Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

November 18, 2021

Gerard’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, face-down, rattling annoyingly against the hollow IKEA MDF. He didn’t need to look to already know that it was Mikey, probably texting for the 3rd time that afternoon to confirm their lunch plans. As if they didn’t meet the same time every single week.

Except, the thought of moving and washing his face and putting on real pants, of leaving the apartment in general - it all felt too gruelling to handle. The grey sunless-light of the New Jersey winter seeped through his blinds, casting the living room in a depressing shade that felt both overly-dramatic and entirely appropriate, all things considered.

He reached for his phone, ignoring the messages app and opened the notes app instead. It was corny, like so fucking corny that he was pretty sure there was a teen Netflix show with this exact premise, but he’d started keeping a notes app list on his phone titled, with a stunning lack of creativity, "Reasons Not To".

It was a cringey note containing his pathetically short list of reasons to keep waking up each morning. He scrolled to the bottom of the list and added a new entry before slamming his cell back down. 

#18 - Lotion wearing silly outfits

Lotion, his slightly evil British shorthair cat, was currently curled in a tight ball on the armchair, as far from the "silly outfit" as possible, which now sat abandoned on the TV stand. It was less of an outfit and more of a tiny felt cowboy hat. It was also Mikey's doing, meant to double as an attempt to cheer Gerard up. The thought had been sweet, in Mikey's own strange way, and it actually sort of worked.

Gerard had snapped a picture of a furious-looking Lotion, the hat attached with an elastic under his chin and his ears pressed outward and down, and for about 30 seconds, he’d laughed, a genuine fucking giggle at his poor baby’s humiliation and rage. The cat had bolted the second the hat was shaken off, shooting Gerard a look of extreme betrayal before disappearing under the bed for 2 hours.

And so, it went on the list. Number 18. He’d consider later, probably around 3am when he ran out of other ways to distract his brain, how fucking depressing it was that he was only on number 18 and was already scraping the bottom of the barrel for reasons. Lotion in a hat. Jesus fucking christ. The concept that he really had so little to live for was the exact kind of thing he’d put on the opposite list, if he kept one, which he didn’t, due to the fact that actively listing reasons to "do it" probably wasn’t in his best interest. 

He had somewhat of a history with lists, though. Once, in one of his earlier college tries at sobriety, he’d started one called "Why Not To Drink Anymore (Seriously Gerard You Idiot)". It was fucking brutal to freshly remember everything. "That time you projectile vomited vodka redbulls all over Ray’s passenger seat on the way home from new years and he just pulled over and started cleaning it with gas station napkins without saying a word while you cried". That one was right at the top. "That time on a beach trip with classmates you got too drunk to figure out public transit home and ended up taking a cab you couldn’t afford and had to call mom at 2am". Lower down, but still vivid. "That time you almost let a couple of enthusiastic tourists from Manchester talk you into a three-way in the disgusting bathroom of a bushwick bar, when you weren't technically single". 

Writing that list had been fucking awful. He felt an intense shame with each bullet point, like waking up the morning after all over again. A shame, once he'd looked at the picture as a whole, he feared would maybe never disappear, giving him a low tier feeling of nausea whenever he thought about it too long, which was most nights trying to fall asleep. But, it also worked pretty well. For a while.

When the itch for a drink started crawling under his skin, he’d pull up the note. The horrible memories were usually enough to have him ordering a diet coke with lime, whining intensely about the FOMO, but staying dry at least.

Then, 6 months into this Strat, his phone had a tragic run-in with the bottom of the toilet bowl and he lost the note. He lost everything in his notes app really -  half-formed comic ideas, grocery lists from months ago, lyrics that seemed very important at 4am, reminders of who not to text and why. He hadn’t backed any of it up. Why would someone as stupid as him, a man who could barely remember to buy cat food before Lotion started eyeing up his ankles, think to do something like that? Of course, he had managed to back up photos from a time that made him miserable to remember, which only seemed to make things worse as he found himself flipping through them late at night. 

The thought of reconstructing his catalogue of humiliations all over again was unbearable. So, he just didn’t. He had a single glass of wine that exact, tragic toilet-water-logged night. Just one, ya know, to take the edge off the grief. Then somehow it was a glass with dinner, because why not, since he’s already broken the seal on it. Then it was a bottle while watching bad tv to make it funnier. Slippery slope, as they say. One of the slipperiest. 

And now here he was. Definitely not sober, but not at his worst. Yet. Existing in a lukewarm middle-ground, with a cat who probably hated him and a list of 18 pathetic reasons to keep going in time to let things get worse.

The phone buzzed again, skittering a half-inch. Lotion opened one eye, glared at the noise, then at Gerard, as if this were all his fault.

“I know dude,” Gerard muttered. He heaved himself off the couch. The movement disturbed the maze of empty cans and discarded papers on the floor. “I’m going.”

//

“You look awful man,” Mikey said by way of greeting, one he was using more and more frequently. He was already seated at their usual wobbly table in the back of the cramped Vietnamese place. 

“Thanks,” Gerard grumbled, shedding layers, a giant thrifted leather coat with a fur collar and a scarf that still smelled of cigarettes and cat despite the nic-gum and wash cycles. He collapsed into the chair opposite his brother. “You look like a traffic cone.” Mikey was wearing an obnoxiously bright orange puffer vest. A new look, or perhaps another bizarre pick-me-up strategy.

“It’s called visibility, Gee. I’ve started cycling. Forreal though, you look rough,” Mikey’s gaze swept over Gerard’s paint-and-otherwise-stained black jeans and faded Misfits tee peeking out from under a ratty flannel. “Did you even sleep?”

“Um. I slept.”

“For eight hours? As in actually asleep, or laying in bed with your eyes closed listening to a 2-hour long YouTube video about the disney fastpass?”

“Ugh whatever. I'm rested.”

Mikey hummed in obvious disapproval. He pushed a menu towards Gerard, despite the fact that they both knew what they were getting: The char siu bahn mi. It was the only thing they ever got. They’d been coming here for years at this point and rarely ever switched it up.

The server, a woman who had long since given up trying to make small talk with the two awkward Way brothers, came over. “Usual?” she asked.

“Two number 5s,” Mikey confirmed. “But we're gonna go with one char siu, one crispy tofu. To share.” He shot Gerard a look that said check this crazy shit out, eyebrows raised and all. “We’re sampling tonight.”

Gerard rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He supposed this was yet another attempt to inject novelty into his lives. "Try the tofu! It’s good for you! It’ll be an adventure!". As if a different protein in a sandwich could fix all the things wrong with him, the never-ending list of deficiencies that separated himself from functioning society.

They waited in silence, thank fuck. Mikey was one of the few people Gerard could be silently miserable around without feeling like a complete burden. He just scrolled on his phone, occasionally showing him a meme that Gerard would either pretend to understand or pretend to find funny, while Gerard sat there and tried to mentally list colours and shapes he saw to avoid thinking too introspectively.

“So,” Mikey said finally, not looking up from whatever he was intensely reading. “What’s on the list?”

Gerard stiffened. “What list?”

Mikey put his phone down and levelled a stare at him. “The ‘Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night’ list. Mom told me a while ago. Plus I saw you scrolling it last week next to me on the couch, title and all.”

Gerard sighed. He should have known, his mom was a fucking blabbermouth and Mikey noticed everything like a gossip sponge, soaking up information to use on you later. “It’s not that important. Just… a coping thing.”

“Okay, that's good. So tell me about it.”

Gerard, under brotherly duress, pulled out his phone. “Number 18 was Lotion in the cowboy hat. I sent you the pic. He was so pissed.” A reluctant smile touched Gerard’s lips. “He hacked up a hairball as revenge this morning.”

“Good for him. Standing up for himself against his mean mom.” Mikey said as if he wasn't the one responsible for that very hat. He leaned forward, elbows on the sticky table (gross). “What else Gee?”

Gerard looked away, studying the sun-bleached poster of Ha Long Bay on the wall rather than his brother's eyes. He knew he couldn't get away with lying to Mikey, and he was too drained to bother deflecting anyway. “You,” he mumbled.

“I certainly hope there’s more than just me and the cat. I won’t tell Mom she didn’t even make the list.”

“She’s on there,” Gerard said. “She’s number 4. 'Don’t break Mom’s heart again'. Don’t tell her that, though. Or that she’s not first.”

Mikey’s expression softened. “My lips are sealed. Who’s 1 through 3?”

“1 is… I dunno. The mess. Who’d find me and who'd have to clean the apartment. It’d be a biohazard situation, and whatever real estate agent who tried to sell it after would have to disclose that it was haunted.” It was a weak joke and Mikey didn’t laugh. 

Their food arrived, cutting off his brother’s interrogation. The sandwiches were fucking delicious, as always. For a few minutes, there was just the sound of chewing, and the only thing Gerard thought about was how good the bread was here.

Then Mikey, with his mouth half full, said, “You know, you could add this sandwich to the list. It’s a good sandwich.”

Gerard almost laughed. “You should be a counsellor with that kind of advice. ‘Pork is good, don’t kill yourself.”

“It’s a start.” Mikey shrugged. “Might help to focus on the small stuff, Gee. Big stuff feels so serious sometimes. Maybe you gotta start with stuff like the sandwich. And Lotion’s hat. And the way Mom always calls you ‘Gerard Arthur Way’ when she’s pissed.” He took another bite. “If I had a list, I’d add this sandwich.”

Gerard stared at him. Sometimes, Mikey’s "unique" brand of wisdom, even if he was usually joking, actually made sense. He looked down at his half of the char siu side. It was a really fucking good sandwich. 

He took a bite and over his chews, considered how the bread had the perfect level of crunch without cutting his mouth, its perfect level of sauce that somehow wasn't too soggy or dry or mayo-y.  He thought about how, for the last few minutes, he maybe felt kind of okay. 

The moment passed as quickly as it came, of course. As they were finishing, swapping sandwich halves as per their unspoken agreement (they both wanted the char siu, but again, novelty), Gerard felt the restlessness return. The loneliness of his apartment loomed in his mind. The list with its pathetic 18 entries. The zero messages or emails or texts waiting for him.

He stood up abruptly. “I’m gonna get a drink.”

Mikey’s hands froze with the last bite of his sandwich half partway to his mouth. He glared at his brother. “Gerard.”

“Don’t,” Gerard snapped, a bit ruder than he'd meant to. He just didn't want to hear it. He moved before Mikey could say anything else, walking to the fridge at the front of the shop and yanked open the glass door. His hand hovered over the rows of craft beers, scanning for one that was a good IBV to price ratio. He grabbed one, some local IPA with a stupid, ironic name and an ugly label that made him cringe and paid for it at the take-out counter. 

When he returned to the table, cracking the can open before he even sat down, Mikey was watching him with that disappointed expression that was worse than any scolding, though he still scolded anyway. 

“If you already know what I’m gonna say,” Mikey said, “then you know you shouldn’t be doing it.”

“Mikey.” It was less of a warning and more of a plea. Don’t make this harder. Don’t make me feel bad right now.

Mikey held his gaze for a long second, then looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He shrugged. “Whatever, man. Just another thing I won’t tell Mom about, I guess.”

The sarcasm was a thin veil over his obvious frustration. Gerard felt it, but his brother really didn’t understand. He took a long gulp from the can, not even bothering to pour it into the glass supplied to him by the staff member who cashed him out. The beer was hoppy, bitter, and in his fucked up mind, exactly what he needed to chill out. 

“Thanks,” he said, feeling kind of hollow despite the buzz he knew would come soon.

“For what?”.

Gerard shrugged. “For not telling Mom. For… the sandwich. And for the hat.”

Mikey finally looked at him again and he looked tired. Gerard was familiar with that look. It was the look right before someone gave up on him. “Just… add the sandwich to the list, okay? And more stuff? Promise me.”

Gerard nodded, eyes flicking away. “Yeah. Okay.”

#19. The Char Siu Bahn Mi at Pho Ever.

//

November 23, 2021

‘Group’, as he called it, was on Tuesday evenings. It was held in the fluorescent-lit basement of a community centre that also hosted Zumba for Seniors and music lessons. The room was certainly a good place to be depressed, decor-wise.

Gerard wasn't a huge fan of the whole thing, but his mother had threatened to move back home if he didn’t find something, and this one was free as opposed to a pricey shrink. At least there was a liquor store close by that he could hit on the way home. 

He slumped in his usual chair, a hideous peeling metal-and-vinyl situation that looked like it was first purchased when the place had been built. He was early. Kelly, the social worker who ran the group, was setting out the coffee and store-brand cookies like it was a damned AA meeting, which it kind of was, given that this was a group meant for the niche demographic of 'suicide survivors who were also cripplingly addicted to some kind of substance', though that was a real mouthful so 'group' it was.

Kelly was nice. Like, psychotically nice, given that this was probably not a well-paying gig. She spoke in the gentle, measured tone of someone trying to calm a spooked animal, which felt both patronizing and also, embarrassingly, somewhat soothing. 

“Gerard! How are we this week?” she asked, her smile too bright.

“Peachy, Kelly. Just peachy like pie.”

She either didn’t hear the sarcasm, or chose to ignore it. “I’m glad! We have the cookies you like today. The double stuffed oreos.”

He hummed in acknowledgement. Extra sugary oreos were a low bar for joy, but he’d take it. He did really like those ones.

People trickled in slowly, mostly the regulars. There was a woman in her 60s who always wore a different scarf and talked about her son who never called, a guy who looked like a retired trucker, whose stories always featured his ex-wife in some way. A few others who were either not interesting enough or too depressing to consider 'characters', each walking the tightropes that were their own shitty lives.

And there was also Frank.

He was somewhat new to the group, and Gerard had obviously noticed him the moment he'd first appeared a few weeks ago. In a group of 9, where the median age skewed towards retirement and the main vibe was “weathered resignation”, Frank stuck out like a circus clown at a Cure show.

He was short and wild, dressed like a punk kid, in ripped jeans and band shirts under open flannels. The rare times he showed skin, Gerard couldn't help but take note of the tattoos littering his arms, joining the visible ones on his hands and neck. His hair was dark and messy, grown out so it covered part of his face and curled at the ends around his ears and neck. And his face… well. He had one of those faces that could look incredibly innocent one second, all wide puppy-dog eyed innocence, and fierce the next, with heavy lids and intense eyebrows. Essentially, he was hot as fuck, which almost made up for his... less pleasant qualities. 

Frank was sort of an asshole. He barely ever spoke, and when he did, it was in short, clipped sentences that he was just saying to get the spotlight off him. He had all this pent up energy, and spent most of the group jiggling his knee and tapping his finger and picking at skin like he was about to bolt the second he had the chance. He was also the only one there who seemed around Gerard’s age, by his estimate.

Gerard had never paid him too much attention outside of visual appreciation. He was too wrapped up in the performance of his own participation - trying to sound coherent, trying not to cry, trying to seem like he was making progress so Kelly wouldn’t give him another one of those looks, like she was about to invoke the right to report that you’re at imminent risk to yourself. 

Tonight, however, the spotlight of forced sharing landed on Frank again.

“Frank,” Kelly said, her voice overly happy. “We haven’t heard from you in a while. Would you like to share something about your week? A challenge, or even a small victory?”

Frank, who had been fiddling with the loose strands from the rips in his jeans, didn’t even bother to look up. “Nope.”

“It can be anything,” Kelly pressed, seemingly undeterred. “Sometimes, just naming a feeling can help.”

Frank let out a huff of annoyance. “The feeling is ‘I wanna be anywhere but here.’ Is that good enough for you?”

A tense silence fell over the circle.

“All feelings are valid here, Frank,” Kelly said, but her smile had grown strained. “But perhaps we could explore what’s behind that. Is there something specific causing you frustration?”

Frank finally looked up. His gaze was flat, like this whole thing bored him. “What’s not causing me frustration? Have you looked around lately? The world is loud and ugly and horrible. People are selfish and stupid. Everything is a lie designed to sell you something or make you feel like shit so you’ll buy something the fill that void. Art is dead, music is commercial. Every conversation is just waiting for your turn to talk, or waiting for it to be over. Like this one.” 

He gestured at the circle. “This is all bullshit. Sitting in a room with a bunch of strangers, pretending we can fix each other with words and cookies. It’s stupid. I don’t have ‘challenges’. I have a fundamental problem with existence. And I don’t have ‘small victories’ at all. I hate everything and everyone and I don’t want to be here.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms like he was proud of his own tirade. “So. Yeah. Can we move on now?”

The room was silent, save for the buzz of the overhead lights. Gerard realized he’d stopped breathing. He was staring at Frank.

Frank was SUCH an asshole. How hard is it to just bullshit your way through this? And yet.. Something about that whole monologue had wormed its way into Gerard’s brain. He only sort-of agreed with some of his nihilism, and he didn't empathize at all with Frank's attitude. But he realized, as the conversation started to move on, he felt some sort of perverse interest in the jerk blooming in him.

See, Gerard's biggest problem wasn’t that he was depressed - which like, don't get it twisted, he absolutely was depressed - but there was a reason for it. He wasn't like most of the people here, who seemed to have a hard time feeling things or connecting to things. Gerard was.. A lot. He felt a lot. All the time. He didn’t do anything halfway; if he was angry, he was outraged. If he was happy, he was ecstatic. If he had a crush, he was in love. And if he was sad, he was fucking devastated. 

That wasn’t that much of an issue when things were going well for him, but it had been a long time since things had gone well. And it wasn’t something normal people couldn’t handle. He could only mask it for so long before people realized how fucked up he was and distanced themselves. Before he said too much, or gave too much of himself away, or took a joke too far, or read into a comment and blew it all up himself. Nobody stuck around for very long. It was inevitable that everyone he knew would hate him eventually. 

That’s exactly what piqued his interest. Frank hated everyone. He saw the worst in everything. In a twisted sense, Gerard felt like he might be able to talk to him and not have to pretend not to be hate-able. It was definitely selfish, Frank clearly did not want to make any friends here, and Gerard was not there to offer him any consolation about whatever it was he had going on. Gerard just wanted to experiment with socializing mostly risk-free. Well, besides the obvious risk of being further berated by a dude he found hot - another thing that he would later examine and probably beat himself up over for. 

The rest of the group passed by without any major drama. Someone else talked about finding a new recipe they wanted to try, someone else cried about a lost cousin. Gerard didn’t hear any of it. He was too busy watching Frank, who had retreated back into his shell, a look of boredom on his face, as if he were enduring an 8am lecture.

When Kelly finally gave her closing spiel about self-care and reaching out, Gerard was the first one out of his chair. He usually lingered, hoping for a few more minutes of obligated friendly human contact, even the weird, stilted kind offered here. Tonight, he beelined for the door, stopping just outside in the hallway, pretending to fumble with the buckles on his messenger bag.

He saw Frank walk out, not saying goodbye to anyone. He just started walking, head down, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

Without fully thinking it through - a recurring theme in his life - Gerard fell into step a few paces behind him. They exited the community centre into the biting winter night. Thankfully it hadn’t started snowing yet. 

Frank turned left, heading towards the mostly empty parking lot. Gerard followed.

“Hey,” Gerard called out.

Frank didn’t turn. He kept walking, picking up his pace. So he definitely heard.

“Frank. From group. C’mon, please.”

He stopped. He turned back slightly, his face illuminated by the yellow glow of the streetlight. He looked annoyed. “What?”

“I, uh…” Gerard suddenly felt stupid. What did he want? He hadn't thought this far. “I just… wanted to say. What you said in there. It was… interesting.”

Frank’s expression didn’t change. “That’s a very low bar for entertainment. The world must be your oyster.” He started walking again.

“No, wait.” Gerard took a step forward. “I mean it. All that Holden Caulfield stuff about everything being a lie. I… get what you were saying.”

Frank paused, only halfway looking back over his shoulder. His eyebrow twitched upward a bit. “So? You and everyone else in my psychology 101 class. It’s not a unique insight.”

“I know that,” Gerard said. “Look dude. I get that you don’t want to make nice. You think this is all bullshit.”

Frank fully turned now, facing him. “Correct. Gold star. Now fuck off.”

"Exactly," Gerard pressed on, stubborn and uncaring enough about the consequences to continue. “See, with everyone else, I’m always just waiting for them to figure out I’m too annoying or too fake or not enough. And then they leave. Or they stay and hate me quietly. It’s exhausting.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” Frank said flatly. “Get a hobby.”

“But you,” Gerard said, and he heard the slightly unhinged note in his own voice. “You already hate everyone, you said it yourself. So with you… there’s nothing to wait for. You already think I’m pathetic and this is stupid. So we could just… skip all that. Skip the waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s already on the floor, ya know?”

There was a long silence. Frank stared at him. For the first time, the mask of disdain flickered, replaced by something akin to stunned disbelief, his eyebrows drawing together and his eyes widening. His jaw hung open for a moment before he let out a single laugh. 

“Holy shit,” Frank said. “You’re not just sad, you’re fucking crazy man. That’s your pitch? ‘You already hate me, so we can hang out without the pressure’?”

Gerard felt a flush creep up his neck, but he held Frank’s gaze. “Yeah. Basically.”

Frank shook his head slowly, a grin spreading across his face that held no warmth. “That is the single most insane, loser-ish thing I have ever heard. And I’ve heard a lot of shit in that room.” He took a step closer. “You think that’s gonna easier? You think hanging out with someone who finds you and your whole sad-sack existence actively annoying is a relief instead of just finding people who like you?”

“Yes,” Gerard said, and to his own surprise, he kind of meant it. “It’s honest.”

Frank laughed again. “Honest. Jesus. You’re a masochist.” He looked Gerard up and down, then shrugged, as if he’d been holding something back. “You know what? Fine. Whatever. You want to ‘skip the steps’? Let’s skip them. Everything you say is annoying. Your desperation for approval is obvious. I feel like this conversation is actively making me dumber. If you’re so eager for someone to confirm your worst fears about yourself, I guess I can help with that. It’s not like I have anything better to do than hate things.”

He turned and started walking away. “Don’t fucking follow me. I’ve reached my quota for talking to you today.”

He didn’t look back.

Gerard stood frozen, the cold seeping through his coat. The insults should have sent him spiralling. Deranged. Loser-ish. Annoying. Desperate. Awful.

But instead, standing there alone in the freezing dark, a smile broke across his face.

It was the most honest review he’d ever gotten. No bullshit, no beating around the bushes or walking on eggshells, no ghosting him after the invisible tallies became too high.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers stiff from the cold, the screen too bright in the dark of the night. He opened the notes app and scrolled to the bottom. This was, without a doubt, the worst idea he had ever had. It was basically the equivalent of emotional self harm. Whatever. He typed anyway.

#20. Make Frank from group be my friend.

He looked up at the empty parking lot, at the spot where Frank’s dark figure had disappeared into the night. 

“Okay, you asshole,” he whispered to the frigid air. “Game on.”

//

Gerard’s Notes App

Reasons Not To.

Last edited: Today, 3:14 AM

1. Someone would have to find me - Mikey has a key, that would be fucked up. Would ruin his life

2. Mikey - I’m his best friend. Would also ruin his life

3. Lotion - my baby. Plus Mikey and mom are allergic so he’d probably go to a shelter 

4. Mom - should be higher, but she’s tougher than Mikey or Lotion 

5. Dune movie coming out soon

6. Italian sandwich shop opening across the street - might be really good

7. Would ruin Christmas (all of them) + birthdays - no good time of year to do it really 

8. New Batman movie coming out soon - can robby p pull it off? 

9. Hypothetical trip to San Fran w/ Ray next year

10. Oh fuck, Ray - pretend this is higher

11. New pizza innovations to try – bulgogi pizza down the street

12. Have never won bar trivia, need to do that before I die

13. Need to play new Lego Star Wars game - at least once

14. Haven’t finished the comic - who knows, might be good enough that I dont wanna kms

15. Walking around when it’s snowing and ur all bundled up - lame, but true

16. That one song by olivia rodrigo that comes on the radio - need to do at karaoke

17. The chance that it might feel different someday

18. Lotion wearing silly outfits - self explanatory

19. The Char Siu Bahn Mi at Pho Ever - also self explanatory

20. Make Frank from group be my friend - basically an impossible task. Very stupid