First story posted. I'm nervous. It's a Frerard one-shot. I genuinely hope you enjoy it, at least a little.
I really really hope you like it, it took a lot to put this up. A lot of courage. I'm shaking in my boots. Ahh!
I sat on a cold bench in a street with snow flurrying all around me. Looking up at the sky I decided that the starts and the snow all mixed together was one the the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Then I looked down to see if the snow was sticking, and to determine how frigid my walk would be. When my gaze reached the ground I remembered where I was. The street was littered with trash. Cans, bottles, fast food wrappers, pure shit was everywhere. The party I had narrowly escaped was still raging across the street. I knew what was happening in there, the same as all the rest. Girls were upstairs, fighting for the mirror, gossiping, and probably doing drugs. All the while their boyfriends were downstairs, hammered, hitting on other equally slutty girls. The party was shit. I really didn't even know how I got there. I was utterly lost, in every aspect of the word. the party, the alcohol swimming in my blood, the trash-filled streets all made me wish I was home. I didn't know what to do. He was there, probably fuming, or worse. I pictured his pretty face through my haze filled mind, it was the only clear thing dancing across my closed eyes. Hazel eyes tinged with worry and disappointment.
"You're wasted, I can taste it." His voice echoed in my ears. Nothing more than a whisper. A ghost. A fire that was burning out right in front of my eyes.
"Your bullshit doesn't fool me, Gerard." I remembered how my cheeks warmed up and reddened with guilt and the loss of my facade. He knew, of course he would have figured it out. I wasn't myself recently. I drank more and more over every passing day, throwing Frank's delicate feelings out the window along with my inhibitions. I was a poor excuse for a boyfriend, for a person at that.
"Don't look at me that way." I spewed angrily at him. Wielding my words like swords to puncture the little balloon of civility we could muster in this rapidly growing argument. He just stared in disbelief. I sat on the couch and ran my hands through my hair. That feeling usually calmed me down when it was Frankie's hands, but now it just made my heart ache for the pain I was causing him. I knew I was wrong, I knew I had been acting strange. My drinking was getting out of hand. I couldn't even stand myself. I was hurting myself, emotionally and physically. But more importantly I was hurting Frankie. I was hurting us as a whole. Fucking it up as I always do. He continued to stare at the wall that was behind where I had been standing.
"Maybe I'll just go hang myself." I said to myself under my breath. He closed the distance between us with once smooth step and slapped me across the cheek. He left a burning handprint where his skin met mine. He sank to the floor, back against the chair, his small hands cupping his jaw. He looked at me with all the pain and beauty of a statue. Carved directly from stone. How could I hurt someone so much that I loved so dearly? I was a mess. I was wasted, depressed, and ashamed. I stood up to leave. He knew by the look on my face that I wasn't just going to own quaint little room. I was going to walk out that door, selfishly. I was going to attempt to replace him with meaninglessness. Pints of whiskey, cigarettes, and outer-space.
"Don't you fucking move from that spot, or everything we have will go to shit." he said feebly. "We've got a lot Gee, don't you dare forget that." he whispered. Tears welling up in his broken hearted hazel eyes.
My heart broke. I was ruining something beautiful for us both. We helped each other in so many ways every day, but nothing seemed to be helping me escape this black and hopeless feeling. I couldn't take my baby down with me, even if it killed me. I grabbed the handle and left. I heard nothing from him as the door shut, other than a sharp intake of breath. As if he was bracing himself for an impact. The love of my life was a wreck on the floor and I just walked away. I was just a nightmare, I tried to convince my intoxicated mind. Even in this state of drunken stupor, I knew I had to get out of here. I could not leave him stranded and broken like that. He was my everything, cliche as that seemed. My sun and moon. I woke up to his angelic face every morning and fell asleep in his arms each and every night. I couldn't let my depression and addiction work it's way in again. Isolating me from everything. Frankie brought me back from near death before, I needed to let him help me. He tried so hard. I just blocked him out with alcohol and drugs to suppress the feeling that he could possibly be gone in an instant. I needed to let him back in, to fix me, so I could help fix us. The gaping holes in my heart were just making room for the happiness he would bring me if I let him. Wiping my eyes with numb fingers, I sat alone. I didn't want to be alone. And that took a lot to realize. The part across the street would continue without me, but I didn't care. I should be at home, holding my baby. My Frankie. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was him. He spoke simply yet beautifully, sadness and hope waltzed in his voice.
"Pack your bags, and come back home." I left the trash-filled streets and headed to my true home. My Frank.