demolition lovers || frerard

" rooftops "

What was it about nighttime that's so appealing? What made the air smell so different, somehow sweeter and yet sharper, making his mouth ache as he inhaled?

Frank wrapped his arms around his knees, snuggled in one of the huge hoodies he'd borrowed from Gerard. Well, technically stolen- but Gerard wouldn't find out unless he actually came over to Frank's house, and he never did that.

Frank lit a cigarette, careful not to set his sleeves ablaze, breathing smoke into the cold air. Sharp, sweet, mixed with the acrid scent of burning tar and nicotine, flooding his nostrils as he sprawled out, letting the breeze tickle his bare kneecaps through the ripped jeans he was wearing.

If Gerard was here, not that he ever was, he'd be worried about Frank being on the roof, even though Frank almost literally lived up here. He didn't like sleeping, only fell asleep right before the beginning streaks of sunlight began to paint the sky navy and gold. Frank didn't need sleep- he ran on two hours of it, along with approximately five cups of coffee, a habit he'd unfortunately picked up from staying at Gerard's one too many times. And with the way his eyelids were slowly, heavily beginning to droop, he'd need one now, so with a heavy sigh he clambered to his feet- making sure not to slip- and walked down to his bedroom window, wobbling on bare feet. The roof tiles were cold and rough against the bottoms of his feet, toes curling in the freezing air.

The window was open and he knew he'd regret letting the cold air into his room later, but for now he was grateful for the fact that he'd forgotten to close it. So he slipped inside, careful not to trip and land sprawling on the nubby carpet. He'd done that once before- his chin had ached for a month.

For some reason, Gerard had brought an electric kettle into Frank's room the one time he came over, and it stayed there, residing on the table that was also littered with discarded drawings Frank usually picked up from Gerard. That kid was an artist, no doubt. The pictures were vivid, high-color images of blood and gore, ripped apart bodies soaking in their own death. It was creepy and cool at the same time- two words to also describe Gerard.

Frank lumbered into the bathroom along with the kettle to fill it with water, inspecting his smeared reflection in the mirror. Paint spattered the edges of it, paint he was too lazy to wipe up. Come to think about it, Frank was too lazy to do a lot of things. Except drink coffee and talk to Gerard, of course. As the water burbled inside the kettle, Frank peered at his slightly blurry reflection, dark lines under his eyes, grimacing as his too-long bangs obscured his vision. When was the last time he'd gotten them cut? A couple months at least.

"Fuck," he grumbled as the water spilled over the edge. "Oh, fuck." He poured some out and lugged it back into his room, careful to keep his wet hands away from the outlet. The sound of the kettle boiling water filled the room- Frank rushing desperately to close the door- and he finally sat down on his bed with a sheaf of papers.

New drawings from Gerard he'd picked up the day before, still splattered with paint. "These are useless," he'd stormed, throwing them down in one of his few rages. "Absolute shit."

"I like them," Frank had piped up from Gerard's bed, only to receive a face full of papers and a "Just keep them, then!"

And so he had: these were different, relaxing scenes. Calm blues and greens, a strange contrast from the deep reds and blacks that decorated Frank's room. He was in a lot of these pictures, actually. Here was one: him on a swing, outlined against the fading sunset. Gerard was standing beside him, hand on his head, apparently stroking his hair.

"Sweet," Frank decided, pinning it immediately above his bed. It totally was. Wasn't the type of style Gerard usually drew in, so when he got all rich and famous, Frank could chime in with a 'I've seen drawings he's done that you'll never see!' That would be totally sick.