Thin Line(a Gerard Way/Frerard fanfiction)

The Boy With The Scars

That night I dream of Frank.

I dream of the time when we first me, back in 2001 or 2002, before he was a part of the band.

I was at a party with Ray and Mikey, after we had just played a show. It was nothing huge; in the basement of some clubhouse in downtown Jersey, opening for another punk band, but the turnout was surprisingly large. Kids were actually singing along to the words. That was our first 'big' show, big as in it was the first show that actually made us feel like a real band.

The party was at the house of the lead singer of the band we opened for, he had invited us after the show, and I could never forget the excitement I felt when he had asked us to come. Me? Gerard Way, just the singer of a band nobody's heard of? At your party? I remember asking the singer, who wore an eccentric green mohawk and all ripped clothing, covered with pointy metal spikes. He just laughed, told me his address, and that a lot of other local bands would be there.

I remember feeling suddenly intimidated at the thought of being at a party with bands just like us. The rush of confidence from the show we just played draining straight out of me. I once again felt like the little, forlorn band in the corner that nobody payed attention to; I didn't want to be seen that way at the party. But I agreed to go, Mikey and Ray were both excited to go, I didn't want to steal their fun.

We arrived at the house, on the outskirts of Bellville, and it looked to just be any other party, like the ones in highschool that kids throw when their parents are out of town. I wasn't surprised if it was the same case here, the lead singer didn't seem that old, and since his band hadn't quite broken the mold, he probably still lived with his parents.

Some shitty punk records blared through the equally shitty speakers planted throughout the house. Girls in smudged eyeliner and tight skirts danced in the center, boys with dark hair and leather jackets leaned in the corners, watching. The stench of beer and pot was prominent throughout, and kegs were parked in the kitchen, guaranteeing that the majority population of party-goers was wasted.

I felt like an outcast and out of place--all these people from all these different bands, they all looked so cool. They had cool punk outfits, they had cool punk haircuts, they looked like the people I was trying to be. I was just an overweight kid in a sweatshirt and jeans; I didn't belong at this party. I wanted to go home.

Mikey was already at it though, chugging down a drink, probably alcohol, out of a red cup, Ray mingling with other guitar players, so I snatched a can of beer off of the counter, quickly making a beeline back to the living room and settling on the couch.

I sat there awkwardly, taking small sips of my drink while a boy next to me squished me into the armrest, his girlfriend sitting in his lap and grinding. I tried to divert my eyes away from the couple, and focus on something else. I love watching people, not in a perverted way, but just watching them, trying to figure out their lives, their story.

There's a boy in the corner of the room who catches my attention. He's got a red solo cup full of beer in his hands that sloshes slightly in the cup. He's wearing a soft blue short sleeve shirt and dark denim jeans that are littered with tears and rips, not fashioned, but simply because they are worn out. His light brown hair is styled messily into a faux hawk.

And his face--well, I can't see his face right now. He's angled in a position where his shoulders are turned to me, and his head is bent low as he slowly dances to the dull thump of the bass. I crane my neck and try to get a better look, but with no avail, as another man, probably about the same age, moves in front of him. I can see the face of the newer boy though, his name is Bert McCracken, the lead singer of the Used, another local band I'm somewhat acquainted with.