Chapter One: Frank — October, 2005
info: Frank Iero is definitely not in love with Gerard Way. Frank Iero is definitely not writing vent poetry wishing Gerard wasn't such an enigma. Frank definitely doesn't publish his writing online under the pseudonym of F.T. Willz. Gerard becomes a fan of the poems he has no clue are all about him. Hell, Gerard never notices the way Frank is always manically, tearfully, and furiously writing in his notebook. Why would he ever notice Frank anyways? It's not like they'd ever agreed on a label for what they were so why would Frank care?
Spanning from approximately 2002-2007, this story is told in non-chronological order.
additional info: In this fic, Gerard is a transman several years into his medical transition and has undergone HRT and top-surgery long before the majority of the story takes place. [Author is a transman who has undergone the same medical transition as Gerard.]
Chapter One: Frank — October, 2005
Halfheartedly strumming my guitar as I sat on one of the couches inside MyChem's tour bus, I pretended to not be staring at Gerard as he was drawing. Mikey, Ray and Bob all pretended to not notice my eyes burning holes into the back of his skull. Burning with what exactly? Lust? Rage? Love? Resentment? Hatred? Perhaps the answer was all of the above... Or perhaps I just wished he would notice me the same way that I could never help but notice him. Just once.
"Hey, Frankie?" That voice could shake me out of a coma.
"I've got this character for my comic. He's kinda like you- well, actually, he's inspired by you."
"Is he a total dickhead?" Bob joked in that way only he could get away with in our unspoken bond of bitterly hating the world together.
"That's real sweet, Bob." Ray rolled his eyes.
"Well, okay so he doesn't have a name right now really just 'The Boy' or 'Number Five'. He can time travel and go to other timelines and shit. He's an old man trapped in the body of a teenage boy. He's basically the one that saves everyone from the end of the world over and over again."
"Oh, time travel made him very world-weary and disillusioned. He knows the end of everything and the ending is always bleak and so he sorta is constantly tryna change how things turn out so that the world doesn't end."
"Damn, Gee! That's some seriously poetic shit!" I exclaimed in earnest.
I'd be lying through my nicotine-stained teeth if I were to say that I hadn't been hoping that he saw this character so heavily inspired by me largely in part due to the glaringly obvious parallels between Number Five saving the world from the apocalypse and all the years I had spent saving Gerard from himself time and time again. But he didn't elaborate.
Sure, in front of the people he deemed 'safe', Gerard would openly hold my hand, kiss me and at times would be all over me almost as if he forgot that we weren't alone in our own little world together. Everyone in the scene knew or sure as fuck had their suspicions for years that Gerard and I fucked.
Gerard and I would go out to shitty diners that felt like home. Sure, he often held doors open for me and showed chivalry towards me. We kissed. We held hands. We fucked. We went on outings that in any other context and dynamic would inarguably be considered dates with one another. We said we loved each other frequently enough (Gerard often moaned out a seemingly meaningful 'I love you' right before cumming hard around my cock.) We spent more nights sharing a cramped bunk on the bus, naked and panting as we came down from the high of our mutual orgasms. We fell asleep in each other's arms more often than not.
But that surface level was all it ever was, or at least that seemed to be the case for Gerard. We weren't boyfriends, partners, or dating. We were bandmates. Friends. Never anything more.
But it wasn't always like this.
It didn't start out this way and it, for better or for worse, most certainly did not end this way.
Absentmindedly tuning my guitar while lost in thought staring at the beauty, wonder and complete enigma of the lead vocalist, I didn't even flinch or look away from him when I felt the razor-sharp lashing sting of an over-tuned guitar string snapping apart and leaving my blood-soaked wrist in its wake, just barely shallow enough to not require stitches. I smiled and laughed despite myself.
"Fuck dude, be more careful with how enthusiastically you're tuning that shit, Frankie! What the fuck are you smiling about, man? — You could have accidentally killed yourself if that was any deeper!" His voice was frantic and worried sick as he finally decided to properly act like I existed in his world in the slightest.
"Pain is just a reminder that I'm still alive and real; that any of this is real at all."
"Are you okay? You're starting to make me worry, Frankie."
"I'm fine," I lied effortlessly as I had for all the years we'd known each other.
He pretended to believe me.
I swear to fucking God, it wasn't always this way.
amandla
theartofmadeline
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