Permanent

***Even though this isn't a song fic per se, this song did give me inspiration to write this so I included it. I did not make the video so credit to the creator and David Cook, of course. This is my first MCR fic. I'm thinking about turning it into to a full length story if anyone's interested. I swore I would never write a fic with real people. I mean no disrespect and I certainly don't wish this situation on Gerard, Mikey, or the rest of the band. This is merely a catharsis for me as I struggle with my own cancer diagnosis. It's a sort of therapy, I guess. Some of the situations and feelings I have experienced, others are not as autobiographical, but are fears of what could be. I hope you like it, or it at least moves you in some way.*** 

Mikey's POV

               My brother will always be the strongest, bravest person I have ever known. Even before the gravity of his circumstances became apparent, he navigated the incredible apexes and nadirs of his life with a grace and dignity that seemed inhuman.

               Gerard struggled with Elena's death. His addictions. His depression. But, although pushed to the brink, he never quite let himself fall off the edge. He kept reminding himself – us – that everything was temporary, and he would be himself again with time. And he was. He knew better than any of us the fleeting fragility of life. It was almost as if a seed of premonition was buried deep within.

               It was an unknown, insidious thief at first, stealing my brother's energy, his vitality. Then the respiratory illnesses started. It was the height of the band's success. No one was overly concerned at first as we were all worn down from the continuous touring and hectic schedule. But when a cold lasted weeks and turned into an unrelenting cough that left him gasping for breath and dry heaving at the end of the night, the near apathy gave way to a vague worry.

               The fans all thought Frank was the sickly one, but no one knew what we knew – Gerard just hid it better. He pranced around the stage and threw himself into the vocal performance until the sweat soaked through the layers and his voice was raw. He got in the habit of keeping honey and Red Bull on the stage to coat his throat, irritated from the incessant coughing, and keep his energy up. His theatrics enthralled the audience, but we could see the evident exhaustion in his body language and hear how winded he was in between songs when he dropped the mic from his mouth and the stage lights dimmed. The three of us insisted he rest and take breaks, imploring him to follow up with the doctor with each infection. It appeared he was listening to our advice to some extent, as Gerard always seemed to be on an antibiotic or treatment of some sort

               Gerard brushed aside any other comments or suggestions on his health, assuring us he would soon be fine and not to worry. It would've been easier to believe him had it not been for the constant fevers painting his cheeks a bright pink or the breathlessness with which he uttered his denials. But unbeknownst to us, he suspected something wasn't quite right all along and saw specialist after specialist to try to get some relief. In the beginning nothing came of it, and he admitted to me later that he was wondering if it was all in his head after all, as some doctors had subtly suggested. Ignorant bastards. Gerard wasn't seeking attention. He wasn't crazy. He was unwell. One didn't have to have a medical degree to see that.

               Finally, a practitioner back home took note of my brother's complaints. Bolstered by some slightly abnormal - but not alarmingly so - lab values, he was sent to yet another specialist. Gerard told no one except me. And he told me very little, discouraged by the lack of answers thus far, assuming this time would be no different.