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Frank’s lungs take in a smoke-clogged breath, but the oxygen doesn’t satisfy him.
In, out. In, out.
He’s suffocating on air, he thinks. It’s all in his head, and he feels like he’s dying.
In, out. In, out.
What was it his therapist told him about? Square breathing, or something similar. Breathing techniques only make his head spin.
In, hold, out.
Frank’s chest stutters as he exhales. He’s crying, maybe. It’s hard to tell. His entire body is shaking.
In, out. In, out.
This isn’t working. His inhaler made him jittery, and allergy meds did nothing. This is a panic attack. He knows it’s a panic attack, but that doesn’t help him. His chest feels too tight; his ribs caved in.
Is he dying? If he asphyxiates, no one will notice he’s missing for weeks. What will they think when they find him? Collapsed in his kitchen, already consumed by maggots. His body will be putrefied long before anyone thinks to check in on him.
Frank sinks down to the tile, heart pounding in his ears. He’s going to die here, and no one will miss him. Who would attend his funeral? All of his relationships have crumbled to dust, and his family won’t bother to come see him buried.
Body-wracking giggles overtake him. Oh, God, what a way to die. He’s being ridiculous; this is ridiculous. He isn’t dying. It’s just an anxiety attack. He’s dealt with plenty of anxiety attacks before.
Frank lies on his kitchen floor; his forehead pressed to the cool tiles as he’s torn apart at the seams. His lungs still feels crushed, but the panic pulls its claws out of him. He pushes back to his knees.
Albuterol makes him wired, and his tremors are bone-deep. What a sight he must be. He needs a drink.
Frank doesn’t drink, not like he used to. His liquor cabinet has nothing but an expensive red wine and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He grabs the whiskey.
Whiskey has never been his favourite, but it’s the strongest thing he has easy access too. He takes a sip directly from the bottle. It tastes like embers; something burnt down to the dregs.
Frank laughs wetly. It’s gross. He feels gross. It’s pathetic, really; day-drinking on a Thursday.
The alcohol doesn’t soften the pain curling up his spine, nor the sticky nausea left in his stomach. It balms his thoughts, though. Softens shards of broken glass into dull gravel. They rattle around his skull, but don’t shred him from the inside anymore.
He should call someone, he thinks; he’s having some sort of episode. He doesn’t want to be alone, he’s scared of doing something stupid. Who can he even call? All his old friends hate his guts, and he would hate to disappoint his parents.
Frank fumbles for his phone anyway. He’s scared. Everything hurts and he needs someone to listen. He dials the numbers without thinking, and realises who he’s ringing only after they pick up.
“Frank?” Gerard asks. The phone didn’t even ring twice before they answered.
“No hello?” Frank replies. He’s being an asshole. He was the one to call them. They don’t owe him anything.
For a terrifying second, they don’t say anything. Frank is worried they hung up. “Are you drunk right now?”
He must sound more inebriated than he thought. “No— I mean, I’ve had a drink. ‘M not drunk drunk. A little tipsy, maybe.” Frank is more than a little tipsy.
“Okay, fine, you’re not drunk. Why are you calling me, then?” Gerard sounds annoyed. Frank doesn’t want to annoy them, he should just hang up.
“I dunno,” he lies, “felt alone.”
“Are you safe?”
Frank doesn’t like how they ask that, like they expect him to hurt himself. “No. ‘M sorry, I shouldn’t’ve called.” He hangs up before they can protest.
The line starts to ring. Gerard is calling him back. Trying to, at least. Frank tosses his phone into the living room. It thunks against the hardwood, probably cracks the screen. Whatever, he needs a new phone anyway.
His skin feels fevered, his brain feels syrupy-slow. He starfishes his arms out on the floor, watches as goosebumps rise. He feels like he’s dying again. It’s not so bad this time. He’s not scared, at least. He’s overdosed before, and that’s not what this feels like. This feels like melting. This feels like his organs are leaking out of his pores and staining the floor rust-brown.
Frank shatters the whiskey bottle against a cabinet. He doesn’t know what’s come over him, but the head rush he gets is worth it. The sound of it makes his ears ring. Glass nicks his calloused hands, and he curls his fingers around a large shard. Blood pools in his palm and dripdripdrips on the floor. It’s the most alive he’s felt in a while. It’s the most dead he’s felt, too. He’s zombified, and no one else has noticed.
Ruby-red sinks into the grout. Scrubbing blood from the floor is going to be tedious, if he ever gets around to it. Frank drops the shard, watches it fracture into a million more pieces. Shards are scattered across his kitchen like constellations. He drags his hand through them, spreading blood and glass everywhere. His hand is shredded pretty badly. It’ll turn into a gnarly set of scars. Playing guitar will be painful for a few weeks, but he hasn’t played in a while anyway.
Frank laughs again; warbling and delirious. He’s high on pain. Maybe he shouldn’t have hung up on Gerard, or he should have called someone else. He shouldn’t be alone right now. Gerard was right, he isn’t safe like this; they’re never wrong.
Before he can cause further harm, Gerard is tugging him away from the mess. Frank doesn’t know how they got in, and he didn’t notice their arrival until their hands were wrapped around his arms.
“Jesus fuck, Frank, what the hell is wrong with you! God, let me see your hands.” They don’t wait for Frank to respond, already uncurling his fingers and scrutinising his shredded hand.
“Sorry,” Frank says automatically. He’s staring at them, but they don’t meet his gaze.
“You call me in the middle of the day, drunk as a skunk, and then hang up on me—“ Gerard is chewing him out, but Frank is pretty sure they’re freaking out. “—only to find you covered in blood on the floor!”
“Sorry,” Frank repeats. He is sorry, but Gerard won’t hear it.
“God, Frank, stop apologising!” Frank hardly processes the sharp raise in their voice. They wince as soon as the words are out of their mouth. “Just… let me help you, okay?” Their fingers wrap gingerly around Frank’s wrist, handling him like something fragile; like he’s the one shattered all over the floor. Maybe he is.
Frank nods. They would leave if he asked them to, but Frank doesn’t want them to. They probably hate him—he hopes they hate him—but he wants them to stay so badly right now. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” they breathe, guiding him to his bathroom. “Where are your tweezers? Do you have a first-aid kit in here?”
Frank can’t figure out how to answer. He has both, but his mouth refuses to spit out the correct words. Gerard finds them without his input. Frank can only watch them; dumbfounded.
They take his hands into their own, inspecting the gashes. “You’re lucky. There’s not much glass in your cuts.” That’s the only warning he gets before they’re picking glass out of his hand.
Frank hardly feels it. The pain is far away and dulled. He can only focus on Gerard’s skin against his own. They feel real, more tangible than he is. They send pins and needles through his whole body.
Neither of them talk. Frank has nothing to say, and Gerard seems afraid of having another outburst. Frank doesn’t mind much, his ears are still ringing anyway.
Once the glass is all gone, Gerard dabs antiseptic over his cuts. Frank barely feels that either. If they notice his lacklustre reaction, they don’t comment on it. Gauze is wrapped around his hands, and they put a few normal band-aids on his fingers.
“Better?” Gerard asks.
“Mhm,” agrees Frank.
“Good.” They pull him to his feet, leading him to bed. “Don’t do that again,” they add as he settles on top of the sheets. “I’m serious, you scared me to death.”
“Sorry,” Frank reiterates for the hundredth time. He worries they haven’t understood him, though. Whiskey pulls him to sleep before he can worry for long. For once, he sort of wishes he could stay awake. He doesn’t want Gerard to leave while he’s asleep.
—
The sky is dark when Frank wakes up. His vision is too blurry to make out the glowing numerals on his clock. More pressingly, there is a person in his bed.
After wracking his memories, he realises it’s Gerard in his bed. The very same Gerard who supposedly never wants to see him again. They’re tucked beneath the covers and lying on their side. Frank can make out their face in the dim. Their hair spiderwebs over the pillow; lines of red scattered over grey.
He tries to remember when and why they came over. Frank was drunk, if his headache is anything to go by. He hurt himself, maybe. His hands are all bandaged up, so it tracks. Were they worried? They wouldn’t have slept over, otherwise.
Frank doesn’t notice when Gerard rouses; not until they clear their throat. He’s been staring at them.
“Don’t apologise,” Gerard says as Frank opens his mouth to do exactly that. “You’ve been sorry enough to hit your monthly quota.” They yawn, and Frank thinks they might be pretty like this. They would be, if only Frank could love them; but he doesn’t think he can love anyone. Not in the way he’s supposed to.
“Oh,” Frank manages. He’s hungover and aching.
“Just go back to sleep, I’ll be here in the morning.” They turn away from him.
“Okay,” he murmurs, curling away from the gap they’ve left behind. He’s out cold before Gerard can find something else to scold him for.
—
Sunlight is streaming through half-drawn curtains when Frank finally wakes up for real.
Gerard is still lying with him. They look peaceful, and he studies their face with reverence. Does Frank look like this when he sleeps? Light dapples across their face and illuminates their freckles. He can see old crumbs of mascara caught in their lashes and a smudge of eyeshadow on their cheekbone.
Frank wishes he were attracted to them. They’re pretty, objectively. Loving them would be less convoluted than their current relationship status. He can’t fall in love with them, though. The thought of being romantic with them makes nausea twist in his stomach.
Gerard’s face scrunches for just a moment before they wake up. Not for the first time, they’re met with his stare. “Did I drool, or something?” they ask, swiping at their face.
“No, sorry. I didn’t mean to stare like that,” Frank replies, still staring at them.
“Okay.” Gerard meets his eyes. Their expression is bewildered and groggy. “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” shrugs Frank. He’s not lying. ‘Fine’ is probably the best descriptor for how he feels. He has a headache and his hands hurt; but, all things considered, he doesn’t feel half-bad.
Gerard eyes him doubtfully for a moment, but nods regardless. “Does breakfast sound manageable?”
“I’m starved. I don’t think I ate very much yesterday,” Frank says, eyes shifting away from them. He didn’t eat anything, if his memory serves him right. He doesn’t want Gerard to be even more fretful, though.
“Cool.” They extract themself from beneath the covers, and study his expression one last time before stepping away to scrounge up a half-decent meal.
Frank doesn’t follow them right away. He sits in his now-empty room and tries to steel his will. He’s missed Gerard, but he isn’t ready to face them quite yet. A few minutes tick by before Frank is able to pull himself out of bed. His back cramps painfully, and all of his joints are tight, but otherwise he feels okay.
Gerard is busying themself at the stove when Frank walks in. They don’t even glance at him when he sits at the table.
The glass has been swept off the floor, but dried blood is still crusted on the tiles. Frank isn’t sure when Gerard found the time to clean up, even partially. Maybe after he fell asleep.
“You need to go shopping,” Gerard says as they set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. They perch on his counter, picking at their own plate of food.
“I know,” replies Frank, tasting a bit of egg. It’s delicious, which bothers him a little. He can’t even be upset at their audacity under these conditions.
“Just making sure.” Gerard stares at their fork, trying their absolute hardest to avoid Frank’s gaze as they eat.
He echos their sentiment, and focuses on his own food.
Gerard doesn’t ask before squirrelling his empty plate away. They seem dead-set on fussing over him from a strictly clinical distance. It’s setting them both on a short fuse. Their memory of their fallout hangs over the apartment, and neither of them are want to bring it up. Not with Frank volatile as he is; not with Gerard as stressed as they are.
They watch him from their spot on his countertop. Frank feels like he’s being judged. It’s getting under his skin.
“Am I on suicide watch or something?” he asks. He doesn’t care about the actual answer, he just wants to provoke them.
Gerard’s expression falls, then quickly flattens out again. “I guess. I’m not leaving, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I’m a fully grown man, you don’t have to baby sit—“
“I do though,” they say. Frank is stunned into silence. They sound upset, but not in the way he wishes they were. He wishes they were mad at him, or resentful. Instead they sound tortured and sorrowful.
“I wasn’t going to— I’m not suicidal.” He doesn’t come across as convicted, not even to his own ears.
“I’m not worried about that. You always manage to fuck yourself up worse when you’re not suicidal.” Gerard pulls a loose thread on their jorts.
Frank looks away, frowning. They’re correct, as always.
“Let me stay another night or two, just to ease my conscious,” they plead. They would leave if he asked them to. He isn’t going to ask them to leave, though. He’s never had the strength to kick them out.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” they echo, the ghost of a smile gracing their expression.