nobody will love you like the devil will//frerard/ferard

chapter thirteen

It's the kind of dark that's hot and alive and full of teeth and claws. Frank stumbles forward, panic tearing at his throat, the air thick like blood. Something smells sickly-sweet, rank and corrupt like rot bubbling through flesh. Frank doesn't know where he's going or even what it is that's chasing him, but he knows he needs to run.

Then laughter blossoms in the dark, howling and unhinged and horribly knowing. It's coming from everywhere and nowhere and it's manic and triumphant, making Frank's ears ring. He spins in circles, disoriented, squinting into the thick darkness, but there's nothing. He realizes he's holding something, clutching it so tightly it's cutting into his fingers and leaving sticky smears of blood. It's a rosary, he thinks dimly, as his knuckles brush the familiar angles of the cross, and he keeps running. He starts to see things – a glimpse of a nasty smile, the curve of a cheekbone, the maddeningly familiar arch of an eyebrow--

Frank sees a flash of Gerard's face, laughing, vainglorious, and then he's falling, falling, falling and gasping awake.

He lies there, paralyzed, and tries to get his breath back. Slowly, the nightmare starts to fall away. He isn't running from nameless things in the dark, he's in his bed, cold and sore and alone. He sits up, biting his lip at the pain, then limps across the landing to the bathroom and throws up until his stomach is empty and he's just coughing up bile. He rests his forehead against the toilet seat and screws his eyes shut. His head feels so full of his parents screaming at each other, of Gerard and what Frank let him do, and it's just – too much.

When he's done, he gets up, his knees shaking, and staggers back to bed. His last conscious thought is that if he hadn't met Gerard, he would have gone to church last night.

***

wakes up again, it's light outside and his alarm clock is shrieking in his ear. He groans, and reaches over to hit the snooze button. He gets up slowly, carefully, letting out a thin whine when he takes it too fast and gets a stinging flare of pain for his trouble. His mind is a mess, he feels like he hardly knows up from down anymore. He walks slowly and carefully over to the mirror, tugging the hem of his stretched t-shirt up over his stomach, turning to the side a little so he can see. It's only now that he's starting to see just how much he'd hoped it was all some bizarre, horrible dream, but there's really no way to avoid the finger-shaped smudges of bruising on his hips and the soreness in his ass. What was he thinking? He practically begged Gerard for it. Fuck, he might as well be honest with himself, there was no practically about it.

Struggling into his school uniform is a challenge, but it's good. It gives him something to concentrate on and excuses him from having to think about anything else. He thinks about going to look for something to eat, but the thought makes his stomach twist queasily, and he decides he'd rather just be hungry. Instead, he picks up his ratty messenger bag and walks slowly downstairs and out of the door.

***

It's the first time praying hasn't made Frank feel like everything's going to be okay.

He goes to church instead of the school chapel, knowing it'll make him late and not caring. He kneels with his head bowed and his eyes closed, cold stone under his knees and arching up over his head.

And he waits.

There's nothing.

Father? He lets out a deep, slow breath. I know I fucked up, I'm sorry. But I could really use some help here.

Somehow, the well-worn, threadbare prayers he's been using since he was a kid don't feel right. They're just words, strung together like rosary beads. They don't mean what he wants them to anymore. He feels self-conscious and stupid, but if he's not being honest he might as well not have come here.