Morning itself didn't feel real, and perhaps Gerard would have even preferred waking up alone, even in his current state, and that was one of utter confusion and discomfort, because this didn't feel real and it didn't feel right, but it was, and Gerard couldn't deny that he was thankful that Bert was at least there to keep him company, or sane at the very least.

Because he'd fucked up like this, and he'd fucked up big time; Frank mattered, and Frank would care, but it was too late now, and Gerard just rolled away in his best attempt to fall back asleep in the grave he'd dug himself, but before he could quite close the lid of his coffin, a voice.

A soft and sleepy, "hey," from the man in bed next to him, who stirred a little as the blankets had twisted and contorted frantically around Gerard's somewhat panicked form, and then, a perhaps slightly less calm and subdued, "Gerard?" in response to the lack of response from the man beside him; Bert knew Gerard as awake, and Gerard knew he was going to get away with just laying here forever, no matter how much he might want to.

"H-hey..." Gerard finally stumbled upon a response, pushing it hastily between his lips, almost choking on his own breath and anxiety, and there was very little hiding it as far as Bert was concerned at the very least.

"What's wrong?" He asked, moving in the covers so he was beside Gerard, who still remained stubborn with his back to Bert, however he made no move to object as the other man placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, before tentatively moving it down his back, stopping as it dipped in a little, and repeating his motions to bring his hand back up to Gerard's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze as he did so. "Come on, Gerard, tell me."

Gerard lay there in silence, just breathing, just breathing, just existing, but not really living, not really there, before uttering the two most simple, expressionless words he could happen upon in a short space of time, "I'm okay."

"You're not." Bert's response was instant, much unlike Gerard's; Bert insistent that Gerard turned and faced him, or at least spoke to him at the very least, but the artist didn't see things like that - he saw that he'd fucked up, he saw the mess he'd made, and more importantly.

Gerard saw the texts on his cellphone from Frank at three in the morning: the two simple texts that had thrown everything to shit; they said very little, but in that, still entirely far too much, enough to make Gerard's whole body ache, in fact, and perhaps even enough to have him cry, but he hadn't quite gotten that far yet.

'You never hung up the phone.'

The first text was sent at exactly three twenty four in the morning, and Gerard couldn't even imagine what sat Frank must have been when he'd sent it.

'I heard every word and I know about you and him and I'm not happy, Gerard, I'm really not and you're going to find that out soon.'

The second text was sent six minutes later, at three thirty precisely, and then nothing: perhaps frank had fallen asleep at that point, but knowing the irrational gesture of Gerard's ex-boyfriend, it wasn't exactly ridiculous to suggest otherwise, in fact, it'd probably be ridiculous not to.

"I'm not."

It had been a good few minutes since the silence had faded with the hum of conversation, but two simple words brought it all back, Bert almost jumping a little at Gerard's acceptance of his current mentality.

"Tell me why?" Bert suggested, pulling at Gerard's shoulder a little, in something like suggestion that the other man turn and face him, however, Gerard wasn't exactly inclined to, or just didn't quite get the hint; Bert was unable to tell.

"It's..." Gerard paused, rolling over onto his back, and letting out a sigh as his gaze fell upon the ceiling of Bert's bedroom. "You're not going to like it."

"You're upset, of course, I'm not going to like it." Bert let out a sigh, shaking his head, and moving so he was laid down beside Gerard, their sides pressed close together in a way that Gerard really should have protested, but didn't. "But, I'm not Ray, and that doesn't mean I'm angry or that I hate you, or that you've done anything wrong, that just means I'm sad, and that's not your fault- that's not anyone's fault."

"Just look at my phone." Gerard said after a moment, finding himself almost incapable of speaking aloud and just explaining the mess that they were something like six feet deep in at this point. "It's on the bedside table, the conversation is open... it's... pretty... well, actually, it's anything but pretty."

Bert paused for a moment, catching Gerard's gaze, before pushing himself up enough to reach across Gerard's chest and grab his phone from the table, holding the device above his head a little as he unlocked it and glanced over the two messages from Frank.

"I'm just a little confused..." Bert admitted, reading the messages over for something like the seventh time.

"I was on the phone to Frank when Ray arrived, but I dropped the phone out of shock... I guess I didn't notice that the call was still going... I guess we don't know when he hung up at all-"

"So he heard us... when we kissed and-..." Bert paused, his gaze somewhat distant in nature. "And he's angry at you?"

"Yeah, I guess." Gerard nodded, blushing a little as Bert returned his gaze to meet Gerard's.

"That's not fair: you're not together, you're not cheating, and he's the one who broke up with you in the first place - it's fucking ridiculous, and dear god, Gerard, promise me that you aren't just going to let people treat you like this?"

Gerard paused for a moment, looking down. "Like what?"

"Like he fucking owns you, like somehow, you're not allowed to be with anyone else after you've broken to, even if you want to- Frank Iero doesn't own you, look, Gerard, the notion of the thought itself is even ridiculous. You're a person, nobody fucking owns you."

"But he loves me." Gerard piped up, looking up at Bert with something like confusion.

"If he loves you, he should want you to be happy, and just because he loves you doesn't mean that you're under any obligation to love him back, you got that?"

Gerard paused for a moment, nodding a little. "What do you think he means by 'going to find out soon'?"

"Fuck, I don't know, but if he fucking tries anything, I swear to God, I will kill him." And Gerard didn't reckon for one second that Bert was joking.

"Why would you do that for me?"

"Because, Gerard, you just don't get it yet, and I reckon you just won't get it at all, but you're special, you're so special, and so important. You matter, and you matter so fucking much."

"No one's really told me that I matter before."

"That's fucked up, Gerard, honestly, because dear god, you seriously do."

-

Lindsey Ballato bit her lip, her knees shaking a little as she sat on the sofa, her cellphone in one hand as she watched the TV screen, the sound turned down to one or two; she'd heard it all at this point, she'd heard too much, in fact, and she was getting dangerously close to crying, and she fucking needed to speak to someone right now.

Because it wasn't true; it couldn't be true, and deep down, Lindsey knew that, but she needed every last shred of conformation she could get, and with several missed calls to Alicia, Pete, and Frank, she found herself in absolutely no luck.

Fuck, what could they all be doing right now that was so fucking important they couldn't pick up the phone or even text her back, because Lindsey was absolutely anything but okay, and she was pretty certain she was going to fucking break any moment soon.

Lindsey didn't quite know what breaking involved yet, but she reckoned that perhaps it was better if she just didn't find out, because whatever it entailed, it didn't sound particularly good at all.

She woken up an hour or two ago: eaten breakfast, and turned on the TV, finding herself faced with the news report: a missing persons report for an Alicia Simmons and a Mikey Way, and fuck, they couldn't be dead- this was some- fuck, they'd gone on a road trip or just a trip or something, or Pete had fucking had some stupid idea, and nothing bad had happened to them at all, and she was okay, and everything would be fine, and Lindsey wasn't crying.

Lindsey couldn't cry, because Lindsey wasn't the crier, she was the hand to hold.

But now, the very moment when she needed a hand of her own, she was alone, and she had absolutely no one but her own tears and the news report on repeat as she clutched the phone in her hand: dial tone after dial tone but with not even a hope of luck whatsoever.

It was a lost cause; she was a boat lost out at sea, and she wasn't even the one in danger here, because Alicia and Mikey could easily been drowning in a tsunami right now, but she was complaining about little more than high tide.

But it was the morning, after all; she was all nerves, and she knew exactly what Pete would say when she called him already. He'd say that it was nothing, because that was what it was, and he'd tell her to drink until she stopped crying, or just until she couldn't tell the difference between the alcohol and her tears anymore.

That wasn't exactly her style, but she was short on ideas, and found herself placing her phone down on the coffee table, and turning the TV onto standby, before getting to her feet, and stumbling at least twice on her way to the kitchen and the nearest glass, and the first bottle of wine she happened upon, because perhaps Lindsey Ballato liked to think she had just a little more class than Pete Wentz did.

It was little more than a frivolous matter, and something to keep her self confidence high, but right now her mind was preoccupied with just a little more than that.

But they weren't dead, fuck, they probably weren't even missing, and fuck they had to be so fucking okay, because dear god if they were, it couldn't be like this; it couldn't be some Romeo and Juliet bullshit, because Lindsey just wouldn't have that, because Alicia wasn't the perfect Juliet and Mikey Way was far from Romeo, and there was no fucking way that Lindsey fancied herself as Paris, and there was no fucking way she was about to compare her life to Romeo and fucking Juliet.

But she just did, and she was crying too.

She'd gone soft - that was it; she'd just gone soft, so incredibly soft, and so incredibly stupid, because that was all she was being, especially in the matter of leaving her phone on silent and on the coffee table where she couldn't see or hear it ring, because like this, she'd sort of condemned herself to her kitchen table and this bottle of wine with empty promises that she couldn't keep for herself.

But perhaps, even if just for the time being, it was enough to get her by.

And perhaps that was all life was about, just getting by, and when that stopped working you had to struggle and try and adjust again, and it was like that forever until one day eventually, everything just stopped, and that was it.

That was always it, and still Lindsey was living, and still, people were living.

Perhaps that meant something, perhaps that meant that there was more than it seemed.

Perhaps there was hope in getting out of this town, perhaps there was hope in putting this bottle down, and perhaps there was hope in finding Alicia and Mikey alive.

But none of those things were realistic, and none of those things would happen.

And the hole six feet deep in the corner of Pete Wentz's back garden made sure of that, because it was that very hole that had condemned Lindsey to this bottle, and this town, because there wasn't a chance she was going to leave Alicia alone here, dead or alive.

Because there was far more between the two of them than she'd ever dared to tell anyone.

-

Frank's heart practically stilled in his chest as he banged his fist upon Bert McCracken's front door, because in a way, this was all or nothing, because Gerard was everything in the whole world to him, and Frank knew that he shouldn't be, but Frank also knew that there was very little that he could do about it.

Pete gave him a badly executed glance of 'comfort' as the two waited in silence, Frank deciding to bang his fist upon the door once more after receiving very little in the way of a response, his hand shaking a little as he did so, because he was fucking nervous and there was absolutely no lying about that.

After again, receiving no response, Frank resorted to slamming the door and with a great deal more force than before, which really wasn't working, and succeeded in nothing more than making him look like an idiot.

Pete pushed him aside, picking the lock within a minute or so, and leaving Frank to simply not question just how he'd learned to do that. Pete grinned at Frank as he pushed the door open with ease, grabbing his gun as he made his way in, and really making it look like he'd done this before, which unnerved Frank, to say the least.

The two made their way into the living room, Frank's jaw dropping to find Bert sat on the sofa, loading bullets in a gun, and with Gerard fast asleep curled up next to him in a state of utter oblivion.

"Is he dead?" Pete exclaimed, gesturing towards Gerard's sleeping form, and leaving Bert with an urge to fucking shoot himself.

"No, he's asleep." Bert rolled his eyes, glancing at Gerard, who hadn't even twitched in his sleep. "And was there any reason why you broke into my house?"

"The law says that I can shoot you for breaking and entering, so you better fucking think about what you're gonna do, okay, got that?" Bert snapped, pointing his gun kind of loosely in their direction.

"Like I give a shit what the law says." Frank rolled his eyes, clicking the safety off his gun and making a point of aiming it at Bert. "I fucking know what you're doing to my boyfriend-"

"He's not your boyfriend, Frank." Bert let out a sigh, glancing at Gerard as he spoke, and kind of half wishing he would wake up before Frank shot him, because the only person in the whole that Frank Iero would ever consider listening to was of course Gerard Way.

"Then whose fucking boyfriend is he? Barack Obama's?" Frank scoffed, rolling his eyes, stuck in some sort of weird denial state, and Pete couldn't help but glance between Gerard and Bert and fill in the gaps before Frank could even realise that there were gaps to be filled.

"Mine." And Frank nearly shot Bert for that answer: right then and there and with no other questions asked.

"Fuck off, and fuck you, Bert, seriously fuck you." Frank quickly lost his temper, making his way over to the two of them.

"He's here of his own accord, Frank, he's here because he wants to be, come on, you can wake him up and ask him, but I'd rather not wake him, you know-" Bert's words were cut off as Frank aimed a shot at the wall, just to prove a point.

Gerard stirred in his sleep, sitting up and rubbing his eyes as the sound of the shot resonated throughout the room. "Frank?" He exclaimed, looking between Frank and Bert with widened eyes. "What's happening, I... I-?" He turned to Bert, breaking Frank's heart the very moment he noticed that Gerard was directing the question at him.

"I'm not exactly sure; they break in with guns and, you know what? Frank would you care to enlighten us as to what the ever-loving fuck is going on in that little head of yours?" Bert's tone was snide, making his hatred for Frank rather evident.

"I'm here for Gerard." He let out a sigh, putting his gun away, and leaving Bert and Pete to aim at one another. "Fuck, I...tell me what the fuck's going on, please, Gee?"

"I'm dating Bert now." Gerard's response was nonchalant enough to smash Frank's heart in too, and release a small smug little smirk from Bert's lips. "You were the one who stormed out... remember, do you, Frank?"

"He's right, you know." Pete added from behind Frank, and gained one hell of a glare from Frank in return.

"No, fuck, Gerard you can't just- I miss you, I'm sorry, I thought we were okay, I thought we were- fuck, I... I... Gerard... you can't just- you don't even fuck..." Frank turned to Pete, his eyes widening a little as he spoke. "You don't even know what's happened while you were gone."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Gerard asked, shuffling just a little closer to Bert.

"Mikey... fuck, Mikey... I-..." Frank turned to Pete, frozen and helpless, and so fucking sorry, but not sorry, enough, never sorry enough.

"Mikey's... dead..." Pete finished the sentence for Frank, leaving Gerard to sat there in silence for a moment, not quite able to accept what was happening, because no, this was not happening.

"Gerard, you need, please, you need to come back, I- there's so much mess, and I need you, you're everything, Gerard, you're-" Frank stepped forward, almost attempting to grab Gerard as he did.

"Fuck off, fuck you." Gerard snapped, grabbing Bert's gun from his hand and aiming it at Frank. "Fucking go."

"Gerard, please, I-" Frank stumbled backwards, his head spinning: a mess between Gerard and Bert and the gun, and fuck, fuck, fuck, he was so fucked. "I love you."

"I don't love you." Gerard put the gun down, and Frank breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"You don't mean that, Gerard-"

"You wanna fucking bet? You left me, fucking remember? Do you, Frank?-"

"It's him," Frank exclaimed, pointing desperately in Bert's direction, his heart beating at something like ten times its normal speed, and the world slowly down to half time around him, and it was almost like he knew it, like he knew what was coming. "Bert, he's fucking, fucking with your head, and it's- and it's Ray, you know, look please, Gerard, I- I- love-"

"Frank, please, just leave it-" Bert hadn't planned on interrupting, and mainly on the basis that he didn't particularly plan on being shot, but needs must, anyway, he reckoned Pete was just a little too overwhelmed to even consider pulling the trigger at this point.

"No, I'm not leaving you, Gerard, not this time, I love-"

Frank didn't finish that sentence.

Pete was just a little too overwhelmed to pull the trigger.

Gerard wasn't.

-

hey pals lmao well oops that happened again lmao oops i stg its never planned the opportunity just arises and im like lmao why not. anyway votes and comments would be cool pls i love you lots im sorry