BBB Fic - Stay Right Here, part 2
Part Two
Gerard can feel Worm’s eyes on him all throughout sound check. They’re all a little - okay a lot - nervous, but Worm’s paying special attention to Gerard. He supposes that Brian asked him to. Gerard didn’t miss the way Brian looked at him, so sad and helpless, as he left them two days prior.
Gerard watches Ray go through sound check, and he keeps seeing the way the light fell on Frank, half expecting it to do the same to Ray.
Somehow, they get through it alive, and a couple of hours later, Gerard is standing backstage, hearing the crowd and panicking. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve played with Matt, but this is different. This time, they all know that the whole band is at risk, that Frank might not ever play with them again.
“Ready?” Bob asks him, and Gerard doesn’t have the heart to say no. Really, all he wants is to get away from the venue and run to Frank, but the band needs him, and the fans paid good money to see them, and Gerard can’t let them all down, not again. And so, he nods and follows the rest of his band - plus Matt - onto the stage. He stands behind his microphone and hears the band start up with The Sharpest Lives. He sings, hears the crowd roar, and this should feel amazing, this should feel like home, but all he can think is this is wrong. It’s wrong, all of it. Frank isn’t going insane beside him, isn’t humping his leg or kissing him or smiling at him, and it’s wrong. He remembers the way Frank looks in that hospital bed, the way he avoided Gerard’s lips like poison, and Gerard sings harder, stronger, desperate.
He barely says a word to the crowd throughout the set - a half-assed greeting and a dejected goodnight and not a whole lot more - and he knows that the fans will be wondering, knows that the band will be worried, but he just can’t. He knows that his voice will crack if he tries, and he doesn’t want them to see him like this. He’s supposed to be their idol, their hero, and he can’t do that if he’s falling apart at the seams.
When he has to tell the crowd that Frank is away due to temporary personal matters, he hears his voice hitch and immediately throws himself into the next song.
Eventually, they’re powering into the second-last song, and Gerard is just so tired, so drained, that he misses a handful of lyrics. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to do this, and luckily, Ray steps in for him and belts out the lines he misses, glancing at Gerard worriedly. Gerard, in return, ignores him, turning away and shaking his hips, throwing himself around the stage and trying to look like he’s okay, that he’s Gerard, pretends for the crowd that he planned to miss that line all along.
When they come to a finish on Cancer, Gerard pretends that the tears in his eyes are just to emphasise the song. Just for show. Not for Frank, and not for the way he feels like he’s dying. No, not that.
Finally, he’s allowed to stumble off stage, and Bob wraps an arm around his shoulders, Mikey hands him a bottle of water and Ray helps Worm ensure that Gerard can get back to the bus without being hounded by fans. And Gerard, he remembers why he has the best band in the world, but it still doesn’t change the fact that Frank’s not here, and everything is just so fucking wrong. There’s still no Frank and Gerard needs him, needs him to be bouncing and smiling again because Frank’s the one who has always held him up. He relies on Frank’s energy to draw on, to laugh at and shut everything else out, but Frank is gone, and worse, he’s hurting. Frank is hurting even more than Gerard and that kills, because Gerard knows he’s supposed to be concerned for Frank and he is, it just hurts so bad and he can’t help but get a little selfish. Frank needs him, but it’s too much and this is killing him as well. It’s just not fair.
So he climbs onto the bus and heads straight for the bunks and throws himself in. And just his fucking luck, he can smell Frank on his pillow, or maybe that’s just his imagination. Gerard rolls over, tries to ignore the scent and pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes, because he’s not going to cry, he’s not, he won’t. He has to be strong for Frank, be strong for the guitarist he gave his heart to.
But he can still see Frank in that hospital bed, not moving, not smiling, and he can’t do this. He can’t.
-
Cold tingles numb the tips of Frank's fingers, it's an early warm morning and the last thing Frank wants to do is open his eyes. He knows today is the day, today and this morning is when he no longer can hide under from the world. His eyes flicker open and Frank wishes he's blind, because he doesn’t want to see the sun outside, he doesn’t want to feel it against his skin, he doesn’t want to wake up to things that remind him of what he can no longer do. Frank's eyes automatically go to his limp legs and he lifts his head slightly, his hands instantly curling up into angry fists before falling back and shutting his eyes tightly.
"I can't fucking do this," he says to himself, hands trembling.
Frank reminds himself that his mom is going to be here shortly, he has to at least act like he's got shit controlled. Like he's not about to burst and start punching his face in. But it's hard not to have the urge to destroy everything around him, because he's the one demolished and broken, and it's on the inside and outside. It's all emotional and physical, everyone can see it, everyone can see him incapable now. Frank tries breathing deeply, hoping it will calm the raging inside him, but he just ends up shutting his eyes tight and letting out a sharp exhale.
Turning around to his left side, his eyes fall on the view outside the window, grey and almost dark, silhouettes of trees in the distance, with branches entangled into each other. Frank's mind drifts off as he starts thinking about where's he's going from now. Sure, his mom will be here in about five minutes, wheel him out of this hospital, stay with her, until fuck knows when…then what? What's going to happen next? Is he going to be confined to a bed and wheelchair for the rest of his life? Wallowing in his own sorrow and self-pity and hiding it behind his masked brave face? All sorts of questions twist and turn in Frank's head, he can't answer them and he's pretty sure no one wants to give it to him straight. Everything is coaxed to him, sugar-coated with, "it'll be fine, it'll be okay, we're here". Frank knows that, but that's not what he wants right now. Far from it.
A part of him wants to curl up and explode on the inside so he can disappear. It's always better to go completely rather than being tortured without knowing what's next to happen. How will he make it? Frank hates the thought of having his mom take care of him, not because he loves her any less than he did before the accident or after, just because it's not supposed to be like that. It's supposed to be the other way round. Frank can’t live with the thought, can’t even think about it for more than two seconds without squeezing his eyes shut and wishing for death.
Then there’s the whole thing with the band and Frank can’t stand the single thought; it makes his stomach physically clench and his hands turn into fists. It's not their fault or any of that, but the bitterness in knowing that there's a good chance he'll never get to play hurts, so fucking much. Knowing that he'll never be able to experience that rush of adrenaline of being on stage and playing his heart and whole body out until he's drained and everything aches and feeling so good after a show makes Frank want to strangle himself until he can no longer breathe, see or exist at all.
Just as Frank lets out a long breath, he hears a knock on the door. He lifts his head slightly up to see his mom coming in the room, a small smile on her face.
"Hey, sweetie," his mom says as she walks to him, planting a kiss on his left cheek, "how are you feeling?"
Franks lips don’t even move a muscle. Those kinds of questions have become rhetorical - everyone should know the answers, why do they even bother asking anyway? How would a person feel like if they were in Frank's position? It's all obvious and right there, but yet again no one gets it. No one really understands the situations unless you're in it yourself. But people try to care, pretend to at least, or try to have any form of normality after such change. Like asking how Frank's doing or how lovely the weather is outside, or changing the television channel is like every other day, like nothing has ever happened. That doesn’t make it normal or better or the same, that just makes it hurt even more.
He ends up shrugging and looking away, to the window again. Frank can hear his mother sigh in distress and doesn’t bother saying a word, she's only trying to help, trying to make it better. Right now, Frank doesn’t know how to give back or communicate, because he's not in the mentality to do that, he knows it, and he knows that he should be trying, working on himself. But everything feels so stuck in place, Frank feels so drained out of his body and soul that all he ever wants to do is sleep forever and wish that one day he'll simply not wake up.
Everything in the next half hour goes in a hazy blur. Frank notices nurses come and go, a wheelchair being dragged in and Frank doesn’t even want to look at the thing, doesn’t want his skin to touch it and doesn’t want to acknowledge it. His mother is talking to someone, then the doctor comes in, or maybe two doctors, but it's all the same. Squeaking white shoes against polished floors, hushed whispers and precautions exchanged from the doctor (or was it doctors? It's starting to really get to Frank), pens and the slide of signatures against discharge papers.
Then there are arms around him, lifting him up and picking him off the bed, encouraging words of, "come on, Frank, here we go," are too close to his ears and Frank wants to punch people in the face because he's not a fucking child. None of this was his problem or fault, why does-
"Frank? Sweetie, help us out here," his mom's words come out low and caring, and Frank lifts his arms up and he's hauled off the bed into the wheelchair.
Frank's stuck between not wanting to touch the armrests of the damned thing or wanting to put his hands between his thighs. Because neither of them, neither of them fucking work. It all doesn’t fit and it feels too out of place, but Frank's only human and he can’t help but hate this whole thing. A blanket covers his legs and it’s that hideous shade of blue-grey, the color his grandfather used to wear, he can’t even stand looking at that. Frank crosses his arms against his chest and presses them against him tightly.
Then all he notices is the slight change of scenery, from his room to the endless corridors of the hospital, leading out. Frank can almost feel the eyes of people around him burning holes into his skin, but he tries to ignore it. He's probably imagining it all, but it's so hard not to feel like that. Feeling exposed and vulnerable in front of everyone, whether they're watching him or not. Someone is pushing him from behind and he only knows that it's not his mother because she's pulling softly at Frank's locked arms, pulling his hands and intertwining their fingers together. Frank doesn’t protest because he knows that this is comfort for his mom as much as it’s for himself. She squeezes his hand and Frank can feel her gaze on him; he doesn’t look back, he just squeezes.
"It'll be okay, Frank. It'll be okay, sweetie," she whispers, just for him to hear.
Frank swallows hard, a salty ball around his throat, and he nods slowly.
"It will be," Frank says to his mom, and he can see the smile on her face. All he knows that his mind is screaming the opposite, screaming the denial, Frank can’t believe this is actually happening.
He squeezes his hand tighter around his mom’s.
-
At first, Frank wants to fight his mother every inch of the way. The very idea of watching his band play without him and knowing in his heart that he’ll never join them again makes his skin crawl and his stomach churn. For some reason though, she seems to think that it will be good for him, give him closure or something fucked up like that. Really, all Frank wants to do is go back to bed and sleep forever so that he doesn’t have to deal with any of this anymore. He knows it’s cowardly and selfish, and he keeps the thought to himself so that he can put on a brave face for his mom and Brian, but he can’t help thinking it. Linda’s hands are firm and steady as she pushes Frank along, and she smiles and talks of how excited he must be to see his band play, and how glad he must be to be out of bed. She talks in the tone of voice that Frank knows she doesn’t mean anything she’s saying, she’s just talking to fill the silence as if it will make him feel better. As if she can fill in the void, the giant fucking hole in himself that he’s feeling with only her voice. He wishes it would work, he really does. Instead, it just makes him itch more to get away and hide, and when he closes his eyes, she stops talking abruptly, like she’s just realised he doesn’t want to listen.
Brian reaches down to put a hand on Frank’s shoulder, and Frank has been in this band long enough - was in that band long enough, he corrects himself bitterly - to know that Brian is reprimanding him silently. Frank opens his eyes and looks at his mom, sees the hurt written across her face and feels the guilt sink into his stomach like a stone.
“Mom, I’m sorry, I. You’re right. It’ll be great.” He has a feeling it’s the most words he’s spoken to her in a row since the accident, and he sees the way her eyes light up again, and there’s the barest hint of a smile as she looks down at him.
“It’s okay to be scared, Frank,” she says simply, “Just try and remember that we’re here to help.” She has this way of speaking that’s soft, quiet, the kind of voice made for talking to her child, and at the same time, successfully drops another stone of guilt into his already queasy stomach.
“Thanks mom.” He reaches up and pats her hand, forces out another weak smile for her, and then thinks of what lies ahead. He’s going to see his band play. He’s not sure he can do this. But he looks at Linda Iero, and he knows that he has to, if only for her. She needs to know that he’s okay, that he’s looking towards recovery rather than wallowing in his own self pity. And when he thinks of it that way, he feels guilty and selfish all over again, but at the same time, he’s the one who’s now a fucking paraplegic. In his mind, he has every right to be pissed off at the world. Especially his band, who get to go on living the dream without him while he watches from the sidelines. Especially fucking Gerard. Frank still feels sick every time he thinks of Gerard’s face, the way he looked so disappointed and upset every time Frank turns away from him, every time he gets no response. It’s not Gerard’s fault, and Frank knows this, somewhere in the back of his mind. But he’s scared, so fucking terrified that Gerard’s going to leave him, because Frank’s in a fucking wheelchair and Gerard. Gerard’s got the whole world at his feet, and it’s not fair to make him leave that all behind for a man who can no longer be everything he used to.
Before he really knows what’s going on, they’ve stopped moving and Brian is picking him up out of his chair to deposit him inside Brian’s car.
“Good thing you’re so fucking small,” Brian mutters, and it’s meant as a joke, something to lighten the mood a little, but Frank isn’t sure he’s ready for jokes. He knows that Brian is trying to cheer him up, trying to get him feeling okay before he has to go and face everyone else, but it’s all too soon, too raw. He’s in no position to joke about his situation, and he doesn’t feel like hearing it out of anyone else’s mouth either.
Brian seems to realise his mistake, and he makes sure Frank’s settled before he shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side without another word. Linda slips into the back seat, and together, they make their way to the gig. Frank leans back against the leather of the seat and tries to focus on breathing, and not the erratic beating of his heart and the sick feeling in his stomach. He can’t quite figure out why he’s nervous - he must have done this a hundred times, even if then it was a little different.
There’s no speaking on the way there, and Frank is grateful, because he’s forgotten how to make his voice work. When Brian pulls up and security arrive to hustle them away and out of sight before anyone can see Frank, the worry and nerves only get more intense. He closes his eyes again as they fuss around him, hiding him from any stray fans who somehow managed to wander away from the front of the venue, and only once he’s backstage does anyone relax. Sort of. Worm still keeps a firm grip on Frank’s shoulder, eyes peeled for danger and looking as though he’s ready to pick Frank up and run at the first sign of trouble.
By the time they get everything sorted and get to the gig, Frank’s missed most of the set. The band are on stage and about to plough into the second last song and Frank sits in the wings, carefully shielded from fans, photographers or anyone else who might recognise him and tell the world he’s in a wheelchair. The first thing he notices is the way Gerard sings. To anyone else, it probably looks like a flawless set. There’s no fucking up, nobody’s missing any notes or cues or anything, and Gerard’s belting out the lyrics perfectly, never missing a beat. And yet, Frank can tell that something’s off. The wildness, the danger in his voice, in his very persona is gone. There’s no shine about him, none of the usual razzle dazzle that Gerard shows off to the audience every night. Instead, he’s singing but not feeling. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know exactly where he is, like he can’t see what’s right in front of him. Frank watches him, and he feels his heart clench. He feels torn between wanting to leave right that second and wanting to take Gerard in his arms and soothe him, assure him that it isn’t his fault Frank’s being bitter towards him.
He looks up at Worm, and Worm’s hand moves to ruffle his hair, a wordless sign that whenever Frank wants to go he can go, and Worm will be the one to do it himself. It takes some effort, but Frank turns his eyes back towards the stage, feeling a lump grow in his throat but forcing himself to ignore it and concentrate on the performance. When he looks at each of them in turn, it’s the same. They’re all the same as Gerard - perfect to the naked eye, but shattered underneath. He’s never seen them play like this and his heart aches just to watch. His eyes catch sight of Cortez, and he stops breathing for a second. Cortez plays flawlessly, but he’s obviously the odd one out. Frank can see it immediately. Where the others are dejected, torn apart from inside out, Cortez is in his prime. He plays for the crowd like the others can’t, and Frank feels the jealousy welling in his stomach and he can’t help it. That should be him. It should be him out there, playing like his guitar is oxygen.
Frank wheels his chair back a fraction, and as if he’s disturbed something in the very essence of time and space, Gerard chooses that moment to glance over to the wings, and when he catches Frank’s eye, he misses his next cue. Ray covers it up like usual, and Gerard stumbles through the next few lines like a drowning man, flicking his eyes towards Frank every now and then with such fierce pain and longing in his eyes that Frank feels it in his bones. They finish the song after forever it seems, and rather than talk shit at the crowd like he usually would, Gerard just stares. Ray takes over the job and talks like he has no idea what to say, and the whole time Gerard is just staring at Frank like he holds the answers to the fucking universe, but at the same time like Frank’s very presence is killing him slowly. Gerard makes a sound, strangled in the back of his throat and torn out his lips, and Frank thanks God that Gerard has the microphone dropped away from his mouth because the very sound of it shatters Frank’s soul and leaves him breathless, struggling as something pushes down on him until he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t speak.
The crowd are beginning to wonder what the fuck’s going on, why Gerard keeps staring at the wings of the stage like he’s forgotten where he is, and why the rest of the band are looking awkward and thrown off, like they don’t know how to continue. Frank feels like he’s just fucked up their entire set just by being there, but he can’t tear his eyes from Gerard’s. They hold him locked and each second leaves him feeling more like he’ll break under the pressure until finally, finally the others begin the next song and Gerard stumbles a bit in shock, catching himself and singing the beginning lines with his eyes back on the audience, his voice hoarse.
With a short look at Worm, Frank nods, and the lump in his throat grows bigger and bigger as Worm wheels him away, because Frank can’t stand it anymore. The longer he stays, the closer he is to his own demise, and it’s only hurting all of them. They weren’t ready for it, weren’t expecting it, and the look in Gerard’s eyes is going to haunt Frank’s dreams forever.
“He loves you,” Worm says, as though he thinks Frank needs to be told, like Frank wasn’t just reminded of that in the worst fucking way possible 30 seconds ago.
Frank opens his mouth to reply, but his throat seizes up and he can’t get the words out. His eyes sting but he refuses to be that much of a pussy. Instead he clenches his hands into fists until his knuckles go white, and Worm doesn’t say anything else as he hands Frank over to Brian and they get him as far away from the venue as they can, as soon as possible.
-
The next time Gerard looks over at the wings expecting to see Frank staring back at him, there’s no one there except the crew. His heart lurches and he stumbles through the song in a daze, glancing over every now and then as if his eyes have deceived him and Frank really is sitting there watching. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he checks though, and by the time they’ve finished the set, Gerard feels something heavy in the pit of his stomach and his chest feels like it’s going to burst.
He’s about to say goodnight to the crowd and leave to find Frank when Ray leans over and whispers that they still have an encore to do. Gerard stares at him, willing him to take his words back like it never happened. He can’t stay for another song. For all he knows, Frank is already gone, moving further and further away from Gerard every second, and he can’t. There was something there, just then, that makes Gerard feel like if he follows Frank now, grabs him and kisses him, that maybe they can work through this just fine. The look in Frank’s eyes, and the way he stared at him like nobody else existed was almost like Frank used to look at him when he thought nobody was watching. Like he couldn’t bear to take his eyes away. Like Gerard was the very air he breathed. Gerard needs to find him now because he’s seen how torn up and shattered Frank is, how this could be his only chance to finally get through to Frank and make him see that he loves him no matter what happens.
But Ray is looking at him, with this apologetic but firm look, and there’s nothing he can do. The crowd paid for this, are expecting this, and it’s one last song and then he can go. Surely Frank can wait around. Gerard hopes to God that Frank hesitates long enough for him to reach him. Or that Brian is a slow fucking driver or something, anything that will buy him enough time.
With a heavy heart, he breaks into Famous Last Words and feels his stomach clenching further with every word that exits his mouth.
When it’s finally over, Gerard’s heart is racing almost as fast as his mind, and he doesn’t even think before he drops the microphone to the floor and runs off stage. He’s halfway out of the venue before he realises that a stunt like that is going to cost him, that everyone will be pissed at him for ruining what almost looked like a normal performance. Until now they’ve been good at acting like nothing happened, like Frank is just away visiting his mom or something, like he’ll be back to playing shows in less than a week. He knows that after tonight, the fans will go home wondering, and it won’t be long before the rumours start.
He can’t bring himself to care. All that matters right now is finding Frank and telling him, showing him everything. He saw the look in Frank’s eyes at the very end, like it hurt him just to be there, and Gerard knows that right now, Frank is probably getting as far away from them as he possibly can. Gerard knows how Frank’s brain works, even in distress, even when he’s so confused and conflicted that he hardly knows what he wants. If there’s anyone Gerard knows better than himself or his brother it’s Frank, and he knows that in this state, Frank isn’t himself. Once, Frank would have stood up to any problem that dared approach him, and kick and bite and punch like a motherfucker until it backed down and everything was okay again. Now, Gerard remembers the terror in his eyes at the end, and he knows that Frank will be running as fast and as hard as he can. Fuck, he reminds himself. In the fucking figurative sense, of-fucking-course.
“Gerard!”
Gerard turns at the sound of Worm’s voice, and rounds on him in an instant. “Where’s Frank, have you seen him? Where’d he go?” he demands, grabbing hold of Worm’s hoodie and refusing to let go until he has an answer.
Worm looks at him sadly, pity in his eyes, and shakes his head. “He’s gone, Gerard. He left five, maybe ten minutes ago.”
Gerard feels his stomach churn heavily once more and then disappear completely. He feels weightless, light-headed, like his very existence has just been torn out from under his feet. Frank’s gone, and he never got a chance to act on anything. He knows that every second Frank gets further away, the more he’ll close in on himself and refuse to let Gerard in, and he can’t help but feel that he’s lost Frank all over again.
-
Rain drops carelessly flowing down the windshield, swipes moving from right to left, foot steady on the pedal. Gerard knows himself, he doesn't want to rush or go too slow to get there. Today had to be raining this heavily and clouds had to be that dark; Gerard isn't superstitious or anything, it is the time of year where shit weather is all Jersey ever sees, but it's really not helping Gerard. Hands on the steering wheel slightly shaking with nerves, Gerard takes a deep breath in and lets it out. He hasn't gotten any sleep for the past two or three days, he can't remember, and he doesn't feel the need to, not when he's back home already, back in Jersey. The familiar damp smell of the streets greeted him when he got here, the previous night, the dark skies and the everlasting stillness of the dark, its home, it's familiar and Gerard almost feels in the right place. Almost.
Slowing down his car and taking the right turn, Gerard parks his car in front of the place he's been both nervous and impatient to visit. Switching the ignition of the car off, Gerard tries to steady his breathing.
I know I can do this. It's been too long since I saw him. I need to see him.
I miss him.
Gerard's chest tightens at the thought of Frank, this close, both of them so near, just doors stopping him. Gerard feels like he hasn't heard Frank's voice in years, and it's tearing at the seams of Gerard's soul, leaving him hollow, like he's nothing without Frank. And he misses Frank so much that it hurts every bit of him, stings his eyes, tightens his thoughts and clenches his stomach. Gerard swallows the lump in his throat, he has to stay strong for Frank, and Gerard can't get all choked up before he even gets to see Frank. He's been waiting for the god damned tour to finish, counting the days, hours and fucking minutes. When it comes down to it, he's sitting in his car, right outside Frank's house, and being emotional about everything? Fuck that. Gerard needs to see Frank, and he's strong enough to do so.
Pulling himself together, Gerard takes a deep breath in and opens the car door while pulling his hood up from the rain and walking towards the porch. Thoughts are racing in his mind, he’s scared of how he'll find Frank, Gerard isn't sure what he’s supposed to do or say exactly, but he knows one damned thing, he needs to see Frank. Everything else is just insignificant details now. Standing in front of the front door, Gerard's hands are shaking; he keeps convincing himself that it’s the cold weather, not the nerves. Pushing all thoughts into the back of his mind, Gerard knocks on the door.
There’s shuffling and movement on the other side of the door, Gerard keeps moving from one feet to another, hands buried deep in his pockets, chewing his lips. God, someone answer the damned door already, fuck. The second the thought runs through his mind, the door creaks open and Gerard looks up to see Linda's face greeting him.
"Gerard," she says with no surprise in her tone, like she almost expected him to be here. There’s a look in her eyes, Gerard tries to read it but isn't able to. It’s somewhere between worried and…something else Gerard can't figure. Gerard shakes the thought away and gives Linda a small smile.
"Hi, Linda."
"Come on in, it's freezing outside." Linda opens the door further for Gerard to step in. Gerard pulls his hood down and walks behind Linda into the living room.
Gerard settles on the couch as Linda disappears into the kitchen; he hears the soft rattling of something being prepared as he looks around the living room. It still looks exactly the same as it used to since he was here at the beginning of the year, when they were on holiday and over for dinner. Gerard remembers Frank spilling his drink and Linda hitting him on the back of the head, calling him clumsy just like his dad. He can't help but let a small smile creep on his face at the memory; it seems like it was forever ago, like it was something ancient, something so distant, and Frank's smile and laughter, the thought of it makes Gerard's chest ache at the longing.
Startling from his thoughts, he hears Linda talking while handing him a cup of steaming hot coffee. That's been happening a lot, zoning out and being too engrossed in his own thoughts to really concentrate on what's going on around him. But he catches the last couple of words from Linda and manages to give a half decent reply.
"Yeah, tour was okay I guess. Just tiring like usual, you know."
"Yeah," Linda nods as she settles on the arm chair on Gerard's left.
They both stay silent for a bit, both almost avoiding the inventible. It's obvious to Gerard that Linda knows why he's here, they both do, they just don't say anything. Gerard feels like Linda is worried about Frank's reaction of Gerard being there, it's all etched on her face, glancing at Gerard and giving him unsure and almost troubled looks. Gerard knows it, of course he does, but nevertheless, this isn't going to stop him from seeing Frank, this running around in circles and avoiding the whole-
"Gerard."
Turning to look at Linda, Gerard settles his coffee down on the small table in front of him.
"I know you're here to see Frank. Just know that he's. I don't know how to put this, but-"
"Linda. I just really need to see him. It's been too long and I miss Frank like fuck. I know he's been…isolated and not wanting to talk or see anyone, but it kills not hearing from him or seeing him in forever. Just please, I won't take long."
Letting out a sigh, Linda finally nods and stands up, Gerard following right behind her. Gerard’s about to take the stairs, to go to Frank's room, but Linda walks to the guest room downstairs and Gerard has to hold whatever he had in himself not lose it right then and there. Frank…Frank’s in the guest room because he can't fucking get to his own bedroom, fuck. Of course he can't - just fuck. Swallowing whatever that was choking him, Gerard breathes through his nose and lets it out. They’re standing in front of the guest room now, Linda softly knocking on the door.
"Frank? Frank, honey? Someone's here to see you." There's silence on the other side of the door, no response and Gerard's heart skips a beat and his throat goes dry. Maybe Frank's asleep, maybe Gerard came in the wrong time. But it's not even six o'clock. Linda turns around and gives Gerard a small smile.
"I know he's awake. Do you want me to go in before you or anything?"
Gerard shook his head. "No, it's fine. I'll just go in if you don't mind."
Linda nods before turning around and walking back to the living room. Gerard keeps looking at the door knob hesitantly before pulling his guts in and opening it slowly.
The room is completely dark, the only source of dim light coming from the window, curtains drawn back, silence filling the air and. He's right there. Back to the door, facing the window, watching the rain pour outside. In the wheelchair. Gerard's knees suddenly go weak and he feels like turning around and running away, dropping himself in the darkest of holes, falling of the steepest of cliffs, anywhere, just not here, not seeing Frank like this. And Gerard hasn't even seen Frank's face yet, and Frank's right there, body still as stone, Gerard hasn’t seen a muscle move since he opened the door. Not even turning to see who it is or anything, just frozen in his place. Gerard closes the door and hears the click of the door knob, eyes still locked to the back of the wheelchair, still no movement.
Walking towards Frank, Gerard doesn't know whether to stand up behind him, next to or in front of Frank. Or should he sit on the bed? Or should Gerard just turn around and go back home and hide under his own covers and scream until his lungs give out? Forcing all thoughts to the back of his mind, Gerard walks to Frank and the only sound heard is the splatter of rain against the window.
"Hey, Frankie." Gerard crouches next to Frank to meet his eye level and just as he's about to give a smile -
"Can you please not do that?" Frank looks at him and Gerard can't help but furrow his eyebrows in confusion. What did he do? Shit, he didn't even get past saying hey and Frank’s already upset.
"I. What did I-"
"I hate it when people kneel down so they can talk to me, just don't do it. Just act like you normally would, or just. Whatever." Frank gives Gerard a smile sad smile before turning around on his wheelchair and moving next to the night stand, looking through his drawer.
Oh. Oh, shit. Fuck. Gerard is such an idiot, what the fuck, of course Frank doesn't want to be treated fucking differently and Gerard’s already messing up being all careful and stupid and shit
"I'm sorry, Frankie. I. I didn't know."
Frank pops a bottle of pills open and swallows them followed with water and then stays in his place, head titled backwards before looking up at Gerard.
"It's fine." Frank says with the calmest of tones and tries to force another smile on his face.
Gerard can't help but see Frank's eyes blank with dark bags of, what Gerard guesses to be signs of sleepless nights. No sparkle or life in them anymore, just exhaustion and despair, just looking defeated and so broken. Yet Frank manages to mask all of that behind a calm persona and quiet tone and Gerard isn't used to that. Gerard knows that Frank's hurting, and it's fucking Frank up bad enough to turn him the complete opposite of who he was.
There’s silence now lingering in the air, just frozen in place between the two of them. Gerard doesn't know what to say to make it better, doesn't know what to do with his nervous hands and storming thoughts. Moving towards Frank, Gerard sits on the edge of the bed facing Frank.
"I miss you, Frank. We all do, everyone does. It feels so fucking different without you around."
"Yeah."
"I've been trying to call you and get to talk to you for ages, but your phone was off the whole time. I miss talking to you." I miss having you around, touching you, holding you, breathing you in. I miss everything about you, Frank. Everything. Gerard feels like a part of his fucking soul has been torn away from him since Frank went back home. And it fucking kills, to come back here, and see Frank in such a state. It's as if something cold and strong is clutching at Gerard's guts and pressing against his chest, and everything just seems too fucking hard.
"Yeah, I've. I've been tired I guess, sleeping a lot."
Not from the way he looked, Gerard doesn't buy it. But whatever Frank's reasons are, all that Gerard wants is to make Frank feel better, make him smile genuinely, ease off some of the pain, maybe cheer things up a little. Just be there for him in any way possible. So maybe Gerard has to just fucking talk to Frank like he’s okay, like everything is normal, just hang out with him and maybe it'll make things better, ease off the tension or whatever it is that's clogging the air and making hard to breathe.
"Hey! Have you seen that video Bob took of all of us? Dude, that day was like one of the worst during tour, seriously. Then Bob was all like, 'hey let's take a video and send it to Frank' then we all made faces and shit. It was kinda stupid but it was like 3AM, so." Gerard’s now full on, cheerful voice and a smile on his face, trying to get Frank along, change the subject that hurts at heart to something that'll maybe get Frank saying more than two words.
"I, uhm. Yeah, I don't know. I haven't checked my email in a while."
"Oh. Well anyway, whatever. Also-"
"Gerard." Frank stops Gerard in mid-sentence and looks at him with tired eyes. Just as Gerard’s about to say something-
"I can't do this, Gerard. I'm sorry, I just can't."
And Gerard's breathing stops at Frank's words. What does Frank mean? He can't- No, Frank doesn't mean that. It can't. No, god, no. This isn't happening. No, he’s misinterpreting all of this. Frank, Frank can't do that.
"What do you mean, Frank?" Gerard's voice comes out quiet and quivers while he lets the words pass his lips. Because no, this isn't happening.
"We. We can't do this anymore, Gerard. We're lying to ourselves by saying we can make it through as if nothing happened. And just. I can't. I'm sorry, okay? This, all of this, is already hard enough."
Then Gerard's standing up before he even realizes, his eyes are stinging and his throat is closing up and he keeps trying to swallow it down but the pain and tightness won't go away. Looking down at Frank, Gerard's shaking his head, because no.
"Frank, no. You don't mean that. Just, you're tired and just no, Frank. I won't let you do this to yourself, okay? I just won't allow it. You're not doing this, are you?"
Frank's still in his position, not a muscle moving, face fixed into whatever's behind Gerard's figure, not meeting Gerard's eyes. And Gerard can't take it, can't fucking believe how Frank can simply say such things and think that Gerard would just agree to it and move on like nothing has happened, because fuck, shit happened, serious shit happened but it's not like Gerard’s going to fucking turn around and just leave Frank, not going to give up on his boyfriend because of some fucking accident. Anger is starting to crawl through Gerard's veins, and confusion and most of all just hurt that Frank would say such things. It's Gerard, it's him, Frank should know better than to just give up and not answer.
"I'm not letting you give up on this shit, Frank, I don’t fucking care." Before he knows or realizes himself, Gerard is standing up and his eyes are burning against Frank's.
"You don’t fucking get it, Gerard. Put yourself in my situation, think of how it's like for me." Frank's tone starts getting louder, ferocity crawling up his neck and Gerard can see Frank trying to hold it back, but it's not working.
"I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through, Frank, okay? I don’t. But you're not letting me in! I just want you to stop pushing us away. Stop pushing me away." Gerard grits his teeth but he can't help it, everything inside him is too caught up and heated and Frank's right there, pushing and not wanting anyone around and it's not helping.
"Stop pretending you give a fuck, Gerard. Not everything revolves around you and your own fucking band, stop trying to make shit better when it’s not." Frank's words come out sharp and hit where it hurts. Gerard almost recoils back, Frank's not the kind of person who'd ever say shit like that, no matter what.
"Frank, fucking hell, stop thinking that we don’t care about you, we all do. This is just as hard for us as it is for you!" Gerard's hands are shaking and this whole shouting back and forth is making his hands shake. The fact that he's scared of losing Frank, so easily, and the anger of knowing that Frank thinks that they'd go on without him. The whole band, forgetting him, how is that even remotely possible?
Frank looks up, straight through Gerard's eyes, and for once Gerard sees Frank's eyes with life, not the one he would like to see, but the angry burning life of everything that's caught up inside Frank that he can't let out. The shit that Frank won't allow himself to let out.
"Get out," Frank says, sharp and clear pointing towards the door, still looking straight into Gerard's eyes. "Leave me alone. Get out."
"No, Frank. You can't push me away, I'm not going to let you do this on your own," Gerard shakes his head, his eyes not leaving Frank's for one second. "Fucking talk to me, damn it. Stop bottling shit up inside, it's only hurting you more."
"Why the fuck would you care if it’s hurting me more? Everything's already fucked up to the max, hurting more won't make a difference," Frank says, throwing his hands towards Gerard, like he wishes he could punch him or put some sense into Gerard, like there's any of that shit in Frank's head.
"Because I love you, we all do and you're not letting any of us in to make this easier -"
"It doesn’t get fucking easier from here, Gerard! You don't know what this is like. Fuck," Frank says as he pushes the nightstand with his hand angrily and half his medication, bottles and pills are all over the floor.
Gerard tightens his fists, eyebrows furrowed and his eyes tingling with the burning. He wants to do something, say something, do anything to calm Frank down, make things better instead of worse.
"Frank," Gerard starts and doesn’t know where to go from there, but he doesn’t even have the chance to finish off whatever he was saying when Frank's lips start moving.
"No, Gerard. Don’t, don’t even." Frank's lips tremble and Gerard can see him trying to refrain himself from breaking down, just the sight of Frank like that makes Gerard's knees weak, makes his vision blur.
"You have no fucking idea what it's like, watching you guys play and knowing that I'll never be on that stage with everyone. Knowing that this is it, there's no more to my life than this, you know full well that music is my fucking life." Frank's gesturing with his hands, voice loud and trembling, bits of himself breaking down and it's the first time Gerard sees tears run down Frank's face since the whole accident happened.
"Frank just-"
"No, Gerard. You don’t know what it’s like knowing that I won't ever get on that stage and play my soul out, having that snapped off you without warning or anything, just like that…" Frank snaps his trembling fingers and his angry and harsh words echo into the room. Gerard doesn’t even know what to say back.
Silence falls between them for two seconds as Frank rests his head between his hands. Gerard can hear him muttering curses and softly crying to himself. Stepping closer to Frank, Gerard reaches out to rest his hand on Frank's shoulder and Frank flinches away from Gerard so fast that Gerard thinks that he actually might have hurt him.
"Don’t even," Frank says and it hurts, it hits the core, right inside and it almost physically hurts. Like a punch through the guts, burning and tearing inside Gerard's chest. He holds himself back and curls his fingers into fists, he shouldn’t be hurt because this is all too much in the first place, he hast to hold himself from exploding.
Letting out a long breath, Gerard looks at Frank and tries to think of what to say, he has to say something, he doesn’t care how it sounds, just something.
"Frank. Please, don’t cry. You've been so strong," Gerard's voice is small and quiet in the room, as if he's the only living thing in there.
"Yeah well if you cared enough to look properly, maybe I fucking wasn’t. Too busy living it on stage and shit," Frank says sniffing to himself, head still between his hands, now wiping tears off his face.
Gerard tries to swallow that one down, but he just can't. Out of all people, Gerard's been the one who's feeling like shit not having Frank around, the one who feels like he's being tortured the whole time for being so far away from Frank, it's unfair. Frank can't blame this on Gerard because Gerard's been trying so hard to keep himself composed for Frank, for the band, in front of Brian, in front of Mikey. Because this hurts Gerard as much as it hurts Frank, seeing him like that and not knowing what to do or say, especially when Frank does nothing other than push him away and not let anyone in.
"I want my old Frank back, the old Frank wouldn’t have given up this easy," Gerard says, voice trembling and so close to breaking down himself.
"Stop being so fucking melodramatic. The old Frank died since the accident, Gerard. You don’t even know who I am anymore," Frank says with a sniff, grabbing the wheels of his chair and turning around to give Gerard his back.
"I don’t fucking care what you say, you're still our Frank. Nothing that'll ever happen will change that," Gerard says, feeling like he's losing the last chance of hope, last thread to hold on to, like there's nothing else left and Frank's not helping with the way he's shutting him out.
"Stop contradicting yourself, Gerard. Nothing's going be lovey-dovey with a happy ending, this is real life. So just." Frank's head lifts up from where he was looking down and he fixes his eyes on the window. "Stop trying to fix the unfixable. Just leave, Gerard." Frank's voice is so monotone, so low and filled with despair that he's trying to hide.
Gerard doesn’t want to do anything more than walk up to Frank and hold him so that Frank can actually let it all out, the anger, sorrow, the heavyweight he's been carrying and bottling up inside him, just letting all of it out. At this point, Gerard doesn’t care if Frank pushes him away. Walking up to Frank, Gerard stands in front of him and puts his right hand on Frank's cheek and the other hand on his shoulder. Frank resists and tries to push Gerard's hands away. Gerard doesn’t let him.
"Frank. Please, we can do this. I know we can. Just let it out, stop hurting yourself more." And right before Gerard is about to continue, Frank pushes him with all his force, making Gerard end up on the floor, on his back and looking up at Frank in shock.
Gerard can see the raindrops from outside reflecting on Frank's face and nothing other than Frank's screaming fills his head.
"Get out, fucking leave," Frank starts shouting, at the top of his lungs, angry fists tight together hitting the arms of the wheelchair, his face red and flushed in anger. Gerard is too startled to even notice Frank's mom rushing inside, her gaze darting back and forth between Frank and Gerard, not knowing what to do, or who to deal with first.
Somehow Gerard manages to stand up by himself as Linda stands next to Frank, trying to calm him down. Frank's face is turned away from Gerard and Gerard can't tell what his expression is. Gerard considers holding Frank's hand before he leaves, or giving him a quick kiss - he knows he's not going to give up on Frank this easily, but it hurts so much to see him in such a state. Looking up at Linda, Gerard can see her pleading with her eyes for him to leave, because everything is just too sensitive to be dealt with now.
Gerard mouths, 'I'm sorry,' to Linda before leaving and she just shakes her head, then he turns to head to the door, but not before turning around to look at Frank's back.
"Goodnight, Frank," he says with a barely audible whisper.
Staying still in his wheelchair, Frank doesn’t even move a muscle.
-
There’s something welling up inside him, something he can’t stop, that he has no control over. It feels like it’s been there ever since the accident, growing and growing until it’s this horrible lump in his throat, clogging his airways, a sickening swell in the pit of his stomach. He feels like he’s choking, and he needs it to stop because he doesn’t think he can go on like this much longer.
He sits in the middle of his room after Gerard leaves, and it’s covered in so many painful reminders. Over the years his mother has played the part of the adoring parent, keeping his room clean and decorating it with evidence of his success. There’s newspaper clippings, front pages of every magazine My Chemical Romance has covered, photos of when they were still that tiny band in Jersey, photos of them standing on stage in all their glory. And fuck, it hurts. He looks around and all the pictures stare back at him. In every photo he’s holding a guitar, and Frank feels like he’s going to die. A choked sound forces its way out of his mouth and he rolls his chair forward, desperately reaching out to tear it all down, strip his walls of reminders, of things that he can no longer be. In his ears there’s the dull roar of the crowd screaming, the sound of the guitars, drums and bass mixing together, and Gerard’s voice, singing in his ear like there’s no tomorrow. He can hear it all crashing around him, feel it suffocating him, and his eyes widen horribly. There’s a photo in front of him, and he looks at it, the image of himself thrashing around on stage, eyes closed and lost in the music, and Frank rips it down and hurls it into the waste paper basket because it’s all just so unfair. He pushes himself around the room madly until he forgets how long he’s been in there.
Finally, Frank stops, his chair stilling in the middle of the room. The bin is overflowing and the floor is littered with scrunched up papers, of torn photos and magazines. As he surveys the ruin before him, he spots it. The last shred of an old life, one last stab to the heart that leaves him breathless.
His favourite guitar.
The others have been taken on tour, stowed on the bus or at the apartment he shared with Mikey. This is the last of them, the one treasured possession that he had left behind, knowing that it would be looked after. And it has. The guitar in front of him looks almost brand new, and Frank’s fingers itch to pick it up, to strum the strings and lose himself in the melody like so many times before. It’s a beautiful acoustic, gorgeous in all its simplicity, and Frank feels his heart ache just looking at it.
Slowly, he edges his chair forward, and shaking fingers reach out to grasp the neck, feeling something unidentifiable run down his spine. The lump in his throat grows larger as he pulls the guitar into his lap, settling it on legs he can’t feel. His fingers hover over the strings and it’s this indescribable need, this desperation to touch, to play, but he can’t. He looks down at it and his knuckles are going white where he grips the neck too hard. He’s spent his entire life playing the guitar but for some reason, he sits there and he just can’t. It’s all too much, too soon, and the lump is getting bigger all the time. He thinks he might even be sick if he looks at it too long.
He lets it sit on his lap and begins to push himself towards the door. He has to pause three times to look down and make sure that it’s still there, because he can’t feel the weight on his dead thighs. Hands firm on the wheels of his chair, Frank pushes himself out of his old bedroom, and keeps going until he reaches the front door. He’s glad his mother has gone out shopping, and he knows that undoubtedly, she’ll run into someone she knows in the supermarket and end up chatting and staying even longer. With one hand steadying the guitar, he reaches up with the other and opens the door, letting himself outside. There’s a chilled bite to the air, and he shivers a bit, but keeps going. It takes him a while, and he curses the chair continuously, but eventually, he reaches the backyard.
And from there it’s just a matter of time. He wheels himself further into the center of the yard, and places the guitar on the ground. He can’t help but stare at it for a moment, watching the way it settles amongst the grass peacefully before he’s wheeling away, turning his back on it. He keeps moving, not allowing himself to stop because otherwise, he’s scared that he’s going to have second thoughts, and at the moment, this seems like the only logical course of action. He has to do this because it hurts too much not to, and he needs to drill it into himself, needs to force himself to accept the fact that this is it, and nothing can change what happened. He’s not who he used to be.
Eternally grateful that Linda left the door open when she reversed the car out, Frank wheels himself into the open garage and searches. Dusk is falling fast, and he peers through the darkness until he finds what he’s looking for at last.
He retrieves the matches from the shelf and pockets them easily, but as he leans forward in his chair to pick up the fuel can, he swears at the chair again, because fuck, it’s just making everything ten times harder and he doesn’t want to deal with it. His hands curl around the plastic handle, and he has to use both to haul it up. It’s fucking heavy, and he’s glad that the time he’s spent in the chair so far has done a little to build up his upper body strength. He eases it onto his lap where the guitar once was, and begins to push himself back.
He can see the guitar lying where he left it, and he makes his way over to it, at long last coming to a stop. He peers over the edge of his chair and feels his heart clench. Not allowing himself time for second thoughts, he unscrews the cap of the fuel can and begins to pour, squeezing his eyes shut as he hears the liquid splash against the wood. He realises that his breathing is out of control, that his heartbeat is accelerating, and once it empties, he throws the can to the side, not daring to open his eyes. His hands are shaking, and the lump is swelling so fast that he feels like any second now it’s going to cut off his air and he’s going to die in his backyard, sitting in front of a petrol-soaked guitar. An odd way to go, and maybe he’d like that, something a little out of the ordinary. But he can’t think about that now because he needs to do this, needs to do it just as much as he needs to breathe. And so, with trembling hands, he reaches into his pocket and withdraws the matches. All he can hear is his own breathing, and that unnerves him a little. But he needs to do this now, because it’s getting darker, the sun almost completely set and soon enough, he won’t be able to see properly.
Frank’s shaking, and he knows that it’s not from the cold. Turning around and wheeling himself back to a safe distance is a bit of an effort, but he manages, and then he’s staring at the guitar from a couple of meters away. The wood is glistening in the sliver of moonlight that’s appearing, and Frank thinks it looks eerily beautiful. And then he strikes the match and without giving himself a chance to blow it out, he throws it forward, and to his relief, it manages to stay lit until it lands on its mark.
And Frank, he watches with a mixture of horror and awe as the flames engulf the last thing tying him to a passion he no longer wants in his life. Because it’s not fair to look at that guitar every day and know that he can never play with the band again, can never play on that stage with all of his heart. He can’t stand to even look at the object he once loved like nothing else, and so he destroys it. Out of sight, out of mind, only, he knows that isn’t really true. Still, he forces himself to believe that this is it, and as he watches the fire lick against the instrument, swallowing it whole, he tells himself that he can rest okay now. He firmly ignores the small voice telling him that it will do nothing of the sort.
The lump dies down a little, but it still doesn’t feel right. It’s almost as if it’s starting to go away out of mere tiredness, out of defeat. It doesn’t feel at all like Frank’s won, more that he’s hollow, that he’s destroyed something he can never get back, and rather than making it all better, it’s all just so much worse.
He sits in his chair, unshed tears shining in his eyes as he watches the flames. He holds the tears at bay and refuses to cry over something that he himself caused, something that he wanted, needed. He blocks out all of the noise, all of the feelings, everything. He sits there until the flames die down and come to nothing but a flicker, a few sharp flicks of orange-red against the now black, charred remains of the guitar.
He sits there until Linda comes home and finds him, and he doesn’t even register her as she fusses over him, wheeling him back inside. He can see the tears in her eyes too, knows that this is hurting both of them, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything but empty, hollow.
Hollow as the guitar he just sent into oblivion.
Part Three
Gerard can feel Worm’s eyes on him all throughout sound check. They’re all a little - okay a lot - nervous, but Worm’s paying special attention to Gerard. He supposes that Brian asked him to. Gerard didn’t miss the way Brian looked at him, so sad and helpless, as he left them two days prior.
Gerard watches Ray go through sound check, and he keeps seeing the way the light fell on Frank, half expecting it to do the same to Ray.
Somehow, they get through it alive, and a couple of hours later, Gerard is standing backstage, hearing the crowd and panicking. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve played with Matt, but this is different. This time, they all know that the whole band is at risk, that Frank might not ever play with them again.
“Ready?” Bob asks him, and Gerard doesn’t have the heart to say no. Really, all he wants is to get away from the venue and run to Frank, but the band needs him, and the fans paid good money to see them, and Gerard can’t let them all down, not again. And so, he nods and follows the rest of his band - plus Matt - onto the stage. He stands behind his microphone and hears the band start up with The Sharpest Lives. He sings, hears the crowd roar, and this should feel amazing, this should feel like home, but all he can think is this is wrong. It’s wrong, all of it. Frank isn’t going insane beside him, isn’t humping his leg or kissing him or smiling at him, and it’s wrong. He remembers the way Frank looks in that hospital bed, the way he avoided Gerard’s lips like poison, and Gerard sings harder, stronger, desperate.
He barely says a word to the crowd throughout the set - a half-assed greeting and a dejected goodnight and not a whole lot more - and he knows that the fans will be wondering, knows that the band will be worried, but he just can’t. He knows that his voice will crack if he tries, and he doesn’t want them to see him like this. He’s supposed to be their idol, their hero, and he can’t do that if he’s falling apart at the seams.
When he has to tell the crowd that Frank is away due to temporary personal matters, he hears his voice hitch and immediately throws himself into the next song.
Eventually, they’re powering into the second-last song, and Gerard is just so tired, so drained, that he misses a handful of lyrics. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to do this, and luckily, Ray steps in for him and belts out the lines he misses, glancing at Gerard worriedly. Gerard, in return, ignores him, turning away and shaking his hips, throwing himself around the stage and trying to look like he’s okay, that he’s Gerard, pretends for the crowd that he planned to miss that line all along.
When they come to a finish on Cancer, Gerard pretends that the tears in his eyes are just to emphasise the song. Just for show. Not for Frank, and not for the way he feels like he’s dying. No, not that.
Finally, he’s allowed to stumble off stage, and Bob wraps an arm around his shoulders, Mikey hands him a bottle of water and Ray helps Worm ensure that Gerard can get back to the bus without being hounded by fans. And Gerard, he remembers why he has the best band in the world, but it still doesn’t change the fact that Frank’s not here, and everything is just so fucking wrong. There’s still no Frank and Gerard needs him, needs him to be bouncing and smiling again because Frank’s the one who has always held him up. He relies on Frank’s energy to draw on, to laugh at and shut everything else out, but Frank is gone, and worse, he’s hurting. Frank is hurting even more than Gerard and that kills, because Gerard knows he’s supposed to be concerned for Frank and he is, it just hurts so bad and he can’t help but get a little selfish. Frank needs him, but it’s too much and this is killing him as well. It’s just not fair.
So he climbs onto the bus and heads straight for the bunks and throws himself in. And just his fucking luck, he can smell Frank on his pillow, or maybe that’s just his imagination. Gerard rolls over, tries to ignore the scent and pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes, because he’s not going to cry, he’s not, he won’t. He has to be strong for Frank, be strong for the guitarist he gave his heart to.
But he can still see Frank in that hospital bed, not moving, not smiling, and he can’t do this. He can’t.
-
Cold tingles numb the tips of Frank's fingers, it's an early warm morning and the last thing Frank wants to do is open his eyes. He knows today is the day, today and this morning is when he no longer can hide under from the world. His eyes flicker open and Frank wishes he's blind, because he doesn’t want to see the sun outside, he doesn’t want to feel it against his skin, he doesn’t want to wake up to things that remind him of what he can no longer do. Frank's eyes automatically go to his limp legs and he lifts his head slightly, his hands instantly curling up into angry fists before falling back and shutting his eyes tightly.
"I can't fucking do this," he says to himself, hands trembling.
Frank reminds himself that his mom is going to be here shortly, he has to at least act like he's got shit controlled. Like he's not about to burst and start punching his face in. But it's hard not to have the urge to destroy everything around him, because he's the one demolished and broken, and it's on the inside and outside. It's all emotional and physical, everyone can see it, everyone can see him incapable now. Frank tries breathing deeply, hoping it will calm the raging inside him, but he just ends up shutting his eyes tight and letting out a sharp exhale.
Turning around to his left side, his eyes fall on the view outside the window, grey and almost dark, silhouettes of trees in the distance, with branches entangled into each other. Frank's mind drifts off as he starts thinking about where's he's going from now. Sure, his mom will be here in about five minutes, wheel him out of this hospital, stay with her, until fuck knows when…then what? What's going to happen next? Is he going to be confined to a bed and wheelchair for the rest of his life? Wallowing in his own sorrow and self-pity and hiding it behind his masked brave face? All sorts of questions twist and turn in Frank's head, he can't answer them and he's pretty sure no one wants to give it to him straight. Everything is coaxed to him, sugar-coated with, "it'll be fine, it'll be okay, we're here". Frank knows that, but that's not what he wants right now. Far from it.
A part of him wants to curl up and explode on the inside so he can disappear. It's always better to go completely rather than being tortured without knowing what's next to happen. How will he make it? Frank hates the thought of having his mom take care of him, not because he loves her any less than he did before the accident or after, just because it's not supposed to be like that. It's supposed to be the other way round. Frank can’t live with the thought, can’t even think about it for more than two seconds without squeezing his eyes shut and wishing for death.
Then there’s the whole thing with the band and Frank can’t stand the single thought; it makes his stomach physically clench and his hands turn into fists. It's not their fault or any of that, but the bitterness in knowing that there's a good chance he'll never get to play hurts, so fucking much. Knowing that he'll never be able to experience that rush of adrenaline of being on stage and playing his heart and whole body out until he's drained and everything aches and feeling so good after a show makes Frank want to strangle himself until he can no longer breathe, see or exist at all.
Just as Frank lets out a long breath, he hears a knock on the door. He lifts his head slightly up to see his mom coming in the room, a small smile on her face.
"Hey, sweetie," his mom says as she walks to him, planting a kiss on his left cheek, "how are you feeling?"
Franks lips don’t even move a muscle. Those kinds of questions have become rhetorical - everyone should know the answers, why do they even bother asking anyway? How would a person feel like if they were in Frank's position? It's all obvious and right there, but yet again no one gets it. No one really understands the situations unless you're in it yourself. But people try to care, pretend to at least, or try to have any form of normality after such change. Like asking how Frank's doing or how lovely the weather is outside, or changing the television channel is like every other day, like nothing has ever happened. That doesn’t make it normal or better or the same, that just makes it hurt even more.
He ends up shrugging and looking away, to the window again. Frank can hear his mother sigh in distress and doesn’t bother saying a word, she's only trying to help, trying to make it better. Right now, Frank doesn’t know how to give back or communicate, because he's not in the mentality to do that, he knows it, and he knows that he should be trying, working on himself. But everything feels so stuck in place, Frank feels so drained out of his body and soul that all he ever wants to do is sleep forever and wish that one day he'll simply not wake up.
Everything in the next half hour goes in a hazy blur. Frank notices nurses come and go, a wheelchair being dragged in and Frank doesn’t even want to look at the thing, doesn’t want his skin to touch it and doesn’t want to acknowledge it. His mother is talking to someone, then the doctor comes in, or maybe two doctors, but it's all the same. Squeaking white shoes against polished floors, hushed whispers and precautions exchanged from the doctor (or was it doctors? It's starting to really get to Frank), pens and the slide of signatures against discharge papers.
Then there are arms around him, lifting him up and picking him off the bed, encouraging words of, "come on, Frank, here we go," are too close to his ears and Frank wants to punch people in the face because he's not a fucking child. None of this was his problem or fault, why does-
"Frank? Sweetie, help us out here," his mom's words come out low and caring, and Frank lifts his arms up and he's hauled off the bed into the wheelchair.
Frank's stuck between not wanting to touch the armrests of the damned thing or wanting to put his hands between his thighs. Because neither of them, neither of them fucking work. It all doesn’t fit and it feels too out of place, but Frank's only human and he can’t help but hate this whole thing. A blanket covers his legs and it’s that hideous shade of blue-grey, the color his grandfather used to wear, he can’t even stand looking at that. Frank crosses his arms against his chest and presses them against him tightly.
Then all he notices is the slight change of scenery, from his room to the endless corridors of the hospital, leading out. Frank can almost feel the eyes of people around him burning holes into his skin, but he tries to ignore it. He's probably imagining it all, but it's so hard not to feel like that. Feeling exposed and vulnerable in front of everyone, whether they're watching him or not. Someone is pushing him from behind and he only knows that it's not his mother because she's pulling softly at Frank's locked arms, pulling his hands and intertwining their fingers together. Frank doesn’t protest because he knows that this is comfort for his mom as much as it’s for himself. She squeezes his hand and Frank can feel her gaze on him; he doesn’t look back, he just squeezes.
"It'll be okay, Frank. It'll be okay, sweetie," she whispers, just for him to hear.
Frank swallows hard, a salty ball around his throat, and he nods slowly.
"It will be," Frank says to his mom, and he can see the smile on her face. All he knows that his mind is screaming the opposite, screaming the denial, Frank can’t believe this is actually happening.
He squeezes his hand tighter around his mom’s.
-
At first, Frank wants to fight his mother every inch of the way. The very idea of watching his band play without him and knowing in his heart that he’ll never join them again makes his skin crawl and his stomach churn. For some reason though, she seems to think that it will be good for him, give him closure or something fucked up like that. Really, all Frank wants to do is go back to bed and sleep forever so that he doesn’t have to deal with any of this anymore. He knows it’s cowardly and selfish, and he keeps the thought to himself so that he can put on a brave face for his mom and Brian, but he can’t help thinking it. Linda’s hands are firm and steady as she pushes Frank along, and she smiles and talks of how excited he must be to see his band play, and how glad he must be to be out of bed. She talks in the tone of voice that Frank knows she doesn’t mean anything she’s saying, she’s just talking to fill the silence as if it will make him feel better. As if she can fill in the void, the giant fucking hole in himself that he’s feeling with only her voice. He wishes it would work, he really does. Instead, it just makes him itch more to get away and hide, and when he closes his eyes, she stops talking abruptly, like she’s just realised he doesn’t want to listen.
Brian reaches down to put a hand on Frank’s shoulder, and Frank has been in this band long enough - was in that band long enough, he corrects himself bitterly - to know that Brian is reprimanding him silently. Frank opens his eyes and looks at his mom, sees the hurt written across her face and feels the guilt sink into his stomach like a stone.
“Mom, I’m sorry, I. You’re right. It’ll be great.” He has a feeling it’s the most words he’s spoken to her in a row since the accident, and he sees the way her eyes light up again, and there’s the barest hint of a smile as she looks down at him.
“It’s okay to be scared, Frank,” she says simply, “Just try and remember that we’re here to help.” She has this way of speaking that’s soft, quiet, the kind of voice made for talking to her child, and at the same time, successfully drops another stone of guilt into his already queasy stomach.
“Thanks mom.” He reaches up and pats her hand, forces out another weak smile for her, and then thinks of what lies ahead. He’s going to see his band play. He’s not sure he can do this. But he looks at Linda Iero, and he knows that he has to, if only for her. She needs to know that he’s okay, that he’s looking towards recovery rather than wallowing in his own self pity. And when he thinks of it that way, he feels guilty and selfish all over again, but at the same time, he’s the one who’s now a fucking paraplegic. In his mind, he has every right to be pissed off at the world. Especially his band, who get to go on living the dream without him while he watches from the sidelines. Especially fucking Gerard. Frank still feels sick every time he thinks of Gerard’s face, the way he looked so disappointed and upset every time Frank turns away from him, every time he gets no response. It’s not Gerard’s fault, and Frank knows this, somewhere in the back of his mind. But he’s scared, so fucking terrified that Gerard’s going to leave him, because Frank’s in a fucking wheelchair and Gerard. Gerard’s got the whole world at his feet, and it’s not fair to make him leave that all behind for a man who can no longer be everything he used to.
Before he really knows what’s going on, they’ve stopped moving and Brian is picking him up out of his chair to deposit him inside Brian’s car.
“Good thing you’re so fucking small,” Brian mutters, and it’s meant as a joke, something to lighten the mood a little, but Frank isn’t sure he’s ready for jokes. He knows that Brian is trying to cheer him up, trying to get him feeling okay before he has to go and face everyone else, but it’s all too soon, too raw. He’s in no position to joke about his situation, and he doesn’t feel like hearing it out of anyone else’s mouth either.
Brian seems to realise his mistake, and he makes sure Frank’s settled before he shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side without another word. Linda slips into the back seat, and together, they make their way to the gig. Frank leans back against the leather of the seat and tries to focus on breathing, and not the erratic beating of his heart and the sick feeling in his stomach. He can’t quite figure out why he’s nervous - he must have done this a hundred times, even if then it was a little different.
There’s no speaking on the way there, and Frank is grateful, because he’s forgotten how to make his voice work. When Brian pulls up and security arrive to hustle them away and out of sight before anyone can see Frank, the worry and nerves only get more intense. He closes his eyes again as they fuss around him, hiding him from any stray fans who somehow managed to wander away from the front of the venue, and only once he’s backstage does anyone relax. Sort of. Worm still keeps a firm grip on Frank’s shoulder, eyes peeled for danger and looking as though he’s ready to pick Frank up and run at the first sign of trouble.
By the time they get everything sorted and get to the gig, Frank’s missed most of the set. The band are on stage and about to plough into the second last song and Frank sits in the wings, carefully shielded from fans, photographers or anyone else who might recognise him and tell the world he’s in a wheelchair. The first thing he notices is the way Gerard sings. To anyone else, it probably looks like a flawless set. There’s no fucking up, nobody’s missing any notes or cues or anything, and Gerard’s belting out the lyrics perfectly, never missing a beat. And yet, Frank can tell that something’s off. The wildness, the danger in his voice, in his very persona is gone. There’s no shine about him, none of the usual razzle dazzle that Gerard shows off to the audience every night. Instead, he’s singing but not feeling. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know exactly where he is, like he can’t see what’s right in front of him. Frank watches him, and he feels his heart clench. He feels torn between wanting to leave right that second and wanting to take Gerard in his arms and soothe him, assure him that it isn’t his fault Frank’s being bitter towards him.
He looks up at Worm, and Worm’s hand moves to ruffle his hair, a wordless sign that whenever Frank wants to go he can go, and Worm will be the one to do it himself. It takes some effort, but Frank turns his eyes back towards the stage, feeling a lump grow in his throat but forcing himself to ignore it and concentrate on the performance. When he looks at each of them in turn, it’s the same. They’re all the same as Gerard - perfect to the naked eye, but shattered underneath. He’s never seen them play like this and his heart aches just to watch. His eyes catch sight of Cortez, and he stops breathing for a second. Cortez plays flawlessly, but he’s obviously the odd one out. Frank can see it immediately. Where the others are dejected, torn apart from inside out, Cortez is in his prime. He plays for the crowd like the others can’t, and Frank feels the jealousy welling in his stomach and he can’t help it. That should be him. It should be him out there, playing like his guitar is oxygen.
Frank wheels his chair back a fraction, and as if he’s disturbed something in the very essence of time and space, Gerard chooses that moment to glance over to the wings, and when he catches Frank’s eye, he misses his next cue. Ray covers it up like usual, and Gerard stumbles through the next few lines like a drowning man, flicking his eyes towards Frank every now and then with such fierce pain and longing in his eyes that Frank feels it in his bones. They finish the song after forever it seems, and rather than talk shit at the crowd like he usually would, Gerard just stares. Ray takes over the job and talks like he has no idea what to say, and the whole time Gerard is just staring at Frank like he holds the answers to the fucking universe, but at the same time like Frank’s very presence is killing him slowly. Gerard makes a sound, strangled in the back of his throat and torn out his lips, and Frank thanks God that Gerard has the microphone dropped away from his mouth because the very sound of it shatters Frank’s soul and leaves him breathless, struggling as something pushes down on him until he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t speak.
The crowd are beginning to wonder what the fuck’s going on, why Gerard keeps staring at the wings of the stage like he’s forgotten where he is, and why the rest of the band are looking awkward and thrown off, like they don’t know how to continue. Frank feels like he’s just fucked up their entire set just by being there, but he can’t tear his eyes from Gerard’s. They hold him locked and each second leaves him feeling more like he’ll break under the pressure until finally, finally the others begin the next song and Gerard stumbles a bit in shock, catching himself and singing the beginning lines with his eyes back on the audience, his voice hoarse.
With a short look at Worm, Frank nods, and the lump in his throat grows bigger and bigger as Worm wheels him away, because Frank can’t stand it anymore. The longer he stays, the closer he is to his own demise, and it’s only hurting all of them. They weren’t ready for it, weren’t expecting it, and the look in Gerard’s eyes is going to haunt Frank’s dreams forever.
“He loves you,” Worm says, as though he thinks Frank needs to be told, like Frank wasn’t just reminded of that in the worst fucking way possible 30 seconds ago.
Frank opens his mouth to reply, but his throat seizes up and he can’t get the words out. His eyes sting but he refuses to be that much of a pussy. Instead he clenches his hands into fists until his knuckles go white, and Worm doesn’t say anything else as he hands Frank over to Brian and they get him as far away from the venue as they can, as soon as possible.
-
The next time Gerard looks over at the wings expecting to see Frank staring back at him, there’s no one there except the crew. His heart lurches and he stumbles through the song in a daze, glancing over every now and then as if his eyes have deceived him and Frank really is sitting there watching. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he checks though, and by the time they’ve finished the set, Gerard feels something heavy in the pit of his stomach and his chest feels like it’s going to burst.
He’s about to say goodnight to the crowd and leave to find Frank when Ray leans over and whispers that they still have an encore to do. Gerard stares at him, willing him to take his words back like it never happened. He can’t stay for another song. For all he knows, Frank is already gone, moving further and further away from Gerard every second, and he can’t. There was something there, just then, that makes Gerard feel like if he follows Frank now, grabs him and kisses him, that maybe they can work through this just fine. The look in Frank’s eyes, and the way he stared at him like nobody else existed was almost like Frank used to look at him when he thought nobody was watching. Like he couldn’t bear to take his eyes away. Like Gerard was the very air he breathed. Gerard needs to find him now because he’s seen how torn up and shattered Frank is, how this could be his only chance to finally get through to Frank and make him see that he loves him no matter what happens.
But Ray is looking at him, with this apologetic but firm look, and there’s nothing he can do. The crowd paid for this, are expecting this, and it’s one last song and then he can go. Surely Frank can wait around. Gerard hopes to God that Frank hesitates long enough for him to reach him. Or that Brian is a slow fucking driver or something, anything that will buy him enough time.
With a heavy heart, he breaks into Famous Last Words and feels his stomach clenching further with every word that exits his mouth.
When it’s finally over, Gerard’s heart is racing almost as fast as his mind, and he doesn’t even think before he drops the microphone to the floor and runs off stage. He’s halfway out of the venue before he realises that a stunt like that is going to cost him, that everyone will be pissed at him for ruining what almost looked like a normal performance. Until now they’ve been good at acting like nothing happened, like Frank is just away visiting his mom or something, like he’ll be back to playing shows in less than a week. He knows that after tonight, the fans will go home wondering, and it won’t be long before the rumours start.
He can’t bring himself to care. All that matters right now is finding Frank and telling him, showing him everything. He saw the look in Frank’s eyes at the very end, like it hurt him just to be there, and Gerard knows that right now, Frank is probably getting as far away from them as he possibly can. Gerard knows how Frank’s brain works, even in distress, even when he’s so confused and conflicted that he hardly knows what he wants. If there’s anyone Gerard knows better than himself or his brother it’s Frank, and he knows that in this state, Frank isn’t himself. Once, Frank would have stood up to any problem that dared approach him, and kick and bite and punch like a motherfucker until it backed down and everything was okay again. Now, Gerard remembers the terror in his eyes at the end, and he knows that Frank will be running as fast and as hard as he can. Fuck, he reminds himself. In the fucking figurative sense, of-fucking-course.
“Gerard!”
Gerard turns at the sound of Worm’s voice, and rounds on him in an instant. “Where’s Frank, have you seen him? Where’d he go?” he demands, grabbing hold of Worm’s hoodie and refusing to let go until he has an answer.
Worm looks at him sadly, pity in his eyes, and shakes his head. “He’s gone, Gerard. He left five, maybe ten minutes ago.”
Gerard feels his stomach churn heavily once more and then disappear completely. He feels weightless, light-headed, like his very existence has just been torn out from under his feet. Frank’s gone, and he never got a chance to act on anything. He knows that every second Frank gets further away, the more he’ll close in on himself and refuse to let Gerard in, and he can’t help but feel that he’s lost Frank all over again.
-
Rain drops carelessly flowing down the windshield, swipes moving from right to left, foot steady on the pedal. Gerard knows himself, he doesn't want to rush or go too slow to get there. Today had to be raining this heavily and clouds had to be that dark; Gerard isn't superstitious or anything, it is the time of year where shit weather is all Jersey ever sees, but it's really not helping Gerard. Hands on the steering wheel slightly shaking with nerves, Gerard takes a deep breath in and lets it out. He hasn't gotten any sleep for the past two or three days, he can't remember, and he doesn't feel the need to, not when he's back home already, back in Jersey. The familiar damp smell of the streets greeted him when he got here, the previous night, the dark skies and the everlasting stillness of the dark, its home, it's familiar and Gerard almost feels in the right place. Almost.
Slowing down his car and taking the right turn, Gerard parks his car in front of the place he's been both nervous and impatient to visit. Switching the ignition of the car off, Gerard tries to steady his breathing.
I know I can do this. It's been too long since I saw him. I need to see him.
I miss him.
Gerard's chest tightens at the thought of Frank, this close, both of them so near, just doors stopping him. Gerard feels like he hasn't heard Frank's voice in years, and it's tearing at the seams of Gerard's soul, leaving him hollow, like he's nothing without Frank. And he misses Frank so much that it hurts every bit of him, stings his eyes, tightens his thoughts and clenches his stomach. Gerard swallows the lump in his throat, he has to stay strong for Frank, and Gerard can't get all choked up before he even gets to see Frank. He's been waiting for the god damned tour to finish, counting the days, hours and fucking minutes. When it comes down to it, he's sitting in his car, right outside Frank's house, and being emotional about everything? Fuck that. Gerard needs to see Frank, and he's strong enough to do so.
Pulling himself together, Gerard takes a deep breath in and opens the car door while pulling his hood up from the rain and walking towards the porch. Thoughts are racing in his mind, he’s scared of how he'll find Frank, Gerard isn't sure what he’s supposed to do or say exactly, but he knows one damned thing, he needs to see Frank. Everything else is just insignificant details now. Standing in front of the front door, Gerard's hands are shaking; he keeps convincing himself that it’s the cold weather, not the nerves. Pushing all thoughts into the back of his mind, Gerard knocks on the door.
There’s shuffling and movement on the other side of the door, Gerard keeps moving from one feet to another, hands buried deep in his pockets, chewing his lips. God, someone answer the damned door already, fuck. The second the thought runs through his mind, the door creaks open and Gerard looks up to see Linda's face greeting him.
"Gerard," she says with no surprise in her tone, like she almost expected him to be here. There’s a look in her eyes, Gerard tries to read it but isn't able to. It’s somewhere between worried and…something else Gerard can't figure. Gerard shakes the thought away and gives Linda a small smile.
"Hi, Linda."
"Come on in, it's freezing outside." Linda opens the door further for Gerard to step in. Gerard pulls his hood down and walks behind Linda into the living room.
Gerard settles on the couch as Linda disappears into the kitchen; he hears the soft rattling of something being prepared as he looks around the living room. It still looks exactly the same as it used to since he was here at the beginning of the year, when they were on holiday and over for dinner. Gerard remembers Frank spilling his drink and Linda hitting him on the back of the head, calling him clumsy just like his dad. He can't help but let a small smile creep on his face at the memory; it seems like it was forever ago, like it was something ancient, something so distant, and Frank's smile and laughter, the thought of it makes Gerard's chest ache at the longing.
Startling from his thoughts, he hears Linda talking while handing him a cup of steaming hot coffee. That's been happening a lot, zoning out and being too engrossed in his own thoughts to really concentrate on what's going on around him. But he catches the last couple of words from Linda and manages to give a half decent reply.
"Yeah, tour was okay I guess. Just tiring like usual, you know."
"Yeah," Linda nods as she settles on the arm chair on Gerard's left.
They both stay silent for a bit, both almost avoiding the inventible. It's obvious to Gerard that Linda knows why he's here, they both do, they just don't say anything. Gerard feels like Linda is worried about Frank's reaction of Gerard being there, it's all etched on her face, glancing at Gerard and giving him unsure and almost troubled looks. Gerard knows it, of course he does, but nevertheless, this isn't going to stop him from seeing Frank, this running around in circles and avoiding the whole-
"Gerard."
Turning to look at Linda, Gerard settles his coffee down on the small table in front of him.
"I know you're here to see Frank. Just know that he's. I don't know how to put this, but-"
"Linda. I just really need to see him. It's been too long and I miss Frank like fuck. I know he's been…isolated and not wanting to talk or see anyone, but it kills not hearing from him or seeing him in forever. Just please, I won't take long."
Letting out a sigh, Linda finally nods and stands up, Gerard following right behind her. Gerard’s about to take the stairs, to go to Frank's room, but Linda walks to the guest room downstairs and Gerard has to hold whatever he had in himself not lose it right then and there. Frank…Frank’s in the guest room because he can't fucking get to his own bedroom, fuck. Of course he can't - just fuck. Swallowing whatever that was choking him, Gerard breathes through his nose and lets it out. They’re standing in front of the guest room now, Linda softly knocking on the door.
"Frank? Frank, honey? Someone's here to see you." There's silence on the other side of the door, no response and Gerard's heart skips a beat and his throat goes dry. Maybe Frank's asleep, maybe Gerard came in the wrong time. But it's not even six o'clock. Linda turns around and gives Gerard a small smile.
"I know he's awake. Do you want me to go in before you or anything?"
Gerard shook his head. "No, it's fine. I'll just go in if you don't mind."
Linda nods before turning around and walking back to the living room. Gerard keeps looking at the door knob hesitantly before pulling his guts in and opening it slowly.
The room is completely dark, the only source of dim light coming from the window, curtains drawn back, silence filling the air and. He's right there. Back to the door, facing the window, watching the rain pour outside. In the wheelchair. Gerard's knees suddenly go weak and he feels like turning around and running away, dropping himself in the darkest of holes, falling of the steepest of cliffs, anywhere, just not here, not seeing Frank like this. And Gerard hasn't even seen Frank's face yet, and Frank's right there, body still as stone, Gerard hasn’t seen a muscle move since he opened the door. Not even turning to see who it is or anything, just frozen in his place. Gerard closes the door and hears the click of the door knob, eyes still locked to the back of the wheelchair, still no movement.
Walking towards Frank, Gerard doesn't know whether to stand up behind him, next to or in front of Frank. Or should he sit on the bed? Or should Gerard just turn around and go back home and hide under his own covers and scream until his lungs give out? Forcing all thoughts to the back of his mind, Gerard walks to Frank and the only sound heard is the splatter of rain against the window.
"Hey, Frankie." Gerard crouches next to Frank to meet his eye level and just as he's about to give a smile -
"Can you please not do that?" Frank looks at him and Gerard can't help but furrow his eyebrows in confusion. What did he do? Shit, he didn't even get past saying hey and Frank’s already upset.
"I. What did I-"
"I hate it when people kneel down so they can talk to me, just don't do it. Just act like you normally would, or just. Whatever." Frank gives Gerard a smile sad smile before turning around on his wheelchair and moving next to the night stand, looking through his drawer.
Oh. Oh, shit. Fuck. Gerard is such an idiot, what the fuck, of course Frank doesn't want to be treated fucking differently and Gerard’s already messing up being all careful and stupid and shit
"I'm sorry, Frankie. I. I didn't know."
Frank pops a bottle of pills open and swallows them followed with water and then stays in his place, head titled backwards before looking up at Gerard.
"It's fine." Frank says with the calmest of tones and tries to force another smile on his face.
Gerard can't help but see Frank's eyes blank with dark bags of, what Gerard guesses to be signs of sleepless nights. No sparkle or life in them anymore, just exhaustion and despair, just looking defeated and so broken. Yet Frank manages to mask all of that behind a calm persona and quiet tone and Gerard isn't used to that. Gerard knows that Frank's hurting, and it's fucking Frank up bad enough to turn him the complete opposite of who he was.
There’s silence now lingering in the air, just frozen in place between the two of them. Gerard doesn't know what to say to make it better, doesn't know what to do with his nervous hands and storming thoughts. Moving towards Frank, Gerard sits on the edge of the bed facing Frank.
"I miss you, Frank. We all do, everyone does. It feels so fucking different without you around."
"Yeah."
"I've been trying to call you and get to talk to you for ages, but your phone was off the whole time. I miss talking to you." I miss having you around, touching you, holding you, breathing you in. I miss everything about you, Frank. Everything. Gerard feels like a part of his fucking soul has been torn away from him since Frank went back home. And it fucking kills, to come back here, and see Frank in such a state. It's as if something cold and strong is clutching at Gerard's guts and pressing against his chest, and everything just seems too fucking hard.
"Yeah, I've. I've been tired I guess, sleeping a lot."
Not from the way he looked, Gerard doesn't buy it. But whatever Frank's reasons are, all that Gerard wants is to make Frank feel better, make him smile genuinely, ease off some of the pain, maybe cheer things up a little. Just be there for him in any way possible. So maybe Gerard has to just fucking talk to Frank like he’s okay, like everything is normal, just hang out with him and maybe it'll make things better, ease off the tension or whatever it is that's clogging the air and making hard to breathe.
"Hey! Have you seen that video Bob took of all of us? Dude, that day was like one of the worst during tour, seriously. Then Bob was all like, 'hey let's take a video and send it to Frank' then we all made faces and shit. It was kinda stupid but it was like 3AM, so." Gerard’s now full on, cheerful voice and a smile on his face, trying to get Frank along, change the subject that hurts at heart to something that'll maybe get Frank saying more than two words.
"I, uhm. Yeah, I don't know. I haven't checked my email in a while."
"Oh. Well anyway, whatever. Also-"
"Gerard." Frank stops Gerard in mid-sentence and looks at him with tired eyes. Just as Gerard’s about to say something-
"I can't do this, Gerard. I'm sorry, I just can't."
And Gerard's breathing stops at Frank's words. What does Frank mean? He can't- No, Frank doesn't mean that. It can't. No, god, no. This isn't happening. No, he’s misinterpreting all of this. Frank, Frank can't do that.
"What do you mean, Frank?" Gerard's voice comes out quiet and quivers while he lets the words pass his lips. Because no, this isn't happening.
"We. We can't do this anymore, Gerard. We're lying to ourselves by saying we can make it through as if nothing happened. And just. I can't. I'm sorry, okay? This, all of this, is already hard enough."
Then Gerard's standing up before he even realizes, his eyes are stinging and his throat is closing up and he keeps trying to swallow it down but the pain and tightness won't go away. Looking down at Frank, Gerard's shaking his head, because no.
"Frank, no. You don't mean that. Just, you're tired and just no, Frank. I won't let you do this to yourself, okay? I just won't allow it. You're not doing this, are you?"
Frank's still in his position, not a muscle moving, face fixed into whatever's behind Gerard's figure, not meeting Gerard's eyes. And Gerard can't take it, can't fucking believe how Frank can simply say such things and think that Gerard would just agree to it and move on like nothing has happened, because fuck, shit happened, serious shit happened but it's not like Gerard’s going to fucking turn around and just leave Frank, not going to give up on his boyfriend because of some fucking accident. Anger is starting to crawl through Gerard's veins, and confusion and most of all just hurt that Frank would say such things. It's Gerard, it's him, Frank should know better than to just give up and not answer.
"I'm not letting you give up on this shit, Frank, I don’t fucking care." Before he knows or realizes himself, Gerard is standing up and his eyes are burning against Frank's.
"You don’t fucking get it, Gerard. Put yourself in my situation, think of how it's like for me." Frank's tone starts getting louder, ferocity crawling up his neck and Gerard can see Frank trying to hold it back, but it's not working.
"I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through, Frank, okay? I don’t. But you're not letting me in! I just want you to stop pushing us away. Stop pushing me away." Gerard grits his teeth but he can't help it, everything inside him is too caught up and heated and Frank's right there, pushing and not wanting anyone around and it's not helping.
"Stop pretending you give a fuck, Gerard. Not everything revolves around you and your own fucking band, stop trying to make shit better when it’s not." Frank's words come out sharp and hit where it hurts. Gerard almost recoils back, Frank's not the kind of person who'd ever say shit like that, no matter what.
"Frank, fucking hell, stop thinking that we don’t care about you, we all do. This is just as hard for us as it is for you!" Gerard's hands are shaking and this whole shouting back and forth is making his hands shake. The fact that he's scared of losing Frank, so easily, and the anger of knowing that Frank thinks that they'd go on without him. The whole band, forgetting him, how is that even remotely possible?
Frank looks up, straight through Gerard's eyes, and for once Gerard sees Frank's eyes with life, not the one he would like to see, but the angry burning life of everything that's caught up inside Frank that he can't let out. The shit that Frank won't allow himself to let out.
"Get out," Frank says, sharp and clear pointing towards the door, still looking straight into Gerard's eyes. "Leave me alone. Get out."
"No, Frank. You can't push me away, I'm not going to let you do this on your own," Gerard shakes his head, his eyes not leaving Frank's for one second. "Fucking talk to me, damn it. Stop bottling shit up inside, it's only hurting you more."
"Why the fuck would you care if it’s hurting me more? Everything's already fucked up to the max, hurting more won't make a difference," Frank says, throwing his hands towards Gerard, like he wishes he could punch him or put some sense into Gerard, like there's any of that shit in Frank's head.
"Because I love you, we all do and you're not letting any of us in to make this easier -"
"It doesn’t get fucking easier from here, Gerard! You don't know what this is like. Fuck," Frank says as he pushes the nightstand with his hand angrily and half his medication, bottles and pills are all over the floor.
Gerard tightens his fists, eyebrows furrowed and his eyes tingling with the burning. He wants to do something, say something, do anything to calm Frank down, make things better instead of worse.
"Frank," Gerard starts and doesn’t know where to go from there, but he doesn’t even have the chance to finish off whatever he was saying when Frank's lips start moving.
"No, Gerard. Don’t, don’t even." Frank's lips tremble and Gerard can see him trying to refrain himself from breaking down, just the sight of Frank like that makes Gerard's knees weak, makes his vision blur.
"You have no fucking idea what it's like, watching you guys play and knowing that I'll never be on that stage with everyone. Knowing that this is it, there's no more to my life than this, you know full well that music is my fucking life." Frank's gesturing with his hands, voice loud and trembling, bits of himself breaking down and it's the first time Gerard sees tears run down Frank's face since the whole accident happened.
"Frank just-"
"No, Gerard. You don’t know what it’s like knowing that I won't ever get on that stage and play my soul out, having that snapped off you without warning or anything, just like that…" Frank snaps his trembling fingers and his angry and harsh words echo into the room. Gerard doesn’t even know what to say back.
Silence falls between them for two seconds as Frank rests his head between his hands. Gerard can hear him muttering curses and softly crying to himself. Stepping closer to Frank, Gerard reaches out to rest his hand on Frank's shoulder and Frank flinches away from Gerard so fast that Gerard thinks that he actually might have hurt him.
"Don’t even," Frank says and it hurts, it hits the core, right inside and it almost physically hurts. Like a punch through the guts, burning and tearing inside Gerard's chest. He holds himself back and curls his fingers into fists, he shouldn’t be hurt because this is all too much in the first place, he hast to hold himself from exploding.
Letting out a long breath, Gerard looks at Frank and tries to think of what to say, he has to say something, he doesn’t care how it sounds, just something.
"Frank. Please, don’t cry. You've been so strong," Gerard's voice is small and quiet in the room, as if he's the only living thing in there.
"Yeah well if you cared enough to look properly, maybe I fucking wasn’t. Too busy living it on stage and shit," Frank says sniffing to himself, head still between his hands, now wiping tears off his face.
Gerard tries to swallow that one down, but he just can't. Out of all people, Gerard's been the one who's feeling like shit not having Frank around, the one who feels like he's being tortured the whole time for being so far away from Frank, it's unfair. Frank can't blame this on Gerard because Gerard's been trying so hard to keep himself composed for Frank, for the band, in front of Brian, in front of Mikey. Because this hurts Gerard as much as it hurts Frank, seeing him like that and not knowing what to do or say, especially when Frank does nothing other than push him away and not let anyone in.
"I want my old Frank back, the old Frank wouldn’t have given up this easy," Gerard says, voice trembling and so close to breaking down himself.
"Stop being so fucking melodramatic. The old Frank died since the accident, Gerard. You don’t even know who I am anymore," Frank says with a sniff, grabbing the wheels of his chair and turning around to give Gerard his back.
"I don’t fucking care what you say, you're still our Frank. Nothing that'll ever happen will change that," Gerard says, feeling like he's losing the last chance of hope, last thread to hold on to, like there's nothing else left and Frank's not helping with the way he's shutting him out.
"Stop contradicting yourself, Gerard. Nothing's going be lovey-dovey with a happy ending, this is real life. So just." Frank's head lifts up from where he was looking down and he fixes his eyes on the window. "Stop trying to fix the unfixable. Just leave, Gerard." Frank's voice is so monotone, so low and filled with despair that he's trying to hide.
Gerard doesn’t want to do anything more than walk up to Frank and hold him so that Frank can actually let it all out, the anger, sorrow, the heavyweight he's been carrying and bottling up inside him, just letting all of it out. At this point, Gerard doesn’t care if Frank pushes him away. Walking up to Frank, Gerard stands in front of him and puts his right hand on Frank's cheek and the other hand on his shoulder. Frank resists and tries to push Gerard's hands away. Gerard doesn’t let him.
"Frank. Please, we can do this. I know we can. Just let it out, stop hurting yourself more." And right before Gerard is about to continue, Frank pushes him with all his force, making Gerard end up on the floor, on his back and looking up at Frank in shock.
Gerard can see the raindrops from outside reflecting on Frank's face and nothing other than Frank's screaming fills his head.
"Get out, fucking leave," Frank starts shouting, at the top of his lungs, angry fists tight together hitting the arms of the wheelchair, his face red and flushed in anger. Gerard is too startled to even notice Frank's mom rushing inside, her gaze darting back and forth between Frank and Gerard, not knowing what to do, or who to deal with first.
Somehow Gerard manages to stand up by himself as Linda stands next to Frank, trying to calm him down. Frank's face is turned away from Gerard and Gerard can't tell what his expression is. Gerard considers holding Frank's hand before he leaves, or giving him a quick kiss - he knows he's not going to give up on Frank this easily, but it hurts so much to see him in such a state. Looking up at Linda, Gerard can see her pleading with her eyes for him to leave, because everything is just too sensitive to be dealt with now.
Gerard mouths, 'I'm sorry,' to Linda before leaving and she just shakes her head, then he turns to head to the door, but not before turning around to look at Frank's back.
"Goodnight, Frank," he says with a barely audible whisper.
Staying still in his wheelchair, Frank doesn’t even move a muscle.
-
There’s something welling up inside him, something he can’t stop, that he has no control over. It feels like it’s been there ever since the accident, growing and growing until it’s this horrible lump in his throat, clogging his airways, a sickening swell in the pit of his stomach. He feels like he’s choking, and he needs it to stop because he doesn’t think he can go on like this much longer.
He sits in the middle of his room after Gerard leaves, and it’s covered in so many painful reminders. Over the years his mother has played the part of the adoring parent, keeping his room clean and decorating it with evidence of his success. There’s newspaper clippings, front pages of every magazine My Chemical Romance has covered, photos of when they were still that tiny band in Jersey, photos of them standing on stage in all their glory. And fuck, it hurts. He looks around and all the pictures stare back at him. In every photo he’s holding a guitar, and Frank feels like he’s going to die. A choked sound forces its way out of his mouth and he rolls his chair forward, desperately reaching out to tear it all down, strip his walls of reminders, of things that he can no longer be. In his ears there’s the dull roar of the crowd screaming, the sound of the guitars, drums and bass mixing together, and Gerard’s voice, singing in his ear like there’s no tomorrow. He can hear it all crashing around him, feel it suffocating him, and his eyes widen horribly. There’s a photo in front of him, and he looks at it, the image of himself thrashing around on stage, eyes closed and lost in the music, and Frank rips it down and hurls it into the waste paper basket because it’s all just so unfair. He pushes himself around the room madly until he forgets how long he’s been in there.
Finally, Frank stops, his chair stilling in the middle of the room. The bin is overflowing and the floor is littered with scrunched up papers, of torn photos and magazines. As he surveys the ruin before him, he spots it. The last shred of an old life, one last stab to the heart that leaves him breathless.
His favourite guitar.
The others have been taken on tour, stowed on the bus or at the apartment he shared with Mikey. This is the last of them, the one treasured possession that he had left behind, knowing that it would be looked after. And it has. The guitar in front of him looks almost brand new, and Frank’s fingers itch to pick it up, to strum the strings and lose himself in the melody like so many times before. It’s a beautiful acoustic, gorgeous in all its simplicity, and Frank feels his heart ache just looking at it.
Slowly, he edges his chair forward, and shaking fingers reach out to grasp the neck, feeling something unidentifiable run down his spine. The lump in his throat grows larger as he pulls the guitar into his lap, settling it on legs he can’t feel. His fingers hover over the strings and it’s this indescribable need, this desperation to touch, to play, but he can’t. He looks down at it and his knuckles are going white where he grips the neck too hard. He’s spent his entire life playing the guitar but for some reason, he sits there and he just can’t. It’s all too much, too soon, and the lump is getting bigger all the time. He thinks he might even be sick if he looks at it too long.
He lets it sit on his lap and begins to push himself towards the door. He has to pause three times to look down and make sure that it’s still there, because he can’t feel the weight on his dead thighs. Hands firm on the wheels of his chair, Frank pushes himself out of his old bedroom, and keeps going until he reaches the front door. He’s glad his mother has gone out shopping, and he knows that undoubtedly, she’ll run into someone she knows in the supermarket and end up chatting and staying even longer. With one hand steadying the guitar, he reaches up with the other and opens the door, letting himself outside. There’s a chilled bite to the air, and he shivers a bit, but keeps going. It takes him a while, and he curses the chair continuously, but eventually, he reaches the backyard.
And from there it’s just a matter of time. He wheels himself further into the center of the yard, and places the guitar on the ground. He can’t help but stare at it for a moment, watching the way it settles amongst the grass peacefully before he’s wheeling away, turning his back on it. He keeps moving, not allowing himself to stop because otherwise, he’s scared that he’s going to have second thoughts, and at the moment, this seems like the only logical course of action. He has to do this because it hurts too much not to, and he needs to drill it into himself, needs to force himself to accept the fact that this is it, and nothing can change what happened. He’s not who he used to be.
Eternally grateful that Linda left the door open when she reversed the car out, Frank wheels himself into the open garage and searches. Dusk is falling fast, and he peers through the darkness until he finds what he’s looking for at last.
He retrieves the matches from the shelf and pockets them easily, but as he leans forward in his chair to pick up the fuel can, he swears at the chair again, because fuck, it’s just making everything ten times harder and he doesn’t want to deal with it. His hands curl around the plastic handle, and he has to use both to haul it up. It’s fucking heavy, and he’s glad that the time he’s spent in the chair so far has done a little to build up his upper body strength. He eases it onto his lap where the guitar once was, and begins to push himself back.
He can see the guitar lying where he left it, and he makes his way over to it, at long last coming to a stop. He peers over the edge of his chair and feels his heart clench. Not allowing himself time for second thoughts, he unscrews the cap of the fuel can and begins to pour, squeezing his eyes shut as he hears the liquid splash against the wood. He realises that his breathing is out of control, that his heartbeat is accelerating, and once it empties, he throws the can to the side, not daring to open his eyes. His hands are shaking, and the lump is swelling so fast that he feels like any second now it’s going to cut off his air and he’s going to die in his backyard, sitting in front of a petrol-soaked guitar. An odd way to go, and maybe he’d like that, something a little out of the ordinary. But he can’t think about that now because he needs to do this, needs to do it just as much as he needs to breathe. And so, with trembling hands, he reaches into his pocket and withdraws the matches. All he can hear is his own breathing, and that unnerves him a little. But he needs to do this now, because it’s getting darker, the sun almost completely set and soon enough, he won’t be able to see properly.
Frank’s shaking, and he knows that it’s not from the cold. Turning around and wheeling himself back to a safe distance is a bit of an effort, but he manages, and then he’s staring at the guitar from a couple of meters away. The wood is glistening in the sliver of moonlight that’s appearing, and Frank thinks it looks eerily beautiful. And then he strikes the match and without giving himself a chance to blow it out, he throws it forward, and to his relief, it manages to stay lit until it lands on its mark.
And Frank, he watches with a mixture of horror and awe as the flames engulf the last thing tying him to a passion he no longer wants in his life. Because it’s not fair to look at that guitar every day and know that he can never play with the band again, can never play on that stage with all of his heart. He can’t stand to even look at the object he once loved like nothing else, and so he destroys it. Out of sight, out of mind, only, he knows that isn’t really true. Still, he forces himself to believe that this is it, and as he watches the fire lick against the instrument, swallowing it whole, he tells himself that he can rest okay now. He firmly ignores the small voice telling him that it will do nothing of the sort.
The lump dies down a little, but it still doesn’t feel right. It’s almost as if it’s starting to go away out of mere tiredness, out of defeat. It doesn’t feel at all like Frank’s won, more that he’s hollow, that he’s destroyed something he can never get back, and rather than making it all better, it’s all just so much worse.
He sits in his chair, unshed tears shining in his eyes as he watches the flames. He holds the tears at bay and refuses to cry over something that he himself caused, something that he wanted, needed. He blocks out all of the noise, all of the feelings, everything. He sits there until the flames die down and come to nothing but a flicker, a few sharp flicks of orange-red against the now black, charred remains of the guitar.
He sits there until Linda comes home and finds him, and he doesn’t even register her as she fusses over him, wheeling him back inside. He can see the tears in her eyes too, knows that this is hurting both of them, but he can’t bring himself to feel anything but empty, hollow.
Hollow as the guitar he just sent into oblivion.
Part Three