To say that Gerard was nervous would be an understatement.

A severe one at that.

Gerard was the epitome of nerves, the messiah of overthinking, the emperor of self-destruction, and indeed, the architect of his own demise.

That was how it would always be, his last few days upon Earth were no exception.

Certainly no exception.

It was Wednesday. Wednesday the twenty forth of October.

All there was left of October was a week.

All there was left of him was just that: a week.

October and him were connected: the autumn, the cold, the nothingness, the transition from warm to cold, the way you lose yourself in the world, in thoughts, in work, in complications, in boys with smiles who care, and on the mission to destroy yourself.

Gerard would say easily that he was worlds away from the person he was on October first, and that there was very little he could do about that; the certainty of it all had changed him - he'd put his trust, he'd held hands with his suicide date, because it brought him great calm and reassurance in the mere existence of its overbearing presence.

But Gerard knew like he knew anything that he felt secure, he felt safe, he felt at home in its shadow. The sun shone too bright as he stood out alone: his skin was pale, thin-skinned, lightheaded, heavy hearted kind of boy with too many words and a desire for silence, and the ability to rot away in his own head in solace for hours upon end.

He felt safe, he felt ready, he felt worlds away from Friday the thirteenth of October and waking up in a bath tub and regretting it all. This wasn't like that at all. That had been indeed a mistake: a stumble before he reached the cliff face: nothing compared to the fall, and when greeting the depths at the bottom, he'd greet them with an embrace.

Because perhaps the one thing Gerard wasn't scared of, was this - the end of it all, as he'd planned, because he'd had a lifetime of overthinking and planning and drafting, and he fucking knew it all down to every detail - his death as the palm of his own hand, and his mind drifting away from him on the tide, because here he was, the bathtub, letting his skin dissolve around him: water cold, once warm perhaps two hours ago.

Five in the morning.

And he'd lost his head at four.

He was getting worse, but he wasn't concerned.

It was every night now, he'd find himself sat somewhere at two, and then perhaps blinking and seeing that it was four. Several hours lost like that with no recollection, but not to sleep, because he would be sat upright, still, unmoving, conscious, and even tired, as they were hours simply lost to himself: hours for the ravenous kind of dark thoughts in the deepest corners of his mind to dart out and devour.

It left him a little distrusting of himself, but it wasn't something he fussed over, as he was sure that he'd never once done anything besides sit in silence and thought in the hours he'd missed, and anyway, it wasn't like he could ruin his life much more than a little more than he already had in a week.

Because that was all he had left now - in a week, everything was going to be alright, and Frank would be smiling - it would be his birthday and Gerard would be perhaps sat with him in his bedroom like he had been before, and Gerard would be silent: thinking of Frank and the beauty in him, and the water and drowning and the tenfold beauty in that.

And he'd never get to apologise properly, as words refused to form correctly and ink smudged and his thought ran like a deer: startled, wide eyed and nimble, never allowing him to quite catch up, to quite understand, as he would stumble after it in hope of understanding, in hope of fitting it all together, but never doing so.

And Gerard knew: destined to follow his thought forever, even as it led him into the water, as it led him to the bottom of a lake, as it led him to his own death. He was prepared for that, or perhaps as prepared as he could be, because perhaps these letters just weren't going to get written, and perhaps Frank and his family would have to piece things together for themselves.

And perhaps Gerard didn't find as much of a problem with that as he should.

Because he indeed owe them an explanation, if he was going to go and fucking drown himself.

However, he didn't really owe anyone anything at all.

Frank had made quite the point about selfishness: a point Gerard had allowed himself to be indulged in, because he lived with less care for himself and his actions now - perhaps simply sitting back and choosing to watch as the last seven days played out before him.

He got out of the bathtub at five thirty four.

The air was cold and he regretted doing so instantly, but regret was muffled in his chest as his heartbeat increased, finding himself locking eyes with a certain creature buzzing at the window: a moth, and by no means the same moth, but to Gerard it felt the same.

It was alive.

And he was too, if only for now.

But it fluttered, and it lived, and the night closed in around it, but still it travelled in search of light.

Gerard just let things overcome him; Gerard just let himself ruin his life.

As he was indeed, his own worst enemy: forever the architect of his own demise.

It was nearly six in the morning before Gerard made it out of the bathroom, and into his bedroom again, finding himself oddly unfamiliar with the slight positioning of objects in his room, as if he had lost more time to his own head than he was entirely comfortable with.

However, before he could excessively ponder what had occurred in his own head whilst he'd been absent from it, his attention was consumed rather rapidly by a scrap of paper left upon his desk: written up in his own handwriting, but not something he recalled constructing: a letter - that was immediately evident, but Gerard only understood once he read the first two words:

'Dear Frank,'

And that was enough to have his heart sink, because here lay paragraphs and paragraphs of his own handwriting, his own words, but ones he couldn't recall speaking, and like that, his head felt as if falling from his shoulders, and his knees buckled as he began to break down and cry.

It was enough to want to leave your own body.

But too much for your own head to kick you out.

'Dear Frank,

You're reading this because I have killed myself, and there is not a single universe in which I can imagine that you never read this, and for that don't count yourself unlucky, because this was inevitable. This was decided when you first met me, this was decided long before that. The thing is, you just happened, and you had me running through hell trying to keep everything in order, because there is a specific order to this all, and I do have to die, and it does have to be now: November 1st, because that's how I need it to be, because I just can't live with myself and there's respite in knowing that the end is soon and this is written on the 23rd, this is written as I let myself spiral out of control, as there's nothing much anything in the world can do to change what I am indeed going to do. You are not exempt from that. You are not exempt from the world. You are special but never exempt.

It isn't your fault. And I know you will overthink and cry and fault yourself, because you're human and trust me, I've thought this all through one million times and as much as I try, I simply can't imagine a world in which there's a November for me, a December, a Christmas, a new year. This is the end. I have made it the end, and I'm so sorry that it fell on the day after your birthday. This is the worst birthday present ever. I'm sorry. I love you.

But not perhaps how I should. I don't know what I feel for you. I like you, but I am much more drawn to the idea of ending it all at the bottom of a lake, and I simply don't know whether that's just this crippling weight of self-hatred twisting and contorting my emotions and breaking everything down into little pieces that don't make much sense anymore, or me as a person. Maybe I'm broken. I think I'm very broken.

But I don't know what to do about it all, and I decided long ago that it was indeed easier to do nothing than to figure this all out, to go through a different kind of hell to fix the problems in my head, because I'm fucking terrified that there's no fixing this, that this is just how I am, that this is normal, that this is what everyone else copes with perfectly fine, and that I am just overreacting because I always overreact to everything: I am thin skinned and even that skin is shedding and faster than ever before. I'm wasting away, but it's okay because I can discard all worry and troubles in the light of November 1st and the week between now and then.

But this isn't how people are supposed to feel, of course, because I don't think everyone goes around with an uncontrollable desire to drown themself - I've figured that out at least. And this is me: suicidal, and it feels weird saying it, putting it out like that, because it was never once fine and then just ready to kill myself the next day - it's not an on and off switch, it was gradual, it was years and years of slowly getting worse and tumbling further into this hole of despair, and I don't know at what point I concluded that there was no getting out of it. I don't know at what point of that descent into self-destruction that you become suicidal, or become depressed, or become a danger to yourself, because as living breathing human beings we are all dangers to ourselves.

You're a danger to yourself now: upset, vulnerable, and I'm sorry, because I love you. Stay safe, be okay. Please be okay. You will, though, because I'm barely a snapshot of a person: you knew me for a month. One month of your life. It may be the most meaningful month of your life or it may be the least, but what it is, is a month, and you never really knew me at all, and I think it's better that way, because the longer I stay, the more it's going to hurt in the end, because this is inevitable, I'm writing this down and it's inevitable.

It's all real. I love you, and that's real. The whole world is real and I forget that all the time. I am perhaps not as real as you are, though: I'm fading away, metaphorically if not physically, and you have noticed, you just don't want it to be real, so you're subconsciously ignoring it, and please do not feel guilty for such a thing because there was never anything you could do to stop me in the first place.

People seem to think that everything's fine when you fall in love. That the love is the cure to it all, that you're fucked up and then you have this angel lifting you out of hell and then you're okay, but I am not what people think, I am not a tear-jerking bestseller, I am nothing but reality: flawed and ending. We are all going to die. I am just going to die a little sooner.

I never could stomach the idea of not being in control of your own death. I feel it is a basic human right to have control over how you live and in turn how you die. I find it imperative to control it, to plan it, and doing so extensively has brought me an odd kind of peace, and I hope that maybe in time you'd come to appreciate that. I am not happy. I am not a happy person, but you do make me smile.

I could never just fade away age eighty like a vegetable in an old people's home - that was always known, from about age seven - not as in I'm going to kill myself, but that I would dictate my own death. And then there was this odd notion at the back of my mind that I'd never have to worry about life as an adult and that I could dismiss that all simply because I would never live to be eighteen, and I guess that notion was right.

I don't want a fancy funeral. I don't want much to be made of me at all. And I want you to stop crying as soon as you can.

I don't know what comes after life and honestly, I don't care, but maybe in some form or another, I'll see you again. I think I'd like that.

Gerard.'

-

Gerard had felt a little dizzy for the hours that followed, and there was certainly nothing wrong with that. It wasn't so much that he was physically dizzy, but more so emotionally - more than he was usually: an emotional dizziness linked specifically to that one letter in his handwriting that for the life of him he couldn't recall writing.

That one fucking letter that summed the whole world up like it was nothing.

Gerard didn't know quite how to feel having come to the realisation that his subconscious mind was miles more competent than his conscious one. He wondered if perhaps it was just another sign that this world was better off without him, and that this was indeed proof that his subconscious mind definitely seemed to agree.

People would cry.

That's what Gerard hated: hated with everything he had as he sat at the kitchen table in the sunlight, after yet another sleepless night: making an effort to ignore the sound of footsteps down the hallway - Kat, obviously, because who else woke up like this when they didn't have to (his mother had a day off work today).

Gerard tried not to think about how Kat would inevitably have to react to this all.

Have to.

Because there was absolutely no questioning this all, not after this; he reckoned that letter to Frank had solidified things a little, because there it was in writing, his writing, with every word necessary, and there was no point in changing his mind now - not that he'd ever really intended to, of course.

"You didn't sleep last night, did you?" Kat asked, directly their words at Gerard as they made their way over to the kettle and began to make themself a cup of coffee.

"I... I..." Gerard stumbled out, finding that perhaps he'd half forgotten how to speak in the space of the past few hours: spent alone in silence.

"When you sleep you don't want to get out of bed, and when you haven't you usually end up sat here for some reason, like you don't want to even go to your bed and try to sleep." Kat continued, turning to face their brother, and looking him straight in the eye. "Also you look fucking tired as hell: you need some sleep, Gerard."

Gerard bit his lip, looking down, "I'm gonna be fine. Everything's gonna be fine."

Kat raised their eyebrows at that, "that's new? Why's this?" They found this odd sort of hope in Gerard's words, when really, it was indeed the opposite.

"Sorted somethings out last night, and did some thinking, and I... I'm pretty sure I sat in the bath for two hours..." Gerard trailed off, forcing a little giggle, "but I... I... yeah... it's going to be okay. I know that."

"I'm glad." Kat's face lit up into a smile, and they stirred their coffee before taking it over to the table where Gerard was sat and sitting down opposite him. "Do you want a coffee by the way, because I'll-"

"I'm okay." Gerard ran a hand back through his hair and watched as Kat took a sip of their coffee. "Everything's going to be okay." He repeated, knowing that Kat was interpreting this all in practically the opposite way to which he was saying it, but still, he didn't have enough days left of his life to give a fuck.

Kat gave him another smile, "this is really good, Gerard, I was starting to get worried about you, but I don't know... I feel like it's Frank isn't it- of course, correct me, don't let me make assumptions about you."

Gerard bit his lip a little, "you should never have to be worried about me. I'm fine, it's all going to be fine."

"I can't help being worried about you, dude, I'm your sibling - it's my job." Kat laughed at that, "sure I'm younger, but I'm the fucking best protective younger sibling, aren't I?"

Gerard nodded, smiling a little, and generally trying not to cry. "Y-yeah... fuck, hell yeah you are. You're the best sibling anyone could ever ask for. Love you, Kat."

Kat nodded, "love you too, Gerard. You're the best older brother in the world. My favourite older brother, which would probably mean more if you weren't the only one, but still, I'd be saying that regardless."

Gerard nodded and tried not to think about how soon enough Kat wouldn't have an older brother at all. About his mother wouldn't have a son. About how Frank wouldn't have a boyfriend. About how he was going to be this person shaped hole in these people's lives.

"I love you. It's gonna be okay." Gerard repeated aloud, perhaps more so for his own benefit than Kat's, but it wasn't something Kat really picked up upon.

"I know it is," Kat hit him with a grin, "knew it was always gonna be. You're a strong person, Gerard, you really are."

And Gerard wanted to argue forever against that, but he didn't have forever. He had a week. And he wasn't going to spend that week detesting his sibling.

-

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