Influenza

Frank whimpered and rolled over in his bed, facing the wall, hating the feeling of sweat pouring over his scalp and face. With a deep grumble, he pulled the duvet off his body and sighed dramatically. He was sick with the stomach flu, and the spontaneous temperature changes were, quite simply, beginning to seriously piss him off. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them tightly; it helped to reduce the feelings of over digested food, rolling around rapidly in his stomach.

He eventually settled on the pillow covering his head and half of the duvet off, with a fan standing by, just in case. He knew he would turn cold again, because the tips of his toes were already tingling, numb from the constant alteration of heat. He concentrated on steadying his breathing.

“Assholes,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from the lack of liquids consumed. “Think they can leave me to rot while they spend the day with their wives.”

A slight frown graced his face in disgust. It was true. It was Valentine’s Day, after all. Bob, Mikey and Ray were all out, doing whatever with their wives, having fun. Not that he had a wife, anyway. But he would much rather spend the day playing video games or watching horror movies with Gerard, than being encaged in his bed, with no hope of recovering soon.

Although there was one good thing about being sick - when the 3 men returned from their dates, he, hopefully, wouldn’t be awake to hear the girlish moans from their individual hotel rooms.

They were on tour, currently parked somewhere in Arizona. They had one more night in the hotel, before they would probably have to cancel another show due to Frank’s illness. Then another 6 days spent on the bus, travelling to a different state.

How typical. He was the one who just had to fall ill, rendering him motionless in damp sheets for a whole week.

He muttered once more something about “assholes” before closing his eyes and drifting into a shaky, restless sleep.

He stood, camouflaged by the darkness, peering out into the pitch black abyss before him. It was raining; thunder and lightning growling and flashing somewhere in the distant, soaking his clothes and making him feel just a bit more insecure. Something was out there; something was lurking, lingering, spying in the darkness. He could feel it.

Had he been here before? Why was he here? His vision, blurred by the mist and rain, was rapidly failing him as he stared, unseeingly, into the dark nothingness.

A clock chimed; counting quickly in his head, he decided it was already midnight. Where was he? Why wasn’t anyone helping him?

“Gerard?” he called out the name of his best friend, knowing the chances of Gerard appearing next to him were impossible. “Ray? Mikey? Bob?” There was a hint of urgency in his voice as he cried their names. Why weren’t they coming? They always came!

A twig snapped from behind him. He jumped, spinning around in a second, plunging his hands inside his pockets, hoping to find something, anything, to defend himself.

Footsteps, soggy and wet, squelching in the mud. Whispers of voices - what were they saying? Finding nothing to protect himself with, he began edging backwards; only to find that he was already backed against the trunk of a tree.

“Frank?” The thing whispered his name. A slight shiver went up his spine at the ghostly hiss; this was it, he was going to die.

“Frank?” It called again, more closer than before. He panicked, ready to run, if anything came.

“Frankie?” It called his nickname, edging more closer. The sounds of wet footsteps were now replaced by the sound of a quick, quiet scuttling. “Frank!” The voice sounded familiar. He began to thrash, hoping to stop whatever was approaching.

“No!” he cried; gone was his usual soft Jersey accent, substituted instead by a petrified squeak of fear.

“No! Please!” When the thing didn’t stop, he shouted, “Gee, this isn’t funny! Please!”

“Frank!” It called; it was so familiar. He knew that voice. But he couldn’t put his finger on it. Suddenly, the scuttling stopped. The only sound was the one of the thunder and rain, rumbling in the heavens and drenching the ground in a layer of puddles.

And then he saw it.

A giant spider, the size of a large coffee table, stood before him, its eight legs blazing out on either side of its hairy, terrifying body. It stared at Frank with its many eyes, watching him as he went white with shock, hyperventilating at the sight.

Slowly, menacingly, the spider took one step closer to his quivering form.

“For God’s sake, Frank! Wake up!” He was jerked awake by the force of a pillow hitting him on the head. He took one look at his surroundings, seeing he was not in a forest with a giant arachnid, and let out a slow sigh of relief. He sat up, banging his forehead, not noticing the man who stood in front of him.

Gerard jumped backwards, swearing and stumbling as he moved hastily away from Frank.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, rubbing his forehead, a scowl on his face. “Frank, you were having a nightmare. I thought it best to wake you.” He grumbled, a few seconds later, his hand no longer pressed against his forehead; his voice was still sour though.

“What? A nightmare?” Frank shook his head, embarrassed. He hadn’t had nightmares since he was 12. He was 24, he wasn’t a child. He lowered his head to the floor, letting his ebony hair fall around his face.

It was then he realised that he still had the stomach flu.

Within a second, he jumped to his feet, tripping over them as he ran towards the bathroom that joined onto his bedroom; he knelt quickly, emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He retched as the sour stench reached his nostrils, making him puke even more.

After a few minutes, he felt drained. He flopped onto the cold bathroom floor, taking deep breaths to ensure he didn’t suddenly start throwing up again. When he was certain, he performed his usual routine of flushing the toilet, brushing his teeth, and making his way back to his bedroom for more sleeping.

But he was surprised to see Gerard standing in the doorway, carrying a tray of what looked like hot soup and a glass of water. Shooting the guitarist a blank look, Gerard simply nodded in the direction of the bed, and placed the tray on the bedside table.

“Sit.” He said bluntly.

Frank obliged, wondering what Gerard was doing. The singer perched himself on the edge of the bed, picked up the tray and handed it, steadily, over to Frank. When he did not start eating immediately, Gerard prompted him.

“Eat, you’ll feel better.”

Still staring uncertainly at his best friend, Frank picked up the spoon, and began to taste the meal. He immediately felt a wave of relief surge through his veins, and, with more confidence, finished the meal quickly, dropping the spoon into the empty bowl.

Gerard smiled sweetly at him, “Good.”

He heaved the tray from Frank’s lap, and disappeared into the next room for several seconds. When he returned, he was carrying a damp cloth and was smiling nicely.

What surprised Frank the most was not that Gerard began wiping his forehead gently, but that he was slowly, unknowingly, edging closer. He could count the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, admire the way his hair fell slightly into his right eye, see every concealed freckle on his cheeks. He was too busy, mesmerised by the sudden closeness between the two, that he didn’t realise Gerard’s completion of wiping his forehead.

“Better?” He asked, smirking slightly.

“W-What? Ye-” he cleared his throat, and started again, “Yeah, thanks.” He smiled at the man, and moved to stand, but Gerard pushed him down again.

“Frank, you just threw up. If you start walking around, you’ll do it again. Just lay down, ok?”

Frank, too shocked from their earlier intimacy to respond properly, only nodded and pulled the covers over him.

For a while it was silent, Gerard sitting on the edge of the bed, staring absently out of the window, Frank watching him, confused. What was that earlier encounter? And why could he not look away? Why was he completely starstruck by the beautifulness that was his best friend?

“You should go to sleep. You won’t have any more nightmares.” He suddenly said, snapping Frank back to reality. How long had they been sitting there in comfortable silence, just absorbed in both of their thoughts?

“How do you know?” He didn’t mean to whisper, but it seemed only fitting that he not ruin the perfect quiet that was in the air.

“Because you have what you needed now. The nightmares won’t come back, Frank.” He smiled mysteriously.

“What did I need?”

He didn’t answer the question; instead, he leaned forward hastily and pressed his lips to Frank’s, capturing them both in a sweet, albeit passionate kiss. It lingered for only seconds, before Gerard pulled away slowly.

“That.” He said simply, but there was the small hint of a blush rising up his cheeks. Frank giggled happily, and fully laid down, turning on his side once again. The weight at the end of the bed lifted, and Gerard walked to the door, opening it slightly.

“Night, Gerard.” Frank mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow. Gerard chuckled lightly in the doorway.

“Night, Frank. Sweet dreams.”

He stayed long enough to hear Frank say something like “I will now” before he smirked, and closed the door behind him.