FicWad

Another Chapter ^-^ I hope you guys like this one c: i'd appreciate if people could R&R, thank you c:

“Frankie! No! Stop it!” I heard a shrill scream from upstairs. The scream wasn’t familiar to me but the dark voice that followed it certainly was. I climbed upwards and popped my sketchbook on the shelf before visiting the scene of the crime.

When I got to the top of the stairs and entered my own bedroom, George was sat on the floor, crying. Frankie was stood looking confused with wide hazel eyes and his fingers still fluttering beside him awkwardly. George had tears falling down his cheeks, but Brendon was nowhere to be seen.

“Frankie, what did you do?” I asked, politely. Frankie flicked his gaze across to me and his eyes didn’t harden, nor narrow – they stayed just as wide with confusion. “Frankie?” I repeated.
Frankie’s mouth began to open a little in an attempt to talk. He didn’t talk much, unless you got him talking about puppies, in which case, he could talk for hours and hours.

“I – I just wanted to feel..” Frankie whispered. George was still bawling on the floor, perhaps an overreaction of sorts – but then again, when Frank first tried to do that to me, I screamed and screamed, and screamed until I was paid attention to. But that was me, and I’m different.

“You’re not allowed to feel, people don’t like it unless you ask and have permission.” I replied, gently. Frankie nodded and his hands dropped, letting George sigh a tiny bit in relief.

As soon as I called Brendon’s name he was skidding around the corner in my direction, bounding happily until I stopped him by the shoulder outside of the room.

“George is crying. Go and help him.” I said, flatly. Brendon’s eyes grew wide and he pushed past me, rushing to his friend’s side, being as comforting as possible. Whatever he did seemed to work and George’s tears subsided, hugging onto his slightly younger friend with a tiny, almost unnoticable smile.

But I noticed it.


Frankie then left ashamedly and we sat together back in the study, his tiny frame up against my shoulder when I showed him my artwork. He always liked my artwork, even if I didn’t.
Frankie was silent for several minutes before finally piping up, with a tiny voice.

“I didn’t mean to poke his eyes.. I’d never felt his face before a-and, I had to..” Frankie sniffed, a little embarrassed. I sighed and squeezed his shoulder, in a way my mother used to, to me.

“I know,” I replied, as gently as before. “But people don’t like it. You have to ask.” These words seemed to confuse him and he stared into space absently, calculating something in his head. His brow was furrowed as it always was whenever he was thinking hard.

“But how else will I know they are nice?” Frankie asked, innocently, a squeaky chime in his voice. I exhaled and put down my pencil, placing the sketchbook beside me. I pushed an arm around him and he instantly curled against my arm and side, seeking some comfort.

“You have to ask them,” I responded. “Everyone here likes you, Frankie. You know Brian’s nice and you haven’t touched his face, have you? And if you really have to, then just ask. I think you scared George a little bit.” Frankie considered my words and gazed ashamedly at the ground.

“You’re right,” He said, gently, apologetically. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it anymore, I promise.” He said, nodding his head determinedly. I smiled and picked up my pencil, returning to drawing.

“Good. Then hopefully we could all go back to the park. And Mikey could come too.” I suggested. Frank nodded and a small smile appeared. He was quiet again for another few minutes as he watched the pencils drag across my paper.

“I do like George.”

“I know you do.”

“Do you think he still likes me?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Now go apologize to him.” Frank heeded my words and skidded out of the door, and back upstairs.