The Black Parade Chapter I - Disenchanted. Part II/II
Title:The Black Parade Chapter I - Disenchanted. Part II/II
Author:
bluexxyellow_ Rachel.
Pairing:Frank Iero//Gerard Way PAST: Bert McCracken//Gerard Way
Rating:R. Dirrty Language.
POV:1st, Gerard's.
Summary:"I'm leaving now," he says sternly, but for some reason I think he's lying to me again. He standing in the doorway, his back to the door, trying to tell me one last time.
Disclaimer:Fake.
Author Note:This one isn't very long. Started with just this "chapter" and it's expanded. And for some reason, I seem to have this thing towards Bert where he's dying, hospitalized, in my stories. It's a curse.
The Black Parade Chapter I - Disenchanted. Part I/II
"No one ever quite got it, you know? If you weren't doing it me trying to explain it had a snowballs chance in hell to make it through. When I took the drugs my head didn't hurt, I wasn't constantly thinking about everything that was going wrong, was I thinking about dying and dying was like bliss for me. All the thoughts in my head that were screaming at the top of their lungs to do this and do that just shut the fuck up. Dying meant it was forever." I finish, rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands and taking a deep breathe, talking about being clean hurts.
The interviewer, who's name I don't care to know, nods. "What was it like? Do you miss it?"
"No, well, maybe a little." I admit. "Because next to being on stage drugs have the best euphoria I ever found. When I'm singing on stage the lights are ten times brighter, all the sounds are ten times louder. Like someone found the intensity knob on my life and spin it until it popped off. Things spin and twist together, like you're in a constant nightclub, dancing and spinning and singing along. But on stage it's so much better to sing, because you've got people right there with you, singing back. Those kids are right fucking there with you." I stop there, because talking about this could go on and on forever.
The interviewer says something about thanking me for my time but I'm not listening. He gets up and leaves, the room empty except for me and Bert, lounging in the corner on a couch. He looks at me with a glazed look in his eyes, because he's high, a trip of painkillers or cocaine or anything else that can pulse through him veins and make him feel alive.
"There is nothing better than being high, Gerard," he tells me like he knows, getting up and walking to the couch I'm at. He sits next to me, where the interviewer was just a few seconds ago.
"Singing is. You don't feel it because you're already fucked up on God only knows what, but it's so much better. Those kids are right there and they fucking know what you're singing about. Plus the lights, guitars riffs, drumbeats, are just as intense and exhilarating as having cocaine in you." I preach, looking into his eyes. His eyes are blue, a crystal colored blue that when glazed like this look like diamonds, shimmering diamonds that are four different blues thrown together under a white light, to create this one shade you really can't even name.
"Is it really like that?" He asks, reaching out and touching my cheek with the lightest hand.
I nod, "Absolutely."
And we kept talking, Bert and I, for hours on end. Our voices as low as whispers, sharing secrets, fears, outlooks on life that seemed so sacred at the time even God couldn't compare. The words so low it was like our hearts spilling from our lips slowly, to make sure every second counted. Nothing was wrong and nothing was right, we were just two boys who fell in love talking about life in a dressing room at some unknown venue in Southeast U.S.A.
Dreaming about life until the drugs wore off one last time.
"Gerard," Frank is calling "Gerard Way look at me."
The room spins back into focus. The plain white walls surrounding the white sheeted bed where Bert is laying wearing a white gown, asleep or dead to cover the whites of his eyes. White is such a haunting color.
I look up from my hands, the tears still rimmed in my eyes. They've been there four the last twenty four hours, just as long as I have been sitting in this hard chair next to Bert's hospital bed. With his hand held tight in mine, trying to will him awake from this comatose he's placed himself in like I always warned him about. "Yes, Frank?" I ask, using my free hand to push my hair from my eyes and the tears from my cheeks.
"I'm leaving now," he says sternly, but for some reason I think he's lying to me again. He standing in the doorway, his back to the door, trying to tell me one last time.
"Then fucking go," I say, waving towards the door, "I'll just see you later."
"I'm not coming back," He says. I don't get up to stop him as he unburied his hands from his pockets and turns his back to me. The door creaks lightly as he opens it and I don't do a damn thing to stop him. As he steps from the door one last thing fills the room, "And neither is Bert."
You're just a sad song with nothing to say
About a life long wait for a hospital stay
And if you think that I'm wrong,
This never meant nothing to you
Author:
bluexxyellow_ Rachel.
Pairing:Frank Iero//Gerard Way PAST: Bert McCracken//Gerard Way
Rating:R. Dirrty Language.
POV:1st, Gerard's.
Summary:"I'm leaving now," he says sternly, but for some reason I think he's lying to me again. He standing in the doorway, his back to the door, trying to tell me one last time.
Disclaimer:Fake.
Author Note:This one isn't very long. Started with just this "chapter" and it's expanded. And for some reason, I seem to have this thing towards Bert where he's dying, hospitalized, in my stories. It's a curse.
The Black Parade Chapter I - Disenchanted. Part I/II
"No one ever quite got it, you know? If you weren't doing it me trying to explain it had a snowballs chance in hell to make it through. When I took the drugs my head didn't hurt, I wasn't constantly thinking about everything that was going wrong, was I thinking about dying and dying was like bliss for me. All the thoughts in my head that were screaming at the top of their lungs to do this and do that just shut the fuck up. Dying meant it was forever." I finish, rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands and taking a deep breathe, talking about being clean hurts.
The interviewer, who's name I don't care to know, nods. "What was it like? Do you miss it?"
"No, well, maybe a little." I admit. "Because next to being on stage drugs have the best euphoria I ever found. When I'm singing on stage the lights are ten times brighter, all the sounds are ten times louder. Like someone found the intensity knob on my life and spin it until it popped off. Things spin and twist together, like you're in a constant nightclub, dancing and spinning and singing along. But on stage it's so much better to sing, because you've got people right there with you, singing back. Those kids are right fucking there with you." I stop there, because talking about this could go on and on forever.
The interviewer says something about thanking me for my time but I'm not listening. He gets up and leaves, the room empty except for me and Bert, lounging in the corner on a couch. He looks at me with a glazed look in his eyes, because he's high, a trip of painkillers or cocaine or anything else that can pulse through him veins and make him feel alive.
"There is nothing better than being high, Gerard," he tells me like he knows, getting up and walking to the couch I'm at. He sits next to me, where the interviewer was just a few seconds ago.
"Singing is. You don't feel it because you're already fucked up on God only knows what, but it's so much better. Those kids are right there and they fucking know what you're singing about. Plus the lights, guitars riffs, drumbeats, are just as intense and exhilarating as having cocaine in you." I preach, looking into his eyes. His eyes are blue, a crystal colored blue that when glazed like this look like diamonds, shimmering diamonds that are four different blues thrown together under a white light, to create this one shade you really can't even name.
"Is it really like that?" He asks, reaching out and touching my cheek with the lightest hand.
I nod, "Absolutely."
And we kept talking, Bert and I, for hours on end. Our voices as low as whispers, sharing secrets, fears, outlooks on life that seemed so sacred at the time even God couldn't compare. The words so low it was like our hearts spilling from our lips slowly, to make sure every second counted. Nothing was wrong and nothing was right, we were just two boys who fell in love talking about life in a dressing room at some unknown venue in Southeast U.S.A.
Dreaming about life until the drugs wore off one last time.
"Gerard," Frank is calling "Gerard Way look at me."
The room spins back into focus. The plain white walls surrounding the white sheeted bed where Bert is laying wearing a white gown, asleep or dead to cover the whites of his eyes. White is such a haunting color.
I look up from my hands, the tears still rimmed in my eyes. They've been there four the last twenty four hours, just as long as I have been sitting in this hard chair next to Bert's hospital bed. With his hand held tight in mine, trying to will him awake from this comatose he's placed himself in like I always warned him about. "Yes, Frank?" I ask, using my free hand to push my hair from my eyes and the tears from my cheeks.
"I'm leaving now," he says sternly, but for some reason I think he's lying to me again. He standing in the doorway, his back to the door, trying to tell me one last time.
"Then fucking go," I say, waving towards the door, "I'll just see you later."
"I'm not coming back," He says. I don't get up to stop him as he unburied his hands from his pockets and turns his back to me. The door creaks lightly as he opens it and I don't do a damn thing to stop him. As he steps from the door one last thing fills the room, "And neither is Bert."
You're just a sad song with nothing to say
About a life long wait for a hospital stay
And if you think that I'm wrong,
This never meant nothing to you