Sequel: Gerard Way: Artist

Frank Iero: P.A.

Fifteen

“Come on, Frank!”

Gerard has been out of the room just twenty minutes and he’s already demanding for me to be ready and downstairs. It’s not even seven o’clock – I don’t function at this hour!

The gym bag that he’d thrown at me barely has a day’s worth of clothes in it. Sure, under normal circumstances, I could be packed and ready to go by now, but when I haven’t been told where we’re going, what the weather will be like there, or what kind of entertainment there will be, it makes things a little hard. For all I know, we could be spending the weekend in a palace with some wrinkly old queen. With that thought now in my mind, it takes me another five minutes to decide whether I should take a tux or not.

“Frank!” Gerard comes barging into my room for the second time this morning. He looks agitated. “How does it take you this long to pack?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Tell me, how fast could you pack for a holiday when you don’t know where you’re going? What clothes do you pack for a climate you know nothing about?”

He sighs heavily, irritated, rolls his eyes dramatically, and then literally shoves me out of the way; my feet tangle and I land with a thud on the floor. I’d be hurling abuse at him right now if I weren’t so confused by his actions. The gym bag has been upended on my bed, with what little clothing I had packed now sprawled out across the duvet. He moves briskly over to my walk-in closet with the now empty bag in hand and begins browsing through my clothing, yanking items from coat hangers, pulling underwear and socks from the drawers, and tossing them into the bag. Lastly he takes two pairs of converse from the floor and shoves them into the bag roughly. He then waltzes into my bathroom, where I hear things being rattled around and the cabinet over the sink being opened and shut.

He comes out and tosses the bag at my feet. “There,” he replies.

“What, no belt?” I ask sarcastically.

If looks could kill, I’d most certainly be dead. He storms past me, back to my closet, whips a few drawers open, and selects three of my many belts. They are also thrown at me before he storms out of the bedroom, letting the door slam loudly.

“Well, fuck you,” I mumble to myself.

The door swings back open, and for one terrifying second I think he’s heard me.

“Be by the front door in five minutes,” he says forcefully, before slamming the door shut.

You know what, I hope he never gets himself into another relationship, because when it goes belly-up, I don’t want to have to deal with him like this ever again. Moody, arrogant Gerard is annoying, but hurt Gerard is a pain in the ass – literally, I think as I finally get up from the floor with my butt throbbing from my earlier fall. I stuff the belts into the bag carelessly and grab my guitar from its stand; if I’m being forced to go on a holiday with Gerard Way, I’m taking something that will allow me to stand being locked away in my room for a few days.

Oh, God...

Please tell me we have separate rooms. I’ve already shared a bed with Gerard and that was awful – I’m sure sharing a room would be little better.

It takes me a while to pack Pansy – that’s my guitar – and all her accessories, so when my five minutes is up and I should be by the door, I’m still up in my room. When I’m two minutes overtime, Gerard’s horn sounds loudly. Right now, I couldn’t really give a shit about him and his timekeeping, so I continue at my own pace. As I snap the locks down on my guitar case, now five minutes overtime, the horn blares again, this time in short, sharp, inpatient bursts.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter to myself.

I haul the gym bag over my shoulder, pick up my guitar case in one hand and the amp in the other, then trudge downstairs; the horn sounds the entire time. When I’m standing on the front landing, I see that Gerard has actually brought the car up the circular driveway; he’s sitting behind the wheel look more irritated and impatient than before. Through some miracle, I find the strength in me to not flip him off. I shut the front door and turn the key in the lock, shaking the handle to ensure it’s locked properly. The trunk is already propped open, so I cart my luggage down the steps to the rear of the car and place everything in. While putting my things in, I notice Gerard’s belongings; his bag is half the size of mine, and the only other things he’s brought with him is an easel and two blank canvases.

“Hurry up!” he shouts out the window at me.

So he knows I’m angry, I slam his trunk shut. I walk around and get in the passenger side.

“About damn time,” he mutters, revving the engine and accelerating forward rapidly.

I turn my head to him. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“My problem,” he says as he turns the car out of the driveway and onto the road speedily, “is that I can’t stand being here anymore, and you were taking your sweet time to intentionally piss me off.”

“Well, if you had have given me more info about this little trip you’ve planned over night, and given me more than five minutes to pack, and not woken me by chucking a bag at my chest, then maybe I might be a bit more cooperative,” I snap back, turning away and folding my arms over my chest. “Why do I even have to come?”

When he doesn’t respond straight away, I figure he’s going to ignore my question all together, but quietly he says, “I don’t want to be alone... you’re the only one I could stand to have come with me.”

“Wow, how flattering,” I deadpan.

He touches his hand to my forearm, causing a tingling sensation that I really wish would stop happening. I turn my head to him; he’s already looking at me – which is very dangerous considering that we’re in the centre of New York.

Holding eye contact, he says, “You’re my best friend, Frank.”

I know I should be feeling happy right now for an admission like that, but it doesn’t seem real. “What about Mikey?”

He, now looking back at the road, shrugs. “I love my brother, and he is my best friend, too, but you are a different kind of best.” He clears his throat and turns up the stereo. “Just take the compliment.”

We drive for two hours, just with the sound of the radio to fill the silence. Gerard doesn’t tell me anything about where we’re going, and I figure it’s safer not to ask. Surprisingly, though, I enjoy the drive; watching the scenery as we pass it, thinking about all the possible things that could happen over the next couple of days. It’s relaxing – that is, until Gerard swings the car off the highway onto a dirt road. A sane person, not used to Gerard’s multiple personalities and mood swings, would probably question why we’re no longer driving on tar – but knowing I’d either be ignored or yelled at, I say nothing.

After ten minutes driving down this dirt road, a split-level wood cottage appears in the distance. We weave through trees, getting closer to the cottage. There’s nothing else around; this must be where we’re headed.

Gerard taps the breaks until the car comes to a halt, yanking up the handbrake until it clicks into place; he switches off the ignition. I wait for him to get out, but instead he remains seated with both hands on the wheel, just staring at the cottage before us. Finally, he turns to face me.

“We’re here,” he says softly.

Without another word, he removes his seatbelt and exits the car. I expect him to go around to the back of the car to take out his luggage, but he heads up the front steps of the cottage and lifts up the doormat. He unlocks the door with the key he finds there, then looks at me expectantly; I guess he wants me to follow. I move quickly to catch up with him, and just as I hit the top step, he walks away from me into the cottage itself.

The living area of the cottage is small, I note as I enter. After the size of the room, the first thing I notice is the lack of civilisation; there’s no TV, no air conditioner – although I don’t suppose you’d have a need for it judging by how cold it was outside – nothing other than a worn couch, bookshelf with numerous volumes, and an old record player.

“Why this place?” I accidently ask aloud.

“Before my family fell apart,” he says softly, “we would come here every winter for a week or so. No work, just family. Those were the best times of my life.” He takes a few steps forward and runs his hand over the arm of the couch. “I haven’t been here in so long.”

“What happened to your family?” I ask. Quite honestly, this has been bugging me since he mentioned his family to me the first time.

He stares into my eyes. “Bring in your things, Frank.”

***


I discovered very quickly that while this place is two storey, my time here will be spent solely on the first floor. Upstairs is just a bedroom – specifically, Gerard’s bedroom. All I know about it is that “the staircase is off limits” – Gerard made that point very clear. So far, I’ve spent my time here drifting between my room, the kitchen, and the living room. I’m sure you can gather where Gerard’s been the whole time.

“Frank!” Gerard calls.

I’ve been in my room for half an hour, listening to my iPod. Judging by how loud Gerard’s voice was, he’s probably been trying to get my attention for some time. I hop up from my bed and head down the hallway to the kitchen.

Sarcastically, I say, “Yes, master?”

He gives me one of his trademark looks. “I cooked you dinner.”

He slides a steaming plate toward me and hands me a knife and fork.

“Uh, thanks...”

He picks up his own plate and heads for the sliding door. “You can come eat with me on the veranda, if you want,” he says softly, sounding a touch nervous.

I take my plate and follow him out. He takes a seat at the table; I sit across from him. For the first couple of minutes we sit in silence, with the only audible sounds being that of metal hitting ceramic.

“So,” I say after the silence becomes unbearable, “your family, tell me what went wrong.”

He ceases his movements and stares at me intensely. “Did you not establish earlier that I had no interest in talking about it?”

“Oh, I did, but I figure that you need to talk about it,” I reply, bringing the fork to my mouth.

For a few minutes, he says nothing and continues with his meal. It’s not until his plate is empty that he opens his mouth again to speak.

“I was twelve,” he begins. “My family always seemed to be close; we’d talk about everything. I thought I could tell my parents anything; so the day I kissed my best friend – my best male friend – I assumed I could tell them about it.” Up until this point, he hadn’t made eye contact, but now he was staring at me. “I was wrong.” He looks to his lap again. “They yelled at me, told me how wrong it was – my dad even read me a paragraph from the Bible, a book that until that day had always been used as a coaster.” There’s a hesitation in his speech, as if he’s trying to hold back he’s emotions. “They didn’t speak to me, look at me, anything, for weeks... but they sure had a lot to say when they caught me kissing my best friend in my bedroom.” Suddenly, he lifts up his left arm and shifts it into the light; his fingers trace the line of a faint scar. “I don’t think Dad really meant to hurt me when he threw Mum’s favourite vase – he was aiming for the wall beside me, but when it shattered I got cut up pretty bad.”

I reach out to him and take his arm before he can pull it away; I want to examine the scar further. “Did he apologise?”

Gerard shakes his head while gently tugging his arm out of my grasp. “He just walked away – kind of symbolic when you think about it. That’s what my parents did, they walked away from me; they both started working longer hours so they didn’t have to be around me, and as a result, Mikey was the one that truly suffered.” He sighs. “Mikey was only nine years old when all this happened, so I had to step up a care for him when our parents weren’t around. It went on for five years, my parents ignoring me... all because I was gay.” He looks a little angry now. “When I turned seventeen, I couldn’t take it anymore; I had to get out of that house. Ellie knew I was ready to crack before I did, so she invited me to live with her and her family. It was my only way out, so I took it.”

My mouth falls open in shock. “How long for?”

“Just a year, I worked and saved up my money until I could afford to rent a place of my own.” He looks downcast again, and I almost tell him to stop talking. “When I was on my own, it really hit me that I’d lost my family. I fell in with the wrong crowd at Art School – they got me hooked on booze and pills. I was so depressed that the only thing that made me feel better was that stuff; I liked it because it made me go numb... I liked not feeling. My ‘friends’ liked me not feeling, too. When they realised my drinking had got out of hand, they gave up. My parents didn’t care. No one did but Mikey and Ellie and her family. They helped me get clean.” He clears his throat. “So when I felt like I needed to drink, I drew instead. And out of nowhere, what I drew became popular... I became popular. My life changed...” he looks up at me, and for the first time today, smiles. “and then you came along.”

I smile back, because, come on, it’s kind of flattering. Although, that happiness is short lived when I glance at our surroundings and remember where we are.

“Where does this cottage come into it all, then?” I ask.

“I kissed my first guy the day after we came back from a week vacationing here,” he replies. “This place is literally the last good memory I have of my family as a whole. Whenever things get difficult, I think of this place, but this is the first time I’ve actually had the courage to come out here.”

“Why’s that?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know... I suppose I was afraid that this place wouldn’t be what I thought it was. But the second I came through that door today, I knew this was the right place to be. Every room in this place, everything that surrounds it has good memories attached to it. Maybe I’ll tell you about them sometime.” He stands up, picking up his plate. “Let’s go inside; it’s getting chilly out here.”

We head back in and place our plates in the sink; I’ll wash them up later. Gerard opens the fridge and grabs a drink before heading to the stairs that lead to his room.

“Wait!” I call after him.

He stops, one foot on the bottom step. I walk over to him and place a hand on his should to indicate for him to turn around; he does. I envelope him in my arms briefly and let him go again. Standing apart, he offers me a small smile, and then makes his way upstairs.

Maybe our time here won’t be so bad after all.
♠ ♠ ♠
Coming up in Frank Iero: P.A. ...

“Please don’t leave, Frank,” he begs, his lips so close to my ear that I shiver involuntarily. “Please...”

That sounded so emotional, as if he were about to cry. Fuck...

“I won’t leave you,” I say, “for as long as you need me, I won’t leave you.”