My Chemical Romance Fanfiction
Author: me- >http://beachbutt.livejournal.com/<
Pairing: Mikey Way/ FrankIero
General Summary: I remember beads of sweat forming on my forehead and my sweaty hands slowly slipping out of Frank’s. I remember the very last time we looked into each other’s eyes as Frank said “I love you, Mikey.”
Disclaimer: This is pure bullocks.
I don't own any of the people in this story and none of this happened whatsoever.
Authors Notes: My first Fanfic to be posted on LJ. I hope you like it. and please, please, please leave a comment. any feedback would be great!
I remember asking Frank to come to Rocky Point with me.
I remember his beautiful smile.
I remember exactly what he was wearing.
I remember the feel of Frank’s hand in mine, walking up to edge of the cliff.
I remember the way Frank spoke as he pulled me back from the edge: “Careful, baby.”
I remember the feeling of kissing him.
I remember the way Frank’s fingers weaved through my hair.
I remember the taste of his lips, like pink conversations we were eating earlier.
I reach down under the bed sheets and feel my pockets (yeah, I left my jeans on) and feel the lumps of remaining conversations.
I sob louder for a moment.
I remember how Frank talked of forming a band with himself on lead guitar and me on bass.
And I remember the way Frank slipped and fell over the edge; I caught him by the hands. His weight strained my arms.
I remember yelling over the noise of the waves crashing hungrily onto the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.
I remember every muscle in my arms burning as I tried to pull him back up.
I remember beads of sweat forming on my forehead and my sweaty hands slowly slipping out of Frank’s.
I remember the very last time we looked into each other’s eyes as Frank said “I love you, Mikey.”
More tears flood down my cheeks and onto my sodden pillow.
I remember Frank slipping out of my fucking hands and falling.
I remember screaming out for someone, anyone. But it didn’t matter, Frank was gone. It was high tide and, even if he didn’t die instantly, the waves would have swept him out and he would have drowned.
I cry louder and turn over onto my stomach, muffling my sobs in the wet pillow. My legs are getting twisted up in the sheets; much like my whole body feels. I feel sick. I feel like I could throw up a million times over. All I want is for Frank to somehow come back and crawl into bed beside me.
I feel so alone in this half empty double bed. In this dark room. So alone in this empty, empty house.
What I need right now (other than Frank, of course) is a good string of guitar riffs. The kind Frank played to me on his acoustic after my brother’s funeral.
Oh God. Funeral. Would they bury an empty coffin like they did for Gerard?
And even if I had that beautiful string of music in my ears right now, it wouldn’t make the crater in my stomach go away, it would just make me lust for Frank even more, no matter how nice it sounds.
No, I can’t do this. Frank was the last thing in my life that made me stay here. And he’s gone.
So I’m going with him.
I get out of bed, don’t put a shirt on, and don’t put shoes on, walk out to the car in my jeans and a belt. I cursed out loud. The belt Frank gave to me. More tears roll down my cheeks and off my jaw bones as I open the car door.
I drive up to Rocky Point, get out of the car and step into the moonlight. Must be past midnight now. The ground is damp and squelches between my cold toes. I walk up to the edge of the cliff and look over the edge. A rush of sea breeze ruffles my already screwed up hair. I pull out the conversations from my pocket; notice the shape and smell of the little pink hearts. “Well, no one here loves me anymore!” I scream at the full moon as though it’s all her fault. I drop the conversations over the edge and watch them be swallowed by the waves pounding the base of the cliff.
This is it.
I inhale a lung full of night air then think of it as poison, so I spit it back out. “I love you, Frank.” I say and feel my last tears run down my face.
I step forward and fall. The feeling beating me up as though I’m a punching bag...