"Frank," Gerard croaked, eyes bloodshot as tears formed along its rim.
He stroked the shorter boy's face, eyeing him carefully. Frank only looked to the ground, his lips seeming to part to say something. But his syllables stay silent, hidden under his tongue.
Gerard wants to hug him. He wants to kiss him.
Of course, he could do so. He could do anything he wanted with Frank—the boy would bend at his will.
In his head, he counted, holding a small rock between his trembling fingers. Gerard counted up until sixty, then marking his arms with lines, carving his time on his body. He knew they'd fade away—each of his creations did.
It hurt, but they'd heal. They weren't real, anyway—he'd never forget their false existence.
But whenever he conjured Frank—with his hazel stare, his tattooed arms, his hooked brows, and his long, dark hair—he'd forget that.
He'd fall into a trance of bliss, just watching the boy as his eyes danced across his figure, fixing up the little imperfections in his illusion—the lines of ink on his body were off, and a bit clumsy. His nose was slightly off center, and his piercings didn't follow the logical shading of the rest of Frank's character.
Gerard tried to make him as perfect as he could, just like how he used to be.
He would always curse to himself about how Frank's arms were to curvy, or how his hips didn't fit proportionally to his torso. But he was getting there.
Gerard had already nailed the curve of his jaw, and the way his eyes looked wide at him with a smiling gleam.
But expressions were the hardest to put into an illusion.
Most of the time, Frank looked dull—empty, bored, expressionless.
He wasn't him.
But Gerard wasn't bothered by it—most of the time.
He just wanted to see him, to hold him. But in around forty minutes (as according to Gerard's clock), he'd fade to dust.
"Shit," Gerard breathed, sitting on his cot.
He gazed at his creation closely, eyes wandering for mistakes. But his mind was already wavering, and his vision was slowly blowing out.
Gerard blinked frantically, shunning away the dull ache in his mind.
"Gerard," Frank echoed monotonously.
At the sound of his voice, Gerard's heart jumped, and he really, really wanted to die, to be buried six feet under.
But the mutant carried on, gulping as he proceeded.
"F-Frank," the boy stuttered, standing to take his lover's cheek in his palm.
"I'm so sorry, Frank. I-I-I hate myself. Baby," Gerard sobbed, pushing back the urge to draw more, to create more, because he knew that if he tried a bit harder, he'd black out.
Frank followed the artist's movements blankly, watching him intently as Gerard pushed locks of hair behind his ear.
"I'm so sorry. Please—when are you coming home?" Gerard declared, crying into his shoulder, wails now audible among the barriers of his cell.
Frank fell into nonchalant silence, brows furrowed and lips puckered out as if waiting for orders from his commander.
"Sir, what is your duty for me?" The boy only replied, shrugging off the evidently emotional struggle for Gerard.
The man sniffed, eyes red as he ran a hand through his hair.
He then gritted his teeth, clenching his jaw as he yelled, "I don't want you to do anything, Frank! I want you to come home!" The boy spit bitterly, crying so much that his body shook with each wave of tears, as he hugged his knees to his chest.
At that point, Gerard had almost lost count.
He was currently on interval thirty-three, second forty-six. He had twenty-seven minutes and fourteen seconds left until Frank was gone, maybe forever.
It took almost all of Gerard's will to lift his black-ridded head up to look at Frank.
The smaller boy simply gazed at him, a light of confusion ignited in his wide-eyed-browns.
Gerard hated it.
He hated that Frank couldn't say, or do anything.
He hated the fact that Frank was nothing. Nothing but a memory.
And he doesn't like this feeling of loathing, because that's the only thing he's ever hated about Frank Iero.
He loved his crooked smiles. He loved his loud laughs. He loved his dorkishly cute mannerisms.
He loved him.
And now he's dead.
"Fuck you, Frank Iero," Gerard finally retorted, waving his image away even though he had around twenty minutes left of his illusion.
And then, reality swarmed over him almost suffocatingly, as the laughs of distant neighbors echoed through the room. He could now recall the eerie creaking of chains against bodies, and the everlasting ringing in his ears from last week's attempts.
Gerard can almost swear he can hear those gunshots. He can almost dream up the corpses of the convicts, their blood splayed across their bodies like the mess of emotions across Gerard's heart.
He can remember almost everything, because he's trained to remember. He wish he could just forget.
He wished that he could just stow away the details, to exile them from the mass that was his mind. He wished that he didn't need to pay attention, to remake something.
Gerard Way wanted to forget. He wanted to be overdosed by amnesia.
But he couldn't, that was impossible.
They say that art is the weapon, and art is Gerard's weapon.
It's his protection, and his killer.
Gerard used his art to defend himself, from them.
But his art was also killing him, each time he bent its image to resemble his deceased-partner.
"Never give Gerard Way a pen," the prison owner had warned.
"He'll kill someone, if you do. Do not be fooled."
At the time, Gerard didn't know that those words included that someone could be himself.
And at this point, Gerard was practically bleeding out.
Art is the weapon.
Use it to your will.
A/N
This is kinda off
