Turnpike Gates [Frerard]

1- Bulletproof Heart, Hollowpoint Smile

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this whole book is in Gerard's POV btw.

*TW for mild bullying (verbal) and anti-gay slurs, and self-harm (marked in text)*

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I turned down the thankfully empty hallway, fingering the lighter in my pocket.

I reached the abandoned bathroom, the one on the third floor in the maintenance wing, used only for hookups and stoners - and me - but was luckily still a student area, meaning you were totally allowed to be there.

I pushed open the door, pausing halfway to listen for indecent occupants. I once made the mistake of walking right in, and also walked right in to the middle of some very rated R activities.

I never want to witness female-involved sex again.

There were no obscene sounds, so I shoved open the door and threw my bag to the floor immediately. There was only one other guy there, and he stayed in the back, so I ignored him, walking over to the counter and hauling myself up, ignoring suspicious stains. I pulled out my plain black lighter, flicking the ignition and sighing slightly in relief as I looked at the small flame flickering.

Fire was just so pretty.

The way it moved, the colors, the different textures the peaks could have, the gradients, the way paper turned black as it's brilliance passed by, as if leaching the beauty out of the object to let it die. I could watch it for hours.

I pulled a sticky note from my hoodie pocket and rolled it up carefully, touching the end to the tip of the flame, watching in rapt fascination as it singed, then lit, the fire slowly making it's glowing way down the path of the paper and to my hand. 

Just before it touched me, I let go, allowing it to drop to the floor and die out. I knew there was nothing very flammable, and if there was I could simply step on it to put it out.

Plus, it would be fun watching the high school disintegrate into ashes.

I've never seen a whole building burn before.

 I was interrupted from my thoughts by the other kid speaking.

"Hey, can I get a light?" he asked.

He was standing a few feet away, his fringe of red and black faux-hawk falling in his face little. He had various piercings and at least one tattoo that I could see; a scorpion on the side of his neck.

He held out his hand, an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

I nodded, holding out my lighter and flicking it, studying him as he lit his death stick. He looked familiar, on a higher level than seen-in-the-hall-a-few-times.

He raised his now lit cigarette to his lips, showing off the lettering on his fingers. He blew out the first drag, and it clicked.

Exhaust smoke mingling with that of cigarettes, drifting into the night sky amongst the roar of engines and laughter.

"You race on the turnpike, right?" I asked.

My brother Mikey and I had spent nearly every waking moment of our summer on a little abandoned stretch of road where various punks and rebels liked to race motorbikes. It wasn't an actual turnpike, but for some reason it had gained the name years ago, and I guess it stuck.

"Uh, yeah," he said. "I'm Frank."

Oh, of course.

Frank Anthony Iero, school fuckboy and second-place racing champion.