Three Cheers for Tragic Ends

Chapter Three

August 7th, 1997

“Silverware, again?”

“Ah, fuck!” The artist jumped roughly five inches up off the old, mottled wood of the attic floor and he clutched at his heart frantically, turning to the perpetrator of his untimely near-death. “Jesus!” he said again, aloud, still unaware of who the perpetrator actually was.

Until the voice sounded again, and Gerard almost recognized it this time. “Relax,” it said, deep and nasally, and, “It’s just me.”

“Frank!” the noirette boy whined, and grimaced at the younger one, who now stood before him. He was wearing a loose, striped sweater that hung about five sizes too big off his tan, yet noticeably malnourished body. The sleeves were so long they covered the ends of his fingertips and Gerard found this slightly endearing– he looked like a three-year-old trying on their mother’s clothes.

“That’s me,” the boy chirped, and raised one hand to his mouth, where he placed a cigarette between his pastel lips. “Silverware’s right behind you, by the way,” he mumbled around the Lucky Strike, and with his other hand slipped a pack of matches from his pocket.

“You don’t have a lighter?” the older boy asked curiously, watching as Frank ran one match across the top of the pack and used it to light his cigarette, before putting out the flame between his calloused forefinger and thumb.

“A what?” the boy muttered. Gerard just shook his head.

“Never mind– what are you doing up here again?” the artist asked; and he moved a reasonable distance away from the trapdoor hole he had, grazie Maria, almost fallen into again. Frank blinked at him, and he pulled the cigarette from his mouth, passing it to the noirette.

“Maybe I wanted to see you again, huh?” he spoke, voice almost a purr.

“And the front door wouldn’t’ve sufficed?” Gerard laughed. He took the cigarette from the younger boy and drew a puff from it, holding in the smoke just long enough that he felt his lungs start to burn before he exhaled, and looked at Frank curiously. He passed the cigarette back.

“Maybe I was running.” And that definitely was a purr this time, and he winked mischievously at the artist before placing the Lucky Strike back between his lips. “I missed your pretty face, darling,” he cooed, and began to walk to the windowsill. “Sit with me?” he asked, words escaping in a cloud of smoke. Gerard really wished he weren’t as tempted– after all, he’d almost convinced himself since the boy’s last visit that said boy was a figment of his imagination. But he supposed he was wrong; which only actually made him right, in some sense of the word– so he moved and sat down next to the younger boy, who was gazing wistfully out the window.

“It’s so pretty out there,” he sighed, and Gerard nodded.

“Molto bello.” He held his hand out to Frank, who passed the Lucky Strike; but not before letting his fingers linger almost teasingly in the artist’s own. He looked up and flashed a coy smile to the older boy.

“Was I right about the silverware, then?” he asked abruptly; and Gerard was almost so surprised he inhaled too much, and the borderline flame in his lungs was not a friendly familiar. He coughed lightly, and Frank said, “Didn’t mean to startle you.” He gave the artist that same shy smile.

After a while, the noirette looked down; almost embarrassed. “Yes,” he mumbled. Frank scooted closer to him, leaning his head against the older boy’s shoulder as he stole the cigarette back.

“I tend to do that,” he teased. “Make people forget what they came for– because by the time they leave, they only ever want me.”

“You’re a very outright person,” Gerard noted. The boy laughed smoke against his neck.

“Oh, you noticed? I’m flattered.” He leaned up so that is nose was pressed right against Gerard’s ear, and he breathed, “It tends to make people nervous. I just have fun.”

The artist honestly could not place why he wasn’t off put by his younger companion’s actions; beside the fact that the boy was oddly endearing, and kind of hot– or maybe it was for those reasons exactly. He turned his head so that he was facing Frank; and the boy’s nose pressed now into his cheek, but he didn’t move away. “You know, I like you,” he muttered, and took another puff off the Lucky Strike. The close proximity of the cigarette to Gerard’s neck was almost bothering the older boy; and as the cigarette bobbed between Frank’s lips as he spoke, debris fell down the artist’s shirt. He really couldn’t be bothered to care.

Eventually –Gerard didn’t know if it had been a minute or an hour, because Frank had been purring into his neck and nearly singing his skin with the cigarette’s cherry, and it was very distracting– the younger boy pulled away, and he passed the Lucky Strike to Gerard for the artist to take one last puff before he put it out against the bottom of his shoe, like before. “So who are you, exactly?” he asked, and Gerard turned to him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, who are you? What’s your story– why are you sitting up here in your attic with me when you could be, well Lord, anywhere else in the world?” Pastel lips turned up at the corner as Frank finished his explanation, and his eyes shined eager for the other boy’s story.

Gerard laughed. “I’m exceptionally no one,” he said aloud, “yet I’m anything but average.”

“Oh, do tell.” Frank leaned back in to Gerard and his sweater drooped down low on his chest, revealing ivory skin and– wait, were those red marks around his neck? Angry, red, and wow. It was more of a solid line, breaking in only a few spots as if something had been bearing on it for a while. Whatever, Gerard shook the thought away. Frank could just be into some kinky shit. That was fine with him.

He still found himself pulled more out of the matter than he’d anticipated, and so he said, “Sorry?”

“Anything but average…?” Frank trailed off helpfully. “I want to know. Tell.”

“Oh, God. It’s such a boring story,” he complained, but Frank only smiled at him.

“I refuse to believe, darling, that anything about you could be boring.”

Gerard sighed then, and he said, “Alright, well. I’m an artist. I am approximately twenty years of age. I have a lot of self-hate and a kid brother, and I lived in Belleville up until Elena got sick…”

“Is that why you moved here?” the younger boy asked. Gerard nodded.

“Yeah. Someone had to take care of her. No one lives in this house with her, or anything. She’s been all alone for a while. Though I haven’t seen as much of her as I thought– I suppose Mikey’s been taking care of her. He can’t stand being without something to do, some sort of order or whatever; so I guess it’s better he’s the one taking care of her, for now at least.” The noirette stopped suddenly, flustered, and then said, “Sorry, does that even make any sense? I’m rambling.”

“I like it,” Frank said. “I like your voice. I like your accent. Say my name.”

“You’re so fucking weird,” Gerard laughed; and Frank’s hazel eyes lit up slightly.

“Do it though,” he prodded. The artist laughed again.

“Frank,” he stated, and then giggled. The boy before him broke into a smile.

“God, I love that laugh,” he grinned. “Say it again though. No, say my last name.”

“I don’t know your last name,” the noirette pointed out.



“Shut the fuck up, you know I didn’t say that,” the younger boy giggled, and he shoved the artist lightly. “Iero. Like eye-ear-oh, I guess.”

But Gerard didn’t say it like that; when it came out, it sounded more like ‘ay-air-oh’. Frank just smiled.

“Close enough. Maybe I like it better that way. God, your voice is so fucking pretty.”

“You’re still so weird,” the older boy reminded. Frank waved him off.

“Whatever. I know you like it when I say your name. Gerard,” he purred, dragging out the ‘a’. “See? I saw you blush.”

Gerard brought his hands up to hide his face. “You can’t see me now, fucker,” he pouted. Frank just asked, “What’s your last name?”


“No way?” he laughed. Gerard brought his hands down to glare at the younger boy.

“You’re a little shit.”

“Mmm,” he hummed. Gerard figured that he was probably remembering the potato incident, what with the way his expression called bullshit on so many levels. “I’m sure I’m the worst one here.”

“Hey, I don’t have a voice fetish,” the artist laughed. Frank stuck his tongue out.

“Whatever. I’m not the one with the brother and his ‘need to please Master’. You know that’s what it is, right? He gets off on that?”

“Don’t talk about it!” the older one practically yelled, and he flailed an arm in Frank’s direction. “No, no, no sir. I sure do not want to know about the things my brother gets off on.”

“Aw, you’re not one of them weird ones?” Frank joked. Gerard cringed.

“Don’t talk about ‘them weird ones’, Jesus.”

Frank gave him the “Really.” face. “Mhm. Okay, tell me more about you, artist boy. Tell me what those pretty eyes have seen, what those calloused hands have touched. Tell me all about your first kiss and your last meal, and all the darling things in between. I wanna know about you, artist boy. I’m intrigued.”

“Weird,” Gerard stated, and he kept a serious face about as long as he figured he’d be able to stand around a needle. Frank smiled at him.

“Yeah, but I think, Mr. Way, that you may just be starting to fall for my weirdness. Admit it, I’m cute– and you wanna put your hands under my shirt and see all the kinda noises I’d make.” The boy smiled deviantly, and he toyed his fingers around Gerard’s wrist for a moment before taking the noirette’s hand and placing it under the hem of his sweater.

The elder boy mock-pouted. “Aw, now you don’t make those noises pre-provocation? I don’t get ‘em for free, then. I gotta do something, I gotta work for them?”

The younger boy took in a breath, short and choppy; and he scrunched his face up slightly and let past pastel lips a small, “Ah.” And he bit the bottom of his lip, and then, “Mm… that’s all you get.”

Gerard was, to say the least, stunned by how quickly the emotions had changed in the boy before him. Frank only laughed, and said, “Oh, do my acting skills surprise you?”

Gerard removed his hand from underneath the boy’s sweater and moved it to his hip; and he pushed him down on the window seat abruptly, leaning over him and biting back a smile at the soft noise the boy made. His face was all screwed up again, and his cheeks were tinged pink; and he was breathing heavily, as if he expected something more to happen. But Gerard only leaned down, and breathed into the boy’s ear, “Did I surprise you?”

“There aren’t words to describe your assholish-ness,” the younger boy pouted; and he opened his hazel eyes and met them with Gerard’s, and said, “I like you up there, artist boy. The view is, really, stunning.”

Gerard laughed. “No, you can probably see up my nose, or something. Plus, it can’t be all that great considering it’s my face.”

“Only you would go and ruin something so perfect by saying, “You can probably see up my nose.” Which, oh, I can. Great. Moment’s ruined, thanks.” But Frank only smiled. And then he said, “Can you stay like that for a while?”

Gerard couldn’t imagine this position particularly comfortable– one knee was shoved between Frank’s own and his weight was pretty much all on the boy’s left hip, and he was sure he’d at one point jammed the younger in the side with his elbow, but Frank then added, “Just put your arms up over my head and pretend like you’re never gonna leave.”

“Why?” But he found himself doing what Frank requested, hovering himself over the younger boy so that their chests were touching and their noses almost were.

“Because everyone leaves,” Frank said fondly; and for a minute it took the artist a while to realize what he had said, for the tone of his voice was much off-putting to his actual words.


“What kind of art do you do?” Frank asked suddenly. His eyes were closed and he looked at peace with himself; as if being somewhat caged underneath Gerard gave him a sense of safety.

“I dunno. It’s art. I do comic-type stuff,” the older boy supplied, hoping it was helpful information. Frank made a humming noise in response.

“Have you ever written a comic book?”

“Yeah, lots of times. But apparently they all sucked,” the older boy sighed.

“That’s disappointing,” Frank mumbled.

“Are you falling asleep?”

“Hmm?” Frank opened one eye and raised a perfect eyebrow. “No, I’m making this last.” The eye returned closed.

“Ah. So I just get to hover here then? Like some kind of hovering thingie? Like a ghost?”

“Or a hovercraft.”


“Yeah, you do. Unless you’d rather be doing something else, in which case go right the heck ahead.”

Gerard realized that he didn’t particularly want to do anything else. “Nah, this is fine.”


Gerard wanted to say something like, “I kinda want to kiss your face but I’m actually a pussy bitch and I mean I’ve known you for like three days so is that weird?” but he didn’t, because he didn’t want to make himself look like any bigger of a moron. Instead he said, “So what about you?” and he felt Frank shrug underneath him.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything I enjoyed,” the younger boy stated simply.



When there was seemingly no other words from the younger boy, Gerard said sarcastically, “Oh, well don’t worry, you don’t need to tell me what they are.”

Frank only shrugged again. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t. And then, “Death.”

“Death? Death is your setback– oh, so did someone in your family die, or something?”

Frank opened his eyes and said softly, “Something like that. Anyway, I can’t really do half the stuff I’d wanna. So I’m not really exceptionally anything either.”

Gerard was about to respond when he heard a shout that sounded annoyingly like his kid brother. “Gerard! A-fucking-gain! I need the damn silverware!”

“You should probably go,” Frank muttered, and looked away. Gerard sat up and nodded, and Frank followed suit.

“Yeah, probably. But hey, I’ll see you again right? You’ll come chill with me in my attic?”

Frank looked as if he were gathering himself, even though he didn’t really have anything to gather. “Yeah,” he said lightly, and a laugh escaped him. “Turns out I’m up here all the time.”

Gerard didn’t let himself think about what that meant as he turned to descend the attic stairs. He only found himself thinking of when he would see Frank next; and what the Hell was Frank’s deal anyway, but Gerard kinda liked it.

And even though it was only minutes before, he’d completely forgotten about the silverware.
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Woop! So much less of a wait for this chapter, man! I wrote it last night so please excuse any errors– it's also kinda hard to edit with Three Cheers blasting in the background.
Happy ten years, guys!