Um I'm going to skip all the way to Christmas bc up until then Idk so uh, yeah c:
*~*~*~*
Gerard;
It's Christmas morning, and I get woken up by a cluster of knocks on my bedroom door and Frank shouting, "Gerard! Gerard! Wake up right the fuck now because I have a present for you and yeah! Okay? Get up!"
I groan in protest, rolling over under the covers and curling further in on myself. "Come back later!" I shout, holding out the r in later.
"No! Get up because I have to leave soon!" His response is followed by another chorus of frantic sounding knocks.
As the knocking continues, I throw back my comforter and roll out of bed, surprisingly landing on my feet. My gait to the door is heavy with sleep, while my steps are a mixture of stumbling and shuffling. When I approach the door, I turn the knob and open it, getting bombarded with a hug. "Merry Christmas, Gee!"
I lazily wrap my arms around his waist and lean into the hug. I smile and loosen my arms after giving his waist a quick squeeze, pecking his lips afterwards. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, baby," he whispers, pushing his face into the crook of my neck. I chuckle at that and slowly lead us over to my bed so we don't have to awkwardly stand in my doorway.
"How have you been? I haven't seen you in a couple days.." I mention. He told a few days ago that his mom was being really bossy and intrusive lately, so she went through his phone and decided that he needs to take a break from spending time with me and told him that he needs to see the counselor more often. That seriously riled me up. I mean, I'm the one who's helping him, not that counselor. I'm the one who helps him take a breather when he feels like he's suffocating, not the counselor. He says that he hasn't gained much confidence, self-worth, any of that since he started going to the therapist.
"I've been, um, I've been okay," He whispers, pushing himself against my body even more.
"Just okay?" I wander, not believing him. He knows he can tell me anything, it's going to take a lot to ever make me mad at him and he knows that. I'm not, I swear on my mother's grave, I am not that abusive, self worshipping, piece of shit teenager I used to be. Frank is a fragile being, like a puppy or a kitten, and I can't take advantage of him like that. He doesn't deserve it any more than I deserved to do those things.
"No," he whispers. "No.. Everything's been so wrong not being able to talk to you." He lifts his head up, bringing his hands up to wipe his tears away. "My mom has been driving me up the wall, Nicholas has been over at least ninety percent of the time, she yells at me about everything. I forgot to throw away the plastic from a loaf of bread and she screams at me, telling me she doesn't have all the time in the world to clean up after me."
"What does Nicholas do when she does all those things?" I ask, cupping his cheeks with my hands and wiping the stray tears for him. "Surely he can't sit back and watch the woman he may or may not love scream at her only child."
"He's tried, he has tried, to get her to stop. After she yelled at him, accusing him of taking sides, he gave me a sympathetic look and gave up trying. At least he tried, though, right?" By now he was on the verge of sobbing and breaking down, his voice is shaky, and his tears are getting quicker. So, I pull him into another tight embrace, pulling him into my lap to comfort him.
"I wish I could help you," I whisper, running my fingers through his semi-long locks, trying to soothe him.
"Just... Kill... Me," he whispers, choking up on the last two words. His voice gets strained, like he's forcing himself to speak, like he's shoving the words up his throat and past his lips even though they don't want to come out.
