To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.
First of the Gang to Die
There Is a Light That Never Goes Out
January fifteenth, nineteen thirty five, was a beautiful day.
Crisp, quick, cool weather. A comfortable breeze flew through the cracks in the in the gate of the Way manor and rode into the property like a wild horse. The sun was out, but no warmth was no emitted. It was a perfect January morning, free of rain and hail that December had delivered Los Angeles with. It was not hot in any sort but the temperature was restful.
Frank Iero was changing into his suit when the pleasant breeze greeted him. He did up the buttons of his shirt and pulled up his belt, looking himself in the mirror. This would be the first time in over two weeks that he would emerge from the bedroom he shared with Gerard. He was thankful for this day, and had been so excited and restless for the past few days, anticipating the celebrations for his and Gerard’s renewing of vows. He would see everyone again; all friendly and joyous.
He regarded himself. His hair was soft and combed messily to the side, because he knew Gerard liked it best that way, to rake his fingers through when he attacked the boy. That was one thing Iero was also jumping for-kissing his husband for the first time since the Romano’s stormed the house weeks ago.
He had done his own make-up, eyeliner and foundation the only ingredients. It’s not like he needed to be any paler, but the cream did a good job at covering him up. He poked the needle through his lip and threaded the ball so that the stud created a metallic arch jumping from his bottom lip. His clothes were expensive and designer, and had been ordered for him-white shirt, black waistcoat, tight trousers. He let the waistcoat closed so that he could let Gerard unbutton him. They had talked yesterday about finally making love-the boy promised they would do it; the gangster told him to only do what he was comfortable with.
Frank smiled and opened the door for the first time and breathed in fresh air, feeling good in his infected lungs. He could hear the excited buzz and chatter from outside in their beautiful garden, where the wedding would take place. Way had informed him that this would be more casual and laid-back; there would be dancing and partying afterwards. The boy had grinned then-he wanted to see this infamous family chillax back and have a good time.
He made his way down the steps and could hear women on the first floor bustling about, organizing important accerories to any wedding; the cake, the music, the table settings. Wives of the men and members of the Brigata-among them, Christa and Katlyn-were chatting and laughing as normal ladies in the upper-class did. They were bitching about who was wearing what, sharing the lastest gossip and dieting tips, discussing how adorable how the couple were.
“I hope Frankie’s doing okay,” Frank heard Christa say. She wasn’t doing a lot but puffing up black roses in vases-her stomach was huge in the flowing dark gown she wore. “I asked Don de la Via how he was doing and he told me a whole lot better. I wonder if he’ll look ill.”
“I wonder what he’s gonna wear,” Katlyn said dreamily as she ordered other women around. It appeared she was not only the head of the Brigata, but the head of the organizing committee as well. “No, Eva, not over there! That’s it-no, no! Goddammit!” She shouted, storming over to a little brunette footsoldier. “What have I told you about the dimming lights? This is a wedding, Eva, not a fucking strip club!”
Frank stepped around the stairs and walked into the room full of giddy women. Christa jumped up, all five foot of her, and gasped, hand on mouth.
“Oh, Frankie!” She shrieked happily, hugging him loosely-due to her pregnancy and his illness. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re better!”
All girls in the room turned to see Iero embracing her back, smiling widely and giggling. They trilled all at once.
“MISTER WAY, IT IS SUCH AN HONOUR-“
“Frankie, looking good, boy! Don de la Via won’t be able to-“
Women gushed and chatted with him for about twenty minutes about his illness, his suit, his ring, his upcoming second marriage (to the same person).
“Ya know, Frankie, and I shouldn’t be saying this,” Adrienne said slyly, and the other girls giggled. “We know what Don de la Via got you for your present.”
“R-really?” The boy gasped. “Oh my God, what is it?”
“Frank, he told us he’d gouge our eyes out if we told.”
“Oh.” His large eyes darted around the kitchen. “Where is he? I want him. I want my present.” He paused. “Is it good?”
“Oh, is it,” Christa murmured dreamily, one hand on her bump. “That is the sign of true love, if a man buys that for someone.”
“Where is he?” Frank demanded.
“Outside in the garden, with the other men,” Kat supplied, rolling her eyes. “Last time I went out there they were arguing about who could shoot themselves in the foot and not cry. The men we’re married to, I swear...”
Frank giggled and pushed open the back chamber doors, which happened to be fifteen feet tall and huge, like the entrance of a cathedral. He pulled on a warm trench coat, a scarf and a fedora. He saw Gerard standing at the bottom of the garden with around twenty other men-scores of others were running after each other, wrestling with one another, a select few chatting. Way was laughing loudly with his associates. Frank found it ridiculous that while everyone else were in coats and hats and scarves, Gerard was in a silky shirt with his sleeves rolled up.
A bit nervous now, the boy bit his lip and walked towards them, the men pausing their activities to stand and stare. Then they did something very strange.
They started to applaud him.
The younger said nothing but flushed pink and nodded at them to signify his thanks. He ducked his head and made his way over to his husband, tanned and tall and perfect. Gerard beckoned for him to come and then leaned down to kiss his soft, plush lips. Men around him cooed and awed.
“Hello,” Gerard purred, slipping his hand in Frank’s back pocket. “How are we?”
“Good,” the boy replied into his ear, stretching his arm around his middle. He looked at the men around them. “Hullo.”
“Aw, yeah, babe, these are just some pansies who work for me,” he declared and the men shouted and booed, but smiled all the while. “Who scream like little girls when they get a superficial shot.”
“Oh, fuck off, Way,” one jabbed, laughing. “You aimed too goddamn high.”
“What?” Gerard pulled out his gun and pointed to the man’s crotch. “You want me to do it again?”
The men chortled again and Frank joined in with them; they seemed nice enough, all mirroring Gerard; dark hair and light eyes, tall and hued complexion.
“This is one a my best friends, Frankie,” he said, indicating the man he had just been joking with. “Adam. He’s in the Famiglia too, in NYC.”
“Nice to meet you,” Frank said brightly, and the man shook his hand, smiling. “You must be weird if you’re friends with Gerard.”
All the men laughed, and Way cuddled him closer. Kid has a sense a humour.
“So, Frankie, you in the Cosa?” Rucetta inquired politely. He was taller than both of them, and his hair was messy and dark. One ear was gone-white bandages heard for him. “No offence meant, but you ain’t seeming like the fightin type.”
Other men, seeing that the conversation would be private, sloped off so that the three of them were alone.
“I write medical journals for Harvard University,” the boy said, smiling.
“No shit,” Adam gaped, and laughed at Gerard. “You should be married to some professor, not this sick fuck.”
“Yo, you fuckin cruisin for some bruisin-“
“Ah, look at him over here! Not so fancy anymore, are you, Way?”
“Oh yeah?” He grabbed Rucetta in a headlock and began pulling and tugging. Adam seemed to have muscles but was no match for Frank’s husband, who got him writhing on the floor with his arm bent backward. “Uncle, bitch. Cry uncle.”
“In Italiano, if you might.”
“ZIO! ZIO!” Gerard grinned, barked a laugh, and released him, cackling. “You fucking weirdo.”
“And proud,” Way replied, getting to his feet. “Now fuck off, Rucetta. I’m giving my boy his present.”
“What if I-“ Gerard shook his fist and Adam ran off. “Okay, okay! Enjoy it, Frankie!”
Gerard took him by the hand and lead him up the path of the garden to the house. The boy momentarily thought they were going back into the mansion, but this was not so. Instead, Gerard took the left to walk up the drive and onto the road winding around their house. Frank raised his eyebrow but said nothing, just agreeing to be tugged along by the mobster.
The walk was longer than anticipated; twenty five minutes. It was walked totally in silence, both men smiling slightly but not choosing to break the stillness. The day, as I have stated already, was gorgeous-just a slight breeze gushing through the neighbourhood. Occasionally, twice or three times, Gerard would rub Frank’s midriff, checking if he was okay. The boy would nod at him and they could continue.
They finally arrived at a familiar sight-their old house in which Fran had lived in for barely a month before Gerard and his men trashed it up because of a foreseen Romano raid, which, judging by the state of the place, had definitely happened. When they stepped inside, the place was dusty and completely strewn apart-furniture ripped apart and thrown over, walls torn down and leaking, spider webs in the corner. It was not as big or as fancy as their current mansion but was deemed a luxurious residence all the same. Gerard kicked open the front door with his leather shoes and grimaced when he saw inside.
“The police raided it straight after they did,” Way said to Frank. “That’s how they known how I’m still here,” he pointed, laughing , at a wall. It was painted in white spray paint on the black walls-‘GERARD WAY IS STILL ALIVE, MOTHERFUCKERS-10/30/1933’ and Frank giggled. “I do that every time I ditch a house. Ya know, tradition,” he shrugged.
They walked on until they reached another door, a large wooden one, which the mobster pushed open easily with his fist.
“Remember this? First time we were together properly, in the bathroom after I got shot,” he reminisced, pointing to a blood stain on the floor. “I killed a few guys and you got real happy cuz of it.” Frank looked at the restroom and smiled as Gerard recanted the memories. “You were so terrified.”
Frank was a little choked up as he was lead again to a room across the bathroom.
Their old bedroom.
The bed had been partially burned and frayed; the cupboard defaced and beaten; the walls full of bullet-holes. Frank found it so romantic, the whole thing, holding hands with his husband of a year and seeing every step of their relationship, where it had all began.
“This is where I kissed you properly,” Gerard said softly, getting closer and closer to Frank until theot mouths were mere inches away from each other. He closed the gap and their lips worked together softly for a minute or two, Gerard’s hands moving to his hips and steering them to his own. Frank’s fingers became entangled in dark black hair and tugged at the tufts. The gangster dug his hands into the tender flesh in his possession and the two, twisted up in one another, fell onto the bed, the weak wood creaking and groaning with their weight. Gerard broke the kiss and leaned over his husband, flushed and excited, trembling.
“This is where I proposed to you,” he said softly. His bow lips, swollen and bitten, curved upward into a smile. He traced a hand over Iero’s heart and his other pressed the boy’s side. “Where I claimed you for me and no one else.” He pulled out his favourite chains; the rabbit’s foot and the ring, and let them dangle in front of Frank. The boy took hold of them and pressed kisses all over them, the metal and wood warm from the boss’s chest. “That was one of the best days of my life, Frank.”
“Me too,” Iero replied breathily as his husband pushed him up and clambered onto the King. They sat opposite each other, legs spread at the knees. Frank placed his right hand over Gerard’s-the hand where the medic still wore the ruby ring with the Don’s initials. “The first thing you ever gave me was the ring,” he breathed. “We were talking about getting married and me dressing modestly and then you gave the ring. After you promised not to sleep with me.” Both men grinned and recited the line in unison. “’Even gangsters have their limits, y’know.’”
“I just wanted to come back here,” Gerard said slowly, “because I wanted to see where we started out. So much has changed, baby, in the last year and a half. Go back eighteen months ago and I was hopelessly depressed and alone. And you were...engaged to James. And now...” he smiled faintly and trailed his knuckles against the boy’s cheek. “Now you’re married to me.” A wicked grin. “Twice.”
“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” the twenty four year old murmured, tracing his lips. “Thank you, Gerard. This is the best present ever.”
“What?” The gangster said, smiling widely. “That wasn’t your present. That was just romancing you so you find me irristable.”
“I already find you irristable,” Frank said. “But I want my present anyway.”
“You do, do ya?” He showed all his teeth as Iero nodded and bounced on the weak bed. “You want it?”
“Uh huh,” he replied. “Is it good?”
“It’s very good.” He cocked his head to one side and wore a thoughtful expression. “Say ‘pretty please, Gerard.’”
This, ladies and gents, is how you change a really sentimental sweet moment to weird-Lornaigh-humour. It’s what we writers refer to ‘really shit’
“Pretty please, Gerard.”
“With sugar on top.”
“With sugar on top.”
“And a big-ass cherry.”
“And a big-ass cher-“ the rabbit’s eyes widened as he saw a little aqua box come from Gerard’s suit pocket. His breath hitched and little mouth fell open. The boss pushed the box into his small hands and closed his fingers around it. The word was stark and unmistakable; TIFFANY & CO:1837. “Go on, sugar. Open it.”
“G-Ger-ard,” he stuttered, not even wanting to touch the neat little black bow tied around it. “Wuh-what-di-did you-“ he inhaled and looked up at his husband. “Ohh-my-G-God-“
“What’s wrong, honey?” The criminal asked, rubbing the other’s thigh. “Is something the mat-“
Suddenly the boy lunged at his lover and tackled him with kisses over his neck, his face, his hair. Frank was shrieking and screeching as he did, cradling the little box in his hand. Gerard simply smiled and accepted the affection being showered upon him.
“Ohh-ho-holy fuck, G-Gerard!” He screamed as he pulled the bow open and ran his finger over the cover. “Fucking-Ti-Tiffany’s-Ge-Gerard-“
“I did good?” The Don asked lazily, stroking his baby. Frank bobbed his head enthusiastically, rubbing his eyes from happiness. “I wanted to get you a nice ring since I already have a million dollars worth, and your first engagement ring was pretty plain. And I know your taste and stuff, so I went shopping with Kat and Chris yesterday and...” He shrugged, that sly smirk still on his lips. “I hope you like it. If it’s too gaudy then go ahead and tell me, baby.” He giggled at the over-dramatic reaction-kid hadn’t even opened the goddamned box yet. “Don’t cry, sweetie. You gotta tell me those are tears of joy.”
“Oh, they are,” the medic said quickly, gazing at the box lovingly. “Oh...thank you so much, Gee.” His eyeliner was smudging everywhere and he gulped, smiling. “You must think I’m such a girl.”
Fuck it if my boyfriend bought me a Tiffany’s engagement ring I would react like this
“Nah, it’s cool,” the NJ citizen said, tapping the container. “C’mon, babe. Open up. I wanna see it on your pretty little finger.” The simper; God, it never seemed to leave him.
Slowly; ever so slowly, Frank slipped his finger through the tiny slit and the box let open with a small pop. The ring was silver, a thin band of solid metal. The thing that made Frank nearly pass out was the truly massive diamond standing right bang in the middle of it. It was glistening, polished and sharp, a watery, clear blue that sparkled beautifully. He turned it at an angle and it caught the light; around sixty little diamonds within the diamond gleamed and shone. Frank gasped again, and dared to touch the shining surface with his finger.
“You’re keepin me in suspense, Frankie,” Gerard said softly. “Ain’t you gonna put it on?”
“Will...” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Will you?”
The mobster nodded and plucked it up carefully by his right thumb and forefinger, holding Frank’s hand at length. He then grinned and poised it at his nail, finally slipping the ring down to the base of his finger. He laughed when it was done, and the boy giggled shakily.
“Perfect,” the boss breathed. “It looks gorgeous on ya, sugar pop.”
Frank struggled to come up with words. It was just so beautiful.
“Oh Gerard...oh...I’m gonna show it off to everyone when we get back,” he snuffled, smiling, and Gerard grinned. “No one else has the most badass fucking ring of all time.” He blinked through dewy lashes and realized the tears were not just for the ring but for the man bearing the ring. “Or the best fucking husband of all time.”
They embraced tightly, burying their heads in each other’s shoulders, exchanging kisses and promises of love. Gerard was breathing deeply in the sweet scent of the chocolate tresses when he felt two things push down his belt.
He turned around-two pistols, both black, pearl handled, bone in the rind, the barrel studded with letters and slants. He pulled one out and cocked it-the chamber was quick and easy, and snapped when it was retracted. He pushed back the butt and saw the bullets were made from solid gold, engraved again, with his initials emblazoned on the tip. He took the other matching one-the same-he spun them in his hands and they were sharp and curt, and the handle felt comfortable and snug in his hand, the way a proper firearm should be. He aimed at a nearby table and fired with a fulfilling fissure-the wood exploded into bits from the force of the bullet.
He looked at the rabbit, smiling at him shyly. Gerard was nearly in tears now from the beauty of the weapons.
“Fuck, Frankie,” he muttered, cocking and pulling over and over again, aiming both of them over the shoulders of his love. “How did you fucking...” the year on the bottom of the barrel was 1869-sixty six years, goddamn. “Sweet mother of God...”
“You didn’t think I wouldn’t get you something, did you?” The boy said slyly, placing his hand on Gerard’s arm and admiring the diamond. “I was in our room the other day and I heard you talking to Ray about how your guns are shot to shit, and that you needed new ones, that your Magnum wasn’t good enough...” he shrugged and blushed. “And ages ago, the night before we got married, you told me all about Colt Single Action Army’s and I...I asked Ray to get em from the shop.” He grinned again and let his finger trail the handle. “They’re white gold, dyed black. And he said something about the windy thingy-“ he pointed to the chamber, and Gerard smiled-“being real good and I didn’t know if that was important, and then Ray told me that was the most vital part of the goddamn gun, apart from the pointy bit-“the barrel-“and then I was just...I thought they looked pretty.”
Gerard chuckled at the awkward, jittery explanation, and embraced his lover.
After returning from their former home, and flashing their presents at anyone who would look-the men cussed and whistled when they saw the pistols; the women gasped and shrieked at the ring-then the ceremony had taken place. It was in their garden, and led by a minister. There were around four hundred guests, gazing up at the Don and the boy, re-promising to have and to hold, through sickness and in health (Frank had shivered a little at that line) til death us do part.
It was certainly more casual than the last wedding had been; the priest had frowned throughout the service as the criminal had joked with his husband during the mass. Frank’s chest was playing up again in the winter bite, and Way had tried his best to make him feel better, nibbling at his ear and clasping both of his small hands in his larger palm, murmuring to him quietly, cracking a smile occasionally, just for the boy. One particular time the boss had pressed himself right up to the rabbit and purred an expletive into the pink shell. Red had seeped into Frank’s cheeks and he giggled a little.
Now the festivities had begun. It was amazing and wonderful-Gerard had so many family members that Frank had never met-uncles, aunts, cousins, his father’s girlfriends. They were excited and friendly, and exactly like Gerard; indescribably beautiful and a strange kick in them that orbited around an unusual sense of humour. Most of them were Italian, and several of them told Frank fucking hilarious stories about Gerard in his salad days.
Speeches were said, alcohol was consumed and congratulations offered; they had settled in the main hall to dine and converse. Gerard had pulled the boy into his lap from the word go, and the two had been kissed and shaken hands with by members of other gangs, relatives and friends. To some Way spoke English, others French, some even languages the boy could not place, but the majority was spoke in Italian. Iero liked the culture a lot-they were loud in a pleasant, entertaining way. They showed each other signs of affection like kissing cheeks and one armed, brotherly hugs-and they fought like children, slapping each other and tugging at other collars.
Besides that, their food was fucking amazing.
Then, in the middle of dessert (and a discussion between Gerard’s uncle Michael, Frank and the Don himself) the wine had ran out at the head table.
“Merda,” Don de la Via had petitioned. Frank had been eating his third portion of tiramisu, listening intently to Michael Way Senior’s talk of a famed drug raid that took place in 1917. “I’ll go down to the cellar and get more.” He kissed his husband’s cheek. “Be back up soon, baby.”
“I can get it if you want, Don de la Via,” Frank put out politely. He had thought prior to the ceremony it would seem a good impression to Gerard’s family if he referred to the boss by the proper name. After all, his family relations all did it as well. “Luciana needs to get to bed anyway.” He reflected. “And Ray wants to talk to you about the raid next week with the Irish.”
Michael’s eyes widened. Good kid.
“Thanks, sugar,” Gerard replied, rubbing his leg. Frank pressed their lips together and stood up. “See ya in a little bit, okay?”
“Okay.” He bowed a little for his husband’s uncle. “It was a real honour to meet you, Mister Way. When I get back I wanna hear what you did after you ripped that dude’s throat out.” He smiled. “Rad.”
He excused himself and neatly went down the stairs to attend Luciana. Gerard turned back to his relative, who was nodding, smiling, in an approving manner.
“My, Don de la Via,” he remarked, iron glasses slipping down his narrow nose. “You have certainly done well in such a boy. He is polite, obedient, caring and intelligent. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, looks after Luciana-and what did you say he does again?”
“He’s a medic,” Gerard returned, and following his uncle’s blank expression: “Dottore, il mio zio. Writes medical journals on anatomical structure. Bones and shit.”
“Mio Dio...” the old man breathed. “You should be mindful of such a boy, Don de la Via. He is so naive and is certainly not a fighter’s build.” He spoke lowly into his nephew’s ear. “He is part of the main targets, Gerard. He is married to you and that makes him even more desirable then you. It’s obvious that you obsess over the boy. He dies and you die. They know that.”
Way said nothing but nodded jerkily.
“Do you see Italia in your and his future? Have you discussed it with him?” Gerard nodded again. “Because he is not safe in America, nipote. He will never be safe no matter how long you are with him. He was raped just in the bathroom while you were next to him-“
“Stop,” Gerard ordered curtly, holding up a hand. “I already know that and beat myself up about it every goddamn day. I know what I need to do but I cannot just pack up and go to Italy.” He huffed. “You and those of my father’s generation seem to forget I am technically American. Frank is from Inglewood, which is less than ten miles away. It would be hard for him to leave everything he’s ever known. He’s never been to Italy, it could be shit for all he knows-“
“I know, I know, Italy is paradise and she is truly the reigning queen of nations-but you gotta understand my point of view here.” He held his hands out to show his logic. “Anyway, you know shit’s going down in Europe. You really want me to be in the heart of fascism when this thing explodes? Look, I appreciate the advice but I make the decisions here. Had I married an Italian it may have been simpler-“
“What are you implying, Don de la Via?”
“I’m not implying anything; I love that boy with all of my heart and I can’t look at another man without comparing him to Frank. I am simply saying that it’s difficult because I am not from Italy, nor is my husband.”
“You work in the most recognised Italian industry, Don de la Via.” He swilled his glass of gin. “It is hard for you to claim no source of Italian heritage when you are head of La Cosa Nostra.”
“Don’t say that. That’s a horribly crude American phrase.”
“Yeah-cuz I’m Italian-American, zio. I ain’t denying any of my roots, I’m just trying to get across that it’s hard for me to leave the US and live a new life in Italy. And I know that sounds weird coming from the Don of the motherfucking Famiglia, but it’s for the best for Frank and I. We may move to Italy or we may not.”
“I respect your opinion, Gerard,” Michael said. “But you must consider your husband’s welfare whence deciding the fate. It is all fine and well to play the patriotic-Stars-and-Stripes card but I know you. Gerard Way would not put some silly homesick excuse instead of his boy’s health and welfare. You are afraid of returning to the Homeland.” He shrugged. “Forgivable, but-“
“I am not afraid of anything, I am Don-“
“Really?” The old man wore a sly smile as he opened his palm to show a tiny needle. He brought it close to Gerard’s hand, who recoiled and struggled to breathe after glancing at the thin metal pole. “’I am afraid of nothing’-except needles, obviously. If you cannot handle looking at my diabetic medication then it is very clear there is something scaring you about returning home to Italy-“
“It is not my home,” Gerard insisted. “Newark is my home-“
“Please, Gerard, that shitty capital of New York that your father’s whore came from? Don’t make me laugh. Palermo may be no Florence but that shithole-“
Way was shaking with anger.
“Look, I don’t give shit about what that fat old dying fuck said er but you can shut the hall up about my mother. She was nothing but a motherfucking saint to me and then that cunt beat tha shit outta her and then fucked girls younger than me for tha rest of his shitty life.” He stood up and stormed off. “And it’s tha capital of New freaking Jersey, retard!”
While Gerard was discussing Italy with his uncle, Frank was up with Luciana in her bedroom. He was tucking her in as she ooh’ed and ahh’ed at the diamond ring upon his finger.
“It’s sooooo pretty,” she breathed, then giggling. “I can see myself in it!”
“It is so gorgeous, isn’t it?” Frank sighed, grinning. “It’s what your uncle gave to me.” He snapped out of his daydream to act like her mother. “Did you brush your teeth?”
“And comb your hair?”
“And say your prayers?”
“Good,” he said, bringing the covers right up to her chin and kissing her forehead. She giggled and hugged him around the neck. “Night, Luciana.”
“Buanonotte, Franco,” she said, squeezing him before dropping him. She yawned and waved.
“No reading, okay? You got to stay up way after bedtime today cuz Gerard was in such a good mood.” He stood up and reached for the light. “Do you want me to leave the hall light on, honey?”
“Okay. Sweet dreams, baby girl.”
The twenty four year old left her door open an inch and went downstairs again. He couldn’t help smiling as he did; he liked the fact that he and his husband were getting so much attention, that he was so lucky as to have married the Don. People greeted on his way down to the cellar-some drunk, some tipsy, some giddy. He could hear music coming from the hall but it sounded like the dancing had not yet started.
He had to admit that he did hesitate before going down to the basement-he didn’t like going down there even in the bright of day, not only because they are generally creepy places to go but because his husband tortured and killed hundreds of men down here. Ghosts, body parts, fuck it, maybe zombies could be down there.
Nonetheless, eager to please his lover and his family, he bounded down the steps, hoping it would be over quicker. He took the right turn-he was NOT going into the torture chambers; he had never been in there, and thought it best to keep it that way-and led the way into the basement where Gerard and him had enjoyed such a peaceful evening two months ago. He smiled warmly at the memory and went to the nearby cabinet where the wine was kept. He dug into the freezer shortly before a soft voice said:
“Looking for something, Frankie?”
Frank jumped a foot in the air and dropped the bottle he was holding the moment he heard Warner’s unmistakable killer cobra tone. He shrieked when he saw the pimp, drenched in blood from head to toe, stomach split open with rats crawling around in his small intestines, guts tumbling from the open wound. His face was struck down the middle, nose sticking out at an odd angle. Frank cried out and tried to run for the door, but the older man cackled and grabbed him by the collar.
“Been waiting all year for this,” he hissed in the boy’s ear, grabbing him by the belt, rubbing his hard on against Frank’s tailbone. “M’ half-dead, Frankie, but I’ve been waiting for just the perfect moment for this...been living on rats and rain-water for two weeks now, and I think I deserve something after it...unng, fuck, get on your knees right now-“
Iero tried in vain to shove and push, but suddenly he was punched straight in his ribcage. He howled in pain, his mouth then quickly covered, and was pushed to the ground, being grinded against and beaten, crying out weakly.
Warner dug his fingers into his open abdomen, smeared in blood and dirt and God knows whatever had been swimming in the man’s gut at the time. He forced his filthy digits into the medic’s mouth, who could barely breathe after being forced down on the bare floor.
“Where’s Gerard, huh Frankie? Where’s Gerard?” The boy tried to screech when his trousers were pulled down to his ankles, and his ass probed and poked, but no sound escaped his bloody mouth. “Not here to protect his wittle bunny rabbit, oh, so sad-“
Warner, groaning and moving sloppily, pushed Frank against a wall and began beating him viciously, especially in the chest are, so that his lungs were battered and bloodied, and he spurted scarlet from his mouth. He was feeling beyond faint and sick.
He would have begged, but he couldn’t. His bones were shattering and he collapsed on the cement, shaking, trembling, crying. He caught sight of his ring and burst into empty gasps.
“Oh God, I’m just gonna fuck you into oblivion...he won’t fucking look at you when I’m done here...” he was thrusting in an out, in and out, as the boy was just shrinking and crying out silently. He was gonna force himself, gonna make himself yell-“yeah, bitch, bleed for me, I wanna see blood everywhere, baby, I wanna-“
“Ge-Gerard,” he cried out weakly, quietly.
Louder, Frank, c’mon. Little louder.
“Gerard!” He yelled hoarsely, coughing, and his head banged against the cement, bruising his skull. “Ge-Ge-“
C’mon, just a little louder. Show this bitch how much your husband loves you.
“GERARD!” He screeched, lungs absolutely on fire, but he could hear something, oh God oh God could it be Gerard; “GERARD! PLEASE, GERARD, I NEED YOU-“
“FRANKIE?” Oh fucking God it was him-just a minute more, Frank, and then you can hug him, you can kiss him and never let the man go-“TORO-YEAH-DOWN THERE-FRANKIE, SWEETIE-I’M COMING, BABY, I’M COMING-“
“Please, Gee,” he sobbed loudly, and the pain in his prostate was so painful he couldn’t even feel it. He could hear scores of footsteps-Gerard was coming with friends. “He’s hurting me, Gerard-“
“I’M NEARLY THERE, SWEETHEART, PLEASE, JUST HOLD ON- “
The door was bust open and shouts in angry, vicious Italian were fired in to the air. Warner was ripped up by the armpits and beaten into a corner, twenty men clubbing him to death, shouting screams of vendetta and revenge. Gerard let out an almighty roar, raw and furious.
"YOU FUCKING SONUVABITCH!" He screeched. "YOU FUCKING ZOMBIE CUNT FUCKING SONUVABITCH!"
"Gee," the rabbit bleated from the corner, and all men turned to see the bleeding mess trembling on the floor. "Help."
Then, spotting his husband, he raced to his side. Blood was all over his pale legs, his chin, his neck-he was coughing up, spluttering, heaving with the effort to breathe.
“Oh baby-oh God, Frankie, why does this shit happen to you, darling, when you’re so perfect-“ he cried openly, men turning around to see their boss in floods of tears, cuddling the bleeding boy as he slumped out of consciousness. “Oh bunny rabbit, fuck-your chest, baby...gonna get you better, sugar pop, all fucking better-“
“Gee,” Frank whispered, his voice a bare croak, broken and whipped. “I love you.”
Gerard Way couldn’t answer. All he could do was sob.