Hello! Welcome to my new swing at Frerard. I hope you enjoy. =)

DISCALIMER: NO, THIS DID NOT CANNOT WILL NOT AND EVERY OTHER KIND OF NOT HAPPEN OR HAPPENED. OKAY? OKAY.

I roll over on my bed, throwing the adventures of some underrated superhero to my cheap carpet. I'll read it some other time, when I have a clear mind. You know when you're positive something horrid will happen to you? How the air gets still and the world seems to turn slowly? It happens when someone you know dies, or something breaks when it isn't meant to. You don't want to know what has gone wrong when it happens, you want to put it behind you and distract yourself. Today, I cannot put my mind from the still, dreadful feeling. My boyfriend was supposed to call me three hours ago so we could hang out. I've been worried for him lately; he hasn't been his usual self. He told me he'd explain why tonight, because he knows I've been horribly worried for him. I've been trying and trying to invent more excuses with each passing hour, but I can't anymore. I have to call him, at least. I snatch my cell phone from its spot beside me and press speed dial one. The phone rings. I want to hear Des's velvet voice, I want him to tell me he was shopping or bungee jumping or something. But no such luck. The phone rings a few more times. This isn't like him. He always picks up second ring when he sees it's me. I get his voicemail, and leave a shaky-voiced message of, "Hey, Des. It's Gee. I don't know where you are, but call me back, okay?"

I hang up, unsatisfied. I thought calling him would make me feel better, somehow. Like hearing his voice would calm me down, but seeing as I haven't, I have to walk to his house. My stomach is fast becoming unsettled and I feel like vomiting. That omniscient feeling that something bad has happened is slowly creeping over me, from my feet to my head. I leave my room and snatch a jacket before I head out the door. It's only seven o'clock, so my parents don't ask questions. They know I'll be at Des's. They don't know he and I are dating, but they do know he's my best friend. I'm always over at his house, pretty much. Since we started dating a year ago, there hasn't been a week that's gone by where I didn't sleep at his house, or he at mine.

I walk more briskly than is natural for me to Des's place, where all the lights are on, but there's no car in the driveway. My heart beats fast. I don't want to think about why this is. I just want to see Des playing video games with his little sister, telling my he lost track of time as he pulls me into his arms. Any scenario would be good, actually. He could be asleep, because he said he wasn't getting much sleep lately. I jog up the stairs to his door, and knock. There isn't an answer. I knock again. No answer. I try the handle, and the door creaks open. The atmosphere in this house isn't normal. I can sense it, even before I see anything, something happened. Something bad. "Des?" I call, my voice wavering. "Des?"

There isn't an answer.

I pad around the house, to the bathroom. I don't know why I look there first, perhaps because I can sense the disaster. I turn on the light, and sink to my knees, for I was right. Something terrible happened. The weeks of depression, the lack of sleep, all the strange behavior, they all add up at this moment. The little, dried up river of Des's blood stretches from Des's lifeless body to my shaking one. I hear horrible noises, these guttural wails, but I don't know the source. I realize a split second later that they are my own sobs. I'm so disconnected from my own body that I cannot tell when I'm crying. I crawl over to Des, and take his limp, red-stained hand in mine. I see the lacerations on his two arms, one for each, stretching jaggedly from the wrists to the biceps. I touch it, to make it tangible, and realize the gravity of the situation. Desmond is dead. He is not my baby anymore, he will never hug or kiss me or caress my cheek like he did just yesterday, ever again. It is an empty feeling that I hate, but it ceases my tears. I wipe the bottoms of my eyes with my jacket sleeves and settle Des's body back the way I found it. I slowly back out of the bathroom, focusing all my energy on breathing in and out. I go into his room, again, from some unknown compulsion, and I find a piece of paper laying on his bed. I flick on the light, sit down on the bed, and read the paper. It's in Des's handwriting, but the handwriting is extremely shaky.

Sometimes, it reads, love is not enough. I know it's difficult to understand why I did this, but I hope that in time, you all will. I also know that, mum and dad, you loved me more than it's even possible to imagine. And I love you, too. If it were for love alone, I would still be here. But it wasn't. Reasons? There were none that I could begin to explain, but take it from me, it's better off this way. Take care of Annie for me. Teach her how to ride a bike. We were gonna do that this weekend. Tell her I went in a noble way. You'll think of something. I'm sorry to have done this to you.

I blink back tears. The handwriting gets shakier after that part, and there are stains on this section of the paper. Gerard, I love you. You are the best, kindest human being there has ever been. You kept me going this past year. Without you, I would be long dead. Please understand, I wanted to stay for you. I just couldn't. Please, don't forget me, but don't linger either. Make someone else as happy as you made me. Help my parents take care of Annie. I love you, I love you, I love you. Look in our place. You'll find something. I love you. I miss you. Sorry for not calling.

I love you all,

Des.

I begin to sob again. I can't fathom this. I can't swallow it. Those last words got to me worst of all. Leave it to Des to apologize for not calling me. But he said to look in our place. That's his closet, where he and I kept things we found funny, or wanted to give to the other, or hide, or whatever.

I set the note down gingerly and shuffle over to the closet. I pull the door open and there sits a hoodie, another slip of paper, and a tiny box. The paper says, For my baby. That means me.

I unfold the hoodie, which turns out to be the Iron Maiden one I'd always coveted of his. He said he'd give it to me, if I pried it out of his cold, dead fingers. I burst out in a fit of giggles. Only Des would remember that and turn it into a sick fucking joke. Only he would have tried to make me laugh in these circumstances. I put the hoodie on over my jacket, and it smells like he used to. I breathe deeply, burying my nose in the fabric. I reach out and grab the tiny box with the hinged lid. I pop it open, and inside it is a silver chain with a cross on it. There's nothing special-looking about it, but I start crying harder because it is special. I recall at the exact same moment two things. One, this necklace is the one I spied in the jewelry store a few months ago. I really liked it, and I thought it was cool. Des had nodded, seemingly aloof, but I had a feeling I'd see it again. And two, I remember the date. It's our one-year anniversary.

I don't know what to do. I need to call someone. I can't call the police, or his family, or mine. I get my cell phone and scroll through my contacts to find Frank.

Frank was Des's best friend. Is? Was? I don't know the tense to use with a newly-deceased person. I don't like to think of Des as dead, so I think is would be right, at least to console me. He and Des were- are pretty close. Like, not as close as Des and I or anything like that, but nobody's been as close to me as Des. I think I should at least call him and tell him what's up, as opposed to having him hear it through the grapevine.

I press 'talk' when I hit Frank's name, and he answers on the third ring. "Gerard?" he asks. "What's up?"

"Dude, I hate to call at a bad time, but like, Des is gone." My voice cracks on the last word. Now, it's real. Now, someone knows. Now, Des is dead.

"Gone?"

"As in he's dead."

"You better not be fucking kidding me," Frank says severely.

"I'm not. I just came over and I found him, and like..." I trail off, blinking back more tears.

"Stay right there. I'm driving over."

I hang up the phone and sit still on Des's bed, sniffing my hoodie, playing with my necklace chain, reading the note over and over to the point where I could recite it, until I hear the door open. "Gerard?" a familiar, deep voice calls. "Where are you?"

"In here," I choke out weakly. I stand up from the bed and take a few steps out, so Frank can spot me. I see him walking past the hallway, so I clear my throat. He turns on his heel and sees me. We both make for eachother at the exact same moment, running and collapsing in the other's arms. It's the tightest hug I have ever experienced, but I have a feeling I'm squeezing back harder.

"Fuck, dude," Frank murmurs into my shoulder. "Fuck," he squeaks, and I feel his shoulders heave as he starts to wail, much like I did when I found Des.

"I know," I coo, rubbing his back.

"Wait," Frank says, lifting his head. "I feel like a dick. Here I am, crying on your shoulder, and you were his guy. How are you feeling?"

"Numb," I reply frankly. "D'you wanna see him?"

"I dunno. Should I? How bad is he?"

"Dude," I say. "Like, as bad as you can get. He's..." I trail off, not wanting to repeat the word.

"That's true. Ah, yeah, then. I'll see him. Where is he?"

"Bathroom."

I lead Frank to the bathroom and he does the same as I did. He falls to his knees and stares at Des. Or, Des's shell, at least. "I knew he was depressed," Frank says quietly, at length. "But I didn't know he was that depressed, you know? If he'd asked for help, maybe we could've..."

"Nah, man. You know Des," I say, as brightly as I can. "Would he have seriously admitted defeat and asked us for help?"

Frank laughs weakly. "He would not have, no."

We both look at Des in silence for an immeasurable amount of time, Frank leaning into me and my head resting on his. We're so horrified and mesmerized and grief-stricken that we can't do anything else.

The door opens again, and it's Des's family this time. They're murmuring about why the bathroom lights are on and why there are pairs of shoes at the door. "Hello?" Des's dad calls, but Frank and I don't answer. We can't.

Des's dad's footsteps get closer, lumbering as they are. I sense him behind us, so I turn my head to look up at his horrified expression, and I say the only thing I can say. "Right?"

He starts crying violently for his son, which is understandable. Des's mom comes behind us and sees the scene, but she doesn't cry. She wants to, that much I can tell. Her pinched tone of voice as she talks to little Annie. "Sweetie," she says, "go to bed."

"But-"

"No buts! You're tired."

I hear little footsteps shuffle past and a door shut, and then I hear more footsteps come back. "How long has it been?" Des's mom asks, her voice sounding less strained, but more sad.

"I have no idea. I got here around seven fifteen and the blood was dry and stuff. OH! He wrote a note. It's in his room," I answer. It feels strange saying so many words at one time. I decide to not talk anymore. It seems out of place here.

I don't turn to look as Des's parents go to his room. I know they're in there, because there is quiet, almost inaudible sobbing. Frank speaks. "Bummer."

"Yeah."

"Anyone else feel weird?" he inquires.

"So weird."

"Ditto."

There are more footfalls behind Frank and I. "Gerard?" asks Des's mother.

"Yeah?"

"Can we speak with you a moment?"

I get up and touch Frank's shoulder from behind. He reaches his hand up to grab mine, as if to hold it there, but I have to go talk to Des's parents.

I follow his mom into his old room, and she says, right off the bat, "We can't seem to figure something out."

"Like, what?" I ask.

"The paragraph about you. We didn't understand you and Desmond were so close," replies his dad.

"We were pretty tight," I say, as deadpan as I can manage. It sucks to call a year-long, loving relationship 'tight'.

"But... not close like Frank?" Des's mom asks. I burst out laughing once more. I always did love her political correctness. She's this conservative lady who wouldn't say a curse word if her life depended on it.

"What you're asking is..." I say, wording it carefully before I say it, "if Des and I were like, together?"

Des's dad nods.

"Um," I say shyly, "yeah. Yeah, we were. Today is our one-year anniversary, actually. I'm sorry you had to find out like this... uh, if you want me to like, leave or anything I'd totally understand. You don't really need me and now you're probably uncomfortable, and I'm rambling so I'm gonna stop."

The response I get shocks me. Des's mom pulls me in close for a hug and whispers, "Thank you for telling me."

I rub her back in an attempt to console her, 'cause she's his mom and all, and I say, "Sorry for not saying anything. I hope you don't think it's my fault, or something. 'Cause we were doing so great. We were even supposed to hang out today..." I trail off for the umpteenth time today with a sniffle.

"Of course not! We would never!" Des's dad says.

"Cool, cool. Hey, um, I should get back to Frank, yeah? He's all alone..." I say, letting my voice drift. I seem to be doing that a lot tonight. I think of Frank, all alone, and it makes me sad. I don't know why.

They let me go and I head back to the bathroom, where Frank hasn't moved. "I keep thinking he's gonna move," he mumbles. "Like he's shitting us, you know?"

I laugh. "Yeah, I was hoping for that, too," I admit, sitting down beside him. I stare at his profile from the right side. He really does have a nice face. Him and Des have that in common. Very handsome features.

"So," Frank says, a little eagerly. "You and Des... like, you really loved eachother?"

"That we did. Or, at least I did. And from the sounds of his letter, he loved me too."

"That's awesome. I kinda wish I had that with someone."

"It's really good. But when they go away, you don't feel like you're there anymore. Like, you need them to live. I'm sure it's gonna hurt later, but now I just feel gone, too."

"What was the last thing you said to him?" Frank asks. "If you can remember."

I go a little pink. I absolutely remember the last thing I said to him, and it's really corny. "It, um," I clear my throat. "It was 'I love you to Orion's belt and back.'"

"Aw," Frank says. "That's good. My last words to him were, 'See ya tomorrow.' And I guess I did. Shit, aren't there people to like scoop him up and take him away?"

"I think so."

"Why aren't they here?"

"Beats me. Hey... do you want me to get anything?"

"Like what?"

"A blanket, a drink, a hug, I don't know. I'm gonna go to the kitchen and call my mom, so..."

"Can I take you up on all three?"

"Absolutely, you can. Give me five minutes."

"Yup."

I basically float to the kitchen, and take my cell phone out, and press speed dial two. The phone rings and my mom picks up. The sound of her voice, smooth like honey and the tone of a perfectly played harp symphony, gives me a lump in my throat that I have to fight in order to speak. "Hey, ma."

"Gerard? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine... um, Des isn't, though. He... he, like... mom, he killed himself."

"W- what?"

"Yeah, just what I said. He cut up his arms in the bathroom, and, yeah..."

"Oh, my God. Are- is... who's there with you?"

"Des's friend, Frank, his parents, and his little sister's in bed."

"I see. Do you want me to come over there and get you?"

"Nah, I think I might stay a bit. Des's- err, Mr. and Mrs. Delahunt say that I can stay."

"If that's what you want. But are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just kinda shaken."

"Call if you need anything."

"I will."

"I love you."

"Love you, too, mom. Bye."

I hang up the phone and open the fridge. I get two cans of Diet Coke, and then I trek to Des's bedroom where his parents still sit. This is gonna be weird. "Hey," I say awkwardly. "Can I borrow one of his blankets?"

They seem to understand, even though I know they don't, and they gesture to what used to be his bottom drawer. There's a really soft blanket with the Misfits skull on it. I say thank-you and take the blanket and the Coke over to Frank. I toss him a can, sit down, and drape the blanket over both of us from the knees down. He pulls it up to his shoulders, and I notice for the first time that he's still wearing his jacket. I swing my arm around him, pull the blanket up to my own shoulders and squeeze his puffy winter coat. Frank leans his head on my shoulder, and I lean my head back down on his. He shrugs his jacket off after a time, I don't know how long, and wraps his arm around my waist. This is the first time since the last time that Des and I had sex that I'd been touched here. It's really low, like my belt-area, but the contact feels nice. I don't know what reciprocation is appropriate at this time, because I'm not sure of Frank's orientation, but I figure he must be cool with gay people. I turn my head slightly and press my lips really, really slightly to his forehead. "Thanks," he says dreamily. Like he had just been nodding off or something.

"Don't mention it," I say, guiltily as Des watches me through unopened eyes that will never see again.