ĐɆVłⱠ ₮Ø₩₦ (devil town) • frerard

ii

xxx-xxx-xxxx

frank has smoked through the entire pack and stared at that fucking phone number every day for two weeks now. he's just about out of cigarettes. his apartment smells like fucking trash and he can't find the energy to get out of bed and he finds himself crying when he catches himself in the mirror because he is a mess.

"i'm not. i'm clean, i shaved, i brushed my teeth."

"you still reek."

he hates that gerard's sweetness got to a cold bitter heart such as his own. and he hates that he wants to call. because this morning, he stared at the ceiling, thinking of nothing, unable to get out of bed because as hard as he tried, he could not do it. he couldn't force himself into the shower. he couldn't force himself to even get on the couch. he spent four hours in bed thinking about how he was wasting his life and how he felt like vomiting and how he didn't want to do anything because there was something heavy in his heart that spiked up whenever he moved and no matter how hard he tried to sit up, or move, or do anything but breathe, he just couldn't. he cried at one point, and he lost track of how long he did that. all he remembers is that he was crying about the money in his hall and in the vent beside his bed and his closet and his attic and how his father had to leave him like this. and how his mother had disowned him the moment his father left them. because she would not have a son that was impure.

frank could not get over that. it was a brick wall and he could not jump and he was driving at 60 miles an hour and there was a stone glued to the gas and there was no break and the steering wheel would not move and no matter how hard frank may have tried to break the windows, all he succeeded in was drawing blood. in his knuckles. in his tears. and he was drowning and maybe it was the intensity before the actual collision that scared him the most, and the anticipation for his head bashing open and blood splattering the windshield and pale hands reaching up to muffle an already broken scream. and he would die, maybe even before he hit. and every thought always lead to that. every single thought of his family. of his wealth. his mother would have taken it all if he hadn't put his inheritance in frank's name. but he should have kept it. he should have burnt it with the rest of the family photos.

he always had a dysfunctional family, though. his uncle had been a rapist, a pedophile, a child molester and frank stayed silent until he didn't. his mother was abusive, micromanaged everything, would scream at frank when he got anything wrong. his father loved him, but he died of age when frank was fifteen and, anyways, he was never around enough to truly give frank the love he needed. frank's paternal grandparents had died long before he was born. his maternal grandparents lived in alaska with the rest of his mom's family. his mom would always complain about jersey traffic and how much better it was in alaska.

but frank was nine when his uncle cornered him in his bedroom. he didn't understand until he did. frank was thirteen when he told his dad. his dad told his mom. and his mom never once held him with any respect after that. frank spent years trying to figure out what he did wrong. how he could have fixed it. how it could have gotten better, but the moment he turned eighteen after living in his mother's basement for three years, he left with his inheritance and got an apartment, though he should have bought a house. his dad had enough. it was years of work as ceo of a company that sold cigarettes and alcohol. and people always spend so much money on that, don't they? frank never really did get it. he refused to take the job, despite the persistence but he did choose his father's predecessor. and for the past three years he's lived in this apartment. he never needed a job. he never needed anything. but a place to live. five million dollars in savings. five million. frank had always wondered if he should maybe manage it but every calculation he'd ever made always resulted in the same: he could buy whatever he wanted for the rest of his life. as long as he spent only $81,000 a year or less, he would be set until he's eighty. which he doubts he'll live to. but he can hope.

he always just hopes.

so he spent that morning. lying in bed for four hours. and he forgot to eat breakfast, oh well. he finally managed to get up at around one, wiping away stupid fucking tears that he hated having around. hoodie. sweatpants. stubble. he remembers a time when he used to shave the sides of his hair but now it's all grown out a few inches. which makes him depressed but when he wonders if he can summon the energy to, he only shakes his head. maybe he can get out of the house today. maybe.

he tries to eat some ramen for an afternoon snack, something is better than nothing, right? he vomits a little while after, sobbing over the toilet and eventually he flushes it down and sorta brushes his teeth but when he stared at himself in the mirror, he sees his dad. and his mom, and he punches the glass. his knuckles don't bleed like he had hoped.

frank forces himself to take a bath. less standing, less moving. less energy. he holds his head under. imagines gerard. he only comes up when it catches in his throat and his ribs carve in. he washes his hair with shampoo and conditioner. he reaches for the soap but when he runs it over his body, he considers making toast in the bathtub. he pushes it aside and washes away all the grease and dirt on him and sits in that for a while. he looks over at the bathroom counter. notices the last cigarette and he stared for a moment at the number.

he pushes it away. tries to forget. he gets dressed. it's five. he leaves. grabs his keys, grabs that cigarette and a lighter and his phone. and he's gone. he drives for a while. stops at the gas station for cigarettes. goes out again. gazing at the different stores. it's mid winter. there is snow. frank wonders if he could suffocate in the snow. wonders if he really could choke himself to death. if gerard could choke him to death. he basks in that idea. stared at the phone number. lights the cigarette. and heads to the club. he isn't sure why. he doesn't want sex. at all. at least not the rough sex. he feels numb, but maybe that's what he wants to feel now. he drinks down a third shot, stares at his phone. stares at the cigarette box on the counter. and he enters: xxx-xxx-xxxx

it rings. once, twice. three times.

"gerard way, who is this?" he sounds like he's panting, frank's heart plummets and his eyes widen as he clenches the table.

"h-hey. gerard. um. it's frank. from. the one night stand, a few weeks ago." frank clears his throat, "i-i hear your busy, though, so um. call me back i guess? if you get a chance i'm at the club. so, yeah."

"fuck, shut up," gerard growls, moving the phone away from his face but frank hears it anyways and it hurts, "i'm not busy. i'll be there in about fifteen minutes if that's okay?"

"yeah, um..." frank tries to mask his tears, "see you then..."

he hangs up before gerard can say goodbye but he doesn't think he wants to hear it. he stares up st the drink menu, and calls to the bartender, "can i get another shot of something weak please? that'll be all."

she hums, short hair, dress shirt. it's a gay bar, sure. but there aren't near as many lesbians here. they're usually reserved for down the street. it's not like frank cares either way, though. he takes the last shot, leaves a twenty, and exits. he reaches his car, gets in the driver's side and pulls his knees up to his chest as he cries, locking the doors. he knows he shouldn't be jealous. it's not like he was gerard's number one. they were a one night. nothing more. nothing less. of course, gerard should be with other people but the jealousy. the feeling of guilt that maybe frank wasn't enough for gerard and gerard didn't care enough to try longer lingers in his conscious and he wants it gone, but it's the same poison that dripped from his mother's lips when she told him.

"you will never be a son of mine. a no good dirty faggot! a queer! god does not stand for this! i did not raise you like this!" consent was not a factor. his uncle being fifteen years older than him didn't matter, "you should be ashamed!"

he was. he is. and he still isn't enough. not for gerard. not for his dad. not for himself. he screams in that car. cries. sobs. he tried for gerard. and he accomplished nothing. of course gerard doesn't care enough. he never did. he did that because it was his duty to. that's all. and it makes him sick.

he doesn't stick around long enough to see gerard come rushing back to the club, enter, search. and see nothing but the empty cigarette box on the bar. his number sketched into the lid. he gets a call from gerard. he doesn't answer. he doesn't want to.

he never wants to again.

as always, comments and votes are greatly appreciated!