The pirate boy (Frerard, Petekey)

Chapter thirteen - the terrifying notion that Gerard may actually have a soul

Chapter thirteen - Vomit, lemons, and the terrifying notion that Gerard Way may actually have a soul

im not sad right now

it's cool im enjoying it while it lasts

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I keep getting flashbacks of things I don't remember.

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"Training," was Gerard's first brisk word upon waking me up the next day. No mention of 'good morning'. No 'thank you for practically carrying me to my room last night then staying there with me even though you despise my guts'.

I had slept on the floor, curled up in a ball in the corner of the room in an effort to stay warm. I was grumpy and exhausted, and Gerard was the last person in the whole world I wanted to be in the presence of right now. I gritted my teeth at the thought of being stuck with him in training for the next two hours.

At least I would get to hurt him. That was always pleasantly calming.

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"Frank, calm down," Gerard said in exasperation. "You throw that hard and it'll just end up swerving." He gestured at the knives scattered on the ground around the target.

I huffed. "I thought we were doing hand to hand combat."

Gerard frowned. "Well, you need to learn how to throw knives as well. That always comes in handy, trust me."

"Just please let me kick you. Please."

"Boy, you're not usually this eager. What's–"

"What's wrong?" I finished in a mocking tone. "I spent my whole night on your bedroom floor. My neck aches, my legs ache, and I think I have a misaligned spine. I was hoping to take it out on you, since you're the one whose fault it is I'm in all this pain."

Gerard shrugged. "You didn't have to stay."

"You looked like you were a second away from dissolving in tears, I couldn't just stalk off."

"I wasn't crying," Gerard grated out.

"Oh, really? I guess you just had some salty water in your eyes?"

"I wasn't fucking crying."

"Of course," I said. "Pussy."

Gerard's hands were around my neck in half a second. I tried to suppress my laughter. He was so easy to provoke.

"It's all right to be sensitive," I attempted to say sarcastically, but his hands were painfully tight around my throat, and I was choking too violently to form the words.

"Fuck you," he spat, releasing my neck and kicking me down to the floor. "Fuck you, Frank."

His heavy boot was pressing into my stomach and pushing the air out of my lungs. I didn't reply. Gerard dropped to his knees, grasped my hands and pressed them above my head to the cold hardwood floor. A splinter of wood dig into my hand. There was pure hurt in Gerard's eyes; he wasn't even trying to disguise it anymore. His breaths were shallow, and I could see his chest rising and falling at quick intervals. "You don't know what's in my mind," he said. "Fuck you."

I expected him to go back to strangling me after that, or at least hitting me, but his hands stayed pressed to mine, pinning my wrists against the floor.

I hesitated. The only sound was our breath clashing. "Tell me then."

"What?" Gerard asked.

"You're right," I said. "I don't know what's in your head. So why don't you tell me?"