We Can Run, Or We Can Die [Frerard]

Twelve|Fear

The hours tick by, and it soon hits 8pm. Ryan sits at the dining table, picking at his meal, which is cold by now. Opposite him is an empty seat and another cold meal, with flowers wilting in a vase in the middle of the table. Ryan has this lump in his throat, and he's fighting tears as he sadly stabs a softening potato with a fork his mother bought.

He should've been home two hours ago. This night is supposed to be special. It's not their three-year-anniversary for nothing. Maybe he's forgotten. But Brendon wouldn't forget, Brendon remembers everything.

The door opens another half an hour later, and Brendon walks in, tired but pristine, his briefcase stuffed full of papers. Ryan's head snaps up, his eyes full of tears, and Brendon rushes over, apology written over his face. It seems so genuine that Ryan could never see him lying.

Ryan sobbed against the side of the car, knees brought up to his chest. Everyone else was sleeping inside the car, blissfully unaware to the fact that he wanted to rip his own heart out right about now. He yanked at his hair, throat raw from screaming, his stomach blistering from the inside.

Brendon's knees shake as Dallon bites at his neck, smiling as he does so. He doesn't think about Ryan, nor how he's missing dinner just to be here. His boss' fingers fumble at his ugly work slacks, pushing them down to his knees and grinding their crotches together. Floor meets knees and mouth meets cock as Brendon's back arches and his fingernails scrabble at the desk, wooden edge digging into his asscheeks. He can only think about how good it feels to have Dallon's mouth around him. He doesn't think about Ryan at all.

Ryan couldn't breathe. His wracking sobs made it difficult for him to get air into his lungs. Everything was hitting him at once. The diary, the affair, the apocalypse, the fighting, Brendon, the zombies, the job, Brendon, the dinners, Brendon, the silence, Brendon, Brendon, motherfucking Brendon.

Brendon was consuming him, even from beyond the grave, and he couldn't do it anymore. He just couldn't. He was breaking, crumbling, dissolving, and nobody was holding him together. But it wasn't as if there were a horde of zombies to -

Wait.

He wiped his streaming eyes, standing up on the shakiest legs he'd ever had. He quietly opened the car door, looking at Frank and Gerard, who were sound asleep in the back, and his eyes drifted to the gun that lay on the dashboard. Gerard's gun. With a single bullet in it. Saved for Gerard.

His hands trembled as he leaned over Bert, the sleeping lion, who had drifted off in the driver's seat several hours before, to pick up the pistol. It was heavy in his hand, cold and unforgiving, and he withdrew from the car, closing the door behind him. He sat back down again, turning the gun over and over in his hands, before screwing his eyes shut.

"Where have you been?" Ryan asks, swallowing heavily.

"I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so, so sorry." Brendon cups his face, biting his lower lip. "Dallon made me stay behind to finish off some stuff." Only a half-lie. He glances towards the table, and his face falls further. "Oh, fuck. Oh my God, I totally forgot. Baby, I'm so sorry."

Sorry. If only Brendon were here to say it now.

Sorry.

Sorry.

He staggered to his feet, stumbling into the pitch-black field, the moon hidden by clouds above him. It was cold, and if he wasn't shivering then, he certainly was now. It didn't take long for the car to vanish behind him, with four alive, sane people inside. Four alive, sane people that had never been cheated on, that were whole and able to deal with what was happening much better than he ever could.