Last Waltz

Gerard guides me by the hand towards the record player. Now I see he has a bag hanging from his shoulder. He discards it on the floor after taking a record out of it, which he gets working in seconds with a few precise, swift movements. Elvis, of course. 'Can't Help Falling in Love'.

"Now look at me," he tells me, his hands on each side of my face. He's smiling. "memorize me, remember me."

"I could never forget you, silly, I know you by heart." I smile back.

A sweet, short kiss is deposited on my parted lips, then Gerard produces what looks like black handkerchiefs from one of his pockets.

"You look so beautiful." He touches my forehead, sliding the hair band off. It falls to the floor and my rose joins it, forgotten. Gerard brushes my hair with his fingers, untangling some knots along the way. "You are so beautiful. I hope your pretty face won't change...although I know that even if it did I would still recognize you. I'd recognize your soul."

"My soul loves you, and so does my heart," I whisper.

"I love you too, with all my being. And something as strong as what we have can't get lost. It subsists, it awaits." His words make me shiver.

"Yes..."

"Frankie, my dear, now it's time to feel." He covers my eyes with the dark cloth. I stay still as he fastens it at the back of my neck, moving my hair to leave kisses on my nape and down my spine.

Since I'm blinded, my other senses sharpen. The little hairs on my arms bristle, I get goosebumps, a fluttering sensation in my stomach.

"Are you going to cover your eyes too?" I ask. My voice sounds alien.

"Of course, see?" I feel him search for my hands and grab them, leading them to his face.

"I can't see," I giggle. "but I feel it."

After that there is no more conversation. We dance; my arms laced around his shoulders and his hands folded on my waist. Close, so close. I can sense his respiration behind my ear as he bends down to secretly sing to me those same words we are dancing to. They sound so much more significant when coming from the one you love. His cologne impregnates my airways until I'm pleasantly intoxicated.

I feel serene, in a trance. It's an odd, delightful paralysis where my mind has no control over my body and yet I'm moving. The music is my motor and Gerard is my support. The tactile, olfactory and auditive stimulation has gotten me in the perfect mood as we keep on dancing with blindfolds on.

The next song is a fast one and he rocks me and rolls me. I spin my way to him -wrapped in our connected arms- to have him swiftly untwirl me with a snap. It's exhilarating, nearly frightening when you can't see. Just when I think I will end up on the floor, he pulls me back to his body only to incline me again, this time his forearm detaining my fall. My body is loosened, I let him handle me like a rag doll. I trust him blindly. While in this position he kisses me; and it's the longest, deepest, neediest kiss we have shared. At some point the music changes, and as slowly as the melody goes Gerard helps me back on my feet. But we never stop kissing. Wet, swollen, velvet lips . A warm tongue in synchronicity with mine, dancing to the same rhythm and fitting perfectly like our bodies fit. Hands are amorously and sensually caressing my back, arms, hips. My small fingers dig into gel-saturated hair; they massage up and down and probably mess it up. For once, there is no complaint. My other hand descends through narrow shoulders and collarbone. It fumbles with a couple of buttons, palm landing flat on smooth, hairless skin. Mouths are still locked and I can not think, I can not speak, only feel.

My lips are suddenly cold.

"Wait here," Gerard says.

I know why he stopped us. We were getting too turned on. Lust was winning over us and we shouldn't let things go too far. Not tonight; because as much as we try to push it to the back of our minds, as much as we're pretending this is just one more night, deep inside we're both terrified. I know Gerard is afraid too, clutching to his beliefs tooth and nail. The last time we made love was perfect, so perfect that its memory shouldn't be tinted with another one fed with despair and fear.

"Forever," I murmur.

I don't uncover my eyes. I extend my arms and feel around me until my fingertips touch the upholstery of the couch. I sit down and lean my head on the headrest, my lids falling in vain. I concentrate on listening beyond the music. Some noise comes from the kitchen. Glass, liquid being poured, a popping sound. Seconds later those familiar footsteps. The padded surface sinks under someone else's weight beside me and I smile widely. It's not a touch or a word which next awakens my senses, but a smell. Something has been placed in front of my nose and I inhale, welcomed by the scent of red wine. I hesitantly take the cup and another one hits it while a single kiss grazes my cheek. It gives me a chill.

"For us, for better times," he announces. Is this it? Is this how we will do it?

I nearly spill my wine when Gerard's arm grasps my elbow, but I understand what he's doing and laugh, relaxing again. With our arms linked we drink. I can hear him swallow, now and then sighing or clacking his tongue. I savor the wine with no rush, having only tried it a few times before. It tastes delicious in my dry mouth, and without realising it I let out a small, content moan. Gerard stifles a laugh, I bet I'm blushing.

I empty my cup and he's already pulling me up. It's obvious that he can watch me, but I don't mention it. His face is engraved in my mind, so I don't need my eyes to see him.

"I'm dizzy..." I chuckle, although I feel better than ever.

"Kids," Gerard teases, embracing me tightly as I rest my head on his shoulder. "They can't hold their wine."

"And you can't hold your weed."

"Who cares? That thing is nasty!"

"Whatever you say." I grin up at him. "It's too hot in here, could you open the window?"

"Sure, I'll let the night in so it can share this moment," he poetically replies, making me moan again. "Can you stand by yourself?"

"Yes, Gerard, I'm not drunk." My head feels light, but I'm not as dizzy as before.

Wood being shaken, apparently resisting Gerard's assault first to finally give in with a plunk followed by the cry of old hinges. A mild breeze tickles the left side of my face, some hairs that stubbornly escaped the restriction of the cloth levitating. This orients me, lets me know where I'm standing. There are many ways to see.

The wind picks up more speed and I rotate my body towards it, like a flower seeking the light. I spread my arms, refreshed; my whole body is so light. I feel like I could fly free.

I can't tell how much time elapses. I don't know where Gerard is. I just cherish this moment. The cessation of the music is what brings me back; the sudden silence is perturbing. I strain to hear something: the barely perceptible shuffle of feet, various low sounds I can't identify, then a crepitation.

"Gerard...where are you?" I don't need an answer when music emerges from over that rustling noise. It's one of my father's records with ancient waltzes. They are all familiar and at the same time I can't put a name to any of them. I have always zoned out when dad tries to teach me about classical composers. None of that matters now; it's soothing, so appropriate.

I'm caught up in the moment, and what would have otherwise been a very expected onslaught of lips and hands startles me.

"Sorry," Gerard apologizes, though his hands continue to roam my back, his mouth crashes against mine once more and his tongue snakes in between my lips. There is haste, there is fear, there is love. I don't fight it. I don't have to, I don't want to. My hands, my lips, my tongue, my nose, my eyes, my chest; they all desire him. I long to touch, taste, smell, feel, see. Memorize him with all my senses.

I desperately tug at the blindfold and steal a blurry peek. Gerard's hair falls partially on his forehead in disarray and it makes him seem younger, childish. His hazel eyes shine in the penumbra and some pearly tears are captured in his lashes. We sustain the other's stare for no more than a minute, then we close our eyes and kiss again. Slower, calmer. Gerard smiles warmly and restores his blindfold -which was around his neck. I imitate him.

"Get ready for the last waltz," he says.

Left hand on my waist, mine on his back. Our right ones clasped together in the air, not minding whether we know how to waltz. Swaying and spinning, swaying and spinning blindly. The wind blows furiously through the window in protest for what is coming, but we don't care; we are high, we are flying.

Gerard's hand leaves my sweaty one. The wind howls. We're only apart for two seconds, yet I hate it. There is a click, his left arm returns to circle my waist, and something cold is pressed to my temple. Outside a branch crackles.

Against all odds, I feel in peace. All my doubts and fears go away. I trust him, I have hope, I believe. My hands reunite in their favorite spot and the wind stops as we resume our dance.

I've nearly lost notion of the awaiting, freezing metal kissing my skin when the whispered words reach my ear. "Believe that we'll see better times. Never regret, never forget."

******

Frank opens his eyes to a very bright light. It blinds him, especially given the fact that his last, instant recollection is of being blindfolded. He's confused; he doesn't know where he is or what happened. When his eyes get used to the brightness, although they're still blurry, he looks up at the people standing above him. One is clearly a doctor, even if something is somehow off about him. And...is he examining him? Why? He deduces then that the two woman must be nurses, but their outfits are nothing like he remembers them; not at all. He feels cold, he's scared.

When he intends to take a look at himself, everything goes black and he's instead looking at the past. Fragments of conversations and scenes come back to him all at once. He can't stop them.

"Gerard...I know you're older than me, and that you're a boy and I'm a boy, but...I think I'm in love with you."

"Of course I want to be your boyfriend, Frankie, but we'll have to keep it secret..."
"I know..."

"I love you."

"I don't want you seeing those dirty hippies anymore! No son of mine will be one of them!"

"Don't mind them, you look perfect."

"Are you sure I'm not hurting you?"
"Y-yes, don't stop please..."

"Relax, Frank, my parents won't be here for another hour. Keep on kissing me, doll..."

"Gerard? Frank? WHAT IS THIS?"
"Oh my God! This is sick!"
"You filthy pervert! Frank, go home right now and wait in your room!"

"We won't tell the police, but you're not going to see him anymore. We're moving."

"Don't worry babe, I'll be there each Friday."

"Hurry up, they're gonna be here any minute now!"

"I can't take it anymore, I miss you."
"I know, Frankie, me too..."

"We have to escape, get away from here together, away from the closed-minded people."

"What are we waiting for, then?"
"We're waiting for the last waltz."

"It's simple: we die just to live again."

"...I'll leave the basement window unlocked for him."

"I could see it in your eyes that you knew what I meant."

"...scatter some fresh flowers under the basement window."

"Gee, how are we...?"
"No talking, let's just dance."

"...I'd recognize your soul."

"I love you too, with all my being."

"For us, for better times."

"Get ready for the last waltz."

"Believe that we'll see better times. Never regret, never forget."

Frank remembers everything, he remembers how that night was supposed to end. Far from giving him clarity, those memories bring further confusion to his mind.

"Why am I alive? Where am I? Where is Gerard?" he thinks.

Desperate, he tries to scream, but the sound that comes out of his throat horrifies him; it is the cry of a baby. Still crying, he raises his hands in front of his eyes: tiny, pink, baby hands.

"Oh, God, was Gerard right? But...this wasn't mean to be like this. Am I trapped in this body?"

In that moment, one of the nurses wraps him in a soft blanket and picks him up. "Here's your little angel, Mrs. Iero," he hears her say. "How are you going to call him?"

Frank finds himself staring into the blue eyes of a young, brown haired woman. Tears roll down her cheeks as she takes him in her arms and kisses his head with love that has accumulated for nine months. He stops crying, petrified. He doesn't think anyone can help him, he can't talk. Nevertheless he carries on staring at the girl and hopes, wishes.

She smiles and nods. "Frank. I'm going to call him Frank."

The memories go away right then; maybe hiding in some nook of the baby's subconscious, maybe disappearing forever. The newborn Frank is still in his mother's arms, his brand new mind clear and ready to be filled with new images, sounds, smells and sensations. No one will probably ever know what went through that little head during the first few minutes of his life, that 31st. of October of 1990.

******

"Remember I'll be picking you two up in three hours, so be here by then," Frank's mother tells him as he gets out of the car. He puffs while his friend Bob chuckles beside him.

"I think three hours might be too soon, mom. The meeting point is here in this park, then when enough people gathered we'll be marching along Spring Street to the City Hall. Not sure how long we'll stay there or whether we'll be marching back to the park after that..."

"Well, if you consider that you need more time, then give me a call, ok?"

"I'm eighteen. You do know I'm not a kid anymore, don't you?" Frank asks. He tries to seem annoyed, but he just can't keep a serious face when his mother is giving him the 'Aww, you'll always be my baby!' pout.

"I know, Frankie, but we're not in Jersey. You've only been to Los Angeles a couple of times before and I don't want you getting lost, even less looking like that."

"What's wrong with the way I look?" Frank points at himself, grinning. Bob takes his hand and slowly spins him around, exhibiting him to an invisible audience. Frank waggles his hips for better effect.

The aforementioned look includes fuchsia sneakers, low-cut, blue jeans held in place by a pink belt, and a tight, black t-shirt that reads: 'Legalize Gay, repeal Prop 8 Now' in white letters. Frank's hair is shaved and keeps its natural brown color on the sides of his head, the rest forming what could be called a deflated mohawk and dyed the seven colors of the rainbow.

"Oh, boys...you're such clowns!" Frank's mom laughs, glancing around nervously. Frank feels bad for entertaining her with his grownup-wannabe complaints; she shouldn't be still parked there. "Nothing's wrong, you know I completely approve of it. Hell, I dyed your hair myself for this special occasion! But...there's a reason why these protests are needed, if you know what I mean. There's a lot of hate in this world, son."

Frank looks down and nods sadly. "I'll call you, I promise."

"Thanks. Now go before they leave without you! Oh, and Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you," she adds, then drives away.

Frank knows she is, it's not the first time she's told him so. His mother has always been proud of him for being a good, responsible student. For doing his best -even if that didn't mean getting straight A's in every subject. She also says it makes her proud that he's a great friend, always there when someone needs a hand or a shoulder to cry on. She felt proud four years ago, when Frank told them he was gay and confidently endured all of his father's ignorant questions and remarks without lowering his gaze or raising his voice. And she certainly never fails to tell him how proud she is every time he takes part in something that involves fighting for his rights.

Now they're in California on vacations. Frank's mom doesn't make much money, but she decided that he deserved real holidays after successfully graduating from high school. She even let him bring his best friend along. They'd been there for three days when Frank read about this pro-Marriage Equality march on the Internet; and he couldn't resist. He doesn't even have a boyfriend at the moment, so it's not like he's thinking about getting married any time soon; but as his mother said while encouraging him to go: "You should also fight for your future rights." If he ever finds that special person who he'll wish to spend the rest of his life with, he wants to be able to legally marry him wherever he wants. Everyone is, first and foremost, a person; and love is love no matter the gender.

His friend Bob agrees with him. The blond, blue eyed guy is unquestionably straight -Frank has to permanently tell him to stop staring like a dumbfounded idiot every time a curved, tanned girl walks past them in the beach. Nonetheless he has a very important reason -besides the obvious ones- to support gay and pro-rights causes in general: Bob Bryar has two moms. And they are, in Frank's words, 'pretty fucking badassely awesome'.

They walk full of excitement among the marchers, keeping the signs they painted the night before high above their heads. Frank smiles at the diversity of attenders his eyes catch. There are people of all ages and social classes. Gay couples and straight couples -with or without children. Large families, groups of friends, coworkers and all kinds of individuals who despite having arrived by themselves, had easily started to socialize.

Some of them are wearing extravagant, stridently colored clothes that very likely seek to provoke those who oppose them. Others don't seem to feel the need to do that, call attention to themselves or dress any differently from how they usually do. Many are even clad in elegant suits or their work uniforms. The rest -just like him- limited it to only a few symbolic details to let everybody know they are proud of who they are; and to show what they are standing for.

They are all so different, yet they all want the same, theoretically simple thing: equality. That makes Frank feel like he belongs.

They already reached the City Hall and are chanting and jumping when a hand lands on his shoulder. Being in the middle of a crowd, it's only logical that he'd be accidentally touched, even pushed around; but this touch is special, it can't be ignored. It sends an electric current up to his brain and it's gone so soon that his mind doesn't have time to process the feeling.

Bob throws Frank a questioning sideway look, evidently wondering what caused him to suddenly stay still. "Are you ok?" he asks.

Frank opens his mouth to reply, but the same hand grabs his arm gently. He can tell it's the same one; the electrifying sensation is back.

"Frankie?" an unknown voice calls. It overwhelms his senses, his knees slacken. What is going on?

Scared and curious, he slowly turns his body to meet this person who appears to know him. Now eying the guy up and down Frank is certain that he doesn't know him. At the same time, he finds him disturbingly familiar.

Messy, shoulder-length black hair frames a round, high cheeked face which clearly hasn't been touched by the California sun. Bushy, yet not too big brows rest upon hazel eyes that pierce into Frank's in an unique way. The nose is small and pointy. The boy can't be that much older than him, and is only taller by half a head. He's wearing faded gray jeans, a blue t-shirt and a battered leather jacket on top in spite of the current temperature.

Sure, the stranger is incredible handsome -Frank opines, but there's a deeper something about him that doesn't let him tear his eyes away.

"Y-yes," Frank stutters. "How do you know my name?"

"Oh my God, it's really you! Frankie...I'm Gerard!" the boy tells him with unexplainable emotion.

Frank doesn't know anyone by the name of Gerard, so why do those six letters ring a bell? The stranger touches his face, eyes filling up with tears as he looks at him. At first, Frank is too lost in the feeling to react in any way; he likes that touch. Then he takes conscience of the situation and freaks out, slapping Gerard's hand off him. The guy is creepy.

"What the hell?"

"Sorry..." Gerard hits his head -like he just recalled something important- and smiles showing his amazingly tiny teeth. "This is...oh my, I knew I would find you again. My soul told me so."

"Look, I don't even know what you're talking about," Frank states, nervously tucking a long lock of bright red hair behind his ear. "What you're saying makes no sense. You can't have found me again because I've never seen you in my life."

"You are correct." Gerard grins. "Not in this one."

"What?! Dude...you're a lunatic. A creepy, cheesy one." Frank wants to run away, but a stronger force keeps him stuck to his place.

"And you, are beautiful," Gerard replies, and for the first time he looks -or glares- at Bob, who has been silently watching them. "Is this your boyfriend, Frankie?"

"Oh, no no! Just his best friend!" Bob assures, giving Frank a shove in Gerard's direction. "All yours!"

"BOB! He's a weirdo!" Frank whines. His heart beats faster and faster. Should he hate Bob for this? Should he thank him?

"You like him, I know you." His buddy winks and turns his back on him and Gerard, offering them some -relative- privacy.

Yes, Frank likes what he sees, but Bob has no idea of how frighteningly confounding this boy's presence is to him. Does he want this privacy?

The street noise and people's voices have been silenced. Frank can't even feel the heat or see the other bodies jumping around him. Confusion leads the moment. He closes his eyes, trying to make some sense out of this encounter, or maybe just wishing Gerard away so he wouldn't have to understand what is happening.

Frank feels a chill. The little hairs of his neck stand on end when someone's hot breath caresses his right ear, anticipating the words that are whispered to him next. "These are better times for us. This time we will dance until whoever is in charge of this life's music decides it is our last waltz..."