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Gerard's legs are too heavy. Every wobbly step feels like trudging through quicksand. "Whys'it so far?" he slurs to himself. The truth is, though, he has no idea how long he's been walking... or even what day it is. He vaguely remembers being banished from the alley behind the liquor store, but whether that was ten minutes ago or four hours, he honestly couldn't say. If only other things were so easy to forget.
He makes it a few more unsteady steps before his feet fail him entirely, and he spills over the sidewalk, taking a header on somebody's lawn. He manages to get one hand out to prevent himself from completely faceplanting, but he still gets a nice mouthful of dirt. It's not like he doesn't deserve it.
Besides, his other arm was protecting something much more valuable: his bottle of vodka. Gerard frantically pats his jacket pocket, breathing a sigh of relief when he confirms it's still intact. His knee didn't fare so well; it landed hard on the cement. He can't feel that right now, though. He can't feel anything; that's the point.
Gerard drags himself back to his feet and wipes his hand on his jeans, a vain attempt to get the dirt off. His stomach turns as the sight of it invokes visions of razor-sharp claws slashing through damp soil and dead leaves, the blackened fingernails left holding the carnage. He walks faster, hoping to outrun the horrors. It never works.
It's too quiet. No people, no dogs barking, not even the buzz of a streetlight. Nothing but the voices in his head, and the dull scrape of sneakers on concrete, as Gerard continues blindly into the darkness.
Above him, the sky is cold and vacant; even the stars have abandoned him. It's too dark to see where he's going, not that it matters, because he doesn't know. Still, though his muscles burn and his whole body aches, something compels Gerard forward, one shaky step at a time.
He finally makes it, so exhausted (and shitfaced) he practically crawls up the walkway. It's not until he's at the door that he registers it's not his home. He isn't lost, though; he knows exactly where he is. The same place he always ends up when the demons in his head get too loud... or he has a bad day at work, or the store was out of his favorite coffee. Frank's house.
His best friend always knows the right thing to say—and when to stay quiet and listen. He knows all Gerard's favorite distractions and where he's most ticklish, for when he decides to use extreme measures of cheering him up. And his smile... Frank's stupid, beautiful smile, like a glimmer of sun, shining through Gerard's stormy sky.
Frank just makes things better. He makes Gerard better.
Frank can't save him from this, though, and Gerard can't ask him to. Not this time. He should never have come here. He just couldn't endure going home to the bloodstained tile and unrelenting night terrors.
He should just go, stumble into traffic or off an overpass, so he won't ever put Frank through this again. He can't, though, not without saying goodbye. Or maybe that's just his excuse; he's always been too weak to go through with it and too selfish to let Frank go, even though he'd be better off.
He can't go inside, he can't leave... Gerard lets out a pathetic sob and slumps to the ground beside the door, relishing the pain when his head falls back against the solid wood. He pulls the bottle from his coat, fumbling with the cap, fingers numb from the cold. He drinks with conviction, ignoring the way it burns his throat; it doesn't hurt nearly as much as what he's trying to forget.
Just as he's about to finish the bottle, he's distracted by a bright light. He whines and closes his eyes, only to shoot them open again when flashes of teeth and blood seep into the vacuity. For one glorious second, Gerard thinks he's dying. Being at Frank's was only a dream, and he's really on the subway tracks, as a train barrels toward him to mercifully end his suffering.
He's disappointed to realize it's only the porch light. And confused: it wasn't on before. The faint click of metal from behind the door nearly gets lost beneath the clink of glass hitting pavement. But both are silenced by a disjointed voice. "G-Gerard? What are you— Are you okay?"
Frank. His tone is still husky with sleep, but Gerard would recognize that sound anywhere.
"Frankie..." Gerard slurs, a trace smile forming on his lips for the first time in weeks. "You're the light..." he murmurs, gazing up at Frank, haloed in soft white beams from the fixture above.
It's true... in the most profound sense: Frank is his lighthouse, his beacon of hope through the eternal darkness. Gerard is the opposite, a black hole, devouring everything in his wake. Frank most of all.
Frank bends down, so he's face to face with Gerard. His eyes are heavy, his shirt is rumpled, and his hair mess: God, he looks gorgeous, even blurred and spinning.
"I-I'm sorry," Gerard soughs dejectedly, hiding his face in shame. It's the middle of the night; Frank should be in bed right now, not out in the cold, without a jacket, worrying about him. Again. "I'm so sorry," he repeats, more to the ground than to Frank.
"Shhhhh," Frank soothes. "It's alright." He cups Gerard's face, lifting it to meet his eyes. "Come on." Frank laces his fingers into Gerard's, trying to get him to stand. "You're Freezing. Whatever's wrong, we'll fix it, okay? Just please come inside."
Gerard wants to refuse, tell Frank to forget about him, the way he should have when they first met. But the pleading look in his eye is enough to know he wouldn't listen, and Gerard can't bear to disappoint him more than he already has.
"You can't fix me," Gerard mumbles, swaying as he lets Frank help him to his feet.
Frank drags Gerard to his bedroom, where he rips the blanket off the bed and wraps it around Gerard's shoulders, despite the fact Gerard has a jacket while Frank is only in an old t-shirt.
"You're going to catch pneumonia," Frank scolds, grabbing Gerard by the shoulders, coaxing him to sit on the edge of the bed. "Why didn't you knock? Or call me?" He asks frantically, pacing the small space. "I would've—" He stops abruptly, noticing that Gerard is too out of it to hear him.
Frank walks closer and kneels in front of him. "Gerard. Gee," he says, desperately trying to reach him. "What's wrong?"
Gerard wants to answer, but he can't speak. It feels like he's drowning, so full of pain and self-loathing that it fills him up—allowing no room to breathe or speak—until it spills out his eyes, leaving only the warm sting of salt on his cheeks.
Frank chokes back his own tears, trying to be strong for Gerard, as he watches helplessly. "Gee, you're scaring me. Say something, please," he begs.
"C-can't," Gerard chokes. He hates himself for putting Frank through this, but he still doesn't have the words to explain. Or maybe he's not ready for Frank to look at him like the monster he is.
Frank immediately moves to the bed beside him and pulls Gerard into his chest. "I'm here, Gee," Frank assures him, gently stroking his hair. "You don't have to tell me; just let me be here."
Frank holds him tight for what feels like hours, letting Gerard cry on his shoulder until his bloodshot eyes have nothing left to give. When he finally lifts his head, ready to apologize for being such a mess, Frank just gives him a reassuring smile and lovingly sweeps the hair from his eyes. "When was the last time you slept?" he asks thoughtfully, tucking the strands behind his ear; Gerard must look as bad as he feels.
"A few days," Gerard guesses. "I- I can't— Nightmares," he ascribes.
Frank looks at him pityingly. "Get some rest. I won't let anything hurt you," he promises. "Come on," Frank insists. "Take off your jacket, and lay down with me."
Gerard can't say no to him. He won't be able to sleep, but Frank won't either unless he tries, and he owes him that much after waking him up. And everything else Frank has done for him. He shrugs off the tattered leather jacket, letting it drop to the floor beside the bed.
Frank watches him intently, taking in every inch of pale skin, eyes widening when they reach the angry red marks on his arms. Gerard can almost feel Frank's stomach sink, knowing what he suspects. But these are not like the cuts Frank used to find on his wrists, deep and clean, from a shiny new blade. These are shallow and jagged, left behind by sharp branches tearing through thick fur, nature's way of branding him a beast even after the moon sets.
"No— it's not—" Gerard stammers, throat tightening and face flushing under Frank's concerned stare. "They're from— Trees... Th-the forest... When..." He trails off, unable to speak of the horrors he's committed.
Frank nods lightly in understanding. "You're okay now," he soothes, gently ghosting his fingertips over the scratches. "How'd this happen?" he asks sympathetically, concentrating on a large red patch that doesn't match the other cuts.
"Shower," Gerard mutters, not wanting to explain further.
He tries to focus his thoughts on the feeling of Frank's touch, featherlight against his abused arm, hoping to block out the memory: Slumped on the shower floor, letting the scalding water punish him while he scrubs away the sins and dried blood, long past when the water runs clear and goes cold, not stopping until he breaks the skin and trails of crimson stream down his arms again.
Frank's fingers continue their tender caresses, gradually moving higher, along his bicep, across his shoulder, lingering above his collarbone. "What about this one," he asks of the large scar that hides beneath Gerard's Iron Maiden shirt. "Does it still hurt?"
"Not on the outside," Gerard answers honestly.
The attack feels like a lifetime ago, even though the wound is barely healed. For weeks Gerard's dreams replayed the trauma: fangs piercing his throat, blood, so much blood, pooling around his limp body, left abandoned in the dirt. He thought he was going to die.
Knowing what he's become, he wishes he had.
The nightmares have only gotten worse. Every time Gerard closes his eyes, he sees a monster. The only difference is, now it's him, and the blood on his hands isn't his own.
Gerard's stomach lurches, threatening to bring up the liter of vodka he forced on it, along with all the torment he tried to drink away.
What was he thinking coming here? He can't be around Frank. He can't be around anyone. He's an abomination, and no one is safe as long as he's around.
Gerard knows now what he has to do. He stands up quickly, nearly startling frank off the bed in the process. "I-I shouldn't have come," he says hurriedly, scrambling toward the door on floundering legs.
He doesn't turn back when Frank calls for him. He can hear the hurt and confusion in his voice, and he can't let that be the last thing he sees on Frank's face. This is for the best; Frank will understand that one day.
"Gee, please!" he calls in a quavering voice. He's crying; Gerard made him cry. All he does is hurt him. Frank doesn't deserve this.
"I'm sorry," Gerard mumbles, blinking back tears. He practically crushes the door nob, clenching it with all his strength, to keep him from going back to comfort Frank. Leaving him like this hurts so much more than all his other transgressions combined. "I lov— I'm just sorry," he adds, barely a whisper.
He still can't say it. It doesn't matter anymore...
Gerard swallows his guilt, letting it fester with the rest of the poison inside him. Just as he takes the final step out of Frank’s room, his arm is caught in a vice grip.
"Please don't go," Frank pleads, clinging to him like his life depends on it. "What did I do wrong?"
Gerard makes the mistake of turning to face him. He's never seen Frank look so broken. Knowing he caused this only reminds him why he doesn't deserve to be in Frank's life. He never has.
"You didn't do anything, Frankie," Gerard assures him. "It's my fault. I'm a monster."
Frank, eyes still puffy and glistening, only holds him tighter, locking onto Gerard's other arm. "You're not! You were attacked. It's-it's not your fault. You don't have to go."
"You don't get it!" Gerard snaps, harsher than he intended, the dam on his emotions breaking without his consent. "I'm a murderer! I-I killed— I killed a deer," he sobs, falling to his knees in the doorway.
Frank immediately drops down beside him, peering through Gerard's greasy black hair to meet his downcast eyes. "Oh, Gee," he says sympathetically, "That wasn't you. It's not your fault."
"It was me. This is what I am now. You don't understand what it's like. I'm all alone; I-I can't live like this anymore."
Frank looks betrayed and terrified. "You don't mean... You can't! You don't have to be alone. Stay with me. Turn me! Anything. Just-just don't go."
"What?" Gerard must have misheard him. Frank couldn't be asking him for something so heinous. "You can't be— Frankie, You don't want to be a-a w-werewolf." Gerard shudders; even the word burns his throat. "There is nothing good about this."
"Yes, there is!" Frank interjects. "You!" He takes Gerard's hands, meeting his eyes so earnestly it's like a window into his soul. "You being alive, us being together. It doesn't matter if we're in my apartment or the forest—or a fucking cardboard box in the subway. I just want you. I want us."
Us. He can't mean— Gerard's disbelief is silenced by Frank's lips on his: delicate, at first, as though he's afraid Gerard might break, quickly deepening into something so passionate it leaves them both breathless.
It feels incredible. Gerard has wished for this moment, fantasized about it, for years. But not like this. He tries to make his thoughts shut up and just enjoy it, but all he can do is wonder if Frank can taste the bitter tang of iron on his tongue.
Then he realizes it isn't there anymore. All Gerard can taste is Frank: the faint remnant of nicotine and spearmint toothpaste, and something else, an intoxicating sweetness all his own. He lets himself get lost in the feeling, so surrounded by happiness that his demons can't reach him. For this moment, nothing exists but Frank.
"What was that?" Gerard asks when they finally separate.
"I'm in love with you, idiot," Frank giggles. "Can we go back to bed now?"
Gerard smiles. He would never turn Frank, but he could never deny him anything else. "Whatever you want."
He climbs back in bed, under the warmth of the covers and the sanctuary of Frank's arms. As his heavy lids slip closed, he feels only peace, nightmares replaced with visions of Frank's eyes and velvet-soft lips. "I'm in love with you too," Gerard finally confesses just before he drifts off to sleep.
***Three Months Later***
Gerard wakes up to the morning sun shining through the window of Frank's bedroom. Their bedroom. The apartment they share, a home where there are no red stains on the tile or ghosts in the closet.
He smiles and nestles deeper into his sleeping boyfriend's arms, closing his eyes again just because he can. He no longer has nightmares about the past. His dreams now are all of the future... of Frank.
The burden of his affliction is still heavy, but he doesn't carry it alone anymore. There's no magical cure, no happily ever after. But there is today—and tomorrow, if he's lucky—because Frank saved his life and gave him a reason to live it.