---Gerard---

Knives and pills. Is that really the scene he's going to walk in on?

"Gerard? What are you doing?"

The pills almost drop to the counter and the floor and the sink, but I clasp them in my hand as I spin around to face Frank, a look of shock set on his pale face and his jaw half open in shock and devastation. The only thing I can do is to just step back slightly, tears still running down my cheeks. The only thing I can do is to breakdown into tears and fall to my knees, whispering out, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry." The only thing I can do is let the guilt and the pain and the hate and the depression wash over me.

Frank hesitates. I understand why. I did this to myself. I'm the one who didn't break off the fighting and try to reason with him. I'm the one who he hates. I'm the one who could have stopped this. It's my fault. It's all my fault, and now he's gone. I'm left a heartbroken mess on my knees in front of my best friend.

Not to mention my wrists sting...

"Oh my god..." He whispers.

He falls to his knees beside me and hugs me close like it can somehow stop me from hurting myself any further but it's not working. I'm still breaking down my walls one by one and letting the hateful thoughts enter my mind. The thoughts that destroy my emotions, my sanity. The thoughts that not even bravery can stop. The thoughts that pick me apart one by one until I'm splayed open for anyone to manipulate. For anyone to use. To break.

He rubs my back, "Is it Patrick?"

The mention of his name sends my fingers clenching his shirt. His name is like venom, now. I can't hear it without being reminded of all my mistakes I've made with that boy... Green eyes, blonde hair, that fedora, his scars.

"It hurts, Frank... It hurts..." I whimper.

"Shh..." He pulls me closer as his hands reach for his phone in his pocket, "We're going to get everything fixed up, you understand? I'll get him back for you, and you don't have to be sad..."

"No," I say sharply, "Please... he doesn't deserve someone like me..."

"Gerard, stop. You're perfect just the way you are, do you understand? You're the one who's helped him heal, not Pete. You're the one who's always been there for him, not Pete. You're his boyfriend. You're the person he loves. He's the person you love. He's the one who stepped out of line with this. You've done nothing wrong." He sets his phone down, the text sent, "Now let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

I nod softly, my eyes stained with tears. He wipes them away and gives me a small smile, weak and sad but it kind of says, "Things will get better, I promise."

He turns my wrists over, the blood has begun to dry, but they still hurt sting, and itch like crazy. His face pales at the sight, at how deeply I cut. Don't I deserve it? Why is he surprised?

He sighs, frustrated with me.

"Hold this to your cuts, keep the pressure on, okay?" He says, handing me a cloth. I nod softly and obey, wincing slightly as he texts Patrick. He's glaring at his phone, and it's pretty easy to tell he's pissed at Patrick right now. I wouldn't be surprised if he's fucking Pete right now.

He returns to the problem at hand, "Keep applying pressure for another five minutes or so, and we can wrap it up..."

I nod softly, lowering my gaze in shame. I press the wet cloth firmer onto the cut, my tears beginning to run down my cheeks again, Frank only wipes them, "Patrick will be here soon. We'll get everything worked out, okay? You two can be together again..."

He looks around the bathroom and his eyes land on the suicide note on the counter. My lip is bitten nervously by my teeth.

"Can I... Can I read it?" Frank asks politely.

I don't want to. I don't want him to know what I would say to him before I die but I find myself nodding anyways despite my desires. He can use me however he wants. I'm broken. All my defenses are down. They've been up for ages. Since Dad passed. It's my only form of bravery left and a simple boy with green eyes and blonde hair. A simple, innocent, broken boy somehow makes all those barriers disappear with just the swipe of his hand. I've trusted him with my heart, and he's thrown it against the wall. I should have never given it to him in the first place. I shouldn't have said the things that would make him do it. I shouldn't have. I fucked up, and there's no going back now.

Frank picks up the note and lets his eyes scan the letter. The note. The last words of mine to my friends and family. It hurts to see his face transform from a small smile to devastation and I can see his heart breaking in his face. The pain that I went through just earlier this week. The pain I'm going through now. I wonder if that's how I looked when I read over Patrick's last text to me before he left to be with Pete. I wonder if I looked that scared, that hurt, that shocked. I wonder if Frank realizes he looks exactly as I did. My hand grips my wrist a little too tightly, I have to loosen it quickly before it causes any more damage than it has.

"Do you know how devastated we would be? Brendon, Pete, Ryan, Patrick, Joe...? Mom? Mikey?" He sets the paper back down on the counter and looks to me, "What even started all the fighting?"

I swallow hesitantly but deem it appropriate. He's my best friend, why shouldn't I be able to tell him?

"After school last Friday, Patrick didn't show up at the bus stop after school. I got worried and looked around for a bit. I found him and Bob at the bad side of the city. He had hurt him, and he relapsed," I remember how I held him close and told him pretty lies. Lies that we both knew the truth from. Lies that we'd told ourselves millions of times before.

"We stopped at Pete's, got him cleaned up, went back home." I take a shaky breath, my eyes beginning to water from my stinging wrists and my broken heart and retelling a nightmare, "I woke up that night, he wasn't in bed... I... found him in the bathroom cutting his thighs..."

Frank squeezes my knee, trying to be comforting but it isn't working very well, I'm still choking up, "He'd promised me he wouldn't self-harm again a while back. I got mad at him, he got mad at me. I told him he should just kill himself. I called him pathetic and weak, and he's not. I shouldn't have said it, but he left. I shouldn't have. It takes time, I know it takes time, but I was so fucking impatient anyways. I'm scared he doesn't even love me anymore..."

"Gerard," he laughs slightly, it makes me frown in confusion and soon after in frustration, "you don't know too much about love with a boyfriend, do you?"

"Not really, I guess."

"Gerard, listen to me," he carefully strokes my cheek, "If Patrick really does love you, he'll come back. A couple fights won't make him stop loving you. If it does, it wasn't real in the first place, and you don't deserve him. You deserve all the love in the world because you're one of the sweetest guys I know. You're my best friend, and I hate seeing you like this. No homo.

I laugh slightly at the last bit, the first smile of the day crossing my face and it's real.

"No homo..." I reply. He smiles then pulls my wrist away from my hand and takes off the cloth to reveal the wound. Still red and sensitive but it doesn't look like it'll bleed anymore, not to mention the fabric soaked up a lot of the blood that had accumulated there.

He throws the towel in the sink and continues to search the cabinets above the faucet, passing by Patrick's medication and the small band-aids to find a small roll of gauze bandages. My teeth clasp my lip again as he wraps my wrist tightly-but not too tightly-with the bandage. His face looks concentrated with his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes set on the wound and his tongue dancing with his lip piercing. I wince at the pain of the bandage on my wrist, but I let it pass without protest.

He asks for my other wrist once the bandage around the first is tied off. I hand it over and watch with sharp eyes as he grazes his finger over the cut. This one is shallower than the first since I cut it with my left hand and I'm right-handed. He doesn't press the cloth to it, but instead dabs at the wound and then wraps it with gauze. It doesn't hurt as much as the first, but it still makes my breathing a little unsteady.

There's a knock at the front door.

My eyes dart up to Frank's worriedly. It's Patrick. I don't know what I'm supposed to say, how I'm supposed to apologize, what I'm supposed to do. Do I just let him talk or do we have to make up by ourselves?

He gives me a sad look and hugs me, whispering, "It'll be okay."

It won't. Patrick hates me. He doesn't love me anymore, does he? He can't. He can't love me. I made him promise to something he couldn't do. I made him leave. If it weren't for me, we wouldn't be in this mess.

Frank gets up and leaves, I'm left to stare at my bandages and watch as they soak up blood from the wounds. I rub my arms, trying to calm myself down but I can't, I'm tense. I'm scared of what he'll say. I don't even realize I'm still crying until a tear drips to the floor.

I can hear Frank and Patrick talking to each other, Frank's mad, it's easy to tell from his voice, the way it's rushed but still in a whisper. Patrick, on the other hand, sounds close to crying. It breaks my heart, and I don't know if he sounds like that because he doesn't want to sound selfish or if he really cares about me. I guess the former. Who could love me?

"You need to talk to him, right now. I came here, and he was a fucking mess, Patrick. He thinks you don't love him. He's heartbroken, and he's terrified of losing you." Frank whispers loudly.

"I'm so sorry, I just... I needed a break, and I didn't... I didn't mean for it to get this far..." Patrick replies, his voice cracking on the third sentence. Just the sound of his voice makes my tears drop faster.

"Go make up. You need to end things with Pete. He's been like this all week and it... it kills me inside because I just want to see him happy..." Frank replies.

I've got my knees pulled to my chest now, my head looking down to my crotch and my greasy hair tickling the back of my neck. I hear Patrick's footsteps at the door and the gasp that follows.

Then the small sound that leaves his mouth, my name, just barely audible. It's enough to make me look up. He has his hand to his mouth and tears in his eyes. He grips the door frame with his free hand, he looks devastated. I don't know why. Does he really love me...? Or not? I just want to hear him say it. I just want to hear those words coming out of his mouth. Those three words that just might heal my heart...

"I'm so sorry..." He whispers, "I'm such an idiot... Oh God,"

He walks forward and pulls me to my feet in a hug, sobbing into my chest just as I remember. Just like he used to. But he doesn't love me this time. Why would he love me this time? After everything, I did to him. After I told him to kill himself...

So I push him away.

"Patrick, if..." I take a deep breath, "If you don't want to be here, you don't have to. I understand if you don't forgive me or if you came just because Frank told you to... I... It's okay if you don't love me..."

"What are you talking about? I'm the one who took it too far. I shouldn't have cut, much less gone away to another man. I shouldn't have overreacted, and I should have just stayed."

"Then say it!" I yell, "If you love me let me know! I told you to kill yourself I don't understand how you could love a monster like me! I fucked up. I screwed up so bad." He flinches, jumping back, guilt fills my heart because I should know he gets scared at loud noises. It reminds him of David and Kevin. He told me that at the flower shop an eternity ago.

"I love you. I fucking love you, Gerard Arthur Way. You're not a monster. You never were. I don't think you meant what you said. You'd never say anything like that... Not in the right mind," He whispers then smiles softly, "And... they're not as strong anymore but..." He lowers his head a tear running from his eye, "I promise..."

"How strong are your promises?" I ask, pulling him close to me.

"I've only broken two."

His hands wrap around my neck, mine wrap around his waist and our lips touch, a spark running through me and that sweet, delicate honey taste on my lips. The taste of Patrick. My Patrick.