"Frankie!" I shake him gently. "Frank, you need to wake up now. We have to get off the plane in a minute." Nope. Nothing. No response. Zilch. He's out cold, without a doubt. "Frank!" I whine, but it makes no difference. So I try a different tactic. "Frankie..." I whisper, my chin tucked neatly into the crook of his neck, like it was made to fit there. My hair tickles his face; I see that he snuggles into it. "Frank, we have to go now, sweetie. The plane's about to land." Still no response.
"Oh, c'mon..." I moan, looking to my brother for help. But he's too busy drinking the last of his stale coffee (I swear, he's had like nine cups and still looks shattered, like he might fall over any second now), laughing over the seat at something Ray said behind him, feeling confusedly at his coat and jeans pockets, like he's lost something, and wondering why the stewardess is looking at him so funnily. She's looking at him like that because we've not even been told to put on our seatbelts yet, and he's already standing up and ready to leave.
I have an idea, and I try it out...to no avail. I tap him lightly, twice on the shoulders, and then brush his fringe out of his gorgeous eyes. That's when I notice how warm he is; his hair is wet from the sweat on his forehead, and there's perspiration all along his top lip, too. Puzzled, I press the back of my hand to his boiling forehead, and then on each of his cheeks in turn, which I note are a lot pinker than usual. He's burning up! Anxious, I put my ear to his, listening to him breathe. He snorts at me, and then goes back to softly snoring, exactly how he was before. At least his breathing seems healthy, but I'm still concerned. I try to take his pulse, but it takes me about five minutes to find the right place on his wrist, and then I realise I'm not really sure how fast it's supposed to be, anyway. 80 beats per minute? 70? 100? I think it feels fast, but that could just be paranoia, so I don't know. Mikey's noticed me by now.
"Wake him up!" he hisses at me, because the neon sign is flashing red, saying in English, then French, then Spanish, then something else that we're about to land. My brother has finally taken the hint from the stewardess and is sitting down, jittery on the edge of his seat.
"He won't wake up. And he has a massive temperature. I'm worried about him, Mikes." I chew on my lip as I say this, but my brother smiles reassuringly at me.
"I'm sure he'll be fine, Gee. He's just tired." He pauses, looks around, then stares at the ground and addresses his shoes. "We all are, okay? He probably misses his kids. I miss Alicia already... Plus, you know how often he gets sick. He has his meds. He'll sleep it off; it'll be fine tomorrow." I study him dubiously, to see if he's lying to me or if he really believes this himself. "Promise," he says solemnly, then grins. "You better carry him. I'm not."
I don't mind in the slightest having to carry Frank, so I clear his face of hair again, and scoop him up when Mikey stands, taking all three of our hand luggage bags down. My right arm rests under his knees, and my left wraps around his torso, pulling him into my chest, so that his head lolls forwards a little, leaning cutely on my chest. I smell his hair: shampoo and sweat. It's not the nicest of scents, but I adore it anyway. I wonder if this is weird, then remember that Lindsey never complains when I come off stage and hug her, reeking from drowning in my own sweat for ninety minutes. Maybe it doesn't matter when you love someone.
It's awkward getting all our suitcases, but Ray, Mikes and our tour manager manage to grab all the bags between them. Frank feels heavier than he looks, and with every step I take, I swear he gains a pound, and it gets more and more difficult to walk with him. But I can't complain about having him in my arms. Maybe I'm just not strong enough. Before we're out of the airport, I have to swing him round carefully, so he's manoeuvred into some sort of fireman's lift thing, his head over my shoulder. Almost his entire body is damp, but when I fasten him in the taxi, and let him lean on me again, I feel that the sweat is cold. While he sleeps, his head rests on my shoulder, and I lean my head on top of his. He really is boiling...and freezing, at the same time. I peel my jacket off and lay it over him, then get Mikes to open the window for us.
I know that the climate outside is pleasantly warm and unpleasantly humid, but that the taxi driving quickly means there's wind coming through the window. I know Frank smells strangely beautiful, and I breathe in the smell of his hair while I lay my cheek on his hair. I know Frank is ill, and that I'm worried about him. I know I miss Lyn-Z and Bandit. And I know I love Lyn-Z and Bandit. But I also know that I love Frank more than I love my wife, which is never good. But I don't know which means more to me...my child or my best friend? And the lines begin to blur, and I forget what I know, and somehow, somewhere, though I don't realise it's happening, I fall asleep.
X.x.X
"No, no, don't wake them up..."
"We can't carry both of them!"
"No, wait, we can...do it like Gerard did. You get Frank, and I'll get Gee. We'll come back for the bags in a minute."
"How will we get in! Can you get the key for us?"
"No...no, you go and get the key...I can get the bags out."
"They look so peaceful...he looks so happy."
"What about Frank, though?"
"Ah...I'm worried. But...we'll call a doctor or something if it gets worse. He'll be fine. He's always fine."
"What if he isn't fine this time? I mean, he won't wake up. At all. That can't be a good sign, can it?"
"We haven't tried to wake them."
"Don't. Let them be. Just let them sleep...Gee didn't sleep at all on the plane, and Frank needs to rest."
"Okay...come here...let me get him...yeah..."
All I know is that there are voices, maybe one or two or three. I can't process what they're saying or what the heavy words mean. The weight of Frank's head disappears from my shoulder, and I quite miss it, but I soon feel weightless, almost like I'm flying, but there are restraints. The restraints, I think, are somebody's arms. Someone is carrying me...I think...
X.x.X
Daylight creeps through the curtains about three hours earlier than I thought it was supposed to. I'm in my clothes, but someone removed my shoes and hoodie, and the duvet is all tangled at my feet, like all I did all night was squirm. The bed is single, and this is a shock, so I fall out of it as soon as I try to turn over. Lyn-Z is not next to me, and neither is Frank, so I don't know where I am. The room is white, and for a moment I worry I might be in a hospital, but then I see a flatscreen that's too big for a hospital, and then the other bed next to me, at the other end of the room. There's a scrunched-up figure in it, and there are moans and groans and horrendous, pained noises coming from the bed. I untangle myself and rush over, remembering that the moaning groaning pained figure is Frank.
"Frankie? Frank, are you okay?" He flutters his eyelids, which is more of a response than I've gotten before, so I'm content with it. "Can you hear me, honey?"
He makes an 'mmm' noise, and then turns over, but turns back suddenly and sits up straight in the space of about half a second, like he's having night terrors. I glance at the clock on the wall. 1:30 am. Why is it so fucking bright? Morning terrors. Jeez, this time difference is messing with my head. I have jet lag.
Oh, fuck that! What has Frank got? My Frank?
"Jam...no...Gee?" He opens both his eyes at once, and screams, but I take hold of his face, sitting next to him on the bed, and force him to look at me.
"Are you okay?" I demand, though I can feel that the cold sweat has gone. He's warm, yes, but I think that's the heat, not the illness.
"I'm..." His head rolls around, and he giggles. "Woozy! I like that word..." He gazes off into the distance.
"You're delirious."
"I'm high."
I nod, feeling like his parent. "Oh, sure you are. What are you high on, exactly? Latte?"
He laughs at this. "I feel like I'm floating. But it doesn't hurt anymore. It hurt when I was sleeping."
This makes me frown, makes me remember what I wish I couldn't recall. "You wouldn't wake up."
He frowns too, though seems confused rather than upset. "What time is it?"
"It's, um...1:30 in the morning here. Which means it's lunch time back home. You wanna call Jamia?" I manage not to wince when I say her name; I'm getting good at this.
He pauses to think. "No. Well, yes, I want to talk to her. But not like this. I might...might say something weird. I'm I feel weird...I don't want her to get scared."
I nod, understanding. "Hey, it's okay. You'll be okay. You definitely look better than you did before, and I'm sure you'll be fine later on. Do you want to see a doctor, though? Just to be sure?"
He shakes his head. "I'm fine, Gerard. Really. I will be..." There's a pause. "Damn, can I get this fucking duvet off! It's boiling!"
I laugh at him, and together we toss the sheets onto the floor, piling them on top of mine. "I love you, Frankie."
I gasp. Where did that come from? Surely not my mouth. I hear it, but don't say it...I'm sure I don't say it.
The sun blinds us through the window. It hurts my eyes. Frank puts his hand on my head and brushes my hair out of my eyes.
"I know, Gee. I...I still love you too, y'know. Just not enough, not like before." He sighs. "Let's not do this, not again. I do love you, Gerard Way. But I can't...Hey, I promised we wouldn't do this! I can't do this to us again. No. We're not doing this, okay? All you need to know is that I love you."
"But not enough to leave her?"
I hate how whiny and desperate I sound. But...what am I? Whiny and desperate, that's what I am.
"Not enough to leave my family, Gee. Not Jamia, or Miles, or Lily and Cherry. You know that. You wouldn't leave Bandit, would you?"
I pretend think about it, but I know the answer immediately. "No. No, I couldn't leave her."
"Well, then. Let's not do this to ourselves. You look knackered, and I feel like shit, so let's focus on something else. Call Lyn-Z. Speak to Bandit. Let's go eat. Fuck...hehe...fuck..." He trails off. A minute later, he continues, like nothing happened. I'm worried about him, seriously. Really worried. "I'm hungry, I mean. Let's go find food. There must be some somewhere..."
My lips are on his. It hurts. Hurts to know he doesn't want my lips there. Hurts to be confused if even I want them to be there or not. Everything hurts. My life hurts, when it really should be perfect.
"No...no..." But he kisses me back. And actions speak louder than words.
We pull apart only when there's a knock at the door. It's our tour manager, his hand on his hip in the most camp way possible.
"Could you have your affair quietly, please?" he complains, rubbing his eyes. Clearly, he's adjusted to the time here already.
Then I register what he's said. My mouth falls open. He knows. He knows he knows he knows he knows. What do we do? What do we do now?
It takes Frank's inane giggling for me to recognise that he's kidding, and then I laugh too loud and too hard, until he goes away. I don't know what to do with myself then. Neither does Frank, apparently. He sits rigidly on his bed, and I sit on mine, opposite him with seven or eight feet between us.
"We have to keep this secret, Gee," Frank worries, a deep crease appearing between his eyes. How he transfers from being so immature to so anxious so quickly defies me, but I just shrug and forget it.
"I know, Frankie, I know."
"I wish it wasn't so complicated..."
"But it is, though, isn't it? And we have to deal with that. It's our faults. We deal with the consequences."
He nods at this, but frowns. "I love you..."
It's my turn to nod. "Yes." It's all I can choke out. Because what do you say to that? I love him, and I know he loves me.
But...what was it that he said? Just not enough. He doesn't love me enough. So what's the point in loving me at all? And what's the point of me loving him? What's the point in anything, fuck!
I glare hatefully at the floor for five or ten or six hundred minutes, and when I look up, I'm launched to my feet by some subconscious force, because I need to move, but I'm mesmerised. Frank coughed, I heard him. And now he's unconscious. And there's blood on his hands, and on his face, and on the bed. And he's coughing up blood and he's passed out, and I should do something before he...before he dies. He's dying, I think. And he loves me. And I love him. And what does anything matter anymore?
I wish it wasn't so complicated... He read my mind when he said that. He read my fucking mind.
