---Patrick---

One thought after another passes my mind as soon as I process him.

When I first see him, I expect him to be like Brendon or Ryan or anyone else in this stupid school. A social butterfly with a charm I'll never have. Always grinning, fucking every girl he can find with empty promises. I expect him to turn out to be a popular know-it-all with too many friends to count. I expect him to be talented with everything no matter how complicated it is. I expect him to make ten friends in a heartbeat. He has to be another one of those people. Just another fuckboy to ruin my life and make me jealous. To make me feel even more pathetic than I already am because he's so much better than me. Prettier. He'll always be more popular than me, and there's nothing I can do to change that. I'll always be this... failure. An underdog. Someone nobody will ever care about. A nobody. I expect him to make me feel like that.

But he doesn't.

Right away I can tell he's nervous, not exactly scared but I know he's feeling a little uneasy. He's covering his arms self-consciously. He has a slight smile on his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He's just like me in the way he acts. All of his body language points to... Anxiety? No. Not that bad. He is tense, though. My first guess is because of moving schools, he's not used to all the strangers and new people. Finding his place in a new environment. Trying to find new friends, knowing new bullies. I've never been through that situation before, but it's not hard to imagine how nervous or uncomfortable it makes him.

I let my eyes continue to trace him, his body language, his looks, his eyes. As I take him in, he does... something to me. It's hard to describe. My stomach feels weird like I'm going to puke, but I know I'm not. It's more of like someone jabbed a stick in my stomach but a little softer, like it was cushioned. Meanwhile, my throat gets tight like I'm going to cry, but I'm not. It just gets hard to breathe, and my body breaks out into a sweat. It's like he's taking control of my body and making strange things happen. I don't understand. What is this feeling?

I look him over, still trying to comprehend what's happening. He has hair as dark as ebony that reaches to about his jawline. It's wavy and unkempt, shining in the light above but it's... beautiful. No, that can't be the right word. That's not the right word... But somehow it is... His eyes are a bright brown, adorned with millions of shades, but they're hiding something. Fear? Sorrow? More nervousness? Something I can't read. Something kind of foreign but somehow native to me and that scares me. Someone who knows what I'm going through? One of these hundreds of complicated emotions that I can't begin to understand and something about him makes me realize he knows something I don't. Something that I don't understand yet but he does.

My eyes travel down his chest, to his stomach. They linger on his crotch for a moment too long before continuing back up to those foreign native eyes and my eyes widen as it slowly dawns on me what's happening. Him. His appearance. His eyes. His lips. His emotions. There's something about him that's opening new possibilities and a question stirring inside me.

I am straight... Right?

That's disgusting, Patrick. Of course, you're straight. You know what Dad said about gays.

His hair is beautiful, though, his eyes, his lips, his body. He's beautiful.

You're so pathetic! You filthy piece of trash. You are straight. You are straight, and you will always be straight. It doesn't matter what you might think. You're straight, okay?

But what if I'm really not...? What if I am gay?

Then you are even more disgusting than I thought.

My gaze travels back to Mr. Cumberbatch, saving the question in the back of my mind for another time and deciding the subject is over for now or until it arises again.

"This is Gerard Way, he's in his junior year, and he's moving here from Mountainside High. Be sure to welcome him in class today." He announces, "Show as much respect as you would me."

Same year as me, I realize quickly, that means we'll have a lot of the same classes. The same lunch, possibly. More time with him. But, it's not like he'd be interested in me anyways... It's just a crush, and I don't know if he'd even be interested in me like that. I don't know if he's gay. I doubt he is but if I am...

Faggot.

Mr. Cumberbatch leans down, murmuring something in the boy's ear and pointing to me. Me. Why me? Is there something just so special about me that I have to be the one he points to. Out of everyone in this class he points at me! I swallow nervously, my heart rate quickly picking up as he nods. Is he sitting by me? What's going on? Why did he point at me? The art teacher pats him on the back before returning to his desk to work on attendance, which will probably be done in a matter of seconds. The boy-Gerard-glances at me for a few seconds, looking me over? Judging me? He probably doesn't want to sit by me. I'm ugly and quiet and weird and I wear... Oh god, I wear Green Day merch. It's not 2004, it's 2016, Jesus. What's wrong with me?

The boy comes over anyways, without a word, he sits at a seat right beside me with Ryan and Brendon across the light brown table still talking away like they don't even notice the incredibly hot boy beside me. I don't say a word to him, and he doesn't say a word to me. It's the most conversation we'll ever have. I know that for a fact. I'm too scared to say anything, and he's obviously not interested in me. That's it. Even if I did say something, I'd just end up embarrassing myself and making Ryan and Brendon laugh at me. Make everyone laugh at me. I'm afraid so I don't do anything that might embarrass me, I just sit silently in my seat with my head down and my hands in my lap.

I know how I feel about him, though. I want to talk to him. I want to speak to him for hours and hours on end. I want to get to know him. I want to be able to listen to his past and why he has that look in his eyes, that distressed look that I know all too well. I don't know why I want to, I just do. I don't understand! I haven't even said a word to him, and I already want him to be my friend.

And then some...

Patrick! Get a hold of yourself! It's never going to happen! Go find a girl. Don't be such a goddamn loser!

I swallow and gaze back down at my lap in shame. What am I thinking? I'm not gay. I shouldn't like him in that way. Maybe Dad is right... gays are filthy...

Thank god, you're finally getting some common sense knocked into you. It's about fucking time.

I look back up at the clock, stressed and tense. It's a bad habit of mine, but I can't stop it. It helps me focus on reality and what's going to happen in two hours and forty-two minutes. Fuck.

I pull my eyes away from the clock to look around the room. Everyone else is talking, the room filled with a loud buzz of voices. Gerard and I are the only ones unoccupied with someone else. Did he have any friends at his old school? Or was he lonely? I can't stop myself from taking a risk and glancing at him to find that he is, in fact, occupied. He takes a notebook from his bag and opens it to a blank page. The lighting above us shines shadows on the light paper, slightly tainted with a tan tinge of color, but still white for the most part. Almost as pale as his skin.

His deft fingers reach for a black pencil, placed in the dark spiral holding the sheets together before returning to the paper in one long, smooth movement. It's mesmerizing watching him just move like that. I think it's probably a little creepy, but I can't find the will to stop. I want to watch him work. I'm sure he's great. He shifts the notebook, turning it, so it's a portrait instead of a landscape, and then his pencil begins moving across the sheet in long, soft strokes.

He draws a light gray line, not pushing too hard, but still enough to make a legible mark. He sketches hair first, a head of dark strands, each relatively long, I'm not sure how long, though, until the head is drawn. On top of the two groups of hair in the front is a light beanie. Gerard-is it?-sketches a head to go with the hair so the two groups of hair in the front reach just under his or her temples. I'm sure it's a him, though, the farther the dark haired boy goes.

The artist's pencil traces masterfully, creating facial features. Eyes, a nose, a mouth. All of which are cartoonish but just enough realism to make the art style look personal, in a way only he draws. It's amazing how talented he is. I don't know how long I'm gazing at him, watching each stroke intently as I get lost in his sketch. It's almost therapeutic and I find my eyes closing a little as my ears tune in only to the soft sound of pencil on paper.

His pencil stops, suddenly, the line ending at the tops of the cartoon boy's shoulders. Gerard's gaze leaves the sheet after a moment or two of an awkward feeling stirring in my chest. And he looks up at me, right into my eyes and I can see the pain, that emotion I understand in those deep brown eyes. They're even more beautiful up close, I can see each color even though they all blend together. The highlights in his pupils, the way his pupils dilate at the sight of me and I'm sure mine are doing the same.

"S-sorry," I stutter, blushing and looking away, "I- uh-"

He cuts me off, "It's alright. I don't mind."

His voice is surprisingly sexy. Not like... dark and husky but lighter and traced with a Jersey accent which kills my assumption that he's not from around here. Just from that I can tell he very obviously is. The more I truly appreciate it, the more beautiful it is to my ears, and, though it sounds crazy, I kind of want to kiss him... is that normal?

It's filthy.

It's filthy.

I feel my cheeks grow hotter as he smiles at me, a gentle smile in his lips, and not his teeth, "O-okay, th-thanks."

He pulls down his sleeves a little, (is he okay?) turning his gaze away from me (much to my disappointment) before continuing with his drawing. Despite the fact that I probably shouldn't, I still watch for a short forty-five minutes or so, however long until the period ends. In the time of class, he manages to draw in the cartoon boy's face, hair, eyes, nose, ears, mouth, shoulders, arms, hands, and torso but I know he still has a while to go. There's clothing, legs, feet, shading. I'm not an artist, but I know there's a lot more he'll do to the drawing before he's ready for anyone to judge it. Artists are picky about their work, aren't they? I guess that would make me an artist of my own body.

At the end of the period, near 1:30 PM, I leave the room somewhat awkwardly and feeling bad for watching and not saying a word, but Gerard still follows suit with his troubled eyes. He didn't seem to mind, in fact it almost seemed like he enjoyed it, but I know he probably didn't. I'm a bother to a lot of people, I don't understand how I couldn't be one to him. Sometimes I wonder how I can stand myself.

You can't.

Science is my next period of the day, my fifth period. One more and I'll be able to leave school and go home... Home... Only two more hours...

Mr. Tennant is my science teacher. He's my second favorite out of all my teachers, even though I almost never pay attention during his class. He doesn't usually press anything on me as long as I don't say it's his fault that I never learned anything. I don't really know how he's still working here but... whatever.

I make my way to my locker, and immediately turn the lock, spinning the code in until the door opens with a loud creak. Once it's open, I reach up and grab my science journal from the top, the cover smooth and flat before shutting it with an even louder clang, followed by the click of the lock.

But the next thing I know, there's a sharp pain in my side, and I'm sprawled out on the ground from the impact, my binder and my journal spread across the floor. Another pain spurts through my back when I hit the ground with my eyes squeezed shut in pain.

"Agh!"

I open my eyes to see a bunch of teenagers surrounding me. Some have shocked faces, some look disgusted, some are laughing. What do they have in common? They're all staring at me. Me, pathetic, lying on the ground. Me, the person knocked down. Me, fat, ugly, broken. But why? I'm nobody. So what if I fell to the ground? It shouldn't be this big of a deal. Fear immediately swallows me. Why are they laughing? Why are they disgusted? Why do they look so shocked? My eyes are glued to theirs in fear and embarrassment and shock. Until I look down to see my sleeve pulled up on my arm.

Revealing my scars.