Tell Me I'm A Bad Man [Teacher/Student Frerard]

Seventeen - Stomachaches

I did no work in the lesson, feeling completely disheartened and horrible. It didn't sink in. Fucking New York. A completely different state. I wanted to sit up straight, continue making sarcastic comments and just act like nothing's wrong, but I couldn't. And it was ridiculous.

I told Brendon and Patrick to go on without me, wanting to talk to Gerard. They left, closing the door behind them, and I locked it before taking a few steps towards him. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at me as he slumped into his chair. As if he knew what was coming.

"You're leaving?" I said in a small voice, fighting back tears that I knew were coming.

"I'm sorry, Frank. I sent the application before we met, and...I have to get out of Jersey. I've been here all my fucking life, if I don't do something now, I - I won't leave."

I licked my lower lip, my arms crossed over my body. I pressed my shaking hands against my hips. "You're leaving me?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling. "It's not like we're anything, Frankie."

"I know, but..." I looked at the floor, scuffing my toes against it. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. I'll see you on Friday."

"Frank, wait." He said, as I placed my hand on the door handle, ready to unlock and open the door. I heard him come up behind me and turn me around, tilting my head up. "You still have a month and a bit left of me. And I've got something planned for Saturday, too. After all, it's your birthday." He smirked, and my eyes widened.

"How did you know it's my birthday on Saturday?"

He rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I think you forget who I am." He pecked my lips briefly. "Now go on, your friends will get suspicious otherwise."

I sighed but left anyway, wanting more than to hide and cry in selfish misery. It hurt my stomach and tore at my heart. I mean, it's not like we'll never see each other again, we have our phones and we have Skype, but what if he meets someone else? It's not like we're anything, he said, but what if? What if he met someone with more wit, a better kiss, a hotter touch, a better fuck? What if he met someone his age? Someone better than me? Someone who isn't a stupid kid?

What if he, in his fancy new job, just got tired of me?

~

"Hey, fag."

I froze, my hand on the locker door, my other hand on one strap of my bag. Footsteps approached me, and when I turned my head to see who it was, I saw the jock I'd punched in the face on my first day.

"Damn, you look like shit." He commented. Thanks, buddy. "Come with me."

"No, thanks." I replied, picking up my bag and closing the locker door.

"Wrong answer." With that, he grabbed a handful of my hair and practically dragged me down the corridor.

I tried to struggle away from him, but each time I did, his grip tightened. A couple of minutes later he pushed open the door to the bathrooms, and forced me to kneel in front of the toilet bowl. My heartbeat shot up, and my palms started to sweat. No, not this again.

"Please..." I begged, trying to break free, but it was useless. Some other guy came out of nowhere and pinned my hands behind my back, before the guy holding my hair shoved my head into the toilet.

It was my entire school life rolled into one moment. With the amount of times it had happened to me, I should've been used to it. But I wasn't. Fear rose like vomit in me, and I knew better than to struggle. I was terrified. Absolutely fucking terrified.