Teenage Angst (Stay With Me)

Title: Teenage Angst (Stay With Me)
Rating: Swallow (Language, mild sex, violence, drug abuse, self-mutilation)
Characters: Brian Molko, Gerard Way
Pairings: Brian/Gerard
Soundtrack: Placebo // Placebo

*

Do you remember, back then, when we met?
You told me, "This gets harder..."
Well, it did...

You taught me what it meant to live life on the edge.
You taught me how to not give a fuck.

*

I remember your first day in school. A foreigner, from London with the hint of a Scottish accent, mixed in with even you didn't know what anymore, and a dab of middle-America. You, with your long, black hair. You, with your heavily lined eyes. You, with your fake nails, painted dark red. You, in tight black pants and a t-shirt that said I'M EVIL across the chest in rhinestones. You, in your big platform boots, adding a good three inches to your height.

Those bloodshot, blue eyes found me, in my own black clothes, behind my own black hair, amidst the bleach-blonde girls in pink and the frost-haired jocks in Abercrombie, and when the teacher told you to pick a seat, I slumped down in my chair, but you chose the empty desk next to me anyway.

I hadn't been paying attention when the teacher introduced us, and I think you sensed it, because you turned to me, stuck out a shaky hand and said, "Hi, I'm Brian."

My heart stopped and my head spun. Never in my life had I heard an accent as beautiful and hypnotizing as yours. It made every word you said sound brand new, like I'd never heard it before and never would again. It was so amazingly wonderful, I almost forgot to shake your hand and give you my own name.

You bit your lip and turned forward, opening a tattered spiral notebook and crouching over it, intently working on something I couldn't see and didn't dare try to get a peek at. I couldn't. I didn't want to interrupt your concentration, didn't want to be nosey, so I let you work in peace, quietly watching behind a Stephen King novel I was pretending to read.

I did catch up with you after class, though, and I'm really glad I did.

*

The first time I saw you shoot up was in the school bathroom. It was a rainy, humid October afternoon and the air conditioner had been broken for over a month. I was sweating so bad, I was dizzy, and I was looking for a place to cool off.

The second floor boys' bathroom was covered in black and white tiles, graffiti and other peoples' DNA, from the jocks bringing the cheerleaders up for blow jobs between classes.

I walked in and there you were, sitting in the middle of the floor, the needle in your arm. A milky liquid, mixed with your own blood, and your eyes squeezed shut as you depressed the plunger, sending it from the tiny syringe into your veins. You didn't see me, and I left before you even noticed I was there.

It shattered the image I'd built up of you, even if only for that second...

*

After school, I was showing you around Belleville, where I went to think, or read. A grin, almost too quick to catch, graced your perfect features when I told you those two spots were one in the same, at the cemetery, just outside of town.

"Show me?"

I bit my lip and slid my shaky hand into the one you'd offered me, dragging your tiny form down the empty street. You let me pull you any way I wanted to, and you followed me like a lost puppy dog, even if I let go, your big, heavy boots going scuff-clomp on the sidewalk.

I couldn't, for the life of me, think anything to say. I was like the girl in The Breakfast Club. I didn't have any friends. The only person I ever had to make real conversation with was my little brother and he hung on to every word I said like I was the smartest person in the whole world. He worshipped me, and though it made me uncomfortable, I knew it meant he would never judge me for the things I did or said.

With you, I felt like everything I said had to be carefully planned, right down to the smallest detail.

It was jarring...

*

The room was dark and you were pinned underneath me, my hands gripping your own so hard, I could feel your bones shaking underneath the skin.

I remember that night the clearest...

You had gotten into a fight with your father and he'd taken a leather belt to your back, and the first place you thought to come to was mine. You were shivering on my front porch in a t-shirt, the front of which was soaked in blood, and your fingers were turning blue as I pulled you into the house.

Our heater had been busted for months, but Mom didn't have the money to fix it, so we bummed around in hoodies and socks. I wanted to stick you in the oven.

I didn't even ask my mother if you could stay over, I just took you down to my room in the basement, where you promptly turned the lights out and pulled me over you, telling me to never let go, begging me to erase the memories of your father's heavy fists.

*

We were at lunch the next day when I told you I'd seen you shooting up. You looked shocked for a split second and then leaned in across the table, keeping your unusually soft voice extra quiet, "Please don't tell anyone...I'm not going to force you to do something you don't want to, but...Please, please, don't say anything..."

*

Our entire summer was spent in my basement, tangled in the sheets. It was perfect. And you were perfect.

I'm positive my mother was upstairs the entire time, wringing her hands with worry. She'd told me the first time I brought you home that she was concerned about our budding friendship.

I never could make her understand that you were the person I wanted to be with, no matter how hard I tried. We fought about it. We screamed at each other and she threw dishes and I stormed down to the basement and locked my door, immediately picking up the phone to call you.

You promised to be over as soon as possible.

That night was the first time I ever did anything illegal...

*

"Hey...Stay with me..."

You were in a daze that I couldn't snap you out of. Two years, we'd been together. Us against the world. Running from football players, fighting the system, disappearing into the night when things got shitty at home. I had no idea what you'd done, or what you had in your system, but I couldn't make sense of the situation, because I, myself, was high.

Tears stung my eyes as your hand reached for mine. It was like you couldn't figure out what was a hallucination and what was real.

I sniffled and wiped my nose with the back of my hand, "Stay with me..."

*

"I'm sorry...About before...," I'd never been one for social situations, and I always preferred to bleed into the background and become wallpaper. I was shaking.

You took my hands, though, and my heart melted, "That's okay. I'm Brian," you repeated. Like I'd forgotten, like that name wouldn't be printed in my brain and on my heart for the rest of my life.

"Gerard...," I lost myself in your eyes. Two pools of crystal clear, icy blue. Like a frozen lake in the middle of December after the first snowfall, before all the assholes put their skates on and ruined the pristine beauty, erasing that moment when you feel like time has stopped and you're the only one still moving.

A smile formed on your lips and you tossed a lock of hair out of your eyes, "Nice to meet you."

My heart raced in my chest and the words repeated themselves in my head, and each time, they lost something special, miniscule, but something important.

"You, too," I forced.

"Listen...I don't want to seem to forward, but I was wondering if maybe you'd like to hang out after school...Show me around town?"

I leaned against the row of lockers behind me. I had to. My knees were on the verge of giving out and I was more light headed than when I got a nose-bleed. If I passed out only to wake up and find you gone, I don't that my heart could take it.

Your eyes searched mine and I had to gather the strength to say, "Yes."

You smiled again and let go of my hands finally, and I couldn't tell if the sweat on my palms was yours or mine, "Thank you."

I nodded my head and silence ensued. Not the kind of silence that was awkward and uncomfortable, making the party involved crack stupid jokes, but the kind of silence that blankets the room after really great sex, or during an intense scene in a horror movie.

It was too perfect a silence to break...

*

The first time I saw your house was two weeks after we'd met. I don't know what I was expecting, but I can honestly say I was shocked by the peeling paint, the junk in the yard, the rusted pick-up truck in the drive-way.

You pretended you didn't even notice, as you dug a key attached to a silver chain around your neck from under your shirt and unlocked the door.

I was almost tempted to turn around and run away. I almost didn't want to go inside and see the world you lived in outside of school, outside of the cemetery. I hadn't even shown you my own house yet. How was it fair that you showed me yours first?

But here we were, standing in a dimly lit corridor, the roaring sound of a football game piercing my ears through the posterboard wall that separated the entry-way from the living room. The smell of liquor was strong enough to sting and I was vaguely disgusted, but deeply curious about seeing your room.

Your hand squeezed my own untill my fingers were numb as you lead me into the living room, where your father was perched in a mud coloured La-Z-Boy, a beer can in his right hand. Next to him, on a water-stained end table, there was a tower of beer cans, and the further down it went, the dustier the cans became, indicating that they'd been there a while.

"Dad?"

Your father grunted in response and didn't even look away from the football players on the small, black-and-white screen.

"I'm home..."

I winced when he ignored you and ran my thumb over the back of your hand, trying to be comforting and failing miserably, if I were going by the look on your face. It was like I wasn't even there.

"Okay, well...I'll be in my room..."

We were half way to safety when the television set shut off with a whirring click and your father's rough, nicotine stained voice hit your ears, "Did you clean the garage yet?"

*

Cigarettes were a mood-elevator and pot was the only thing that helped me really sleep. Cocaine got me through school and acid was occasionally interesting, when I was really bored. Alcohol helped to dull the pain of the jocks' fists...But the heroin...That was a love affair.

The first time was horrible.

You stuck the needle into the crook of my elbow, where you said no one would notice it, and I had to look away as the panic attack shoot through my veins and settled in the base of my spine.

But once that part was over, the rush was incredible...For a second.

Afterward, I couldn't stop throwing up and you held my hair out of my face as I emptied a day of coffee and nothing else into the bushes behind the cafeteria.

And you stayed, even after I passed out...It was a drizzly Saturday...The weather fit the mood...

*

I was sitting in the emergency room of the indigent hospital. You could always get treated there, no matter how broke you were, because it was government paid.

You were back in a hole-in-the-wall, hidden by a privacy curtain and I was in the waiting room, staring at my shoes, avoiding the stares of old, Catholic women, bruised house-wives and insomniatic junkies who were there for methadone.

Stay with me...

Why had I said that?

Stay with me...

I couldn't stop it from coming out of my mouth.

Stay with me...

I opened my hand and there, covered in pink streaks of your blood, was your favourite cloth choker.

Stay with me…

The one you'd given me for Christmas.

Stay with me…

The one you'd made out of your Bowie shirt after one of the assholes at school had ripped the sleeves.

Stay with me…

I helped you make it.

Stay with me…

It was the lightening bolt he painted on his face.

Stay with me...

*

My hands bruised your hips and even in the dark, I could see your head thrown back, your lips parted.

The moonlight shone on your face and glistened off the thin layer of sweat across your chest.

My back arched off the bed and I couldn't stop the groan that came out of my mouth.

It was perfect...I didn't want it to stop...

*

My nose was burning and my chest was on fire and I don't remember why we were in New York or how we'd got there. But the lights were too pretty and too bright to care. It really was the city that never slept.

Too much cocaine...

Flashes of blue and red mixed together, creating a perfect purple haze as you pressed your lips to my own and I could barely keep standing. Every touch was immaculate, like it was the first time anyone had ever touched me and I wanted to hold onto that feeling forever.

Too much...

My fingers tangled into your hair in the dirty bar bathroom as you let me press you up against the tile wall. I couldn't stop myself from pressing my hips into your own and part of me was afraid I was going to break you, but I didn't care.

Too...

*

I crouched in the darkest corner I could find, so as not to get in the way while I watched your father throw you against the wall. He was screaming so loud, but I'd tuned out of what he was saying to focus on you.

You were small and helpless anyway, but underneath his grip, you looked like a child.

I buried my head in my hands when his left fist collided with your right eye and I waited untill the house shook from the slamming front door before I looked up. You were crumpled against the floor and I had to force myself to move. Robotically crawling over to you, I gently touched your arm.

Slowly at first, but finally, you looked up at me, tears threatening to fall from those sky blue eyes. The bruise was already starting to form.

All of this because you didn't clean out the fucking garage.

*

I slammed my bedroom door as I came in and you looked up at me from the comic book you were gingerly holding in long, thin fingers. I couldn't stand to look at my mother without wanting to stab her repeatedly. And screaming at her was the only way I could keep from doing that.

"You okay?"

I shook my head, fists clenched tight at my sides, "No."

You didn't say anything. You simply handed me a glass straw and pulled me down next to you, in front of the small, smoked-glass coffee table, where you'd cut up lines of finely ground white powder.

It was like seeing heaven, those lines...

*

I woke up hours later, my hair lightly damp from the drizzle that had plagued the afternoon and you were sitting there, cross-legged, with a cigarette between your fingers, sunglasses over your eyes and your head was tilted upward, toward the grey sky.

Everything was quiet, still. The rain had stopped, but I had no idea when.

Your hair blew off your forehead in the soft wind and I couldn't help but notice the bones of your spine peaking through the thin, long sleeved shirt you had on.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to ask...

"What time is it?" My voice was hollow, scratchy, not my own. I needed coffee, nicotine, maybe a good slap in the face.

"I have no idea."

*

In a dark alley, in Queens, waiting for what, I wasn't sure. But you were confidant, so I had to pretend to be.

I was still sweaty from being at the bar, but you...You looked perfect as always, like an angel. Your make up, your hair, even your clothes. I looked dishevelled. Looking at me, it was clear I'd been doing dirty things in a sordid, New York City bar.

You lit a cigarette and leaned against the wet brick building we were standing next to, "It gets harder."

"How...?" I was confused, I wasn't sure what you were talking about. It wasn't unusual, you talked in riddles most of the time.

"It just does."

*

I'd been holding on forever...

I could see the sun peeking it's way through the clouds when a man in a blood-stained lab coat came down the hallway.

The look on his face made my heart sink.

For a minute, I thought he wasn't coming for me, untill he turned in my direction...

*

"I love you."

Your blue eyes locked with my own and a faint smile played on your lips, "I love you, too."

I brushed your hair off your forehead and laced my fingers with your own. I couldn't help myself.

*

It was a hot day in July. Our first summer together. You were in your usual thin, long sleeved, black shirt with something written across the chest. It was the only time I'd ever seen you sweat because of something other than things done in the dark, in seedy hotels, or run down bathrooms.

You looked so hot, it made me uncomfortable. And finally, you rolled up your shirt sleeves to reveal angry, red gashes across your left wrist. When I squinted, I could see white scars on pale skin.

I bit my lip and handed you the Marlboro we were sharing.

It was our last one...

*

I hadn't seen you in weeks.

It was mid September and you were nowhere to be found, even though school had been in for over a month.

The last time I'd seen you was the day before school started.

"See you tomorrow," you'd said.

No kiss good-bye, no hug, nothing.

I was terrified.

I was afraid that maybe...

Your father...

And you...

I couldn't even...

But then, there you were, in all your flawless glory.

You adjusted your sunglasses as you handed the teacher a note of some kind, before taking a seat next to me in the back. Your usual long-sleeved t-shirt had been replaced by a heavy hoodie, despite the heat and the teacher said nothing about the sunglasses, in spite of the rule.

I was the only one who knew why...The hoodie, the sunglasses, it all fell into place...He'd gone too far that time...

*

Your hand was in my own so tight, I was afraid I was gonna crush your bones to dust, but I couldn't stop running. I couldn't stop moving.

*

"Why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

I grabbed your wrist, gentle, but firm, and rolled your sleeve up, revealing purple bruises that outlined red gashes.

You didn't pull away, but you wouldn't look at me, "I have to."

It somehow made sense...

*

"Where are we going?"

I was swallowing as much air as I could to stay standing, and I had to force myself to keep going, "Away. Far, far away."

*

You handed me a shiny, silver scalpel and wrapped my fingers around the cold metal, "Keep it safe."

I looked at you, clearly confused. I couldn't stop myself from asking, "Why?"

"I have to go away for a while..."

I bit my lip and neither one of us could say what was really on our minds.

"I'll miss you."

You smiled and slipped your sunglasses onto the top of your head, pushing your hair out of your face, "I'll miss you, too."

*

We were in an empty warehouse in Hoboken, and I was sticking a needle into your arm. I didn't want to. You'd had enough, but you were begging me. Tear stained eyes, blood soaked shirt, a hand-shaped bruise on your left cheek. I couldn't say no...God, I wish I had...

As soon as I depressed the plunger, I knew I'd lost you.

Why did I do it?

Because you asked me to.

I'd have done anything for you.

*

I was curled up in a tacky, green chair in a therapist's office, because of my mother's threats to move us so far away from you, I'd never find you again if I didn't go once a week.

I had gotten too thin, she said. She was worried about me. I spent too much time with you.

There was no such thing...

You were sitting in the waiting room, breaking their no-smoking rule, no doubt, and waiting patiently for me to be done for the afternoon. Probably flipping through Cosmo and hiding behind a pair of sunglasses like always.

When we met, you didn't wear them that often...What changed, I wonder...

*

You handed me a small box, wrapped up in shiny, black paper with little red skulls all over, topped with an orange and black pin-stripped, Nightmare Before Christmas inspired bow.

I smiled shyly and handed you a small, white box with a tiny red ribbon tied around it.

"You first."

I shook my head, "You first."

"Okay...One, two, three."

I opened mine and you didn't, but I didn't care. I set the ribbon aside and there, inside the box was that choker that you never took off. It even smelled like you. It was the best Christmas present I'd ever gotten.

I smiled and pulled you into a hug, pressing a kiss to your bare neck, threading my fingers into your thin, black hair, "Thank you."

*

The fights with my mother while you were gone drove me crazy.

I hadn't spoken two words to my little brother in the year and a half that I'd known you.

Not on purpose, but because I had other things going on. We were never around at the same time.

My mother accused me of losing touch with reality, of doing drugs.

I couldn't exactly tell her the truth...The way my arms looked under my clothes.

I called her a bitch.

She back-handed me across the face and immediately apologized for it.

I hid out downstairs with your scalpel and Morrissey, drawing on my skin.

Once I started, I couldn't stop, no matter how much blood...

*

"Tell me about your boyfriend."

I glared at the therapist behind black bangs, but didn't say anything.

I couldn't deny it, but there was no way in hell I'd admit it.

Besides, I didn't know what we were...

*

I watched your face as you opened your gift and the look in your eyes told me it was worth everything I'd done to get it.

You pulled the small, silver band from the box and watched the red gems embedded into the metal glitter as they hit the light in the low, afternoon sun.

You smiled, for real, and looked up at me with wet eyes, "I love it..."

I leaned forward to press a kiss to your lips and gently tilted the ring so you could my name engraved inside before I put it on your left ring finger.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

*

I wanted to run.

Far away.

Far, far away.

Just like that morning.

The doctor...

Oh, god...

He got to me before I could decide.

My breath caught in my throat when he told me you weren't going to make it.

I stood up then and raced down the hall, past the nurses, past the other curtains.

I found you in a small, blood stained alcove, barely breathing, the heart-monitors echoing in my head.

Five-point-one surround...

I dropped to my knees next to the gurney and took your hand in mine.

I kissed the scars, the bruises, the gashes and looked at you through tear filled eyes.

"Stay with me...," you muttered. You sounded hollow. You looked so small.

"Always," I whispered back.

*

That was two years ago. Heroin overdose, mixed with internal bleeding from the beating your father had given you before we ran away.

I haven't been home since, but I did what I had to do to get that house torn down after your father was arrested.

The therapists at the mental hospital told me it was teenage angst, but I knew was more than that.

It was like taking drowning lessons...

I have no doubt my mother is wondering where I am.

I don't care.

I won't go back, not untill you do.

Come home, Brian...

Come home...