frank is gone before gerard even wakes up the next morning. he feels bad for sleeping with him again he spends all this time building up barriers just to crash them down again and gerard is one of those wrecking balls. frank tries not to think about it. tries not to think about why he went back to that stupid house and got fucked and asked about his emotional stability. "do you just like being hurt, frank?" he knows gerard didn't mean it in a masochistic way, there was no smile to it, no cockiness. it was about self-harm and how frank doesn't do it, he lets others do it for him. he is an alien, hidden behind a firm gaze and leather jackets. he is a stranger, and he knows he shouldn't go to those clubs, but it's the only way he ever feels at home. the choking and the ice made him soft. gerard's fingers turned him on. and he knows that. and he knows gerard knows that. and it makes him sick. it makes him want to crawl in a hole and die and he actually considers it. he wonders what the difference would be, if we die today, or in fifty years. there will be none. we'll all still be living the same pathetic life, working the same pathetic job, paying the same pathetic bills, and for what? to get a house with more bills? capitalism was supposed to get him rich, but it only shoved him down into the deepest hole he could find. of course, he is rich. and he hates that. he really fucking does because he can live the luxurious life that he's always wanted, but there is absolutely nothing he wants with it. it's all him staying inside, watching tv but not really watching tv. pondering death, vomiting because he even has the slightest amount of tension. he is a hermit. a shitty one, but a hermit nonetheless.

frank hates gerard, he hates patrick even more and it's not his place to hate patrick. gerard probably likes patrick better. he's skinnier, taller, blonder. he wears collars, frank wears nothing but sweats and if he's really creative, jackets. frank doesn't deserve gerard, and he never did. and after that night, he decided he would never come back to him. ever again.

he arrives home at a quarter to six, his eyes darkened, his car barely trudging along, but he manages, and he parks, and he heads inside after locking it. he shuts and locks his door, and shoves away the image of patrick, forgets about him, forgets about gerard, and he considers calling up hayley for some help. but he decides otherwise. he collapses in bed, pulls up the sheets, and shuts his eyes with the lights on and still fully clothed. because if he sleeps, he doesn't have to be present. it's like death, but it's not permanent and frank loves that. frank always has.

he wakes up at eleven, makes himself a sandwich, and stares at it for a good ten minutes, considering everything. and he wants to tell gerard. he wants to tell him everything. about his past, his neglecting father and his abusive mother, his uncle, what is most likely an eating disorder wrapped up in depression and topped with the bright and glittery bow of anxiety. the overwhelming urge to break everything in his house and stab himself over and over again until he inevitably dies, but how he doesn't really want to do that because that friend from two states away and her girlfriend would get worried. he wants to spill his guts out and then die. he wants nothing more than to hear something like, "it's going to be okay," or, "you're feeling this way and it's normal," or even a, "i'm sorry." because everything is shit. everything is making frank dizzy and he oversleeps because it's the only way to forget about how much he hates himself. how he feels uncomfortable and terrible in his own body. how he wants lindsey back here to tell him it'll be alright or even his mother to accept that he didn't choose to be a victim to his uncle. he didn't fucking choose to be neglected by his father, he didn't get a fucking choice in life and now it's pushing down on him and frank doesn't fucking know what to do anymore. he wants it to end. he wants to fall asleep forever and he wants to never leave his house and he wants to scream, dear god does he want to scream.

but he doesn't. he doesn't even allow himself a tear as he throws away the sandwich and punches the wall. it leaves a dent, and his knuckles scrape. he'd be lying if he said he wasn't satisfied. he doesn't tell gerard about it, he doesn't text, call, nothing. he does get a text back from gerard, though, "i'll be at patrick's tonight, but if you want to talk or meet up we can :) last night was a lot of fun, and i really want you to know you can talk to me if there's anything wrong. you don't have to hide."

of course he has to hide, though. because last time he didn't, his mother had screamed at him. about how impure he was. about how he deserved to die and burn in hell because god would not love him if he knew he was tainted. she never screamed at his uncle. never. he would still come over for dinners and the topic was always passed over and frank would be sent to his room because it was his fault, at thirteen years old, for leading his uncle on. his fault. and he never told his mother about anything else again. and he never told his father anything else, either. because he knew father would tell mother, and mother wasn't fun when she was upset. so frank stayed quiet. he always stayed quiet, even when he was brimming with excitement.

so no, he doesn't text back gerard. he grabs a cigarette, smokes it deeply, as deep as he can, bites down on the tip and throws the box aside before turning on the tv and ignoring it for the next two hours as, instead, he lays down and stares at the ceiling and wishes he was anywhere else. he contemplates suicide every few minutes, there's the bathroom upstairs, the bathtub, and the sleeping pills. or he could try buying a gun. he could go out to the bridge downtown, make it iconic. though, he doubts anyone would remember after a week. he tells himself, that maybe it's not worth it and he should just call up lindsey or hayley and tell them that it's an emergency, but at the same time, he doesn't want to. he hates bothering them. they live a ways away and he knows that it's only a two hour drive, but he still fucking hates it.

frank can't find anything else to do, he gets another text from gerard after a few hours, "are you doing okay?" and frank ignores that one as well, rubbing his eyes. five o'clock rolls around. he considers going out to the club but he doesn't have much of a sex drive and he doesn't want to leave, but he wants to do something. even if it's small. he doesn't have the energy to bathe, or socialize. he doesn't want to really do anything at all, but eventually he does find himself calling up hayley, sitting cross legged on his couch and staring at the wall, picking at his skin.

it rings, once, twice. then hayley's voice rings out, "hello?"

"uh, hi, hayley." frank clears his throat, suddenly extremely self conscious of how awkward he is.

"oh! frank! hold on lemme get lindsey and put you on speaker phone!"

"you don't have to, I-" but he does quiet at the end because lindsey shows up as well.

"frank, hey what's up? it's been a fat minute," lindsey says,  "how's new york treating you? it's been a while."

"uh, it's alright, uh. i haven't really gotten out of the house much. what about you guys? boston any better?"

"not really," hayley replies, "it's all work and taking care of the cats and the garden and more work. been too long since i've had a lazy day. i'm jealous of you."

"i'll send over some cash if you want," frank replies. he doubts he'll live past 30, honestly, "because i do care about you guys and i have too much money for someone who's 24."

"aww you don't have to do that, frank." lindsey says, "really, you need that money."

"no, it's okay. it's nothing compared to how much i have. i'll give you like ten thousand. it's like... point two percent of how much i started off with. i never use it. honest, i'll send it over now," frank says, "maybe we can hang out sometime, though, if you want."

"uh... yeah, sure!" hayley grins, "thank you so much, frank. honest."

"it's fine, i gotta go," frank says, suddenly not wanting to talk, "maybe we can meet up this weekend."

"saturday? at 3? okay, we'll be there."

"wait–" but the call is already over. frank grimaces. saturday? fuck that. he internally screams at himself for calling in the first place, but he does end up grabbing that ten thousand later. after setting down his phone, he grips his hair and heads to the bathroom, having to take a piss. he's got a headache and it feels like nothing is going right and he just feels like crying but the moment he turns on the light and sees himself, he feels sick to his stomach.

bruises. there are so many bruises up his collar; around his throat. yellow and blue and red and purple. a handprint. gerard. frank grimaces. not because he didn't enjoy it. but because he hates those marks more than anything. he hates that not only is he trying to get rid of gerard, but now he has to fucking cover up what was left behind. he hates that more than anything. so he shuts off the lights. and does his business. and washes his hands and leaves. he doesn't turn on the lights for another week, when the bruises have faded.

this was a short chapter oops. but hope you enjoyed anyways. this is getting a little slow but these next two chapters are definitely gonna speed up soon. hope you all enjoy! comments and votes are appreciated!!