The Man I Know I'm Not [Frerard] (Sequel To Tell Me I'm A Bad Man)

Seventeen - I Know I'm Not Easy To Deal With Sometimes

He didn't reply for three and a half minutes, ending his silence with a deep sigh. "We can't talk about this right now. There are things that I've done that you'll hate me for, and I don't want to hurt you so soon after Ryan."

I stared at him, my eyes filling with tears. "Gerard -"

He quickly got to his feet, brushing off his jeans. "I've packed everything we need. We can leave whenever you want."

He left the room without another word, and instead of following him, I folded my arms over my knees and rested my forehead on them. So it had been Gerard who made all that mess...but why? I didn't understand why he'd do such a thing. It didn't make sense. I could understand if it had been Bert - Bert liked to get drunk, Bert liked to mess things up, Bert liked to scare me - but Gerard?

I didn't want to think about why. I didn't want to think about the state he'd been in when he did it. It made me want to throw up, want to cry. It scared me.

~

"He's still not out of his room, Frank."

I sighed a little as Brendon's mom stepped back to let me in. Gerard had gone to Mikey's, dropping me off at Brendon's along the way. I needed to see him.

I shot his mom a glance before heading up the stairs, to his room. "Brendon?" I said, knocking on the door. "C'mon, it's Frank. Open the door." I tried the handle and found it unlocked, swinging open easily.

But Brendon wasn't inside.

"Is everything okay?" Mrs Urie asked, and I shrugged.

"I don't know. He's not inside." I headed back downstairs, just as the front door opened.

In walked Brendon, who looked more than a mess. He didn't even spare either of us a glance as he shuffled past, clutching the banister as he ascended the stairs.

His mom shot me a pleading look - please go talk to him - and I followed him upstairs, stepping inside his bedroom before he could slam the door.

"What's going on?" I asked, and he rolled his eyes.

"You say that like you don't know." He spat, and I pinched the bridge of my nose, my eyes closing.

"You know what I mean."

"No, Frank. What do you mean?"

I opened my eyes and looked him over, saw the limp, greasy hair, the bloodshot eyes, the bags, the waxy skin, the creased clothing. He pulled his shirt off, and I saw bruises on his hips and waist. Whatever he'd been doing, it hadn't looked fun.

"What's going on with you?" He flopped, face-first, on his bed, and there was minor bruising on his back, too. Scratches, even. "Brendon, what the hell -"

"It comes with being so drunk you don't know you're making out with someone until he sticks his hand down your pants." He grumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow. I sighed, and before I could speak, he beat me to it. "Don't start. Don't give me that 'you shouldn't be doing this' bullshit, because I don't want to hear it. You've got your perfect relationship, I don't have one anymore. So save it."

"I wasn't going to say that." I lied, because I actually kind of was. "And my relationship isn't perfect."

He turned his head so he was facing me, his cheek sort of smushed into the pillow. "Really? You mean you've stopped deluding yourself?"