---Gerard---

My hands squeeze Mikey's, taking everything that I can. Every. Single. Detail. His fingers, once soft, are now calloused from the strong strings of his bass. Rough, detailed, textured skin covering the calloused muscle. His palms are sweaty from either nervousness or work, I can't tell which one but I assume it's a mix of both from the way I know he is. A shy, introvert just like our father once was. My brother's eyes turn from the black flute in front of him to me, the dark orbs made even darker with the sorrow and nostalgia behind them, framed like a picture frame with a rectangle of white. His lips part slightly and he says to me in a voice so quiet that I'm surprised I can hear it over the sounds of the marching band. He whispers out five words which give me hope and begin a slow build of anticipation inside my stomach, "Meet me after the parade."

And with that, his hands leave mine cold and empty as they place themselves right back on the strong strings of the black and white bass before he can get too far out of the song. He continues on with the marching band, passing by several more people but I don't move.

I'm still standing, my hands at my sides on the edge of the street even after he passes because I'm becoming hopeless, the anticipation was only a burst and now, I can only feel the guilt sinking into my veins. What is wrong with me? Why didn't I join him? Why did I let him leave on his own? He needs protection. What is wrong with me? So many questions are flying through my mind in a flurry and it's somewhat overwhelming. Why did I ever stay...?

I feel a sweaty palm on my shoulder but I don't jump. That's why. I stayed to take care of the people I love... I stayed to take care of Mom. I stayed to take care of anyone else who needed me here... Like Patrick...

He's different. He's so much different from the others but I love it about it. I love everything about him. His flaws, his strong points. Even his anxiety. That doesn't mean I don't want him to get over it, though. He needs help, mentally and emotionally... and maybe physically... I notice how he doesn't eat. I notice how he doesn't sit by Pete, Joe, Frank, Brendon, Ryan, and I at lunch. I notice how he usually goes to the bathroom after lunch. I notice how he always covers himself with hoodies. I notice how he always seems so... scared. I want him to feel better. I want to make him feel wanted. I want him to realize how amazing he is. But I think there's something more... Something more than the anxiety and the scars...

I'm scared something is happening at home. He was limping on the way here, he flinched when I pressed him against the locker earlier, he flinches whenever I hold his hand or hug him. I know he cuts and I know he's trying to stop but he's covering more than just his wrists. He's covering emotions and feelings he shouldn't be covering. Bottle them up for too long, and he's going to explode. It's unhealthy.

I wish he liked me in the same way I like him... I have feelings for him and it hurts to know that he probably doesn't for me... He probably never will... He's still figuring out his sexuality and I don't think he'll turn out gay. I don't know why... It just... Things don't usually work out for me and I doubt this will either. But maybe he will and maybe nothing is happening at home and maybe he just has to go to the bathroom after lunch to actually use the bathroom.

And maybe he isn't trying to stop cutting. They're all assumptions...

"That was Mikey, wasn't it?" He asks in his soft voice. I don't reply. I can't reply. The only thing in my mind is his soft, neutral face with a ghost of a smile lining his lips and I can't focus on anything else. Patrick doesn't press it further, instead he takes my shaking hands and brings me back up to the sidewalk where I'm safe from the rest of the parade.

He doesn't speak for a while, I'm just standing, leaning against a telephone pole with tears in my eyes. Patrick is standing in front of me awkwardly, not sure what to do. I don't know how long we're like that before Patrick's voice rings through the air, soft and innocent with a hopeful undertone, "Do you want to go? We can go to the park or find a coffee shop..." He suggests. I only start sobbing more, grateful that he's trying to help me and feeling terrible for being such a burden to him, a poor boy who's stressed enough as it is.

"I'm sorry..." I whisper, my breath shaky from the lack of air and the scent of salty tears.

"Hey, hey," He replies softly, I feel his nervous hand on my shoulder, shaking slightly in fear, "Don't say sorry, please. Let's go, you can um... tell me everything." I can tell he's struggling, scared he'll say the wrong thing, scared he'll mess up. I swallow, wiping my tears and catching my breath as I finally reply in the most gentle voice I can, "Mikey wants to meet me at the end of the parade."

He looks slightly hesitant to say yes and it makes me mad but I hide it. Why would he be hesitant? Doesn't he want me to see my brother? He nods, his warm palm leaving my bony shoulder and taking my hand, leading me away from the telephone pole to follow The Black Parade. My black shoes are cushioning my feet as we walk, he's trying to lead me smoothly through the crowd but there are so many people it's more of a labyrinth than a sidewalk. There're about four blocks of it but Patrick keeps his hard grip on my hand the whole way, determined to get me to my brother.

I don't understand how he still hasn't started trusting me yet but somehow he's comfortable with leading me by my hand, when he doesn't like being touched, through a sidewalk filled with people, when he has social anxiety, just to get me to my destination. I'm grateful, though. I'm really happy that he's beginning to trust me a bit better. If I want to help him, this is what I need. Patrick's grip relaxes slightly when we get out of the crowd and we're at the end of the parade's route.

I don't have time to look around before I see him. Standing by his bus and casing his bass while talking with another boy I don't recognize. As we near them I'm able to make out the other boy's details better. He has short, black hair, straight up in almost a buzz-cut. It looks dark under the cloudy skies but I can tell it would be quite a bit shinier if the sun was out, bringing more light to our little city of Summit. He has a small smile across his dark complexion, a small smirk on the corner of his chapped lips. The smirk plays across his lips in a way that immediately makes me question how trustworthy he is. It makes me suspicious but I try not to judge him too soon, he might be a cool guy and I'm just being an overprotective little shit.

Patrick keeps leading me forward, I'm able to make out more of my brother's details. His brown hair hidden under his gray beanie and white glasses. He zips up the casing for his instrument and hoists it up onto his back, hanging over one shoulder. He looks our way, his dark eyes crossing mine and he has to do a double take to make sure he isn't imagining things. Sure enough, he isn't and he immediately drops his instrument and runs to me, catching me in a tight embrace.

"Gerard!" He exclaims. I squeeze him close. I don't want to let go of him. Not now. Not tomorrow. Never. I want him back. I want him to come home. I want him back like I had him four years ago. I wish he would just come home. I wish... Who am I kidding? He's never coming home... He's happier here than he'd ever be at home. He has friends. He has people who can comfort him... It's been four years but that doesn't mean we can just forget. That doesn't make it all okay. Time can pass and... Fuck, I just got over the third stage of grief at the start of September. The only way I have to cope is just to cause myself harm and... I'm one month clean. I'm proud so far... But it's hard especially when the blade is right there and you're kept up all night by the memories. Straight into the bathroom and I could dull the pain. I've relapsed too many times to count...

This time it'll be different. If I want to support Mikey, I have to be strong. If I want to support Mama, I have to be strong. If I want to help Patrick, I have to be strong. I have to be strong for Frank. I have to be strong for Ryan and Pete. I have to be strong for Brendon and Joe. I have to be strong for everyone. For Patrick. For Mama. For Mikey. For... Dad...

"I missed you so much." I whisper, holding Mikey tight. My voice is cracking, close to crying. Close. But not quite. I have to be strong.

"How were you?" He asks, pulling away much to my disappointment, "How's Mama?"

"I'm healing. Mama... she's doing alright." I reply. That's a lie. She's been smoking more than she used to, almost a pack a day. It's scaring me and I don't know how to make her stop. I don't know what I can do to make her realize it's useless.

Mikey has a challenging, worried look in his eye, he opens his mouth to speak and after a moment of thought he replies, "Is she...?"

I swallow, trying to take the guilt of a lie with it but I can't. He knows the truth and I don't even have to say it. I takes a little bit before I can finally summon the courage to tell the truth. I don't want him to know. I don't want him to know how much pain she's in but he's asking. And it's the right thing to do, "No... She's smoking a pack a day. I... I don't know how to make her stop."

My brother hesitates before finally letting out a sigh of frustration and burying his face in his hands, "Tell her to stop for me. Please. Anything... She needs to stop."

"I can't!" I say, exasperated. I don't know how my voice raised but it just did and it surprises me slightly.

"Yes, you can! Are you even trying?" He replies and I snap because I can't. I can't just make her stop. I can't convince her that it's over. That she just needs to accept it and move on. I can't convince her that she needs to quit it. I have to but I can't because I'm just about as fucked up as she is. Because even I haven't accepted it yet and I don't know how to make her realize that he's gone. I can't just convince her to stop smoking it all away. I'm blind to everything except my brother and my growing rage.

"Mikey I've tried everything, she just won't stop!"

"Well if you don't make her stop she'll end up just like Dad!" Mikey nearly screams at me. I stop. I completely stop and he realizes his mistake. He raises his hands and covers his mouth in guilt, tears sparking at his eyes, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I-"

"Save it." I snap moving back slightly, "Just fucking save it. Talk to me when you realize what the fuck is wrong with you because you haven't been living here for the past four years. You don't know what I have to deal with every single day. Do you know how heartbreaking it is to see her like this? Do you fucking know what it's like to see her on the front porch, crying and smoking and trying to forget? No! No you haven't! She's heartbroken, Mikey! I can't fix a broken heart! While you've been living in paradise for the past four years with friends, I've actually been doing something Dad would have wanted."

"Dad wanted us to go to the parade."

I realize my mistake and we're tied in the battle of arguments. I sigh, shaking my head, as I try to calm myself down. I look back up, not blinded by my rage anymore. I can see. Everyone's watching us. Patrick has tears in his eyes, he's covering his mouth in shock and shaking slightly with fear. His beautiful, blonde hair swaying slightly in the soft breeze. The boy Mikey was talking with also looks shocked and the rest of the marching band is just watching, expressionless. Some disappointed, some minding their own business, and some looking just as shocked as Patrick.

"Here..." I whisper, pulling a piece of tan-white paper from my pocket. Folded neatly with perfect creases and edges. On the inside is him, drawn in pencil. Jacket, badge, and all. Shaded in dark and light gray with a bass by his side but it's hidden by the folds for now. He looks confused as he takes it from me and he's about to open it up but I quickly add, "Open it on the bus."

He looks back up when I say that but agrees with a short nod, folding the paper back up and gently placing it in the pocket. He swallows, choosing his words carefully but I can tell he gives up halfway through when he says, "So... See you next year?"

I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I was holding as I urge myself not to cry but a tear slips out anyways. So that's it, huh? He's just given in. I reply with a, "Yeah,"

He holds out his arms for me. I take his embrace gratefully, the cold buttons of his uniform pressing against my chest and stomach but I don't let it bother me. He's gripping the sides of my hoodie. He doesn't want to let go either. He has to eventually but he won't. I already know that. He was never one to give up easily unless for good reasons and I appreciate that as I pull away, I don't want to but it's time for him to go back on the bus with his friends. If he has friends. Last time I talked with him, he said most of his friends were in their senior year last year. That means they've left by now. Off to college, off to their own lives, to find their place in life. To leave Mikey behind by himself. I'm guessing he made friends with the boy with black hair. He's not completely alone, thankfully...

I turn heel, walking back toward Patrick who is pulling on the black strings of his hoodie nervously. He's biting his lip and he looks a little scared as I walk back.

"I love you."

My breathing hitches. Mikey's voice still ringing through my ears. The air is completely silent. Not a person dares move as I stand still, facing Patrick. I don't reply at first, still deciding if I reply or not. I can't help but wonder if he wants me to just ignore him. If he wants me to shake my head and pull Patrick along but that's a stupid thought. Of course he wants me to reply. Of course he loves me. His words slipped just like mine did. We didn't mean it. We're at a tie. We're even and it's my choice as to whether or not it'll stay that way.

It will. The four words are out of my mouth, the short, "I love you, too," and I'm walking again after a brief pause. I stand in front of Patrick who looks down slightly but takes my outstretched hand. The marching band is still completely silent except for the occasional shuffle of a case or the yell from the crowd a block or so away. In that moment, I want to scream and I want to cry because there's so much tension but I don't let it show. I have to be strong for Patrick. And Mikey. And Mama. And Dad. If I'm not, then I've ultimately failed what I've always wanted to accomplish.

We walk away, up the city block and away from the instruments. Away from the buzz-cut boy. Away from the bass. Away from the black and white couple. Away from the tour bus. Away from my childhood and up the city block. Heading towards the flower shop.

Patrick's hand is shaking violently in mine making me stop and turn to look at him in worry. What's wrong? The sun is setting, I'm guessing it's about half past five or so based off of how early the sun is setting at this time of year. There are maple trees lining the sidewalks. We're just outside of the downtown area right about now. About ten blocks away from my house and eleven blocks away from Patrick's. The air is getting colder, a tension in the air that wasn't there before. It's hard to describe... but it's like a static. The calm before the storm where it's silent. Too silent to be normal and you know something bad's about to happen. In this case, it'll start raining soon and then maybe thunder and lightning. But the rain has already begun. There are tears streaming down his rosy cheeks and he looks completely terrified. He's terrified of me. He pulls away, still shaking violently and lets out a shaky breath.

"Patrick, what's wrong?" I ask, worried.

"I-I'm s-so sorry... P-Please d-don't take this o-out on m-me," He whispers, just barely audible. Those words break my heart and confirm my growing suspicions. Who hurt him? Why does he think I would hurt him? Doesn't he trust me? Is it because I'm mad? Did he think I was going to hurt Mikey? What's happening at home? Is it his dad? His mom? A sibling? How badly is he getting hurt?

"Why would I hurt you, Sugar?"

"Y-You were m-mad and I-I didn't know..." He swallows his tears, wiping them with the sleeve of his hoodie and flinching slightly as his eyes touch his wrists.

"Hey, listen to me." I say gently, trying not to think of Mikey. Trying to stay strong.

He looks up at me with those innocent green eyes. It takes all my will not to snap and start crying of guilt. Did I do something wrong? What's wrong with me? Why is he so scared?

"I will never hurt you, alright. Never. You're my friend and I'm not like that. I don't hurt people. Can you tell me why you'd think I'd hurt you? I really didn't mean to get that mad I was just..." I trail off. He already knows. He knows what Mikey said and he knows what I said back. Nasty, nasty things and I don't like to say things so deep.

His breath hitches slightly like he's shocked I asked him. He looks down, putting his hands in his pockets. He's thinking long and hard about something. It's a hesitation. He doesn't want to tell me something. He's hiding something and I need to know what. I'm about to add something but he interrupts me without knowing, "I'll tell you if you tell me what happened to your Dad. A-And Mikey..." He says. Fair enough but I want to know more.

"You have to tell me everything." I reply. A mix of a thousand emotions wash over him in that moment. Anger, stress, shock, fear, depression, anxiety, joy, shame. It goes by so fast that I barely catch it. His expression stays with want. He wants to tell me? Or he wants me to just stop, "I need to know, Patrick. Please."

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his blonde hair and messing up his bangs. His fedora falls off but I catch it before it hits the ground. It's dirty and I'm not sure from what but I brush off the dirt and place it gently back on his head, "Please, 'Trick?"

"I'm scared..." He confesses. There's complete silence in the neighborhood apart from his shaky whispers.

"Why are you scared?" I whisper back.

"I... Um... Later, okay? B-But I'll tell you, I promise..." He replies still shaking slightly.

I swallow and take his hand in mine, holding it close despite the fact that he flinches. A conversation from a couple weeks ago rings through my mind and I can't help but smile and repeat it back. I promised I wouldn't judge him, so now he has to promise to tell me everything, "How strong are your promises?"

He looks up with raised eyebrows and wet eyes, looking into my eyes as I wipe away the tears.

"I-I have yet to break one," He hesitates, then asks, "Promise to tell me everything about your dad and Mikey?"

I smirk, "I promise."

"How strong are your promises?

"I have yet to break one."