Frerard Oneshots

✦ is there even an art to any of this? ✦

hello. this is kinda short, i guess, and really, really depressing. i'm just not in a good mental space at all right now, and i needed to write something to help myself cope. i guess this was just kinda a mush of things i wanted to express, and just... i don't know.

tw; suicide, transphobia, dysphoria.

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Frank's legs were shaking. He stood in the water, letting the waves wash over him -- the cloudy skies enveloping him in a chilled embrace as tears fled from his eyes, draining down his hollow, pale cheeks as he gazed out into the horizon over the sea.

He was clutching the locket tight in his grasp, knuckles turning white from how harshly he was clenching around the cool metal shaped around the form of a key -- swallowing thick as the salty air lashed at his wind-tousled hair.

He couldn't hear anything. The tiny strip of beach was silent, storms looming in the distance. All he could hear was the brush of the whipping breeze against the shells of his ears. The waves crashing, the seagulls calling, the damned noise in his head that wouldn't fucking stop.

He wanted it to stop. He wanted it all to stop. He wanted the numbing static crackling in his chest to stop. Numbing his fingertips and leaving his chest void of emotion. He really couldn't feel anything anymore, could he? He could feel the empty, echoing abyss of his heart beating shallowly within his ribcage. He could feel the hurt of the emotion lashing at him, throat welling and choked around sobs as he cried to the unknown.

He could feel, but at the same exact time, he couldn't. He could feel the pain as his nails dug into his palm around the necklace. He could hear his parent's words stinging him, even if he'd hide the pain -- bearing it all through silenced sobs as tiny tears splattered and stained his already pale enough cheeks.

He could hear the words of the church, mentions of this unknown 'she' and 'her' racketing through his mind as it was all he could focus on. Hearing it over, and over, and over again until he couldn't bear it. A dull echo in his ears that he trembled over for far too long, crying as the name he hated was muttered from all's lips -- a name that wasn't his, a body that wasn't his, a life that was no longer his.

But did any of it matter anyway? What was the point of all this at all? Nobody would notice if he just disappeared off the face of the Earth all at once. Nobody would spare a second glance at him, nor even mention that cursed birth name once more. It would all be silent. Just like Frank. Sat through school numb and not able to pick up on any of the content. Distracting himself instead with his writing, rather than doing his homework. Poetry spilling from his fingertips and beauty falling from his silent, working lips. Passing with straight A's through his classes, but feeling as if he was failing nonetheless -- trapped, and terrified.

His home didn't feel like a home anymore. It felt like a Hell. A prison. A confinement cell of constant tortue brewed beneath the seams and thrusted into his arms as if it were a thick load of laundry. "Here," They'd say. "Take this. Do what you will with it." And so Frank would. But none of the clothes would fit.

His deadname fit like a scratchy sweater about three sizes too small. Constricting him, choking him, killing him. The collar squeezed around his throat, unable to speak as it cut off air-flow, leaving him unable to say anything as he accepted the fate. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't fucking breathe.

"I don't like this," He'd tell his parents. "It doesn't fit. It's uncomfortable. It's scratchy and itchy and I hate it. I don't like this sweater."