My Rock, My Strength, My Love... My Husband

I cried tonight. I cried over a fanfic. She's killing Gerard slowly. But not physically; no, she's killing who he is, slowly losing himself one memory at a time. If one could ever be in love with a fictional character, I am hopelessly in love with this Gerard! So I cried and begun mourning the loss. My husband found me laying in bed, reading on my phone, and completely bawling my eyes out as if my own beloved Daddy had just been told he was terminal.

Now, before I go any further, let me say that anytime I start talking to my husband about fanfics, he rolls his eyes and makes some witty remark about my "gay porn." He is very much an avid reader, but he struggles to understand my obsession with reading stories about two real life guys in a band having a relationship (at least he gets it's not always just about the hot sex). So anyway...

He finds me in said state. He climbs up into the bed beside me and gently strokes my hair, asking me what's wrong. I'm guessing he had an inkling since he knew I was going to be catching up on a fanfic. I just mumbled, "I'm so pathetic."

He ran his fingertips through what hair I have again, and he kissed my head. Then he said, "You're not pathetic. What's wrong?"

I just sobbed harder and tried to say, "She's killing him. She's taking Frank's Gerard away!" How he knew what I was saying through my crying while pressing my face as close to his chest as possible can only be attributed to this man having been married to me for thirteen years and having had to decipher my words through sobs many times before. I expected his normal reaction, an eyeroll and a snide comment. But that is not what I got.

He held me closer, continuing to lavish me in comfort for the loss I was enduring. When I was calming down and able to remove my face from his chest, he wiped my tears and kissed me softly. I told him it was rediculous that I was so upset by this fictional Gerard's mental death. He told me that some people get really attached to fictional characters, and the author had done her job right if I was upset by this loss because the whole point of writing is to connect with another human being. He asked me if this was "that story you love so much about the old painter and his boytoy." He didn't mean it to be insulting or humorous; it was just his masculine way of describing the story. I smiled a little at his words, not only because of his verbiage but also because he does pay enough attention (when he pretends not to) to know which story I was so attached to, and I nodded. He told me bad things and death happen in stories, even our favorite ones.

His words made me feel better. His words gave me permission to grieve for a fictional Gerard. His words let me know that he loves me enough to comfort me if I need to feel sad about something that's only important to me.

I know this probably seems... I don't know, made up, but I swear it is the truth! After all, where do you think I get my idealizations about love and relationships from for my stories?

I have the best husband in the whole world... my idols, real life Frank and Gerard, included!