Young and Doomed | Frerard

Chapter Twenty

dedicated to @i-live-for-music bc i high-key was not gonna update for a million years until they commented so gracias bro

"We're up three and a half pounds! You did it!"

Today's nurse was loud, and her shrill voice was beginning to make Frank's head hurt. He hated her noisy hand clapping, her peppy attitude, and the fact that she was apparently oblivious to the existence of water weight. Either way, Frank would have to keep it up if he wanted the tube to stay out.

"Yay," Frank said drily, his voice lacking enthusiasm as he stepped off the scale. He reached for his sweater, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. Frank knew it was just his imagination, but it felt tighter. As a matter of fact, Frank's mind had been running wild recently. Yesterday had been more stressful than he'd prefer to admit, but fuck, what could he have done? How was he supposed to know Gerard hadn't been taken away forever? The guy just freaked out, disappeared for a few hours, and came back saying he'd seen his dead brother?

Maybe Gerard really was crazy.

The thought sunk in slowly and Frank tried to shake it off, but had already lodged itself deep in his mind. You weren't put in an Emergency Unit for acute liver failure. You didn't stay in the hospital for years and years and then 'see' your dead brother for liver failure. Shit, something was going on here. Something bad. Maybe Gerard really was messed up.

"Keep up the good work!" The nurse beamed, and Frank nodded absentmindedly at her as he walked out the door, back down the hall to his room. Before his mind could go back to Gerard, he was distracted by a group of girls walking past him, whispering in each other's ears.

Frank had gotten used to the stares by now, and knew the best routes around the hospital for avoiding other anorexic patients. He'd been confronted by one once, asking why he wasn't in the unit for eating disorders. Frank had simply told her that he didn't have a fucking clue, pressing his third finger to his chin in case she had misunderstood. No one had bothered him after that.

Ducking through the doors, Frank slipped out of his ward into the one next over - addiction. After the tube had been taken out, Frank had been pressured into eating a few meals. They were his first of the entire treatment, and it felt amazing to finally eat something with texture (as opposed to have it draining from a bag). That feeling didn't last long, though, and after the tight stomach and burning palms had been too much for Frank, he'd decided to go on a search for a restroom where he wouldn't be recognized.

He'd found the bathroom of the addiction ward to be the quietest. Not only did it not require a key-card to open, but so many patients transferred in and out of the ward that – as long as he hid in loose clothing - no one glanced at him twice. Frank often stumbled across contraband lazily hidden under the sink or in the ceiling tiles, but he didn't touch any of it. He wasn't there for that; he was just coming in to do his stuff and then leaving. It was significantly neater than trying to pull food out of his stomach tube, but Frank was fairly certain anything would be cleaner than that.

✰✰✰

Cold water stung Frank's eyes as he washed his face, but the feeling was rather dull compared to the burning in the back of his throat. Frank decided that he really needed to cut his nails, and the idea only furthered by the dark red blossoms that grew in the sink as he spat into it. Jesus, Frank cursed the fucker that used nail clippers as a weapon, making the item automatically contraband. Any more cuts to the throat and surely someone would notice his hoarse voice.

Letting the water run, Frank waited until all the evidence was gone before leaving. He didn't need to worry about the smell; the room reeked of pot anyway. Closing the door behind him, Frank slipped out of the bathroom and back to his unit.