Young and Doomed | Frerard

Chapter Twelve

Alright, Gerard didn't like Frank.

He was a nice guy, of course, but Gerard was just putting up with him. Sure, they talked, but it wasn't anything important. He didn't even really want to share a room in the first place, especially not with some guy who had a fucking piece of plastic shoved down his nose. He didn't like Frank, Hell, maybe he even hated the guy!

And with all that hate, Gerard was definitely not finding himself staring at Frank's sleeping figure well past midnight, wondering what his lips would feel like against his own.

He defended himself, saying that it was a totally fine and normal thought to have, and he was definitely able to wonder about things without anything going any further. The curiosity of what would happen if he kissed Frank right now wouldn't leave his mind, but Gerard knew he couldn't do that because Frank was straight and fuck, it wasn't like either of them was going to leave this place anytime soon. Gerard didn't want things to be awkward with Frank for the next who knows how many months, so he pointedly turned to face the wall, forcing his eyes shut.

It was probably better if he just forgot about it.

✰✰✰

"Because of yesterday, Gerard, I've decided to give you this." Dr. J handed Gerard a small fold of paper, and he took it slowly, unfolding it to find a photo of a woman with her face scribbled out.

After their floor meeting, Gerard had left for his therapy session. Frank had left part-way through, using the word "parents" as his only form of explanation. Gerard wasn't sure what that had meant, but he supposed if it was anything of importance Frank would tell him later.

"Who is this?" Gerard asked, smoothing out the paper's creases with his thumb. "And what happened to the photo?"

"It's your mother," Dr. J said, almost excitedly, and Gerard looked at him skeptically. "My biological mother?" He asked, and Dr. J nodded.

"You gave me a photo of my mom," Gerard began, holding up the photo. "But colored on it? Why bother giving me a photo in the first place if I can't see what she looks like?" He wasn't angry, per say, but fairly irritated. Was he being teased? What purpose did a messed up photo serve? "In all honesty, Gerard," Dr. J admitted. "I wasn't sure if you were ready to see a full photo of her."

"Why?" Gerard asked, and Dr. J tilted his head. "It's a pretty big deal, Gerard. Haven't you spent years wondering what she looks like? Wouldn't seeing her face bring up old memories? Wouldn't there be emotion connected to a full image of her?"

Gerard paused at this. He remembered being hit. He remembered being yelled at. He remembered being scared. And while he barely remembered their faces (if it all), he did remember that his mom did not have blonde hair.

"That's not my mom." Gerard said suddenly, and Dr. J was taken aback. "What do you mean, Gerard?"

"My mother had red hair," Gerard furrowed his brow, trying to think. "And my father had brown."

"People change their hair color often, Gerard," Dr. J said, but he sounded uneasy. "No," Gerard insisted. "She'd never dye it blonde. Her hair was red."

"Well," Dr. J wrung his hands. "I suppose,"

Suppose what? Maybe it's not your mother, then. Gerard sat back in his chair, folding his arms. Of course it's not, Gerard. It was stupid of you to think you had one. If he'd had a living, caring mother, she would have visited him years ago. She would have sent some sort of sign after he'd been admitted, telling him she was paying for his treatment, that it was going to be all right, that she loved him . . .