FicWad

Gerard’s POV

I awoke with a start, not remembering quite where I was. After lying there a few seconds, my memory came back to me: Frank was over here, and I was sleeping on the couch because he was asleep in my bedroom.

After that earth-shattering mind explosion of unusual early-morning thinking, I decided it was time for coffee. I stood up and stretched my aching back; I wasn’t used to sleeping on the hard couch. Cursing incoherently under my breath, I made my way to the kitchen to make myself some coffee.

I had barely turned the corner when I heard a loud, “’Morning, Gee!” from the person I nearly collided with in front of me. Someone was in my kitchen, standing at the doorway, ready to leave as I was attempting to enter. I jumped back, startled.

“What the…?” I exclaimed, squinting. The figure in front of me blushed slightly and took a step back.

“Sorry, Gee, didn’t mean to startle you!” I squinted some more; the bubbly figure was Frank. Yet another earth-shattering unusual mind-explosion. Two in one morning: this must be a new record.

“Coffee,” I managed to grunt.

Frank giggled. “You look like you could use some, to be honest.” I see he’s put the clothes he was wearing yesterday back on, and I couldn’t help but try to remember what he looked like shirtless. Despite all the bruises, he was a rather muscular-looking guy. Short as hell, but still defined in the abdominal region.

“Shut up,” I said, pushing past him to the coffeemaker. God, too many buttons. I stabbed at a few random buttons, but was only successful in changing the time on the maker. How come I could never do that when I was actually trying to change the time? “Damn it,” I cursed at it, rubbing my blurry eyes awake.

“Someone isn’t a morning person,” Frank said from behind me, smiling. “It’s like the locker at school, Gerard: it works better if you push the right buttons.”

“Frank, shut up,” I instructed, but admitted defeat when I pushed yet another wrong button and the coffeemaker made a shrill self-destruct noise. “Frank, help?” I squeaked. He laughed and put the coffee bean stuff in the filter, put it into the machine, filled it with water, and pressed the “Start” button. In a matter of seconds, hot, sweet coffee dripped down from the maker and into the pot underneath.

“Yes!” I cried, throwing my fists in the air triumphantly. Frank just laughed and shook his head, sitting down at the table with his bowl of cereal. I joined him once I got my cup of coffee.

“You got cereal?” I asked, a little more alive after a few sips.

“Sorry. You were still asleep when I came in here, and I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Oh, okay. That’s cool,” I said, trying to stretch my still-aching back.

“You okay? You don’t look like you slept very well.”

“Nah, I slept fine. I just didn’t realize our couch was so hard,” I admitted, taking another sip of my coffee.

He sat there for a second, watching me stretch. “You know, there’s room for one more in your nice, soft bed.” He smiled a huge smile, and I couldn’t help but laugh back.

“After last night, I just might consider,” I joked back, and went back to my coffee. “What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“What? I usually sleep until noon or later! When the hell did you get up?”

“Six,” was his simple reply. How the hell he managed to get up at six was beyond me.

“Damn…” I returned, and suddenly remembered the fact that he had no clean clothes for the day. “Hey, are you going back to your house to pick up some extra clothes?” His face darkened, and he looked at the floor, turning pale. In an effort to lighten his spirits, I said, “You might have to stay an extra night; you should have heard Grandma last night when I told her.” He managed to smile up at me, but returned his gaze to the floor.

“Yeah, I have to go pick up some things at my house,” he said quietly.

I lowered my voice. “You want me to go with you?” he shrugged one shoulder, and I assumed that meant yes. “Okay, let’s go, then.” We got up, and while Frank grabbed his bookbag from my room, I left Grandma a note explaining where we were going. We then walked out and made our way to Frank’s house.

Upon arrival, I noted that he certainly did not live far from me at all; if you cut across the right backyards, it was only a seven-minute walk. His house was a little bigger than mine, and it looked empty. I wondered where his mom could be, since that was who he lived with.

“Is anyone here?” I asked, crossing with him across his front yard.

“Yeah. My mom’s probably asleep; she usually sleeps until two or two-thirty.”

“What about work?”

“She works nights. Hours are five to ten on weekdays, six to twelve on weekends.”

“That’s tough. Do you have a key or anything?”

He tried the door, and surprisingly, it was open. “Shit,” he said under his breath. “She forgot to look the door when she went to bed again last night.”

That was not safe. This was Jersey. “Does that happen a lot?”

He shook his head. “Not when I’m around. I’m always the one locking the door and making sure she gets to bed.” He pushed his front door open and went inside, beckoning me to follow.

The ever-so-familiar smell of alcohol filled my nose, and I gazed upon the infinite number of half-empty bottles of vodka, scotch, whiskey, hard liquor, beer, and so on that were laying on the table and counter in the kitchen. Frank, having been used to seeing bottles strewn all over the place, seemed like he didn’t see them at all, and told me to wait where I was as he went upstairs to get his clothes.

I turned my back to the drink bottles to see a living room. Framed pictures of Frank as a younger boy with his mom and dad together covered the walls, but I noticed they were all cracked and broken where Frank's dad’s face was. Mom must’ve been angry. Or drunk, no shit. There were a couple books on the shelves, but none that were taken very good care of. A white guitar was lying on an alcohol-reeking couch, and it seemed to be the only thing in the room that was in good condition. I got a closer look at the guitar, and saw that it had metallic-colored letters that spelled out, “Pansy,” along the bottom of it, almost like a tattoo.

“Okay, Gerard, I’m done,” Frank's voice rang out from behind me. I turned to Frank.

“You play guitar?” I asked, pointing my thumb to the white tattooed guitar on the couch.

“Yeah, a little,” he replied. “That’s Pansy. Isn’t she a beauty?” He gazed admiringly at the guitar.

“You’re the proud father of a lovely instrument.”

“Paid for her myself,” he confirmed proudly.

“Why don’t you bring her along?” I asked him, and his face lit up. “Grandma would love to hear you play.”

“Let me go get her case, then,” he said happily, and disappeared up the stairs again. I wandered back into the kitchen, where the bottles of liquor that had once been a part of my life seemed to taunt and mock me.

I remembered my antagonizing history, which still continued to trouble and haunt me today. I didn’t understand how something as simple as alcohol made my life such a living hell when it also took all the pain away in just a matter of minutes, briefly numbing me from the bloodthirsty, despicable world. Alcohol and drugs seem to contradict themselves, however, and once you’re trapped inside their grasp, it’s nearly impossible to get out alive.

But that didn’t mean it was impossible, right? I’ve done it before. With much difficulty, mind you, but I did. I picked up a bottle of liquor that was a little more than half full from the table, opened it, and smelled it. I felt as if I were reminiscing with an old friend; a friend I wanted nothing to do with, but I enjoyed its company nonetheless. God, it was so tempting to drink from the bottle I held in my hand; surely, a few sips wouldn’t hurt?

With the liquor only centimeters away from my lips, I stopped. No, I thought, thinking of Bert and how he mercilessly slaughtered my boyfriend. I quit drinking because of Bert: I wanted to be nothing like him. I also quit for my boyfriend, because he was so willing to risk everything to Bert for me, and that was the only way I knew how to repay him, even after his death. Bert had continued to try to get me to have a drink or smoke with him, even after he killed my boyfriend, and it was literally all I could do to say no. If only I had been stronger, and not so weak…

The bottle of liquor ahead of me was a lot like Bert, in a way. Ever so dangerous; ever so tantalizing. I heard Frank drop something upstairs, and I knew that he would be coming back down here in a few minutes.

Without thinking, I brought the liquor up to my lips, savoring the taste as it teased my tongue once again. Just like old times. I drank down most of the rest of the bottle, as if to bring back the good memories, and gazed at the nearly-empty bottle once I finished. There goes that familiar warm buzz, as if it were welcoming me back. Suddenly, I felt a penitent lurch in my stomach.

What had I done?

“Gerard?” Frank popped up behind me again. Oh God, I hope he didn’t see any of that. My back was toward him; I still had the bottle in my hand. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah, are you?” I let out a hiccup, my face turning bright red as I tried to hide it.

He didn’t seem to notice, thank God. I turned to look at him; he was putting Pansy in her case, giving me time to put the bottle down somewhere.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, returning to the kitchen. “I should probably throw some of these bottles of alcohol away while my mom’s knocked out.” He started clearing the counter of all the bottles, pouring them down the sink, leaving only two or three; one of which the one I drank out of. He did the same for the kitchen table, only this time not leaving any.

I stood and stared at him like an idiot, feeling remorseful and diluted as hell, while he, the antonym of me, had the strength and power to pour the alcohol down the sink. Why? Why was it so hard for me to be in control of my life? Why must I be so spineless?

“Okay, we can go now, he told me, after he had written a note to his mother, and together me made our way back to my house, which was now not only a safe place for Frank, for also for my abject, pathetic self.

Frank's POV

“Hey, thanks so much for coming with me,” I said to Gerard, who looked uneasily at his shoes as we walked back to his house.

“Sure,” he mumbled, not looking up. “You need me to carry anything for you?”

I nodded; carrying both a bookbag and a guitar case was difficult. I handed him my bookbag, and he slipped one strap over his shoulder, still not looking up.

“Hey, I know my house can seem a little… intimidating,” I started.

“No, it’s not that at all.” He spoke to his shoes rather than me.

I understood; he’d probably remembered his seventh grade memories as he was surrounded by all the alcohol. I smacked my head, regretting making him stay in the same room with all the bottles of poison.

“I’m sorry, Gee,” I said. “I should have let you come upstairs with me, instead of being down there with it all.” By ‘it,’ I meant the alcohol.

He looked up at me for the fist time since we left my house, and went right back to looking down again. “Yeah,” was all he said. God, couldn’t I do anything right when I was around Gerard? Why did everything I said or did hurt him somehow?

I didn’t want to be the one hurting him; I had finally decided I was going to be the one that protected him. I loved him; I had finally decided.