Last November had and would be Gerard's last November. Yet, he'd been very much unaware of it at the time, and last Christmas had been his last Christmas, and yet he'd been so very unaware of it at the time. His last birthday had been his last birthday, he'd been slightly more aware of it at that time. Kat's last birthday was the last one he'd be around for - this he had been aware of; he'd put in what everyone had described as entirely too much effort.

They had been very much unaware of it all.

Because that sixteenth birthday was more than just a sixteenth birthday for Gerard, it wasn't just his sibling's sixteenth birthday, but Kat's seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, and every one on from that, because those were September 10ths he wouldn't live to see.

He'd painted Kat this honestly beautiful watercolour piece of the beach and the ocean and the cliff tops in the background, he'd even painted two little black silhouettes upon the beach: the two of them, the two of them and the sunset. Kat said it was lovely, Kat smiled, Kat looked at it for a week, maybe two. It now lay at the bottom of a drawer somewhere.

Gerard didn't paint anymore.

Pete had given Kat a blowjob.

Gerard's paints were drying up in the drawer: his drawer - the one he kept everything that didn't matter anymore in, because everything just keep itself there: present at the front of his mind, screaming, mattering, existing, yelling, and screaming, and physically putting it away, locking it away, out of sight, out of mind, did a little to cease the compulsive thoughts. Only a little.

The pills had helped with that.

But it had been so long since Gerard had taken them that he found himself honestly unable to remember anymore.

He wasn't going to start again, not even to find out, despite his curiosity, because he really didn't fucking want to get 'better', because 'better' was all a fucking lie: all in the pills and the words they force into your brain and safeguarding you and blocking you away from everything that might hurt you... it wasn't fucking real.

He couldn't take photographs on the pills. He couldn't appreciate the ocean on them. He couldn't appreciate anything. He couldn't feel anything at all.

His last November 2nd. An significant date to everyone he knew. His last November 2nd - their last that didn't hold the blow of the news of his death. So unaware. Forever. Unaware. Naive. Because Gerard kept secrets, and then suddenly come November 2nd everyone would know everything, and he honestly didn't know how to feel about that, but truth be told, he didn't have to worry, because, to put it bluntly, he'd be dead.

He was worrying in preparation, though: his whole life was perhaps one big worry, which didn't exactly make it out to be worth much, but then again, Gerard was never one for over-exaggerating, never one for lying, of course, until he had to, because there was something utterly impractical when it came to your mother asking you how you were feeling and you responding with an honest 'like I want to kill myself, literally', as opposed to a shrug and a badly annunciated grumble that may or may have not translated to 'fine' in some language, probably.

November 2nd had been a Wednesday. His last November 2nd. A fucking Wednesday. Gerard didn't dislike Wednesdays, in fact, he felt very little in regards to them at all, in fact, he felt very little in regards to most things last year - that had been when he was taking his pills.

Naivety was such an odd, such a beautiful, such a tragic concept, and one he had subjected everyone in his life to as he sat up at five in the morning on Friday the 19th of October, with little less than two weeks until he killed himself.

Gerard found himself up to see the sunrise much more frequently this week - something that he'd thought Kat only capable of, and due to the fact that Kat was perhaps the world's most extreme morning person, but Gerard's secret lay not in getting up early but never going to sleep.

He hadn't slept in almost three days now, and really it was quite the experience. He found himself surviving on caffeine and self hatred and sometimes he blinked and then when he opened his eyes it was ten minutes later, and sometimes he found himself hallucinating, but it was just dreaming without his eyes closed, and Gerard's hallucinations, were surprisingly not the most horrific things, just odd. Rather non-descript, if anything, which left Gerard feeling even disappointed.

The height of the excitement stirred by his hallucinations was perhaps the image of the cup on the sideboard levitating, or the room shaking, or what he experienced most frequently after focusing upon one particular object for a certain amount of time, was it refusing to take one size in his perception of it, but instead distorting as it enlarged and shrunk in size in a rather sporadic manner as he attempted to focus upon its real size and diameter, but it was hardly like seeing some hellish monster chasing after him and telling him to kill his family.

If Gerard was grateful for anything it was that he wasn't schizophrenic. He had enough problems with his own perceptions of reality as it was. He didn't need voices, he didn't need another opinion of his life and himself, and well, what was left of him.

Of course, Gerard hadn't slept in so long without a reason, although the reason itself didn't make that much sense, he just realised he didn't have so much of his life left and he disliked the notion of wasting it away sleeping, because as dull as his life was, and as much as he wanted to be rid of it, still, the notion of wasting it made him inexplicably uncomfortable.

And with such sleeplessness he'd found an odd respite in the areas of his brain that ceased to function and slow down: the whole world had slowed down, and not everything felt as real or as weighed anymore, and in some way, as odd as it sounded, he felt as if he'd turned off his anxiety and his intrusive thoughts, as he found himself sat the kitchen table come six in the morning, content, and barely there, having wasted an hour away inside his own head without coming to even really realise it.

He was wasting away in that wooden chair, like this he'd even kill himself before November came around, but in this state, that thought didn't irk him as it should.

-

Gerard's head was buzzing, and not in a particularly good way, although the notion of buzzing was nothing much spectacular within itself and Gerard was well aware of that. Gerard was indeed well aware of so many things but so naive to many others, as were we all, and sometimes this seemed to matter, and sometimes this didn't, as things faded in and out of our lives: in and out of existence, in and out of importance, sometimes without us knowing it.

Gerard found himself fixated upon a certain phrase: a repeated pattern in his head that he couldn't quite get rid of: the drumbeat, the rhythm of his thoughts as he started up at the ceiling of the school corridor and counted the cracks.

'What do I matter? What do I mean?'

The weight of insignificance was a heavy one to bear, but what did it matter because no one gave a shit anyway?

His whole head was buzzing, fuck, the walls were vibrating, fuck, maybe sleep was more necessary than he had originally thought.

Gerard had never really gotten much, or perhaps enough sleep, but it was all okay because he was going to have a really fucking nice long sleep come November 1st, after all, however there was quite the difference from a little sleep to absolutely no sleep, and Gerard was experiencing it first hand.

There was probably a forty percent chance that he'd vomit today. Fuck, whatever, fuck what did it even all matter?

The overwhelming dull thud of hopelessness had itself pulling down on Gerard's chest, as he found himself trapped in a world he didn't want to live in, a building he didn't want to be in: a corridor, but something of course, that Gerard had not yet considered, and Gerard was always one for overthinking things it until it destroyed him completely, was the fact that today was the last day of term.

Friday October 19th was the last day of term, the last day of school before a two week break.

Friday October 19th was Gerard's last day of school, ever.

And for the first time that day, he smiled, fucking beamed up at the cracks in the ceiling like a mad man, fucking stood there and looked around himself in delight, because this really hadn't quite hit him yet, and he was honestly quite glad it had before he'd started work on that History essay - due Monday November 5th.

Fuck, what on earth could November 5th possibly be like? Because, fuck, Gerard would never know, and the thought absolutely delighted him, to the extent that he stood there like a madman, grinning, and honestly he must have freaked some people out because he was pretty certain that for a good proportion of people he vaguely knew, this was the first time they'd seen him smiling, and it wasn't even a half hearted smile, it was spectacular, and unnerving, spectacularly unnerving: a masterpiece of the most wild, untamed emotion - curated with contempt, exhaustion, and a carefree attitude brought on, courtesy of fixed end date.

Gerard was really quite secure in his own little bubble: his own head, his own thoughts: the world blurring out around him, until, of course, suddenly, that bubble physically broke with a hand upon his shoulder, and his whole body jerking as panic washed over him in what could easily be referred to a tsunami wave, provided of course, that there was little regard for cliché.

"Gerard, I..."

Frank.

As Gerard met those familiar eyes he found his heartbeat settling as his vision began to focus upon the boy, a little shorter than him, far more familiar than he should have been, before him.

Frank.

Frank, who Gerard was perhaps too nonchalantly something like in love with, Frank, whose birthday was October 31st, fucking Halloween, Frank, who changed this all slightly. Frank, who Gerard had attempted to avoid, ignore, not with purpose but with regard for his own mental stability, which he'd never had an abundance of as it was to begin with.

"Are you okay?" Frank's voice seemed to fade back into focus as he glanced over Gerard.

Gerard stepped a little away from Frank: a personal space thing, not a personal thing. "Yeah, I..." Gerard trailed off, looking behind Frank and noticing Lindsey, leaning back against the lockers: all bright red lipstick, bubble gum, and eyebrows drawn on so she always appeared intimidating, or perhaps that was just her resting facial expression - Gerard honestly couldn't tell.

Frank turned, following Gerard's gaze to Lindsey. "Stop staring," he yelled across at her, leaving her to roll her eyes and turn back to her locker. "Sorry," he added, turning to face Gerard, "I just... you seem... different today, I mean, you're smiling, but it's a weird smile, I don't know, maybe it's me being weird, but I just wanted to check that everything was okay."

"Yeah," Gerard nodded, lying, "I'm good. Just haven't gotten much sleep. I haven't sleep in almost three days, actually." He had no clue as to why he'd just confessed such a thing to Frank, because, of course, now Frank would worry and fret over him, when Gerard needed nothing more than for everyone to just leave him the fuck alone for the next two weeks, because that was all the time he really had left.

"Are you... serious?" Frank looked Gerard over with, yes, concern, "you should go home and get some rest - seriously, you shouldn't be at school, why haven't you slept, Gerard, I- I don't understand...?"

Gerard shrugged, biting his fingernails a little, "I don't know..." He admitted, looking down. "My head's in a weird place right now." It always was.

Frank offered him a smile in sympathy, "do you want to talk about it- not now, I need... Lindsey needs me to do something, unless it's urgent, then of course, but maybe this evening or tomorrow or something-"

Gerard shrugged, biting his fingernails again; Frank tried so hard, Frank was so fucking lovely, and Frank would be so fucking upset, and Frank was so fucking beautiful.

"You're beautiful." Gerard told him, rather matter of factly, before he could really quite process what he'd just said.

Frank blinked a little: startled at first, before his face welcomed a smile, "you are too."

Gerard only nodded, because he'd heard this all a million times before, and only now had he really come to conclude that it hardly mattered at all, but then again, in the scheme of things, very little did.

"This is gonna sound weird..." Frank began, making eye contact with Lindsey briefly before turning back to Gerard, "do you happen to know anyone called Mikey or anything like that? Because, well... we, me and Lindsey, well I, I found what I think is a suicide note..."

And suddenly Gerard couldn't breathe at all: his lungs frozen, raw, aching in his chest, and then he was looking up at Frank: innocent, naive eyes, and fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course, Frank had never known Kat as Mikey, and that simple fact had saved Gerard's life- well, honestly it did the opposite, but it felt life saving to him, oddly.

And with confidence, Gerard met Frank's eyes and shook his head, offering a somewhat disheartened, "no, sorry," like it was absolutely nothing at all.

-

"So we don't have a clue who 'Mikey' is, at all?" Lindsey let out a sigh, rolling her eyes a little in Frank's direction; the gesture wasn't purposeful, but it was by no means accidental either.

"Nope." Frank sighed in much the same manner: the two sat on Frank's front porch, having walked there straight from school. "Not a clue." He continued, lighting a cigarette.

"Wonderful." Lindsey rolled her eyes, grabbing a cigarette from Frank's packet and lighting it herself. "Fucking wonderful isn't it? Because you think what the easiest way to find someone that's probably our age is? School. And you know what's over for two weeks now? School."

"I know-"

"Honestly," Lindsey met his gaze, "I don't think I've ever been even vaguely upset by the notion of school ending, and fucking look at me now: look at us now, look at this fucking mess, and these fucking letters, and what the fuck we're supposed to do about it."

Frank shrugged, "I really have no idea."

"That's why I'm involved." She shook her head, laughing a little to herself, "fucking goddamn it, Frank."

"Mmm?" Frank looked up at her.

"Maybe we should just hand them over to the police, you know, the people who are fucking paid to investigate shit and deal with it. They can sort it out, because it's not our business, and just because you found them doesn't mean it's you that's obligated to do anything about them," she paused for a moment, "yeah, we'll do that. We shouldn't have this shit on our shoulders, especially when we have time off school and your birthday, and this shit is getting you down."

"There's a reason it's getting me down." Frank let out a sigh, biting his fingernails.

"Look, at least we know it's not Gerard now." She placed her hand over his, "don't even lie to me, Frank, that makes this one hundred times better for you. We should just let the police deal with the rest of it, and hey, I think you should ask Gerard out, like properly."

"Lindsey, I-"

"I mean, when we don't have this mess fucking up our lives, then you'll have the time for other things, and well, seeing as you're so fucking head over heels for him, and it's evident that he cares about you to a great extent, then, I'm just saying, why not?" Her face lit up into a grin, "didn't you ask him to hang out at your house at some point anyway?"

"Yeah, but..." Frank bit his lip, "he's a bit fucked up right now. He hasn't been sleeping in particular, I just wanna talk and make sure everything's okay. Sometimes he talks to me, properly, and then sometimes he doesn't say a word and we just sit there together and that's okay too, and then there was this one time when he spoke, but only in French."

"Why?" Lindsey's face lit up in confusion. "You can't speak a word of French - what's the point in that?"

"That's the very point," Frank smile a little, "he wanted to speak, but not for me to know what about. And I'm okay with that, because that's just Gerard sometimes... he's a little weird, there's definitely something off, but it doesn't affect me - I care about him for who he is."

"Okay calm down, Romeo, so are you going to ask him or not? Maybe don't make it so formal, maybe just casually throw in the fact that you're romantically interested in him, and then just as casually suggest the idea of kissing?" Lindsey went on to suggest, leaning back against Frank's house.

Frank shrugged, "look, I mean, if he throws some serious shit in my direction when we're talking then it might not be entirely appropriate to be like, oh hey, wanna make out? But, I guess, I guess I might as well... I think... I don't know, I think we'd both be fine if he didn't feel that way."

"Oh, come on." Lindsey rolled her eyes, "have you even seen the way he looks at you?"

Frank blushed, "what?"

"Nothing," she sat up, smiling, "so, those letters, do you want me to take them on my way home?"

Frank bit his lip: hesitant for a moment, because he felt oddly attached to it all, as if it was his responsibility, and those letters held so much, but so little, because they belonged to one person with a hell of a big mess in their head, and it was all absolutely anything but Frank's business, but still, still he was hesitant.

"Well?" Lindsey looked down at him.

"Yeah," Frank bit his lip, looking away as he nodded, "yeah, that's best."

Frank wasn't quite so sure.

-

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