25 Reasons Why I Hate You

When Gerard wakes up, it certainly isn't because he wanted to wake up.

The room smells like the armpit of a fourteen year old boy who has just discovered grunge and thinks that not showering is the coolest motherfucking fashion trend there is, and Gerard can't help but to pathetically relate to the boy as he's rolling around on his bed and groaning curse words at nobody in particular. His head hurts and he isn't sure if it's just because he got seriously fucked up last night, but he's pretty sure that this kind of pain doesn't come from suspiciously large amounts of alcohol and cheap smokes. No, this is the pain you feel when you hit your head against a window, or when you cut yourself up so bad you need stitches- it's the pain you feel when you get punched square in the face by the guy you used to call 'baby'.

There's something ironically romantic about that and Gerard suddenly feels the need to vomit, but that's probably just because he’s so hung over he can’t even think straight.

When he realizes that he can’t black out again, he grunts rather loudly and saunters into the bathroom, tripping over a pair of vans he doesn’t remember taking off just there. He’s all wobbly knees and painful limbs, and when he looks at himself in the mirror bile works its way up his throat, making him almost throw it all up right there in the sink. His hair is sticky and damp, seemingly glued to his cheeks, while his eyes just look like huge red lumps surrounded by random blotches of blue and purple over his skin. He’s ridiculously pale and it only makes the contrast between his face and the bruise cutting across his jawbone seem darker, bigger. It’s probably going to heal within weeks, but he knows that the punch hurt his gut so much more than the place where it actually hurt him.

The stinging taste of toothpaste wakes him up a bit, puts his gag reflex to the test- as if it’s saying ‘yes, let’s make Gerard suffer for being a bitch even more!”. But yeah, Gerard can’t help but to stupidly smile when he remembers that Frank kissed him back, that he might still have a chance, that not all might be lost- his thought process finds an unnerving hole in the theory when he remembers Frank fucking punched him in the face and ran off from the library like he was chased by hellhounds.

And Gerard didn’t bother to follow him because, even though he is pathetic, he isn’t that pathetic, and he knows better than to think Frank would actually want to talk to him. Because Gerard is an asshole but Frank is … Frank, and that is a proper equivalent of ‘stubborn, confusing and complicated as fuck’ in Gerard’s eyes.

It feels wrong, though, since all Gerard ever does is disappoint himself by never doing what he’s supposed to, not even when the circumstances are this shit and he knows he’s harming both himself and Frank.

When he checks the time he sees it’s well past noon but he doesn’t give a fuck, who needs school anyway- it was the thing that caused this entire thing in the first place. And yeah, it’s easy to blame it on something inanimate, something that can’t fucking be at fault because it’s not a fucking conscious person, like, for example- Gerard. Blowing off your frustrations on something that can’t call you out on it is seriously rewarding, as he soon learns when he “accidentally” rips the shirt he’s wearing- some faded, black-turned-rat-brown t-shirt that holds no emotional value to him whatsoever. His jeans don’t follow the same fate, because seriously- black skinnies that actually fit are hard to find and even the side of his brain that is currently severely traumatized understands that.

So when he washes the week worth of grime off of his body and makes sure the rest of him doesn’t look as dead as his face, he climbs up the stairs in search for caffeine. As it turns out, his mother is apparently a really smart person, because he notices a post-it stuck to the coffee machine as he’s about to pour water into the tank thingy.

There’s some aspirin in the medicine cabinet in my bathroom. I bought you a new lighter, too, since I stole yours last night before I went out. Remember to drive Mikey wherever he needs to go this afternoon because I have to take Miranda’s shift, that’s why I left you the car. I won’t be back by 7pm, but don’t worry about dinner. Take it easy today, please.

Love you,

Mom

P.S.
Don’t look for a hangover cure in the liquor cabinet.

And it’s probably the first time in days that Gerard has genuinely, wholeheartedly smiled.

*

Mikey Way is an, understatement alert coming your way, admittedly off-centered creature.

Sure, he is a giant OCD case with a generally functioning intelligence level and a surprisingly inert libido, considering he’s a fourteen year old britpop scumbag whose friends probably think that all he does in his spare time is jerk off to Morrissey’s pictures. [Which is not true, by the way.]

If you saw him, you’d think he’s one of those kids that have no interest in anything actually-existing-in-real-life whatsoever- sure, you can catch him binge on Red Bull and Mortal Kombat once in a while, but those are rare occasions when he’s not too lazy to get off his bed and actually do something real.

Although, contrary to popular belief, Mikey Way isn’t just some nerdy kid with an uncommon infatuation with beanies, knitted sweaters and Alex James’s face.

Well, actually, he is- but there’s one more face raiding his mind that’s worth mentioning in the mix. It’s stupid, really, because being fourteen and all Mikey has never really had the chance to prove himself to anyone and even if he had he probably would’ve failed big time because he’s awkward like that. And proving himself to someone is a huge thing when all you’re trying to do is make a certain person like you, because you’re just a fool with a crush and they’re three years older than you and painfully unreachable.

To repeat- it’s stupid, horribly stupid, because the person he likes would never like him back, not in a billion millions of years and Mikey’s aware of that more than his brother is aware of the fact that he’s an incompetent idiot.

And Mikey isn’t exactly sure how he even ended up being friends with them, because they’re probably the most popular person there is in this godforsaken Jersey hellhole and he is friends with them- Mikey Way, the britpop scumbag who thinks ripped skinny jeans and huge blue sweaters are a good combination. He’s the champion with the awkward knees and the geeky glasses and the hair-straightener that never works like it should, and they are the person who has better eyeliner skills than Frank fucking Iero.

And Mikey really fucking doesn’t know why, or how he’s ever managed to fall for Pete Wentz.

Which is idiotic to say the least because Pete Wentz doesn’t do relationships, not since Patrick Stump broke his heart or whatever the fuck Pete said happened, and he especially doesn’t do relationships with people three years younger than him who own a scarily large number of Garfield comics. [“Who the fuck reads motherfucking Garfield?” Gerard huffed, looking at Mikey’s overloaded bookcase when he first entered the room post-unpacking.]

And it’s not like it really matters, well, to the world- it only matters to Mikey and Mikey matters to no one, so, why bother? It’s not like angels from the sky will descend to the ground and just magically tell Pete Wentz to go bone Mikey Way because Mikey Way is in love with him- no, it doesn’t work that way.

And he’s happily not been returning Pete’s calls for a few days because he can’t get over the fact Pete fucked another guy and dumped him the day afterwards, and it means nothing to him because that’s just who he is. But Mikey takes stuff like that seriously and he can’t help but to care, even though he hates himself for caring and then hates himself for hating himself for caring.
But he can’t help but to care about Pete getting wasted and high and horribly fucked up in general all the time because he’s got a similar situation at home and he feels like he’s been just stuffed into a washing machine and switched on to the coldest, fastest mode and there’s no turning back. He might end up with a broken spine but maybe he gets out alive- chewed out, the pack of Orbit in his back pocket drained with detergent- but alive.

And you can find it kind of funny, and you can also find it kind of sad, that when Mikey has finally survived this horrible day at school, the person waiting for him outside is the one he’s been thinking about all weekend but also simultaneously avoiding like the plague itself.

It’s Pete fucking Wentz, with a giant smirk on his face and in some really emo t-shirt, waving at him like the fool he is.

And the tragedy lies in the fact that Mikey can’t help but to love that fucking fool.

*

Distraction is all Gerard needs to function properly.

The epiphany hit him somewhere between his fourth cup of coffee and, like, five-hundredth cigarette, but the speed which he used to do the laundry and vacuum the entire goddamn house would probably kick anyone’s ass. Even Steve Urkel’s ass. Take that, Frank, who’s the best housewife in the world? Not Steve Urkel, that’s who.

And when Gerard’s about to make another cup, just because he’s sleep deprived and pathetic like that, he realizes that they’ve run out of milk.

So, naturally, he gets some money and runs to the supermarket, ignoring the look Mrs. Nestor gives him when she spots the bruise stretching from his jaw line and down towards his neck. He just sighs and shakes his head as if to say that it doesn’t matter and pays for his goddamn milk, jogging back home before the rain catches up with him.

His entire body aches because the remainders of his hangover are still there, but the aspirin helped and he could even say that he feels human again, if there wasn’t for the emotional damage and general heartbreak for the sake of being an idiot. It still hurts his head when he slams the front door too harshly by accident, though, and he tries to get the buzzing out of his ear as he’s entering the kitchen.

But the kitchen isn’t empty, no, because Mikey’s apparently back from school and he’s brought a friend over, but that friend isn’t a friend from his class because this guy is four feet two donuts tall and most eight-graders probably beat him by seven heads. Not to mention the fashion sense, seriously- the only guy with hair that fluffy that Gerard knows is-

Oh hell fucking no, what the fuck is Pete Wentz doing in Gerard’s house?

“What the fuck is Pete Wentz doing in my house?” Gerard vocalizes the thought, almost dropping the carton of milk from his hands.

“Hello, Way Senior,” Wentz says, completely chill, “nice to see you, too.”

“I knew this wasn’t a good idea,” Mikey sighs, steals the milk from Gerard and goes off to make himself some coffee. He just hopes caffeine helps with nervous breakdowns, since he’s about to have one real soon.

*

And Gerard really hoped for a quiet afternoon, maybe inviting Lindsey over, who he’s viciously neglected for the sake of ruining his life lately, but all he actually gets isn’t his hair and nails done but just a horrible headache from Pete Wentz’s painfully tragic puns.

It’s sad that he kind of almost laughed at some, because Pete Wentz isn’t that shitty of a guy even though Gerard would never admit that to anyone, but he’s also seen the way Mikey fucking Way looks at that same, idiotic Pete Wentz as if he were Glenn motherfucking Danzig and he doesn’t like it one bit.

Not because his brother is possibly crushing on the biggest moron alive, but mostly because the already mentioned brother will get hurt if he doesn’t watch what he wishes for. Pete Wentz is a whore, everybody knows that, even fucking Mr. Fork who teaches Math knows that.

“Cheer the fuck up, Gerard,” Wentz dares to speak to him, “you have to get out and get laid. It’s not the end of the world if Iero dumped you.”

And Gerard doesn’t know if it’s just because he’s so fucking sensitive and overemotional, but he actually feels a pang inside his chest at that, and Mikey looks at Pete as if he’s trying to tell him he’s crossed a line.

“Shut up,” Gerard hisses bitterly, but he’s clenching his throat so hard that it comes out as more of a whimper than anything. “Shut your fucking mouth or I’m going to punch you in it.”

Pete sighs and glances at Mikey shortly before turning back to Gerard, “I’m sorry, okay? I’m just saying that you look like shit and that I don’t like it when you look like shit because then we’re not a group of three extremely hot guys that are going to that punk show at that new bar downtown tonight. Then we’re just two hot guys and the sack of emo dragging itself behind them.”

And if Pete’s statement didn’t make Gerard smile, the blush on Mikey’s cheeks did.

*

“Wentz, will you explain to me why you brought my fourteen year old brother here? And also, what’s with all this concealer you shoved on my face? I feel like I’m wearing a carpet on my face,” is basically all Gerard is talking about the entire ride there and the first fifteen minutes spent in the bar. Then he mysteriously loses Pete and Mikey in the crowd but he supposes they’re fine- Mikey would call if something happened- and Gerard is left alone, smoking in some shielded corner and soaking in the atmosphere.

The band is loud and violent and screechy and all he needs at a moment like this, the music floating from his ears to his blood and clearing it all up- all the frustration, the sorrow, the rage, and even the love is free to run around his brain freely instead of being piled up in his mind’s junkyard. He loves it, but he decides to stay sober because at a moment like this he doesn’t want to forget, he wants to hold onto every memory because it matters more than the bliss and the oblivion.

At some point he gets up, grabs a coke from the bar, catches a few looks the people around him are giving him and he blushes intensely, looking for his brother and his idiotic friend.

And he finds them, in a scene he never really wanted to witness, because he’s pretty sure his brother’s hands are on Pete Wentz’s ass and their mouths are linked together, and no, ew- his fourteen year old brother is definitely better at that than he is.

Instead of separating them and yelling at Pete to get the fuck off his brother in the actual style of a generic American dad, he leaves them to it- he can yell at Mikey for making out with his seventeen year old pothead friends who are also whores later.

And when he finally reaches the exit the rain is already falling and he can hear yelling from somewhere but he doesn’t really seem to care since he remembers how fucking underrated actual oxygen is, but the yelling just gets louder and louder and it seems as if someone is really fucking hysterical over there. And Gerard is a nosy person in general so he walks a few steps in the direction of the sound, trying to act all casual and chill when in reality he was just a huge eavesdropping piece of shit.

And Gerard regrets it, of course he fucking does, because the thing he sees is Bert McCracken standing still while someone is using him as a punching bag, and that someone is small and filled with rage and wrapped in a huge hoodie that looks like the one Gerard couldn’t find this morning in his closet.

Seeing Frank is painful but that isn’t the most intense feeling he’s spawning right now, because Gerard knows Bert and Bert doesn’t just let people hit him like that. And Bert is the biggest asshole the world has ever known, so this is highly concerning, considering the fact Bert doesn’t enjoy Frank Iero all that much, either.

And it gets even more bizarre when Frank just falls at one moment, and Bert catches him- and after the momentary pang of desire in Gerard’s heart that wishes it were him who did that, he realizes that Frank caught the front of Bert’s t-shirt and he’s sobbing, loudly, into it.

And when Bert’s arms wrap around Frank’s shoulders and help him cry it out, Gerard can’t watch it anymore, so he runs.

Away from the heart he broke.

*

The next morning at school, Gerard feels tense. He feels tense seeing Frank still wearing the same fucking hoodie, the one that reminds him of what he’s done to him. It feels shitty, but it still feels like home because Frank wouldn’t wear something that represents the person he hates if he didn’t feel something else for that person, too, and Gerard is probably more confused than in need of painkillers at the moment.

So when Bert stops him in the hallway that day, all silent and foggy-eyed, Gerard knows something serious is up.

“Just spit it out,” Gerard sighs, wiggling his way through the crowd.

“Do you, uhm,” and he seems so jittery, which makes Gerard more nervous than he should be, “maybe, just maybe… since Frank’s not going, I mean… do you wanna go to prom with me?”

Notes

i'm too tired to proofread this.
it's shit, but it's probably the most glorious thing i've ever written. also, what is it with me and being absolutely 70 times better at writing petekey than frerard? and frerard is, like, my ultimate otp? what's wrong with me? should i see a doctor?

also, i dyed my hair black- life from this side of the emo perspective feels like home, tbh.

- milo