Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Never Coming Home
Thirty: Scars
2 reviewsIt's hard to escape the past, even in the arms of the man you love. [Somewhat of a filler, sorry if it isn't that great.]
1Moving
March 30th, 1958
“Ah.”
Gerard bended his head back. He grabbed the sheets and tugged at them ever so slightly, as his body twitched a couple of times and his lips curled into a pleasure-filled smile.
A ripple ran across his skin as Frank's hands brushed along his leg, squeezing and massaging the pain away. Their body heats mingled and melted into each other. So did their breathing.
Gerard swallowed and shut his eyes.
“You never stopped playing guitar.”
“How did you tell?”
Gerard could hear Frank smiling as he spoke.
“Your hands.”
“My hands?”
Their shape. The way they twisted and turned. The way the tips of his fingers were rough and thick, worn by years of pressing against metal strings. The way his thumb curved, met the palm and subtly curved up again, became his index. The way his wrists bended and cracked every time they did so, and how Frank's fingers laced perfectly with his.
The calloused feeling of his palms against his knee, the delicate sting of paper cuts which had just begun to heal.
Frank Iero's hands smelled of old books and dust and summer moss.
To Gerard, Frank Iero's hands smelled of life, and hope, and dreams.
“I never forgot their shape.”
There was a moment of quiet during which Iero's hands suddenly broke away from Gerard's skin, fluttered in the moonlight-tinted darkness for a moment.
Gerard's skin still tingled where Frank's had been, warm and pleasant.
“You never forgot their shape, huh?”
“No-”
But Frank stopped him mid-sentence, suddenly laced his fingers behind Gerard's neck, and drew him closer. He pressed his lips against his, slipped his tongue between him. They kissed delicately, like lovers should.
Gerard smiled against Frank's lips.
“I've waited so long for you... Barely breathing. Barely alive. I've lived fourteen years knowing that I could never have you again. And now I can touch you and feel you and you're here. You're mine again.”
He ran his fingers through Iero's hair.
“You're mine.”
“I always was yours, Gerard.”
Frank kissed Gerard's neck. His lips brushed against the jawline.
They both knew that it was getting late, they both knew that it was time to get up, to put clothes back on, to kiss and hold each other one last time before driving back to their wives and children and not so perfect families. And then they would've felt both happy and sad, and Gerard would've probably sat at his kitchen table with a glass full of whisky trying not to cry, and Frank would've locked himself in the bathroom, and they would've both replayed in their minds what had just happened over and over and over again.
Because that's just how things go. Because nothing can be perfect.
But, for now, the couldn't bring themselves to do so.
They couldn't let go of each other's warmth, the sense of completeness that came from the simplicity of their skin touching. Not now. Not yet.
They needed a few more moments, or, better still, a few more years together.
Gerard hugged Frank, who brushed hair out of his face. He'd nearly forgotten the pounding in his leg leg.
Nearly, because it still bit and burned in the back of his head.
“How unfortunate of us to be born men who fall in love with other men, Frank.”
He smiled at his lover, who smiled back.
“Another time, another place, and we would've been free.”
“Another time, another place, and it wouldn't have been us, old man.”
Gerard let his hand fall onto Frank's shoulder as Iero spoke, brush along thick scar tissue.
Frank cringed and flinched, but didn't pull away.
“You're beautiful.”
“They shame me, old man.”
“They're who you are.”
Frank frowned. The scars were an ugly reminder of his past, and of what Billie Poe's friends had done to him after the rape.
After Billie's hands had been all over his body and Billie's blood had been all over his hands.
After he'd pulled the trigger without even thinking. After he'd felt the blood and semen drip down his thighs as he stood up. As his sobbing and Jamia's sobbing mixed as he crumbled back to the ground and Jamia crawled over to hold him.
Poe's friends had run away, then.
Luckily, the fact that Poe, son of a senator, had been found by the police face down with his brains blown to bits and his dick hanging out of his pants had been conveniently hushed up.
Armed robbery, they said.
Nobody ever spoke about the sixteen year old kid who was lying a few feet away from Poe, pale and shocked and bloodied, legs laid bare, shirt torn.
Nobody spoke about the girl holding him.
And, for a while, nobody dared to touch Frank. Nobody bothered him. Nobody. None of the teachers. None of the boys.
Nobody.
The nightmares were enough. The filth was enough.
Having to live was enough.
But, eventually, Billie Poe's friends went hunting for him. And, one night, they found him.
He was roaming through his boarding school's kitchen, trying to hush the screams that had crawled from his nightmares into the waking.
They found him, they grabbed him, they pushed him against a wall, and they smiled and hissed in his ear that his righteous punishment was due.
He was dragged from the wall to one of the stoves, and the bigger, bulkier boys pressed his tiny contorting body against one of the lit-up burners.
Frank screamed as the fire ate his skin away. Frank screamed as pain tore his soul to pieces.
Iero dug his nails into Gerard as the memories brushed for a moment against his consciousness.
Suddenly, Gerard pressed his lips against the scars.
Frank's breathing faltered for a fraction of an instant. He gasped, as he shut his eyes and slightly opened his mouth. Unintentionally, he pressed Gerard closer to himself.
Nobody had ever done such a thing. Delicate. Kind.
Not even Jamia, because she knew who had caused them, and knowing this made her fear them.
Gerard Way delicately kissed Frank's ragged and broken skin, he kissed it the same way Frank had massaged his leg: he kissed it because he wanted to chase the pain away.
He kissed it because doing so would've, somehow, filled Frank up.
He kissed it because he genuinely found those scars beautiful, because they were just a tiny piece of the wonderfully absurd and complicated puzzle that was Frank Anthony Thomas Iero, Jr.
He kissed them because he loved Frank.
He kissed them for no reason at all, and for all the reasons in the world.
“Ah.”
Gerard bended his head back. He grabbed the sheets and tugged at them ever so slightly, as his body twitched a couple of times and his lips curled into a pleasure-filled smile.
A ripple ran across his skin as Frank's hands brushed along his leg, squeezing and massaging the pain away. Their body heats mingled and melted into each other. So did their breathing.
Gerard swallowed and shut his eyes.
“You never stopped playing guitar.”
“How did you tell?”
Gerard could hear Frank smiling as he spoke.
“Your hands.”
“My hands?”
Their shape. The way they twisted and turned. The way the tips of his fingers were rough and thick, worn by years of pressing against metal strings. The way his thumb curved, met the palm and subtly curved up again, became his index. The way his wrists bended and cracked every time they did so, and how Frank's fingers laced perfectly with his.
The calloused feeling of his palms against his knee, the delicate sting of paper cuts which had just begun to heal.
Frank Iero's hands smelled of old books and dust and summer moss.
To Gerard, Frank Iero's hands smelled of life, and hope, and dreams.
“I never forgot their shape.”
There was a moment of quiet during which Iero's hands suddenly broke away from Gerard's skin, fluttered in the moonlight-tinted darkness for a moment.
Gerard's skin still tingled where Frank's had been, warm and pleasant.
“You never forgot their shape, huh?”
“No-”
But Frank stopped him mid-sentence, suddenly laced his fingers behind Gerard's neck, and drew him closer. He pressed his lips against his, slipped his tongue between him. They kissed delicately, like lovers should.
Gerard smiled against Frank's lips.
“I've waited so long for you... Barely breathing. Barely alive. I've lived fourteen years knowing that I could never have you again. And now I can touch you and feel you and you're here. You're mine again.”
He ran his fingers through Iero's hair.
“You're mine.”
“I always was yours, Gerard.”
Frank kissed Gerard's neck. His lips brushed against the jawline.
They both knew that it was getting late, they both knew that it was time to get up, to put clothes back on, to kiss and hold each other one last time before driving back to their wives and children and not so perfect families. And then they would've felt both happy and sad, and Gerard would've probably sat at his kitchen table with a glass full of whisky trying not to cry, and Frank would've locked himself in the bathroom, and they would've both replayed in their minds what had just happened over and over and over again.
Because that's just how things go. Because nothing can be perfect.
But, for now, the couldn't bring themselves to do so.
They couldn't let go of each other's warmth, the sense of completeness that came from the simplicity of their skin touching. Not now. Not yet.
They needed a few more moments, or, better still, a few more years together.
Gerard hugged Frank, who brushed hair out of his face. He'd nearly forgotten the pounding in his leg leg.
Nearly, because it still bit and burned in the back of his head.
“How unfortunate of us to be born men who fall in love with other men, Frank.”
He smiled at his lover, who smiled back.
“Another time, another place, and we would've been free.”
“Another time, another place, and it wouldn't have been us, old man.”
Gerard let his hand fall onto Frank's shoulder as Iero spoke, brush along thick scar tissue.
Frank cringed and flinched, but didn't pull away.
“You're beautiful.”
“They shame me, old man.”
“They're who you are.”
Frank frowned. The scars were an ugly reminder of his past, and of what Billie Poe's friends had done to him after the rape.
After Billie's hands had been all over his body and Billie's blood had been all over his hands.
After he'd pulled the trigger without even thinking. After he'd felt the blood and semen drip down his thighs as he stood up. As his sobbing and Jamia's sobbing mixed as he crumbled back to the ground and Jamia crawled over to hold him.
Poe's friends had run away, then.
Luckily, the fact that Poe, son of a senator, had been found by the police face down with his brains blown to bits and his dick hanging out of his pants had been conveniently hushed up.
Armed robbery, they said.
Nobody ever spoke about the sixteen year old kid who was lying a few feet away from Poe, pale and shocked and bloodied, legs laid bare, shirt torn.
Nobody spoke about the girl holding him.
And, for a while, nobody dared to touch Frank. Nobody bothered him. Nobody. None of the teachers. None of the boys.
Nobody.
The nightmares were enough. The filth was enough.
Having to live was enough.
But, eventually, Billie Poe's friends went hunting for him. And, one night, they found him.
He was roaming through his boarding school's kitchen, trying to hush the screams that had crawled from his nightmares into the waking.
They found him, they grabbed him, they pushed him against a wall, and they smiled and hissed in his ear that his righteous punishment was due.
He was dragged from the wall to one of the stoves, and the bigger, bulkier boys pressed his tiny contorting body against one of the lit-up burners.
Frank screamed as the fire ate his skin away. Frank screamed as pain tore his soul to pieces.
Iero dug his nails into Gerard as the memories brushed for a moment against his consciousness.
Suddenly, Gerard pressed his lips against the scars.
Frank's breathing faltered for a fraction of an instant. He gasped, as he shut his eyes and slightly opened his mouth. Unintentionally, he pressed Gerard closer to himself.
Nobody had ever done such a thing. Delicate. Kind.
Not even Jamia, because she knew who had caused them, and knowing this made her fear them.
Gerard Way delicately kissed Frank's ragged and broken skin, he kissed it the same way Frank had massaged his leg: he kissed it because he wanted to chase the pain away.
He kissed it because doing so would've, somehow, filled Frank up.
He kissed it because he genuinely found those scars beautiful, because they were just a tiny piece of the wonderfully absurd and complicated puzzle that was Frank Anthony Thomas Iero, Jr.
He kissed them because he loved Frank.
He kissed them for no reason at all, and for all the reasons in the world.
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