Ascent » frerard

Not One Match

I have completely abandoned this fic recently, tbh I sort of forgot about it XD It was only supposed to be a side project anyway, but this isn't really a side project so much as an unloved gothic mess. I was going to abandon it completely only some of you seemed to like it and it's got like 800 reads (wtf?) so I thought I'd update it for you. This was also partly the reason i stopped my current fic, to concentrate on this (as well as a second fic) But anyways, I'm really sorry and thank you for reading :)

The night passed fretfully for Frank. His usually placid dreams were stalked with demonic presence, swirling entities that drifted in the background of his mind. Oddly enough he knew they were there to tell him something, slowly drifting forwards as though they had something to say, despite the fact there was no visible mouth. Where his usual dreams displayed twisted versions of past events, things from work or television, this dream was black, almost completely, and unnervingly silent. There were no doors, no escapes, leaving the darkness of Frank's mind reeling with unspoken promises of some greater power.

When he awoke in the morning, feeling more like his eyes had closed not once all night, only one thing was clear to him in the fogged state that had become his current mindframe. He was going to have to try and find out where Gerard had appeared from, and why he could possibly have been cowering in that alleyway. Despite the fact that morning had broken, bringing with it a brighter sky and lightened prospects, it had not managed to completely chase away the darkness, especially the unfathomable sense of foreboding that was eating away inside Frank's head. Something was telling him that it would not be so bad if he could only work out why  there was such strange association regarding the raven-haired boy who was sleeping on his pull-out couch, yet try as he might to fish for reasons, explanations- they remained stubbornly out of reach, taunting him from afar.

There was only one person that Frank wanted to talk to at the moment. True that was possibly down to the fact that he had two friends at most- but Frank's curly-haired best friend could be trusted with anything. Despite the fact that he knew Ray wouldn't like the idea of a strange boy sleeping in Frank's apartment for the night, this swirling sense of overpowering fear was becoming far too much to handle. Confiding in someone else, asking for a second voice of reason was the only possible solution currently presenting itself.

For a reason that he could not explain, Frank did not want to call Ray in the same room as Gerard. His sleeping ears would retain none of the spoken information, but the idea of the possibility further disturbed Frank. If the boy could stand in the shower spray and remain dry, then it was not too much of a stretch to imagine that he could hear whilst simultaneously sleeping.

So, standing barefoot on the cold tiles of the bathroom, with his mind replaying the shaking events of the night before and his heart pounding in that new and irregular rhythm that he had come to associate with Gerard himself, Frank's trembling fingers dialed Ray's phone, and lifted it to his ear. The voice of his friend would be the most welcome thing in the world about now.

"Hey, Frank."

The relieved gasp that escaped Frank's lips like a wisp of smoke was more audible than he had intended it to be. He heard an intake of breath from the other end of the phone lines, and realised he had worried him.

"Are you alright?" Ray's nervous tone seemed to snap Frank back into his distorted reality that he was currently experiencing. Whether or not this was real was a question that had not ceased rolling around in his head since yesterday evening.

"Yes. I think so. I don't know. No." Frank's words were rolling over each other, contradictory in every sense.

True he could hear the calm, steady voice of his friend as though he too was wilting like a dead flower in this too-close, muggy bathroom without a window, Frank could not actually tell if he was speaking or not. Usually his mind was a darkened mess of fog and grabbing, branch-like hands that threatened to steal away his remaining sanity if he conceded their demands. Now, however, with the boy whose skin glowed like frozen pearls and eyes framed by lashes as back as the sky who was seemingly asleep, silently on the threadbare couch of Frank's living room, he could not honestly tell what was real and what was not. Maybe he had been tempted into the realm of the grabbing hands, maybe agreeing to check down that lamp-lit alleyway was a disguised agreement to give the taunting entities his soul, or his sanity, or something that could possibly explain why he felt so perpetually cold and fearful. Maybe he'd lost it long ago.