Ray Toro was made to regret leaving that one window open, as in the dead of night, a silhouette, no more than a shadow, perhaps, pushed it open further and slid into the living room unnoticed.

The intruder wasn't exactly aware as to what time it was, but from the inky black sky outside, they were well aware of the fact that Ray would be asleep right now, and they were just as thankful of that fact as they were aware.

They left the window open behind them, even though they knew how unsafe it was from their own entry just a few seconds prior, because if things fucked up, they would need an easy way out, and the window would most certainly suffice.

Of course it wasn't their first choice, of course this in its entirety wasn't their first choice either, but it was the last thing they had left as their choices ran low, and they ran out of people they could trust at all; it was a cruel world and they'd learned that first hand.

But still, this had to be done, and a part of them yearned for the deed and the ecstatic aftermath, because deep down, this was something they knew was long time coming, and they reckoned Mr Toro himself knew that also.

But perhaps not who such a deed would be coming from, but they reckoned they'd be as good of a heart attack in the middle of the night as any, and on a man's deathbed, he most certainly couldn't carry that much preference as to how he went, especially when it was anything but up to him.

The intruder smirked to themself in the darkness, grabbing the gun from their back pocket and turning the safety off, and ensuring that it was loaded, because that really was a fucking ridiculous mistake that they didn't dare chancing; they'd much prefer to give it a little test, but they couldn't chance sparking Ray's attention before they were certain that they'd go through with this mess of misplaced justice and revenge.

With one deep breath, they made their way down the hallway, finding Ray's bedroom open just a crack; the man having fallen asleep with the night light still on and a book across his chest, and from the looks of it, and the whisky on the nightstand, he was fucking well out of it.

They kicked the door opened fully, wincing as it let out a high pitched whine, perhaps even in protest, but the man in the bed didn't stir at all, and the intruder began to wonder if he ever would; the thought amused them, sparking their interest as they stepped into the bedroom and aimed their gun at the sleeping man, still unaware and perhaps even peaceful.

He was sleeping; it'd be painless, and fuck, no, he didn't deserve it like that for what he'd done, and the intruder knew that through and through, and with irrationality and a strange urge for vengeance ruling over what little justice and common sense they still had in their head, they shot their 'test shot' at the wall above the man, making quick work of angling the gun back at Ray, as he came to some form of consciousness.

"Fuck- I... what-" He reached for the main light switch above his head, slamming it on, and the intruder smirked a little as Ray's eyes widened at them in the newfound artificial light. "What are you- I... put the gun down, please... I..."

"You took him, you hurt him: I don't care what you have to say, I really fucking don't, Toro." The intruder spat at the man, their lips curling up into a fully-fledged grin at the prospect of what was to come.

"Come on, now, please, I... see sense, please, he wanted, he wanted-"

"And you know what I want?" They continued, aiming the gun closer to Ray's body.

"I-"

"You dead." And the intruder finished their sentence with a gunshot and one hell of a smirk, as they turned the light off, and laid the book back over the man's chest, raising an eyebrow as they noticed that it was indeed none other than 'Fifty Shades of Grey', before putting the gun back in their pocket and making their way back out the very same window, but closing it behind them this time, because they were indeed very polite.

-

The second home was across town, and at a first glance, far more difficult to break into, which was really ruining the ecstatic vibe they gotten off Ray Toro's murder, because that's what it was: murder, justified murder, at least in their head, but murder nonetheless, but they didn't cower from that truth, they revelled in it.

However, with a jump over a back gate into an unkempt, small backyard, they found themselves with not an unsuspecting open window, but a fucking unlocked backdoor, and they even considered stopping to laugh at the stupidity that had gone into a fuck up of that calibre, but of course, they never quite stopped to consider just why it could have been left open, as the back gate shut behind someone: a certain someone that had the intruder pinned against the wall of the house with a pistol.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The man: the owner of the house, was anything but pleased to see a face, darkened, and unrecognisable in the absence of light, smirking at him like a madman, despite the apparent mess they'd gotten themselves into.

"Oh come on, Bert, don't be such a little bitch about this for once, why don't you?" They attempted to laugh it off, but Bert wasn't having it, reaching for the porch light switch, and half regretting that he hadn't.

"You're- you're covered in blood. What the fuck? I... fuck... I... you're- you're... I... you're... supposed to be dead-" Bert's eyes widened in shock as he took in the appearance and mortality of the shorter one of two, recognising them as perhaps the last person he'd ever wanted to see, ever.

"Yeah, about that..." They shook their head, aiming their gun at Bert's head. "How about you take my place? Because, I don't like you, McCracken, and you're fucking well aware of that, aren't you?"

"Don't get so up your own ass, kid, you're covered in blood, you're psychotic, you're... you're supposed to be dead, and now you're attempting to kill me, and what for? We know what for, so don't fucking bullshit me, kid, you're just pissed because he kissed me, not you; he chose me, not y-"

And let's just say that Bert's life ended before that sentence could.

"Don't fucking try to tell me shit, you got that?"

-

They hadn't exactly reckoned on there being a third house, and a third visit, but Bert's words, and the seeds of doubt they'd planted in their head had ensured that they took the extra time, still covered in blood, and heart still racing like hell itself, to make their way across town, to a place they knew they shouldn't go again, to people they knew they shouldn't talk to again, but by now they'd figured this all out.

It was all for him. It had always been for him, and there was no escaping that as they passed the alleyway, and the car, still parked on an angle, and winced a little as they glanced down at the bloodstains, and the wounds.

Because no one had reckoned, no one had realised, no one had even considered that the blood they were covered in was not from others but from their own wounds, from their own veins, and it dear god, it wasn't stopping: it had no intent of stopping.

And they knew that as they took a seat, a break, a rest, something on the curb, taking three pills this time; they didn't even know what they were, but they knew the pills helped, and that was enough, that would have to be enough, because sure, it wasn't like they were going to last that much longer, was it?

They'd evaded it the first time, when Pete had left the car, had fucking bailed out for the second twice, had fucked up for the millionth time as they couldn't take it, and couldn't figure it, simply leaving the body there, unnoticed, perhaps even forgotten about as Pete drank everything away, because, sure Pete had been a good enough friend, but he was never the kind of person that Frank would have picked to help him on his deathbed.

Because he'd presumed him dead as soon as he lost consciousness, and perhaps a few hours later, Frank had awoken, bleeding less, but still not at all okay, and he'd made a run for it, for god knows what reason, perhaps just to die in dignity, to smoke and curl up on the hill on the outskirts of town, to give himself a send of at least, but, whatever he was expecting, he most certainly hadn't expected himself to still be there in the morning.

But he had been, and perhaps the bleeding had lessened, but he still knew that as he stopped to black out, pass out a little every few minutes or so, he was certain that he wasn't going to last much, and still, he drank until he was numb, and stitched himself up: stitches that had burst as he'd made his way into Ray's home, but it had been worth it, because there was little point in prolonging the inevitable any further, because he'd done it, hadn't he?

He killed them: the two people who'd fucked this all up, but still, and perhaps it was just Bert's words, he felt empty inside, and he needed, he needed to see him again, even in a state like this, even if just for a few seconds, because whatever it was, whatever it could be, would be worth everything.

Because it always been for him, from day one, from the first second, from that smile and that hatred, and back when everything was okay, and Frank knew that through and through.

Unfortunately, however, he had little time to ponder upon such a catastrophic, Romeo and Juliet esque realisation, before he was startled by the sound of a gunshot, and muffled screaming, coming from inside the house, and before Frank knew what was happening, he was on his feet, and he was making a run for the backdoor, always left unlocked now, and fuck, Frank hadn't been ready at all.

Pete's body on the kitchen floor, in a pool of his own blood, dead, clearly recent, and Lindsey stood above him, almost in shock at what she'd done, and perhaps in even more shock as her gaze fell upon Frank's, and the two shared a look: the least likely look in existence, and a silence, prolonged, and hammering heartbeats as Frank pulled out his gun.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" He snapped at her, gesturing towards Pete, or what was left of him, with his gun.

"How the fuck are you still a-alive, and fuck, why are you covered in blood? So much fucking blood, Frank, what the fuck did you do?" She exclaimed, stumbling over her own words as she continued to look at Frank in disbelief.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" Frank repeated his question, pointing his gun directly at Lindsey, and taking a step forwards.

She swallowed hard, pointing her own gun at Frank, as she continued, "How the fuck are you still alive? What happened, for fuck's sake, Frank-"

"You're not going to shoot me: I know that, Lindsey." Frank shook his head, wincing a little as he felt a jolt of pain slice through his wounds, but it didn't show, because this was all about the facade: the fight, and the vengeance, and who he made himself out to be on his deathbed, misplaced pride, and a fucked up sense of dignity, and to summarise it all, a self concocted mess.

"Of course, I am, I have a gun-"

"You're still barely able to accept what you did to Pete, so I doubt you'll be chancing it a second time, and especially not with someone you're so relieved to see alive, so shut the fuck up and answer my question." Lindsey shuddered a little, putting her gun down, because fuck, this was Frank, but it wasn't Frank; he'd changed, and from the bloodstains on his clothes, to his psychotic demeanour, it was more than evident.

"And you would? Be able to shoot me, your best friend, would you?"

"I just killed two people, shot them dead, on my way here, don't fucking push me, Lindsey, why did you do it?" And Lindsey swallowed, shaking her head and tearing up.

"He killed Alicia and Mikey; he killed the both of them, he... he... I... I couldn't... and I'd thought he'd killed you too, I... and he wouldn't, no, he went too far, and Gerard, fucking Gerard, I..." Lindsey shook her head, biting her lip firmly in disbelief.

"What about Gerard?" Frank practically snapped at her, his eyes widening a little at the mention of his name.

"He's fine, he's asleep in the spare room, he came here just a few hours ago; he ran away from Bert, I don't know, fuck, Frank, he misses you, he's not coping well, and I don't want him to wake up and see this bloody, dangerous, fucking terrifying version of you, like shit Frank what did you take?" She shook her head in disbelief as she looked him over for what felt like the millionth time.

"Asleep? With all of this-"

"I gave him sedatives in his water last night-"

"Sedatives?" Frank exclaimed, making no secret about just how eager he was to fucking destroy Lindsey at this point.

"He wasn't going to get any sleep otherwise, very weak sedatives, but he's asleep now-"

"This is Pete Wentz's house, nothing here is fucking weak, except you perhaps. You just can't fucking... no... you drugged him, you fucking bitch-"

"Oh dear god, stop acting like you're the angel of the fucking lord, Frank, you're been nothing but trouble to him, as have we all; what he needs is to get out of this town and start new, and that's what he's going to do, and you're not going to stop him, you're not going to ruin him a second ti-"

And the second gunshot, as Lindsey Ballato fell dead against the floor.

Frank shook his head, pocketing his gun, his eyes widening a little as he noticed a note: a simple 'I'm sorry' scribbled on a scrap of paper, fuck. He laid it out on the counter, and wondered if he could even stomach seeing Gerard like this, because he knew very well what it looked like, and quite honestly, the truth wasn't that far off.

-

Gerard had woken up that next morning, and found the house 'empty' and blood-stained, and as he continued to explore, a note on the countertop from Lindsey Ballato.

'I'm sorry.'

And the note did little to explain the empty house or the bloody mess, let alone the two bodies on the kitchen floor.

And especially not the man, sat at the dining table in the corner of the room, lighting what he reckoned to be his last cigarette, as the blood flowed more freely now, as poor innocent, unexpecting Gerard Way made his way into the kitchen, and Frank got the worst turn out of all, as he got to watch the look in Gerard's eyes as they fell upon the mess on the floor, and as he recognised that he had nothing left at all.

And then, as he moved his gaze across the room, and had something close to a heart attack as his gaze fell upon the practically dead man at the table.

"Frank?" He exclaimed, ignoring the bodies of his dead friends as he rushed over to what the world would declare a monster, sat all too calmly in the room.

"Fuck..." Frank trailed off, shaking his head, and regretting the pain it caused him, as Gerard sat down beside him, taking in his appearance with widened eyes.

"Fuck, Frank, you're bleeding, you're bleeding, I- we... need to get you to hospital, I-"

"I'm supposed to be dead, Gee, what the fuck does it matter?" Frank let out a dry, fucking painful kind of laughter, as he dropped his cigarette into the ashtray, and turned to face Gerard. "I'm dying, Gerard, that's for certain, and I'm sorry, I'm selfish, I have to see you again, I love you, Gee, this is all for you, I fucking- you're safe now, really safe: Ray and Bert, I killed them, all for you, and that's what the blood is: I'm fine-"

"Don't fucking bullshit me, Frank, I... that's your blood, you're bleeding, and I... I... please, you can't- you can't, come on, hospital, now, you-... I can't lose you as well, because look at this, look, come on, who the fuck do I have left, I-"

"I have this friend... well, acquaintance, really, but his name's Brendon Urie, I'll give you his address, he'll let you stay-"

"No, Frank, no." Gerard shook his head firmly, attempting to pull Frank to his feet. "I don't want to stay with him, I want to stay with you, I'm so sorry, I love you too, come on, please, let's go, the hospital now-"

"No." Frank shook his head, sitting back down, and looking at the boy he loved with an odd, unplaceable kind of expression. "Listen to me, Gee, you go-" Frank reached for a pen and scribbled down Brendon's address onto the table, "look, there, I promise you, he's a real good guy, I've fucked him as well, but I've fucked all of my friends, so-"

"I'm not going to let you die, Frank, you're going to come with me, or I'll-" Gerard's eyes widened as he looked around the room, panicking, "I'll tell you much a good fuck Bert was, how he's so much better than you, how he-" And Gerard instantly knew he'd struck a chord, but perhaps the wrong one, as Frank reached for the gun in his pocket.

"You fucking dare, you fucking whore-"

"You wouldn't shoot me, Frank, come on, you love me, come on, I'm sorry, I- I... just please, let's go to the hospital, let's fix this, let's-"

"I wouldn't dare shoot you?" Frank scoffed, laughing a little.

"No, you wouldn't." And Gerard was certain, perhaps too certain, and as Frank smiled, and the two shared one last look, one final look: the look to end all looks, with blood, and injury, and one hell of a tragic end, one of the demolition lovers fell dead, and fell to their end, right there at Pete's kitchen table, certain to leave the other to die alone in little but agony.

And the address scribbled on the table, ignored until the very moment the police got there.

-

They'd questioned Brendon Urie about what they'd called a 'massacre', but he knew very little, and as he'd made his way back home, his boyfriend had asked him what it was all about, and he'd responded with, "some guy I once knew, Frank, he was all kinds of crazy, all kinds of nice too, but I guess you can think you know someone, but you never really know them until you can figure out what the hell happened to them involving a mass shooting, and your address scribbled on the dining table."

"God," Ryan had shook his head in disbelief, simply relieved that Brendon was okay, the two sharing a kiss, and some sort unspoken understanding, only to be interrupted by another ring of the doorbell. "If it's that detective back again-" Ryan protested, shaking his head a little, as Brendon pulled away.

"Hey, who knows, Ry, it could be someone else entirely, couldn't it?" Brendon smiled at his boyfriend as he made his way to answer the front door.

-

hey lmao did you see this coming because i didnt i pretty much just came up with this last night oops well thats the end of this lmao this was pretty damn traumatic dont you think lmao???

votes and comments for the traumatic vibes ayyyy? ayyy???

anyway, this is the good bit, like if you didn't think everyone dying wasn't good enough already, but end of old fic means start of new fic and like you're so not ready for this new fic i feel like it's kind of an apology for this, but guess what it has a UNIQUE PLOT IM DEAD also UNIQUE NAME also not OVERDONE A MILLION TIMES, ALSO CUTE AS HECK, LIKE SERIOUSLY I DONT THINK ANYONES GONNA DIE in it, so look forward to that happening at some point very soon. it's called 'A Revolution On Canvas' and i'm like damn thats a good name im so bad with names lmao ayy anyway i love you all im sorry this fic is such a mess im dead like pretty much everyone in it oops <3