Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had let it go on far longer than necessary. The hunger crawls up Its legs, clawing at Its stomach and roaring out of Its throat. If It doesn’t go, hunt now, It will dwindle to dust and as much as It has pushed Its limits, It’s not ready to truly die just yet.

So here It is, creeping through the woods to the nearest town like an Eldritch Horror (because It is, really) fangs out and pupils dilated. Deer’s blood is on Its sleeve from where It’s wiped Its chin because It needs to appear normal to thoroughly get someone good and the animal doesn’t satiate his thirst, not this time. The time has come. 

It needs to feed. 

Going into town is unavoidable because no sicko would go walking in the woods at one o’clock in the morning (It’d learned that early on). Luckily, no one in Belleville asks questions about the mysterious house in the middle of the woods.  

Leaves rustle near the Creature and It stops, spine stiffening, as the scintillating scent of blood wafts up his nostrils and it’s all It can do to not let Its head fall back and moan. Human. 

Apparently there’s one sicko who will absolutely take a hike in the middle of nowhere. 

It moves without sound, slipping through the shadows and up a tree to see a man walking aimlessly, kicking trees with beat up Converse and muttering to himself. The Monster’s eyes trace over the man’s pale and muscular arms covered with ink. The tattoos vanish up the sleeves of his t-shirt but reappear at his neck and the monster sees a scorpion right under his ear, and there’s an uncontainable urge to bite that scorpion and watch the pallor drain from the man’s skin so the scorpion stands out further against his drained flesh.

“Stupid– fucking– assholes,” The man curses. “Self-absorbed dickheads. Ugh!” He kicks his Doc Marten against the tree that It’s crouching in. The beating of wings soon becomes unable to be masked by the rustling of branches and the man looks up as a swarm of bats form above him.

“What the fuck!” the man yells as the bats swoop down and the man trips backwards, falling on his ass before scrambling up and tearing through the forest. His scared panting is loud to the Monster’s ears as he pumps his legs, adrenaline coursing through his veins and the Monster could smell it.

The Monster grins, licking Its lips. The time has come for the hunt to begin.

Chapter Text

My eyes blink open to moonlight streaming across the library ceiling, illuminating the dust motes swirling in front of the uncovered windows. I’m almost positive that I’d secured the shutters the last time I’d been in here.

I peel myself away from the cold wood floor. It sticks to my cheek, making a sticky sound as I finally pull away. I press my fingers to my cheek and they come away a deep red. 

As I get up, I groan. I feel full, fuller than I have in a long while. 

Must’ve drained a bear , I think. Or maybe a mountain lion. Or three mountain lions. 

I slowly stagger to my feet and trudge over to the wall and press the switch to close the curtains. The low hum of the whirring machine is loud in the quiet night. Rubbing my eyes, I trudge through the massive library and into the hallway. It’s dark, the lights are off, and the corridor is windowless. Good. The dark is good. 

I barely feel the chill in the air as I pass a mirror that Ray’d sent me as a gag gift several years back (even the card was stupid– ‘I hope you see why I thought this was perfect for you’, which he’d probably thought was hilarious. I’d hoped Mikey had told him that the mirror wasn’t inlaid with silver– a pure metal– so we could see our reflections in it like normal people) and grimace at the state of my hair.

“Fuck,” I mutter, my voice raspy. My hands dart up and attempt to style it in some semblance of normal. Yeah, that works out well. Not that the rest of me looks much better, with my old Bowie shirt torn in multiple places and– I’m not wearing any pants. Um. 

I stare at my bare, pasty legs for a second before refocusing on my hair. Am I going anywhere? No. But it would be nice if my fucking hair didn’t look like Nana’s old cat had tried to fight with a lawnmower. Is that a fucking twig in my hair? God damn it. 

As I fuss with the uncooperative strands, bits of the forest falling to the ground as I do so, I catch a flutter of movement out of the corner of my eye. I glance behind me, but there’s nothing except the dark purple wallpaper patterned with fleur de lis. 

I shake my head, turning away from the mirror and slouching down the hall. Must have been my eyes playing tricks on me. 

My bare feet pad almost silently on the thick, carpeted floor. The house is silent except for the faint breeze blowing through the halls. It’s nice, this nighttime quiet. 

The wooden, albeit carpeted, stairs creak, echoing through the lonely– the empty house. Empty except for the vampire who dwells. 

My bare foot sticks to something gross on the floor and my nose wrinkles as I lift my foot back up with a small squelch that’s loud to my sensitive ears. Ew. Ew, ew, ewwwww.  

The perks of living alone is that no one is there to judge you when you wipe whatever shmutz is on your foot on the carpet of the TV room. 

I’ve always liked this room; with its dark wood paneling covering the floor, walls, wall to wall bookshelves, and even the ceiling. The TV is from the early 2000s, the replacement to the ancient artifact of the 80s that Nana had had for years. The rug is ragged and stained and originally a deep, beautiful green that’s now faded from years in the sun and multiple spills of various substances. The bookshelves are filled with DVDs and random books and family photos and collections that had been compiled over the years. 

As my hands trace over the spines of the DVDs on the bookshelves, I hear a strange breeze rip through the walls with a loud groaning sound. I look around, but nothing is out of place. 

“It’s just the foundations settling,” I mutter to myself, deciding a rewatch of Star Wars: A New Hope is in order. “Just the foundations.” I slump onto the couch as the trailers start, my head falling onto the seat and my legs draped over the arm. 

I’ve lived here for nine years now. Mikey and Nana used to live here with me, after all it used to be Nana’s house. But then she died, leaving the house to Mikey and me. 

Mikey left two years ago. 

So here I am, left in a giant mansion in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere, New Jersey, that had been passed from descendant to descendant until it was passed to me, a recovering alcoholic who’s been sober for the better part of a decade.

Who is also a vampire.

Yeah, my über religious ancestors are so turning in their graves. 

When Mikey still lived here I would tell him all sorts of trivia about the Star Wars movies that he’d heard a thousand times before. When he got fed up with it he did dumb impressions of the characters that always made me giggle. That little shit is scarily good at impressions. 

Now, however, I just mouth the lines along with the movie, half of my attention on Luke whining about not being able to hang out with his friends and the other half mentally sketching out ideas to fill my sketchbook. 

Fuck, why didn’t I bring my sketchbook? Damn it. Now I have to pause the movie to go get it. 

As I stand up, a wave of dizziness washes over me. I stumble, retching, into a wall. I’m going to puke. Which makes no sense because vampires can’t fucking puke but–

A cold, clammy hand touches my face, and my ears are filled with a blood curdling scream. 

My world stretches, turns green, and warps like I'm looking at a funhouse mirror. I clap my hands over my ears, hoping to quiet the noise. It’s like someone is pressing their fingers into my brain, poking, prodding, and squeezing at it until it throbs with pain. Spots appear in front of my eyes. 

“What the fuck did I eat?” I groan as I slide down the wall and rest my head against it, waiting for the nausea to pass. I think I hear a chuckle from the corner of the room, but when I turn to look, no one’s there. I groan as I move to get up– slowly – from the floor, bracing my hands against the wall behind me. Five years in a house alone and I’m already going insane– how the fuck did Dracula do it? 

Staggering upright, I slowly stumble to the doorway, and stop. There are bloody footprints leading from a slowly drying puddle on the floor to where I am now. Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy–  

A loud crash breaks me from my trance. Fucking hell, that came from my room. I think. General direction, at least. 

I sprint up the stairs because fuck nausea. Fuck throwing up. What if that crash was my signed Misfits poster? Or my shelf of Watchmen comics? Or my Star Wars figurines?

When I reach my room, I stop dead (pun intended) in the doorway because it’s… it’s a fucking mess. What the in the flippity flappity flying fuck?  

Everything is scattered everywhere. (And I mean everywhere). 

My sketchbooks, pens, pencils, paintbrushes, dirty clothes, clean clothes, paintings, drawings, and various other things are strewn all over my bedroom. My fucking sheets are in a messy pile on the floor by my bed. One of the curtains is torn off and is on the floor in a heap, and the window is flung open, wind blowing more rapidly, causing random bits of junk to fly around the room. 

I dash to the window and latch it shut. 

Grumbling to myself, I begin to pick up various odds and ends, remake the bed, put art supplies back into their cases, put books back on the shelves, and organize everything until it’s back to its normal state of managed chaos. 

Back when I was a little kid, Nana let Mikey and I choose our own rooms. Mikey had chosen a room on the second floor that was the closest to the massive library, but I, being an overdramatic shit obsessed with gothic aestheticism, chose the room in the small tower at the side of the house.

Usually, it’s a nice size for a room, albeit circular. The bed is in the middle, a nice queen that gives me room to spread out on it. There are posters from the Misfits, The Smashing Pumpkins, and vintage horror movies scattered on the walls among paintings I’ve hung up. 

Sighing, I wipe my brow and begin to make the trek downstairs, and then remember what I’d originally come up here for. Cursing, I cross back over to my desk and pick up the leather bound black book with the pencil attached to the side with an elastic band (which ruins the aesthetic of it a little but it’s better than constantly losing my pencil. Which I had done in high school. A lot.) There’s something sticky on the bottom of my book– when I touch my fingers to it they come away red. My brow furrows. There’s red on the edges of the pages too. 

What the fuck?

Frowning, I open my sketchbook, turning through the pages until I get to the page where the red is deepest. It’s a sketch I did a while ago, originally an idea for a character that had popped into my head (I’ve since forgotten it). Now, a red smear is across the unfinished sketch, shaping a face out of the dried red fluid. It’s hard to really make it out due to all the blood. Because yes, of course, it’s blood. I can fucking smell it. 

I unhook the pencil from its storage space and begin to slowly trace the tip over the bloody page. The face becomes clearer the further I scribble away at it. 

The face belongs to a young man with an angular jawline, a distinct nose that rounds at the tip (kind of adorable, actually) with a ring through the right nostril. His mouth is almost smiling (and he has a fucking lip ring) but not, a Mona Lisa smile, if you will. His hair is bleached and shaved at the sides, but soft and dark at the top, falling into his eyes that pierce right through me. If he wasn’t a figment of my imagination, I would get on my knees and suck his cock until he screams. 

I don’t know who the fuck this guy is. I don’t know why he’s showing up in a bloodstain in my sketchbook– or why there’s a bloodstain in my sketchbook– and why the fuck does he seem so familiar? I have a headache. Or the closest thing to one, since vampires don’t actually get headaches. (We can’t take Advil either, it doesn’t fucking work on us damn it.)

I drag my hand down over my face, closing my eyes and squeezing them tight until I see stars. I open them again, look back down at the page. 

The familiar man that I’ve never seen before stares back at me, not offering up any answers.

The woods are silent except for the scratch of my pencil against the once-white page of my sketchbook. And the cicadas. Don’t forget about the cicadas.

I’m in a tree, lounging on one of the sturdier branches with my back planted firmly against its trunk. It’s dark (duh), but to me I can see the forest for miles around. I’ve explored these woods since I was small, memorizing invisible paths to hidden places. 

Right now, however, I’m focusing on sketching a weird knot on the tree opposite me. 

I’d cleaned up the foyer floor about an hour ago with a mop and a lot of cold water, all the while mulling over the man in my sketchbook. Hot, yes, and familiar, but where had I seen him before?  

 A breeze blows through the trees, ruffling my hair and rustling the leaves on the forest floor, and I’m thankful that before I’d headed out I’d had the common sense to change my shirt, put on some sweats, and shrug on a hoodie, because while I’m no longer affected by the cold, it’s still annoying. I lean closer to the page, pressing my pencil harder to the page and making the lines darker. Maybe it could be a curse of nature, spreading to the trees around it and cursing any unwary traveler that steps inside its treacherous boundaries. Heh. 

The breeze grows stronger, blowing my hair into my face. I sputter, balancing my book and pencil on my knees so I can use both my hands to get control of my hair as the breeze– it’s more of a wind now– grows stronger. 

“Fuck!” I yell, spitting out my hair. I manage to grasp it all with one hand holding it messily atop my scalp, and once my vision is clear, I catch a glimpse of my sketchbook’s pages blowing in the wind and– MY FUCKING PENCIL IS ON THE FOREST FLOOR. Shit. I tentatively lean over to try to get a glimpse of my pencil, which to a normal human’s eyes would be invisible from this distance, but to my vampiric eyes I just need to blink several times to focus on the perfectly focused forest floor beneath me.

Despite the leaves blowing all over the place, I manage to get a glimpse of the yellow body of the stick of wood. I know, I know, dumbass vampire using a wooden pencil when he could die by a stake to the heart, but it gives a nice, natural feel to the drawings. 

I need to get down. Getting up into a tall tree is easy: just make a running jump and use your momentum to rappel off of two trees going upward until you get to the branch of your choice. Some stronger vampires can just make it up in one jump (I am not one of them, if you couldn’t tell). 

Getting down is also easy… usually. Usually because I reverse jump the way I came, or, if I haven’t fed in a while, climb from branch to branch until I reach the floor. 

Usually because there isn’t a wind trying to impale me. 

The wind screams through the forest, jostling me so my hair flies free around my face as I now need two hands to steady myself. “What the fuck is going on?” I scream, quickly shifting so I’m straddling the branch and gripping hard with my knees and am able to keep a tight hold on my sketchbook (it’s the closest thing to a baby I will ever have).

There is no respite, no break in the fierce, furious wind. It’s loud, like the blare of a guitar in a small room or a scream magnified by ten thousand speakers. Branches of trees crack and sway and break, crashing to the ground around me. I need to get the fuck out of here. Like now, or I’m gonna be dusted in the most embarrassing way possible. 

R.I.P. Gerard Way, blown to death. A frenzied giggle rips its way out of my mouth at the thought. Wish I had time to write that down. I throw my head back and scream with mirth– and then scream in fear as something hits me with such force that I fall out of the tree.

The trees seem to cheer at my (literal) downfall– or that could be my imagination as I free-fall through the air and land on the ground with a bone shaking thud. A cloud of bats swarms above me, blotting out the moon. 

There’s something on my chest. There’s something on my fucking chest. I push myself up on my elbows, which are shaking. There’s a creature clinging to my shirt, it’s wings semi-extended. It raises its little head and opens its mouth and bares its fangs– BAT! IT’S A FUCKING BAT ON MY CHEST! THAT LITTLE FUCK HIT ME OUT OF THE SKY!

I screech and scramble back, shaking it off. Shit, shit, shit. Where’s my book? There, in the leaves. I snatch it up and run through forest at top fucking speed. Trees creak around me and branches break and fall and the leaves are blowing and the wind pushes me back–

I break through the last of the trees into the clearing with my house in the center and sprint for the door, clutching my sketchbook tight. 

I slam and lock the door behind me and stagger back, staring at the brown mahogany wood. 

“Think,” I whisper. “Your best friend is a fucking witch and you’re a fucking vampire. Think.” What would Mikey do?

What would Ray do? Take precautions. This could be a forest spirit. Or a ghost. Or worse– a demon. What do I need? Salt? I have salt– wait. Before precautions, research. 

“To the library!” I exclaim out loud because I’ve been on my own for years and I have to make my own fun, and dash up the stairs to the library. 

It’s crowded in here– books packed onto shelves, piled onto the floor, scattered over tables. Not a spot is left uncovered. Nana had made it her mission to make this room as homey and comfortable as possible, leading to plushy chairs and little reading nooks and an attempt at bookcases sorted by section and alphabetised by author in each one. 

There’s no time to tidy, a spirit is haunting me. I make a beeline for the back corner section, full of tomes of magic that Nana had saved. 

“C’mon, c’mon,” I mutter, scanning the spines for the book I need, Spiritual Protections and Defenses by Dr. A. Hurley . Branches whip against the window as the windstorm picks up. “Bingo!” I flip through the pages frantically, because this man is a fucking genius. “What do I need, what do I need…” 

“Though Hollywood would suggest you use a cross to defend yourself from evil spirits, most entities do not follow a specific deity attached to a singular religion. I do not recommend it. If you are being haunted by a demon: This will only anger the spirit, and may result in mass death and destruction.  

When beset by an unidentified spirit, the two things you absolutely need are salt and iron. These two common components ward off even the most vile poltergeist. This will buy you time to identify your attacker and dispatch them properly.”

Salt. Iron. I have that. 

Snapping the book shut and tucking it under my arm, I run out of the library.I have to make it to the kitchen. My footsteps thunder in a muffled way over the carpet as I run faster than I’ve ever run, making it to the stairs in record time. Get to the kitchen, get to the kitchen, get–

WHAM.

A force hits me in the back of my head and I tumble down the stairs, the book in my hands skidding away from me. Another wave of nausea overcomes me and this time I do throw up, spitting blood all over the foyer floor. 

“Ugh,” I groan. The phantom laughter is back, louder and mocking. Get up. My arms won’t move, I can’t get up. Get up . I feel sick. I think I’m gonna vomit again. Get up get up get up.

My arms give out from under me and everything goes black.

The windows of the rusty Aston Martin are down. It’s parked in a small clearing in the middle of the woods, still running. Rock music plays softly from the radio. The headlights are still on, the inside lights illuminate the two men in the front seats. Mikey’s in the drivers’ seat, and he remains unchanged from when I last saw him. Ray looks older, a few more wrinkles around his eyes, a few more bite marks visible. I sit in the back seat, watching them.

“Never have I ever… fallen in love multiple times,” Ray says.

“Oh fuck you,” Mikey laughs, taking a shot straight from the bottle of bourbon, barely gagging at the burn. “It was only twice.” The taller man giggles– fucking giggles– and presses a kiss to Mikey’s knuckles. “Sap,” Mikey mutters as Ray kisses up his arm, leaning over the center console of their car. “Never have I ever… gotten covered in magic goo just to have my boyfriend lick it all off me in the bathtub.” 

Ray guffaws against his shoulder. “That was fun, wasn’t it?” He takes the bottle and drinks from it before kissing Mikey slowly and languidly.

“It was,” Mikey says after a bit. “But I couldn’t get the goo out from under my fingernails for weeks, so I’d rather not repeat the experience.”

“What, only a three star review on Yelp?” Ray jokes. 

“For the mud? Yes. But the sex was a solid five stars.”

“What can I say? Magic certainly enhances the experience.”

“You can say that again.”

Ray shakes his head. “There’s other things I’d rather be doing than talking.” 

Great, they’re kissing again. I wrinkle my nose. Even though this is nasty, it’s… nice. Nice to see Mikey and Ray again. Not nice to intrude on their canoodling. Gross. Mikey smiles into the kiss. He looks happy. So does Ray. Good, they both deserve to be happy. 

Mikey, surprisingly, pulls away after not that long, breaking me out of my reverie. “Might we move this game into the back seat before we get in trouble with park rangers for scaring the wild life with the car horn again?” The taller man chuckles and reaches across him to turn off the car. The music stops, the lights turn off. The car is dark and quiet.

I see the silhouette of Ray kissing him one more time before crawling into the back, groaning. Ew. Ew. No, I’m not dreaming about my brother and his boyfriend having sex, no no no no– Everything blurs away and I find myself outside the car, a little ways away; too far to see what’s happening (thank fuck), but still within earshot to hear Ray say: “My fucking back.”

The car squeaks as Mikey crawls after him. “You’ve been using the heating packs?”

“Every night. Can’t chase away old age though.” 

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You know my question. You know what I want.”

“Yes, I do,” Mikey sighs. He sounds tired. “But Ray–”

“And I still know your answer. Don’t worry, I’m not going to push it tonight,” Ray interrupts him softly. “Just kiss me right now, okay?”

“Only kiss?” I can hear the smile in my brother’s voice.

“They look so happy, don’t they?” I hadn’t heard him approach me; then again, I wouldn’t. “That used to be us.”

“That was never us,” I say softly, not turning away from the car. “Ray’s good for him. Ray gets him.”

“And I never got you?”  

“Not in the way that mattered.”

He makes a “tch” noise, and we stand there for a second, just watching the car bounce and hearing them moan as they begin to lose themselves in each other. “Don’t you find this disgusting? Hearing them have sex? Watching them? It’s your brother.”

I lean against the tree. “It’s dark. I haven’t seen anything nasty. Besides, I missed him.” 

“You miss him and don’t miss me?”

I finally turn to look at him . Blood still trickles through his lanky hair, his skin sallow, his eyes lifeless. “I can’t miss you. You don’t go away.”

His eyes flash, and his image flickers. “Then I guess we’re both cursed.”

“Yes, I guess we are,” I answer coolly. He snarls, eyes growing brighter, and I think he’s about to lunge at me but–

My eyes snap open. I’m face down on the floor, in the pool of my blood vomit. Gross. I peel my cheek off the floor, grimacing at the feeling. Oh, my head is pounding. Ow. And my ears are ringing. Double ow.

Despite wobbly knees and shaky legs, I count it as a victory that I don’t vomit again as I stand up. Scratch that, double victory for standing up. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I look around. Wasn’t there noise before? Like a lot of it? 

The foyer is the same as it always is, plus the puddle of my own vomit on the floor. Ew. My mouth tastes like absolute shit. I need to drink something. Coffee? Tempting. No, water. Water would be best. I stagger past the vomit puddle and into the kitchen. The overhead light flickers. I should get that fixed. 

I get a glass from the rickety cupboard above the sink and pour water from the tap.

I drain the glass, and then pour another one. I lose track of time, draining my glass and then pouring another one. I’m really fucking thirsty. 

I raise the glass to my lips again, but a noise from above makes me pause. Music. Faint strains of music. It’s too low to discern what it is, so I set down my glass and silently step out of the kitchen. The melody is familiar, but the lyrics are still too low. I creep up the stairs, head cocked to catch the noise. Where is it coming from?

“Crash into my arms… I want you…”

I stop at the top of the stairs. This is Jack the Ripper. Fucking– Mikey’s room. I turn right, speeding up a little as Morrissey’s deep voice floats down the hall, encircles my mind, and fills the halls. 

The door is cracked. He didn’t leave the door open when he left. I haven’t even stepped foot in there since. I stop outside his room. I can’t– I have to. I have to turn the music off. 

“You don’t agree… but you don’t refuse…”

I open the door to my brother’s bedroom. 

It hasn’t changed. The dusky blue walls and his bass in the corner, the photos on the wall that used to be us in various stages of puberty, but were swapped out for photos of him and Ray and the three of us and posters of The Smashing Pumpkins and Morrissey (among others), and the blackout curtains covering his one window. My heart aches to see his copy (my copy, really, that he never gave back) of The Return of the King on his bedside table besides various issues of Watchmen and Batman. Worst of all, the unmade queen bed makes it seem like he’s just stepped out for a minute.

My attention, however, is drawn to the CD player on his desk, playing a Morrissey CD. I cross to it, press pause, and take the CD out. The silence is sudden, and once again I’m aware of  the wind blowing against the window.

The wind! The last hour comes back to me in a rush. As if it had read my mind, it picks up immediately, blowing relentlessly. The bedroom door slams shut behind me. Fuck. I stride to it, try to open it, but it won’t. I jiggle the knob, I tug, I push, to no avail. 

Fuck.

I pound on the door. “Let me out!” I yell. But the wind only blows louder. “What do you want from me?” Once again, no answer except for the wind shrieking bloody murder until a crash sounds from down below and the window in Mikey’s room breaks, scattering glass across the room and the curtain flaps and the door shudders from the force on both sides. 

I cover my head to protect myself. Shit, shit, shit fuck. I need protection, somewhere– the bathroom. Of course!

I run for it, slamming the door and locking it behind me. I lean against the counter and run my hand through my hair. Holy shit. Holy shit.  

As the adrenaline rush leaves me, my urgent need to pee makes itself known. Because yes, vampires can pee. And I need to. So I do.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

While I sit on the toilet, I put my head in my hands. “What the hell is going on?” I mutter. It couldn’t be– No. If it was him I’d be dead by now. Maybe one of his friends? No, it’s been too long, and they wouldn’t know where to find me. Nana had kept this place purely on paper for my (our) safety. So then who? Who would do this?

Ugh. I need a cigarette. I need to get off the toilet. 

So I do.

Movement catches my eye in the mirror as I’m washing my hands, and I glance up to see a painting my grandmother made after one of her episodes. 

It’s dark, black and gray and blue and purple, and to the untrained eye it just looks like a mysterious painting. But if one was to look closer, one would see phantom faces painted through it, ghostly people with no distinct features except for randomly highlighted cheeks and foreheads, eyes glowing with unreal light (which is really dabs of lighter colors, like lavender and white and mint, etc). 

The painting doesn’t move. I stop the sink, dry my hands on my pants, and squint at the reflection, waiting. I’m not taking any chances, not after everything that’s happened tonight. In the back of my mind I register that the wind has gone down again. 

There is no sound except for the slow dripping of the faucet into the basin. 

A hand lunges out at me from the painting. I duck and spin, sliding to the door on my knees in the cramped space. The hand is followed by a man, a very familiar looking man, that crashes into the mirror and the sink, breaking the glass and sending everything else falling to the floor.

My hand darts up and unlocks the door before wrenching it open and scrambling to my feet, dashing for Mikey’s bedroom and slipping over the shards of broken glass. I put my hand on the knob– please, please, please work. 

The knob turns and I burst through the door, dashing down the hallway. Where do I go, where do I go, where do I– “AH!”

An invisible force wraps around my ankle and yanks me back and down. My chin hits the carpeted floor, sending a burst of pain cracking up my skull. 

I flip around onto my back to see the man stalking towards me, eyes blazing with fury. I recognize him almost immediately– it’s the man from my drawing. His Jawbreaker t-shirt is filthy and ripped, and there are mud stains (and leaves stuck to said mud stains) spattered on his jeans and Converse. He towers over me, tattoos standing out against his too-pale skin.

“Who are you?” I say, my voice gravelly from masked terror. “Who the fuck are you?” 

“You really don’t remember me?” He cocks his head, voice like the wind that’s been blowing all night, echoing oddly down the corridor. 

“Should I?” I whisper, trembling. This is bad. This is so bad. Oh god this is so bad. He gets down on one knee between my parted legs and leans over me, his hand next to my head, so that his face is right above mine. 

“You killed me,” he growls.

Shit. 

Chapter Text

“I killed you? I killed you,” I repeat for the thousandth time, sitting criss-cross in the middle of the kitchen table, one hand holding a cigarette and the other clutching my sketchbook tight. “No way I fucking killed you.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve established that you did, in fact, fucking kill me,” my murder victim grumps. He’s also at my kitchen table, slumped in the seat that Mikey used to sit at all the time, with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“But I didn’t–” I protest.

“But you did.” His tone doesn’t leave any room for argument. “You drained my life out through my fucking neck, dickhead.”

“My name isn’t dickhead, dickhead , it’s Gerard.”

“Close enough.”

I take a long drag from my cigarette. “What’s your name, then?”

“What, you don’t want to call me ‘Victim’?” His grin doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No!” I gasp at him, minorly outraged. “That’s– that’s fucking dehumanizing!”

“I’m a ghost, Gerard, we’re past dehumanization.” I sit there in outraged silence, ash slowly falling from my cigarette onto the wooden surface of the table. “I’m Frank,” the ghost finally says. 

“Frank,” I repeat, rolling the name off my tongue. Ick. Not very melodic.

“Gerard,” Frank mimics, putting his feet on the kitchen table. 

“Get your feet off my table.”

“Why?”

“Just take them off.”

“Or what, are you gonna kill me?” 

I roll my eyes. Good grief. This guy is more pissy than Ray with a hangover. “For the last time, Frank, I didn’t fucking kill you.” 

“Yeah? Then what are these, hickies?” Frank tilts his head, exposing the left side of his neck to me. I crawl forward, my cig a faint hotspot on my fingers. It’s a clear bite mark, with two fang marks on the top, indicated by deeper, wider puncture wounds. Shit. Fuck. I didn’t do that, did I? I don’t know. I really don’t know.  

“You don’t know that I did that,” I say, attempting to put the cig back in my mouth nonchalantly. I fail, dropping the still burning smoke on my pants. 

“Yeah? Then who did? Nosferatu?” Frank demands as I squawk and leap off the table, jumping up and down to get the ash and burning paper off my damn pants. “Okay, maybe you didn’t kill me.”

I glare at him through my hair. “Cause I’m too uncoordinated to have murdered you?” Asshole. 

“A vampire wouldn’t have dropped a cigarette on his pants.” 

“And how would you have known that, Sherlock? Met any other vampires at social events?” I stomp on the dying embers of my cigarette, leaving an ash mark on the tile. That’s depressing. I need another one. 

“You’re too dorky to be a vampire, man.”

“And what makes you say that?” I straighten up indignantly with my hands on my hips, shaking my hair out of my face. This fucking guy. 

“Well everyone knows that vampires are suave and charming. You are neither suave nor charming– you were walking around your house with no fucking pants on, Mr. Pasty legs.” If he wasn’t already a ghost I’d rip his head off. Hot or not, no one gets to insult how I live in my house, especially not while he’s in my house. I stalk slowly toward him, and he’s still talking. Dick.  

Why is he still fucking talking? He’s looking up at me now, mouth closed (yay!) and it’s more of a glare but I don’t care because I’m glaring right back, deep into his hazel eyes, my hands on the arms of his chair, and I bare my teeth, letting my fangs slide down and I snarl at him, a low and dangerous sound because this asshole has made my night a living hell, knocking me out of trees and destroying my little brother’s bedroom and I’ve about had it with this fucking interloper.

I’m done.

“I knew it,” his annoying grin is back, albeit a bit more smug. 

“You absolute ass,” I growl, my fangs retracting. This little shit fucking goaded me into revealing myself, and I fell for it! 

“Not my fault you’re so easy to bait.”

I huff, pushing off his chair and stomping out of the kitchen.

“Oh don’t be like that,” he sneers, appearing in the doorway of the TV room. “People are supposed to be easy to bait, so I’m not surprised a monster like you is the same way.”

“For fucks– I get my blood from a fucking bag!” I shout, pointing at him indignantly and trying to convey fuck off with my body language. 

He gives me a death glare. “Do I look like a blood bag to you?”

Asshole. Asshole. My damn body language didn’t work. Wait! Salt will work! I pull a 180 again and cross back across the foyer into the kitchen into the pantry.

“So, this is your tactic: ignoring me? Because I’m prepared to make that very difficult for you.” I roll my eyes, but say nothing. I’ve found my prize. He’s right behind me. Okay. 

I turn around again, canister of salt clutched tight in my hand, and walk right through him. It’s like walking through a wall of ice water, but I ignore Frank’s indignant “Hey!” and speed out of the kitchen, and up the stairs as fast as I can, tucking my sketchbook under my arm. 

“You fucker!” Frank yells, careening out of a wall and trying to stop me, but I barrel on. I’ve had it with this douchebag. 

I keep the salt in front of me, slowly pouring out a handful into my palm. Just a little further. There, the stairs to my room.

“Get back here!” Three… up the stairs. Two… “We’re not finished!” He’s right behind me, I’m at the top– ONE!  

I spin around and fling the salt in his face. 

Frank sputters, and then screams as the salt goes through his essence and sends him falling back to the hallway, writhing in pain. 

I slam my bedroom door and shake out a messy line in front of it. It’ll do. After tossing my sketchbook on the bed I cross to the window and, after ensuring it’s latched tight I put a line of salt in front of it as well, and a circle of it around my bed for good measure. I shut the container and put it on my bedside table. They should make salt spray for cases like this. Like pepper spray but– it’s salt. 

Frank’s still screaming below, sounding like– well, like he’s being murdered. I snort. Serves him right. I walk to my stereo and put in a tape, cranking up the volume to drown the ghostly wails out. I don’t need a headache on top of everything else. 

“POINT ME TO THE SKY ABOVE!” Glenn Danzig yells through my speakers as Frank howls bloody murder below. 

I flop on my bed and stare up at the ceiling. Today was fucking weird. So fucking weird. I don’t even remember killing this dude. I roll over, burying my face in my pillows. It’s almost sunrise. Maybe he’ll go away and fade to dust. Here’s hoping. 

“DIG UP HER BOOOOOOOONES!” I’m asleep in minutes, on top of my bedspread. 

Tinny laughter emanates from the television as two sitcom characters yell at each other. I'm sitting at the foot of a motel bed, looking up at a dingy TV. "We were on a break!" the man screams. Ray chuckles behind me.

“They’re so stupid,” he says. 

“They’re so overrated,” Mikey groans. There’s rustling behind me. “Can we find a Buffy rerun, please?” His voice comes out muffled. I turn to see his face mushed in Ray’s neck and his leg draped over Ray’s.

“You can if you want.” Ray rubs up and down Mikey’s back. “I’m gonna call it a night.” Mikey groans and pulls his head back to give Ray a soft kiss on the mouth before rolling off of him and flopping on the sheets. Ray smiles softly, getting off the bed and walking to the bathroom. He’s humming to himself. 

Mikey reaches for the remote and starts surfing the channels for something interesting. I get up and sit on Ray’s side of the bed, next to my brother.

“I miss you,” I whisper. He doesn’t look up. He’s probably forgotten all about me. Two years, and not one call. Not even a text. I don’t blame him. I really don’t. I deserve this. I deserve–

“Hey! I found Buffy!” Mikey yells, making me jump. Ray sticks his head out of the bathroom, mouth full of toothpaste, and gives a thumbs-up before going back in to spit it out. “Hey, the high school hasn’t blown up yet!”

“That’s always a plus,” Ray chuckles, exiting the bathroom and crawling on the bed towards Mikey, kissing him languidly (ew). Mikey grins into it, curling his pale fingers into Ray’s curly hair as the Buffy theme song plays–

Mikey rolls them over–

through me–

It’s dark now, the only light coming from the TV screen, and the sunlight through the heavy curtains. Ray is asleep, head on Mikey’s shoulder. Mikey, while wide awake, isn’t watching the TV. His phone is open, he’s typing on it one-handed, the little buttons clacking in the shadows. I stand in the corner between the bed and the bathroom, watching him. 

Mikey presses send and shuts his phone, tossing it on the bed next to him. He curls up, wrapping his arms around the sleeping man next to him and laying his cheek on the top of his head, eyes returning to the television as action noises emanate from it. 

My head turns when I feel a tug in my gut. The bathroom light flickers on, and then off again. I turn the corner into it– there’s nothing there except dingy tile, dingy bathtub, dirty mirror, crusty toilet, and Ray’s travel kit on the chipped sink. 

The light above the sink flickers again, and I step towards it even though I’m kind of shit at changing bulbs and I’m some kind of dream-ghost thing but then my eyes find the mirror and it’s not my reflection that I see but his. He grins at me, baring his teeth like a dog on the hunt and says “You deserve this.”

The mirror cracks– once, twice, three times, before–

It explodes, mirror shards scattering outward and I hear Mikey yell “What the fuck?” and Ray make a confused noise and I turn my head to the door but–

The lightbulbs burst- showering the room in sparks and more broken glass and then I’m dragged up, up, up and my eyes flare open and–

“FRANK!”

I’m five feet in the air, looking down at my bedspread where I’d been sprawled not moments before.

“I told you to watch your back!” Frank yells through the door. 

“Put me down asshole!”

“Make me, bitch!”

I flail in the air hopelessly for a second, swinging my legs back and forth and trying to scrabble at my ceiling. But it’s like there are invisible ropes around my waist and chest, holding me in place. All I can do is stare down at my bed spread and– open sketchbook. 

I didn’t leave it open. 

“Put me down,” I say again, this time more serious. 

“No!” Frank yells petulantly. My eyes dart to the pencils and pens scattered around the book– those were on my desk before. The sketchbook is open to a previously blank page– a page that’s now covered in inky symbols. No, not symbols, a singular symbol repeated over and over, hidden in a pattern– a chord rings in my memory. 

“Frank–”

“I’m not putting you down!”

“I found something, you idiot!”

Pause. “What kind of something?”

“A fucking clue you stupid snot!”

“And since when are you looking for clues, Sherlock?”

“Put me down and I’ll fucking show you!” Silence. 

More silence. 

I bounce several times when landing on my bed and knocking a few pens off the bed. I grab my sketchbook, marking the page with my finger and scrambling over my sheets and wrenching the door open. Frank is standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows arched skeptically. 

“Well?” he drawls. 

I hold my sketchbook open to the page. “This!”

He squints at it. “What am I looking at?” 

“It’s a clue!” All I get is a blank stare. I huff. “Come on, you fucking moron.” I cross the threshold, stalking down the spiral staircase. I stomp all the way to the library, not checking if he’s following or not. 

I return to the corner of the library full of books on magic and begin pulling tomes down at random, opening them to various pages and pouring through the pictures, looking for something, anything–

“You really love playing innocent, don’t you?” Frank’s behind me, but I don’t jump.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say without looking up. 

“Don’t I? You’re a fucking murderer.” If he could breathe, he’d be blowing in my ear. His voice is no more than a dangerous whisper in the big room.

“I’m trying to fix this,” I murmur back. My voice shakes slightly. I turn around. “I’m trying to help you.”

Frank’s face is stony and guarded, jaw set. But his eyes… his eyes are pitch black. They were hazel before. I reach up to– I don’t really know what– but he grabs my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. I don’t think he could touch me before. Something’s wrong.

Frank leans up towards me until our faces are only millimeters apart. “You can’t fix this.” His eyes flash– and I fly backwards into the bookshelf behind me, sending it toppling down and splintering to pieces. 

I collapse on the hardwood floor, hitting my head hard with a loud crack. “What the fuck,” I groan. Someone yells my name. I lift my head up and see his black combat boots rushing soundlessly towards me. My eyes flutter shut, my head slumping to the ground as everything fades to black. 

"And the motel doesn't think it was us?"

“No, they think it was some sort of blown electrical fuse or something.”

Mikey and Ray are sitting on the hood of their car, overlooking a lit up town. Maybe L.A? It’s dark; a little after sunset. They’re the only car there. I’m leaning against a tree behind them, watching them. My back aches slightly. It’s weird, I don’t normally feel pain here. At least, I hadn’t registered it before. 

“It wasn’t,” Mikey says softly. 

“How do you know?”

Mikey shrugs. “I just do.” He’s hunched forward, shoulders curled up. Ray takes his hand, tangling their fingers together. “Something just feels… off.”

“Off?”

“Unnatural. Maybe… supernatural.”

Ray sighs. “This is about Gerard, isn’t it.” I straighten up at the sound of my name. 

“What? No.”

“Yes, it is. I’m not mad, Mikey, he’s your brother. It’s been two years. Of course you miss him.”

“I’m not making this up!” Mikey exclaims, yanking his hand away and shoving off the car, pacing a few steps away before turning around. “Something’s fucking wrong here!”

I feel an icy chill on the back of my neck. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Fuck off,” I say coldly. 

He comes into view, and he’s smirking. “That’s not very nice.”

I glare at him. “Did it ever cross your mind that I don’t give a shit about hurting your feelings? You’re dead. You can’t bother me anymore. Just let me see my brother in peace.”

He gets up in my face, still grinning. “And how would he feel if he found out you’re not doing what he asked? That you’re not giving him space?”

“Leave me alone,” is all I say. “You have no fucking power over me anymore. Just go away.” I shove him away from me, and walk towards the car.

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” Ray’s saying, “But you realize what this sounds like, right?”

“What does it sound like?” Mikey snaps back. “Tell me, what?”

Ray rubs a hand across his eyes. “You’re manifesting something or your mind is playing some sort of trick on you so you go home. It’s clear you’re homesick, babe, it’s normal.”

“I’m not homesick!” Mikey stomps his foot in frustration. “Look!” Confused, Ray looks on as Mikey slams something down onto the hood of the car. Ray slides off the hood to get a better look, and I move closer to see.

It’s a bag of herbs.

“I found that in our room,” Mikey says softly. “Valerian root, mugwort, winter cherry– something’s watching us. I can feel it.” 

Unease prickles its way up my spine. I wish I was with them in person, though maybe two freaked out Way brothers wouldn’t be the best for Ray’s own anxiety. 

There’s a thud and a choking noise behind me– not like a “I ate food too fast kind of way” but a “someone is trying to fucking kill me” way. 

“Mikey?” Ray cries. “Mikey, are you okay?” That hat gets me to whip around immediately. Mikey thrashes on the ground with the ghost crouching over him, his hands around my little brother’s throat. No. No!

“Get off him!” I cry, leaping at the smarmy bastard. “Get the fuck away from him!” 

He cackles, sending me a wicked look over his shoulder. “And why should I, Gee? Why should I do anything you say?” Ray throws himself down to the ground next to Mikey, his hands fluttering frantically over Mikey’s upper chest. 

“Mikey, baby, what’s going on? Mikey!” Mikey thrashes, clawing at the hand he can’t see that’s gripping tighter and tighter around his throat, not cutting off his nonexistent breathing but slowly crushing his throat.  

NO! “Get off him!” I yell again, this time managing to grab the asshole and pull him off Mikey, who gasps in relief. I slam him against the tree. “Keep your rotting mitts off my brother, you son of a bitch!”

The grin on his face spreads wider until it’s unnaturally big. “I thought you liked my mom,” he says smoothly despite his position. 

I push against him harder. “You stay away .” 

His eyes flash. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, baby. I’m gonna make you pay.” He dissipates into smoke with a sharp grin, leaving me clutching at nothing. 

Ray’s cries of relief are muffled as I stare at my hands. I understand now, I think.

Oh… oh no.

Chapter Text

The first thing I register are the multiple points of discomfort on my body. I’m pressed against the floor by multiple hard objects, weight varying on different areas. I open my eyes to near darkness, my vamp-vision outlining the objects on top of me.

“Frank?” I croak. No answer. I push myself up, and the books tumble off of me into the pile. The morning sunlight barely filters through the thick curtains illuminating the bare outline of the carnage that I’m sitting in. It’s enough for my eyes to see broken wood scattered in a radius around me, and Frank–

Frank is nowhere in sight. 

I slowly get to my feet, stepping over the fallen tomes of what looks to be… erotica. Um. Okay, that has to be the least of my worries but… what the fuck grandma. 

“Frank?” I call again, tearing my eyes away from the cover of… a very buff werewolf. No response. 

The library is strangely quiet. Too quiet. 

I creep through the shelves. Nothing else is broken. The familiar creak of the worn floorboards echo  eerily in the early morning sounds. A chill swaddles me as I step out into the hallway. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself, peering up and down the hall. There is nothing except muted sunlight making faint patterns on the carpet. “Frank!” I yell louder. 

There’s no answer. None at all.

The seconds blend into minutes, into hours, as they always do when you’re undead and immortal and sleep is no longer a necessity for you, and the graphite from my on the page spreads from the skull to undead hands creeping along the bottom to mysterious smoke and a figure rising above the chaos, pupils whited out.

Even before I was turned, I always sketched for hours on end, but there were endless stretch breaks scattered among the hours where I would curse my traitorous back. Now, however, time slips further away from me as I take a pen and drag it over the pencil marks, making shadows deeper and darker. 

How did it come to this? 

A few years ago I was a college graduate, spreading my post-surgery paychecks along like butter, splurging on drugs and condoms because I was young and stupid and all I could think of was vodka and cocaine and Bert. And then I got bit. 

My life, along with Mikey’s, unraveled after that. 

And now I’m here, wasting away in a mansion that belonged to decades of Ways, a monster trapped. 

This is why Mikey left. This is why he couldn’t stay here with me and chose to gallivant around the country with Ray in their beat up Aston Martin. Everyone I care about gets hurt the longer they’re around me. I’m poison. I’m toxic. 

I don’t want to be a killer. I don’t mean to be one. 

I didn’t mean to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt anyone. 

I put my pencil in the margin of my sketchbook and toss it away. 

The wooden floor of my art room is covered in various tarps and newspapers to protect it from the paint and other art supplies that might end up on the floor (Mikey spilled a pint of blood in here one time). One wall is entirely windows, and it has drapes that are controlled by a remote. The windows are covered up right now. 

When I can’t focus on anything, I paint. There’s paint on my jeans and my shirt and all the way up my arms. There’s paint on the floor around me. My paintbrush lies discarded as I shape the colors with my hands. It’s nice, soothing.

It isn’t until my hands and forearms are completely covered in paint that I realize that Frank’s face is staring up at me again. Fuck. 

I can’t look at this anymore. I can’t– I don’t know who he is but– he’s in my brain like a disease and I don’t know who Frank is but I need to know I need to find–

I don’t know. Someone. Anyone. 

My feet carry me out of my art room as I rub my face, pondering. I don’t know anyone in town. Or at least, the people I knew are probably gone and moved away. But maybe Frank isn’t from the town, maybe he’s some tourist or– or something. 

I hunch in on myself, fingers gripping my elbows. There must be something that links us. Anything at all. 

I blink, and I’m in Mikey’s room, standing in the broken glass of his window. The sun has set, the last tints of red and pink and orange fading at the horizon. 

I lean against the window frame, relishing the last rays of warmth I no longer feel. That I can never feel again.

Something crunches under my foot. It’s flatter than a shard of glass. Huh. I look down.

I’m standing on a picture frame, the contents covered in broken glass. I step off it and pick it up, shifting the shards away. 

It’s a framed polaroid of Mikey at our old apartment. He’s clutching a cup of coffee in his hands, looking– not at the camera, but a place a little above it. He’s smiling, a real smile, caught mid-speech. I smile back  instinctively at him, before remembering that I’m looking at a photo. 

Just a stupid photo. 

With a sigh, I fling the picture gently on the bed and turn away from the window, meaning to get a broom and some cardboard and tape, but something catches my eye.

There was more than one picture in the frame, now scattered across the bedspread. Huh. 

The bedsprings creak as I crawl onto the bed, gathering the polaroids up. Mikey, at the diner on the corner of our street, a burger halfway to his mouth. Ray, sprawled on the floor of his apartment, laughing. Mikey, across the street, making a weird pose at a stop sign. My breath hitches in a giggle. I’ve never seen Mikey so alive like this, not since high school. Before… before the drugs. 

A small “fuck” escapes me. I turn to the next photo. “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

Mikey, sprawled out on bedsheets, laughing at the camera, unclothed. I cast that one aside without looking further but– “RAY!” The two of them are in front of a bathroom mirror (naked), Ray curled around Mikey, one of his arms snaking around the front of them, holding the camera. I discard that one quicker than the first. 

There’s two more like that that I don’t even look at, placing them face down next to the first two. 

The next one, thankfully, is just Ray, asleep, arm stretched out as if it was wrapped around someone who had just stepped away.

The one after that is Mikey, laughing and holding a cup of coffee, folded up on a kitchen stool. 

The last two are older, more faded, tucked away at the bottom of the pile. One is a picture of Ray, taken from the perspective of someone lying down. Ray’s subtly flipping off whoever’s taking the picture, while seemingly making a transaction with someone over the counter. 

The second one is of Ray, standing outside a shop ( his shop, something whispers deep inside me), with his arm around– a guy that looks awfully familiar. His hair is bleached at the sides and dark hair flops into his face. 

“Who are you?” I whisper. 

I toss and turn in my bed, unable to sleep. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Something doesn’t feel right anymore, like when I drank too many energy drinks that one time and lay there in my bed twitching for hours. I’m so fucking awake.

The strangely familiar punk kid in that picture is wiggling something in my mind, but I don’t know what. I feel like I should know him. I feel like I’ve seen him before. Why can’t I remember? 

I’m going crazy. I flop on my back with a sigh. I used to like being alone.

There’s no need to worry about getting yelled at for playing music too loud or for playing the Misfits obscenely loud. There’s no fighting over seats or pointless squabbles over movies. There’s no one to purposefully piss off, no one to yell at to keep it down when I’m trying to sleep. 

It’s nice, it’s quiet, it’s peaceful. It’s a perfect fucking sleep environment. So why can’t I sleep?

I roll over in my bed, burying my face in the pillows. I should sleep. There’s nothing here to keep me awake. There’s nothing. They’re gone. They’re all gone, I’m alone, I can finally fucking sleep. I can sleep. My eyes slip shut. 

They pop open seconds later, paired with a frustrated sigh. 

I miss them. 

I miss Ray’s experiments and the joint sounds of guitar and bass floating throughout this house, which is the entire Addams family’s wet dream. 

I miss Lord of the Rings and Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathons where we pelt popcorn at the screen whenever Boromir shows up, and Mikey and Ray do over-dramatic reenactments of Buffy and Angel’s (and then Buffy and Spike’s) fights and declarations of love. I miss having food in the fridge that’s not just blood bags, and smelling food cooking on the stove when Mikey (or Ray) is feeling romantic. Hell, I even miss walking in on them making out. 

I should’ve known none of it was going to last. 

Bert was right about me. After all this time, all this denial, Bert was right. I’m a monster. 

I’m tired. I don’t want to close my eyes. If I close my eyes I’ll see him . If I close my eyes I’ll feel his hands on me again. If I close my eyes I’ll just relive my mistakes. I don’t want to think about him , bloodstained and bitter. I don’t ever want his arms around me. Never again. 

A whispered “fuck” falls from my lips and I pinch myself. I refuse to think about him .

So I think about Mikey, eyes constantly tired and expressive (if you know how to understand his minute emotions). He would droop over his coffee every morning (and night) even though vampires don’t really need coffee. Sometimes I’d leave my room and find comic book issues or just books in front of my door, things Ray or Mikey had seen when going into town and thought of me. I think about Mikey’s stupid yet endearing habits of leaving clothes and books and mixtapes everywhere. 

The last time I saw him in person tarnishes almost every other memory. 

“Mikey, please!” I’d begged, hanging off the railing of the stairs as Mikey carried the last of his bags to the car. “I can’t–”

“No, I can’t!” Mikey’d whirled around, dropping his bags and jabbing his finger at me. “For years I’ve had to pick up after you, making excuses for you, ensuring that you woke up in the morning, not even getting a fucking thank you, and I’m tired, Gerard! I’m tired of this! I’m tired of sacrificing everything for you just for you to– to fucking squander it and go back to sticking your head up your ass.” His words echo around my brain.

“Mikey, I’m sorry,” I pleaded. My words echo this time, sounding weak and pathetic to my ears

“I can’t be around you anymore, Gerard,” Mikey had said, picking up his duffel bag and turning his back on me. “We’ve set up monthly deliveries so you don’t starve. Don’t forget to eat . ” He’d walked out the door and hadn’t looked back, not even when he’d gotten in the car. 

I roll over again. I don’t– I don’t want to think of that. I think of Ray instead, with his cinnamon hair swirling around like a cloud. His smile that lights up a room, and Mikey’s face. His infectious laugh. The way he could pick out a melody in a song and follow along with it on his guitar. He could make my brother laugh harder than anyone else, could pull a smile out of him when he was upset. There were more impromptu two-person dance parties blasting Jimi Hendrix or Metallica or the Smashing Pumpkins than I could count. 

He’d hugged me before he’d left.

“He just needs some time,” Ray’d said. “We’ll be in touch when he’s ready.”

“Do you know when you’ll be back?” I’d asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t.”

“Will you be back?”

“I hope so.” He’d hugged me again, and then I’d watched him shut the double doors on his way out. I let my grip slip on the railing and drop to the stairs, listening to the sound of the car tires against the driveway as they drove away. I’d put my face in my hands and sobbed without shedding a tear. 

(Gerard)

What?

(He’s watching us, Gee.)

Who’s talking to me? No one’s here, they all left me. I’m al–

(Wake up, Gee, he wants you out of the way.)

I could’ve sworn I heard something.

(WAKE UP!)

I lifted my head up, but no one’s there. A chill settled around me, prickling up the back of my neck. I twisted around and looked up and saw him (Frank), standing there at the top of the stairs, neck clear of a bite mark, eyes flashing. “Don’t fall asleep.” 

Creeeeeeeeak.

My head snaps up to my bedroom door, which is now standing ajar. 

“Frank?” I can’t keep the hope out of my voice. All I get in answer is a breeze blowing my hair back and rustling the loose papers in my room. 

Silence. Complete, utter silence. Maybe I’m just going crazy. Maybe it really was all in my head. 

Suddenly exhausted, I flop back down into my pillows and let sleep consume me. 

I’m almost sure I hear someone whisper “Don’t let him in.” in my ear, but I’m too deep to work out what that means before my eyes… finally… slip shut. 

I stand in a dirty 24 hour diner, harsh lighting illuminating every line on Ray’s face. He’s wearing a flannel over a ratty old Iron Maiden shirt that hasn’t been washed, and his jeans have rips in the knees. He’s clutching a cup of coffee in his hands, a plate of waffles barely touched in front of him.

Mikey slouches next to him, sunglasses on his face even though it’s night time outside. His shirt– wait a fucking second, that’s my goddamn Smith’s shirt. No wonder I couldn't find it. Thief. He’s wearing black skinny jeans with an emphasis on the skinny, and big chunky boots that make his legs look even skinnier. He only has a cup of coffee in front of him.

“He’s late,” Ray says.

“He’ll be here,” Mikey says back, playing with one of the empty sugar packets. 

“He better.” Ray stabs at his waffles sullenly but doesn’t take a bite, just leaves the fork there. 

“Hey,” Mikey says, putting his hand over Ray’s. “It’s going to be fine, just stay calm.” Ray moves his hand away, and hurt flickers across Mikey’s face. 

“Don’t ask me to be calm right now.” Ray looks exhausted. Mikey doesn’t say anything, just stares resolutely at him. Ray sighs, exasperated. “Mikey, you got fucking– I don’t know– Force-choked right in front of me, you can’t just expect me to brush it off as nothing because–” he notices his voice is raising and he lowers it before continuing. “–because it’s not nothing. This shit doesn’t happen and you know it.”

“Am I interrupting something?” A new voice sounds from next to me, and my head jerks around. Pete Wentz stands there in all his glory, black hair slicked over one eye, black liner smeared in his sockets, nails chipped in black polish, an unfamiliar leather jacket over a DIYed Team Jacob shirt, familiar ripped black skinny jeans going into chunky combat boots. His fingers are covered in rings, wrists coated in bracelets, and his familiar black studs are still in his ears. “Or do the Ways always have mysterious voodoo going on?”

What the fuck is Mikey’s ex-boyfriend from college doing here?

Ray gives him an apologetic smile that doesn’t meet his tired eyes. “Sorry, Pete. How’s Patrick?” Patrick? Who’s Patrick?

“Oh, you know, on his monthly.” Pete flops into the seat across from them, draping his arms over the backrest. 

“Fuck,” Mikey says. “I didn’t even think of the lunar cycle–”

Pete waves his hand. “Don’t worry, he’s fine. It’s gotten better since… well. You guys saved his ass, really. Our asses. Bob’s with him, we’ve got a system in place. Besides, your message sounded urgent and I owe you.” He reaches over and steals the bite of waffle speared on Ray’s fork, popping the whole chunk into his mouth. “Fuck, these are good. You gonna finish this?” 

Ray shakes his head and pushes his plate towards Pete, who dives into it with vigor. “So,” Pete says through half-chewed waffle, “what’s with the Force-choking?”

Mikey shifts slightly. “We don’t know.”

Ray, who had been taking a sip of his coffee, sets it down with more force than necessary. “That’s bullshit, Mikey.”

“I’m not lying,” Mikey’s shoulders come up to his ears defensively. “I don’t know what’s happening, Ray, I’m serious!”

“For fucks sake, yes you do. You’re not telling me!”

“Is this what this grumpy-Mulder act is about? Me having secrets? I’ve always had secrets.”

“Not from me! You could have died, we could have died, and you’re not telling me why we’re being haunted across New England!”

“Children, children,” Pete interrupts, having swallowed his waffle, “Not that the soap opera shtick isn’t interesting, but I can’t help you if I don’t know what the fuck is happening to you two. So,” he gestures with his fork, “Cut the arguing, I know you’d both die for each other, and tell me what the fuck is up.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing at the chastised expressions on Ray and Mikey’s faces as they stare at Pete. I forgot how candid he was. 

“Talk, stupid,” Pete says. “When did it start?”

“A couple nights ago,” Ray starts. “We were in a motel for the day–” I remember this! “–and one minute I was asleep and the next the bathroom lights were flickering and the mirror shattered, and Mikey looked at me like he’d just saw a ghost.” 

“And… that was all?” Pete prompts. 

Ray shakes his head. “No… but what happened next is literally what I told you over the phone.”

“Well think back to the other night, then! Is there anything you might have missed in your frantic, mumbling retelling to me over the phone?”

Mikey shifts slightly, and Pete’s eyes snap to him immediately. “Thinking face, Mikes, what is it?”

“It’s a stupid thought,” Mikey mumbles.

“No it's not, Mikey, what is it?” Ray asks.

My brother finally looks up at his boyfriend. “What if it’s Gerard?”

“Gerard’s not a witch,” Ray says automatically. 

“No, but your grandma was,” Pete says thoughtfully. “And these things do tend to skip generations.”

“What things?” Ray demands, leaning forward.

“He’s a clairvoyant,” Pete says in a tone that says ‘duh’. “It’s a small talent but it does enable the bearer to astral project.” 

“Okay, say Gerard is clairvoyant. But that still doesn’t make sense. Why would he want to Force-choke you?” Ray wonders. “He loves you more than anything. He wouldn’t hurt you like that, would he?”

“Under the influence, maybe,” Pete muses. 

Mikey’s head snaps towards him. “He’s been clean for years, Pete.”

“That you know of,” Pete says back, not arguing.

“He’s clean,” Ray says firmly. “He’s different now. He’s changed since you knew him.”

“Maybe he’s changed since you knew him.” Pete’s expression is unreadable. “Changed enough to be bitter about being abandoned in a mansion by his only friends.”

“You don’t know that,” Ray argues. “Maybe he went out and made some new friends.”

Pete snorts. “This is Gerard we’re talking about. Man only goes out to use the bathroom.”

Mikey takes off his sunglasses and leans forward, leveling Pete with a glare so fierce I’m surprised Pete doesn’t  spontaneously combust right then and there. “You listen to me, Peter Kingston Wentz the Third, I don’t care what you think about my brother, but he wouldn’t do this. Not to me, not to Ray. This. Isn’t. Him.”

Pete gives my brother one of his shit eating grins that always made me want to wring his neck. “No, he wouldn’t. But he’s always been a bit of a magnet for the supernatural.” He takes another bite. “I just wanted to make sure where your thoughts were on this matter.”

“Well, even if it is Gerard,  and he’s astral projecting,” Ray begins thoughtfully, “Why now? He’s been radio silent for two years .” 

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice says behind me. “Looks like Sherlock and Watson are finally putting two and two together.”  

A buzzing fills my ears and I can no longer hear the men in front of me, though they continue to speak. A chill creeps up my spine. 

“Get out of my head.” I don’t take my eyes off my brother. He’s more relaxed now, leaning against Ray, who leans his cheek on the top of Mikey’s head. 

“That’s not very friendly. Is someone on her period?” he snickers.

My fists clench. “That’s not fucking funny and you know it.” 

He finally emerges from behind me, blood dripping in rivulets down the back of his neck and into the collar of his shirt. “Oh come on. It’s a little funny.”

I stare stonily back at him. “No, it’s not. Now get the fuck out of my head.” 

He taps his chin mock thoughtfully. “How about… no.” 

“That wasn’t a suggestion.” I turn my back on the trio in the booth, pivoting my body so that I’m between them and him . “You’re not real.” Ray’s gesturing now

“Oh, no?” he grins. “So, this isn’t real?” The lights of the diner flicker. And flicker again, more obviously. 

“That’s not normal, is it?” Ray breathes behind me. 

“No, it’s not,” Mikey answers him. 

“Mikey, give me your hand,” Pete says quietly. 

“What?”

“Just do it, now.”

I can’t see what they’re doing, just able to hear Pete’s short breaths. I keep my eyes on him . The flickers increase until the lights are blinking all around me, every electronic item in the diner begins to malfunction, and his stupid fucking smile gets wider and wider until cracks appear at the edge of his mouth, and it reminds me of concept art I’d drawn of Pennywise the Dancing Clown. 

There’s swears from the kitchen as the cook beats at a fire that had sprung up. 

“What the fuck is going on?” I hear one of the waiters exclaim. 

“Is this real enough for you, Gerard? Am I real enough for you?” the ghost growls at me. 

“Stop it,” I say. “Stop it!” I want to scream at Mikey and Ray to go, go now. 

“Guys,” Ray says firmly. “Snap out of it. We gotta go. Right the fuck now.”

I hear rustling, but I don’t let my gaze stray from the monster in the center of the diner. Out of the corner of my eye I see Pete, Mikey and Ray book it out of the diner, the latter grasping each other by the hand. Their car peels out of the parking lot and a knot loosens in my chest. Mikey’s okay. Ray’s okay. They’re okay .

“Stop it!” I shout again. His grin only widens as he opens his mouth, revealing teeth like shark teeth and kitchen knives. He laughs, a loud, deep, distorted sound that becomes a shriek of mad glee and–

The diner explodes and I’m thrown backwards by a wall of heat. I land on my back on the pavement and it shouldn’t hurt but oh it smarts. I slowly sit up and see him walking towards me through the flames.

“You can’t stop this, Gerard,” he says as he walks past me, after my brother’s car. “The time has come.”

“No!” I yell, my throat caked with ashes. I try to get up but something grips my ankle. I look down to see a charred hand holding me with a vice-like grip. The corpse of the dead trucker grins at me, blackened flesh still burning, and pulls . “No!” I shriek again, kicking at the dead man but he doesn’t give. I’m dragged into the flames, and the last thing I see is that fucking asshole walking away from me into the night. The screams of the burning dead consume me. The last words he said to me echo through my brain: The time has come.

Gee?

No. 

Not like this. 

Gerard!

Mikey’s in danger, I can’t go, not like this, no, 

no, 

no, 

no, 

no, nonononononono–

"WAKE UP!"

Something throws me off the bed and I land on the floor with a loud thud. “What the–” I look up. 

“You fucking moron. Did you not hear me when I said ‘Don’t fall asleep?’” The man in my room says, standing over me. “Or maybe you took that as a goddamn suggestion!” He looks familiar, but I  just can’t place him. 

“Who are you?” I whisper. “What are you doing in my house?”

He crouches down to be on my level. “Gee, it’s me, Frank.” His heavy Jersey accent draws out the vowels and lessens the r’s. “You know me.” Do I?

“No. No I don’t– I–” I scramble away from him, still on the floor, until my back hits the wall. I don’t– I– the man in the photograph. Ray’s friend. He’s not as young as he was in the photograph I found, his hair is different; longer and not bleached at the sides, it’s jet black and hangs in his face. Colorful tattoos cover every inch of visible skin, reaching up to his neck and down to his knuckles. He’s standing over me, like he did before, sneering, eyes flashing with stone cold hate eyes full of concern. 

My head hurts. My ears are ringing. I had a nightmare, I can’t remember what it was about but it was something… something… I can’t remember. I open my mouth, not knowing what I’m about to sa– “I don’t know you.” The words fall unbidden from my lips. I didn’t mean to say that, I–

Frank’s brow furrows in concern. “You’ve met me, Gee. We’ve had conversations before. We do know each other.”

I shake my head. “No I didn’t– I don’t know you!” I can’t say anything else. I don’t like this. I don’t fucking like this. I’m still against the wall, I push myself up with my legs until I’m standing. My head is fogging up I– something’s wrong. “I don’t know–” I slap my hand over my mouth to stop those fucking words from leaving my mouth for the thousandth fucking time. 

I look up at Frank again, my vision blurring. “Fuck,” he whispers. “We need to get you out of here.” What? What does that mean? “Take my hand, c’mon.”

I look down at his outstretched hand, the fog in my body telling me not to trust him. I take his hand, and he leads me across the room quick as lightning.

My vision blinks out, and I know not where he leads me next. 

Something hard and solid is pressed against my back. Someone is speaking to me, repeating something over and over.

“...Gee? Gerard? C’mon, for fuck’s sake this place seemed safe. Are you with me buddy? Gerard?” I groan and it sounds too loud. I blink my eyes open and have to press my hand over my face because it’s bright. It’s mid-afternoon and it’s bright. “Oh, thank fuck,” the voice says. “How’re you feelin’ dude?” 

It’s too bright. How do I tell him that it’s too bright?

“Ow,” I say. 

“Yeah, that makes sense. Do you know who I am?”

Do I know who he is? It takes me a second before the Jersey accent registers. “Frank?”

“Yay! Wait, what’s my last name?”

“I… don’t know, you never told me.” 

“Two for two! Okay, when and where do you remember meeting me?”

“In my bedroom? You woke me up? Or wait– didn’t you chase me out of my brother’s bathroom?” 

There’s a moment of silence before a “Huh.”

I remove the hand from my face to look at him. “What do you mean, huh? That’s when I remember meeting you.”

Frank is standing over me, surprisingly solid in the afternoon sun that streams in from the doorway behind him, the doorway of my grandmother’s gazebo, because that’s where we are. 

The place has aged quite a bit since I’ve last been in here, the wood is chipped and cracked, and the green vines and multicolored flowers painted around the ceiling are faded. The table in the middle of the gazebo is even more sun-bleached and cracked along the top. The plants hanging by the netted windows are dead and dry, they haven’t been watered for a long time. Years, it seems. But that’s impossible. 

“That’s not when we met, though. Don’t you remember?” Frank’s saying. I get to my feet, reach my fingers to the nearest plant, touch its dangling leaf. It crumbles instantly, falling into leaf matter at my feet. 

“How is this possible? It’s only been three weeks– they shouldn’t be this dead…” I murmur. I turn to him, confused. “How did we get here?”

“I dragged you, dude, you were really out of it,” Frank says, frowning to himself.  

“What?” I ask, noting his own confusion.

“What do you mean, what? This doesn’t make sense.” 

I sigh. If there was an award for the most vague answers, Frank would win it, BECAUSE HE’S NOT MAKING ANY SENSE AND I HAVE A HEADACHE AND FEEL LIKE SHIT ALL OVER. “What doesn’t make sense?”

“Because we met two years ago,” Frank says in a voice that sounds like duh. I want to hit him.

I scoff. “Buddy, if we met two years ago you would not even be trying to help me right now.” I was a mess. Like, a fucking hot mess. 

“We literally did meet two years ago!” Frank bursts out, exasperated.

“When?” I ask. “When?” How high was I that I can’t remember this annoyingly hot asshole? 

“After Ray and Mikey left, don’t you remember? They sent me to make sure you didn’t try to, like, immolate yourself or something.”

I have to blink several times before retaliating with: “after Ray and Mikey– what the fuck are you on? They’ve only been gone a month, not– what?” He’s giving me a look like I’m crazy. I’m not crazy.

“Gerard, it’s been two years. They’ve been gone for two years. I’ve brought you blood shipments every week for two years. How do you not remember this?”

“Because it didn’t happen. You’re fucking wrong–”

“And why’s that?” He’s raising his eyebrows at me infuriatingly.  

“Because people don’t just lose two years of their life, I’m pretty sure I’d know from an obvious gap in my memory, and even so, I barely know you so why should I believe you?”

“You… do know me. And I know you. I fucking care about you, Gee, I want you to be safe. And… you’re not safe.”

“What makes you say that?” I cross my arms and dull aches twinge up my limbs from the movement. I wince.

“First of all, you haven’t looked in the mirror lately, have you.” It’s not a question.

I sputter indignantly. How dare he? Yes, I’m a vampire, but I look fine. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Look in a mirror, Gerard,” Frank says, giving me a flat look. “I know there’s one in the fucking table.” I glare at him. He stares me down. Asshole. Asshole. Who does this shit think he is, telling me I look like shit and that I’m in danger. I mean yeah, I don’t go outside, haven’t since I started living here, and definitely not since Bert–

I shake my head to clear it, breaking the staring competition, Damn it. I open the table drawer, reaching for the handheld mirror that’s nestled in there amongst various odds and ends. How did he know it was in there, anyway? I hold it up to my face.

“What the fuck?”

My skin is drawn tight across the bone, tight enough that cracks are beginning to form. My lips are dry, chapped and peeling, my hair is dry and tangled, my eye sockets are sunken and hollow with dark lines– veins, almost. My eyes are dull and almost lifeless. My cheeks are hollow too; my entire face is almost skull-like. 

My gaze drops from my face in the mirror to the hand holding it. Pieces of dry skin flake from it as I watch, I can see the veins under my skin, which has taken on a partially-opaque filmy texture. Everything is tight and dry and cracking, I look like a starvation victim. Speaking of starvation, my free hand flies to my throat as a burning ache zings through it. Blood. I need blood. Scared, hollowed eyes stare back at me from my reflection.

“Two years, you said?” I ask, turning to look at Frank. He nods. “How is this possible?”

Frank moves slowly towards me. “My running theory is that something, or some one wants to keep you alive for something, just not strong enough to fight back.”

I put down the mirror, and it thunks gently on the table. “Who would do that?”

“Probably the thing in your basement. Have you pissed off any evil spirits lately?”

I furrow my brow, ignoring the dry flaking noises as I try to think. “No…” A bit of skin flakes off my cheek as my eyes widen in realization. 

Frank checks to see nothing snuck up on us before turning back to me. “What? What– did you piss off, like, Satan? Or like another devil-deity from another pantheon? Or…”

“I had a really shitty ex-boyfriend who’s dead.” It hurts to talk now. My throat aches like I’m in a desert without water, it aches like an open wound. My tongue is so dry that it’s heavy in my mouth. 

I have to focus. This will get me answers. It has to. Frank’s still talking, asking me something. 

“How shitty we talking? Shitty enough to come back via ghost and haunt the shit out of you?” His expression is fierce, fiercer than it should be for someone I barely know, but if it’s really been two years… I don’t know. He seems to generally care about me, but so did Bert. Bert, who might be responsible for my lost time, tormenting me from beyond the grave. “Gee you good?”

I blink, coming back to myself again. Frank’s giving me a concerned look. I need to focus. I’m so thirsty. I need to focus. “It… it’s possible.” What am I saying? It can’t be possible, I destroyed his– No. It’s not possible. “I mean, it’s an option.” I can feel Frank’s eyes on me, shifting from concerned to worried, and then it happens:

Frank puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s a simple gesture but it’s very much solid and non-ghostlike and warm, he’s so warm, his blood is singing to me through his skin, warm and wet and I can feel myself flaking even as I stand there staring at his hand like it’s the only thing keeping me from death–

He’s pulling it away from me, saying something that sounds like an apology but I don’t process it, lurching towards his hand, a whimper tearing its way from my cracking throat, following the tantalizing song of the blood beneath his inked up skin–

“Whoa there vampy.” I find myself being held up by his solid arms as we both sink to the floor, looking up into his concerned eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Thirs…ty…” I manage to croak. 

My mouth is so dry my tongue is cracking, my throat is burning alive and my skeleton is bones in a desert and Frank’s blood is my oasis, I’ve never wanted anything more, not even cocaine, or nicotine, because I can’t survive without blood, I can’t, but I’m still here without cocaine in my system, still here without a cigarette between my lips, but fuck if I don’t get blood my throat will burn me into dust like the fucking sun surrounding us.

“Shit. You need to feed, don’t you? I’m sure there’s like a wild animal somewhere you can drain, or–”

“No,” I say, shaking my head feebly. I claw my way up til I can reach his neck. “Need you, need blood, need it, please let me feed, Frank, please, please please let me drink you Frankie it’s singing to me, I can hear it, I won’t kill you please I need to I need it…” I trail off, nosing along his neck but not opening my mouth because I won’t fucking do it unless he says yes, I won’t, I won’t.

“Okay,” He says breathlessly. “Okay. Drink me.” The words barely leave his lips before I keen and let my jaw open all the way, my fangs sliding out and I latch onto his neck.

His blood hits my tongue and I moan at the taste, moan at the feel of blood, hot thick blood sliding down my throat and coursing through me. I can feel my limbs loosen, my veins alight with human blood, real human blood, and the haze in my head lessens. 

“Fuck,” I hear Frank groan, his arms wrapping around me, keeping me close. I pull away slightly, enough to shift my legs to a more comfortable position. “Keep going,” he pants. “I’m fine, baby, keep going.”

Baby. He called me baby. 

It stirs something in me, something warmer than the blood he’s giving me. 

I straddle his lap and lick over the wound on his neck, collecting stray drops of blood before sinking my teeth in a little above the first bite, and that’s when I feel him thrust, his head falling back as a low moan slips off his tongue. I slide my hands up his shirt only to dig my nails into his shoulder blades as he tips backwards, landing on the floor with me straddling him.

He called me baby. I grind back down onto him as one of his hands snake through my hair, staying there as he lets me drink his fucking sexy blood. 

“Gee,” Frank gasps as I don’t stop, not yet, getting my fill, high-pitched noises leaking out among my lengthy slurps. “Gerard, please–”

I don’t want to stop. I don’t. I need this, I need it so bad, but–

But he called me baby.

I release his neck semi-reluctantly, sitting up and fully looking at him. Frank looks fucking wrecked, wild eyes staring up at me with his lip ring standing out against his bottom lip bitten raw, he looks so desperate and fucking horny as his hips thrust up again and there’s a heat building in me in response to him because fuck. This guy is fucking hot.

“Please,” He begs again desperately. I take his hand from my hair and press it to my face, leaning into his warm, gentle touch for a second before I press my lips to the heel of his palm, to the pressure point of his wrist. 

“Frank,” I whisper. I feel like I’ve taken too much, I don’t want to kill him. I look down on him, so willing to give his lifeforce to me, not treating it like a chore but a necessity.

“Take it,” he gasps. “I’m stronger than I look, Gee, take it.” He makes it sound so easy, so simple, like a transaction. Blood trickles down his neck in a fine line as he writhes under me, his eyes not scared but fierce. Determined. “Do it!” His tone offers no room for arguing, and I’m still so hungry. 

I sink my teeth into his wrist, my eyes rolling back in my head as the taste of his blood hits my tongue again. Frank lets out a long groan, thrusting up again. I can feel him, his erection isn’t hard to miss. But he doesn’t ask for release, not like Bert did. 

My jaw clenches around his wrist, my bottom teeth digging into the back of his wrist to hold it steady as he trembles beneath me, his sounds becoming more high pitched as I continue. I stop before I’m full; it’s not nearly enough but the color is draining from Frank’s face.

My fangs are in his veins. I could kill him if I keep going. I could kill him and continue in the fog I’ve been trapped in, I could kill him and think nothing of it. But the way his eyes look at me reminds me of a dog loyally trusting their master; he barely even knows the real me but he trusts me nonetheless.

I won’t be a killer. I won’t be a killer. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, won’t, won’t, I won’t prove Bert right I won’t–

I release my grasp on Frank’s wrist and it thuds to the floor as he gasps and shudders. “I’m not a killer,” I whisper. 

Frank’s eyes flutter, his pupils fixing on me. “Take it,” he begs.

“I’m not a killer,” I repeat vehemently. He shakes his head, flopping his wrist to show me the blood dripping down and coloring the few blank spots on his flesh red. It glistens tantalizingly at me, and I bring Frank’s arm to my lips once more, but instead of drinking, I swipe my tongue over the puncture wounds, a second dose of the venom in my mouth enabling the wound to seal up. 

As the punctured flesh knits itself back together, I trace the drops of blood with my tongue, Frank’s whimpers of need becoming the backing track to this gruesome scene: a vampire feeding from a willing victim. 

Frank’s still thrusting as I clean his wrist, head lolling back and tongue sticking out. When I’m done, I lean down over him, laving my tongue over the wound there as well. 

“Gee,” he moans into my hair “I’m– I’m gonna–”

“Go for it,” I say. 

And with that Frank’s gone, hips rolling up into me as I lap up the remaining trickles of blood from his neck and clench my thighs around his hips, a keen tearing his way out of his mouth at the increased friction around his dick. He finally slumps down, spent, and I press my nose right beneath his ear, breathing him in. 

There’s nothing except the sounds of birds twittering in the trees around the gazebo and the rustle of leaves and branches against the roof. There’s nothing except Frank’s shallow breaths as his body recuperates, his chest moving slowly. 

I slide off of him and use my arms to push myself up into a sitting position. 

Frank’s eyes flutter open a smidge at my movement. “You okay now?” He asks, sleepily.

“I just drank your blood and you’re asking if I’m okay?” I ask in disbelief. This guy can’t be real. 

Frank cracks a tired smile. “You’re the one who’s been starved for almost two years in a haunted mansion.”

“You don’t know that it’s haunted,” I say with frustration. “It could be infested with black mold or carbon monoxide.”

Frank sits up as well. “Gerard, carbon monoxide can’t explain the fact that there is a literal vengeful spirit in your basement.”

“How can you prove that?” I scoff. 

“Because I’ve seen it!” His voice raises to a near shout. “It tried to destroy me because I got close to you. It dragged me to the basement and I saw everything, do you hear me? Everything. I saw its hatred of you and it goes deeper than the fucking skin; it’s consumed by the fucking need to make you suffer. It wants to make you beg for mercy, tear you apart and put you back together, and then tear you apart again!”

“That’s impossible!” I shriek, getting to my feet.

“Why?” He grabs hold of the table and uses it to help him stand up. “Why is it so impossible?” I turn away, stalking to the door before remembering the sunlight. “What could you possibly have done to make something hate you this much?”

My fist lands on the doorframe with a loud bang, which echoes through the woods. Frank falls silent. He’s staring at me, I can feel it. “It’s impossible,” I say finally, turning to face him, “Because I burned his body. You happy now? I killed him, and I burned his body.”

“Whose body?” he asks, his expression unchanged.

“Bert’s,” I answer softly. “My ex-boyfriend’s. I killed him three years ago, now. And I burned his body, so that this wouldn’t happen.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Frank begins, still clinging to the table, “But it is happening, Gerard. He’s back, somehow.” 

My stomach drops out of my ass and my hands clench into trembling fists. “What do we do?” I ask.

His expression is determined. “First, we trap him. And then we destroy him. Once and for all.”

Chapter Text

The sun has just disappeared below the horizon as we creep through the woods, around the house to the side door that leads into the kitchen. Our plan is set, solid. Get in, find the ghost, and contain it in the iron-walled panic room that my grandma had installed in the basement long before Mikey and I were even conceived.

I don’t know how Frank knows this much about the supernatural world because he seems about as normal as you can get. Well, as normal as a punk dude with tattoos and piercings through his mouth and nose can be. 

Maybe there’ll be enough time for him to give me the whole gory story later. Or maybe this is all in my head. Everything’s gone by so fast. I don’t know if this is a dream or not. If it is, I don’t think I want it to end. But if it isn’t… I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. 

Fucking christ, Gerard. Even if this is a dream, I have to keep it together. I shake my head to clear it, and suddenly hear the sound of our feet crunching over the leaves through the trees, the chirping of the crickets, and Frank–\

“Are you seriously humming the Mission Impossible theme song right now?” I hiss.

“Would you rather I do Lord of the Rings?” He whispers back, before going into an enthusiastic hummed rendition of The Fellowship . 

“No Lord of the Rings!” I have to force that sentence out because while I love LotR, now is not the time. 

“Fine, fine,” Frank grumbles, lapsing into silence.

“Thank you,” I say. Any other time it would be funny, but my anxiety is so high right now that I’m either going to break down or punch something. It’s barely been quiet for two minutes before the nuisance behind me breaks into a quiet version of The Imperial March. 

That’s it. I whirl around and slam Frank into the nearest tree, gripping him by the collar. “Is this a fucking joke to you?” I growl at him. “Or can’t you take this shit fucking seriously?”

“I was just trying to lighten the mood,” he says, his voice strained from his position.

“Well don’t,” I snarl, releasing him. “Nothing about this is fucking funny.” I stalk away, towards my house. I’m trembling with emotions, I can feel them tingling on my skin, hyper-aware of every little movement around me. I want to throw up. I’m going to throw up. 

The thought that Bert’s spirit has been poisoning my mind for two fucking years is enough for me to want to claw my skin off. The thought that it’s just a random ghost slowly dwindles the closer we creep. Frank’s saying something, it’s muffled and I can’t make it out because fuck I did it again.

“What?” I say, and it comes out harsher than intended. 

“I said sorry,” Frank repeats, minorly annoyed. “Happy? Or are you gonna pin me to a tree again?” I look back at him. His face, though obscured by shadow to the naked eye, is fierce and defiant, set and firm. I don’t think my face is a mirror image. 

I open my mouth to reply (I don’t even know what I’m going to say), but Frank’s eyes shift, seeing something behind me. I watch them move, watch a light reflect in them, filtered by the trees. 

“That’s not normal, is it?” he rasps. I turn to see what he sees, and a cold chill shocks its way up my spine. 

The windows of the house are glowing eerily, a greenish white that looks like Poltergeist and Ghostbusters effects combined, and dread and something else knots up in my stomach, painfully tight.

“The beacons of Gondor are lit,” I whisper, and then we’re off, tearing through the trees towards imminent and mysterious danger, stealth be damned.

We enter through the kitchen side door as planned, and the kitchen is dark. It’s dark and quiet and Frank is having a problem with his breathing because it’s faster than normal. I don’t look at him and instead scan the kitchen, the shelves and counters sharp against the light tile of the wall.

Everything is a muted tone in the darkness, but still sharp to my eyes. I find the door to the pantry and make my way over to it, keeping my feet light. My fingers brush over an unfamiliar texture on the grains of the table; it’s drier than acrylic paint. I stop and drag my fingers over it and bring them up to my nose; vaguely metallic, stale blood. 

I look down at the table; it’s covered in scratches. Little ones that have been there for years and the edges have softened with age, but there are newer ones that can only be described as gouges. Deep, scoring gouges and dry blood in some of them. I don’t think it’s human. I think it might be mine.

Frank stops at the other side of the table and glances down at it before up at me, brow furrowed. “What?” he whispers.

I shake my head. “Not important right now.” It really isn’t. It’s just minorly terrifying. 

Frank nods and I continue to the pantry, opening it as quietly as possible. The tiny creak is loud in the silence, and I can hear Frank’s heart skip a beat before continuing at its rapid pace and I don’t know why but it’s soothing; a drumbeat of background noise that blocks out the nervous silence that’s surrounded me for too long. 

My eyes flick up through the contents of the pantry shelves, jumping from one label to the other. Rosemary… thyme… sage. I take a good bundle of the herbs from the third jar out before I put it back, and hesitate for a second before grabbing the spare container of salt hidden in the back of the middle shelf. It’s gonna be okay now, I say to myself. Whatever happens, it’s gonna be okay. I’ve got the supplies, I’ve got Frank, I’m okay. 

“Got it,” I hiss triumphantly. “Did you get the iron utensils?” No response. I turn around, and Frank’s gone. “Frank?” The ocean of fear crashes against my skull, screaming at me that this is all a fucking dream and no one actually gives a shit to save me, but it doesn’t drown out the sound of Frank’s heartbeat, still going strong. 

I slowly creep around the kitchen table and to the locked drawer by the fridge, snapping it easily. It was a cheap one I’d found in CVS, but I’d never gotten around to replacing it. Thank fuck I didn’t. I ease the drawer open and pull out a long, iron-bladed dagger. This’ll fuck up a spirit and no mistake.

 I slide it into my back pocket and turn around just in time to see that same greenish light flicker from the living room across the hall. 

I hesitate for a minute. I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared. The dead heart in my chest seems to have something clamped around it, squeezing it until I feel like it’s gonna burst out of my chest like a xenomorph. 

There’s a scratch of a record and then the eerie sounds of a fifties children’s duet reaches my ears: I know you belong to somebody new…

Oh fuck no. I finally get my feet to move and I walk out of the kitchen after grabbing a lighter and shoving it into my pocket and across the hall, slowly but as steady as I can possibly be right now. But tonight… I slip the herbs into my front left pant pocket before entering the living room. You belong… to me…

Frank’s standing in front of the record player, not moving. 

“What the fuck is this?” I say, managing to hide the tremor in my voice.

Frank turns around, face slack. “Miss me?” he says in a voice that’s not his own. My stomach drops. That’s the voice I’ve been dreaming about. That’s the voice of… of Him.

“I burned your body.” I grip the salt tighter. 

“I got better,” the voice drawls, Frank’s mouth twisting into a gruesome smile. “And now I can keep my promise to you, baby.”

“I’m not your fucking baby.”

He stalks, stiff-legged, towards me. “Would you prefer darling, then? Or… baby girl?”

“I’d prefer it if you rotted in hell where you belong.” My hand slowly reaches behind me, as subtly as I can manage, to the pocket with the knife. He’s getting closer, his eyes soulless and dark. I want Frank’s eyes back. 

“You belong with me,” the voice whispers, rattling like a dry husk. He’s only a few feet away from me now. “I always provided for you, baby, made sure you were fed and taken care of.”

“You drugged me and hit me.” I glare back at him. “You made me dependent on you.”

“You’re lucky I even stayed around as long as I did.” He’s in my face now. “With how clingy you are you should be thankful I still took care of you, especially with your episodes.”

“First of all, I’m a shitty cook,” I growl. “I almost burned the apartment down several fucking times. Secondly, you killed our last fucking cat, Bert, you’re no fucking caregiver.” My fingers curl around the handle and grip it tight. “And thirdly you knew what you were fucking getting into when it started, so don’t fucking blame this bullshit on me.”

“These delusions won’t get you into heaven, sweetheart.” he says with a false sweetness. “God doesn’t want confused girls like you.”

Fuck stalling. Fuck it. Fuck all of this. As quick as I can manage I whip the knife out of my pocket and stab it into his side. 

“There is no God,” I spit in his face as his wide eyes roll to meet mine. “And there is no heaven. Only hell.” I wrench the blade out of his side and sprint out of the room, running for the basement and disregarding the scream of pain he lets out. 

Down the stairs, down the stairs, go go go.  

He’s running after me, I can hear him pounding the floorboards with his feet. I skip the bottom stair and make a hard left, tearing through the main basement, chucking the container of salt somewhere to confuse him with the noise and sprint down the small side hall (hidden by a false panel) to a large iron door. 

“You’ll pay for that!” his roar is muffled. I open the small panel in the wall and press my hand to the palm scanner. I remember when Nana had this installed and showed it to us, made sure our palms were in the system. " This will keep you safe," she’d said. "No matter what happens."  

The door slides open. I only have a limited amount of time, but fear has made my instincts sharper. Besides, I know this symbol by heart. I pull out the piece of chalk in my pocket that I’d nicked from the gazebo and draw a hasty circle, filling in the shapes and adding lines into it. Once it’s done I stuff the chalk into my pocket and pull out the sage and lighter.

The lights flicker. I look up. Frank’s at the end of the hallway, one hand pressed to the side I’d stabbed. “There you are.” His disturbing grin makes an appearance again. “Your silly ritual is too weak to stop me now, bitch.” Frank’s heartbeat still sounds, steady as always. 

Ba-dump. “Eus dimittere,” I say. He charges down the hall.

Ba-dump. I get to my feet and flick the lighter on. “Eus dimittere.”

Ba-dump. He’s almost to me now. I light the sage. “Eus dimittere.”

Ba-dump. He crosses the threshold. I drop the sage and it falls to the circle. “Eus dimittere.”

Ba-dump. The moment his feet hit the circle I tackle Frank’s body back, out of the room. I hear the squeaky tearing noise as the spirit and body separate. 

Ba-dump. Frank lands hard on the ground with me on top of him. I twist around, thrusting my hand out. “Habet illum!” I yell. The ghost slams against the barrier and screams in rage. I scramble up and slam my hand over the scanner again, shutting the door. 

I slump against the wall, staring at the place where Bert’s ghostly face had just been.

“Fuck,” Frank gasps behind me. “I wish someone had told me we were on the set of the next Ghosbusters movie, I would’ve put out for Bill Murray.”

I snort, turning to grin at him. He grins back before coughing, letting his head fall back down to the ground with a groan of pain. 

Fuck, right, I stabbed him. “Shit!” I exclaim, darting over to help him up. “There’s bandages upstairs, c’mon, I’ll stitch you up.”

“Don’t worry about it, really,” Frank says through a wince. 

“You were possessed by a ghost and shanked by a vampire,” I say as I sling his arm over my shoulder. “Don’t try to be a hero, man, that dagger was fucking iron.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Frank asks as we stagger away down the hallway. 

It turns out to be a bad thing, because as I pull Frank’s shirt up slowly, and the wound is revealed I see what I’d feared. The skin around the wound is cracked and burned, turning an angry red around the hole in his side.

Frank hisses as he pulls his shirt off and chucks it on the bathroom floor. “What’s the damage, doc?” He asks through gritted teeth.

I purse my lips as I think of the best way to tell him, but before I can think of a good answer he adds: “Like how fucked up are my tats?”

“Really? You have a fucking hold on your side and that’s what you’re worried about?” I stare up at him incredulously. 

“I paid good money for this shit, dude!” Frank says, determined to defend his inked honor while I smirk at him. “Besides, is it like a small slit hole or like Frodo’s shoulder on Weathertop?”

“More like the latter,” I grimace apologetically.

“Fuck!” He twists his arm up in a weird way to see the wound and squeals when that motion makes the gap grow taught. “Fuck!” Frank exclaims again, but this time it comes out as a gasp of pain. “Please tell me you called 9-1-1.”

“I haven’t paid my phone bill in two years,” I say. “And the EMTs will probably ask questions that I can’t answer without going away to an insane asylum, so…” I trail off, cause he’s shooting daggers at me with his eyes. “I may have a solution, but it’s kind of weird.”

“Yeah and everything else we’ve done tonight was a trip to Disney World,” Frank scoffs. “If it’ll help, just fucking do it, dude.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I say before digging my thumb into the wound. Frank gives a loud yell of pain as I suck my thumb into my mouth, getting his blood on my tongue. I feel my fangs come out and as soon as I do I lick a long stripe up the bloody and puckered hole.

“OW what the fu– huuuuuck,” Frank’s indignant shout trails off into a groan as my slimy appendage slicks through the exposed flesh. I pull back, my face involuntarily scrunching up at the feel of burned and scabbed flesh. I look at him from where I’m crouched next to him; his eyes are half shut.

“Better?” I ask. 

“A little.” His eyes blink back to fully open. “Like it still hurts, but it’s… less.”

“Want me to do it again?”

“Can’t hurt.” So I do, letting my tongue go in a little deeper and actually taste more of his blood. I think I lick a part of his rib. 

Frank actually moans this time, falling limp against the back of the toilet. “Why does it feel so good?” he asks after I pull back.

“Vampire venom. It’s how my bites healed earlier, but I didn’t know if it would work on this or not.”

“Dude, it’s fucking working,” Frank pants. His eyes have fluttered shut and his hand wanders up to my hair, his fingers tangling in it. “I can feel it.”

“Good.” I lean back on my feet, slumping against the wall of the tub. We’re in Mikey’s bathroom, which I really need to clean, because now it’s covered in dirt, blood, and a bit of Frank’s guts. (I mean now it matches the bedroom covered in broken glass.) I run my hand through my hair. The whole house needs a makeover on This Old House. I snicker.

Frank glances at me. “What’s so funny?”

“I was picturing this place on This Old House,” I grin.

Frank snorts, then winces, clutching his side. “That’s gonna be sore for a while,” he says.

“Let me see.” I move his hand away. It’s not an obvious improvement to the naked human eye, but the wound looks a bit shallower than before. “It’s better, at least. I still need to clean it though.” 

“No, really? I thought the wound was supposed to fester,” Frank says sarcastically. I flip him off while getting up to grab the bandages from the cabinet above the sink. 

“Weird question,” he says through clenched teeth as I’m cleaning his wound.

“Shoot,” I say, dabbing more disinfectant on his wound.

“Can you see yourself in the mirror? I mean I’ve seen your reflection once or twice –”

“Are the movies true?” I pause to smirk up at him. 

He grins sheepishly and nods. “Yeah.”

I get back to work as I say: “Yes, I can see myself in mirrors not backed by silver; no, garlic doesn’t kill me; no, crosses don’t work on me; no, I don’t have to count things that are spilled; yes, I drink blood, preferably human because my veins no longer work and human blood doubles as food and a life force for me; yes, a wooden stake to my heart can kill me; yes, I burn in sunlight but less so the more blood I drink–”

“So if you’re starved you die?” Frank interrupts me.

“Yeah, but it takes a lot to starve a vampire–”

He cuts me off again. “Are you hungry now?” 

“That’s not important right now.” I don’t look at him. 

“Dude, yes it is.” 

“No it isn’t.” Keep cleaning the wound, don’t look him in the eyes. 

“It’s literally a yes or no question!” he sighs in frustration. “Are you hungry, yes or–”

“You have a hole in your side that I’m currently trying to patch up, can you please stop focusing on me for five seconds? I’m not always the damsel in fucking distress here.”

Frank falls silent, thankfully, as I put the cotton swabs into the trash can, but as I’m reaching for the bandages he speaks again: “You can drink me if you want.”

That’s when I snap my head up and glare at him. “No,” I say emphatically. My hand clenches around the roll of bandages. 

“You did it before,” Frank argues.

“Desperate times,” I say back.

“You’re still hungry, I can see it in your eyes–”

“I’m not feeding off you again, you’re fucking wounded–”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ve been through worse, you need to feed–”

“I said no, Frank–” Crack.  

The tile behind my back breaks as I slam up into it faster than I’ve ever done before, holding my left hand away from me. Frank stares at me with wide eyes, his chest heaving, hands barely moved from when he’d stuck my fingers in his wound not a second before. 

I drop the roll of bandages and scramble out of Mikey’s bathroom, stumbling over piles of broken glass and down the hallway, refusing to look at my hand. I don’t stop til I get to the top of the stairs.

I don’t know where I’m going. A sharp, bitter laugh rips out of my chest at the thought. I lean against the bannister.

I can’t believe he just fucking did that.  I can’t– I can’t. I’m shaking, I think. Why the fuck would he want me to feed from him? I– I’m fine. I don’t need it right now, he didn’t need to stick my fucking hand into his open wound– that I’d been trying to patch up.

I begin to pace at the top of the stairs. 

Dickhead. That’s what Frank is. A self-harming dickhead. Doesn’t he know how fucking dangerous I am? What if I’d mauled him? What if I’d killed him?

A creak from Mikey’s room breaks me out of my thoughts momentarily. No. Nope. I’m not talking to him after that. I speed walk down the corridor and up the spiral stairs to my room, shutting the door when I get inside. 

I flop down backwards on my bed, staring up at the ceiling I’d painted a mural on when I was sixteen.

“I have a murderous ghost in my basement and a maniac in my bathroom,” I murmur to myself. I chuckle and then sigh, bringing my hands up to my face before freezing. 

Shit. Frank’s blood is still on my hand. Shit. 

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Not a muscle twitches. I don’t know how long I lie there, hands over my face, everything still. The entire room seems to be holding its breath. 

And then there’s a creak on the stairs. Fuck. Footsteps. He’s coming to check on me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I sit up as fast as I can, my hands flashing down to my sides but not before I feel one of my fingers brush my bottom lip. Fuck. 

“Gerard?” Frank asks through the door. Fuck. Shit. On instinct I lick my lips– THAT WAS A FUCKING MISTAKE– and my body shudders all over at the mild taste of Frank’s blood on my tongue. 

It tastes so fucking goooood. 

Frank knocks on my door. “I’m sorry for sticking your hand in my side man, that was shitty. I just wanna make sure you eat enough, you know?” 

I don’t say anything. I can’t. He’s gonna offer his blood up again and I don’t– I don’t think I can resist this time. My veins are tightening up like ropes, stretching towards the blood on my tongue. 

I look down at my hand, then up at the door. I can’t feed from Frank again, I’ll kill him for sure. But I’m… so… hungry…

I shove my fingers in my mouth and the noise that leaves me is a less than human high pitched whine.

“Gerard?” Frank’s voice sounds again, sharp with worry. I fall to my knees with a thud. “Are you okay?” I can’t answer. 

The blood is coating my tongue, singing its way down my throat. I curl in on myself, whimpering at the sensations of the blood. Frank’s frantic voice becomes a background hum as my tongue caresses the digits in my mouth, licking them clean. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. My veins are burning with human heat, the bellows of my body moving again as the taste of life flashes through. It isn’t as good, as hot as before, nothing is as good as straight from the source but god.

My fangs have detracted, I can feel them faintly as I roll on my back and remove my fingers so I can stick out my tongue which has lengthened slightly to lick at the blood on my face. My hands scrabble at the floor beneath me, my feet kick out. 

I’ve licked myself clean of Frank’s blood and it’s not enough– it’s not nearly enough. I groan, my head lolling to the side and I freeze when I see Frank standing over me, holding a mug, eyes wide. 

“More,” I rasp. He kneels down next to me. What is he doing? “More,” I whine louder. 

Frank puts the mug down. “Sit up,” he murmurs.

“More,” I insist. I need it. It’s not enough, I’m so weak so hungry so… so fucking starving.

“You need to sit up, Gee,” Frank says, snaking his arm under me. I whimper, turning into him to press my face to his hot skin. He pushes me up but keeps his hand on my shoulder. He reaches for and then hands me the mug. “Drink up,” he whispers.

I smell the fumes wafting up from the warm porcelain of the mug– familiar scent with a stale, medical hint to it. But oh fuck it’s blood. It’s blood. I hastily tip the mug to my lips and groan as the taste hits my tongue, pouring down my throat. 

There’s so much more now, more than what was on my fingers and face. I can feel it heating me from the inside out, awakening my dead nerves from their sleep. 

I hear a low “shit” as Frank watches me drink it all, watches me take it all in. I reach the bottom too soon, the blood stops flowing down my throat and a muffled, frustrated scream rips from my lips as I cast the empty mug aside, hearing it shatter as I lurch towards Frank, flopping into his arms and clawing my way up his body until I am face to face with him.

Our faces are inches apart. His heart is beating so fast, he’s scared or something but he doesn’t show it on the outside. Our faces are inches apart.

I kiss him.

It’s sudden, harsh, quick, just a press of lips to lips for a long moment before I pull back, hands gripping the collar of his shirt (when did he put on a shirt? I don’t know). “More,” I whisper to him. 

“Okay,” he whispers back. His mouth is stained with blood. I stare at it. 

He kisses me this time, and it’s longer, slower. I lick into his mouth and moan at the taste of his tongue on mine. I feel his arms moving around me, gripping me tighter.

Frank pulls away as he stands up, lifting me with him. My head falls onto his shoulder as I let him wrap my legs around his waist, my hands clinging to his back. He slowly carries me out of my room, away from the broken shards of the mug, away from something that I can’t quite put my finger on. 

I clutch him tighter as I squeeze my eyes shut, the need to feed overwhelming every other sense.

The broken, yellow lights of the kitchen flicker as I stare up at them, spread eagled on the kitchen table. I feel warmer than I have been in a long time.

I can feel the dried blood coating the bottom half of my face, covering my fingertips. There’s a mug of half-drunk blood next to me, my fifth one from the small stash of blood bags that hadn’t been destroyed or thrown out. Frank’s doing something that involves a bunch of noise– clanking and sizzling mostly. I think he’s making food. He’s humming to himself, I think it’s a Green Day song. 

There’s a strange feeling behind my eyes, a moisture that I’ve long been unfamiliar with. It pricks at the corners of my eyes before tears well up. I slowly sit myself up and the tears trickle down my face. It’s warm. Weird. 

Frank’s puttering around the kitchen, mixing things into a pan. I think I see noodles. I turn and slide off the table, padding silently to where Frank is now: standing in front of the stove with a spatula in hand. I drop my head to his shoulder and he wraps an arm around me, pulling me closer. 

“How you feelin’?” He asks, his soft rasp interrupting the sizzle of the food.

“Better,” I murmur into his shoulder. “I’m–”

“Don’t,” He cuts me off. “Don’t be sorry.”

“But it’s–”

“Blood? That doesn’t fucking bother me, dude. Drinking blood isn’t the worst thing in the fucking world.”

“But it’s not supposed to be eaten! I’m a fucking monster!” I whimper. I don’t care how childish I sound. “It’s not– I’m not–”

I can feel Frank move against me, the arm not cradling me shifting as he (I think) moves the pan off the oven and puts it aside. He pulls me back so I’m facing him, staring into his eyes. “You’re not a monster,” he says quietly. “You’re not. Understand?”

I stare into his deep brown eyes, so full of earnest trust– like a dog’s– and I think I’m gonna cry. “It happened two years ago. I killed him two years ago. Why is he haunting me now? It should be over, why is it not– Why–?” I cut myself off as I do cry, like actually cry, with tears and everything, and it’s such a weird feeling that I almost stop but then Frank’s hugging me again and I’m sobbing into his shoulder, clinging to him as he rubs my back, clinging to him like a life raft as I sob out over two years of misery.

It’s much later when I’m curled up next to Frank in the TV room, Ghostbusters blaring on the TV. Frank’s bowl of food is empty on the coffee table in front of us.

We don’t talk. I’m too cried out to. Frank’s arm is around me. He’s silent too. 

I glance up at him. He looks tired. Despite being full, so am I.

I think we’ll sleep soon.

We don’t sleep a wink.

Instead, we watched Poltergeist. And then The Goonies. After that we got bored with movies and started cleaning the foyer, which went quicker than expected so we cleaned the TV room and then the kitchen too.

We’re in Mikey’s room now, actually cleaning up his room without getting distracted, Bon Jovi blasting on the record player as we work. Frank’s on his fourth cup of coffee.

We’ve barely said a word to each other, we haven’t needed to. It’s not that we don’t want to, it’s just… we haven’t. It’s been natural to not talk, to just work, focus on our hands moving repeatedly; rebuilding and taping and patching; fixing the destruction. 

We don’t talk, but I hear his steady breathing as he tapes a tarp we found over Mikey’s broken window. I help him, holding the other end of it, and he grins at me. I grin back. The warm feeling pooling in my stomach is definitely from the blood. Definitely.

The silence persists.

The days blend together again as we move through the house, a tornado in reverse, fixing things in each room methodically. Frank drinks gallons of coffee and I go through almost twice as much blood. I think it’s been a week of near silence interrupted only by whatever record we put on. We don’t go near the basement door.

Mikey’s room looks almost as good as new, plus the tarp. The library bookshelves are mended clumsily, with less nails and more tape, and every unsalvageable piece is in the trash. We still haven’t ventured into the basement. 

It’s by the third day that Frank begins to lag, his eyes dull and tired, but he refuses to stop. He stumbles through the house like a zombie, hands always moving, legs shaking, not speaking. He clutches a cup of coffee to his chest like a baby blankie as he staggers around. Whenever I’d insisted on him sleeping, he would shake his head and open the fridge, gesturing to the blood I hadn’t drunk yet.

I think it’s the fifth day when Frank almost falls down the stairs, eyes almost completely shut. He’d barely caught himself on the stair rail and is clinging to it when I emerge from the kitchen after disposing of my thousandth bloodbag.

“Fucking hell!” I exclaim, running up the stairs to him. 

“Don’t worry ab’t me ‘m fine,” he slurs, trying to wave me off. 

“Fine my ass,” I say, wrapping his arm over my shoulder and helping him stagger up the stairs and down the hallway. “I should’ve strapped you down fucking days ago.” 

“Don’wanna sleep,” he mumbles, though his head is lolling on my shoulder and his feet are dragging to the point of not even walking. “You need t’eat.”

“I have been, Frank.” Privately I think he’s an idiot. “You’re an idiot.” Okay, maybe not so privately. 

Luckily the stairs to my room are right off  the big hallway at the top of the main stairs, so all I have to do is push the fucking door open and lug him up the stairs without dropping him (not that hard because of the amount of blood I’ve been drinking since the first night is fucking obscene and I no longer look like a Night of the Living Dead zombie, nor do I have the strength of limp noodle– my strength level is at a solid Nokia) so it’s no time at all before I’m lowering Frank onto my bed and taking his shoes off, putting them by my bedroom door. 

I go to leave, meaning to let the self-sacrificing dumbass sleep, but he whimpers in protest. 

“What?” I say, turning around. It comes out a little sharper than intended.

Frank’s staring at me with droopy eyes, one hand reaching for me. “Don’wanna sleep alone,” he mumbles. “Don’ le’me alone. Don’wan’it to h’ppen again.” 

What is he– oh. Oh. Shit. 

I cross back over to the bed and crawl on top of it so I’m next to him, and drag him up with me so our heads are on the pillows. 

“It always happens when I’m alone,” he’s mumbling as I reach for my sketchbook on the bedside table. I look back at him once I’ve retrieved it; it looks like it’s taking a sincere amount of effort to keep his eyes open, but he’s staring at me like a sad puppy and I can’t help the awwww that goes through my brain at the sight. 

I reach out my hand and pull him closer, stroking his  shoulder soothingly. “I’m not gonna leave you, Frank,” I say in what I hope is a soothing tone. “I won’t let it happen to you again. He won’t get you in here.”

“Mmkay.” Frank snuggles closer to me, his head resting on my shoulder and hands gripping me around my waist. He’s snoring within seconds. 

I’d been planning on drawing while he slept but now I can’t, this stupid human is clinging to me like a fucking octopus. I can’t move my damn arms. I can’t do anything! Except like watch him sleep, but I don’t wanna be a fucking creep. 

Fuck.

At least the view of my ceiling mural I’d painted when I was sixteen is nice. Not Frank. I’m gonna keep my eyes firmly on my ceiling until he (hopefully) releases me. 

I’m not gonna be a creep.

Nope, nope, nope.

Chapter Text

"Holy fuck."

“Seriously, Patrick? My brother’s in danger and that’s all you have to say? ‘Holy fuck’?” Mikey snaps. Ray’s arm tightens around him.They’re in an unfamiliar living room, the wooden floor and walls giving it a rustic, cabin-like feel, and the only light comes from a fireplace. The man he snapped at, Patrick, I presume, is sitting in an armchair by the fire, eyes gleaming yellow in the firelight.

“Lay off–” Pete, who’s standing by the fireplace, tries to chime in, but Patrick cuts him off, leaning forward menacingly. 

“What do you want me to say, Mikey?” he spits. “‘Oh no, I’m so sorry?’ Because all I’m fucking gathering from this story is that your brother almost got Pete killed!” Patrick stands up, glaring down at my brother. “I’m not in the mood to be very sympathetic right now.” Heat radiates off him, in the way it does when a… werewolf is territorial in the moon’s waning cycle… Jesus fuck Mikey’s ex is dating a damn werewolf.

Ray glares at Patrick. “Don’t talk to Mikey like that–” He’s stopped as Mikey stands up to his full height, a good half-foot taller than Patrick, glaring back at the werewolf coolly. 

“Cool it, Wolf-Man,” he growls. “Just cause it’s a delicate time of the month for you doesn’t mean I won’t hesitate to hurt you for blaming Gerard because of an exploding diner.” 

Patrick snarls, stalking forward until he’s up in Mikey’s face, his hair bristling. He bares his teeth, letting the sharp canines show. “You almost killed my mate,” he spits.

Ray glances at Pete, eyes wide. “What’s–” he begins. “Pete what the fuck is happening.” 

Pete shakes his head. “He’s always grumpy after the moon when I’m not there. Cloud the moon, Patty-cakes, I’m fine. I’m right here, I’m fine.” Pete reaches out to Patrick, trying to console him or something, but Patrick yanks him by the arm and curls around him protectively, growling at Mikey.

“I didn’t do this,” Mikey says firmly. “And neither did Gerard.” 

“Did you take the tea?” Pete murmurs into Patrick’s ear.

“What tea?”

“The tea I left on the counter for you, the tea that always helps, you know, that tea?” Pete cups a hand on Patrick’s stubbled cheek and turns the werewolf’s snarling face towards him. “Ray, check the kitchen counter for a box of tea please?” Ray complies, looking spooked as hell, squeezing Mikey’s shoulder as he begins to leave. 

“No need,” a gravely voice sounds from the shadows of the hallway that Ray was heading towards, who jumps back with a yelp of “filho da puta!” 

“I have this,” the voice continues, and a hulking man emerges, in ripped jeans and a t-shirt, arms and other bits of physical skin covered in tattoos, his ginger beard already sporting a few white hairs. A pair of deep sapphire eyes flicker behind him as a second man emerges, or maybe he’s not a man. His form is blue-tinged and smokey, a clawed hand reaching up to rest on the ginger’s shoulder.

He’s something else. 

The first man tosses a small drawstring bag to Patrick, who catches it and opens it.

“Moonstones!” Patrick exclaims. “How-?”

“I’ve been charging them by my pond,” the ginger says. “When Pete said to come quickly, Joe thought it’d be best if I brought them.” Seeing Mikey and Ray’s confused expressions, he turns to them. “I’m Andy, Andy Hurley.”

Mikey looks at his hand, not shaking it. “My grandma has all of your books,” he says instead. “She said you’re an expert. You’re…” he trails off, gesturing at Andy.

“Incredibly handsome?” the creature behind Andy hisses with a grin. It’s voice is paper on snake scales. “Irresistibly sexy? A feast for the eyes?”

“Young?” Andy said, louder than necessary. 

The demon snorts. “Understatement of the millennium,” it croons. 

“Joe,” Andy hisses. “Cut it out.”

Ray’s brow furrows. “Sorry, who’re you talking to?” Mikey looks equally as concerned, while Pete is paying the newcomers no mind; running around to make sure Patrick is comfortable by the fire. Patrick is… crouched down and stuffing the moonstones in his mouth. What.

“His boyfriend, floozy,” the demon, Joe, hisses playfully at Ray, more blue smoke pouring around it. It’s the only color I can see.

Andy holds up a finger to Ray. “One second,” he says before rounding on Joe “Will you quit it? It’s not fucking funny.” 

Joe snickers. “Only for you.” He snaps his fingers and he dissipates with the smoke. 

Andy sighs, turning back to Ray who looks bemused. “Sorry about that,” he says. “Joe is a little overdramatic.”

“I prefer the word protective.” 

Every eye (including Pete’s, who trips on the carpet and falls on the floor with a curse) turns towards the man who’s materialized on the couch where Ray had been sitting. 

“Que porra!” Ray yelps, jumping away from the newcomer and almost falling on his ass. Mikey catches him in an almost choreographed dip and pulls him upright, not taking his eyes off the strange man, who grins lazily.

“I’m Joe,” he says. He’s wearing a Ramones t-shirt under a leather jacket, and ripped black skinny jeans going into leather boots. His ‘fro doesn’t compare to Ray’s. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Ray sputters. “Eu vou perdê-lo! Will people stop popping up from the middle of nenhum lugar!” He tries to struggle out of Mikey’s grasp, but Mikey doesn’t let him go. “Let go of me meu amor,” Ray mumbles at Mikey. “I’m going to hit this babaca, pensando que ele pode simplesmente nos esgueirar do nada when it’s already been a stressful fucking WEEK for us– my heart can’t take it– the next filho da puta that jumps out at me I’m gonna hex his balls to the seven hells! Let go!” Ray’s voice, during his rant, had raised into a yell as he struggles against Mikey’s grasp. “I’m gonna deck him!”

“No you’re not,” Mikey says. 

“Observe-me!” Ray hisses. Andy bypasses them and sits next to Joe, lighting up a cigarette. 

Joe immediately drapes his legs over Andy’s lap. “Someone’s stressed,” he croons. “Shall I… help?” he opens his palm and blue smoke begins to emit from it, trailing towards Ray.

Andy grabs his wrist, stopping him. “Joe, no.” 

Mikey, in a flash, pushes Ray into Patrick’s abandoned armchair and stands between him and the smoke. “Pete, what the fuck is this,” he spits. “We came to get help, not to get high on demon smoke.”

Pete, who’d crawled over to Patrick in the meantime and had been scratching him behind the ears, looks up apologetically. “I should’ve warned you, I’m sorry. That was a bad call on my part. Joe is… a demon attached to Andy’s soul.”

“The official term is dating, Peter,” Joe says lazily. “Might as well use it.” 

“Yeah, I still don’t know how to feel about that. Pat, spit that out.” Pete holds out his hand and Patrick silently spits three smooth, blue-white stones into Pete’s palm. 

“It’s complicated,” Andy supplies around his cigarette. “No demon magic, Joe.” Joe shrugs, still grinning. It’s getting creepy. “Pete texted me what’s going on, and where I go, Joe goes, so.” He takes a long drag from his cigarette before continuing. “All the symptoms from this past week would lead up to a usual haunting, except none of the places you were in were homes of malevolent spirits.”

While he speaks, Mikey slowly sits down on Ray’s lap. Ray wraps his arms around Mikey’s waist, keeping him there. 

“You also believe that whatever is, quote unquote ‘haunting’, you is linked to Gerard. Which could be possible, given that you haven’t seen each other in two years and haven’t said a word to each other in the meantime. And , Gerard’s not only a vampire, but a clairvoyant as well.”

“We don’t know that,” Ray interrupts. “How can you be sure?” 

“It’s a theory,” Pete begins, but is cut off by Joe scoffing.

“It’s not a theory, it’s the truth.” 

Mikey gives him a sharp look. “And how do you know that?”

“Cause he’s in the room with us,” Joe says coolly. “Right now.” 

What?

“What?” Mikey and Ray look stricken, Ray’s knuckles tightening on Mikey’s waist.

Joe looks around at the others, who have almost triplet looks of confusion on their faces. “Surely; Ray,  Pete, you can see him, right?” They both shake their heads. “Andy?”

Andy shakes his head as well. “I can’t. Not when we’re separated like this.” 

“Odd,” Joe muses. “Very… hmmm.” He steeples his hands together and frowns. “Mages can see beyond the veil of consciousness… so why can’t they see you?” His eyes meet mine, flashing blue. 

“You… you can see me?” I whisper. 

“Of course I can,” he says back. “I’m a demon, I see the hidden in the plain sight.”

“Joe?” Andy asks. 

Joe doesn’t seem to hear him, getting up and slinking towards me. “Something’s keeping you hidden… it doesn’t want you to be found.”

“Joe, what the fuck is happening?” Andy’s voice is flat, scared. The air is still in this room, no one, except Joe, moving a muscle. 

Joe holds up a finger. “Give me a second, my darling. I need to try something.” He circles around me, eyes half-shut. “Fascinating…” he rumbles, sniffing up the column of my neck. “I can smell its malevolence on you.” 

“He’s here– Gerard’s here?” Mikey asks, his voice shaky. 

“Yes,” Joe hisses, his S-s pulling through his teeth like a snake. “He’s not alone.” The moment Joe says it, the edges of my vision darken, shadows creeping in from the entrance way and the two windows on the opposite side of the living room. 

“Joe,” I whisper. 

“I see it. Pete, Mikey, if you have any more powerful friends I suggest you call them,” Joe says over his shoulder. “Gerard, where are you?” 

“Wait,” Andy says, stopping everyone. “Make sure it’s him first.”

I’m looking at Mikey, his jaw clenched and eyes hard to mask his fear. Ray’s gripping his arm. “Mikey used to sleep with a stuffed unicorn named Mr. Sparkles until he went to college.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Joe smirk. 

“Mikey, how’s Mr. Sparkles doing?”

“He’s on our dashboard.” Mikey’s brows furrow. “I– Gerard?”

“Hi Mikey,” I whisper. I want to cry. 

“He says hi,” Joe relays. Ray makes a choked sound. 

“Is– is he still at Nana’s?” 

“Yes.”

“Yeah.” 

Mikey inches closer. “Are you… Gee, are you okay?”

The darkness closes in, lights in the kitchen blinking out and everyone except Ray, Mikey, and Joe vanishing. I try to speak, say yes, but no noise comes out. I shake my head. 

“He says no.”

Ray steps forward. “Gerard is Frank with you?” 

Nod. “Yes.” 

“Is he– are you safe, are you–”

I want to scream. I want to run, but I can’t. I can’t fucking move my feet. I can’t talk. I shake my head.

“No,” Joe says. “He’s not safe, and he’s fading fast.”  

“Fuck.” Ray paces away and pulls out his phone, dialing a number on it. He fades into the darkness.

Mikey looks around, looking for me. “Tell him to– Gee, hold on, okay? We’re on our way. We’re coming. I’m coming for you. You and Frank just hold on, okay? Hold–” The darkness consumes him and I’m alone again. I want to throw up.

“Gerard, look at me,” a voice murmurs close to my ear. Joe’s still here. He doesn’t give me a choice, reaching out with a blue claw and tilting my chin so I’m staring into his deep, cerulean eyes. “We’re on our way, just hold on a little longer.”

“How?” I whisper, my voice returned a little. 

“You’re surrounded by a spirit that wants nothing but your suffering. He wants to destroy your very being, Gerard. So don’t let him.”

“It’s not that simple,” I say, voice trembling. 

“Isn’t it?” the demon grins at me, the blue of his form standing out against the blackness. “There’s a simple shortcut, a very easy thing to accomplish. He wants to get in your head, into Frank’s head, and it’s a very simple thing to keep him out. Orgasms, Gerard.” The blackness is devouring Joe’s form until only his smile remains. “I’ll see you soon.” And he’s gone. 

He’s gone, and I’m alone in the darkness.

I open my eyes.

I am such a fucking creep.

At least, I think so. Okay, I mean is it my fault that Frank has insisted on me staying with him every time the fuck had to fucking sleep? And is it my fault that he would always curl around me like a fucking cephalopod? And is it my fault that he is the human equivalent of a fucking puppy and makes cute little noises in his sleep?

I can’t even fucking do anything (except run my fingers through his hair to hear his contented snort as he wiggles closer to me, head resting on my chest– fuck) except think about how Mikey would laugh at me and say something like “Fucking hell, Gee, you’ve got a cute guy in your bed and you don’t even know what to do.” Easy for him to say when Ray basically fell out of the sky one day fully formed and they were confessing their love for each other the next.

Or something. 

Come to think of it, I can’t remember how they met. Or how I met Ray. I frown at the ceiling because that’s fucking odd. Everything about this is fucking odd. I close my eyes, trying to picture Ray’s smile, Ray’s laugh, the way his fingers always plucked out a melody whenever he had a guitar in his hands and I know he always did that I just– can’t– picture it.

What?

I jolt upright, jostling Frank off me. He whines in his sleep, trying to shuffle closer to me but I’m already out of bed, retrieving my sketchbook from its place on the bedside table and sitting down at my desk across the room and flipping to a blank page.

I put pencil to paper and try to conjure up some image of his smile and curly hair, his large frame, but there’s nothing. Nothing at all. My pencil falls from my grip. This is wrong.

There’s rustling behind me and a sleepy, slurred “Wha’s’goin’on?” from Frank but I’m frozen where I am, staring at the blank page. 

More rustling, then a pair of bare feet padding across the wood floor towards me. “Gerard,” Frank rasps quietly. I don’t look at him. “You okay?”

“Are you real?” I whisper.

“What?”

I finally look at him, my eyes so wide I can feel it. “Are you real?” Before he can even answer I’m shooting up out of my seat, knocking it to the ground and cupping his face in my shaking hands, pressing my thumbs to his cheekbones as he looks at me in not-so-sleepy confusion. “Are you real? Is this real? Is this– what is this– are we–”

He pulls me into a hug, pressing me to him as his arms wrap around me, nails digging into my shoulder blades as he presses his lips to my ear and murmurs “I’m real, this is real, I’m right here, we’re real.”

Once my shaking subsides enough, I pull back to look him in his eyes again. His eye bags have lessened a little bit. “Then why can’t I remember Ray’s face?” 

Frank knows who I’m talking about, I can see it in his face and I can recall the picture of Frank and Ray outside a store that had meaning to them but that’s all I remember.

“It’s Bert,” he says firmly. “His influence. When I was asleep I couldn’t remember anything about my real life. It’s how he controlled me. We need to get the fuck out of here, okay?”

I nod. “Okay.”

He grabs my hand and we run out of my room like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“The tread of our footsteps are muffled by the worn carpet of the dorm hallway. I watched our feet through my lanky hair, my hands at my sides. My scuffed combat boots looked like they belonged beside his beaten up Converse. I felt a touch on the back of my hand and jerked my head up to see Bert smiling at me.

"I don’t bite,” he said, his long hair swinging as he walked. “Unless you want me to.”

I snickered. “If you wanted to hold my hand you could have asked.”A blush spread across his face.

“I’ll remember that for next time,” He said as he came to a stop.

I looked up, realizing that we’re at my door. “I guess this is me.” I bit my lip, not wanting to admit how disappointed I actually was that the date was over. 

“I guess so.” Bert’s voice gave away nothing, nor did his face when I looked back at him. He leaned closer to me. My breath hitched. “I had a lot of fun with you tonight, Gerard,” he said softly. 

“Will I see you tomorrow?” I whispered, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“I’ll be around,” he said, and then he was kissing me, and I was kissing him, Bert McCracken, one of the hottest fucking singers on campus, and he tasted like cigarette smoke and cherries. Fuck. 

It was only a few seconds, but in my mind it was hours until he pulled away, grinning and flushed and running down the hallway whooping in a loud voice that echoed off the walls long after he’d vanished from sight.

I slipped into my dorm room quick as a flash and leaned against the door, my fingers pressed to my lips. 

“So how was date night?” My roommate, Brian, drawled from his bed. I didn’t say anything, my lips smiling against my will. “That good, huh?”

“Shut up.” I flopped onto my bed face down, still smiling. Brian chuckled. “It was really good,” I said, turning my head to look at him.

“I’m glad,” Brian said, shutting his magazine. “Just leave a sock on the doorknob when y’all want alone time.”

“I’m not talking to you anymore.”

This isn’t simple. Nothing about this makes sense. We both know it doesn’t. But as we run down the stairs there’s an unspoken agreement to get outside first and then talk, and then figure this shit out. If we can get outside, away from the tense heaviness in the house caused by the ghost in the basement then– then everything will be fine. It has to be.

Our feet echo on the wood floor of the atrium. We’re so close to the door, our exit. Our hands reach out at the same time, brushing the wood of the front door and–

It’s a moment of stillness where we’re almost suspended where we stand, our hands on the door. The air becomes electric, fully charged and it’s like I know what’s about to happen but there’s nothing I can do–

With a crack we’re flung back by an unseen force, sliding across the wood floors. I hear Frank making noises of discomfort next to me but I can’t move, can’t do anything because of the phantom laughter ringing in my ears, around my brain, bouncing through the halls of the house and I’m paralyzed on the ground because there is no exit, no escape, if I try to move He’ll kill me–

“Gee.” My eyes snap to Franks’. He’s leaning over me, eyes wide. I’m shaking. “I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m real.”

“We can’t get out.” My voice breaks. He scoops me up by my shoulders, holding me to him. “We cannot get out,” I say again. 

“Drums in the deep,” he whispers back. I whimper. He’s real. 

We rock back and forth on the floor, clinging to each other like we’re the last men on earth. Wind blows through the house, buffeting us with cool air. Bert’s still not happy. I have a sinking feeling he’ll only be happy when I’m completely destroyed. I hate this. I hate this constant fear I have, the feeling that I’m not safe in my own home. I hate that Frank’s dragged into this, into my bullshit with no warning. 

Frank pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. “This is real,” he says. His eyes are scared.

“We’re awake,” I say back. His hands grip me tighter and his eyes show relief. It was the right thing to tell him. The breeze ruffles his hair and his jaw hardens. 

“I hate this,” he growls. “I hate him.” 

“Me too.” A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as an idea dawns on me, a voice whispering in the back of my mind. It’s entirely Ghostbusters logic but… it might work. I want it to. “But I have an idea.” He looks at me, hope glimmering in his eyes. I lean close. “If we piss him off his power will overload the balance,” I whisper in his ear. 

“How do we piss him off?” he whispers back.

I kiss him. 

It’s short, chaste, but to the point. 

When I pull back, Frank grins, understanding dawning on him. “I like your style.” He kisses me back, and it’s not short at all, nor is it chaste. It’s filthy, our tongues twining together almost immediately, his hand knotting in my hair and my hands cupping his face as I clamber into his lap. 

Frank’s lips are warm. No, they’re burning. Burning hot and his tongue is a whip of fire, clashing with my ice. There is nothing but him and I. We fall back, well Frank falls back with me on top of him, kissing like it’s going out of style, memorizing the taste of the other as our lips give and take and our tongues dance like snakes.

He groans into my mouth as I grind my hips down onto his, pinning one of his wrists with one hand on the ground, twining our fingers together.

The wind screams at us as we writhe on the ground, losing ourselves in each other though Bert blows our noises away.

Frank slides his hand out of my hair and down my back, snaking up my shirt. I gasp. He’s so warm, so alive, and then I remember what’s in my pants and what’s in the basement and I stop, pulling back from him.

He’s sprawled under me, looking fucking debauched with ruffled hair and kissed red lips. His eyes are hooded and on fire like the rest of him. Fuck I want to kiss him more.

“Not here,” I rasp. “Bed. Upstairs.” I’m doing this. I’m really fucking doing this. 

Frank nods. “Okay,” he says breathlessly. That’s all he needs to say. 

"How’s Bert?” Mikey’s voice crackled over the phone speakers.

“He’s good,” I replied, playing with Bert’s hair as he read through the college newspaper.

“Hi Mikey,” Bert said. “Oh here’s the column on my band!” He sat up excitedly, not even noticing my  noise of discontent when I could no longer touch him.

“He says hi,” I supplied. 

“Hi Bert,” Mikey sing-songed. “You’re coming home for Thanksgiving, right?”

“Duh. Like I would miss our game of Risk for the world.” I picked at a hole in my jeans while Bert bent over the article like it was his grandma’s will or something. 

“Wow.” 

I giggled. “And you too, shitstain.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Fuck!” Bert yelled. He threw the newspaper down in frustration, getting up from the bed angrily. He aimed a kick at my bed, cursing as he stubbed his toe. “Fucking reporters.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear. “Babe?”

“Is everything okay?” Mikey’s worried voice sounded distantly from the earpiece.

“I’ll call you back in a bit, Mikes,” I said hurriedly before hanging up and putting the phone down. “What happened?”

“Look at this,” Bert thrusted the newspaper in my face. “Look at it!”

“I’m looking, jesus.” I scanned the article. “Bert, all it says is you’ve got a Nirvana-like sound in the style of Motley Crüe. And that you look and sound like emo Kurt Cobain. That’s not something to throw a hissy over.”

“For fuck’s– Gerard, are you stupid? They’re calling us a cover band!”

“That’s not what they’re saying at all!” I scooted forward until I was at the edge of the bed. “They’re comparing you to some of the greats as a compliment, babe.”

His face curled into thunderclouds. “We’re nothing like Nirvana, Gerard. God, I don’t even know why I talk to you about these things.” He snatched the article back from me. 

“Because I like you and your music?” I tried to say, but he’d already stormed out of my dorm, our pleasantly cozy mood from earlier gone. 

I lay back on my bed, sighing. I was just trying to help. Or something. He was just stressed, that’s all. 

I didn’t see him for two days until he burst into the art room after dinner, where I was working on a painting. Bert slunk up behind me and wrapped his arms around my middle.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m just– I want my band to do good.”

I continued painting. “It’s okay.”

“Really?” I could feel his eyes on me.

“Yeah. You’re stressed. I get it, babe.”

He squeezed me tighter. “What did I do to deserve you?” He mumbled into my hoodie.

I set my paintbrush into the water next to me and turned in his arms. “Probably something good.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” What started out as a simple peck on his chapped lips turned into a longer, deeper kiss that became stumbling onto the nearest table, fumbling with shirts and flies of jeans, pulling on hair and moaning as we can’t stop touching. 

“You’re beautiful,” Bert said when my boxers came off. “You’re beautiful,” he said as he thrust inside me for the first time. “You’re beautiful,” he said as he kissed me when we were done.

I squirmed, my thighs sticky. I wanted to get up and grab a towel, but I also didn’t want this to end. So I stayed on the table with him.

“You know I love you, right?” He murmured into my hair. I nodded, the four words in response sticking in my throat. I laid my head on Bert’s chest, closing my eyes and ignoring the lump that was forming in my stomach. I felt dirty and uncomfortable, but I was with Bert.

And he said he loved me for the first time. So that’s something, right?

It takes longer than necessary to get back to my bedroom because we keep stopping to kiss each other senseless, pushing each other up against walls as we walk up the stairs and down the hall and up more stairs, the wind howling around us before we slam the door to my room and Frank pushes me against it, hands cruising up my hips and lips kissing a burning line up my neck.

“You’re so sexy,” He hisses in my ear. “Did you know that?” 

I did, once. Warmth pools in my stomach at that, despite my thinking that he might change his mind once he sees me– all of me. I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t want me, but I’m tired of being scared, letting fear rule me.

“I need–” I gasp– “Frank, I need–” Too late, his hand has slipped between my thighs, pressing up against me and causing a moan to fall from my lips before I push him off me, stumbling away from the door and turning back to him. I probably look as mad as a hatter but I can’t care about it anymore, making eye contact with his confused, lust-hazy face. I just know he’s wondering where my boner is.

I pull my shirt over my head. Frank’s eyes trace over my exposed pale torso, over the twin scars below my nipples and the semi-obvious inward curve of my waist between my ribs and hipbones. His eyes meet mine again. He says nothing.

I quickly unbutton and kick off my pants, pulling my boxers off after. I stand, naked in my own room, staring at the man that’s saved my life and could throw it away if he leaves me to the ghost in the basement because of the exposed vagina between my legs, the thing I wish I could rip off myself, but it’s too late. 

“I was turned before I could get bottom surgery,” I say, breaking the silence. I think this is the only room in the house that’s completely still. “ I’m stuck like this forever. Take it–” my voice breaks– “take it or leave it.” 

I can see the cogs turning in his brain, the pieces being put together, the insults Burt had spat from Frank’s own mouth finally making sense. My jaw trembles. I clench it and stare defiantly at him. 

Frank steps slowly towards me, like I’m an easily startled animal, until he’s right in front of me, hands hovering over my bare hips. 

“Can I touch you here?” He asks me softly. His pupils are huge. I can smell his lust. I nod. He places his hands on me gently, thumbs rubbing up and down my love handles. Frank rests his face in the crook of my neck. “How about here?” He asks, voice muffled by my dead flesh. 

“Yes,” I say quietly. He kisses the skin there, soft again, inhaling as he breathes me in. He drags his teeth down my collarbone, sucking softly at more skin before he drops to his knees, hands slipping to my thighs before creeping around to ghost over the globes of my ass. 

“Here?” he asks again.

“Yes, Frank,” I say again. 

He cups my cheeks in his pal, gripping them firmly. Frank looks back up at me through his lashes, lip ring between his teeth. 

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers, but it sounds loud in this room, loud in my ears. 

“Please.” I whisper back. There is an electric current running along my skin. 

Frank slowly leans in, pressing his lips to the ones between my legs. It’s like this moment is suspended in time with how long it lasts, just the press of his lips to my pussy and his hands on my ass and nothing more– until Frank opens his mouth and licks a stripe up my cunt.

My head falls back as a small, keening whine tears its way from my lips, snaking my fingers through Frank’s hair as he sucks and licks and kisses– ah– annhhhhhh–

“Oh, fuck,” I whine, hips swaying towards him. “Mm– fuck– hnnn– Frank– more–”

He’s practically making out with my pussy at this point, curling his tongue around my clit and making me shudder in the process, his hands holding me up by my fucking butt and my head has fallen so far back that I can feel my hair whispering along my shoulder blades. 

“Frankie–” I gasp out, “good, so good, you’re so– fuck– fucking fucks Frank–” I can hear him moaning against me, causing vibrations to ripple through me and something clench in my stomach, something drawing taught and I know it’s soon, so soon, oh fuck– “Good boy, Frankie.”

He whines, his tongue slipping into my hole and my orgasm slips over me in a gentle wave, my hand clenching Frank’s hair tight as I shake through my climax, moans falling from my lips in little gasps as I cum dry.

I release Frank’s head at the same time he lets his hands fall from my ass, and I stumble back, sprawling backwards onto my bed. “Holy fuck,” I say. I lift my head up to see Frank still kneeling, staring at me. “What are you waiting for?” I ask, “Come here.” He lifts his shirt up and off, throwing it down somewhere before crawling up to the bed, still in his jeans. He’s barely spoken this entire time, only taken things in quietly. I scoot up the bed and spread my legs. 

Frank clambers onto the bed and slowly on top of me, holding himself up with powerful, tattooed arms. Fuck. He doesn’t move. Neither do I. 

I tilt my head. “What are you thinking about?”

He licks his lips. “You weren’t wet.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“But you came.”

“Vampires don’t have bodily fluids,” I say. “Anne Rice was spot on.”

Frank rolls off to the side so he’s sitting on the bed next to me. I push myself up so I’m sitting next to him. It’s quiet here. 

“You’re trans,” Frank says quietly. I nod. He finally turns to me. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Why?” I ask, cocking my head. Nothing here is his fault.

“Because I said those things. Because he’s a dick and he made me say those things and it sucks that I didn’t notice your pain sooner, Gee I’m so fucking–” His hands have come up to his head to grip at his hair.

I kiss him to shut him up, pushing his hands back down. “It wasn’t you,” I say when I pull back. “I know it wasn’t you.”

“You’re not mad.”

I shake my head. “Not at you.”

“Shouldn’t you be?”

I shake my head again, more vigorous this time. “I’m not going to take my anger out on you. That’ll make me just like him.”

Frank’s quiet for a second. “What if I let you?”

That stops me in my tracks. “What?”

“Hurt me. Punish me. Use me.” He sees my hesitant expression and hurries on. “Repressing your anger won’t do anyone good. I know it doesn’t.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I want you to. I’m not afraid of monsters, Gee, and I’m not afraid of you.” He holds my gaze, his eyes burning with molten heat. “I want you to punish me.”

His words ring in the air between us, sparkling and clear, like snowflakes caught in a photograph. There is no lie in his eyes. My still heart is pulling me to him like a magnet, I want him to look at me like this always. 

“So if I wanted to drink your blood until you were dizzy…” I begin, testing the waters.

“I’ll pinch your shoulder and say stop.” 

“And if I wanted to leave marks down your thighs and dig my nails in until I drew blood?”

“I’d beg you to lick it up.” 

“And if I slapped you senseless until your skin was red and throbbing?”

“Fuck, please,” Frank moans, eyes fluttering shut.

I press my lips to his ear. “What if I use you till I come again, for my pleasure alone and leave you aching for it?”

Frank whimpers, bucking up into my touch. I take my hand away, moving it up to his jaw and gripping so he has to look at me.

“Can you promise me two things?” I ask. He nods before I can continue. “Eager duck. One, we’re going to have a proper fucking conversation about everything, capiche?” He nods again. “Two, if you expect me to let it out on you, then I want you to do the same to me. Dig your nails in, because I’m not made of fucking porcelain, Frank Iero. I need proof this is fucking real because I am fucked up beyond belief and– I want you to give as much as I fucking give, get as much as I fucking get. I’ll tell you no, tell you to stop if I hate it, I fucking promise. Do you?” 

I’m pointing my finger at him now, supporting my weight with one arm in the pillows. “I fucking promise,” Frank rasps, taking my finger in his mouth and sucking on it, dragging his teeth along the bone.

“Good,” I whisper, hooking said finger over his lower jaw, stopping his ministrations. “Now take your pants off. I want to see you.” I pull my finger out of his mouth and stand up, my head brushing the low ceiling of my room.

I watch him as he quickly shucks off his pants and boxers in one fell swoop, kicking them away.

Frank is so beautiful. Ink covers every inch of his pale skin, pictures and words with meanings I want to discover. Amongst the ink is a dark happy trail that leads past the dip of his hips to a dark bush of hair. His cock curves up from the middle of it, red and leaking and so fucking tantalizing. 

I lift my arms up and put my hands on the ceiling to balance myself on the bed as I lift my foot up and drag it along his thigh. 

His breath hitches. 

I drag my foot over his cock, pressing down gently and relishing the moan I draw from him before it drifts along his hips and over his rib cage, coming to rest en pointe on his collar bone. Frank grabs it and yanks it up to his mouth, causing me to lurch forward into the wall with a surprised giggle as he kisses the bone. 

Frank grins up at me as his hands dart up to my hips and pull, so I crash down onto his chest with a yelp and a guffaw.

“Assgoof!” I exclaim.

“What the fuck is an assgoof?” He laughs. 

I lean down to kiss him with a smile. “You, silly.” I kiss him again, this time pulling his lip into my mouth with my teeth. He makes a soft noise when I do so and without a second thought I let my fangs detract into the plump flesh of his bottom lip, drawing blood. 

The moan Frank lets out is delicious to the ear. I grin as I suck his lifeforce through his lip, and lean back to whisper: “What do you want me to do to you?”

“Anything you want,” he whispers. “Bite me, fuck me, claim me, I don’t care just–” he cuts himself off with a grunt of frustration as I pull away from him. Blood runs down his chin in twin rivulets and my hips twitch. Frank looks fucking obscene.

“You want me to claim you?” I draw the word out with a growl.

“Please,” he whimpers. “I don’t want to think anymore, Gee, please.”  

As I stare into Frank’s wide, brown eyes, I see him all the clearer. He’s scared too. He’s been caring for me for the past two years only to find it wasn’t actually me, and now neither of us can leave. He can’t go back to the life he had and I can’t begin again. But we’re in this together. If he needs a respite, I can give it to him.

“Don’t worry, pet,” I coo, tapping him on his nose. “You don’t have to do anything except look pretty. You’re already delicious.”

I push his head to the side and bite the side of Frank’s neck without delay. 

Frank howls, hips bucking up and head falling back into the pillows. I grin into his neck, blood dripping down my mouth. This is going to be fun.

It was morbidly hot outside, but I was curled up under my sheets anyway in the stifling basement. I didn’t care. I wanted the world to go away.

There was thudding on the stairs as someone came down. I didn’t move. A door shut followed by the muffled sound of piss hitting the toilet bowl. I still refused to move. It was dark under the sheets. I liked the dark.

The toilet flushed. I hoped they’d go away and leave me in my misery. 

They jumped on me, the bed springs squeaking. “Ow! Mikey get off!”

“Get up!” The bedsheets were ripped off of me. “You’ve been lying here for three days.”

“Dude did you wash your hands?” I protested, trying to fight him off. 

“Get up!”

“Gross, Mikey, piss-dick hands!” I shoved up against him, rolling over so I was on top of him, my ankles still tangled in my sheets. 

“Get… out… of… bed!” He gasped when my knee landed on his stomach.

“Wash your hands!” I snap back. Mikey managed to get a hand free to tug on my hair and, when I yelped in pain, rolled us over and over and off the bed with a thump. “Dick!”

“Hands.”

“Shut up.” We lay on the floor panting, the wind knocked out of us. “And wash your damn hands.”

“Got you out of bed, didn’t it?” Mikey clambered to his feet and walked back to the bathroom. 

“I think you bruised my spine,” I groaned.

“Wah wah.” The water switched on and I stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Mikey washing his hands. I wanna go back to bed. “Oh no you don’t!” Mikey dashed out of the bathroom and grabbed my ankle and yanked me back off the bed as I tried to get back under the covers.

“Let me go!” I screeched.

“No! You’re going out tonight!” 

“Don’t wanna!” I aimed a kick at him. 

“Too bad!” My kick had made him lurch back and release my ankle. However, he fell on top of me again. “I’m not letting my brother mope all summer over an idiot band member.” 

“He’s not an idiot, he’s just–”

“A dickhead, right. You’re coming out with me, no arguments. A break up bash thing. And you’re coming upstairs for lunch, mom misses you.”

Reluctantly, I let him drag me upstairs, wincing at the sun pouring through the window shades in the kitchen, and let him sit me down at the kitchen table where there was a sandwich waiting for me. Mom grinned at me over her sandwich, and Dad passed me the funny pages of his newspaper. 

Hours later found me at some dingy, crowded bar, nursing a scotch, watching Mikey grind against guys on the dance floor.  

I turned away, staring into my glass. How’d everything get so fucked up? One day we were giggling in the library, cuddling after hours in our dorms, going to Waffle House high off our tits and snorting lines off  and the next… the next the neighbors had called the domestic abuse hotline because Bert had started chucking plates at my head. What happened? What had I done wrong? Ugh, fuck. Fuck.

I downed my glass, wanting to go home. I didn’t want to be sober anymore, I was tired of being sober. I was tired of thinking of him, I was tired of thinking. So my second drink became my third became my fourth became my fifth and I was the LIIIIFE OF THE PARTAYYYY!!!

The lights of the bar blurred and distorted as I staggered from partner to partner, their faces indistinct. At some point, I staggered out of the bar with some no name desperate to get in my pants. I didn’t care. I just wanted to forget. 

“Fucking asshole,” I murmured as the guy fumbled with my pants.

“What’s that?” the man’s breath stank.  

“Bert’s a ffffucking assholeee,” I slurred, staggering away. “And he was my fucking dealerrr too– he got us the good shitssss.” I stumbled and fell over onto a pile of trash bags. “Prickkkkk.” My head spun as I stared up at the night sky between the buildings.

“Whatever dude,” the guy said, wandering away. I barely noticed.

“Fuck youuuu,” I sounded quietly. “Fuckywuckyuck you Berty-wordy.” Something squished under my foot. I didn’t move. “Dick-shit head.” My stomach churned. “Fucking- fucking- ugh.” Bile rose in my throat and I lurched upwards just in time to spray vomit all over the ground in front of me and the Vans of the guy in front of me.

I looked up. “Oh, Gee-gee,” Bert sighed. “The moment I’m gone you fall to pieces.”

“Ssss your fault,” I said, coughing. “Youuuu fuckin’– fuckin’– fuckin’ mongoose turd.”

He chuckled. “C’mon, Gee. Let’s get you to bed.” He picked me up bridal style, vomit and all.

“Nnnno you jerk!” I pushed weakly at his chest. “You need to pay my hospital bill! Fuckin’ tit-brain. Not goin’ anywhere with you.”

“There’s dangerous people out at night, Gee-gee.”

“Like you?” My head fell all the way back, unable to hold it back anymore. 

“Oh I’m dangerous?” Bert stopped, putting me down but keeping an arm around my waist so I wouldn’t fall. He always was considerate.

“Mhmmm.” 

He opened a car door for me. “You’ll feel better once you sleep, baby cakes.” He helped me inside, fastening my seatbelt. His car smelled like cigarettes and weed. 

“Don wanna sleep,” I said as he got in the drivers seat. “Still gotta lot to say to you.”

“Tell it to me in the morning, sweets.” Bert pulled out of the parking lot, muttering something else under his breath that I didn’t understand. 

“I gotta- I gotta give you a piece of my damn mindddd,” I stuttered, the words molasses on my tongue. “You threw plates at me! Five years of dating and you throw plates? Seriously?” 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was drunk. And pissed the fuck off, Gee-gee! My band broke up, can you blame me?” 

“You’re still a dickhead.” I crossed my arms and slouched in my seat.

“Whatever you say, baby. I’m gonna work on my anger. I’m gonna do better. My buddy Jepha got a method, it really works!” I turned my head away. “That’s okay baby, you can relax. I’m not gonna hurt you. You can keep me in check, alright?” 

I felt his hand on my thigh. I didn’t pull away. It felt nice. My eyes were… so heavy. 

“That’s alright, sweetie, you’re safe now.”

As my eyes fluttered shut I felt his fingers unbuttoning my fly and slipping into my pants. I was too drunk to care. This was his apology, anyway.

Two weeks later found me back in the shared apartment with Bert, cooking him dinner. I’d left Mikey an apology message for ditching him, telling him everything was fine, Bert and I were working on our issues, before giving my phone to Bert for him to put away. (He said Jepha’s method required no phones for bonding.)

It was fine. I mean, Jepha’s into that hippie shit so it had to work, right? 

"So."

“So?”

“That was…”

“Yeah.” Frank looks at me. “I hope you meant that was hot. Because it was. For me.” 

I look back at him. “It was so hot.” 

We’re sprawled on the bed, limbs entangled and sheets kicked off (and ripped), covered in fluids (Frank’s blood and our semen). I feel good. Better than good, actually. I feel awake and aware, free and able to breathe. Our hands twine together on Frank’s sticky hip. I curl into him. 

“We still need to have that conversation,” I murmur into his neck.

“We will,” he mumbles back. “As soon as I can feel my legs again.”

I snicker, kissing his shoulder as I do so. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“For?” I don’t look up at him, but I know he’s looking down at me. 

“This– staying. All of this. Thank you.” I feel his hand cup my jaw, tilting it up so I look into his eyes; his deep, earnest eyes. “I can’t tell you– You saved me from– well. Thank you.” 

Frank doesn’t say anything, just traces his thumb over my cheek until I let out a sob-like whimper and surge up to put my lips on his again. He lets out a surprised gasp that’s swallowed by my eager mouth.

We crash back down like an ocean’s wave, ebbing and flowing like the tide. This time is slower, my fingers savoring every inch of his warm skin as he fingers me open, our mouths choreographing an impossible dance that I know I’ll memorize.

He’s on top of me, taking my lip in his teeth as he curves his nimble fingers just right, thumb rubbing along my clit. 

“Frank–” I moan into his mouth. “Frankie, fuck Frankie!” Frank’s cock is like a spear of heat pushing inside me, radiating warmth through my frozen guts as I pull him close, gripping him so hard I know there’s marks on his back but I don’t care anymore. He’s kissing me everywhere; my mouth, my neck, my shoulder, his tongue dragging along my skin as I howl my approval to the ceiling, legs clamping around his hips as he blows his load inside me, whispering “You’re welcome”, “I’m here, baby,” and “Gerard”, in my ear as he comes down from his orgasm.

It’s like Frank’s psychic or something, it’s like he knows it wasn’t enough, because he pulls out and does a fucking face dive between my legs, licking his cum out of my insides until I’m screaming again, back arching and pussy clenching around his tongue as I come. 

He collapses on me, smothering me in warmth and sleepy laughter, and I wrap my arms around him, grinning into his hair. 

It happened one of the nights I was home alone. A thud from the bedroom window distracted me from the episode of Star Trek I was watching.

“Spot? That you buddy?” I called for our cat. No response. “Spot?” I left the TV on but got up, peering into the hall. Again, no response.  

My heartbeat sounded in my ears as I padded down the hallway. My breathing sped up as there was still no answering meow from my ginger tabby. 

A cool breeze blew down the hallway, causing goosebumps to pop up on my arm. I hadn’t left a window open. Fuck. There was no weapon nearby besides the joint in my hand. Fuck. My heart was in my throat as I reached the cracked open bedroom door. 

There was a dark figure on the floor of our bedroom, crouched down away from me. The joint fell from my fingers. The figure– the creature– turned, snarling. I could see the blood dripping from its maw. If I was braver I would’ve run at the creature, but I wasn’t. My body was cold with terror. 

So I ran. 

“Bert!” Bert’s out at work. “Bert help!” I could hear the creature behind me, snarling. I made it to the kitchen before a wet, sticky, hot weight landed on me, slamming me to the ground. “Help!” I screamed, struggling. “Help me!”  It was no use. Our apartment was the only inhabited unit. 

The monster growled again, pinning me with its sharp claws. One of its hands found my mouth, covering it as it pulled me up to my knees. “Your fear is delicious,” it rasped. “You’ll be perfect.” Fangs sunk into my throat and I screamed again, eyes rolling back in my head at the sensation of pain, fear, and something else. It forced its thumb into my mouth and I bit down hard, trying to get it off me, but all it did was make it thrust up against my clothed ass. 

Everything became too much for me and I closed my eyes, time speeding around me as I breathed. I don’t remember what it was doing, I don’t remember my name, I don’t remember anything but the warping darkness behind my eyes, the distant screams of someone far away, the moans of someone closer.

Finally I blinked my eyes open, lying on my back and looking up at my attacker. He looked like a normal man, with blood running down his chin in rivulets. He had a buzz cut and a nose ring, and his eyes were bright red. 

“Don’t worry, darling,” he grinned. “You were perfect.” 

I blinked and he was gone.

Currents of feeling ripped through me and I cried, coughing up black blood as my tears slipped down my cheeks. They felt cold. I felt disgusting.

“Mikey,” I whimpered. “Mikey.” I sobbed again, unable to move. “I’m sorry Mikey, I’m sorry, Mikey I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

No one came for me, and still I cried. 

I’d never even gotten to say goodbye. 

"Hey."

I blink my eyes. I can’t see. 

“Gerard."

Frank’s face comes into view, eyes wide and scared. “Do you hear that?” 

I’m about to say Hear what, and then I do hear it.

A muffled groaning in the walls itself, a sound similar to the roaring of a monster. I prop myself up on my elbows, my hair tickling my shoulders as I turn my head. 

“What the fuck…” I trail off as an ominous creaking joins the groan, and the floor seems to tremble, causing books to fall off of my shelves and objects below us to crash and break. A bell joins the din, and another and another, the old bells in the kitchen that used to summon servants, the shrill chiming ringing through the creaks of the house. 

“It’s been like this since I woke up,” Frank whispers in a gravelly voice. “I don’t know what’s happening– and your eyes were all white and you weren’t responding and–” I grab his hand. My happy mood from earlier is gone, replaced by a pit in my stomach that gnaws at my dead insides. Frank squeezes and I squeeze back. “Where’d you go?”

I almost say nowhere, but that’s not true. “I don’t know,” I say instead. “I can’t remember.”

Except I do remember.

I remember the day I got turned, the day I went back to Bert, the day I first met him. Every memory of Bert is in crystal clear definition, and Mikey’s are blurred and faded. Ray is almost gone. 

I remember blue smoke, but not what it means. 

“Bert wants me,” I say slowly. “He wants me alone, he wants me to be his and only his. He wants me afraid. But I’m not. I’m not afraid anymore. I want– I want out. You hear me you fucker? I want out!” I shout that last bit at the door. 

Frank’s hand that’s not holding mine touches my hip. “Then let's get out,” he says firmly. “Let’s run.” 

I’m up on my feet, holding his hand and pulling him towards the door. I only stop when my back is pressed to the wood and his face is inches away from mine. We’re naked. I don’t care. I kiss him, and I hope it’s not a goodbye. He kisses me back and opens the door. 

The wind buffets us as soon as he does, pulling me out and him with me. “Don’t let go,” I say. 

“Never.” 

And down the steps we go, down down down, our bare feet stamping against the wood and muffled on the carpet when we reach the landing. 

Frank grips my hand tight as we tear down the hallway that seems to stretch and stretch and stretch until we’ve gone nowhere and everywhere at once. But we don’t stop. I pull us forward, one foot in front of the other, my eyes shut. 

I hear smashing of glass as the wind screams at us to stop, but I don’t care. And I refuse to stop. 

I open my eyes and we’re at the top of the stairs, Frank’s forehead bleeding. 

“You okay?” I shout over the roar of the wind. I run my thumb over the cut and Frank leans into the touch.

“Peachy!” he grins back. His eyes are wild. Frank lurches forward and kisses me, his tongue slotting against mine almost naturally, his hands finding my naked hips, his cock saying an eager hello to my thigh as I rock into him, wrapping my arms around him. He’s warm. He’s warm and safe. Blue dances behind my eyes.

The radio has turned on downstairs, the crackling beginnings of Tonight, Tonight filtering in over the creakings of the poltergeist in my basement. Frank tastes like smoke and chocolate, like starry nights and book pages. 

We move as we kiss, our bare feet shuffling on the carpeted stairs, shifting slowly in a circle. Behind my eyes I see blue smoke, and I feel safe. Safe in Frank’s arms.

The world seems to tilt as we fall down the stairs, gripping each other tight, his breathing shallow. We land with a thud, a crack, and a groan of pain on Frank’s part. 

The wind is screaming in our ears, blowing my hair around my face as I look down into his pain-glazed eyes, caressing his face. “I’ll get you safe,” I vow. “I fucking promise.” 

I lift him up as gingerly as possible, carrying him into the sitting room to the beat of the music. The curtains on the windows flap in the wind as I set him down on the sofa. 

His eyes are half closed. “Hey,” I whisper. “Hey you.” I caress his cheek once more. His eyelids flutter a little more open.

“They didn’t abandon you,” Frank rasps, coughing. “They didn’t forget.” 

“Don’t talk–” I try to tell him cause he hit his head and probably cracked a rib, but he doesn’t listen like a typical idiot.

“They told me to keep an eye on you,” Frank persists. “”Don’t leave him alone, Frank’, that's what Ray said, I remember. I remember.” He coughs again. “Mikey– never meant to leave for this long. But I didn’t care cause I was falling in love with you but it wasn’t you and I’m so sorry, Gee, I’m so– I see you now. You never drew like you did before but it’s the same as the ones Ray put up in the shop and– I see you. I wish I’d seen you sooner but I didn’t know what I was looking for and I see you and you deserve the world, Gerard, you deserve everything and more–”

“Shut up,” I whisper, and kiss him because he’s trying to monologue all sappy-like and I just want– I just want to hold him. I’m sick of words. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” I fall off the couch and take him with me. 

Frank lifts himself back up on his arms, looking at me. “You deserve to live,” he says, a halo of light and blue smoke above him, before he’s on me again, and I’m crying as he kisses me, crying as we moan, crying as his cock… slides… slowly… inside of me… mmmmmmhhhhhh… because no one’s told me that before, no one’s looked at me like he has, no one’s seen me like he has, and I wrap a leg around him, pulling him in as we writhe in pleasure on the floor, his lips hot against my neck as it sounds like the world breaks apart around us and I’m shaking and crying out Frank, Frank, Frank, “Frank, Frank, FrankFrankFrank oh fuuuuuuck!”  

My head falls back enough to see that we’re levitating off the fucking ground but I don’t care because pleasure courses through me like a raging river, consuming me as his thrusts continue, his cries of Gerard, Gerard, Gerard “Gerard, Gerard, you’re so good baby you’re so-oh-oh my God!”  

When Frank comes in me, I white the fuck out. 

And after that…

Nothing. 

"...oly shit!"

“I found the…”

“...Gee? Gerar…”

“...et Frank’s le…”

“Sanctus e spiritu…”

The ceiling above me is white and bumpy, covered in stains. It smells musty in here. Musty and sweaty. It smells familiar too. Like… I turn my head and see Frank lying on the crummy motel bedsheets next to me, cause that’s where we are.

Frank’s heartbeat is steady, his breathing deep. I shift towards him, my limbs sore. He rolls towards me, still asleep, nuzzling into my open arms. I sit up, still holding Frank gently, and look around. 

The curtains are drawn, the sunlight filtering in around the fabric. Against the door, sitting up but asleep, is my old friend, Bob Bryar, from college. Curled against his chest is my old roommate, Brian Schecter. They’ve both got matching gold bands on their left hands. Leaning against the tv stand is the ginger man from my dream, but it wasn’t a dream because that’s Andy fucking Hurley, famous author, and next to him is the demon, Joe. Tangled together on the desk is Pete, Mikey’s ex, and his new boyfriend… Patrick. On the second bed, the one against the wall, Ray is in a bundle of blankets, his shoulders moving evenly. And sitting up on the bed, book in his lap, eyes on me, is– is Mikey.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” he mouths at me. 

“Mikey?”

“Hi Gee.”

“You came back?”

Mikey smiles sadly. “I came home.”

Chapter Text

It had taken a long time before I felt comfortable enough to leave Frank asleep in the bed, but I’m finally holed up in the bathroom with Mikey, him perched on the edge of the tub while I’m curled on the toilet swathed in a giant hoodie that had been put on me as I’d slept.

“How is he?” I ask. “Frank.”

Mikey grimaces. “Cracked rib, twisted ankle. The poltergeist tried to choke him out after you passed out. We got there just in time.”

“Is he dead? The poltergeist?”

Mikey gives me a sharp look when I use a pronoun referring to him. “No, it’s not. Pissed off? Definitely. Ray, Pete, and Bob shot some nasty magic at it but… it’s still here.”

I nod thoughtfully, looking down at my hands, which are twisting in my lap. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. I don’t know what else to say, or what I’m even apologizing for. Now that I’m awake, 

“So am I.” Mikey’s voice floods with regret. “I shouldn’t have left you alone so long. I thought– I thought you’d be okay, like have a fucked up romcom story arc or something, and then you’d call me randomly out of the blue one day and say you were sorry and that life was like a map or some bullshit like they say and I’d come back and not because you needed me to save you. I’m getting sick of saving you, Gee.” 

“I’m getting sick of needing saving.” My hands clench into fists. I can feel phantom tears welling in my eyes, boiling hot. But there is no liquid in my eyes.

“Don’t,” Mikey says. 

“Don’t what?” I don’t look at him.

“Don’t blame yourself for this. Stop blaming yourself. This wasn’t your fault.”

I laugh bitterly. “Funnily enough, it sure fucking feels like it was.”

My brother sighs. “I should’ve been there.” He sounds tired.

Anger suddenly floods through me, my broken memories sticking up like shards of glass. The silhouette of him against the open doorway to Nana’s mansion cuts to the forefront of my brain, his jaw set, his eyes hard as steel. My hands clench into fists.

“Why weren’t you?”  

“What?”

“Why weren’t you? Where were you?” My fury is cold, quiet, unbidden. My gaze flicks back up to him, looking at me in shock.

“Are we seriously doing this right now?” he asks in disbelief. 

I lean forward, feet planting on the floor, my teeth bared. “You left me.”

“I had no choice! You gave me no other choice, Gee. You were destroying yourself, I couldn’t–”

I stand up in outrage. “So you left? That was your reasonable solution? Leaving?”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” His arms spread wide trying to what, placate me? I can’t remember what I’m mad about but I know it was something.

“Oh, hallelujah for that!” I snark at him. 

Mikey stands up too, towering over me because he got the beanpole genes in the family. “Listen, you little–” Whatever he’s about to say is cut off by the door opening, revealing a very tired werewolf, his eyes half open. 

“I have to piss,” Patrick says quietly. “Please have this family reunion elsewhere.”

“No need.” I brush past him as I stalk out of the tiny bathroom. “This conversation was over anyway.”

“Can you not shut me the fuck out again?” Mikey, following me out, attempting to grab my wrist. I yank it away from him. 

“Don’t try to mansplain my experience to me. I was there, and you were gallivanting across the damn countryside,” I hiss at him. 

“Mansplain– oh for fucks sake Gee. You literally asked me! You’re so–”

“What, Mikey? I’m so what?”

“Good morning!” a familiarly annoying voice sing-songs.

“Hi, Pete,” I bite out, slowly turning away from my brother again to see Pete, awake now, grinning at us lazily. 

“Hello!” He waves cheerily from the desk he’d been sleeping on. “Having a little domestic?” An arm comes up and whacks him on the leg. “Ow!”

“Pipe down, asshole, I’m tryna sleep!” Andy grumbles at him, nuzzling into Joe’s shoulder.

“Yes, don’t disturb my love, Pete,” the demon says smoothly. “It’ll end very badly for you.” He turns his face to me, eyes glinting blue. “Glad to see you conscious and clothed, Gerard.” 

I blink my eyes, looking around the room. Bob and Brian have gone, their place against the door vacant. Ray is rubbing his eyes, standing up and bending over– Frank, my Frank, still not awake. 

“Gerard,” Mikey tries again, but I’m gone, darting over Joe’s outstretched legs and jumping on the mattress of the close bed to leap to the other one, landing on my knees on Frank’s other side.

Ray, who’d been checking his pulse, leaps back with a “Filho da puta Gerard!”

I barely notice him or his words, my eyes fixed on the unconscious man below me. 

Up close, Frank’s face is deathly pale, his skin cooler than usual. His lips have lost their color and his eyes are sunken, the shadows beneath them standing out like bruises. My shaking fingertips brush his cheek as my gaze trails down to his bare chest, which is bandaged heavily with a poultice of green, strong smelling goo on his side. Under his tattoos his skin is marred in bruises, red and purple and fresh.

“I see you now,” he’d said. “You deserve to live.”

They’re talking around me, their words rushing past like a river split by a stone. I can only gaze upon Frank’s sleeping face, feeling like Sam when Frodo was struck by Shelob’s venom. Ray tries to reach under the bandages to check, but I push his hands away, again and again until a cool hand grabs me by the shoulder.

“Let him check,” Mikey says firmly. 

You deserve to live.

“Get off me,” I hiss back at him. “This is my fault, let me go.”

“This isn’t your fault, Gee, now let my husband look at Frank’s wounds–” His arms wrap around me, holding me back.

“Yes, it is!” I shout. “He’s like this because of me! My fault! It’s all my fault!” I thrash against my restrainer, trying to get to Frank, I need to be with him, I need to stay with him, tell him I’m sorry–

“Patrick!” someone yells behind me. “Pat, get out here!”

“Joe, help Mikey, calm him down!”

“Bert’ll kill him if we split! Let me go! You’ll kill him!”

I see you.

“His eyes,” someone gasps, “What’s wrong with his eyes?”

I see you now.

I claw, thrash, lunge out blindly, my eyes fixated on Frank on the bed, unconscious, unmoving, and yet our last moments together play behind my eyes; us dancing through destruction, kissing behind my door, falling down the stairs and tears, so many tears. “I failed him!” I scream. “It’s my fault! All my fault!

“Patrick!”

“What the fu–”

Suddenly I’m enveloped in the stench of woodsmoke and dog, burly arms picking me up and clasping me tight, carrying me away. “C’mon you little weirdo.”

“Frank!” I yell, still wriggling and scratching, trying to get free as my captor drags me out the door. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

The door shuts on the dingy motel room, and I writhe, kicking, headbutting, whatever I can to get back in there, back to Frank. “He’s gonna kill him!”

“Joe, can you calm him down or something? He’s like a wet fish.”

“Get off me!” I shriek. 

“Can you hold him still, wolf-man? Like get his legs?”

“Gerard, can you please cooperate? We have to get you down a flight of stairs.” I lash out blindly, my hands in fists that connect with something solid. “Ow! You shit!”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Joe!”

“Alright, alright. Gerard? I need you to hold still for me, okay? Or bite my hand, that works too.” A hand covers my face, then all I see is blue. I fall limp, my limbs feeling strangely heavy. “There we go. Better?”

“Much. Where are B & B?”

“In the van.”

Their voices distort and deepen into an unknown cadence as the world warps in shades of blue until I watch the galaxy pulse around me in a mesmerizing fashion. Stars dance and planets turn, and warmth pulses around me for a minute, and I forget what I’d been fighting for.

I see you now. 

The cosmos coalesce into a man– not just any man: Frank, his eyes two flaming asteroids, hand of stars outstretched to me; and behind him a gaping black hole, reaching to consume his starry form. 

I see you.

“Christ on a bike Joe what the fuck did you do to the man?” The voice cuts through my blue galaxy, dry and familiar– Brian?

“He wouldn’t stop flailing so Joe dosed him with his demon voodoo.”

“Might have been too much.”

“Dude you heard his screaming, there could be sleeping babies in other rooms man.”

I blink my eyes, coming back to myself. The world is still covered in a film of blue. I look up at the face of the man carrying me and his scent makes sense; it’s Patrick the werewolf.

“Yeah I heard the fucking screaming, what was that about?” I turn my head to see that the familiar voice is indeed Brian, standing in front of the open door of a van in a parking lot. The motel parking lot.

“Beats me. I was taking a leak and Mikey yelled for me.” The world jolts with every step of the werewolf carrying me, swaying back and forth like a pendulum. 

“He was fine until we tried to separate him from Frank, then he freaked. Like Exorcist level of freak. His eyes were red, man. Like bright flaming crimson.” 

Brian’s face appears larger, over me as I’m set down, no longer in the containment of Patrick’s arms. “Hey buddy,” Brian’s voice echoes strangely. “How you doin’?”

“Stars,” I mutter. “Consuming him.” There’s a ceiling above me. A weird ceiling, all… metal-y.

“Cool,” is the response. “I think you did too much, dude.”

“Nah, he’ll be fine. Back on his feet in no time.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said about the biker before his skull ruptured.” That’s a different voice, gruffer and deeper than Brian’s or Patrick’s–

“Bob?” I try to say.

“Heh, he called you Boob.”

“Shut it, Joe.”

“Boob Bryar.” Chuckles bounce around me. 

“I said shut it.”

I snigger. “Boobie boobie boob Bryar.” 

“Oh, great. You set him off.”

The world spins. I close my eyes, the stars returning. Frank is still reaching for me, and yet… the cosmos move too fast now, the black hole pulsing and growing as Frank’s form spirals towards me, his smoldering eyes consuming me. Embers of light rush past me, faster and faster, blurring as the Milky Way turns into streams of glow. I sit up, eyes screwing up as the stars… oh god. I grit my teeth, clamping my mouth shut as I begin to feel around with my hands.

“Hey, dude, you good?” I groan, hands scrabbling over soft blankets, something hard and cold and then– “Oh shit grab him!”

I tumble, landing hard, my eyes opening to the parking lot warping and twisting, all blue as the Milky Way (Mikey Way) rushes by me again, oh jesus, I think I’m gonna– 

Vomit spatters as I double over, emptying my undead guts on the pavement.  

The prisoner doesn't know who he is.

He’s sure he had a name once. He’s sure he had a home. But trying to remember is like pressing on a bruise but worse. So much worse. He has no body, floating in the cosmos, and yet he’s in a small cell, dimly lit. He remembers being safe, cared for, in someone’s arms, and yet… the arms have no face to go with them. He’s alone.

Has it always been this way?

He’s not sure. 

Fragments of words float around his head that don’t make sense; words like “peachy”, “promise”, “assgoof”– words that ring a muted bell in the back of the prisoner’s mind, but he can’t put a finger on it.  He’s alone.

All alone. The darkness whispers around him, malevolently. The prisoner shrinks in on himself, his eyes growing heavy. He should sleep… it’d be so much better if he slept

A growl echoes through the foggy shadows, and the prisoner’s head snaps up. Red eyes flare up like smouldering embers, glaring right at him. 

The prisoner gulps. Not as alone as he thought. 

It’s the third bottle of water I’ve gulped down in fifteen minutes, and I think, I think I’m not gonna spew anymore. Even so, I’m sitting by the van door just in case.

“Better?” Patrick asks. He’s sitting against the opposite wall of the van, watching me carefully.

“I don’t fucking know, man,” I say after I’ve finished my water, head rolling to look at him. “Vampires don’t usually throw up.”

“Or have psycho-screaming episodes that wakes up half a motel?” Brian lights a cigarette. His arms are covered in tattoos, and his hair is longer, curling around his ears and forehead, his ever-present lip ring still glinting proud. “Bro, you got weirder after college.” He’s leaning against the back of the passenger seat of the van, legs entwined with Bob Bryar, who lights his own cig from the butt of Brian’s.

“You haven’t met his whole family, babe, they’re great. Total weirdos. His mom’s got a collection of dolls on full display in their front hall.” Bob chuckles. I squint at him. I mean yeah, we’d been buddies in college, like smoking weed in this very van and shit, but–

“How do you know that?” I say, confused. “You’ve never been to my house.”

Bob frowns. His beard is bushier than I remember, his hair… fluffier? I don’t know. But his blue eyes still pierce right through me, searching for the truth. “Yes I have.”

I scoff, cause I’m sure the sight of Bob in my parents’ front hall, looking at the china cabinet filled with dolls would be plastered in my mind forevermore. “No you haven’t.”

“Yes I have.”

“No you haven’t!” I chuck the plastic water bottle aside, the thunk emphasizing my words. “I would remember if you did– I– I’d remember.” 

Bob leans closer to me, looking me dead in the eyes. “I have dinner with them every week. Every week for five years. Your mom cooks, I help. Brian sometimes comes. Your dad always gets stuck on the crossword. We watch TV. Every week for five years.” Unease prickles over the back of my neck. 

“That’s impossible,” I mutter. “It’s been two years. Frank said two years. Not five. Two!”

Bob’s gaze doesn’t stutter. “Mikey called me when you’d been missing for too long, Gee. Back when you and Bert had just split up. Said he needed my skills. Said he thought you might be in danger. He’d already gotten Ray to help him, they didn’t stop looking for you. They needed more muscle just in case. It took thirteen months to find you. I still remember it. You were on the floor of an apartment surrounded by blood. Your blood. There was a dead cat in the bedroom.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“We took you to your parents house, patched you up. Your mom was so worried, she didn’t leave your side, and your dad played records he said were your favorite. He always plays them. Maybe he thinks you’ll come home.” I shake my head again. This isn’t– I don’t remember this. “After a couple months Mikey and Ray moved you into your grandma’s house, so she could take care of you. All of you. You never fully talked about what happened before we found you, all we knew is that you were different. Changed. You freaked, bit Mikey, changed him too. Elena said you were vampires, and Ray didn’t care. I went back to your parents, checked in with them once a month for almost two years, and now once a week.”

“That’s impossible,” I say again, passing my hand over my face. “That’s– I don’t– it’s not possible.” 

“You keep saying that,” Patrick says softly. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.” 

I stand up, begin pacing the van. “But it’s not– I don’t remember this! Why don’t I remember this!” I turn around to see Bob, Brian and Patrick looking at me in concern, sadness, sympathy. I bang my fist on the roof of the van. “Why can’t I remember?”  

Bob shakes his head this time. “I don’t know.” 

“I do!” Joe pops his head in. He’d been outside the entire time. “It’s in your puke!”

“What?” Ew. Ew. My disgust translates to my face. “The fuck does that mean?” 

Joe wiggles his fingers at me, which were covered in chunks of my crimson puke. “Look!”

“Joe, that’s gross,” Brian says, stubbing out his cigarette. “I don’t want to see that.” 

“Look!!” Joe insists. Wrinkling my nose, I approach him, staying in the confines of the van but leaning my head out to look at my… puddle of technicolor yawn on the pavement. “Right there!”

“You are one gross little demon, you know that, right?” Bob crouches next to me.

“You could’ve used a stick,” shouts Brian from inside, not moving. 

“I like the texture,” Joe grins.

“I’d say that’s disgusting,” Patrick begins, hopping out of the van, “But my New Year’s Resolution was to not be a hypocrite, so. I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?” I ask, frowning at him. I don’t want to know (but I also kind of do).

“What are we looking at, Joe?” Patrick changes the subject abruptly. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t sniffed it out yet, Mr. Hound Dog,” Joe says flippantly. He holds a handful of my blood red sick up to Patrick’s nose. Again, ew.

Patrick snuffles at it, brows furrowing. “I’m getting traces of milkweed? And valerian root?”

“Exactly,” Joe grins. “Your honor, he’s been drugged.”

“How?” I ask. 

“That… I don’t know.” 

We’re saved from looking at Joe and his vomit-covered hands by Ray walking towards us, his sneakers scuffing the pavement, hands in his pockets. He stops a good distance from the van, eyes fixed on me. “How’re you feeling?” He asks.

I shrug. “Like shit.” 

“He threw up!” Joe crows. Patrick smacks him upside the head. 

Ray comes closer, eyes darting back to me. “He’s awake and asking for you,” he murmurs, ringing his hands. I’ve never seen Ray Toro look so meek. “Do you want to see him?”

I look at Bob and he looks back at me. We both know my answer. 

I stand outside the nondescript motel door, Patrick and Bob flanking me. Joe and Bryan were still examining the vomit in the parking lot. Ray fidgets by the door, looking nervously at me and then away again. Something wiggles in the back of my mind, something I can’t quite put my finger on, but then Bob asks me something, and I tear my eyes away.

“What?”

Bob’s piercing blue eyes had barely left me since my outburst in the van. “I asked if you were ready,” he says. 

“Oh, um. I guess?”

“If you freak again I’ll grab you,” Patrick says gruffly. I think he’s trying to reassure me. It’s kind of working. 

“Good to know,” I say quietly. “Let me in.” 

Ray kind of does a weird jerky nod and opens the door. I step inside, Bob and Patrick close behind, and there he is.

Frank’s face is tense, his lips pressed together in a thin line, looking towards the bathroom, but he’s awake. He’s awake. “Frankie,” I say, my voice cracking. He turns instantly, his eyes melting in relief. It looks wrong. Something’s wrong here. 

“Get over here, fucker,” he says urgently, his own voice shaking. 

“Wait,” a voice cuts in before I even take a step. I shoot a look at my brother, who’s lounging on the desk.

“He’s fine,” Bob says quietly. “He’s okay now, Mikey.”

“We don’t know that,” Mikey begins, sliding off the desk to drift towards me, his face impassive. “We have no way of knowing he won’t go berserk again.”

“I don’t either,” I say hollowly. “But I just vomited up poisonous herbs in the fucking parking lot so that has to count for something, right?” 

“Poisonous herbs?” Ray asks sharply.

“Milkweed and valerian root,” Patrick answers. “And possibly other things. Brian and Joe are still examining it outside.” 

Andy pops his head out of the bathroom. “So that’s why Joe keeps yelling to check the vomit.”

“Dude, hold the bag!!” Pete yells from behind him. “Fuck!”

“Sorry Pete,” Andy says, not really sounding sorry. 

“You shithead!”

“My hand slipped.” 

“Bullshit!”

Patrick sighs behind me. “Overdramatically stressed boyfriend trumps potentially insane vampire. I’ll be right back.” He moves around me and disappears into the bathroom.

“Hey, hey hey,” Mikey starts, appearing in front of me. I hadn’t even realized my feet were moving. I hadn’t told them to move. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mikey,” I say, but it comes out like a growl. My hands are in fists now. When did I clench them? Frank whimpers in frustration behind my brother, and I have to swallow the lump in my throat. It sounds like him. I should go to him. I need to check to make sure. I need to go to him. I might just be paranoid. 

“You’re shaking,” Bob murmurs close behind me. I can feel Ray’s eyes on me again, searching for something.

“Mikey, let him go,” he says suddenly. “I want to see something.”

“You sure?” Mikey asks, not taking his eyes off me. 

“Do it, darling.” There’s no room for argument in Ray’s tone. Mikey steps aside and I’m off, on the bed in Frank’s arms in an instant. 

“Hi,” Frank whispers, gripping me tight. 

“Hey, you.” I nuzzle his neck. It feels… cold. “How’s your rib?” I murmur.

“Better now that you’re here.” I sneak a glance up at his face, brows furrowing slightly. There’s something off in the way he’s speaking, like he’s reading it off a teleprompter. 

Frank clasps me tight, burying his face in my hair. “I’m glad you’re okay.” 

They’re talking around us, talking, talking, fading into the background. I can’t look away from him. His cigarette-scent is stale, rotting. He pulls at me, dragging me under the covers with him.  

He caresses my cheek, his legs tangling with mine. There’s a strange yet familiar glint in his eyes, something foreboding. He surges forward, kissing me under the sheets, his fingers searching for my hoodie’s hemline. His kiss is different now, harsher, taking rather than giving. Frank’s mouth tastes like death. “Did you throw up too?” I ask as he pauses for breath.

“Uh huh,” is his articulate answer as he tries to kiss me again. Something’s wrong here. The others don’t know. I pull the sheet down to see that the others have gone, deciding to continue their conversation elsewhere, and duck back under to nip at Frank’s neck. He grunts in contentment. I have to check. 

Frank grips me tightly as I descend his body, tighter still as I lick the tip of his cock, his fingernails digging into my shoulders when I sink down. There is no familiar warmth here, only a strange coolness that tastes wrong in my mouth. 

The world thrums around me, hazy and distorted. There is no peace from this, not like before. Something feels off, wrong about this, but I can’t place my finger on it.

Until he comes and holds my head down as he does, and instead of immediately reaching for me he flops back down without a word, back asleep. He looks like a corpse. It can’t be him. It can’t be Frank, it can’t be–

I sit up, pushing the bedsheets off me. I don’t want to swallow. I pad to the bathroom and spit up in the sink. I look at my pathetic reflection in the mirror, cum dribbling down my chin. I feel filthy. Disgusting. I thought being out of that house would feel better, but I just feel worse. And that thing out there is not Frank. 

I spit up into the sink again, putting my mouth under the tap and rinsing, rinsing, rinsing until I can’t taste the spunk anymore.

It’s not enough. I still feel dirty. I take off the borrowed sweatshirt, looking at my alien body. I haven’t looked at it in so long. It’s thin, the skin almost translucent in some parts, my dead veins showing. I turn away, screwing on the shower. 

The water scalds me as I step in, just the way I like it. I take the small bar of soap and scrub at my skin all the way down to my toes. I run my fingers through my hair, pulling at the loose strands and lathering the shampoo harshly before tipping my head back and letting it rinse out.

I shake uncontrollably, slumping to the side and leaning against the shower wall as phantom tears burn my eyes, a shrill, broken wail leaving my lips. I slide down the wall, unable to keep myself up any longer. 

There’s something wrong here, wrong with Frank, I know it. I can taste it in his spunk and I don’t care how crazy it sounds there is something wrong here.

I close my eyes, sobbing loudly, pretending the water from the shower is actual tears. It kind of makes me feel better. Kind of. Almost. 

“You’re not him,” I say, over and over and over again. “It’s not you. It’s not, it’s not.” The truth is bile in my throat. I’m plastered to the floor of the shower-tub combo, staring up into the water pouring down my face. I’m trapped, trapped in a nightmare, because that’s not Frank. I need–

I need–

I need–

I need to sit up. Placing my palms flat beside me for a moment, I push myself upwards, locking my arms around my knees. “Get your– your shit together,” I stutter.  “Get it together. I’m gonna solve this. I’m gonna fucking solve this.” I squeeze my eyes up tight, remembering Frank in my room, looking alive, smiling. “I’ll take you on a date after this, Frankie.” Unless he doesn’t want anything to do with me after this is over. I’ll pay for his meals for a week or something. I don’t know. 

Standing is a slow process, but I do it anyway. My back is flat against the shower wall, my legs shaky. I feel weaker than I ever was as a human. I hate it. I hate this. 

My skin sticks to the tile. I put my face in my hands. “This feels wrong.” My whisper is barely audible over the hiss of the water. Ironically, that sentence feels right.

I turn the water off, and stand there dripping for a second. When I move, the air feels like syrup. I wrap a towel around my waist, my hair running rivulets over my spine, my collar bone. I move to the door–  wait. Something had followed me in the mirror, I’m sure of it. I turn.

This must be a hallucination. A leftover gift from the nightmare I’d been living in for two– no, five years. It must be. I glance behind myself, and met with dingy tile I look back at the mirror. 

In the mirror, Frank looks back. In the mirror, his eyes are bruised with sleeplessness. In the mirror, he opens his mouth. In the mirror, blood red eyes flare behind him, clawed hands curling around his chest. In the mirror, I reach for him. In the mirror, he reaches back. In the mirror, our hands touch and I’m shaking apart in his arms after calling Mikey for the first time after he’d left and not getting a response. Frank strokes my hair, holds me close, takes the phone away before I crush it–

The door bursts open– 

Frank poses for my painting, sun shining over his face. He looks serene, at peace. I paint him in front of a raging fire, a fire that won’t touch him, so he’s sunning himself in front of the gates of Hell. When I look up again

A hand drags me out of the bathroom, pale and strong–

I’m designing his next tattoo– I’m drawing on his skin, biting into his supple flesh, feeling his moan in his bones as his blood floods my senses–

The world blurs and then–

“I have you sweetheart,” I whisper against his ear and he gasps– 

I’m in a dark room, hands bound–

“I’m right here,” he says one night, when we’re lying on the roof. “I’m not leaving.”

“Everybody leaves,” I say bitterly, glaring at the moon.

“That’s ‘cause they got their own shit to deal with.” he rolls to face me. I look at him. “You’re worth staying for.” Our hands find each other on the shingles, entwining–

Someone is screaming–

“Go back to sleep, Gee-gee.”

I blink, focusing on the diner menu in front of me. “What do you want?” Mikey asks me. I look up at him startled.

“Weren’t we just–”

“What do you want?” Mikey repeats. 

I look down at the menu, then back up at him. “Blood,” I rasp. His mouth twists to the side. 

“That’s not on the menu.”

My t-shirt rubs at my back. Where did I get these clothes? Wasn’t I just naked? “I’ve never seen this diner before.”

“It’s new.”

“It looks ancient.” It really does. The walls are cracking and the lights are flickering, the tiles are dingy and the table is sticky. My brain feels fuzzy and wrong. 

“Please stop fighting,” Mikey says in a flat voice. “It won’t help anything.”

“Something’s wrong here,” I insist.

“Gee,” my brother’s eyes are sad. “It’s all wrong.”

The diner rumbles around us and blood pours from Mikey’s eyes. TRAITOR. the walls seem to say. DO YOU WANT HIM TO DIE. Mikey crumples like a puppet with his strings cut, choking.

“Better dead than your slave,” he gasps, black blood bubbling up from his mouth down his nose– I back away. 

Gee-gee… the walls rumble. Just let this be real, and you will be happy. Let me make you happy.

“Go to hell,” I yelp, and tear out of the diner, away, away, away as the trees fall down as if they were props in a child’s play and the sky cracks and expands into galaxies and nebulas. I run as fast as my legs can carry me through shifting reality, the ground cracking to white under my feet. 

I was right. In my terror, laughter bursts through. I was right, I was right, “I was RIGHT!” I could run forever. Maybe I will. His anger flashes red in the sky, illuminating the motel standing on an island of concrete. I sprint towards it, towards the figures lying there unmoving on the ground. 

YOU CAN’T RUN FOREVER.

Everyone that rescued me: Pete, Patrick, Bob, Brian, Ray, are lying there with eyes black as obsidian and mouths frothing with green foam. Except not everyone, because Andy and Joe aren’t here but–

The world swirls around me, fogging to black.

“Don’t touch him,” the thing in the shadows growls. The prisoner jolts awake. Tendrils of darkness had been creeping up his legs but now they retreat rapidly away from him, vanishing. There’s a scraping noise that gets closer and closer, and the prisoner trembles, waiting for death.

A clawed hand reaches out from the shadows, palm upwards. “I won’t hurt you,” it says in a softer tone. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t let him get you, sweetheart.”

Red eyes meet brown. There was a familiar softness he couldn’t quite place. The prisoner’s hand slides into the monster’s , and the creature pulls him gently into its arms, curling around him protectively. 

“Rest now,” the creature murmurs, its claws rasping soothingly through his hair. The prisoner’s eyes closed and his body relaxed slowly. For now, with this familiar creature, he was safe. 

“Stop this!” Somebody bellows. “Leave him alone!” Mikey. He’s holding me up, holding me to him, his eyes still bleeding but he doesn’t care. “You’ve tortured him long enough!” We’re back in the motel room, by the bathroom. I think I hear laughter, but I don’t know where it’s coming from.

Something lunges through Mikey and reduces him to smoke as he barrels towards me. I react without thinking: I spin and catch the figure, pinning him to the wall. Frank barely winces at the force, grinning up at me with an unreal smile, eyes that aren’t his flashing from beneath his lashes, a harsh laugh falling from his lips. 

“Did you miss me?” he growls. Horror and revulsion streak up my spine at the voice that’s not Frank’s but I keep my grip on his collar.

“You’re gone,” I hiss back. “It’s over.”

“Oh honey,” he pouts mockingly. “Did you think I’d give up that easy, Gee-gee? You’re mine.” 

“I’m nobody’s,” I grit out. Frank, or Not-Frank, caresses my cheek. I flinch.

“You’re smarter than I thought, baby. Do you know how much effort it took to make you believe you were out? That you were free?” I jerk away from him, dashing outside, but the others have been resurrected, surrounding me with blank eyes. 

“Gerard,” Bob says emptily, inching towards me. “Breathe.”

“It’s not over!” I say shrilly. “He’s got Frank! It’s not– It’s not– This isn’t– this isn’t real.” Something bubbles up inside me, my joints tensing preemptively. My body remembers this. All I feel is dread of the unknown burn that cracks my legs, making me stumble. “Get away!” I thrust my hand out at Bob, who’s still approaching me. He halts. “Don’t come near me, I don’t know– I can’t–” Another crack as my shoulder pops and expands and I stagger further backwards until the railing of the motel presses into my back. My head is throbbing, a strange madness curling through it, contorting my hands into claws and fuck my shoulders, oh OH–

My back arches too much and I fall backwards, over the railing, my spine breaking and remaking itself as I hit the pavement below, thrashing out of my ripping clothes, my shoulder blades extending and growing so painfully I can’t even scream, only gargles dropping through the fangs in my mouth, my mouth of knives, my tears of blood falling onto the pavement, my body no longer recognizable. 

The sky itself seems to come apart, falling like a bedsheet around me. I can’t hear the others anymore, everything is consumed by dark stone. I close my eyes. It’s too much–

So much–

Until it isn’t.

I lie in darkness, feeling nothing, seeing nothing. I am not alone.

“There you are.” His words echo strangely, wherever we are. And yet, they’re full of warmth. I sit up. We’re in a dark area, so dark I don’t know where we are. He– Frank, or at least I hope it’s him, is gazing at me from the arms of… something. It looks like a gargoyle, curled around him protectively,  face buried in his neck. “I’ve been trying to get through.” He’s smiling at me, eyes sparkling with tears.

“Are you real?” I croak.

He chuckles wetly. “God, I hope so.” The creature wrapped around him caresses his arm soothingly. 

“I missed you.”

“Nothing’s better than the real thing.”

“This… where are we?”

“The subconscious,” is his cheerful answer. The creature hums softly, and Frank presses back against it, kissing the side of its head.

“What… what is that?” I ask, beginning to crawl over to him. “Or… him? Who is this?” I stop, pointing at the Creature. 

“He’s you,” Frank says like he’s telling me that the answer to one plus one is two. 

“How?”

“Well, half of you. Bert only wants one part of you. The other part retreated, to the back of your mind, and here he is. Beautiful, isn’t he?” Frank smiles up at it– him. The creature– the other me– nuzzles him.

“What part of me does… does Bert want?”

“I don’t know. But you don’t remember me at all unless you go to sleep. That means something, doesn’t it?”

I frown at him. “I know you?” Frank stares back in complete poker-face. Memories begin to press against my mind, not like they’re forcing their way in, but as if my brain is a broken magnet attracting its other half. “I know you.” Something behind his eyes breaks and he nods, blinking rapidly.

“Three years,” he whispers brokenly. “You’ve known me for three years.”

“So I have lost five years,” I mutter. “How long have you been here?”

“As long as you’ve been trapped in your own subconscious. All I am is a meat-suit for him, he didn’t give two shits where I’d go outside my body.”

“Do you know what happened to the others?”

“No. This guy found me while I was still disoriented and won’t let me go.”

“He– I missed you, I guess.”

Frank smiles a brittle, cracked smile. “I missed you too.”

“I won’t remember you when I wake up, will I?”

“Not as long as Bert’s in control here. I don’t know what he wants you for but he’ll stop at nothing to get it.” He scowls. “I hate it. I hate this entire thing. We were gonna go on a trip soon. I was so proud of you, you were ready to leave the house–” his voice cracks. “I love you so much.” At those words, the gargoyle lets him go and he crawls into my arms instantly. It feels… right. 

“Frank,” I say shakily. Memories keep pressing at my brain, whispers of things I can barely remember but oh, him in my arms feels right and I think I’m crazy.

“He has no right to you,” Frank growls. “Remember that. Please remember that.”

I press my forehead to his. “Don’t let me forget you,” I beg.

“Make him pay for it,” Frank says, staring deep into my eyes. I open my mouth to promise that I will but it’s too late– I’m yanked out of my subconscious and blink in the dim light, looking around. I don’t know how long I’ve been out of it, but everything feels oddly blank after I’d been screaming in the fake motel’s parking lot.

I think I’m in my basement. 

My hands are bound in chains above me. As I look around, at the room around me, I see my friends: Brian, Bob, Patrick, Pete. They’re all seemingly asleep. Andy’s not here, nor is Joe, nor Ray or Mikey.

Parts of my brain feel blank and empty. Wrong. 

There was a time, not so long ago, where I would have cried in silence, or closed my eyes and pretend I was anywhere else. Now, however, looking at my sleeping friends trapped in here with me, I’m not sad. I’m not scared. 

I bare my teeth at the ceiling, rattling my chains like Marley’s ghost in Dickens. I’m not afraid anymore. A scream claws its way up my throat and tears out of my lips, and I shriek like a banshee, my bones vibrating with the force of it. I’m not afraid. Not this time.

I’m really fucking pissed off. 

Somewhere above me, the shingles are falling off the roof. 

Chapter Text

“You need to feed, Gee,” Mikey says, pressing the spoon to my stubborn mouth. I look away. “Stubborn ass.” He puts the spoon back in the bowl. Grandma’s china bowl. “You need to eat something.”

“I’m not eating whatever poison they make up there,” I grumble. I want blood. Mikey purses his lips. “Don’t look at me like that, Mikey, I’m done cooperating with him.”

My brother puts the bowl of porridge down. “Have you actually thought about the consequences of this?”

I snort. “What’re they going to do, trap me in my dreams again?”

Mikey picks at his nails, not looking at me. “It’s not all about you,” he says quietly. “Not this time.”

Since my screaming fit, I’d been moved to the vault where I’d originally trapped Bert’s spirit. My hands are chained above me, iron infused with silver, so I can’t even sit or lie down, just stand in the middle of the goddamn tiny room. Mikey brings me food in a bowl once every few hours, but I refuse to eat. It smells too sweet, too sinister, like poison. The light only turns on when Mikey comes in. I suppose it’s supposed to scare me, being alone in the dark, but nothing really scares me anymore. What a moo point. (And by that I mean a cow’s opinion. It’s moo.)

“I know it’s not all about me,” I say now. “But what’s the point of doing what they want if they’ll just hit us where it hurts anyway?” I’ve had a lot of time to think down here. Rebellion comes with the gift of a very clear head. And hunger.

Mikey’s face is doing the thing it does when he’s trying not to cry, where his bottom lip sucks in and his eyes turn wide and haunted. I hate that I can’t hug him.  Since my hands are chained I do the alternative, reaching out and catching him on the hip with my foot, trying to pull my baby brother to me. “C’mere,” I say, and that’s all I need to say for Mikey to crash into me, holding me tight, burying his face in the crook of my neck. 

“They’re killing Ray,” my brother murmurs. “They’re killing him.” I say nothing. He needs to let this out. “I leave you to love him. I get you back and I’m losing him. The more you don’t eat the more they poison him and I watch. They revive him and I watch. Why didn’t I fucking turn him when he asked the first time?” Mikey wails as I kick my other leg around his waist and hug him like that. “I’m so fucking stubborn, Gerard I hate it. I hate this. I hate it.”  

“On the bright side, it’s not your psycho ex that trapped everyone in Nana’s house with the help of a weirdass cult.”

Mikey hiccups a laugh. “It’s not funny,” he whimpers.

“It kind of is.” I’m grinning despite myself. This is the most ridiculous shit I’ve ever gotten into, honestly. Like I’m a literal vampire chained up in a mansion. What episode of Buffy is this?

“Okay, a little bit,” Mikey concedes. “But just a little.”

“It would be more funny if your husband’s life wasn’t at stake, but–”

My brother cuts me off, lifting his head up with wide eyes. “How the fuck’d you know that?” 

“You told me. In the mindscape. Or not you, I guess.”

It might be the light, but I think the spark in his eyes dim. “Oh. Parts of it were me. Like the diner was me. They sent me in to make sure you wouldn’t figure it out.”

“That’s a moo point now.”

His eyebrows scrunch up in confusion. “What?”

“A moo point,” I repeat.

“You mean a moot point?” Mikey says incredulously. 

“No, a moo point. It’s a cow’s opinion. It’s moo.” Mikey pushes away from me with an “Ugh!” that turns into a yelp when my legs don’t release him in time and he falls undignified to the floor. I laugh at him.

“You moron, fuck you and your Friends references.” I grin winningly. It fades quickly.

“I won’t let him die on you, Mikes. I won’t let Bert do that.”

Mikey’s eyes soften. “You’re invited to the vowel renewal. You and Frank, if he’s still in there.” I bite my lip, stopping myself from saying that yes, Frank’s still here. I’m the only one that knows, that can know. 

The door creaks open, and there’s Worm. That fucking bastard, used to be one of Bob’s friends in college but went off the deep end too, and here he is, taking my brother away. Mikey stands up, picking up the bowl, and gets led out.

“You bet your ass I’ll be there!” I call after him before the door slams and locks. The light flicks off, and I’m in the dark once more. My feet barely brush the floor, so I can’t get good traction. I swing them back and forth, bored. 

I’m so fucking bored it’s not even funny. I’ve been swinging back and forth for who knows how long, making funny noises with my mouth, and sung the chorus from Push th’ Lil Daisies three times, collapsing into a giggle fit each time. And now I’m bored.

“Bored,” I hum. “Bored, bored, bored.”

I get it, you’re bored, a voice drawls behind me.

“Frankie! You’re here!” I swing around. “Where’ve you been?”

Makin’ my rounds. Patrick’s pissed off and they put Bob in the kitchen at the threat of Brian’s life, but other’n that… nothing’s really changed. If I didn’t have vampire eyesight, I wouldn’t have been able to see his vague outline against the vault wall. It’s shimmery, see-through, almost completely invisible. But he’s 100% Frank, himself.

“Look! I’m a trapeze artist!”

You’ll kill it in Cirque du Soleil. He’s grinning. He’s totally grinning. 

“I know, right?” I curl my legs up and twirl like that for a bit. “I love vamp-strength, man, this is fuckin’ cool.” A ghostly chuckle wafts over me. 

You dork. I stick my tongue out at him. Dorkus supremus.

“First of its kind!” I crow, swinging around. The air gets colder as I feel him move closer to me, and I stop my spinning with my big toe so he can get all up in my business.

You’re starving, he says.

“I’m not eating that poison.” I lift my chin up defiantly. “You said it yourself, they put a weird potion in it. I’m not touching that shit.”

Good. I can feel him up my front, curling around me. He’s getting angry, Frank croons.

“Good.” The ghost of his lips are on the shell of my ear.

He’ll come to see you soon. Keep pissing him off.

“That’s not too hard. Hey, how’s the Beastie Boy?” I’m referring to the gargoyle in the bowels of my brain, of course. 

Hungry. Just like you. 

“And Ray?”

Can’t reach him. His mind’s locked up tight. I can hear him, though. He’s screaming in there. 

I grit my teeth. Those fuckwads. “We need to save him.”

We will. His lips caress mine and I wish I could kiss him for real. We will.

“Can I take you out on a date after this?” I ask in a low voice. “Get to know you, for real?” There’s silence for a second, and then– You already know me.

I laugh. “No I don’t. We’ve just met like two days ago.”

The air softly sighs at me. Gee.

“What?”

He’s taken so much from you, dear heart. You have to get it back.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I snap. His lips ghost mine again in response. I close my eyes, knowing he won’t answer me. Not about this. “Try Brian again tonight,” I murmur. “The sooner you can connect us the better.”

Aye, aye, captain.   

When the door opens again, it’s not Mikey, or Worm.

“You are a pain in my ass,” Bert growls as he stalks in in Frank’s body. 

“And you somehow manage to make Frank look like a dumpster fire,” I quip.

He glares at me. “I have been nice to you.”

“You call stealing my memories nice? Half my mind is blank! How about poisoning me? I know what’s in that fuckin’ porridge, and it ain’t sugar, sugar.” 

Bert bares his teeth at me. “You used to be so easy, so compliant. Why can’t you just do what I want?” He paces the vault in circles, his breathing angry and labored. 

“Cause I don’t want what you want, not anymore.”

“You’re so fucking pigheaded!” he snaps. “You are alone down here, you understand? Your friends are suffering, your brother’s husband is dying, all because you won’t fucking eat. God damn it, Emily.” The air grows cold around us as my dead-name echoes in the chamber. He’s looking at me, waiting for a reaction, tears or expletives or something of the like. I glare at him long, hard, before throwing my head back. 

“Four letter word that gets me along, it’s a difficulty and I’m biting my tongue!” I belt out. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he bellows.

I skip to the chorus. “They call me hell. They call me Stacy. They call me Her. They call me Jane!”

“Shut up!”

“That’s not my name! That’s not my name! That’s not my name! That’s not my name!” He’s glowering now, his expression 0% Frank and 100% my abusive ex. “They call me quiet, but I’m a riot! Mary-Jo-Lisa, always the same! That’s not my name! That’s not my name! That’s not my name! That’s not my–”

His hand slaps across my face once, twice, before covering the lower half of my face in a death-grip. “Shut the fuck up,” he spits. The meat of his hand is right on my mouth. I bite before he can do anything else, latching on and sucking before his other fist connects with my skull and sends me rocking back as he scrambles away from me. 

It’s quiet as Bert glares at me in fury, cradling his wounded hand. 

“Maybe you just haven’t been feeding me the right thing,” I say, licking my lips. The blood sings to my tastebuds, it’s fucking euphoria. I grin maliciously at him. “I’ll do what you want if you treat me right.” That’s a blatant lie, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“You will eat what I give you, you insolent slut.” 

I purse my lips, looking him up and down. “Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men? It is the music of the people who will not be slaves again!”

“You’re impossible!” he roars, and slams out of the vault, the door swinging shut behind him.

“When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums, there is a life about to start when tomorrow comes!” I bellow after him as I’m plunged into darkness. Silly bastard. I cackle, flexing my fingers as the blood, while not filling, strengthens my dead veins once more. “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog too!” I begin to swing back and forth again. I think I’m going insane. 

The air goes cold in my prison. My eyes roll back in my head, and I know I have.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” Frank is saying as I coalesce into being in the darkness of the joined psyche. “Let the meeting of the rebels begin!”

“You little shit, Iero,” Bob grumbles. “I missed ya.”

“Missed you too, ya big lug.” 

“Where’s my hug?” comes Brian’s voice. He emerges from the brain-fog, arms spread. “I’m here too, you know.” As my sight adjusts, I see Frank zooming towards Brian, leaping into his arms. “Sup, buddy.”

Pete appears, rubbing at his arms frantically. “Fucking Urie!” he grumbles. “That fucker’s fucking insane!” He meets my eyes and I raise an eyebrow. “Milk bath,” he explained. “Covered me in it. Some of that shit was chunky. I trained that kid up myself and this is how he fucking repays me? Shit.”

“Compared to that, being locked up in solitary is a picnic.” I rub my wrists. Even though it’s only in my head, it’s good to have my hands free. 

“They chained your hands to the ceiling, Gee, that’s no fucking picnic,” Frank says as he extricates himself from Brian’s embrace. 

“It helps me practice for the circus. And other things.” At the last bit, I shoot a wink at him.

“Kinky bastard.” He’s in my arms now and I squeeze him tight.

“Get a room!” Pete shouts. 

“Get a life!” Frank retorts. I drag him over to the group, and we sit. Brian sprawls, clumsily, falling into Bob’s lap.

“You okay?” Bob asks. 

“I ate the porridge,” Brian slurs. 

“That was stupid.” Pete flops on Bob’s other side. 

“I was hungry!” Brian protests. Bob wraps an arm around him and he snuggles close. “Now I can see the fourth dimension.” He giggles.

Bob kisses the side of his head. “Silly.”

I smile at them. Then frown, because– “Ray’s dying.” 

“Yeah,” Pete wipes his nose. “We know.” He scowls. “Brendon makes me make the potions that poison him. They torture him in front of Mikey. It’s disgusting.” 

“They’re trying to break him to break me,” I say with a frown. “Fuckers.”

“The porridge is filled with drugs,” Bob says. “I helped make it.”

“They put up wards,” Pete gripes. “They won’t let me see Pattycakes.”

“He’s pretty pissed,” Frank says with his arms around me. “They put a muzzle on him.”

“They fucking didn’t! I’m gonna tear their legs off!”

“Easy, shorty.” Bob swings a leg over Pete’s lap, pinning him there. “Your attack dog will have his day.” Pete flips him off.

Frank presses his lips to my ear. “Summon the beastie,” he whispers.

I close my eyes, reach deep to the back of my mind, and hold out my hand. The creature’s clawed fingers curl with mind, and with a growl it springs forth, towering behind Frank and I. 

“That’s a big bitch,” Brian slurs, pointing. 

“Yes dear. The biggest bitch on the playground.” Bob strokes Brian’s hair. 

“Ugly fucker, isn’t it?” Pete looks up at it.

A clawed hand cups Frank’s face, and he leans into it. “This big bitch is gonna help us turn the tide.”

I arch my eyebrow at him. “His name is not Big Bitch.”

“Chernabog?” Frank suggests. “Gollum? Terminator?” 

“Dorkus supremus,” I say, shaking my head.

“That suits him.” Frank grins. “What do you think, Dorkus?” I roll my eyes. 

“Dumbass,” I murmur fondly. He leans back against Dorkus’ bony knee, looking at me with many stars in his eyes. 

I look back at the three huddled together. They look exhausted. “We’re going to get out of here,” I say.

“Can we get McDonalds?” Brian asks. I glare at him.

“No, we have to go to Burger King, dipshit!” Frank protests. Traitor. 

“But I wanna Big Mac.” Brian snuggles further into Bob’s lap. 

“And I want a fucking Impossible Burger! And fries. Ooh and a Diet Coke.” Frank’s expression turns wistful. “Fries,” he sighs longingly.

“Okay!” I say loudly, standing up. “Okay. We’re getting out of here, and we need to plan first, talk about food later.” I begin to pace around them, my hands fidgeting. “Our assets: An incorporeal soul, two conscious wizards, a trapped werewolf, two starved vampires, and two drugged up humans, one conscious.”

Brian waves his hand. “Present.” Bob snickers and shushes him. 

“Thanks, Brian.” I purse my lips. “Our enemies: A vengeful spirit in Frank’s body, an old pothead buddy from college, an insane wizard… what else?” 

“Jeph’s there, so is Joey, Branden, Quinn, Justin, that whole gang,” Bob counts on his fingers.

“And Joe and Andy went AWOL almost immediately after we arrived here, so we don’t know where they stand,” Pete pipes up.

“En contraire, mon ami,” a voice boomed around us, the darkness turning a deep blue. Joe emerges in demon form, stalking towards us. “I’m standing right here.”

“Trohman, where the hell have you been?” Pete barks, jumping to his feet. 

“Gathering allies,” Joe says smoothly. “Andy’s doing that now, and thus I am here before you.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Pete snarks. “This is why I don’t like dealing with demons. They’re so fickle.” Brian giggles and Bob tugs on Pete’s shirt.

“Easy, tiger,” he says. “He will wipe the floor with you.”

Joe chuckles. “You’re too amusing to smite, Wentz. Now, Gerard,” he crosses to me smoothly, “You must join with your counterpart.”

“He can’t,” Frank pipes up. “He’s been starved for years, he needs blood to restore his strength. Not to mention separation trauma and all that shit.”

Joe purses his lips, thinking. Before he can say anything, I speak. “I’ve been trying to make him angry to cloud his judgement. He tried to drug me with food, but I refused to eat. He came down and tried to threaten me, even fucking deadnamed me,” at this, Frank makes an angry noise and Dorkus growls, “to try to make me break. In return I regaled him with The Ting Tings and Les Mis.” Frank snickers. “He tried to shut me up, and I bit him.” Joe grins.

“You still got it, Way,” Bob says.

“Hot what?” Brian asks muzzily.

“The ability to be a pain in someone’s ass,” Bob explains.

“And I’m not even wearing my strap on," I quip.

Joe snorts. “Good. We’ve gotten some witches involved, they’re setting up a perimeter now. I can get in and free Patrick, where is he located?”

“Basement,” Frank says. 

“And Brian?”  

“Same place. Ray’s upstairs, completely out of it. I don’t know what exactly they’re doing to him but– it’s bad. Really bad. He’s barely moving at all, actually.”

“Mikey’s scared,” I murmur.

Joe’s impossibly blue eyes flick back to me. “He’s planning something. I can feel Bert’s anger radiating through the house, incredible levels. He’s bound to do something rash soon.”

“But what?” I wonder aloud.

“We’ll know it when we see it,” Joe mutters bitterly. “But Gerard, yourself and your vampiric essence have been separated– whether it’s Bert’s doing or yours, I don’t know. But you must rejoin.”

“I don’t know how,” I say.

“Blood,” Pete calls out. “Simple as that.” 

“I’ll need a body for that.”

“One of us would be best,” Bob muses.  “There’s a spell over Bert’s guys… or something like that. I dunno, there’s something off about them.”

Pete swats at the air. “Y’got that right man, they give me the heebie jeebies.” He swats again, more vehemently. “What the–” With a yelp, he’s yanked backwards and poofs out of existence.

“Pete!” Bob exclaims. “Shit!” He flails around and gives me a wild look. “We don’t have a lot of time, just find someone to feed from and fast, ok?” He vanishes, leaving Brian pouting in his stead.

“What the fuck!” Frank shouts, running over to Brian to help him up.

The sound of footsteps echo around me, all I can say is; “It’s time–” before I’m pulled out of my psyche, Frank’s scream of my name echoing as I open my eyes.

The door opens with a ringing bang and Worm storms in, detaching my hands from the ceiling.

“We keep meeting like this,” I say to him, the heels of my bare feet hitting the floor. He says nothing. His eyes are glassy, pupils dilated, and he tugs on the chain attached to my wrists. 

I stumble after him, down the dark hallway, and around the corner. Furious growling meets my ears, I look to my left to see Patrick with a collar around his neck, muzzle on his face, straining against his bonds furiously. His eyes are wild, flashing yellow in pure rage. I’m led past him, past Brian lying motionless on a moth-eaten couch– his eyes wide and the whites red. His lips move soundlessly as he stares at the ceiling. 

Worm takes me up the basement stairs, not waiting when I stumble, and leads me through the foyer to a hallway I haven’t walked through since– since Nana died. That bastard didn’t– he did. He fucking did. There are cobwebs in the corners, the marble is cold on my feet, ice cold. I glance to my left, to the wall of mirrors Nana had installed (“Just because, Gerard,” she’d said as she’d slung an arm around my shoulders in this very same hallway years ago), and see a third figure next to Worm’s hulking frame and my smaller one. 

Frank winks at me. I hide a smile, and look forward again. He’s with me. 

Worm opens the door at the end of the hall and pulls me inside.

I’m hit with the acrid odor of decay and poison all at once; contaminating the musty smell of a room that hadn’t been inhabited in years. The beautiful green wallpaper is still there, albeit a bit worn and dusty, the heavy curtains still fall over the windows, the only light in the room from candlelight. 

A young mage lounges on Nana’s fainting couch, feet dangling off and pressed to Pete’s head, keeping him down. That must be Brendon. Pete lies beside the couch in a straight jacket, cloth stuffed in his mouth. His eyes are on me, wide and scared. I’ve never seen Pete Wentz scared. That in itself is fucking terrifying. Mikey sits on a plush couch on the opposite side of the room, wedged between Jeph and Quinn, his hands bound with rope and a gag of cloth tied in his mouth. He’s shaking furiously, small sounds of torment leaking around the gag. His eyes glare daggers at the center of the room.

“Ah, there you are, my sweet.” Bert sits on the ottoman at the foot of Nana’s bed, back straight. The grin he sports looks wrong on Frank’s face. “Our tête-a-tête earlier was quite illuminating.” I say nothing. He leans forward. “I considered a compromise with you, in fact. I need you stronger, but you won’t eat. You want blood, I lose one of my men.”

He doesn’t know, Frank whispers in my ear. He doesn’t know about Dorkus. I continue to stare passively at Bert. 

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” he says. “You’re going to drink… him.” Bert steps aside, revealing Ray lying on Nana’s bed. His face is pale, eye sockets dark, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He’s barely moving. I stare at him for a long moment. I can’t– I can’t kill him. I can’t do this. I need time, time I don’t have–

Stall. Frank’s invisible lips hiss in my ear. He can’t see me, he’s watching through my eyes, I don’t have the Sight. Stall him.

“Why?” I ask. 

“Why?”

“Why are you doing this? Killing Ray, what will it possibly do for you? What do you want?”

His brow arches. “I can put you back in your cell–”

“No!” I say quickly. “No. I want to know why.”

“And then you’ll give me an answer?”

I stare unblinkingly into the eyes that don’t belong in Frank’s face. “I promise.”

Bert sighs in a put-upon way. “Fine. Fine. I suppose I do owe you an explanation after all, don’t I. Or did you never wonder why I came here that night? Why I killed her?” Of course I wondered, but– “It was never about you, Gee-gee. Not at first. You were a pretty little thing, of course, but you were only ever a good fuck. Until of course I found out your grandmother was Elena Way. Did you never research her bloodline? Of course you didn’t. If you had, maybe you would have actually prevented her from dying that night.” He begins to circle me like a shark. The air at my back freezes as Frank’s spirit presses itself to me. 

“You are descended from a line of powerful witches that were blessed by the gods. It increased with each generation, and when it reached your grandmother it could warp reality itself. Can you imagine that, darling? To possess a power so great you can wish anything into existence, change anything about anything. She was a fool not to use it. The only thing I ever got from my parents was a receding hairline and a history of alcoholism.” Bert presses close to my front for a moment before continuing his circle. “You know what my life was like before I met you, Gee-gee. I had to fight to get everything, fight for things you were given.

“So I found myself presented with an opportunity, and of course I took it. Playing the long game is my specialty, after all. The power would only leave Elena if she died, and would continue to the next living descendent with psychic abilities. Your mother is null, a generation skipped. You and your brother, however, were not. Logically, you had to die. But you were just too perfect, precious. So eager, so dumb.”

“You sent the vampire.” My stomach feels hollow, my bones feel like ice.

“Yes. I did. Brilliant idea, honestly. You’re dead, and yet your beauty stays.” His hand reaches out and brushes my face. I hold back the urge to flinch. “Your brother found you, thanks to Worm over there. Poor thing felt guilty about helping me, and when I let him leave, he told your friend Bob, who told your brother, and your talisman led me right to where I wanted to be. It was a stroke of luck that you bit Mikey, too. I’d wondered how I’d take him out. 

“It was so easy, then, to drive the knife into Elena’s heart. Since you and your brother were dead, the power would of course come to me, being her murderer. I’d hoped you would appreciate the beauty of it, hoped I’d be able to take you next to her corpse, but alas… you killed me, thus freeing me from my mortal chains. Thank you, darling.” Pete wretches behind his gag, and then whimpers as Brendon kicks him. “Death is such a freeing thing. I awaited the power with open arms, but unfortunately, I miscalculated.”

“Unfortunately,” I echo softly.

“Yes,” Bert muses, fully lost in his monologue. “Elena was smarter than I’d thought, and trained a successor, who just happened to have fallen in love with your brother, and just so happened to be in the house when I killed her. I was trapped in this mansion, trapped in limbo, unable to reanimate my body, thanks for that, and then Ray Toro left with your brother, leaving you all alone.”

“I burned you to a crisp,” I interrupt. He looks annoyed. Good. “How are you still here?”

“My soul was put in a gift to you for its safekeeping.” Bert shakes his head like this was completely obvious. “Long story short, once I discovered that you could astral project to Mikey’s location, I used that to my advantage, called in some favors, and here we all are.” He stalks towards me once more. “Now, all I need you to do is kill Ray for me, sweetling, and I’ll have everything I ever wanted.”

“Why should I?” I say. His eyes darken. Shit. “I mean– what’s in it for me?”

“I will be able to grant everything you desire, Gee-gee. Anything you want, I can make it yours. The others,” He gestures to his old buddies gathered around the room, staring blankly into the distance, “Didn’t need to think anymore. I can make that possible for you too, darling. We both know how much you like it when I think for you.” He leans close to me. His breath is rancid. “You wouldn’t have to do anything except look pretty, Gee-gee. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?” 

No, it really doesn’t. But Frank is whispering lie, lie, lie, in my ear, so I nod, let my expression go placid, and say “Yes,” in that breathy way I know Bert likes. “Berty, please yes.” 

He grins wolfishly. “Good girl.” I want to vomit. Thankfully, I don’t. “I know you’re hungry, baby, you can thank me later. Worm, release her.” Ew. My chains drop to the floor, and Bert lets me pass by him towards the side of the bed. 

I pause and turn to Mikey. He looks up at me with horror in his eyes, betrayal written in the lines of his forehead. “It’s gonna be okay, Minky,” I say softly. Recognition of the old nickname flickers in his eyes before he stifles it beneath a kicked puppy expression. He nods. I turn back to the bed, and fake a stumble over my chain as I mount it. I slide my bound hands beneath me and quickly bite at the meat of my right palm, drawing black blood immediately. I clench it, hiding the bite, and crawl on my knees up to Ray’s face. 

“This is going to hurt,” I murmur softly. He can’t hear me, but I don’t care. “I wish this was different.” And with that, I sink my teeth into his neck. Pete’s scream behind me is muffled. 

Ray’s blood isn’t as tasty as Frank’s, but I’m so hungry that his blood is liquid steak to me. It fills my mouth, rushes down my throat, spreads through my body, and fuck yes. I can taste the poison they put into him, to control him or control me, I don’t know, but it doesn’t affect me. Inside me Dorkus is dancing, growling, growing until he fills my skin, becoming one with me again. Strength, undead power floods through me once more. I press my bitten hand to Ray’s lips, let my blood drip inside, and I hear him gasp. Shit. I can’t stop now, just a little more, just a little bit more. 

Don’t let him die, Frank hisses. Don’t let him, don’t let him, don’t–

“What are you doing?” Bert demands when I begin to lap the wound closed. “I told you to kill him, you dumb cunt!” He stomps around the bed as I draw my legs up beneath me and begin to pull at the chain on my wrists. He yanks me up by my hair, Bert’s– Frank’s– face curled into a snarl. “Kill him!” he roars in my face.

Snap.  

The breaking of the chains echoes around the room. Bert’s expression turns to horror in his realization. “Thank you for the venom,” I grin. 

And then I lunge at him. 

He screams in fear, toppling backwards into a tall sconce as my teeth sink into his neck. The sconce falls into the curtain behind it, setting it ablaze. Out of the corner of my eye I see Mikey struggling out of his bonds as his captors lie lifeless next to him, like puppets with their strings cut. The fire catches a big fluffy rug in its grasp and it begins to smoulder and spread. 

Everything gets loud. Below us and around us is a cacophony of sound as the front door breaks and a wolf howls his furious freedom. Bert claws at my face, trying to push me off him and I roll away, seeing Pete lunging away from Brendon. 

“Go!” Mikey screams at me. So I do, sliding to my feet and hoisting Pete up by the shoulder, dashing through the curtains that line one wall and into Nana’s closet, pushing through the clothes to the hidden door at the back and busting through into the TV room. 

Pete swears, struggling against his bonds. “Hold still,” I snap. Once he complies, I rip the restraints off and the jacket slides off. 

“Thanks,” he grins. I grab him again and run towards the other entrance. 

“Did you hear what he said about the talisman?” I yell back at him.

“Yeah! He said you had it.”

“I threw out the shit he gave me,” I say, stopping just short of the doorway.

“It’s gotta be something you wouldn’t just throw out,” Pete says, grabbing me by my shoulders and shaking me. “Think, man, think!”

“I am not a snow globe!” I yell in his face. People are running by us, screaming incantations. I rack my brain as fast as I possibly can when a blur tackles Pete to the ground.

“Agh! Patrick I’m okay! I’m okay!” Pete shrieks as Patrick clutches him possessively. “Stop humping my leg, I’m fine!”

“Not for long.”

Shit. We turn to see Frank– no, still Bert– standing by the hidden door that Pete and I emerged from. The side of his neck and his left arm is a deep angry red from burn marks. He’s furious. “You fucking bitch,” he snarls, stalking towards us. Patrick snarls, crouching over Pete protectively. Burt pays him no mind. Smoke curls into the room behind him as Nana’s room crackles into oblivion. I hope Mikey got Ray out of there. 

“I offered you everything. Everything.”  

“You offered me nothing I wanted,” I say coolly. “At the price of everything I love.” I back into the foyer slowly. He follows. My shoulder blades crack open painfully. My teeth sharpen into points. I can feel my claws emerging. The air is ice cold around me, but behind him the fire is spreading across the TV room, bookshelves collapsing and curtains vanishing in smoke, tapes melting from the heat and books falling like little burning stars.

“You are nothing without me! You are hideous without me.” He launches himself at me, teeth bared and eyes wild with paranormal madness, trying to get his hands around my neck with fragile human strength– I spin him around and yank his arm back until he screams. 

I press my lips to his ear. “I will avenge my ghost,” I hiss, and with a crack and a screech of pain his arm breaks like a twig. Bert falls to the ground in a heap of agony, and I sprint up the stairs, wasting no time. Up the stairs, up the stairs, go, go, go.

I dash down the hall, getting a strange sense of déja vu as I scale the stairs to my room. Frank waits for me in the mirror by the door. You realize that’s my body, right? he asks with his hands on his hips. 

“I have to get him out somehow,” I say as I paw through my desk frantically.

By breaking my ARM?

“Oh hush it, Slimer.” I need my jewelry box, I’d stupidly kept some jewelry he’d given me, not thinking to throw it out. Shit, shit, shit.

Hush it? The house is on fire!

“And what would you rather I did, dress in drag and do the hula? You didn’t really offer any damn suggestions!” I yell back. It’s fucking boiling in here. Frank doesn’t respond. Wait. It’s… boiling in here. I turn. Frank’s gone from the mirror. 

A roar of fury shakes the house on its foundation. I’m running out of time. I find the jewelry box under my dresser, and root through it frantically. Nothing seems to me like a talisman for a soul… until my fingers alight on a long, silky, black ribbon that holds a metal pendant with a silvery orb in the center. If that’s not a damn talisman I don’t know what is. “Yes!”

A force yanks me by the ankle into the air. “No! OW!” I smash my head into my dresser. There is no solid form in the doorway, but black, crackling energy, eyes burning embers in the darkness that should be his face. 

“Put it DOWN!” Bert booms. 

“No!” I say with as much dignity as I can muster upside down in the air. I grip the necklace tight. “Fuck you, tiny dick!” Before Bert can respond to that, blue smoke surrounds him, coalescing into Joe’s demon form.

“I hate things that don’t use their manners,” Joe drawls, cutting off Bert’s reach. I bounce onto my bed. “Get outside,” Joe snaps at me. In a flash I’m on my desk, smashing the glass of my window to bits and climbing out with the black string wrapped around my fist. I climb up the wall, getting to the roof just in time for Bert and Joe to crash through the tower wall, snakes of blue and black essence fighting for dominance. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” I scramble up the roof, tiles cascading from my feet. Maybe if I squeeze the talisman hard enough it’ll break? I don’t know, I’m panicking! I leap from the tower to the roof below, trying to bash the damn thing to bits. “What are you made of, fucking vibranium?” I shriek frantically as the battling spirits zoom over me, screaming in voices to shatter the panes of glass below us. “Break you fucking piece of shit!”

I run along the battlements, taking stock of the chaos around me. The side of the mansion behind me is on fire, memories of years past in my bedroom crumbling to ash and dust. People are running in the grounds below me, some dragging others, others shouting things I can’t make out. My back is throbbing in pain, skin splitting and bones shattering and reconstructing into something new. 

My head snaps to the right as Joe screams to the ground far below, his impact a crater on the overgrown lawn. I look up, up, to see Bert’s coal-bright eyes glaring at me. My spine straightens. I know what I must do. 

”You want this?” I call to him, raising my clawed fist. For everything he put me through. “Come and get it, punk!” He will fucking pay.

I sprint forward before he can react, my feet barely hitting the shingles. Close, close, closer. The hiss of Bert’s spirit buzzes against my ears. The edge of the roof is so close, so tantalizingly close–

My feet hit the edge and I swan dive off the roof. Somebody below me screams my name. 

The ground careens towards me until I can taste the grass, then I’m soaring upwards, my leathery wings flapping furiously, carrying me towards the sky. A bolt of laughter escapes my lips– I’m free. Free to fly, free to taste the air on my forked tongue, free to touch the fucking stars. Bert is behind me, roaring in fury, and yet it’s muffled to my ears. 

I turn my eyes downwards. The mansion looks so miniscule. It’s destruction; tiny. I grin. Perfect. The speed of my nosedive blows my hair back, my wings spreading again as I circle around the mansion, looking for my entrance point. 

Aha. There. 

I twist through a smashed window of the kitchen, letting the talisman crack against every possible surface. He’s hot on my tail, I can feel it. I speed through the foyer, curving up and ducking under the burning bookshelves of Nana’s library. The metal of the pendant glows hot in my hand.

“Stop this insanity!” he shrieks as I slip through another window, out into the night once more. Off through the trees, letting the branches wap at the orb. I swerve back around, over the lake and into it, dragging the talisman through the muck and grime, emerging once more to bust through Mikey’s already damaged room and down the hall and up into my burning haven, then out into the night once more. “I gave you what you wanted!”

“You put me through hell!” I scream back, grasping the spire at the top of the collapsing tower to steady myself. He looms above me, darkness and flame. “You broke me, made me run hot with desire, cold with death, turned me away from my family, YOU RUINED ME!” I raise the talisman above my head, let it glint in the unforgiving moonlight. “And now, I ruin you.” with a scream of rage I slam the talisman down onto the spire, the point piercing through the center of the orb and impaling my hand. “OW.” I pull my hand off it. 

“NO!” Bert lunges at me, forgetting the talisman, knocking me off the tower and takes me with him into the depths of the inferno below.

We smash through ceilings and walls, him trying to break me and me waiting for his disintegration. The mansion crumbles around us, half of my life going up in flames. Somewhere, Nana is laughing. Bert screams like a banshee, bashing me through mirrors and railings. In the face of his mindless attempt at my extermination I say “FUCK YOU!” and pivot us up through the roof, carrying us higher and higher as he thrashes and slashes my face, my body, until Bert’s body dissolves into shadows and ash. 

He’s gone.

My feet hit the grass and I stumble, face-planting. I need to work on the landing.

“Holy shit!” I look up to see Bob flat out running towards me. 

“S’up?” I say, lifting myself up on my hands. “Was it cool?”

He lifts me up by my armpits, setting me on my feet. “That was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen.” I’m lifted off my feet into a bone crunching hug. My wings fold up so they don’t get too smushed, and it kind of hurts a little, but I don’t care. I bury my face in his meaty shoulder, let myself be held, finally.

“Missed you, Bryar,” I mumble.

“Missed you too.” He squeezes me even tighter when I let out a choked sob. “It’s over, Gee. He’s gone. You killed him. Bert’s gone.” 

“F– Frank– is he–? And Ray– Brian–”

“C’mon,” Bob says, releasing me from the hug but keeping an arm around me. “They’re over here.” He leads me around the burning building to the front lawn, where a group of people are gathered there. 

Cheering reaches my ears as we draw closer, Pete dancing around in glee, whooping as Patrick picks him up and swings him, grinning with all his teeth at me. 

“You’re the fucking man!” Pete sing-songs when we reach them. 

“Fuck yeah you are,” says a guy lounging on the grass with two others draped around him. He has a pale, angular face, his brown hair lying elegantly over his forehead. His eyes are sunken, his small mouth grinning a big grin. He looks casually debauched and I want style tips.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Dallon. Dallon Weekes,” the attractive stranger says. “This here’s Ryan,” he gestures at the man leaning against him that has a baby face to rival mine. “And that’s Spencer.” Spencer, who’s lying over both Dallon and Ryan’s legs and has a mop of hair that is both messy and sexy, throws up a peace sign. “Andy called us.”

Andy sits in the crater that Joe had created, said demon wrapped around him like a possessive cat, and gives me a wave. “Powerful witch coven,” he explains, nodding at the three. “And Brendon’s exes.”

“Dickhead thought he could date all of us without telling us,” Ryan says, examining his purple chipped nails. “So we had a threesome without him.”

“Since his revenge then was to aphrodisiac Ryan, it seemed only fitting that Ryan got to chop his head off.” Spencer points to the head mounted on a stake by the inferno. Brendon’s tongue is lolling out, looking freakishly like the decapitated Uruk in Lord of the Rings.

“Are you gonna wave it in front of his weeping mother?” I ask.

Dallon shrugs. “Nah, just leave it here. It can add to the New Jersey lore.” I like these three.

Pete and Patrick are still waltzing around, laughing like lunatics. Brian lies past Andy, a woman bending over him. Bob walks with me to him.

“How is he, Lyn-Z?” I hear him ask, but I don’t hear his reply because Mikey is hunched over Ray, stroking his hair and singing something softly, and another woman is propping up Frank, murmuring over his arm as he curses at her.

“Ow, Jamia! Fuck!” he complains.

“If you’d just hold still, you big baby, I could fucking set the damn thing!” she snaps back. I’m walking over to the four of them, dropping to my knees and asking, “How can I help?” 

Jamia glances up at me. “Distract him, please.” 

“Okay.” I crawl over and get on Frank’s other side, taking his chin in my fingers and turning his face to mine. 

“Hey there, sailor,” Frank says dazedly. I want to cry because it’s him, it’s Frank, and I can’t help it or hold myself back any longer. 

I kiss him gently, longingly, like a lover returned from the war. It’s as easy as breathing. Frank melts into me with an entirely indecent whine, his lips parting instantly. I breathe him in– there is no decay on his scent. Something wiggles in my brain, pushing at the now fading fog in my head.

“You broke my arm,” he murmurs against my lips. I can feel his pout.

“I’ll kiss it better,” I whisper back. Jamia’s preparing something in the corner of my eye. I kiss Frank again, harder and yet softer, deeper, my hand pressing him as close to me as possible. 

There’s a muffled pop and Frank screams into my mouth, tensing then going limp from the pain, his lips falling from mine. “Fuck you,” he says.

Jamia grins winningly. “You already did. Made me a lesbian.”

“When my arm’s better I’m gonna hit you.”

“Try it you bi-disaster, you can’t even walk straight.”

“Gee my ex is being meaaaan,” Frank whines. I give Jamia a quizzical look.

“He’ll be like this for a bit,” she says, brushing the hair out of her face. “Once the pain fades and he settles back into his body again.” She wraps a poultice around his arm, tying it neatly with a knot. Frank slumps into me, his head on my shoulder.

“I’m hungry,” he mumbles.

Mikey is still singing. It’s Tonight, Tonight by the Smashing Pumpkins. I turn my body to face him, to see what I’ve done. 

Ray’s eyelids are flickering, his body jerking lightly in transformation. There’s goop leaking out of his mouth– sickeningly pink with poison being purged from his body. Noises like a dying bird fall from his lips as he shakes, shakes, shakes.

Before I can even open my mouth to say anything Mikey cuts off a verse to say, without moving his eyes from Ray, “Don’t apologize.”

“But I’m–”

“No. Don’t.” Now he does look at me. “You did what I was scared to do. You saved him, you saved everyone. I’m proud of you, do you fucking hear me? I’m so fucking proud of you.” He cradles Ray’s face gently. “I’m proud of you too, mi amor,” he murmurs softly. 

“At least you didn’t have to save me this time,” I joke weakly.

Mikey looks up in confusion. “What?”

“In the– it wasn’t you, was it,” I say, coming to the realization.

“What wasn’t me?” my brother asks. 

Jamia gets up. “I’m gonna go check on Joe,” she says as she slings her bag over her shoulder and walks off.

My gaze is locked on my brother. “In the dreamscape– the motel? You said you were sick of saving me. That wasn’t–”

“No,” Mikey cuts me off. He continues slowly. “Rooted in truth, yes, but that wasn’t me in there.” I stare at him in silence. Frank is tracing shapes on the side of my neck. If my heart still beat it would be thudding in my ears. “If what Bert said was true, then he heard the conversation I had with Ray after Nana died. After Bert– after Bert killed her. After the funeral. I was angry. And grieving.” Mikey begins to comb through Ray’s hair again. It was in this house, so…” he looks out at the tinderbox that was once a beautiful mansion. “I told him– Ray– I told Ray I was tired of saving you, tired of being strong for you. That I needed a break. Bert’s spirit must’ve heard that and threw that in your face– Gee, I wish he’d just been a run of the mill dirtbag.”

“Me too,” I say.

Frank noses his way up to my ear. “‘S he gone?” he asks. “Did’ja kill ‘im?”

“Yeah, Frankie, I did,” I say, giving him a tiny, tired smile.

He smiles. “Yay.” Then the smile breaks, and Frank’s sobbing into my shoulder, his body shaking. I clutch him to me, clutch him like he’s the last man alive. His sobs are loud and echo through the night, the sound of a freed but grieving man. Why is he grieving? I saved him.

Oh. Oh– Some barrier in my brain breaks like a burst dam and the memories pour back in, rushing in a burst of sights, sounds, tastes, touches.

Frank, knocking on my door and asking if I’m okay. Frank, running from my hunger-prone monster until he looks into my eyes and sees who I truly am. Frank, posing for my drawings before he gets jittery and crawls over to me, tickling my feet. Frank, wrapped in a blanket and clutching a cup of coffee and listening as I tell him the whole sob story of college. Frank, letting me drink blood from him. Frank, waiting patiently with me by the phone. Frank, helping me clean out closets, attics, holding me close when I can’t think anymore, kissing me finally one night and telling me he’d wait as long as I needed, but he’d wait for me nonetheless. Dancing with him to The Smiths and The Misfits, playing strip board games and lounging in the library while he read and I sketched the illustrations in others. 

His smile that could melt iron, his eyes that see into my heart, his tattoos that are a messy patchwork of his life. Every hidden freckle, tender scar, every moment I hear his laughter, even when he drools on me in his sleep. Every memory slots back into place like a puzzle piece and finally my head feels whole again, whole and full and clear.

“Frank,” I gasp. “Frankie.” 

“I’m sick of pretending,” he whimpers. “I’m sick of pretending not to know you, not to love you– I don’t care if you don’t feel the same that’s how I feel! I know you. I know you and I love you and I know you.” 

I curl a hand in his hair and lift his head up to look at me. “How could I ever forget you?” I ask. I trace his jawline with the tips of my fingers, watch as his eyes melt in relief. “How could I ever?” 

“Gerard,” he chokes out. “Fuck I missed you.” Tears stream down his face, dripping off his chin. In the light of the fire that bathes half of his face, he is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. 

“And still you stayed.”

“I don’t break promises. Ever.” His wet eyes are sharp with honesty.

I cup his face and press my forehead to his. “I know. I remember.” His breath is hot and moist on my face and I am in paradise.

“And they say romance is dead,” Mikey snorts behind me. I snicker, not taking my eyes off of Frank for one more second.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs.

“I’m real,” I say back.

 Together we turn and watch as the roof collapses.