Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Perfectly Imperfect

No Control

by DisenchatedDestroya 11 reviews

"God really does hate me." Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Angst,Drama,Romance - Characters: Frank Iero,Gerard Way,Mikey Way - Warnings: [V] - Published: 2012-01-12 - Updated: 2012-01-13 - 6420 words - Complete

Chapter Sixteen – No Control

Gerard’s POV

I let out a hiss of relief as the scalding hot water of the shower drains over me like a thousand tiny massagers working out the tension in my seemingly aching muscles.

Mikes told. Told someone that he knows I hate. That’s what Pete must have meant when he said he ‘knows’ who I am, he must have meant that he knows about what I used to do. Because my own little brother ratted on me to a guy he knows I’d quite happily knock out given half the chance and probably vice versa. I understand that what I did truly is despicable and that it really fucked Mikes up in the head, but what’s done is done; I’ve said sorry and that should be the end of it, right? That’s how things work, you say sorry, the other person accepts your apology and then it’s all forgotten.

Apart from it isn’t because he went and fucking told the stupid little shit who’s got him in his bed.

That’s another thing; the way Pete was talking about my baby brother as though he’s just some fuck. To a guy like Pete, someone arrogant enough to probably actually try to fuck himself, my baby brother is just another fuck for him to have fun with. That’s what Pete was implying with his words, wasn’t it? That he’s fucked my brother, taken away his already tattered innocence whilst he was too distraught to properly consider who he was with and whether he really wanted it. Of course he didn’t want it; he was just too lonely to really think about it. If he did have sex with Pete, that is. I sincerely hope not, hope with all of the vehemence of a rock star hoping for a mosh pit; he can’t have slept with Pete. Just… no.

Although I highly doubt that someone like Pete, some manipulative little user, cares at all about the mental state of my baby brother or that it means he can’t be messed with because, odds are, my little brother will end up dead.

Do I even care anymore? I shouldn’t; he told on me, stuck up for the guy who said cruel things to me, ran away from me. But he’s my baby brother and I can’t stop loving him, no matter what. I’d still take a bullet for the kid; I’d still do anything to keep him safe and healthy. Apart from he’s not safe because, right now, he’s with some eighteen-year-old creep who has nothing on his mind other than getting into Mikey’s boxers. Like he hasn’t already. Because my little brother is exactly what I called him; a slut.

No. No, he isn’t. He’s just a lonely little kid in need of a bit of affection, in need of someone to be a friendly face; so of course, when some halfway decent-looking guy fits the bill, it’s not surprising that he thinks he’s in love. I’m capable of giving him a bit of affection, of being a friendly face and so is Frankie; why can’t Mikey see that? See that he doesn’t need some pathetic user to be happy because he’s got a good big brother here to look out for and love him.

Apart from I don’t think he sees me like that anymore. I can see why, a fucking blind man would be able to see why, but that doesn’t stop it from stinging like a million jumped-up bees on steroids; the kid still thinks about all of those times when I raised my hand to him. To my baby brother. He really was just a baby back when that used to happen. Just twelve when it started. Way too young to take hits from some intoxicated teenager. And I can’t deny that any of that is my fault; it is. I was stupid enough to get drunk and take drugs around a kid and so I have to respect that I caused the beatings all myself.

But it is Mikey’s fault too. He should have told me what I was doing before it got bad enough for it to traumatise him like it has. It shouldn’t traumatise him though, shouldn’t because I’ve apologized and he knows full well that I’ll never hurt him again; I’d die first.

Saying that though, right now I feel as though I may very well snap if I see the kid right now. Because he fucking told Pete! And Pete said that he’d call social services if he could, that he’d get my baby brother taken away from me over something that stopped happening well over a year ago now. But Pete said that he can’t tell because of Mikey, because he cares about what Mikes wants.

As fucking if.

What if he does tell? I don’t want to lose the kid and if they find out about my old behaviour the odds are that I’ll end up in jail.

That’s where child-beaters belong.

But I’m not a child-beater; never was. I was just a drunk idiot too out of it to realise what I was doing and who to.

That didn’t stop it from happening to my poor little baby brother though, did it? Didn’t stop it from traumatising Mikes into the bad place that he’s stumbled into mentally. Because that poor kid just wants a good big brother, just wants my love and affection, so for me to hit him must have been completely apocalyptic for his self-esteem. Which it undeniably was, as the scarred, shaking, suicidal mess that my little brother has become can prove.

Shit; suicidal. I never thought that that would be a word I’d associate with Mikes, never even prayed that things would never get that bad because I just thought that they never would. But they did and now I don’t even have a baby brother; I have the shadow of some piteous little ghost.

I still love him though. Of course I do. I love him more than any other brother loves their younger sibling; way more than any millionaire loves his money; way more than any queen loves her crown. I love him, but I don’t think that he loves me back. Not anymore. If he does then he sure as fuck has an odd way of showing it. No, not an odd way; a non-existent way. Because he’s too wrapped up inside himself and his memories to pay any sort of attention to the outside world. Not that I can blame the poor kid; not after the way the outside world has treated him. I can still recall with an almost painful clarity the night that he got attacked in that motherfucking alley, the night that I found my Frankie and started losing my little brother.

I guess that night really was when this all started, the night that I picked on Mikes over his stutter and caused him to run into the hands of a wannabe rapist. He could have died that night, because of me, but he didn’t, because of Frankie. Frankie saved him and looked after him, started to replace me. That is what’s happened, isn’t it? Frankie’s replaced me. Mikes doesn’t see me how he used to because Frank has taken my place; has stolen away my baby brother into his own caring arms.

I really fucking love Frankie, love him like the sun loves hiding in the clouds, and the fact that he gets on so well with Mikes makes me love him even more, but there is a difference between being there for my brother and shoving me out. It’s like neither of them want me anymore, like both of the people that I love the most are spending the love they should be spending on me on each other instead; because Frankie pays Mikes more attention than he does me and Mikey seems to trust Frankie more than he does me.

He may trust Frankie more, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t need me. Of course he fucking does; I’m all that poor kid has by the way of family so it would make sense for him to freak like he does whenever I get stroppy with him.

Okay. So maybe I do a little more than get ‘stroppy’ with him; I said some really horrible shit to him yesterday, before he ran off into the bed of the first kid to ever be nice to him, shit that I may have been thinking but definitely shouldn’t have said. But, like I’ve said before, hardly anything that left my mouth was a lie; it was what I felt and thought at the time, things that I have had on my mind for a very long while. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that I said them. Screamed them. At an already terrified little kid.

I honestly can’t believe the nerve of this Pete guy, of the cruel user who’s taking full advantage of my baby brother and his vulnerability, I can’t believe that he thinks it’s alright to speak to me like that down the phone. It just proves to me that he isn’t responsible enough to be with my little brother, the little brother that I am bound to protect from bastards like him. Bastards who are too self-absorbed to even care that they’re tearing apart an already fragmented family. My fragmented family.

But how did it become so fragmented in the first place? It must be my fault, I know it is, I just don’t get how; I only ever do my best to keep my little brother safe and my boyfriend happy, there really isn’t much more that I can do.

Yes there is. I could listen to Frankie when he tells me, eyes deep and profound, that there is something wrong with Mikes that I need to talk to him about; I could learn to keep my temper under control rather than letting it run riot like a crayon in the hand of a hyper toddler; I could try harder to be a better big brother, to give Mikes the affection that he needs. But all of those shouldn’t be ‘I could’, they should be ‘I am’.

Because I am failing my little brother, my beautiful boyfriend; my entire world.

I need to get hold of Mikes, get him away from the motherfucker who has managed to convince my baby brother that he’s his boyfriend; I need to get things right with the kid for once. But how the fuck am I supposed to do that when the kid won’t even talk to me half the time? How am I supposed to fix him if he refuses to tell me where he’s broken?

I let out a grunt of annoyance as the warm water turns from pleasurably hot, to snipingly icy. Wonderful. God really does hate me. Like I didn’t know that already.

A guttural moan of frustration, at both the shittyness of my life and the fact that the water has run cold, leaps from my lips just as my hands finish turning the shower off with the force of an overly pissed-off giant. I dry myself off with the soft, downy towels that often greet my dripping skin and run my hands in an extremely aggravated manner through my mess of toddler-scribble black hair; my head is pounding and I can’t deny the fact that an alcoholic drink of some kind, be it whisky or vodka I couldn’t care less, would be extremely nice right about now.

More than nice; relaxing.

I just want to feel the ice-cold rush of the intoxicating liquids fluming through my fiery veins, dulling my inferno of guilt and frustration in a way that only alcohol has ever been able to do. Alcohol and various other things that I neither care to nor am I able to remember. But I can’t feel that blurring of reality ever again, because I swore to Mikes that that would never happen; that as long as he’s under my care then me so much as looking at a glass of something alcoholic won’t even happen. Not that Frankie would ever let me get drunk again; he knows everything about my past and he knows that I can’t do something like that to Mikes or else I really will lose the kid.

The kid who fucking told on me. Grassed on me. Went running from me into the arms of someone stupid enough to think that they can fuck my little brother and not have me to deal with.

Because, no matter how far either of us strays from one another, I will never not love my baby brother. My little baby boy whose been my responsibility from birth, a responsibility I failed with the second I touched alcohol and now I am going to rectify it. Once I’ve had breakfast, I’m going to try Mikey’s cell again and get instructions to Pete’s house so that I can pick him up; because he will not be spending another night in Pete’s bed. In Pete’s arms. Having Pete kiss him goodnight. Telling Pete things that should never be spoken of.

I pick up my clothes from the bathroom floor and lazily tug them on, not caring in the slightest that they still smell of the Chinese takeaway I ate the last time I wore the t-shirt (just a plain black one, to match my mood), a few days ago actually. We were actually acting like a normal nineteen-year-old couple, Frankie and me, just curled up on the couch and sharing a Chow Mein with one pair of chopsticks between us. It had been a laugh, noodles ending up strewn all in Frankie’s hair and Chow Mein sauce splattering my top; I’d almost felt like a normal, in-love teenager. But no. Because later that night when I got up to use the loo, I had heard Mikes crying in his sleep. Crying for Mom. And I did nothing. Fuck all. Why? Because there is nothing I can do, not when he gets like he does over Mom, completely inconsolable and just wanting to cry. So I walked on by, tears starting to smudge my own pale features, and with a heavy heart at the prospect that Mikes doesn’t find comfort in me anymore. If things got really bad for him though, he would have come into mine and Frankie’s room to ask for some company; he knows that I always have time for him. He just never shows that he knows it because he doesn’t want to bring me down like he inadvertently does whenever I see him suffering in silence. Suffering in silence because I don’t want to be the one to make the first offer of help; he needs to learn that he has to ask for it, not just expect everyone to be mind readers all of the time.

I finish fastening the glinting buckle of my belt, not paying any attention to how the dampness of my body is giving my clothes a horrible slimy and too tight feel, before opening the bathroom door in a flurry of shower-made steam; just like the demon that my baby brother seems to view me as. I start to traipse warily down the stairs, dawdling on every step because of what I can see adorning the walls; a photographical chronology of mine and my little brother’s undoing.

At the top of the stairs hangs a picture of the two of us, the very first photograph we had taken together; I was three, or three and nine-eighths as I would have pretentiously told anyone who asked, and Mikes was but a few hours old. It’s a picture that I think of as the day that I gained a baby brother, a baby brother who still would be laying snuggly in my arms if Fate were a kind thing. I reprinted this photo when Mikes got out of hospital just over two months ago, I gave it some heartfelt caption or another, and he had honestly looked delighted with it; had actually cried a little because of how much it touched him, how much it made him feel like he’s wanted. I think the little reprint I did is blue-tacked to his crowded bedroom walls.

A step or so down there is a photo of me and Mikey on my first day of school; me all bright smiles and Mikes looking up at me nervously, not wanting me to leave his three-year-old self on his own all day without his play buddy. I can remember it so vividly, the way he had clung to my legs like his arms were some sort of immovable Velcro and my knees were the catch. He’d cried and he’d thrown the only tantrum I’ve ever seen him have over it. I’d wanted to cry too at the prospect of leaving my bestest best friend behind in such a pitiful state; but I didn’t cry, oh no, I smiled at him and told him that I’d be home before he knew it, that when I got home I could teach him everything that I learnt that day. That had worked, had made him reluctantly agree to release me from the surprisingly strong arms of my no-longer distressed baby brother. I adore that picture almost as much as I adore the memory it paints; I adore it because it is of a time when I really could make everything better for my baby brother.

Next along, jumping a fair few blissfully uneventful years, is an image of Mikey’s first day of high school; all eager to learn eyes and awkward knees, my arm wrapped protectively around his skinny shoulders. It was taken just a few months before I got into alcohol and I was still Mikey’s dutiful protector; apart from I’d neglected to warn him about the way high school works, about how it isn’t ‘cool’ to dress like yourself. So when I got in from my after school detention that same day, I’d gone straight up to his room to ask him about how his first day went to find him shaking on his bed; knees drawn up close like I’ve seen him do so many times after that day. That day which started the slow deterioration of his happiness and relentless optimism that he used to possess before he let the world kick it out of him.

The second from last picture is of Mikes and me on his fourteenth birthday; a day which Mom talked me into being sober for. You can see in the picture how much I’m hung-over from the night before, all bloodshot eyes and deep hollows surrounding them, but at least I’m smiling. Which is more than I can say for my little brother. He looks like he’s in a lion’s cage wearing nothing but a tunic made of raw bacon; don’t get me wrong, his lips are arched in a curve of happiness but even I can tell that it’s faked. Because it is highly likely, almost certain, that I gave him the fresh black-eye that he is sporting in the photo the night before. I hate that picture, despise it as though I’m a scientist and it is proof that God created the world after all. But Frankie refuses to let me take any of these pictures down; he thinks that it’s important for Mikes to not feel like we’re brushing away all of what happened in the past, that by taking down pictures that our parents put up we might trigger some sort of unexploded mine.

The final picture was taken the day that Mikey came out of hospital. It’s the newest one and is, by an uncountable distance, the most sorrowful. We’re both, me and Mikey for Frank took the photo, smiling but only my smile is real. Real because I honestly believed that everything was over, that the poor kid would stop putting himself through all of the shit that he still is. Mikey’s got one arm in a cast, another simply bandaged and has got a crutch for support; his face is still red-raw from where is got grated along the road like cheese and his eyes are still just as sorrowful as they were when he went in. But at least one little slither of that smile of his is real, I can tell that he truly was glad to be getting of a place that scares him like the thought of the arctic scares a fire demon; getting out of the hospital that had housed our parents’ dead bodies when they first became just dead bodies. I can’t look at that image for too long, it makes my heart ache in ways that would make it not beating at all feel pleasurable, so I jump the final two steps and land expertly in the hallway.

To hear voices. Voices that aren’t the telly nor are they Frankie having an imaginary conversation with Misfit like he so often does, even when he knows that people are looking. Well, one voice is definitely Frankie, the other one sounds familiar in a way that makes me want to forget it. In a way that means I can never forget it.


Pete is in my house. Emphasise on the ‘my’. I don’t have to put up with having scum like him in my house. But if he’s here, that means that Mikes probably is too, right?

My snitching little brother and his snatching bastard boyfriend are in my living room, or at least I think they are; what am I supposed to do? There is no way on this Earth that I’m going to welcome Pete with open arms, not after the way he spoke to me on the phone; the way he told me that he thinks Mikes shouldn’t be in my care. I think it’s about time I showed my baby brother exactly who his ‘boyfriend’ really is.

So I tear the door open, face painted with rage at the memories of how Pete treated me in the early hours of this morning; there is no way that he’ll be playing Mikes like he is by the time I leave this room.

I take a second to take in the scene, one that I really rather wouldn’t be seeing; Mikey’s crying. Crying and in Pete’s lap, all cuddled up close, Pete’s nose nuzzling the back of his neck ever so slightly. He looks so possessive over him, like Mikey’s his and nobody else can ever touch him; like the sort of strong, forceful person I don’t want my little brother anywhere near. The image of my baby brother sobbing softly into the chest of someone who has most likely fucked him without thinking last night is more than enough to feel like acid on my eyes. But it’s worse than that; Frankie’s sat next to them and he’s actually smiling at Pete, actually looking like he buys this guy’s obviously fake act. If it wasn’t Mikey in his lap, then I might just believe that the look of tender love in his eyes is genuine, but it is Mikes and, I know I’ve said this before but, kids like Mikes never end up with so-called Prince Charmings like Pete so obviously is parading as. Life just doesn’t work like that.

Frankie finally notices me stood in the doorway and his head shoots up, eyes bleeding with some sort of desperation; beseeching me to be calm. It’s not that I won’t be calm, more that I’m going to show this fucker that he can’t fuck with/fuck my little brother like he so obviously is/has. Frankie and Mikes will understand that, maybe not at the moment, but when they see the side of Pete that I have, they’ll understand.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” I spit into the silence of the living room, a silence that had almost been content, and glare at Pete with all of the hatred that the Sun feels for the moon.

Pete himself doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t look up at me with fear in his eyes like he should do; he curves his body over my little brother even more. Over my little brother who is currently shaking even more than I do when faced with the threat of needles.

I regret that, really I do, that I made Mikes frightened, but if I’m honest it is his fault. His fault for acting like a slut that I have to protect from users like Pete. His fault for being so easily frightened by someone who would never, not if my life depended on it, hurt him. Only protect him. And if I have to make him sad or risk upsetting him to do that, then that’s what I’ll do; Mikey’s safety and wellbeing always comes first, his happiness coming in at a close second. That’s where Frankie fails; he tries to be Mikey’s best friend more than the parental figure that my wreck of a brother so obviously needs.

“Look at me, the pair of you!” I snap at them with the same kind of tone that my father used on me and Mikes whenever we got into trouble as kids, the kind of tone that leaves you shuddering and knowing that you’re never going to disobey that person again.

Maybe I shouldn’t be using that tone with my frightened baby brother. Definitely not.

No. I am right; he does need that tone. I’ve tried being gentle with him, I’ve tried being patient and it never gets anyone anywhere; if anything it just allows for things to get worse for all concerned. I think it’s time that I tried a new approach, one that will work because it’s one that you don’t want to mess with. Because it’s one that parents use all of the time and I’m the closest thing that Mikes has left to a parent.

Mikes looks as though he’s going to lift his head from Pete’s sodden chest, but Pete just presses him in tighter and refuses to look at me, like I’m the one in the wrong instead of him.

So I storm over, making sure that my footsteps are the opposite of quiet, and adopt the most authoritative stance that I can; I am sorting this whole thing out and I am sorting it out right fucking now. Frankie jumps from his seat as though it’s on fire and shoots me an almost murderous stare, the kind that is both disappointed and furious; normally it would sting my eyes to see my boyfriend look at me with such contempt, but today, through a mixture of frustration and fury and failure, I am numb to it. This needs to be done. And it needs to be done now.

“Michael James Way and Pete I-don’t-give-a-fuck, look at me right fucking now.”

This time Pete does look up at my heartfelt-anger heated growl, but he looks far from contrite or even a fraction as frightened as Mikey’s whimpers tell me my little brother is. He looks almost defiant. Like he wants to yell back, but can’t. Because it’s all a part of this stupid little act that he’s got going, a stupid little act that’s getting him/trying to get him into my baby brother’s underpants. It’s not Mikey’s fault, not really, that he’s such an easy target; I really shouldn’t be shouting at him, he’s already petrified enough without me losing it with him.

So I’ll just lose it with Pete instead, trick the bastard into showing his true crimson colours.

“Gee, cool it, Babe. Pete’s a cool gu-“

“No he fucking isn’t! Do you know what he said to me on the phone this morning?” I yell, turning all of my attention to my own boyfriend rather than my little brother’s, and grimace at just the thought of Frankie really not being on my side; this Pete guy has turned my own teammate against me. “He basically told me that he fucked Mikes!”

I shiver in disgust at the memory of Pete’s cruelly silken and sly voice telling me how he knows that every last part of Mikey is his, how he kissed him goodnight, how he informed me that my baby brother was asleep in his arms and in his bed. Of course I know that Mikes isn’t going to never have sex, but I know that right now he isn’t ready for something like that; that nobody who actually cares about him would allow for it to happen. Pete has. He must have; the way his hands seem to be magnetically connected to Mikey’s back and hip tell me that he wouldn’t hesitate to take what he so obviously views as ‘his’. I can see bandages wrapped around Mikey’s arms, all the way from his trembling palms up to his elbows; he really must have scratched the shit out of himself, just like Pete purred on the phone.

He looks back up from where his eyes were positioned to be level with my burrowing baby brother; eyes alit with pure, hell-sent fury and appalled shock.

“Okay, I did not say that. At all.” He hisses venomously back, causing me to smirk; I’ve got him to talk and now I’m going to get him to leave my baby brother the hell alone.

For good.

“You implied it, though.” I shoot back instantly, my eyes connecting with his and blocking out Frankie’s disbelieving expression, trying to drown out the sound of my little brother crying his abused little heart out with my longing to prevent it from breaking by getting Pete to leave him alone before it’s too late. “Just who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want with a kid like Mikes?”

Okay, that sounded a lot less derogatory towards my brother in my head. It wasn’t meant to make it sound like that Mikey’s the unlovable here one rather than Pete.

But maybe that’s what I meant.

Pete looks up to Frank, the two of them exchanging a strictly business staring conversation, and Frank resumes his seat next to Mikes; because Pete is handing him over and standing up to be level with me, fists clenched and face painted red with anger’s poisoning paintbrush. If it wasn’t for the fact that I know how important it is for me to do this, for my little brother to be safe again, I would probably be feeling more than a little bit intimidated; how Mikes found comfort in such a fierce looking boy when he can’t even find comfort in me, I’ll never know. Frank wraps an arm securely around Mikes, pressing the kid’s head into his shoulder, and I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt; in an ideal world, neither of my everything’s would be present for this, but this isn’t an ideal world. As the scar ruining my baby brother’s face will all too gladly testify.

“Gerard Way, I am Peter Wentz. Or Pete, as most people call me. I am your little brother’s boyfriend and I know exactly who you are, exactly what you did to my Mikey and there’s a lesson that you need to learn pretty fucking quickly; nobody hurts my boyfriend. No-fucking-body.”

Who the fuck does he think he is? He can’t threaten me in my own house, using something that happened look ago as ammunition.

“At least I’m not using the poor kid! Do you know how much he’s been through; how easily he could go kill himself if you fuck up with him?” I’m full-on roaring now, going into over-protective and overly-pissed-off big brother mode, not taking the time to cower away from Frank’s biting glare of appalled disappointment from the couch nor to wince at how my brother’s cries amplify into heartbroken howls. “Hear that, Peter brotherfucking Wentz? You honestly think you can handle going out with that?”

“Gerard!” Frank yaps, standing to be next to Pete. “I think you need to calm down before you say something you’ll regret.”

“Oh yes, because Frank knows everything; you’re just as bad as Pete is, aren’t you? Leading my little brother on when you knew he was in a bad place. You two are just the same! Just because he’s a mute little freak it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have feelings!” I take a red-hot gasp of air and turn to aforementioned mute little freak, no longer caring that I want to protect him; just that I’m frustrated and that he needs teaching a lesson for letting all of this happen. I only want to make him see how much I care. “Mikey Way, the favourite son, the perfect little angel. Newsflash, bro; life isn’t going to be easy, you can’t just hide in whoever’s nearest whenever things turn ugly, you can’t just run out in front of a bus when things don’t go your way. Do you know how lucky you are? You don’t have to work all the time to look after some ungrateful little shit, you don’t have to listen to some little brat crying like a motherfucking baby every night, you don’t have to listen to some attention-seeker stu-tut-terring every other goddamned word! Do you know what, bro? Sometimes I really wish I was drunk enough to beat you. Fuck knows you deserve it.”

Before I can even realise what I’ve let run out of my mouth like a derailed train, I’m flat on my back; Pete’s got me pinned to the floor and his eyes are tearing up.

Shit. He’s crying, not fake concern pooling in his corneas, but actual tears are streaming down his face; I think I’ve made a mistake. I know that I’ve made a mistake; I let all of those evil little thoughts, thoughts that have really crossed my mind, leak out of my mutinous mouth. I’m a fucking disgrace, I’ve let down Mom, I’ve let down Dad, I’ve let down Frankie and I’ve let down Mikes. Apart from I haven’t let him down; I’ve forced him into the deepest depths of what I’ve just spent the past few months trying to convince him isn’t true. How could I say any of that?

Because I got wound up, couldn’t take it out on the person who deserved it and so let loose on someone who can’t even fight back. Can’t fight back because he thinks that he is the person who deserves it.

And now he’s actually screaming, actually thrashing around violently enough for Frankie to fall back to his side and pull him upright from where he’s dived headfirst into the seating of the couch. Shit, I think he’s having a panic attack; he isn’t breathing at all right and he can’t seem to be able to control his convulsing body. I caused this. I did this. All my fault. Not Frank’s fault, not Mikey’s fault and, admittedly, not Pete’s fault; my fucking fault.

Which is why I don’t try to dodge the fist that comes propelling towards my face. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just a faint burning sensation compared to how broken my heart feels.

“You motherfucker! How… I just can’t even comprehend why you’d say that. Congratulations on killing your brother, Gerard. I hope you’re proud.”

And that’s it. No more punches, nor derogatory snarls; just a wary chastising and he gets off of me. Runs to his boyfriend’s side, trying desperately to calm him down.

“Fuck off, Gerard, you need to go calm down and let us sort Mikes out. Come back when you think you’re capable of being a decent human being.”

Ouch. My Frankie, my lovely boyfriend, doesn’t want me anymore. Not that I can blame him, not after what I’ve just done.

So I get to my feet, realising that blood is dribbling from somewhere on my face, and stagger out of the door, completely numb to everything other than guilt’s relentless sword shoving through my side.

As I get in my car there’s only one thing on my mind, one thing that I know I’m going to act on.

I really fucking need a drink.

A/N: Thank you sooo much for reading, sorry that it’s so crappy and long; I had a shitty day at school (revolving around one friend acting like I’ve committed a cardinal sin, one friend accusing me of being anorexic and one of the most feared boys in my year out for my blood meaning that I am as good as dead tomorrow. Yes, I feel like a bad episode of Eastenders) so sorry if this turned out terrible. Anyway, thank you very much for taking the time to read and please review! :)
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