FicWad

Note to Miranda (you know who you are)-Kath text me and said she'll email you tomorrow morning about the stuff. She was freaking out in case you hate her XD

-Jay

Warning: this contains hints of voyeur. If you don’t know what that is, you shouldn’t be reading this.

And this is very depressing. (Are my stories ever uplifting?)

Bear in mind I said neither of them get killed in the story.

L.N.I.

First of the Gang to Die
Settantadue
Taste in Men

“Way...Frankie...” Romano’s eyes swept lazily along the couple; the scowling gangster and the shivering rabbit. “Hope me and the boys didn’t...interrupt you two.”

Frank simply hid behind Gerard’s shoulder, squeaking, as tears tracked his cheeks. He, Gerard, Marcus and around thirty to forty affiliates from the Romano family were seated in their bedroom, which, now, seemed to be quite a tight fit. The exact time as unknown, but it is suspected to be in the early hours of the morning, perhaps three or four. The Don of the family, furious beyond belief, sat, handcuffed, on the edge of his bed, chest rising an inch and falling half one. He glowered at the man in front of him, silent, as his lover clung to his arm, nudging his nose in the back tufts of Gerard’s white hair.

“You always seem to be interrupting us, Romano,” he spat. The formality of addressing his enemies-and indeed associates-respectfully was out the window. “Always in the fucking morning.”

Romano ignored this and smirked, yellow teeth poking through his thin lips. Frank gasped when he did and buried his face in his husband’s warm shoulder again. They were both stripped to the waist-Way in dress trousers and Iero in boxers.

“My, Don de la Via,” Marcus said in a hushed voice, feigning meek innocence. “I don’t think any of your men...” his grey eyes flicked to members of said gang-“or mine...anticipated such a fine standard of physique from you.” He perched up on the bed in a camp fashion and trailed his fingers along Gerard’s chest, who growled deeply from his throat, and thrashed around. “Now, now, no fussing. We just want-oh, what’s this, then?” He had come across the chains hanging from his neck. “Ohh, how interesting...a crucifix, of course, what can I expect from a member of the Way family...and a wittle locket for your mongrel family, how precious...and what are these?” Another smirk as he picked up the gold ring on the end of a metal chain and inspected it. “These for your little bunny rabbit, Gerard?”

Marcus met Frank’s eye, who flinched away, squeaking. Romano laughed loudly at the timid behaviour.

“Well, Gerard? They a little commemorative to the boy you stole from James Romano over a year ago?” He asked ever-so-breezily. “Can’t really hate you for that, being honest. Getting that fucking common whore out of my pure family was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Thanks for that, Way.” He shook the chains. “Now tell me what these symbolize.”

Gerard glared at him coldly. Marcus stopped smiling and let them fall back against his chest.

“They are both for my husband,” he stated, voice flat and emotionless. “My wedding ring because I cannot use my left ring finger due to-due to you, actually.”He growled again and flexed his arms held in restraints. “And the rabbit’s foot-well, because, as you said, he’s my bunny rabbit and I love him.” The eye stared back at the other. “I’m glad you find my jewellery so interesting.”

A nervous ripple of laughter. Romano glared at the offenders and it halted involuntarily.

“You do, do you?” Marcus murmured softly. “You love him?” Frank felt himself pulled onto Romano’s thighs-Gerard cussed and spat, shoulders rolling. The legs were so alien-cold and thin, unlike the warm, soft skin he was used to. “And what would you if I...did this?” He secured his arms around Iero’s waist, who tried to struggle out of his grip.

“I’ll rip your fuckin head off,” Gerard snarled, baring his teeth and trying desperately to escape his binds. “I’ll string you up by your bollocks if you don’t let him go this fucking minute.”

“You’ve a hard little life, haven’t you, Frankie?” Marcus sneered in his ear, and Frank squeezed his eyes hut, trying desperately to avoid the gazes of Romano, Gerard, and the other amount of henchmen in the room. “Shitty little family, growing up in the slums-and then you met James. Ah, James. Remember him, Frankie?” The twenty four year old cried out and bit his lip, quivering. “Remember all the bad things he did to you? How many men did you sleep with, Frankie?” Marcus looked Gerard in the eye and widened his smirk. “How many men fucked you good before you married your little goombah over here?”

Frank could only squeak and squirm in his hold. Romano tightened his squeeze.

“Answer me, Frankie.”

“I-I don’t know,” he lisped helplessly, ducking his head. “Lots of them, I guess...lots.”

“Were they good, Frankie?” He hissed sinfully, and if looks could kill, Gerard Way would be sentenced for life. “Better than Gerard?”

“No,” Frank whispered, biting his lip so intensely it began to bleed. “No, they were h-h-horrible. They hurt me so much. Please.” He didn’t want to look back at the vile man holding him captive. “Let me go back to Gerard.”

“You got an awful lot of bruises, there, Frankie,” Marcus told him, smiling in a sick, demented way. “Does Gerard get a bit too angry sometimes?”

“No!” The boy squealed, and tried to writhe again-Romano dug the barrel of his gun into his temple-Way snapped at him in chipped, vulgar Italian. “No-please-“ he burst into tears again, feeling weak and exhausted and upset. “Please. Leave him and me alone. I only want Gerard.” Tears streaked his face. “Let me go back.”

“To him and his mongrel...sick...half-bred...Eurofuckingtrash family?” Marcus said, cocking his revolver-Frank whimpered and shook. “Him and his little Casa Nostra?”

“Cosa Nostra,” Frank corrected quietly, sniffling. Low, rumbling laughter from the Italians floated through the room. “It’s the Cosa Nostra.”

“Oh yeah?” For some reason, Frank found himself perking up a little. “You speak that shit?”

“No,” Iero replied. “But I wish I could. It’s a lovely language.” He smiled. “La Cosa Nostra-this is our thing.” Gerard felt his heart swell with pride. “It’s the Mafia,” he explained to Marcus, mouth slightly open. Moments ago he had been threatening a mouse of a boy-now his ass was being handed to him. “And he’s Don. You’re not though; you’re just the leader.” He was full-on grinning now. “Let me go back to him.” He pushed his lip out. “Let me get back to my Don.”

“You wanna go back, do you?” He nodded, gulping. “What, you don’t like sitting in my lap, Frankie?”

Ugh I hate writing Marcus he is such a creep

“Uh uh,” Frank said, trying desperately to escape. “I want him.”

“Well...” he talked in that horrible, slick hiss that sent shivers down his spine. “I’ll let you go back to your Gerard...under one little condition, okay?” He bit the boy’s ear, who yelped as Gerard continued to snarl and threaten. Beads of sweet blood trickled down the cartilage, and Romano licked up the drops with a pink tongue. “And if you two don’t happen to....agree...” his hand found its way to his thighs, and two fingers stood between Frank’s legs. “Then...well, I might get a little angry. And I don’t think you’d like me when I’m angry, Frankie.”

“Oh...okay,” the twenty four year whispered, looking fearfully into Way’s glistening eye. “Then...then can I go back to Gerard?”

“Oh yeah, course you can,” Marcus promised in false sincerity. “Now...how would you feel, Frankie...” he chuckled, “and Gerard, of course...if I were to ask something of you both.” He glanced at his men-confused and bewildered, but still slightly amused. “You must both be aware I fucking hate what you two-so filthy and sinful-you ever read the Bible? This shit ain’t normal.” He scowled. “Man don’t fuckin lieth with man as he lieth with woman. I’d knock this shit off if I were you.”

“But as much as I have tried, I cannot suppress what I desire...” Oh God, he was hard. Frank could feel him, swollen against his ass, and he let out a squeak-it was disgusting and horrible. “And it’s a little fetish of mine. I have never approached someone before about it, as it is unorthodox, I realize that...I’m happily married with kids. But I just wanna...” Frank gasped when something nudged against his poorly concealed entrance. “I would like to ask you the favour of...watching you both...being intimate.” Frank’s mouth fell open and Gerard scoffed. “Seeing two men engage in sexual-“

“No way,” Gerard said, laughing shakily. “No fucking way, you sick freak.”

“Alright then.” He suddenly pulled down Iero’s only source of modesty. “Then you can watch me beating your little bunny rabbit into oblivion, Way.” He held a knife to the pale flesh on his abdomen. “Such lovely, soft skin, ginzo, he’s so fragile-I’m not sure he can take it. He flinches when I even look at him. He’s shorter and skinnier than my fourteen year old daughter, Way.”

“Gerard,” he breathed as he was hugged dangerously close to Romano. “Don’t...don’t worry, I can take it.” That was a straight-out lie; he was tearing up at the sound of heavy brass knuckles clicking behind him. “It’s okay...I’ll be fine...I don’t wanna do it in front of him, Gee.” He tried to wipe at his weeping orbs but his hands were pinned down. “I don’t want to.”

“Baby,” Gerard replied. “I am not going to fucking sit here and watch him beat you to a fucking pulp, that is not fucking happening.” He glared at Marcus. “Let him go and beat me up or something, rip out my hair, pull out my teeth, call me more racial slurs of you fucking want to-but not him.” He glowered again, and it was obvious why Gerard Way was head of the Italian-American Mafia. “And not that...vile idea you have in your head.”

“Why ever not?” The thirty three year old asked softly. “If you love each other so much why would you not like to showcase it for your men? He must be good, Gerard. He’s had so much practice, so many men have fucked your boy right here. Must make you angry, Way; you’re so sophisticated and fancy, look at me, I’m Gerard Way, I read and paint and talk poshly-and then your husband is some common little cunt who’s only asset is that he’s a good little punching bag.” He clacked his tongue. “I know if it was me I’d be pissed off. I think he needs a little roughening up, don’t’cha think?”

He was trying to wind Gerard up, to irritate him and snap that notorious rage buried in his conscience.

“Come on,” Marcus teased quietly, smirking widely. “I can see it in their eyes, Gerard-your men want to see it too. Wanna see what it is behind the mystery of...their little Don de la Via. I wonder if your skills extend beyond shooting people and torturing people.” He grinned and pushed Frank off of him suddenly, and the boy found his hands to be bound together with strong rope-much like Gerard’s handcuffs. “Come on. Give us a little kiss.”

Frank gazed up at his husband, lashes wet and heavy, sniffling. A click of a key told him that Way’s hands were freed. The boss pulled his husband up and they sat together on the bed, smaller sniffling and fidgeting.

“Leave his hands tied, Gerard,” Marcus purred. “Teach him a lesson.”

“No, Gee!” He squeaked, sobbing. “No no no, be nice, Gerard, please, I’m sorry if you’re pissed off about that.” He sat in his lap and brushed his hair against his husband’s cheek. “No hurting, Gerard. You love me and I love you. I know raping me would look manly and stuff,” he cried, tears running full force, “but you said you’d take care of me. I don’t wanna do it, Gerard.” He glanced at Marcus, grinning sleazily. “I’m only for you. I don’t wanna do it in front of them.”

“Fuck him now, Gerard,” Romano jeered. “Just flip him over and fuck him right now.”

Frank sat in the gangster’s lap, shivering and snuffling, writhing in his binds. Gerard pulled him right up to his stomach and kissed his hair. His newly liberated hands wound round his waist and hugged him tightly.

“Honey...I don’t wanna do this shit either,” he said in a hushed voice, pressing his forehead to Frank’s shoulder. The warm, soft Italian-American was so welcome to the boy. “But I don’t want to see you get hurt, baby doll. So precious to me, you know that.” His fingers tore the rope apart-Romano pursed his lips, irritated, but said nothing. Frank’s wrists were bloody, rashed and scratched-Way brought them to his lips, pressing kisses all over them. “It’ll be so quick, bunny.”

Frank bit his lip and looked at the gold ring lying on his husband’s chest. He twisted it round in his fingers and looked up to the boss.

“Do you want me to...to submit to you?”

Gerard shook his head.

“It’ll be real good, honey.” He kissed him. “Promise.” He wore a tiny smile, and leaned in to embrace him. “Lie back for me, bunny rabbit.”

Frank, shaking and slightly nervous, leant back, stiff as a board. Gerard leaned over him and began to gnaw at his neck, Marcus grinning at the couple from a chair mere feet away. The associates and henchmen of both feuding families were gobsmacked. Not to mention slightly aroused.

The boy placed his quaking hands on his husband’s side, then pressing his nails lightly into the skin, gasping and panting quietly as his neck served as a plate of food. Way’s small teeth left indents on the pale cover. Frank built up the courage to finally claim:

“Gerard.”

“Uhh, babe?”

“Your gun’s sticking into me.” He squirmed a little and tried to shift. “My leg.”

“Uh...bunny...” the Don grinned ruefully and leaned up to show off his midriff. “I ain’t wearing my holster.” Men behind him cackled and shrieked gleefully like a bunch of school girls. “That ain’t no gun.”

“Ohh,” Frank replied breathily, letting his husband do all the work. Their hips came into touch more than once-the twenty four year old bit his lip and mewled quietly at the fleeting contact he was experiencing. He decided to try and make the best of a bad situation. “You hard for me?”

“Oh God, you bet,” Way replied, smirking, tugging at his boxers. The kid froze. “So fucking perfect.”

“Um...Gee...” he groped down for the white tufts of hair that stood out in a fluorescent fashion in the dark. “Not-not there, Gee. Puh-please.”

Marcus looked confused. “What? Why? How about you listen to what he wants-“

“How about a lot less of the talking and a little more shut the fuck up?” Gerard snapped, and Romano actually flinched from his voice. “Christ.” He climbed back up to straddle Frank again. “Sorry, baby, I won’t do that if you don’t want it. Do you wanna kiss again?”

The rabbit nodded as Gerard leaned into press their lips together again, the older man’s tongue snaking in between the boy’s parted, pouted lips and exploring his mouth. The tender moment shared between the two felt right, felt good-so comfortable, like two teenagers in a parent’s lone house on Spring break.

That is, until Frank felt the blood rise in his throat and surge through his mouth. While he choked on his own blood, his lungs cackled with glee at the destruction they were causing.



Gerard Way was officially crowned-or ringed, as the case may be-as Don of the Famiglia de la Via, La Cosa Nostra, on the second of January, nineteen thirty five.

It was a great ceremony. Even opponents of organized crime and keepers of the peace would have to admit that. It was held early in the morning, around nine, in the hall of the Way manor. Every member of said gang had gathered to see what made men referred to as ‘cambiamento degli anelli’- the changing of the rings. This exchanging of jewellery referred to how the thick black onyx ring on Gerard Way’s index finger would now reside on that of Raymond Toro’s. The Don of the Family would then receive his father’s ring-a beauty made of silver gold and the black jewel, crafted in the late nineteenth century, originally belonging to his grandfather.

They had gathered in the hall to watch Gerard and Ray stand at the very top, both in pin-stripe suits and bejewelled to high Heavens, mutter and cant in low, clear Italian. The Bible was used as an aid when they were both taking oaths-Ray told of his forthcoming allegiance and responsibility to the gang. Tears of happiness streaked his cheeks as he did-he’d worked hard for this, working since he was fourteen as a drug trafficker. He grinned at his wife, Christa, who wept with joy as her husband became the Lord of the Cosa Nostra.

Gerard, however, looked downcast and upset. It was the first time he had ever appeared like this-tired, worn and quiet. It was different to how he normally presented his irritation-snapping at people and acting nasty-today it was like looking at some poor child who had been flung into the arms of the evils of the world. He had dyed his hair back to glossy black for his forthcoming wedding-in less than two weeks time-and matching coloured stubble dotted his cheeks, his chin, the muzzle around his nose and mouth. His hair had grown long again, and had grown a little darker in complexion. He had even lost a bit of weight-he hadn’t eaten properly for the last few days.

No one knew what was wrong. Not one man or woman dared ask of what happened six nights ago.

At the end of the ceremony, Ray slipped the ring onto his finger and shrieked with joy. Gerard tried to smile for him, but it was forced and strained. It wavered and then eventually fell. Way felt no source of delight or bliss when he wore his father’s father’s ring. It stood out prominently on his russet skin, and it seemed too big, too ill-fitting.

The minute it was over, they kissed each other’s cheeks and stepped down from the ledge. Ray had been full-on sobbing, being instantly embraced by his pregnant wife. Gerard had slipped away quickly, and no one had bore witness to his absence.

Now they were gathered in the dining area. Easy jazz piano floated in the background-Dutto’s brother Luscious was particularly skilled at music and had offered his talents for the occasion. Tables of people chatted and drank amicably-it might remind one of a wedding, or christening-a joyous, exciting event, with food and alcohol and merriness a-plenty.

Katlyn Bryar was troubled. As head of the Brigata, she had been obliged to attend, and had been one of the many who noticed the Don’s unusual, uneasy behaviour. She had seen occurrences of the other night, and knew Frank was ill with tuberculosis. She sat at the head table with her husband, Carmela Soprano (one of the crew’s wife) and Adrienne Armstrong. Ray and Christa were at the bar, talking to other leaders of foreign companies. Gerard, and indeed Frank, were nowhere to be seen.

“Something’s wrong,” Kat murmured sadly, swilling the umbrella in her cocktail. “Something’s wrong with Don de la Via.”

“I know, right?” Carmela sighed, brown curls bouncing. Everyone had dressed up for the event-gorgeous silk (black) gowns that brushed the wooden floors. “He looked so upset during the ceremony.”

“Maybe he’s sick or somethin,” Bob suggested, swallowing back whiskey straight. “Looked thinner.”

“No no,” Katlyn said softly. “It’s to do with Frankie. It has to be.” A lump formed in her throat-she came to admire the couple together so much since Frank has talked to her so gently that night. “Don de la Via isn’t here, neither is Frankie. I haven’t seen him since...” she placed a hand over her trembling lips. “Oh Lord, I hope they’re okay.”

“A course they are,” Bob said lightly, eyes slightly sad. “They’re tha best, they get on real fuckin well.” He sighed. “Ya know, when I was consigliere.”

“Oh look,” Carmela breathed, pointing. “It’s Don de la Via.”

The head of the family was so pale and so fragile looking he could have been blown over. One hand was placed on his shoulder by the doctor of the clan, Calversari. Gerard was shaking his head as the other talked to him. Men from other gang activities gazed up at the scene with respectful, sorrowful interest.

The doctor muttered something in Way’s ear and then the Don nodded. He turned shakily and pulled out a chair next to Adam Rucetta, his long-time friend, the underboss in the Genovese family in New York. They had gone to school together. Gerard buried his head in his hands as more men began to question his ailment.

“You should go over to him,” Kat breathed to her husband quietly; the room had become so silent since the entrance of the boss. “Comfort him.”

“Doesn’t want me,” Bob muttered. “Louis’ the goddamn consigliere.”

“Robert Corey Bryar,” Katlyn seethed. “You do not use that tone around me. You know that Don de la Via would be heavily criticized if he continued you to be his councellor. Hell, he already faces a lot of it for having you still in the Famiglia. And you know as well as I that he trusts you with all of his heart. Just because he acts like a bastard doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings.” She pouted and pointed over her husband’s head. “Now you get over there and act like a fucking friend.”

Bryar’s baby blues bulged a little at the end. But he nodded and then kissed her cheek. He downed the rest of his whiskey and rolled over to the table where most of the made leaders, the most wicked and infamous gang bosses in the States sat. He pulled in next to the Don, who was running fingers through his hair.

“Yo...Gerard,” he murmured into his ear. “Man...are you okay?”

What an intelligent question, Bryar.

“We dunno, Bryar,” Armstrong spoke up, decidedly solemn. “We asked him and he wouldn’t-“

“Wit all due respect, Mister Armstrong,” he stated gruffly. “I been his friend since we was kids. He’s gonna tell me because I-“

“You used to be consigliere,” the short man teased. “Not anymore-“

“Being consigliere’s got nothing to do with it,” Gerard muttered, rising back up, eyes red-rimmed and puffed. Glistening tears were still on his face. “Robert. Come with me.”

He stood up suddenly and stalked toward the neighbouring room, heavy footsteps and furious. However, and Bob was slightly touched, the Don kept the door open for him and helped push the chair through the halls. They reached the back porch-it was a beautiful night. Pitch black, dotted with bronze lights light years away.

Gerard suddenly gripped the railing and screamed from the base of his chest.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” He yelled, bringing his fist down on the wood. “IT’S NOT FUCKING FAIR, GODDAMMIT! THIS IS NOT FUCKING HAPPENING!” He fell to the floor, sobbing from his chest. “He’s so perfect-why-why-I can’t-so fucking unfair-never did one fucking thing to anyone-“

Bob moved a little awkwardly but managed to wrap his arms around Gerard’s neck, pressing his face in the black, thick hair. He had never been this close to the Don ever like this before. He just closed his eyes and muttered:

“What’s wrong, Gerard?” He breathed, and the boss screamed ‘OH FUCK!’ loudly again. “Tell me, man.”

It took a moment for the leader to calm down. He was still crying when he spoke. It wasn’t to Bob; he was just talking to himself. Offering the information to anyone who would take it.

“He’s dying.” The word was spat. “My baby’s dying.”

“Oh...man...I’m so sorry...I don’t...” he sniffed again-fucking hell, he was crying. “Frankie...’cause of the....the TB?”

“He can barely talk,” he whimpered, showing signs of weakness. “I’ve been with him for four days up in our room, coughing up blood. He can’t sleep, he can’t eat, he can’t breathe properly.” He sniffed and cussed again. “He needs constant oxygen pumping, he’s so weak he can barely move. I can’t hug him, or kiss him, or make love to him. He’s had three blood transfusions today.” He rubbed his eyes. “Oh fuck, Bob, I can’t fucking do this. I love him to death and I promised I’d kill anyone or anything that tried to hurt him-and now his lungs are killing him and I can’t kill it.” Gerard stood up and cleaned himself up. “Fuck. Fuck.”

“How long has he got?”

“Few weeks,” Gerard croaked. “Two months, tops.”



Frank Way found himself in his kitchen, rasping for breath as he searched the cupboards, looking for glasses with great effort. Everything was so slow, so heavy, so tiring. It had taken him an age to dress himself and get downstairs.

He squeaked as he coughed again, clawing at his throat as he hacked up. Blood sprayed all over the ornate cabinets, splattered on the granite countertops. His eyes filled with water as his oesophagus scorched and screeched.

The door was pushed open and the twenty four year old was faced by his husband, eye full of concern and love. He walked over swiftly to the bleeding boy and placed his hands gently on his hips. Frank bit his lip as more blood trickled down from his mouth, down his throat, into his collar.

“Baby,” he breathed, and he was struggling not to break down like he had in front of Bob several hours ago. “Oh sugarmuffin, what’s wrong? What do you need, darling?”

Iero nodded at the silver tap and held out a shaking little hand.

“I’ll get it for you, pet,” he murmured, instantly grabbing a glass and filling it with water, cold as possible to make his throat better. “That better?”

The younger man tipped it gently into his mouth, the cool liquid soothing the squelching scratching in his mouth. When he pulled the glass from his lips blood stains remained on the rim.

“There’s blood all over the kitchen,” he whispered. All the colour had drained from his face, a blood fuse stitched into his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh baby, don’t worry about that,” he murmured, looking briefly at the boy’s ruffled hair and smudged makeup. “You okay, baby doll? Did you sleep a little bit?”

“A little,” he croaked, thin frame quivering. “I’m feeling a little better.” The purple bags under his hazel eyes pierced the chambers of his lover’s heart. “I’ll go back up in a minute.”

“You could stay here with me, bunny,” he said quietly and hopefully, caressing his cheek so lightly it was like a breeze. Iero treasured the minuscule affection by placing a small hand on Gerard’s arm. “I’ll make sure no one smokes and you can sit in my lap if you want to, sugar.”

The medic looked up nervously at him.

“But you...I thought you wouldn’t want me there...all I do is-“ he racked again, holding up a handkerchief to his mouth. “Just spit up blood.”

“Don’t talk like that, baby, why wouldn’t I want to show off my gorgeous husband?” He said softly, touching him lightly in special places with such respectful love-his package was nudged lightly and the boy gasped breathily. The rabbit spread his legs a little and pressed his hand to Way’s chest, over his heart. “You come down when you’re ready, honey, you come down whenever you want.”

“Okay,” his husband whispered. Then: “Gerard?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Will there be men from other gangs there?” He asked quietly, sucking his bloody lip. “Will they be n-nice to me?”

“Course they will, bunny,” he comforted the snuffling boy. “They treat you with respect or they fucking die.”

“No...no jokes about...” he squeezed his eyes shut and cried out. “About James and stuff?”

“No fucking way, darling,” he promised in the shell of his ear. He cuddled him as best he could, it was loose, but the embrace was loving and gentle. Way winced at the laborious, weak breaths his husband was inhaling. “We can snuggle later, if you want.”

He nodded again. Frank desperately wished he could bring up to Gerard if he would keep his promise to commit suicide after his own death, but it seemed a little strange to ask straight out. He just snuffled against the silk shirt his husband was wearing.

“You smell nice,” he remarked. “Congratulations on becoming Don, Gee.” He lightly trailed his fingers on his husband’s hand. “You gotta new ring.”

“Mmm, it’s nice, don’t’cha think?” He looked at his jewellery-it seemed to sneer and laugh at him, choking his finger. “Fancy shit.”

Frank giggled weakly, sucking his lip. His innocent, docile orbs were just focused on Gerard and nothing else. They slid up and down the Don, treasuring every bit of him. He desperately wanted to kiss him, to hug him, to be in bed with him-but he couldn’t. The mixture of his illness and his past mingled together in a Molotov cocktail of unease.

“I love you, Gerard,” he whimpered , silently shaking with the tears. “I know you must think I don’t, ‘cause we hardly ever do it anymore but-“ he lowered his voice even more. “I want to. I really, really want to. And the thing he said about me-sleeping with people-that was just fucking, Gee, I swear.” He sniffed and his voice was a thin wheeze. “They’d just come in, take off their clothes and start kissing me. But you...you’re so nice. And gentle. You make sure it doesn’t hurt, and you always tell me you love me during it-“ his voice broke again. “When I die I want to be with you, I want to be sitting in your lap and I want you to be holding my hand and telling me it’s gonna be okay,” he cried, blood filling up his lungs steadily. “I want to go to Hell if you go there, Gerard. I want to be buried next to you and I want to be buried in your family’s graveyard, with your surname in Italian and I-“ his voice was stopped by his coughing, stronger and more vicious, the suffering for him talking for so long. Blurry, hot tears fogged up Gerard’s right eye.

“Remember you said something when my mom died,” he whispered, blood streaming down his chin. He was gonna pass out any minute now. “About the difference between not wanting to die and wanting to live.”

Gerard nodded.

“I get it,” the rabbit cried, sobbing, feling fainter and fainter. “I get it now.”

is it sad that I'm crying