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When the music stops	By : smuglikesmirk Category: My Chemical Romance > Slash - Male/Male Views: 910 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction. I do not Know Gerard Way, Mikey Way, Frank Iero, or any one else in or connected to MCR. I DO NOT profit from these writings.

Chapter List
- 1-When the music stops
- 1
A/N: This one shot was written in response to another one shot that my Frank wrote, in which he passed away.

No one ever said that life would be easy, and I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that, even when I liked to pretend that I didn’t. Of all the memories I’d created in my life to date, good ones, bad ones, amazing ones, there was one that always stood out. It was simple, and not entirely flashy or brilliant, but it was mine and it was the only thing I had left. Who kept the memory of death so close to them at all times? Didn’t normal people try and distance themselves from it? Fuck, who was I kidding? It was a very long time since I’d resembled anything close to normal. I’m not even sure I could recognize normal if it passed me on the street. Not that I venture out much anymore. I just sit in this fucking apartment, the one that used to be so full of life. I couldn’t face them anymore, any of them, I don’t even remember how long it had been since they’d stop coming to the door. A week? Two? I really had no idea. I paced. I smoked. I drank. Once a week Mikey would bring me supplies, but I wouldn’t even let him in, he’d learned to leave the bags at the door and ring the bell. I’d watched him a couple of times through the peep hole, standing there staring at the door like he could see me on the other side, his fucking wreck of a brother. I didn’t even feel bad anymore. It was better this way, no one needed to see this part of me. Every time I’d wait until he was gone then I’d open the door just enough to bring in my things before shutting the world out again. The silence was always deafening, screaming at me from all sides but I couldn’t change it. I refused to turn on the radio; every song reminded me of him. I had smashed the television sometime last week when I’d caught the tail end of a news report. I think it had been about me, I didn’t wait long enough to find out. I never wanted to hear the name of that band again. It had started with me but it had ended with him. It was over. WE were over. *I* was over.

I pulled myself out of our dirty bed, and I say ‘our’ because it used to be, before he went and fucking left. My hair was tangled and my clothes were well beyond clean, but I scarcely noticed. All the way to the kitchen my feet dragged, I needed a cigarette and I needed a drink. As I unscrewed the cap of the bottle I couldn’t help but feel the slightest tinge of guilt at what I had allowed myself to become, but then the strong scent of alcohol consumed me and as my lips wrapped themselves around the bottle, everything else was lost. I drank down a third of the bottle in one swig, it wasn’t impressive, it was disgusting, I knew it. I had put myself here, after all. I abandoned the bottle long enough to fumble for a cigarette box, finding one that wasn’t empty wasn’t as easy as it sounded; they were everywhere, empty Marlboro boxes. They were the only thing that decorated this hell that I couldn’t smash into bits in a fit of rage. I had my cigarette lit now, pressed loosely between my lips and I grabbed my bottle high around its neck and headed back towards the bedroom. I was very nearly always there, unless I was pissing or vomiting, and even then sometimes I was still there. No one ever said this was pretty. I leaned against the doorway, my dull eyes moving over the abandoned room, I was starting to forget what it used to look like, maybe that was a good thing, I’m still not entirely sure. I raised the bottle to my lips again and took its contents down to less than half now, only pausing long enough to gasp for air before going back for more. I was insatiable and frantic and chaotic and I just didn’t give a shit. The bottle was gone and I’d just opened it fifteen minutes ago. Had it really only been fifteen minutes? I had smashed the clock the very first night so I really couldn’t gauge time. I knew light and I knew dark, everything else was just in between. I would be awake as long as my body would allow it, drinking and smoking, screaming, shaking, at times weeping, and always regretting, but never was there a pattern. I was everything I never wanted to be and it was all thanks to him. Why did he have to be so fucking selfish? Why did he make me love him only to leave me like this? How could he do this to me and more importantly, why didn’t he have the common fucking decency to take me with him? I wanted to hate him, god I wanted to fucking hate him…but I couldn’t. He’d made it impossible to remain angry at him, even when I really wanted it. Maybe if I could have recognized that I would have been alright, but I never had been really good at reading in between the lines.

I had built up quite a tolerance to the alcohol, hence Mikey bringing me nothing but straight, clear, and strong these days. The room was starting to shake a little bit and I sighed, I liked it when that happened, it made it easier to forget, it dulled everything, made it all just a little bit easier to handle. I inhaled from the loosely dangling, half spent cigarette that was protruding from my mouth, my bloodshot eyes squinting slightly to avoid the smoke burn. I wanted to fall on the bed but I couldn’t, I suddenly felt very small here, as if I had to get out, somehow. I crossed the room to the corner underneath the window and pressed my back against the wall, sliding down to the ground and hugging my knees tightly to my chest. I had become such a fucking cliché, I was pathetic well beyond the normal standards and I didn’t fucking care. I smoked my Marlboro until it was just filter and then I tossed it aside, it was lost in the mess that littered the floors, the surfaces, the spaces. It was chaos here, just like my heart, or the spot where my heart used to be, he’d made sure he took that with him and he was never going to bring it back. Ever. I felt a sudden wave of nausea and I rested my chin on my knees, my eyes drooping slightly as they moved around the room slowly. The soiled blankets hung over the side of the bed and I could just barely make out a dull shine protruding from beneath the bed. I was curious, but only partially, it was probably something I didn’t want to see, but I found myself moving despite that fact. I couldn’t get up, stand up to my full height in here, not now, I was sinking into that pre vodka coma, the place you lulled in just before you were laid out on your back and drooling. I found myself crawling towards the bed, the palms of my hands scraping against bits of broken this or that, creating tiny punctures across my skins surface, I didn’t even notice. I reached for the thing my mind sought, my fingers closing over the corner of a picture. A picture that had once been in a small frame. My face paled as I looked at it and maybe if I had anything left in me I would have cried. It was me and him at that fucking place. That happy place that we always seemed to lead one another. That place is dead to me now; he took that with him too. He took every fucking thing that ever meant anything to me with him. How does he expect me to stay here and go on? How could he do this to me? Did he really think I would be ok? Or was he fucking kidding himself, pretending for his own peace of mind? He was a selfish fucking prick and he stripped me of everything I ever had and left me here to rot in this hell….And now he was gone. I was alone. I would hit him if he was here, but I couldn’t. I hit the floor instead, my fist smashing an already destroyed coffee mug even further as I bent over, huddling on the floor in a fetal position. I wanted to vomit but the sick wouldn’t come. I was so fucking miserable here, how long would I have to endure? How long?

“How long Frank? HOW FUCKING LONG?”

I was screaming at the ceiling now, alcohol tears seeped gently from the corners of my eyes. My knuckles were bleeding, I ignored that too. The blood on my hand smeared on the picture and I dropped it, forcing myself up to my feet and staggering away, I had to get out of this room. This place that symbolized every fucking thing I no longer possessed. Out the door, down the hall, through the kitchen.

One more bottle.

Mikey wasn’t coming for three more days. Fuck. I was past the point of caring anymore and as I twisted off the cap I pondered what I might do. I could never take my own life, that is why I still sit here, day after fucking day, living in this misery. I knew it was only a matter of time before someone busted in here and carted me away, could I even survive outside of this apartment? I refused to leave; if I left they would take it all. Everything we had ever had, broken or not, they would take it away and I would be left with nothing. He had taken the important things, these trivial things were all I had left, it was a grim reality. I wrapped my mouth around this new bottle, tilting my head back and just letting it flow. I didn’t even bother trying to breathe. I wanted the numb to come and take the pain away but every day it was harder and harder to coax it out. My body was a vessel without purpose, hard alcohol was eating away my liver, slowly doing things to me that could not be reversed. How long had it been now? A Week? A month? A year? The bottle was gone and I was gasping for air, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. The bottle slipped from my grasp and hit the floor, shattering around my feet. I stumbled over the top of it into the living room, falling/leaning against the sliding glass door and staring fearfully out at the Jersey skyline. I was scared of out there, but a part of me longed for it. Without ever realizing it my fingers found themselves fumbling for the handle, tugging on the door until it opened. The cold air hit me like a ton of bricks and I felt another wave of nausea hit me, hard. It smelled like something I used to long for out there, yet I was afraid to step over the threshold. My breathing was labored and those vodka tears were coming again.

“Fuck it,”

Had I even said that out loud? The next thing I knew I was standing on the patio, clinging to the ledge and staring out over the city all lit up in the dark. I wanted to cry for it, the sight of it all but I knew my tears were my own and completely selfish. I was crying for me. I stood there, how long it was I couldn’t tell you, and after a while I wanted to slump, my head was pounding and spinning simultaneously and before I knew it I was leaning over to vomit over the edge of our balcony. I looked after it for a minute, watching it until it was a tiny speck of liquid splattered on the cement below. I wondered what that felt like, connecting to something so quickly and with such force.

But I could never take my own life, remember?

I sank down to the ground and huddled in the corner, the breeze ruffling my dirty hair as I hugged my knees to my chest. Now this was ours too, this balcony. I felt accomplished tonight, even though I’d never really done anything. I rested my head against my knees and let my eyes fall closed, succumbing to the alcohol coma I’d been longing for earlier. I was passed out, and would stay that way for hours.

…You might think that I’ll eventually be ok, and feel free to hold onto that thought if you wish, whatever helps you get through the night, but I won’t. I’ll never be the same again. I’ll never write another word or hold a microphone or leave this fucking apartment. This is MY hell and I wear it well. One day the alcohol will kill me, perhaps when I’m least expecting it, surprises are always nice. Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally be the last thing he ever took with him.

…I am afraid, and you know something? I always was..
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When the music stops