We Can Run, Or We Can Die [Frerard]

Ten|Stealing From Dead People

Frank, meanwhile, was glowering at the three, his knife in his hands. Bert reached over and gently plucked it from his grip, turning it over in his own hands.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" He asked quietly, and Frank shrugged.

"If he really wants to die, why don't we just kill him."

Bert rolled his eyes. "It doesn't work like that, Frank. I'm sure even your mind can figure that out."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A shrug. "You don't think like a teenager, do you? You're not like the rest of us, kid."

"Says who?"

"All of us."

Frank shook his head. "That's not true."

"It is."

There was a pause. "So why isn't he dead if he wants to die so badly?"

"Maybe he's a coward, just like the rest of us."

Frank glared at him. "I'm not a coward."

He hated how Bert was so nonchalant about everything, about this. He hated how Bert could be so calm. He hated how Bert was the one telling him what he could and couldn't do. He was beginning to hate Bert himself.

"You're a different kind of coward, kid."

The younger rolled his eye, and then folded his arms, swinging his feet up onto the dashboard. Bert frowned but said nothing. "Do you love Gerard?" He was asked.

"Yes." He admitted, with five seconds' pause. "Why?"

"Does he love you?" Frank was looking at the three on the side of the road by now, or rather, he was looking at Gerard, and trying his very best to ignore how the elder made his stomach do some sort of weird twisty thing that was really quite uncomfortable at times.

"No. I don't know. Probably not anymore."

"What happened?"

"It doesn't matter, Frank."

Frank sighed. "Are you going to date him?"

There was a snort, and the teenager turned his gaze to Bert, who rolled his eyes. "See, this is what I mean. We're in a zombie apocalypse, and the most important thing on your mind is whether I'm going to date my best friend or not."

The back doors of the car then opened, and Ray, Gerard and a still-tearful Ryan slipped inside. Gerard leaned forward and said something to Bert in a low voice, his lips at his ear, and Frank felt a touch of jealousy, though he couldn't fathom why.

Bert handed Frank his knife and started the car, beginning to drove with no clear goal, and Frank just sat there, listening to the voices behind him. The knife in his hands was glinting maliciously, almost daring him to do something with it. It was a knife, of course, so it couldn't dare him to do anything, but even so, he felt a sudden urge to stick the blade into Ryan's leg.

He glanced around, unknown to the others, and he sought out Ryan's right shin. Then he faced the front, gripped the handle tight in his left hand, and struck.

Only the blade never found its target, as Ryan gripped Frank's wrist and moved his leg out the way. He took the knife from him, holding it up, and Frank glowered. That was the second time today his knife had been in the hands of another person. He didn't like it.

"My boyfriend had a knife like this." Ryan said slowly, and his dark eyes met Frank's for a split second, before Frank turned around and faced the front. He didn't mention how he'd taken the knife from the bloody hand of a dead body some years ago. He didn't mention how he'd thoroughly cleaned the blood off of the blade, thinking guiltily of its owner and their grisly end. "I was going to keep it, but when I returned to his body, it was gone. I wonder why that was..."

Frank didn't say anything, but he could feel Bert glance his way. In his eyes, he'd done nothing wrong.

Nothing more was said for at least another hour, until Ray started complaining that he was hungry, and they were forced to stop at a gas station that looked like it had been set fire to about three times. Bert, Ray and Gerard piled out, leaving Ryan and Frank behind; the latter decided he wasn't hungry, and the former had something he needed to do.

All of a sudden there was the sharpest pain in Frank's upper arm, sharper and clearer than anything he'd ever felt, and before he could cry out, there was a hand over his mouth. The hand was rough and dirty and it belonged to Ryan Ross, who twisted the knife in Frank's arm, making blood drip beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

"That's what you get for stealing from dead people, Iero." He hissed into Frank's ear, and Frank screwed his eye shut, whimpers of pain leaving his lips, only to be muffled by Ryan's hand. "Lindsey should've wrung your fucking neck."

And with that, he withdrew the knife, tossing it onto Frank's lap, and he left the car, left Frank, who bled and sobbed, helpless, all by himself.

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Omg I'm so sorry I haven't updated in so long but I'm back hello yes thank you for 1k votes and comments that's v good and I hope you liked the chapter :)

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