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Dead Like Me	By : poe Category: My Chemical Romance > General Views: 4827 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of My Chemical Romance. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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okay, everyone. the time is almost here. he moment you've all been waiting for....so, without further ado, read on loyal readers, read on, and be happy for fuck's sake! you've all been demanding some gerard/frankie man-action, so it begins......
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Disclaimer: This is a fictional story with characters that are not mine to play with, but I pretend to anyway, ha ha haaaa......
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I heard a creak. I knew that sound from the countless nights, or usually mornings, that the other temporary occupants of my room would decide they'd overstayed their welcome and make their hasty retreat to whatever hole in the ground they called home. I'm sure I helped that decision along when I threw them their pants and mumbled out a "Thanks", as I turned over in bed, or hopped into the shower.

Frankly, I was almost surprised that the door hadn't fallen of its hinges. The squeaking got louder every time, I swear, but I never fixed it. Sure, I could have whipped out some WD-40, and it would have been as good as new. Amd I had never liked the noise it made. It signaled the end of whatever I had used the previous night to distract me from reality. It meant that I had to get up, sometime soon, and let go of whatever vice I had clung to the night before; I had to be a normal, well seemingly normal, person. Until the next night.

Yeah, I'm a prick. A cold and heartless bastard. So sue me.
I saw his black hair behind the door, his delicate fingers creeping around the edge of the door, like he was trying to be quiet, trying to get me to not notice that he was there. But I knew the creak, and I knew him. I knew the way he waited with baited breath, the way his fingers curled around the frame, the way he'd wait until I ackknowledged his presence before he'd move into the room. He was so nervous all the time.
He pretended he wasn't. He'd feign ignorance, or say that he'd come to ask me something. That wasn't it though. He never had anything to ask me. Not anything he'd ever really say. And I knew it never was any of the other reasons he told me. It's hard to be friends with someone as long as we have been friends and not know when they're fucking with you. At least it is for me.
No, I knew why he waited by my door every night that I spent alone. It's like he sat at home waiting for the times when I would come home without my newest acquisition attached to my arm. Those days, he was positively determined not to love me. But I guess it's a lot easier to not love someone when they're fucking someone else.
He'd cling to Mikey, like a second skin, breath crawling all over him, eyes and hands attached at every possible second. Like a fucking life line. Like he couldn't live without him. I guess in a way he couldn't. Mikey was the only thing keeping him from losing his quote-unquote virtue to me. To becoming just another notch on my bedpost. He still had some innoccence left to lose.
So I'd let him. I'd talk to him, tell him my secrets, and hear some of his. He finally told me he was gay, as if I hadn't figured it out by now. I didn't usually give away much. I had very few secrets, and the deepest ones never saw the light of day. I think once I got too drunk, a rare occurence as I used to think there was no such thing, and I sort of let it slip about my insecurities. He never mentioned it again, and neither did I. I wasn't vulnerable. I wasn't weak, and sensitive and emotional, like all the other pretty boys I fucked. I was Gerard fucking Way.
He never told me what I wanted to hear though. Those little words of confession that I had been wanting to rip from him since the first day I met him. He was the only clean thing left in my life, the only thing I had that hadn't been completely destroyed by my sphere of influence. But he wasn't really mine any more.
No, my fucking brother had to go and take what could have been mine. Not that I was in any way capable of giving him what he wanted-- love and affection that all little boys crave. But I could have fucked his brains out. And maybe more than once. He was awfully pretty. And the pretty ones I tend to keep around for a week, maybe even two, if they were exceptionally good. And if my brother's moans and sighs from across the hall were any indication, Frankie was in all probablity exceptionally good.
I coughed. Not an accident. He started in the door frame, and I saw his hand and hair retreat from my sight.
"Frankie?" I called out, slightly annoyed that he wouldn't just come in the room, like he had to wait to be invited or something.
He didn't answer for a good 30 seconds, probably thinking long and hard about what excuse he was going to give for standing in my doorway like an idiot. I gave him an out.
"Can you come in here for a second?"
I saw his small frame enter my room, and like the first and every time I ever saw him, I marvelled at how his stature spoke to his meek personality. Sure, he liked to pretend he was so "badass", with his cigarettes, and his benders, and his ripped jeans and worn out converse runners. But I knew better. I remembered when the first time I got him drunk. It was almost like it had been the first time he'd ever tasted alcohol. I remembered how he'd clung to my shirt when we'd go to the bar, like he was afraid of getting lost in the sea of intertwined bodies on the dance floor.
I could corrupt him, mould him, shape him into whatever creation I desired. He accepted anything I put into him. That was my Frankie.
He stood awkwardly by the foot of my bed, his wide hazel eyes hesitantly meeting mine. I motioned to the sheets that lay in dissarray.
"Would you mind helping me make the bed?" He knew I didn't need help. What 25 year old needs help making the fucking bed?
He pulled on a corner of the top-sheet with a thumb and forefinger. He looked almost scared as he smoothed it down, probably wondering how many other's bodies were left as stains on the sheets.
He folded the blanket down over the top sheet, and started tucking the blanket into the bed frame. I moved over to his side and stopped him, grabbing him by the wrist. I could feel his body tense beside me, and I knew exactly what I was doing as I slowly, almost accidentally, pressed my body against his to untuck the blanket.
I knew he could feel my breath against the back of his neck, my hand gripping his wrist, my thighs pressed against his side. He stood completely motionless, like I was some sort of predator that he could evade by his lack of motion.
"I like to leave it untucked. I'm a bit of an aerobic sleeper."
I could see the flush creep up his neck and enflame his cheeks with its crimson hue. He knew I wasn't talking about nightmares or sleepwalking.
He still didn't move away from me. I suppose I could have pushed away from him, and kicked him out, like I usually did. But no, I had to be a bastard. I just had to.
"Frankie," I breathed against his skin, my mouth merely centimetres from his ear. "Why were you standing outside my door?" I wanted him to say it. I wanted him to confess why he always came to me when I was alone, why he always put on a big show of being with Mikey when I was alone. I just wanted those little words to escape that perfect little mouth of his, just once.
"I--I--uh--I was just--" He stuttered as my hand moved from his wrist up his arm, and across his chest.
"Don't tell me that you thought you left something in here, or you wanted to ask me if I'd seen something of yours, because we both know you never leave things in my room, and I never take your stuff."
I saw the point sink in, and the knowledge in his eyes that this was the one night he never should have skulked outside my room.
"I really should go, it's late..." He didn't move away.
"Come on, Frankie," My hand moved up to his jaw, tracing the outline of his cheek and chin. "Just tell me why you always are around my room. Just tell me, and you can go."
I saw the horror on his face when he realized what I was really asking him. He knew what I wanted him to say.
"Gerard, I just--" I put my finger to his lips.
"No, Frankie. No excuses. I'm tired of excuses." I pressed myself more firmly against him, my finger lightly dragging across first his bottom lip and then his top lip repeatedly. "I want you the truth."
I knew it must be killing him. Should he risk his wonderful, happy, lovey-dovey relationship with my wonderful, happy, lovey-dovey brother for a alcoholic, chain-smoking, train wreck on two legs?
He stood unblinking for a moment, his eyes locked with mine in a look that I wasn't sure he knew he was capable of giving.
"I can't tell you."
I let my hand fall from his face, disconnected myself from his side. "Go then." I turned away from him to finish pulling the blanket out of the bedframe, when I felt his hands grab my waist and pull me back up.
"I can't tell you, Gerard," he repeated, wetting his lips with his tongue before continuing. "But I can show you."
Before I had even really registered what he had just said, the little bugger's mouth was on mine, the softness and gentleness of it taking my by surprise.
Well, I wasn't expecting that.
This is going to be very interesting indeed.
- 11
- 12
- 13
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Dead Like Me