Frank couldn't think straight, well he had somewhat of a problem with doing anything in much of a straight way in the first place, but this was a dilemma of a completely different nature entirely. To do with Gerard, to do with the letter, and in particular, just what the hell Frank was supposed to make of this, because surely, Gerard couldn't have written this.

Fuck, Frank didn't even really think Gerard capable of thinking like this; he always seemed be weirdly innocent, although Frank knew he shouldn't think of Gerard like that, but still, he wouldn't put Gerard down as a suicidal kid, who'd written several drafts of a suicide letter over the past few weeks, which Frank had just happened upon, anyway, it couldn't be Gerard, of course, it just couldn't be Gerard, because Frank knew that the only people Gerard was close to were Kat and himself, and the first letter had been addressed to a 'Mikey'.

So it was nothing to do with Gerard, of course, it must have just found its way there, maybe someone dropped it upon the beach and the wind had carried it towards Gerard's house, like the previous letter had been found beside tide with Lindsey.

He wondered whether to talk to Lindsey or even anyone about this, Gerard perhaps, just to confirm things, but he knew that he shouldn't upset Gerard, and he reckoned that if he did, Kat would actually decapitate him, and Frank really was not in the mood for that. He could ask Kat about it, Kat knew a lot of people after all, therefore Kat might be able to direct him in the way of a Mikey, but he was beginning to doubt that Kat even liked him at all, and perhaps even despised him a little, which baffled Frank as he'd never done anything besides look out for their brother, and surely, Kat should have appreciated that?

He brushed thoughts of Kat aside, focusing upon the letter itself, and the familiar handwriting: smudged blue ink simply seeming to solely tease him now, and found himself realising that he'd done little more than merely glance at the letter this time, just long enough to recognise the handwriting and assure himself as to the nature of it, not actually read the thing through.

Frank wondered if he could even stomach it, as he found half of his mind ready to read each word as if it was spoken directly from Gerard's lips, but no, the notion of that was ridiculous, and Frank was determined to prove to himself that it wasn't Gerard, and he would do so, fuck, he'd make some stupid excuse to see Gerard's handwriting or for the guy to write some nonsense on his hand or something, anything, just to settle his head, because he knew it, and he knew it made sense and he knew that in the very same way that it didn't, but fuck, he needed to know, and dear god, he couldn't just ask Gerard.

He bit his lip, really beginning to glance down at the letter as he sat in his bedroom, afternoon sun streaming in brightly through the window: a rare occurrence in consideration of the time of year and the place Frank lived in, before focusing his eyes open the letter before him and beginning to read.

'I don't know what to do anymore. Because this is what I've always wanted, this is a solid fact. This is what will and has to happen, but now he's here, and now he cares, and now he's a reason not to, but still one reason stacked up against millions to, so really, he's insignificant. But he's not. He's the opposite of insignificant, and I'll miss him. I really think I will. And I'm sorry, I really am, I want to say sorry to you the most, but I wonder if I should write another for him. Another useless draft, another useless apology, because ink upon paper could never come close to explaining the way it makes me feel, the emptiness inside and the bittersweetness of it all. I barely even understand it myself. Tell him I'm sorry. Tell him he's beautiful. Tell him I said that. Tell him I-'

The message cut off rather suddenly, as if the writer had been suddenly forced to stop writing, made evident in the slight smudge of ink as the letter came to a halt. Perhaps this was another draft, another letter the writer didn't quite like, another letter to throw out somewhere in the world, maybe that was what the writer was trying to do: get them out to someone, anyone, for someone to hear their story, but never to give enough away for someone to be able to stop them. Or perhaps it was nowhere near as poetic, perhaps this was another mistake, perhaps the writer changed their mind, about 'him', perhaps they weren't sorry anymore, perhaps they didn't think he was beautiful anymore.

Frank's first instincts that 'he' was this 'Mikey', but if this letter was addressed to Mikey, as one before had been, then it had to be someone else, god knows who, of course. Or maybe this was a letter to someone else, and the 'he' was Mikey. But truth be told, as with all of this, Frank didn't have a clue.

All he knew was that this couldn't be Gerard, Frank didn't even reckon that Gerard looked like the kind of guy who wanted to kill himself, fuck, he had so much, he had Kat, he had Frank, he had the ocean, he had his art, he had his photography, he was beautiful, he had so much potential, and okay, it was becoming evident that there was something a little 'off' with Gerard, but Frank wouldn't ever think it to be this.

He was just biased because he knew Gerard and spent so much time with him, Gerard was very important, he thought about Gerard a lot, and hey, loads of trash can be found outside anyone's house, blown there by the wind.

Frank still needed to figure out who the writer of the letter was, of course, and that all lay in finding a certain guy called 'Mikey', and maybe he really would have to put more effort into looking and asking around, and not getting so caught up and distracted by Gerard, because that was what was happening here, clearly.

Frank knew that now.

-

Gerard hadn't gone to school that day; he couldn't stomach the idea of it, and it had all stemmed from that one letter: the one problem he couldn't even tell Kat about, because it would only lead to a million more.

Because it was gone, somehow, for some fucking reason, the letter in the corner of his room, hidden away, beside the window: another draft in blue ink was gone, and it wasn't a case of him losing it, because fuck, Gerard didn't just lose things, and especially not things like this - it had to have gone somewhere, and someone had to have found it, and fuck, maybe someone was reading his fucking letter right now, trying to figure out what they shouldn't know, because fuck, they weren't allowed to read it.

The idea made him sick.

No one was supposed to know; no one could know, and the notion of someone just being able to pick it up and read it horrified Gerard, and what was indeed worse was that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it to stop someone, anyone reading it.

Gerard couldn't do anything, at all.

He'd sat on his bedroom floor in silence, picking and biting at his nails until there was nothing left of them: completely vacant, frozen, eyes fixated away and at the window, the window and the ocean and the world out there that he no longer felt safe in, because someone out there knew, knew his secrets, knew what was going to happen, and fuck, they might even find him, they might even stop him, they might try to talk to him, they might try to 'fix' things.

But there was no need to fucking fix things, because nothing was broken, because he wasn't broken, even if he felt like he was: it all made sense, everything made so much fucking sense, in his head at least, perhaps everyone else was just wrong. Perhaps everyone had just been wrong.

He leaned back against his bed, the first movement he'd really made in hours, as thoughts continued to whiz around his head, but to no end, to no solution, to no logic explanation for this: it was a dead end, and Gerard doubted he'd really ever get back up from the floor again, if he could ever face the world and anyone again.

He felt unsafe, scared, wanting to escape this all, like he had to do it now before it was all too late, but he couldn't, because it was only October 11th, and he hadn't finished yet, fuck, he wasn't done yet; he hadn't finished Kat's letter yet, the proper one, a final draft, one that made sense, one that he felt safe leaving, and he hadn't finished pondering the notion of a letter to Frank yet, because Frank was special too, Gerard just wasn't sure how special, because Frank was very much a temporary person in his life - they would only know one another a month, and still Frank was Gerard's second most trusted person in the world.

Gerard concluded that Frank was special, if only to him, if only for the next nineteen days in which Gerard would live, Frank was special, and Frank mattered, and there were things Gerard wanted, perhaps needed to say, things he doubted he could say in person, in the next nineteen days, but still, he felt like there was no point in writing any form of letter anymore; he couldn't stomach the thought of losing another, because it'd just add more evidence, more to lead it to him, more that would expose him.

He'd need to keep it on him at all times, perhaps digitally, perhaps on his phone, although he knew it wouldn't feel the same, it wouldn't feel real, it wouldn't feel like blue ink, it wouldn't feel like the ocean, he couldn't close his eyes and picture it all - it'd feel like drifting away and irrelevance, just a bright little screen and sore fingers from typing too fast, but perhaps it was better that way: disconnected, like it didn't really matter, like every word was just that little bit less real.

Because Gerard had never really felt real: always dissociated, disconnected, separate and never quite living fully, as he seemed to tend to drift out and lose all grip on the world as he had today, just sitting there for hours, just existing, overthinking, overworrying, existing as if he was only mind tethered down to a body in a world that didn't matter.

Gerard sometimes wished he didn't have to die to make it all better, but it was the only and best solution he could think of, and it was already set in stone, and fuck, everything seemed to revolve around November 1st, and he expected that things would stay the same forever.

He jumped a little as his bedroom door open and Kat made their way inside, making sure to close the goddamn door behind them, because yes they had heard of doing so.

Kat had tried to get him out of bed, to get him to move, to get him to even eat, go to school, do anything in the morning, but it had become pretty evident, that it just wasn't going to happen, and that today was one of those days, and Kat had wanted to stay with Gerard, to try and get him out of this state, but they really had to go to school today, and they hated that.

"Are you okay? Have you eaten anything?" Kat asked as they sat down opposite Gerard, attempting to hold his gaze, but Gerard was somewhat insistent upon avoiding eye contact and being vacant.

Gerard remained in silence, their eyes fixated upon the carpet flooring as they began to pick at their nails a little more violently.

"Gerard?" Kat tried again, leaning a little closer, hesitant to touch Gerard to try and get him to look at them, because they knew Gerard would only react badly. "Gerard, please, talk to me? Say anything. I don't care, just something, anything."

Gerard stopped picking at his nails quite so violently, his breathing beginning to calm a little as he found himself in thought for a few minutes before finally breaking the silence, "noyer."

Kat paused for a moment, because fuck, he really should learn some fucking French if Gerard was going to revert to it when he got like this. "Could you tell me what that means?"

Gerard shook his head, turning away again, back into silence.

And Kat just didn't quite know what to do, what to say anymore - how to fix this, how to make it better, how to make sense of their brother, and how to make him happy, because it seemed like only Frank was capable of that anymore, and Kat just didn't know what to think at all.

They sat back a little, considering asking Frank to come over, it was an ask just to try and get through to Gerard, to get through to a boy that had been sat still in silence for hours, and there was the fact that Frank didn't really know Gerard at all, sure he thought he did, but he most certainly didn't understand him as much as Kat did, and that wasn't Kat being jealous, that was just the truth.

They glanced back at Gerard, and began to wonder what could possibly be going through his mind, and how they might not ever know, and how that was always how it was going to be with Gerard: his thoughts always very much his own, and permanently so.

"Could you say anything else?" Kat asked, even if they were just going to receive another meaningless French word, they still found themselves trying, because what else could they possibly do. "Anything at all, Gerard." They continued, moving so they were sat beside him, following his gaze to the window, to the beach, to the ocean, and of course, they should have known. "Do you not want to go to beach?"

Gerard shook his head, biting his lip and looking down.

Kat paused, considering his response for a good few moments, because they knew for sure that Gerard wanted to spend just about every moment of his life down by the ocean. "Could you tell me why not? I mean, don't you like being down there? Maybe it'd make you feel better?"

Gerard shook his head before he could think, because he knew Kat had a point, because he knew the calming effect the water would always have upon him, and he knew that would help, but he knew he couldn't leave the house; he knew it wasn't safe anymore, he knew he couldn't face the world at all.

"Why not?" Kat continued, trying all the could to keep their patience, "I'm never going to be able to understand or to help you if you don't give me something to work with here."

Gerard sighed, leaning back against the bed, shaking his head once more, because maybe he didn't need Kat's help, maybe he didn't need anyone's help at all, maybe he was just fucking fine. Maybe he was lying to himself, maybe he was okay with that.

"Do you want me to just go? Just leave you here for a while?" Kat asked, and Gerard waited a few moments before nodding, leaving Kat to let out a sigh as they gave up, running out of patience as they got to their feet, hoping Gerard would just get out of this state by himself, and soon, hopefully.

Kat turned as they reached the door, about to close it behind them, only to meet Gerard's gaze, and coming to what was the last resort, of sorts, "do you want Frank to come over?" They asked, biting their lip, not entirely sure what kind of response they even wanted from Gerard.

Gerard paused for a moment, seeming to think it over, before shaking his head, and turning away as Kat finally closed the door, and just like that, he was alone again, safe for the time being, safe from the world, safe from reactions and peoples and words and what they could mean, and of course what they couldn't.

Gerard exhaled, getting to his feet in a rather subconscious manner, his head spinning a little as he did so, his feet making somewhat of a beeline to the window, to grasp the white plastic of the frame and push it open, to smell the sea, to see the beach, to close his eyes and just pretend that everything would be okay, just pretend that November 1st could come without threat, and indeed that November 1st could come sooner.

Because it was in that very moment that Gerard realised he do anything to drown himself, right then and right now, because with the letters torn away from him, November 1st seemed like much more of a second priority, but there was no leaving the house now, he was certain of that; he just couldn't do it.

And with that in mind, Gerard fell back to the floor, knees pulled up to his chest as he began to cry, began to ache inside, and feel something, even if it wasn't pleasant for the first time that day.

-

Kat couldn't sit still, their head against their bedroom wall, teeth forever digging into their bottom lip as they texted Pete, and considered texting Frank, considered ignoring what Gerard had said, even though they knew that was the worst thing they could do, they were becoming rather desperate.

Or perhaps they should have just calmed down, like they knew they should, because Gerard got like this at times, and that was that, and perhaps it'd all be fine tomorrow, chances were he'd be fine soon, chances were he'd be fucking fine the very moment he saw Frank, and Kat tried their best to stop themself from despising that fact, but they couldn't, because they quite honestly couldn't pinpoint what was so fucking special about Frank Iero for the life of them.

They let out a sigh, leaning back on their bed as they put one headphone in, putting their iPod on shuffle as they rolled over, closing their eyes and letting the world fade out around them: not having intended to sleep but not at all opposed to the idea either - just something to take the time away, just a distraction, as things always were.

And as they began to drift off, they caught what was perhaps running water in their ears, ignoring it, brushing it off in the state they were in, because there was never supposed to be anything horrifying about the sound of running bathwater.

But today, but in that house, there was, even as Kat lay oblivious to it.

-

hey lmao im sorry this hurts me too i love gerard in this a lot but ayy vote and comment if u want :)) love u guys :))