Wintertime (Frerard, Sequel to Summertime)

15: (((plot vibes wtf)))

And as time went on, things had only seemed to worsen: the boy and his home town in the wintertime being a more than prominent subject in Frank's dreams over the course of the past week; his head focusing in open the letter and the broken home, and the boy with the dark hair that seemed to be somewhat of a living mystery.

And he'd been off his meds since, and no one beside Gerard had known, of course, but somehow this didn't feel like it was too with the lack of medication at all, because although this wasn't a cause for celebration, it wasn't necessarily a bad thing either.

It was just curious.

And Frank wanted to know everything he seemed to have forgotten, or had just evaded his notice, because surely this boy had to be someone, something, because you didn't just have this many dreams about no one, and that town, the setting, everything else was accurate, so why shouldn't this boy have been?

Of course, it didn't matter because Frank hadn't the slightest idea as to what he could do about it, because he wasn't in contact with any of the people he'd known as an eight year old, except besides his father, but they most certainly didn't speak anymore, and Frank didn't want to start again, just to ask about some boy he may or may not have known two decades ago.

It was irrelevant.

But it wasn't.

And Frank was scared.

But he wasn't.

Because the boy seemed to mean no harm at all, and Frank was just overreacting, and overthinking, and perhaps this really was just a figment of his imagination, but Frank had the odd nagging feeling in the form of recurring dreams, that it wasn't.

And the same thoughts haunted him as he laid in bed on a Sunday morning, Gerard beside him, saying something that he probably wanted him to care about, but Frank's mind was a million miles away, and he reckoned that there was honestly very little he could do about that at all.

Maybe he shouldn't have listened to Gerard, maybe that was what fucked him up in the first place, maybe that as what was causing these dreams, but it wasn't, because Frank had dreamed like this before, just not about that one specific and oddly curious thing.

He should've just explained it all to Gerard, and asked for his advice, and perhaps a blowjob or something, because that was Gerard's definite speciality, but Frank hadn't, and Frank wouldn't, and he wasn't exactly sure why; it just felt oddly personal and weirdly private, and it wasn't like Gerard would know anything a boy that may or may not have existed ten years before he'd even met Frank.

And Frank couldn't see how this was necessary or even if Gerard would listen, because he lay beside him, babbling on about something or other, and Frank couldn't care less at all - that was bad. This was all bad, and this would all be bad. And Frank would be okay with it until the very end, because this relationship with Gerard would always be sporadic at best: highs and lows, a rollercoaster of a relationship perhaps, but he reckoned that the highs most certainly made up for the times like these.

But of course, Frank was so very wrong, and so very oblivious, and Gerard was perhaps beginning to notice that not a single word he'd uttered was adhered to, and perhaps Gerard was beginning to anger a little, and perhaps it was easy to guess what could happen then.

"Frank?" He snapped, sitting up, and meeting the shorter man's gaze. "Are you even fucking listening to me, Jesus?"

Frank let out a sigh, blushing a little, "sorry... I... I just I'm tired, and there's a lot going on in my head, I'm sorry, okay?"

"Well, okay..." Gerard sighed out, leaning back down, and into Frank's side, "tell me what's this mess going on in your head then?"

"I can't-" And Frank knew that Gerard wouldn't be listening to any of that the very moment he'd began, but still, for some godforsaken reason, he'd tried.