A Revolution On Canvas (Frerard)

19: The Gerard Way Hate Club

They were both sorry, but still it wasn't enough.

Deep down, it wasn't enough.

But on the surface, it was all they had.

And therefore.

Life went on.

And they shared a bed again.

Shared a house again.

Shared coffee mugs again.

Shared arguments again.

Shared kisses again.

Shared late nights again.

Shared a hatred of the world again.

Shared a hatred of themselves again.

And it was better than feeling alone.

At least most nights.

Today was one of those nights, and the lamp was on in the corner of their bedroom, shared bedroom, shared bed, shared wardrobe, shared carpet, shared walls, shared life, shared love, shared nothing at all.

Shared possessions.

Possessions that held very little value.

Perhaps nothing at all.

But life went on, and Frank had his side of bed, and Max had this - the sides they didn't share, and that liberation was perhaps overwhelming, and for reasons they couldn't quite bring themselves to admit as they talked words that held very little meaning in the twilight, and spoke heavier subjects with alcohol upon their tongues, because like that, they didn't have to try.

And when they didn't try, things started to go wrong.

But the morning served to fix every misunderstanding and every complication: breakfast in bed, a cure to all ails, and enough to make the world worth living in. They knew how the other liked their coffee more than anything else, and they lived in a world where that counted for something, counted for too much, counted for the world.

Counted for late nights. Counted for headaches. Counted for arguments. Counted for a bruise. Counted for nights spent away. Counted for it all.

A non verbal, omnipresent apology in toast perfectly done and words scribbled onto heart shaped post it notes - on places like fridges when one had gone out. Notes - reminders, each other's presence always there, perhaps more in theory than in person, and it worked like that.

They lived like that.

Time passed - almost a week.

And they lived like that.

And it worked, with coffee and toast and sex and kisses and the night light on even when the other wanted it off - compromise.

It worked.

But for how long?

That was a question you couldn't answer on a heart shaped post it note placed on the fridge, or a smiley face written on the milk in sharpie, or presents, or kisses, or hickeys, or late nights awake, and the conversation that followed.

Conversation with meaning but still not enough.

Because there was more they couldn't say than what they could.

And Frank had told himself that it was better off that way, and that this was how it was supposed to be, but he'd been doing a lot of thinking in his time, in the late nights when he couldn't quite sleep because Max had fallen asleep first and started snoring, and he racked his brains, and never once had there been anything to dictate the fact that he had to stay with Max.