It's the last thing he expects to see and it's most certainly the last thing he wants to, because Frank can't deal with this shit, with this mess, especially not now, because his head is a mess and he's totally late for French, but as he picks the screwed up piece of paper from the floor and attempts to make out the words, French class doesn't seem to matter at all anymore.

The paper was a letter or some sort: handwritten in blue ink, and smudged to shit, which really wasn't helping matters at all, but Frank could hardly complain, seeing as he was technically invading someone's privacy by picking this up and reading it, but he read it nevertheless, or at least what he could make out of the smudged inky mess that had perhaps once been of some value and some importance to someone.

The only legible paragraph perhaps explained it all, because perhaps Frank didn't need to know, perhaps Frank shouldn't know, but from the looks of things, he really should.

'I've been underwater for a long time now, but I'm drowning, I'm beginning to think I can breathe like this, but I can't, I'm gasping for breath, and I have to do this, Mikey, I have to end this myself. I'm going to the lake on the 1st of November, don't wait for me... I'm not coming back.'

And Frank knew nothing; he knew not who the letter was from, as the name, much like the rest of it had been smudged away with what Frank desperately hoped was tap water. And he doesn't know who Mikey is, or who this person is to them.

But Frank most definitely knows that the person who wrote this isn't okay, and that they're planning to kill themselves, and that they're planning to do so on November 1st. He also reckons that Mikey never did receive this letter, because the way it was laid on the floor seems accidental, almost as if it slipped from a pocket or something of the like.

And just like that, sixteen year old Frank Iero forgets all about French and meets his reflection in the mirrors of the boys toilets were he was stood, now in some form of panicked state, because the letter and the consequences it had brought on deserved nothing less.

Because Frank was stupid, but not quite stupid enough to be able to trick himself into thinking that he could just leave it and that everything would be okay, because Frank cared, even if the person who'd written this turned out to be a major asshole, because no one deserved that, and Frank knew it all too well.

He'd been there himself after all: a few years ago, he reckoned it wasn't as bad as the person who'd written this letter, because Frank had never quite reached the letter and date part, but sure he'd gotten close.

But this wasn't about him, but about the person who'd written this letter, and what on earth Frank could do about it.

Sure, he could hand it in to school but what the fuck would they do? What the fuck could they do? It wasn't like the person was just going to own up and babble out their sorrows to the shitty school counselor; it was evident that they were far past that point now.

And Frank was out of his depth, and that was perhaps knee-deep water in the vast stormy ocean that the writer of the letter found themselves in, and he couldn't possibly brave this on his own and save them like this.

But he had to.

He had to try at least.

Because Frank wasn't heartless, and he was the one person who'd happened upon this letter and there was no changing that now.

He had one clue, after all: Mikey.

And Frank had very little clue as to who Mikey was, or who Mikey could possibly be, but he had to try, he had to ask around, because at the very least, they deserved to see this letter, and surely, fucking surely Frank just hoped that they could do something from there.

Because Frank had assumed that via the use of the name, the letter itself was addressed to Mikey, and with the nature of its contents, Frank reckoned Mikey had to be pretty important to the letter writer, and therefore, they should be close, and therefore Mikey would probably know which of the few people they were close to could possibly feel like this.

Or perhaps just recognise their handwriting, for Christ's sake.

And that all sounded so easy, but Frank knew no one called Mikey, and Frank was pathetically shy, and fucked up, and so late to French that he might as well skip it altogether, and regardless of the detention that would follow, that idea seemed all too appealing.

Because he couldn't focus; he couldn't think, not about anything besides this letter and whoever wrote it.

God, he just wished he could have been able to make out the rest of it and possibly have some more clues to the identity of the letter writer, but still Frank couldn't help but feel like that the more he didn't know the better, because despite this all, he was still invading someone's privacy, and it had probably taken a lot for them to consider expressing this to Mikey, and surely it would feel like a kick to the face for some random dude to pick it up and read it.

But it was accidental; it was dropped, and it wasn't Frank's fault, it was no one's fault at all, and Frank repeated that to himself as he put the letter in his pocket.

And in that very moment, the date November 1st seemed to find itself permanently imprinted upon the sixteen year old's mind, because just like this, that day mattered, this letter mattered, Mikey mattered, and the letter writer he knew nothing about mattered all so much.

Because they sounded alone out there, out at sea, drowning in the waves, and Frank wanted to be there for them as much as he could be, and not just because this hit home, but because Frank Iero liked to think he was a nice person.

And this wasn't just a charity case, and this didn't just play on his conscience; Frank genuinely cared, because that's what he would have needed and he knew that, and he just hoped that the same could be said for the writer of this letter, and he just hoped he could find them and stop them before November 1st.

He had one month, he had thirty days: the date was October 1st.

-

Gerard had always been fascinated with the ocean, ever since he was little, of course, little was broad, and hard to define, and by Mikey's judgement, being a few inches taller than their brother, Gerard was still little.

But for as long as Gerard could remember, the background of his mind had been ocean waves: bottle green to aquamarine blue and everything in between, and he had quite the 'obsession' as Mrs Way would put it, but seventeen year old Gerard Way glanced at his bedroom wall and the exactly one hundred taped up photographs of the ocean and saw it as nothing but normal.

They'd moved closer to the sea seven months ago, in March, and from Gerard's father's eyes, they'd moved to a better neighborhood, to a new job, to a new school, but all Gerard saw was the blue gray ocean outside his window and the Jersey beaches that were never quite pleasant enough to walk on barefoot.

Gerard wasn't much of a photographer but he'd taken hundreds of photos, and all of the ocean and sea, because nothing else quite seemed worth the time in his mind, and no one had dared question that.

It was easier that way.

Sixteen year old Mikey had really 'blossomed' in their new neighborhood as their school report had put it, whereas Gerard refused to cooperate, and socialise, especially with other students; Gerard disagreed, but he reckoned the school were entitled to their opinion of him, just as he was entitled to his of them, but of course, they didn't take nearly as kindly to it when he'd sent them a letter: scrawled in blue ink on lined paper, detailing the honest truth in what he thought of the place and how it was run.

Gerard wrote letters, preferring to communicate in pen and ink as opposed to conversation, and it was something his parents had never really appreciated, and perhaps one of the reasons they had taken him to the doctors at age eight, anyway.

Gerard didn't speak much at all, only when it was necessary or when he really had something to say; it wasn't like he was shy, he just didn't like talking, and that was that - simple in his head, but completely bizarre in others, and that was that, so it seemed.

When Gerard did speak, it was often in French too, which had really baffled his parents when he was younger, because no one in the family had ever taught him a word, and somehow this eight year old child and somewhat of a solid grasp on a completely foreign language.

Gerard's grandmother had died when Gerard was seven, and he hadn't taken to it well, and Mrs Way had simply muttered something about Gerard never taking to anything well that Mr Way had shushed her for: weeks prior, she'd spoken to Gerard about her dreams to visit Paris, and a French dictionary had somehow found its way into the hands of the seven year old child, and after she'd died, Gerard had memorised every single word, just because it felt right, and because he missed her.

It made sense in his mind after all.

Mrs Way had looked at him oddly, and the doctor had too, and Mikey, too young to comprehend at the time, had looked on in a young innocent state of bewilderment.

The word 'autistic' had meant nothing to Gerard at that age, but his mother's tears had, because this mattered to her more than it ever had to Gerard.

And only in his late teenage years did Gerard really begin to understand that doctors appointment and the psychologist and the French dictionary and his grandmother's death.

Because it had always made sense: everything in Gerard's head was logical, connected like the strings of a web, but it seemed the web was invisible to the rest of the world, leaving his actions and thoughts as little more than a clustered to mess on any onlooker.

Mrs Way had preferred Mikey ever since that doctor's appointment and he'd only realised it in recent years, and he somewhat wished he hadn't, because there was nothing wrong with him, but there was, and to his mother he'd never be normal, he'd never be the same, and Gerard didn't want to be normal, but she didn't understand that.

Gerard reckoned that she wasn't a bad mother, though, just a flawed woman, and everyone did indeed have their flaws, and Gerard knew his own in great detail: he was too obsessive, too different, his head didn't make sense, he was anti-social, and he was on too many pills, and his therapist called him 'difficult' four years ago now, and Gerard hadn't once went a day without pondering that fact, and just what 'difficult' connoted to.

Mikey had 'become' less of the 'perfect child' that Mrs Way had envisioned having come the twentieth of June, and they'd sat Gerard and their parents down in the living room and pulled a piece of paper from their pocket: a letter like Gerard wrote, and Mrs Way had groaned internally at the sight.

Mikey had passed the letter to Gerard first, waiting on edge as he read the note detailing how they now identify as gender neutral and want to use they/them pronouns.

Gerard was open to it: a little curious at first, asking questions, too many questions as his mother often told him, but Mikey had answered them, and it made sense in his head soon enough, but still Mrs Way had far too much to say, and Mikey hadn't wanted to hear it, storming out of the house and down to the beach to overlook the sea, and Mrs Way had muttered something about Mikey becoming like Gerard when she thought her eldest couldn't hear, but he had.

And Gerard had thought about it everyday since.

His father had eventually asked him to go and talk to Mikey and tell them that their mother was sorry and just overreacting, and Gerard grabbed his camera, and did so, and the two siblings had stood there in little more than silence for too long, but still not long enough, and with time, Gerard had taken seven pictures of the sea and the horizon.

And Mikey had met Gerard's gaze and asked him what he genuinely thought of them.

And Gerard didn't lie, and when he tried, he made a terrible job of it entirely, so Mikey trusted every word uttered as Gerard met his sibling's gaze and told them that he thought they were annoying and cooler than him and taller than him, which wasn't fair because they were younger, and Mikey had laughed a little, before pausing to realise that Gerard had used the right pronouns.

Gerard and Mikey were never really that close until June 20th when the seventeen year old and the then fifteen year old had made their way back home with smiles, and just as they were about to leave the beach, Gerard had told Mikey to stay still in front of the sea, holding up his camera, and that was the first moment Gerard had thought worth capturing in his camera lens.

It had meant the world to Mikey, who had the photo printed and taped to their bedroom wall in much the same manner as Gerard, and in much the same manner that their mother shook her head at.

Gerard had always been a little rocky, and on at least two different types of medication at the same time, and he'd really thought nothing of it until he'd turned sixteen and he'd snuck out for the first time: to the beach, because where else, and he sat there and watched the waves in silence for three hours, and he let his eyes fixate upon a piece of drift wood out on the ocean, and the way each wave seemed to lap over it.

He wanted a photo; he needed a photo.

He'd walked out into the sea for the said photo, not anticipating the water to be as strong or as deep as it was, and last May was the first time that Gerard had nearly drowned, and the only time that had been accidental.

He'd woken up in hospital with salt water still on his breath, and his eyes rubbed red and raw, and despite the mess, he felt alive, he felt ready to paint for the first time in months to paint the ocean, but the feeling had subsided with the medication he'd been prescribed, and all inspiration and life was lost.

Gerard craved that feeling again with time, and he'd gone to great lengths in acquiring, because being around the sea wasn't just enough; he needed that feeling of salt water purging his lungs once again; he needed that near death, the icy water, and he'd woken up in the hospital for the second time in July of that year.

He'd been prescribed yet more medication and his mother had started to lock his door at night, and he tried to explain the sensation and the rush and the water to his new therapist who wasn't nearly as nice, but she wasn't nearly as nice and she didn't understand, and Gerard had confined himself in his room for months after that.

He'd turned to sketching: images of the ocean, of course, and he knew it well enough to sketch it forever, but it wasn't quite like the real thing, and his sketches remained in pencil and nothing more, not warranting watercolour, as Gerard's inspiration felt empty and dry like a desert.

And with the key in the lock, there was little he could do about it.

The first time, Gerard had genuinely forgot, to take his medication that was, and his mother was out, and his father was so much less of a helicopter parent and had busied himself with this week's episode of 'Antiques Roadshow' and for the first time in forever, on a December night, Gerard felt that rush, he felt the ocean, he felt it without drowning, he was underwater, he was alive, and he'd painted for the first time in close to a year, and he'd taped it to his wall and stared at it for hours.

It had meant the world, but it wasn't enough, because as his mother returned and the pills came back into contact with his system the tide faded away, and like a fish out of water, Gerard felt back into nothingness, and from that moment, he knew it, it was the medication, and he wasn't at all sure as to why he wasn't supposed to feel like this, but he knew he couldn't mention anything, and from that day onwards, Gerard hadn't taken a single pill.

He'd stored them away in a cupboard, and in presence of his mother, he'd kept them inside his mouth until he could spit them back out when she wasn't looking, and from that day onwards, Gerard's mind had been alive: a mess of bright colours in every shade of blue and green and a heart that beat too fast in all the wrong circumstances, and seven paintings and no hours of sleep, and a grin as he snuck out, just for the rush and the smell of sea salt.

But the good things never lasted, as the feeling subsided in a few months time, and Gerard had been left here, not like before, as the ocean was still present, but he felt himself lost in it, which was most certainly a feeling Gerard wasn't accustomed to.

Because Gerard had never really experienced helpless and drowning until that moment, and from that day on, he was treading water amidst a typhoon for his whole life, and it didn't stop, it never stopped, and his mother couldn't know, and Mikey only began to understand in the recent past, but Gerard didn't speak too much, and he didn't write letters anymore, because his mum always found them.

But he couldn't do this anymore, he can't keep himself afloat, and his lungs ache from the salt water, but he can't drown, he had to do this himself, he had to end this, and he knew exactly how.

The ocean was an obvious choice, and when his mother took note of his absence that was most certainly the first place he'd look, so Gerard settled on the lake on the outskirts of town - it wasn't the same: freshwater, for a start, but it was large and deep enough, and Gerard couldn't exactly be picky here anymore.

November 1st is the 305th day of the year, and that's as meaningless to Gerard as the world around him, and he likes that, and it's as good as a date as any: the thirty days perhaps giving him long enough to finally compose the final letter in blue ink to Mikey, explaining this all: what it meant to have your lungs fill with salt water but never drown.

Gerard called himself an anomaly in that respect; he didn't like it - it sounded like something his mother would say, so he strived to fix it.

-

hey pals lmao look a new fic fuck my life BUT THIS IDEA IS REALLY GOOD IT HAS A PLOT WTF IVE WANTED TO WRITE PARTS OF THIS FOR A LONG TIME NOW AND NOWS ITS ALL COME TOGETHER WITH A PLOT A GOOD VAGUELY ORIGINAL PLOT LET ME BE HAPPY OKAY THIS ISNT A HAPPY FIC BUT OKAY okay okay okay okay im sorry i just fic. i get excited, i have no self control, you know that already. votes and comments would be very nice !!! bcs i love you lots and i have school tomorrow and i hate everything.