We're All Outcasts (Gerard Way/ MCR Fanfiction)

Face All The Pain And Take It On

A breath.

But Party was no longer in Bl/ ind HQ. The colour had faded, the grey light giving everything a pale and cold hue. We were in the reality with the Parade, and ash floated from the choked sky like snow, but bleaker, and the kind of white ash which instantly dissipates, leaving behind only a white smudge and the memory of a slight touch.
Party coughed, his vibrant red hair now dark grey and his clothes a long black trench coat with silver buttons, black trousers and polished military boots.

"Goodness - I feel kind of--"

And he collapsed back onto the ground. I manoeuvred him into a sitting position, and I did all I could to keep him upright while his whole body seemed to want to sprawl on the floor.

About a minute later, his eyes fluttered open again, and he finally sat up for himself before asking me (in quite a groggy way - as if he had just woken up from a night of drinking) if he was dead.

"Yes. But instead of your consciousness simply dissipating, you have been transported here instead."

"Right."

There was a pause as his probably muddled brain computed the information.

"Is Korse dead?"

"Yes. I killed him after the Draculoid shot you."

"Oh. I wanted to do that."

"Sorry."

"It is okay."

"Are you feeling alright?"

"I have been worse."

Party frowned, rubbing his temples and looking quizzically around.

"Is Korse here too?"

"I don't believe so."

"Good. He doesn't deserve another life."

"Shall we find the Parade?"

"One more thing, though..."

"What is that?"

"I- I'm sorry - For everything I've done since I met you. I haven't been sincere, and I haven't apologised properly. I know I've said that you shouldn't regret things but I do regret what I've done. I was violent and manipulative and arrogant; I've made you do things and I've hurt you. I wish I never had, and I'm sorry."

He looked at me, holding eye contact for the first time in a way that wasn't intended to bully, and I saw that past the tough exterior, Party was scared of emotions. Finally, I understood how he worked with physical things, sensations, rather than emotions and feelings. Because, after all, the memory of touch dissipates long before the emotions surrounding it. When we create memories, we remember how we felt, as opposed to what we felt.

And Party had gone through so much physical pain that it was natural to him, a given and so when he had nothing he was empty. He craved sensation and he needed to constantly feel something simply because he had blocked out anything emotional and was dependent on touch to replace it.

So I took his hand, and whispered:

"Trust me."

His palm was rough, calloused and as cold as ice, but his eyes were warm; it sounded so clichéd but it seemed like his entire self was held in his eyes and with a single gaze he was laying out his mistakes in front of me.

With a murmur and a matter of secrets, Party returned the gesture by interlocking his fingers with mine in the lightest kind of touch as a single droplet of water fell from his cheek onto the floor.