I Was Your Silver Lining 2/6
Part 1
Gerard isn't done with his fit of self loathing by Monday afternoon when he heads out to the front porch to wait for Frank, but he'd been even more miserable the whole morning after he hadn't even gone to the window to watch him walk to school.
The mailman wheels his squeaking bag between each house while Gerard stares down the block, waiting for the first sign of Frank. Gerard nods down to him when he stops in front of Gerard's box and places something inside, but he doesn't bother retrieving it just yet. He's still more interested in the other end of the block. It seems like hours later when he sees groups of kids splitting off at the corner, but the mailman is only four houses down.
He taps his foot against the railing and listens as the DiMarillos’ dog starts barking at the mailman. The dog will bark for the next five minutes as he approaches, stops at their house and then departs. Gerard takes a moment to be grateful that he doesn't have a leash to strain against as he tries to find a casual position to watch the street.
It’s hard to stand around and look casual when he’s pretty much on the verge of a panic attack, but he feels like he manages pretty okay. He should probably blink more but it’s hard when he can finally see Frank making his way down the street towards him.
He smells different. Gerard can tell. It’s not - it’s not exactly the same, as before, way back before, but it’s different than last week. Gerard tries to remember to breathe, that he actually has to exhale sometime.
Frank steps up over the curb of his block, and Gerard’s making his way down the front steps towards his mailbox before he can stop himself. He stumbles a little on an uneven pavestone and Frank raises his head at the noise, his eyes widening at the sight of Gerard coming down his front path.
“Oh,” he says, startled. Gerard knows he would have walked on the other side of the street if he’d been paying attention.
“Hi, Frank,” Gerard says, trying desperately to keep his voice even. It’s probably a little strained. Although Frank probably thinks he always talks like he’s on the verge of an awkward attack, so maybe he can’t tell.
Frank nods and makes to walk past him, speeding up a little, and it takes a lot for Gerard to hold back and grasp at the side of his mailbox instead of out at his jacket sleeve.
“How was your weekend?” he blurts. Pieces of paint flake off the mailbox against his grip.
Frank pauses and turns back a little. “Uh. It was fine.”
“That’s good, that’s - that’s great. You, ah - I heard there was something going around. You feeling okay?” Gerard asks. Fucking smooth.
"Uh, yeah. Fine, thanks?" Frank shifts his weight from foot to foot. It's suddenly very quiet. The DiMarillos’ dog has stopped barking and Frank seems to feel the silence as much as Gerard does. "So you're uh, G. Way, huh?" he asks, nodding at the mailbox Gerard is clinging to.
"Gerard," he supplies immediately. He's giddy that he has the chance to talk to Frank, but also a little bit crushed that Frank still doesn't know his name. Nothing's changed except the way Frank smells and the fact that he'll be a little less human at the end of this month. Secretly, Gerard had been hoping that, somehow, being bitten would make Frank remember Gerard and the way it used to be.
"Cool, I'm Frank, but I guess one of the neighbors must have told you that?"
Gerard is going to dent the cheap aluminum box if he grips it any tighter. "Yeah, uh, the what's new in the neighborhood thing. Catching up. Your mother, she's Sophia, right?"
"No, Linda," Frank says. "I should probably get going, you know, homework. But it was nice to meet you."
"Yeah, you too," Gerard sighs as Frank starts to walk away. "If you ever run out of horror movies, I've got a pretty decent collection!"
Frank turns to face Gerard but keeps walking away. "Thanks man, but we broke our VCR player in the move."
Gerard watches him walk away until he disappears up the stairs and through the front door of his house. He waits until he sees the light of Frank’s bedroom (or what he assumes is Frank’s bedroom) come on and then lets out a low, steady breath.
He finally jerks his glance away from the window and back to his mailbox. He actually has a letter today, after all. Just hopefully not more bills. He pulls it out and runs his fingers over the heavy, textured envelope and smiles. Agatha.
He hurries back into the house and heads straight for his study, where the letter opener he picked up in Vienna is sitting atop the rest of his correspondence. It's old, but he keeps it sharp, so it slices easily through the heavy paper. Agatha's handwriting is still smooth and looping, despite the arthritis. She still forms the letters the way Gerard helped teach her back when she was in primary school.
Dear Gerard,
I'm absolutely thrilled to hear that you have found your Frank! I don't like to think about you all alone back there, and am glad you will have company once more. I know how relieved you must be after all of this time. I wish that I could meet him, see the two of you together, but I'm afraid traveling so far is out of the question for me these days, especially during this time of the year. Our winters are nothing like yours, out here, not nearly so harsh, but my bones seem determined to ache more out of habit.
I trust you will give him my best, and I know mom and dad would've loved to see him again, and I look forward to hearing more news. You two be sure to have a run for your old niece, I haven't made any trouble for the kids in years. Can you believe my baby is going to be sixty-three this year? And Jack is already in his seventies.
I'm just going on again about being old, I'm sorry, my letters don't contain as much excitement as yours, but I hope that never discourages you from writing. Alice sends her love, and suggests again that you look into email.
I also absolutely request some photographs of you two as soon as you get the chance - Alice reorganized the artwork in the hallway and I stole one of the prettier small frames when she wasn't looking. I can't think of better inhabitants.
All my love,
Agatha.
P.S. I really am happier for you than I can put down into words, Gerard. I knew you would finally find the happiness you deserve.
Gerard's stomach sinks as he reads Agatha's letter - surely not her intention, nor her fault, since he had not written her again after realizing that finding Frank wasn't the biggest challenge. He hadn't wanted to put down on paper that Frank didn't know him and still doesn't, really, but now he wishes he had, at least so that Agatha's letter might not have been so joyful for things that had not come to pass.
He misses her. He misses Mikey so much it aches sometimes, still, after all of these years. But at least when he writes to her he can feel a little bit of Mikey still there, still with her, and usually it helps.
Not today, though. Still alone, and now just feeling even more the fool. He sighs and pulls open the top drawer of the desk to pull out the top correspondence box and tuck the new letter safely inside with all the rest. He runs his fingers distractedly over the rough pieces of the paper where her ink pen carved into the teeth of the page. He should probably look into email, but this - something tangible, something created, something to remember - well, it feels like they're closer. And he misses having someone close.
He closes the box and puts it away, but reaches for another one. It's not as pretty as the first, but he was told it would keep out air and light that would damage these letters. They're notes, really; Gerard can't recall anyone having delivered them, except perhaps Mikey with a bemused glint in his eye that belied a disinterested facade. Gerard should have tried to learn from Mikey, to school his features more when he was around Frank in public, but it hurt not to smile at Frank, and he would have been bereft without the grins returned in kind.
Gerard frowns now, at the plain metal box, before lifting the lid. He doesn't even pick up any of the paper inside. He just looks at it. An exclamation point from a typewriter or an email could never convey what the stroke of Frank's pen had, all those years ago.
The pastor pounds his fist on his pulpit and cries out about evil. He's really angry about something in particular this week - dancing, maybe? Because of the dance down at the town hall the week before? He's probably angry because no one asked him to dance. Gerard just stares at his face and watches the bloated skin pucker and turn an angry red as he continues his sermon. It helps pass the time.
Mikey suddenly shoves his bony knee into the side of his thigh. Gerard resists the urge to punch him in the shoulder and just frowns and looks at him out of the corner of his eye. His mother is sitting right next to him and she hates when they act like they're not actually paying attention.
Mikey rolls his eyes a little and passes over something, something folded and tiny. Gerard tries not to breathe as he accepts the note and keeps it between his clasped hands, concentrating on the texture of the paper between his palms instead of the pastor's droning lecture.
There's no way he can look at it here, but he knows who sent it, and his heart twists a little - Frank's not in church today, and it's been killing Gerard not to look around every five minutes to see if he's sitting somewhere in the back.
The service finally ends and everyone stands to file out. Gerard tries to find a way out but there's already a huge crowd at the door shaking hands and talking with one another.
"I'm just going to go light a candle, Ma, I'll be right out," he says, extracting himself from their family's circle around the pastor at the entrance of the church. He ducks back inside to stand in the hidden area off to the side of the altar, by the prayer candles, and unfolds the note.
'Dearest G -
I know you are worried, but don't be - I'm fine. I fell while I was riding yesterday and hurt my leg (well, if we are being technical I was trying to stand up while riding, but that's neither here nor there), but it should be just as new in a few days. Until then, though, I'm forced to stay in bed completely bored and with absolutely nothing to do or no one to entertain me. My life is terrible, you see, and so boring without you around.
Mikey did his best, bless him, but my mother sent him away after only half an hour. Ever since Cousin Stella left the pack to marry that merchant over in Boston she's been a bit more...involved than usual. I think she's worried Mikey's habits will rub off on me - I think she heard the rumors about the town girl Ms. Simmons he danced with at the party. She can be so obsessed with the pack sometimes it's hard to have a conversation with her about anything else. I'm sorry to complain again.
Anyway, I have to finish this quickly, Mikey's stopping by on his way to meet you at Church and by the look of it he's already running rather late. I am going to tie this to a rock and throw it out of my window to him. Just like in those penny adventures we read, you see? I am quite the master of the art of stealth.
I probably won't be able to see you until the moon. I think a new pack from the town over is going to come over to run with us too. Won't that be nice? Even though I will still be faster. But don't tell them that. I think I finally hear Mikey. You should tell him thanks for me.
For now,
F
P.S. You really should have seen me stand up on that horse, G. It looked rather amazing. Well. Before I fell off.'
Gerard sighs and folds the note back up into its tiny and precise packaging. It looks almost like those Japanese paper folds Frank had shown him a picture of one time. He presses it to his mouth, just for a second, and goes to light a candle.
When he turns around Frank's mother, Sophia, is standing in one of the pews watching him, a stack of hymnals grasped firmly in her hands as if she was in mid-collection. Gerard forces himself to smile but doesn't allow himself to breathe until he's back outside, away from her and into the sun.
Gerard spends the next week falling back into his normal routine. The only difference between now and before he took his "sabbatical" is that he has an alarm clock that goes off so he remembers to leave his studio in time to watch Frank come home. He doesn't go outside, just stands in the kitchen and watches Frank and his friends and sometimes that girl go by as he washes paint brushes in the sink.
The next Wednesday he has to go into the city to drop off some of his latest pieces at the uptown gallery. It’s always surreal to go back after he’s been away for a while. The city’s bigger- dirtier in some places, slicker in others. There always seem to be more and more taxis, though, and they always seem more and more determined to run him over as he tries to cross the street.
The gallery owners never care that he disappears, though, just that he comes back with new paintings eventually. They love the new works and fawn over him appropriately. Gerard can’t help but get a little kick out of the fact that for people so incredibly dedicated to details they never seem to notice he hasn’t aged a day.
The trip takes the better part of the day, and by the end of it he’s exhausted. He feels like if he wiped at his face it’d come away covered in soot. He just wants to go home and make a cup of coffee and - oh, fuck, that’s right. He’s out of coffee. And most of his food.
He sighs and turns the car to get off at the next stop. Grocery store it is.
The store is crowded with people who must have the same idea as him, swinging by after work to pick up some food for dinner, and maneuvering through the aisles with his cart seems like an effort worthy of a medal. He stands in front of the apple display in the produce section trying to choose between Fuji and Honeycrisp when a woman says, "Excuse me," and gestures to Gerard's cart, which is blocking the Granny Smiths.
Gerard moves his cart automatically, but then he gets a good look at the woman standing next to him. It's Frank's mom, Linda, and the familiar knot in his stomach seizes up immediately. He can't move, really. He just stands there, torn between wanting to really watch her and being afraid of looking at her directly. He takes a surreptitious sniff and no, she smells the way Frank used to, just human. Familiar, though, in a way, but in a way he can't figure out.
She finishes selecting her apples and catches him looking at her, but she just smiles and begins to pull her cart away. "You have a happy Thanksgiving."
Gerard blinks and looks around, noting the abundance of autumnally colored decorations. "Y-you, too," he manages. He watches her back as he disappears into one of the grocery aisles and finally exhales.
He backs up abruptly with his cart and makes a beeline for the deli. He might as well get a little bit of turkey for dinner tomorrow, and it'll give him some extra time to let his heart stop pounding.
***
Frank loves his family, really, he does, but by the end of the day of Thanksgiving he really just wants to curl up on the couch and sleep and not have to pretend to his relatives that high school is the best thing ever or answer a bunch of questions about Jenny. The four-day weekend the school gives them is pretty awesome, though, and he manages to get in plenty of time to shoot the shit with his friends (and shoot the shit out of the aliens in Ray's new video game, because it's awesome).
The problem with long weekends, though, is that waking up on Monday morning always feels even worse. Frank stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom and groans, rubbing at his eyes and trying to remember the dream he had. It was pretty good. It felt pretty good. He was wrestling somebody, or something, but he was pretty sure he was winning.
Frank sighs and rolls so he can put his feet on the floor and start blearily scouting for his uniform. Another boring-ass day in another boring-ass week at his boring-ass school.
*
Wednesday morning Frank wakes up and his skin is on fire. He gasps awake, writhing, and claws frantically at his arms. The flare lessens slightly when he drags his fingernails over the skin, but only slightly, just enough to breathe again. He rolls out of the bed and stumbles to his feet, yanking the covers back to look for bedbugs or ants or poison ivy or fucking something. There’s nothing.
“What the fuck,” he pants, staring at his empty sheets.
“Frank,” his mom calls from downstairs, “are you still in bed? You’re going to be late for school!”
“I’m up!” he says. Shit. He is going to be late. Pulling his uniform on feels like rubbing burlap against a mosquito bite, or something, and he has to bite his lip to stifle a moan.
His mom gives him a concerned look when he pads down the stairs, still yanking on his tie and shoving his shirt into his waistband. “You okay? You look sort of flushed.”
Frank ducks away from her outstretched hand and grabs a cold packaged Pop-Tart out of the pantry behind her. “I’m fine, I’m just in a rush - I’ll see you later, okay?” He grabs his backpack from where he dropped it by the front hallway the night before and half-runs to the door.
“Sure thing. Have a good day at school!” she says, but Frank doesn’t answer before pulling the door shut quickly behind him.
*
“Dude, are you okay?” Ray asks when Frank makes it to the corner. “Where’s your coat? You’re going to get sick.”
Frank brushes him off. His skin is still throbbing. “I’m good, dude. It’s warm today.”
Ray stares at him and Frank can see the mist from his breath. Well. It feels warm. Frank blinks a little and walks briskly past him. “Let’s just go, yeah? Don’t want to be late.”
He can hear Ray hesitate, briefly, and then hurry to catch up.
*
That day in gym he outruns everyone in his class when they have to run the track. Coach Cradinsky stares at him as he runs by, and he knows he’s probably questioning every single time he’s ever had to sit out gym because he could barely fucking breathe, but he doesn’t even care, he can’t even stop. Nothing hurts.
*
Jenny smiles at him in the hallway between classes and it feels like his spine jerks, like a spark under his skin. He’s about to walk on past when she reaches out and tugs on his sleeve, pulling him over to the side.
“Hey, Frank,” she says. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever. How was your holiday?” She’s fiddling with one of the buttons on her jacket sleeve like she knows something’s off with him.
Frank has to get out of there. He’s already in a cold sweat again. “Uhm, oh, it was good. It was good. Listen, I have to -“ he stutters, pulling himself away. “I gotta go, I gotta go this way - “ and then disappears around the corner.
He pretends not to see the worried look on her face, but he doesn’t forget. Fuck.
*
Thursday is worse. The itch is still there but it’s different, today. Deeper, like it’s moved into his veins and his stomach and his toes and his fucking dick, like every time somebody at school even glances his way he wants to throw them up against a wall and rub one out on their thigh, whole fucking rest of the class standing in the hallway be damned.
He avoids Ray and Bob the entire day until lunch when Ray sees him fumbling with his food tray and waves him over. He knew he should have skipped lunch but he was so fucking hungry, and - he freezes, desperately hoping for an out, but there’s nothing. He grips tightly to his tray as he sits delicately down next to them and just tries to breathe.
“How’d you do on that bonus question for Reiding’s quiz?” Ray asks.
Frank just shakes his head. Everything seems fogged over, glazed. “I don’t know. Something.”
“Something?” Ray asks, teasing. “You did something?”
Frank feels like if he grips any harder onto his tray he’ll crack it in half. Why does Ray have to fucking bother him right now? Why can’t they just fucking leave him -
“What’s that smell?” he asks, suddenly, dropping the tray to the table. Something smells, something smells amazing, and it hits him so hard he can barely focus his eyes.
Bob stares at him, frowning. “What smell?”
“That smell.” He leans over towards Ray, his eyes half-closed.
“Uh, Frank, I don’t - “ Ray stutters, leaning back a little in his chair.
Frank opens his eyes and stares at Ray’s tray. “What’s that? That yours?”
Ray and Bob both stare at him. “Uh, that’s the cafeteria’s attempt at making something called a cheeseburger, Frank. Are you fucking high?”
“Are you going to eat it?” he asks, still staring.
“Are you?” Bob asks, incredulous.
Frank’s already reaching out for it when Bob reaches out and grabs his arm. Frank’s about ready to fucking bite his hand off right then and there when Bob speaks up.
“Dude, your choice or whatever, but do you really think that eating that piece of shit is the best way to reintroduce your stomach to life as a carnivore? At least save it for something they didn’t scrape out of a cardboard box.”
Frank just stares at his hand on his arm. That’s right. Vegetarian. Two years and counting. “Oh. Y-yes. Okay.”
Bob releases him and sits back. Frank darts his eyes up and he can see Jenny looking at him oddly from the table with her friends. She looks like she’s about to stand up and come over to them, and Frank can barely mumble an excuse before he’s pushing back from the table and half-running out of the cafeteria, leaving his tray and his friends behind.
He shoves open the door of the bathroom and practically flings himself into the last stall, only allowing himself to breathe when he’s got the door locked behind him and he’s left sitting on the seat, his head in his hands. His skin is practically fucking thrumming.
He stops breathing for a second and just listens. There’s no one in the bathroom. The bell’s already rung. Everyone’s back in class.
There’s a little part of him, buried back, back behind the itch that tells him in a reasonable tone that it’s a terrible, terrible idea, that there’s no way this can end well, but he forgets all of that as soon as he’s got his hand shoved into his pants and on his dick.
It feels so good he wants to cry, but he settles for a long, low moan. Jesus fucking Christ. He rubs his hand back and forth over his dick and exhales, leaning over until his face is braced against the cool steel of the toilet paper dispenser.
He’s already fucking leaking precome over his hand and he’s barely touched himself. He can barely hear the sound of his dress shoes slipping against the tile floor over the sound of his own harsh panting but he doesn't slow down.
It’s got to be only a couple of minutes, at the very most, before his toes are curling and his spine is jerking and the warmth is pooling in his toes and the itch stops for one, blissful second before it singes every cell in his body and he comes so hard he can’t see, has to clamp his free hand over his mouth and bite down to stifle the gasping cry that comes out.
He sits there for a few minutes afterward, his hand still on his dick, hand still over his mouth, just breathing. There’s still no one in the bathroom. He’s still alone. His skin is still fucking thrumming.
He finally manages to pull it together enough to clean himself up with toilet paper and straighten his uniform. He pauses in front of the mirrors after he’s washed his hands and quietly presses a wet paper towel to his face. His cheeks are still bright and his pupils still look too big and dark for the light in the room.
Frank sighs and throws the paper towel a little more forcefully at the garbage can than is probably necessary. He can’t keep this up. What is going on.
*
It’s true. He can’t keep it up. He makes it until first period on Friday morning when Todd Amano brushes past him in the aisle to get to his desk and he almost pops a boner right there. He has to put his face down on the desk and close his eyes and think of naked old people and being buried alive and his parents’ divorce.
When he’s finally presentable again he shoots his hand into the air. “Mrs. Kinsley?”
Mrs. Kinsley pauses in her speech about something or other in front of the class and stares at him. “Yes, Frank.”
“I don’t feel well. Can I go to the nurse?” It's true, he must be sick if Todd Amano is getting him hot. Todd would make Medusa cry.
“Of course.”
Frank slides out of his seat and grabs his backpack and tries not to run to the nurse’s office down at the other side of the building. Sometimes it’s helpful to have the reputation as the sickly kid.
He opens the door and pops his head inside. Ms. Jackson is with another kid, peering into his throat with a light and a depressor or something. He didn’t know people still actually used that shit.
“Hey, Ms. Jackson - I don’t feel well. Can I go home?”
She doesn’t even glance his way, just keeps peering into the kid’s throat. “Sure, Frank. You running a fever again?”
“Yeah, I think so. The slips still in your desk?”
“Top drawer.”
He grabs one of the permissions slips out of the desk and fills it out, already far too familiar with the procedure. She only stops her examination of the other kid to turn, glance him over (he still looks really flushed, he’s sure), and sign at the bottom.
“Feel better, kiddo, okay? I don’t want to have to hear about any more hospital visits for you.”
The kid (some sophomore, maybe) kind of gives Frank a suspicious look but then goes back to being distracted by Ms. Jackson shoving the depressor back into his throat.
Frank just slips out and heads down to the office to hand in the form. He denies the offer for his mom to come pick him up (even though they still have to call her, but he knows she’s far too familiar with the procedure, and he won’t have to see her until she gets off work tonight) and finally, finally, finally manages to get out of the school.
As soon as he’s around the block he takes off at a run, his feet pounding against the pavement and his backpack flapping awkwardly against his back. He barely remembers to lock the front door behind him before he’s running up the stairs, hastily fumbling at his belt and shirt buttons as he makes his way down the hallway and towards his room.
And then he’s in his room, and he’s alone, and he gives up on the fucking buttons and just pulls the shirt over his fucking head and shoves his pants down and kicks them off as he falls back on the bed and sticks his hand down into his boxers and onto his dick.
He comes even faster this time, and it takes him only a couple of minutes of writhing against the sheets and panting to be pretty sure that he’s about ready to go for another round. Like now. Like now.
He moans and rolls over and whines at the feeling of the sheets against his bare skin. He lets out a shuddery exhale - one, two, three - and then starts stroking again.
*
By that afternoon he's on the verge of tears. What is wrong with him? What is wrong with him? He lifts his face up from its resting place on the side of the toilet to lean back into the bowl and dry heave some more as another wave of pain and nausea rolls in his stomach and up his spine.
He keeps his eyes closed and just spits. He’s probably got drool all over his chin by now. Awesome.
He tried calling his mom twice but each time her phone went straight to voicemail. She’s probably still in a meeting. He pants and fumbles for the phone on the floor by his knee again, hits the speed dial number for her cell and waits, just tries to breathe and not throw up. Voicemail again. He has to push the heel of his hand into his eyes to stop them from leaking but they still ache. Everything aches.
The pain recedes for a second and he wants to cry out of sheer relief, but he knows what’s coming, what’s been happening ever since he came home - and he’s right. The itch is back. He moans and presses forward, his eyes glazing over, and lays his head back on the rim of the toilet so he can press his palm against his dick.
Finally, though, in a rare moment of clarity, he makes a decision - fuck this, fuck all of this, the embarrassment factor involved in this whole fucking situation is no longer enough to keep him from getting help, and if he’s going to die at least he can do it while trying to get help instead of on the bathroom floor with his hands down his pants. There has to be someone he can talk to without his mother having to deal with him dying with his hands down his pants.
He staggers to his feet and overbalances, slamming against the towel rack on the opposite wall. He barely remembers to grab his phone off the floor and shove it in his pocket as he stumbles his way out the bathroom. He feels drunk and hungover and high all at the same time, and a periphery glance to the mirror gives him all the information he needs to confirm that he looks about as hellacious as he feels.
He manages to scrawl a note to his mom on the back of her to-do list notepad in the kitchen going over to Ray’s, have my phone, xo f and has his hand on the front doorknob when there’s a loud, almost frantic knocking.
His mom, please be his mom, it has to be -
He opens the door and Gerard’s standing on his front porch just staring at him, like Frank’s about to attack him or die on the spot.
“Gerard?” Frank manages to pant. He doesn’t have time for this. He has to get to Ray’s.
“Where are you going?” Gerard asks. He’s wringing his hands.
“None of your fucking business,” Frank snarls. Who does this guy think he is? Besides in his fucking way.
Gerard frowns. Frank’s never seen him look so serious. “You need to come with me.”
“Get away from me,” Frank says, moving to shut the door. He’ll just go out the back door and hop the fence, fuck Gerard, but Gerard steps forward and shoves the door so Frank can’t close it.
“Frank, I’m serious -“
“Get the fuck out,” Frank says as he shoves back on the door. Gerard pushes again, and he’s way stronger than he looks because he manages to slide in like it’s nothing.
What the fuck, seriously, Frank has to get out of here. He turns to move towards the back of the house but Gerard reaches out and grabs his arm, and at the contact of Gerard’s skin to his skin his knees give out and he hits the floor.
Gerard’s there in a flash, cradling his head and saying something, something, but he can’t concentrate, his skin is on fire and things are writhing underneath his veins and he just wants to push up against Gerard and bite down and fucking tear into him and -
He barely realizes that they’re up and moving, then, Gerard clinging to his hands and half-carrying him out the front door and over towards his house. Frank just moans.
***
"Hold on, Frank, just hold on," Gerard pants, fumbling with his front door. It's still unlocked from where he ran out of it just minutes before, desperate to find Frank once he had realized he hadn't come home from school at his normal time. God, if he had been out on the street -
Frank moans again and digs his fingernails into Gerard's sides. Frank’s skin is on fire.
“Almost there, almost.” He pulls Frank inside and kicks the heavy door shut behind him. “This way, here we go.”
He maneuvers Frank to the horsehair sofa in the parlor and lays Frank down. He’s pretty much boneless and he writhes against the slick fabric as soon as Gerard loosens his grip.
Gerard stands back and tries not to stare at the patches of sweat around his neckline, down his back, the strip of stomach that shows whenever he slides down further on the sofa.
After a few seconds Frank seems to come back to himself a little bit, even though he keeps looking at Gerard like he’s in a fever-dream.
“Where,” he says, breathing heavily. “What, what’s -“ He stops to gesture vaguely around him, but Gerard gets the message.
He wants to curl up against Frank’s side and just hold him, but he can’t, he can’t right now, so he starts pacing frantically back and forth in front of the couch and wringing his hands.
“I’m so sorry, Frank, I’m so sorry,” he starts babbling, everything spilling out of him all at once, “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t - you weren’t supposed to be there, and they distracted you, and I mean why in the hell were you trying to play with wolves anyway, and I didn’t mean to bite you, I swear-“
“You bit me? What?” Frank asks, panting. He looks so confused.
Gerard stops. “Oh, yeah. Uhm. The wolf? That…that was me.”
Frank stares at him. He doesn’t look like he’s breathing at all, now.
“What.”
Gerard feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff, his stomach already plummeting down to the rocks below. “I bit you, Frank. I’m a werewolf.”
Frank keeps staring.
Gerard chances a glance out the window, but he doesn’t need to, the timing of the moon is ingrained in his blood. He always knows. “And in about twenty-three minutes, you will be too.”
Frank forcibly pushes off the couch and seems to aim his stumbling movements towards the front door. “Fuck you, man, okay, fuck you-“
“Frank, no!” Gerard says, starting after him.
“And fuck your creepy old house and your fucking, your f-fucking -“ he tries to get out as he lunges for the front door. Gerard has to practically pounce at him to reach him before he gets to the doorknob, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him back.
Frank moans and practically folds in half in his grip, his hands going lax against the door and sliding down until they hang in mid-air. Gerard struggles with the awkward weight, and they tip and hit the floor. The sweat patch on the back of Frank’s shirt is huge, and he’s gasping breaths, now, like he’s having an attack or something, and Gerard doesn’t know what to do.
“What are you going to do, hm,” Frank slurs. He sounds like he’s drunk. Gerard can’t remember his first change, but he’s heard the stories, knows what the moon fever’s like for the new. It doesn’t mean it still doesn’t scare the shit out of him, though.
“I’m going to keep you safe, Frank. For yourself and others.”
Frank pitches in his grip, rolls against Gerard’s arms in an attempt to get him off. They end up tumbling over on the ground until Gerard manages to swing his legs over Frank’s stomach and grip his wrists in his hands.
Frank snarls at him. “What are you going to do, fucking sit on me until the moon rises?”
Gerard keeps his voice level. “Well, actually, in a couple of minutes I’m going to lock us both in the basement until the morning so you can’t claw anybody to death, but, yes, metaphorically, that’s sort of the plan -“
“Oh fuck this,” Frank says as he bucks up and thrashes against him. Gerard’s stronger, though, and holds on.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Frank, I’m not, I just have to make sure you’re okay, you just have to trust me -“ he starts, but then Frank moans and rolls his hips up against him and Gerard’s words catch in his throat.
Frank stares up at him and his eyes are dark and instead of pulling away from Gerard’s grip he shoves his hands forward to latch into the fabric of Gerard’s shirt. Gerard just clings to his wrists and gapes.
“Frank, wait, you shouldn’t - “ he starts, but Frank’s not listening. He rolls up against him again, and he’s hard, and rutting up against Gerard, and Gerard does not know what the fuck to do so he just holds on as Frank keens and uses him for friction.
Frank’s not even trying to stop, now, and his back is arched off the ground and there’s sweat all around the dip of his throat, and Gerard shuts his eyes and presses his face to the hollow of his collarbone where Frank’s shirt is stuck down to his chest and listens as he comes hard against his thigh.
When he pulls back Frank’s flushed and his eyes are closed and his hands are still fisted in the front of Gerard’s shirt, but the line of his body seems more relaxed than Gerard’s seen him all day. Frank sighs, and opens his eyes and looks at him and he looks like he doesn’t even really see Gerard, like he’s still looking at him through a fog.
He can tell when the fog breaks, though, and the first wave of the change hits him, snaps his back and makes him cry out in pain.
“I got you, Frank, I got you,” Gerard says, finally coming back to himself. He has to get them in the basement now.
Frank moans and rolls to turn on his side, his hands scrabbling at the hardwood floor. Gerard eases up off of him and pulls him up into his arms, and Frank cries out and fights against him but Gerard holds on. He can practically feel his bones throbbing through his skin.
He manages to get them down the stairs of the basement with only a few close calls of Frank banging his head against the walls. He lays Frank down in the pile of old shredded couch cushions in the corner of the room and runs back up the steps to throw the deadbolt. It takes him a few times as the pain makes his fingers cramp and he ends up having to use the whole side of his arm at one point - he’s close, he’s not as bad as Frank, but he’s right behind him, he’s so close to the change - but he manages and the slick locks clang into place with a satisfying, secure thunk.
He can hear Frank behind him in the basement making nonsensical sounds, and when he finally manages to get back down there he has to rush to Frank’s side to grab his wrists again. Frank’s half-crying and panting, clawing at the skin on his forearms, and he’s drawn blood on his left arm.
“Frank, stop, stop, it’s okay,” Gerard pants, but it’s getting harder for him to talk, “I’m right here, okay, I’m right here.”
Frank cries out, and arches up against Gerard’s grip, and Gerard can see the pinched, sharp teeth inside his mouth.
Gerard closes his eyes and holds on as long as he can. Eventually Frank snarls and pulls away and when Gerard opens his eyes there’s a small dark wolf breathing heavily where Frank hand just been.
He looks the same, is the last clear thought Gerard has before shifting himself.
The change finally overwhelms him, then, and he tries his best to bear it as his bones and organs shift against themselves and into place, like every cell in his body has to be drawn out and replaced, like a needle catching thread in fabric and piercing again. Finally, though, things settle where they should, and he pitches forward onto all fours. He looks up and Frank's there. He's there.
Then there are two wolves in the basement, one tired and nervous and one filled with boundless joy.
Gerard doesn't know what to do. He's always been able to read Frank better as a wolf than he ever was as a boy, and he knows that Frank is dazed and exhausted but also completely terrified and most likely more than a little crazy. It's still - it's still not the same. It makes him sad, honestly, sort of gut-wrenchingly sad. He was hoping that when Frank changed he'd remember everything and the curse would be broken and everything would be like it should be, but when Gerard takes a step closer to Frank and Frank snarls and backs up into a corner, he knows it's not.
Frank makes a bolt up the stairs but Gerard does nothing to stop him. He knows the door is locked and he won't be able to get out until morning. He can hear Frank clawing at the door to no avail. There's nothing to do but wait. Eventually Frank comes tearing down the stairs and heads straight for Gerard. This is not the play fighting they used to do Before, this is Frank half crazy and desperate and pissed off and confused and he does not want to be there. He doesn't even hesitate before he snarls and lunges for Gerard.
It's a mean fight, too, even though Gerard doesn't make any moves to seriously hurt Frank. He still manages to lash out and cut Frank on the foreleg before Frank can do any real damage. Frank was always a better fighter but he doesn't seem to have the motions down right, he doesn't seem to be able to understand his reflexes well enough yet, it's all sloppy and fast but not practiced. When Frank stumbles Gerard clamps his jaws on the back of Frank's neck. It's the sort of dominant move that Alphas used to do, back Before, but Gerard had never really had a use for it. And never with Frank. But enough's enough, and if he doesn't stop this now Frank is going to hurt himself. He has worked too hard and waited too long for that to happen.
Frank wilts at the gesture, and Gerard can tell he knows he's lost. Gerard gives his neck a good squeeze, only breaking the skin a little, before he lets him go and takes a few steps back. Frank retreats back to the ruined pile of pillows looking defeated. Gerard can see that his foreleg is still bleeding and he's doing nothing to stop it. Eventually, though, he ignores Frank's wary looks and makes his way over, sitting down beside him. A few beats pass, and he leans over and licks the wound. Frank doesn't look at him while he tends to it, but he doesn't draw away, and that, more than anything that has happened in the past few weeks, gives him hope.
It's a long night of inaction. Gerard longs to go out and run like he had in the past, like he had last month, back when he accidentally turned Frank. There's a tenseness in Frank's muscles that Gerard knows are his own instincts to use his form for all its worth, but after a few hours of staring either determinedly at the wall or at Gerard, eventually he turns away and falls asleep on his side. Gerard inches a little closer and lets the scent of Frank surround him like it hasn't in decades.
Even in his sleep Frank's legs twitch with the urge to run, and Gerard hopes that soon they can go out together and run like Before and not put anyone at risk. Maybe. Maybe one day. Gerard falls asleep eventually, giving in after hours of watching Frank.
When he awakes Frank is looking over at him, but when Gerard lifts his head, Frank's attention returns to the small window far above his head over in the corner. Gerard can see a hint of light. Dawn will be coming soon and they'll go back to their human form, and he'll have no reason to keep Frank with him any longer.
Eventually the change comes again. Gerard is used to the feeling, sort of like a sharp muscle cramp all over his body up to his eyeballs, then it's gone, but he knows it won't be as easy for Frank. When Gerard looks up, Frank is gasping and sweating, and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. And naked. They're both naked. Gerard probably should have warned him that his clothes were going to get shredded, but he's not really the best at planning ahead. Gerard decides not to make him more uncomfortable than necessary, so he hurries to grab some blankets from the linen closet over in the corner.
"C'mon," he says, tossing one of the blankets to Frank and not watching while he huddles inside of it like a child. "I've got some extra clothes you can borrow to go home. I don't think your mom will be up yet." He wraps one of the other blankets around himself and walks up the stairs to unlock the door. It's a weird little lock he installed at the top of the door, too high for a wolf to reach and completely impossible without opposable thumbs, and after a grunt the door is open again.
He pads into the bedroom and pulls on some sweatpants and a big worn out t-shirt he finds already lying on the bed. Every bone aches. When Frank goes home, Gerard will probably curl up in a miserable ball under the covers and sleep the day away and try and forget how Frank still hates him. He's rooting through the closet to find some clothing that doesn't smell too terrible for Frank to wear when he hears soft footsteps behind him. He turns, clothes in hand, to see Frank wrapped up in the blanket standing in the doorway and shifting nervously from foot to foot. He looks pretty rattled.
Gerard hands over the clothes, and Frank sneaks a hand out of his little cocoon to take them hesitantly. "These should fit you fine. Uhm, you always were smaller than me, so-"
"Can I stay here?" Frank asks, staring at a spot over Gerard's shoulder.
"Oh, uh-"
"I'm just. Kind of tired. And. I'm already here, so. I told my mom I was going to my friends house last night," Frank says, and Gerard sees him pale as he thinks about what could've happened. "So, like, I'd never be home this early and, I mean, I don't want to. Uh. You know what, no, I'm sorry, I'll go-" Frank stammers, lowering his head and starting to back away. It's the exact same motion his wolf made when he backed away last night, and it's eerie.
"No!" Gerard startles, taking a step forward. "No, please stay. You can sleep in here. I'll go out to the couch."
"I don't want to kick you out of your own bed."
"It's not a big deal. I'm used to sleeping on dirt. And like. Mud. I'll take the co-"
"No, I mean. You can stay. If you want." Frank's still not making eye contact with him, but Gerard isn't going to overthink anything right now. Frank just had the most fucked up night in his life, and he isn't running away or trying to stake Gerard with silverware or anything, so. He'll take it.
He turns his back to Frank to give him some privacy while he changes and proceeds to clean all of the extra clothes and sketchbooks and old dusty books off of his bed. When he turns around, Frank is still wrapped in the blanket, but it's loose around his shoulders and Gerard can see his oversized shirt hanging around his collarbone. Frank's hair is rumpled and sticking straight up, and it shouldn't be so attractive but oh man, Gerard is still so gone for him. He has to clench his fingernails into his palms so he won't reach out to touch. He crawls into bed and waits until Frank slips in to roll over onto his back and stare at the ceiling. Frank is asleep in minutes but what seemed easy to do while wolves seems impossible to do while human. He stares at the ceiling and listens to Frank breathe.
Everything in Gerard is screaming for him to reach out and touch Frank, to wrap himself around him and never let go. Especially when he hears the unconscious sounds of pain as Frank twitches a sore muscle in his sleep. He tries to sleep, but Frank keeps distracting him, if not with the sounds of pain, with his warmth, his movement, his presence. Gerard wishes he knew what any of this meant.
It doesn't make any sense. Frank should have gone running home, away from Gerard. Or at the very least made some comment about the fact that Gerard had, in fact, turned him into a werewolf. Not crawled into bed with him. Oh, how Gerard wishes he meant that euphemistically. Ninety-five years is a long time to be celibate, but no one could ever have compared to Frank, the memories were better than a stranger.
And that's the thing. The teen lying in Gerard's bed is so very much Frank that it's been haunting Gerard since he first laid eyes on him, but there's so much about him he doesn't know, and Frank doesn't know him. He doesn't dare hope that last night triggered something in Frank, some memories of their life Before. Gerard is just going to be patient and be glad Frank isn't running away.
It's almost ten a.m. when Frank's stomach growls loudly and he begins to stir. "Gerard?" he mumbles.
"Yeah, Frankie?" Gerard asks, rolling over to face him, but maintaining the distance between them.
Frank's eyes blink open. "So...definitely not a dream."
At least he didn't call it a nightmare. "No, not a dream," Gerard says. Frank's stomach rumbles again and Gerard sits up. "You should eat. Do you like pancakes?"
Frank runs a hand through his hair and makes it stick up even more, and Gerard has to try hard not to smile. It's a familiar gesture.
"I like pancakes," he says quietly.
"Well, good. I'm not much of a cook, but I can do pancakes." He rolls out the other side of the bed and stretches, sighing as the ridges in his back seem to pop back into place. "Take your time. I'll be down in the kitchen," he says gently. Frank might want a second to himself. Or the chance to run. Whichever.
***
Frank watches Gerard quietly pad out of the room, half-shutting the door behind him. He doesn't want to think about how his stomach twists when Gerard calls him 'Frankie.' It's just so familiar, like Gerard calls him that all the time, like he doesn't even notice he called him by a nickname Frank doesn't use with other people. But they barely know each other. And he's sleeping in Gerard’s bed. And he's a werewolf. It's been a weird day. If he starts thinking about it all too much his head starts to spin, and right now he just wants to eat and maybe sleep some more.
Frank jerks out of bed and quickly follows Gerard into the kitchen of his house. He's never really taken the opportunity to look around much, but now that he does he can see how weird of a house it really is. The architecture is strange and outdated, but it's furnished with completely mismatched furniture, almost all of it well-worn and well-used, like it's been picked out of a rummage sale. Come to think of it, he doesn't think that Gerard has a job. He's always home when Frank gets off from school in the afternoon. He wouldn't be surprised if all of his furniture was secondhand, probably from somebody's curb.
The kitchen is warm, though, and every surface not taken up by vintage looking kitchen appliances is absolutely crammed full of books and VHS tapes. Any of the tapes that don't have a cover are labeled neatly in the same strange, looping handwriting. Frank knows he's seen it before. The package. The scarf. Of course. He pauses to glance around the room, take in more of the odd decor, but spots Gerard peering at him from his spot by the sink. Gerard seems to catch him staring and answers before he can ask.
"Uhm, I really like reading. And TV. I really like TV," he says, pulling frying pans and spatulas and milk and eggs out of various cupboards. "Books take longer to read, though, and I've got a lot of time to kill."
"What do you do?" Frank asks, pulling one of the pitted bar stools away from the little kitchen bar and taking a seat. There are only two chairs in the whole kitchen, one at the bar and one at the tiny dining table. It makes Frank sort of sad to think that Gerard doesn't even seem to think he'll ever have need for more.
"I wait."
"You wait? Like, what, tables? You work nights?"
Gerard smiles a little and doesn't make eye contact as he cracks the eggs one handed into a large bowl. "No, no. Not like that. I don't need a lot of money so I can live off of my paintings. That's not what I do, though. I wait. I wait for you. I don't want to do anything else."
Gerard's still not looking at him, and Frank can't think of a thing to say, so he just pulls the blanket a little bit closer around his shoulders and watches Gerard's pale hands whisk the batter together.
Frank starts feeling twitchy with all of the questions he knows he should be asking, but he's just. He's not ready for that right now. "Do you-" Frank begins, "-want me to set the table?" It's chicken shit, but he knows Gerard won't call him on it, and he can't just sit there staring at Gerard. The tables have turned as far as that goes.
Gerard looks up, but keeps an eye on the batter now sizzling in the pan. "Uh, yeah, sure. Plates are up there, forks and shit are in the drawer," he says as he points with the spatula.
The cabinets are neat enough, but they're lined with old yellow newspaper. Frank cranes his head to look at it and boggles when he sees the small 1938 following the month and day. "Dude, how long have you lived here?"
"A long time," Gerard answers, not looking up from the stove.
"How long?" Frank presses. He thinks he know the answer, but he wants to hear it.
"Since my grandmother died. This was her house. She left it to me and my brother. We moved back after she passed away." Gerard's voice is soft and sad.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-" The last thing Frank wants is to make Gerard sad.
"It's all right. Like I said - it was a long time ago," he repeats.
"Yeah?" Frank pushes less directly.
"Elena died in 1932. Mikey made it til 1981. I know he would've liked to stay longer."
And there it is. Gerard's had this house since 1932. Holy fucking shit. He's a like a hundred years old. A one hundred year old werewolf. Maybe older. Holy fuck. He doesn't know if Gerard can tell he's freaking out, but suddenly there's a mountain of pancakes in front of him, butter and syrup close behind. He blinks at the food and falls on them like, well, like a ravenous werewolf.
Holy shit.
Part 3
Gerard isn't done with his fit of self loathing by Monday afternoon when he heads out to the front porch to wait for Frank, but he'd been even more miserable the whole morning after he hadn't even gone to the window to watch him walk to school.
The mailman wheels his squeaking bag between each house while Gerard stares down the block, waiting for the first sign of Frank. Gerard nods down to him when he stops in front of Gerard's box and places something inside, but he doesn't bother retrieving it just yet. He's still more interested in the other end of the block. It seems like hours later when he sees groups of kids splitting off at the corner, but the mailman is only four houses down.
He taps his foot against the railing and listens as the DiMarillos’ dog starts barking at the mailman. The dog will bark for the next five minutes as he approaches, stops at their house and then departs. Gerard takes a moment to be grateful that he doesn't have a leash to strain against as he tries to find a casual position to watch the street.
It’s hard to stand around and look casual when he’s pretty much on the verge of a panic attack, but he feels like he manages pretty okay. He should probably blink more but it’s hard when he can finally see Frank making his way down the street towards him.
He smells different. Gerard can tell. It’s not - it’s not exactly the same, as before, way back before, but it’s different than last week. Gerard tries to remember to breathe, that he actually has to exhale sometime.
Frank steps up over the curb of his block, and Gerard’s making his way down the front steps towards his mailbox before he can stop himself. He stumbles a little on an uneven pavestone and Frank raises his head at the noise, his eyes widening at the sight of Gerard coming down his front path.
“Oh,” he says, startled. Gerard knows he would have walked on the other side of the street if he’d been paying attention.
“Hi, Frank,” Gerard says, trying desperately to keep his voice even. It’s probably a little strained. Although Frank probably thinks he always talks like he’s on the verge of an awkward attack, so maybe he can’t tell.
Frank nods and makes to walk past him, speeding up a little, and it takes a lot for Gerard to hold back and grasp at the side of his mailbox instead of out at his jacket sleeve.
“How was your weekend?” he blurts. Pieces of paint flake off the mailbox against his grip.
Frank pauses and turns back a little. “Uh. It was fine.”
“That’s good, that’s - that’s great. You, ah - I heard there was something going around. You feeling okay?” Gerard asks. Fucking smooth.
"Uh, yeah. Fine, thanks?" Frank shifts his weight from foot to foot. It's suddenly very quiet. The DiMarillos’ dog has stopped barking and Frank seems to feel the silence as much as Gerard does. "So you're uh, G. Way, huh?" he asks, nodding at the mailbox Gerard is clinging to.
"Gerard," he supplies immediately. He's giddy that he has the chance to talk to Frank, but also a little bit crushed that Frank still doesn't know his name. Nothing's changed except the way Frank smells and the fact that he'll be a little less human at the end of this month. Secretly, Gerard had been hoping that, somehow, being bitten would make Frank remember Gerard and the way it used to be.
"Cool, I'm Frank, but I guess one of the neighbors must have told you that?"
Gerard is going to dent the cheap aluminum box if he grips it any tighter. "Yeah, uh, the what's new in the neighborhood thing. Catching up. Your mother, she's Sophia, right?"
"No, Linda," Frank says. "I should probably get going, you know, homework. But it was nice to meet you."
"Yeah, you too," Gerard sighs as Frank starts to walk away. "If you ever run out of horror movies, I've got a pretty decent collection!"
Frank turns to face Gerard but keeps walking away. "Thanks man, but we broke our VCR player in the move."
Gerard watches him walk away until he disappears up the stairs and through the front door of his house. He waits until he sees the light of Frank’s bedroom (or what he assumes is Frank’s bedroom) come on and then lets out a low, steady breath.
He finally jerks his glance away from the window and back to his mailbox. He actually has a letter today, after all. Just hopefully not more bills. He pulls it out and runs his fingers over the heavy, textured envelope and smiles. Agatha.
He hurries back into the house and heads straight for his study, where the letter opener he picked up in Vienna is sitting atop the rest of his correspondence. It's old, but he keeps it sharp, so it slices easily through the heavy paper. Agatha's handwriting is still smooth and looping, despite the arthritis. She still forms the letters the way Gerard helped teach her back when she was in primary school.
Dear Gerard,
I'm absolutely thrilled to hear that you have found your Frank! I don't like to think about you all alone back there, and am glad you will have company once more. I know how relieved you must be after all of this time. I wish that I could meet him, see the two of you together, but I'm afraid traveling so far is out of the question for me these days, especially during this time of the year. Our winters are nothing like yours, out here, not nearly so harsh, but my bones seem determined to ache more out of habit.
I trust you will give him my best, and I know mom and dad would've loved to see him again, and I look forward to hearing more news. You two be sure to have a run for your old niece, I haven't made any trouble for the kids in years. Can you believe my baby is going to be sixty-three this year? And Jack is already in his seventies.
I'm just going on again about being old, I'm sorry, my letters don't contain as much excitement as yours, but I hope that never discourages you from writing. Alice sends her love, and suggests again that you look into email.
I also absolutely request some photographs of you two as soon as you get the chance - Alice reorganized the artwork in the hallway and I stole one of the prettier small frames when she wasn't looking. I can't think of better inhabitants.
All my love,
Agatha.
P.S. I really am happier for you than I can put down into words, Gerard. I knew you would finally find the happiness you deserve.
Gerard's stomach sinks as he reads Agatha's letter - surely not her intention, nor her fault, since he had not written her again after realizing that finding Frank wasn't the biggest challenge. He hadn't wanted to put down on paper that Frank didn't know him and still doesn't, really, but now he wishes he had, at least so that Agatha's letter might not have been so joyful for things that had not come to pass.
He misses her. He misses Mikey so much it aches sometimes, still, after all of these years. But at least when he writes to her he can feel a little bit of Mikey still there, still with her, and usually it helps.
Not today, though. Still alone, and now just feeling even more the fool. He sighs and pulls open the top drawer of the desk to pull out the top correspondence box and tuck the new letter safely inside with all the rest. He runs his fingers distractedly over the rough pieces of the paper where her ink pen carved into the teeth of the page. He should probably look into email, but this - something tangible, something created, something to remember - well, it feels like they're closer. And he misses having someone close.
He closes the box and puts it away, but reaches for another one. It's not as pretty as the first, but he was told it would keep out air and light that would damage these letters. They're notes, really; Gerard can't recall anyone having delivered them, except perhaps Mikey with a bemused glint in his eye that belied a disinterested facade. Gerard should have tried to learn from Mikey, to school his features more when he was around Frank in public, but it hurt not to smile at Frank, and he would have been bereft without the grins returned in kind.
Gerard frowns now, at the plain metal box, before lifting the lid. He doesn't even pick up any of the paper inside. He just looks at it. An exclamation point from a typewriter or an email could never convey what the stroke of Frank's pen had, all those years ago.
The pastor pounds his fist on his pulpit and cries out about evil. He's really angry about something in particular this week - dancing, maybe? Because of the dance down at the town hall the week before? He's probably angry because no one asked him to dance. Gerard just stares at his face and watches the bloated skin pucker and turn an angry red as he continues his sermon. It helps pass the time.
Mikey suddenly shoves his bony knee into the side of his thigh. Gerard resists the urge to punch him in the shoulder and just frowns and looks at him out of the corner of his eye. His mother is sitting right next to him and she hates when they act like they're not actually paying attention.
Mikey rolls his eyes a little and passes over something, something folded and tiny. Gerard tries not to breathe as he accepts the note and keeps it between his clasped hands, concentrating on the texture of the paper between his palms instead of the pastor's droning lecture.
There's no way he can look at it here, but he knows who sent it, and his heart twists a little - Frank's not in church today, and it's been killing Gerard not to look around every five minutes to see if he's sitting somewhere in the back.
The service finally ends and everyone stands to file out. Gerard tries to find a way out but there's already a huge crowd at the door shaking hands and talking with one another.
"I'm just going to go light a candle, Ma, I'll be right out," he says, extracting himself from their family's circle around the pastor at the entrance of the church. He ducks back inside to stand in the hidden area off to the side of the altar, by the prayer candles, and unfolds the note.
'Dearest G -
I know you are worried, but don't be - I'm fine. I fell while I was riding yesterday and hurt my leg (well, if we are being technical I was trying to stand up while riding, but that's neither here nor there), but it should be just as new in a few days. Until then, though, I'm forced to stay in bed completely bored and with absolutely nothing to do or no one to entertain me. My life is terrible, you see, and so boring without you around.
Mikey did his best, bless him, but my mother sent him away after only half an hour. Ever since Cousin Stella left the pack to marry that merchant over in Boston she's been a bit more...involved than usual. I think she's worried Mikey's habits will rub off on me - I think she heard the rumors about the town girl Ms. Simmons he danced with at the party. She can be so obsessed with the pack sometimes it's hard to have a conversation with her about anything else. I'm sorry to complain again.
Anyway, I have to finish this quickly, Mikey's stopping by on his way to meet you at Church and by the look of it he's already running rather late. I am going to tie this to a rock and throw it out of my window to him. Just like in those penny adventures we read, you see? I am quite the master of the art of stealth.
I probably won't be able to see you until the moon. I think a new pack from the town over is going to come over to run with us too. Won't that be nice? Even though I will still be faster. But don't tell them that. I think I finally hear Mikey. You should tell him thanks for me.
For now,
F
P.S. You really should have seen me stand up on that horse, G. It looked rather amazing. Well. Before I fell off.'
Gerard sighs and folds the note back up into its tiny and precise packaging. It looks almost like those Japanese paper folds Frank had shown him a picture of one time. He presses it to his mouth, just for a second, and goes to light a candle.
When he turns around Frank's mother, Sophia, is standing in one of the pews watching him, a stack of hymnals grasped firmly in her hands as if she was in mid-collection. Gerard forces himself to smile but doesn't allow himself to breathe until he's back outside, away from her and into the sun.
Gerard spends the next week falling back into his normal routine. The only difference between now and before he took his "sabbatical" is that he has an alarm clock that goes off so he remembers to leave his studio in time to watch Frank come home. He doesn't go outside, just stands in the kitchen and watches Frank and his friends and sometimes that girl go by as he washes paint brushes in the sink.
The next Wednesday he has to go into the city to drop off some of his latest pieces at the uptown gallery. It’s always surreal to go back after he’s been away for a while. The city’s bigger- dirtier in some places, slicker in others. There always seem to be more and more taxis, though, and they always seem more and more determined to run him over as he tries to cross the street.
The gallery owners never care that he disappears, though, just that he comes back with new paintings eventually. They love the new works and fawn over him appropriately. Gerard can’t help but get a little kick out of the fact that for people so incredibly dedicated to details they never seem to notice he hasn’t aged a day.
The trip takes the better part of the day, and by the end of it he’s exhausted. He feels like if he wiped at his face it’d come away covered in soot. He just wants to go home and make a cup of coffee and - oh, fuck, that’s right. He’s out of coffee. And most of his food.
He sighs and turns the car to get off at the next stop. Grocery store it is.
The store is crowded with people who must have the same idea as him, swinging by after work to pick up some food for dinner, and maneuvering through the aisles with his cart seems like an effort worthy of a medal. He stands in front of the apple display in the produce section trying to choose between Fuji and Honeycrisp when a woman says, "Excuse me," and gestures to Gerard's cart, which is blocking the Granny Smiths.
Gerard moves his cart automatically, but then he gets a good look at the woman standing next to him. It's Frank's mom, Linda, and the familiar knot in his stomach seizes up immediately. He can't move, really. He just stands there, torn between wanting to really watch her and being afraid of looking at her directly. He takes a surreptitious sniff and no, she smells the way Frank used to, just human. Familiar, though, in a way, but in a way he can't figure out.
She finishes selecting her apples and catches him looking at her, but she just smiles and begins to pull her cart away. "You have a happy Thanksgiving."
Gerard blinks and looks around, noting the abundance of autumnally colored decorations. "Y-you, too," he manages. He watches her back as he disappears into one of the grocery aisles and finally exhales.
He backs up abruptly with his cart and makes a beeline for the deli. He might as well get a little bit of turkey for dinner tomorrow, and it'll give him some extra time to let his heart stop pounding.
***
Frank loves his family, really, he does, but by the end of the day of Thanksgiving he really just wants to curl up on the couch and sleep and not have to pretend to his relatives that high school is the best thing ever or answer a bunch of questions about Jenny. The four-day weekend the school gives them is pretty awesome, though, and he manages to get in plenty of time to shoot the shit with his friends (and shoot the shit out of the aliens in Ray's new video game, because it's awesome).
The problem with long weekends, though, is that waking up on Monday morning always feels even worse. Frank stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom and groans, rubbing at his eyes and trying to remember the dream he had. It was pretty good. It felt pretty good. He was wrestling somebody, or something, but he was pretty sure he was winning.
Frank sighs and rolls so he can put his feet on the floor and start blearily scouting for his uniform. Another boring-ass day in another boring-ass week at his boring-ass school.
*
Wednesday morning Frank wakes up and his skin is on fire. He gasps awake, writhing, and claws frantically at his arms. The flare lessens slightly when he drags his fingernails over the skin, but only slightly, just enough to breathe again. He rolls out of the bed and stumbles to his feet, yanking the covers back to look for bedbugs or ants or poison ivy or fucking something. There’s nothing.
“What the fuck,” he pants, staring at his empty sheets.
“Frank,” his mom calls from downstairs, “are you still in bed? You’re going to be late for school!”
“I’m up!” he says. Shit. He is going to be late. Pulling his uniform on feels like rubbing burlap against a mosquito bite, or something, and he has to bite his lip to stifle a moan.
His mom gives him a concerned look when he pads down the stairs, still yanking on his tie and shoving his shirt into his waistband. “You okay? You look sort of flushed.”
Frank ducks away from her outstretched hand and grabs a cold packaged Pop-Tart out of the pantry behind her. “I’m fine, I’m just in a rush - I’ll see you later, okay?” He grabs his backpack from where he dropped it by the front hallway the night before and half-runs to the door.
“Sure thing. Have a good day at school!” she says, but Frank doesn’t answer before pulling the door shut quickly behind him.
*
“Dude, are you okay?” Ray asks when Frank makes it to the corner. “Where’s your coat? You’re going to get sick.”
Frank brushes him off. His skin is still throbbing. “I’m good, dude. It’s warm today.”
Ray stares at him and Frank can see the mist from his breath. Well. It feels warm. Frank blinks a little and walks briskly past him. “Let’s just go, yeah? Don’t want to be late.”
He can hear Ray hesitate, briefly, and then hurry to catch up.
*
That day in gym he outruns everyone in his class when they have to run the track. Coach Cradinsky stares at him as he runs by, and he knows he’s probably questioning every single time he’s ever had to sit out gym because he could barely fucking breathe, but he doesn’t even care, he can’t even stop. Nothing hurts.
*
Jenny smiles at him in the hallway between classes and it feels like his spine jerks, like a spark under his skin. He’s about to walk on past when she reaches out and tugs on his sleeve, pulling him over to the side.
“Hey, Frank,” she says. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever. How was your holiday?” She’s fiddling with one of the buttons on her jacket sleeve like she knows something’s off with him.
Frank has to get out of there. He’s already in a cold sweat again. “Uhm, oh, it was good. It was good. Listen, I have to -“ he stutters, pulling himself away. “I gotta go, I gotta go this way - “ and then disappears around the corner.
He pretends not to see the worried look on her face, but he doesn’t forget. Fuck.
*
Thursday is worse. The itch is still there but it’s different, today. Deeper, like it’s moved into his veins and his stomach and his toes and his fucking dick, like every time somebody at school even glances his way he wants to throw them up against a wall and rub one out on their thigh, whole fucking rest of the class standing in the hallway be damned.
He avoids Ray and Bob the entire day until lunch when Ray sees him fumbling with his food tray and waves him over. He knew he should have skipped lunch but he was so fucking hungry, and - he freezes, desperately hoping for an out, but there’s nothing. He grips tightly to his tray as he sits delicately down next to them and just tries to breathe.
“How’d you do on that bonus question for Reiding’s quiz?” Ray asks.
Frank just shakes his head. Everything seems fogged over, glazed. “I don’t know. Something.”
“Something?” Ray asks, teasing. “You did something?”
Frank feels like if he grips any harder onto his tray he’ll crack it in half. Why does Ray have to fucking bother him right now? Why can’t they just fucking leave him -
“What’s that smell?” he asks, suddenly, dropping the tray to the table. Something smells, something smells amazing, and it hits him so hard he can barely focus his eyes.
Bob stares at him, frowning. “What smell?”
“That smell.” He leans over towards Ray, his eyes half-closed.
“Uh, Frank, I don’t - “ Ray stutters, leaning back a little in his chair.
Frank opens his eyes and stares at Ray’s tray. “What’s that? That yours?”
Ray and Bob both stare at him. “Uh, that’s the cafeteria’s attempt at making something called a cheeseburger, Frank. Are you fucking high?”
“Are you going to eat it?” he asks, still staring.
“Are you?” Bob asks, incredulous.
Frank’s already reaching out for it when Bob reaches out and grabs his arm. Frank’s about ready to fucking bite his hand off right then and there when Bob speaks up.
“Dude, your choice or whatever, but do you really think that eating that piece of shit is the best way to reintroduce your stomach to life as a carnivore? At least save it for something they didn’t scrape out of a cardboard box.”
Frank just stares at his hand on his arm. That’s right. Vegetarian. Two years and counting. “Oh. Y-yes. Okay.”
Bob releases him and sits back. Frank darts his eyes up and he can see Jenny looking at him oddly from the table with her friends. She looks like she’s about to stand up and come over to them, and Frank can barely mumble an excuse before he’s pushing back from the table and half-running out of the cafeteria, leaving his tray and his friends behind.
He shoves open the door of the bathroom and practically flings himself into the last stall, only allowing himself to breathe when he’s got the door locked behind him and he’s left sitting on the seat, his head in his hands. His skin is practically fucking thrumming.
He stops breathing for a second and just listens. There’s no one in the bathroom. The bell’s already rung. Everyone’s back in class.
There’s a little part of him, buried back, back behind the itch that tells him in a reasonable tone that it’s a terrible, terrible idea, that there’s no way this can end well, but he forgets all of that as soon as he’s got his hand shoved into his pants and on his dick.
It feels so good he wants to cry, but he settles for a long, low moan. Jesus fucking Christ. He rubs his hand back and forth over his dick and exhales, leaning over until his face is braced against the cool steel of the toilet paper dispenser.
He’s already fucking leaking precome over his hand and he’s barely touched himself. He can barely hear the sound of his dress shoes slipping against the tile floor over the sound of his own harsh panting but he doesn't slow down.
It’s got to be only a couple of minutes, at the very most, before his toes are curling and his spine is jerking and the warmth is pooling in his toes and the itch stops for one, blissful second before it singes every cell in his body and he comes so hard he can’t see, has to clamp his free hand over his mouth and bite down to stifle the gasping cry that comes out.
He sits there for a few minutes afterward, his hand still on his dick, hand still over his mouth, just breathing. There’s still no one in the bathroom. He’s still alone. His skin is still fucking thrumming.
He finally manages to pull it together enough to clean himself up with toilet paper and straighten his uniform. He pauses in front of the mirrors after he’s washed his hands and quietly presses a wet paper towel to his face. His cheeks are still bright and his pupils still look too big and dark for the light in the room.
Frank sighs and throws the paper towel a little more forcefully at the garbage can than is probably necessary. He can’t keep this up. What is going on.
*
It’s true. He can’t keep it up. He makes it until first period on Friday morning when Todd Amano brushes past him in the aisle to get to his desk and he almost pops a boner right there. He has to put his face down on the desk and close his eyes and think of naked old people and being buried alive and his parents’ divorce.
When he’s finally presentable again he shoots his hand into the air. “Mrs. Kinsley?”
Mrs. Kinsley pauses in her speech about something or other in front of the class and stares at him. “Yes, Frank.”
“I don’t feel well. Can I go to the nurse?” It's true, he must be sick if Todd Amano is getting him hot. Todd would make Medusa cry.
“Of course.”
Frank slides out of his seat and grabs his backpack and tries not to run to the nurse’s office down at the other side of the building. Sometimes it’s helpful to have the reputation as the sickly kid.
He opens the door and pops his head inside. Ms. Jackson is with another kid, peering into his throat with a light and a depressor or something. He didn’t know people still actually used that shit.
“Hey, Ms. Jackson - I don’t feel well. Can I go home?”
She doesn’t even glance his way, just keeps peering into the kid’s throat. “Sure, Frank. You running a fever again?”
“Yeah, I think so. The slips still in your desk?”
“Top drawer.”
He grabs one of the permissions slips out of the desk and fills it out, already far too familiar with the procedure. She only stops her examination of the other kid to turn, glance him over (he still looks really flushed, he’s sure), and sign at the bottom.
“Feel better, kiddo, okay? I don’t want to have to hear about any more hospital visits for you.”
The kid (some sophomore, maybe) kind of gives Frank a suspicious look but then goes back to being distracted by Ms. Jackson shoving the depressor back into his throat.
Frank just slips out and heads down to the office to hand in the form. He denies the offer for his mom to come pick him up (even though they still have to call her, but he knows she’s far too familiar with the procedure, and he won’t have to see her until she gets off work tonight) and finally, finally, finally manages to get out of the school.
As soon as he’s around the block he takes off at a run, his feet pounding against the pavement and his backpack flapping awkwardly against his back. He barely remembers to lock the front door behind him before he’s running up the stairs, hastily fumbling at his belt and shirt buttons as he makes his way down the hallway and towards his room.
And then he’s in his room, and he’s alone, and he gives up on the fucking buttons and just pulls the shirt over his fucking head and shoves his pants down and kicks them off as he falls back on the bed and sticks his hand down into his boxers and onto his dick.
He comes even faster this time, and it takes him only a couple of minutes of writhing against the sheets and panting to be pretty sure that he’s about ready to go for another round. Like now. Like now.
He moans and rolls over and whines at the feeling of the sheets against his bare skin. He lets out a shuddery exhale - one, two, three - and then starts stroking again.
*
By that afternoon he's on the verge of tears. What is wrong with him? What is wrong with him? He lifts his face up from its resting place on the side of the toilet to lean back into the bowl and dry heave some more as another wave of pain and nausea rolls in his stomach and up his spine.
He keeps his eyes closed and just spits. He’s probably got drool all over his chin by now. Awesome.
He tried calling his mom twice but each time her phone went straight to voicemail. She’s probably still in a meeting. He pants and fumbles for the phone on the floor by his knee again, hits the speed dial number for her cell and waits, just tries to breathe and not throw up. Voicemail again. He has to push the heel of his hand into his eyes to stop them from leaking but they still ache. Everything aches.
The pain recedes for a second and he wants to cry out of sheer relief, but he knows what’s coming, what’s been happening ever since he came home - and he’s right. The itch is back. He moans and presses forward, his eyes glazing over, and lays his head back on the rim of the toilet so he can press his palm against his dick.
Finally, though, in a rare moment of clarity, he makes a decision - fuck this, fuck all of this, the embarrassment factor involved in this whole fucking situation is no longer enough to keep him from getting help, and if he’s going to die at least he can do it while trying to get help instead of on the bathroom floor with his hands down his pants. There has to be someone he can talk to without his mother having to deal with him dying with his hands down his pants.
He staggers to his feet and overbalances, slamming against the towel rack on the opposite wall. He barely remembers to grab his phone off the floor and shove it in his pocket as he stumbles his way out the bathroom. He feels drunk and hungover and high all at the same time, and a periphery glance to the mirror gives him all the information he needs to confirm that he looks about as hellacious as he feels.
He manages to scrawl a note to his mom on the back of her to-do list notepad in the kitchen going over to Ray’s, have my phone, xo f and has his hand on the front doorknob when there’s a loud, almost frantic knocking.
His mom, please be his mom, it has to be -
He opens the door and Gerard’s standing on his front porch just staring at him, like Frank’s about to attack him or die on the spot.
“Gerard?” Frank manages to pant. He doesn’t have time for this. He has to get to Ray’s.
“Where are you going?” Gerard asks. He’s wringing his hands.
“None of your fucking business,” Frank snarls. Who does this guy think he is? Besides in his fucking way.
Gerard frowns. Frank’s never seen him look so serious. “You need to come with me.”
“Get away from me,” Frank says, moving to shut the door. He’ll just go out the back door and hop the fence, fuck Gerard, but Gerard steps forward and shoves the door so Frank can’t close it.
“Frank, I’m serious -“
“Get the fuck out,” Frank says as he shoves back on the door. Gerard pushes again, and he’s way stronger than he looks because he manages to slide in like it’s nothing.
What the fuck, seriously, Frank has to get out of here. He turns to move towards the back of the house but Gerard reaches out and grabs his arm, and at the contact of Gerard’s skin to his skin his knees give out and he hits the floor.
Gerard’s there in a flash, cradling his head and saying something, something, but he can’t concentrate, his skin is on fire and things are writhing underneath his veins and he just wants to push up against Gerard and bite down and fucking tear into him and -
He barely realizes that they’re up and moving, then, Gerard clinging to his hands and half-carrying him out the front door and over towards his house. Frank just moans.
***
"Hold on, Frank, just hold on," Gerard pants, fumbling with his front door. It's still unlocked from where he ran out of it just minutes before, desperate to find Frank once he had realized he hadn't come home from school at his normal time. God, if he had been out on the street -
Frank moans again and digs his fingernails into Gerard's sides. Frank’s skin is on fire.
“Almost there, almost.” He pulls Frank inside and kicks the heavy door shut behind him. “This way, here we go.”
He maneuvers Frank to the horsehair sofa in the parlor and lays Frank down. He’s pretty much boneless and he writhes against the slick fabric as soon as Gerard loosens his grip.
Gerard stands back and tries not to stare at the patches of sweat around his neckline, down his back, the strip of stomach that shows whenever he slides down further on the sofa.
After a few seconds Frank seems to come back to himself a little bit, even though he keeps looking at Gerard like he’s in a fever-dream.
“Where,” he says, breathing heavily. “What, what’s -“ He stops to gesture vaguely around him, but Gerard gets the message.
He wants to curl up against Frank’s side and just hold him, but he can’t, he can’t right now, so he starts pacing frantically back and forth in front of the couch and wringing his hands.
“I’m so sorry, Frank, I’m so sorry,” he starts babbling, everything spilling out of him all at once, “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t - you weren’t supposed to be there, and they distracted you, and I mean why in the hell were you trying to play with wolves anyway, and I didn’t mean to bite you, I swear-“
“You bit me? What?” Frank asks, panting. He looks so confused.
Gerard stops. “Oh, yeah. Uhm. The wolf? That…that was me.”
Frank stares at him. He doesn’t look like he’s breathing at all, now.
“What.”
Gerard feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff, his stomach already plummeting down to the rocks below. “I bit you, Frank. I’m a werewolf.”
Frank keeps staring.
Gerard chances a glance out the window, but he doesn’t need to, the timing of the moon is ingrained in his blood. He always knows. “And in about twenty-three minutes, you will be too.”
Frank forcibly pushes off the couch and seems to aim his stumbling movements towards the front door. “Fuck you, man, okay, fuck you-“
“Frank, no!” Gerard says, starting after him.
“And fuck your creepy old house and your fucking, your f-fucking -“ he tries to get out as he lunges for the front door. Gerard has to practically pounce at him to reach him before he gets to the doorknob, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him back.
Frank moans and practically folds in half in his grip, his hands going lax against the door and sliding down until they hang in mid-air. Gerard struggles with the awkward weight, and they tip and hit the floor. The sweat patch on the back of Frank’s shirt is huge, and he’s gasping breaths, now, like he’s having an attack or something, and Gerard doesn’t know what to do.
“What are you going to do, hm,” Frank slurs. He sounds like he’s drunk. Gerard can’t remember his first change, but he’s heard the stories, knows what the moon fever’s like for the new. It doesn’t mean it still doesn’t scare the shit out of him, though.
“I’m going to keep you safe, Frank. For yourself and others.”
Frank pitches in his grip, rolls against Gerard’s arms in an attempt to get him off. They end up tumbling over on the ground until Gerard manages to swing his legs over Frank’s stomach and grip his wrists in his hands.
Frank snarls at him. “What are you going to do, fucking sit on me until the moon rises?”
Gerard keeps his voice level. “Well, actually, in a couple of minutes I’m going to lock us both in the basement until the morning so you can’t claw anybody to death, but, yes, metaphorically, that’s sort of the plan -“
“Oh fuck this,” Frank says as he bucks up and thrashes against him. Gerard’s stronger, though, and holds on.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Frank, I’m not, I just have to make sure you’re okay, you just have to trust me -“ he starts, but then Frank moans and rolls his hips up against him and Gerard’s words catch in his throat.
Frank stares up at him and his eyes are dark and instead of pulling away from Gerard’s grip he shoves his hands forward to latch into the fabric of Gerard’s shirt. Gerard just clings to his wrists and gapes.
“Frank, wait, you shouldn’t - “ he starts, but Frank’s not listening. He rolls up against him again, and he’s hard, and rutting up against Gerard, and Gerard does not know what the fuck to do so he just holds on as Frank keens and uses him for friction.
Frank’s not even trying to stop, now, and his back is arched off the ground and there’s sweat all around the dip of his throat, and Gerard shuts his eyes and presses his face to the hollow of his collarbone where Frank’s shirt is stuck down to his chest and listens as he comes hard against his thigh.
When he pulls back Frank’s flushed and his eyes are closed and his hands are still fisted in the front of Gerard’s shirt, but the line of his body seems more relaxed than Gerard’s seen him all day. Frank sighs, and opens his eyes and looks at him and he looks like he doesn’t even really see Gerard, like he’s still looking at him through a fog.
He can tell when the fog breaks, though, and the first wave of the change hits him, snaps his back and makes him cry out in pain.
“I got you, Frank, I got you,” Gerard says, finally coming back to himself. He has to get them in the basement now.
Frank moans and rolls to turn on his side, his hands scrabbling at the hardwood floor. Gerard eases up off of him and pulls him up into his arms, and Frank cries out and fights against him but Gerard holds on. He can practically feel his bones throbbing through his skin.
He manages to get them down the stairs of the basement with only a few close calls of Frank banging his head against the walls. He lays Frank down in the pile of old shredded couch cushions in the corner of the room and runs back up the steps to throw the deadbolt. It takes him a few times as the pain makes his fingers cramp and he ends up having to use the whole side of his arm at one point - he’s close, he’s not as bad as Frank, but he’s right behind him, he’s so close to the change - but he manages and the slick locks clang into place with a satisfying, secure thunk.
He can hear Frank behind him in the basement making nonsensical sounds, and when he finally manages to get back down there he has to rush to Frank’s side to grab his wrists again. Frank’s half-crying and panting, clawing at the skin on his forearms, and he’s drawn blood on his left arm.
“Frank, stop, stop, it’s okay,” Gerard pants, but it’s getting harder for him to talk, “I’m right here, okay, I’m right here.”
Frank cries out, and arches up against Gerard’s grip, and Gerard can see the pinched, sharp teeth inside his mouth.
Gerard closes his eyes and holds on as long as he can. Eventually Frank snarls and pulls away and when Gerard opens his eyes there’s a small dark wolf breathing heavily where Frank hand just been.
He looks the same, is the last clear thought Gerard has before shifting himself.
The change finally overwhelms him, then, and he tries his best to bear it as his bones and organs shift against themselves and into place, like every cell in his body has to be drawn out and replaced, like a needle catching thread in fabric and piercing again. Finally, though, things settle where they should, and he pitches forward onto all fours. He looks up and Frank's there. He's there.
Then there are two wolves in the basement, one tired and nervous and one filled with boundless joy.
Gerard doesn't know what to do. He's always been able to read Frank better as a wolf than he ever was as a boy, and he knows that Frank is dazed and exhausted but also completely terrified and most likely more than a little crazy. It's still - it's still not the same. It makes him sad, honestly, sort of gut-wrenchingly sad. He was hoping that when Frank changed he'd remember everything and the curse would be broken and everything would be like it should be, but when Gerard takes a step closer to Frank and Frank snarls and backs up into a corner, he knows it's not.
Frank makes a bolt up the stairs but Gerard does nothing to stop him. He knows the door is locked and he won't be able to get out until morning. He can hear Frank clawing at the door to no avail. There's nothing to do but wait. Eventually Frank comes tearing down the stairs and heads straight for Gerard. This is not the play fighting they used to do Before, this is Frank half crazy and desperate and pissed off and confused and he does not want to be there. He doesn't even hesitate before he snarls and lunges for Gerard.
It's a mean fight, too, even though Gerard doesn't make any moves to seriously hurt Frank. He still manages to lash out and cut Frank on the foreleg before Frank can do any real damage. Frank was always a better fighter but he doesn't seem to have the motions down right, he doesn't seem to be able to understand his reflexes well enough yet, it's all sloppy and fast but not practiced. When Frank stumbles Gerard clamps his jaws on the back of Frank's neck. It's the sort of dominant move that Alphas used to do, back Before, but Gerard had never really had a use for it. And never with Frank. But enough's enough, and if he doesn't stop this now Frank is going to hurt himself. He has worked too hard and waited too long for that to happen.
Frank wilts at the gesture, and Gerard can tell he knows he's lost. Gerard gives his neck a good squeeze, only breaking the skin a little, before he lets him go and takes a few steps back. Frank retreats back to the ruined pile of pillows looking defeated. Gerard can see that his foreleg is still bleeding and he's doing nothing to stop it. Eventually, though, he ignores Frank's wary looks and makes his way over, sitting down beside him. A few beats pass, and he leans over and licks the wound. Frank doesn't look at him while he tends to it, but he doesn't draw away, and that, more than anything that has happened in the past few weeks, gives him hope.
It's a long night of inaction. Gerard longs to go out and run like he had in the past, like he had last month, back when he accidentally turned Frank. There's a tenseness in Frank's muscles that Gerard knows are his own instincts to use his form for all its worth, but after a few hours of staring either determinedly at the wall or at Gerard, eventually he turns away and falls asleep on his side. Gerard inches a little closer and lets the scent of Frank surround him like it hasn't in decades.
Even in his sleep Frank's legs twitch with the urge to run, and Gerard hopes that soon they can go out together and run like Before and not put anyone at risk. Maybe. Maybe one day. Gerard falls asleep eventually, giving in after hours of watching Frank.
When he awakes Frank is looking over at him, but when Gerard lifts his head, Frank's attention returns to the small window far above his head over in the corner. Gerard can see a hint of light. Dawn will be coming soon and they'll go back to their human form, and he'll have no reason to keep Frank with him any longer.
Eventually the change comes again. Gerard is used to the feeling, sort of like a sharp muscle cramp all over his body up to his eyeballs, then it's gone, but he knows it won't be as easy for Frank. When Gerard looks up, Frank is gasping and sweating, and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. And naked. They're both naked. Gerard probably should have warned him that his clothes were going to get shredded, but he's not really the best at planning ahead. Gerard decides not to make him more uncomfortable than necessary, so he hurries to grab some blankets from the linen closet over in the corner.
"C'mon," he says, tossing one of the blankets to Frank and not watching while he huddles inside of it like a child. "I've got some extra clothes you can borrow to go home. I don't think your mom will be up yet." He wraps one of the other blankets around himself and walks up the stairs to unlock the door. It's a weird little lock he installed at the top of the door, too high for a wolf to reach and completely impossible without opposable thumbs, and after a grunt the door is open again.
He pads into the bedroom and pulls on some sweatpants and a big worn out t-shirt he finds already lying on the bed. Every bone aches. When Frank goes home, Gerard will probably curl up in a miserable ball under the covers and sleep the day away and try and forget how Frank still hates him. He's rooting through the closet to find some clothing that doesn't smell too terrible for Frank to wear when he hears soft footsteps behind him. He turns, clothes in hand, to see Frank wrapped up in the blanket standing in the doorway and shifting nervously from foot to foot. He looks pretty rattled.
Gerard hands over the clothes, and Frank sneaks a hand out of his little cocoon to take them hesitantly. "These should fit you fine. Uhm, you always were smaller than me, so-"
"Can I stay here?" Frank asks, staring at a spot over Gerard's shoulder.
"Oh, uh-"
"I'm just. Kind of tired. And. I'm already here, so. I told my mom I was going to my friends house last night," Frank says, and Gerard sees him pale as he thinks about what could've happened. "So, like, I'd never be home this early and, I mean, I don't want to. Uh. You know what, no, I'm sorry, I'll go-" Frank stammers, lowering his head and starting to back away. It's the exact same motion his wolf made when he backed away last night, and it's eerie.
"No!" Gerard startles, taking a step forward. "No, please stay. You can sleep in here. I'll go out to the couch."
"I don't want to kick you out of your own bed."
"It's not a big deal. I'm used to sleeping on dirt. And like. Mud. I'll take the co-"
"No, I mean. You can stay. If you want." Frank's still not making eye contact with him, but Gerard isn't going to overthink anything right now. Frank just had the most fucked up night in his life, and he isn't running away or trying to stake Gerard with silverware or anything, so. He'll take it.
He turns his back to Frank to give him some privacy while he changes and proceeds to clean all of the extra clothes and sketchbooks and old dusty books off of his bed. When he turns around, Frank is still wrapped in the blanket, but it's loose around his shoulders and Gerard can see his oversized shirt hanging around his collarbone. Frank's hair is rumpled and sticking straight up, and it shouldn't be so attractive but oh man, Gerard is still so gone for him. He has to clench his fingernails into his palms so he won't reach out to touch. He crawls into bed and waits until Frank slips in to roll over onto his back and stare at the ceiling. Frank is asleep in minutes but what seemed easy to do while wolves seems impossible to do while human. He stares at the ceiling and listens to Frank breathe.
Everything in Gerard is screaming for him to reach out and touch Frank, to wrap himself around him and never let go. Especially when he hears the unconscious sounds of pain as Frank twitches a sore muscle in his sleep. He tries to sleep, but Frank keeps distracting him, if not with the sounds of pain, with his warmth, his movement, his presence. Gerard wishes he knew what any of this meant.
It doesn't make any sense. Frank should have gone running home, away from Gerard. Or at the very least made some comment about the fact that Gerard had, in fact, turned him into a werewolf. Not crawled into bed with him. Oh, how Gerard wishes he meant that euphemistically. Ninety-five years is a long time to be celibate, but no one could ever have compared to Frank, the memories were better than a stranger.
And that's the thing. The teen lying in Gerard's bed is so very much Frank that it's been haunting Gerard since he first laid eyes on him, but there's so much about him he doesn't know, and Frank doesn't know him. He doesn't dare hope that last night triggered something in Frank, some memories of their life Before. Gerard is just going to be patient and be glad Frank isn't running away.
It's almost ten a.m. when Frank's stomach growls loudly and he begins to stir. "Gerard?" he mumbles.
"Yeah, Frankie?" Gerard asks, rolling over to face him, but maintaining the distance between them.
Frank's eyes blink open. "So...definitely not a dream."
At least he didn't call it a nightmare. "No, not a dream," Gerard says. Frank's stomach rumbles again and Gerard sits up. "You should eat. Do you like pancakes?"
Frank runs a hand through his hair and makes it stick up even more, and Gerard has to try hard not to smile. It's a familiar gesture.
"I like pancakes," he says quietly.
"Well, good. I'm not much of a cook, but I can do pancakes." He rolls out the other side of the bed and stretches, sighing as the ridges in his back seem to pop back into place. "Take your time. I'll be down in the kitchen," he says gently. Frank might want a second to himself. Or the chance to run. Whichever.
***
Frank watches Gerard quietly pad out of the room, half-shutting the door behind him. He doesn't want to think about how his stomach twists when Gerard calls him 'Frankie.' It's just so familiar, like Gerard calls him that all the time, like he doesn't even notice he called him by a nickname Frank doesn't use with other people. But they barely know each other. And he's sleeping in Gerard’s bed. And he's a werewolf. It's been a weird day. If he starts thinking about it all too much his head starts to spin, and right now he just wants to eat and maybe sleep some more.
Frank jerks out of bed and quickly follows Gerard into the kitchen of his house. He's never really taken the opportunity to look around much, but now that he does he can see how weird of a house it really is. The architecture is strange and outdated, but it's furnished with completely mismatched furniture, almost all of it well-worn and well-used, like it's been picked out of a rummage sale. Come to think of it, he doesn't think that Gerard has a job. He's always home when Frank gets off from school in the afternoon. He wouldn't be surprised if all of his furniture was secondhand, probably from somebody's curb.
The kitchen is warm, though, and every surface not taken up by vintage looking kitchen appliances is absolutely crammed full of books and VHS tapes. Any of the tapes that don't have a cover are labeled neatly in the same strange, looping handwriting. Frank knows he's seen it before. The package. The scarf. Of course. He pauses to glance around the room, take in more of the odd decor, but spots Gerard peering at him from his spot by the sink. Gerard seems to catch him staring and answers before he can ask.
"Uhm, I really like reading. And TV. I really like TV," he says, pulling frying pans and spatulas and milk and eggs out of various cupboards. "Books take longer to read, though, and I've got a lot of time to kill."
"What do you do?" Frank asks, pulling one of the pitted bar stools away from the little kitchen bar and taking a seat. There are only two chairs in the whole kitchen, one at the bar and one at the tiny dining table. It makes Frank sort of sad to think that Gerard doesn't even seem to think he'll ever have need for more.
"I wait."
"You wait? Like, what, tables? You work nights?"
Gerard smiles a little and doesn't make eye contact as he cracks the eggs one handed into a large bowl. "No, no. Not like that. I don't need a lot of money so I can live off of my paintings. That's not what I do, though. I wait. I wait for you. I don't want to do anything else."
Gerard's still not looking at him, and Frank can't think of a thing to say, so he just pulls the blanket a little bit closer around his shoulders and watches Gerard's pale hands whisk the batter together.
Frank starts feeling twitchy with all of the questions he knows he should be asking, but he's just. He's not ready for that right now. "Do you-" Frank begins, "-want me to set the table?" It's chicken shit, but he knows Gerard won't call him on it, and he can't just sit there staring at Gerard. The tables have turned as far as that goes.
Gerard looks up, but keeps an eye on the batter now sizzling in the pan. "Uh, yeah, sure. Plates are up there, forks and shit are in the drawer," he says as he points with the spatula.
The cabinets are neat enough, but they're lined with old yellow newspaper. Frank cranes his head to look at it and boggles when he sees the small 1938 following the month and day. "Dude, how long have you lived here?"
"A long time," Gerard answers, not looking up from the stove.
"How long?" Frank presses. He thinks he know the answer, but he wants to hear it.
"Since my grandmother died. This was her house. She left it to me and my brother. We moved back after she passed away." Gerard's voice is soft and sad.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-" The last thing Frank wants is to make Gerard sad.
"It's all right. Like I said - it was a long time ago," he repeats.
"Yeah?" Frank pushes less directly.
"Elena died in 1932. Mikey made it til 1981. I know he would've liked to stay longer."
And there it is. Gerard's had this house since 1932. Holy fucking shit. He's a like a hundred years old. A one hundred year old werewolf. Maybe older. Holy fuck. He doesn't know if Gerard can tell he's freaking out, but suddenly there's a mountain of pancakes in front of him, butter and syrup close behind. He blinks at the food and falls on them like, well, like a ravenous werewolf.
Holy shit.
Part 3