The sun rose the next morning to expose a raw and scarred landscape.
Blood streaked and stained the sandy soil, much as its hue stained and streaked the sky; it cast long and emptily-ominous shadows across the grounds, illuminating the eastern wing of Fogg's, nearly restoring it to its former glory.
Slayers with ashen-grey and drawn faces, their shirts torn and spattered with drying blood, wandered like ghosts across the front lawn, hands warily resting on their holsters; they approached prone scattered corpses holding reign over pools of blood, now soaked into the soil, and overturned them with an outstretched, cautious foot. Shots rang out across the grounds and from inside the mansion as a twitching body was found--a healing leech, not yet dead but too injured to move, or the poor cursed slayer with pinholes in their neck--and desperate screams of struggle and fear pierced the otherwise clear, deadened morning air.
And, every now and then, there would be a different sort of wail.
A raw breed of cry--one of bitter shock and pain and loss.
One of the teenagers who had managed to survive the night had just found a fallen comrade.
A brother.
Gerard Way heard all of this.
His eyes were closed, forehead resting against the nozzle of his gun, elbows on his knees.
His breath was steady and his face was calm.
Anyone else would have thought him to be at peace--even Lena, seated next to him, arms crossed in her lap and staring blankly ahead.
But inside of his head, his thoughts were dangerously turbulent.
Where did I go wrong?
His eyes twitched as if in a nightmare. An unconscious flinch.
Why didn't it work?
With each beat of his heart, he was reminded of his failure.
Life.
Life.
Life.
Repulsive fucking awful life--
He stood, abruptly, one hand to his forehead and wearing a grimace of despair; he slammed his Glock to the ground with a surprising cry of raw, desperate anger that lingered in the silent morning air.
The arranged slayers gathered on the grounds glanced up, some even starting in surprise--still skittish from the previous night's battle; all had puzzled expressions on their drawn faces.
Frankie was one of them.
The war was written on his face. Lines that hadn't been there the night before were now prominent on his too-youthful face; they didn't belong there, he didn't deserve them. His jeans were torn, his shirt sloshed with blood--hands and neck and hair, too. There was a distinct slash coming diagonally from the left side of his forehead through the brow, then continuing on the upper cheek below his eye--Morgues had gotten him there with the hidden blade in his carved wolf's-head cane.
He approached Gerard as if one approaching a wild and potentially dangerous animal; the older man allowed Frankie to place a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of tentative, concerned comfort.
He couldn't save Gerard this time.
No one could.
"Tell them we put up a good fight," Gerard mumbled; his voice was as hopeless as the deadened light in his eyes.
"Those leeches ran for a reason. They won't be gathering like this again for a long time."
Gerard then lifted his head. Clear, youthful hazel met wizened and despondent muddy green--the eyes of a man who had given up.
"Lena and I are going back to Jersey."
It was a boldfaced lie and it tasted bitter on his tongue.
He knew Frankie saw right through it.
He pulled the younger man to him in a brief embrace; the younger man understood its significance, even if for the wrong reasons, and hugged Gerard fiercely.
"Bryar would've been proud of you," Frankie whispered softly, his voice hoarse. Gerard nodded his head somberly in response and turned away; Lena stood behind him and embraced Frankie like a brother.
In that tender moment she whispered a small "thank you" in his ear.
Somebody touched Gerard's shoulder and he turned to face Ray; he pulled the other man into his arms and they embraced just as fiercely, if not more so, than Frankie. When Ray pulled back, his eyes were glistening.
"Take care of Jersey for me," Gerard whispered.
Ray nodded slowly.
When Gerard turned again, he came face to face with his brother.
Mikey's glasses were cracked. His face had matured by ten violent years and his stature was weighed down with obvious fatigue; his old Glock dangled from two fingers on his right hand, both crusted with dry, browned blood. Behind the thick and damaged lenses--behind the war and gloom that had glazed his eyes for so long--Gerard could feel rather than see the regret and sense of guilt currently tearing up his brother's ribcage for not being able to save him.
The pistol fell to the ground with a clatter as the Way brothers embraced; time allowed it a few long seconds in which to live before Gerard pulled away. Mikey looked brokenly at his brother, not trying to force a smile like the others had.
He knew why Gerard had so readily agreed to this deathwish--why he'd been the one leading the suicide squad to the front steps of the mansion.
He, almost more than anyone else--just like his brother had been able to sense his guilt--could sense the aura of failure.
"I love you, Gerard," he said softly, pulling Gerard to him one last time.
"Thank you so much."
"I love you too, Mikey."
Gerard bit his bottom lip and withdrew himself from the group, holding Lena's hand; he waved, slow and small, before turning towards the broken gates of the asylum and down the road towards the city of sin.
It wasn't until they'd passed through them when Gerard realized that he was smiling.

--

"I was gonna wear this dress."
Gerard was silent as the stolen car rattled its way down a painfully straight road that lead directly into the heart of the desert; Lena was seated next to him, Glock in her lap, eyes cast down at the soft silk skirts that hung down by her calves.
"When we got married."
Her voice was soft and a bit hoarse, but it rang empty; it hid no emotion, nor did it betray any. All in all, she just sounded tired.
Slowly, and without thinking, Gerard reached over and took her hand. Her head was hung, still, and he could see the gentle rises and falls of her chest, constricted by the brocaded corset.
He brought her fingers to his lips and closed his eyes.
"It'll be better off this way," he mumbled at last, lips moving against her delicate pale knuckles.
"We are... getting married, in a way..."
Lena smiled gently, allowing herself a muted giggle.
"You don't... really want to go back to the way things were--?"
"No," Lena whispered instantly, "no, no... never..."
They were miles from the city now, and from the decimated gas station that had had the misfortune of being the first that the couple spotted on their mission towards death; any gunshots would go unheard, therefore unsuspected.
"Then we have to do this," Gerard mumbled at last.
His heart was beginning to pound harder.
Not with fear. Nor excitement.
The promise of relief. The passion that it brought--the guarantee that with one single click, everything would be beautiful again.
It was about to end.
The horizon was clear on all sides, save for the tips of majestic mountains in the distance, towards the east. Gerard pulled the car over to the shoulder and slowed it to a stop; he was now holding both of Lena's hands in his, facing her.
"Lena..."
He felt her cold palm against his downturned cheek; he sighed, dimly noticing that both he and Lena were beginning to tremble.
"I just... this--th-this means..."
His throat closed around his words and he relieved it with a soft, breathy laugh; he took a deep, shaky breath and placed a hand over Lena's on his face.
"...so much to me..."
Another shaky breath and he was not surprised to find that he was...
He was smiling.
He glanced up.
Lena was smiling too.
She lifted his head and brought their lips together.
"I know," she whispered softly, pressing their foreheads together.
"I love you so much, Gerard..."
A soft inhale.
"...there's no one else I'd rather be with..."
Gerard smiled and bit down on his lips.
"I know..."
He reached forward into the compartment that sat between them and pulled out the Glock--the one he'd had since Rhiannon died.
Their eyes were drawn to it like starving men to a loaf of bread.
A few moments of silence passed.
"Ready?"
A small nod.

--

They held hands as they walked--loosely, carelessly, Glocks swinging in their opposite hands.
They walked until the car disappeared behind the horizon. The sun was beginning to set to their left, illuminating the rocky mountain faces to reveal every cleft and canyon, every crack in their aged visages. Their dull, sandy color was emboldened to a rich and voluminous rose, matching the streaks in the bright orange sky.
Their colors had never seemed so brilliant to Gerard--the air never so clear. Lena's eyes had strayed to the skies like birds, the thought of freedom brightening her carved angel's face; the light in her icy blues danced, making them very much like the gems Gerard had so often compared them to in his mind, despite the clichés he so despised.
She had never seemed more beautiful to him.
More jubilant, in her subdued happiness.
She glanced over at him and grinned effortlessly. There was no weight on the corners of her lips as she gazed at him watching her.
He lifted the hand he was holding high into the air; she twirled beneath their linked fingers without being prompted, alighting onto her toes and letting her skirts fan out beneath her. She laughed musically as Gerard grabbed her waist and lifted her into the air, spinning around once, twice, three times before setting her down again, the colors of the sunset fused into her laugh lines.
He pulled her to him and kissed her, lifting his Glock to her temple, hers to his.
"We'll see each other soon," he mumbled, their foreheads pressed together, unable to wipe the smile from his face.
"It's going to work. I promise. Everything'll be fine--"
"I don't doubt that at all," Lena whispered, giving a soft shake of her head. "Gerard."
"Mm?"
"We're about to be free."
Gerard couldn't help but grin; he wound his free arm around her waist, pulling her closer, their lips meeting for the last time.
The last time, at least, in this life.
His heart was beating faster again.
And if he waited long enough, he could feel Lena's doing the same thing.
"No more leeches," he murmured, as if to himself. "No more running, no more... constrictions..."
"No more," Lena echoed.
Click.
Silence.
"We're almost there."
Gerard closed his eyes.
A few more moments of precious silence passed. He could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart and then a gentle whisper--
"I love you, Gerard."
"I love you too, Lena."
"I'll see you soon--"
"I know, I know. I love you so much..."
His finger was tightening against the trigger with each passing second. The adrenaline was pumping, his breath growing faster--
"--to the very end--"
Bang.
Lena fell to the ground like a dead weight, her blood sloshed unpoetically across the sand; the adrenaline in Gerard's veins turned quickly into a sickening, deadened fear.
He could see all this.
Lena's body was strewn in front of him--lifeless and growing cold. Still soft, still beautiful--her face so serene--
"...no..."
He took his own pistol and positioned it beneath his chin--click click click--
"--no--"
He fell to his knees, scrambling for Lena's; again, below his chin, a series of ineffective clicks--
"NO!"
He threw it to the ground where it bounced several feet away; his roar was nearly primeval with desperate rage and confusion--he pounded his fists against the sandy dirt, his face twisted with emotion he could not describe--
"NO, NO, NO!"
He scrambled once more for the nearest pistol and positioned it against his temple; to no avail, of course, no matter how many times he--
It won't work, Gerard.
His body grew rigid.
A few seconds of agonizing silence passed.
None of it. No matter how hard you try.
The pistol clattered to the ground.
Things are better if you stay, Gerard.


Things are better if you stay.




THE END.