I gave you blood, blood, gallons of the stuff
Frank was very shaken.
He was shaken the whole drive to Gerard's neighborhood, and he was still shaken when they got out a few blocks away (for safety reasons) and walked to a small apartment building which looked somewhat abandoned. He shivered every time Gerard brushed against him, and when Gerard unlocked the door to 27B, ushering Frank inside.
Frank had had a very disturbing dream on that plane. He couldn't even recall most of it, didn't want to, only that there had been a lot of blood - his blood - and Gerard, doing nothing to help, but more than that, making Frank bleed more. The scarlet that had been so everpresent in the dream was still bright and lurid behind his eyelids, and he had a sick, metallic taste in his mouth.
Gerard was dangerous.
He'd known that before, but now...now it was like his instincts were kicking in, telling him that sticking with Gerard was just a very bad idea. Gerard had all but kidnapped him, hadn't he? Kidnapped him to be used as a fucktoy. Frank did not like that, not at all, and he'd decided that he was going to do something about it. He'd probably have more luck here, where Gerard was more comfortable and at ease, not expecting to be hurt in his own home.
But part of Frank still felt guilty about it. He tried to convince himself that Gerard would never feel guilty about doing something like this to Frank - fuck, he was probably already planning to. But Frank...Frank couldn't help but foolishly hope that beneath that cold, hard exterior, there was another side to Gerard, a tiny shred of kindness. He believed he'd seen it before - after the haircuts debacle, when Gerard had allowed them to kiss without an ulterior motive near the end, and the first time Gerard had sex with him in the prison, when he just held him quietly afterwards.
But, Frank thought firmly, he had given Gerard plenty of opportunities to show that other side, and when it came down to it all, he was just a murderous asshole. He would toss Frank aside and put a bullet through his head when all of this ended, casual as anything. Frank knew it.
So it was with watchful eyes that he noted where Gerard stored his weapons here, a small shelf in the closet where they were covered discreetly with a black shirt, but Frank saw the glint of metal, and he didn't have to wonder any more.
Gerard gave him some clothes, mockingly telling him they probably wouldn't fit since Frank was such a tiny slut. That really made something ignite in Frank, because as much as Gerard pushed him around, he was always going to want to rebel. It was just part of him. If fucking Gerard Way wanted him to play the sweet, submissive character, then he was out of luck, because Frank would not, would never. He'd die before he became Gerard's plaything like that, collared and handcuffed and whipped and who knows what else. Even if Gerard did all those things to him, he'd fight all the way through it.
Gerard went out to pick up food somewhere, and Frank, after he was positive that the door was locked, scrambled over to the closet, picking out the knife he'd seen earlier. It would be all to easy to slip the sharp stiletto between Gerard's ribs, and he would be dead without a sound. A gun would be too loud, but this...this was just perfect. Frank was used to operating with knives, anyway. They were his...weapon of choice.
He hid the knife somewhere safe, and he waited, pacing and finally picking up a comic from the floor. He wouldn't have thought Gerard had good taste in comics at all, but...it was Doom Patrol, there was nothing more to it, and Frank wasn't complaining. He became so engrossed, he almost didn't hear Gerard's rap at the door.
He contemplated not letting him in, but Gerard would probably just punish him anyway, so he sighed and got up, opening the door and raising his eyebrow at the sight of Gerard bundled up in scarves with a bag full of Chinese take-out in his arms.
"Cold outside?" Frank asked.
"Are you referring to my scarves?" Gerard asked, unwinding them from his neck and throwing them somewhere across the room.
"The real question is: why is it scarves, plural? Why do you need more than one?"
"Better defense if someone tries to stab your neck," Gerard answered casually.
Frank choked on his noodles.
"Easy there," Gerard cautioned, but he was grinning. Fuck, thank God, he was only joking. Frank had thought for a moment that Gerard had read Frank's mind. "So, what did you do while I was gone?"
Frank swallowed his lo mein with a little more force than necessary and took a big gulp of the Coke they were sharing. "Read Doom Patrol."
Gerard's face might have lit up for a minute, but when Frank blinked, he just looked bored and calm again. "Interesting. Did I give you permission to go through my things?"
"I didn't go through your fucking things, it was on the floor," Frank replied sharply, "and I don't need your permission."
Gerard leaned back in his chair, poking at his orange chicken with a chopstick. "I'd just...advise you not to look in certain places here. You might not like what you find."
"You're acting like I've never seen a gun before, Gerard. Sometimes I feel like you forget that I've killed several people, too."
"And how did you do that again?"
"I'm not fucking telling you," Frank said smugly, crossing his arms.
"So you have a technique to killing them?"
Gerard was quiet. "And what technique is that?"
"Fuck you." Frank threw his napkin down and tossed the empty noodle box into the trash.
"You forgot your fortune cookie," Gerard called after him.
Frank gave him a long suffering look, and Gerard grinned toothily. "I can open it for you, if you like."
He was seized by a sudden unexplainable fear that the fortune would be frighteningly accurate and that Gerard would just know what Frank was going to do from that little slip of paper, and so he threw himself back into his chair, snatching up the wrapped cookie and tearing the packaging off, snapping the cookie in half and grabbing the slip of paper.
His breath caught in his throat.
Learn to trust your friends, and you will go far.
He snorted. Yeah, right. Trusting Gerard...Gerard wasn't even his friend. He, Frank Iero, didn't have any friends. That was a little sad. He crumpled up the paper and threw it away, too. Gerard had paused in chewing, but quickly resumed.
"What did yours say?"
"Something about friends," Frank replied vaguely. "Open yours, what does it say?"
Gerard huffed and put down his chopsticks, opening the cookie and sighing after he read it, sliding it across the table to Frank.
A secret admirer will approach you in the following week.
"Fortune cookies are such bullshit," Frank snapped, unsure why he was so angry about Gerard's fortune.
"Right," Gerard said, but he was smiling as he finished his meal.
Frank took Gerard by surprise after dinner with a volley of kisses, but Gerard was obviously not going to stop him, as long as he let Gerard stay in control or whatever the fuck he wanted. He hardly even remembered it, the memory was present in his mind like a series of snapshots - Gerard's teeth snapping at his neck, their hips moving in a hurried rhythm against each other, the swish of black hair and the stinging pain when Gerard pulled at his lip, hard. The slide of skin and sweat, the flash of Frank's own tattoos, and Gerard's face, blurred and hauntingly beautiful as he climaxed, before rolling off and taking a few deep breaths, closing his eyes, and falling asleep.
Frank was pleased. He'd succeeded in tiring Gerard out, all right. He had the soreness to prove it. Trying his hardest not to make a single sound, he slid out of the bed, wincing and swaying a bit, but otherwise doing just fine. Frank was tough, he'd had some pretty rough sex in his time, and this was nothing.
He crept towards the knife's hiding place, all the while keeping an eye on Gerard, who almost looked dead already, slumbering peacefully on the bed, all his pale skin on display. Frank shook his head and his fingers closed around the knife's hilt, holding it up and admiring the gleam of the blade. Gerard had it coming to him. He could do this. Spinning on his heel, he approached the bed, tightening his grip on the knife and leaning over. One quick downwards stroke, and Gerard's flesh would part, exposing him as a mere human and not as such an invincible being that he pretended to be.
Frank took a breath and slashed his wrist down.
And then he hesitated, the cold blade resting against Gerard's skin, directly over his heart, and Frank paused a moment too long and-
-Gerard's eyes opened.
Frank didn't even know what had happened. One minute he was clutching the blade, and the next, Gerard was a blur, knocking it away and the handle finding a new place in his hand, looming over Frank. Then Frank wasn't standing any more, he was falling, his back hitting the softness of the bed, and Gerard was pinning him down, thighs practically strangling his hips, knife tracing over Frank's stomach.
He knew it was dumb to do it, but he couldn't help himself - he screamed, and Gerard brought the knife down, cutting a thin, shallow, bloody line over Frank's skin. Oh, fuck, was all he could think, this was it, Gerard was going to kill him.
"No, I'm not going to kill you," Gerard snarled, eyes endless like mirrors, reflecting Frank's horrified face back at him a thousand, no, a million times. "I'm going to teach you a lesson."
The knife retraced its previous line, digging deeper and making Frank's nerves scream, blood seeping from the widening cut and dripping down his body, slipping into his navel. But he kept his mouth shut. Maybe if he was quiet, Gerard would tire of this, Gerard would stop and forgive him and forget this ever happened.
But of course, he knew that was entirely unrealistic.
"Silly Frankie," Gerard crooned, taking the knife away and, oh, oh god, resting the tip in the hollow of Frank's throat, "you would never kill me."
"But you'd kill me," Frank whispered, his own fear heavy and thick in the room, in the pit of his stomach, magnified a thousand fold at the skin where that knife touched. All Gerard had to do was move a little to the right, graze the thick artery there, and Frank would bleed out on this bed in no time.
"I would," Gerard confirmed, digging the knife in and forcing Frank to tilt his head up. A bead of blood ran down his neck from where the tip had sliced his Adam's apple. "But I won't. Not tonight."
Gerard slid the knife down ever-so-carefully, enough to cut and bleed, but not deep enough to cause serious damage. Still, it hurt, it hurt like a thousand needles were being pressed into Frank's chest, and when Gerard slashed his pec, he cried out again, feeling like his heartbeat was in the wound, pumping out all the blood he'd ever had.
"Shhh," Gerard murmured, and he was sick, fucking sick, probably got off on this kind of thing, hurting people like this, torturing them slowly. He was kissing Frank the next second, and Frank squirmed, each movement sending twinges of agony through him, Gerard stabbing the knife lightly against his lower belly, cleanly parting the extra flesh there. He wiggled the blade and Frank tried to scream again, but Gerard was still kissing him and it just came out like a soft keen, his head arching back when the knife drove deeper, like Gerard had forgotten Frank had important organs there. He could feel how his entire abdomen was stained with hot crimson, knew the knife and Gerard's hands were probably covered in it.
Knew Gerard probably wanted it to be that way.
Frank whimpered and went limp under him, his breathing harsh and his pulse frantic. Ridiculously, the image of that fortune cookie's message entered his mind, and he couldn't trust Gerard. How? How did you trust a madman?
As if to prove this point, Gerard had stopped kissing Frank and was now...oh, no, Frank couldn't look. But it was stuck in his mind, Gerard lapping at the blood on his skin, tongue stained vermilion and eyes shut in some sort of twisted bliss. And he could feel Gerard's mouth, coaxing more blood from the slashes he'd created across Frank's chest and stomach. Maybe he was part vampire...or maybe he was just this fucked up in the head. It was probably the latter.
Gerard was touching the wounds, too, and that made them hurt even more. Frank's entire torso was wet with saliva and blood by now, and there were black spots before his eyes when he opened them. Surely, surely Gerard must realize Frank was losing too much blood. He wasn't giving it time to clot, either, suckling at the cuts and kissing hard at them, spreading the substance around.
And then, when Frank thought it couldn't get any worse, Gerard took hold of his cock, hand still slick with Frank's blood and Gerard's spit. Frank just made a quiet sound, head falling to the side on the pillow. If Gerard thought this would turn him on, he was very wrong. Frank was just tired now, and the blood loss wasn't helping. He wanted to get away.
Gerard kept trying though, pumping his hand and sucking Frank's neck, forming a dark bruise, but Frank didn't care. Gerard, after several minutes, seemed to realize this and released Frank, his brow furrowed and eyes unreadable. Frank wondered how broken and pitiful he looked then. But, he decided, what was the point in wondering that? He could care less.
Gerard paused, and then his weight was gone from the bed. Frank waited for him to come back with a worse weapon, but he did not.
Frank may have been bleeding everywhere, but he sure as hell knew that he didn't want to be bleeding everywhere here. Not on Gerard's bed, not in Gerard's bedroom. He got up, head spinning, stumbling away and not even looking for Gerard. The bastard would come if he wanted to. But nobody grabbed Frank and threw him back on the bed, so he kept fighting the exhaustion, gasping with relief when he made it into the bathroom, locking the door tight and collapsing on the tiles, chest twinging reproachfully as he did so. He needed to clean the wounds, or they'd all get infected, and with his shitty immune system there was no way that could end well. He glanced at the white towels, and then grabbed one and wet it under the sink, cleaning the cuts, many of which would probably scar.
Gerard had fucked up a tattoo, too, the HOPE flame on his left pec. It had a deep gouge running across it, one of the ones which would form scar tissue. There was another, the one on his belly which hurt the most, the one where Gerard had dug the knife in mercilessly, which would surely form a nasty scar.
Frank hung his head, wrapping the towel around his chest and hoping it would stop him from bleeding out in his sleep. He was still naked, bruises encircling his hips and neck, and he stared at himself in the mirror. Was this really better than his life in the prison? Was this really better than dying?
Wearily, he crawled into the bathtub, slumping down against the chilled porcelain. The towel was thin and provided little warmth. Good. Maybe he'd freeze to death in here. He pulled the shower curtain shut, and huddled there in the dimness. He thought maybe he should have turned the bathroom light off, but no, it was dark enough in here.
For what seemed an eternity, Frank waited for Gerard to burst in, to kill him, to punish him again, to rape him. None of it was new. Frank's faux hawk fell into his face, blocking out the whiteness of the bathtub.
He fell asleep with the image of Gerard's eyes in his head, his eyes after Frank had given up, the almost shocked expression within them.
He shivered, and told himself it was from the cold.
Frank woke up with a blanket over him, still in the tub.
He started, distinctly remembering the blanket had not been there before, and regretted it instantly as pain shot through him. Fuck. The events of last night came rushing back, and he didn't move for a time, afraid of what he would see when he unwrapped the towel.
But he had to do it sometime, so he propped himself up against the side of the bathtub and pried it away from his skin, wincing when it stuck a little. He winced again at what was revealed.
The blood that had oozed out after he'd cleaned the cuts was rusty and flaked off at his touch, most of it, anyway - the rest remained there, a stain, like a second skin. The cuts had begun to scab over, still looking tender and the one just above his hip which had bled and hurt the most...that one looked pretty nasty. Frank wasn't sure, but he thought it looked well on the way to being infected.
He didn't want to leave this room. He didn't want to go out there and face Gerard, the one who'd done all of this to him. And it wasn't because he was afraid, necessarily, it was because he was tired. He didn't want to have to go through all of this again, routinely, he didn't want to deal with Gerard's attitude and anger any more.
Frank was still dizzy, so he probably wasn't thinking right, but it only took a little pep talk to get himself out of the tub and to the medicine cabinet. Surely Gerard had some pills in there. Frank didn't care what kind - just enough to get the job done. He rifled through it for a while, and then he found them, enclosed in a small white bottle shoved in the back. He read the label. He read the warnings. He read the limit per day.
He was going to exceed that limit as much as he could. Unscrewing the cap, Frank lifted the bottle to his lips and started to tilt his head back-
"What are you doing?"
Frank dropped the bottle with a clatter, pills scattering everywhere. Gerard was standing in the doorway, staring at the orange pills with wide eyes before looking back at Frank.