But I found a boy who I love more than I ever did you before.
Don’t know why I wrote this. I got the idea from a book called The Woman Who Walked into Doors, by Roddy Doyle, if you’ve ever heard of it.
Have been having just the crappiest week ever, so much shit going on its just so godfuck irritating (endless thanks to my darling Rachel/FlyingSmoke for that word) and I wish I could drift away from all the crapola in my life right now.
Enough emoness, Lornaigh.
Anyway, if you don’t like this chapter, yeah, I know, it’s pretty sucky. I was just trying to improve my descriptiveness and stuff, I dunno. It shows the transition between Frank and Gee’s past so yeah. Maybe that was conveyed, maybe it wasn’t. Just like...how they’ve both changed & shiz...
But the next one is just...woah...how the fuck did I write that?
First of the Gang to Die
I Found a Boy
The man who married Evan Ricci in nineteen twenty seven.
He was skinnier than he is now; much skinnier. Each body part was fully intact and functioning correctly-although he would have only two days more until his left leg was shot to blitz by none other than James Romano. He has long, combed, black hair to his shoulders, so glistening and well taken after that his men come to a conclusion of no particular significance when they guess on his methods.
He has wonderful bubbly and bright green eyes glittering from his sockets. That was one thing that always got pointed out-he could be carrying out the most vicious attacks on some unlucky motherfucker and all they could stare at were those two glowing, electric bulbs that seemed so out of place with the dark, macabre villain who was so disgusting and intimidating. The eyes-on his Most Wanted subpoena it was the listed; distinctive green eyes. Next to the picture of him glaring at the camera-the image had been supplied by his secondary level of education, and he was sulking as the photographer smiled and cheered on the then fourteen year old-were the words printed next to him. Those green eyes. They were the last thing a lot of men saw right before they were killed.
He’s twenty two years old. See him in the morning and he’ll look thirty five; give him some make up, some coffee and a half hour and he’ll look eighteen. That’s him all over-can’t even function without the caffeinated drink, the cigarettes, the alcohol, the constant eating. His doctors, his family and his husband all lecture him on his health-he’ll end up an obese insomniac with lung cancer if he's not careful. Everything in moderation, that was Evan’s motto.
Four years ago he would have happily died for the lawyer, but now...now he is not so sure. The marriage had been planned for three years now, and being an unmarried man in your early twenties in such an occupation screams of failure. Now everyday he looks at that gold band encircling his left ring finger and sighs, only feeling one thing; regret.
He has depression. He thinks, anyway. He knows his brother, Michael, now nineteen, and happily married, has some sort of disorder that everyone welcomes with open arms. Michael was always the favourite of the family; it was as simple as that. He had gotten engaged at seventeen, he had assured a baby would be in the works once that ring was slipped around Alicia’s finger. He wasn’t the Don, no-but God knows he’s able, and God knows he’s Donald’s first choice.
He has been the head of the Cosa Nostra de la Via for exactly forty nine hours now. The night upon his in augment ceremony he had been incredibly nervous, fretting and fussing over everything, worrying over the smallest detail-but the feeling of nervousness had been curtly replaced with a strong sense of weirdness. It was just...so...strange now. He couldn’t leave the house. He couldn’t do anything without someone following him around. Suddenly he was the go-to guy for everything-you wanna go for a walk? You ask the Coro first. You need a new suit? Check with the Capa-if he thinks you need a new one, he’ll tell ya. You wanna take a shit? The Coro’s gotta know.
The Coro. The Capa. The Capo. Sir;-no more Christian name references anymore-his friends, like Bob, Ray, Louis, everyone; they’d thought he was the shit before all this, such a laugh to be around and a helluva man to go drinking with. He was honest, sincere, kind, with a good sense of humour-but Jesus Christ and the Holy Trinity, once that man got a gun in his hand and some fucker to aim at he was all set to go. You didn’t want to be there when he was torturing someone. It was watching an experienced cruelty slowly take a man apart.
See, that’s the main reason he got so quickly so high up-some men serve in the Mafia as soldiers for twenty years, never even coming close to the ‘Crew’- the title given to the group of the Don’s most trusted men, like his underboss, et cetera- he had something quite a lot of fighters didn’t-and that, my dear reader, is intelligence. He was over thirty points beyond the standard of ‘genius’-he had read every found Shakespearian play by the time he was seventeen, and he spoke like a professor. He did use vulgarity, of course, but swearing should not hinder one’s intelligence quotient. He was talented at mathematics, Scientifics, linguistics, commerce, musical and religious education, and created several masterpieces in art and literature-he had been accepted at all the universities going, and his private tutors-friends of his father’s-urged him to attend Oxford, Yale, Harvard. No one in the Mafia was ever exceedingly smart, or indeed as intelligent as the genius boy who would become the Don.
That was the thing every teacher of his ever said-one was, of course, his eyes, and the other was how nice the kid was in general. Lecturers would look down and see a well-behaved, popular, unbelievably smart child who was good-looking and polite-and then the short, brief apology they had been dealt when they told him of his opportunities; “I’m extremely sorry, but I have family commitments in the future that would clash with third level education.”
The next time they would hear of him again would be in the papers, every day, tormenting and torturing and killing. To see that innocent little boy morph into the most terrorizing monster of the thirties made them sick to their stomachs.
They’re not the only ones; he disgusts himself sometimes.
The man who married Frank Iero in nineteen thirty four.
He’s fatter now, obviously. Not fat fat but he pulls the belt to the furthest hole, if you get what I mean. He wishes desperately that he could say he’s as fit and healthy as ev-well, no. Frankly, the twenty nine year old couldn’t give a shit about being healthy. Thinks it’s overrated, stupid, and unnecessary.
His leg was shot up forty eight hours after his wedding. Nineteen bullets to the leg, man, you know, standard practice. It burns and grinds so much sometimes he feels boiling tears pricking the back of his eyes, but he won’t ever cry. Not ever.
One of the glittering pair is gone. It’s like someone literally turned off a little lamp inside his head, and the victim was one of those gorgeous sparkling jades. It is dull, and dark, and dead, the old eye, and sees a sliver through the iris. It terrifies men who are new to the monster; it makes him seem like a demon, odd eyed and evil.
(As if he needs help there.)
He turned twenty nine this year; seven years on and still looking like a teenager. The locks have been chopped and sliced now; his hair is still as raven as ever, but instead is cut into the nape of his neck, giving him a more refined, masculine hairstyle as opposed to the more unkempt one that he had previously had. The smoking and the drinking has both stopped and decreased respectively; he has decided to give up the so called ‘cancer sticks’-although, as this author has mentioned before, he was never particularly concerned about his health and well-being-in relief of his lover’s lungs. He does drink, yes, but in moderation. He doesn’t have to block out everything in his life anymore-he is perfectly content with Frank.
He'd do anything for that kid. Literally, nothing would ever stand between him and his husband, and he would do anything to protect and adore the twenty four year old. He was quite different from Evan, in so many numerous ways; the thing was that Frank was different from him. He wasn’t strongly opinionated, or insufferably smooth, or argumentative; he was quiet and kind and soft-spoken, hopelessly obsessed with his husband and willing to do anything for him. Frank wasn’t from Italy, and the only person he was related to who was, was, of course, his husband. He had barely any knowledge of the law, only knowing of going to jail, and instead was more interested in the logistics of medicine. He didn’t go out on Friday or Saturday nights or demand to emerge in the public eye like the previous husband did; he was all too happy to stay inside the family manor and simply spend time with the boss. He wasn’t like Evan, attention seeking and social, wanting dinner and dancing and movie-going that the other would not be able to attend due to his reputation and employment. Frank didn’t mind the gangmanship anymore-it was run-of-the-mill for him. The gangster looks at the ring on the chain around his neck and feels one thing; bliss.
He couldn’t be happier at the moment. Sure, at the moment he was away from his rabbit and would be for another three days-but all over he was loving life currently. He’d wake up in the morning and turn around and just see the most beautiful, most gorgeous boy in the world, and then kill for the day. And upon return, he’d be back to that perfect person and back in his element. It was so easy, being around Frank-it didn’t have to be mindless fighting and then reluctant make up sex; he could actually talk to the boy, not just about the day and how it went but about things that pissed him off, about how he felt more and more anxious about Europe’s war situation, how annoying it was when people made comments about him and dieting. Frank would sit in his lap, nibbling at a biscuit, eyes wide and honest, listening intently. It was like having a lover, a best friend and a counsellor all rolled into one convenient, cute five foot four package.
The leadership of this particular sector of the Los Angeles Italian-American Mafia still rests firmly on his shoulders. He has become used to shielding his accent, making him seem much more refined than he is-but sometimes, in the night, when his husband is purring as he slumbers on his chest, the twenty nine year old talks to him in a soft, seductive tone in his Jersey twang, the voice just for Frank and no one else. The curfews and lack of leaving the house-apart from raids and take-outs, obviously-still applies,most definitely, but since he has begun to paint again the time seems to fly. He didn’t think it would be easy whatsoever, that April day when he regained his artistic drive-but he was wrong. The minute he picked up the paintbrush and dabbled in rich crimson the inspiration came flooding back to him, so much so it was nearly spilling out on the page. He regards himself as a husband first, a gangster second and an artist third. If you asked him that a matter of years ago it would have gangster; first and only.
He doesn’t know how much longer this will last. Being Don, that is. At night time he sits with his men and wonders what they think of the whole thing-none of them are his blood relatives, a rare and rather unseen trait in the Cosa Nostra. They are just normal men who take an interest in killing people. They have families, and wives-the women are already involved in the Brigata, and the children, no doubt, will get into the deal somehow or another...they have given up so much. All for this, this monstrosity, this horrible event and act of violence and blind killings.
Oh, well. What did you expect from Gerard Way?
James Romano’s fiancé.
Twenty. He barely even looks it; the deep chocolate eyes are innocent and beautiful to an extent where it’s painful to look away. He is as pale as possible, with a plump little pout that has a pin hole in the left of his lip. He blushes a lot-mostly when his abuser makes sexual jokes at the table in front of the other men.
At the start they laughed; just fun old Jamie, having a good fuckin laugh with the kid. They found the jabs of sexual context entertaining; but by now it's just degrading and disgusting to listen to. He was to serve and obey James as however he wanted, even if that meant belittling himself like that, just bowing his head and sucking on his lip as Romano would make vulgar humorous gestures, crude and rude, about how many men the twenty six year had slept with, how he compared to them all. It's awful, seeing the poor boy stir and whimper when James cackled over him. He did it everywhere; at the table, out on walks, even when the two are alone with each other.
He is vaguely aware that James was not in love with him-although the feeling was so very alien to him, he as sure you didn’t treat people you love like shit, insulting and slapping and shrieking to such high levels neighbours five miles away complained of disturbances. It, of course, was one-sided and terribly unfair, but the five foot four was hardly going to stand his ground with James fucking Romano-not to Romano, six four and one seventy. He would take one look into those lifeless, shark-like grey eyes and would be shocked into submission. He did whatever James told him to, and became so instantly weak and defenceless when he was threatened. He’d be told to;
“Tell me you love me, you little slut, tell me you can’t fucking live without me”
“You’re my bitch now, Imma fuck you so hard you’re gonna be begging for mercy-“
It would eventually escalate to;
“What’s that, huh, Frankie? It hurts? Oh, well then, we’ll just have to keep going until you learn your lil lesson, won’t we?”
He has attempted suicide so many times he can’t even count. Not that his math is very good anyway, but the fading, bumpy lines on his writs tell more than he could ever say. James has never inquired in the four years of their relationship, although he has to have noticed. He either doesn’t care or wants to seem like he doesn’t care. He never cares and loves he in front of people-not even holding hands. It’s like they don’t even know each other, like James doesn’t remotely care for the beautiful boy.
But he has never quite gone through with it. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t dig the blade into his hands like his cousin Jake did when he was fourteen-he doesn’t have the tolerance, the balls, the bottle, whatever. He could never quite tell or force himself to do it-he was not completely prone to the voices in his head telling him to do it now. You’ve got nothing to live for now, boy. This is the end of the line. You bring that little razor across your wrist and you wait until everything just floats away; no big deal.
But he couldn’t. The gorgeous boy just forces himself to live through each day, raped and rotten and warped. He feels disgusting and vile and filthy-rarely a day goes by when he can look himself in the mirror and honestly is proud, is honoured to be alive. When he looks in the glass in their bedroom he sees nothing but failure. Deep, dark, dank, depressing failure. All he is to his husband-to-be is a good fuck, some nice piece of ass to get your teeth into, nothing but that pretty little face.
Doesn’t matter though. That’s all he ever is to anyone.
Gerard Way’s husband.
Twenty four. He still does look too young for his age-he can still pass for a teenager and his husband is all to happy to remind him of the fact. His hair is sloppier than it used to be, and the glistening orbs have lost that sense of loneliness and despair that they occupied a short time ago. They are vibrant, full of life and sharp. He wears a constant small smile and his orbs in turn light up and glow. The pin hole is filled by a metal stud.
The blush still does make a glowing comeback, and although it is prominent, pink beam resides in his cheeks it is only out of pleased acceptance of compliments from his husband, who, both out of the need to tell the boy and making up for his lost affection over the years from James. He isn’t a slut or a little bitch anymore; he is deemed baby and sugar and honey and bunny rabbit. He tries to be with Gerard all the time he can, because when Way is gone the world seems dark and disappointing, when he leaves the brown haired boy’s heart slowly splits.
He’s felling that now; his heart is slowly breaking into a few hundred pieces due to the discourse of his lover over in the Italian Republic, but he has tried to soothe the aching pain by telling himself everything will be fine and quick; Saturday will soon be upon the boy and then he will be back in his element-Gerard will return at five in the morning and Frank is sure he won’t even be able to sleep come Friday night. Wrapping his arms around the gangster’s neck and kissing his lips is the fantasy of the weary Iero at the moment. He has occupied himself with hanging out, driving, playing guitar, practising his algebraic equations. But somewhere, in the back of his mind, a little file called Gerard lurks around.
He is still of a nervous disposition about his weight, which is still miniature compared to the norm, and indeed his husband’s. He looks at his fragile, stick-like arms and thinks of the veined, muscular ones that normally wrap around his waist. The major difference is that he is actually encouraged and chided to eat by his lover, who is greedy and starved at the best of times. Oreo cookies, cakes, chocolate, full dinners, meat, alcohol-they are all at his disposal, and he indulges when he sees fit, under strict but caring instruction from Gerard. He is, of course, morally opposed to anything poultry and meat-related but he does tuck into food often and randomly, but he notices that he does have quite the sweet tooth. It is simply the best to be reminded;
“I miss you too, sweetheart, I miss you so much”
“Oh Frankie, baby, I’m just so proud to be married to you”
“You’re not a midget, no, you’re just...vertically challenged”
He remembers everything Gerard says, everything he does-it makes him explode with happiness as he lies in bed, awake, wondering how Saturday will play out. He has become so strong and willed from the twenty two year old who was kidnapped by Gerard Way that fateful October night over a year ago.
A year ago-Christ, do you believe that? One year on and the same boy who was the suicidal sex slave to James Romano and couldn’t stand to look in the mirror is now the husband of the most wanted man in the whole of the United States. He looks into the glass square in the bathroom-sometimes he is brave enough to venture to their own en suite; sometimes he isn’t-and sees someone happy, truly content with existence , who has awesome hair and a life to match. He has morphed into a boy of impressive stature and stomach, clearly capable of being, to be uncouth, a ‘badass.’
He smiles at that; ‘badass.’ That’s what he was all along.