A Revolution On Canvas (Frerard)

30: Thirty Chapters In And Frerard Are Still Not Together

It was morning.

It was hazel eyes and fuchsia skies and a world that felt like tomorrow: futuristic, hopeful, different and indeed evidently so in all aspects of it.

It, being Frank's life.

And the certain divide in it, as he lay now at the start of a new chapter, forcing himself to look forward instead of glancing behind. Perhaps he couldn't quite bring himself to look forward right now, but looking across: across the sofa to the man curled up at the other end, still asleep with locks of black hair strewn across his face, and the sunlight highlighting the contours of his nose and his cheekbones.

He was beautiful.

Beautiful now.

Beautiful always.

Beautiful in the sun.

Beautiful in the rain.

And Frank was so fucking in love with him and it was coming to him like a fist now in morning light on the second day: on the Sunday, God's day, although that meant little to him, because the only thing he found pure and holy was the way the sunlight casted Gerard's features as he sleep: peaceful and a picture perfect image of grace: capturing the world and life itself.

He embodied all that was good about the world for Frank, and Frank doubted that he should let himself do that, but still he did, because it was so fucking early and there was nothing to stop him.

He was in love.

In love with the man sleeping at the other end of the sofa.

And he was alive.

Breathing and living in a world painted in warm oranges and brilliant golds.

And he was happy.

He figured that now.

Because it was seven in the morning on a Sunday and he felt no regret in waking, because to this day and to this life there was indeed purpose: purpose encompassed in the man beside him, purpose encompassed in himself, purpose encompassed in the patterns of their breathing and how they didn't quite align.

Because they were indeed separate beings: separate beings who lived different lives who had found solace in one another's company; finding comfort in a reflection of yours was simple, whereas finding comfort in the shadow casted behind you was a whole new ordeal.

An ordeal that was indeed difficult to come to grips with, because when you had the Earth in the palm of your hand what was to traverse the solar system for? But an ordeal that made sense in the end, because in a great expanse of blackness and silence there was indeed the sun, and although you could never hold it in the palm of your hand, getting close was good enough.

And the sun lay sleeping: radiant and beautiful in the silence of the solar system: the Earth left long behind.

Because one day soon the Earth would grow corrupted and destroyed in one way or another, as it did so, the Sun would still shine and burn, only burning out inevitably millions of years down the line, because the sun was indeed majestic, but everything had to die.

Frank didn't want to die unhappy.

And perhaps this was him changing that in the early morning as he couldn't help but smile, because everything was so fucking beautiful.

He got to his feet and began to walk around Gerard's house, which was his house in certain ways now too; it was definitely more so Gerard's than his, but it was a house they shared, and that was indeed something controversial - something that people would talk about, but Frank didn't care.