He stood at the door to the shop, hesitant to go in. His nerves finally pushed him to open the door and step inside. A small bell sounded above his head, causing, who he assumed to be the shop owner, to look up at him. She gave him a warm smile to help ease his nerves.

"Come on in dear. I don't bite," she said when he didn't move from the front door. Of course he knew she wouldn't bite him. He was just unsure about the situation, but he was a bit desperate tonight. He slowly made his way to the counter. "What brings you here tonight?"

Her voice was gentle and comforting enough. Almost as if he were ashamed to be there, he dropped his head and stared down at his shoes.

"I heard that you could talk... talk to them," his voice shook gently as he spoke. "Could you help me?"

"Of course. If you could just wait in the back room and take a seat, I'll be right with you." He nodded and made his way to the doorway she gestured to. There wasn't much in the room, really just a table and some chairs. He took a seat and waited. It wasn't long before she joined him, sitting at the seat opposite of his.

"It's okay to be nervous." He looked up at her and gave a small nod. As much as he told himself it was okay, him doing this, he couldn't shake away his fear. He wasn't quite sure what the fear was for. That it wouldn't work? That it would work? "Let's start off with your name."

"G-Gerard."

"Okay, Gerard. Who is it you'd like to contact?" Gerard fidgeted with his hands anxiously. This was a dumb idea. It'll never work.

"He's my... was," he corrected himself and cleared his throat before continuing." He was my... friend. He passed away about a month ago." She nodded along to what he said.

"Why, may I ask, did you decide now to try and contact him?" He let out a sigh. She was starting to sound like a therapist. What should he expect next? A diagnosis?

"My family started making me get rid of his things earlier, but I'm not ready. They donated a lot it already, but I held onto some of it. I keep his old guitar beside my bed still." His vision blurred with tears for a second before he blinked them away.

"Why don't you tell me about the accident." He shut his eyes tightly, instantly being taken back to that night.

"We were coming back from a night out together. We were going down some road that was pretty empty." He could see the strip of grey being laminated by the headlights. "There was a car coming from the other lane..." The other car's headlights were dancing between the lanes. "We didn't know he was serving cause he was drunk." His voice began to strain.

"You don't have to say anymore if you don't want to." He nodded gratefully. He didn't want to say it, but he saw it, heard it, felt it. The car swerving last minute, horn blaring, glass shattering against his skin.

"There isn't much more to say. I made it to the hospital. He didn't."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"He was my best friend."

"He seemed to be much more than just a friend." He looked up at her, eyes wide in surprise. She gave a knowing smile as he ran his fingers over the silver band on his ring finger. Did she see his ring? "He's sorry," she said after a moment of silence.

"What?" The air around him seemed to shift to something warm, more inviting.

"He was driving, couldn't move the car fast enough." He gasped. Coming here was out of desperation for any possible form of contact, but he didn't really expect it to work. He shook his head in disbelief. Was it working?

"It wasn't his fault." Her gaze moved to something over his shoulder. He immediately turned only to see nothing, but a blank wall. He turned back, waiting for her to say more. A part of him was skeptically that anything was really happening. The accident was in the papers. She could've seen it and was just playing with him.

"He's happy you made it though. It wasn't your time yet." He dropped his head, not wanting to show his slight disappointment. He'd been given many variations of that line countless times already. He was tired of hearing it.

"He's not as tall as I expected him to be," she said in a curious tone. He looked up at her again, her gaze still over his shoulder. "Funny that the scorpion tattoo is missing a leg," she added with a chuckle.

He bit his lip. The papers wouldn't have said anything about his stupid neck tattoo or his height. Is this actually working?

"Jacket slut?" She said in an amused voice. He bit his lip hard, unsure if it was to stop a laugh or stop his building tears from falling. He looked down at the jack he wore. It was one of his and he loved stealing it from him.

"He used to call me that when I wouldn't stop buying jackets or stealing his," he chuckled softly as some tears slipped down his cheek.

"He said you always looked better in that jacket than he did." Another choked laugh accompanied the few tears that he shed.

"He always says that... said that." He wiped away the tears and tried to stop them from falling. He couldn't keep crying. He needed to move on.

"It's okay to grieve him, Gerard. I know it hurts and that pain never really goes away. Take all the time you need, just don't let it consume you." He started letting the tears he was holding go.

For the past month, people have been dealing with his sadness, waiting for it to pass, forcing him to get over his husband's death faster. She was the first person to give him permission to truly grieve properly, let out all the pain, tears and ugly that came from that day.

"He said try to smile some more. He doesn't like to see you cry." He let out a strained sob. Frank hated seeing him sad, but it meant everything knowing he still wanted him to smile when he was sad. He gave a reluctant nod. Though he couldn't see him, Gerard could feel Frank in the room with him.

"I'll try baby," he spoke softly to his belated husband. There was a sudden warmth at his side. It was him. It had to be him. He could picture Frank's body dramatically draped over him like he used to do. It was a comforting gesture and always made him feel better. That didn't change when that warmth was enough to take some of the pain away.

"He needs to go." The warmth suddenly lifted and the moment was slipping right through Gerard's fingers. No. He wasn't ready. His breath caught in his throat. It can't be over yet. He wasn't ready to lose Frank again. He couldn't go back to how it's been, back to the house they used to share, back to a life without Frank.

"He said he's okay now. He really means this. Just trust him." The air around him suddenly got colder, less comforting. He knew what was happening. Frank was leaving.

"Wait!" Gerard yell out in desperation. His breathing was rapid, heart pounding in his chest, and knuckles white from gripping the table, trying to hold onto this moment any way he possibly could.

He wasn't even sure what he wanted to say, but he needed to say something. For all he knew, this could be his only chance.

"I love you and I miss you so much Frankie," he said just above a whisper. The room felt empty. That comfort wasn't there anymore. The pain settled in again. He's gone again. Did he hear? He needs to know.

Gerard looked at the medium, silently pleading to her. She needs to bring him back some how and make sure he knows. She gave him a small, reassuring smile and nodded. He felt himself calm slightly from the look.

"He knows."