Disclaimer: I don't know or own MCR, I did not write the song The Metro that this is based on. The Metro belongs to the band Berlin. I simply used its words as inspiration. Don't sue me :]

Email: I would love feedback. x__burnyourfriends@hotmail.co.uk

Looking at the photographs in my hand, I can't believe that only a few short months ago, that was me and you. We looked so happy. Everything seemed perfect.

But of course, it wasn't. And now I'm sitting here, alcohol poisoning my body, tears stinging my eyes, thinking about all I've done in my life. Everything I've achieved and all I've seen should make me the happiest guy in the World. I know so many people would kill to be me. I had the so called 'perfect' life for someone my age; a career anyone would be proud of, money in the bank, a nice house, a car ...

But I can't believe in perfect anymore.

Not since you.

I woke up quickly at the sound of my phone ringing. Knowing it was some goddamn ridiculous time in the morning, it had to be important.

I rolled out of bed and walked sleepily over to my bag, seeing 'Frank' flash on the screen before I answered.

"Hey baby. How's England?"

"Gerard, we need to talk. You have to come to London."

"What?" I questioned, my hand stopping mid-scratch on my chest.

"Just get the next train to London, I need to see you. Please."

"Is everything okay?"

"N-no, it's not. You need to get here, any way you can. Call me when you arrive, okay? I ... I love you."

And with that, he hung up. I didn't even give it a second thought before I was replacing my pyjama bottoms with jeans.

Maybe if I didn't listen to you that morning and stayed in bed, this wouldn't have happened. Maybe if we didn't take those separate holidays. But you needed "you" time. After all that had happened with the band breaking up, you 'needed to be alone', no matter how many times I begged you to see Paris with me. It was something we always wanted to do together, but our schedule in My Chemical Romance never gave us the opportunity. It was practically the only opportunity it didn't give us.

So I went to Paris alone. And you went to London, also alone. We'd only been apart for 3 days before that phone call. Is it stupid that I missed you terribly? That I still do miss you? I know you'd say no. At least I think you would. After seeing you that day, I didn't know you anymore. You weren't my boyfriend that day. You weren't even the friend I had before we got together. You were just there, the sadness for me and the contempt for yourself slapped across your face.

It had taken three hours and a large wad of money to get to London after Frank called. As the Eurostar pulled into Waterloo station, it was covered in drops of water from the London rain. Typical London weather, I was told.

I'd called Frank as soon as I could after passing through the Channel tunnel and told him where I was heading. He told me he'd be waiting there for me, and I couldn't help but smile, even if the news I was going to get was bad.

I climbed off the train, enjoying the cool air and the simple joy of being able to stand up and stretch. Frank was there, like he said he would be, and as soon as I saw him, I grinned the biggest smile I could muster, my arms open wide. He didn't return my smile, or my hugging gesture. He just stared at me, the rain soaking his black hair to his forehead.

"We need to talk," he said, not showing any emotion.

"Okay, baby, we will. But give me a hug first, huh? I haven't seen you all weekend!"

He nodded, walking over meekly. I didn't like it, but fuck it, it's my Frank, my love, I wanted to know what was wrong with him and I'd have done anything to make sure he was okay.

He hugged me weakly, but I squeezed him tightly, taking in his scent, even if it was being continually dampened by the rain.

"It is so good to hold you again," I whispered in his ear. "I missed you."

He didn't reply, but hugged me harder, a sob coming from his chest.

"Frank, are you crying? What's the matter?"

"I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm such a fucking asshole, it just happened -"

"Frank!" I shook him from his ramblings. Looking directly into his eyes, I smiled slightly, "Calm down and tell me what the Hell you're going on about."

"I cheated on you."

Devastated doesn't even cover how I felt right at that moment. Looking through the rain at who I thought was the most beautiful, the most perfect man in the world telling me that he had cheated on me made me want to vomit.

"That's not funny," I choked out, even though he wasn't laughing, and neither was I.

"I wish I was joking."

"We ... we can sort this out, baby," I stroked the hair back from his face, "Come on, I still love you, I know you love me, we can work through this."

"No," he pulled my hands from his face. "No we can't. I've done something that I can never, ever take back, and something I can never expect you to forgive me for."

"I do forgive you, I've forgotten it already, please just come home with me."

"I can't, Gerard. We have to finish this, here, now."

"I don't want to finish it!" I sobbed selfishly. "I don't care what you've done, who it was with, I don't care!"

"Do you want to know who it was with?"

I shivered from the chill of the air and the dampness of my clothes, "Maybe we should go -"

"Do you want to know Gee?"

"We should go and dry off," I repeated, taking his hand, trying to pull him to the exit.

He pulled his hand away from mine, "I don't know who he was Gerard. I met him in a club. We fucked in the toilets. And you know something? I really, really liked it. Do you still love me now you know what a fucking slut I am?"

Everything was pretty much a blur after that. You gave me the name of a hotel I could stay at for the night, but I'm pretty sure I swore in your face and got on the next Eurostar back to Paris. It really sucked that the anger disappeared pretty much as soon as I got on the train. It was just replaced by sadness, and my insane thoughts of trying to get you back. Why would I want you back? Why should I take you back? You cheated on me. And it's not like you were begging for forgiveness, either. That probably just made it all the more difficult. You knew what you did was wrong and you didn't want my forgiveness. You didn't deserve it. But all I wanted to do was hold you and tell you that I didn't care. I'd forgive you, by God I'd forgive you if you'd just come back to me.

By the time I got on the Metro to go back to my Parisian hotel, I was crying. Crying. That's what you did to me. You're the reason the only other guy in my carriage was giving me weird looks - and he was the one dressed in an old army uniform, smelling, and looking like, utter crap. He attempted to ask me what was wrong, but I ignored him. And then I thought I might tell him, but he fell asleep. It just felt like now you'd rejected me, everyone else had too. Could they sense what a failure I am? It felt like no one could look me in the eyes after you left me. Maybe they knew that I wasn't good enough for you, like your drunk fuck did.

You live near me now, but I haven't seen you since that day. I don't know if I want to.

No, that's a lie.

I'd bend over backwards to see you right now. See you twirl your lip ring around like you did when you were bored, see you smile at my lame jokes ... just to see you. I know you're still beautiful. Someone like you never loses their beauty, no matter what ugly things they do.

And as if you can read my mind, I hear a knock on the front door. Confused, I go over and open it. And there you are. You take my breath away. You always did.

"H-hi, Gerard." You start. I just stare at you, completely speechless.

You're only wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans, but you look amazing. You look healthy, and I ... I look rubbish. I know I do. And by the look you give me, you know I do too.

"Can I come in?"

Can you come in? No! No you can't come in! You have no right to come into my life now, not after all this time!

"Sure," I mutter. "Have a seat."

You sit where I was not long ago, and comment on the pictures I have out. I tell you that I was just cleaning up, and sit down next to you. Like I'd give you the satisfaction of knowing you're all I've thought about for months.

"I remember this," He showed me a picture of us at Warped Tour two years ago, both sweaty and dirty, but in love. "You asked me out on that tour, and I nearly fainted. I'd had a crush on you for so long."

I allowed a small laugh, but I couldn't look at you. You reached over and put a hand on mine.

"Tell me about Paris." You said with a small smile.

I start to tell you all about it, realising I hadn't told you one thing about what it was like. But then you hadn't told me much about London, either. But I won't bring it up.

"It was quite cold. Apparently in winter, they have huge blizzards like you wouldn't believe."

"Wow, really?"

"I know, you wouldn't think it, right?" I laughed, and you laughed too, and I couldn't believe how much I still loved you. "Why are you here, Frank?"

"I needed to see you, that's all. I still feel so bad about what happened."

"Well, that's in the past now, can't change it." I shrugged, trying to not show how much it bothered me.

"I guess," An awkward moment passed, and neither of us spoke. "Well, I'll be going, if you're busy cleaning up."

"Yeah. I'll see you around, maybe."

"Yeah, maybe," I walked you to the door. You stop before I shut it fully and turn around, "I hope, anyway."

I slam the door before I can even think of anything to say. It's easier this way.

I wiped my tears away, feeling stupid for crying. Crying wasn't going to solve anything.

"Fuck!" I shouted.

The soldier turned and looked at me, and then looked away again. I hate you, Frank ... I hate you so fucking much, I hate you ... I hate you for loving me, I hate myself for loving you, I hate this country, I hate everything! I was so glad that the metro pulled into my stop just then, or I knew I was going to end up shouting some more, and scaring that drunk.

I got to my hotel quicker than I had any other day, tearing up the stairs to my room like a bat out of Hell. I wanted to change these clothes and get the smell of Frank off me forever, and to get the feel of London off me.

I ripped off my t-shirt before I even shut the door, my pants following after. I went to my suitcase and pulled out another pair of jeans and shoved them on, feeling the anger crawl over me like a rash. I went to my backpack to find some deodorant. I'd rather smell like pubescent teenage boy than Frank. As I reached into my bag, I felt a crumpled bit of paper under my fingers. I pulled it out, smoothing it so I could read what it said.

It's weird that what I remember most about that day is riding on the Metro. Everything else is so hazy. Perhaps I've just blocked it out to stop thinking about you.

But Hell, it would take a lot more for me to stop thinking about you.

And about France. I still hate that country.

And you know what? I think what's worse about not remembering so much about that day is I don't remember if you ever said you were sorry.

I remember searching for the perfect words, I was hoping you might change your mind, I remember a soldier sleeping next to me, riding on The Metro.