You thought yourself a spinster. I thought myself a fool. Frerard one shot.
I, Frank Iero, had fallen.
And not only fallen, but when I finally hit the ground, I broke. I splintered into a million and one different segments, the silence echo of my screams scratching at the walls of fresh red, blue teardrops running down south.
It started with a smile. That smile; it was the one with the short display of glistening white teeth and smooth, pink lips that pinned up to the side. It was more of a smirk, now, I realized - a smirk not filled was laughter and taunt, but a smirk simply composed of bright impishness and sly cheek, something your pale face often possessed.
The first time you smiled like that at me was when you had to stand at the front of the class and read the poem 'Havisham." The simplicity of our task made me think anyone could get an A with flying colours; monologues are easy, if only you can be bothered.
And you were. But, instead of reading a monologue, you read a poem. You asked to, and Miss. Henry thought it acceptable.
When we walked you walk on the stage, an elegant joy in your steps, we thought you were just another person - just another student. But you were far from it.
You were Gerard Way. You were beautiful and amazing and perfect; a silken, sweet voice and a scent of faint tobacco and coconut, with large green eyes with a ghost of hazel - the lingering bitterness of your past swamped within your irises, but you were just another person who had experienced pain and lived to tell the tale - and you were going to read your poem.
Besides from being one of the most beautiful people in our drama class, you were also the most talented; you spoke clear and loudly, a projected arrogance in your voice though it didn't come across as self-absorbed because you knew you were good like everyone else did, and still, as you stood up straight, looking so youthful and powerful and.. and perfect. With pallid, smooth skin and tight clothes, I thought you had to be an image my mind had conjured, or at the least it was the way the fluorescent lights shone so gorgeously on your soft skin.
But it wasn't. It was you - truthfully and honestly you as you spoke with such clarity and vehement that even the most disbelieving of people would have thought you were telling the truth.
I memorized the poem you spoke, simply because I thought it morbidly beautiful; your taste in literature was beautiful.
And it was Havisham, based off 'Great Expectations,' a book I read soon after hearing your performance.
Beloved sweetheart bastard. Not a day since then
I haven't wished him dead. Prayed for it
so hard I've dark green pebbles for eyes,
ropes on the back of my hands I could strangle with.
Spinster. I stink and remember. Whole days
in bed cawing Nooooo at the wall; the dress
yellowing, trembling if I open the wardrobe;
the slewed mirror, full-length, her, myself, who did this
to me? Puce curses that are sounds not words.
Some nights better, the lost body over me,
my fluent tongue in its mouth in its ear
then down till suddenly bite awake. Love's
hate behind a white veil; a red balloon bursting
in my face. Bang. I stabbed at a wedding cake.
Give me a male corpse for a long slow honeymoon.
Don't think it's only the heart that b-b-b-breaks.
I thought it magical, almost. But the poem, no matter how wonderfully performed by you, was so far from the truth of your beauty I couldn't comprehend why you chose it.
No. I saw you getting married, be it to a man or a woman, I could see you marrying and loving and being happy, unlike bitter Miss. Havisham, who remained that name and status for all her years in life.
But you.. you weren't going to be like her.
After falling for your mannerisms and your way of doing, the way you spoke so confidently, walked so proudly, and the little smile you gave me as I stepped on stage to perform myself, I didn't.. I barely thought I could reach the high level of expectation you set. But my monologue was about love.
You heard me. Do you remember it?
It was nothing spectacular like your's; your's was something else, something different, something so magical everyone stood up and gave you an applause filled with whistles and cheers.
Then I stepped on stage. I was so nervous; I looked so nervous. I was small and timid, thin legs shaking in my skinny jeans, my trembling body hiding in the warmth of my hoodie.
And then you gave me that smile: the reassuring smile filled with the flutters of a thousand heart and the impishness and cheek of a child. But you looked beautiful; so malevolent to harm those who would make fun of me and so willing to get on stage and console me.
It surprised me, honestly, how you could be so many different things but just be you, just be Gerard: one single thing.
In art, you bedazzled me with your art skills, and then broke out a whole pain fight in the room whilst the teacher was gone. When she returned and found out it was you whom started it, she simply laughed and sat down, claiming pregnancy was making her feel worn out, and let us continue with the war between tables.
Someone got some red pain in my mouth and I ran into the supply cupboard and started coughing and spluttering and wiping at my tongue, trying to remove the foul taste of scarlet beauty.
But, as I rubbed the sleeve of my desecrated hoodie over the rough of my tongue, you rushed in and slammed the door after you, sporting a gleaming smile and you pale face, now brushed with a thousand splodges and strokes of a multitude of colours.
And you grinned a breathtaking, devastating smile my way, charcoal hair disheveled in the sort of.. the sort of attractive, beautiful kind of way. The kind of way that made my heart thump uncomfortably, so hard I was afraid it would jump out of my throat, and my breath catch inside of me as my palms turn noticeably clammy, before I finally realized I was licking the sleeve of my hoodie and quickly pulled my hand away, tongue shooting back in my mouth as I blushed beetroot red.
But you just simpered at me and pushed yourself up against the door, panting as you ran a hand through your hair. "Got you in the mouth, too?" you had asked.
I froze. Half in shock and half in the pure, wonderful blessing that you were talking to me and looking finer than ever, covered in a layer of multicoloured vomit.
So, I just nodded stiffly with wide eyes, gnawing apprehensively on my lip, rising blood.
And you smiled again, looking at me in a way that suggested I was being cute.
Again, I shook my head, but this time mustered a coy smile, flushing a light, smooth pink.
You shook your head, muttering to the floor, smile plastered on your face. "Well," you said. "It tastes better than my grandma's casserole and that's all I'm happy about."
And you were honestly happy about it; you got happy about a lot of things. You get happy about a lot of things. You were like that, so strong and ingenious and caring, and so.. so right. You just loved everything and thought it all great; you had this incredible zest for life.
It was hard for me, really hard, because everything you did was so spectacular and amazing and extraordinary and I was just.. me. But you were so strong, so fantastic, so outstanding, that you kept me on my feet, had me fall so, incredibly in love that I was in an almost drunken stupor. I was completely infatuated with you so much so it hurt. I loved you that much.. wanted you that much. It was painful every minute I didn't spend with you.
And I had only spoken a few words to you.
But, by September, we were good friends. Laughing and talking and having heart-to-heart conversations, and just.. daydreaming. You shared everything with me.
And one day, when I asked you about the pain in your eyes and why it was there, you simply smiled sightly and returned with, "Sometimes questions don't need answers, but a simple observation is all that's required."
And it confused me.
Then, when we thought back on memories and I brought up those two, I asked you why you chose the poem 'Havisham'.
You said you could relate to it.
Upon asking you what you meant, you smiled softly and picked at the nubs of your fingers, ebony locks falling in your face.
"I'm going to be a spinster," you told me. "No one will want to marry me.."
And for the first and only time, in the whole of my life, I got angry with you. Not just angry, but furious.
"How.. how can you say that?!" I had growled. "You are so fucking perfect it hurts to look at you because you're so goddamn blindingly beautiful that it makes me want to rip out my eyes and stab at my heart, in some stupid attempt to make it stop it's horrific beating! You are so fucking perfect and insanely incredible in.. in too many ways that sometimes I thought even you, the famous Gerard Way, could fall in love with yourself. I'm so goddamn surprised you're not fucking vain because since the first word of your monologue, I have been so fucking in... in love with you that I just- I wanted too.."
And, without another word as I stared up into your wide, glistening eyes, I slammed my lips to yours, and felt my body jolt with a spark.
It was only when your started to kiss back that I realized the infatuated, inebriated human being I had become was all for something.
I had fallen, broken and pledged my life to you all for the same reason I kissed you.
All that time, something inside of me knew that for whatever reason, you loved me back.
And when you kissed me, we could finally be whole. Together.