THREE: Vanilla Down Your Throat

23: Can You Not Put Your Tits on My Kitchen Table

A/N: I did say I wanted to finish the book this weekend but I decided to use this big cliffhanger to let a few people catch up. So, here's the last update for the weekend, and hopefully, we can make some progress next weekend. 

Frank lay in the bed, staring at the intricate ceiling. Never in his wildest dreams did he expect to be back in the lavish hotel suite he had previously spent two weeks in when he and Gerard broke up. And yet, here he was. Same fucking bed, same desolate feeling.

He had been here for three days all by himself, no contact with anyone except the hotel staff and Josh. He was here under a fake name, and all of the staff were sworn to secrecy. He had switched his phone off and Josh knew to phone the hotel landline to get ahold of him because his cell was being bombarded by calls from random numbers. It was after the third death threat from an unknown source that he put his phone in the drawer and curled up.

He didn't want to switch on the TV or open social media. Josh had already told him that his name had been plastered everywhere, and on every platform. He had even made news internationally, and he couldn't face it. His eyes were burning and his head throbbed from the near-constant tears. He felt solely responsible for what had happened. He had gotten complacent, lazy, and haphazard with their relationship, he had felt so invincible that nothing would happen. He flew too close to the sun and now the agony of his wounds continued to haunt him. He had no contact with Gerard, he had no idea how he was or if they were even together anymore, and the lack of certainty was killing him.

He rolled onto his side and stared at the gold lamp on the nightstand, squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as he could in an attempt to undo everything. He couldn't even go to work because he had been told to keep his distance. He didn't even know what he could have wished for if he had been given three wishes by some ethereal force. What could he have asked for that could possibly fix this without ruining everything one way or another?

He felt his eyes prick with tears but he rolled his face into the pillow, allowing the darkness to serve as his maladaption. He lay there for a good while before the landline broke his silence with its shrill ringing. He reached over and grabbed the receiver, putting it to his ear, "Yeah?"

"Sorry to bother you, sir," the woman at the front desk spoke, "But I have someone on the line for you?"

"Who?"

"There is a... Miss B on the line. Can I patch her through to you?"

"Sure." Frank sighed and sat up, rubbing his face as he waited. He heard the dial tone change and he immediately felt more anxiety creek into his throat.

"Frank?"

"Hi, Lin."

"How are you holding up, sweetheart?"

"Oh, y'know..." Frank wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder as he picked at one of his toenails idly, "Ruined his life, hiding from the world, being sent death threats, having staff test my food before I eat, not being able to watch TV or anything. Y'know, it feels like a vacation."

She sighed softly, "Three days without you and I forget how snippy you get."

"What's up?"

She sighed softly, the sound more sympathetic than impatient, "I just wanted to see how you were."

"How is he...?"

"Tired," She whispered, "He hasn't been able to leave the house in days and there are reporters here twenty-four-seven even with the police trying to keep them off our property, they know the limits and they're pushing them."

"I know the feeling," Frank muttered, "This hotel room may be fancy as shit, and bigger than my first house, but these walls feel like they're closing in every single day, Lin."