---Gerard---

Up until now, this had always been easier for me. Bowing my head and resisting the urge to cry. Telling myself the lie that it'll be okay when I know damn well it won't be.

The grass is wet under my knees, each blade bending under the force and laying down to the dark brown dirt underneath. The moon is barely visible through the thick clouds, but I know it's up there, watching us live our lives as we try to overcome this painful grief. Each breath in is like hell, the way it fills my lungs, the way it fuels my oncoming sobs and presses my tears to my eyes. The way it builds and builds until I can't take it anymore. The way it just keeps filling until it hurts and I'm about to crack from the pressure and explode . The tears just moments away from finally escaping, but I can't let them. The sobs just seconds away from leaving me but I don't want them to go. At that point, I'm sure it'll all just escape me, and I'll become undone, and I can't be strong.

But each breath out is a relief from my pain. My sobs are easier to hold in, and my tears are moving back little by little. The tension and pressure released to ease my aching muscles and my hurting heart. With each exhale, my energy is released in a shaky breath, and I'm able to recover just a little.

My head is down, my hands shaky as they hold the bouquet of tulips, roses, and lilies.

I need to be strong for everyone. They're counting on me... I can't break down because Mama will lose the last string of hope she has left. Patrick will only feel worse than he already does. Mikey will have to go back to stage one, he's already come so far. He's already accepted Dad's death, but he left me behind on depression to melt away. I need to be strong, but I'm not. I'm so weak, I can't accept that he's really gone. I'm so weak, Mikey's stronger. I'm so weak, I can't face the question burning into my mind like a hot brand.

I don't want to ask it because I'm scared of the answer. I don't want to face the truth, but at the same time, I can't escape it. I can't stop running away from it, and I need to accept it... But I can't... He can't actually be gone, can he? All those times he took Mikey and me to that city block. All those times we had talked with him on the Fourth of July to calm his PTSD. All those times we had heard his stories of what it was like in the army. Is it all really gone to waste? All those years drowned out by the truth of it all?

Is he really gone?

My question is finally released into my mind, repeating itself over and over again. Is he really gone? Is he really dead? Has he really passed? Each one getting stronger and stronger, echoing like voice. Like I'm a psycho. Like no matter what, it'll always be there, and I feel like I'm going to break. In front of Patrick. I'm going to breakdown and scream into the cold air.

A hand is on my shoulder, and everything is hushed. The hell of my mind quiets to a complete silence. Yes, Dad's dead... And oh god it hurts... It hurts like a motherfucker... I've never felt so much emotional and mental pain in my life. I want it to end. I want Dad back, and I want Mikey back. I want the old Mama back, too. I want her to stop smoking. I want her to be like she used to. I want, but I can't have. But it's gone now. Patrick is here and I know I can't face alone. I want Patrick. I need Patrick. It's selfish... Oh god, it's so selfish, but I need his help. And he needs mine.

The headstone is made of black marble, his name engraved in the stone with tall, narrow letters. White on black, making it easy to read.

Here lies Donald Way
Son, husband, father, veteran
Thank you for your service and Rest In Peace

I intentionally skip over the date, I can't bare to look. I don't want to see it because it hurts... It hurts so badly... But I should be respectful, so I do the thing I do every year. I speak to him like he could somehow hear me. I want to believe he does and that he's not gone forever... I want to believe he can still hear my desperate, pained words...

"Hey, Dad..." I whisper, a grim look on my face. I listen to the shuffle of grass beside me, and I turn my head to see Patrick beside me on his knees, he's looking down at the grave and tracing the black and white design. The same design on Mikey's badge. Four points and an epicenter.

I can see the mausoleum behind Patrick as I try to think of something to say. It's made out of some type of white stone, I don't know if it's marble or not, but the stone is cracked and mossy. The building has been deserted for decades, and now there are only rumors that it's haunted. It was beginning to get too full a long while back, so the city ended up just using the rest of the block for graves. Anyways, mausoleums were going out of style. I heard that from Bonnie before age began to take her health, the mausoleum was still being used when she was a child, which was a while ago seeing as she's in her fifties now.

I focus back on what's important, it's just Patrick and I sitting together next to my father's grave. Words finally, finally flowing from my mouth and a couple tears dripping down every now and then.

"I miss you..." I say as if it isn't obvious. There's a pause as I let that sink in the cold silence taking up the air, the storm is yet to begin, and my tears have yet to fall to the frozen earth. I take a deep breath, calming my sadness before I say something else, my words plain because I was never good at making things like this meaningful, "This is Patrick... He's... He's my best friend..."

The boy beside me stiffens up slightly at my words. Flattered? I'm not sure, but I want him to know I really do care. I want him to know that I'm trying for him... so I continue, "It hurts, Dad... It hurts so much, and I wish you would come back... I-I'm trying so hard to be strong for you..." I feel tears rising to my eyes, but this time, every exhale only fuels my sobs and tears. Before I know it, I'm choking and sobbing and crying, and I can't stop myself, "I'm trying to be strong for Mama and Mikey... And I'm trying to be strong for Patrick... He means a lot to me... You know I've never brought anyone with me before...

"He's helped me through a lot... And I'm going to tell him everything later... I guess I've never done that before either..." I chuckle emptily. It's useless, "Do you still think of me? Are you near me, Dad? Can you hear me? I... I'm losing hope, Dad... I want to believe you can't really be gone but it... It just hurts so much..."

The tears are flooding from my eyes now. I can't stop myself. I'm going to break down in front of Patrick. I shouldn't have brought him. I don't want him to see me like this...

I feel his hands taking one of mine, forcing me to drop the bouquet on Dad's grave, the petals swaying as it falls down. I wipe my tears with my free hand before looking up and seeing Patrick. His beautiful blond hair illuminated by the faint light of the moon, my eyes are adjusting to the dim light, but I can easily see a tear falling from his eye. He stands up, now holding both of my hands and at that moment I don't think I'd ever wanted to kiss him more. His soft lips are wet from the constant tongue poking out between the chapped skin. His green eyes are gazing right into mine with a beautiful, sad look. They're so green. Shades as light as grass on an early spring morning and shades as dark as the needles of a pine tree. Then somewhere in the midst of all the green, there's a splash of light blue, like the sky at dawn.

He pulls me in for a hug. His hands wrapping around my back as he squeezes me closer. I hesitantly wrap my own arms around him, and we sway slightly back and forth. I bury my head in his warm hoodie, taking in his scent. I don't know what it is, but he smells good, and oh god I love him... And my mind lingers on that thought for a little bit. And then at that moment, I realize something. I realize something big, and it hurts to keep it in. It's a tension, now. A truth.

I really am in love with him.

I want to wake up by his side, and I want to comfort him when he's scared. I want to take care of him when he's sick, and I want to hold him through the night. I want to be with him. I'm so in love it hurts, but I can't believe it took me this long to realize it. It hits hard when I realize that I might have a chance... What if he'd be okay with dating me? What if I should ask him? Would he be okay with it or would it ruin our already built friendship?

I'm taken from my thoughts when he pulls away and takes me by my hand, leading me over one headstone. He stops, his hand shaky in mine and I'm confused at first. What's wrong with this one? The stone is also black, but it has a different name. He points to the words engraved in the stone and I lean down so I can read it. The next thing I know, I'm covering my mouth in shock.

Rest in peace, Patricia Stumph
Daughter, wife, mother
You will be missed

"She was my mom..." He whispers. I stand up, feeling slightly sick to my stomach and I don't know why. He takes my hand, looking into my eyes, "I know what it's like... It hurts... It hurts so, so bad..."

Tears are streaming down his face as he speaks, "Please don't leave me... I'm so sorry..."

I pull him to my chest, "I'd never leave you, you should know that by now." I love you, "Come on."

I guide him through the grass, towards the mausoleum where I sit, my back leaning against the cold stone gently. Patrick tilts his head in confusion at first but soon after, joins my side, settling down beside me. The grass sways with a slight breeze as we sit in silence, but it's a peaceful silence. I love it.

We sit under the cloudy night sky, just us against the world and I get to thinking. How long has his mom been gone? Is she the reason why he has anxiety? Did she beat him or did that happen after she passed?

I look over to see him fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie. Would he let me see the scars? Or does he not trust me? I want to ask. I want to see just how much pain he's in and I could show him how much I'm in. I open my dry mouth and whisper out the question before I can stop myself, "Can I see?"

He freezes but looks up to me with confusion, "Huh?"

"Your scars, can I see them...? I'll show you mine..." I whisper gently, playing with my own sleeves out of habit.

He looks down to his feet, the sleeves of his jacket falling over his hands. He doesn't say anything at first, but soon after a brief silence he replies, "They're ugly..."

"So are mine."

"Gerard... I..."

"Please, Patrick. I want to see..." I whisper, moving, so I'm in front of him. He looks back up for the second time, tears in his eyes.

"Why...?"

"I want to know how much it hurts... How much you hurt... And I want you to see how much I hurt..." I say, holding out my hand for his arm. He clenches his hand into a fist, conflicted. I see the war in his mind, and it hurts me, but I need to see. I need to know. It's burning me.

"Please, Patrick..."

He wipes his tears, and I see that he's thinking hard. Afraid, conflicted, hurt, but hands over his arm, allowing me to pull up the fabric of his hoodie. I don't, not yet at least. He's shaking in fear, and there are tears still streaming down his cheeks.

"Patrick, listen to me," I whisper. He opens his eyes and bites his lip, "It's going to be okay, don't be afraid..."

He gives a slight nod, and his arm slowly stops shaking as I pull up the sleeve of his hoodie.

It's completely littered with scars, and I feel sick to my stomach as I see each cut, engraved in his pale skin. Some have scabbed over, others are just dark marks, and some look like they could continue bleeding at any moment. I raise my fingers to one of the deepest scars, but he flinches violently, so I take my hand away and look up at him. I lick my lips, the chapped skin getting annoying but I don't let it distract me as I move his arm back.

I pull away slightly. My turn. Patrick pulls his sleeve back over his arm self-consciously but still watches me intently as I pull up my own sleeve.

He covers his mouth with both hands as his gaze travels across the scars. I feel slightly self-conscious at first, but after a little bit, I get used to it. I move back so the mausoleum wall is supporting me and I'm right beside the blond boy.

"Gerard..." He whispers, "I'm so sorry."

I don't reply. I don't want to respond. So he pulls up his left sleeve so he can put the scarred arm right next to mine. His skin is much paler than mine, but he also has much more scars than I do. He's hurting more than me, then. A lot more. Something else is happening. I don't know what, but I think I'm having an idea.

I take his hand in mine, placing my fingers gently on his knuckles while he does the same to me. His head hesitantly goes to my shoulder, and I let it rest there. I like this. I like everything about this. Lying in the grass next to the mausoleum, marking the graves. I love this. Being alone together with Patrick. Mon chéri. I wish it would be like that... I wish he could be mine. I wish he loved me...

I don't know how long we sit there, hand in hand, Patrick's head on my shoulder as we enjoy the warmth of each other and getting lost in hopeful thoughts and beautiful dreams. It's starting to get cold, and I can feel Patrick shiver slightly beside me. So, I press him away slightly, so he's not leaning on me to unzip my jacket and give it to him.

"Gerard, you're gonna be cold, though..." He murmurs tiredly. And oh god, I'm not sure if it's sexy or cute.

"It's alright, Sugar, I'll be cold for you," I whisper, draping my jacket around him for his hands to grasp. The cold air immediately hits my bare arms, my short sleeved shirt not doing much to warm me but as long as Patrick is warm, I'm happy. His head moves to my lap, laying down and hugging my jacket around him. I want to touch him... Not in a bad way, I mean I want to run my fingers through his hair and up and down his chest. I want to cup his face and pull him in for a kiss.

I want him so badly it hurts... Before I can stop myself, my hand is right above his head, and it's going down. My palm rests on his head. He doesn't do anything, so I take another risk, tangling my fingers in his soft hair and moving my thumb back and forth. He buries his face farther into my leg and kicks his legs out slight as he shifts, so he's looking up at me. I love you.

He shuts his eyes with a warm, content smile and we sit for a while longer. I don't know how long, I don't want to know. I want to stay there forever, running my fingers through his hair while he dozes off peacefully. I wish I could just forget about the world for a while and give way to the silence of the night. Enjoy his company and let him enjoy mine.

As the night continues, my mind begins to travel. Twisting and turning through my past... I have nothing better to do but get lost, so I'll get lost.

I went to another high school on the other side of the city with a few friends (Dallon Weekes, Andy Hurley, and Ray Toro) before I started to go to Mountainside. But when I went there, my grades started failing once Dad passed and since it was an advanced school, I was moved down to a more basic school this year. To Patrick's school. Mikey... of course... doesn't go to my school, though...

After Dad had passed, Mikey grew extremely depressed, and he couldn't take seeing the house anymore. Mama rarely cleaned it, she wanted to, she just never had the will, so it was always messy, but I know that it was Dad's memory that bothered him the most. There were little things around the house that reminded him of Dad, the most common being his old badge. The same symbol engraved in Dad's headstone, the same badge I drew on Mikey's uniform. That was the last badge Dad earned when the school that held The Black Parade gave it to him. That badge is a symbol of strength and independence. They give it to people who have served in the military and attend The Black Parade. The vice principal managed to get ahold of Dad before he died and they sent it to us through the mail with a letter.

Dearest, Donald Way

A friend of Alexander Hamilton High School has informed us that you've been attending our annual tour for the past 8 years in a row.

We've gathered some information from reliable sources and also found that you served in the military for a long while as well and we'd like to thank you for your service. Attached to this letter is a badge, a symbol of strength and independence.

We'd also like to accept one of your sons into our school, they both have shown high academic success, and it would be our pleasure to have one of the two attend the school.

You can contact us at this number: 866-740-4531.

Thank you for your service,
Gabriel Gray
Vice Principal of Alexander Hamilton High School

So that was how he got the badge, and after he had died, it went into Mikey's room. His old room... it's been untouched since he left and I can imagine it being covered with dust now.

Anyways, it's a boarding school, invitation only, but damn was Dad proud of that. Neither of us actually attended it for a while because he was diagnosed with cancer soon after... but once my brother couldn't take it anymore, he left and stayed at the school. That's how Mikey got into The Black Parade and how Dad got his badge. And our family has honestly fallen apart since the death. I can't look at Mikey's room without feeling a wave of sadness engulf me.

All Mama does anymore is work and smoke and sleep. She rarely eats, and when she does, it's not much. Four years this has been going on. I'll wake up. She's gone most of the time. I go to school and come home. She's gone until at least 8 PM. That's a 13-hour shift, and she works 6 days a week. She gets Saturdays off, and even then, she usually goes out with either her friends or sleeps all day. In her free time, those 11 hours of being at home, she smokes and sleeps.

Thankfully, she's begun to get better, though. She'll eat two meals a day, but she's still smoking like crazy, and she works for extended periods of time to support her and me.

All I can do is watch helplessly because I can't get her to stop. I can't heal a broken heart no matter how much I wish I could.

It hurts. It kills me inside.

How I wish not all good things have to come to an end, but the rain has to start sooner or later. The first drop is on my shoe, wet and cold with a dull feel. The next is on my leg with a sharper impact, and next thing I know, it's drizzling.

"Patrick, wake up." I whisper into the blond's ear, he grumbles slightly, pulling my jacket around him tighter, "It's raining, let's get out of here."

Patrick sighs slightly as he opens his eyes, looking up at me with those big, tired orbs (Jesus, he's adorable). He turns, so he's balancing on his elbows and looking across the cemetery at all the raindrops, taking in the weather and realizing we really have to go. He finally sits up straight and stands up, followed by me.

"Where are we going?" He asks, loudly because the rain is pouring harder than before.

"There's a café not far from here," I say back, my voice raised, "Follow me."