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Frank wakes slowly, swimming up through the fog. He can feel the aches and pains that have settled into his bones like old, familiar friends. His eyes flutter open, and— "Hey." His voice is rough and croaky, and Frank coughs a little to clear his throat.
"Hey," Gerard says, and Frank has to marvel, again, always, at how pretty Gerard is. He's barely aged at all over the last sixty years, smooth pale skin, dark hair, and a wicked, crooked smile.
"How long was I asleep?"
"About an hour," Gerard says.
Frank tries to sit up, hissing at the flare of pain. "Getting old fucking sucks," he says. It's a constant refrain, these days. Everything really does hurt: his back, his hips, his feet, for fuck's sake. He tries to clench his fingers but can't; the joints are too swollen, he can't play a guitar, hold a book, write his name. His mind is still sharp, but his body is failing him, day by day.
Gerard helps Frank ease upright, gently wedging a pillow behind him for support before retreating to the overstuffed armchair next to the bed. There's something about the way the weak winter sunlight filters through the window; the shadows dapple Gerard's face and for a moment, Frank sees something else, something with beetle-black eyes and too many sharp teeth.
He blinks, and the illusion is gone, and all that's left behind is Gerard.
"Did you eat?" Gerard asks.
Frank shakes his head. "Not hungry." He never is anymore, nothing tastes good and he usually picks half-heartedly at the food on his plate.
He sees Gerard's frown, and thinks for a moment that they're finally going to talk about this, the doctor's visits and how hard it is to get out of bed each morning, but no— Gerard bites at his lip, sits back in the chair, and looks away.
"I'm tired," Frank sighs.
Gerard stills. He's not even breathing, and Frank's sure if it weren't for the fact that he's staring straight at Gerard, he'd fade into the shadows. "I don't let go of my things," he growls, and the room is a little darker, a little colder.
Frank wants to laugh, because it's been years and years since he's been afraid of his demon. "I don't think you have a choice."
Gerard picks at a hole in the knee of his jeans, looking exactly like a sullen teen. He shrugs, and climbs onto the bed, carefully straddling Frank's legs.
He reaches out and presses the flat of his hand against Frank's chest. Something stirs inside of Frank, waking to Gerard's touch. His soul, according to Gerard. He covers Gerard's hand with his own.
"I don't know how to let go," Gerard whispers. His shoulders droop, face slanted away. "I don't know if I can."
Frank reaches up, pushes back Gerard's hair, cups the smooth curve of his cheek. So beautiful. "None of us are born knowing that. It's just something that you learn."
Gerard's eyes are closed, and his hand is warm against Frank's chest.
There's a strange sensation fluttering in his chest, and Frank thinks of heart attacks, of alien chestbursters, of owls. "What—" Gerard's hand is burning hot and it hurts, Frank's so shocked by the pain it doesn't occur to him to struggle, and he opens his mouth to yell, to scream, and it's gone, the agony receding like it never was.
He gasps. "What the fuck, Gerard—"
Gerard looks pale, sweat dotting his upper lip. He brushes his hair back with unsteady hands and tries to smile at Frank. It's a pretty pathetic attempt. "You'll need that back," he murmurs shakily.
"I—what?"
"Your soul." Gerard moves to lie down next to Frank, gently pulling him into the hollow of his body. "You can't leave without it."
Frank tangles his hand in Gerard's shirt. "But what about you? Don't you need it?" He'd given that part of himself over to Gerard all those years ago, willingly, gladly, to save his life. He's never once regretted it.
He can feel Gerard's shrug. "I'll get by, somehow."
It feels like a bigger deal than Gerard's letting on, but Frank doesn't know what to say. He tucks his face into the space under Gerard's chin and breathes, trying to understand. Gerard usually is pretty good at playing human, but sometimes—sometimes Frank doesn't get him.
"Do you know why I picked you?" Gerard asks, and in all the years, Frank's never had the courage to voice that particular question.
He takes a moment to answer, to make sure his voice is steady. "No. I've wondered. . ."
"I can still remember the way you looked, red-faced and panting, holding out my wallet. So young and alive, you practically glowed." Gerard presses a kiss to the crown of Frank's head. "I'd never been tempted like that before. I couldn't resist. I knew I had to have you, make you mine, corrupt you." He laughs, and there's nothing about it that sounds amused. "And instead, you made me yours."
Frank thinks maybe he should apologize, that it's the right thing to do, but it would be a lie. He's not sorry, not even a little. "Mine."
Gerard makes a choked sound, hands tightening painfully on Frank's shoulder, hip. Frank doesn't look at Gerard, just clings back and listens to Gerard's breathing, uneven and labored.
Outside, it starts to storm; the sound of distant thunder and the patter of raindrops against the window fills the room.
-fin-