nobody will love you like the devil will//frerard/ferard

chapter two

im updating this instead of doing homework oops

When he gets home, he slouches into the kitchen to say hi to his mom. She pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, but she looks irritated. He's just glad she remembered to put the vegetable knife down first. She's surprisingly strong for such a tiny, delicate-looking woman. Frank has fond memories of her beating his dad's six-foot hulk of a brother at arm wrestling one Thanksgiving. No one fucks with his mom. Or, at least, no one is stupid enough to do it more than once.

"Is dad, uh..." Frank says cautiously. His mom has that look on her face, the one that says bite me, motherfucker, I dare you. Frank might be paraphrasing a bit there, but the general sentiment is right. She's been getting that look more and more lately whenever someone mentions Frank's dad.

"Out," she says tartly. "With his friends from the garage. Again. If he's hungry later he can cook for himself."

Frank groans inwardly and hopes it won't come to that. He loves his dad, but the man cooks like an arsonist. Even if he manages not to set fire to the kitchen (again), the whole house will still reek of smoke for at least a week afterwards. Frank will have to avoid the kitchen for a while, his stupid lungs don't cope well with smoke.

"Anyway," Frank's mom says, visibly pulling herself together. The thin, disapproving line of her mouth curves into a brittle smile. "Let's not talk about that. How was school?"

***

Later on, in the shower, Frank turns the water up until it's not quite hot enough to scald, then strips out of his uniform and steps in. He stretches out and makes a little happy noise as the hot water starts to work on the knotted muscles in his shoulders, undoing the hour he spent hunched over his calculus homework earlier. It feels fucking awesome. People who don't like showering are obviously crazy, and not to be trusted under any circumstances. He grabs the stupid flowery shower gel his mom always buys, then swears when he drops the slippery bottle on his foot. He picks it up off the cracked tiles and squeezes some out into his hand. It's really, really fucking pink. Sort of fuschia-colored. Secretly, though, he does kind of like the way it smells. Very, very secretly. He'd deny it vehemently if anyone ever actually asked.

Once he's washed his hair, he slicks his hand up with soap and lets it creep down over his soft belly and down again to his dick. He wraps his fingers around it and starts jacking himself, staring fixedly ahead at the tiles on the wall. He works fast, he doesn't want it to be too good. Jerking off is something he does quickly and furtively, and he tries to enjoy it as little as possible. The better it is, the dirtier he feels afterwards. He bites his lip, doing his best to suppress the soft, raw, guilty noises that are trying to slip out. The only way he can even justify this is the fact that trying to hold out against it for too long means he can't concentrate in school because he's too busy trying to marshal the fucking avalanches of impure thoughts. This is the lesser of two evils, or something. Whatever.

He keeps his mind carefully blank while he does it, but he can feel it building, his stomach tightening and his balls drawing up. He comes into his hand with a couple more strokes, and it's – yeah. Just right. Enough of a relief to make it worth it, but not so good that he feels any guiltier than he needs to. Like letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, he thinks, as he rinses the soap and jizz off his hand under the spray, stops the water and steps out again to grab a towel.

Once he's clean and warm and dry, he curls up in his bed and loses himself in Catch-22 for an hour. He isn't enjoying it, but he's sticking with it because trying to keep up with exactly what the fuck is going on is exhausting, and it never fails to make him sleepy. He gives up when his eyelids start getting heavy, and reaches for his rosary. He prays, then sinks gently into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

"Hey! Excuse me! Uh – excuse me? You dropped this." Frank's gasping for breath and his face feels hot, just from running halfway down the street. Fucking fuck, he is going to be so late, and all because some dude dropped his wallet and Frank's inner altar boy just couldn't say no to the prime good-deed-doing opportunity. Returning someone's wallet is totally spinach for the immortal soul, or something. He just hopes Sister Agnes will see it the same way. He doubts she will. He curses his stupid fucked-up lungs and the stupid fucking baby fat that just won't shift.

The dude who dropped his wallet turns round (fucking finally, Frank's been hollering fit to bust), and Frank waves the stupid wallet at him by way of an explanation while he struggles to breathe.

"You," he tries to explain. "This."

The dude's face clears, splitting into a broad grin. "Oh, shit! Thanks, man, I'd be fucked if I lost that."

Frank waves a hand in a magnanimous, don't-mention-it kind of way, but he suspects the effect is ruined by the fact that you could probably fry an egg on his face right now. "No worries," he wheezes, then straightens up to look at the guy properly. Pretty, he thinks, and then, immediately, what? The guy's – well, that's the only word Frank's got, pretty. Pretty like a girl, with big, dark eyes and a soft, round face. It's super weird. Frank abandons that train of thought, because this dude isn't a girl, no matter how much he might look like one. He must be new in town, Frank doesn't recognize him. Devil's Gap is basically a fucking hamlet about a million miles from anywhere. Frank doesn't know everyone by name, but he can spot an unfamiliar face from a mile off.

And then he notices the guy's shirt, and he's talking again before he can stop himself, non-existent smoothness be damned. "Oh, dude. Dude. You like the Smashing Pumpkins?"

The guy's grin brightens, and he shoves a hand through his dark, untidy hair. "Fuck yeah," he says. "Fuckin' A. Favorite album?"

"Mellon Collie And The Infinite Sadness," Frank answers instantly, and the guy holds out a hand for Frank to fistbump.

"Yes," he says emphatically. "You are so fuckin' right. Hey, you wanna go and get a coffee or something? On me. Just to say thanks for picking my wallet up."

Frank deflates. "Can't," he says. "I've got school."

The guy raises an eyebrow. "Oh, the Catholic one over that way? Queen something?"

"Our Lady Queen Of Heaven, yeah," says Frank gloomily, scuffing his feet against the sidewalk. "Sorry, man."

"Hey, don't worry about it," the guy says with an easy shrug, but he looks a little disappointed. Fuck. Frank wants to. If it's a choice between Latin grammar and hanging out with the first other person he's ever actually met who's into the Smashing Pumpkins – well, that's no choice at all. Although, actually, it still wouldn't be any kind of choice if it was between Latin grammar and being hauled face-down over hot coals. Latin grammar is not Frank's strong suit. He suspects it's all a conspiracy to make people feel dumb, that no one actually understands it and everyone who says they do is just pretending.

Then the guy says, as an afterthought. "I'm Gerard. You know, by the way."

"Frank," says Frank, and Gerard tips him a two-fingered salute.

"Nice to meet you, Frank," he says, with a smile that's almost sly. "See you round."