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Chapter Text

After Gerard tries to kill himself, Frank doesn't sleep for three days.

When the paramedics arrive, sirens flashing in the glare of the motel lights, they peel Gerard's unconscious body out of Frank's shivering arms and he whimpers and grabs at the empty air, not wanting to let go. Bright scarlet blood is pooled across the dirty tiles, staining his sweaty clothes, soaking his ex boyfriend's pale skin. Emergency clamps and bandages stop the fatal red river from flowing and a solemn senior medic mutters into her radio while her partner unfolds a metal gurney.

They won't let Frank ride in the ambulance and shut the doors in his anguished face, ignoring his pleas. "Sorry kid, only family members can ride along". Barely able to speak through the horror and fear erupting inside him, Frank begs the motel manager to call him a cab and cowers on the dark street wiping his streaming eyes with blood-stained sleeves until the taxi arrives and takes him to the hospital downtown.

He's never been to Florida before and doesn't know anyone within a thousand miles of Pensacola. Scared and alone, he curls up on a hard plastic chair in the ER's busy waiting room, staring with reddened eyes at the clock on the wall as time crawls by. He can't stop shaking and his lungs feel suffocated by the antiseptic air. Constant drumming panic squeezes his throat and muffled voices and whirring trolley wheels echo in his ears and down the sterile halls. No one speaks to him or really acknowledges his existence and by 2am he's so zoned out he doesn't even notice the nurse standing in front of him until she taps him on the shoulder. Flinching hard, he looks up and sees a smiling woman in blue scrubs holding out a paper cup of coffee.
“Are you okay, kid?” she asks sympathetically, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners, “You look like you could use a pick me up”
“Oh, uh...thanks,” Frank stammers hoarsely, taking the cup with blood-crusted fingers. Gerard's blood. The dried crimson stains itch and flake cold red death all over his hands. Back across town the same blood is splattered across a scummy bathroom floor like some gory scene in a horror movie and the memory of it makes him want to puke. The only man he's ever loved tried to kill himself tonight! And what if the medics couldn't save him? What if Gerard is already lying dead somewhere in this sterile white maze? What the fuck is he supposed to do if Gerard is gone forever?!
“Hey, hey it's alright,” the nurse murmurs, sitting down next to him as he breaks down in exhausted tears, “Why are you here, sweetie?”
“My b-boyfriend tried to...h-he hurt himself real bad,” Frank sobs, tears clogging his throat as the coffee shakes in his trembling hands, “I don't know w-what's going on but I'm not his family so w-would they even tell me if he wasn't okay?”
“Oh honey, don't cry, I can find out where he is for you. What's his name?”

The nurse makes a few discreet enquiries and then leads Frank to a small room shrouded in white curtains where Gerard is lying on a lonely narrow bed. A thin blanket covers his sleeping body and winding plastic tubes are carrying blood, plasma and saline into thick needles piercing vivid blue veins in his skin. The arm that he butchered in the motel is wrapped in bandages and lies limp across his stomach on the crumpled sheets. His closed eyes are lined with purple shadows and sunk into his pale face. He looks impossibly still and lifeless, like a waxwork, and Frank stares at him in helpless agony, unable to breathe. He tastes blood and it takes him a moment to realize he's chewing his lip so hard he's bitten through the tender flesh. Forcing himself to gulp a wheezy breath, he whimpers Gerard's name and shuts his eyes against more tears as shock turns his legs numb and he stumbles, almost falling. The nice nurse is beside him in an instant, taking his arm and guiding him to a chair by the bed. Before she heads home at the end of her shift, she persuades Gerard's doctor to let Frank stay a little longer in his boyfriend's room, saying they're brothers. She finds him there again the following day during visiting hours and brings him a sandwich with another cup of java but he can't bring himself to eat anything and when he sips the coffee after she's gone it tastes like ashes in his mouth.

***
Gerard is unconscious for days, long after the alcohol and drugs he took are purged from his system, as his injured body fights for a recovery that might never come. When he slashed open his arm the blood-loss and trauma caused some of his organs to start shutting down and even though his physical condition has stabilized now, he's slipped into a coma. The doctors explain all of this to Gerard's parents when they arrive off a plane from New Jersey on the third day of their son's hospitalization with no explanation for why they weren't there sooner. Gerard's mom Donna weeps bitterly and starts cursing God, Jesus - and Frank - for letting this happen so soon after her other child's death. Simmering with rage and beyond exhausted from endlessly wandering humid streets and hospital corridors between visiting hours, Frank is unable to hold in his terror and hurt any longer and starts screaming at Donna in the waiting room that of course this fucking happened since she and her husband made no secret of the fact that they blamed Gerard for Mikey's death. They made Gerard feel so guilty it's no wonder he tried to kill himself!
Outraged at the audacity of the angry teenager standing before her, Donna slaps him hard across the face and when he tries to shove her away she hits him again and her husband Don has to pull them apart. The argument that follows is so loud that security guards come running and escort Frank outside, leaving him to pace angrily in the parking lot until he's too weak from stress and hunger to stay on his feet.

After nightfall Don wanders outside for a smoke and finds Frank sitting on the grimy pavement with his head in his hands. The teenager's cheeks are red from weeping and scratched by Donna's rings and the older man takes pity on him and offers him a cigarette. Apologizing for his wife's behaviour, he coaxes Frank up off the ground and takes him to a nearby McDonald's where he buys the starving kid some fries and apple pie and gives him enough money to get a motel room in town. “Just stay clear of my wife for a couple days,” he advises wearily, “Give me your phone number and I'll call you if Gerard's condition changes, I promise.”

Drained and defeated, Frank miserably wanders back to the motel where Gerard had his breakdown and asks the desk clerk if he can stay in the same room, not caring if it's been cleaned or not. The guy recognizes him and rolls his eyes as he fetches the right key, growling “You better not cut yourself up in there too, kid. I ain't in the mood to clean you off the floor.” Frank winces at the thought, biting another chunk out of his ragged lip and tasting iron and pain as he heads for the stairs.

All of the blood and puke from that awful night has been mopped away but the ugly little room stinks of bleach and a musty cloying misery that creeps into Frank's messed up head and makes him feel even worse. His stomach is sick and he hurts all over like he's been scraped raw with a knife. Stumbling to the bed, he crawls under the lumpy covers and hugs a pillow to his chest as a hoarse sob escapes his bleeding mouth. Closing his eyes on the nightmares he knows are coming, he huddles into a ball and cries himself to sleep.

Chapter Text

Frank is awoken the next day by a loud insistent buzzing noise that sounds like an insect crawled into his brain. Blinking blearily at his pillow through puffy eyes and headaches, he wonders how the hell a bee got into his room until he realizes it's his cell phone vibrating. Sitting up groggily on crumpled sheets, he digs it out of his pocket – ugh, he fell asleep in his goddamn clothes – and hits the answer button. “Hello?”
“Hi Frank. It's Don Way.”
“Oh god did something happen with Gee? Uh, Gerard? Is he ok?”
“He's fine, kid. Our boy woke up this morning and the docs think he's going to be alright. Well, all things considered.”
“Thank fuck,” Frank gasps, weak with relief, “I mean that's great! I'll be right there.”
“Wait, Frank,” Don's voice changes from glad to serious in an instant and Frank's heart sinks, knowing what the big man is about to say. “My wife doesn't want you here, kid, I'm sorry. I've told Gerard that you're around but he doesn't want to see anyone. It's his choice.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure,” Frank mumbles, his eyes swimming with disappointment as he screws them shut and shudders at the warm droplets running down his cheeks, “No, I get it.”
“I'm sorry,” Don says stiffly, “Thank you for getting Gerard to the hospital, Frank. I'm glad you were there.”
Gerard's father hangs up and Frank drops the silent phone on the mattress. He isn't sure what to feel for a while so he lies back down and stares at the ceiling curling his fingers into his hair and tugging distractedly at the roots until the sting in his scalp brings him back to earth.

Wiping his eyes on his arm, he gets up and walks into the bathroom where Gerard almost died to take a piss. After washing his hands he turns up the cold tap to full blast and splashes his face and hands with freezing water before slurping it down in huge mouthfuls until his throat and stomach are chilled right through.
Sighing at his tired face in the mirror, he snorts back the snot streaming from his wet nose and spits into the drain, frowning at the dark circles around his bloodshot eyes. He looks like hell and it hurts to see himself for too long so he turns away. Lifting a dripping hand to his mouth he obsessively picks at the scab around his steel lip-ring until it starts to bleed again and grimaces in self-disgust. He's a goddamn mess right now and Gerard doesn't need that shit in his life. They're not even dating anymore and they haven't been for months. Gee doesn't even want to see him. Nobody wants him here. Trudging back to the bed, Frank rubs his face dry on the comforter and grabs his bag with his few belongings in it. He came here to save Gerard and he did. It's time to go home.

A few hours later he's on a Greyhound bus bound for New Jersey, listening to Black Flag on his ipod and drinking vodka out of a water bottle. His phone rings but it isn't Don's number. “Yeah, hello?”
“Hey Frankie, it's Ray. Did you find Gerard?”
“Yeah. For all the good it did me.”
“Is he okay?”
“Probably not. But I'm sure his bitch mom will take care of him.”
“...Ok. Dude, you sound weird. Are you drunk?”
Frank grunts bitterly as his eyes blur with the memory of Gerard's blood staining everything the color of violence, “Not drunk enough.”
“Do you wanna come over to my place when you get back? Maybe talk about what happened?”
“Talk? Not really. But if you've got beer in the fridge I'm there.”

One week and a lot of angry under-aged drinking later, Frank is lying wasted on his bedroom floor smoking a cigarette while his mom bangs on the locked door and screams at him to get up and do some chores. A small trash can near his head is splattered with cold, congealing liquor puke and his right shoulder is throbbing and bleeding from a deep cut he carved there with his grandpa's old pocketknife. He just wanted to see what it felt like, to feel some of what Gerard felt that night, but it wasn't easy or freeing or beautifully tragic like the dumb poems on the internet say. Slicing open his pale weak flesh only gave him pain and white noise and blood rushing to his head for a few giddy moments before sickly bile shot up his throat and he threw up again. Later on he smeared some of the blood across an old photo of him and Gerard and then burned it black with his cigarette.

His mom finally gives up and goes to work, slamming the front door behind her, and he falls asleep drooling into the rug. He's still there three hours later when Gerard Fucking Way walks up to his house and starts throwing pebbles at his window.

Chapter Text

Cursing softly, Gerard picks up another tiny stone and hurls it at Frank's bedroom window, throwing it so hard it cracks the old worn glass. Crap!
Mentally kicking himself, he runs up to the front door before his troubled thoughts can stop him and knocks loudly with his right hand. His left arm is cradled against his chest in a nylon sling, itching madly as the crusty wounds he carved into it slowly heal. Nobody answers the door so he keeps knocking, louder and harder, until the window flies open above him and a familiar slurred voice yells “What the fuck?!”
“Frankie! Hi...uh...hey. I...Ray said he hasn't seen you in a few days and he's kinda worried. Can I come in?”
Angry muttering and the sound of the broken window slamming shut. Gerard sighs and shoves his hand into his pocket. He wouldn't even have the guts to be here if Ray hadn't made him come. Their mutual friend is even parked across the street right now making sure Gerard doesn't chicken out and run away, but it's not necessary. After the hellish week he's just spent in a hospital psychiatric ward being pumped full of valium and therapy he doesn't have the energy to run.

Five eternal minutes pass and Gerard fidgets on the front step, listening to cars in the street and playing with the new cell phone his Dad got him. He wants to turn away from his ex's door and crawl back onto Ray's musty apartment couch and lie there until the world ends or until he dies, whichever comes first. The last memory he has of Frank is the teenager crying as blood pooled around them on a dirty bathroom floor and he wonders if he even has the right to come here after putting Frank through such traumatizing shit. 'Attempted suicide' is an ugly phrase.

Then abruptly the door opens, cutting through his morbid thoughts, and Frank is standing there looking pale and angry in torn jeans and an old cardigan. Gerard's heart jumps into his throat. He's missed his ex so damn much it hurts.
“H-Hey,” he says hoarsely, his mouth bone-dry as Frank's bloodshot eyes bore into him, "How are you?”
Frank raises his eyebrows in disbelief and chokes out a weird gasp like he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. “How am I?” he echoes, “How am I?! I don't know, let's see: Uh, I spent pretty much all my savings flying out to the ass-end of nowhere to look for you when your own family couldn't be bothered and found you bleeding to death in a fucking motel, then I got thrown out of your hospital room for defending you to your own parents after I'd spent like three fucking days scared out of my mind praying and begging for you to wake up and be okay, and then I find out that you don't even want to see me because apparently I don't matter to you anymore, right?! So how am I? I'm fucking perfect you asshole!”

Somewhere in the middle of this outburst, Frank's wide green eyes fill with tears and his voice starts to break. “You almost DIED,” he sobs angrily, “I still have your fucking blood in my shoes! I thought you were gonna go away forever and I couldn't even begin to deal with that and you come here asking how the fuck I am?!"

“I'm sorry Frankie,” Gerard whispers tearfully as poisonous guilt and sorrow overwhelms him. Desperately he reaches out with his good arm to hug the sobbing eighteen-year-old and Frank hesitates only a moment before burrowing into the embrace, clutching Gerard so tightly his arms are shaking and hiding his wet face in his shoulder.
“I'm so sorry,” Gerard murmurs over and over again, kissing his ex's greasy hair and cuddling him close, “I'm a fucking train wreck and I can't do anything right, I know that, but I never wanted to hurt you like this, I swear.”

Glancing back at Ray's waiting car, Gerard gently pushes Frank backwards until they're safely inside the house and the door bangs closed behind them. In the quiet dimness of the hall, Frank lets go of the older man and steps away with a heavy sigh, self-consciously dries his eyes on his sleeves. “Sorry to get all weepy on you," he mumbles, looking down at his feet, "I'm kind of a mess right now."
Gerard nods, sick with regret. “Me too."
“Yeah," Frank sniffs, looking up with a guarded expression, "So, uh... Do you want a drink or something?”
“I'll take a coffee, if you have it.”
“Course we do,” Frank mutters, leading the way into the kitchen and turning on the coffee machine. Gerard sits down at the breakfast bar, resting his injured arm on the smooth yellowed surface. “Still take it black with sweetener?” Frank asks, reaching up into a cupboard for a can of Stevia and wincing as his outstretched arm trembles slightly.
“Yeah, thanks,” Gerard frowns, “Have you hurt your shoulder?”
“No. I'm fine.”
“You don't look fine,” the older man says carefully.
“Neither do you,” Frank snaps. An awkward silence follows and they watch the coffee brew and filter in the tense quiet. When the pot is half full, Frank pours out two mugfuls and adds piles of sugar to his and some Stevia to Gerard's. Banging the cups down with a little more force than necessary, he takes a seat opposite his ex and wraps his hands around his drink, blowing into the hot fragrant liquid. His downcast eyes are red and heavy and he smells like beer and smoke. Gerard opens his mouth to say something - anything! - but nothing comes out so he sips his drink instead and burns his tongue.

"So... Are you back home with your folks now?” Frank asks stiffly, keeping his eyes on his coffee. "No. I'm actually crashing at Ray's for now,” Gerard answers sheepishly, “When the hospital let me go I didn't feel like I could stay with mom and dad. They're still so mad and there's too many memories in that house, y'know?”
“Shit. Of course,” Frank gasps apologetically, “I'm so sorry about Mikey. I can't even imagine what it's been like for you. I mean, well, I saw what I saw but...y'know. I-I wanted to talk to you after it happened. I mean, I tried. But you were so distant and I didn't want to go where I wasn't wanted.”
“I was pretty fucked up,” Gerard interrupts with a grim smile, "Still am, obviously."
“It wasn't your fault,” Frank says softly, moving his hand towards Gerard's wrist but stopping just short of touching him. "All of you were drunk and stupid that night, Gee. It was Mikey's idea to take the car. Your parents shouldn't blame you for-”
“Of course they should," Gerard spits, glaring at his ex with haunted eyes, “They can blame me all they like, Frank, I was the one driving! I may as well have stabbed Mikey in the fucking heart with a knife! I was fucking driving, I KILLED him!”
With a crash Gerard's mug hits the kitchen wall and shatters, spraying inky liquid before crashing to the floor in a pile of wet china shards. Breathing roughly, he screws his trembling fists up into his eyes while Frank stares at him in horror, afraid to speak.

“Sorry. I...I'm sorry,” Gerard croaks after several tense moments, dropping his hands with a huff and looking apologetically at the mess, “I'll clean it up.”
“No, no, it's fine,” Frank gulps, jumping up and grabbing a broom, “I'll do it.”

When the broken pieces are cleaned away, Gerard slowly gets to his feet and Frank feels his heart sink at the thought of him leaving so soon. But instead the older man takes Frank's hand and pulls him gently towards the stairs. “Where are we going?” Frank asks nervously. “Nowhere. I'm just too tired to talk right now,” Gerard sniffles, his eyes vacant and wet, "Can we maybe lie down for a while? Nothing funny. Just sleep?”
“Sure,” Frank agrees, uncertain whether to be pleased or scared, “But just, um, wait here a sec, ok?” Gerard nods wearily and Frank gently tugs his arm free and rushes ahead up to his bedroom. Grabbing the scorched photographs, empty beer cans and bloody knife off the floor he tosses them into his puke-stained trash can and throws the whole lot out of his cracked window into the bushes below, hot shame boiling in his blood. He'll deal with that mess later.
After a respectable minute, Gerard steps cautiously into the bedroom and looks around at the familiar Misfits and Black Flag posters with a faint smile of nostalgia. The warm air smells like Frankie, and the sight of all the old Playstation games and well-used guitars he remembers takes some of the weight off his shoulders. He feels so safe here.

“Are you ok?” Frank asks gently, sitting down with a soft bounce on the messy bed. His old childhood plush puppy Chilli Dog is wedged between the mattress and the wall and he discreetly pulls the threadbare toy free and hides it under his pillow.
“Yeah,” Gerard sighs gratefully, kicking off his sneakers and slumping down on the mattress, “I just need to lie down. Sorry.”
“It's no problem,” Frank says eagerly, scooching back against the wall. “Oh so you wanna be the big spoon?” Gerard teases, his eyes lightening for a moment. Frank blushes and drops his gaze to the sheets and Gerard bites his tongue to kill a smile – he knows he's got no right to be happy when his little brother is in the ground. Shaking his head as grief crashes over him for the hundredth time, he shrugs off his coat and sling, dropping them both on the floor before lying down in his clothes with his back against Frank's chest. Frank pulls a blanket over them both and wraps his arm around Gerard's belly, pressing his face into his ex's tangled black hair. He's missed this so much and even if it doesn't mean anything anymore it still feels right. “G'night Frankie,” Gerard murmurs, his voice already deepening and slowing with sleep. Frank hums in response and closes his eyes, curling around Gerard's warm body and breathing in sequence with him until they both drift off to sleep.

Chapter Text

In the evening Frank's mom Linda finishes work and comes home with two bags full of groceries and a bad mood. “Frank?” she hollers grouchily around the lit cigarette in her mouth, staggering through the front door with the heavy bags, “Frank, are you here? Did you eat?”
Her son doesn't answer so she heads into the kitchen, dumping the food on the counter and turning on the lights. To her annoyance there is a very noticable new stain on the wall and she scowls and sniffs it suspiciously. Coffee. Oh, for God's sake!
Peering into the garbage can, she finds a soggy mass of coffee soaked paper towels and the cute cat mug that Frank bought her last year for Mother's Day smashed to pieces. A flash of sadness burns her heart, mingling with disappointment and she sighs and crushes her cigarette into a nearby ashtray. Ever since his mysterious trip to Florida, her son has been acting even crazier than usual and she has no idea why. He's constantly getting drunk, skipping school, and now he's breaking things too, and all of her attempts to drag him out of his filthy room for a proper meal or shower or heart to heart talk have been ignored. She's working twelve hour shifts just to keep food on their table and Frank barely acknowledges her existence, let alone shows any gratitude. What could have happened to her kind, thoughtful child to make him so hostile and distant? He's obviously troubled and hurting but he sure as hell won't talk to her about it. His deadbeat absent father isn't around to help out either.

Staring gloomily at the waiting bags of food, she grabs a pen from her purse and scribbles out a short note for her son on the grocery receipt, sticking it to the fridge with dusty alphabet magnets. Fuck it, she's going to her sister's place tonight. At least there she can talk to another adult. Frank can cook his own damn dinner.

**
The loud bang of a door slamming snaps Gerard out of a woolly dreamless sleep. Scrubbing sand from his eyes, he squints up at a dark ceiling bathed in twilight and feels a faint breeze on his face. Somewhere outside a car engine revs and then growls away and headlights strobe through the shadowy dimness, white and red. Where is he? This isn't Ray's apartment. His medicated head feels heavy and sluggish, stuffed with cotton balls, and his injured arm is stiff and sore, mashed up against his side where he's been sleeping on it. Pushing off the covers swamping his body, he sits up groggily on the narrow bed and finally recognises his surroundings: Frank's bedroom. Oh shit.

Why is he still here? It's dark outside, he must've been asleep for hours. Does Frank's mom know he's here? Fuck. She never seemed to like him back in the day. They never even spoke.
Looking down in mild panic, he breathes a sigh of relief to find himself fully clothed and the warm body lying beside him – Frankie – still sound asleep.

Last year, when they'd first started dating, Gerard had waited until the adorable guy he fell in love with at the comic book store turned eighteen before they did anything more than kiss. They were so in love back then, and so in tune with each other's needs and the unique life experiences that had turned each of them into the people they were. In fact, things were so perfect that in a different life they might have stayed together forever, but just two months after Frank's eighteenth birthday Gerard ruined it all. He got drunk and high on New Year's Eve and kissed a local pimp named Bert instead of his boyfriend when the ball dropped at midnight. It broke Frank's loyal heart.

Shuddering in the quiet bedroom, Gerard remembers pulling away from Bert's smirking face, giggling stupidly with drool on his lips, and finding poor Frankie standing just two feet away, holding the beers he'd gone to fetch for them. After several exhausting fights they'd split up and Gerard had tried his best to stay away from Frank ever since. Even when Mikey died and Frank generously offered him a shoulder to cry on, he didn't accept it. He was a fucking mess, a goddamn suicidal drunk, and Frank didn't need that kind of poison in his life.

Sliding silently off the bed, Gerard realises glumly that he's brought that poison back again today. A lead weight of guilt and misery drops into his stomach. He should leave now before this goes any further. He loves Frank and he always will, but how could a relationship between them possibly work if he's constantly dragging Frankie down with his emotional damage? It wouldn't be fair. Sadly turning on the bedside lamp, Gerard starts to poke around for his shoes amongst the piles of laundry and magazines littering the carpet but stops when he sees the soft light illuminate Frank's sleeping face and reveal the sheen of sweat shining on his ex's skin. Frowning in concern, he grabs the edge of the blanket covering Frank up to his chin and pulls it gently away, revealing the teenager's thick cardigan... and several small bloodstains on the sheets. Cringing at the mess, he checks his bandaged arm, thinking some of his stitches must have come loose, but the dressings are clean and white, not even a speck of blood seeping through.

A truck rumbles past outside and Frank stirs and opens his large sleepy eyes in drowsy confusion. “Hey,” Gerard whispers awkwardly, taking a guilty step backwards, “Uh, listen, I'm sorry for busting in on you today and crashing so hard. I'm on new medication and I don't really know what I'm doing half the time -”
“So you were gonna leave without telling me?” Frank interrupts in a hurt voice, “Seriously?” When Gerard doesn't answer, the teenager sits up with a small grunt of pain that he tries to disguise as a cough and Gerard looks again at the blood on the bed and finally notices a larger stain soaking through the shoulder of Frank's cardigan. His heart just about breaks. The teenager follows his gaze and blushes with shame, scrambling to cover the mess with a blanket. “Frankie...” Gerard whispers fearfully, a pit of dread growing in his gut, “What's going on?”
“What do you care? You're leaving.” Frank snaps, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade from his nightstand and taking a swig, "Go."
“Come on, don't be like that.”
“Like what huh? Like what?! Do you even know the kind of shit I've been dealing with since I saw you almost DIE, Gerard? Do you even care?”
“Of course I care.”
“Do you? Or are you only here because Ray made you come? Or because you're lonely and wanted a pity fuck!”
“No! Jesus, Frank. I just wanted to sleep, I-I mean, not like sleep TOGETHER, not like sex or anything. I just wanted...I don't know. But you said it was okay and...” Trailing off, he sits back on the bed and Frank immediately gets up and walks away.
“Whatever,” the teenager mutters, “If you wanna go, then just go. Sneak away and leave, see if I care.”

Frowning sceptically, Gerard moves towards his former sweetheart, meeting Frank's stubborn gaze with his own and watching those gorgeous green and hazel irises flood with black as Frank's pupils dilate with unconscious affection. Moving closer until he can feel Frank's trembling breaths on his skin, Gerard reaches out to take his hand, smooth skin warm and damp under his fingertips. The fact that Frank allows the touch without flinching or backing away gives him enough courage to speak: “Did you hurt yourself because of me?”
“Hurt myself?” Frank scoffs defensively, but a flash of panic in his eyes betrays him.
“Come on babe, it's summertime and you're wearing a cardigan. There's blood on the sheets and it's not mine so unless you're on your period...”
For about a millisecond Frank smirks at the lame joke but then his young face crumples with pain and he swallows hard and sinks back onto the bed, hunching into himself, “You don't get to call me 'babe' anymore, asshole.”
“I'm sorry,” Gerard whispers, choking up a little as bittersweet memories flicker through his head, “I'm sorry for everything, Frankie, I really am. I never meant to hurt you.”
“But you did!” Frank snaps, “You DID hurt me, so please just fuck off and let me forget this whole day ever happened, okay? I need to get my head straight and I can't do that with you here!"
“Frankie...”
“Just fucking leave, Gerard!"
"I don't-"
"GET OUT!”
“I don't want to leave you like this. You're bleeding, babe, you're not okay!”

Growling in frustration, Frank smashes his fists into his own forehead, his eyes flooding as his breaths quicken with mounting stress. "Just fucking GO! I can't handle this right now!" "Handle what?" Gerard asks in exasperation, "I'm not doing anything. Calm down, why are you freaking out?"
Gasping in shallow strangled breaths, Frank groans as his eyes widen with what looks like fear, confusing Gerard even more. "Frank, what's wrong? You look like you're-"
"Get out!" Frank screams, pulling his cell phone from his pocket, “RIGHT FUCKING NOW or I'm calling the cops!"
"What the fuck Frankie?"
"Go!" Frank begs desperately, his hand trembling around the phone as his eyes darken with inexplicable panic, "I NEED you to go, Gee, PLEASE!”
With no other choice, Gerard backs off and runs from the room, hurrying down the stairs and out the front door into the cold night air. Scared and alone, he takes off in the direction of the nearest bar to drown the sadness and guilt in his throat with bad decisions.

The second Frank hears the front door slam behind Gerard, he drops the cell phone and bursts into breathless tears, sobbing and shaking as he tries to quiet the hurricane of suffocating panic and self-hatred screaming in his guts. His head is spinning and his chest feels so tight. He can't breathe! Why can't he breathe?! He's had anxiety attacks before but never this bad, never this much. What the fuck is happening? Is he having a heart attack?! Oh god! Sweat soaks through his clothes and his stomach hurts so bad he's forced to crawl to the bathroom, too dizzy to walk. Coughing and gagging, he pukes up his guts into the toilet and then everything goes black.

He regains consciousness on the bathroom floor still fighting for breath. Sitting up makes him vomit again, spitting up coffee grounds and stinking Gatorade until his cramping guts are all but empty. Forcing himself to stand on trembling legs, he peels off the sweat-soaked cardigan suffocating his skin and stumbles panting and sobbing into the shower, turning on the water and collapsing to his knees. Breathlessly cursing the whole hateful fucking world, he huddles under the downpour gasping for air and crying into the drain as the rushing water numbs his shivering skin and washes his blood and tears into oblivion.

Chapter Text

It's after midnight when a loud repetitive knocking drags Ray out of sweet dreams and he groans at the familiar noise. Stumbling through the dark apartment in his underwear, he flips on the lights and unbolts the door, opening it to reveal exactly what he knew he would find.
“Heyyy,” Gerard slurs with a lop-sided leer, winking up at his taller friend from behind wet greasy hair, “You wanna party?”
“No, I really don't,” Ray sighs, dragging his wasted guest into the apartment and shutting the door, “Jesus. How long have you been off the wagon? I thought you were just gonna talk to Frankie, not get trashed with him."
Gerard waves clumsily at nothing, stumbling around the living room, “Shit happens,” he mumbles, avoiding Ray's concerned gaze and scratching at his dripping hair, “It's raining outside, can I drink in here?”
“No,” Ray says through gritted teeth, grabbing a towel from the kitchen and throwing it at him, “And you're not supposed to mix your new meds with alcohol, dude, but shit you did it anyway! I love you, man, but I don't know how to deal with you when you're in self-destruct mode. You can't keep fucking yourself up like this!”

He doesn't mean to sound angry but he's tired and it's late and the words bite like bullets through the stuffy air. Gerard's drunken smile vanishes and he turns away, weaving over to the couch and slumping down on it with his head in his hands. An empty vodka bottle drops out of his coat and rolls over the floor to stop at Ray's feet. In the silence, rain hammers on the window panes. Shaking his head miserably, Gerard curls up on the old sofa with his face buried in the soggy bandages on his arm. “What happened?” Ray asks softly, fetching an empty mop bucket from under the sink and a glass of cold water. He puts the bucket on the floor near his drunk friend's head and then crouches down to pull off Gerard's dirty shoes.
“I fucked up. I dunno how but I did, I always do! Frank hates me now!”
“He doesn't hate you,” Ray says patiently, nudging the glass of water against Gerard's elbow until he takes it with clumsy hands, his teeth clacking against the glass as he takes a sip.
“I f-fucked up,” he sobs, “I fucked up and now I just feel like ...like w-what's the fucking point? I'm a bad person, Toro. I do bad things. I should just fucking DIE!”
“No, no way. Don't say that,” Ray begs, putting an arm around Gerard's heaving shoulders and pulling him into a hug, resting his chin on his friend's wet hair. “You're not a bad person, Gee. You're one of my best friends and would I be friends with a bad person? No. You're a good guy.”
“Then w-why does Frank hate me?”
“He doesn't hate you. He flew all the way to goddamn Florida just to make sure you were okay! That's not hate, Gee. That's love. He loves you and he's been so messed up since you guys ended things, you don't even know. Trust me. So what happened today? Did you have a fight?”
“No. I guess, n-not really. But he yelled at me and he was nearly crying...He never used to yell like that. I hurt him. I always end up hurting him!”
“No you don't,” Ray sighs gently, patting his back, “You don't and we can discuss it but right now you're drunk and it's late and we both need to sleep so we'll talk this out in the morning, alright?”
“Mmh.”
“Okay? For real, Gerard, are you gonna be alright? Should I call your doctor?”
“No. I'm just... tired of this shit. Tired of all this...being me.”
“I know, buddy. I know.”
“Can I sleep in my clothes?”
“Well I'm not gonna undress you so yeah. Do you wanna eat something before you sleep?”
Gerard groans and shakes his head, then suddenly lurches forwards, his pale face turning green. Ray barely gets the bucket under his mouth in time.

***
It's late and the black sky over New Jersey is pounding the streets with cold Atlantic rain. Linda is relaxing in her sister Beth's living room with a glass of wine and an old episode of 'Friends' when her cell phone rings loudly from her bag in the hall. Ignoring the noise, she cuddles closer to her sister and they laugh at Chandler's jokes until the phone rings again and then again until finally Beth throws up her hands and cries, “Just answer it already!”
Linda rolls her eyes and fetches the phone. Three missed calls from Frank. The sight of them on the tiny screen makes her stomach lurch. Her son never calls her, let alone in the middle of the night.
Hurriedly hitting the return call button, she puts the phone to her ear just in time to hear Frank pick up on the first ring. “Mom?”
“Yeah sweetie it's me. Are you okay?”
There's a faint sob and a strange gasping sound on the line that rips right through Linda's heart. Her son sounds terrified. “Frank, answer me! Are you okay?”
“No! Mom p-please come home!”
Clutching the phone tight, Linda exchanges a frantic glance with Beth.
“Okay baby, I'll be home soon. Are you alright? What's going on?”
No answer.
“Frankie? I'm on my way, sweetie but I need to hang up now so I can drive, okay?...Frank? Frank?!"

***
When Linda gets home, frantic and worried, she runs upstairs to find her son huddled on the bathroom floor next to a puke-stained toilet, chewing on his knuckles so hard he's making them bleed. The moment he sees her he lets out a strangled cry for help and burts into tears and she's so shocked to see her eighteen-year-old sobbing like a scared toddler that she just grabs him and holds him in her arms, rocking him gently and panicking when he can't catch his breath. He's soaking wet like he's been out in the rain and his hands are cold and clammy but his face feels hot and he's not breathing right; hyperventilating so bad his lips are turning blue. Violent tremors of stress or fear shudder mercilessly through his body, making him whimper and retch and he's clearly terrified about what's happening to him but that terror is only making it worse. Linda uses her nursing training to try and talk him down from this panic attack, if that's even what it is, telling him that he's safe and it'll be over soon but he still can't breathe right and clings to her like his life depends on it.

Eventually out of desperation and for the sake of his dignity, she gives him some of her personal xanax supply which she only normally uses to fly on airplanes. The pills work quickly in his empty stomach and at long last his breathing calms and slows and she manages to pry his trembling hands off her waist and guide him to his room. With dazed eyes he stands there helplessly while she removes his wet shirt and pants for him and then he burrows into bed without saying a word and hides his face in the sheets. In a few short minutes he's passed out. Kneeling worriedly at his bedside, Linda strokes his hair for a while, wishing to God that she wasn't a single parent and that someone else was around to help her figure this out. After texting Beth goodnight, she looks around Frank's room for clues about what might have upset him so much but there's nothing obvious amiss. The cracked window is open and letting in rain so before she leaves she tiptoes over there to slide it shut and in the shadows by her feet she spies something odd lying on the carpet. Bending down to pick it up, she examines it in the dim light from the hallway. It's a large nylon sling.

Chapter Text

The next day dawns warm and clear and by noon the roads are rippling with heat-waves under a scorching June sun. Frank wakes sweaty and disorientated with a throbbing headache and no idea why he feels so shitty. Groaning into the pillow, he kicks off the covers and gropes blindly for the gatorade he usually leaves on his nightstand but it isn't there. Lifting his aching head, he rubs his eyes and finds them swollen and crusty from...crying?
Oh god.
Like a ton of bricks the events of last night come crashing into his brain and he cringes at the memories: crying into his mom's blouse like a helpless baby and screaming threats at Gerard until the poor guy ran away. Fuck. He hadn't meant for any of that to happen but there was so much badness inside him, so much anxiety and anger and fear, like lava in his chest, boiling and surging until something inside him snapped. It's the worst mental breakdown he's ever had and he had in front of his mom and ex-lover. The sheer embarrassment makes him want to shrivel up inside. And it's not even the first time he's lost control lately: he yelled at Gerard's parents in the hospital, and then drank half a liquor store after coming home from Florida because being drunk helped numb the panic and confusion screaming in his guts. But booze didn't help him yesterday: all those daytime beers just made him more breakable. Last night was worse than anything he's ever felt before: a dark void of fear and misery so deep he couldn't think or breathe or do anything but cry, and now his mom and Gerard have seen exactly how fucked up he really is.

With a hopeless moan, Frank shuts his eyes against the sun blasting in his window and drags a pillow over his face, breathing in the musky tang of his own dirty hair and stale breath. He wishes he could smell Gerard too. Last night in the bathroom he honestly thought he was going to die and he would give anything to feel a little comfort now. His mom is for sure gonna make him see a therapist after this, and as for his relationship with Gee... how can he ever fix that fucking mess?! Cramming the pillow hard into his mouth and nose he smothers a scream of despair as his mind treats him to torturous flashbacks of Gerard's arms soaked in blood, Donna Way's stinging slaps, that fucktard Bert from New Year's Eve, and an ocean of booze and terror...

Fumbling around for Chilli Dog, he clutches the old toy so tight he nearly pulls the little dog's head off as his eyes sting with tears. Florida must have really done a number on him if even the smallest argument with his ex is gonna send him spiralling into a panic attack so bad his mom had to sedate him with pills. He's not worth shit to anybody like this! He's a total freak! No wonder Gerard didn't want to see him at the hospital, no wonder he-

With a loud ping, Frank's phone twitches under the covers and his sad heart leaps at the thought of Gerard texting him with a few words of apology or reassurance or even anger: anything at all. But when he scrambles to open the message it isn't even from Gee. It's Ray.

***
A mile across town, Gerard is reluctantly sobered up and responsibly medicated thanks to Ray's steely vibe of “do what I say or I'll kick you out of my apartment" and his hangover isn't even the worst he's had. Hunched up on the couch in a ratty t-shirt and old sweatpants, he stares blankly at a frantic cartoon on the TV and munches milky Fruit Loops, trying not to think about last night.

The apartment is too warm even with the windows open and Spongebob Squarepants can only distract Gerard so much before Frank's face and voice and smile and touch are haunting him like stubborn little tattooed ghosts. The medication keeping him calm dilutes quickly in his alcoholic's blood and soon all he wants to do is give Frank a call and apologise for ambushing him yesterday and for every other sin he's ever committed. But he can't do that because his bossy room-mate has confiscated his cell phone.
“I want my phone back,” he growls as Ray emerges from the kitchen nook with a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
"Dude, no. It's for your own good. Frank told you to leave him alone.”
"Yeah but-”
“So leave him alone. At least for a little while. Let him calm down before you talk to him again. I texted him to let him know you're okay. Just be patient. ”

Unfortunately being patient is not one of Gerard's strong suits and the summer heat is making him extra cranky. Sighing into the greasy hair falling across his face, he slurps the last milk from his bowl and grabs the TV remote, changing channels rapidly until they all blur into one long fuzzy picture. He won't admit it to Ray but he is bitterly disappointed in himself for trying to drink his problems away again, and on top of everything else his arm is aching like a sonofabitch and he can't find his sling. Everything fucking sucks today and he feels like a complete waste of space and oxygen. Mental breakdowns aside, he's a grown man with no house, no job, no relationship, and a dead brother on his conscience. What a joke.

Self-loathing and hopelessness crawls in his skin and he drops the remote in frustration and kicks it hard into the wall.
“Are you okay?” Ray asks gently.
“Fuck no! Ughhhh. I need coffee.”
“Sorry man, we're out.”
“What?!”
It's not a huge deal but Gerard is hungover, tired and emotionally fragile and the news of no precious caffeine hits him like a sledgehammer. Blinking angrily against tears, he slumps deeper into the couch and stays there silent and unmoving long into the afternoon, chain-smoking cheap cigarettes and torturing himself with dark thoughts.

After several hours of watching his friend sink deeper and deeper into self-pity and depression, Ray sends a few secretive texts and suggests they go out on a quest for more coffee. When the miserable lump on the couch doesn't answer him, Ray sighs and grabs his friend's leg, dragging him off the cushions and onto the floor with a thud. Gerard pouts in annoyance, his bloodshot eyes glistening, “Fuck off!”
“Come on Gee. You need some air. We both do.”
“It's sunny outside. I hate the sun.”
“There's a coffee shop barely two blocks away and it has amazing air-con, you'll barely be in the sun.”
“I don't wanna go out!”
"You've done nothing but wallow indoors all day and it's not good for you, you know that. Just think about sipping one of those rich espresso blends, huh?”
“I can live without coffee.”
“We both know that's not true. Let's go.”
“I don't want to go.”
“Gerard, I swear to god I will drag you there myself if I have to. I know you feel shitty and I don't blame you and I wish I could fix it. At least let me keep you caffeinated, ok?”
“Ugh. Fine. But only if you give me back my phone.”

***
“Oh God, I needed this,” Gerard gasps, gulping from a mug of black sweetened coffee like a baby taking milk from its mother.
“I'll try and restrain myself from saying I told you so,” Ray smirks, sipping from his own cup at their table in the local java hut. “There is no point in denying yourself the little things that give you pleasure. You don't need to suffer any more than you already have.”
“There's no need to tiptoe around the facts, Toro. Mikey's dead and Frank hates me. You can say it.”
“Frank doesn't hate you, I promise.”
"I hope you're right about that." Setting down his drink, Gerard sighs and runs nicotine-stained fingers through his messy hair, tugging distractedly at a knot near his crown until a few black strands break away. He drops them on the floor disinterestedly. Companionable silence stretches between the two friends for a while and Ray slowly sips his beverage, occasionally stealing glances over Gerard's head at the coffee shop door.

An old Goo Goo Dolls song is playing on the cafe sound system and as the last chorus ends Gerard takes a deep breath and launches into a kind of rambling confession, his voice cracked and stressed, hot coffee on his breath. “I just feel so fucking shitty about what I've done to Frankie, like all the time, and I don't just mean what happened on New Year's or in Florida, I mean like...everything! You should've seen him last night, Toro. He's so angry and he's so scared. He's practically still a kid for Pete's sake, he can't even buy beer yet, and he's totally fucked up because of me. Even when I hurt myself, I end up hurting him too. He's only ever shown me love and kindness a-and in return I've just...I feel like I've fucked him up beyond recognition! I made him cry last night, Toro, just because I wanted to be near him. He asked me to leave but I...I couldn't. He was so sad and I wanted to help somehow. But I pushed him and triggered his anxiety. How selfish is that?!”

Frowning thoughtfully, Ray plays with the plastic stirrer in his cup. “Ok first of all, you didn't fuck him up, man. Frank has had issues with anxiety and his temper for as long as I've known him and that's like half my life. Sure you did a desperate, painful thing in Florida but you were in a huge amount of pain and you weren't to know Frank would find you there and see everything. That kid was struggling way before he found you in that motel room. I'm friends with both of you remember, and I know you're both in a really bad place right now and it's really hard...”
“Yeah, no shit.”
“But that doesn't mean Frankie's mental health is your responsibility. Whatever it is you two need to feel in order to cope with this situation, I think you should just let yourselves feel it. Bottling stuff up won't help anybody and it's not healthy. You aren't a selfish person for wanting to be close to someone who makes you feel good, Gerard. And neither of you are bad people. He's sick and you're grieving and you both drink too much but you're not bad dudes. You're not broken. Life is hard, give yourselves a fuckin break.”

Gerard nods slowly, staring into his drink like it might hold all the secrets of the universe.
“I'm gonna grab a bagel,” Ray adds with another glance at the door, “You want anything?”
Gerard shakes his head and lifts his mug again, closing his eyes to inhale the fragrant liquid. Ray squeezes his pal's shoulder and wanders over to the counter, pretending to read the chalkboard menu while actually watching the door until it finally swings open and Frank slinks in out of the sunshine. The teenager is wearing sunglasses, a faded Danzig tshirt and torn jeans and his dark hair is matted to his forehead with sweat. Peering around at the crowded tables, he nervously clenches his left hand while chewing on the bitten-down fingernails of his right, looking unusually shy and lost.

Gerard is sitting with his back to the door so he hasn't seen anything. Ray quickly goes over and hugs his little buddy before stepping back and checking him for signs of damage. He isn't sure what he's looking for but when he sees the edge of a large bandaid peeking out from under Frank's sleeve near his shoulder he pretends not to notice. “Thanks for coming, Frankie. You doing okay?”
Frank shrugs, “Yeah I guess." Reaching into his baggy back pocket, he pulls out a neatly folded medical sling and hands it to Ray, “Before I forget, can you take this home and give it to Gee?”
“You can give it to him yourself,” Ray shrugs, nodding at Gerard's hunched figure on the other side of the room. Frank stiffens, realising he's been set up. “Did he ask you to text me?”
“No, but I got sick of watching him mope around on my couch all day pining for you.”
“Pining?” Frank scoffs, his eyes narrowing behind his shades, “I doubt that.”
“He was, for real.”
“Whatever man.”
“Look, I didn't tell him you were coming and I don't wanna force you guys into anything, so if you wanna turn around and go home that's cool. But I thought maybe you could talk things out in a neutral setting before stuff starts to fester, y'know? Sorry if I overstepped. You can just leave, I won't tell him.”
Frank sighs heavily as the noisy air-conditioner above the door ruffles their hair and Ray steps back a little, assuming he's going to flee, but instead Frank straightens his shoulders and drops his hand to his side, ignoring the blood beading around his chewed fingertips as he gazes at the back of Gerard's shaggy head. “I don't want to leave."

Chapter Text

A shadow falls across the table and Gerard looks up, expecting Ray. When he sees Frank he nearly chokes on his drink and drops the cup with a clatter, coughing awkwardly. Frank smirks, his uneasy posture relaxing slightly, and grabs a pile of napkins from the counter to mop up the spilt coffee. “What are you doing here?” Gerard splutters, trying to maintain his dignity.

“Toro,” Frank answers, sitting down in Ray's vacant seat and dropping the soggy napkins in a pile on the table. “He didn't say you'd be here though so if you're not cool with this I can go. Y'know...if you want. But I guess we should try to clear the air or something, right? There's a lot of...stuff...” Waving his hand vaguely at the space between them he trails off and sighs, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair before carrying on, gesturing nervously with each word, “We need to talk about Florida, ok, and New Year's. Because even when you're not around, Gee, all I think about is you and that's not healthy if we're not together anymore is it. But there's all this stupid tension and guilt between us and I can't deal with it anymore! It makes me feel sick, like ill deep inside, and since Florida I feel sicker every day. I'm really not doing good. I guess you noticed that last night, huh?”
“Everyone gets upset sometimes,” Gerard says carefully.
“Not like that,” Frank scoffs, wincing at the memories, “And you weren't even there for the worst of it. My stomach still hurts. Fuck. I don't even know why I get like that. I hate it, Gee. I fucking hate it!”
“It's okay.”
“No it's not! I feel stuck, like I'm trapped under all this heavy shit and I can't get out, y'know? When I kicked you out yesterday I thought being alone would help but it only made things worse...” Lowering his voice, he mumbles “A lot worse.”

“I agree that we need to talk,” Gerard ventures, fighting back the urge to comfort his ex with a calming touch or hug, “But I need to know what you want from me, Frankie. If you only need emotional support then I'll try but I'm not exactly in a safe, sane place either right now so it might not make much difference. Plus I'd have to be blind not to realize how bad I upset you last night. I hate that I made you cry. I'm so sorry.”
“It doesn't take much to make me cry,” Frank jokes weakly, his inked fingers tracing patterns in the wet coffee stains. “How can I fix things, Frankie? Do you want me to apologize again for kissing Bert? I said sorry like a hundred times but it didn't change anything. You still broke up with me.”
“Yeah because I was still angry with you! Saying sorry didn't magically undo what you did,” Frank snaps, “What even possessed you to do that to me, Gee? Why did you kiss the most repulsive creep in the room when I was standing right fucking THERE?! Everybody watching you act like that disgusting psychopath was better than your own boyfriend...” The teenager's voice breaks on the last word and Gerard feels like a total scumbag, the weight of self-hatred in his stomach growing bigger and making him ache.
“Of course he wasn't better than you.”
“Then why were you drooling all over him?” Frank shouts, his eyes burning fiercely as other customers in the cafe turn to look at them, “I was right there, Gee, and you just laughed at me!”

“I know, I was being a total dick. I'm so sorry,” Gerard insists, cowering under the embarrassing glares from people nearby, “I was wasted on tequila and blow and I wasn't even thinking! At midnight Bert threw his arms around me and I know I should've pushed him away and told him to fuck off but I was drunk and it...it s-seemed funny."
"Funny?" Frank chokes, balling his fists.
"I regretted it afterwards! I still do, every day. It fucking kills me to know that I broke your trust and lost your love and I fucked everything up. Even before Mikey died I hated myself. In Florida I just wanted it to stop. I wanted to kill all of the shitty things I'd done, not just to Mikey but to you too. To everybody. I knew I couldn't change my past mistakes but at least I could take myself out of the picture, y'know?”

Tears sting Gerard's eyes as his voice falters and he blinks them back, hiding his face behind his trailing hair. His throat is burning with acidic grief and he doesn't know how Frank can even stand to look at him. “I don't expect you to ever forgive me,” he adds shakily, "But I'll never hurt you again, Frankie, I promise. I...I don't want this to be the end for us. I don't want to say goodbye like this."

A long minute passes with only silence from the other side of the table and Gerard waits with a heavy heart as the coffee shop bustles on around them with people chatting and sipping from foamy cups.

Frank sits very still with his eyes lowered in thought. A streak of crimson blood glistens in the chewed nail bed of his right index finger and after a while he lifts his hand to his mouth, sucking hard on the wound. “You never lost my love,” he says at last, his voice muffled by his knuckles. A few locks of black hair escape the grip of his sunglasses and fall down over his forehead and he doesn't brush them away.
"I didn't?” Gerard sniffles hopefully, gripping his empty coffee cup like a security blanket. Frank shakes his head and sighs, nibbling on his torn finger again until the older man reaches over and swats his hand away from his mouth, “Stop eating yourself.”

The teenager rolls his eyes at the scolding and another minute of silence stretches between them but it's friendlier this time. Then suddenly Frank leans over and brushes his lips ever so softly against Gerard's cheek. His warm skin smells like fresh sweat and soap and Gerard shivers with unexpected pleasure at the small touch, unsure if it's a promise of things to come or a kiss goodbye. Settling back in his chair, Frank smiles faintly but his eyes are still sad. “You don't deserve to hate yourself so much, Gee. You're not the monster you think you are and I don't want you to be miserable on account of me. I get it. I know what it's like to look in the mirror and hate the sight of your own face. I'm a walking disaster right now. But at least you still like me...right?”
Gerard nods frantically.

“All things considered, I think I can forgive you for the Bert thing,” Frank continues carefully, “I need to let that shit go for my own sanity. I had no idea Florida was anything to do with the fallout from that but if I said or did anything back then to contribute to you feeling like you had to end it all, I am so, so sorry. I would NEVER want you to feel like you should hurt yourself because of me and my petty bullshit. I'd rather you punch me in the fucking face!"
“I'm still sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry. It's done now, it's forgiven. Besides, I'm apologising too.”
“For what? It's not your fault, it's mine."
“Stop blaming yourself for everything,” Frank begs, getting up and moving around the table to kneel by Gerard's chair and take one of his hands, “I'm sorry I freaked out on you last night. I know you were just trying to help but sometimes I get so worked up I can't control what I say. I didn't mean any of it.”
“I know. But I shouldn't have turned up unannounced like I did and messed you around, that was dumb. Sorry again.”
“Apologies all accepted,” Frank insists.
“Ditto,” Gerard breathes in relief, tucking his messy hair behind his ears, “So does this mean we're not saying goodbye?”
“This is gonna sound cheesy but I don't think I could ever say goodbye to you,” Frank admits, “I care about you too much to cut you out of my life.”

Getting to his feet, he pulls Gerard up with him and holds him close in an embrace that is gladly returned, “I didn't follow you all the way to Florida for nothing, babe.”
“Listen to you calling me 'babe',” Gerard whispers, nuzzling his face against Frank's hair and breathing him in, “What does that mean?”
“Whatever you want it to mean,” Frank giggles, “But let's go find Toro and get out of this dump. I haven't eaten anything today. You wanna grab some pizza?”
“Yeah, I'm starving."
“Rad,” Frank cheers, squeezing Gerard's hand as the dark clouds in his head start to clear for the first time in weeks.

**
After consuming a huge amount of junk food, the three friends wander down through the dusky greens and sunlit trees of a local park until Ray gets bored of watching Gerard and Frank make out and heads for home. The others barely notice him leave.

The hot afternoon turns slowly into a drowsy evening with sunburnt parents dragging tired kids home as the sun starts getting low. Gerard and Frank are sharing an old picnic bench watching the sky change colours when Frank's phone starts ringing for attention. “You gonna answer that?” Gerard yawns, lying across the bench with his feet dangling in the dry grass. Frank reluctantly pulls his eyes away from the fading sunbeams glowing in his boyfriend's hair and answers the call from his mom.
“Frank, where are you?”
“The park.Why?"
“Who are you with?”
Hearing the wary edge to his mother's tone, Frank glances at Gerard and answers with a lie, “No one.”
“Well I need you home now please.”
“I'm just taking a walk.”
“Come home, Frankie,” his mother insists, “Please. We need to talk.”
“But-”
She hangs up and Frank scowls at the blank screen. “I've gotta go,” he grumbles, gently poking Gerard in the stomach until his boyfriend sits up in the gathering dusk, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. “How come?”
“Mom wants me back, says we need to talk.”
“That sounds ominous,” Gerard remarks, passing the cigarette to Frank who puffs on it nervously as the latent tension from last night returns to his neck and shoulders. His belly starts cramping with nerves and suddenly all that pizza seems like it was a bad idea. Gerard slides a comforting arm around his shoulders but Frank pushes it away, his spiking anxiety making him feel smothered by even the smallest touch. “I've gotta go,” he says again, jumping up and crushing the dead cigarette into the dirt, “I'll call you later,” he adds halfheartedly, ignoring Gerard's worried face as he walks quickly away.

**
Linda is waiting for him in the kitchen smoking moodily and looking more serious than he's ever seen her before. “Sit down Frankie." Frank clears his throat and takes a seat opposite her at the table, nervously licking his lips and tasting Gerard as his palms start to sweat. The bright bulbs in the kitchen ceiling cast shadows under his mother's eyes and make her look much older than her 45 years.

“I've found something that I need you to explain,” she says grimly, stubbing out her cigarette before reaching under the table for something big and dirty which she puts loudly on a sheet of newspaper she's already laid out. It's the trash can from Frank's room, the one he threw out of his window yesterday to hide from Gerard. His heart sinks at the ugly sight. It's still crammed with crushed beer cans, stale vomit, soiled kleenex and the pictures of him and Gee that he's been crying over for the last week, pitted with cigarette burns and curling and damp at the edges. Linda watches his guilty, horrified expression like a hawk and then pulls something else from under the table and places it beside the metal can: the blood-stained pocket knife.
“I'm sorry,” Frank blurts, burning with shame and desperate for forgiveness like a child caught misbehaving. “I just had a really bad, really stupid night and I-I drank too much. But I was gonna clean everything up I swear. It was a one-time thing!”

Shaking her head, Linda watches as a fiery storm of emotions ignite in her son's wide eyes and she struggles to keep her voice steady so as not to send him into another anxiety attack. After yesterday he's obviously still fragile. “Calm down, Frank. I'm mad about this sure but more than anything I'm worried, baby. Last night you were so messed up I almost called the hospital and you still haven't told me why that even happened. It's okay to have secrets sometimes but not if they make you feel like that! When I found this stuff outside I couldn't believe it. I still can't. You're scaring me here, Frankie. What else did you do to yourself? How did you even get your hands on this much beer? Is there more in your room? Do you need stitches or a tetanus shot? That knife looks goddamn filthy!”
“No. I-I mean I don't think so. I cleaned it a-and a friend bought me the beer. You threw away my fake ID last summer remember? There isn't any more." Wincing at the quake in his voice, Frank bites his tongue to keep from stammering out anything else incriminating but the panic he's been trying so hard to keep hidden from his mother for months is hollering and screaming in his chest. She's asking too many questions and he doesn't know how to explain this mess without mentioning Gerard. “I'm sorry Mom, I know I drank too much b-but I needed it and-”
“NO ONE needs this much beer, especially not an eighteen year old kid! Do you want me to end up in jail?" Linda hollers, all fired up, "Did you keep drinking after you threw up? You could have given yourself alcohol poisoning. What were you thinking?!”
“I'm sorry,” Frank cries, clutching at his twisting stomach as a surge of fight or flight adrenaline boils his blood, “It was stupid. I'm fine now, I swear."

“You are NOT fine!" Linda cries, up on her feet, “This is not fine! Don't lie to me and treat me like an idiot just because I'm your mother." Breathing hard in the guilty silence that follows, she rolls her anger back a little and sits down, lowering her voice. "I just want to understand why you're doing this. You can talk to me. I don't want my kid hating himself enough to take a knife to his arm so whatever or whoever is making you feel sad or anxious, you can tell me. I won't judge. I won't get mad. Well...I won't get MORE mad. Having negative feelings is nothing to be ashamed of, Frankie. Lots of people have these kinds of problems. I've seen more self-harm scars and drunk kids in the ER then I can count. So talk to me, let me help. I know an amazing shrink, she helped me after your Dad left. I could take you to her. I love you more than anything, you're my child. I don't want you hurting yourself.”
“I know,” Frank whispers, guilt-ridden tears soaking his eyelashes as he stares hopelessly at the floor and the table and his trembling hands: anywhere except his mother's sorrowful face.
“Is it me?” Linda asks fearfully, “Have I been too hard on you about school? Have I done something to make you miserable?”
“No,” Frank chokes, self-loathing stabbing his heart at the thought of her blaming herself for this, "This isn't about you, Mom.”
"Then what is it about? You seemed better before you went to Florida, did something happen there?”
“I don't know,” Frank mumbles, wishing she would stop asking questions. His stomach hurts so much and it's getting harder to breathe.
“Is it that man you used to date?” Linda demands, her voice hardening with protective anger, “The older one. Did he do something to you?”
“What?” Frank gasps in horror. His breath catches in his throat and he can't seem to fill his lungs as sweat runs down his forehead and oh god, he's going to be sick...
“This man,” Linda presses, fishing a stained photograph of Frank and Gerard out of the trash can, “I knew he was too old for you but I left it alone, I let you decide, and now he's got you in some kind of trouble hasn't he. I know someone was in your room yesterday. Was it him? Did he hurt you?”
“No,” Frank cries, his voice breaking, “He would never hurt me!”
“Oh really?” Linda retorts, dropping the photo and jumping to her feet again, looming over his chair, “Because I seem to remember him breaking your heart not that long ago. Yes Frank, I figured it out. It wasn't that hard. You didn't talk or eat right for two weeks after New Year's Eve and I never saw him near you again after that. Then suddenly last week you take off to another State and when you come home you're like this! So what am I supposed to think when I look at this picture? You can't just disappear like that and then...” Her tirade falters and falls silent as her son screws his teary eyes shut in what looks like pain and grips his skull with shaking hands, pulling viciously on his own hair. She's pushed him too far.

Biting her tongue, she runs to the sink to get him a glass of water and brings it to the table, sitting down beside him with her hand on his back. He's breathing hoarse panicky gasps and his shirt is damp with sweat. “Alright, sweetheart, it's alright,” she murmurs gently, “I'm not mad now, it's okay. Take a deep breath Frankie...deep slow breaths...come on, I know it's hard, but it'll get better. Listen to my voice now, Frankie. Focus on my voice. Feel the air on your skin... Listen to the cars out in the street. Feel the chair you're sitting on and the floor under your feet. Notice what you can hear and feel and see... That's it, and just breathe, baby. Deep and slow, it's ok. This'll pass. Deep breaths. In...and out... in...and out...”

Focusing on the sights and sounds of the room around him helps Frank slow his racing thoughts and the rhythm of Linda's voice and her hand on his back coaxes him into breathing softer and deeper. After a few minutes he's able to take a drink of water and when he can breathe normally again and see more than just a blur, he groans miserably and drops his head onto his arms on the table, embarrassed and exhausted. Linda stops rubbing his back and plants a loving kiss in his hair, noting that he could really use a shower. From under the sink she pulls out a fresh garbage bag and fills it with the items from the table, with the exception of the least damaged photograph which she wipes clean and leaves on the counter. “We don't need to talk about this anymore tonight,” she sighs, tying the bag closed and opening the back door to take it out into the yard, “But we'll pick it up again in the morning, and no more drinking, Frankie, I mean it. Alcohol will only make you feel worse.”
Frank nods wearily in defeat and wipes his eyes and nose on the back of his wrist, shivering in the draught from the open door. He feels hollowed out and raw and the bright kitchen lights make the world look hard and sharp, like he could bruise himself just by moving.

Linda shuts the door and goes to wash her hands and while her back is turned, he slides off his chair and grabs the glass of water and the wrinkled photograph, taking them upstairs to his room where he curls up on the unmade bed. It's not late yet but he's tired and already fighting the woozy numbness that comes after an emotionally brutal day. After a little while he drags himself up to use the toilet and treat his gurgling stomach to some pepto bismol from the medicine cabinet before trudging back to bed for the night and lying down with Chilli tucked under his head and Bon Jovi playing on his ipod. Kicking off his jeans, he burrows deeper under the sheets and checks his phone. Gerard has texted him: R u ok? X
Snorting in bitter amusement, he types a message back with clumsy fingers: yeah mom wanted sum fam time. call u 2moro. Frnk xx
By the time Gerard texts back - OK. Nite xoxo – he's already asleep.

**
When Linda goes to bed that night she lies awake staring at a small battered notebook on her night-stand, trying to pluck up the courage to read it. It will help Frankie, she tells herself, it'll help me understand him, and understanding him will help me fix him. With a determined frown, she picks up the journal she stole from Frank's bedroom while he was at the park and opens it to his first scribbled entry.

Chapter Text

“It's ok, it's ok. We're all good now...all good. It's...ugh...”

Scowling into the bathroom mirror, Frank scrubs at his dripping face with a towel and spits into the sink. His throat is burning from throwing up his lunch – he can't seem to keep any food down today - and his neck and shoulders ache with tension. The summer weather is too hot to think and his shirt is already damp and clinging to his armpits and back. Turning on the cold faucet he lets the soothing water gush over the racing pulses in his wrists and mutters a few more words of self-comfort that don't really help. He should be over the moon with joy right now about having Gerard back in his life but instead his stomach has been doing nervous flip-flops all day and his mind won't stop replaying the things his mother said last night:
That she wants him to see a therapist and she thinks he's a cutter and a juvenile alcoholic and, worst of all, she thinks that Gerard is somehow abusing him! He can't find the right words to convince her otherwise and now he's scared that she's gonna do something drastic to keep him and Gee apart.

Leaning heavily over the sink, he rests his forehead against the misty mirror and shuts his eyes. Out of habit his teeth start chewing a fresh sliver of skin out of his sore lip. It tastes like salt and nosebleeds. Sucking the tiny bubbling wound, he glares at his reflection again as dark thoughts run like freight trains through his head. Why didn't he get rid of that stupid trash can before his mom found it? Why is he such a fucking idiot? Why hasn't Gerard answered any of his texts today? What if, what if...?

Groaning loudly, he licks away the blood on his mouth and tries to take slower deeper breaths. It's too loud in his brain. Why is he always like this? Looking at his clenched hands, he imagines punching the shit out of the tiled bathroom walls until his knuckles break. If his mom was out of the house he would scream his throat bloody. Anything to get rid of this sick lingering anxious dread that he's been carrying around since Florida. Curling his right hand into a fist, he hits the wall by the mirror once, fast and hard. Oh god, too hard! OWW! The sharp shot of pain makes him swear and he's on the verge of tears once a-fucking-gain.

Gingerly flexing his bruised knuckles, he sits down dejectedly on the edge of the bathtub and checks his phone. Still no messages, no missed calls. He can't bear to send Gerard another text only for it to go unanswered. What if he's coming across as too needy? Why is this so damn hard? Dropping his head into his hands, he gnaws on his lip some more and stares at the linoleum between his feet until it blurs into shadows and dust. The whirling storms in his mind that stop his breath and crush his heart when he gets scared or low are destroying the part of him that Gerard made so happy yesterday and it's so unfair he wants to scream. Why can't he just be happy? Why can't he be fucking normal? The bad thoughts swirl faster and faster and he feels more and more miserable... and then a horrible new terror hits him right out of nowhere: what if Gerard isn't picking up the phone because he's hurt himself again?

**
A loud frantic knocking interrupts Ray's lunch of lukewarm noodles and he eyes his door suspiciously from the couch. “It's open,” he calls warily and Frank comes flying in looking like he's just run ten blocks. “Is Gerard here?” the teenager pants, his eyes wild and cheeks red with exertion. “Nope, he's gone for a drive. I don't know where,” Ray replies through a mouthful of food, “Are you ok man?”
“Yeah uh huh,” Frank wheezes unconvincingly, “Fine. I just...I just need to see Gee. He's not answering his phone so...I-I thought, I mean I AM thinking... Fuck! Like what if he's done something, Toro? Like something bad! Where did he go? Why the fuck don't you know?!”
“Because he's a grown man and I'm not his mom, Frankie. Chill, sit down. Breathe, little dude. I'm sure he's fine.”
“But why won't he text me back?" Frank blurts, "When's he coming home?”
“I don't know," Ray says carefully, "But this isn't something you need to panic about, I promise. You can wait for him here and he'll turn up and you'll see, it's all fine.”
Riddled with anxious paranoia, Frank glances frantically back and forth between Ray and the open door like he can't decide what to do so Ray gets up and shuts it for him and the twitchy teenager gives in and sits down on the couch in a sweaty heap.

The murmur of the television is the only sound in the room while Frank catches his breath and wipes his face on his shirt. Ray fetches a bottle of water from the fridge and throws it to his friend who gulps it down with a nod of thanks.
“So what's got you so spun out?” Ray asks, scraping the last sticky noodles from the bottom of his bowl. Frank grunts dismissively and digs a pack of cigarettes out of his jeans, lighting up and breathing jerky puffs of smoke as his feet tap anxiously on the carpet.
“Anything I can help with?” Ray adds gently.
“Not unless you can turn back time, Toro. Or give me a new brain or I dunno, make me older and smarter and richer so I can get out of this shithole town and live my own life without people trying to control me and- ”
“Is this about your mom, Frankie?”
Frank scoffs loudly but then rolls his eyes and relents. “Yeah kinda. It's not just her though, or even Gerard. I think it's me. I'm just like this and I can't ever shut it off, y'know? Look at me, man. A dumb super-loser nervous wreck who's in love with a suicidal artist, and I can't even do that right.”
“You mean Gerard?”
“Yeah duh.”
“But you guys seemed really happy yesterday after the pizza place. What happened? Did he threaten to do something? Is that why you're so worried?”
“No,” Frank admits, closing his eyes and dragging more burning chemicals into his lungs, “But I've had a bad feeling all day and I can't shake it.” With a hoarse sniffle he stubs the cigarette out in Ray's empty bowl and curls up on the couch with his face buried in his knees, “I just need to see him, ok?" he groans in a muffled voice, "Stop talking to me about this shit. I don't wanna talk about it anymore."
"Aw come on Frankie, don't shut down.”
“Just leave me alone, Toro. Let me fucking rot."
“Okay fine,” Ray sighs, getting up and heading to his bedroom to escape the drama, "I'm just trying to help."

**
"Where are you?” Gerard mutters under his breath, digging between the seats in Ray's car in search of his lost cell phone. When his hands come up empty except for some dirt, cat hairs (huh?) and an old kleenex (ew!), he gives up and climbs out onto the sidewalk, slamming the door with more force than necessary. The weather is still aggressively hot and the dumpster by Ray's apartment block treats his nose to a wave of boiling garbage stink as he plods up the steps in his black coat and sunglasses like the stubborn goth he is. Oh, the joys of summer. It's much cooler inside the old building and he leans gratefully against the metal wall of the elevator, digging a new comic book and a bottle of soda out of his bag and opening both before he even gets to Ray's floor. He's already lost in the comic's colorful pages by the time he reaches the apartment so he's not prepared for the quivering bullet of warm human that slams into him and grabs him in a hug the second he opens the door. “Frank?” he blurts, spilling sticky cola all over his hand and – alas! - the comic as Frank burrows into his torso and grabs at his coat, gasping something unintelligible. “What the fuck, Frankie? Are you ok?”

"Are YOU?!” Frank retorts, backing up all of two inches as Gerard pushes his way into the room so he can close the door. “I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?" Gerard tuts, moving into the kitchen and grabbing a dish towel to wipe down his potentially ruined book, “What's up? What are you doing here?”
“Um...I...”
The teenager makes a weird choking sound in his throat and Gerard finally looks up from cleaning his comic long enough to realize that his previously-ex-boyfriend does not look okay at all. “What's wrong babe?”
“I thought.. I thought you...uh...” Frank stammers, wringing his hands and looking down at his feet, “Never mind. It's dumb.”
“You thought what?” Gerard insists, shrugging off his jacket and coming over to take Frank in his arms, “Why are you so upset? What's happened? Is it your mom?”
“I was worried. You weren't answering your phone,” Frank says in a small embarrassed voice, hunching in for a cuddle.
“I think I left my phone here,” Gerard replies, kissing the top of his boyfriend's warm fluffy head, “At least I hope I did, either that or I've lost it.”
“Oh. Ohhh, ok,” Frank says in the same sheepish tone, stepping back a little with his hands in his pockets, trying to look chill when he obviously isn't. Gerard frowns, confused and tired from the heat. Getting out of the house for a few hours a day is meant to help with his recovery but it's exhausting and he was looking forward to vegging out on the couch tonight with the latest Doom Patrols. That probably isn't going to happen now... but maybe that's a good thing. Frank is standing right in front of him after all, looking so damn cute.
“Is Ray home?” he asks casually.
“Yes!" Ray shouts from his bedroom, “And these walls are paper thin so don't do anything you don't want me to hear!”

The tension in the room dissolves as Gerard snickers in amusement and a spark of mischief and desire lights up Frank's eyes. “You wanna go for a drive?”

**
“Ohhh fuuuuuck!" Frank rasps, bucking his hips as shudders of ecstasy melt through his thighs and ropes of cum spurt across Gerard's teasing tongue. Smirking victoriously, the older man swallows and sucks Frank's pulsing tip clean before lifting his head and lunging up the leather backseat to kiss him. "Ewww, dick-lips!” Frank giggles into the warm wet mouth crashing into his. “It's your dick,” Gerard pants, sliding his tongue past Frank's welcoming smile, flushed with pleasure. He's missed this so fucking much it hurts.

When they're both spent, Gerard eases himself into a sitting position with a contented moan and rolls down the window to let the evening breeze into their steamy parked car. Frank continues to lie half-naked on the damp backseat, savouring the last glowy tingles in his perfectly relaxed body before they fade away. It's after dark and they're parked near the woods out of town where nothing but the birds can disturb them. Frank's phone is lying switched off somewhere on the floor and he hasn't given it a second thought since they left Ray's. The only person he wants to talk to tonight is here with him.

A silver moon glimmers through the swaying trees as Gerard pulls Frank's bare legs onto his lap and lights a cigarette, blowing smoke rings out of the open window while his left hand massages slow lazy circles into his boyfriend's skin. He doesn't need the sling anymore. All of the pain in his arm is gone, replaced by the slow itch of healing.

The earthy smells of pine and soil drift through the car and Frank closes his eyes, breathing low and drowsy. For a few brief moments tonight he managed to forget all about the horrors of Florida and everything bad that has ever happened before or since. He feels safe here and Gerard is safe with him. They can both be at peace.

**
Meanwhile, a few miles across town, Linda is seething with confusion and rage. She's just read the last entry in her son's journal, written the day after he got back from Florida, and it was filled with so much pain, self-loathing and fear that her heart breaks at the thought of her baby boy being so miserable and scared. She can see the agony in his shaky handwriting and the smears of ink smudged by tears and the beer he used to drown his sadness and her motherly protectiveness is soaring into overdrive. How dare Gerard Way use and abuse her son's caring nature like this, driving him to the edge of a nervous breakdown when he's barely eighteen years old! Mr Way is nearly twenty-four and she can see that he's obviously too old and too damaged for Frank, but for some reason her son doesn't see it that way. The whole journal is full of desperate wonderings about why Gerard didn't want to kiss him on New Year's Eve and why Gerard tried to kill himself and what Gerard thinks and why he does this and why he says that...everything is Gerard, Gerard, Gerard! Her son is clearly obsessed with this suicidal drunkard and is heading down the same path to self-destruction because he naively believes he's “in love”! Well, Linda knows better. This painful demolition of her son's emotional wellbeing can't really be love. Slamming the journal closed she swears to herself that she'll find a way to get Gerard out of Frank's life for good.

Chapter Text

Gerard drops Frank home just after midnight like a slightly tardy Cinderella and after sloppy goodbye kisses, Frank walks backwards up the garden path, watching Gee drive away until the car disappears from sight and silence falls over the moonlit street. Almost immediately a feeling of loss grips his heart and the happy grin falls from his face. Hugging himself on the shadowy porch, he tries to shake off the wave of loneliness and unease already creeping into his heart. It's okay, he tells himself, Everything is fine now. Stop worrying, just STOP...

Smoothing his scruffy hair into a less obviously just-been-fucked style, he sneaks into the house with his key, hoping his mom is asleep but before he can even shut the door her voice rings out of the kitchen, "Frank? Can you come here a minute?" Swearing under his breath, he kicks off his shoes and trudges reluctantly towards the brightly lit room. She sounds pissed off and worried and he doesn't have the energy to talk her down. All he wants to do is shower and sleep and get lost in dreams of Gerard. The lingering buzz of serotonin in his brain from being with his boyfriend is fading fast and the wide breezy outside world suddenly shrinks to just this claustrophobic house and his angry parent. Now more than ever he wishes that he was a proper adult living away from all of Linda's smothering good intentions.
“What's up?” he asks moodily, finding his mom at the kitchen table drinking tea and smoking a clove cigarette. She frowns at his sulky tone. “Don't 'what's up' me. It's late and I had no clue where you were. I tried calling but your phone was switched off. I was worried.”
“Well...here I am,” Frank sighs, a bite of frustration in his voice, “You don’t have to worry so much. I'm eighteen not fucking twelve.”
“Hey, I think after the other night I have plenty of reason to be worried about you.”

Wilting under her earnest concern, Frank looks at his feet, bad memories surfing through his mind on a wave of nausea. "I didn't get drunk tonight," he mumbles, hoping to placate her, "And I'm okay now, honest. I feel way better."
"I hope so," Linda replies stiffly, stubbing out her cigarette in their old glass ashtray. Sighing softly she rises and walks over to him, briefly stroking his hair before using her warm chapped hand to tilt his chin up until he's meeting her gaze instead of the linoleum's. "So where were you? At Ray's?"
"No," Frank admits with a faint smirk and Linda looks so disappointed that he wishes he could make her understand how happy he was tonight before he had to come home to all her endless questions. Leaning closer, she sniffs the air and wrinkles her nose like she can smell the sex on his clothes. “You were with Gerard Way,” she says stonily. This time it's not a question.
"No," Frank lies, his face growing hot, "I was just out."
"Out?" Linda repeats grimly. "Yeah, out!" Frank snaps, exasperated. "God! I just went for a walk."
“Don't lie to me, I'm not stupid. I know you were with him.”
"So what if I was?” Frank yells, his anger growing as he glares at her defiantly, their green and brown eyes boring into each other, "We went out, we had fun and now I'm home, safe and fucking sound. Stop interrogating me!”
“I don't want you seeing that man again, Frank. He's bad for you.”
"Says who? You don't even know him.”
“I know more than you think. I know you followed him to Florida and I know he tried to kill himself and I know he makes you miserable! He makes you drink and cut and-”
“No he doesn't!” Frank bellows, almost stamping his foot with frustration, doing absolutely nothing to help his argument, “He doesn't make me do any of that shit. He makes me happy, mom, he's the ONLY thing that does! You just don't understand!”
“Maybe he didn't make you feel bad TODAY,” Linda counters, “But the other night you had the worst emotional crash I've ever seen and I know that was his fault.”
“That was my fault, not his."
“No Frankie,” Linda gasps, “Is that what he made you think? Did he tell you it was your fault?”
“No! God, stop talking about him like he's some kind of predator!" Frank begs, his voice raw with anger and hurt, “He's not like that. He cares about me. He loves me!”
Linda closes her eyes for a moment. “No he doesn't,” she says firmly, “And as long as you are living under my roof, you will not see him again. I forbid it."
“You forbid it? How the fuck are you gonna stop me?" Frank spits, and Linda whips back her hand and slaps his face. They both gasp in horror and Frank covers his stinging cheek, his eyes wide with shock. Linda wants to apologize – she's never hit her son before, not ever – but instead she hears herself bellowing “GO TO BED!”

Burning with rage and confusion, Frank runs upstairs and slams his bedroom door as hard as he can, kicking it twice for good measure. He knows he's being a brat but he doesn't care. He hasn't done anything wrong and his mother flipped out for absolutely no fucking reason! What he and Gerard do is none of her goddamn business! Yanking off his jacket, he balls it up and throws it at the wall with a hoarse scream of anger. The healing cut in his shoulder throbs as heated blood pounds through his veins and he's practically shaking with fury. Trapped and spiralling, he fumbles down the side of his bed for the quart of vodka he stashed there last week, unscrews the cap and swings straight from the bottle. Gerard is HIS, and being with him is HIS choice. Why would Linda want to take that away from him when it's literally the only thing in his whole pathetic life that makes him happy? Chugging more vodka as tears fill his eyes, he sobs and curses into the bottle, steaming up the glass in his rush to drown out his anger and sadness in intoxicating poison. She can ground him and take away his stuff and lock him in his room and throw away the fucking key but she can't stop him from loving Gerard! He has to show her that she can't split them up and he'll fight her every step of the way if she even tries.

***
Ray wanders out of his room around 1 a.m and is greeted by the unusual sight of Gerard humming and smiling as he makes up his bed on the couch. "You're in a good mood," the taller man smiles, heading to the fridge to grab a soda, "I'm guessing you had fun with Frankie?"
The humming stops and Gerard's face falls a little. He nods self-consciously and sits down heavily on the old sheets, picking at the cord on his pajama pants. Ray scoots over and perches on the arm of the couch. "You're allowed to be happy sometimes," he says softly, "It's okay."
"No it's not," Gerard mumbles, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, "I don't deserve it."
"That's not true. I don't believe for a second that Mikey would want you to be miserable for the rest of your life."
Gerard flinches at the sound of his brother's name and buries his face in Batman-covered cotton, his shoulders slumped with sadness. "It should have been me," he whispers, so quietly that his friend can barely hear him.
"It should have been none of you," Ray counters, sipping his beverage slowly, "You'd only had two beers that whole night. You thought you were sober enough to drive."
"But I wasn't, was I," Gerard groans, still hiding his face.
"You were under the limit by the time they tested you," Ray reminds him gently.
"Yeah when it was already too late," Gerard huffs, lifting his head to reveal pained eyes brimming with tears, “Fuck, Ray, why'd you have to bring this up now?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

Wiping his eyes, Gerard slumps down against the pillows and cracks his knuckles. "Sometimes when I close my eyes I see him...I-I see Mikey's face right after it happened," he says shakily, "Before anyone found us. He looked so...surprised. I guess he was surprised his big brother killed him." Sniffling miserably, he pulls the coffee-stained comforter up over his head and Ray sighs and takes another swig of his drink, awkwardly resting a hand on his pal's shoulder. "I know it doesn't help much but you can stay here for as long as you need to, buddy. I'm here for you. Always."

***
The unsettled night turns slowly into a warm summer morning and Frank awakens to the sound of his alarm clock screeching and someone knocking on his bedroom door. “Go away,” he groans, punching the clock into silence and covering his hungover head with the blanket, “Leave me alone.”
Out in the hall Linda stops knocking and bites her lip, forcing an upbeat tone into her voice. “Come on, Frankie, it's time you got a summer job. I can drive you into the city before work.”
“No fucking way.”
“You've gotta do something with your life now. You've graduated high school, it's time to start working for a living. Frank, are you listening? Hey...Don't you even wanna go do something with your friends?”
“You hate my friends," Frank groans, his head pounding.
Sighing sadly, Linda gives up and checks the watch pinned to the front of her nursing scrubs. If she doesn't leave soon she'll be late for work.
“I love you,” she calls softly. Her son doesn't answer.

Plodding downstairs, she grabs her purse and makes sure Frank's journal is still tucked safely inside. She'll have to find another opportunity to sneak it back into his room later. In the meantime she needs to figure out how to cheer him up and make him see that he'll be better off without Gerard Way disrupting his life. With a hopeful smile she finds a pen and leaves a note for her son on the fridge:
I'll be home at 5 today.
Be ready to go out
because I told Nana Lillian
we'd visit.
She misses us.
Love Mom

Frank adores his grandmother so he's sure to come out of his room and act nicely for her sake. Maybe the wise old woman can talk some sense into him.
With time getting on, Linda is on her way out the door when she spies something shiny lying in a dusty corner near the stairs: Frank’s cell phone. He must have dropped it last night when he ran to his room. With a guilty glance upwards, she picks it up and presses the power button, watching the device light up in her hand. The lock screen is a picture of Frank's beloved white Les Paul guitar that he got for his sixteenth birthday. Without really expecting anything to happen, she presses 1-2-3-4 on the screen and to her surprise, the phone unlocks. Clearly she needs to teach her son a few things about personal security. The home screen is flashing with text message alerts and a missed call from Gerard Way, and the background photograph is of two hands entwined on what looks like a leather car seat. The hand with those awful knuckle tattoos that she hates is clearly Frank's and the other no doubt belongs to the man who's been trying to contact her son all morning. Gritting her teeth, Linda turns the phone off and stuffs it into her purse.

***
All morning Gerard keeps checking his phone for messages from Frank and when he doesn’t get any by lunchtime he tries to shrug it off, thinking that his boyfriend must be sleeping late. But when four o'clock rolls around and Frank still hasn't called or texted back, Gerard grows anxious and worried that he's done something wrong. Maybe he did something wrong last night in the car or maybe he said something stupid. Frank seemed happy enough but they’ve been moving so fast in this rekindled relationship and maybe the teenager is having second thoughts or even running scared. Oh no.
Ray has taken his car to work so Gerard walks over to Frank's neighbourhood, clutching his phone the whole way just in case it rings or vibrates but it doesn't. With the hot sun beating down on his head, he swats at the flies and bumblebees drifting through the warm air of the Iero's front yard and walks nervously up to the house. Frank's mom's car isn't in the driveway which is a relief. He wouldn't even dare to approach if she was home.

He knocks three times but there's no answer, only silence from the old house. Frank's cracked bedroom window is slid open a little, the curtains waving faintly in the breeze, and Gerard almost calls out his boyfriend's name but there’s an old man watering plants in the garden next door and he's too self-conscious to start shouting. He's about to just give up and leave when the door suddenly swings open and a bouncing ball of Frank rockets into his arms, jumping up to wrap his legs around his waist and forcing Gerard to catch him in a cuddle. “Hey!” he cries happily, hugging Gerard's neck and kissing him wetly on the lips and nose, “I was hoping you’d come over!” He’s wearing sweatpants and a holey Jawbreaker shirt and smells like soap and beer, his dark hair damp from the shower. “I was gonna call but I think I lost my phone. I've looked all over but it’s not here. Did I leave it in Ray's car?”
Gerard grins and kisses his hyper boyfriend back. “I dunno, probably. How are you?”
“I'm great,” Frank cries giddily, his eyes flashing as he drops back onto his feet and pulls Gerard into the house, slamming the door closed and lunging at him again, kissing him hard on the mouth. Gerard gives in to the embrace, sliding his tongue between Frank's eager lips and the teenager bites excitedly at him and grinds a thigh against his crotch until they're both getting hard. “Are you sure you're okay?” Gerard splutters, surprised at the force of his boyfriend's lust. “Never better,” Frank pants. “Then do you maybe wanna take this upstairs?” Gerard giggles, super aware of the straining boner in his jeans as he nuzzles Frank’s neck and breathes in his scent. Frank grins mischievously, “The couch is closer.”

Before Gerard can argue he's being dragged into the living room and pushed onto the silky blue sofa. Without even pausing for breath Frank strips off his own shirt and straddles the older man's lap, kissing him again with almost desperate force. Gerard kicks off his sneakers and fumbles with his belt buckle, sliding part way out of his jeans. Rutting against Gerard's thigh like a horny dog, Frank pulls at his boyfriend's underwear and takes his plump erection in his hands, rubbing the shaft up and down all the way to the tip until pre-cum soaks his fingers. “Ohhh god,” Gerard moans, burying his face in Frank's bare chest and gripping his waist so hard he must be leaving marks. Frank shivers with pleasure and rubs himself harder on Gerard's leg, massaging the sensitive underside of the other man's dripping head with his wet thumb and forefinger until Gerard feels a tight ecstasy building inside him, making him shudder and gasp. No, no, not yet, not yet! Sweat glues his shirt to his back and his legs start to tremble as he kisses Frank's collarbone, sucking the pale flesh until blood blooms to the surface in a hot purple bruise. Frank moans low in his throat and moves his hand faster as Gerard rolls his hips, riding the younger man’s slippery palm until the pleasure overwhelms him and his orgasm splashes across Frank's hand and stomach. Gasping through the comedown, he sinks back into the blue cushions and opens his eyes to see Frank leaning closer until their foreheads are touching and the teenager kisses him again, his warm skin slick with perspiration as he pants hoarsely against Gerard's mouth. Gerard whines happily and slides his hands down Frank's hips, pulling his pants low enough to return the favor...

...and that's when the sound of the front door opening rings loudly from the hallway. Panic explodes inside Gerard and he practically shoves Frank off his lap in his rush to cover himself up. Frank slides slowly onto the floor and picks up his discarded shirt, using it to wipe his sticky hands and belly as Linda Iero's voice echoes through the house. “Frank, I'm home. Are you ready to go to Nana's?"
Horrified, Gerard zips up his fly and cowers on the rapidly cooling couch, staring in disbelief at Frank who is calmly getting to his feet and pulling his pants up without any kind of hurry. The teenager is actually smirking to himself and his mom's voice was obviously a boner-killer but he's not as horrified as he should be when getting caught hand-fucking his boyfriend in the living room. In fact he looks kinda smug... and a little drunk. Oh shit.

Sauntering over to the living room door, he steps out into the hallway with a quiet “Hey mom,” and Linda turns, frowning at her offspring's sweaty shirtless appearance. “Frank, what are you…?”
Gerard grabs his shoes off the floor and looks frantically around for an escape route, wondering if he can climb out of the window before Mrs Iero sees him, but it's too late. She looks past Frank and catches sight of him and her puzzled expression morphs into disgust and anger. Gerard cringes in submission, his cheeks burning crimson, fully expecting a barrage of verbal abuse to be hurled his way; but all she does is look back at her son with a furious and knowing glare. “Did you read the note I left on the fridge?”
“Sure did,” Frank replies calmly.
“Then you knew what time I’d be home,” Linda says through gritted teeth, her expression unreadable. Out of habit Gerard checks his watch. It’s just after 5 o’clock. Frank nods, no longer meeting his mother’s gaze as he folds his stained t-shirt into a small damp square. With clenched fists and pursed lips, Linda turns to Gerard and barks two words at him: “GET OUT!”

Mumbling frantic apologies, Gerard dashes past her out the front door and runs nearly halfway down the block before stopping to put his shoes on out of sight of the house. What the hell just happened?! Did Frank set them up on the couch so his mom would find them together! Why the fuck would he do something like that?! Gasping in horror as dust and shame clogs his throat, Gerard wipes his sweating face on his forearm and tries to calm down. He feels gross and used and so embarrassed he could die, and it seems like everyone on the street is staring at him, making it all ten times worse. His heart hurts and his brain is screaming at him to drown out what just happened in a silencing ocean of whiskey or pills. Blinking back tears, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through the contacts with trembling fingers. It would be so easy to call a cab and get to a dive bar downtown, so easy to lose himself in cheap vodka shots and those sleepy gray tablets that the doctor gave him.
With a shaking hand he dials. Someone picks up on the third ring.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Hey Toro. Um, look, uh, I'm sorry if you’re at work or whatever but I just…I-I’m on Frank’s street and...can you come get me? Please, I can't be here!”
“What happened? Are you okay?”
“No! I-I don’t know, I just don't wanna be alone right now, Ray, I'm scared I'll do something..."
He’s half-whispering, half-sobbing into the phone and Ray insists on picking him up immediately. “I'm leaving work now and I'll be there soon as I can. Don’t move until I find you, ok?”
“Yeah ok. Thanks."

Hanging up, Gerard wipes his eyes on the back of his wrist and sits down miserably on the curb, staring at his unlaced Vans while ugly intrusive thoughts run through his mind: '...What the hell was Frank thinking? Is he using me to get back at his mom? He was drunk. Does he drink because of me? What the fuck are we even doing?!' After several endless minutes of this self-torture, he tries calling Frank for an explanation but the line goes straight to voicemail and he can’t bring himself to leave a message.

Chapter Text

The urge to slap her son stupid twists Linda's hands into fists as she boils with anger and shame. She feels shaken to the core, dry-mouthed with shock and disgust and it physically hurts her to know that her own kid is making her feel this way. On purpose! With a quivering breath she forces herself to relax her fingers and blink away the tears pricking her eyes. Frank is staring at the floor, all of his cheek and defiance wilting now that the deed is done. Linda can't even stand to look at him. Storming into the living room she stares in horror at her powder blue silk-lined sofa, the only brand new piece of furniture she has ever owned and paid off in full. It still looks clean enough but god knows what her son and that man were doing on it just now. The bleachy stink of fresh spunk taints the air and makes her stomach turn. “What the hell were you thinking?!” she screams, finally turning to glare at her son where he's still lurking in the doorway. Looking up with his face stubbornly locked into a neutral expression, he stares her down but in the silence she can hear his breathing quicken. “You knew I would walk in on you two together. You knew! Jesus, Frank, that's disgusting! How can you act this way?! How are you my son? I don't even recognize this person in front of me!”
Flinching at her words, he says nothing but bites on his lip so hard it turns white.

Pushing past him, she grabs her bag from the hall, pulls out his phone and slams it down on the mail table. “I think it's best if you don't come with me to Grandma's,” she hisses, so angry that she's forcing out each word through clenched teeth, “Clean yourself up. I'll be back late.”
Throwing open the front door, she marches out and slams it behind her.

The second she's gone, Frank drops the last shreds of his splintering composure and howls a strangled “Fuck!” Now that he's alone all he can think about is that awful look of fear and betrayal on Gerard's shocked face and he feels sick as regret and self-disgust curdle in his gut. Raking his hands through his hair, he spits out a dozen more curses and his racing mind replays the whole terrible scene on repeat, all those images of Gerard and himself and Linda growing louder and faster and brighter and harder until they burn, and he wants to take it all back but he can't. What has he done?! Hating himself and sick to his stomach, he heads for the couch to sit down but his legs are shaking so bad he misses the sofa cushions and hits the carpet instead with a sob that cuts through his lips like a knife. What the fuck has he done? Gerard must hate him now! Oh god, this was so STUPID! Why did he do this to the man he loves and the woman who raised him? What the hell is wrong with him?!

Suddenly all the leftover vodka and beer he sucked down before Gerard came over surges up his throat and he scrambles to his feet to run for the bathroom but it's too late and he vomits vile yellow puke all over his mom's beloved sofa. Retching and coughing, he falls on his ass again and his heart drops at the sight of the mess he's made. His mother is going to KILL him. She's already madder then he's ever seen her and if she comes home and sees this she'll cry and yell and probably kick him out of the house and he'll deserve it. He deserves it all. Desperately grabbing his cum-stained t-shirt he wipes at the sodden silk cushions but somehow this only makes the mess worse and now the couch smells like sex as well as beer and bile. Rocking back onto the carpet he sobs hoarsely as sweat runs into his eyes and his chest grows unbearably tight. Maybe it was the alcohol that made him feel goofy and invincible enough to dream up what he thought was an awesome plan to make his mom see that she couldn't control his relationship. But it wasn't awesome at all, it was gross and manipulative and creepy and now his relationship is probably dead. That last thought punches the air out of his lungs and his shame and panic rises with each crashing heartbeat in his chest. Gerard will hate him now! His mom will kick him out and he deserves it because all he's done is cause her pain. He feels like the stupidest most revolting person in the world right now and there is no one around to tell him any different.

Clutching the soiled shirt in a death grip, he screws his eyes shut and tries to find his boyfriend's comforting scent but everything smells like vomit now and he's spiralling into blind panic and can't stop. Grabbing the TV remote with clammy shaking hands, he flips through fifty different channels seeking any kind of distraction to snap himself out of his tortured thoughts but nothing works. His heart drums painfully as he gasps for breath – breathing too fast, way too fast but he can't slow down, can't control himself, can't make any of this stop - he's stripping the oxygen from his blood and his lips and fingers are going numb. Forcing his curled fists to unclench, he drags his hands into his hair and pulls on the roots so hard he rips a few strands loose with a sharp sting but he still can't ground himself. He can't. Fucking. BREATHE!
Screams roar in his head and the world is nothing but this suffocating black hole where terror blots out every rational thought and he feels like he's choking, dying, having a fucking heart attack and it's all his fault! He deserves this, he deserves this!
Gagging and panting as his head spins and shadows pour into his eyes, he stumbles into the hall and reaches for his phone to call 911 but trips and smacks his head on the sharp corner of the mail table, knocking it and himself to the floor. Oxygen-starved blood thunders in his ears and runs down his face, mixing with the sweat and tears on his cheeks and the phone hits the floor by his head. He's so dizzy he can't get up and he still can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe!

**
Ray is en route to pick up Gerard when his cell phone rings in its dashboard cradle. It's Frank's caller ID and he sighs with trepidation and punches the hands-free answer button as he drives. “Hey Frankie. Listen, just so you know I've already talked to Gee so I know something went down between you two but I don't know what. Are you okay?”
No answer.
“Frank?”
Still no answer, just an open phone line and a faint rasping noise. Sighing, Ray shakes his head and ends the call. His friend must have pocket-dialled him by mistake.

**
After blacking out for a minute or two, Frank slowly comes around and finds himself slightly calmer and breathing better but still in a world of shit. His forehead is throbbing like someone slammed it into a wall and for a moment he has no idea why he's lying half-naked on the floor. His face feels wet and his nose is all drippy. Pain drills into his skull and the labored breaths he's dragging into his aching lungs are making him nauseous. Rolling woozily onto his side he finds his phone lying next to him and pokes at it until it unlocks and shows him the photo of his and Gerard's hands. Then the mist in his brain clears and he shudders with shame and guilt. Drunk or not, how could he have set Gerard up to be humiliated when the poor guy thought he was being loved? He feels lower than scum. Sobbing miserably, he's suddenly startled as sweat drips from his hair and splatters in red droplets across the phone screen. Oh man, as if this day could possibly get any worse.

Leaning against the fallen mail table for support he gets up on his feet and trudges upstairs to the bathroom. Looking curiously into the mirror he gasps at the smears of bright scarlet blood staining his forehead and dripping in sticky red globs through his tangled bangs. Running the cold tap, he washes his face and blinks hard to clear his vision, watching watery crimson splatter the white porcelain. The bleeding isn't major but it is weirdly hypnotizing and he zones out staring at the mix of splashing water and red droplets until a passing police siren outside snaps him out of it. Wrapping one of his hands in toilet paper, he dabs clumsily at the small gash on his forehead and sticks a band-aid over the wound, watching it turn wet and red in the mirror before slapping another larger one on top that seems to do the trick. With a gloomy sigh he wipes his face and sits down wearily on the side of the bath, gazing sadly at the damp floor. A very similar floor stained with Gerard's blood flashes through his mind and he winces at the memory. The house is so quiet he can hear the hall clock ticking downstairs. He is completely and utterly alone. Snorting back snot, he spits into the drain and starts mentally counting ticks and tocks until they turn into minutes and bleak exhaustion settles over him. Outside the bathroom window the sun is sinking lower in the sky, casting glowing golden beams through the glass.

Today was a horrible mistake and the root of that mistake, the gritty heart of the whole damn problem, isn't his mother and her hatred of Gerard, and it isn't Florida, or even New Year's Eve. Nope. “It's me,” Frank whispers. Sure he saved Gerard's life in that motel but he was also part of the reason his ex was there in the first place. And as for his mom, she would definitely be better off without him wasting her money and arguing with her every day. She and Gerard don't need him screwing their lives up worse than he already has. No one needs him. He's eighteen and already a neurotic, drunken, cry-baby wreck and he hates feeling this way, like a failure and a burden, but that's what his life has become. There's no escape. No escape. Unless...maybe... maybe he could just...leave. Yeah. Get up and leave this place and this shame and this whole goddamn mess behind him. What's stopping him? He's a grown man, not a little kid anymore, and people leave home all the time don't they? They pack up and disappear and the world keeps turning.

Wiping his eyes and nose dry, Frank goes to his bedroom and grabs a hoodie off the floor, covering up his goose-bumped skin with the thick comforting fabric. The more he thinks about it, the more leaving home makes sense now. He can't stay here any longer: Linda's rules are suffocating him and he has filled this house with bad memories: anxiety and hangovers and guilt and so many broken pieces. Gerard won't want anything to do with him after what happened today, he's sure of that, but it breaks his heart to think about it so he pushes all thoughts of his boyfriend away into the darkest corner of his mind. Running away and replacing his pain with something new and different seems so much better than staying here feeling like this. But the problem with skipping town is that he's got hardly any money and no car so where exactly is he supposed to go? He doesn't want to go and stay with family because that's hardly the clean break from Linda that he's seeking and he hasn't had any close friends for years except for Ray...and Gerard.

**
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Ray asks cautiously, putting the car in Park and turning off the engine. Gerard snorts and stares at the dashboard with red-rimmed eyes, “I can't even process this shit right now, let alone discuss it.”
“Ok that's fair. But just so I know, is Frank alright? I'm not gonna take sides but should I call him or something?”
“Do whatever you want,” Gerard mutters darkly, stepping out into the street, “I don't give a shit.”
The car door slams and Ray watches his friend storm away towards the apartment building, hunched over and so tense that Ray can practically see the black storm clouds hovering over him. Sighing softly, Ray grabs his phone and calls Frank. After ten rings it goes to voicemail so he hangs up and tries again, tapping his foot impatiently on the car's dusty floor. It takes four calls but eventually there is a faint click and Frank answers with an annoyed bark, “What do you want Toro?”
The teenager's voice sounds ragged and out of breath and Ray frowns with concern.
“Hey Frankie, are you okay?”
“I'm fucking peachy,” Frank huffs, and there's a dull thudding noise in the background followed by rummaging, rustling sounds, “Why do you ask me that every time we talk?”
“Because I'm your friend...and because pretty often you're not okay. What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
More rustling and another soft thud like a drawer or closet banging shut.
“I've seen Gerard. He's pretty upset.”
Silence suddenly falls like a stone on the line and for a second Ray thinks his friend has hung up. Then he hears a faint hitching breath. “Did he tell you why?” Frank asks after a moment.
“No.”
More silence.
“Do YOU wanna tell me why?”
“Fuck no.”
“Alright that's fair. It's not my business. But whatever happened please remember it's not the end of the world. You and Gerard are gonna be ok.”
Another shaky breath.
“Frank are you listening?”
“Goodbye Toro.”

**
With sadness clogging his throat, Frank hangs up and puts his phone on mute. Looking at the untidy mass of clothes crammed into the sports bag in front of him, he swallows hard and walks around his room adding some more of his crappy belongings to the bag: mp3 player, headphones, charging cable, the rest of his secret vodka stash, a flashlight, a couple of books and the $83 he has in his wallet. As he passes the bed he scoops up Chilli and cuddles the threadbare toy for a moment, tucking the little dog under his chin and rubbing his nose against its soft head like he did when he was a kid. It's an old habit that offers little comfort now but he adds the small cloth puppy to his bag all the same. In another corner of the room his guitars are resting under a thin layer of dust, desperate to be played again. It's been so long since he had the motivation. He strokes their strings fondly for a moment before putting the battered acoustic into its case and slinging the straps over his shoulder. After stopping in the bathroom and kitchen for a few more supplies, he zips up the bag, grabs a jacket from the hall and is out of the front door before he can change his mind, already Googling bus routes on his phone. He can do this. It's for the best and it's all gonna work out fine. He can do it.

The door shuts behind him with a clunk of finality and a twinge of doubt tugs him to a halt in the front yard. Shuddering in the warm evening sun, he chews at his lip until there's blood in his spit. The taste reminds him of his head injury from earlier and the panic attack which caused it and the absolute cluster fuck of a day which caused that... and he tries to keep walking but he's frozen in place. Maybe he can't do this after all. Who is he kidding? He's probably gonna run out of money and fail at getting a job and end up alone in some cold filthy gutter somewhere. Trying to breathe deeply while his heart drums and nervous sweat stings the cut on his forehead, he wants to run but can't take another step. He's trapped, unable to move forward but too proud to turn back. If he even looks at the house behind him he knows he won't be able to leave it behind. Still, he has been so miserable inside those walls and he can't stay in a town where the only man he's ever loved now definitely hates his guts. "Stop being such a pussy," He tells himself, pulling out the vodka bottle and chugging three gulps straight, gasping as the bitter sting blanks out his spiralling thoughts for a second. His phone vibrates with a concerned text from Ray and he rolls his eyes at the sight of it. He's not a kid anymore, dammit so why does everyone treat him like one? He shouldn't have to rely on well-meaning buddies or his probably ex-lover or his despairing mom or anybody else to take care of him. Enough is enough! He looked after Gerard in Florida and he can look after himself too. Putting the bottle away, he shoulders the bag as a calm boozy heat soaks through his empty stomach. The sun is setting. It's time to go.

Chapter Text

That night a storm soaks the town in steamy summer rain. Gerard tosses and turns for hours without finding sleep, twitchy and sandy-eyed as his mind taunts him with replays of Frank's hand on his cock, his boyfriend’s breath in his ear, and Linda’s furious ‘GET OUT!’

At five a.m. he gives up on rest and plods miserably into the kitchen to make coffee and cereal, exhausted by this latest trip through emotional hell. His heart feels wrung out like an old rag and he doesn't have the energy to do more than shovel down Fruit Loops in front of Ray’s flickering television. Regret weighs upon every inch of his skin and he wants to scream out the frustrations bubbling in his throat like hot lava but if he wakes up Ray he might not even have a couch to sleep on anymore. Biting his tongue, he changes channels and lands on a commercial from last summer that reminds him of Mikey. The sight of it is like a knife in the gut and before he knows what he's doing he’s thrown his empty cereal bowl at the screen. It misses. A wave of grief and torment stirred up by Mikey’s memory floods his brain and stings the scabby scars on his arm and he’s so disgusted with himself he could puke. No wonder his parents don’t want to know him anymore. No wonder Frank treated him like garbage yesterday. He deserves all their poison and hate. He deserves to be alone.

A tear wets his cheek and he scrubs it angrily away, grabbing his medication from under the couch and swallowing a dose of the small chalky pills with beer from the fridge. He wants to get better, he really does, but he doesn’t know how without Mikey here and it hurts to try. The hopelessness hurts more than anything else. Shutting off the TV, he goes to the window and yanks it open, letting in the cool dawn air. The rain is easing off now and the sky is brightening with a calming orange glow. Swilling stale Budweiser around his mouth, he tearfully watches the clouds change color with the sunrise and slowly the bad thoughts fade away.

It’s past six a.m. when he crawls back under the blankets, rolling his shoulders around to try and ease the stiffness in his neck. Crashing on couches isn't fun and he misses his old bedroom in the basement of his parent’s house. He’s been growing more and more homesick lately and this mess with Frank is only making it worse. He’s desperate for a hug and a few kind words from his mom or dad and he wonders if they feel the same. Maybe he should call them and see how they’re doing. Maybe he could finally go home.

But five hours later he’s still on the same couch, playing Super Mario Bros while Ray paints the kitchen nook walls yellow. 
"You know what this color reminds me of?" Ray ponders, turning up a Metallica song on the radio. "Baby puke?" Gerard guesses distractedly, wincing as Mario misses a jump and plummets to his computerized death.
"Close. I was gonna say baby chicks. Like lil' chicken babies."
"Has anyone ever told you you're too cheerful, Toro?"
"Many people, many times."
Metallica booms into a loud chorus and Ray head-bangs to the beat, dripping paint on the counter. "Dork," Gerard mutters affectionately, pausing the game to check his phone. Still no word from Frank and nothing from his family either, even though he texted his dad this morning to catch up. All he wants is a ‘hi, how are you?’. A thin needle of self-pity pricks his heart and he tosses the phone aside and restarts the game. His parents always did like Mikey better and now they always will.

Ray's house phone suddenly starts ringing, interrupting the rock music and he turns the volume down to answer it. "Hello?... Oh, hey Mrs Iero."
Gerard looks up sharply, dropping his controller.
"…No I haven't," Ray says into the phone, meeting Gerard's questioning gaze with concerned brown eyes, "I don't know...Have you tried his cousins?...Oh… Yeah of course. Yeah I'll let you know if I hear from him… Ok. Bye." Hanging up with a frown he thoughtfully scratches his jaw with a paint-smeared finger.
“What’s wrong?" Gerard asks nervously.
"She said Frank’s run away.”
“Run away?”
"Yeah, weird way to say it right? Like he's five or something. Apparently, he packed up some stuff and left last night before she got home. He left her a note but all it said was 'I'm sorry.' She said he's not answering his phone and wanted to know if I’d seen him. Have you talked to him?"
"No. Why would he just take off like that?”
"Beats me," Ray shrugs, dipping his paintbrush back in the soupy can, "Probably needs to get away for a while and clear his head. He's just being dramatic.”
“Dramatic?”
“Yeah. He'll be back in a couple days you’ll see.”
"But he blew most of his money on me and that whole Florida...thing. Why would he leave with no cash and no place to go? He barely went to school as a Senior and he's always saying he doesn’t have any real friends except us. I’m guessing he’s not crashing with family either?"
“Apparently not.”

Exhaling nervously, Gerard paces over to the window, trying to keep his head straight as the hurt feelings and self-pity he’s been holding on to since yesterday turn into worry and realization. "Something isn’t right,” he mutters, “Frank was acting so weird yesterday and he’d obviously been drinking and…ugh, let’s just say he did something that really, REALLY pissed off his mom. Pissed me off too but especially her. I thought she was gonna hit him she was so mad. What if he took off because she did something? Or what if he took off because of what he did to me?! What if all of his acting out is cuz of what I've put him through?"
Ray lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “Stop with the 'what ifs'. He’s been gone for one lousy night, Gee. It’s probably not your fault he took off and even if it is there's not much you can do about it now. You can’t control him or force him to come back until he's ready. And I seriously doubt his mom would hurt him, dude. Come on, you’ve met her right?"
Grimacing, Gerard grabs his phone and speed-dials Frank’s number, “Yes, we've met.” The line goes to voicemail so he leaves a message in the calmest voice he can muster: "Hey Frankie, it's Gee. I dunno what was going on with you yesterday but it sucked. I guess we should talk about it and I'm kinda worried about you so, um, call me back okay? Bye."

***
'...call me back okay? Bye.'
Frank listens to Gerard's message half a dozen times before reluctantly deleting it and switching off his phone. Curling his fingers around the lifeless gadget, he gnaws anxiously on the edge of the rubber case until it starts to crumble between his teeth. Gerard still wants to talk to him after what he did yesterday? That doesn’t make any sense. No, uh uh. Gerard was only calling because Ray made him. Yeah that must be it.

Spitting out rubber flakes, Frank lies back on his lumpy motel bed and squints up at the water stains on the ceiling; murky brown blobs soaking through the old plaster like coffee through cream. Sadness claws at the back of his throat and Gerard’s voice echoes in his mind making him feel bad again: stressed out and shaky like he’s breaking apart.

Screwing his eyes shut, he winces as the throbbing cut on his forehead demands that he do something to make the pain and shaking stop. There’s already half a glass of vodka and some aspirin melting in his stomach but he forces down a couple more shots anyway as the stuffy air grows thicker and heavier on his lungs. The alcohol's heat crackles through his pulsing bloodstream into his clammy skin and when he opens his eyes again the walls and bed beneath him are spinning so bad he pukes a little in his mouth. Forcing himself to swallow the mess, he drops the bottle in disgust as sweat glues his shirt to his back and a sob of frustration escapes his lips. Why does this keep happening? He'd hoped that leaving Belleville behind would stop the triggers for his anxiety but he can’t find any relief so far from this panic that randomly obliterates his senses. A broken relationship and a domineering parent are the only things waiting for him at home, he reminds himself. He can't live like that anymore. It’s better this way. It’s better to run.

Biting his lip nearly to bleeding point, he digs his fingers into the mattress beneath him and focuses on taking one long precious breath after another. Voices and traffic sounds hum in the street outside and the nauseating stench of frying hotdogs seeps under his door. “It’s ok, I'm ok...,” he whispers, forcing his aching lungs to keep breathing, just keep breathing, keep breathing, “I'm ok.”

After leaving home full of hope and nerves, he had only made it as far as Newark bus station before realising that even though he could afford a Greyhound ticket to another State, or even up to Canada, he’d have nowhere to go once he got there. His pitiful handful of dollars wouldn't last five minutes and it would take time for him to beg, borrow or earn more cash. He couldn’t turn to his few relatives for help because they would tell his mom where he was and if he went to Ray's place Gerard would be there and he wasn't ready to face him, not even close. With nowhere else to go and too proud to crawl back home so soon with his tail between his legs, he'd paid for a couple of nights in the cheapest motel he could find so he could figure out what to do next.

This whole thing would be a lot easier if he felt like he’d successfully escaped the places and people making him feel so confused and trapped; but he’s only been gone one day and already his cell phone is stuffed with missed calls and texts from his mom, his aunt, his cousins, his nana, and even a couple of kids from school he never talks to anymore whom his mom must have bullied into checking on him. And now Gerard too. If this was the 1980s he could've left home in the same way and no one would be able to contact him. No one could disturb him with the constant buzz and ring of mobile fucking technology. But this isn’t the 80s so he’s going to have to keep his phone turned off for as long as he can stand it.

It feels like an eternity before the nervous sickness subsides and his stomach stops hurting but once the worst is over, he staggers off the bed and into the tiny washroom for some water, slurping it straight from the tap and rinsing his sweat-streaked face. At least he didn't barf or pass out this time. He's getting better at this. Mopping his face dry with the room’s only towel, he uses the toilet and goes back to bed, sinking gratefully into the old mattress and burying his face in a pillow. It’s not even lunchtime but he’s already exhausted and too drunk to stay awake as more vodka oozes into his blood with every heartbeat. Curling up on the musty sheets, he passes out to the sound of distant sirens.

***
One week, then two weeks and then a whole month goes by and there is no sign of Frank. Worried sick about where he could be, Linda files a missing persons report but there are no leads and since her son is an adult and obviously left home of his own accord there isn't much the police can do. Trying to stay positive she convinces herself that Frank just needs a break and of course he’ll call her or come back home when he’s ready. She has to believe he’s safe and well and taking care of himself, wherever he is, because the alternative is too terrifying to even consider. After several failed cleaning attempts, she throws out her soiled blue sofa but the bad memories surrounding it remain and the last harsh words she spoke to her son haunt her like demons.

The days and weeks crawl painfully by and it gets harder and harder to stay hopeful as she suffers in the isolation and silence of her lonely home. Every night when she comes home from work a tiny part of her hopes Frank will be there waiting for her but he never is. However, her son’s clothes and photographs and favourite foods are everywhere she looks and everything in his room smells like him. She calls him nearly every day but he never answers. Two days after he left she got one solitary text that simply said "I'm fine" but nothing else since and a month turns into five weeks and then six weeks with still no word. Nothing at all. When she can't stand the silence anymore she starts sleeping over at her sister’s place and dreams every night that her precious boy has come home, only to awake every morning and find out it’s not true. Her heart breaks a little more every day as regret and disappointment take their toll until it’s like a ball of shattered glass in her chest: sharp broken edges colliding together with a constant pain that never goes away.

She loves Frank more than anything, he is her only child, her whole world and losing him is like losing the biggest part of herself. She created him, grew him from a tiny cell inside her, gave him life, raised and adored him, sang to him, played with him, cared for him when he was sick and soothed him when he was scared. It wasn't always easy, especially after his father left, but she did her best, she tried so hard, and it must be her fault he’s gone. Was she too strict about his strange relationship? Was she not understanding enough about his depression? Maybe she didn’t give him enough privacy or freedom or space but he just seemed so fragile and hurt and all of her instincts told her to protect him from the person she believed was making him feel bad. Was that so terrible? She always tried to love him enough for two parents but it still wasn't enough. She failed him. It kills her to know that her beautiful boy might never come home.

***
Gerard and Ray check every place in the tri-state area where they think Frank might have gone but they don't find him and Ray has to regularly talk Gerard down from almost manic episodes of depression and self-blame. Empty liquor bottles start appearing in the trash every night and while Ray prefers to limit his drinking to hangover-inducing binges at the weekend, Gerard embraces an almost permanent state of intoxication: not completely wasted but always dazed and clumsy; self-medicating with anything he can find to try and stay numb. Ultimately it becomes such an effort to drag him off the couch and out into the real world for anything except more booze that Ray eventually gives up trying and spends most of his down time alone in his room gaming or listening to music that used to make him feel better.

Six miserable weeks drift by in a beer-soaked blur and then one cloudy day there is a solemn knock at the door. It’s Gerard's father. Surprised but grateful, Ray lets him in to talk to his wayward son and in a hoarse, broken voice Don Way apologises for the things he and his wife did and said to make Gerard unwanted after Mikey’s death. “We never meant for you to hurt yourself,” the old man explains tearfully, “And we never should have shut you out after the hospital, I know, but grief is a horrible thing, kid. I wanted to block out everything that reminded me of what we'd lost. But I don't want to lose another son. I hope it’s not too late for us to make amends.”

It's a long overdue visit but it couldn’t have come at a better time. Gerard is sick and only getting sicker, going days without showering or eating and he is barely holding it together. Utterly lost without his boyfriend and still guilt-stricken over Mikey, Gerard is isolated and cut off from everyone else he knows but Ray, and he’s been so starved of affection that he accepts his dad’s pleas for forgiveness almost too quickly. Don sets the terms of the family's agreement out very starkly: Gerard is welcome to come home right away if he also promises to attend rehab and addiction therapy before he ends up in the ground with his baby brother. Gerard shakily agrees and they leave together that very night.

***
With no friends in crisis crashing in his living room, Ray picks up some more shifts at work and treats himself to a new TV. He also makes a real effort to cut down on his weekend drinking and starts hanging out with a couple of older guys whose hangover days are long behind them. In his spare time he putters around the apartment playing video games and tinkering with his vintage guitars. Every now and then Gerard calls and they ask each other how they’re doing and if they’ve heard anything from Frank and the answers are always the same: ‘fine’ and ‘nope, nothing’.

The weeks and months stumble along in crosses and lines on the calendar and suddenly the weather is getting colder and the nights are longer and pumpkin spice lattes are being sold in every coffee shop. Frank has been missing for nearly four months. Ray half-heartedly decorates his windows with jack-o-lanterns for Halloween and buys candy for the kids in his building but there is a sinister gloom hanging over the holiday this year. October 31st is also Frank’s birthday. Somehow all the corpse costumes and rubber gravestones in the stores don’t seem fun anymore, just morbid.

Worried about how Gerard will cope with the depressing occasion, Ray invites him over to hang out on Halloween night and watch movies. It’s a pleasant surprise when his friend turns up on time and completely sober with a large pizza and a backpack stuffed with Cherry Cokes and scary films. He looks a little sleep-deprived but much healthier than when Ray last saw him, with a new shorter haircut and no new scars. Ray wraps him in a bear hug and they stay like that for a while, acknowledging each other’s feelings about their absent friend without the need for words. Eventually with a sad smile, Gerard extracts himself from the embrace and the two of them settle in for an evening of junk food and masked killers, dimming the lights and shutting out the cold rainy night with drapes and the radiator's warmth.

They’re only halfway through the first film when there is a loud knock at the door. “Trick or treaters,” Ray smiles, pausing the dvd to grab a bowl of chocolate bars and pull on a hairy werewolf mask, “I don’t wanna disappoint them.” Throwing open the door with a theatrical growl he laughs when the group of waiting children in superhero costumes squeal loudly and hold out their pumpkin-shaped pails. With handfuls of candy, the mini caped crusaders skip away happily down the hall and Ray turns back to Gerard who promptly takes a photo of him with his phone camera, “Are you gonna eat my grandma now, Mr Wolf?”
Shedding the mask with a grin, Ray starts to shut the door and gets the fright of his life when a blood-smeared hand shoves it back open. “Hey!” he yelps in surprise, tensing ready to fight off the rain-soaked intruder, but his voice drops to an awestruck whisper when he sees who the bloody stranger is, “Frankie?”

“What? Frank, where?!” Gerard cries, scrambling to his feet and spilling popcorn all over the floor. Pulling their friend into the apartment, Ray slams the door and turns on the lights and Gerard's ecstatic joy at seeing his long-lost boyfriend again quickly turns to horror when he sees Frank's face. "Oh my god.”

***
Ray runs to fetch some towels while Gerard gapes at Frank in speechless shock. The newly-nineteen-year-old looks half dead, leaning panting and shivering against the door behind him as rain drips from his hair and clothes. His skinny body is swamped in a soaking wet hoodie several sizes too big for him and his jeans and sneakers are filthy, stained with oil, mud and splashes of blood that's also dripping steadily from his nose and a raw wet wound on his cheek. “Here, come on, I've got you,” Ray murmurs, returning to his friend's side with a wad of Kleenex that he lightly presses to Frank's battered face. The white tissues quickly turn scarlet and Frank lifts a dirty, shaking hand to hold the soggy paper against his nose while Ray eyes the phone on the wall, clearing thinking about calling 911. Despite the cosy warmth of the apartment Frank is still shivering uncontrollably and his heavy breathing sounds rough and sickly. He still hasn't said a word. “Gee, help him over to the couch,” Ray orders, jabbing Gerard in the ribs to snap him out of his shock. Staring wide-eyed at Frank’s downcast face, Gerard gingerly takes hold of his arm and tugs him towards the sofa, wincing at the guttery stink of piss and sweat coming from the teenager's clothes. Frank goes where he’s led and sits down heavily the worn cushions, coughing hoarsely. Behind his dripping hair his eyes are black with shadows and bruises. “Frank, say something! Where the fuck have you been? Why are you bleeding? Who did this to you?!” Gerard blurts. “What the hell happened?” Ray gasps, draping a towel around Frank’s heaving shoulders, “It's been like four months, Frank! Everyone’s been worried sick about you, we didn't know if you were alive or dead!”
“I'm sorry,” Frank croaks, his soft voice choked with snot and blood. Sniffing hard, he shakes his head, unable to meet his friends' eyes, and starts to sob quietly, wiping his face on a filthy sleeve that's just as wet as his tears. “Ok man, hey, don't cry. Hey it's alright,” Ray soothes fretfully, rubbing Frank's bony shoulder and exchanging ‘what the fuck?’ glances with Gerard, “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? You can borrow some of my old clothes, they'll be too big on you but we'll make it work...

***
When Frank is safely stowed away in the bathroom under a hot shower, Ray starts pacing anxiously around the kitchen holding his phone with Linda’s number ready to dial on the screen.
“Don't Toro, you can’t call her without Frank's permission," Gerard protests, trying to snatch the phone away but Ray holds it up just out of his shorter friend’s reach. “She needs to know,” he snaps, all of his usual upbeat demeanour stripped away by concern and fear, “Frank’s been gone without a word for MONTHS and now he comes back looking like death with the shit kicked out of him?! We have to tell her. She’s his mom, and a nurse to boot. She needs to know!”
“Of course she does, but not yet!” Gerard begs, jumping up and slapping the phone out of Ray’s hand. “She’s part of the reason he left in the first place and we don’t know how he feels about her now. Do you want to risk scaring him off again?”
“Of course not,” Ray says fearfully, retrieving the phone and turning it off, “But he needs help, Gee and I don’t know what to do.”
“Me neither. Maybe we can take him to a free clinic or something. But HE gets to decide when we call his mom, agreed?”
“Agreed.” Slumping in defeat, Ray gulps a few calming breaths and looks around for something productive to do. He settles for turning on the coffee machine, “You want some?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

The coffee brews quietly in the ensuing silence as the weird evening stretches into a troubled night. A few more trick or treaters come knocking but Ray ignores them and keeps his solemn eyes locked on the closed bathroom door while Gerard chain smokes nervously by the open window, his heart in his throat as dark questions swirl in his head.

After an hour Frank finally emerges from the bathroom wearing some of Ray's clean sweatpants with the belt cord pulled as tight as it'll go, a pair of gym socks and a baggy blue sweater. He’s limping slightly but looks less in need of an ambulance now that the blood’s been washed off his hands and face. His damp hair is much longer than it was when he left and hides most of his eyes, hanging down past his ears and curling at the ends. But the biggest changes are the shocking amount of weight he's lost and the ring of purple bruises and old blisters mottling the skin of his neck. His grazed cheek is weeping through a band-aid he’s messily pasted over it and although his nose has stopped bleeding, it looks pink and sore under the harsh kitchen lights. He's obviously got a nasty cold clogging up his wheezing chest too, maybe even bronchitis or something worse. Gerard and Ray stare openly at him for a long very awkward minute and he wilts under their questioning gazes, tugging at the loose cuffs of his sweater. “Oh Frankie,” Ray says sadly, finally breaking the tense silence, “What happened to you, kid?”
“Long story,” Frank croaks in a subdued voice.
“Come here, sit down,” Ray insists, pulling out a chair at the breakfast bar which the teenager practically falls into, resting his head on his folded arms and closing his eyes. Gerard puts a glass of water in front of him and then squeezes his shoulder in an automatic gesture of comfort. Frank flinches violently at the touch so Gerard snatches his hand away and fights down the urge to hold his lost boyfriend in his arms and smother his bruised skin in guilty kisses. Clearly not an option. Instead he slowly reaches towards Frank's tangled bangs and waits for the teenager to nod before brushing them gently aside to feel his forehead. “Shit, Frankie, you’re burning up. How long have you been sick?”
Frank shrugs and looks away, “I dunno. A few days. I left my dirty clothes in the bath,” he adds, quickly changing the subject, “Didn’t know what to do with them. They should probably be burned.”
“I can put them in the trash chute,” Ray says hesitantly, "Or there’s a laundry room by the lobby so I could wash them for you if you like.”
Frank shakes his head fiercely, “No. They're fucking garbage.”
Ray nods and heads for the bathroom, patting his friend’s back with a comforting hand on his way past. Frank doesn’t flinch this time but his downcast eyes are shining with tears.

While Ray is busy, Gerard watches Frank like a hawk as the younger man tiredly sip his water, clutching the glass with both hands as small tremors of exhaustion or fever run through his skinny body. His tattooed knuckles are scraped raw and his fingertips are red and scarred. Gerard tries to stop staring at him but he can’t. A thousand unspoken questions burn on his tongue and his muscles are tensed up with the desire to grab Frank and yell WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN? WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?! Humming anxiously under his breath to block out the intrusive thoughts, Gerard forces himself to move away and fetch his boyfriend – if he can even call him that anymore - a plate of leftover pizza, a mug of coffee and some Advil. Questions can wait. All that matters is keeping Frank here where he's safe. “I’m glad you’re back,” he blurts awkwardly, “I missed you so much.”

Frank lowers his glass with a forced smile that vanishes as quickly as it appears. Taking the bottle of painkillers, he swallows some with a mouthful of coffee and sighs tearfully into the warm drink. For the briefest of moments his bloodshot gaze settles on Gerard’s face but then flickers down to the food in front of him and he doesn’t look up again, just starts shoveling cheesy bread into his mouth like he hasn't eaten for a week. After a few more minutes of tense silence Gerard can't take it anymore and leaves the kitchen nook, retreating to a beanbag by the TV with a cigarette because he honestly doesn't know what else to do. Grabbing the remote, he turns the movie back on and tries to lose himself in the campy horror, staring at the screen until his eyes sting, but all he can see is Frank: hurt and sick and frightened. It’s only when Ray returns after dumping Frank's clothes downstairs that Gerard risks looking back in his ex's direction and realizes with a start that the teenager has stealthily moved over to the couch and, as if to escape the inevitable interrogation, quickly fallen asleep, snoring through his bloody nose. “Happy birthday,” Gerard whispers through the burning emotions lodged in his throat.

“So I guess no doctors tonight,” Ray whispers, covering Frank with a warm blanket and dimming the lights before joining Gerard on the rustling beanbags, "I'll be giving him the third degree tomorrow though. There was a helluva lot of blood on those old clothes and I don't think it's all his.”
“But who would wanna hurt him like that?” Gerard chokes, tears brimming in his eyes now that Frank can’t see him cry, "And what's wrong with his neck? All those marks?"
“I don’t know,” Ray sighs, “But he’s alive and he's back and he's safe now. That's what's important.”
“Did you lock your door?”
“Locked and chained. Now, how are you holding up? This is insane for me but it must be twice as hard for you.”
“Mm,” Gerard mumbles, wiping his eyes and taking a long drag on his cigarette, “I’m alright. It’s just...a lot.”
“Yeah.”
The movie plays on and they watch it with dazed eyes while Frank sleeps, each of them lost in their own troubled thoughts.

Chapter Text

Faint music creeps through the darkness. Familiar beats and basslines thudding through a wall. Musky pillows of worn stuffed velvet are cuddled around him and everything smells like blood and soap.
Frank keeps his eyes closed as he slowly drifts back to full consciousness. If they realize he's awake he'll be kicked out of the bed. Or just kicked. No, wait a minute... something's weird...this isn't The Loft. He can't feel the usual fat hairy bulk snoring and farting beside him and no rough hands touching his junk or a stranger drooling in his ear or screaming at him. Where the fuck is he?
"Ray's," he whispers in relief, finally remembering, "... Oww." His voice cuts like barbed wire through his swollen throat and every muscle in his legs and back is knotted with pain. Holy fuck he feels terrible. "Ughhh."
Shivering under the blanket someone’s laid over his body, he opens his eyes a crack and moves his hands away from where they are protectively covering his crotch, shielding his face against the hazy daylight.
"Frank? You awake?" Gerard's voice.
"No," he groans.

Cool air stings his feverish skin as footsteps approach the couch. He drags his eyes open wider and sees Gerard standing over him holding a glass of cloudy fizzing liquid. "Hey," Gee says softly, studying him with worried hazel eyes. Frank has really missed those eyes.
"Hey," he rasps, wincing as the single snot-caked word sets his throat on fire again. Smothering a pained moan, he forces himself to sit up and has to lean on the couch arm for support. He feels like death. "You cut your hair, " he whispers, squinting up at Gerard who blushes self-consciously. "Yeah, I did. Here, drink this. There’s aspirin in it." Frank nods in gratitude and takes the bubbling glass with a hand that is only slightly trembling, sinking back against the soft sofa with the blanket tangled around his legs. The gritty, lemony drink goes down stinging and he gargles it around his tonsils, hoping to kill the pain. Gerard puts Cartoon Network on the TV and opens the drapes, letting in more pale autumn sunlight. There are Halloween decorations on the window pane. Frank blinks at them in confusion. How can it be his birthday already? This doesn’t seem real.
"What time is it?" he whispers, keeping his voice as quiet and therefore as painless as possible. "Almost noon. We didn't wanna wake you."
"Thanks."

Worriedly wringing his hands, Gerard takes a seat at the other end of the couch. "I stayed the night in Ray's room," he explains awkwardly, "I don't live here anymore but I didn't wanna just leave. I mean...fuck, Frankie, I can’t believe you’re back! It's so surreal, like fucking crazy! You were gone so long and I was scared you might've... Well... it doesn't matter now because you're back. A-And you’re staying, right? You’re not gonna disappear again?"
Shaking his aching head at the TV, Frank blearily watches Dexter chase Dee Dee around the screen and drains the last of his drink. The music quietly drumming through the wall suddenly shuts off and Ray emerges from his room. At his approach Frank huddles further into the sofa and Ray pauses before sitting down carefully between his friends. "Hey Frankie. Happy belated birthday. Did you sleep okay?"
"Yeah," Frank croaks, glancing nervously between his friends, "You're gonna ask questions now aren't you.”
"A few," Ray admits, "But you don't have to answer anything if you don't want to. Deal?"
Frank puts his glass down and nods.
"Okay," Ray breathes, exchanging a solemn look with Gerard, "Well first off, do you need a doctor? You were bleeding pretty bad last night and you look super sick today. Honestly I think you need medical attention, dude."
Frank lowers his eyes and picks at some fluff on the blanket, hating the dull inescapable pain burning in his nose, his head, his ribs. He knows he’s hurt bad, the full extent of the damage is painted across his body in violent colors under his clothes, but Ray and Gee don’t need to see that shit. No one does. He’s not dying and a doctor would ask way too many questions. “I don't need a doctor,” he whispers, trying to sound convincing, “I'm just a little sick.”
Ray exchanges another loaded look with Gerard and Frank feels like a naughty kid being told off by his parents: ashamed and embarrassed and very, very small.
“Are you sure?” Gerard presses nervously, “You look really bad.”
“I’m sure,” Frank snaps, pulling the blanket tighter around his body, “I got in a fight and now I have the flu or something. I'll be fine. Just drop it.”
“Ok, moving on,” Ray says quickly, “Can you tell us where you’ve been all this time?”
Breathing tremulously, Frank nods but keeps his eyes down. “Around New York city,” he mumbles, revulsion and regret spinning around his brain, “I fell in with some guys who, uh…they were kind of a bad crowd.”
“Yeah. OK. Uh, and what happened to the stuff you took with you when you left your mom’s? You didn't have anything on you last night, not even smokes.”
A pang of loss stabs Frank’s heart and his hands clench around a fistful of blanket, squeezing it white-knuckle tight in search of comfort. A childish part of him wishes that Chilli was here to hold but he’s never going to see his beloved boyhood toy dog again, or his favourite guitar, or any of it, and that hurts almost as much as the bruises. Ray and Gerard are staring at him expectantly but he can’t bear to tell them the truth so he just shrugs and swallows his sadness.
“You don’t know where you stuff is?” Ray asks quizzically.
Frank nods miserably. “Come on, Frankie,” Gerard sighs.
“I don’t! It’s gone, OK. Shit. And I don't have any smokes because I quit.”
Gerard clears his throat sceptically, managing to sound disbelieving without saying another word. Hanging his head, Frank bites his bruised lip as his eyes flood behind his shaggy hair. He’s never been good at lying but the truth about where his belongings really are makes him want to die. Confusion and pity is pouring off his friends in silent waves and that only makes him feel worse.
“Can you tell us who attacked you last night?” Gerard probes softly, lowering his head to try and get Frank to look at him, “And who gave you those bruises on your neck? Was it someone you could identify? Should we call the police?"
“No way! No police! Fuck that, it won’t help, trust me.”
“Why won't it help?"

Shrugging miserably, Frank tries to blink away his gathering tears but only succeeds in releasing them in wide trickling streams down his cheeks. The saltwater stings his wounds and he angrily wipes at his eyes as a voice in his memory roars ‘Quit crying, dipshit. I don't like my boys to look weak!’

“Alright, that’s enough for now,” Ray says gently, snapping Frank out of his tortured mind with a touch on the shoulder. “I’m gonna run down to the Deli for lunch. What do you guys wanna eat? My treat.”
“Pastrami and pickle, mayo sub on rye please,” Gerard says, “Are you hungry Frankie?”
Frank shakes his head and shuts his eyes, biting his tongue to pieces because if he opens his mouth right now he knows that sobs will come out. His nose is running and acid laps at the back of his throat.
“I’ll get you a Veggie special in case you’re hungry later,” Ray says as his footsteps move off across the room. The apartment door creaks open and bangs shut and then after a few moments silence the couch springs squeak and shift as Gerard inches a little closer. A jolt of sudden panic brings Frank to his feet and he stumbles away, fleeing to the bathroom. Slamming the door behind him, he locks it with trembling fingers and turns on the shower full blast to muffle his sobs before sinking to the floor and finally letting go, weeping brokenly into his hands.

**
“Frank?” Gerard gulps in bewilderment, going after the teenager and leaning his forehead against the bathroom door to listen for any sounds of chaos within. He can hear water running but not much else. “Frankie? I’m sorry if we asked too many questions. We’re just worried about you. Are you ok in there?”
No response, just the loud patter-rush of pouring water.
“Whatever happened to you out there it must've been unbelievably shitty, but it wasn't your fault. No one deserves to be hurt like that Frankie, and if there's anything I can do to help, please tell me. I don't wanna push you but I'm here if you need to talk. About anything... Or if you don’t wanna talk that’s fine too.”
Still no answer.
“Do you want some coffee? I’m gonna make a fresh pot so if you want some just, uh, just come out when you’re ready I guess.”
Backing away from the door, Gerard retreats to the kitchen and slots the empty pot into the coffee machine, filling the filter with freshly ground beans even though he doesn't want to drink any himself. His stomach is sick with worry. Pulling up a chair at the breakfast bar, he glumly scrolls through old pictures on his phone. The best photo he has of himself and Frank is from last December: the two of them standing outside Paradox Comics drinking jumbo cups of hot apple cider. The air is filled with flurries of snow and Frank is laughing at something off camera with one of his arms slung around Gerard’s waist. He looks happy and excited and loved. Mikey took that picture. Swallowing hard, Gerard puts the phone to sleep and lays it on the counter. It feels like a lifetime ago now.

The coffee’s ready when he hears the creak of the bathroom door and his heart jumps in anticipation. He’s getting the same butterflies in his stomach that he used to get when he and Frank first started dating, only now it’s because he’s terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing and driving the younger man away again.

Footsteps pad down the hallway and Frank reappears with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his hair even messier than before like he's been raking his hands through it. With a faint sniffle, he sits down near Gerard and rests his arms on the table, his curled hands fidgeting restlessly inside the long sleeves of his sweater. His eyes are lowered like before, half masked by his hair, but Gerard can tell he’s been crying. He's not crying now though, and somehow that's just as unsettling. Getting to his feet, Gerard pours out two mugs of coffee and spoons a generous helping of sugar into both. “Creamer?” he asks nervously.
“No thanks,” Frank answers, lifting his head and flashing a weak smile that surprises Gerard because not only is it totally unexpected, he also can’t even tell if it’s genuine. He wishes he were better at reading Frank's moods. Returning to his seat, he slides over a coffee and watches Frank grab the mug with both hands and breathe in the fragrant steam. There is a new spark of energy in his movements that wasn’t there when he woke up exhausted and sick, and his socked feet are tapping jerky rhythms against the legs of his chair. Gerard glances suspiciously towards the bathroom wondering what exactly he was doing in there.
“So...um...Do you think maybe you should call your mom today?” he ventures, “Tell her you’re here so she can stop worrying that you're…”
“Dead?” Frank finishes bluntly, “Yeah I should. Just rip that band-aid right off I guess.” Coughing harshly to clear his throat, he grabs Ray’s home phone from its kitchen base unit and punches in a cell number. His face looks blank, an emotional death-mask firmly in place, but Gerard hears him take a deep scared breath before pushing DIAL and he holds the phone to his ear with clenched fingers.
"Mom?..... Yeah it’s me…….. Yeah I’m ok, I-…… Mom I’m ok!……yeah...please don’t cry…… I’m sorry…….. No I'm fine, I just...I have a real bad cold....I missed you too……I know, I'm so fucking sorry Mom, I........I love you too…” His voice starts to shake and he glances at Gerard with teary eyes before getting up and quickly taking the phone into Ray's bedroom for some privacy. Embarrassed to overhear such a personal conversation, Gerard takes his coffee into the living room and turns Dexter’s Lab back on, upping the volume to make sure he can’t hear Frank’s voice through the wall.

Half an episode goes by before he hears keys jangling in the front door and Ray enters with a bag of delicious deli food and a forty ounce bottle of Sprite under his arm. “Everything okay?” he asks, tossing a wrapped jumbo sub into Gerard’s lap, “Where’s Frankie?”
“Talking to his mom in your room.”
“Oh awesome.”
“Yeah. But something’s wrong with him, Toro. Like really, really wrong.”
“Well sure, this whole situation is pretty far from right.”
“That's not what I mean," Gerard frets, unwrapping his food and taking a bite, "Thanks for lunch.”
“No problem. Fresh pot?”
“Just made it.”
“Sweet.”
Helping himself to a large cup of coffee, Ray slaps his own sandwich onto a plate and flops down on the couch beside his friend, poking him in the ribs, “Hey cheer up, Frank’s home! This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
“I know, and it's great,” Gerard agrees, “But I'm scared for him. I'm really fucking scared and I don't think anything he's told us today is the truth."
“Why?”
“He's hiding how bad he's really hurt. He could’ve been coughing up blood in your shower last night but he’d still be lying to us and saying he was fine.”
“Okay now you‘re freaking me out. What happened while I was gone?”

Gerard grimaces and turns to check that the bedroom door is still closed. “Nothing. But this morning I came out here to check on him, y'know, and he was still passed out. He’d kicked off his blanket in the night so I went to put it back over him and I saw his stomach where his sweater had ridden up.”
“So?”
“So he's covered in fucking bruises! Burns too and fuck knows what else.”
“Oh. Oh shit. From last night?”
“I don't think so,” Gerard frets, holding his mug in a death-grip as dread hardens like rocks in his gut, “These weren’t all fresh. Some looked like scars already and others were raw or half-healed.”
“So you’re saying that wherever Frank's been…”
“Someone was hurting him for a really long time.”

Chapter Text

For nearly half an hour Frank tearfully tries to reassure his mother that he’s alright, which is a lie, but at least he can say that he is somewhere safe now and have it be the truth. Hearing her voice again for the first time in months and knowing that she's forgiven him for what he did before he left leaves him swimming in emotion he's too weak to cope with today. He's overwhelmed by the need to be held safe in her arms like when he was a little boy and there is so much he wants to tell her, so many hurts that desperately need healing, but the truth of where he's been and what was done to him will break her heart so he only admits as much as he's told Gerard and Ray: almost nothing at all. Using his voice so much takes a toll on his chest and soon he's coughing every few seconds and can barely see through his watering eyes as pain pierces his throat with every syllable. 
"I'll come right over," Linda insists, "And I'm bringing medicine, don't worry. See you soon, Frankie. I love you baby. I love you so much!"
Frank nods even though she can't see him, saltwater dripping down his cheeks, and croaks a relieved goodbye.

Tossing the clunky phone onto Ray's bed, he fights the urge to lie down beside it and just pass out. The past couple of days have been physically and emotionally draining in every possible way and, added to the fact that he can barely breathe through the mucus from his cold, he's so tired he's getting woozy. Fuck, he could really use a pick me up. Scrubbing his hands through his tangled hair and down over his eyes, he licks teardrops off his skin and sniffs back another gulp of snot. He doesn’t want to return to the living room where his friends keep staring at him like he's a baby animal at the Zoo, but he badly needs a drink of water and a load more painkillers. Plus his mom will be here soon which means that Gerard should either leave or hide somewhere if he values his life. Dragging his aching body to the bedroom door, Frank wipes his eyes one more time, straightens his shoulders and reluctantly turns the handle. 

***
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER...
 
He ran out of money on his third day in Newark. With his brain pickled in vodka he slept through the motel's checkout time and a few hours later found himself hungover and half-awake in front of an angry manager who made him pay for another night’s stay. Storming back to his room, he took a shower and drank half his body weight in water to try and sober up before counting out his last few dollars. How could he have been so stupid? Again. Hiding in the creaky motel bed for the rest of the day, he downed aspirin for his headache until his starved stomach gurgled in protest and then forced himself to eat the rest of the snacks he'd stolen from his mom’s kitchen. The potato chips and canned pudding made him feel nauseous and he stayed up all night watching TV and trying to ignore the nervous whine of “Where do I go when they kick me out of here?” shrieking in the back of his mind. Antsy with anxiety, he exhausted himself just suppressing the desire to call his mother and beg her to come and get him. He couldn't sleep and his stomach churned with stress until every scrap of food he'd eaten was quickly flushed down the toilet. By dawn he was literally pulling his hair out strand by tiny stinging strand to try and relieve the pressure of another panic attack building inside him but it didn't help. He didn't want to go home. He couldn't, not yet. He couldn't face it. He couldn't face THEM.

When checkout time came around he was ready: dressed in several layers of clothing despite the summer heat because the reassuring weight of fabric on his skin made him feel safer and braver. Leaving the shitty motel with his bag and guitar, he headed doggedly towards the smoggy roar of the New Jersey Turnpike and tried to psych himself up for hitchhiking. It couldn't be that hard. Kids were always doing it in the movies. So he stood around for a while smoking cigarettes and sipping orange juice from a crumpled carton near the entrance to an old truck stop and tyre yard until he finally found the courage to stick out his thumb at the side of the road. Surprisingly quickly a grizzled old man driving a milk truck stopped to pick him up. "You got a gig in New York?" the trucker guessed, peering at Frank's guitar case. "Oh, uh yeah, I do," Frank stammered, happy to have a story to explain himself. “Okay, well I'm headed to the dairy depot in Brooklyn,” the trucker offered, scratching dandruff out of his beard, “That ok?” 
“That's great, thanks,” Frank said gratefully, climbing into the truck's cab. With his bag stowed at his feet, he searched his pockets for gum and shoved some into his mouth, hoping the chewing and minty tang would help distract him from his anxious thoughts. The last thing he wanted to do was freak out or puke while he was locked in a small space with a stranger. The truck rumbled smoothly along and soon mazes of roads and bridges were racing by in a blur of concrete and river water, sound-tracked by country music radio. The trucker didn't talk much which Frank definitely appreciated.

All too soon the ride was over and Frank found himself standing on a cracked sidewalk in Brooklyn watching the vehicle drive away. It was almost noon and the sun blazed hot in the blue sky but still nervous shivers rattled his bones even as sweat ran down his neck. Crouching on the dusty sidewalk, he pulled off his sweltering jacket and hoodie and took a minute to wipe the sweaty grease from his face and try to figure out what to do next. He’d crossed a state line now, he was in New York, and somehow that made leaving home feel a lot more real. The further he went, the harder it would be to go back and right now he was putting himself through psychological hell just to get a few more miles away. He hoped it was worth it. All of the sad memories and beer-stained regrets of his short life were making his soul cry out for a fresh start and he was a slave to that desire now. Sure, he probably wouldn't be able to afford a place of his own for years and he couldn't even drive yet, so a spontaneous existence of hitchhiking and taking any money he could get would have to do for now. Ugh. It was times like this that he wished he had more friends to rely on. Once upon a time he'd been a pretty outgoing kid and even played in a couple of shitty garage bands with some close buds, but after coming out as gay in his second year of high school the incessant homophobic bullying and taunting that rained down on his head had made him start to hate other people. He ended up isolating himself so much that the few pleasant acquaintances he did have slowly drifted away. When he fought back against the thugs shoving him into lockers or kicking him to the ground they only doubled down and made his life even harder and no one else at school stepped in to help. After that he swore he would only ever hang out with people he knew he could trust to always have his back and that was pretty much just Ray, his cousin Danny, and sometimes Gee. Now, alone in New York, it was just him against the world and he felt like he had to at least try and make it on his own for a while, just to see if he could. He HAD to try or all of this bullshit had been a total waste of time!

It was mostly out of stubbornness that he spent the next few lonely hours wandering the unfamiliar graffiti-stained streets of Brooklyn and the surrounding Burroughs, exploring factory yards and city suburbs and spending his last dollars on things he might need when he inevitably ended up sleeping under a bridge that night: bottled water, pocket snacks, hand sanitizer, a cheap flashlight and a roll of garbage bags to keep himself and his stuff dry. It wasn’t much but even buying these small supplies made him feel better, like he had some kind of plan and was prepared for how this new phase of his life might turn out. But he still needed to make some cash, and quick.

As the mellow golden hours of early evening were setting in he stumbled across a large public park that seemed pretty nice. Shedding his heavy bag he sat down on a grassy lawn and stretched out to rest for a while. Bumming a cigarette from some passing skateboarders, he smoked it slowly and drank a Redbull to get a good nicotine-caffeine buzz going. Chemicals seemed to be the only source of courage he had these days but maybe that was ok for a while. Sliding his beloved guitar out of its case, he tuned it quietly on his lap, stroking the familiar strings, and played a few old folk songs without singing any of the words. He was just messing around, not fully committed to the idea of performing for spare change but he left the case open in front of him anyway and a few people did drop money in as they passed. By sunset he had made enough to pay for a meal and a cup of coffee and he realised with a little pride that this was the first money he had ever earned doing something he loved. 

When night began to fall with a rush of shadows and buzzing streetlights, Frank left the park and started walking faster, trying to outrun the empty windows, CLOSED signs and bolted gates slamming shut all around him. Unwilling to turn on his cell phone, even just to Google where he was, he ran against the tide of day workers heading home to hot dinners and safe beds and moved towards the neon signs of the all night bodegas and sports bars. Time was running out for him to find somewhere to sleep and the starless alleyways and shadows stirred his anxious blood in all the wrong ways. It was getting chilly so he paused to cover up with a hoodie and an old windbreaker before finally seeking refuge in a brightly-lit McDonalds. Thank god for 24-hour fast food. Eager to stay in the restaurant for as long as possible he managed to make a burger and fries last until 11pm and stayed at his table sipping cold coffee and reading discarded newspapers until after midnight when he was politely asked to order something else or leave.

Stepping back out into the unfamiliar darkness with no place to go made his heart pound like a kick-drum under his ribs. He tried to blend in with the only other people still out that late: drunk football fans celebrating a game win and tired night-shift workers; but they all had places to be and things to do and he didn’t. He couldn’t even spend the night in a bar because he was too young and didn’t have a fake ID. Eventually, just to give his mind something to focus on, he made his way back to the park only to find it locked up for the night and the metal gates chained shut. Yeah, he should have expected that. 

Swearing miserably, he shrugged the heavy guitar case off his aching shoulders and dumped it on the pavement, digging through his pockets for his phone. Maybe he could look up a shelter or something and even if he had to walk all night to get there at least he’d have someplace to aim for. But his fingers froze before he could press the power button. Turning on his phone meant another assault of voicemails and texts from his mother and he wasn't sure if he could resist the urge to call her back. Then she would persuade him to come home and it would be game over. “Shit,” he muttered, gritting his teeth and shoving the dead phone deep into his bag out of sight. Glaring up at the metal park fence, he grabbed his stuff and climbed on top of a nearby trash can, hopping clumsily over the iron bars and landing with a thud on the other side. Looking around he saw an empty basketball court before him and beyond it darkened greens and the shadows of footpaths scattered with thick clumps of black foliage and towering trees. Leaves rustled eerily as rats skittered about unseen and the noise of city traffic and club music faded to a faint hum under the thudding of his pulse in his ears. He needed to find somewhere to hide before a night watchman or a cop spotted him but once he had run beyond the reach of the ball court’s spotlight it was so dark he could barely see. As unsettling as that was at least he had a locked fence surrounding him now to keep out the dangers of the night. It was a small oasis of calm in New York’s sprawling concrete jungle.

Catching his breath, he hugged his bag protectively and stepped into the deep inky shadows under the trees. Darkness and rough branches closed in like a cage but he didn't want to use his flashlight in case he was seen by unknown eyes. Without his phone he didn’t know the time either but it had to be getting on for 2 a.m and he was tired and cold. A smoky wind rustled through the claustrophobic undergrowth and cranked his senses into frightened overdrive. The air smelled like rotting earth and dog shit and he suddenly felt unbearably vulnerable and lonely in this unknown place, smothered by the black night. The nauseous apprehension that had been brewing inside him all day now ignited into full-blown fear like a firework in his brain, crackling along his nerves and tensing every muscle in his body. What the fuck was he doing out here on his own? He should go back to Jersey, he should just go home! Home had a safe, warm bed and even if Linda was mad at him at least she was there. “No, stop it!" he growled stubbornly to himself, “Man the fuck up.”

Forcing his trembling legs to take him deeper into the shadows, he found himself under a thick cluster of crooked trees with long trailing branches drooping all the way to the ground. Surely it was better to sleep rough here under leaves and shrubs than out in the open. Sliding his hand into his coat pocket where he’d stashed Chilli, he clutched the threadbare toy like a security blanket as a pounding stress headache grew behind his eyes. “It’s just a few hours til dawn,” he reassured himself in a shaky whisper, “Thing’ll look better in the daylight. It's ok….breathe…you're ok, you're fuckin fine…” Pushing through curtains of vines and twigs, he stumbled on roots and bits of trash as the blackness became almost total and then finally dared to get out his flashlight, turning it on with cold, clammy fingers. The bright white beam bounced off a wall of tree bark and landed on a huge lump of dirty brown fabric stretched out in the dirt: an old sleeping bag... With a large mean-faced man sitting on it squinting angrily into the glare. With a startled yelp, Frank stepped backwards and the stranger was on his feet in an instant and pulling a knife. “This is my spot!” he barked, spit flying from his sunburned lips as he lunged at Frank and roughly shoved him to the ground. The guitar made a discordant twang as it hit the hard earth and the drifter smiled cruelly, his eyes full of dark intent. Sitting on Frank's chest to hold him down, he used his blade to cut through the guitar case straps and wrenched the instrument away. “Hey! Give that back you fucking asshole!” Frank cried, struggling against his attacker but the guy was big and it was like hitting a wall. Snarling angrily, the mugger held his knife against Frank’s throat and leaned in close, his stinking breath curdling in the teenager’s nostrils. “My spot, my rules!” he hissed and punched Frank hard in the face. 

Pain erupted inside Frank’s nose and blood spurted inside his mouth as his teeth chomped through the tender flesh of his tongue. Crushed into the dirt by the larger man’s weight, he fought harder to get free and the flashlight fall from his grasping hand. The man grabbed it and tossed it onto his sleeping bag, along with the guitar and Frank’s bag of belongings. “Your shit belongs to ME now, Squirt,” he laughed, roughly patting Frank's body down with his free hand, “What else ya got?”
“Nothing, stop it!” Frank begged, gagging on the man’s stench, “Let me go, motherfucker!”
“Make me,” the man grunted as he emptied his victim’s pockets, pulling out Frank's sunglasses, some crumpled receipts, loose change and finally Chilli. Tears of shame and desperation flooded Frank’s eyes as his childhood friend was snatched away and he tried to grab the precious puppy back but the guy just laughed and shoved the little dog down the front of his filthy pants. “My rules,” he growled again, getting up and kicking Frank in the ribs with a filthy booted foot, “Get the fuck outta here, kid.”

Sobbing and coughing as his bruised lungs burned, Frank staggered to his feet and ran blindly into the dark. Branches and brambles clawed at his cheeks and clothes as he charged through the trees and back across the park. Soon the iron border fence loomed towards him and he climbed it and tried to jump over like before but he was so shaken up he slipped and fell into the street, smacking his head on the curb.

The impact didn’t knock him out but for the next few hours he stumbled around in a hopeless daze, lost and cold, not knowing what to do or where to go. When he finally came to his senses at daybreak the oppressive darkness gave way to a pale dawn sky and he found himself lying on an old bench near a river that smelled like tar and gasoline. A scrawny rat was nibbling at his bloodstained sneakers and someone had stolen his coat. Shivering with cold, he sat up and groaned as pain throbbed in his face and head. There was puke in the grass by the bench and he wondered if it was his. His nose and lips were caked in coppery dried blood.
He sat there with his head in his hands for a long while, so overwhelmed by self-pity and despair that his fingers started clawing scratches in his scalp. This was it: the fucking end. Now he had no choice but to find a way home. He couldn‘t survive out here and it had been stupid to even try. He was a stupid sheltered kid who couldn’t last one night on the streets on his own. One lousy fucking night!
He'd failed so hard he'd lost his phone, his bag and his precious guitar all in one go so now he couldn't even play music for tips or pawn the instrument for cash. He had nothing left but the dirty clothes on his back. Looking tearfully out over the choppy river as the wind whipped at his hair, he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps of a stranger until they were right over his shoulder. “Well hi there,” a kind voice said, “You need some help, kid?”

***

“Are you alright Frankie? How’d it go with your mom?”
Blinking away bleak memories, Frank welcomes the comforting sight of Gerard standing before him in Ray's apartment. He wants more than anything to drop the defensive wall he has built around himself and fall into his ex's welcoming arms to be hugged and comforted until he's cried himself blind and confessed all his sins... but he doesn't want Gerard to discover his hidden injuries or see through his lies, so he keeps his distance even though it makes his heart ache. He hasn't felt a caring, affectionate touch from anybody in so long that he's almost forgotten what it feels like. “It went fine,” he answers hoarsely, walking past Gerard into the living room where he burrows back onto the sofa and pulls the blanket over his head, “But she's coming over soon so you'd better go.”
“Oh ok. Sure. I guess I should go home for a while."
Gerard sounds disappointed but Frank doesn't have the energy to care about other people's feelings while he's crippled by the weight of his own. Whatever crappy illness he's picked up is also kicking his ass right now and his bruised skin and bones ache with fever. He can barely breathe through the mucus in his chest and his head still hurts. But, things could be a lot worse. He knows that now. However rough he's feeling today it's still nothing compared to what he’s been through over the last four months. It's nothing compared to what the owner of that oh-so-kind New York voice did to him.

Chapter Text

With her heart in her throat, Linda knocks on the apartment door with a trembling fist and then knocks again louder just to be sure. Her palms are sweating and she wipes them on her jeans, feeling like her eyes are about ready to pop out of her head at the thought of seeing her son's face again. He said he was okay on the phone but she knows he's not and she's desperate to help. Her broken heart is bursting with all the love and hope and maternal guilt she's been holding on to these last few months and there is no room for anything else. She will always be Frank's mother and no matter what he's done or where's he's been, she will always love him and she knows she has to be strong for him now.

The door is opened by Frank’s tall friend Ray and Linda feels her lips pull back in a smile of nervous politeness. He's a sweet and responsible young man and she always hoped that he'd be a good influence on her son. So much for that. He gives her an unsure smile of his own and gestures towards the living room. “Hello Mrs Iero. Please come in.”
Linda follows him inside and there on the couch – at long, long last! – is her boy. He's gazing worriedly at her with a quiet desperation that mirrors her own and without a word she runs over and throws her arms around him, blanket and all, pulling him close and breathing him in. He smells like sweat and cough syrup and she can feel his rapid heartbeat shuddering through his skinny body and drumming into hers. Her beautiful child is alive and safe and she starts crying joyful tears into his scruffy hair, gripping him so tightly her fingers ache and he gasps with what sounds like pain.

Forcing herself to break the embrace she leans back to take a proper look at him and starts crying harder because he looks awful. He's so pale he looks anemic and his beautiful green eyes are bloodshot and bruised and missing the fire of energy and defiance that has lit them up since the day he was born. That bold fire has been replaced by pain and darkness now and he looks older in all the wrong ways. Bloodstained band-aids stripe one of his cheeks and he's wearing a thick scarf around his neck and despite the layers of baggy clothes covering him from head to toe she can tell by the hollows in his cheeks and the sharpness of his jaw that he’s lost too much weight, half wasted away. Her medical experience can also hear a soggy sickness in his breathing and smell fever on his skin. “Oh my god, sweetheart,” she whispers, choking back sobs as she clasps his clammy hands in hers, “I’ll make it all better, I promise.”
Frank nods shakily and huddles against her, hiding his face in her blouse, just wanting to be held. Hugging and rocking him gently, she rubs his back and smooths his matted hair, never wanting to let him go again. Ray has disappeared somewhere, leaving the two of them alone, and the whole world feels faded and quiet except for the single precious person in her arms and her urgent need to heal him wherever he’s been broken. 

Without even asking him, she knows that Frank won’t come with her to see a doctor. He was an unusually sickly child and doctors always meant shots and scans and hospital stays and he hated it so much he even started to hide illnesses from her, to the point where he passed out at school one time with pneumonia. Armed with this experience, she's already stopped at her mother’s house on her way over to Ray’s and grabbed the prescription antibiotics and painkillers leftover from her father’s final illness last year, God rest his soul. She also brought some of her nursing equipment from work just in case. After checking Frank’s temperature and throat and listening to his chest by letting him slide her stethoscope under his clothes since he claims to be too cold to expose his skin by taking them off, she slowly coaxes out of him a rough description of his symptoms and measures out a two-week course of pills. She watches him like a hawk as he gingerly swallows the first doses with some water in Ray’s tiny kitchen, biting back questions about the mysterious bruises on his face and what he might be hiding under that scarf.
“You said on the phone you'd be staying here for a few days,” she ventures softly, “Are you sure that's what you want, baby? I really think you should come home with me, especially if you’re sick. I can take care of you there. I'll make ice packs and cook your favorite soup. I'll cook anything you want, just name it.”
Frank clears his throat a few times, his eyes glued to the floor. “I’d rather be here,” he croaks quietly, “At least for a little while.”
“Well...if you're sure.” Linda forces herself to sound okay with this arrangement even though she wants to burst into tears. She needs him home so badly but is too scared to force the issue and risk pushing him away again when she’s only just got him back. At least he's alive and safe now she tells herself, but this is all so bittersweet.
“I’m kinda tired,” Frank mumbles, glancing sideways at her, “I think I should take a nap.”
“Yeah, of course. You look exhausted, sweetie. Alright, uh, I’ll leave you to rest now but I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”
“Alright. Thanks mom.”

Grinning at hearing him say 'mom' after months of fearing she'd never hear that sweet sound again, Linda gathers her things but leaves the medicine bottles on the kitchen counter. “Remember to take the antibiotics four times a day, evenly spaced. The painkillers are really strong so follow the instructions and only use them if you can’t sleep, alright?”
“Yeah I got it. I’ll be okay.”
“I hope so.” The words slip out before she can stop them and hang uncomfortably in the air between them. Frank shrugs and gives her a tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and she grabs him in another hug. “I love you more than anything in this world,” she whispers fiercely, “And I'm sorry I haven't always shown it.”

**
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER...

“You need some help, kid?” Turning in surprise, Frank jerked nervously to his feet an saw a big bearded man in a beige coat and slacks standing behind his bench watching him with obvious pity. “You okay?” he asked in a thick Brooklyn accent, “Your nose is bleedin’.”
Self-consciously dabbing at his face, Frank tried to look calm and normal and knew that he was failing miserably. “Yeah I’m fine,” he lied, “I just, uh… I was just…”
“You sleepin‘ rough, huh?” the man said sympathetically, gesturing at the cold bench, “You a runaway?” Swallowing the vomit and blood at the back of his throat, Frank sighed in defeat and nodded. Last night’s headache was still burning behind his eyes and he felt queasy, weak and cold. He needed help and he had literally nothing left to lose. What harm could it do to tell this guy the truth? Maybe he could even get a few sympathy dollars out of him.
“This is no place for a kid your age to be,” the man shuddered, “Come on. I’ll buy you a cuppa coffee.”

He said his name was Sam and he worked in an office in Midtown. He'd always liked taking walks by the river to watch the sun rise, found it cleansing, like a yoga class but for free, and that’s what brought him to Frank’s neck of the woods that morning…
Frank nodded distractedly while Sam talked his ear off on the way to the closest Starbucks, hoping that the man’s charity would extend to enough money for him to call Ray and get a ride home.
Despite the early hour, the coffee shop was already bustling with caffeine junkies getting their morning fix and Sam gently pushed Frank towards the restroom while he headed for the counter. “Go wash up. I’ll get the drinks.” 

Standing wearily over the tiny porcelain sink, Frank scrubbed his nose and chin clean with wet toilet paper and watched shreds of sodden tissue and blood-stained water go swirling down the drain. It was blissfully warm in here after being outdoors all night and as he washed his hands under the hot faucet, he felt something like comfort flowing back into his aching body. When he made his way back out into the shop, he found Sam sitting at a small table in the back with two large mugs of creamy hot coffee and he took his gratefully, drinking a huge gulp even though it nearly burned his tongue. “You hungry?” Sam asked. Still slurping the drink, Frank nodded hopefully, and the chubby man smiled and headed back to the counter. Bright comforting sunshine beamed in through the coffee shop windows and the big mean city looked a lot less frightening now.

Sam returned with a large bag of chips and a caramel chocolate bar, both of which he gave to Frank. “Thanks,” the teenager said, “You really didn’t have to.”
“Yeah I did,” Sam replied, meeting Frank’s hesitant glance with small blue eyes that seemed to stare for just a little too long. Looking away, Frank cleared his throat and opened the chips, stuffing them into his mouth. “So, I’m guessin' you don’t wanna sleep on that bench again tonight?” Sam asked casually, scratching his beard with a fat weathered finger, “Have you got anyone lookin’ out for you in the city? Where you from anyways?”
“Belleville,” Frank mumbled through his food, “My family are all back in Jersey. I don’t know anyone here.”
“You never been to New York city before?”
“Ummm... Not really. Only like central Manhattan. A couple of times for rock shows and when I was a kid my nana took me to see Cats.”
“Uh huh. Well this must be your lucky day kid, cuz I think I know a place you can stay."
Frank quickly swallowed his mouthful and reached for the coffee again, “You mean like a shelter?”
“Yeah. It’s for kids, I mean young men, such as yourself. I know the guy who runs it. He’s good people. You interested?”
Cupping the warm mug to his lips, Frank felt a thrill of relief at the suggestion, closely followed by the ache of his sore muscles tensing with doubt. Was this guy for real? He seemed nice and all and looked pretty harmless but he was still a stranger and nearly twice Frank's size. But a shelter meant a free bed indoors for the night and Frank would rather admit defeat and crawl shamefully home to his mom than have to sleep outside again with no food, no coat, no cash and no protection. Running away for as long as possible was becoming more than just a matter of pride at this point; the longer he stayed away from home, the more grown up he felt and the less pathetic and childish. After all Gerard was supposedly a proper grown-up and Frank was just as capable as him, if not more so. If the place Sam was talking about turned out to be a filthy dump filled with junkies then he could just leave in the morning and hitchhike back to New Jersey. At least he would have made it through another 24 hours.
“Ok, sure,” he said before he could overthink his answer, "That'd be great, thanks.”
“Great,” Sam echoed, his staring eyes crinkling at the corners with a friendly chuckle, “Let's finish up here and I can take you right now.”

Sam hailed a cab from the curb and once he and Frank were inside, pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and showed it to the driver. “Here please,” he ordered quietly. The driver glanced at the paper and nodded, chewing lazily on a plastic toothpick as he pulled out into traffic. Frank sat quietly on the squeaky leather seat with his hands tucked between his knees. The air in the cab smelled like french fries and vanilla air freshener. Sam shoved the paper back into his coat and it was only then as they were speeding along unfamiliar roads that Frank realized how weird it was that the guy just happened to have the address of the shelter in his pocket. Did he write it down in Starbucks? “So, um, where are we going exactly?” he asked, his pulse quickening. “I told ya, a place for kids like you,” Sam said patiently, keeping his voice low under the noise of the cab’s radio, “Very private. Very safe. You’ll see.”

Beyond the smeared cab windows, the streets passed by in a maze of twists and turns boxed in by towering concrete walls and fire escapes and Frank had no idea where he was. Nothing looked familiar and the famous skyscrapers of Manhattan soon faded into the rearview mirror. Sam was busy tapping text messages into an old Blackberry and the cab driver pretended like Frank didn’t exist. They drove for what felt like miles and the surrounding neighbourhoods grew dirtier and quieter and more broken down with every passing minute. “Fuck,” Frank whispered under his breath, licking his lips nervously and fighting to keep his breathing steady. He was not going to panic this time, he was not, he was NOT.

“Stop here,” Sam announced suddenly and the cab jerked to a halt in a shabby street lined with tall abandoned-looking block housing. Paying the driver in cash, Sam hopped out of the vehicle and quickly hustled around to Frank’s door, opening it for him and watching him get out. Job done, the cabbie sped away down the narrow garbage-strewn block and Frank swallowed fearfully as he looked around at rows of identical grey buildings peppered with graffiti, torn flyers and...were those bullet holes? Oh god. The sidewalk under his feet was sticky with gum and used condoms and even the weather seemed worse here: the comforting sunlight smothered by dirty gray clouds. 

Sam pushed him gently but firmly down the sidewalk until they reached a nondescript apartment block with boarded and barred windows and a metal-plated door. "Here we are. I know it don't look like much but you won't believe the inside." Smiling reassuringly, the fat man pressed a grimy intercom button on the wall and a small security camera in the unlit porch blinked and whirred as the door buzzed loudly to let them in. Sam pushed it open and pulled Frank quickly into a short lobby corridor with black walls and fluorescent lights, carpeted with scuffed black vinyl. The heavy door buzzed shut behind them and Frank’s stomach dropped like a stone as he gulped a frightened breath and smelled cum and dope smoke drowning in cheap cologne. This wasn’t a shelter.

“Where are we?” he cried angrily, shrugging Sam’s pudgy grip off his arm, “What the hell is this place?”
Sam ignored him and walked over to knock on one of the corridor's three black doors. It flew open almost immediately and a moody-looking dude a few years older than Frank with shaggy black hair and large eyes darker than tar stepped out. He was naked from the waist up and his lean torso was spackled with bruises and thick red welts that looked like belt marks. He was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and stank of weed and bleach. Peering closely at Frank, he seized the frightened teenager's jaw with hard calloused fingers and squeezed until Frank was forced to open his mouth. "Nice teeth," he muttered approvingly, exhaling smoke into Frank's stunned face, "Cute too. Pretty eyes. Well done Sammy my man. How old?" 
Sam shrugged, standing uncomfortably close to Frank's back so that the small teen was boxed in between the big man's bulging gut and the shirtless punk gripping his chin, "I dunno. They always lie when I ask anyways."
"Umhmm. Almost no stubble. Short as hell. He could pass for fourteen. They'll love that."
Clawing the guy's hand off his face, Frank wriggled free and ran back to the entrance, pulling hard on the handle and smacking the metal door but of course it wouldn't open. "Let me outta here! LET ME THE FUCK OUT!" he yelled, his voice cracking as he turned around to find Sam about to grab him. Ducking out of the fat man's reach he kicked him in the crotch as hard as he could and the lying creep collapsed on the dirty linoleum with a whine of agony.

The shirtless guy laughed, his thick pouty lips twisting into a cruel smirk around his cigarette, and Frank stared at him in disbelief, blood roaring in his ears. "W-What the fuck is this place?" he stammered, "Who are you people?" Any further questions died in his throat as a burly third man carrying a gun emerged from another room and the last thing Frank heard before the metal butt of a revolver slammed into the side of his head was Sam grunting with pleasure. 

**
After Linda has left and Frank is asleep on the couch again, Ray texts Gerard to let him know the coast is clear and in no time at all Gee is knocking on the door with his hair still wet from a shower. "Is Frank okay?" he blurts worriedly as Ray invites him into the kitchen. "He's fine," Ray comforts softly, watching Frank's dozing form in the living room behind them, "His mom didn't want to leave but he pretty much told her to go. I was maybe eavesdropping a little."
"At least she brought meds," Gerard says with relief, spying the pills on the counter.
"Yeah and they're good stuff too. She checked him over but didn't see his neck or under his shirt. He made sure of that."
"Yeah I bet. She'd freak the fuck out if she saw those scars, probably drag him to the cops."
Ray huffs a frustrated breath and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Maybe we should be involving the cops. If Frank has been tortured by some psychotic sicko then shouldn't we be telling someone about it to stop it happening again?" 
"Of course. But it's not up to us," Gerard sighs, grabbing a can of soda from the fridge and popping the cap with a hiss, "He doesn't want anyone to know, I found out by accident. You can't make that kind of decision for him, Toro, he's not a kid anymore." 

"Fucking right," Frank mutters from the couch, making them both jump. 
"Dude, I thought you were asleep," Ray winces. 
"I was until you two started gossiping about me," Frank growls, wrapping the thick blanket around his shoulders and stomping into the kitchen, glaring daggers at his friends, "Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong okay? You don't know SHIT so shut up and leave it alone!" 
"I'm sorry I said anything," Gerard insists, "But we're just worried about you, babe."
"DON'T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!" Frank screams, his face creasing with pain as the effort of shouting sears his sore throat. Gerard shuts his mouth so fast his teeth crack together and a tense silence reigns, so quiet that they can all hear the tiny bubbles bursting in Gerard's drink. Then Frank’s illness gets the better of him and he starts hacking hard, wet coughs into his hand as his eyes water. Gerard bites his tongue, wanting to run to him and hug it all better but he knows he can't and it hurts to stand there and do nothing when someone he loves is obviously in pain. "Don't call me that," the teenager repeats in a breathless croak, "And stop looking under my fucking clothes and perving on me while I sleep!" 
"Jesus, Frank, it wasn't like that," Ray gasps as Gerard flushes red and miserably hides his face in his drink. Frank turns and storms off into the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the walls shake. 

Cursing softly, Ray pours himself a coffee and takes it into the living room, turning on the TV and aggressively flipping through channels. Gerard slumps down miserably beside him on the couch and they watch an old 90s sitcom without a single laugh or word passing between them. Gerard drains his soda, soberly wishing it was spiked with whiskey, and wonders if he should just go home and commiserate this situation with his folks. Then, to his surprise, Frank unexpectedly reappears and sits down beside him, even snuggling apologetically against his shoulder and smiling faintly at his puzzled expression. The teenager's tired eyes look strangely alert now, the pupils like bright black holes in the glow of the TV, and Gerard shivers as he remembers the unnatural smile Frank gave him earlier that morning before he called his mom...right after he'd locked himself in the bathroom. The same bathroom he ran to just now and where he changed out of his filthy street clothes last night. As the sitcom's artificial laugh-track explodes with giggles and applause, Frank sniggers along and Gerard mentally kicks himself for not realizing sooner that the love of his life is on drugs. 

Chapter Text

"Sorry I yelled,” Frank blurts during the next commercial break, pulling a cushion onto his lap and nearly spilling Ray’s drink, “I'm just...urrgh, I'm all kinds of fucked up right now and I don't need to relive the shit that fucked me, y'know?! I don't want to think about it and I sure as hell don't want to talk to any fucking cops about it, and you guys can't talk about me behind my back like that, you're supposed to be my friends!”

“We are your friends," Ray insists, “We love you Frankie and I'm sorry we were talking about you like that. It really wasn't cool. But it's because we care about you that we think you should go to the cops. When crimes aren't reported quickly the evidence can disappear and I'm really worried about you, kid. You're the last person in the world who should ever be attacked or abused. The bastards who hurt you should be rotting in jail for what they did."
Frank snorts humorlessly, tugging his baggy sleeves down over the finger tattoos he used to be so proud of. Ray clears his throat and turns off the TV. When he speaks again his voice is gravely serious, "I'm sorry but I don't think this is something you can push aside or forget about, Frankie. That's not healthy and it's probably not even possible. Gerard saw your bruises totally by accident. You do know that was an accident, right?”
Frank nods stiffly, his eyes damp and red. “You don’t have to talk to me or Ray about this,” Gerard adds gently, “But you should talk to somebody. It doesn't have to be a cop, it could be a doctor or therapist or a support group or anything. It took me months of poisoning myself to realize that keeping the bad thoughts bottled up inside is insanely toxic and if you don‘t get them out and deal with them, they will eat you away inside. Please don't end up like I was, trying to force the pain deeper by getting drunk or high or-"
“I’m not drunk!” Frank snaps defensively, his cheeks flushing at what he's clearly leaving unsaid. Gerard sighs, his suspicions confirmed, and a glimmer of realization dawns in Ray’s eyes. “Oh, no wait. You're not...? Jesus, Frank, are you on something right now?" Frank rubs his eyes and makes a strange noise halfway between a sob and a laugh." I'm fine, Toro, chill. It's just a little coke."
"Oh it's just a little cocaine? Well that's alright then," Ray grumbles sarcastically. Peering at the teenager's dilated eyes and pink nose, he shakes his head in disappointment. "God dammit Frank, you brought drugs into my house? What the fuck?! I want it outta here right now. Where have you stashed it, huh? Ohhh, I know..." Jumping to his feet he heads for the bathroom and Frank nearly falls over himself trying to follow but Ray is faster and slams the bathroom door in the teenager’s face, locking it from inside. Shivering without his blanket, Frank waits helplessly in the hall as the sound of Ray searching the tiny room, tossing shampoo bottles aside and tipping out the trash can, echoes ominously through the wall. Gerard keeps his distance and watches his ex neurotically chewing on his bottom lip until the bruised skin splits and bleeds. In two minutes Ray comes storming back out holding a tiny crumpled bag with a little white powder in it that he shoves in his friend's guilty face. "Is this all of it?"
"Yes now give it back!" Frank snarls, trying to grab the bag but Ray is much taller and holds it up out of reach, his expression dark, "I don't think so." Growling in frustration, Frank scrambles behind the bigger man and jumps on his back, snatching angrily at his raised hand. "That's not yours you fucker, give it BACK!"
"No fucking way," Ray cries, dragging them both over to the toilet and dropping the coke into the watery bowl, flushing it away before Frank can stop him. “What the fuck?!” the teenager yells, his pale face stricken as he slides back onto the floor with a clumsy thud, “That was mine you asshole! You had no right-“
“No, YOU had no right bringing illegal drugs into my home without telling me! Why do you even have that shit?”
“Because I need it!” Frank screams, sweat shining on his face as his wheezy voice starts to shake, “It helps me and now it's gone, you fucking jerk!"
"How can it possibly help you, the shape you're in?" Ray retorts. "How the fuck do you think?" Frank spits angrily, "You think I've been living on easy street the last few months, Toro? Fucking LOOK at me! Everything hurts, all the time. I haven't slept right in months and there is so much vile shit in my head it's too sick to deal with. I'm tired, guys, I'm so fucking tired, and the coke makes it easier, okay? It wakes me up and makes me feel like maybe for a few minutes I don't want to fucking DIE. So are you happy now that you tossed it away, Toro? I needed it to take the edge off, I can't just magic myself better. You don't even know what I've been through!"
"Then tell me," Ray begs, "Let me help you."
"No! Stop fucking asking me to share my feelings like you're some kind of Shrink! If I have to leave again to make you stop then I will and I don't wanna...fuck...ohhh...god fucking dammit... not again..." Panting hoarsely, Frank sinks forwards with his hands on his knees, trembling from head to foot and heaving strained breaths like it’s the hardest thing in the world. “Ray, back off,” Gerard cries, “I think he’s having a panic attack.”
“I can’t deal with this,” Ray mumbles tearfully, scrubbing his hands through his hair and heading for the front door, “I’m going out.”

The door slams hard and Frank drops to his knees with a choked whimper. Gerard kneels beside him and hesitantly pats one of his tense, quivering shoulders, expecting the angry teenager to push him away but he doesn’t. Instead, with a look of grim resignation, Frank gulps enough air to clear his throat and coughs loudly before sitting himself back against the bathroom wall and closing his eyes. Clasping one of Gerard's hands in his own, he lets his legs slide down flat on the floor and sucks in deep shaky breaths through his snotty nose, blowing them out again long and slow through his mouth. It seems to get easier for him with each inhalation and after a few minutes he’s breathing almost normally again and his nervous tremors are gone. Gerard gives his clammy hand a final squeeze before letting go and they sit together quietly for a while, listening to the cars outside in the street. Frank’s breathing continues to slow, growing softer and deeper and after a while he opens his eyes and whispers, “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Gerard says, shuffling a little closer so that they’re sitting side by side against the wall, hips and elbows nearly touching. “How are you feeling now?"
"Craptastic," Frank croaks wearily, grabbing some toilet paper from under the sink and using it to blow his nose, "Sick as a fucking dog actually and I guess Toro thinks I'm a junkie now too."
"No he doesn't."
Shaking his head, Frank throws the soggy tissues into the toilet and unrolls some more. The collar of his shirt is damp with sweat.
"Was that your whole stash Ray flushed away?"
"Yeah. It wasn't even mine, not really. Someone gave it to me."
"How do you feel about it being gone?"
"You trying to be my therapist now?" Frank snaps, wiping his face. Gerard sighs, "No. Maybe. I don't know what I'm trying to be. I just wanna help you, Frankie. If you want me to, that is. I still have a Xanax prescription I don't use that you can have if you like. It's way better for anxiety than fucking coke, dude. Seriously, cocaine and panic attacks? Not a good mix.”
"Yeah it's really not," Frank agrees, leaning his weary head against his ex’s shoulder, his haunted eyes a million miles away. Gerard plants a gentle kiss in his sweaty hair, breathing in the warm rooty smell of the person he loves, and Frank sighs quietly and slides down the wall until his head is resting in the older man’s lap, already crashing from the drug's brief high. He must not have taken very much. Unsure how to feel about this sudden closeness between them, Gerard stays as still as he can and turns the events of the previous twenty four hours over and over in his mind until long after Frank has drifted off to sleep.

**
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER...

When Frank regained consciousness, he found himself lying on a cheap brown carpet that smelled like piss with dust and dried blood clogging his nostrils and a nauseating pain drilling into his skull, making his eyes water and his throat convulse. Groaning wordlessly, he lifted his aching head and watched blurry strings of drool and congealed blood stretch and snap between his face and the floor. Ugh. Trying to wipe his mouth, he realized that he couldn’t move his hands towards his face and a sharp rush of fear and adrenaline snapped him fully awake when he saw why: his wrists were handcuffed together around an iron radiator pipe embedded in the concrete wall a few inches away.
“About time you woke up,” a bored voice remarked, making him jump out of his skin, "Royce must've hit you too hard. He's kind of a dick like that." Squinting through the fire of his headache, Frank struggled into a half-sitting, half-lying position against the simmering radiator beside him, twisting his arms around in the cuffs' steel grip so that he could turn just enough to see who had spoken. It was the lean dark-eyed punk from before, now wearing a Ramones shirt and sitting at a small folding table nearby shuffling a deck of cards. Frank winced at the sight of him, fresh agony stabbing his scalp, and swallowed a groan, tasting metal in his parched throat. He vaguely remembered a gun flying towards his head...

The punk dropped the cards on the table and leaned back in his chair, stretching the tight fabric of his shirt. “You look thirsty,” he smirked, "You want some water?" Dying for a drink, Frank nodded, too scared to speak, and his headache throbbed in protest, sending sparks across his vision. Where the hell was he? Had these psychos fucking abducted him?! What did they want? This room looked like a small shitty basement: boxy and windowless with a low ceiling and solid walls painted a grubby shade of beige. The air was uncomfortably hot and oppressive and moldy cobwebs filled every corner. The room's lone door about ten feet away was closed and aside from the battered card table and chair there was no furniture or anything else here. A single glowing lightbulb hung from the ceiling with its wiring stripped and exposed. Tugging hard on the handcuffs, Frank swore as the sharp metal edges bit into his wrists and bruised the tender flesh over his veins. His arms were already tingling and blood-starved from being twisted into such an awkward position and the close cloying heat from the radiator was getting unbearable but he couldn't move away from it. Whistling for his prisoner's attention, the dark-eyed stranger reached behind his back for a bottle of Evian water and placed it on the table in front of him. “You can have this water, and some pills for your headache too, but you've gotta do one little thing for me first. Cool?”
Frank nodded fearfully, not seeing any other option, and the guy stood up, tall and lanky as a spider. Casually squatting down beside Frank he unzipped his own jeans and casually pulled out his long flaccid cock, stroking the length of it with a curled hand. “Suck me off,” he ordered, his smirk widening as an erection swelled under his fingers. “No!” Frank cried in disgust, pulling harder on the cuffs but they only trapped him in place as the guy thrust his bare meaty crotch into his face. “Last chance kid, do you want the water or not?” Screwing his eyes and mouth shut as slimy foreskin and bristling pubes scraped his lips, Frank desperately shook his injured head and the movement wracked his skull with pain and dizziness that made him sob. “Suit yourself,” the guy snickered and a blessed rush of empty air replaced the musk and body heat in front of Frank's mouth as he heard the sound of a fly zipping and then footsteps moving away. The door creaked open and thudded closed and there was the loud click of a deadlock. When Frank dared to open his eyes again, trembling with fear and shock, the room was empty and even the water bottle was gone. Tears flooded his eyes and his stomach clenched as nausea shot through his guts. Retching violently, he gagged and coughed as coffee flavoured vomit spurted over his tongue and splattered the grotty carpet.

For two whole days and nights Frank was left there alone. Chained up in pain without any food or water, abandoned until long after his puke had dried into stinking crusts and he'd screamed and hollered himself hoarse begging for rescue. No one ever answered his cries, not even to tell him to shut up, and he couldn't hear any traffic or sounds from the outside world. Only suffocating silence. Desperately afraid, he pulled and kicked at the handcuffs until his wrists bled and he was drenched in sweat but the boiling radiator was set in concrete and wouldn't budge no matter how hard he struggled. Any hope of escape shrivelled up and died inside him as trails of blood crawled down his arms and the cuffs turned dark sticky red.

Torturous waves of stomach-churning panic and pain dragged him shaking and sobbing through the first twenty-four hours of his confinement, breaking his mind and body until exhaustion dragged at his every breath. Tears and snot and vomit dried in itchy scabs all over his face but he had no way to clean it off or scrape the sweaty blood from his head wound out of his eyes. Because of the cuffs he couldn't stand or even sit fully upright and he held out for as long as he could but eventually what was left of yesterday's Starbucks soaked through his jeans and glued the wrinkled denim to his ass and thighs. Endless agonizing hours crawled painfully past and his tortured mind begged for rest but his headache and thirst and the bone-deep ache in his cuffed arms wouldn't let him sleep.

By the end of the second day he honestly thought they had left him there to die. Weak from stress and hunger and trapped in the sweltering heat, he was so thirsty he reopened the wounds on his wrists just so he could lick up the blood but that only made him feel sick. His brain got so blurry with weariness and dehydration that he could barely think or see straight, and he had no tears left to cry.

After what felt like an eternity of pain and discomfort, the door suddenly creaked open and the dark-eyed guy reappeared holding a large black bag and a handgun. Curled up semi-conscious on the floor, Frank groaned into the stained carpet as his captor knelt beside him and pressed the gun barrel against his head. “Look at me,” the kidnapper ordered, "Hey, I said look at me!" Trembling with nervous exhaustion, Frank slowly obeyed and the metal gun barrel scraped across his scalp. "Jeez, you fucking stink," the guy grumbled, wrinkling his nose as he reached into his bag. He took out a large bottle of fresh water, a box of salted crackers and some extra strength Tylenol and lined them up on the carpet just inches out of Frank's reach. “You won't survive another two days in here without water,” he said stonily, “So listen up, fucktard. I can either walk away and leave you to die, and trust me NO ONE will give a shit if I do. Or I can unlock your cuffs, give you the drink and painkillers and take you out of this oven to somewhere comfortable where you can shower and sleep. All you have to do to make that second option happen is that one little favor for me. Do we have a deal?”
Hating himself with every ounce of his soul, Frank nodded miserably in defeat. After forty-eight solid hours of fear, deprivation and physical strain, giving a blowjob to someone barely older than himself really didn’t seem like a big deal anymore. Or even a small deal. He just wanted to stop hurting. “Atta boy,” the guy smirked, fishing a key out of his pocket and unlocking just one of Frank’s bloodstained cuffs, releasing his right hand but then cuffing his left one to the pipe itself. Gasping sharply as normal bloodflow rushed back into his arm and stung his cramping flesh with a million pins and needles, Frank cradled his free hand to his chest and clenched his jaw to keep from sobbing. “Now don’t do anything stupid,” his tormentor added sternly, “If you bite me I swear to God I will shoot you in the gut and let you bleed out.”

It was probably one of the worst blowjobs in history. Frank's mouth was so dry that the older man had to use his own spit to lube up his cock and then it was pretty much just him thrusting in and out of Frank's desperate, gagging throat, jerking off with his helpless slave's mouth. When the creep finally came he held Frank's head in place so the teenager was forced to swallow the wave of cum or choke on it. When he finally released his grip, Frank collapsed in a quivering heap on the floor and vomited the mouthful of sour spunk, coughing and sobbing into the mess.

Apparently satisfied, the guy calmly zipped up his pants and uncuffed his prisoner's other hand, handing over the bottle of water as promised. Nothing in Frank's life had ever tasted as good as that water did in that moment. Worried for his queasy stomach he forced himself to drink it slowly, gripping the bottle with numb and trembling hands as he poured the cold cleansing liquid and Tylenol down his ravaged throat. His torturer watched him with an unreadable expression and then casually kicked the box of crackers at his head. "Eat something and get up. We've gotta go."

The horrible hot room turned out to be nestled deep in the building's sound-proofed basement where no one could hear its occupants scream. Beyond the only door was a tall flight of stone steps leading upwards to another door and beyond that was the gloomy lobby where Frank had stood with that lying bastard Sam two days earlier. A big bruiser of a man dressed in black was standing guard at the shuttered entrance with its electronic locks but Frank was too drained to even think about running. All he could do was stumble forwards clutching his water bottle as he was dragged up another flight of stairs and then down a long corridor lit with vivid scarlet bulbs. The red-hued dimness hurt his eyes and the cool air made him shiver and stung his nose with the stench of aftershave and latex. Spaced out along the corridor were six doors, three on each side, painted black and numbered with white digits. A smaller brown door stood at the hallway's end labelled PRIVATE - STAFF ONLY. The guy stopped at this private door and knocked while Frank sank weakly against the wall, his woozy head spinning. The handful of crackers he'd eaten sat too heavily in his starved stomach and his hands and legs wouldn't stop shaking.

After a few moments the door was opened by a tall Latino man with bleached blond hair and round wire-framed glasses. He was wearing jeans, loafers and a green vest and had a book in his hand held open in place with his thumb. His mildly annoyed expression changed to one of surprise and sadness when he saw Frank and he whistled softly, raising dark bushy eyebrows. "And how old is this little bird?" he asked curiously in a soft Colombian accent. The black-eyed punk shrugged and shoved Frank through the door, forcing the blond man to catch him and hold him up so he wouldn't fall. "I dunno Doc, just get him cleaned up and tested. I'll be back for him tomorrow." Turning away with a sigh the douchebag sauntered off down the corridor, tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans. "Oh, and Doc?" he called back over his shoulder, "He's new meat so don't let him wander. If he tries anything stupid, the Boss said to cut him where it hurts."

Chapter Text

With a long-suffering sigh, the man named Doc shut the door and locked it with a key attached to a chain on his belt. Wrapping a strong arm around Frank's shoulders, he helped him across a well-lit cluttered room to a small medical bed complete with side rails and white sheets. "Okay, up we go," he muttered, guiding the teenager onto the mattress with a gentle hand against his back. Frank didn't struggle or question what was happening, just curled up on the bed hoping to pass out into blessed oblivion. Whatever happened next it couldn’t be worse than that basement hell he had just left and he didn't have the strength to fight. The Tylenol was starting to kick in too, finally deadening his pain enough to make sleep possible, and sleep was an escape he desperately needed...

“Hey hey, wake up kid. You've gotta stay conscious for me okay?” Doc instructed, “I need to take a look at you.”
Frank slowly rolled onto his back, forcing his eyes open, and the water bottle slipped from his grasp and thudded onto the floor. Doc quickly retrieved it and opened the cap, holding it to the teenager’s lips. “Drink up. You need it." Without lifting his head from the pillow, Frank slurped a few more sips and then pushed it away, aching for rest. Doc put the bottle aside and pulled a large leather doctor's bag out from under the bed, opening it to remove a pair of clean latex gloves which he snapped calmly onto his hands. Frank's pulse quickened with fear at the sight as his lifelong phobia of hospitals chilled his blood.

Leaning over the bed, Doc shone a small flashlight into Frank's eyes and mouth and the teenager let out a scared whimper before he could stop himself. Doc tutted reassuringly and adjusted the glasses on his nose, “Relax hermano, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm here to heal not to hurt, that's why they call me Doc. You speak English? Español? I hope you're not another Russian kid cuz I don't speak Russian. What’s your name?”
Frank scowled defiantly and pressed his scabby lips together, shaking his head. Fuck all these guys, he didn't want his name in their mouths. “Okay don’t tell me,” Doc shrugged, adjusting the bed with a remote control which raised the pillow end until it was elevated enough that Frank was sitting upright, “But the people who run this place will find out who you are. They have ways, trust me."

Sniffing miserably, Frank rubbed at his dirty face to try and hide his gathering tears, digging his knuckles into his eye sockets so hard he saw fireworks. He wanted to act tough and like he didn't care about any of this but he was completely shattered inside and too exhausted to pull himself together. His chest hurt from the weight of the sobs he was holding back and he felt sick with despair. Why hadn't he just gone home after Newark? Why was everything he did so goddamn reckless? His own naivety and bad choices had put him here in this fucked up torture brothel or whatever the hell it was, and he was probably less than forty miles from home but it may as well be forty thousand. These psychopaths were most likely going to ship him off to some gross pimp in Siberia and he'd never see Gerard or his mom or anyone he cared about ever again!

Gloved fingers gently pulled his hands aside and he looked up, panting with terror, into Doc's calm face. "It's okay to be scared, little bird, but whatever they did to you today it's over now, I promise. You're safe with me in this room. My only job is to keep you healthy." Lowering his voice to a whisper he added, "Are you a minor? Tell me now and I might be able to protect you for a while. But you've gotta tell the truth because I can't back up a lie with no evidence and anyone can see you've got tattoos and stuff. Are you under eighteen?"

Doomed by the truth, Frank shook his head and wanted to scream when Doc's face creased in sympathy, confirming his worst fears. The monsters in charge of this place would brutalize and abuse him and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was trapped here like a caged animal. He'd never felt more powerless.

"Ok, so let's get you fixed up," Doc said, quickly changing the subject, "First I gotta evaluate your concussion. The light I was using was to make sure your pupils were equal and reactive and they are. You have any dizziness, nausea or blurred vision?" Frank nodded twice, chewing anxiously on his blood-encrusted fingernails. "All three? No? Just first two? Okay some of that might be dehydration but let me know if it gets worse. How long did that hijo de puta keep you in The Oven downstairs? Since yesterday?...No. Two days?...Fuck. Ok now question time and I need you to actually talk now, hermano. Can you tell me who’s President and what year this is?”
Scarcely able to breathe through the fear rampaging through his brain, Frank tried to collect his unravelling thoughts. When he finally managed to blurt out the President’s name and the date Doc smiled encouragingly, “Ay, so you do speak! Now can you touch the end of your nose with your left index finger, and then with the right." With quivering hands, Frank did as he was told, self-pity clogging his throat as he choked back tears. Why was Doc being nice to him when everyone else here was so awful? “Bueno,” Doc said softly, patting his shoulder, “Tak some deep breaths now, okay? Slow deep breaths...as deep as you can...You're ok right now. One more thing you can try for me: lift your arms out straight and level in front of you, uh huh like that. Now hold them there...keep them still... ok bueno, you can put them down now."
Stepping away from the bed, the medic wheeled over a small steel cart laid out with bottles of distilled water, iodine, and a large first aid box. “I need to clean you up a little so I can treat your wounds, is that okay?”
Gulping slower gasps of air through gritted teeth, Frank forced himself to nod, wishing he had something to cling to - a blanket, Chilli, anything! - for a shred of childish comfort.

With saline solution and antiseptic Doc gently cleaned his patient's dirty face, scrubbing carefully around Frank's eyes and bruised mouth, and rinsed some of the blood out of his bangs with a wet cloth. “They sure did a number on you,” he muttered sadly, gently checking the bruises on the teenager's forehead and the gash in his scalp. “I think you’re gonna be alright though. No stitches required, just a little glue."

Moving further down the bed, he cleaned and rinsed Frank’s bloody wrists with the same calm professional care and wrapped some stinging iodine-soaked gauze around the oozing wounds from the handcuffs. Whipping off his dirty gloves, he tossed them in a trash can and washed his hands at a small sink before wandering into the kitchenette of what Frank realized, looking around, was actually a large studio apartment. Besides the bed he was sitting on, the place was crammed with other furniture: a plasma TV and stereo balanced on a bookcase full of medical textbooks; a cheap wardrobe and a small leather armchair standing beside a long wooden desk and two other small beds besides his own – one obviously slept in, creased and unmade, and one covered in fresh folded linens. The walls were lined with mismatched shelves loaded with medical supplies, stacks of magazines, cups of instant noodles and boxes of Trail Mix and Twinkies; and the desk was covered in scientific equipment. He could see electronic microscopes, test tube racks and two metal machines with digital displays that winked and shone in the dimness. Frank had no idea what they were but they looked fucking scary. Away in the furthest corner was an open door into what looked like a bathroom. The only window in the whole place was half blocked by an air-con unit and the remainder had iron bars nailed across it.

Doc took a medicinal-looking packet out of a cupboard and tore it open, pouring the powdery contents into a clean glass and filling it with tap water. While Frank watched nervously, he stirred the concoction with a spoon until the powder dissolved and turned the drink purple before offering it to the teenager. "Drink this. It's just electrolytes and stuff to help you rehydrate." Hesitantly taking the glass, Frank slowly swallowed the bitter tasting drink praying that it wasn't somehow drugged or poisoned. The medic nodded in approval and put on fresh gloves, unwrapping a sterile needle kit from the trolley, “Now I'm real sorry about this next part but I need to take a few blood and swab samples to make sure you’re clean.”
Freezing with the rim of the glass in his mouth, Frank stared at him in wide-eyed horror. “You don’t like tests, huh? Sorry mijo. I’ll make it quick.”

Once his blood was drawn and his genitals and mouth subjected to various unpleasant cotton swabs, Frank scrunched up against his pillows doing everything he could not to cry. He had never been so homesick and scared in his life and even though he was unbearably tired and running on empty, he was too frightened now to close his eyes. “I can get most of your test results now,” Doc said, taking the sample vials over to the mini laboratory on his desk. As he passed the TV he turned it on to a random baseball game, “Do you wanna take a shower? Then you can get some sleep.” Nodding miserably, Frank gnawed at his bruised lip out of habit and a sting of loss pricked his heart when he realized that his lipring was gone. His sore mouth had torn on his teeth when the park mugger smashed him in the face and the tiny piece of metal must have come loose somewhere, probably in that fucking basement. Gerard had loved that stupid ring. He used say it was hot and made kisses and blowjobs even better... Blinking through a mist of grief he couldn't hold back anymore, Frank wiped his eyes and climbed off the bed, very aware of how dirty and smelly he was. As he stood up a scarlet headrush swamped his vision and he groaned quietly, covering his mouth. Doc looked up from his microscopes and pointed to the bathroom with a gloved finger, “There’s towels and clean clothes in the hamper by the sink. I keep different sizes for the different boys here so something in there should fit you. Anything else you need please take. The door doesn’t lock but I won’t peek. You are WAY too young for me, mijo.”

Shuddering uneasily, Frank crept into the tiny bathroom and shut the door behind him, sinking weakly against it. The shower looked new and was spotlessly clean and when he turned it on it made a reassuring hum. He switched the temperature to hot and gingerly stripped off his filthy clothes to step under the gushing torrent. The water around his feet turned a grim brownish red as he rinsed out his hair and washed the grime from his skin and it felt so good to be clean but so fucking terrible to be imprisoned and hurt and miles from home that the fragile floodgates inside him finally broke. With his head in his dripping hands he burst into tears, trying to smother the noise with his fingers as the sound of Doc’s TV babbled through the wall, but he couldn't stop the terrified sobs practically shaking his body apart. He was scared beyond all reason and so exhausted that even the effort of standing up was making him lightheaded. Sitting down with a splash on the wet tiles, he let the pouring water hammer down on his head and shoulders, stinging his cuts and bruises with a pain that he probably deserved. If he hadn't left home none of this shit would've happened. He's so fucking STUPID! His falling tears mixed with the soapy water gurgling down the drain and he felt so small and so alone. He was just a kid. He overreacted to stressful situations without thinking and always ended up in trouble and now he might never get the chance to mature into anything better.

It took a lot of effort but somehow he managed to reign in his surging emotions with the faint promise of sleep and the crippling sobs faded to shivering breaths and gulps as he slowly struggled back onto his feet. Turning off the water, he dried himself with a clean towel and dressed in shorts, socks, sweatpants and two layers of long sleeved jerseys from the stash in the hamper. All of the clothes smelled brand new and all were plain black or gray in colour. It was like putting on a prison uniform. Rifling miserably through a box of hygiene products by the sink, he found an unopened toothbrush and tiredly brushed his teeth, gargling mouthwash until his tongue was raw to obliterate the lingering taste of blood and cum. All that crying had made his eyes look puffy and red in the steamy mirror so he splashed cold water on them and smoothed his messy hair forwards until his bangs covered the worst of it. No need to look even more pathetic than he already did.

When he finally emerged back into the main room holding his old clothes in a smelly bundle against his chest, the TV was on mute and Doc was in the armchair reading. The air smelled like antiseptic and cotton and everything seemed slightly out of focus, glowing in the warm lamplight. “You can put those in the trash can over there,” Doc said, looking up from his novel, “I left another drink and some aspirin by your bed so if you wanna take a seat I'll glue that cut on your head and you can get some sleep.”

Desperate for unconsciousness, Frank dumped his old clothes in the garbage and climbed back onto the bed, swallowing the waiting aspirin with another glassful of purple water. Doc brought over the first aid kit and glued Frank's scalp wound closed before dressing his wrists in thick layers of clean white gauze. “If you wanna know, you tested negative for HIV, Hepatitis and a bunch of other stuff,” he told Frank while he worked, “I’m gonna need you to take a urine test in the morning when your fluid levels normalize but until then it's all good. Try to sleep. I'll be around if you need anything. Dulces sueños.”

Unfolding a large wheeled privacy screen around the bed, the medic dimmed the lights and disappeared back to his book, leaving Frank to curl up nervously under the thin covers, dreading what the morning would bring. Thankfully the weariness crushing his mind and body and the sedative Doc had slipped into his drink knocked him out two minutes after his head hit the pillow.

Beyond the barred window, a thin gray moon was rising over the city, washed out by thousands of glaring streetlights.

In the morning Frank awoke feeling groggy and sore to the sound of voices raised in argument.
"He's still sleeping, pendejo. Come back later.”
“He can sleep when he's dead. Get outta my way.”
“No, you stay here. I'll wake him. We’ll be quick, five minutes.”
“That's five minutes too long, bitch. I'll get him...”

Footsteps thundered across the floor and Frank rubbed his sandy eyes wondering what was happening. A dull ache throbbed in his forehead and his pillow was damp with tears he must have cried in his sleep. With a sharp hiss and a flood of daylight, the screen around his bed was suddenly whipped aside and the rapey black-eyed punk from yesterday appeared, looming over him and ripping the covers from his body. Frank didn’t even have time to react before he was seized by his bandaged wrists and dragged cruelly to his feet. “Hey!” Doc snapped angrily, shoving the other man away and stepping protectively in front of Frank who cowered back in terror as flashbacks to his time in the basement crashed his brain. Doc stared the intruder down, “This is MY room, pendejo, and you know the rules. Wait in the hall and I’ll bring him in five fucking minutes!”

Scowling dangerously, the punk threw a malicious wink at Frank and then stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Doc sighed, his shoulders slumping, and turned back to Frank with a weary smile. He wasn't wearing his glasses and was bare-chested and wearing pyjama pants. A fuzz of black stubble covered his jaw, contrasting sharply with his bleached locks. “It’s ok mijo, you don’t have to be scared of Babe. He's just another cog in the machine here. No real power.”
“He...His name is Babe?” Frank stuttered in disbelief. “For now,” Doc said, going to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, “You’re not the only one who wants to be anonymous, little bird. Here, drink this and get up. Babe's taking you to see Lou, the boss.”
Struggling to stay calm, Frank grabbed the water and chugged a few mouthfuls before standing up. He still felt dizzy and achy and three days without a cigarette had him itching with nicotine cravings. A decent cup of coffee wouldn't go amiss either.
Doc gave him a Twinkie to get his energy levels up and then handed him a small plastic cup. “Go pee in that and leave it by the bathroom sink. Then you’ve got like sixty seconds to wash up cuz I told Babe we’d be out in five and you can bet he’s timing us.”

Alone in the bathroom again Frank cleaned his teeth as a creeping sweat of fear soaked his armpits and the back of his neck, gripping the toothbrush so tight it left marks in his palm. Doc was the only person he’d met in days who didn’t scare the shit out of him and he didn't want to leave the relative safety of the medic’s room and be at the mercy of the other freaks who lived here. What if they locked him in the basement again? Or beat him? Or something worse?! Panting fearfully around the bristles in his mouth, he nearly choked on the foamy mass of toothpaste and spit it out into the sink. Violent red streaks stained the white bubbles. He was brushing so hard his gums were bleeding.

Stepping back into the apartment he was ashamed to feel his legs go weak with a cold piercing dread that he couldn’t force down or push aside. Doc handed him his sneakers and ushered him towards the door. “Put them on and go. Lou just wants to meet you today, that's all. It'll be ok.”

Out in the corridor Babe was pacing slowly around smoking a brown paper joint. Frank’s stomach was already doing anxious acrobatics and the stink of weed almost made him hurl. “Bout fuckin time,” Babe grumbled, “Let’s go, newbie.”
“Bring him back when you’re done,” Doc said half-heartedly as if he knew it might not happen, “He still needs recovery time before you put him to work. He’s not ready.”
“Is he clean?” Babe asked, ignoring the medic’s request.
“Yeah but_”
“Alright then,” Babe sniffed, stubbing out his doobie on the wall, “He sounds fuckin ready to me.”

Grabbing the terrified teen by the back of the neck, Babe pushed Frank down the hall and into the dingy stairwell, shoving him onto some steps leading up to the building’s higher levels. Frank hissed with pain as his knees smashed into the concrete and Babe kicked him in the back until he started climbing, barking at him all the way, “Up! Get up!” The topmost floor was huge, dark and dank and it reeked of cigar smoke and tequila. Babe grabbed Frank by the wrist and pulled him towards a large steel door with a nameplate fixed at eye-level beside a large peephole. The engraved letters on the plate simply read ‘The Loft’.

Knocking on the door three times, Babe held Frank still and when the door swung open, shoved him onto his knees on a wide red doormat inside. "Motherfucker," Frank spat angrily, looking up and gasping at the expansive room spread out before them. It looked like an underground nightclub: windowless and dimly lit with a black tiled floor, black ceiling and black walls stretching way beyond the scarlet entryway. There were three small podium stages scattered around the empty space, each supporting a human-sized metal cage decked out in spotlights, and a long drinks bar along one wall glinted coldly. All of it was intimidating and radiated a sense of doom and evil but what really made Frank shudder was the racks of whips, ropes, chains, collars and dildos stacked up behind the bar alongside the liquor and beer.

“Welcome to The Loft,” a deep voice boomed somewhere beside him and he spun around to see a fat shaven-headed man well over six feet tall emerging from the shadows by the door. “I’m Lou,” the big man rumbled, grinning with a mouthful of silver grilled teeth, “Come here, new meat.”

***
With a cry of terror, Frank lurches awake gasping and dripping with fever sweat as his heart pounds so hard it feels like it's breaking his chest.
“Frank, hey it's ok, you're safe. You're safe now.”
Gee?
Sitting up in fearful confusion on Ray's bathroom floor, Frank grabs at Gerard with quivering hands and a strangled sob and Gerard cuddles as much of the beautiful broken person in his arms as he can, rubbing soothing circles on his shuddering back. "It's ok Frankie, you're ok. It's alright."
"I'm so s-sorry," Frank sobs into his boyfriend's chest, "I'm sorry I fucked everything up, I'm so fucking s-stupid!"
"You didn't fuck anything up," Gerard says in surprise, "Do you even know how happy I am that you're back, Frankie? How happy we all are? I love you and I think I can safely say that you are not stupid. We've all done some dumb stuff and made mistakes but you're not stupid, baby, you're smart and you're brave and you're caring and you don't fuck things up. You didn't fuck me up, you saved my life!"
"No!" Pulling away, Frank stares wide-eyed at him through a mask of tears, his voice shaking. "I'm not brave, I'm not any of those things!"
Crawling out of Gerard's reach, he climbs unsteadily to his feet and coughs, his lungs wheezing. "I'm fucking garbage," he spits, tears leaking from his eyes and cutting tracks down his hollow cheeks, "I'm stupid fucking GARBAGE and if I tell you where I've been and w-what I've done, then you'll see it's true!"

Chapter Text

"Don't talk like that, please," Gerard begs, standing up stiffly on legs that are half-numb from the floor, "You're NOT garbage, Frankie, and I'm never going to think less of you just because you've been through some terrible shit. Having bad stuff happen to you or even doing bad things doesn't automatically make you a bad person. I should know."

Shaking his head in denial, Frank chokes out a groan of frustration and scrubs his hands through his hair and down his bruised face. "You don't get it," he sobs, "You don't fucking get it!"

"Not if you don't tell me what IT is!" Gerard cries in exasperation, "If you want me to understand then you have to talk to me, Frank. Please, I just want to help. You can tell me anything, I don't care what it is. I don't care that you get high, I don't care that you have scars. Whatever you've done and whatever was done to you, it doesn't change who you are inside and I love who you are, I always have!"

His voice echoes loudly off the tiled walls and in the silence that follows Frank doesn't respond, just pants tiredly and rubs his eyes with a clumsy fist, wobbling unsteadily on his feet. "You need to sit down," Gerard frets. "No," Frank sniffles stubbornly, "I just need some air." Gerard looks at him doubtfully, "You're too sick to go for a walk."

"I'm FINE, I just need some fucking air!" Frank snaps, his eyes blazing. Frowning sceptically, Gerard folds his arms across his chest, unconvinced, and after a moment Frank's hostile expression falters and crumbles. "I can't talk in here," he pleads, "I can't spill my guts to you if I feel like I can't breathe." Sighing worriedly, Gerard relents, "Ok, come on. I know a place we can go."

****

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER...

“Want me to stay, Boss?” Babe asked, side-eyeing Frank with a vaguely disgusted expression. “I don't care what you do,” Lou muttered, his greedy eyes devouring Frank's body as he loomed over the teenager like a tombstone over a grave, “You're a pretty little fucker ain't you, even with the bruises. What's your name, pretty thing?”

“Frank Anthony Iero Jr,” Babe reported, and a vile grin nearly split his face in half when Frank gaped at him in horror, “How the fuck do you know my name?!” Babe rolled his coal black eyes, “It doesn't take a genius. You told Sam you were from Belleville so I did a little research while you were chilling in the basement. Your mom's put out a missing persons notice with your name and picture on it. She must be worried sick about her little Frankie. Hey tell me, is she hot for her age? Kind of a MILF? I bet she is. Maybe I should look her up.”

“You stay the fuck away from her!” Frank cried, anger overriding his fear as he jumped up with his fists clenched, wanting nothing more than to beat the smug look off of Babe's face.

“This kid's got spine,” Lou chuckled approvingly, rubbing his massive hands together with glee. Babe cackled a dope-soaked laugh and left, shutting the door behind him with a damning thud. Frank started to follow him, blind with rage, but Lou grabbed his shoulder and roughly spun him around. “Hey, you don't have brawling rights yet, kid,” he warned, metal flashing between his lips, “And if you do what I say then mommy won't have anything to worry about. Take a seat.”

Huffing angrily, Frank sat down on the nearest bar stool with his feet dangling off the floor – why did he have to be so damn short? His heart was beating nails through his sternum as fury and fear fought a war inside him but with Babe out of the room, the fear was starting to win again.

Lou fished a plump brown cigar out of his jacket and sparked it up with a gold lighter, puffing musky smoke into the echoing black space around them. “Doc says you don't got AIDS or nothin,” he stated bluntly, “But Babe wasn't too impressed with your oral exam, if you know what I mean. So what's your type, kid?”

“Type of what?” Frank gulped, his left foot bouncing against the stool's legs in nervous agitation. “Girls? Boys? Somethin else?” Lou pressed, narrowing his eyes. "None of your fucking business!" the teenager blurted, his cheeks flushing with heat. Lou scowled menacingly and moved so close that Frank was forced to lean back over the bar to avoid the larger man's bulk and his stink of tobacco and spicy cologne. Sucking long and hard on the cigar, Lou blew a thick stream of putrid smoke into Frank's face, making him cough and gag, his eyes stinging. “Strip,” the big man ordered in a voice laced with violence.

“What? No!”

“I said strip you little bastard. Clothes off, now!”

“No!”

Without hesitation, Lou smacked Frank across the face so hard he hit the floor with a mouth full of blood. “Do it!” the club boss roared in a tone that threatened serious bodily harm, “I want to see every dirty inch of you and I wanna see it NOW!”

****
PRESENT DAY

“Holy shit," Gerard gulps, his eyes wide with a mixture of sympathy and horror that makes Frank feel loved and ashamed at the same time, "What did you do?”

“I did what he said. It's not like I had a choice," Frank snapped, "And the psycho just stood there staring at me for what felt like hours. I think I shut my eyes, tried to pretend I was someplace else, fucking anywhere else, but I could still hear him breathing. He finally let me put my clothes back on and told me I was too "special" to be sold abroad or pimped out to his club's usual crowd. Apparently I wasn't built to be a whore or a fetish sub-for-hire like Babe. Oh no, I was too pretty for that shit he said, and my skin was too perfect. He wanted me all to himself like I was some kind of luxury fucking champagne, reserved just for him and his sadistic friends."

"Oh my god," Gerard gasps, turning pale. Frank's eyes narrow defiantly at him, full of angry tears. "Hey, you wanted to hear all the gory details, right? You wanted to talk and help me deal so here you are, I'm talking, let's deal!" Chastened into silence, Gerard bites his tongue, and a heavy sense of dread starts nervous perspiration beading on his skin despite the cold. Frank swallows hard and clears his throat before going on, his hoarse voice rough and cracking at the edges, "So then Lou let me go back to Doc for a while and I thought I was off the hook for another day. But I wasn't. Late that night when the Loft was jumping and full of perverts and scumbags, Lou brought me back and got me so drunk I didn't know which way was up. All I remember is noise and shots...and Babe chained to one of the podiums getting flogged by sad old leather daddies. They made him bleed pretty bad and I almost felt sorry for him but he acted like it was nothing, like he enjoyed it even. His eyes were so black...he was always high on fuck knows what and I guess that's when I realized that drugs could get me through the worst of it."

"The worst of what?" Gerard whispers fearfully. Frank winces and heaves a long tired breath that rattles the mucus in his throat. "Once I was wasted Lou dragged me into his private office and locked the door. He had this crappy little camp bed set up in there..." The teenager trails off looking nauseous and his hands start to shake around the mug of water Gerard made him bring along. Sensing the worst, Gerard starts to tell him that he doesn't have to say any more if he doesn't want to, but stops when he realises that that would be for his own benefit, not Frank's. In the end it doesn't matter because Frank groans faintly and continues anyway: "Lou fucked me so hard it felt like daggers up there, even with all the booze. He shoved my face into the mattress so I couldn't scream, and I could hardly breathe. Then...w-when it was over I puked on the sheets and he got so mad about that he burned me with his cigar.”

“Oh fuck," Gerard gasps in horror, his blood running cold.

Frank nods glumly and drains his cup, wincing as it stings his tender throat on the way down. Gerard wracks his brain for something comforting to say but nothing seems right, nothing feels like it could ever be enough, so he stays silent and stares into his own drink of stale coffee. For the first time in weeks he feels a twinge of phantom pain in the wide pink scars on his arm and he shudders and forces himself to take a calming breath that doesn't really work, blowing it out into his cup.

They're sitting out on the flat, walled roof of Ray's building, trying to keep warm with jackets and gloves while the sun sets in the distance. Frank seems a little calmer out here, baring his soul under the wide uncaring sky, but a cold autumn rain is threatening to fall at any minute and the wind is harsh and biting. “After that I think I kinda lost my mind a little," Frank mumbles, staring down at his scarred fingers, "I was so angry and scared and what they did to me made me feel so fucking dirty, like all the way inside, all the way down, and like I was trapped there in the dirt, in that fucking evil place. I had no control, I had no choices, nothing was mine anymore. Not even my own goddamn body was mine! They took all of that away from me, they took EVERYTHING! And it made something snap in my brain I guess because often times the anger drowned out the fear and I started doing everything I could to piss Lou off. I guess I wanted to show the bastard that even though he could fuck me and hurt me, he couldn't break me inside, I wouldn't give him the fucking satisfaction; and every time he gave me a beating or a new burn or scar I would tell myself that I was glad because it meant I wasn't his pretty perfect-looking prize anymore. I wanted the scars to make me ugly so he wouldn't want to fuck me anymore and when he got tired of my bullshit no one else would want to fuck me either. But the joke was on me because he never got tired of it. In fact I'm pretty sure that kicking the shit out of me actually turned him on. After a while I didn't even mind the pain anymore. Some days it was the only thing that made me feel like a real person and not just his pet sex toy locked up in the dark..." Trailing off into a desolate sob, Frank wipes his eyes with his fist and when he speaks again he's so quiet Gerard can barely hear him: "Sometimes he beat me so bad I blacked out and then Babe would have to wake me up, give me some pills and send me right back to him. I hated Lou so much I wanted him dead and one day I stole his lighter and set his suit on fire. I didn't care if that motherfucker burned, but of course he didn't and to punish me he stabbed me, actually fucking stabbed me with a knife! It was kinda worth it though because I got three days recovery time with Doc and a lot of morphine. It was like heaven.”

Gerard shakes his head in horrified disbelief, completely speechless as the howling wind whirls around them, sweeping dead leaves and cigarette butts into the air. He tries to imagine the worst pain he can think of, like the lonely agony he felt after Mikey died or the horrific wounds he gave himself in Florida, but he can't feel the old sharpness of it anymore and it kills him to know that what Frank went through in New York was probably much worse and the poor guy had to face it all alone. Guilt burns in his throat and he finds himself blurting out the first thought that comes into his head: "What the fuck, Frank, he nearly killed you! Why didn't you get out of there sooner?" He regrets the question as soon as it passes his lips but it's too late to take it back. "You think I didn't try?" Frank chokes, his face aghast in the dying light, "That place had security guards and coded locks for days and all the windows were barred or bricked up. If I ever even got close to getting out they threatened to throw me back in that fucking basement and leave me there to die!" Another coughing fit comes over him and he has to stop and catch his breath for a minute, spitting gunky phlegm at the ground. "I know he could've killed me. I thought about that every single fucking day, knowing that my body might be dumped in the river or dissolved in acid and you and mom and Ray would never know what happened to me. You can't imagine what that was like to live with so don't even go there. I tried to escape, of course I did, but it never worked and after the fire incident Lou put a choke-chain on me, one of those awful steel nooses that sociopaths use to punish their dogs. After being strangled half a dozen times a day I didn't have the will to fight anymore."

"The bruises on your neck," Gerard says in sick realization. Frank nods, hunching up his shoulders against the cold and hanging his head. His hands are shaking again, so bad that he drops his cup and it breaks into a puddle of shards on the concrete. “So now you know,” he whimpers, "I was a psychotic pimp's plaything for the worst few months of my life and I just want to forget it ever happened but I can't! I'm not in denial, Gee, I know I'm fucked up, I know I'm damaged and not even close to ok and I-I'm scared I'll never be ok again and it's all my fault for being stupid enough to think a random stranger would ever want to help me! I'm a stupid shitty piece of human garbage, scarred for life and dirty in places I can't ever get clean and n-now do you see? Do you understand why I didn't w-wanna fucking talk about it?!" His quivering voice finally dissolves into broken weeping and he buries his face in his hands.

"I'm so sorry," Gerard gasps, wrapping his arms around Frank shuddering body, "I'm so sorry Frankie, I'm sorry I didn't find you there and save you like you did for me when I was hurting but I'm here for you now and I love you so much! You're not garbage, Frank, and you're not stupid and none of this is your fault! Please don't punish yourself for what other people did to you. It's not your fault! Is there anything I can do to help you now? Anything, just tell me what you need, please, what can I do?" His voice cracks as sorrow and fear force their way in and he presses his lips together and swallows, determined to be the strong supportive one for a change. Shivering in the gathering gale, Frank lifts his tear-stained face and sniffs hard, watery gunk trailing from his eyes and nose. "Well...You can start by taking me back downstairs," he croaks, "I feel like death."

****
“God, I need drugs,” Frank groans as they re-enter the warm cocoon of Ray's apartment and lock the door behind them. Gerard frowns in concern and Frank looks sideways at him before sinking weakly onto the couch, “I meant the legal kind. Can you make me another one of those aspirin drinks?”

“Coming right up.” Gerard assures him, heading to the kitchen. Unwinding his winter scarf from around his neck he tosses it over to Frank who buries his face in the warm woolly fabric and lies down under the couch's ever-present blanket. Along with the lemon aspirin beverage, Gerard gathers a bottle of cough syrup and one of the antibiotic pills that Linda left and brings everything over to the couch.

“Thanks,” Frank mumbles from inside the scarf, sitting up just long enough to swallow the various medicines before retreating to Blanket Land again. Gerard turns on the TV but he's not really watching it. His mind is spinning with all the nightmarish things Frank told him on the roof and nothing in the whole World seems fair or right or bearable right now. Every human being outside of these walls feels like an enemy. With a smothered cough, Frank rests his weary head on Gerard's leg and the older man manages a smile through the weight of empathy and grief in his chest. There is so much he wants to say but he can't find the right words and it takes him most of an hour-long episode of a hoarder reality show to pluck up the courage to ask the question burning brightest in his brain: "How did you finally escape and come home to us?" Frank sighs and tugs the blanket up higher until only his tousled hair is visible. "Not now," he says in a muffled voice, shutting down the conversation, "And don't tell anyone else what I told you on the roof, not even Toro. I mean it. Promise me."

"I promise," Gerard agrees, squeezing Frank's shoulder through the soft layers of fabric. Without another word they rest together in the static glow of the television until Ray comes home with a large bag of Chinese takeout food. “Hey," he says awkwardly, looking sheepish under his shaggy curls as he locks the door behind him, "Are you guys okay? How are you feeling Frankie?”

“Fuckin rad,” Frank mutters sarcastically from under the blanket, nuzzling his sleepy face against Gerard's thigh and making the older man clench his leg to try and stop the sudden rush of blood that Frank's snuggles are sending towards his dick. A boner would really not be appropriate right now. “Where d'you go?” he asks Ray.

"Nowhere. Just drove around and then stopped by Chang's for the food. I figured I should bring back a peace offering after running out on you before. I'm sorry."

"You should be," Frank grunts crankily. Gerard shrugs apologetically at Ray and Ray shoots him a weak smile as he unpacks the cartons of chow mein and dumplings. "So, chopsticks or forks?"

****

Frank manages to get a good helping of veggie noodles down his sore throat and then chases them with one of his grandfather's deathbed painkillers and a Xanax from Gerard. His fever is down but he's so tired he can't keep his eyes open and when he falls asleep in front of a Toy Story movie, his friends retreat into the kitchen nook to decompress.

Gerard settles into his usual spot by the window to smoke while Ray perches on the breakfast bar and tucks into the free bag of prawn crackers that came with their meal. "Frank told you what happened to him didn't he," he guesses in a hushed voice, "You both seem more relaxed now, like the air's been cleared. What did he say?"

"Sorry man, I promised I wouldn't tell," Gerard explains, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth, "I still don't know the whole story anyway, like where the blood on his clothes came from or how he got back here. I know it's gonna be bad though. Really fucking bad..." Taking another drag of burning chemicals, he tries to focus on the fire in his throat and not the bleak and violent images in his mind. Ray sombrely puts down his food and folds his hands in his lap. "Shit. Isn't there anything at all you can tell me? I mean, how worried should I be here? Was it one person who did this to him or was it like a gang or something?"
"Stop asking me stuff, I mean it. I can't tell you."
"Sorry...But do you at least know if there are any violent maniacs out there who might come looking for him?"

Gerard frowns and taps ash from his cigarette into an empty cup, "I doubt it. He would warn us if we were in danger. All I can say is that I think something big must've gone down the other night because I don't think he could've gotten away from the situation he was in without some kind of intervention."
"That sounds ominous."
"Yeah." Sucking his cigarette down to the filter, Gerard puffs the fumes out into the chilled night air and flicks the glowing remains into the alley outside.
"Those things'll kill you," Ray scolds, munching on another cracker. "Yep," Gerard sighs, shuddering at the thought of Lou's disgusting cigars burning holes in Frank's flesh, "I know."

Chapter Text

Closing the window with a shiver, Gerard slides off the counter and shoves his nicotine-stained hands into his pockets, glancing wistfully at the sofa. Ray watches him with pity, guessing that he's barely slept since Frank came home. His face looks waxy and paler than usual and there are shadows under his eyes. "Why don't you go and crash in my room for a few hours," he offers, "Or join Frankie on the couch. He fell asleep next to you so he'll be expecting you there when he wakes up."
"You think so?"
"Of course. Go."
Cautiously Gerard shuffles over to the comfortable old couch and studies the sleeping bundle of Frank for a moment before carefully lying down beside him so that the younger man is snuggled safely between him and the back cushions.

Ray smiles and finishes off the greasy bag of crackers before scraping out and disposing of all the used takeout boxes. By the time he's done Gerard is already sleeping soundly with his nose buried in Frank's hair and they look pretty adorable curled up together. Tiptoeing around the apartment, Ray dims the lights and leaves the TV on low to provide some white noise to keep his friends under.

Grabbing a couple of brewskis from the fridge, he heads to his room for some gaming time but then a knock at the door stops him in his tracks. His building does in fact have a buzzer and intercom system but other tenants are always leaving the main entrance propped open so surprise visits are annoyingly common. Hurrying to open the door before the knocking wakes anyone up, he mentally cringes when he sees who it is. "Hey Mrs Iero," he gulps in greeting, quickly ushering her into the kitchen area before she can get a good look at the darkened living room, "Um, I wasn't expecting you, sorry. Frank's actually asleep right now so-"

"Is that him on the sofa?" she whispers, clutching a small paper grocery bag in her arms, "Sorry, I know it's late but I needed to see him. He finds it hard to deal with being sick and I thought...Oh...who is that with him?"

"Huh?" Ray squeaks guiltily, totally unprepared for this right now. He knows Linda dislikes Gerard but he isn't sure why and as she peers suspiciously at the huddle on the couch he feels his cheeks grow hot. "You're welcome to come back in the morning," he says awkwardly, ignoring her question, "I can make sure Frank's awake for you then."

Linda turns to look at him with knowing brown eyes and he fidgets uncomfortably under her gaze, "Um, can I get you a drink or something?"

"No," she says quietly, her expression unreadable, "I think I've come at a bad time." Ray shrugs helplessly, "They're both just really tired, y'know? They've been through a lot."

"Haven't we all." Linda says ruefully. Dropping her little care package on the kitchen counter, she pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse, "Can I smoke in here?"
"Um, sure. Lemme just open the window...”

Lighting up, she settles herself at the breakfast bar and sighs long and loud, releasing fragrant smoke into the dimness. It smells bitter like burning cloves. "Are you angry?" Ray asks, nodding towards the couch. Linda tilts her head and studies the sleeping figures of her son and the man she knows must be Gerard Way. She hates to admit it but in this moment they actually look quite sweet, napping innocently and (thank God) fully clothed. Gerard's hair is shorter now than when she found him and Frank defiling her living room in the summer and he looks more respectable. She also can't help but notice how cosy and relaxed her son seems compared to when she saw him yesterday. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together, even if she doesn't like the answer. Dragging deep on her cigarette, she replays in her mind the few memories she has of her son's questionable relationship and realizes that it is actually a very incomplete picture. "Before Frank ran away I thought I knew what was best for him," she says softly, "And I was so damn sure that keeping him away from Gerard was the right thing to do. But what did I get? An angry missing kid and months of not knowing if he was alive or dead. It was the worst time of my life and now I have no clue what Frankie is feeling or what will make him happy. But that's all I want, Ray, just for Frank to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted. He's all grown up now and I can't be everything for him, I know that. Does Gerard make him happy?"
Ray nods firmly. “Honestly, yeah he does. I've known them both a really long time and I think they're much happier together than when they're apart. There's been a lot of ups and downs, sure, some pretty big downs I guess; but Frank couldn't leave Gerard on his own when he was in trouble and Gerard won't leave Frank now. They just want to help each other and they love each other so much, they really do.

Linda sighs and purses her lips, bouncing her foot against the leg of her chair just like Frank does when he's agitated, "Pretend like Gerard isn't your friend for a second, okay? You're a good kid from a good family and I feel like I can trust you to be honest about something this important so I want the truth from you now, Ray, the God's honest truth. Forget about the past now couple of years because what's done is done now and none of us can take back our mistakes; is this man good for Frankie?"

"Yes," Ray says without hesitation, "And if you give him a chance I think you'll see it for yourself." As if on cue Frank suddenly stirs in his sleep making pained noises in his throat that quickly turn into whimpers of distress like he's having a nightmare. Linda jumps to her feet ready to soothe and comfort him but before she can even get close Gerard wakes and wraps his arms around Frank's twitching body, stroking his hair and murmuring to him, "Wake up Frankie, you're dreaming. It's okay. You're safe Frankie, you're safe..." Frank wakes with a sob of terror and immediately burrows into Gerard's chest in search of comfort and neither of them seem to realize in the semi-darkness that Ray and Linda are even there. Gerard keeps whispering soothing words while Frank sniffles in response, breathing shakily in his boyfriend's gentle embrace, and even Linda can see the tender bond between them.

Embarrassed to be spying on such an intimate moment, Ray quickly moves to turn on more lights to signal his presence and Gerard sits up groggily, blinking in the glare. When he sees Linda standing by the kitchen his face floods with panic and he gazes fearfully at her while she regards him with a serious, thoughtful expression. Frank still has his face in Gerard's sweater but he must sense the sudden tension in the room because he looks up too and meets his mother's gaze with stunned eyes, looking like a baby deer in the headlights. “Your mom stopped by,” Ray explains pointlessly as he and Linda join them in the living room. Frank hugs his boyfriend tighter while Gerard looks fearfully between the two Ieros, obviously expecting fire and brimstone to start raining down on his head. But all Linda does is smile politely at him before focusing her attention on her son. “Hi sweetie, I'm sorry to wake you, I just wanted to check in. Are you feeling any better?” Frank's jaw drops slightly at her non-reaction to his supposedly forbidden love and he lets go of Gerard to self-consciously wipe his eyes and smooth his hair off his face. “Um...yeah a little I guess. I'm kinda hungry.”

“That's a good sign,” Linda declares, stubbing out her cigarette on her lighter case and bending down to kiss Frank's forehead, her fingers gently resting on the back of his bruised neck. "Feels like your fever's gone. That's great baby but keep taking the antibiotics I gave you for the whole course, alright?" Frank nods, still looking confused, and Linda straightens up and finally turns to Gerard, extending her hand to him. “I don't think we've ever been properly introduced. I'm Linda. It's good to meet you, Gerard.” Gerard looks so shocked that for one moment Ray thinks he might actually pass out but he manages to shake Linda's hand while Frank watches in amazement, “Um, h-hi, it's good to meet you too.”

Satisfied for now, Linda retrieves her grocery bag from the kitchen and passes Frank a bottle of chewable gummy vitamins and a box of Red Vines. “And some chocolate for your friends,” she adds, pulling out a fistful of Musketeers bars and dropping them in Gerard's lap. "I'll leave you to rest now but please call me tomorrow. Goodnight.” And in a mist of perfume and smoke she's gone.

Ray slowly shuts the door behind her and turns to his friends. “Can someone please explain what just happened?” Gerard stutters. Frank smiles in bemusement, “I have no idea, but I think my mom is trying to like you.”

***

The following morning Ray emerges yawning from his bedroom to find Frank parked in front of the TV wearing two layers of sweaters and eating a bowl of chocolate cereal. An old episode of Hey Arnold is playing on the screen. Gerard is nowhere to be seen. “Do you ever watch anything besides old cartoons?” Ray teases sleepily. “I like 'em,” Frank mumbles through his food, shovelling milky sludge into his mouth, "They don't make me think too much." Ray smiles and leans down to give his friend a quick one-armed hug around the shoulders. As he does he notices that the silver ring Frank always used to wear pierced through his lower lip is missing and in its place is a jagged pink scar. It's an uncomfortable reminder of the dozens of other scars and wounds Gerard claimed to be hidden under Frank's clothes and Ray sighs inwardly and hugs his friend a few moments longer until Frank wriggles out of the embrace, his eyes firmly on the TV. "Did you sleep okay?” Ray asks gently, straightening up and going to open the drapes. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Frank answers hoarsely, his green eyes fixed on Arnold's football-shaped cartoon head, “Grandpa's pills work like a charm if I take enough of them. Gotta fill that coke hole with something, right?” There's a sarcastic undercurrent of hostility in his voice and Ray prickles defensively, “You're still mad that I flushed your drugs? Really, dude? I did that to help you.”

“Sure, sure,” Frank mutters, “Everyone's just trying to help me.”

“I'm not gonna fight about this again. This is my house and I'm allowed to have some boundaries. Let's just move on, ok? Where's Gee?”

Frank's shoulders slump miserably. "He went home to shower and stuff. He has an appointment with his therapist later so he might not be back until tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

"Yep." A long pause follows with just the noise of the television and Ray clears his throat a few times until Frank sighs and looks up at him, “What?”

“Maybe a little therapy would help you too.”

“I don't get along with shrinks, Toro. Or doctors in general. My mom made me go to therapy after dad left and I hated it. Talking to strangers about my life doesn't work for me unless it's on MY terms.”

"Bu you have different problems now," Ray says tentatively, "Have you told Gerard about any of it?”

“Some,” Frank admits gruffly, abandoning his half-eaten breakfast on the floor, “But some stuff he doesn't need to know. NO ONE needs to know."

Ray nods and backs off before he pushes his luck too far, going to the kitchen to make pop tarts before settling down on the beanbag beside Frank's. They watch the cartoon for a while without speaking and it's a pretty funny episode but when Ray finishes his food and looks away from the screen he realizes that Frank has tears in his eyes. “Are you ok, man? Is there anything I can do?”

“Can you erase memories?” Frank mumbles shakily. Grabbing the TV remote he stabs the power off button and gets to his feet, retreating to the couch where he curls up small and pulls a discarded pillow over his face. “My head hurts. I wanna go back to sleep.”

“Ok,” Ray says patiently. “I'll head out for a while so you can have some peace. Do you want anything from the store?”

Frank shakes his head, his hair rustling against the pillowcase, and Ray can hear his friend's breathing getting faster and wetter like he's trying really hard not to cry. Grabbing his jacket and keys, he hurries out the door and gives the poor kid some privacy.

***

FOUR DAYS AGO...

The short knotted whip cracked loudly over the muffled noise from The Loft bar and snapped through the smoky air, lashing Frank's scrawny stomach with a sharp biting sting that forced all the breath from his body. A thick red welt the size of a belt buckle rose on his sweating skin, beading along the center with blood and he trembled with the effort of swallowing another scream. “Alright, that's enough,” Lou panted from where he was masturbating greedily in a chair six feet away, “My hand's gettin' tired.” With an anxious sigh of relief, Babe lowered his arm and coiled up the blood-slicked whip before kneeling submissively on the floor of the tiny office with his head bowed.

Mopping his cum-smeared palms and crotch with fistfuls of kleenex, Lou grinned contentedly and zipped up his pants before lighting one of his repulsive cigars and puffing away on it. Lumbering over to where Frank lay groaning in agony on the grubby linoleum he grabbed the end of his pet boy's choke chain and savagely jerked it upwards until Frank was forced to struggle to his feet just so he could breathe. Spitting carelessly on the floor, Lou stubbed out the soggy cigar on Frank's bare shoulder, sadistically twisting it back and forth. Half-strangled, Frank could only gag and whimper as the burning embers ate into his skin and left behind another circle of blistered flesh. Tossing the spent cigar in the trash, Lou ruffled his cowering slave's tangled hair and shoved him roughly towards the door, “Go clean yourself up, we're done for tonight.” Swaying unsteadily, Frank stumbled to obey but it was all he could do just to stay upright. His latest injuries throbbed and ached under the trails of sweat and blood rolling down his back and soaking into his jeans. He could smell his own burnt skin and the sickly stink made his head spin. He might have fainted right then on Lou's office floor if Babe hadn't suddenly appeared beside him with a supportive arm around his waist. “Can I feed him?” Babe asked Lou softly, his expression giving nothing away. “Not today,” the big boss smirked. “Naughty dogs don't deserve food.” Nodding stiffly, Babe tightened his grip, feeling the bones of Frank's ribs and spine as the skinny teenager sank woozily against him, barely conscious. Lou waved them away and Babe dragged Frank out of the nasty little room and into the private corridor running behind the club out of sight of the patrons, and hauled him downstairs.

Doc answered his door with a worried frown and Babe met it with one of his own. They both knew that Lou had a serious hard-on for inflicting pain but this was getting ridiculous. A dead worker wasn't worth a goddamn thing. "Both of you or just him?" Doc asked wearily. Babe sighed. "Just him."

“Please tell me he can eat this week,” the medic begged, gently patting Frank's cheek until the teenager opened his eyes and glared blearily at him with a mumbled “Ow.”

“Nice to see you too, little bird, but we've got to stop meeting like this.”

“Yeah,” Babe answered hesitantly, “Lou said he can eat as long as he's out of sight.”

“Thank god for small mercies,” Doc muttered, “Can you walk, Frankie?”

“Just watch me,” Frank grunted, shrugging off Babe's grip and limping past Doc towards the medic's bathroom, leaving a trail of blood drops in his wake. Babe watched him go and raked a jittery hand through his hair, pulling a pre-rolled joint from behind his ear and lighting it quickly. “This is fucking loco," Doc grumbled, "Even you think Lou's going too far with this kid, I can see it in your eyes. You're not as poker-faced as you think." Babe frowned as he took a quick drag but didn't disagree with the medic's observation. "Just have him back in his room by dawn Doc," he sighed, "And don't take the collar off this time."

“He's not a fucking animal.”

“Try telling Lou that."

Shutting the bathroom door with an exhausted groan, Frank carefully stripped off his jeans and socks – the only clothes he'd been allowed to wear all week - and stepped gingerly into the shower, setting it to luke-warm and low pressure. The water soaked him gently but he still flinched and hissed with pain as it stung his battered body and painted the tiles around his feet slippery pale red. The usual memories of the blood-stained motel bathroom where Gerard nearly died flashed through his mind and he didn't fight them, just told himself to keep breathing until the echoes of past trauma faded.

He didn't have the strength to scrub and soap himself properly so he settled for just standing under the painful downpour until the dirty water running into the drain turned clear. Reaching up to turn off the shower made his shoulder burns scream and he gasped as fresh tears filled his eyes. When he was this sober, which wasn't often these days, his whole body hurt from Lou's constant abuse. To make matters worse he also had some kind of illness coming on, making him cough and packing his throat and sinuses with snotty discomfort. Trudging out of the shower cubicle with the end of his choke chain swinging down by his ankles, he found a clean towel and dried off, smudging the white fabric with crimson, making it fit for the trash. Just like him. Sitting down wearily on the toilet lid, he dragged on some clean socks and eased a pair of boxers and some baggy jeans up his bruised legs, not bothering with a shirt. Rising unsteadily, he checked out the latest damage in the mirror and the steamy glass showed him the scarred and half-starved version of himself that he hated more than anything. Still, he tried to keep his mind emotionless and clinical as he studied his sorry reflection. A bruised eye, the usual scattering of burns, and some fresh hickeys running along his collarbone to match the ugly purple marks and scabs from the choke chain's collar. At least Babe had gone easy on him with the whip tonight - after all this time Frank could tell when the other guy wasn't happy about following Lou's orders. The raised scarlet welts striping his back and stomach were still pretty bad though: swollen and stinging, red raw. He gently ran his bitten down fingertips over the bumpy wounds in quiet horror until he got light-headed and had to sit down again, cradling his face in his hands.

He couldn't take much more of this. The constant physical and psychological punishment was slowly killing him and every morning he woke up wondering if this would be the day that Lou finally finished him off and threw his broken body into the Hudson. Silent tears of despair dribbled from his eyes and he numbly let them fall until Doc knocked on the door. “You ok in there, hermano?”

“No,” Frank sobbed to himself in a ruined whisper, swiping his hands across his face until the tears were all gone. “Yeah I'm ok,” he called a little louder, grabbing some toilet paper for his streaming nose and an oversized black hoodie from the clothes hamper to hide the hell mapped out across his body before he opened the door, “I just wanna go to bed.”

Doc applied some antiseptic cream to Frank's new burns and gave him painkillers and a jumbo cup of instant noodles with some toast for dinner before escorting him down the corridor to his designated room: a small dank space with nothing in it but an old bed. Mumbling apologies, the medic took the end of Frank's chain and padlocked it to the large iron loop that Lou had drilled into the wall above the bed, then secured the collar's width with a smaller lock near Frank's adam's apple to keep it at a tightness that he couldn't slip off over his head. Frank let him do it all in exhausted silence and lay down fully clothed on the musty mattress. "Have you got a bottle for if you need to pee?" Doc asked softly. Frank nodded glumly and closed his eyes, waiting for the medic to leave before rolling onto his sore stomach and reaching under his pillow for the quart of vodka and small packet of uppers and cocaine that Babe always left for him there. These days it seemed like more drugs graced his stomach lining than actual food but the alcohol choked his fear and helped him sleep and the coke shrank his appetite and perked him up enough to be at Lou's beck and call. He welcomed these chemicals like tiny saviors. Although the nights when Lou came to share his bed and aggressively fuck him were getting fewer and farther between; the beatings and lashings were becoming more frequent, so much so that often Lou preferred to simply watch and jerk off while Babe was ordered to do all the grunt work. Somewhere down the line this had led to Babe actually feeling sorry for Frank and although he was still a pretty nasty guy, he knew that his drugs were the only thing keeping Frank going so he made sure they were always available. On the rare occasions that he demanded something in return he was surprisingly gentle and Frank could almost close his eyes and pretend that he was somewhere else, far away with someone who actually loved him.

That night the booze quickly put him to sleep but a little after midnight he was awoken with a jolt by what sounded like distant fireworks. He thought he was dreaming at first but the explosions continued, joined by shouts of rage and he froze in terror when he realized that the fireworks were actually gunshots.

Then suddenly out of the darkness a man's gruff voice yelled through a megaphone, “NYPD and FBI! Put down your weapons!”

Holy shit, it was a raid!

More gunshots cracked through the night mixed with the sounds of shouting and broken glass. Then running footsteps and frantic voices calling in Russian echoed past Frank's bedroom door.

Alight with nervous adrenaline, he fumbled for the lamp by his bed and turned it on before trying to get up but of course his collar jerked him to a halt at the edge of the bed. He was still chained to the wall. Fuck! If the cops stormed the building and found him like this, helpless and hurt and obviously a victim, they wouldn't just let him walk away and go home. They would take him in for questioning and document his scars and bruises and try to make him testify against the meanest bunch of thugs and rapists he had ever known. Then his mom would find out where he'd been all this time and what had been done to him and that was the last thing he ever wanted to happen! Wrapping both hands tightly around the end of his chain he pulled against the lock with all his might. He had to get out of here before the cops found him! But even though he hauled and strained against the sadistic collar until his hands and neck were raw and the muscles in his arms felt like jelly it was no use. He couldn't pull metal out of concrete or break solid steel.

Searchlights flashed across his tiny barred window from outside and the shouting and gunshots grew more violent. Someone somewhere was howling in pain and sirens and helicopter blades bellowed through the night. An armed SWAT team was probably going to blow through the doors downstairs any minute and storm the building. Howling in frustration and despair, Frank punched and kicked at the wall until his knuckles bruised. “Doc!” he yelled desperately, “DOC, HELP!” But no one could hear him. His voice was drowned out by the roar from outside and brothel walls were thick for a reason. Sickly terror flooded his senses and just when he felt on the verge of a total breakdown someone opened the door to his room. Not cops and not Doc. It was Babe.

“Ah fuck,” Babe swore when he saw Frank's predicament, “I've always hated that goddamn collar.” Pulling a gun from his jacket, he moved to Frank's side of the bed and aimed at the metal brace securing the chain to the wall. Frank covered his ears as two shots hammered out and the concrete shattered, loosening the steel enough for Babe to pull it free. “Okay newbie, let's go,” he snapped, grabbing Frank's arm and pulling him out into the hall. It looked like the other workers under Lou's control had already fled because the place was deserted and scattered belongings and clothes littered the carpet. “Where's Doc?” Frank cried, unwilling to believe that the kind-hearted medic had simply abandoned him. “Someone got shot, he went to help them," Babe growled, dragging Frank onto the stairs and up to the next floor where he took him to a small rusty door with a keypad lock. Punching in a release code, he shoved it open and a rush of cold night air revealed a metal fire escape fixed to the side of the building. “We can't climb down, they'll catch us,” he panted, “Think you can jump across to the next building? They have a fire escape too, it's not that far.”

“Are you kidding?!” Frank gasped, staring wide-eyed into the freezing darkness. The gap between the buildings was several feet of air over a concrete alley far below. “Jump or let the pigs arrest you," Babe hissed as the sound of booted feet storming the building echoed up the stairs. “Go!” he yelled, shoving Frank out onto the creaking metal walkway. Trembling with fear, Frank climbed onto the fire escape railing, his feet slipping on the old flaking paint and took what could be his last breath. Then he jumped. With a loud clang his forearms slammed painfully into the railings of the building opposite and he held on for dear life, pulling himself up and over the side of the fire escape and landing hard on the cold metal platform. Scrambling up he limped towards the nearest stairwell window and peered inside. This place looked abandoned. Wrapping his fist up in the chain still dangling from his neck, he punched the glass as hard as he could and it shattered, one small noise lost in the pandemonium raging from Lou's crumbling empire. Climbing in through the broken window onto some dark trash-strewn stairs he turned back in panic to look for Babe and saw the black-eyed thug landing clumsily on the railings right behind him, still holding his gun. He looked ready to follow Frank inside but hesitated a little too long and a voice from below hollered: “NYPD! Drop your weapon!” Snarling in mindless fury, Babe leaned over the railing and opened fire at the cops standing below. The return fire came from two directions and bullets pierced Babe's neck and torso, exploding through flesh and bone in violent crimson rain. Quaking with fear, Frank turned and ran into the old building as fast as he could, his face drenched in Babe's blood.

**

PRESENT DAY

When Ray comes home at lunchtime Frank is sitting on the floor by the couch staring into space. The nineteen year old looks completely zoned out, his eyes a million miles away, and he doesn't seem to notice Ray is there until the older man taps him on the shoulder. “Hey buddy.”

Flinching like he's been hit, Frank looks at him in startled confusion. “Toro?”
“Yeah, it's just me. Come on, lemme help you up.” Pulling his friend to his feet, Ray gently steers him into the kitchen nook and sits him down with a glass of water. “Here, drink something. Have you taken your meds today?” Frank frowns dazedly and reaches for the glass. His eyes are red-rimmed and he smells like stale sweat and coffee. “I dunno. Maybe?”

Ray sighs softly and fetches the antibiotics, measuring out one pill which Frank chucks to the back of his throat. “What were you thinking about just now, Frankie? You looked like you were in a trance or something.”

Frank lowers his eyes and sips his drink without answering and Ray nods in acceptance of his silence. But then the teenager coughs into his glass and mumbles something that sounds like “blood.”

“Blood is what you were thinking about?”

“Yeah. That sounds pretty bad huh.”

“I guess it depends on the context,” Ray says diplomatically, pulling up a chair.

“I've seen so much fucking blood,” Frank sighs, rubbing his eyes and suddenly looking much older. Ray reaches out and squeezes his shoulder supportively and Frank leans into the touch for a moment before hunching away again. “Can you tell me why there was blood on your clothes the night you came home?” Ray ventures, “It's totally fine if you don't want to but you might feel better if you-”

“Get it out in the open?” Frank finishes, chewing on his scarred lip.

“Yeah. They say a burden shared is a burden halved.”

“Is that what they say?” Frank sighs. He doesn't look very encouraged. Ray gets up to refill the coffee machine. “Have you had lunch? I can make you a grilled cheese sandwich if you want or we could order-”

“The blood wasn't all mine,” Frank blurts and Ray falls silent, his heart clenching with a mixture of relief that Frank is talking and dread at what he might be about to say. “The place I was at got raided by the cops. Some people got hurt and I...s-sort of saw someone die. They were right next to me. It was mostly their blood.”

“Oh,” Ray gulps.

“I didn't get out of that hellhole on my own. That place was like Fort Knox, I never could've escaped without help,” Frank continues, tremors of emotion growing in his husky voice, “I didn't want the cops to find me and I was so scared, I just wanted to get out, y'know?! So I went with this guy, this piece of shit psycho who'd already locked me up, assaulted me, pretty much fucking tortured me...But I guess he wasn't all bad because he got me out of there. He don't have to do that. I still don't know why he did. Then he died, right there, right in front of me, and his blood...fuck, I could taste it. I could feel it all over me, on my skin, in my hair...I hated him but then he helped me and I got out and he didn't and h-he died and I know I don't owe him shit after what he put me through but I keep seeing the look on his face when they shot him. I can't even hear his name without feeling sick and it wasn't even his real name! I fucking yelled at Gee just because he said it. What the fuck is wrong with me, Toro? Don't I have enough shit to deal with without having some kind of twisted survivor's guilt too?!”

Breathing raggedly, he drops his head into his hands. “It's not fucking fair! What did I do to deserve this shit? What the fuck did I do?!” Ray swallows a sorrowful lump in his throat and tries his best to answer. “You didn't do anything, Frankie. You're a good kid, you didn't do anything to deserve this.”

“Then how come it happened? How come I was fucking stupid enough to fall right into their goddamn trap and nearly let them kill me?" Frank cries, and he pulls up the hem of his sweaters just enough to expose the scars and bruising on his starved stomach.

Ray winces at the sight, his guts churning. “Oh...god...that doesn't look like you LET them do anything, Frankie. They assaulted you, you didn't have a choice and you didn't know what was going to happen, you're not psychic! It is NOT your fault they hurt you. How could it be? No one deserves to be treated like that."

"Then why do I feel so fucking wrong?” Frank sobs, curling up in his chair, "Like I'm this disgusting, dirty, weak, stupid THING?! This piece of shit who should've died back there. I should still die, I deserve it!"

“No Frankie, no you don't. That's just a lie your trauma is telling you. It's not true! You think you're weak? Jesus, kid, you're the strongest person I know! You spent months trapped in a living hell, hurting every single day, and you survived. Not only that but you got out, you got away, and that makes you stronger and better than any of those fuckers who hurt you. Anybody who goes through something like you have and comes out the other side still standing is a goddamn hero as far as I'm concerned."

"But-"

"But nothing, it's the truth. Like it or not you're my hero and I wish you didn't feel the need to blame yourself for this mess. I don't know, maybe it's because what happened to you was so bad that your first instinct is to see it as a punishment for something you must have done wrong. But you didn't do anything wrong, Frankie, and you sure as hell don't deserve to die. That's the bastards who hurt you talking. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time and that is not your fault. None of this is your fault. Sometimes terrible things happen to good people and it's really fucking unfair, just like you said. It's probably the most unfair thing about being alive. But you survived. You got through it and I'm so proud of you."

"You're proud of m-me?"

"Fuck yeah I am, and so is Gerard. We can't even begin to imagine how you're feeling but please know that you are safe here with us and you are gonna feel better one day. It won't happen quickly but it will happen, I promise, so please don't give up Frankie, please. You're one of my favorite people in the whole world and nothing you've told me or shown me has changed that. You're my best friend and I would fucking die for you. People like you are worth everything. Just hang in there, ok? You're not alone anymore.”

With shame and grief still burning in his eyes, Frank nods slowly but he looks more like he's been defeated in an argument than convinced of his self-worth. Ray lifts his arms questioningly and is pleased when his friend gets up and walks into his bear hug. A beat of affection runs between them and the hug lasts for a while until Frank starts coughing and has to step away. After clearing his throat, he spits a fat loogie into the kitchen trash can and peels off one of his sweaters, wiping his face on the sweat-damp fabric. Ray watches him for a moment, unsure how to help further until the coffee machine catches his eye. “Cuppa joe?”
"Yeah, please," Frank croaks, "I feel like my brain's melting without caffeine." Slumping back into his seat at the breakfast bar he rests his head on his folded arms and coughs again, "Is there any Advil? My throat's killing me.”

“Coming right up.”

"Thanks. Now you're MY hero, Toro."

Ray sighs in mock frustration as Frank musters up a faint smirk for him. "Don't be a dick, Frankie."

Chapter Text

FOUR NIGHTS AGO...

Running for his life, Frank bolted down the old dark stairwell with Babe's blood burning into his skin. He didn't know or care where he was going, all he could see was death and all he felt was terror. Running faster and faster, he forgot about the long chain swinging from his collar until it tangled around his leg and tripped him. Plummeting down the last few steps, he landed with a bone-rattling thud on hard dusty concrete. Sparks speckled his vision but he managed to claw his way back onto his feet and looked frantically around to see where he was: in a shadowy cavernous garage.

He had fallen into an old auto repair shop, closed for the night and dark save for the one faint bulb in the stairwell behind him and a neon 'RESTROOM' sign glowing in the far corner. The whole place stank of rubber and gasoline and his quivering breaths seemed deafening in the muted quiet. The thick walls and shuttered entrance blocked out some of the ruckus from outside and he hoped and prayed that none of the cops out there had seen him run. They hadn't called out until they'd noticed Babe so hopefully that meant they had missed him entirely. Babe. Babe was dead. Fuck. Panting hoarsely as his ears rang with the echo of gunfire, Frank stepped shakily into the dark space before him and almost fell down again as a wave of lightheadedness made him feel like he was like moving underwater. His heart was beating so fast he felt sick and cold sweat ran down his face and neck. Wiping his forehead with a shaking hand he felt the thick gooey warmth of fresh blood and his queasy stomach rocketed to the back of his mouth.

Clamping a hand over his lips, he stumbled to the restroom door and shoved it open, groping the walls inside for a light switch and banging it on. The harsh glare revealed a rusty shitter, a urinal and a sink smeared with motor oil and mechanic soap. Rank liquid flooded his mouth and he only made it as far as the sink before spewing ramen-vodka vomit into the grimy basin. Retching and gasping as his eyes streamed and sweat poured down his back, he caught a glimpse of himself in the dirty mirror and almost passed out at the sight. Bright scarlet blood was splashed across his face and hair and soaking through his black hoodie. He looked like a crime scene. Fuck, he'd just seen someone DIE! Clutching both sides of the slippery sink for balance, he puked again and again until his aching stomach was empty and he was only dribbling stringy green bile. Groaning weakly, he turned on the taps to flush away the mess and cringed at the sensation of Babe's blood still clinging thick and slimy to his flesh. Coughing and spitting into the drain, he could hear Lou's voice roaring in his mind: 'You should be dead too, you worthless little shit! Why the fuck aren't you dead?!'

Shaking from head to foot, Frank cupped his hands under the rushing water and splashed his face with freezing liquid, frantically scrubbing at his bruised skin with the rough garage soap until all the gore was washed away but he still felt covered in death. The blood on his clothes was a lost cause, stained into the dark fabric, but he was shirtless under the hoodie and couldn't bring himself to take it off. Shutting off the faucet, he let his trembling legs give out and collapsed onto the urine-stained tiles. The noise from outside was fading even further now and a part of his brain that could still think rationally concluded that the raid must be over. He could only hope that Lou was dead now or at least in police custody. That psychotic bastard should never be allowed to see the light of day again.

There were still a few hours left before dawn and Frank spent them huddled on that cold stinking toilet floor, too drained from hunger and trauma to get up as time dragged by in dripping taps and echoing silence. His eyes kept flooding with tears he couldn't control and he wiped his face over and over again with fistfuls of damp toilet paper but it still didn't feel clean. His head and throat hurt more every time he coughed but he couldn't stop coughing as phlegm clogged his chest and fever brewed in his starved body. He needed help. He needed food and rest and medicine, but where could he get it from? He was too afraid to step outside because what if the cops were still there? It wasn't safe in this neighbourhood after dark and where was he supposed to go anyway? He had no cash, no ID, no phone, nothing!

Babe's gruesome death kept replaying in visceral nauseating loops through his mind and he felt trapped in a grim hopeless darkness that made him shake, slipping in and out of long periods of numb icy shock. At one point he heard the footsteps of what had to be cops entering the auto repair shop and he jumped up in adrenaline-soaked panic and turned off the restroom light, ducking into the toilet cubicle to hide. But the officers barely spent two minutes inspecting the shuttered business before stomping off upstairs again. They didn't even open the restroom door, probably eager to end their shift and go home.

As sunrise finally came and pale dawn light crept through cracks in the garage shutters and under the restroom door, the Frank's survival instincts kicked in and he rose shakily to his feet. At long last there were no more sirens or anything else disturbing the peace outside and maybe it was safe to move now. Maybe. Wrapping one of his hands in his trailing choke chain like homemade brass knuckles, he held his breath and cautiously opened the restroom door. The repair shop was as still and silent as a tomb. Shivering in the dimness, he poked around a little and searched through a few rusty tool boxes until he found a sharp metal handsaw. Retreating to the restroom again he stood in front of the smeared mirror and held the jagged blade against the padlock securing his collar in place, doggedly sawing it back and forth. The clunky tool was hard to use at such an awkward angle and he nicked the skin on his neck several times, drawing spots of blood. It seemed to take forever to cut through the lock's slim steel ring and his arm was cramped and aching when it finally broke and fell with a clatter into the sink. Dropping the saw he quickly loosened the hateful collar enough to slip it off over his head and sobbed with relief when the heavy chain came away in his hands. It was the first time in six weeks his neck was free of the punishing steel leash. He wasn't Lou's pet or a helpless toy anymore. He was human again.

Tossing the chain on the soiled ground, he spit on it and turned to leave but then stopped when common sense pulled him back. If he left the collar here so close to Lou's place it would surely arouse suspicion and his DNA was all over it, mixed with Babe's and Lou's too. “Fuck," he swore, reluctantly picking up the hateful thing again and winding it into a tight ball before cramming it into the large front pocket of his hoodie. He'd have to take it with him and dump it somewhere else. Great. Rubbing at his tired, sandy eyes, he felt so exhausted and miserable he could cry but he was still far from home and he couldn't stay here. Pulling the little baggy of cocaine from Babe out of his jeans pocket, he did a clumsy line off the back of his hand and a rush of sweet chemical euphoria seared his brain with electricity. Tiny clumps of the bitter powder stuck in his nose, lodged in mucus and he snorted it back and swallowed hard. It wasn't the purest coke in the world and the buzz wouldn't last long but it was enough to suppress his weariness and hunger for a little while at least.

Glancing around at the mess he'd made, he scooped up all the soggy clumps of toilet paper and flushed them away before pocketing the broken padlock and pulling his sleeves down over his hands to rub his fingerprints off the sink, taps, toilet flush and finally the light switch, leaving the room dark and just as he'd found it. Stepping back into the garage he wiped and replaced the handsaw and managed to scrounge a pair of oil-stained sneakers from a pile of old work boots and shoes in the corner. Tugging the shoes on over his filthy socks, he paced around in circles for a couple of minutes, huffing anxious breaths as he psyched himself up to finally go outside. The worst case scenario was that he got picked up by the cops, right? At least they wouldn't chain him to a radiator or rape him. Probably.

Softly approaching the same stairs he had entered by, he listened as hard as he could for footsteps or voices but all he heard was his own rapid heartbeat. Biting his lip, he crept up the echoing cement steps to the next floor but made sure he stayed below the higher level where Babe had died and where police might still be lurking. Wandering through the building's dark empty halls with every muscle in his body tensed and wired, he eventually found his way to the other side of the property and down to a street level fire exit. The door unlatched easily and let him out into a long alleyway full of trash cans and garbage running the length of the block. Shivering in the frosty air he watched his breath steam into white clouds as the watery sun rose in the pale October sky. The far end of the alley was blocked off by crime scene vans and yellow police tape which made his stomach ache to look at so he jogged quickly in the other direction and disappeared into the unfamiliar city .

***
A damp chilly morning broke over the New York City burroughs and the streets slowly filled with yawning workers and the sound of car horns and music beats. Frank limped through the rough urban landscape with his hood pulled low over his face and his hands in his pockets, nervous and edgy with a paranoid fear that he was being followed. He had no idea where he was or how to get home. He just wanted to put as much distance between himself and The Loft as possible so he kept walking down street after unfamiliar street and the cuts and burns under his clothes stung and chafed with every step. After close to an hour of walking he was still hopelessly lost and growing faint from hunger and fever. He desperately needed sleep and water but he didn't know anywhere safe to rest and was too scared to ask anybody. Since he was trying to avoid the cops at all costs he couldn't go to them for help and he didn't want to risk asking a stranger because what if they turned out to be like Sam or Lou? What if they hurt him or took him to someone who would? Fear wouldn't let him take that chance.

Nearly dead on his feet, he eventually found a small subway station and a desperate idea formed in the back of his mind. Following a huddle of commuters down the subway steps he melted into the crowd of people mingling by the ticket barriers, trying not to look anyone in the eye. Anxiously holding his breath, he swiped the wallet of a distracted guy with easily accessible pockets and stuffed it into his hoodie. After a moment of horrible tension the guy moved on, unaware of his loss, and Frank moved quickly back up into the street and started to run. He barely managed to get two blocks before he was forced to stop, his head swimming with pain and sickness, but it was far enough. Stumbling into a grubby side street he sat down queasily on the edge of the curb and spit into the gutter, so weak he felt weighted to the ground. If he didn't eat and drink something soon he was in real trouble. Clutching the stolen wallet to his chest he opened it with trembling hands, praying that it wasn't just full of credit cards, and gasped with relief when he found close to one hundred and thirty dollars in cash. Shoving the crumpled money into his pockets, he dragged himself off the pavement and threw the wallet and his choke chain into a nearby dumpster. Good fucking riddance!

There was a shabby convenience store across the street and he used a ten dollar bill to buy a sandwich, chips and a bottled water before trudging back to the curb to eat and rest a while. When he was done he rubbed a fingertip of cocaine across his gums for another quick boost and pushed off his hood to feel some breeze on his feverish skin. It didn't take long for the food and coke to bring his fading mind back into focus and with some money in his pockets he could walk with more purpose instead of just wandering helplessly. Tracking down another subway he used Wallet Guy's money to ride the rails into central Manhattan and felt giddy with relief to be back in a part of New York that he actually fucking recognized. Surrounded by iconic skyscrapers and dazzling billboards he made his way down the long street from Penn Station until he found a CVS store where he could buy cough drops and wonderful pain-numbing Advil. It was nearly lunchtime but he wasn't hungry anymore and didn't want to waste any more drugs staying alert. He needed some actual rest before he collapsed in the middle of the street. Trudging onwards into the leafy depths of Central Park, he found a secluded tree and lay down under its branches, passing out into exhausted sleep.

Hours later he groggily awoke to a shower of cold rain falling from the gray sky. Sitting up stiffly with his fevered body aching, he wiped his stuffy nose on his sleeve and sighed into the downpour. It was time to go home to Belleville. He couldn't put it off any longer without catching pneumonia or something and he didn't want to die out here just to avoid a difficult reunion with his mother.

Plodding back to the train station, he took some more painkillers and bought a huge Starbucks coffee with two shots of caramel syrup to drink while he waited around for a transit train to Newark. In the back of his mind the old maddening hum of fear and doubt that he'd tried so hard to leave behind four months ago was creeping back and making him more anxious with each passing moment. He desperately needed Gerard back in his life, it was all he had thought about during his darkest days at Lou's, but he also knew that his mom would never allow it and he didn't want to lose her trust or test her love to the limit again. He had left behind the hell of the Loft, but his own private purgatory was still there inside him and he had no idea how to change it for the better. He was going right back to where he'd started with nothing to show for his absence but trauma and scars that would follow him to his grave.

It was still raining when the train reached New Jersey and pulled into Newark's central station. Pulling his hood forward over his face, Frank walked wearily down the familiar station ramp into the bustling streets. Passing taxis kicked up sprays of gutter water and everything was moist and smelled like wet hair but he was comforted to be back in his home State again. A large green jack-o-lantern grinned at him from a snack cart on a busy corner and he realized that he'd been seeing ghostly Halloween decorations all day without really noticing them. Fishing his train ticket out of his pocket he checked the date and felt his heart sink: October 31st. It was his birthday and he hadn't even realized. Had he really been gone that long? Guilt and homesickness washed over him and he sniffled miserably and hugged his bruised stomach, wishing he was already curled up safe and warm in a comfy bed. He felt so ill and sore and cold and all he wanted was comfort and to not feel afraid anymore. Catching a bus home seemed simple enough but the closer he got to the bus station the more certain he became that he wasn't ready to face his mother. The thought of reuniting with her after so long without a single word or phone call made his stomach hurt and he didn't want her to see him like this: a beat-up mess dripping snot and someone else's blood and stinking of piss-stained floors. Maybe he could go to Ray's instead and crash there for a few days until he felt stronger. His friend would never turn him away and after four months there was no way Gerard would still be there sleeping on the big guy's couch. Yeah that sounded like a good plan. Rubbing his cold hands together for warmth he winced at the stench coming from his wet clothes. He should probably clean himself up a little before bursting back into Ray's life. Nobody wanted a house guest who looked like a homeless meth addict.

Heading towards the nearest supermarket to buy some clean clothes, wet wipes and deodorant, he stopped in his tracks when he spied a tiny stray dog out of the corner of his eye. The poor little thing was cowering in the rain behind an abandoned pizza joint, skinny and scared, and Frank followed it without a second thought, his heart breaking like it always did when he saw an animal in distress. Ever since he was little he had been begging his mom for a dog but she was allergic to the common breeds and they couldn't afford a special hypoallergenic one. He had grown up being a heartsick dog person without any dogs of his own to love and he always jumped at the chance to pet or cuddle someone else's pup. Just being around a dog could lift his mood and make him feel calm and happy and after last night he was desperate to feel something good.

Following the stray pooch down a winding alley to a dead-end piled with trash, he crouched on the puddled ground and held out his hand, making encouraging noises to coax her towards him. The scruffy animal regarded him warily with soft brown eyes, her wiry gray coat damp with rain “Hey girl,” he called softly, “Are you hungry? Want me to buy you some chow?” The dog whined hopefully and wagged her tiny tail and Frank smiled as she stepped cautiously towards him. "That's a good girl. You're the best little girl aren't you. Yeah. Let's get some food huh?" Another step, another tail wag and Frank's heart melted. He was already forming plans in his head to sneak her home and love her forever when suddenly she bared her teeth and growled at something over his shoulder.

Cold with dread he turned around and saw a black-clad stranger coming at him with a knife. Surrounded by walls there was nowhere to run and he barely had to time to gasp "fuck" before the mugger knocked him down and kicked him in the face, busting his nose and gashing his cheek before punching him in the stomach to stop him yelling for help. Calloused hands snatched away his money and pain pills but missed the coke stuffed down the front of his jeans. In breathless agony Frank could only lie there and try to shield his face from the punches until the thug ran off into the rain. The little dog was already long gone.

Coughing himself stupid, Frank crawled through puddles and wet garbage to the alley wall and propped himself up against the bricks just trying to breathe. Self-pity and sorrow caved in his chest and he was close to tears again, trembling with shock and blind with flashbacks to Lou's meaty fists raining down on his head and body and it hurt, it hurt so fucking bad! The falling rain turned into a punishing deluge, hammering across his shoulders and streaming down his face with the blood pouring from his nose until at last the cold water brought him weeping back to his senses. He felt so awful he gummed some more cocaine but the tooth-numbing buzz wasn't enough to stop him wanting to jump off the nearest bridge so he blew his throbbing nose on his sleeve and tapped out an eye-watering bump of coke onto the back of his dirty hand, snorting it wet with the tangy taste of nosebleeds. Five minutes later he puked red all over his shoes.

It was a two hour walk to Ray's apartment building but it took Frank much longer. At first he tried hitching a ride but he was a filthy, bloody mess and no one would pick him up. Struggling to breathe through the clots in his nostrils and the pain in his ribs he tried to remember Ray's phone number so he could call him from a payphone and reverse the charges but he couldn't figure out the last few digits. By the time he got to his friend's building, dodging groups of umbrella-wielding trick or treaters, night had fallen and he was soaked to the skin. His throat hurt so much he could barely speak and the effort of climbing the stairs made his nose bleed again. Worst of all, when Ray let him in, Gerard was there too, looking shell-shocked and so fucking beautiful in the living room, and Frank felt sick with shame and regret. He couldn't even look his ex-boyfriend in the eye and all he wanted to do was turn around and leave again to avoid causing any more heartbreak. But he was too tired and too broken to keep running. He had to stay.

***
NOW

With his stomach in knots, Frank stands naked in front of the long bathroom mirror and forces himself to look at his reflection. He's been staying at Ray's place for three days but hasn't showered since that first awful night, hating to see the brutal damage beneath his borrowed clothes. But after his little meltdown in the kitchen earlier he's all itchy with dried sweat and is sick of smelling his own blood and fear. So he's stripped down to nothing while the shower gushes into the tub behind him and his horror-stricken eyes feel like they're going to pop out of his skull. He looks even worse than he remembered! Several days of broken blood vessels pooling and clotting under his skin have turned his ribs, back and knees into a frightening gallery of purple and black bruises, and the welts and cuts lashed into his flesh by Babe's whip are still scabby and red. The old scars across his shoulders and stomach shine like raw meat under the bright bathroom lights and the scorpion tattoo on his neck is barely visible through the blisters and marks from his collar. He lost so much weight in New York that he can see his collarbone and ribs pressing against his skin and his eyes look too big for his face, bloodshot and ringed with fading contusions like smudged eyeliner he can't wash off. Staring and staring in tearful disgust, he bites his tongue against the anguished cry howling up his throat. 'If I scream it'll freak Toro out', he thinks desperately, chewing his lip until shreds of skin peel off between his teeth, 'If I scream he'll know how bad it really is.'

Turning away from the hateful glass, he climbs into the shower still gnawing on his mouth. The tang of fresh blood spears his tongue and in this naked and vulnerable state the taste of it triggers something nasty in his mind. An anxious heat begins to burn in his veins as the water pounds like rocks over his head and shoulders. Gulping a mouthful of steam, he coughs so hard the ache in his lungs steals his breath away and warm streams of liquid pour down his chest and run between his legs but it doesn't feel like shower water anymore: it feels like Lou's hands stroking and pawing at his flesh. Invasive fingers becoming fists and harsh words becoming fire and Frank gasps in terror as a ring of metal tightens around his throat. “No! Stop! NO!” Reality splinters and fades away as he's thrown back into the past and he fights against his tormentor, blind to his surroundings, hitting out at everything around him until a real physical pain in his hands brings him back to earth and all he feels is hurt and shame and cooling water.

Heaving tortured gasps of steaming air as his vision clears and Lou's vile touch fades, Frank staggers out of the tub, dripping soapy water across the floor. Grabbing three different towels from the rack by the door he frantically bundles himself up in all of them before he can catch another glimpse of himself in the mirror and crumples to his knees on the slippery floor. What the FUCK was that?!

Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggles to bring his strained breathing back to normal with the coping methods that Doc once taught him. Fumbling for a mental image of his Safe Place - his grandparents' sweet-smelling garden under a warm summer sky - he drags ragged breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth over and over again, longer and deeper, longer and deeper, commanding a steady rhythm until his lungs stop screaming and his galloping heart slows down.

When he's calm enough he slowly opens his eyes and the safe summer garden dies under sad electric lights. The shower is still running so he gets up and turns it off and stands there panting in the quiet, listening to the faint beat of Iron Maiden playing through the wall. Drops of lukewarm water fall from his hair while he rubs his face and body with the warm blue towels, focusing only on getting himself dry and dressed. When he's fully clothed again he reluctantly returns to the steamed up mirror and wipes it clean, squinting at himself in the glass. His face is all blotchy and bruised around his eyes and nose and pale everywhere else but he ignores that and frowns at the long locks of dark hair falling into his eyes. Lou made him grow it out because he liked his slaves "pretty" and although Frank never had much contact with the other young men at The Loft, mostly illegals who spoke no English, they all had the same uncut mops on their heads.

Scowling angrily at his reflection, he yanks open the small cupboard of grooming products under the sink and rummages around until he finds an old electric hair trimmer in a dusty box. “When are you even from, the eighties?” he whispers, thinking of Toro's long thick curls. Turning the gadget over in his hands, he fixes the three-quarter-inch guard attachment to the blade and switches it on.

***
Ray is frying up sliced chicken and peppers on the stove and bopping his head to Maiden when Frank ventures out of the bathroom and into the kitchen to take his meds. “Woah!” Ray exclaims when he sees his friend's dramatic new haircut, “Lookin good, man.”
“Yeah?” Frank asks doubtfully, running a hand through the freshly trimmed bristles covering his head, “It's not too short?”
“Nah dude, it looks awesome. Makes you look older kinda. I was starting to wonder what you were doing in there, thought maybe you'd jumped out the window or something.”
Frank snorts wryly and pours himself a glass of juice from the fridge, sitting down on a nearby chair with his legs criss-crossed under him. “You want dinner?” Ray asks, “I'm making fajitas. I can do yours with eggs instead of chicken.”
“Yeah I guess I could eat. Thanks.”

Swallowing his antibiotics with a mouthful of cold orange, Frank tries to maintain calm deep breathing under the beat of Ray's music but an ocean of chaos and trauma still thunders inside his skull and he's afraid he's going to drown in it. He has no idea what to do with all of the ugly perverted shit that's been absorbed into his psyche but keeping it to himself can't be the answer if he's going to start having breakdowns in the fucking shower. Without the numbing crutch of booze and cocaine that helped him limp along in New York, he is adrift in the darkness and scared for his sanity. How do people who hate therapy deal with their problems without getting loaded? Sighing another long low breath, he gulps some more juice and recalls Ray's words from earlier in the day: “A burden shared is a burden halved”. It's not like he isn't trying. He's already told Gerard a few things about New York. But then it isn't those things that are tormenting him the most. It's the rest of it. Maybe talking everything out really is the only answer, but he doesn't want to talk to a doctor or a stranger, he can't! Sucking unhappily at the scar where his lip ring used to be, he runs his tongue over the ridge of rough chapped skin and wishes that Gerard was here to kiss it better.

“How are you feeling?” Ray asks casually, adding generous blobs of sweet chilli sauce to a sizzling pan. Frank winces at the tired old question, “Rough. Everything's sore and I feel like I'm always sweating like a pig. Maybe it's some kinda withdrawal or stress, maybe this fucking bronchitis or whatever. Fuck. I've got so much wrong with me I don't even know." Groaning softly, he scrapes an unsteady hand through his freshly-cut hair. "Sorry for getting so riled up before. I didn't mean to but stuff just keeps bursting out of me.”
“I don't blame you for yelling after what you've been through. You can yell at me all day if it makes you feel better. I'm just glad you're here, Frankie.”
“Thanks. I just, ugh, I can't deal with going home yet. I don't know where my head's at but it's no place good and my mom won't understand. I have like zero control over what's gonna set me off into a freak out or panic attack and it's really fucking scary.”
“Is that why you cut your hair? To feel in control?”
“I guess. I don't know why I do anything anymore."
Ray nods sympathetically and opens a packet of tortillas. "Just so you know, Gee messaged me while you were in the shower to ask how you're doing."
Frank grips his drink tighter as his heart flutters, "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing yet but that was an hour ago so knowing Gerard he's probably-" A loud knocking at the door interrupts Ray mid-sentence and he shakes his head, "Aaaaand he's already rushed over here."

***
"...Then when I saw you standing there, right in front of me after so long, I couldn't handle it. I wanted to run away again," Frank sniffles, his voice raspy and tender, "I'd missed you so much, Gee, more than anything, but I couldn't deal with you seeing me like that and the thought of hurting you again, it made me wanna fuckin die! But I was so tired I could hardly stand let alone run..."
"So you had to stay," Gerard finishes softly, wiping his brimming eyes with the back of his hand.

"Do you hate me now?" Frank croaks fearfully, staring into the black and gray pattern on Gerard's shirt because he's too afraid to look him in the eyes, "After everything I've told you, now that you know what I am, and w-what they did to me? I know I'm different from the guy you used to love. I know I'm ugly now a-and messed up and I will be forever and I won't blame you if you wanna walk away."

Sorrow pierces Gerard's heart and he wraps his arms around Frank's trembling shoulders and holds him closer in their beanbag nest, gently kissing his bruised cheek, "I could never, EVER hate you, Frankie. I love you just as much now as I always have. The only thing that's changed is that now I know exactly how amazingly brave you are, and I know how hard you're trying. I love every part of you and nothing you've told me changes that. You're still perfect to me. You always will be, scars and all. I'm not going anywhere.

Sniffing hard, Frank glances doubtfully at him and huddles closer, fearful tremors in his voice, "But you haven't seen all of me yet. The scars a-and everything, it's so bad! You don't know yet but when you see how ugly-"
"If you think you're ugly then please stay ugly because all I see is you Frankie and I think you're fucking beautiful. It's the whole damn world that's ugly, not you. You are like a light for me in all that darkness. Besides, scars fade. It all fades. It's just more proof of how strong you are and how much you survived." His words seem to be sinking in past Frank's distress and insecurities because the younger man finally looks up and meets his gaze, “Can you stay here tonight, Gee? I don't want you to go. Please?"
"I'll stay. I promise.”

Gerard means every word he's saying, cross his heart and hope to die, but if he's honest with himself he's also nervous about being Frank's major lifeline in a sea of post-traumatic stress. He's also very wary of pushing the teenager back into a full-on relationship too soon, even with Linda's apparent approval. It almost seems like he's taking advantage of Frank when the poor kid is in such a bad place mentally and physically. He hadn't even planned on coming over tonight, thinking perhaps he should give Frank some space to get healthy before adding any potential relationship stressors to the situation; but that plan went right out the window this afternoon when a text he sent to Ray went unanswered. He couldn't stop himself rushing over here like a lovesick fool and the heartbreaking relief and gratitude in Frank's eyes when he'd walked through the door told him that he'd made the right decision. He would stay until the end of the world if that's what Frank wants but he must admit he's pretty scared too: scared of somehow screwing things up and making Frank feel worse.

Ray had taken Gerard's sudden arrival in stride and laid out dinner for everyone. After they'd eaten he excused himself to go and run some errands but that was really just code for giving his friends some privacy. Left alone, Gerard and Frank forced small talk for a little while, suddenly fumbling for words like awkward kids on a first date, and it felt weird and disheartening. Then for some reason Frank decided to make chocolate milk and ended up spilling cocoa powder all over the kitchen floor. Instead of just sighing or laughing at the mess like he probably would've done a year ago, he swore angrily at himself and insisted on cleaning it up alone, snapping at Gerard when he tried to help. Handing over the dustpan without a word, Gerard took a seat and lit an anxious cigarette while Frank swept the floor in stony silence.

When he was done cleaning up the teenager's eyes remained distant and miserable and he stood there aimlessly pulling at a loose thread on his sweater until half the cuff had unravelled in his hand. Gerard stared worriedly at him, his stomach filling with frantic butterflies as he waited for some kind of explosion of rage or tears. But Frank just scratched at his newly short hair and pushed his way back into Gerard's welcoming arms, kissing him hard and inhaling the cigarette smoke from between his warm lips. Gerard melted into that kiss and Frank tasted like salt and cough drops and all of the little pieces of goodness that told him he was right where he was supposed to be. He never wanted the embrace to end but all too soon Frank pulled away with an embarrassed shrug and retreated to the living room, sprawling facedown on the pile of beanbags by the TV. Gerard had to remind himself not to take these unexplained silences and mood swings personally. It was a totally normal part of stress and exhaustion and something he had better get used to witnessing.

Finishing his smoke, he put the chocolate-less milk and some Oreos on a tray and went over to join Frank, hoping to talk, but his boyfriend had withdrawn into himself like a tortoise into its shell and wouldn't engage in conversation, just mindlessly cracked his knuckles in the silence. Unspoken questions hovered between them and after a few cookies and pleading glances, Gerard sighed and got up to examine Ray's movie collection, reading the DVD cover blurbs just for something to do. After a minute or two he heard the rustle of beanbags behind him as Frank scrambled to his feet as well and he could sense the younger man fidgeting in that childlike antsy way he always did when he needed to get something off his chest. Gerard kept on reading but his palms were sweating and he wasn't sure if he was prepared for whatever was about to happen.

Then Frank broke the oppressive silence by suddenly launching into a long breathless account of some of the scariest shit Gerard had ever heard, and once the nineteen year old started talking he couldn't seem to stop. It was as if an emotional dam that had been holding back a river of hell inside him had broken and he needed to vocalize as much of the resulting tidal wave as he could. Pacing back and forth, his strained voice shook and stuttered as he recounted more and more horrifying details about his time in New York and Gerard was so stunned that all he could do was stare and listen as his heart broke into more and more tiny pieces.

For over an hour Frank talked like this, only pausing to swallow cough syrup and water between angry rants and frustrated sobs, gesturing wildly with his scarred hands as he described the hellish things Lou and other awful men had put him through and how he had eventually escaped it all. He talked about being handcuffed and abandoned in a pool of his own vomit; about being locked in a tiny pitch black cupboard until claustrophobic paranoia made him scream; how he was starved for days on end, so hungry he once ate a handful of Kleenex tissues just to have something in his stomach; how he was beaten senseless, raped and assaulted and cut and burned and whipped and spat on until he felt less than human; how he was slowly crushed and broken by despair and regret and self-hatred, wishing he was dead while at the same time being terrified to die, and never knowing which day would be his last because every day was worse than the one before. Finally he confessed to Gerard how he had eventually escaped it all, soaked in Babe's blood, only to be victimised again while trying to get home.

Putting such personal agony into words was obviously the hardest thing in the world for him to do and when he literally started shaking Gerard made him sit down. After that his exhaustion seemed to get the better of him and his sentences started to falter and trail off into vague dead ends and "I don't knows" and finally, for now at least, it was over.

"...Can you stay here tonight, Gee?...Please?"
"I'll stay. I promise."
Gerard pulls the old couch blanket over them both and listens anxiously to Frank's tired breaths against his neck, wondering how much is still left unsaid. Everyone has at least one secret which they are determined to take to their grave. Some people have hundreds. But whether he hears every detail about New York or not he's still scared of not being able to give Frank enough help and support. This isn't like his own problems with alcohol and depression...or even losing Mikey. This is about abuse and torture on a level he can't even begin to understand and it kills him to know that he was part of the reason why poor Frankie ran away in the first place. Even thinking about what Frank has been through makes his stomach churn and his eyes flood with tears. He's been stalked by self-doubt and depression his entire life but tonight it is burning so hot under his skin he wonders if he's caught Frank's fever. Emotions shouldn't make you feel this ill, like there's poison in your blood, but of course they do; it's part of being alive.

Pushing aside this anguish and guilt for now, he wipes his eyes and kisses Frank's hair, running his lips and fingers over the short feather-soft spikes until Frank sighs contentedly, "That feels good."
"Can I get you anything?" Gerard asks, desperate to help in absolutely any way he can, "Water? More meds?"
“Think I've had enough," Frank sighs, his words slurred at the edges, "Those pills are sending me out. Sorry Gee, I haven't even asked you how you're doing. I just unloaded everything onto you and you just listened like, holy shit I'm sorry. Are YOU ok? Did you go to therapy today, how was it?"
"You want to hear about my boring day after everything you just told me?"
Frank nods firmly, stifling a yawn as his eyes grow heavy, "Yes please, I need to hear something normal."
“Alright. Well, therapy was fine I guess,” Gerard shrugs, "Dr Samson is really nice. I feel like she actually cares, y'know?”
“Uh huh,” Frank murmurs, nuzzling his face into Gerard's cotton shirt and comforting smell and closing his eyes, "That's good.”

Neither of them speak again for a little while, each wrapped up in his own thoughts. Muffled slow-jam music plays through the wall from a neighboring apartment and outside the moon glows silver. "Do you wanna move over to the couch to sleep?" Gerard whispers after Frank grows still and heavy in his arms, breathing softly through his healing nose, "You're practically passed out already."
"Nuh uh."
"How do your grampa's sedatives feel?"
"Like pillows," Frank slurs drowsily with his eyes closed, "S'all just...here..."
He starts snoring a few seconds later.

Gerard smiles fondly and carefully slides his phone out of his pocket so he can browse Den of Geek and Reddit for comic book movie news. It's still early and he's not tired yet. A couple months ago he'd be alone getting drunk on his sixth beer of the evening right now but instead he's here; sober and cozy while Frank sleeps on his shoulder and there is nowhere else he'd rather be. He's honored that Frank is choosing to share the darkest, most intimate details of his life with him, no matter how much it hurts. And it really does hurt, on both sides. Gerard has always felt like a magnet for the negative emotions of other people, for all their sadness and desolation, often to a point far beyond his ability to cope with in a healthy way. Dr Samson says that he's unusually empathic: someone who feels other people's pain almost as deeply as his own, and he's overwhelmed by the world because he absorbs too much of its misery and distress. Maybe that's why it hurts him in the very deepest core of his being to see so much torment in Frank's eyes, branded there by the monsters who abused him; and it's devastating to know that things can never go back to the way they were before. Before Lou, before Florida, before Mikey died, before New Year's Eve... it's been almost a whole year of misery and pain. But somehow, despite everything that has been tearing them apart, they are still here together now and Frank wants him to stay. Gerard has to believe that one day their good memories will outnumber the bad ones.

Frowning at his phone screen as it blurs into a teary mess, he sniffs and wipes his eyes and then steels himself to do something that he's been thinking about ever since Frank first mentioned Lou's name. Typing quickly into Google, he searches for any NYC criminals named Lou or Louis who were arrested or killed in the last week. It doesn't take long to find a news article about a stand off between federal police and "a criminal organization of sex traffickers" a few days ago in Queens. He reads it with a stone of dread in his stomach. There aren't many details but two cops were severely wounded in the incident which is why the story made the news, and at least two gang members were killed. Several arrests were made and there is a mugshot photo of the supposed ringleader: an obese giant of a man with a shaved head and cruel eyes. Gerard feels nauseous when he reads the caption underneath: 'Louis Donovan: arrested and held without bail.' Glancing guiltily at Frank's snoozing face, he searches for more details about Donovan's fate but can't find anything conclusive. The Press don't seem to care that much and justice moves very slowly, if it moves at all.

Dropping the phone in disgust, he stuffs a leftover cookie into his mouth and the movement makes Frank stir, his unconscious face twitching and frowning. Gerard freezes until his sweetheart settles down again and then spends a while watching Frank's closed eyelids flicker and shift with peaceful dreaming until he starts feeling pretty drowsy himself. The light in here is soothingly dim and the air is warm with radiator heat and blanket fuzz. Yawning quietly he rests his head against Frank's and listens to the sound of his own pulse beating slowly in his ears as he closes his eyes and lets sleep take him.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks are an uphill struggle for everyone. Most mornings Frank wakes up dry-mouthed or screaming with ghosts in his eyes and the pressure of a phantom choke-chain on his throat. If Gerard is with him he clings to the older man like a life-raft while his splintered mind tries to ground itself, and sometimes it feels like his boyfriend is the only thing keeping him afloat. On the nights when Gerard can't stay over, usually because of family obligations, Frank stays awake for as long as he can to avoid the nightmares but it's hard and since he got sick he's always so tired. When he inevitably passes out he falls into death-like spells of emptiness and bad dreams that leave him more exhausted than ever.

Thankfully the daylight hours are easier. Without the lonely night-time creep of silence and darkness to empower his anxiety and stir up negative memories, he can control his thoughts better and even silence the bad ones completely with enough distractions. Blasting rock music in his headphones, he leans out of Ray's apartment window smoking mellow CBD cigarettes and lets the cold Fall wind take him out of his head. Sometimes all he needs to make it through another day is one brief respite of calm: it's the total opposite of panic and pain. His chest infection clears up in good time and he starts to feel physically stronger, but the constant mental drain of swimming in a swamp of trauma and PTSD means that most days he's only inches from drowning. After smothering his agony for months with booze and drugs in New York he now feels like an exposed nerve: raw and hyper-sensitive to absolutely everything. The smallest touch or sound can cause violent flashbacks or nauseating fear to burst out of him at random and he never knows what's going to trigger him until it does: the flick of a zippo lighter, his shirt collar feeling too tight, hearing the word 'Babe' on TV, the sight of his scars, feeling sick after eating, touching himself in the bath, the taste of salty food, a movie with gunfire in it...the list goes on and on.

Visiting the bathroom, with its judgemental mirror and cold clinical surfaces, is the worst part of his day. More than once he's thought about taking one of Ray's shaving blades to his wrists, pressing bone-deep and just ending it all...but it's only a thought. He refuses to give in to that urge. He knows what it's like to be on the other side of a suicide attempt; to be the one who finds the body of the person they love, and sits shaking and worried to death in the emergency room. So he keeps on living, one painful breath at a time, one endless day at a time, and clings to the faint hope that one day he'll find peace again. Maybe even happiness. The razor blades stay in their case and he never says a word about them to Ray. As time passes, the hopeless feelings remain but the dark nights always roll away into calm airy dawns if he holds on long enough. At least he can find his way back to himself in the aftermath of the shit storms wrecking his brain, and no matter how run down or tired or emotionally fucking battered he feels at least he can say that he IS still feeling. Still breathing. Still surviving. Still here.

Meanwhile, Ray keeps him fed and sheltered and gives him as much emotional support as possible but the unusual situation is tough and often tests the limits of their friendship. Living on top of each other in such a small space when one of them is mentally fragile and often barely functional takes a heavy toll. Sleep disturbances become increasingly common, and fatigue and stress cause frequent arguments about who left the milk out or why Frank refuses to shower until he smells like hotdog water. The sullen teenager gets really down about things that he would have laughed at once upon a time and Ray tries his best to be patient and understanding but it's a lot for him to deal with on top of working long shifts at his job and cheering on Gerard's sobriety too.

One stormy night in November, things take a turn for the worse. Ray picks up some groceries on his way home from work and doesn't realize until he gets back to the apartment, cold and tired, that he accidentally bought decaf coffee instead of the regular kind. Sighing in annoyance he tosses the bag of ground beans onto the counter as heavy rain hammers the window panes. It's probably a good idea to switch to decaf anyway, he tells himself. The strong caffeinated stuff has been giving him headaches and seems to double the frequency of Frank's panic attacks so cutting the stimulant out of their diet might help them both in the long run.

But this is a bad day for withdrawal or a change in routine. Gerard is out of town with relatives and Frank is extra miserable and edgy after spending hours on his own with nothing but the TV for company. He didn't sleep much last night and he's so tired his eyes are like sand but he's scared of what dreams will come to haunt him if he falls asleep now. It's getting late and a heavy dose of caffeine seems like his only hope to avoid passing out in the gathering darkness. When Ray starts unbagging food in the kitchen nook he rouses himself from the couch and shuffles over to help, scratching his healing burns through the smelly sweater he's been wearing all week. "You got coffee, right?" he asks hopefully. Ray stops what he's doing and gestures wearily at the bag, "Sorry man, I grabbed the wrong kind but I'm too beat to go out again tonight. Can you just drink this for now?" Frank stares at the caffeine-free java in horror as needles of fear trip down his spine and he starts to sweat. He doesn't want to make a fuss, he really doesn't, but a very familiar dangerous heat is searing the back of his throat and suddenly he can't swallow or speak. Frustrated disappointment surges through him like lightning, mixing with his fear, ready to explode, and before he knows what he's doing he grabs the coffee and hurls it at the wall. The bag bursts on impact, spraying everything in sight with bitty black grounds. “What the hell Frank?!" Ray cries, "Clean that up!”

"No! You bought that shit, YOU clean it up!" Frank yells childishly, hating what he's saying but helpless to stop it. He's barely slept since Gerard left town yesterday and he's raw and drained from fighting his inner demons. Now, thanks to Ray's mistake he is doomed to fall into another void of nightmares, reliving the abuse that nearly killed him, and with no Gerard to comfort him when he wakes up weeping. It's more than he can take.

“Clean. It. Up,” Ray begs through gritted teeth. He's trying to be calm but he's frazzled from work and his feet are wet and he just wants to shower and sleep, "Please Frankie."

"NO, fuck off!" Frank roars, "I needed fucking caffeine, Toro. I can't sleep without Gee here and I don't want to, I can't tonight. Fuck you!!" Choking back sobs as blood roars in his ears, he punches the nearest cupboard so hard the wall shakes, "Fuck decaf and fuck you!" Ray lifts his hands in exasperation, "CALM DOWN, Frankie, jeez! It's just coffee. Of course you can sleep without Gee, you've done it a million times before." Abandoning the groceries, he tries to grab Frank's arm before the teenager punches anything else but Frank is spiky with nerves and doesn't want to be touched. Snarling defensively, he shoves his friend away as hard as he can and, without thinking, Ray shoves him back. Only he's so much bigger and stronger that Frank hits the floor with an ominous thud.

Time stops and Ray's heart drops so fast he feels sick. "I...Oh god Frank I'm sorry," he stammers, bending down to help, "Are you okay?" Frank sits up and gingerly rubs his side, glaring at his friend. “Don't touch me," he growls.

"Are you hurt? I didn't mean to-"

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

With his stomach in knots, Ray hurriedly backs off and retreats to the bathroom where he takes a long miserable shower. He's never felt like more of a scumbag in his life. Frank is still healing from god knows what kind of damage, and he could have just made it worse. Oh god. Through the rushing splash of water he tenses when he hears mysterious thuds coming from his own bedroom followed by a slamming door and then Frank's voice cursing loudly before a long silence. Quickly rinsing shampoo out of his hair, he dries his face, yanks on a damp bathrobe and ventures out into the kitchen. Coffee is still scattered everywhere and a tub of ice cream that he forgot to put away is melting on the counter. Frank is lying curled up on the living room couch wearing headphones that are screaming music into his ears to shut out the world. It's his way of saying that he wants to be left alone. Sighing heavily, Ray puts the ice cream away and goes to his room, only slightly surprised by what he finds: his favorite acoustic guitar lying on the floor by the bed with a broken neck and a hole stomped through its back.

The next morning Frank wakes up bleary-eyed and headachey with his headphones still on. He feels terrible about breaking Ray's guitar and deeply ashamed of the tantrum he threw over the coffee, especially since he didn't even have any nightmares in the end. Ray, to his credit, insists that it's no big deal and sweeps up the spilled grounds; but Frank is riddled with guilt over treating his friend so badly when the poor guy is letting him live here for free. What went down last night was unacceptable and he didn't mean for any of it to happen. Usually he's too tired and depressed to even get off the couch, let alone break Ray's stuff, and spends his days watching Nickelodeon and listening to music while picking obsessively at the blisters from his collar or staring into space, trapped in grimy memories. And when despair and self-loathing is sucking the life out of him and Gerard isn't there for comfort, Ray is always the one who lifts him out of it for a while with kind words, home-cooking, video games and warm hugs. Unfortunately none of that stuff works when Frank is angry or his anxiety is triggered. When his guts are burning and his fists are clenched he can't think straight and all the words get stuck in his throat and then erupt in stupid outbursts like the coffee fight.

He doesn't mean to be hostile or scream and cry so much but he can't control his emotions anymore. His mind is too busy battling cycles of abusive thoughts and memories to keep a lid on anything else. He can't even go outside for a walk to clear his head and give Ray some space for a while because he's too scared to leave the building; crippled by intense paranoia about getting mugged again or running into one of Lou's clients in the street. Or even Lou himself. If he so much as walks downstairs to the lobby he starts panicking so bad it feels like he's having a heart attack.

The only thing that makes all that nasty fear and violence inside him quiet down and feel bearable is Gerard. Always Gerard. Even saying his boyfriend's name feels good. Gerard's understanding and unconditional love and acceptance of every fucked up little part of him is a balm that soothes his frayed nerves and stops him drowning so that he can relax and stop struggling for a moment and just BE. If he could stay wrapped up safe in Gee's arms forever and ever, he would. Of course that's impossible. Gerard doesn't live anywhere near Ray's, and he often has to go home to his fretful parents or to therapy or AA meetings or job interviews and then Frank finds himself at a loss and overwhelmed by his demons again; trapped in an apartment he's too scared to leave and fighting with Ray just to vent the chaotic pressure building in his chest. He tries his best to stay positive and look after himself when Gee is gone but it's so damn hard and within an hour of his boyfriend walking out the door he's usually feeling frantic again. Even on his good days when he can joke around with Ray a little, he can't seem to keep his shit together. He can hear the fakeness of his own laugh and his heart pounding too loud under the thick clothes he's always hiding beneath, and he'll start fidgeting or chewing on his lip or fingers and he has to take a Xanax but it doesn't always help. Then the phantom smell of cigar smoke sears his nostrils and the ground falls out from under him and his head is underwater again. Abusive fists and cocks trample through his memory and he can't fight them or run from them because it's all inside his fucking head! When he's by himself, without even Ray for company, he often ends up scribbling on his trembling hands with markers while eating and watching TV and deafening himself with music all at the same time just to distract himself from the roar in his mind and the ghosts between his legs.

He hates what Lou and Babe did to him, he fucking hates those bastards more than anything, but he also hates himself for trusting Sam in the first place and running straight into their trap. He's not a religious person but every night he begs God to make him forget it all so he can go back to being the naive kid he used to be. Before he ran away, before Gerard's breakdown, before Mikey died, before New Year's Eve...back to when he was a giggly stoner punk still in high school, reading comic books and learning guitar chords. Knowing that those days are gone forever is a very hard pill to swallow.

Sometimes it helps to talk to Gerard about what happened in New York. Talking makes his internal pressure gauge drop out of the red zone for a while and he feels less alone with his dark thoughts. But although it unburdens his soul, it can't erase the scars on his body or the memories branded into his psyche and his fragile mind can so easily snap back into spirals of panic or black holes of depression. His life has become one long emotional rollercoaster with no end in sight and no way to get off and put his feet back on solid ground. One night he literally starts weeping while he's brushing his teeth and he doesn't even know what he's crying about this time. Gerard is sleeping over and walks into the bathroom to find him sobbing and spitting toothpaste and tears into the sink, but he doesn't say anything, just takes Frank's dripping toothbrush away and pulls him into a cuddle that only makes him cry harder. Later on, when they're lying on the couch together and everything is quiet, Gerard clears his throat and asks that sadly familiar question: “Are you sure you don't want to try therapy, Frankie? I used to think shrinks were bullshit too but now they're helping me deal with some really heavy stuff. You can talk to someone on the phone or online, baby, it doesn't have to be at a doctor's office.”

"I already told you, I don't want to talk about that stuff with a stranger,” Frank sniffles, ripping up the tear-soaked tissue in his hands into tiny shreds, "I have you for that." Gerard sighs and places a calming hand over the younger man's nervous fingers. "Of course you do, and you'll always have me, but I'm not trained in psychology. Sometimes people you don't know are the only ones emotionally distant enough to help you get some real perspective."

Frank sighs, his eyes haunted and red, and rakes a restless hand through his spiky hair, breathing tremulously in the quiet. When he speaks again his voice is so faint that Gerard can barely hear him, “They put a darkness in me that won't leave. There's so much fucking darkness and I don't want to look at it, I-I'm afraid to, but the IT looks into ME and I have no choice. I'm sorry if I don't want to comb through all the details of that vile shit with some random doctor who's just looking for a paycheck."

Gerard frowns in concern but he knows he can't force Frank to see a psychiatrist and making him debate the issue while he's upset just seems cruel. Slipping an arm around his boyfriend's skinny shoulders, he kisses his damp cheek and drops the subject for now.

Similarly, Ray also learns to bite his tongue and just listen when Frank starts yelling because something has triggered his anxiety, or makes noise at 4 a.m when his nightmares won't let him sleep. Advised by Gerard, Ray also removes the bathroom mirror and puts it in his bedroom along with his razors so that Frank can maintain a basic hygiene regimen without panicking at the sight of his own reflection or being tempted by self-inflicted violence. To his credit the teenager never complained about the mirror or even about sleeping on the couch every night but still, Ray buys a spare mattress for the living room too so his friend can rest on something more comfortable. When it's delivered the next day, all white and bouncy, Frank's face visibly lights up for the first time in weeks and he jumps on Ray, hugging his friend gratefully around the neck.

*** 

Weeks pass and the New Jersey weather turns dreary and cold with winter. Dead leaves and crumpled coffee cups clog the gutters and the store windows are slick with condensation and sparkling with festive lights. Gerard scores a job minding the counter in a small indie bookstore and although he loves the free coffee and stacks of paper comic books, it's pretty slow business and he worries about his boyfriend constantly. Two miles away and three floors above the icy streets, Frank spends the long hours alone curled up inside blankets and beanbag forts with the apartment door locked and chained against the outside world. He smokes a lot of pot (the only drug Ray doesn't mind) hand-delivered by his cousin Danny, and starts regressing heavily towards childish entertainment: watching even more old cartoons, listening to 80s bands and playing Crash Bandicoot and Tomb Raider games until his vision blurs because childhood nostalgia is so much better than shitty adult reality.

With no more appetite-suppressing cocaine in his bloodstream, and regular bouts of the Munchies, he eats his way through piles of carbs and junk food, riding the corn syrup and sugar waves of being alternately buzzed and sleepy all day and night. The plentiful snacking helps him put on some much-needed weight at last and the shadows under his cheekbones and around his ribs slowly disappear. His injuries are also fading: the angry purple contusions have healed into brown smudges and pale pink scars. His body feels more like his own property again and he experiences less horror while undressing, although he still hides under soapy clouds of bubbles in the tub. The nightmares and flashbacks battering his weary subconscious don't disappear but they do get slightly fewer and farther between and he's able to fall asleep without a stomach full of sedatives. When his grandpa's Vicodin runs out he gets by on high-strength aspirin and CBD until the aches and pains ease off for good, and when Gerard isn't around he cuddles sofa cushions half to death and wears his boyfriend's cologne and the scent is like a comfort blanket.

Linda faithfully visits her son three times a week, bringing candy, new clothes and home-cooked pasta, and even a turkey dinner in a tupperware box at Thanksgiving. When Gerard is there she always takes the time to talk to him and get to know the man her son is dating, and finds out that he's surprisingly shy and very kind and obviously in love with Frank. She's a little embarrassed to think that she once saw him as a manipulative predator, but she'll never admit it out loud.

Unable to stop herself she also asks Frank over and over if he's ready to come home yet. Wouldn't he rather have the comfort and privacy of his own bedroom? Is he going to be home in time for Christmas maybe? Frank fidgets uncomfortably under her hopeful gaze and she doesn't understand why he's so afraid to leave this place. Why won't he come home to her?

Frank wishes he could explain how he feels. Of course he wants to go home, especially now that Linda has given his relationship with Gerard her blessing. He would love to sleep in his own bed again and feel like a normal human being in a normal living situation with a normal fucking life. But he honestly doesn't know how to leave behind the only place where he's felt safe in months. Eventually his mom's queries dry up against his non-committal shrugs and muttered apologies, and every time she leaves disheartened he feels like an ungrateful brat and miserably stuffs himself with her well-meaning candy bars until his stomach hurts.

 ***

Mid December brings flurries of snow and the rooftops and tress turn soft sugary white. Frank watches the swirling flakes fall past the windows, his eyes following them from the distant gray clouds to their final resting place melting against the smeared glass panes. As they slowly dissolve he draws doodles with his fingertips in the slippery condensation of sad ghosts and cartoon rats, then wipes them all away.

He still can't bring himself to leave the building but sometimes on clear days he takes Ray's spare key and ventures up to the windswept roof. It's quiet up there, with no one around but the odd smoker and flocks of busy pigeons. “What if there's a fire and we have to evacuate?” Ray worries. “Then I'll burn,” Frank smirks, and he's not even sure if he's joking. Gerard is afraid of exactly that kind of situation and buys his boyfriend an old-school cell phone with plastic buttons and no apps so they can call or text each other any time but Frank doesn't have to deal with Google or social media news sites which now terrify him in case he somehow happens to see Lou's face again. Gerard has tried to keep tabs on that sadistic prick's fate but all he knows is that Lou is locked up without bail and his "empire" of sex criminals is under federal investigation. Frank doesn't comment on this information when Gerard hesitantly tells him, just shrugs and peels a small scab off his knuckle, letting it bleed.

As the days grow shorter, Gerard's fear of not being able to help Frank enough is eased by the undeniable proof that he is providing his boyfriend obvious comfort just by being present. Even though his own mental health struggles are still so fresh they are metaphorically bleeding, he finds a new sense of purpose in helping Frank learn to cope with life again. Easing his boyfriend's trauma makes his own seem more bearable too and in the cozy evenings when Frank is snuggled warm and drowsy on his chest, Gerard feels loved and needed and useful, and like he's not just a sad alcoholic failure. When Mikey died last summer, the self-loathing and despair nearly killed him and he wants to make damn sure that Frank doesn't suffer a similar agony alone.

Gradually the long, serious conversations between the two of them become more hopeful and positive, looking forward rather than backwards; and sometimes the focus is entirely on Gerard for a change: how his sobriety is going, his art hobbies, or fond memories of his brother. There are still a lot of rough days when Frank struggles to say anything at all beyond tired greetings, but at other times the chatter flows and spills over into jokes and debates about movies or whether big clumsy dogs are better than little yappy ones. Gerard reveals the new drawings he's been sketching in his spare time and Frank is always eager to see them and his awed reactions to the bold vibrant ink give Gerard a huge confidence-boost that he doesn't get from anyone else. Their relationship might be a little co-dependant but so what if they need each other to be happy right now? Moments of genuine happiness have been so rare lately and this year has been by far the worst of both of their lives. If it can end on a positive note then at least they can say that something good came out of all that pain.

****

Whenever Gerard's visits run late into the evening he sleeps over, sharing the new mattress, and he and Frank sometimes fool around a little but only like bashful crushes: a kiss or caress here and there, but always on top of Frank's layers of clothes that he wears like immovable armor. He's too guarded and vulnerable to engage in anything more intimate and Gerard would never, ever expect him to. Still, he would be lying if he said that he didn't wish they could do more when Frank's lips are always so warm and his sweater-clad body is so clingy and eager for comfort. Gerard is desperate to show his boyfriend how much he loves him and how beautiful he still thinks he is and words don't always seem like enough.

One night, a little over six weeks since Frank's homecoming, they're falling asleep together in front of 'Lord of the Rings' when Gerard unconsciously slides his hand under the younger man's shirt, brushing against the small scars on his belly. It's a gentle, innocent touch he isn't even aware of but Frank stiffens and flinches like he's been slapped. Gerard snatches his hand away, cursing himself for being so careless. "Sorry," he gasps, “I didn't mean to, I wasn't thinking.” Frank tugs his shirt and jumper back into place, his eyes wide as his breath shakes hot and heavy. "I didn't mean to," Gerard repeats nervously, “Are you okay?”

“Uh huh,” Frank gulps, rolling away and clutching his pillow against his chest, “I'm fine. But you can't do that yet. I'm sorry, but you can't. I'm not ready!”

“I know,” Gerard insists, “I know and I'm so sorry. It was a stupid accident. You don't ever have to apologise to me about this, it's not your fault. Please don't feel bad."

Staring up at the ceiling, Frank huffs out a long slow breath, his forehead creasing. “I want to be okay with it," he mumbles, "I want to want...stuff.”

“But you don't,” Gerard finishes, leaning over to kiss him gently on the cheek, “And that's ok. After what you've been through, of course you don't. That's totally normal, and I don't ever want to pressure you into anything. I don't care how long it takes for you to feel alright with this stuff again. Months or years or whatever. I'd wait forever for you, Frankie.” Finding the TV remote to pause the movie, he looks earnestly into Frank's eyes and Frank looks back with heartbreaking worry written all over his face. “I mean it Frankie. I love you and I'll wait for however long it takes. I don't mind at all, I promise. Okay?"

"Yeah," Frank whispers, "Okay."

"Good. Um...I am gonna have to go deal with myself now though,” Gerard adds with an embarrassed smile, “I won't be able to fall asleep otherwise. Do you want me to go to the bathroom?” Frank's concerned expression changes to amused understanding, “Ohhh, you need to jerk off? No you can do that here, I don't mind.”

Gerard smiles sheepishly and tugs down his shorts under the bedsheets. Frank turns the movie back on and watches Legolas shooting arrows at orcs for a minute before suddenly wriggling out of bed and running off to the kitchen. Gerard flinches as cold air washes over his exposed skin, guilt and doubt keeping his hand still. But then Frank comes back and burrows under the blankets with a handful of tissues. “In case there's spillage,” he giggles, giving his boyfriend a sloppy kiss, "This is a new mattress, y'know." Gerard snorts with laughter, and relief and happiness warm his heart as Frank snuggles against him with his eyes only half on the TV. “You are so beautiful, Frankie,” he whispers, rubbing his hand up and down as blood rushes to his groin and gets him hard. Frank rolls his eyes, not taking the compliment on board, but stays close and attentive while Gerard pleasures himself, kissing and biting his boyfriend's collarbone and whispering smut into his ear. After just a couple of minutes, with a shudder and a moan Gerard comes hard into the fistful of Kleenex, his eyes shining in the dim light. “I really do love you,” he murmurs hoarsely, “I always have.”

Frank nods and kisses his boyfriend's sweat-damp neck, breathing him in. "I love you too."

**** 

A dark and cloudy Christmas Eve brings icy showers of freezing rain. Gerard reluctantly leaves town to attend a family gathering at his grandfather's house, promising to call or text Frank every couple of hours to check on him, and Ray heads to his mom's in Jersey City. Frank firmly declines an invitation from Linda to join her and his cousins at his Aunt Bethany's and instead spends the day watching Star Wars movies and eating microwaved burritos. He smokes a joint and takes some more Xanax and quickly discovers that wrapping himself up as tight as he can in his thick winter comforter makes him feel snug enough not to care that he's alone. Beyond the closed drapes, icy winds rattle and moan around the building and sleet splatters the windows.

Around mid-afternoon Frank falls asleep with his face in a Cheeto-dusted cushion and doesn't wake up until his cell phone rings shrilly a few hours later. Answering it with clumsy fingers, he mumbles “Hello?” with his eyes still closed. It's his mother, clearly tipsy on a glass of wine or three, and for a while she just talks non-stop about how much she loves him and how thankful she is that he came back into her life and how she wishes he was with her today. When she eventually pauses for breath Frank says he loves her too and realizes through the fog of chemicals in his brain that his face is damp with tears. A rare surge of homesickness washes over him, probably brought on by the holidays and Linda's happy voice, and his evasive attitude towards her abruptly crumbles and thaws, loosening his tongue. When she asks how he's feeling today he doesn't mumble the usual “fine” or invent lies to avoid the truth. Instead, he looks around the lonely apartment and decides to be somewhat honest with her for the first time in forever.

Wiping saltwater from his streaming face, he hoarsely explains that the bruises and scars she's seen on his face and neck are from being mugged and choked but he pretends he doesn't know who did it. He also confesses to being held against his will by somebody he thought he could trust but he doesn't mention any names or the brothel or any of the torture or sexual abuse. There's only so much he can reveal to the woman who raised him. But he's on a roll now and hazy from dope and sleep, and he finds himself rambling about some of his flashbacks and nightmares - leaving out the rape but admitting the violence. She responds with shock and panic at first and he has to spend a while convincing her that the sicko who abducted him is gone and can't hurt him anymore and that the cops couldn't make any difference at this point. Once she believes that he's out of danger she follows his lead and speaks from her heart; pouring a tide of love and sympathy into his anxious ears and to his surprise there is none of the anger or disgust or threats of psychiatric care that he always feared he would get from her if he confessed his experiences. There is only motherly love and concern. She doesn't hate him or resent him for getting himself so fucked up and she doesn't demand that he explain things further. He feels so much lighter inside for telling her something real for once, and weak with relief that she truly does still love him despite all the shit he's put her through. He should have realized sooner that Gerard wasn't the only source of unconditional love in his life. He's always had his mom in his corner too, but he just didn't feel it in his heart until now.

***

The next day is Christmas Day and Linda comes over in the morning as soon as she's been to see Frank's beloved nana. She arrives laden down with gifts for her son but the boxes and bags fall to the floor when she rushes to give him a hug that's so tight and lasts for so long that Frank has to catch his breath afterwards. There is one particular present she wants to give him first: a beloved patchwork rabbit plushie that he used to carry around everywhere as a toddler, all cleaned up and repaired back to its former glory. "Jazzy Bun?!" Frank gasps, genuinely surprised and touched by the gift, "I thought you threw her in the trash years ago." Linda smiles, “Nope, she's been up in the attic since you started Kindergarten. I was actually planning to bring Chilli Dog but I couldn't find him anywhere,” she adds softly, keeping her voice low so that Ray can't hear her where he's nibbling on leftovers in the kitchen, “I know you still like to have Chilli when you can't sleep and I thought if you had him here it might help with your nightmares. But he's not in your room or the attic or the laundry. I've looked everywhere.”

Frank bites his tongue and nods sadly, embarrassed to get so emotional over an old toy but the memory of Chilli being ripped away from him by that filthy drifter in NYC still makes him want to cry. Instead, he hunches gratefully over Jazzy Bun and strokes the rabbit's worn patches of colorful cloth. He's lost so many things in this short life, perhaps the worst being his sorry excuse for a father, and he doesn't want to keep pushing away the only parent he has left. Not anymore. He needs her too much. “Mom?” he whispers, forcing himself to speak the words it's taken him months to say.

“Yes baby?”

“I think...maybe...I wanna come home now.”

Whooping with joy, Linda throws her arms around him and he slowly returns the embrace, feeling the tug and itch of every secret scar lurking under his clothes.

***

With his chest tight and his stomach full of sickly butterflies, Frank packs up his few belongings and thanks Ray for putting up with him, hugging his best friend for as long as his spiralling nerves can stand it. Leaving the tiny refuge he has made for himself here is going to destroy him and he knows it. Worst of all, Gerard isn't here to help him cope; but for some reason he feels like if he doesn't do this now, on Christmas Day of all days, then he never will. So he follows his mother downstairs and, sure enough, when it's time to step through the lobby doors and out into the cold world beyond he starts to fall apart. The busy street comes roaring at him like a tidal wave of sound and light, hostile and full of strangers, and he freezes in terror on the front steps. His pounding heart feels like it's being crushed in a vice and all the blood drains from his face as he's instantly drenched in sweat. He can't take a breath for so long he feels dizzy and he screws his eyes shut and covers his ears with his hands, desperately trying to picture his safe place. His pulse thunders under his clammy skin and the noise of traffic and drunken Christmas revellers assaults his ears like shrieking air-horns. Crumpling to his knees on the steps, shivering and sick, his mind screaming, he knows he can't do this. He can't do this!

But then something breaks through the panic and fear: his mother's voice. She's kneeling by his side, talking softly, calm and patient, telling him that he's safe and she is there to protect him. She promises he'll feel better soon, and that nothing bad lasts forever, and he doesn't have to leave Ray's right now if he doesn't want to, he just needs to breathe...just breathe...and it will all be over soon...

A fat man in a stained Santa suit waddles up and complains about them blocking the building's entrance so Linda curses him out so bad he passes them by without another word. Trying to focus on the feel of the concrete under his knees and the chilled breeze on his sweaty skin, Frank grits his teeth and keeps his head down, heaving gasps of freezing air into his body until he's pretty sure he's not going to vomit or pass out or die. Linda stays with him the whole time, her gentle hand on his back, her calming words in his ear, and when he finds his voice again he begs her to get him to the car. Helping him up off the ground, she wraps a supportive arm around his waist and guides him quickly down the sidewalk to her waiting vehicle. The second she unlocks it, Frank is inside like a shot, slamming the heavy door closed against the noisy city and breathing in the comforting car smells and vanilla air freshener. Linda climbs quickly into the driver's seat and eyes him worriedly as she fastens her seatbelt and starts the engine. He's too embarrassed to meet her gaze while he's like this, panting and shaking all over, sweat slicking his face. Desperate for something else to focus on, he jabs at the power button on the CD player and shoves the first disc he can find into its wide plastic mouth. The soulful music of Nina Simone fills the tiny car and he scrunches down in his seat with his eyes closed and his face buried in Jazzy Bun's soft blue ears.

At their house Linda parks as close as she can to the front door before turning off the engine, killing the music. Frank licks his lips nervously in the sudden quiet and uncurls his quivering arms just long enough to grab his bag. Linda gets out of the car first and walks around to open his door for him. “Welcome home sweetheart. I'm so proud of you for doing this.”

When they step through the front door, Frank immediately turns and locks it behind them, slamming on the deadbolt and chain before resting his forehead tiredly against the painted wood. He did it. He actually fucking did it. Linda goes to the intruder alarm keypad on the wall and casually arms it, something that she doesn't normally do but she wants her son to feel as safe and secure as possible. He nods gratefully at the gesture and shrugs off his coat. Perspiration has glued his shirt to his chest and back and his heart is still banging like a drum. “Well done Frankie,” she whispers, giving him a kiss on the cheek before quickly switching on the lights, “Are you hungry, baby? There's pie in the fridge...Or if you just want to get some sleep your room is all ready for you. Tell me what you need.”

Panting soft shallow breaths of relief, Frank gazes around at the festive tinsel and twinkly lights woven carefully up the stairs and the familiar family photographs on the walls. This is the house he grew up in and it is warm and safe, scented with decades of oatmeal and fabric softener and burning cloves. He is so lucky to have made it back here alive. The reality of that thought smashes into him now like a ton of bricks: he is lucky to be alive, period. Dropping his bag with a thud, he gasps in pain as all the tears he held back on the drive home flood his eyes like little drops of fire and his legs start to buckle and suddenly his mother's arms are the only thing keeping him standing. "I'm here, baby, it's alright," she soothes, emotion trembling in her voice, “You're safe now, Frankie. It's all going to be okay now, I promise. I promise...”

She holds him like that for a long time, sitting together on the new living room couch while he cries and shakes and just tries to process the stress of the day. After about an hour Frank manages to gulp down a cup of hot cocoa and some Nyquil that she puts in his hands and the next thing he knows he's standing in the bathroom wearing pajamas and washing his tear-stained face in the sink. The bathroom mirror is small, showing only his head and shoulders, and he blinks tiredly at his unshaven face and puffy eyes. His cheeks are flushed pink and his hair is a mess but his reflection doesn't look like a horrorshow or a torture victim anymore. It's just him. Still surviving.

Blowing his nose with a handful of toilet paper, he runs a hand over the patchy stubble on his chin and jaw, deciding he doesn't have the energy to shave, and then checks his phone, smiling at a new text from Ray: HOPE UR OK. HERE IF U NEED ME.

He quickly texts back 'thnx Toro. All good.' and rubs his tired eyes with a yawn as he wanders down the hall to his bedroom. There's a new gray comforter lying on the bed and when he rolls back the top corner it is unexpectedly heavy. “It's a weighted blanket,” Linda explains from the doorway behind him, “I heard they're really calming and help with sleep so I figured you could give it a try.”

"Thanks,” Frank whispers gratefully, rubbing the blanket's thick fleecy lining between his fingers. “...Hey Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Has anyone come around here looking for me since I've been staying at Ray's? Anyone you don't know?”

“No," Linda says, looking bewildered, "Just the family asking after you. A few concerned neighbors I guess...Oh and that McGuire boy from your old junior high band. Remember him? Nice kid. Shame you lost touch. Why? Are you expecting someone?”

“Nope,” Frank breathes, exhaling a sigh of relief he can feel from his lungs right down to his toes, “I guess not.”

"Alright," Linda says with a knowing raised eyebrow, "Well... get some rest now sweetie, you look exhausted, and holler if you need anything at all. I don't care what time it is, just come get me." Frank nods and yawns again, unable to stop himself, "Thanks Mom. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Frankie." With tears of joy in her eyes, Linda hugs him again and withdraws downstairs, leaving the door ajar and the hall light on. Already drowsy from the meds in his stomach, Frank sprawls face down on the comfy bed and pulls the weighted blanket over his weary body. It feels wonderful, like being swaddled all over with a snug, cozy heaviness, and within two minutes he's almost asleep. The cell phone by his pillow glows quietly with a goodnight text from Gerard, and Jazzy Bun is tucked snug and reassuring against his chest. With nothing but soft slumbering mist behind his eyes he drifts away, knowing that he is safe and he is loved and he is home. For once there are no bad dreams tonight; just sleep.

THE END