When I feel heavy metal, when I'm pins and I'm needles.
Anyway, hope you guys like. Title is from Blur, a very epic English Britpop band (best genre EVER) and is really not a good name, I know, but if you know that song then you’ll know it’s goodfor the thing towards the end.
The brand I talk about here was founded in 1929 but the first of its kind was only made available in 1947, so unfortunately this is a bit incorrect. Also, the 159 S was a different breed of car due to its purpose-all shall be clear when you find out what it is-and for now I’m going to pretend, helped by my mad writing skills (ha) that it was like a Model T. I know it’s annoying that I’m basically making shit up, but hey, if you’re gonna go down that road, this whole story is pretty unrealistic, so...yeah.
(I basically just shot down my own fic. That was a swift kick to my ego.)
Did you guess right for the present? I was asking my sister and she said ‘oooh is it a gun’
And I was like
‘JESUS CHRIST JANE DID YOU READ THE LAST CHAPTER AT ALL FUCKING GOD’
Family. *rolls eyes.* Can’t live with them, can’t slit their throats and feed them to man-eating goats because apparently that’s called familicide.
First of the Gang to Die
Frank woke up on a sunny October morning, stretching, purring quietly and smiling. He didn’t quite know why; maybe because it was cold outside, and the cold assured him it would be Christmas soon, and Christmas, as everyone knows, is The Best Thing In The Universe. He punched the air in triumph when he saw that it was dark outside when it was eleven in the morning. He banged his head in anticipation of getting outside.
“Arrgggh shit-OH MY GOD I’M TWENTY FOUR TODAY!” He shrieked, jumping out of bed and dancing around the room, waltzing and jiving and basically acting like an idiot, muttering “twenty four” at random intervals, steadily building up to a chant.
Not only was he twenty four, and he knew he would get absolutely everything he wanted from Gerard today, but he was going to get his present. Way had changed his mind and said that he wasn’t allowed see it until his birth date, and in doing so had banned Frank from the basement. Iero couldn’t wait-he pulled on the nearest clothes he could find and sprinted down the stairs.
“Hey Frankie,” Bob greeted in the hall, a slice of toast in his mouth. “What’s happenin, man?”
“I’m getting a strip tease tonight!” Was what he came out with. Bob looked a little disturbed but nonetheless carried on.
Frank pushed the door open to the kitchen and saw his husband in the chair, the only one in the dining area-he had mentioned the previous night that his men were going for a jog in the early hours of the morning, and Gerard, stubbornly opposed to exercise, as well as his leg, had opted out. He was currently at the table, in a shirt and trousers, hair slicked back, looking amazing as usual, sipping at a cup of what Frank presumed to be coffee, reading The Los Angeles Times, black-rimmed glasses propped on his nose. He grinned warmly when the younger entered.
“Good morning,” he said, beckoning Frank to tug him into a kiss, soft and passionate. “Happy birthday, sweetie.”
“Thank you,” he replied into his mouth, so utterly thrilled about the day. “Can I have my present, Gee?”
“Sure,” the older replied, taking him by the hand and leaving the kitchen, pulling on his trench coat and gloves. “You have to wear something, sugar, your chest will suffer.”
“I’m fine, really-“
“Uh uh,” Gerard refused, pointing to the closet in the hall. “The sooner you get something on, the sooner you’ll get your present you’ve been waiting two months for.”
Frank zipped down the hall and grabbed Way’s leather jacket, absolutely huge on him, Gerard’s trilby hat and some gloves. The gangster also wrapped a scarf around his neck and then took him by the clothed hand.
It was cold outside; that much was obvious. Gerard grumbled under his breath about winds and frosts and how Italy doesn’t have this weather, dammit. The boy was too excited to even process the freezing temperatures.
They reached the garage at the side of the house and Gerard stopped, pressing buttons on the door and the front lifting up in the air, displaying his many black Buick’s, some Model T’s and some Avengers in the back. Then he turned to Frank and pressed something long and rather sharp into his hand.
“Well, happy birthday again, sugar pop. I hope you like it.”
Frank looked at the shining metal in his hand. He’d never owned a car before-they were expensive, not just to buy but to run, with gas and owning bills and all that. He’d been taught by James when he was sixteen, in his Bentley, but never had his own car. This was awesome.
“Oh Gee-“he hugged him tightly around the neck, and the warmth was appreciated by the gangster. “Thank you so much-“
“Go check it out first, babe, don’t thank me yet. It’s at the back, next to my Buick 8.”
“Is it a Buick?” He nearly screamed, unbelievably delighted.
“No, it’s not a Buick. Go have a look.”
Frank walked into the garage, minding he didn’t damage any of the other cars, all very posh and expensive, gilt and black and dark. Still-they were American cars, certainly not the best, whether Italian cars were. He couldn’t wait to see what Gerard had got him, what beauty awaited him in the depths of the deep car park, and how he’d have to end up thanking his husband.
For now, all he’d have to do is fan-girl over an expensive, beautiful Italian sports car. Shouldn’t be too hard.
He walked into something that had never been there before, he couldn’t make it out in the dark, but if he was right, that was Gerard’s sleek Buick next to him. He fumbled around for the light and his hand fell for the switch, thrusting Frank’s twenty fourth birthday present into the harsh pool of colour.
I am pretty big into cars but am poor so I have to settle for a shitty ’97 Skoda my dad got me. So this is where I get to fantasize
Also, you probably think I’m racist about America, but it’s just that no one, even the Japanese can compete with Italian cars
It wasn’t a car; it was a Ferrari 159 S. A shining, racing red with a polished, sparkling surface so gorgeous and spotless you could eat off of it. His mouth fell open when he saw it and he damn near started drooling-it was the most amazing, most breathtaking car he’d ever laid eyes upon, and he knew that he was lucky. It wasn’t like every other car in the garage, dull and dreary, some American piece of metal shit that looked bony and rigid, so weak that it could fall apart any minute now, wheels looking as primitive as when they were first discovered. This stunning piece of machinery however...this was like something from the future. He could only stare at the most breathtaking automobile he could ever imagine, feeling like the richest, luckiest motherfucker to walk the planet.
“Did I achieve your gratitude?” Came Gerard from behind him, his voice quiet and soft, but echoing through the hall as if he had shouted it. “Is the vehicle acceptable?”
“Oh my God,” he squeaked, reaching out to brush his fingers along the edge of the bonnet, the crimson car amongst the gloom. “Oh my God, Gerard, this is...oh my God.”
“’As if his soul in those words he did outpour,’” Gerard quoted, amused.
That’s from The Raven, btw, my favourite poem ever
“You got me a Ferrari,” he continued in a high pitch, Way laughing as he wrapped his arms around his waist. “Oh my God it’s so pretty, you’re just the best husband in the whole world, Gerard, I love it so much-“
Manly, Frank. You have an Italian car now; no more squeaking or Oh my God’s or cars being pretty. You growl, you say ‘holy shit’ and a car is always ‘hot’ or ‘sweet’. Never pretty.
Frank cleared his throat.
“I mean, uh, yeah, yeah, fucking sweet ride man, fucking sweet ride, Imma fucking drive the shit outta this car,” he said, puffing out his chest and talking with his hands, but then faltering. “Oh my God, it’s just so gorgeous,” he squealed, stroking the mirror.
“Glad you like it,” the other replied, drinking from a hip flask that had appeared from his pocket.
“I love that you’re Italian,” Frank breathed, breath appearing right in front of him in little puffs. “You come from the most awesome country ever!”
“Technically I am as American as you are, but I’ll accept the complement nonetheless.”
“Aren’t your parents Italian?”
“Only my father. My mother was born in New York and lived in New Jersey for the rest of her short life, until they moved to Los Angeles.”
“Is Italian your first language?” Frank asked the question he’d been wondering about for a while, while still so enthralled by the car.
“How do you mean?”
“You were taught it first when you were a kid,” the younger explained, sitting down on the floor and admiring every curve and angle from the bottom, beckoning Gerard to sit with him. “Y’know, it’s the one you’re best at.”
“Are you trying to say I’m bad at speaking English?” He put to him, smirking as he sat down. “Honey, this isn’t so good for your chest, sitting in the cold like this.”
“I don’t wanna go inside-“
“Didn’t say you had to, babe,” the other shrugged, pulling him into his lap and nuzzling against him to warm him up, and also taking off his coat and wrapping it around him.
“Gee, you’ll be cold-“
“Cold-blooded anyway, darling, I doubt it will make such a huge difference,” he joked dully. “Anyway, I still got this tan so I’m pretty okay. You, on the other hand...”
“Yeah, I know, pale as fuck, I know,” he recanted as Gerard laughed. “So is Italian what you speak the most?”
“Yeah, I was taught Italian first.”
“So English is your second?”
Gerard held up three fingers in front of him-his left small finger, middle and index.
“What else do you speak?”
“French was my secondary language that I learned,” he thought about it. “I learned a few others at school but my father was adamant that I was multi-lingual.”
“You can speak a lot of different languages.”
“If it’s any help,” Frank muttered, “you speak English way better than me, and it’s the only language I know.”
“Thanks, sugar,” Way replied, still chuckling as he hugged his husband on the freezing ground of his car lot. “What about Iero? Surely that’s not American.”
“It’s Polish,” he said, a little pleased, however mean that was, that he was aware of something Gerard wasn’t, even if it was his surname. “And you’re not pronouncing it right.”
Oh please my name is Ni Ionnrachtaigh
I’ll leave you mull it over and see how you guessed it
“Really?” Gerard sounded amused. “Do share, then.”
“You’re saying it like it’s one, y’know, thing.”
“Hate to break it to you sweetheart, I doubt you’ll ever be a grammatical professor.” He giggled when the boy tried to slap him and kissed his hair. “I’m very sorry, go on.”
“It’s eye-ear-oh,” he sounded out. “Not ear-oh.”
My name is knee-un-rock-dig
Yeah. That is my surname
“Eye-ear-oh,” Gerard repeated, and his strong accent made the word sound unbelievably entertaining, the other shrieking with laughter. “What? I don’t speak Polish, I don’t know. Is your mother Polish?”
“My dad’s mom, my grandmother. She was from there but he wasn’t.” He shrugged. “I dunno, my momma told me that when I was a kid, when she got drunk and started talking about him.”
“Oh pet, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, he was a scumbag and I don’t care about him. I just know his name was the same as mine and that he enrolled in the army before I was born.”
“So they never married?”
“No. They had a one-night-stand,” he said uneasily, blushing. The others family was so wealthy, fancy-he was the result of two teenagers getting a little too wasted and doing something they would later regret. How mortifying. “And uh...I was the product of that.”
“Well, it was certainly the best one-night-stand to ever occur, wasn’t it?” Way posed the question, making the boy feel better and relax back into the gangster. “I can only thank whichever God is in charge of contraception that your mother and father did not avail of its use that night.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, and he was kissed again. “I feel stupid.”
“Why would you feel that, sugar pop?”
“Your family is way more posh than mine,” he said, and his cheeks were bright red from the car’s reflection. “And your life was harder than mine.”
Gerard sighed a little and pressed something so that the garage door came down, and he flicked on a light above them, throwing them into a puddle of light. It was oddly peaceful and calming.
“First off-my family is usually more posh than others, mainly because I’m in the Mafia, and we generally go for the whole ‘dignified’ thing. That does not necessarily mean my family was happy or my parent’s marriage was not shit because it they weren’t and it was.” He wasn’t angry; just a little defensive. “And secondly, baby-apart from my mother’s death and my ex-husband’s infidelity, both of which I am guilt-free, everything bad to happen to me was my own fault.”
“Your dad made you join the Mafia, though.”
“That is very true, but I’d be a liar if I said I don’t like it,” he answered honestly, “and that I don’t benefit from it. By the time I turned of legal age, when I was eighteen, I was a millionaire. That isn’t very common and it certainly isn’t bad. So while gang-life has disabled me in areas like my health and my security, it is not hard for me. I grew up rich and fed, I had servants and under-rank’s even as a child, I went to third-level education, and I got whatever I wanted. I have never known what it’s like to be poor, or indeed to be middle-class.”
“It’s not that bad, really,” Iero said quietly. “Being poor.”
Gerard rested his head on his shoulder to show he was listening.
“I mean...you’re kinda hungry all the time, and don’t have a lot of clothes and stuff. We didn’t have a stove or anything; just a bit of fire in the kitchen and you go near that for warmth and whatever.” He shrugged a little, remembering the burden that was his childhood. “I went to school sometimes, other times I didn’t. In winter it was so cold I’d sit in the fire escape because the guy above us smoked and I’d get some sort of heat. When I got older-fourteen, fifteen-I’d steal from shops and stuff for food or whatever, but then I met James, and then I didn’t eat at all.” He stared at a puddle of oil that mirrored a rainbow reflection of himself. “It’s so cool, being rich.”
“It is,” he agreed, hugging him tighter. “I presume you can read and write?”
“Some boyfriend taught me when I was a kid. I’m not good at spelling and sometimes the words go all hazy but at least I can write.” He thought about who he was talking to. “Not as good as you, but your writing is so fancy.”
“You get taught how to write fancily,” he explained, his artist’s hands resting on the insides of Frank’s thighs. “When I was about ten my father wrote out the alphabet and told me to do it exactly like it was on the page, and he’d hit me if I didn’t.” He laughed a little, but it was without humour. “You learn pretty fast when a gangster with a belt is standing over you.”
“Did he speak to you in Italian or in English?”
“He’d keep me on my toes, talking in German one minute and Scots Gaelic the next, so that he’d know whether I was learning or not.” He cocked his head. “He was insane; I guess I inherit that from him.”
“So...do you think in Italian?”
“The majority of the time, yes, Italian is what I think in. But when I talk to you I translate everything from Italian to English.”
“Will you teach me something?” He bounced eagerly, switching around so that they sat opposite one another, legs crossed, Way leaning against a Buick and Frank resting lightly on his birthday present. “Teach me a swear word!”
The gangster laughed and thought of all the bad words he could think of.
“Fuck is cazzo,” he informed him, eyes shut and grinning. “Shit is merda, a bitch is cagna, bastard is bastardo and sex is sesso.” He looked up and saw the boy laughing, trying to say the words just as Gerard had. “Satisfied?”
“I’m trying to catch you out,” he replied, narrowing his eyes and stroking his chin. “What’s a door?”
“America. It’s named after an Italian, for Christ’s sake.”
“What?” He looked amazed. “Say it again.”
“In-gull-terr-ah,” he accentuated slowly, and Frank repeated it. “You’re not going to catch me on my own language, babe.”
“What’s your name?”
“Gerard de la Via.”
“Doesn’t Gerard translate?”
“I presume it would be Gerardo or something, I’ve never been-“
“GERARDO!” He screamed, falling on the floor and clutching his heart. “THAT’S EVEN BETTER THAN-“
“Arthur?” He suggested, and was answered with a screech of giggles and more gasping for breath. “Honey, come sit in my lap, I don’t like you on the floor like that.”
Frank crawled over and sat on his thighs, still silently splitting with chortling.
“What’s Arthur in Italian?”
Iero nearly bust a rib on that one and tears were running down his face at a steady pace, his whole body shaking.
“Yes, yes, I know, it’s hilarious.”
“Can you say my name?”
“Only Franco. Anthony is already Italian and your surname is a foreign language.”
“Oh,” he responded a little breathlessly, somewhat stumped. Then: “Say something in French.”
“What would you like me to say?”
“What’s your name?”
“Gérard de la Maniere.”
He paused. “I prefer Italian. Will you speak that again?”
“Sure. May I ask why you prefer Italian?”
“It sounds nicer,” he said, thinking of how the words had rolled off his tongue directly from his brain, just like Luciana, but understandably he was more experienced. “French sounds kinda...asshole-ish or something.”
“I’m sure the French people would be very glad to hear your views on their language,” he joked, sipping from a hip flask. “I think it’s a beautiful language.”
“You don’t prefer Italian?”
“It’s not exotic for me like it is for you,” he said, pushing back leaking locks of hair from his cheek. “It’s not interesting.”
“I think it sounds awesome,” he reflected, smiling widely. “You speak it so much faster than English, and it sounds so sexy or something.” Gerard chuckled and screwed back on the top of the flask. “It sounds so natural.”
“Italian is easy for me. I don’t think about it, as opposed to English when I have to think of both other languages before speaking.”
“I wish I could speak Italian,” Frank sulked, sticking out his lip. “Is it hard?”
“To be honest, pet, I did learn when I was two years old.”
Frank swore softly and thought about it.
“What do you sing in?”
“Depends what song. If it’s English, then I sing in English. If it’s Italian, I’ll sing in Italian.”
The boy smiled in a smug fashion.
“I talked to all the guys in the gang, they’ve all heard you sing. Or hum.” The other groaned and slapped himself in the forehead. “They say you do it when you’re out on raids and stuff.”
“I may do it from time to time, I am not aware.”
“Will you sing for me later?” He widened his eyes to make him melt. “Please, Gee, it is my birthday.”
“Oh babe, I knew you’d play that card,” he chuckled in spite of himself. “I’ll sing to you later if you like, but don’t you want to drive your car first?”
“I CAN DRIVE IT?!”
“Why, what do you normally do with cars? I drive them, I don’t know about you-“
The last fragment of Gerard’s sentence was cut off to the other due to the fact that he had jumped into the automobile and thrust the key in the lock with such violence that it gave a fantactic, electrifying jolt and roared into life, Fran teasing the engine by revving it slowly with his foot, taunting the accelerator with his toes.
Oh yeah see I’m not American and all you guys in the US have automatics and over in as you call it ‘Europe’-generally in the Spain/Scandinavian region, ya know-we have manuals. Manual has a gear stick that you have to use on your own and press the clutch as speed increases. Automatic does it on its own. I have driven in both Europe-well, ROI and NI-and the US-I have been to thirty one states-and I can say safely that manual is WAY harder.
If you didn’t want to read that or aren’t into cars then basically Imma describe driving in a European way, deal with it
“It sounds so cool!” He squeaked as he pushed down on the clutch, automobile sprinting ahead and speeding out of the garage so that he could u-turn back to the front, facing his husband, eyebrows raised and clearly very amused.
“Yes!” He shrieked back, shuddering with happiness.
“I must say Frank, the way in which you just flapped your hand was the most heterosexual I’ve ever seen.”
“C’mon, get in, Gerard, I wanna drive it!”
“I cannot wait to see you drive.”
“Excuse me,” he said, as if offended. “I was taught in a Bentley, the best car-“
“An English car?” He asked incredulously. “Jesus, babe, don’t you know anything about cars? You never drive an English or American car. Or Japanease, or Korean, or French-“
“Basically anything not Italian?”
“Exactly, now you’re getting it.”
Frank pushed the gear stick into drive, waiting for the car to burst again and scream, ripping through the other cars while dodging them gracefully simultaneously. The men were back from their walk, exhausted and perspiring; but all eyes lit up at the sight of a bright red Ferrari propelling toward them.
“WHAT’S UP MOTHERFUCKERS,” Frank screeched over the roar of the engine, loving it. “GUESS WHAT I GOT!”
“Sonuvabitch!” Bob shouted breathlessly, slapping his hands together in frustration as the car sped out the driveway, giving life to dreary downtown Los Angeles in the Depression, a flashing scarlet spectacle amongst grey streets and houses.
“FUCK YES!” Iero screamed again, giving the finger to passing pedestrians and fellow drivers, never releasing the accelerator, revving and pushing, waiting for the car to give, but never getting it due to the amazingness of the vehicle, the sheer quality of its make and the standard. “THIS IS THE MOST AWESOME THING EVER!”
Gerard smiled as they raced through streets, old women muttering about youngsters these days and what a pity it was, how sad society was becoming. The boy, meanwhile, noticed a dark grey Ford up above them, waiting at the light. He knew what sort of people were affiliated with that colour.
He sped up again, waiting until they were side-by-side, then letting his arm rest on the door, rapping the metal lightly with his fingers, humming tunelessly under his breath. Then he turned to the enemy and muttered:
So quickly and so quietly that even his husband next to him, with bat-like hearing, didn’t catch it. But Marcus Romano glanced across and barked,
“HA!” Frank squealed, dragging Gerard across to kiss him, infuriating the homophobe next to him. “YOU SAID WHAT!”
He jumped the gun again and rammed, the adrenaline rush so powerful and the wind so bracing that his hair was gushing behind him, his eyes stinging with water, hands gripping the wheel with sheer force. He giggled again, driving onto a long, winding road, barren and isolated, roofed by trees.
“I take it you like it?” Way asked, smirking, as the other returned to a relatively normal speed, his rabbit breathless, flushed and ecstatic beyond belief.
“I love it, it’s so awesome, Gee, thank you so so much!” He squeaked, picking up the pair of knuckles resting on the gear stick and kissing them, over and over again, one hand on the steering wheel. “You’re right, the Bentley is dog-shit compared to this!”
“Aw, honey, I’m glad,” he responded, rolling up his sleeves and putting his hands behind his head. “You nearly gave me a heart attack back there.”
“I just wanted to piss him enough, y’know, not really kill him.” He slowed down until he was at a crawling pace and stopped the car near a creek, a dirt path an imitation parking lot. “Do you want to go for a walk?” He smiled again, that smile that got you right where you live. “I want to do something really romantic and so far we haven’t.”
“Alright then, ma’am, I didn’t know you were so old-fashioned,” Gerard returned sassily, flicking his hair. “Would you like me to place my coat over some puddles? Or hold back some branches whilst we walk?” He smirked. “Not that you can necessarily reach them, of course.”
“Shut up,” Frank whined, slipping his hand into Way’s free one, the other grasping the marble, ebony cane. “I am not a midget.”
“You’re not a midget, no, you’re...vertically challenged, that’s all.”
“Vertically cha-“He pouted indignantly at Gerard, although he was having trouble not laughing. “That is horrible!”
“So what? You’re vertically challenged, I’m handicapped, you can’t reach me, I can’t walk without falling over.” He shrugged and beamed ruefully, tapping the ground with his stick. “I don’t mean it when I mock you, sugar pop, I’m hardly the height of perfection myself.”
“Oh please,” Iero returned, scoffing. “You’re five foot ten, look about twenty one, dangerously sexy as fuck, so smooth and dignified it’s almost criminal, filthy rich and really muscle-y, not to mention tanned and Italian, smart, and so gorgeous it pains me to look away from you. We’re not playng the perfection card here.”
“Well then, you’d win every time.”
“Even though I’m short? Or whatever you said?”
“Yeah, right. I’m not as tall as you are-“
“You’re not as tall, as rich, as articulate or as muscular as I am, but you are absolutely stunning, cute as a button, pale, slight, and American, an amazing medic who has never set foot inside of med school, and generally one of the nicest people I’ve ever come across.” He smiled and Frank blushed, swinging their entwined hands. “I cannot believe we are having this conversation.”
“I’m not a good doctor,” he muttered, bright pink. “I just read stuff.”
“Oh yeah, and I’m a shitty fighter who can barely hold a gun.” Eyes to heaven. “Sometimes you should blow modesty, sweetie, and just be arrogant. Not that I ever am, of course.”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? Italians are meant to be cocky.” He thought about it. “And fat, and in the Mafia.”
Gerard made a clicking noise with his tongue. “All three, right here, babe.” Then he simpered. “You’re hardly going to talk about stereotypes, you being American and all?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Guns, wars and racism.” He laughed quietly. “That is all.”
“Guns, pasta and nice cars.”
“Guns, kicking people out of their country and WMD’s.”
“Guns, food and more food.”
“Guns, taking shit over and obesity.”
“Should we stop with the ignorant remarks and talk about something a little nicer than guns? Let’s make this nice, babe, not making malevolent jabs at each other’s countries.”
Frank nuzzled into his shoulder as a river ran through the rocks along the bank, the water gushing and gurgling as it flowed.
“I need a haircut,” the older mused, tugging at the end of his locks, now nearing his shoulder.
“No, don’t,” the boy replied quickly, feeling so happy in the autumn sun, holding hands with the man he loved, the leaves crunching under their feet. “I love it so long, it looks so amazing. You’re so gorgeous.”
He reflected on what he had just said, Gerard chuckling softly.
“I must sound like a teenager or something,” he muttered. “Sorry.”
“I don’t mind at all, bunny rabbit, I think your flattery is so goddamned cute.” They were in a little cocoon of shrubbery, completely covered in by foliage. The only reassurance of the outside world was the rush of the water. “I love hearing it.”
The other whimpered a little when he withdrew his hand, but was grinning again once Gerard had pressed a hand into the soft, warm of his hip, under his shirt. He mewled and moved closer to him, pressing their sides together.
“Thanks, Gee.” He sniffed and looked up to him, his running jawline, sinking cheekbones, black curtained hair blowing in the breeze. “Not just the car, but...for everything.”
They went on to walk a little bit before Frank continued.
“You...saved me, Gerard. From...him. And I will always be so happy for that.” He stopped and turned to him, a little cold in the fall breeze now, but ignoring it. “I could be married to him now, beaten and hurt and broken.” He placed one hand on his chest, and Gerard let his rest on top of Iero’s. “But I’m married to you. I love it when you come in the door, when you say my name, when you smile, when you hug me, it makes me feel so...safe or something.” He blinked a little and looked away. “I was going to kill myself the night before James and I would have gotten married.” Gerard closed his eyes and traced his features, cooing to him. “That was less than a month from when I met you.”
“I was gonna slit my hands open, wait for my veins to bleed dry, but I’d dope myself up with codeine beforehand so that there was no chance I’d-“
“Please don’t talk about that,” the older man murmured, placing his finger over his lips. “I can’t even bear to think about you thinking about taking your own life.”
“Sorry,” he apologized, but the other gestured to guarantee it was fine. “I actually liked you from when I first saw you.” The gangster broke into a beam and nodded. “You know, at the horse race?” He flushed a hot pink and stared at his feet. “I thought you were so good-looking.”
“Better than James?”
“Way better than James,” he breathed, and got a laugh in return. “And when I was talking to you-we were talking about how old I was and how James shot you up-I was dreaming about kissing you.” The blush flamed again and he bit his lip violently. “Your lips looked so nice and soft and I was nearly drooling over you, and when we went home that night I had to take five cold showers in a row.”
Gerard raised an eyebrow.
“Five cold showers? Impressive.I wasn’t aware I was so ravishing that night.”
“Mmm, you were.I kept thinking about you all week and how you touched my hand.”
“I did that on purpose, babe.”
“Really?” He was squeaking like the rabbits back home. “You did?”
“Did you fucking see how gorgeous you looked? As well as that ring on your finger, Jesus I was fit to beat James up there and take you for myself but he had more guards than I did.”
“But I always thought of kissing you like...like...”
Gerard moved nearer to him, pulling his piercing, dragging his jaw down.
Frank moved up quickly and brushed their mouths together, each one aching for the other. He began to work his lips to Gerard’s a little harder than he was used to, but the gangster seemed enthused and hung back to let the boy take dominance for once, the taller’s jaw falling slack to let him explore his mouth, travelling over his teeth, his tongue. Iero pulled at his collar, bringing Way down to a comfortable height for him, and Gerard’s fingers brushed his cheek, before finally twenty four year old let his mouth fall from the lock, slightly breathless and blushing, but smiling all the same.
“Like that,” he said quietly, letting his hands fall to his sides and bowing his head.
The silence was broken by him sneezing cutely, nose crinkling and eyes screwed shut.
“We better go back,” Gerard advised, banging his stick against his fake foot, a hollow tapping coming from within. “I don’t want my little rabbit getting a cold on top of your lungs, sweetheart, that wouldn’t be good for you at all.”
“Okay,” he replied, knowing that he’d be lectured later on how thick his voice was, how blocked his throat was.
“So, twenty four now, huh?” He tutted. “You’re getting so old, baby, you’ll be asking for retirement payment soon.”
“Says the person who’s nearly thirty!”
“So what?” Another shrug. “Thirty is like the new twenty.”
“Yeah,” the younger scoffed, “for trees.”
Nothin like working a classic in there