The Man I Know I'm Not [Frerard] (Sequel To Tell Me I'm A Bad Man)

Twenty-three - It Was Just How You Looked In The Light

Silence.

An achingly empty silence that I couldn't fill. There were a million things I wanted to say, but I couldn't say any of them.

"You can't get mad." I said, and received a humorless laugh in response. "No, you can't."

"Why can't I?"

"You just - you just can't, okay? We're not having this conversation over the phone."

"Right, fine. Have it your way."

"My way?! I don't want to have this conversation here, we need to talk about this properly. This isn't me wanting my way."

"Yeah, whatever. I'll be home soon. Meet me at the house. Alone."

~

I heard the front door open just as I was folding the last of my shirts, and my hands slowed. There were careful, deliberate footsteps on the stairs, and my heard began to beat faster; I really did not want this confrontation.

I couldn't bear shouting, or screaming, or crying, and I didn't want accusations or swearing. I couldn't bear fights. Not with Gerard. It just hurt too much, made me feel like I was at fault, even when I wasn't. I just missed being us, before all this shit started. I missed him.

I knew he was at the door but didn't turn around, laying the folded shirt on the bed and wringing my hands together. They were trembling, my nerves jittery and on edge. Kissing Bob - no matter who initiated it - was nowhere near as bad as sleeping with Bert.

"What are you doing?" I heard him say, and I just wanted to kiss him and make it all go away. But I couldn't. It wouldn't.

I needed him like I needed air to breathe, but I didn't know if he was the right kind of air for me anymore.

"Folding shirts." I mumbled pathetically, stating the fucking obvious.

"Frankie." I could feel him behind me, his hands on my hips. "What's going on?" I didn't reply, my hands coming up to wrap around myself and touch his. "Honey?"

I noticed that the sheets were neat, and made, for the first time in ages. They looked like they hadn't been slept in for weeks, and they hadn't - because Gerard and I had been in Jersey. With a pang I realised that maybe they wouldn't get messed up again, not by the two of us. Maybe by Gerard and some other guy. Maybe by Gerard and Bert.

Bile rose in my throat and I ripped myself away from Gerard, desperately trying to swallow down my breakfast, which was threatening to make an appearance. There was nowhere to go but sideways.

"I can't." I said, shaking my head. "I can't do this."

"Can't do what?" His confused eyes looked from me to my clothes and back to me again, and then realisation settled onto his face. "Oh. I see how it is."

"Gee..."

"Are you leaving me?"

I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the hurt on his face, but when I looked at him, I saw only anger. Like my silence was an answer. Like my silence meant yes.

Like I wasn't allowed to make the choice.

"You can't do that." He said, his hands clenched into fists.

"I didn't answer the question." I replied.

"Which said it all, really."

I licked my lips. "Gee, you don't understand. I...I need to stay in Jersey for a while. By myself. I love you, but I don't think you love me anymore." With every word, my voice got quieter and quieter, and I suddenly found the carpet extremely fascinating.