A Revolution On Canvas (Frerard)

36: In Which Many Bad Decisions Are Made

"Not everything in my life does have homoerotic subtext, Gerard, shut the fuck up!" Frank rolled his eyes, groaning as he leaned back into the sofa, hoping that it'd swallow him whole so he wasn't forced to deal with the fact that Gerard fucking Way hadn't stopped laughing since the moment they'd gotten out of school.

"Fucking Megan's parents faces, though, Frank, it's like-" Gerard continued to lose every ounce of chill that he may have ever once possessed. "Fucking hell, it was a beautiful moment, you have to admit-"

"It was not a beautiful moment!" Frank protested: cheeks flushing pink, as his eyes darted frantically around their living room: desperate for something besides Gerard to fixate on, but by now it was evident that Gerard was the most important thing in the room, really in any room, Frank had figured, which, in hindsight, did sound a bit gay, but no homo, no homo. Frank, of course, only had platonic feelings for Gerard - everyone knew that. Well, apparently not Megan's family, but-

"It so was." Gerard insisted: cheeks as red as Frank's, and in truth, the both of them were overly giddy and all laughter and blushing, and that just may or may not have something to do with the bottle of wine that lay almost empty on the coffee table, because it was apparent that Gerard had the taste in alcohol of a thirty nine year suburban white mother of three, and also because he had insisted that they celebrated Frank surviving parents evening in one way or another.

"I know what a beautiful moment is." Frank's face gave way to a rather pouty frown as he pulled his knees up into the sofa and sat cross legged for a moment. "And it's not that." He concluded, flashing a glance up at Gerard, who seemed to have frozen in place just to look at Frank for a while.

"What's a beautiful moment then?" Gerard found himself daring to ask: movement coming back to his body slowly, with slight twitches of his fingers, and then his legs outstretched down the sofa, leaving his foot pressed against Frank's knee.

A smile fell over Frank's lips as his gaze followed Gerard's legs and all the way up to his face. Frank took a moment to think about the light in his eyes, and the pink undertones of his cheeks, and the way that he highly suspected that he wore mascara on a daily basis, but he'd never yet been able to prove it- or maybe Gerard did just have naturally long and black eyelashes. He thought about the way it didn't matter at all, and the way Gerard smiled, the way he held himself, the way he held his gaze, the way his hair was hardly styled, but instead just pushed back out of his face, and yet always managed to escape in front of his vision. Frank took another moment to realise that he'd been staring, and of course the connotations of that in regards to the question at hand.

Frank chose not to answer the question as he pulled his gaze away: cheeks pinker than ever before. Instead, he chose to address the question posed to him with another, because that was always the best way to avoid your problems, and it was okay, because they weren't drunk, just a little bit tipsy, little bit drunk. Just a little. Like how Frank wondered if he was just perhaps... just a little in love with Gerard. Just a little drunk, just a little in love. However, at the nature of such a conclusion, Frank began to wonder if he was just that little be more drunk than he had anticipated.

"Remember when you used to hate me." Frank let out a sigh, eyes locking with Gerard's. "You know, when we first met, and when I was- what even was I? The fucking stuck up English teacher and all that?"

A smile graced Gerard's lips and he found himself looking down. "I didn't hate you." His words were like a promise entwined with the gentle tapping of his fingertips against the side of his half empty wine glass. "Just found myself with a stubborn and uneducated dislike of the person I thought you might be."

"Mmm...?" Frank raised his eyebrows: utterly unconvinced. "That just sounds a lot like 'I hate you' in pretentious artist motherfucker language."

Gerard rolled his eyes, because in a way, Frank was right, but that wasn't what he'd meant at all. "I thought you were a pretentious english motherfucker. Like someone who stresses the importance of an oxford comma like it's a serious world issue."