Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Fate's Cruel if Life's Great

Inside and Out

by DisenchatedDestroya 4 reviews

"I just hope that he has the courage left within his battered soul to let me in." Read, review, rate and feel my love :P

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst,Drama - Characters: Frank Iero,Mikey Way - Warnings: [V] - Published: 2011-11-21 - Updated: 2011-11-21 - 2045 words - Complete

Chapter Three – Inside and Out

Frank’s POV


My eyes snap with a ferocious speed down to the injured kid who is practically hanging off of me in our joint effort to keep him upright. We’re nearly at my apartment block now and I can see (as well as feel by the way he’s turned into more of a deadweight throughout the short journey) that he’s struggling to function properly without passing out.

The way he cried my name washes through my ears like arsenic down the throat of someone with something to live for; he sounds so reluctant to ask for my help, like a part of him is still refusing to believe that someone would want to help him. No one should feel like that, like everyone’s out to get them and nobody gives a shit; least of all a kid.

I’ll have to change that.

He’s not just broken on the outside, but on the inside too and I fully plan to fix him. I’ve only known him for little more than an hour, but already I can tell that this kid has some serious issues (especially with trust and confidence), issues that only a good friend can sort out. I want to be that good friend. I don’t know why, perhaps because I don’t believe anyone else will help him, but I just know that I have to be that good friend who makes the entirety of the hurt stop.

“What’s wrong?” My voice doesn’t pour out in the panicked yell that I assumed it would be, but as a calm and caring question inviting him to ask for the help that he so obviously needs without his needless anxiety that haunts his face whenever he speaks.

I have so many questions that I want to ask him, but I know that I can’t; not yet and not whilst he’s in so much turmoil already. Not to mention the fact that he seems to be terrified of talking. Is his stutter a normal thing or something caused by the attack? By the way he looks ashamed of it every time he opens his mouth; I’m going to guess that it’s something he’s used to. What was he doing out on the streets in the dark and all alone in the first place? Has he run away from home? But the question that is winning the race for dominance by a light-year is; what the fuck has happened to this kid, to Mikey Way, to make him the meek and sorrowfully apprehensive soul that he is, to make him the destroyed human-being that he appears to be?

“I-I thin-ink I’m go-onna-na-“ His slurred, panicky words are cut off by a horrific gagging sound clawing at his throat and crawling out of his mouth in the form of bloody vomit.

I move with the quickness of a lioness defending her young and move so that I’m stood behind him, his back pressed to me as it arches in agony and my arms around his waist to keep him upright. Why? Why did all of this have to happen to an undeserving kid? Why won’t the pain stop? I’ve never really been a huge believer in God (other than when in an important exam), but right now I find that I have to believe. I have to have something to be furious at over this or I think I may explode.

I shudder to myself as one final, excruciating retch storms through his weak body like a pack of hellhounds raging through a graveyard and I can’t help but think how washed out he looks; how helpless and hopeless; how contrite; how unlike a teenage boy; how empty; how… in need of the friend that I am more than willing to be if he’ll let me. I just hope that he has the courage left within his battered soul to let me in.

He collapses backwards into me, more through exhaustion than choice, and pants out in an almost worryingly erratic way. I just hold him, my gentle hands rubbing soothing circles on his miserable, abused stomach in a vain attempt to chase away at least some of the pain. His shoulders start shaking and cracked sobs shoot with critical aim from his bloodied lips.

“I’ve got you, Mikey. It’s alright, I’m here.” I whisper to him, my tone matching my hands in their assurance and lust to help him; the broken boy in need of a friend. Hang on. Maybe we have more in common than meets the eye; two lost people searching for a friend. Although, I don’t think he’s searching; he seems to be far too hopeless for that.

“So-orry.” His hoarse, sincere apology annihilates any hope I may have had that my assumptions about the Mikey’s mental state were false. How can he be apologizing to me, for something that’s not even his fault, after all he’s been through and all of the pain he is in? Because he really is a genuinely nice person, the sort of person that doesn’t deserve this shit. Nobody does. But the fact that it’s someone like Mikey Way makes it burn twice as unbearably hot. I look down into his sick, fragile eyes that are pleading with me not to be mad, not to leave him. As much as it breaks my heart, I can’t help but offer him a small smile; at least he wants my help and seems to be half-way there to believing that I will give it to him.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, kid. I’m not mad with you and even if I was I’d never hurt you; you’re my friend, remember?” He nods half-heartedly, the pain from the small motion bubbling over in the form of a weak groan. “Shush.” I hush, my hands slowing down into a more orderly, calm pattern. “Think you can carry on, it’s only a little further?”

He sighs heavily and I understand what it means immediately; he knows full well that he can’t go on, but doesn’t want to disappoint me. This only adds to my fury at the injustices of the world, a world where someone as shy, sweet, thoughtful and eager to please as Mikey Way can suffer as he is.

“I-I’ll try-y.”

No he fucking well won’t. I refuse to let him endure more undeserved agony when I can help him.

“And you’ll fail. Sorry, kid, but I don’t think your body can take it.” He lets out a cry of pure, unbridled terror. “Hey, I’m not leaving you here if that’s what you think.” And judging by the instant calmness of his breathing at my forceful, doubtless words, that’s exactly what he thought. “No way, Mikey. You’re a good kid, I’m not about to leave you here and like this.” He rests more heavily on me, this time more through free will and relief than necessity, causing my arms to tighten around him to enhance his reassurance. “I think I’m going to have to carry you. Is that alright?” By this point I don’t think he has the energy to form a stuttered consent, but I think that turning around so that we’re front-to-front is a pretty good indicator. He looks up at me with tired eyes, eyes that melt me with their purity, humbleness and anguish. I know now that I have to remove the anguish, no matter the cost. “I’m gonna be as gentle as possible, but if I hurt you, you have to tell me; okay?”

I know I’m wasting my breath, he won’t tell me if my good intentions irritate his wounds; he’s too nervous and nice for that. But that just makes me all the more glad that I did say it, I want him to know that he doesn’t have to let bad stuff happen to him and that he won’t get into trouble for trying to stop it. Just what sort of a place has he come from that teaches him that it will?

I sweep his weightless legs upwards with my strong arm and cradle his torso with my other one. I may be short, but what I lack in height I more than make up for in both strength and determination. He brings his arms up to his chest like a new-born and I almost let out a sound of appreciation at his cuteness; but the blood; the cuts; the bruises stop me. He isn’t doing it to be cute; he’s doing it to be as comfortable as he can be. I want to cry. Cry for him. For his wounds. For anyone who’s ever been in his position. For the situation we’re in and how I don’t know what I’m supposed to do when I get him back to my place. Oh well. We’ll cross that, somewhat dilapidated, bridge when it comes to it. Right now I have to get him inside to the safety and warmth of my small apartment.

Only now that I’m holding him in my arms like an infant holds it’s favourite and most treasured teddy bear do I notice he’s shivering, do I notice how positively freezing the unfortunate boy is. I pull him closer into the warmth of my chest and smile as he reflexively tries to bury himself into my welcoming body heat. The smile falls like the heartbeat of a flat lining patient when I notice he’s too out of it to even realise his own audacity, nothing but white-hot agony etched onto his face with the Devil’s razor-sharp fingernails.

I would ask him if he’s ready for motion, but I know that by now he’ll be unable to answer and I will only succeed in winding him up with his embarrassment and needless shame. So I stride off down the pavement, my pace quickening with every hopelessly helpless whimper that passes through his lips like a soul leaving a body.

Within minutes I can see the ugly, three-story building that houses my ground floor apartment and never have I been so happy to see it. No not happy, happiness is impossible in this situation; relieved. Yes. Relief washes over me like the cool water of a sprinkler washes over kids that can’t stand the blistering heat of a summer heat wave. I all but sprint to the door, Mikey nearly passed out in my hold, and thank whatever malicious force that controls this hell we call ‘Earth’ that the automatic doors are actually working. For once I am glad that I have a ground floor apartment; it means less of a journey for the injured boy currently semi-curled up in my arms. I manoeuvre myself so that I am holding Mikey with one arm wrapped around his slender form, which isn’t all that hard considering I’ve carried boxes of records heavier than he is, and pull my keys out of my back pocket. I fumble with the lock, my urgency making the keys behave like slippery snakes in my hand. After an eternity of rushed, yet drawn out through worry, seconds the lock clicks and my battle is won.

I carelessly kick the worthless door open with such stress-bought gusto that I notice one of the hinges snaps. I don’t care. Right now I have Mikey to care about, not some shitty hinge on some shitty door but a real, hurt, helpless person.

Not just a person. A friend.

A/N: I'm not sure if I like this chapter, it kind of feels like the worst I've written. I’m really sorry if this is the epitome of crap, I currently have the mother of all headaches but I really wanted to update. Again, sorry for the crappiness but please review and tell me how to improve. Thank you for reading! :)
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