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The light streaming through the windows is too bright, the drawn curtains doing little to block the radiant glow cascading across the bedsheets; the sheets are rumpled from restless nights and endless hours of tossing and turning, an itch under the skin never quite satiated.
There is a burning feeling in his chest, a heart torn apart in sinewy chunks; a burn that spreads through veins, licking at aching bones and tingling skin. The light burns, digging sharply into too-dilated eyes, singeing scarred skin.
He rolls over once more, mashing his face into the pillow damp with sweat, hands clawing at the comforter for some sense of grounding, his mind reeling from the way his throat doesn’t let in enough oxygen, breath wheezing with the desperate need for more. The vibrations from incoming messages and missed calls rattle the phone on the carpeted floor where it shook itself free from the nightstand. The vibrations feel like they rattle Frank’s brain loose from his skull, a pounding headache splitting a crack straight down the center to his spinal cord, through his ribcage and down to his tailbone, the agonizing stretch and tear of skin feeling unbearable.
The orange glow from the window threatens no reprieve, every nerve in his body alighting to ten times the sensation, the pain of it all folding in on itself. He groans and whimpers in agony and pulls his knees to his chest, begging for it to stop, whispering pleas for the pain to subside. It does nothing but spill the tears threatening his waterline. They streak down his pale and flushed face, a thin stream for the burning embers of the light to reflect in.
There is erratic knocking at the bedroom door that feels hundreds of feet away from where Frank lays curled in on his own suffering. The sound rings around the room and thrums painfully through his ears, reverberating off the walls and crashing loudly. There are words being spoken from the other side of the door, but he cannot decipher what they are, only the urgent mutterings of a panicked voice.
Fuck, Frank thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. He groans again, louder this time, a near-growl tearing through his throat as he chokes on his own blood. Where it’s coming from, he’s unsure.
The knocking increases in panic, quick and uneven raps to the wood booming through Frank’s skull, the voice raising in pitch, sounding near hysterics, he gauges. His own nervousness churns his gut disgustingly, bile threatening to burn his throat worse.
The doorknob begins to rattle viciously, sporadic thumps to the wood and threatening creaks of the boards tell him that someone is ramming the door with the full force of their body, attempting to burst it open by sheer force. He rolls over once more, whimpering painfully when the sheets scratch against his sensitive skin, the heat practically radiating off of his body and the blush that consumes it. His face is buried deep in a blanket, barely able to breath but uncaring of the raspy breaths he takes, his hands grasping whatever is in their path.
The bedroom door bursts open, heaving breaths echoing from whoever stands there now. Frank turns his head as much as he can muster, catching a glimpse of tangled dark hair before his vision whites out in another searing flash of pain, ripping another whimper and growl from deep in his chest. Whoever is here, he thinks he doesn’t want them to see this, to see him. He whines loudly at their approach, which he does not see, but senses, smells, the way they come closer. He senses the way their hands reach out, trembling, he smells the waves of fear coming off of them. They’re not scared of him, but for him. He relaxes the slightest bit at this understanding.
The voice is fading back into his senses, the muffled mumbles coming to a head, like his mind is wading through the sluggish incoherent words dripping from their mouth until he makes his way to the clear waters, climbing the shore and hearing the first clear, trembling word that leaves their mouth: “Frank!”
He whimpers loudly, writhing in the bedsheets, sweat soaked and uncomfortable, skin sticking to skin. The shaking hands of the person in the room, beside him, come out to touch his arms, holding tightly to the fabric of his damp t-shirt rucked up around his ribs. They move to hold his face in a searing touch, skin cool and hands shaking, whispering words to him while the fear coming from their body suffocates the room.
Frank digs his hands, his claws, into the skin of their arms, holding on tightly and whimpering pathetically at them, a sad and pained whine doing its best to translate what he’s currently feeling.
“Frank, Frankie. What’s happening, what’s wrong? What happened—you gotta tell me what happened, Frankie.” The voice shakes, tears threatening to spill evident in the way their words warble. The hands on his face hold tightly, one sliding to pet down his hair in what should be soothing motions. It eases the tightness in Frank’s chest by a fraction.
He’s too delirious on pain to pinpoint quite who is holding him and shaking for him, but there’s something deep in his senses that just knows that they can be trusted, that Frank cares deeply for this person. And that perhaps their presence and gentle touch prove that they care just as much.
“Frank, you can hear me, right? I don’t know what to do, Frankie, tell me what to do.” The tears spill, wetting the pale face above him as they drop onto their knees beside his bed, shuffling as close as possible, holding Frank gently despite the nails digging into his forearms, likely drawing blood with how tight Frank’s hold is, like they’re a lifeline. It feels like they are.
Frank shuffles his aching body closer to theirs, drawn like a magnet, mirroring their desire to get as close as possible. He turns his head in their hold, gasping at the cool touch to their burning skin, thumbs soothing under his hallowed, tired eyes, wiping away the tears. “Hurts,” Frank croaks so quietly, almost quiet enough that he feels he may have said it in his head.
“Oh, Frankie. Frank. What’s happening, tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do. I’m so worried.” Their voice shakes so tremendously Frank’s scared they may fall apart at any moment. He slides his hands to tangle in the front of their shirt, pulling himself closer until his face rests in the crook between their shoulder and neck. They smell terrified, anxious, like stale, week old clothes. His brain is too fogged to name names or place faces, but he knows this person. He knows he’s safe with their hands holding him together.
“I’unno,” Frank slurs, “Dunno what’s…what’s happening…” Another sharp pain shoots from his spine to the front of his eyes, his hands clawing at the skin of the chest beneath them as it feels like his spine is tearing open. “I don’t know,” he whimpers through the ache in his jaw, restraining the desire to bite into the fabric of the shirt beneath his teeth and muffle his cries.
Frank cries out, practically, literally, howling with the pain of his bones shifting in ways they shouldn’t under his skin, the searing pain rippling through his body, panting into the crook of the other’s neck, leaving a trail of drool as he lifts his head, hands sliding up to grip cautiously at their throat, a silent beg on his lips. His hands feel slick with blood, and all-too suddenly the stench of iron is strong, coating the bedsheets and the front of their shirt. It feels like his ribs are snapping open and reshaping themselves, the sickening crunch echoing in the small room.
“Frank, Frankie. Frankie, stay with me, please, I’m here. Look at me,” The voice begs, pulling him as close as they can, not minding the blood coating everything in a tangy, deep red. “Y’gotta stay with me, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help you. Please stay with me.” They’re crying now, full on sobbing with the way they’re choking on their words, so scared of what they’re seeing. Frank can’t even begin to imagine what this, whatever it is, looks like. The way he must look, shaking and clammy and scared, so fucking scared.
It feels like his teeth are being ripped out of his mouth and he’s being burned alive and cut open, dissected, a premonition to a future autopsy, perhaps. Or a sickening metaphor for vulnerability. Fuck that.
God, does he feel vulnerable right now, clawing his bloodied hands at the person’s skin, probably scratching them raw and mixing their blood. He wonders in the back of his mind if they have the same blood type, if it’d coagulate and mix grossly, or blend smoothly, running together in one bright red stream.
This pain is making him think of gross metaphors for human compatibility while he bleeds and drools all over his possibly closest friend like a dog. Like a fucking dog. That can not be what’s happening right now. He heaves a pained breath and attempts to crack open his eyes, ignoring how all he sees is static, a fuzzy feeling in his mind, clawing at the recesses of his consciousness. He lets out a hysterical little laugh, chest shaking with the breathy pants of laughter, not enough oxygen in his lungs or his brain.
“‘M sorry,” Frank whimpers, “I’m—I’m so s’rry,” he groans helplessly, sensing that his face is mere centimeters from the other person’s, breathing right in their face, exchanging air like it’s not making Frank dizzy. “I d—I’unno wha’t’do…” His words melt together while his mouth fills with blood, the sharpness of new, changed teeth pressing sharp into his gums, his lips. He wants to bite the skin holding him so gently—not in any malicious way, just to taste, just to feel them. He wants to crawl into this person’s skin.
His head is spinning now and the queasy feeling is fighting to revolt inside his intestines but he pushes it down, gently clamping his jaws down on the skin of theirs, tongue laving at the bone beneath his teeth. He whimpers at the feeling, the want to be so close to this person, held in one piece while his body tears itself apart and reshapes into something it was never meant to become. He feels terrified with it, with the pain, the want, the blood coating everything he can feel. There’s the metallic taste of blood beneath his tongue but he knows it’s not caused from his bite, but from himself, his hands tearing themselves to make room for claws.
The hands on his face grip tighter, a whimper torn through the throat of them instead of him this time. A whimper of fear for what’s to come, but with an undertone of similar want wafting in the way they smell. Neither of them know what’s going on, but perhaps the person gripping him so tightly has caught on to what Frank’s inarticulate mind cannot follow.
“Stay with me,” the person breathes, voice trembling. “Frank. Frankie, don’t go.” Their voice is nearly inaudible with how quiet they whisper the words, mouth pressed almost to the ear they speak to.
“‘M here, ‘m right here,” he mewls, “Won’t leave… I won’t ever leave… you…” His skin hums as the pain reaches its peak. His head feels full of helium and he’s losing any weak strength he still had. The voice is fading in and out again like a spotty radio, the static filling his head like cotton overpowering whatever is being uttered into his skin. He fights to paw ailing hands at the skin and clothes of them, but it’s futile.
——
The room is brighter than it was before, the weak moonlight lighting up the walls like its midday. There are warm, bloody arms encircling its body, choked sobs and begs being muffled by thick, dark fur. A low rumble echoes in the quiet room, the sound omitting from its throat.
The hands tangled tightly in fur pet down ruffled knots and the head lifts itself, hazel eyes red and puffy with tears. They smell frightened, terrified. A low bark leaves its mouth, moving to leave from the gentle hold, apologetic, but the electric feeling under skin is unignorable and itching, needing to be rid of. The arms of the human let go with a plea of return on their lips.
——
The grass feels soft under large paws, hitting the dirt in a rhythmic thump. The air is cold and the crickets chirp as loud as the cicadas. There is noise all around, yet nothing within sight.
The heartbeat of something alive rings clearly from the underbrush.
——
A nose is pressed to gravel, sniffing its way through the bushes and asphalt of a city. The rustling of leaves under near-dawn winds hangs above the ears that twitch toward any small noise. The backroads are dim with a lack of streetlights, but brighter through the eyes of an animal.
——
Paws scratch at a window, clawing its way back through the opening, leaving behind a trail of scratches into the old wood of the window ledge. Tired legs carry their way to the bed beside the window, a warm comforter with dried blood crusted into the sheets tangled around the small form of a human—The same human from before. They are silent and unmoving now, a gentle shift and huff of breath the only motion. The bloody blankets are pulled tightly around their pale and equally blood-stained skin, protecting themself from the cold seeping in through the window.
Large paws tread their way into the sheets, dropping carefully beside the sleeping human body.
——
Frank wakes with a pit in his stomach and the acrid smell of blood instantly making him nauseous. His hands scramble at his sides, looking for purchase on something that doesn’t feel disgustingly caked in blood or sweat. It’s futile.
He turns over, closing his eyes tightly at the way his stomach rolls, and opens them to blink away the dots in his vision. Beside him is the body of a person, warm and solid, and coated in blood.
The remnant smell of anxiety and dried blood wafts off of them dully, and underneath it their familiar, normal smell. Tangled hair and unwashed clothes. The faint smell of a couple coffees too many, old comic books, and ink stained skin. Frank shuffles closer to their body and buries his cold nose in their neck.
Gerard shuffles awake at the touch, breath hitching as his gentle sleeping rhythm is interrupted.
“Frank,” he gasps, rolling over quickly to bury his hands in the tangled dark mess of Frank’s hair, petting down the wayward hairs and down his shoulders, caressing low to his lower spine, eventually landing on holding his hips with a strong but gentle hold, pulling Frank’s body close to his, sharing the warmth of his body. “Frankie… you’re back.”
Frank hums and shuffles closer, wrapping his arms snugly around Gerard’s neck. He ignores how his skin is bare, focusing instead on how Gerard’s touch is coaxing warm back into his cold, shaking skin. The sore ache of his transformation lays deep in his body, and he’s sure to feel it later. But right now, he focuses intently on the presence of the other.
“You came back.”
Frank rolls his head around minorly, thinking. “The wolf came back.”
Gerard smiles softly at the answer. “It listened to me.”
“Yes,” Frank breathes, “I think it knew. Knew how important it was to come back here. To you.” He pushes his face forward and into the crook under Gerard’s jaw once again, breathing in the scent of what would classify as ‘home.’ The familiar smells, the constant steady hold he has, the comfort of his presence.
“I love you,” Frank says after a beat. He’s said it to him so many times before, between close friends, but this time he means it in another way. A way he’s too scared to utter out loud just yet. He hopes that Gerard understands the differing intention behind his words.
“I love you too,” Gerard whispers, and Frank knows that he understands.
They’re quiet for a moment, Frank momentarily wondering if Gerard had fallen back asleep, but the sound of his heartbeat thrumming under his skin tells him otherwise. Frank basks in the comfort; He basks in the comforting silence, the lack of pained groans and whines and tears, and he shakes with the memory.
“Are we going to talk about it?” Gerard mutters, face pressed to Frank’s hair, hands tracing over the dip of his iliac crest and up over each notch of his spine. His voice shakes minutely. Frank knows that the events of the evening prior affected them both greatly, but he knows they’ll handle it together when they’re both ready.
“No… no, not right now,” Frank chokes back a whimper at the memories. For now, he wants to sit like this with Gerard, in the warm embrace of limbs tangled with his, hands holding his frail body together with so much care and love. So much love. Gerard must love him to bits for what he went through to get to Frank after days of radio silence and how he sat through it all with him. Frank shudders and moves in closer. “I just want to lay here for now. With you. I just want to lay with you until we have to get up,” Frank sighs.
“Okay,” Gerard hums, pulling the only remotely clean corner of the bedsheets over them both. “Okay. I’ve got you.” His voice trembles.
Frank inhales deeply where his face is buried. “Thank you. I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving you… I don’t want to ever leave you,” he snuffles, frowning into a yawn. “You know that. Y’know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Gerard breathes, pressing his cold nose to Frank’s cheek, the gentle sound of his voice a mumble beside his ear. “Yeah, I know. I know you.”
Frank presses a barely there kiss to the skin of Gerard’s jaw; a thank you; a promise, “You know me.”