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We existed in a complicated world full of cigarette smoke and cocaine, and late nights in the parks. When I was with Gerard, I was invincible.
He had these soft hands and a gentle touch, even when he was intoxicated. He was an enigma.
We were so imperfect, two flawed beings swinging on a child's playscape at half past one in the morning, drunk and high and happy. He would draw me when I passed out, and sometimes, I would try and stay awake to listen to the almost silent sound of his pencil drawing the curves and lines of my body.
We were simply friends in the beginning, but on the twenty-first of January, that changed. His sweet lips on mine in the nighttime snow broke the midnight catastrophic thoughts that ran through my mind and he tasted like nicotine and alcohol and sweet coffee. I'd never been with a male, nor taken any specific liking to males ever before, but his soft arms and feminine face made me crumble with insatiable want. I'd never experienced such a feeling before.
The strong hands I'd admired for years now had snaked around my body whenever possible. I loved his touch, I craved it.
For my eighteenth birthday, he gave me all the drawings he had drawn of me. I couldn't have asked for a better present.
Sometimes, Gerard wouldn't eat for days on end. He'd just drink, and we'd get high together under the street lights and kiss until our lips were numb and then he'd laugh and say "I love you, Frankie," his voice all breathy and gruff, and I'd say it back and he'd blush and chuckle and tell me that I shouldn't, loving a man like him was never a good idea. "When have I ever done anything that was a good idea?" I'd say, and he would hold me tight and we'd sit on the sidewalk until the high wore off and we fell asleep.
I remember one time, we fucked on a train. I sat on his lap, and he inconspicuously tugged down his trousers and slipped his cock into me, shielding us from the onlookers by just his jacket. I gyrated my hips, trying to not act suspicious, and we both attempted to not make too much sound. At one point, Gerard dropped his jacket, leaving me exposed, and I think he had gotten off on it because he came in seconds, moaning louder than was socially acceptable. The lady across the aisle threatened to report is for public indecency, so we got off on the next stop.
On July sixteenth, Gerard and I ran away. We packed our bags and bought a bus ticket to who knows where, and we didn't come back to his shitty apartment for two and a half months.
It was on September third that we really made love. Not just a quick fuck or a blowjob, though. Real love. It made me nervous.
It was in the park, at quarter of three in the morning, and the park lights had shut off so the only light we had was the moon. He brought this checkered blanket, worn and stained, but it didn't matter much to me. We sat to watch the stars, and Gerard hadn't remembered to bring the alcohol, so we had to be sane and stay with our heads in the real world. It was a strange feeling, because it really made me feel as though we were a real couple.
He'd roll me on top of him, his eyes glistening in the moonlight as if he was the attractive male in a bad romance movie. He was a real human anomaly.
He'd always been the one to fuck me, but this time, he melted under my fingertips.
"Fuck me, Frankie," he whispered, grasping my unclean shirt, and I did. It was slow, and sweet, and his hard shell cracked and he was just a blubbering mess of fire-truck red hair and soft moans. "I love you, Frank," he said, once we were finished, and this time, it was serious, not words muttered by an intoxicated man in the middle of the night. I kissed him with all the force I could muster.
Another birthday passed, and he took me trick-or-treating. It was one of the best experiences I'd had in a long while.
In December, he took me to the movies. I knew he didn't have much money, and the fact that he would spend it on me was overwhelming. We kissed until we got kicked out of the theater.
On May thirteenth, Gerard Way disappeared. Three days later, his dead body was found in the park where we would swing, curled up by the bottom of the swing-set.
"Don't fall in love with a man like me, Frankie," the note read, and I cried and cried until my eyes stung, looking at the beautiful creature that lay lifeless before me, eyes dull and empty, his hands motionless across his lap, an empty bottle of cheap pharmaceuticals next to him. I cried myself to sleep countless nights in a row, but I never told anyone that.
It's been nearly twenty years, and I'm married now, to a beautiful woman, and I've got children. And dogs. But never once, in years, have I gone a day without thinking about Gerard Way.