Frank couldn't sleep.

He didn't expect himself to.

Especially with the weight of it all, and Gerard still not having returned.

Not that Gerard should matter as much as he did.

But he did.

And Lindsey didn't have to know because it wasn't anything of her business.

But she did.

And Frank shouldn't have to care.

But he did.

He lay awake and he did.

He stood there in the darkness, in the silence and he did care.

Perhaps caring wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Perhaps Lindsey wasn't such a bad person after all.

Perhaps Gerard wasn't such a good person after all.

Perhaps.

Perhaps Frank should have tried to sleep anyway.

But that he didn't.

Instead, he stood in the darkness and silence of a room of people passed out on sofas and books open and idle conversations unfinished from hours past. He stood alone and missing a certain someone with pink hair. A certain someone he couldn't help himself from worrying for, despite what Lindsey had said.

Because the thing was, Lindsey had this way of speaking in which every word seemed to hold so much more meaning than it should. Each word was not just released to drift through you, but pushed directly into your head, to stay there permanently - they were less scars and more bullet wounds. Far more permanent, far more dangerous, far more important, far more powerful.

Lindsey was intriguing. In an odd way. Because yes she was beautiful, but Frank didn't find himself looking at her like that. She was intriguing in the way her head worked and her words were spoken and she sat and changed people's opinions within seconds.

And intriguing in the way she seemed to appear out of nowhere in the darkness and stand before Frank in the moonlight, reaching for his hand and squeezing it as she offered him a smile.

Frank jumped a little: startled somewhat, but finding comfort and reassurance in that smile: all purple lipstick and white teeth.

"He's fine." She told him, rather casually, because she knew, and Lindsey would always know - know too much that is, like Frank couldn't get her out of his head no matter how hard he tried, or perhaps it was just that he was predictable, boring and predictable.

"Where is he?" Frank asked, his voice a whisper in the silence.

"It's two in the morning, don't go after him," Lindsey shook her head in disbelief.

"I wasn't planning to." Frank knew he was lying, and he knew that Lindsey knew, yet still, he found himself trying nevertheless. "Okay, I'm not anymore, I just-... where is he?"

"I don't know, do I?" Lindsey laughed then, "I'm not psychic, I don't have him hooked up to a tracking device, I'm not that kind of ex-girlfriend."

"Then how do you know that he's okay?" Frank asked after a second.

"Well, chances are that he is. And it's not like I'm going to get you to ever go back to bed if I tell you he's not okay, am I?" She smiled at him: all too nonchalant, all too simple.

"So you're lying to me?" Frank stuttered out, looking at Lindsey in disbelief.

"I'm not lying. I'm making an estimation at the truth, and allowing myself to be wrong, but hoping to be right, and hoping for you that I'm right." She smiled once more, and somehow Frank seemed to buying this all, okay with this all, because there was something about that smile, and something about intimidatingly beautiful woman that was so predictable in him; something she knew, because Lindsey was smart, and obviously so, not so much academically but with people, with reading them, speaking to them, comforting them, manipulating them, and yet, even with such a conclusion, Frank stood there, content in her presence and a purple lipstick smile.

It was a lovely shade of purple.

And she had a lovely smile.

And even if her words weren't quite so lovely, it was all okay.

It was all about appearances and distractions, illusions and lies, facades and smiles, promises and breaking them, luck and charm, and purple lipstick and reassurances that it would all be fine.

"Is this going to end up killing me?" Frank asked, meeting her gaze, "whatever's going on?"

She paused for a moment, exhaling as she pondered the question, and just how to answer. In the end, she smiled once, and held her smile as she gave his hand another squeeze, "I don't think so. I think you're stronger and braver than that. And I think we can figure this out."

And Frank knew right there and right then that what she really meant was most definitely.

"Is Gerard okay?" Frank asked again, holding her gaze.

"I think so." She met him with the same smile.

Most definitely not.

Frank hit her right back with a smile, before glancing back into the darkness, at Mikey, at Ray, at Alicia too. She smiled and she lied to them too.

"You're all smiles and lies." Frank told her, a sudden confidence instilled within him. "You know he's fucked off somewhere to fuck himself up."

"We all smile and we all lie." She showed very little signs of response.

"We all do." Frank scoffed a little.

"Gerard does in particular." She hit a chord then, "he smiles so much and he lies, but he's better than I am at it, because you haven't quite noticed yet. He loves you, for sure, but he loves the idea more than the thing: stuck in his head, stuck in how things should be, and reality, and in turn, truth escapes him."

"And who the fuck do you suggest I listen to? If you and Gerard are supposedly sharing the title of worst people in the world?" Frank scoffed, rolling his eyes a little, really wanting to just go the fuck back to sleep then.

"No one. Yourself, perhaps. Depends if you can trust yourself and your own perception, your own eyes, your own ears, but considering your current state. I wouldn't." She turned away from him, "you should go to sleep though, we've got a lot to do in the morning."

"It is the morning. And I've got a lot to do." Frank's tone grew stern, as he grabbed his jacket and made his way to the door.

And Lindsey just stood there, Lindsey just watched, watched and smiled, because it wasn't her own fault, her own mistake to go after Gerard Way, not this time.

-

Frank, of course, had absolutely no idea as to where he was going and what he'd even accomplish in doing this the very moment he walked out of the building: night sky above him, and a storm around him: pelting drops of rain, and the rumbles of thunder, and honestly, Frank felt as if the weather served little purpose other than to mock him.

Of course, the notion of something as natural and uncontrollable as the weather working specifically to mock him, out of everyone upon the planet, was ridiculous, but the notion of magic and ex-girlfriends who could tell you were going to die and just had to smile to make it all okay, seemed ridiculous to him before he'd found himself falling face first into this mess.

Amidst it all, a mocking storm was little to worry over at all. Amidst it all, Frank could even appreciate it, because it kept the rest of the world out, in their homes, in their rooms: a cold night, but one Gerard had slipped out into.

He hadn't the slightest idea as to where Gerard could have possibly ended up, having walked out in a fit of anger and rage, and if Lindsey didn't have a clue, than neither should he, but there was honestly something in the way Lindsey uttered every word that, in retrospect, gave it suddenly no meaning at all.

She was a liar. She was a renowned liar, and a good one, and still Frank cared for her, and cared for her words, because perhaps false guidance served more purpose than no guidance, but Frank was just left to wonder whether he'd rather stumble in the dark aimlessly or stumble down the wrong path, because the chances were that Lindsey had sent Gerard down such a path.

Of course, Frank, realistically, had no idea at all, and as rational thought finally swept over him, he found himself sheltering under the extended roof of the building as he pulled his cellphone out and called Gerard, which definitely made so much more sense than stumbling after him in the dark.

To Frank's utmost surprise, he did indeed pick up. He was hardly in a hurry to do so: a fact made evident in thirty seconds of dial tones and baited breath, but Frank was just grateful that he had picked up in the end, and that gratefulness washed over everything else. Which was easily a stupid thing to do, but Frank was predictable in his idiocy, at least - as that ensured that when he fucked things up, someone could follow his descent into hell and pull him back out. The inevitability of the matter, however, was nowhere near as comforting, but Gerard's voice made up for that.

Gerard made up for that.

And much in the very same way that Lindsey had insisted that he shouldn't.

And Frank found himself left to wonder if distrusting Lindsey made him predictable, and Frank found himself left to wonder if predictability was really something worth pondering, or just something he couldn't quite ever prevent.

"Hey..." Gerard's tone was less than enthusiastic and somewhat distorted due to the storm, which Frank could hear not only around him, but on Gerard's end of the line also.

"Where are you?" Frank asked, raising his voice a little more than usual in order to ensure he was audible.

"Somewhere." Gerard let out a laugh, "fucking somewhere. I don't know honestly. I just started walking and now I'm here, on a hill, and fuck, this storm is beautiful from here, enchanting, somehow."

"That's hardly helpful, is it?" Frank let out a sigh, stepping out into the rain and glancing around for signs of a hill. "How far did you walk for?"

"Not long. Maybe twenty minutes perhaps. Out of school, obviously." Gerard continued: his tone nonchalant as the rain continued to pound down upon the world: growing rapidly in both velocity and power.

"And you want me to follow you? You think me following you would be a good idea? You-" Frank was cut off.

"I don't know, Frank, I honestly don't, I'm not the one with all the fucking answers, am I? You've got perfect, beautiful Lindsey for that, haven't you?" His tone grew irritated and sarcastic: perhaps unnecessary in nature, but despite his state of death, or perhaps undeath, Gerard still hurt, and Gerard still felt, and in that moment he was nothing but bitter and drenched in cold weather, in a storm he should have sheltered from, a storm he stood embracing, because he couldn't die, not like this. But Frank could. And he knew that as he asked him to come to him: selfish, bitter, and corrupted by emotion just like the living.

"I'm sorry." Frank exclaimed, his feet making the decision for him and leading him out into the storm and across to the hilltops. "You're not still upset by that, are you? It's just... she's a bitch, anyway. She's a lying, manipulative, bitch."

Gerard laughed, seemingly delighted by such a revelation from Frank. "She is. And how did you figure that out?"

"I don't know exactly, it's just, just her and everything she says, and everything she gets away with." Frank attempted to explain, "and I hate it, and she says I should hate you, or at least distrust you, and now maybe I do, because you're not perfect and I don't know why I ever expected that from you, but you are nicer to me than she is, and I'm making my way through a fucking storm for you-"

"Stay where you are." Gerard instructed, "I'll come find you, won't be a couple of minutes."

"Gerard, I just- I don't even know where I am!" Frank exclaimed, looking around him in disbelief.

"Just trust me on this on, Frank, I'm not all shitty knock off vampire, I do have some 'powers', you know?" And in the sincerity of his tone, Frank found himself trusting everything.

"And what exactly is this power of yours? Being a fucking sniffer dog?" Frank let out what could only be described as nervous laughter: drawn straight from the anxieties that a dark night in the middle of a storm drew out.

"Something like that." And with that, Gerard hung up.

And Frank stood there, alone. But not quite alone. Because besides the storm, he wasn't quite in silence.

There was indeed the matter of footsteps he'd ruled off as background noise in favour of Gerard and their conversation, but however, as he placed his cellphone back into his pocket and glanced around him, and the footsteps continued, they became suddenly far more relevant, and indeed as reality really dawned upon him.

Because here he was, not entirely aware of his surroundings in a worsening storm: cold, shivering, drenched, and alone, but not quite alone, in the darkness. The hills seemed to wrap themselves in around him: morphing and changing as he made a few awkward steps forward: the world itself seeming intent upon imprisoning him as he stood in the middle of nowhere, and the rain continued as if it might never stop. And if the skies were crying, it was worthy of a funeral, and Frank found himself questioning as to whose.

And he stood there: cold, silent, and never alone, as he waited, waited on some seemingly unrealistic promise from a man he'd been explicitly told not to trust by a woman who seemed to speak only to twist you around her finger.

Yet, he found himself hopeful, oddly hopeful: hope stark against a backdrop of dark, cold hopelessness - a world closing in around him, and footsteps like the banging of a drum, closer than ever, and still he stood, motionless, trusting, and as ever, predictable.

And then a hand on his shoulder: an unwelcome, cold presence - cold not just physically, but in all aspects of its nature, and yet, Frank turned, and Frank looked because there was indeed little else for him to do.

The figure, again.

From the library, from his own head, standing as if spat out by the pits of hell itself, and yet smiling, but more of a mocking smile of insanity, than one of comfort - false or otherwise.

And perhaps Frank should have run.

Perhaps anyone with the slightest ounce of common sense should have and would have run, but Frank did no such thing, and instead stared, and fucking stared, taking in everything of the figure before him as if idiocy ran through his veins in the place of blood.

"Hello." Spoke that voice again, and Frank could only continue to stare, perhaps mesmerised, perhaps horrified: something he hadn't quite figured out yet. "It's not polite to stare." The figure continued, reaching out and pressing cold fingertips up against his skin.

And in that moment, Frank was suddenly so very dizzy: spots in his vision, and a wash of white hot pain over him as those fingertips dug into him.

And then. The thing was. It seemed. Reality had just spat him back out.

Or not quite so.

Frank wasn't really sure.

Because what was reality anymore, when a storm so real, and hair wet to his touch, was nothing. Because what was reality anymore, when a cold, darkened hilltop pulled away from him, and his eyes opened to a sofa, and to a room he'd been in perhaps an hour ago.

He turned over, sitting up. The time read one am, and his head continued to spin as he glanced down at the others: Lindsey, Alicia, Ray, and Mikey - asleep.

And a world so real became a world so fabricated, and as he stumbled to his feet, he wondered if anything was real.

As he grabbed a glass of water and focused upon the taste and the way it was indeed undeniably real as he drunk it, he found himself coming to realise, that Gerard, also wasn't yet back, and in turn, found himself in confusion and worry as to where, of course, he could be.

He pulled the curtain a little and glanced out into a clear, perfect night, and a figure making their way up to the building - a figure with pink hair - a figure who put the breath back in him.

Frank shook his head, attempting to brush it all off, as a dream, because perhaps that was all it was: complicated, overwhelming, far too real, kind of dream, but a dream nonetheless.

But something about it struck him as odd, and that was a feeling he couldn't quite shake, as he stood there, eyes drawn over the four: asleep, so peace and here to help him, help whatever there was wrong with him, but truth be told, Frank was just beginning to suspect that he was little more than fucked up in the head.

And his eyes met Lindsey's face: a smile as she slept - red lipstick. A lovely shade of red.

And then the door bursting open with enough force to have Frank jumping out of his own skin, but somehow, managed to not wake anyone else.

"Fuck, you're alright!" Came a voice: Gerard's voice, as he closed the door and pulled Frank into his arms.

"Yes... yeah... I'm..." Frank pulled away a little, attempting to add things up in his head, but failing in doing so. "Of course I'm alright... what are you-"

"The phone call." Gerard placed a hand on his shoulder: cold, so fucking cold. "You called me, and asked me to come back and get you, because you were scared and you wouldn't say why, you just kept saying that you were scared: over and over."

"I didn't... I...." Frank stumbled over his words. "Gerard, I just woke up," he met the taller boy's gaze, shivering as Gerard brought his fingertips up his neck. "I had a dream, though, I had a dream-... and at least I don't, but there was a phone call there, but fuck, I was out in the middle of a storm and I was coming to get you, and then there was this figure I keep seeing and they came up to me and... then I woke up."

Gerard stepped back after that, pulling Frank's hair away from his face. "Hey, hey, look, this, this right now, it's real. You and me, we're real right now, and, and we can hope that what's in your head is just in your head."

"But is it, though?" Frank asked.

"Come on, course it is." And Gerard smiled. "You look like you need some sleep, let's go to my room."

-

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