Summary: Nobody knows why Frank is at St. Matthew's. There are rumors why he got expelled from his last school—that he was crazy, that he killed someone. Some of the rumors get more or less ridiculous, but in the end, no one wants anything to do with him. But that's fine with Frank. He wants to be left alone. But that changes when he meets Peter, a boy who insists on becoming his friend. Someone who just won't stay away.

Warnings: Slash (M/M, homosexuality), drug references, language, religious references, sexual content

A/N: This is just a story I randomly started working on and managed to get pretty far in. I wanted to post something since I haven't in awhile. I only have a small idea of where the plot is going, but I'm having fun writing it, and I hope you enjoy it too.

Since this story is mostly for fun and was improvised, I'm not really looking for critiques. But feel free to correct any typos/mistakes and give your input. Thanks ahead of time.

Chapter One

The wind was the worst. Autumn was beginning to bite, every gust of wind felt like stepping into a freezer—sudden, quick, teeth-chattering. Frank's hands were stiff inside the pockets of his woolen coat, his face buried in his ratty scarf. He quickly walked across the grounds, passing by the stone statue of St. Matthew who watched from his high place in the center of the courtyard, his presence overbearing.

The inside of the school wasn't much better. The building was old without central heating. Frank looked around the empty corridors, lost for a moment. Finally, someone approached him.

"Looking for someone?" asked the woman. Frank looked at her but said nothing. The woman continued, "If you're looking for the main office, it's just this way. I'll show you."

Frank followed her, seeing no other choice. The building was as tall as it was old. Frank glanced up a few times, only the slightest sense of interest in his eyes. As they walked, smaller statues of the patron saints watched them from their places on the niches of the corridor. Frank found their stony, downcast gazes to be more disturbing than holy.

"Here you are," the woman said, even opening up the door for him. Frank, still, said nothing, and simply brushed past the woman on his way into the office.

The inside of the office was rather contemporary in comparison to the rest of the building. A heavyset man sat at a desk, a computer to his left, a cabinet to his right, and a phone in his hand.

Noticing him, the man said offhandedly, "You can take a seat."

Frank stood there, not blinking. The man did a double-take before resting the phone on his shoulder.

"You're the transfer student, correct? Hunnigan should be waiting in his office. Just go in."

The man went back on the phone, talking to some parent about the importance of attendance. Frank found a door labeled "Principal Michael Hunnigan" and went right in.

The office was cozier in comparison to the rest of the building. Aside from the outdated shag carpet and faded walls, the rest of the principal's office was rather up-to-date. Hunnigan, a tall man with graying hair, glasses and a bulbous red nose, immediately noticed Frank.

"You must be Francis Hill."

"Frank," he responded curtly.

Hunnigan paused for a moment, and referred to a manila folder on his desk. He looked down at the contents of the folder, looking over his glasses, before looking back at Frank. "I'm sorry, my mistake. It's Franklin Hill. Frank, for short, as you said."

Frank said nothing, his hands still stuffed in his pocket, his eyes bored.

"Take a seat Frank."

There was a pause. After realizing that he wasn't going to continue until he sat down, Frank reluctantly sunk into the seat of a recliner, nearly drowning in the leather. Hunnigan seemed, only for a moment, concerned about the young boy's strange behavior. He glanced back at the manila folder-Frank's record. He picked up talking once again, "Well, Frank, just so you know, everyone here at St. Matthew's welcomes you here. I wanted to talk to you today about the school a bit. As you may know, you'll be starting in the midst of the first semester. We've also had some difficulties determining your grade, considering where you left off in your old school and your absences, as well as your training at the hospital. Just so you're not worried, the staff has been working really hard in determining your place in this school, and we've come to the conclusion to give you a fresh start.

"Starting now, you will be a junior. This is exactly where most of the kids your age would be at. You don't have to retake your freshman year and work your way up, you'll be exactly where you were meant to be."

Frank said nothing, simply sitting there slouched over, looking like his structureless body was about to merge with the recliner to create some monster-like being from some cheap, stock horror-film. Despite how ridiculous he looked, his face was blank-eyes looking off into the distance. Hunnigan's eyes followed the direction that Frank was staring off to, and found nothing, except a lamp. For a moment, a strange feeling washed through Hunnigan—the same type of feeling one would get if they were victim of a prank. Frank wasn't staring at anything materialistic, or maybe anything at all—he just looked right through everything. It all just seemed like a joke.

Hunnigan paused for a moment, collecting himself, before starting again, "Like I said, Frank, we've decided to give you a fresh start here. We want you to become the better person you were meant to be. This is your shot at redeeming yourself. You only get one shot."

Frank's eyes shifted views, and Hunnigan found himself in locked eye-contact. "Redeem?" he repeated, as if he was pondering what the word meant.

Hunnigan, beginning to lose patience with the boy's aloofness, quickly said, "Yes, Frank. You've been expelled from your last school because of your past actions. You could've lost a lot more. But you didn't. It's time to start over, Frank. You'll find this school to be open and accepting."

"Except when it comes to women, faggots and blacks."

Hunnigan blinked. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the wall to his left, which was written in bold letters, "St. Matthew's School for Boys" and the portraits of the headmasters before him, all of which were old and white. He looked back at Frank, both shocked and appalled. Frank stared back, as always, expressionless.

It began to dawn on him how far away this school was from civilization. Frank had considered skipping school that day, running off into the nearest town, and had even contemplated running away completely. But St. Matthew's was a 40 minute drive from his hometown with no nearby busstop, in the center of acres upon acres of fields. He was dropped off by his parents—he had no car, or other means of transportation. He also didn't have Lily, his guitar, with him—and leaving without her was unacceptable.

So instead, he found places throughout the school to hide. Often, the safest spot was outdoors, underneath the bleachers by the infamous St. Matthew's trackfield, where its high school athletes practiced hard so they could win gold at the statewide tournament for the sixth year in a row. During the day, however, the field was empty, save for the occasional gym class.

Frank hated his new school so far, and he certainly didn't give a flying shit about team sports. Thankfully, he didn't have to work hard to avoid anybody. Rumors flew fast. They knew he had been expelled from his last school. Knew he had been in an institution. Knew that he was from the bad side of town. They didn't even have to hear about it, they could sense that he was an outsider. He didn't talk to anyone, didn't seem interested in the school or anyone in it, he always skipped class. His hair was dark and unkempt, his uniform was never tucked in, and his tie never hid the tattoo on his neck that he got from a scratcher. He wasn't anything like them.

But it was nothing new. Even at his old school, he was never popular. Though, at least, at his old school, he was more in his element. He could handle being the skinny, pale white boy in a public high school in the middle of the ghetto. But he couldn't even begin to understand what went through the mind of a preppy rich kid in a private Catholic academy.

He sat under the bleachers, the ground cold and wet, while smoking a cigarette. Sometimes, depending on where he sat, he could look past the bars of the bleachers and see the field and the school. He gazed off into the distance, thinking of nothing in particular, when heard someone moving up above in the bleachers.

He instinctively looked up, but it was pointless-he couldn't see through the steps. Shadows and light danced about but he couldn't get a definite look at anything.

Still, he took out his cigarette and kept it between his finger and thumb, watching curiously—as if something would appear to him.

He could hear them better than he could see them but that still wasn't saying much. Most of what they were saying was incoherent in all the noise of them stomping around on the bleachers. It was a group of people, shouting. At first, Frank thought it all sounded angry. But in time, it started to sound like taunting.

He caught a few words. Cusses. Name-calling, mostly. Then he heard a loud thud, causing him to jump. Something hit the bleachers. There was a crescendo of shouting. A few more thuds. And then there was a stampede of noise as the group ran off.

Frank stamped out the cigarette and looked around the metal bars as the group ran by. They didn't notice him, and Frank didn't recognize any of the members—he only knew that they were students by their uniforms.

A fight, he assumed. If he had the ability to be impressed, he might've been. He didn't suspect that rich, privileged brats really had anything to really fight about. But of course, what would he know? He could only assume that they were fighting over who had the most money or better scholarships.

He didn't have any more cigarettes on him; he burnt out his last one. He got up to leave when he heard something shift above him. He looked up, and something dropped, and Frank flinched and stepped out of the way.

He looked down at the ground, seeing something wet.

Blood, maybe?

Frank paused for a moment, staring above him. Slowly, he walked away.

It wasn't his problem to deal with.

"I just need you to pick him up! I work 'til 5 during the weeks. I can't do it!"

"It's too out of the way! This was your idea to send him to that school, not mine!"

"He can't go back to a public school! It's too dangerous!"

"And this one is burning a hole in my pocket! Grace, those private schools are expensive!"

Frank tuned out the shouting, slowly strumming Lily's strings. He wasn't playing anything specific, just verses from a few random songs that he memorized. He played on his bed, slouched with his back against the wall, his eyes blank. Finally, the slamming of the front door signified his father's departure.

Frank halted playing and set the guitar in his lap, waiting patiently for his mother to stop crying and shouting. He listened as she finally stopped and came upstairs, eventually retreating into her bedroom. Click. There it was—the lock of the door. Father would be sleeping on the couch that night, if he decided to come home. The television in his parents' room turned on, and Frank could hear the anthem of the late night TV show play. Quietly, he packed up Lily, pulled on his ratty Vans and his favorite hoodie, stuffed his iPod and charger into his pocket, and snuck out of his room and out the back door.

It was black out, aside from a few streetlights and lit houses. Once in awhile, a car drove by. Frank walked through the city, mostly taking alleyways and shortcuts he had learned. He avoided main streets as much as possible, preferring to avoid the obnoxious drunks that crawled out this time of night.

Eventually, he found his way to a bus stop, and waited patiently for the last bus of the night. When it arrived, he paid his fees—all change that he had found in the cracks of the couches and jeans sitting in the laundry room—and took his seat. There was no going back.

He waited, listening to his music, while staring out the window. Street signs flew by. Places familiar, unfamiliar. Frank knew most of his city, but knew few things outside of it. His intention was to go as far as the midnight bus would take him and walk from there.

But the signs. He recognized one of them in particular. Before he could stop himself, he pulled the yellow cord, and the bus eventually came to a stop.

He found himself walking, walking toward a place he once knew well. He buzzed the doorbell to an apartment. There was no response. He buzzed it again. There was a crackle, then:

"Get off my fucking step before I call the cops, crackhead."

Frank didn't say anything back, just listening. There was no response, so Frank buzzed it again.

"What the fuck did I just tell you? Ring the doorbell one more time, fucker. See what happens."

It took Frank a moment. He had listened carefully. But in the end, he didn't recognize the voice. Frank took a step back, looking up at the apartment building, staring at the second-story window. He revisited this place many times. But he had never had the courage to ring the doorbell.

It didn't matter anymore.

Frank took a couple steps back from the building, eventually retracing his steps back to the busstop. He looked off into the distance.

He was on the edge of town. Close to leaving, but not far enough.

He had been to this place so many times before.

But he never got any further.

A/N: That's the end of the first chapter. Kind of short but the second one should be posted soon.