And in the day, everything's complex. There's nothing simple when I'm not around you.
So here’s the dealio with this chapter.
The title is meant to be from the song from the Cranberries, but I based a bit of it off of Avril Lavigne’s song of the same name. The ideas and such, the clothes and bed side stuff, that song is so sweet. But the Cranberries thing is important due to an upcoming reference in this chapter...
I’m just thinking about how my best girl (that is another way of saying best friend in NI; no, I am not a lesbian, although I do have a list of women I will converge to if I ever switch my sexual preference. Top of that list? Alicia Way. Yeah. Move over, Mikey) Jen has currently fecked off to London because she’s at a piano exam or something and now I’m really missing her. Instead of going into school and being like
“oh I hope Jen does well in her exam”
(which she will that girl is fucking insanely good at music)
I was like this instead
“JESUS CHRIST JENNIFER HOW COULD YOU LEAVE ME WITH ALL THESE SLUTS I’M GONNA FUCKING DIE THEY’LL ATTACK ME WITH THEIR GLEE VERSIONS OF ‘SING’ AND FUCK ME I WILL STAB YOU WITH A BOBBY PIN WHEN YOU RETURN”
You’d all love to be friends with me, I’m sure.
Well, if you read my stories then I generally see you as my friend. If you think that’s cute, then there ya go. If you think that’s sad, then hey shut the fuck up.
Oh yeah and you can see shades of myself in Gerard’s letter. The next few chapters will be the fun one with the shopping and the serious, gory one with Gerard & the Blackshirts and stuff. Then there’ll be two flashback chapters (oooh yeahhh) and then Gee’s back from his lil talk with Il Duce!
(And the thing at the end will be cleared up next chapter)
Oh my God I hate that stupid show, all they do is ruin good songs-Don’t Stop Believing, anyone?
Oh and mates be prepared for a wee bit of sadness. (Haha if you’re from Norn Iron you’ll be like ‘wow she really is Northern Irish’) And then some cute shit because I fucking love writing that.
I think I should get a prize from FicWad. “Rambler of the Year-LORNAIGH NI IONNRACHTAIGH/UNITEDSUCK007, LADIES AND GENTS!”
How fucking awesome would it be if FicWad had an annual award show? That would be so entirely epic. People from allover the world, and you’d finally see these authors you’ve been reading for ages, or fans who love your stories, and then everyone getting wasted at the after-party....
Yes, I like that. I like that.
I am also currently watching The Godfather, how very appropriate
First of the Gang to Die
When You’re Gone
Frank Iero woke up alone.
“Gerard?” He mewled, trying to avoid the realization in his mind. “Where are you?”
It came flooding back to him; sudden and like a slap in the face. His husband was gone-gone to a country in the south-western region of a whole other continent, gone to face the secret police of the dictator of said European country to discuss tactics or something. He would be gone for five days and so in turn the boy would be minded by the most trusted men in the Way syndicate.
To the average individual, it might be a minor inconvenience, but to Iero, who was so utterly devoted to and obsessed with the man he was married to, it was horrible, like a disgusting, churning, sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach, spreading around his sides and creating a harsh pounding in his chest. Tears began to streak down once the point was clear.
“Gee,” he squeaked, sitting up slowly in the black silk sheets-dotted and splashed with white since the previous night, might I add-“Gee, come back.” The wracks caught in his chest and he let out a weak sob. “I want you back, Gerard, I need you. Please, Gerard,” he cried harder, burying his face in his hands, “I can’t go on without you, I need you with me, please come back to me.”
No one or nothing answered his meek cries of lovesickness.
Realizing this, the boy dragged himself from the bed and padded to the wardrobe, opening it wide. On the rails on the left were his clothes, brighter and generally more effeminate, more modern than his husband’s; hoodies, tight jeans, wifebeaters, t-shirts. On the right was Gerard’s attire-it made his tear up again, seeing the dark suits that reminded him of only person.
Everything was black-black upon black upon black. His jackets, his shirts, his trousers, his belts, his braces, his waistcoats, his shoes, his ties-the only items of clothing that were not dark were a few crimson neckties and three white shirts, which were worn on special occasions and on the Sabbath (respectively.) The shirts were silken, soft, and straight, not a single crease visible to the eye. They were multiple sizes bigger than the boy currently eyeing them, but he found himself reaching towards one and tugging it over himself, the light, rustling material falling to his mid-thigh, when they reached the waist of his lover. Nonetheless, suddenly his fingers were working of their own accord, and they did up Gerard’s black shirt that hung like a cape.
Frank grabbed a pair of skinnier, tight, dark jeans and pulled his belt around it, tucking the shirt in so that he didn’t look completely minute. He inhaled deeply and was overcome with the warm, thick scent that followed the gangster around like a cloud, like a mixture of coffee beans and melting chocolate, ultimately making the younger weak at the knees. He didn’t think it was cologne or aftershave-perhaps it was just a natural occurrence.
He went to the dresser they shared and picked up the familiar red ring, slipping it onto his index finger, while also pulling on a grey jumper, keeping himself warm-he still had the most horrendous of colds, after all. After he had paled himself with ivory foundation he saw something flutter from the corner of his eye, sticking out from something on the mahogany table. It was a piece of paper, slipped under the glass used for whiskey that Gerard never seemed to move. The white had but one word etched onto it, in that wonderful gothic text-
He grabbed it so eagerly that he damn near fell on the table, opening up the creased note and glancing his vision through it, savouring every word that were put down in black on white.
Nineteen Thirty Four
My darling husband;
I know this is an awful way to wake up from the night previous to us-if you don’t remember what happened, please inquire to any of the men, they were all too happy to inform me of it this morning-and I’m very sorry, baby. I know you don’t want me to go and I certainly don’t want to be leaving you, especially when you’re sick, honey. You had no idea how hard it was to get up at three in the morning-a feat in itself-but to leave you when you were sleeping, when you looked so angelic and so perfect, and all I wanted to do was stay with you, remain here and keep you safe, pet, I’m going to drive Raymond up the walls with my constant nagging and neurotic over-protectionism.
I realize this is going to be hard for both of us, sugarmuffin, but I would like to mention some things to you briefly, out of formality. If you wish to ignore them that is your decision, but I would be particularly pleased if you would follow them please, Frankie.
I left this morning at approximately four, and didn’t want to wake you. I know how hard sleeping is for you, bunny rabbit, and that your chest gets at you, so I wanted to let you rest as long as you could; I believe you only fell asleep about an hour or two before now. I will be returning this coming Saturday-the seventeenth, I believe-quite early in the morning, and on that day I will be perfectly happy to engage in whatever you would like. Whether that be screaming at me for three hours for leaving you or going for another walk-I had no idea how much you liked Christmas, my Lord, Frank, that was so adorable I nearly bust a rib-I will be happy to oblige. If you want to sit in my lap and just talk on end then that would be lovely, pet, I can’t wait to be with you again.
(Rampant, crazed sex would also be acceptable, I mean, let’s not overrule our options here.)
I realize that my defensiveness over you may seem drastic and irritating, but it really is for the best, Frank; I need to keep my little rabbit warm and safe. I instructed my men forcefully to demand and restrain you until you wear a coat and suitable accessories-you are NOT going to get worse, and if you are, each and every one of those minders will be hung by the neck until dead. I know you try to make it seem okay in front of me, sweetie, but you must be in so much pain all of the time that you never tell me about, your lungs must put you through agony, my poor darling. Your voice gets higher and squeaks when you run out of breath, babe, you get so weak and tired, you feel lighter than a lot of my guns. Writing this makes me feel so utterly terrible, pet, that I’m leaving you and my baby is so ill, I want to stay with you darling, I want to help you and make you get better, show that tuberculosis shit who’s boss and how dare that stupid disease try and make Gerard fucking Way’s husband sick.
On the topic of health, bunny rabbit, I want you to promise that you’ll eat properly, okay? You’re so fragile already; I don’t want you to get seriously ill due to the nervosa, pet. You know I am not like James in any way, honey, I don’t want you so weak you have no energy, I want you healthy and fed, I want some skin on those bones. I don’t care what you eat, even if you gorge on biscuits for the remainder of my trip I won’t mind at all, coming from the fatass you know I am. I don’t want you eating no low fat shit either-I have instructed your guards to go shopping for groceries and GOD HELP THE MAN WHO BUYS 2% MILK, I SWEAR, I WILL KICK HIS FUCKING ASS OUT THE MAFIA, YOU DO NOT INSULT ME LIKE THAT,YOU BUY THE PROPER SHIT, NOT SOME WATERY PIECE OF CRAP-
Sweet Jesus, excuse me. I don’t know what just came over me. Food tends to bring out the worst in me.
On the matter of protectors, when you proceed downstairs you should be bracing yourself for a bit of a shock-there are only four guards staying in the house with you, bunny rabbit. While I realize this is most unusual for an over-protective man such as myself, they are the people I trust most, the men I have known since I was a teenager, my friends through thick and thin. They would die before you get harmed, as I have instructed of them. There, I am sure, will be no threat of Romano-related shit flying between the defenders and themselves but in the case of such you will be protected.
Lastly, honey, sugar, bunny, any remotely affectionate pet name I can muster; I’m going to miss you so much it’s going to physically hurt, baby. I get annoyed when you’re not with me, when you’re not there to sit in my lap, not there for me to love. That sounds corny as fucking God but I try so hard to protect you, sweetheart, and then I see you all hurt and scared-that time in the train in NJ when I said I’d act a little different and you got so upset, wondering if I’d beat you or insult you or take advantage of you, or when you flinch from me, or ‘hate it when it hurts’-that makes me so upset in turn, honey, because I feel like I don’t do enough for you, like you’re so vulnerable when I’m gone. I love you so much and I just hate it when something happens; when you whimper or squeak and you get so sick-it just kills me. When you think I’m going to rape you I die a little inside, bunny rabbit, I want to treasure and adore you, I like to think that I respect you; that I would never do something like that. I’m not saying you are completely inept of taking care of yourself-for fuck’s sake, boy, you dismembered James Romano, I ain’t fuckin denying that shit shit sorry-I’m simply saying that if I come back and one hair on your head is gone that some fucker’s going to have hell to pay. No one, and I mean no one, hurts you. I mean that, Frank. That is just not happening.
I wish I could stay, babe, you know that. All I wanted to do this morning was crawl back into bed with the most fucking gorgeous boy in the world, you’re so beautiful, so perfect and innocent, so stunning it hurts to look away from you. The way your mouth falls open slightly and that you’ve got that little curl of hair by your ear and your lip ring-my fucking God, that lip ring, when you tug on it and look into my eyes, Christ Frank, I didn’t think I could ever be weakened by the way someone looks at me, but sweet Mother-
Is it sad I’m actually getting aroused about writing about you? I swear, I’m not even looking in your direction, I’m at the kitchen table, and oh fuck these trousers are becoming tighter and tighter-
I love you so much, Frankie. I’m sorry again about this, pet, I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t have to, but at the same time that is no excuse to leave you. Christ, first getting hard and now I’m crying? I’m sure Mussolini will love this, some sex-crazed over-effeminate Mafia boss.
All my love,
Gerardo Artu de la Via
Capa di crimini, Cosa Nostra de la Via
Malvivente de Franco de la Via
Frank looked up from the note, choking on his tears, hands shaking as the piece of paper slipped from them and landed on the floor. There were so many things about it that made him crave and demand his husband back this instant-the constant references of pet names for Frank, his protection involved with his husband, how he was crying over the weaker, how he made malevolent threats towards someone who would buy food low in fat-it made him long for Gerard, made him feel needy and weak, wanting Way back so badly. He began to cry again, burying his head in the dark shirt he was wearing.
“I miss you,” he whispered into it, tears going on full force. “I want you so bad, Gerard, I want you now. I want you to protect me and I want you to help me when I’m sick-I love you so much,” he finally cracked, sobbing. “You’re my gangster, I’m your rabbit-let Mussolini get his own fucking Don!” He struck his fist on the harsh wooden floor and winced when it bruised. “You’re mine. Mine and no one else’s. You belong to me.” A year worth of joyous time spent with said criminal flooded to him, and he erupted again. “I’d travel to Italy, I’d face that guy myself and kill all his fancy Italian soldiers, goddammit, Gerard, I’ll kill the man who buys two per cent ‘cause I know you’d get so pissed off!” It was all coming out now-he couldn’t contain his crying until a knock came on the door.
“Frankie?” It was Bob. “Yo man, you in there?”
The door was unlocked-Gerard was vehement on privacy and in so had a lock installed on the door-and the five foot ten sandy blond was faced by the brunette six inches his shorter.He had been crying.
“Frankie?” His voice was a little higher. “Dude,‘s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Frank replied thickly, wiping at his eyes and walking past Bob to the kitchen, where sat Ray, Molko from the poker night, and two people he didn’t recognize; a skinny guy with brown hair and a short woman with platinum, cropped hair and wide brown eyes.
Frank stepped back a little, embarrassed. Hopefully these people didn’t have Gerard’s radar sense of hearing.
“Hellooooo!” Brian opened with, bending his fingers and blowing a kiss to Iero. “Oh, honey it’s so nice to see you again-you smell divine, is that Dolce and-“
“Yeah, thanks Brian,” Bob interrupted, grabbing a chair out and sitting down to pick up a cup of coffee, and then turning to the mysterious man and woman. “Don’t believe you guys have met Frankie.” He gestured to the blond haired female. “Frankie, this is Dolores O’ Riordan, one helluva fighter and generally a nice chick.”
Dolores offered a bejewelled hand, smiling widely. It wasn’t like a nasty smirk-she was genuinely being friendly. She was wearing a brown pencil skirt and white shirt rolled up to her elbows.
“Howyeh,” she said, and for a moment Frank thought he had spaced out and imagined she said something not within the English language. He took her hand gingerly, then remembering the accent some had had several months ago. “Lovely to finally meetcha. Lord knows Gerd chatters to high Heavens aboutcha normally.”
“Hello,” he said, smiling back-she seemed warm and affable, a rare trait in the industry in which his husband was associated with. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Dolores is Irish,” Bob told the room, as if it wasn’t obvious enough. “She’s in the IRA.”
“No ah’m not!” She snapped suddenly, and Frank jumped a little. The brown haired man laughed heartily. “Just because ye lot werk with a buncha terrorists doesnae make me one!” She rolled her eyes and patted down her outfit. “Jayzus, all about the assumptions, aren’t we? Ah’m the leader of my own gang, The Cranberry Saw Us.” She smiled smugly; obviously it was famous and well-known; respected. “Ah don’t associate wi those bastards. Ah’m into bating the living shite outta local criminals who think they can mess wi me. Bu it’s very nice to meetcha, Frankie, ah’ve been informed tis a great honour to be yer personal guard.”
“You know it fuckin is,” Robert continued, laughing a little, and then pointing a finger in the other man’s direction. “That’s Matt. He’s a gangster in the UK.”
“Technically I’m a gangster in England as opposed to the United Kingdom, but I will comply nonetheless,” Matthew replied, holding out a hand to Iero, who took it and smiled. “Matthew Bellamy-“
“Weird as fuck, at your service,” Bob cut in, and all members, excluding Frank, giggled again. He continued to rub at his eyes and smile weakly. “Y’alright, man? You look-“
“Isn’t it obvious, Robert?” Brian shrugged, a skinny cigarette in between his fingers. “He misses his husband, don’t you, honey?”
The mention of the marital title made Frank’s eyes leak again, and he hiccupped feebly.
“I want him back,” he whimpered, sucking on his lip piercing. “I miss him so much. It hurts when he’s gone.”
Brian saw his place to comfort and rose.
“C’mon, Frankie, come for a little walk with me, mmkay?” He sashayed over, a natural runway walk which clearly said bitch, I'm fabulous.
“You better be fucking careful with him,” Robert ordered. “If he comes back with one scratch the Coro will kill all of us, goddammit-“
“Of course, Bobby,” the small man said, slipping on a fashionable woollen hat that some Soviet soldiers wore and a black pashmina shawl. “We’ll only be a little while, the boy wants to enjoy himself.”
They left the dark mansion and stepped onto the barren road that Gerard and Frank walked on Sunday, which did nothing to the brunette’s diminished feelings. He was trying to contain his sadness when he was grasped in a loose, friendly hug by Molko.
“It’s alright, Frankie,” he soothed, petting his hair. “Let it out, honey bunch, just let it out.”
Frank erupted in sobs into his shoulder, tears dribbling down his cheek and his chest stung and pounded. It felt like someone was stabbing him repeatedly in his chest and in his heart, and he couldn’t stop the tears no matter how hard he sniffed and gathered himself together. Thinking of the small things Gerard did that made him truly Gerard filtered the boy’s mind-his deep, thick accent, the way he talked out of the side of his mouth, the way he hated fruit with the deepest of passions-goddamn, just everything. It was killing him.
Okay so REALLY REALLY REALLY bad time but holy mother of jesus the universal channel is trying to kill me, I swear. I mean COME ON he’s the main fricking character in the whole show
“I want you, Gerard!” He cried into the black satin shirt of the black haired Londoner. “I love you so much and I need you, now! Come back to me, I need you so badly!”
Molko patted his back and murmured words of comfort into his ear.
“Oh honey, you cry all you like, right in my shoulder,” Iero realized what he was doing-crying into the jacket of a gangster appointed by his husband to defend him in the middle of the street outside their home, which, luckily, was deserted as it usually was, bar the odd automobile. “I know just you how you feel.”
“Uh huh,” Brian responded, pulling a small, square photograph from his shirt pocket as Frank pulled away, apologizing. He handed it to the boy-it showed the gangster with a tall man, much taller than Brian or Frank or even Gerard, one arm slunk around the protector’s shoulder, his cheek being kissed by the giant, who had floppy, sandy hair and sharp bone structure. The twenty four year old turned the photo over and read the date marked on the back: September 13th, 1933-over a year ago. “See? I haven’t seen my man since New Year’s.”
“You’re married?” That was news to Frank; he knew the man was gay but it never occurred to him that Molko was involved with someone. “Is he your husband?”
“Stefan,” he cooed happily, passing his thumb over the paper before he tucked it back in his pocket. “He’s a drug trafficker in Sweden and I live in London all of the time. We meet up in the summer in Luxemburg and then the rest of the year is spent away from each other. I miss Stef something awful.”
“I’m sorry,” Frank sniffed. “You must think I’m stupid. You spend barely any time with him and Gerard is only gone for a few days.”
“Of course I don’t, honey, Gerard obviously thinks the world of you, he’s like a little girl around you,” he giggled, walking with Frank down the abandoned road. “It’s understandable that you miss your man, honey.”
“My man,” the boy muttered softly, laughing a little. The mood eased slightly and the pair walked in comfortable silence before something occurred to him. “Can I ask you something?”
“How tall are you?” Brian threw his head back and laughed. “I’m not being rude or anything-“
“You mean how short am I, dahhhhhhling,” he cavorted, clapping his hands together. “I’m five six. Just above you, pipsqueak.”
“Gerard calls me vertically challenged,” Frank said in an almost dream-like trance, imagining the walk they had embarked on the day of his birth. “Do you know what time he’s coming home?”
“Some time in the early hours of Saturday, honey,” Brian said in his thick, high tone. Frank realized he wasn’t coming on to Iero but just that ‘honey’ was a form of greeting. “Try not to think about it, ya know, time will fly, you know it. We have to go shopping tomorrow anyway, so that will be such a tradegy, having to touch all that full fat food.” He shuddered and stuck out his tongue as he said the last three words. “Bleurggh. Your man may be a looker but when it comes to disciplining his cravings he fails like a hooker in Hampstead. And don’t even get me started on his fashion sense...”
Something shocked Frank a little.
“You...you think Gerard is good-looking?” For some reason he felt a little jealous-he had been under the impression he was the only one who found the boss attractive.
“Well, yeah, I guess,” Brian shrugged, puffing on the stick. “I know he’s yours, Frankie, I’m not going to muscle in on-“
“Your man, precisely. I’m just saying he isn’t bad-looking. But he’s not my type.” He flicked his hair and smiled mischievously. “I don’t like the...bigger men.”
“But your husband is really tall.”
“Who, Stef?” The man giggled and flushed a little. “Yeah; he’s six four. I just mean that Gerard is a bit...y’know...fat.”
“He’s not fat!” The boy gasped out of loyalty. “He’s perfect, he’s the most gorgeous person ever.”
“More of him to love, right?”
“No-I-just-ooh!” The taller man started laughing as he was making the younger writhe with awkwardness. “I just-“
Ooh my neighbour is playing Destroya! Aw yeah good one (although normally I really hate it when I can hear everything she’s playing, I mean honestly who wants to hear S&M at like two in the morning? But okay, yeah, Destroya, good choice Miss O’ Sullivan)
Oh Jesus yeah I forgot to tell ye that I met my cousin’s boyfriend the other day and he was lovely and all but guess what his surname was?
Yeah. It was so fucking awkward and while I was shaking his hand I was like ‘thank God no one can hear what’s going on in my mind’
But no worries , he ain’t a gangster and his first name is Callum. He works as a teacher I think...
...or so he said. *raises eyebrows*
I’m such a bitch
“Anyway, I think Bobby has the telephone worked up. I think. I’m not so good with the whole ‘modern technology’ thing. So maybe you two will be able to talk to each other or something.”
“That’d be awesome,” Iero breathed, then suddenly lighting up. “And...Brian?”
“What did...uh...what did Gerard and I do last night?” He flushed scarlet as the five foot six howled with laughter. “He said in a note to me and he said you guys would tell me...”
Brian was crying with laughter as he informed Frank of what they had done. When he was finished, the boy’s cheeks were as red as the tri-colour of the Italian flag.