Accidentally on Purpose
Jul. 14th, 2011 12:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rocketcockTitle: Accidentally on Purpose
Author:rocketcock (originally known as howxixdisappear )
Prompt: 65-scream
Pairing: Gerard/Frank
Rating: R
Summary: Gerard has a disturbing habit
Disclaimer: Not real.
Warnings: Swearing. Self-cannobolism. Addiction.
It’s like a horrible, deadly disease. A disgusting pus-filled infection that won’t go away no matter how hard he tried to dispose of it. The want- the need for it. It keeps him awake at night, all night long. It keeps him from concentrating during the day until he gets it. And he does try; he tries so hard to pull away from it. To stop loving it. But something won’t let him. He can’t let go.
________
He had never seen anybody so angry as Frank was when he saw… when he discovered the secret. No one had ever screamed, really screamed, at him before. No one ever cried and hit him over and over, telling him how fucking sick he was. It hurt. Gerard isn’t sure why, but it hurt a lot. He thought Frank would understand and would maybe try to help him. Teach him to let go. But Frank screamed.
Could Gerard really blame him? No… he should have expected it. He did expect it, deep down. The blood…all the blood. Drenching the walls, the white tiled floor, the bathtub, the toilet, the sink, the mirror, the door, the window…drenching Gerard’s body and clothes and hair. And the cuts and gashes. The hole in his side. Knives, scissors, razors, glass; all of it sprawled across the floor.
“I d-didn’t m-m-mean to! I didn’t mean to!” He sobbed, entangling his hands in his hair and pulling hard while shaking his head frantically.
“-SICK! YOU’RE FUCKING SICK-”
“-Frankie! I’m s-s-sorry! I didn’t mean to!”
Frank picked up a knife and threw it, growing more upset when Gerard didn’t even seem to notice it pierce his skin. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” He yelled, holding back tears. “Are you fucking…crazy? Are you crazy?!”
________
They try to fix him. He knows they try. But he can’t help but hate them that day in the bathroom when he accidentally trips and cuts his arm on the counter and sees blood. He can’t help but hate them when the old familiar lust to see himself inside out comes back stronger then ever. And he hates himself more then he hates them when Frank finds out. When he sees that ashamed look in Frank’s eyes. He hangs his head and whispers “I didn’t mean to,” because he really didn’t. It was an accident. Was it really all that bad? He only made the cut a little bit deeper. He only scratched off a little bit of skin, and he stopped himself and found a nurse when he started to bite.
“Do you not understand how disgusting it is, Gerard? Do you not realize that you’re practically cannibalizing yourself?”
“No I’m not-!”
“You fucking bite your goddamn skin off!” Gerard flinches and backs away, his eyes still glued to the floor as he repeats himself:
“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…”
_________
Frank gently ran his hand up and down Gerard’s arm, frowning at the long cut on his forearm. “Baby, when’d that happen?” He asked. Gerard jerked his arm away and slid off the counter he was sitting on. He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a can of diet coke.
“It was an accident.”
__________
The color red makes Frank feel sick. Not really any red though, but that kind of dark red, crimson. The kind of red that stays behind his skin. The kind that belongs behind skin. But it doesn't always stay where it belong.
The kind of red that continues to stain the walls and floor of the upstairs bathroom, immune to the bottles and bottles and bottles of assorted soaps and cleaners that desperately fight to destroy them. They're invisible to everyone else; everyone else can go in and out of that horrible room without feeling even the slightest bit of discomfort. But Frank knows it's there. The image of Gerard completely covered in his own blood still lingers in his mind like a fresh wound. One that will, like some of the wounds on Gerard's torn body, never heal.
And every time he creeps into the upstairs bathroom, he sees red. Red everywhere, covering everything in sight. He sees flesh- clumps, maybe whole layers- draping over the side of the tub or laying in a pile on the floor. And Gerard. Sometimes he sees Gerard covered in blood and gashes, the skin torn off completely on his left arm, looking as if a vicious animal got a hold of it. Frank knows though that the only animal ever there was Gerard.
His Gerard.
And so the bathroom door is always closed. During the day, while he's at the hospital with Gerard. At night, when he has those horrible, terrible nightmares.
He hates being at home, alone except for the sickening thought: Where else did he do it? In bed? The walk in closet? The living room, the kitchen, the car? Did he do something right in front of Frank without him noticing? Frank wants to throw up. How long had Gerard been doing this?
How long has Frank been in in love with a psycho?
_________
Gerard's favorite "tool", besides his teeth of course, was his scissors. He liked to puncture the skin, then slide the blade in there and cut cut cut. And when he was done with that, he liked to bit. He liked the way it tasted. That somewhat bland taste of the outside of his skin. The metallic taste of blood. To him, it was better then sex.
Way better then sex.
It made him moan louder, it made his heart beat faster. It left him in a world of pain, but it left him wanting more. It made him sweat, and it made his eyes roll back as he screamed out in both pleasure and agony. To him, it was the perfect mixture of feelings.
Sometimes, dressing his "work", hiding them, hurt worse then making them in the first place. He didn't want to have to hide it. The way he saw it, the scars and gashes were his body art. Like Frank's tattoos. But he knew Frank, and he knew his boyfriend wouldn't appreciate his body art. He knew it would be bad if it was discovered.
"It was an accident," That was Gerard's automatic response whenever Frank would happen to come across a scar or scab. It was. It really was. He never meant to get started...he didn't even remember how it did start. And whenever he'd see that worried expression appear on his boyfriends face, he'd tell himself, 'I won't do it again.'
But something always happened. And he, not being as strong as he led on, always gave in to the temptation.
________
"There's blood in the sink," Frank said bluntly, not looking at Gerard. "What happened?" He thought he already knew. After seeing that first scar, he was sure that he knew. The answer the all the questions was quite clear, and he was one hundred percent sure that Gerard was cutting himself. But he wanted Gerard to admit it on his own.
"It was an accident," Came the well over-used reply. "I didn't mean to do it."
"Do what?" Gerard glanced up at Frank, then stared back at the television. Gerard loved Spongebob; it was one of his favorite shows.
"I fell and got cut on the mirror." Though most people would take his excuse to be complete bullshit, it wasn't only believable, but true. Gerard was not, by any means, well balanced. He tripped and fell constantly, even when he was standing completely still. As for the mirror, there was a sharp edge. He, on many occasions, would suddenly lose his balance and fall into it, hitting and cutting his arm on it.
He didn't mean to let himself get carried away. His mind was screaming DON'T DO IT, but the rest of him needed it so desperately and before he knew it, he had sank to his knees and his teeth where slowly gnawing at the broken skin.
______
"I think I'm getting better, Frankie." His voice is so quiet, so shaky and frail. So much unlike the Gerard Frank used to know...or thought he knew. He's scared, always scared. Scared of never getting better, of losing Frank and having to stay in the loony bin for the rest of his life, forever doomed to padded rooms, straight jackets, and ugly old nurses who either treat him as if he's a small child or a big hairy monster that just crawled out from under the bed.
"That's good..." Frank forces out a smile. He's not happy anymore, and Gerard knows it. He also knows that it's his fault.
"I scraped up my knee yesterday, and I got a nurse almost right away."
"Almost?"
"I stared at it for a minute...but I didn't do anything," He sits on his bed and hugs his knees to his chest. "The doctors think that if I can keep it up for another month or two, then I'll be able to go home. They think I'm gonna be okay."
"Th...that's good." Frank says again, stammering slightly. The thought of Gerard getting better, completely better, seems almost impossible. But Gerard's eyes look so bright, so full of hope and want, and Frank thinks that maybe if the doctors are as good as they say they are, then maybe Gerard really will be okay.
Hesitantly, he moves from his usual spot in the doorway and walks over to the bed. He sits down, and he wraps his arms around Gerard for the first time in months. He runs his hands up and down Gerard's arms, feeling for fresh wounds.
There are none.
______
The car ride to the "hospital" was dead silent. Not even the radio, which almost always played, was on. Tears stood in Frank's eyes. Angry tears, hating Gerard for doing this. Never wanting to see him again after this because he was sick and disgusting and deserved to be put away. But he was sad too, and part of him felt awful for making Gerard go because Gerard's always hated hospitals and was convinced that they were the epitimy of evil. He was scared of them.
Frank thought about how ironic it was that while Gerard could tear himself apart with various sharp objects and even his own teeth, hospitals and anything associated with them were his greatest fear.
He stopped the car in front of the entrance and stared blankly at the steering wheel. "I'm not going in with you." He said, then flinched as a panicked sound escaped Gerard's throat. A sound that didn't even sound human.
"How long do I have to stay?" He whimpered, his entire body trembling.
"Until you're better."
"But...what if I never get better? What if I can't?" His breath was coming out in short gasps. He hadn't had a panic attack in years, not since he was a kid.
"Then you can't ever come home." His heart sinks to his stomach and explodes. Frank doesn't seem to care. "Go."
And that was it. No 'I love you,' no 'I promise I'll visit.' Nothing. Gerard opened the door and slide out of his seat, glancing back at Frank painfully. He didn't notice, refusing to look up from the wheel.
______
"I love you." Gerard jumps as he feels Frank's strong arms wrap around him from behind. Frank laughs and kisses his cheek. "I'm so glad you're home..."
He smiles and turns around, hugging Frank and not wanting to let go. "I'm sorry..." He whispers, burying his face in the crook of his boyfriend's neck. He wants to kiss Frank. He wants to be a normal boyfriend. But he's scared. He's scared of tasting Frank's skin and going back to the way he was before.
Frank knows that his Gerard is ruined, half-dead, in hiding and afraid to ever come back. Living in fear. He's determined to fix what the doctors couldn't. He wants his Gerard back- the one who is neither cannibalistic nor scared of being a real boyfriend.
After dinner, Gerard helps Frank wash the dishes. Frank wasn't thinking when he let Gerard clean a steak knife, and it's not until his hand slips and he cuts himself that Frank realizes what a mistake it was. Tears immediately well up in Gerard eyes and he starts apologizing over and over and over. It scares him that he still likes it. He isn't supposed to like it anymore.
Frank takes his hand and leads him into the bathroom, where the first-aid kit is. He wraps a bandage around Gerard's arm and hugs him.
"Gee, it's okay." He says, rocking him slightly. Gerard shakes his head, almost frantically.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," He sobs repeatedly. "I-it was an accident."
Author:
rocketcock (originally known as howxixdisappear )Prompt: 65-scream
Pairing: Gerard/Frank
Rating: R
Summary: Gerard has a disturbing habit
Disclaimer: Not real.
Warnings: Swearing. Self-cannobolism. Addiction.
It’s like a horrible, deadly disease. A disgusting pus-filled infection that won’t go away no matter how hard he tried to dispose of it. The want- the need for it. It keeps him awake at night, all night long. It keeps him from concentrating during the day until he gets it. And he does try; he tries so hard to pull away from it. To stop loving it. But something won’t let him. He can’t let go.
He had never seen anybody so angry as Frank was when he saw… when he discovered the secret. No one had ever screamed, really screamed, at him before. No one ever cried and hit him over and over, telling him how fucking sick he was. It hurt. Gerard isn’t sure why, but it hurt a lot. He thought Frank would understand and would maybe try to help him. Teach him to let go. But Frank screamed.
Could Gerard really blame him? No… he should have expected it. He did expect it, deep down. The blood…all the blood. Drenching the walls, the white tiled floor, the bathtub, the toilet, the sink, the mirror, the door, the window…drenching Gerard’s body and clothes and hair. And the cuts and gashes. The hole in his side. Knives, scissors, razors, glass; all of it sprawled across the floor.
“I d-didn’t m-m-mean to! I didn’t mean to!” He sobbed, entangling his hands in his hair and pulling hard while shaking his head frantically.
“-SICK! YOU’RE FUCKING SICK-”
“-Frankie! I’m s-s-sorry! I didn’t mean to!”
Frank picked up a knife and threw it, growing more upset when Gerard didn’t even seem to notice it pierce his skin. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” He yelled, holding back tears. “Are you fucking…crazy? Are you crazy?!”
They try to fix him. He knows they try. But he can’t help but hate them that day in the bathroom when he accidentally trips and cuts his arm on the counter and sees blood. He can’t help but hate them when the old familiar lust to see himself inside out comes back stronger then ever. And he hates himself more then he hates them when Frank finds out. When he sees that ashamed look in Frank’s eyes. He hangs his head and whispers “I didn’t mean to,” because he really didn’t. It was an accident. Was it really all that bad? He only made the cut a little bit deeper. He only scratched off a little bit of skin, and he stopped himself and found a nurse when he started to bite.
“Do you not understand how disgusting it is, Gerard? Do you not realize that you’re practically cannibalizing yourself?”
“No I’m not-!”
“You fucking bite your goddamn skin off!” Gerard flinches and backs away, his eyes still glued to the floor as he repeats himself:
“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…”
Frank gently ran his hand up and down Gerard’s arm, frowning at the long cut on his forearm. “Baby, when’d that happen?” He asked. Gerard jerked his arm away and slid off the counter he was sitting on. He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a can of diet coke.
“It was an accident.”
The color red makes Frank feel sick. Not really any red though, but that kind of dark red, crimson. The kind of red that stays behind his skin. The kind that belongs behind skin. But it doesn't always stay where it belong.
The kind of red that continues to stain the walls and floor of the upstairs bathroom, immune to the bottles and bottles and bottles of assorted soaps and cleaners that desperately fight to destroy them. They're invisible to everyone else; everyone else can go in and out of that horrible room without feeling even the slightest bit of discomfort. But Frank knows it's there. The image of Gerard completely covered in his own blood still lingers in his mind like a fresh wound. One that will, like some of the wounds on Gerard's torn body, never heal.
And every time he creeps into the upstairs bathroom, he sees red. Red everywhere, covering everything in sight. He sees flesh- clumps, maybe whole layers- draping over the side of the tub or laying in a pile on the floor. And Gerard. Sometimes he sees Gerard covered in blood and gashes, the skin torn off completely on his left arm, looking as if a vicious animal got a hold of it. Frank knows though that the only animal ever there was Gerard.
His Gerard.
And so the bathroom door is always closed. During the day, while he's at the hospital with Gerard. At night, when he has those horrible, terrible nightmares.
He hates being at home, alone except for the sickening thought: Where else did he do it? In bed? The walk in closet? The living room, the kitchen, the car? Did he do something right in front of Frank without him noticing? Frank wants to throw up. How long had Gerard been doing this?
How long has Frank been in in love with a psycho?
Gerard's favorite "tool", besides his teeth of course, was his scissors. He liked to puncture the skin, then slide the blade in there and cut cut cut. And when he was done with that, he liked to bit. He liked the way it tasted. That somewhat bland taste of the outside of his skin. The metallic taste of blood. To him, it was better then sex.
Way better then sex.
It made him moan louder, it made his heart beat faster. It left him in a world of pain, but it left him wanting more. It made him sweat, and it made his eyes roll back as he screamed out in both pleasure and agony. To him, it was the perfect mixture of feelings.
Sometimes, dressing his "work", hiding them, hurt worse then making them in the first place. He didn't want to have to hide it. The way he saw it, the scars and gashes were his body art. Like Frank's tattoos. But he knew Frank, and he knew his boyfriend wouldn't appreciate his body art. He knew it would be bad if it was discovered.
"It was an accident," That was Gerard's automatic response whenever Frank would happen to come across a scar or scab. It was. It really was. He never meant to get started...he didn't even remember how it did start. And whenever he'd see that worried expression appear on his boyfriends face, he'd tell himself, 'I won't do it again.'
But something always happened. And he, not being as strong as he led on, always gave in to the temptation.
"There's blood in the sink," Frank said bluntly, not looking at Gerard. "What happened?" He thought he already knew. After seeing that first scar, he was sure that he knew. The answer the all the questions was quite clear, and he was one hundred percent sure that Gerard was cutting himself. But he wanted Gerard to admit it on his own.
"It was an accident," Came the well over-used reply. "I didn't mean to do it."
"Do what?" Gerard glanced up at Frank, then stared back at the television. Gerard loved Spongebob; it was one of his favorite shows.
"I fell and got cut on the mirror." Though most people would take his excuse to be complete bullshit, it wasn't only believable, but true. Gerard was not, by any means, well balanced. He tripped and fell constantly, even when he was standing completely still. As for the mirror, there was a sharp edge. He, on many occasions, would suddenly lose his balance and fall into it, hitting and cutting his arm on it.
He didn't mean to let himself get carried away. His mind was screaming DON'T DO IT, but the rest of him needed it so desperately and before he knew it, he had sank to his knees and his teeth where slowly gnawing at the broken skin.
"I think I'm getting better, Frankie." His voice is so quiet, so shaky and frail. So much unlike the Gerard Frank used to know...or thought he knew. He's scared, always scared. Scared of never getting better, of losing Frank and having to stay in the loony bin for the rest of his life, forever doomed to padded rooms, straight jackets, and ugly old nurses who either treat him as if he's a small child or a big hairy monster that just crawled out from under the bed.
"That's good..." Frank forces out a smile. He's not happy anymore, and Gerard knows it. He also knows that it's his fault.
"I scraped up my knee yesterday, and I got a nurse almost right away."
"Almost?"
"I stared at it for a minute...but I didn't do anything," He sits on his bed and hugs his knees to his chest. "The doctors think that if I can keep it up for another month or two, then I'll be able to go home. They think I'm gonna be okay."
"Th...that's good." Frank says again, stammering slightly. The thought of Gerard getting better, completely better, seems almost impossible. But Gerard's eyes look so bright, so full of hope and want, and Frank thinks that maybe if the doctors are as good as they say they are, then maybe Gerard really will be okay.
Hesitantly, he moves from his usual spot in the doorway and walks over to the bed. He sits down, and he wraps his arms around Gerard for the first time in months. He runs his hands up and down Gerard's arms, feeling for fresh wounds.
There are none.
The car ride to the "hospital" was dead silent. Not even the radio, which almost always played, was on. Tears stood in Frank's eyes. Angry tears, hating Gerard for doing this. Never wanting to see him again after this because he was sick and disgusting and deserved to be put away. But he was sad too, and part of him felt awful for making Gerard go because Gerard's always hated hospitals and was convinced that they were the epitimy of evil. He was scared of them.
Frank thought about how ironic it was that while Gerard could tear himself apart with various sharp objects and even his own teeth, hospitals and anything associated with them were his greatest fear.
He stopped the car in front of the entrance and stared blankly at the steering wheel. "I'm not going in with you." He said, then flinched as a panicked sound escaped Gerard's throat. A sound that didn't even sound human.
"How long do I have to stay?" He whimpered, his entire body trembling.
"Until you're better."
"But...what if I never get better? What if I can't?" His breath was coming out in short gasps. He hadn't had a panic attack in years, not since he was a kid.
"Then you can't ever come home." His heart sinks to his stomach and explodes. Frank doesn't seem to care. "Go."
And that was it. No 'I love you,' no 'I promise I'll visit.' Nothing. Gerard opened the door and slide out of his seat, glancing back at Frank painfully. He didn't notice, refusing to look up from the wheel.
"I love you." Gerard jumps as he feels Frank's strong arms wrap around him from behind. Frank laughs and kisses his cheek. "I'm so glad you're home..."
He smiles and turns around, hugging Frank and not wanting to let go. "I'm sorry..." He whispers, burying his face in the crook of his boyfriend's neck. He wants to kiss Frank. He wants to be a normal boyfriend. But he's scared. He's scared of tasting Frank's skin and going back to the way he was before.
Frank knows that his Gerard is ruined, half-dead, in hiding and afraid to ever come back. Living in fear. He's determined to fix what the doctors couldn't. He wants his Gerard back- the one who is neither cannibalistic nor scared of being a real boyfriend.
After dinner, Gerard helps Frank wash the dishes. Frank wasn't thinking when he let Gerard clean a steak knife, and it's not until his hand slips and he cuts himself that Frank realizes what a mistake it was. Tears immediately well up in Gerard eyes and he starts apologizing over and over and over. It scares him that he still likes it. He isn't supposed to like it anymore.
Frank takes his hand and leads him into the bathroom, where the first-aid kit is. He wraps a bandage around Gerard's arm and hugs him.
"Gee, it's okay." He says, rocking him slightly. Gerard shakes his head, almost frantically.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," He sobs repeatedly. "I-it was an accident."