Falling In Love Will Kill You (Frerard)

Monster

Frank wakes up, still feeling like shit. He hadn't gotten much sleep that night, the guilt he felt eating him up inside, until he finally passed out from exhaustion - emotional and physical. He hasn't felt this guilty since after his first job, and even then there was an element of excitement to help subdue it. He's become desensitised to killing, it still makes him want to throw up, and it still makes his fingers tremble and his vision blur, but he works through it, and it doesn't last long.

At least, it didn't.

But fucking Gerard. Gerard fucking Way has to be all high and mighty about it. Has to act as if he's above Frank, as if he's the one who decides what's right and what's wrong, no one decides something that important. Frank doesn't dwell on the fact that Gerard would say he decides who lives and who dies.

For what seems like the 1000th time in the past three days, Frank runs a finger along the chain around his neck. He's never been less sure about his place in the world. For the past six years, he's been a killer. At first, he struggled with that label, a killer isn't something that any sane person ever wants to be labelled as. But, as the years passed, he grew to accept it. After all, he's nothing more than a tool, something people use when they wanted someone dead. He doesn't kill people, his clients kill people, he just carries it out. He's no worse than someone who delivers the lethal injection, after a more "important" person decides that their victim dies.

He considers explaining this to Gerard, a small hope that it might dull the raging sense of self loathing he feels, but that man's morals are too strict, and Frank doesn't want another lecture.

He hears movement downstairs, and decides he should get up. Either he's slept in, and Oliver is already here - in which case he should probably get up - or Gerard is awake and strolling about his house, in which case he should definitely fucking get up - that guy would accidentally shoot himself in the face if he somehow got his hands on one of Frank's guns.

He rubs a hand over his face as he makes his way down the stairs, not bothering to change out of his pyjama pants and white t-shirt. Frank loves wearing white t-shirts to bed, he likes the way he can see the outline of his tattoo's through the light material, even though he's in bed and no one else can see him.

Gerard isn't in the living room where he left him, but in the kitchen, searching through the fridge with his back to the stairs.

"Stealing my food?" Frank asks, there's no real malice in his voice, even though he is kind of annoyed.

Gerard turns around, but doesn't seem surprised. "I mean, you've locked me up in your apartment, I think you should feed me. It's not like you did yesterday." He throws a look at Frank that says he's annoyed, but not angry.

"Shit sorry, got a lot on my mind." He waves his hand dismissively. He does have a lot on his mind, providing Gerard with food isn't a priority.

"Yeah," He says, moving towards the cabinet to retrieve a plate. He looks like he's already familiar with the layout of Frank's kitchen. "So what's on the agenda today?" Frank's eyes travel over his arms as he places two slices of toast into the toaster. They're thin and lean, and his skin looks soft and pale. He has the sudden urge to run his hands along them. "Frank?"

Frank coughs and shakes his head. He knows that he finds Gerard attractive, and he isn't ashamed of it, nor is he even that bothered about hiding it. He just doesn't want to make him feel awkward. Frank doesn't particularly like Gerard, but it's kinda his fault that they're even in this situation. Actually, no. It's Kevin's fault that they're in this situation. If Kevin didn't have some weird infatuation with Frank - or more accurately: If Kevin wasn't scientifically engineered to be the bane of his existence - then Frank wouldn't have an attractive, morally strict, red haired man in his kitchen.