This Is Our Second Skin (Frerard)

11: In Which Gerard Is An Awkward Giraffe That Doesn't Know The Meaning Of No

Gerard awoke to the sensation of thousands of knives being shoved into his skull all at once, or at least, that's what it felt like to him, because nothing else could produce this kind of agony besides the previously mentioned torture, but when Gerard forced his eyes open, which was a task in itself due to the sleep gunk clogging them, he didn't see a masked man assaulting him with sharp objects, and a precarious touch to his aching head proved that nothing was stabbing Gerard, he just had a killer headache.

That didn't make the pain go away though, actually - it was reaching the point where Gerard's stomach was rolling violently, and he had to choke back the bile that was currently rising in his throat, because Gerard didn't want to puke all over his carpet; that had happened before, and the clean-up was never pretty.

But when Gerard forced his eyelids to open a bit wider, he realized that it wasn't his familiar beige carpet staring back at him, this carpet was blue to be precise, and Gerard was pretty sure he would remember going out and changing his flooring sometime last night, even though he was having difficulty recalling quite a bit of the evening, which he could only assume was brought on by drinking too much, which also explained the horrendous headache he was currently fighting.

But Gerard had bigger problems than his missing memories right now, because he was in a strange house, a strange bed, and he needed to figure out where the fuck he was as soon as possible, and also where the bathroom was located, just in case he lost control of his stomach contents.

And when Gerard heaved himself out of whoever's bed he was in, probably looking like a newborn giraffe in the process, he began to recognize his surroundings, the poster covered walls and the black and white photographs could only belong to one person, and it didn't take more than a few seconds for the realization to sink in that Gerard had somehow ended up in Frank's apartment.

Gerard's first instinct was to glance down at himself, making sure that all of his clothing was intact, because waking up in a strange bed usually meant that something had happened in said bed besides sleeping, but Gerard wasn't naked, even though his jeans were missing, and he was wearing a different shirt than the one he had gone out in, and the fact that it was slightly too small led him to believe that it was Frank's, but he didn't feel freshly fucked - thank god for that, because as much as Gerard wanted Frank's dick in his ass, he would really rather be able to remember the event actually happening.

Just to be sure, Gerard glanced to the other side of the bed, and the unrumpled pillow and clean sheets led him to believe that he had slept alone last night, which then caused Gerard to question where Frank was right now, but more importantly, what the fuck had happened, and how Gerard had somehow ended up here.

The only concrete memory that Gerard could pull up was drinking at the bar after he left Frank to change into Frankie, and yes - he had consumed quite a bit of alcohol in a short period of time, but Gerard usually handled his liquor better than that, unless the bartender had been making his drinks especially strong, and Gerard didn't think that had been the case.

But oh - now Gerard remembered not leaving enough time to make himself something for dinner before he left to meet Frank at the club, which meant he had been drinking on an empty stomach, which was never a good idea, but Gerard had been so desperate to regain some sense of composure around Frank that he had gotten careless, and it was really no surprise that he had ended up absolutely trashed.

And a wasted Gerard usually equaled a stupid Gerard, and even more terrifying - he had been around Frank, who was the last person Gerard wanted to witness him acting like an idiot, but it looked like it was too late to prevent that from occurring, whatever that was had yet to be determined though.