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Without A Sound... By Our Lady Of Sorrows Disclaimer: Work of fiction. Don't know the band. Happy? Good. Author's Note: Okay, this is a rough outline of the story: Part one is the events leading up to Frank's death and the actual death; part two is how Ray and Gerard's relationship progresses and declines afterwards. Just so everyone's not like, "WTF, what happened to the heroin and shit?". It'll come back at the end. Also, this doesn't have a happy ending, like most of my fics [If you could call the endings happy] so don't expect a happy ending for Ray and Gerard. Thanks to Liza Paradis [she's a Godsend], Haley Keene, and Jamie Harding, who's been AWOL for a while. O.o Anyway, love y'all. Foreword Like every other American family with a young child, Frank and Jamia Iero had purchased a video camera. Some of the footage was of My Chemical Romance shows, some was of the band offstage, hanging out. One fragment captured Frank, Jamia, Olivia, Gerard, Ray and Lucy sitting in the bed of Ray's Silverado, listening to Our Lady of Sorrows, collectively appearing battle-weary after the show. But most of the tape documented the development of their son and his interactions with their friends. Ray in particular seemed to get along very well with the little boy. There was one three-minute-long clip in which Gerard sang her an a capella version of Demolition Lovers. Carmen was a beautiful child, as photogenic as her parents, with Jamia's lithe build and Frank's finely-boned facial features. Frank adored her, and the camera exposed a sentimental side of him that the public rarely saw - the look he gave Jamia and Carmen during the moments when it was just Jamia or Ray taping. There was one particular moment on the tape that shows just how extraordinarily different this family was above all others. Frank is giving the three-year-old a bath and holding her aloft like an airplane, and Carmen snorts involuntarily because she's having so much fun. Frank smiles at his daughter, a wide ear-to-ear smile that no camera had ever caught. In that moment, he looks just like what he is - a caring, doting father, wanting nothing more than to give his extraordinary little girl a bath and pretending she's an airplane, dive-bombing the yellow rubber duck and little plastic boats. Then, for a fraction of a second, the scene shifts. There, mounted eight inches up the wall, is a porcelain toothbrush holder that ninety percent of American homes had in their bathrooms. What makes this toothbrush holder so remarkable though, is that it isn't holding a toothbrush - it's holding a syringe. It's such an unexpected object to see in such a normal-looking home that most viewers wouldn't notice it. But it's there, hanging solemnly point-down, a sad and tragic reminder that no matter how normal a family seems on the outside, there will always be those ghosts that follow even the tender moments.
1: Too Long "Mommy?" Jamia Nelson looked up from the book she held in her long-fingered hands. Her daughter stood in the doorway of the small study. "Why aren't you in bed, baby?" She ambled over to her and climbed up to perch on the arm of the chair. "You know how you said a long time ago that Daddy wasn't gonna come home?" she asked finally. Jamia's throat tightened. A long time... it had been less than six months. But Carmen was so little, barely four years old, so it must have felt like forever. "Yes, honey." "How come?" the little girl asked innocently. Oh, God, not now, Jamia found herself thinking desperately. Not while she was so little. She studied Carmen for a minute, debating how much to tell her. She was her father in miniature-the same build and hair and mesmerizing eyes. "Carmen, baby," she said after a long silence, during which the little girl had began to suck his thumb. "Sometimes... people can't take living here anymore." How the hell could she explain what had happened to a four-year-old? "But he's up in Heaven, and he loves us both very much." Carmen's big, dark eyes welled with heavy tears as she looked up at her. "If he loves us, why didn't he stay with us?" Jamia had asked herself that question so many times... She wrapped her arms around the little girl and kissed the top of his head. "I don't know, hon." "Why did he leave?" Carmen asked and sniffled. "I don't know." "Was it because of Gerard or Mikey or Ray or Bob or-" "No, baby," Jamia said. "None of them." "Was it because of you, Mommy?" She deserved some truth. "Yes, baby. Now, go back to bed, Mommy needs to go to sleep, too." Carmen walked until she was at the door, then looked over her shoulder at her mother. "What did you do, Mommy?" She didn't answer.
2: Poison Girl The motorcycle roared down the highway and skidded to a stop just inside the long gravel driveway leading to the two-story brick house. Frank lifted the three-year-old from the rear seat and set her on the gravel road before getting off himself. His black boots were covered in dust, as was his brown-leather jacket, but he was still remarkably handsome. "Go play, underdog," Frank said, pulling off his helmet and shaking his head so that little wisps of dark hair fell into his eyes. Carmen ran clumsily off to the back of the house. Frank looked over to his wife, who was sitting on the porch steps. "Hey, babe," he called. Jamia motioned for him to join her. He did. "You wanted to talk to me?" He made the statement into a question without realizing it. Jamia hardly ever looked like this - serious. "Yeah," she said, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. That worried him, too. She was never unsure. "Frank, I don't think this is going to work," she said finally. "What do you mean?" Frank's stomach seemed to be a coil of wire in his body. God... "I don't want to have to share you," Jamia said firmly. "You're too into drugs. I'm not saying I want a divorce, I'm just saying that we need to slow things down and spend some time apart." "I'm not that into them," Frank protested. "Don't lie to me, Frank," Jamia said. Her voice grew hard suddenly. "I'm not going to share you with heroin, and neither is our daughter." Frank stared out over the lush countryside for a moment. "Okay," he said finally. Jamia seemed surprised that he'd agreed. "Did this ever mean anything to you?" she asked furiously, rounding on him and turning his head so that he was facing her. "How can you be so calm about this?" I'm not calm! Frank wanted to tell her, to yell, to scream it. But he didn't. "Of course it did. It still does. But I'm not going to sacrifice my job." "What about Carmen?" "I love her to death and you know it. I love you, too." "But you love the drugs more," Jamia said softly, staring him in the eyes. "I understand, Frank." No, you don't. You never will. To his credit, he didn't say yes. But he didn't say no, either. He didn't say anything until he was at his motorcycle. Then he stuck the key in the ignition and turned his body halfway around, meeting Jamia's eyes for a fraction of a second. "You have custody of Carmen," he said finally, his voice carrying down the long driveway. "You won't have to share her with me." He knew he'd gone too far when he saw the hurt flash across her face but turned around and switched the key in the ignition, roaring out of the driveway and sending up a gray-tan plume of dust behind him. He was driving recklessly, he knew, but he didn't care. He really didn't care about anything at the moment.
3: We Can Fake It For The Airwaves The band was more famous than ever. They'd played the Grammys and VMAs, collecting two Grammys-Album of the Year and Best Rock Performance-and three VMAs for Best Rock Album, Best Single and Best Rock Performance. They were hugely popular, surpassed by Green Day, of course, but they'd expected that. They were raking in money and Reprise was cashing in on both bands, treating them extremely well and giving them as much studio time as they needed. Despite this success, Frank was desolated by the loss of the two people that had meant the most to him. He was the same, it seemed, but the entire band noticed subtle changes in him. His eyes often had grayish-purple bags under them and he began to lose weight. Gerard knew the signs of a drug binge - and his friend was showing all of them.
4: Cobain's Disease Like he was trying to cover everything up, Frank was now the hardest worker in the band. Without anything to hold him back - he'd lost Jamia and the guys knew better than to try to interfere; it'd just lead him farther - he was doing heroin on almost a daily basis. He'd found that it was revoltingly easy to get it almost anywhere. This was what it had all come to. It was December twentieth and the little clock in the dashboard read two fifty-eight A.M. in little red digital numbers. A member of one of the most globally famous bands in the world was in the backseat of a beat-up Taurus that he never remembered getting in, staring at the ceiling, unable to move or talk, inches away from death once again. Frank didn't die that weekend. In yet another feat, he survived a dose of heroin that would have killed most people. When he woke up the next morning in the car, the emotional and physical pain was coming back. Even the drugs weren't helping him now. When he stumbled back to the bus, Ray was waiting for him. "What the hell?" Frank's voice was groggy and muffled. He could barely move his lips. "Car. In. Now." Ray was gruff when he grabbed Frank's arm and hauled him to the car. "Where the hell are we going?" "Where the hell are you going," Ray corrected him. "You're going to the James Center." "I'm what?" That cleared his brain pretty damn fast. "The James Center. It's a rehab center." Ray barked out a short, mirthless laugh. "Feel honored, it's where Cobain and Courtney Love went to try and get clean. You got Cobain's disease. You oughta fit right in." "No way in hell am I going to rehab," Frank said shortly. "Yeah. You are." Ray grabbed his arm and forced him around to look him in the eyes. "I'm not letting you do this." "It's not up to you what I do and don't do." "It is if I can do anything about it," Ray snapped and started the car. "You lousy motherfucker!" Frank said loudly. "You're really haulin' me off?" "Yeah. Now shut your mouth. You're not getting out of this car." Was this really Ray? Frank wondered. He'd never seen his friend like this. Frank was quiet the entire forty-five-minute drive until they were almost at the gates of the James Center. "Come on, man," he pleaded. "I'll clean up my act if you don't take me in there. Don't take me in there." "You should have thought about that," Ray said and opened the car door, stretching his long legs and then going around to let Frank out. "Come on." He kept a grip on Frank's arm until Frank ripped it away. "I'm not going to run away." "I wouldn't put it past you," Ray said tersely. Frank saw the beginning of a sneer on his wide mouth. Was this really his friend? What the hell was going on? Ray was never like this. Ray seemed not to have anything but contempt for him now. As soon as they were inside the main building, Frank filled out several sheets of paper filled with questions about food, the outdoors, his parents, his friends, his children, his spouse. "How long am I in here for?" Frank asked Ray worriedly. "A week," Ray said shortly. "It'll be a hell of a lot longer if you don't really clean up." This was going to be a hell of a week.
5: Little Monster In My Head Frank got clean in The James Center. For a few days after, he was off heroin. But then the stomach pains and the migraines that he knew so well came to remind him that he needed the drug. He needed it. It's like there's a little monster in my head, he penned in one journal entry, saying, "You know you want it. You'll feel better. I'll feel better." He gave in to the 'little monster'. He rang in the year 2009 by vomiting in the arena bathroom from marijuana, alcohol and an excess of improperly cooked heroin. Much like he had in the last week of December, Frank found himself in the car with Ray, heading for an airport, this time. He wasn't going to the James Center: he was going to Exodus. The hardcore detoxification center. He didn't go quietly. He made it very clear that he had no intention of going. He yelled and swore and pled, but Ray didn't give in. As much as it hurt him, he kept driving. On Interstate 5, Frank tried to open the door and jump out of the moving vehicle. Ray couldn't believe this was happening. With his long arms, he managed to hold onto Frank as he drove, even as the car swerved. They made it to the airport a few minutes later; Frank had quieted but his sullen, stubborn attitude hadn't improved. Ray had to half-drag Frank out of the car, one hand firmly gripping his arm and the other ensnared in the fabric of his shirt collar. Frank swung out wildly and got a blow right on Ray's cheekbone. He tried to bolt and Ray tackled him. A wrestling match ensued. "You fucker!" Ray snarled from between clenched teeth, straining with the effort of trying to hold onto him. "Let go of me, asshole," Frank yelled and kicked out at him. The two old friends brawled in the parking lot, swearing and punching each other like two drunks in a Kearny bar while shocked onlookers watched. Frank freed himself from his older, stronger friend's grasp by slamming Ray's head into the pavement. Ray's hair did have its uses - the blow only left him dazed. The left he saw of Frank was his dark head whipping around the corner, screaming 'Fuck you!'. Ray drove back to the tour bus alone, trying to keep his composure and not break down like he was dangerously close to doing. He and Frankie had lived in the same quarters for nearly eight years. They'd figured out each other's habits and quirks and what made them tick. They'd told each other things that they'd never told another living soul. But that Sunday, he knew in his heart that he'd never see Frank Anthony Iero alive again, and he was right.
6: It's Better To Burn Out Frank woke up early the morning of Friday, January ninth in his own house. The pillows still smelled of Jamia's perfume, an intoxicatingly strong, spicy scent that had left him dazed the first time he inhaled it. Neither she nor Carmen were there - they'd left the night before. He had slept in his clothes: His favorite old Nirvana T-shirt, a comfy pair of Levi's and his brown leather jacket. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and laced up the only pair of shoes he owned-Converse sneakers. He turned on the TV and found that it was on MTV, then flipped on the lamp. He blinked in the dazzling light until his eyes adjusted and pushed back the curtain. The sun wasn't up, yet the edges of the horizon were stained a pearly gray and faint smudges of lilac blue were making way through the dark sky. The stars were disappearing and a slow breeze ruffled the treetops back and forth, silhouetted against the near-black skyline. Most early-winter mornings were like this-beautiful and chilly. He reached out for the notebook on his bed-stand and found a pen gradually. He leaned back against the wall and propped the notebook on his knees. The paper entranced him for a moment, not because of writer's block but because the simple notebook paper seemed so small, so finite. In the James Center, he'd began a note like this to Carmen and Jamia. After several revisions, he'd finished it. I love you both. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This isn't your fault, Jamia, I love you more than anything in the world, you and Carmen are everything to me. I'm sorry. He'd filled almost a page with that plea. Now he was writing a second one. This note should be pretty easy to understand: All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years have proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music for too many years now. I feel guilty beyond words about these things. When we're backstage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowd begins it doesn't affect me like it does for Gerard, who glows in the adoration from the crowd, which is something I totally admire and envy. I can't take being here. I'm going to end up dying of an overdose someday soon, so go out with a bang I guess. The fact is I can't fool you. Any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100 % fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it, (and I do. God, believe me I do) but it's not enough. I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. I must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. On our last three tours I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt I have for everyone. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know! I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what I used to be. Full of love and joy smiling at every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. I can't stand the thought of Carmen becoming the miserable self-destructive, junkie rocker that I've become. I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful. I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess. To the Guys: You guys and my family are the best things that ever happened to me. Torosaurous, Gee, Mikey, Bob, I love you all more than you can ever know. Keep going and win more Grammys for me. Thank you all for your concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore and so remember, its better to burn out than to fade away. Jamia, don't blame yourself for this. I love you more than anything, he wrote again. Peace, love, rock and roll. Frankie Iero. He reread it once, twice; there were misspellings and half-complete sentences, but there wasn't time to rewrite it. It had taken six cigarettes to finish it. He tore out the piece of paper, folded it and put it in his coat pocket, his fingers nudging the pack of Marlboros. Then he went to the closet and reached up to the top shelf, his fingers curling around a small box of Tom Moore cigars. The box held much more sinister items now. One of them was more than a hundred dollars worth of heroin. The other was a Browning 9 millimeter semiautomatic pistol. With the box in one hand, he walked out into the hallway and stood on the stairwell. He balanced the box on the railing and went into the small bathroom, pulling two paper cups out of the dispenser, pouring a little water into one. He walked back out to the landing and opened the box. The little bag was there along with a small spoon. He poured heroin into the empty cup - more than was safe, way more - and added water, stirring it slowly, drawing it up into the syringe. He glanced out the small window, seeing his daughter's swing set, the slide, his skateboard. He would never see them again. He would never see his daughter, or Jamia, or Ray. Frank loaded and cocked the gun, turning off the safety. He reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew the note. He pressed it against the wall and wrote one more line - "I love you" - and dropped the pen, where it clattered to the hardwood. He clutched the note in his left hand. No turning back now. He plunged the needle into the thin skin just above his elbow. He had to work fast; everything was getting hazy. His breathing slowed as everything - the gun he held in his hand was the only clear thing -was framed in an aqua-green hue. He pressed the gun to the roof of his mouth. It would be loud; he was sure of that. And then he was gone.
7: Broken Hearted Savior "Answer, dammit..." Ray growled into the phone. He sighed and canceled the call. As soon as he did, the cell phone chirped out 'Incoming Call'. As soon as he picked up, Gerard asked, "Did you get a hold of him?" "No. Not yet. I'm heading out to his place," Ray said. "Alright. Call me if you get anything." "Okay." Ray hung up without saying goodbye. He set the cell phone down and drove down the highway, pulling off onto the side road that led to Frank's house. He eased into the long driveway and opened the truck door while the car was moving. As soon as the toe of his boot touched the gravel, he knew something was wrong. There was no Carmen outside playing, but Frank's car was there. The house was oddly still. There was no breeze ruffling the treetops, the air was still. What the hell was going on? He eased out of the truck and reached inside, switching off the ignition. The thrumming motor stopped and the silence seemed to swell around him. A bird warbled but the sound was swallowed by the eerie silence. Although he didn't know it yet, death had already made its mark on the house. He walked down the long driveway and tried the large front door cautiously. It was unlocked. He walked inside and felt goosebumps spread up his arms. "Frank?" he called, his voice hushed, swallowed up by the silence in the immense house. Nothing. He looked through several rooms and finally made it to the stairwell. He hadn't gotten to the first step before he saw him. His friend's body - there was no denying that he was dead - was flung halfway over the railing of the stairs, less than twenty feet above him. Ray only had to see the gun and the box to know what had happened. He approached the body detachedly and saw something in its left hand. It was a note. He pried it out of the hand and walked down the stairs and out of the house. He was halfway to the truck when he vomited. He straightened up after a second and unfolded the note. He looked it over once. He leaned against his truck-his legs were shaking so badly he wasn't sure if they would hold him-and pulled out his cell phone. "Battery-low," the little mechanical voice chirped. The screen flickered for a moment and went dead. "Shit!" Okay. He had to think. He had to get back to the guys and tell them what had happened. Christ, this was going to be hard.
8: Heartbreaking Ray walked in the door of the tour bus right after Gerard had gotten a fresh cup of coffee. "Did you find him?" he asked immediately, forgoing the coffee. "Yeah," Ray said. "Yeah, I found him." In an instance, Gerard knew what had happened. He responded with a one-word question: "How?" "He-" Ray's voice broke and he stared fixedly at his boots. "He shot himself in the mouth." He was trying not to cry. It was heartbreakingly obvious, even from where Gerard was sitting. "Oh, my God," Gerard whispered. "Oh, my God." And Ray found him... Ray looked up at him, his eyes bright with unshed tears. He closed his eyes and Gerard saw a tear roll down his rough face. He was silent for a moment, then said, "He's in that house." Gerard got up and walked slowly over to Ray. Ray slid down the side of the wall and wrapped his long arms around his knees, staring at the torn, faded denim. Gerard lowered himself until he was next to the younger man. He rested his head on Ray's curly hair. "It's gonna be okay," he murmured, not entirely sure if Ray could hear him. The words were as much for himself as they were for Ray. He pressed his lips to Ray's forehead like he was comforting a child. "It's gonna be okay..." He closed his eyes and trailed his lips to Ray's temple, moving them slowly down to brush over his closed eyelids, tracing the barely-there tears that still lingered on his cheekbones. What are you doing? A voice in his head that sounded like his both mother and Mikey screamed. He hesitated. What was he doing? Ray tilted his face upwards and his lips fell on Gerard's for a moment. That cleared things up. He had to pull away first. "What the hell was that?" Oh, shit. That had come out wrong. Ray's eyes flew open with surprise. "What-well, excuse me thinking that might lead to something," he said disbelievingly. He had a point. "I-" Gerard stammered, but Ray had gotten to his feet. A faint blush had appeared on his cheeks. "Jesus, Gerard," he said, his tone revealing the disgust that was burning in his dark eyes. "I never would have pegged you for a tease." "Ray-" "Save it." He walked toward the door calmly. His hand curled around the door handle and he turned to look at Gerard. "I'll be back later," he said, then, in a much lower tone, added, "Probably." He was out the door before Gerard could respond. Gerard just watched him go. "Gee?" Mikey had come in a bare second after Ray had left. "What's going on? Did you guys find Frank?" "Yeah," Gerard said, not looking at him. "Yeah. Ray found him." "Is he okay?" His kid brother's voice was slurred with sleep. "No." Gerard took a deep breath. "He's dead." The words seemed to hang in the air, immobile, irretrievable. "What?" Mike finally choked out. "How? What happened?" "He sh-shot himself in the head," Gerard said quietly. "Ray found him." "Oh, Jesus." "Yeah." "Where's Ray?" "He..." For the first time, Gerard's voice broke. "He left." "Why? What happened?" Mike was wide awake now. "I, uhm... it's a long story." How the hell could he explain what had happened? He hardly knew himself. "Okay," Mike said, seemingly knowing not to press him on that. "What happened with Frankie?" "Uhm... I don't... really... know." "Where is he?" Mike pressed. "In his house," Gerard said, relieve to finally be able to give some information. "Oh, God. Does Jamia know?" "I don't think so." "I'll call her," Mike offered. "She likes me." "Okay," Gerard said, too tired and confused to argue. "Tell Bob, too." Mike nodded and went to the back of the bus, presumably for some privacy while he called Jamia to inform her that she was a widow. Gerard stared out the window. There was no sign of Ray. He might not have been able to save Frank, but he wasn't letting Ray go that easily. Part Two: I Will Never Make Another Promise With You In Mind
9: Turn Off The Lights, Turn Off The Shyness Ray watched him put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. The gunshot reverberated through the house and the young man's body jerked once and slumped over the stair railing, blood hitting the wall from the gaping hole in the back of his head, the syringe falling from his grip...His eyes opened a second later and glared out around him, but there wasn't any emotion in them; they were flat and dark and dead, staring straight at him. Ray wanted to run but his legs were frozen in place as the dead man turned from Frank to Bob to Mikey to Gerard until he was finally staring at a dead version of himself. Ray's eyes flew open and he found himself, not at the Iero house, but in the tour bus, staring at the low ceiling. His jaw was clenched and his fists were in tight balls-so tight that his jagged nails were drawing blood. He relaxed his hands, feeling a little bead of blood roll down his palm. He forced himself to relax, drawing in several deep breaths. "Christ," he mumbled. He'd always had a problem with nightmares, even as a kid, so it was only right that he'd be tortured by dreams about Frank. He swung his long legs over the side of the bed and ran his guitar-weathered right hand over his face, trying to direct his train of thought away from Frank, which, unsurprisingly, proved impossible. Mike had told him, when he'd come back at nearly midnight, that they'd called the police, Jamia and Frank's family. The service had been set for the twelfth, a Saturday; Frank's body was to be cremated that day. Ray was as nervous about that as he was anything. He'd been to funerals, funerals for people close to him - his father had died last year and both sets of grandparents had passed away when he was a teenager - but nothing like this had ever happened. Shit, he didn't even know if he had a suit. Fuck this, he thought, he would make coffee and steal Mikey's cigarettes and go outside and watch the sunrise for an hour. And then he would come back inside and apologize to Gerard as soon as he woke up and get the hell on with everything. He walked into the tiny bathroom that seemed to be the same in every bus they'd ever been on and took out his contacts. There was a loud clatter as his hand knocked over a bottle of something during his futile search for his glasses and he listened for a second in case he'd woken anyone up, but there was only the usual raucous snores from Bob and Mike's rooms. He finally found them and the world snapped back into focus. He pulled a clean - at least, he thought it was clean - white t-shirt over his head and left his flannel pajama bottoms on. For a second, he found himself hoping someone had made coffee, then remembered that it was still dark out and that there was a slim chance that anyone was awake. He flipped on the light as he entered the common room - the beer-stained couch and God-knows-what littering the floor were as familiar to him as his own house, so he didn't have any need to turn on the light, but he did anyway. Five minutes later, after finally locating a pack of smokes and lighting one, he opened the door and planned on sitting on the fold-down steps. Trouble was, there was already someone sitting there. Gerard was on the steps, his chin propped in his palms, his dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, staring at the dark sky. He glanced up at the new arrival. "Hey," he said, moving over to the right so that Ray had room to sit. "You're up early. Couldn't sleep?" "Yeah," Ray said softly, watching the first golden glow on the edge of the eastern horizon begin to show. A silence fell between the two men, but it could hardly be called awkward or tense. "I just wanted to-" Both of them began at the same time. "Go ahead." Ray said, and a split second later, Gerard said, "Yeah?" Ray rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry for yesterday," he said finally. He turned his head to look at Gerard's face, the profile silhouetted against the night sky and coming dawn. A dark lock of hair had fallen into his eyes and he brushed it back impatiently with long, pale fingers. Christ, Toro, you're losing it. You've got Lucy, he's got Liv, what the hell are you thinking? Ray ground his cigarette out against the railing, leaving a little circle of ash. "I'm sorry for walking out," he said hesitantly, his voice quiet, "but not for... what happened before." Well, it was out, no taking it back now. Gerard turned his head and caught Ray's gaze for a moment. "You serious?" he asked. Ray nodded, then, before he could do anything, Gerard had kissed him again and gotten to his feet. "Come on, hurry up." "Where are you going?" Ray asked, still slightly dazed from the unexpected kiss. "I don't know, but I'm not freezing my ass off out here. Come on," he said impatiently. Ray got to his feet and followed Gerard. "You sure about this, man?" he asked, "I mean, we both have girlfriends..." "Okay, look," Gerard said patiently. "See, me and Frank figured this out when we started touring. No sex involved, not cheating. So, don't worry about Lucy." He flashed a grin that brought an insanely bright blush to Ray's cheeks. "At least, for the time being." "I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that," Ray said, shaking his head. He flopped down on the couch and Gerard proceeded to flop down next to him, laying his head on his chest and peering up at him through a curtain of dark hair. Ray looked down at him and smirked. "You know, right, that it's six in the morning on a day when we don't have a practice?" He got up and Gerard's head hit the couch with a muffled thump. "I'm goin' back to bed." "Mind if I join you?" Ray almost laughed, but he wasn't sure if Gerard was serious or not. "No." After a moment, as if to mock Gerard, he added, "At least, for the time being." 10: Say Yes Friday, January 11, 2009: 11:28 PM After a few poker games and more than a few beers, Ray was beat. He wasn't drunk, but he wasn't anywhere near sober - which seemed to be the best way to forget everything. Fortunately, Mike and Bob had both had more drinks than he did, so he scored a few bucks from each of them. He was walking past Gerard's room when a strain of music caught his attention. The door was open a little; Ray moved it enough so that he could poke his head in. Without a sound, without a sound, and I wish you away... There was a stereo in Gerard's room. Ray could see enough through the dark to see that Gerard lay stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling, mouthing the words. Ten seconds later, Ray heard himself begin what remained his favorite solo. "Hey." Gerard had finally seen him. "What are you doing?" Ray was proud of himself; his voice didn't slur at all. "Just... I dunno; it's kind of nice to hear what I-what we sounded like back then." Gerard's voice was sad. "We'll never sound the same." Ray couldn't find an answer. Gerard uncrossed his long legs and got up slowly. He walked past Ray and seemed to be leaving, then turned to face him when his hand was on the doorknob. A cloud had passed over the nearly-full moon outside Gerard's window, throwing both of their faces into shadow. Ray didn't quite expect it when Gerard's lips fell on his, but he didn't stop him. A second later, Gerard broke away. "All you have to do," he breathed into his ear, "Is say yes." Without a sound, without a sound, and I wish you away Ray didn't remember saying yes, but when Gerard's lips met his again and he heard the little click of Gerard shutting the door, it didn't matter anymore.
10: Would You Still Remember Me? Droplets of water sprayed across the mirror as Ray shook his head like a dog, dislodging any of the remaining water he hadn't managed to get rid of and sending fresh bolts of pain through his already throbbing head. He wrapped the towel more securely around his waist and walked into his room. Gerard was sitting on the end of his bed, holding the shirt Ray had worn the night before in one hand. He was staring at him with new interest. "What?" Ray asked. "Nothing." Gerard shook his head. "Here. You left this in my room." He tossed the shirt at him and Ray caught it with one hand, still holding onto the towel with the other. "Leave, I need to get dressed for the service." "Why?" Gerard smirked. "Not like I'll see anything new." "Yeah, well, I know what I'm doing this time," Ray said, striving to keep anger out of his voice. "You knew what you were doing last night." "Bullshit." Ray shook his head. "Get out, Gerard. We can argue later." Gerard cocked an eyebrow at him and got up slowly. When his hand was on the doorknob, he turned and looked at Ray. "It was just sex," he said softly. "It didn't mean anything. Don't get so bent out of shape." He put heavy emphasis on the word 'bent', and, though his face and voice remained the same, his eyes glittered cruelly. Ray bit back the response he was longing to say - Gerard was just as bent as he was - as Gerard disappeared out his door. -- As soon as Gerard appeared in the common room, Mike was up waiting for him. "Hey, little man," Gerard said easily and grinned. "What's up?" "What was up in your room last night?" Mike asked. Gerard's heart sank as fast as his smile.Oh, shit. "I think you have some explaining to do," Mike said and folded his arms over his chest. "Now." "I have to get ready - can't this wait?" "No. The service isn't 'til five. You have plenty of time." Mike jerked his head at the table. "Sit." Resigned, Gerard sat. "Okay, first question: What the hell went on last night?" What a stupid question. "What do you think?" Gerard asked, leaning back and propping his knees against the table. "Don't bother asking Ray." "Next question." Apparantly, Mike didn't want to get into the details any more than Gerard did. "Wait, why shouldn't I ask Ray?"
"He probably doesn't remember anything." Shit, he was holed in now. "Next question." "Gerard." Mike was sounding like their father now. "Ray was drunk when he went in your room, wasn't he?" "He wasn't that drunk." "Bullshit," Mike said, sounding disgusted. "I can't believe you." "What - Mike - come on-" "You took advantage of him, Gerard. He was drunk." Mike shook his head. "I was more wasted than he was and I could tell he was bombed." "This is bullshit," Gerard said finally. "It's not like he didn't know what he was doing." "You're lying, aren't you?" Gerard got up and left. He wasn't sure if he was lying or not. He didn't think he wanted to be sure. --
5:45 PM When they got out, Jamia greeted them with a small wave and a sad smile. "Hey, guys," she said quietly, looking them over: Gerard, in his black suit and red tie, Bob in his black sunglasses and gray suit, Mikey in his white tuxedo jacket and black pants, and Ray, looking like some figure out of a 1940s movie with a charcoal-gray pinstripe suit and polished black shoes, prescription sunglasses on instead of the glasses he would wear later. Gerard and Bob were the only ones who greeted her vocally; Ray just stared at his shoes and Mike offered a small wave. They walked into the church behind Jamia, the lights filtering in through the stained glass windows showing tiny particles of dust as they walked through them. The church was eerily quiet; no one was talking, no one was whispering. It was a private affair, at the request of Jamia and the Iero family; the fans would congregate and mourn Frank one last time before the concert, when Gerard would request a few moments' silence. So far, it was only Frank's mother, Jamia, the remaining members of My Chemical Romance, and Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day. Gerard walked over to greet him; the others hung back. Billie Joe and Frank had gotten along famously during the tours they'd had with them. "Where's Carmen?" Ray asked Jamia quietly. The church seemed to dictate soft speech. "She's with my sister," Jamia replied, her voice softer than his own. "I didn't think this would be a good environment." Her voice took on a bitter note as she added, "I didn't think she would remember her father's funeral fondly." "I'm sorry, Jamia," Ray said after a moment. "I know you've heard that too much lately, but it's true. I really am sorry." "I know, Ray," she said and her brown eyes welled with tears. Oh, shit, Ray thought. Oh, shit, I made her cry. But she just dabbed at her eyes and sniffed, then offered a watery smile. "Thanks." Before he could answer, she was over by Frank's mother. --
6:10 PM Jamia began holding the actual suicide note in her hand. "I'm going to read some of this, and leave the rest out because some of it's none of your fucking business." That got their attention. She read until she got to the Neil Young line and her voice broke. "And so remember'- and don't remember this," she said loudly, "because this is a fucking lie: 'It's better to burn out than to fade away'." Without warning, tears rolled down her face and she stepped off the stage. Subdued applause resounded in the small church. Gerard walked up the steps next. "I... I can't believe he did this," he began. "Frank was the life of the band and nothing can ever replace that. We haven't made an effort to replace him, but we will-the band's going to go on, because that's what Frank would have wanted. I want all of you-" He looked each fan in their eyes. "to learn a lesson from this: Suicide is a shit way to go. If any of you ever think about it, if you're thinking about it... Remember the people you're leaving behind, and the life you'll have. Remember that it's never too late. Remember a man who was sweet, who was talented, who had the love of millions in his hands, but who didn't love himself enough." He took a deep breath and said three last words: "Remember Frank Iero." And then stepped off the stage. The applause was louder than it had been yet, still subdued but still loud. Ray got up amid silence and walked the steps to the little podium. As he went, he wondered detachedly how many sermons had been taught there, the worn wood smooth under his hands that now gripped the sides. "Frank was an amazing guy: he was an idol, a friend, an amazing guitar player, a husband, and, most important to him, he was a father. He loved Carmen with everything he had in him and nothing will ever match that. He had a wife, a daughter, four men that were almost brothers to him and the love of a million people, but in the end, it didn't even matter. If you knew him for a moment, or for seven years, you could get anything you wanted to know about him." He paused for a moment. "He loved the fans, even when we began and he was just a snotty punk from Newark. He came from a town no one had ever heard of and went on to change the rock scene forever. He-all of My Chemical Romance-made amazing music. Remember the music, and remember him. Because that's where he'll always be, in the music, and the music will be in our hearts, forever." When he stopped, he realized how intensely he'd been speaking. He walked off of the stage in silence, and the applause only began when he was back in his seat. "Okay," Gerard said, "Our show's going to start in twenty minutes. It'll be us, Fall Out Boy, Green Day, Alkaline Trio and then an encore. If you want to come, fine, it's in the field behind the church." --
7:00 PM Ray began the slow, mournful notes of the famed song and Mike joined in on bass, then Bob on drums. Gerard walked out with something in his hands that hadn't been seen for eight years. A rhythm guitar was held in both hands-a white one, one that had become famous all over the world, one with purple letters that spelled out 'Pansy' on the side. He'd forced himself to play again after Frank began his drug battle and he was glad that he had. He joined in finally and leaned in to sing into the microphone.
If I leave here tomorrow... They finished the song amid total silence. At first, Gerard though it had gone badly and his face fell. But then a low roar began and the crowd began screaming its approval. Ray led the walk off the stage and Fall Out Boy walked on. A few minutes after their show, when Fall Out Boy was still on and the other two bands were warming up, Ray cornered Gerard. "Hey," Gerard said carefully, looking up from his position on Mikey's bass case. "Hey," Ray said, leaning against the car. "Ray, I just... last night..." Gerard's voice trailed off. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about." Ray's eyes grew hard. "I know you're saying you didn't realize I was bombed. I hope you know I don't believe you." "Ray..." "Gerard, we're done," Ray said flatly. "We never should have started to begin with." He walked off, leaving Gerard sitting on the case, staring at the ground. It wasn't like he hadn't been expecting it. What he wasn't expecting, though, was how much it hurt when he looked up and saw Ray walking away. -- They were back onstage within twenty minutes. "I think you guys will remember this one." Gerard turned and mouthed a word to the rest of the band. He skipped the introduction and played instead, then joined in.
Burning on... They continued until they reached the final chorus. Ray began singing for the first time. "Well if you carry on this way..." Gerard's head was thrown back to the sky and he was only half-singing into the microphone, but the savage scream that tore itself from his lips was loud enough for everyone in the wide field to hear. "Things are better if I stay... So long and goodnight, so long, not goodnight...." Almost as soon as Gerard finished 'goodnight', Ray raised his arms and brought them down again. There was a splintering crack and the faithful old Session that had served him so well over all the years My Chemical Romance had been a band lay in three pieces on the stage. Without a sound, they walked off the stage. --
Epilogue: And I Can't Erase The Things That I've Done But there were more pieces of history, fabricating themselves into Frank's life, tying themselves to the lives of everyone around him. The young man sat in the waiting room, his head in his hands. He's asleep, the steady rising of his chest making it clear. Another man in a white coat walks into the room and says his name softly. His head jerks up and the doctor says a few words. A wide smile slowly spreads across the young man's face. He gets up and follows the doctor; he leads him to a room with a large window. Jamia sleeps in the hospital bed and next to her on the tile sits a cradle, in it a small, red-faced baby. His baby. His little girl. The same young man, slightly older, holding a squealing two-year-old in the air, a taller, older man with a wild mess of curly hair holding a home video camera. A dark-haired woman stands next to him, laughing; the younger man's eyes sparkle with laughter as he holds his daughter in his arms. The young man, a little older now, a little worse for the wear, backstage after a show. His hands curled around a guitar that a few teenage girls stare at in awe; he offers it to them and they eagerly reach out and place a hand on it. He smiles at them and one of them giggles. It's what he lives for. But one memory stuck out above the others. The same young man, hardly a man now, barely twenty, sitting in front of a stage. Large letters above the stage blaze 'Headlining Act: Green Day' and smaller letters below it say 'Opening Act: My Chemical Romance'. He glances up at the letters; the beginning of a grin starting at his mouth. Someday, he thinks, that will say 'Headlining Act: My Chemical Romance' and then he'll be famous like Green Day. In his hands is the same white guitar; he holds it reverently-it's the only one he's got and he's got to make it last. Absently, he picks out a tune from an old Neil Young song. As he plays, he whispers, "It's better to burn out than... to fade away." Before the blood, before the tears... There was only the sound of a guitar, and a song.
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