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A/N: hey guys, thank you all SO FREAKING MCH FOR THE AWESOME REVIEWS!!!!!!! Hope you all like this chapter and please carry on with your awesome support! :D


Chapter Nine

In the vague, vain hope that the footsteps that echoed up the stairs and the knocking on my bedroom door might somehow have been created by the Grim Reaper come to rescue me from my mortifying existence with a quick sweep of his scythe, I cross my room slightly shakily to stand beside the door, stomach churning with nervous butterflies, brain cells bouncing excitedly like the retarded morons they are.

The Grim Reaper could be a Doc Marten wearer, right?

“Umm…w-who is it?” I stutter nervously and then resist the great temptation to smack my head hard against the sticker smothered wood of my bedroom door in attempt to knock out all the fuzzy, unfunctioning imbeciles that call themselves brain cells.

I mean, seriously, what an utterly retarded question to ask- really, who the fuck is it gunna be? Glen Danzig? Voldemort? A rollerblading moose?!

And unfortunately, despite how much I might wish it with all the power in my deluded, conspiring little brain cells, I seriously doubt it’s the Grim Reaper in a pair of deep purple Doc Martens.

In reality, there’s really only one person it could be. The person I can’t seem to spend five minutes with without physically assaulting, the person who just about destroys my knees with fatally melting smiles, the person my fucked up little brain cells have got their stupid pink knickers in a twist about, and the latest victim of my cold-bloodedly evil stepsister.

In other words, Frank motherfuckingmooseshitting Iero. And he’s standing outside my bedroom door.

Except that he’s just called Frank Iero.

Motherfuckingmooseshitting would be a pretty fucked up middle name to give your kid.

Arghhh. Deal with one mental breakdown at a time, numbskull.

Don’t call me numbskull, fuckface.

Don’t call me fuckface, you-

Before I actually violently castrate all the mentally incompetent voices in my head with a blunt spatula, I take a deep breath and yank open my bedroom door in the wildly irrational hope that it will shut them up, only to have my knees melted at an alarming rate, my pathetic brain cells to all swoon and my body to perhaps release every single hormone in my body at once.

Sadly for my sanity, it’s not the Grim Reaper standing causally on the landing wearing a pair of deep purple Doc Martens. Or Glen Danzig. Or Voldemort.

Or even a rollerblading moose.

Instead, it’s the utterly sexy sex god of sex godliness, destroyer of my knees, the cause of my many mentally unhinged co-ordination episodes, and the latest victim of the more vicious Cruella Devil- aka my lying, cheating, slutty stepsister who shall meet a nasty death involving a herd of bloodthirsty meese if I have anything to do with it.

“Ungieeehf…Hi…” I say dazedly, rapidly grappling for support from the door in attempt to keep upright as my knees seem to have decided to melt into a pile of gooey jelly, and also to keep my hormone-crazed body and deluded brain cells from doing something seriously stupid like flinging my Frankly overwrought, skinny being at him at full speed in a large, hormonally unhinged, deluded Gerard splat, as I don’t think he’d appreciate that.

Not to mention Jamie would brutally assassinate me with her flexible mascara wand or castrate me with her nail scissors.

“How’re you doing?” Frank smiles at me, pushing a hand through his carelessly styled mini-Mohawk that falls dishevelled across his big black sunglasses, resulting in near death for me. Does the guy have no idea what he does to people?! Being that irresistible should seriously be illegal…if he gets much more gorgeous, I will have no responsibility over my actions. “I wanted to come and see how your hand is.”

“Uooompheeef…” Is my vacant response as my eyes glaze over taking in the 5’4 measurement of perfection standing in front of me with ripped black skinnies, a sleeveless black ‘I love Zombies’ shirt exposing lightly tanned muscled arms with inky black tattoos that curl down from his shoulder blades. He’s wearing his usual sexily lopsided grin that stretches his silver lip ring, black sunnies hiding his beautiful eyes.

“Gerard?” Frank looks amused at my vacant, mentally drooling expression, hooking a casual finger through the loopholes of his jeans and leaning against the doorframe, hair hanging in his eyes. “Can I come in?”

“Uemph…ooff….eep…sure..” I mumble, breathing in the lethally alluring combination of mangoes, sunshine, tobacco and guitar strings that intoxicate my nostrils, only managing to answer as I realise that if I don’t move from where I am in the next few seconds, something hormone crazed and Gerard-shaped will collide with Frank in a knee-melted, fuzzy mush at about a hundred miles an hour, propelled by insanity and hormonally deluded brain cells.

“Coolbeans.” Frank throwing me a quick grin and strolling past my melted form clutching onto the door as if it’s my life support, and into my messy purple room, flopping down onto my unmade bed.

There’s silence for a moment as I try and re-locate my brain which seems to have evaporated in a cloud of fuzzy hormones, so as I can form a simple sentence that doesn’t sound like a gibbering drunken hamster and so as I won’t fling myself at perfection itself which just happens to be sitting on my bed in a sleeveless black shirt. Unfortunately, my moronic little brain cells obviously plotting my demise are still in evidence, as loud and difficult as ever.

Jump on him. He might not notice…

He’s not as retarded as you are- I think he might just notice.

He’s dating Jamie, isn’t he? How much stupider can you get?

How about arguing with yourself inside your own head?!

Shut up, you’re the one doing it!

Jump, jump, jump!

“I love this song.” Frank announces, cutting through my inner insanity and saving me from spontaneous combustion, gesturing towards my stereo which is currently blasting out Living Hell by The Misfits. “I’ve got this album at home.”

“A-awesome.” I stutter distractedly. “Me too.”

Frank chuckles at me, shaking his head and looking amused. “No shit, Sherlock- it is playing out of your stereo.”

I want to remove my own head.

I’d probably think better without it anyway.

“Oh.” Is my intelligent response as I hover twitchily by the door, trying very, very hard not to let my brain cells notice the fact that sex itself is lounging casually on my bed, tapping it’s foot in time with the beat of the song and fiddling with it’s silver lip ring.

Does god have no mercy on my fucked-up existence?! Or is he determined to slowly and painfully kill me?

“Let me have a look at your hand- that burn was nasty.” Frank says, motioning for me to join him on my bed.

I don’t move, all the nincompoops that live inside my head screaming loudly for different things, mainly things involving things that might just count as rape or sexual assault.

“C’mon Gerard, I don’t bite!” he grins at me.

Oh, there would be no complaints if you did…

SHUT THE FUCK UP, BRAIN. JUST SHUT UP, OKAY?!

Slightly nervously, cursing the useless organ that lives inside my skull, I start towards the bed. Of course, the fact that the god of sexiness is sitting on it with rock star sunglasses, a reckless mowhawk that flops irresistibly over his face and a grin that could melt all the knees in America is somewhat distracting, and I fail to notice the large pile of CDs stacked by my bed, which results in a nasty mishap involving the several dozen Iron Maiden CDs and my bedroom rug, ending with me sprawled on the floor under Frank, who’s laughing and shaking his head disbelievingly.

“You really are a walking disaster, aren’t you?” He chuckles, shaking his head and offering me his hand to pull me up from my mortifying faceplant on the carpet. “Have you ever managed to walk across a flat surface without catapulting yourself over something?”

I groan and stay where I am on the floor, hoping for a sudden, painless death or for the sudden invention of absorbing bedroom carpets so I’ll be sucked into the pits of hell- compared to this, they must be a bundle of laughs.

“Fuck.” I groan, bashing my head against the carpet as if by doing so will suddenly open some magic trapdoor I can escape through. I never, ever want to face Frank again. Ever. How much more embarrassment am I expected to endure?!

If the fucking universe and my evil little brain cells have anything to do with, probably shitloads.

“C’mon, Tumbles.” Frank says gently, gripping my hand and pulling me up to sit beside him on the bed, my face glowing like a scarlet beacon calling Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. “Now, let me see your hand, yeah?”

“Umpph…sure..” I blush furiously, trying to hide behind my hair as Frank carefully picks up my bandaged hand and starts unwrapping the white with gentle care, hair flopping forward as he bends over my singed hand.

“So…had a good day?” Frank asks, pushing strands of his dyed black hair behind is ear and surveying the raw red skin of my melted hand.

I nearly gave the most gorgeous guy in existence concussion with a guitar, magnificently faceplanted right in front of him, became even more of a retarded stuttering mess than usual, poured boiling water over my own hand which removed almost all feeling from it, stared longingly at a guy I can’t have but am probably gunna die over, nearly got castrated by my own stepsister, got laughed uproariously at by my best friend and younger brother, and terrorised the local postman who’s proably singing me up to the nearest mental institute right now. Oh, and found out that my best friend’s hobby is snogging cats.

A good day? I think not.

“Sure.” I reply, because I don’t really feel the need to remind him just how much of a retarded, stuttering imbecilic nincompoop I am, especially after the slight mishap I just had with the CDs. “You?”

“Yeah, it was alright…” Frank replies, turning my hand over gently and taking off his sunglasses. “Can’t see with these on- you wear them.” He looks up from my injured hand, all bright green, red rimmed eyes and scruffy black hair, grinning, and carefully slides the big black sunglasses onto my face with calloused, guitar player’s fingers that softly brush against the burning skin of my cheeks.

“There.” He smiles, leaning back and looking at me with a wide smile. “They suit you.”

Nothing suits me unless it’s a bin bag that covers my entire being, but I blush furiously, wishing the sunglasses covered my cheeks as well, but luckily my bedroom door bangs open before Frank can notice I’m redder than a sunburnt tomato with anger management issues dressed up as Rudolph the red nosed reindeer.

“Gee, I brought back your make up. You can use it to carry on being the sad gay transvestite you are now.” Mikey announces loudly before he catches sight of Frank sitting beside me on my bed.

My cheeks are beyond red. I think I might actually die. As in, seriously just expire on the spot.

And I am going to kill the person who invented younger siblings.

With a mallet.

“Oh.” Mikey says helpfully, suddenly noticing Frank with my hand in his lap, looking questioningly at me with a smirk tugging at the corners of his irresistible pink lips as my eyes go wider with horror than they did the time Mikey found out we were out of coffee and it was a Sunday so all the shops were closed and he had to actually go without coffee for more than twenty four hours for possibly the first time in his entire existence.

Mikey promptly starts howling with hysterical laughter, doubled up, clutching onto my dresser for support.

This carries on for a further two minutes, while Frank continues to look mildly amused and I continue to look like a dying tomato, nothing but my evil younger sibling’s hysterical, hyena humping a mentally incompetent elf on speed laughter filling my room, then he just shakes his head through his hysterics.

“Oh god, no more, no more…I’ll die..” he gasps, and stumbles blindly from my room, still howling hysterically.

We can still hear him from downstairs for several agonisingly embarrassing moments.

“I’m really not a gay transvestite.” I say, wide-eyed to Frank, who’s biting his lower lip and looking like he’s trying hard not to laugh at my utterly beyond horrified expression. “Really, I’m not- Mikey’s just saying that because he’s-”

“Chill out Gerard, I don’t think you’re a gay transvestite.” Frank teases. “Make up’s awesome- I always wear my red liner. What’s your make up?”

“It’s mostly just Halloween stuff.” I mumble as my brain cells droop.

“Can I put some on?” Frank says, a wicked smile creeping across his face, eyes twinkling vivid emerald.

“On me?” I say stupidly, suddenly very aware that my hand is still in his lap, centimetres from…

Oh, nice one, you utter moron! That’s really a thought you needed to get into your idiotic, hormone crazed thoughts.

“Yes, on you.” Frank grins. “I think you’d look awesome with it. I’m great at putting make up on, honest.”

“You think I look so bad I need to put make up on?” I joke, trying very, very hard not to concentrate on where my left hand is or I might just get arrested for sexual assault.

But on the plus side, I wouldn’t be able to embarrass myself from a high security prison cell.

Hmmm…possibilities…

“Of course I don’t think that!” Frank says incredulously. “Have you not looked in the mirror lately, Gerard?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly why I said that.” I roll my eyes, heart thumping and suddenly feeling very grateful there’s so little feeling left in my hand.

“Gerard!” Frank exclaims, flailing his arms about incredulously, which extremely unfortunately shifts the placement of my hand and…oh meesefuckers and mooseshit. Fuck fucking fuck. I am actually gunna die here and now. “Get some fucking confidence, dude! You look awesome!”

I say nothing; I’m far too busy trying to convince my hormonally crazed little brain cells trying not to get too excited and do something seriously inappropriate that would almost certainly result in painful death.

“C’mon.” Frank gets up, much to my relief and my brain cells’ bitter disappointment.

“Huh?” I say blankly, as Frank goes over to my dresser where Mikey deposited the box of my make-up and scoops it up.

“Sit.” Frank instructs, pointing towards the window seat, and like the Frank-deluded moron I am, I obey.

“Okay…” Frank sits down beside me and starts rootling through the box as I look out into the pink-skied sunset that stretches out across the garden below, trying to calm my pounding heart and frantic pulse, expel my sick thoughts of insanity and not freak out over the fact that Frank is sitting right next to me and is about to start putting make up on me. Is it normal to be ever so slightly turned on by the thought of another guy putting make up on you?

No, I seriously doubt it is, but then again, I’m not exactly the definition of a normal teenager.

Frank suddenly grins and looks up. I gulp.

Frank laughs. “No need to look so scared, Gerard! I’m only gunna put a little make up on you- it won’t kill you.”

It might, if Jamie comes in, or if my hormonally insane brain cells get their way.
And somehow, especially after this afternoon, I don’t think my oh-so-lovely stepsister would take well to her boyfriend putting make up on her gay stepbrother.

“Right…” Frank picks up my chalk white foundation powder and starts gently brushing it across my burning cheeks.

My heart is seriously gunna explode in a moment.

Or my stomach is gunna combust from all the somersaults it’s turning.

“So…you sure you won’t sing for me sometime?” Frank asks, bright green eyes shimmering in the soft glow of the pink sunset, biting his lip in concentration as he sweeps the foundation over my skin and my heart pounds faster that when Jamie walked in on us in my room earlier with a glare scarier than Voldemort on a bad day. “I need a singer for my band.”

“You mean…me?” I choke in surprise, moving so that Frank accidentally stabs me in the eye with the foundation brush. “Owww!”

“Shit, sorry!” Frank exclaims, peering at my watering eye.

“It’s fine.” I mumble, trying very hard not to look at him or my heart will start doing funny things again, not to mention all the obscene things my brain cells will start whinging about. “So…you’re in a band?”

I mentally pat myself on the back at actually managing to form a coherent sentence in his presence instead of reverting to my usual language of retarded moron.

Perhaps my brain isn’t quite so useless as I thought it was.

Okay, that’s the most bullshit I’ve heard all day, and I had to listen to Ray talking about his cat.

“Well…I’m trying to find people to play in my band.” Frank says a little sheepishly, finishing with the foundation and picking out my black eyeliner.

“Oh.” wow, I’m so great at interesting, intelligent responses.

Can’t my brain do anything I want it to? Or is it totally and utterly useless?

“You’ve got nice skin.” Frank comments, tucking my hair behind my ear so as he can start on my eyes and giving me violent goose bumps all down my spine and my brain cells all cry for my instant attachment to his lips.

“Um,” is my fascinating response. Yep, it’s official; my brain is totally and utterly useless. I might as well get it surgically removed and replaced with foam- it would be just about as useful.

There’s silence for a few moments, just the soft sound of The Misfits’ Saturday Night playing from the stereo as Frank’s soft, smooth fingers smudge the black round my eyes, his face close to mine, eyes wide and warm and emerald swirled with smiling russet as he chews his lower lip in concentration, black tendrils flopping between us and tickling my nose, mango scented and alluring, reeling me in, intoxicated….

Gerard!!! Snap out of it, or this will not end well. Not well at all.

I try and pull my disobedient thoughts from the dangerous amount of perfection leaning lethally close to me all warm and smelling of sunshine and-

“Frank, what the fuck are you doing?!” Frank and both jump, resulting in the eye pencil being unintentionally jabbed suddenly into my eye as we both whirl round to see the bitch from hell standing in my doorway.

In some ways, I’m actually almost relieved to see her, even if she does look ready to brutally maim; I don’t know what my fucked up little brain cells would have resorted to doing had I been left in that situation much longer. Probably something that Jamie would make me live to regret for the rest of my life.

Which wouldn’t be very long seeing as I’d be dead.

“Just chilling with Gerard.” Frank shrugs, getting up.

“Oh my god, are you putting make up on the freak?!” Jamie sneers. “Jeez Frankie, he’s already gay enough without that!”

I flush with embarrassment.

“Hey, I wear make up.” Frank protests, running a hand through his hair.

“Come on, come to my room for a bit.” Jamie whines. “You’ve spent long enough with the ugly… thing.”

I say nothing, hurt jabbing through my stomach as I hide behind my hair.

“I’ll be along in a minute- you go on ahead.” Frank says, and Jamie shrugs, sauntering out of my room.

“You okay?” Frank asks quietly, kneeling down beside me, his eyes concerned for once.

I nod, not looking up.

“Just so as you know, she’s talking bullshit. Don’t listen to her, okay?” Frank says, pushing back my hair and looking seriously at me. “You’re fucking cute.”

And before my brain cells can rejoice at his words, he leans in and softly, lightly presses his warm lips to the tip of my nose, then he’s gone, out the door and down the landing to the daughter of Satan’s lair, leaving all my brain cells’ mouths wide open in shock and my heart pounding crazily.

Okay, what the actual moosefucking meeseshit was that?!

Have I actually gone so insane I’ve started imagining things?!

Perhaps it's time to bring in the doctors in the white coats...



How was it? sorry if it was a bit rushed- I was chucked off the computer :/ please R&R to tell me what you think and I’ll update asap :D thank you all so much for reading- I love you guys so much- you’re the best readers ever!!

CosmicZombie xo

p.s,. I’d really appreciate it if you could read and review this Halloween oneshot I did! Pleeeease? Thank you :D http://www.ficwad.com/story/172726