Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > But No One Sees the Gnashing Teeth of My Heart [Frerard]

The Answer Is In the Woodwork

by eccentricpaige 1 review

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Drama - Characters: Frank Iero,Gerard Way - Warnings: [?] - Published: 2011-10-23 - Updated: 2011-10-23 - 1728 words

Tuesday comes around as is expected, and I find myself at school almost a half an hour earlier than usual because my dad has an inspection at work. Hardly anyone's come in yet, save the custodians and office staff. I mindlessly walk down the halls and marvel at the food propped up high in the snack machines.

"I have a dollar if you..." a tiny voice mumbles to my back. Looking in the reflection provided by the glass door of the machine, I realize it's Gerard offering me money and turn around with only a tinge of visible excitement about me.

"Oh, no it's all right. I grabbed an apple before I left the house." I lie. His gaze falls instantly as he tries to nod. Quickly, I try to think of something to say; something that will still prove how grateful I am.

"Hey..." I say, my hand raising itself to rest on his shoulder, but stopping short when it's mere inches away. "Thanks, though." I say, trying my best to let my focus hit his eyes. As he slowly lifts his head, I see the gentle smile playing on the corner of his mouth. I think it odd how such a small statement could bring him happiness, but I'm in no way ready to deprive him.

"Sure." he says, the smile morphing into a smirk and still resting on his mouth like it's the most natural thing in the world.

A person walks down the hall in the direction of the library. I can't tell who it was, but considering the present company, I really don't care either. A few beats go by where nothing is said, and all we do is stand closely to one another and listen to the ticking of the hallway's clock. Given our proximity to one another, it's only inevitable that I notice a thing or two. Like the way he smells of vanilla and cigarettes, or how his hollow breathing seems raspy and afraid. Glancing up, I realize the bruises on his face are nearly invisible, though that brings on the obvious question of how he's settled the matter in his mind. Are there unresolved issues? Or has it happened so many times, he's forgotten altogether?

Suddenly, a small giggle escapes Gerard's lips. If more of a commotion had been taking place in the hall, I doubt I would have noticed it at all.

"What? What is it?" I ask, my grin beginning to match his in size.

"Nothing, nothing." Gerard says quietly, his tiny laugh disappearing just as quickly as it came. I look him up and down in search of an answer, but nothing comes to mind. I almost have the mind to ask again, but lucky for me, he caves.

"It's just... you smell like Old Spice. My brother uses that stuff..." Gerard trails off, barely whispering his final sentence. It strikes me how little I know about this person standing in front of me. But I'm more than willing to learn.

"Oh? And where is he?" I ask, hoping I'm not being too straightforward. Gerard seems to be caught off guard by the question, but his expression virtually stays the same.

"In Florida." is all he says. His gaze is no longer directed to this hallway, but rather to the scenes playing out in his minds. Probably those of a childhood relationship with this brother he's mentioned. Probably those of a simpler time.

"Oh, so he's already out of school?" I ask, praying he won't be offended by my sudden game of 20 Questions. Gerard simply shakes his head and looks up at me, the glossiness of his eyes retreating.

"Nah, he's only 16." Gerard whispers. I guess it's me who's wearing the confused expression again, though. Because the moment that statement is freed from his mouth, I can already tell he's ready to provide me with more if need be. But I don't ask. It's really not my place to know.

Quickly, I try to change the subject to something that will hopefully not bring up any harsh memories. I realize I have very few topic choices, though. Right when I think it's a lost cause, Gerard decides to speak up instead.

"So, you know that guy at the music store, right? Ted?" Gerard asks, struggling to look me right in the eyes, and working even harder to keep his focus locked in place.

"I've only seen him a few times; always in the store, too. Why?" I ask, curiosity washing over me.

"Well, he asked about you. Said you had the hands of a guitarist, actually." Gerard says with a hint of pride, like this Ted knows his stuff.

"He'd be right, then." I answer, almost completely ignoring the sudden wave of students coming indoors from their respective buses.

"I think he already knew he was." Gerard says with a friendly tone so to make sure I knew his cockiness wasn't impolite. "Anyway, he asked me to get you to come down to the store sometime. Just to give him a taste of how good you are, I guess." Gerard mentions; the subject of our conversation multiplying his confidence before my eyes and leaving me in awe.

"Sure..." is all I can say in this dreamy voice I'm not quite sure I had. Gerard smiles, this time a smile worth photographing. It's a genuine one; not a fake piece of shit that'll be forgotten in years to come.

Right then, the bell rings, signaling that our rendezvous is over and that it's time to get to class. I realize I still haven't gone to my locker yet, but luckily I have Art first block, and we won't be needing our sketch books until sometime next month since we've been assigned a project for the next few weeks.

Gerard and I both walk down to the Fiber Optic room, both of us keeping a friendly distance and making sure not to touch. I'm beside myself with an uncomfortable infatuation, though. A part of me... it wants to touch him. Just to brush across his hand or back; just to see if he's really made of flesh and bone or something much more brittle.

Within moments, we're down to the classroom and practically being run over by other classmates. As I take a seat, Gerard stands for a moment, seeming to consider whether or not he should keep his usual seat apart from mine. Surprisingly, he goes with the seat to my immediate left. I start to feel nervous for whatever reason, but don't lead on because it would only make the situation awkward.

The formalities take place in the classroom, and by the time everyone's nearly bored to tears, our teacher gives the go ahead and points to our group of blank chairs in the corner of the classroom next to the supply closet.

Gerard, who's closest to the pile, stands up to reach our's, which has our initials jotted down on one of the legs. After a moment of keeping his distance from the other vultures, he's able to reach down and pick our chair up. I make room on the table before lying down some newspaper as a precaution. Once I'm finished, Gerard sits the chair high on the table and we both sift through our pile of printed pictures and written ideas that we've left next to the printer in the back of the room.

Class goes by like any other day. Nothing happens that would mark it as a new day, or even one of a more promising nature. There's just something with how the morning started that makes class more tolerable.

As soon as Gerard has finished sanding all four of the legs, he leaves it up to me to coat them in our base color, white. While I grab a sizable brush from the supply closet, Gerard pours out a decent amount of paint onto our tray. I watch for a moment at how careful he's being. Like apocalyptic instances would ensue if he did, in fact, spill a speck of paint on the table. After a moment, I circle around the table and go to soak my brush.

"You should probably roll up your sleeves, you know." Gerard mentions as if it was simply a part of small talk. Anxiety seizes the back of my neck and makes my hair seem to prick up in surprise. The thought hadn't occurred to me, but now that it has, there's no way in hell I'll be able to protect my sleeves from paint.

"Uhm. You know, it's okay. I have other jackets." I say lamely. Gerard lifts his head to look at me, his eyes narrowing, but never in a condescending way. After a moment, something hits him.

"Oh." is all he says, and he bends down as if work has been the only thing on his mind from the beginning. I'm careful not to pry with him. The rest of the block goes by, and with every passing moment I've wanted to ask what he meant. But I know it would be pointless to ask. After all, he was probably just trying to get a move on the project. I convince myself of this as I move to the sink to wash out the brush I've been using for the better part of an hour.

Class dismisses, leaving all of us to hurry to our lockers and eventually to a different classroom entirely. The rest of the day is nothing to me. Nothing but a formality of its own. Like a frowned-upon agenda I'm forced to fulfill by law. Once I'm finally on the bus, I instinctively feel inside of my bag for my iPod, but then reality hits me and my mood worsens.

I see Gerard sitting diagonally from my seat. His black hood is up while his head is propped against the window. His eyes sweep over everyone on the ground, but I can't seem to see his face to know how he feels about each of them. Each stop takes me one step closer to home, and I'm both relieved and nervous, because I know what's happening tonight.

Service. Again.

And with that thought, I collect my things and stand up. The bus has arrived, but I'm far from mentally prepared for what's in store at church tonight.
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