Heaven and Hell Start With the Same Letter (Frerard AU)

4

My heads pounding. I sit up, and I must have done it really fast because everything's spinning again.

I'm back in my room, and Gerard is in a chair right across from my bed. He smiles, and stands up, walking over to me.

"Is it ok if I sit down?"

I nod.

I lift up my hand to feel my head, and my fingers run over bandages.

"You hurt yourself really badly. I had to stay guard for about a few hours. I think you were out for about five. You feeling better?", he asks, sitting down at the foot of my bed.

I shrug.

He sighs, "Frank? W-what do these...voices...say, when you hear them?"

"They tell me to hurt people, or they tell me to hurt myself most of the time. Other times, they just laugh at me, or bring up memories I'd rather forget."

He leans over and puts his hand on my head, running it through my hair.

"Does it still hurt?"

"A little. What happened?"

He sighs, "Well, they were going to give you the shot, but you ended up hitting your head so hard you passed out. You still have to be careful for a few days."

"I hate this so much."

"I know."

I look up at him, and he opens his arm. I crawl into him, wrapping my arms around his thin body. Even though he's so small, he's still bigger and stronger than me, and he's definitely more comfortable.

He continues to run his hand through my hair and it feels so nice.

"You'll get better. It's just going to take time."
*
It's been a month, and my mom hasn't came to visit once like she said she was. I didn't even have high standards, and I was still let down. I know she doesn't care, but I thought that maybe she'd at least call, ask if I'm getting better.

I'm not, but for the first time in years, I wasn't having nightmares. Gerard and I both slept on the floor last night. We set up a little pillow fort and we talked for ages about nothing in particular, but it was nice.

Gerard and I are inseparable. Well it's more like I don't want to leave him because he's the only thing that keeps me calm here. He's the only one who can pull me out of an episode.

Ironically though, he's at his therapy session right now, so I'm alone in the day room. The tv's on, purely for white noise though, because no ones actually paying attention.
A guy walks up to me, but doesn't say anything, he just stares at me.

"You're the kid with the dead brother right?"

My heart starts to race. I hate talking to strangers about Tom. I don't even know how I told Gerard about it.

"My friend knew him at school. He said he always looked depressed. He was a cutter too. He always wore long sleeves, but one day, my friend, Ray, he accidentally spilt soda on him, and he had to take off his jacket. I heard the cuts were so deep, he had stitches. Is that true?"

My throat closes, and I'm grasping for words. It was obvious. It always was. The way he never wore anything but long sleeves and jackets, the way he winced when I would grab his arm. How his shaver in the bathroom would just disappear. Things I noticed far too late. Things I should've notice then, when he was still alive.

Suddenly, I'm back in my room, the image of Tom when I found him in front of me. I
try to leave, but the doors locked.

"Let me out! Please.", I scream.

I'm not hearing voices, because this is real. I'm the reason he's dead. If I would've had paid attention more, I would've have noticed the way there were dark circles under his eyes. I would've seen how he always had bloody tissues in the trash from "nose bleeds".

I'm having a panic attack. I try to calm my breathing, but nothing's working, I can't focus on anything.

"Frankie? Frank, I'm back!", I faintly here.

I pull at my hair. It's so painful. I can feel my lungs folding in on themselves, not allowing any air to flow through. I'm like a fish on dry land.

"Oh my god, Frank!"

I grasp at his voice, trying to catch every last bit of comfort, but I can't find him.

"I'm here, Frank, I'm here."

He pulls me into his lap, and he whispers soothing words into my ears. My eyes slowly open. And my death grip on my hair loosens a little more each time he says it'll be okay.

"Frankie? Are you ok now?", he says, tilting my head so that I can look him in the eye.

I stare at him.

"No.", I say, tears starting to fall again.

"It's ok. I'm here. Cry it out."

I hold onto his shirt, my tears staining the grey fabric, turning it a darker shade. His hold on me never loosens, and he rocks us back and forth until my tears stop falling.
He kisses my forehead.

"It'll be ok. I love you, Frankie. I love you."