Grand Naivety, Broken

Waking up in a strange bed was startling in itself, but waking up in a strange bed in a dungeon was fucking spine-tingling.

Well, maybe dungeon was a strong word, but there were no windows and the walls were a nice cobblestone, much like the pathway he had walked up only minutes before he was-- what actually happened? Was he shot? Surely that’s what it was; the man had a gun! But where was the blood and gore that usually comes with gunshot wounds?

Lifting his shirt came to no use, seeing as, not only was there no wound, but there wasn’t even a bruise where it had once felt like his ribs were broken.

“That’s because they were.” Frank’s head shot up, and he belatedly pulled his shirt down when he saw a man standing in the doorway, smiling warmly at him. He felt longing shoot through his system like a drug, startling him again and shining in his eyes. The man seemed to either be oblivious to this sudden, terrifying change in Frank, or he chose not to acknowledge it. “You were shot with a riot gun,” he stated as he strode into the room. “The beanbag broke your ribs and, therefore, punctured your left lung. It left only one way to save you.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and ghosted steady fingers over Frank’s neck. He shuddered at the touch and leaned towards it when it disappeared, much to his chagrin. He flushed slightly and lifted his own hand to his neck, touching two circular, raised patches of skin. His eyes widened in horror and vague realization.

“What am I?!” he cried, shuffling away from the man on his bed, who stared at him with sympathetic eyes. “What am I, goddamnit?!”

“I don’t think I need to answer that, Frank,” murmured the man, casting his eyes downward.

For a long moment, all Frank did was breath. All thought was halted in his mind. His hands stopped trembling and he struggled to blink. It was unbelievable, completely and utterly ridiculous, but when he touched the scars, he realized this was all too real.

“W-who are you?” he whispered, looking up at the man with bewildered eyes.

The man smiled again, tender and soft as he said, “Gerard Way, your sire.”

“Sire,” Frank sighed doubtfully, pulling his knees to his chest and hiding behind them. “Fuck, man, sire? I don’t-- fuck.” He buried his head in his knees and held down his panicked sobs.

The bed shifted as Gerard scooted closer and rested a hand on his back, rubbing soothingly like a mother does to her crying child. “Hey,” he cooed, “you’re fine. I’m going to be here the entire time; you won’t be alone, I promise.”

Frank looked up, face blotchy and red and desperate. “Why am I so comforted by that?” he whimpered.

Gerard moved his hand up to rest on Frank’s head and grinned. “That’s how every childe is with their sire; it’ll fade over time, but you’ll always feel drawn to me. And if you feel the urge to call me ‘Master’, don’t panic; that’ll fade too.” Frank nodded slowly, wiping his eyes. “Great,” he smiled, “now, how about I show you around? You aren’t staying in the basement, trust me. This was just a safety precaution.”

“Where are we?” mumbled Frank as he stood, unconsciously moving closer to Gerard and wrapping his arms around his own waist.

After wrapping an arm around Frank’s shoulders and pulling him snugly into his side, Gerard replied, “Iceland.”

“Why? How?”

“You were out for a long time, Frank.”

“But, why?” he persisted.

Gerard smiled fondly as they walked into a large bedroom overlooking the melancholy ocean waves below. “This is my home, where I was born, all those years ago. I was raised here, I was sired here, and I’ll care for you here. I’m creating a legacy for myself and my lineage, you could say.”

A thought occurred to Frank violently, knocking his breath away from him for several seconds. When he regained his ability to speak, he asked, “What about my mom? How is she? Does she know I’m here?”

“She thinks you’re studying abroad. I mean, technically, you are, just not Icelandic music culture,” Gerard said, smiling again at Frank, who was gazing up at him inquiringly.

As Frank stared at Gerard -- his eyes sparkling and soft -- he suddenly felt the cold feeling that typically surrounded strange homes drift away, leaving warmth in it’s place.

I’ll be okay, he thought resolutely.

“As long as I’m living,” Gerard replied with just as much finality.

Notes

Mild success with the Pilot leads to the rest of the season.
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-Stitches