not my type ↬ frerard

24

And then, seemingly out of the blue, Frank got worse.

He started losing weight at an alarming rate, the bags under his eyes from sleep loss looked like purple bruises, and his hair was getting longer and shaggy.

He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He didn't take his meds. He stopped going to therapy. He stopped writing and listening to music. He was just... existing.

Gerard would coax him out of the house and take him to the movies, but... the vacant look in his eyes, they way they looked passed the screen and just stared off into space, was scary.

At Gerard's house, the only words he could muster were one or two -word replies at low volume. He'd curl up underneath Gerard's warmest, fuzziest blanket and sleep half the day away in Gerard's bed.

Gerard asked why he used the thick blankets, and Frank's only reply was- "I'm cold." And Gerard never questioned him.

Donna always tried to persuade Frank to eat something. Even made vegetarian meals, since Frank favored that kind of food. Nothing could please him. All he ate to ensure he didn't starve was breathmints, and a sleeve of crackers spread out over a week's time.

Gerard would take him out with Lyn-Z and Bert, doing fun things like bowling or walking around on fairgrounds or visiting the mall.

Frank always looked like he was in a daze.

Gerard decided against dragging him out of the house one day, and just came to visit Frank instead.

And when he opened the door, the smell hit him- alcohol. It made him nauseous, reminded him too much of high school, and he thanked God that Bert was a brave enough soul to tag along, and he was the one who could stand the smell. So Bert walked into Frank's house, kicking clothes and paper and empty alcohol cans out of the way, making his way to Frank's room.

"Hey man," He called. "It's Bert.- Fuck, your house is nasty, dude."

Of course Frank heard this, but nothing could motivate him to even peek out from underneath the blanket that covered him. He hadn't even made it to bed, the previous night. He literally collapsed onto the floor and managed to pull the blanket off of his mattress.

Frank couldn't move. He couldn't... do anything. He felt so drained. Like there was barely enough energy left in him to breathe.

Bert walked in, immediately guessing that the blanketed lump in the floor was none other than Frank.

His heart sank.

"Frank," he sighed, walking over and kneeling down. He silently prayed that Frank was still alive under the blanket.

And when he pulled it back, there Frank was, wide-eyed and shivering, paler than ever, skin and bones in baggy clothes.

"Fuck, man." Bert muttered, pulling the blanket away entirely.

By this point, Gerard had willed himself to walk inside. Something in his gut ached, his subconscious telling him to walk into the kitchen. So he did.

And by the sink he found an astonishing amount of prescription painkillers, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds and even medication for bipolar disorder.

"Jesus Christ," Gerard sighed. "Jesus."

"Can you stand up?" Bert asked, a little scared Frank wasn't even hearing him.

Frank grunted, closing his eyes, and Bert took it as a no.

"Fuck," So Bert scooped Frank up bridal-style, surprised at how light he was. "Don't say I never did nothin' for you."

Gerard felt bad for it, but he was snooping through Frank's cabinets by this point. He had no food. It was gone. He had a half-eaten sleeve of crackers on the counter and a package of bottled water shoved in the corner. The rest was alcohol in the fridge.

Gerard caught sight of a prescription bottle on the floor, seemingly empty. The label was peeled off, so God knows what was in it.

Until he picked it up, and realized it wasn't empty.

It had razorblades in it.

a/n: whom fuckin told u it was good while it lasted,,

me rn