Ok... My first chaptered fic (Frerard, of course) so not sure about this Frankie has a bad day at school when his best friend is ill, but things are looking better afterwards... until he gets home
/‘Sorry, I won’t be in today. Got the flu. See you soon. Mikey./’ Shit. Another day of bullying, abuse, insults, nothing unusual there, but Mikey wouldn’t be there, today I’d have to do it alone.
Mikey and I had met in high school, technically I should have been in the year below him, but due to some administrable error made years ago we were put in the same class. We were both the weird kids; the ones who dressed in black, wore eyeliner, loved rock and metal. He made each day bearable, jut knowing I didn’t have to face it alone. His house was also my refuge when I needed to escape from home. He must have guessed about my family, but he knew better than to ask. His family was my family, and of course there was his brother___ but I refused to let myself go there again.
“Hey loser, where’s your four-eyed friend?” The direction the sandwich hit me gave me a good idea of who had just spoken; some jock guy trying to impress his cheerleader girlfriend. Fucking bastard. I shot what I hoped was a sarcastic pitiful look at him and headed off to the first lesson, hoping to lose myself in mathematical equations.
I got through the school day somehow, without too many problems, but I knew the worst was yet to come. When the bell rang marking the end of the final lesson I took as long as possible gathering up my books and putting them in my locker. Eventually when I could delay no longer I trudged reluctantly to the gates.
“Frankie?” a familiar voice was calling from across the street. I looked up, butterflies in my stomach. He was there; tight black jeans, misfits t-shirt, raven hair falling across darkened eyes. He was hot, no, beyond that, he was beautiful. He was also my best friend’s brother. “/Get a fucking grip/”, I told myself, it didn’t work. “Frankie?” he repeated. Oh crap, I was staring, I hadn’t actually answered him.
“G… Gerard?” Shit, I couldn’t even form a proper sentence.
“Yeah, Mikey was wondering if you wanted to come over.” I crossed over to him.
“Sure, that’s me great.” I told him, glad for the excuse to escape home a little longer.
It was only then I realised that I would be walking the ten minute journey with him; ten minutes of half coherent sentences and fucking bats in my stomach, ten minutes alone with Gerard Way. We started walking in a friendly silence, which seemed to work better for both of us. Just being near him was enough for me, breathing in his very being. I’d always thought I was straight, I’d only ever dated girls, but the moment I’d seen him I knew he was perfect in every aspect. Pushing the thoughts away I focused on the surroundings. We were passing my house and I immediately felt guilty. The curtains were drawn and there was no sound inside.
“I just need to… to… grab my jumper from inside; I’ll be back in a moment.” I was usually a good liar, but something about that boy was throwing me off.
“Sure,” he said simply as I opened the door.
I could smell it as soon as I walked in; whiskey and vomit. I resisted the urge to throw up myself and made my way to the living room. She was sprawled out on the floor, an empty whiskey bottle beside her, puke matted in her hair. She was unconscious and shamefully I felt relieved. I wouldn’t have to deal with everything else; her trying to touch me, or hurting me, or any of the other usual crap. I knelt down beside her and tried to clean her up a little bit. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, nor would it be the last, but each time I felt let down and disappointed. Why did she do this? What could she find at the end of a whiskey bottle? She should be looking after me, not the other was around. After all, she was still my mother.
I briefly considered calling 911, but there would have been too many complications. They might have wanted to get Social Services involved and I don’t think I could have handled that. Suddenly I was angry; what right did she have to fuck herself up? She was stupid, hurting the ones who loved her, hurting herself. Love her? Could I really still love her after what she’d done? All the abuse I’d suffered at her hands; physical, sexual, emotional… I’d always blamed it on the drink, but I don’t think that could excuse her anymore. I tried to shift her into the sofa, but she was too heavy. I sat down next to her, head in hands, feeling useless and defeated.