FRANK X GERARD FIC. VAMPIRE AU SORT OF.
where your soul should be
frank iero x gerard way
nc17; more for cursing and graphic imagery than anything else
summary: In a world where vampirism is a semi-common infectious blood disease instead of a demonic curse, how do the boys of MCR react when Frank Iero contracts the virus??
authornote: so here's the deal, kiddies. i had this idea on a plane to georgia and started writing it in a notebook. i transferred what i had to my laptop and worked on it some more, and it ended up being roughly twenty-two pages of ten point font. this is an early birthday gift for the lovely lovely lovely dryad_duinath, who totally deserves something waaaay better and more polished than this. and my dear, i promise you i will fix this up so that it is the fic it deserves to be sometime in the future. also, i have some extra scenes planned, stuff that i thought was interesting but couldn't fit into the flow of the fic for whatever reason. anyway, here it is in all it's unbetaed, first edition glory.
“Gee,” Frank murmurs, attempting to draw Gerard’s attention away from the rant he’s embarked on - it’s sweet, if more than a little bit pointless. He reaches out and grabs lightly at one of Gerard’s wrists, while the dark-haired man’s other arm continues flailing wildly about. Gerard, of course, completely ignores his attempts and continues on.
“I don’t see why they think this makes any difference,” he rails, pausing for a brief second to take a sip of his beer. “As though a little -” he screws his face up and searches for the right word; Frank can tell by the twitch of his brow that he doesn’t find it and merely makes due with the closest option, “disability makes you some monster. As though you aren’t still ours!” He finally stops, blowing out a puff of breath to clear some of the greasy strands of hair that have fallen into his face, swaying the slightest bit, cheeks pink with exertion.
“Morons,” he barks, and loses his balance. He catches himself against the counter in the tiny kitchenette of the tour bus where Frank is currently perched, tapping his heels against the lower cabinets, and chuckles softly.
The rest of the guys don’t speak, but Toro nods and Mikey blinks twice in rapid succession, which is as much of a gesture of acquiescence as he ever offers. Matt still can’t meet Frank’s eyes, keeps his head lowered, shoulders tense. Frank can smell a peculiar scent wafting off of him, something that makes his stomach turn a little, and he almost sobs when he realizes it’s the stale odor of fear. And Frank certainly understands when Matt takes the lull in conversation as an opportunity to make a hasty retreat to the back lounge, but that doesn’t make the abandonment sting any less.
He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face a few times. His eyes burn with lingering exhaustion and his entire body aches. The stench of hospital chemicals is still clinging to his clothes and his skin and all he wants is to curl up in his bunk with a good book, a couple of doughnuts maybe, and a drink -
He shakes his head immediately, to rid his mind of the thought, and slips off the counter so that he’s standing. Tugging self-consciously at the scarf wound tight around his neck, despite the fact that it’s midsummer, he clears his throat and shifts from foot to foot. There are small tendrils of deep navy and purple and sickly yellow-green creeping out from beneath the gray fabric, and it’s all Frank can do not to reach up and finger the cuts that are undoubtedly still prominent on the flesh right above his jugular.
Frank forces himself to let his arms fall, palms flat against his thighs, and half-whispers, “I’m really tired, guys. I’m gonna go crash.” He tries not to make too big a deal about the silence at his back as he leaves.
The bunks are solitary and peaceful, although they smell a little worse now - not different, really, just stronger. Frank closes his eyes and inhales, startled at the sharpness of everything he notices. He sighs and settles back against his sheets, focusing on the steady thump of his heart, the muscle clenching and unclenching to his own unique rhythm. It sounds strangely hollow tonight, like a lie, and Frank chokes down the heaviness that begins to rise in his chest at the thought.
He rolls over with his back to the curtain, trying to block out the tiny wheezing sounds of Mikey’s nose and the little pops while Matt cracks his knuckles over and over in a subconscious effort to calm himself. He folds in around himself, not even bothering to kick his shoes off. It doesn’t take him long to fall into a deep slumber.
While Frank has never been a particularly imaginative dreamer, he’ll often doze to foggy memories of past experiences - Gerard’s laughter, Mikey making some ridiculous joke, the roar of fans as they scream the band’s name in waves. Tonight, Frank dreams of a glaring darkness, words in familiar voices that he can’t quite pinpoint occasionally breaking through the shadowed haze. He can’t understand the clipped syllables, but the tone is dark and sinister.
After what feels like hours of floating through aimless black, Frank manages to make out an image in the gloom. It’s a face, blurred and streaked with crimson, its mouth moving in silent, unidentifiable patterns. He feels heavy, and his neck throbs. There’s a wet warmth at his back, his limbs tingling and akimbo around his body, like those of a rag doll. For the briefest of seconds the world is still, then it’s like somebody tossed a bag of sand over him - it stings all along his arms, burns his nostrils, makes his mouth like sandpaper.
Frank wakes up with a shudder, a noise that he vaguely recognizes as his own screams ringing in his ears. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyelids and rolls out of his bunk. His throat feels thick and full, so he grunts a few times in a vain attempt to clear it before he starts stumbling down the miniscule hall. He drags his palms along the walls of the bus as he tumbles into the kitchen, almost jumping in alarm at the hiss that instinctually wrenches from his mouth at the bright lights that greet him.
“Whoa,” comes a breathless exhalation that Frank thinks must be Gerard. He blinks, trying to clear his vision, and turns his back toward the direction of the sound, embarrassment coloring his cheeks.
With a cough, he murmurs, “I uh,” and stops. He shakes his head and laughs, soft and on the verge of hysteria. “Sorry.”
He can make out Gerard’s form, a little soft around the edges while Frank’s vision adjusts, pupils growing scarily small, at the tiny table. Gerard shakes his head and responds, “No prob, dude.” He can almost hear the smile in Gerard’s voice, and he lets out a secret breath of relief at the fact that there’s still some shred of normalcy left in his newly chaotic life.
Gerard gestures at the seat across from himself and Frank slips in, studying Gerard’s face. He’s nursing a cup of coffee, and there are bruise-blue circles beneath his eyes, black shadows staining the down-turned corners of his mouth. His skin is paler than usual, and if Frank really concentrates, he can make out a thin sheen of sweat at Gerard’s hairline. Glad that Gerard is at least mostly sober by this point, Frank glances down at the table, eyebrows rising sharply when he sees the pamphlets spread across the speckled-gray surface.
“I was reading,” Gerard blurts, voice sheepish. “Because, you know, there are certain things we have to do now so you don’t get sick or -” he trails off and Frank inclines his head in understanding.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I guess so.”
Gerard smiles, satisfied with the answer, and sips his coffee. They sit in companionable silence for awhile, just relaxing with one another and listening to the tick of the clock that Mikey had bought at some thrift store at a random stop along the tour. Frank gazes over at it and flinches. It’s two in the morning, and while the doctor had said that his body would probably lean toward the more nocturnal end of the spectrum for a few weeks while he adjusted, this is a little bit ridiculous. That Gerard is up and about at this hour at all is a miracle in and of itself.
“When’s your next appointment?” Gerard inquires, his voice soft, eyes gentle and calm. Frank takes a breath and tries not to shiver at the foolish lurch of discomfort and anxiety that washes over him.
“Tuesday,” he states mechanically. “Six p.m. There’s a clinic in Vegas that Dr. Rosenfeld recommended. They’re affiliates or something.”
Without even thinking about it, he reaches for Gerard’s coffee and takes a sip. A brilliant smile splits Gerard’s face for a few seconds and Frank can’t help but brighten a bit himself. Apparently he isn’t the only one who’s glad that there are still some normal shticks to stick to.
“So,” Gerard starts, sliding a pamphlet Frank’s way, “have you thought about what you’re going to do yet?”
Frank blinks, glancing at the cover of the pamphlet, a couple embracing and smiling at one another. His fingers graze over the words at the top and he shakes his head. “Not really,” he answers honestly. “Not yet.” He gnaws his lower lip for a moment before continuing, “I mean, I want to keep touring, to stay in the band, but -” the protest that everyone may not be comfortable with that arrangement dies on his lips at the look of earnestness that Gerard flashes at him.
“You are a part of this,” he says, voice low and serious. He reaches out and brushes his thumb over the back of Frank’s hand, and a little jolt leaps up the nerves of Frank’s arm. “You always will be.”
Frank ducks his head to hide the miniscule smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth at the statement.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
*
The clinic is in a nicer part of town than Frank would’ve expected, given its focus. It’s small and inconspicuous, windows blacked out, cursive letters etched along the dark panes that read “Dr. Hillary Aaron, P.H.D., blood disease specialist and Dr. Adam Stanley, P.H.D., infectious disease specialist.”
Frank tugs at the hem of the black hoodie he borrowed from Mikey that morning and then reaches up to yank the deep burgundy beanie down further. He hunches his shoulders and crosses the street, blissfully thankful of the careful indifference the passersby offer as he jogs up onto the sidewalk. He pulls the door open and steps inside to a misleadingly pleasant bell. The young woman bent over a stack of paperwork glances up and waves him over from behind the counter.
“Good evening,” she greets brightly, grinning. Frank tries to smile back, but he can feel the half-heartedness of it so he stops, reaching up to wipe his mouth instead.
“Hi,” he responds, leaning back and then forward. “I’m Frank Iero. I have an appointment?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so much like a question, but the girl just nods and begins typing away at the keyboard of a Mac.
“Iero,” she mutters, “Iero.” Her face brightens and she chirps, “Aha! Here we are! Step on back through the doors to your left and I’ll show you to room 206.”
Frank nods and does as she asks, pushes his way through the pastel green double doors and follows her down a small, narrow hall.
He takes a seat on the large, cushioned bench, deceptively similar to any old physician’s office, and offers a quiet, “Thank you,” when the girl informs him that Doctor Aaron will be in shortly. He spends about three minutes staring at the wooden door, glancing around at the vibrant fishes adorning the walls, and drumming his fingers against his thigh before the door swings open and a slight, smiling woman with dark hair steps in.
“Hello, Mr. Iero. I’m Hillary Aaron, and I’ll be helping you out this evening.”
Frank holds out a hand and she shakes it, firm grip and not a single hint of fear contaminating her natural scent; Frank decides that he likes her. “Pleasure to meet you,” he says, and she grins and drops into a seat at the toy-sized desk in the corner of the room. For a few seconds, she scribbles something down in a conspicuously bare file before saying, “So, Frank, the note Dr. Rosenfeld sent indicates that you were pulled out of an alley following an encounter, and that even an immediate blood transfusion was ineffective against keeping the infection at bay?”
Frank nods and swallows, thick, doesn’t let himself think about the what-ifs that situation has attached to it, since he knows it won’t do any good.
“Hm,” she murmurs, and makes another note. Without looking up, she continues, “It’s rare to come across someone who’s been turned these days. Usually it’s mild cases, past relatives who had it and sent it down the line, one parent who’s infected, stuff like that.”
At a loss for anything else to do, Frank nods once more and wrings his wrists. Dr. Aaron stands and walks over, taking Frank’s chin gently in her hand and shining a dim light into his eyes. He squints against it even though it’s obviously at a low percent of its full wattage, and she purses her lips. Stepping back, she studies him for a moment, eyes glancing down toward the hideous bruise ringing his neck - it’s healed considerably since a few days ago, but it’s gruesome to behold nonetheless.
“I’ll be right back, okay, sweetheart?” she states, turning on her heel and disappearing through the door.
Frank sighs the moment she’s out of sight and rubs at his eyes. If he thought the outlook had been bleak before, then he obviously hadn’t expected a doctor who specialized in blood diseases showing a little extra interest to tip the scales so heavily to the side of ‘dire and inescapable.’ His eyes are closed when the door creaks open once more, and there’s the tap of Dr. Aaron’s heels on the tile. There’s a strange smell drifting along with her this time; pleasant but dull. Frank hasn’t a clue as to what it could be.
“Okay, Frank, I’m going to do something now to get a reaction out of you, all right? You probably won’t like it, so I’m warning you beforehand, but I truly think it’s necessary to aide in the assessment.”
Frank frowns at her, brow furrowed, and asks cautiously, “What are you going to do?”
Smirking wryly, the doctor slips a hand into her pocket, withdrawing a small vial filled with red liquid. Frank recognizes it instantly. Blood. The scent gets a tiny bit stronger when she pulls it from her pocket, sweet and inviting, if still tainted by the thick glass casing it’s in.
“I’m going to open this,” she informs him, calmly.
“What’s going to happen?” Frank asks after a moment’s hesitation. Dr. Aaron is still regarding him coolly, mouth turned upwards in a friendly smile. She steps over to the counter and slides on a pair of latex gloves.
“If everything goes as I’m hypothesizing? A lot that you won’t enjoy. I can’t be sure, though, so that’s why I want to give it a shot. Everyone reacts differently to the presence of blood, depending on its condensation, the distance, the level of their own infection.” She shrugs. “There are a million outcomes that could occur and a billion variables that could change every single one of them.”
Frank stands, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear uneasily and tonguing at his lipring inside his mouth. “Is it safe?” he blurts.
Dr. Aaron shrugs again. “There’s only one way to know, really.” She smiles at him and winks, adding, “But I’m a big girl. I can look after myself. Plus, I trust you, which is a huge perk.”
Frank nods and lets loose a gargantuan breath. “Okay,” he murmurs, tensing his shoulders and steeling himself, determined to ignore the blood no matter what it takes. “Do it.”
Without so much as a second’s hesitation, Dr. Aaron pulls the cap from the vial, and instantly the scent that Frank had picked up earlier is increased easily a hundredfold. His whole body tingles with the need to move forward and consume the source of that smell, a gnawing hunger tears at his stomach, and before Frank even realizes, his gums itch and a pair of vicious fangs descend from his upper jaw. The moment they brush against his lower lip Frank snarls a loud, animalistic growl and retreats into the corner, his face turned away from the doctor, hands splayed against the walls so hard his knuckles are white, so fast that he can hardly believe he’s even moved.
The sound of running water storms through the room and the scent clouding Frank’s mind slowly dissipates. He sits for a long moment, eyes shut, mouth falling closed every so often only to jerk back open wide the second Frank feels the tips of teeth against his lip.
“Frank?” Dr. Aaron asks, quiet and concerned.
Frank swallows and tries not to wince at the feel of the protruding bones sliding smoothly against his lower lip.
“How do I make them go away?” he rasps. He’s shaking, he realizes suddenly, and is almost tempted to laugh at how ridiculous he knows he must look; a grown man shuddering in the corner because he’s terrified of himself.
Dr. Aaron hesitates for a moment before replying. “Ideally, for your physiology anyway, you’d drink blood,” she admits. “But since that’s not exactly an option, there are a few methods I’d suggest. I doubt you’d be able to mentally will them away, regardless of how long you practice or how badly you want to.”
She reaches out and touches his shoulder and Frank jumps, turning his face further away. Dr. Aaron doesn’t pull her hand away at the sudden movement, just squeezes lightly and murmurs, “Frank, I’ve seen everything there is to see with this condition, okay? You don’t have to be afraid of showing off your pearly whites.”
There’s a quality to her voice that makes Frank trust her, although he doesn’t particularly know why. Maybe the fact that she hasn’t been afraid of him once; not even when he’d gone all barbaric on her.
He turns, eyes still carefully trained anywhere except her face and asks, “So, what do I do instead?”
“Well, I’d suggest a Sangrus prescription and eating a burger-size portion of ground beef, raw, three times a week. You may not need it that often, but it’s better to be safe than sorry with these sorts of situations.” Dr. Aaron searches her pockets for a pen and swears when she comes up empty-handed, reaching to pull one from the bun her hair is twisted into instead. “And I trust you’ve read the pamphlets with suggestions as to how to go about your daily life?”
“Yeah,” Frank responds, lowering himself onto the bench once more, licking at the point of one of his fangs. It’s strange to speak with them there, but it feels natural enough that he knows he’ll get used to it in time. If he’s honest with himself, that thought alone scares the shit out of him, but there aren’t really any alternatives.
“Oh,” he starts when he remembers what Gee had reminded him to ask before he left the bus that evening. “Uh, none of the pamphlets mentioned what to do if you’re extremely light-sensitive. I mean, they talk about light-sickness if you’re exposed to the open sun too long, and the threat of being burned is higher, but I mean.” He pauses. “I have a hard time even going from dark places, like the bunks on my bus, to places lit with fluorescent bulbs.”
Dr. Aaron purses her lips and taps her pen against her cheek, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as she ponders his question. “I know we can get you some specialized contacts to help deal with the vision aspect, otherwise I’d suggest using a specialty sunscreen and covering up when you’re outdoors, if you have to be during the day at all. And you say you’re on a bus?”
“Yeah, touring.”
“Blackout curtains,” Dr. Aaron mutters, scribbling down what Frank presumes is a list of everything he’s going to need, complete with detailed instructions on how to use everything. When she finishes she smirks and shakes her head, handing the paper over. “You are going to have a fun time shopping, kiddo.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Yeah, likely,” he offers, voice dry. Dr. Aaron laughs.
Before he leaves the clinic, Dr. Aaron hands Frank a small bottle of pills and a plateful of chilled, raw burger, still bloody. The cow’s blood doesn’t smell nearly as good as what Frank assumes was human blood, but it still rouses his hunger and peaks his interest. Despite the fact that he knows he should be disgusted beyond belief at the thought of eating raw meat, he wolfs it down after dry-swallowing one of the pills that the doctor hands him.
“This is a sample of Sangrus, so it’s a lower dosage than what you’ll need, but it should help to keep the hunger mostly dormant until you can get your prescription filled,” she says, smiling. “And other than that, raw meat will be your saving grace, I can assure you.”
Frank nods and shakes her hand, stopping in the hall before he goes to pay. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice soft and honest.
Dr. Aaron grins. “No problem, dear. Now, you go and enjoy yourself, okay?”
Chuckling to himself, Frank wanders down the hall, feeling a little like his freshman year of high school, folder clutched nervously between his hands while he wonders what the future holds.
*
It’s three days later, just after Frank gets back from picking up all of his prescription items - contacts, sunscreen, Sangrus - that Brian wanders over to their tour bus, smiling lightly and politely making conversation until the rest of guys get the hint and find other things to do. He flops down on the couch, next to Frank, and asks, “How are you feeling, kid?”
Frank snorts and runs a hand through his hair. “As good as can be expected, I guess,” he says with a shrug.
Brian nods and then lets his gaze wander around the lounge area, thick black curtains draped over the windows to block out the sunlight, a new minifridge plugged in off to the side of television. “Nice digs,” he comments, and reaches over to gently punch Frank’s shoulder.
Frank smiles, small and nervous. It wouldn’t be outside of Brian’s rights to ask him to pack up and go home, after all. If he’d contracted the chronic flu or something it would be different; this particular disease makes him a supremely dangerous hazard, not only to himself but to everybody on the tour. If the label didn’t think it was worth his guitar skills to take the risk, then he’d have to go, no ifs ands or buts.
Brian rises to his feet and strolls over to the far wall of the lounge, admiring the little pictures of the My Chemical Romance members as crime-fighting heroes that Gerard’s been drawing since day one. In the story, Gerard has ice powers, Mikey has telekinesis, Ray emits force fields, and Matt can go invisible. Frank’s power used to be energy - little bolts would shoot from his hand - but in recent doodles, it’s changed.
Brian lets his hand rest on one of the drawings where the new version of Frank is kicking the shit out of some guy who has the other band members tied up and smiles fondly. “They’re being pretty supportive, huh?”
At that statement, Frank can’t suppress the smile that drifts across his features. “Yeah,” he replies. “They did, uh, all this the other day, when I was gone. As a surprise.” He gestures to the curtains and the little fridge. “I mean, I told them I could just blackout my bunk or something, but Gerard was pretty adamant about being,” he screws his face up for a moment, trying to recall precisely what Gerard said, “ ‘fair and equal to everyone’ or some shit.”
Matt had seemed less than thrilled at the idea that the bus would mostly be electric-lit, but Gerard had insisted that they’d be willing to make changes if Frank was a woman or something, and that this situation was hardly different than that. Matt had opened his mouth to argue, but Toro had arched an eyebrow from behind Gerard and he’d backed down. Frank shakes his head and feels a little nauseous when he thinks of it.
“Very Gee,” Brian agrees with a short laugh. He walks back over to the couch and flops down so that his feet are in Frank’s lap. “So, enlighten me: what are you doing to keep everything under control?”
Frank blinks, surprised that Brian seems as confident speaking about it as he does. The guys all had little to no knowledge of how to deal, or what had to be done, and it was only Frank going through every pamphlet he’d been given and then relaying every word the doctor said that informed them at all of what was going on.
“Oh, uh, I’m taking Sangrus three times a week and sticking to an, uhm, a special diet in the meantime. I have contacts for sunlight and some seriously heavy-duty sunscreen. Other than that it’s just a matter of being careful.”
He thinks of everything that Dr. Aaron said. About how his natural abilities might shoot up a few levels, like his senses of smell and hearing already had. About how increased strength, speed, and stamina were a likely possibility in someone with the level of infection that Frank had. About how he had to be careful if he took on any sexual partners, because the instinctual nature of the practice could trigger him. About how if the hunger got too strong when other people was around, it was imperative for him to leave, or for them to get far away, and quickly.
“Frank.” Brian’s voice interrupts his thoughts and Frank jumps a little bit, smiling in apology. Brian’s sitting up now, staring at Frank with a serious look in his eyes. “You know, ninety-eight percent of the people who have vampirism lead perfectly normal, happy lives. Yes, they have to be careful and stick to their medicine, but that doesn’t mean the world is ending.”
Frank leans his head back against the couch. “This could ruin everything, Shechter,” he responds, low and strained. “Everything I’ve worked for. Everything the band’s worked for. It could destroy all of that.”
“If you let it get out of control,” Brian appends. “But if I know anything about you, it’s that you take your friends’ well-being very seriously, so that shouldn’t even be an issue. And you know that if you need anything - meat, a prescription refill, even just blood - that you can call me at any time?”
Frank smiles and shakes his head ‘yes.’ “Hey, man,” he says, reaching out to pat Brian’s thigh. “How do you know so much about this shit, anyway?”
Brian smiles. “I think it’s about time you met Bob Bryar.”
*
Frank has seen Bob around, of course. He’s a technician for The Used, and when he isn’t busy dropping Gerard safely at the door of the MCR tour bus, he’s lugging around music equipment and cracking jokes with the other techs, like any other guy. They’ve talked once or twice, but never more than in passing, and while it was enjoyable, Bob was guarded enough that Frank wasn’t certain they’d ever be more than just amiable acquaintances.
“Bryar!” Brian shouts, as they’re approaching. Bob glances around, searching the sea of wandering bodies for whoever it was that’d called his name. A huge grin works its way across his face when he sees who it is. He says something that Frank can’t quite make out over the vast distance to the tech across from him, and the other guy nods. They set down the trunk they were hauling and each head in separate directions.
“Shechter,” Bob greets, clapping one massive hand to Brian’s shoulder. “And Iero,” he adds, with a pleasantly surprised smirk. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“I was hoping you’d join us for a private lunch, actually,” Brian states brightly. “On me, of course.”
Bob laughs. “Well, with an offer like that, how could I possibly refuse? Let me go get Marco to take over for me.”
Some of the techs wave to Frank and continue about their business. A few wander over to say hello and ask how he’s been, which he appreciates. A handful, though, keep their heads down, ignore him, and the reek of fear and sweat is so strong that Frank nearly sneezes.
Bryar returns in about five minutes, sneaking up behind them out of nowhere, which impresses Frank because he has been all about the stealth-hearing recently, and slings an arm around each of their shoulders.
“All right!” he says. “Let’s go get some grub.”
Frank couldn’t agree more.
*
The diner is practically empty despite the fact that it’s one or so in the afternoon, which tends to be the lunch hour for business-types and nine-to-fivers. They take a booth in the back corner and order a round of milkshakes and burgers, making small talk and swapping tour stories until their waitress has delivered their food and disappeared into the kitchen.
“You going to tell me why you really invited me here, Shechter?” Bob asks, jamming a few fries into his mouth - decent meals are few and far between when you’re on tour.
Brian grins and pauses, with his burger halfway to his mouth. “Now, Bob, I’m appalled that you think I have some sort of ulterior motive for inviting you to have a nice lunch.”
Bob rolls his eyes and Frank smiles. “Yeah, yeah. I know how you management types work. You butter us up with free food and hot showers and then tell us that we’ll be working a twenty hour day with no breaks.”
“You got me there,” Brian laughs, and Frank chuckles along. Shaking his head and chewing thoughtfully for a moment, Brain wipes the grease on his palm off against his thigh and leans in, saying lowly, “I’d love to tell you why I brought you here, but it really isn’t my place to say.” His eyes flash over to Frank once and Frank swallows. He didn’t know that Brian was going to make him tell Bob; he’d just said that Bob might be able to relate. And now both the other men are sitting and watching Frank expectantly. He sets his jaw and shakes his head, glaring at Brian for a moment before clearing his throat - he is so going to kill his manager for this.
“I uh,” Frank starts, and has to stop. He still can’t bring himself to say it aloud. It helps that Bob doesn’t try to speed him along, though, just sits and waits patiently to hear it from Frank’s mouth. Frank’s sure he’s already heard the rumors. If the stories have made it around to the rest of the techs, then there’s no way that Bob doesn’t know. “I had a little run in with some vampires and came out with the shorter end of the stick,” he murmurs.
Bob nods. “So I’ve heard.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin and asks, voice low. “You okay?”
Frank shrugs. “I’m alive,” he says, and smirks a little. Bob chuckles.
“Yeah,” he replies. “You are.” He’s quiet for a moment before canting his head and asking, almost as an afterthought, “They prescribe you Sangrus?”
Frank’s eyes widen. “I - yeah. How did you -”
Bob cuts him off, responding, “My mom,” with a little smirk. “I’ve been on the stuff since I was about two.”
“How often?” Frank inquires excitedly, blatantly ignoring the self-satisfied smile that Brian is tossing at them both.
“Once every month. With -”
“Raw meat?” Frank finishes. Bob grins and gives him a thumbs up.
“Got it in one, short stuff.”
Frank flings a fry at Bob’s head and Bob laughs, throwing a fry back. Brian joins in and it turns into a miniature food fight for about thirty seconds before all three are leaning back against the red plastic seats, laughing breathlessly. It’s the most fun that Frank’s had in a week.
“So, how often they have you taking it?”
Frank knows it’s stupid to feel self-conscious about the frequency that Dr. Aaron had suggested he take the drug, but he can’t help it. Bob’s infection seems to be contained with a single dosage every four weeks while he’s taking about twelve times that per month.
“Three times a week,” he admits quietly. Frank is blown away when Bob just grins and nods and says that those fuckers must’ve gotten him good, rather than dissolving to tears or tensing up or conveniently finding an excuse to bow out.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Frank laughs. And, this whole not feeling self-conscious thing is definitely something he could get used to.
*
The show they play that night starts just as the sun is sinking below the horizon, and Frank feels drained the minute he puts the strap of his guitar over his shoulder and steps into the golden rays. He’s wearing a pair of giant sunglasses that he found on the bus, probably Gerard’s, so it isn’t too bad but it still stings his eyes and feels too hot on his skin.
“I want to thank all of you motherfuckers for being here tonight!” Gerard says into the microphone, throwing his tie over his shoulder and grinning like a maniac. “I have a special message for everyone here this evening!” The crowd cheers and throws their fists into the air. “And it also happens to be the title of one of our old songs!” There are scattered whoops and hollers, and Frank can see a few kids lean in and whisper to one another.
“We’re switching it up!” Gerard announces, and Frank frowns because nobody told him about a change in the set. Of course he knows all the old songs but still. “I want you all to remember: Vampires will never hurt you!”
Frank laughs and starts jumping even before Matt lays down the beginning beat.
He throws himself all over the stage during the set, the exhaustion tugging at him dissipating as the sun disappears below the horizon line. Once darkness settles over the arena, Frank feels like he’s gone from being miserably ill to feeling better and more energetic than he did as a kid. He puts everything he has into playing, presses his back to Gerard’s chest and then springs off, drops on his knees in front of Mikey, half-heartedly kicks in the direction of Matt’s cymbal - which he stops immediately upon seeing the look of agitation on Matt’s face.
Finally, during their encore, toward the end of the song, Frank sets his guitar down and sprints to the edge of the stage, leaping off into the crowd. They surf him back to the front and he yells a quick thank you into the microphone before he’s being ushered offstage.
Once they’re out of the line of sight, Frank’s bandmates immediately wheel around to face him, Matt hissing, “What the hell was that all about, Frank?” while Toro claps him on the shoulder.
Frank furrows his brow and says, “What was what about?”
“Kicking my drums, stage-diving, you’re going to let everyone know if you keep pulling stupid stunts like that.”
“Whoa,” Frank spits back. “First of all, I didn’t even hit your drums. Second, why does it matter if everyone knows?” His afternoon of acceptance with Bob has given him kind of a new outlook on life. He shouldn’t be ashamed of who he is; he never was in the past, but he knows the way that a lot of people view those who’ve been infected with vampirism, and occasionally for good reason.
Matt grumbles and turns to wander away, shoulders hunched.
Surprisingly enough, it’s Mikey who first says, “Don’t worry about him, Frankie. He’s just having some trouble adjusting.”
Frank shakes his head, but offers Mikey a small smile. Gerard is busily stumbling down the hallway, beer sloshing over the brim of his little red cup, and as Frank looks after him he feels a small pinch of disappointment in his chest. Mikey squeezes his shoulder and shifts his weight from foot to foot, pointedly looking at the ground.
“He’ll be okay, Mikes,” Frank says, quiet. Mikey laughs softly.
“Yeah, I hope so.”
*
this way to the next part...
frank iero x gerard way
nc17; more for cursing and graphic imagery than anything else
summary: In a world where vampirism is a semi-common infectious blood disease instead of a demonic curse, how do the boys of MCR react when Frank Iero contracts the virus??
authornote: so here's the deal, kiddies. i had this idea on a plane to georgia and started writing it in a notebook. i transferred what i had to my laptop and worked on it some more, and it ended up being roughly twenty-two pages of ten point font. this is an early birthday gift for the lovely lovely lovely dryad_duinath, who totally deserves something waaaay better and more polished than this. and my dear, i promise you i will fix this up so that it is the fic it deserves to be sometime in the future. also, i have some extra scenes planned, stuff that i thought was interesting but couldn't fit into the flow of the fic for whatever reason. anyway, here it is in all it's unbetaed, first edition glory.
“Gee,” Frank murmurs, attempting to draw Gerard’s attention away from the rant he’s embarked on - it’s sweet, if more than a little bit pointless. He reaches out and grabs lightly at one of Gerard’s wrists, while the dark-haired man’s other arm continues flailing wildly about. Gerard, of course, completely ignores his attempts and continues on.
“I don’t see why they think this makes any difference,” he rails, pausing for a brief second to take a sip of his beer. “As though a little -” he screws his face up and searches for the right word; Frank can tell by the twitch of his brow that he doesn’t find it and merely makes due with the closest option, “disability makes you some monster. As though you aren’t still ours!” He finally stops, blowing out a puff of breath to clear some of the greasy strands of hair that have fallen into his face, swaying the slightest bit, cheeks pink with exertion.
“Morons,” he barks, and loses his balance. He catches himself against the counter in the tiny kitchenette of the tour bus where Frank is currently perched, tapping his heels against the lower cabinets, and chuckles softly.
The rest of the guys don’t speak, but Toro nods and Mikey blinks twice in rapid succession, which is as much of a gesture of acquiescence as he ever offers. Matt still can’t meet Frank’s eyes, keeps his head lowered, shoulders tense. Frank can smell a peculiar scent wafting off of him, something that makes his stomach turn a little, and he almost sobs when he realizes it’s the stale odor of fear. And Frank certainly understands when Matt takes the lull in conversation as an opportunity to make a hasty retreat to the back lounge, but that doesn’t make the abandonment sting any less.
He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face a few times. His eyes burn with lingering exhaustion and his entire body aches. The stench of hospital chemicals is still clinging to his clothes and his skin and all he wants is to curl up in his bunk with a good book, a couple of doughnuts maybe, and a drink -
He shakes his head immediately, to rid his mind of the thought, and slips off the counter so that he’s standing. Tugging self-consciously at the scarf wound tight around his neck, despite the fact that it’s midsummer, he clears his throat and shifts from foot to foot. There are small tendrils of deep navy and purple and sickly yellow-green creeping out from beneath the gray fabric, and it’s all Frank can do not to reach up and finger the cuts that are undoubtedly still prominent on the flesh right above his jugular.
Frank forces himself to let his arms fall, palms flat against his thighs, and half-whispers, “I’m really tired, guys. I’m gonna go crash.” He tries not to make too big a deal about the silence at his back as he leaves.
The bunks are solitary and peaceful, although they smell a little worse now - not different, really, just stronger. Frank closes his eyes and inhales, startled at the sharpness of everything he notices. He sighs and settles back against his sheets, focusing on the steady thump of his heart, the muscle clenching and unclenching to his own unique rhythm. It sounds strangely hollow tonight, like a lie, and Frank chokes down the heaviness that begins to rise in his chest at the thought.
He rolls over with his back to the curtain, trying to block out the tiny wheezing sounds of Mikey’s nose and the little pops while Matt cracks his knuckles over and over in a subconscious effort to calm himself. He folds in around himself, not even bothering to kick his shoes off. It doesn’t take him long to fall into a deep slumber.
While Frank has never been a particularly imaginative dreamer, he’ll often doze to foggy memories of past experiences - Gerard’s laughter, Mikey making some ridiculous joke, the roar of fans as they scream the band’s name in waves. Tonight, Frank dreams of a glaring darkness, words in familiar voices that he can’t quite pinpoint occasionally breaking through the shadowed haze. He can’t understand the clipped syllables, but the tone is dark and sinister.
After what feels like hours of floating through aimless black, Frank manages to make out an image in the gloom. It’s a face, blurred and streaked with crimson, its mouth moving in silent, unidentifiable patterns. He feels heavy, and his neck throbs. There’s a wet warmth at his back, his limbs tingling and akimbo around his body, like those of a rag doll. For the briefest of seconds the world is still, then it’s like somebody tossed a bag of sand over him - it stings all along his arms, burns his nostrils, makes his mouth like sandpaper.
Frank wakes up with a shudder, a noise that he vaguely recognizes as his own screams ringing in his ears. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyelids and rolls out of his bunk. His throat feels thick and full, so he grunts a few times in a vain attempt to clear it before he starts stumbling down the miniscule hall. He drags his palms along the walls of the bus as he tumbles into the kitchen, almost jumping in alarm at the hiss that instinctually wrenches from his mouth at the bright lights that greet him.
“Whoa,” comes a breathless exhalation that Frank thinks must be Gerard. He blinks, trying to clear his vision, and turns his back toward the direction of the sound, embarrassment coloring his cheeks.
With a cough, he murmurs, “I uh,” and stops. He shakes his head and laughs, soft and on the verge of hysteria. “Sorry.”
He can make out Gerard’s form, a little soft around the edges while Frank’s vision adjusts, pupils growing scarily small, at the tiny table. Gerard shakes his head and responds, “No prob, dude.” He can almost hear the smile in Gerard’s voice, and he lets out a secret breath of relief at the fact that there’s still some shred of normalcy left in his newly chaotic life.
Gerard gestures at the seat across from himself and Frank slips in, studying Gerard’s face. He’s nursing a cup of coffee, and there are bruise-blue circles beneath his eyes, black shadows staining the down-turned corners of his mouth. His skin is paler than usual, and if Frank really concentrates, he can make out a thin sheen of sweat at Gerard’s hairline. Glad that Gerard is at least mostly sober by this point, Frank glances down at the table, eyebrows rising sharply when he sees the pamphlets spread across the speckled-gray surface.
“I was reading,” Gerard blurts, voice sheepish. “Because, you know, there are certain things we have to do now so you don’t get sick or -” he trails off and Frank inclines his head in understanding.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I guess so.”
Gerard smiles, satisfied with the answer, and sips his coffee. They sit in companionable silence for awhile, just relaxing with one another and listening to the tick of the clock that Mikey had bought at some thrift store at a random stop along the tour. Frank gazes over at it and flinches. It’s two in the morning, and while the doctor had said that his body would probably lean toward the more nocturnal end of the spectrum for a few weeks while he adjusted, this is a little bit ridiculous. That Gerard is up and about at this hour at all is a miracle in and of itself.
“When’s your next appointment?” Gerard inquires, his voice soft, eyes gentle and calm. Frank takes a breath and tries not to shiver at the foolish lurch of discomfort and anxiety that washes over him.
“Tuesday,” he states mechanically. “Six p.m. There’s a clinic in Vegas that Dr. Rosenfeld recommended. They’re affiliates or something.”
Without even thinking about it, he reaches for Gerard’s coffee and takes a sip. A brilliant smile splits Gerard’s face for a few seconds and Frank can’t help but brighten a bit himself. Apparently he isn’t the only one who’s glad that there are still some normal shticks to stick to.
“So,” Gerard starts, sliding a pamphlet Frank’s way, “have you thought about what you’re going to do yet?”
Frank blinks, glancing at the cover of the pamphlet, a couple embracing and smiling at one another. His fingers graze over the words at the top and he shakes his head. “Not really,” he answers honestly. “Not yet.” He gnaws his lower lip for a moment before continuing, “I mean, I want to keep touring, to stay in the band, but -” the protest that everyone may not be comfortable with that arrangement dies on his lips at the look of earnestness that Gerard flashes at him.
“You are a part of this,” he says, voice low and serious. He reaches out and brushes his thumb over the back of Frank’s hand, and a little jolt leaps up the nerves of Frank’s arm. “You always will be.”
Frank ducks his head to hide the miniscule smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth at the statement.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
*
The clinic is in a nicer part of town than Frank would’ve expected, given its focus. It’s small and inconspicuous, windows blacked out, cursive letters etched along the dark panes that read “Dr. Hillary Aaron, P.H.D., blood disease specialist and Dr. Adam Stanley, P.H.D., infectious disease specialist.”
Frank tugs at the hem of the black hoodie he borrowed from Mikey that morning and then reaches up to yank the deep burgundy beanie down further. He hunches his shoulders and crosses the street, blissfully thankful of the careful indifference the passersby offer as he jogs up onto the sidewalk. He pulls the door open and steps inside to a misleadingly pleasant bell. The young woman bent over a stack of paperwork glances up and waves him over from behind the counter.
“Good evening,” she greets brightly, grinning. Frank tries to smile back, but he can feel the half-heartedness of it so he stops, reaching up to wipe his mouth instead.
“Hi,” he responds, leaning back and then forward. “I’m Frank Iero. I have an appointment?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so much like a question, but the girl just nods and begins typing away at the keyboard of a Mac.
“Iero,” she mutters, “Iero.” Her face brightens and she chirps, “Aha! Here we are! Step on back through the doors to your left and I’ll show you to room 206.”
Frank nods and does as she asks, pushes his way through the pastel green double doors and follows her down a small, narrow hall.
He takes a seat on the large, cushioned bench, deceptively similar to any old physician’s office, and offers a quiet, “Thank you,” when the girl informs him that Doctor Aaron will be in shortly. He spends about three minutes staring at the wooden door, glancing around at the vibrant fishes adorning the walls, and drumming his fingers against his thigh before the door swings open and a slight, smiling woman with dark hair steps in.
“Hello, Mr. Iero. I’m Hillary Aaron, and I’ll be helping you out this evening.”
Frank holds out a hand and she shakes it, firm grip and not a single hint of fear contaminating her natural scent; Frank decides that he likes her. “Pleasure to meet you,” he says, and she grins and drops into a seat at the toy-sized desk in the corner of the room. For a few seconds, she scribbles something down in a conspicuously bare file before saying, “So, Frank, the note Dr. Rosenfeld sent indicates that you were pulled out of an alley following an encounter, and that even an immediate blood transfusion was ineffective against keeping the infection at bay?”
Frank nods and swallows, thick, doesn’t let himself think about the what-ifs that situation has attached to it, since he knows it won’t do any good.
“Hm,” she murmurs, and makes another note. Without looking up, she continues, “It’s rare to come across someone who’s been turned these days. Usually it’s mild cases, past relatives who had it and sent it down the line, one parent who’s infected, stuff like that.”
At a loss for anything else to do, Frank nods once more and wrings his wrists. Dr. Aaron stands and walks over, taking Frank’s chin gently in her hand and shining a dim light into his eyes. He squints against it even though it’s obviously at a low percent of its full wattage, and she purses her lips. Stepping back, she studies him for a moment, eyes glancing down toward the hideous bruise ringing his neck - it’s healed considerably since a few days ago, but it’s gruesome to behold nonetheless.
“I’ll be right back, okay, sweetheart?” she states, turning on her heel and disappearing through the door.
Frank sighs the moment she’s out of sight and rubs at his eyes. If he thought the outlook had been bleak before, then he obviously hadn’t expected a doctor who specialized in blood diseases showing a little extra interest to tip the scales so heavily to the side of ‘dire and inescapable.’ His eyes are closed when the door creaks open once more, and there’s the tap of Dr. Aaron’s heels on the tile. There’s a strange smell drifting along with her this time; pleasant but dull. Frank hasn’t a clue as to what it could be.
“Okay, Frank, I’m going to do something now to get a reaction out of you, all right? You probably won’t like it, so I’m warning you beforehand, but I truly think it’s necessary to aide in the assessment.”
Frank frowns at her, brow furrowed, and asks cautiously, “What are you going to do?”
Smirking wryly, the doctor slips a hand into her pocket, withdrawing a small vial filled with red liquid. Frank recognizes it instantly. Blood. The scent gets a tiny bit stronger when she pulls it from her pocket, sweet and inviting, if still tainted by the thick glass casing it’s in.
“I’m going to open this,” she informs him, calmly.
“What’s going to happen?” Frank asks after a moment’s hesitation. Dr. Aaron is still regarding him coolly, mouth turned upwards in a friendly smile. She steps over to the counter and slides on a pair of latex gloves.
“If everything goes as I’m hypothesizing? A lot that you won’t enjoy. I can’t be sure, though, so that’s why I want to give it a shot. Everyone reacts differently to the presence of blood, depending on its condensation, the distance, the level of their own infection.” She shrugs. “There are a million outcomes that could occur and a billion variables that could change every single one of them.”
Frank stands, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear uneasily and tonguing at his lipring inside his mouth. “Is it safe?” he blurts.
Dr. Aaron shrugs again. “There’s only one way to know, really.” She smiles at him and winks, adding, “But I’m a big girl. I can look after myself. Plus, I trust you, which is a huge perk.”
Frank nods and lets loose a gargantuan breath. “Okay,” he murmurs, tensing his shoulders and steeling himself, determined to ignore the blood no matter what it takes. “Do it.”
Without so much as a second’s hesitation, Dr. Aaron pulls the cap from the vial, and instantly the scent that Frank had picked up earlier is increased easily a hundredfold. His whole body tingles with the need to move forward and consume the source of that smell, a gnawing hunger tears at his stomach, and before Frank even realizes, his gums itch and a pair of vicious fangs descend from his upper jaw. The moment they brush against his lower lip Frank snarls a loud, animalistic growl and retreats into the corner, his face turned away from the doctor, hands splayed against the walls so hard his knuckles are white, so fast that he can hardly believe he’s even moved.
The sound of running water storms through the room and the scent clouding Frank’s mind slowly dissipates. He sits for a long moment, eyes shut, mouth falling closed every so often only to jerk back open wide the second Frank feels the tips of teeth against his lip.
“Frank?” Dr. Aaron asks, quiet and concerned.
Frank swallows and tries not to wince at the feel of the protruding bones sliding smoothly against his lower lip.
“How do I make them go away?” he rasps. He’s shaking, he realizes suddenly, and is almost tempted to laugh at how ridiculous he knows he must look; a grown man shuddering in the corner because he’s terrified of himself.
Dr. Aaron hesitates for a moment before replying. “Ideally, for your physiology anyway, you’d drink blood,” she admits. “But since that’s not exactly an option, there are a few methods I’d suggest. I doubt you’d be able to mentally will them away, regardless of how long you practice or how badly you want to.”
She reaches out and touches his shoulder and Frank jumps, turning his face further away. Dr. Aaron doesn’t pull her hand away at the sudden movement, just squeezes lightly and murmurs, “Frank, I’ve seen everything there is to see with this condition, okay? You don’t have to be afraid of showing off your pearly whites.”
There’s a quality to her voice that makes Frank trust her, although he doesn’t particularly know why. Maybe the fact that she hasn’t been afraid of him once; not even when he’d gone all barbaric on her.
He turns, eyes still carefully trained anywhere except her face and asks, “So, what do I do instead?”
“Well, I’d suggest a Sangrus prescription and eating a burger-size portion of ground beef, raw, three times a week. You may not need it that often, but it’s better to be safe than sorry with these sorts of situations.” Dr. Aaron searches her pockets for a pen and swears when she comes up empty-handed, reaching to pull one from the bun her hair is twisted into instead. “And I trust you’ve read the pamphlets with suggestions as to how to go about your daily life?”
“Yeah,” Frank responds, lowering himself onto the bench once more, licking at the point of one of his fangs. It’s strange to speak with them there, but it feels natural enough that he knows he’ll get used to it in time. If he’s honest with himself, that thought alone scares the shit out of him, but there aren’t really any alternatives.
“Oh,” he starts when he remembers what Gee had reminded him to ask before he left the bus that evening. “Uh, none of the pamphlets mentioned what to do if you’re extremely light-sensitive. I mean, they talk about light-sickness if you’re exposed to the open sun too long, and the threat of being burned is higher, but I mean.” He pauses. “I have a hard time even going from dark places, like the bunks on my bus, to places lit with fluorescent bulbs.”
Dr. Aaron purses her lips and taps her pen against her cheek, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as she ponders his question. “I know we can get you some specialized contacts to help deal with the vision aspect, otherwise I’d suggest using a specialty sunscreen and covering up when you’re outdoors, if you have to be during the day at all. And you say you’re on a bus?”
“Yeah, touring.”
“Blackout curtains,” Dr. Aaron mutters, scribbling down what Frank presumes is a list of everything he’s going to need, complete with detailed instructions on how to use everything. When she finishes she smirks and shakes her head, handing the paper over. “You are going to have a fun time shopping, kiddo.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Yeah, likely,” he offers, voice dry. Dr. Aaron laughs.
Before he leaves the clinic, Dr. Aaron hands Frank a small bottle of pills and a plateful of chilled, raw burger, still bloody. The cow’s blood doesn’t smell nearly as good as what Frank assumes was human blood, but it still rouses his hunger and peaks his interest. Despite the fact that he knows he should be disgusted beyond belief at the thought of eating raw meat, he wolfs it down after dry-swallowing one of the pills that the doctor hands him.
“This is a sample of Sangrus, so it’s a lower dosage than what you’ll need, but it should help to keep the hunger mostly dormant until you can get your prescription filled,” she says, smiling. “And other than that, raw meat will be your saving grace, I can assure you.”
Frank nods and shakes her hand, stopping in the hall before he goes to pay. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice soft and honest.
Dr. Aaron grins. “No problem, dear. Now, you go and enjoy yourself, okay?”
Chuckling to himself, Frank wanders down the hall, feeling a little like his freshman year of high school, folder clutched nervously between his hands while he wonders what the future holds.
*
It’s three days later, just after Frank gets back from picking up all of his prescription items - contacts, sunscreen, Sangrus - that Brian wanders over to their tour bus, smiling lightly and politely making conversation until the rest of guys get the hint and find other things to do. He flops down on the couch, next to Frank, and asks, “How are you feeling, kid?”
Frank snorts and runs a hand through his hair. “As good as can be expected, I guess,” he says with a shrug.
Brian nods and then lets his gaze wander around the lounge area, thick black curtains draped over the windows to block out the sunlight, a new minifridge plugged in off to the side of television. “Nice digs,” he comments, and reaches over to gently punch Frank’s shoulder.
Frank smiles, small and nervous. It wouldn’t be outside of Brian’s rights to ask him to pack up and go home, after all. If he’d contracted the chronic flu or something it would be different; this particular disease makes him a supremely dangerous hazard, not only to himself but to everybody on the tour. If the label didn’t think it was worth his guitar skills to take the risk, then he’d have to go, no ifs ands or buts.
Brian rises to his feet and strolls over to the far wall of the lounge, admiring the little pictures of the My Chemical Romance members as crime-fighting heroes that Gerard’s been drawing since day one. In the story, Gerard has ice powers, Mikey has telekinesis, Ray emits force fields, and Matt can go invisible. Frank’s power used to be energy - little bolts would shoot from his hand - but in recent doodles, it’s changed.
Brian lets his hand rest on one of the drawings where the new version of Frank is kicking the shit out of some guy who has the other band members tied up and smiles fondly. “They’re being pretty supportive, huh?”
At that statement, Frank can’t suppress the smile that drifts across his features. “Yeah,” he replies. “They did, uh, all this the other day, when I was gone. As a surprise.” He gestures to the curtains and the little fridge. “I mean, I told them I could just blackout my bunk or something, but Gerard was pretty adamant about being,” he screws his face up for a moment, trying to recall precisely what Gerard said, “ ‘fair and equal to everyone’ or some shit.”
Matt had seemed less than thrilled at the idea that the bus would mostly be electric-lit, but Gerard had insisted that they’d be willing to make changes if Frank was a woman or something, and that this situation was hardly different than that. Matt had opened his mouth to argue, but Toro had arched an eyebrow from behind Gerard and he’d backed down. Frank shakes his head and feels a little nauseous when he thinks of it.
“Very Gee,” Brian agrees with a short laugh. He walks back over to the couch and flops down so that his feet are in Frank’s lap. “So, enlighten me: what are you doing to keep everything under control?”
Frank blinks, surprised that Brian seems as confident speaking about it as he does. The guys all had little to no knowledge of how to deal, or what had to be done, and it was only Frank going through every pamphlet he’d been given and then relaying every word the doctor said that informed them at all of what was going on.
“Oh, uh, I’m taking Sangrus three times a week and sticking to an, uhm, a special diet in the meantime. I have contacts for sunlight and some seriously heavy-duty sunscreen. Other than that it’s just a matter of being careful.”
He thinks of everything that Dr. Aaron said. About how his natural abilities might shoot up a few levels, like his senses of smell and hearing already had. About how increased strength, speed, and stamina were a likely possibility in someone with the level of infection that Frank had. About how he had to be careful if he took on any sexual partners, because the instinctual nature of the practice could trigger him. About how if the hunger got too strong when other people was around, it was imperative for him to leave, or for them to get far away, and quickly.
“Frank.” Brian’s voice interrupts his thoughts and Frank jumps a little bit, smiling in apology. Brian’s sitting up now, staring at Frank with a serious look in his eyes. “You know, ninety-eight percent of the people who have vampirism lead perfectly normal, happy lives. Yes, they have to be careful and stick to their medicine, but that doesn’t mean the world is ending.”
Frank leans his head back against the couch. “This could ruin everything, Shechter,” he responds, low and strained. “Everything I’ve worked for. Everything the band’s worked for. It could destroy all of that.”
“If you let it get out of control,” Brian appends. “But if I know anything about you, it’s that you take your friends’ well-being very seriously, so that shouldn’t even be an issue. And you know that if you need anything - meat, a prescription refill, even just blood - that you can call me at any time?”
Frank smiles and shakes his head ‘yes.’ “Hey, man,” he says, reaching out to pat Brian’s thigh. “How do you know so much about this shit, anyway?”
Brian smiles. “I think it’s about time you met Bob Bryar.”
*
Frank has seen Bob around, of course. He’s a technician for The Used, and when he isn’t busy dropping Gerard safely at the door of the MCR tour bus, he’s lugging around music equipment and cracking jokes with the other techs, like any other guy. They’ve talked once or twice, but never more than in passing, and while it was enjoyable, Bob was guarded enough that Frank wasn’t certain they’d ever be more than just amiable acquaintances.
“Bryar!” Brian shouts, as they’re approaching. Bob glances around, searching the sea of wandering bodies for whoever it was that’d called his name. A huge grin works its way across his face when he sees who it is. He says something that Frank can’t quite make out over the vast distance to the tech across from him, and the other guy nods. They set down the trunk they were hauling and each head in separate directions.
“Shechter,” Bob greets, clapping one massive hand to Brian’s shoulder. “And Iero,” he adds, with a pleasantly surprised smirk. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“I was hoping you’d join us for a private lunch, actually,” Brian states brightly. “On me, of course.”
Bob laughs. “Well, with an offer like that, how could I possibly refuse? Let me go get Marco to take over for me.”
Some of the techs wave to Frank and continue about their business. A few wander over to say hello and ask how he’s been, which he appreciates. A handful, though, keep their heads down, ignore him, and the reek of fear and sweat is so strong that Frank nearly sneezes.
Bryar returns in about five minutes, sneaking up behind them out of nowhere, which impresses Frank because he has been all about the stealth-hearing recently, and slings an arm around each of their shoulders.
“All right!” he says. “Let’s go get some grub.”
Frank couldn’t agree more.
*
The diner is practically empty despite the fact that it’s one or so in the afternoon, which tends to be the lunch hour for business-types and nine-to-fivers. They take a booth in the back corner and order a round of milkshakes and burgers, making small talk and swapping tour stories until their waitress has delivered their food and disappeared into the kitchen.
“You going to tell me why you really invited me here, Shechter?” Bob asks, jamming a few fries into his mouth - decent meals are few and far between when you’re on tour.
Brian grins and pauses, with his burger halfway to his mouth. “Now, Bob, I’m appalled that you think I have some sort of ulterior motive for inviting you to have a nice lunch.”
Bob rolls his eyes and Frank smiles. “Yeah, yeah. I know how you management types work. You butter us up with free food and hot showers and then tell us that we’ll be working a twenty hour day with no breaks.”
“You got me there,” Brian laughs, and Frank chuckles along. Shaking his head and chewing thoughtfully for a moment, Brain wipes the grease on his palm off against his thigh and leans in, saying lowly, “I’d love to tell you why I brought you here, but it really isn’t my place to say.” His eyes flash over to Frank once and Frank swallows. He didn’t know that Brian was going to make him tell Bob; he’d just said that Bob might be able to relate. And now both the other men are sitting and watching Frank expectantly. He sets his jaw and shakes his head, glaring at Brian for a moment before clearing his throat - he is so going to kill his manager for this.
“I uh,” Frank starts, and has to stop. He still can’t bring himself to say it aloud. It helps that Bob doesn’t try to speed him along, though, just sits and waits patiently to hear it from Frank’s mouth. Frank’s sure he’s already heard the rumors. If the stories have made it around to the rest of the techs, then there’s no way that Bob doesn’t know. “I had a little run in with some vampires and came out with the shorter end of the stick,” he murmurs.
Bob nods. “So I’ve heard.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin and asks, voice low. “You okay?”
Frank shrugs. “I’m alive,” he says, and smirks a little. Bob chuckles.
“Yeah,” he replies. “You are.” He’s quiet for a moment before canting his head and asking, almost as an afterthought, “They prescribe you Sangrus?”
Frank’s eyes widen. “I - yeah. How did you -”
Bob cuts him off, responding, “My mom,” with a little smirk. “I’ve been on the stuff since I was about two.”
“How often?” Frank inquires excitedly, blatantly ignoring the self-satisfied smile that Brian is tossing at them both.
“Once every month. With -”
“Raw meat?” Frank finishes. Bob grins and gives him a thumbs up.
“Got it in one, short stuff.”
Frank flings a fry at Bob’s head and Bob laughs, throwing a fry back. Brian joins in and it turns into a miniature food fight for about thirty seconds before all three are leaning back against the red plastic seats, laughing breathlessly. It’s the most fun that Frank’s had in a week.
“So, how often they have you taking it?”
Frank knows it’s stupid to feel self-conscious about the frequency that Dr. Aaron had suggested he take the drug, but he can’t help it. Bob’s infection seems to be contained with a single dosage every four weeks while he’s taking about twelve times that per month.
“Three times a week,” he admits quietly. Frank is blown away when Bob just grins and nods and says that those fuckers must’ve gotten him good, rather than dissolving to tears or tensing up or conveniently finding an excuse to bow out.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Frank laughs. And, this whole not feeling self-conscious thing is definitely something he could get used to.
*
The show they play that night starts just as the sun is sinking below the horizon, and Frank feels drained the minute he puts the strap of his guitar over his shoulder and steps into the golden rays. He’s wearing a pair of giant sunglasses that he found on the bus, probably Gerard’s, so it isn’t too bad but it still stings his eyes and feels too hot on his skin.
“I want to thank all of you motherfuckers for being here tonight!” Gerard says into the microphone, throwing his tie over his shoulder and grinning like a maniac. “I have a special message for everyone here this evening!” The crowd cheers and throws their fists into the air. “And it also happens to be the title of one of our old songs!” There are scattered whoops and hollers, and Frank can see a few kids lean in and whisper to one another.
“We’re switching it up!” Gerard announces, and Frank frowns because nobody told him about a change in the set. Of course he knows all the old songs but still. “I want you all to remember: Vampires will never hurt you!”
Frank laughs and starts jumping even before Matt lays down the beginning beat.
He throws himself all over the stage during the set, the exhaustion tugging at him dissipating as the sun disappears below the horizon line. Once darkness settles over the arena, Frank feels like he’s gone from being miserably ill to feeling better and more energetic than he did as a kid. He puts everything he has into playing, presses his back to Gerard’s chest and then springs off, drops on his knees in front of Mikey, half-heartedly kicks in the direction of Matt’s cymbal - which he stops immediately upon seeing the look of agitation on Matt’s face.
Finally, during their encore, toward the end of the song, Frank sets his guitar down and sprints to the edge of the stage, leaping off into the crowd. They surf him back to the front and he yells a quick thank you into the microphone before he’s being ushered offstage.
Once they’re out of the line of sight, Frank’s bandmates immediately wheel around to face him, Matt hissing, “What the hell was that all about, Frank?” while Toro claps him on the shoulder.
Frank furrows his brow and says, “What was what about?”
“Kicking my drums, stage-diving, you’re going to let everyone know if you keep pulling stupid stunts like that.”
“Whoa,” Frank spits back. “First of all, I didn’t even hit your drums. Second, why does it matter if everyone knows?” His afternoon of acceptance with Bob has given him kind of a new outlook on life. He shouldn’t be ashamed of who he is; he never was in the past, but he knows the way that a lot of people view those who’ve been infected with vampirism, and occasionally for good reason.
Matt grumbles and turns to wander away, shoulders hunched.
Surprisingly enough, it’s Mikey who first says, “Don’t worry about him, Frankie. He’s just having some trouble adjusting.”
Frank shakes his head, but offers Mikey a small smile. Gerard is busily stumbling down the hallway, beer sloshing over the brim of his little red cup, and as Frank looks after him he feels a small pinch of disappointment in his chest. Mikey squeezes his shoulder and shifts his weight from foot to foot, pointedly looking at the ground.
“He’ll be okay, Mikes,” Frank says, quiet. Mikey laughs softly.
“Yeah, I hope so.”
*
this way to the next part...