Wintertime (Frerard, Sequel to Summertime)

2: I Have No Self Control

"Uhh, just how drunk are you? Brendon, honey, you're working for fuck-" Frank words stopped dead, his eyes fixated into the air.

Brendon noticed his absence of speech and followed his gaze: staring in confusion at fucking thin air.

Frank was not staring at thin air: Frank was staring at the end of his fucking life: Frank was staring at the figure that had haunted his mind for years: Frank was staring at the one thing even the medication couldn't save him from.

Because there stood none other than Gerard Way: bright red hair, and face contorted into an expression disgust and agitation. And it became apparent that this hallucination wasn't quite like the last one, because no matter how long he stared, and no matter how much he blinked, Gerard- the thing made it very clear that it in fact was not going away.

"Frankie- are you alright?" Brendon's voice suddenly became audible like the turn of a volume dial on a stereo, and Frank jumped, his gaze turning to the barista, and staring wide eyed as the figure moved away from where it had been stood to just behind Brendon: ensuring that Frank could see it at all times, and holy fuck, Frank was so fucking fucked.

"I-I'm gonna call in sick today." Frank stuttered out, grabbing his cellphone, and watching as the hallucination raised his eyebrows and smirked a little.

Brendon turned around to where Frank's gaze was fixated and again found himself utterly dumbfounded at the lack of anything there at all.

Frank muttered something to his boss about feeling sick and how he didn't get enough sleep last night, because it was totally that, and the red haired figure was in fact nothing more than a result of his zero hours of sleep last night: a waking dream brought on by what he thought he'd seen last night. Not real, not even a fucking hallucination, well not a 'proper' one.

Frank was just tired.

And he did a very good job of convincing himself as such.

"Frank, what's wrong?" Brendon asked as soon as his friend had put the phone down. "Y-you don't look very good, baby, well you look good, but... you know." The hallucination grew more agitated at this, almost seeming to glare in Brendon's direction.

"I didn't get enough sleep last night." Frank looked the figure in the eyes. "And I'm so tired that I'm seeing things that aren't there. I'm fine, it's nothing, but I'm probably going to just sleep it off and then everything will be fine."

"That's not how it works, Frankie." The voice made Frank jumped, because fuck no, that was not Brendon, and as Frank's eyes widened, turning to the hallucination, and practically dying inside at the smirk and the part of his lips. "It's me and I'm here, Frankie, you know that, don't you?" And sure enough, the figure's lips moved as he spoke.

It was evident upon Brendon's face that he hadn't heard anything at all, and Frank really fucking needed to sleep this off before he went fucking crazy, but no, he knew from all his time in therapy that he needed to confront his hallucinations face to face and tell them that they weren't real until he truly believed it, because just like that, they would indeed fade away, because after all, Brendon couldn't see it, and it was all in his head: he had it under control, and he promised himself that.

"Frankie, baby, you need to go to sleep, go home, okay, b-baby?" Brendon's words were slurred but that didn't affect their meaning in the slightest.

"O-Okay." Frank nodded, stretching and yawning a little as he turned on his heels and made his way out of Starbucks, and headed down the road: back to his apartment and back to bed, or at least that was how thing should have been, and the hallucination most certainly shouldn't have joined him outside, hell, fucking follow him as he walked, even quickening his pace in time with Frank's, because fuck, this wasn't normal, and Frank was normal, and he couldn't- fuck, no: he wasn't going to deal with this, because Frank would honestly put a bullet through his brain than go back to the hospital again.