Passing Looks and Disappointed Faces

[Frank's P.O.V.]

It wasn't a dream this time; it couldn't have been a dream this time. There was an annoying beeping in the air, steady, timed. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. It wouldn't stop. There was pain, inexplicable pain and bright lights. The lights were too bright; it should be night, shouldn't it? There was no scent of familiarity, no sound that would mean that it had all been a dream again, just a recurring nightmare. Instead the air was filled with the scent of disinfectant, with the horrible stinging smell of strong cleaners, of a hopelessly sterile environment in which disease had no chance of survival. Kill the virus before it spreads, prevent infection, prevent lawsuits. It was too silent, only the repetitive sound of the countless machines sounded, multiplying in the still air. Torture.

It was difficult to move, to even attempt to face the sterile surroundings. Somehow, I managed to open my eyes, met instantly with the blinding, overhead, fluorescent lights. It was too bright, too clean, too painful. A soft moan escaped my lips, a sudden throbbing beginning to spread across my arm, the lights bearing down on me, making everything much too hot. I struggled to open my eyes again, to try to gauge the immediate surroundings once more, to figure out where the hell I was. After a few futile struggles, I could finally open my eyes, blinking rapidly in a vain attempt to adapt to the harsh lights. There was an overall sensation of heaviness, of grogginess that came after so much sedated sleep.

The room was stark, white walls gleaming, tiled floor scrubbed to perfection. The machines were state of the art, gleaming silver and beige in the overhead lights, every detail in sharp relief due to the lights. Those accursed lights. They wouldn't dim, stubbornly shedding such a harsh light over everything in the place. I wasn't alone. The room was occupied with more beds, two rows of thin cots pressed against the walls, facing each other. Monitors were beeping all over the place though there were a couple of empty beds and no one was speaking. Apparently the air wasn't contaminated here; there was no one sick with illness, only with injuries.

The reason for my appearance in this place was a bit slow to come by; there had to be something that had vaulted me into this stupid place. Crash. It suddenly became clear; everything suddenly made sense. It was painfully obvious why we were here and a roaring sound suddenly became quite apparent, painfully drowning out every other sound in the accursed room. Fear began welling up in me along with concern. "Gerard." Where was he? He had to be around here; he had to be fine, perfectly fine. I struggled into a sitting position, eyes wide as I searched the room frantically with my gaze. There were curtains drawn around most of the beds, obscuring the occupants from view. Where was he?

It was silent, too silent and it was frustrating and I needed out. Growling furiously, I stared down at my arms, noting how one was wrapped in a cast and how the other was connect by needles and tubes to the machines surrounding me. I needed to find Gerard now, no matter what. Fiercely, so that I would not regret it, I ripped out the taped down plastic, the needles glinting bright with crimson. The world was filled with sound suddenly, alarms blaring in the distance and it was too loud. It's too loud. There was a purpose though, and that purpose urged me to get up, to find Gerard and assure myself that he's fine, that he's alive. There's hate suddenly, hate for my surroundings, hate for the machines that flat line, that blare out in the otherwise silence.

I need to find him; I can't just leave him. My shaky legs could barely hold me up and I crashed to the ground, blue-green hospital gown fluttering down around me, broken wings draped over my frail body. No one stirred at the crash; everyone seemed to be in a comatose state, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. And it wouldn't be surprising if they were; it was a hospital, wasn't it? The frantic desperation returned again as I struggled to my feet, searching the room with my gaze yet again to see if his familiar face would have appeared. No one stirred. It's too quiet, even with the alarms blaring at the monitors sounding.

I moved, beginning to rip at the blue curtains obscuring the beds, the fabric coming apart in my hands, ripping, ripping. I'm frantic, trying to find him, needing to know if he was fine. Footsteps rang out in the corridor, people rushing to find out if one of their patients has coded. Time is running out, running low for me to find him. My efforts doubled, the fabric being pushed aside, torn in my desperate hands. A shriek of triumph escaped my throat as the footsteps got louder and my hands finally ripped back the last remaining flash of blue. His ink black hair was fanned out on the pillow, dirty and matted and it wasn't him; it couldn't be him.

Everything seemed to be at a standstill as I collapsed on a chair that had been pulled up beside his bed, eyes locked only on his face. I reached out a trembling hand, gently, ever-so-tenderly, placing it atop his. He was silent, face set in a resemblance of peace, of rest. Throat constricting, I looked at him, gently grabbing his hand with my own, gently running my fingers over his palm, over the back of his hand. He didn't stir and I continued moving my hands, running them higher, carefully avoiding the needle stuck in his arm, carefully avoiding the bandages obscuring his pale skin. My vision was obscured, the door banging open as nurses and a doctor appeared, rushing, rushing. Time was slowing down and it made absolutely no sense to me why they were hurrying, assessing the vacancy in the bed I had previously occupied.

I knew it would only be a matter of seconds before they noticed the destruction I had caused, until they noticed I was seated in plain view beside another patient. I needed to lengthen the time with him; he needed to wake up. I kept as quiet as I possibly could with tears running up over my eyes, trickling down my cheeks. His sheets were so still, crinkling under my wandering fingers, as I bunched them in a tight fist, gritting my teeth so that the pitiful little whimpers wouldn't escape. They found me. It wasn't difficult; I was in plain view, the only person sitting in the room, the only person that wasn't asleep. Comatose states.

They wrestled me, hands gripping my arms, pulling them back harshly from his still frame. I struggled frantically; they couldn't take me away from him, not now, not when I had just found him. They didn't care for my feeble protests, didn't care for the blood running down my skin from the aggravated wounds. They simply pulled me back, throwing me back down on the cot I had abandoned. They ignored my shrieks, my pleas to let me get back to him, to tell me what was wrong with him, why he didn't respond. They simply did their job efficiently, sedating me in a rare moment of calm, when I was breathing hard, too exhausted to fight back much longer. I gave up all pretense of fighting, watching them through half-lidded eyes as they hooked me back onto all the machines, as they inspected me, examining me as if I were a lab rat. It all faded to black soon enough, just as they wanted.

A few hours later, the monitors were beeping again, the lights were shining so brightly overhead. There was a nurse bustling around, dressed in patterned scrubs, picking up clipboards and jotting down notes. She seemed surprised to see that I was awake, a smile curving her dark lips. I hoped she wouldn't speak to me; I didn't want to speak to her. Instead, she walked towards me, grabbing the clipboard at the foot of my hospital cot, inspecting it briefly. "Feisty one, aren't you?" she said conversationally, flicking rapidly through the papers on the clipboard, pulling out a pen from her breast pocket to jot down something. "Quite a fighter even with a broken arm." I decided to ignore her little comments, deciding that I didn't want to listen to her talk about me.

"How is he?" I asked, voice hoarse, using my good arm to pull myself into a sitting position, glaring pointedly at her.

"What's your name?"

"What does that matter?"

"You had no identification on you and no one has reported a boy with your description missing. What's your name?"

"Frank Iero," I growled, wanting to get this out of the way quickly so that she could answer me. I knew she would stubbornly persist at the matter, ignoring my requests, until I spoke.

"How do you spell that?" I quickly spelled it out, trying to inquire about his state again. She cut me off. "How old are you?"

"None of your business."

"Frank, do not make this more difficult than it needs to be. Age?"

"What day is it?"

"What does that matter?"

"Just tell me the damned day."

"Today is October 25."

"Seventeen. How is he?"

"Whom?" she inquired and I felt like throttling her, felt like wrapping the IV tube around her insolent neck and wringing her until she fell dead on the floor. Shaking the thoughts from my mind, I grit my teeth.

"Gerard. Gerard Way. The goddamned guy I was sitting next to before you all pulled me away. Him." She whistled softly under her breath, replacing the clipboard, looking up at me as if she was trying to figure out the best way to phrase something. Dread instantly crawled into my stomach, its stench as horrible as if a rotting corpse had been tossed in my insides. No, no; he had to be fine. He had to be recuperating just fine; he was just asleep, that's all. He was exhausted and sleeping the day away because he was feeling a bit tired. He would wake up later and walk over to my bed and talk to me and make me laugh because that was what he did. He made me smile and he made me feel warm and comfortable and safe. He was my protective shell, my security blanket.

"I'm sorry, honey." Don't say those stupid little endearments. "We're not entirely sure how he's going to pull through." Don't fill me with false hopes; just tell me the damned truth. "He hasn't woken. It appeared he hit his head against the dashboard and cracked his skull." Don't tell me; he can't die, he can't die. "One of his ribs punctured a lung." He can't die. "He is currently stable but we're not certain how he will progress." He can't die. "He could sustain permanent damage if he survives." He can't die. "We're not certain. We're still in the process of running tests." He can't die. Her voice faded; her words no longer made any sense to me. It was just a rush, a roaring of meaningless sounds compiled into strings of words falling out of her stupid, stupid mouth. He can't die. "I'm sorry." He can't die.