Sad Frerard oneshot. In memory of 9/11/01.
Disclaimer: MCR isn't mine. I wish they were, that would be cool. This story isn't true. Frerard isn't real. (-secretly doesn't believe last statement-) Contains death.
100% Gerard's POV
September 10, 2001
"I'm gonna turn in," Frank said with difficulty through a yawn. I smirked. He gets tired so easily.
"Are you sure?" I laughed, glancing at the clock. "It's only 10:30."
"Yeah, I got a job interview tomorrow. Morgan Stanley."
Oh yeah. "You nervous?"
My flat mate smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, a little. But I'm mostly more afraid of the building I'm gonna be in. The World Trade Center," he added, in response to my confused look. "Tallest building in New York."
Afraid of heights. I knew that. "Aww, is wittle Fwankie afraid of big scawy building?"
"Shut up," he mumbled, though I could tell he was smiling. "'Night."
Several hours later
I don't even know what I'm watching on this stupid TV. Reality? A sitcom?
I wasn't thinking about the TV at all. I was thinking about something else.
Frankie. I've known him since we were children, and both our mothers made us take that stupid pottery class.
Frankie. I've loved him ever since we were teenagers, and we played that stupid game of Spin the Bottle.
Frankie. I've wanted to tell him ever since we were adults and we met again here, after both starting over in college.
I know everything about him. His fear of heights, his addiction to Skittles, his tendency to name and talk to inanimate objects. How he sings in the shower, how he secretly spends hours doing his hair, how he plays guitar when he's angry. Why he tattooed his birthday on his fingers, why he wanted to leave behind his life of drugs and sex, why I'm the only person he trusts.
I leaned back on the recliner, thinking.
I should tell him tomorrow.
The thought hit me out of nowhere, but I knew it was the truth. If there's one word that described me, it's "sure of myself."
Wait, that's more than one word.
September 11, 2001
My alarm went off at 5:30. I dragged myself out of bed, rubbed my eyes, and wondered vaguely why I was awake. I didn't have work that day...
Right. It's always for Frank. Why am I doing this again?
Because you love him, I answered myself.
September 11, 2001. 7:00 a.m.
"Good morning, Sunshine!!" I said brightly when Frank shuffled into the kitchen. He rubbed his eyes, then took in the scene before him.
"You..." He looked up at me. "You did all this?"
He's cute when he's surprised. "Yep. Like how I wrote 'Good Luck, Frankie' in vegetarian whipped cream on the pancakes?"
He smiled slowly. Sitting down at the table, he examined his extra-creamy coffee and his pile of blood red strawberries, his favorite fruit. He looked straight into my eyes and said, "Thank you."
That was the most sincere 'Thank you' I've ever gotten. I could feel a grin spreading on my face.
For a small guy, he has quite the appetite. He had finished his breakfast in, like, a half hour. Before he went to get ready, he looked at me groggily. "Who on Earth puts an interview at 9 a.m.?"
"Someone who likes to get up early, I guess." He stuck out his tongue, then walked out of the room.
I'll tell him when he comes home. He's too sleepy; this isn't something that he should find out when he's tired and freaking out. I'll tell him when he's awake and freaking out.
Plans formed in my mind for the next hour or so, each more extravagant than the next. Finally, I settled on one.
He came up to me at around 8:15, looking fearful. He was wearing a suit and a red tie.
"I can't do this, I can't!" He clutched his head in anxiety. "I need this job, but what if I flub up the interview?! What if I can't do it?" He looked at me, eyes full of stress and fright.
"Shh, Frankie," I said soothingly, wrapping my arms around him. "You can do this." He gave me a squeeze.
We broke apart, and I said, "Tell you what. When you come home, I'll have a big surprise waiting for you."
He smiled at me. "Okay." He took a deep breath. "If you believe in me, man, I think I can do it."
I grinned. "Do you have your resume? Your cell phone?"
He rolled his eyes. Everything about him is so wonderful. "You sound like my mom. Of course I have my phone."
"Alright, then." I clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck, Frankie."
I love it when he calls me that.
September 11, 2001. 10:00 a.m.
I woke up after a nice refreshing nap. Seriously, who wakes up at 5:30 anyway? Not healthy. At. All.
Sitting up in bed, I thought I heard sirens in the street. Still half-asleep, apparently.
I shuffled to the room where we kept our TV and flipped it on absentmindedly. There was some breaking news story on, but I was too out of it to notice before I walked slowly to the kitchen to turn off the coffee-maker.
Just turning on the coffee maker makes me feel more awake.
I went back to the TV room with my coffee some time later to examine the breaking news more closely.
My cup slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor, soaking the already-stained carpet.
BREAKING NEWS: World Trade Center Disaster
Above that was a building whose upper half was engulfed completely in smoke and flame.
The tallest building in New York.
Without conscious thought, I whipped out my cell phone and pressed 3 - the speed dial for Frank.
"We're sorry. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. Please hang up and try again later."
"Plane crashed...maybe 20 stories from the top of the World Trade Center..."
"There is the possibility that people may very well be trapped up there..."
I fell to my knees in the shards of broken glass and steaming coffee. This can't be happening.
I covered my face with my hands, feeling tears spilling out of my eyes.
"There had to already be a number of people at work inside the World Trade Center..."
"FRANKIE!!" I screamed with agony. Tears splashed from my face, mixing with the blood on the floor where the cup shards had stabbed me. How could this have happened?! What stupid motherfucking pilot drives a plane into a goddamn building?!
"The FBI is investigating a report of plane hijacking..."
A stupid terrorist was all it took to ruin everything. In anger, I rammed my fist into the television. Sobs wracked through me, and I didn't even bother to wipe my eyes.
"FRANKIEE!" I wailed again.
There was no way out. Frank was dead.
September 11, 2011
I awoke, as abruptly as if someone had yelled in my ear, in a cold sweat. This was not an uncommon occurrence, as dreams about him plagued me almost every night.
I'm almost out of roses.
When I got back from the florist, I realized that I knew what day this was.
His tenth deathday.
I carefully replaced the roses in the vase. Remember when he made that vase? We were five.
I dusted off our photo, with my arm around him. Then, I sang our song: The one I wrote the day his mother died.
"I never said I'd lie in wait forever; if I did, we'd be together now. I can't always just forget her, but she could try. At the end of the world or the last thing I see - you are never coming home, never coming home. Could I? Should I? And all the things that you never ever told me...And all the smiles that are ever ever....Ever get the feeling that you're never all alone? And I remember now, at the top of my lungs in my arms she dies! She dies! At the end of the world, or the last thing I see - you are never coming home, never coming home. Could I? Should I? And all the things that you never ever told me...And all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me...Never coming home, never coming home. Could I? Should I? And all the wounds that are ever gonna scar me...For all the ghosts that are never gonna catch me...If I fall...If I fall down..."
I dropped to my knees and sang with my whole heart.
"Ohhhh, ohhhhh! Ohhhhh, ohhhh! At the end of the world, or the last thing I see - you are never coming home, never coming home. Could I? Should I? And all the things that you never ever told me...And all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me...Never coming home, never coming home. Could I? Should I?"
The tears were blurring my vision...
"And all the wounds that are ever gonna scar me..."
God, I wish it didn't happen...
"For all the ghosts that are never gonna..."
I couldn't finish the line because my throat was closed up from crying.
I wish I had told you...
I sighed and wiped my eyes.
Rest in Peace, Frankie Iero, my love.
Sad. I'm sorry. My shit is depressing.