From the Ashes, You Crawl

Chapter Thirteen

When Gerard got home, however, he did not feel much like talking of his past. Like the three years before, he did not feel much like talking at all. So, instead, he passed by Frank, dropping his weapons into their piles as he walked into the kitchen. Gerard did not want to eat, but he did not want Frank to feed himself. Frank did not understand the limitations brought on by the environment they lived in.

Frank was a waste.

Gerard's lip curled as he popped the top off of a can of room temperature raviolis and dumped them into two bowls, splitting it half and half. He stared into the bowls for a minute, listening as Frank rooted around in the next room. He was expecting questions from the medic. Questions he did not want to answer. Questions he had been dreading and avoiding entirely since Frank's arrival. Gerard had known deep down, perhaps even since he took Frank in, that one day, he would have to answer these questions.

And that would mean the end of Frank Iero.

With that gruesome, yet... Somehow warm thought, Gerard took the two bowls into the next room where Frank had lit a kerosene lamp and set it on the floor. An orange orb of light and a tiny amount of heat radiated from the small lamp. Gerard paused, watching the light glow off of Frank's pale face as he sat, wrapped in a gray, moth eaten, woolen blanket on the floor. Gerard noted to himself how beautiful the man was surrounded by the flicking glow, his dark eyes resting on the cone of heat inside the murky glass of the old lamp. In another life, in another time, perhaps Gerard would have had feelings for him. Something more than the desire to snap his neck. Something intimate.

But, that was not this reality, and that was not this time.

"I brought you," Gerard began, but he didn't feel the need to finish this sentence. He sat down across the lamp from Frank and passed the bowl of cold raviolis. Frank took the bowl, barely glancing at Gerard, and dug his fingers in. Since his arrival, he had gotten used to the lack of sanitation, and ended up embracing it entirely. He still wore the same fatigues Gerard had found him in, and now, both of the men reeked of the stink of the end of days.

Gerard watched him for a moment, his fingers staining with the red sauce, and then, he looked away to his own food. Mentally, Gerard had convinced himself he wasn't hungry like he did so often to avoid eating food, but he could feel the egg and ache of his empty stomach. He could hear the slurping and very loud gulping of Frank as he ate like a disturbingly starving man. It bothered Gerard to listen to that because he fed Frank very well.

"Do I feed you enough?" Gerard asked coarsely and almost rudely, like he dared Frank to say otherwise. The medic raised his head, two of his fingers stuck in his mouth, and ravioli sauce around his lips. He seemed to be caught by surprise to hear Gerard speak, so he took his fingers away and wiped at his mouth, considering the question.

"Y-Yes," Frank muttered, shrugging his shoulders and lying rather easily, "I mean... Not as much as I got in the army, but quite enough, I guess. I don't eat much anyway."

"How much did they feed you in the army?" He asked, his hands still around his full bowl.

Frank thought for a moment, his eyes distant as he recalled. Gerard rarely asked Frank of his time in the army or his life before the night he spent in the storm drain. Gerard feared if he asked, it would most definitely result in Frank demanding answers to his own questions of Gerard.

"Three meals a day, rationed of course," Frank said after a moment of thinking, "We grew our own food though, but... I have no idea how safe that is. The corn cobs only grew to be the size of your middle finger, sometimes a little bigger. We still couldn't drink the water the last time I was there... Probably never will."

"Where is the camp?" Gerard asked, but he didn't know why he felt so suddenly curious. He was most certainly afraid of Frank asking questions, but... He was curious.

"Mexico," Frank said, the tiniest ghost of a smile on his face, "You'd like it there, I think. It's sunny and warm, and, like, they kept our cows in these giant corrals, and the sunsets were gorgeous. You had the most perfect view from my cabin... It was right at the edge of the camp." Frank stopped, and he looked away quickly, sticking his hand back into the bowl, which was nearly empty, "You probably don't want to hear me go on and on about this."

"No," Gerard said, his eyes on the medic. In one move, he passed his full bowl of raviolis over to the man across from him. He wasn't even aware of what he did until he realized it was too late, "Go on."

Frank took the bowl, the smile returning to his face as he took the bowl, replacing the now empty one on his lap graciously. "Well, okay," He said, picking up a ravioli, "It was a small, wooden cabin. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom and kitchen and living room, obviously. No matter what your family size was, that was what you got.

"I never really minded though," He said, smiling as he took a bite, "I liked being close to them. They were special, I guess. Like... My whole world." It seemed as Frank spoke of his family, his eyes seemed to glow with a golden light. Gerard watched semi-enviously as Frank talked on his family. Why had he never had a family like that to speak of so proudly?

"Your family?" Gerard questioned even though he knew that's what he was talking about.

"Yeah," Frank said, looking back up at Gerard, the glow of the kerosene lamp reflecting off of his hazel eyes, "My wife and my son." He looked back down at his food, biting his lip, "You really don't want to hear me go on about them. I will never stop."

Gerard shook his head. He owed this to Frank more than he could ever say. He could never say. "Go on," Gerard said, his hands folded in his lap.

Frank smiled just a little more. He slurped down more of his cold raviolis, sucking on his fingers for a moment before he continued. "Her name is Nora, and my son, his name is Henry. He was eight years old when I left on my tour a few months ago," He rubbed his cheeks, remembering his family, "I was so sad to leave them. The day we shipped out, Henry cried at the air strip. They all did. As the plan was leaving, my last glimpse at the ground was of my son and my wife, waving." He paused, his lip trembling, "I was so sure I'd come home. Nora tried to get me to write my will in the weeks before 'just in case,' but I insisted I would be safe." Frank laughed coarsely, a tear running from his eye, "I should have listened because... Here I am now sitting in this safe house with you."

"You're not dead yet," Gerard reminded, his eyebrows furrowed as he listened to Frank's story.

"You really think that?" Frank replied, raising an eyebrow, a sad smile on his face as more tears ran from his face. Gerard watched one drip from his cheek into his bowl. Gerard paused and then shook his head. He knew the moment he saw Frank in the storm drain, the first night they were together, that Frank would not get out of here alive. He would never see his family again.

And it seemed Frank has always known that too.

"I've known, Gerard," He said, holding his shaking hands together in his lap as he watched the man across the lamp, "I've always known."

It was quiet again for a minute before Gerard finally spoke again. He no longer wished to watch Frank cry and mourn the loss of something that has yet to happen. "Tell me about the camp again," Gerard requested, the glow of the lamp reflecting off his pale face.

Frank looked up from his bowl back to Gerard, and he seemed a bit shocked by Gerard's request, but he accepted it. "It was nice, I guess. Almost normal, but not really. The only people who lived there were the ones lucky enough to have been in the first draft who were already on tour, so it's basically just a bunch of army commanders or medics of whatever with their families on a big ranch town farming and stuff. The women cleaned and cooked and taught the children, and the men tended the animals and crops. I was crops, corn specifically, but they had more. Sometimes, I'd sneak extra corn stalks in my pockets even though it was incredibly risky, and I'd take them home to Henry," Frank smiled, wrapping his arms around his chest, "It was perfect there... Except... There were so many suicides... I guess I don't blame them, but... I could never take my life... Well, back then anyway. I just couldn't leave Nora alone."

Gerard remembered the day he woke up from his coma and found the gun. He remembered the mouth pressed to his head. "Have you ever thought about it, Gerard?" Frank asked, finally looking back up at him.

Gerard nodded, but he had no words.

"What keeps you here?" Frank whispered, lowering his voice as if somebody else was listening, "No offense, but... Why are you still here?"

Before Gerard knew what he was saying, he said it. "Mikey," He whispered, his eyes becoming hazy and distant as he remembered.

"Who's Mikey?" Frank asked, raising an eyebrow. Gerard hadn't said Mikey's name in three years. The sound of the words in the air shook Gerard, and he almost wanted to cry.

"He was my brother," Gerard whispered, looking past Frank towards the wall behind him.

"Was?" Frank asked, raising an eyebrow, "What happened to him? I mean... If you want to tell me."

Gerard did not want to tell him, but he knew he must. He knew what would come as well when he told Frank, and, that too, frightened him. But, he reflected, he was okay with how Frank was going to end, he was. Frank, as far as he had known, had lived a good life.

"He was murdered by a terrible man after the first bomb," Gerard said softly, fighting a lump in his throat, "A terrible, terrible man. Mikey was sick. He was badly burned, and in agony. The man wanted to end the suffering for Mikey, but... Really... He only killed my brother."

Frank was silent. Gerard could not tell if the medic was aware that he wasn't being entirely truthful, but... At the same time, Gerard was not lying. He was simply avoiding the truth. Gerard watched Frank's face for a moment. He watched as Frank raised his eyes for a moment and then quickly looked away, like he was not sure if it was okay to say anything or not.

"I..." He began quickly at a loss for words, "I am so sorry, Gerard. I cannot imagine what that must be like."

Gerard simply nodded his head.

"You know," Frank continued, attempting to fill the air, "Everybody is dealing with some sort of loss these days. I guess that's war for you." He reached around the lamp and put his hand on Gerard's knee, "I'm here for you though, as a friend. I mean... We're friends, right?"

Gerard looked down at Frank's hand. Perhaps for the first time since he had met Frank, Gerard did not feel the pressure he constantly felt, the longing to see Frank in pain, the desire to suck the life out of Frank. For once, Gerard did not feel it. A small smile broke on his face as he met Frank's eyes and that was answer enough.

However, the instant Frank looked away, Gerard felt a rock of dread in his stomach as the reality hit him of what he had to do, and for the first time, Gerard did not want to.

Late that night, Gerard was in the front room, tears rolling down his pale face as he stood in the pitch black darkness. Frank was asleep in the next room, a small lamp lit on the table beside him. Outside the hideout, there was screaming. The unsettling, terrifying screams of the undead on their fruitless search. Gerard stood with a pistol in his hand, and it was loaded. He couldn't stop crying. It was soft sobs as he stood in the center of the room.

He shook, letting the tears roll off his face. After all this time, every day, all he had wanted to do was kill Frank. All he wanted to do, and he had in his mind that when he spoke of Mikey, that would mean the end of Frank Iero.

But, here he was, crying as he held his gun.

And he didn't feel as if he could do it.

Finally, after what felt like years of internal conflict, Gerard turned, the gun in his hand, and he walked, very determined into the bedroom where Frank lay sleeping. It was probably cowardly, but that was nothing new. Gerard knew he was a coward. He stood in front of Frank, and in the dim glow of the candle, he could see Frank sleeping soundly. Gerard wondered what his dreams were like, who was in them, what was happening.

Gerard began to raise the gun, aiming towards Frank's head, and his crying increased, but he somehow managed to stay silent. He did not want to kill Frank, but he had to. Frank was a waste, a tumor. Gerard wanted to sever the tumor, cut him off like a cancer. Gerard wanted to be alone again, or so he thought.

But, if that was what he wanted, why could he not pull the trigger? Why could his finger not move? If Gerard wished so badly to be alone, why was he not yet alone? Gerard had been given hundreds of chances to kill Frank, to leave him for dead, to end his life, but Gerard had never taken any.

As much as Gerard hated it, he was beginning to realize how much he needed Frank. Gerard wished to be alone, but at the same time, he did not. If Frank were to go, Gerard would live on knowing he killed another innocent human, another living soul, for what he felt would be the better.

Frank had a family. Frank had a life, and Gerard, so many times, had thought of ending it. Gerard knew that Frank would never see his wife and son again, but the thought of being responsible for leaving a woman widowed and a child fatherless made him incredibly ill.

Gerard stared down the end of the gun at the innocent man's face. It would be so easy, but yet, it was so hard.

He lowered the gun.

Frank stirred in his sleep, muttering something intelligible, and Gerard was scared for a moment he had woken the medic. He watched Frank for just a moment longer, his eyes taking in the glow reflected from the lamp beside him on the table. Gerard smiled a little, wiping away his tears with his free hand. Frank was his friend, and, he had decided, he was going to keep Frank safe.

Gerard walked back into the front room casually, almost like he had not just made the decision to spare a life, and un-cocked the gun, dropping the bullets and laying it back in the pile. He turned back to the back room and moved to the bed. In the light of the lamp, he could see Frank snoozing, and a small smile crossed his face again. He chuckled as he removed his grungy shoes and slipped into the bed beside Frank, laying on his back.

Tomorrow, he decided, things would change. Things would be different.

Especially now that he no longer wanted to murder the only human he had met in three years.