Peter Sellers (cubiclefever) wrote in since_childhood,
Peter Sellers

Paint by Numbers

Title: Paint by Numbers
Author: cubiclefever aka Whitley
Pairing: Gerard/Frankie
Rating: PG-13 (Cursing, allusions to adult themes)
POV: Frank
Summary: I’m splashing the red over the yellow so thick that orange doesn’t exist (because there isn’t really a line between love and hate, just a pillowcase waiting to smother you.)
Disclaimer: Those boys keep begging me to own them, but I've said no at least a thousand times because of how pissy Frank gets when Gerard stays the night with me. Let me tell you, don't ever try polygamy. And here's another disclaimer, because I've never tried polygamy and it might actually be very fun. But I do watch Big Love. Basically all that means is this is fake.
Author Note: In light of becoming a co-mod at mychemicalslash, I thought I'd try writing a story and *gasp* somehow, I actually spit something out of this muddled brain of mine.
Dedications: To mrshcaulfield for being amazing, yankeesdtr for saving my life with awesome beta skillz, always for poookiechick and lastly, for miserablefaith and purchased_heart for you know why.

Paint by Numbers

It’s that yellow. That yellow on the walls. Even though it’s paint, if I glance only momentarily, I see bits of wallpaper flake off. It teases me, and I’m preoccupied by the colour. (I’m always preoccupied by something else when your words are blown out of your mouth, less and less comfortable, but something more like osmosis now.)

Then it’s the smell of nicotine stained between your fingers, squeezing my chin, forcing, raping my eyes with yours. You spit phrases at me. The less I flinch, the worse it gets. Don’t react. I can’t look away now, but I know there’s another piece of wallpaper floating to the floor.

I always thought of us as yellow-- a primary colour. You and I, we weren’t orange or violet. We didn’t mix, we just belonged. When I chose the paint for our room, you protested.

“Who wants to sleep in a yellow room? That’s so fucking creepy, Frank.”

But I laughed and painted it while you were at work. I painted it because paint doesn’t tear off. It’s so much harder to replace, to cover up. I painted that room knowing (hoping?) I’d never be the one replacing you. And here and now, when I don’t look too closely, that wallpaper I left in the store (the oil from my fingertips a reminder of it’s rejection) is haunting me. It’s screaming, “I told you so!” It’s ringing in my ears so loudly that I can’t hear the-

“Fucking listen to me, Frank!” Frank. I’ve always been discomforted by the sound of my name in someone else’s mouth, but with you, I never hesitated to forget the little things. Then your eyes are red and I’m the one reacting to the steps you take to break me. To the “I don’t love you” and the explanations about the cliché late nights (or should I say early mornings?) with my own desperate chokes.

“What the fuck do you want me to say, Gerard? You don’t fucking love me, Gerard? You think I can’t smell vodka kisses underneath your Marlboro Red one-fucking-hundreds, Gerard?” And I’m yelling and rubbing my eyes because these walls are falling apart, and the yellow is mixing, and I’m losing what’s left of us with every utter, every sigh, every shout until I can’t say anything else except for “Gerard” and hope that makes you as uncomfortable as you’ve made me for the past two years.

Now you're ice and I'm overdramatic, but emotion never melted anything. The only things burning are your icy tears pooling on my collarbones (even though I have no clue how I ended up wrapped in your arms), and the only reason I can't see the skin sliding off my clavicles is because I'm preoccupied with wondering just why the fuck you're the one crying in the first place. I scan that chameleon of a face (because you're never just... you) and I realize the tears are my own, dripping down my cheeks untouched because ice doesn't give a fuck that you just broke my goddamn heart.

You’ve finished and your fingers pry my body away from you. It might be an insult to call me a rape victim, but I’m perplexed by this equation of you and the hate in your face and the cigarette smoke churning out of your mouth. I'm the liquid, swishing confusedly through a mass of solids and gases, the in-between of numb and nonexistent and I can't decide which one I'd rather become.

Then you’re gone, and I’m out of the door two seconds too late. One trip to the hardware store later, and I’m tearing down the wallpaper, I’m splashing the red over the yellow so thick that orange doesn’t exist (because there isn’t really a line between love and hate, just a pillowcase waiting to smother you.) The red seeps into the sallow carpet and everything is so dirty that I want to cry until I realize I already am (it’s not like we were ever innocent anyway.)

I take wide sweeps across the walls with the paintbrush, but that’s not enough. I mark our bed, our furniture until there’s nothing that hasn’t been stained by my words or your actions because the meaning of us is no longer something pure and I just can’t let anything go.

My breaths are thick and laughter is ringing in my ears, (and a faint whisper of “I told you so”), but at least now, when I glance at the walls, there’s not a threat of our decay mixed in with my hallucinations of rotting wallpaper.

Confused is a word to say how I feel, but honestly, as I stare at myself, covered in paint and tears and sweat, it’s closer to insanity. The stench of fresh paint burns my nostrils and I’m caught between scrubbing the paint off of my body (with a paring knife) and creating something else (better?) but now I can't tell which part of me is crying. The only thing I do know is the hint of colour on my collar isn’t lipstick, honey.
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