Foreign Words, Strange Feels —كلمات عصيّة، ومشاعر غريبة
Gerard Way x SWANA Exchange Student! Reader
The house was never this quiet unless everyone was gone, but today the silence felt heavy, pooling in the corners of the basement like stagnant water.
Gerard sat on the edge of his mattress, his back curved, staring at the dark floorboards overhead. Usually, even from down here, the house was full of Mikey’s easy low laughter and the rhythmic cadence of your voice responding to him.
It irritated him if he was being completely honest with himself.
Not because of Mikey—he loved his brother—but because of how effortlessly Mikey had managed to bridge the gap.
You two were just so different. Where you were a striking presence that seemed to pull the light into a room, Gerard felt like a shadow permanently attached to the drywall. He was quiet, guarded, and he knew he came across as intimidating.
He’d seen the way you occasionally hesitated before speaking to him, your posture straightening, your thick hair like waves shifting over your shoulders as you chose your words carefully.
A muffled sound broke the silence above. It wasn't a floorboard creaking. It was a thud. Almost like a drum. A strong voice carrying a melody that didn't belong to any record Gerard owned.
It wasn't the jagged punk or indie rock that usually shook the walls of their New Jersey home. The tunes were entirely unfamiliar, the timing of the soft drums completely foreign, but it pulled at him like a physical string tied to his chest.
Gerard stood up, his sneakers scuffing against the concrete, and walked up the basement stairs.
The light in the hallway upstairs was bright, but your bedroom door was cracked open, letting out a sliver of the afternoon June sun and the distinct, intoxicating scent of jasmine.
He knocked softly, his knuckles barely grazing the wood, his heart doing a strange, irregular thrum against his ribs. "Come in," your voice called out.
When he pushed the door open, the room was bathed in heavy, golden sunlight. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by neat, small piles of glossy photographs. The vinyl on your record player spun slowly, the unfamiliar music filling the space between you.
"Oh. Gerard," you said, looking up. Your eyelashes guarded your eyes like treasure, dark and thick, casting tiny, delicate shadows on your cheekbones as you blinked.
For a second, the familiar hesitation flitted across your face—that quiet intimidation that always made him want to shrink into himself—but then you offered a small, tentative smile.
"Everyone else is out," you said.
"I know," Gerard said, clearing his throat and stepping inside. He felt too big for the space, too clumsy in his oversized clothes, but the warmth of the room was intoxicating. "I heard your music.”
"No. No, it’s...it's good. What is it?”
You told him the name of the artist, but the syllables were unfamiliar, twisting in his ears in a way he couldn't quite grasp. You leaned back against the frame of your bed, your posture relaxing just a fraction, and you started to speak.
You explained the tunes, the rhythm, translating the lyrics of the song as the soft voice poured over the strong drums.
But Gerard’s mind completely tuned it out.
The actual words of the translation became a soft, distant blur of background noise, completely eclipsed by the sight of you. He didn't care what the song was actually saying; he was too busy watching the way your lips moved, the way the sunlight caught the high arc of your cheekbones, the sheer, mesmerizing rhythm of your voice.
In his mind, he was admiring you—the way you held yourself, the richness of your hair, the effortless way you commanded the space around you without even trying. He just loved the sound of you speaking, the melody of your voice far more captivating than the vinyl spinning on the platter.
"Here," you said, breaking his trance as you reached for a pile of photos. "Help me sort these?”
He sat down on the floor across from you, the space between you shrinking to a matter of inches. You handed him a stack of pictures—glossy rectangles of your home country, of bustling streets and landscapes that looked worlds away from New Jersey. On the backs, there were words written in a sweeping, elegant script he couldn't read—names of people, dates, wishes left by hands thousands of miles away.
He didn't understand a single syllable of the ink, but he loved it. He loved holding these heavy pieces of your world.
"That's my grandparents' wedding," you said, pointing to a black-and-white photograph in his hand.
Gerard looked down at the faded image. In his mind, the static figures began to move; he couldn't help but picture the two of you years from now, standing together in a suit and gown, looking exactly like the romance in the old picture.
His eyes snagged on a detail on the grandmother's hand—intricate, dark patterns winding up her fingers. "What's that?" Gerard asked, his voice dropping into a quiet register. "The tattoo?”
You looked down a soft, genuine laugh broke from you—the first time you’d ever laughed like that just with him. The intimidation seemed to melt right out of your shoulders, leaving only warmth.
"It's not a tattoo,” you explained, your eyes bright. "It's a paste; it dries on the skin and leaves a stain. It washes off after a few weeks." You looked at his hand, then back up to his eyes, your gaze lingering a second longer than it ever had before. "I don't have any of the powder, though. I haven't seen it anywhere here.”
The disappointment in your voice was palpable, a quiet longing for home that Gerard felt acutely in his chest. He looked down at his own hand, then back at you, a sudden, stubborn resolve settling into his bones.
"Then we'll find some," he said.
The promise hung in the air of your bedroom like the lingering scent of the jasmine, but the days that followed dragged back into the usual, frustrating routine.
It was another empty weekend afternoon, gray and stagnant outside. Gerard’s original plans to take the train into New York had fallen through at the last minute, canceled by a friend's phoned-in excuse, leaving him stranded in the house. He had been on his way back down to the safety of his basement when he heard the drone of the television from the living room.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking in.
You and Mikey were sprawled on the couch, the glowing screen of the heavy CRT television washing over the room. Some mindless daytime rerun was playing, but neither of you were really watching it. Mikey was tossing a baseball hand-to-hand and you were leaning your chin on your palm, staring blankly at the glass screen, the picture of pure, unadulterated boredom.
Gerard stood by the doorway, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his oversized hoodie. He thought about that afternoon in your bedroom—the way you had laughed, the way his mind had entirely short-circuited while you translated those songs. He didn't want to go back to the basement. He didn't want to let the distance creep back in.
"Hey," Gerard said, his voice cutting through the hum of the TV.
You both looked up. Mikey stopped tossing the ball.
Gerard looked directly at you, intentionally bypassing his brother. "You still want to find that powder?”
Your eyes instantly lit up, the heavy boredom evaporating from your face in a fraction of a second. "You know where to get it?"
"We can find it in the city," Gerard said, shrugging one shoulder with a casualness he absolutely did not feel. "I was already planning on heading in anyway. We can take the subway."
"Oh, sweet, I'm down," Mikey chimed in, immediately sitting up and tossing the baseball onto the coffee table. He started reaching for his sneakers on the floor. "I’ve been dying to get out of the house. Let me grab my jacket—"
"No," Gerard said, shutting it down so fast it was almost comical.
Mikey paused, one sneaker halfway on his foot, looking up at his brother with a furrowed brow. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean, you're stayin' here," Gerard said, his tone flat, throwing Mikey a look that practically screamed shut up and stay out of this. "You're supposed to be cleaning the garage anyway. Mom's gonna kill you if it's not done before they get back."
"The garage? Since when—"
"Since today, Mike," Gerard interrupted, his voice dropping into a stubborn, older-brother finality that left no room for argument. He didn't give Mikey a chance to protest further, turning his attention right back to you, his heart doing his usual nervous flutter. "You ready to go?"
You looked between the two brothers, a small, amused smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you realized what was happening. The hesitation that usually guarded your expressions seemed to soften.
"Yeah," you said, standing up from the couch and smoothing down your clothes. "Let's go."
Gerard felt a massive surge of triumph swell in his chest as he stepped back to let you lead the way to the front door, leaving a thoroughly confused and annoyed Mikey sitting on the living room rug.
The front door clicked shut behind you, cutting off the faint sound of Mikey’s protests from inside, and suddenly the afternoon felt completely different. The air outside was cool and damp, carrying that distinct, earthy New Jersey summer scent, but Gerard barely noticed it. He was too hyper-aware of the fact that he had actually pulled it off.
It was now just the two of you.
You walked side-by-side down the sidewalk toward the local transit station, the silence between you stretching out, but it didn't feel heavy like the basement anymore. It felt expectant.
Gerard dug his hands deep into his pockets, his oversized skate shoes scuffing against the concrete. Every few paces, his shoulder would lightly brush against yours—just a casual, accidental consequence of sharing a narrow sidewalk—and every single time, a sharp spike of static electricity seemed to shoot straight down his spine.
He kept his eyes locked firmly ahead, terrified that if he looked at you, you’d see the sheer panic and adoration warring in his face.
"I didn't think you liked the city," you said softly, breaking the quiet.
Gerard blinked, clearing his throat quickly. "Uh. No, I do. Sometimes. It’s just loud. But it’s good for finding things you can’t get out here." He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, watching the way your hair caught the damp breeze. "Did you really think I didn't like it?"
"You just stay downstairs a lot," you admitted, offering a small, sheepish smile. "I thought maybe you liked being alone."
I stay downstairs because looking at you makes it hard to breathe, he thought, the honesty of it hitting him so hard he almost tripped over a crack in the pavement. Instead, he just mumbled, "Nah. Just drawing, usually."
When you reached the station, the atmosphere shifted. Gerard pulled a few crumpled dollar bills from his pockets to buy two brass subway tokens, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed you your token. You took it, your fingers warm against his cool skin, and led the way through the clacking metal turnstiles.
The platform was loud, echoing with the screech of steel brakes and the heavy rush of wind as the train roared into the station. Inside the car, it was different that anything you’ve imagined, orange and yellow plastic bucket seats, scratched-up windows covered in old graffiti, and flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed like angry hornets.
It was mid-afternoon, so the car wasn't packed, but there were enough commuters that you were forced to sit close together. Gerard practically melted into the corner of the seat, trying to give you as much room as possible, but the train gave a violent, rhythmic lurch as it hurtled under the Hudson River, throwing your weight right against his side.
Your shoulder pressed hard against his bicep. The faint, sweet scent of your perfume instantly cut through the metallic, dusty smell of the subway car.
Gerard froze, his entire body going rigid. His heart was hammering so loudly against his ribs he was genuinely convinced you could hear it over the rattle of the train tracks. He didn't move an inch, terrified of breaking the contact. He just stared straight ahead at a faded advertisement across the aisle, his mind completely tuning out the world, entirely consumed by the heavy, incredible warmth of you leaning against him.
You didn't pull away immediately. You just adjusted your posture, your head tilting slightly as you looked out the dark window at the passing tunnel lights.
"We're almost there?” you murmured, your voice vibrating slightly against his arm.
"Yeah," Gerard choked out, his throat incredibly dry. "Almost there."
The train kept hurtling through the dark tunnel beneath the river, the steady clack-clack, clack-clack of the tracks vibrating right through the plastic seats and up into Gerard’s bones.
He didn't move a muscle. He was at the exact point where your arm pressed into his, the warmth of you bleeding through the heavy fabric of his jacket. He felt like if he took too deep of a breath, he’d disrupt the fragile, perfect equilibrium they had suddenly landed in.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched you. You were staring at your own reflection in the dirty, scratched-up subway window, the passing tunnel lights casting quick, strobing shadows across your face. You looked small against the gritty, industrial backdrop of the train car, like something far too precious to be sitting on a transit line under the city.
You shifted slightly, your shoulder rubbing against his as you reached into your bag, pulling out a pair of tangled, gray plastic headphones attached to a portable CD player.
You spent a minute patiently untangling the cord with your fingers. Gerard just watched, utterly fascinated by the simplest movements of your hands. When you finally freed the foam earpieces, you looked up, catching him staring.
Gerard immediately snapped his eyes forward, his face burning a furious crimson. He began aggressively studying a poster detailing subway safety tips as if it were the most riveting thing he’d ever read.
He expected you to pull away, to realize how weird he was being, but instead, he felt a soft tap on his arm.
He looked back. You were holding out one side of the headphones toward him, the little foam bud dangling between your fingers. "Want one?" you asked, your voice low, barely carrying over the rattle of the car. "It’s another song, but it’s good. I recorded it onto a mix disc.”
Gerard’s heart did a violent flip. He reached out, his fingers brushing yours again—that brief, electric contact that made his lungs seize—and took the earphone. He pressed the foam into his ear.
Sitting there in the dim, flickering light of a New York subway car, surrounded by metal and strangers, the music felt even more intimate. It was like a secret wall you had built around the two of you, shutting the rest of the world out.
You leaned back, closing your eyes, your head tilting just enough that a few stray waves of your hair brushed against the collar of his hoodie.
Gerard leaned his head back against the cold window pane, letting the foreign melody wash over him. He still didn't understand a single lyric, but with the music filling his left ear and your warmth pressed against his right side, he didn't care. He wished the train would just keep running under the river forever.
But then, the brakes began to screech, a long, high-pitched wail that signaled they were pulling into Manhattan. The train decelerated sharply, throwing you both forward a bit before jolting to a final stop.
The doors slid open with a heavy mechanical hiss, letting in the sudden, loud rush of the city—voices shouting, footsteps echoing on concrete, and the heavy smell of hot metal and pretzel stands.
You pulled the earphone out of your ear with a soft smile, looping the cord around the CD player. "We're here," you said.
"Yeah," Gerard said, swallowing hard as he took his earphone out and handed it back, already missing the shared bubble. "Let's go find this stuff.”
They stepped out of the station and straight into the sensory overload of Lower Manhattan. The city was a chaotic masterpiece—yellow cabs honking aggressively, steam rising from grates in the pavement, and a sea of people in oversized leather jackets and baggy jeans rushing past.
Gerard instantly fell into a protective stance. He was taller than you, broader in his heavy layers, and he naturally used his body to shield you from the aggressive flow of the sidewalk crowd.
He kept his eyes moving, but his main focus was always the back of your head, making sure you didn't get swept away in the madness.
You led the way even though you weren’t sure where you were going. Turning down a narrower side street where the corporate storefronts gave way to smaller, cramped independent shops. The air here smelled different—less like exhaust and more like heavy incense and old paper.
“Maybe it’s down here," you said, looking up at the faded awnings.
Gerard followed you into the first shop. A little bell chimed over the door, the floorboards groaned under his shoes. The place was packed from floor to ceiling with imported textiles, brass trinkets, and shelves of unlabeled jars.
You walked up to the counter, asking the shopkeeper a question in a quiet, hopeful voice. Gerard stood a step behind you, his hands in his pockets, looking around. He felt completely out of his depth in a place like this, but seeing the intense, focused look on your face made him entirely content to just be your shadow.
The shopkeeper shook his head, offering a sympathetic shrug. You sighed, a little puff of disappointment leaving your lips, and turned back to Gerard. "Not here.”
"That's fine," Gerard said quickly, offering a lopsided, reassuring smile. "There's a million of these places. We'll check the next one. We've got all day.”
The look of pure gratitude you gave him in that moment made his knees go a little weak.
You tried three more shops. The second one only had pre-made cones that looked old and dried out; you shook your head, wanting the real powder to mix yourself. The third shop didn't even know what you were talking about.
By the time they reached the fifth shop—a tiny, narrow place squeezed between a record store and a bakery—the sun was starting to dip below the city skyline, casting long shadows down the brick alleyways.
You pushed the door open, and the smell of sweet wood and sugar hit Gerard so fast it felt like stepping right back into your bedroom.
You walked straight toward the back, your eyes scanning a low wooden shelf packed with small, colorful packages. Gerard hovered near a display of hanging tapestries, keeping an eye on the door, when he heard you let out a soft, sharp gasp.
He turned around. You were holding a small, green plastic bag, a massive, brilliant smile breaking across your face.
"Gerard," you whispered, holding it up like it was made of solid gold. "They have it. Look.”
Gerard stepped closer, the floorboards groaning softly under his feet as he looked down at the small green package in your hands. Seeing the sheer, radiant joy on your face made his chest tighten in the absolute best way.
"Told you we'd find it," he said, unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face.
As you turned toward the counter, your eyes caught a display on a sturdy wooden table nearby. It was lined with heavy glass jars filled with deep, vibrant colors—different kinds of imported pickles, packed in oils and spices that looked entirely different from anything sitting in the door of the Way family refrigerator.
"Oh, look at these," you murmured, stepping over to inspect them. You picked up a jar, turning it in your hands to watch the spices swirl. "These are amazing. We should get some.”
"Yeah?" Gerard asked, leaning over your shoulder to look. "What kind are they?”
You pointed to the labels, explaining the different flavors, your voice slipping into that comfortable, relaxed rhythm he loved so much. "We should get a few different ones to try. And we definitely have to get this one for Mikey.”
His smile faltered for a fraction of a second. His chest tightened, but this time it wasn't the good kind. Mikey. They were miles away from New Jersey, in a tiny, tucked-away corner of Manhattan, sharing a secret universe that Gerard had fought hard to secure, and Mikey still managed to find his way into the room. A bitter, ugly little spark of jealousy flared in his throat.
Why did it always have to be so easy for Mikey to be a part of your thoughts, even when he was stuck at home cleaning a garage?
You didn't notice right away, your thumb tracing the rim of the jar as you said, "He loves sour things, right? I think he'd really like this.”
Gerard forced himself to swallow the bitterness down, aggressively shoving his hands into his pockets so you wouldn't see his fingers twitch. He took a slow breath, praying his voice wouldn't betray him as he quickly tried to cover it up.
"Yeah," Gerard said, forcing his tone to sound casual, maybe a little teasing. "Yeah, Mikey’ll eat anything that burns his tongue off. Good call. We can use it as a bribe so he doesn't tell Mom we left him behind.”
He threw a quick look at you, his heart doing a nervous pit-pat against his ribs. He desperately hoped the strain hadn't shown in his face. He hoped he looked like a normal, generous older brother, and not a chaotic, possessive mess who wanted to hoard every single second of your attention for himself.
You looked up at him, your eyes soft and bright, completely oblivious to the brief internal crisis he’d just suffered. "Perfect," you smiled, adding the pickle jars to the green bag of henna powder.
Gerard let out a quiet breath he didn't realize he’d been holding. He stepped up to the counter ahead of you, sliding a crumpled twenty-dollar bill across the scratched glass before you could even reach for your bag.
The clerk barely looked up from a tiny, portable black-and-white TV on the back shelf, ringing up the items with a loud, metallic clink of the register.
When you guys stepped back out onto the Manhattan sidewalk, the twilight had officially taken over. The streetlights were flickering on, casting a hazy, amber glow over the damp pavement. You were clutching the plastic bag close to your chest like a trophy, the glass jars clinking softly against each other.
"Thank you, Gerard," you said, looking over at him as you walked back toward the subway station.
"Don't worry about it," he mumbled, pulling his hood up a bit as the evening wind picked up. But inside, his head was spinning. The air felt thick, the city sounds fading into the background again.
The train ride back to New Jersey was long, the car nearly empty this time as night fully settled over the suburbs. By the time the front door of the house clicked open, the building was pitch black and completely silent.
Their parents weren't back yet, and Mikey was nowhere to be seen—likely asleep or hiding out in his own room.
It was only the two of you again.
You led the way into the kitchen, the linoleum floor cold under your feet. You set the grocery bag on the table with a heavy, satisfying thud, the glass jars echoing in the quiet room.
Gerard hovered by the doorway, his back against the refrigerator, watching as you pulled out two simple drinking glasses and a small ceramic bowl from the cupboard. You tore open the green plastic package, the smell immediately hit him—intense, earthy, sharp, and deeply herbal.
It completely erased the sterile, suburban scent of the kitchen, turning the space into something entirely yours.
You poured the olive-colored powder into the bowl, adding a few drops of water, mixing it patiently with a small spoon until it transformed into a thick, dark green sludge.
"Can you find a plastic bag?" you asked quietly, not looking up from your mixing. "Like a Ziploc?”
Gerard moved quickly, navigating the familiar drawers of his kitchen like a man on a mission. He handed it to you, watching with bated breath as you carefully spooned the heavy paste into the corner of the bag, twisting the top until it formed a makeshift piping cone.
You grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors, snipping the tiniest fraction off the plastic tip.
You pulled two chairs close together at the table, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor in the quiet house.
"Give me your hand," you commanded gently, looking up at him.
Gerard’s pulse spiked violently. He moved like a robot, sitting down and offering his right hand, his palm facing up.
You reached out, your smaller, warmer fingers wrapping around his wrist to steady him. The moment your skin met his, Gerard felt a wave of heat rush straight to his face. He froze, staring down at your hands, trying with every ounce of his being to concentrate on the plastic cone in your fingers and not the overwhelming reality of your touch.
You squeezed the bag, a thin, precise line of green paste curling onto his palm. But Gerard’s wrist was so rigid, so completely locked with tension, that the line wobbled.
You let out a low, sweet laugh—the sound bouncing off the quiet kitchen walls. "Relax, Gerard. You are making it hard.”
The sheer normalcy of your laugh broke the suffocating tension, Gerard let out a breath, a small, nervous giggle escaping him. For the next few minutes, the kitchen was alive with quiet amusement.
You showed him how to squeeze the bag, letting him try a few clumsy, uneven spirals on your own palm, both of you whispering and giggling so you wouldn't wake the house. He felt incredibly clumsy compared to your grace, but he didn't care. The distance was totally gone.
You wiped a stray smudge of paste from your skin, your expression shifting, turning serious as you looked up at him through your eyelashes. The playful air evaporated, replaced by a heavy, quiet focus that made the kitchen feel incredibly small.
"What do you want me to draw?" you whispered.
Gerard looked into your eyes, his mind instantly tuning out the hum of the refrigerator, the dark windows, the world outside. His throat felt dry. "A spider.”
It was a request so inherently him, so like the dark, jagged doodles he spent hours scratching into his notebooks in the basement, yet hearing it requested by you made it feel entirely new.
"A big one?" you asked softly.
"On my arm," he said, his voice dropping an octave.
You didn't hesitate. You reached out, your fingers sliding under the heavy sleeve of his oversized hoodie, gently pulling the fabric up to his elbow. You rested his bare forearm right in your lap, your thighs supporting the weight of his arm.
Gerard stopped breathing entirely.
The lines of reality were blurring, fraying at the edges. Your head was bent close to his skin, your dark hair shifting forward, nearly brushing against his chest. The earthy scent of the henna and the sweet, heavy trace of your jasmine perfume filled his entire head, making him dizzy.
You held his arm steady with one hand, your fingers cool against his inner wrist, while your other hand began to meticulously pipe the thin, dark outlines of a massive spider onto his forearm. You were completely focused, your face serious as you worked with absolute precision.
Gerard just watched you. He didn't look at the spider. He looked at the curve of your cheek, the way your lips parted slightly in concentration, the nimble movement of your fingers against his skin.
You didn't look up, but he knew you could feel the absolute weight of his stare. He could feel the heavy, electric current stretching between you in the dark kitchen, the space between "host siblings" dissolving into something completely unnamed, entirely heavy, and terrifyingly beautiful.
