Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > The Sharpest Knives - Frerard
A/N: Sorry for the slow update, and the crappy quality of this chapter. It just so happens that I saw frnkiero andthe cellabration on Thursday!(23/04/15) He is actually queen (and I felt really dodgy for having written this fic) I got a setlist! Have any of you guys seen Frank and his new -fucking amazing- band?
They had been driving through Illinois for several hours when Frank's first migraine hit him.
He had been idly listening to Gerard and Bob sing along to Master of Puppets by Metallica, whilst desperately trying to avoid the accusing gaze of Jaxon the Boxer, when the first swelling aches brooded.
There was a fairly pathetic, notebook sized window on the back door of Bob's truck, and Frank had been gazing out of it ever since leaving Missouri, contemplating the wonders of his kidnap.
It really is time that you started to freak a little more, Frank, he had thought inwardly. You are in a truck with a murderer, a murderer's ginger acquaintance, and a potentially man-eating canine. Even worse, you are slightly obsessed with the way that aforementioned murderer holds a cigarette.
The road that they had been driving on since Gerard's mother's cafe was a dull, grey strip of unadopted tarmac, which rocked the van nauseatingly and threw Frank dangerously close to Jaxon's 'personal bubble' on occasion. Frank was becoming used to the dull buzz of the truck's engine, and the constant murmurings between Gerard and Bob. The sounds of travel were becoming -stupidly- soothing to him.
I should probably start thinking of an escape plan, Frank huffed mentally. If I have to listen to Gerard's questionably attractive hoarse singing for another hour, I might just lose my dignity and fling myself over the seat and onto his lap. Shock horror, I'm bent as fuck.
Frank was experiencing a passing thought of Ray when the pain kicked in. At first it just felt as if a sharp knife had been sliced quickly and cleanly through his temples, but then the agony swelled across his entire forehead and his eyes began to be spotted with patches of black. Frank cried out, arousing the attention of Bob and Gerard.
“Whoa, whoa, what's going on back there, Frankie?” Bob called, looking in the headmirror back at him. “What's up?”
Gerard swivelled in his seat to see Frank completely crippled as if taunted by cramps; he was bent over forward with his head in his hands and his tattooed fingers tearing at his greasy hair. He was emitting racks of sobs that sounded somewhat inhuman as he rocked back and forth, slapping his scalp from moment to moment. “Frankie,” Gerard soothed, “what is it?”
“My, fucking, my, my fucking head!” Frank screamed, the wail so voluminous that it caused Gerard, with all his placid stature, to flinch.
Gerard unbuckled himself from the seat, and propelled himself into the back of the car, landing stealthily as a cat and hurried towards the reeling Frank. Gerard skidded to a kneel before Frank, who sat on a bench along the left side of the van. Frank was still jolting about manically and crying, so vociferously that Gerard's chest ached at the sight and sound of it. Gerard gently moved closer and tried to grip onto Frank's forearms and prise them away from his head before he actually began ripping legitimate chunks of hair out of his head. Frank's arms were iron stiff, and strategically placed so that Gerard would not be able to move them. Sighing, Gerard sat cross legged in front of Frank, gazing up at him compassionately.
“Frank, Frankie, what's u-”
“Fuck, off!” Frank bawled, crunching his fists so tight around his hair that several parts of his scalp began to bleed, and his nails dug into the skin of his palms. “Get away from me! You killed my best fucking friend! You killed him, you fucking bastard!” Frank screamed in Gerard's face, his eyes glupy with tears, the terror in his pupils making Gerard flinch back even more. “Leave me the fuck alone!”
Gerard stood up slowly and backed carefully away from the wrecked boy before him. Gerard kept his eyes on the convulsing Frank but spoke to Bob, who was still driving. “We're going to stop at the next motel. I didn't think this would happen so early.”
Frank could only just hear Gerard's words over the shrill buzzing and ringing in his ear canals and temples.
How the fuck did you know this would happen? How do you know me, you bastard?
It turned out, in fact, that Gerard Way was not indeed a bastard. In actuality, as Gerard told Frank as he steered him gently from the truck into a tiny motel room, his parents were happily married when Gerard was born. Gerard proceeded to tell Frank, as he sat him gently on the suede-covered bed, that he was born exactly a year after their wedding. Frank, however, would not remember any of this, because the only thing he was capable of comprehending was the intolerable, jeering headache that flooded his skull.
Frank was not one to be inexperienced in the business of pain. He was often in and out of hospital and, god damn it, he'd forgotten an entire three and a fucking half years of his life. Frank was accustomed to being completely out of the loop, but this migraine, this was new.
It wasn't just a headache, that was the problem. The headache-going-on-cause-of-death came hand in hand with a hundred other experiences of pain. He would have visual flashbacks (if that was what you could call them) of pain being inflicted on him, and then he would feel it, as real and physical as the reality around him. He would see tongs, and feel his teeth being ripped clear out of his skull. He would see a manacle, and feel his ankle snap in half. He would see a blade, and feel a circle be cut out of his stomach. It was all a hundred per cent real, or at least Frank was convinced it was.
The migraine did not die down until eight o'clock that night. Bob had booked the room (and with it only costing $19 dollars, the dysfunctional lights, taps, and heating was not a huge disappointment) and had fallen asleep on the pull out sofa, whilst Gerard had tenderly held the quivering and whimpering Frank in his arms. This much, Frank was aware of.
It has been five days and it still remains that you haven't a flying fuck what's going on. Why am you letting this happen? Fucking hell, Iero, you've fucked up, big time, Frank thought, distressed.
As the migraine began to settle, ceasing its sharp stabs at Frank's temples and the flashbacks becoming less and less frequent, Frank became more and more aware of Gerard's muscular torso at his cheek, and his dirty-nailed fingers stroking his shoulder absently. Frank felt himself melt into the man beside him, and allowed himself a thought.
Just this one time. Once. Enjoy it, but never let Gerard Way hold you again, Frank. You're falling, so let him catch you. Or don't. Fuck.
A/N: If you guys could leave a review I might just cry with happiness okay..
They had been driving through Illinois for several hours when Frank's first migraine hit him.
He had been idly listening to Gerard and Bob sing along to Master of Puppets by Metallica, whilst desperately trying to avoid the accusing gaze of Jaxon the Boxer, when the first swelling aches brooded.
There was a fairly pathetic, notebook sized window on the back door of Bob's truck, and Frank had been gazing out of it ever since leaving Missouri, contemplating the wonders of his kidnap.
It really is time that you started to freak a little more, Frank, he had thought inwardly. You are in a truck with a murderer, a murderer's ginger acquaintance, and a potentially man-eating canine. Even worse, you are slightly obsessed with the way that aforementioned murderer holds a cigarette.
The road that they had been driving on since Gerard's mother's cafe was a dull, grey strip of unadopted tarmac, which rocked the van nauseatingly and threw Frank dangerously close to Jaxon's 'personal bubble' on occasion. Frank was becoming used to the dull buzz of the truck's engine, and the constant murmurings between Gerard and Bob. The sounds of travel were becoming -stupidly- soothing to him.
I should probably start thinking of an escape plan, Frank huffed mentally. If I have to listen to Gerard's questionably attractive hoarse singing for another hour, I might just lose my dignity and fling myself over the seat and onto his lap. Shock horror, I'm bent as fuck.
Frank was experiencing a passing thought of Ray when the pain kicked in. At first it just felt as if a sharp knife had been sliced quickly and cleanly through his temples, but then the agony swelled across his entire forehead and his eyes began to be spotted with patches of black. Frank cried out, arousing the attention of Bob and Gerard.
“Whoa, whoa, what's going on back there, Frankie?” Bob called, looking in the headmirror back at him. “What's up?”
Gerard swivelled in his seat to see Frank completely crippled as if taunted by cramps; he was bent over forward with his head in his hands and his tattooed fingers tearing at his greasy hair. He was emitting racks of sobs that sounded somewhat inhuman as he rocked back and forth, slapping his scalp from moment to moment. “Frankie,” Gerard soothed, “what is it?”
“My, fucking, my, my fucking head!” Frank screamed, the wail so voluminous that it caused Gerard, with all his placid stature, to flinch.
Gerard unbuckled himself from the seat, and propelled himself into the back of the car, landing stealthily as a cat and hurried towards the reeling Frank. Gerard skidded to a kneel before Frank, who sat on a bench along the left side of the van. Frank was still jolting about manically and crying, so vociferously that Gerard's chest ached at the sight and sound of it. Gerard gently moved closer and tried to grip onto Frank's forearms and prise them away from his head before he actually began ripping legitimate chunks of hair out of his head. Frank's arms were iron stiff, and strategically placed so that Gerard would not be able to move them. Sighing, Gerard sat cross legged in front of Frank, gazing up at him compassionately.
“Frank, Frankie, what's u-”
“Fuck, off!” Frank bawled, crunching his fists so tight around his hair that several parts of his scalp began to bleed, and his nails dug into the skin of his palms. “Get away from me! You killed my best fucking friend! You killed him, you fucking bastard!” Frank screamed in Gerard's face, his eyes glupy with tears, the terror in his pupils making Gerard flinch back even more. “Leave me the fuck alone!”
Gerard stood up slowly and backed carefully away from the wrecked boy before him. Gerard kept his eyes on the convulsing Frank but spoke to Bob, who was still driving. “We're going to stop at the next motel. I didn't think this would happen so early.”
Frank could only just hear Gerard's words over the shrill buzzing and ringing in his ear canals and temples.
How the fuck did you know this would happen? How do you know me, you bastard?
It turned out, in fact, that Gerard Way was not indeed a bastard. In actuality, as Gerard told Frank as he steered him gently from the truck into a tiny motel room, his parents were happily married when Gerard was born. Gerard proceeded to tell Frank, as he sat him gently on the suede-covered bed, that he was born exactly a year after their wedding. Frank, however, would not remember any of this, because the only thing he was capable of comprehending was the intolerable, jeering headache that flooded his skull.
Frank was not one to be inexperienced in the business of pain. He was often in and out of hospital and, god damn it, he'd forgotten an entire three and a fucking half years of his life. Frank was accustomed to being completely out of the loop, but this migraine, this was new.
It wasn't just a headache, that was the problem. The headache-going-on-cause-of-death came hand in hand with a hundred other experiences of pain. He would have visual flashbacks (if that was what you could call them) of pain being inflicted on him, and then he would feel it, as real and physical as the reality around him. He would see tongs, and feel his teeth being ripped clear out of his skull. He would see a manacle, and feel his ankle snap in half. He would see a blade, and feel a circle be cut out of his stomach. It was all a hundred per cent real, or at least Frank was convinced it was.
The migraine did not die down until eight o'clock that night. Bob had booked the room (and with it only costing $19 dollars, the dysfunctional lights, taps, and heating was not a huge disappointment) and had fallen asleep on the pull out sofa, whilst Gerard had tenderly held the quivering and whimpering Frank in his arms. This much, Frank was aware of.
It has been five days and it still remains that you haven't a flying fuck what's going on. Why am you letting this happen? Fucking hell, Iero, you've fucked up, big time, Frank thought, distressed.
As the migraine began to settle, ceasing its sharp stabs at Frank's temples and the flashbacks becoming less and less frequent, Frank became more and more aware of Gerard's muscular torso at his cheek, and his dirty-nailed fingers stroking his shoulder absently. Frank felt himself melt into the man beside him, and allowed himself a thought.
Just this one time. Once. Enjoy it, but never let Gerard Way hold you again, Frank. You're falling, so let him catch you. Or don't. Fuck.
A/N: If you guys could leave a review I might just cry with happiness okay..
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