The Hue of Autumn is Blood (Frerard)

Chapter 11 - O Frankie, O Frankie Wherefore Art Thou Frankie

MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING FOR SUICIDE ATTEMPT AND SELF HARM

Darkness engulfed them.

So, this was oblivion, the afterlife, the beyond...

With their limited consciousness, Gerard dreamt of Frank, of his 'I like you more than you like blood' smile, his smouldering tongue against their fangs, his lip ring chiming against his digital recorder when they behaved vampirish.

Gerard's throat ached dry as they craved blood, in the same way, they did on their first night of vampirehood. Any creature, any amount, any type would quench their thirst, unconcerned if they lived or died.

At first, the pain overwhelmed them, yet now it hummed through every limb, every crevice, every cell of their body that it felt natural.

A dull light flickered next to their arm as a humanoid silhouette loomed over their stomach. The outline of the figure blurred into the abyss, hard to distinguish between them and the darkness.

Perhaps, this creature would guide them through oblivion to un-existence. However, despite assuming their consciousness would wither, it did the opposite as it rejuvenated; vampires might ascend to the afterlife after all.

The figure pressed a soft warm object to their forehead, soothing their pain for only a moment.

Agony throbbed at their heart where the stake spiked them—oh fuck, Frank staked Gerard. They almost forget—wait, when had all their memories returned?

Fabric obscured the cracks in the window blinds, hence, no light seeped through. Oil paintings, still life drawings and watercolour studies hung from the walls. A circle of easels enclosed them.

Wait, Gerard recognised this room—the painting room that Frank staked them in.

Were they a ghost, a spirit, an un-undead vampire, something else? Or perhaps the afterlife looped their final moments. If no human knew what happened after death, how could vampires know either?

The candlelight reflected off a knife in the silhouette's hands as they sat down. Perhaps, the knife would help them perform a rite of passage to enter the afterlife; or maybe, the figure just carried a knife for the hell of it.

A pile of herbs accumulated on their stomach. Empty spell pouches slouched on their bat buckle, which reminded Gerard of Frank's spell pouches.

Gerard just missed Frank...

The silhouette rocked back and forth and aimed the knife at their chest. A metal object on their lips glimmered in the light—wait a lip ring? In fact, tattoos covered the figure's visible skin and a digital recorder tucked in the figure's leather jacket.

Holy fuck. The silhouette was Frank—well resembled Frank at the very least.

Perhaps, a spirit or a ghost took the form of Frank. Outside of vampires, Gerard hadn't researched much about the occult, though, Frank would know, he memorised everything about occult spirits and creatures.

The sounds of Frank's crying—no, wailing—echoed in the painting room, which made Gerard want to cry but their current state didn't allow it.

Gerard tried to speak, and nothing came out. They tried to scream yet their lips refused to even whisper. They tried to swing their arms, but they stayed still. They tried to rotate their head though it wouldn't budge.

Regardless of whatever this place was, Gerard needed to comfort Frank, tell him everything would be okay as they rocked back and forth in each other's arms.