Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance


by unitedsuck007 8 reviews

I wonder to myself, could life ever be sane again?

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres:  - Published: 2012-04-22 - Updated: 2012-04-22 - 1495 words


Set in England, it's 1941, Frank is blond and Gerard is angsty, Mikey is a mute and Frank is also English. This story will be weird and shit, but roll with me here. Does Lorna ever really write normal stories?

That would be a no, folks. Rate and review if you want or whatever, and if this doesn't take your fancy I'm sure you'll love this great new invention people have come up with called the back button.

Oh yes, the story title is from The Smiths and I'm titling each chapter in German like I did with FOTG with Italian. It's just the way I roll. Pretty short first chapter but meh, shoot me.

Disclaimer: know what, I actually could not be assed. If you actually think I own MCR, then there's really no hope for you.

xo lorna

How Soon Is Now

Gerard had been told by his mother it would not be a permanent fixing.

Gerard Way was eighteen years old. He resided in an upper-class area of Lincolnshire with his parents and his younger brother, Mikey. His father, Donald was a banker and thus the Way family were exceedingly wealthy. His mother, a homemaker and general stay-at-home wife, was a member of the local sewing circle and book club; a socialite who rubbed shoulders with a lot of big names in mid twentieth century England. Mikey was fifteen and had been mute since birth. The four of the family lived in a large manor that had an outdoor pool, several bedrooms and a tennis court.

The Way family had moved from New York to London in 1935 after Donald had been assured of better job opportunities after the Wall Street Crash had literally destroyed the American economy and the country would have to start from scratch to get back on their feet. Five years and a war declared later, the family were in the middle of a crisis as air raids were regularly declared every night. The windows were blacked out; Missus Way could no longer longue around flouncy nightclubs due to the bomb scare. The whole country of England had been plunged into a pool of confusion and fear.

In the wake of this confusion and fear, hundreds of thousands of young children, from early childhood right into their teens, were sent from their inner city dwellings to welcoming families in the countryside willing to accept foreign children into their homes. Many of these children’s parents were either enlisted in the army or simply did not want their children to live in this time of distress and contention. A large majority of them were poor, suburban children who had never experienced anything but raw city life.

Donna, Gerard’s mother, had suggested they welcome some poor soul into their home after one of her friends had done the same thing. God knows their home was big enough, and they certainly had enough cash to spare on food and clothing. There would be no problem; the child would be able to play in the enormous garden, and their French bulldog Susan would provide a very loyal companion. Donna had told her husband and two sons that it was going ahead, although they had not paid no heed; she’d probably forget about it soon enough.

But now, in September, Gerard was waiting on the ledge of the biggest window of their living room, eagerly anticipating the arrival of his mother with the kid who would be spending a year with them. He figured they’d probably think themselves lucky at first; getting the richest family in the area would be a welcome change from their dreary surroundings, but behind the façade, Gerard hated this goddamn place. He missed the US so much it physically hurt, wishing to be back in the Big Apple with it’s bright lights and late nights and everything in between. People often looked at him twice with his tanned skin, his deep drawl. It rained here like every fucking day. England was pretty but he thought the weather left a lot to be desired.

Besides that, his mother and father were definitely on their way to getting a divorce. Last year Donald had come home from a ‘business trip’ with mysterious stains all over his suits and Donna had screeched and bellowed all night long. Both of them had come down the stairs sullen and ashen-faced. Donna had a large bruise swallowing up her eye; Donald had scratching marks all along his arms and neck. Mikey had heard it all and work Gerard in the middle of the night for comfort. The two boys had spent the night cuddling each other, gripping each other for some source of happiness.

Gerard was snapped out of his bubble when his mother’s black Ford pulled up the driveway and parked sloppily next to the garden, the pink hydrangeas clashing with Missus Way’s red heels as she stepped out from the car. She always looked so glamorous, so well-groomed; today she wore a maroon coat with fur trimmings around the neck and the cuffs, with scarlet stillettos. Her peroxide locks bounced on her shoulders and her frosted lipstick smile stretched into a smile as she waved at her son, long talons beckoning him to come assist her.

“Gerard, honey!” She called loudly, brown leather handbag hanging from her arm. Gerard slipped from the ledge and faced her, a tall boy of six foot five, black hair to his shoulders. He had dark hazel eyes and often wore more formal clothes than needed; today he was in a tight grey waistcoat and corduroy trousers, his suspenders running the length of his long abdomen. He waved half-heartedly at his mother. “Come help me, baby, our little guest is here!”

Gerard walked from the living room, past the Greek sculptures and the Italian oil colours, down the large foyer. His worn Converse squeaked on the marble floor as he progressed down the hall. His father was at work while his mother had driven all the way to central London on her own with several of their maids. Mikey, as ever, was cooped up inside his bedroom, reading. He never really emerged from his chambers unless an emergency was taking place.

It was a boy. A beautiful boy. A beautiful, utterly angelic, young, fruitful boy of about ten or eleven. He had light blond tufts; so light, in fact, they were almost white. His skin was bright, electric pale with patches of rosy pink where the cold was especially bitter. He wore a thin, shabby grey coat and trousers. He was short (more than a foot shorter than Gerard) with rich, deep chocolate eyes. He looked so heavenly. He pulled a battered, worn case from the car and faced up to look to Gerard. The boys’ eyes met in a tight lock and the blond boy’s eyes widened considerably.

“Gerard, sweetie, this is Frankie,” his mother said to him. “He’s going to be staying with us for a little while now.” She turned to the young one and patted his shoulder amiably. “Honey, this is my son, Gerard, my eldest.”

Way nodded dumbly. The young one still stared at him like he had five heads. On closer inspection Gerard noticed Frank’s neck and cheeks were flecked with soot and dust. He had obviously been near some industrialized city on his way. He looked dazed and slightly fearful.

“Hello,” Gerard greeted quietly, sticking his hand out. He was much taller than the other boy and so Frank had to tip his head up to get a good look at Gerard. His long blond eyelashes fluttered girlishly as he did, pupils dilating as he adsorbed the older boy. “I’m Gerard Way.” The kid was still staring at him, goddamn. “You…you okay there?”

“Oh,” Frank said in a soft, effeminate London accent. The English accent weakens many knees but none as much as Gerard; he meshed his lips together in order not to get slightly aroused. “Hullo.” He gingerly touched Gerard’s with his own and smiled. “I’m Frank. You can…you can call me Frankie if you want.” He searched Gerard’s eyes again, politely curious.

“Don’t stand there like a sack of potatoes, Gerard, help Frankie with his case,” his mother scolded as she scuttled to the front door, laden down with shopping bags and hat boxes. She had obviously gone on a small shopping spree before collecting the boy. Gerard dumbly reached for the small grey, battered case and plucked it up easily; contents were bare as the case was as light as a feather. Overhead, there was a clap of thunder followed by a sharp splank of lightning. They always got storms over here.

“Here, come inside. You’re freezing,” Gerard muttered.

He shut the door and it gave one resounding bang. Overhead, foreign planes stalked the skies.
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