Gerard Way: Artist

Preparing a three course meal for dinner takes several hours to do. When I'm finished with it all I move on to the dining room to lay the table accordingly. I debate over whether to just place the plates down and leave it at that, but in my head I'm envisioning something far more spectacular.

While I lived with Ellie she taught me not only to cook, but how properly lay a table. It was something she learnt while she worked at a restaurant as a waitress prior to marrying Bernard. She passed the skill onto her own children, then myself when I moved in. I recall her lessons now.

I first spread a freshly ironed red tablecloth, topping it with a white lace table runner. There are expensive and traditional candelabras stored in the buffet in the dining room. I select the largest three-armed gold candelabra and several tall white candles and assemble them on the centre of the table. There are a few more candelabras at the back of the buffet and I toy with them on the table. I find it looks better with just the one. I arrange platters of food on the table and several plates for us to eat off with the good silverware laid out correctly. Lastly, I light the candles and make my way upstairs.

Frank is listening to the same song he has been all day when I arrive in front of his bedroom door. I'll ask him over dinner who the musician is so I can share it with Mikey. I knock on the door loudly and walk straight in.

“I thought you might like to join me for dinner,” I say immediately.

It takes a seconds for me to compute the image before me. Frank is sat on a wooden stool, cradling a guitar against his chest. His fingers are paused on the strings and fretboard. More alarming, the music I've been hearing has stopped. I know Frank has responded, but what he says exactly doesn't meet my ears.

He was the one playing that song...

“Um, Gerard?” he says, standing right in front of where I am leaning against the doorframe.

His hand gestures to the hallway, and I know I'm in his way, but I'm shocked at this revelation.

“I didn't know you played,” I say.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him shrug. “Well, I do.”

My eyes travel the expanse of his bedroom. To tell the truth, I haven't actually stepped inside this room since the day I bought the place. There hasn't been a need to. Now, though, I'm interested. It seems he keeps this space in a similar condition to his desk. His bed is unmade, the door to the closet open, and papers strewn over his desk.

Suddenly Frank's shoulder slams into me and I am pushed right into the doorframe. My entire right side is pierced by sharp pain and I grimace, but I keep my cool. In all honesty, I was in Frank's way. I begin to trail after him and together we walk downstairs toward the kitchen.

"No, dining room," I say when he makes an attempt to turn left.

Frank looks sceptically at me, but he follows my command and opens the frosted French doors to the dining room. I glance into the kitchen as I follow Frank, hoping I've cleaned it up enough. I stop with a thud against Frank - why has he stopped?

I look over his shoulder tactfully and see a surprised look on his face, his eyes moving slowly from item to item. A small smile reaches my lips; this is exactly what I was going for. I place my hands on his shoulders and guide him forward into the room. The seat at the head of table is mine, and Frank quickly joins me at my right side. I begin to serve the entree I prepared this afternoon.

“Artichoke walnut pesto crostini,” I inform Frank. I take a bite myself; it's one of the best I've ever made. “Go on, take a bite, Frank.”

His eyes are fixed on his plate. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

I find myself smiling at him softly. The truth is what he deserves, so I give him that without hesitation. “I was pretty rude to you earlier, and I felt I should make up for it, so here you have it – dinner.”

“Um, thanks,” he replies, sounding uncertain. I watch intently as he takes a bite of the crostini. “Fuck – that’s good!”

I keep my face straight, but inside I'm beaming. This is one of my specialities, and I knew it would be excellent, but that little bit of fear was still there that he'd dislike it.

“Thank you,” I reply simply.

There's a look of curiosity on his face. He doesn't finish his mouthful before asking, “You made this?”

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

That's a lie; there are plenty of other things I can cook. I may be being more accommodating to Frank, but he doesn't need to know every thing, just the basics. His eyes scan the table and I can tell he is more impressed by my cooking abilities than he has let on. I'm flattered, perhaps even a little relieved.

“Did you treat Marty to a spread like this when you fucked up?” he asks me.

I think back to my time with Marty and chuckle. It was him that made mistakes, not me.

“This is the first time that I’ve – as you so eloquently put it – fucked up,” I inform him.

We continue with the first course of our meal in silence. It is quite enjoyable – the company, not just the food. This could have been happening all along, us eating together, but I let my policy rule. I might need to reconsider it.

"Are you ready for the main?" I ask when our plates are both empty. The second course isn't my own, but I'm rather excited about serving it. “Zucchini orechiette, prepared by the lovely Ellie and reheated by the incredibly sexy Gerard Way.”

Frank begins to laugh at me. I don't truly understand why, but I begin to laugh along with him. The sweet, high pitched way he laugh entices the sound from me. When we compose ourselves I continue to serve our meal.

"I'll need you to organise another magazine subscription for me," I say as we eat. It's light conversation; safe conversation about work is what I'm comfortable with.

"Oh?" he asks once he swallows. I watch his Adam's apple bob up and down with the motion.
Sexy.

I clear my throat. "Yes - Mosaic. A new modern art magazine just started publication. It's printed monthly, with regular online updates."

"Any reason you want it?"

"I'm their first cover artist," I reply. "If that's how they want to start, I predict good things from them in the future."

"How are you their cover artist when no one knows what you look like?" he asks me, looking genuinely interested.

I take a sip of my drink. "They used a copy of that piece I did called Self Portrait of a Mad Man."

"Isn't that the one where you've drawn your body facing forward with your head on backwards?"

That was perhaps one of my favourite pieces. So smart, so witty, and it annoyed all the magazines who wanted to know what I looked like.

I find myself watching Frank as he finishes what's on his plate. He eats delicately, which is more than I can say for most people who've been privy to Ellie's cooking. Oddly, everything else I've seen him do is far from delicate, but I like the change. Maybe there's more to him than I give him credit for, seeing as most of what impresses me about him is related to his looks. He can play guitar, though - and quite well, too.

"When did you learn to play?" I ask him on impulse.

He looks slightly taken aback. “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.”

I lean back in my chair, pondering his response. I wonder what it must have been like to have a parent pass on a skill like that... It probably felt amazing to have parental support.



“When did you learn to draw?”

Frank's voice cuts through those in my head. I blink them away, burying them deep inside my mind, silently thanking Frank for distracting me.

“It wasn’t so much learning; I just drew, and one day I noticed what I was drawing wasn’t all that bad.” I shrug. “I kept it up, went to art school, and made a fortune.”

I can see he is in awe. “You make it sound like it was nothing.”

“It was nothing. I was just living, Frank.” I reply truthfully. “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.”

Being able to explain things so simply surprises even me. There are many other reasons that have influenced why I've ended up here, but Frank doesn't need to know about them all. The look of surprise on his face turns to anger.

“Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position?" he asks rhetorically. "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.”

Frank pushes away from the table, intent on leaving me. I feel like screaming that he is wrong, that I do give a shit, than there is more to my life than just supporting me and my desires. I can't bring myself to disclose all that, though. All I know is I don't want him to go, not yet.

I grab his wrist quickly to stop him running away.

“Frank, hey,” I say sternly, staring at him hard. “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.”

My rant now over, I take in Frank's expression. He looks shell-shocked. For some strange reason, I don't regret telling him any of it when normally I would.

“Sit down.” I say gently. I release his wrist from my tight grasp. “We have desert to get to.”

This evening I've decided to go with a dessert platter rather than just one sweet treat. I place three desserts onto each long plate, one Ellie's and two mine. My mouth waters as I look at each of them. Frank will absolutely love this.

“So, 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 inform him.

While I'm sure he is pinching himself to make sure he's awake, I don't wait to see Frank's reaction before sampling the items on my own plate. I take a spoon to the crème brulee, bringing one of the most delicious foods ever created to my mouth. It tastes amazing, as expected.

Several spoonfuls later I hear the most amazing sound. It sounds like someone in the midst of an orgasm, so precise I feel my member twitch. I glance up to find Frank with his eyes closed, enjoying my chocolate bouchon far more than I ever thought it possible someone could. Laughter escapes my lips. There is no way to hold it back.

Frank snaps out of it and raises his eyebrows at me.

“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.”

A split second later he is laughing along with me. We stay like that for a while, laughing uncontrollably until we are finally able to gain control and return to eating our dessert. Occasionally our eyes meet and we smirk at each other, recalling that moment. I'm positive that sound will be forever embedded in my mind.

When my plate is empty I adjust myself in my chair and enjoy a quick drink. My eyes are drawn to Frank once more.

“What the fuck are you drinking?” he asks me suddenly.

“Non-alcoholic wine,” I reply, taking another mouthful. “Better than water.”

“Why not drink the real stuff?”

I should have known that question would arise. I'm embarrassed by the answer, but I meet his eyes and give it anyway. "I used to be an alcoholic."

Oh... I... uh... you...” he tries hopelessly.

“Don’t pity me, Frank,” I say as I get to my feet. I grab several plates, just to give myself an excuse to leave the dining room. “I fucked up my life and then I fixed it. That’s all there is to it.”

While I'm rinsing the dishes in the kitchen I hear Frank come in behind me. He starts taking the dishes I've rinsed and placing them in the dishwasher. We work side by side in silence for a few minutes. I appreciate his help, but no thanks leave my mouth. I've already said far too much to him today.

The sound of breaking glass catches my attention.

I look to the floor to see Frank clutching his hand, which is covered in bloody. The stem of a wine glass is on the floor beside him surrounded by pieces of broken glass.

Shit.

I quickly wet a tea towel and drop to my knees. "Here," I say, pressing it to his hand carefully.

He hisses as I move the tea towel around the fresh cut on his hand. I keep my touch light and gentle as I clean up the blood. Once the blood has subsided significantly, I inspect the area. It won't need stitches, thankfully, but his ordeal isn't over yet either.

“There’s a bit of glass in there,” I say, my voice steady. “Come with me; I’ve got some tweezers upstairs.”

Frank follows me upstairs to my bedroom, nursing his hand which is now wrapped in the tea towel. I'm almost inside my ensuite when I notice he hasn't followed me. Does he want his hand fixed or not?

“Frank?” I yell out to him. “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,” he replies.

Is he serious? This is the time in which he wants to crack a joke. I'd be in my right mind to just leave him there and let his hand become infected.

“Just come in!”

I head straight for my bathroom, hoping Frank has done what I've told him to. There's three storage areas in here, making it harder for me to locate the tweezers; I can't say I remember the last time I had a need for them. The medicine above the vanity returns no results, so I turn my attention to the draws below.

“I know they’re in here somewhere; shouldn’t be much longer!” I say loudly.

Where are they?

I start to rummage through the middle draw after only finding toiletries in the top one. Finally, beneath a few of my favoured homosexual pornography magazines, I find the tweezers. I take a few more supplies before walking out to the bedroom, finding Frank standing rather suspiciously by my desk. He looks panicked, but I'll put that down to the cut on his hand – for now.

“Come here,” I instruct.

We sit together on the couch in my room. I'm cautious as I dip the tweezers slowly into the cut, trying to extract this piece of glass. It looks like I've got it, so I tug gently, but accidentally pull his skin instead.

“Sorry,” I apologise when he flinches.

Guilt consumes me, but I make another attempt at removing the glass.

“How long has it been?” he asks me out of nowhere. What on Earth is he talking about? “Since you stopped drinking,” he adds.

“A little over two years,” I reply, just as I manage to pull the glass free of his hand. “Got it.”

His hand is a mess, but it will heal fine on its own. I start to clean it up, using disinfectant. It stings his hand but he doesn't yelp.

“Was it hard?”

There's a moment where I consider pouring all of the disinfectant into the very centre of his cut, just so he'll cry out and think about something else. I don't want to talk about my bout with alcoholism. It was a dark, depressing, worrying period in my life that I have no desire to revisit. Then I glance up and see his face. There's something about it which makes me want to tell him. Those eyes are so trusting.

“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.”

I take a large bandaid and cover his palm gently. His gold-flecked eyes capture my attention again, and I find myself brushing my thumb across the top of the bandaid more than necessary to stick it down.

“There you go, all done,” I whisper.

Our eyes stay locked on each other's for several seconds. All I can see is his beauty. I can't look away. His hand is warm against mine and it makes me less inclined to want to let him go.

Suddenly, Frank is tugging his hand away from mine.

“Uh, thanks... thanks a lot,” he says, “for everything.”

My stomach feels like it's taken a blow as he gets up from the couch and leaves. The click of the door echoes loudly and sounds so final.

I'm furious at myself. Why do I care that he is gone?

I can't handle this.

I pat my the pocket of my jeans for my iPhone and take it out. This isn't something I want to do, but at least I will feel better for a while.

I dial his number. All I want to do is forget.

“Toby.”

“Hey you–”

“–Shut up,” I cut him off. “I'm coming over. Be naked.”

I can sense the joy in his voice. “Are you asking for a late night booty call?”

Annoyed with him already, I sigh long and hard. “Yeah... that.”

It'll take me twenty minutes to get to Toby's place, but it's sex and a distraction, so it's worth the drive. I grab my trench coat from the closet and head downstairs and outside to my car. The drive feels long. Unfortunately, I spend most of that time thinking about Frank. I shouldn't have cooked him dinner. The way Marty was treated is exactly how Frank should be approached. I may need to fire him, just to be able to distance myself from him.

Toby lives in a modest apartment on the fifth floor of a high-rise a few blocks from the centre of New York City. It is by no means a wealthy person's apartment, but I do question to some extent how he can afford it. He only works part time in a florist. That was how I met him, when I was on my way to visit Alicia and Mikey after a meeting. I stopped in there to pick up a bouquet of flowers. He hit on me, I was stressed, and ten minutes later I was fucking him in the back room while he leant against a fridge.

"Hey Gee-baby," he coos when he opens the door to his apartment. He is naked, just as I requested.

I push him inside and kicked the door shut. He yelps in surprise as yank his head toward me, clamping my lips onto his. I walk him backwards until he's pressed up against the wall. His hands grab at the fabric of my clothes, pulling what ever he can from my body. It only takes a minute or two before I feel myself become as hard as necessary.

"Mmmm - you're big," he manages to say.

I tighten my grasp on his hair, pulling it hard. "Shut the fuck up."

In a matter of seconds I have dragged him to the eat-in kitchen and bent him over the dining table. The last of my clothes are stripped off and I give myself a few final pumps until I'm rock hard. As I do this I push my fingers into him to prep him, scissoring him rapidly. Once he's loose, I push in.

My movements are slow for the first thirty seconds, and then I'm slamming into him. My eyes are fixed to the back off his head. The longer I stare at him, the more his hair seems to change colour from sandy blonde to rich chocolate. I begin to see the outlines of a scorpion on his neck. The changes make him more attractive to me. I push harder and faster, the friction feeling unbelievably good. We're both moaning loudly in pleasure.

Several minutes later my release comes in one sharp burst. My whole body shudders, making the man in front of cry out like a whore. Then he turns his face to look at me.

I feel sick.

His hair is back to sandy blonde, the scorpion tattoo has vanished. I'm looking at Toby. I'm disappointed.