like every star up in the sky (a ruin-it fic)

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a/n (copy/pasted from ao3) I wrote this at butt-oclock in under an hour and completely bitched everything. Maybe it'll kill my writers block (probably not). I stole the phrase "ruin-it fic" so if you know where from then you're cool, and if you don't then you're also cool but not as much.

There's a weird thing at the start that's kinda based on a meltdown but its not exactly in depth so you probably wouldn't guess that's what it's based off unless you read this or you read the tags.
Life advice- always read the tags even if it's a person you trust.

a/n (new, not from ao3) hiiii. I haven't posted fic on here since i was 13?  if anybody wants my ao3 its:   tired_or_d3ad_inside    also the life advice is cause one time i trusted a guy and it ended up being literal shit (like. poo poo. faeces). 

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Gerard leans against the cool bathroom wall out of desperation; a last attempt to get through. To be able to get through to normalcy right now is all he keens. It's a constant debate, a conflict of options but this time its overwhelmed and all he can do is nothing. Nothing helps- its all too much or too little and nothing. Fucking. Works. Nothing feels right and he can't think straight.

He's been crying for 2 hours straight, no stop not even to breathe. Crying inexplicitly, sobbing from pure stress with no thought or trigger. He feels like an ice cube placed on a hot metal bench in the sunlight; melting with nothing to stop him. Nothing to catch him, to pull him back together, not even in an ice tray that can be put back in the freezer after. He's water that's free falling off that hot metal bench. He can't go back, can't save himself and nobody can either.

He's already got the blade in his hand, sharp and cold and everything he craves, the only thing he can focus on. He wishes he could think straight, think this through, save his almost 1 year streak. But he can't, his existence is flooded by so much that's unintelligible, plus the need to hurt, to bleed. To be destroyed. To feel something other than the nothing and everything. He wants, craves, needs the piercing effect that it can provide. He's gripping the blade so hard it cuts his palm, remembering what he's doing; where he is.

Gerard's no longer sobbing and his thighs covered in blood. He's fucking exhausted as if he's just walked 4k uphill, nonstop, in the summer heat with no water again. He feels like death's cesspit and is too tired to even cry anymore. His mouth is dry and sticky and so is his entire body. He can think more now, realises the shit he's in, how fucked up he is, and that he's back at day 0 again. Fuck. He hates it, bloody despises it. Yet he can't do anything about it anymore, it's already been done and he achieved what he wanted. Now, however, he just feels used up and gross. He wishes he could just lay there and wake up and it be ok again, for all of this to resolve itself by tomorrow. But that isn't how it goes, even though we all wish it was. Don't we?

He slowly picks himself up from the icy tile floor, careful not to fall over or faint while doing so. His head and arms lay limp as he stumbles over to the basin. He sits down in front of the under-sink cupboard, too fucked to stay up. Gerard opens the left door, careful not to get cut on the sharp edges of the handle. Ironic, isn't it? He finds the two leftover gauze pads from when he had some teeth pulled, a roll of sports tape from when he royally fucked his wrist, and a box of spiderman band aids. He fumbles as he opens a gauze pad, shakily placing it over the most populated patch of his right thigh and securing it with a couple pieces of sports tape. He then proceeds by messily covering the remaining most wounds with Band-Aids, done knowing he doesn't have long left in him; that he needs to get into bed before he can't safely do so.

His knees are sore, bare against the tile floor, but he doesn't get up. He stays on his knees and pulls himself over to the door, reaching up to turn the light off in the process. He slowly crawls his way back to bed, only getting up when he finally gets there and falls onto his mattress. He left his doona to the side, which he is now forever grateful for as he can pull it over his naked legs with ease.

It doesn't take long for Gerard to plummet into his sleeping world of nothingness, a relief from hours of sobbing and pain. Maybe he'll wake up tomorrow and be okay. Probably not. But we can all pretend right? Imagine that he woke up and had breakfast at a normal hour, that tonight won't affect him for at least the next few days, maybe months or even a year if he's super unlucky. But that's all we can do- imagine. Tomorrow he'll wake up late and feel like shit and probably cry. He'll probably get up after an hour to get water and be met with black. Then, when he's getting that water, he'll probably start to feel nauseous and need to sit down on the cold floor of the kitchen and find something to eat while feeling like he can't even eat while on the cold fucking floor. He'll probably end up eating a handful of frozen corn and taking a couple of supplements before eventually feeling ok enough to get back up, drink some more water, and go back to bed and cry a bit more. But we all want to imagine it'll all be okay, so let's do that.

Goodnight.