Matters of the Heart

"Frank," Mikey said simply, softly, his voice a monotone. Like a flatline. Like the voice of the dead man playing in the speakers in his head.

You weren't supposed to cry when someone spoke to you like that, no emotion, no drama, no nothing, no more, but Mikey saw tears prickling in the corners of Frank's eyes. He would have tried to care, because he knew it hurt everyone when he acted like that, like some walking corpse that happened to wear his face, but it was beyond him now.

"Why did you call?"

Frank bit his lip, his gaze scattered, wanting to look anywhere but the blank, penetrating eyes of the hollow man that used to be his best friend. It landed on the album that still seemed to stand out from the others, accusing. Nothing was going to follow it anymore; no barrage of powerful lyrics or raging music, no worldwide shows that sent thousands home with fire surging through their hearts, flames of hope and belief rekindled. He doused that blaze, a thunderstorm extinguishing a burning forest, and now the fire was lost forever.

He killed the faith; he killed the hero.

And his punishment, this incessant mourning and watching as everything fell apart like a heart tearing itself to pieces, was nothing if but fair.

"I... don't know."

For an instant Mikey held a semblance of mirth in his eyes, but the moment passed quickly, bitterness cloaking its former presence.

"You shouldn't have told me to come, if it's just for this," his glance found the black-colored cover, his entire frame stiffening.

"I have better things to do." Was there a rueful laugh at the end of that statement?

Mikey knew was what going through Frank's mind, something along the lines of 'Like what? Spending empty days sulking around while the world keeps spinning?' but as usual, he had not the courage to say it out loud. Mikey's comebacks would have been too painful, too damaging to their friendship that seemed to be held together by unraveled gossamer threads.

"I... just wanted to see a friendly face," Frank offered, though the glare Mikey sent him was not at all friendly. "I was thinking maybe we could hang out and..."

"It's not going to bring him back, Frank," Mikey snapped, his words slicing, chastising without mercy. "Nothing will. Ever.

"So stop trying," an undertone through gritted teeth and anger smoldering as the gold in his eyes.

Frank seemed like a dog that's been kicked around too many times, but forgave so easily and still tried to make amends. "Mikey, I'm..."

He reached out to place a hand on Mikey's bony shoulder, but the latter shrugged out of his grasp. His fingers found the smooth glass surface of the album, labeled The Black Parade in the section that said My Chemical Romance.

No more, motherfuckers. Mikey chuckled quietly to himself. It was a bigger middle finger to the world than any message they would have brought when Ger--

"They say its the drivers are the ones who usually die upon impact when there's a collision... I read that, somewhere, a survey on car accidents..." He spoke slowly, carefully, drawing out the venom in his words merely by saying them. No emphasis needed.

Frank seemed glued on the spot; something was yelling at him to get out, get out while you can, before Mikey continues with something he will soon regret, but the horror only widens his eyes and spreads through his veins like ice, freezing him in place.

Mikey proceeded almost casually, ever so deliberate. "But I guess you've always been lucky, haven't you, Frank? Sure, you always got injured or sick in shows... but your life's been pretty perfect. You were raised in some Catholic family and you were even good enough to be the frontman of your own band before you joined...

"Gerard never had it easy," the name, finally brought to sound, "He was never good enough for those kids back then; he was too creepy, too geeky, just some nerd who liked to draw comics and had a penchant for scary stuff. Even when he tried to pursue his dream, the cartoon he worked so hard for was turned down. He had to get wasted before he could get up in front of a crowd.

"And e-even..." His tone trembled, an earthquake, catastrophe in the making, "Even when we finally made it, the demons always liked to pick on him. He suffered every day as he tried to write down those songs, songs which everyone took for granted... but then, he was happy, and he deserved it all.

"But he has never been lucky as you, huh, Frank?" Finally Mikey turned to him, not as expressionless before. The decay was finally showing through his pale skin. "You just had to ruin it, didn't you?

"You had to take my brother away. You had to show that being a hero wouldn't get you anywhere. You never believed in heroes, didn't you? You had to fucking destroy the story..."

They both knew he was lying, he was lying, he was lying, wasn't he? He had to be lying. The truth was far too painful to bear.

"Why did I save you, Frank?" Silent cries choked and mangled Mikey's voice. "Why did I have to give you this?"

He placed his hand on his own heart, instead of Frank's, because as he gave away his brother's blood, he sacrificed his life too.

"I wish..." A tear trailed his cheek, down to his jaw, dripping off his chin and landing as a stain on the dirty floor. The anger had vanished now; he had no energy left for that. He spent a lifetime loving someone who can't return it now, and it had taken its toll.

"I wish you died instead, Frank. Instead of Gee."

Mikey's mouth was still open, but he was done. What leaked from his eyes in salty torrents held more meaning that words ever could. He shook, and it seemed as if he would fall, but he remained standing.

Frank's face mirrored his, in tears and in sadness, as he sought ought Mikey's eyes, begging him to understand.

"I wish for that too."