Random Frerard Fluff [ONE SHOTS] [COMPLETED]

Untouchable

Ghosts and trains everybody, that's all I have to say

AU FIC

When Frank Iero died, he kind of expected to stay dead. See, that's the thing with death. Most of it's made up of human guesswork, but even still, people find themselves caught up in a belief that's probably about zero-percent true; a pre-constructed misconception, if you will. It wasn't that Frank particularly believed in an afterlife, exactly, and as much as Living Frank had enjoyed a good paranormal flick, he didn't much believe in ghosts either. So, as I'm sure you can imagine, he received quite a shock when he realised that he was not, in fact, fully dead. Although, Frank didn't know if he was the tiniest bit dead at all, because the whole I-should-be-dead-but-I'm-awake-thing seemed to scramble any common sense that he'd had left.

After Frank Iero died, he couldn't actually remember dying. He could remember minute, unimportant details, but it was a different kind of remembering - it was as if he could feel the memories; as if they were forever imbedded into his subconscious. Actually, Frank felt that it would be more appropriate to refer to them as "scattered remains of his last living moments", rather than memories. Like, he could perfectly remember the way the car's blasting horn had screamed, Savethatboy! but no matter how hard he strained himself, Frank could not remember dying. That's probably what made the whole coming-back-to-life-thing so confusing, because if he couldn't remember dying, then maybe Frank wasn't even dead.

Before Frank Iero died, his life montage didn't flash before his eyes. On the contrary, in the few bare seconds he had left to live, Frank fully accepted his death with open arms, so to speak. It was his own fault, after all. For Frank, it was simply a reflex to protect the car's original, unsuspecting victim; a six-year-old boy. Frank had pushed him out of the way, probably breaking the kid's arm or something, instead forcing himself to take the killer impact. It wasn't that bad, though. Living Frank had thought that the whole dying-thing wouldn't suck half as much with the knowledge that, in the process of killing himself, he had saved an innocent boy's life.

Frank didn't come back until around eleven years after his death, and it wasn't that special, really - apart from actually coming back, of course. One day, roughly a few months after the anniversary of his death, Frank awoke to the amplified sound of cars speeding against the rushing wind. He slowly opened one eyelid, and, if it were possible, Frank would have pissed himself in fright. He sat bolt upright on the sunkissed bitumen, just in time to speculate as a car drove right though him. He jumped to his feet, amazed that each driver paid him no mind. Glancing out onto the busy intersection, something jerked in his mind, and suddenly he was drowned in a flood of realisation.

"I'm dead," Frank had said. "Fuck, I- I'm dead!" He had then laughed, disbelieving himself.

It took three days of being back for Frank to hate the loneliness, and he supposed he'd never get used to it. In those three days, he'd haunted his own grave multiple times, toured the town, and visited his parents, but life (well, death) was still extremely boring. He had been calmed by watching his parents go about their daily jobs - he was glad they weren't moping over his death, because Frank didn't want that. He liked watching them, but then again, he couldn't do much else. Frank knew by then that trying to interact with people would never fucking work, because no one could see, hear, smell, taste, touch, or sense him in any way. He'd finally concluded, with some influence from Hollywood, that he must have awoken on a different spiritual plane to the living, but that left so many other questions open. Why am I here? What brought me back? Does someone want me here? Do I have 'unfinished business' or some shit? How long is this going to last? Questions that would probably remain unaswered because, well, there was no one to ask.