November 1st (Frerard)

32: Thursday, November 1st

Gerard woke up at something around four in the morning.

Gerard woke up for the last time and felt suddenly sick with the realisation that today was the shortest day of his life, and indeed the final one, and how, despite that, he was buzzing all over, and in truth, the coming of nothing, meant everything, and he did indeed wonder just how fucked up he'd managed to become throughout this all.

Gerard got to his feet and stumbled slightly through the darkness of the room: only pulling the curtains open slightly in order to reveal a mere fragment of light from the moonlight sky, but it was enough light to illuminate the outlines of objects in the room, and indeed, the bed, and the figure lying across it, having laid beside Gerard for a few hours prior.

For this was Frank's bedroom, and Frank's bed, and Frank's house, and last night was the last the sleeping boy: beautiful and unaware on the day after his seventeenth birthday, would ever see of him.

And Gerard was so very sorry, but so very certain that there was nothing that could be done anymore. He did however stand in the darkness: heart heavy in his chest as he looked over Frank's sleeping figure: part of him intent upon prolonging walking out quite yet, because this, this was the moment it had all be counting down to, and now Gerard was finally living just in the few hours before his death.

It was a clear sky, and would be a beautiful morning, although Gerard would not see it; he wouldn't see morning, he wouldn't see noon, and he wouldn't see sunset, he wouldn't see the sun fall back down to rise again, he wouldn't see tomorrow, he wouldn't see next week, he wouldn't see November, he wouldn't see December, he wouldn't see Christmas, and he wouldn't see the new year.

Instead they'd close his eyes on his body to make everyone else comfortable, because there was something about corpses with opened eyes that people found unsettling, and Gerard would lie there: condemned to darkness and nothingness forever, and god, god, he was fucking ready.

As fucked up as it sounded, he was excited.

He was both sorry and excited.

He was feeling something, and suddenly everything at once, and in the dark of Frank's room come four in the morning on November 1st, Gerard Way was a fireworks show of colour and feeling, but that was the thing about fireworks: their beauty and worth was temporary - short lived, and after those few seconds they'd crash and burn and fade away, and Gerard found his fate to follow much of the same path.

He found himself somewhat uncomfortable, and indeed guilty without just walking out, because he didn't want Frank to worry, he didn't want him to think of this as his fault, and now, it was far too late to wake him up and slip it in casually to conversation, but Gerard couldn't just leave, could he?

It'd leave an odd kind of gaping hole in his chest, and Gerard didn't want to die like that. Yet, within seconds, the solution presented itself within the form of a notepad and a pen.

Gerard ripped a sheet of paper from the notepad and clicked the pen, before scribbling some form of note: not putting too much efforting in concealing his handwriting this time, because what did it matter now? When he was dead, Frank could know everything, because when he was dead, there was nothing Frank could do that would affect him.

'I'm okay. I went out. Nothing's your fault. Love you. I'm sorry. Gerard.'

Gerard knew the note was hardly much, but Frank had the letter he'd written specifically for him, and Gerard was confident that he'd saved every blue inked draft letter he'd found along the way, and that he'd put this all together.

Gerard could trust in that, as he indeed wondered if there was much pointing in trusting in or indeed considering anything in regards to the time and the way the morning was closing in on itself.