Chapter Text
"It's a common thing to happen to smokers. You're lucky you caught it early." The doctor raised his eyebrows at Frank then his eyes softened and a sympathetic smile formed on his face, as if he was the one with lung cancer.
"Then why is she still sick?" Frank responded, unsure if he was angry at the doctor with the large sideburns or the situation.
"We don't perform miracles—we do what we can. You have to be patient." The doctor nodded solemnly at Frank.
"Can I at least see her?" Frank asked with a sigh.
"No, I'm sorry, she needs rest. Tomorrow is her lobectomy surgery, so you'll be able to see her in a few days." He fished into a folder and pulled out a few documents. "Sign here please."
"No!" Frank shoved the papers out of his face. "I want to see my mom."
"Look, you can't see her now. Just sign these documents and you can go home, Mr. Iero." With an annoyed sigh, he extracted the documents from the floor and placed them in front of Frank again, along with a blue pen.
"You've been treating her for months and she's still not better." Frank clenched his tattooed fists. "You and all those other doctors are con artists. You fuckin' stink!"
"I'd appreciate it if you put your tone down, sir. Please be mindful of the other patients." He tapped the document with the tip of his finger. "Now, please sign."
"Oh, look, a waver. You might as well just write 'If we kill your mom, it's not our fault! Blame the cancer!' in huge letters." Frank felt his chest quiver at the mere thought of his mother dying. "You fucking clown!" With one last glare, he stormed away from the doctor and out the doors.
As soon as Frank entered the night, he was overwhelmed by the strong winds and bright lights of all the cars on the busy road. And when he thought nothing else could ruin his night, it started to rain. "Thanks, God," he whispered with his teeth clenched, then he pulled his leather jacket over his head of dark brown hair and ran through the bucketing rain. With each step he took, water splashed from either side of his feet, wetting the bottom of his jeans and dampening his socks.
It was the one time he'd decided to walk to the hospital, and it happened to bucket down rain. He didn't live very far from the hospital, though, but his body ached and his brain swam in his skull, and not to mention the pain in his stomach from forgetting to eat that day. He wanted to curl into a corner and cry his heart out, not caring about people seeing him or catching pneumonia. But he was stronger than that, or at least that's what he kept telling himself.
Not caring about getting wet anymore, he pulled his probably now ruined jacket back over his shoulders, slid his hands into his blue jean pockets, and started walking down the road. There was no point in rushing anymore. He had nowhere to be. His mind was completely hollow, except for the cigarette craving he felt.
As he walked along the sidewalk, he kept his eyes glued to the pavement, feeling a lump in his throat. Crying was an uncommon thing for him. It wasn't that he suppressed his emotions to appear typically masculine, but he just was never able to cry a lot of the time, not even in private. Perhaps his mother having cancer just put that little extra weight on his tears to pull them out of his eyes with less effort.
He started shivering and swallowed tensely, his lungs freezing that little bit more with each gust of wind that also brought rain.
Then suddenly he stopped getting beaten with rain and wind, so he looked up from the floor to see a church to his left. He hadn't stepped foot into a church since he was about seven when he attended his grandfather's funeral. He didn't remember much, but he still recalled being terrified of the crucifix holding Jesus on the altar. He'd never been Catholic, but shelter from the rain was something he certainly wouldn't turn down at a time like this.
He walked up the cracked stone steps and approached the wide wooden doors, framing the entry to the back of the church. When he entered, the still yet gently frosty air hugged him, encouraging him to take a seat in one of the wooden pews.
Frank wasn't used to seeing a church completely void of all light. They were usually so warm with brightness that they lured you into attending a mass. The flickering candles, the splash of colours from the stained glass windows, and the yellow wall lights—a hug of nostalgia and comfort, yet a place that taught such terrifying stories of demons and Hell, as well as murder. Frank was an atheist, but would still go to church only for the peaceful atmosphere.
But now, the church was dark as dusk. The only light visible was the moonlight slipping in through the stained glass windows, gently illuminating the altar slightly but not enough to see what was up there.
The young adult slid into one of the pews in the back of the church and slouched over himself. He didn't want to kneel because he didn't plan on praying, but his soul already felt like it had dropped to its knees, and not in a Catholic way.
It was then that the tears started pouring out of Frank's eyes, although he didn't make an expression of any kind, only a deadpan. As the tears slid down his cheeks, he blinked slowly, uncomfortable with the unfamiliar sensation. Whenever he cried, he felt as if his soul was being stretched out, and with each tear, he felt a little break from the twists. His mother had the same thing, and neither of them was sure of what it was. She'd gone to countless doctors but none of them knew what was wrong with her. Frank had considered also paying a visit, but he knew they'd only reject him or leave him with unanswered questions. In this day and age, everyone had to be okay, even if you weren't. You didn't want to risk being labeled as crazy.
Frank pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and flipped it open. Thankfully his leather jacket shielded the rain from getting to it. He picked out a cigarette and hung it on his lip, swiftly lighting it. As he took a drag, a puff of smoke escaped into the air and slowly dissolved into nothingness.
He hated cigarettes, but he still smoked them. Everyone these days smoked, even if they knew it was bad for them. Some habits are hard to break when everyone around you is still addicted. Scientists had told the world a decade ago that cigarettes are dangerous and that they cause lung cancer—some people quit, but most didn't. Frank just wished his mother had quit before it was too late.
With each puff of his cigarette, he felt the years of his life slowly decreasing. He'd probably die before forty, but he was okay with that.
"Good evening."
Frank jumped and gasped, almost dropping his cigarette, which would've been horrible because this church was almost entirely made of wood.
The man chuckled. "I apologise for startling you, my friend." He sat beside Frank in the pew.
Frank discretely wiped the tears on his cheek and looked at the stranger. Luckily, it was impossible to see anything in the darkness. "It's alright."
"You do know, those..." He tapped a finger on Frank's box of cigarettes, "those are bad for you."
"I don't care," Frank responded in a monotone voice, looking away from the man.
"The book of Corinthians says, 'Your body is a temple of the holy spirit within you, whom you have from God.'" He moved around a little on his seat. "I have always held a liking for that verse. It certainly is one of my favourites."
Frank groaned. "Look, man, I came here to be alone...and to smoke."
"You are not allowed to smoke in God's home."
"Well, I don't see no fucking rules or anything. Or a fucking priest to tell me otherwise." Frank took another drag from his cigarette as if to rub it in his face. "And God's not real, anyway."
He picked the cigarette from Frank's lips and put it in his mouth. "You shall call me Father." He blew the smoke from his lips. "My church, my rules."
Frank looked at the priest's eyes and then down at the cigarette hanging from his lip. "No wonder you're a priest. You're a hypocrite. And rude." Frank sneered and lifted a hand to get his cigarette back.
The priest smirked. "I think it is rude that you have not introduced yourself yet." He slipped the cigarette between his fingers and stretched his arm away from Frank.
"Frank," he replied quietly, too tired to try and outwit him.
"Gerard," the priest replied, giving the cigarette back to Frank. "You don't seem like the sorta guy to call me Father like all the other Christian folks here."
Frank noticed that whenever Gerard incorporated slang into his sentences, it sounded incredibly forced and strange.
Staring at the tobacco stick in rage, Frank crushed it in his hands. "Oh, fuck!" he cursed, waving his hand and then sucking on his finger. "I hate cigarettes," he mumbled.
"Be careful, Frank, those can burn you." Gerard sandwiched Frank's hand between his. "Somebody forgot an umbrella, eh?" He wiped his fingers on Frank's damp shirt and chuckled softly. "Perhaps the Sacristy might have a clean change of clothes. Would you be interested?"
Frank shook his head and pulled his hand out of Gerard's, resting it back on his knee.
"Something is on your mind. What may it be?" Gerard asked, tilting his head and staring at Frank.
"Why are you still nice to me after I yelled at you?" Frank asked.
"Good sir, because I know that those who yell at others are usually hurting on the inside." Gerard rested an arm on Frank's shoulder. "And I know you do not frequently attend church services because you would know that I closed this place three hours ago."
"But the door was open."
"But the lights were off."
Frank sighed, feeling tears burn his eyes again.
"I know you might not believe in God nor the Church, but try to see me as another person, just like you. This collar is nothing but some fashion choice, yes? Just two guys sitting in an empty Church...doing guy things. What do people do these days? Roller discos? Are those still popular? Perhaps that's more of a female thing. Who knows?" He scratched his head like a cartoon character. "Anyways, I seem to have gone off track again. The point is, we both have one thing in common—we're trying to get through this life no matter how difficult it is."
Frank struggled to keep up with Gerard's little tangent. But that wasn't the most of his worries at that moment because he'd started crying again. Twice in a row? How lucky.
"I want you to promise me something, okay? Promise me not to keep your emotions bottled inside, yeah? And don't be afraid to cry." He smiled. "Alright?"
Frank let out a sob and pressed his hands to his face.
"Oh. That was quick." Gerard smiled softly and sympathetically. "Are you okay?" He pulled Frank closer to him, side-hugging him in the pew.
Unable to contain himself any longer, Frank collapsed onto Gerard, pressing his face to his shoulder and snaking his arm around him, embracing him in anguish. "It hurts."
"Dear friend, talk to me. Tell me what is going on. I promise, I will listen." Gerard embraced Frank, not caring if he wet his clothes.
Frank explained how his mother got cancer and the unidentifiable mental illness situation. He wasn't sure why he poured his heart out to a stranger, but he did. Some say that strong drugs or alcohol influence one's behaviour the most, but emotions truly have the strongest hold over their actions.
"Don't you feel better now that you are talking about it?" Gerard rested his hand on Frank's head, slowly and comfortingly brushing his hair with his fingers.
"I guess...But I can just feel that she won't survive this. She smokes two packs a day, and sometimes when she has one of her 'bad days' she'd chain smoke." Frank sniffled. "I love her a lot. She is the sweetest and kindest woman you'll ever meet. She needs me...and I need her."
"She sounds absolutely splendid. I wish you all the best, Frank. You have my prayers." Gerard nodded solemnly. "My advice is to maintain a positive mindset and accept each day as a gift you should use to do what you love and interact with people that you love."
"I try—I really do. But it's just hard sometimes, especially when bad things keep happening to me." The shorter man picked mindlessly at the lint on the priest's pants, feeling vulnerable like a homeless puppy.
"It truly is a difficult skill to master—staying positive in a world with prominent negativity. I have seen it happen and can say I have some personal experience with it. When someone is constantly exposed to evil, they too will start doing bad things." He gently tapped on the box of cigarettes. "But, by far, the worst that could happen is death. And I do not mean physical death, but spiritual death. It happens when you start wishing death upon yourself, wanting a painless way out of this cruel world."
Frank swallowed and wiped another tear that escaped from his eye, then he tapped on the box of cigarettes like Gerard had.
"My friend, pain is only temporary and always has a reason. You need to find that problem in your life and get rid of it. I know it might be difficult to do, but it is the only way you are going to be happy. And if you are still not happy, then I guess you just have to find happiness in your misery."
Frank pondered Gerard's words for a moment, trying his best to understand them. "Yeah? Well, what if God is my problem? How exactly do I get rid of Him, eh?"
"You can get rid of God if you really want to. If you reject Him and ignore His calls, then He will stop trying. Just like any other guy you meet. If you ignore Him long enough, He will ignore you as well." Gerard sighed. "But if getting rid of Him is what you want then, my friend, you have already succeeded. Believing He is not real, makes Him not real. It is as simple as that."
Frank hummed softly in recognition, not understanding the priest's words enough to respond without sounding like a lost idiot.
He remained in silence for another moment, wrongly assuming Frank would say something. "But my previous advice still stands. Life truly is a blessing and it is a rather interesting thing if you know how to live it. You know what they say—life is a game, so learn the rules."
"I'll try. Thanks, man," Frank responded in a distant voice, only wanting to be held while he cried.
"You're a good man, Frank. I'll be here whenever you need me, okay?"
Frank lay in Gerard's lap, holding onto him, trying to gain the least bit of warmth.
"Frank?" Gerard asked softly, looking down at the man who had gently drifted off to sleep in his arms. Listening to the gentle rise and fall of his now calm breathing, he smiled.