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You're the drummer for My Chemical Romance. After Bob got let go, Gerard hired you, and you started touring with them as a permanent member. You were close with everyone, but you were definitely closest with Frank. You and the band are currently on a North America tour, which meant long nights on the road and very poor hygiene.
And with hygiene, came sickness. Some sort of bug was making its way through the band, but, shockingly enough, didn't hit Frank. Everyone thought he would be hit the worst- he was the one with the shitty immune system- but he remained healthy.
It was midnight, which normally meant silence, aside from the continuous hum of rubber tires on highway asphalt, but it was never really silent nowadays. Not when everyone was either coughing or blowing their nose.
You, unfortunately, had been hit the worst. It started out as your typical bad cold. You were feverish, and felt like death. But you had gotten worse overnight, and you were now puking your guts out into the bus's toilet. Frank had heard you, and decided to check in.
He knocked on the door, pressing his ear to it. "Hey... can I come in?" You didn't respond. The only sounds he heard were gagging and puke hitting the toilet water. Frank sighed, and opened the door. He winced sympathetically at you hunched over the toilet, and he sat behind you, rubbing your back. "You're okay," he said quietly. Once you were sure you were done, you spat into the toilet and slumped back against him. It was obvious, just by looking at you, that you were sick. You were bundled up despite the summer heat, paler than your usual ghostly complexion, and clammy.
You let your eyes slip shut as you leaned against him. The meds you were taking, along with your fever, were making you loopy, which made you sleep more. You were basically comatose. Frank wrapped his arms around you, trying to provide you some sort of comfort. He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, wincing at how bad your fever felt. He was starting to get worried about how badly this sickness was affecting you. He grabbed the washcloth that Ray must have left out as a silent plea for better hygiene. It was even damp.
He began to dab the washcloth against your forehead and face, trying to cool you down a bit. He felt bad for you. You obviously were getting hit with this illness so much harder than the rest of the band, and he wanted nothing more than to take care of you. There was something comforting about taking care of you, though. The washcloth felt like heaven to your overheated, pounding head. The soothing sensations made you want to fall asleep.
Frank was easily your comfort person. The two of you were close, maybe explored your gay sides together when you drank a little too much, but he still was your favourite person. You just wanted him to swallow you whole.
He could tell that you were about to doze off, which made him frown. He continued cooling your skin down, and spoke quietly as to not make your headache worse. "Stay awake for a minute, okay? Can you do that for me?" You pried your eyes open at his request, wincing at the light. The light made your headache worse. You hummed in response, blinking to try and stay awake. You just wanted to sleep. You didn't want to be awake. You felt horrible.
Frank's heart pretty much shattered, watching you wince. He gently rubbed the side of your face, trying not to make your discomfort worse. "I know," he murmured. "I know, I'm sorry... just stay awake for a few more minutes, okay? Then you can go back to sleep."
You just leaned more into him, seeking warmth and comfort. You didn't mean for your eyes to slip shut. It was like you blinked. When your eyes opened again, you were in a bed, and a figure was hovering over you. You blinked a couple times, then realised it was Frank. You had no clue how long you were out for, but you knew you felt worse. Your nose was plugged and a tad crusty with snot, and your throat was on fire.
Frank, however, looked relieved that you were awake. He watched as your eyes fluttered opened, blinked a couple times, then focused, realising it was him. It was adorable. He reached forward, brushing some strands of sweaty, greasy hair away from your face. He grabbed a tissue from the box, and held it up to your nose.
"Blow." You did as told, though, admittedly, it was a little weak. A lot of snot came out, but he would probably still want you to blow harder. You felt like a toddler being taken care of. And, strangely, it felt nice.
He folded the tissue, holding it up to your nose again. "Again. Blow harder." Again, you listened. This time, a lot came out. It was all green and yellow and thick and gross. Frank winced, quickly tossing the tissue. He cupped your cheeks in his hands, using his thumbs to wipe away to remnants of the mucus and boogers you had blown out.
"Ew, dude," you croaked out. "You could'a used a tissue." You still leaned into him, though. You just wanted to be around him. He let out a little chuckle, despite the concern and worry so obviously still written on his face. His gaze remained locked on yours, filled with affection and worry.
"Shut it," he said teasingly. "You're lucky I'm even taking care of you right now. I could easily leave your ass here and let you suffer alone."
"No," you whined pitifully, drawing out the 'o'. You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder and closing your eyes. Frank's heart melted at the actions. He thought you were just the cutest, even though you were sick. A cute, whiney, sick mess.
He wrapped his arms around you in response, rubbing his hand up and down your back to comfort you. "You're so needy when your sick," he remarked. "What happened to the badass drummer I know?"
All you did was whine in response, pressing yourself to him more. He was like a sun rock. You were the lizard. He was your comfort. Your reason to live.
He smiled, kissing the top of your head. "I don't mind you being so needy, though. Its cute."