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Ever since he's left, Frank hasn't been the same.

--

"Frank, please. You have to get some fresh air." Mikey sighs warily, lightly rubbing the smaller man's back. Frank whimpers as though he's a small child and vigerously shakes his head, not pulling himself out of his fetal position.

He's clutching a plain black shirt to his chest, his nose pressed into the soft fabric. It still smells like him; a strange cologne that Frank can't seem to put a name on, and of course, the lingering smell of cigarette smoke.

--

"I'm worried about him." Ray mumbles from the other side of the door. Frank can almost imagine the other man furrowing his brows, his curly hair flowing as he sadly shakes his head. "It's like he's gone completely mental since he's left."

Frank silently agrees.

--

The curtains are drawn, so that not a single ray of sunshine is able to shine through the grimy window. Because of this, Frank's skin has turned a sickly pale, and dark circles grace the spots under his eyes. But maybe that's from the lack of sleep.

When's the last time he's had a decent amount of slumber? He can't remember. He often tries to avoid sleeping, because whenever he does, he always dreams about him.

And whenever he dreams about him, he always awakes with a scream, sobbing and clutching at the blankets like a frightened child.

--

Frank screams and throws back his head, thrashing his arms and legs as he tries to get away from the hands wrapped around his wrists and waist. He doesn't want to be out of the house. And he doesn't want to go see a pshyciatrist. And he doesn't want to leave his scent.

--

Frank doesn't talk to the pshyciatrist. Instead, he glares at her.And when she asks what's bothering him, he takes his arm and swipes it across her desk, sending small knick-knacks and pencils and paper to the floor.

So the session's over, and she'll see him next week.

--

When they get back to the house, Frank flings himself back into his room and jumps onto the bed, burying his head in his pillow and letting out great wailing sobs. And before he knows it, he's asleep.

Only a few minutes later does he awake with a scream, sobbing and clutching at his blankets like so many times before.

--

"Frank, what are you doing?" Bob whispers as he approaches the other man. Frank's sitting in a chair in front of his bedroom window, and for once, the shades are pulled open. The morning sunlight shines through the window and warmly hits Frank's face, making his smooth features more pronounced.

Frank sits back in his seat and turns his head, a small smile tugging at his thin lips. "I'm waiting for him."

Bob lets a sad sigh escape his lips as he softly pats Frank on the shoulder, turning around and walking back out of the small bedroom. Once outside, he shuts the door behind him and slides down the hallway wall, burying his head in his arms.

Does Frank not even remember attending Gerard's funeral?

Obviously.