Follow me home (Frerard)

Well I find it hard to stay, with the words you say

Gerard's POV

In all honesty, I wasn't mad at Frank. When he raced out of my room, I stood there motionless for a long time. I couldn't seem to comprehend that this was real life, that this was the finality of it all, my entire relationship with him-- It was over.

The realization dawns on me when Mikey appears at my side. He watches me with a guarded expression, his lips pressed into a flat line, and puts a hand gently on my shoulder. "Gee?" He wonders softly. "Are you okay?" I knew he had heard every word I'd said to Frank through the paper thin walls and when Frank stormed out, he knew as well as I did what that meant. Frank was leaving me. Guess we couldn't even be just friends after all.

I can't force myself to form words. My body feels numb, empty and hollow. Like when Frank left the apartment, he took everything inside me with him. "I told him," I finally manage to admit. I can feel tears on my cheeks, unaware until now that they were there. I wipe a hand across my eyes. I watch the floor, not able to meet Mikey's gaze. "I told him I loved him, and he left."

"Gerard--" The single word is laced with sympathy and I shake my head quickly. I push Mikey's hand off my shoulder and my jaw tightens. Closing my eyes, I wish I could take it all back. Every second I wasted on him, I want it back. "Just give me a minute, okay?" I hate the choked sound in my voice, the lump that has arisen in my throat that makes my question sound like a sob.

But Mikey nods and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

When I'm alone, I move to my bed, sitting down. I feel exhausted suddenly and I want nothing more than to sleep so long I forget Frank's existence. I notice the sketchbook on my mattress, open to the most recent drawing of Frank I'd done last night. I grab it, the book clenched tightly between white knuckles. I follow the contour of his body with my eyes, taking in the detail of his tattoos and the small smile that didn't leave his face, even in sleep.

And then I throw the journal across the room. It collides with the lamp on my desk, sending it to the floor as well. In that swift motion, the waterworks begin and I feel a strike of pain through the numbness. Pushing myself off the bed, I move to the desk. There are a few scattered drawings of Frank and I grab them. They crumple in my grasp, but I don't stop there. I rip them to shreds.

I find a few of my other sketchbooks, even more of the precious images of that one man, and do the same. It makes me feel a little better, throwing things and tearing pictures. When I've run out of drawings to destroy, I sink to my knees in the middle of the mess. Scraps of Frank lie around me like debris of a ruined house, like ashes falling from flames. My hands are shaking and my chest is tight.

But in the end, I'm not mad at Frank. I know that. Twisting in my stomach is nothing more than a burning self-hatred stronger than I've ever felt. I was stupid to think that Frank could ever return my feelings. I finally had a relationship with someone I cared about and I had to ruin it by telling him the truth, by asking for more than he wanted. But even more than that, I want to erase every second I've ever spent on him. I convinced myself that he actually liked me and I threw myself into it headfirst. And when he wasn't there to catch me, I landed face-down in the dirt, cursing myself for jumping in the first place.

I bury myself in blankets on the bed. I try to tell myself I can't smell Frank there, wrapped up in the sheets with me, but even I know I'm lying. It's a scent that I never knew until last night and now it's something I'll never forget.

The others try to talk to me, but the embarrassment makes me tell them all to go away. I know they heard me throw a fit, tearing my sketchbooks and screaming, and I don't want to face any of them. Even Ray makes an attempt to check on me, but I don't reply and he soon leaves.