The Sharpest Lives

Chapter Seventeen: No One Likes Being Interrupted

[Frank]

He called me back. He called me back and kept me here; what could I do when he cried for me? When he spoke with such conviction that I felt ashamed for even wanting to quit and let myself die?

"Who the fuck said you could leave, Iero? Who told you it was your time to go?"

That's what he said to me. He scolded me. For dying.

Trust Gerard to pull something like that.

I let him. I let him get mad at me; because it was the only thing that I knew would motivate me to get up. I couldn't find anything that mattered anymore, so I held on to the sound of his voice. It was the life jacket that kept my head just above the water, and I held the broken straps with every ounce of willpower I had left. I knew that if I didn't hold on, the next wave of emotion would sweep me away.

Away from everything. Away from Gerard.

That was the only thing I could remember that I didn't want to be taken away from.

But fuck it, I wished I could at least answer. I was just way too exhausted to even try. Which meant he could get away with anything and everything he wanted.

"Do you dare even think about leaving, Franklin," he went on, his voice a heated whisper.

No one calls me Franklin, bitch. I thought.

"You better be listening, asshole."

I'm listening, Mr.I'm-Such-A-Diva-I-Piss-Sequins.

"You have to pull through. You will pull through. You're stubborn. Kick that coma's ass."

What do you think I'm doing while you're throwing your bitch-fit?

There was a pause, in which I waited with amused irritation for his next berating comment. To be honest, it was all actually kind of entertaining.

But it can never stay that way with us. When is anything ever normal for two people who border the line between mild abnormality and clinical insanity?

"If not for yourself…would you do it for me, Frankie? Would you keep living for me?"

I didn't want to think about what that meant. His voice was unbearably soft…I didn't want to think about the implications I thought I heard; it was my imagination. If I thought about it, I would hope, and if I hoped, I was vulnerable.  If I was vulnerable, then it would crush me when he rejected me.

It wouldn't just crush me. It would destroy me.

He doesn't love you, idiot, I repeated in my head, quit waiting for him to say it.

It was only then that I noticed his hand around mine, his thumb rubbing soothing circles onto the back of my hand. The warmth of his hand against mine. His fingers threaded through mine. The way he squeezed my hand with a little more strength than perhaps he needed too.

I noticed that.

And stupidly, I hoped.

I let my mind wander to what could be. I shouldn't. Goddamnit, I shouldn't have.

But I could see it far, far too clearly.

I could imagine his hand in mine like this, going out together without the uncertainty of what we were, being with him, holding him in my arms without having to worry about watching my every move in case I revealed too much, helping him through his problems as he helped me, kissing him without the implications of being two men who were supposedly not attracted enough to each other to actually be in love.

I wanted that dream so badly. My heart ached for it so much that I wanted to tear it from my chest.

He didn't make it any easier for me to forget my fantasy either.

"I…I have to tell you…when you wake up…because you will wake up…I have to tell you…"

He never finished. It sounded like he was muttering to himself rather than talking to me anyway.

I couldn't take it. I'd had enough. Really and truly, I'd had enough.

No more aching in silence. No more dreaming and fantasizing. It was about time I told him.

It would kill the friendship that I treasured…but I had to.

I loved him. I'd fallen in love with him, even though I'd never meant to.

I've never hated myself more.

It took so much energy to just crack open my eyes, it was ridiculous. My whole body was just weighed down with exhaustion. I was pinned to this bed. Vulnerable, both emotionally and physically.

Probably not the best time to destroy what was left of my heart, but since when have I ever made totally smart decisions?

My first attempt at speaking was a pathetic murmur that I barely even heard over the soft beeping of the hospital equipment. I hated the constant reminder of where I was, but there was nothing I could do about it. I had more important things to worry about.

I tried again, and my murmur was a little louder.

"Gee…"

I heard his sharp intake of breath, saw the dark shape of his head whip towards my face.  I forced my eyes open a little wider and saw that his eyes were wide with shock and…hope?

I saw his lips move as he said my name, but I couldn't tell if he was just mouthing the words or if I was going deaf.

"Gerard…please shut-"

He cut off my weak mumbles before I could even get anywhere.

"Hey, hey, don't talk," he said, his fluttering over my face, trying to find a place to put his hand that wasn't covered in bandages. "Just…sleep."

"Make me," I croaked. He'd said I was stubborn, hadn't he?

He grinned at me as he rested his hand on my forehead. "Go to sleep, dumbass."

"No. I have to…I…"

He sighed. "Frank, you're not going to get any better if you act like an idiot. Get some rest."

"Why'd you wake me up then?"

He didn't have answer for that one.

Triumphant, I finally went back to sleep, confident that I would wake up later to continue my argument. I was a little pissed that I hadn't made my statement, but there was time for that.

Too bad I didn't know that the time for my confession was almost over.

"'Night," I sighed.

"'Night…"

And of course, Gerard Way must always have the last laugh, so to speak, because he is Gerard Way.

"…Franklin."

Sometimes it's hard to believe that this guy is at least 30 years old.