Chapter Text
“I don’t know what to do with my life,” Gerard started, taking a big sip of his coffee and locking his eyes at something specific on the floor.
His little brother, Mikey, sighed. His long fingers were restlessly running over the blue ceramic mug of his. “Well, there’s an end to everything, I suppose. Sooner or later, something will change. Right?”
And he was actually right, but of course Gerard wouldn’t ever admit that directly. They were brothers, after all. “Yeah, maybe.”
The younger Way narrowed his eyes at him in his most threatening manner. But the artist had already built a strong immunity against it; it would never affect him. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” His eyes went up to Michael innocently.
“Don’t do that, either!” Mikey pointed his bony finger at him.
Gerard chuckled and quickly finished his coffee before putting it on the milky counter. Shit, the university dormitory looked better than his own apartment. He liked coming here because of the well-designed interior, which inspired his artistic soul so much. And to see his brother, of course.
“Tell Pete about my works, please. Call me after you ask, okay? Will you call me?” The brown-haired man gently took out a cigarette from a smashed pack in his pocket.
Mikey carefully lit it up. “I got it, I got it. Alright.”
“Promise you won’t forget?”
The guy grimaced, but the look on his brother’s face made him agree. “Fine. I promise.”
Gerard tried to crack a smile as he took a drag of his cigarette. He always made that face when he was trying to look calm and satisfied, but he wasn’t, in fact.
He started walking towards the exit, and Mikey was following him persistently as if the only thing he wished for was having Gerard out of his place. And Gerard understood that and didn’t blame him at all. Probably, having a poor, mentally ill older brother sucked. Actually, Mikey always had gotten into trouble because of him; as children, they constantly had to change schools since Gerard had been bullied for almost all his way through school. Now, he was still a pain in his family’s asses. He was grateful to them for being patient with him, but couldn’t help but feel like a burden.
Mikey opened the door stiffly, as if he was saying “leave, leave, God, please, go away” with every single atom of his body. Before stepping out, the older Way turned to him one more time, moving a cigarette in front of the other’s pale face. “Don’t forget to talk to Wentz.”
“And to call you, yeah, we’ve been through this before,” He interrupted.
Gerard let out a deep breath. “Yeah. Alright, see ya, I guess…” He walked out and began leaving the dormitory. “Behave yourself and don’t party all night!” He shouted.
Mikey grinned, his arms crossed as he continued standing in the doorway. “Says you!” He replied.
The artist giggled to himself and made his way down the thin stairs. Their unreliability made him nervous every time he came there. This time, he decided to do it faster, without thinking or looking down. It really helped.
The city was very much alive. The sounds of the traffic and busy streets were distracting Gerard from his helpless thoughts. The asphalt rustled pleasantly under the soles of his sneakers, and the thick smoke, which was coming out of his mouth, filled the air around him with every step and breath he took.
Coffee and cigarettes were probably not the best idea when your stomach is empty. Gerard realized that too late, but didn’t stop inhaling the cancer. There was a whole day ahead. For everything. Perhaps, he’d find something to fill his stomach with. Or not. It didn’t matter.
The main thing was, Way actually had something to do that day. It was awesome to have some work to do. It was fucking amazing to sketch or paint than to fight with cockroaches back home or to wander around the town aimlessly like he always did. From this, his sneakers began to slowly fall apart. Hell, he probably had learned all the streets and bends of the city already.
Gerard’s life was not perfect, yet he still found beauty in it. He loved being a comic artist, and he loved Newark. It was just a little difficult to deal with at times.
But he was going to make it, like he always did.
The middle-aged man opened the door into the art studio energetically, beaming at the sight of his very dear friend Ray, sitting hunched over a small desk. “Toro!” he almost sang out.
This tiny peach-coloured room, reeking of cheap scented candles and canvases, filled with paint by its corners, had been given the sunny side of the world. Playful rays of the fucking fireball crept furtively through the dirty windows, truly illuminating only the curls of one of the artists and the dust in the space.
The other man smiled in response. “Hey. You reek. Want a cup of coffee?” he lazily pointed at one of the plastic cups with hot, smelly liquid on the edge of the stained table, rubbing his eyes with his other hand.
“Usually, I would kill for at least ten of them,” Gerard stated, taking his supplies from the drawer next to the door. “And thank you, of course, but I already tortured my brother for three of them.”
“Ah, poor little Mikey,” Ray sighed, now twirling a pencil between his fingers in the air. “You’re pretty lucky to have him, though. My brother is an absolute dick, who lives in New York City.”
“Don’t get too upset about it. Newark is almost like the Big Apple. Just trashier and more depressing.”
The curly guy laughed behind him, then loudly yawned as the milk chocolate-coloured door opened again. Brian entered. Gerard nervously clenched his old brushes with rigid ends in his hand.
“Guys,” he began. Ray looked up from his unknown work silently. Way still hadn’t moved. “I have no clue what you’re sitting your ass here for the whole week for, but I just wanna you to know that the company has declined our request to work with them on a new Batman comic. Sorry.” Despite his passive-aggressive approach, his face was as tired as their own. Brian sighed and just stood in the doorway for a moment. No one knew what to do next. This new issue was their only hope. Now, it was all gone, and they could just see their finances sailing farther and farther away from them.
“Fuck,” Gerard hushed through the gritted teeth.
“I know, right?” Schechter replied. “Just fucking great. Now we’ll never pay for this studio and all the paint and paper. I’d become an economist, just like my mother wanted me to be, and Ray would start asking strangers next to the church for alms, pretending to be a blind, disabled man. And Gerard would either become a prostitute or die somewhere in the alley due to the mix-up of the Vicodin and vodka.”
“Or,” Toro cut in. “We just draw some quick, simple stuff, go to the park and sell them like we used to do years ago.”
Gerard snapped his fingers. “Exactly! The pictures of the ocean sell better, I bet.”
Ray grinned. “People don’t like ordinary sunsets nowadays?”
“Guys. Guys!” Brian burst in again, waving his hands. “A couple of five-dollar bills wouldn’t save us. We are behind schedule and seriously in debt to the landlord.”
“Speak for yourself, Schechter!” Way turned around to him, almost ready to start painting. “Who cares about the schedule? Oh, and, oh God, here you are, being negative again. Go and pray for us, I don’t know! Start believing in us, for the sake of all the angels and the Greek gods!”
Brian furrowed his eyebrows, but remained silent, and a second after, he left the room.
As for Ray, he had already started merely sketching.
“I tried to be perfect, but nothing was worth—“
the slim velvet fingers slipped off the right strings for the hundredth time, creating an unpleasant, intermittent sound.
“—it.”
Frank fell silent and stared down at the guitar in his hands hopelessly. He had around one hundred years to learn the guitar and the whole eternity ahead of himself to perfect it. And yet, he couldn’t get the beginning of one of the easiest songs just right.
Even Jimmy Page was bad at guitar once. Even Jimmy Page was bad at guitar once.
Although fuck Jimmy Page. Hardly.
With these thoughts, he tossed the instrument away on the floor. Iero threw it a furious look. “Don’t glare at me like that,” he said, without really expecting a response.
He should have, though. Objects in this part of Newark definitely could speak, listen, or watch. The ancient Romanian paintings on the violet walls down the stairs, which his mother adored so much, were always looking at him in the weirdest way imaginable.
This damn guitar was watching him right now, totally judging.
Just like everything in this lifeless place.
Frank blinked a few times and groaned at the end.
The jet black door had opened so brusquely that he almost jumped. Jokes aside, he literally jumped and barely choked out some swearing.
An arrogant fake redhead, part-time, his twin sister, Cordelia, was peeking out of the dark hallway behind her. She stepped into his kingdom of broken musical instruments, dreams and dirty underwear. “You’re way too energetic for a living dead,” she said.
“Fuck off,” Frank breathed out, shifting his weight on the ugly purple carpet. “Wait, you brought food? I’m sorry then, don’t fuck off. Not now, at least.”
The girl let out a nasty, sneering laugh as her long fingers rummaged through her back pocket. After a moment, she pitched a pack of blood substitute into her brother. “I can’t understand how you can drink such filth.”
He caught the throw, blowing the raven of his fringe away from his hazel eyes. “You’re the best. I never really know how to thank you for this filth.”
“Then don’t, asshole,” she responded and immediately left the room, not even bothering to close the door behind her.
Frank sighed, eventually got up and approached the entrance, raised his hand to push it when the fellow vampire came back abruptly. “One more thing: your mail,” she lent her disgusting hand, holding a few envelopes in it. Frank gave her a questioning glance, took it and locked the room without trying to keep the conversation (if you even could call it that) up.
Opening the cherished pack with his teeth and greedily pressing it to his lips, he made his way to his low wooden bed and sat on the edge of it, making a squeaky noise. Everything in this house was making strange noises, and it didn’t matter whether it was furniture or its commoners.
Frank ran his eyes through the letters and magazines he got that morning. To tell the truth, he liked mornings. It brought him closer to the human beings in some sense.
Between the new issue of Fangoria and Dark Music magazine, there was an invitation to an art exhibition that evening that probably sat in the mailbox longer than it should have. He smiled at the sight of it as he read the content. He didn't grow up or age; the people he met continued to be born and die, but art is what truly lives forever.
And the time was just perfect! Well, for someone who was the worst enemy of the sun in history. Eventually, the other vampires weren’t that picky about it, but he was. Verily, his skin was; he was born flawed in all aspects possible, after all.
Frank could not miss such a humane event and an opportunity to meet a few of his friends, such as Bryar or Hayley, again. Spending days in this shithole had seriously damaged his mental health, so now he had been starting fights with guitars.
He needed to get out of there.
“Fucking leaves,” Gerard kicked the dry fallen leaves with his foot. “Holy Halloween…” Summer was slipping away miserably, giving way to a more melancholy and cruel season.
“Would you like to buy a picture, please?” His partner in front of him asked a senior citizen. “Only two dollars! Maybe four, if you will.” he raised his eyebrows, hinting, but only got some kind of old man's insult with a Midwestern accent directed at him.
Ray sighed and turned around to Way. “Brian was right. As always.”
“Don’t you dare to tell him that,” Gerard lifted his finger in the air. He glanced at the stack of unsold drawings of nature and architecture in his other hand. “We’re damned.”
“I know. Why did it use to be so easy back then?”
“Well, we used to be beautiful, I guess,” the other shrugged. They both exchanged a snicker, full of despair.
People in the park kept passing by. The leaves continued to die off. It was approaching midday. Their pockets hadn’t gotten filled up, though.
Out of all the strangers, Gerard suddenly noticed another friend of his. “Hey Bob!” he called out. An unhappy ginger guy approached them.
“Oh, how small this world is,” he started. Ray nodded silently, shuffling through the sheets in his hands.
Gerard, in turn, smiled at him. “Wanna buy a piece?” he was about to show him one, but Bob stopped him with a hand gesture. “Do you think I approached you just to have a chat? I’ve got much better to do,” he replied.
Toro scowled. “And what for, then?”
Bryar moved his attention to him before taking something rustling out of his bag. “Long story short, a friend of mine has another friend who is having an exhibition tonight at 9 pm. They fuck and all that, and asked me for help. We just need more people. And as for me, I just need to distribute every single one of these fucking leaflets,” he handed over a couple of copies of invitations with detailed information to the guys. “Can I count on you?” The man raised his eyebrows.
Gerard clutched the paper in his hands. “Gothic fine art? Hell yeah!” he looked up at Bob, lit up.
Without waiting for an answer from Ray, Bob cracked a beam and nodded firmly. “And I’ll pretend like I do give a damn,” he finished and began making his way away from them, god knows where.
Gerard undoubtedly respected Bob. They had been friends since high school. They used to be in a band. Well, Gerard tried to be in a band with him and Toro. He just couldn’t play the fucking guitar. And then he sold his voice, trained by a church choir, for a smoker’s lungs, and this is how his music career slowly went down.
Bob Bryar was a good man, an awesome musician and a wonderful friend. At least, Gerard could see it.
“He became,” Ray spoke up and twisted his hand near his curly head. “Different.”
“Cut it off, he’s always been that,” his friend protested. “You just grew up and are not heels over head with him anymore.”
The other artist’s eyes furiously flamed as he looked at Gerard, and in that current moment, he regretted his words a little too late.
“So, a fucking basement,” Gerard stated, reluctantly going down the concrete steps.
Ray, behind him, probably rolled his eyes. Or Mikey used to do that. Gerard couldn’t remember; he always confused their words or behaviour. The images of people in his head became jumbled, and his mind gradually turned into an old, thousand-times-used palette that was no longer suitable for painting. “It’s just an underground room, don’t exaggerate it.”
“No, Toro. This is, after all, a fucking basement,” he confidently waved his head when he was given a gentle push on the shoulder and finally reached stable ground.
The room was pretty murky despite the one single bulb in the centre of the ceiling, enlightening the space. The white, creamy bricked walls were filled with framed, dreary pictures. A couple of plastic dark blue chairs were crammed into the corner that contained spiderwebs closer to the top. Several people were chatting near one specific painting, while a couple of other ones were walking around.
“Support beginner artists, I guess,” Ray said, stepping beside Gerard.
He placed his hands on his hips. “Tell me, do we really not have anything else to do tonight?”
His friend shook his head. “Hey, those guys definitely are into creativity. Maybe we could advertise ourselves or something like that,” he offered.
Gerard’s eyes gleamed. “Ray Toro, you evil little genius.” With his eyes, he spotted Bryar in the crowd once again. He looked sort of threatening, his arms crossed and his stare solemn. He quickly made his way towards him.
“So, you actually do give a damn, huh?” he spoke up.
Bob shot him a look and smirked. “Oh, fuck off. Thanks for coming over, by the way.”
Gerard patted his stiff shoulder with a snicker. “No big deal, dude,” He looked back over his shoulder. Ray was nowhere to be seen now. Unsurprising.
He began making circles around the room, giving his fullest attention to each artistic piece in front of his face. The characters in them were surreal, but alive. He didn't know their author, but assumed that they were, accordingly, still a student. In the overall picture, the works were dominated by shades of bruises: violet purplish, charcoal blue, sometimes cheesy green-yellow. Gerard appreciated that. Virtuosity boldly and mercilessly rushed to the very heart of the viewer, bluntly yelling in their face;
Here I am! Look at me! Accept me honestly and unquestioningly, just the way I am!
Way stopped in one moment, facing a piece with dolls skeletons in it. He pursed his lips.
“This ain’t no love-in,”
he mumbled under his breath, his hands finding their way to the pockets of his favourite olive green jacket.
“This ain’t no happenin…”
he barely had time to finish the chorus, taking higher notes, as somebody tapped him on his arm. He turned around.
“Listen, it doesn’t make sense if I’m the only one who’s promoting,” Toro knitted his brows.
“My bad. Look at this, though,” Gerard tilted his head toward the work. “Sum good stuff, yanno.”
“Don’t yanno me, Gerard Way,” Ray grabbed him by his forearm despite his playful complaints and dragged him away, into the middle of the hall. “Let’s… get to work.”
After midnight, the blackberry sky showed neither the distant stars nor the light clouds that usually obscured them. Now, the approach of autumn made itself known not only by the yellowed leaves of the trees, but also by the late coolness. The wet (for some reason) asphalt under Gerard’s boots made funny echoing sounds of sobs as he unsuccessfully attempted to light up the cigarette between his teeth. His path to nowhere was illuminated only by the signs of bars, 24-hour stores and blinking streetlights.
Surely, he and Ray had talked to some people at that exhibition hall, but he doubted it would bear any fruit. Maybe the place itself was just unlucky, or it wasn’t their crowd or some shit. Every artist finds their own crowd, eventually.
The power in his apartment won't come back on until he pays the taxes, and now that probably won't happen anytime soon. Without power, he'll have to admire the cockroaches near his sleeping place—his favourite and only, worn-out mattress. Or even on it itself. This is why he was walking around aimlessly.
And the dumb lighter just didn’t want to work. “Fuck,” he muttered.
He thought about Ray again; the motherfucker was probably sleeping in his childhood bed in his family’s basement sweetly, free from worrying about bills and radiating insects. They seemed to be in the same boat when it came to their work or the lack of it, but they absolutely weren’t sharing the aftermath.
Toro chose comfort over freedom. Albeit, he didn’t even have to choose between anything at all. His family supported him in almost every one of his artful dreams. He wasn’t alone in that.
But Gerard was. His whole life, he was the only one for himself; all those times when he was beaten in the backyard of the school. That time when his grandmother died. When his parents put him between listening to them and becoming an ordinary office worker, by their strongest approval and leaving home forever to become somebody he wanted to be.
He chose to live through this alone because he didn’t fear doing it. Because from the depths of his little black heart, he craved for the independence. Not from trust issues or contempt for others but for love. The artist loved what he was doing and where he was going. He loved choosing himself when it came to him. He didn’t need the blessing from people, as he already had it in his heart.
The long brown stick remained icy on his lips. Gerard impatiently spat it down on the ground and stepped on it with his heel. “I gotta keep on living, apparently.”
He spent a couple more minutes searching for the perfect spot for some quiet, solitary nighttime reflection before he sat down on a concrete block on a street where the streetlights, lit windows, and signs had already ended, and trash cans and graffiti had begun in abnormal quantities. He buried his cold fists in his pockets afresh.
In the distance, the river and its associated bridge were visible, under which new bodies were found every day. And in an even greater distance, which was still impossible to see or even imagine, perhaps there was hope and luck, and a place where somebody was waiting for Gerard.
“Gerard Way,” an unrecognizable voice whispered out somewhere. Way would lie if he said he didn’t barely catch a heart attack. Sweaty and scared, he turned around to face a dark-haired guy with the palest—almost transparent—skin that a human can have. He wasn’t particularly tall, but the weird lush colouring of his face only added to the strange vibes coming out from him. His cheekbones and jawline were finely defined, his swollen lips resembled the mouth of a strangled man, the area around his black eyes was tinted with a charming scarlet, and the area around his eyebrows, nose, and ears showed a subtle hint of turquoise. And Gerard didn’t even start to analyze the rest of his appearance as he stepped closer. “A fan of horror punk, I suppose.”
The human trembled warily. “Wait, you’re that guy from the art show, righ? Are you a rockstar or something?” he motioned at the other’s face. “Wait, you stalked me?” he timidly asked.
The ghoul guffawed. “I ain’t wearing no damn makeup. And no,” he made a hand movement. “Or, hold on, I did! Haha, sorry, I just” the guy abruptly sat down close to Gerard on the same block. Too close. Well, for a goddamn stalker. “saw you there. I heard you. I heard your singing.”
Gerard cautiously glanced him up and down, his hands leaning over the rough concrete underneath, leaving uneven marks on the inside of them. “I wasn’t singing, not really. Fuck.” his eyes checked him once again in case he was holding some pocket knife or a small gun or whatever they killed random individuals at night in this state. This is what he was always warned about as a teenager. He was warned, but he fucking didn't listen.
The odd guy stared right into his soul for a moment before standing up and moving to another block behind him, making a small distance between the two of them. “My name is Frank Iero, and I’m not going to suck your blood out or steal anything from you. Trust me. Honestly, I basically didn’t know how to approach you back there, with others around. So, I had to follow you. Have you noticed that you say the word ‘fuck’ more often than at least seven times in half an hour?” he clasped his hands.
His voice was magnificent and attractive, and one time, Gerard had to slap himself in his mind for even thinking about it, because hey, asshole literally chased him for a few hours and shamelessly admitted it out loud. But hey again, this same asshole had very interesting face lines, which Gerard, as an artist, couldn’t resist to admire, and he was wearing a Rob Zombie long sleeve shirt, and let’s be honest, Frank loved Misfits, and it turned out to be the real and only reason he spied on Gerard.
Perhaps, it wasn’t that big a deal at all. He didn’t stab him, and he looked utterly sober and if you put aside all the socially awkward nonsense and not quite the right approaches to getting to know others, he even seemed a little friendly and nice.
Anyway, Gerard’s life couldn’t get any crazier, so he let himself relax a little, his guard down. Frank just continued grinning silently. He liked making new friends among the mortals. “No, I fucking haven’t.”
“I can tell,” Iero concurred.
Frank was, needless to say, a handsome young man, in Gerard’s true opinion. He looked extraordinary, and the way he was carrying himself piqued something in him unexpectedly.
The painter quietly observed him. Frank was sickly skinny at the point some of his bones were sticking out from the slender layer of skin that was the same colour as the moon that had been illuminating it all this time. Gaunt drawings were visible from under the sleeves. He leaned forward.
“Oh satan, are these tattoos? Can I take a look?” Gerard grabbed Frank’s thin forearm, beaming. He had learned to be less socially awkward since high school. He still asked very straight and embarrassing questions, though. And sometimes didn’t know what to say next. But at least his attitude to this had eased. If he let people down, he let them down. That's probably why Frank was drawn to him. They both had problems with it.
Anyway, he could try better next time. And in case Frank freaks out, and the situation gets more awkward, alright then. The world didn’t end. Gerard could live through it.
Thankfully, Frank’s reaction wasn’t negative, and he responded with a shy but sincere smile and gave Way a better look at his permanent drawing. ‘Thankfully, because he was a hot guy, no lie. The corners of Gerard’s lips curled up even more as he bowed his head and gently ran his fingers over Frank’s skin. Oh lord, Scorpions’ lyrics were just lower!
He became only hotter in Gerard’s head.
“This is so sick. Almost none of my acquaintances have tattoos or, you know, piercings,” he pointed at the metal ring on the other guy’s lower lip with his eyes. Damn, he was such a sucker. “Well, Bob does. But he’s not as… what’s that word…”
“Idiotic as me?” Frank suggested with a simper.
“No! You’re not idiotic, gosh. More like… eccentric,” Gerard widened his olive green eyes as he found the perfect—as he thought— word. “Yeah.”
“Eccentric? I like the way you think. You know, not everyone nowadays uses any words that contain more than, like, five letters.”
“Oh, I’d like to hear about that,” Way snorted. “It’s bugging me that kids skip English, art or music classes due to the school system being so boring and hateful. No one really learns anything now.”
“You sound old,” Frank giggled, rolling up his sleeve up back.
“I am old,” Gerard tilted his head frisky. “Turning thirty-one next April.”
“You humans always say that. Ugh. Thirty is not old. You’re younger than my baby cousin Vladimir.”
The artist folded his arms; the slight playfulness of his voice hadn’t diminished. “Yeah? And how old are you?”
Frank stared at him in reply. Gerard mentally hit himself with his fist one more time. Maybe asking strangers about their age wasn’t the best idea. He could ask him about anything else, such as who Vladimir was or what Frank’s first tattoo was, but no.
Ultimately, he hadn’t changed much since high school.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean–“
“Ah, it’s fine. I just,” Frank narrowed his eyes, not sure how to explain himself and that he was eighteen fucking three years old. Being a vampire sucked. “Um.”
“Forget about it, seriously. I often ask ignorant questions. Frankly, I hate numbers, you see. Age, wage, work schedule, etc,” Gerard moved his hands around lively. “Talking nonsense again. Never mind. Um. Frank, what do you do for a living?” he gazed at him in waiting, hoping they could move on from his unintelligent questioning.
“Oh,” Frank noticeably relaxed. The question was still blunt, but at least it wasn’t too difficult to answer without lying. “Well, I just got fired from the music store? Not an achievement, I know,” he chuckled to himself briefly. “I mean, I’ve tried several diverse jobs, as a librarian, a barista, a dog-sitter. Still trying to sort things out, you get it?”
Gerard nodded, his curiosity piqued. “Do you go to college?”
Frank stared at him quite a long time before he noticed that. Damn, occasionally, he forgot to blink properly. His eyelids closed and opened again continuously a few short times, right after that, he responded. “Do I look that young?” he nearly smirked.
“People can study at different ages, just you know,” Gerard raised his hands, shaking his head. He had to stay careful and away from the age discussion again. “But yeah, if you’re fine with hearing that, you do look kinda young to me. And it’s a compliment, I swear,” he admitted.
Iero stopped his leg twitching, considering the artist’s appearance and remembering to blink now. “Thank you, I suppose. I always try to look older, though,” he laughed out.
“See no reason for that,” Gerard commented with a smile.
“Trust me, there is,” the guy claimed.
The artist’s lips got rid of grinning. He straightened up, folding his palms together. “I can’t believe that after all this time Bob still hasn’t introduced us.”
“Yeah, he’s such a gatekeeper. And tonight we met at a fucking basement art show,” Frank couldn’t help but giggle.
“A shitty one,” Gerard pointed his finger, and they both burst into warm laughter. “And you tracked me down!”
A moment later, he corrected himself, huffing. “Okay, not shitty. I don’t wanna call any art bad.”
“Shitty doesn’t mean bad. Sure, it’s messy and… far from great, but hey, it’s art!” Frank shrugged. The other man assented but didn’t talk back.
“I’m glad I met you at that arthouse mess of gloom, Gerard Way,” the bloodsucker told him, looking straight into his eyes. “Gloom and probably someone’s vomit.”
Gerard gave a head shake, moving his greasy, grown-out bangs out of his face. “I don’t mind a bit of vomit.”
“Alright, now I regret our meeting.”
“Haha. Don’t,” Way replied. “Can I, um, get your number or something, in this case?” he suggested. In truth, such attempts have rarely been successful. Frank didn’t answer immediately with a simple yes or sure, so he got kind of nervous inside.
“I really like these graffiti-ed brick walls,” Frank started, shooting them a glance. “We can meet up tomorrow here at the same time, if you want.”
Gerard let out a breath, relieved. “Wouldn’t it be too late? You sure you don’t wanna-“
“No, it’s a perfect time. For me.”
“Oh, okay then,” the human murmured, caught off guard. Although he would go even to the most dangerous and darkest areas of the city at any time if it meant seeing Frank Iero—this strange tattooed motherfucker who had a thing for Misfits and poor artists—again. He silently delighted. Maybe the bastard had perfume with pheromones or something because there was no normal explanation for why he suddenly started acting like a thirteen-year-old girl with a school crush. But it wasn’t a crush, he corrected himself in his mind. Gerard was a little imaginative, that’s all. He often found different people charming without falling in love with them. It wasn’t forbidden by anyone.
“But it’s still getting late, we’d better separate and go home,” Gerard got up and announced, wiping his hands with his jacket. Guess who’s going to bury his brand new friendship that barely even began due to his own dull comments?
The other followed his movements with his eyes. “You have anywhere to go?” he queried, his legs crossed.
Gerard was about to reply, but hesitated instead. Of course he didn’t, obviously. He was just trying to be a nice, normal person and let Frank go home if he wanted to. “No, I don’t,” he answered truthfully.
“Me neither,” Iero stood up as well. “We’re in this together, I presume.”
“Yeah…” Way nodded, not quite sure if he caught the drift.
Frank took him by his arm. “Let’s get out of here. I know a nice graveyard,” he gifted Gerard with a wide smile.
Gerard inaudibly watched him. “Uh, I have a good bar in mind,” he suggested.
His new friend shrugged carelessly, defeated. “Alright, whatever you want. We’ll go to a bar, and you’ll tell me what you do for a living.”
Soon, the street was less dirty, and the bright lights of the city were seen again on the road. Frank kept asking something, and Gerard was answering each question.
The night was holy madness, but it wasn't that hard to believe.
When you have such philosophical artistic dilemmas in your life regularly, you really can believe in anything.