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An idea that I came up with... WHICH supports my theory that had 9/11 not happened, MCR wouldn't exist.

This one is really long, too.

*THIS IS NOT A ONE-SHOT, I REPEAT- NOT A ONE SHOT.

**THIS EVENTUALLY BECOMES A FRERARD

* THIS CONTAINS SOME LANGUAGE THAT SOME MAY FIND OFFENSIVE. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Gerard's P.O.V.)


"Gerard."



"Frank."



Call me crazy, but I didn't get why Frank is mad at me. It's my life, right? Why should he be

concerned that when I was in one of my moods I went out and bought some Vodka? My drinking

problems are way behind me now, as far as I'm concerned. Doesn't he trust me? Course, he's been

a little messed up in the head since Jamia left him for another guy, leaving Cherry and Lily

with him, who are at the moment (while we are on tour) are being watched by his mother.



"It's my life, Frank," I told him firmly as I opened the bottle.



"I'm aware, Gerard," Frank repiled, "But your drinking affects the band, not just you. You know

how hard it was last time?" He seemed to snap. "You were depressed every fucking moment of

every fucking day. If you drink that, you're letting us all down. Do you remember the pain you

put us through? Do you remember how Mikey was? He was depressed all the time too, not having a

dependable older brother with clear thoughts. We're lucy he didn't start drinking, too," Frank

spat. "Gerard," he said, getting a little closer to me, his breath showing as we stood outside

of the bus in a parking lot, with chilling temperatures, "You're drinking recked our

relationship."



"Frank, you're lying to me. At least let me finish off this bottle. I won't get addicted like I

was before," I sighed, "You trust me, right?"



Frank looked me in the eyes for a moment, not speaking. "That's the same thing you said about

the drugs, Gee."



I guess it was. "Whatever. You should trust me this time around. Besides, I've got a beautiful

wife and daughter to fall back on if it happens again."



Frank scoffed at me. "You've been like this ever since we released the album," he said,

reffering to last year. "I swear to the heavens that that red dye seeped through your head into

your brain. You just don't get it, do you?" he asked, his voce slightly raised, looking at me

for a moment, as if seeking a reply. When I said nothing, he continued, "You're taking

advantage of Bandit, Gee. I know for a fact its not fair to her to have an alchoholic dad. You

and I both know she doesn't deserve that. And Lyn-Z- you trust her too much."



"Oh, so now you're running my life? Don't even try to tell me what to do and what not to do

with my wife," I snapped at him.



Hurt appeared in his eyes, but his anger could still be sensed in his voice. "I'm looking out

for you, Gerard. I saw her with another guy, doing MORE than just socializing, right before we

left three months ago." I felt a knife being stabbed through my heart. Lyn-Z had been

acting suspicious lately. I didn't want to see it, but it's true. Frank sounded seriously

convincing, yet when he was determined, he could probably convince me to rob a bank. Besides-

he as probably just trying to get to me.



"Even if you were telling the truth," I started, "but I know you're lying, why wouldn't you

have told me three months ago when it happened?"



"Because I know you'd react like this," Frank told me quietly.



I sighed. I lifted the bottle up to my lips, and tilted it back, and the familiar taste

overcame me. Frank watched with eyes that looked like he'd been tortured, and hadn't he'd been

standing here with me, I would've believed so.



"So," I said, licking my lips, "Is that all you've got?"



"Is that all I've got?" Frank asked increduously. "Okay, then. Yes, it is. Happy, asshole? You

have a good life," he said, backing away from me, "I don't want to be apart of it anymore.

You've already recked what we could've had together Gee, something I for one was serious about,

but you recked it with your drinking. I'm not gonna stand around for the second time, so you

ruin our friendship. I'm quitting the band, see ya. Oh wait, I won't- I'm done seeing you. You

take advantage of everyone around you, and the least you could do is take care of yourself, but

no- you can't even do that."



At this point, Frank turned away from me, and stormed away, heading towards the road. "I'm

going to the gas station we saw a mile back. I'll catch a ride home from somebody. Tell the

guys to give me a call when they're in Jersey," he shouted back to me. "And good luck finding a

new guitarist," were the final words he shouted before reaching the road.



I shook my head angrilly, before taking another drink. I walked silently back into the bus.



Ray and Mikey were lounging around, watching some show.



Mikey noticed the bottle in my heads, and stood right up. "Gee..." he said sadly.



I shook my head at him. "Not now, Mikes." I tuned and walked towards the back of the bus,

drinking as I walked.



"What happened to Frank?" Ray called to me, getting up as well, while I walked past the bunks,

I was going to the very back of the bus- the recording room, also known as my personal space to

draw, etc.



"He's gone," I said simply, in a monotone voice. I slammed the door shut.



I took another swig and sat down on the couch, shoving away all recording material on the

coffee table in front of me.



I knew deep down inside Frank was right. I was a fuck-up at this moment in life. I messed

up my marriage apparrently, Lyn-Z must've gotten bored with me. I have been a total asshole

since we released the album. I was the one who ruined the great chance I'd had to be with

Frank, not just the stage kisses, but an actual relationship, with my drinking.



I pondered this thought sadly, ingnoring the bangs on the door as I took yet another gulp of

the Vodka. My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I took it out and pushed the green button, not

bothering to check the I.D.



"Hello?" I asked boredly.



"Hey, man," Bob's familiar voice washed comfort all over me. "Whatcha up to? I haven't talked

to you guys in a while."



We'd all been sad since Bob left, but we made the most of it by having a temporary drummer. It

had all started during the Black Parade era. Ever since he was burnt during the filming of

Famous Last Words, it was the first in many of medical problems to come. Eventually, it came

down to give up drumming or eventually having to broken wrists. Permanetly broken.



We respected his desicion, Frank being the most reluctant too let his buddy leave, but

eventually agreed for Bob's health's sake. Bob moved back to Chigago with his family, and went

back to college. He earned some sort of teaching degree, and recently got a job as a music

teacher at some high school downtown.



I absentmindedly picked up a piece of paper and pencil and started sketching lines. "Nothing

much," I lied easilly. "How's the job going?"



He laughed. "Besides dodging spit balls thrown by some kids every other period, it's great."



"That's awesome man," I said before taking my biggest drink yet, the bottle nearly emptied.



"Yeah, it pays pretty decent too," Bob laughed once more. "Oh $hi+, I just realized I have

about 30 more essays to grade by tommorow. Can I call you later this week to catch up? Maybe we

can meet up when you guys play your gig here."



"Will do man," I said, the liquor starting to affect me.



"See ya," Bob said before I hung up.



I finished the bottle, my vision acting funny in ways hard to explain. I felt woozy, my

blinking slowed.



The last thing I saw before I blacked out was the drawing I'd unknowningly drawn. It was the

best sketch I'd ever drawn. It was a sketch of Frank.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(3rd Person P.O.V.)



Two boys walked into a classroom. They didn't know each other well, but they were friends, to

say the least. They sat down next to each other, and instantly talked about a recent album that

had came out.



One of the boys, with afro like hair, kept commenting on the solos the guitarists pulled off,

his excitement not hidden.



The other, with dark black hair, kept commenting on how the singer had managed to pull off some

of the notes so easilly.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Still 3rd person P.O.V.)



Two little children, close in age ran around outside. There mother called them inside, and

while running to obey the request, the younger of the boys' glasses fell off. The older bent

down and gave them back to him, after cleaning them off.



"Thanks Gee," the child beamed.



"No problem, Mikes," the older one responded.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Yes, still 3rd Person P.O.V.)


Gerard was still high from playing the show. It was a natural high, but it felt great to him.

He and the others walked backstage, where a guy with dark hair waited for them, a smile planted

on his face.



"That was a totally awesome show, guys!" the guy exclaimed. "If I wasn't in Pencey Prep, I'd be

begging you to join your band," he joked.



Gerard laughed, and returned the smile. "Thanks, Frank."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(3rd Person P.O.V. Until Said Otherwise...)



Gerard sighed. It wasn't fair how he'd left so suddenly and unsuspected. He was always there,

since the beginning. Replacing Matt was going to be hard.



Even as he stood backstage at one of The Used's shows, his sadness wasn't replaced by the

normal excitement it usually was at concerts, either his own, or someone else's.



"Hey, who's the sound guy over there?" Ray asked him. Gerard shrugged, and Mikey anwsered Ray.



"I think his name's Bob... Bob Bryar," Mikey stated.



"Woah, Bob Bryar?" Frank asked, coming up from behind us. "I heard he's wicked at the drums."



"Do you think he could..." Ray trailed off.



All heads turned to Gerard, as if asking for approval to consider the Bryar guy as MCR's new

drummer. They all knew Gerard was still upset over Matt's departure.



To everyone's surprise, Gerard smiled and looked back at Bob. "Maybe... just maybe."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Gerard's P.O.V.)


I woke up, my head aching slightly as I slowly and easilly managed to wake up. Oh, thank

goodness. It was all just a dream.



The familiar recording room greeted me. It was dark- no windows had been installed in the very

back of the bus.



A slight knock sounded. "Mr. Way?" a slight, quiet woman's voice asked. Mr.Way? The door

opened slightly, revealing a woman, probably early 20's, wearing a business outfit. Was it

formal day and I wasn't informed or something? "I'm sorry to interupt you, I know how you

like to come in here for peace and quiet to work on your projects. But, I brought your coffee.

4 shots, as always," she smiled at me and handed me the Starbucks cup. I looked at her

stangely, but she ignored it. I shrugged and sipped the coffee. Okay, this lady's definately

my favorite roadie ever. "Oh... what have you drawn now?" she asked, upon seeing the sketch

of Frank on the table.



"Oh..." I said, looking at it as well. "It's Frank." She looked at me, clearly puzzled. "Frank?

Frank Iero?" I asked, and the confused look never left her face. OKAY, scratch that last

thought, who hired the roadie who doesn't even know the band she works for? "Oh, nevermind."



"Anyways, Sir," she said, picking up the clipboard she had set on the table. "Mr. Toro would

like to speak with you, he says its urgent." Hm, Mr. Toro.



I nodded and stood up, picking up the sketch of Frank, and still holding my coffee. The lady

led me out of the room.



What the fuck happened to the bus? The outside of the studio wasn't the same as I had come

to know it. No- I was pretty sure this wasn't even the bus. It was some sort of office building.



The lady, completely unfazed by the fact that the bus had been transformed into a coorperation

building, said "This, way, Mr. Way. Oops, sorry. No pun intended." She walked away, and I

followed her.



We past what seemed like a hundred cubicles, each with a person working hard. Several people

said "Hello Mr. Way," or simply "Sir," with a nod as they passed. One person even said "Looking

good, boss," and I realized I was NOT wearing the same clothes I'd been before. I was wearing a

black suit, with a red tie, similiar to the Helena video.



The chick finally stopped at a door, with a big shiny name plate that read "Gerard Way". Tiny

letters underneath it spelled "Owner". Owner? Of what? She opened the door, reveaing a

beautiful office.



The whole back wall was purely window, light shining in proudly. New York city greeted me. In

front of it was the most comfortable rolly chair I'd ever seen behind a large, wooden, and even

polished desk. I took in the scence, a smile, a curious, confused, one, but a smile, played on

my lips.



"I'll go tell Mr. Toro you've just arrived," the lady said simply, shutting the door behind her.



"What the-" newspaper clippings caught my eye. I curiously approached the wall they were taped

to, my eyes scanning the paper quickly. " GERARD WAY, FIANLLY MADE THE BIG MILLION " ,

" WAY DEMANDS BIGGER BUDGET " , and " WAY INC. OFFICIALLY LARGEST COMIC INDUSTRY IN THE

WORLD " caught my eyes.



What the... Comic Industry? These dang hangovers are getting worse and worse with age.



I rubbed my head and sat down in the chair. No more than a minute later, the lady came in once

again, with Ray by her side. He was also dressed in a buisness suit. She excuse herself, and

shut the door.



"Ray, you gotta help me," I pleaded with him, and he merely gave me a confused look.



"... Mr. Way?" he asked.



I sighed. "Not you, too. Now's not the time for a joke. I screwed up. I drank again, I passed

out. I'm having the weirdest hangover. All I see right now is a buisness building, hearing

people call me Mr. Way, I own a fucking comic book industry or whatever, and I REALLY don't

know how I am dressed in a suit. I got rid of this thing forever ago."



Ray gave me the funniest look I'd ever seen. "Sir? Are you okay? Should I call the hospital?"



"No, fine. I'll play along. I guess this is what I get for drinking again. Fine, I'll go along

with your little joke," I said, propping my feet up on my desk, and leaning back in the

chair. "Humor me: what was 'urgent'?"



"Oh," Ray tossed a file on my desk in front of me. "Can you confirm these are the copies of The

Umbrella Academy issues 26, 27, and 28 you want approved by the editor?"



Wow, Ray's really trying to convince me here. Guess this is the least I deserve. I

picked up the file, and scanned through the files. Woah, these are awesome.



"I should take them over soon. For some reason, the editor got caught up at The World Trade

Center, and requests they'd be delivered to him there," Ray said.



I imediately stopped upon hearing the words "world" "trade" and "center" in the same sentence.

Why would Ray bring that up? He knows how I get when people talk about it.



"Okay," I said slowly, closing the file and placing it back on my desk. "I've played along this

far, but this is where I stop. Don't go there, Ray."




"What? To The World Trade Center?" Ray asked, sounding genuinely confused.



I shivered like a cold chill had come into the room at the moment. "Stop, Ray. Seriously, it's

not funny."



"I don't know what you're talking about. And I'd prefer Mr. Toro, if you don't mind," Ray

replied.



I put my feet down. "Okay, cut the crap, now. Where's the hidden camera? I've learned my

lesson. I won't take my life for granted anymore. Just please- stop, you're scaring me."



Ray straightened his tux jacket. "As you to I, Mr. Way. You know how I feel about this

situation, you know- me working for you."



"What?" my jaw dropped, as I literally started freaking out. "You've never said that before!

And besides, we work together! You're one of my best friends. If you still are, you'll stop

now, or I might literally go insane."



Ray merely shook his head. "That's back when we went to high school together. We never hung out

after that."



"Stop saying that," I told him.



"Stop saying what?" Ray asked. "You never attempted to save our friendship-"



"That!" I exclaimed. "We're best friends. We started My Chemical Romance in Matt's attic-"



"Matt?" Ray asked.



I ignored him. "- you're the guitarist, I'm the lead singer, and sometimes you and Frank back

me up- and Frank and I tease Mikey together?"



"Your... Your brother? Mikey?" he asked.




"No, Mikey Jackson. YES, MIKEY MY BROTHER," I put my head down on my desk, defeated. "Just tell

me- what year is it?"



"2012, sir."



"Eleven years..." I got up, and sure enough when I turned around, the twin towers stood in the

distance, tall and strong. I closed my eyes, and put my hand on the glass, supporting

myself. "Just... go take the issues to the editor. Things said in this room, stay in this room.

Don't call the hospital, or you can kiss your job goodbye."



"Yes, sir." The door closed.



This isn't just some bizarre hangover anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
R+R? :)