Sequel: Gerard Way: Artist

Frank Iero: P.A.

Thirty Three

Walking through the house to the kitchen, I find myself whistling a jaunty version of The Used’s ‘The Taste of Ink’. The tune’s been caught in my mind all morning. Gerard is sitting at the counter with a cup of steaming coffee, the New York Times opened up to the arts section.

“You’re very chipper this morning,” he comments, not lifting his gaze from the paper in front of him.

“I am,” I confirm, then resume my whistling.

It’s been a week since the friendship conversation with Gerard and things have been great. We’ve been working like a well-oiled lock. There hasn’t been a single fight; Gerard hasn’t even raised his voice to me once. And most shockingly of all, I haven’t felt the urge to call him a cocksucker at all. In fact, I’ve managed to compliment him on his work on more than one occasion this week. If he keeps up his recent pleasantness I may just have to nominate him for Boss of the Year – I’m sure something like that must exist somewhere.

I open the refrigerator door and grab the milk from inside for my cereal. To my delight, Ellie restocked the cupboards and bought me a box of Fruit Loops. I know they’re just for me because Gerard’s made a point of informing me that he refuses to eat “colourful crap” in the morning. That was easily the strangest thing I’ve heard all year, but hey, more Fruit Loops for me! I take my bowl of cereal and mug of coffee over to the Island and sit on the middle stool. That’s right – Gerard and I have reached that intimate level of friendship where it feels more awkward to leave a seat between us than to sit side by side.

“So, I spoke to your boss this morning,” Gerard says to me in a mock-serious tone. “Being the amazing best friend I am, I managed to convince him to give you the day off,” he continues. “It wasn’t easy – he’s quite the asshole, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” I reply, matching his tone, “he’s easily the biggest asshole I’ve met in my life. That man’s so uptight I’m tempted to get him laid just to loosen him up a bit.”

“If you find someone, let me know – I wouldn’t mind getting laid, either,” he replies, although I think that comment is more sincere than he’d like me to believe. “So, now that you’ve got a free twenty-four hours, I thought you and I might head out to Central Park. You up for it?” He pauses. “Note that ‘no’ is not an acceptable answer.”

I laugh, chunks of chewed, coloured cereal flying from my mouth. “Well, I can’t say no to an offer like that, can I? Especially not after you confronted my bitch of a boss for me.”

“Good,” he replies, back to his usual I’m-in-charge voice. “Meet me out the front in half an hour.”

He gets to his feet, the stool scraping against the tiles loudly. Picking up his coffee and paper, he heads out of the kitchen, probably to get ready for the outing himself. For once, I’m not annoyed by his abruptness; going out on a work day sounds like fun, even if I’m already on a time schedule. With that in mind, I shovel my Fruit Loops down like a pig and take big gulps from my Bugs Bunny mug until it is empty. I place everything in the sink and run – literally run – upstairs to my room. The second my door is shut I begin stripping out of my pyjamas and head for my bathroom. I shower quickly – being someone with high standards in personal hygiene, showering quickly is something I find difficult, but my determination not to be late for Gerard on my day off overrides that.

Eight minutes later I’m walking from the bathroom to my closest naked, towel drying my hair as best as I can. I select a pair of baggy blue jeans and a plain black shirt, slipping them on quickly. I grab my white Converse from the floor of my wardrobe and shove my feet in them, the laces tied in that perfect place that allows you to put them on or take them off without untying them. My wallet, keys, and phone are on the nightstand by my bed; I scoop them up and stash them in my pockets as I head out of the bedroom. As I descend the stairs I catch sight of Gerard heading out the front door. I check the time on my phone and see that I’ve still got ten minutes to spare.

Someone’s eager.

I shrug my shoulders and follow him. When I close the front door behind me Gerard swivels around and looks at me in shock.

“You’re early... really early,” he says slowly.

I smirk. “So are you.”

He shrugs, and it’s now I notice that there’s a wicker basket dangling from his right hand. The lid is slightly ajar, being held open by the contents inside.

“A picnic?” I ask, looking up from the basket to his hazel eyes.

“I thought some fresh air might do us some good.” He hands – more like shoves - the basket to me and takes long strides down the driveway. “Come on pack horse,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Why do I have to carry it?” I whine. It’s super heavy and slowing me down in my attempts to catch up with Gerard.

Not stopping, he says, “I spoke to your boss.”

“Yes, that must have been so difficult for you,” I mutter to myself.

I jog a little to catch up to him, but come to a halt when I see he’s taken a left instead of a right at
the end of the driveway.

“The Subway’s the other way...” I say.

“We’re walking,” he replies seriously.

“That’ll take half an hour!”

He doesn’t reply, and I realise that if I don’t get a move on it’ll take much longer. Thankfully he stops at a pedestrian crossing instead of crossing against the lights, which gives me time to catch up to him. Although, I only get to stop and catch my breath for a few seconds before the signal changes and Gerard begins to walk again. He navigates the streets of Manhattan like an expert, dodging pedestrians and taking shortcuts that only true New Yorkers would know about. There is no conversation while we walk, for which I’m kind of happy for as most of my efforts are focussed on breathing.

We make it to Central Park in just under half an hour thanks to Gerard’s swiftness. We enter through an entrance on Fifth Avenue, coming into Central Park East near the zoo. Gerard leads us down the walking paths until we reach the pond. Considering how it is an early Tuesday morning, the place is quite active. He steps onto the grass and walks a few feet until he finds a spot that he’s happy with. Taking the basket from me, he places it on the ground and digs around inside it before pulling out a folded picnic rug. He spreads it out neatly and gestures for me to sit down. I do so and watch on as he kneels in front of me and begins laying out a variety of foods stored in Tupperware containers.

“You sure went to a lot of effort for this,” I remark, spotting brownies in a container with condensation droplets on the lid, meaning they were still warm when they were put in.

“I always put a lot of effort into making up for the times I’ve fucked up,” he replies, half joking, half serious.

I consider his words. “But you haven’t fucked up... not lately anyway.”

“No, not lately,” he concedes, “but there a things from a few weeks ago I’ve yet to make up for.” He lays out a few more things. “And you’ve been such a big help with Mikey that I figure I owe you.”

“You know,” I say softly, “my helping you wasn’t conditional... I would have helped you regardless of whether you’re my boss or not.”

He takes out some picnic plates and places a selection of goodies onto one, handing it to me. “I know. You’re a good guy like that, but still, I want to show you how much I appreciate it.”

I take a bite of the brownie I’ve been eyeing off. The second the soft cake crumbles on my tongue and rich fudge leaks out of the centre across my tastebuds I close my eyes and feel my insides melt. It’s is heavenly, delightful, sinful, and perfect all at once. An unbelievably sexual moan escapes my mouth. Oops. I clasp a hand over my mouth to try and mask the sound.

Gerard’s tongue darts out of his mouth and wets his lips quickly. “Uh...” He thrusts his hand into the basket and removes a bottle of French champagne. “I, uh, bought some of this – thought you m-might like it,” he stammers. His fingers tremor as he pops the cork. “Obviously I can’t have any, but yeah.”

He pours me a glass of the bubbling liquid and hands it to me, his hands still shaking. When he turns his head away to extract more things from the basket, I down the whole glass in three big gulps. I’m suddenly feeling very awkward.

We sit in silence for a while, nibbling on the amazing food Gerard’s prepared for us. Occasionally one of us comments on the scenery or about how nice the weather is, but it’s never anything more than a few seconds of conversation. I focus my attention on the pond. There are ducks floating across the beautiful greeny-blue water. An elderly couple stand with their arms linked and toss breadcrumbs out, which are quickly lapped up by the ducks. A slight breeze comes through the park, making the trees sway slightly. It is strong enough to blow the hat from the woman’s head; her husband, like a gentleman, bends down to retrieve it and places it back on her head. They share a loving look and I feel like I’m watching a short film play out before me. I feel a little jealous; one day I want to have that, to have someone look at me like I’m the only person in the world – that I am their world.

“Here,” Gerard says, catching my attention. He’s holding a large, flat box in his hands. “I got you a little something.”

I take the box he’s offering cautiously, keeping my eyes fixed on him for some sort of clue as to why he’s giving me a present. “What is it?”

“Something that I knew you wanted but would never have the courage to ask for,” he replies.

What on Earth would that be? I carefully lift the lid from the box; whatever it is has been covered with tissue paper. My fingers begin to shake as a pull back the silver wrapping.

Oh, my God... No way...

In the box sits Demolition Lovers – the canvas Gerard painted ages ago for that wealthy English business man. Could this possibly be the original? I lift the canvas gently out of the box and turn it over. The inscription is the same as the original, and right in the bottom corner is the date it was completed... the same date as the day I sent it off.

I meet Gerard’s eyes and find him already looking at me. There’s a kind smile on his lips and he nods. There’s now no question or doubt in my mind; this is definitely the original.

“How?” is all I can manage.

“Did you honestly think that I wouldn’t find out you’d called the buyer?” he asks me rhetorically. “Of course he called me and told me my P.A. had attempted to buy the painting from him.” He shakes his head at my stupidity. “I thought about painting you one, but something told me that you wouldn’t want a copy; you wouldn’t want someone else to own it, too. So I painted something else and traded it for this particular canvas.” He takes a sip from his Pepsi, looking nervous all of a sudden. “I’ve had it for a while now – I intended to give it to you straight away, but then all this stuff with Mikey happened.” He pauses. “I thought now would be the best time to give it to you... before another disaster or argument happens.”

I place Demolition Lovers back in the box and walk on my knees over to Gerard. I catch him raise his eyebrow at me questioningly before I close my eyes and wrap my arms around him. A moment later he pats my back lightly. I don’t pull away, simply because I’m worried if I open my eyes again I’ll cry, and I can’t let Gerard see me cry over this. That canvas, though, and all he did to get it back for me means the world to me.

“Thank you,” I breathe into the crook of his neck, meaning it in the most sincere way possible.

“You’re welcome,” he replies softly, his back pats turning into strokes.

I feel his body go rigid in my arms, and then he slowly disentangles himself from my embrace. He clears his throat loudly and looks away awkwardly.

“The wind’s picking up,” he says, avoiding my eyes. The softness in his voice has disappeared completely.

“Uh, yeah,” I agree. Demolition Lovers catches my eyes again and I ghost a hand over the canvas. “I really do love this,” I tell him even though I know he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

“Me, too,” he says distractedly, “that’s why I wanted you to have it.”

I’m about to ask him what he means by that, but his phone rings loudly. He extracts it from his jacket pocket and looks at the caller ID; his eyebrows furrow and his mouth turns downward.

“Gerard Way,” he answers formally.

I watch his face change from confusion, to recognition, to disbelief and sadness as he listens to whatever the caller has to say. His free hand that rests on his knee starts to shake. As I raise my eyes from his hand to his face I see his eyes are now watery.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible,” he says vacantly into the phone.

Gerard's expression goes stony, his mouth slack.

No... please, God, no... not now.

He turns to me, stony expression still in place. “Mikey’s been taken to hospital.”
♠ ♠ ♠
Hello my lovely readers!
I've decided that the deadline for this Fan Art Competition will next Tuesday. I'll decide the winner before I usually update, and whoever it is will get Chapter 35 sent to them when I post 34 next week. I look forward to seeing all your amazing talents :)

Coming up in Frank Iero: P.A....

The doctor who’s been caring for Mikey taps my shoulder. He offers me a pleasant smile before casting his eyes over his clipboard. I take a few steps out into the corridor and gesture for the doctor to follow.

“How much longer do you think he’s got?” I ask when I’m certain we’re far enough away that Gerard won’t hear the question nor the answer.

He rubs his finger and thumb over his stubble as he examines his clipboard again. “Well...”

“Honestly,” I say.