C h a p t e r | T w e n t y - T h r e e
Present Day - Frank
"Can you tell me what happened, Gee?" I finally break the silence that's been thick in the air for around four minutes as I drive in the dying down rain.
He hasn't even looked at me yet. He leans his head against the window and pulls his sleeves over his hands. "I fell asleep next to you... I woke up in the cemetery."
We've got a long drive ahead of us. The dashboard clock tells me it's well past midnight and sleep is heavy on my mind. Since the storm has almost passed, it's a blessing for the road conditions so I don't have to concentrate so hard on what's in front of me. I can let my mind wander and consider all the events of tonight.
"Do you think someone took you there?"
That's the logical explanation. People don't just teleport to locations they've never even been to before. Gerard visibly racks his brain, trying to conjure up a solution to this impossible equation.
"There was nobody else there," he insists, "I woke up totally alone. And why would anybody do that, take me all the way up there then vanish?"
"But you couldn't have just walked." I cut in.
"Of course not. It's hundreds of miles." More thinking passes through his expressions, a million unattainable ideas beyond the realm of basic laws of physics. "It's like I blinked and I was just there, as if I skipped through time and space."
There's no such thing. "That's delusional."
Gerard shrugs and continues, "I don't know what happened." His voice is dead, void of emotion, reminding me of the time he almost wished me to shoot him. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I can't help but wonder if it's my fault. Everything awful that's happened to the innocent boy beside me in the past few months I've known him has been at my hands. He's emotionally distressed being away from Mikey and his regular life, mentally scarred from the multiple times I hurt him, and now he sounds empty, like I've broken him down and he's been built up again as a drone incapable of happiness.
We're sitting ducks - what do we do if we're not running or dying? How do we go home without this purpose?
"Are you okay?" I finally ask, a question that I should've started with.
He appears troubled and caged off. "I'm not hurt."
"That's not what I meant," I oppose. I'm not thinking of the physical side of things and he knows it. I sigh, my hands tightening around the steering wheel when he doesn't respond. "It's gonna be hours until we get back..."
"I don't feel much like singing," he comments weakly.
"That's okay." I switch on the radio. The late-night stuff is mostly reserved for insomniacs and travelling night-shift workers, something I'm not familiar with. I pick an obscure station so we can listen and ignore the uncomfortable silence.
"...Ending at oh-six-hundred this morning, Ts and Cs apply. Next up is a request: this is an exclusive acoustic issue of 'Grand Theft Autumn / Where Is Your Boy' by New Jersey based pop-punk band Fall Out Boy."
A man starts singing but it doesn't fill the car like I hoped it would. Gerard stares blankly out the window at the trees that pass. Just as we're approaching a turn, I start to bounce my left leg in unease, restless at the horrific silent treatment. I wish I could be asleep in a warm bed to escape it.
"'I could be an accident but I'm still tryin'...'" I switch it off and the voice is sliced and culled.
"I can't read your mind," I say, "it's driving me crazy."
"There's nothing on my mind," he replies and I get it, it's probably overwhelming, "I don't know what I expect to be in my head right now - fear, frustration, despair - but... it's nothing."
"What if this happens again?" I demand. I know it's not his fault, my bones themselves are telling me so, but if such an unexplainable occurrence is to happen once, who says it won't happen twice? I'm sick down to my blood vessels.
"Then I'll do the same as I did tonight," he decides, "I call you and I don't move."
"You're not just doing that because you're scared, right?" My insecurities make themselves known. "You know I'm trying to keep you safe because I love you and don't ever want to lose you?"
Is everything just an act? Does he even love me or is it a tactic to completely gain my trust then run at the first opportunity? Thinking of that makes me sick to my stomach. I never want him to leave me. I don't think I'd be able to live without him.
"I feel the same way," he reassures me. I think I see the ghost of a smile appear on his lips and it soothes me. The thick tension has been broken and for the rest of the trip we're content, with the exception of the bad feeling in my gut.
When we pull up at the house, I still feel nauseous. This must be why we're feeling low lately, because there's a bug floating around. I get to the front door with Gerard beside me before I have to clutch the handle to regain my balance from almost falling.
"Frank, are you okay?" Gerard holds my arm.
Dizziness bombards my head. I can't believe I was just about to pass out. I have a strong immune system though so I'm not concerned.
"I'm fine. My stomach—" A sharp pain cuts me off and I clutch my abdomen, gritting my teeth. Maybe not so strong after all. Gerard supports my weight without prompting.
"Christ, okay, I'll make you a bed on the sofa." He helps me inside and quickly rearranges the blankets and pillows on the couch so he can lay me on them.
It's comforting and I would smile if I could. Instead I roll over, still holding my stomach. "I think I'm just getting a twenty-four hour thing. You should stay away from me."
He touches his fingers to my forehead much to my dismay, checking for a temperature. However hot I feel, he says nothing about it, probably to not worry me anymore. If something is seriously the matter, it's not like we have easy access to healthcare, being on the run and in hiding and all.
"You couldn't make me if you tried." He smiles a little and climbs into the 'bed' next to me, cuddling into my chest.
I sigh and wrap my arms around him, attempting to ignore the pain in my body. Time seems to float away into blissful nothingness. I feel his heart lulling me to sleep, something we both desperately need.
I don't know how long I'm out before I hear a shrill voice.
"... I don't know! I've tried everything!"
I slowly open my eyes and the first thing I see is the digital clock on the coffee table indicating it's six in the morning. I think about that random contest on the radio and how it's ending. Ray, Bob and Gerard are standing over me like military structures, all business.
"Frankie?" Gerard drops to his knees and clutches my hands like he's afraid they'll disappear.
"What's wrong?" I ask groggily. It's then that I notice cold water trickling down my face, and I can barely feel my boyfriend's hold on me.
"You wouldn't wake up," Bob says plainly like it justifies this treatment. The water is in my hair, in my eyelashes. It's freezing.
"Maybe because I didn't want to." I roll my eyes.
"I was screaming at you. Ray threw a bucket of water over your face." Gerard explains worriedly. "You were so pale and cold and I didn't know what was happening. I freaked out. I'm sorry."
I comb back my wet hair in vague irritation, wiping another hand down my face in attempts to properly wake myself up for a second. Gerard fixes the pillow at my back.
"No, it's okay." I sigh and quickly kiss his head. "I'm definitely getting sick. There's some weird stuff going on in this house and we've had a long night so I'm just going to sleep it off—" I gasp when a sudden pain shoots up my side and stomach, the familiarity from earlier returning.
Gerard scrambles to his feet. "Frank?"
"I'm fine—" But I'm not, because as soon as I say it, the pain worsens and it feels like I'm being stabbed repeatedly in the abdomen. Like some sort of piercing object has worked its way inside my skin. I'm not one to be melodramatic about my health but I can't help it; I fall off the sofa onto my hands and knees, clutching my torso, and cry out.
I try to reach up my shirt, certain there's something there. This isn't normal. Bob stands back like I'm contagious and my breathing hardens.
"Oh God, what do we do?" Gerard's yelling is distant in my ears and turns into ringing. He's tearing through my clothes to see if there's a wound, but there's not; there's nothing. Externally, I'm fine.
I don't want him to see me like this, on the verge of tears and another cry of pain. I swat his hands away and choke out, "Gee—" I try to tell him to leave me to battle this out on my own but my mouth won't coordinate with my mind. It's like there's a mental block, and secretly I need him; I need his comforting hand and reassurance that whatever I'm feeling will pass.
Bob's dragging me by the arms into a more open space and laying me on my back, while Gerard takes out his phone with shaking hands and punches some numbers in.
"No!" I try to grab his phone, swatting blindly like a baby asking for food. If he calls an ambulance, we're all in far worse trouble, because the police will find us. I can't go to hospital. Ray gets the message and takes the phone off him with reluctance, knowing the action will be saving us from a fate worse than this.
"You need to go to the hospital!" I think I hear Gerard trying to change my mind and encourage me to seek professional help. I can't do that though, I refuse. I would sooner die on this floor with him than be ripped apart from the one sure thing in my life that makes me happy.
"Let me look again," Ray insists and presses a hand on my torso. The kind of pain this brings is impossible to describe. It spreads all over my body and he instantly retracts his touch, seeing that I've seized up.
Gerard has his head in his hands, and is shouting something at Ray who refuses to listen. Soon, they all blur into a sour ball of black and blue, then nothing.
I can't be out for more than a minute before I regain consciousness. The pain is still there but it's dull and ignorable.
"Frankie," Gerard cries, wrapping me in a bone-crushing hug, and I half-heartedly return it.
"You want anything to eat or drink?" Ray offers. I shake my head.
"You really scared us, Frank." Bob sighs.
Right. I don't know why he's pretending to care. I wouldn't throw a bucket of water on him if he were on fire. Ray seemed to enjoy it as a way of waking me up, though. I stretch out and hear my back pop in several places, still half-embraced by Gerard as he tickles a hand up my neck.
Gerard mumbles into my shoulder, quiet enough so that only I can hear, "promise that nothing will happen to you, that you won't leave me, okay?"
Like I promised I would keep him safe no matter what. Like he promised he would never desert me. I can't believe that earlier on, I was doubting how far his love would extend - if he didn't care for me, he certainly wouldn't be attached at the hip to me now. I have to let myself believe that this is real and relax. But it's all okay - neither of us are leaving anytime soon.
"What are you talking about?" I chuckle. "I just fell asleep, Gee, I'm not going anywhere."
Ray sighs in disappointment at the downplaying of my situation. He knows I'm quick to anger and should care more about this. But on my side, I have no idea what the big deal is.
"You just fell asleep?" He echoes with a grimace. "Frank, it looked to me like you were close to dying!"
Wait. Have I just lost a chunk of my head?
"What?" I rummage through my memories but come up blank. "I swear I was only sleeping..."
The bucket of water over my face, yeah. I remember feeling annoyed that it woke me up but Ray is a crappy friend sometimes (I mean that in jest) so I'm not entirely surprised. It's a dramatic method to wake someone up. I needed that rest after the crazy night Gerard and I shared at my parents' cemetery.
"You don't remember us yelling? I was about to call for an ambulance?"
What the hell is going on? I'm definitely lost for words, lost in thought. Why would they want to call for an ambulance? There's nothing wrong with me, and there are no lingering signs to suggest there ever was. I wonder if it's connected to Gerard's little trip to the graveyard - the memory loss and confusion. We've got be catching the flu or something. I've got to be diseased, a hopeless, purposeless man.
I frown distastefully at this. "I told you that phone is for calling me only otherwise they'd track it. Look, can we just forget about it? I'm still here and I'm okay for now."
Gerard's kiss on my lips is desperate like he's afraid it'll be our last. "For now."
>
Present Day - Mikey
He goes back at night.
When Mikey first met Pete, he expected a tough layer of security surrounding their home, knowing the Wentz family have money and they know what to do with it. But when he was busy pretending to be a Jehovah's Witness earlier in the day, he also took notice that there were no security cameras bound to the front of their house. And he never noticed any inside when he was with Pete (and if they were hidden, surely Pete would have said something).
He basically lived in the place; he knows it well enough. He knows there are no alarms that will go bang in the middle of the night. It confused him at first but then he realised Pete's parents are rarely home and they instead trusted their son to hold down the fort - and likely have their most prized possessions locked away somewhere.
It's Mikey's belief that every rich person owns a safe.
They've got to have one. With any luck, there will be money inside, right? He doesn't assume to know everything about the businesses the Wentz family are involved in or what exactly they choose to do with their spare cash, save for spending it on an expensive house and easily-wrecked cars for Pete's benefit. Maybe they put it in stocks - maybe they lock it in a metal box. Perhaps he'll find a gun in there, or drugs. Knowing Pete, it wouldn't surprise him.
He sneaks in during the early hours of the morning. They're on the second floor sleeping, his parents - if they stayed the night. Why have they come back now? Probably to sort out the situation with Pete and his jail time. Their son is the reason he's here doing this, because they don't love him enough to save him. But Mikey does.
He wears an all-black outfit, looking every bit the reckless teenager as he feels. He picks the lock to the front door as a YouTube tutorial instructed him like a real amateur loser. It takes him fifteen whole minutes to be able to pull on the handle. He knows the door doesn't squeak but when he enters without a sound, it's still a relief.
The hallways are longer than he remembered, and he makes a note not to go up the stairs. He could check the studies or communal rooms, but bedrooms are off limits - the sloped ceilings awaiting him on the second floor scream danger. He can't afford to be caught, literally. He just has to remind himself he's doing this for a good reason.
This is how my parents died, at the hands of a no-good burglar. Mikey isn't here to hurt anyone - he could never. It makes him sick thinking that an attempt at petty theft ultimately led to a brutal school shooting. But no, he can't think about that now. He has a task to complete.
He switches on his flashlight and heads for the main office. He hardly knows what the hell he's doing being so bold and breaking so many laws - especially considering he's been in this very house a million times before, knows every nook and cranny and never has he seen hundreds of thousands of dollars lying around on a mantelpiece. Is this a mistake?
No. No, he's doing it for Pete. He's doing it for love. And Pete's parents will forgive him when they notice their money missing because it's a worthy cause.
Their house is damn freezing. Cold, now that it's approaching the end of the year and he's no longer welcome here... for now. Until he makes things just again. Maybe after he bails Pete out - maybe if he can just convince Alicia to change her mind, maybe tamper with the evidence...
Whatever. He just wants one more day with his boyfriend. Pete is bound for prison but he needs one day, just twenty-four hours or more to let himself feel... normal again. To forget. Pete has this effect on him.
He finds a Bible on a bookshelf, coated with dust. He snorts quietly at the many ironies of it all and picks it up in one gloved hand, flicking through the pages. He doesn't anticipate finding any loose bills like one might expect in the Bible of a hotel room. He wouldn't deserve such kindness. He puts in back and starts looking behind the books, pressing against wood and walls as if searching for a secret door. Like he's in goddamn Scooby Doo.
He checks the desks, under windowsills, up in high places. In cabinets and wardrobes and wicker baskets. He finds singular cigarettes, crushed into tiny gaps like Pete had hidden them years ago and forgot of their existence. But apart from that, nothing.
Until he opens a file cabinet. And it's right there, laid bare for the world to see: stacks and stacks of bills tied with elastic bands. Sitting on top of rumpled paperwork, they're labelled with a single note: 'Pete'.
Mikey stands back, aghast at his actions. This money must be for his bail - there could be no other reason. He thinks about shutting it and getting the hell out of there because this must all be for nothing - Pete's parents really do care enough to help their son and Mikey is a stupid kid sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.
His entire body freezes when the light behind him flickers on. A terrified voice speaks up:
"What the hell are you doing in my house?"