Frank hasn't seen Gerard once since he's been staying with him and Mikey. He can't even sense where he is, or if he's even home and he doesn't know why. It could be because Gerard's older, but Frank doesn't have a clue. He's not even that interested in Gerard, he just wants to know everything about being a vampire and what's going to happen to him.
He's scared, of course he is. He has no idea if his Master knows where he is, or if he could get to him and take him back. He's constantly on edge, worrying about himself and Mikey. Mikey being human put him in more danger, and Frank wasn't really in the position to look after him. That's got to be Gerard's brother duty.
When Frank thinks about Gerard, he can't help but think back to when they met. Frank had been so hungry; he hadn't really concentrated on anything but feeding. And after feeding on Gerard, he could feel the pull towards the older vampire. Maybe it'd been the blood or maybe it was just Gerard, but Frank just wanted to sit in his presence and be able to relax for once.
And Gerard's blood, god, it was so good. Not only had it cooled Frank's throat and satisfied him easily, the taste had been divine. Like strawberries, fresh and juicy bursting into his mouth and washing over his tongue. Nothing had ever tasted so good, and Frank yearned for more.
But it's not like Frank would tell anyone this, because he had no one to tell. If he spoke a word to Mikey, he would surely freak out and think Frank was endangering him. And he hadn't seen Gerard at all, so that wasn't even an option.
Frank just wants to go home. He wants to be able to cling onto his mother, and breathe in her familiar smell and tell her what's happened. Maybe even cry a little because it wasn't like she would tell anyone. He's so fed up with sitting around, doing nothing whilst he could be living his old life. He didn't even know if his mom thought he was dead, if they had mourned him.
He didn't know what'd happened to her after she'd passed out. One moment she'd been there, a lump of human flesh on the floor, and the next her whole being was gone from the room. He'd worried constantly, had he killed her? Was she okay? And if she had survived, was she home now? Did she remember?
He just wants to go home.
He's been stood by the front door for twenty minutes. His blistered skin is mostly healed; he can walk around by himself now. He'd fed not long ago, his throat was a barely-there burn, and he could ignore it in a second. He wasn't a threat, not right now. He could just go let his mom know he was safe and in good hands, but that he couldn't come home, not yet, maybe not ever.
He hates the thought of never returning home, but what could he do? He was stuck as a vampire forever, unless someone killed him or he killed himself. His mind races, switching from his mother's face to Mikey, and then finally on Gerard. The man had abandoned him, he couldn't get his one-night fuck and so he'd moved on. Frank didn't care, at least not anymore. He'd been a little down for a few days, but now he had gotten over it.
As Frank passes the gate at the end of Mikey's drive, he turns to walk quickly down the street. After walking for ten minutes, he finally recognises his surroundings and heads in the right direction for his home. He knows he could move faster, a mile in a few seconds, but he's still not used to moving so fast so he's still at human speed. It's almost a comfort.
When he reaches his house, he stands across the street, watching the light glowing from the living room window. It's all so familiar that it hurts; his stomach twists with guilt and homesickness, and he frowns as he hugs himself.
If he listens more intently, he can hear the fuzz and scratch of the voices from the TV, his dad's gruff laughter when something funny happens. Frank and his father had never been close, not since Frank had come out, but that was still his dad in there. Frank still loved him. His mother's heartbeat echoes from upstairs, in his room. He can hear her laboured breathing and sniffles and he realises she's crying.
She's mourning him.
It hits him like a punch in the chest, his whole body freezes up and he's suddenly so angry that he has to bite his lip so hard his fang slices through to stop from screaming. He just wanted to be home, why the fuck couldn't anyone understand that?
He takes an unneeded breath before he crosses the street. It's almost eleven at night, so there's no one on the streets at this time – not in Jersey. He slips through the back gate, careful to not push it open far enough to make it creak, and peers through the back door. The kitchen is empty, so he slides in silently and moves towards the stairs.
Upstairs, he listens to his mother shut his bedroom door and walk across the hall to her own and lock herself inside and her cries become louder. Something twists painfully inside Frank, and without thinking about it he is at the top of the stairs in a second. His mother's cries don't seize up in the least.
He doesn't go near his parents' room. He takes careful steps to his own, slipping inside when he knew neither of his parents could hear him moving around.
His room is exactly how he remembers it. Nothing has been moved; his bed hasn't even been made. He moves to the desk tucked away in the corner, running his finger over the layer of dust that's formed. How long has he been missing? Or dead, because that's what everyone must think he is. Dead; burnt and gone and blown away with the breeze.
Frank freezes as footsteps climb the stairs, but they pass his room to his parents' and his father's voice is clear as day.
"Linda," He says softly, but Frank knows the anger will soon come free. "Open the door," When there's no reply but a choked sob from inside the room, his father pounds on the door and Frank flinches. "Open the fucking door, Linda!" He shouts, kicking it for good measure.
"I'm not opening it, Frank," Linda rarely used her husband's name, usually sticking to 'honey' or some other pet name because 'Frank' was for her son - her world.
"He's not coming back, Linda," Frank yells, planting both hands on the door and slamming them a few times. "He's dead! If he was still alive, he would've been found months ago!" He hits the door again.
"Get OUT!" Linda screams, and her cries that follow are so painful it makes Frank clench his eyes shut in his own bedroom. His father goes back downstairs, mumbling to himself.
The hurt bubbling inside Frank grows; constricting his throat and making him feel sick. This was his home. It should've been a happy place, not one full of arguing and constant crying. His mother so deep into her own grief at losing her only child making her withdraw so much so that her husband now hates her, and was honestly considering just leaving. He loves and misses his son, but he knew it was pointless waiting for him to return after so long.
But then Frank asks himself, how long has he been gone?