NIGHTMARES

Gerard flinches at the hurt and rage in his young friend's pale face, wishing that he hadn't come here, wishing what he'd said wasn't true. “Why...Why didn't you tell me?” Frank splutters, his eyelashes already wet with tears, “You let me go through HELL all alone and you said nothing! Why the fuck would you do that to me?!”
Gerard bites his lower lip and fidgets anxiously, very aware of the nurses and patients scuttling up and down the corridor outside. His throat is bone dry and he's sobered up too much to deal with this shit now. This was a mistake.
“I guess I wasn't sure,” he admits quietly, looking around at the plain gray ceiling, the barred window, and the sad small bed: anywhere but at Frank's anguished eyes. “I mean come on, people being psychic or whatever sounds like something out of a comic book. I didn't know for sure, man. I've had night terrors since I was little and I couldn't tell right away that these were different. How could I? So I had dreams about people I'd never met dying and then I woke up and didn't know or care if they were real or not. So what? The only dream I ever had that I KNEW came true was about you, Frankie. The whole reason I was in LA that night when everything happened was because I had a dream about you being hurt. I saw someone beating you so bad... and when I woke up I felt like I couldn't breathe! It was so fucking real...” Trailing off, Gerard sighs and scrubs his hands across his face. His fingers still smell like booze and he almost licks them. Oh god, he needs help...

Frank shakes his head and starts chewing on his bitten-down nails, letting his Gameboy drop forgotten to the floor. He's obviously fighting tears and sits there silently for a full minute before speaking again. “So now you think you have the same curse as me?”
Gerard nods and moves closer to his smaller friend and Frank immediately jumps up and backs away, moving with more energy than Gerard thought he could possibly have in his starved body. “Oh no, you don't get to comfort me now, you fucking traitor!” he snaps, “Just say what you came to say and leave!”

Gerard freezes, his heart and head aching, and tries again. “I'm sorry for everything you've been through, Frankie, I really am, but in case you've forgotten I did my best to try and help you even before I understood what was going on. Brian and me and the other guys, we all tried to talk to you and keep track of you and keep you safe but you kept fucking running away into trouble, and I was there for you that night in LA, dammit I nearly fucking died for you in that basement! I had a dream you were in trouble and I caught a fucking plane to LA just to check up on you, turning up on poor Stacey's doorstep in the middle of the night, and when we found out where you were I burst in on a homicidal maniac who put a gun in my fucking mouth! Jesus, you think you're the only one who's suffering here? I've got fractured ribs that still ache when it's cold out and right now booze is the only thing keeping my head together. This isn't just a relapse, it's a fucking necessity! Now if you don't want me to try and help you get through this, then fine. But I know how it feels to realize you could've stopped something terrible happening to someone you care about if only you moved faster or thought quicker or armed yourself better!”

Panting for breath and cringing at the echo of his own voice in the dusty air, Gerard stares miserably at his feet for a moment as hot salt-water stings his eyes and nose. When he looks up again Frank is standing less than three inches away. “You really think this is something I...we... could learn to live with?” the guitarist whispers, licking his dry lips as his voice jumps with suppressed emotions, “You think it's that easy?”
“Maybe. I don't know,” Gerard replies softly, “But I think we'd both be better off if we faced this thing together.”

“What on earth is going on in here?” a loud stern voice bellows behind them. The nurse is back with two large male orderlies standing behind her and she looks ready to break up a fight. “Why were you shouting?” she barks at Gerard, “This is place of recovery and care. Are you alright, Mr Iero? I think your visitor should leave now.”
Frank blinks hard and forces a weak smile, “I'm fine. Really, we're okay. Can Gerard stay a little longer and can we please have some privacy? Maybe close the door for a few minutes?”
The nurse raises her eyebrows in surprise to hear her patient speaking again and then tuts under her breath, “Five minutes,” she says reluctantly, “Then I am opening this door again, regardless of what you two might be doing in here. Also,” she adds, taking a tiny paper cup of pills and a plastic mug of water from one of her goons, “It's time for you to take your medicine.”
Frank scowls and reluctantly grabs the pills and water, tipping both into his mouth and swallowing before dropping the empty mug on the floor and sitting down heavily on the bed with enough force to make the springs creak under his frail body. “There. Are you happy?” he mumbles sulkily, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “See you in five minutes.”

The nurse sighs, picks up the mug and leaves with her staff, shutting the door behind her. As soon as she's gone, Frank spits the pills out into his hand from where he was hiding them under his tongue and puts them in one of the baggy pockets of his shirt. Gerard blushes awkwardly, wishing he'd been allowed to bring his bag of notebooks and vodka with him instead of leaving it in the clinic's coat-room. “What are they?” he asks, nodding at Frank's pocket. “Mood stabilisers, sedatives and some other shit,” Frank mutters, running a hand through his messy hair and shivering slightly, “They make me sleepy but I don't wanna sleep most days so I don't take them.”
“You look tired.”
“I'm fuckin wiped out. I just don't wanna sleep.”
“Because you don't wanna dream.”
“They're not dreams, Gee, and they're not nightmares either because nightmares aren't actually fucking real! They're visits to HELL and back, and the more I wake up screaming and convinced I'm bleeding to death or on fire or drowning, the more drugs the docs want to shove down my throat.”
“I'm sorry Frankie.”
“Sorry doesn't bring people back to life,” Frank whispers shakily, his eyes suddenly flooding with fresh grief. Fumbling frantically across the bed he grabs a pillow and hugs it so tight against his scrawny chest that his arms start to shake, “My mom told me the cops have no idea who that bastard was who stabbed me and murdered Lorna and Anna. Can you believe that? No fucking idea! I didn't help anyone by knowing about their deaths, Gee, I didn't save a s-single life!”
Dissolving into hoarse, exhausted tears, Frank buries his face in the damp pillowcase, crying so hard he can barely speak: “It w-was all for nothing and every time I close my eyes I still s-see Lorna's face... and I die someone else's death and it's not fair and it h-hurts so much! I'm so fucking scared and so goddamn tired... I lost my whole life to this, Gee, a-and I can't take it anymore. I-I can't function, I can't breathe! I just want it to be over. I wanna sleep forever and n-never dream again. I w-wanna be the one who dies for real this time!”
“Come on, Frankie, you don't mean that.”
“Yes I do!”
“Frank-”
“You s-said you understood me now, didn't you? So then help me end this! Please, Gee...please help m-me die.”

Notes

((If anyone is still reading this drabble...
THANK YOU SO MUCH, I bloody LOVE you!
I've had writer's block really bad lately
and my job is taking up more and more of my time
but I will never give up on a fic or leave a story unfinished.
Your comments give me life so please keep commenting
and thank you for each and every one!
I'll continue when I can.
Amy xx))