Frank Iero: P.A.

There is a loud noise and the next thing I know I tumble off the sofa and land on the carpeted floor with a thud. The room is much brighter than I last remember. I’m looking up at the ceiling. Now I’m looking at Gerard’s upside down face.

“Did you sleep down here?” Gerard asks. He’s standing behind my head looking down at me like I’m some kind of alien.

“No,” I say sarcastically, “I’m always down here this early on a Saturday.”

He shrugs, steps over me, and walks away. The fucker actually walked away! Most people would offer to help me up, not that I would have wanted his help, but it’s the principle of it all. I disentangle myself from the mess of the throw rug and follow after him. The bastard is already walking along the landing above the staircase. I take two steps at a time and shout after him.

“What were you doing coming in at this ungodly hour?” I ask.

Nothing.

“Did you have to shut the door so loudly?”

Still nothing. We’re almost at his studio door.

“Can you say something, you cock-sucker?” I shout. Shit. Did I really just say cock-sucker?

“I don’t recommend you speak to your boss like that, Frank.”

Yep, I did say that aloud. Oh well, might as well run with it. “You’re not my boss on Saturday’s.”

“I’m your landlord,” he counters, turning to face me, his hand resting on the handle of his studio door.

“I don’t pay rent.”

“Touché.” He’s smirking. Yep, he’s definitely smirking. What the fuck. “Fuck off, Frank – I’ve got art to create.”

He enters the studio, leaving me in alone in the hallway like some discarded tissue. That fucking cock-sucker!



Lunch time comes fast today. I spent the majority of the morning playing the piece of music I’d created over the night; I’ve started adding lyrics to it. My stomach rumbles loudly – my cue to put my guitar back in its stand. I make my way down to the kitchen; Gerard’s already there, rummaging in the fridge for a container marked ‘lunch’. I’m surprised to see him, because quite often I’ve had to take his lunch up to him and leave it by the studio door.

I’m still annoyed with Gerard after our argument earlier and I let him know it.

“Can I get to the fridge, Mr. Way?” I say. He hates being called Mr. Way.

He doesn’t move and I’m stuck staring at the man’s ass. It’s not such a bad view actually.

Wait! What the fuck?

Forget about his ass, Frank! Stop looking. You’re still looking. Stop!

“Frank?” Gerard’s voice cuts into my thoughts.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you wanted some of this soup.” He’s holding a large Tupperware container in his hands.
Gerard has never offered me lunch before. This is a Kodak moment if ever there was one. I should embrace this rare opportunity of kindness, but I’m going to play with him.

“Are you sure you won’t need it all to keep that big head of yours energised?” I say seriously.

“I’ve decided to go on a diet – I don’t like the way my head looks in the mirror,” He replies just as seriously, and then there’s that smirk again. I’m starting to really like it. Bad Frank!

I watch Gerard reach for two bowls from the overhead cupboard, his shirt riding up to expose the pale flesh of his hip. He ladles the soup evenly into the bowls and then carries them through to the living room; I follow him, completely perplexed by his sudden good attitude. He places the bowls down on the coffee table and – literally – throws himself onto the couch. I sit on the floor, as there’s no room left on the couch thanks to his log of a body, and take one of the bowls. It’s weird to be having lunch with him so casually.

We sit in a strangely comfortable silence, the only sounds being made are those from spoons tapping porcelain. My eyes scan the room, taking in all of Gerard’s quirky possessions from his Batman cushion on the sofa to the kinky sex manuals on the bookshelves. He’s one strange motherfucker, who enjoys – I squint – The Orgasm Bible. What the fuck? Has he no shame?
I avert my eyes from his collection and continue to look around the living room. My eyes land back on Gerard; he’s staring at me, and obviously has for a while. He doesn’t stop even though I’m staring right back at him.

“What?” I demand.

He shrugs and turns his attention back to eating. “You have tattoos; I’d never noticed them before.”

Never noticed them before? I’m covered in them!

“Are you serious?” I say, annoyed.

“Yeah,” he replies – I notice he won’t look at me now. He gestures to my knuckles. “Do you seriously like Halloween enough to get it written on you permanently, or did you forget which holiday the pumpkin is for?”

I look at him derisively. “My birthday’s on Halloween.”

“So you forget when your birthday is?” he replies.

I’m about to throw my bowl of soup in his face, but then he smirks. And then we’re both laughing. Uncontrollably. I’m not even sure why we’re laughing, but, God, his laugh is so cute. It’s kind of high pitched, like a giggle; his face scrunches up and he smiles with his little teeth.

Why did I notice that?

Our laughter dies down and we both sigh contentedly. Gerard leans back into the couch and smiles at me; he’s staring again. He slides his feet back along the couch so his knees are bent, staring more intensely now. I realise that he’s telling me to sit in the space he just cleared. I sit sideways on the couch cushion with my back to the arm rest so I can see him, and curl my legs up under myself.

“Do you have any tattoos?” I ask him.

He shudders. “No – I’m scared of needles – so no piercings either.”

“Wow – you’re like the only dude I know without any tatts or piercings.” I’m not even joking.

“It’s a pleasure to be your first,” he says, and it sounds quite seductive, too. What... how do I respond to that? He winks – thank fuck, I don’t need to respond. “I like that one.”

I look at him, confused. He takes both my hands and touches my thumbs together. His fingers ghost over my ‘hopeless romantic’ tattoo that stretches across my hands. When he lets my hands go and they fall into my lap I try to ignore the sudden tingling sensation. Gerard Way is NOT capable of making my skin tingle.

“Where did you go last night?” Why the fuck did I ask that question?

His expression changes from that contented smile he just had and morphs into one completely lacking any form of emotion. He gets up from the couch and leaves his bowl on the coffee table. I watch as he retreats from the living room in the direction of the staircase.

“I need to get back to the studio,” I hear him mumble as he leaves. His voice is back to being cold and distant.

I don’t get it. Not the fact that he left – well, I don’t understand that either – but I don’t know why I suddenly feel empty. I kind of wish he was still here next to me, that we were conversing easily like we had just been doing.

Stupid cock-sucker.

I look down at the remnants of my soup; I’m no longer hungry. I sigh – might as well be fucking useful. I gather up both of the bowls and take them through to the kitchen to stack them in the dishwasher.

He’s a strange man, Gerard Way. I want to understand why he’s got multiple personalities – and why he chooses to use each one of them around me. I don’t want to be thinking about it, but let’s face it, my life literally revolves around the man. How he acts determines how I act. It’s ridiculous.

We spend the rest of the day apart; him in his studio, me in my room working on my song. The mansion is absolutely silent apart from the sounds from my guitar and it is strangely unnerving; I feel like I’m living with a dead man when it’s like this.

There is a knock on my door – I realise it’s after seven o’clock. Apparently my guitar has managed to distract me for a good six hours. I shrug to myself, stay seated on my stool, and call out a mumbled ‘come in’.

The door opens to reveal Gerard. I’m shocked, although I really shouldn’t be; who else could have been at my bedroom door other than Gerard?

“I thought you might like to join me for dinner,” he says. I realise that it’s an order, not a proposition.

“Alright.”

I place my guitar carefully in its stand and make to leave the room. Gerard is leaning against the doorframe but he doesn’t make any attempt to move when I reach him. He’s staring at my guitar, arms folded, perplexed expression.

“Um, Gerard?” I indicate that he needs to move.

He doesn’t.

“I never knew you played.” He’s obviously talking about my guitar.

I shrug. “Well, I do.”

He is still in my way, and shows no intention of moving, but now his eyes have left the guitar and wandering over my room. Fed up, I shove him out of the way and proceed into the hall. It takes a few seconds, but he slowly trails after me. I head for the kitchen, but apparently that’s not right.

“No, dining room,” he instructs.

I look at him sceptically, but do as he says. I open the French frosted-glass doors – why the hell are they shut anyway? – and come to an immediate halt. I feel Gerard bump into the back of me, but it doesn’t really register that I need to step forward. I’m shocked again.

The dining table has been laid. It is NEVER laid. It’s covered in a bright red tablecloth with a white lace runner down the centre. An exquisite gold candelabra sits in the centre of the table with all the candles lit. There are multiple platters of Ellie’s cooking that look absolutely delicious, plus a couple dishes that I know for a fact she didn’t cook, and there are two places set, one at the head of the table, the other on its left. What the hell is going on?

Gerard places his hands on my shoulders and urges me forward. He takes the seat at the head of the table, so I sit next to him. He starts serving the entree.

“Artichoke walnut pesto crostini,” he tells me. It’s basically small slices of crispy bread with pesto smoothed out on top of it. He’s already begun eating. “Go on, take a bite, Frank.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” I say, staring at my plate, then staring at him.
There’s that smile of his. “I was pretty rude to you earlier, and I felt I should make up for it, so here you have it – dinner.”

“Um, thanks.” Well, what else am I supposed to say? I take a bite of my crostini. “Fuck – that’s good!”

“Thank you,” Gerard says.

I look over at him questioningly. Through a mouthful of food I say, “You made this?”

“Yes,” he replies, “but don’t get excited, I’m no chef; all that I can cook is on this table.”

I look around the table; there is no toast or eggs, and this is all he can cook? He’s a fucking chef, whether he thinks it or not. I’m living with a cock-sucker-cum-artist-cum-chef.

“Did you treat Marty to a spread like this when you fucked up?” I ask. I almost apologise for my language, but then why should I? I’m not his employee right now.

He chuckles, takes a sip from his wine glass (although I don’t think it contains wine), and responds. “This is the first time that I’ve – as you so eloquently put it – fucked up.”

We finish our entrees off in silence, but it’s a comfortable silence. I can’t get over how good this thing tastes. Gerard smiles at me every now and again, and I smile back. I’m really enjoying this.

“Are you ready for the main?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for me to answer before he stands up and begins to serve up one of Ellie’s dishes. “Zucchini orechiette, prepared by the lovely Ellie and reheated by the incredibly sexy Gerard Way.”

I burst into laughter; the man was doing a Justin Bieber hair flip! He, still holding the serving spoon, begins to laugh, too. I have to admit, though – and I mean this in the most heterosexual way possible – he is pretty sexy.

The main course, a pasta dish, tasted amazing. I knew it would, as it was Ellie’s cooking, but that didn’t lessen the surprise for my tastebuds. We made small talk about work and art – kind of the same thing when you think about it – and it was pleasant, but I wanted to learn more about Gerard.

“When did you learn to play?” Gerard asks; it seems he wants to learn more about me, too.

I can tell he means the guitar. “I grew up with music; my dad and grandfather were both musicians. They taught me all about music, and the guitar came along with that, but I didn’t get seriously into playing until I was about eleven.”

He sits back in his chair and just observes me. There is no comment about what I’ve told him. He is smiling, though, only a little, but it’s still a smile.

“When did you learn to draw?” I see no point in dropping the conversational ball now.

He takes another sip from his glass; I really ought to ask what the fuck he’s drinking. “It wasn’t so much learning; I just drew, and one day I noticed what I was drawing wasn’t all that bad.” He shrugs dismissively as if his talent is nothing. “I kept it up, went to art school, and made a fortune.”

“You make it sound like it was nothing.”

“It was nothing. I was just living, Frank.” He stares at me intently. “I never sat down and planned out my life, never did the whole ‘step by step’ thing, I just live my life doing what I love. It just so happens that what I love has made me incredibly rich and famous.”

“Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position? You never have to worry about whether you’ll have enough cash to make it through the week. You have everything and you don’t even give a shit.” I push my chair back from the table and make to leave. I’m not going to sit here and listen to Gerard talk with so little appreciation for what he has when I have lived with nothing.

Gerard snatches my wrist. “Frank, hey,” he says sternly. Those hazel eyes lock onto mine. Softly, he says, “I would just as happily sit in my bedroom every day, using my bed as an easel, making the same art you see all the time, and not selling a single piece of it, just because I love doing it. Life doesn’t run on money, it runs on passion.”

Did all of that just come out of Gerard Way’s mouth? In the two months I’ve worked here I have never once seen him talk so passionately about his art. He always keeps it formal – it’s always seemed like he saw art just as business. This is the one time he hasn’t acted like a cock-sucker. I’m not sure how to respond.

“Sit down.” He lets go of my wrist. “We have desert to get to.”

I watch Gerard serve up dessert. I spot the crème brulees Ellie prepared yesterday; he places the small pots onto our plates. He leans over the table for more food. That’s when I notice that I’m going to be served a dessert platter as opposed to just dessert. My tastebuds tingle in anticipation – I fucking love dessert.

“So,” Gerard says as he places the long platter in front of me, “for dessert we have Ellie’s signature crème brulee, cream puffs stuffed with ice cream and topped with rich chocolate sauce, and my signature chocolate bouchon.”

I feel my eyes widen at the sight of it all. Where the hell am I meant to begin? I look over to Gerard; he’s picked up his spoon and is using it to break the top of the crème brulee. Crème brulee it is then!

I do the same as Gerard and tap the top of my crème brulee – it cracks distinctly. I take a spoonful of the thick centre. I have died and gone to French heaven. This dessert is magical. I take a few more eager spoonfuls and relish in the beautiful flavour. I try the chocolate bouchon. Fuck... This, if possible, tastes even better than the crème brulee.

What the fuck? I hear Gerard giggling. I look over to him and raise my eyebrows.

“You look like you’ve just had an orgasm!” He’s over giggling – it’s turned into full blown laughter. “I’ve... I’ve... I’ve made... made you orgasm.”

He – what? Oh, who cares? I start laughing, too.

We calm down eventually and return to eating our desserts in silence, but every so often we’ll look up at each other and smirk. I’m not sure I’ll ever live down the moment Gerard Way made me orgasm.

I put my spoon on the side of my plate and slump down in my chair. I’m completely stuffed. This has been, by far, the best meal of my life. Ever. My head lolls to the side; I watch Gerard and soon he’s watching me, too, holding that wine glass again – and I still don’t know what’s in.

“What the fuck are you drinking?”

“Non-alcoholic wine,” he replies. He takes a sip. “Better than water.”

“Why not drink the real stuff?”

He looks down to his lap, then brings his eyes back to meet mine. “I used to be an alcoholic.”

“Oh... I... uh... you...” I stutter. How am I meant to respond to a bombshell like that? He comes across as someone who is always in control, always calm, no vices; it seems impossible for him to have let alcohol take control of his life.

“Don’t pity me, Frank,” he says, standing up from the table. He gathers up a stack of plates to take to the kitchen, talking as he goes, “I fucked up my life and then I fixed it. That’s all there is to it.”

He’s disappeared into the kitchen. I grab a few of the dishes he’s left behind and follow him in. He’s rinsing dishes. The dishwasher door is ajar; I assume he intends to put the dishes into the dishwasher after they’ve been rinsed so I give him a hand. For the first time, as I’m stacking the dishwasher, I notice how many pots and pans are littering the bench tops; Gerard’s been working his butt off. Suddenly I’m feeling guilty. I mean, Gerard’s not all that bad. He did go to a lot of effort for this evening when he really didn’t have to. We did have some good laughs tonight, too. I learnt some really intimate things about him – I think he trusts me, otherwise why would he have let me know about his drinking problem and about how much he actually loves art; no interviewer has ever been able to get that out of him. And that smirk... it’s so – fuck!

Shit!

Look at all that blood... fuck.

As I was placing a wine glass on the rack of the dishwasher I hit the side of a pot and smashed the thing. The shards of glass have sliced the palm of my hand. There’s a lot of blood. I drop to my knees and nurse my hand.

Gerard’s on his knees in front of me. “Here.”

He takes my hand and presses a damp tea towel onto the cut. He mops up the blood by dabbing the towel at it gently. A few moments later he removes the towel entirely. He runs his fingers along the edge of the cut, inspecting the damage. It hurts a little, but I let him do it.

“There’s a bit of glass in there,” he says calmly. “Come with me; I’ve got some tweezers upstairs.”

I follow him through the house until we end up out the front of his bedroom door. He goes inside, but I don’t step over the threshold.

“Frank?” he calls from inside of the room. “I can’t get the glass out of your hand if I don’t have your hand to get it out of.”

“I can’t come into that room; my boss wouldn’t like it.” Yes, I’m making a joke right now of all times; my hand hurts – I need a laugh.

“Just come in,” he yells, irritated.

When I enter his room one of the first things I notice is the gigantic bed. The duvet cover is black, the sheets are satin, and there is a huge mound of pillows and decorative cushions at the head of the bed. My inner child wants to take a running jump at that bed, however my outer adult is telling me it’s not such a wise idea – I’d hurt my hand more. I snoop look around the room while I wait for Gerard to find the tweezers; he’s disappeared into what I can only assume to be his ensuite. The walls are a deep burgundy. There are thick curtains covering the windows which I am willing to bet remain closed 24/7. In the corner of his room are tall bookshelves adorned with sculptures, DVDs, old novels, and a small silver box; if I had more time I’d like to find out what’s in it. He has a desk in here, too, upon which a laptop sits; there are loose, but organised, sheets of paper, a cordless phone, and a framed photo.

“I know they’re in here somewhere; shouldn’t be much longer!” Gerard calls out to me.

Good.

I move quietly over to the desk and pick up the gold frame. The photo is of two small boys. It’s an old photo judging by the quality. I can tell instantly that the boy on the right is Gerard – I recognise the smile – but I have no idea who the other boy is. I place the frame back on the desk. My eyes scan the rest of his desk; in amongst the sheets of paper are a couple more photographs. They are all of the same woman. She’s pretty; long black hair, grey-ish blue eyes, full lips, porcelain skin. She is also pregnant. Not far along, but far enough to show. One of the photos is a close up of her stomach. Someone, a man, is hugging her from behind, their hands resting on her stomach, her hands resting on theirs. It’s quite a beautiful – oh, God!

Gerard Way is going to be father!

I stuff the photographs back under the papers just as Gerard reappears.

“Come here.” He’s sitting on the couch by the bookshelves.

I join him. He takes my hand again. He grabs at the glass with the tweezers but catches my skin instead. I flinch.

“Sorry,” he says softly, sincerely.

He tries again.

“How long has it been?” I ask him. He raises his eyebrows in question, but keeps his eyes focused on my hand. “Since you stopped drinking,” I clarify.

“A little over two years,” he says as he works the tweezers. I feel the glass leave my hand. “Got it,” he confirms.

“Was it hard?”

He’s swabbing my palm with antiseptic cream. It stings and I cringe. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I got through it. You never realise how strong you are until you’re forced to face your fears.” He picks up a large bandaid off the low table and places it over my palm, gently pressing the adhesive backing to stick to my skin. He runs his thumb lightly across the bandaid while looking into my eyes. “There you go, all done.”

He doesn’t stop staring at me, nor does he let my hand go. This is weird. Why is my heart racing?

“Uh, thanks... thanks a lot,” I reply, “for everything.”

I tug my hand out of his grasp and leave the room. I pull the door shut behind me and lean up against it. What the hell just happened?