// Anatomy. Magnetic stars. //

Chapter four - the gum is trying to eat me.

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Frank was not happy.

Frank's English class was not happy either.

"Can anyone pick out an example of a good metaphor in the text and explain why it's effective?" Frank asked, a rather dull tone to his voice despite the efforts he made to animate it. Two weeks into his new job and the small bleak flicker of hope left in his life had already drained down the throats of those awful kids.

None of the students put in any effort at all– in fact, a large portion of the class seemed quite determined not to try– so Frank had started to think that, in compliance with the universal law of school, he ought to join in with having an apathetic attitude towards everything.

He knew the students must have planned it out, the way they would wear him out and make him fold, but he didn't bother going against it at all. Honestly, he was pretty impressed. It was a fairly systematic approach, and clearly quite a bit of effort had been put in by the kids to make it work– most likely far more than it would have taken just to fill in the goddamn question paper.

But Frank didn't question it. He didn't fight it. That was just the way the system went.

A light wind broke the stillness in the air, and Pete perked up and tossed a crumpled paper aeroplane across the room to soar briefly on the updraft. Frank shut the window. He turned on his heel, and paced along the length of the classroom as slowly as he could manage in an attempt to drag out time, but he was tense and jittery, and ended up walking the whole distance in three seconds. Frank tried to mask the tone of exasperation in his voice when he spoke again. "Effective metaphors? Anyone?"

After a pause, Gabe put his hand up.

"Go on," Frank said cautiously.

Gabe smiled. "Your dick is an effective metaphor," he said smartly, like it was the funniest thing in the world.

The boys at the back of the class snorted with gruff and dopey laughter, shoving each other in the shoulders, while Gabe basked in the glow of the shittiest joke in the history of mankind.

Frank smiled tightly. "Wrong answer, Saporta."

Pete shrugged, a snide smile on his face. "Your dick is the wrong answer."

"Sure it is, Wentz," Frank said dryly. "Of course, in the field of English literature and language one must value and encourage expression of opinions– but if your opinion involves slagging off a teacher then I suggest that perhaps you think twice before yelling it out to the class, or you'll land yourself and all your gang in lunchtime detention."

Gerard's mouth quirked into a small smile at Mr Iero's attempt at colloquial language. "Gang," he echoed softly from under the table. He knew he was being a little teasing, but his reaction was fucking mild compared to the alleged 'gang' in question.

The boys at the back erupted in laughter. "Yeah, gang," Pete howled. "Better keep it down, don't wanna make Iero mad!"

Frank scowled. "You wanna come back after school and help me scrape gum off the desk?"

Pete grimaced at the prospect.

Gerard smiled slyly. From his advantageous post on the floor at the front of the room, he had watched Pete and his boys each wipe globs of gum on the underside of the table at least twice a lesson. The wood wasn't even visible now from underneath the table; it was just a hideous mound of sticky pink and white. He tried not to stare at it too long, despite the draw of the unique shape and colour variations. It looked rather like it was going to try to eat him.

From under the desk at the front of the class, Gerard shifted and leaned his body to the side, so he could look up at the underside of the boys' table. He quietly admired the disturbingly voracious texture of the gum from a safe distance, slipping the swallowing feel of it away into his mind. He would have wanted to paint it, a long time ago. But that was before.

"Fine, man," Pete said to Mr Iero, gruff surrender in his voice. "I'll stop expressing my deep emotions. I was just tryna have fun."

"This isn't really the place for that kind of fun, Wentz," Mr Iero sighed. "If you want to write an autobiography about your incredibly deep emotions and print it out in neat format and put it in my pigeonhole, however, then I'd be happy to read it in the lesson and explore your unfathomably fun world. But since I doubt it'd be very interesting for you to write fifty thousand words on hanging out at the playground with your mates and scaring little kids, then I suggest you shut your mouth."

William's mouth dropped and his face twisted slightly into an expression of tough irritation, a twitch of hurt masked just below the surface. Pete bit the inside of his mouth, and Gabe snarled. "Someone stick a rod up your ass, Iero?" he asked.

"Detention," Mr Iero said sharply, no breath of hesitation before he spoke.

The 'gang' muttered to each other in frustration, and William tipped back on his chair and shoved at the support rung of the table with his shoes. "Asshole," he drawled, and Gerard had to take a brief moment to appreciate the soft curve of his mouth as he spoke. Ordinarily, a pretty face would mean nothing to Gerard; without a valuable personality people were just blank mannequins to him, but William liked music, and Gerard liked the line of his jaw when he sang, and with all factors combined Gerard was able to appreciate that William was not an entirely useless person and was in fact quite beautiful.

But only a little. Only pretty enough to distract Gerard very briefly, before he returned to scribbling spirals of words and poem patterns of letters on the sound of Mr Iero's voice and giant globs of bubblegum eating entire classes of teenagers.

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A soft and almost intimate (although still invasive and unwanted) voice nudged at Gerard's sound barriers, and his subconscious vaguely acknowledged the request for attention before deciding that it wasn't worth his consideration and attempting to blank out the noise. To his great dismay though, he didn't seem able to block it out completely, and the sound of Mr Iero's voice soon started to seep into his cognisant mind.

"How long have you been repeating my name?" Gerard mumbled, finally tearing his eyes away from his notebook he had tucked by his feet for convenience, since he sat cross-legged.

Mr Iero shook his head. "It's fine, I've got your attention now."

"Why didn't you tap me on the shoulder or something?"

The teacher looked a little confused and taken aback, and he shifted, shrugging his shoulder slightly. "Your file said you don't like to be touched."

Gerard nodded his head in confirmation, and murmured, "But most teachers just ignore that if I'm not listening to them."

"I wouldn't. I respect boundaries, okay?"

That was true, to some extent, but Mr Iero had already broken into Gerard's boundaries without meaning to. Broken into his writing. Slid under his skin and broken into his mind. Gerard made an unconvinced, noncommittal noise in response. His muscles felt too bound and strung. He could feel his pulse spinning, and he wanted to peel off the carpet with his fingernails just to get some release from the grating in his head.

"Gerard?"

"I heard you." That was also true to some extent. Gerard had heard, but he hadn't listened. He didn't trust people; people lied. Gerard didn't lie.

"Can I see what you've written?" Mr Iero asked, that starry look flourishing in his eyes. Gerard almost got dizzy from it and had to look away, drawing his eyes to the pages of his book despite the fact that he knew exactly what was written there.

Gerard made no noise of response; he slid his notebook over to where Mr Iero was kneeling beside him, and the quiet scratching of the tangled carpet fibres against the pages was enough to speak for him.

"It's good, Gerard," he murmured after a beat. "You're pretty interested in that lump of chewing gum, huh?"

When Gerard looked up, Mr Iero had a playful smile on his face, and Gerard could have likened him to a small puppy with his floppy hair and wide brown eyes. He tilted his head to the side, waiting patiently for Gerard's response. Gerard nodded tentatively.

"You wanna help the boys scrape it up at break?" Mr Iero asked teasingly.

Gerard knew that it was a rhetorical question, and that Mr Iero didn't expect a serious response, but Gerard had a serious response, so he answered nonetheless. "It would give me something to do other than staring at the sky," he shrugged. "Inspiration, I suppose."

The teacher raised his eyebrows slightly. "Oh, you– you actually want to?" He had been joking.

Gerard hummed and nodded nonetheless.

Mr Iero smiled. "Thanks. Come in any break then, I'll probably be here."

Gerard was going to come in this break. "Glad to be of help," he said. It was technically a lie; he did not want to help, but one of the results of what he wanted to do would be being of help, and he was glad to do what he wanted to do, so technically, technically, he was glad to be of help.

Gerard liked technicalities. He got by on technicalities.

Mr Iero was blatantly unaware of Gerard's love of using technicalities to help him escape the guilt of lying. Mr Iero didn't need to know that, though. Omitting was not lying– on a technicality.

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Lunch came and went like the tide, achingly slowly and snapping and quick simultaneously. The desk was clean of gum and Gerard's hands stank of mauled strawberry and deodorant by the time break had come to an end. Gerard was barely aware of the fact that his hand stung from the spatula digging in; he was inspired, and Mr Iero seemed to have taken a liking to him– albeit on a technicality.

Next English lesson, Mr Iero told the gang at the back that they had Gerard to thank for getting them out of scraping the mess off the table, and that instead they would just have a regular detention. They seemed oddly grateful, and a little disturbed at the fact that Gerard had actively done something to assist them, but nonetheless, Gerard decided that he'd probably earned some respect from them, and that in not being glad to help, he had helped, and gained something he was glad to have.

The concept was strange. A lot of things about Gerard were strange, though.