ĐɆVłⱠ ₮Ø₩₦ (devil town) • frerard

viii

short chapter, not how i planned to take the story but i needed to update

frank is staring at the ceiling, a cigarette in hand, eyes darkened and narrowed. the apartment is dead silent, the dead plants in his window swaying in the soft breeze and daylight that wander through his room. dust collects on his bedside table, stirring only by the wind and his eyes rest on it as his clock changes to 4:32pm. it's been six days since he fucked patrick, gerard sent a text directly after: don't mess with my shit again, with a picture of the hickey he left and patrick with a red face and tears streaming down his face. frank ignored it and instead rolled back around in bed, not a twinge of sympathy for either of them.

frank hasn't felt anything, he hasn't for a long time now. he knows it's going to pass, because it always passes but his mind goes back to what pulled him out of his last depressive episode. it was gerard, a month and a half ago, fucking frank. choking him. hurting him. he remembers the bruises on his neck and suddenly that's all he wants. just someone to choke him, to put him in a place where he could die, because something about that makes it easier to bear. hurting himself doesn't give him that relief. it doesn't ease the pressure that constantly nags in his mind and he wants it. he wants to be restricted and forced to just take it, to be manipulated against what he thinks he can do.

frank considers returning to the bar, considers finding a quick fuck, someone to hold him down and abuse him. he considers finding someone to taunt enough to force him to take whatever they'll give, but when he tries to get up, he gets a wave of dizziness and immediately falls back in bed. it's too early, anyways, and gerard might be there. he's still pissed about patrick, and frank knows gerard wouldn't help at all. he wouldn't fuck him now that he's fucked with his 'property' and he certainly won't allow frank back. maybe this is the end of everything they had. frank told himself the first time would be the last, and the second, and the third. but he knows he'll keep trying to go back, because gerard was a one night stand, nothing more. a good one night stand, but that's all it is.

frank's sure he can find someone else who will hold him down and choke him, find someone who can treat him better. patrick wasn't the relief he needed, being a dom is fun but it isn't what he needs. it doesn't give him that rush that getting hurt does, even though it did help relieve some of his anger to put his hands all over gerard's stuff and mark him up, it still isn't enough. frank wonders if it'll ever be enough to dom because he knows that what he needs isn't what he can have. and he also knows that's simply a want more than anything. what he needs is therapy and drugs, what he needs is closure from lindsey and hayley's parents. what he needs is to recover from the depression he's been trapped in for years, to finally be enough for his mom, to finally believe that he didn't deserve what happened to him against his will years and years ago.

but what he needs, isn't what he always wants and he has an overwhelming urge to call up gerard yet again but there's this aggression inside him, this urge to be right that stops him. he doesn't need gerard, and he sure as fuck isn't calling that asshole up again but he doesn't want to be alone either so it isn't exactly a right mind that makes him pick up his phone and call lindsey at 5pm even though he remembers her specifically saying to him that they won't be talking for a long while. he's surprised when her voice rings through on the other end and he hears a soft, "frank?"

"hey, lindsey," he tries, unsure of what to say. there's a silence, a tension on the line that connects them, it's being pulled tighter with each second, a guitar string ready to snap.

"oh, hey. what's uh... what's up?" lindsey swallows, frank listens in on the tension. he feels like he's not really in this conversation.

"i'm not doing great and i um... i wanted to know if you would be up to talking... or something. i'm feeling really depressed and–"

"save it, frank," lindsey interrupts, the guitar string is about there, "i'm not doing great either, you're not the only depressed person you know."

"i know i'm just–" the final twist of the knob and the whiplash that follows.

"listen, i'm not here to be your fucking therapist. i'm not blaming you for what happened but i told you that i'm not talking for a while. i thought we established this, it's great that you're reaching out and all but reach out to someone who can actually help you instead of dumping your problems on someone who already has to deal with figuring out a will and telling the news that a young girl died. you try that on for size and tell me how it fucking feels. call your boyfriend gerard or something because i'm done. i will call you when i'm ready to move on, okay?"

"i..." frank is about to vomit, and the line goes dead before he can reply any more. he drops the phone and anxiety murders him quicker than he could have anticipated. he puts his hand to his mouth as tears crowd at his eyes and spill down his cheeks and suddenly nothing feels real and the only thing he can think of is the overwhelming urge to just die.

that's what gets him out of bed. and it's the painkillers in the closet and the sleeping pills in his drawer that he pulls onto the bathroom counter as he looks around for a moment then starts the bath. this was how he looked it up for years and years and this was what they said was the most painless way to die. they say you could slit your wrists but there's something in the back of his mind that stops him. he does down 10 sleeping pills and 12 advil before crawling in, still fully clothed and he pulls his knees to his chest staring at the wall. there is nothing going through his mind as he stares at the faucet, pouring out hot water, nothing occupying his brain. it feels natural almost. sitting there while his stomach grumbles, and then starts to hurt massively.

he's asleep before he can process anything else.