The Kiss of Vanity Blessed Me With A Spiritual Murder [Frerard]

Ghosts

"I know the flowers are shit."

Gerard's entire chest is clenched, Jamia's fingers tightly around his wrist. It hurts, it's where his scrapes are, but he knows it'd make her feel bad if he voiced it. But it's okay, he presumes, he probably wouldn't be able to speak if he tried anyway.

"But I couldn't really do better," Frank's voice is wavering, like he's not sure if the words leaving his mouth are his own or somebody else's. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, so violent Gerard can almost hear it crackling; orange and bright underneath the dead, gray ash. His cheeks are hollowed, eyes set, narrow- he looks like a masterpiece painted from watercolor spite and the grief loss takes with itself wherever it goes.

"I know you like wildflowers."

It's like all the power in Gerard's body leaves him, because Frank's words and the tone of his voice hit so close to home, even though he isn't saying much at all. Even the glint in Frank's eyes reminds him of a familiar darkness he'd probably be able to smell on his own clothes if he were to stick his nose in the collar of his shirt right now.

"I know I've been a shithead lately," he says after a few moments of tense silence. He throws the butt of his cigarette behind himself, burnt to the filter. His hands fumble and he quickly lights a new one, lighter hot pink and half empty- it makes Gerard's fingers itch for a smoke. "It's been almost three months. Not like you were going anywhere." He rubs his eye with his free hand, over purple bags and tired lids, his lips curving downwards a bit in a frown so unnatural for such a pretty face. He messes up his hair, scratches at his stubble and sighs long and pained before inhaling more of the smoke. It's the same smoke that'll probably kill both him and Gerard, who's still trying to catch a breath, at some unfixed point in time- but the sad truth is that neither of them really cares, especially not right now. "Sorry, I'm being an asshole again. I bet you're used to it by now."

He takes a few more drags and shuffles around with his feet, knees bare and awkward and so cold while so close to the wet ground. Frank doesn't seem to mind. "Talking, I'm not good at it. It's why I avoid you a lot, I suppose. No use in denying it anymore, right?"

Gerard's never spent more time without blinking in his life.

"Fuck." It's such a powerful word, Gerard thinks, or a really weak one after all- it can be used for anything, mean anything, or everything- and if you're lucky... maybe even nothing at all. It's pitiful, and all Frank can muster up with, but at this, godforsaken, broken fractal of time, it doesn't seem like there's anything else to say.

He doesn't talk for a while after that. He chain-smokes the entire time- it makes Gerard bite his lip almost hard enough for it to bleed. Frank shifts a lot, like something in his veins is keeping him from standing still. At some point he relaxes just a bit, but miserably- his arm on the tombstone and head against the arm.

If Gerard didn't know better, he'd think he might've heard a cry.

Frank picks himself up swiftly enough. Cigarette back in between his lips, eyes heavy and knees looking scraped as he's getting up. He sniffs a bit, spits out some excess smoke, and his voice almost startles Gerard when he speaks again. "I'm sorry I'm so bad at this. Fuck, I'm apologizing to a dead person." He grimaces when he realizes what he's said. He utters to say something else, but hesitates, and then it looks like he's settled for an alternative. "I wish I could be better. I wish I could let someone else help me be better. But whenever there's a chance, I fuck it up. I suppose it means I don't deserve 'better', then. Maybe. I'm not good with words."

His mouth draws into a tight line before he takes another drag, and he holds it in for a few long seconds before blowing it into the wet air. His eyes are focused on the tombstone, he crosses his fingers over something. Gerard supposes it's the lettering- the way his knuckles dive and curve across the dents Gerard imagines are there. It's such a gentle gesture and his face is the softest Gerard has ever seen it become- for a moment, a slight moment, before he looks vile again.