Demolition Lovers (Frerard)

22: Quite Possibly The Most Traumatising Chapter Ever

"Because I wasn't the one who turned away from the hospital, because I wasn't the one who went over to see him last night, because I wasn't the one who got him addicted to cocaine, because I wasn't the one who started this mess." She pulled Pete's hand away from Mikey's head, placing the pistol between his fingers. "You started it, Pete, now finish it."

He held the pistol with a certain unplaceable confidence, because in a way, Alicia was right: this was for him, he had to do this.

And with a sound, the world's loudest sound, he did.

-

Pete Wentz never reckoned himself to be much of a murder.

Yet Pete Wentz had never reckoned himself to be much of a gang leader, either.

And yet, he was both, and the truth pulled his heart down to his feet.

He never fancied himself as much of a gravedigger, either, but there he stood in his backyard, the blackness of the night encasing him like some sort of sharp toothed, deadly blanket, as he put himself to work in the matter of disposing the two bodies on his hands.

The two bodies, because you see, Pete hadn't exactly cared all so much for Alicia or her instructions.

Yet he seemed to be very keen on caring for her dead body, but perhaps that was just far more to do with the police risk, and the smell, but still, of course, he placed Mikey's above hers in the grave, because even like this, he'd still matter more.

Pete was the definition of a mess at this point and he was well aware of it as he wiped a mix of sweat, tears, and eyeliner from his face, before beginning to shovel dirt back over the body of his late not quite boyfriend and his late not quite girlfriend.

Wow, he'd really fucked up their relationship, hadn't he?

But he'd pretty much fucked up his life in the process too so they were even or something.

Fuck.

Mikey was dead.

But the point was in the fact that still, despite this, Pete hadn't shot him; he would never do that, and he reckoned he'd take that promise to very moment he was laying in a grave above the two of them.

Mikey deserved more than this for certain, but he wasn't eager to just had the guy in and face the questioning: it just had to be like this.

If things could have gone the way Pete would have wanted them to, Mikey would be laying in a hospital bed and not his own grave at this point, but they hadn't.

Pete had finished it, at the very least; he'd finished it with a fucking bullet to Alicia's temple, and she'd stood there in shock, half living, half breathing for what felt like years, before Mikey's hand finally went cold in his, and Pete's whole world faded out into black like his existence was a movie.

Minutes later, he finally let go, and fuck, fuck Alicia, because he had and he always would have done, and with that he got himself a drink, and dug himself a nice big hole and buried the ex-lovers with care, and that was the very day that Pete Wentz's backyard became a cemetery.

Of course, even with the mess that he'd made buried six feet deep underground, Pete still had the matter of Lindsey Ballato to worry about, because she was most certainly going to wonder just what had happened to her not quite girlfriend, but Pete could ride this out and he could take this secret to the grave; he'd know nothing of it, and they'd watch the news together and he'd let the media cover the story of the missing boyfriend and girlfriend for him.

Lindsey would cry, and so would he, and perhaps he'd spend just a little too much time in his back garden, just glancing down at the slight mound in the dirt where the boy he loved lay with the girl who'd loved him.

Perhaps Alicia hadn't had to die, but Pete knew it was too late, and Pete had done everything, he'd done everything and anything, except the one thing he couldn't do, to try and save Mikey, because fuck, there could have been a chance that he'd start breathing again, couldn't there?

But there wasn't, not in this turn of events at least, and Pete hated the matter of coming to terms with that, and with a breath of cold newfound cemetery air, he made his way back inside and made sure to drink himself as close to death as he could manage, because what else was there left for a guy like him at this point.

Because this wasn't how he should have turned out.

And Mikey shouldn't have died a crack addict- fuck, Mikey never should have been a crack addict.

And Pete should have never been a gang leader.

Perhaps he should have gone to university like his dad had suggested and become a fucking accountant or something, and then maybe, just maybe, he could have met Mikey at that fancy office building he worked at, and perhaps like that they would have had a chance.

Pete smiled to himself at the thoughts of Mikey blushing and first dates that didn't involve nearly as much vomiting, and dear lord, they had never even fucked, and it so wasn't fucking fair, and Pete started his third drink as Frank Iero slammed the back door behind him, successfully making Pete jump straight out of his fucking skin.

"Do you know where Gerard is?" Frank was angry, like practically fucking seething with anger, and Pete knew that this wouldn't bode well like he knew his own name.

"No."

"Yeah, he's with fucking Bert McCracken and oh yeah the fucking whore forgot that his boyfriend was on the phone didn't he, must have pressed mute on the phone as it slipped out of his hand or something when Ray arrived, but even if he couldn't hear that I was there, I heard every fucking word, and I fucking- I fucking know what went on between him and that- fucking, they kissed, so yes, Bert McCracken lied to and stole my fucking boyfriend, and goddamn, I could kill him right now, what do you say, Wentz?"

"No."

"No?" That had taken Frank by surprise, to say the least, but Frank didn't know about the bodies in the backyard and he was yet to notice the blood stain on the sofa and Alicia's shoes at the door.

"No. Not today, not now-"

"Fuck, Pete, how sober are you? Come on, drink up, and think later!" He grinned, taking a seat beside his friend and taking a swing of the beer. "Fuck- have you mixed Capri Sun into this?" Frank retorted in something like disgust, passing the beer back to Pete.

"Yeah, got a problem, Iero?" Frank watched in disgust as Pete downed it in one. "Is my elite taste in liquor too refined for you?"

"Since fucking when did cheap beer and Capri Sun become 'liquor'?" Frank rolled his eyes, lighting a cigarette. "Now come on, Pete, let's just fuck him up, what do you say?"

"Fuck it and fuck you, Frank, but yes."

-

hey guys lmao. lmao. lmao. im just laughing so hard rn but seriously this was so much fun to write anyway, votes and comments would be cool pls and i love you all super super lots !! (i promise ok) <3