Frank Iero: P.A.

With Gerard hidden away upstairs and unlikely to make another appearance tonight, I head back to the kitchen in a strangely upbeat mood to wash up.

Things between the two of us are better than I could ever imagined them being. He trusts me; I’m his best friend – and I’m surprisingly okay with that. To be completely honest, I never saw us having a friendship of any sort – I didn’t think it possible for me to tolerate him at all and vice versa, but he’s not all that bad. Gerard just has trust issues, and who could blame him for that? I just hope that he continues to offload some of his problems onto me; he can’t keep bottling everything up inside.

As I scrub dried sauce off the base of a pot I think more about what Gerard divulged to me this evening. His parents literally abandoned him, their first born son. Who does that? Who can live with themselves doing that? And in abandoning Gerard, they abandoned Mikey as well. I could be wrong, but it seems they still are. If they were involved in Mikey’s life, than why does Gerard need to do so much for him and Alicia? No, there’s no way they could be helping out. Do they even know that Mikey’s sick? I’ll have to try asking Gerard that question sometime.

There’s a window above the sink, and as I continue to scrub at dishes I find myself staring out through it. This place is so secluded, so beautiful. It really feels like there is no one around for miles, but surely there must be. Not far from the cottage is a small lake. The stars reflect off the water, giving it this silvery glow. I imagine that as a child Gerard and Mikey would have been out there playing, maybe throwing stones or fishing as the water would be too cold to swim. Their mother would have probably watched them play from where I’m standing now, letting them think they had the world to themselves when really she was protecting them from afar. Maybe their father sat outside this window at the table where Gerard and I enjoyed dinner, reading the paper or a thick volume, also pretending that he wasn’t watching the boys like a hawk. I’m sure that’s what it would have been like before their falling out. Maybe while we’re here we can venture out to that lake, and Gerard can relive the good parts of his childhood.

I place the last of the dishes on the side of the sink to dry off when I hear a voice behind me.

“I was just coming down to do that,” he says softly, motioning toward the crockery drip drying beside me.

I shrug my shoulders. “You cooked.”

“Well, thanks.”

He rests a hand on the back off his neck, looking rather awkward all of a sudden.

“Actually, I heard you moving about down here. I wanted to come and, uh, apologise – for dragging you out here,” he says softly, his eyes trained on the floor, “and for forcing you to clean up my mess – and I don’t mean the dishes.”

It’s now that he chooses to look at me. His features are gentle, sincere; I can tell he genuinely feels bad about everything. The thing is, it really isn’t necessary. I take a few steps forward and touch my hand to his shoulder briefly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Gerard,” I say, holding the eye contact he’s giving me.

Closing his eyes, he shakes his head. “To you, there’s a lot I need to apologise for.”

“Gerard,” I say firmly, “this place holds so many good memories for you – don’t let my presence here hurt that. I don’t mind being here, I’m okay with everything you’ve said to me since we arrived – because I understand you... I know why you do the things that you do, why you say the things that you say. You need to heal from all the trauma of the past few months and I will do whatever I can to make sure you do, because I am your friend, Gerard. So if my being here upsets you, tell me now and I’ll find a way back to New York, because I need you to heal.”

His hazel eyes bore into me for a moment; everything is eerily silent. Maybe I’ve said too much, but I think he had to hear it, whether he wanted to or not. He closes the distance between us until our bodies are pressed together in a tight embrace. I curl my arms around him slightly, listening to his faint breaths beside my ear.

“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.”

I realise, I’m not just talking about leaving him here at the cottage. I’m talking as his friend, his best friend, who will stick by him when things are tough.

He releases me, stepping back and offering a grateful smile. I return it. He nods, just once, and turns toward the stairs. I definitely won’t be seeing him again tonight.



Despite an urge to sleep in until there’s sunlight streaming through my window, I drag myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of five o’clock. Gerard Way is a highly unpredictable man, and I want to give him breakfast in bed after everything that happened last night, meaning I have to be up much earlier than I’ve ever seen him awake.

I creep down the dark hallway from my room to the kitchen, stopping at the stairs once I enter to see if there’s any light on above; there’s complete darkness – good. I head over to the fridge, trusting Gerard would have snuck off at some point to buy groceries. As I expected, the fridge is fully stocked; I browse the contents for breakfast options. Spying fresh fruit and berries I instantly think blueberry pancakes. I go about gathering what I need and get started.

It’s almost six o’clock by time the pancakes are plated up and ready to serve. I wait a few minutes until the rooster-shaped clock ticks over to the hour before drizzling the pancakes with maple syrup and scooping a large rounded mound of ice cream onto the top of the stack. After rummaging through the cupboards I find a tray and load it up with the plate and a steaming cup of coffee.

Steeling myself with a deep breath, I silently ascend the stairs to Gerard’s room. I nervously round the railing, expecting to find Gerard tucked up in bed, but the bed is empty. Clutching the tray nervously, I scan the room.

Whoa.

I feel as if I watching what’s unfolding before me behind a pane of glass like at a zoo. Gerard, with his legs tucked up beneath him, is sitting on a small sofa, sketching on a large pad that’s resting on the arm of the sofa. The curtains are open a fraction, casting a hazy morning light across his features. He looks so serene, completely relaxed in his black Batman pyjamas, yet I can tell he’s really concentrating on what he’s doing, so much so he hasn’t even noticed my presence. Maybe I should just go back downstairs and leave him be... I want to – I would – but I seem to be rooted to the spot.

So, instead of moving, or doing something to make my presence known, I stay where I am, still clutching the tray with white knuckled hands, watching him. I note the way his head is angled downward to the right, how he blinks long and lazily, allowing his eyelashes to touch his cheeks. He runs his free hand languidly over his flannelette covered thigh repeatedly. His thin cherry coloured lips rub together, form a pout, and then rub together again. He drops the pencil onto the pad, it’s thud echoing in the silent room, and rubs his forehead with his right hand. Slowly, he turns his head in my direction.

“Frank,” he looks and sounds startled, “what are you doing up so early?”

My eyes flick down to the tray, then back to him; I can’t look him in the eye. “After yesterday, I thought you could use breakfast in bed.”

He smiles softly and uncurls himself from his position on the sofa. Pausing briefly to close his sketchbook, he crosses the floor and climbs into his bed. He motions for me to come over to him. I do, placing the tray on his legs.

He grins up at me like a Cheshire cat. “I’ve always wondered what this would feel like,” he says. “I like it.”

Keeping my face tight and serious, I say, “Well, don’t get used to it.”

“Did you make any for yourself as well?” he asks, still smiling manically. I nod, thinking of the plate waiting for me in the oven. “Bring it up here and join me.”

I wander back downstairs to retrieve my food. He seems to be in a good mood today, although I guess anything is a good mood in comparison to how he was twenty-four hours ago. I carry my breakfast back upstairs. When I round the railing this time Gerard peels the covers back for me; I didn’t realise that he meant for me to literally join him in the bed, but, whatever I guess. He holds out his hands to me when I reach the right side of the large canopy bed, offering to take my plate while I climb in beside me. Once I’ve settled beneath the covers he hands the plate back to me and returns his attention to his own breakfast.

“How are the pancakes?” I ask, noticing a large wedge missing from the stack.

“I’ve had better,” he shrugs. Well, fuck you! “However, the fact that you made the effort to cook for me more than makes up for the lack of good flavour.”

“Nice save,” I deadpan.

He nods and dissects another three layered wedge from the stack. Unintentionally, I find myself watching his expression as he chews and swallows; there’s no visible wincing or gagging, so my cooking can’t be that bad. I take a mouthful of my own and chew it carefully, letting the food roll over my tastebuds; it tastes good to me. Perhaps having Ellie cooking for him so fabulously for most of his life has led him to have higher quality tastebuds.

While we eat I find myself looking about the room; it’s the first time I’ve seen what it looks like up here. The walls are burgundy, with only one piece of art on the wall: an oil painting of the country scenery. It’s strange to see so little hung up on the walls – yet another side effect of living with Gerard Way. There’s a chest of drawers across from the bed with an incredibly old television sitting atop it; it’s so old that I’m almost certain it’s picture would be in black and white. To my left there’s a door, sitting slightly ajar, that reveals a small ensuite. If there were a kitchenette up here Gerard would never have to come downstairs again.

Knowing the history of this place in Gerard’s life, I can’t help but wonder what memories he has of this place, how he and his family spent their time here? They must have done some pretty awesome stuff to drive him back here after all these years.

“What are you thinking about?” Gerard asks me somewhat seriously.

“Honestly?” I ask, hoping it’ll buy me some time to think of a lie.

“Honesty is all I would ever want from you, Frank, unless I ask of you otherwise.”

That damn cocksucker. Now I have to tell him the truth.

“I was thinking about all the memories you must have of this place – how powerful they’d have to be to bring you back here.”

He looks to the ceiling, then to the wall in front of us, seemingly reflecting. “Every room in this cottage holds good, ordinarily insignificant moments in time; it’s my Disneyland.”

“We could spend the day reliving them all?” I offer, hoping he’ll agree more than anything so I can find out more about his childhood.

“Why?” he asks curiously.

“Because sometimes in order to survive in the present we need to spend some time living in the past.”

He considers this momentarily, then says, “Meet me in the living room in half an hour.”