25 Reasons Why I Hate You

People might tell you Gerard Way likes staring at walls and doing drugs, but actually he just wants to bang his head against that same, already mentioned wall, and... uh, the drugs part is all Bert McCracken's fault, and it was one joint, which was months ago and Gerard would never do it again. Well, that's what his mom thinks, anyway, so it must be true.

The fact that he's been pining in silence for days now is too legit to be real, though, and he isn't quite sure how to get out of the same old, humongous pile of shit this time. Maybe it's true, maybe it's his destiny to fuck everything up. It's like square roots: easy, but so easy to crap all over, as well, or he's maybe just very dumb and in denial. Probably the second one, but with Maths you can never really know for sure.

He doesn't know how he feels. Maybe it's misery, maybe it's nostalgia and maybe it's both combined or nothing at all. The only things he comprehends are the smoke he's inhaling and the general reek of all the people surrounding him, faces wrecked and make-up gliding down their cheeks as they're moving around. He finds a certain beauty in the scenery, because it's tragic- kids aren't having fun anymore, now they're just getting wasted.

It's not like he's any different, though, but envy is a bitch and they're all dancing and laughing and making out, while Gerard hasn't got a wrist to grasp on anymore. He's lost it days ago, but it feels like it's been three years and three months since he's last felt Frank's fingers intertwined with his own.

He feels so tired, his ankles are sore and all he wants is to get this thing you call life over with because he's certainly not digging it. The noise around him is muffled but he's too numb to care about anything, and he's pretty sure he felt his phone buzz inside his pocket at least ten times but he really doesn't give a fuck about what motherly advice Lindsey has to offer him right now. It's all going to be the same because everything is always the same- it's always just Gerard fucking up his life and everyone else being amazing and caring too fucking much.

Because Gerard is aware that no amount of alcohol he consumes will wipe off the guilt and he's also aware that fucking himself up won't bring Frank back but he still doesn't need someone to rub the same old salt into the wound.

Because shit happens and Gerard feels like that's the thing his mother said when she gave birth to him, and he wouldn't blame her if it's true.

There's a door creaking somewhere, everyone around him is being way too loud and he can hear people upstairs having sex because that's what teenagers like him should be doing at parties like this one. Because nobody except for him is here to pile up their own regret, and nobody except for him is here to escape- because life doesn't work that way and Gerard knows that. He knows that moving on is a thing that needs to be practiced but he can't make himself want to forget and stop caring because it's all he's got left. Frank is gone, and Frank got a nosebleed just seeing him, and Frank is fucking hurt and Frank hates his guts more than ever.

And Gerard can do nothing about the last one but make a mental note that says 'the feeling's mutual'.

*

Mikey Way doesn't usually meddle.

It's not that he doesn't care, it's that he cares too much- and he knows when to stop and walk away from the problem as quietly as he can. He might be young, but he sure as hell isn't dumb, and the gnawing feeling he gets in return is probably worth it, because the absence of shitstorms is possibly the only thing keeping his entire family sane and inside a single house.

There are times in life when you've got to let it go and let it slide, allow yourself to embrace the role of a bystander and pray to god everything ends well.
This isn't one of those times.

Mikey knows his brother can be unstable sometimes, because it's Gerard and his art, his shenanigans and his mind in general often ended him up in a hospital a few years back- it was nothing unusual, really, and their mom had grown so accustomed to it that she had the nurse's number on speed dial [for when Gerard just randomly decided that painting with his own blood would be fun and artistically accepted.]

But it's not the same when he starts crying himself to sleep and drinking concerning amounts of coffee in the morning and bourbon in the afternoon, because that's not the regular weirdo Gerard that Mikey knows and loves.

It's not like Gerard was ever particularly clean, emotionally-inert, or against alcohol of any sort, but don't tell me you wouldn't get concerned if your brother called you at 2 AM, a drunk, sobbing mess, claiming that he's outside Jimmy Urine's house and he can't stand up because he's too afraid he's going to fall.

And Mikey isn't exactly the biggest book fan in history, but he does get the fact Gerard doesn't care if he falls flat on his ass or breaks an arm because that's not the kind of falling he's talking about. And maybe it'd be wiser if he woke his parents up and told them that his brother may or may not be having an emotional meltdown right fucking now, but he knows his mother wouldn't hesitate in finding some sort of shrink to prescribe Gerard another bottle of anti-depressants and get it over with if she found out.

But he's used to it because, even though Gerard's got his best friends and a now already ex almost-boyfriend, Mikey's usually the person that has to pick him up in the end. He doesn't mind, it's his job and he's the best at it even though it can get lonely at times. Because Mikey Way has friends but those friends have other friends and he sometimes needs the comfort, too, and this time for receiving and not providing like usual.

He supposes it's his fault however you turn it because he knows Gerard would help him through anything, but he still doesn't tell him because that would be ruining the facade of a perfect childhood and Mikey's not ready for that kind of commitment.

But that doesn't matter now because Gerard is feeling bad, and he might do something bad and make it even worse, because that's what Gerard does- he harms himself in all sorts of ways because he doesn't want to listen, he never does.

So Mikey does the moral thing, the right thing, he texts Pete Wentz who he knows is awake, and asks him for Lindsey Ballato's number because Pete Wentz knows every person in town. And after that he calls Lindsey and explains to her that he is fourteen and therefore unable to drive, and Gerard is completely wrecked and in need of help immediately.

"I've tried calling him billions of times, but I suppose he either didn't hear it or he ignored me. I'll guess it's the latter, though," she remarks in a sleepy tone of voice. Mikey can hear some shuffling so he supposes he's woken her up but he doesn't apologize since he's probably the one doing her a favor here.

"I agree. He sounded literally broken over the phone. I have no idea what he did, if he did anything, but he's definitely drunk off his ass," Mikey says.

He can hear something smashing behind her, followed by a hiss of 'fuck, V, go back to bed, it's just Gerard'. "Ah, crap. Do you want to come with me to get him home?"

Mikey considers it for a moment, but then sighs. "I don't think it'd be pretty for my mom to wake up and find both of her sons missing. I will sneak out to help you get him into the house, though, if you want."

"Yeah, that'd be helpful. I'll call you when we're outside. Thanks, Mikey." Her voice sounds like she's smiling, and Mikey can't help but to feel like he's done something right, if only for a split second.

"Anytime." He hangs up and throws his phone beside himself on the bed, sighing deeply and wishing everything around him wasn't as fucked up as it is.

*

Gerard isn't quite sure where he is, but since he hasn't moved since a long time before he made the call, he supposes he's still lying on the concrete of the sidewalk next to Jimmy Urine's house. If anyone saw him, they'd probably think it was one hell of a party and that he's on some really good drug, but the shitty truth is that Gerard is just drunk, nauseous and really, really dizzy. His emotional state isn't much better, either, he isn't sure if he's falling off a cliff or into an abyss, or maybe that's the same thing and he's just too hypnotized by the darkness to care.

He feels like painting flowers, really pretty ones, with red blotches all over white petals and burgundy stems that wrap around your knuckles like wild ivy around old houses. He might draw an entire field of them when he comes home.
They have to look like daisies, only bloodier, because Gerard's logic is that there's no real drawing without at least a little bit of blood. He might even draw Frank there, because he's the only person beautiful enough to be compared to blood-daisies, and he's the only person Gerard loves enough to draw alongside flowers and happiness. He supposes he'd draw him lying down, shirtless, his jeans riding low as his hips are on the ground, his hands behind his head as he's watching the setting sun illuminate the daisies.

He wishes he could draw himself, then, lying beside Frank as their fingers entangle, a gigantic smile on his face when Frank kisses his cheek and puts a daisy in his hair.

But Frank wouldn't want that, no, Gerard reckons, and the entire image just gets scratched out from inside his mind. The ripped pieces of the daisies crumble to the ground, and a now smaller image of where his and Frank's hand were linked together falls into a metaphorical pit inside his brain.

That's probably what gets him, what brings him to the edge, and he falls- he starts shaking, his teeth chattering inside his mouth as he grits them together, sobbing violently through a clenched jaw and a mess of hair falling into his eyes. He is cold, freezing, and the holes in his jeans are just making it worse, because he feels abandoned by god, fate, everyone and the cold is only making it harder to handle.

At some point he screams, but only internally because he's too busy trying to breathe to find the strength to actually produce a noise, and nothing comes out of his mouth even though it's wide ajar. His throat feels dry and closed, and he can't seem to open it wide enough because he's so nauseous he's afraid he's going to puke his vital organs out and then there'll be nothing left of him to sell on the black market anymore.

He's been thinking about death a lot these days, but throwing his heart up really isn't the way he wants to go- all the small pieces of it would be hard to cough out.

He can hear his name being called from somewhere but he can't place it, no, he feels like he's choking on something and not in a good way, and his gut is all clenched and painful but he isn't sure which path to release- to breathe or to die, which is basically a paradox in itself. Maybe it's a hallucination, it's not like that never happened, but the problem is that the voice isn't far away and it doesn't vanish, it's just getting closer.

And then it feels like he's being pulled somewhere- upwards, perhaps, because he realizes it's real and it's happening, and a warm hand is gripping his elbow and tugging him up on his feet. They're saying something, but he's too dizzy to comprehend, and suddenly there's a bag in his hand and he barely catches that he's directed to breathe into it.

Okay, he can do this- inhale, exhale, and so on, and it really does feel better because his body is now stocked up on oxygen and all- but then he feels a hint of a headache in his right ear when the person shoves him into a car and he regrets standing up immediately.

"I- I feel- s-sick," he stutters, for a lack of a better word. It probably comes out completely incoherent, but the person somehow understands.

"It's okay, Gee. I'm going to get you home, just relax."

And then his hair is stroked back gently, and he knows that the merciful Samaritan can be no one but Lindsey. "'M sorry for being such a fuck-up."

"Don't worry about it, honey," she crosses her palm over his cheek and removes all the sweaty hair from there, "you might be a fuck-up, but you're our own, personal fuck-up."

"Yeah," he mumbles, "because that makes it so much better."

Notes

Life sucks and then you catch a cold. I don't even know what to write here, so, ya.

Okay, I'm just gonna, like, go.

xomls