Call of the Siren » Frerard

TEN

X: the artistry of the ocean, and the delicacy of drowning...

[note; the final chapter... you aren't prepared, xo.]

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Something wasn't quite right anymore. Not in Kitsfort. Not with Frank. Not with Gerard.

March was full-bloom in the air -- the brisk January and February air melting away as spring slowly, slowly approached. It was still chilled, with a low breeze -- the day gorgeous, except for one thing. Something was wrong, only, Frank didn't know what it was.

Gerard had grown distant once more -- feeling as if the ghost boy that he'd known at first had been tugged back to the forefront, silent, staring, a constant mask plastered across a flat expression. Frank hadn't known what had gone wrong. He knew nothing of whether it was something he did, or something external that Gerard wouldn't tell him about -- or something completely out of the ball-park. He just didn't know, and the sheer thought scared him.

He hadn't approached Gerard yet, letting his confusion drown him to the point of near insanity -- tugging on his hair at night, staring at his bare ceiling to muddle in his never-ending worry, driving himself mad with the unknown blaring right in his face. He hadn't known what he'd done wrong. Maybe Gerard had just realized that he was nothing more than a little boy trapped inside a mature body -- that he was still weak, fragile, not worthy of his love any longer. That he was just sick and pathetic, and that it wasn't worth to spend a lifetime with someone who'd likely not even make it to the age of fifty.

Frank was drowning, drowning in his thoughts once more in the deafening silence of the night -- like he couldn't breathe as his stomach lurched and whirled with worry. The fogs settling around the town had only worsened, and Frank hadn't dare leave the house without either Pencey or the rosary itself stashed away on him -- not after he'd spotted a spirit in town.

Frank was still weary after the whole encounter down at the dock too, with the song he'd heard -- not daring to tell Gerard of what he feared had nearly gone down. If it hadn't been for Dave, Frank was terrified at the fact that he knew he'd likely be at the bottom of the bay by now...

He was staring at his phone, though, pursing his lips as he stared at him and Gerard's last text conversation -- the latter seeming so fucking distant lately, terrifying Frank that something was wrong. It wasn't quite a worry that the other was cheating, with the big fact that he didn't fucking talk to anybody but Frank -- but rather, that something maybe a bit more sinister was slowly unraveling, something that he had no idea of...

Gerard knew exactly what he thought was happening, though.

In the house just next door, Gerard was at his desk -- laptop with twenty different scatter-brained tabs open, books tossed open all across the surface, and his hands in his hair. He was frowning deep, a few old newspaper articles folded to the side, and a half-emptied cup of coffee beside him.

He groaned loudly, tugging on his hair as he blinked away the grogginess, not even meant to be awake at such a horrid hour of the morning. He'd grown obsessive, though. Reading, reading, reading -- worrying, distancing himself from the one who he loved most -- terrified out of his wits for what slowly, he was uncovering.

He didn't want to believe it. He truly, truly didn't. But he was this close to breaking down into further tears, throwing his head back. He leant back over his desk in a swift, startling movement -- snatching the polaroid photos of Aella's charred stump. Staring, staring, staring -- heart lurching in disbelief.