Diluted ☻ FRERARD ONE-SHOTS

Lonely Winter

But the person doesn't walk by him. The footsteps stop right at his ear, and Frank pries his frozen eyelashes apart to glance up at the stranger. Standing over him, they appear to be a silhouette with a few details visible - a smart jacket, dark hair whipped around in the wind, ghostlike skin, contrasting dark trousers and boots.

Frank wants to scream at them to leave him to die in peace but his voice is caught in his throat, and surely he'd burst into a fit of coughing if prompted to speak. He hasn't talked in a while because even that requires effort that he can't afford to lose, and the weather has left him with some difficulties breathing. So he simply remains silent, awaiting an uncalled-for beating or something of the sort.

"Christ above," the stranger mutters, bending down next to Frank and reaching out. Frank tries to scramble away, convinced he's only going to be harmed, but they only reassure him, "I'm not going to hurt you. My name's Gerard - my father owns Way Recording Studios."

Frank has heard of Donald Way's fast-growing business, and rumours have floated around of how luxurious his lifestyle must be. There are billboards all around town - it's the town's biggest achievement. Donald has two sons who are often plastered on the front pages of famous newspapers, Michael and... Gerard Way.

Frank doesn't have a doubt in his mind that the stranger is exactly who he thinks he is, and this makes him angry. He imagines why Gerard is doing this, pretending to pay attention to him, all for good publicity. 'Millionaire heartthrob tries to help dying homeless boy.' Frank never asked for charity. And the family are not known for being good-hearted, so this is likely a hoax.

"How old are you?" Gerard asks.

Frank coughs as he shakes his head, unable to speak. Instead, he holds up ten then eight shaky fingers. Eighteen.

"How long have you been on the streets?"

Once again, he motions with fingers, holding up four. Hopefully, after this, Gerard will leave him alone, seeing that he's used to living like this and would rather be left to solitude.

"Four weeks?"

Frank shakes his head.

"Months?"

And again.

"Years?" Gerard asks incredulously and Frank nods, casting his gaze to the ground. "You ran away from home, kid? Can you stand?" Frank is only a few years younger than Gerard so the term makes him grimace, and he shakes his head to both questions again.

At this, Gerard decides that he's going to help the frightened boy who seems innocent enough. There's a sincerity in his eyes that proves he hasn't lied to Gerard's questions, and Gerard appreciates honesty. He realises that he's going to do a good deed willingly for the first time in his life - helping a homeless person.

"Are you sure you didn't run away? Nobody in their right mind would kick a fourteen-year-old to the curb. Other kids given you a rough time at school?"

Frank shakes his head. He feels two arms wrap around the backs of his knees and shoulders, hoisting him up. Gerard is significantly warmer than the ground, yet he clutches his blanket close, the only possession he has to his name other than the clothes on his back. It hasn't dawned upon him that he's being helped yet - his brain must be starting to switch off.

"You have to go to a hospital," Gerard says as if Frank has no choice in the matter, and under the circumstances it would be only right, but Frank can't go there. His parents will know; they'll call them in.

Frank clutches Gerard's jacket and tries to speak, "N-N—"

"No? I'll nurse you to health myself, then," decides Gerard, beginning to walk back to his car. Frank is shocked at his reluctance to argue. "But we have to telephone your mother and father."

Frank speaks louder, using all his willpower to force the words out of his raw throat, "No, p-p-please." Up until now, he was convinced this was all a joke, but when Gerard lays him in the backseat of his fancy car, not so much as a smile giving anything away, it all becomes too real.

"We'll talk about this when you're better," Gerard sighs, reaching forward to grab something which looks like a glass bottle. Frank manages to crane his neck to hold his head up, allured, as Gerard holds the bottle to Frank's lips. He realises that it's water, and suddenly Gerard becomes an angel - God, maybe. His saviour. He takes the bottle and tips it back - it's empty in seconds.

Gerard asks for a name, to which Frank rolls over, curling up, pulling the empty water bottle close to his chest as if it might refill itself, and whispers, "F-Frank."

"I wish I had food in here too, Frank, but that will have to wait. Are you physically hurt?"

He shakes his head. Under the faint, warm light in the car - or limousine, whatever it's supposed to be - Gerard's features are illuminated. He really does look rich, not just due to his expensive attire, but because of the prideful and solemn look in his hazel eyes, the way he holds himself with his shoulders back and his chin up. His jawline is a shadow blurred into the nape of his neck, the strands of black hair framing his profile. His nose and lips are small.

Frank, before he falls asleep, thinks he's beautiful.