Wintertime (Frerard, Sequel to Summertime)

23: Gerard Nearly Gets Frank Killed Like The Responsible Boyfriend He is

Gerard found himself sat outside the 'house', 'their house', and in fact the notion of it being as such seemed utterly ridiculous in his mind, but it was, for the time being, this place was home, a home he shared with Frank Iero, and perhaps that was all he'd ever wanted.

He found his eyes fixated upon the horizon: sunrise, he hoped Frank wouldn't worry too much when he woke up and found the bed beside him empty - Gerard had just need space, needed the forest more than he'd needed Frank.

He'd taken his sketchbook outside, but found himself simply mesmerised by the drawing he done yesterday: the one of the daffodils in April, as Frank had called it, significant, as Frank had called it.

It seemed special to Gerard too now, but really only because Frank had said it was special to him, and Gerard had seriously become a soppy mess ever since he'd died, and dear god he was well aware of that fact, but he definitely seemed to be fucking up less now, so maybe he'd sacrifice his dignity to be the kind of person that could stick around this time.

Because he knew now certainly that he could never leave Frank alone, because if he did, Frank would be completely alone in this world: no mother, no father, with everyone close to him ending up with a terrible fate: dying before their time, and of course it wasn't Frank's fault, but it was a little as if he was a ticking time bomb or something, something ridiculous.

Ridiculous, that was all it was. Gerard loved Frank, and Frank was just unfortunate.

Gerard had started work on another sketch, having done so a little absent mindedly, this sketch depicting a tree line, a familiar one, the one upon the horizon, and the sun rising, a new day, hope, in the winter, and no snow, there'd been no snow, which was odd, and Gerard had indeed thought it odd, but not really odd enough to mention, you know, with Frank's father hanging himself from the ceiling fan, and Frank finding his mother buried in the forest he'd spent his teenage years in.

Gerard wondered just how much of their relationship Mrs Iero had shown; he fucking hoped she'd looked away when things got a little less PG-13, because well, that'd be kind of awkward when it came to taking Frank to talk to her. God, he wondered what she could possibly think of him, because she had to have a good idea of who he was.

Gerard let out a sigh, finding this all so fucking trivial, because suddenly his biggest worry in the world was what his boyfriend's mother thought of him, and he, technically, was thirty two. Thirty fucking two, dear god, it almost made him glad he'd died and stopped ageing, because yeah, twenty two wasn't a bad age to stay forever.

Sure, it'd get a little weird when Frank started growing older, but he kind of had a baby face so they'd be good for a while, and if they made it longer than a decade or so, then he guessed they'd have to start saying that Frank was his sugar daddy, and really Gerard wasn't nearly as opposed to that idea as he would make himself out to be... if they ever got that far, of course.

And Gerard could hope, and Gerard would hope that they'd last forever, and hope was certainly strong, but when faced with the harsh brutality of life and hardship, hope was just hope.

And one day Frank was going to die.

Gerard swallowed hard at the notion of that; he couldn't imagine standing there, forever connected to Frank's body, watching as the man he loved was buried six feet underground.

He wondered where they could go from there, he wondered how death would fare Frank, whether he'd end up clinging on to this world, like Gerard had, and whether they'd find each other in death again, or whether Gerard would be stuck there, connected to a body, an empty shell that man he loved had departed from, and had moved onto heaven or hell or whatever was on from here, because Gerard quite honestly didn't know if he'd ever find out.