Famous Last Words || FRERARD

2

Lunch, as almost every single teenager can detest, is simultaneously the best and worst time of day at a high school. Depending on how many friends you have, what sort of food you like, and how much in favour you were with the teachers, lunchtime could be a godsend or absolute hell. Only the fates decide if you get called a slut for wearing a skirt just half an inch too short, or a get nailed in the face with a mozzarella stick. Frank, personally, hated cafeteria food. He even hated the cafeteria workers, too. It was nothing personal, really- Just one too many times the lunch ladies said "you're welcome" with venom in their voice before Frank even opened his mouth to thank them. And in his experience, there was usually hair in his food, which didn't exactly tickle his fancy in the slightest.

Today's main dish just so happened to be some meat that smelled more of rotting peaches than turkey, strong undertones of charred hair and skin scratched into dishes wafting through the cafeteria air. The scent was so strong, you could practically see it drifting around in a horribly disgusting cloud of peach-mango-hair-skin flavoured vomit. Even as Frank was walking in around ten minutes late, a girl crossed herself in vanilla perfume and said a soft prayer to Budha. Loads of vanilla mixed with the already established peach-mango-hair-skin flavoured vomit was enough to make a man's knees go weak. A gag welled up in the back of his throat, the boy covering his mouth as his nostrils flared angrily. His body was rejecting the whole cafeteria, if that wasn't enough of a sign that he absolutely despised this whole thing. Frank was not one of the people that Lunch smiled fondly upon.

He took a few unsteady, clearly disgusted steps into the line for his lunch. As disgusting as the food was, he had to eat it. Frank was a growing, hungry, teenage boy with no lunches from home to bring. He stomached it down every day the best he could, some days less easily than others. Today, well, today was going to be hard. As if recently hadn't been hard enough, newly deemed the 'fuck you boy' as he'd been called by multiple students in the hallways. Fuck, he felt like he was becoming more and more infamous in this school, even though he'd gone a peaceful month or so of being plenty invisible.

The mashed potatoes made a disgusting plop on his tray, the teen grimacing as he moved down the line. It was honestly doubtful he'd be able to stomach it, even though he tried his best not to be fussy. He'd been sick plenty as a child, which always dulled down his taste when trying to eat things. No taste= no reason to dislike what you're eating. Now that he was better in health, he couldn't stand so many things. Balancing hunger with fussiness was always a struggle, as childish as it might seem. There was also finding the balance between not wanting to be a burden, and being unable to compromise your taste buds.

In getting lost in his own thoughts, Frank had started to wander, his feet snatching the controller right out of his hands like a bitchy older brother. Where to sit? Who to avoid talking to? How to cross his legs- at the knee or the dad way? The stereotypical dad way is what he meant, how the baseball coach dad with three mistresses aside from his wife sits when he leans forward and tells his son to 'chin up' after losing the championship game. That dad way.

In being so caught up, so out of control, so zoned out, his body collided with someone else's. A specific someone else's. Lunch trays collided, food flew everywhere, milk-soaked clothes. It was quite the momentary catastrophe, an explosion in its own rite.

"What the fuck?" A voice growled, and that was what snapped Frank out of his mind-held theatric. It was the kid from before, Gerard Way. The creepy kid. The incest knife porn kid. He towered over Frank, the other boy standing at 5'9". Frank stood at 4'11", and Gerard still managed to be almost a foot taller than him. Almost. All Gerard needed was some killer Mikey platforms, and he'd probably be all set.

Gerard put his hands on Frank's shoulders, and for a second, it almost felt intimate. Special. Like a middle-school dance. When Frank hit the floor, though, he realized it wasn't special at all. He was on the floor. Gerard had shoved him. That wasn't very middle school dance-ish. A flash of trench coat covered Frank's eyes, and then the ceiling, peppercorn static all over the place. It took him a moment to realize that he was on the floor, and it took him even longer to realize everyone was staring. Who wouldn't gape at a boy soaked in strawberry milk on the cafeteria floor?