Demolition Lovers (Frerard)

25: mmm whatcha say

And it was late, and Gerard was in anything but the right mind to make decisions in, but this house, and this world, and this smile, and this kind of hope, it just wasn't for him.

And he thought of the ex-boyfriend and the bullet he'd put in him.

Gerard didn't deserve anything, except this, because he didn't deserve this world, and he most definitely didn't fit in it, but instead of getting out while he could, he changed himself to fit there; the final piece of the world's most tragic puzzle, and only now that things were falling apart, only now did he want out.

Because most of all, Gerard just wanted Mikey back, because like that, maybe he could be okay again, but things weren't going to work out like that, and the twenty eight year old had to accept that as he piled his things into a bag, and closed the door behind him.

Because leaving was the easy part; Gerard had always been good at that - running away from his problems, his parents, his life, the people who loved him, and the people who mattered, and in reality, this was little but second nature to him, and he just wished that he could really convince himself of that, as he forced himself not to look back and not to think about Bert as he made his way down the driveway at something close to midnight.

He'd dug this grave for himself, and he'd been the one to lay Frank in it.

And despite the multitude of fucks ups, and the mess that Frank had caused, he could never deserve anything for this, and especially not this, not death.

And not the phone call that came too late, and left Gerard alone, because if Gerard knew what the worst thing in the world was, it was that silence, and Pete's lacklustre apology, and the tears, and Bert getting angry, and Gerard curling up and waiting for it all to go away.

He'd laid still for hours; waited for hours, pleaded forever, and still, reality stood firm, and perhaps like this could even fathom accepting his own mistakes, but no, that'd be too logical, and he still had one last ditch attempt at making another mess of himself on the outskirts of town, because Gerard didn't know what was left for himself anymore at all.

The obvious answer was, indeed, nothing.

The right answer was, also, nothing.

And the answer Gerard didn't want to believe was, of course, nothing.

Perhaps he should have never moved in besides a certain Frank Iero, and perhaps then no one of this mess could have possibly happened, or possibly not, because fate had an odd way when it came to going about things, and it was something Gerard Way would reckon he was somewhat unfairly and overly accustomed to.

Not that he believed in fate, at all, because it wasn't like fate believed in him either.

But still, Gerard didn't half blame it, because he was a mess, and he was the mess; he was the cause, he was the man behind the trigger, and he was the grenade thrown into the crowd, and still, he couldn't quite bring himself to accept it.

Because Gerard had loved Frank, of course he had, there was no question about that, but perhaps he loved the idea of Frank more than the person he really was.

Because the twenty eight year old was an artist, he lived inside his own head, with the most abstract and poetic of thoughts, and the prostitute and the painter had meant a lot; the innocent and corrupted, the hopeless and the hope - the demolition lovers, set on course for destruction and demise, and that was just something that hadn't quite sunk into Gerard's head until the very moment he found himself on Pete Wentz's doorstep, but this time, alone.

Alone.

And the thought, the notion, seemed awfully permanent, and it had Gerard with a heavy heart and shallow breaths, as the doorbell rang out in a deafening silence, and he could barely piece together what exactly was happening as the door opened and he was pulled into the tightest of hugs.