Hello everyone.

So, as virtually everyone on the planet is now aware, My Chemical Romance have split up. The band which defined us, taught us and influenced us, has gone. For anyone who has read Gerard's goodbye letter, it would be impossible to still be angry. How can you not forgive a man, who simply acknowledges that it is time to call it a day? I admire him, for not commercialising the end, but for just saying quietly "goodbye, and thank you." But in many ways, it feels as though my heart is still broken. Contemplating a future without MCR is much more terrifying than it ought to be.

This fanfiction was of course inspired heavily by MCR. And for the first time, I would like to tell you a little bit about why I began to write it.

Several years ago, my then-girlfriend and I were utterly obsessed with the band. We spent our lives RPing, reading fanfiction, listening to the music and learning to play it on the guitar - and together we saw MCR live twice.

After we split up, I felt like I had lost more than a girlfriend, and more than a friend. Suddenly, I had no-one with whom to share my love of MCR. Which in a way, was worse, strange as it sounds. At the same time, I was going through a difficult period in my own life where I was very lonely, and I had begun self-harming again for the first time in years.

"You only hear the music when your heart begins to break" Gerard told me. It was true. It was the summer after I turned fifteen, the summer after the World Contamination Tour, and I never left the house. I was this isolated girl, locking myself in my bedroom late at night hunched over my tiny desk, painting vampires and broken hearts, smoking whilst Danger Days played on repeat on my battered CD player. Every time I heard "He burns my skin...never matters about the shape I'm in" on SCARECROW I would grind the cigarette out on the back of my hand. The scars have never faded, although they have turned white now - years later.

Eventually, naturally I began to think about love. About the pain and suffering it brought, and I wondered if there was any such thing as a love which could supersede all problems through the tenacity of its sheer purity. Gerard was in my ear, telling me "I'll find you when the sun goes black..." which struck me as an exact example of that unattainably perfect love. The love between soulmates, which cannot be denied by any adversity, the love which even a dystopian world could not tear apart. I wanted to write that love, and write the suffering right alongside it - and I swore that no matter what happened, I would see the story through to the end once I began it.

This story thus far has been long, repetitive and potentially boring in places. It is not the literary giant I wish it was. But all the same, I will not give up. This story will be written until the very end. Because the Gerard and Frank of this story, they need to be written. I cannot leave their lives untold, and their world half-finished. I cannot stop writing, until they have found this perfect love within themselves, and used it as the weapon to overcome all of their pain and grief.

This story will go on until the end. Until the sun goes black, and only love is the only salvation. If you are still there to read it by the end, thank you.

~Hana Belladonna, 06-04-13

/

I was alive. And it hurt like hell. Again.

At first that was all I could comprehend; this sudden sense of self. Vague images and sensations then began to dance through my mind like wraiths. They were the little demons, the little thoughts that managed to slip in when I wasn't paying attention. No matter how hard I tried to suppress the memory, flashes from the previous night played themselves out in front of my eyes, a torment I couldn't escape. I didn't want to think. My mind was hurting from thinking, but it was happening all the same.

Meeting Bert, at the corner of his street. The way his eyes lit up when he saw me again.

Bert introducing me to his friends, a motley, dirty bunch. They had crowded around me, jeering, until Bert forced his way through a pair of them and managed to persuade them that I was going to be an addition, rather than a hindrance to the evening. My wallet played a fairly large role in convincing them, but I didn't even care by that point. I was already too drunk.

My mouth tasted fuzzy and dirty, the remnants of cheap alcohol and shame still lying heavily on my swollen tongue. My head was drilling a staccato rhythm straight through my eyes, which I kept pressed tightly closed against the dim light that I could sense lay just beyond their thin lids. I wasn't sure where I was, and I admit there was a small part of me still hoping childishly that I was about to find out the whole thing had been a bad dream. But I was fooling myself. I knew what a hangover felt like; I had fallen victim to enough of them over the years.

We had spent a lot of time wandering the streets drinking, but it wasn't nearly as much fun. So we eventually went back to the flat of Bert's older brother. There had been some kind of ghetto party going on, comprised of a bigger bunch of teenagers (a few of whom were considerably older, andought to have known better) all sitting around in a dank little room, drinking and passing around a joint. By the time we arrived at around midnight, the place was in shambles. Apart from the tight core of serious pot smokers, there were overly made-up girls in short skirts slumping off the sofas while their boyfriends downed more beer, barely sparing a glance for their dates.

It had been a long time since I'd had drugs of any form. Somehow I just stopped taking them when I met Fr- but by the time they offered me the joint, I was too wasted to care.

After that, everything became a blur.

My neck was stiff, too. That was to be expected, though - I was ridiculously sensitive to sleeping anywhere except my own bed, and my muscles tended to respond accordingly. I moved my head experimentally, and a wave of nausea hit me like a freight train. I wrenched my eyes open and flung myself towards the side of the bed I was occupying, retching over the edge as stale alcohol emptied itself from my stomach onto the carpet. Tears sprang into my eyes at the sting, my stomach muscles already beginning to cramp in protest.

As the vomiting ceased, I raised my head cautiously and looked around. My head was still spinning, and every part of me hurt, but I didn't seem to be in any danger of throwing up again. I examined my surroundings through narrowed eyes. I was in a small bedroom, which was distinctly not mine. It was a tip - unwashed clothes all over the floor in piles, half-eaten meals on plates littering the sides of the room. There was no furniture except for the double bed I lay on, which took up almost all the space. As I looked around, I had my second shock of the morning; I was not alone in the bed.

Stretched across the other side of the mattress, a girl lay turned away from me. She lay on her stomach, one leg pulled towards herself and the other stretched straight, uncovered by sheet or blanket. She wasn't naked - but that didn't mean anything. She was wearing tiny, insubstantial amount of black lace stretched across her breasts and ass. The rest of her bare skin looked dirty, but maybe that was just the uneven way the orangey fake tan was streaked down her arms and legs. I was repulsed, and somehow frightened by the sight of her. She was snoring lightly, tendrils of her plasticky blonde hair floating over her nose, drifting as she breathed in and out.

Her presence horrified me, and I desperately wracked my brain trying to think about what might or might not have happened last night. Had we fucked? Surely I couldn't have been that drunk. But my mind was drawing an impressive blank on the circumstances in which this not-so-beautiful-sleeping-beauty had ended up in bed with me. I looked down at myself, relieved to see I was still wearing my jeans. But I was shirtless, which was in and of itself a concern - I liked that shirt. I was also somewhat confused about appropriate morning after etiquette. Would the girl expect me to stay and explain? More likely I would be the one asking her to explain. Could I bear to remain until she woke up?

I ground my knuckles into my eyes wearily, wishing the pounding behind them would let up just for a minute so I could think straight. My mind up was made up for me about what the hell I was going to do next when the girl let out a sudden groan and seemed to be waking up. I waited, frozen and watching. I had never seen a girl waking up before, let alone one so scantily clad (whatever happened last night notwithstanding) and I was watching with a kind of fascinated revulsion, like when you stand and stare at the zoo;,struck by a particularly unpleasant animal, wanting to walk away, but still curious.

I stared as her eyelids twitched and she stretched, her long body flexing as she rolled towards me. I could see the exact moment she realised she wasn't alone. She opened her bloodshot eyes, wiping dregs of mascara from the corners, and then nearly jumped right out of the bed when she saw me.

"Christ!" She hissed, grabbing a sheet, and pulling it towards her to cover herself.

It wasn't looking good. Chances were, I had slept with this girl. I had probably gone and lost my virginity to her, some tarted up girl at a party. Worst of all, she was female. But manners were too ingrained in me from childhood to ignore a lady after I had slept with her, no matter how unladylike she seemed.

"Good morning," I said politely, catching her off guard. I quirked an eyebrow at her, trying to come across as friendly rather than sleazy. "I hate to say this, but I unfortunately can't remember anything about what happened last night. Um, I don't suppose you do, do you?"

The girl stopped trying to cover herself, and eyed me with a look much more speculative than resigned. Her eyes ran up and down my unclothed torso. Then a slow smile spread over her face, and she deliberately let the sheet fall away. "Well then, good morning, handsome," she said seductively, starting to edge towards me.

And that right there was how I knew I had to change.

I was fucking done with living this way. It was time to go home, face the music, and get my shit together. If Frank woke up, I needed to be there for him - I needed to be the strong one, I needed to set an example. Suddenly, for the first time in years I realised that I was no longer afraid to keep on living. It had been hard, yes, and it would continue to be hard, but suffering was not unique in any way, shape, or form. The only thing that was unique about pain was the ways in which we dealt with it, and I was not going to go running to the nearest bottle at the slightest sign of trouble anymore. I was done with that.

They say you need to hit rock bottom in order to begin to climb again.

I was already heading for the door by the time the girl spoke again.

"Wait!" She cried, as I paused with one hand on the door handle.

"Where are you going?" She asked, her eyes beseeching. I sighed, and picked up my
t-shirt from the floor, and tossed it to her. She caught it, looking confused.

"Put that on, and go home." I told her. "Forget me, forget what happened.
I have to go now. I have some shit to fix."

And I walked out of that door, without looking back.

/

Mom and dad were angrier than I had ever seen them before. Mom was almost in tears as she paced up and down in front of me, berating me for being so thoughtless. Dad sat more quietly in his chair, letting his presence be its own form of chastisement. Every inch of my body was begging me to slouch from the room teenage-style, muttering a few expletives over my shoulder as I did so, to continue playing to type and forgo the greater challenge of facing reality.

But another part of me was warring with the angst, reminding me that yes, it was my fault. I had been thoughtless, leaving like that - staying out all night, getting drunk at a party, sleeping with a strange girl, not telling my parents where I was or even that I had left the house. So I stood with my head bowed, and I took it. I wordlessly let Mom continue her tirade. I wondered idly- and not without a certain amount of horror - if this meant I was finally growing up. But then I realised that if I had to think it, chances were I wasn't, which was a great relief at that particular time. I didn't want to grow up–it wasn't that I was afraid of the responsibility anymore, but that I simply wanted to experience all the things I had missed along the way before it was too late.

Outside, it was dawn again. Our net curtains were still drawn so the neighbours didn't get an early morning special of watching the Way family disagreement. But the pale autumn sun filtered through the gaps, lighting the fluffy carpet in strips. How ironic, I mused to myself. How reminiscent of a new beginning. I looked at the dust motes shimmering in the rays of light, and wondered how I could possibly replicate that precise shade of white, with a rainbow glimmering around its edges. I was beginning to understand that not everything could be painted. Some things had to simply be, just for the sake of being. Frank was my muse, my inspiration. Just like the dust in the light, I saw the beauty in him whilst the rest of the world only saw something ordinary. But like the light, I couldn't hold him, I couldn't recreate him and keep him for my own.

That was possession, not love.

Had wanted to own Frank? I had wanted to fix him, to make it all better. But I kept him all to myself, shutting out the rest of the world when people in it might have been able to help him, too. Had I been so lonely, so utterly on my own that I was willing to risk his recovery to retain his companionship? Ray had told me I needed to tell my parents immediately and that Frank was in danger, but I hadn't listened to him. Well, I was listening now, even if it was too late. I couldn't save Frank - but I could still be there for him. Before, I had been seeing these two things as inclusive, unable to exist without one another. But now that someone else had the responsibility of making Frank better, I could see more clearly.

All I could do was keep him safe until he could shine on his own. I had drawn Frank so many times over the past month that I knew his features better than my own. I knew every hollow and crevice in his face, every little flaw and every tiny perfection. I knew the way his entire face changed and became calm when he played the guitar. I knew about the little crease between his eyebrows that formed when I was teaching him to read and write. I knew that being drawn made him slightly uncomfortable, but that he put up with it for my sake. I knew what every expression on his face meant, and yet I had no idea what was in his heart or head. And, I was starting to see, that was the way it should be.

The shouting washed over me, and I barely interjected, except to apologise again. I was thinking of everything. One thing I found it difficult to reconcile was why. Why had I let things go so far? If Frank made it through this alive, I swore I would make things change.

My feelings for Frank that I had refused to admit to myself for so long had coloured our interactions. Perhaps they were the reason I had fought so hard to keep him mine alone. Bob had seen the truth the moment he watched Frank and I together. Now I just had to admit the truth to myself; face up to the fact that I saw Frank as more than a friend. That didn't mean I had to tell him I loved him. But I could acknowledge it, keep it safe inside my own mind where it wouldn't harm anyone.

Christ. I loved him.

I loved Frank. Not in the way you're supposed to love your foster-brother. And I could never, ever tell him.

/

I returned my attention to the conversation, only to find my contribution wasn't actually required. Mom and Dad were so shocked at my lack of fight that they became subdued quickly, once I hadgiven the necessary explanation. And then before they could ask me anything specific, I carefully bypassed their questions about the night before (not an easy task by any means) which meant I could move in with the only thing prominent in my mind, the only question I really need answered:

"When can Frank come home?"

I had avoided asking the question so explicitly before, because I was afraid to know the answer. But I felt like I had developed a new skin since my realization that I needed to be stronger if I wanted to help Frank. I was determined to see this through to the other side, and if that meant being adult and mature and facing up to difficult things (even though the very word 'adult' made my skin crawl with all its connotations, and the word 'mature' reminded me of middle-aged domesticity) - I would do it. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and turned towards my parents.

"When can Frank come home?" I asked again. I tried, tried so hard to keep my voice calm and measured, but a flicker of pain came into it all the same. My mother and father were both sitting on the sofa in front of me by this point. My mother was wearing a thin flannel nightgown under her robe, and her hair fell down in strands around her face, making her look exhausted. I felt a twinge of remorse, as I realised she had probably been up all night wondering where I was. My father looked as infallible as ever - dressed in his usual work outfit, ready to leave as soon as his wayward son had been dealt with. But I had hurt them both, I could tell.

Except all I could think about was Frank, and how much he must have been hurting too.

My mother looked even more tired, as she answered me. "We have to wait for Frank to wake up" she stated quietly. "Then we can talk to him in more detail about the extent of his self-injury and...eating disorder." Her voice stumbled over the phrase, as though she had never had to use it before. She hadn't either - I was a self-harmer sure, but I had never had any problems with eating. Mikey was rail thin thanks to his genes, not any particular dislike for food. I had the feeling Mikey wouldn't have cared if he was a blob, as long as he had his bass and Alicia.

"Will he be able to come home?" I asked quietly, figuring I might as well get all the really painful questions out of the way while we were having the conversation. There was a lump growing in my throat, and I was having trouble keeping my voice even.

Mom looked at my father slowly, as though confirming something, before she turned back to me. "We have arranged a place for Frank" she told me softly, regret colouring her tone as she carefully watched my face change. "A special facility, where he will stay once he wakes up. They have the best doctors and the best treatment there - he can get better."

I nodded. "And then can he come home?" I pleaded, looking at my father earnestly, perfectly aware that this was his decision, not my mothers.

"Frank is seriously unwell," my father said simply, in his gravelly voice. "But if Frank survives his injuries, and recovers sufficiently, we will be happy to accept him into our home until he finishes his schooling."

My mother leaned over and took his hand before turning back to me. "We all care for Frank," she said gently. "In a few weeks, he somehow managed to work his way into our hearts. Trust me Gerard, we aren't getting rid of him."

At those words, the damn broke. I felt my eyes well up, and tears spill over without warning as I began to sob. Before I could run blindly from the room, I felt my mother's arms come around me again as she held me tightly to her, letting me cry out everything into her warm, soft shoulder, like it was the end of the world. I couldn't believe that I had shut my family out for so many years. Three damn years of hiding in the basement with my art, only talking to Mikey. Three years of blaming my parents for everything that was wrong with me, acting like I didn't care that I never spoke to them or let them into my world. I had alienated myself from the only people who could have helped me, when I needed it the most. When I was falling in love.

I had begun to see my parents as separate beings to myself when I was only fourteen. I began to watch them be subject to all the mistakes humans make, without the maturity to give them the benefit of the doubt, and remeber that everyone has faults. I was too young to reject my family, but I had done it anyway.

"I'm sorry!" I choked out, almost unintelligibly. "I'm sorry I didn't speak to you, or tell you anything, I'm so sorry I cut you out!" My mother shushed me, holding me closer.

"It's okay," she murmured, stroking my hair. "We're still here," she told me, letting me fall apart in her embrace as I cried like the world was splitting apart, like it was the end of everything. I wasn't sure if it was grief or happiness I was crying for, myself, or Frank. Nobody had died, and nobody was going to die. But in a way, I was grieving. I was crying for the years I had wasted, the life that I could have had, that I would never get back.

I had been dead for so long, and somehow it had taken someone even more damaged than me, to bring it to the surface enough for me to put the pieces back together. Frank could come home. I would have the chance to tell him I was sorry, Frank was going to get better. The relief was utterly overwhelming as I cried out the stress and pain and grief that had been colouring the last month with Frank. It really is going to be okay, was all I could think.

When I managed to get myself together, I turned to my parents again. I was cuddled close to my mother, but for once our proximity didn't make me want to cringe away. I took comfort in thesensation of her arms wrapped around me, and the contentment I felt coming from her that I hadn't seen in a very long time. I had forgotten the feeling of safety that one can find in a mother's arms, and I rediscovered it through my tears. My father looked as though he almost wanted to join in, but couldn't quite bring himself to descend to our level. He settled for patting me awkwardly on the back, and attempting to smile. Coming from my father, this was an achievement—I was impressed.

"What day is it?" I asked, once I regained control of myself. In the mess of everything that had been happening, I had no idea what time frame I was working on. It disoriented me to realise I had absolutely no idea what the date was.

"It's a Monday," my mom stated, following up with the obvious answer to my next question. "But we don't think you should go in to school today. The police want to speak to you, and we're going to visit the hospital later. You can go back to school tomorrow."

I agreed with my mother's assessment, although for slightly different reasons. I had absolutely no desire to become the target of the inevitable tide of questions that I knew would descend. When you live in a small town like ours, news travels quickly. Even if Mikey and Alicia had said nothing, hospital workers and police officers had families, too. And these families contained teenagers that attended our high school. Yes, staying home was the best idea for today.

/

The day in itself passed far more slowly than I could have predicted. After the early morning conversation, I went straight back to bed to nurse my hangover. I slept in Frank's bunk, the scent of him still lingering on the pillows and making me miss him even more.

Sometimes in the afternoon, my mother woke me to let me know the police would be here soon, and made me shower and get dressed. She was quiet as she spoke to me, and I spoke softly in return, both of us treading carefully on this new ground we had discovered between us. This trust was fragile, though, so we were afraid to test its limits. We watched each other warily, yet with a peace that had been missing from our interactions for a long time.

I dressed more neatly than unusual, unhappy to have to forgo my baggy band t-shirts, but aware that the upcoming conversation with the police might be my only chance to help both Frank and Dr. Simmons. I spent a lot of time in front of the mirror, nervously flattening my hair and trying to convince myself to leave the room.

By the time I eventually made it upstairs, Mom was serving cups of tea to male and femaleuniformed officers in the living room. She was chattering in what I recognised as a bid to fill the silence, but came to a pause when I entered the room. Both officers stood up to greet me, shaking hands. We all sat down, and looked at one another awkwardly, before the female officer broke in.

She was slightly plump under her bulletproof vest, with a round face and blonde hair. She didn't look as if she could hurt a fly, let alone hunt down dangerous criminals on a daily basis. But her straight posture and determined expression told a different story. She spoke directly to me, and I appreciated that she let us get straight to the point, without beating around the bush.

"Gerard, we're here today because we need to get an exact statement from you about what happened with Frank Iero on Friday night," she told me, keeping a neutral look on her face. "We will record what you say, and we ask that you make your account as detailed as you can."

My face must have betrayed my emotions, because when she next spoke, her voice was more reassuring.

"You're not in any trouble, we just need to know everything that happened, especially any parts including a man I believe you know as Mr. Simmons. We need you to tell us when and how you met him, and everything he told you."

The woman clearly had the wrong idea about the Doc, so I couldn't help opening my mouth to correct her.

She cut me off, smiling to cover her abruptness. "Just tell it to the recorder, Gerard," she repeated, before pulling out a black device and placing it on the centre of the table. Clicking it on, she leaned towards me. "Feel free to begin now," she told me, not reassuring me at all.

When I froze, she prompted me. "When did you realise where Frank was?"

"I noticed Frank was missing around 5pm," I began slowly. "So Mikey and I ran to look for him, because we were worried he might have hurt hims-we were worried he might be hurt."

The male officer nodded at me, making eye contact for the first time. Gaining confidence, I continued talking. I walked them through the trip to the flat, how Mikey had recognised Dr. Simmons. I told them everything I could remember, sparing no details. I was particularly careful to illustrate how Dr. Simmons had only been trying to help us find Frank.

I was wary about including Alicia in the description, but at the end of the day I didn't have a choice - it was her car that had gotten us to the Palisade cliffs. I talked about running to find Frank, and how I had thought he was dead. I still found that part hard to talk about, my voice trembling. Finally, I explained to them how Dr. Simmons had helped me reach Frank, and how I had sat with his unconscious body on the ledge until help arrived.

It took me well over an hour to finish answering every question the two officers posed, explaining in detail every tiny aspect of that night.

When they were finally satisfied, they clicked off the tape recorder and thanked me for my time and cooperation. I was exhausted, my natural body clock screwed up and my throat sore from so much talking. But as the two officers prepared to go, I remembered something else I needed to ask.

"What happens to Dr. Simmons?" I said quickly. "I heard he was in trouble, but that can't be right. All he did was try to help."

The two officers exchanged glances, and seemed to come to a conclusion.

"The confidentially clause means we can't tell you much," the male officer warned as he stood towering above me while I remained seated. "But we have reason to believe Mr. Simmons is mentally unstable. He appears to have an obsession with your friend Mr. Iero-he has already confessed that he visited him every night for years. We are currently looking into what charges will be brought against him. We'll be able to clarify them better when Mr Iero wakes up and can explain more to us. There is also the matter of his desertion of his platoon several years ago-a crime severely punishable under U.S. law.

"However, if we can confirm Mr. Simmons was suffering from the same delusions at the time, those particular charges should be dropped."

I was stunned into silence. Dr. Simmons visiting Frank was considered something bad? I wondered if the officers knew Frank had never so much as let the man through the front door, let alone been a victim. Dr. Simmons was the only reason Frank was even coping in school at the moment!

I tried to explain this to the officers, but they simply thanked me again for my time and informed me that all evidence would be closely examined in due course, and that I may be called as a witness if the matter went to trial.

Then the police officers left without telling me anything further, and I was alone with my thoughts again.

I sat quietly for a moment, contemplating everything that had just ooccurred. I heard the phone ring and Mom answer it, but the significance didn't register with me. I had far too much on my mind already, and I didn't pick up on any of the words I heard being quietly exchaned. In fact, I was about to leave when I suddenly heard a muffled crash before my mother ran back into the room.

I looked up in surprise as she came to a halt in front of me, two spots of red appearing high on her cheekbones.

"We need to go now," she told me, her voice pitching.

"Frank just woke up."