Cupid De Locke | Frerard

[14]

a/n: i'm so sorry.

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Gerard's POV

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I'm immune to the cold sensation from the metal door handle that chills my hand as I open the doors to the ICU.

The droning sounds of the ventilator is blocked out by any dread or grief that is scattered around my brain, along with the beeping and whirring of several other machines Frank's been hooked onto.

I fucking hate it here. I never like coming. I'm just trying to stay a bit more fucking positive, though. Ray said it might help with the grief.

It's been two months without Frank now. Two whole months.
It feels like a year with him gone. The box containing the unworn engagement ring still sits heavy with memories in my left coat pocket. Blood still lines the edges of my sleeves, despite all of my attempts to scrub it off to rid myself of any reminders of the accident.

I just can't let go of the ring.

I sit down beside him and look down at him, smiling a little. He looks so peaceful. Sometimes I wonder if he can actually hear me. Or if he can't, whether he's dreaming of something pleasant. I hope he is. I just want him to remember.

"I miss you." I break the eerie silence that sits in the corner of the room. "I hope you're doing well in there. Hopefully you're dreaming of something nice."

I caress his cheek gently with my thumb, tracing over the pale feeding tube that rests against his face and travels into his nose.

"So, uh, I went through our stuff earlier," I say, desperately trying to keep the mood slightly more positive than usual. "I found a few pictures of us from when we first met..."

I reach into my pocket and pull out a couple of slightly damaged, pen-smudged Polaroid pictures from my pocket. It's Frank and I, sat on a bench in the graveyard where we'd always meet. Our lips are interlocked and our cheeks are flushed. It's our first kiss.

Looking at them, I can remember everything so clearly- the nerves that built up within me; the rush of fear that swept over me as if to tell me to stop; the sudden click of the camera's shutter as our lips collided.

That's what started it all.

"It's our first kiss, Frankie." I explain, "We were sat on that bench in the graveyard, and I started taking photos of you as 'art references' or whatever, and then- then I got kind of carried away and well, we kissed."

Silence.

"Do you remember that?"

I begin to tear up. This time, it's not the anger or the grief that's getting to me. I just miss him. I just want Frank back.

I press the photos to my chest and smile weakly through my tears as they begin to roll down my cheeks.

"Oh, Frankie. I hope you're the same as you were back then when you wake."

Animated in my head, the memories of Frank and I, running through an empty, forest-surrounded graveyard replays in my head. It's like a fuzzy little TV, sitting at the back of my brain and collecting dust. It feels like I'm sitting in front of it; a box of old cassette tapes in my lap, inserting tape after tape, in an attempt to desperately hold onto what I might only have left of Frank.

Echoes of things we've said to one another bounce around in my mind.

"Does this mean you're my boyfriend or whatever? Or are we just-" Frank asks, curled up beside me.

"It can mean whatever you want it to mean," I reply calmly. I remember the excitement that bubbled up within me as he said that. I didn't know how to respond properly.

We were so fucking innocent back then, despite it only being two years ago. I miss that.

I wish I could plant a kiss on his tragic lips, or hold him tight in my arms like the world is falling apart.
I don't want to see him, dependent on machines, not knowing how to breathe on his own anymore. Not remembering who I am as he wakes up, me clinging to his arm as I excitedly encourage him to open his eyes. And then I find out he's never going to be able to walk again, or that he doesn't know how to function normally anymore.

I miss when he'd kiss my cheek softly every morning, and when we would hug each other he'd wrap his arms around my waist and bury his head in my chest because he'd be too short to reach me at head-height.

I hate walking into his room to see a bunch of nurses cleaning him up, or pumping him with more medication. Or when I walk in and the room is totally empty- just him, alone on his bed, withering away. He's so unaware. So fucking comatose.
Oh, to think that he was going to be awake after just a few weeks of recovery.

"Please, wake up, baby," I say, running my fingers through one of the overgrown blonde sides of his hair. He'd never changed that part about him, throughout the two whole years of knowing him. I'd gone through countless hair colors since meeting him, while his just stayed the same.

I kiss his cheek lightly and sigh longingly, feeling the tears clinging to the rims of my eyes. "We didn't know what was coming for us, did we?" I ghost my hand along the side of his bed. "I wish everything could go back to the way it was. You don't deserve this. I'm so sorry."

"But we're going to make it through, okay? Promise. I love you."

I long to see the day he can tell me that he loves me too again.

"I start work next week, anyway. I have two new jobs. I'm gonna work at the record store where you usually work, filling in your shifts and stuff, then I'm gonna work at Mikey's comic store like usual, and then Bob's gonna let me lend a hand at that shitty coffee shop that's around the corner from our house." I smile falsely, knowing deep down that three jobs probably isn't going to be enough for Frank's medical bills alone, let aside living expenses. "It's all going to work out, baby."

I fiddle with his bedsheets anxiously, before standing up and giving him another kiss on the cheek. "I have to go now. Wake up soon, please, darling- I miss you."
I shove my hands in my pockets and begin walking down the hallway towards the exit.

"Mr Way?" I hear a voice from behind me. I turn around- it's Ray. He looks worried.

"Oh, hey. What's up?" I say, leaning casually against the wall beside me.

"Look, this probably isn't the right time to tell you this, but- it's Frank..."

"W-what?" I stutter, panicked. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

"We ran a few tests on him the other day and- uh, well- his chances of waking up-" He sighs, "They're pretty low."

My heart plummets to the floor in disbelief.