling Gerard's. They looked so happy and in love that Frank has to put the picture down before he throws it across the room. Pictures lied. They never told the full story, but portrayed what you wanted them to, what you showed them; like a painting but far less abstract.

As the frame laid face down in his lap, he felt the photo fall out of place and land unceremoniously in his lap along with a few other shards of glass. He drops the broken frame onto the ground and hears the wood snap, but he doesn't care about it anymore. He brushes the shards out of his lap and holds the photo in his trembling fingers before correcting it and viewing it without the broken glass obstructing his view. The picture is thin between his fingers and definitely the most fragile thing he's held in a while. There's something about being able to destroy something that's weaker than him that makes him even sadder and angrier than before. He holds the photo in his two hands before ripping it unevenly down the middle. When given the power to cause destruction, to make something look and feel as bad as he does, it's only human nature to do so.

Picture Frank and picture Gerard are no longer in the same rectangle. Instead, they are two separate beings. Their joined hands are still on Frank's side and something about that shatters Frank on the inside even more. It doesn't matter what he does anymore; there would always be a piece of Gerard with him. Frank probably would've felt a little more guilty about ripping the picture if there weren't other copies of the same photo resting in other places--Gerard's wallet among those places--but the fact that he had torn the photos, murdered the depiction of happiness, made him feel guilty nonetheless. Without thinking, he runs towards the kitchen, stepping on the discarded glass that he carelessly left on the floor, only thinking about taping the two halves back together with something akin to desperation.

The roll of tape was usually resting in the kitchen drawer where they'd always had it but now it was discarded on the floor along with its other contents. Frank was pretty sure that he was the one who dumped the drawer onto the floor, but he doesn't want to think about it any longer than he has to. Instead, he locates the tape from where it slid halfway underneath the refrigerator and goes down on his hands and knees beside it, resting the torn photo on the floor. Frank carefully tries to stick the frayed pieces back together, but they always brush and push against one another like they are two opposing forces. Eventually, Frank manages to wrestle the tape onto each of the torn pieces and tries to push them together as much as possible. They aren't perfect, but it's better than being separated and lost, alone and forgotten.

Once the photo is taped horribly and disproportionately together, Frank allows himself to cry again. He sits down against the refrigerator door and brings his knees up to his chest, resting his head in his hands. Hot, wet tears drip down onto his gray t-shirt, leaving little spots wherever they land. There are footprints of blood just in front of him on the white tiled floor and that's when he remembers his feet. He probably tracked blood all through the house, and while he knows that it'd be wise to clean it up before Gerard returns, he can't find the strength to do it. By now, if it were any other night, he would've already had the living room swept and shining, the kitchen started, and other small messes in the trash, but, now, he can't even find the strength to stand. He stays on the floor past the point of his ass turning numb and he's shaking all over.