Act I

"I really think you should slow down," Ray suggests, swallowing two pills as he speaks. Frank is watching them disappear down his throat, the lump of the Adam's apple dancing as he gulps them down, pouring cold whiskey over them in the process.

He just rolls his eyes at the comment, exasperated, trying to think of a reason to actually take the advice his friend has just given him. When he digs through his intoxicated mind, scattering the metaphorical papers and post-its around in search for something to hold onto and leaving empty-handed, he flips Ray off with his hand and moves onto the next white line he's got prepared for himself on the coffee table.

“Frank,” Ray warns again; his voice firmer this time, “please.”

Frank narrows his eyes, rage already starting to boil inside the pit of his stomach. He supposes it’s simply because he’s almost drunk and Ray is being an irritating little shit, but he can’t help but snap. “What the fuck has gotten into you, dude?” He looks at him, annoyed.

“You’ve been taking too much these days,” Ray shakes his head slightly, his hair jingling around his face as if it’s trying to emphasize his point. “I’m worried.”

Frank laughs dryly, mocking Ray’s foolishness and dismissing everything he’s talking about. Frank isn’t a coward, or a wimp, and he thought Ray wasn’t, either, even though he’s not so sure about that anymore. He knows how much he can fucking take. “Those pills are fucking shit, man. If they weren’t, I’d be the last thing on your mind at the moment.”

Ray sighs, “Frank, remember what your dad said-”

Frank’s eyes immediately darken; the sign for anyone who’s talking to him to shut up before Frank’s forced to make them shut up. “Don’t you fucking dare mention my father.”

Instead of further arguing, Ray immediately stops talking, his face slightly paler than when he started. Frank is grateful for that- he isn’t in the mood to beat his own best friend up. Not today, anyway.

“I’m just saying you should kick it down a notch. Don’t do the entire thing. Leave some for tomorrow.”

Frank shoots him an annoyed glare, “I don’t know if I’ll last that long. And if you don’t shut up this instant, I’m gonna’ pull all your teeth out and feed them to my dog.” With that, he rolls the dollar bill and snorts the entire line of salvation in through his nose, completely ignoring Ray’s painful sighs while he’s kicking his shoes off and spreading his newly blissed-out body over the carpet.

He doesn’t want any more worries and empty warnings, not from Ray, anyway. He’s got his own shit. He doesn’t need anyone else’s.

Act II

“But the thing with that is that… you’re fucking insignificant,” he spits in her face. She just looks at him, her pupils blown and her cheek stained with the cherry red of her lipstick. She’s pretty, but she’s insignificant. Everyone’s insignificant.

“Your existence disgusts me,” she skims her look over him hatefully, her eyes finally settling on his. He looks pissed, but also amused, as if he’s the director of this entire charade and she’s just some puppet amongst all the useless prompts. He’s the top of the world while she’s the bare bottom of the sack, being regularly dusted away together with the rest of the filth kicked to the other side of the road. She doesn’t mind. He can think whatever he wants about her. He’s still not the one fucking her.

“I’m glad to inform you that you’ll no longer have to put up with it, then,” he sneers at her and doesn’t spare another glance at her pathetic form as he’s turning away. He’s scum, she’s worse.

“Go away and don’t fucking come back. I hope I never get to see your ugly face again, Iero.”

“For you, it’s Jesus. I’m Jesus. And you’re nothing, just like everyone else.” With that he walks away, leaving her alone in her own misery. God knows she’s got plenty of it.

*

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His mother asks, trying to grab the burning photos from his hand. Then she notices the way his room looks and finds herself gasping at the emptiness of the walls and all the wardrobes, her eyes carefully crossing over the bags thrown on the floor.

“You… you’re leaving?”

He looks at her, his eyes filled with resent as he’s digging a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and lighting one, mimicking the way she’s holding hers. “Is that a problem?”

She stays silent for a moment; just staring at him blankly for a couple of seconds. He’s already anticipating the glorious speech she gave him every other time he tried to run away, the whole show of her trying to act like a good mother. God knows she’s never pulled it off before, and He knows that she won’t this time, either.

She doesn’t say anything, though, leaving him slightly bored and disappointed. He was hoping for an entire fiasco. Leaving with a bang, ay? Unfortunately, not literally.

“You won’t say anything? That’s a shame,” he doesn’t even try to hide the sarcasm in his voice; simply because he knows she can’t give him a lecture about it. She can’t give him a lecture about anything. He’s a failure, but a failure raised by another failure. He’s God’s mistake, but so is she. So is everyone.

“Don’t do this,” she violently takes a drag, vividly upset, the smoke leaving her lungs through her nose. “We- we can fix things.”

He’s just looking at her for a few seconds and admiring the utterly dumb hope she’s emitting his way, but then cracks up laughing in hysterics. If he was the director earlier, now he’s the audience and his mother is the main star of the comedy.
“That’s fucking bullshit,” he spits in her face and squishes his cigarette against the leather pocket of her jacket.

“Aren’t you ashamed? You’re leaving your family, Frank. I’m your family. This is your home. You have an obligation.” Oh, so now we’re using the tough love logic, he thinks. He doesn’t even bother coming up with a comeback. He’s too fucking tired of everyone’s crap.

“I’m not ashamed, you’re not my family, and this isn’t my home. I won’t apologize because I’m not fucking sorry. There’s no way I can go, but I’d rather live on the street than stay here with you. My head is already cracked open; I don’t need any more things like that in my life. And especially not a broken home, because that’s all this is.”

He takes the bags full of things he’ll never use and loads them into the back seat of his car, not even bothering to gaze at his mother who’s chain-smoking like it’s the Fourth of July and intently watching him with sorrowful eyes. If he didn’t know her well enough, and he does, maybe he would’ve bought this whole thing- the caring mother losing her only son to the hands of his own rebellious attitude, corrupted by society and driven to the point of insanity by drugs and alcohol.

But he’s well aware of the fact that his mother’s soul has been sold to the devil at a very cheap price many years ago, and that he’s been living with an empty shell of a person for a while now, if not always.

“Frank, we can make it through, we can-” she starts again as he’s opening the car door, but he simply shoves her away and gives her an icy glare while rolling his window up. He doesn’t speak; he’s told her everything he considered necessary. She’s not his mother, she’s nothing. Everything is nothing.

Act III

He’s cold and he’s lost and he’s alone, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t believe in anything, he doesn’t believe in himself, but he doesn’t care- neither does anyone else. Nothing matters now that everything is lost, it’s not like he can beg to differ. Everything he’s had even though it was nothing, crashed and burned under his own, personal fire. And he doesn’t regret it. Even though it’s all just one really large bullshit metaphor.

Being the person he is, the hell he’s been through hasn’t left much trace on him as it has underneath him. Below his skin and inside his brain and nerves, inside that little corner of his brain where he hides all that he is, just a little boy trying to find love and put the rage to sleep and end the fight forever. He’s tired, oh, so tired. But he’s not done. Not yet. And he knows nothing can kill him but his own two hands.

But that’s not important yet. Nothing is. Not yet.

Act IV

“Just speed,” the blonde, Bob, says lowly and shoves the money in his hand. It’s a relatively calm night at the club and Frank’s slightly bothered by that, for some reason. Well, partially it’s simply because he can’t do business without fucking hiding at the back of the VIP room and hoping no idiot would spot him and call the cops on him. If it’s not his fucking business they don’t do drugs, it’s not theirs either if he’s selling them.

“Nice tats, by the way. Where’d you get them?”

Frank digs over his pockets to find the bag with a couple of pills, admiring the substance in his hand before handing it over to Bob. “This little town I used to live in. I knew a really good tattooist, bad thing he’s dead,” he tilts his head to the side, nostalgic. Matt was a good guy. Batshit nuts, but a really good guy.

“Sucks, man,” Bob sighs, looking around before tossing one of the pills casually into his mouth and closing his eyes. A few moments later, he smiles widely and pats Frank’s shoulder. “Darn, Iero. You never disappoint.”

Frank grins, satisfied with himself. “I guarantee you, I only sell the best.”

Bob smirks, “I know. I gotta’ go now. If I find someone else who wants to die before it’s their time, I’ll be sure to recommend you.”

Frank is sure to nod and smile because he must, because he needs the money and he needs the traffic. But he can’t seem to think about it as anything other than fake, because he doesn’t give a damn. It’s not important. Nothing is.

*

“What’s his name?” Frank smirks, gesturing at the black haired beauty that Bob dragged along with him, currently staring at some dot in the horizon.

Frank doesn’t exactly fuck around that much anymore, compared to the amount he’s done it before. Screwing trash doesn’t do him any good- his hand does a better job anyway, and he doesn’t have to bother talking to it afterwards, or even feel disgusted about someone he doesn’t respect lying in his bed and leaving their filth on his sheets.
But boy, would he do that prettyboy in a second, without having to think about it twice.

“Exactly,” Bob chuckles, calling the boy over.


Act V

“Uh, hi,” Whatsisname croaks out, his teeth catching his chapped lip and bringing a look of innocence to his features. “Just, uh, novacaine.”

Frank raises an eyebrow, eyeing the boy with interest. It’s not like he’s never seen anyone buying or doing novacaine before even though he always likes to keep it for himself, he’s just never had the wish to get high with any of them as much as he does with this kid. He’d do the drug, then he’d do him.

“How much?”

“Three grams,” he sniffs awkwardly and hands over the money, looking at Frank’s eyes like he’s intimidated.

Frank snickers. “I’d give it to you for less, sugar,” he purrs with a smirk, seeing the blush taking over the kid’s cheeks even in the dim lighting of the bar. Even though at first he only saw fun, the kid’s eyes now tell him he has more to offer than just his ass. And Frank finds himself considering if he’d be willing to take it.

He’s pretty sure he would, but becomes positive when the kid leans in and shoves his hand in Frank’s back pocket, picking up his phone and typing something into it.

“If you’d want to give me something else, that doesn’t come in bags but makes you come undone anyway, you can always call me,” he smiles innocently and leans in again, sliding Frank’s phone back into his pocket and brushing his lips over his cheek. Frank eyes him up and down as he’s walking away, remembering the sway of his hips as his slim legs carry him someplace else, away from Frank, but not his mind. Never his mind.

Everything was nothing before, but now Frank isn’t sure that it’ll remain that way, too.

Act VI

“It’s Gerard,” he moans into thin air while Frank’s lips are on his thighs and fingers under the fabric of his boxers. “But you can call me whatever the fuck you want.”

Frank smirks and moves on, because he knows that he’s won. The world isn’t his but Gerard is, and he doesn’t have the urge to break his own skull anymore because he wants to let his brain out. Gerard has the world but Frank doesn’t need the world anymore. It’s not important. He is.

*

Frank’s sheets are fucking dirty and half of it isn’t even him, he feels sweaty and sticky but he doesn’t fucking care. The hair that’s currently lying all over his chest isn’t his, either, he knows because it’s long and black and it wouldn’t hurt him if he pulled it. But it would hurt him, and that’s the last thing he wants.

He wonders when the metaphorical Earth he’s got going on inside his head stopped revolving around the metaphorical Sun he’s got going on inside his head, too and moved onto a single cell inside his brain that has ‘Whatsisname’ metaphorically scribbled across it in messy handwriting.

He owns him, completely and utterly, but Frank isn’t sure if it goes both ways.

“Do you love me, Frank?” He mumbles into his collarbone, his slim fingers skimming over Frank’s neck.

“Yes,” Frank doesn’t even bother to deny.

“Good,” Gerard kisses his shoulder, “because I love you, too.”

Act VII

Gerard left, like everything else in his life, he left. Frank doesn’t blame him simply because he can’t, the love he feels for him can’t really be deleted by the click of a button somewhere within the emotional station inside his brain, and he isn’t sure a flick of the switch or the trigger would do any good, either. It doesn’t hurt to try, but he has to wail a bit more to gain the courage.

The only reason why he hasn’t killed anyone yet, including himself is probably the part where Gerard told him those few things that made him fall even madder in love with him.

The world needs me, but it doesn’t want me, just like I don’t need you, but I still want you. God, I want you, I want you so bad. I want to wake up every morning with my head tucked under your chin and your arms around my waist, I want you to kiss me whenever I start losing my mind and I want you to hold me whenever we’re both falling apart. I’m going, I have to, but my heart stays with you. I couldn’t sell it to anyone else even if I tried. You know that, right?

Act VIII

Frank probably shouldn’t have walked over to the bay. He probably shouldn’t have gotten the gun, either. It’s fun, though; it all ends where it started. He’s home. Without him, the only place that’s home for Frank is the bullet in his skull. And he won’t complain. Because it doesn’t matter, nothing does. Nothing matters when everything he’s never truly had is lost.

His name is Frank. He knows his pleasure, he knows his pain, and it all lies inside one nameless face. The face he dreams about, oh, he dreams too much. He doesn’t need a crutch, the only thing he needs is gone, and the only thing close enough to it is the one he’s holding in his hand at the moment. They’re both pretty, both deadly, both parts of his 24/7 fantasies.

Frank’s finally home.
His brains are in the bay; his gun is in his hand and his lover’s in his head.

Notes

My best friend's favorite band is Green Day and I like to scribble stupid shit. American Idiot rocks and I love Nev so... there it is.

I hope your eyes aren't bleeding from all the crappy metaphors.