when the sun goes black (old- will probably revise)

4

this chapter sucks istd im gonna kms

Frank shuffled forward along with the line, patiently waiting amongst the small talk of his peers to get dinner. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he was obligated to, if only to get his medication. He gave a cordial nod to the person behind the counter, who smiled brightly in return.

Out of their pocket, they pulled two white capsules, placing them on the tray before pushing it towards him. They knew who he was- everyone did. It unnerved him a bit, honestly. So many people being so aware of him. But he'd gotten used to it. It was his cross to bear. "Enjoy." They chirped.

"I will." He responded, knowing he wouldn't.

He took a seat near the corner of the dining hall. He was surrounded by the buzz of voices and clanking of silverware, but no one really bothered to engage with him, leaving him at least some isolation.

The meal was grilled chicken drizzled in brownish sauce, a perfectly spherical mound of peppery mashed potatoes, and a wilted salad sprinkled with croutons. He didn't find his appetite particularly piqued, so he instead reached for the Ritalin, tossing them to the back of his throat and swallowing them dry. He felt, as always, a slight pang of embarrassment.

Everyone was allowed to keep their bottles in their rooms, getting refills whenever they ran low. Frank had to have his monitored and delivered. It was a reminder of his shortcomings, and an annoyance explain away whenever people noticed.

He prodded at his food, sticking a couple of vegetables in his mouth just to say he tried before giving up on the meal. The noises of the massive crowd were starting to make his head hurt. He stood, plate in hand, prepared to dump it in the trash and return to his room. Something made him hesitate.

Party, he suddenly recalled, hadn't eaten since he'd been taken in. He wouldn't consume anything that was drugged. Party was also damn stubborn. He could tell that much from the conversations they'd had. Frank couldn't be certain it was out of the realm of possibility that he'd let himself starve to death. Which wouldn't look great on his resume.

With an internal groan of exasperation, already predicting how annoying he'd be about it, he glanced around the lunchroom to ensure that no one was looking his way. Then he slipped through the tables and rushed towards the exit.

He took the lift, praying that no one would come in between floors, to where Party's cell was. He darted to the door, scanned the keypad, and pushed it open.

Party was laying on his bed, whistling a tune to himself, glancing over as he came in. "Oh, it's you. What is it this time?" He greeted him in the typical fashion. Frank could see him earnestly eyeing the food in his hands, though, with a glint of clear desperation. He was trying to act normal, but he seemed noticeably weaker and drowsier.

"I'm not dealing with you right now, so don't worry, I won't be here for long." Frank matched his bitterness. "I just... I wasn't hungry. And they don't put Ritalin in our meals, so I figured you could have it."

Immediately suspicious, he narrowed his eyes. "Bullshit."

"No, it isn't. Most of us take our pills like normal human beings, so they don't have to put it in our food." He stated.

"'Normal humans beings' don't take anti-feeling drugs, Fun. I don't know where the hell that idea came from." He retorted.

"For the love of- whatever. Starve, then. I'm leaving." He scoffed. "And it's Frank." He set the food on the ground before turning and keying his way out.

Party stared at it critically for a few moments, as if expecting the potatoes to grow legs and start crawling around. It was still a little warm- the food they brought him was always cold- and he could smell it. He half-expected to start hallucinating the chicken breast seductively calling his name. Hunger  had slowly started to chip away at his psyche- the drugged meals became harder and harder to avoid. He had to purposefully destroy the previous few until completely inedible so he wouldn't cave, in some quite... creative ways. There was still gravy on one of the walls.

He stepped over and sat down, poking at it with the fork Frank had left. Hm... Hesitantly, he took a bite of the chicken, prepared to spit it out if need be. Sure enough, it didn't carry the typical bittersweet tinge that food tainted with crushed or liquid Ritalin did. Well, I'll be damned.

His hunger overcame him, and he quickly began to work on the rest of the plate.

-

Frank shut the door of his room firmly behind him before collapsing onto his bed. The sun had set, the night sky visible through the window facing Battery City.

His room was small and unexciting. A bed, a closet, a small bathroom, a window that didn't open, a desk and chair, a lamp. His desk held the manila folder Carroway had given him, Party's papers scattered across it. He'd gleaned a lot of information, none particularly helpful.

Mostly just typical records of Party's brief citizen life as Gerard Way, ending at 14, detailing his numerous infractions and red flags and how they attempted to counter them. A copy of his brother, Michael's file- a similarly wanted figure who had reunited with him. The two allied towards the rebel cause. Party was apparently famous in the Zones, him and his crew practically celebrity figures.

Frank kicked his shoes off and laid down, staring at the ceiling with utterly exhausted eyes. He'd had a rough few days, that was for sure.

He couldn't get Party out of his head, and it frustrated the hell out of him. His stupid face and his stupid ego and that stupid name and his stupid red hair and his stupid smirk and most of all, the stupid things he said. Maybe it was just because it was finally something to actually think about. He usually didn't have that. Every time he caught himself conjuring Party in his thoughts, he panicked a little. He shouldn't have been thinking these things. His life would be destroyed if anyone knew.

He usually spent his days training, writing, wandering the building and fighting pervasive insomnia, doing whatever he could to make the hours pass. He'd run out of thoughts, really- you can only come up with so many when everything is the same.

Whenever he slept, he dreamt. Never good ones, and it was the reason he didn't do it often. It felt like his subconscious was trying to protect him from what lurked there. Images of him screwing up, what he'd done and what he'd been through for it, of losing everything he'd worked so hard for.

The thing that crept into his mind the most was the possibility of getting masked. That was the worst potential outcome. If you fucked up enough, they'd downgrade you to a Draculoid, ripping away your free will with one of those mind-control devices in the form of vampire masks.

He'd seen it happen when he was younger. They held a man down while he thrashed and screamed. He yelled out for his daughter and his lover, and he begged them not to do this to him, to leave his family all alone. Yet they still slipped it over his head, and he'd just... stopped. His voice died, never to be heard again, his muscles still and tense as if they'd frozen.

Frank could still recall looking into the cold, empty black holes that'd swallowed his eyes.

And god forbid, he couldn't stop picturing himself in that man's place. He was a success story now, but BL/IND didn't forget. The slightest mistake could send him back where he'd been. He could practically fee his heart racing as if he were trying to fight it off at that very moment.

Would he kick? Would he scream? Would he go limp and accept it, resigned to the fact that he deserved this fate? What would his last conscious thought be, before his very being ceased to exist, with only his body left? Hands, hands, gripping hands and a mask coming ever closer and-

He shifted over to his side, staring instead at the wall and clutching himself. As much as he needed to hate him, he knew that Party understood what it was like to be afraid, to feel anything, the way no one else could.

But he hates me. That won't change. And it's better that way. Frustrated, he picked himself up off the bed. It was too late to go and see him, and he tried to convince himself that he didn't want to anyway. He'd just have to wait, and until then, he needed to try and find something to clear his head.

Well aware that that something didn't exist, he stormed out of his room and into the empty hallway. Maybe he'd just mindlessly pace around until he got too tired to stand anymore. If he walked fast enough, he could leave his thoughts behind. So, for about the billionth time, he tried his feeble best not to use his brain.